Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The House of Healing is a miserable place. 

For Astarion, the one high point has been watching Church’s silver tongue at work. It’s incredible how the tiefling can be so… flustered and blushing in the bedroll and yet the very next day can be the confident warlock standing before the operating theater, convincing the mad surgeon that he and his nurses should all operate on themselves. Church wields the cold logic as deftly as Astarion does his blades, and he watches seemingly unflinchingly as the Sharrans decimate each other with agonizing gusto. 

But eventually, in the eerie silence of its aftermath, the warlock’s shoulders slump forward. 

“Gods… I’m going to be sick…” he utters.

Before anyone can reach him, Church has already rushed to the restrained and tortured patient’s side, unrolling his thieves' tools to pick at the whimpering man’s restraints. 

“Perhaps it might be kinder just to put him out of his misery,” Astarion suggests mildly as he watches the warlock’s efforts. He has been teaching Church to lockpick on occasion, but with the tiefling’s shaking hands he’ll be surprised if the warlock can manage it at all. 

“He’s alert. He’s alive,” Church mutters frantically, before soothing the man. “We’ll get you out, I promise — Astarion!” he hisses, jerking his head in the direction of the other restraints. “Please.”

Astarion acquiesces with a sigh. In the time it takes for Church to pick one lock, the rogue has already unlatched the other three. 

“Easy, now—!” Church begins to say, but with surprising swiftness the blinded and whimpering patient leaps out of the chair and flees. “Shit!”

“I’ll get him!” Karlach assures him grimly, giving the patient chase. 

While Astarion is thrilled about not needing to fight the mad surgeon and his nurses after all, he can hardly feel at ease. This place is more of a tomb than any sanctuary it once was. For some reason, it is his job to hold the lute Church retrieves from the operating theater, and for some reason the warlock insists on lingering to loot the rest of the place as well. As a small blessing, the remaining orderlies don’t seem to be paying him much heed at least.

The rogue and warlock are searching through one of the infirmaries when the tiefling lets out a small, intrigued gasp.  

“Oh!” Church murmurs. “It’s the other half of that pair of rings. Remember? We found one on that justiciar’s skeleton.” He pulls out the ring in question from his pouch, comparing the two side by side before passing them both over to Astarion. The rogue examines them as the warlock gingerly retrieves the journal from the withered skeleton’s grasp. 

As he begins to read it, his mouth twists. “Oh…” he repeats, albeit softer and more troubled. 

Astarion peers over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“The husband’s journal,” Church murmurs. “It tells… a much different story.” He sighs, handing it over to the rogue as well. “Poor bastard.”

Astarion skims through it. Poor bastard indeed — blissfully blinded by love when all the justiciar was doing was using him as a shield. He has to admire that it was clever of the justiciar to deceive the fool into such an arrangement. Although, by the sound of the sorry sod’s journal entries, if his dark bride had simply asked, he may very well have entered the arrangement willingly — warding bond be damned. 

At first Astarion scoffs — he simply doesn’t understand people who would thanklessly sacrifice themselves just like that. 

…but then he thinks — just for a moment. 

Does he understand? Just a little?

The more he dwells upon it, the rings’ magic as described between the two texts is certainly fascinating as a concept…

“What’s on your mind?” Church asks him, crouching down to tug a disintegrating blanket over the skeleton, for some reason. 

“Well, you know,” Astarion hesitates even as he offers. Why he even offers is a mystery. “Remember… just this morning? Those… things by the river?”

The warlock’s hand flies reflexively up to his neck. “Meazels,” he grimaces.

“…meazels,” Astarion nods, gesturing emphatically. “Anyways. Since you have, hm, a tendency to take hits fairly heavily… why don’t we… you know…” he makes a gesture that would have been lewd under any other circumstances, if not for his sincere expression. “That way, even when you’re far off, I can still protect you? Take a couple hits?”

Astarion never fathomed he would ever offer such a thing to anyone. He had offered to take punishment on behalf of a sibling only once, and Godey and Cazador both made sure that he regretted it more than anything else in the moment. Violet never bothered to return the favor anyways.

But Church… 

…misty-stepped right in front of the wretched creature, blasting it away before its claws could reach Astarion. Damn it, the rogue scolded himself, he had gotten sloppy. Then again, none of them expected to be ambushed by such vicious creatures, especially ones that would go straight after their casters to —

He heard a strangled gasp. A meazel leapt out from the shadows, his wire whipping over Church’s neck. Astarion only had a split-second for their eyes to connect before both the struggling meazel and tiefling went hurtling over the edge of the building…

In the present, the elf gives the tiefling a meaningful look. If Astarion has to haul the warlock’s lifeless body from the ground one more time…

“No.” Church says firmly, waving him away. 

“Oh, well,” Astarion says, somewhat relieved if a little miffed by how quickly the tiefling rejected the idea. “At least consider the practicality…”

“I am not going to let you be hurt because of my own carelessness,” Church snaps. “You read that journal. It’s a curse, not a blessing.”

“There’s no need for that tone,” Astarion retorts, taken aback by its harshness. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same for me.” 

Church’s mouth twists and he sighs.

“…fine. You’re right — I would. But I don’t want to use these at all. I think we’ve been doing a pretty good job at covering each other’s backs lately, don’t you?” He smiles wanly at his lover. “We’ve been doing this… right, I think.” 

Astarion regards him with amusement as he pockets the rings. “Doing this ‘right?’ I suppose if one of us has any idea of what that even means, it’s you.”

Church’s smile is gentle as he shrugs at him. “I’m hardly an expert, Astarion. I just do the same for you as I would for any friend, just with… you know, more…”

Astarion steps close to him, smirking as he tips the tiefling’s chin up in a kiss. Church hums softly, stumbling into him in his enthusiasm. 

…it’s followed by a dry crunch. 

The warlock startles, gingerly stepping off of the poor bastard in his bedroll. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters unnecessarily. 

Astarion watches him, fondly. 

“To be honest, I admire how easy it is for you to define what is ‘right’ in an arrangement such as ours. It’s…” he wheedles, “…admittedly not my area of expertise.”

“I…” Church frowns. “We’ve talked about this. I just don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. It’s not that hard.”

“You’re sweet,” Astarion smirks. “But it’s not that straightforward for all of us.” He sighs, reluctantly stepping away from the warmth of him. “Although with you — perplexing as you often are — sometimes it is that simple. It’s… refreshing.”

Church glances away a little self-consciously, a little worriedly as the elf continues to study him. 

“I… envy you,” Astarion admits. “In your short life, you already seem to have had your share of… experiences,” he smirks at him suggestively for a fleeting moment. “And much of it seems to have been… enjoyable. Willing.” He flourishes a hand. “You know what I mean.”

Church smiles wistfully. “I try my best, but it hasn’t all been perfect. I’ve had my share of… mistakes.” His mouth twists a little.

“I certainly hope I’m not one of them,” Astarion half-heartedly jokes. 

Church looks at him earnestly.

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

Astarion flounders for a moment at that.

“Well,” he says with a flustered laugh. “That at least is a relief.” He leers conspiratorially at the tiefling. “Why don’t we brighten this place up? Tell me about the good ones.”

Church frowns at him. “Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about—?”

“—Oh, come on!” Astarion waves him away. “It’s fine. I’m bored. Humor me.”

Church studies him for a moment longer, before chuckling nervously. “Well… I snuck into a castle one time to visit a duke’s son…”

“I bet Wyll wishes that were him,” Astarion remarks, and the tiefling blushes purple beneath his dusky skin.

“Oh shush,” he laughs. “I had to run out of there for my life, clad only in a chaperon.”

He thinks for a moment. 

“There was a half-elf bard in Baldur’s Gate — D’vana, if you’ve ever heard of her during your… nights out? Green skin, white poof of hair?”

Astarion shrugs. He’s not much in the habit of paying attention to the entertainment of his hunting grounds.

“Anyways, I used to visit her whenever I stopped by the city,” Church continues fondly. “We’d…”

“…make music together?” Astarion finishes for him suggestively. The tiefling huffs a laugh.

“We tried once or twice, but as you saw with Alfira, I’m hopeless with a lute,” he says with a sheepish grin. “No sense of rhythm… oh, wait.” He flushes. “That’s… not what you meant, was it?”

“Were you one of those adventurers who had a lover in every city?” Astarion asks in amusement. 

“Lovers?” Church laughs. “No, nothing of the sort. Just… moments. Flights of fancy. Good friends,” he concedes, “but nothing more.”

“Well, those all sound like incredibly delicious moments with those friends of yours,” Astarion says lightly. 

He waffles for a bit. “So are we… is this the first time you’ve done… something… like… this?” He waves his hand. “Whatever the hells this is.”

Something unreadable flashes across Church’s face as he glances away for a moment. The levity drains from his face even as he smiles softly back at the elf. “Do you mean something recurring? Exclusive?”

“I suppose,” Astarion drawls. 

Church looks down, fiddling with the strap to his pouch.

“There were… a few,” he says softly, but then he blinks and straightens up, shrugging. “But nothing ever ended well.”

“Hm, well that doesn’t exactly bode well for us,” Astarion quips. The last word rings in the stale air for a moment.

“Us.” What a concept. 

“I…” Church laughs nervously. “I don’t want to think like that,” he murmurs. He looks around to make sure they’re alone before reaching and grasping hold of Astarion’s hand, covering it with his other. He looks up into the elf’s eyes. “If anything, the past has just taught me to treasure each moment I can get with you,” he murmurs. “I… want to make each one lasts in my mind. I want to make sure…”

He trails off, and laughs a little, nervously.

“We should keep moving, shouldn’t we?” he says. “This… this is hardly the place to let our guard down.”

Astarion catches him before he can move away. The elf peers into the tiefling’s starry, yellow eyes, which struggle to hold his gaze as he stares back at him. Church’s lip quivers for just a moment, and Astarion pulls him into a soft, lingering kiss.

“Don’t tell me I’m the optimist in this arrangement,” he japes quietly. “I… like this, Church. No matter how it ends.”

A smile flickers across the warlock’s face, but before he can respond, Karlach races into the room.

“Boys—!” she falters. “Arabella’s parents,” her voice is broken as she searches Church’s widened eyes. “I’m sorry, but they’re…”

With a final squeeze, Church releases Astarion’s hands before he rushes towards his friend.

“Show me?” he beseeches her. 

Astarion follows the two tieflings as they hurry to another infirmary — a children’s ward, perhaps, judging by the old toys scattered about. There’s evidence of a camp being made more recently. But more notably, there’s another one of those horrid orderlies hovering around two beds, both of which are occupied by two vaguely-familiar tieflings.

Two vaguely-familiar and very dead tieflings.

“Arabella’s not going to like this,” Astarion says dryly.

“Oh gods, no…” Church murmurs. “I know I shouldn’t have hoped — not in a place like this, but…” he sighs, defeatedly.

“At least they had each other,” Karlach comforts him quietly.

Church’s head bows as the other tiefling places a hand upon his shoulder. After she walks away, he just… stands there.

Astarion slips to his side, regarding both corpses. Two more fresh, unlucky souls in this gods-forsaken house. They survived Elturel, survived the goblins, and survived at least the cultists’ ambush. But in the end, they couldn’t survive this damned place. 

He crouches down and hums, slipping the wedding ring off of Arabella’s father’s finger.

“Astarion!” Church admonishes him in a horrified hiss. “Seriously?”

The rogue ignores his protests as he proceeds to slip off the mother’s ring as well, before turning back to the warlock. He then reaches for Church’s hand, pressing both of the gold bands into it and gently closing the warlock’s fingers around them. 

“For the girl,” Astarion says shortly.

Church blinks at him, taken aback.

And then he nods.

“One moment,” the tiefling says, digging around in his pouch and pulling out a handkerchief. He deposits the rings into it, before solemnly unsheathing his dagger and slicing off a lock of hair from each of the dead tieflings. He ties it all up in a neat little bundle before pocketing it away. “Alright. Let’s move on.”

Astarion pulls the warlock aside as they finally exit the House of Healing. At first, the rogue opens his mouth to speak, but then he thinks better of it. Instead, he pulls the tiefling in close — doing his best to ignore the scrutinizing presence of their companions nearby. The warlock sighs appreciatively into the embrace, squeezing him back tight.

“I know, I know,” Church says tiredly. “I can’t save everyone.”

But you’ve saved enough, Astarion wants to remind him as the tiefling pulls away, approaching Shadowheart who is still tending to the freed “patient,” now babbling and draped in one of their cloaks. You had already saved those Elturians once. You saved their Arabella twice. And even still…

He clenches his hand around the rings in his pocket, watching yet again as his lover braces his shoulders against the unknown. 

You save me every day.

Chapter Text

Church loves with the intensity of the sun. 

It’s something two of his closest friends growing up — Lydia and Mairead — have known ever since they pulled him up from the forest floor, a little more than twenty years prior to his infection with a mind flayer tadpole. 

For the next few days of nursing this little demon child back to health in Tarrin’s Hearth, the girls and their friends seem to be the only villagers unafraid of the tiefling — and he is in awe of them. They protect him from even the angriest, biggest men and women who want to kill him or at the very least cast him out — returning him to the accursed grounds from whence he came. 

There is only so much those villagers can do, however, for every time they return Church to the ruins of his “mother,” he always eventually makes his way back. He seeks his friends out every time. He becomes something of a seasonal, imaginary companion to them — eager to follow and play with them like any other child his age should. 

But at age thirteen, after a noticeably long absence, Church returns to the village. This time, however, he is bloodied, mute, and exhausted as he collapses upon the innkeepers’ doorstep. He looks even more cursed than before, with his unseeing eyes and wordless mouth constantly full of smoky shadows. But once the shadows clear, his bright yellow eyes blink up at the innkeeper nursing him to health, and the poor boy mumbles that he’s hungry. 

From that day forth, he is joined at the hip with the innkeeper’s daughter, Mairead. 

From that day forth, he is a villager. 

—

It’s fourteen years before Church’s tadpole infection, and Rupert — the watchman of Tarrin’s Hearth’s bell tower — is again tearing out his own hair. 

“Blasted little shits!” he bleats ineffectually. “Get back down here! I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” he doubles over, wheezing, before trudging back down the stairs, grumbling. As he leaves, the bell tower echoes with the sound of a wretched trio of teenagers giggling among themselves as their feet trample up the creaky wooden steps.

“You’re going to give him a heart attack, one of these days!” Mairead scolds her companions. 

“It’s his fault,” Lydia retorts, breathlessly. “He doesn’t have to run after us.”

“I could always dimension door you up instead,” Church offers to Mairead. “He won’t even see a thing.”

That’s not entirely true. Rupert always keeps a wary eye out for the “little hellspawn.” If he had his way, he wouldn’t let the “damned imp” anywhere near the village, let alone the bell tower.

The teens sprawl themselves over the top floor of the tower, dangling their legs out of the openings of the chamber and unpacking the sweets Mairead had hoarded over the course of the week. Their chatter echoes slightly from the ancient bell suspended serenely above them. 

“Hey!” calls a boy's voice from far down below. “You guys!”

The three teens look out of the tower for the source — a lanky boy squinting up at them.

“Rupes blocked the gate!” he hollers. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Sorry!” Lydia calls. “You took too long!”

Church waves down at their friend, checking to make sure the girls are watching as he primes his spell. “Hold on one moment!”

All Lydia and Mairead hear is a grunt of exertion before the tiefling poofs away, and a moment later they see him appear stumbling at their other friend’s side. With a grin, the tiefling grapples the boy before the two of them disappear again, reappearing next to the two girls a second later.

“—hells!” the boy gasps, eyes wide. “You couldn’t have given me a warning?”

“The look on your face was worth it,” Church chortles. “Did you all see? Did you?” He flourishes at Mairead and Lydia, who both roll their eyes. 

“Yes, Church,” Mairead says dryly. “Very impressive.”

“Shut up, you lot!” Lydia elbows her. “It’s starting!”

The four teens gaze reverently upon the sun as it sinks slowly behind the distant hills. They have held this “Sunset Club” nearly every week since they have all known each other, and all of it — running past Rupert, sharing sweets, and the eyefuls of fiery sky — simply never gets old. Even overcast, rainy days see the four children gathered in this echoing tower, debating and speculating on the goings-on of the village. 

“So, there’s that autumn festival coming up…” Mairead begins to say slyly after a lull in their chatter. “…and its dance…”

“Like you have to remind me!” Lydia groans. “It’s all he,” she shoots a glare at their tardy friend, “has been talking about.” 

She puts on a simpering voice. “He’s going to ‘show Irine a night she’ll never forget!’”

The boy blushes, preening as his three companions howl with laughter and teasing. “I mean, you’ve seen how she looks at me, yeah? And I’ve been practicing my moves for the dance circle. One look at me and she’ll never leave me alone.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Mairead warns him. “Her pa will kill you if she gets…”

“Oh, hells, Miri! Who do you think I am?” the boy exclaims indignantly. “I’m a gentleman. All I want by the end of the night is a kiss.”

Lydia and Mairead let out a chorus of teasing oohs, but Church merely regards their friend with curiosity. 

“A kiss,” the tiefling repeats dryly. “And then… what? Will you court her properly?”

“Erm, well…” the blacksmith’s boy hesitates, but they are all distracted by the telltale tromping of a familiar set of boots. 

“Alright you lot,” calls the gruff voice of Vyerna the bell ringer. “Don’t mind me. Let me do my job, and I’ll be on my way.”

Fingers stuffed into their ears, the four teens watch as the elderly, but muscular woman pulls on the rope, ringing the village bell seven times.

“Any of you eaten yet?” she asks them afterwards, the chamber still reverberating. The teens shake their heads with a chorus of no’s, carefully nudging the sweets’ wrappers out of sight. “Well, you’re growing kids,” she grumbles. “Here — take these. They’re about to go bad anyways.”

She’s lying. The rolls are still warm in the bag as she thrusts them into Church’s hands.

“Tavi!” Vyerna barks. The blacksmith’s boy looks up with a start.

“Yes ma’am?” he says.

“Your father’s looking for you,” she says. “Don’t take too long here, alright?”

Tavi nods as Vyerna descends, before making a grab for the bag in a dodging and snickering Church’s arms. 

“Well,” Mairead says softly after the bag of fresh rolls have been distributed and soundly devoured by the four of them. “I suppose I should be getting back to the inn as well. Mum will need my help.”

“I wonder if pa’s already there,” Lydia rolls her eyes. “Won’t bother setting out his plate if he is.”

The two girls look to their tiefling friend. 

“Well, Churchy,” Lydia says brightly. “Whose table will you be dining at tonight?” She gives him a wry smile. “Gods know we’ll have room.”

“I think it’s your turn, Lydi,” Church grins at her. “But I’ll come by later, Miri — help you do dishes?”

“That’s fine,” Mairead says. “Mum’s too busy making decorations for the festival anyways. Dinner will be simple.” 

“Tav?” Lydia turns to their friend, who is staring out the window at the last vestiges of light on the horizon. 

“You three go on,” Tavi says. “I’m just gonna… think a bit.”

It’s not unusual for the boy, so the two girls merely hum in assent before descending. “You coming, Churchy?” Lydia calls over her shoulder. 

“I’ll meet you back home, Lydi!” Church tells her, watching as Tavi’s shoulders tense slightly at his words. 

As the girls’ footsteps fade away, the tiefling shuffles back over to sit beside the blacksmith’s son. The two of them look out over the village, which glows warmly beneath a sky slowly filling with velvety blue clouds and a smattering of stars. 

“I know that was all a front, about Irine,” Church teases his friend conspiratorially. “You’re scared to death, aren’t you?”

Tavi groans, burying his head in his hands. “…I haven’t had time to practice,” he admits. “I’m going to just trip over my feet — eat shit right in front of her while everyone laughs, and laughs…”

“Not anymore than anyone else does, every single year,” Church says pointedly. “That’s the fun of it, I thought — everyone drinks until no one cares about the ‘right’ way to dance anymore.”

“Yeah, well,” Tavi shifts in place. “That’s the thing. What if she doesn’t care? What if she doesn’t even look at me?”

“I thought she’s been looking at you?” Church says. 

“I mean, yeah,” Tavi laughs. “But I’m still not sure it’s like… that.”

“Alright,” Church huffs a laugh. “Then… why don’t you just tell her you like her?”

Tavi looks at him, mortified. “That would sabotage the whole game, mate! Then there’s no mystique, and nothing about me that will keep her intrigued.”

He shrugs. “Besides. That’s… kind of the fun of it — I don’t know what she’s thinking, so maybe I should keep her guessing too. That way she stays interested and keeps saying all those flirty little things to me.”

“You arsehole,” Church huffs. “Save both of yourselves the trouble so you can just enjoy the damned dance. If you love someone, why waste precious time on mind games like that?”

“‘Love,’ mate?” Tavi chuckles. “It’s a dance, Church — not the end of the world. It’s a bit of fun to warm us into the winter, you know?”

“…oh,” Church blinks away, flushing. “You got me all invested, you arse.” He looks at his friend. “So you… aren’t going to court her?”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Tavi says easily. “But I won’t beat myself up about it if I don’t get that kiss.” He laughs, softly. “But what about you? Are you looking forward to the dance?”

“I’ll enjoy it as long as they let me stay,” Church says resentfully. “I doubt I’ll be pursued by anyone myself except for Rupert and his cronies with pitchforks and torches…”

“They won’t do that this time,” Tavi says firmly. “Pa gave them a talking-to.”

“Really?” Church eyes his friend incredulously. “I thought he…? Well, I didn’t think he…”

“Sorry, mate,” Tavi says hesitantly. “He’s… still not a fan of you. But he doesn’t want anyone ruining the mood of the festival this year. It’s the biggest morale boost before the dark months, after all.”

“Right, right,” Church sighs. “Well, it’s something. I’m still grateful for that at least.”

Tavi hums, regarding him amusedly. 

“So… no lads or lasses catch your eye yet?” he asks nonchalantly. 

“Well, you know, I was talking to Irine earlier today… I’m joking,” Church says flatly at the expression on his friend’s face. Tavi wads up the bag and chucks it at him with a snicker. “I just enjoy the music. I always do.”

Tavi hums. “Well, you know what that one old bard says all the time — ‘no music feels as good as a woman’s lips, her eyes a-shine above her ti…’”

“…I wouldn’t know,” Church shrugs. “It’s hard to miss what you don’t know.”

“Wait — you’ve never been kissed?” Tavi exclaims, appalled. 

Church laughs. “You think anyone wants to kiss this face?” He asks, pointing at himself with a taloned finger and a self-deprecating, sharp-toothed smile. “Get real.”

The tiefling shakes his head, but when he looks back up, Tavi is quiet as he regards him — thoughtfully.

“It’s a good face,” his friend offers encouragingly.

“Well, thank you, I guess,” Church chuckles sheepishly. “But you know what I—”

Tavi’s lips are… surprisingly soft. They’re warm. They’re…

…on Church’s, and the tiefling feels like it’s an eternity before he shakes himself and decides how to react. He closes his eyes and presses forward into his friend, lips clumsy as they purse and try to mimic whatever the hells Tavi is doing…

“Hold on,” Tavi pulls away with a little laugh. Is… he nervous? “Maybe just… let me lead this?”

Church gawks at him but nods quickly as the boys lean into each other again.

It’s an awkward, clumsy thing still, punctuated by the boys’ self-conscious giggling and muttering to each other. In the end, they scoot apart, glancing away sheepishly in the low light of dusk.

“And… now you’ve been kissed,” Tavi says quietly into the night. “What… what do you think? About it?”

Head light and heart thundering still, Church huffs a flustered laugh. “Well,” he says. “Irine’s in for a hell of a night,” he teases him, even though there’s a strange pang in his chest as he says it. 

Irine… the lucky little witch, he thinks to himself bitterly.

Tavi blinks and nods. “…thanks,” he says quietly. “I’ll, uh.” He gestures back behind them. “We should head down before it gets too dark.”

“Oh, gods,” Church’s eyes widen. “Your pa…!”

“He’ll be fine,” Tavi sighs. “I probably just stacked the wood wrong or forgot to put a pail away.” He swings his legs over the edge of the opening and reaches a hand out to help Church down. The tiefling obliges dazedly, but when he lands on his feet the two boys don’t let go of each other as they stare into the others’ eyes — light, golden honey brown into bright, blazing yellow.

“Come on,” Church quickly lets go of his hand and gestures towards the ladder. “Irine’s probably helping her mum close up still. Maybe you can talk with her…?”

“She can wait,” Tavi says softly, catching the shorter boy by the shoulders. Church gulps as he looks up at him, apprehensively. With his darkvision, the tiefling can tell that his friend is sweating and flushing slowly with each thudding heartbeat between them. He can still feel the phantom movement of his mouth upon his lips…

“Was it alright that I did that?” Tavi implores his friend. “Did I mess things up?”

“Oh! Gods, no,” Church assures him hastily. “I… I actually liked it. Really.”

“Really?” Tavi smiles hopefully.

“Yeah,” Church awkwardly places his own hands on Tavi’s sagging shoulders. “Do… do you think we could…?”

They end up sitting there at the edge of the landing for a few minutes more — eyes closed and lips again locked in their exploration of the other.

It’s a silly thing, kissing. 

It’s strange. 

And yet, it’s… riveting. 

It’s… so much more than what Church had read about in his books. 

—

Tavi never makes it to the autumn festival. 

That night, he returns to his home only to be greeted by the sight of an unfamiliar man and woman at the dinner table wearing imposing, gilded armor. His father then informs him over a stiff meal that the boy is to be apprenticed to an order of paladins serving the Church of Tyr. 

It’s exactly what the blacksmith’s son had always dreamt of. He never wanted to be stuck inheriting his father’s forge. He had always wanted to go out into the world and be an adventurer.

It’s a dream come true, but… it’s all just happening so fast. 

Naturally, Tavi calls for an impromptu meeting of the Sunset Club in the bell tower the following day. At his news, the four teens sit together in shocked silence. 

“When do you leave?” Mairead asks him, eyes tearing up as she speaks. 

“Tomorrow at dawn,” Tavi says softly, determinedly not looking at Church, even as the tiefling pushes himself up to stand. “So I’ve got to go back down and pack at some point, but… honestly I’m not meant to take too much.”

“Why is this happening so suddenly?” Lydia demands. “Why can’t you wait until after the Autumn Festival at least?”

“The paladins are just passing through, and they’re leaving on their own schedule,” Tavi explains grimly. “They’re bringing me back to Neverwinter where their order is headquartered.”

Church looks down sharply at that. “Which order is it, exactly?”

Tavi fiddles with the fraying hem of his trousers. “Knights of… judgement, or something.”

The tiefling frowns and looks back outside. 

“Are you at least going to say goodbye to Irine?” Mairead asks softly. 

Tavi hesitates at that. 

“I’ll say goodbye to everybody,” he says. “And if you can wake up early enough tomorrow… I want to say goodbye to you lot most of all, alright?”

As the Sunset Club adjourns for the last time, Tavi pulls Church aside, his eyes imploring Lydia and Mairead before they nod and leave the boys to talk. 

“You haven’t said a damn thing!” Tavi grasps Church’s shoulders, almost shaking him in his anxiety. “Tell me what’s on your mind. I can’t read it like you do!”

Church shrugs him off as he huffs a bitter laugh. “I’m not stupid, Tavi. The Knights of Holy Judgement are known for one thing especially — hunting devils.” He rolls his eyes sardonically at his friend. “Your pa’s subtle, isn’t he?”

Tavi’s mouth closes and opens as he thinks. 

“But you’re not a devil,” he says insistently. “You’re just a boy. You’re my friend.” He shakes his head, eyes wide and beseeching. “Church… I’d never hurt you.”

“…I know,” the tiefling sighs. “Maybe I’m overthinking it. Sorry.” He scuffs his shoe on the wooden platform. “Your pa’s a good man, Tav. He wants great things for you — greater than being a blacksmith in a village in the middle of nowhere, anyways.” He smiles wistfully up at his friend, eyes watering. “And I know you’ve wanted something like this, too. You deserve that. It’s a bright future, even if we’re not in it.”

“Shut up,” Tavi mutters thickly, wiping at his eyes. “I’ll write you — write you all. I’ll come back and visit once my training is done. We’ll do Sunset Club again, and next time I can beat Rupert’s arse for real!”

He runs a hand through his air, glancing around as he blinks past his tears, before looking back down at Church imploringly. “You’ll write back though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” the tiefling nods emphatically at him, giving his arms a reassuring squeeze. “Just don’t be stupid, alright? Whatever devils or monsters they send you after, just come back in one piece, you hear me?”

Tavi smiles shakily at him. “Gotta keep this pretty face intact, right?”

Church doesn’t have time to think of anything to say before he pushes himself up onto his toes, pressing a hard, firm kiss to Tavi’s surprised mouth. But as his friend kisses him back, Church doesn’t care at all if it’s good, because he’ll accept any last bit of his friend he can get before he might be gone forever. 

Please don’t be gone forever, he thinks, flinging his scrawny arms around the future paladin. 

Please stay alive, he jokes — albeit very seriously — as he and the bleary-eyed girls bid Tavi farewell the following dawn.

Please write back, he signs off on yet another letter after months of receiving none but the first. 

Please don’t forget us, he wishes into the sunset, standing alone at the top of the bell tower where the now-defunct Sunset Club no longer meets. 

Please don’t forget me, Church thinks one final time, before turning away from the entrance of Tarrin’s Hearth. 

There’s no point delaying it. Now, at the age of sixteen, the young warlock knows that he must embark on his own journey to find his own future, somewhere he can finally use his mother’s wretched magic — for good. 

Chapter Text

It’s strange being back.

At first glance, Tarrin’s Hearth is just about how Church left it, except some of the familiar faces are even more lined and framed by graying or thinning hair. The kids he left behind are taller for certain. Some of them are now adults whose eyes widen as they see him pass by.

“Church!” they call in delight, despite the somber mood of the village. “Mum! Dad! Church is back!”

Some of their parents and older folks are happy to see him, but there are of course the handfuls of villagers who glower at the tiefling as he strolls through the village. 

Church self-consciously runs his fingers through his hair, ducking his head with a smile as he greets the baker’s daughter, Irine, who in turn waves the hand of the little baby wrapped against her chest. 

“Gods above!” she calls, grinning. “You’re looking well, aren’t you?”

Church preens a little at that. When he left the village, he was still a lanky, awkward kid with spots, messy hair, and no muscles to speak of. It has been five years, and things have changed considerably. Years of training and working for the Adventurers Guild in Waterdeep have built him out a bit, and while still fluffy, his hair is considerably better-groomed. It certainly doesn’t hurt that his skin has cleared up over the years.

“Irine!” Church smiles back at her, letting himself be enfolded into her embrace as he presses a kiss to her cheek. “It’s so good to see you. How…” he glances at the milling, mourning crowd filing out of the village. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Irine presses a soft kiss to her child’s head. “We’re doing well, but we’ll miss Auntie Vyerna something awful.” She sighs, gazing in the direction of where the funeral pyre is being built outside of the village. It seems that some people from Vyerna’s old life are there, as he can both see and hear some visitors in glinting plate armor clanking around. “She was going strong up until a month ago. I’m so sorry you just missed her.”

“Me too,” Church sighs. 

“She was always so fond of you,” Irine smiles. “Always asking about you and… everyone who left.” Her face falls sad for a moment, but then it lights back up. “Oh! But what am I doing — Lydia and Mairead will be at the inn, of course. They’ll love to see you. And, ooh—”

The baby chooses that moment to burp up over her shoulder. 

“Ah, duty calls,” Irine laughs good-naturedly. “Go find the others, Church, I’ve stolen you away long enough.”

Church finds Mairead inside the inn, flipping through her books with a little frown of consternation creasing her brow. But when she glances up, her face blooms into a smile. 

“…Church?” she breathes, eyes shining. 

“Miri,” the tiefling sags a little as he smiles at her. “I made it. I’m so sorry I’m la—”

—Mairead’s embrace knocks the air right out of him, but he still manages to stroke her hair as she buries her face in his chest. 

“You’re late,” she mutters thickly. 

“…I know,” Church whispers, rubbing her back. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no I’m not mad,” Mairead sighs, stepping back from him. “I… I’m just glad you’re here at all. Vyerna…” she shakes her head. “It was peaceful, Church.”

“I’m glad,” Church says softly. “How can I help?”

Mairead laughs through her tears, gesturing around her. 

“I dunno, Church,” she says hysterically. “All I can think about is how my parents are going the same way. They can’t take care of the inn anymore so it’s just me, and I know how to do things but I’m only one person…” she laughs. “But even then no one even stays here except for funerals! It’s just the tavern, really, and…”

She lets out a long, soft breath. 

“…and Lydia’s being courted,” she says defeatedly. 

“Oh?” Church frowns, observing his distressed friend closely. Their friend never mentioned that in any of her letters. “Who’s courting her? Anyone I know?”

“Some traveling merchant who’s been coming by the village,” Mairead glances around. “He’s, ah, staying here, so…”

“Well… is he… nice?”

“He’s older, but… he’s a good man,” Mairead admits, playing with her braid. “I… I just don’t want her to leave. Or… I wish I could go with her, even if she…” her lip trembles. 

Church regards his friend sympathetically. 

“Miri…” he sighs. “You should tell her how you feel.”

“What?” his friend’s eyes are big, round, and incredulous. 

“Oh hells,” Church groans, kneading his brow. “After seven years you idiots still haven’t figured this out?”

“Figured what out?” Mairead frowns. 

“I know Davon wasn’t your first kiss,” Church says bluntly, and his friend blushes bright red. 

“How do you even know that?” she breathes, scandalized. 

“And you two are always talking about each other in your letters like an old married couple,” Church says pointedly. “Why not… why not you, Miri? Why not her?”

“Well, she’s my best friend!” Mairead says, doubtfully. “She can’t possibly think of me that way, can she?”

“You know everything about her, she knows everything about you,” Church continues. “And yet you’re always somehow learning new things about each other. You’ve had your share of fights but always talk it out and know how to make each other feel better. You know that’s better than half the couples in this village?

“On top of that…” Church groans, gesticulating at her. “For the gods’ sake, Miri! You’ve been sleeping together! And I know you’re not just sleeping…”

“Shhh! Shhh!” Miri covers up his mouth with an anguished giggle. “Stop!”

The two of them eventually make their way out of the inn, following the stream of mourners out of the village and along an ancient path leading to the circle where Vyerna’s pyre has been built. It’s a tremendous thing, but still dwarfed by the vastness of the sky and open fields around them. 

Mairead and Church meet Lydia halfway there, and despite the somber occasion her face lights up as she shrieks in joy, running at the tiefling to tackle him in a hug. 

“CHURCHY!” she wails. “You’re here!”

They chatter happily for a ways, but eventually Lydia remembers herself and grabs hold of Mairead’s arm. 

“Here,” Lydia whispers, placing a scrunched up, silky little something into her friend’s hands. “You forgot this last night.”

Mairead blushes furiously, stuffing whatever it is away in her pocket.

“The pyre’s all set,” Lydia tells Church, pulling him forward along the path. “We should make our way over, and — oh!” 

She latches onto Mairead again, eyes wide as the two women wordlessly make the same realization. “Church… Tavi’s back.”

The tiefling blinks. 

“Tav’s… here?”

He hasn’t seen their friend ever since his father had sent him away for his apprenticeship. Except for the fact that his order was headquartered in Neverwinter, Tavi’s father had been vague about his son’s whereabouts — perhaps intentionally. Besides the one letter that his father had begrudgingly handed to the tiefling one time, Church hasn’t heard anything from their friend in years.

“Yes! He arrived yesterday. He’s just over there!” Lydia nods over to the gathering below.

Right on cue, a tall, armored man at the edge of the crowd turns to glance up at the arrivals.

He gawks at the tiefling, who gawks right back at him.

“Nine hells,” the man utters, walking — and then running — with a cacophonous clanking to meet them. “Church?”

With a yelp the tiefling finds himself swept up into a crushing, painfully-armored embrace. It squeezes his gasp of disbelief right out of his chest, “…Tavi?”

The man lets him go and Church staggers a little as he lands back on the ground, still staring up at him in shock.

Tavi is… huge. Towering, in heavy golden armor. His skin is as tanned as it ever was when he was a blacksmith’s boy, but his face is significantly more chiseled and Church just knows his arms must be as well, beneath all that armor. His sun-bleached brown hair has been pulled back into a tight bun, parts of which are shaved down. But underneath all these changes… he’s still the same Tavi with that mischievous glint in his eyes and awkward, boyish smile.

“You look amazing,” Church breathes. The paladin blushes bright, and the mortified tiefling realizes that they are still surrounded by curious onlookers. He hears Lydia gasp and giggle from somewhere nearby as Mairead shushes her. “I mean — you look good! You look… well,” he echoes Irine from earlier.

“Well, thanks mate!” Tavi grins, self-consciously reaching to touch his own hair as he also takes in the sight of Church, punching his arm lightly. “…Wow. We all grew up a fair bit, didn’t we?”

He glances over to the pyre and sobers up immediately. “Vyerna… I’m going to miss the ol’ girl. She always liked us… I think.”

“She did,” Church affirms. “Wouldn’t stop asking about you after you left.” 

There’s a tense silence. 

Tavi shifts uncomfortably. “Church, listen... I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright,” the tiefling assures him gently. “You’ve been busy, off serving justice and fighting monsters and such.” He smiles. “The life of a paladin is a demanding one. I know — I’ve worked with a few.”

“That’s right!” Tavi’s eyes brighten up as he huffs a laugh. “You’ve been having some adventures of your own, haven’t you? Say, let’s have a drink tonight and you can tell me all about…”

A bell tolls, and Lydia and Mairead finally join the two of them, exchanging warm smiles and more clanking embraces as the crowd settles down for the ceremony. 

But even as hymns are sung, incense is burned, and stories are shared, Church feels hyper-aware of the imposing presence of his old friend at his side. Underneath the sigh of the wind, the crackling of the brazier, and the quiet murmurings and prayers of the crowd, Church can practically hear the subtle clinking and slide of the layers of the paladin’s armor with every breath. 

Tavi is alive. 

Tavi is here, beside him, along with the rest of the Sunset Club. 

Mairead and Lydia might finally get their heads out of their asses and have a long-overdue conversation about the obvious. 

Despite the occasion and the mourners all around him, for just a moment…

Church has never felt happier. 

—

When all that is left of her body and shroud is cinders, Vyerna’s wake is exactly as she would have wanted it — a raucous party that nearly spans the whole village. Lanterns light the arterial pathways throughout the village, and the bell tolls above the sound of several different songs, of several very different moods, being played all at once by several different bards along the way. 

The former Sunset Club sticks together, absorbing individuals who come and go on occasion such as Irine and her husband. Tavi has since changed out of his heavy plate armor into far more comfortable common clothes, confirming to Church that he is indeed carved out of hard musculature beneath that soft, clinging fabric. 

…the warlock tries not to think too much about it as he insistently pulls a laughing Lydia into a dance in the village square. 

“You look happy!” she murmurs to him as he spins her close. “Can’t believe Miri didn’t warn you about Tav, but I wish you could’ve seen your face…!”

Church chuckles as he glances over her shoulder at their two friends, who are grinning and clapping along as they watch and chat with each other. 

“We were discussing other topics,” he says lightly. “So, Lydi… why didn’t you tell me you had a suitor?”

His friend stumbles a little, blushing as she looks up defiantly at him. 

“What’s there to tell?” she says nonchalantly. “You seem to have heard all about it.”

“You don’t seem too excited about it.”

“He’s rich,” Lydia snorts. “My ma’s over the moon, and I’m humoring her. I’ve suggested that maybe she should marry him…”

“So you don’t have any intention of accepting a proposal, if he offers it?” Church asks carefully, noticing with each whirl around how Mairead’s eyes grow softer and sadder as she drinks her mead deeper into her cup. 

“I’d rather not,” Lydia admits. “But what choice do I have, Church? I need to support my ma somehow, and, well…” she sighs. “Damn it, Church, I don’t know if you’ve seen from the sheer number of babies that sprang up around here, but there aren’t very many options left in the village… and I want a family. I want to have kids, make a home. Our little hovel is barely enough as it is.”

“Alright, then… tell me about this man,” Church demands. 

“What? Fine, well,” Lydia stammers. “He’s got brown hair.”

“…alright,” Church swallows a laugh. 

“He likes dogs!” Lydia adds defiantly. “He’s got a home in Baldur’s Gate. Or… was it… Elturel?”

“Gods above, Lydi!” Church scolds her exasperatedly. “You barely know this man!”

“I can get to know him,” she says rather unenthusiastically. 

“Why would you bother?” Church demands. “What do you want, really?”

They take a couple more spins around the square before she answers him.

“A… home, Church,” Lydia admits. “A hearth. And someone who will always be there to share the load of caring for it so I can have just even a minute to draw. Someone who knows my heart without me having to find the words. Little ones. Little animals, too. A place where Ma can feel safe and I can finally make sure she’s treated like a queen. That’s all.”

They continue to dance in relative silence, no longer really on-beat. 

“I should tell her,” Lydia realizes, softly and suddenly. 

“Yes, you should,” Church groans. “She thinks it’s too late, but show her that it’s not. She needs to know.”

“Alright, Church,” Lydia chuckles, snuggling into his shoulder as the music slows. “Alright.”

—

An hour later, Lydia somehow procures her own bottle of wine. Shooting Church a meaningful look, she takes Mairead by the hand and pulls her to the edge of the village where it might be quiet enough for them to finally speak. Tavi exchanges an amused look with the warlock. 

“I see that they were just waiting for me to come back before they finally decided to get their shit together,” the paladin jokes quietly. 

“Honestly, what would they do without us?” Church grins up at him. 

Tavi smiles back, gently, and the tiefling feels a lump in his throat. 

“Come on,” Tavi nods in the direction of the forge. “The bonfire will keep my Pa occupied a long while — and I know where he keeps the good stuff. Then you can finally tell me all about Waterdeep, yeah?”

“I barely spend any time there,” Church protests. “I just go back to sleep and check my mail every few months.”

“Fine, then tell me about everywhere else!” Tavi says brightly. “And I’ll try to one-up you.”

“You arse.”

But Church happily follows his friend away from the party. They dig around in the blacksmith’s cellar and find a bottle of Icewine, which Tavi opens up with a little flourish of a knife. 

“...they teach you that in paladin school?” Church asks dryly. 

“They taught me that in Westgate,” Tavi winks, pouring the wine into two cups for them both. 

“Westgate?” Church guffaws. “And what was a lawful paladin of Tyr doing in Westgate?”

“Well, let me tell you…”

The next hour passes with story after story from both the paladin and the warlock. As they drain the bottle of wine, they fill the little house with explosive laughter and exclamations of disbelief. 

“So did you get to meet the dragon?” Tavi asks Church after one story, pouring him another cup. 

“Funny, that,” Church chuckles. “The dragon was the elf who hired us all along! Lovely man. Went to his party in Neverwinter…”

There’s an awkward pause at that. 

“So… you have been to Neverwinter?” Tavi says blandly, smiling past the hurt in his eyes. “And you never… you never thought to look me up?”

Church sighs, placing his cup back down. 

“Tavi… you never wrote back,” he says quietly. “It had already been years. I didn’t want to…”

“What do you mean?” Tavi interjects indignantly. “I did write back! Every time. Well,” he flounders. “Almost every time. I was gone for a while, and…”

Church frowns. “What?”

“I wrote you back,” Tavi insists. “And Miri. And Lydi! Every time!”

Church feels a sinking feeling in his stomach, even as he suggests, “…maybe they just got lost?”

“No! I mean, Pa always got mine and…” Tavi trails off, eyes glancing wildly around his childhood home. “Oh, hells…”

Before Church can stop him, his friend stands up and begins frantically searching the room — opening and closing every drawer, paging through every book on the shelf, and pulling up a couple loose floorboards for a good measure. 

“He didn’t…” Tavi breathes, agitated. “He wouldn’t…”

Church stands up slowly. 

“Oh gods,” Tavi’s voice shudders. “All this time… I just thought you all forgot about me. But did he…? Why would he…?”

“Tav, stop.”

Church places a hand upon his friend’s shaking shoulder. 

“I didn’t know, Church!” Tavi laments in earnest. “I didn’t mean to…!”

“I know,” the tiefling says gently. 

“I missed you… all. I missed you all so much,” Tavi sniffs, wiping at his face. “The paladins kept telling me to relinquish all attachments to my previous life but I always thought about you…”

“Tav — look at me?” Church pleads. 

The paladin gazes at the warlock, and the warlock gazes back — suddenly at loss for whatever his words were about to be. 

Maybe it’s the drink. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t seen his friend in so long and here he is, in the flesh, still the same friend but so fucking handsome with his honey-colored eyes blazing as they get closer…

Church presses up to kiss Tavi with a soft sound, draping his arms around his neck. Tavi hums in relief as he wraps his own hands around the tiefling’s waist, pulling him deeper into a tight embrace. Church is grateful that his friend is no longer wearing that elegant, heavy armor — as striking as it was. Now, all that’s between the two of them are soft clothes warm with the heat of their bodies that rise and fall with each of their heavy breaths…

Church’s eyes widen as Tavi lifts him up from beneath his hips, pushing him up against the wall and kissing him far deeper and far more enthusiastically than they ever did during that clumsy first kiss in the bell tower. He imagines that, like the warlock, the paladin had his share of firsts, seconds, and more out there in the world. He tries his best to push that jealous thought aside as he loses himself in the heat of the embrace, and the slow movement of lips and tongue between the two of them.

“I’m so glad you came back,” Tavi whispers breathlessly when they finally pull away for just a moment.

“So am I,” Church replies softly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, to be honest. And then… this…” 

They collapse into each other again, letting the rest of that go unspoken. Where words fall short, they understand how the other feels. They understand with every heavy breath and soft moan into each other’s mouths. They understand as Church apologetically pulls Tavi out of his father’s house and instead into the back of the neighbor’s barn where the hay and equipment oddly gives them some degree of privacy — the inn simply feeling just too far. They understand as Tavi pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a stretch of tanned, muscular torso that nearly stops Church’s heart with how it flexes as the paladin falls towards him, pushing him irresistibly down into the hay with a longing moan. 

Church struggles to remove his own shirt, the laces of the collar getting entangled in his horns. Tavi kisses away his embarrassed grumbling, and then they’re laughing as trousers are shed, along with any other preconceptions of how this day was going to end.

Church trembles with both nerves and joy as he savors Tavi’s embrace. They giggle and wince at the stabs and scratchiness of the hay on their naked bodies, knowing very well that they will suffer a rash from all of it by morning. But that’s not at the front of their minds as they lose themselves in each others’ long-awaited presence.

“I knew I’d find you again,” Tavi murmurs into a shuddering Church’s ear as they stroke each other. “Wherever I went I always looked for you. I knew you’d be an adventurer, like — ah! Like we… always said… we would… ah!”

Tavi slips his hand off of his friend and crawls down to replace it with his mouth, tasting the tiefling as his tail curls languidly over his shoulders. 

“I’m… I’m so sorry I didn’t look you up in N-Neverwinter,” Church gasps into the hungry heat of him. “I j-just…”

“Stop,” Tavi breathes as he surfaces, nuzzling Church’s hip as he holds him tight. “I forgive you.” He continues to stroke him as he looks into the tiefling's bright yellow eyes in the dark. “And I want you... if you’ll have me.”

“Y-yeah,” Church laughs breathlessly, pulling him in closer to kiss him. “Absolutely.”

“Then please,” Tavi hums longingly against the heat of his gasping throat. “Take me.”

—

The festivities settle into a gentle murmur and lull by the wee hours. Most villagers have ambled back to their homes, but hidden away in a dark barn, two adventurers remain intertwined. 

“Tav?” Church says softly, on the brink of falling asleep.

“Hmm?” Tavi rolls onto his side, wrapping his arm around the tiefling’s waist as he nuzzles into his shoulder.

“Keep in touch after this, alright?” Church whispers. “As best as you can — no middle-men this time. I’ll leave you my Adventurers’ Guild address, and you can send me your headquarters.’”

“Yeah. Please,” Tavi nods, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“And maybe you can visit,” Church says hopefully. “And maybe I can visit you. I just don’t want this to be it,” he smiles wistfully. “I didn’t think I’d ever find you again, and now that I have… I don’t want to let you go, Tav.”

The paladin props himself up and smiles gently down at his friend, taking in the tiefling’s luminous and watering eyes, and that miserable expression illuminated in the tiniest amount of moonlight slipping through the slats in the barn.

“I’ll write you,” Tavi says. “I promise. Every month. And every summer I’ll make a visit to Waterdeep, and we’ll catch up, alright?”

He exchanges a hopeful smile with Church.

“I want this too, you know?” he says shakily.

He leans down and kisses the tiefling thoroughly and unhurriedly.

—

The next morning, Lydia and Mairead don’t seem surprised at all to see both Tavi and Church stumbling out of Church’s room at the inn to join them for breakfast. The men, for that matter, aren’t that surprised to see the women emerging bleary-eyed from Mairead’s own room as well. Breakfast is delicious, albeit delicate as the four of them speak to each other in soft voices, wincing at every squeak of the tavern door and heavy clunk of mugs.

Church doesn’t accompany Tavi to whatever conversation — or confrontation — he might have had with his father that morning. But when the paladin returns with his travel pack, greatsword, and armor, he gives the already hungover tiefling a dizzying kiss. Behind his smile, Church can tell that Tavi is still troubled by the previous night’s revelation.

As some consolation, Lydia and Mairead at least seem to hold each other shamelessly as they tearfully bid farewell to their dear friends at the village gate. Church hopes that they’ll finally be able to sort themselves out without him.  

Part of him also dreads the possibility that his Mother might decide to take the opportunity to pluck him from the village, given his proximity, but she remains blessedly silent throughout his visit. With the exception of the warlock jumping at a few odd shadows over the past couple days, he makes it out of the visit to Tarrin's Hearth without being accosted by his patron. 

And so, the paladin and warlock travel together for a week laughing, reminiscing, and spending silent — and not so silent — nights beneath the stars together. When the road from Tarrin’s Hearth finally meets the High Road, they embrace one more time before reluctantly heading in opposite directions along the Sword Coast. 

Heart fluttering with cautious hope along his journey, Church prays Tavi won’t forget his promise. 

—

…and Tavi keeps his word. 

For a full year, Church receives letters like clockwork, even if he’s not back at the guild to open them as soon as they arrive. His companions learn to expect that he’ll disappear for the rest of the evening writing his own replies. 

“Thank the gods he’s using a courier,” one of his companions jokes to another. “Those letters are so thick and heavy that a mere carrier pigeon would plummet right out of the sky!”

A quest brings the warlock to Neverwinter halfway through that year, and no sooner has the adventuring party collected their pay when Church disappears to visit the Halls of Justice. His companions later stumble upon him in a low-lit tavern, very distracted and very busily entangled in the arms of some unfamiliar, handsome fellow. 

It’s the subject of much teasing for the blushing, grinning, and smug warlock as the party leaves the city. Of course, as soon as they have left he is already penning yet another letter. 

Now it’s your turn, one of Church’s companions reads over his shoulder. Come visit me in Waterdeep. I’ll show you around the three places I actually know about. And then we’ll find more — together. Just please come here as soon as you can because I can’t wait to kiss you again.

He gets a reply weeks later, which one of his companions begins to read aloud theatrically before the blushing warlock rips it from her hands. In the warm tavern light, the tiefling smiles as he scans through the letter’s contents. His heart soars as he reads the last part of the letter over and over again:

… I just got word that we’re needed in Elturel, which means I’ll be passing through Waterdeep either on the way there or at least on the way back! If the former, I might already be at your door. If the latter, I’ll try to send word as soon as I’m back on the road. 

Not sure how long this business will be, but I already know I’ll be in dire need of a drink afterwards. Can’t wait to share it with you! 

Love,

Tav

—

The first month Tavi forgets a letter, Church shrugs it off. He’s busy with his own quests anyways, and he imagines Tavi must be too.

And then another month passes. And then another. Four months later, the warlock — who has grown more reticent and irritable to the ire of his companions — finally receives a letter from a friend.

But it’s not from Tavi. 

It’s from Mairead.

My dearest Church, she begins. I regret that I must tell you…

—

The young tiefling warlock disappears from the Adventurer’s Guild that night. His companions wake up to find his bunk stripped and absent of all belongings. He leaves only a note behind for the guildmaster with some directions to a cache of supplies and other procedures for his companions, as well as a scrawled apology.

I must go home, he tells them. I must say goodbye to my friend.

One last time.

Chapter Text

Baldur’s Gate is delightfully busy. 

After months on the road, Church loves being able to just close his eyes and let the clamor and chatter of the crowds drown out his thoughts. He’d have preferred to spend his leave somewhere a little more interesting like Silverymoon, but the good company of Baldur’s Gate more than makes up for any shortcomings of the city itself. 

D’vana looks gorgeous up on the outdoor stage in the neighborhood square, floating orbs of light illuminating her white crest of hair teased and tied into a messy bun at the back of her head. Her smiling, violet eyes flash around the cheering audience as she waves. They catch Church’s luminous yellow gaze as he seats himself at a nearby barrel table, and she winks. 

Church grins back, holding back an instinctive wave. Tonight, he’s just part of the audience. The half-elf bard shoulders her violin with a dramatic flourish, and as she begins to play and dance the very air around the square seems to light up and grow electrical in delight. 

…but something’s wrong. 

Church frowns, looking down at his drink as his vision unexpectedly begins to tunnel. 

Not now, he thinks as loud as he can. Leave me alone. 

“No,” replies a dreadfully familiar voice. “You cannot ignore me any longer, sweet boy. Find somewhere to talk or else I will make you.”

To illustrate her point, Church feels himself stand abruptly — involuntarily — jostling the table to his neighbors’ ire. 

The warlock grimaces, excusing himself and pushing through the merry audience, anger simmering in his hammering heart. The last thing he needs is to black out in a crowded place such as this. He doesn’t want to ruin D’vana’s performance, after all…

“Excuse me,” he kneads at his brow, ignoring a sneer of distaste as he shoves past a haughty, silver-haired elf. The tiefling imagines he must look like any other stumbling drunk as he finds his way to D’vana’s dressing room within the guildhall.  

“Alright, Church?” one of the bards acting as tonight’s bouncer drawls. “Had a bit too much already?”

“Something like that,” Church mutters. She waves him past. 

“D’vana’s got water in there,” she tells him. “Have a lie down. You can still hear the show from here.”

“…thanks,” the tiefling mumbles, and he staggers down the hall to push open the door. 

Alone at last. 

Panting heavily, Church collapses against D’vana’s vanity, bracing himself before he gazes up into the mirror. 

Behind him, his patron’s elusive form gazes back. 

“My child,” she sighs, disappointment heavy in her voice as her shadowy tendrils twitch and crawl over him. “Finally. We can talk.”

“You want to talk?” Church massages his aching head. “Then talk.”

“Very well,” Mother sniffs. “You have been reckless. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t know that giant spider had babies,” Church wheedles, but the shadows merely flare in anger at his levity. 

“You are not a shield for your companions,” she scolds him. “It is not your job to give your life for them.”

“Actually, it is my job to protect them,” Church corrects her. “And sometimes spells can only do so much,” he says dryly. “Especially when I can cast them so infrequently.”

“You need to prioritize staying alive, my child,” Mother chides him. “How else will you come home so that you can take care of me, as you promised?”

“Believe me, that is totally the reason why I want to stay alive,” Church says sarcastically. “Just to suffer the rest of my life with you.”

“You are testing my patience, child,” Mother says softly, dangerously. “Perhaps you need a reminder of how grateful you should be for my help. If you are so determined to continue disregarding your life as much as you do, I will simply take your power away. Let’s see how much heroics you can accomplish then.”

Church smirks tiredly at the shadow. 

“You’re bluffing,” he says evenly. “Without magic, you know your precious, delicate boy won't stand a chance on the road back to Waterdeep. And you wouldn’t risk that.”

Mother regards him, her shadowy head slowly tilting. 

“You doubt me?” she says coolly. “Then so be it.”

—

“—Church?”

The tiefling blinks his eyes open, immediately groaning at the sharp headache that greets his consciousness. 

“Had a bit much, didn’t we?” D’vana observes amusedly. “Come on.”

The bard throws his arm over her shoulders and hauls him up with surprising strength, navigating him over to drape across a worn chaise in the corner instead. 

“D’vana?” Church smiles blearily. “How was… how was the rest of the show?” 

“Oh, it was fantastic,” the bard says wryly. “Volo himself came on stage and declared me the greatest musician in all of the Sword Coast.”

Church nods, kneading his brow. “He’d better, one day.”

“At least you came,” D’vana sighs, collapsing into the chaise beside him. As Church slides down to rest his head upon her lap, she strokes his hair, thoughtfully. “You did hear a little bit, at least?”

“I only stayed for the first song,” Church admits. “But you were amazing, as always.”

D’vana hums, unconvinced. 

“I’m not drunk,” Church insists. “I was knocked out.”

“Oh?” his friend says dubiously. 

“…by my patron,” Church continues dryly. 

“…oh,” D’vana’s hand stills, before sliding down to feel his pulse worriedly. “Shit. Did you piss them off somehow?”

“Yes,” Church sighs, leaning into her touch. “But I’ll be fine. It happens.”

“That’s… worse than my patrons,” D’vana jokes nervously. “Haven’t had one bad enough to knock me out in a while, anyways. And we handled him, didn’t we?”

Church smiles. “Yeah. We sure did.”

“Here,” D’vana pours him a tumbler of water. “Drink, and then let’s head out. I’ve got a room at the Elfsong, if that…?”

“Sounds good,” Church says, taking it gratefully. 

It is abundantly clear to the warlock that his Mother wasn’t bluffing. He has no magic available to him whatsoever. When he tries to cast the smallest cantrip, his mind reaches out to find… nothing. 

It’s the absence that is more painful than any drunken headache. 

“You should be with your friends and adoring fans, not me!” Church insists once they settle down in D’vana’s room at the inn. “I’ll just rest up here and join you all later.”

The bard just smiles knowingly and shakes her head. 

“I’ve had enough of people for today,” she declares. “And not enough of you at the concert. Let’s just be patronless together, alright?” She leans in close to his ear. “…After all, your best magic doesn’t need the Weave, does it?”

At Church’s tired smirk, she does backpedal a bit. 

“Unless you’re beat,” she says hastily. “Then we can just cuddle. I’m perfectly happy with that.”

“Let’s just start there,” Church says slowly, pulling her in for a soft, lazy kiss. “Then… we can see where the night takes us?”

D’vana sighs happily into that thought. 

—

The following morning, Church wakes up wincing into a beam of sunlight slicing in through a gap in the curtains. Curiously, he reaches his mind out to brush against the Weave. 

“…fuck,” he mutters. 

Nothing. Still. 

“…g’morning to you too,” D’vana mumbles from beside him, her arm tightening around his waist. “Still no magic?”

“No,” Church groans, huddling back into the warm blankets with her. 

