Chapter Text
“Technically, something is wrong with all of us.” It was a bare comfort, unhelpful and qualified as always. Astarion wished he had a better response than that. His tongue was buzzing, ripe with satisfaction and the thick, rich taste of blood. The hand that held Sev was strained, a subtle ache taken up in his tendons from the effort of keeping his grip. Sev’s body was alight with what Astarion could only call enthusiasm. Panting, trembling, sweat cresting his brow, a delightful mess and yet - Astarion drank, Sev struggled. What would have happened had his hold failed?
They weren’t talking about it.
Last Light Inn, aptly titled, was a beacon in the darkness, muted until they were nearly upon it. Even the glimmering sphere of moonlight could only break so far through the unending void. Being within the protective walls only seemed to highlight the dread of being without. It was so precious it made Astarion’s teeth itch. Not that they received a particularly warm greeting.
Though his knowledge came with no love like Karlach’s, even Astarion was familiar with the legendary Jaheira. He’d have to have plucked out his eardrums to avoid her name throughout his centuries in Baldur’s Gate. He’d have been as likely to miss the mention of Bhaalspawn. Her reputation, it seemed, was well founded and Astarion watched with no little interest as her vines twisted cruelly around Sev’s ankles. Her curt “hello” even earned a chuckle as Astarion’s fingers danced over the hilt of his dagger. Charming as she was, Astarion’s attention was sharp, counting the harpers, the bystanders. Who among them carried bows? Where was the nearest access to high ground? How many would they have to kill if this went south?
Not needed this time, at least. Sev went the route he often did, painful blatant honesty. He showed the high harper their precious artifact and it seemed enough to convince her that they weren’t in league with the cultists. All things considered, Astarion didn’t think they were truly in league with anyone. Their goals were fractured and many, his own still anchored in revenge.
“Your hero would have gutted us without a second thought if not for our fancy polyhedral toy,” Astarion retorted. He’d never been a fan of hero worship. As usual, Karlach was unimpressed by his needling. She sighed dreamily.
“Yeah, she would have! What an honor to be kicked around by Jaheira.”
“They say you should never meet your heroes,” Gale intoned, ever the saccharine sage. “But I’d say your experience is holding up quite well. These are indeed strange times we find ourselves in.”
Astarion scoffed and let himself be distracted by following Sev into the monikered tavern. He wondered what it’s name might have been in a time before this land needed a ‘last light’. Outside, the chatter was dire, Harper’s gathering munitions for an expected assault, or bemoaning their lack of supplies. A group of them were huddled near the entrance, arguing about the best way to interrupt an ambush. The perpetual fight for their lives was apparent in the shadows.
Inside, there was a greater sense of normalcy, or at least near it. Even with limited numbers, the bustle of activity filled the air. A wash of voices spilled from the doorway, accompanying the sour scent of stale ale and fresh wine. Astarion had spent so many of his nights in taverns like this. His entire life, in fact.
It was a sudden, pressing weight that sank barbed claws into his chest. There had been no taverns since the last night he had spent beholden to a wicked master. It had been weeks, at most, but the distance between those nights and this one was a boundless chasm. Astarion licked his lips as his senses dulled and his head fogged. His skin was thick, nothing could touch him. The familiar smells faded into the background where they belonged as his posture loosened, easy, inviting. Muscle memory.
He drifted, scanning for a mark. Flophouses were the usual. Despite the master’s keen taste for only the most beautiful, they couldn’t be recognizable, couldn’t be missed. This place wasn’t all that different from Faygo’s. Disparate parties wondering in from the outskirts of Rivington, travelers, refugees, untethered from proper society. The tiefling by the bar was pretty enough, but armed to the teeth. She wasn’t likely to go for Astarion’s charms, regardless. There was a hardness to the set of her jaw and her wary, darting eyes.
The sad harper swirling a glass of wine was a more likely target. Frazzled hair splayed in fraying pieces around her face, drawn from a once sleek braid. Freckles stood out on her pale nose. She could use the comfort. A heavy sigh to start. He could lean his elbow against the bar beside her and she would ask after his worries. A sweet, poison smile, a compliment, the brush of fingers to her chin. She’d follow him home and to her own demise. Cazador would sneer at her. Thin, skin pallid and sallow, too sunken and weak, not much of a meal at all. He would still whisk her away to his study to feast. It wouldn’t be until later, strung up in Godey’s room of retribution, that Cazador would flay the flesh from his ribs to remind him what it meant for a meal to have meat on their bones.
Astarion did sigh then, and his gaze flitted, seeking. Another tiefling - too caught up in conversation, difficult to drag away and someone who might notice their absence. A man wearing the regalia of the flaming fist? Oh, that would never be allowed. A surprising amount of children for a tavern, not his style, and - ah. There was his mark. Sturdy, skin flushed with the rosy glow of life. A sharp nose, full bowed lips, and piercing eyes made for a pretty face. The air of irresistible desperation was the outlier, and the reason his charms would work. A joke to open, something about the seemingly nonsense words tattooed over the right side of his face. He would laugh, and that would be that. Only now he wasn’t laughing. A deep crease furrowed the bridge of Sev’s nose as he breathed deeply from a goblet of wine.
