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xalygatorx · 4 months

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Unbound | Chapter 9, "Bear With Me"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: The party splits up to investigate the goblin camp and Áine seeks a blessing from Loviatar. Halsin is rescued and they aid him in taking out Minthara before she can launch her attack on the Grove in exchange for answers regarding their next steps with the parasite. Astarion overindulges on a bear and experiences a vampire’s version of drunkenness. Áine answers Astarion’s questions regarding his reflection. Astarion makes a discovery in the nighttime about Áine’s singing performance rule when an unexpected visitor arrives.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Suggestive content & dialogue; angst; Astarion has a flashback; lightly proofread

Word Count: 10.3k

Listening to: I Will Love You (Even If It Kills Me) - Too Far Moon

Days passed without further romantic consequence between Astarion and Áine, but not for lack of interest.

Their party’s situation as a whole had taken several turns for the weird ever since encroaching on the goblin camp they’d sworn to clear out, including but not limited to hearing the Absolute’s voice in their skulls for the first time, an odd and violent reaction to that from the artefact Shadowheart had carried since the Nautiloid, and a not-so-odd but still violent reaction from Lae’zel upon seeing the gith markings across its polyhedric surface. That confrontation had been taken back to camp that night and Áine had needed to intervene after waking with Shadowheart’s dagger pressed against Lae’zel’s throat in her bedroll, firmly rolling back any progress the two had made in learning to coexist in the party.

And that only accounted for the last 12 eventful hours.

And, of course, before that, there was the very normal circumstance of their entire party having the same dream about the same golden paladin urging them to embrace their illithid brainworms.

The appearance of the dream visitor had jarred Áine more than she cared to admit. At first, she’d thought she was having a nightmare when she saw the drow woman standing before her, but it became clear that this being held a bit more substance than an ordinary dream. And then to hear that everyone else had experienced the same dream, the party as a whole had developed mixed reactions to the figure, some curious and intrigued by its message and others (like Áine) staunchly wary. She didn’t like the invasive nature of the so-called “guardian” and the way its voice pushed into her mind even on occasion in her waking hours now and she didn’t like the faint fissure it was creating within her party.

Most of her companions were aligned with her feelings on the stranger in the astral plane and their promises and ambiguous motives, but she saw glimmers in both Astarion’s and Gale’s eyes during her conversations with them that told her they were much less opposed to the figure’s interference than she was. They were understandably curious and perhaps it was Áine’s reaction to seeing another of her kind again in such an uninvited way but each time the paladin pushed her to go one way, her core instincts all rallied for her to go the opposite.

All the while, Astarion’s inclination to find ways to keep the tadpole firmly in his mind and instead just find a way to manipulate it himself continued to solidify. The dream figure was a welcome distraction and a curious source of promise. Normally when his reveries reached deep enough to make him dream, those dreams swiftly became nightmares of his old life. This was perhaps the first time in as long as he could remember that he’d simply dreamt and not awakened straight into a panic attack or a feral rage only quelled by hunting until he tired.

While the half of his plan revolving around the tadpole seemed to be in good forward motion, the other half revolving around Áine was in a mixed state of push and pull.

The push happened naturally—the proverbial door that existed between their mutual attraction had been ajar for some time now and the night they’d gotten unexpectedly close had flung it wide open. And it had just kind of sat there ever since.

Not that they didn’t have plenty of things that had been keeping them busy but it had also given Astarion time to try withdrawing emotionally—thus, the pull.

The next time he approached her with any intimate intent, he would do so fully in check. He fed himself as many excuses as needed to cope with the way his tattered brain had romanticized her, talked himself down off any ledge that bore view to a precipice that may sink him in unwelcome sentiment, and shut down any inklings that sat in the dustiest corners of his mind just waiting with predatory anticipation to remove him from his own seat of power again.

Lie after lie after lie if needed, he would drink them all down. He didn’t care about her, he needed her. He didn’t need her emotionally, he needed her strength and protection. He didn’t need to love her, she needed to love him, and if his estimation after years of practice were worth a damn, she was halfway there.

And the most important lie of all—that their first kiss had been fully planned, a clever ploy, and had not under any circumstances been a flight of passion on his part. Passion had died in him long ago. He had simply seen an opportunity, a moment, and seized it.

Hells, I can barely even stand to like her, he worked to convince himself in the present moment, even as his gaze adhered to her removing her armor padding and then her tunic. Sure, he’d learned new nuances about her character in the days since their kiss and they’d been a mixed bag of amusing and endearing, but he could’ve said that about anyone in their troop. Even Gale.

Were it possible to choke on a lying thought, he may have choked on that one.

Learning about Áine had begun to boil down into the smaller details as he’d had a general idea of who she was after the first leg of their travels.

She was both quick to joy and exasperation in equal measure and if she was quick to anger, she hid it better than the former two. She was shy about singing but open about what she didn’t know, and comfortable manipulating her instruments however she felt most confident while not batting an eye when she hit a sour note in front of an audience. She was a powerhouse in wit on the battlefield until her team lost the advantage and her friends were endangered, which then sent her hurtling toward the frontlines to absorb the enemy’s aggression, shifting attention away from her injured allies. She’d historically shown quick thinking when she knew they wouldn’t survive further violence on the road and met interpersonal conflict with a patience Astarion couldn’t begin to understand.

Those were the more overarching themes in Áine’s character, but they were starting to be further parsable to the vampire’s unadmitted growing obsession with her. For example, in the last few days, he’d seen that her saintlike patience had its limits and they mostly surfaced when she was disrespected. He’d seen hints of this within their group, including in the small spat they’d had outside the Grove, but if she ever got to a point of becoming snippy, she often apologized directly after.

This had proved to not be a universal truth for those who crossed her, as he’d seen when she’d responded to a goblin’s demeaning comments and demands to smear their “war paint colors” on her face by slamming the entire handful of the worg shit the goblin referred to in his nasty little face instead. It had, of course, resulted in a fray that Áine had enthusiastically leapt into, but while Astarion was usually averse to causing unnecessary squabbles that wouldn’t result in anything but extra effort and bruises for him, he respected the hell out of her response to the confrontation. Not to mention that it was an amusing thing to witness.

