Chapter Text
Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the starsBreathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares
Loreena McKennitt – Dante’s Prayer
Astarion really hates the tadpole in his head.
Firstly, there is the dreadful feeling that comes with having a worm the size of a thumb inside your skull that moves around your brain. It’s absolutely vile, disgusting. It makes him want to claw his eyeballs out so he can get to this abominable parasite and rip it out of his head. Or at least that’s what he wanted to do in the beginning. Now, after gods know how many days, it’s still disgusting, but he can ignore the feeling for some periods of time. That’s a small consolation at least.
Secondly, he hates this tadpole as a matter of principle. This creature is an instrument intended to make him a slave, just as his blood bond with Cazador is. It’s an instrument to make him bend, make him malleable, make him obey. He hates it, he hates it, he loathes it. And the fact that he seems to be unable to do anything about it—that he’s exactly as impotent here as he’s always been in regards to what Cazador did to him—makes him want to scream until his undead eardrums burst. Makes him want to cry until he has no more blood left for his tears. But he did all that already 200 years ago. It changed nothing. Instead it had earned him an hour of flaying, because ‘we value poise in my house, boy’. So he refrains from screaming and crying. At least, what’s left of his dignity will remain intact that way. Also, so far, the tadpole, though clearly designed to subjugate, has managed to do nothing of the sort. Apparently thanks to the astral prism, or the creature inside, or whatever it may be exactly. Still, that doesn’t change the nature of the parasite.
And lastly, thanks to the tadpole, the others are now a constant subliminal presence in his mind. Astarion really isn’t that fond of people physically existing in his close proximity to begin with, for crying out loud! And now on top of that, his worm connects him with the others’ minds at seemingly random intervals, making him question if his thoughts and emotions and desires are really his alone. How he is supposed to endure that for a longer period of time, he has no idea! Sooner or later, he might have to start killing some of them, so at least there are less people with psionic tadpoles around. Would be a shame though. Some of them are quite entertaining.
A voice jostles its way into his musings.
On the other hand, his first victim would be an easy pick: Gale of oh so awesome Waterdeep.
Astarion looks up from his book and glowers over to the spot near the river where Gale and Wyll are conversing. Or rather where Gale is going on and on and fucking on about his days at Blackstaff Academy while Wyll is listening with an astonishing amount of patience. Or maybe the warlock is actually interested. Which almost warrants killing him second, because nobody who’s interested in Gale’s prattling deserves to live.
But Gale, gods damned Gale. The man is infuriating. And the reasons for that are manifold. Where to even start?
Astarion groans. He tries to not listen in to the tales of young Gale’s whimsical past, but it’s near impossible, because the wizard doesn’t even try to keep his voice down. He never does. He insists on talking loudly and boldly, and in great detail and with the most superfluous flourishes, about even the most mundane things. No matter how short the question, you can be sure Gale will spend far too many moments of your precious time answering in deepest depth, galloping off on every tangent possible. He’s such a cliché of a wizard in this regard that it physically hurts Astarion. Can this man not overcome the nature of his profession? Does he really have to embrace this stereotype so completely?
Gale laughs out loud about something Wyll said. Urgh! He’s always so... there. Astarion looks up from his book again and snarls, “Can you keep it down, oh boy wonder? Some of us are trying to get some rest!”
It’s funny how for a second, both Gale and Wyll seem to think he’s talking to each of them specifically, but then, the way Astarion is staring daggers at Gale is pretty unambiguous. So the wizard mumbles a barely comprehensible apology, not even looking at the rogue, and shifts his position so his back is turned towards him.
And that’s another thing: Gale is just plain rude. Not to the others however. Just to him, Astarion.
Granted, it might not have been the best course of action to try to bite Gale in the middle of the night without asking him first a couple of weeks ago. But Astarion was so... so yearning for Gale’s blood. Well, he was and is yearning for any mortal’s blood of course, but it just so happened that in that moment, he wanted only Gale’s. The way his smell wafted over to him, the way he could see and hear the blood pulsing through the veins in Gale’s strong neck. And there was something else. A feeling manifesting in Astarion’s mind, not his, but accompanying his ravenous desire for Gale’s blood like an echo, not the same feeling, but similar in its flavor, its desperation. After a second of confusion, Astarion realized the origin of the feeling was Gale. And he was drawn to it like he was drawn to his blood.
