Between Tears and Laughter - ratspiracy (2024)

Chapter 1: Nerine

Chapter Text

Ash.

Ash on her tongue.

Ash coating her skin.

The sound of crackling reaches her ears and Nerine's brow furrows, her eyes remaining firmly shut.

She's not back there again; she knows she's not. She thinks hard, trying to recall the previous night.

She remembers the tavern, all flickering candlelight and raucous enjoyment as patrons danced to her troupe's music.

She remembers the free-flowing ale, the heady lightness that always comes with it and frees her from the swirling thoughts within.

She remembers clinging to the hard bicep of a strapping half-orc, giggling falsely at his terrible jokes while he groped her backside clumsily.

And she remembers... a dream? It must have been a dream. A nightmare.

A monstrous creature with tentacles for a face, reaching toward her. A hideous squelching as pain burrowed into her skull, white-hot. And a green-skinned warrior with whom she escaped...

Nerine finally opens her eyes. It wasn't a dream. She doesn't find herself waking in her bed at the inn, and there's no midnight conquest sprawled beside her.

The mindflayer nautiloid - because that's what it was, that awful place - had tumbled from the sky when they had managed to reach its controls. They'd been thrown from the wreckage, which now lay smouldering around her in piles of charred fleshy things mixed with still-flaming debris. That was the source of the crackling sound.

She breathes deeply, then chokes. The air is full of smoke and the scent of burning meat. She gags, trying not to retch.

Just like the last time.

Finding her strength, she pushes up to a sitting position, groaning as she does. Her head swims and this is like no hangover she's had before. It's a thousand times worse. Her skull feels like splitting in two would be the best possible outcome, and her vision takes minutes to clear fully from the haze.

Once she can see, she surveys her surroundings. She sees nothing she recognises; they're definitely not in Baldur's Gate anymore. Exhaling, she climbs unsteadily to her feet.

Her dark hair is a tangled mess and she tries in vain to comb through it with her fingers before giving up. Her colourful bard's costume is torn in several places and is totally impractical for whatever amount of trudging through the countryside seems to be in her immediate future. She sighs deeply.

At least she still has ten toes, ten fingers, and miraculously, her lute.

Worse things have happened.

-----------------------

The dark-haired cleric, Shadowheart - obviously a devotee of Shar from the insignias on her armour - acted cool and curt, but seems clever enough. Sticking together is definitely in their best interests, Nerine reasons. Even if she is a bit grouchy. Hells, Nerine is probably not coming off as her best, most-bubbly self either, given the day she's having. Still, what matters is finding their way out of this mess.

"Let's scout over this way, away from the beach. We can find a place to camp," suggests Nerine.

"Good plan. It's going to be dark within a couple of hours," Shadowheart agrees.

The pair set off up the hills, bones weary and muscles aching. The climb isn't steep but Nerine is out of shape and her head pounds with every step. She has to stop and catch her breath every so often, to Shadowheart's evident disapproval.

The sun is low but still above the horizon when they hear a voice calling out.

"Help! Someone help! I've got it cornered, but I have no weapon!"

Nerine and Shadowheart exchange a wary glance before moving forward cautiously. Is this another survivor of the crash, or some kind of trick?

"You there!" The voice belongs to an elf dressed in fine clothing. He's handsome, with pale skin and a shock of silver hair. A moon elf, judging from his colouring. His eyes land on Nerine and for just a second, she thinks they widen slightly.

"It's one of those brain things, from the nautiloid! Kill it with that mace of yours, or it that just for show? What are you waiting for?"

Shadowheart bristles, but stalks forward, mace at the ready. The elf backs away as Nerine follows her.

Suddenly, she finds herself on the ground, the air knocked from her lungs.

She feels the cool press of a blade at her throat and the man is straddling her hips, pressing his weight down over her body, his face inches from hers.

"Tell me what you did to me! I saw you on that ship, I know you're with those wretched things," he growls, pressing the knife as tightly as he can without breaking the skin.

Nerine struggles to maintain her composure. "I don't know anything more than you, I swear!" Her breath quickens as panic threatens to overtake. Red eyes search her green ones. An unusual colour for an elf, she thinks fleetingly.

"Let her go! I need her alive," Shadowheart commands, wielding her mace threateningly.

"You stay right there, cleric! Don't come any closer unless you want me to bleed her pretty golden neck-argh!"

Nerine hadn't thought her head could hurt worse. She had been wrong.

Pain, sharp and clear, cuts through her mind like the knife at her throat. Suddenly she isn't seeing through her own eyes, but through another's.

A tavern she recognises, streets she has walked.

Drunken revellers fill the space, laughing and joking and singing off-key.

But everything is somehow painted with a foul darkness, coloured by the wretched deeds that-

---------------------------------------------

It ends abruptly and Nerine finds tears are leaking from her eyes. The pale face before her has gone almost white with shock, and she's in no doubt that he experienced something similar.

Snarling with frustration, he narrows his eyes. "What in the hells was that?"

"I swear, I don't know. Whatever they did to me, to us...it must have been that. The...worm," Nerine gasps.

He sighs before removing the knife and getting to his feet in one fluid movement. He has the grace of a cat. And the claws of one, too, she thinks to herself.

Nerine pushes up to her elbows, catching her breath. Now that the imminent threat is gone, her terror subsides, giving way to something like exhilaration. Standing, she wipes her face with her sleeve, smearing ash and dirt over herself.

"The worm, indeed," he drawls, looking her up and down. Nerine flushes, suddenly aware of how dishevelled she is. Of the grime smeared across her entire body from the toes of her slippers to the tips of her pointed ears.

"I'm Astarion," says the elf.