Speaking of unexpected things Áine did that he was content to bear witness to, Astarion hungrily watched as Áine handed off her discarded armor and tunic top to Shadowheart and stepped toward the alcove indicated by the odd priest in the goblin camp, the stone bricks already slick with blood from his performed penance. As the priest Abdirak paused to select his implement of choice, Astarion let his eyes travel languidly over the soft, perfect curve of her spine, his gaze only briefly touching her shoulder. He noticed that the starburst-shaped scars that he’d seen on her front also made appearances on her back as well, giving the impression that she’d been shot with something. Her past discomfort after overworking the muscles there suddenly began to make a little more sense.

“This had better be worth it,” Astarion heard Áine murmur under her breath as she braced herself against the bloodied wall.

Behind him, past the mouth of the narrow room, he could hear the rowdy, keening squeals of drunk celebrating goblins. The group had split up to investigate the defiled Selunite temple in hopes that their combined efforts would unearth the Archdruid Halsin and pinpoint the leaders before things had a chance to get messy. Lae’zel had headed off with Gale and Karlach to do a careful patrol around the main activities—Astarion admittedly felt a bit of pity for Gale and the likely babysitting he’d have to do with those two to keep them from stirring the pot with one of the guards or some such, but the wizard hadn’t seemed bothered at all by the split results—and Wyll was lingering by the exit back into the main hall, where he’d retreated as soon as Áine had met Shadowheart’s challenge to take some penance for a potential blessing by beginning to disrobe.

“The pain you suffer will cleanse you,” Abdirak told Áine with a little too much eagerness for Astarion’s liking and the vampire noticed the way the “holy man”s eyes roved over her lilac skin. “Do not fight it.”

“So scream?” Áine asked to confirm just as Abdirak brought the tendrils of a cat-of-nine-tails down hard across her back. “Fucking Hells!”

Astarion snorted as Áine swore through gritted teeth, just imagining the pummeling she’d unleash on this pallid human priest were she not allowing this pain. She’d so matter-of-factly asked if she had to scream to get what was promised of this interaction, he almost wondered if she could’ve stayed entirely silent had he indicated she should. This was a performance game, however, and he seemed to realize that at the same time Áine, herself, did.

“Louder, child,” Abdirak commanded, adjusting his grip on the whip. “Let Loviatar hear you!”

In a murmur just toward him, Shadowheart remarked, “Would you have joined up with her if you’d known she’d be indulging in this sort of thing, Astarion?”

He almost wondered if she only asked him that so he’d know that she knew something was going on. If only to give her more than she bargained for, Astarion responded in an equally low voice, “I mean, I had my hopes.”

The look of disgust that crossed the cleric’s face was a more than sufficient reward for his response.

They were interrupted when a hard crack and Áine’s scream pierced the alcove, the acoustics carrying it up into the rafters like a church bell’s toll. It was obvious to everyone in attendance that she was acting, or at least exaggerating her reaction, or at least that’s what he thought until Wyll was starting to barge past him and Shadowheart.

Shadowheart caught Wyll’s arm and patted his bicep once he stopped. “She’s fine. Just getting a blessing off a priest of Loviatar.”

“What sort of blessing is worth that?” Wyll asked, horrified.

“It’s not so bad as you think,” Astarion said with a smirk. “Knowing personally what the nobility of Baldur’s Gate get up to, I’m a little surprised you’ve not explored your tastes a bit further, Wyll.”

Wyll’s face flushed scarlet and he excused himself back to the entryway, Astarion chuckling in his wake. Ever since it had come up that he was the son of the very duke who had been rumored kidnapped by cultists just a day prior, Astarion had taken advantage of ample opportunities to razz the Blade of Frontiers.

The familiar bouquet of Áine’s blood met his nose just as another hit landed on the bard’s back and she performatively wailed in response.

Abdirak was trembling with elated energy and something that bordered on desire, shouting, “Your voice sounds so sweet, dear one. Keep going!”

“Sing for me, boy! Of all my children, your screams have always sounded sweetest.”

Astarion’s throat tightened as the intrusive voice forced its way through the tender folds of his memory. His teeth clenched so tightly amongst their own grooves that his jaw began to grow sore. His vision seemed to narrow as he focused only on metering his reaction to the unwelcome memory and stomaching it before it showed on his face. He was fully present still in that narrow room, save for his eyes which were thousands of miles away.

Áine had felt the whip cut her about three strikes in, which was approximately when it had occurred to her that doing this right before what may be one of the biggest brawls they’d faced yet may not have been the best plan. Even with the blessing’s benefits, if she’d played her part correctly, her back was still prematurely battered and she’d have to waste a health potion on it to not create a liability for her group.

“Sweet child,” Abdirak breathed, cluing her in that she’d bore the full brunt and could straighten up from the alcove. “You bore the pain like a true believer. I am proud to have served you this penance.”

“It was certainly an…interesting experience,” Áine said, crossing her arms over her bare chest as she turned around to face him. She spotted Shadowheart and Astarion precisely where she’d left them. Shadowheart looked mildly amused while Astarion… Well, where she’d expected either a joke or one of his canned sultry smirks, he looked entirely distant. She wondered if he was alright.

“Loviatar herself found your performance…inspiring,” Abdirak said, drawing Áine’s attention back to him for the moment. “She has deemed you worthy of her blessing.”

Thank the gods, Áine sighed inwardly. Or thank Loviatar specifically. I may have served this man a penance of his own if I’d been denied something after that.

There was an edge of amusement in the feeling that swept over her from the red glow that Abdirak cast over her and she could feel a woman’s presence in the aura, similar to how she’d experienced the Weave with Gale. Áine had a feeling that perhaps Loviatar had heard or sensed her thoughts at that moment and found her musings entertaining.

When the light settled, Abdirak added, “And on a personal note…thank you. That was positively divine.”

Áine was glad he didn’t expect a response to that because she had no idea what to say. When the priest turned his back on her, her polite smile fell and she felt her face contort with dismay. Gods, he’d gotten off on that, she just knew it.

She approached her companions, taking her tunic from Shadowheart’s hands and turning it around to align it with her arms. “Well?” Shadowheart prompted her. “Do you feel cleansed? Better yet, strengthened?”