The din of the tavern returned, weighty and overwhelming, like he’d been underwater and finally come up for air. The musty scent was pungent, so thick he could taste the decay. There was now hiff of sweet, sad perfume or the distant crashing ocean - because he wasn’t in Baldur’s Gate, and he wasn’t hunting for Cazador. None of these people were marks, not in this lifetime at least. No, Sev, Karlach, and Gale were engaged in a hushed conversation with the high harper and his distraction had dangerously separated him. Astarion pushed himself away from the bar, letting the cold frisson of fear that crept down his spine bleed away the memory. He couldn’t afford to revisit the past when every ten minutes was a question of survival.
Gods, and what was it, if not another fire in the making? Astarion was too late to prevent Sev from doing something so utterly stupid it defied explanation. The goblet was empty by the time he arrived and the scent of klauthgrass prickled his nose. Subtle, herbal, barely detectable in most rich wines. Astarion knew that it was effective, even on a vampire. There was no keeping secrets among family. That would have been bad enough on it’s own, but the interrogation continued and Astarion became painfully aware that Sev had known what he was drinking. He’d taken a truth serum on purpose. Typically, Astarion didn’t mind him spilling their tadpole-ridden secrets when it could gain them an advantage. This was entirely different.
Astarion slotted himself into Sev’s right, listening carefully, prepared to interrupt if anything that came out of his mouth was going to doom them. He was earnest enough most of the time, most of his answers to the interrogation were expected. It seemed like they might just get out of it, until Sev turned to leave and Jaheira caught them.
“Before you go, there’s somebody else you should meet. You’re not our only secret weapon. Isobel, a faithful cleric of Selune.” Her accented voice continued, but Astarion lost track of the words. The color drained from Sev’s face and his head co*cked, curious, predatory as he eyed Jaheira. It lasted a moment before he flinched, a violent little shock that shuddered through his body.
“Isobel?” He repeated aloud and Jaheira nodded.
“Without her, this whole inn would be lost.”
“Right.” Sev turned from her then, sparing a glance towards the upper level. “The sweetest face of the moon,” he muttered before his head dropped and he started towards the door. Sweat beaded at his temples and one hand clutched over his stomach, clawing the fabric of his robes so tightly seams began to pop. Of course, Karlach chose then to question leadership.
“Wait, Soldier - Jaheira said she’s upstairs. Feel like we could really use any tool against those shadows.” She didn’t mean to taunt, Astarion was quite sure.
The sound of fabric tearing was slight and the scent of blood that followed sharp. Sev’s fingers spread, covering the slow well of blood where he’d clawed gouges into his skin through his robes. His pupils were blown wide and his breaths shallow, like a panicked boar in the underbrush.
“Not right now,” he answered, honest, and his face was new. Astarion had seen so much of him. Seen the way pain or fear could cloud his expression, his bold grin, the way pleasure sweetly softened him and that flat calm that raised the hairs on Astarion’s neck. Now, he was truly vulnerable, desperate as his mouth opened again and no sound emerged.
Astarion was cruel. It had been a stupid thing to do, accepting klauthgrass when he had so many secrets to keep, not even all his own. The punishment for such a lapse deserved to be stewing in the mess he’d made. He was their leader, however unofficial that title was. He couldn’t afford to make such mistakes and risk their lives in the process. Besides, whatever it was that triggered such a reaction was obviously a secret of his own, maybe it was time to share.
“Right you are,” Gale interjected, speaking to Karlach, unfortunately. “Any boon in this most haunting place is likely for the best. Just a pop upstairs, it seems. I am fascinated by the magic protecting us. Deeply divine, obviously, but such a specific protection must come with a hearty, well-researched ritual.”
They both had a difficult point to argue. Astarion didn’t relish the idea of stepping outside of Last Light’s moonlit walls without any source of extra protection. The mere thought of creeping shadows crawled across his skin with sharp, skittering claws. Shudder inducing. Sev didn’t answer. He stared at them silently, licked his lips and the scent of blood grew stronger. He’d chewed through his cheek again and his tongue left red in its wake. This was agony he had earned.
“If we go up there now,” Astarion’s voice was a crack, startling even himself, though he covered with a cool smile. “We’ll miss the hunting party out front. Can’t let the harpers wander off into he dark alone, now can we? Right into a cultist ambush, even.”
“Right,” Sev agreed, breathless. They were quiet, expecting him to say more and instead he stared right past them, glazed. For a reason completely unbeknownst to himself, Astarion continued talking.
“Yes, we’ll be back for this cleric eventually, I’m sure, but they’re after bigger fish. Karlach, darling, would you run and make sure we don’t miss them? We’ll be right out.” Karlach was kind and occasionally oblivious, not stupid. It had taken longer for her to see, and she likely hadn’t a clue why either, but she could see that Sev was struggling.
“Mmh, pretty and authoritative? it looks good on you, fangs,” Karlach agreed, her exaggerated flattery a different brand than his own. He showed his appreciation with a grin, flashing his nickname-sake.