She pauses before replying, "Nerine.”

"And I'm done here," declares Shadowheart, turning on her heel to march away. "Are you coming, Nerine?"

Nerine hesitates, looking him over, then makes a decision. "Come with us, Astarion. We all have a common goal - figure out how to fix what those mindflayers did to us. We can help each other."

Astarion scoffs, eyebrows raised haughtily. "What could you possibly offer me?"

Nerine smiles broadly, not letting his rudeness get to her. "What better options have you got?"

Chapter 2: Nerine

Chapter Text

It's clear that the nautiloid ship has crashed into a fishing village.

Bodies lie strewn around the wide expanse of the crash site. Some are thralls, but others are clearly fishermen, caught the crossfire. Its a scene of utter destruction.

Nerine's heart is heavy with the loss of so many mortal lives.

Her tears, silent as they are, do not go unnoticed by the party.

"What in the world are you crying for?" Astarion says incredulously, eyeing her with something like suspicion, as they pass another mangled corpse.

"Nothing." Nadine hastily swipes at her eyes, ash and soil mixing with her tears to make a slurry on her face. She's certain she looks worse than before.

"You don't even know them!"

"I know."

"It's what mortals do. They die. Why would a sun elf be bothered about it at all? I thought your kind were above such petty concerns."

Nerine doesn't answer.

Astarion gives up, looking skyward as if praying for patience from overly emotional bards. Shadowheart keeps silent.

Shadowheart finds tarps and rope in the broken remains of fishing huts and they manage to rig a few makeshift tents before building a fire. Nerine is able to cook some fish, still fresh enough, found in baskets near the huts.

They sit in a stony silence broken only by the pops and cracks of firewood, before retiring to their respective tents.

Nerine wishes more than anything that she had something to drink.

--------------------

"Nerine."

She lifts her head at the sound of his voice, raspy and weak with fever.

"I'm here."

"Nerine, I'm so thirsty."

She fetches the pail and ladle, carefully pouring the water between his cracked lips as she cradles his head. When she lays him back down, her hand comes away sticky with sweat.

"Nerine, promise me..."

Tears threaten to spill but she keeps them in check. She has to be strong for both of them or he's not going to get through this. And he will get through this. He has to.

"What, my love?"

"Promise...you'll keep living. Really living. Live for us both."

She loses the battle, but his eyes have fluttered closed and he cannot see the tracks that carve down her cheeks.

"I promise," she lies, and there's a hint of charcoal in the air.

----------------------

Nerine wakes with a start, hands fisted in her own long hair. She disentangles them, fighting to catch her breath. As her heart slows to a normal pace, she listens to the sounds of the night outside her tent.

Her elven hearing picks up one other heartbeat - Shadowheart's. She can't hear Astarion - did he wander away?

Small animals scuttle through the underbrush, hiding from the owls that glide almost silently overhead.

Nerine sighs. She won't be getting back to sleep after that dream. Most nights it's not something she has to worry about - she's too drunk to dream. To remember.

Moving slowly, she picks herself up and exits the tent. To her surprise, Astarion is there, sprawled in front of the dying fire. He leans back on his hands, legs outstretched before him.

"You were tossing and turning in there," he murmurs softly, voice low so as not to wake Shadowheart.

"Yes, well. I'm not used to sleeping on the ground," Nerine says breezily.

He glances at her over his shoulder before turning back to the fire. “Interesting that you sleep, and not trance. Don’t you find it a waste of time?”

That's when she realises something. Something she probably should have realised before, but for the shock of finding herself crash-landed on a beach.

"I can't hear your heartbeat. Why is that?"

Astarion stiffens, then relaxes. "I've no idea, darling. Probably something to do with the tadpole."

This answer does not satisfy. Why would the tadpole mask his heartbeat? When she can hear Shadowheart's, and her own, just fine? But she doesn't have a better explanation, so she lets it go. For now.

Moving to sit beside him, she leans forward over her bent knees, her fingers outstretched towards the smouldering embers. She can feel a chill in her bones, one that doesn't come from the mild breeze blowing through the camp.

"So, tell me. I'm curious: what's a pretty sun elf like you doing in trashy bard's clothes like those? Did you come from Baldur's Gate as well?"

Nerine exhales, lips pursed. "I haven't lived in the sun elf communities for a long time. I always wanted to get out and see the rest of the world. Be among different kinds of people."

"Mortals?" He guesses.

Nerine nods. "Yes. Mortals." She leaves it at that, not willing to offer any more.

They sit in silence for a while as the sun starts to pinken the sky and birds begin their morning songs. Eventually Shadowheart emerges from her tent, and the three of them pack up what little they have, ready to continue on.

The day is another eventful one. They acquire a good-natured human wizard, Gale, who had become trapped in a portal. They find the green-skinned warrior Nerine had fought alongside on the nautiloid, and free her from a goblin cage. Lae'zel is as gracious as a githyanki is probably capable of being, and they all agree to work together to find a cure for their mutual condition.

They find more and better supplies when they encounter a group of thugs holed up inside an old temple. Nerine isn't a violet person, but like all her people, she was trained to fight from a young age. When she is attacked, she defends herself and her companions.

It's hard work, though, and she hasn't held a sword in decades. The borrowed one she claimed from a corpse reeks of blood and bile, and wielding it makes her feel sick. So she's exceptionally glad when the thugs turn out to have been collecting a good stock of wine.

She pops the cork from a bottle and takes several large gulps.

"Easy now. We wouldn't want you to get tipsy, now would we? Not when we seem to be surrounded by threats," Astarion chides, though there is a smirk on his face.

Nerine lowers the bottle, replacing the cork. With a hearty chuckle, she replies, "Just taking the edge off after that fight."

