Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a rare occurrence for Wyll to have company at camp under the moonlight, and much rarer for said company to be a vampire. One might have expected a monster slayer to avoid fraternizing with such creatures at all, but as always, life had many surprises in store. Astarion (Wyll had repeated his name several times in his mind) was sitting on a log across from him, one leg crossed over the other. He had declined the witcher’s offering of rabbit stew, instead opting to brood by the fire - perhaps due to his species’ inclination for raw meats, Wyll thought. His red eyes occasionally darted towards Wyll, perhaps lingering for a few moments, but they soon found their way back to the fire in front of him. The witcher glanced at the vampire too, but if their eyes met, neither party attempted to mention it. 

The repetitive sound of sharpening metal on a whetstone and the crackling of burning wood filled the air. An excited chirping of insects could be heard in the distance too, as expected at this time of the year. The tension was still palpable - so much so, that the witcher wagered that his blade was just sharp enough to slice it. Countless questions were passing through Wyll's mind every second, only to fizzle out the moment they reached his tongue. He had already seen deeply into Astarion’s circumstances, (far deeper than anyone else living, most likely) yet his curiosity desired for more: how had he come to be Cazador’s thrall? How old was he, exactly? Did he ever have to take a person’s life? 

There was also one separate, pertinent question: was this the right decision? A vampire was sitting within arm’s reach, sharing in the delightful warmth of the fire - a vampire who, for all intents and purposes, should be a bloodthirsty creature of the night. Wyll had good reason to let him travel together, of course - the fear and pain in Astarion’s eyes spoke louder than his fangs and claws. He saw yet another victim of Cazador’s brutality, seeking some semblance of compassion. 

Still, the image of Astarion piercing his neck for a convenient meal persisted in his mind.

Wyll had to admit, even after what happened at the manor - no, especially after what happened at the manor - he wished to exercise a certain amount of caution in his interactions. Ultimately, Wyll decided to take comfort in the fact that he had no need to use his blade yet; an awkward peace was much more preferable to frank violence.

“Do you truly mean to sleep here? Spread your blanket on bare ground instead of, well, a bed?” It was Astarion’s voice that broke the silence, and almost caused Wyll to drop his sword. The witcher cleared his throat, more out of embarrassment than any real need, and gathered his thoughts for a reply.

“Not something you’re used to?” Wyll asked, careful not to show his surprise.

“I’m afraid not. Tell me, do you always resort to sleeping in the wilds like this?” The vampire stretched his arms and leaned back, his unimpressed eyes facing Wyll.

The witcher sighed, returning his attention to his sword. “Often, yes. I can’t exactly expect a proper bed every night on the Path*, can I? Besides, my coin purse would soon run dry if I were to rent a room so frequently.”

“What about the last contract? Surely you were paid a decent sum for dealing with such a ferocious vampire.” 

Wyll paused and dug around in a nearby satchel, eventually picking up a fist-sized pouch for Astarion to see. “That’s it - roughly a quarter of what I was promised. A witcher’s word doesn’t count for much compared to a trophy.” Truth be told, he did not resent the outcome; rather, he was thankful that he was paid at all. Time and again he was chased by guard dogs or mobs holding pitchforks, set loose by a disgruntled employer. 

He merely regretted mentioning this when he saw the vampire’s uncomfortable expression. 

Wyll’s mouth opened, desperate to change the subject, only to be distracted by the other’s sudden question.

“Do you do this often? Throw yourself into the flames to save every poor soul, knowing you yourself will be burnt?” Astarion’s words had a slight barbed edge, though he coated them in a silky voice. 

“I’m a witcher. Killing monsters means -” 

“And yet you didn’t kill me.” Wyll’s words were cut short by the vampire’s firm riposte. 

He could have made any retort. I don’t think you’re a monster. I only kill harmful monsters. But he realized that none would have mattered. Astarion stood up from his original seat, choosing to occupy the space next to the witcher instead. The tips of his pale hand rested on top of Wyll’s own, tip toeing on the line between friendly and intruding . He was close, close enough for the witcher to fully appreciate his face in the warm hues of the fire. 

Gods, he was gorgeous.

Wyll knew this already, but every glance at Astarion seemed to shine the word ‘beautiful’ in a new light. His red eyes, adorned by long eyelashes, were like two jewels on his sculpted face. His lips, though pale, looked unblemished and soft. Under the delicate caress of night, Wyll was convinced, there was the muse of countless ballads and poems.“I told you before: I’m willing to make this worth your while, and I’m happy to offer you what I’m sure damsels in distress did not.” The vampire’s voice took on a sultry tone, his body subtly leaning into Wyll. Each miniscule movement caught the witcher’s attention - the slight twitch of Astarion’s lips, the batting of his eyelashes. He felt his desires stirring in response.

“If I may…” A slight smirk showed on Astarion’s face, and a pale hand rose to gently cup Wyll’s face. By reflex, he looked towards the vampire’s hand. Are those…

“Astarion, you…” His words slowly found a place on his tongue.

“Hm? Is something wrong, dear?” Astarion smiled and leaned back, maintaining his gaze.

“You're hurt.” The wounds on the vampire’s hands had caught his eye, and Wyll felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Here, let me see them.” He slowly reached out, carefully setting the other’s hand in his lap. It seemed as though they were the same sores that he had noticed the previous day - marks from ill-fitting handcuffs and other forms of torture, most likely. 

“Oh please, they’re just scratches. They’ll heal by themselves.” Astarion, after a moment of stunned silence, protested in his theatrical voice. He even attempted to pull his hands away - though not with much force, Wyll noted. “Now stop fussing and -”

“I have bandages here. Some celandine salves too, if there is pain elsewhere bothering you.” It was now the witcher’s turn to interrupt, and he did so gladly. Steady hands retrieved the pack of medical supplies and applied ointment onto the sores, eliciting soft hisses from the vampire. He dressed the wounds in practiced movements - something he had done for himself and many others over the years -  while the crackling of the fire once again filled the air. Wyll had expected more disapproval from the sharp tongue that Astarion was so keen on using, but his well-trained sense of self-preservation chose not to remark on this. Nor was he going to leave his treatment half-finished. As soon as he finished covering the last sore, Astarion swiftly pulled his hands back, whispering an easily–missed ‘thank you’.