“As long as the authority works,” he clarified and Karlach nodded. Gale, not as dull as Astarion taunted him about, though surprisingly more oblivious, took Karlach’s nudging and they made their way to check on the harpers. It left Astarion free damn himself further. He took Sev’s bloody hand and dragged him into a dark corner of the tavern beneath dusty, neglected shelves.
“What in the seven hells were you thinking taking truth serum from the bloody high harper?” He demanded, letting his frustration be as loud as a whisper allowed. It was simpler than acknowledging his desire to soothe Sev’s anxious state.
“I needed her to trust me,” Sev explained. “I didn’t know she was going to say…” The trailing words took Sev with them as his gaze grew distant. The terror flattened. Astarion was still holding him and he lifted Sev’s hand, flipping it to see the flowering spread of blood. His nails, usually shattered, were crimson and bent from force.
“Isobel?” Astarion asked. That had been the word to set him off, and it did so again. Still flat, Sev’s focus cut to him and he nodded, curt, though his lip trembled. “What is it about her?”
Sev jerked like he’d been struck and the fear returned, warring now with that deadly calm.
“If she dies, everyone in this inn will die,” he said, true, though not an answer to the question.
“Yes, that does seem to be the case.” Astarion agreed and Sev folded over his injured stomach, like he was fighting something unseen, as if it might burst out of him. His shoulders shook and Astarion glanced quickly to ensure they hadn’t gathered an audience. “Okay, stay with me.” He searched for a distraction, lifting Sev’s bloody hand to his face. Sev reached for him, instinct, damp fingers curving against his jaw. Astarion touched his chest, he would push if he needed to. Sev’s heart was pounding, a hard, staccato beat. “So, perhaps we don’t kill this one?” He suggested, as wild as it seemed to suggest they limit killing anyone. Sev’s eyes went wide and he shook his head.
“I’m going to kill her.” His voice was low, certain, he spoke through gritted teeth like it pained him to do so. It was familiar. Astarion knew how it was to lack free will. Yes, master; no, master; please, master, placating through his aching jaw as he ground his teeth to dust.
“Okay,” he stalled. Sev’s breath was shaky and his brow glistened. It wasn’t quite pity that Astarion felt. Softer. He turned his head to kiss Sev’s hand. “You’re doing so well for me,” he cooed and met Sev’s gaze as he licked sweet, rapturous blood from his fingers. That was a worthwhile distraction. Sev made a sound low in his chest, and his eyes darkened. “This cleric, she’s…wronged you in some way?” Sev’s throat visibly tightened, straining against an answer he didn’t want to, or couldn’t give.
“No,” was his bare reply.
“But you’re going to kill her?” He pushed and Sev’s free hand grabbed his waist, near bruising against bare skin. When he pulled, Astarion went, letting himself be close despite the ominous threat of danger. Sev radiated heat and blood was sticky against his stomach. He swallowed as Sev confirmed.
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to kill her?” From an outside perspective, perhaps it seemed a silly question, but Astarion had been party to enough of their questionable morals, his own notwithstanding, he could see an argument for either. It seemed counter-intuitive, perhaps, to bring down the entire inn. Having at least one bastian in the darkness was a welcome relief and no one else had offered a better option. Not yet, anyway. But Astarion had seen the tieflings from the grove taking refuge and while he didn’t remember their names, he’d have bet Sev did. Without a doubt, he did.
“No.” More a growl than a word. Sev’s nails bit into Astarion’s skin and he continued, compelled. “Yes,” he admitted. He stroked Astarion’s cheek, black and gold gaze trailing over the streaks he left behind. Where their bodies met, he was so tremulous Astarion wondered how he remained upright. “My head is throbbing,” he whispered, pleading. This was more than Astarion was equipped to handle. But he nodded.
“Well, best we avoid her then,” he said. “We’ll keep this whole…thing under wraps for now, yes?” It was Sev’s turn to nod, perhaps better not to speak. “Good,” Astarion reassured. “Right now we’re going to go see what this ambush is about. Maybe we’ll find something better than anything on offer here.” That seemed unlikely, though Astarion was hardly discounting the Absolutists. Any means necessary, after all.
“I doubt it,” Sev managed to argue. His lower lip was puffed and purple, bruised from his teeth.
“So pessimistic.” The chiding was as playful as he could make it, considering the circ*mstances. He didn’t expect Sev to smile, and appreciated the effort when he did. “Come now, let’s go kill something.” Sev didn’t pull away immediately. His chest rose high, shakily, as he pulled in a breath. He let it out slowly and his grip loosened on Astarion’s waist, curled grasp smoothing, raging hot against his skin.
“Someday,” he murmured, his fingers turning Astarion’s chin towards him, “I’ll have mind enough to find the words…” He trailed, pensive, and his thumb brushed Astarion’s lip like their first night. A shiver thrummed down Astarion’s spine, it took effort not to let it show. That intensity, his intensity, was clouded by what ailed him, by his uncertainty. It was still effective. “Thank you.”