Before he knew what he was doing, Astarion found himself kneeling over Gale, lips already parted, ready to bite. And then the wizard opened his eyes.
For a moment, a shockingly calm moment, they just looked at each other, Gale’s brown eyes almost serene. And Astarion thought that it would be that easy, that Gale would simply allow him to taste.
But of course nothing in Astarion’s life can be easy. So in the next moment, naturally, Gale pushed him away and threatened to burn him to a cinder. At least he didn’t do it, but still he called him a ‘bloody vampire’ and told him that he was ‘not for eating’.
And since then, Gale, who usually is all kind words and soft smiles about the company they all have to keep at the moment, ignores him wherever possible. Whenever Astarion talks to him, Gale’s answers are clipped—which is so out of character!—, sometimes sarcastic, and he doesn’t even look him in the eyes. Like he has nothing left to spare for him other than contempt.
Of course, Astarion isn’t hurt by the behavior of that pompous wizard! But Gale’s conduct offends him still. He never really chose to be a vampire, never chose to crave blood, never chose to be that freakish evil that tries to bite sleeping people in the middle of the night. That much should be obvious to the almighty wizard! But apparently it isn’t. And it’s very... annoying.
Not that Astarion wants Gale to talk to him! Nobody should be subjected to that jabbering! If only the wizard would keep his damn voice down! Then at least Astarion could reap the benefits of this situation. But no, no, as is, he’s constantly being forced to overhear Gale unfurling his life story in front of everybody else but him, narrating his biography like he’s on a stage and wants the whole tavern to know. And gods, does Astarion know now.
In truth, what maddens him is not only the way the wizard talks, but what Gale says.
What Astarion gathered so far, is this: Gale has been some kind of magical prodigy since the day he was born. Even as a toddler, he was able to manipulate the Weave and played with its strings rather than with ordinary toys. Consequently, when he was old enough, he attended the prestigious Blackstaff Academy in Waterdeep to become the greatest wizard Faerûn has ever seen. Obviously, someone as self-important and megalomaniac as Gale wouldn’t settle for less. And—lo and behold!—his magical prowess grew and grew and became so exceptional that Mystra, the goddess of magic herself, took interest in him. No wonder really, Astarion thinks, since Gale played with her since he was a mere child. After all, the Weave is Mystra and Mystra is the Weave. Whatever that might reveal about Mystra’s morals... The point of the matter is: Gale managed to attract a fucking goddess! And he more than attracted her, she was so enchanted by him that she not only bedded him, but loved him!
Maybe Astarion could get over the whole pompous story of Gale’s marvelous relationship with the Weave, could deal with how sensational his life had been, cope with how destiny had had nothing but joy and wonder in store for him, if not... If not Gale had managed to fuck it up so completely by being the arrogant, narcissistic person that he is. He had it all: the love of a goddess, amazing talent... his freedom. And he threw it all away to prove that he is better than everybody else. Gale can tell the others all he wants, but Astarion knows the truth: Gale didn’t open the book to reunite Mystra with a long lost part of herself so she would allow him into the inner sanctum of herself and the Weave, but to prove that he could. That he is better.
While Astarion suffered and suffered and suffered, Gale had nothing better to do than to throw away his perfect life. And all out of vain delusions of grandeur. He can’t forgive him that.
Astarion closes his book angrily when he realizes he is about to read the same sentence for the fourth time. Then he sighs. They set up camp under the light dome the Selûne cleric created, shielded from the dark, cursed lands they are forced to traverse to solve the insignificant, miniscule issue of their tadpoles. So the Last Light Inn is close by. He could just pack his things, go over there and annex one of the empty rooms. Have a moment of quiet and peace for once. Have a moment to himself.
However... That would be foolish. He sighs again. Sadly, these people here have proven over and over again that they are very capable when it comes to protecting themselves and him. He... He trusts them. With that at least! So leaving the camp would be beyond idiotic.
