Chapter Text
1: Of Thorns and Shadows
The gods-damned Paladin was watching him again.
Astarion could feel her gaze like a brand between his shoulder blades, probing and prodding, heavy with something darker than mere suspicion. He made a show of examining his nails, letting a cold smile play across his lips. Let her watch. Let her wonder. It was almost amusing, how she tried to mask her distrust behind those careful attempts at including him in camp activities. As if a creature kept on a leash such as him needed to be made to feel welcome—for that's what he knew himself to be, despite the diplomatic pretense to the contrary, which prevailed most of the time. Other times, there were crises which threatened to break the masquerade. He engineered these.
"We're sharing watch duties tonight," she announced, approaching his corner of camp. Her hand never strayed far from that massive greatsword of hers these days, its weathered blade lit by a faint, likely divine shimmer that made his bowels twist. Smart girl.
"How delightful," he drawled, finally looking up. Something clenched in his chest at the sight of her – an unwelcome compulsion that made him ache to his fangs. The sensation was an itch he couldn't scratch, maddening and persistent. "Though I can't imagine what threats could possibly penetrate your divine protection."
Her jaw tightened. "The same threats that made you useful enough to keep around, I imagine."
"Touché." He rose in one fluid motion, noting with an intensity he banished as soon as he noticed it, how she shifted her weight, ready for righteous violence. "Shall we patrol together then? How cozy."
She gestured for him to precede her into the darkness beyond the camp. "After you."
"Don't trust me at your back? Wise of you." He moved past her, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers. Close enough to catch her scent – earth and rain and something devastatingly alive that made his throat burn. Made him want to- No.
You live, and then you die, and then this whole furtive, sweaty, deeply uncomfortable business of suffering, enduring, scheming, to what end? Maybe fractionally less suffering, if only you can inflict yours on others; that's what the scheming for power is for. This is a good plan, in that it is recognizable as a plan, as something to do. So you work on your plan, until one day the horrid but familiar rug is pulled from under you. So now what do you do? What do you do?
"Though if I meant you harm, dear Paladin, watching my every move wouldn't save you."
Earth and rain and something devastatingly alive? More like sweaty leather, soot from the camp fire, and the damp and dust of these endless, insufferably provincial locales they were passing through. And that plain temple soap that every merchant's stall stocked by the block. Cheap soap for a sensible and dutiful girl.
"If you meant me harm," she replied, voice tight, "you'd have tried something by now. You're not exactly known for restraint."
The laugh that escaped him was as sharp as it was mirthless; poised to cut. "You'd be surprised what I can resist, when I have to." He shot her a sidelong glance, grudging how his gaze caught on the pulse at her throat. Such weakness, and after all this time. "Though eventually, everything breaks."
Something in his tone made her look at him sharply, and for a moment their eyes met. He saw revulsion there, and fear, but also, something less clear-cut. Something that made his dead heart twist with an emotion he refused to name. No, no – recognition of an opportunity. An uncertainty there that he might yet act on, and twist, and manipulate. Put forth, procreate.
He looked away first, disgusted with himself all the same. This was exactly the sort of weakness he couldn't afford. The Paladin was a means to an end, nothing more. He was yet a leashed creature, true; but it would be a moment’s work for him to put the noose around her neck when the opportune moment arrived. Then: a choice offering. A delectable bargain, her instead of him, tit for tat. Only then though, and not a moment sooner. And in the meanwhile, if something about her called to the hollow spaces inside him, well – he'd always had a talent for self-destruction, even before his death. It didn't have to mean anything.
"You know," she said after a long moment of silence, "I can't figure out what game you're playing."
That startled him enough that he stopped walking. "No? And here I thought I was an open book."
She considered him in the darkness, her expression unreadable. "You're dangerous. You're cruel. You're probably evil." A slight unevenness in her voice betrayed her uncertainty. "So why do you sometimes seem almost..."
"Human?" His smile showed teeth. "Careful, darling. That sort of thinking will get you killed. Worse, it will get you excommunicated.”
"Don't." Her hand tightened on her weapon. "Don't pretend at intimacy. We both know what you are."
"Do we?" He stepped closer, drawn by something he couldn't name. A goad that felt like hunger but wasn't, not entirely. "And what am I, pray tell?"
"I don't know," she whispered, and he could hear her heart racing. Could smell her fear and something else, something that made his head spin, the rain and the earth and the warm dampness of her nape after a wash and the warm wet --- no, no, no. "We know what you aren’t, rather. But I will find out."
