A Bleeding Heart - howlsmovinglibrary (2024)

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Chapter Text

Astarion seems to have acquired a bleeding heart, entirely by accident.

And by the gods, was she an inconvenience.

He supposed he should’ve taken heed of exactly how easy she was to dupe, rushing to his aid on first meeting and immediately capitulating the moment he took her in a stranglehold. Still, one would think that a tiefling who could survive a mind flayer ship without a scratch would have some degree of mettle, and she certainly dispatched the intellect devourers with enough skill.

But the first time she killed something that wasn’t a gods-damned brain of legs, her grey-lilac skin went even greyer around the edges and... she promptly threw up by the body.

To be fair, she’d wrapped both her hands around the poor man’s face and then fried his brain with a shocking grasp. He was smelling… rather cooked. But still. Vomit. Was it amateur hour?

Then, she started crying.

Astarion was... mortified. He didn’t quite know where to look, as she simply sobbed into her hands, shoulders heaving.

He glanced towards the cleric, the one with a voice to almost rival his own, tilting his head meaningfully in the direction of the weeping maiden. Surely a woman of religion was supposed to absolve people of their guilt, whereas he just tended to be one for enabling them at the source.

But Shadowheart merely watched, lips pursed and arms folded, still smarting over the fact that this stupidly nice girl had freed the angry armoured alien from her trap.

“Should we really be having her spearhead this endeavour?” he murmured to his newfound companions, as the bawling continued, loudly. “It... seems to be taking its toll.”

“Why?” Shadowheart asked, with an unimpressed eyebrow, “are you volunteering?”

“Me? Gods, no.” Astarion hastily looked around the group for some easy deflection, and his attention landed on the gith, “shouldn’t… um… you be the leader?”

“I want to. Believe me.” Lae’zel replied in terse, clipped tones, but then levelled a glare over at the two other members of their party. Ah, of course. Shadowheart and the wizard were only trusting this woman on the tiefling girl’s vouch, and if she took over, they’d probably leave. Or Lae’zel would probably get angry with them, and leave. And he’d be down at least one competent person who came complete with sharp things. Or perhaps left with this weeping girl, alone.

Still… it seemed kind of cruel to just… leave her there. Crying.

After another minute of sobbing which no one seemed inclined to interrupt, Astarion let out a theatrical sigh and ambled over, skirting decorously around the puddle of vomit. He reached out, and gingerly patted her back.

“There, there,” he said, inadequately. “At least it was nice and quick. Efficient! I’m sure he barely felt a thing!”

The tiefling froze under his touch. Took her head out of her hands, looked at the corpse, and then turned to look back at him with horror. It was hard to tell with the dark eyes and bright pupils, but it seemed her tear-filled eyes were terrified. Of him. Specifically.

Ah.

Astarion thought, not for the first time, that perhaps he may just have said the wrong thing.

Day two, he realised he should probably ask her name.

“Rosalie,” she replied, tiredly. “It’s Rosalie.”

Looking at her, it was clear by what logic she’d been named, with her raspberry dark hair and the lilac cast of her features. She clearly had some pretty uninspired parents, who’d seemingly leant into the colour scheme and also decided to foster her damsel tendencies from birth. Obviously, she had to be named for a flower. Breakable and crushed easy underfoot. Like a stiff breeze would flatten her.

But looking at her askance, he thought ‘foxglove’ suited better. The purple freckles across her cheeks and nose reminded him of dark speckles found on the inside of the flower’s shell.

“So tell me, darling Rosalie,” he drawled, “how exactly do you hope to get this tadpole out of your cranium, if you insist on helping every teary-eyed stranger within a five mile radius? Are you trying to win a popularity contest? You can hold the award with your lovely new face-tentacles.”

“So I should’ve just let that girl get assassinated. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Oh no, we should’ve saved her, certainly! She gave us that shiny coin as payment. But why are you bothering to upset the only people here who have a healer, just because some penniless tieflings gave you puppy dog eyes.”

Rosalie, a tiefling, looked at him disbelievingly. “Which one are you talking about, exactly? The eight year old girl about to be murdered, or her parents?!”

“He is right,” Lae’zel grunted. “Finding a healer is already an exercise in futility. And yet you insist it take even longer than it ought.”

“I understand the urge, Rose,” Gale said, a regretful look in his eyes. Shadowheart, too, shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “My heart goes out to these people. I’m certainly glad you saved the child, and I would greatly like to help them, but unfortunately we don’t have the luxury. If we undergo ceremorphosis, we’ll be capable of far worse than one woman, in her piddly corner of the world.”

“Unless you were planning on getting payment for your good deeds?” Astarion asked. “If so, I revise my previous statement: it’s an excellent idea! Maybe we can get accommodation here, or stay in an inn somewhere, and not that awful scree you found last night. The pebbles didn’t half dig into my back.”

“You didn’t even sleep,” Shadowheart muttered as an aside.

“I hate to say it, but perhaps he’s right,” Gale said, awkwardly, “we will likely need to pay this healer, or perhaps travel further afield in coming days. We will need horses. Supplies. Perhaps you can ask the girl’s parents… um… if…”

Astarion sighed inwardly as the man trailed off, having clearly reached the end of his backbone. “They must be stocking up on healing potions,” he reasoned, “if they’re about to venture out into the great unknown. Ask for them. Drinking them might stave off the tadpole, or something.”

Rosalie looked at all of them, and then at him, specifically. Blinked. Blinked again.

“I don’t know how to explain to you all,” she said, slowly, sounding out the words like it strained her credulity to say them aloud, “that you should care about other people.”

We are all going to die, thought Astarion.

And so it continued - her asking every person in the Grove for their opinion on village politics that frankly seemed boring at best, inconvenient at worst. But somehow, the rest of their group didn’t realise she was a moron, nor did they launch a mutiny within the day. Instead, everyone trailed after Foxglove aimlessly - and Astarion certainly wasn’t about to break off from the pack. Who knew how quickly news of a felled mindflayer ship would reach the ears of Cazador. He had to get these people onside before he had someone trying to claim him, or bribing them to turn him in.

“Gods, I hate hiking,” Rose hummed, looking down with a frown at her dust-covered boots as they trudged their way into camp.

“And yet you dragged us around, for miles. Needlessly,” Astarion noted, and she threw him a glare. “Just think, we could be halfway to Baldur’s Gate right now.”

“Both your city-dweller stripes are showing,” their new companion, the Blaze of the Frontier or whatever terrible name he called himself, teased her, with a nudge and an elbow to the side. Astarion hid a smirk as Rose returned the gesture with a look of bemused affront - having only known the man for roughly five hours, it seemed they weren’t quite on ‘nudging’ terms, in her eyes. “You get used to it! I’m sure you’ll wear your shoes in eventually.”

“Quite,” both Astarion and Rosalie drawled at the same time, in the exact same voice. She startled, and looked at him. He shrugged.

Must be the mindflayer.

“Do you think protection from poison cures insect bites?” Rose hastily recovered, rubbing at her arms. “I have… like… twenty. Just from yesterday.”

“Yes, got to be careful of bloodsuckers,” Astarion murmured, and it was a shame no one got the joke, because he really was very amusing.

Foxglove gave him one last funny look before she retreated to talk to the other wizard, clearly opting for what she considered to be safer territory. The man was examining one of his illusory duplicates, and began to regale her with an explanation, as gory as it was impersonal and precise, of what exactly was going to happen to them if they insisted on engaging in these farcical heroics much longer. Astarion quickly tuned the man out, bored: it didn’t take any level of prodigal genius for him to know that the longer they pissed about in the countryside letting some idiot girl make promises she shouldn’t and didn’t need to keep, the quicker they died horrible, gruesome deaths.

“And so you see, Rosalie, I understand the urge to help these refugees, truly I do,” Gale continued. “If it was under any other circ*mstances, I’d immediately jump to their aid, but we are working with days, at best - not weeks.”

Astarion glanced up, wondering if all this elaborate wizard speak might actually get through the girl’s thick skull. Foxglove stood with her arms folded, her expression a thoughtful frown. And then she said:

“Gale, how old are you?”

“34,” the wizard replied, as surprised at the question as Astarion was. “Why?”

“You do realise we’re the same age,” Rose told him, in a dry, unimpressed voice that made Astarion fight a smirk. “I know I… look younger, but could you please refrain from talking to me like a child?”

Astarion couldn’t help but stall in what he was doing. This was the first display of anything approaching cruelty on the part of their glorious leader, and he certainly wasn’t going to miss it, solely for the novelty value alone. Gale himself also looked surprised, as he realised that, for the past fifteen minutes of in-depth exposition, the girl had been somewhat humouring him.

“I know I’m no prodigy, with only a ‘slight touch’ of the Weave,” Rosalie continued, sarcasm layering through her voice, “but some of us augmented their natural talent by studying, extensively. I’m actually an archivist and scribe at The Watchful Order. I know I’ve got some way to go, magically, but that book on mind flayers and ceremorphosis you’re talking about? I transcribed our library’s copy. I illuminated it. I illustrated it. And if I was one for paranoia, I’d actually be pretty convinced that that’s why they may have taken me in the first place.”

“I… goodness. I see. You’re part of the Order?”

“Have been for three years now,” Rose informed him, blandly.

Gale had the good grace to look a little shamefaced, then rallied valiantly. “Then surely, you understand-”

“I don’t know if you’ll entirely agree with me, but I have reason to believe our ceremorphosis is different from that which the authors of those volumes described,” Rosalie interrupted, her voice more confident than Astarion had heard it yet. “I can’t speak for you, but I’ve experienced no memory loss, there’s no fever. And the only person greying is, well-” she threw a glance over in his direction, and he gave her a blatant, beaming smile back, that made her roll her eyes. “Unless Astarion was tanned before, I really think no one is exhibiting symptoms, at all.”

“I had also… noticed anomalies,” Gale admitted, and there was brief silence as everyone involved acknowledged that he hadn’t planned on her telling her about them. Perhaps he’d just been hoping she’d be enraptured by his explanation, and thus agree to whatever plan he put forward.

“I don’t know what you’re experiencing, and perhaps we can dance around the issue somewhat to keep everyone comfortable, but these ‘anomalies’ suggest that the relationship with the parasite is less… predatory than usual. It seems more in the realms of symbiotic. I can certainly feel it try to influence my behaviour, but it is not driving me quite the way it would like. At least from what I can tell - would you agree?”

Astarion thought about his first instinctive jolt at the burn of sunlight behind his lids, down among the rubble of the crash site. The giddy, wild shock at finding himself not rendered to ash. “You know,” he interjected, before Gale could speak, “you might be onto something, Foxglove!”

“...‘Foxglove’?

“Your… hypothesis is certainly one I share,” Gale tried to interject. “Unfortunately, I cannot divine anything more than that - my knowledge does not lie in nature.”

“...Did you forget what my name is already, and just guess a flower?” Rose asked Astarion, who simply grinned back, revelling in her confusion, before Gale cleared his throat pointedly to reclaim her attention.

“Oh, sorry! But yeah, me neither,” Rose sighed, shaking her head. “The healer in the druid camp was out of her depth as well. I tried explaining that things aren’t progressing as one would expect, but all I got was poison for my troubles. She thought me deluded.”

And she was right, on so many levels, Astarion thought to himself.

“I understand her fears, but I don’t know why we wouldn’t want to find out precisely why the worm is keeping us alive. This other druid, Halsin, might know more. He might also, conveniently, not want to selfishly condemn a group of innocent people to their deaths. It is, quite frankly, a win-win situation, as far as I’m concerned.”

As Astarion expected, Gale immediately capitulated, after that. He barely put up a fight to begin with, his conscience apparently too prickled by any outright disagreement or suggestions of wrong doing. Astarion thought he could point a number of highly efficient ways to find Halsin without promising to save the lives of a hundred people in one inconsequential druid grove, but in the moment he was far more interested in what exactly led Foxglove to draw her conclusions.

“How has your tadpole changed you, then?” he asked idly, after the other man had left. Rose glanced over, surprised and clearly put off by his question - even though she should take it for what it was: an admission on his part that he too was experiencing some unprecedented side-effects. He’d presumed it was just from him being spawn: that his biology had flummoxed the tadpole for a while, and bought him some time. Over the others, who he'd quite honestly assumed would fall to the worm first.

“...I’m far less inclined to murder annoying blonde strangers than usual,” she grumbled, guarded and defensive, and Astarion laughed, delighted to find that she had any kind of steel in her, whatsoever.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Chapter Text

“Do you have someone waiting for you in Baldur’s Gate, Astarion? A sweetheart, perhaps?” Shadowheart said, in a bored voice. They were trekking towards the goblin camp, and all the walking was becoming… dull, in the beating heat. Astarion knew, abstractly, that he had missed the sun, but really, did it have to be so unrelenting? What if he suddenly began to freckle?

The cleric was certainly looking worse for wear, beginning to roast inside her armour. Being a cleric of Shar was all fun and games, it seemed, until one was required to commit to the aesthetic in the summer.

“No sweethearts, no,” Astarion replied, “I tend prefer them savoury.”

He glanced forward, to where Foxglove and the Blade were up ahead, walking side-by-side. There was something about the angle - as he looked over, the sunlight caught Rosalie in profile, and… well.

Her neck was on display. And he was a simple man.

So he found himself adding: “I do find myself with a sweet tooth once in a blue moon. A little indulgence, as it were. I’ll fall for a few honeyed words, same as anybody.”

With a stab of true satisfaction, he saw her diligently pretend not to listen in.

Shadowheart sighed. “This is what I get for trying to start a conversation.”

Astarion decided to humour her. “Of course, I can see why, with a face like mine, you automatically assume I am taken. But no, not a one, in particular. Not that it’s much skin off my back. The city is a veritable feast of sweethearts.”

“You must be eager to get back then. Slimmer pickings in this wilderness.”

“Oh… I don’t know,” he mused, his voice a touch louder than necessary, “I tend to value quality, over quantity. I find myself not entirely wanting, even here.”

“Are these words for my benefit?” asked Shadowheart, in a resigned tone, “...you’ve not got any more lines about ‘flowers’, have you?”

“Would you describe yourself as ‘sweet’, Shadowheart?”

“Not. in. the slightest,” she replied, through gritted teeth.

“Well then, you’ve not a thing to worry about, have you, dear?” he replied easily. “Somehow, I do not think either of us number among the tender-hearted in our party. And I’ve found myself craving dessert, of late.”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re pitching your voice like a player on a stage,” Shadowheart said.

She too narrowed her eyes at their companions up ahead and - either because she was perceptive, a woman of taste, or because Foxglove was painfully terrible at feigning disinterest - she alighted on Rose as well. “Well, good luck. I certainly see the appeal, but I think they have a taste for honeyed words as well. And no matter how silver-tongued you are, I don’t think anything that has come out of your mouth has ever approached sugary.”

Wyll stopped, and threw an easy glance over his shoulder, breaking the moment. “Are you and his lordship done objectifying me, Lady Shadowheart? I knew there was a reason you must want to bring up the rear - I do have a marvellous arse.”

“Strong, fast and righteous,” Astarion announced, amused that the man had assumed automatically that he was the subject of their talk. Warlocks. Just because something terrible and powerful had decided to invest one meagre ounce of attention in them, they thought that everyone across the planes must consider them to be hot sh*t.

Not that the assumption was entirely unfounded, as Astarion added: “the arse is certainly a bonus.”

Wyll look momentarily flattered, and just a little conflicted about it. Rose took that moment to turn as well, the pretense of her ignorance and indifference well and truly shattered.

“So glad we’re all taking this rescue mission seriously, gang,” she observed, because she was so depressingly boring. “Tell me, do you want the goblins’ input too, when we start ranking people by their attractiveness? If we’re loud enough, they might join in. We can take a popular vote, if you like?”

“Oh, I should think the consensus on our prettiest party member was rather obvious, Foxglove, no need for outside help,” Astarion replied. He held her gaze and saw her itching to break it, “why, I’m sure we’re thinking of the exact same person, right this moment!”

She looked like she was ready to bolt, a blush creeping up her neck. But marvellously, she rallied: “Is this based on looks, or personality? Because I find that the criteria rather alters my answer.”

“Goodness, for me as well! What a coincidence! We must be of like minds.”

She snorted, “if we are, I’m sure it’s just the tadpole.”

“Well, this person lies far outside my normal tastes, so maybe it is mind-control. Or perhaps I find them simply that compelling,” he replied. “As I said, I’ve been craving something sweet, of late.”

“Yes, as you said. Loudly. If only you did the work to justify the appetite, instead of talking pointless sh*te.”

“Would... ten goblins... be enough to warrant me dessert?” Astarion asked with a devious smile, and that was the moment he wrong-footed her, and she stalled, mortified, having not actually expected the conversation to stray beyond the safe lines she was probably used to. It took her a moment to visibly recover.

“Ten goblins would be wonderful, Astarion,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was feeling the beginnings of a headache. “But I don’t work on a barter system, and I’m not even sure what you’re bargaining for. I’m not your keeper. If you could do the deed simply out of the kindness of your heart, or, you know, for the sake of the Grove or the people inside, gods know I’d probably weep at your feet.”

“Promises, promises.”

“...Have you ever taken anything seriously, in your life, ever?”

“Absolutely not, and I rather resent the assertion!”

She had nothing to say to that. It was a shame, really, that the repartee died - Astarion had been rather enjoying himself.

“...Are we just going to… stand here? Flirting?” Wyll announced to the air, into the silence that was spent mourning the sad and late passing of Foxglove’s fleeting sense of humour.

“No, thank you,” Rosalie sighed tiredly, “I want to get this place cleared by nightfall, but apparently I’m the only one who seems to remember that people’s lives are at stake-”

“Oh, I’m aware, dearest,” Astarion interrupted. “Our own. Every night, I dream of all the healers in the capital that money could buy, and here I am, fighting goblins-”

She flung him a tired look, “oh, but you just seem so unbothered by it, Astarion. Clearly, you don’t feel all that threatened whatsoever.”

“Perhaps I’m the scariest thing in these woods, dearest.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“...So that’s a yes on the standing here flirting, then,” Wyll observed. “Can a man get a look in? I’m starting to feel invisible.”

“Oh gods, let’s just go,” Rosalie sighed, setting off without another backwards glance.