Without wanting to, he looks up when Gale walks past him towards his tent. Astarion gnashes his teeth. The wizard is still not looking at him.
Well, the day did not start all that bad. Sure, walking through the oppressing darkness with its creepy, otherworldly noises wasn’t easy to abide and the constant display of mortality the vast number of skeletons in Reithwin so adequately allegorizes was pretty depressing as well. Although frankly, Astarion has lost both interest in and track of whose skeletons these are—maybe Justiciars’, maybe Selûnites’, maybe peasants’, he doesn’t care.
However then, they got to kill a few shadow creatures and tricked a sadistic, undead doctor into letting himself get murdered by his own undead nurses, which was a very satisfying moment.
And finally, Raphael offered to tell him everything about the infernal runes Cazador carved into his back. And only for the small prize of killing an old foe of his that was somewhere underneath the Thorm mausoleum. Of course, Astarion agreed to these terms and the others, namely Wyll, Shadowheart and even Gale, didn’t object. So they ventured forth into the mausoleum.
That went pretty smoothly as well—very uninspiring ritualistic Myrkul bone art notwithstanding—and they succeeded in finding the entrance to the abandoned Shar temple without issues. Shadowheart even smiled once.
And then the day, taking a leaf out of the book of Astarion’s life, turned to shit.
In the absurdly dark entrance hall—yes, Astarion gets it, everybody gets it, Shar is the goddess of night and fucking darkness—they weren’t only confronted with what felt like at least a hundred traps and a magical, impassable, invisible force field, but also a thick, round door blocking their way further into the temple. And it didn’t have a lock to pick. Sure, there were four levers that raised and lowered some kind of magical lanterns that had most likely something to do with opening the unyielding circular gate. However, when Astarion scouted a room branching off the entrance hall, he found a partially collapsed wall that could easily be surmounted by balancing across some overgrown mushrooms. And so, they decided to try their luck there.
They managed to climb over the wall without bigger issues, although Gale’s labored pants were a clear testament that he was a man of words and not a man of the physical. But oh, there was absolutely no luck on the other side.
It turned out the cave behind the wall was home to a cloaker which none of them noticed until it was too late. It attacked them moments before they reached a very promising door on the other side of the cave.
The creature descended upon them in the dark, barely illuminated by the blue light that Gale’s staff shed, almost impossible to see, almost soundless. An enormous, leathery shadow with a maw full of sharp teeth and a tail similar to that of a stingray, but longer, much longer, and adorned with wicked spikes twice as long as Astarion’s hand. He heard Gale behind him murmur, “Aberration.” And then the creature moaned, a terrifying sound full of swirling darkness and vacant skies and futile moments trying to hide before he was found, and fear pierced Astarion’s flesh and muscles and buried itself into the marrow of his bones. For a long moment, he couldn’t bring his feet to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare at the monster with wide eyes, witness how it split, how it multiplied. Somewhere, Wyll commanded, “Dolor!” Somewhere, Gale cursed, “Door’s closed! Can’t see a lock!” Somewhere, Shadowheart shouted, “Hit the real one!” And finally, enabled by nothing but defiance, Astarion convinced his body to draw his rapier and his dagger.
He managed to land one stab, one slash, and the angry screech of the cloaker told him he hit the right one. Then the creature turned on him and the fright held him still like a hand in the nape of his neck and he couldn’t move. And the shadow sank its teeth into his right arm, piercing his bracer, and the spikes of the tail shredded his leather pants and his flesh underneath. Pain! So existential that he wasn’t frightened anymore. Which was splendid, because sure, his body convulsed in waves of agony, but at least it moved.
The creature let up on him and attacked Shadowheart when she hit it with a Guiding Bolt.
And they all threw themselves into the fray.
It became apparent very fast that their little group was no match for the cloaker. If they’d been well-rested and stocked up on healing potions and deadly poisons, the battle maybe would have been balanced. However, not only had they exhausted their resources in the earlier fight against the shadow creatures, but the aberration was made for this fight in the darkness.