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Pain, only pain.

A sharp edge pierces his eye, it dances and flies.

A cackle. A laugh.

Is it there?

He searches, but in vain.

The pain does not stop; it only becomes worse.

He feels a familiar claw, creeping up his back -

Mizora.

The sensation of his own hand rubbing his eye woke Wyll from his slumber. The first few seconds of wakefulness were unpleasantly incoherent - as if he had spent the last night drowning himself in potent liquor. Actually - a bottle, no, a few bottles of strong ale, seemed like a perfect idea after his fitful night’s sleep. His right eye still vaguely stung, eliciting a soft groan of a curse. How long has this been going on for? Two years? Three? He recalled the beginning moment with no great difficulty: the breaking of an unsavory deal, then blood filling his vision. One would even argue it would have been more challenging to forget, when his eyepatch served as a daily reminder. 

The early rays of sun filtered through the foliage, coaxing Wyll back into reality. The witcher got up from his bedroll, gently massaging his right eye before donning the eyepatch. The episodes of pain came at more frequent intervals as time went on, he found. At first he was only bothered by the mild throbbing pain every few months. He had initially blamed it on recovery, fatigue, and any excuse that would deter him from even entertaining a more sinister cause. Later, they arrived every month, and the every month soon became every few weeks. Wyll had to admit - it did not bode well for the future. All the more reason to get to Pont Vanis**. A snort from Firefly, still tied to a nearby tree, broke his chain of thought. He smiled, moving over to give her the attention she rightfully demanded. It had become a morning ritual of theirs at some point: him brushing her coat with broad strokes of his hand, and her directing him with a nudge from her head. “I hope you slept comfortably last night, even with our new -” He stopped mid-sentence, swiftly turning to face the camp. 

Two empty bedrolls, charred kindling, and a notable lack of a certain vampire. 

Shit.

Instinct, experience, and common sense all urged Wyll to find Astarion, and he obeyed. Putting his armor on and grabbing his sword merely required muscle memory. The true capacity of his mind was solely devoted to this search. Where on earth could he be? There is nothing but forest around here. Wyll looked behind the bushes, the trees, and any spot that could potentially hide someone. The next town is quite close. Perhaps there? He searched the ground for bootprints. I should have known this would happen - rescuing a bloody vampire. Was my training for naught? The trail was relatively fresh and light, leading away from the campsite. What kind of carnage would he unleash? The bootprints led Wyll to a well-hidden clearing not too far from where he started. Various evergreens and tall bushes adorned its circumference, with a boulder in its center. 

“You finally woke up.” A familiar voice came from on top of the boulder, tinged with just a hint of boredom. “You know - I never realized how pleasing early morning sun could be. Just shows how much of life you miss out on when you’re trapped in some dingy manor.” Astarion huffed, stretching in the daylight with the grace of a cat. Sunlight was just as much of a flattering decoration to him as moonlight, apparently. “You could do with some sunlight as well. Gosh, you look positively dead !” He gasped, putting his palm to his mouth in mock astonishment. 

“Thank you for the offer -” Wyll sighed, relieving the tension in his body, “but I am afraid we should be on our way.”

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Wyll led the way, flanked by Firefly and Astarion on either side. The three realized quite early into their travels that the mare and the vampire were none too impressed by each other, and it would be wise to avoid any instance of biting - from either side. Besides, separating the two meant that the journey could be enjoyed without the noises of complaint. Astarion, his lightly-bandaged hands occasionally fiddling with his blouse, seemed to also appreciate the scenery of the road in peace. Firefly looked quite content, seeing as she too did not make a fuss. 

“Witcher, I’ve been meaning to ask -” Astarion spoke up, “ what happened to your eye?”

Wyll paused for a moment. Truth be told, his full situation was not something he had wholly confessed to anyone. Sure, his fellow witchers noticed the distinct eyepatch, and asked, but he had managed to brush their concerns off. Another injury added to the pile, they’d assume. When he eventually responded, he wondered if Astarion would remark on the faint veneer of his words. “A careless mistake; I was a younger witcher who underestimated the monster in front of me.” He was telling the truth - even if it was just a fragment of one. Wyll paused again, waiting for Astarion to pick his mind apart for more of these fragments. 

However, when Astarion responded with a simple “I see.”, Wyll almost thanked the deities above for granting mercy at least once. It seemed unfair, true. He revealed precious little about himself while knowing much more about Astarion. On the other hand, they both knew that this was a temporary arrangement - not a betrothal. When the time comes , Wyll thought, we’ll go our separate ways. This will be but a fleeting dream.

“I hope we have a rest scheduled soon;” the vampire continued, much to Wyll’s relief, “I’m afraid my delicate self simply cannot tolerate this for much longer.” 

“Mm. We’re almost at our next stop - Vomer.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Vomer were as busy as Wyll remembered them to be. Stalls boasting merchandise ranging from daily essentials to luxuries, children playing creative little games, and people from various walks of life were all part of the usual scenery. Little had changed from when he last stayed at this place, many years ago. And like the previous visit, the sheer amount of noise and smells gave him a slight headache, but it was comforting to see that he was not the most prominent spectacle in the area. The people were too occupied with their own business, it seemed, that seeing two cloaked strangers with a horse may as well have been part of their daily routine. 

“So - anything in particular you find appealing?” asked Astarion, wearing a cloak and satchel that Wyll had to spare. Before the witcher even realized, he was already observing the goods with keen crimson eyes. 

“Fresh eggs! Fresh eggs with not a trace of shit on them!”

“The finest quality silks, come take a closer look!”