"Mhmm, whatever you say, darling." The elf saunters away.

She will keep the bottle in her pack and avoid being seen the next time. She doesn't need the entire party losing faith in her.

------------------------

That night and the following few are easier with a bottle to keep her company. She drinks herself to sleep, alone in her tent. She wakes with the earliest dawn and heads to the nearby streams to wash her face and hands. They scout and fight off goblin bandits by day. They seem no closer to finding a healer who can extract the tadpoles until they catch word of a nearby druid grove, home to a renowned healer. They will head there as soon as they can.

Nerine is in her tent, curled around her bottle, just drifting off when she feels a change in the air. Her senses are dulled from the liquor, so she's caught completely off guard when a dark shape looms over her.

She opens her mouth to scream, but his hand is quicker. Astarion presses his body against hers, his weight pinning her down just as he had when he'd put the knife to her throat. Only this time, there's no knife. Only his razor sharp... teeth?

He sighs. "Sorry about the fright, pet. If I let you go, can I trust you to talk about this sensibly?"

Nerine nods. He slowly removes his hand and climbs off her, kneeling beside her bedroll.

"Astarion, what the f*ck?" she half-whispers. "If you wanted to crawl into my bedroll, simply ask me first."

"Not so loud, please. I'll explain." He puts a hand to the back of his neck, the very picture of sheepishness. "You see, darling, I wasn't trying to hurt you. Not exactly, anyway. And as lovely as you are, I wasn't trying to get into your bed, either. I only...needed a drink."

Nerine, groggy from the wine, is confused. There's plenty of alcohol in their suppliesoutside of her tent. She looks from Astarion's face to the bottle she holds.

"Not that kind of a drink. I needed....well, I needed some blood."

The realisation pierces through her fog. No heartbeat. Unusually pale skin. Red eyes. And those sharp, sharp teeth. Astarion is...

"A vampire?" she mumbles, shrinking away. There's nowhere to go.

"Yes, well, we all have our crosses to bear. I'll go now, if you only tell me to. Just...please, don't say anything to anyone else? I rather like having my head attached."

The wine is already wearing off, her elven metabolism working hard. He'd go, just like that? Leave without the blood he came for, simply because she said no? She hasn't encountered many vampires, but this seems atypical.

"Wait."

Astarion pauses, halfway to the flap of the tent.

"You can...drink from me." Nerine has always had a soft spot for those in need. Though she never expected it to be a vampire she was helping.

His ruby eyes light up. "Are you certain?"

Nerine nods, moving to a sitting position. "Don't take too much."

"Naturally. You can trust me."

Nerine snorts.

"Well, perhaps not for everything. But for this, now. If I killed you tonight, the rest of them would kill me tomorrow," he says ruefully, and it's true enough. Despite constant squabbling amongst them, the little band they've put together seem to each have a soft spot for Nerine.

"How do I need to be? Is it typically...the neck?" she asks with some hesitation.

"It is the usual spot, yes. Why don't you lie back down and-"

"No, thank you. I'd prefer to be in a less prone position while a f*cking vampire consumes my essence, if you don't mind."

Astarion grins. "Perfectly understandable."

He moves to kneel behind her, bracing her with a hand on her shoulder while his other sweeps aside her dark curtain of hair. She leans her head away, revealing the smooth skin. She waits with anticipation. How is it going to-

Like a shard of ice, his bite descends, and though the pinpricks of his teeth are small, she has the sensation of being punctured through to her very core. She lets out a soft gasp and his hand once again comes across her mouth.

"Hush, darling. I really don't need anyone else seeing this," he says, lifting his lips from her throat just long enough to speak.

She feels the pull as he sucks, feels the rush of heat into his cold form - how had she not noticed how cold he was before now? - as he draws life from her beating heart. She's beginning to feel dizzy, in a different way from how the wine usually makes her feel. She could fall into this feeling, drown in it-

He pulls away, licking at the two small wounds with a slick tongue. "Those should close quickly. A little quirk of my biology," he pants. It seems difficult for him to pull himself away, but now she's clearheaded enough to realise it was probably just in time. Any more blood lost and she would have passed out.

"Lie back, down, now. Don't go falling over and bashing your head onto that fine lute of yours." He moves back, gently helping her lower herself to her bedroll once more, before standing to leave. As darkness rushes to claim her, Astarion stops at the tent flap. Without turning around, he speaks.

"That was a gift, you know. I won't forget it."

Chapter 3: Nerine

Chapter Text

Nerine sleeps like a baby. A slightly drunk, bloodless baby.

It seems Astarion's bite has a similar effect to her wine: she enters a dreamless sleep and wakes up without incident. Her memories are tightly locked away, just how they are when she's awake.

Astarion is already up when she leaves her tent, standing in a shaft of sunlight as daybreak sets the forest aglow. An expression of naked bliss paints his face and he looks transformed. He's beautiful, she thinks, then mentally slaps herself. It's all very well to make friends. It's all very well to sleep with strangers. And it's all very well to let a vampire drink her blood (what?). But Nerine vowed a long time ago never to allow complications to take over her life. She sings. She plays. She f*cks. She drinks. And she doesn't fall for anyone.

It's just not worth the pain.

So she busies herself with washing up and getting ready for the day ahead. They will go to the grove and meet this druid, Nettie, who can supposedly cure them. Then they'll be free to go back to their lives. Nerine will be free to go back to her life - such as it is.

Promise you'll keep living. Really living.

----------------------------

The grove is a bust. Nettie is a bust. It was too much to hope for, really, that the first healer they find could do anything for them. No one has ever heard of a tadpole-infected person surviving longer than a single day before transforming. And yet here they all are, days later, looking none the worse for wear aside from a few goblin-inflicted cuts and bruises.