Áine shrugged as she slid one of the sleeves over her arm. “To be decided. He did…something. And not just for effect, I felt something settle over me,” Áine said, “but that was probably a foolish thing to do in retrospect. We may have to fight our way out of here, after all, and I just started the work on behalf of those little creeps out there.”

“Would you like me to heal you?” Shadowheart offered.

Áine hastily shook her head as she gingerly tugged her other sleeve on, already wincing in preparation to put the garment back over herself. “No, no, this was my bright idea even with your cajoling,” Áine smirked. “I’d much rather you save your energy until we know what we’re dealing with. But thank you.”

“I can’t imagine it will be anything aside from the sheer number of them rather than their might,” Shadowheart remarked. “Are you quite sure?”

The bard nodded, pausing in putting her tunic on so she could dig a health potion from her bag, hoping that would take the edge off. “It’s really not so bad. I’ll drink something to level it out and after that, I’ll—Astarion, what are you doing?”

While she’d been speaking to Shadowheart, she’d felt him step around her, but now she felt his cool hands adjusting her hair off her shoulders and into a manageable clump at her nape. “Hold this and hold still,” he mumbled instead of answering her question.

Bewildered and admittedly still a little dazed from her beating, Áine obeyed and reached back with the hand not holding her bag to clasp her hair in place. She parted her lips to ask again what he was up to when she felt his hands drop to her hips, rooting her in place as he dropped down to one knee behind her. What in the world is he—

Her eyes went round and her lips pursed shut as she felt what could’ve only been his tongue running a slow line over one of the bloody welts on her back. Áine felt her face flush deep and hot, the healing potion that she’d just barely found purchase on with her fingertips clattering back into the belly of her bag. Shock kept her stock-still through the first touch because surely she had to be imagining this, he had to have grabbed a cloth or something and her uncharacteristically perverse brain was twisting the situation. It had to be the tadpole skewing the nature of her thoughts.

Áine tensed as she felt another tender lave across her cuts. No, he was definitely licking her wounds and seemed to be purposefully taking his time to tease her. She swallowed and it was louder than intended, which made him chuckle. She felt the soft vibration of the sound against her skin and liquid heat shot from her chest down to her core with an intensity that startled her.

The bard’s gaze drifted to Shadowheart and if Áine could’ve blushed deeper she would’ve. The cleric was watching her face with a dastardly level of smugness, her teeth holding her lower lip to keep herself from laughing at her friend’s mixture of bliss and distress. To Astarion, she said, “Couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a cheeky snack, vampire?”

Astarion gave a quiet, dismissive grumble before leaning away from Áine’s back, satisfied with his work as his gaze traced the still-present but no longer bleeding welts. “A welcome side-effect of being uncharacteristically helpful, dear,” Astarion said, standing up straight again. To Áine, he said, “Go on with the potion now. The cuts are clotted and starting to heal, so it will be more productive.”

Oh right, Áine realized in a daze, his actions making more sense with that reasoning in place. The welts had gone numb under the slick of his saliva and Áine felt sheepish for her first thought not being that he could handle any minor open wound just like he had the past couple of times he’d drank from her. Clearing her throat, Áine retrieved the potion bottle she’d dropped back into her bag and uncapped it, downing it in one careful swig. Lo and behold, he was right. She could feel it working immediately.

Still very much amused, Shadowheart offered Áine’s armor back to its owner. “A convenient excuse for enjoying our fearless leader like a melty icepop,” she commented. From the other side of the room, Wyll was heard half-choking at catching her words and making sense of them.

Face still burning, Áine gave her a chiding look and reached for her armor, only to be intercepted by Astarion, who reached around Áine’s smaller body and lifted the padding away from the cleric’s hands. “As if I’d need an excuse,” he smirked, as rakish in his tone as his expression as he levelly met Shadowheart’s scolding gaze.

Shadowheart snorted softly and left them to it, going to join Wyll by the hall. Áine pulled her tunic fully on and straightened it at her waist, stealing extra seconds before she turned around in hopes that maybe her color would fade a little. With no luck, Áine swallowed and faced the vampire behind her. She was unable to hide her shyness from her expression, which made her even more embarrassed. Meanwhile, the way that she looked up through her snowy lashes to meet his eyes was doing something dangerous and unwarranted to Astarion’s dead heart.

Still shaken from his earlier vision, but steadied somehow by having an excuse to be close to her, Astarion’s crimson gaze drank her in for a moment, his smirk lingering softly at the edges of his mouth. Áine was having a tough time looking at him and his pretty lips without remembering how they’d just brushed over her back, how they’d felt so desperately crashing against hers just the other night. He’d been so composed immediately after that tiny moment they’d shared and ever since. She almost wondered if she’d gotten a small peek into something forbidden in that span of a kiss, a truth of him that she yearned to untangle and meet again.

“You poor sweet thing,” he murmured as he placed her armor back over her, derailing her thoughts. “Are you in love with me yet?”

“Hush,” Áine muttered back, eliciting a chuckle from him.

“That wasn’t a ‘no’,” he observed, speaking again before Áine could argue with him. “I will admit I didn’t foresee this sort of thing being intriguing to you.”

“The penance?” Áine asked. When he nodded, she said, “It’s not…in that way. But it felt like a small price to pay for an extra bit of help.”

Astarion acknowledged her response with a soft hum as he adjusted her armor, his fingers nimbly taking the ties and beginning to lace her back up. Her eyes dropped to the cuff of his doublet and she noticed new traces of immaculate embroidery overlaying the old frayed gold threads. Seeing that he’d found a use for the thread she’d found him made her smile, but it also made her remember yet again what had followed and caused new color to touch her cheeks.

When his eyes flickered back up to meet hers, Áine noticed that he focused on her cheek and her hand instinctively rose to investigate despite knowing he was probably just watching her face change colors. When she drew her fingertips away from her cheek, they came away with a faint smear of blood. “I think I hit the wall the first time,” she mumbled, instinctively starting to lower her hand and wipe the blood off on her pants. “I didn’t realize how hard he was going to—”

The vampire snared her wrist before she could wipe her hand off, his other hand gently taking her chin and angling her head so he could better inspect the small scrape. She was deliciously pliant in his hands. “May I?” he asked, meeting her eyes again.