Wyll skimmed through the stalls. He could see vendors advertising freshly baked bread, a few merchants peddling shimmering gems that were supposedly from Zerrikania, and a stand dedicated to artisan made knives. A host of interesting and unusual things caught his attention, but he knew not to let his gaze linger for too long - his coin purse only had so much to give. Maybe , his mind began to run some calculations, if I spend a bit less on potion ingredients, I can afford a decent pair of new boots. Oh, but Firefly does need to have new shoes fitted; I need to keep that in mind. He had no doubt that Astarion would want something for himself as well - and he was equally sure that the vampire did not bring any money.

“I think,” he concluded from his estimations, “a new contract would be most appealing.”

The two left the busiest area of the marketplace after Astarion had browsed to his heart’s content. Fortunately, he decided that he did not want for anything, and Wyll did not have to part with his money just yet. When they made their way to the town’s noticeboard - or rather attempted to get to the noticeboard, they were physically blocked by a sizable crowd gathered around a wooden platform. A single man stood on top; the red-and-white vestment with its unique symbol marked him as a priest of the Eternal Fire*, Wyll noticed. The witcher did not recall the church having significant influence in the region. I suppose some things did change from the last time I was here. The man motioned at the crowd to silence their murmurs, and when the noise dropped from clear conversations to a few whispers, he began speaking in a confident voice. 

“Good citizens, we are living in the time of debauchery and vice. Long past are the days of morality!”

Wyll spotted Astarion rolling his eyes and letting out quite an audible sigh.

“We walk among common criminals, witches, and degenerates! We stray further from the teachings of our Holy Flame with each passing day; we condone moral corruption with our silence. Good folks, we need to return to the holy way of life. Even more: we need to help each other return to the Flame! The Eternal Fire shall cleanse us, guide us, ward off evils such as bandits, spellcasters, bloodsuckers…” 

“The flames must be quite weak in this area, then.” Astarion whispered to Wyll, earning a chuckle from the latter.

“Careful, keep your voice down. You don’t want to be used as kindling.” Wyll joked in response, hoping that the faint bitterness in his heart will be erased by Astarion’s laughter. The sermon carried on for a good while, occasionally interrupted by the mutterings from the crowd. A few people seemed to nod in agreement at the preaching, while others looked to carry on with their usual business as soon as they could. None appeared to have heard their small exchange, thankfully.

“...Thus, my good people, ye must remember: we are living in the time of debauchery and vice. It is easy to fall onto the paths of evil, but the Eternal Fire will light your way to all that is good.” With those words, the priest slowly walked off. The crowd dispersed slowly and eventually the area in front of the noticeboard was clear. Wyll, eager to finally read its contents, walked swiftly up to the board and tore a page off. A subtle smile lit up once he had examined the writing. - and any persons (preferably a witcher) willing to undertake a contract, please visit the Vomer Town Hall. Mayor Lorenz.

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Mayor Lorenz sat in his office, a glass of Toussanti red wine in his hand. The wine merchant had assured him that every sip will be worth the crowns, and indeed it was. Unfortunately, the wine was not potent enough to distract him completely. The nagging and complaints from all sorts of folk from throughout the day still rang in his ears, interrupting his moment of peace. A few of these complaints were very legitimate - others, not so much. Just a few minutes ago, he had the displeasure of listening to angry merchants whining about how a few apples, a few rolls of silk, or a knife went missing; as if he was supposed to be some guard dog. He vaguely recalled some words about the frequent crime or the negligent security. All he could say was that everyone knew running a business came with certain risks, and they would be better off telling their anguish to the town’s watchmen. The town’s quarry brought constant profit without the constant whining - if all merchants behaved as well, he would have considered decreasing their taxes. The swamp of paperwork cluttering his desk prompted more sips of wine (he did not have to look to know that the pile was growing) and he carried on emptying his glass, until a few knocks were heard.

“Come inside.” He spoke, glass still in hand. The door opened, revealing his secretary. 

“Mayor Lorenz,” they gave a subtle bow, “An individual wishes to speak to you -”

Mayor Lorenz abruptly put his glass down. “For Heaven’s sake, everyone and their grandmother wants to speak, speak, speak -” 

“- he introduced himself as Wyll of the Griffins, currently with his traveling companion.”

Oh, he thought. Someone who could take away from my duties, for a change. He cleared his throat with a few coughs. “Let them in.”

He took a few moments to crumple the collar of his coat before greeting the witcher, extending a firm hand to shake. A pale gentleman - probably an elf, judging by his appearances - followed, and also shook hands. “Ah, if it isn’t Wyll of the Griffins! When was the last time we spoke? A year? Two years? Please, come sit on the armchairs.” 

“Mayor Lorenz. A pleasure to see you.” Wyll gave a polite bow, then gestured to the elf, “This is Astarion, who has been traveling with me for some time.” Astarion gave a tight-lipped smile with glinting eyes. 

“An honor to meet you, Mayor Lorenz.” 

“Likewise. But tell me, how on earth did you come to travel with a witcher - and an accomplished witcher at that - like Wyll?” Mayor Lorenz flashed a grin at Wyll. 

Astarion gave the same tight-lipped smile again, and answered with enthusiasm, “True, he is extremely capable at his job: which is precisely why I contacted him as a scholar in vampirology. Having a monster hunter by your side when studying vampires in their natural habitat is just part of practical workplace safety.” 

Mayor Lorenz raised his eyebrows, both in fascination and admiration. Wyll seemed to pause to gather his thoughts, but eventually spoke. “Yes, he is an… expert in this field.” The witcher produced a crumpled page from his pocket and handed it to the mayor. “We’ve come to you to discuss this matter with you, good sir. I assume the town is having some monstrous trouble again, as the description on this notice is quite vague.”

“Ah, that notice. No need to worry yourselves, the good folk from the Church of Eternal Fire took care of it. A young wyvern stealing the local sheep - can you imagine? Ha! I thought we had caught a mischievous dragon, but apparently they’re a completely different species. Although I must admit, it was less exciting than when you took down that bastard of a cockatrice.” 