He stared at her, wrong-footed and hating it. This wasn't how these conversations usually went. She was supposed to be predictable – righteous, judgmental, easy to dismiss. Instead she kept making him feel things he'd thought long dead. Worse, she kept making him feel almost not nearly sophisticated enough. People should be much easier to look down on.
"You should get some rest," he said finally, turning away. "I'll finish the watch alone."
"Astarion-"
"Goodnight, Paladin." He walked into the darkness, not looking back. He could feel her watching him go, and tried to ignore the way something in his chest responded to the conflict he detected in her voice.
His enhanced hearing also caught her shaky exhale as she turned back to camp. The sound sent another wave of that uncomfortable itch through him, made his fangs ache with the need to-
No. It was just hunger. Nothing more.
The hunger would pass.
But it was a trilling wire in the blood, all the same.
**
That thing they were both so carefully avoiding... That incident... Nearly a fortnight now, and she hadn't brought it up yet. Astarion suspected it was because she didn't know what to do about it, but he might be wrong. Perhaps she was also waiting for the opportune moment. To do what? Cut off his head with that hateful blade as he slept? Or drive it into his center, so its sickening bluish haze would be the last thing he laid eyes on? Why wait, in that case? Might she be looking forward to reinforcements... colleagues? Comrades? That whole, holy, unpleasant lot. Not that she ever mentioned others in her order, now that he considered it, but that might well be the case. Maybe she thought there was safety in numbers, and she didn't truly count on this motley band of zealots and imbeciles they were travelling with to come to her aid if he should overpower her. No, in his mind it was him, and maybe, provisionally, her who were the real players; the others were mere cannon fodder, whether they realized it or not.
The incident. Right.
She had found him with his teeth in the merchant's throat. What a sorry excuse for his first proper blood, his first non-animal blood... The annoying, unctuous man had been convenient. More than convenient, as he had followed Astarion unquestioningly, eyes agleam with the promise of a good deal no doubt, to this remote, isolated spot to which he had been lured with the promise of some loot to be discreetly handled. Yes, a most unpleasant, ingratiating little personage, but blood is blood, and needs must.
**
The sound he made when he sensed her presence wasn't human - a low, animal growl that made her skin crawl. Something to cast into the bottomless pit. No, a part of her plan. When he raised his head, blood ran down his chin in rivulets, staining the elaborate lace of his collar. His eyes were wrong - all pupil, like a cat's, fixed on her with predatory intensity.
"Step away from him." Her voice was steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. Her sword was already drawn, its steel catching the starlight.
Astarion straightened slowly, letting the merchant slump to the ground. He prowled; something hunting, all liquid grace and barely leashed violence. "Or what?" His voice was alien: rough, almost guttural. "You'll put me down like the monster I am?"
"Last warning."
"I can smell your fear." He inhaled deeply, tongue darting out serpentlike to catch a drop of blood from his lip. "Among other things."
The sword point drew a thin line of blood as he stepped into it. He didn't even seem to notice.
"What's wrong, Paladin?" Another step. The blade bit deeper. "Doesn't your sacred doctrine tell you what to do with creatures of darkness like me?" His smile was too many teeth, blood-stained and terrible. "Isn’t it part of your oath, to kindle and shelter the light? Or is there something holding you back? Not an oathbreaker, surely?”
"Don't." The word came out more breathless than she intended.
"Don't what?" He moved impossibly fast, knocking the sword out of the way - she held on to it, but barely. Her back hit the tree hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. His hands bracketed her head, chest pressed against hers. "Don't remind you what you're protecting? What you're wanting?"
She could feel him trembling, fine tremors running through his body. This close, she could see the struggle in his eyes - hunger warring with something else, something almost like desperation. And then it would be clouded over with the void gaze of the predator.
"What I protect is none of your business,” she managed to say. "And I certainly don't want-"
"Liar." He leaned closer, nose skimming her jaw. "Your pulse gives you away. The way you smell, the way you react..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You enjoy this as much as I do."
Her hand fisted in his ruined shirt - to push him away or pull him closer, either seemed equally likely in the moment. His skin was cold under the thin fabric, but she could feel him burning all the same.
"I'm starving," he breathed against her throat. The words felt dragged from somewhere deep down, rarely visited. "These fucking tadpoles make everything worse. Sometimes I think I'll go mad if I don't-" He cut himself off with another growl, this one almost pained.
"There are other ways." Her fingers uncurled from his shirt, pressed flat against his chest. Now this was easier: a problem to focus on, something to fix.