“How do you feel?”

“Pretty good, considering,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her pink and bitten lips. “Had a nice night.”

“Oh yeah?” D’vana grins sleepily. 

“Yeah.”

“…nice enough that you’ll pay me back by getting us some coffee?”

“My lady is so demanding!” Church laughs. But he gets up from the bed, stretches, and pads over to collect his clothes. “I will be right back, your grace.”

D’vana grumbles from beneath her blankets. 

The tavern is modestly populated this morning, awash with waves of chatter and the clanking of dishes and flagons atop wooden tables. Church approaches the tavernkeep, whose attention is on an agitated, gesticulating patron. 

“Please!” she beseeches the tavernkeep. “She’s just a bit shorter than me, with black hair threaded in braids and a twisty flower tattoo all down her neck. She was wearing red robes — you can’t have missed her.”

“Lass, we get so many customers all throughout the night,” the tavernkeep says tiredly. “But at least in my reckoning, I don’t recall anyone who looked like that walking up for a room. Maybe check the other hostels and flophouses? Perhaps she went home with someone?”

“She wouldn’t have!” the customer insists. “Not without telling me — we’re traveling home together!”

“I wish I could help, lass,” the tavernkeep says, and then he nods over at Church. “Oi, you! What’ll it be?”

“Two coffees,” Church says, pressing a couple coppers to the counter. He smiles tightly, sympathetically at the woman. “I hope you find your friend soon.”

The woman doesn’t answer him, opting instead to storm out of the tavern. 

“Poor lass,” the tavernkeep sighs. “It’s just not safe for travelers on the Risen Road these days, let alone the city. You from outside?”

Church nods. 

“Well, keep your eyes and ears sharp,” the tavernkeep taps his own pointed ones. “And don’t leave your companions alone in an unfamiliar city, if you can help it.”

The tiefling mutters a thanks as he takes the mugs of coffee back up to D’vana’s room. 

—

“—did you hear me, Church?”

The tiefling shakes himself and smiles blankly up at his friend over his drink. Her green forehead wrinkles as she regards him in concern. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I was a bit—”

“—lost in thought, I know,” D’vana says flatly. “You do that. Often.”

There’s an awkward silence. 

“Could you… repeat what you said?” Church inquires tentatively. 

“I was saying that there’s a few new adventurers’ guilds forming here in the city,” she says. “I was thinking of joining one myself. Last night’s performance was… fun, but believe it or not… the stage just isn’t for me. I want to be doing something. Doing good, like you.”

Church shrugs. “I don’t always do ‘good,’ you know. I just do what I’m paid to do.”

“Don’t act like you don’t have a moral compass when you pick your jobs and how to do them, silly,” D’vana huffs. “Anyway, what I was asking was…” she drums her fingers on her mug a little, nervously. “…maybe, would you consider joining one of them? It doesn’t have to be the one that I join. But that way you can be based up here, and…”

Church’s heart twists a little, now realizing what she’s really asking. 

“…and then we can see each other more, you know?” Those violet eyes are piercing as they flick up to meet his gaze. After a moment, her hand drifts across the table to rest atop his. “Maybe even… exclusively?” 

Church adjusts that hand to squeeze hers, but his eyes are apologetic as he shakes his head. 

“This city isn’t for me,” he says quietly. “And… I’m sorry D’vana, but I…” he looks at her with a sad smile. “I don’t think I see myself in your future as any more than your friend.”

D’vana withdraws her hand, smiling and nodding abashedly. 

“Of course,” she says shortly, but her voice is thick. 

“I’m sorry,” Church stammers. “I’ve enjoyed visiting you. I love your company…”

“…but you don’t think you can love me,” she says, resigned. 

“Not any more than a friend,” Church says softly. “And you deserve someone who can give their heart fully to you. I just… can’t be that person.”

D’vana nods again, blinking away a little shine in her eyes. But when she looks back into Church’s, she is smiling — albeit tightly. 

“Well, it was nice to see you again, Church,” she says. “But…”

“…I should go,” Church nods, moving to stand —

— except D’vana’s hand flies back out to touch his forearm, her mouth quirking up in a real smile. 

“…but next time,” she says coyly, “please just sit through the damn show, alright?”

—

Mother only breaks her silence when Church has nearly sailed all the way back to Waterdeep. At least traveling by ship means that he hasn’t had the need to spark a campfire without the assistance of his cantrips. 

“I don’t like our fights, my child,” Mother says into the creaking night. 

Church doesn’t answer her. 

“When are you coming home?”

Church rolls over in his hammock, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I just want you to be safe. Alive. Happy.”

“If you want me to find happiness,” Church finally whispers angrily, “the last place I’ll find it will be trapped within your walls. I’d rather die out here free than withering away with no one but you for company.”

Mother is silent at that. 

“And if the cost is not having magic, then so be it,” Church adds for good measure. “You can’t stop me from wanting to help the realm. I’ll just find ways to do it without the Weave. Without you. 

“I can make this world better. Safer,” Church insists, almost to himself at this point with his mother’s silence. “It needs me out here more than you need me there.”

Silence. 

Well, that’s fine with Church. He rolls over again and tries to relax. 

“Do you think Tavi would have approved of how you have thrown yourself into danger?” Mother says quietly. “Do you think he would approve of how hurried you seem to be to meet him in the afterlife?”

“This isn’t about him,” Church says harshly. Not entirely, he adds to himself — although his mother can probably hear the thought anyways. “This is for me. It’s my life. Not yours, even if you chose to save it.”

He scoffs. “And keep his name out of your damn mouth.”

“Careful,” Mother says coldly. 

The silence is ringing. 

“…I will be,” Church finally relents, giving up on sleeping and instead staring up at the darkness of his cabin. “I’ll… be more careful. It wastes our healing potions and revival scrolls when I’m not, anyways,” he adds in a grumble. 

The warlock feels a warm weight settle into his chest. It’s accompanied by a shiver that goes down his spine as his veins and the marrow of his bones fill back up to the brim with magic. 

“That is all I will ask. For now.” 

Despite the warmth of the magic, the air within the cabin suddenly goes chilly as shadows coalesce into a vaguely humanoid form with blazing orbs for eyes. 

The figure stoops slowly over the shivering warlock, and with spindly fingers it drags his blanket over his shoulders before it bends down to press an icy kiss to his head. 

“Rest well, sweet boy. You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Chapter Text

Church is falling. 

He is falling very fast.

The Weave doesn’t answer when he tries to cast feather fall. The wind rips his breath right out of his lungs as he plummets. 

Damn it! he thinks desperately as he’s buffeted by wind and debris. Fuck! MOTHER!

She doesn’t answer. She probably doesn’t have any time to answer, to be honest. The wind roars in the warlock’s ears as he tries again to cast, but the ground is rushing towards him far too fast…

Church’s stomach then lurches as some kind of unknown force finally catches him, slowing his descent at last. 

…and not soon enough — the ground is mere meters below him.

“Oh,” he groans, nauseated. He blinks dazedly as he floats down towards a sandy surface. A vague figure stands there below him, eyes glowing purple as it stretches out a bulky, gilded arm. 

As he comes into focus, Church realizes with a jolt that the figure is clad in resplendent golden armor. Beneath eyes whose light is now fading to a warm brown, the warlock’s savior wears a soft smile that is achingly familiar.

“…Tavi?” Church breathes. 

And then he blacks out. 

—

Upon regaining his consciousness, Church staggers to his feet and immediately stumbles towards a nearby body before recoiling. It’s a man who is very, very dead — his face nearly obliterated where it rests in the sand. The warlock looks over to another patch of disturbed ground where there appears to be footsteps leading away from the beach. 

He can’t have imagined it. There was someone on the ground, waiting for him as he fell.

Church walks onward past numerous corpses. Some of them seem to be fellow captives who died on impact — hanging out of broken Illithid pods. But a few of them appear to be simple villagers. By the equipment and supplies nearby, they were unlucky souls who died on the ground rather than on the ship. A few appear to have died from being crushed and burned by the ships’ debris, but others still seem to have been positively eviscerated.  

Church doesn’t have to wonder long what could have possibly done this. He hears an alien chittering and he ducks down before peering out from behind a rock.

There are a handful of intellect devourers scuttling around inside of the cavernous wreckage, broken open upon its impact on the beach. They seem docile now, but Church recalls all too well how alarmingly fast Us and its siblings moved aboard the ship. Even from here, those bloodied claws look very sharp.

“Shit,” Church mutters under his breath. He could find a way around — maybe even get away from this whole mess entirely — but on the other side of this tunnel there appears to be several crates sitting in the sunlight and filled to the brim with what looks like precious supplies. 

Church takes a moment to center himself.

Surely he can make quick work of a few brains?

— 

The warlock grunts as he finally stumbles into the supply crate, digging around for anything useful. He’s lucky — he pulls out a rag that seems mostly clean as well as a familiar bottle of clear spirits.

Better than nothing.

He rips off the tattered remains of his sleeve around his bloodied forearm before yanking out the stopper of the bottle and dousing the wound in the spirits, gritting his teeth against the searing pain.

“Fuck,” he spits, discarding the bottle before binding the wound with strips of the rag. Hopefully this will be enough to prevent a horrible infection until he can find a healer.

Or, better yet…

“Oh, thank the gods,” Church groans in relief as he uncovers a healing potion tucked away inside of the crate. The clawing from the intellect devourer hardly merits using this now, so he just pockets it gratefully. There will no doubt be some other fresh hell awaiting him around the corner from this disaster.

And, speaking of which…

He has almost trudged up a hill when he sees a movement ahead of him — a silver-haired man in foppish, padded armor hailing him furtively from above. If the clothing of the deceased fishermen are any indication, he doesn’t seem to be a local either. 

For a moment, Church feels relief at finally seeing another living person. But then his caution finally returns, and he approaches with his hand resting upon the pommel of the mace he had commandeered from the mind flayer ship.

“Hurry!” the elf says, voice hushed and brow furrowed. “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.”

Church frowns. The elf seems to have been waiting for him — he seems neither surprised or relieved as he gestures at the thick foliage in the bluff ahead of them.

“There, in the grass,” the elf beckons him forward. “You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.”

Ah, perhaps he heard the fight that took place down the hill…

“Sure,” Church says cautiously, priming an eldritch blast. “Stand back?”

But as soon as he steps forward and the elf leaves his line of vision, he is immediately startled by a wild boar bursting squealing out of the underbrush. 

…far too late, he knows that he has fucked up.

Despite the tingle on the back of his neck, Church doesn’t spin around in time to blast away his assailant. A surprisingly strong arm locks around his chest and a silvery dagger flashes before his eyes. 

With a yelp, Church falls backwards as the elf grapples him. The warlock scrabbles at the sand to push himself up, but he collapses again as his attacker wraps his leg around the tiefling to pin him down. Unfairly, the stranger also sinks the weight of his body onto Church’s wrapped arm and the tiefling can barely stifle a strangled, pained scream. 

“Shhh… not a sound,” the elf murmurs breathily, his blood-red eyes hard, cold, and cruel as the tiefling’s burns into them. “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

Church grunts indignantly as he continues to struggle against the stranger’s unyielding grip. 

“Now,” the elf says lightly, conversationally into his ear. “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?” At Church’s hesitation, he tightens his grip, and his voice grows as cold as his eyes. “Nod.”

In answer, Church attempts to shove the dagger away from his throat, but the elf’s grip is like iron.

“Ah ah ah,” the stranger chides him. “One wrong move and you’ll be silenced forever, little warlock.”

The tiefling glowers at him. Did this asshole figure out what he was just from all the spells he was hurling down below? Either way…

“Fuck you,” Church spits, but he hisses as the edge of the blade dances across the quivering skin of his throat. 

“Try again,” the elf says, unimpressed.

Church winces against the pain in his injured arm and neck and nods, quickly.

“Good boy,” the elf purrs, and the tiefling decides that he has had enough of him.

The Weave is practically biting at his fingertips as Church takes the opportunity to whisper an incantation, and the Arms of Hadar burst out of him, repelling the elf away in an instant.

“Agh!” the elf gives a harsh shout. “Damn it!”

Church leaps up to his feet, his tail whipping as he crouches defensively. Facing him, the elf has already fallen back into his own attack stance, holding his blade out — raring and ready to leap. But behind his enraged expression, his eyes betray desperation as he bears down on the tiefling.

“I saw you on the ship, strutting about while I was trapped in that pod!” the stranger snarls. “What did you and those tentacled freaks do to me?”

“What?” Church exclaims, exasperated. “You have it backwards — they took me prisoner, just like you!”

With surprising swiftness, the elf is again upon him, twisting a shouting Church’s injured arm behind his back before he even has a chance to fight back.

“Don’t lie to me!” the elf snarls. “I — agh!”  

Locked together, they both stumble backwards as Church’s vision tunnels away, a searing pain cleaving into his brain and twisting his mind. 

Suddenly, he’s looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. He tries to get his bearings in this strange vision, but just as fast as it intrudes the vision fades away to the worm. The light. The fear…

For a moment, he becomes aware of the elf’s limp weight collapsed against his back, his trembling hand clinging to Church’s stinging, injured wrist almost intimately as both of their pained gasps echo in each others’ ears. 

WHUMP!

…and then Church crashes backwards onto the sandy ground, having been flung away by his attacker in disgust.

“What was that?” the elf squawks, anguished. “What’s going on?”

“Put the knife down, and I’ll tell you all I know,” Church says evenly, wincing even as he calmly holds his hands out to placate him. “Did you see what I saw?” 

“I…” the elf continues to glower, but he seems to deflate as comprehension finally dawns upon him. “I saw into your mind. They took you — just the same as me.”

“Which is… exactly what I said earlier,” Church sighs, pushing himself up to standing. “Now do you believe me?”

The elf continues to frown, but to the warlock’s relief, he finally sheathes his blade. 

Suddenly, a switch flips and the elf’s face almost instantaneously brightens into a winning smile.

“And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards!” he chuckles lightly. “Apologies.” The levity upon his face is a sharp contrast to his fury from earlier.

…he is so full of shit.

“Well,” Church retreats from him a bit, not letting him leave his sight this time despite the elf’s relaxed stance. “To be fair, I might have done the same had our roles been reversed.” 

“Ah,” the elf smirks, his eyes piercing and challenging, “a… kindred spirit, then.”

He pulls himself up to full height, a bit of a swagger in the movement as he regards the tiefling. 

“My name’s Astarion,” he says, a pompous lilt in his voice. “I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

“I’m… Church,” the tiefling introduces himself reluctantly. “I was…”

…on the road to Tarrin’s Hearth from Waterdeep, his heart lightening with every step he took closer to the village. After the year he’s had, there’s nothing he wants more than just an iota of familiarity…

“...going home,” he says, lamely.

“Cute,” the elf remarks, examining his nails. “So! Do you know anything about those worms they put in our heads?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Church says flatly. “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”

“Turn us into—?” 

Astarion’s eyes widen in momentary horror, but then his face twists and he almost doubles over in harsh, bitter laughter. 

“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” His eyes glance to the side, anger fading as fast as any expression of his into tired regret.

“Although… it hasn’t happened yet,” he ponders aloud. “If we can find an expert — someone that can control these things, there might still be time, don’t you think?”

“‘We?’” The tiefling regards the elf warily. He is hardly an ideal ally, but given the circumstances, they at the very least have a common goal. 

Damn it. They should stick together. Church now knows that he can hardly fight off any more of those clawed intellect devourers on his own. 

He already misses Us. He hopes his little companion somehow died painlessly. He hates to think what further havoc it might wreak here in this devastated fishing village. 

Compared to this asshole, Us probably would have been a much more trustworthy companion. Still, Church has certainly been on his share of shifty jobs. It wouldn’t be the first time he hasn’t been able to turn his back on a companion.

He studies Astarion. Is it just his imagination, or for a moment does it look like the elf is worried as he watches the warlock’s inner turmoil take place?  

“Alright,” Church relents. “I suppose our odds are better together.”

“Indeed they are,” Astarion’s face melts back into a pleased smirk. “And you seem like a useful person to know.”

Church does not like that look on his face. 

“Alright,” the elf gives him a sardonic bow. “I accept your gracious company. Lead on,” he gestures vaguely down the path.

Neither of them move.

“Well,” Astarion drawls. “This is promising, isn’t it?”

He slowly, deliberately strolls past Church, making quite a show of turning his back to him as he leads the way down the path. “Come along now — we’re wasting precious time.”

Church rests his hand on the pommel of his mace as he warily follows the elf, eventually matching his stride as they travel along the sandy path.

—

“So… you were from Baldur’s Gate,” Church attempts to make conversation in the tense silence between them. “I’ve been a few times. Used to visit a friend there.”

“Is that so?” the elf says loftily. “Well. We clearly moved in different circles.”

Church decides to ignore the scathing undertone of his remark. “And… is there anything more you can tell me about yourself?”

“Oh, what’s to tell?” Astarion says lightly, waving his question away. “I’m a magistrate back in the city — it’s all rather tedious.”

“A magistrate?” Church repeats in disbelief. “I almost find that as surprising as the mi—”

“ — stop!” the elf hisses at him, throwing out an arm to block his path. “There — one of those tentacled freaks.”

Sure enough, a bloodied mind flayer lies nearby just inside some wreckage of the Nautiloid. It seems to be struggling to push itself upright as it regards the two men, tentacles flicking weakly. 

“We should kill it,” Church and Astarion both say simultaneously. 

They glance warily at each other. 

“At least we’re on the same page,” Astarion says indulgently. “Allow me,” he flourishes his dagger as he tilts his head in the mind flayer’s direction. “It will be far faster than watching you bludgeon the sorry bastard to death.” Church glances down at his mace. 

“The pleasure is all yours,” he says. Astarion smiles tightly at him, eyes narrowing. 

“It is indeed,” he growls. “Watch my back.” 

He then pauses… and winks. “But don’t get distracted.”

Church blinks at him — mortified — but he does remain alert as the elf approaches the mindflayer to put it out of its misery. 

Unexpectedly, the elf stops and straightens up, his head of silvery-white curls tilted in curiosity. 

“What’s wrong?” Church asks, but then he feels it too. 

He looks down at the dying monster. It would be all too easy to end its life here and now, if only he didn’t feel… compassion.

Compassion? 

“What the hells…?” Church backs away, but to his surprise, Astarion just… stands there, eyes softening as he regards the creature. And then, to his horror, the elf begins to kneel down, reaching out a hand to touch it. 

“Shit!” Church curses as the mind flayer’s tentacles lash out towards the elf’s head in a sudden burst of speed and strength. “Watch out!” 

He blasts the mind flayer yards away with a deafening explosion. It lands with a limp and wet CRUNCH, but its chest still heaves with labored breathing. 

Church leaves behind the reeling elf, stalking towards the Illithid with his mace in hand. 

“Fucking monster,” he hisses, and his eyes fill with shadows as he brings not his mace, but his boot down upon its skull. It crushes it with an unceremonious squelch. 

Church blinks his eyes clear and groans at the putrid mess all over his boot. He’ll just need to replace them completely after today’s literally hellish ordeal…

“Brutish, but effective,” the elf says dryly from behind him. “It is dead after — oh shit.” He recoils as Church turns to look at him, the shadows still diffusing from the tiefling’s eyes and mouth. “Is that… normal for you?”

Church fans away the smoke irritably. “Nothing about today is ‘normal,’ but that… does happen. So… yes.”

Astarion shrugs. “We all have our ‘thing,’ I suppose.”

“And what’s yours?” Church asks, attempting to wipe his boot off on the dead mind flayer’s robes.

“Ah,” the elf smiles lazily at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

He glares distastefully down at the mind flayer’s remains. “Wretched beast.”

“It took control of you, didn’t it?” Church asks, gently. The elf’s face contorts but smooths itself out quickly as he straightens back up, smiling stiffly at his companion.

“Well, I am all the more grateful for my delightful companion during this dangerous day,” he simpers. His eyes remain bright, furious, and calculating. “Now. Where to next?”

Church scans the destruction all around them.

“There were hundreds of pods on that ship,” he says. “I was able to get free along with two women — a cleric and a Githyanki fighter. We can’t possibly be the only survivors.”

“A Githyanki?” Astarion repeats, astounded. “Well, those tentacle freaks certainly picked a sundry of souls, didn’t they?”

—

Not long after their messy encounter, the tiefling and elf stumble upon yet another such soul atop the roadside cliffs above the beach — a chatty wizard by the name of Gale. Even an exhausted Church somehow manages to extract and haul him out of a dangerously-unstable magical portal — all while Astarion watches on with unhelpful commentary. The wizard is a much friendlier character from the start, although for Church the bar is admittedly low after having a blade pressed against his throat earlier.

But as Gale beckons them to press on away from the cliffs, the tiefling glances over and catches the elf standing a ways from them. Eyes closed, his face shines blissfully as he basks there in the golden sunlight sparkling across the sea below. 

“Feeling alright?” Church asks tentatively. 

“Oh yes,” Astarion’s ruby-red eyes blink open. Those are… unusual for an elf, aren’t they?

“Just enjoying my freedom… from that disgusting ship,” he adds, lip curling. 

Church smiles tightly at him and nods. “Better to die out here than in there.”

The elf regards him in amusement. “An optimist! How… refreshing.”

Chapter Text

After a chaotic day of getting their bearings, the party’s makeshift camp is tense with wariness. 

While Church finds himself tentatively fond of Gale, the small, hypervigilant part of his brain reminds himself that such a personality may very well be a trap. It’s hard not to overshare with the wizard who so eagerly listens and offers his insight... all while offering next to none of his own story in return. It would be all too easy for the wizard to put a figurative knife in his back. 

And then there’s the elf, who could put a literal knife in his back. 

Fortunately, that elf opts to approach Church head-on that evening, smiling affably as the tiefling warms himself by the campfire.

“May I?” Astarion asks. 

Church nods and watches as the rogue settles into a seat beside him. The warlock knows that he’s well-within stabbable distance, but he’s honestly too drained by the day to care.

“I have to say, I thought you’d look worse,” Astarion remarks, giving him a cursory glance. “But no… not a tentacle to be seen.”

“I could say the same to you,” Church says dryly.

“Indeed you could,” Astarion replies thoughtfully. “We’re all doing surprisingly well, given the circumstances. 

“I’m not taking anything for granted, of course. First sign of change and I’ll have to stop that pretty little heart of yours.” As emphasis, he reaches over and brushes a slender pale finger down the tiefling’s chest.

Church blinks back at him. 

What… was that?

“I am open to suggestions,” Astarion assures him indulgently. “Knives, poison, strangulation — whatever you’d prefer.”

Despite himself, Church recovers enough to huff a laugh. “With so many wonderful options, how am I to choose?”

Astarion hums thoughtfully. “Well, speaking personally, I don’t think poison is for me. Nor stabbing, come to think of it.

“I’ve always felt decapitation was a fine choice,” he says brightly, miming it with far too much gusto. “One good swing and then — nothing!” 

He laughs. “But we were talking about you. So. What’ll it be?”

Church sighs. 

“A knife to the heart, if you would,” he decides, humoring him.

Now that his mother can’t reach him, perhaps that might even be a possible outcome to this night. He really should have taught himself a passive shield charm before getting abducted by mind flayers…

Astarion laughs. “A classic! One good thrust and you’re gone.” He smirks at Church conspiratorially. Excitedly. “We’ll need a good blade, of course. Don’t want to waste time hacking and prodding with a dinner knife—”

He catches himself before going further.

“Well, I’m getting ahead of myself,” he titters. “This is all a worst case scenario, obviously.”

“Sure, but… we’ll figure this out,” Church tells him earnestly. “It’s only been a day. We will find answers. We’ll have to.”

Astarion indulges him with another patronizing laugh.

“Hmm, the odds are hardly ever in our favor,” he says wryly. “But if the last day has taught me anything, it’s that the impossible is more likely than you think. 

“Now, let’s get some rest,” he says merrily, lithely pushing himself up to stand. “The sooner we start tomorrow, the better our chances of keeping this… hypothetical.”

—

Happening upon the Emerald Grove brings more stragglers into their party — others who were unfortunate enough to be infected, but fortunate enough to survive the fall from the Nautiloid. 

Church manages to recover his Githyanki “friend” and the prickly cleric who fought alongside him within the Nautiloid. He does feel relieved to see them alive and well for the most part; although, when they encountered Lae’zel trapped in that wooden cage, Church honestly felt more afraid for the unsuspecting tieflings than the Githyanki warrior.

There is also a man calling himself “The Blade of Frontiers” who throws himself into defending the grove from the goblins. Church is pleasantly surprised by this one — from the title alone, he expects him to be one of those cocky, swashbuckler types. But instead, he finds the man speaking patiently and encouragingly with the tiefling children as he teaches them how to fight. His eyes are soft, as is his smile. Church feels his heart flutter a little as he makes his introduction to the other warlock — Wyll, rather. His gentle voice is warm, and the tiefling decides he could listen to it all day if they had the time...

...which they don’t.

Unfortunately, the day only gets worse. Speaking to the druids yields its own share of drama, with Church having to stop their interim leader from killing a child, for the gods’ sake. He speaks to the healer apprentice as well for a solution to the tadpole, to no avail. She is sympathetic, but also unhelpful and dangerous as she seems to be fully-prepared to kill the tiefling with the wyvern toxin.

It becomes clear that besides the goblins and cultists, there is danger all around them — even in these sanctuaries.

Of course, there is danger within the camp as well. The suspicion and tension between Shadowheart and Lae’zel is palpable and potentially explosive. For Church’s part, he keeps a wary eye out for Astarion. Admittedly, the rogue has certainly had the warlock’s back in battle. Aside from some snide commentary, he is friendly, for the most part.

Too friendly. The tiefling doesn’t forget the cold, cruel look in his eyes as he intentionally pressed into the tiefling’s wound, hoping to squeeze out an answer from him during their first meeting.

And while Church observes him, he notices something else — 

Astarion is a dhampir.

He has to be. 

All the signs are there. Upon their first tense meeting, his blood-red eyes are the first intriguing hint. Then, Church notices the flash of fang when he laughs big enough to break his normally tight-lipped smile. Finally, after staring at him far too long, Church clocks two distinct puncture wounds at the side of his pale neck. He winces sympathetically at the thought of it — it looks like it must have been painful. 

When Astarion catches him staring, he smirks knowingly at the flustered tiefling.

Still, the warlock is intrigued. He had worked with a dhampir in the past, but he had never met one quite like Astarion. He considers asking the elf about it directly, but after the party stumbles upon an exsanguinated boar near the blighted village, Astarion remains evasive. He doesn’t bite at Church’s attempts to get him to come clean.

The warlock only hopes that it won’t be too late for any of them before Astarion’s hunger inevitably reveals itself.  

—

The adventurers have built their growing camp upon an idyllic, secluded landing beside the Chionthar. To enter, they must navigate a path through some crumbling, overgrown ruins. Bordered by sheer, rocky cliff sides, as well as a dock to the river — it is, at the very least, defensible. 

And it’s beautiful, Church thinks, smiling to himself as he approaches the campfire. The sound of the river is soothing, and up above, the night sky is incredibly clear. He can see so many stars…

“It’s quite the sight.”

Church startles, looking down to see Astarion reclining nearby. He gazes up at Church, eyes half-lidded and posture languid and…

…enticing? 

“The stars, I mean,” the elf clarifies smugly at the blushing warlock. “I could take or leave your chin.”

The tiefling scoffs as he steps back, but his smile is soft nonetheless. “It never gets old. They’re beautiful.”

Astarion’s bright eyes flicker back up to the sky, and his pondering expression turns wan. “I can see the stars from Baldur’s Gate, of course, but not with such clarity.” 

He regards Church again. “It got me thinking… reflecting on what tomorrow might bring, when we arrive at this… gith crèche. 

“Will we find out how to bring the worm under control?” he wonders aloud. “Will this little adventure of ours be over?”

Church ventures his own smirk at the elf. “What, will you miss me?”

Astarion laughs. “Why not?”

He swiftly pushes himself up to stand before Church — eye to eye and quite close.

Church blinks as his face continues to heat up. Why is it heating up…?

“You’ve been to the hells and back, survived the crash, and survived everything that’s followed!” Astarion gesticulates at the fire. “I’m not easily impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

Church sighs. With the last statement, the elf’s tone borders on patronizing.

“I’m just trying to survive, like you,” he says blandly.

“Yes — we’re more similar than I thought…” 

Astarion fiddles with his shirt, drawing the tiefling’s gaze to his neckline and that stretch of distinct clavicle and pale skin…

He lingers there a moment — an image of absent-mindedness if not for the elf’s smile being far too composed and perfect below eyes that remain hard and calculating. 

Shit, Church thinks to himself. He clears his throat.

“Are you… hungry?” he asks, quietly. He wonders when was the last time the dhampir fed. 

“Hmm?” Astarion says breathlessly. “Oh! Not at all. Well…” he gazes heavily down at the tiefling. “...perhaps in a manner of speaking.”

They remain frozen there together, and the Church’s heart is deafening in his own ears…

He crosses his arms. “You’re standing too close.” 

“Am I?” Astarion says lightly. “You haven’t moved either.”

Church sighs, rolling his eyes and stepping away. 

Astarion smirks, eyes challenging. “Tch… you’re no fun.”

Heart thundering, Church moves to leave.

“I’ll see you later, I’m sure,” Astarion murmurs to him as he passes. “Sleep tight.”

It sends a shiver right up the tiefling’s spine.

—

“Why do we even need a second watch?” the warlock grumbles to himself. 

Elves don’t need to sleep, after all. Nevertheless, he attempts to settle himself by the campfire for the night until his shift. He doesn’t feel particularly enthused about it, however. Normally a night spent sleeping out underneath the stars would sound romantic, but tonight with the threat of goblins, cultists, and their very own potential dhampir on first watch?

…it really could be better. 

Still, the day has been exhausting. Church has had enough of gnoll and hyena viscera for a lifetime — and yet that wasn’t even the most disturbing part of that fight. 

Church still can’t believe how good it felt to use the persuasion powers of the parasite within his brain. It felt cold, alien, but… natural. Easy. Easier than learning a spell, that’s for certain. 

When their parasites linked, Church had convinced the gnoll’s leader to devour the other members of her pack — her own family, perhaps. While it made their battle to aid the Zhentarim mercenaries far easier with a vicious ally by their side, in retrospect it is still nauseating to think about. 

Nauseating still is the memory of when he was eye to eye with the gnoll. Something intrusive inside of him wondered — 

“Why don’t we make her eat herself?”

It would be easy. Too easy. 

…and that scared him. 

Instead, he nodded for Lae’zel to run the gnoll through, finally putting her frantic, feral mind to rest. 

But tonight, he dreams of a fight that concludes much differently. 

The warlock feels himself willing the gnoll to eat herself. As much as she struggles against the parasite in her brain, Church persists. He feels the tadpole biting at her as potently as it bites at him. And then, he feels her willpower sunder like a tower of cards. She gives a heart-wrenching whimper, and then she claws into her stomach, ripping and tearing out her own entrails with a wet, strangled sound. 

Church wants to shout in horror, but his voice is muted, his mouth locked shut —

— and then the world fills with shadows. 

The cold darkness constricts him, ice jabbing frantically into his heart and mind. It doesn’t feel like the tadpole; it feels familiar —

— Mother is trying to tell him something. 

Church fights like the gnoll to claw his way back to consciousness. 

Adrenaline shoots through him, and Church’s eyes fly open. 

There before him is Astarion’s face looming very close to his, fangs bared. 

Ah, yes… fangs. 

With a sharp intake of breath, Astarion draws back, his expression guilty. 

“…shit,” he utters. 

Chapter Text

Astarion reels back, his eyes round and anguished.

“Hells…” Church groans, pushing himself to a seat as the two of them retreat quickly from each other. “I suppose it was only a matter of time.”

“No, no — it’s not what it looks like — I swear!” the elf protests, his breath frantic. “I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed — well, blood.”

“Of course,” Church says reproachfully, gesturing at him. “You’re a dhampir, after all, and you’re hungry.”

Astarion gawks at him. 

“What? No, but… wait… you… knew?” he asks, flustered and incredulous. “This whole time?”

Church gives him an exasperated look. “What, like you were hiding it?”

“Well, why didn’t you tell me you knew?” Astarion demands. 

“You seemed intent on keeping it a secret, and besides, until it became a problem I wouldn’t have minded. But this?” He gestures at the bedroll between them. “This is a problem. Now we have a problem. When was the last time you fed? Who was it?”

“It’s not like that! I’m not some monster,” Astarion says indignantly. “I feed on animals! Boars, deer, kobolds — whatever I can get.”

“Like the boar outside the village,” Church sighs. “That was your opportunity to come clean, you know?”

“What, in front of the monster hunter Wyll, and the cleric of Shar?” Astarion snorts. “They would have staked me where I stood.”

He sags as he looks imploringly at Church. 

“Look, I’m just… too slow right now. Too weak.” He beseeches him, hopefully. “If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

His pitiful pout is almost comedic to Church, but underneath that performance the warlock sees his genuine desperation.

Astarion must have seen that doubt cross his face, for he hesitates before raising his fingers to his temple, flinching as he wills the parasite to connect with the warlock’s. A strange sensation courses through Church’s mind, and from Astarion he again sees fleeting images and emotions, secrets half-revealed as the elf carefully recalls them over their parasitic connection. 

But perhaps not carefully enough, for bleeding into these curated memories are dark shadows and echoes of — 

Pain.

Searing cold and burning bright white and hot, dragging circles around the skin of Church’s back. It’s like being flayed all over again… and again, and again…

Hunger.

A moaning young woman’s pulse flickers under Church’s hungry mouth, but THOU SHALT NOT DRINK. THOU SHALT NOT…!

Anguish.

Darkness is in his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Church coughs but every time he clears his lungs he chokes on more and more suffocating dirt. He’ll die down here, he’ll die—!

…and then…

Loneliness.

Church is frozen. He is empty. He is…

nothing.

“—gah! That’s enough!”

Astarion severs the connection with a sharp grunt, and the two men slump where they stand. Church looks up at him wearily, but the rogue seems determined not to look him in the eye.

“Gods…” Church shudders. The vision only leaves him with more questions, as well as a residual panic in his chest. “Not a dhampir, then. Astarion, I’m so sor—”

“Save it.” Astarion spits.

“Alright, alright!” Church hesitates. “But… why didn’t you just come clean from the start?”

Astarion scoffs. “At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. 

“No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me,” he says emphatically.

Church laughs out loud at that.

“I could have trusted you,” the warlock says acidly. “But you tried to bite me while I was asleep. How can I trust you now?”

“Because we don’t have a choice!” Astarion exclaims. “Not if we’re going to save ourselves from these worms. I need you alive. You need me strong.”

His expression and tone shifts as he collects himself, masking his desperation once more.

“Please. It’ll only be a taste, I swear,” he reassures him lightly. “I’ll be well, you’ll be fine, and everything can go back to normal.”

Church can still feel that memory of eternal hunger lingering in his stomach and mind.

He sighs. 

“Fine. But only what you need — not one drop more,” he warns the elf.

Astarion blinks at him, taken aback.

“Really? I…” he smiles genially. “Of course. Not one drop more.” 

He gestures down at Church’s bedroll. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

You’re an idiot, the warlock scolds himself internally, even as he approaches his bedroll and lowers himself self-consciously to the ground. You’re a gods-damned idiot and this is hardly a heroic way to die.

Shut up, part of him hisses back. You know what’ll happen to him if he can’t feed, and you need him strong if you want him to keep saving your hide. After all, it doesn’t serve him to kill us.

To that, the other part of him retorts: does this seem like a man who cares about consequences?

…and yet, Church lies back on his bedroll, tense as he watches the vampire bear down upon him. 

His eyes are hungry. 

Gods damn it, something stirs in Church’s core and he tries desperately to push it away as Astarion sinks to his knees and leans over him, his breath cool as it puffs against his face. 

Oh, Church thinks dully. He smells… nice, actually.

There’s only the briefest hesitation, and then —

“Hmmgh!” the tiefling barely stifles a grunt of icy pain as Astarion’s fangs puncture his throat. As his jaws clamp around him, Church can feel the weight of the elf atop his body, and he can smell the faint, but bright and herbal scent wafting from beneath his clothing. While he feels the vampire’s bite less as the numbness spreads, he can still hear the vampire gulping and… moaning as he drinks. 

I should not be turned on by this, Church scolds himself in horror. I should not be…

…I should not be feeling this faint, he realizes, and before his strength can leave him completely, he pushes away at the elf. “—that’s enough, now!”

“Hmm? Hm, oh,” Astarion unlatches his jaws and pulls away dazedly, dopily grinning as he smacks his lips, wiping at a stray rivulet that trickles down from them. 

“That was… amazing…” he pants, eyes shining. “My mind is finally clear.”

He smiles, amazed at himself. 

“I feel strong. I feel… happy.”  

He sighs contentedly.

Shaking as he stands, Church fights to slow his frantic heart, even as he watches the elf’s tongue snake out to lick at a dribble of blood. His blood.

That tongue freezes for a moment, its mouth smirking back at the tiefling in amusement.

Oh gods, Church realizes. How long has he been standing there, gawking at him? He should say something, anything…   

“…I’m looking forward to seeing you fight,” is all he manages. 

“Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing,” Astarion’s smile broadens even as that tongue again slips out to clean his lips.

Church feels faint.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.”

Astarion turns away to walk towards the forest.

…and then he hesitates.

“This is a gift, you know,” he calls over his shoulder. “I won’t forget it.” 

Church waits until he has disappeared into the forest before he lets his trembling hand brush against the bite wound. It’s still numbed, but he can already feel that the skin is tender and raw, and the remaining blood smeared and tacky. He’ll need to clean this up, otherwise he’ll have some explaining to do in the morning…

Wait, no. Astarion will have some explaining to do in the morning to the others. It’s only fair. 

With Astarion away on his hunt, Church starts his watch early. The rest of the night is thankfully uneventful, and so the tiefling just finds himself spending those hours replaying the encounter over and over in his mind. 

The look in the elf’s eyes. 

The sensation of his weight drifting over his body. 

His touch cradling Church’s head and shoulders, with the elf’s slender fingers sliding into the tiefling’s hair electrical against his scalp. 

The… sounds he made. 

Church huffs a sigh. 

Gods damn it. 

In the end, it felt… good.

But at what cost?

Chapter Text

Astarion is quite pleased with himself. 

It’s hard not to be, when the high of his sated hunger still courses through his veins. The deer stands no chance against him at his strongest, and long after he has drained one he is still grinning up at the stars, licking up the blood clinging to his lips. 

It is a pleasant dessert, albeit bland following the taste of the warlock’s blood. Astarion can still recall it well — sweet, and then savory, electrical with magic but dark with something unidentifiable and resinous. The flavors and sensations course alongside the heat of his infernal heritage and a little spice of something else that dances curiously along his tongue:

Arousal. 

Astarion smirks bitterly. It’s an admittedly welcome turn of events. It will certainly make things easier for the elf’s strategy. Church’s unimpressed frown has been a stubborn lock to pick, but there is so much delicious potential behind it.

…once he sifts through all the distractions, that is. After these tense few days since their first meeting, Astarion has found the warlock’s sanctimonious company rather tiresome. He’s the one responsible for them getting waylaid in their journey to the Githyanki Crèche, after all, getting all tangled up in this Emerald Grove business. 

Astarion can at least understand the intrigue — it is unusual to see so many infernals concentrated in one place, outside of the hells. From what he overheard from the warlock’s conversations with their other companions, he didn’t grow up knowing other tieflings. Perhaps that’s why he has been so eager to please those refugees…

…among other reasons.  

Perhaps he’s found some local tail to chase. One day, while the others are trading, Astarion spots the tiefling sitting atop a lookout point beside another pretty tiefling with a ponytail of pink hair. She is conspicuously not keeping watch, but rather tossing her hair and laughing at something the warlock is saying. 

With that risk in mind, Astarion knows he must work fast to enact his influence over Church. Unfortunately, aside from garnering a few stray chuckles from the warlock, he can see that the tiefling isn’t overly fond of him or his commentary. 

And yet, he keeps catching Church studying him. It would be disquieting, if not for the delicious blush that would rise from his cheeks when caught. 

No. The tiefling will be useful, and Astarion will make use of him. 

While last night’s encounter did not go as planned, it went far better than expected. He certainly didn’t expect the tiefling to offer his neck so quickly. 

He could have let him keep believing that he was a dhampir — it would no doubt paint a far more flattering picture of his life. But Astarion knows he was careless in letting the tiefling see far too deeply into his mind, revealing faces and memories that are meant to haunt him and him alone. Besotted fool that he is, Church is still perceptive. He’ll be able to see far easier when the rogue is not being honest. 

Honesty — such a fickle thing. 

But if Church wants honesty from him, Astarion will give him honesty. It won’t hurt him; in fact, the tragic truth may just draw the tiefling deeper into the vampire spawn’s stage until he can be strung up like a puppet — right where Astarion wants him. 

—

Church looks… rough, this morning. The shadows around his eyes seem deeper, and his hair is untidier than usual. He makes a beeline straight from his tent to the pot of coffee where Astarion just happens to await him. 

“Good morning,” Astarion smiles pleasantly at him. “How do you feel?”

Church eyes him reproachfully as he pours. “Like shit. How do you think I feel?”

Astarion glances around. Church isn’t the only companion starting their day, so he beckons for the warlock to follow him back towards his tent. To his relief, the groggy warlock does so without question. 

“Be grateful I’m not a ‘true’ vampire, then,” Astarion says, hushed. “A bite from them and you might wake up as a vampire spawn, like my good self. All of a vampire’s hunger, but few of their powers.”

“A spawn?” Church repeats, eyebrows raised. “Then how are you able to—?”

“Indeed,” Astarion nods deeply. “I should be cinders in this light. I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here. Someone — or something — wants me alive. They’ve changed the rules.

“Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation — they’re all perfectly mundane activities now,” he says excitedly. “As for my other quirks, well, we can figure those out in time,” he winks at Church. 

“‘Something…’” Church says thoughtfully, sipping his coffee. “It must be the mind flayer parasite.”

“That’s my theory, but who knows?” Astarion sniffs. He eyes the warlock curiously. “I’m just glad you’re being sensible about these… revelations. I was worried you’d go blabbing, and before I knew it people would turn up with torches and pitchforks.”

“I won’t let them,” Church assures him, firmly. “But I ask that you tell the others yourself. It’s only fair, and… I’ll vouch for you.”

Astarion grimaces, unconvinced. “Well, you know… it might be better if they don’t…” he wheedles. 

“Aren’t you tired of hiding?” Church interjects. “Do you truly want to spend precious energy on lying and stifling your nature?”

“Quite the opposite. I’m here in the spirit of openness and honesty, to work together as a team,” Astarion says blithely.

“Then let’s start with that,” Church says. “They’ll have nothing to fear, right? After all, with all the fighting we do these days, I imagine you’ll have a steady supply for your diet that won’t require as much… subterfuge.”

“‘Subterfuge?’”

Both Church and Astarion startle and turn around to see Lae’zel glowering at them suspiciously, her longsword drawn and freshly-sharpened.

“Eyes, ears, and tongue sharp,” Astarion mutters under his breath. “Why is it that the rest of the party gets to keep their secrets, but I’m the one who needs to be outed?”

“Because not all our secrets involve being potential dinner,” Gale pipes up as he approaches. “Quick word of warning, Astarion — I taste absolutely awful. Keep your distance.”

“Wait…” Church frowns. “How… did you already tell everyone?” he asks Astarion, aghast.

“Absolutely not,” Astarion breathes.

“Did you really think any of us could sleep through your little spat last night? In the middle of camp?” Shadowheart sniffs.

Church looks back at all of them, mortified. “And… none of you stepped in to help?” 

Shadowheart shrugs. “You seemed to have things under control.”

For a moment, it looks like Wyll has something to say about all that, but he merely clears his throat and closes his mouth. 

Church sighs deeply, shaking his head. “Nevermind. Anyways, I trust him. He won’t hurt us — just our enemies. Sounds good, everyone?”

“Very well,” Wyll says dubiously as he regards Astarion. “But I’ll be keeping an eye on you — and no wisecracks about having us for supper.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Hunting with vampires? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Maybe we could get him to wear a bell,” Shadowheart says lightly. “Dissuade any night-time prowling.”

As their companions disperse, Astarion turns back — amused — to the indignant tiefling. 

“There,” the vampire spawn says warmly. “We’re all friends again!”

—

It is a grueling day — more so for Church and less so for Astarion as he grins ear to ear, tearing into the remaining goblins, bugbears, and ogres within the Blighted Village. To Astarion’s delight, he even has the personal pleasure of interrupting a lovely couple having a disgusting moment in the barn. 

…a lovely couple that then proceeds to bash the hells out of the party — but nothing a little healing from a glowering Shadowheart couldn’t fix. 

Astarion is so happy that he doesn’t even mind when Church insists on playing hero in Waukeen’s Rest, rescuing people from burning buildings and such. Astarion even helps. 

He doesn’t even complain when Church returns the dowry ring to the despondent man crying over his wife’s corpse, even though Astarion is the one who found it in the stable in the first place. 

Given how earnestly the warlock actually thanks him for his help throughout the day, Astarion risks approaching him when they finally make camp that night in what remains of the village. 

He finds the tiefling seated atop some crates, scribbling at something in a red journal. He must have picked it up at some point from someone’s bookcase or desk that had miraculously not gone up in flames. 

“There you are!” Astarion greets him warmly. “I was just thinking about you. And that delicious moment we shared the other night.”

Church looks back at him, unimpressed as he closes and tucks away the book. “The moment when you bit me?” he asks flatly. 

“The very same. I’ve… had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told?” he clears his throat, glancing away shyly. “...you were my first.”

He notes how deeply the tiefling blushes at the phrasing.

“In all these years, I’ve only ever fed on beasts. Drinking the blood of thinking creatures is a different thing entirely.

“You were delectable,” he murmurs reverently. “And now, I can’t help but wonder how the others taste?”

To Astarion’s surprise, Church smirks at him slightly. “You’re already looking at other necks? I’m hurt.”

Astarion laughs out loud at that. Is the warlock flirting back with him, now? What a delightful turn of events.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs. “There’s enough of me to go around. I’m a man of tremendous appetites.”

Church’s smile is tight as his blush deepens. 

“I don’t think they’d volunteer, of course, but it doesn’t make me any less curious,” Astarion pouts, tapping his mouth thoughtfully. 

“Take Gale, for example. He strikes me as someone whose blood is rich, refined like…” he flourishes vaguely, “...a well-aged brandy. But the gith? What in the hells would she taste like?” 

Church hums, thoughtfully. “Something exotic, surely? An Amnan liqueur?”

“Oh,” Astarion nods appreciatively. “That sounds very appealing. I’m almost convinced.”

Church clears his throat with a small, nervous chuckle. “This is all… theoretical, right?”

“Absolutely,” Astarion nods emphatically. “A mere… thought experiment.”

“So, what do… I taste like?” Church asks curiously, and there goes that blush again.

Like the warmth of the sun, when I first woke up from the wreckage of the Nautiloid, would have been Astarion’s honest answer. In the span of just a few days, both of those experiences are comparable in sheer, divine euphoria. But instead, he hums and haws, letting the tiefling sweat where he sits, waiting.

“A bit like a spiced rum,” he drawls. For a moment, a small smile tugs at Church’s lips. “...scraped from the bottom of its oaken barrel. A barrel, mind you, that was recovered from a burning cellar,” he adds with a smirk.

“...oh,” Church says quietly, his expression dampened a bit. “Well. At least I’m sweet?”

“Aren’t you just,” Astarion coos at him. “So, in the spirit of theoretical questions,” he leans towards Church, conspiratorially. “If you had to take a bite from one of them, who would it be?”

The tiefling hesitates, glancing away. Astarion is about to needle him further, but the warlock eventually clears his throat, blushing a bit.

“You, perhaps,” he says casually.

“Oh,” Astarion says coyly, leaning over to brush his fingers over the edge of the tiefling’s collar. “I’m flattered. Who knew you had such taste?”

“Or perhaps my standards have become just… wildly questionable,” Church mutters to himself. 

Astarion titters. “Unfortunately, all this talk is getting me hungry. I’d better find something I can actually sink my teeth into.”

“Well, I…” Church stops himself, hesitating. “Well. Good hunting, Astarion.”

“Gods, there’s nothing that tasty lurking out in the woods, but I’ll make do.” He hesitates, before glancing down into Church’s piercing yellow eyes with a lazy smile and a purr. “Sweet dreams.”

“Watch out for gnolls?” the warlock stammers after him, before groaning to himself and kneading his brow. What is he doing? Why is he still staring?

Church tears his eyes away from the elf’s retreating, sauntering back. 

He instead reaches to pick his journal back up, turning to a fresh page. 

Chapter Text

Wyll’s hunt for his devil leads them towards a smoldering tollhouse, surrounded by the mangled corpses and viscera of humans and gnolls alike. Just like Waukeen’s Rest, the air is acrid with smoke and burned flesh and fur. 

“What a mess,” Astarion mutters, nudging open a toppled crate with his foot. “They didn’t even take the wine!”

Church tears his eyes momentarily away from the devastation to glance at the bottle in the rogue’s outstretched hand. 

“Might be a little early to celebrate,” the tiefling mutters. “Devils can be flammable, after all.”

Astarion laughs, surprised. Did the warlock just make a joke? To him?

“What do you reckon?” Church calls out to Wyll. “Was this all the devil’s work or just coincidental carnage?”

Wyll frowns. “Not all, of course. Gnolls got to these people first, but it seems like at least some of them were able to fight back. Arrows, sword lacerations, even some magical wounds...”

“...but none of the right weapons remain,” Church observes, thoughtfully. “Perhaps the defenders survived?”

Wyll hums, glancing around at the devastation with a heavy, mournful expression. “If so, that toll house is our best bet.”

Astarion taps on Church’s shoulder, nodding towards the structure in question. “There’s an exterior ladder leading up to the second floor. You’ll want eyes and cover from above, after all.”

The two warlocks look at each other before nodding at the rogue, gratefully.

Astarion rolls his eyes at them. Gods forbid he try to help these clumsy idiots. He spryly, silently ascends the building’s scaffolding — fortunately before Shadowheart, Wyll, and Church tromp, clank, and creak their way as they attempt to stealth around the edge of the building, peering into its barricaded windows and doors.

Honestly, by now they’d all be dead without him. They might still die if he doesn’t find a way inside…

And oh, what a sweet delight to just step right in through an open window, uninvited. But he tries not to enjoy it too much as he pads through the shadows, peering down from the rickety balcony to the office below. For a toll house, there seems to be a disappointing lack of tolls, but Astarion at least notes one discarded bag of coins sitting upon the desk. There appear to be three worn-down fighters — a human, a dwarf, and a halfling — busying themselves with weapon and armor maintenance.

Finally, the door swings open, revealing the three others poised to fight.

In an instant, the halfing notches her bow and the dwarf readies his greataxe, but the human quickly raises his hands in peace at the new arrivals.

“At ease, friends! The gnolls hit us hard, but this place is still safe. It’s under Tyr’s protection,” he says calmly and reassuringly. He certainly seems battered and worse for wear, beneath that pretty scale mail armor of his. 

“Oh, I feel safer already,” Shadowheart says, sarcastic and flat. 

Thank the gods the cleric is down there to speak Astarion’s mind while he’s in stealth. He smirks as he knocks an arrow. It would be so easy just to take out that ragged fighter from here…

But as Church steps out from behind Wyll, Astarion notices how the warlock’s face positively lights up in recognition. 

“Your emblem…” Church breathes. “You’re not just paladins of Tyr, you’re the Knights of Holy Judgment!”

The man smiles back at him and inclines his head. “It isn’t often that we are greeted so warmly,” he says. “But yes. Paladins in his service, sworn to bring justice to those who need it.”

“Did you know a Tavi Smythe?” Church asks hopefully. “He was in your order, based out of Neverwinter.”

The man’s eyes close and he nods. “Tavi… It has been years, but yes.” He regards Church solemnly. “If he was your friend, I am so sorry.

“I was among the survivors who gathered his effects, bound for… Tarrin’s Hearth, was it?”

The warlock nods quickly.

The man sighs heavily, shaking his head. “He was brave. Truly. He gave his life so we might live.” 

Church glances away as he gathers himself, but not before Astarion notices how his eyes shine. Who was this “Tavi” anyways? An old companion? An old flame, perhaps? He files this information carefully away for later — it could be useful. 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Church says with a wistful smile. “He always liked playing the hero. It’s… nice… to meet someone else he saved.”

The paladin straightens up, summoning his remaining dignity in his injured state to salute, placing his arm across his chest with a small bow. “My name is Anders, and this here is Trynn and Rurik.” He gestures over at the wary halfling and dwarf still standing by. “Just so there are no surprises — our mage, Cyrel, is in the next room sorting supplies.”

“Pleasure,” the tiefling smiles, seemingly uncertain of whether to salute back and then thinking better of it. “I’m—”

— suddenly, the warlock winces, ducking down in pain. The paladin reaches out to help, but Wyll grabs him first by the shoulder. 

“Church, are you well?” he asks, hushed.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Church waves him away before continuing to speak with a concerned Anders. “Sorry. As I was saying, I’m Church, and you were right — Tav was my friend.” He gestures at the paladin. “Forgive me, but you seem to be in bad shape.”

Anders nods with a sigh. “In truth, we could use some help. This was our third battle in as many days.”

“What do you need?” Wyll asks him in that infuriatingly smooth and earnest voice.

“A devil is terrorizing the refugees on these roads,” Anders says. “Tyr sent us to hunt her, but it got… complicated.”

The warlocks exchange another look, while Shadowheart gazes on, her face bored and unimpressed at first glance. But as Astarion studies her, he can see that her eyes are flicking suspiciously around. 

“Fate smiles upon us this day,” Wyll declares with a winning smile. “I am hunting a devil as well — perhaps the same one?”

“If it is, then you know how dangerous she can be,” Anders says bitterly.

Church glances between the two of them. “Hang on — what does yours look like?”

“She has the form of a tiefling, with a single horn, but she’s an infernal being, straight out of the Nine Hells. She’s slaughtered countless refugees. Yesterday, she butchered an entire family…” Anders sighs, regretfully. “The mother had been pregnant.”

Wyll nods mournfully, but Church looks… troubled.

“We have our own orders,” he says carefully. “What would you ask of us?”

Anders winces as he leans back heavily against the desk. “Kill the fiend for us, and we’ll reward you well.”

Some paladin he is, Astarion sneers to himself. But what’s a little reward for one less devil in the world?

He keeps his arrow trained on the paladin as the tiefling continues to ponder something.

“It isn’t like a devil to collect souls through carnage like that,” Church says finally, frowning.

Anders gives him another bitter smile.

“Fiends come in all types,” he tells him sagely.

—

While the rest of the party moves into the next room to trade, Astarion slips out of the toll house. On the way down, he can’t resist eavesdropping on Church’s dulcet voice as he converses with the mage. 

“By Tyr!” the mage — Cyrel — breathes in amazement. “You’re Church. The Church.” She gives a sad chuckle. “He always said he wished we’d meet, one day. I just wish he could have lived to see it.”

Astarion can imagine Church’s sad smile. He wears it a lot, after all. 

“I have so many questions,” the tiefling says with a regretful laugh. “But it seems we have a devil to hunt.”

“Here,” the woman says fondly, and Astarion hears the soft plink of a potion bottle. “For a friend of our brother, this one’s on the house. Don’t tell Anders, though. He’ll throw a fit.”

Astarion climbs down the rest of the ladders to reunite with the rest of the party on the sloping path below. 

“I could have already found and killed the devil on my own by the time you finished up,” he complains to the tiefling. “So! Who is this Tav—?”

“Something’s wrong,” Church mutters to him, distracted. “Did you notice anything… odd, while you were up there?”

Astarion ponders as they walk for a bit together. “It was certainly the sorriest lot of paladins I’ve ever seen,” he says, wryly.

“Yes,” Church nods as Wyll and Shadowheart slow their pace to join their discussion. “Their armor has their order’s crest but it’s almost completely worn-out. And I don’t know about you, Shadowheart,” he says pointedly. “But nothing smelled holy about them.”

Shadowheart sniffs. “I’m no follower of Tyr, but I’d smell their self-righteous stink anywhere. And theirs was a stink of a different kind.”

“Evocative,” Astarion says mildly. 

“I’m no expert, but from our brief stint there… they smelled of the hells,” Church says quietly. 

“Come now,” Wyll says, albeit uneasily. “They had just fought a devil, didn't they?”

“Well…” Church sighs. “I have a feeling that this devil may have answers.”

They don’t have to go far from the toll house before they hear the sound of pained whimpering. The source is a figure crumpled down and smoldering beside the river, clad in leather and… flames. She is a striking figure of red amid the green of the land.

“Wait—!” Church throws out an arm, stalling the party. “Wyll…” he whispers. “Is that… her?”

The other warlock exhales deeply, stepping past Church with a growl. “Yes. One horn. The stink of Avernus. Advocatus diaboli.”

“But… she’s just a tiefling,” Church says with uncertainty.

“Do you see those flames?” Wyll hisses. “That’s no mere tiefling. That’s one of Zariel’s own.”

“Wyll… hang on!” Church beseeches him, but the warlock ignores him as he strides right up to one end of the fallen log — the thin bridge between the party and the devil herself. The blazing red figure freezes as Wyll approaches, before turning slowly with a panting snarl.

“Well, I’ll be godsdamned,” she says quietly. “The Blade of Frontiers. Thought I’d shaken you for good.” She chuckles bitterly to herself. “That’ll teach me to underestimate you.”

Church hurries to Wyll’s side. “You’re Karlach, right?”

The devil tears her gaze away from the Blade of Frontiers momentarily to look back at the other tiefling with suspicious — and then pleading — eyes. 

“Bloody right,” she glowers back at Wyll. “An honor to be chased by the Blade of Frontiers, but — agh!”

The party all recoils at once as a great heat tears through their minds — Karlach’s heat, fiery as the hells. 

They are lost in a tumult of visions of demonic armies as they tear through a landscape of fire and blood. 

The Blood War. 

They saw it from above as the nautiloid passed through Avernus, and now they see clearly: this woman was on the frontline.

The sound of the rushing river returns, along with the chorus of the party and Karlach’s pained gasping.

“What was that?” she cries out, shaken.

“Evidence!” Wyll says righteously as he draws his rapier. “Proof that you’re a devil — a gladiator in the archdevil Zariel’s army.”

Another vision floods through Astarion’s mind —

Karlach’s blade raised, slicing through devils — Zariel’s servants — as her eyes dart around, seeking escape.

“She’s trying to trick us!” Wyll warns them all. “Don’t believe her lies!”

Karlach implores him with wide, fiery eyes. 

“You saw the truth — I never wanted to serve Zariel! I was enlisted in her army against my will. Forced to fight, and fight I did. When I saw an opportunity to get away, I took it.” 