Áine’s face felt hot again. “Um, sure,” she said without really thinking. What in the Hells is happening to me? she wondered, the gray areas of her heart blooming with colors by the day in this man’s shadow.

Astarion held her gaze as he leaned in, his cool breath fanning against her cheek before his lips closed over the cut. Áine expected him to linger but for the sake of getting his fix of blood from her last little wound, perhaps using it for a taste in the same way he’d capitalized on the cut she’d had on her shoulder before. And he did linger, but far more in the way of a kiss pressed to a lover’s cheek. He lingered like he wanted to taste more than the blood he thirsted for. Like he wanted to taste her.

And, by the Hells, he did want to.

For all his performance art around the path to seduction, for all his adopted rakish tendencies that had become fallback defenses across the span of centuries, for all the motions he’d gone through with countless bodies in back alleys and inn rooms in perfect and practiced execution, Astarion couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted any of it. It all felt tainted. He felt tainted. Even now, his own tenderness reeked of a ploy and it was difficult to understand his own motivations, to sift through the murk and find the root of why he kept gravitating to her.

These touches, these flirtations were things he would do to trick someone in his sordid past, to lure them back for his master. And he wanted to do them with her, but it all still felt fake, it still felt wrong. Especially with her. Down deep, past his plans and fear and engrained habits, he felt pure shame. The duality of wanting her at arm’s length and also wanting her so close he forgot the contours of his own body was as maddening as it was frightening.

Áine’s eyes drifted back up to Astarion’s when he finally leaned away from her cheek, the numbing sensation along her cut fading after a few seconds but leaving behind the memory of his lips in its wake. She smiled, her expression timid but tender. Astarion felt her warmth melt against the coldness inside him. He was truly the villain his old master had molded him to be, to be willing to cast his tainted shadows against the light of the woman standing before him.

Old motions took over as he smiled his rakish smile and raised the hand he still held by the wrist to his mouth. He didn’t take his eyes off her or the violet rose hues that heated her face and her delicious neck as he closed his cool lips around her bloodied fingers and sucked the red cleanly off. “Ready to go?” he asked, his voice a soft, rich timbre.

Áine laughed, and Astarion felt proud that she sounded just the slightest bit breathless. “I don’t know, am I?” she wondered. “I can confidently say I’ve never been more doused in another person’s spit in all my life.”

Astarion smirked and he didn’t have to draw on old practices for its sensual edge to shine through. “Give me time, my love,” he purred and Áine wasn’t sure that her body wouldn’t combust from the heat that flooded her veins.

“Right,” Áine mumbled, pressing her hands against his chest as she wriggled out of his grasp. “Not here, please.”

Astarion laughed at how quickly flustered she became under his ministrations but released her and followed her back to rejoin the others. Wyll gave him a scolding look the moment he arrived and Astarion wondered if he’d earned the sour expression from what he was sure the duke’s son perceived as scandalous advances in general or if he’d earned them specifically because he directed them at Áine. Instead of parsing any of it, Astarion simply winked at Wyll and caused the Blade to give up and turn his back on him.

Gale, Karlach, and Lae’zel rejoined them then and the hard look shared between Shadowheart and the githyanki warrior was palpable and felt by the group at large. Gale cleared his throat and leaned in close to Áine to murmur, “Gut has been taken care of. We have time, but likely not as much as we could hope.”

Áine’s brows rose and she took in the edge of Lae’zel’s longsword tinged with goblin blood. “Well done,” she said. “Although I didn’t know we would start so soon.”

“We got an opportunity once she realized we had tadpoles, too,” Karlach explained. “It was just us and her in her chamber. Figured there wasn’t going to be a better opportunity.”

“For sure,” Áine agreed, nodding to herself. “Okay. We work faster then. The boy from Aradin’s crew said Halsin had taken a bear form. Let’s use what time we have before someone finds Gut to find Halsin and then dispatch the other two leaders after. Yes?”

“Yes,” came the murmur of agreement. As Áine began to lead the way down the stone hallway, Gale said, “Say, Áine… You didn’t happen to scream a little while ago, did you? You look fine, obviously, but we could’ve sworn we heard you.”

Áine laughed a little, winding her hair into a messy bun at her nape with a leather cord while they walked. “Yeah, I ended up getting a pain goddess’s blessing the old-fashioned way,” she said. “But I had to play it up to earn it.”

“I told you it was rehearsed,” Lae’zel said to Gale.

“Was it that obvious?” Áine asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

Lae’zel shook her head. “Not quite. But a true warrior rarely screams from the onslaught of pain. Rather the thrill and anticipation of the battle that brings it.”

Never had someone so thoroughly expressed admiration toward another person while personally decimating the rest of their party, who all were now thinking back to their most recent battles and recounting each time they reacted to pain with a shout.

Áine, oblivious to the slight on their allies, smiled at Lae’zel appreciatively.

It didn’t take long to find the cave bear in question whom they could only hope was the Archdruid in his wild form. Between roars of upset from the ursine creature and the high-pitched cackling of goblin children and their warden, the group landed themselves near some worg cages, where it appeared that the piercing laughter was the result of pitching rocks toward the caged bear. Áine’s expression crumpled. Even if it weren’t Halsin and was truly a bear, she felt awful seeing it captured and tortured.

Leave it to me to end my journey by freeing a bear only to have it maul me once it’s done with the goblins, she thought, but there was a decision in her step as she approached the offending group.

The worg pens fell into chaos as the goblins took offense to their meddling and the cave bear careened against its cage door, unhinging it and crushing one of the guards in the process. With her back on the mend thanks to her hoarded health potion supply and the graciousness of her vampire companion, Áine fell into the heat of the battle with gusto, all confidence and exhilaration in a swirl of glittering scimitar blades.

Support was light for fights like these—Lae’zel and Karlach fell into the frontline with ease and enthusiasm, taking on the biggest adversaries while Wyll, Astarion, and Áine played support and Gale helped Shadowheart save some of her energy by mitigating any injuries taken by their team.

The entirety of the fight could’ve been summarized by a singular goblin guard who charged into the fight with a warcry on his lips and a bottle of grease in his hand, slammed the bottle to the ground as soon as he reached Áine, Lae’zel, and Karlach, and was subsequently the only one to slip and fall. The three stared down at him until Karlach and Áine simultaneously fell apart with laughter and Lae’zel gave an annoyed “chk” at the goblin’s interruption.