"Are there?" He laughed, the sound raw and desperate. "Please, enlighten me. How does one feed a vampire spawn without blood? Without hurting anyone?" His lips brushed her pulse point. "I'm simply dying to know."
"Animals."
"Not cutting it anymore. Not since the tadpole."
"Willing donors."
His whole body went rigid. Slowly, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "And who would be willing?" The words were barely a whisper. "You?"
The air between them grew thick, heavy with possibility. Her pulse jumped, and she saw his pupils dilate further in response.
"If that's what it takes to stop this," she said finally.
Something flashed across his face - hunger and want and fury all at once. His hand tangled in her hair, forcing her head back. A display of dominance, the obviousness of which he would normally disdain. "I don't want your fucking pity."
"It's not pity." The words felt ripped from her chest. "It's-"
"What?" His grip tightened, not quite as painful as it might be. "Practicality? Duty?"
"Maybe."
"Liar," he breathed again, but there was something almost wondering in his voice. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want to know what it feels like."
Her free hand slid up to his neck, feeling his own pulse flutter erratically under her fingers. He was still trembling, still pressed against her like he couldn't bear to move away.
"Fuck you," she whispered, voice raw.
"Fuck you too, darling." His lips brushed her skin, cold and soft, belying the violence of his words. "Fuck all of this."
The merchant groaned, starting to stir. Reality crashed back in. Astarion released her so quickly she stumbled, catching herself against the tree.
"This didn't happen," he said roughly, already turning away. Blood still stained his mouth, his shirt, his hands. "Take care of him. I'll... I'll find another way."
She watched him disappear into the shadows, one hand pressed to her throat where his lips had been. Her pulse thundered beneath her fingers, and she couldn't tell if it was fear or something far more unwelcome.
The merchant needed healing. That was what mattered. That was what she should focus on.
Not the memory of Astarion's trembling. Not the way he'd pressed against her like he was trying to crawl inside her skin. Not the desperate, hungry sound he'd made despite himself when she'd offered-
She had a duty.
Everything else was a foolish distraction at best, and madness at worst.
**
She had first come upon him by a tidal pool, trying to wash nautiloid viscera from his fine clothes. His movements were almost obsessive - long fingers working the expensive fabric with careful precision, like he could erase more than just the blood and filth if he tried hard enough.
The moonlight caught on his pale hair, his patrician features, the graceful line of his throat where old scars showed silver against white skin. He looked wrong, somehow. All wrong, the more you looked at him. Too perfect. Too still. Like something carved from inanimate matter and given a semblance of life.
Her hand went to her sword hilt, and the wrongness solidified into understanding. Not human. Never human.
He moved like death itself, faster than thought, ending in a predator's crouch several feet away. A liquid, water or blood or else, dripped from his fingers, black in the moonlight.
"Well," he said, in an urbane, nonchalant voice, straightening up. "This is somewhat awkward." She caught the slight tremor in it nonetheless.
Her blade cleared its sheath, and its faint divine shimmer made him flinch - a minute tell that felt like victory until she saw the calculation behind it, the way he was already using her assumptions against her. She saw old scars at his throat, regular and deliberate, and understanding dawned on her.
A cold shower. A rude awakening. All that is unpleasant and unwelcome.
"Vampire," she said quietly.
His laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "Observant, aren't you? And what exactly do you plan to do with that rather impressive sword, now that you've made your clever deduction?"
She should strike him down. Should end this creature before he could threaten anyone. Should ignore the way his eyes seemed to be tracking her in the darkness no matter which way they moved, circling around one another.
All the same, something in the way he held himself gave her pause. There was tension in every line of his body, yes, but not just the readiness for violence. Something else. Something that looked almost like resignation beneath his careful mask of control. Thauwin used to say she overcomplicated situations with these constant revisions of hers, but Thauwin had been dead this many months now, so that she had only her judgment to depend on.
"You were on the nautiloid."
"Indeed." He straightened slowly, each movement precise as a blade strike. Whatever he'd been before, whatever had left those silver scars on his throat, had honed him into something that was all edges. "Along with you and that charming little parasite currently making itself at home in both our brains. Quite the coincidence, wouldn't you say?"
Not coincidence. She felt it like chains settling around them both - inevitability, cold and sharp as midwinter stars.
Her blade didn't waver. "Why were you there?"
