Chapter Text
They fought a hag today.
They saved Mayrina, too. Aurelle was more interested in the power the hag promised, though, and Wyll felt his stomach knot, his heart hammering against his ribs, fearing that she was going to take the deal, that they would not only spare a monster but also condemn an innocent woman. Then Astarion slithered in between the two—the elven woman and the hag—and, lying through his pointy teeth, convinced the latter that they had reinforcements coming and she better give them both the power boost and the girl.
Against all odds, it worked. They ended up raising a zombie, afterward, and Mayrina seemed… calmer, at least, with it at her sides.
Gale is now recounting the story of the battle to an enthusiastic Karlach, who wished she could have been there but also was looting the ruins of the village with Shadowheart at the time. Yeah, they did not expect that going to say “hi” to the old lady from the Grove would turn out quite like this, but if there is one thing Wyll learned from his monster hunting years, it’s to expect the unexpected.
Like waking up on a mindflayer ship, having one of their tadpoles placed behind his stone eye, and somehow surviving to tell the tale.
On a less story-worthy scale, too, like having a vampire spawn curled against his side by the campfire, pretending to sleep. Pardon, trance, because elves don’t sleep, darling, as he has heard many times already. Wyll can tell it’s pretend because Astarion is currently breathing, albeit at a rhythm far too slow for any living creature, and he doesn’t when he trances. Maybe he isn’t aware of that.
Wyll readjusts the arm he has put across Astarion’s shoulder so his fingers stop tingling with reduced blood flow. The vampire’s skin feels warm wherever it has been touching his body, and he has to try and convince himself that, no, it doesn’t awaken something inside him. This solely means Astarion’s undead, a monster, in the biological sense at least. This shouldn’t be… endearing?
He is sort of glad that the others were already aware of and okay with Astarion’s condition when he joined the group. Not that he thinks he wouldn’t have clocked him early on, if not immediately, because, really? The pale skin and red eyes, he could have attributed to albinism, or drow ancestry somewhere, especially paired with the white hair. But the fangs Astarion doesn’t even try to conceal when he talks or smiles? The damn bite scars on his neck, puckered and stark, to the point Wyll thinks he can make out the full upper teeth arc of the vampire that turned him? Not to mention the awful puns that Wyll doesn’t find amusing, not at all, of course not.
No, instead, he has half a mind to worry about what his reaction would have been, had Astarion’s vampirism already not been a non-issue by the time he joined the party. He has never killed a vampire, lord or spawn, and he would have loathed that to change in this way. Astarion clearly knows how to keep his thirst under control and their necks fangs-free, so what could Wyll even object to?
Sure, there is the little issue of the vampire’s moral compass oscillating wildly and never quite pointing toward “good”. Though, for all that he can be bristly and violent, more prone to baring his certainly very sharp fangs than to empathy, Wyll feels there is something beneath the façade, that asks only to be rekindled now that he is no longer under his sire’s control. This is the thing about spawns—they aren’t cruel the way a vampire lord is, but, unless freed, they can’t be anything else than their compulsions. The boy raised on fairytale books inside Wyll finds it an appealing thought, to witness someone finding their way again, once out of a true monster’s shadow.
He finds his gaze wandering over their little mismatched group. They are allies of convenience, first and foremost, of course, and he doesn’t doubt they will fall apart once the worms are out of the brains, but for the time being… He has to admit, if only to himself, that he’s glad to be traveling with people again. And to top it off—those people know of Mizora, of his pact, and even though he has sprouted horns he found out they still look at him pretty much the same. Though, ah, he guesses they all have their secrets, their own halves of darkness and light. By now, they are truly starting to know each other.
There is Shadowheart, and Wyll ought to be wary of a Sharran, he knows, but he can’t help but think she… well, she isn’t a very good Sharran, isn’t she? She’s secretive and pragmatic, sure, but that’s the extent of it. She’s the one to strike more conversations than her usual aloof demeanor might lead to expect, only retreating on her own to pray, really. Not to mention—her magic is what keeps them alive through most fights.
Gale has confessed his own secret after one tenday—has admitted to that streak of hubris common in wizards, and how that got him an orb in his chest, on top of the tadpole in his skull. Their conversations are usually more of a mutual exchange of information, stimulating and enjoyable all the while. It’s nice, too, in an unexpected way, to travel with a fellow human.
Karlach, ah—he had been ready to trade his life, his very soul, so he wouldn’t murder an innocent in cold blood, and the more he gets to know the fiery tiefling, the less he can question his decision. Her simple awe at rediscovering life in Faerûn is contagious; the only thing she’s hiding, the extent of her suffering at the hands of an archdevil. She’s helping him with the horns, too.
He might have done his best to avoid Lae’zel entirely, truth is, if the circumstances were any different. As it stands, she offers them all a shot at finding a cure, a stroke of generosity that doesn’t quite align with the ways of her kin. People can change, though, Wyll’s certain of it—and she’s the youngest among their group, after all. He only wishes she, as a skilled fighter, would see more easily the good in landing her sword to the helpless.