And thus, because she had no sense of fun whatsoever, they carried on up the road in silence, Foxglove in the lead. Astarion was musing about how exactly to annoy her next, when suddenly he caught sight of a strange, half-there line in the dirt of the track. Some kind of snare or trap - directly in front of where Rosalie was about to put her feet.

sh*t.

Without thinking, he darted forward, past Shadowheart and around Wyll, and clamped his arm around her waist, dragging her back just as she was about to step down. Rose let out an indignant squawk as he lifted her off her feet and spun her out of harm’s way. She fought his grip, but if he was being honest, she either wasn’t very strong, or she wasn’t fighting very hard.

“What the - Put me down!”

“Ah ah ahhhh,” he murmured, directly in her ear, and then scuffed his foot in the dust to draw her attention to the snare, as he deposited her back on the ground. “Careful there, Foxglove. Would hate for you to alert all those goblins you’re so worried about, hmm?”

“...Oh,” she said, with a small huff. He felt her ribcage move under his hold with the breath, but he was a little more focused on how her neck was now right there, just inches away, bare save for the scattering of hair on her nape. It was pretty tempting, if he was honest - even after over a week with many frigid lakeside baths, but no soap. He weighed up the pros and cons briefly and landed on the obvious - chomping down now, in broad daylight, would almost definitely end up with Wyll going full hero and staking him through the back.

Even with this blatant logic, it had been quite a long moment, all in all. With an awkward cough, Rose tapped his arm, signalling for him to let go. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Foxglove,” he promised, and held on for a second longer than necessary before stepping back. He let his hand trail across her waist as he loosened his hold and she stepped out of his grip: let her think that was why he was lingering, and not because he was sizing up whether he could get away with a quick nibble.

It worked, obviously. Rosalie took a big, big step to the side, away from him, needlessly dusting herself down even though he hadn’t tackled her to the dirt, this time. She was avoiding his eyes, and her cheeks were pinker than usual. Fascinating. What he wouldn’t pay to get a glimpse into her thoughts, in that very moment.

Of course. He could.

Astarion decided that he was a cruel, cruel man, and decided to nudge her a little with the tadpole. A little peek surely couldn’t hurt.

A flash in his mind, of a kiss shared under a cherry blossom canopy. A cherry blossom tree - by the gods, Rosalie didn’t do things by halves. Had her whole life been fairy-tale charmed? There was a very pretty half-elf girl - also in apprentice robes - with skin as pale as porcelain and spun silver hair made ice-bright by the sunshine. Eyes like sea glass, each eyelash snow white as they fluttered closed and their lips touched. It was disgustingly sweet, and innocent, but he felt Rose remember the way she’d shivered as the girl had anchored one of her hands in her curls and pulled.

Intriguing.

Foxglove wasn’t fantasising about him specifically, but… well. It certainly seemed like she had a type.

That can only work in my favour, Astarion thought. At this point, it was quite clear he was going to need… a more substantial meal in the near future, and a willing candidate had just come forward - or, well, one that would clearly be very willing, very soon.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Chapter Text

There were way more than ten goblins to be had, and by the end of day two of slaughtering the vermin, Astarion was flagging. Living on rats was all well and good when he was skulking on his own underground and only wheeled out on the fickle whims of Cazador’s enjoyment. A boar or three wasn’t going to cut it when he was bodily throwing himself into frays, however unwillingly he was being coerced into them.

At this point, he was honestly starting to feel like Foxglove owed him.

He watched Rosalie from his periphery as she slumped by the fire, flicking through her spellbook as she gnawed her lip, a halo of dancing lights floating around her head like fireflies. Tired and oblivious to all else around her, and practically falling asleep into the pages. She’d washed her robe free of dirt and blood and it was drying in the gloaming of the fire, while she sat with her sleeves rolled up and her hair in a loose plait.

“I’ll take first watch,” he announced to the air, as if the fact that he was high-elf and 'only tranced' hadn’t meant he’d been lumped with it every night since they landed in this backwater. “I think it’s your turn after, hmm, Wyll?”

In truth, he was only trying to ensure that neither the cleric nor Lae’zel would think to stay awake or alert. They were the only two likely to interrupt midway through a… delicate interlude, and he didn’t want to give them any incentive to sleep light.

As the camp slowly lapsed into silence, Rosalie extinguished her cantrip and lay her own head down. Anticipation began to build uncomfortably in Astarion's gut, as all his senses began to hone single-mindedly onto his new goal. With his hearing sharpened into the mode of a predator, he picked up on the exact moment her breathing flattened, evening out.

Embarrassingly, he started salivating.

The moment he noticed it, though, Astarion went on a bracing walk of the perimeter. It was all just starting to feel a touch too premeditated, and he certainly didn’t see the appeal of watching over her like a creeping skulker of shadows. Flicking a tongue against a fang, he wondered idly what she’d taste like. He knew well enough from how its scent continually tormented him that humanoid blood was a delicacy compared to what he was raised on. Gods, even just the idea of a mouthful set parts of his brain and body alight-

...Again, it was starting to stray into rather unpleasant territory. It was a meal. Nothing more.

There was no need to make it awkward.

And if Foxglove woke up, she’d probably fall over herself to help him. Perhaps stick a knife in herself on his behalf, like she did with every other person who weaved a tale of woe for her ears. There was really no need to overthink it, like a fledgeling freshly fanged - or even worse, a green, frustrated teenager.

When Astarion came back to camp, everyone was out like a light. He gave it another twenty minutes to be sure, cleaning his blades needlessly… but then it started to get f*cking weird again. He was so focused on not watching her sleep that it became the constant thought at the back of his mind.

And the more he thought about it, the hungrier he got, and the hungrier he got, the more he started wondering exactly what it would be like to sink through skin to-

Ok, then. It was now time to act, before he got too… well… murderous about the whole thing.

He removed all his weapons, and crept over to her sleeping form without a sound. Rose was turned on her side, and a nigh picture of innocence, cuddling half her blanket like it was a person. He crouched down with a bare shifting of leather, and she stirred, causing him to freeze.

Gods, this was all so unsightly.

He thought the years of people he’d watched Cazador drain would be enough to train him to indifference. He'd certainty numbed himself enough to his master's pantomime, told himself that these deaths didn't matter for long enough that it had started to seem true by the end of his confinement.

Deserving, that was maybe the more apt term. Those victims had been foolish as he had been foolish, to step willingly into the lion's den, and so their fates seemed inevitable, and nothing but a mercy compared to the fate he'd been dealt.

Better he drink from them, than they stay alive to suffer. Better to be... cattle.

Better to be slaughtered.

Gods... he wasn't going to kill her, was he?

Perhaps he truly should’ve hunted a stranger, rather than go for someone he unfortunately knew now. He had to keep this one alive, after all - he knew her face, and although they were all still perfect strangers, the others had formed attachments.

That was just canny self preservation, wasn't it? Not sentiment.

It was all just so… mixed together, the person and the body and the blood, and he didn’t want to think hard enough to unpick it.

With a gentle brush of his hand, he carefully pulled the dark weight of her hair out of the way of her throat. A ripple of gooseflesh followed the touch. Then, not quite sure why - probably because it all still felt rather uncomfortable - he quickly glanced up for one final look at her profile, to make sure her eyes were still closed and she was sound asleep.

They weren’t.

And she wasn’t.

In fact, her dark eyes were open and wide as saucers, looking right up to see him leaning over her.

They locked eyes, both frozen.

“Um,” she whispered with a hint of a squeak, “can I help you?”

He could’ve perhaps brushed it off as an unnecessarily intimate way of rousing her for the sake of an imaginary noise in the woods, like any good watchperson.

Had his fangs not been extended.

“Well, sh*t.” Astarion muttered, with that mortifying lisp he sometimes got, and then she moved, and he hastily ducked back before her horn could gore him up through his chin and put an end to this mortifying ordeal and perhaps his life.

“What the f*ck, what the f*ck, what the f*ck,” she chanted in a whispered hiss as he quickly backed up - quick enough to fall out of his crouch and heavily onto his arse.

He sat there, limbs splayed out inelegantly, and watched with very real apprehension as she too arranged herself into sitting, glaring at him, a dagger, absurdly, in her hand.

Had she been sleeping with it? Could she even use it?

He wondered why she wasn’t shaking with fear. Why she wasn’t screaming. He was frankly amazed she hadn’t yelled out to the camp and gotten the Blade of the Frontiers to defend her honour like some helpless maiden or something.

“What! The! f*ck!” she hissed, again, for emphasis. “What are you doing… are those fangs?”

“Listen, I can explain-”

“Oh my gods, you’re a vampire!” she whispered at him, pointing a finger in his direction. Astarion’s eyes bugged and he gave a quick glance at all the sleeping figures, to see if any of them stirred.

Taking his expression as confirmation, Rose clapped her hands over her mouth.

“Oh my gods! I mean, I kind of thought the entire-” she gestured at his body, and then, for some reason, at his hair, twice, “-was a bit much, but I assumed it was all enchantments, or something! For the aesthetic! It was probably expensive, I didn’t want to-”

“Look I just need-”

“Oh my goodness, that means you’re really just like this.”

“What are you-”

She leant towards him, dropping her guard and her dagger to the side, to ask: “were you like this before the vampirism, or did you just like… y’know… lean in?”

“Foxglove!” he whispered, harried, and wondering why he was the one being flustered by this conversation. She’d just see him try to bite her - why wasn’t she…?

“Oh! That’s what that f*cking ‘sweetheart’ conversation was about,” she smiled - smiled! - dimples showing. “I thought it was all innuendo, obviously, but it felt a little off at the time! Less sexy than normal. Just like when you go on about steak in unnecessary detail, it’s just so weird. I thought ‘maladjusted posh boy’, but vampire makes so much more sense.”

She blinked, putting two and two together, then snorted, “you think my heart will be sweet? You’d be better off with Shadowheart to be honest - I’m pretty sure tiefling tastes like sulphur.”

“Rose, will you please stop talking!”

“Sorry, you just seem a bit wrong-footed - I’m sure this is a little embarrassing for you - and I’m babbling to fill the silence-”

“Why aren’t you screaming? Yelling for help? Or… or something!”

“...Would you like me to scream?” she asked, frowning, and the moment the words left her lips they both froze, and she clapped her hands over her mouth again. “Oh, hells, do not answer that. How mortifying.”

“Why aren’t you scared?”

“...Why would I be scared?”

“I’m a vampire,” Astarion said, like it was obvious. “Well. Spawn.”

“I was about to say, I’m guessing the tadpole has aided your… um… ailment, but from my reading I don’t think you’d be able to go out into the sunlight if you were full Lord-”

“Aren’t you going to… to… try to stake me, or something?”

“...No?” Rose replied, with a frown. “As if I could! Besides, it’s not like you’re going to hurt me.”

“Excuse me?” Astarion was actually offended by that.

“Well, you obviously need a lesson or two in consent, and you gave me a f*cking heart attack just looming over me like that. I thought you wanted to check through the goblin loot or something, and then boom: fangs!”

“Will you keep your gods-damned voice down?”

“But it’s not like you actually used any force,” she continued to reason, her face a picture of logic and rationality that belied precisely how stupid she actually was. “You looked just as startled as I did. If you were… um… ‘feral’, or whatever, we all would’ve been dead days ago. You would’ve ripped through the druids’ grove or something. You’d probably have murdered Wyll first. Oh no. Actually. Probably me. But I trust you weren’t going to try anything. Well. You were going to bite me, I’m guessing. But you didn’t, so… I guess I still do trust you.”

She trusted him. Astarion wished he could say that surprised him. Obviously, the whole reason he’d chosen her was because of how tender-hearted she was. A few sorrowful expressions, he’d thought, and she’d forgive the slight and never mention it again to him or the others. At this point, he frankly didn’t put it past her to just apologise for not being a tasty enough meal. But this was… ridiculous!

How the ever-lucking f*ck had this woman lived to see thirty-four years on this green earth?

“Why didn’t you just… you know… ask?” she said, tilting her head.

“Goodness, I wonder! No way that could backfire spectacularly!”

“...And not asking is going... well for you, is it?”

“You’re not normal. You realise this?!” he demanded in a hiss, “there is something categorically wrong with you! Were you dropped on the head as a child?!”

“Oh, so this is why you weren’t going to ask,” Rose observed. “Your sweet talk is leaving something to be desired.”

“Will you shut the f*ck-”

“I get it, you’re defensive.”

“I am a normal f*cking person having a normal f*cking reaction to someone discovering I’m a vampire!” Astarion spat at her, wanting to tear out his hair. “You are the one with some kind of death wish.”

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence for a couple of seconds. Astarion did imagine an alternate timeline, when he’d simply slit Foxglove’s throat, and latched on and drained her… and, to escape the sheer amount of honest and open pity in her gaze, it would almost have been worth it.

“You’re the one who’s been draining all those corpses we find in the woods,” she said. “...Are they not enough?”

“Normally, I feed off of animals. But either I’m fighting off the tadpole or you, Foxglove, are working me to death,” he replied, tersely, “I’m too slow right now. Too weak. If I could just have a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. You want me on top form, surely? Can’t have me getting sloppy.”

“That… makes sense,” Rosalie said, with a slow and solemn nod. Then she raised an eyebrow. “So. Do you have something you want to ask me?”

Astarion paused, watching her carefully. “You cannot be serious,” he scoffed. “Is this some kind of power play? I’d indulge, but it’s not like you’re actually going to say yes.”

“Welp. You never know. I guess, if you don’t have the decency to ask for my permission…”

“Well… errr… ok then,” still thinking she was an idiot, but not wanting to spit in the face of luck, Astarion cleared his throat. “Would you, darling Rosalie, care to let me sample a small sip? Just for the sake of… efficiency. I swear, if you want me to fight valiantly and courageously in each battle you needlessly lead us into, I only need a taste. I promise.”

“What a very pretty request, and infinitely preferable to looming over me in the dead of night like a creeper,” Rose replied, with a smile. “I’ll consider it... if you say ‘please’.”

Oh, Astarion thought, surprised. So she’s f*cking with me.

There was no way she’d actually agree to let him bite her, but she was drawing it out for her entertainment. She was just… toying with him. Probably getting her revenge for the last six days in his company. He’d provided her with his secret, so now she had power over him, and she was using it to make him feel small.

It was exactly what Astarion would do if he was in her position, and so it shouldn’t have surprised or hurt him - even if Foxglove was the one doing it.

Even if it did hurt. Just alittle.

“Please,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

“Ok, then.”

“I… what?”

“I’ll trust you when you say it’s necessary, and I appreciate being asked first,” Rose said to him, in a perfectly level voice. Like she was being reasonable, and not… not… Astarion could not comprehend what she was being. Kind? Foolish?

“So long as you don’t kill me - in fact, so long as you don’t take a drop more than you need - I would say that’s fine. I have no reason to deny you.”

“Really? O-of course. Just what I need, and not one drop more.”

“Excellent! I’ll hold you to that. So what do I like… do?” Astarion watched her, unable to really process this entire conversation, as she hastily glanced around and started rolling up her sleeve, exposing a wrist. With her other hand, she reached for her dagger. “Should I cut? Um.... maybe you should cut. I’ve got a feeling that I’d probably do it wrong, you’re the one who actually knows what they’re doing…”

Gods, release me from this torment, Astarion silently beseeched the night sky, before he reached over and clamped his hand over the one she was clutching the dagger in. “Do not cut yourself,” he told her sternly. “Any blood spilled unnecessarily, and we attract monsters.” And I probably end up killing you because I can’t think straight. “That’s how a person ends up dying very quickly. The bite seals itself, Foxglove. Some kind of…”

“Coagulant in your… um… saliva?”

Astarion rolled his eyes, and steeled himself, “we don’t need to go into details.”

“Ok, fabulous, so you just bite me,” she said, and this finally was her limit, where the absurdity of the situation seemed to hit her and her cheeks began to go pink.

She stared at him for a second, blinking rapidly, and then shoved her wrist in his direction, nearly punching him in the eye. “Get it over with.”

Astarion stilled. Gently moved her wrist out of his face with two fingers, and raised an eyebrow at her - not that he was sure she noticed, because she was now studiously avoiding eye contact and entirely preoccupied with the loose threads on her bedroll.

“Wrist is the preferred spot, then, is it? You want everyone to be able to see every time you spin that staff of yours?”

“Gods, kill me,” she muttered. “Ok, then. You are the expert. I defer to your judgement.”

“Turn around.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Astarion was beginning to realise just how entertaining this little interlude could be: “Unless you want eye-contact? I agree, darling, it can all feel a little clinical and… impersonal at times. You can clamber on into my lap if you’d prefer, I certainly have no complaints-”

“Ok, ok, I’m moving,” Rose hastily spun and turned away, repositioning herself.

She straightened out her shoulders with a shake, automatically taking her braid and flinging it across one shoulder so that it left one side of her neck bare without his prompting. When she felt his hands come to rest on her shoulders, she jumped nearly a mile, then fought, carefully, to keep herself still. It was like she didn’t want him to know she felt awkward, or apprehensive, or turned on, which was hilarious, given that the moment he got close he could feel the siren song of her pulse thrumming through her like the ground being shaken by a far-off stampede. Astarion fought a smirk, rather relishing the knowledge that he was once more entirely in control of the situation.

“Um,” she swallowed, and he felt her take a deep breath in response to him going closer still, until his own breath ghosted over the exposed skin of the juncture between her neck and shoulder. “How is this less visible, exactly? I’m pretty certain people will see it if it’s here, too.”

There are a number of far less visible places, if you care to indulge, was the obvious retort there. But as amusing as all this was, Astarion wasn’t in the mood to talk much longer. He was starving.

“Just turn up your collar, dearest. It’s what I do,” he muttered quickly, directly into her ear. He felt her fight a shudder - either at the admission or the means by which it was delivered, he couldn’t quite tell - and then, half-mindless with thirst, he bit down.

Only she didn’t turn up her collar, or perhaps Foxglove tasted a little better than Astarion expected and he wasn’t quite as neat as planned, and that meant by morning his secret was out to everyone.

Which meant that, four days and several eviscerated, exsanguinated goblins later, when they ran into a Gur peasant claiming to be a monster hunter, three pairs of eyes very unsubtly drifted in his direction.

“Oh,” Rosalie said, intelligently. “And… um… what are you hunting exactly?”