She looks at the blue sky up above for just a moment. “And now? I’m finally home — or near it, anyway.”

“You served her!” Wyll snarls. “That’s enough to damn you.”

“Stand down, Wyll!” Church snaps at him. “You saw what I saw. We all saw it!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying!” Wyll beseeches him, anguished. “You’re asking me to trust a devil.”

“Gods, you’ve got to be smarter than this. Open your eyes!” Church gestures towards the tiefling woman. “Karlach’s as much as a devil as I am, and you know it!”

At his words, the woman’s eyes seem to widen in hopeful desperation as she beseeches her hunter. 

“You know monsters, right? Better than anyone?” Karlach pleads. “Look into my eyes — can’t you see I’m not what you think?”

Wyll doesn’t have to look long before his harsh expression melts into something… sadder. 

He sighs, sheathing his rapier. “You really are no devil, are you? I’ve… I’ve been deceived.”

Karlach laughs. “Thank the gods. Thought I was going to have to take your head.”

Wyll chuckles dryly. “You would’ve died in the attempt. But there have been enough threats today.”

“Truce then, hey?” Karlach says, and her smile is warm — both literally and figuratively. 

“Aye,” Wyll smiles. “Truce.”

Astarion watches, simultaneously disappointed and impressed by the lack of bloodshed. It nearly beats his record of “fastest defusing of a death threat by parasite” — that one belonging to him and Church, of course. 

But at the same time he’s oddly relieved — this Karlach seems to have a literal flare for drama. Provided she makes it out of the day alive, their camp is about to get a lot more fun and flammable. 

“I’m Karlach,” the red tiefling presses a hand against her glowing chest. “But you already knew that. And you are…?”

“I’m Church,” the tiefling warlock smiles back at her. 

“Well met, soldier!” she beams at him. “Nice to meet a friendly around here — it’s been tough going so far.

“Now, I may not be a devil, but I can put the Blade’s reputation to work. How would you feel about helping me kill some evil bastards?”

Wyll regards her uneasily, and Karlach chuckles. 

“A little background, if your moral compass needs something to point at,” she reassures him. “You already know I fought in the Blood War. I was good. Really good. Turns out I’ve got a knack for killing demons. That made me a valuable asset. Zariel — the archdevil herself — made me her personal attack dog. 

“I played along until I could get the fuck out of there, but devils don’t like to lose their assets. Zariel liked it so little, she sent a bunch of goons. So-called ‘Paladins of Tyr,’ to take me back.” She smiles at all of them, dangerously. “Problem is, I’m not going.”

Church frowns. “The paladins? We met them, they’re…”

“Frauds?” Astarion suggests in a scandalized voice. 

“Worse than frauds,” Karlach growls. “They’re oathbreakers.” 

“Shit,” Church breathes. “So they were…?”

“They’re not,” Karlach spits. “Not anymore. They’re Zariel’s thugs, now, and they’ve been for years. That’s all that matters.”

Church hesitates. “Karlach… you will have your justice. But all I ask is that you give me a moment just to speak with them, alright?”

Karlach growls in frustration, her eyes flashing as she smolders. “...and then we’ll kill them, right?”

Church closes his eyes and nods. 

“Fuck yes!” she erupts in a tempest of flames. 

—

When Church returns to the toll house accompanied by Wyll and Shadowheart, his expression is far different from before. Gone are the soft, nostalgic eyes and cautious excitement upon meeting the Paladins of Tyr. Now, his eyes are cold and flat as they meet Anders’.

“You’re back!” the paladin greets him warmly. “How fares the search?” 

“Well it seems we found the monster,” Church drums his fingers on his staff, tilting his head at the man. “Drop the charade — who are you really?”

The temperature of the room drops as Church’s companions fall into their fighting stances. Up on the balcony above, Astarion slinks back into the shadows and knocks an arrow, surveying the room. Two more in here, one more — the mage — in the other room. With a seething Karlach waiting just outside of the door, this should be easy.

“You’re no follower of Tyr,” Church says quietly. “So what are you doing out here?”

“Block the doors,” growls the halfling, readying her bow. 

“No, Trynn,” Anders motions for her to stand down. “We’re not murderers.”

He sighs. “As you are a friend of Tavi’s, I will be honest with you. I did follow Tyr, once, but I broke my oath when I saw how blind his justice can be — no matter how much I prayed and begged to him.” 

He clenches his fists, bitterly. “Goblins slaughtered my village… my family… my children while I was fighting other people’s battles. When I returned home, your Tavi helped me bury them. And then when I lost him, and so many of our friends — Tyr didn’t help.”

His hands relax, and he looks up at Church, rapturously. 

“It was Zariel who gave me hope and a reason to go on living. Now I have the power to save others… and myself.

“But… there’s a price to pay,” he adds. 

“And what price is that?” Church asks, flatly.

“In this case, a soul,” Anders smiles. “Either mine, or that of a creature bound to her that escaped Avernus.”

“You’d damn a soul to save your own?” Church asks indignantly.

Anders scoffs. “Her soul’s already damned. She escaped from the Hells — we just need to send her back.”

“Like hell you will!”

The door explodes inwards as Karlach stalks inside, burning and seething.

“You!” Anders’ eyes are wide. “You brought her here?” He shakes his head with an irritated grimace, unsheathing his gilded greatsword. “Just as well — Church!” he desperately supplicates the glaring warlock. “You now know what’s at stake! Help me send her back to Avernus, and our souls will be free!”

“You made a pact with an archdevil,” Church says coldly. “Did you truly expect to win? Tavi would have hated to see how far you’ve fallen.”

But the oathbreaker merely laughs, casting off his piteous mask. 

“You think I give a damn about a dead man’s disappointment?” he laughs, hysterically. “There’s nothing — no ghost, no beast here or in the Hells I fear, not with Her Ladyship’s protection. Least of all this dog.” 

His previously earnest, placid face contorts into a manic grin at the pacing Karlach. 

“Rage all you want, Karlach! Burn with the might of the Hells. Even if I fall, Zariel will find you, and she’ll bring you home in pieces while all your little friends watch.” He chuckles, darkly. “Unless we feed you their eyeballs first.”

Time freezes in a blinding moment as Karlach erupts in a scorching blaze, the flames dancing upon her skin and heating the very air of the tollhouse. 

“Avernus was never my home!” she snarls. “It was my prison! I’m free now, and I’m NEVER! GOING! BACK!”

She roars, an inferno on legs as her greataxe comes crashing down.

—

No longer feigning injury, the oathbreakers put up a vicious fight. 

Anders swiftly drops his pathetic countenance, easily going toe to toe with an enraged Karlach. More urgently, Rurik knocks Church — who was standing far too close to begin with — flat onto his back. 

The fool. Astarion knows Wyll and Shadowheart — preoccupied with the spellcaster and rogue — won’t get to him in time, and Karlach is locked in vicious combat with Anders. 

“I have to do everything around here!” Astarion mutters to himself as he lets loose an arrow, striking the dwarf in the neck and buying just enough time for Church to blast him away. 

Astarion means to retreat to his cover spot, but he instead finds himself dodging the halfling’s dagger as it swipes at his neck. But it was all a distraction, for she then sweeps his legs from under him, knocking him prone. 

“Gods damn it!” he barks as she keeps him pinned by the chest. “Get off!”  

Despite his resistance, the halfling’s strength is unrelenting as she presses her dagger down towards his heart… 

…but then Astarion notices something very tempting — her exposed wrist and forearm, right within reach…

“Church darling!” Astarion shouts over the chaos, straining. “May I?”

“Gods, what?” Church shouts from the battle below, and then, frantically, “Why are you—? Just do it!”

With a vicious grin, Astarion sinks his fangs into the woman’s arm with gusto, drinking her in deep as she struggles and screams, thrusting her knife ineffectually at the elf. 

He relinquishes her arm with a grin, and she staggers off of him — unfocused — before shakily raising her dagger again. 

“Just go to sleep, darling,” Astarion murmurs as he puts her out of misery with his own. His blood is singing in his own veins, his vision sharper and senses more vigilant than ever. His eyes focus down on a bloodied Church, who grins back, hesitantly. 

And then there’s a deafening roar, and Church shakes himself. “Shit. Karlach!”

Astarion leaps down from the ladder just as it splinters with the impact of Anders knocking the smoldering tiefling down with his greatsword. Face contorted in fury, he raises his sword again as a dazed Karlach attempts to crawl away. 

“No!” Church barks, and his eldritch blast knocks Anders clean off his feet, smashing him against the wall. 

His greatsword clambers heavily to the ground — barely at his fingertips. His fingers inch towards it, but Church kicks the pommel away from him as he advances. 

Anders gives the warlock a bloody grin. 

“Tavi was weak,” he spits. 

It has its desired effect. Church falters, glowering but reluctantly curious as Anders continues, eyes glittering in pain. 

“Useless whelp. He refused Zariel’s pact, so… she had us put him down — slowly.” 

Church’s eyes widen.

“Go on then!” Astarion urges him from the side. “Just finish him off!”

The oathbreaker gives a choked, bitter laugh. 

“He begged the whole time. We thought he was trying to cling to his oath, but…” he regards the tiefling with bright, pained eyes as he throws on a mocking, shrill voice, “‘Church! Church!’” 

He coughs a wet chuckle. 

“All this time I thought he was trying to remind us of our oath to the ‘Church of Tyr.’ But now… it all makes sense — 

“He was calling for you, wasn’t he?”

Astarion watches as Church digests the oathbreaker’s words. 

“‘Church!’” the oathbreaker bleats again.  

“Keep your head, Church…” Wyll urges him. 

“No.”

Church’s eyes and mouth fill with shadow as his face contorts into a twisted, feral mask of rage. Tendrils of darkness slowly manifest and wrap around his arms as he crouches down to retrieve the Sword of Justice. 

The warlock draws the sword away from the floor with an ease untypical of his strength. Anders laughs bloodily, bitterly, as the tiefling swings the sword up with a roar. 

“‘Church!’” the oathbreaker wails. “‘Church! Chu—!’”

—and then Astarion watches in awe as Church sends the greatsword plummeting down again — 

— and again —

— and again. 

The warlock shouts with every bloody slice, until Anders’s bitter laughter has been silenced for good. What’s left of him is nothing more than armored meat and viscera atop shattered floorboards. 

“Good gods,” Astarion utters, surprised but… impressed. Who knew the little warlock had it in him?

At least Zariel will be receiving someone in pieces this day. 

Church stumbles backwards, flinging the sword aside as the shadows begin to disperse from his hands and face. Inky blackness gives way to a pair of wet eyes — pools of gold that threaten to overflow. 

The companions watch as the bloodied warlock betrays the quietest sob.

…but then he straightens up, setting his shoulders and fixing his hair back behind his horns as he turns instead to Karlach.

“You alright?” he reaches down, but quickly withdraws his hand with a sharp hiss of pain. The other tiefling’s flames flare from her skin as she struggles back to her feet. 

“Fuck them. Fuck Zariel!” she seethes. “I won’t go back. I’m never going back.”

She stomps on whatever remains of Anders’ head with gusto. 

“And if any of mummy’s little friends want to pick up where the others left off… they’ll find nothing but a pile of ash!”

“Karlach…” Church looks up at her, and Astarion can see that his eyes are wet but bright and burning. 

“...tear this place apart.”

Chapter Text

For an exhausted Gale, it is a relief to see the rest of the party finally return to camp just before sundown, casting off armor and washing blood and grime out of hair and faces. Lae’zel has thankfully been mostly ignoring him, but he has hit his limit when it comes to the grinding of her blade intruding upon his precious reading time. His head already aches something awful, and his fingers tremble as they try to turn pages he can’t even manage to focus on.

One of their newest additions, an unnervingly-attentive dog named Scratch, has been surprisingly good company today. Once he realized Gale wasn’t exactly in the mood or state of mind to play fetch, Scratch decided instead to nestle his warm body against the wizard’s shivering legs, chuffing and whining sympathetically whenever Gale was hit by a particularly strong attack. While the wizard is by far more of a cat-person… for Scratch, he’ll make an exception.

If he wasn’t so tired, he certainly would have been fascinated by their newest recruit — a towering red tiefling burning with hellfire. And she’s quite literally glowing, dancing upon her feet and whooping into the sky. Gale watches as Wyll brings her supplies for a tent, speaking in that low, mellow voice of his as Karlach — bless her — laughs long and loud. Gale then spots Church smiling at the two of them before turning to approach the wizard instead. There is something long and flat held carefully in his arms.

“Here.”

Gale blinks dazedly up at the tiefling, but his eyes sharpen as Church unwraps the gilded greatsword in its sheath, holding it out to him across both hands. It positively vibrates with the Weave.

“There’s the magic of Tyr’s blessing in this,” Church says, hushed. “I’m so sorry it took me so long. I didn’t forget, I just…”

“No, no,” Gale groans back in reassurance as he gingerly takes the weapon. His fingers trace the hilt of the sword as he examines the engraving there — Deliverance. Justice. Vengeance. “Seems like a nice sword. Are you sure no one will miss this?”

“Yes,” Church says ruefully. “It’s better if this just gets destroyed.”

Gale gratefully holds the weapon up to his chest. The orb pulls it flush against him, and the sword glows bright, golden, and shimmering as the wizard absorbs its Weave into him with a pained groan. 

“I hope it helps,” Church says softly, once the light and the essence of the sword has faded completely — sheath and all. 

“It…” Gale frowns. While somewhat alleviated, the hunger still aches inside of him. But as he looks up to the warlock’s wan face, he decides that he has no desire to trouble him any further. 

“Absolutely,” Gale makes a show of smiling and stretching in relief. “Like a new man.”

Church’s grin lights up his face. 

What Gale wouldn’t give to see that smile more often…

“I’m so glad,” Church says, resting his hand on the wizard’s shoulder. “Still, rest up, alright?”

“I should say the same to you,” Gale says pointedly. 

Church shrugs. “I’ve rested enough,” he says. “There’s just… so much to do, still.”

The wizard stands up shakily with the warlock’s help.

“You’ve been a good friend to me, you know?” Gale tells him earnestly.

Church grimaces back at him. “Have I? I did let you wallow in withdrawal for two days…”

“My bar may be low, but it doesn’t make me any less grateful,” the wizard says generously. “I am glad to know you, Church.”

The tiefling smiles for real, now, and his hand is warm as it leaves his.

“As am I,” he says, softly.

—

Astarion watches as the preoccupied warlock leaves the starry-eyed wizard in his wake, bundling up the bloodied cloth with which he had wrapped the sword. When he draws closer to the vampire spawn, the tiefling shoots him a distracted, terse acknowledgement.

“It wasn’t your cleanest work,” Astarion remarks to him, idly. “But certainly effective.”

“My—? What do you...?” Church shakes his head as he continues to move past him. 

“Oh come now,” Astarion says knowingly as he follows the warlock. “It must have felt good,” 

“...sure,” the warlock concedes with a shrug. “For the parts that I can remember, anyways.”

“What?” Astarion inquires curiously, stepping in his way. “Were you not… all there?”

Church attempts to shoulder past the elf. 

“Wait, I’m not done with you,” Astarion stalls him. “I don’t know the whole story, of course, but that man took something — someone — very valuable from you, yes?”

The warlock seems determined not to look him in the eye.

Astarion gesticulates, exasperatedly. “Just like Karlach, you are allowed to indulge your fury. You are allowed to feel pleasure that the bastard is in bits. So… why don’t you?”

Church looks up at him, tiredly. 

“Because killing him didn’t bring… him back,” he says quietly. “And I don’t feel any more whole than I did before. I just took several more lives — damned them to Zariel, possibly. And yet they weren’t worth even a fraction of…” his mouth grows tight.

“Well, think of it this way, darling,” Astarion says practically. “It's all a matter of perspective. No matter how you did it, by simply killing him, you saved that tiefling’s life, didn’t you? Now there are four less lackeys hunting her. And she seems lovely,” he gestures towards Karlach, who seems to be arguing with herself as she sets up her own tent near the campfire. “Surely that must be worth something to you?”

Church blinks as he glances over at her. Thankfully, a smile does seem to tug at his lips then. Astarion steps back, satisfied. 

“There we go,” he smirks. “Good gods you’re a drag when you’re so dour.”

Church rolls his eyes. 

“I really should check on her, shouldn’t I?” he murmurs. 

Astarion shrugs. “Someone should, I suppose.”

Church moves to leave, but hesitates before placing a tentative hand on Astarion’s shoulder. The vampire spawn tenses and grimaces a little at the contact, but doesn’t flinch away. 

…it occurs to him that this is the closest he has been to the tiefling ever since he first bit him…

Church looks up at him with luminous, shimmering eyes.

“Astarion — thank you,” he murmurs. 

As he passes, beneath the blood, musk, and grime of the day, Astarion gets a whiff of the tiefling’s hair.

Frankincense and myrrh; smokey and resinous like the incense of an ancient temple. 

It’s… something he has never noticed before, having been more preoccupied by the taste of the warlock’s blood. 

And yet, for some reason even days afterwards…

Astarion can’t seem to forget it.

—

Karlach’s eyes are beautiful — cat-like and aflame.

“Hey soldier.”

“Hey yourself,” Church smiles shyly at the tiefling, shuffling his feet a bit as he fiddles with his sleeve. “Just wanted to check in for real. See how you’re settling in.”

Karlach grins back at him before she raises her gaze to the sky, fanning her fingers out and breathing in deeply. 

She exhales, slowly.

“I’m… wonderful,” she sighs. “The air… that food? Everything smells amazing!” she laughs. “Gods, it’s good to be free!”

Church chuckles. “It certainly seems like your infernal engine has cooled down a bit.”

“Just a bit. Still, don’t get too close ‘til I’ve found a way to calm it down, yeah?” Karlach winks at Church. “This close is fine, though.” She pats the seat next to her. 

The other tiefling sits down, and sure enough it’s like basking in the heat of another campfire.

“It’s sweet of you to come by again,” Karlach smiles, gently. “But… has anyone asked you how you’re doing?” 

Church scoffs, incredulously. “I’m not the one who’s running with hell literally on her heels!”

“Sure, but you’re running from something else, aren’t you?” Karlach says pointedly.

“If you talk to nearly everyone else in camp, you’ll find we all are,” the warlock replies evasively. 

“Soldier — Church.” Karlach’s eyes study him. “I hated those bastards. I’m glad we took care of them. It means I can stop looking over my shoulder just for a bit. 

“But what you did to Anders?” she says, gently. “That was personal, wasn’t it?”

The other tiefling is suddenly preoccupied with examining his hands and feet.

“Who was Tavi?” she asks quietly.

After a long pause, Church sighs, rubbing at his face. “We grew up together.”

Karlach nods, her flames crackling as she gestures for him to continue. 

“What do you want to know?” Church asks her, warily. 

“I want to know who I’m drinking to, tonight,” Karlach grins at him, although her eyes remain soft and sympathetic. “Who better to tell me than his childhood friend?”

She takes a swig from a bottle of ale before holding it out to him invitingly. Church regards her, amused, before accepting it — careful to avoid her scalding hand. 

He takes a swig, gazing towards the serene river. 

“We grew up in a little village called Tarrin’s Hearth. It was so remote that I was the only tiefling many of them had ever seen outside of storybooks. His father — the blacksmith — was among the villagers who thought I was a devil, or at the very least a bad omen. They’d often try to get rid of me, one way or another. 

“But Tav and the girls would hide me whenever I’d esca—come visit. And then whenever I was… back at home, they would come by and throw rocks at its windows, trying to see me.”

Church smiles to himself.

“He liked to read. When I was still living at home, I’d sneak out old religious texts for him to peruse and he lent me these absolutely awful, pulpy novels the merchants used to bring in…”

Church hesitates before taking another bracing swig of ale, passing the bottle back to Karlach. 

“His father sent him to the Paladins of Tyr when we were still teens, and made sure that the girls and I never got his letters. He thought we forgot him, and we thought he forgot us. 

“But years later, Tav and I both came home at the same time as young men. He was already one of those Knights of Holy Judgment. Devil hunters.” 

He chuckles at the irony. 

“He was such a goofy kid. I never imagined he’d be one of those stuffy paladin types, but he always had the heart of a defender, I suppose. Even as kids, he’d be a little shit and call me ‘imp,’ but if any of the other villagers called me a ‘hellspawn’ or anything else, he’d try to fight them — scrawny as he was. He was just… a good kid. A good man. Sometimes, I’d have to explain the idea of nuance to him, but… he believed in good. Believed in justice. 

“When we reunited we had both changed so much, but still so much was the same. When it was just us, he was just… Tav. We could be stupid. We could laugh and cry together. Be free of our responsibilities, together.”

Karlach watches him. “But there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

Church huffs a laugh, looking up at her with bright, wet eyes. So strange how he has known Karlach for less than a day, but he just feels so… comfortable beside her, despite the impossible heat. Maybe it's because she’s another tiefling. Maybe it’s her natural charm. Maybe it’s the fact that out of everyone in the party, she is already the one companion who has been completely open with him and unabashed with her emotions. Either way, sharing all this with her just feels… easy.

So, Church continues.

“He… he was almost something more, once upon a time. For a minute of my life, he was… everything. But we didn’t have a minute more to really learn what we were together beyond that.”

Karlach nods, gazing downward.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “And I’m sorry for what they did to him.” She clenches her fists. “But you at least got to avenge him — serve the justice he couldn’t. I’m glad they paid for what they did… but are you?”

Church’s breath hitches. “You know, Astarion asked me something similar?” he says shakily. “And I told him that it felt… good. Just for a moment. Cutting him to pieces.” He shudders. “But now I don’t feel much of anything at all…”

“That’s bullshit,” Karlach interjects. “You’re feeling so much inside of you. You don’t burn like me, but you don’t have to. It’s obvious that you’re about to fall apart any second now, but you won’t dare let yourself.

“You’re not made of stone, soldier,” she snorts. “You should have joined me in tearing the place apart.”

Church shrugs, drained. “My mo—my magic felt spent at that point. More likely I’d get a few swings in and then the roof would collapse on me.” 

He sighs. “For the gods’ sake, it’s been seven years. I thought I put it all in the past, but today just brought it back to the surface.” He smiles wanly at her. “I’ll get over this soon. I’ll need to. I can’t exactly afford to let this slow me down, not when there’s so much at stake.”

Karlach grunts in disagreement.

“No offense, but that’s also bullshit,” she declares. “I’m not just Karlach, you know. I’m Karlach… Cliffgate. A delinquent of the Outer City who had parents, once. Friends, too. It didn’t mean shit in the hells to anyone else but me. I had nothing with me but my memories and my name, but they were the two things that have ever truly been mine.  

“So who I am? And who I loved?” she presses her hand over her infernal engine of a heart. “It’s what keeps me going, almost as much as this damned thing. It carried me through hell, and yours will carry you through this one as well.”

There is a silence, and then —

Church chokes on the smallest sob, a rogue tear escaping out of his shadowed eyes. 

“This is the worst,” Karlach whines to herself. “I want to, but… hang on a minute!”

She perks up, leaping to her feet. Church hastily follows, confused.

“Hey! Blade of Frontiers!” Karlach calls over to Wyll, warming himself by the fire. “Can I borrow you?”

Wyll approaches, uncertainly. “Karlach? How can I—?”

“Do me another favor, alright?” she nods at Church, smiling. “Give this boy a hug for me, will you?”

Wyll blinks, looking over at Church with bemusement. 

“…very well,” he smiles, without further question.

Church huffs an embarrassed laugh. “You really don’t have to…”

Wyll’s strong arms wrap around the tiefling, pulling him in close.

Church stares wide-eyed over his shoulder at Karlach, who gazes back at him with shining eyes as she wraps her own smoldering arms around herself, squeezing tightly and swaying from side to side.

The tiefling warlock chuckles, draping his arms around Wyll as he tries to relax into the embrace. It has felt like such a long time since he’s been… held like this — not counting getting grappled in an attack, of course. 

Speaking of which...

For just a moment, the tiefling swears he spots a flash of Astarion’s hair nearby; but when he blinks, there’s nothing but his empty tent in the distance. Still, thinking of him gives Church another idea, and he concentrates on his parasite, hoping that what he’s about to do won’t ruin the moment.

“Karlach… Wyll?” he calls to them. “Can I share this with you through…?” he taps on his temple, and the other tiefling looks flummoxed.

“Can we do that?” she says incredulously. “How—? But yes, yes please?”

“Let’s try it,” Wyll rumbles in his ear.

For a moment the three of them wince at the connection, and then —

— Karlach suddenly shudders as she feels Church hugging Wyll back. Her eyes widen before softening and filling with tears. She groans happily, smiling back at the warlocks in gratitude. 

Church finally relaxes and sighs into the embrace, nestling his head against Wyll’s warm shoulder. The Blade of Frontiers hesitates before raising a hand to rub Church’s back, leaning his head to settle over the tiefling’s shoulder as well. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs to Church as the tiefling’s arms tighten. “It’s going to be alri—”

There is an otherworldly whooshing and some startled yelps from their companions, evaporating the coziness of the moment in an instant. The warlocks break apart to gaze over in alarm as a pitch black, rippling circle carves itself into the dirt nearby, before igniting with a fwoosh of flames. 

“Hell’s fire,” Wyll utters in dread. “She’s coming.”

“No…!” Karlach breathes as she steps backwards, eyes round and furious. 

A horned, winged figure rises out of the inky depths, spreading her wings as she stretches elegantly. She regards the warlocks, amused. 

“How sweet,” she croons. “But Wyll…”

She scowls at her warlock with a disappointed little pout. 

“…you’ve been naughty.”

Chapter Text

“Give this boy a hug for me, will you?”

Astarion glances over just in time to see the Blade of Frontiers himself enveloping Church in an undoubtedly warm embrace. 

He feels a pang of envy at how easily the tiefling falls into his touch, relaxing against the man that holds him close in those… strong, knightly arms of his. 

…honestly, for a moment, the elf isn’t sure which warlock he’s more envious of. 

But, by the end of the evening, he knows it’s certainly not Wyll — dragged through the hells and halfway transformed into a cambion. After the whole confrontation, the camp settles into uneasy murmurs and furtive discussions. Astarion watches as Church practically chases Wyll back to his tent as the other warlock ducks and cowers under the weight of his new horns. 

That won’t be enough to deter the tiefling from attaching himself to the man, Astarion decides. If anything, it gives them another thing yet in common. The vampire spawn knows that he needs to move fast if he’s to bring Church completely, utterly under his figurative thrall. 

If only it was as easy as a literal thrall. But, then again, Astarion wouldn’t even need the tiefling then. 

He doesn’t need him, the elf reminds himself. He’s simply a means to make this bizarre journey easier. 

Astarion watches Church reproachfully as he crosses the camp to speak with the other tiefling again. She looks surprisingly giddy, given the circumstances. 

…yet another companion Astarion will need to draw him away from. All of them are threats, really, and the elf knows this just by the looks they all gave him tonight. They really are a pent up, devastatingly attractive bunch, are they? And yet, none of the companions are nearly as susceptible as Church. After all, he and Astarion have a bond now. They have trust — or at least the closest thing the vampire spawn has to it. If Church didn’t stake him after his careless mistake, then surely he won’t anytime soon. 

But Astarion admits to himself that it’s simply not enough to avoid being murdered in cold blood. The vampire spawn… wants the warlock near. So long as he remains in his good graces, nothing and no one can touch him without that warlock’s disturbing, shadowy reprisal. 

That’s what the elf hopes, anyways. 

“Astarion.”

The elf throws on an easy smile. “Yes?”

Church hesitates as Astarion’s eyes bore into him. “Wyll was originally supposed to have first watch, but… would you mind…?”

“Darling,” the rogue pouts. “You ask so much of me. Just because I’m an elf doesn’t mean I don’t need my beauty sleep!”

“You can say no,” Church replies flatly. He begins to move on and Astarion lets out a long-suffering sigh. 

“Fine, I’ll do it,” he relents. “That snifter of a halfling gave me enough energy for two days, after all.”

Church nods, his gratitude tinged with concern. “...that’s something else I wanted to talk about.”

“We were going to kill her anyway!” Astarion says defensively. 

“It’s not that!” Church says hastily. “I think that was a more than appropriate use of your… particular set of skills.” He pauses. “But… about you biting me…”

“I’ve already apologized! What more do you want?” Astarion exclaims, before eyeing Church curiously. “Unless you’re looking for another nibble…?”

Surprisingly, Church hesitates. 

“I… would consider it,” he says, his voice strained. “But as I’m sure you’ve noticed, it takes a bit out of me, so I’d prefer if it’s mainly when your provisions on the road have been… lacking?”

Astarion raises his eyebrows, tentatively and pleasantly surprised. 

“‘Mainly?’” he repeats innocently. 

Church groans to himself in response, turning away and kneading his brow. 

“My gods,” Astarion laughs lightly, silkily as he draws closer. He smirks knowingly. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Church flushes dusky purple as he sputters. 

“N-no, I… we are not discussing this,” the warlock says stiffly. “I simply wanted to let you know it could be an option.”

Astarion nods as he steps back, amused. “I will consider it,” he says loftily. “But there won’t be any midnight surprises, I can promise you that.”

He leers at the tiefling. “Just let me know when you get a little hankering for more.”

Church excuses himself unceremoniously from the conversation, marching determinedly towards the cold river. 

—

“…the crazy bastard had it in his mind that I bet my armor in the previous round. Maybe I had, but I sure didn’t remember. In all likelihood Rurik must’ve told him I did. Anyways…”

Church smiles softly, eyes still closed as he nestles deeper into the warmth of Tavi’s side, beneath thick flannel blankets. It has been unseasonably cold and wet in Waterdeep, but Tavi hasn’t been too fussed about the warlock not being able to “show him around.”

He seemed perfectly content to explore their room at the inn, instead. 

Every surface, in fact. 

It was a fascinating tour. 

“…so I told him, ‘why don’t we make it best of three?’ And he turned to his mates and said… you’re not even listening, are you?” Tavi chuckles, pressing an affectionate kiss to the tiefling’s horn. 

“I have no idea what in the hells you’ve been saying for the past fifteen minutes of this story,” Church confesses sleepily. “But you could be reading the inn’s guestbook for all I care. Just keep talking…”

“Hmph,” Tavi runs his calloused fingers through the tiefling’s hair. “Then how about I just recite the Canticles of Holy Justice? That will send you right to sleep…”

Church hums thoughtfully, nuzzling his nose along the man’s chest and up along the soft curve of his throat. “Sure, just make sure to say them very slowly in a husky whisper…”

But before he can even begin to do that, there’s a knock at the door, causing them both to jump. 

“…Tavi?” calls a man’s voice. “Ah, hells… you’re not alone, are you?”

“A minute, brother!” Tavi groans, burrowing into the blanket beside Church as if to hide from the world. The tiefling stifles a giggle as the paladin begins to pepper his chest, throat, and face with kisses. 

“Well get dressed and meet me down below,” comes the voice again, exasperated albeit amused. “We’ve still got work to do.”

“I’ll be down soon!” Tavi reassures him loudly even as Church disappears with a mischievous smile, deep beneath the blanket. “Hells, what’re you…?” he laughs hushed and breathless before gasping as the tiefling gives him a long and languid lick. “You’re going to be the death of me. I told him a minute…!”

“I can be fast,” Church murmurs, muffled, from below. “I know you can.”

“Oh shut up,” Tavi gasps, laughing. “I just missed you. Uhhgh, I missed you. Fuck…! I…”

It takes a bit more than a minute, but eventually, Tavi is finally out of bed as he hastily pulls on his clothing. 

“Tyr will forgive you,” Church teases him as the paladin groans, wide-eyed at a hickey in the mirror. 

“Sure, but Cyril won’t,” Tavi groans. 

“I’m sorry,” Church says sheepishly as he tugs the man’s collar up in vain. But the paladin catches his hand and presses him heavily back onto the bed for another stolen moment. 

“…I’m not,” Tavi grins breathlessly, pressing another kiss to his friend’s mouth. “I’ll catch you in the morning?”

“I’ll be there,” Church murmurs, pushing himself up into the kiss. “Now, get out of here!”

He watches as his friend turns around and strides out of the room, shooting him one more sunny grin. 

Church falls back against the bed as the door slams shut. He’ll enjoy one more night away from the guildhall. It’s nice to have some privacy for once from their shared dormitories. But Cressida is cooking tonight, so maybe he should stop by and…

A clamor and a shout from down below yanks him out of his thoughts, and he sits up, heart thudding. 

“Tav?” he calls, warily. 

There is silence, and then the shout comes again. 

It’s familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Church dresses hurriedly, grabbing his staff as he bursts out of the room and races down the inn’s hallway. The sounds of shouting and the clash of blades continue to echo louder and louder towards him. 

“TAV!” Church shouts in anguish as he scrambles down the stairs into the tavern below. 

The room is filled with the flickering of otherworldly flames, echoing with fiendish murmurings and laughter. The tavern had earlier been filled with the night’s patrons, but all that’s left of them are charred corpses — flesh flaking ash beneath melted, unseeing eyes. They are posed and gathered near the doors as if they had been caught trying to flee the presence that now fills this tavern. 

Standing at the center of this room — far more calmly — is a circle of familiar warriors in gilded armor. One of them turns to look at Church, and his face lights up in recognition. 

“Oh good,” the paladin says, unnervingly calm amid the disquieting atmosphere of the tavern. “You came back. Do you have the devil’s head?”

Church notices that his own hand is clenched at his side, his fingers flexing and entangled in sticky fibers. He glances down, confused. 

The horror jolts him like lightning. 

But as much as he desperately wants to let go, his fingers will not untangle from Tavi’s hair atop his cold, slack-jawed head. 

“Come on, you little imp,” Anders sneers, irritably. “You can’t keep him all to yourself.”

The tiefling tries to leave — maybe if he runs back to their room he can get out through the window instead? But as soon as he steps away —

“Chuuuurch! Chuuuuurch!”

The ungodly screams rattle out of the head hanging from his hand, its eyes having flown open as they stare in horror at nothing. 

“CHURCH!” Tavi screams in drawn-out agony, and the tiefling feels panic crushing his mind and chest as he realizes exactly what — or rather who — lies behind Anders, splayed out and mangled with his limbs sticking in odd directions. 

“No…” Church shudders, and suddenly he can flex his fingers open. 

The head is gone. 

But where—?

He hears a clamor nearby, and when he looks up the paladins are gone, the body is gone — 

— but Tavi’s corpse is dragging itself towards him, jaw still slack as he screams for the friend and lover he knows will never come. 

“Chuuuuurch!” 

“CHUR—!”

—

“—ch darling?”

Church shoots up, gasping from his bedroll. He ogles back at surprised eyes of ruby red. 

“…oh, fuck,” Astarion utters, taken aback. 

The tiefling nearly pushes him aside as he stumbles out of his tent, doubling over and gasping for breath as he tries to slow his racing heart. As the night air burns against his face, he realizes it’s wet with tears. 

He sinks to the ground, rolling his neck back to look up into a cloudy sky. 

No stars in sight. 

He hears Astarion clearing his throat from behind him. 

“Well,” the elf says quietly. For once he has the decency not to sound gleeful at catching the tiefling off-guard yet again. “I meant to wake you for your shift, but…”

Church shivers violently, realizing that he left his coat behind in his haste for air. 

“Of course,” he says shortly, voice strained against his chattering teeth. 

“Not a… pleasant dream, I take it?” Astarion inquires, and Church feels a nudge at his shoulder. 

He looks up, dazedly to see the elf holding his own cloak down to him. Freed from its weight, the fabric and ruffles of the elf’s shirt flutter in the breeze. 

Is it just him, or does the vampire spawn actually seem concerned?

“No, but… thank you,” Church hesitates before gratefully taking the cloak and wrapping it around himself. It smells uncomfortably of the elf, but it does help considerably against the nighttime chill. “Going on your hunt, then? Or right to meditation?”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps. But it seems like you may need a few more moments to set yourself up.” He laughs lightly. “Wouldn’t want anyone else sneaking up on the camp tonight.”

Church regards him, warily. 

Astarion sighs. “If I must, I’ll take my leave. But again, I assure you that your neck is safe from me tonight.”

“Wait—!” Church says, far too quickly. “Could you… stay? Just for a bit while I get my bearings?”

Astarion leers at him. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you?” he teases.

Church waves away his implications as he retrieves his canteen. The rogue follows as the warlock clambers up to the watch position, climbing lithely behind him. 

—

Astarion isn’t sure what exactly Church wants him to do to help, but the warlock clearly doesn’t wish to be alone. He can indulge that. 

“Astarion,” Church says pensively, after a while. “You know, against my better judgment, I want to trust you.”

“Then we want the same things,” Astarion says airily, stretching languidly into the tiefling’s personal space. He feels some satisfaction as the warlock blinks away, blushing. 

But then he looks back at the spawn, brow furrowed. 

“When you shared your mind with me, I saw things I know you didn’t mean for me to see. But they were… terrible things. 

“You’re afraid of someone,” Church says softly. 

The elf scoffs. 

“Could you tell me—?”

“—why do you insist on exhuming the past?” Astarion snaps. 

Church blinks at him, frowning. “Well, fuck me for being concerned,” he says flatly. “But if he’s coming after you, then we need to know what we’re up against. I don’t want to be blindsided by yet another Mizora.”

The warlock turns away. “Forget about it, then.”

“…fine,” Astarion huffs, stopping him. He scoots closer to Church as he starts to speak — hesitantly, hushed. This he would rather go unheard by the rest of camp. 

Church gazes back at him with attentive, luminous eyes — the only two stars on this cloudy night. 

Astarion waffles for a moment. 

“If you must know…” he sighs. “I was… a slave to the vampire Cazador...”

Gods, where even to begin?

—

Something shifts between the rogue and the warlock after that night. Church certainly seems strangely warmer and relaxed towards Astarion. 

Wonderful, the spawn thinks to himself. Now that he has gotten the tiefling to just above a neutral opinion of him, he can finally turn up the charm to wrap him soundly around his finger. 

Despite his… proclivity to injury, as an ally, the warlock certainly proves himself to be useful. 

The following morning, a freak storm blows into the land. Its wind and rain pummels their camp, saturates the earth, and feeds the river until it is positively raging. Gale’s tent collapses under the weight of the water, and the river floods its banks until it nearly reaches Karlach’s tent.

As tempting as it is to take shelter from the storm in the Emerald Grove, even Astarion admits that there is no time to be wasted. After all, they have finally scouted around the goblin camp on the other side of the river, and the storm provides a good distraction. At the same time, it renders the surrounding landscapes unstable and dangerous. 

Naturally, Church insists that someone should still take advantage of the storm’s valuable cover to stealthily disarm the goblins’ traps along the camp’s side entrance. He glances pointedly over at Astarion. 

“You’re joking!” the spawn says petulantly, eyeing the glorified “bridge” over the raging river. It’s no more than a few planks and ropes, really, and it creaks and trembles in the rainstorm. 

“I can’t cross that! I’m…” he stops, flustered. Oh yes, the tadpole changes those rules for him, doesn’t it? But it doesn’t make the task any more appealing. “Can’t we wait for this rain to stop at least?”

“We can’t,” Church insists. “Astarion, it’s a bridge. They must use it every day. It’s fine!”

“This is getting nowhere!” Shadowheart sulks, wringing out her braid. “Surely you can just dimension door the coward across?”

Church looks at her dubiously. “I barely have enough in me for one more spell before I need to lie down. And you want me to use it on a twenty foot crossing?”

“I could throw him?” a steaming Karlach suggests, far too eagerly.

“Ugh, fine!” Astarion throws up his hands. “I’ll do it. But just know it will be your fault if that thing collapses beneath me.”

Shooting one last glare back at the warlock, Astarion approaches the rickety bridge, hesitating before stepping on it. He takes one step, and then another. The wood creaks in a warning, but holds. 

“You’ve got this!” Karlach calls unhelpfully. 

“This is insane!” Astarion yowls back. He continues to inch along, balancing. 

“—what the hells—!” Church yelps suddenly. “Astarion! Jump!”

The elf turns just in time to see a mass of debris or something flying towards him, carried by the surging river. He turns to leap —

— and then the bridge collapses, Astarion along with it into the tumultuous river. 

The icy-cold water shocks his body upon impact, its unrelenting speed pulling him bodily away and bashing him against rocks. It crushes and muffles his screams as he claws towards wherever the damned surface is. 

Shit, even if he could swim it would do no good down here. 

I can’t breathe! he panics. I’m —

— going to die down here!

Suddenly it’s not foamy water all around him, but dark, crumbling earth heavy upon his chest, filling his lungs. He coughs up not muddy water, but congealed blood and dirt…

He feels himself wrenched every which way, debris scraping and catching along him and pulling him apart as he reaches for purchase. 

…and then there is a burst of blue light from somewhere behind the foam, and a strong, taloned hand latches onto his wrist, pulling him up against the suction of the water as his head finally breaks the surface with a strangled gasp. 

“—hold on!” Church shouts above the roaring river. He strains as he clings to the elf, reaching another arm down to hook under his other. Astarion clings to the tiefling, eyes wide and frantic. 

“Don’t let me go!” he hears himself babbling, pathetically. “Please!”

“I won’t!” Church growls as he tugs him up with a surge of strength, his eyes smoking and inky black. “Just… hold… on…!”

With a cry he hauls Astarion completely out of the water, and the coughing elf clambers atop the fallen tree the tiefling clings to. As Church collapses — panting — from exertion, the elf continues to hack up disgusting water from his burning lungs. 

“You good?” Church calls weakly, reaching to squeeze the elf’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine. Gods. I’m fine,” Astarion gasps, dazed. “Where…?”

“Back this way,” Church says, beckoning him to follow as he crawls backwards along the log. “Come on. You can do it.”

The shivering, sopping wet elf pulls himself along the log. Church is already waiting for him below, holding out a hand to help him down. 

To his own surprise, Astarion takes it, gratefully. 

“My knight in shining, padded armor,” he simpers tremulously. Church — whose bright yellow eyes had been flicking in concern — gives a long-suffering sigh. 

“I suppose that means you’re alright,” he says dryly, releasing the elf’s hand. 

“Right as this rain,” Astarion says blithely. “Running water and vampire spawn hardly mix, after all. And it seems not even a tadpole can repel a raging river.”

“You were right,” Church says regretfully. “It’s my fault. I know I should have listened to you — I’m so sorry.”

“Well, there are certainly easier ways to get your hands on me,” Astarion says wryly.

“What?” Church says, mortified. “No, Astarion, that’s not why I…”

“Oh stop, you’re no fun,” the elf drawls, as if he hadn’t almost died. “Where are the others?”

“They’re still back above where we left them,” Church tells him. “We… actually are on the other side from them.”

“How did you get over here, then?”

“I… misty-stepped down,” Church shrugs. “The current carried you fast, so I went a bit farther than I normally go, so…” he sways in place a little. “I could use a rest to be honest, while the others get here.”

“Better here than sleeping with the fishes,” Astarion quips. 

Church sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah. You’re perfectly fine,” he chuckles. 

The rogue and warlock drag themselves under an outcropping — a meager, but serviceable shelter from the rain. 

They both sink to the muddy, rocky ground with a wet squelch. Despite not being the one who had just been swept down the river, the warlock almost immediately begins to snooze. 

The elf watches him in amusement, but lets him be. He knows that whatever sleep he woke Church from that previous night, it seemed far from restful. 

—

It takes some time for Shadowheart and Karlach to find them, and even then it’s thanks to Church again remembering their shared condition. The tiefling concentrates as he pings their companions, the connection dragging the two pairs back together further along the river bank to a relatively shallow crossing. 

“Now what?” Karlach asks brightly, as her three other miserable companions huddle close to her for warmth. Church tries his damndest to prestidigitate some of Astarion’s clothing from soaked and freezing to at least bearably damp. 

“I have a terrible idea,” the warlock volunteers unenthusiastically. Astarion blinks at him. 

“Did you come up with it during your beauty sleep?” he shivers. The warlock rolls his eyes.

“Sort of,” he admits. “What if we just… walked right up to the goblin camp’s front entrance?”

Karlach and Shadowheart look at him like he’s mad, but a smile spreads across Astarion’s face. 

“Go on…?” he drawls encouragingly. 

“We’ve used our parasites to fool other cultists before,” Church reminds them. “Like those humans with that dwarf who was wounded by the owlbear.

“What if we just pretended to be followers ourselves? They seem to come in all shapes, after all. All you need is a tadpole.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about just waltzing into a camp full of bloodthirsty goblins,” Shadowheart says dubiously. 

“I thought you were trained in the ways of deception?” Church smiles at her. “It’ll come in handy more than ever. We’ll be invisible in plain sight.”

Karlach — blazing hot and bright red — looks understandably a little skeptical of that, but Shadowheart at least seems to come onboard with the idea. 

Astarion, for his part, is thrilled. 

“Oh I do love to crash a good party!” he claps his hands in delight. “Especially one full of free drinks.”

He licks his lips.

The goblins don’t know what’s coming for them.

Chapter Text

The goblins may not know what’s coming for them, but neither does the party, for that matter. 

It turns out that Church’s plan would have worked swimmingly if not for two unexpected hiccups:

The first is the forward sentinel, who seems insistent on goading the adventurers. Everyone in Church’s party is ill-tempered, having been soaked to the bone by rain. As the sentinel insists that they smear worg dung on their faces in order to enter the camp, Church decides that he is just tired. It simply doesn’t feel like enough to indulge in the parasite’s authority, however. 

Instead, he dips his voice in fey charm as he asks innocently enough, “The rain seems to have washed your celebration colors off. Why don’t you show us how it’s done?”  

“...right,” the sentinel reluctantly looks down at the steaming mound of dung. “Er… just like this…?” The goblin scoops himself two fingers full of shit and smears it around his face, grimacing as Karlach stifles a giggle. The other goblins chuckle to each other and jeer at their leader’s bizarre turn.

“Well,” the sentinel says, gruffly and far less gleefully as he wipes his fingers. “Your turn, then!”

Church laughs in his face. “No.”

For a moment, he practically feels Shadowheart tense behind him.

“We are very important guests of Priestess Gut,” Church’s honeyed voice says, recalling the name from the imprisoned goblin’s words. “You’re wasting our time.”

The sentinel grimaces and nods in deference, sheepishly wiping his dung-covered hand upon his clothing. “Go on through, then. Apologies, True Soul.”

That goes well enough, but then comes the second hiccup —

Church’s voice isn’t the only one of influence here.

He leads the party in strolling confidently across the bridge to the entrance of the camp. But they have scarcely begun to cross when a louder presence booms into the warlock’s skull, banishing all other thought. Church collapses to his knees, wracked in pain. For a moment, he wonders if it’s his mother, back with a vengeance. But it can’t be — after all, he feels his companions’ shared anguish. He knows that the others have been brought down as well. 

“Hear my voice. Obey my command.”

The voice is irresistible. Church recognizes the overwhelming authority that had ebbed off of him when deceiving the cultists and commanding the gnoll, only infinitely stronger. His vision tunnels until all he sees is a dark, featureless shadowscape with nothingness in every direction. Then, from the darkness appear three figures before him —

A bearded, armored man, exuding gravitas, power, and command. 

A younger, dark-haired man with watchful eyes and a quick, easy smile. 

And, finally, a pale young woman with even paler, manic eyes — her golden hair falling in a heavy braid down her back.

“These are my Chosen. They speak for me. Aid their search for the weapon, and you will be worthy to stand beside them. In my presence.”

Church fights to regain his grasp on reality. He grounds himself in the weathered stone of the bridge beneath his hands, the acrid scent of smoke coming from the goblin camp, the fresher breeze that cuts through the odor, carrying the relentless rain. 

“My power grows. My forces gather. The reckoning draws near…”

The warlock feels his heart swell with love and reverence for the voice. In his frigid state it envelopes him in warmth and comfort. This can be forever, he realizes. All he must do is embrace Her back, and he will never have to dread the unknown. She will be his present. His future. He need not fear his dreams, for She will be all he thinks about…

Just let go. 

Just let go, and he will never need his Mother again. She’ll never reach him. She’ll never find him. She won’t get to entomb him alive until he is all but ancient skin and bones, sweeping an empty, forgotten place. If he embraces the tadpole, then he can be free to remain under the sun, in the free air, among the family he has always wanted — multitudes, under Her care…

“You will trade one patron for another far worse,” warns a vaguely familiar voice — low, calm, but insistent. “Your Mother may have influence over you, but the Absolute has the power to put the whole world under its thrall. It will turn you all to mind flayers. You must resist, Church.”

With this new voice comes a pulse of cleansing energy. It breaks through the darkness, clearing Church’s senses until he can again feel and hear the patter of rain against his face. 

The visions fade and the domineering voice falters as the strange energy swells around him. As he returns to reality, Church focuses on the source glowing and dancing before him —

It’s none other than Shadowheart’s many-sided artefact. Its edges and runes glow fiery as it bounces and twirls in mid-air. 

“What are you?” Church whispers, reaching for the artefact. “Why do you sound so—?”

The artefact drops neatly into his outstretched hands, its glow fading in an instant. 

“Everyone heard that, right?” Church turns back to his groaning companions. 

“My gods,” Astarion gasps, eyes wide as he blinks up at the sun beginning to peek through the clouds. “All that power, under one voice?” he chuckles. “That is one lucky lady.”

“I don’t feel so lucky,” Karlach groans. “Whoever she is sounds like Zariel all over again.”

“She doesn’t hold a candle to my Lady Shar,” Shadowheart says adamantly as she pulls Astarion to his feet. But even her voice betrays shakiness. 

“That thing was shielding us,” Karlach says softly. “Incredible.”

“Shadowheart…” Church murmurs, examining the artefact. “What is this?”

The cleric doesn’t answer him, and for once, the warlock knows she’s not trying to be elusive. 

She simply doesn’t know. 

She doesn’t protest either as Church pockets the now inert artefact. 

Up ahead, the goblin camp continues its raucous celebrations uninterrupted. Church straightens up, slicking back his drenched hair and wiping his face as he regards his companions. 

“We made it this far,” he says, resolutely. “It’s about time we learn what we’re up against.”

—

In Astarion’s opinion, they should make like the goblins and join in on the celebration themselves. The scouting party not only manages to infiltrate the camp, but also ingratiate themselves within. Still, despite the name being thrown around with increasing frequency, they don’t become any clearer about who this ‘Absolute’ is. 

But, on the bright side, they do manage to procure some excellent gear from the Zhentarim trader posted within. 

Some excellent, dry gear, at that. Despite the goblins’… charming company and aesthetic, finally having a dry ass in dry trousers is enough to turn Astarion’s day around. 

They have had no luck finding the archdruid Halsin, so far. Their closest lead is a captive being tortured upon the rack. With that air of confidence and authority that he had donned for this infiltration, Church convinces their goblin ‘friends’ to leave the room. But even after the warlock beseeches Astarion to free the man from the rack, the captive has little of interest to say between chapped and bloody lips before Church relents and sends him off to escape into the caves. 

They do rescue that pathetic bard as well from his predicament. Despite his name, he can’t possibly be the famed Volothamp — how could he have survived that long getting himself into situations like that?

Their little visit to the goblin camp is not all fruitless, however. 

Just next door to the torture chamber is another affair entirely. A curiously-dressed man with a growl in his voice flagellates himself as a couple goblins observe with a mixture of awe and amusement. As the party passes by the room, Church pauses, curiously. 

“What is it?” Karlach asks him, and he flashes her a quick smile. 

“An opportunity,” he says softly. “You lot wait here, alright?”

But Astarion, of course, follows him inside. 

So does Shadowheart. 

…and Karlach. 

“Seriously?” Church hisses at them, but the bare-chested man calls out to him, warmly. 

“Greetings, child,” he says in a gravelly voice. “I’ve met few aside from goblins here.” The cleric’s exposed skin is a veritable landscape — procedurally bruised and scarred from head to toe. 

“I am called Abdirak.” The cleric regards the warlock’s mien and the party’s weapons. “Ah, are you also here to assist with the prisoner?”

“Yes,” Church says quickly, easily. “And good thing, too. He would have expired far too fast beneath their clumsy hands.”

Abdirak sighs, disdainfully. “Indeed… the things they are doing to that man… so crude and primitive. 

“I was invited to teach them,” he explains. “I live for pain and its intricacies, you see, but alas… pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It would be a shame for suffering to be buried away, rather than nurtured and cultivated into a bountiful garden,” Church agrees, earnestly.

For a moment, Astarion almost worries that Abdirak’s hungry, penetrating eyes can see right through Church’s previous lie. But then his pale gaze softens ever so slightly.

“Forgive me, but that look in your eyes…” the cleric says, hushed. “Something terrible haunts you still, despoiling your sleep and weakening your spirit.”

Church’s confident smirk stiffens and he glances away. For the life of him, Astarion cannot tell if this is still part of his performance, even as the warlock steps forward, approaching the cleric. 

“Years ago, a friend of mine was tortured and killed for little reason other than getting in the way of an archdevil’s pact,” he says, softly. “The wound goes deeper than I anticipated, and it opened unexpectedly just the other day.”

“We’ve all suffered in these dark times — it is little wonder you bear scars of pain and anguish,” Abdirak says gently. “Please… let me alleviate this pain.”

Bizarrely, Church smiles at him. “And how would your Lady Loviatar see me healed?”

The cleric’s face lights up. 

“You know the Maiden of Pain?” Abdirak smiles, intrigued. “How refreshing. Then, as you know, she teaches us that through penance administered by my skilled hand, my work can grant peace and serenity — the likes of which few experience.”

Church hums, thoughtfully. “If it’s on the table, then… I would be interested in receiving her blessing, if you’re offering.”

“Oh, I have something exquisite in mind,” Abdirak says breathily, hungrily as he steeples his fingers. “Both Loviatar and I are interested in how you handle pain, dear one. And, yes, should you delight her, you will most assuredly receive her gracious blessing — trust me.”

The cleric’s face splits into a toothy smile. “Simply bare your back, face the wall, and we can begin.”

Astarion watches in amazement as the tiefling nods, stepping to the side as he self-consciously begins to unfasten his padded armor.

“Darling, I never imagined you were into this sort of thing,” the rogue remarks curiously. “Perhaps I’m speaking too soon, but… count me impressed.”

“I’m not trying to impress — nevermind,” Church groans, turning back around as he sheds his jerkin. “I’ve read into Loviatar’s teachings. Her followers worship through pain… especially their own. If I endure this ritual, her blessing will make me stronger — something I’m sure we could all benefit from. This is something I’m choosing to do for purely practical reasons, not enjoy—!”

“I’m not judging, darling,” Astarion says airily. “But I hope you don’t mind if I watch.”

Church’s cheeks color. 

“...or me,” Shadowheart pipes up from nearby.

“Or me!” Karlach chortles. “You’re a crazy bastard. Knew I liked you.”

The three of them fall silent as Church reproachfully, self-consciously strips off his damp shirt.

Astarion has to marvel a bit at the sight. Despite primarily being a spellcaster, the lithe warlock is surprisingly muscular beneath his clothing — as if from years of climbing. The elf’s eyes indulgently trace those fascinating contours and ridges of him, accented by the room’s candlelight. 

“What?” the warlock blinks at their surprised faces.

“Just enjoying the view, darling,” Astarion drawls, smirking at Karlach and Shadowheart’s stunned silence.

“Face the wall, my child,” Abdirak commands the warlock, to all of their relief. 

Church sets his freckled shoulders and approaches the wall. 

“Yes…” Abdirak purrs. “This will do nicely. The pain you suffer will cleanse you! Do not fight it!”

As Church rolls his shoulders, the vestigial wings upon his back flex hypnotically, to the point that when Abdirak finally strikes, it takes Astarion by surprise. 

THUD!

Astarion hardly expects Church to run away in cowardice, but at most he expects him to remain stoic against the pain — maybe grit his teeth and grunt a little. 

What he doesn’t expect is the warlock to unleash a positively ardent, ecstatic cry of catharsis, pain, and…

Astarion glances at Abdirak’s blissful face. 

…oh. 

Pleasure. 

“Your voice sounds so sweet, dear one!” Abdirak groans. “Keep going!”

“Oh, bravo!” Astarion risks a quick exchange of equally-surprised looks with Shadowheart and Karlach. “Encore!’

Church pants as he straightens, flexing his welted back with a drawn-out moan. 

“Would you have joined up with him if you’d known he’d be indulging in this sort of thing, Astarion?” Shadowheart mutters to him, eyebrows raised.

“I mean…” Astarion wheedles, intrigued as Loviatar’s cleric raises his scourge again. “…I had my hopes.”

“Pain is proof that we live!” Abdirak crows. “Revel in it!”

THUD!

Church calls loud and long, and to his horror, Astarion feels… something else stir inside of him in response to the tiefling’s voice. 

“That’s it, dear one!” Abdirak crows rapturously. “Let Loviatar hear you!”

“You alright, Astarion?” Shadowheart regards him in amusement. 

“Oh yes,” he says lightly, dreamily. “My my. Who knew our friend had so much blood in him?”

“…try not to lick your lips as you say that,” Shadowheart replies regretfully. “Shar, I’m going to have to heal that mess, aren’t I?”

The vampire spawn is enraptured. Rivulets of the warlock’s delectable blood dribbles down his dusky, freckled back, begging to be lapped up. For just a moment, Church glances back over his shoulder from where he is braced against the wall. When the gasping tiefling’s eyes catch Astarion’s, something unthinkable happens. 

Church winks. 

As Abdirak strikes their warlock for a final time, shouting out in his own unfettered ecstasy…

Astarion is simply speechless. 

—

Having no desire to spend the night with the goblins, the party returns to their riverside camp, careful to make sure they’re not being followed. The storm has thankfully passed, although the river has not quite retreated back to its usual borders. 

Church seems to be slower on his way back. Despite his insistence on it being a boon, so far “Loviatar’s Love” seems to have the opposite effect of what it promised. Even after Shadowheart’s furtive healing away from Abdirak’s line of sight, the tiefling looks tired and pale. He even trips a few times along the trail back. 

But by the time they make it back to camp, it becomes clear that it’s not just him. 

Watching Church bleed earlier that day has made Astarion peckish, but something about the boar he hunts this evening does not sit well with him. He returns to the camp exhausted with a piercing headache and chills. If not the boar, then perhaps his river swim earlier that day has given him a… cold?

It’s not only unlikely — it’s impossible, as far as the vampire spawn knows about his own biology. 

Everyone seems irritable that evening, and with Astarion included he can’t completely blame Gale’s cooking this time. No one lingers near the fire to chat — not even Karlach. 

When it comes to deducing what could be causing all their ailments, Astarion identifies two options:

Firstly, the sudden rainstorm and the chill it brought on. 

Secondly, the mind flayer parasites in their brains. Their presence always indicated their inevitable transformation was just on the horizon. 

…but perhaps that horizon is here already. 

Chapter Text

Church feels like he is dying.

As he tries to relax into his bedroll, the air grows heavy and syrupy in his lungs. Sweat beads at his brow, and pain shoots through his fingers as he flexes them. Long after the catharsis of Loviatar’s ritual had passed and Shadowheart had healed him, his back still stings raw and burning. 

