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It was strange, how quickly one could become accustomed to something. Or, at least, come to like something enough that its absence was frustrating.
It wasn’t even as if Astarion had Rylafein in his bed every night—not even close, really, if he thought about it. But it happened often enough, and on occasion, they even found themselves sharing a bedroll after, and Astarion was not above admitting that—well. Having Ryla tucked up against him was pleasant. Perhaps it was a side effect of his pact, or perhaps Astarion’s perspective was simply skewed—but it had always seemed to him that Ryla ran particularly pleasantly warm, and it made sharing a bed with him….well. More pleasant than Astarion had expected cuddling to be, certainly.
But the other side of the bed was cold, as if Ryla had never been there at all, and Astarion frowned, sitting up and taking in the room in the shimmering light of Isobel’s moonshield. Ryla’s equipment was still where he’d left it—leathers folded neatly, that strange cloak whose origins Ryla was so very cagey about laid beside them, and Sorrow leaning against the side of the wardrobe. Were it not for the fact that he had clearly been gone for quite some time, Astarion might have thought Ryla came out of his trance early and went for a brief walk—but no “brief walk” should have left his side of the bed dead cold.
It was frustrating, to find himself feeling concern. Whatever he had with Rylafein, it was not supposed to be… involved. Or, it was only supposed to be involved enough to ensure that Astarion had a powerful warlock at his beck and call, for protection against Cazador. There was not supposed to be space for feelings , especially of the soft, squishy variety, like worrying whether or not Ryla was well.
Astarion could lie to himself, he supposed; pretend that the twist of concern in his chest was just a practical matter. Rylafein had made himself, almost by accident, into the leader of their little group—he was charming and persuasive enough to smooth over even the worst of the conflicts between them, and decisive enough to stand up and make calls when they needed to be made. If something happened to him, it would certainly do quite a lot of damage to the functioning of their little band of heroes.
But Astarion knew that the practical concerns were secondary. He was concerned about Ryla’s well-being because he was concerned about Ryla, for Ryla’s own sake and not for anything he could provide.
A dangerous feeling. Especially when it was tangled around someone as dangerous as Ryla. It was impossible to forget poor Alfira, executed in the most violent manner Astarion had ever witnessed. Moreover, there were moments when….well. When Rylafein stopped being Rylafein, protector of tiefling children, with his easy smile and adorable little laugh that Astarion was always a little proud of himself for eliciting—and became something else entirely. He’d seen it when Rylafein waltzed into the goblin camp. When he talked them into Grymforge. A type of cold swagger that came over him, like he was used to people falling in line when he ordered them to. And there was the bloodlust—the way his eyes gleamed in a fight, the way he seemed to revel in slaughter.
He’d spoken, on occasion, of dark, murderous impulses. That was clearly no lie. And part of Astarion was tempted to determine that Rylafein was probably more dangerous than anything in the shadow-cursed lands and go back to bed. Certainly, it was what the Astarion of only a few weeks ago would have done.
But he was not the Astarion of a few weeks ago.
He was quiet as he moved through the inn, not wanting to draw too much unnecessary attention from anyone else who might be awake late in the evening. No sense in broadcasting whatever had Ryla out of bed in the middle of the night, really. And he was lucky; while there were a few Harpers awake—night watch—none of them seemed inclined to trouble him.
It felt peaceful, outside the inn. Despite the shadows lurking at the edge of Isobel’s moon shield, inside it, there really was a little pocket of tranquility. Beauty, even, almost, with everything cast in a silvery glow. But Ryla was not in the immediately visible environs. Astarion cast a frown at the bridge leading deeper into the shadows, but—no. If Ryla was unwell enough to wander into the shadow curse alone, they had bigger problems, and Astarion would have to wake the others to search for him. But before he did anything drastic, he turned towards the path where they’d found the tiefling Bex, grieving her missing husband. It curved down towards the water, and as Astarion came around the last bend, there was Ryla, sitting on the edge of the rocks.
It took Astarion a moment to notice that there was a glowing, magical-looking knife in his hand. Ryla’s attention seemed fixed on it, and he turned it over in his hands, like it absorbed all of his thoughts.
“Ryla?” As soon as Astarion called his name, he turned, and Astarion was struck by how exhausted he looked. It was clear he hadn’t rested at all—he must have lain awake while Astarion drifted into trance, and it was strange that Astarion felt a momentary twinge of guilt about that.
“Astarion,” his voice was soft, and a little strained. “….Did I wake you? When I got up?”
“No,” Astarion admitted. “At a guess, considering how cold your side of the bed was, you’ve been out here for hours.”
“Have I,” Ryla said, distantly. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Is something wrong?” Astarion asked, and he moved closer, dropping to sit next to Ryla.