As the body count of the pint-sized heretics littering the floor rose to a satisfying degree, Áine switched her swords for the lute slung across her back, practiced fingers plucking a tune from the strings while her companions finished off the remaining flock. As mockery on a goblin seemed too easy in her mind at the moment, she let notes of symphonic inspiration flow from her instrument, humming softly along.

Across the room, Astarion was similarly assured of their victory but not quite so assured of their leader’s decision to free the wild animal from the cage. He supposed he could have an early meal if the bear proved to not be a druid in wild form after all, but it all felt a little unnecessary. Especially given his lack of inclination to rid himself of the tadpole just yet. He watched Áine’s hands move gracefully over the strings, the purposeful twangs echoing with ease in the stone chamber. She moved in a sort of dance with the music she crafted and he watched as she painted an arc of blood on the tiles with the toe of her boot, her body bowed over the lute and becoming its extension.

Mesmerized, he nearly missed the guard by the mouth of the hall, its crossbow raised and aimed at their unsuspecting bard. It was possible she could’ve dodged or suffered only a minor injury, but they’d never find out as Astarion loosed an arrow directly into the goblin’s throat. With a loud, wet gurgle, it collapsed to the floor, but not without catching Áine’s attention. She turned to look toward the sound, her fingers never faltering, and then followed the trajectory of the arrow until she met his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d flanked her from afar, but she did notice with extra appreciation at that moment how well he’d found and taken on his role in their growing group and how watchful he seemed to be with her at times.

The small smile she sent his way held such a sunny disposition that, were it not for the tadpole, he daresaid he may have burned.

The last goblin fell with a grunt to the acid-splashed, greased, bloodied stonework floor, and only then did the party turn to the cave bear, the moment of truth arriving for their gamble. In a flourish of golden light and swirling leaves, the cave bear became a towering wood elf adorned with a druid’s armor, clawmark scars across his brow, and kind attentive eyes.

Eyes that, to Astarion’s disdain, latched directly onto Áine.

“Praise Sylvanus for your arrival,” the druid declared. “Apologies for the bloodshed. The Oak Father encourages reverence for life in all its forms, but goblins seem to be a particular breed that may stand outside that rule.” He inclined his head, crossing his arm over his chest in a sign of respect. “Thank you for freeing me. Although I’m uncertain if your intuition led you to a hunch that it was no ordinary cave bear you were helping or you’re mad enough to free a wild animal from its cage, consequences be damned.”

“A ‘hunch’ is a good word for it,” Áine admitted, adjusting her lute back across her shoulders. “We’d heard that you may have taken the form of a bear, so it was an educated guess.”

“A true friend of nature then,” he chuckled. “You were searching for me specifically, then?”

“You are the Archdruid Halsin, aren’t you?” Áine asked. “The one versed in the strange illithid tadpole anomaly affecting the region?”

Halsin’s brow creased. “The very same. What interest have you in the tadpoles?”

“Each more than we’d like,” Áine said, glancing at her companions. Astarion was inclined to disagree but kept it to himself. “We’re escapees from a Nautiloid, each with our own little…stowaways, I suppose. We’ve been told that you’re our best hope of removing them.” A disgruntled sound came from Lae’zel behind her. “Okay, one of our best hopes.”

“May I?” Halsin asked, beckoning Áine closer. She stepped away from the group and her eyes followed his hand as he raised it toward her face, the same golden light from earlier filling the air around them. He closed his eyes and she could feel him probing at her aura, at her mind and the creature inside it. The light faded and his expression turned horrified as he opened his eyes to regard her again. “Oak Father preserve you, child, you are indeed infected.”

Áine felt her chest tighten a little. In the midst of all their squabbles and adventuring, sometimes it was possible to forget the real factor in their decision to band together. Hearing the words again aloud renewed her unease tenfold. “Can you help?” she asked.

“I cannot, I’m afraid,” Halsin said. It was evident in his tone that he wished it weren’t the case. “However, I may have a lead for you to learn more about these parasites and maybe, through that, relieve yourselves of them. My first priority, however, is to the Grove. There is a drow here who intends to attack the Grove and its people and I must eliminate the threat to my people before I in good conscience leave this place.” He nodded toward the refuse scattered around them. “You have proven yourselves more than capable in battle. Help me take down the goblin leaders here and I will help guide you to what I believe to be the source of truth for your infection.”

Áine’s lips pursed. “It feels a bit unfair to hold such vital information like a carrot on a string.”

Halsin’s eyes softened on the half-elf. “I know, and I am sorry for it. But I’m in great need of your help. The Grove as well. They will not survive such an onslaught as she has planned for them.”

“We were originally en route to this place to clear it anyway for Zevlor,” Gale pointed out in a lowered voice to Áine. Addressing Halsin now, he said, “We did find one of Aradin’s lads alive on a rack near the entrance. He was going back to the Grove to warn them last we saw him.”

“And the goblin priestess, Gut, has already been dispatched,” Lae’zel reminded them all, leaning against her longsword with the tip of its blade balanced perfectly against the stone.

“You work quickly,” Halsin observed with admiration. “Then that leaves only the hobgoblin and the drow. Hardly a small feat, but much more doable than I first anticipated. Knowing that the boy will be able to warn the Grove as well is a comfort.”

Áine nodded, seemingly to herself. “Alright, we’ll do it,” she said. Astarion’s lip curled in disapproval behind her and his frustration only intensified as she added, “with your help. We’ll make short work of them in our combined efforts.”

Halsin smiled. “Then you have my thanks and my claws.”

They made their way out of the worg pens and into the adjacent chamber where the drow in question and a handful of goblins awaiting her command pored over battle plans, a floating scrying eye tracing their movements. Another brawl broke out with the strike of a thunder-imbued arrow to the eye’s indigo sclera, the entity dissolving in a puff of like-colored vapor.

Off-guard, the drow went down with a few lethal hits to her vital organs, Áine advancing closer to finish the job while her companions took out the goblins. She drew her scimitars as the woman raised her head and met Áine’s eyes, recognition dawning on both their faces. Minthara’s eyes narrowed on Áine, incredulity warring with hate. “You—,” she began, but Áine didn’t give her a chance to finish, running her through with a cross of her blades.