He remembers waking up in a similar way as a child back in his mother’s care. It was soon after his first escape and contact with the outside world. Naturally, by eating the villagers’ food and breathing their air, his body was completely vulnerable to infection after years of total isolation. He could barely drag himself out of bed, and his brain ached with his mother’s echoing, panicked doting. 

Already bruised, beaten, and discarded by a gang of villagers, he had returned to her church earlier that day only to face his mother’s wrath in turn. He couldn’t even put up a fight — he had never seen her so angry, and he was so tired. But in a feverish daze, he remembers being cradled by the same icy, smoky arms that had grappled him; his hair stroked by the same taloned, obsidian hands that had clawed into his flesh as they dragged him back inside the prison that was his home. 

“Stay with me, my child,” Mother begged him. “Mummy forgives you for leaving her. Fight this. Please. I can’t live without you. I can’t…”

But now Church feels utterly alone as he pushes himself up from his bedroll and crawls out of his tent, gulping for fresh air. He fixes his gaze upon the swollen river. Perhaps the cold water can assuage this fever…

The icy water almost burns as he scoops it up to splash upon his face. With a groan he gives up, collapsing back against a fallen log. Was it something he ate? No… this feels far worse than any bout of stomach illness he has ever had…

“Get off me!” barks a familiar voice nearby.

“Ch’k’l ghaik Vlaakith m’zath’ak!” another snarls.

Church shakes himself and stumbles towards the voices, but his senses sharpen instantly as he takes in the fraught scene before him.

Lae’zel has Astarion pinned down beneath her as she holds her dagger to his throat. “Can you feel it crawling through you?” she hisses down to him. “Tendrils squirming in your chest, gripping your heart, piercing your belly? Your bones popping, your flesh swelling?”

Astarion lets out a strangled yelp. “Lae’zel — darling — lets talk about this…!”

“I can,” she continues, unrelenting. “I see it in you. I feel it in me.

“We are lost,” she says softly. “I will be quick with my blade. First you… then the others. Then… myself.”

“You’re mad!” Astarion wails. “You’re too far gone! Give me the blade — clearly you’re not to be trusted with it!”

Church shudders as their minds intertwine. He feels their collective panic intermingling — he can even feel the agony of their other companions in their own tents. But concentrated above it all is Astarion’s fear, and Lae’zel…

Lae’zel’s grip is iron, but beneath it is her uncertainty and disgust at herself and… horror at what is happening to all of them.

“Lae’zel!” Church calls hoarsely, and Astarion’s eyes widen as he finally notices him. Lae’zel’s narrowed gaze pierces into the tiefling.

The warlock inches forward, hands raised in reassurance. But beneath the pain, he feels the Weave pulse nervously at his fingertips, ready to be unleashed.  

“Please,” he beseeches her. “We’re still us — we’re all just exhausted from the storm. Just… lower the blade before you do something foolish.”

For a moment he is terrified as her blade hovers right against Astarion’s gulping, pale throat. But then she shudders and nods, face softening. The hand that had pinned the elf painfully to the stone becomes gentle as it rests momentarily upon him. 

Lae’zel steps back from Astarion with uncertainty, the river glinting at her back.

“Bah!” she exclaims, agitated. “I cannot trust my own mind. So it seems I must trust yours.”  

She gazes balefully at the two men as she retreats. “I will wait. But know this — I am watching. If the sickness does not pass come dawn…” her eyes narrow. “I will end us all.”

Church’s mouth is dry, even as he speaks loudly and firmly. “No. You are not the sole decider of our fates.” He hesitates, before proceeding. “But if you turn, rest assured that I will kill you myself.”

It’s a gamble, but a winning one. Lae’zel merely gives him a deep, resigned nod before she leaves to return to her watch. 

Another migraine rips through Church’s brain as he then turns to Astarion. The elf just sits there — studying him — although he also appears soaked in sweat and trembling.

“How are you?” Church whispers, approaching him.

“Oh, you know,” Astarion says lightly, breathlessly as he attempts to stand. “It seems Lae’zel overheard our conversation the other night.” He grunts, leaning against the rock as he maneuvers away from the riverbank. “For once I am… so glad there’s no privacy in this damned camp.”

He lurches, and Church hurries forward to steady him. “Here, let me help—!”

“Don’t touch me!” Astarion jerks away from him violently, his fevered eyes wild as they gaze at the tiefling through damp locks of silver hair.

Church steps back from him. “Sorry! I just didn’t want you to—”

“I don’t need help,” Astarion snarls at him, grunting in exertion as he shoves himself off of the rock, staggering back towards his tent. “Least of all yours.”

“Alright!” Church says hastily. “I just can’t bear to see you like this. Can I at least help you to your tent?”

Astarion doesn’t even have time to reply before he pitches forward again. Church summons his remaining energy to catch him before he hits the ground, throwing the rogue’s arm over his own sweaty shoulders.

“Yell at me later,” he mutters to the groaning elf. “I’m just going to take you to your tent, and then you’ll be rid of me.”

Astarion grumbles something incomprehensible, but he doesn’t fight Church any further. Perhaps he simply can’t.

The tiefling supports him as the two stagger towards the elf’s sumptuously-arranged tent. But as Church pulls open its flap, he’s taken aback by the contents of the interior — or rather, the lack thereof. 

Compared to some of the others’, there’s almost nothing inside except for a ratty bedroll and an almost disintegrating, patchworked blanket. Church carefully lowers the elf to the bedroll, before draping the thin blanket over his shivering legs. He is far more concerned by how quiet Astarion is as he acquiesces to the tiefling’s fussing.

“You’re going to be alright,” Church murmurs down to the groaning elf. “This will pass. This… has to pass.”

Astarion seems to have a moment of clarity, blinking up at the warlock as he wets his lips, face still pained.

“...decapitation, alright?” he whispers. “Don’t let me…”

“I’ll take care of you,” Church reassures him. “If that happens.” 

Instinctively, he wants to comfort the trembling elf — touch his shoulder, stroke his hair, hold his hand… anything. But he refrains, knowing that for Astarion, it would have quite the opposite of his intended effect. Instead, he holds his gaze for a moment longer.

“I know you’d do the same for me,” the tiefling says.

He trusts the rogue with that much, at least.

—

Church’s bones feel like they are about to splinter into his muscle, and his vision tunnels completely as soon as he crawls atop his own bedroll. The darkness swirls around him as he shivers, simultaneously too hot and too cold as he tries to will himself to relax…

But then, in the darkness, there’s a flare of soothing blue light. The air turns cool and begins to flow easily into his lungs as he fills them in relief. 

Church blinks his eyes open. 

Instead of the inside of his tent, he squints into a vast sky shimmering with impossible colors and celestial clouds. 

And then, framed against this sky is a figure crouched beside him — the source of the soothing blue light as his eyes glow the same.

When Church’s eyes focus, his heart freezes in his chest.

“Tavi?” he whispers, gazing up at the man above him.

The man urgently continues to scan his body with his healing hand.

“I came just in time,” he says gravely, softly. “You are transforming.”

“Tavi…” Church breathes, voice weak. “You’re… dead.” He searches his friend’s face, which is different and yet so familiar. “Am I… dead? Is that why…”

“No — don’t worry,” Tavi says gently. “You won’t become a mind flayer. Not while I’m around. I’ll protect you.” He holds out his gauntleted hand. Church barely hesitates before grasping it, letting the man pull him up to stand beside him.

The man’s golden armor glints in the colorful world around him. He tilts his head as he looks down at the dazed tiefling, mouth quirking up into a wan smile, eyes staring down a noble nose and chiseled jaw. While their irises are the same golden, honey-brown from before, his eyes are now strangely... infernal in nature, wreathed in black sclera so much like Church's. Tavi still wears his hair the same, drawn neatly back from his face, but it is now streaked with gray. Finally, there is an unfamiliar, deep scar across his face, but it certainly doesn’t detract from the man's breathtaking familiarity.

This head bows as Church tentatively reaches towards him. His cheek is warm and solid as he leans into the tiefling’s touch, eyes falling shut for just a fleeting moment.

“Tav…” Church chokes back a sob.

“We don’t have much time, Church,” Tavi urges him. “So listen closely.”

He beckons the warlock through the ruins of this strange, shattered world. Under any other circumstances, Church would have wished for more time to study the architecture and the runes etched into its stone.

“You can’t be Tavi,” Church calls from behind him. “He’s dead. He’s been dead. I know how he died…”

“…and that all that they sent home to bury was his sword, his tags, and a lock of his hair. That’s all they had claimed to recover,” the man reminds him. “What did I used to tell you, Church?”

The warlock hesitates. “‘Don’t believe someone is dead without a body.’ And even then…”

“I’m not the Tavi you knew,” the paladin says, solemnly. “A lot has happened in seven years. More than I have time to explain. I’ve been here in this plane, mastering my new abilities and form. And, in the time of the world’s greatest need, you must too. 

“There is great potential within you, and it comes from the parasite,” Tavi taps gently on the side of Church’s head. “Your instinct is to resist the power it gives, but believe me — you must accept it. Nurture it.”

“Tavi…” Church frowns. “That’s the exact opposite of what I want to do.”

“I know you’re afraid, but I swear — I will keep it from consuming you,” Tavi says earnestly. “But for the sake of both of us… for the sake of the world, you must learn to wield more of those tadpoles to your advantage.” 

At the tiefling's dubious expression, the paladin gestures out towards the vista, eyes glowing. Slowly, the shattered bodies of floating rock clear to reveal a massive, petrified skull in the distance. It is wreathed in a faceted, iridescent shield that pulsates with the impact of distant, glowing blue humanoid figures that fly and dart around it.

“What is that?” Church breathes.

“A fight for the fate of Faerûn. A fight we are losing… for now.” Tavi looks over at Church. “You and your friends can change that, but only if you embrace your potential.”

There is a rumbling pulse of energy from the skull, and Tavi grimaces.

“I have to go. The enemy is closing in.”

“Tav — no!” Church grasps hold of his arm, voice breaking. “Please. I’ve already lost you once…”

Tavi smiles softly at him.

“And you found me. I will be back.”

There is another surge of energy, but this time it accelerates towards them, shaking the island upon which they stand. Tavi grimaces and holds out an arm, shielding them with his magic as he shoves Church behind him. And then, when the energy seems to be at its greatest, Tavi looks back at his friend, his eyes glowing purple as he throws his other arm towards him, hurling the warlock backwards until all he sees is blinding white.

“Tav!” Church screams into thin air. 

But his friend’s calm, even voice soothes his anguished mind. 

“I’m here with you. I always will be. Now, wake up!” Tavi commands him, gently and warmly. “You’ll feel better — I promise.” 

—

Church’s eyes fly open, his mind racing as he takes inventory of his body.

No tentacles.

…that’s good enough for him. 

He still feels tender, but his skin at least seems to be back to normal temperature. As he slips out of his tent, he finds Lae’zel sitting at the campfire with her sword lying across her lap. She looks exhausted, but remains ever-watchful beneath the twilight. 

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks her wearily. 

Lae’zel scowls. “Tch. I did not wish to, but oblivion stole me from my watch. No matter — I remain vigilant.” She eyes Church suspiciously. “Has your fever broken?”

“Yes, as has yours, I imagine,” the tiefling says. “Whatever illness took us, it has passed.”

Lae’zel sniffs. “How… convenient.”

“Do you want some coffee?” Church asks as he begins to prepare it. The Githyanki gives an affirmative grunt. 

The aroma of the coffee draws out the rest of the camp, bleary-eyed and troubled. Church knows that last night’s illness must have stolen sleep from all of them as he wordlessly fills cups. When most have collected and either settled around the campfire or returned to their tents, Church feels an all-too-familiar presence behind him. 

“Good morning,” Astarion says genially. Compared to last night, he looks remarkably well-groomed — as if the fever hadn’t occurred at all. “You look well.”

Church knows he doesn’t. He fully intends to dunk himself in the river a few times to cleanse himself of the sweat and grogginess of the night. 

“I could say the same to you,” he replies. “Glad you could get some rest after… last night.” He clears his throat, flustered. “And I’m sorry about touching you, after… I just didn’t want you to faceplant into the dirt, you know?”

“Oh,” Astarion titters. “After our moment in the river, I can hardly fault you for finding an excuse to get your hands all over me again.”

Church sighs, pressing his forehead against the heat of his coffee cup. It is far too early in the morning for this. “Again, that’s not what I…”

“I had the strangest dream last night!” Astarion interrupts him, conversationally. “There was a visitor promising me protection, and all sorts of delicious powers from the parasites in our heads.”

Church frowns. Did Tavi speak with the others as well?

Astarion continues. “Given our… shared affliction, I suppose you had a similar dream…?”

Church nods, brow furrowing.

“Excellent,” Astarion says conspiratorially. “Now we can see what these tadpoles can do for us.”

Church hesitates. He’s still reeling from seeing his friend alive, as well as he can be, and… older. Weathered. But Tavi’s request of using more of the mind flayer tadpoles…? 

It still unsettles him. 

“It’s certainly intriguing,” he says diplomatically. “But I want to learn a bit more before we start popping them into our eyes, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Well, waste not, want not — even when it comes to mind flayer parasites,” Astarion says idly. “We’ve collected two now, haven’t we? How about one for you, and one for…?”

“Let’s discuss that later,” Church interrupts, hastily. “I’m still trying to get a sense of that… dream. Can you describe your visitor to me?” He hesitates. “Like their appearance?”

“Hm, well,” Astarion waves his hand vaguely. “Strapping golden paladin, dour demeanor, voice and eyes like warm honey…”

Church inadvertently makes a small sound, and Astarion regards him curiously. 

The tiefling clears his throat. “But you had never… met them before?”

Astarion laughs lightly. “I meet a lot of people,” he says loftily. “But I think I’d remember a tall, handsome glass of blood like him.” He tilts his head, smirking as he studies the tiefling’s blushing face. “Why? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“No,” Church answers, perhaps too quickly. “Just curious.”

—

The warlock steals away further along the river, under the guise of leaving to bathe. Clutched in his hand is the one thing besides his clothing and armor he managed to keep from his time before the Nautiloid — a little tin that he has reluctantly kept safe for months now. Its contents rattle as he unwraps it, cracking the lid open to find the fragrant incense cones thankfully intact. 

The warlock tests the wind, hoping that its direction will keep the smell of the incense from invading the camp. The last thing he needs is someone prying into his ritual.

He improvises a flat river stone as a burner, furtively flicking a cantrip to ignite the cone. He breathes the incense in deep, letting his vision tunnel until shadowy tendrils begin to swim at the edge of his vision. It takes far more effort than before the tadpole, but it at least seems to be working. 

“Mother?” he thinks as loud as he can. “Can you hear me?”

Ever since he woke up on the Nautiloid, he hasn’t heard his mother’s voice. It’s been a welcome reprieve, to be honest. She has been much better about giving warning before she intrudes upon his mind, and even when she does she is nothing more than a faint presence that barely clings to the Weave flowing throughout his being. 

But now, he needs answers.

He feels just a bit of her presence — like spotting a fish flitting far underwater. He still doesn’t hear her voice, but the presence lingers in his mind with a pulse of concern. 

“Mother,” Church starts. “I saw Tavi in a dream last night. I thought he was dead.” He hesitates. “Could that really be him?”

The presence flickers with uncertainty. She knows nothing…

…except that she doesn’t trust him.

“Right,” Church thinks, wryly. “I supposed as much.”

The presence idles there in his mind, a flurry of amorphous emotions that give the tiefling yet another ripe headache. 

“I’m fine, Mother,” he sighs. “It was close, but whether he’s really Tavi or not… it seems we have a protector in our heads.”

There’s a flare of something deep in his mind. Jealousy. 

“Enough — we need all the help we can get,” Church reminds her. “There’s only so much you can do, with the tadpole between us.”

There’s a seething silence, and then…

The Mother prods at the tadpole, and blinding pain rockets through Church’s nerves. He gasps, recoiling from the incense. 

“Stop!” he begs out loud. “Don’t do that!”

“Well hello yourself, darling.”

The tiefling’s eyes focus and he looks over to where Astarion watches him curiously. 

Because of course he is. 

“Making an offering to your god?” the rogue asks idly.

“No, far from it,” Church winces, massaging at his head. “Just… trying to contact my patron for answers.”

“Oh?” Astarion says. “I don’t suppose they’re also going to rise up out of the ground and drag you through the hells?”

“That’s not her style, no,” Church mutters, hastily extinguishing the incense. The presence is fully gone from his mind anyways, chased out by his anguish and unexpected audience. 

“Pity,” Astarion pouts. “It was awfully exciting.”

Church discards the ashes from his makeshift burner. “...can I help you?”

Astarion chuckles. “Funny you should ask.”

He approaches the tiefling, his languid gaze unwavering. 

“I just wanted to… express my gratitude,” he says, glibly. “You did save me from the rabid Githyanki, after all. And you were such a gentleman, practically carrying me to my tent.”

“Honestly, you were lucky I arrived in time,” Church grimaces. “How did she even get the upper hand on you?”

Astarion smiles tightly down at him. “I was… not at my sharpest, with that dreadful fever. And I didn’t have you at my back,” he adds with a smile. 

He drifts down, settling himself into a seat beside the tiefling, who watches him — frozen. 

The tiefling’s heart thuds in his chest at the proximity. 

Oh no, he groans internally. Not this one, Church. For the love of the gods, not this one…

“And so…” Astarion murmurs breathily, blood-red eyes penetrating him beneath long, soft lashes. “…thank you.”

Church’s breath shakes as he replies, “…you’re welcome.”

Astarion’s eyelashes lower for a moment as he draws nearer, and Church can scarcely breathe in anticipation…

…and then the elf pulls away. 

“Well,” he says, smirking. “I should go… get some air.”

Church is too mortified to point out that they are very much outside. 

“Of course,” he says, busying himself with packing up his tin, trying to mask the flush of embarrassment in his face. 

To his chagrin, the warlock knows from the elf’s retreating swagger that Astarion is very aware that he’s watching. 

Chapter Text

As much as Church hopes to return to the Goblin Camp to continue their search for Halsin, Zevlor’s runner from the grove quickly changes those plans. 

Leaving the camp under the ever-watchful eye of Withers, Shadowheart leads half of their camp to continue searching for Halsin, while Church leads the other half in pursuing Kagha’s mysterious contact. It’s an odd group — Wyll, Lae’zel, and Astarion. He had hoped to keep Karlach close to him, but there was no way he was going to let Lae’zel and Shadowheart be stuck together without his supervision. He had hoped that Astarion would go with Shadowheart to help with any stealth or lockpicking tasks, but the elf insists on joining his group instead. 

“You only got into Kagha’s chest because of me,” the rogue says pointedly. “What if there’s some other lock or trap? It may be all that stands between you culling that snake and bringing the whole grove down on top of us!”

There are some… distractions along the way towards the wetlands. Believing themselves to have found a shortcut, they instead find themselves inside the cave of a territorial owlbear and her cub. Church barely talks them out of her claws with a series of magic-assisted chirps, hoots, and growls. At the very least, they snag a bit of Selûnite treasure on their way out… for which Church is quite grateful Shadowheart isn’t present.  

“Didn’t that Auntie Ethel character say that she lives down this way?” Astarion remarks as they return to the trail. “Perhaps we could call on her. I don’t know about you, but I could use a laugh…”

As soon as they enter the lush, green wetlands, it immediately becomes apparent to Church that the whole area isn’t what it seems. The sun shines warm and idyllic, with sheep happily ambling around the puddles and streams. But there is a far too familiar, otherworldly odor that slips through the lovely veneer.

“Oh,” Church sighs. “This reeks of Fey magic.”

“How do you—?” Wyll begins, already leaning down to pet one of the sheep.

“Because I live it,” Church mutters. “Sorry, friends — enjoy this for two seconds more before it’s gone.”

He reaches for the Weave, drawing away the illusion like a gooey curtain. The sunlit wetlands melt into a putrid bog, the rank odor permeating the party’s nostrils. What was once serene bird calls and trickling water gives way to buzzing, croaking, and the sickly belching of stagnant waters. Most notably, the sheep in front of Wyll is now a surly-looking Redcap, glowering up at the visitors — knife in hand.

“...bahhhhhhhh,” he growls, not having realized he no longer looks like a sheep. 

Church rolls his eyes, before taking a deep breath and unleashing it in an even louder, “BAAAAAAAAAAAHHH.”

Wyll, Lae’zel, and Astarion watch, impressed, as the grumbling Redcap stands down. He tromps away grumbling, but not before shooting over his shoulder —

“Tainted bitch!” 

Church blinks after him, taken aback. 

“Well, that was rude,” Astarion remarks in scandalized amusement. “What the devil is he referring to?”

“My… patron is not exactly beloved among the fey,” Church frowns. “But also generally not very well-known. Curious.”

“Is this another one of your so-called ‘warlock problems?’” Lae’zel mutters to Wyll.

“‘Warlock problems’ indeed,” Wyll affirms. “Devils are one thing, but an archfey? You would be surprised what sort of hells they can unleash on their own.”

—

It’s a miracle that between swatting at insects Astarion can notice any of the swamp’s traps at all. Thanks to him, the trek through the swamp is miserable, but survivable. 

After fending off a few wood woads and multitudes of mud mephits, they manage to recover the Shadow Druids’ incriminating message to Kagha, stowed within a crevice of an ancient tree. It should be enough to discredit Kagha from leadership, and potentially keep the tieflings from getting expelled from the grove. If successful, it would certainly buy them enough time to figure out their next move.

Church wants to hurry back to the grove, but the ever-shifting swamp keeps their trek slow and cautious. It certainly doesn’t help that they are all positively encrusted in caustic mud and splinters.

“Hold—!” Wyll whispers sharply. “There’s someone ahead.”

Sure enough, a man with a veritable mane of hair sits upon a rock nearby, his pack open beside him. He glances warily around as he maintains his heavy crossbow.

“Is this another fey?” Lae’zel growls warily.

Astarion wrinkles his nose. “No. Something fouler.”

Even amid the putrid bog, there is another scent in the air — something rank, metallic, and sickly sweet emanating from the man.

“Ah, stranger!” calls the man, genially. “Forgive the aroma.”

He stands as they approach, smiling. 

“Powdered iron-vine,” he explains apologetically. “An old hunter’s trick — most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me.” 

“You’re… a monster hunter?” Astarion pipes up lightly from behind Church. “I’m surprised — I thought all Gur were vagrant cut-throats!”

Church shoots him a tired look. He’s encountered a few Gur in the past himself, and they were a friendly, albeit righteous lot.

But the man simply chortles. “And more! We steal chickens, curse your crops, seduce your daughters — the list goes on.” He gestures down at himself. “I wish I had half the power settled folk think my people possess. Alas, I am a simple wanderer. A simple wanderer and a monster hunter. But I’m no witchdoctor or cut-throat.”

“What monster are you hunting?” Church asks curiously. He smiles back at the hunter, but through the tadpole he feels how tense Astarion is, despite the rogue maintaining a nonchalant pose and expression. 

Astarion sniffs. “Something terrifying, no doubt. Dragon? Cyclops?” he smirks mockingly. “Kobold?”

“Nothing so dramatic,” the man chuckles. “I’m hunting for a vampire spawn.”

Church feels a sharp, cold burn in his chest. He exchanges a quick, nervous glance with Astarion as the elf’s amused expression instantly drops. 

The hunter continues, none the wiser. “His name is Astarion, but I fear he’s gone to ground.” He gestures up the inclined path. “I hope the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.”

A hag? That certainly explains the fey magic, but Church will have to put a pin in that for later…

While Church feels anxiety emanating from Astarion, he also feels another stronger emotion alongside it — curiosity. And so, the warlock reaches inward towards the fey magic in his bones, summoning it forth to coat his tongue in a charm as he speaks. “Well, we have been fortunate enough not to meet any vampire spawn on our travels, let alone an… Astarion, was it? Perhaps he is long gone?”

The man’s eyes unfocus for a moment, but he nods, defeatedly. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “But at the very least I can pick up his trail. I have no choice but to find him.”

“And when you find this ‘Astarion,’ what do you intend to do?” Church asks, cautiously prodding for information. “Kill him?”

“Not this time,” the man says, fiddling with his crossbow as his brow furrows. “My orders are to capture him.”

“Oh?” Astarion says, lightly. 

“Stop talking!” Church tries to warn him through their parasites. “You’re drawing attention to yourself…!”

All he receives back is annoyance as a wincing Astarion continues to ask, “And bring him where, exactly?”

There is the briefest stammer in the elf’s forced, casual tone. 

“Baldur’s Gate,” the Gur replies. “My people wait for me there.”

Church winces as he feels Astarion’s panic bleed into his mind. He sees fleeting images of armed Gur, slicing at him, stomping upon him… The elf maintains his cocky, confident stance and expression, but beneath it all… 

Church feels Astarion’s terror. 

Whatever happens, this man cannot take him.

“He won’t take you,” Church reassures Astarion, but he allows the parasite to broadcast itself to the uneasy Wyll and Lae’zel as well. “I won’t let him.”

Their own minds pulse in cautious support.

Church continues to tangle his tongue into the Weave.

“If you’re a monster hunter, then you know hags,” Church tells the Gur, the persuasive charm layered thick upon his voice. “Is a curse truly worth finding only a mere spawn? Why don’t you just go home?”

The man frowns before chuckling, bitterly. “‘Going home’ is simply not an option, until I have completed my task.” He sighs, gravely. “Believe me, I know the risks of making a deal with a hag, but for the task entrusted to me? It would be worth whatever blood price.”

“Well, ah…” Church stammers a little. “Don’t you have friends or family who would miss…?”

“Hang on—!” the man says sharply, raising his crossbow. His eyes narrow at Astarion as he fights against the fog of the fey charm. “You fit the description I was given… hells, how —?”

Twin bursts of eldritch blast erupt from Church’s hands in an instant, smashing the man backwards against the rock.

“Church!” Wyll exclaims in dismay. “No, this isn’t—!”

“Reckless!” Lae’zel scolds him in disapproval. 

But when the tiefling warlock looks over to Astarion, his mouth is grim and his eyes are black and smoky as he wordlessly gives the vampire spawn the smallest of nods. 

“Excellent,” Astarion breathes, flicking out his dagger.

The Gur pants, staggering to his feet.

“You—!” he yelps, firing a bolt from his crossbow. Astarion parries it easily as he knocks the Gur prone, yanking his head back by his hair with a vicious grin.

“Wait!” Church shouts, far too late.

“You should have gone home,” the vampire spawn snarls, before plunging his fangs into his neck.

Instantly, Astarion chokes and gags, reeling backwards from the Gur as the man groans, his neck spurting pungent blood. 

“Hells, what?” Church exclaims from nearby, but Astarion merely snarls as he dives back at the man, plunging his dagger into his heart, his stomach, his eye socket… 

The hunter has already stilled completely long before the elf is done with him.

Astarion pants for a minute, and then he doubles over and retches. The blood that he spits out sizzles black upon the earth.

“Astarion?” Church calls, alarmed as he approaches him. “What’s happening?”

“...fucking Gur!” Astarion groans.

And then he collapses.

—

Back at camp, even after Shadowheart has healed him, Astarion still looks exhausted — grayer and paler than before, his veins inflamed and stark against his skin. As the others chat and collect their food for the evening, he gazes resentfully from where he sits outside of his tent. 

Church feels conflicted about the conversation to come, but in his heart he knows it needs to happen. He approaches the vampire spawn, a bowl of stew in hand. “Hey?”

“Well, hello,” Astarion greets him, loftily. “What can I do for you?”

Church gestures at him. “How are you feeling?”

Astarion opens his mouth, and then he begins to rethink his words as he complains. “Like garbage, if I’m honest. I still feel that vile blood inside of me, somehow.”

Church hums sympathetically. “How… did it taste?”

“I don’t know! Perhaps something like… pure bile?” Astarion grimaces. “The worst part was the feeling — like the blood just burned me all the way down.”

“He… did tell us first thing about the ironvine,” Church reminds him, pointedly. “He was prepared, being a monster hunter, after all.”

Astarion huffs a laugh. “Not anymore, which is all that matters, really.”

“Do you have any idea why he was hunting you?” the warlock asks him, tentatively. “Or who gave him his orders?”

Astarion is silent for a moment.

“Yes,” he finally mutters, grimly. “It seems Cazador wants me back.”

Church shivers a little. He remembers the high-pitched laughter and searing blade in his shared memory, still. “You’re sure Cazador’s behind this?”

“It was him, I’m sure,” Astarion insists, bitterly. “Only he would know to send the Gur after me.”

Church hesitates. “During the conversation...you showed me something about that, didn’t you?”

Astarion nods. “It was a group of Gur that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate. 

“I would’ve died had Cazador not appeared and saved me,” he admits in a mumble, glancing away.

“‘Saved’ you… by turning you into a vampire slave?” the warlock raises an eyebrow.

“Well, he didn’t mention the ‘slave’ clause at the time,” Astarion scoffs, flourishing a hand. “And now he sends a Gur monster hunter for me? It’s a message. He’s reminding me of his power.” His eyes go distant, before hardening once more. “Even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me. And he wants me back.”

“But why would he want to capture you alive?” Church asks. “Why not just kill you?”

“Maybe he wants to make an example of me. To show what happens to runaways.” He chuckles, darkly. “It wouldn’t be the first time. He likely thinks death would be too good for me.”

Church frowns, poking at his dinner. “Well, you’re not alone anymore.” He looks up at Astarion, eyes blazing and earnest in the low light of the distant campfire. “Astarion… we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. But I swear, you’ll be safe with me.”

Astarion laughs derisively out loud at that.

“‘Safe?’” he exclaims, scornfully. “Nowhere is safe from him. No one. Not you, and especially not me. 

“Do you even know the power a vampire lord possesses? He can change shape; turn into mist; call wolves to do his bidding; shrug off blows like they’re nothing,” he titters, hysterically. “He could walk into our camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands. And you’d be lucky if death was the worst thing that happened to you.”

“Fine, then,” Church says, taking a bite of his stew. “But you’d be stupid to think I’d simply let him take you back. So, what would you suggest we do instead?”

“First, we have to — uh…” Astarion waffles. “...I don’t know!” he says petulantly. “If we kill his lackeys, he’ll just send more. We just have to be vigilant. Keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunters on sight.”

Church sighs, setting his bowl down on the ground and staring at it, contemplatively. 

He can’t hold off any longer.

“Astarion,” he says softly. “I… need to tell you something.”

The elf raises his eyebrows at him, a bemused smirk flickering to his face as he leers at the tiefling. “Oh? And what’s that, you sweet thi—?”

“I know you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

The spawn blinks at him, his smile disappearing.

“...what?” 

Church hesitates. 

He had waited for Wyll and Lae’zel to drag Astarion away, out of earshot, before he reached into his pack and slipped on the Amulet of Lost Voices. With a resigned whisper and gesture, he raised the Gur hunter into the air. The warlock knew that he wouldn’t like the answers, but still he spoke to him.

His name was Gandrel.

“Why did you need to find Astarion?” he asked.

“Our children…” he had rasped. “He knows… where they are…”

Church asked him another question.

And another… and another…

The tiefling looks into the elf's eyes, searching.

“Where are the Gur children, Astarion?” Church asks him, quietly.

Astarion blinks at him, eyes round and startled.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think Cazador sent him,” Church says, troubled. “We made a mista—”

“You don’t know shit!” Astarion spits at him, staggering to his feet. But then he groans, collapsing back down to a seat upon the ground. 

Church continues to watch him, a crease in his brow. The warlock isn’t angry. He isn’t frustrated. He’s just… tired.

And he can tell that Astarion feels tired too — not just exhausted by the Gur’s poison, but by… everything. The fear of him grips the vampire spawn still.

“...I brought them to Cazador,” he admits, not looking back at the warlock. Church nods.

“I thought that might be the case,” he admits, softly. “So they’re dead?” 

“Almost certainly,” Astarion sighs in reply.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” the vampire spawn says lightly, dismissively. “I did what I had to in order to survive. I always have.”

“I know,” Church replies quietly. “I saw. But I’m still sorry.” 

He’s no longer particularly enthused about eating more of his dinner, so he just sits there beside Astarion in silence. The elf shifts in his seat, wincing. The tiefling hopes that his company is, at the very least, not unpleasant.

“Clearly you still need to rest,” Church says, changing the subject. “But… I was wondering…” he hesitates. “Would… blood… help you?” He clears his throat as he clarifies, “My blood.”

Astarion perks up a bit, cautiously. “Perhaps... are you offering?”

“Yes,” Church says, before he can change his mind. 

“Well, then,” Astarion says coyly. “You sweet thing. There is nothing I’d like more.” 

He leans conspiratorially, confidently towards the tiefling, as if the previous conversation hadn’t even happened. “I shall come by your tent tonight, when you’re all snugly wrapped in your bedroll, and we can have a little privacy…

“And this time I’ll make sure I’m quiet,” he adds, reassuringly. “We don’t want to disturb your rest.”

Church eyes him nervously. “...I’d rather be conscious, if it’s all the same to you.”

Astarion regards him, amused. “But of course you would,” he smirks knowingly. Church flushes. 

“Astarion. This isn’t for me, it’s for you,” he insists, stiffly. 

“Oh yes,” the elf replies idly. “But who says you’re not allowed to enjoy it too? Anyways, later on, when we are… at rest, I will eat you right up.” he smiles at Church’s mortified face. “Just enough to give me strength, and just enough to leave you wishing for more.

“Now, off you go,” Astarion waves him away, haughtily. “And finish that food of yours. You’ll want to keep up your strength up, after all.”

—

Church paces anxiously by the campfire long after most of the others have retired to their tents. 

Astarion has been gone for a while now… 

The tiefling gives up on waiting and heads back to his tent. Surely he’s not already there? 

With a wave of a hand he illuminates the inside with a cantrip. Empty — for now. 

Perhaps the elf is simply bathing, or even hunting for an appetizer. 

Church sits nervously atop his bedroll, fidgeting. After a long minute, he picks up his journal and flips to a sketch he’s been poking at of Karlach — raging, resplendent, and aflame. He simply can’t do justice to her muscles…

“Why hello, darling.”

Astarion slips into his tent, blinking lazily down at him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

Church closes his journal and looks up at the elf, unimpressed. He has been waiting long, and Astarion knows it. 

“Come on,” the tiefling says tersely, tilting his head to the side as his heart hammers. “Just do it.”

“You sure know how to set the mood,” Astarion says dryly as he crouches down beside him. As he moves, the fragrance of him wafts from his clothes, already making Church lightheaded in anticipation. “Not going to lie down?”

“…I’d prefer this,” the tiefling says stiffly, pulling down his collar. He hopes he won’t have to wash blood out of it. Again. 

Astarion shrugs. 

“It’s all the same to me,” he murmurs, scooting close. “Relax, darling.”

“I am relaxing,” Church grumbles through gritted teeth. 

Astarion hums dubiously, his gaze oddly wary and sincere as it levels with Church’s. 

“Trust me, from experience… it’ll hurt less if you actually relax.” His hands reach up to cradle the tiefling’s jaw and grasp his shoulder, pulling the stretch of neck towards him. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Church shivers at the puff of his breath upon his sensitive skin, but before he can respond, Astarion’s fangs punch soundly into his neck. 

“Ghkk!” the tiefling grunts, tensing. 

Astarion’s hands squeeze him gently, and Church frantically reminds himself to relax. He tries. He really tries. But there’s an admittedly beautiful elf latched onto the side of his throat, his torso pressed up against the tiefling’s back as he holds him close, pulsing against him as he drinks…

Church grunts as the pain gives way to numbness, and then… lightheaded euphoria. He finally finds himself relaxing, and soon the elf’s fingers brush soothingly across his buzzing skin. 

“—Church?” 

The warlock blinks up to see Astarion, watching him curiously from above. He realizes with a start that he’s somehow lying flat on his back in his bedroll, head still buzzing. 

“What happened?” he groans. 

“You had a little faint,” Astarion says mildly. “I told you that you should have lied down.”

“Alright,” Church nods. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

Astarion takes a surprised beat before a smirk spreads across his lips. “Next time?”

The warlock sighs. “That… is what I said, isn’t it,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Astarion hums, pleased. “Then I will look forward to seeing you… next time,” he purrs. 

He leaves Church on top of his bedroll, staring up at the canvas of his tent and cursing himself. 

—

Church tries not to think of the elf at his neck at all. 

Not when the elf sends an arrow right over his shoulder to disrupt a Shadow Druid’s spell.

Not when the elf leans right up against him, murmuring into his ear to point out a trap. 

Not when the warlock finds himself sketching the rogue in his journal during some rare downtime, tracing light lines of graphite around a head of floaty locks of pale hair, sharp eyes, and a quirked smile…

And especially not that evening when the tiefling notices the elf leaning towards and murmuring lasciviously at their Githyanki companion. To his surprise, the two of them are smiling at each other with hungry intent. 

The tiefling is appalled. What in the hells? Lae’zel was just literally at his throat the other night…

…but perhaps Astarion is into that. If so, Church knows he certainly isn’t one to talk as he reflexively massages at his own neck. 

He curses himself. He was stupid to think that he was anything more than a passing fancy to the elf. Now that he has tasted Church twice, no doubt he has grown bored. Perhaps he’s finally ready to move on to sampling the Amnan liqueur that is Lae’zel. 

When they return to camp, he tries to ignore the sound of Astarion murmuring something soft and silky to an amused Lae’zel.

Fine. Good for them, Church supposes. 

He’s glad Lae’zel has something to smile about. He has been on edge ever since he had to deescalate a tense, potentially deadly night between her and Shadowheart. Perhaps Astarion would be a good enough distraction to keep them all from killing each other. If so, he can’t fault either of them for that.

The warlock has far bigger things on his plate — and, tonight, someone else on his mind. 

“Tavi,” he mutters aloud, examining the artefact in his hands. “What… happened to you?”

The artefact doesn’t even glow in response. 

“Have you been alone this whole time?” Church asks it anyways, his voice breaking. 

Chapter Text

“Church.”

The warlock’s eyes fly open to a yawning expanse of stars and colors. A smile twitches to his face at the sound of his old friend’s voice. 

“You’re back,” he says, pushing himself to a seat. And then — 

“Oh gods,” he can’t stop himself from laughing. “What are you wearing?” 

Tavi rolls his eyes at him — a vision of long, tanned, muscular legs in a lavender toga. It’s far less imposing than the golden armor, but also far different from anything Church has seen Tavi wear before. 

“There are hardly any clothing shops in the Astral Plane,” Tavi says, reproachfully. “And believe it or not, seven years in near-isolation makes you not give a damn anymore how to present yourself.”

He sighs and indulges Church in a little twirl. 

“Your dad would be furious,” Church grins up at him. “…and so, I have to love it.”

Tavi groans affectionately, approaching his friend and collapsing into a seat close beside him. 

“I take it the danger has passed?” Church asks, tentatively. 

“For now,” the paladin sighs. “I hope you don’t mind me visiting?”

“Oh, come on,” Church huffs a laugh. “I was hoping for it. I still have so many questions for you, like how did—?”

Tavi cuts him off with a kiss — slow, lingering, and yearning. 

Church startles, but after a moment he lets himself melt into it, wrapping his arms around the familiar stranger and pulling him close. 

It’s odd. 

It’s… bittersweet. 

Part of him feels elated that it’s just like how he remembers it. Another part taunts him, derisively — how can he possibly remember if this was what it was like? It’s been years — years during which he has tried so hard to let Tavi go and forget him in the arms of other partners. 

When they pull apart, Church clings to him still, eyes bright, searching, and rueful. 

“It’s been a long time, Tav,” he chuckles. “You look like you’ve seen some shit.”

Tavi raises an eyebrow above his new, infernal eyes. “Are you saying I look old?” he half-teases, but there’s an anxious tilt to his brow. 

“…older,” Church admits. “But it’s been seven years, after all. And…” he brushes his thumb lightly across the man’s cheek, scarred and weathered. “…well, it suits you, to be honest. You look… amazing, still.” 

“How the hells do you look the same?” Tavi grumbles. “Is it a tiefling thing?”

“I mean, yeah,” Church shrugs. “I’ve always had a few more years than…” he trails off, looking away guiltily. 

“Stop,” Tavi whispers soothingly, cradling his cheek with a warm hand. “Whatever you’re punishing yourself for, just… stop.” He wraps his arms back around Church, heaving a sigh. “It’s fate that brought us back together, but I just wish the circumstances were happier.”

“So how did you get here?” Church asks, pulling away with a troubled face. 

Tavi gestures between them both, helplessly. 

“I was like you. I was just another adventurer in the wrong place at the wrong time, taken and tadpoled.” He sighs, bitterly. “Anders left me to expire after they’d had their fun. So, in a way… I’m only alive because of the tadpole.”

“And that was seven years ago?” Church frowns. “This has all been happening that long?”

“Yes — well, at least something that was the precursor to all this,” Tavi says. “There are others like me, fighting the good fight on their own fronts. With their aid, I’ve had seven years to find a way to survive, and use my powers to my advantage. But… we failed to stop what happened to you. I’m sorry for the terror you felt, and all the deaths that occurred, but…” he scoffs to himself, “…is it wrong that I’m still happy it brought you back to me?”

Church gives him a wan smile. “Even if it is, well… I feel the same way.”

The tiefling laces their fingers together. It finally hits him that their bare skin is touching, once again. The last time he saw Tavi he was very much gloved and armored. Now, he can feel the warmth of him and see every smile line, scar, and grayed hair.

Church then frowns, hesitating. Something just doesn’t add up. “Tav… if you’ve been in the Astral Plane, how are you aging?”

His friend smiles easily. “I haven’t been in this plane the whole time,” he explains. “It’s a longer story than we have time for — but no, I didn’t master my powers simply by floating around in timeless space.

“Speaking of which, you still haven’t tried to grow your power,” Tavi murmurs to him, curiously. 

Church huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Between my mother, the tadpole, you, and my companions — my brain is crowded enough these days. I’m not sure how I feel about sticking another tadpole into the mix.”

“That’s fine, I know you’re nervous,” Tavi assures him. “But at some point — when you’re ready, of course — you and your companions will need to become more powerful to resist and defeat the Absolute. And, no offense, Church,” he smiles sympathetically, “but without your Mother’s uninhibited help…”

“…I’m pretty useless, aren’t I?” Church grimaces. “I was just talking to Gale about this — it’s so frustrating having all this knowledge and muscle memory, but next to none of the spellcasting power—!”

“—and it doesn’t help that you’ve intentionally been making yourself physically weaker,” Tavi interjects wryly. 

Church feels his heart skip a beat, guiltily. “Tav — what?”

But by the knowing look on Tavi’s face, the tiefling can guess what he’s referring to — or, rather, who.  

“He needed me,” Church protests lamely. “My blood, rather. He needed it to recover his strength.”

“Well, he would have been stronger if he had consumed the parasite, and unlike you he seems more than willing,” Tavi says pointedly. “So, why don’t you let him?”

“It’s not like there is anything stopping him,” Church mutters. “He can pickpocket anything. I’m sure if he truly wanted something, he would have already taken it for himself.”

He trails off with a sigh at his own words. Surely the same must be true for… other things?

Church frowns at the sound of distant thunder. 

“Tav, if I had known you were alive, I… I wouldn’t have even thought…” he stammers. “It’s been years. I’m so happy to see you, but…”

Tavi smiles with a fond shake of his head. “I’m not jealous, Church. You don’t belong to me, and as far as you ever knew, I’ve been dead. I’m glad you haven’t been alone since me.”

But I have been alone, Church wants to tell him insistently, agonizingly. He and Tavi never even had a chance to spend as much time together as he did with some of his lovers. But on the other hand, he never was able to feel nearly that close to them. He didn’t want to risk it. 

“These days I honestly don’t have time to care about little things like that,” Tavi continues ruefully. “By all means, seek the company I can’t give you. I just hope that, when it comes to your well-being, you know what you’re doing.”

Church knows that he very well does not know what he’s doing, but Tavi seems distracted. He frowns as the air seems to shift around them like electricity in a storm. 

The warlock looks up at the paladin, warily. “How much time do we have left?”

“Not long now,” Tavi whispers uneasily. “We might not have a moment like this for a while, so… thank you, Church. It was…” he chuckles, sadly. “…it was nice to share a moment with you, again.”

“Be safe, alright?” Church urges him. He hesitates before leaning forward to embrace his friend tight. 

“You as well,” Tavi murmurs back as his eyes glow purple. “And… please consider what I said about the tadpoles. I just want to keep you safe, in the ways I know will work.”

Church’s vision melts into white light, and gone are the otherworldly sounds of the astral plane. Now, he hears birdsong and sees the blue light of dawn. 

Another day. 

He groans quietly to himself, dreading what he’ll find when he leaves his tent. Astarion is somewhere out there, and he can already picture his smug expression from whatever wild night he had with Lae’zel.

But the warlock doesn’t care. 

Why would he care?

Tavi’s back and, well… he doesn’t know what that means. He’s still reeling from just knowing his friend is alive. He can’t even begin to imagine picking up where they left off... 

Either way, he looks forward to seeing him again — lavender toga and all. He still has so many questions. 

Groggily, Church flips open his backpack. He rummages inside the secured compartment where their two mind flayer parasites are carefully sealed in their vials. He takes one out to examine by the soft light, and it squirms and chitters inside of its prison. 

“Ugh,” Church grimaces. “Not today, thanks.”

He hurriedly stows the vial away. 

Why Astarion is so eager to drop another one of these in his eye is a mystery. And, as happy as Church is to see Tavi alive and well again, he’s not… that eager to take him at his word. The man has clearly changed, and the warlock has yet to see by how much.

—

That morning, the party finally visits their Zhentarim “friends” in their hideout under Waukeen’s Rest. It’s an amiable and lucrative visit, and Church is again grateful that Shadowheart is absent as he watches the mercenaries’ wolves trot and laze about the cave. 

But as they pass back through Waukeen’s Rest, another wave of goblins, bugbears, ogres, and worgs descend upon the troops and villagers still recovering there. Freshly-armed and supplied, Church’s crew defeats them soundly — and good thing, too. They cannot risk any goblins recognizing them and bringing that news back to their camp. 

Not nearly far enough from the village, the party at last crosses flammable paths with the Githyanki patrol that the unfortunate tiefling had told them about in the Grove. They watch in horror (and awe, on Lae’zel and Astarion’s part,) as a red dragon descends and immolates a whole detail of Flaming Fist. Church leaves Lae’zel to lead the conversation, nudging her to lie through their parasites and nearly holding his breath as she speaks. With her blunt, sometimes viciously honest nature, the warlock is rightfully afraid for her ability to deceive. But, fortunately, she and her retinue make it through unscathed. 

After the Githyanki depart, Lae’zel looks back at Church. To his surprise, she seems relieved and grateful. And despite whatever petty, jealous feelings he might have harbored before, the warlock can’t help but feel proud of her for lying right to the face of a superior. He can appreciate that it must have been especially difficult for her, after all.

She must have far more to say on the matter, for she approaches him that evening as they make camp. 

“You fought ferociously today, Church,” she commends him. “I do not think much of your teeth-ling brethren. But you have been… an exception.”

Church laughs a little in surprise. “A compliment? From fair Lae’zel?” He smiles at her, bemused. “Alright. What’s going on?”

“I have a confession,” Lae’zel admits. 

“Ah?” Church sets aside the last of the camp supplies, looking back at her curiously. 

“I was too hasty to judge you,” she declares. “I thought you witless, gutless, unimpressively bland.”

“Oh Lae’zel,” Church mutters, unfastening his bedroll. “You always say the sweetest things.”

“Silence,” she chides him, before continuing. “Now, well… you’ve earned my respect, and more still. 

“You’ve proven your wits. You are efficient and dominant, in and out of battle. You’ve proven your courage. I swear, you would tear the horns off of one dragon to plunge into another.

“And you’re hardly bland. Your scent alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end,” she says in a low hiss. “I want to taste you. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same.”

Church blinks at her. 

What?

Of all things, he didn’t expect… this.

“Oh,” he chuckles, nervously. “Oh, gods, Lae’zel you know I admire you, but… um. I’m surprised. I thought you were with…”

He hesitates at her raised eyebrows.

“Never mind,” he adds hastily. “I’m flattered. So flattered. But I… don’t think I want the same thing as you. I’m sorry.”

It’s a familiar tune he has sung to numerous others before, but, by comparison, he had never been nearly this afraid of D’vana.

The Githyanki merely sniffs, eyes narrowed at him. 

“Hmm. I was mistaken in thinking that your blood was running hot for me. But no matter,” she says coolly. “Perhaps I will instead seek out Astarion again. He was most… enthusiastic the last time.”

Church’s heart lurches and burns at that. 

Gods damn it, why does he care?

“…you do that,” he says shortly. 

He swears she looks smug as he wheels away from her, heart pounding and face heating. Fuck this — he needs to get out of here. 

He throws down his bedroll — perhaps a little harder than necessary, startling Wyll, Gale, and Shadowheart as they share a bottle of wine nearby. He avoids their eyes as he marches deep into the forest ruins. 

He just wants to be alone. Cool down. Get fresh air. 

He wanders the ruins, urging his heartbeat to slow. It’s honestly so serene and beautiful out here with the moonlight casting shadows and illuminating facets of the crumbling walls. He may as well take it all in while he still can — after all, who knows what horrible fate tomorrow may bring?

He certainly didn’t expect to come face to face with a dragon today.

And he certainly didn’t expect Lae’zel to be the first companion to proposition him. If he’s honest with himself, he had been hoping for…

No.

Don’t think about that.

He doesn’t think about Astarion’s breath on his neck, his body pressed up against his shoulder…

The warlock grunts in frustration, leaning back against a seat of rubble within the ruins, casting his eyes up to the starry sky. 

Then, he gives in and brushes his hand against his stiffening front with a groan. Gods damn it. It’s been such a long time since he’s… and with the stress of the journey and constant presence of annoyingly attractive people he has been positively pent up…

…not to mention Astarion’s tantalizing antics and Tavi back from the dead and fresh on his mind.

Tavi looked… impossibly beautiful. Church wouldn’t have minded if his friend had pounced on him with a far more intimate greeting than a kiss, especially with those tanned legs…

Once upon a time, those legs had wrapped themselves around the tiefling’s head as he…

With a defeated sigh, Church unlaces his fly and slips his hand down the front of his trousers, palming himself as he groans in soft relief. The tension of his imagination has rendered him taut, and with his own touch he finally begins to relax. Just a bit. 

He… could relax more, he supposes.

A tree grows atop the ruins, and Church tangles a hand into its roots. He flutters his eyes shut, imagining honey brown — and then blood red — eyes blinking slowly down at him. He almost feels a fanged mouth brushing against his neck as he moans, pumping himself in his hand. Despite the sharpness of its fangs, he wants to know if that mouth’s lips and tongue are as soft as they look when they drift across his skin. He wonders what it would be like to be taken while being bitten. He wonders what it would feel like to be claimed by the vampire spawn, devoured and…

He feels a moan spill out from between his lips and he catches it in the back of his hand, stifling his whimpers as he continues. It’s been so long, but he can imagine and nearly feel the throes of being stretched and pulled and taken…

The pressure builds and the tiefling arches up against the demands of a phantom lover, whispering impossible things and touching and tasting all the places that he needs to be —

“Well it’s a fine night, isn’t it?” calls a horribly-familiar voice. 

An inhuman, garbled yelp erupts from the tiefling as his eyes fly open and immediately lock with Astarion’s. The elf’s eyes shine as he grins far too gleefully down at him from the ruins above. 

“Wh-What the fuck?” Church chokes, scrambling to cover and secure himself away. 

“By all means, don’t stop on my account,” Astarion drawls, but Church only has time to shoot him a mortified glare before he promptly misty steps as far away as he can, back towards camp. 

He marches past a concerned Wyll at his guard post and heads straight into his tent, seething. 

That’s it. He’ll just disappear. They’ll be able to defeat the Absolute without him, surely?

He’ll just walk right into the river. Let it pull him far, far away. 

He can’t imagine Withers bothering to stop him.

Surely it would be much more merciful than having to look the spawn in the face the following morning. 

…but, instead, Church just shoves off his boots and stretches out upon his bedroll, dreading the next day. 

Astarion had better keep his smug mouth shut. 

…and yet, during Church’s restless night he can’t help but continue to fantasize past the humiliation. 

What if instead, he stayed to face the elf? What if the vampire spawn had slowly approached him with that hungry look upon his face, reached out, and…

Church groans softly as he presses himself against the longing. 

It’s just a distraction, he thinks to himself, allowing himself this merciful indulgence. 

—

The tiefling determinedly ignores Astarion’s knowing smirk the following morning. And, when given a chance, he positively leaps at the chance to leave early with Karlach and Wyll for the grove. 

To Karlach’s delight, alongside some intriguing blueprints for masterwork weapons, Shadowheart’s party had managed to retrieve some infernal iron from the blighted village’s forge. Back in the grove, Church watches in awe as Dammon tends to Karlach’s engine with the precision of a surgeon. While he waits, the warlock furtively sketches the scene, honestly feeling a little envious of the blacksmith’s gentle eyes and touch. But of anyone, Karlach deserves that kindness and care… he’s just going to tease her relentlessly once he’s certain she won’t overheat herself in response. 

During this operation, Dammon does mention that the refugees are in desperate need of supplies, materials, and armaments. While the blighted village still isn’t safe for the refugees to approach on their own, Church recalls seeing stashes of herbs, medicines, and antidotes; along with old weapons that can be smelted into far more useful things.

And so, an elated Karlach and Church reunite with the rest of the adventurers, escorting a wagon driven by a nervous tiefling back to the village. They load up the wagon with supplies until it is ready to be escorted by Gale, Wyll, and Lae’zel back to the Grove. 

“Don’t let anyone follow,” Church reminds them anxiously.

“Put your heart at ease. We’ve got this,” Wyll assures him. “Where’s Kar—?”

“Hey! Soldier!” Karlach is still grinning as she pokes her head out of the forge. “Might’ve found you another secret passageway — there’s a funny breeze coming through here!”

Church exchanges a fond smile with the other warlock. 

“Who can turn down a siren’s song like that?” Wyll sighs. “Just be careful wherever that leads, alright?”

“We won’t be long,” Church assures him. 

But the warlock cannot be more wrong. He blasts apart the cracked wall to reveal what is indeed a secret passageway that leads into a vast cave. Church and the others didn’t expect giant spiders, but, in retrospect…

They really should have expected the spiders. 

—

“I hate you!” Astarion wails at Church and Karlach as they frantically fend off waves of spider hatchlings. “Gods, I hate all of you!”

“Leave me out of this!” Shadowheart yelps. “I only came to make sure you all didn’t die!”

Still woozy from the spider hatchlings’ venom, Church scoops up the dark amethyst, stowing it frantically as he blasts yet another phase spider backwards. Surely at least one good thing can come of this diversion — provided they even make it out alive.

Suspended atop a stretch of web, the enormous spider matriarch shrieks and writhes as her children get immolated upon her back. With a jubilant roar, Karlach finally lands the killing blow, cleaving in her head. With a final, roundhouse kick, the tiefling sends her corpse plummeting down into the vast, glowing chasm below. 

“Let’s get out of here!” Church shouts up to her. He then glances over to where the wave of spiders begin to crowd Astarion and Shadowheart back onto another stretch of web. “Get away from the edge—!”

— but, far too late, he sees one of the burning spider hatchlings scurry onto the very flammable web. 

The web ignites in slow motion as Church sees the dawning horror on his companions’ faces. Astarion and Shadowheart are still stuck on the web, which ignites right above the yawning chasm. 

Church sprints, his heart pounding in his ears. 

“No!” he shouts, tangling his whole being in the Weave as he prepares a spell. 

He reaches out just as Astarion and Shadowheart begin to drop, eyes terrified as they reflexively, ineffectually try to grab hold of each other. 

“Soldier!” Karlach screams, her hand closing around the thin air that once held Shadowheart. 

“I’ve got them!” Church hollers. “Follow me — jump!”

He calls upon the Weave, praying that this spell will work as he and Karlach topple down after their companions. 

The incantation spills from his lips and the four screaming, plummeting adventurers illuminate blue all at once as their descent mercifully slows. Gasping and yelping, they float down, down, down this seemingly bottomless chasm. 

“Are you alright?” Church calls to the others, once he has caught his own breath. 

Karlach whoops wildly, hysterically in response. 

Shadowheart lets out a noncommittal whimper. 

Astarion — who had been swearing for a colorful minute — eventually drifts over to Church, grumbling. 

“…I still hate you,” he scolds the warlock, hoarsely. “...but perhaps a little less for this.”

“Well, let’s wait to see what’s waiting for us at the bottom,” the warlock replies, grimly. “You may yet change your mind.”

Nevertheless, Church allows himself a moment to close his eyes and sigh in relief. He hopes this feather fall spell lasts as long as they need to make it to wherever the bottom of this chasm is. They’ll inevitably have other problems once they land, but at least they’ll live long enough to see them. 

Eventually, the eerie, glowing fog fades, revealing an alien landscape of colorful, luminous shapes down below. 

Fungi. Giant fungi.

“The Underdark?” Astarion breathes. “Well, better than nothing at all…”

The four disoriented adventurers land lightly upon the ground below — carefully avoiding the massive, crumpled corpse of the spider matriarch. 

The forest of luminous mushrooms tower over them, and dwarfing even those is what appears to be a gnarled tree glowing blue as it spans a chasm going even further down. 

It’s hauntingly beautiful. Church never got to see much of the wilds of the Underdark like this. 

…and perhaps there was a good reason for that, as the rocky ground begins to tremble beneath them. 

“Oh gods!” Karlach yelps. “What now?” 

Something very unhappy comes barreling towards them, rupturing all the earth and tossing away everything else in its path. 

“RUN!” Church yells. As they do so, a vague realization crosses his mind —

He already misses the spiders.

Chapter Text

The Underdark is an unforgiving place. 

An unforgiving place with a lot of unstable ground, unexpected chasms, vicious creatures, and toxic and explosive mushrooms just as intent on killing them. 

This region isn’t completely bereft of civilization, however. There appears to be an abandoned camp down by an inky lake, a crumbling tower in the distance, and flickering lights that seem to indicate a camp or outpost nearby. 

As far as spellcasting power goes, both Church and Shadowheart have overextended themselves for the day — the Sharran cleric being the most crucial as the healer in such a dangerous place. Then again, they are all spent, battered, and in desperate need of a rest. When they first start hearing the voices, the party just assumes that they are collectively hallucinating from toxic spores and exhaustion. 

They are debating when and how to make camp when they stumble across their first duergar corpse, and then another a ways down the path. Close by is another set of bizarre, vaguely-humanoid remains — lumpy and colorful not with decay, but with the fungal matter that makes up its flesh. Its nature becomes all the more clearer when the party comes face to face with the colorful, bioluminescent colony of Myconids. The two groups size each other up warily as the adventurers approach. 