At first, Astarion thought she was doing that thing again, where she offered aid to everyone and his dog, and would get cats down from trees if pushed. But then he noticed the way she shifted her staff into her casting hand, and repositioned herself ever so slightly in front of him. Why? She had no reason to know his feelings and apprehensions regarding the Gur in the first place.

“Something terrifying no doubt,” he scoffed, “dragon? Cyclops? Kobold?”

Rosalie cast him a look, one that he was quickly learning to recognise as her communicating a please of, why are you like this? He felt a pressure on his toes, glanced down, and realised the woman had tried to step on his foot.

“Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid,” the man, Gandrel, said. “I’m actually hunting a vampire spawn. His name is Astarion, but I fear he has gone to ground. I hope the hag of these lands can flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.”

This time, it was Wyll who was on the receiving end of Foxglove’s pointed, silent aggression. Shockingly, it seemed like vanishing old ladies were bad news. Astarion would’ve found it funny, was he not too preoccupied by the realisation that Cazador was looking for him. And he was sending Gur to do it. The rat bastard.

He felt sick to his stomach.

“You’re going to bargain with a hag?” Rose asked, tentatively, skirting carefully around the mention of ‘Astarion’ entirely. “Is that… standard monster hunter behaviour?”

“It’s not my preferred method, no,” Gandrel replied easily, “but my training does at least mean I know a bad bargain when I see it.”

“Any hag bargain is a bad bargain, surely?” Rose said, “they can twist anyone’s words against them... that’s kind of the entire point.”

“The needs for the situation require it,” the man replied easily, but Foxglove did not look convinced. Astarion wondered if she was going to argue further, help this Gandrel do the job of catching him for him. Let the man throw himself at another monster, and die for it. Solves the problem for us without us lifting a finger.

After all, it wasn’t like she was going to let Astarion kill him. He’d have to sneak back to the Gur’s camp tonight, when she was asleep, and do the deed then with her being none the wiser.

“Is the situation that dire, then?” she asked in a careful voice. “Killing this spawn must be most pressing.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” Gandrel told her. “My orders are to capture him.”

“Oh,” Astarion interjected, “and take him where, exactly?”

He already knew the answer.

“Baldur’s Gate,” Gandrel replied. “My people wait for him there.”

“So you’ve just been sent out here, alone, to incapacitate this ‘Astarion’ and then drag him across the countryside single-handedly?” Rose continued, disbelief obvious in her tone. Why was she interrogating this man? It was better for them to get away - the less she knew, the quicker Astarion could tie up this loose end with her remaining oblivious. “Do your masters want you dead? I mean, I suppose he is a spawn-”

“I don’t know, dearest, I’m sure a vampire spawn could rip your throat out, if he felt like it. If pushed.”

“And yet here I am, perfectly intact,” Rose retorted breezily. “Perhaps this poor little lost spawn is enfeebled. Maybe they are just so starving and weak-”

“I don’t want the lenience of my planned sentence to dull the severity of the situation for you, my lady,” Gandrel interrupted, before Astarion could say something he truly regretted. “Spawn are only weak in comparison to their masters. This monster is deadly, and will have claimed countless lives. I am hopeful to find his lair in daylight and incapacitate him then, but it is only through confidence in my own skill that I can countenance leaving him alive any longer than necessary.”

“Oh yes, you’re clearly very skilled,” said Rose and Astarion, at the exact same time. They glanced at each other, and, bizarrely, he thought he saw the side of her mouth twitch, fighting a smile.

Rose cleared her throat hastily. “Is that why he must be captured and returned to Baldur’s Gate alive, then? Is he answering to some kind of crime?”

Oh gods, Astarion thought. Here it comes. For days, ever since Gale had noted the bitemark of Foxglove’s neck, he’d been waiting for them to turn on him. He had Foxglove on side, but Foxglove had seen an owlbear and waited two days to buy a potion of Speak With Animals to talk to it. She had no sense of caution or self-preservation, and couldn’t betray someone even as they held a knife to her back and pressed the blade home. She was a special case.

The others were another matter entirely. This man would spin some tale of Astarion's brutality, drop news of his bounty, and Astarion’s neck would be on the chopping block in no time.

“I do not know why he must be returned alive,” Gandrel said, “I merely know that payment of my fee rests on this condition.”

“I see.” Rose pursed her lips. “And your employers know you’re trading with hags?”

“You seem rather fixated on this, my lady.”

“I’m merely trying to ascertain the facts,” she replied. “Do you have a description of this man?” when Astarion opened his mouth to interject, she stepped on his foot again. “We could help you find him.”

“He’s not a man, my lady, but a monster,” Gandrel said. “Spawn are enslaved to a master, but without their master’s hand of law they are heartless, mindless killers. They revel in killing. As for their appearance, they are leeched of colour, fanged, and bloodless. They have clawed talons, and glowing red eyes. And of course, they cannot step out in daylight or into running water without burning. If you were to help me with this, you would be a hero, but I will not have you risk yourselves against such a deadly foe.”

I’m a dead man, Astarion thought, feeling both Wyll’s and Shadowheart’s eyes burning into the side of his head.

“Right, right, I see,” Rose replied, her voice hard. “So you have no description of this spawn, specifically? Age, height, demeanor, eccentric personality quirks? ...Fashion sense? Your employers didn’t give you anything to work with?”

Gandrel frowned. “Spawn are pretty rare in these parts. They usually congregate in populated areas, where there are more victims on which to feed. I have found a trail of drained bodies in the passing week, it is surely enough to confirm this ‘Astarion’ is in the area.”

“I don’t know,” Rose said coolly. “I haven’t any heartless, mindless monsters of late. In fact, I would say that if you wanted to have any chance of catching the quarry you seek, you would’ve done well to ask for an accurate description. Wouldn’t you agree, Astarion?”

Astarion choked on whatever objection he was about to give, looking at her face and its hard expression, horrified. He thought it would be Shadowheart selling him out. Or Wyll getting a fit of heroic vapours and buying into the Gur’s lies. For it to be Rosalie-

You absolute... bitch! he thought, trying very hard not to feel betrayed.

“That’s Astarion?!” the Gur gasped, “no, impossible! The sunlight-”

“These days, I’m making the impossible look easy,” Astarion replied, reaching for his blades. And I’m going to kill you all.

“My lady, you must step away! I know he wears a harmless visage, but that is merely a glamour-”

“Oh, so now he can look human, can he?” Rose demanded, “that’s awfully convenient. As you can see, he’s perfectly harmless, so if you could just -”

“Rest assured, there’s nothing human about me, Foxglove,” Astarion bit out, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “Or harmless.”

“Die, monster!” the Gur yelled, lunging for his crossbow.

“No!” there was a yell, and suddenly three bolts of flame hit the Gur square in the chest.

The man had been unprepared, too focused on Astarion. All three scorching rays hit, and they hit hard.

And Foxglove’s hands were smouldering like a lit coal. Astarion looked at her in utter disbelief. Her face was hard, cold, and determined.

The monster hunter dropped with a pained scream, the smell of cooked leather then flesh already hitting Astarion full in the nose and making him grimace. He took a step forward, to finish the job while the man was downed and weak. Before he could recover. But then Rose was in his way again, and she was standing between the man and him and-

- and Astarion was the one she was protecting.

“So it was a lie, then,” she said, quietly, to the felled man in the dirt. “You weren’t just falsely informed.”

Before the man had a chance to respond, she stamped her foot down in front of his kneeling, gasping form, and then the clearing shook with a thunderwave. And Gandrel dropped, inert. Still on fire.

Astarion stood stock still, looking down at the body in shock. He remembered the first day, when Foxglove had electrocuted that random bandit that was menacing with her bare hands, and vomited next to the corpse. Wizards were powerful when they wanted to be, and very deadly.

He’d never been afraid of her before.

If she’d wanted to, she could’ve handed me over. And now, he didn’t honestly know if he could’ve fought her off.

He tried to speak, but the entire thing felt so unreal that he couldn’t seem to form any words. And then she dropped down, and rather than vomit or cry or scream, she instead frantically started to search the dead man’s pockets, and the entire situation began to feel even more surreal.

“His story didn’t add up,” she muttered, “what kind of monster hunter leaves their quarries alive? What kind of monster hunter treaties with hags?”

“I - you -”

“He can’t be working on his own. Sending one person out after you is f*cking ridiculous. There must be more in the area,” Rose continued, smothering the flames on the man’s corpse with a prestidigitation cantrip, and then tugging his leathers open to expose the shirt pockets and immolated flesh beneath. “If they don’t have an actual description of you, that combined with the whole ‘immune to daylight’ thing should keep you safe for now, but we should try to work out who’s behind this. Do you have any idea who might be after you? Doesn’t seem like the Absolute needs anyone out searching for us when they’ve already got tadpoles wriggling around our brains like beacons-”

“I know who did this,” Astarion said, through numb lips.

“You do? Did you recognise him? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I - I thought - I thought you were going try to help him, or something. Hand me over. Or throw him off the trail. I thought it was better to just get away. I didn’t think you’d just... kill him!”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Rosalie snapped, not looking up from the body. “He wanted to hurt you.”

She said it like it was a simple equation. But there was nothing simple about it, Astarion thought. Nothing at all.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four

Chapter Text

Foxglove was bleeding somewhere. Astarion could smell it, hitting metallic and heavy in the back of his throat like an echo of his bite, when his mouth had been full of her. She was bleeding - they were all bleeding, all wounded and hobbling - but her scent was the strongest. Either because he’d known the taste before, or because she was the most injured.

“We are not doing that again,” he announced, as they stumbled out of the Teahouse and into the murky daylight. He thought of those faceless assailants, all begging an unseen force for mercy, sobbing and crying as they struggled with their tortured minds to prevent inflicting another wound. The shudder that went through him was bone deep, and familiar. “We are leaving this place, and we are never coming back.”

“Mayrina is still in there,” Rosalie insisted, breathlessly. “We didn’t… we need to…”

“No!” Astarion bellowed, loud enough to scatter whatever crows called this fetid clearing their home. “Absolutely not!”

“You saw the hag’s prisoners!” she replied, “I’m not going to let any other person suffer like that. I can’t. We’ll rest up, Shadowheart can sap a few more spells in us…”

“Oh can I?” Shadowheart demanded. She looked exhausted. Her voice was pitched bitchier than usual, and her shield now held several splintered dents in it, from the masked woman who’d kept attacking her until she was downed.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I know we need to rest,” Rose replied. “But... once we’ve taken a day to recuperate! We know the terrain now, I can do some reading -”

Astarion had had enough.

“You,” he uttered the word like a poisonous curse, furious, stabbing a finger in Rosalie’s direction. “You need to… just… stop!”

“...I beg your pardon?”

“We are dying,” Astarion spat at her. “Or rather, we are soon to expire and lose ourselves entirely. And yet, because of you, we are traipsing around this gods-forsaken spit of land, helping every foolish mortal who so much blinks a teary eye in your direction. We should be days from here by now! We could’ve left as soon as the druid told us about that Tower. But no! It seems like imminent mortal peril and a set of tentacles isn’t enough for you! You have to risk our f*cking necks and take us days off course, or walk us in circles and pitch us against hags! I will not spend another moment in this poisonous, rotten bog just so we can die at the hands of a wizened old monster who’s been alive longer than me!”

“We can’t just-”

“Yes! Yes, we bloody well can!” Astarion shouted at her.

“Fine then. I can’t. The hag,” Rose said, “she’s evil. Evil. She torments people, and she’s got a pregnant woman as her prisoner. I refuse to leave that girl in her lair, and I refuse to leave her here alive so that she can torment people for another century.”

“Oh you do, do you?” he said sarcastically, “and how will you fair alone, with all your extensive weapons and armour?”

He looked at Foxglove in her tattered, unwashed coat, the buckle to her spellbook near severed by a blade slash, and the masks they’d plucked from the faces of the dead stuffed haphazardly in her satchel, because the little idiot had decided she needed to pick up cursed items, on the off-chance His Highness from Waterdeep might be able to chomp down on them, or whatever it was he did.

“Hard to play the hero when you’ve only read about it in books.” He threw at her, disdainfully. “Look, Foxglove, this is very much not our problem. The hag offered you a deal, and you very wisely chose not to take it. Presumably, that peasant girl got the same offer. And she made a different choice. Now she suffers the consequences. Fair is fair. I don’t see why we need to bother ourselves with preventing a fate she bought upon herself.” He thought back to the teary-eyed girl, trying to find a silver lining… “She’s fed and watered, at the very least, and-”

“You’re awful,” Rosalie breathed, looking at him. She looked and sounded genuinely wounded.

And he didn’t feel disappointed, Astarion told himself. So it was quite easy to reply, with a dazzling smile and just a bit of smarm, “yes, I am! You’ve only just noticed? Really?”

“No,” she whispered, voice shaking with some undefined emotion. “I don’t mean you’re ‘oh, look how many terrible things I can get away saying with because of my devilish good-looks’ awful, I mean you’re just... awful. An awful person. A truly awful person.”

When she looked up at him, he realised what that undefined emotion was: rage. It was only unfamiliar to him in this moment because he’d never seen it in her face before, lining her brow and causing her bright irises to burn against the black pitch of her eye, making her devilish heritage suddenly abundantly clear.

“How can you…” she took a deep breath, seemingly struggling for coherence, she was so angry. “You saw what I saw in there, didn’t you? It wasn’t an illusion? All those people crying? Weeping? Begging to be freed? That blind woman, who was only blinded because she was a simple person who didn’t know how hags worked and possibly just let out a damning phrase because of a slight slip of the tongue? You can say that Mayrina is ‘fine’ when she is quite obviously not fine, after we tripped over her brothers’ waterlogged corpses on our f*cking way here? You can see all that… and you can just… walk away? How? f*cking… how?”

Like rage, Foxglove cursing was incredibly and intriguingly rare. But when Astarion took a breath to say as much, desperately searching for a witty quip to make in response, she started speaking again, seemingly not finished.

“Why are you like this?” she demanded, “how can you see people in pain and just… not care? You’re not made of stone, Astarion! You have a f*cking heart!”

“Well, I-”

“You were a prisoner yourself, for years!” she threw at him, apparently now just foregoing the stake and going straight for this heart she spoke of by creative means. “How can you look at these people and not feel anything for them?”

She was getting a bit too close to the bone, by then, and Astarion’s mind was racing, trying to think of a way to shove her off the bulls-eye. He didn’t want her knowing how much it had shaken him, to see those masked people fighting to find their willpower in a haze of brutal, sad*stic commands.

“So if I’d walked into Cazador’s creepy vampire cave, or mansion, or whatever lair he wiles away his time in,” she spat, vehemently, “and I’d seen you there, enslaved, and forced to follow his orders. I should’ve just shrugged and skipped out again, thinking you got what you deserved? That you were just another fool who got his comeuppance? Is that what I should’ve done?”

“I-”

“‘That peasant shouldn’t have made her deal, so it’s not our problem’,” she said, with a dramatic hand gesture and a slight drawl that he… he thought she maybe meant as an imitation of him. “What if I said ‘he shouldn’t have been walking down that alleyway, he was just asking to be stabbed by Gur and left to bled out in front of a vampire lord’? No one’s allowed to make a mistake, ever, or be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

When he flinched, she narrowed her eyes in a glare, and stalked forward a step closer to him. And then another. And another. The blood scent hit him stronger, and he realised she was clutching her side, as she hissed, “hit too close to the mark, did I? People like you are the reason you were left to suffer in Cazador’s clutches. People probably saw you, and no one gave a sh*t. Or maybe they thought you deserved it: a pompous nobleman with more money and looks than sense, and no f*cking backbone. They decided it wasn’t their problem. They left you there. Abandoned. So, maybe you should consider that, before you tell me to leave a woman and her unborn child with a monster.”

They’d never stood this close before. Her forehead barely reached his nose, and he was… not overly tall. Even when he’d bitten her, or grappled her, he’d not noticed their difference in height before, because well… they’d been on the ground at the time.

The blood was strong in his nose. And this kind of conversation, from her, was the most novelty he’d had in days, and he had no idea if that was a good or bad thing. But Astarion decided he wanted her to stop talking, and he could only think of one sure fire way to do that.

His eyes dropped down to her lips.

Ever since he'd bitten her, Foxglove had been adorably flustered whenever she was in his presence. It could've just spoken of prudish sensibilities - a strange form of 'morning after' and any regrets therein - but Astarion was pretty certain it was mixed in with her attraction as well. Judging from the Illithid visions, and the tell-tale thrumming of her heartbeat whenever he held her gaze. He hadn't quite decided what he wanted to do with that knowledge of her yet - but it seemed that, in this very moment, it would certainly provide a useful distraction.

Astarion saw her notice the pointed shift in his gaze, and finally she faltered, her relentless diatribe cut short by a confused intake of breath.

“You know, you should be mean to me more often,” he drawled, the false bravado coming easy to him as always, as he forcibly made himself unruffled, to return to him the upper hand. “Who knew you had so much rage in you, and such a filthy mouth? Careful now! I find I rather like it.”

Behind them both, Shadowheart let out a disgusted groan.

Rosalie blinked at him, the tips of her ears darkening a shade. Astarion thought he had her. She’d be too embarrassed and flustered to keep talking, and then he could go lie down somewhere and try not to think about everything she’d said while his wounds knitted themselves closed.

And then she saw something in his face, perhaps reading that exact thought, and her eyes narrowed, furious once more.

“You’re disgusting,” she told him, and somehow Astarion was surprised to find that she meant it.

“Keep it coming, Foxglove.” he said with a smile. He wondered if it looked as fake as it felt.

“Oh, shall I?” she asked. And, astonishingly, she stepped in even closer, until they were nearly nose to nose - or nose to forehead, as aforementioned. Rose was refusing to back down. And Astarion himself was teetering on the edge needing to take a step back.

“You don’t like me trying to save people, Astarion? You. can. leave.” She said, in a slow, deliberate threat that… yes. Well. Now it was genuinely arousing - he wasn’t just faking it to make her uncomfortable. Then she raised her voice, and the moment broke, as she span to address the others in the clearing. “You can all leave! Because you f*cks made me the leader. You made your beds, you can f*cking lie in them. I am not changing who I am because you don’t like it, and I don’t care if you leave me here to die or go full-tadpole. Because I will not leave here knowing that I’ve paid for my life with the lives of others, just because it’s convenient. And I will never,” she span back to him, and repeated it with a glare and an actual, honest-to-gods snarl, “ever apologise for that.”