Áine’s jaw worked as she looked down at Minthara’s dying expression. She drew in a metered breath and pulled her swords from her cousin’s body, glancing back at her companions to see if anyone had been near enough to notice what she’d said. Satisfied that her first exchange in decades with Minthara had been private, Áine began to root through her pockets, a muted form of panic stirring inside her at being near one of her kin again after all this time. She felt nothing at killing the other woman, just as Minthara would’ve felt nothing at killing her. Perhaps Minthara may have even relished it, but Áine didn’t share the sentiment. However, seeing a familiar face had shaken her.

She’d parsed through Minthara’s belongings and the documents on her desk when Astarion strolled up to peruse what Áine had left on the ground, holding up a spider leather outfit that befitted a more leisurely setting than a battlefield, the vest hitting well below the navel and flaring into well-tailored shoulders resembling bat wings. “Surely you’re not passing this up, my dear,” he commented, running the pad of his thumb over the seam. “You’d look positively ravishing.”

Áine looked up from the battleplans she was scouring, her stomach twisting when she set eyes on the spider leather attire that only ever befitted a drow. Even brushing her fingertips against the hide had sent a nervous twitch through her hands. “Thank you, but I’m alright,” she said. “Perhaps Lae’zel or Shadowheart will want it.”

Astarion wasn’t shocked by her response, but he was intrigued. Perhaps it was a case of just not liking the style of the outfit, but he wondered as well if it had to do with its drow make. They’d not talked about it, but he’d gotten the sense both from the flash of memory he’d seen via their tadpole connection and from the way her demeanor changed when topics broached her past that she wasn’t fond of where she came from. Why, he hadn’t a clue, but he knew better than to press. “Suit yourself, darling,” he said with ease, setting it back where he’d found it.

Áine smiled softly to herself as she looked back down at the papers, drawing a deep breath to steady her heavy heart. She only looked up again when approached, finding Halsin standing before her back in his human form. “Never had a doubt in my mind for our success,” he said, his voice warm and deep. “I must make my way back to the Grove now that the threat is mitigated. Come find me there and we will see what can be done to address your troubles.”

The bard frowned. “You can’t just tell me where we should go now?”

“I understand what it must seem like from a stranger,” Halsin said, raising a pleading, placating hand. “On Sylvanus, Himself, I swear to you I will answer any and all questions that I can once I ensure the safety of the Grove. I’ve been absent due to my own folly long enough without appointing another.”

Áine nodded slowly, remembering their short time there. “Kagha may need additional address,” she commented offhand as she turned the parchment on the desk. “If she hasn’t already sealed off the Grove completely.”

“Sealed off the—,” Halsin began to ask, stopping himself and giving his head a curt shake. “Then it seems my return is evermore urgent. I will see you back at the Grove, I trust, then?”

“You will,” Áine said, looking back up to meet his eyes. Halsin smiled, clearly relieved, and she added, “In your rounds, would you tell Zevlor the threat to his people has been neutralized? I’d like for them to be able to start their preparations ahead of our arrival.”

“You have my word it will be my first conversation upon returning,” Halsin said. “Thank you again. I will see you soon.”

Áine listened to him leave, running her hands over her face with frustration. Astarion watched her reaction, pleased at least that she didn’t seem taken by the tall, hunky druid, despite being a bit over-friendly earlier. Perhaps it was more of the “camaraderie” she’d referenced with Shadowheart. Regardless, he didn’t like it. To Áine, he said, “Seemed a bit of a farce to give us an extra leg of our journey just for some answers.”

“Answers he promised following taking out Min—the drow leader,” she said, barely stumbling in her speech but still doing so enough for Astarion to notice.

Astarion stowed the dagger he was inspecting, eying Áine as he crossed leisurely toward her post at the drow’s desk. “You knew her name?”

Áine debated with herself for a moment, her gaze flickering up to check the locations of the others, before she murmured, “I knew her. Sort of.”

His brows rose. “How?”

Clearly uncomfortable, Áine straightened from her hunch over the battleplans and rested her hands on her hips. “I think she worked out to be my second or third cousin in the weird scheme of family trees,” she sighed. “I only met her a few times, usually under unpleasant circumstances.”

“Unpleasant family interactions,” Astarion mused, stopping to stand in front of her. “I can relate to that.”

Áine smiled ruefully. “We both deserved far better than we got regarding our ‘caretakers’.”

“You’ve no idea, dearest,” he murmured, meeting her eyes again and reading the pain there. “Or perhaps you do. Just perhaps in a shorter time.”

“I was born into mine,” she admitted, leaning back to sit against the edge of the desk. “You?”

Astarion shook his head. “Reborn into mine, I suppose. Although it’s never felt like much of a life, this immortal coil,” he mumbled, not sure why he was being so honest with her.

Her brow creased as she ventured to ask, “Was it all…like what I saw?” She wanted to know him, but she was afraid to accidentally press where he wasn’t ready and scare him back into his mask.

Áine saw his jawline tense before he answered, his gaze sliding up to the top of her head so he didn’t have to look her in the eyes as he said, “200 years of it.”

Of all the things the bard expected, she hadn’t expected that. Her heart compacted, crushed in her chest as she looked at him with a new perspective, in some ways seeing him for the first time. She didn’t realize that her eyes had started to well with sympathetic tears until he met her gaze again and looked alarmed. “Now now, don’t do that,” he scolded her. “I didn’t answer your question for the sake of pity.”

“Sorry,” Áine said, blinking hard as she looked up at the crumbling ceiling to try and contain the moisture that had risen to her eyes. Now worrying about her reaction, she didn’t see the way he looked at her, the way he was reacting to seeing someone feel for him for the first time. He should’ve been pleased, should’ve milked it for the sake of his so-called plan because it clearly was working in his favor. “For this,” she added, gesturing vaguely at herself, “and that it happened to you at all.”

“What could you have to be sorry for?” he asked.

“For the fact that it happened,” she said, her eyes tinged pink at the corners but the floodgates successfully shut. “On behalf of everyone who failed to help you.”

“One must try in order to fail,” he spat bitterly. “Complacency and indifference from all parties involved. There was a time I prayed to any god whose name I knew that might listen and not one of them made any attempt. The mind flayers were the ones who sprung me, who gave me some of my own life back.” Astarion ground his teeth, running one of his hands roughly through his curls.