Wyll was visibly disappointed, a bit sunken in his chair, even. “Is there anything else I could assist with?” He asked with a careful voice.

Ah, there we go. “Well, now that you mention it… there is something you could investigate. The local graveyard keeper has been badgering me for a few days about a beast lurking about in the cemetery. She swears it is a monster and refuses to return to work unless it has been dealt with. This is quite a concern, as you can imagine. I will pay you decently, of course. Fifty crowns for the head of whatever creature is haunting the grounds.” He showed his most pleasant, business smile. He felt a tinge of delight when the witcher returned it, albeit in a less pleasant, scarred way, until the elf interrupted the exchange.

“Fifty? That seems a bit low, don’t you think? One hundred and twenty.” 

Wyll turned to look at Astarion in surprise, though he kept silent. Mayor Lorenz resisted the impulse to grit his teeth. Elves and their arrogance. “Ha, you must be jesting, sir! You could purchase half the marketplace with that sum!”

“It seems hardly fair to my capable, esteemed colleague to be paid such a low sum.” Astarion protested, his eyes wide. “One hundred and twenty crowns seems more fitting, don’t you agree?”

“One hundred and twenty for such a simple task! How about seventy crowns?” 

“If it was so simple,” Astarion smiled, “why not ask the town’s watchmen? Hundred and ten crowns.” 

“Astarion!” The witcher hissed. At this point, Mayor Lorenz smiled even wider . He relaxed his hands, leaning back into his armchair.

“No, no, I see what your colleague is trying to say. Perhaps I was being a bit stingy. Ninety crowns, and my deepest apologies.” He sighed, giving a glance towards Astarion. Wyll merely gave a sheepish smile and quickly accepted the deal. “You’re very fortunate to have a colleague who cares so deeply about your well-being.” 

“Aha! You flatter me, Mayor Lorenz! Thank you kindly for the contract.” Astarion gave a high-pitched giggle, receiving yet another glance - and a smile - from the mayor.

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The graveyard was silent with no trace of disruption - monstrous or otherwise. Only the faint tremble of Wyll’s medallion betrayed any sort of sinister presence. The grounds itself were well-maintained and as inviting as a place for the dead could be. Rotting flowers lay in front of most of the tombstones, and the ground’s greenery was trimmed to neatness. Both the witcher and the vampire tread the place with caution, searching for any hint of movement in the shadows. Neither really knew what they were dealing with - talking to the graveyard keeper resulted in very little information of worth, much to Wyll’s dissatisfaction. She claimed she saw some sort of sheep-sized creature with a horrible cry, which described about half of the creatures in a witcher’s bestiary. He only hoped that the moonlight would draw it out of its hiding place.

“Of course that gravekeeper and that Mayor… whatever his name was, couldn’t give us any helpful clue about this beastie.” Astarion grumbled, searching the graveyard with keen eyes.

“She was shocked - of course she didn’t have time to detail the monster’s appearance. And Mayor Lorenz did provide assistance in the form of lodging and a livery; I would say that’s more than what the majority of employers provide.” Wyll pointed out, similarly devoted to the search.

“Hm. I’m surprised he showed such generosity after offering a mere fifty crowns.” 

Wyll sensed a minute change in his medallion’s vibration, prompting him to reach for his silver sword. He immediately assumed a stance for battle, all of his senses focused on detecting any hint of impending danger. He checked his surroundings, his pupil dilated to the point where it almost filled his iris. Nothing visible threatened him, but he knew better than to assume his medallion’s movements as mere malfunction. Too many times had his fellow witchers been ambushed by a particularly stealthy beast. He was about to start searching elsewhere when his ears picked up on a semblance of scratching from a distant bush. With any luck, it could be just the monster he was looking for. “Did you also hear that?” He glanced at Astarion.

“Heard - and dare I say, smelled it too.” The vampire’s claws lengthened. When the pair slowly approached the origin of the sound, with the caution and fluency of hunters , Wyll’s medallion began shaking with tremendous vigor. 

A creature leapt from the bushes. 

It pounced on Astarion, the closest target, with its sharp claws ready to tear any nearby flesh. The vampire dodged nimbly, hissing a curse at the monster. The creature stood on four muscular legs, growling at the pair. Congealed blood and rotting flesh covered its teeth, and its two small nostrils flared with each breath. Its glowing red eyes darted from one target to another, observing for any sudden movement. A ghoul , Wyll noted. The monster certainly fit the description of ‘sheep-sized’ and ‘having a horrible cry’. 

The witcher raised his guard and held his blade, ready to strike or block at any moment. The ghoul turned to him and let out a chilling cry. Wyll spun to the side as soon as the monster charged towards him, and even managed to make a significant cut on its back with his sword just as it passed. He jumped at the opportunity to attack while its back was turned, only to be blocked by Astarion when he tore into the ghoul. “Mate, you almost jumped into my sword!” Wyll shouted, the annoyance in his voice evident.

“Did I, now?” The nonchalance in Astarion’s reply would have irritated Wyll even further, but seeing the creature rise back up prompted him to warn the vampire instead. 

“Behind you!”

Astarion turned swiftly and blocked the ghoul’s swipe with his claws. Immediately afterwards, he went for the creature’s belly and managed to make an impressively deep incision, blood oozing from the fresh wound. The ghoul made a few twitches and lay completely still after a final scream. The two maintained their alertness for a few minutes longer, and when enough blood had pooled beneath its corpse, the tension in their muscles faded. The vampire seemed to pant ever so slightly, while clutching at his one arm. “Astarion, are you alright?” Wyll’s question was almost reflexive, and Astarion’s frown gave him a tinge of regret. 

“Nothing more than a scratch - just hurry up and cut off its head so that we can leave this wretched place.”

How could I forget? He’s still recovering. Despite his sheer power and supernatural speed, the years of abuse clearly left a mark on Astarion. He was not so different to a mortal in that regard - fatigue and weakness were both common in humans who experienced unimaginable terrors. Wyll nodded, and reached for his knife when -

His medallion.