“You don’t like me helping people?” she said, shouting at him, specifically, again. “Then you can put your money where your f*cking mouth is, and you can try your luck with the Gur and Cazador on your own.”

“Oh yes,” Astarion sighed, “because you are quite the ally, Foxglove, when pitted against the Szars. They’ll all quiver before you, I’m sure. ”

Rosalie looked at him, and the anger was still there, but so was hurt… or maybe, actually it was pity.

“Oh, maybe I’m useless. Maybe I’m nothing to you, or to them,” she said, “but right now, I’m all you f*cking have. And if they came for you, I’d stand by your side, and I’d fight them for you, till the end. So maybe now’s not the time for you to be picky, Astarion.”

Astarion opened his mouth. He wanted to point out that those were the kind of foolish declarations that were exactly the root of all their problems, and the reason he didn’t rate her life expectancy to last beyond the week. But, not for the first time in her presence, he found that words actually failed him.

After several beats of silence, Rose sighed. “That’s settled, then,” she said tiredly. “We come back here, tomorrow.”

She pushed past him without a glance, and began to walk away from the Teahouse and in the direction of their camp.

Astarion hadn’t quite noticed just how strong the smell of blood had gotten.

The stupid, foolish, naive-idiot-chit of girl made it a grand total of thirteen footsteps, before her knees gave out, and she collapsed to a heap on the ground.

She’d been stabbed through the gut by one of the masks. And poisoned.

Astarion hadn’t smelt that. But then, the entire Teahouse had felt rotten and fetid, and had filled his nose. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself.

“You’re telling me she tried to go up against a hag and her brood?!” said Gale, voice teetering on incredulous panic. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! You do realise she’s… well… she’s…”

“Yes,” Shadowheart said, tiredly. It seemed that she’d had some spells left after all - enough to stabilise Rosalie, but not enough to stop the need for a nighttime vigil at her bedside. The cleric had stayed up on close watch to make sure that Foxglove didn’t expire on them. It occurred to Astarion (and went unspoken) that he could’ve been the one to stay up, but then Shadowheart had never asked him to. He supposed she didn’t trust him with the responsibility.

“Why? She’s clearly not… not an idiot,” Gale continued ranting, pacing by the fire, and Astarion thought perhaps he put a lot of weight between that half-compliment. He tilted his head from where he sat silently, as the dawn leaked across the horizon, watching the wizard and… wondering. Was he sweet on her? She certainly asked him enough about his books, which seemed to be the only thing the man cared about in the world. “And her theory is sound, but we ran out of paper days ago, she hasn’t been able to transcribe anything new for weeks! The spells she’s got now are rudimentary, if well-performed. She’s not powerful enough to go against a hag!”

“Yes,” Astarion said dryly, “we know.”

“...And you didn’t try to stop her?!”

Astarion snorted. Why this speech was any more countenanced than his own, he couldn’t tell.

“You cannot stop Rose when she tries to do anything,” Lae’zel suddenly announced, from her own seat by the fire. She was glowering into a cup that had been empty for hours, and good thing too, considering it was now mid-morning. “It is one of the few things to be admired about her.”

“She handled the hag… well.” Shadowheart said, and Astarion nearly had an aneurysm. “When she was talking to her. She sounded like she knew what she was talking about. I trusted… I trust her judgement on this.”

Gale stopped. Opened his mouth. Looked down at the girl’s prone form. Started pacing again. Paused. Stared down at her.

“Well,” he announced to the empty air, “I suppose Volo and I better do some research!”

There was a sudden, pained gasp, then a cough. Everyone froze, as Foxglove roused with a groan.

“Water…” she rasped, and both Shadowheart and Gale immediately starting fumbling for their canteens. Astarion watched as they all started scrambling around her, the camp a sudden flurry of activity. Wyll was asking her if she needed anything, Lae’zel was prowling around, hand on her sword, as if they were about to be attacked in camp, and he realised: they’re not got to leave her behind.

Even the bloody dog wouldn’t leave her side.

Gods, if he parted ways from them, he’d truly be on his own.

Which was fine, he told himself. If it wasn’t for the tadpole, which was clearly the only pressing issue that required such longstanding collaboration. Safety in numbers, after all.

An hour later - in which he hadn’t, himself, moved - Foxglove was sat up straight, wincing, trying to explain to Gale what she’d gleaned from the hag’s lair, in her wizard speak of ‘schools of magic’, spell components, and bargaining curses. When she gestured for him to look at the masks in her bag, the wizard panicked and stuttered as he looked down at them, like he hadn’t expected them of her. And she looked genuinely sorrowful, like she’d failed, when he told her he couldn’t use them. She apologised. With the exact same tone of voice as she had when she’d gotten Astarion to stop drinking from her, as if the fact she was unable to be exsanguinated without dying a painful death was somehow her fault, her personal shortfall.

Astarion felt the uncontrollable urge to stab something.

Instead, he stood up and stalked over to Shadowheart, who was brewing some kind of herb concoction and washing her hands, clearly exhausted. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, “you saved us two hundred gold, there, at least! And we didn’t have to talk to the creepy corpse-face. Wonderful news, all round.”

Shadowheart paused in her activity. Her damp hands fell to her sides, and bunched into fists. Then she turned, and she levelled him with a flat, unimpressed look, that read Astarion to his core.

“She’s right, you know,” she said to him, words clipped and hard as always. “I may not agree with her on everything, but you are awful.”

“Say it again. I dare you,” Astarion replied. But he was dismayed to find his voice wavered, and it wasn’t quite the deflection he was hoping for.

“I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. Sometimes, when I hear you talk, or see you crow over yet another corpse, I imagine that it didn’t take your little Master much effort at all to get you to do all the horrible things you claim torment your soul. She’s the only reason I can even stand to be around you,” Shadowheart informed him without an ounce of mercy. “So maybe don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Literally. Hmmm?”

“Darling, this is starting to feel practically like foreplay.”

Shadowheart snorted, then sneered in disgust. “Oh, I’m afraid that doesn’t work on all of us either, sweetheart. Only those who hold out hope for there being an ounce of good left in your soul.”

And then she walked away, and Astarion was dismayed to find that that conversation hadn’t been the distraction he was hoping for. Shadowheart being cruel was just par for the course, and hadn’t erased any of the last twenty-four hours, or provided diversion from the wan-looking Foxglove at the other side of the campfire.

“Yes, well, if you want any food, I’m sure I can reheat that leftover stew…” Gale was saying, scratching his neck as he stood up.

“I’m good, thank you,” Rosalie replied. “That’s very kind of you to offer, though.”

Kind. Astarion rolled his eyes, as the most timid of smiles reduced the wizard to an inarticulate mess in a way he knew he should’ve found wonderfully amusing, but somehow didn’t. In the slightest.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five

Chapter Text

The next day - the next day, as if she hadn’t almost died - they returned to the hag’s den.

Or rather, she returned. With Lae’zel, Shadowheart, and Wyll. She pointedly left Astarion behind. Or at least, he assumed it must be pointed, because she was an idiot to leave him here otherwise. He was one of the few people who nearly always got to her whenever she was in trouble.

Gale took out some books and pretended to work, but Astarion had no need for such distractions. His wounded pride demanded that he act as nonchalant as possible, lounging in his bedroll sunning himself, as if there wasn’t a very strong chance they’d all die without him there to get them out if Foxglove recklessly took them too far. But of course, acting completely unbothered meant that his mind was free to whir onto endlessly pointed subjects, each thought focused on counting down the glacial hours. With each hour that passed, his apprehension grew, as he desperately tried to ignore the anxiety pounding through his chest.

He tried asking Gale what he was doing, but as always the conversation fizzled out as soon as it started.

“Learning counterspells,” the mage said, not even looking up, “if we’re against a foe such as this again, it would do well for Rose and I to stay far, far back, and simply try to defend you lot…”

Astarion quickly tuned him out. It rankled that the wizard had thought of some way to help, to make himself useful. Not that Astarion had ever wanted or desired to be useful, in his life. He remembered what he’d said, every time in the past few weeks when she left him for a ‘rest day’ (that she herself never seemed to take). Oh goodness! What a shame! and I was so hoping to cover my hands in viscera again. I suppose I shall just sit here, thinking longingly of hiking, and mud, and-

There was a whooping shout, and a laugh. Astarion stilled, from where he’d been pacing, and then it happened again. Gods… was that Shadowheart? Astarion didn’t think he’d never even seen her smile, never mind express actual merriment.

He looked in the direction of the noise, and saw the four of them blazing into camp, riding some high of adrenaline, Rosalie in the lead. They were dirty and bedraggled, but their progress was far more triumphant than the last time they’d desperately escaped from Ethel. Wyll ran up behind Foxglove: grabbing her waist, he lifted her a full foot from the ground and spun her in a circle as she shrieked. “The Hero of the Bog!” he crowed.

“Not quite as good as ‘Blade of the Frontiers’,” Astarion heard her wryly observe as she was once more deposited on the ground. “But I’ll take it.”

“It could use a little work,” Wyll grinned. “I’m used to being given names, not giving ‘em.”

There was a thump of a book shutting behind Astarion, as Gale stood. “You were… successful, then?” he asked - as if the fact that they’d returned at all wasn’t a testament to that fact.

Everyone turned towards Foxglove, who pinked under their collective gaze, and then flashed a pleased, dimpled smile. And then, she detached her staff from her back - only it wasn’t her staff, but a kind of strange and twisted one that dwarfed her by nearly a foot. “She’s dead,” she announced, and then Wyll was laughing again, Lae’zel clapped her on the shoulder, and it was almost like the entire camp was celebrating a victory of a battle they’d seemingly forgotten wasn’t necessary in the first place.

Astarion watched as they started tending to their wounds, and Rosalie began animatedly explaining to Gale exactly what had taken place in the cave. She tugged a bunch of books out of her bag, spilling them across the ground, and she tried to shove the staff into his hands to get him and his chest monster to chomp down on it, but the wizard hastily backed up and actually pushed the staff away.

They had no liquor, so the celebration, such as it was, was thoroughly pedestrian. Astarion rolled his eyes at their tame version of revelry, and bided his time - though he found himself feeling quite exhausted, as if he was overwhelmed with relief.

Rose had had her cuts bandaged and was finishing eating when he finally decided to approach her. She eyed him warily, and there was a moment when several people in the camp stilled, as if expecting another confrontation. Shadowheart even took a step towards them both, but Rose hastily shook her head, to make her back down. The camp went back to tentative - but pointed - calm.

“...What do you want?” she asked, cautiously.

“I wanted to speak to you. In private.”

“Um… ok…” she said, still looking extremely distrustful. But as always, despite any better judgement that one might think would intervene, she assented, and followed him towards the lakeside quietly. He felt every one of their companions’ eyes burning into their back as they left.

“So… what’s this about?” she asked once they found the shore. Her eyes were wary and tired, as if expecting them to have already started arguing.

Astarion was silent for a second, struggling for eloquence, before he spoke. “You left me behind!” he blurted.

Rose frowned. “Um…”

“You’re taking me with you, next time!”

“You just told me yesterday... that you don’t want to go on rescue missions,” she said, confused. “I thought it was better to leave you behind, if you didn’t want to get involved. I did it because you asked me to. You were, technically, right: it’s unnecessary for me to force you into situations that make you uncomfortable, especially when your heart isn’t really in it.”

“No, Foxglove. That's not what I said. What I said was: ‘all of these rescue missions are stupid, and none of us should be going on any of them’,” Astarion groused. “If you’re still going to be going irregardless of my incredibly salient arguments, you should take me with you.”

“Ummm…?”

“I’m just saying, I’m the one that kills most of the things that come after us. If you insist on ruining your already dismal chances of survival, then by all means leave me behind. What is it to me?”

“I’m... confused. So you actually… want to help?”

“I want enough of us to be alive to make it to this Moonrise Towers, darling. Can you imagine me and the wizard roadtripping it solo? I’d kill him. And then I’d die.”

He glanced over at Rosalie, and was a little perturbed to find her grinning from ear to ear.

“You want to help.” she reiterated.

“Again, that is not what I said.”

“It’s what you implied.”

“I was just pointing out that it’s rather sensible to make use of me.”

“You want to keep us alive, because you like us, and you want to help! How very selfless of you!”

“No! All I want, Foxglove, is for you to be a little more selfish. Your little tantrum-”

“-My little tantrum?! Is that the argument you started, or my near-death experience?”

“- Got us all rallying behind you again, for some reason. If you’re still our glorious leader, then try to be a little canny about it. Boss me about a bit, gods know you love to do that.”

“Yes, ‘love’. These conversations are the reason I get up every morning. Truly. I love trying to tell you what to do. It’s what I think about when I go to sleep every night.”

“The sarcasm in your tone tells me you’re expecting me to believe any of that is a lie, darling,” Astarion said with a raised eyebrow. Rose snorted.

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “You wanna be useful, Astarion? I’m going to take advantage of this sudden crisis of conscience - you’re taking watch.”

As if he hadn’t been about to anyway - he didn’t sleep, and both Shadowheart and Lae’zel were bleeding from multiple wounds. Someone had to make sure they didn’t attract any number of monsters in the night. No skin off my back, he thought to himself, like he hadn’t just lost whatever battle they’d just waged.

He went to settle on a nearby outcropping over the lake, and was surprised when Rosalie followed him. He glanced over his shoulder at her, confused.

“I’m taking watch too,” she explained.

“...Doesn’t that rather defeat the point of ordering me to do it? Don’t you need to rest, or something?”

“I’m not as bad as the others. They kept me right out of the line of fire,” she said with a shrug as she parked herself down. “I felt pretty useless, actually. So I should probably put in some effort to pay them back.”

As if she hadn’t nearly died, two days ago.

“And honestly, I’m too keyed up to sleep. I can’t believe we actually did it!”

She glanced out across the water with a smile and a sigh. Astarion gave her a sideways glance. Despite her protestations, she looked exhausted. There was a cut on her eyebrow, and her hands were scraped and bruised. Her clothes were tattered, but at least prestidigitated to remove most of the bog smell. She should really probably rest. Not that he would tell her that - and not that he for a second believed she would listen.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, suddenly.

Rosalie looked surprised at the question. Astarion continued, “you asked me two days ago why I’m such a terrible, evil, heartless man, but why are you so…” he gestured at her, she frowned bemusedly, and he sighed, “you know. Nice. Idealistic -”

“-Heroic?”

“I was going to say naive,” he grumbled. “You’re a scribe in Waterdeep, but for some reason that desk job has reduced your sense of self-preservation to a f*cking line in the sand. Why?”

Rosalie opened her mouth, paused for a second, glanced at him distrustingly. “Are you asking just to annoy me, or do you actually want to know?”

“No, please, Foxglove, enlighten me. I beg of you.”

She still looked wary, but it was the start of a long watch, there was f*ck all else to do, and he knew she’d be too nice not to give in eventually. “Well,” she said, with a small hum, “I suppose... it’s because of my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother?”

Rose tugged a lock of berry dark hair behind her ear and nodded. “My grandmother. I don’t know what you know about tieflings-”

“- Only that their tails feel absolutely wonderful when you -”

“- But fire doesn’t hurt us as much as other people,” she quickly interrupted, “because of our devil’s blood. And we can see better in the dark too… well, you’d know that, you remember the crypts….”

“So?”

“Well,” she continued, “once, in the town my father grew up in, there was a fire. In the distillery where a bunch of people worked. Never found out what caused it, it just happened. And my grandmother, she was just a shopkeeper’s wife, but she could resist the flames, and she could see in the dark. So when the fire continued, and they realised there were survivors trapped in the basem*nt, she just… went. She ran to the outskirts of town, she rolled up her sleeves, and she dived straight into the fire.”

Astarion scoffed, because this literally explained everything, and all she did was give a tired smile, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“She saved fifteen people,” she continued, her voice warm and wistful. “It wasn’t ‘heroism’, not the kind of stuff Wyll does, the kind that earns you fancy names and titles. But that was fifteen people, with children, with sweethearts, with families. One of them was a wood elf, her name was Adthanna - they became friends, and they ended up having children around the same time, and Adthanna’s son was friends with my father, and I was friends with his son, too. We used to visit their house for dinner every year, on the anniversary of my grandmother saving her, even after my grandmother passed. And every year they’d tell the story, about my gran tucking her skirts into her knickers and running into a burning building without any preamble.”

There was a small, nostalgic smile on her face at the memory. Then she shook herself out of it, and she risked a glance at Astarion, like she almost expected him to ruin her nice little moment. “You probably think she was a headstrong idiot, of course.”

Astarion opened his mouth, paused, trying to think of something to say that was… well… you know… nice. But that still seemed a little out of reach, so he settled for territory he knew well. “Sorry, you lost me for a bit there, but you reclaimed my attention at ‘knickers’.”

Then it was Rosalie’s turn to scoff, and Astarion found himself smiling as that scoff became a snigg*r, then genuine laughter. “Hey!” she grinned, and it was the first real grin he’d seen on her face since she’d shouted at him in the Teahouse clearing, “my gran was a fine looking woman. I wouldn’t blame you in the slightest.”

“Beauty must run in the family,” he observed, immediately.

Rose rolled her eyes, “she was also a f*cking terror. She’d eat posh boys like you for breakfast. She’d look at those hands that have never worked a day in their life, and she’d shove you into a burning building. For character development.”

“Excuse me!” Astarion pantomimed offense, “I resent that implication. I’ll have you know that my hands are upright contributors to society.” When he held up his hand and waggled his eyebrows, she laughed again. “I have calluses, Foxglove. Calluses.”

“Oh, whatever you need to tell yourself to get through the night, sweet prince,” she smirked.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think you have calluses.”

“That is the beauty of spellcasting,” she replied serenely. “Clearly you missed your true calling. But you’re wrong, of course. I studied at the Magicians’ college. I pulled all-nighters. You really think a scribe doesn’t get calluses?”

Astarion didn’t miss a beat, and held out his hand palm flat, for her to take, “you want to compare?”