“Mm. You could say that,” Ryla acknowledged. His eyes drifted back to the knife, and he exhaled. Then, he looked back at Astarion—and there was something in his eyes. Something raw. Vulnerable, even. “You weren’t afraid of me. After Alfira.”
That was something of a lie. Astarion had been terrified out of his mind, actually, but he wasn’t about to admit that. And it wasn’t the whole story, anyway.
“No,” he said. “And I meant it, when I said we were kindred souls.”
“Mm.” Ryla exhaled. “I…” He stopped. Looked away.
“Yes?” Astarion prompted.
“You know I can’t remember who I was before the tadpole,” Ryla said. Astarion nodded. “And Omeluum indicated there was…damage. To my brain. Beyond what could be expected.”
“I recall,” Astarion acknowledged.
“I think that whoever I was before, I might have been some kind of monster,” Ryla said, “and that the monster desperately wishes to reassert itself.”
“And that’s why you killed that bard? Old habits?” Astarion raised his eyebrows. “Considering the person you are now, that seems difficult to imagine.”
“And yet I have evidence,” Ryla said, and he turned the knife over in his hands. “After Alfira…this… creature came to me. He said his name was Sceleritas Fel, and that he used to be my butler, of all things. Called me ‘Master.’ Implied I had done what I did to Alfira many, many times before. Talked about my dread inheritance. ”
“What,” Astarion said, and he wasn’t quite able to make it into a question. “And you have no memory of any of this.” Ryla shook his head. “Why are you telling me all of this now?”
“Because he came back, tonight.” Ryla’s eyes drifted, staring at some point on the other side of the creek that ran by the inn. “And he told me that I have been charged with ending Isobel’s life.”
“Isobel? The cleric?” As if there was any other possible answer. He felt like an idiot for even asking, but it felt almost…impossible. Kill the woman that they had worked so hard to protect from Ketheric Thorm only that day? Doom all of Last Light? Doom themselves, very possibly? It seemed absurd. “Do you think he might be connected to Thorm? Or the cult?”
“Thorm wants her alive,” Ryla said. “He was very clear about that. No, I think…I think the butler and this… Urge that exist within me only want violence, and blood, and mayhem.” He stared down at the knife. “I don’t have to tell you what would happen if she died. The last vestige of hope against the curse, destroyed in an instant. Everyone inside—except perhaps us, thanks to the pixie’s blessing—consumed in an instant. So much death. So much misery. And I think that’s all the Urge wants.”
“But you’re not going to do it,” Astarion said. It seemed only obvious. Rylafein, the man who saved tiefling children and was genuinely hurt by a cat disliking him, was not going to slaughter an inn’s worth of people.
“I may not have a choice,” Ryla said, softly. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes I can push it down, resist. But…” His eyes returned to the knife. “I can’t risk what happened to Alfira happening again. And even if I manage to fight it long enough to save Isobel—who will be next? How can I ever trust myself, when I’ve already killed against my will once?”
It was a sobering thought, Astarion had to admit. To be a slave to something in you that you couldn’t control—well. If he was honest, it was also not exactly entirely unfamiliar. Ever since setting foot in the shadow curse, Astarion had wondered, in the back of his mind, exactly how he was going to feed. Ryla was generous, of course, but relying on one person for sustenance was a frightening prospect, and there was little else for him to drain. And so, the fear rattled distantly—what would he do, if blood ran out and his hunger got the best of him?
“Well, for one, you aren’t alone,” Astarion said, finally.
“And? If you tried to stop me, and I hurt you instead—” Ryla swallowed. Looked down. “I don’t think I could bear it.”
“I’m not quite so fragile,” Astarion said. “I think I could hold my own.”
“And would you be able to kill me? If that was the only way to stop me?” Ryla asked.
Astarion hesitated.
“Well, all things considered, that need not be as final as you’re making it sound—”
“Between Shadowheart and Withers, I suppose not,” Ryla admitted, “but if it isn’t, then it’s sort of just kicking the problem downstream, is it not?”
“Who knows,” Astarion deadpanned. “We haven’t tried killing and reviving you as a method of fixing these….urges. It could work.”
“It could,” Ryla admitted, with the tiniest, wryest of smiles. “But I doubt it. I think….I think the Urge is a part of me. Something fundamental to who I was—who I am. And I doubt something so simple could fix it.”
“And what do you propose, then?” Astarion asked.
Ryla stared down at the knife in his hands.
“A more permanent solution,” he said. “The calculus seems…almost insultingly easy, really. One monster’s life to guarantee the safety of everyone in Last Light Inn, and to ensure that the Urge never again harms an innocent person.”
Suddenly, the previously relatively warm night felt as cold as the depths of Icewind Dale.
“You can’t be serious,” Astarion said. “You can’t—no. Absolutely not.”