"Would you believe I was an unwilling passenger?" His smile showed teeth, but she noticed how he kept his fangs carefully hidden. Not mercy - calculation. Everything about him was calculation, even the way he wasn't quite looking at her throat. "No? Perhaps we could discuss it like civilized people, without the threatening gestures?"
"You're not people."
Something flickered in his expression - truth beneath the mask, quickly buried - before smoothing into careful neutrality. His fingers twitched toward his throat, toward those telling scars, before stilling.
"No?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "Then what am I, exactly?"
She studied him in the moonlight. He was beautiful, of course - they always were, these creatures of shadow and blood. But there was something else... something in the way he held himself, like a weapon waiting to be used. Like something that had been broken and reforged into something sharper.
The air between them felt wrong. Heavy with recognition neither of them wanted, with awareness that scraped like steel on bone.
She saw him notice her pulse jump. Saw his nostrils flare slightly, his pupils dilate. Saw him struggle not to react to the scent of her blood calling to him. Felt her own treacherous body respond to his hunger with something that wasn't fear.
"A problem," she said finally.
He laughed again, and this time it held genuine appreciation. "Oh, I like you." His eyes raked over her - assessing weakness, cataloguing defenses, seeing too much. "Direct, aren't we? But you haven't killed me yet, which suggests you're at least considering alternatives."
"Maybe I just want answers first."
"Ah, but you've already lowered your blade slightly." His eyes gleamed with predatory intelligence. With hunger, yes, but also with something colder. Something that recognized the trap they were both walking into. "You're thinking about practicality, aren't you? About how useful a vampire might be in your current situation?"
She was. Gods help her, she was.
"And what do you get out of it?"
"Besides not being skewered by that rather concerning sword?" One elegant hand gestured to his temple, drawing attention to the fine bones of his wrist, to the careful way he held himself just out of reach. "I suspect we share similar goals regarding our unwanted passenger. And I do so hate traveling alone."
A wave crashed against the shore, filling the silence between them. He waited, utterly still, while she considered. Only the slight tremor in his hands betrayed his tension - hands that could snap her neck in an instant, yet were shaking almost imperceptibly in the moonlight.
"If I let you live," she said finally, "if I let you join us... you will behave?"
His smile widened, showing just a hint of fang. "Oh darling, I shall be positively angelic."
"Don't." The word came out like ice. She saw how he reacted to her tone - a minute tension in his shoulders, a barely perceptible tilt of his head exposing his throat. Submission or manipulation? Both? "Don't pretend at charm. Don't pretend at humanity."
"Then what would you have me pretend?" He stepped closer, graceful as can be, but she caught how his breath hitched when the divine light from her sword played across his skin. "That I'm just a useful monster? An unholy weapon you can aim at your enemies?"
"Yes."
He stilled, something like recognition flickering across his features. She watched him reassess her, watched his careful calculations shift behind those inhuman eyes. Then he laughed - a sound like breaking glass.
"My dear Paladin," he purred, and the sound sent an unwanted chill down her spine, "I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful arrangement."
She finally lowered her blade completely. Watched how his whole body relaxed minutely, even as his eyes stayed sharp, watchful. "Your name?"
"Astarion." He gave an elaborate bow, somehow making it both mocking and elegant. The movement pulled his wet shirt against his chest, highlighting a lean frame that spoke of strength and starvation at the same time. "Formerly of Baldur's Gate, currently of... nowhere in particular. And you are?"
"Keeping my sword close."
"Sensible of you." He didn’t skip a beat at her withholding. His eyes caught the moonlight like a cat's, pupils wide and dark. One hand came up to his throat again, tracing those silver scars almost absently. It had to be intentional. "Though I should warn you - I bite."
"Try it and I'll remove your head."
"Promise?" The word came out like frost, and she saw him register the slip, saw him retreat behind his careful mask. But he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender, movements liquid and precise. "Shall we join the others, then? I believe I saw some of our fellow crash survivors gathering near that dreary little beach."
She gestured for him to precede her. He moved past with fluid grace, close enough that she caught his scent - a trace of expensive cologne still lingered, barely masking the sharp and metallic smell underneath. Blood, of course.
As she followed him through the darkness, sword still ready, she felt it settling around them both - this thing neither of them wanted, this recognition neither of them could deny. Like chains. Like winter. Like fate.
He glanced back once, moonlight catching on those aristocratic features, those hungry eyes, those telling scars. Something passed between them - cold and sharp and inevitable. Understanding that whatever this was, whatever game they were beginning, it was already too late to stop it. That it had been set in motion long before this chance encounter by the tidal pool.