When Rose glared, he raised an eyebrow at her, all innocence that wasn’t innocence at all, and she huffed, “you’re being insufferable.”

“Are you sure? I think you’ll find the work my hands can do to be most satisfactory, and you will happily suffer them.”

There it was again: that blush, the red bloodrush turning her skin an even more appealing shade of purple, creeping up the back of her neck as she looked at him. Astarion could feel himself grinning in victory, as Rosalie bit down on her lip, and said, “you really shouldn’t say those kinds of things.”

“Oh? I rather enjoy saying them. Especially when they gain such an adorable reaction.”

“Ugh, I know!” she groaned, unexpectedly, burying her face in her hands. Astarion blinked at her, confused at the sudden agreement when she should surely know that flirting was all about the... the push-pull. Instead, her face was open and dejected when she miserably raised her head. “The blushing, it’s f*cking dire. It’s not just you, you realise? I’m apparently allergic to attention. My sister used to say that virgins blushed less than me on their wedding nights.”

Astarion didn’t quite know what to say to that, other than… “I assume that means you’re not a virgin yourself, then?”

“I’m thirty-f*cking-four, Astarion, do you f*cking mind?!” Rose said, and the mortified outrage on her face could’ve made him laugh out loud. “Just because I don’t openly proposition every person I meet and go around walking into ogre orgies doesn’t mean I’m vestigial, I’m just not you.”

“Then why shouldn’t I say such things?” he shrugged, “if it’s not your ‘delicate sensibilities’ I’m offending.”

“Because you don’t like me!” she blurted, then clapped a hand over her mouth with a wince, as she saw the mercurial gleam in his eye at the ammunition she’d just provided him with. He bit down to stop himself from laughing - even he knew that was a bit too rude, given the circ*mstance - and let her recover with a sigh, “hells, that came out wrong. It’s not about ‘like like’ or… or ‘true love’ or whatever. Call me old-fashioned, or a prude I guess, but I tend to prefer sleeping with people who... don’t detest me. As a person.”

“When have I ever given you the impression that I ‘detest’ you?”

Rosalie gave him the closest approximation she had to Shadowheart’s glare, and memories of their argument passed unspoken between them. Which was, Astarion thought, so like her. As if she hadn’t been incredibly attractive in that moment, with her hands clenching on air as she fought not to punch him, and just a little bit of fire smouldering in her eyes. It was so very Foxglove, to notunderstand the unique pleasure of a hate f*ck.

She thought Astarion didn’t like her. Never mind that he didn’t dislike her in the least: it was endearingly cute that she thought that mattered. Astarion realised, with a thrill through his gut, that there was still a way he could have a little bit of… fun.

He leaned in, conspiratorially, and flicked his gaze across her skin in the fire light, resting at her jawline. Her neck.

“When I bit you, for instance,” he murmured, low and rough, so that she too had to lean in if she wanted to hear him. “Is that something I’d do with someone I ‘detest’? Was there anything in that… interaction, that gave you the impression I didn’t thoroughly enjoy your company?”

“Ok, so,” Rose took a deep breath in through her nose, and through sheer, visible willpower her voice remained level, “given that you’ve been living off animals, and I’ve seen a boar that you literally drained dry and left for dead in the woods... Hells, unless this is about to involve a lot more revelations about your love life than I’m comfortable with, I’m going to assume - for your sake - that you can drink blood... platonically.”

Astarion chuckled - because that was actually an incredibly funny joke - and grinned wider when she all but shivered at the sound. “And how was it, for you, exactly?” he asked her softly, “thoroughly... platonic, I assume?”

“Mostly just painful.” She said, foolishly trying to sell the statement by maintaining eye contact, so that he could see the lie plainly in her eyes.

He smirked. “There are so many ways to remedy that, dearest.”

“Bollocks, I walked into that one,” she sighed, smacking her forehead, and then suddenly the moment snapped, completely against Astarion’s will, as she slumped back in her seat, and simply chose to disregard him entirely. “I don’t care how tasty a snack I am or how you might like to play with your food, Astarion, you still hate me. And so it isn’t happening, Mister. Go sleep Lae’zel or something. She seems to like it… militant.”

“I don’t hate you,” Astarion said, suddenly, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to think them through.

“Seriously?” Rose looked annoyed now, “are you that bored on watch? Don’t bother lying for a quick f*ck, Astarion. I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“It’s not a lie!” he insisted. “It’s the truth. I like you quite a bit, actually.”

And Rosalie laughed again, tipping her head back so the line of her throat caught the light. Not that she was thinking about that at all - not that she was trying to be deliberately seductive, in any way. Because, somehow, she still didn’t believe him. “You know, when I imagined being sweet-talked out my pants, I thought maybe there’d be some attempt at romance or at least, you know, a single compliment-”

“Will you stop for a second!” he said, surprised even by his own outburst. Rosalie also looked at him, wide-eyed, like he’d grown longer fangs, or a second head. “I’m not joking. And this isn’t flirting. I might think you’re a f*cking idiot when it comes to anyone with enough acting talent to put together a half-believable sob story, but that hardly means I hate you. You think too much in absolutes, Foxglove. I can think you’re a fool, but still find you charming.”

“Oh,” Rose said, quietly. “Well. Bestill my beating heart.”

“Who’s using humour to deflect now?”

“Still not going to sleep with you.”

“I’m not saying it for that,” Astarion… lied. A little. It would’ve been an enjoyable reward for braving his way through this conversation. “We had one measly argument, Foxglove. It’s not the end of the world for me - unless it is for you. We can still be friends.”

“I’m not sure that’s good enough, Astarion,” she told him honestly. “I’m not sure I can be friends with someone like you. Who thinks the way you do.”

Astarion tried not to growl in frustration, or hit her over the head. I was scared that you’d die if you went into the hag den a second time, and you nearly f*cking died for my troubles on the first, you idiot, he thought, but didn’t say aloud.

“That’s up to you, then,” he finished, lamely, his voice a little glum. Deliberately so - he told himself. Because Foxglove wouldn’t be able to resist his own sob story, either. He'd have her sympathies, even when he really, really shouldn't. She was very easy to manipulate: that was clearly the only reason he was outwardly sad.

He looked to the ground. Waited three beats. He counted them, he told himself, because he wanted to see how long she could last. How long she could be proactively cruel for. That was the only reason he was holding his breath, and tensing for a blow. There was no reason to feel anxious, or anticipate pain.

“...Maybe we could just try not to argue again,” Rose said, finally. “I didn’t actually enjoy that very much.”

Astarion let out a long breath. He could feel himself grinning. There was a heat in his gut, and it wasn’t exactly sensual. Just… warm.

“Wonderful news! I’m game, if you are,” he said, reaching a hand up and flipping an errant curl out of his eyes. He looked up at Rosalie, head tilted at his best angle, and noticed her noticing him and actively pretending not to. “Now: fancy a quick f*ck against that pleasant-looking tree?”

“I -” she followed the direction of his stare almost despite herself, and saw there was no tree in sight. “Astarion!” She shrieked.

Loud enough to wake Lae’zel, who was furious. And that meant he never got to test whether the line would’ve worked or not.

Chapter 6: Chapter Six

Chapter Text

So she’s just going to screw the wizard, then, Astarion thought glumly, as they traipsed through yet another indeterminable stretch of countryside.

Personally, he hadn’t considered the man competition. But if Rose just wanted someone she liked, who she got on with, who was passingly handsome, boring, and plainly agreeable, who could talk to her about spells and morals and ethics and never question her judgement. Someone who was... nice. Then it was just the wizard, then. Even Shadowheart and the Blade of the Frontiers were out of the running. She’d just want someone unassuming, who wouldn’t frighten her off.

They’d probably have some very mediocre sex, in missionary position, and then talk about their feelings.

Maybe the thing in Gale’s chest would explode upon contact with a beautiful woman's form, and spare them all the indignity of having to suffer through any googly, starry-eyed moments that may follow thereafter.

“Astarion?” Rosalie’s voice broke through his depressing reverie. She waved a hand in front of Astarion’s face, to get him to glance towards her.

“Hmm?”

“Sorry to interrupt, it seemed like you were busy thinking,” she sighed, “but I wanted to give you this.”

He looked down at her outstretched hand, and dumbly took whatever it was she was offering from her fingers. It was a thin silver chain, with a series of bright blue gems dripping from it like teardrops. “This is hardly my colour, Foxglove,” he said, with a small and playful smile.

“Sorry, it didn’t come in red, no matter how desperately I wanted to bring out your eyes,” she replied automatically, like she’d been… expecting it. “But I still think it will suit you well.”

Astarion was quite surprised at her admission that it was a gift. Honestly, he kind of thought she was expecting him to flog it for her. The woman was terrible at bartering: she just didn’t have the backbone to deny what she kept saying afterwards “seemed like a perfectly reasonable price!”

“Oh?”

“It’s enchanted with misty step,” she explained patiently. “I’m sure you’ve seen me cast it, so I won’t bore you with the details. You’re at your best when you’re mobile. And able to sneak up on people. It just makes sense. This will get you to hard-to-reach places without breaking cover.”

“That’s an awfully elaborate and lengthy excuse to give me a gift, Foxglove. Is there a confession accompanying it as well?”

“Actually, it’s more of a peace offering,” she replied. “With this, we’re officially friends again - you have no say in the matter. And if you ever truly want to escape me, you now have the means with which to do so. I don’t know about you, but my conscience is clear.”

Astarion looked down at the chain, but before he could say anything, she continued. “And look how sparkly it is!” She reached out and tapped the hollow of his cheek with one finger, and then she swept away, “I’m sure it’s perfect for you, sweet prince.”

Astarion looked over, to see their charming cleric patently ignoring this exchange. But the wizard was watching. Rather pointedly. Perhaps Rose knew too. Perhaps she was trying to make the man jealous.

Gods. It’s going to be him, isn’t it?

Astarion hadn’t expected Foxglove to open fire on a bunch of paladins, but he was hardly about to complain, even if it caught him a little unawares.

He shoved his blade through the mage’s back, straight through her heart as her final mirror image duplicate vanished like steam on the air. Then he ran through into the main room where he heard shouting, and glanced down the balcony, to see Rosalie standing there, throwing a shield up just as the leader’s blade came crashing down on her head. It glanced off and embedded in the wood by her feet, and she reached up to try and electrocute the man through his armour. But the man also dodged out of the way with a grunt, kicking her in the chest with a greaved foot, and knocking her prone.

“Bitch!” he shouted, spittle flying across Rosalie’s face as he yanked his blade out of the wooden board, splinters flying. He was panting and singed, but she too was felled.

Astarion acted without thinking. The necklace flashed cold and quick around his neck - cold, even for his skin - and the air enveloped him. There was a dizzy moment of nothingness - who knew magic could make a person feel so ill? - and then there was light again, and warmth, and the knight was directly in front him, back turned as he hefted his blade up from the floorboards. In the same breath, without thought, Astarion brought his dagger up and grabbed both sides of the man’s head to steady him, before slicing his throat in a neat, business-like line. There was a coughing that quickly tapered to a wet, sucking gurgle from the knight, and then he and his armour clattered to the ground in a loud heap, like a spilled silverware drawer. At the same moment, the other remaining fighter was cleaved in two by Lae’zel’s blade.

Astarion let out a whoop of triumph. Lae’zel spared one glance to their glorious leader sprawled out on the floor and then disregarded her entirely, in favour of methodically cleaning the blood off her blade. So, with a grin, he stepped over his victim's body, and reached out a hand to help the winded Foxglove to her feet. She took it, and he yanked her upright easily. She stumbled up directly in front of him, with barely an inch of space between their bodies.

“Thanks,” Rose huffed, hastily dropping his hand and stepping back under the guise of needing to dust herself down. “Although... you do realise misty step is designed for longer distances, right?”

“I’m sorry, should I not have saved your life? Was there anything else about my rescue that was lacking?”

“Oh. Well. Thank you, again.”

“Anytime,” he grinned, “you need me, you only need to shout.”

“I didn’t shout for you, and yet you came anyway.” She observed, before eyeing him warily, “why are you so… cheerful, today?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, “saving the damsel, helping the helpless, surely that’s what life’s all about! Heroics, and all that. Making the word a better place!”

Rose blinked. “Did you… bite someone? You’re normally only this nice when I let you bite someone.”

“Foxglove, you wound me,” Astarion gestured to his spotless collar, “I didn’t sample a drop, I promise. Just learning about that heady rush that accompanies a good deed, or whatever it is you blather on about. Surely you should be pleased!”

“...It’s because they’re paladins, isn’t it?” she sighed. “You’re happy because they’re paladins.”

“Did I relish the chance to slaughter some alleged do-gooders and men of the cloth? Who could possibly say?” he smiled as, like he predicted she would, she rolled her eyes. “But perhaps, it is the slight glimpse of what you’re like when you’re not on your best behaviour, or automatically believing whatever anyone tells you…”

“Astarion, this may shock you,” she said, dryly, “but I’m actually quite used to tieflings being falsely accused of wrongdoing. It’s almost like… when I sympathised with the refugees in the Grove and offered to help them…”

Astarion groaned, before she could finish her sentence, and, amazingly, she grinned, eyes sparkling, dimples flashing both cheeks. Like she’d also said it, to get a rise out of him. He looked down at her, a little dumbfounded at her reaction. Goodness, had he become predictable?

“Would you like the room?” Lae’zel’s deep rumble of a voice interrupted the moment, as she spared them a passing glance from above the edge of her blade.

“What do you mean? ...To search?” Rose asked, confused.

“The two of you seem to want to copulate,” the woman replied, matter-of-factly, “I am tired, and could use a chance to patch my wounds. Would you like the room? You may take thirty minutes, should you wish.”

Astarion blinked, then grinned, wide enough to show fang.

“I… what?” Rose sputtered.

“Well. Would you?”

“Yes darling,” Astarion purred, immediately jumping in with glee, “would you? It’s such a generous and kind offer, from our dear friend here.”

Rose didn’t even look at him as she stared, aghast, at Lae’zel. “I - I don’t understand. We were just… talking?! What in the hells gave you the idea that we-”

Shadowheart started to walk through from the side room, the light of Speak with Dead dying from her eyes. “The corpse confirmed it,” she muttered, “these bastards were bad news. Working for some kind of devil, it seems. I suppose we can trust the other girl’s word-”

“Shadowheart, that’s lovely, dear, but Foxglove was just answering a rather pressing question…”

“No!” Rosalie shrieked, her entire face practically plum.

“Why not, Foxglove? It turns out we actually killed some proper, real villains! Surely that’s exactly the kind of thing that gets you all wanting-”

“- Shockingly, that might be the reason!” Rose retorted, eyes finally meeting his, “maybe a room littered full of corpses lacks something of the requisite ambience, Astarion! I know that you’re a vampire, but I would really hope you draw the line somewhere.”

Astarion paused for a second, then smirked, raising an eyebrow as he realised the trap hidden in her own words. “...The corpses are your only objection, then, dearest?”

“I…” Rose’s eyes bulged, and she tried to think of anything at all to say, but it seemed that words completely failed her.

“Good to know,” Astarion didn’t give her time to recover, trying to ignore just quite how victorious he felt - more so than the average conquest. “If ‘ambience’ is all you require of me, I’m sure I can arrange a nice firelit evening-”

“Oh my gods! Kill me! Just kill me, right now! Does Gale have modify memory yet?!” Rosalie hollered, putting her arms out and looking to the ceiling, beseeching some absent pantheon, while Shadowheart just look thoroughly confused. “Lae’zel, a cordial conversation does not mean I want to sleep with someone, even if it’s Astarion. Don’t encourage him!”

The githyanki frowned, “It was more the prolonged eye contact, and tiresome banter-”

“Shadowheart!” Rose said, in a high-pitched voice, clearly sensing that she might be fighting a losing battle. “Please tell me more about what this corpse said! While walking! As we go and tell our nice new tiefling friend that she’s safe now! Away from here! And very much out of this room!”

It would’ve been nice if the day had ended there. Or if Foxglove had had an ounce of the fun kind of adventure in her blood, enough for her to throw caution to the wind and take him up on the offer. Half-an-hour would’ve become an hour, possibly two - and then they would’ve had a thoroughly pleasant afternoon, and all the meanwhile, the f*cking inn would’ve burned to the ground.

As soon as they smelled smoke and Shadowheart frowned, saying she heard shouts, Astarion had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He glanced over at Foxglove, and remembered what she’d said: every year they’d tell the story, about my gran tucking her skirts into her knickers and running into a burning building without any preamble-

“Rosalie-” he started to say. A warning - hells, at this point, a f*cking threat. She glanced in his direction, surprised at the use of her full name, and then - the absolute heinous bitch - she smiled…

...And sprinted. In the direction of the fire.

“No, you f*cking don’t,” Astarion ground out, and took off full pelt after her. And he caught up quickly, but then - for some reason that frankly escaped him, and he was rather angry that it did - rather than tackle her or bodily restrain her, or perhaps sprint on ahead and inform these poor needy villagers that his companion was actually an escaped sanatorium patient, who’s word must not be trusted in the least, he simply kept pace.

In tandem, they ran towards the inn and the knights that were barging down the door. Realistically, he knew she’d never forgive him if he held her back.

“We are not going in there,” he told her - a one final, desperate hope that she could be cured of her self-destructive fantasies.

“You can stay outside if you like,” she replied breezily… and started removing her robe and stripping to the shirt underneath. “I’m sure your delicate vampire skin burns up in flames like paper. Lae’zel! Help with the door! Shadowheart, can you make this damp? Steam won’t bother me much, and it’ll help me breathe through the smoke.”

“You are resistant to fire,” Astarion told her through gritted teeth, “you are not invulnerable.”

“Words, from the mouth of the only true immortal here,” Rose noted in a business-like aside, and then Lae’zel was crashing down the door and Astarion was wondering, for the thousandth time, why he didn’t just gut her, and her enablers all.

“I’m not going in.” he insisted.

“Then I’ll see you on the other side,” she said pragmatically - and, plucking the damp cloth from Shadowheart, dived through the entrance.

“Bloody… buggering… f*ck!” he shouted as she disappeared into the flames with their other companions. He took two, heaving breaths, mind racing, as he caught notice of her horned silhouette through the smoke.

And then - hating himself, and hating her - he jumped on in after her.