Bleeding from several wounds, parrying the spiked tail with his rapier and his dagger, and very aware that they were fighting a losing battle, Astarion was pondering abandoning the others to flee, when Gale took matters into his hands. Although Astarion despises the wizard, it has somehow become a habit that he fights in front of Gale to prevent him from getting damaged too profoundly. Well, the wizard is most useful in ranged combat, isn’t he? Coincidentally, that was what Astarion was doing in the moment before it happened. The whip of the cloaker’s tail had been aimed at Gale and the rogue had thrown himself into the breach to block it. So, Astarion was in the prime position to witness the exact moment when the wizard decided to take action.
Gale’s brown eyes flicked up, past the monster, and towards the ceiling of the cave, searching, assessing. When his jaw muscles tensed up, Astarion knew that the wizard was about to do... something.
That was all the warning he got before Gale threw his arms in the air, palms pointing upwards, and yelled, “Detono!”
A loud, banging thunder sound, the air vibrated.
Then the ceiling collapsed.
Now, in theory, the idea was acceptable. The avalanche of rock crashed down onto the cloaker and its moaning died in an instant. But the theory of the idea didn’t matter, because in practice, the ceiling came down on them too.
“Hells!” Astarion could barely hear his own voice over the thunderous cacophony of tumbling rocks. He flung himself to the side, towards the door, arms raised above his head to protect it, stones raining down on him, dust blowing into his eyes. He crashed hard into the wood of the door, left shoulder first. Another body bumped roughly into his right side before settling next to him. And then Astarion screamed as heavy rocks smashed into his legs from behind and pinned them against the door.
After that, everything became indistinct. The noises died down and eerie silence filled the darkness. Moments started to blend together into a grey mass. The pain kept Astarion busy. Busy enough to not instantly panic at the fact that he couldn’t move and that he was surrounded by rocks on all sides. Almost all sides, he tried to remind himself and pressed his hands against the door which he was nailed to chest first by the weight of the rocks that reached up to his thighs. It didn’t move, but at least it was there.
Eventually, someone coughed beside Astarion—that startled him out of his tunnel of almost panic bordering on desperation—and then, someone—Gale!—whispered “Fiat Lux!” and soft blue light spread in the cocoon of rock that enclosed them at the distance of barely two feet. He turned his head to look at the wizard.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. He was leaning next to him with his back against the door, curiously untouched by any kind of rock, while the front of his robe emitted that blue light.
“Oh, am I alright? Hmm, let me think about it,” Astarion said sweetly and pretended to ponder the question, tapping his index finger pensively against his chin. Then he rammed the finger against Gale’s shoulder—even though the jolt of the sudden movement caused pain to swell in his legs—and snarled, “Of course I’m not alright! You buried us under gods know how many tons of rock! What the fuck were you thinking?”
To his credit, Gale looked at least a little guilty, still he defended himself, “What I did was the only logical choice in our predicament. The cloaker would have ended us all if I hadn’t grasped the nettle! You were barely standing!” He looked around. “Now, we only have to find a way to escape from here.”
“I’m only standing now,” Astarion exclaimed furiously, “because my legs were crushed between the door and some of the rocks you made and I can’t move!”
This time, Gale appeared surprisingly troubled and his eyes flicked down to where Astarion’s legs disappeared behind several big chunks of rocks. “My apologies,” he muttered softly, “I tried to expand my arcane shield to you as well. However, the formula is not intended for this use, so I had to improvise. Unfortunately, that didn’t go as well as I had hoped.” Even though this was apparently meant as an apology, the wizard still didn’t have the decency to look at him.
Gale cleared his throat, then he continued, more confident this time, “By my calculations, Shadowheart and Wyll should have had ample opportunity to get out of harm’s way when I manipulated the ceiling. So they are most likely still out there.”
Astarion snorted. “I think what you mean to say is that you hope they somehow survived your magical avalanche of doom and destruction, my dear euphemistic wizard.”
Gale ignored him and started calling out for their companions. But either Shadowheart and Wyll were dead, buried under several feet of rock, or they couldn’t hear them. Which wasn’t a surprise, seeing that their rocky prison had horrible acoustics. After a minute or so of calling, Gale stopped, clearly out of breath.
