Chapter Text
The scouting party has been gone for days.
It isn’t the first time any of them have spent more than a day away from camp, but the stretch of time, quite literally on top of the unfamiliar landscape of the mountain pass, gives the party cause for concern. To say that the rest of those who remain are tense is an understatement.
Shadowheart pretends not to be concerned, but Astarion knows better. He sees how she chews on her bottom lip, fretfully wringing her hand with that festering wound as she glances out into the darkness.
“I thought you might be relieved, having the Githyanki further away from your throat,” he comments glibly. Shadowheart glowers at him.
“And would you be relieved knowing that half our party could be smashed at the bottom of a chasm right now?” she snaps, before pointedly adding, “You would hardly be relieved yourself, when your blood bank is in pieces.”
Astarion discerns a small, “Yikes,” from a nearby Karlach.
“I thought your goddess was the ‘Lady of Loss?’” he sneers. “And even if that were the case, that spiky little artefact of yours would be zooming back into your pocket, wouldn’t it?
“No need for tantrums, little Sharran. They’ll be back… and then you and the Githyanki can work it out in the bedroll, won’t you?”
He leaves Shadowheart sputtering as he seeks out other, less miserable company. It’s slim pickings out here — Wyll sits by the fire, the flames reflected in his remaining infernal eye as he takes deep drags of the wine they had pilfered a week ago. Karlach seems to be unable to stay still, her pacing wearing a hole into the mountain.
“She has a point,” Wyll says as he passes by, a little too loudly. “Is your heart so cold not to be worried for Church, at the very least?”
His words and facial expression are borderline accusatory, but he’s clearly too tired and deep in his cup to have much conviction. Astarion knows how highly — and can imagine how often — Wyll thinks of Church, too. He once peeked out of his tent to see the two of them snickering over Church’s clumsy attempt at a courtly dance. He saw how Wyll’s eyes shone in the light of the fire, and the elf felt a pang of envy to see how easily Church fell into his steadying arms. There was a tense moment at the contact, Church blushing before stepping away, smiling sheepishly at the other warlock. Wyll seemed to smile with wordless understanding, but Astarion couldn’t help but notice the expression of disappointment plain on his face as he bid the tiefling goodnight.
Ever the chivalrous knight, Wyll had never brought up the subject of their shared affection for Church. Still, Astarion knows that had he not been humbled by his transformation, the Blade of Frontiers would have challenged him to a duel ages ago.
“Unlike the rest of you,” Astarion says witheringly, “Perhaps I have just a tiny bit more faith in the capabilities of our favorite warlock,” he glares pointedly at Wyll, “…and the others.”
“You know, he’s right,” Karlach pipes up, still shifting from foot to foot. “They can handle themselves just fine. And wouldn’t we have felt it by now?”
Wyll frowns. “Felt what?”
“Did those horns grow straight through your brain, little warlock?” Astarion says scornfully. “It’s our parasites. They are linked. If Chu— if any one of us were to be grievously injured, we would have felt it. A jolt. A bite. A…”
…rush of warmth, sparkling gently into his jumbled mind. As his tunnel vision clears, the first thing he sees are Church’s widened eyes like two pools of gold pouring into his, relief shining as he leans back from Astarion’s burned and battered body.
“Oh gods, you’re alive!” the sweaty, grimy tiefling breathes through sweltering air. “It worked!”
He clutches at Astarion’s prone form, pulling him up to a seat. A singed and rumpled scroll sits forgotten at his side, the runes upon it slowly ebbing away, its magic depleted.
“Oh fuck,” Astarion groans. “We only had two of those.”
Church’s grimace is not reassuring.
“Well, actually…”
“Hells, don’t tell me…”
“That… golem took out Shadowheart too,” the tiefling admits weakly, but he straightens, banishing the doubt from his face. “Don’t look at me like that. It was two scrolls for two lives .”
Astarion gives an enormous sigh, though he’s interrupted by a coughing fit of congealed blood. “…Well you won’t hear me complaining,” he sighs dryly.
He’s not sure where the flare of affection he feels this close in proximity to Church comes from. It dazes him. Surely it must be from the magma that bursts and swelters far too close for comfort. And yet he knows he could just lie there roasting for hours, counting every single freckle on that perfect nose of his…
“Astarion?”
Karlach’s voice cuts through the daydream like her greataxe.
“Hm?” Astarion’s eyes focus back above the fire, where the three others watch him with infuriating concern. “Ah yes, as I was saying. We know that we are linked. At the very least, that dream guardian of ours would have told us if something truly went wrong.” He turns away with a haughty sip of his wine. “I’m not losing any sleep over it. I suggest you all do the same.”
He sarcastically raises a goblet to Wyll, before retreating into his tent.
As the flap falls shut, Astarion lets out a deep, shuddering breath. He kneads the heel of his hands into his eyes, exhausted from nights of keeping watch; nights of hunting not just for prey but also any sound, any sign at all of the returning party. His cold, accursed heart beats thunderously through his veins as he collapses into a tense heap upon his bedroll.
An elf has command over his rest. He can choose what to meditate upon, unlike the others who are often at the whims of their dreams and demons. But tonight, there seems to be no room in his mind for mere strategy and tactics.
Instead, his meditation returns to Church, over and over again.