As he made it to the stairs, he heard Rosalie shout, and span the corner to see her disappear in the puff of silver that heralded a misty step. “Shadowheart, Lae’zel, get the other man! I’ve got this.”

Yes, Astarion thought, because splitting up is always the clever thing to do, in a collapsing, burning building.

The heat hit him, peeling the paper on the wall to his right, as he climbed the stairs. The smoke was thick and dark on this second story, and he barely made out Shadowheart’s dark braid as she disappeared through a splintered door on his right. Astarion saw Rose amongst the group of knights, and watched in horror as she threw a firebolt at the door they were wrestling with. Yes, because the best way to fix this was to set the building further ablaze. A couple of the knights shouted, clearly sharing his thoughts on the matter. It might also not have been particularly wise to advertise such skills, in what was almost definitely an arson case - and Astarion said that as a former magistrate.

He misty-stepped in the space right next to her. Rosalie was clearly surprised to see him there.

“Astar-”

“Get out of the f*cking way,” he grunted, drawing both blades. If she was going to insist on fighting a door, he could fight a f*cking door.

The next few moments passed in a smogged blur. In the next room along, he heard Lae’zel tell someone to “move you idiot!” and guessed that her own brand of rescue had been successful. He wished he could say the same, wondering at the incompetency of the knights around him as he did all their f*cking work for them. The moment he smashed the door down, the room belched a gout of flame that mushroomed up and across the ceiling, and Rose darted in front of him before he could stop her, casting shield in a blue flash across the both of them. The flames glanced off of them, though he noted his sleeve got singed, and suddenly there was smoke everywhere. In the after images that danced across his eyes, he saw a dark-skinned elven woman, crushed under some wreckage. Rose ran forward, the f*cking idiot, and tried to leverage it her off her - as if she had any upper body strength to speak of. Then Astarion was next to her again, almost without thinking, and helping her, and then there was an explosion somewhere to the left of them, and the flames rose higher, and he was thinking, I’m going to f*cking die here, and I had a f*cking choice in the f*cking matter-

Some of the vampire in him kicked into gear, and with one hand he wrenched the wreckage off this complete f*cking stranger, hurling it into a nearby wall. She scrambled to her feet and came out onto the landing with them, only even more was burned away than before. The stupid, incompetent knights had jumped the gap and saved their own necks, but Rose wouldn’t make it, and neither could this new f*cking liability. Coughing, Rose glanced hastily around, then stomped her foot down on the ground with a quick spitting hiss of an incantation. The entire building shuddered, as her thunderwave destroyed one of the remaining walls in its entirety.

“Move!” Rose yelled, in his ear, and grabbed his arm and then his hand, and they were suddenly running, with the dark skinned stranger he’d risked his life for for some reason alongside them, hand-in-hand on Foxglove’s other side. There was another shout that he recognised as Foxglove casting featherfall, and then he blinked through the smoke and put two and two together, just in time for them to clatter through the window at the front of the building and down into the courtyard below.

There was a sudden moment of freefall, and then the spell took hold and they began to drift weightlessly through the air. The sensation was completely incongruous with the frenetic adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Lae’zel burst out of a door on their right with some gormless looking man flung over her shoulder like a sack of flour, Shadowheart on her heels, as their three sets of feet touched down and their bodies became heavy again. The spell over, Rose dropped both their hands.

Astarion turned to Rose and opened his mouth to say something glib about her grandmother’s f*cking legacy, when he was interrupted by a squeal and suddenly he had a set of horns directly in his face. With a wild laugh, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight, triumphant hug, that he instinctively reciprocated before he could think better of it, or remember that he was angry with her.

“Look at us!” she crowed, “that was- I never imagined - I never thought I could -”

Astarion didn’t really know what to do. She reeked of smoke, and the sensation of the hug was theoretically pedestrian, except her grin was also wide and brilliant, her heart was hammering, and he could feel it. And... it was the first time he’d actually held her. He almost wanted to share in the victory, to hoist her up and spin her round like Wyll had done during the hag’s defeat. Or perhaps... but no, kissing someone dramatically in front of a smouldering ruin after a daring rescue absolutely reeked of heroics, and he would have no truck with it.

Before he had time to decide on any meaningful response, Rose let go and ducked back a little bashfully. There was soot on her skin and her colour was high, but that was clearly because she was giddy with excitement.

“You know, I really think that there are more productive ways we could indulge these masoch*stic tendencies of yours.”

As he said it, Astarion was proud he’d been able to conjure any sarcasm at all, never mind something quite so cutting. Then, weirdly, he felt a flash of regret for potentially ruining her moment: this clearly meant something to her.

But all Rose did was grin back, as if she’d come to expect his cynicism, or as if it no longer ruffled her in the slightest. “Loviatar offered, thanks, but her aesthetic really did not appeal,” then she let out a shaky laugh, “Oh my gods! I can’t believe I just-”

She ran over to Shadowheart and Lae’zel, grabbing the cleric’s hands and getting her to dance in a reticent circle, while Lae’zel dumped the man back on his feet and plucked a flake of ash from one pauldron. Astarion looked at Rose, wondering what the f*ck he was doing, exactly? He wanted to kiss her? He really shouldn’t find her attractive in the first place.

He felt a hand on his arm, startling him out of his reverie. At his side, the severe looking counsellor gave him a taut smile. “Thank you for the rescue,” she said, in a subdued and serious voice. “Your boldness is a blessing, and I am in your debt.”

“Oh goodness me, bless your heart!” Astarion sighed, flipping hair out of his face in an affected manner. “I didn’t ‘rescue’ you. I’m not ‘bold’ either. Quite frankly, I’m allergic to heroics. If you’re about to ask someone to save the Duke and his cat, or whatever nonsense you’re planning on spouting, you’re talking to the wrong person. I suggest you address my companion - although,” he added as a hasty afterthought. “I must warn you, our going rate is quite high.”

The counsellor frowned, confused. “But you just… you were the one who got the door down. You got me out of the rubble. For someone ‘allergic’ to heroics, that’s pretty…”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t do it for you,” he said, flatly, not looking over at her, his eyes pinned instead Rosalie as she talked to the man they’d rescued, who burst into tears weeping about his wife. “You’ve could’ve burned alive, for all I care.”

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven

Chapter Text

Astarion had once thought Foxglove boring.

He was quickly realising that this was because he’d never seen her sh*tfaced.

“Gods, I haven’t been to a tiefling revel in years. Not since I last went back to my parents,” she’d confided, on their way back to camp. He thought that Rose was perhaps trying to sell their thirty new companions to him as a good thing, not realising that even he could get behind hosting a party for them - when it was a leaving party, specifically. “I love my friends, and I love the Watchful Order, but let me tell you something that may surprise you: scribes do not necessarily know how to party.”

Only, apparently, this one scribe did know how to party. Or, at least, how to get extremely drunk, with alacrity.

“Dance with me,” she demanded of Shadowheart, tugging on the woman’s arm. She was in her shirtsleeves, and her hair was loose, tumbled free of her usually elaborate crown of braids and buns. It was quickly becoming apparent why it was usually styled that way, as it snagged on her horns and left her with elaborate flyaway curls at near right angles. Rose hadn’t been lying about her blush, either, apparently: a single drink seemingly had had the exact same effect as one of his own compliments, and the colour was high in her cheeks and chest and ears, her smile wide and her eyes bright. “Why won’t you dance with me?”

“Because I still hold hopes of preserving some dignity,” Shadowheart grumbled, not budging an inch from her seat.

“Booooo,” Rose sighed, “you’re so boring!” She span around, turning to the rest of the party, “won’t anyone dance with me? There’s music. And you’re just... sat here.”

Lae’zel grunted. Gale looked bashfully sombre.

“I’m sure I could be persuaded-” Wyll started, and then he saw Astarion’s face in his periphery, and coughed, clearing his throat. “But, um, unfortunately, I’m not, err… very good.”

That was the only other person with assertion and self-confidence in their group quickly out of the running, so Astarion thought he was pretty safe as he opened his mouth to inform her he would love the excuse to get his hands on her body. Only-

“You!” Rose said, before he had a chance to draw breath, turning to the pretty blue tiefling girl in a tight corset, who he’d accidentally not noticed, a few feet away. “Would you like to dance? My friends are dull.”

“Far be it for me to deny a beautiful lady such a forthright request,” the woman replied without missing a beat, as if she’d been waiting, lurking, hoping for the opportunity. Gods damned her. She extended her hand in invitation, and Rose giggled - giggled! - and all but skipped away, reaching out to take it. The woman span her, her hair flipped so wildly that half of it got snagged on her horns, and then with a shout the band - that is, Volo and the two other tieflings who happened to have instruments - started up a fast paced song.

Astarion was pretty certain Rose danced with every tiefling in camp that would have her. She even challenged the miserable one, lurking in his corner, to a drinking competition - that he could tell she deliberately lost, because she was only trying to bring the grumpy, grumbling boy out of his shell, and she was too disgustingly nice. She danced with the blue-skinned woman again. She danced with Volo. At one point, sipping his wine and pretending not to care, he thought he saw her try to approach Halsin, but watching her attempt to push the druid towards the dancefloor was like watching an ant try to move a boulder, with less successful results. She danced with Zevlor, and then with a wave of her hand started adding stars to the sky, and every single one of them was blush pink.

She also drank. A lot.

“So you’re just going to… watch, then,” Shadowheart observed over their shared bottle of wine, with an unimpressed glance in his direction. “You know, it may not shock me in the slightest that you’re all empty talk. But it is a little disappointing.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, obliquely. He was merely... biding his time. Rose was clearly having fun.

It was only as Foxglove started stumbling in the direction of the lich, that he decided it might be time to intervene. She was weaving, bottle in hand, and it was amazing she was even upright, because the moment he looped an arm around her waist and carefully span her away from the all-powerful magical being, she felt malleable and boneless, like her legs were happy to give out by consensus.

“I don’t think the centuries-old corpse wants to dance, dearest,” he informed her, as he deposited her facing the opposite direction and she swayed on her feet. Then he rethought his phrasing, and how it might backfire, and added as an addendum, “the millennia-old corpse, in fact.”

“How d’you know?” she asked, slightly affronted, and slurring not a small amount. “Have you asked him? Prob'ly not.”

“I think if he moves too vigorously, he literally disintegrates.”

“But still, I don’t want to be rude! It’s always nice to be asked!”

Isn’t it just? the treacherous voice in his brain (not mindflayer related) whispered.

“How are you quite this sloshed?” Astarion asked aloud, ignoring it. He started slowly backing her up, and she was too drunk to notice that she followed, until her thighs knocked back against the stone ledge he’d been perching on. “The wine here all tastes like vinegar. I don’t think you could pay me to drink it quick enough to catch you up.”

Rose smirked and said, “oh, Astarion, you absolute fool. That’s the trick, you see? I’m not drinking the wine,” she leaned in as if to tell him a secret, and then completely overbalanced, bracing a hand on his shoulder to stay upright. It meant they were hells of a lot closer than he thought she perhaps realised, as she whispered in his ear, “I have Volo’s rum.”

She certainly did. Astarion could smell it strong on her breath, the same moment that her hair tickled his nose. He was amazed she hadn’t knocked him unconscious or gauged one of his eyes out with one of her horns in the near fall.

“Foxglove, I’m scandalised!” he murmured back, delighted at the feel of the heat of her body against his, reaching his arm out to wrap around her waist, “you stole a man’s liquor?”

But before he could hold her close to him, Rosalie laughed, and then stepped back again, hitting the scree and overbalancing once more, taking her seat with a pinwheeling of arms and a thump, continuing to snicker through the winded huff of breath. “No, silly, I asked!” she snorted. She held her bottle high, and placed a hand to her chest, as she looked up at him with dancing eyes. “You know, this is what happens when you’re a nice person. People like you, and they give you things for free, because you saved their lives and their friends’ lives, and stopped them being nibbled by goblins, and also, because you happen to be a delight.”

“Am I not a delight?” Astarion pouted.

“You’re an absolute f*cking menace, is what you are,” Rose informed him, with utter severity. “Meanwhile, I’m ‘Rosalie, the Brave and Bold, Groveskeeper, Goblinsbane, Protector of the Innocent, Preserver of the Parasite, and Wielder of the Staff of Crones’.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“...You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” She smiled up at him, all pointed teeth showing, “Volo’s going to immortalise me as such, in his next book. Unless, of course, I do more wonderful, kind, and charitable things, and even more people love me, and then we’ll have to workshop it a little, because I’m just too perfect and amazing.”

“So all this long while, all you’ve been chasing is fame?” he asked her, “I knew it, Foxglove! And so with that, altruism breathes its last breath. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.”

“Fame is but an enjoyable side benefit, Astarion,” Rose replied, all serenity. “I regret to inform you that I am just this perfect and lovely, all the time, without reward. I know it’s a hard burden for me to bear, but I suppose we must all get by as best we can.”

“Alright, lovely, perfect Rosalie, scooch up,” he grumbled good-naturedly, gesturing for her to move so he could sit down behind her. “And pass me that rum.”

“Only if you say please.”

“Please, dearest.”

She grinned at him and handed her bottle over. It was distressingly light - less than half the bottle left. “Wine,” she demanded, hand out.

“You’ve... had enough.”

“‘Nothing in this world is free, Foxglove, and you should always try bartering for whatever advantage is most readily available,’” she said loftily, in a butchered attempt at his voice. “I gave you the rum, you bastard. Give me the wine.”

“‘Only if you say please,’” he said, in an equally bad impression of her.

“Please.”

This time, she didn’t wait for him to acquiesce, but snatched it from him, and immediately downed five swallows while he watched in half-horror, half-delight. Had the tadpole finally taken over? He was pretty certain Rose was possessed.

She examined the bottle for a thoughtful second, bemused. “It’s not that bad, really.”

After his own swallow of (bad, really bad) rum, he said, with a cough, “I’m guessing you actually have no tastebuds left.”

“Can vampires get drunk?” she asked, aloud. Loudly. Enough to make three nearby tieflings look over towards them, confused. “Or do you have to like,” she made a gesture with two hooked fingers to mimic fangs penetrating flesh, let out a hiss like a cat, that Astarion tried not to find offensive, and continued, “nom on a drunk person? Get drunk by proxy. Liquor someone else up, and then-”

“- Please don’t hiss again. Or I’m leaving.”

“So? How does it work?”

Astarion started to feel awkward. Maybe she truly was that drunk and it was a proposition, but knowing her it was probably some incredibly mundane, intellectual curiosity. “I can get mildly to pleasantly buzzed by traditional methods,” he informed her, in a carefully neutral tone. “But to get...”

“- f*cked.”

“To get as drunk as you,” he continued valiantly, wondering why the gods had chosen now to test him. “I would probably need to find someone as drunk as you and bite them, yes. If only because I’m pretty certain you currently have alcohol poisoning.”

“Tieflings have excellent constitution.”

“I’ve seen your constitution in action, it’s the same as a wet paper bag.”

“Like you can f*cking talk! When you get hit by rain, you turn near translucent.”

“That is merely an aesthetic, darling,” Astarion told her with a soft smile, finding it truly unfair how much he liked her in this current state. She smiled back at him guilelessly, legs swinging off the edge of the slope, and they lapsed into a silence that seemed… opportunistic.

But Astarion found himself loath to break it.

“We could get you a fancy name as well,” Rose offered after a few moments had passed. She tried to drink again from the wine bottle - he hastily swiped it from her grasp. “We can go ask Volo. ‘The Porcelain Boy’-”

“‘Porcelain Man, surely.”

“I mean, you helped me a lot-” she started.

“I helped you nary a jot.”

The needless phrasing earned him an odd look. Ok, so maybe that rum was pretty strong after all.

“You helped me. You all helped me,” she insisted, in her typical way, as if she hadn’t been fighting with everyone here for every inch she'd claimed, in the name of heroics.

“Truly, Foxglove, you can keep this victory all to yourself,” Astarion sighed, glancing out across the camp. “You know, I never pictured myself as a hero-”

“-Shocking.”

“-Never thought I’d be the one they toasted for saving many lives. And now that I’m here…” Astarion cast a sideways glance at her, saw her hanging on his every word, exactly as he hoped. He grinned, waited a beat, then continued, “I hate it. This is awful!”

And exactly as he hoped, she snorted out a laugh - a literal snort this time. But then she did something unexpected, reached out, and pinched his cheek. Then tapped his nose. The contact was gone just as soon as he registered the indignity of it.

“Awww, listen to your voice,” she crooned, “did you practice that line, just for me? You’re so predictable. So cute.”

“Excuse me-” If she thought he was ‘cute’, something had gone very wrong.

“‘I have never liked nor cared about anything, in my life, ever,’” she said, again in her bad impression of his voice. “‘Good deeds? Basic. Adventures? Boring. Heroics? Passé. I will never admit that all the awesome things we do are badass and cool in their own right. I shall sit here and brood by the fire, so you all know how evil and mysterious I am. Look at my very serious and mysterious ruff.’" She snorted again, "Never change, Astarion.”

“...I was under the impression you wanted me to change quite a bit.”

“Who knows? Maybe I don’t think you need to change. Maybe I think you’re secretly a good person under all your extensive and effusive attempts to act otherwise.” Seeing his unconvinced expression, she grinned, and leaned forward, lowering her voice, “Or... maybe my kind of change sneaks up on you. One day, maybe you’ll notice that I’ve never paid you for a single one of these endeavours. And that you did them all, so very selflessly.”

“Perhaps I stay for the company,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps you do.”

They lapsed into silence again, and this one was perfect. If Astarion had been waiting for his moment, this was the time - and yet still…

“So, are you going to kiss me yet?” Rose asked, and he damn-near choked on his next swallow of rum. She continued on, blithely. “Or are we just going to keep trading blows until Alfira has finished the elegy she’s dedicating to my sexy, perfect body, and I become so famous that I get better offers from all across Faerun? ...Possibly from people who’ve saved orphans? Voluntarily?”

“I - you’re getting a sexy song?”

“That’s what I wanted, when she asked me. All the best ballads are sexy,” she said with a shrug. “If the rhymes she finds for ‘freckles’ and ‘purple’ are good enough, maybe I’ll just sleep with her.”

“...Are you always like this when you’re drunk?”

She turned and looked at him with a serious expression. “...So you literally are just going to flirt with me for weeks, even as you insult me, and then not do anything about it?”