Church rambles some kind of placating explanation to the Myconids, but even if his spoken words don’t make much sense in his exhaustion, their telepathic insight must have shown him to be sincere enough. While Shadowheart seems wary of how truthful he is about their circumstances, it doesn’t seem to do harm. In fact, the Myconids move to the side as the Sovereign resonates into all of their minds, inviting them to enter the colony. 

“Tavi,” Church thinks through his parasite as they clamber up the giant fungi. “Can you tell the others that we’re alive, just… in the Underdark?”

“I will tell them,” Tavi intones. “But you’re so close to the source of The Absolute now. Perhaps they should simply join you down here, as you continue forth.”

Church frowns. 

“We still have responsibilities back on the surface,” he reminds Tavi, resolutely. “The tiefling refugees still need us.”

“Very well,” Tavi relents. “But you may want to use your time down here to determine a path to Moonrise Towers, while you can.”

Ah, yes, Moonrise Towers. Church massages the back of his neck. There is so much to keep track of. He just needs to lie down, and…

A pained groan grabs his attention. Curled up nearby is a deep gnome who looks up at him with unfocused, beseeching eyes. 

“…help…” she rasps, barely audible. 

Church rushes to her side, examining her briefly before digging around in his pack for a vial of antidote. 

“Absolutely not — we need that for ourselves!” Astarion tries to protest, but with a sharp look the warlock is already tipping its contents between the gnome’s parched and cracked lips. 

“You’re going to be alright,” Church reassures her. “What happened to you?”

And that is how the party finds themselves spending not just one day, but several in the Underdark — tangled in yet another plot. Church hears the words “enslaved deep gnomes” and it becomes his priority to find and rescue them, much to Astarion and Shadowheart’s chagrin. 

But what are they supposed to do, leave him and Karlach behind?

—

At the Myconid Sovereign’s behest, they rest for one “night,” during which they meet the non-Myconids present within the colony. There is a surly trader from Baldur’s Gate who brusquely asks them to look for her missing husband, a hobgoblin named Blurg from the Society of Brilliance who Church takes an immediate liking to, and his associate — a mind flayer, of all things. While he and his party initially step back in alarm, Church soon finds he doesn’t mind it so much either. 

As the two least injured of their party, Karlach and Church venture back out and manage to track down and return the trader’s husband — as well as her prized Noblestalk mushroom. Blurg and Omeluum, meanwhile, help get Shadowheart and Astarion set up in a little campsite of their own within the safety of the colony. After the much-needed rest, they at least feel ready enough to go clear out the duergar from the lakeside camp. 

But before they can leave, a massive, bloated Myconid intercepts them, beckoning Church to come towards him. 

He asks the warlock to describe his home, and Church hesitates. He doesn’t quite know what to imagine. 

Mother’s church was home, once. But it was only because it was the only world he knew for years. It was his sanctuary, until it became his cage in the shadows. 

There was also the village of Tarrin’s Hearth, but there are painful memories there too. He never belonged there, as much as he had loved his childhood friends. And even then, his friends and him have grown distant, caught up in their own lives. He couldn’t call them home without it feeling like an imposition. 

Where… is home?

When has his heart ever felt truly safe to be itself?

With that, he thinks of Tavi, and that first evening they reunited in Neverwinter. 

He thinks of how their eyes met across the tavern as they pushed through the crowd to reach each other. 

He thinks of how it felt to be swept up in those strong arms as the paladin squeezed him close, laughing in delight. 

“You made it!” he had shouted over the clamor of the crowd. “Are you really here?”

“Should I pinch you?” Church grinned up at him, stroking his cheek with his thumb as he took in every detail of his friend’s face. 

Tavi chuckled and leaned in close to his ear. 

“I can think of something even better,” he murmured suggestively, and the sounds of the crowd melted away in an instant as he looked back into his friend’s shining eyes. 

Home. 

Maybe this is what it felt like to be home. 

And maybe, that day when Church received Mairead’s letter, he finally learned what it was like to lose it. 

Glut seems to grumble in awe at his grief.  

—

The sovereign Glut ambles after them down to the lakeside settlement. It’s a wretched place, ripe with decaying duergar and deep gnomes alike. But not all the duergar are dead, and not all of them stay dead.

Even after the duergar have been defeated, it’s still not over for Church and his companions. After they refuse to take out the sovereign Spaw in order for Glut to ascend, the former sovereign turns his concussive arms on the wrong adventurers. 

It doesn’t take long for Glut to collapse for the final time — the last Myconid of his colony, gone forever. 

“Poor Glut,” Astarion remarks loftily as he cleans his blades on the sovereign’s corpse. “All ambition, no competence.”

”We might have to explain this to Spaw, whenever we get back,” Church mutters, leaning on his staff to catch his breath.

“I doubt any tears will be shed,” Astarion makes a face. “Or… secreted? Whatever mushrooms do.”

“We’re in no state to keep going,” Shadowheart utters faintly. “Let’s make camp.”

“Not here, please,” Church says hastily, grimacing at the smell and sight of decay. “There’s some ruins up above. How about we make camp there?”

It ends up being more complicated than that, for as soon as they clamber up to the ruins, they realize that they are in fact at the foot of the crumbling tower.

“Is this the friend Omeluum and Blurg mentioned?” Karlach asks, excitedly. 

But friend or not, the tower doesn’t seem to like guests. It’s with some difficulty that they eventually knock out its defenses on the outside. It remains quite armed from the inside, however. 

“Lenore?” Karlach calls. 

“Quiet!” Shadowheart hisses to her. 

“She’s not home,” Church frowns. “Why else would her defenses be up?”

“Well, better we camp in there than out exposed where more of those hook horrors can get us,” Astarion says. “I see a path through here,” he gestures at a terrace of giant fungi descending between the rocky cliffs and the tower. “There might just be a window we can break in through?”

Even better, there is a back door leading conveniently into a laboratory where they can use a sussur bloom to power up the tower and deactivate the defenses. 

“This place is wild,” Karlach laughs, delightedly. “Let’s keep going up! See what we find.”

They explore the tower in its eclectic entirety before cautiously settling down to make camp on its second floor. It’s a bizarre place — massive and filled with evidence of an eccentric life. Church decides to keep exploring among these artifacts himself, paging carefully through books, notes, and letters. 

“Who in the hells were you, Lenore?” he whispers to himself. There is far more here than he’ll ever have time to explore in one rest. It seemed like she was many things, including someone who sure loved her dog. Church examines one of the collars he finds. 

Myrna. 

He pockets it with a small smile. He misses Scratch already. 

He stations himself in his own little corner of their camp, attempting to sketch the strange interior of the entrance hall. He then tries to sketch from memory the beautiful sussur bloom that had made him feel so horrible as it leeched his magic. He also pokes at the Myconid sketches from their previous rest in the colony, but he gives up on that page altogether. He decides that he much prefers to draw faces, if he’s honest with himself. 

One in particular occupies his thoughts. 

He flips to a previous page of his journal, where he’s been adding to a messy, furtive collection of sketches he’s been making of that face. 

The subject, Church realizes, is conspicuously missing from their camp. 

“Astarion’s not… hunting is he?” Church calls out to Karlach and Shadowheart. “By himself? For hook horrors or something?”

“He went up,” Karlach tells him, nodding at the elevator. “Can’t be too far.” She grimaces at whatever Shadowheart is currently preparing for their meal. “Gods, I wish he was hunting. I could use some fresh meat.”

—

Church eventually finds Astarion towards the top of the tower in Lenore’s bedroom. Facing away from the elevator, the vampire spawn stands with his arm extended as he gazes into a silver hand mirror. He must have picked it up from somewhere in this room.

“Looking at something?” he asks without turning around. 

“Just looking,” Church replies softly. “I mean — I was looking for you. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking too,” Astarion murmurs. “But not seeing very much. Another quirk of my affliction.”

Church approaches him cautiously. It occurs to him that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since… that evening. But somehow, he’s not feeling nearly as anxious or afraid as he expected. 

“Do you miss it?” he asks softly. “Seeing your own face?”

Astarion scoffs incredulously as he turns towards his companion. 

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity? Of course I miss it,” he frowns, expression troubled. “I’ve never even seen this face — not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

“What color were they before?”

“I…” Astarion hesitates, blinking before looking back at Church. The tiefling regrets his question — he had been curious, but his companion just seems… lost. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.

“My face is just some dark shape in my past.” He tosses the mirror onto the desk with a grimace. “Another thing I’ve lost.”

Church finds himself staring back at the vampire spawn, studying every detail as he has been doing for the past couple weeks. His jaw… his mouth… his hair that he can’t quite get right, and his eyes. 

His eyes.

“What?” Astarion asks apprehensively, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’m not nearly as good as a mirror,” Church says carefully. “But… what do you want to know?”

There is a beat of silence, and then —

“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” Astarion says, voice surprisingly earnest. A small tremor betrays itself as he adds, “What you see.”

Church’s hand squeezes the journal at his side.

“Well,” the tiefling manages to flash a small smile at the elf. “The first thing I always notice are your strong, piercing eyes.”

“Oh?” Astarion drawls, intrigued. “Go on.”

Above his smirk, those eyes are soft and… hungry. But they are hungry in a hopeful rather than predatory way, for once. 

“You’ve got this… dangerous smile,” Church shakes his head, grinning as Astarion demonstrates it perfectly. “And these delightful lines when you laugh—”

“Oh, gods, you can do better than that,” Astarion admonishes him with a scowl. “I’m an eternally young vampire, not your doting grandmother!”

“I’m not saying you’re — you asked me what I see,” Church retorts. “And I see… you.” He shrugs, helplessly. “I see when your face softens when you stand still in the sun. And I see…”

“No, wait,” Astarion groans in exasperation. “Just… this is meant to be flattery, not poetry.”

“Fine,” Church rolls his eyes. “Your jawline is impeccable. Happy?”

He sighs defeatedly as he glances away. But when Church looks back at him, Astarion has stepped closer. Those “strong, piercing eyes” regard him intently. 

“Very good,” Astarion purrs. “Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can call it a day.” 

“You’re ridic—,” Church stops himself, blinking up at him ruefully. “Is that all you want? Shallow praise?”

Astarion scoffs, tilting his head at him as his smile broadens. “Hardly. There’s also gold, sex, revenge… quite the list, really.” He sighs with a flourish. “But failing any of those, I will always settle for shallow praise.”

The tiefling loiters at that, hesitating as he taps his journal against his leg. 

He could just show the vampire spawn what he’s been secretly collecting on these pages — little studies and sketches of his face and profile, wisps of curls that frame those striking eyes and mirthful mouth. If he wants to know what he looks like after all these years, he deserves to be shown rather than told…

Astarion sniffs haughtily. “Well, if there’s nothing else—?” 

“—you’re beautiful,” Church blurts, looking right into the elf’s eyes. The tiefling holds his gaze, straightening up as he tucks his journal firmly across his middle.

Astarion blinks down at him, mouth slightly ajar… 

…and then the elf smirks. “How observant of you,” he drawls. 

Church blushes purple beneath his dusky skin.

“Mirrors aren’t much use, but being reflected in someone else’s eyes?” Astarion fans his hands out. “Well…” he winks. “I could do worse.”

He scans over this room within the shattered tower, his lip curling in distaste. “Wretched place, isn’t it?”

Church is happy for a change in subject as they step away from each other, wandering the room. He’s relieved that Astarion still hasn’t brought up the embarrassing events of the other night. 

“It must have been good fun, once,” Church muses, “when it was lived in. This ‘Lenore’ seemed like someone I might have gotten along with.”

He absently prods a button, and yelps as the dog collar he had picked up vibrates in his pocket. What looks like a fresh, raw steak plops down into the unused dog bowl below. 

Well. Karlach will be happy, he supposes. 

“What, a mad cleric?” Astarion laughs. “I could see it — you climbing all over this tower, conducting your little magic experiments and watering your little plants.” 

He titters. “You could make this your little vacation home, if you ever missed the Underdark. It doesn’t look like it’s getting much use anyways.”

Church huffs a laugh, gazing out the window. It’s a strange view of the dangerous, colorful world below a cavernous stony sky.

“Perhaps, but only for a short getaway,” he chuckles. “I’m sure I’d miss the sun.”

—

After their rest, the party follows the slain duergar’s orders to the excavation site where the gnomes are being held captive. They set sail upon his ship, and while there is a tense moment when they are intercepted, the parasite once again makes itself useful. Corsair Greymon welcomes the True Souls to the sweltering Grymforge — a vast feat of architecture, decaying and crumbling beneath the heat of the surrounding lava. 

“Those guards mentioned that ‘True Soul,’ Nere,” Church mutters to Shadowheart. 

“Well,” she says, lightly. “Let’s go see whose head we’re bringing back.”

They find their Ironhand gnomes, including a couple further away from the excavation site. They end up liberating an enslaved man, the party furtively hiding his tormentors’ bodies in the aftermath. Not long afterwards, they meet a particularly volatile Ironhand woman who has managed to escape and hole up nearby. 

The party also finds the gnomes for whom they were too late — a pile of corpses that the duergar throw unceremoniously into the water, one by one. 

“Don’t get involved,” Shadowheart mutters to a seething Karlach. “Now’s not the time to draw attention to ourselves.”

But Church manages to send the duergar away, letting Astarion happily loot the pockets of the unfortunate gnomes.

“We can’t bring all their bodies back,” Church rationalizes to an indignant Karlach. “But if they have personal effects we can recover, it may mean the world to their loved ones.”

“…or life or death to us,” Astarion comments mildly.  Church watches as he pockets a distinctive ring that practically resonates with the Weave. 

The party finds allies in the form of an Elder Brithvar and his mutinous crew. It takes a bit of effort and fey charm to gain their trust. Church doesn’t necessarily trust them, but he can use their scorn for Nere to the party’s advantage. Better they fight against half the duergar in the forge than all of them at once. 

Sweat streaming down their faces, the party returns to the sweltering excavation site where the True Soul, Nere, begs through their parasites for them to free him. There are several more gnomes trapped in those toxic fumes with him, according to the Ironhands frantically picking at the outside. To Church’s surprise, he finds a familiar face among them — the impossibly more dour Barcus Wroot, once again in need of rescuing. 

With a well-aimed fire bolt and some smokepowder satchels, Shadowheart and Church manage to blow up the rubble. It all goes to shit after that as they join Elder Brithvar’s crew in fighting Corsair Greymon’s men and Nere. 

As he speaks steadily through the initial confrontation with Nere, Church glances up to where Astarion sneaks along the upper level. The rogue slits an archer’s throat before taking her spot to snipe from above, a bloodthirsty grin upon his face. Meanwhile, Shadowheart blesses all of them as she flourishes her spear and shield by Church’s side. Finally, Karlach roars into a rage, flying at any duergar that dare get too close to the cowering gnomes. 

After the battle, Church manages to convince Elder Brithvar to free the gnomes. And then, confident that the worst must surely be over, the warlock grimaces as he crouches beside what remains of Nere. 

Astarion hums from above, holding out a dagger to him, “Would you like to do the honors?”

Church glances up at the blade, dubiously. “Might not be the cleanest job if I do it...”

“Come now,” Astarion encourages him with a smirk. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

The warlock feels a little sick as the rogue leans over Nere’s body with him, demonstrating with unnerving intimacy how to grasp the drow by the hair and angle the blade. In a low, velvety voice, Astarion instructs Church on his technique as the horrified, yet fascinated tiefling saws the squelching blade through Nere’s tendons and spine, severing his head completely. 

Church quickly hands their trophy to Karlach before collapsing against a pile of rubble, wiping at the sweat pouring down his face. 

Karlach and Shadowheart continue attending to the gnomes nearby. Some weep in relief, others in grief, and others still argue among themselves about the fate of some “Wulbren” fellow. 

Church wants nothing more than to rest. He closes his eyes for just a minute as he tugs his armor’s collar open, sighing at the minute relief. Unfortunately for him, Astarion also chooses that moment to fall into a seat beside him. 

“What a day!” he sighs, satisfied. “Now, darling… are you quite done with that?”

Church startles, looking down at the dagger still clutched in his hand. He didn’t even realize he still had it. He moves to hand it back to Astarion, but rather than simply taking it, the elf rests and strokes his gloved hand over Church’s upon its handle. 

“You know, darling,” Astarion says, fondly, brightly. “While I was idling away up there, waiting for my moment to loose an arrow at that fool duergar’s neck… I was just thinking about you. Remembering our time together, the things we’ve shared — and,” he chuckles, lightly, “I don’t just mean that lovely neck of yours.”

“What?” Church blinks dully as Astarion finally takes the dagger back. The elf continues smoothly.

“I’m growing to like the whole package, honestly,” he purrs. “And you clearly like me too, so…”

Church scoffs at him. “I don’t know what you’re…?” 

“…the ruins,” Astarion murmurs, a wicked smile twitching up at the corner of his mouth. “Who were you thinking of while making those delicious noises?” He smirks. “Surely not Lae’zel.”

Church stares back at him, aghast. The duergar continue to bark orders in the background while the gnomes weep and mutter among themselves. 

And here he is, having this conversation, of all things.

“You—you’re bringing this up now? Right now?” Church hisses in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“What can I say?” Astarion replies, breathily. “Watching you move through a fight is always a vision.” He leans towards the sweating tiefling, flicking his eyes up at him through lowered lashes. “Admittedly, it has made me wonder how you might move… elsewhere.”

Church gawks at him, brow furrowed as he processes his words. “I… what are you saying?”

“Oh come now,” Astarion chuckles. “Don’t be coy — your body’s already given you away. I could feel it as I was getting lost in your neck…” he slyly brushes a finger along Church’s loosened collar. “Your little… shakes of excitement.”

His blood red eyes remain fixated upon the tiefling’s yellow. Even in the hellish heat of this place, Church shivers at his touch. 

“You never denied it, last time,” Astarion smirks knowingly. “But you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

Church opens his mouth. At first nothing comes out, but then he rolls his eyes, venturing a jape of his own. There’s no point denying it. 

“…a gentleman never tells,” he says, blandly. 

The elf doesn’t quite put a finger to Church’s lips, but he certainly gets irritatingly close.

“You don’t have to say a thing,” Astarion murmurs, a maddeningly confident smile twisting onto his lips. “I already know how you feel. Because I feel it too.”

“Do you now?” Church humors him dubiously. 

“Believe me, I do,” Astarion leers back, before his face brightens up in dramatic inspiration. “You know, we could take an evening to ourselves! Get away from camp, get some… privacy.”

He leans in closer to the tiefling, their shoulders flush as he murmurs into his ear. 

“I know somewhere quiet, back at our riverside camp,” Astarion purrs. “Somewhere intimate. Somewhere we can… indulge in each other.”

Two thoughts clash within Church’s mind:

The absolute gall of this bastard. 

… and…

…don’t you dare say no. 

The warlock clears his throat. “Well, er — when we have time, that… that sounds good,” he stammers. 

The elf regards him, amused. 

“Wonderful,” Astarion gushes. “I just hope we don’t have to wait too long before we can steal away.”

He leans in close again, his breath barely brushing the shell of Church’s ear. “But once we can, I promise you a night you’ll never forget.”

Astarion pulls away with a salacious purr.  

“See you there, lover.”

As the last, lascivious word slips from his tongue, Church nearly feels his heart give out. It pounds in his chest as the elf leaves his side, sending a heavy glance back down to the shocked tiefling. He watches as the elf whirls away, retrieving arrows from corpses with a merry whistle. 

Once recovered, the warlock makes a promise to return and investigate the Sharran remnants for Shadowheart, and to find this “Adamantine Forge” for Karlach. The party boards the duergar boats to escort the Ironhand gnomes back to the Myconid colony and deliver Nere’s head. After another long rest, they make their way up to ascend in an elevator to the surface that Blurg marks upon their map. To their relief, it ends up bringing them up into a hidden cave within the Zhentarim’s hideout. 

Although they all grumble, wince, and squint at the harsh sunlight, it is a relief for all of them to see the surface again. 

Well, nearly all of them. Barcus remains conspicuously silent at their side. The preoccupied gnome journeys with them back to their camp, where the others leap up and greet the party with a relieved barrage of questions and updates. 

Church tries his damndest to pay attention to Wyll’s debrief of what has transpired in their absence, but he’s distracted by Astarion returning from the ruins. The elf appears to have silently excused himself to wash up in the river, for his skin is pristine once more, and his damp curls darker as his slender fingers run through and tidy them. His fresh shirt clings to him and his eyes are laughing as they meet Church’s. The tiefling glances away quickly as he smiles and nods at Wyll’s recount of yet another goblin skirmish. 

This is fine, Church tells himself over and over again as Astarion brushes right past them. Get it out of your system, and he’ll get it out of his. Move on, and focus. 

But he finds it very difficult to focus over the next few hours, especially as he feels Astarion’s hungry gaze drifting back upon him. 

Chapter Text

It’s only the second night since they had returned to the surface when Church spots Astarion idling outside of his tent, watching him. His head tilts ever so slightly, wordlessly beckoning the tiefling to approach. 

“A quiet evening, for once,” Astarion says, lightly. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been this happy to see the moon and stars,” Church chuckles, dryly. “The sun, most of all, of course.”

Astarion nods, but he’s clearly got something else in mind. 

“Well, now that we’re back in familiar territory…” he murmurs, leaning conspiratorially towards the tiefling, “…it’s a perfect night for two people who’d like to take some time to themselves — if you catch my meaning.” He looks coyly back up at the nervous tiefling. 

“And I do mean sex, to be clear,” he adds impatiently. “We’ve waited long enough.”

Church looks around and makes sure that they’re speaking alone, his heart beating fast as he wets his lips. 

“You said you knew somewhere?” he asks, softly. 

Astarion chuckles lightly as he gazes up at Church through long, lowered lashes. “Let’s find our own little piece of nowhere. Somewhere we can lose ourselves and forget all this madness.”

He ponders to himself for just a moment. 

“There’s a secluded place nearby that should do nicely — a clearing in the forest,” he suggests, nodding in the direction of the ruins. “I think you know the one.”

He gives the tiefling the smallest, sly smile. “Wait until the others are asleep, and then come and find me there.”

Church bitterly wonders if this is where he took Lae’zel several nights ago. 

But the tiefling smiles back at him, nonetheless. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Indeed you will, my love,” Astarion croons breathily. “I can’t wait.”

The warlock doesn’t remember any of the other conversations he has tonight. His eyes stray as he watches Astarion move about the camp, up until he seems to disappear altogether. Then, the tiefling waits until all the others have retired for the night, save for Shadowheart on watch. Church’s departure doesn’t escape her sharp eyes, but as he passes by she merely raises an eyebrow and nods at him. 

He slips his way into the ruins and out towards the forest — heart thudding in anticipation of the unknown. 

—

As Church approaches the clearing, he breathes in deeply and slowly before exhaling. 

It’s just a momentary distraction, he reminds himself. A rendezvous. A tryst, if it happens at all…

“There you are.”

It doesn’t take long before Church spots the source of the silky voice sauntering from around a tree — a very shirtless, pale-skinned elf. He gazes back at him hungrily as his lithe fingers brush against the bark. 

Astarion tilts his head at the ogling warlock. “I worried you might have changed your mind.”

“What? No,” Church chuckles, nervously, as he admits, “I’ve… been looking forward to this, actually.”

He must look like some shy, trembling virgin. 

Get a grip on yourself, he scolds himself. This isn’t your first camp tryst. Be professional about it. 

But there’s nothing professional about how his eyes drink in the moonlight shining upon Astarion. It illuminates a halo around his silvery-white curls and cascades over strong shoulders that he so desperately wants to wrap his legs around…

Church feels his face burn as he tries to look his companion in the eyes and not that stretch of bare, sculpted torso.

“You’re nervous,” Astarion observes softly, and with a jolt Church realizes that he is already right in front of him, his body mere inches away if the tiefling were to dare reach out and touch him. “This isn’t your first time, is it?”

“Oh, gods, no,” Church replies, flustered. “Far from it. It’s just… been a while?” he laughs sheepishly. “I’m still just coming to terms that this is something you also wanted.”

Astarion smirks, reaching up to brush a thumb over Church’s soft, parted lips. “Why, of course,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting. Waiting since the moment I first set eyes on you.” 

His hand traces lightly back along the tiefling’s cheek, over the shell of his ear, and down to card through soft black hair as Church stifles a shudder. 

“Waiting… to have you,” Astarion breathes. 

“Is that so?” Church huffs a wry, skeptical laugh. “You had a funny way of showing it…” 

Astarion leans closer, silencing him. Church stares up at him, dazed and starry-eyed. From this close, the tiefling can smell the fragrance the elf wears sitting just above his skin, melting away any of his remaining will to remain aloof. 

“And… at any rate…You don’t have me yet,” he quips weakly, despite his blushing face being evidence to the contrary. 

“Don’t I?” Astarion says easily, playfully. “You’re here, and…” he brushes a finger along Church’s collarbone. “…I don’t think you want to talk. I think you want to be known,” his finger becomes a hand, slowly caressing down his chest lower and lower. “…to be tasted.”

Church’s body betrays him, leaning into the touch even as it pauses just above his hips. Gods damn it, surely the elf must see how wound up he is. Honestly, he could have simply greeted the tiefling by pinning him up against one of these trees and having his way with him. Church certainly wouldn’t have objected. But instead, he attempts to recover his last shred of dignity as he blinks up into the elf’s watchful eyes. 

“And… what do you want?” he manages to ask. Astarion regards him, curiously. 

“What do any of us want?” he murmurs softly, before his expression turns wolfish once more. “Pleasure.” 

Church shudders as the elf slowly leans in to nuzzle into the quivering curve of his neck, breathing him in there. “Yours. Mine. Our… collective ecstasy.”

He can feel Astarion’s face melt into a predatory smirk as Church gasps at the sensation of his breath upon his skin. 

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” the elf asks, and as he pulls away to look at Church, a flash of something like uncertainty flickers across his face. “To… lose yourself in me?”

Church swallows, his mouth dry and heart pounding. 

Is that what he wants?

It’s certainly not all he wants, but this is certainly not the time to discuss that. 

“I…” Church clears his throat, feeling his face heat as the elf slowly drifts closer to him again. “I want that. Yes.”

Astarion smiles softly. Knowingly. 

“I thought so,” he sighs. He reaches out to stroke the tiefling’s hair, letting a single finger trace a horn from base to tip. The tiefling’s eyes flutter shut as a needy, involuntary moan escapes his throat and he freezes — mortified. 

The elf makes a small amused sound. 

“No need to stop yourself,” he purrs, his other hand slipping down the tiefling’s tensed back to curl around his waist. “It’s just us — having a moment in the woods.” 

He steps even closer, crowding the tiefling completely against the tree. The elf’s breath on his neck makes Church shiver.  

“Let go, darling,” Astarion whispers. “Lose yourself in me.”

He captures Church’s hasty nod in a firm, lingering kiss, and the tiefling wants to melt. He moans as he pushes his lips back against the elf’s, dragging them excruciatingly against each other as he tastes him. Surprisingly, there isn’t any metallic tang of blood on the elf’s tongue as it slips between Church’s wet lips, tantalizingly — and then voraciously — seeking out his. 

One of Astarion’s hands slips from the small of Church’s back down to his ass, tightening as he growls into the shuddering tiefling’s mouth. The other catches and strokes along his tail, which lifts and curves, flourishing languidly in his attentive grip. 

“Ah—!” Church’s eyes squeeze shut as his mouth falls open at the firm, pleasurable pressure insistent against his groin. 

“That’s it,” Astarion murmurs encouragingly, his breath heavy against the edge of the tiefling’s sensitive ear. “Give in to me.”

Church breaks his mouth away from the elf’s, pressing his hungry lips instead against Astarion’s pale neck. He kisses and mouths at the skin there as the elf lets out little gasps and moans of his own. He lets his head fall back as Church’s tongue traces along his throat, culminating in another deep kiss upon Astarion’s eager mouth as the tiefling entangles taloned fingers in his silver-white curls. The vampire spawn’s tongue is cool as it slips into Church’s mouth, but not unpleasant as the tiefling chases it back with his own, careful not to snag upon his fangs in his enthusiasm. 

Astarion’s hand moves to squeeze Church’s hardening front and the tiefling gasps, desperately pushing his hips into his firm grasp. In turn, Church slips both of his hands down Astarion’s hips, holding and kneading his ass flush to him as the elf grinds against the tiefling’s leg. 

He lets out a filthy sound that Church can’t help but echo as the pressure grows too much and the hunger takes over. 

The tiefling pulls away, disheveled and panting as he finally begins to undo his belt, eyes remaining fixated on Astarion’s lustful gaze. Church tugs his shirt up and over his head, grunting as he hastily unhooks the laces caught upon his horns and exposing his own torso contoured with bony ridges. And then, with a few slow but deliberate movements, he tugs off his boots and slips off his trousers, dropping them to the forest floor as he steps out of them, tail flourishing. He watches as the elf’s eyes light up at the sight before him — planes of his freckled, dusky skin illuminated in the moonlight, his cock hard, and his tail erect as well in an enticing curve of anticipation. 

“How delicious you look,” Astarion groans, slowly slipping down and stepping out of his own trousers. Church’s mouth waters at the sight of the elf’s own erection, standing proud as he approaches. “Now, come—!”

Church surges forward and melts completely against the elf, running his hands up his chest and down his back, feeling the firm, wiry muscles that flex beneath soft, velvety skin. His mouth delves against Astarion’s, eliciting little sounds that continue to drive the tiefling wild. 

The elf’s hands squeeze the tiefling’s ass tight as their sensitive and painfully hardened cocks press flush together. Astarion scoops up the tiefling’s thigh to pull him in closer, and before Church can think more of it, the tiefling just leaps up into the elf’s embrace altogether, wrapping his legs around his waist in his eagerness to get closer. 

Astarion doesn’t even seem to stagger as he growls enthusiastically at the move, driving the tiefling back against the tree. Its rough bark is inconsequential in the face of the blinding, insistent pleasure between the two of them. 

The elf’s wet lips slip from Church’s mouth and knead enthusiastically at the side of his sensitive neck. The tiefling shudders and whimpers in his grip, reveling in the sensation as Astarion’s hips pulse and grind him into the tree. 

Church does have to marvel at the vampire spawn’s apparent self-control as those lips drag torturously along his neck. It would be all too easy for him to sink his fangs into him in this vulnerable position. 

And as Astarion returns to join their lips in a slow, savoring kiss, an idea flits across Church’s pleasure-addled brain. 

A risky idea, but… one he has thought about quite a bit more than he’d like to admit.

“Bite me?” he breathes into the elf’s ear. 

Astarion’s hips slow, and for a moment Church wonders if he killed the mood or offended him somehow. But instead, he finds himself being pulled away from the tree as Astarion lets himself collapse carefully back down to the ground, the tiefling still straddling him and moaning at the impact. 

“Oh you sweet thing,” the vampire spawn murmurs, and he eagerly rolls them both over with a growl, crawling atop of the grinning tiefling with hunger plain upon his face. “I would like nothing more.”

Church revels in his weight atop of him, and then he gasps and sighs as Astarion’s fangs come crushing into his neck. 

This time, the pain is fleeting amid a sea of other sensations. As Astarion drinks, his body pulses and rolls against the tiefling, sending pleasure in waves as Church whimpers and moans. 

But Astarion doesn’t linger too long. He unlatches himself, grinning — his eyes shining in jubilant euphoria. 

“So generous,” he moans, his tongue flicking out to chase a stray rivulet of blood as the shuddering tiefling watches him in wide-eyed awe. Astarion dives back down, stroking the flat of his tongue along Church’s tender neck to chase the remainder there. “So divine.”

Church whimpers beneath him. He’s woozy from both the sustained arousal and the bloodletting, but he grinds insistently up against the elf’s body, hungry for his own satisfaction. 

“Take more of me,” he pleads — perhaps unwisely. “Please…”

“Of course, darling,” the elf simpers, and he slowly — tantalizingly — begins to crawl backwards along the tiefling’s body. “How lucky am I that I get to taste you twice?”

He gives a feral grin, and then he dives down, bloody mouth slipping over the tiefling’s aching, leaking cock. 

Church moans long and loud at the sensation, grappling for purchase upon the forest floor as the elf relentlessly devours him. His tongue wickedly traces the especially sensitive contours of his head, before his lips slip off to lave and suck upon the tightening and sensitive base of him. 

His tongue caresses Church’s balls as he groans, reaching down to run his fingers through those silvery curls. With a growl, Astarion grasps hold of the tiefling’s wrist, pulling it back into his hair and urging him to grip it. Church hesitates, but once he curls his fingers tightly against the elf’s scalp, Astarion moans filthily. 

“Ah—!” the tiefling whimpers, watching him hazily as he thrusts up into his mouth. “Fuck. That’s… so… good…”

Writhing, Church arches up, each relentless enveloping of the elf’s mouth pulling searing pleasure and desperate cries from him. 

Astarion hums smugly, before pulling off with a pop of his lips. He wipes at his mouth as he gazes hungrily down at the tiefling. 

“Darling,” he says hoarsely, running his tongue once more along the tiefling’s length as it reflexively twitches back towards those soft lips. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He shifts further up Church’s body, sitting atop of him and rolling his hips. He reaches down and strokes the tiefling’s cock in firm pulses, eyes never leaving his. 

“And… how does my favorite warlock like his dinner?” he grins, fangs flashing as he licks his lips. “Does he want to… bury himself in me?” He rolls his hips and Church gasps delightedly at the sensation. “Does he want to feel me stretch and tremble around his cock as he wrests the pleasure from the inside out?” 

Church whines as he thrusts into his hand, moaning helplessly. But then Astarion leans back down, his lips brushing against the shuddering tiefling’s sensitive earlobe as he asks, “…or does he wish to be taken? Run through?” He continues to stroke him slowly, excruciatingly as he growls into his ear, “Devoured?”

Church whimpers at his words, panting below him. He just wants him — needs him — in any way, but…

“Take me,” he moans, desperately. “Astarion, take—!”

He only catches a momentary glimpse of the elf’s smirk before Astarion flips him over. Church’s fingers dig into the mossy earth as he lifts himself shakily to his knees. His cock aches as he thrusts down into air, arching his back to grind languidly back into Astarion’s body as it crowds behind him. 

With a thoughtful hum, the spawn kneels between Church’s knees, pressing the length of his cock against the tiefling’s ass. Astarion draws Church’s arcing tail over his shoulder, stroking and kissing the length of it, mouthing and sliding his tongue along as it shivers against him. 

“You know, I’ve known every time you have wanted me,” Astarion murmurs as he strokes along his tail. “You may frown and scowl, but your tail has always told me stories of what’s really going on in that head of yours. And such delicious stories they are…”

As Church tenses for a mortified moment, Astarion leans flush against the entirety of the tiefling’s back and groans into his ear, hands releasing his tail to squeeze Church’s ass tightly against him.

“…stories of you wanting to be bent over and taken — just like this. Presenting yourself like a delicious creature in heat.” 

He firmly tugs Church’s tail back, pulling his pert ass flush against him as the tiefling lets out a soft and needy cry. 

“…and I am more than happy to appease the beast,” Astarion shifts a little behind him, and Church hears the quiet, telltale sound of a little vial being unstoppered, and then the soft slide of an oiled hand on skin that isn’t his. 

Not yet, anyways. 

“Such a good little warlock,” Astarion purrs, and a slicked finger drifts across the tiefling’s opening, pulling a yearning moan from him. “He deserves a treat, doesn’t he?”

Church cries out something ardent and indecipherable as the slender finger slips inside of him, pulsing briefly, painfully past the tight muscle before withdrawing far too soon. And then again. And again, except slower, deeper, and wider as another finger joins to work him open. Whimpering, Church struggles reflexively beneath him — searing at the stretch, but aching for more.

“So beautiful,” Astarion whispers in awe. “You’re just melting at my touch.”

Church’s arousal has pushed him beyond any embarrassment as he moans filthily at his words. Fuck the pain; he’s dying for more — to be filled and tasted again, to be used until all he knows is pleasure and no more responsibilities or fear tethers him to this plane. 

He does want to lose himself. 

As he feels the solid weight and presence of Astarion’s cock slide against his spread cleft, he shudders. 

“Tonight, I am yours,” Astarion breathes, “and you are mine.”

Church moans, thrusting back onto his fingers even as they slip away and out of him.

“Please,” he whimpers, pushing back against Astarion as the elf’s arm encircles his waist, bracing him for impact. “Ah—! Take me. Take…”

Astarion needs no further prompting as the blunt head of him spreads and breaches Church’s entrance. The tiefling cries out in ecstasy at the searing stretch, the agonizingly slow slide of him continues to delve deeper, breaking down the remaining tethers of the tiefling’s self-consciousness. 

“Gods,” Astarion breathes. “You are perfect.”

His hips push painfully up into the flesh of Church’s ass, and the tiefling keens as the head of his cock impacts the core of his pleasure. As Astarion pulses, the pain, the pleasure continues to reverberate through his being like ripples in water, taking over all other awareness. 

“Mm—MHH!” Church moans, and his tail practically dances with each excruciating thrust, reflexively curling around the elf’s waist. “Ah—! Y-yes…!”

This man once held a knife to his throat, he reminds himself in amusement. And now he is running him through in a decidedly unexpected way…

“Oh!” Church cries out as the elf’s hips begin to speed up, pulsing relentlessly deeper into him. The pain isn’t at the forefront of his mind now. Now, all he’s aware of is the tension roaring in his core, hungry for release. “Ahh—! …’starion. Astar…!”

“My name is music upon your lips,” the elf encourages him, breathlessly. “Let me hear you sing.”

“Astarion!” Church cries out ardently, choked and then drawn out as the elf begins to pound into him with frantic vigor, blocking out all other thoughts. “Astarion!”

The tiefling reaches back between his legs, stroking and caressing the elf’s base and taint as Astarion’s mouth crashes back against his neck. The vampire spawn doesn’t bite him, but his tongue moves to lave at the shell of the tiefling’s ear, before licking straight down the his ridged back as Church arches up into the sensation with a sharp cry. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Astarion croons, and he reaches around to Church’s front to cup and stroke his balls, extracting another unbridled shout from the tiefling. “I love watching you fall apart in my hands. Your delicious cries for more. 

“I’m going to claim you, here on the forest floor. I want to hear you beg for it. Beg for me.”

Church whimpers, “Astarion…”

The elf slows torturously, a hand tracing up to firmly, but gently grasp the tiefling’s throat as he pulls him back against him. “Hm? What was that, darling?”

Church arches as he cries out, pleading, “Astarion — please!” 

“That’s it…” Astarion speeds up again, stroking the length of him as he groans. “Good boy.”

Church lets out a sob of pained pleasure as with another hard, blinding thrust Astarion slips out of him. He rolls the tiefling over, and as an aching Church pants up at the starry sky peeking down through the trees, Astarion looms above him, eyes glinting as he presses him back down into the earth. 

Something causes Church to hesitate, but before he can ask a thing, the elf hooks his arms under the tiefling’s legs, yanking him up and plunging into him once again. It forces out an ardent cry from the warlock as his mind again goes blank. 

A hungry grin now lights up Astarion’s shadowed face, but Church must have let a frown slip, for the elf slows, thrusting languidly into him with a tilt of his head. 

“Something the matter — darling?” he pants, reaching down to stroke his cheek. 

Church hesitates. Gods, this is supposed to be good, mindless fun, he scolds himself. Don’t ruin this for the both of you. 

“No, no,” the tiefling gasps, reassuring him. “You’re — you’re amazing.”

Astarion preens, although his smile doesn’t quite reach his strange and distant eyes. “Oh but darling — I haven’t yet rendered you speechless.”

He leans forward, bending the whimpering Church’s legs back over his own shoulders as he thrusts deep into him. Once. Twice. “…allow me to remedy that.”

His hips resume their punishing pace, and taking him even deeper than before, the tiefling lets out an insistent, shuddering cry. “Gods! Ah—!”

“Don’t pray to them,” the elf laughs, breathlessly. “Pray to me.”

“Astarion!” Church cries out as he arches off the ground, body taut with that building pressure. “Ah—!”

“Good—now—!” Astarion groans, pounding frantically into the tiefling. “Darling — Church — ah!”

At his name, the tiefling feels a searing cold rush of pleasure incinerate his brain. He cries out, mindlessly, ardently, the tension in his body dissolving as with every spurt he rides out the remainder of Astarion’s slowing, languid thrusts. 

He feels himself melt, overcome with fatigue. He whimpers once more as the elf slips out of him, lowering the tiefling’s legs to the mossy ground. With a little hum, he wipes up his release from his stomach.

“There, now,” Astarion’s satisfied, dulcet voice shimmers through his exhaustion. “Sweet dreams, darling.”

Church tries to fight against his fatigue, but the exertion of their tryst hasn’t been helped by his bloodlessness. Gods, it really has been a long time since he’s done that, hasn’t it?

Before he can think better of it, he reaches for Astarion’s stiff, elegant hand, holding and nuzzling it against his warm face. 

“Thank you… for this…” he murmurs sleepily. 

As he slips away into oblivion, so does the hand. 

—

Church feels chilly beneath the morning dew, which fills his nostrils along with the scent of the mossy earth. Aching and still very naked, he eases his eyes open, blinking against beams of golden sunlight filtering through the trees and into the forest clearing. 

Facing into the sunlight, basking in it with open arms, is the striking, unmistakable form of Astarion.

To Church’s surprise, his heart flushes with… affection.

And then, curiosity. 

The tiefling recalls that during the throes of their night, his fingers had brushed upon raised skin numerous times. While he has seen incidental flashes of Astarion’s back over the past couple weeks, he never was able to get a sustained up-close and personal view like this before. There, scarred across the vampire spawn’s back, is a wreath of Infernal script — still backlit from the sun and illegible from this far away. 

Church has seen ritualistic scars before on monks, clerics, and more. But for the most part, those were elective and certainly not in Infernal. This one, however…

“I can feel you staring,” Astarion calls over, languidly. “Did you sleep well?”

Does the rogue actually care? Church truly can’t tell. 

“I did,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Not one to stay for a cuddle?”

Astarion scoffs lightly. “I know you sleep light. I didn’t want to wake you.” 

Wincing, Church pushes himself to sit up. Oh, gods. His whole body aches. 

“Those are some interesting scars,” he remarks. “What’s the story behind them?”

“It’s a poem,” Astarion explains, still facing towards the sun as he speaks. “A gift from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves as a canvas.

“He composed and carved that one over the course of a night.” He hesitates for a moment, his voice falling uncharacteristically flat as he adds, “…he made a lot of revisions as he went.”

With a sudden realization, Church recalls the vague, but excruciating memory shared between them during the night of his first bite. A searing, icy-hot blade carving, curving, and slicing along his back as his body remains wracked in an endless scream…

“I remember that,” Church winces. “Gods, I’m so sorry, seeing it now…”

“You can’t imagine,” Astarion chuckles bitterly. 

“I really can’t,” the tiefling admits. He stands up to approach and join the elf in the sunlight. 

Curiosity gets the better of him. Church has to ask. 

“Sorry, but… why did he write poetry in Infernal? I didn’t think he was…” his heart sinks, “…a tiefling, was he?”

“No, but… Infernal?” caught off guard, Astarion ducks his head for a moment. He looks surprised and troubled before he recovers into a scornful, dismissive expression. “I… who knows? The bastard was insane.”

He seems to busy himself with searching for his shirt, but Church sees plain on his face that whatever he said preoccupies the elf. 

Damn it, the warlock scolds himself. Of course he had to ruin what was otherwise a rare, genuinely nice moment with Astarion, of all people…

He picks up his own trousers and approaches the elf tentatively, hand outstretched. But to his surprise, as he brushes against Astarion’s arm, the elf flinches away. Church quickly steps back, squinting into the sunlight. 

“Sorry! And… sorry — for asking about the scars. But… just… are you alright?” he asks gently. “You… don’t get me wrong, last night was incredible, of course, but…” he shrugs a little, a concerned look flitting across his face. “Sometimes it felt like your mind was… somewhere else?”

Astarion’s troubled face dissolves at once into a roguish smile as he reaches to stroke the tiefling’s jaw. Church instinctively leans into the sensation, closing his eyes before remembering himself. When he opens them, the sunlight-wreathed elf regards him in amusement. 

“You know my appetite, darling. I simply didn’t want to lose control of myself.”

Church frowns. He doesn’t buy it, but he has no desire to needle him further either. 

“Now let’s go,” Astarion says shortly, scooping up the warlock’s shirt and tossing it to him. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

Church nods as he dresses hastily, still reeling from the shift in tone from the previous night. But eventually during their walk back to camp — as if finally remembering himself — Astarion approaches the tiefling. He hooks a finger into the warlock’s belt and yanks him forward into a firm, deep kiss. 

“Mmh—!” Church hums blissfully before Astarion breaks away from his dazed face, amused. 

“I can’t wait until I taste you next,” he purrs, stepping back as he smirks. “Would you like that to be soon?”

Gods, yes! Church wants to proclaim, but instead he simply gives the elf a noncommittal shrug. 

“I’m a busy man, these days,” the warlock says loftily. “Packed schedule, as you know. But, I might be able to fit you in.”

His smirk falters as Astarion throws his head back and laughs. 

“Oh, but as we found out last night,” he drawls smugly. “We both know you can.”

With that last salacious remark, the elf spins around and swaggers back in the direction of camp.

He leaves Church reeling and cursing himself for walking right into that one. 

Chapter Text

Everyone in camp is far too friendly this morning. 

That, or Church’s companions seem to be determinedly nonchalant about him walking back into their campsite, trailing just after Astarion. Any sense of stealth is quickly ruined by Scratch barking happily and trotting towards the mortified tiefling as he lingers near the ruins, shushing him desperately. 

“Good morning!” with forced cheer, Church joins Shadowheart at the campfire as the cleric pours herself some coffee.

“…good morning,” she replies lightly, giving him a once-over. “Or should I say… good night?”

Church stares back at her blankly. And then —

“Oh, gods, don’t tell me you…?”

“Perhaps next time you and Astarion could find somewhere a little further out?” she says pointedly, taking a long sip of coffee.

Church covers his face and groans, horrified. “How… much did you hear…?”

“Relax,” Shadowheart snorts. “It’s not as bad as you think — it was my job to listen for anything… unusual last night, after all.” She hesitates. “I… did have to stop Wyll from running out to go rescue you, however.”

“Nine hells,” Church utters, pouring himself a cup as well. Shadowheart looks at him oddly before reaching out a shimmering blue hand towards his punctured neck. As her touch barely skims the wound, a cooling sensation washes through the warlock, banishing his remaining grogginess and soreness in mere seconds. 

Church sighs in relief, the restoration a welcome boon despite his lingering embarrassment. “That’s a handy trick,” he grins at her. 

“Don’t make a habit of it,” Shadowheart replies loftily. “I may not feel so generous next time.”

Church huffs a laugh. “Don’t worry, I don’t think there’s going to be a…”

“Any coffee left in that — oh!” Gale startles as he notices the warlock. “Why, hello there, Church! It’s a fine day for a morning, isn’t it? I, er, had… such a good sleep last night. Like a baby.”

“Lovely,” Church says flatly. “I’ll be at my tent.” He retreats from the flustered wizard, busying himself with his coffee. 

To his dismay, despite Shadowheart’s lesser restoration spell replenishing his blood and abating his aches, Church can almost feel the ghost of a familiar, rhythmic movement still pulsing inside of him. Mustering all his willpower, the tiefling tries as best as he can to walk casually, normally towards his tent where he knows he’ll at least be safe from scrutinizing eyes.

“You.”

…however, the owner of a pair of those eyes seems to have parked herself right beside his tent, awaiting his arrival.

The tiefling takes a bracing breath before looking fully towards Lae’zel. He has come to expect her biting remarks, or at the very least her glower. But to his befuddlement, the Githyanki merely studies him in… amusement. 

“It is as I thought,” she intones. “Your hunger for Astarion has been obvious ever since you’ve returned to the surface. Perhaps even before, and yet I could not be certain…”

“Lae’zel, we have much bigger problems than to—,” Church begins hastily. 

“I am relieved to know that you will be able to focus more on our mission, now that your carnal urges have been sated,” she continues relentlessly. “Perhaps now we can proceed towards the crèche with your eyes focused on our enemies and not on your companion.”

Church stares at her.

“Right. Um. So… are we… good?” he asks quietly. 

“Are we… ‘good?’” Lae’zel repeats, raising an eyebrow. 

“I mean, you were with Astarion before, so…”

“You speak as if I lay claim to his body,” she says, amused. “I do not any more than he has any claim to me. However, the elf is quite skilled with his hands and tongue,” she gestures back at the tiefling. “You have been tense and unfocused. I could see the benefit of…”

“Alright, alright,” Church interrupts, shushing her with a grimace. 

“Do not tell me he was… inadequate for your needs?” Lae’zel tilts her head. 

“That’s… really none of your business,” Church says stiffly. “And at any rate, I don’t like the way you’re talking about him. He’s a friend, not a… tool.”

Lae’zel regards him thoughtfully, eyes flicking to somewhere over his shoulder. “…Curious.”

“What?” Church frowns, lowering his cup. “Look, I think we’re done here.”

He takes a deep drink of coffee as he turns away. 

He chokes. 

“Why hello, beautiful,” Astarion drawls, blinking back at him lazily.  

Church feels his face heat in an instant. 

“I just wanted to stop by and remind you of that wretched book we picked up from the village last week,” the rogue continues conversationally. “You know, the…”

“…one bound in human skin?” Church wipes his mouth as he watches Lae’zel wordlessly depart for her tent. “‘The Necromancy of Thay?’”

“That’s the one,” Astarion says brightly as he approaches the tiefling. “Well, we couldn’t open it at the time, could we? But, according to all those journals and notes we found — and that telltale gaping mouth —” 

Church blushes deeper. 

“— of the cover, I believe you may have picked up the key a few days ago: that dark amethyst in that wretched cave, with the spiders?”

“How could I forget?” Church says blandly. 

“You… do still have it, right?” Astarion asks condescendingly. “You didn’t sell it to that hobgoblin or anything?”

“Yes of course I still have it,” Church sighs. “What, do you want to try this… now?”

“What better time?” Astarion smiles brightly. “Perhaps there’s something in this that can help us take down the goblin leaders? What’s a little necromancy between friends?”

“Right, and… I suppose you want to take a look for yourself?” Church asks dryly. 

“Why, yes,” Astarion says emphatically. “If there’s anything in there that can help protect me — all of us from Cazador, it’ll be in there.” 

He looks meaningfully, deeply into the tiefling’s wary eyes. “You saw a bit of what he was like. I told you some stories. This could give us the edge.” 

“…and I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

With a jolt, Church realizes that Astarion never said the last part out loud. He whispered it in his mind through the parasite, riding a dull throb of a headache. 

As if it wasn’t bad enough having the vampire spawn sowing doubts in his ear, now he’s trying to push his way into his brain…

“Don’t do that,” Church snaps aloud, firmly. 

Astarion frowns, taken aback. “What?”

“Don’t just… talk into my brain without warning,” the tiefling glares at him. “Just because of… last night… that doesn’t mean the other boundaries don’t exist, alright?”

“But I didn’t — what? I did no such thing!” Astarion protests, and for once Church sees him look genuinely startled and confused by the tiefling’s vehemence. “Anyway, I suppose that’s a ‘no.’ I’ll be out of your hair, then.”

He strolls away without so much as a reproachful glance, and Church feels a pang of regret twist inside of him. 

—

Shadowheart briefs Church on what she discovered in the Goblin Camp’s temple the other day. They’ve been keeping a bear in their worg pens, and the adventurers have certainly heard about Halsin’s apparent affinity for bears…

“We can’t waste anymore time,” Church says grimly. “We’ve got to get him out of there, before they get tired of roast dwarf and start getting a hankering for bear.”

“Are we going in loud?” Karlach pipes up, excitedly. 

“No,” Shadowheart replies firmly. “We go in, get Halsin out, and continue gathering any intel we can get about these parasites, ‘Moonrise Towers,’ and this Absolute’s cult.”

“…sounds boring,” Karlach mutters. 

“It’s safer,” Church insists. “We don’t know what state Halsin is in by now, and I don’t want to bring the whole camp down on us before we get a chance to save him.”

But of course, it’s not nearly that straightforward. As soon as the party enters the goblin camp, Church’s attention is drawn elsewhere. He grabs hold of Shadowheart’s arm, gesturing towards the side of the courtyard. 

“Is that the… owlbear cub?” he whispers to her. “What’s he doing here?”

The cleric frowns worriedly. “Where’s his mother?”

“No way she would have let him go without a fight,” Church mutters back. “Alright. A brief detour, everyone?” he calls over to Astarion and Karlach. 

And, of course, after the warlock persuades the goblin Krolla to release the owlbear cub, the party receives yet another curveball. 

“True Souls!” Minthara thunders into their minds, just as they begin to approach the section of the temple where the worg pens are located. “You have returned just in time. Join me in my office.”

It’s not a request. 

—

Minthara is a striking drow with piercing eyes and a commanding voice. Under any other circumstances, Church would have been enraptured. But from the moment they first met, he finally understood what Tavi meant by needing to infiltrate the cult by using their parasites’ powers.

Church had barely made it out of that first meeting without betraying the grove. He quickly realized it was not enough to use his words laced with fey charm. He needed to convince his own brain to project a lie as truth — even just for a minute. The safety of the grove depended upon it.

The tiefling at least managed to misdirect Minthara to another part of the map safely away from that area, happily being the target of her ire and ridicule for the sake of exiting the conversation. At the very least, Shadowheart’s subsequent conversation with the drow managed to extract the name ‘Moonrise Towers’ and the barest hints to its importance.

From then onwards, it was universally decided that with her trained mind of steel, Shadowheart would be the primary person to speak to the drow. Minthara at least seems to be far more receptive to the cool-headed cleric and her chilly Sharran demeanor.

But this second meeting has a far different energy than the first. Rather than the air being rife with frustration, Minthara is practically trembling with excitement.

“Ah, the True Souls,” the drow greets them with gravitas. “I have most fortuitous news!”

She’s… smiling. Church immediately knows this doesn’t bode well. 

“This scouting party has just located the Emerald Grove,” Minthara explains, eyes alight with eagerness. “Our forces are ready — it is at last time to move in!”

She gestures down to the map splayed out upon the table, gazing up at Shadowheart with bloodthirsty zeal. “I am about to send out the order — we move out tonight, when those druids sleep and their guards are slow.”

Church feels a flare of heat behind him, and he doesn’t have to look at Karlach to know that she feels the same way as him. Screw gathering intel — they need to act now. 

So much for the plan. 

Church isn’t sure he can broadcast over the tadpoles without alerting Minthara, but from the subtle movements of his companions… he reckons he doesn’t need to. 

“Excellent,” Shadowheart responds on their behalf, haughtily. “But before you give the order, tell me more of this plan.”

As the two of them bend over to study the map and talk strategy, Church steps back, surveying the room as he gathers the Weave at his fingertips. 

A scrying eye. 

The scouts, looking quite pleased with themselves. 

A couple more goblins standing guard nearby. 

The drow. 

A war drum. 

“…and are these the scouts who discovered the grove?” Shadowheart asks, loudly. “All of them?”

“Ah — yeah, True Soul!” one of the scouts pipes up, proudly. “Silent as stink! Tailed a tiefling all the way to the gates. I’ve got me whole crew here!”

“Very good,” Shadowheart says lightly. “Then I think we are ready to move in, yes?” She glances up at Church — pointedly. 

The warlock gives her a curt nod, and several things happen at once. 

His eldritch blast hits twice — knocking the scrying eye out of the air and sending it plummeting down the chasm, while the other blast destroys the war drum, sending splinters flying at the yelping goblins nearby. 

Astarion — who Church hadn’t even realized had disappeared — reappears instantaneously in the shadows behind Minthara, slashing her jugular with a flash of dagger and a sharp-fanged grin. 

With a growl, Karlach grabs hold of a goblin and chucks him at another one — sending them both plummeting into the chasm. 

Shadowheart casts a sigil onto the ground beneath the remaining goblins, electrocuting them into silent screams as Karlach barrels towards them, greataxe swinging. 

After Astarion’s attack, Minthara lets out a snarl, blue light shimmering upon her spurting neck as her wound seals itself. She swings her mace, sending Shadowheart back stumbling while Astarion dodges backwards, eyes shining in deadly glee. 

For a moment, Church locks eyes with the drow. 

“The darkness will take you, ibilith!” Minthara’s mind roars into his own. 

“It already has,” Church thinks calmly back, feeling his mother’s shadows tunnel his vision as he casts Bone Chill upon the True Soul. 

The fight ends quickly after that. 

—

“I hope that scout was telling the truth, about that being all of them who knew,” Karlach says worriedly. “Otherwise… this is going to get messy.”

“At the very least we’ve stalled the attack another day,” Church sighs. “Thank the gods she even reached out to us, really. A minute later, and…”

“Less talking,” Shadowheart hisses. “Destroy the evidence — the map — quickly!”

Soon, thanks to Karlach, the map where the grove is marked is nothing but ashes. However, Church does pocket another map that seems to show some troop movements around the surrounding areas — including Moonrise Towers. 

They loot Minthara’s belongings as well, including her elegant spider silk armor. Astarion studies it with gleaming eyes. 

“All yours,” Church mutters as he hands him a pauldron. 

“Why, so generous,” the elf replies coolly. “If only you were so willing to — watch out!”

He yelps this just as a parasite squirms its way out of the dead drow’s eye, chittering and skittering up Church’s arm. 

“Shit shit SHIT!” the warlock hisses, slapping at the zooming tadpole as he panics. 

But in a split-second, Astarion’s gloved hand smacks against the tiefling’s cheek — pinning down the tadpole squirming uncomfortably against the tiefling’s skin. 

“Gods get it off — just get it off!” Church begs, and Astarion coolly pulls the tadpole away. He watches in fascination as it wriggles between his fingers. 

“Eughh,” he grimaces. “It’s still warm.”

“Hang on, I’ve got another vial,” Church mutters, composing himself as he searches for a container. The tiefling then watches warily as the elf examines the tadpole far too closely. “…unless you plan to use it right now?”

Astarion hesitates.

But then he reaches out and drops the tadpole into the vial, clearing his throat as the warlock seals it. 

“Not while it’s so fresh, I think.” 

Church smiles shakily at him, unable to hide his relief. 

Karlach clears her throat. “So… what do we do with her? Throw her in the pit?”

“No,” Church says quietly. “Leaving her will be a message that will bring their morale down. But we’ll need to make sure to move fast after that.”

Shadowheart hums, thoughtfully. “We still have a few goblins at our disposal. I could stage this as a mutinous assassination?” She shrugs at Karlach and Church’s wary looks. “It wouldn’t be my first time.”

Astarion titters delightedly. “I like it — let’s sow some distrust within the ranks. They won’t be able to sleep after this.”