They fight again at the entrance to the grove, besieged as it is by a handful of goblins. They add a new companion, Wyll, to their little club. And they agree to help the tiefling refugees who have nowhere to go, much to Astarion's chagrin.

"I don't see how their problems are in any way our responsibility," he moans afterwards.

"We must help because we can help. We have the ability, the weapons, the skill. They are a bunch of regular people, families with children." Nerine will not be moved on this. If Astarion doesn't want to help, he can wait at camp.

"Mortals live such short lives, anyway. They'll be dead before you know it, no matter what you do," he counters.

Nerine has heard this argument before. Many, many times before. She doesn't have the energy to change his mind. "Stay out of it, then."

Despite his mumbling and grumbling, Astarion eventually agrees to tag along when they go to rescue Halsin. And Nerine is glad of it; his stealth and viciousness in a fight are invaluable. They make a plan to rescue Halsin the following day.

That night, Nerine has run out of wine. She struggles to fall into a fitful rest, wary of the memories waiting to break the surface of her unconscious mind.

-----------------------

"Nerine."

She lifts her head, expecting to see him as he was then: sickly and wan, feverish and sweaty. Instead she beholds a tall, proud figure with broad shoulders and a rugged beard.

"Matthias," she breathes.

"Hello, my love." Matthias stands before her, wreathed in a holy light. He's wearing armour, something she's never seen the peace-loving fiddler don before.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he takes her face in his hands, capturing her gaze.

"Nerine, I need you to listen to me. I'm the one holding the transformation at bay. For you and all your companions. You need to stay you, Nerine. It's imperative that you stop the Cult of the Absolute. They want to destroy everything."

Nerine gapes at him, lost for words. She searches his handsome, familiar face. And that's when she notices: his eyes, they're all wrong. Matthias's deep chocolate irises have been turned to a molten flame of orange.

"You're not Matthias." The words drop between them like a stone into a still pond, ripples cascading outward.

Slowly, not-Matthias drops his hands from her face. "No. I am someone else. I took this form to bring you comfort."

Comfort? Comfort? Nerine is filled with a blinding rage. "You would dare to wear his face? I don't know who you are or what you want, but stay the f*ck away from me!”

He disappears. The holy light disappears. She is left floating in a sea of black.

-------------------------

She awakes with tear tracks dried on her face, uncomfortably itchy. Scrubbing with her sleeve, she rises and staggers out of the suddenly claustrophobic tent. Shadowheart is on watch, playing with some kind of object as she sits before the fire. When she sees Nerine, she hastily stows it out of sight.

"Nerine. Couldn't sleep?" The half-elf pats the ground next to her and Nerine sits.

"Not for long."

Shadowheart clears her throat. "Listen, if you want to...talk about anything, I could be an ear. If it would help."

She considers this for a moment. Shadowheart, who seemed distant at first, is surely becoming something resembling a friend. Aside from the common goal their whole group shares, she seems to be genuinely warming to Nerine and often sticks close by to chat when they are on the move.

"I had...a strange dream," Nerine admits haltingly. "It started like a dream I've had before, a dream of memory, but it was...different." She doesn't want to elaborate, isn't prepared yet to explain about Matthias. But Shadowheart seems to understand this without it being spoken.

"There are things I can't remember, you know. In fact," she says, "I can barely remember anything before this. I had my memories erased as a pledge of devotion to my goddess."

Nerine nods knowingly. "I see. I'm no Sharran, but I was raised in a religious household. I’m well-versed in the rituals performed in other sects."

"I have dreams, though, too. Dreams that feel like they could be memories. They are sometimes...too much to bear."

Nerine has nothing to say to this, knows from experience that often the only way to offer help to someone with painful memories is to offer silence.

"Well, anyway," says Shadowheart, waving a hand as if to clear the air. "We've got more than enough problems for now without dredging up the past."

"Indeed," Nerine agrees. "Speaking of...the way in which my dream was different. Someone claimed they were responsible for keeping out ceremorphosis at bay.”

Shadowheart's brow furrows. "I don't know what to make of that. On the one hand, something or someone must be responsible, or we'd have long since turned. On the other, who knows what this dream-walker's intentions are? We cannot know whether they are trustworthy."

"I agree," Nerine says, nodding. "We need to stay focused on trying to find practical solutions like removing the tadpoles for good."

It's at that moment that Astarion comes swaggering back into camp, his pale features appearing ghostly in the firelight. If Nerine has to guess, she'd say he has been hunting, judging from the flecks of blood on his white shirt.

Turning to Shadowheart, Nerine says, "Why don't you go rest before dawn? I can finish the watch. I'm awake anyway."

Shadowheart raises one eyebrow, flicking a glance between Astarion and Nerine. "If you say so," she says, and there's every hint of suggestion in her voice. Nerine doesn't bother to correct her. She needs to speak with Astarion, privately.

Once they are alone, Nerine pulls him away from the fire, out of earshot of their most sensitive companions.

"Darling, if you wanted to take advantage of me, there's better places than-"

Nerine stops him with a finger to his lips and his voice dies away. He looks at her with a strange expression in his eyes. Like he's not quite sure what she's going to do next, but he's eager to find out.

"Were you out hunting?" she asks.

Astarion co*cks his head. "Yes. A boar. Why?"

"Is boar blood...you know, good enough?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Just answer the question. Does it keep you...sated?"

Now his gaze turns predatory. He leans closer and now his nose is almost brushing hers, his scarlet eyes burning through hers. "I've survived on nothing better than sewer rats for centuries. But now that I've tasted you... Nothing else quite compares."