“And why not?” Ryla didn’t sound petulant, or argumentative, or any of the other things Astarion might have expected—or wanted, really, because that would have been a show of real emotion. He just sounded…exhausted. And resigned. “As I said, the relative math—”
“I don’t care about the relative math, Rylafein, you are not killing yourself.” Astarion found himself almost surprised by the vehemence that came out of him. But the thought of it—that if he hadn’t decided to come out here, if he’d made the much more practical choice and left Rylafein to his thoughts, he might have found himself in a world with no Rylafein in it, and maybe with no way to ever know what happened—
No. The very prospect of it was unacceptable.
“So I should just…continue on? A danger to everyone around me?” Ryla asked. There was still no fire in his voice, no real argument. Just resignation. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course it makes sense,” Astarion said. “Why should we have to lose you just because of the worst part of yourself? I’m a vampire. I feed on living beings to survive. Should I fling myself into the lake and let the curse take me? Should Gale, with that orb in his chest? Or perhaps Wyll—who knows, Mizora might one day decide that the lot of us are threats and demand he remove us, and invoke some absurd section of his pact to make him go through with it.” Ryla turned to look at him again, and there was genuine surprise on his face. “In case you haven’t noticed, darling, you’re the glue holding this motley crew together. You are the one who has decided to help each of us solve our myriad and varied problems, who has made the decisions regarding where we go and how to approach what we encounter. You decided to take on the Cult and save the tieflings. You decided to expose Kagha for what she was. To kill Ethel, when her offer was perfectly reasonable and taking it would certainly have been to your benefit. To stand against the Lich Queen Vlaakith and her inquisitor.”
“My history of constantly leading the lot of you into unnecessary danger is not as reassuring as you seem to think it is,” Ryla said, but there was a tremor in his voice. “And anyway, any of you could have—”
“Ignoring how blatantly untrue that is,” Astarion said, “it would also be a great loss to lose you. You…matter, very much. For yourself, and for no other reason.”
It felt treacherously close to acknowledging that there was something more between them than a simple exchange of pleasure for protection. That the game they had both won in the forest had morphed into something…distinctly different, at some point.
Apparently, it was enough.
It was almost a surprise, to see the dagger drop and vanish, and to suddenly find Ryla’s arms around him and Ryla’s face buried in his shoulder. To feel Ryla’s shoulders shake with sobs. It took him a moment to remember that he ought to wrap his arms around Ryla, too, that perhaps some comfort might be warranted. But there was something precious about this. Something priceless, about being allowed to see Ryla at his most vulnerable.
About being allowed to carry some of the burdens that he ordinarily refused to even think of distributing.
“I’m terrified, Astarion,” Ryla’s voice cracked, faintly. “I can’t sleep, I can’t trust myself, I—”
“Then trust me, ” Astarion said. He wasn’t entirely sure where it came from, the offer. “Well, me and the rest of our merry band of misfits, I suppose.” Cover, back out, protect.
“I can’t tell the rest of them,” Ryla said, quickly. “I don’t—I can’t—”
“Alright,” Astarion agreed. Perhaps that was fair—every one of their little group had some form of spectacular issues, but “worships an evil goddess” was rather a ways away from “compulsions to do horrific murder, which are currently threatening the only safe haven in the shadow curse.” “Then just me, if that’s what it must be. Come on. I’ll watch over you. Make sure you don’t do any murder in your sleep.”
Scooping Ryla up was far too easy. Astarion was glad that Ryla’s face was still tucked into his shoulder, because it meant he couldn’t see Astarion frown; he didn’t recall Ryla being this light before. Perhaps the stress of the last few weeks had been wearing on him. And perhaps Astarion would have to pay a little more attention when their companions were eating. Make sure Ryla actually took his fair share.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
“I’m really lucky to have you,” Ryla said, as they were settling back in bed. Astarion nodded.
“Yes, you are,” he deadpanned. “Lucky to have a charming vampire who’s capable of carrying you back to bed, and willing to do so.”
“And who has volunteered to put himself at quite a lot of risk,” Ryla said, and then he sighed and mumbled something Astarion couldn’t catch, muffled as it was in his shoulder.
“What was that?” He asked, lightly, but Ryla shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said. “Thank you, ussta’chev.”
“Ooh,” Astarion raised his eyebrows, “is that some charming Drow word for someone brilliant, helpful, and magnificently beautiful?”
“Something like that,” Ryla said, and as Astarion settled them both back into the bed, he felt Ryla’s breathing slowly even out as he sank into trance.
It was strange, really, caring this much about another person. Wanting to ensure that Ryla was safe, and happy, in a way that went beyond ensuring his contentment to leverage the benefits that provided. Astarion wasn’t entirely sure he liked how it felt, this caring thing—it seemed like a vulnerability he couldn’t afford.
But he could turn over his feelings in the morning. Or never. Ideally never. For now, he just needed to ensure Ryla actually slept.