The vibrations of his griffin medallion caused a surge in adrenaline, and he immediately began searching his surroundings. He quickly turned to look behind him when a faint noise grabbed his attention. A creature - yet another ghoul - jumped towards Wyll. His hand swiftly made the sign for Igni **, and almost instantly, his fingers shot a steady stream of fire. The ghoul was incinerated by the flames and a stench of burning flesh filled the air. The witcher silenced the creature’s screams with a swing of his silver sword, and its decapitated head dropped to the floor. 

“Bravo , master witcher.” Astarion clapped, his face showing a smirk. “I sincerely hope that was the last of them.”

Wyll paused, checking his medallion. “That seems to be the last one.” 

“For our hard work.” The vampire fished an apple out of his satchel and threw it towards Wyll, digging out another one for himself. So he can eat human food , the witcher thought. He gave his thanks to Astarion and bit into the crisp fruit, only to realize that he did not recall purchasing anything at the marketplace. Nevertheless, he continued eating. The apple was already bitten into, and it wouldn’t be right to waste food. “So, shall we head back?” Astarion wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

“In a moment - I’d like to inspect this place a bit more.” spoke Wyll, sheathing his sword.

“What for? You said yourself that there was no more left.” The vampire pouted.

“I promise I won’t be long - I just have one question, that’s all.” He walked amidst the graves, his eye searching for whatever clue that was left behind.

“Enlighten me then: what is it that you are so curious about?”

“Don’t you find it strange how these ghouls appeared suddenly? You can see this place was well-maintained up until their arrival; the graves must have been dug with care so as to avoid attracting necrophages. So why now? What is it that led these ghouls here?” Wyll let his chain of thoughts run freely. His mind was already set on working through this puzzle, and endless possibilities sparked in front of him. It was now his duty to separate mere embers from blazes.

“Ah, you think the graveyard keeper has skeletons, or rather, corpses in her closet?” Astarion gave a thrilled smile.

“Perhaps, or perhaps not. We shall see.” That was not the first thought Wyll had in mind, but he considered Astarion’s point. He approached the bush the first ghoul jumped out of, then fixed his gaze on the scattered soil close by. The subtle trail of dirt led him to a pile of haphazardly dug soil, exuding an ever faint stench of rotting meat. It was different to the smell ghouls usually carry; a monster typically stank of a cocktail of rot, grime, and a substance witchers usually referred to as ‘monster essence’ (unlike an essence from a fragrant plant, this particular essence made for horrible perfume). The foul-smelling soil was dug out of a shallow patch of ground nearby, Wyll found. 

A patch which held a fair number of human bodies.

A subpar grave for a well-kept graveyard. The witcher knelt to pay brief respects to the dead, then extended his hands for a closer inspection of the bodies. The topmost one seemed to be a skinny middle-aged man, wearing plain, threadbare clothing. His body was covered with numerous gashes and bite marks, and his hands were full of calluses. 

“Are you done digging around in gore, witcher?” A disgruntled voice called to no reply.

Must have been buried just before these creatures showed up. These wounds were most likely made by the ghouls after his death, and his temporal muscles have atrophied quite a bit - this must have been present even before the decay. His pocket looks like it has something - Wyll fished out a token - or coin - featuring a foreign symbol. A pickaxe… and a ‘V’? He stored it in his own pocket, his mind racing to think of all the possible things it could represent. 

Someone has a few skeletons in their closet.

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The inn to which Mayor Lorenz directed the pair turned out to be experiencing a cockroach infestation - much to both Wyll and Astarion’s chagrin. It was also experiencing an infestation of drunkards, Astarion pointed out, but that could be said for most inns across the continent. The patrons who had imbibed enough alcohol did not care for the cockroach droppings in the corner and the occasional insect scuttling across the floor. Asking about the symbol on the coin was quite the challenge, as the clientele were too intoxicated to decipher the carving. Eventually, Wyll asked the innkeeper, who grunted a few words about the town’s quarry, but was otherwise too busy to engage in conversation. He forcibly dragged his exhausted body back to their room upstairs, (to his embarrassment, he found that Mayor Lorenz had given them a room with one double bed, instead of two single ones) and found Astarion gazing outside the window. 

"Welcome back, darling.” the vampire spoke in his lilting voice without turning to face Wyll.

“Enjoying the night sky?” Wyll asked, then failed to stifle his yawn.

“My, exhausted already?” Astarion purred, “And here I thought we were going to… continue where we left off the last time. You know, at the campfire.” he conspicuously glanced towards the bed. He took his time to approach Wyll, putting on a clearly-practiced smirk. The witcher, for once, was thankful for his mutations, as they prevented him from blushing like a shy maid. 

“Right - we need to see to your wounds.” Wyll announced with a bit too much eagerness in his voice. Seeing Astarion’s subtle expression of perplexity gave him an odd sort of relief. Still, the vampire rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms with a sigh - revealing both old and new wounds. “I see, the old sores are healing nicely… You were right, the new one is just a scratch. Still, it could do with some ointment.” He once again dressed the wounds with meticulous care, almost entranced in the task. The repetitive motion of cleaning, applying ointment, and wrapping the vampire’s hands with dressing gave him a pleasant sort of warmth - warmth that he wished to ignore, but was nonetheless present. 

If someone had told Wyll just a month ago that he would be sitting in a seedy inn, tending to a vampire’s wounds, he would most likely have assumed the person to be a drunk. Yet here he was - living a drunkard’s reality. 

“Why are you doing this, witcher?”

Astarion’s question knocked Wyll back into reality. The vampire asked without his usual theatrics, in his most ‘sincere’ voice, if Wyll had to describe it. It was a fair question, too; he realized he wanted to ask himself the same thing. What was he doing, in the middle of the night in some run down inn? What was he doing, for the very creature he was meant to hunt? By the rules that existed since time immemorial, by the rules both witchers and monsters followed, he was meant to be causing injuries, not curing them. He was meant to be the blade, smiting the monsters standing in his path. 