—

Fortunately, Minthara’s office is in a relatively isolated part of the temple. It is easy to sneak from her room to the prison where, sure enough, there’s a cave bear — and a battle.

Two worgs and a handful of guards later, the cave bear collapses to the ground in a burst of warm light, and in its place rises an enormous, bruised and bloodied elf — gazing down at the gawking adventurers with weary eyes as he favors his leg, wincing.

“Pardon the viscera,” he chuckles wryly. “One should cherise all of nature’s bounty… but goblin guts are quite far down the list.” 

He considers the tiefling before him. “You aided a bear without knowing it would savage you? A true friend of nature — or perhaps a lunatic. Either way, I owe thanks. I am the druid Halsin.”

“Halsin,” Church finds himself grinning in relief. “I am… so sorry for the wait.” He shakes himself, frowning. “The Emerald Grove — I’m sorry, but it’s in danger.”

Halsin closes his eyes as he nods, solemnly. “I am aware. I foolishly left it vulnerable to this rabble. There’s work to be done.”

He catches himself, studying the tiefling with dawning dismay. 

“...hrrm. That look in your eyes — I’ve seen it before. Are you feeling all right?” The druid reaches to cup Church’s cheek, and the warlock closes his eyes against the leafy, golden glow that emanates from the warm, calloused touch of his massive hand. 

But in an instant, Halsin withdraws his hand as if burned, his eyes round and sympathetic. 

“Oak Father preserve you, child… you’re infected, aren’t you? The mind flayers’ spawn? But…” he frowns, “something’s different. You’re aware of the monster inside you. You don’t bow to the Absolute, like the True Souls do… how is this possible?”

Church exchanges a wary look with Shadowheart before retrieving the artefact from his pocket, holding it up to the druid. “I think this has something to do with it.”

“Hmm… that looks very alien,” Halsin frowns in consternation. “As alien as the mind flayers. They do not belong to this world.” 

The druid appraises the bloodied party. “It’s no coincidence that you found me here, I’ll wager? You’re after a cure for this parasite.” 

“Yes,” Church says softly. “We saw some of your notes in the grove. What else have you learned since?”

Halsin nods. “I’ve been studying these parasites for a while now — ever since I discovered these so-called True Souls are infected with them. Someone is using very powerful magic to modify these tadpoles. They are using them to exert control over the infected.”

He looks back at Church, regretfully. 

“I’m sorry to say, but I can’t undo that magic, which means I can’t cure you. But… that doesn’t mean I can’t help.

“I didn’t find what I came for — a way to remove the tadpoles — but I found the next best thing,” he winces, shifting his weight off of his injured leg. “I found out where they come from. That must be where these enchantments are placed on them, and it’s where you’ll find your cure.”

“Moonrise Towers,” Church mutters.

“So you know,” Halsin nods grimly. “I overheard that the cultists are sending all of their captives there. Innocents go in, True Souls come out. Given that all of these True Souls are infected, it has to be the source of this magic. If you want to find a cure, you must head there and discover how the tadpoles are being manipulated.”

“That’s the plan,” Church glances over at Shadowheart. “But until then — Halsin, we need to get you out of here.”

The druid grimaces. “I wish I could, but there’s still work I’ve yet to finish — blood I’ve yet to spill.” He looks to Church, beseechingly. “I’ve no right to ask more of you… but if you could help me, I’d be free to join your journey to Moonrise. I cannot allow these butchers to threaten my grove. The natural order must be protected. If you prevail, I’ll owe you the debt of a lifetime.”

“What do you need?” Shadowheart asks warily. 

“Rare is the beast that survives decapitation,” Halsin says ruefully. “Help me eliminate the drow Minthara, the hobgoblin Dror Ragzlin, and that perversion of a priestess, Gut. They are the ones holding these parasites together. Remove them, and nature will cure itself.”

“Well… one down, two to go,” Astarion mutters to Karlach.

“Seems that we’re already on the same page,” Church smiles tightly at Halsin. “We’ll deal with them. In the meantime, you get to safety.”

“There is no safety — not while this rot festers,” Halsin protests. “Once it is cut out — once the grove is secure — then I shall leave.”

“Halsin,” Church says firmly. “You’re in a state. You’re too important to the grove, and I cannot in good conscience let you fight with us. Go back to the grove — whatever happens, your people need you.”

The panting druid looks conflicted as his pained, bright eyes flicker across their faces. 

“We can get you out of here,” Karlach says, still burning fiercely after the battle. “And we’ll take down the goblin leaders. They won’t see us coming.”

“You swear?” Halsin implores them. 

“They’re my people, too,” Church smiles softly. “I made a promise not just to defeat the goblin leaders, but also to rescue you. Please don’t let me fail them.”

The druid’s shoulders sag as he relents, nodding reluctantly. 

“Here,” Shadowheart offers. “I can help with the worst of your injuries.” Her hands glow blue as the deeper lacerations begin to seal upon Halsin’s skin. “Enough to get you moving.”

“And how do you propose we smuggle out a massive elf?” Astarion asks them all, aghast. 

“There was a cave that the prisoner — Liam — fled through,” Church ponders. “And… shit, I’m out of invisibility potions… but perhaps I can distract that entire side enough?”

“You’re hardly one for song and dance, darling,” Astarion sighs. “Look… ugh.”  

The elf reluctantly pulls off his glove, revealing a familiar ring with a bejeweled, star upon it. 

“Hey, didn’t you pull that from one of the dead gnomes?” Karlach asks, raising an eyebrow. “What was it?”

“It can make you invisible,” Astarion sighs. “Go on, take it.”

He drops the ring into Church’s outstretched hand, the tiefling blinking at him in surprise. 

“Thank you,” the warlock breathes, before turning back to a bemused Halsin. “Alright. Wear this ring and…”

“…twist the star,” Astarion mutters from behind him. 

“…twist the star to go invisible,” Church continues, shooting a quick smile at the rogue. “We’ll escort you to that cave. Honestly, I don’t know what awaits you in there, but I know that Liam made it back to the grove in one piece… so it can’t be that bad.”

Halsin looks conflicted.

“We’ll do as you ask,” Church reassures him softly as he presses the ring into the druid’s bloodied hand. “Your people want you back safe more than anything. We made a promise.”

Halsin sighs, slipping the ring onto his pinky finger. It doesn’t budge past the first joint, but it’s enough. “Very well, then. Focus on the leaders — that’s all it will take to restore the balance here.”

Church jumps and flushes a little as the elf places a large, warm hand upon his shoulder. The tiefling gawks up at him. 

He is… very big, isn’t he?

“Thank you,” Halsin intones, giving the tiefling a gentle smile once more. “May Silvanus guide your hand.”

—

The plan is for the party to camp with the goblins — or nearby enough, anyways. The goblin camp is restless with suspicion and on high alert, and thanks especially to Church’s fey charm, nothing helps them feel safer than having four more ‘True Souls’ close by. The other adventurers back at their forest camp will be approaching through the front of the temple grounds the next morning, keeping the goblins occupied while Church’s group clears out the rest of the temple. 

They keep themselves sectioned off in the temple’s crypt, hopefully out of reach of any curious goblins. Tonight is yet another celebration — allegedly a “wake” for Minthara. The hope is that many of the goblins and bugbears will be too hungover to be much of a challenge the following day. 

If all goes well, the party will take out Priestess Gut and Dror Ragzlin in the morning. Astarion proposes that they assassinate the priestess in the privacy of her chambers. They’ll be unlikely to get Dror Ragzlin on his own, however. He holds court in that chamber of his like a lord. On top of that, after Church used his tadpole to influence the True Soul’s mind to keep the mind flayer corpse from revealing their identities, the hobgoblin is already less than friendly to the adventurers. 

They’ll save him for last.

It’s an ambitious plan, the culmination of which will in all likelihood result in the party having to fight their way out of the camp. As far as plans go, it will be bloody and brazen.

And speaking of bloody and brazen…

That evening, Church approaches Astarion as they make camp inside of their section of the temple. 

“Hey,” he greets the elf gently. 

“Ah, my favorite traveling companion,” the elf acknowledges him indulgently. “Need something?”

“I just wanted to thank you,” Church says quietly. “For giving your ring to Halsin, I mean.”

“Well I certainly hope I didn’t give him that ring,” Astarion says peevishly. “I let him borrow it. I fully hope he’ll give it back — I’m not ready for that type of commitment to an elf I just met, after all.”

“…right,” Church chuckles nervously. “Anyway. I’ve been thinking and… yeah. Once we get back to our base camp, let’s see about putting that amethyst into the Necromancy of Thay, alright?”

Astarion smiles at him, warmly. 

“Wonderful, I knew you’d come around,” he gushes. 

“I wasn’t averse to it,” Church says reproachfully. “I just didn’t like you reaching into my head without warning.”

“Again, that wasn’t intentional,” Astarion protests. “If anything, you were reaching into my head.”

“Then… just know — I don’t want you to be afraid either,” Church says earnestly. 

“Quiet,” the elf snaps. “Not so loud.”

“I… wasn’t trying to be,” Church mumbles. “Sorry, but I stand by it. Whether it’s the book, or… the parasite. Whatever helps you feel safe, I’ll support you.

“And this isn’t about last night,” he adds quickly. “This isn’t a reward or… token, or whatever. You’re… my companion. I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”

“What more could I ask?” Astarion says lightly. “Now, lest we begin to receive some unwelcome goblin guests…” he leans closer to the tiefling. “Care to… get away?”

Church blinks in surprise. “Oh. Uh — what do you have in mind?”

Astarion smirks. “What else, darling?”

Church glances dubiously around the camp. “Perhaps my question should have been where you have in mind?” he says apprehensively. “We’re inside a crypt, after all.”

“I can be quiet,” Astarion murmurs as Church’s heart begins to race. “…but can you?”

—

As it turns out, Church can be quiet — it just gets increasingly, incredibly difficult when the elf’s mouth is relentless upon him.

“Oh… gods…” the tiefling shudders, his knees nearly giving out from beneath him as Astarion’s tongue again swirls around his head. 

The warlock stands leaning back against a sarcophagus, clinging to its edge for purchase. The rogue kneels before him, one of his hands kneading at the tiefling’s ass while the other fondles his balls, stroking and slipping them through clever, tantalizing fingers. With a moan, Astarion pulls himself off to run his tongue from the tiefling’s base to tip before swallowing him whole once more, bobbing and tasting him voraciously. Church gasps desperately, his hips twitching against the elf’s tongue as it drags searing pleasure over his skin.

“Shh,” Astarion slips off to hush him with a quiet chuckle. “You’ll wake our friend here.”

Church glances uneasily back at the sarcophagus before he shivers, thrusting as his companion extracts a sudden whimper from the tiefling’s throat. 

“Oh—fffu—!”

He clamps his hand over his mouth as his hip twitches and his stifled, desperate moans echo within the chamber. With a final, muffled shout, he sags against the sarcophagus — startling as his weight shifts the lid ever so slightly. 

Astarion licks him up and swallows with a soft moan, smacking his lips as he stands up. He smirks at Church’s panting bliss. 

“Delicious,” the elf purrs, pressing a perfunctory kiss to the tiefling’s mouth. Church tastes himself, bitter and tangy, before Astarion pulls away, stretching himself languidly. 

“Fuck,” Church gasps, slumping back against the sarcophagus. “How the hells are you real?” 

…and why me? he adds internally to himself. 

“Never say I’m not generous,” Astarion replies lightly. He swoops in for another kiss. “Now, shall we head back?”

Church is surprised, having been perfectly ready to return the favor. Astarion had been the one to proposition him, after all. Surely he wants more for himself?

The warlock hums and crowds the rogue back against the sarcophagus, yellow eyes bright and smiling in the darkness. “Hang on,” the tiefling chides him. “Did you think me a selfish lover?”

“Pleasuring you is a pleasure in itself, darling,” Astarion says blithely. He doesn’t push Church away as the tiefling presses another trail of kisses from his lips and down the cool, soft skin of his neck. 

But he doesn’t do anything else either. 

Astarion leans there, arms tense as they cling to the sarcophagus lid. Church moans softly against his neck as he slips his hand against the elf’s stiffened front —

— but then the tiefling stops, looking up at the elf in concern. 

“…Astarion?” he asks, softly. 

“Hmm why’d you stop?” the elf whines needily, but the lustful timbre of his voice simply doesn’t meet his flat, distant eyes. Church frowns. Astarion’s body feels so tense. He is… trembling, and not from need. 

He is trembling from fear. 

“You… don’t want this,” Church says in sheepish realization, swiftly withdrawing his hand. “Shit, sorry. I should’ve…”

But Astarion levels his gaze at Church as the elf impatiently reaches down for his own trousers, undoing his fly. 

“You can hardly get to the goods if you don’t unwrap them,” he chides the tiefling. 

“Wait, no — stop,” Church grasps Astarion’s hand and pulls it up between them, searching the rogue’s impatient face. “Let’s just… go back to camp, alright?”

The tiefling holds the elf’s hand within both of his, pressing his warmth into him. Astarion’s hand is colder than usual in Church’s grasp, and as he looks up into the elf’s eyes, the tiefling gently begins to stroke his hand with his thumb. 

“What are you doing?” Astarion snaps, yanking it back from him. 

Church blinks, blushing in embarrassment as he looks away. “Sorry. Thought it would help.”

Astarion frowns, his hand flexing uncertainly at his side. 

“Listen — we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Church explains, quickly. “Especially when it comes to… the two of us.”

Us. Church cringes into the tense silence as he secures his own fly. Are they an… us?

“It’s your loss, I suppose,” is Astarion’s nonchalant reply. 

Neither of them move from where they stand, leaning against the sarcophagus. 

“What do you think is waiting for us at Moonrise Towers?” Church asks his companion, quietly.

Astarion sniffs. “Who knows? Drow? Mind flayers? Death? Hopefully not ours.” He shrugs. “But maybe answers, if we can convince the right people to talk.”

“I could always use more answers,” Church mutters, straightening his clothes from the elf’s thorough pawing. “At least Halsin seemed to suss out far more than anyone else, but we’re no closer to a cure.”

“That’s fine by me,” Astarion says blithely. “Oh come now,” he rolls his eyes at Church’s dubious expression. “Think of how many times that tadpole of yours has wriggled us out of trouble over the past few weeks? That authority has saved lives — not just yours, or mine, but of those precious gnomes and refugees of yours too.

“And in case you’ve forgotten, it’s the one thing standing between me and Cazador, and all of the accursed ‘gifts’ of being a spawn.” He laughs, scornfully. “And you want to get rid of it?”

“I… hear you,” Church sighs. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten, it’s just… so long as it’s inside our brains, we’re at the whims of its nature and whoever is controlling the other True Souls,” he looks pointedly at the vampire spawn. “Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of little voices controlling my body for a lifetime.”

“Correct — you don’t know me,” Astarion retorts. “Better this ‘Absolute’ than… him.” 

A tense silence follows the vampire spawn’s words. 

“Well, darling,” Astarion throws on a cavalier smile. “Shall we return before the others get suspicious?” 

“I think that ship has sailed,” Church mutters. “But, uh. Astarion?”

“Yes, darling?”

The tiefling hesitates before pressing a small kiss to the elf’s cheek — so brief and fleeting that Astarion scarcely has time to blink. 

“Be careful tomorrow, alright?” Church murmurs sheepishly. “But just know — I’ve got your back.”

The tiefling yelps and blushes as the elf’s hand suddenly grabs a handful of his ass, squeezing affectionately. 

“…as do I, darling,” Astarion purrs. He yanks the tiefling back into him for an insistent kiss. Church melts into it at once with a soft moan, wrapping his arms around the elf and pulling him close. 

He still has no idea what this is or how it happened, but, ehh…

…why the hells not?

Chapter Text

“…Church? Are you still with me?”

The warlock startles, focusing back upon Tavi’s concerned face. 

“Sorry,” Church mutters, one hand reaching up to wipe at his face. Tavi holds the other, his gauntlet absent as he strokes his warm thumb over the tiefling’s dusky skin. “Got distracted. What were you saying?”

Tavi sighs. He’s armored once again — a formidable and striking image against the vast expanse of the starry Astral Plane behind him. He looks worse for wear, and Church finds that worrying. Whatever conflict his friend is wrapped up in, it must be taking its toll on him…

“I was telling you what I know about your parasites, and how they’re different from anything we’ve encountered before,” Tavi says patiently. 

“…right,” Church nods, massaging at a pain throbbing at the side of his head. “Sorry. Must have gotten distracted. Mind repeating what you said?” 

Tavi cracks a fond smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get too far in before you drifted off.”

His hand squeezes the tiefling’s. 

“So, as I was just saying — your parasite is… unusual. As you felt with Omeluum’s little experiment, it’s wrapped in magic that prevents its removal. Until the source of the tadpole’s magic is destroyed, any attempt to remove it will kill you.”

“To what end?” Church asks, trying not to get distracted by the steady motion of his friend’s thumb. Gods, if only Tavi wasn’t in full armor… 

Now that Church has been so thoroughly reminded of what it feels like to be physical with someone, just seeing Tavi again reminds him how much he still misses the sensation of his friend’s warm, reassuringly solid form against his…

Tavi answers him solemnly. “As a whole, these parasites are more than illithid spawn — they’re vessels for control. The infected hear the voice of the Absolute, and believe it to be a god. That’s how the cult of the Absolute is spreading.

“And the highest of their rank — the True Souls — carry a tadpole just like yours. It is how they receive their orders. It is what makes them obey.”

“And that’s why everyone thinks we’re one of them,” Church nods. “Lucky us.”

“Lucky you in many ways,” Tavi nods, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. “You have me.” He chuckles fondly. “It’s fortuitous that despite falling into the hands of that Sharran cleric, I found you, of all people.” His expression falls grim. “But if it weren’t for my protection, you’d face the same fate as these True Souls. 

“When the order to transform is given, it will not be a matter of days — they will be mind flayers in an instant.” 

He shakes his head, frowning to himself. “And the parasites are merely a symptom of a greater sickness in Faerûn.”

“So to remove it, we need to destroy its source of magic. Got it,” Church says. “So… how do we go about doing that, exactly?” 

“I’m… not sure, yet,” Tavi admits with a scowl. “To find the answers, we must first find the source.”

“From talking to Minthara, Nere, and now Halsin, we know that the orders are coming from Moonrise Towers,” Church says. “All our roads point there, now.”

“Yes — and so that’s where you must go,” Tavi nods. “And when you do, know that those cultists will be stronger, and they will test you — as Minthara did — through your parasites. You must convince them you are one of them.”

“Well, we got another one of those parasites,” the tiefling smiles wryly. “I can guess what you have to say about that.”

Tavi sighs. 

“I know you think you don’t need it,” he says, gently. “I know you’re desperate to be rid of it. I understand. But things haven’t gone as you expected, have they? Despite all his research, Halsin doesn’t have the means to cure you either. 

“But his instincts were right, and he confirmed what we have already suspected about Moonrise Towers. Follow the cultists’ trail, and they will lead you to their masters and, hopefully, the source.”

Church nods, studying his friend with concern. 

“Tav, hells… are you alright?” he asks softly, squeezing his hand. “You look exhausted.”

“Don’t worry — I have things under control. For now.” Tavi grimaces. “As I told you, I’ve been protecting you from the Absolute. It hadn’t been easy.”

He sighs wearily. “I could use your help, if I’m honest. The closer you get to the source, the stronger the enemy will become, and the harder it is for me to stop them from changing you.”

“Of course,” Church says hurriedly. “Tell me what I can do.”

Tavi huffs a laugh, squeezing his hand back. “That’s the thing, Church. I already have.”

Church blinks at him, before looking away with a soft scoff. “Right. The tadpoles.”

Tavi reaches and gently turns the tiefling back to face him. 

“Don’t forget that I want to be free of this too, Church,” he says softly, “and we are so close.” He looks back out towards the shattered horizon. “I’ve been trying to escape from this evil for a long time now. Once, I almost succeeded.” 

He smiles shakily, idly stroking his friend’s cheek. “Now, through you, I’ve been given a new chance. You can go where I cannot. And I can protect you from that evil, no matter how many parasites and their powers you use.” He gazes meaningfully at the warlock. “If we work together, we may turn this around.”

“…if I consume another parasite,” Church finishes for him sardonically. 

“I’m not going to force you to do anything that you don’t want to,” Tavi says softly. “I… I can do my best to protect you all, and it should be enough…”

But he looks doubtful… and tired. Church feels a pang of guilt rattle inside of him even as he shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry Tav, but… I just can’t do it. There… has to be a different way. I can try harder to reconnect with my mother, or we can see what we can do to take down the cult from the outside, or…”

Tavi’s hand is tight upon Church’s, his gaze penetrating. “Church. I know that you’ve been holding onto those parasite specimens for a reason, and I doubt it’s out of sheer curiosity. Why have you kept them close, if you’re so set on not using them?”

Church stays silent at that, even as he leans his face away from his friend’s gentle touch. 

“I need you to trust me,” Tavi pleads in a broken voice. “I’ve protected you from transforming, and I swear, I will keep doing that.”

“Tav,” Church says shortly. “I said no.”

He regards his friend warily. “You know who you’re reminding me of?”

Tavi frowns. “Who?”

Church smiles ruefully. “My mother. You haven’t been telling me everything, Tav. I don’t need magic or a parasite to know that. I just… know you. And this?” He gestures at his friend, pulling his hand away from his grasp. “This isn’t you.”

Tavi’s face grows hard as he huffs, looking resentfully towards the unstable shield around the distant skull.

“I can’t pretend to be the Tavi you knew seven years ago,” he concedes quietly. “I’m not the same idealistic paladin who thought he could talk his way out of an archdevil’s pact. I’ve survived these years because yes, I’ve changed. Don’t act like you haven’t too.”

He spits the last part bitterly, but his face instantly clouds in regret. 

“I’m trying my best, Church,” he says defeatedly. “But I feel so… helpless when I can only do so much from here.” He sighs. “The tadpole is the best way I can be sure you and your companions are protected. Those powers can be used to defend against the other True Souls who will have already embraced them.

“If not you, then let your willing companions take them,” he suggests. “It’s not fair of you to decide for them… no matter how close you become.”

A strange look flickers across his face as he adds the last part, glancing away from the warlock. He frowns as thunder rolls somewhere in the distance. 

“Tav…?” Church feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Was… was that about Astarion?”

Tavi makes a frustrated noise as he stands up, turning away from the tiefling to scan the horizon.  

“Shit, Tav,” Church mutters as he pushes himself to his feet. “This thing with Astarion... I don’t know, it’s just an outlet for both of us. It’s not like…”

“You’re not focused, Church,” Tav snaps, and the warlock falls silent, taken aback by the shift in tone. “We have bigger problems at hand.”

Church’s head throbs once more, and for a moment his vision tunnels before sharpening again. “What…?” he shudders. “What’s going on?” 

“Do you even remember how you got here, Church?” Tav asks, pacing agitatedly. “Do you remember what you were doing before you woke up in this plane?”

“I was…” Church feels a chill settle into his bones. “I don’t…”

“You’re feeling pain,” Tavi says, observing him worriedly. “It’s faint, but you know it’s there — all over your body, but especially in your head.”

“Am I transforming?” the tiefling asks fearfully. 

“No,” Tavi sighs. “I promise you — that is the one thing I can for certain protect you from. But when it comes to other ways that you can be harmed? I can only do so much. It’s why I keep telling you about the tadpole. The powers it provides can be life saving.” He looks regretfully at his friend. “It could have saved you.”

Church feels his chest tighten as his thoughts race incomprehensibly. “What?”

“I’ve done everything I can,” Tavi says, resigned. “Now, you need to remember how you got here, otherwise your mind won’t find its way back.”

Church winces as another headache rushes into his skull. 

If he’s honest, the last thing he remembers is walking back to camp after that furtive tryst with Astarion. The warlock had felt embarrassed and confused… but admittedly somewhat gratified and hopeful to have received any attention at all. 

“Focus,” Tavi beseeches him, and suddenly he’s cradling the tiefling’s face in both hands. “I’m sorry, Church. I’ll try to help you remember, but we don’t have much time before you’re lost for good.”

They were going to wake up early to assassinate the goblin leaders. Church had reminded them all to dip their weapons in the wyvern toxin Nettie had given them…

Wait. Didn’t he tell his companions that before they entered Gut’s chambers?

They had killed her in mere seconds. 

So what happened after…?

It all comes back to Church at once, and he looks back at Tavi in dawning horror. “Oh, shit — I…”

Drog Razlin grasped the tiefling by the neck, cutting him off mid-incantation as he clawed and struggled against the hobgoblin’s crushing grip. 

“You are a mistake!” he roared, foul spittle flying into Church’s gasping face. 

The last thing the tiefling recalls is the wind rushing past his ears as he flew backwards, the sounds of battle growing distant along with the light of the room’s braziers. 

And then he was falling, yet again.

And then all he knew was darkness. 

Church blinks in shock. “I… fell. Shit.”

He frantically latches onto Tavi’s arm. 

“What’s going on back there?” Church beseeches him. “What happened to my body?”

“Your body is likely broken upon some rocks underneath the temple,” Tavi sighs frustratedly. “Your life is hanging by a thread. The only reason why you’re not gone for good is because I’m doing everything in my power to keep your mind alive here.”

He releases Church’s face, kneading at his own brow. “Just… what were you even thinking?” 

“I… I don’t know,” Church says lamely. “Shadowheart was prone on the ground. He was about to finish her off. I stopped him, or… I tried.”

“You threw yourself recklessly between the hobgoblin and your companion, and he cast you into the depths,” Tavi says angrily. “You don’t have your mother at your whims anymore, Church — ready to shield you every time you do something heroic but stupid…”

“She was our healer, and she was going to die!” Church retorts. “I… look, I could have blasted him if I had more time, but I just… didn’t think.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tavi says flatly. He groans, wiping at his face. “I’m trying my best, Church,” he says wearily. “But I feel so… helpless when I can only do so much from here.”

“And how would the tadpole have helped me then?” Church scoffs. “Could it have flown me out of the chasm?”

Tavi throws his hands in the air as he looks at him, exasperated. “Yes.”

Church blinks. “…oh.”

“And it’s not just that,” Tavi gestures, helplessly. “You could psionically retaliate against anyone who targets you with a spell. You could charge through enemies, creating a tunnel that forces them away without even having to touch them. In a pinch, you could even heal a companion using your own life force. 

“You finally can be the hero you always wanted to be,” he says, softly. “You can save Shadowheart, Karlach, Astarion…

“You can be strong enough, fast enough to save them all. Most importantly to me…” he lays his hand upon Church’s chest, gazing tenderly down at the tiefling’s face, “…you can save yourself.”

Church blinks up at him, his mouth dry and his heart racing at his touch. 

“Well,” the tiefling chuckles bitterly. “It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Tavi insists. “I’m doing everything I can to stabilize you until your companions can revive you.”

Another thunderous explosion echoes closer by, and Tavi whips around in an instant, scanning the horizon. “No… not now…!”

“Tav, what the hells is even going— ahgh!” Church cries out as another, more painful headache sends him collapsing down to all fours. “Fuck… what’s happening?”

“Damn it, we’re out of time. Church, listen,” Tavi says, urgently. “You’re right. I haven’t been forthcoming with you. The power I’ve been using to protect you — I stole it from someone, and they want it back. 

“I will hold them off for as long as I can, but sooner or later I will be worn down. You must discover the source of the magic that controls the parasites before that happens.”

“Tav!” Church groans against the pain, reaching for his friend. His vision tunnels as he feels Tavi’s embrace once more. Church clings to him as another blinding wave of pain burns through his whole body. 

“Whatever happens, whatever you do out there… I won’t stop fighting to protect you,” Tavi reassures him fiercely. “I won’t let you die on me. Not like this. But that means you need to wake—!”

—

“—up, goddamn you!”

That familiar, anguished voice is muffled in Church’s ear. “You’re not allowed to die, you stupid boy…!”

“Church!” sobs another one from further away. 

“Neither of you are helping — get out of the way!” snaps yet another. 

Church’s lungs fill with a harsh, rattling breath of air as his eyes fly open, vision swimming with pain. The adrenaline and hacking cough that follows sends him shooting up to a seat, before groaning and collapsing back to his side. A pair of wiry arms catch him with a startled noise. 

The first thing he focuses on are blood red eyes, wild with panic. 

“…oh…shit…” Church wheezes out of freshly-sealed lungs.

“Oh, fuck you,” Astarion seethes, even as his eyes soften in relief. 

“Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired,” Shadowheart says dryly as she snaps for the warlock’s attention. “Look at me,” she commands him. “What’s your name?”

“…Church…?” the tiefling ventures, still disoriented but hyper-aware of the arms tight around him. He’s tempted to remain limp just to keep them there…

“And where are you now, Church?”

“…not in a chasm, somehow,” the warlock mutters. 

“You have me to thank for that,” Astarion snips at him. “Don’t ever do that again.”

The rogue holds up a smoldering scroll in front of the tiefling’s dazed eyes with an accusatory glare. “We just had to use one of these. Do you even know how hard these are to come by?”

Church blinks at it, eyes narrowing. “…so how long have you had a revivify scroll on you and just… didn’t tell us?”

“One of those ‘Paladins of Tyr’ had it in her pack,” Astarion says smugly. “Good thing, too, otherwise we’d have to leave you for the spiders to clean up.”

His voice is determinedly flippant, but the tiefling can still see the anxiety palpable in the elf’s eyes. 

“…and I suppose it would have been an awful waste of blood,” Church smiles wryly. 

The elf’s hands tighten reflexively into his hair. 

“Oh please,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Karlach would have wept so much she’d extinguish herself.” 

“Yeah,” Karlach sniffs tearfully, crouching at a safe distance as her eyes shine in relief. “Damn right I would’ve.”

“Well. You seem healed enough,” Shadowheart says curtly. “Come on Karlach — let’s brace those doors.”

As they hurry off, Astarion seems to remember himself, letting his arms drop now that it’s clear the tiefling can sit up on his own. 

“How do I look?” Church asks, experimentally stretching and flexing his stiff joints. 

“Well…” Astarion gives him a once-over. “Absolutely delicious — which is to say that most of your blood is on the outside.”

“…oh,” Church says faintly. 

“But you seem fairly intact,” Astarion adds brightly. “That’s more than I can say for Dror Ragzlin and his detail.”

“I’m sorry to have missed out on the fun,” Church says wryly. 

“Well, darling… lucky for you, we’re not quite done yet,” Astarion flashes him a sharp smile. “Now this has been a lovely chat, but do you think you can get a move on?” 

“I can try?” Church winces as he pushes himself up, and to his surprise the rogue is quick to help him to his feet. “Thank you, ah — I don’t suppose you grabbed my staff…?”

Astarion’s smile remains frozen upon his face as the warlock sighs. 

“Gods damn it,” Church grumbles. “Let’s see if my mage hand can fish it out…”

There’s a commotion somewhere outside the chamber, and the elf grimaces. 

“Well, be quick about it,” Astarion urges him. “Because it seems like the rest of the goblin camp is just a tad upset that they weren’t invited to our little soirée.”

Chapter Text

The river water is cold upon Astarion’s skin, and it fascinates him. 

Not too long ago, he wouldn’t even be capable of what he’s doing now — standing stark naked and knee-deep in running water, stepping freely through it as he watches its current dissolve and carry away the blood and viscera dried upon his body. 

Catharsis doesn’t even begin to describe how thrilling it feels to defy his unnatural nature. He may not be able to see himself reflected in the water, but he can see the drops trickling from his fingertips to disrupt the surface, or pattering a painting upon the river stones. 

He remembers himself eventually, taking his soap and sponge to scrub himself. He also steals a moment to clean underneath his nails with an elegant manicure set he had pilfered from Waukeen’s Rest. It’s a small, but precious thing, and he marvels at the fact that he even has those now. 

It occurs to him that not all of the blood encrusted upon him is that of goblins. He can smell mixed among them something — or rather someone — deliciously familiar. 

That someone had been in pieces. Although Astarion managed to make him whole with that scroll, he still can’t quite scrub the image from his mind as readily as he can cleanse blood from his skin. Astarion is no stranger to mangled corpses, but it’s different when it’s yet another sweet, stupid boy who had touched him so gently, so kindly…

The sound of footfalls snaps Astarion to attention, and he snatches up his dagger — ready to strike. 

“Oh — gods, sorry!” Church stammers, backing up and turning away abruptly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll… find somewhere else.”

Astarion sighs as the tiefling moves to leave. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, darling,” he calls airily. “Just wait a moment so that you’re not caught up in goblin guts downstream.”

Church hesitates before turning back, blushing furiously. He shoots Astarion a quick, grateful smile before settling himself nearby, self-consciously peeling off the layers of his bloodied clothes. 

“I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he grouses. 

“What? Seeing me naked?” Astarion teases him. 

“…not being covered in my own blood,” Church corrects him dryly. “Sorry — you’re lovely, but I’ve got my priorities.”

His hands hover uncertainly as he gets down to his underwear. 

“Don’t let me disrupt you,” Church says hurriedly, “Again, I can go somewhere else.”

“Just taking in the view, darling,” Astarion says idly, returning to his bathing. He grimaces as he hears a sharp intake of breath. Of course, Church would once again be seeing his scars plainly from where he is. The spawn braces himself to field further questions with all their gory details. Better they get it over with here than back at camp with all the others around to eavesdrop. 

“Damn it,” Church curses to himself. “I… forgot my soap. Of course I did.”

It’s a lovely lavender and sage soap, Astarion recalls. The warlock had bartered for it with Arron at the recommendation of one of those pretty tieflings of his. Its scent doesn’t project much beyond Church’s skin, but the spawn feels lucky enough to have had considerable access to that proximity.

“Just use mine,” Astarion offers, holding out his bar to the tiefling. 

Church blinks at him. “Oh! I was just going to — are you sure?”

“I’m nearly finished up here anyways,” Astarion shrugs. “Go on — take it before I change my mind.”

The tiefling gratefully takes the soap from him. “I owe you one,” he laughs softly. “Thank you.”

“But of course,” Astarion says lightly, turning back away. He wades hip-deep into the water to rinse once more, and he soon hears the sploosh of Church wading in somewhere behind him. 

“Oh fuck, it’s cold,” the tiefling shivers. “But so good, gods.”

Astarion wonders if Church usually talks to himself this much without an audience. He turns around just in time to see the tiefling immerse himself completely into the deeper part of the water, resurfacing with a groan. 

“Be sure to clean inside your ears as well,” Astarion reminds him dryly. “You’d be surprised how much blood collects there.”

“Oh believe me, I’m very aware of that,” Church utters, shivering. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with horns and a tail too.” 

He dunks himself into the water again. Astarion envies how he can so boldly wade into such relatively deep water, almost floating upon it as he bathes. As thrilled as he is about being able to approach running water in the first place, Astarion doesn’t dare go any deeper than to his waist. 

Especially not after their little river incident. The water here is calm, but Astarion would rather not risk it. 

“I’ll return your soap when I get back,” Church calls over to him. “No need to wait on me.”

But the spawn knows an opportunity when he sees one. After all, he and Church are now bonded through this last battle, are they not? It’s an opportunity to move him again right where Astarion needs him to be — close by, and wrapped around his finger. 

“Do you mind if I stay a bit, darling?” Astarion asks innocently. “We don’t often get a peaceful moment to chat like this, after all.”

The water splashes a little as Church considers this. 

“…of course,” the tiefling says faintly. “I’d… appreciate your company.”

Astarion smirks as he dries himself off, pulling on his trousers. He lets them hang enticingly at his hips in a way that has driven his past conquests mad with lust. 

If only this one would actually look at him. 

“You fought well today,” Astarion remarks. 

Church scoffs. “Somehow I think you’ve already forgotten the part where I got thrown into a chasm and dashed upon the rocks,” he says dryly. 

“Well, before and after that,” Astarion smiles easily. “Perhaps the latter being more impressive given your previous state. Death certainly seemed to rally you.”

“We were fighting for our lives,” Church says tiredly, wading back over to the riverbank to grab the soap. “I mean, we always are. But that’s always enough motivation for me.”

Astarion regards him in amusement. To his surprise, despite being nude the tiefling doesn’t seem to squirm as much under his gaze as he busies himself with bathing. Then again, Church is occupied enough with working the blood out of his skin and hair. 

“Need some help?” Astarion offers. “You’ve still got some blood square between your shoulders.”

“Oh, thanks but…” Church trails off, and in the low light of sundown Astarion can see how the tiefling’s eyes flicker as he deliberates. “I’d… appreciate that, actually.”

Astarion smirks knowingly as he approaches Church, the river stones crunching with every languid step. The tiefling sits himself upon a larger, flatter stone beneath the water, leaving the back of his torso exposed and shivering in the chilly air.

“How are you not freezing out there?” Church asks him incredulously. 

“I’m cold-blooded, darling.” 

“Right. Yes.”

The elf extends his hand and Church hands him the soap and sponge, only giving him the briefest of eye contact before glancing away quickly. Astarion makes a note to himself — so that’s the line where Church becomes a blushing mess. It’s the proximity. The touch. The sheer… intimacy of Astarion sponging at the tiefling’s back. His shoulders are surprisingly strong, dusted with bluish freckles that stretch as he breathes. He guides the sponge along the contours of the vestigial wings embedded upon his back, marveling at how the cartilage flexes beneath his touch. 

As his eyes follow the ridges of the tiefling’s spine down into the water, the elf finds himself uncomfortably envious of the otherwise unmarred skin that stretches before him.

There were a few moments throughout his hellish existence as a spawn when Astarion found himself in this very position — cleaning blood off of one of his siblings’ backs after a particularly grueling week with Godey. It was one of the few moments of true intimacy they would share, however begrudgingly. It’s not like any of them could use a mirror to aid their bathing, after all, and Cazador needed them pristine for his future “guests.”

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Astarion finally notices how quiet Church has been. The tiefling scarcely dares to breathe above the quiet water sloshing around him and trickling down his back. But it isn’t long before his tender body noticeably melts, relaxing against Astarion’s soothing touch.

“Thank you,” Church says softly.

“Who would I be to leave you walking around with a patch of blood left on your back?” Astarion mutters. “I’d spare you that indignity, darling.”

“How sweet,” Church replies blandly. 

After a preoccupied minute, he sighs. “I’ll admit, I was worried about Abdirak. I… wasn’t looking forward to having to kill him. So I’m glad he sided with us.”

“He didn’t exactly have a choice,” Astarion scoffs. “The goblins turned on him quickly, after all.”

“He didn’t have to defend us to begin with, though,” Church says. “I suppose I had no idea he’d think fondly of us.”

“He thought fondly of you, darling,” Astarion titters. “Who knew that your little show was enough to win him over?” 

“He wasn’t one of the True Souls,” Church reminds him. “He was… a consultant.” He shudders. “Anyways, I hope he’s safe. Better he gets out of this whole cult situation entirely. The practices of Loviatar’s worshippers aren’t really my cup of tea, honestly, but her blessing has been a welcome boon when I’ve been sufficiently injured.” 

“Well I’m sure they would have loved Cazador,” Astarion says sardonically. “The man loved to inflict pain more than anything.”

Church hums in agreement. 

Astarion sees what the tiefling meant about his horns — as much as he had run his fingers through his hair, blood remains embedded in the grooves of his horns and collected inside of their curves. Church’s horns are not nearly as long and textured as Aurelia’s, fortunately. Astarion remembers he and Dalyria had to take a brush to their grimacing sister’s horns, careful to remove the stains without marring the surface. The best implement Astarion has for that is his nailbrush, which he plucks from his manicure set with a thoughtful hum.

“This may tickle,” he says warily.

“Wait, what’s going to—unnghhh!”

As soon as Astarion makes a single stroke with the brush, Church gives a startled, pleasured moan. The elf pulls it back, amused.

“Oh,” he says curiously. “Too much?”

Church laughs sheepishly. “Just… didn’t expect that,” he mumbles. “Um. You can keep going.”

Astarion smirks as he returns to gently brushing Church’s horns, gliding his fingers occasionally along them to wipe away the detritus. He can feel the tiefling tense again as he fights the urge to let out any noise in response to the sensation. 

Curious. Aurelia never seemed to have much reaction to her siblings’ efforts, but Astarion supposes that makes sense. Like him, any true pleasure must have gone out the window after years of using her body to lure back victims for Cazador. Astarion wonders if Cazador intentionally took that pleasure from her, corrupting it into something she would become indifferent to, or even despise.

After all, he had done the same to Astarion.

Any reaction Aurelia made in response to her horns or tail being touched by her conquests must have been as theatrical as any of the other spawns’ stratagems. They exaggerated their pleasure as wanton beasts luring victims into a trap, while feeling and enjoying none of it.

Astarion firmly grasps hold of the tiefling’s horns, polishing at a particularly stubborn spot. Church gasps sharply, but doesn’t protest beyond that. Even as he takes note of that reaction for the future, the spawn pushes down another swell of bitter envy. How nice it must be to feel and express pleasure so purely and so freely. 

“Relax, darling,” Astarion coos down at Church, massaging at the tiefling’s tense neck. “No need to stifle yourself.” He leans in close to his ear, running a finger up along the curve of a horn. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

Church’s neck and shoulder flush a dusky purple as he shudders at the sensation, a quiet moan escaping him as Astarion sponges away the last of the loosened blood.

“That’s it,” he smiles, satisfied. “Good as new.”

The tiefling’s back is pristine by now, save for the water droplets that glitter upon his skin in the pinkish light of the sunset. As Astarion traces a finger through them, Church gives yet another sharp intake of breath — shuddering as his tail shifts restlessly beneath the water’s surface. Astarion smirks, pleased as he replaces his finger with his tongue, licking up the beads of water clinging to wet skin as the tensed tiefling gasps and whimpers, falling back against him. 

The one solace of this hellish journey has been how easy the tiefling has been to influence, once past that cautious shell of his…

“Astarion?” Church says suddenly, his voice strained. “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” Astarion hums innocently against his shoulder. “Oh, I just missed a spot here…”

Church turns around then, his bright eyes flicking up to stare warily into Astarion’s as he gently — but firmly — pushes his touch away. 

“I’ll take that,” the tiefling says curtly, holding his hand out for his sponge. “You can have your soap back.”

Astarion relinquishes the sponge, baffled by Church’s reaction.

“Had your fill, then?” the elf remarks lightly, packing the soap back into its tin with short, sulky movements.

Church just sits sullenly in the water, facing away from the elf.

“Oh come on,” Astarion scoffs. “Isn’t that what you wanted, when you invited me to stay?

“I know for a fact you could have just cast prestidigitation to clean that spot yourself. You do it all the time — drying our clothes, cleaning them of blood, refreshing your face as we make camp… and yet, you let me clean your back, darling, with my own two hands.” Astarion gives a harsh laugh. “So don’t pretend that was all just for practicality’s sake.”

Church remains silent.

“We both know what you really wanted,” Astarion purrs, his hand snaking around the tiefling’s hip. 

The tiefling brushes him away once more.

“No, actually. At least not in the way you think,” Church says stiffly. He turns back to face Astarion, his gaze searching. “Look, I’m sorry for leading you on. I was just happy with an excuse for you to stay, but not for… that. Just… your company.” He gestures helplessly, his hand falling back into the water with a splash. “I like being around you. It’s nice to be away from the others, but it’s also nice not to be alone. That’s all I…”

He grimaces, kneading his brow.

“I should have realized it sooner,” he says in a resigned, flat voice. “Look, once I head back to camp, I’ll give you The Necromancy of Thay. On top of that…” he shivers, splashing water quickly onto his face. “Are you still keen on taking the parasite?”

Oh. Astarion didn’t expect that pleasant turn of events.

“Well, yes, darling,” he says. “If you’re offering.”

Church sighs. “Then I’ll bring one out for you too.” He falls still, staring out over the river. “That’s all you wanted, right?” He turns back to stare pointedly back at the elf. “From me?”

Astarion gives him an evasive laugh. 

Clever boy, he thinks begrudgingly. But don’t worry — you still have your uses. 

“Such generosity,” he says sardonically. “Although I suppose it’s fair repayment for saving your life… and lending you my soap,” he adds with a smirk.

“Then we’ll be even,” Church smiles tightly, joylessly at him. He hesitates again. “The others, save for Gale, aren’t going to be as pleased to see those tadpoles. So… meet me inside my tent?”

“How can I resist such an enticing invitation?” Astarion purrs, stretching languidly. But Church doesn’t blush or even look appreciatively at the show. He just turns back around as he rubs a hand distractedly over his neck.

“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “Then that’s that.”

—

Church knew he’d regret accepting Astarion’s soap. Now, the fragrance of citrus and rosemary clings to his skin as he moves about the camp — a constant reminder of the elf and his silky touch upon his shivering, wet body. It’s… heavenly, and in that same vein, hellish. 

It’s especially unfortunate considering that Church knows Astarion won’t have much use for him after tonight. The tiefling decides that it’s for the best — better he give the elf what he wants so that he doesn’t have to keep up his exhausting performance of flattering and cajoling the warlock. They can focus on their mission at last.

Astarion’s company has been appreciated, of course. Flirting between battles has been a fun distraction. Fantasizing has been a much-needed escape from the otherwise dark and gruesome sights they encounter. Being able to lose himself in another person has been a welcome, fleeting reprieve. And the elf unknowingly has been the tiefling’s favorite drawing subject in his journal — all angles and exaggerated poses as he goes about his days. Church will miss it, but he already knew that like all things, it wasn’t meant to last. Better to nip it in the bud. 

In the welcome privacy of his tent, Church reluctantly pushes aside his journal to sort through his belongings. It remains unhelpfully open to a page filled with sketches of the very subject he’s been trying to put out of his mind. 

He then pulls out that horrendous tome with whatever horrible secrets it holds safely sealed within its covers… for now. He also retrieves the large dark amethyst that will presumably unlock it once wedged into its gaping maw. 

Finally, Church opens the compartment in his pack that contains the vials of parasite specimens. 

They have four of them now. They would have had five, but in the chaos of the battle Dror Ragzlin’s was apparently fried by Shadowheart before it could be collected. The horrid creatures squirm inside of their vessels, eager to blindly surge after whatever brain they can get through whatever orifice. The psionic energy around them is palpable, and Church already feels his own parasite stir curiously in response to their calls. The tiefling gives a heavy sigh before plucking one specimen from the collection… 

…and then another.

Church hears footsteps outside of his tent, and he quickly pockets the vials. With a deep breath, he preemptively opens the flap to invite Astarion in. 

But it’s not Astarion. He should have realized from the suddenly hot air that radiates into the tent.

“Karlach?” Church greets her in surprise. While she’s smiling at him, he watches her shining eyes narrow as they flit over the suspicious items laid out upon the desk behind him.

“Oh, gods,” she groans. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to open the creepy book.”

“Shh — not so loud!” Church hushes her. “Just… hang on. I’ll come out to you.”

“Yeah, please,” Karlach says uneasily as the other tiefling ducks out of his tent, securing it carefully behind him. The last thing he needs is more prying eyes. “I don’t want to burn down your tent, and I also don’t want to get anywhere near that thing.” 

She smiles at Church, holding up a bottle of wine enticingly. “Got time for a chat?”

“With you?” the warlock grins back. “Always.”

He follows her to sit outside of her tent, the bottle of wine planted between them. Karlach takes a swig of it, humming to herself as she passes it to Church.

“I’m buzzing, honestly. I couldn’t wait to talk to you — check in on you and such,” Karlach says worriedly. “I’m… I’m just so glad you’re even here, really. You don’t want to know what you looked like when we found you… but gods, Church.” She smiles wanly at him. “I could look at you all night. Anything to remind myself you’re alive.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” Church tells her earnestly, taking the bottle. It’s warm now, but not unpleasantly so. “I… was being reckless.” He huffs a rueful laugh. “It’s actually been a bad habit of mine, believe it or not.”

“You like being the hero,” Karlach chuckles. “I knew a guy like you back in the Blood War. He was a fun, nice guy — for a cambion. But he had it stuck in his head that it meant something for him to throw himself in front of others all the time. Of course, this was in the hells… so no matter how horribly he’d die, he’d just keep coming back — as chipper as ever. 

“But you’re not an infernal servant,” she adds. “If you die, and we don’t get to you fast enough… you’re just dead. Or you won’t be the same.” 

She makes a face. “Gods, sorry, didn’t mean for this to get so… dark, but…” she laughs. “Isn’t it mad? How good life is?”

“I suppose it’s decent, when you’re not getting thrown into pits or getting kidnapped by mind flayers.” Church chuckles. “I… don’t think I nearly appreciated it enough before… all this.”

He eyes her curiously. “But we had very different lives, back then. Even after everything you’ve been through… do you really believe it’s that good?”

“Yes!” Karlach exclaims. “Soldier, you’re saving me. Every time you speak my name, fight beside me, share what’s yours, I’m reminded that I’m alive. Properly alive. And free.”

As a toast, Church holds out the wine bottle to her, and she takes a merry swig from it. As she returns it, she beams at the other tiefling. With a rush of affection, Church finds that he adores the flames burning into him from those cat-like eyes. It’s been impossible to do their beauty justice in his sketches, but maybe if he stares into them long enough…?

“You know?” Church smiles thoughtfully back at her. “I think I feel the same, in a way. From the moment I met you I knew there was no one like you. It felt like we had known each other all along from before. And you were so easy to connect with when things were just… mad, out here. 

“It made me so hopeful that maybe… just maybe I would make it out of this alive,” Church swirls the wine bottle thoughtfully before drinking. “And I’d make damn sure that we all would, because I don’t just want you to survive — I want to get us out of this and watch you thrive.”

“Damn right,” Karlach grins at him. “You get it, soldier. You get me.”

She levels her burning gaze upon him.

“Ugh,” she groans longingly. “GODS I want to ride you ‘til you see stars.”

Church blinks at her, his smile still frozen on his face as his mind goes blank.

Oh. 

Oh no. 

“Wow, uh. You really don’t like to mince words, do you?” he chuckles nervously, taking another sip of the now steaming wine. 

Karlach preens. “Guess not. I just feel what I feel. No sense hiding it.”

“That’s what I love about you,” Church smiles, but he backtracks as he sees her smile widen at his words. “Shit. Ah gods, Karlach…” 

He sighs apologetically, wishing he could do more than fidget nervously in front of his friend. 

“I like you, but it’s not like… that. You’re a beautiful soul, and I just…” he swears he sees the light extinguish in her eyes as her smile deflates. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never been good at this…”

Karlach chuckles ruefully. “Yeah… sorry if I was a little forward. Ten years in Avernus and I guess I’ve forgotten whatever manners I might’ve had. Don’t hold it against me.” She winks at him. “Unless you want to.”

Church smiles back at her. Gods, if only he had fallen for her — someone who is honest and straightforward with her love, her sorrow, and her rage. But as much as he adores Karlach, it simply wouldn’t be fair to lead her on. 

Especially not when a certain elf continues to plague his thoughts. 

Church hesitates. “I’m sorry that I can’t give you what you want, but… if it’s worth anything to you, I loved that hug we shared, the first day I met you.” He smiles wanly at her. “And all I can think about now is how I want to do that again, but for real.”

Karlach’s eyes shine once more with hope. “I’d… love that, soldier.” She huffs a laugh. “But I’d love it more if you’re not a lump of charcoal, so let’s hold that thought for… hopefully not too long.”

Church gazes into the flames of the campfire, pondering for a moment.

“Look, to state the obvious — I’m a tiefling,” he says. “I’m already a little fire resistant as you very well know, and also just a little magical.” He ponders to himself. “I’m sure there’s some magic that can help me handle your fire?”

Karlach regards him — almost shyly. “Sleep on it, maybe. If you’ve thought of something by morning, I’d love to know. For now, it’s enough just to know you care enough to try.”

She smiles at him warmly, for she can smile no other way. 

…but then Church sees how her eyes flick over his shoulder, her expression tightening.

“Your pretty boy’s waiting for you,” she says with a wry smirk. “Don’t let me keep you from him.”

Church doesn’t even have to turn around to know who she’s referring to.

“He’s not mine,” he says quickly. “Karlach… I meant what I said. You’re a dear friend to me, and I will make that hug happen.”

“Damn right you are, and damn right you will,” she declares, pressing her hands over her luminous, infernal heart. “I believe you, and I believe in you. I’m so glad you’re not just alive, but alive next to me. How lucky am I?” 

She laughs, and Church feels his heart swell in affection and hope at the sound.

“Talk to you later, Karlach,” he murmurs fondly. 

“Soldier.” Her smile is enough to bolster him as he returns to his tent. 

Astarion waits in the shadows nearby, eyebrows raised at the approaching tiefling.

“You’re just breaking hearts all over today, aren’t you?” he comments breezily.

“Stop,” Church groans. He holds open the flap to his tent. “So. Any idea what’ll happen once we open that thing?”

“The book?” Astarion glances carefully over his shoulder. “Only one way to find out.”

—

It’s not the first time Astarion has been in his tent, but to Church it’s still strange standing together in its pseudo-privacy. He watches as the elf casts his eyes critically about the illuminated interior. He’s not one to judge, Church thinks to himself peevishly as he furtively tucks away his journal. He’s seen the inside of Astarion’s tent, after all, and he sure wasn’t impressed.

“Firstly, the book,” Church says, gesturing at where it sits upon his desk. He unwraps the dark amethyst that continues to emit that strange glow — the light matching the eyes of the tome. “Mind if I do the honors?”

Astarion titters nervously. “If you insist, darling. I’ll just stand… over here.”

Church braces himself. Then, with a small grunt of effort, the warlock lodges the amethyst into the jaws of The Necromancy of Thay’s cover. Immediately, both the amethyst and the haunting eyes of its agonized face flare with that bright purple light, and Church can almost feel the book relax upon the desk. 

For better or for worse, it’s been unlocked.

“Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?” Astarion says brightly, venturing cautiously closer.

Church picks up the tome and holds it out to him. It strangely feels even heavier than before. “All yours.”

“Excellent.”

Astarion reaches out to cradle the book into his arms. He cracks open the cover, and immediately the purplish light reflects in his eyes underneath a furrowed brow as he scans over the page. Church observes him nervously. He has no idea what Astarion is reading, but it certainly is having an effect. His eyes are hungry, but pained. 

The warlock is just about to intervene when Astarion closes the book — hastily. 

“...well!” the elf says lightly. “Quite the page turner. I’ll get back to it when I have more time to focus.” As he sets the book down onto the stool beside them, Church notices his hands tremble ever so slightly.

“Are you alright?” Church asks him.

“Oh, I am ecstatic,” Astarion assures him, his smile fixed upon his face. 

“Alright. Well… read responsibly?” the warlock suggests warily.

“Oh darling, you know I will,” Astarion says, not at all reassuringly. “Now, at risk of you thinking me a greedy man… is the other part of your offer still on the table, so to speak?”

Church hesitates before reaching into his pocket and placing the two mind flayer parasite specimens onto the desk.

Astarion frowns. “Didn’t we have…?”

“We have four, but I figured we should just start with one each,” Church explains.

The elf raises his eyebrows at him. “‘We?’”

“Yes,” Church says matter-of-factly. “If anyone’s going to do it, it may as well be us, since we’re willing.”

“Oh darling, I had no idea you were truly considering it,” Astarion regards him curiously. “Why the change in heart?”

Church wrestles down his disgust at the sight of the parasites writhing in their vials. 

“While I was… out, I had the opportunity to speak with Ta—our guardian. He seems adamant that this will help us save ourselves in the future.” 

“Well lucky you, getting another date with our handsome guardian,” Astarion drawls. “And what an interesting choice in bonding activity for us. But… sharing is caring, after all.”

He holds out his hand. “Now be a dear and hand it over.”

Church blinks as he glances down into his hand. He didn’t even realize that at some point he had picked up both of the vials again. He takes one and presses it into Astarion’s palm. 

“Your hands are…” the elf clears his throat, crooking an eyebrow at him. “You’re trembling, darling.”

Church looks back at him testily. 

“I mean you’d understand why I’d be nervous, right?” he scoffs. “Are you not?”

Astarion flourishes his hands, the captive parasite chittering in protest. “Well it’s not my first time getting one of these in,” he says flippantly. “How bad could it be?”

Carefully — warily — they both unstopper their vials, closing their hands around the slippery tadpoles. Soon, both parasites are dangling from Church and Astarion’s respective pinched fingers.

“At the same time, then?” Church asks Astarion nervously. The elf hums in affirmation.

The tadpole squirms and chitters as it draws closer to Church’s face. He suppresses a wave of nausea, quickly glancing over to where Astarion seems even paler than before as well. 

It’s not too late, part of him desperately pleads to himself. 

But I need to, another part of him insists. I fucking died today, and I can’t afford to do that again. I need to be stronger. I need every advantage. 

Church grimaces, trying to fight his own reflexes. His eyes begin to twitch instinctively closed as he raises the tadpole closer to them. 

They focus upon its awful sucker mouth, ringed in rows of sharp teeth. 

“On the count of three, then,” Church says, a small shake in his voice. “One… two…”

“You don’t want this, do you?”

Church freezes, blinking hard as he stares at the disappointed, protesting tadpole. Astarion’s timing is just like the elf: dramatic and deeply inconvenient. The tiefling looks over at him, and Astarion studies him back with a scrutinizing, but surprisingly concerned expression. 

“I do,” Church insists weakly. 

“Truly?” Astarion says skeptically. “Because you look like you’re about to lose your nerve. Or swoon.”

“I want this. I want to keep us safe,” Church reminds himself, firmly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.” He hesitates, looking back at his companion. “Do you? Want this?”

“Of course I want to be stronger!” Astarion scoffs. “The tadpole’s given me back enough to feel… what I assume is normal again.” He smiles dangerously at his tadpole. “But I want to be better than normal. I want to be… extraordinary.”  

“You already are extraordinary,” Church finds himself murmuring aloud. The elf glances at him irritably. 

“Don’t patronize me,” he snips. 

“I’m not patronizing you,” Church insists. “I mean it.”

Astarion blinks at him oddly before shrugging. “Well, then… you know what I mean. I want power. I want to be extraordinary and powerful. And I’m not going to waste any more time being afraid.”

He shoots Church a challenging look, but the tiefling sees that underneath his brazen words, the elf shares his same trepidation. 

Astarion bristles at him, “So are we doing this together, or are you just going to stand there and watch?”

“Together, but I don’t suppose…?” Church hesitates, “…would you mind being the one to… administer… mine? You’re right — I don’t really trust myself not to lose my nerve, or mess mine up somehow. But I need to do this.”

After a long moment, Astarion steps towards Church, and his tadpole-less hand is shockingly gentle as it slips into the tiefling’s. The elf raises it up to his lips in a solemn kiss, gazing steadily back at him. 

Church now finds himself dizzy for an entirely different reason. 

Astarion chuckles softly. Nervously. “How about this, darling — I’ll do yours, and you do mine? No last second cowardice for either of us.” 

It’s a test of trust, Church realizes with a grim smile. It’s a test for both of them. 