And Aurelle, well… At first, he saw only a seasoned fighter, the scarifications on her face paired with her dark red makeup only reinforcing that impression. Someone he could respect. Charismatic, at that: she had very little issue assuaging herself as the leader of their little group. Though, nine hells, something is going on with the elven woman, but it’s as much a secret to her as to any of them because the abduction seemed to have wiped out her memory. Based on that, no matter how dark that something turns to me—how could he fault her? She, too, has a new shot of life.
Wyll looks down again to find one ruby eye cracked open, looking up at him. Astarion’s expression changes slightly once he finds himself watched, from something almost pensive, curling at the edge of his lips, to definitely-a-smirk, amused and teasing.
“Enjoying the view, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” he says, because why not? He is. Astarion’s eerily beautiful, and he knows it quite well, though Wyll does not see the harm in reinforcing that particular belief.
“I do like a man with good tastes,” Astarion purrs, now sitting a little straighter so he can look at Wyll properly. “Want to do something about it?”
Wyll shifts in place minutely, trying to parse how to respond to that. He is… reasonably certain of what the vampire is hinting at, the issue being that he is like this with everyone. He tried sweet-talking Shadowheart yesterday, earning nothing else than having the cleric and Lae’zel uncharacteristically team up to bash him, and he joked with Aurelle the day prior that, had he not just drunk from a goblin, he would consider licking the blood that had been sprayed all over her. Sweet-talked a tiefling guy at the grove, too, when he had briefly been left behind on top of the gate while Aurelle went to punch that bounty hunter.
In those conditions, Wyll should think himself the butt of the joke if he dared return the flirtations… right?
“Come on, my dear. Devil got your tongue?” Then, realizing what he just said: “Uh... I did not mean it quite like that. Just a saying, you know?”
“I know, Astarion. It’s fine.”
The first time he glimpsed something else within the vampire than a sharp tongue and shallow selfishness, was after Mizora put him into this new ill-fitting skin, still tasting vaguely of sulfur and brimstone. For the first time, he had seen something like… sympathy, in those ruby red eyes, as Astarion handed him scented oil to rub the scent of the hells off his skin, just before saying that he thought the horns “cut quite a dashing figure”. A monster trying to comfort another, Wyll had bitterly thought—not quite charitably, he has to admit, immediately after feeling ashamed from thinking about his companion in such terms.
He shakes his head now, acutely aware of the weight of the horns and yet trying to push the matter out of his mind. Instead, he reaches for Astarion, brushing a knuckle along the sharp line of his jaw. Red eyes widen in earnest.
“I am afraid we might have different things in mind as to what one should do in those circumstances, Astarion,” he finally says. “You see, call me foolish perhaps, but I am more inclined to want to wait for—”
“Please do not say true love.”
Wyll laughs softly.
“I won’t, then.”
The vampire groans, then—pushes himself up, one hand over Wyll’s thigh, and plants a quick kiss on the corner of his lips. He pulls away almost immediately, eyes half-lidded, waiting. Wyll sputters.
“What was that?”
“What people usually do when they find each other attractive, sweetheart.”
Wyll considers for a moment, and then some more, and maybe for too long because Astarion sighs, makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and climbs back up to his feet.
“Well, I am going to let you stew on that, hum? You know where to find me, should you want to.”
Does he? Want to. Astarion is attractive, undeniably. Maybe even his type.
And, beyond that—he would be lying if he said he didn’t find him a bit charming, in a deeper way. He likes the dramatics, and the dry cutting humor, and the earnest half-pleased half-surprised face he makes, probably without being aware of it, when he finally works out a difficult lock—and a few other things he won’t even admit to himself.
He likes a lot less the waves of pure disapproval rolling from the vampire as Wyll is busy discussing with the kidnapped painter they just freed.
He had half a mind to be surprised that Aurelle let them buy out the artist, too. The more days pass, the more suspicious he grows of the elven woman’s motivations, but she’s strong and determined, and that seems enough for the others so Wyll bites his tongue and does his best to ignore the unpleasant taste left in his mouth by some of her decisions. Take, just a few hours before—sure, he was glad to not have to fight a gnoll warlord, especially with an arrow head still lodged inside his sword arm, but they could have just compelled it away, and did Aurelle really had to look so delighted as the creature tore itself apart?
Yet, she seemed amused at the thought of buying the artist out of the Zhentarim’s hands after Lae’zel presented the coin pouch she had just stolen. Since when was the gith warrior discreet enough to pickpocket someone, Wyll wondered, up until he heard her and Astarion snickering in the corner—well, he was snickering, while she flatly exposed how she got caught and subsequently intimated the poor guy into favoring his neck over his stolen goods. Apparently, the two had a bet going on. What in the nine hells? At least they were… getting along? This was certainly better than Shadowheart wanting to slit Lae’zel’s throat in her sleep, as far as Wyll was concerned.