What was he doing, seeking warmth, from a flame meant to burn him?

“I…” Wyll took a moment to consider his phrasing. “I want to help you recover.” He paused again, hesitating to add to his answer. By then, he had finished dressing Astarion’s wounds, and the vampire found his place on the bed. Wyll devoted his efforts to erase the short conversation which took place and pulled out a bedroll, only to be interrupted by Astarion.

“Come to the bed, witcher. No, not for anything carnal in nature.” He laughed, the silver fangs clearly visible. “Normally I would not have allowed it, but since you took the time to care for my wounds, you may sleep beside me while I meditate.” The unwarranted smugness in his voice earned a chuckle from Wyll, and the two soon found themselves in a comfortable position on the double bed. Just a trace of the lively singing from downstairs carried up to their room, and the soft breeze from the window lulled the witcher to sleep. 

He wondered, as he drifted off - when last had he enjoyed such warmth?

Chapter Text

It was when Wyll woke up beside the pale vampire that he realized what had happened last night.

In his defense, he was too exhausted to fully process his emotions - all he needed was a warm bed and a good amount of sleep - even if there was a certain companion beside him.

The warm tingle in the depths of Wyll’s heart persisted as he prepared for the day and in every step of the walk to the mayor’s office. Even as he was carrying the sack of ghoul trophies, he could not help but take the occasional glimpse at his vampiric companion. The vampiric companion he had shared a bed with - even if it was by purely platonic intentions. The tingling, he noticed, had been quickening his mutated heart to an almost human rate; he wondered if Astarion too had been hearing the loud rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Gods, Wyll, you are being pathetic. He wished he could pinch his heart, remind it to behave. You are acting as though you made love to the lad. Immediately, he cleared his throat and hoped that it would clear his mind in the process.

“Is something the matter, darling?” Astarion asked, and Wyll worried that his concerns were written all over his face.

Why was this such a big deal, anyway?

This was far from the first time he had slept close to someone. Even if he usually avoided casual trysts and other such encounters, he had plenty of experience in sharing a bedroll: the fondest memory from his early career was of him huddling for warmth with his witcher siblings in the freezing caverns of Kaedwen. 

But this… This felt different. 

“I told you before: I’m willing to make this worth your while, and I’m happy to offer you what I’m sure damsels in distress did not.”

The echo of their past conversation sprung into mind. Right, that must be it. Wyll felt his own mind formulate a plausible explanation. Although his romantic experience was minimal at best, he was not so naïve as to be ignorant of Astarion’s attempts at seduction - or rather, clear attempts at repaying his ‘debt’. A price that Wyll never charged, but nonetheless weighed on Astarion’s mind. I never intended for our arrangement to be a transaction. He needed help, and I provided - the same as what anyone would have done. That must be why I am feeling so… nervous. I do not want to seem as though I am taking advantage of him. He should never feel pressured into providing this. Right, this must be it.

The feeling fluttered in his heart again, like a young sparrow making its first flight. 

“No, nothing.” Wyll replied, after a suspiciously long pause . “Actually, I wished to thank you.”

“Hm? Go on.” The vampire’s sharp ears perked up subtly.

“You negotiated for a better deal with Mayor Lorenz, though you could be a touch nicer in the future. Still, I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Ah. Well, make no mistake, darling! Your finances influence me directly ; if anything, I’m looking out for myself. Nonetheless, I will accept your gratitude - your words of thanks are an absolute treat .” The enthusiasm with which Astarion answered made Wyll doubt the sincerity of his words. It was not something he wished to challenge at the moment, however. 

The two soon arrived at the town hall, the sack of trophies still hanging by Wyll’s side. The witcher thanked his fortune for the distinct lack of a queue, and the pair made their way to the mayor’s office. As the secretary was missing, Wyll went up to make two firm knocks on the door, while Astarion waited by the foyer. “Mayor Lorenz?” The witcher called out. “Do you perhaps have a moment to spare?” He waited for an answer and briefly considered knocking again, until his ears picked up on the sound of footsteps, and a swing .

Wyll instinctively spun to the side. The mace that had just missed him crashed into the office door, wooden splinters flying off the impact. A masked attacker wearing dull-colored attire retrieved the weapon with a clearly practiced hand.

“Who are you?” The witcher asked, hand itching to draw his blade. The reply was in the form of another swing of the mace. The witcher, discarding the idea of a civilized conversation, dodged effortlessly and drew his steel sword. Neither the mace nor the person’s clothing were anything he could easily identify. Any information, it seemed, would have to be gained after he had successfully incapacitated his opponent. 

The two circled the cramped area just outside of Mayor Lorenz’s office. Wyll assumed the stance for a quick jab and he would have attacked, had he not felt a sharp claw digging into his right eye. The sharp pain was more intense than anything he had suffered in recent times, and more persistent than he expected. The image of Mizora, uttering foul words with her last breath, flashed before him, and the pain throbbed in his eye. Dammit, not now! The witcher let out a groan and buried his face into his hand - providing the perfect opportunity for the attacker. Wyll felt the mace strike his abdomen and the rush of the air exiting his lungs. His opponent barely gave him time to react with his body, let alone curse his eye, as they swung once more. A blow to his head rattled his mind and none of his pleas stopped his body from falling limply to the ground. Blood started trickling from his scalp, and his ears rang with an unpleasant noise.  I need to get up, I have to warn Astarion… His eyelids began to droop and his thoughts began to drift. His already blurred vision started fading into darkness. Astarion, run… Run while you can… The rough sensation of the attacker moving his body did little to help him regain alertness and before long, he had lost consciousness. 

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The first thing that greeted Wyll upon waking was the feeling of a cold stone floor beneath him. His entire body felt heavy, as though he was carrying an extraordinary amount of baggage - baggage that was forming bruises in numerous places, apparently. He attempted to re-adjust his posture, seeking any amount of comfort, and found that he was bound by sturdy rope. The tragic turn of events managed to wake him fully, and he became uncomfortably aware of his situation. 