“Sounds good,” the tiefling croaks. No, it still sounds horrible, but he’d hate himself if he accidentally dropped the tadpole or instinctively slapped it away. “How about you count off, then?” 

The elf sighs. 

“Whatever works for you, darling,” he simpers, his hand twitching to squeeze Church’s, however fleetingly.

He extends his other hand that holds the tadpole, letting it rest gently against the tiefling’s dusky, freckled cheek — just beneath his eye. Church mirrors him, his breath steadying slow and calm as he reaches his own hand to rest against Astarion’s cold, pale skin. Both of their tadpoles are wriggling even more violently than before, eager to free themselves. 

It’s a terrifyingly intimate moment. Church glances nervously at his companion, who blinks slowly back at him. His cheek is soft beneath Church’s hand, his lips parted slightly as the elf’s hand brushes against the tiefling’s. 

Beyond that, the elf’s red eyes are flat and determined. It’s oddly grounding. Church hopes that Astarion can’t see the terror buried in his own. 

“Well, here we go,” Astarion says with forced cheer. “One… two… three…!”

Church isn’t prepared for the speed with which the tadpole seeks out and burrows into his eye. 

“FUCK!” someone — perhaps both of them — shouts. 

The sharp pain dulls into a ripping throb behind Church’s eye. The pain is swiftly replaced by a profoundly unpleasant, blinding pressure as the tiefling and elf both cry out again. Their vision blurs and distorts with halos of color, their heads throbbing as the new parasites make themselves at home. 

Still clinging to Astarion’s hand, Church falls to his knees, covering his own eye. From the pressure and the discomfort, he’s afraid it’s going to pop out altogether. 

And then… all goes numb. All goes still. All goes peaceful within his mind as his thoughts settle back down to assess the newcomer. Church wonders if the two parasites have found each other and are communing together. Gods, he hopes they won’t breed up there…

As a child, Mother had once told him how to reach out and entangle his fingers and consciousness in the Weave. She told him how to fill his veins and the marrow of his bones with it. She told him forbidden things, too — things mere mortals are not meant to know about fey magic. Church barely remembers how it felt to discover that first itch of power. He remembers it felt familiar — like a dusty old toy that had always been waiting for him after being locked away after so long. 

Now, this new parasite brings with it another facet to Church’s mind, distinct from the Weave. The psionic energy that he identifies is simultaneously alien and familiar. Like the magic, it has always been there — waiting to be recognized and unleashed. 

And it’s… beautiful. Where the fey magic can feel chaotic and untamed, and the Weave relentless and fluid, this power is orderly. Church runs his mind over the possibilities like his fingers trace the spines of books in libraries. 

Part of him wonders why he didn’t do this sooner. 

…another part reminds him of the elf whose hand he still has locked in a vice-like grip. 

Church focuses his eyes up at Astarion, who watches him in amusement. He no longer seems fazed by the discomfort, but his breath has noticeably quickened. His eyes shine as he no doubt feels the same psionic energy unlock within his mind. 

“There, there, darling,” Astarion coos down at him, pulling him back to his feet. “See? Just like that and it’s passed.” He extracts his hand from Church and flexes it gingerly, blinking and grinning at the tent’s interior with newfound wonder. “Incredible. I already feel the power growing within me!”

“Gods, that was awful,” Church mutters, but he watches Astarion curiously. “The tadpole always seems to affect you especially hard, whenever we’ve connected over it. So how did you recover so fast from this?”

Astarion scoffs disparagingly. 

“That was nothing, darling, compared to what I’ve endured before,” he says coolly. “I’d take handfuls of parasites over one of Cazador’s vivisections any day.”

“…gods,” Church winces sympathetically. “I can’t imagine.”

Astarion shrugs at him. “Then let’s hope it stays that way for you.”

“Yes,” Church says hastily. “Well, it sure didn’t hurt as much as I expected.” He grimaces, not daring to rub at his eye. “It was the wriggling that got to me…”

“Well, all I can say is that I’m glad you didn’t run away screaming last second,” Astarion smirks. “You were quite brave.”

“Now who’s being patronizing?” Church grumbles. 

Astarion hums at him, reaching to tilt the tiefling’s chin from side to side as he examines and compares his irritated eye. 

“Ugh, does mine look like that too?” he mutters under his breath. 

“Look like what?” Church asks in alarm. 

“…nevermind,” Astarion quickly releases his chin. “You’re looking peaky, sweet thing. How about we get some food in you?”

His posture and tone is once again overly-warm and familiar, as if their tense moment by the river hadn’t happened at all. It’s not… unwelcome, by any means. 

“Not sure if I can stomach anything after that,” Church mutters. “Should we tell the others? Just so they’re aware?”

Astarion hums dubiously. “I’d save Lae’zel for last, if it’s alright with you. I’d like to keep her well away from my throat.”

“Oh?” Church raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to mind it so much two weeks ago.”

Astarion laughs, startled. 

“My, my… are you jealous, darling?” he gasps coquettishly. “Surely you must have noticed that I only have eyes for you…”

“It’s alright, Astarion,” Church says, chucking dryly. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Do what?” Astarion asks innocently. 

“You don’t have to… flatter me to get what you want,” Church says softly. “I know it’s been chaotic, but we can just talk about these things, next time.”

“How cynical of you,” Astarion scoffs. “What in the gods’ names are you on about?”

“Well… correct me if I’m wrong, but you… made peace… with Lae’zel to protect yourself,” Church recalls gently. “You didn’t want her knife at your throat again. You needed her to like you — or at least think you useful — in the ways that would protect you.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow. 

“And, once you realized you needed the book and parasites from me, you tried to get into my good graces as well,” Church says ruefully. “And look, you succeeded! But I just wish I noticed sooner so that you didn’t have to go about it the way you did.” He sighs. “Still, I understand why you thought you had to. 

“So here — you’ve got what you needed,” he says, smiling sadly. “You can relax now. I’m not going to demand anything from you in return. If you want something, just ask, and we’ll talk about it. I’ll listen.”

Astarion guffaws at him, incredulously. “So many assumptions, darling. Who are you to say that this was all I wanted?”

Church humors him with a nervous, good-natured chuckle. “You made it pretty obvious.”

“Hm,” Astarion tilts his head. “Then it’s clear you missed one glaring detail…”

He casually stalks closer, crowding the startled tiefling against the rickety desk. Church gives a sharp intake of breath, his hands flying up to steady himself against the elf. 

Concentrated between the two of them, that scent of his soap is intoxicating…

“I’m not done with you yet,” Astarion purrs. “And you’re not done with me. While these little gifts have been so lovely, I remain ever hungry for more.”

He blinks lazily at the tiefling. “…if you’ll have me, of course.” 

Church’s heart thuds in his chest, and as the elf begins to pull away…

…the tiefling follows him, chasing his lips with his. They receive him with a pleased little sound.

While Church means for this to be a quick and affirming kiss, Astarion has other plans. His hand quickly tangles in the tiefling’s hair while the other wraps around his waist to pull him flush against him — barely supported by the unwieldy desk. The two of them taste each other voraciously, a stray tongue slipping in every so often as their lips pull enthusiastically at the other. 

“Hmm, I think he likes that,” Astarion giggles, moving to brush his lips against Church’s sensitive neck. 

The breathless tiefling clears his throat and gently holds the elf away, appraising him. 

“It’s not all I like,” Church says with a stern smile. “It’s not just this or… the sex. It’s all nice, but… I like talking to you, Astarion. I like fighting next to you.”

And that’s not all, Church realizes. 

I like when I catch you smiling for real — even when you’re tearing into another sorry bastard, elbow-deep in guts and gore. 

I like when you sit next to me, during our short rests. Sometimes you just won’t stop talking, other times we don’t talk at all. Either way, it’s you there with me. 

I like when you just… hold me, even if it’s only because you’re feeding on me. I just like being held by you. 

“Well lucky you, there’s going to be much more of that in the future,” Astarion says indulgently. “I feel the same, darling.”

I doubt that, Church thinks dubiously to himself. But instead, he gestures towards the tent flap. 

“Food sounds good right about now,” he says lamely. “Let’s… not tell the others yet, alright? About the parasite at least. I think you might have a harder time explaining the massive glowing book under your arm.”

—

After Astarion quietly deposits the book at his tent, Gale raises an eyebrow upon seeing the elf and tiefling approaching the fire together. With dawning horror, Church wonders what their little rendezvous in his tent must have sounded like from the outside. He immediately, guiltily glances at Karlach, who is thankfully engrossed in conversation with Wyll further across the camp. 

“Unlocked The Necromancy of Thay, did you?” Gale asks Church mildly as he ladles some stew into a bowl. 

The warlock opens his mouth but nothing comes out. That’s not nearly the issue at the front of his mind right now. 

“Look,” Gale sighs. “I had just hoped you would consider consulting a more learned magic user on the intricacies of that text.” He looks reproachfully at Church as he hands him his bowl. “I am not so confident our resident spawn will have the mind and willpower to handle such magic.”

“Oh please,” Astarion sneers loudly from nearby. “Better me than you. We all know you would have just eaten it right up.”

Church excuses himself, leaving them to snipe at each other. He sits himself down upon a log, frowning down into his dinner. He’s still trying to forget the sensation of the tadpole wriggling into his eye socket. With the squirming of his stomach, the texture of the stew already begins to feel rather unappealing. 

Apparently done with antagonizing their wizard, Astarion parks himself beside Church, swirling a goblet of nondescript red liquid. Wine? Blood? The tiefling wonders mildly. Or perhaps both?

“Church darling, I was just thinking on what we discussed in your tent,” Astarion says, far too loudly. Church continues to determinedly avoid Gale’s scrutinizing eyes. 

Astarion continues, spiritedly. 

“Next time you’re silenced — whether by magic or another meaty hobgoblin — it would be wonderful if you could still be as deadly as you are with your spellcasting,” he says. “From what I’ve seen, you’re certainly capable of wielding a blade.”

Church’s stomach squirms at the memory of wielding the Sword of Justice to chop Anders into pieces. 

“Right,” he clears his throat, “so that’s my patron’s magic that lets me do that, and she’s fickle to begin with. Also, it’s still magic…” 

“…then why don’t you learn to wield something with a little more finesse?” Astarion cuts in smoothly. “Something that will let you keep a hand free for magic, and another to slice where they won’t see you coming.” He brightens up. “Just like me!”

“I’ve got a dagger,” Church says, uncertainly. “It’s done the job a few times.”

“Yes, darling, and it was…” Astarion gestures vaguely with his hands. “Not nearly as graceful or effective as when you use your magic. Your precision needs improvement, and your footwork needs to be fixed — otherwise you’ll just get knocked right over.

“Point being, when you use your dagger you’re actually putting yourself at a disadvantage,” Astarion explains. “But with some… intensive tutelage, you could master it as yet another deadly tool at your disposal.”

Church raises his eyebrows at him. “‘Intensive tutelage?’” he repeats skeptically. 

Astarion sidles closer to him, casually drawing one of his daggers and twirling it idly at his side. 

“How would you feel if I showed you a few techniques?” he murmurs suggestively. “Give you some… private lessons so that next time you’ll know how to handle and thrust your blade in a tight spot…”

Church prods at his stew. “We’re still talking about daggers right?”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion smiles innocently at him. “What else?”

Gale quietly, hurriedly excuses himself from the campfire. 

—

“Welcome back,” intones a gentle voice.

Tonight, Church doesn’t have to wait long before he falls asleep and wakes back in the Astral Plane. Tavi’s hand is warm upon his arm as he helps him sit up. Despite still being in his armor, he already seems more relaxed and far less exhausted since the last time they met.

“You did it,” Tavi breathes, his eyes shining in relief. “The both of you. I’m…” he laughs quietly, sheepishly. “I was beginning to lose hope. Just… thank you, Church.”

“This wasn’t for you, Tav,” Church says tiredly, even though it’s not completely true. “I did this for my friends. For the world.”

“I know,” Tavi murmurs. “And I’m… so proud of you. I know it wasn’t easy.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to the tiefling’s forehead. Church’s eyes flutter closed as he leans into it, hungry for affection. 

“So let me make it up to you,” Tavi continues, helping his friend up to his feet. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, new parts of your brain have been unlocked. Awakened. You have abilities now that given the time you could have discovered yourself… but we don’t have that kind of time.

“Tonight, I’ll show you what I know,” he says, and his eyes shine purple as he gestures. In an instant, Church feels that psionic power itching inside of his mind, eager for release. “It will take some practice, but you’ll be safe with me here. For now.”

He glances warily at the horizon before holding out his hand, and Church takes it. The tiefling shivers as he feels the energy begin to channel between the two of them. He feels… whole. 

“Just be patient with yourself,” Tavi says gently. “Let’s start with practicing how to direct your psionic energy into basic telekinesis. Then, by the end of our night…” 

Tavi grins at the tiefling, and his face at last shines with the boyish optimism that Church has missed so, so much. 

“...perhaps — just perhaps — you’ll finally be ready to fly.”

—

An elf wakes up in the Astral Plane. It’s an unexpected, but not unwelcome shift from his intended meditation. 

“You’re back!” a familiar voice calls out to him. 

Astarion sits up slowly, staring in awe at the vast, cosmic realm all around him. His eyes settle upon a familiar figure hurrying over from nearby — still clad in that magnificent golden armor. 

“I’m back?” Astarion retorts genially. “You’re the one who’s been playing favorites. What’s this I hear about visiting little dead warlocks in their dreams?”

His guardian laughs abashedly. 

“Try dying more often,” he says wryly. “I see you finally got the tadpole from him? Good.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Took him long enough,” he says airily. “But, of course, he was no match for my charm, in the end.”

The guardian smirks at him. “No, I suppose not. But couldn’t you have taken one for yourself so much earlier than this?”

“Well…” Astarion wheedles. “You see… I want him to trust me. And I’m not going to earn that trust if he knows I’ve been pilfering his belongings.”

“It was never his to begin with, though,” his guardian says pointedly. “Better it go to you than sitting forgotten in his pack.”

“Well, he bought into it eventually,” Astarion sniffs. “Now, do tell me — how exactly do I harness all this power I feel coursing through me?”

The guardian grins at him, gesturing for the elf to follow. Astarion trails after him bemusedly. 

“This power has been your right. In due time, it will become second nature to you,” his guardian tells him fervently. “But you must learn to master it — and with my help, you will.”

He turns back to Astarion, his golden eyes warm and shining. “You have survived. You have earned this. Together, we can finally take down the Absolute and Cazador.”

“Then show me,” Astarion urges him. “Show me how I can hurt him back.”

The guardian tucks his silvery brown hair behind his ear as he smiles. His eyes begin to glow an otherworldly purple. 

“I’ll show you how to make him suffer,” he whispers, delightedly. “Together, we’ll finally make the bastard pay.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Astarion says gleefully. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

Chapter Text

Despite Tavi’s patience, by the end of their session Church’s psyche is palpable with frustration. While he manages to lift some objects with his psionic powers and repel Tavi a few times with a mind blast, he can’t quite seem to manage sustained flying at all.

“You’ve only just started,” Tavi reassures him. “In time, you’ll finesse your power and figure it out.”

“In how much time?” Church groans, still flat on his back from his last attempt.

Tavi sighs. “It took me a few years, but—”

“I don’t have years!” the tiefling laughs bitterly. “There’s got to be a faster way, or maybe I’ll find myself some kind of psionic prodigy…”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Tavi chuckles wryly.

“I know,” Church sighs ruefully. “I could always increase my power — add yet another parasite to the mix.”

“You could consider it,” Tavi admits. “But even with just the one, you’ve already proven yourself to be more than effective in wielding your new powers. I would first encourage you to have some patience with yourself.”

He holds his hand out to help the warlock up.

“The gravity within the Astral Plane is far less than your waking world,” Tavi warns. “You know what to do, but you will find it takes considerably more effort to accomplish what you’ve done here. Additionally,” he chuckles, “your enemies won’t be nearly as forgiving as I am.”

Church huffs a laugh as he dusts himself off.

“You weren’t exactly gentle yourself,” he chuckles. “But I’d let you throw me around any day.”

There’s an awkward silence at that, filled only with the rumbling of the Astral Plane.

“That didn’t come out right,” Church mutters as Tavi smirks back at him, crossing his arms.

“If we had more time, I’d take you up on that,” Tavi smiles tightly. “But duty calls.”

“You’re just trying to exit the conversation,” Church says pointedly.

“Both things can be true at once,” Tavi chuckles. “Until next time, Church.”

His eyes glow purple, and all fades to white.

—

The soreness from his training doesn’t follow Church into the waking world, fortunately, but it still manifests as a slight headache as he begins to recognize the sounds of the river nearby, the wind whistling through the ruins and trees.

But there’s something else out there.

Something else in here, with him. 

Church jolts awake and a hand immediately shoves his chest back down to his bedroll — a blade sharp and cold against his neck.

“Oh fuck!”

With his harsh shout, he reflexively lets loose a psionic force that blasts Lae’zel clean off of her feet and out of his tent.

“Shit!” Church hisses as he scrambles to his feet. “Shit shit shit…”

Through the canvas of his tent, he hears a clamor — a scuffle — in the low light of dawn. 

“Stay away from him!” shouts Astarion from outside.

“The hshar’lak is corrupted!” Lae’zel spits vehemently. “You all know and feel it. He is ghaik!”

“Lae’zel!” Church calls from inside the tent as he hurriedly wards himself. “Stay your blade — I can explain!”

“What’s going on?” Shadowheart calls in alarm. 

“The Githyanki is going crazy again, little Sharran. She’s a danger to us all!” Astarion barks, and Church steps right into his back as he exits his tent. The elf stands square in front of the entrance, holding his arms out in a meager attempt at shielding the tiefling from a seething Lae’zel. 

“I gave you a chance!” Shadowheart snarls as she stalks towards the githyanki, a fire bolt in hand.

“Stop!” Church cries, stepping past Astarion and holding out his hands. “Just stop, all of you!”

He drops his arms and glances back at Astarion, who is glowering, hunched forward, and primed for attack.

“Look, I was going to tell you all soon, but I took one of the tadpoles last night,” Church confesses to the rest of them. “And I’m fine! I’m me. It’s been hours and I’m still me.”

Shadowheart’s hand extinguishes, but she ogles at Church, appalled. “It was bad enough having just one of those tadpoles forced upon us! I can scarcely believe you actually inflicted another on yourself…” 

Lae’zel paces restlessly as she glowers at Church and Astarion. “Kaincha!” she snarls. “No good will come of devouring a ghaik worm, no matter what you might think.”

The remaining murmuring companions scramble forth from their corners of the camp. For the most part, they hold themselves back from the confrontation — uncertainly readying their arms and magic. 

“I needed its power, Lae’zel,” Church implores her. “You have to take my word for it, but my magic was more potent before the first tadpole. This second one not only makes up for it, but it gives me psionic powers that I never had before. You heard about how I was when Minthara looked into my brain! If we’re infiltrating Moonrise Towers, then I need to be able to push back against someone stronger than her. I need to be stronger.”

Lae’zel scoffs. “Tsk’va. Mark my words, this power would be no blessing, but a curse. You might as well gouge out your eyes for the promise of sight, or slice off your tongue for the promise of taste.”

Karlach steps between her and Church. “I know why you did it, soldier,” she says regretfully. “And you weren’t there, Lae’zel — he almost died on us for good. The only reason there was anything left for Astarion to revive was our guardian using his power.”

Church approaches Lae’zel, hands raised in peace. 

“Look into my mind,” he pleads with her. “All of you. I’m not turning. He’s preventing that from happening.”

Lae’zel glowers at him, and then reluctantly she shuts her eyes, grimacing as she connects with the warlock’s mind. She withdraws quickly, warily. 

“Yes, it’s… you,” she admits in resignation. “Chk. Consume all the ghaik tadpoles you wish,” she adds in a bluster. “I’m not so craven.”

“Well, he’s not the only craven one,” Astarion pipes up wryly, tapping against his own temple. “We took them together. And I feel wonderful!”

“Gods, not you too…” Wyll mutters. 

“If we must bear the tadpoles’ burdens, we should also avail ourselves of their power!” Astarion declares. “The True Souls we met were strong — well, except for Gut,” he adds. “Imagine what we could all do together if we were more powerful? More resistant? This Absolute won’t even stand a chance.”

“That is absurd,” sneers Lae’zel. “When the tadpole has stretched to every pore and slithered through every vein, what am I to do then? It won’t hear my screams, it won’t care if I beg. I will be remade in its image. 

“My faith in Vlaakith will guide me and my own might will sustain me. I have no need of this depraved power.”

“I’m not asking you to take the parasite,” Church cuts in warily. “I just need you to understand — this cult of the Absolute is dangerous. We should take all the help we can get. I would never ask this of any of you, but I am willing to do this for us.”

He steps towards Lae’zel, and with a concentrated thought and a small gesture, he pulls her sword towards himself with a whoosh. The others — even Lae’zel — cry out in alarm, but the blade stops and hovers just before his neck, reverberating against the golden, pulsating ward. 

“If I do turn, you have my permission to kill me,” Church says evenly. “But as it stands I’m still your ally, Lae’zel. Your ra’stil.”

Lae’zel seethes, but she yanks her sword away from Church’s neck. 

“You fool. You — you might be right,” she grimaces. “After all… the githyanki have long studied ghaik and used what we’ve learned. The zaith’isk itself was devised from such knowledge.” 

“I still intend to find a way to get our tadpoles removed,” Church says quietly, ignoring Astarion’s disparaging look. “With the help from our guardian, the tadpole doesn’t have to be just our curse. We can turn it into a weapon that we can twist and mold to our advantage.”

Lae’zel regards him balefully. 

And then she sighs. “Very well. I will swallow my disgust as you avail yourself of the parasite’s powers.”

She stalks away back towards her tent, leaving the rest of her companions hovering nervously around the defiant Church and Astarion. 

“Any questions?” Church asks wryly. 

Gale eagerly takes the opportunity to approach him. 

“Come on then, don’t leave us in suspense. How are you feeling?” he studies Church’s face cautiously. “No errant tentacles? No sudden cravings for a more cerebral diet?”

“Honestly I’m feeling… great,” Church huffs a laugh. “But I can feel this whole new facet of my magic. It’s like discovering that your tent has had another room in it the whole time.”

Gale doesn’t quite clap his hands, but he certainly comes close to it as his face lights up in excitement. 

“Wonderful,” the wizard gushes. “Advantages are a more precious commodity than I’d have hoped, given the nature of our predicament.” 

He gestures and bows diplomatically at Astarion. 

“While I’m still not certain you can handle that book, I still commend you both on your willingness to take such a risk.” Gale reaches out and pats Church amicably on the shoulder. “Now, let’s hope your new, illithid-fuelled prowess tip the balance suitably in our favor.”

“So you feel… the same?” Karlach asks timidly. “I’ve never seen you do what you did with Lae’zel’s sword before without your mage hand… is that new?”

“Yes,” Church says honestly. “The guardian taught me a few things in my dreams last night.”

Astarion shoots him a curious look. 

“Did he now?” he says lightly. “And I thought I was special.”

Wyll wipes a hand down his face. 

“Hells, you’re a warlock, Church. You know better than anyone else — all unknowable powers come with unknowable consequences,” he says gravely. “I can’t say I’m not curious, but once you take an illithid by the talon, there’s no telling how deep into the abyss it might drag you.”

“Well we won’t know the consequences until someone comes to know the powers, will we?” Church retorts. 

Wyll just sighs at that.

“Any more sage words of advice?” Astarion calls out to the group. “No? Then get on with your morning.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before grabbing hold of Church’s arm, dragging him towards the ruins. 

—

“Well,” Astarion says lightly, grasping Church by the shoulders and giving the tiefling a once-over. “No tentacles yet. I suppose we can consider that a success.” 

His expression is unreadable as he adds, “That was some stunt you pulled with Lae’zel’s sword.”

“I am… so glad I could even control it,” Church admits in disbelief, sagging against a wall. “I wasn’t sure how much force to use compared to the Astral Plane, so gods… that was… really stupid.”

“Well it impressed me,” Astarion says indulgently. “Far more than you somehow managing to die twice in the span of a day would have accomplished.”

Church lets out a breathless laugh, before peering up at Astarion, uncertainly. “So how was your night?” 

Astarion hums. “I had a few lessons of my own. These illithid powers will come in very handy.” He eyes Church curiously. “And yours?”

“The guardian taught me some telekinesis — as demonstrated,” Church shrugs. “I have some ideas on how to manipulate what I learned even further.” He scowls a little. “I had hoped to learn how to fly, but…”

“Good gods, I didn’t even think to ask about that,” Astarion grouses. “But I did learn some interesting ways to manipulate our enemies to our advantage…”

He babbles on for a bit, but Church finds it hard to listen as he comes down from the adrenaline of Lae’zel’s confrontation. His eyes scan along the ruffles of Astarion’s deep collar, up to his bobbing throat with those old puncture wounds that must have hurt so, so much. He follows along his jawline and over to those soft lips that cushion and conceal deadly fangs…

Church pushes himself off of the wall to plant a kiss upon them. 

Astarion startles, but he scarcely has time to react before Church pulls away, clearing his throat as a small blush tints his skin. 

“My, my, is someone feeling frisky this morning?” Astarion’s mouth flickers up to a smirk. 

“I just wanted to thank you,” Church explains hurriedly. “You stood up for me. You outed yourself when you didn’t need to. That takes courage.” He sighs, tentatively resting a hand against Astarion’s shoulder. “And I’m glad I didn’t have to face the others alone. Or even do this alone. Just… thank you.”

He rises up to press another brief, small kiss to the elf’s cheek. When he pulls away, the elf seems at a loss, his eyes searching for something in Church’s face.

And then his smirk returns.

“Believe it or not, it’s my pleasure, darling,” Astarion finally says, gallantly. His face breaks into a grin. “But really — you should have seen the gith’s face when you blasted her right out of your tent.”

Church chuckles weakly, and the elf casts a wary look over towards the direction of camp. “We should head back — before the others get any more suspicious about us cooking up some illithid conspiracy.”

But before the two leave the relative privacy of the ruins completely, Astarion yanks the tiefling into another corner, pressing and pawing up against him with a hungry, indulgent kiss. Church delves into it in return, eager and feeling quite pleased with himself as the elf smiles against his lips.

“You and I are going to have so much fun with these new powers,” Astarion whispers delightedly. “Together, we are going to raise the hells.”

—

As Church, Gale, Karlach, and Wyll make their way through the Emerald Grove’s heavy, ivy-covered gate, they are surprised to find the entrance of the grove already teeming with tieflings packing up and preparing for travel. 

What was meant to be a simple check-in with Zevlor and Halsin turns into each party member getting pulled into a different conversation at once. No sooner has Wyll finished speaking to Zevlor than two of the children clamber up to him, shouting something about “blades” and “goblins” and “dragons.” Church and Gale barely manage to get any further before they get pulled into a conversation with Lia and Pandirna. Karlach, meanwhile, immediately sets to helping a grateful Dammon load the least-flammable supplies into carts.

Eventually, Church and Gale extract themselves from the conversation with a promise to continue it at a celebration that they are apparently hosting in their camp that evening. Gale finds himself bemusedly trailing after Church as the tiefling takes the opportunity to seek out the grove’s trader, Arron. As he takes a break from bartering some last minute supplies, the halfling watches the tieflings bustling by with crossed arms and a fond, wistful smile.

“Oh gods, please say you still have it!” is Church’s frantic greeting to the puzzled trader.

“You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid…”

“The Rain Dancer!” Church clarifies hurriedly. “The quarterstaff. I—”

“I still have it,” Arron tells him with a hasty chuckle. 

After Church hands him his coin, Gale raises his eyebrows at the pale staff clutched in Church’s hands. It’s a tool of excellent craftsmanship, inlaid with a droplet-shaped topaz.

“If that’s for me, there’s really no need,” Gale protests. “Just the other day Wyll gave me this ring that…”

“Ah, no, that’s not why I picked it up,” Church assures him hurriedly. “I mean — once I’m done with it you’re certainly welcome to have it… although now that I’m holding it, I just really hope that you’ll actually use it rather than consume it…”

He trails off as Gale watches him in curiosity. 

“Can you hold this, actually?” Church says — thrusting the staff into Gale’s hands. “I want to have a chat with that strange ox again before we meet Halsin.”

—

They’re back at camp when Church entreats Karlach to join him by the river, the warlock beckoning his friend towards the unimpressed and ever-watchful gaze of Withers.

“What’re we doing?” Karlach asks him with a nervous smile.

“Testing my theory,” Church grins, gesturing at Rain Dancer. “Worst comes to worst, we both just get really, really wet.”

Karlach’s eyes literally light up as she grins. “Ooh I see! This… this might just work, soldier.”

“Cross your fingers,” Church smiles before channeling the Weave through the staff with flourish.

All at once, an effervescent deluge of water falls in a thunderous, heavy sheet atop the two tieflings, alarming some nearby companions with their splashing, shouts, and swearing.

Withers, meanwhile, had stepped quietly — deliberately — out of the spells’ range.

“Ooh,” Karlach shivers, dripping wet, steaming, but excited. “This is clever — might even work!” She flashes Church a soft smile. “C’mere, you!”

Church barely hesitates before flinging his arms around Karlach, but the other tiefling doesn’t even have time to move her arms before he leaps back with a yelp, patting at his singed clothing. 

“Soldier — shit!” Karlach swears in alarm. 

“I’m fine!” Church laughs reassuringly. “No permanent damage… and absolutely worth it.”

Karlach’s worried face melts back into a hopeful smile as she distractedly wraps her arms around herself — now completely dry and back to her infernal heat. 

“I hope that’s true… ‘cause I’m hoping for seconds, thirds, and fourths, once we find a way to cool off this engine.” She grins at him. “And then no one is going to be safe from me!”

Church beams at her before glancing mournfully down at his ruined shirt. “Well. That’s that for this one. Let me get changed and we’ll start getting the grounds set up for the party, alright?”

“Maybe go see Shadowheart for those burns first,” Karlach suggests apologetically. “I’ll look around for more firewood. Carefully,” she adds with a chuckle. 

Church walks happily past the baffled looks of their other companions in camp. 

“You know,” Astarion drawls from where he loiters outside of the warlock’s tent. “It would have been much easier if you had just told her to dunk in the river instead.”

The tiefling blinks at him in astonishment. 

“Well, damn,” he mutters sheepishly as he gingerly strips off his scorched shirt. “Didn’t think of that.”

He shrugs, secretly pleased at how the elf’s eyes trail curiously over the cartilage ridges radiating along his torso. “Well, at least Gale gets something out of this too.”

—

As a child, in hopes of ingratiating himself within the village, Church had taught himself how to dance. 

At first he would surreptitiously watch the festivals of Tarrin’s Hearth from the rooftops, mimicking the footwork of the leads and followers from the shadows. Eventually, when he finally became truly integrated into the village at age thirteen, he amazed and scandalized the villagers with how easily he had swept up Lydia, Mairead, and several of the other village teens into a dance. 

A dancing devil was an amusing spectacle, at the very least. 

Church still remembers how surprised Lydia was, and how delightedly she had laughed to be led by this smaller, scrawny infernal boy. She said that she had never been dipped during a dance before, and she followed this statement with a perfunctory kiss upon the boy’s cheek. 

He had thought about that for days.  

Tavi later told Church that he had been intensely jealous of the tiefling’s confidence and apparent comfort with the girls. He later also said that he wished he had been brave enough back then to ask for a dance from Church himself.

The tiefling still feels a pang of sadness at the thought. He and Tavi never had a chance to dance together — not at Vyerna’s wake, and not during their rendezvous in Neverwinter. He should have taken the chance while they had it, but it’s not like they knew how little time they had. 

They couldn’t have known. 

And so, here at the tiefling party, Church decides that he won’t miss any chances now. He even gets Shadowheart to indulge him in a little twirl as she rolls her eyes, taking a long sip of wine to hide her smile. 

He invites his friend Lia to be the first to dance, swinging her around the campfire to the delight of the Elturians. Even Withers seems to watch with mild interest. As the two tieflings dance together, Church finds himself grinning uncontrollably back at Lia. Bold, gorgeous, and hilarious — his younger self would no doubt have been smitten with her. 

But over her shoulder Church spots another face watching from the shadows, catching his eye throughout the tieflings’ party. It sends the warlock’s already racing heart soaring to see the elf’s eyes shining mirthfully back at him. 

Later on into the night, Church is the one to approach Astarion, emboldened by the wine and the euphoria of the festivities. Curiously, he wonders if Astarion would even entertain his invitation to dance. 

“Here’s my little treat with their cheeks all flushed,” Astarion simpers. “And the belle of the ball, apparently.”

Church huffs a laugh. “I dunno, I have some competition over there now. Asharak clearly knows a few moves of his own.” He smiles back at the elf. “I was hoping to find you, actually.”

“Were you, now?” Astarion purrs, his eyes flicking over the tiefling from head to toe. “Then you will come to my bed tonight, won’t you?”

Church scoffs, throwing on an unimpressed expression. 

“Very presumptuous of you,” he drawls. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m quite popular these days. I have yet to decide how I’ll be spending my night.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow, a dangerous smile blossoming across his face. “Ah, you need a bit of enticing, then. Let me see.”

He contemplates briefly to himself before flashing the warlock a bright smile. “Hm. How about this one?” 

Astarion gestures floridly towards Church, his voice theatrical as he orates. “All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips.”

Church huffs a laugh. “I’ve heard worse,” he admits with a smirk. “Full marks for effort.”

“Hmm, yes… then let me give it another go,” Astarion’s eyes sparkle mischievously with the challenge. 

“Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation,” he says, leaning yearningly towards the tiefling. “It’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”

Church guffaws at him. “The first one was better. Did these seriously work on…?” He barely stops his tipsy tongue from finishing the sentence —

— Cazador’s targets. 

“Well, they worked on you last time, didn’t they?” Astarion recalls with an infuriatingly smug smirk. 

“Perhaps you’ve gotten rusty, old man,” Church teases airily. 

The elf’s eyes flash indignantly at that before narrowing into another sharp smile. With a thoughtful hum, he slowly sets his goblet down, stepping closer to the tiefling. 

“Then what if I said these little words?” the elf purrs. “Everyone’s favorite—”

Church startles as the elf’s hand reaches to caress his face. Astarion’s eyes grow soft as he gazes wistfully upon him. 

“—I love you.” 

Church gawks at him numbly as his heart flutters at those words. A foolish bubble of hope floats up inside of him…

…and then he finally notices the twitch in the elf’s mouth. 

The bubble pops. 

Church sighs, brushing the elf’s hand away with a chuckle. 

“Having fun, are you?” he says blandly. 

“I am!” Astarion laughs gaily, smiling fondly down at him. “It’s hard not to, with you.”

He gestures extravagantly at the party all around them. “Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favorite lines at you…” he drops his voice suggestively, “…I’d much rather we got to experience each others’ full portfolio of talents once again.” 

He smirks knowingly at the tiefling.

Church hums dubiously, making a show of casting his eyes across the campsite. A hand catches his chin, drawing him to look back at the beautiful, pale elf. 

“Who are you looking for, darling?” Astarion murmurs, amused. “Wyll? Gale? That sweet young tiefling of yours?”

“Perhaps,” Church says airily, shrugging.

“Interesting,” Astarion smiles dangerously, “because I saw how your eyes kept flicking back to find me in the crowd. I saw how you smiled over her shoulder at me.”

He releases him, making a show of straightening Church’s collar. 

“By all means, take your time to decide. I’ll be right here waiting for you, when you do,” he murmurs, letting his touch trail down to the tiefling’s chest. “Just remember to save a last dance for me, darling.”

Church’s hand catches Astarion’s as he steps even closer to the elf. “We could have one now,” he suggests hopefully. 

Astarion’s eyes twinkle. 

“I like how you think,” he titters, glancing away coyly. “Shall we steal away?”

Church hesitates. That… wasn’t his intention. But the invitation to dance quickly evaporates under Astarion’s smoldering gaze.

Who is he kidding? Astarion wouldn’t want to be seen with him like that, making a spectacle in front of everyone else. 

And so the tiefling sighs a laugh, grasping the elf fully by the hand before he can think better of it. 

Astarion doesn’t seem to mind, however. He pulls Church away from the camp, clambering up the rocks behind his tent and heading into the forest. The rogue carries himself confidently, silently as he leads the tiefling further from the sounds of the festivities. 

“Where are we going?” Church laughs breathlessly. “And what’s got you in a hurry?”

He yelps as a palm presses against his chest, fingers splayed as the elf backs him into a tree. With a small, satisfied sound, Astarion drapes himself flush against the tiefling’s warm body, mouthing at his sensitive neck as Church gasps in surprised, delighted pleasure. 

“I have missed you, darling,” Astarion groans, pressing the flat of a fang against the tiefling’s pulse. “I am hungry for you, and tonight I want you all to myself.”

Church eagerly wraps his arms around the elf, catching his mouth in a kiss and pulling him in even tighter. 

“I… missed you too…” he admits in a laugh. “From, I dunno, two nights ago? But gods, you’re insatiable…”

“Mmm,” Astarion hums, tracing the tip of his tongue inside of Church’s lip. “That I am, darling.”

He pulls away. “But… not here. I’ve got somewhere in mind for us.”

Astarion leads the tiefling confidently onward. 

Their path ascends slightly as they traipse through the underbrush. Moonlight filters through as the trees begin to thin, finally revealing a cave of sorts worn into the base of a sheer cliff face. 

Church hesitates as they approach their destination. 

“You know, someone else might find this awfully suspicious,” he chuckles. “Following a vampire spawn into a secluded cave, unarmed and…” he stumbles slightly over a root, “…slightly tipsy.”

“How awfully cynical of you,” Astarion says sardonically, raising his hand in a mock vow. “On my honor, the only thing on my mind is depraved, carnal lust.”

He pulls the tiefling into the shadows of the shallow cave, releasing his hand as he spins around and gazes coyly back at Church. 

“Oh darling, relax,” Astarion urges him, grabbing a handful of the tiefling’s shirt and pulling him in deeper. “Those pesky goblin leaders have been defeated, and your precious refugees are safe at last.”

“And I’m miraculously alive,” Church adds with a rueful chuckle. “Thanks to you.” And Tavi, he reminds himself. 

“Hm, yes,” Astarion says lightly. He releases the tiefling’s shirt, smoothing his hands slowly down his chest. “Want to show me exactly how alive you are?”

“Again, that can’t be one of your lines,” Church protests, even as his body reacts reflexively to the invitation that tugs enticingly at his core. 

“I’m workshopping it,” Astarion says blithely. He bats his eyelashes alluringly at the tiefling. “…but it seems to have its desired effect.”

“I don’t know about that — I haven’t agreed to anything, after all,” Church says loftily. They’re brave words for a tiefling whose cock is currently stiffening uncomfortably against his trousers. “Try again.”

Under any other circumstances the warlock is quite capable of deception, but when it comes to the elf pressing so torturously close…

Astarion leans into Church’s ear, slipping his hands slowly around the tiefling’s waist. 

“I still remember how you tasted,” Astarion breathes. “I remember how hard and slick you were upon my tongue, and how with every stroke you whimpered in my grasp…”

Church’s eyes flutter shut, his lips parting as he shudders the smallest, startled sound. He feels his face heat uncontrollably at the elf’s filthy words and agonizing proximity. His damned tail also betrays him, curving reflexively towards the elf’s drifting touch. 

“Such a riveting performance. I couldn’t help but wonder…” Astarion murmurs sweetly, curiously as his hands slip lower along the curve of Church’s ass. “How would it feel to have that delicious cock of yours inside of me? How would it feel to be pressed down against the floor, or bent over the…”

With a longing moan, Church gives in and drags the elf back against the cave wall. But he lingers there — panting and holding himself back from the kiss he aches to lavish upon those smug lips. 

“Is that what you want?” he asks softly, searching Astarion’s eyes. 

The elf wraps his hands around the tiefling’s ass, pulling their groins painfully flush. 

“I think we both know what we want,” he growls. 

“That’s not what I— ah!” Church squeaks as Astarion dives in to lavish his tongue upon his throat, distracting him from his thoughts. 

Panting past the aches and bursts of pleasure, Church strokes the elf’s silver curls as he buries his face into Astarion’s neck as well, groaning as he grinds his hips into his leg. His tail unconsciously curves around the two of them, the tip of it brushing against the back of the elf’s thighs as they sway together. But it’s not long before Astarion shoves the tiefling away, gaze lowered alluringly as the elf begins to retreat. 

Church watches as his companion idly loosens the laces of his own ruffled neckline, his smirk growing as he pulls upon his shirt, untucking it completely. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly drags his hand up his front, raising up the hem of his shirt to expose the soft, pallid skin beneath. 

“Oh how I’ve ached for you, darling,” he groans longingly. “And now you’re all mine, and I’m all yours.”

He drags off his shirt, letting it drop unceremoniously to the floor. 

“…until morning at least,” he adds coyly, slipping in his fingers to slide off his trousers. 

Slowly. 

Teasingly. 

Church raises his eyebrows. “…now who’s being a showman?”

“Oh you don’t even know, darling,” the elf purrs. “The acoustics in here will be… incredible.”

He steps gracefully out of his dropped trousers, sauntering lithely back towards the warlock. 

“Now go on,” Astarion coaxes him, burying his hand in the tiefling’s hair to guide him down. “Taste me.”

Church remembers the last time they were together like this, and how the elf had trembled and tensed against his touch. But Astarion seems to have no such trepidation now as he leans himself invitingly into the tiefling’s touch.  

Eyes flicking up to watch the elf’s face, Church sinks to his knees before him, pressing his mouth against the inside of his hip bones with a soft moan. 

“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?” Astarion whispers. “I can see why. What a delicious view.” His hand strokes through Church’s raven hair, fingers tracing teasingly over his horns as the tiefling whines into his touch. “The hero of the grove, on your knees before me.”

“You’re a hero, too,” Church smirks as he nuzzles into him, caressing the delicate skin of his balls with his fingertips. 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Astarion groans with a sharp intake of breath. He presses his hips impatiently into Church’s touch. The tiefling chuckles as he strokes up his shaft, and the elf’s cock reflexively twitches up towards the tiefling’s wetted lips as it fills. 

With a momentary, shy glance upwards, Church gently pushes back the elf’s foreskin before nearly leaping forth to taste him. As soon as he makes contact, Astarion lets out a loud, lilting moan. The tiefling imagines his warm tongue must be searing as it swirls around Astarion’s head. But while the heat of the elf is absent, the salt of his skin is still there. The taste sends the tiefling reeling as he moans softly — pulling off and gliding the elf back into him in a leisurely rhythm. 

Sure enough, the duet of their respective moans echoes beautifully within the walls of the culvert.

Astarion’s hand clenches against Church’s scalp, the elf’s thumb stroking along the curve of his horns. “There you go,” he breathes. “Good boy.”

Church whimpers as he clutches his hands into the flesh of Astarion’s ass, holding him flush to him as he bobs ardently forth. He savors the bitter salt that leaks from the elf, the weight of his member upon his tongue as it pushes against the cushion of his throat. The tiefling loses himself in the slide of hard, slicked skin upon his hungry lips as his mouth vibrates in a groan. 

“Look at you,” Astarion coos down at him. “So eager.”

Church takes him as deep as he can, grunting against the pressure before easing off and swallowing him again and again. 

“I love watching you eat me up,” Astarion murmurs breathily, stroking his hair. “Hearing your sweet sounds around my cock…”

Tearing up, Church whimpers as the elf’s hips press flush into him, filling his throat. His own hands clench around Astarion’s ass, kneading him as he swallows — and chokes — around his girth. 

Church gasps as he pulls off and catches his breath, staring up in awe at the elf. Astarion gazes back down at him, a smile fixed upon his face. 

“Are you alright?” the tiefling asks softly. 

“You’re far too gentle, darling,” the elf whines. “I’m beginning to wonder if—!”

He yelps as Church insistently maneuvers them both to the floor, kissing Astarion in earnest against the cold, gritty stone beneath them. 

“—sorry,” Church mutters apologetically as they both wince at the discomfort. 

“Oh I like this side of you,” Astarion growls. “I always knew you wanted to have your way with me.” 

Church groans against his skin, retreating down to press his mouth along the soft contours of his companion, hooking his arms beneath his thighs. The needy sounds the elf makes sends him reeling as he licks once more along the length of his cock, before delving down further to gently lick at the elf’s taint. He then experimentally caresses his balls with his tongue, drawing out a soft whimper again and again as he pulls Astarion into a better angle. 

“Mind your talons, darling,” the elf mutters in trepidation. 

“Don’t worry,” Church assures him with a secretive smile. “I’ve got a party trick for this.” He wraps a hand around Astarion’s thigh, and as the elf watches, Church’s taloned hand shimmers with a fleeting golden light. “I usually use this to ward against blades,” he explains with a bashful chuckle. “It has other uses too.”

“So resourceful,” Astarion says, eyes sparkling. “I’m excited for this… magical demonstration.”

Church wets his warded, dulled fingers in his mouth before angling them against Astarion, experimentally stroking the entrance of him as he carefully watches his face. To the tiefling’s surprise, he feels the slickness of oil there already, and little resistance as he ventures a single finger into him. 

“Oh,” Church says, quite taken aback. “Well you’re quite sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

Astarion smirks hazily at him. “It always pays to be prepared, darling.” He tilts his hips further up, licking his lips as he does so. “Now… don’t be shy.”

Church moans as he takes the elf’s cock into his mouth again. He pushes his finger back inside of him before soon adding another. When he curls them both, the elf lets out a wanton gasp, arching his back as he thrusts up into the tiefling’s mouth. 

“Mmm again, darling!” he whimpers. Church knows that Astarion’s theatrics are primarily for his benefit, but gods be damned if it isn’t working. So he obeys, moaning as he feels the elf relax around his thrusting and flexing fingers.

“Fuck, Astarion…” the tiefling pants. “When did you even do this?” 

“Oh, darling,” Astarion croons. “While you were having your fun this evening, I just kept imagining the heat of your body flush along my back, your talons digging into my skin as you lay claim to me…” he groans filthily. “I remembered tasting those curious little ridges upon your cock. I wondered how it might feel to ride them…”

Church groans against him, straightening upon his knees. Astarion takes that moment to follow him up, palming the tiefling’s length firmly as Church finally strips off his shirt. 

…or tries to, anyways. 

“Why do you insist on wearing shirts with laces?” Astarion grumbles as he impatiently aids the tiefling in unhooking his collar from his horns. 

He then helps Church shuck his trousers, and as the tiefling kicks them off, Astarion dives down to take him hungrily into his mouth. Church groans helplessly at the wet slide of the lips upon his cock, hand fisting into Astarion’s hair to slow the elf in his voracious ministrations. He’s left thicker and harder than ever before as Astarion reclines languidly back to the ground, smug as his own erection bounces in anticipation. 

“Now don’t let my hard work go to waste,” he smirks. 

Church eagerly leans into him, positioning his cock against the elf’s slicked entrance. With a soft groan, he pushes just his head into him, marveling at how the elf arches and whimpers as he stretches around his hardened girth. 

“More…!” Astarion pleads. 

The tiefling slowly eases into him, watching in awe as the elf shudders, wrapping his legs around him and digging his heels into Church’s lower back to push him in deeper. 

“…all good?” Church asks the tensed elf as he pulses deeper. He moans as his cautious inhibitions melt away at the tightness all around him.

“Gods, just hurry up and fuck me,” Astarion whines, his eyes screwed closed. “Make me yours.”

At his invitation Church loses himself in the tight, relentless waves lapping over his cock, the soft moans of the elf pinned below him. His mouth falls onto that pale neck, kneading and kissing the junction of his throat and shoulder as the elf keens delightedly against each impact inside of him. 

“You’re beautiful,” Church groans into his ear breathlessly as he thrusts into him. “Gods, you’re…”

“Mmm tell me more, darling,” Astarion murmurs back, stroking his hair.

“You’re fucking amazing,” the tiefling laughs in disbelief. “I… gods… I need…”

“Tell me what you need from me,” Astarion croons up to him. “What are you hungry for?”

“I…” Church gasps, his hips stuttering at the sensation of Astarion tightening around him. “I want to hear you say my name,” he pleads desperately. “I want you to beg for me…”

“Church,” Astarion’s musical, dulcet voice whines immediately. “Unnngh… Chuuurch!” He somehow manages to add several syllables to the tiefling’s name, crying out shamelessly with each pulse of hips as he writhes beneath him. “Please fuck me, Church—! Use me, own me… I’m yours…!”

The tiefling gasps ecstatically as he drives into him, the pleasure tingling down to his toes as he cradles the back of Astarion’s neck, supporting him upwards. He reaches between them to grasp Astarion’s hardened cock, working him as they both groan in concert with each stroke. 

Church falls hungrily forward, taking the tip of Astarion’s ear into his mouth and gently sucking as he swirls his tongue against its contours. The elf whimpers and begs something incomprehensible as he claws wantonly against Church’s back. 

“…fucked elves before, have you?” Astarion manages to gasp up at him with a knowing grin.  

“Oh, would you believe this is my first time?” Church jests brightly, breathlessly. He dives down to drag his tongue along the curve of Astarion’s throat, drawing out an unhinged whine. 

“Not at all,” Astarion gasps, teetering upon the edge of his pleasure, “but — hmmgh! Fuck! Don’t finish me just yet!” 

He pushes the tiefling backwards and off of him with a groan. But soon the elf is crawling over Church as he pushes the tiefling back down, straddling his hips. 

Astarion tilts his head, studying the breathless tiefling. He then grasps Church’s chin, brushing his thumb against the pout of his soft lower lip. “Oh darling — I can see it plain in your face. You want more, don’t you?”

The warlock huffs a sheepish laugh. It’s true — as much as he’s been thoroughly enjoying this, he can’t escape the vivid memory of being in Astarion’s place instead. 

Remarkably, the elf seems to understand his wordless expression, reaching for his trousers. After some fumbling he draws out a vial of oil, unstoppering it with a soft hum. He maneuvers himself between Church’s legs, angling the tiefling’s hips up upon his thighs. Soon, the tiefling feels Astarion’s expert fingers working into his entrance, spreading and stretching him. Church shudders, overwhelmed by the relentless touch as he gasps and pleads for more. 

“Now who’s insatiable?” the elf teases, curling his fingers into his softened hole. “Hmm, whatever shall I do with you, darling?”

Church huffs a laugh as he covers his face, but Astarion pulls his hands away, crooning encouragement down at the tiefling until he has repositioned himself on all fours — glancing over his shoulder with heavy-lidded eyes at the elf kneeling behind him. 

“Look at you,” Astarion croons, tracing a spread hand down the ridges of the tiefling’s arched back. “…and that tail of yours just begging for me to fuck you.”

He tugs on the indeed enticingly-lifted tail, and Church cries out in pleasured pain, pressing his hips back into the elf’s otherwise featherlight touch. 

Curls askew and damp, Astarion nudges Church’s knees slightly further apart as he positions himself over the tiefling. With a satisfied hum, he teases the head of his cock over Church’s slicked hole, drawing out a frustrated whimper from his companion. 

“If I remember correctly,” Astarion murmurs. “You don’t quite like it as gentle as you like to give. But we can of course test that theory…”

Church moans as the elf finally eases into him. With every small, measured pulse pushing himself deeper, Astarion forces out more breathless, steadily more unbridled whimpers of pleasure from the tiefling. 

“Please,” Church begs. “Just make me…”

…believe that you actually want me, he thinks to himself. 

“…just take me,” he amends instead, holding tightly to the arm that Astarion curls around to support his middle. 

Don’t think about all that, Church scolds himself as he relaxes into the rhythm of the elf’s lithe, undulating movements. That’s not what he wants. This is just an escape, for both of you. Get it out of your system, and fight to live another day. There is no future of any kind if you don’t make it out alive. 

And then, as the elf reaches around to stroke him with a satisfied hum…

Just enjoy the moment. Savor the touch, the sounds, the feeling of being wanted and enjoyed. It may very well be the last time you ever get to know what it’s like to be wanted.

…even if it’s just pretend.

Church moans long and loud into his grasp, collapsing against the floor as Astarion picks up his pace, hips thrusting steadily, deeply into his. 

“Oh why didn’t you say something sooner, darling?” Astarion groans, low and lustful as he presses a kiss to the tiefling’s shoulder. “If this is what you liked, I could have been doing this to you all night.”

“I like… both…!” Church protests even as the relentless movement pushes his breath out of his lungs. 

“Hmm,” Astarion sounds skeptical as he lowers himself fully on top of the tiefling, pressing him prone to the ground. Completely flush against Church’s back, he fucks him with a slow, undulating roll of his hips. The tiefling’s desperate whimpers grow loud and insistent as they echo euphoniously inside of the cave, and they are soon joined by the elf’s encouraging whispers and moans. 

“…that’s what I thought,” Astarion murmurs smugly, running a tongue over the shell of the shuddering tiefling’s ear. “You prefer to be claimed.”

He imitates Church’s earlier move, pulling the tingling tip of the tiefling’s ear into his mouth and slipping his tongue insistently against it. 

The sensation sends Church calling out ardently, wordlessly as the elf wraps a hand around his throat, cradling his jaw. Unable to restrain himself any longer, he turns his head to catch Astarion in a eager, sloppy kiss, moaning into his mouth and delighting in the cool tongue that seeks out his. 

“It depends on my mood,” Church eventually whispers breathlessly against Astarion’s mouth. “And right now… ah!” he whimpers needily as the elf snaps his hips deep into him. “…nnnhh! I want you to take me. I want… ahh!” he moans. “…I want to know I’m yours!” he gasps frantically as the elf’s slick tongue returns to swirl over his ears. “I want to know how much you want me…!”

He lets out a startled cry as Astarion grasps him by his horns and hair, yanking his head up and exposing his gasping throat. The spawn leans in, hovering his mouth against the tiefling’s ear. 

“You’re mine,” Astarion snarls as he fucks him at a now punishing pace. Church nearly comes from that voice alone. 

“I’m — I’m yours — please!” the tiefling begs. “Gods—! I need—!”

Astarion grabs hold of Church’s swaying tail and suckles intently upon its very tip, pulling another pleading sob from the warlock. The elf then tugs his hips back by its base, plunging his cock back into Church’s entrance as the tiefling shouts ardently into the night, echoing rapturously around the cave. 

At some point Astarion swiftly pulls out of him, falling languidly back onto the ground as he pulls the dazed tiefling over to straddle him. Church eagerly lowers back onto Astarion’s cock, whimpering with every inch he sinks deeper. 

After just a moment’s adjustment he’s already riding on top of him, closing his eyes against each intense throb of pleasure within his core. And as he adjusts to the sensation, Church opens his eyes again to watch as Astarion’s face continues to contort into an expression of intense pleasure…

But with a jolt the tiefling realizes that despite his dramatic moans, the elf’s eyes are… flat. Elsewhere. 

Church slows himself, frowning in dazed concern. “Astarion…?”

The elf grips his hips tightly to him in response. “Getting tired, darling?” he teases him, although the levity of his voice does not meet his eyes. 

“N-no, ah!” Church gasps as the elf thrusts up into him. He falls forward, propping himself upon the ground with his arms as he moans heavily, frantically into Astarion’s neck. “Ah—aah—ahh!”

Astarion pumps Church’s cock until the tiefling comes completely, incredibly undone. He cries out helplessly with each spurt in between both of them until he finally collapses — utterly spent — against the elf.

The tiefling gives a final whimper as Astarion slips unceremoniously out of him, before they both collapse back onto the cave floor, panting. 

The two men rest there for a moment, shivering in the sudden chill of the night against their sweaty, clammy skin. Church gives a breathless, pleased hum as he hastily flourishes a hand with a mumbled incantation to prestidigitate his mess clean. 

Satisfied with his work, the tiefling stretches before collapsing against Astarion’s side with a hushed laugh of disbelief. And then, without thinking, he drapes his arm across the elf’s pale chest, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. 

Astarion tenses immediately against the gesture, and Church lets go in an instant. 

“What more do you want?” the elf almost snaps at him. 

“…sorry,” Church apologizes quickly as he withdraws his arm. “I suppose now I know… you’re not a cuddler,” he observes sheepishly, scooting away. 

Astarion seems to remember himself, arranging his face back into a stiff, flirtatious smirk as he reaches to stroke along Church’s cheek. The tiefling isn’t sure whether to lean into his touch or not as he searches the elf’s face, puzzled. 

“…wait, did I — did you even finish?” Church asks Astarion in alarm. The elf is winded, but clearly flaccid as he props himself up beside him. As much as they have pleasured each other over the past few days, Church has always seemed to come first — very loudly and messily. But Astarion?

“Of course I did,” the elf says dismissively. “Didn’t you hear me?” 

Church shrugs, frowning. “I dunno, I just expected… I mean…”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Astarion asks irritably. 

“Like what?” Church sits up, reaching for his clothes. 

“Like I killed your mother,” Astarion says dryly. “Did I not satisfy you, darling? We can always go again. I just took your cries to mean that…”

“You… you satisfied me,” Church laughs uneasily. “More than that. That was fucking fantastic.”

He preoccupies himself with donning his trousers. Damn it. He can’t hide his expressions to save his life around the elf. 

“But I’m just wondering… did I…” Church glances warily at Astarion. “Did… I satisfy you?”

Astarion lets out a loud, musical laugh, wrapping his arm around Church’s naked waist and tugging him close for another perfunctory kiss. 

“You were absolutely ravishing,” he declares. “You felt divine.”

Church smiles tightly. He doesn’t buy it. He remembers the elf’s blank eyes as he looked back up at him. 

He’s lying, the insidious voice hisses to Church. You’re nothing more than a pity-fuck. He can’t even get off to a face like yours. 

So why does he keep coming back? Church wonders to himself. What good am I to him?

He’s still using you. There’s more that he wants. 

Church is silent as Astarion warily studies his preoccupied face. 

“You should go back to camp,” the spawn suggests dismissively after a moment. “I’ll be hunting.”

“If you’re hungry,” Church says suddenly. “Why don’t you…?” He tilts his head to the side a little, exposing the two puncture marks that have worn themselves there into his neck with each consecutive visit. 

Astarion’s face lights up a little. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. 

“Yeah, of course,” Church says quickly. “I want you to feel strong and… happy.” And satisfied in some way, he adds to himself ruefully. 

Astarion smiles at him. “You sweet, generous thing,” he drawls, and he scooches closer to nuzzle into Church’s neck. The tiefling stifles a shudder as the elf’s breath cascades down his neck. 

“Just do it,” he says tiredly. 

You’re nothing but a blood bank. A canteen. A spare camp supply.

But if he’s already being used, then what’s the harm in getting some use out of a stronger Astarion as well?

“Wait,” Church blurts, and the vampire spawn stills with a disappointed little grunt. “Can I ask a favor?”

Astarion sighs. “Fine. Ask away.”

“Can you… hold me… again?” Church flushes, mortified at his own request. 

You’re so utterly pathetic, asking this elf to entertain a delusion of affection…

The elf smirks as he strokes his thumb along the tiefling’s throat. 