Nerine swallows, struggling to keep her heart from beating faster, knowing he will be able to hear its pace. Damn him, she thinks.This isn't turning out to be the type of proposition she had intended to make.

She steps back, putting space between them. "I want to propose an exchange between us."

Astarion raises an eyebrow, looking her up and down before running his sinful tongue over his lips, his sharp fangs. "I can assure you, I'll make it very worth your while."

"That's not the kind of exchange I had in mind." She puts up a hand, palm towards him, as if such a gesture could cut through the tension building like electricity in the air between them. "When you drank from me, my mind was cleared. I slept without dreaming. For reasons I'd like to remain my own, I much prefer it like that. I propose you drink a little from me every night. You'll get elven blood, and I'll get to sleep peacefully."

Astarion just stares at her. "You do see how that's essentially not an exchange? You're offering me blood and I don't have to give you anything in return, not really."

"That's not how I see it. I'm getting what I want from it."

He chews his lip, clearly unhappy with the idea, though Nerine cannot fathom why. Isn't this a win-win for him?

"Look, darling. The way I see it, no one gets anything for free. You're going to change your mind later." Nerine starts to shake her head, but he continues. "I've lived for centuries as a vampire spawn. Do you know what that means? I've been in thrall to my sire, doing his bidding without any control over myself. A slave. So no, no one gets anything for free. There's always a cost." He's practically spitting the words now, his anger a palpable force.

She takes this in, considering. He thinks she's trying to trick him, showing him kindness before snatching it back. He won't accept it unless he understands why it benefits her.

Taking a deep breath, she says, "I dream about my husband."

This stops him in his tracks. "I...I didn't know you were married. You haven't mentioned it."

"He's dead. A mortal. Human. He died of a wasting sickness that no healer could cure. That was almost a hundred years ago."

Astarion simply waits.

She continues, "I left my family for him, my community. They never cared about mortals, but I always found them fascinating. Their short, vibrant, messy lives. So when I still quite young, I ran off to join a travelling troupe of musicians.

"Matthias," her voice cracks at his name but she clears her throat to carry on, unwilling to stop now that it's coming out for the first time in forever. "Matthias was a human, a fiddler with the troupe. We fell madly in love and had two years together before he fell ill. I had thought about when the time would come that I'd lose him. I thought I had prepared myself for it, for him to grow old while I stayed young. But we weren't even given that." The tears are once again flowing from her eyes, and she can't even spare the energy to dash them away. Just speaking her story is costing her every ounce of willpower.

Astarion looks profoundly out of his depth. "Nerine, you don't have to keep-"

"I do. Just shut up and listen." She takes a ragged breath. "Since that time, I've dreamt of him. And I've drowned my sorrows in mugs of ale and bottles of wine to block it out. But now I'm out here in the middle of f*cking nowhere and I cannot get my hands on what I need to get by, and the only other thing that works is your bite. So there, Astarion. That's my exchange for you. I need you to drink from me."

His eyes flare at her words. "All right, then. I'll come to you tonight."

He turns and walks back towards the fire, leaving Nerine alone. Her knees buckle and she slides to the ground, leaning back against a tree. She can't believe she told him any of that. She's kept it inside for a century, kept it pushed so far down into the recesses of her mind, kept at bay with the revelry and alcohol and casual sex with people she doesn't even like, let alone care for.

She feels emptied, drained and exhausted. But at the same time, she somehow feels a little lighter.

Chapter 4: Nerine

Chapter Text

Bodies. So many bodies.

The stench of a crowded goblin stronghold was nothing compared to how it reeks after the creatures have been felled.

We could not bargain with them, Nerine reminds herself as she struggles to inhale through her mouth and not her nose. They were offered the chance to join the Cult of the Absolute, but that was never going to happen. So they'd had to fight their way out, Halsin behind them. They'd cut down the True Souls and the goblins alike. Nerine's borrowed sword was drenched with blood by the time they'd made it out.

And another searing disappointment: the hulking druid hadn't known any way to cure them. At least he'd offered to join their quest, once he'd taken care of the usurpers in his grove. They can use all the help they can get.

Halsin had swept off in a flurry of feathered wings, but the rest of them are too far from the grove to make it back on foot tonight. They make camp in the ruined village not far from the former Cult fortress, in an abandoned inn with a few still-serviceable beds.

Nerine helps Shadowheart in the large room downstairs, healing some of the group's more minor injuries with her magic.

"Is that everyone?" Shadowheart asks, and Nerine casts her eye around. Wyll, Gale, Lae'zel - everyone is here but Astarion.

"I'll go look upstairs," she offers, and Shadowheart smirks.

She climbs the winding staircase, careful not to put her foot through the missing steps. Hopefully the whole building doesn't come crashing down while they sleep.

She goes room by room, peering around the doors as they hang open on rusted hinges. At the end of the hallway, she finds him.

Astarion stands before the open window, the light of the waxing moon cascading around him, casting a silver halo around his head. He looks almost...angelic.

Then he turns, and his wicked fangs flash.

"Come to find me, darling?" His words are a caress, a feather drawn up her spine which makes her shiver. Yes, he's dangerous, Nerine thinks.

"I thought you might need a bit of healing. You surely took a few slices in the fight earlier. She offers her hand, already glowing with healing power.

Astarion eyes it. "You do remember the other night, don't you? I'm a vampire. I heal quickly."

Ah. Of course. Nerine lets her power fade. "In that case, are you....hungry?"

His eyes burn. "Always."

Nerine avoids his gaze, moving to sit on the edge of the dusty coverlet. It feels like tempting fate to sit on the bed, but the small room has no other furniture.