Astarion was feeling a little bit attacked by this point, and so when he said, “do you actually want me to kiss you?” it came out a bit loud. He saw Shadowheart glance over in their direction and snicker, the heartless bitch.

“Of course. Don’t you want to?” she said, with a confused and tempting pout of her mouth. “I mean, I know Shadowheart’s kind of hotter than both of us -” he heard the cleric choke on her own drink, behind them, and he tried to count it as vengeance even as his mind struggled to keep up with this entirely unprecedented conversation, “but I’m passing fair-”

Passing fair, she said, with her eyes dancing in unnatural whorls of gold and blue, and her cheeks bright and rosy, and the line of her body as she leant in causing her shirt collar to splay at a rather revealing angle that gave Astarion a pretty clear idea of exactly how many freckles she might have.

“I was rather under the impression that you were perhaps interested,” she said, as if he had not been throwing himself at her feet, for weeks.

“And I was under the impression that you were only interested in people you ‘like’,” he replied, not entirely sure why he was arguing with her.

“I do like you!” Rose immediately responded, without a breath to weigh up her answer. “I like you a lot, actually-”

“I-”

“- I mean, your stance on murder leaves a little to be desired, yes, but you’re funny, and you’re actually quite nice when you don’t notice you’re doing it,” she continued, prattling on innocently. “You protect me all the time in battle - don’t think I haven’t seen the way you guard my flank-”

She stopped, paused to consider her bad wording, and then glanced at him and waggled her eyebrows at the innuendo. And against his better judgement, Astarion felt himself fall a little in love.

“And you’re pretty, and you know, I don’t often get flirted with quite so aggressively, so that’s nice too-”

“- I think you might want to stop talking, dear,” Astarion said weakly. This conversation was taking turns in directions he really had not anticipated.

“But if that was all just amusem*nt to pass the time, then fine,” she shrugged, picked a bit of lint off her clothes. “I mean, a bit of a dick move on your part, but I can go talk to Alfira…”

“...No!” As she made to stand up and move away, Astarion reached out and snagged her wrist.

Rosalie stopped, grinning at him, and Astarion wondered why he felt so… trapped, all of a sudden, in a way that should’ve been delicious but was mostly just terrifying. Because she did know him, and how to predict his every move. She’d baited him - not the other way around.

“I knew it,” she said, smugly.

And she looked down at his hand on her wrist, and moved. Laced their fingers together before he could say another word. Tugged him to his feet - and he followed without hesitation or resistance.

“Come on, then.”

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

Chapter Text

“Where are we going?”

Astarion had really envisaged this going very differently. For one thing, every single eye - or, at least, all the ones that mattered - had followed their progress out of camp. This wasn’t a sneaking, hidden tryst, half about the sense of urgency and clandestine set dressing, chasing the thrill of secrecy as much as the person involved. He wasn’t sure what it was.

And Rosalie was leading, after all these weeks of watching her retreat into blushes and frowns, every witty riposte a struggle.

Had Volo had rum this whole time? He should’ve stolen it days ago.

“I don’t know,” Rose admitted with a shrug, nearly tripping over a tree root until he righted her. She wasn’t weaving as much as before, but she was hardly working in right angles. “If you see a good spot, then just shout! Isn’t this your hunting ground, or something?”

Good spot... for what? It occurred to him that they hadn’t actually kissed yet. They’d just been walking hand in hand. Like school children.

As they weaved through two trees, he imagined slamming her against the bark of the closest one, and claiming her mouth with his own. It’d been a while since he’d kissed someone with teeth as sharp as his. She’d chase his lips as he broke away from her. He’d place a hand on her neck, without pressure, but with firm promise. She’d submit, become pliant and boneless. And it would all easily snowball from there.

But… he didn’t do that. Any of it.

Astarion decided he wanted to wait, just a moment longer.

Another minute or two passed in silence, save for the way their feet disrupted the deadfall until it gave way to soft grass. Her pulse thudded heavy through her fingers, warm and clasped in his. Callused, just like she’d promised.

“People are going to talk,” he said, lamely.

“They were always going to. You are, quite frankly, the least subtle person I know,” she replied.

“I’m told it’s part of my charm.”

“You tell yourself it’s part of your charm,” Rose threw over her shoulder with an open, knowing grin that was unlike anything he’d ever seen on her before, and Astarion huffed a low laugh.

Admitted defeat.

He tugged her to a halt. Stepped in towards her back, smelt the light floral scent of her hair loose, and pressed a kiss on the side of her neck, on the soft, bare skin just below the ear. Not quite on the pulse point.

“I don’t think you want subtle, dearest,” he informed her in a low murmur, that he watched travel in a pleasing shudder down her spine.

Rosalie span unsteadily around until they were pressed chest to chest. She raised her eyes to his, dark except for the blue gold of her irises, and yet so clearly open and trusting that he actually swallowed against a lump in his throat. He had to get a hold of himself. It was probably just the alcohol. Her breath reeked of it.

Without words, her gaze dropped to his lips, and his stomach bottomed out entirely.

She took a step even closer to him, and tried to reach up to grab the collar of his tunic, to pull him down to her. To kiss him. “Ah ah ah,” Astarion murmured, and caught both her hands before she had the chance to get purchase. He savoured the ease with which he overpowered her and stunted her reach. There was territory to be reclaimed here: he was, he reminded himself, still in control of this situation.

Rose frowned, confused at being denied even as his fingers looped around and shackled her wrists, running his thumbs softly across the raised filigree of veins at her pulse. She reached towards him once more, like a grasping child unable to contain their own desire, and it tested his grip, deliciously. He held her there, revelling in the way her heartbeat began to thunder in response, a vibration under her skin that seemed to understand his plan even if she didn’t seem to.

“And what do you want?” she pouted, an undercurrent of frustration in her voice.

“What do any of us want?” he asked her, as he examined every inch of her face, the little furrow between her bows, the rising bloodrush heat in her cheeks, and the way that the pitch of his voice had her biting gently into her lip. “Pleasure.”

Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath.

Astarion felt himself smiling as he chastely pressed a kiss onto the knuckles of her caged hands. Her entire body jumped in his grasp.

“Yours,” he continued. “Mine. Our collective ecstasy.”

When she took another heavy, heavy breath, he leaned into her ear to whisper, “that’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

Astarion nearly kissed her then, but there was a little selfish thrill as, instead, he leant back to admire the handiwork his words alone had produced. He wanted to see her. Rose was purple and pink all over, and her chest was heaving. She met his gaze, and he watched in satisfaction as she took another shaky, ragged breath, like she was fighting her own body’s reaction…

Her lips twitched…

And then she burst out laughing.

At Astarion’s horrified expression, she laughed harder, almost like she couldn’t stop herself.

Tears formed in her eyes, and she collapsed in a fit of giggles. She buried her face deep in his shoulder to muffle the sound, and he had to whip his head quickly to the side to avoid a horn. Her entire body shuddered with laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, voice brimming with mirth, “I shouldn’t-” she laughed again, unable to fight off the giggles. “I mean - it was a very nice speech - and you know, we can establish safewords if you need - oh gods - ‘collective ecstasy’ -”

“...Are you quite done?”

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry. I’m so drunk. This is so…” she took a deep whooping breath, snorted another laugh again with her forehead against his neck, like she was trying to fight off another fit. “So mean. Gods. I shouldn’t… I’m trying not to… I promise...”

Astarion just stood there with her pressed all against him, shell-shocked, as Rosalie tried to regain her composure. She pulled back, moved her hand - with her wrists still shackled by him, she just dragged his leaden limbs with her in his stupor - to brush at the tears in her eyes.

“It’s just…” she sighed, smiling at him even as she laughed in his face, like they were sharing the joke rather than making him the butt of it. Still beaming, she reached out and cupped his cheeks tenderly in both her hands, stroking her thumbs in two broad lines across his skin, “...are you ever going to actually get round to just f*cking kissing me, Astarion? Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to be this… this... person you’ve created?”

“I-” Astarion had no idea what to say as, once again, everything he thought he knew about the two of them was upturned spectacularly. He wanted to be indignant. By all rights, the moment should’ve been completely ruined, and he should’ve stormed off in a huff.

Instead he just felt… flayed.

And he stilled, the moment her thumb and then her fingers brushed over his mouth, gently sealing it shut.

“I think you’ve talked enough,” Rose told him softly.

And then she ducked in and kissed him.

The first press was so delicate, with barely a hint of pressure. The mood had somehow so entirely and unexpectedly evaded Astarion’s grasp that he was shocked at his own contentment in the moment, as it happened. Even the chaste press of soft lips felt right with her, still sending a familiar, warm sensation coiling pleasantly down his spine. She was slightly off-centre, her angle tipsy and her lips pecking at the corner of his mouth, into the curve. And she was smiling. He could taste it on her, along with the rum and the wine, and it was so very Rosalie that he actually found himself smiling back into her mouth. He supposed innocent and gentle was rather what he’d signed up for.

Then she bit him.

Her teeth nipped into his bottom lip, light but with a wicked sharp edge. And the moment he inhaled heavily - in the surprising knowledge that she too could draw blood, if she chose - she was parting his lips with a pleased sigh that ended in an encouraging hum. Repositioning herself and fitting them together perfectly, like his was a tune she recognised.

Rose shook off his hold on her wrists distractedly and looped her arms up around his neck, tightening her grip and reeling him in close, as her tongue patiently waited for entrance into his mouth. When he acquiesced, she went near boneless. The angle meant her body melded against his in a number of pleasing and molten ways, the soft curve of her breasts pressed in against his chest. The kiss was suddenly messy and deep and gasping, all lips and tongues and teeth.

Exactly right: her hands burying in his hair and carding through the curls, with a slight scrape of nails that had him - embarrassingly - shivering in her arms. Not to be outdone, he wrapped his own arms around her, pulling taut a handful of her shirt material, where it was gaping with the pliant bow of her spine. Astarion tugged until it was free from her waistband. Then he stroked his hand up her back, feeling the heat of her skin and ridged divots of her spine as he then flattened and splayed out his fingers, pressing her into him and closing the last half inch of distance there was to be had. He placed one of his legs between her own, as his other hand fisted deep into her own thick hair. And with a flash of prescient memory, he lightly pulled, and was rewarded by a deep, deep groaning noise from the base of her throat, that he was almost scandalised Foxglove could even make. He wanted to swallow the sound whole.

He felt like her pulse was thundering through the both of them.

One of her hands released her death grip on his hair, and she had the audacity to stroke down his jaw. To trail the just-dull edge of a single, blunted talon down the column of his throat, over the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed instinctively. And then tangle her fingers in his collar, one thumb hooked under the first catch to his tunic, a tight grip just a few inches short of a stranglehold.

She softly pushed him back. An inch, and another inch, with just a touch of resistance, until their mouths broke apart. Eyelids still shuttered closed in a lust-faded fog, Astarion made an abortive sound and tried to move forward to reclaim her lips, and she tightened the grip just enough to make him pay attention and reconsider.

“Astarion,” she murmured, and the pitch of her voice was like a stake through the heart. “Look at me.”

His eyes snapped open on command, if only to convince himself that this wasn’t an incredibly elaborate dream. Was this really her? Perhaps she and that tadpole of hers had been extensively workshopping their choreography. Maybe it wore his face now, in her dreams, and she’d cribbed everything they’d done together, and apparently taken notes. Surely she wasn’t just… like this - so perfectly capable of ending him, and any control he claimed to have.

“See?” Rose said once she had his attention, with a happy, punch-drunk smile on her swollen lips, her eyes near black and sparkling like a galaxy. “Wasn’t it perfect? No need for theatrics.”

Well, I guess once more she proves me wrong.

Astarion was trying to think of what exactly to say when, suddenly, Rosalie frowned, gaze veering off into the middle distance for a second.

Then she hiccupped.

Pulled back even further from him…

And vomited rum all over his shoes.

Of all the numerous ways Astarion planned on ending his night, holding back Foxglove’s hair for the most unromantic half hour of his life, before carrying her, unconscious, all the way back to camp was... not one of them.

He managed to navigate whatever meandering route the drunken harridan had taken them on in the first place, but it took him time. She burbled sleepily into his collarbone, and at one point pressed a kiss just below his ear that threw him a little off-balance. She couldn't get her hands to do the prestidigitation cantrip gestures properly, so she stank - and yet he found that it didn't really matter. Or that maybe he didn't really mind.

When they returned to the fire, he was grateful to see the clearing had emptied. People - some very, very lucky people, who he rather envied - had found their beds for the night. Shadowheart was the only one still up, staring out into the darkness with a blank and distant expression. It briefly flitted to horror, and then delighted amusem*nt, when she saw him approach with the heavy deadweight of Foxglove’s body slumped and snoring in his arms.

“I didn’t drain her, or whatever it is you’re thinking,” Astarion sighed, “gods forbid I’d ever get the f*cking chance. She passed out from the liquor, I’m not a monster.”

“Goodness!” Shadowheart said, her voice trembling with laughter. “Poor you!”

It was the second time his seduction had earned him laughter that night. Astarion threw a glare at her as he lowered Rosalie into her bedroll. She murmured a half-slurred protest as he dropped her the last inch or so, and it took him several moments to gently detangle her arms from his neck without waking her.

He tried to ignore the feeling that bloomed deep in his gut at the display of what Shadowheart probably thought was tenderness. In the darkness he thought he saw the wizard shift and turn away in his bedroll, but perhaps that was merely the product of an overactive imagination.

Gods, I hope she doesn’t choke on her own vomit. he thought, dragging damp hair back from her brow. It would be a waste, when there was so much unfinished business between them. Rose was completely right: he should’ve skipped the theatrics, and had her when he had the chance. It was a long and boring night ahead of him. He’d never regretted his inability to truly sleep more.

The next morning would’ve been exceedingly amusing, had he himself not been feeling so grumpy and cheated. The look on Foxglove’s face when she came to consciousness was a f*cking picture: it was the angriest he’d ever seen her at the world, and that was including the few times he’d provoked her.

For ten minutes, she just stared at the ground by her face. Then she moved, leveraging herself up onto her hands and knees, and let out a hissed, sulphurous curse in Infernal, that caused everyone else in camp - for she was, of course, the last one awake - to look in her direction. They’d never heard her speak the language before. It actually relit the embers of the campfire, that she hastily swiped out with a mage hand. Her pallor was leeched of nearly all colour, her lips puffy and kiss bruised, and her hair a scarecrow’s nest.

“Gods… f*cking…” the rest of her words become incoherent, inconsolable noise as she pulled herself up to standing, and coughed in a near retch. She squinted up at the sunlight, groaned. “Well! Good news, lads! You can get rid of the tadpole if you straight-up just make your skull nigh on f*cking uninhabitable-”

“Oh shush,” Shadowheart said. She darted in, and placed her fingers on the girl’s forehead with a quick spark of divine magic. “Protection from Poison works wonders, hmmm?”

“Shadowheart, I could weep. I love you.”

“Don’t you dare hug me! You stink.”

“I - oh hells-” Rose hastily backed up, looking mortified, ducked down and gathered her second set of clothes. Then she span in the direction of the lake, and that meant Astarion got to enjoy the look on her face when she came face to face with him-

All the pink flooded back into her face at once, turning it back to purple again.

She scurried away, and Astarion tried to not feel too smug at the fact that the world seemed to have righted on its axis once more, after its abrupt and brief sojourn into chaos.

He was waiting for her on the outskirts of camp when she returned, skin damp and scrubbed pink, with her hair scraped back. When Rose noticed him lingering there, she bought herself up short, a respectable and wary distance away.

“You’re not going to avoid me, are you?” Astarion asked, pantomiming hurt to avoid any implication of actual emotion. “Not regretting last night, I hope.”

Rosalie bit her lip, nervously, her hands fidgeting with her bundle of dirty clothes.

“I threw up on your shoes!” she blurted.

“I know. I was there.”

“I’m so sorry! That’s…” she sighed. “Hells. I wish I could say it was the first time.”

Astarion tucked that knowledge away for later. “And that’s all you’re embarrassed about, is it?” he asked. She’d been sh*tfaced - by the clear, sober light of day, she might regret everything else she’d said and done to him. Better to find out now, before he started teasing her mercilessly for it.

Rosalie paused. Tilted her head and frowned, tugging a wet lock of hair absently behind her ear as she considered. “Um… yes? Why? I thought the rest went rather well... Don’t you?”

Astarion fought the urge to dart across the distance between them and just kiss her right there. In broad daylight. In full view of camp. And even worse, he didn’t know why he didn’t just do it: he shouldn’t have cared that this was his first instinct. Perhaps he should’ve wanted to claim her. But he didn’t. It felt too needy.

How utterly mortifying.

“I certainly enjoyed myself, even if it ended rather abruptly,” Rose continued. “And we didn’t quite reach the intended destination. I promise I won’t drink next time, that was truly my mistake.”

“...Next time?”

“Gods, Astarion, yes! Next time!” she huffed, “I told you I liked you. I’m bloody well hoping you like me. We don’t have to treat it like it’s a big secret, and I’m certainly kissing you again if it was anything like last night.”

She looked over at him, tilted her head in a brief examination, and dimpled cheerily. That was when Astarion realised he was smiling rather wide.

He tried valiantly to change the tone of it, from outright pleased, to more smug and self-satisfied.

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

So. They were going to the Underdark.

Rosalie tried not to panic.

There’d been a lot of trying not to panic, in the last few days. Weeks. Gods, it had been weeks.

Or rather, there had been a lot of ‘expecting panic’ - of expecting fear to come along and cripple her. Only for it to be swallowed by sudden, gaping numbness: a complete, unfeeling absence of any apprehension whatsoever.

And somehow, that was worse.

Maybe that had been why the rum went down her gullet like water. A blissful moment to not think at all, about anything, to quell the voices in her mind both Illithid and otherwise, and pretend she wasn’t going to die in a matter of days-

And they’ll all die too, she thought, and it would be her fault: the fault of her delays.

The buoyant mood of the morning - well, the moment the hangover stopped and her memories flooded back without accompanying nausea - had long since dissipated. Now she wanted to find a dark corner and cry.