Judging by his relative lack of hunger or thirst, he estimated that it had been about two hours since the kidnapping, but again, it was an estimation. The air around him was thick with dust and mold; no amount of sniffing could erase the putrid smell. Dried blood coated one side of his head, and he sorely wished he could dab the area with a wet cloth. His wrists were bound behind his back, and the force he managed to muster could not break the rope. His ankles were bound as well - a bit too tightly, in fact. The stone walls around him, as far as he could see, allowed little light to pass through. He could make out a robust wooden door leading into the room.

In summary, he was headed for disaster. He just was not sure whether to feel glad or distressed that Astarion was in a similar predicament to him, just a few footsteps away. 

“Astarion!” He called out, his voice aching in his throat. “Astarion, can you hear me?” The vampire lifted his head slowly in response to his name. His crimson eyes blinked lazily, as if he woke up from a deep slumber. Astarion’s captor, whether they realized it or not, was quite brave for kidnapping a bruxa, albeit a weakened one.

“Where… Where am I?” A hoarse voice escaped Astarion’s lips. It looked as though he was in no better state than Wyll, but a coherent reply was all the witcher needed. Good, he’s awake. Alert. 

“I don’t know,” Wyll tried with all his might to keep a steady voice, “but we have to escape this place as soon as possible. Are you also tied up?”

“My… what?” Astarion gave a few tugs and pulls, with little success in breaking free. “Fuck . I should… be able to… Damn it all!”

Wyll realized he felt neither gladness nor distress - he felt guilt . 

More likely than not, it was he who dragged Astarion into this mess. If I had just told him to stay at the inn… If I was able to react in time… If my damn eye behaved… Many more ‘ifs’ passed through his mind, but he knew they would only remain as such: ‘ifs’. The reality was that they were both trapped in this cell, waiting for an uncertain fate. Blaming himself, although it felt most natural, would not magically procure an exit. 

“Relax, let us think this through.” Wyll was not sure whether he was consoling Astarion or himself. First, we need to get rid of this rope and - what on earth are you doing?” Whatever he was going to say disappeared from his mind upon the bizarre sight of Astarion tapping both of his heels on the ground vigorously. 

“Just wait, there should be a… Ha! There it is!” A small, finely crafted knife fell from a pocket in Astarion’s boots with a sharp clang. Again, the witcher did not recall giving any money (or artisanal knives) to Astarion, but his sheer relief was enough to stow away any questions. The vampire shifted his body against the floor, guiding his tied hands to the knife. “Save your thanks for later, darling - when we actually leave this place.” 

Wyll swallowed his urge to drop down to Astarion’s feet and start worshiping him. “I could use Igni to the rope by your wrists, if you’re struggling to maneuver the knife.” 

“And burn my beautiful hands to a crisp? No, thank you. I’ve seen what your spells are capable of.” With that remark, Astarion began to dexterously carve at the rope tying his wrists, the tip of the blade pointing towards the ceiling. Wyll attempted to lean his back against the wall, merely listening to the sound of a knife tearing into rigid rope. 

The room truly was a place meant to punish, with how little comfort there was to be found. Punishment - it’s fitting, isn’t it? This is what you get for trying to be some fairytale knight. The witcher sighed, still leaning against the wall. If it were anybody else, he would have told them to shut their mouth - but the words were spoken in his voice, inside his head. You’re a witcher: a monster hunting mutant. Don’t pretend you’re anything other than some blade for hire. “Stop.” Wyll groaned before he could stop himself.

“Excuse me?”

The witcher jerked forwards, feeling a tiny bit of embarrassment. “No, no, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. My apologies.” He cleared his throat, desperate to change the subject. “Were you also captured by those masked attackers?”

“Who knows?” The vampire resumed his bladework, annoyance apparent in his words. “All I felt was a blunt object striking the back of my head. I collapsed and, well, here we are. A masked attacker,  hm… Doesn’t ring a bell for me.” 

Masked attackers. Wyll thought to himself. Doesn’t ring a bell for me either.

It was then that his ears began to sense a different voice. It seemed that Astarion heard them too, judging by his pricked up ears. The witcher focused on the new sound, desperate to hear the words. Two different voices were engaged in some sort of conversation; the words seeped through the walls in murmurs and whispers. 

“...Witcher Wyll and his companion, Astarion. They were investigating what happened at the quarry.” A voice seemed to give a report, concise and to the point.

“I see. Not a word about this to the town. Make sure to arm yourselves before entering the cell.” Another, more familiar voice replied in a firm tone.

Before Wyll even began to process what was said, a bolt of lightning struck through his brain. The second voice. The sermon. Eternal Fire. 

“It’s the priest.” Wyll felt his own voice whispering the words. 

“The priest of the Eternal Fire? Did I hear that correctly?” Astarion’s voice barely concealed his bewilderment. Wyll merely nodded. 

Think. The witcher urged his mind to follow that shot of electric epiphany. Follow it, and see the sparks that it leaves. Think, what happened in the quarry? The image of the victim, emaciated and dressed in threadbare clothes, flashed before him. The many calluses on the corpse’s hand were difficult to miss. Think, what happened with the Eternal Fire? What could they want to hide? The words from the sermon echoed in his ears. Even more: we need to help each other return to the Flame! 

His reasoning quickly came to an end when he heard the distant sound of heavy footsteps, becoming louder with each second. 

“Astarion, I need you to cut my rope. I have a plan, and I need your help.” Wyll spoke, turning his body so that his back faced the vampire. “Please.” 

Astarion appeared to give this notion some thought, while the heartbeat in Wyll’s throat grew unbearably intense. “...Whatever plan that is, it had better get us out of here in one piece.” Those words were sufficient to grant Wyll peace, at least for the time being. The vampire swiftly positioned himself so that his knife could reach the rope by the witcher’s wrists. 

“Thank you, Astarion.” All that mattered now was to succeed in his plan.