The mattress dips as Astarion comes to sit behind her. She feels the cool brush of his skin against hers as he moves her plait to drape across her opposite shoulder, his other arm wrapping around her midsection to support her. Gooseflesh erupts where his mouth hovers over the tender flesh of her neck.

He strikes.

This time she's ready for it, the piercing needles that hook into the centre of her being and pull, as if she's a fish caught on a line. Her eyes close, rolling back in her head as the pain dulls and a liquid sensation seeps into her limbs.

She lets out a soft moan and he responds by tightening his grip, corded arms flexing with the vitality he's drawing from her body. Nerine's body responds, her core tightening involuntarily. She'd be embarrassed if she had the capacity to feel anything but his arm around her, his lips at her neck-

The door swings open and they both startle, turning to look. In the doorway stands Wyll, mouth agape. His expression turns to fury. "What in the hells do you think you're doing, vampire?"

It's patently obvious from the blood on Astarion's bared fangs to the holes in Nerine's neck just what they've been doing.

Wyll has left his rapier downstairs, but he draws a small knife from his belt, pointing it towards Astarion. "Let her go, fiend. Or I'll show you some real blood loss."

Nerine feels Astarion tense, ready to defend himself. But she can't let her companions turn on each other. There is too much at stake for all of them.

"Stop, Wyll! He isn't doing anything wrong. It's consensual." She tries to stand, but stumbles woozily, falling back into Astarion's steady grip.

"That's right, hero," Astarion sneers, licking the blood from his lips. "What's a little blood between friends?"

"You expect me to believe-"

"It's the truth! I know what he is, and I offered myself up for him to drink. We have an arrangement." Nerine flushes, aware of how the words sound. "I know what I'm doing. You don't have to defend me, or anyone else. Right, Astarion?"

He scoffs, releasing Nerine to stand nose-to-nose with the still-furious and more-than-slightly-confused Wyll. "Believe me, warlock, if I wanted blood that tasted of cinders and sulphur, you'd already know."

Wyll looks between the two of them, then sighs and puts away his knife. "You'd better explain this to the others, then. Or else I will."

"Fine," Nerine replies. "Just...give me a few minutes."

----------------------------

While it's safe to say none of their group took the news very well, they eventually settle on a consensus of "as long as he doesn't try it with me." This suits everyone well enough and it's not long before they each retire to bed, exhausting as the day has been. Before Nerine ducks into a room she's claimed as her own, Astarion is there at her back.

"Back there, when you....defended me. I just wanted to say...thank you, I suppose. I'm not really used to having anyone on my side."

Nerine blinks. She's so tired, from the battle and the extra blood loss. "I would never have done any differently. I'm not going to let someone be killed just for what they were born as. Or re-born as, I suppose."

Astarion chuckles wryly. "Indeed. Now, off to bed with you, darling. You need your rest, after all. Time to replenish all that delicious nectar in your veins for tomorrow night."

Nerine forces herself to nod gravely, then closes the door to the room with herself and Astarion firmly on opposite sides of it. She listens at the door for a moment before hearing his footsteps as they fall away.

She hopes he can't smell her arousal. She knows he almost certainly can.

Chapter 5: Nerine

Chapter Text

When they finally arrive back at the Emerald Grove, tieflings are rushing around everywhere.

“What’s going on?” Nerine asks a young woman as she passes by, laden with trays of food.

“We’re throwing a party! We wanted to celebrate you lot, show you how much it means that you stood up for us like you did. We’re safe for now, because of you.” She smiles sweetly at them before continuing on her way.

“Well, I suppose there are benefits to behaving like a hero,” Astarion drawls. “Now I see why you do it.” This last part is directed at Wyll, who rolls his eyes.

“I do what I can because I feel a duty to protect those who can’t fight for themselves. Not because they’ll throw me a party.”

Nerine nods absentmindedly. She respects Wyll’s convictions, since she herself can understand wanting to help those in need.

Their offers to help set up for the party are rebuffed politely, so instead they while away the time until dusk by organising their things and cleaning their weapons and armour. Nerine has managed to acquire a set of leather armour which is serving her well, but she’s glad to have the chance to bathe in the river and get properly clean before donning a worn but comfortable yellow dress she found at the inn. She untangles her wet hair with a borrowed comb, leaving it loose around her shoulders to dry.

By the time the sun sets, Nerine is feeling almost like a person again. She’s actually looking forward to the celebration. Drinking, dancing, playing music….flirting. She makes her way to the party.

“Hey there, sweet thing. You’re looking reaaaaal good.” A tipsy male tiefling she’s seen around leans against a tree, looking her up and down shamelessly. “Name’s Dharius. What do you say, you want a drink?”

He’s boorish, but that’s for the best. She never takes anyone to bed if she’s in danger of getting too attached to them. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a thick sweep of night-black hair tied in a knot at the crown of his head. Sizing him up, she makes her decision. “Yes, I’ll have a drink. Or two,” she adds with a giggle.

He grins, stalking off towards the drinks table. Nerine casts her gaze around. There’s Shadowheart slugging from a bottle of wine. Good for her, Nerine thinks. That woman keeps herself under so much pressure, she needs to let off some steam. Lae’zel is, surprisingly, chatting with someone – a strapping tiefling female. As Nerine watches, Lae’zel puts her hand boldly on the woman’s hip. Looks like everyone is getting loosened up tonight. Wyll is nowhere to be seen – perhaps he’s found a companion of his own. And Astarion – where is he?

Her thoughts are interrupted by Dharius’s return, multiple drinks balanced in his hands. She takes one with a murmur of thanks and takes a deep swig. If Astarion is nowhere to be found tonight, she’ll have to drink enough to fall into a dreamless slumber without his bite.