How had she ended up here? Not with the tadpole swimming in her skull - not on the Nautiloid ship. Those were steps she could trace, like the lines of Deep Speech that she’d illuminated alone as the candles burned down in her library. She’d told herself they were just shapes, even as she felt them tickling the back of her mind with sounds she’d never learned, yet half-remembered and spoken fully only in her dreams.

No, how did she end up leading? How did she end up being the person people looked to for decisions? How did she…

Rosalie remembered when she’d first stopped going outside.

That was a year out of the apprenticeship, just after Threnn had broken her heart and moved away. Seventeen days from the first panic attack - and it had only taken eight in total to seal her fate. Stepping even into the Order courtyard had started to hurt Rose’s chest, pressing down in on her ribs until each breath felt like a stretch of effort, a thread pulled too taut and about to snap.

It started small: she asked for quarters close to the library. Her bedroom had held too many memories anyway. She stopped going home, and spoke to her family in letters, pleading overtime as an excuse. When she’d told Astarion about the meals they used to hold in her grandmother’s honour, she’d not mentioned how she’d stopped attending. Nor how she hadn’t yet managed to meet her friend’s wife, or his infant son - because she hadn’t been home in two years.

She'd been so trapped. She’d stopped learning magic: she couldn’t go out into a wide enough open space to practice spells that might have areas of effect, and she could hardly hurl scorching rays in rooms filled with books. Her world had gotten smaller and smaller, until trips she’d once made felt like insurmountable quests, and it got easier to just retreat to her room, or illuminate another manuscript, safe between four walls. Send more money home, with nothing much in her small life to spend it on.

Until the tadpole.

“Do you think they know?” her Illithid had asked, while wearing Threnn’s face. “How you used to cower at sunlight, not at shadows?”

How much of this was her? It had only been two years since she’d last been outside, after all. Rosalie remembered that she’d once always been like this, without effort or thought. The first time she was flirted with by these utter strangers she’d had to pretend didn’t intimidate and terrify her, she got nearly bodily shoved back into being in her twenties again, remembering what it was like to approach strangers with courage and a smile like a hook. And she felt in control of her mind, her faculties… she’d never actually used the flayer powers even as her mind subconsciously nudged her in their direction.

She was never going to trust anything that wore Threnn's face.

But since she’d escaped that ship and found herself in the middle of nowhere, in a world without walls or rooves to shelter her, there’d been a strange, impossible shift in reality where she somehow didn’t need them. The anxiety had never swooped back down and raked its claws through her. It never carried her away. Sometimes she forgot to remember that it was stalking her, entirely.

The tadpole was probably fighting it off: an act of simple, evolutionary logic. It couldn’t have its host having fight or flight triggered by the sheer dizzying immensity of empty space, not when it needed her to get to wherever it wanted her to go. Couldn’t have a host whose own body fought her at every step of the way. Instead it made her bold, it made her reckless: it made her want to throw herself into danger and grow in power, make up for lost time.

And somehow, it had created someone else out of her. It seemed these people thought her brave. They thought her stupid, to be sure, but they also thought her courageous, and it made Rosalie laugh almost as much as she wanted to cry because if they’d met her but three months prior they almost certainly would’ve switched those words around. They thought she was like this. She wasn’t like this at all. She was a fraud.

It was all the tadpole.

And as soon as it’s gone, you’ll be alone and scared all over again.

If they ever saw her the way she used to be, Lae’zel would probably gut her where she stood. Astarion would probably watch and laugh.

No, he wouldn’t.

Yes, he would. He found her absurd and hilarious as she was now, with this newfound death wish he loved accusing her of. If he’d met her before, she’d be so far beneath his notice that laughter would honestly be too much to expect from him.

Sometimes, when Rose talked to him it felt as easy as breathing, and other times she could feel the mask the Illithid had woven for her itching against her skin.

So. If this is how I die, she thought, looking up at the star-woven sky she’d only glimpsed through windows for the last two years. Why not make the most of it? Why not be a little bold, and a little reckless? Why not do some good? Even if I live, I go back to being someone small and dull and useless, so why not pretend? Just for a little while?

She shivered a little, with the memory of a single kiss.

“That’s a very serious face,” the familiar, sinuous quality of Astarion’s voice trailed across Rosalie’s spine, and she looked away from the night sky to see him watching her, having crept up into the clearing she’d found herself in without her noticing. She’d tried to sneak away from the camp to find a quiet space to have the panic attack that she could not stop anticipating; even though it never happened, of course.

She gave him a taut smile, tried to ease the tension out of her shoulders. “Just... thinking.”

“Oh goodness, we can’t have that,” he smirked, as he sauntered over. Part of her wondered if he’d practiced that walk - the other part of her knew that he still did. “And here I was thinking you’d snuck away from camp for somewhat more... nefarious purposes.”

And just like that, her smile became genuine. It was almost like falling into a script, one that it still shocked Rose to find she could keep up with. In these moments she truly felt like a different person. The embarrassment was there, to be sure - it seemed the Illithid hadn’t quite managed to make her superhuman - but without the fear all there was to her skyrocketing pulse was excitement, and a heady rush of recklessness.

Rose tilted her head to the side, adopted a thoughtful pose and said, “‘hoping’, more like it.”

“Would you really object, dearest, if I said I missed you?” he asked, in a rare show of sincerity that sent her heart thundering. And then he grinned, placing his hand over his heart. “After all, I’m almost certain you missed me.”

Gods, he was just so co*cky. And pretty. Absurdly so: so beautiful it was unfair. Rose really thought she’d have held out longer if he didn’t look like angels - multiple, a committee of them, the cream of the Celestial Plane crop - had convened for a whole afternoon solely to carve that bone structure. If she still felt fear, would she ever have dared approach him in the first place?

The moonlight only made him prettier - turned his hair white as salt, bright as quicksilver, and his eyes to claret, made them dark and knowing. Although perhaps that wasn’t the light - maybe that was just because he did know her now, a lot more than yesterday-

“You know, I’m just starting to realise how much all this is going to feed your ego,” Rose observed, stepping up towards him, folding her arms. “I’m having second thoughts. Is it even worth it? Will the sex be good enough?”

Astarion had that momentary look of surprise that she savoured whenever she managed to wrong-foot him, and then he laughed, “I don’t believe I mentioned ‘sex’ once, Foxglove, but now you bring it up-”

“The Underdark is dank and gross and, from what I can remember from my reading, full of poisonous, sentient mushrooms,” she said. “An exotic setting, to be sure, but if you’re seeking me out now, the day before we set out into the great unknown with our entire party and a bear for company, I’m going to make an extremely educated guess-”

“Well, if you’d prefer I ravaged you in full view of everyone, I’m certainly game!” he smiled, and she hated the tadpole - f*cking hated it - because that didn’t sound entirely unpleasant. “But if you value a little discretion - perhaps need a little distraction... I promise that what follows will prove my ego to be perfectly in proportion to the rest of me.”

Rose snorted, shook her head. “Oh, Astarion, if you could just hear yourself speak.”

“Why, love? There’s nothing shameful to what I’m saying, and no lies either,” he said, voice dropping low and his mouth curving in a promise. They were very, very close to each other now, and both of them knew it. “Maybe for once you shouldn’t argue, and instead just let me take care of you.”

Rosalie opened her mouth to retort - an automatic response with Astarion at this point - and then... thought better of it. He was right: there was no need for quite as much conversational sparring when she already knew how well he could kiss. There would always be time to argue tomorrow. Her mouth snapped shut, and she looked up at him expectantly.

Again, he looked surprised, and quickly tried to hide it.

She thought he’d just kiss her then - though, to be fair, when had he ever just done a thing without pontificating over it first?

So, he didn’t. Bizarrely, something happened that Rose didn’t expect at all: he frowned slightly, examining her, and asked, “Foxglove, are you ok? Is something... wrong?”

She’d never expect concern from Astarion, of all people. And even if there was something wrong, it’s not like I could tell you.

Mouth still shut, Rose simply raised an eyebrow in silent challenge, and Astarion sighed out a laugh, shaking his head a little at himself, like he was confused by his own behaviour.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, and then reached out with both hands to cup her jaw and tilt her head up to him. One thumb came up and stroked across her bottom lip, before it left a small indent pressed right in the centre. “The time for talking has long since passed.”

And then he kissed her.

Rosalie thought it had been fun last night, and it had been, but as his mouth slanted across hers at a messy and aggressive angle, she realised how much the sensation had been blurred and blunted by liquor. His teeth nicked at her lip, demanding entrance, and the moment her lips parted his tongue was in her mouth, expert and knowing. He kissed her hard, so hard that she felt her spine arch back as he crowded into her space, and she had to grab hold of him with just as much force lest she overbalance and topple over, taking him with her.

Comparing kissing to a battlefield was foolish and trite, but Rose quickly felt breathless, like she was fighting for her life. Her heart was a frantic, galloping tattoo, that she could only savour: it held nothing but promise. All those years when she thought thundering implacable bloodrush was going to kill her. Now she was soaring on it, as every thought washed away in the pounding beat, to leave only base, desperate instinct.

Astarion’s hands moved and her hair tumbled out of its plaits, down past her shoulder blades. And then he threaded the fingers of both hands through it, and combed. Down through the snarls, gathering it in his grip, until it was one long rope wrapped around one fist, that meant he could manoeuvre her exactly where he wanted her. He tugged in warning when she bit back against his lips and laughed at her, fully into her mouth, as she grabbed two fistfuls of his collar in revenge.

This isn’t fair, thought Rose. How? How did he know so perfectly how to wreck her? He had to have some weakness, somewhere, too.

She moved away from his mouth, down to his neck, on the opposite side to the marks that Cazador had left. And she bit deep.

The sound Astarion made was like he’d been genuinely wounded, and it only tailed off into something more guttural when she laved her tongue over the swollen flesh, exactly as the bastard had done himself when he’d pierced her own skin.

“Gods,” she thought she heard him whisper into her hair, and she kissed his neck again and he groaned, “you… are… entirely too clothed.”

“Oh? And who’s fault is that?” she asked, pulling back with a grin, and then he was kissing her again, hungry and insistent. Only without the hair pulling, because he was entirely too preoccupied with the clasps on her robe.

Rose got his tunic undone first - the advantage of talons, she supposed: she actually thought she accidentally sliced through one of the ties. She began to blindly pull the clothes from his body. As she tugged it down and off his arms, eyes still closed and gasping into his mouth, she felt her hand brush against the bare, barely lukewarm skin of his shoulder. It was rough in places, patched and twisted, and it felt-

She swept her hand back up one of his shoulders to rest at the nape of his neck, and he stilled under her touch. She paused, breaking off from his mouth to share a breath. “Astarion?” she whispered. Was everything ok?

“Don’t bother your pretty little head about it, Foxglove,” he said, after a second, and he wrenched off the jacket, baring the flat, marbled planes of his torso, and then he tugged her down onto the floor.

Things blurred together after that. More clothes followed into a haphazard pile and there were kisses elsewhere, across her body, each one with a slight scrape of teeth, as if she was a banquet to be sampled and tasted. Rose was trying to savour each sensation, inscribe them all to memory, but it was hard to think at all. Each groan into her skin was like being hit with a wave of heady fire. She really did feel like a different person. But it was a person she wanted to be, so very badly. She wanted to be the kind of woman he loved, the kind of woman he wanted. She wanted to be his.

And then they were naked, and he was above her, his weight pressing her into the dirt. The moonlight lined him all in silver, but as he leveraged himself up to look at her, shuddering, his face was entirely shadowed. His eyes were so dark and hungry she couldn’t see their colour anymore.

He looked starving. He looked monstrous. He looked like he would die to drink from her in that moment, even if she was poison. And as that dark gaze drifted to the swell of skin on her shoulder, to the pulse point at her neck... any normal person, Rose was sure, would’ve felt a little afraid.

But Rosalie didn’t feel fear anymore. The tadpole didn’t let her.

She ran her tongue across her dry, kiss-bruised lips and nodded assent to his silent question. “Do it,” she said.

She could barely make out a single feature on his face. Couldn't see his reaction. Maybe she'd surprised him, again.

But with one last aching pause, one last, predatory assessment, Astarion splayed one of his hands out across her collarbone. Rose felt it as he pushed her down into the dirt, held her in place with strength he rarely displayed openly. He bent over her body, and licked a long, slow line up the column of her throat, all the way to just below her ear.

And then he struck.

Afterwards, with Astarion collapsed sleepily atop her and the only thing keeping any heat close to her skin, Rose stroked soothing lines up and down his spine, and she realised his entire back was scarred.

An hour later, when he’d piled her own f*cking robe on top of them both in a lazy excuse for a blanket, and she didn’t complain because it offered a perfect, shamelessly rational excuse to cuddle up close to him, she started to trace the characters with the tips of her fingers, and she realised with a start that it was Infernal.

Rose didn’t know what to do with that information. She tried to sleep, even though it was phenomenally stupid to attempt to do so. They should really head back to camp before they perished of exposure. Not that Astarion could probably feel the cold, and that was probably why he felt no urgency to move. She couldn’t say she did, either.

The tadpole will probably keep me alive, she thought, logically, and drifted off to sleep with her face pressed into his chest.

She woke up with a jolt to find herself alone, shivering, the robe fully covering her as daylight leaked brown and gold through the tree canopies. For an awful second, she wondered if Astarion had simply left her. It wouldn’t be uncharacteristic, or even really all that surprising. But then she heard the rustling of deadfall, and peered out of one eyelid to see him sat up, turned away from her, still shirtless. Lacing up his boots up over his breeches. She was about to make a sleepy joke or tentative enquiry, but the words died on her lips as she saw the whorling sweep of scarred calligraphy: the starburst brand on his back, in its entirety.

It was old, archaic Infernal - the kind scholars had used as translation of the devil’s tongue a few centuries prior. But, dry mouthed and a little horrified, she found that she could read it.

Rose was so engrossed that she didn’t notice when Astarion threw a glance at her over his shoulder. He saw her blatant scrutiny and misread it for something else entirely.

“Oh, Foxglove,” he sighed pityingly, “look at your face. I really wouldn’t trouble yourself, on my account. The scars are old, and the pain long since passed. I’m not another helpless wretch you can save-”

“This soul swears no oath by fire,” Rose sounded out, gently, translating carefully into Common, and watched as the words made Astarion freeze and lock up. “Nor words does he speak, in the realm of death.”

“I - what?”

“...That’s Cazador’s poetry, isn’t it?”

He span to face her, and there was anger understandably written across his face. “You can read it?!”

“It’s Infernal, Astarion,” she informed him, quietly. “He wrote it in Infernal.”

“I…” she watched as Astarion’s face lost its anger, but quickly chilled to closed and unreadable. “I see.”

“I thought you might want to know what it said,” she said. “I thought you might already know.”

“No.” he replied, voice hard. “I didn’t know. I was, in fact, clueless. It seems I should’ve gotten naked with a tiefling long before now.”

Rosalie might not feel fear anymore, but the tadpole hadn’t blocked out pain. When she flinched, she was grateful and relieved to see an echo of regret in Astarion’s face.

“I’m sorry, Foxglove. That was unfair, and needlessly uncouth of me,” he sighed, rubbing a hand tiredly across his face and ruffling his hair into its usual artful disarray. “I never really wanted to know. I never really cared. It doesn’t matter what it says. It doesn’t change what he did to me.”

“Not every tiefling would’ve been able to read it,” she replied, her voice falling a little flat. “But a tiefling hired by the library of the Watchful Order for her command of Infernal? That’s a different story.” She shrugged, standing up and letting her robe fall from her, heedless of her nakedness as she reached for her discarded breeches. She no longer wanted to look at him. “It’s archaic - the type used in spells.”

“Spells?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a spell, I think. Or a seal. You might want to look into it, at some point.”

So: this was what a morning after with Astarion felt like. Conversational. Or, to her wounded pride, business-like and cold. It was just sex, Rose thought. And she’d hardly done herself any favours. No compliments or come-ons, no kisses: just brutal personal truths. The scars would obviously be an awful, unpleasant secret, one she should almost feel honoured to have shared with her in the first place. And it made for poor pillow talk, even she would admit that.

But she’d just thought he’d want to know.

You shouldn’t expect politeness, or feelings, from Astarion of all people. And it wasn’t like she was actively sharing, either.

She was only trying to… to help.

As she finished tightening her belt at her waistband and glanced quickly around in the dirt for her shirt, Rosalie saw it. Held out by him, in an extended hand. He was standing closer to her than he had been before.

“I truly am sorry, Foxglove, that was beastly of me,” Astarion said, quietly, eyes pleading and his face a picture of contrition. “The scars are... something of a sore subject.”

“...I understand,” she replied, and took her shirt from him. Or tried to - when she tried to tug it from his grasp, instead he used it to reel her in, until they were bare chest to bare chest, and he was looking down into her eyes.

“I think there are far more enjoyable things we could talk about...” he murmured, gaze dropping to skim lazily over her body, tilting his head down so they were barely millimetres apart, and at the perfect angle for kissing. “Far more enjoyable things to do.”

Rosalie wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was distracting her. He was stopping her from getting close, the only way he knew how.

For a second, she was tempted to let him.

She leaned forward on tiptoe, and sealed a quick, perfunctory kiss on his very close and very perfect mouth. He immediately tried to part her lips with his, deepen it and take it in interesting and novel directions. But she ducked back before he had the chance. When he followed her into her space, she stepped back, leaving him dazed and already dark-eyed, confused by such a meagre, paltry offering.

“Sorry,” she said. “But we’ve got a grand, heroic quest we need to pursue. I know how much you love those.”

Astarion groaned, “gods, Foxglove, you’ll be the death of me.”

“Only if you asked very, very nicely,” Rosalie said, the smile feeling false, and yet the kind of false you kind of wanted to be true. She wanted to be as heartless as he was. She wanted to leave this encounter untouched: for his casual cruelty not to mean anything to her, like she pretended it did. She wanted it not to hurt.

Maybe, if she kept this tadpole around for long enough, she would be just like him. Rosalie couldn’t work out if that idea scared her or not.

She donned her shirt as Astarion watched wordlessly, his face an illegible mask even as his eyes tracked her every movement and followed every curve. It was just hunger, surely. Nothing else.

And then the two of them walked back to camp in careful, guarded silence, and Rose willed herself not to care, as she got ready for another day. Ready to risk her life again.

The Underdark awaited them all.