The footsteps grew ever so louder, and Wyll became certain that they were approaching in their direction. A dangling of small metal objects accompanying the footsteps caught his attention, as well as the size of the crowd walking towards their room - four or five adults, most likely. “Hurry, Astarion!” He could not help but beg, despite knowing it would do little to change the circumstance.

“Trust me, darling, I’m doing my best. As much as I am an unholy abomination, a product of witchcraft, and whatnot, I really do not want to meet my end by being burnt to the stake.” Astarion spoke through gritted teeth.

Eventually, the wooden door swung open - well before Wyll’s wrists were free. The witcher lifted his head instinctively to see five men, dressed in the same dull-coloured sort of attire as his attacker. The frontmost man carried a lantern - while the rest carried various weapons. Wyll recognised a particular mace out of the bunch, though the wielder was no longer wearing a mask. One chance to succeed. One chance at my plan.  He shuffled his body ever so slightly, obscuring what was happening by his wrists. Please, Astarion! 

“I hear you’ve been investigating, witcher. You and that elven companion of yours.” The man carrying the mace spoke up in a guttural voice. His expression remained empty - unpleasantly so. Astarion remained silent as he subtly worked his way through the rope.

“Personally, I find that it’s difficult to ignore a pile of corpses dumped into a shallow grave.” Wyll snarled. He paused, gathering his strength to put on a bold voice. “I see the Church of the Eternal Fire has been busy.” 

“I praise your creativity, witcher. Perhaps you should have become a bard instead. What could the church possibly have to do with this?” The man laughed, although his eyes remained as empty as ever.

A little bit of creativity, and careful observation. “They’ve been selling people to the quarry, have they not?”

Wyll’s question was answered with nervous glances - more than enough to confirm his guess. The calluses. The starved man. The quarry. The church. The pieces to this puzzle finally fit together to depict the horrible picture. Cold fury coursed throughout the witcher’s body. He could feel his own pulse beat like a drum, urging him to head into battle. Astarion’s knife was still slicing, though he could tell that he had made quite a bit of progress.

“The Eternal Fire was gracious enough to provide them shelter and food in a time of need. The least they could do is to repay the debt.” The mace-carrying man uttered his words through gritted teeth, his face growing redder with each passing moment. “Grab them!” 

It was at that moment that Wyll’s ropes became untied. He wasted little time in casting Aard* with his now free hands, sending the men flying across the room. Immediately afterwards, he poured every bit of concentration into casting Igni to the ropes by his feet, reducing the bindings to mere ashes. Rage glinted in his eye, though his opponents were unable to witness it from the floor. He leapt forwards, making a beeline for the man clutching a falchion in his hands. The witcher trampled the man’s arm, eliciting a screech of pain, and dug his heel until the weapon was released. A touch different to my swords, the witcher inspected the falchion, but it will have to do. 

When the witcher’s opponents rose from the floor, the falchion had already stabbed through the previous owner’s chest. Crimson seeped through his clothes onto the floor. Wyll showed little hesitation in pulling the blood-soaked blade out; there was no reason for delay. He held the sword at an angle, hand itching to strike, when - 

“Shoot the elf!” 

The man with the mace shouted at one of his allies loading a crossbow. Wyll turned sharply towards Astarion, still busy with his own ropes. Shit! There was little time to act, and even less time to think. He felt himself running to Astarion. 

“Wyll , behind you!” 

The witcher turned to see the crossbow, ready to shoot. The bolt fired with no warning. There was little time to think, and even less to stop . He stood his ground and raised his sword. 

With a wave of the falchion, the bolt was deflected to the wall. 

“How on earth…” Wyll heard one of the men murmur, and snapped out of his own amazement. With no further delay, he unleashed a flurry of attacks on his shocked opponents, defeating them in a matter of seconds. The dance of death sent splatters of blood flying in all directions. The lifeless bodies of the opponents collapsed to the floor, and Wyll abandoned the sword with a sharp clang. He walked to Astarion, kneeling on the floor to undo the vampire’s bindings. 

“Astarion, are you able to stand?”

“Yes, I’m - well, on second thought,” he sighed, “I would not mind a helping hand.”

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The next trip to Mayor Lorenz’s office was fortunately devoid of ambushes, attackers, and other unpleasant surprises. Wyll dropped the sack of ghoul heads on the mayor’s desk, prompting a small yelp from its owner. “I believe you owe me ninety crowns, Mayor Lorenz.” Wyll stood with his arms crossed.

“Ah, yes, but Wyll! Please, I knew nothing about this. And even if I did, what could I have done?” Mayor Lorenz pleaded, his hands shaking. “What goes on in the church is far beyond my control! Here, I’ll add onto your pay. How does one hundred and fifty crowns sound, hm?” The fast heartbeat of the mayor was evident to the witcher - almost overshadowing his words. “Please, you must not speak of this!”

Wyll leaned closer. “Ninety crowns - that was what we agreed on. I refuse to take anything more than that” 

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Firefly snorted as Wyll brushed her mane, removing a few tangles and knots. From the content expression on the mare’s face, one would never have guessed that she attempted to bite Astarion just a few minutes prior. The pack of supplies sat neatly in her saddlebags - enough to last them on their journey to Pont Vanis. There was one more thing that Wyll wished to do before leaving the town of Vomer, however.

“I… should apologize.” Wyll broke the silence, his gaze averted from Astarion’s face.

“Why? For having such an unruly horse?” The vampire did not spare the sarcasm in his words, as usual.

“I want to apologize for bringing you into danger.” He paused, searching for his words. “It was clear that they captured you because of your association with me. I.. should have been more cautious. I apologize.”

Astarion merely laughed. “Wyll, you sweet fool. Fine, I accept your apology. Now, shall we go?”

The witcher felt the warm tingle in his chest again, especially when he heard Astarion say his name. The warmth fluttered, though not in an unpleasant way. Have I genuinely begun to enjoy the vampire’s company? He chuckled, as the answer was quite apparent.