Anyway. They freed that painter guy with ill-acquired money, then Aurelle laughed at him, saying that he was her slave now, and Wyll had to step in. She gave him a pitying glare, but walked away nonetheless, leaving him to smooth things out with… Oskar, was it?
Finally, he sees that the artist goes safely, before he turns towards an overtly disgruntled vampire. He sighs, tired in advance from the conversation.
“Astarion, what is wrong with you?”
He gets in response to his tone a smile that mostly just flashes predator fangs.
“Oh, a lot of things, my dear. I would ask of you to be a little more specific.”
“Why do you have to sneer down at any attempt to be, I don’t know, decent people?”
“Please. That guy was pathetic.”
“I would think that you, of all people, would be a bit less inclined to side with slavers.”
Astarion uncrosses his arms, his posture suddenly as tense as a bowstring, and takes a step forward into Wyll’s space.
“And just what is that supposed to mean, um?”
His words fall like honeyed venom. Wyll only raises his chin—with just a stray thought about how he’s exposing more of his neck that way—, standing his ground. Out of the corner of his one good eye, he sees the glint of metal at Astarion’s belt.
“Nothing more than what I said. You must know what it feels like to be kept away from the sun.”
“I didn’t have a choice. But he, oh, he could have run at any time. He wasn’t tied up, wasn’t even injured!”
“Well, some people just need a hand before they find their courage. Not everyone knows how to fight, nor to pick a lock to escape what I’m sure you have noticed is a very secure hideout.”
Astarion… well, very much snarls in his face. Wyll blinks, and has to make a clear effort to keep his cool about it.
“Then he’s weak.”
“Yes,” Wyll agrees, “those are the people that generally need saving. Did you never fumble? Were you never weak?”
“Of course, I—was.” Wyll elects prudently to not comment on the stumble. “And no one fucking saved me.”
Astarion is breathing hard now, red eyes burning wild, looking like he’s one wrong word away from trying to bite. Wyll doesn’t think he has ever seen him so visibly angry. The only time that came close was when Aurelle had said something that Wyll didn’t catch but that almost got the vampire to lunge at her, if not for the way she pointedly leaned on her great axe handle, daring him to. That night, when Astarion came back from his hunt, he had blood all over his face and arms.
This close, Wyll sees hidden rage he had only ever glimpsed the surface of before—the kind that had been stoked by decades, centuries, of repression. Slowly, he raises his hands in surrender, as non-threatening as he can.
“Astarion.”
“What?”
“I can’t do anything for the past. Hells, you’ve been on this earth since before my grandparents were born, probably. But now? I swear I will have your back, if you will have mine.”
He sees surprise flickering into blood-red irises, before Astarion falls back, just a touch. He schools his features into neutrality again, now eyeing Wyll warily. Calculating.
“Sure,” he says.
“Sure?”
“What, do you take me for a fool? I scored my knight of shining armor—” It sounds almost like an insult in his mouth. “—and I did not even have to do anything for it. So, yes, darling! We have a deal.”
And he slides closer again, while Wyll has to fight the urge to step back this time.
“Would you like,” Astarion continues, his voice lowered down, velvet smooth, “something to sweeten it, perhaps?”
“Do you mean…”
He can’t bring himself to finish his sentence.
“Yes, Wyll, I do mean—”
“What are you two lazing around for?” Aurelle interrupts. “We are moving.”
As she walks past them, she lays a heavy, metal-gloved hand over Astarion’s shoulder, who suddenly goes very stiff. He glances back at Wyll only when she has walked out of direct earshot.
“I meant sex, darling.”
“I… I know. Maybe one day, if you still want that by then? We have time.”
They killed a hag, and they saved a pregnant woman.
They killed a pack of gnolls, and they saved a painter.
Today, Wyll didn’t go with the group—he was tasked to help organize their supplies with Karlach, as well as repair the tiefling woman’s tent since she had accidentally set fire to one of its support poles and seared the fabric. Their friends were supposed to be on another recon mission to the goblin camp anyway—they could walk in and out freely, thanks to Aurelle uncharacteristically saving that female goblin at the Grove. A smart move, Wyll had to admit, because they didn’t exactly have the numbers to storm the enemy base. Better to be smart about it. They had already taken out quite a few marks too, through poison and a little bit of backstabbing. Astarion was delighted to have a hand in both, and Wyll didn’t have any objection to it, because those were goblins.
Today, they killed innocents, and they sided with goblins.
The Emerald Grove fell.
Wyll heard about it from a blue jay a druid managed to send before her untimely demise, and it opened a pit into the depths of his stomach, one that felt like he threatened to swallow him whole. The druids, the refugees, nine hells, there were kids too.
He tells Karlach, and he sees an echo of what he feels, flickering over her face in rapid succession. Disbelief, horror, grief. Anger. Her tears sizzle on her skin as her engine flares.
They leave before the murderers return.