Áine watched him, nodding a little. She knew something of that divine silence. “The gods seem to be best at maintaining the quiet when our prayers are loudest,” she observed. She offered a halfhearted smile and leaned away from the desk. “I imagine I would have died in the attempt, but I wouldn’t mind a shot at going back in time to try springing you a bit earlier.”

“You would have died in the attempt,” he confirmed, snorting a bit at the mere whim. “However, I appreciate the sentiment. Even though I would wager that it would have still left me with most of my enslavement…?”

“Are you trying to find a sneaky way to ask my age?” Áine accused him, content to move back to lighter topics.

Astarion smirked. “All a clever plan, you see,” he remarked. “Walk the path of a roundabout conversation only to pounce when you least expect it.”

“You do have a habit of the pouncing bit, I’ve noticed,” she laughed, glancing over her shoulder to check on the others. When she saw them gathering up by the archway back to the main hall, Áine nodded for him to follow her and rejoin the group.

“You’ve yet to see the half of it, my dear,” he murmured, leaning in close to her ear. His breath against her cheek caused a delicious shiver to work its way up her spine and she ducked away with a laugh that made Astarion smirk and also feel inclined to chase her. “Indulge me though.”

“Fine,” Áine said. “I’m 55. And, in truth, I only skirted my own personal hell about ten years ago by now, so I wouldn’t have spared you much time at all from your two centuries.”

Astarion filed those notes away to his timeline for her, bewildered by his compulsion to know her. “I would have taken what I could get,” he said, “but you would have failed. A true vampire is nothing to trifle with.”

“What about you?” she asked as they crossed the bridge spanning the chasm between halves of the room. “200 and how many years old?”

Astarion smirked. “Are you trying to find a blatantly obvious way to ask my age?” he asked, mimicking her earlier tone.

“I am,” she declared. “It’s only fair.”

“Very well,” Astarion sighed. “239 in total.”

Her brow crumpled. “You were only 39?” That was unbearably young by elvish standards. He nodded and she swore quietly. “What an awful bastard.”

“He technically saved me, you know,” Astarion mumbled. “I didn’t realize the strings that came attached to the ‘gift’, but I would be long dead in the city streets if not for it.” His eyes traveled to the group as they neared the doorway, the ruins past the stone arch littered with battle-ready goblins who had finally found the body of their beloved Absolutist priestess in her room. “A story for another time though perhaps.”

Later that night, after fighting their way through the entire camp and effectively becoming doused in goblin blood and projectile grease, the group set up camp and took turns cleaning themselves off at the riverside.

Generally pleased to rinse herself of the muck and the situation overall, Áine returned as one of the last back to camp, winding her wet hair into a braid over her shoulder on her way to her tent.

Her path was interrupted by a wayward vampire, who looked positively moony past anything she’d ever seen on his face.

“There you are! My friend!” Astarion exclaimed, his gestures broad and sweeping to a point that Áine was wary of being clonked by one.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, trying to make sense of his behavior.

“I have drunk! Not alcohol, of course, but a bear,” he said. “He took a little of my blood. I took all of his.”

Áine smirked as she knelt to pack her bathing implements away. When she stood and faced him again, she returned to working on the plait in her hair and asked, “It wasn’t Halsin, was it?”

Astarion laughed and it was a quick and almost boisterous sound. Gods, he was out of it. “And if it was?” he scoffed, gesturing flippantly. “One less ingrate to stand there and devour you with their eyes.”

Her brows rose. Amused, she asked, “Jealous again? I’ve told you before, it’s hardly more than camaraderie.”

He snorted dismissively. “My sweet, I know ‘camaraderie’ when I see it. You were right about your dynamic with Shadowheart, I admit I misunderstood it, but trust me to know when another man is looking at something he wants to sink his teeth into.”

Áine just laughed. “I think you’re the only one game to sink your teeth into me,” she remarked as she tied off her braid.

“I’m far from the only one,” he argued. His expression returned to something more relaxed as he flashed her a fangy smile. “But I am the best candidate.”

It crossed her mind that perhaps Astarion had targeted a bear because of whatever looks he thought Halsin was giving her earlier on. It was a startling and oddly sexy consideration. Mostly because, thankfully, the bear he’d picked wasn’t the Archdruid they’d gone to so much trouble to rescue. “It definitely wasn’t the druid though?” she asked, only half-kidding.

“It was not,” Astarion grumbled, waving her off. “It was a bear. A big bear. And a marked improvement from the rats and flies that Cazador fed me.”

Astarion truly seemed to be in a mood to volunteer information, Áine noticed, her lips pursing slightly at the mention of his old master’s name. “Sounds horrid. And hardly enough to live on.”

“Just enough to keep me alive, for lack of a better word,” Astarion remarked. “No more, no less. Still, that is firmly in the past. I’ll never have to grovel for him again.”

Áine nodded, running her fingers along her braid as she said, “It’s true. You can be better than he ever was.”

“Exactly!” Astarion said. “I can be better than him. Stronger. More powerful. More…” He gauged Áine’s expression and snorted. “...Oh, you meant…be kinder. Pet bunnies, that sort of thing.”

“You needn’t be a saint, but I’m not sure getting power-hungry will get you what you need,” she mused.

“I have no objection to being ‘nice’,” Astarion said. “Once I have the power to bend others to my will. You can’t look at the world and tell me that I’m wrong. The power-hungry run Faerûn.”

“You’re not wrong, but in a better world, the powerful would have a duty to protect those with less standing,” Áine said. “And a better world does sound nice.”

“We’ve already discussed how absent the ‘powerful’ were in my imprisonment,” he gritted. “The mind flayers are the only ones I have to thank for my freedom. They gave me a gift—the strength to take back my own life. I’m embracing this power… And you should, too.”

Áine gave him a skeptical look, even understanding somewhat where he was coming from. “You’ll embrace being a mind flayer then? Once the tadpoles decide to pop?” she asked with doubt evident in her voice.

“Who knows what we may find when we locate the source?” he suggested. “Perhaps there’s a way to keep them dormant. Who could say? Simply consider it.”