Gods, is that how it is now? She’s come to terms over the years with her reliance on alcohol, refusing to interrogate it too much. But a reliance on a vampire’s bite? That’s a new low.

“You’re looking awfully cross,” Dharius croons, stroking a meaty finger between her knitted brows. Shaking off her train of thought, Nerine widens her mouth into a flirty smile.

“Just wondering how long it’s gonna take you to invite me to your bedroll,” she says sweetly.

Dharius coughs, taken aback by her forwardness. He must be used to more demure women. “My bedroll is, well…one of the others is in our shared tent right now, if you get my drift.”

Nerine pouts at him. “Then I guess we’ll just have to find a quiet spot somewhere else. The storeroom, maybe?

Dharius’s smouldering-coal eyes blaze with desire. “Wherever you want, baby.”

Nerine grabs the front of his shirt and takes him to the store room, draining the last of her mug. When they get inside, Dharius kicks the door shut. He moves toward her, caging her against the wall with his strong arms. His mouth descends on hers, and he’s too clumsy to kiss well. It’s more like a mashing of lips. But Nerine’s had worse, and she can take control to salvage some pleasure from this. A good-looking man can always be enjoyed as long as he keeps his mouth shut.

She unlaces the top of her dress, tugging down her supportive band to expose her breasts. Dharius takes the hint and moves south, palming one breast while he sucks the other. Meanwhile, Nerine fumbles with the laces of his trousers. She can feel his hardness through the fabric. She has just loosened them enough to reach inside when the door slams open, startling them both.

“What have we here? It’s not very sanitary to f*ck where the food is kept, you know.”

Nerine yanks her breast band back up while Dharius clutches his trousers, holding them up. Astarion leans against the door frame, arms crossed, one foot propped up.

“What the f*ck, mate? Ever heard of privacy-” Dharius starts, but Astarion cuts him off.

“I was just looking for my sweet Nerine,” he says, eyes flashing dangerously.

Dharius looks confused. “I thought…I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“He is not my boyfriend,” Nerine hisses, furious.

“Why don’t you go back to the party while she and I sort some things out,” purrs Astarion, moving to let Dharius stalk through the door, grumbling as he goes. When he has left, Astarion shuts the door, leaving himself and Nerine in near darkness. With her elven sight, it’s enough light for Nerine to see by.

She steps forward, poking him in the chest with an accusatory finger. “What the hells do you think you’re doing, meddling in my affairs? Who do you think you are, you petulant f*cking-”

“Why him?”

Nerine blinks, sure she has heard wrong. “What?” Her hand drops to her side.

“Why seek out that moron for sex when you could have anyone?”

“Who I seek out for sex is none of your business!”

“It’s my business when his scent will be all over my meal,” he sniffs haughtily.

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll be lucky if I ever let you near my neck again, after this display!”

“You let Dharius awfully close to your neck,” he sneers.

That’s when it hits her. Astarion isn’t just messing with her for fun. He’s jealous.

“I wanted sex without strings, not sex as part of a deal. I only sleep with people who actually want it,” she says, incredulous.

“What makes you think I don’t want you? Just because I offered in exchange-”

That’s when Nerine opens her senses, letting his scent drift into her nose. He smells of moonlight, somehow…a tang of copper…and musky desire. She gasps softly, lips parting. His eyes drop to her mouth as he takes a step closer. Their chests are nearly touching with every breath Nerine takes. His own is preternaturally still. Because he doesn’t need to breathe, she realises.

Time seems to still as he presses ever closer, descending until his lips hover barely an inch from hers. Nerine’s eyes close of their own accord.

Then she remembers the other reason she declined his offer the other night. “We can’t.” She pulls away, stepping back.

“Why not?” Astarion sounds about a second away from actually stamping his foot.

“Dharius is someone I’ve never going to see after today. You…We’ll be travelling together for gods only know how long. I don’t sleep with people I have to see every day.” Nerine will be firm on this. It’s a rule that has served her well for decades, ever since the first time she gave into desire after Matthias’s death. “It’s the only way.”

“The only way what?” He sounds confused, exasperated. She can’t look at him. Can’t let herself take in those sculpted features, the subtle glow of those crimson eyes, or she will falter.

“I can’t get attached again.”

Astarion is silent for several moments. “Fine.” He turns on his heel and strides away, throwing the door open as he vanishes into the night. Then Nerine realises he’s still hungry and she’s still not drunk.

“Wait!”

He turns where he is, eyes narrowed.

“You can still drink from me. The deal stands. We need each other for that.”

He nods stiffly. “I’ll be back later. When the party is winding down.”

As he turns away once more, she calls after him. “I remember, you know. That night. Years ago, in the Lower City.”

She watches as his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look at her. Instead he moves silently into the shadows of the trees.

Chapter 6: Astarion

Chapter Text

The Lower City, Baldur's Gate. 45 years ago.

Sweat glistens on the forehead of the pretty elven lute player as she fingers a complicated series of chords, echoing the energetic melody sung by the pair of vocalists in front of her. Astarion watches as a rosy blush tints her golden cheeks, her skin flushed with the essence of life. Delicious.

They finish the set and the barkeep brings the musicians a jug of tart cider and some mugs, thanking them for their week-long stay and wishing them well on their way – they leave tomorrow on the road to Waterdeep.

The lute player takes several deep gulps, her throat working as she swallows. Despite himself, his co*ck stiffens as he pictures that slender throat working his-

No. He can’t let himself see her as anything but prey. He’s fallen into that trap before, with disastrous results. His resolve hardens as he remembers how it felt when Cazador ripped into Sebastian, how it felt as if Astarion himself were being ripped apart. He won’t let himself form such attachment again, not when the only possible outcome is that Cazador wins again. Cazador always wins.