—
“Keep going… please,” the warlock begs, panting.
Somewhere back in the waking world, Astarion can feel his lips twitch into a smile.
“Are you sure?” Astarion taunts him, deftly twirling his blades. Church watches him enviously. “I’d hate to break you, darling.”
The warlock scrambles to his feet, dusting off his clothing. The fabric clings to his sweaty body so very enticingly.
“I’m so close to getting it right!” Church protests. “It’s just the footwork…” he laughs, breathlessly. “You make it look so easy.”
He says the last bit gently, fondly even as he assumes a fighting stance. “Let’s go.”
It’s adorable, honestly, how seriously the warlock takes their private “lessons.” For Astarion, it started out as just another opportunity to get him alone. Once alone, the spawn could plant the seeds of influence in that impressionable little brain so very eager to please.
But the elf recognizes that there are additional benefits to the training — so long as Church survives their journey, Astarion has one powerful ally among their party. Without the warlock, well, the vampire spawn wouldn’t put it past the party to cast him out into the wilds, or stake him through the heart. Despite Church’s defense of him, he knows that the others simply don’t trust him around their necks, let alone the tiefling’s. As much as he hates it, he has to admit that Church at times has been his one shield between a brutish Gur and a camp full of sanctimonious bastards.
And so, he puts every bit of effort into these lessons, even if not in the ways Church had expected.
Astarion hums thoughtfully, and in one fluid movement he’s behind Church, body snug against his. It elicits the tiniest intake of breath from the warlock, who nearly drops his dagger at the contact.
“Shift your feet like so, and keep your center of balance here. There’s no need to spread your legs so wide.” Astarion murmurs into the tiefling’s ear, before adding breathily, “…not yet, anyways.”
“For fuck’s sake…” Church grumbles, but he’s flushing a dusty, purple hue beneath his gray skin as Astarion continues to adjust his stance, pressing his hips firmly, torturously against his backside. He straddles Church’s swaying tail, which he can feel twitching nervously between the elf’s thighs.
“And again, don’t tuck your thumb under your fingers like that,” Astarion scolds him, reaching to wrap his own around Church’s, deftly sliding them to fix the tiefling’s trembling grip on the dagger, arm along arm. “As your offhand, you’re holding your blade too low. It leaves that precious face and torso unguarded. So raise it up, and then compensate by lowering your stance like so —,” and he breathes softly as he guides him, nuzzling into the warlock’s neck, “— good boy.”
“Oh hells,” Church mutters, blinking his eyes rapidly and clearing his throat. He seems torn between laughing and frowning in exaggerated disapproval at the tease. “You really aren’t helping me focus, you know.”
“Am I not?” Astarion says airily. “As you very well know, a fight won’t come without its… distractions.”
And he steps back, peeling himself away from the tiefling’s tense body. Church inadvertently lets out a small disappointed noise, but he covers it up with a cough. He shakes himself out of his flushed daze, falling back into an improved stance. He raises his right hand, bicep taut as magic whirls and pulses around it. In his left, he grips the glinting dagger, blunted with wards and ready to parry.
“There we go,” Astarion smiles, unsheathing his own shortsword and dagger and crouching poised to attack. “Well darling. Let’s dance.”
–
The sparring match ends quickly with Church once again flattened against the grass, the wind knocked out of him. The eldritch magic dissipates as he glares at his dagger glinting a couple meters away. After a brief scuffle, Astarion had disarmed him only in a matter of seconds.
“Well, that was far better than last time,” Astarion remarks. He has the decency to act just a little winded as he gallantly retrieves the blade for Church.
The tiefling grunts from where he collapsed.
“I’m going to die out there,” he says in a defeated monotone. “And you know it.”
“Well,” Astarion replies indulgently, ignoring the lurch in his heart at those words, no matter how flippant they might have been. “At the very least you can poke a few eyes out before getting smashed to pieces.”
The elf tilts his head, considering his charge. The tiefling is vulnerable in more ways than physical — he’s disappointed, and therefore susceptible to any kind of praise or encouragement.
As Church watches, Astarion steps over him, towering over his prone body. Before the tiefling can say a word, the elf settles himself comfortably down, straddling his hips.
“I think you’ve earned a break, don’t you?” Astarion murmurs with a nearly imperceptible roll of his hips. “We could find a change of scenery. Somewhere we can… do a different type of sparring?”
Church gulps, his throat bobbing slightly as his eyes flicker thoughtfully towards the vacant ruins. He sighs deeply, grinning despite himself.
“Fine. One more round, and then…” he rolls his eyes as he pushes Astarion off of him with an undignified yelp. “…you can give me a… demonstration. A few new moves, perhaps?”
Church holds his hand out, beckoning for the handle of the dagger. Astarion blinks, only just realizing he has been armed with it this whole time. It’s telling of Church that he didn’t even seem to flinch at its dangerous proximity.
That sorry, trusting fool. He really would dead if not for him.
Astarion bares his teeth in a wicked grin, tongue sliding ever so slightly to wet his bottom lip. He knows Church watches the motion intently as the elf relinquishes the dagger back into the tiefling’s hand.
“I can’t wait,” Astarion says breathily, before stepping back into his stance. “Let’s make this quick, then.”