“Fine,” Áine said, in part just to get him off her back about the tadpoles. Every so often she saw this villainous side of him and she supposed it came from a place of being afraid to return to his imprisonment. That, she could fully understand. She just didn’t see eye-to-eye with him on where his mind found solutions to that fear.

Her eyes fell on a silver handle sticking out of the pocket of his trousers, the ornate design of the metal a touch familiar. “Is that a mirror?” Áine asked.

Astarion looked a little startled, following her gaze and sighing. “The tadpole hasn’t muted all my vampiric aspects. I already knew that, but I occasionally find myself hoping that its influence will flux and grant me more indulgences,” he admitted.

She frowned. “Do you miss it? Seeing your own face?”

“Petty vanity?” he supplied, giving her a dismal look. “Of course I miss it.” Áine smiled at his choice of words, her smile saddening as he continued to admit in his blood-drunk stupor, “I haven’t even seen this face since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

“What color were they before?” she wondered.

She regretted her question as soon as he was at a loss for an answer. “I…don’t remember,” he said. “My face is just a dark shape in my past. Another thing taken from me.” Astarion looked at Áine, his brows furrowing as he saw the speculative look in her eyes. “...What?”

“I’ll be your mirror,” she said simply. “What do you want to know?”

He was touched. It was an embarrassing sensation to experience, but experience it he did, and with her specifically time and time again. Astarion’s expression was open, almost vulnerable, as he said, “I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me. What you see.”

Áine smiled and tilted her head. He felt naked under her gaze, and not in the sort of way that had come to feel normalized regardless of his feelings and desires. This felt new, disturbingly intimate if intimacy could take any form other than the carnal variety, which he doubted.

“Well,” she said, “the first place my eyes go are your eyes. They’re piercing. And would have always been, I imagine, red or otherwise.”

Astarion fought down a smile, forming it instead into a smirk. “Oh? Go on.”

Áine chuckled, her eyes tracing over his jawline, the sweep of his elven ears. By following her gaze, he could almost put a form back to the faceless shadow in his mind’s eye whenever he tried to picture his own appearance. His own identity. “Then I notice the sweet way your hair curls against your ears,” she said.

“Do we truly need to wax poetic?” he huffed. “Just tell me I’m beautiful and get it over with.” She didn’t compliment with boilerplate material and based on that it was clear she was truly looking when she saw him. He felt like a schoolboy squirming under her gaze.

“And that, er, interesting mole on your cheek draws the eye,” she suddenly said, laughing at him when he cast her a horrified look. “Kidding.”

“Very funny,” he griped, waving her off as he turned around to walk back to his tent.

“Hey, Astarion?”

He gave an exaggerated sigh and turned to look at her over his shoulder. “What?”

Astarion found Áine looking unexpectedly doting when he took her in, her expression warm as she nodded and said, “You are beautiful.”

“I know, darling,” Astarion huffed, making Áine laugh as he proceeded back to his tent and succeeding in obscuring the reaction he had to those words falling from her perfect lips. Like she’d meant them. He’d been called beautiful by thousands of mouths, some well-meaning and some not kind in the slightest. His shell was all he was truly worth. Yet something stirred when Áine said it. It was obvious from their every interaction that she wasn’t immune to his charms but, although he refused to admit it, he wasn’t immune to hers either.

She stayed up that night again to sing for them, once again demanding that everyone go settle into bed before she started. Her tone always felt similar to a mother shooing away her children with the promise of returning with a bedtime story which, to be fair, was part of her joke.

Astarion lay in his tent, still quietly flustered from his interaction with her earlier. His inebriated state had passed and now he was simply fatigued as one might be after a large meal. He listened hard to the silence across the camp until the soft sounds of her lute began to punctuate the air, her voice swirling up to meet them in due time with the lyrics to a ballad. His eyelids fluttered shut as he let her voice wash over him, his stomach simultaneously turning at the sensation of his walls lowering, even for a moment in solitude.

She was perhaps halfway through her song when a rustle in some nearby brush disturbed Astarion’s reverie. His eyes opened and he remained still, listening. He heard the light tap of something’s paws outside in the dirt. Astarion sat up and shifted toward his tent door, parting the fabric to peer out as his body coiled, ready to lunge if needed.

Outside, he saw the owlbear cub they’d first spotted running around the goblin camp, chased around by a couple of the little drunks celebrating on the steps of the ruined temple. It was making its way toward Áine at the fireside, still singing and not noticing the creature.

Astarion was preparing to leap from the shadows of his tent and intervene when Áine sensed the creature behind her and turned around to look. And when she did, Astarion saw that her face was streaked with tears set aglow by the campfire’s light.

“Oh,” she said when she saw the owlbear cub, her fingers stilling on her strings. “Hello.”

The cub stopped, shuffling its paws and giving a meek little hoot. Astarion had frozen on seeing the state of Áine’s eyes, relaxing only slightly when he gathered that the cub wasn’t hunting for prey. At least not yet.

Satisfied with the cub’s timid nature, Astarion’s eyes moved back to the bard’s face, bewildered at the sight of her—he could see the wet trails spanning from the rims of her reddened eyes to the base of her neck, but her voice hadn’t shaken once. Was this normal for her? Was this why she wouldn’t sing in front of anyone? But why was it happening at all?

As he traced back through their earlier conversation, wondering idly if he’d said something that may have upset her, he watched her lean down toward a bowl of meat scraps they’d set aside for Scratch during dinner, pluck up a leftover strip, and toss it to the cub, who gobbled it up the moment it landed with an appreciative grumble.

Something startled it then and the cub scampered away back into the shadows. Áine turned to watch it go, pensive as she wiped her cheek against her shoulder, her tears absorbing into the fabric of her shirt.

In her mind’s eye, she saw a different owlbear cub of decades past, fleeing into the brambles of its nest behind its mother, who ferociously bore down on Áine and several of her fellow trainees, weapons raised to slay the “monster” and prove themselves “ready” to serve.

Áine got lost in the memory for a moment, brought about by the creature and by seeing Minthara again today. She paused to listen to the silent night air surrounding her before she rose to her feet and held her lute by the neck as she made her way to her tent, unaware of the wakeful crimson eyes that traced her every step.

Next chapter: Chapter 10, "What You Want" (NSFW)

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