Her mug drained, she starts to get to her feet before stumbling back onto her stool. She’s drunk. That will make it easier. As if it’s not always easy – though he cannot see his reflection, he knows he is handsome. And the pheromones his body produces make him irresistible to the living. A vampire, even a spawn, is a tool perfected for the art of luring prey.

It’s time to move. Astarion slips through the crowd towards the makeshift stage, moving like a shadow.

“Need a hand?” He offers his, palm up, to the pretty elf.

She looks at him with glassy eyes, smiling broadly. Definitely drunk. “What a gentleman!” Her voice is clear as a bell, soft and sweet.

She puts her hand in his and he is almost startled by the feel of her skin. As if the sun had been bottled, she glows with a subtle warmth. Definitely a sun elf, he thinks.

“I noticed you were a bit unsteady on your feet. We can’t have you falling over and hurting yourself, can we darling?”

She bats her lashes prettily at him. “I’m Nerine,” she coos, hand still encased in his.

“Finderal,” he replies. It wouldn’t do to broadcast his real name every night in the taverns and inns of Baldur’s Gate. Associating himself with the hundreds of people who disappear mysteriously all over the city is a surefire way to get noticed. The entire reason he’d approached the travelling musicians is because their disappearances are less likely to be noticed by the city guard.

“Finderal,” she murmurs, eyes searching his face. What is she looking for?

Evidently she finds it, because the next moment she is tugging him close by their joined hands, lips crushing clumsily to his. He tastes the tang of cider on her tongue. This is going to be easier than he thought.

She pulls back, licking her lips hungrily. “I don’t have a private room here. I’m sharing with the other bards," she confesses.

“I’ve got a place not too far away. Would you like to get out of here, darling?” He purrs, all sinful gestures and wicked eyes.

She nods jerkily, the haze of alcohol making her movements graceless, yet charming all the same. He can smell her lust now, over the stench of sweat and ale that is so characteristic of these establishments. She is his for the taking. Cazador’s, he corrects himself.

“Let’s go then.” He leads her out of the tavern, weaving through the crowd and supporting her when she trips over some of the other patrons. They burst out into the cool night air and Nerine takes a deep breath.

“Mmmm, that’s better,” she says in a near-whisper, as if to herself alone. Then her eyes snap to Astarion and she co*cks her head expectantly. Or rather, she tries. The sudden sideways movement causes her to stumble once more and he catches her, arms wrapping instinctively around her body. Gods, but she’s out of it. A twinge of familiar guilt tugs at the edge of his mind, but he shoves it back down. He doesn’t have a choice. He’s never had a choice.

He runs his hands down her sides, feeling each sinful curve. The loose, brightly coloured gown she wears to perform doesn’t give away just how delectable her body is. Gripping her plump arse, he lowers his face so his lips brush against the delicate point of her ear. “Aren’t you a treat?” he breathes, making her shiver. Then he pulls away, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers even as he pretends that it’s the only thing on his mind.

He leads her through winding alleys of the dank Lower City towards the walls separating it from the Upper City.

Suddenly, Nerine stops in her tracks. Turning towards her, Astarion notices her lustful expression has changed. Where before he saw hunger, now he sees concern. Her brow is furrowed, her glassy eyes shrewd as she takes him in.

“What’s the matter, love?” He tries to salvage this. Has she somehow sensed the danger she’s about to be in?

She is quiet for a beat before replying. “Why are you so sad?”

If he had a heartbeat, it would have stopped. Recovering quickly, he smiles benignly at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. I’m burning for you-”

“You smell of sadness…and fear. What are you afraid of?”

He gapes at her wordlessly. Curse her elven senses! He hadn’t expected her to be so aware of him, inebriated as she is.

She continues, “We don’t have to do this, if it’s not something you want. I only ever want to bed someone who is enjoying it.”

Relief and frustration flood him simultaneously, as he tries to fix his mask. His usually perfect, carefully crafted mask that hides him from the world. From his lovers, if they can even be called that. From Cazador.

He doesn’t want to do this, that much is true. Even as that part of him that is still capable of feeling yearns for her body on his, her golden skin infusing him with the warmth of a summer’s day… None of it would be real. None of it could be real. He’d lure her into the manor, give her her pleasure, and then when she was blissfully sated, Cazador would sweep in and destroy her. It was always the same. It must always be the same...

Suddenly, he can’t do it. His resolve shatters as he takes in her gaze, hating the pity he sees in those eyes. Eyes of liquid emerald, framed by delicate brows still knitted together with concern. Concern for him, concern for his feelings. When was the last time someone saw him like this?

He knows when. And he won’t let the same thing happen to Nerine.

Breaking from her gaze, he begins marching back to the tavern, half-dragging Nerine behind him.

They don’t speak again until they are at the door, flickering firelight falling onto the cobbles from the windows. The party still rages on inside, rowdier than when they’d left.

Astarion turns Nerine to face him, hands gripping her upper arms.

“Go inside. Stay there all night. Don’t come outside until the morning, and leave the city with your troupe as you planned.”

She offers him a curious look, eyes still glazed. “Why? What could happen-”

“Just do it, darling.”

She nods, then he turns her toward the door, releasing his hold. He watches as she stumbles up the step, as he hears her troupe welcome her back.

He stalks off into the night, already steeling his mind against Cazador’s imminent intrusion. He’ll be punished for coming back empty-handed, but what was he to do? His prey slipped from his grasp at the last moment. Yes, that’s what happened.