Astarion groaned. “Oh, great, on top of everything else, the air circulation in here sucks, too. Let’s see what kills you first: Suffocation or me murdering you because I lose my mind in this gods damned hole.” He leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. He hadn’t intended for the last part of the sentence to just escape his lips like that, but his command of himself was deteriorating rapidly with every minute he was entombed in there. Naturally, he pretended like that hadn’t just happened. “Just tell me you know how to get us out of this situation. Can’t you just... teleport us out of here or something? There must be some sustenance behind all your bragging.”
Gale remained silent for a while, then he murmured, “I know of a teleport spell and I managed to acquire the book containing the formula, however I...” heavy reluctance, “I haven’t been able to learn it yet. Either way, my magical arsenal is depleted, save for the cantrips I’ve mastered. I need to rest...” He trailed off and Astarion was in too much pain and too exhausted to snap at the wizard again. The silence stretched for a few moments, but eventually, Astarion heard the sound of fingers gliding over wood and Gale uttered under his breath, “There must be a way to open it.”
Astarion dared to hope. He pushed down the pain and opened his eyes to look at the door in front of him. It was an old door, opening into the room behind, made of sturdy wood, maybe oak, and covered with excessive, tarnished brass fittings. He couldn’t move much, but he still mimicked what Gale, who had turned around, was doing, namely letting his hands and eyes explore the materials in front of him. The wood had some scratches here and there, but overall, the door was completely intact. Now, the fittings were interesting, because they were of excellent quality and the symbols of the brass surface clearly connected to Shar. They were depicting the phases of the moon, over and over again.
New moon, waxing crescent, first quarter, waxing gibbous, full moon, waning gibbous, third quarter, waning crescent.
New moon, waxing crescent, first quarter, waxing gibbous, full moon, waning gibbous, third quarter, waning crescent.
New moon, waxing crescent, first quarter, waxing gibbous, full moon, third quarter...
Astarion stopped short, his eyes resting on the symbol of the third quarter moon protruding from the brass fitting. “Curious, the waning gibbous moon is missing”, he said, frowning, and stretched out his hand to touch the third quarter moon.
He was able to simply slide the symbol to the side and there, underneath it, was the lock.
Excitement, not only his, but Gale’s as well, rose in his chest.
“Well done! Well done indeed!” Gale said loudly and the fact that he gave Astarion’s shoulder a friendly clap showed how desperate the wizard was to get out of here. “Now, can you pick it?”
Astarion just looked at him with a raised eyebrow and reached into his pocket for his thieves’ tools.
Behind the door lay some kind of kitchen.
Astarion had just enough time to sit down and figure out that his right ankle was broken, before an absolute atrocity of a man entered the kitchen from the other side, the flesh of his entirely hairless, stout body an unhealthy grey-blue, occult symbols carved into his face, occult symbols embroidered onto his purple robe, his eyes a devilish yellow, and he was accompanied by an equally atrocious creature, half man, half monster, a mountain of flesh and veins and distorted muscles with an exposed skull.
“Who have we here?” he asked, almost kind, but with so much cruelty underneath. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“Good day to you, kind sir,” Gale improvised, while Astarion was busy fighting the pain and a feeling of nausea that was definitely caused by the sight of this abomination. “We are humble explorers, interested in Sharran culture and worship, and very dedicated to our domain. That’s why we took it upon us to travel these inhospitable lands to investigate this fabulous old temple and—“
“What a peculiar behavior you show, true soul,” the man interrupted softly with a tilt of his head. “And not only a mortal true soul, but also a vampiric true soul,” he added while looking at Astarion with an expression of boundless curiosity that was not held back by notions of morality. “I think I want to research you further.” He turned to the monster at his side. “Flesh! Put them in cage one and bring the human some food.” There was a malicious glint in his yellow eyes. “He will need all his strength to provide for the vampire.”
It didn’t matter how much Gale lamented, how much he threatened—Astarion had no strength left to fight so he decided to play along for the moment—, after a short trip in the brutal grip of the hulking flesh golem, they ended up in a cubic cage. Together. In a space that barely had the dimensions of a small carriage. On full display in some kind of ritual chamber with a bloody altar.
Nothing to eat except the very wizard that had threatened to incinerate him in case he tried to drink his blood.
Fucking typical.