“Of course, darling,” Astarion says idly, wrapping an arm possessively around Church’s middle as he nuzzles back into him. “Now, relax.”

His other arm locks across the tiefling’s shoulders and chest before he bites into his neck. As Church grunts from the initial pain, his hands lift up to grip this arm tightly to him. It’s too rigid and firm for a romantic embrace, but tonight, it’s close enough for the warlock. 

Against his better judgment, Church faintly admits to himself that he has thoroughly enjoyed these past few days of Astarion’s close, attentive company.

And, for just a moment as the pain turns to numbness and the tiefling’s head goes woozy, he can almost fool himself into thinking that the elf feels the same.

Chapter Text

Astarion remains curled up behind Church’s back as he impatiently waits for the tiefling’s breath to even out into a restful snooze. After that, he carefully extracts himself from the embrace, grimacing. 

Whenever he reached this point under Cazador’s control, this would be when he would leave his conquests — naked, wrung-out, and sleeping. He would call upon his master to collect the sorry sod from the guest bedroom. Astarion would sit obediently in the corner, watching as Cazador arrived to greet the unsuspecting soul. He’d keep watch still if the vampire found this soul particularly captivating, brutally sampling and violating them in more ways than one. 

Astarion would look on obediently. 

He had no choice. 

And in return, he would receive a putrid, dead rat to stave off his roiling hunger. By then, he would ignore the whimpering of the pathetic, dying creatures. 

“Astarion…!” they’d beg as they grew weak from blood loss. “Help… help me…”

The spawn would get drunk on the tempting scent of their blood that dripped from Cazador’s lips and their shivering necks. He’d savor the cold, coagulated rat blood all the while, pretending it was theirs. 

He was a little pet. A hound, obediently fetching his master his kill. 

And he was so good at what he did. 

Not that it made much of a difference, under Cazador and Godey’s knives and whims. 

Astarion has completed this hunt so many times — hundreds of times — for what has nearly been two centuries. Needless to say, it is… alien to see his conquest still alive come morning.

It is alien to feel protective of this one, without the fear of Cazador’s immediate retaliation. 

It is alien to feel his hunger somewhat sated for once — stomach half-filled with the lifeblood of a living, breathing, sentient soul. The tiefling warlock is no dead rat. He tastes sweet and thrilling, filled with vitality and magic. And so, Astarion feels strong and euphoric with his taste lingering upon his tongue. 

It still doesn’t negate the spawn’s distaste of the process of his hunt, however. While mild and not necessarily unpleasant compared to some others Astarion has bedded, the musk of the tiefling still taints his skin — the remnants of his saliva, sweat, and cum dried tacky upon him. Just like he would after hunting for Cazador’s meals, Astarion wants nothing more than to continue his routine of washing it all away in the river, letting the only evidence of their encounter be the marks upon the tiefling and the lifeblood in his belly. 

But as the elf moves away to pull on his shirt, Church’s hand flies out and grasps clumsily around his ankle. Astarion feels himself freeze at his touch, panic bubbling below the surface of him. But the slivers of Church’s luminous eyes merely peer up at him from beneath groggy eyelids.

“...please stay,” he mumbles sleepily.

Within a minute, the tiefling’s grip goes limp once again as he falls back asleep, snoozing into the night. With a quiet sigh, Astarion goes to retrieve a thin blanket he had stowed away earlier inside of this cave, draping it over the warlock as some modicum of protection against the chill. 

It won’t be much protection from anything else, but he’ll be fine, surely?

Astarion decides to linger a bit longer — just to make sure. 

—

Church is confused. 

Somehow, he’s back next to the bonfire at their riverside camp. While there remains evidence of the night’s festivities, the camp is completely empty. And yet, somehow, the sound of Alfira’s lute warbles through the air, filling the atmosphere with a gentle melody. 

The moonless sky is full of stars — far more than ever before. 

“Tav?” he calls as realization dawns upon him. 

“Do you like it?” 

Church turns to find his friend sitting upon a stool, a goblet in hand and a soft smile on his face. He’s not wearing his armor, nor that lavender toga of his. He’s dressed in those paladin casuals Church remembers from their last meeting in Neverwinter. 

“What is this?” the warlock asks with a laugh of disbelief. 

“A second chance,” Tavi explains, setting the goblet down as he approaches the tiefling. “Or a third, depending on how you look at it.”

He stands in front of the gawking tiefling, smiling down at him. The bonfire swathes them both in lush, orange light, Tavi’s strong features casting shadows across his face. 

“May I have this dance?” the paladin bows. 

Church gives a surprised, breathless laugh, scarcely believing the sight before him. 

“Am I leading? Or are you?” he asks, fighting against the blurring of his misty eyes. 

Tavi regards him thoughtfully before holding his hand out in invitation. The tiefling takes it with a shy smile, stepping forward as the man’s hand slips around his back, pulling him in close. 

They move slowly together, Tavi leading as they spin as one around the bonfire, his hands firm as they guide his partner. After the first few circuits punctuated by awkward chuckling as they find each other’s rhythm, Church focuses himself to gaze up at his friend, taking in every detail of his weathered and scarred face. Honestly, he wonders when the once clumsy-footed Tavi even learned how to dance as easily as this.

He’s different, but he’s still him. 

So why does Church feel… uneasy?

He has guiltily imagined this moment so many times over the years, regret roiling in his stomach. But now that it’s finally happening, there’s something not quite sitting right in the tiefling’s heart. 

But for the life of him, he can’t place it. It doesn’t help that he’s distracted by the warmth and steadiness of Tavi’s unflinching touch. 

“You knew that I was thinking about this, earlier,” Church murmurs sheepishly. 

“Yes,” Tavi admits. 

“…how much do you hear?” Church asks warily. “All the time?”

“Not everything,” Tavi reassures him. “Remember that the rest of your companions — and my battles — keep me quite busy.”

“But you hear enough?” Church asks pointedly. 

“I know what you’re asking,” Tavi sighs. “And yes, I knew you were with Astarion tonight, before you woke up here. But I didn’t care to know the details.”

“I’m sorry,” the tiefling mutters guiltily.

“Church…”

Tavi pulls the tiefling’s head against his shoulder as they continue to move together. 

“You have your own life,” Tavi says gently. “I’m just a part of it. My role is to be your guardian, not your lover. And as I am now, I could never make you whole. So as long as he makes you happy…”

Church scoffs bitterly at that. 

“If you hear my thoughts, then you know that it’s not like that,” he mutters ruefully into Tavi’s jerkin. “At first it was a fun little distraction, but, gods…” he chuckles unhappily. “I think I actually did start to like him as… a friend. I think I was foolish enough to even consider… if there might be more to all of it. But…”

Tavi hums dubiously. “I had hoped that he would be a comfort, not a distraction from your quest. Don’t let these feelings cloud your judgment — nor his.”

“I won’t,” Church says defeatedly. “Not anymore.”

He pulls away from his friend, casting his eyes around the empty camp. 

“I didn’t realize you could conjure illusions like this,” Church remarks curiously. “What else are you hiding from me?”

Tavi chuckles. 

“It took some effort, and it’s not perfect… but I think I did fairly well,” Tavi shrugs. “And while all of this camp is an illusion…”

He leans down to nuzzle against Church’s head, nose bumping affectionately against his horns. 

“…this isn’t.”

Church aches like never before. 

—

It’s still twilight when the disheveled warlock wakes up back inside of the cave — shivering and alone. Tavi’s warm touch is a mere memory tingling at his waist. A blanket has been hastily tucked around him, but beyond that there’s no sign of his companion from the night before. 

It’s not the first time, Church reminds himself. He tries to quash the resentment and disappointment burning inside of his chest — as well as the aches everywhere else around his body. A cold dunk in the river sounds excellent right about now. He’d hopefully be back to camp before too many others wake up from their raucous night. 

He’d hate to have to field any questions about where he’d been, especially when the person he stole away with wanted nothing to do with him. 

Stop it, he scolds himself. You both had a good time. That’s all this was — a morale boost before you go back into the figurative hells.

But for a morale boost, Church feels lower than ever.

—

Sitting near the ledge outside, Astarion fidgets with the starry ring around his finger, watching as Church moves gingerly about the cave. The tiefling folds the blanket under his arm before leaving their hideaway, passing by the invisible elf without a second glance.

To his surprise, Astarion gets no gratification from seeing Church’s sullen expression. His hope was that remaining aloof would keep the tiefling intrigued by the chase, but something in his frown leaves the elf discomfited by the idea. 

Church may be a fool, but he doesn’t deserve this.  

The rogue follows the warlock into the woods, watching as he pauses to bend down and pick an odd-looking red flower. Church smiles at it, inhaling its scent deeply. And then he frowns, letting the flower drop to the ground as he sighs and continues back towards the camp. 

“You stupid idiot,” the tiefling mutters to himself. 

Astarion twists the star upon his ring, ending his invisibility as he clears his throat. 

Church whirls around in an instant, and his eyes widen at the sight of Astarion. A smile — a splendid, sunny smile — blossoms across the tiefling’s tired face. 

“Gods, Shadowheart was right,” he huffs a laugh. “We need to put a bell on you.” 

“Good morning to you too,” Astarion says genially, approaching him easily. “How did you sleep?”

Church gives him a withering look. “About as comfortably as one can on a stone cave floor,” he says pointedly. 

He glances away, frowning. “Look… you could have at least woken me up and told me you were leaving. No one’s exactly safe sleeping in a cave half-naked, you know?”

“I only left just a bit ago for a little constitutional,” Astarion lies, as if he didn’t just spend the whole night guarding over the tiefling as he slept from a distance. “I just came back to find you gone.”

Church instantly blushes in embarrassment at that. 

“Oh,” he says sheepishly. “Well. I’m sorry for just assuming…”

“Again, the assumptions,” Astarion grouses. “I’m far more chivalrous than y—”

Church nearly stumbles as he hurries back to the elf, pressing a relieved kiss to his lips. Astarion smirks to himself as the tiefling steps back quickly, blushing. There he is — back on the line. 

“Thank you for coming back,” Church murmurs shyly. 

“Of course, darling,” Astarion says gallantly, slipping off the starry ring into his pocket. “Why wouldn’t I?”

—

Astarion finds the tiefling more than amenable to taking an early-morning dip into the river. The deep blue sky grows lighter before tinting dark pink and gold, reflecting off of the ripples — and then splashes — the two make as their bathing grows steadily more involved and indulgent. 

For the spawn, it’s an opportunity to rewrite the events of the previous night. As he pins the gasping, laughing warlock against the riverbank and wrings pleasure from him in the shallows, the spawn takes great care to prove to Church that he is indeed capable of climaxing at the tiefling’s touch — quite exuberantly, in fact. It’s exhausting, but with Church’s hungry mouth moaning happily against Astarion’s wet neck, the elf is sure that the venture will be enough to sufficiently bolster their already brittle bond. 

…and Astarion has to admit — with Church, it’s not too unpleasant either. 

At least their river encounter still leaves them both feeling relatively clean and refreshed afterwards. As they dry off with help from the tiefling’s prestidigitation, the spawn begrudgingly endures Church’s distastefully tender touches that send shivers down his spine. But he keeps a pleased smile on his face the whole time, showering the tiefling with enough compliments and affectionate caresses of his own to keep him none the wiser. 

“While you were out — did you manage to hunt anything to fill you up?” Church asks Astarion as they finally make the trek back towards camp. 

“Er… no,” Astarion wheedles. “The party must have scared all the wildlife away.”

“Ah, that’s a damn shame,” Church sighs sympathetically. “We could set a trap, or…?”

Astarion flings an arm out, shushing him. 

“That won’t be necessarily, darling,” he whispers excitedly. 

There about sixty meters ahead is an unsuspecting deer — a young buck shedding velvet from his antlers in ragged, bloody strips. No wonder Astarion can smell him so keenly…

Church stays silent and frozen in place, his yellow eyes blinking in fascination through the low light. Astarion places a finger to his lips as he looks back at the tiefling before disappearing completely into the shadows. 

The rogue stalks silently towards the deer, who munches obliviously on some ground cover as it steps daintily over the forest floor, its breath fogging into the chilly morning air. Its dark eyes blink dully as it eats, but in its blood Astarion can smell a gentle, thoughtless contentedness as it grazes. 

SNAP!

That bliss rockets into terror and alarm as an accursed twig breaks beneath Astarion’s foot, and the deer bolts away in an instant. The spawn gives chase with a curse upon his breath. “Damn it all!”

But before the deer can make it out of the clearing, a crackling burst of rosy magic engulfs the creature. He staggers upon his shaky legs before his momentum sends him spinning to collapse limp upon the forest floor. 

Astarion’s gaze flicks up to spot Church’s yellow eyes blinking from behind a tree. 

“You almost had him!” the warlock calls encouragingly. 

Astarion sighs deeply as he jogs up to the prone deer — its abdomen steadily rising and falling in a deep sleep. 

“Well this is hardly sporting,” Astarion complains without much conviction. 

“What, because it’s merciful?” Church asks dryly. “His pleasant dreams of meadows and herbs will make for a mellow taste, I imagine.” He shrugs. “I could always wake him up if you felt like running again.”

“…no thank you, darling,” Astarion says graciously, lowering himself gingerly beside the buck’s snoozing body. “I suppose that after the night you gave me, I don’t have much fight left in me anyways.”

Church glances away with a frown as Astarion shrugs and dives into one of the deer’s arteries with a hiss. But the spawn can sense the tiefling looking back to watch him curiously as he feeds, gulping down and draining the deer in just over a minute. 

“You know, I’ve… never seen you be so… thorough,” Church remarks. “I suppose you never have time to really drain anyone completely dry during a battle…”

“…at least not when you’re looking,” Astarion says thickly as he gulps, wiping at his mouth. He feels… not nearly as euphoric as Church’s blood had left him last night, but certainly satisfied. For now. 

“Huh. Didn’t think you were so bashful,” Church says dryly. 

“A lady always leaves something on her plate,” Astarion replies loftily. He stretches upon his knees, raising his eyes to the tiefling and smacking his lips as he sucks daintily upon his bloodied fingers. “See something you like, darling?”

Church rolls his eyes as he grins, but just as he opens his mouth to respond, a movement in the bushes jolts them both up in alarm. 

“Not a sound!” Astarion projects into Church’s brain, surprised by how much easier and less painful it is this time around. He imagines that he can thank the new parasite for that. 

Either way, Church obediently stays stock-still — aside from wadding up some of the Weave in his fist, ready to blast whatever approaches. 

But the new arrival moves clumsily as it tentatively enters the clearing, cracking twigs and rustling foliage underfoot. Church utters a small gasp as it slowly reveals itself from the thicket. 

It’s that wretched owlbear cub — without a doubt the same one they had liberated from the Goblin Camp. 

His huge, round eyes ogle at the two men fearfully, but something keeps him from running off as he curiously sniffs the air. Astarion hears Church move slowly to his side, and when he looks over, the tiefling is staring back at the creature in delighted awe. 

“He made it!” Church thinks excitedly to the elf. 

“No sudden movements, darling,” Astarion replies hastily, but to his chagrin the warlock seems to dissipate the Weave over himself before moving cautiously towards the creature. “Church! What are you—?”

The tiefling hoots softly at the thing. 

…ah, yes — Astarion forgot he could do that. 

The owlbear cub blinks his enormous orange eyes and tilts his head curiously at the warlock. After a moment’s hesitation, the owlbear hoots eagerly back, pawing restlessly at the ground. 

“He’s hungry,” Church says aloud, softly. “Come on — you’re done with this, right?”

The tiefling gently grabs onto Astarion’s sleeve and pulls him carefully around to the other side of the deer’s exsanguinated carcass. Backing away, the elf watches in amazement as the tiefling crouches down beside the deer, beckoning the cub forward with a few more odd hoots. 

The owlbear barely hesitates before shuffling up to the carcass, latching onto it with its enormous paws as it begins to tear noisily through the deer’s skin and munch upon the soft underbelly. He vocalizes a few more happy, muffled hoots as he continues to feast. 

“Poor thing,” Church murmurs. “He didn’t even get to learn how to hunt for himself before they took his mother from him.”

“Hmm,” Astarion drawls, intrigued by this turn of events. “What a delectable little pet.”

The warlock tentatively reaches out a hand — possibly to pet the owlbear’s head of all things. But the cub startles and screeches at his touch, immediately turning tail and bolting away into the forest.

…well, so much for that. 

“Oh now look,” Astarion pouts, “you’ve scared off the little snack!”

In the ensuing silence, Church drops his hand with a disappointed sigh. 

“Sorry darling,” Astarion adds with a chuckle. “See? Not everyone likes a cuddle.”

He gestures down at the now-ravaged carcass. “What should we do with this then? Bring it back for the others?”

“Nah, let’s leave it,” Church frowns. “He might come back after we leave.”

The spawn sighs as the tiefling leads them both back in the direction of camp. 

“You just have a soft spot for the bloodthirsty ones, don’t you?” Astarion teases him fondly. 

Church huffs a laugh, silently shooting him a shy, knowing smile. 

Chapter Text

The Grymforge reminds Church unnervingly of home — or, rather, the ancient temple hidden deep beneath the newer church that made up the Mother’s body.

The main difference is the lighting and temperature. Here in the Underdark, the volcanic environs have illuminated the dark stone reliefs and heated the torrid atmosphere, while the temple below Church’s home had always been dark and cold.

Crawling through the temple’s crumbling tunnels, leaping from fallen column to fallen column, and talking to statues of long-forgotten deities was how Church kept himself entertained for years. Mother played with him too, of course, but for the most part she was content to let him explore on his own. After all, there were no escapes out from its depths.

…or so she thought.

One time, Church managed to climb his way down into a chasm. Behind a crevasse, he found a tunnel of sorts that breathed an inviting wind at him from its shadows. He followed it into the darkness for as long as he could, but eventually he just woke up back in his own bed — as if it had all been a dream. The next time he went down to seek out that tunnel, he found it conveniently caved-in.

While not a cheery place, Church decides that he prefers the Grymforge by far. So many artifacts remain intact for them to peruse. It’s exciting… and eerie.

It’s also relatively peaceful, compared to the rest of their Underdark adventures these past two days. They had fought a couple beholders outside of a Selûnite outpost and fended off a few disagreeable drows, hook horrors, and Minotaurs. Church also may have become a god to a clan of Kuo-Toa, the consequences of which he has yet to discover. 

He would still not entirely be sure that the last part wasn’t a fungi-induced hallucination, if it weren’t for Astarion, Karlach, and Shadowheart’s relentless teasing of “Milord Mahkloompah” and “Your Fishiness.” 

Meanwhile in the vacated Grymforge, another kind of “worship” in the little privacy Astarion and Church manage to steal is far more agreeable. After the party makes camp to prepare for their expedition, Church delights in a particularly frantic and (mostly) clothed tryst with Astarion out of the rest of their party’s eyesight. The danger of the Underdark curiously heightens the pleasure the two men furtively pull from the other.

Church even begins to believe that Astarion truly enjoys it — enjoys him — this time… especially as the elf smothers his mischievous giggle into Church’s chest while Karlach strolls unknowingly past their hiding place. 

Shadowheart at least seems grateful that they have returned to these Sharran ruins, and she doesn’t seem to mind that her new armor had been pried off of a Dark Justiciar’s crumbling skeleton. She hesitates as Church hands her the pieces, protesting that she hasn’t yet been inducted as a Dark Justiciar, and it wouldn’t be right for her to wear one’s mantle. But she quickly drops that argument as she admires the full weight of the grand armor upon her shoulders. She stands tall and strong, her air far more confident as she leads them in traipsing through the darkness.

Despite the stillness and relative silence of everything, this unexplored part of the Grymforge is absolutely riddled with traps ready to spring. The party waits nervously in a corridor as Astarion carefully creeps along a span of bridge, disarming their triggers along the way. Church feels his heart race as he watches the rogue move further away, scarcely daring his eyes to blink.

“You’re sweating,” Shadowheart observes mildly.

“It’s the magma,” Church mutters dismissively. “This place is sweltering.”

“He’s almost at the other end,” she points out, uncharacteristically reassuring. “I think you can start breathing again in just a minute.”

Indeed, after a long moment, they hear a soft rattling echo from the other end of the bridge.

“Fuck!” Astarion curses. “You can all come now. I’m just opening this… damned… thing.”

The party jogs nervously across the bridge, joining the elf outside of a remarkably sturdy gate. Astarion seems to be searching for some kind of lock to pick, or any other weakness to exploit.

“There’s a mechanism attached to this,” Church observes, squinting into the darkness. “There!” he nods towards a lever obscured on the other side. “Maybe I can…”

His mage hand shimmers into existence, floating through the bars of the gate to pull the lever down. The gate squeals open for the party as Astarion stands up, wiping at his forehead and fixing his hair indignantly.

“Well, then,” he sulks. “Go on.”

Karlach and Shadowheart break off to clamber down a ladder, investigating the next level and leaving the two men behind to search the room. Once he ascertains that no traps remain, Astarion heads straight to a gilded chest. Meanwhile, Church approaches a pedestal upon which perches a curious idol of Shar herself, intricately-carved from black marble.

“The Lady of Loss may not be my cup of tea, but she sure is gorgeous,” the warlock mutters to Astarion, admiring the detail carved into the idol. It doesn’t seem secured to its pedestal…

He feels a light tap upon his shoulder.

“Look at this,” Astarion says brightly, shaking out a bundle of heavy fabric. “Now this is quite handsome, isn’t it?”

It’s a gorgeous woven robe of sapphire blue, trimmed with gold piping and accented with a sash of deep purple. The meager light of the ruins reflects off of flowing, golden embroidery upon its sleeves and hem. More importantly, Church can sense the Weave practically buzzing among the robe’s fibers. It’s not only beautiful — it’s far sturdier and more potent than it seems. 

From Astarion’s smirk, he knows that the elf can see his eyes shine as he examines it.

“Gale would love this,” Church murmurs softly.

Astarion scoffs.

“Gale? No, darling,” he laughs. “It would be a far better color on you, don’t you think?” The rogue presses the robe into the warlock’s hands. “Now go on and — ow!”

A crackle of static sends him grimacing and recoiling sharply as the amused warlock pulls it from his hands.

“It feels like a storm,” Church murmurs in awe. 

“Bloody thing,” Astarion grumbles. “Why would something locked away and untouched be so staticky?”

Church grins, examining the robe closer as his fluff of hair slowly stands on end. “That’s its enchantment,” he explains with growing excitement. “And my staff…” he plucks it from where it rests against the wall, watching how it crackles in response with electricity. “…I think it found its friend,” he chuckles.

“A match made in heaven,” Astarion says lightly. “Well go on, then.”

Church blinks at him. 

“What?” he asks, but his face betrays that he knows very well what the elf is suggesting. 

“Your padded armor has seen better days,” Astarion notes, casting a critical eye down the tiefling’s body. “Especially ever since your little hobgoblin incident. Why not make this a fresh start?”

“Right now?” Church asks, huffing a laugh of disbelief. 

“I won’t peek,” Astarion sighs, emphatically turning his back to him. 

“Oh come on — I’m not getting naked,” Church chuckles nervously. “But I appreciate the thought.”

Self-consciously, the warlock begins to untie the jerkin of his sweaty, scorched, and bloodstained padded armor. It’s honestly an immense relief to shed it in the oppressive heat. Surely the robe will be lighter and far more breathable…

As he hears the soft sound of a belt being secured around the tiefling’s waist, Astarion turns back around, appreciating the show of his own making. Church’s heart soars as the elf looks him up and down in quiet surprise. His smile is remarkably gentler and fonder than the warlock has ever seen from him. It’s a beautiful thing — far more genuine than the leer Church has so often seen perched upon his companion’s face.

“Oh, that’s lovely, darling,” Astarion chuckles, reaching to straighten out the flared collar of the robe. “Like it was made for you.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” Church grins back at him.

“And good taste,” Astarion murmurs, wrapping a hand around the back of the tiefling’s neck. “You’re welcome.”

The tiefling hums happily as the elf pulls him in for a firm kiss, his lips nipping playfully against his own.

“…I would’ve started wearing robes sooner if I knew you were into that kind of thing,” Church mutters wryly as they break apart.

“Well, it’s the color that makes this one shine in particular,” Astarion explains, before his smile turns into something far more salacious as his wandering hand gropes lower. “And it’s the access that makes it…”

With another sharp snap and a yelp, he yanks his hand back.

Church smirks at him, crossing his arms.

“Now now,” he chides him lightly, nodding over towards the pedestal. “We’ve got company, after all.”

—

Without the weight of his old armor and with the magic flowing around his new robes, Church explores the rest of the Grymforge with a spring in his step — and the idol of Shar wrapped and secured safely in his pack. He wonders if Shadowheart might appreciate it later, but soon he also wonders if the artifact will even make it out of the Grymforge in one piece, with all it decides to throw at them.

After clambering up through a cavern and leaping across a chasm, they find their quarry on the other end of a scattered mess of old weapons and piles of armor —

The Adamantine Forge.

“Oh my, those drows would have been pissed,” Astarion guffaws. “It was just here the whole time!”

“I don’t understand how this could have gone undiscovered for so long,” Shadowheart says idly. “All that kept it from the Duergar was a pile of rocks.”

“Eugh, it feels like Avernus in here,” Karlach wrinkles her nose. “…but damn, that is a helluva view. Gods.”

As they search the forge’s workshop itself, they come across several molds for weapons and armor — which perks Karlach up immediately. Their nosiness also draws the attention of a few sets of animated armor that clank aggressively towards the party.

Once they have been dispatched, Church flops into a seat in the workshop’s ruined study. Karlach does the same nearby, letting out a low whistle.

“So all these molds,” she nods towards the monolithic structure below. “My money’s on them fitting into that big-ass forge down there.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Church smiles at her, wearily wiping at his grimy face. “But we don’t have the mithril to make anything with that.”

“Then let’s find some!” the other tiefling grins. “You read the same letters as me — there’s gotta be an exposed vein somewhere here.”

“You’re right,” Church sighs, falling back in his chair to stare up at the cavernous ceiling. 

“Just stay put and rest, alright?” Karlach taps on the arm of his chair with a smile. “I’ll see if anyone else wants to take a look with me.”

“Don’t go too far, alright?” Church murmurs sleepily, his bones aching from exertion.

He’s gotten rather used to the heat of the forge by now. It doesn’t seem so bad anymore, but perhaps that’s both his and Karlach’s infernal heritage protecting them. Meanwhile, Astarion and Shadowheart have been sweating buckets. Church would be surprised if they felt up to exploring with Karlach at all.

He lets his heavy eyelids drop shut…

…and seemingly in no time at all, he finds himself being shaken violently awake.

“Good gods — wake up!”

Astarion hauls him bodily to his feet. Down below, Church can hear the distant sounds of fighting — namely, Karlach’s roar and the squawks and shrieks of unfriendly locals.

“Right—!” Shocked awake by adrenaline, the warlock latches hold of Astarion and casts dimension door. They burst out of the air into the crumbling library below, joining the battle.

“You—you really need to warn me when you—!” Astarion squawks before slapping reflexively at a shrieking mephit.

“Yeah it’s a bad habit — sorry!” Church blasts the same creature away. This time, the eldritch force lights up and crackles with electricity, rocketing the mephit backwards before it explodes against the rocks in an incendiary burst of magma and lightning.

“Another ‘party trick?’ ” Astarion drawls as he shoots an arrow at another, which is swiftly knocked straight into the magma by Karlach’s greataxe. 

“Something like that!” Church grunts, imbuing his next blast with electricity once more. “Not as fun as the other one, but—!”

A dive-bombing mephit sends the tiefling stumbling alarmingly close to the ledge, and for a terrifying second he teeters over it towards the magma. Fortunately, Astarion yanks him roughly back by his collar to safety. The warlock stumbles before gratefully blasting the offending mephit away to explode against the rocks.

Soon, the only sounds left are the background rumbling of the vast cavern and the sluggish bubbling of magma around them. Karlach and Shadowheart climb gingerly down from the rocks, joining the men in the ruined library. 

“Oh come on, we could have handled that on our own!” Karlach chuckles sheepishly.

“‘Oh come on,’” Astarion mimics her scornfully. “I was watching from up there, and I saw Shadowheart miss those mephits five separate times.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Shadowheart says peevishly. “I didn’t exactly expect them to explode.” As emphasis, she illuminates momentarily with a flare of blue healing light.

In the aftermath of the scuffle, the party curiously takes in their surroundings.

“How the devil are these books still intact?” Astarion wonders aloud, fascinated. 

“That’s the first thing you point out?” Karlach teases him. “Wow, Church really is rubbing off on you, isn’t he?”

Astarion fixes her with a smug expression. “That’s not the only thing that he’s been…”

“Mithril!” the warlock blurts, suddenly. “Right over there — where the mephit exploded!”

Sure enough, the igneous rock has crumbled away to reveal a vein of metal, shimmering with a silvery light that can hardly be a reflection of the magma.

“How fortuitous,” Astarion shoots a smirk over at Karlach, who bounces excitedly upon her feet.

“Alright! So we’re playing with the forge then, right?” she whines.

“We’re playing with the forge,” Church sighs indulgently.

”Fuck yes!”

Karlach’s whoop echoes joyously throughout the cavern.

—

That joy doesn’t last long, for awakening the Adamantine Forge wakes something else entirely. 

Church already feels somewhat unbalanced after he and Astarion risked exploring an area to the side of the forge. After dodging bursts of magma and a lumbering elemental, they had recovered a cursed amulet disconcertingly-possessed by a laughing monk.

Now, the sight of the massive, burning adamantine behemoth leaves the warlock weak-kneed.

“Oh…” Church utters, letting go of the valve’s wheel and taking a slow step backwards.

“…that’s ‘Grym!’” Shadowheart realizes aloud, frantically blessing her companions as they scramble away from the valve’s flood of lava. “Watch out!”

With a resonating, deafening clank, the golem trudges towards the party — its spiky, club-like arm raised. Church instinctively sends an eldritch blast towards it… to no avail.

While explosive, his attack dissipates harmlessly against the golem’s armor. It freezes momentarily before slowly turning its haloed head towards the tiefling, illuminating his dismayed face with a dancing, menacing red light.

“Shit!”  

He dives out of the way just in time to dodge the swing of the golem’s arm, but the seismic impact of its crushing weight throws him clean off of his feet. He lands flat on his back, the wind knocked right out of his lungs.

From the other side of Grym, Karlach leaps onto the valve’s island with a roar, cleaving her greataxe towards one of the golem’s joints. It glances off harmlessly, sending her staggering backwards as the golem shifts its gaze slowly towards her instead.

“Right!” Karlach hollers urgently over to Shadowheart and Astarion. “Force! Slashing! Both null! Any other ideas?”

Astarion grimaces dubiously up at the golem, leaping towards the next platform and out of range of Grym’s devastating arms. From where he struggles to stand, Church dazedly sees the rogue shooting an ice arrow towards the exposed, glowing gaps in the golem’s armor.

The arrow disappears into Grym’s inferno without so much as a sizzle. But whether intentionally or not, it certainly draws his attention.

The golem trudges determinedly towards Astarion’s platform, no longer inhibited by the lava that has rapidly drained away from the platform. Church leaps to his feet, eyes looking wildly around. There — on Astarion’s island — is the lever for the forge’s hammer. As Karlach shouts a warning to Astarion, Church races towards the island opposite of him.

Breathlessly, the warlock takes aim and lets loose another eldritch blast. Again, Grym swivels its gaze towards him and thankfully turns away from Astarion, strolling through the center of the forge, accelerating alarmingly with each step.

“The lever!” Church shouts frantically at Astarion and Shadowheart. “Pull it! Now!”

The hammer slams down explosively, just clipping Grym’s shoulder. It’s enough to knock the golem to its knees, but it doesn’t even have to shake itself before it rises back to its feet.

“Well it was a good thought, darling!” Astarion calls from across the platform. “Now get the fuck out of there!”

Church manages to misty step to the next island just as Grym’s strike is about to connect with him. The warlock stumbles out of the air with a groan, his magic already depleted. He could manage a few more blasts — not that it would help against the golem. If only they could figure out what kind of damage would soften it up…

…wait. 

Soften!

“Astarion!” Church shouts urgently. “The valve!”

Without so much as a question, the elf sprints towards the valve — glancing at Church in alarm as Grym takes yet another swing towards him — before turning the wheel.

Or attempting to, anyways.

“It’s… stuck!” Astarion growls. “Karlach — damn it!”

Karlach had been attempting to hack off Grym’s arm, only for it to retaliate by slamming right on top of the nearby Shadowheart, smashing her into the ground. 

She doesn’t get up, and as Church watches in horror, he sees a pool of blood seep sluggishly under her head.

“Shadowheart!” the warlock cries out in anguish. He blasts the golem again — just enough to buy his friend some precious time. Karlach leaps in front of their prone companion with a roar to strike at Grym. She distracts the golem long enough to allow Church to run back across the platform, joining Astarion as the rogue continues to struggle with the valve.

“Fuck!” the elf curses, staggering and shaking out his arms frustratedly. 

“Something in the mechanism must’ve warped with all the heat!” Church strains as he attempts to turn the valve as well. “Gods… come on!”

Shadowheart’s spiritual weapon dissipates with a final blow from Grym. With a satisfied whir, it decides to turn its vengeful eye towards the two men struggling with the valve. A telltale shrieking informs them all that a company of magma mephits have been drawn to the platform by the clamor.

“Hurry up, darling!” Astarion calls urgently, shooting down one of the mephits as he moves away from the warlock.

“Damn it,” Church pants, slumping against the stubborn valve. “Fine… Mother!”

The subsequent groan of metal has Astarion briefly glancing back at the tiefling, gawking in amazement as Church — eyes and panting mouth weeping shadow — slowly manages to turn the valve open.

“Everyone get to high ground!” Astarion barks. He doesn’t have time to repeat himself despite Karlach’s look of panicked confusion, but she scoops up Shadowheart’s limp body and scrambles up to an island as the lava begins to spill back into the channels of the platform. Grym’s armor looks especially intimidating now as it sizzles and glows as red-hot as its core, but it’s exactly what Church had hoped for.

“Now!” he cries out. “Give it all you got!”

Karlach aims her crossbow at Grym. 

“Get out!” she warns the men, before shooting an explosive arrow at the golem. This time, the superheated golem staggers at the impact, its adamantine carapace groaning and finally denting where hit.

Temporarily safe from the golem’s threat assessment, Church attempts to shake the darkness out of his eyes. They remain smoldering as he turns to beseech Astarion.

“Go to the lever — be ready to pull!” he orders, blasting away a mephit. “I’ll try to bait it back under the hammer!”

Astarion nods quickly before the two men take a running leap over the lava towards the next island. While the elf readies himself by the lever, Church takes aim at Grym, who has been occupied by the relentless ire of a raging Karlach’s greataxe.

The warlock blasts at the golem again, and as predicted it turns around and bears down upon their island, superheated club raised. Its feet move easier now as the lava begins to once again drain away.

“Now!” Church shouts, but Astarion is already pulling the lever, sending the hammer crashing down square on top of the golem, knocking it prone to the ground. “Again!”

“—AGH!”

Church turns just in time to join him in getting a faceful of mephit fire and flurrying claws. An unwise, instinctive eldritch blast escapes the warlock’s fingers, which just causes the mephit to explode — raining fire and scalding viscera upon the two of them.

“Damn it, Church!” Astarion shouts hoarsely, slapping at his burning armor.

“Sorry! I’m so sorr—!”

Church sees and feels the hulking shadow fall across them both just as Astarion’s eyes grow wide in terror. But before the warlock can say or do anything, the rogue shoves him — hard.

He topples backwards just in time to see Grym bring the full might of its spiked arm down upon Astarion — 

Again.

And again. 

The horrified tiefling gets an eyeful of the elf — broken, bloodied, and twitching feebly upon the ground.

“No!” the warlock screams hoarsely, shadows again billowing from his mouth. “Fuck you! Fuck—!” He blasts Grym, desperate to draw the golem away from whatever remains of Astarion. “Get over here! Get—!”

“Valve! Valve! Valve!” Karlach shouts urgently from across the platform. Church feels the heat of the lava racing towards him, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get Grym away from Astarion by any means necessary.

The warlock stumbles backwards as he retreats deliberately back towards the center of the platform, baiting the menacing golem after him — right under the head of the hammer.

“Church!” Karlach screams, fumbling as she takes aim with her crossbow. “What are you—?”

“Don’t!” Church shouts back. “It’ll work!”

It has to work! He insists to himself, wadding up the Weave and taking aim at the lever behind the advancing golem. His stomach drops as he sees the bloodied mess of silvery-white hair beside the lever go very, very still.

Church sends the eldritch blast hurtling towards the lever while instantaneously throwing himself out of the way of its immutable force.

The satisfying CRUNCH of Grym’s carapace beneath the hammer does little to soothe the anguish shaking Church to his core. He tries in vain not to look at Astarion’s body, blasting the prone Grym over and over again while Karlach roars and crushes in its head with a flying leap.

“I’ve got it!” Karlach growls at the other tiefling, jerking her head in the direction of Astarion. “Shadowheart’s fine! Go get him!”

—

Astarion is right where Church and Grym had left him — crumpled beside the lever. As the platform trembles with Karlach’s last few enraged blows, Church falls to his knees beside Astarion, eyes flicking wild and frantic over his broken body. At least the elf doesn’t seem completely pulverized — Church isn’t sure he would have been able to handle the sight of that. Still, Astarion’s bruised eyes are bloody and unseeing, and the tiefling feels a sob catch in his throat as he brushes his fingers gently against his companion’s bloodied flesh.

He instinctively searches for a pulse… the barest trace of breath… anything. 

…and then he kicks himself, grimacing. The spawn is undead, for gods’ sake. So instead, the warlock feels for the inherent strands of the Weave that have always clung to the elf by way of his fey heritage.

But to Church’s dismay, the threads have been severed — the Weave ignoring the spawn’s flesh and bone beneath its currents. Even in the unbearable heat of the forge, Church feels himself go cold.

He’s dead. He’s dead…

“I’m not done with you, damn it!” Church chokes as he digs around in his pack. He pulls out a precious Scroll of Revivify, shaking it unceremoniously open. “Hold on, love. Please, hold on…!”

Tavi! Church pleads urgently — agonized — through his tadpole. Keep him safe. Please, I need him back!

He doesn’t wait for a response as he recites the contents of the scroll aloud, letting the incantation flow off of his tongue and channel through the paper, rendering its runes into golden sparks. Those sparks tangle into the Weave as they fly purposefully towards the dead-undead elf, embedding themselves into what remains of his wounded eyes, mouth, heart, and brain…

Fixing him just as he had fixed Church just days before.

All the while, the tiefling’s other hand entangles with Astarion’s bloodied, broken fingers. And with the last rune melting upon the elf’s bloodied lips, Church watches shakily as the sparks spread and illuminate the entirety of Astarion’s broken body.

“Tavi,” Church implores in a whisper yet again, dropping the scroll to stroke a thumb across the sticky, undead blood upon Astarion’s broken jaw. “Please tell me you caught him, like you caught me.”

And to his relief, the artefact in his pocket quivers in reassurance.

“See for yourself,” comes that wry, even voice.

—

Astarion blinks up at the span of the Astral Sea.

“Sebastian, darling?” he calls nervously. “Are you out there?”

“Of course.” 

The guardian’s armor rattles gently as he approaches.

“You fool,” Sebastian’s thin voice chuckles ruefully. “What were you thinking?”

Thinking? Astarion has no idea. When he tries to recall what he was doing before he awoke here on the Astral Plane, all he remembers is… static.

“You have me at a disadvantage, darling,” he says lightly, pushing himself to his feet. He tilts his head at Sebastian’s reproachful expression. “Remind me why you’re pouting?”

“You’re smart enough to connect the dots, Astarion,” Sebastian says flatly. “Don’t you remember what Church said he experienced before you revived him?”

”You kept him safe,” Astarion recalls, his brow furrowing.

“Yes,” Sebastian murmurs, reaching out to envelope the elf’s stiff hand in his. “And now I’m doing the same for you.”

They stand there together for a moment, gazing out towards where a storm rages around the shielded, petrified skull in the distance.

”But who’s keeping you safe, Sebastian?” Astarion asks quietly.

“That’s nothing you have to concern yourself with,” Sebastian replies gently. “But if you truly want to help me, recognize that you have stalled long enough here in the Underdark. You must lead the others to Moonrise Towers and find the source once and for all.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling them!” Astarion groans. “The fools are dragging their feet, and this Adamantine Forge has been a drag of its own.” He laughs, bitterly. “Namely, that fool Church…”

“Then why don’t you do what you do best and convince him?” Sebastian chides the spawn. “Why let him stand in your way? Don’t forget that you have the upper hand here.”

“He’s got it stuck in his head that he needs to be some kind of hero,” Astarion grumbles scornfully. “And, admittedly… we have gotten some absolutely delicious treasures and gear out of these distractions too.”

“You have spent all this time and effort earning his favor,” Sebastian says pointedly. “Isn’t it time you make use of your influence?”

“I already am,” Astarion drawls. “It’s going swimmingly.”

But then his smile twists, sardonically.

“…and of course, after all that work — I already trust him far more than I’ll ever trust you.”

Sebastian blinks at him, a hurt expression flitting across his handsome, youthful face.

“After everything I’ve done to help you,” he sighs despondently. “And after everything you did to me…!”

Astarion laughs softly, bitterly past the ache in his cold, dead heart.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he says scornfully. “I’m not an idiot — I know that the real Sebastian is dead because I saw it happen.”

The faint memory resurfaces — unwanted and insidious.

Cazador had seated himself comfortably beside the frozen, terrified boy, stroking clawed, pale fingers through his beautiful, long hair — still damp with sweat.

“What a specimen!” Cazador had marveled to Astarion, who kneeled in the corner of the room, eyes compelled to remain transfixed on the events that unfolded upon that accursed bed.

“I’m sure you smelled how sweet his blood was, didn’t you boy?”

“…yes, master,” Astarion mumbled.

“Speak clearly, boy!” Cazador snapped, and below him Sebastian whimpered in terror — it’s the most he can do while paralyzed by the vampire’s thrall.

“Yes, master!” Astarion amended hastily. “Absolutely delicious.”

“A virgin, ripened with pleasure,” Cazador crooned, cupping the boy’s face. “You did well, my child.” He scowled. “But he has gone sour with fear. Let us remedy this, shall we?”

Astarion stood up and approached, his mind screaming in silent horror. But Cazador wouldn’t let him dissociate this time. 

The spawn had no choice but to fix his gaze upon Sebastian’s beseeching, fearful gaze.

“Help… me…” the boy whispered, a tear leaking out of his jittering, honey-brown eyes.

But Astarion didn’t. He wouldn’t, even as Cazador took his pleasure and then — at the climax — drained the boy’s blood with obscene gusto. 

As much as his stomach churned hungrily for it, Astarion didn’t dare snake out his tongue to lick up the splatter that had reached his own lips.

His master had forbidden it.

But his master still willed him to watch and bear the horror of it all the same.

Here in the present, Sebastian’s soft gaze turns chilly.

“…and so you know,” he says flatly, reaching up to caress the elf’s face with icy fingers. “How clever of you.” 

Astarion can’t stop himself from flinching at the affectionate gesture. Even if it was the real Sebastian, such kindness would be unearned after what he did to him.

“What are you, then?” Astarion demands. “If not him?”

“You won’t know,” the guardian says coolly. “What matters is that I am the only one keeping you from becoming a thrall to yet another master.

”And even if you have this revelation again, and again, and again… you won’t ever be able to remember it long enough to tell.”

Astarion blinks.

Sebastian smiles sweetly at him, face as handsome and innocent as he has always wished to remember.

And then Astarion looks up, watching curiously as flakes of golden light begin to drift down like snow to settle upon his outstretched hand.

“It’s almost time,” Sebastian says softly, smiling beatifically as he withdraws his warm hand from Astarion’s cheek, eyes glowing purple. “Time to go.”

—

The golden light illuminates the whole mess of Astarion’s body, piecing it back together in Church’s arms. With the sensation of a deep sigh, the Weave summons his breath and mind back inside of that beautiful, bloodied, but reassembled face.

The elf lets out the tiniest groan, and Church could positively weep. He could shout. He could just…

Astarion’s bloodied eyelids crack open, squinting up at the tiefling hunched above him. Church leans back, relief washing through every inch of his soul.

“Oh gods, you’re alive!” he chokes. “It worked. Oh gods, it worked…”

He embraces the groaning elf clumsily before helping to pull him up to a seat. Astarion clings back onto him, dazed as he takes in their surroundings. 

His eyes widen as they fall upon the scroll discarded to Church’s side.

“Oh fuck,” the elf groans. “We only had two of those.”

But his eyes say far more than his disapproval. They seem fixed upon Church’s face, searching it with an expression filled with the conflicting emotions of apprehension, surprise, and awe. For his part, Church can’t tear his gaze from Astarion’s face either as he speaks — up until the elf jerks to the side with a harsh cough, spitting out globs of blood and whatever else remains in his newly-healed lungs.

“…well you won’t hear me complaining,” Astarion relents hoarsely in the wake of Church’s defensive explanation. 

When he sags back into the tiefling’s arms, his red eyes don’t leave Church’s face for what seems like an eternity.

And for some reason he can’t place, beneath all those sweet emotions of affection, relief, and awe…

Astarion feels fear.

Chapter Text

After their ordeal in the Underdark, the party returns to the surface eager to simply bask in the blinding, delicious sun. 

“Oh, I’ll never get sick of this,” Astarion groans, stretching languidly in its warmth. “Let’s never go down there again, alright?”

“Not anytime soon,” Church mumbles in agreement, collapsing back onto the grass as he breathes the coastal air in deep. 

“Come on, you lot,” Shadowheart affectionately nudges a boot into the warlock’s side. “No sleeping until we get back to camp.”

Astarion graciously accepts Church’s extended hand up, shooting him a coy look that leaves the warlock stammering and blushing. 

“Back to normal, huh?” Karlach mutters to Astarion as the other tiefling hurries after Shadowheart. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Astarion says lightly. “But you have to agree… that robe does something else entirely in the sunlight.”

—

Once they all have been sufficiently apprised of the grove’s leadership affairs, the exodus of the refugees, and all other regional developments, Church eagerly steals Astarion away to go bathe in the river together. This time, the tiefling pointedly remembers his soap, and they both are so keen to scrape the grime of the Underdark off of their skin anyways that splashy horseplay is the last thing on their minds. 

Astarion finds that it’s… pleasant, really — standing stark naked, waist deep in water conversing spiritedly with the tiefling about so many damned things. Astarion finds himself surprised by his own laughter erupting loudly, uncouthly, from his smiling mouth. 

The warlock gets him discussing religion, for gods’ sake. And all the while Church shines with a smile, his eyes sunnier than ever as the two lean into the river’s current. 

“You’re standing deeper, now,” he observes after a stretch of silence. 

“Baby steps, darling,” Astarion drawls. “But next you know, I’ll be swimming.”

“I could teach you?” Church offers, and damn him, he looks so earnest, even as he stands bare before him. “I’m not… amazing by any measure, but I know enough to survive. And it would be… helpful for you, I imagine,” he adds weakly. 

His face falls a little, but he hides it by ducking back under the water, surfacing with a loud gasp. 

“…was it that bad?” Astarion asks curiously. “I forgot I still had that much blood, when it was all over me…”

“I tried not to look too close,” Church admits, wiping at his face. “You were all — mostly — in one piece though. Just… crushed. Ugh.”

He grins sheepishly beneath pained eyes. “Is that enough detail for you?”

“I got the point,” the elf says dryly. 

“I suppose we’re even then.”

Astarion looks up at Church quizzically. 

“You revived me, I revived you,” the tiefling explains. “You owe me nothing.”

He shoots Astarion such a soft smile that it… scares him. 

The rogue curses himself. He spent all this time just standing with Church and none of it taking advantage of the opportunity to wind him up — maybe even use his enticing touch and honeyed words to pry another parasite out of the warlock’s closely-guarded pack. 

It’s regrettable, really. He has enjoyed just… talking with his companion, without ulterior motives. This is the most relaxed he’s seen Church outside of the aftermath of their sex, melting in post-coital bliss. 

But for some inexplicable reason, Astarion remains standing there companionably before him, flexing his hands experimentally as he watches the water flow around his pale fingers. 

”Here,” Church offers. “Do you need help cleaning off your back?”

Astarion hesitates. “Oh how sweet of you darling, but that won’t be necessary.”

The tiefling’s mouth twitches dubiously.

“…is it necessary?” Astarion asks vainly.

”There’s a lot of dried blood caught around your scars,” Church explains sheepishly. “I can try to prestidigitate it off if you’d prefer I don’t touch you.”

Astarion thinks for a moment, and then he relents and turns his back to the tiefling. He winces as the sponge makes the barest first contact upon the raised, scarred flesh. He wishes the sensation could be nearly as fun as it seems to be for the tiefling’s vestigial wings and ridges.

”Do you already know what they say?” Church asks quietly, curiously as he sponges gently along his back. “The scars?”

“Oh, no,” Astarion says dismissively. “I don’t need any more insight into Cazador’s insane perversions.”

Church is silent for a moment.

“You know that I can read Infernal, right?” he asks tentatively.

Astarion blinks. It… didn’t actually occur to him. He supposes he should have realized when Church had identified the script so quickly. And he’s a tiefling, after all…

“If you ever want to know what it says, I could read or transcribe it for you,” Church offers, wiping the sponge gently at its center. 

“I appreciate the thought,” Astarion says quickly, turning around and plucking the sponge from the startled tiefling’s hand. “All done?”

“All done,” Church affirms with a sheepish chuckle. “Gods, I wonder how any of the others manage to get all of it off on their own.”

“Well, personally I’m envious of Karlach,” Astarion says brightly, glad for a change in topic. “She probably can just burn or steam anything off, knowing her. And I imagine any body of water can turn into a hot bath with her in it.”

“Damn, you’re probably right,” Church grins at him. “Maybe I should be bathing with her instead.”

“You break my heart, darling!” Astarion reels back in mock affront. “Who’s going to scrub my back then?”

”I think I did spy Wyll and Shadowheart scrubbing each others’ backs at some point,” Church muses. 

“Really?” Astarion gasps, scandalized.

“Just scrubbing,” Church clarifies to him with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I was disappointed too.” He ponders to himself as he takes another quick dunk in the water. ”Gale could just cast prestidigitation,” he muses. “And Lae’zel…”

”She’s quite flexible, I’m sure she could just reach on her own,” Astarion hums dismissively. 

“Hm,” Church flashes him a smirk. “Flexible, huh?”

”Are you looking for details, darling?” Astarion covers his mouth coquettishly. “You cad. You did have an opportunity to just experience it all for yourself…”

Church splashes him and the spawn sputters indignantly before retaliating viciously. The sound of the tiefling’s wild laughter is something to behold — it’s so profoundly foreign and free.

Astarion envies him for it. 

“I think that paints an evocative picture on its own, thank you very much,” the tiefling chuckles breathlessly as he leaves the water to grab his towel, shivering. 

Astarion admires the constellations of droplets glittering upon his skin in the waning sunlight. Not nearly as many stars as the freckles on that perfect, malleable body…

“See something you like?”

Church smirks as he repeats Astarion’s question from nights ago. He doesn’t wait for an answer as he snickers, drying himself off and pulling on a fresh set of clothes. 

I do, Astarion realizes with an odd, warm rush of affection inside of him. I really do. 

An opportunity. 

“You mentioned swimming lessons earlier…” Astarion says thoughtfully as he wades out of the river, stretching shamelessly naked beside Church. “It reminded me… I promised to teach you to fight, didn’t I?”

Church huffs a laugh, turning around to scoop up Astarion’s clothes and offering the bundle to him. 

“You did,” he says curiously. “And I’m listening.”

—

The party begins to pack up their camp in earnest, but occasionally the adventurers take breaks to be entertained by the spectacle occurring near the river.

Astarion had said that this evening he would only be teaching Church the basics of wielding a single dagger, but it doesn’t take long before the warlock finds himself already practicing disarming maneuvers with the rogue. 

…or, rather, experiencing being disarmed by the amused rogue with a single flick of the elf’s wrist. 

Astarion hums critically. “You won’t do much good if you react by letting go of your weapon, you know?”

”Of course, of course,” the warlock laughs sheepishly. “Gods, I miss my staff.”

“Oh, tch — now I see. You’re used to reacting with your magic with that hand. Try switching them,” Astarion suggests. “You use your dominant hand to strike with your staff most of the time, anyways. It may feel more natural.”

The warlock hums in affirmation, studying his dagger thoughtfully as he switches hands. “Makes sense. Show me that reverse grip of yours again?”

”Save that for the bedroll!” Karlach shouts from nearby. Both her and Shadowheart dissolve into snickers as they duck away back towards the campfire.

”I’m not sure how I feel about having an audience,” Church grumbles as he settles himself back into the fighting stance Astarion had taught him. 

“Well, you know… I had thought it might be encouraging,” Astarion pretends to be apologetic. “But I’ll be sure to find us somewhere a tad more private next time.” 

It’s what he’s banking on. Getting the tiefling alone will no doubt have other benefits, and he’s sure he could make sure Church would quite enjoy it too.

The tiefling glances around, eyes lingering sheepishly upon Withers’ silent, impassive, but somehow always judgemental presence.

“How about now?” he asks, hushed. “The clearing, maybe?”

Astarion smirks, flourishing his dagger as he sheathes it.

”I like how you think,” he purrs. “Let’s steal away, darling.”

—

To his credit, Astarion does teach Church a few more techniques after they relocate their lesson to the clearing. 

The tiefling manages to disarm the rogue once, letting out an ecstatic shout of victory. Astarion flexes his hand and sighs indulgently, for he had of course allowed this for the sake of giving the warlock something to boost his confidence. 

But he doesn’t allow him too much, and as the tiefling drops his guard Astarion swiftly tackles him to the ground — knee upon his chest and his hand pinning both of the tiefling’s wrists above his head.

Church wheezes, the breath knocked out of him as he stares up wide-eyed at the rogue smirking down at him.

”...are you having déjà vu or is it just me?” the warlock laughs breathlessly, hand still loosely gripping his dagger. 

Thankfully this time, Astarion’s weight is carefully shifted off of the tiefling’s chest, and his grip is firm but far from malicious as he holds the blunt pommel of his dagger at the tiefling’s throat. The elf recalls their first meeting vividly — the warlock had been tense, filthy, and pained beneath him, swearing and struggling.

Now, Church looks quite relaxed and pleased with his current situation, daggers aside.

“How far we’ve come,” Astarion indulges him with a winning smile, spinning his dagger away and sheathing it. But he doesn’t do anything else as the tiefling gazes curiously, longingly up at him.

“So…” Church drawls, his voice husky as he catches his breath. “Are you going to let me go, or…?”

Astarion releases his wrists, but rather than move away, he slides his knee to the side, casually straddling the tiefling’s hips. He hums and swiftly plucks the dagger from Church’s loose grip, sitting up as he plays experimentally with the blade. The tiefling watches him — transfixed and nervous — and Astarion notes that despite no longer being restrained the warlock hasn’t moved his hands from where he left them above his head.

“This dagger is a quaint little thing, isn’t it?” Astarion murmurs, studying it closely.

“I don’t even know when I got it,” Church chuckles sheepishly. “Could have been off of a thrall on the Nautiloid, or even one of the goblins, or…”

“Why don’t you take this one?” Astarion says lightly, unbuckling one of his and pressing it into Church’s open hands. Taken aback, the tiefling holds it above him, studying it in its sheath.

”Oh!” he says in pleasant surprise. “It’s enchanted.” And then he recognizes it. “…didn’t I pull this from a piece of meat?” 

“You cut off Nere’s head with it too,” Astarion reminds him helpfully. 

“…how could I have forgotten?” Church says dryly. But then he looks up at Astarion in astonishment. “Wait, but this is yours, I can’t just…!”

”Oh, because I’m so attached to every weapon we pick up from every random roasted piece of meat,” Astarion says sarcastically. “I have at least a dozen enchanted daggers by now — including that lovely Sussur one we made together. I’m not going to miss this one.” He shrugs. “You’re the one who first spotted it, after all.”

Church huffs a laugh, still astonished as he places the dagger carefully to the side. 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, looking back up at Astarion with soft eyes shining with gratitude. He reaches up a hand to cradle his cheek. “Really. Thank you.”

As usual Astarion fights down the urge to flinch away from the touch, but he still feels some satisfaction to see the tiefling begin to shift and squirm a bit uncomfortably beneath him. He knows that he’s no doubt feeling the expected effects of the spawn being perched upon him like this. As much as Astarion dreads the sensation and inevitability of the tiefling hardening below him, he rolls his hips slightly as he shifts, falling forward to reward the exhausted tiefling with the kiss he’s clearly been aching for.

The rest is second nature, now, and Astarion lets his muscle memory take over.

Church draws in a shuddering breath as he pulls Astarion towards him, tasting and moaning against him. The elf grinds his hips more insistently as he lavishes upon the tiefling, drawing out a needy moan from the warlock as the pressure drags across his hardened front.

“O-oh,” Astarion hears him laugh amid the fog, vaguely aware of those taloned hands reaching out to grasp his hips. “Believe me, I’m grateful, but—“

He trails off and Astarion focuses himself back into the present to find the tiefling looking up into his face, brows slightly tilted in concern.

“What’s up?” Church asks softly. 

Astarion takes inventory of their current situation. Church’s pulse is racing, his cock rock-hard beneath the pressure of the elf’s hips. His mouth is wet from their hungry kisses, and his eyes…

They see too much.

“You, clearly,” Astarion quips, pressing himself down to mouth at the tiefling’s neck. Church’s breath stutters, but he gently brushes the elf away, searching his eyes.

“We don’t have to do this, you know?” Church offers, straining past the need plain upon his heavy breath and tightening at their junction. 

Astarion avoids his gaze, pulling himself out of those damned hands that don’t stop touching they never stop touching…!

“Hmm, I suppose we don’t,” he drawls coyly, sitting up. “Perhaps I can just leave, then?”

He pushes himself smoothly to his feet and steps away, leering down at the tiefling and daring him to let him go. He anticipates the whining, the begging, the feral desperation of an aroused man left hanging.

But Church simply remains silent as he sits up and stares back at him. His eyes don’t challenge his teasing. They simply watch him — wary and resigned. 

“Of course you’re free to leave,” Church says softly after a long moment. “I wouldn’t stop you. I understand.”

Astarion glares back at him, momentarily at a loss. Well… what can he do? If the tiefling is calling his bluff and Astarion stays for yet another tryst, then it gives Church the upper hand. But if Astarion leaves, he still holds the leash — leaving the tiefling hungry for more. That could be useful.

But it also means leaving the tiefling behind. Alone. And something about the notion of that has the spawn feeling discomfited. 

“I suppose I’ll take my leave, then,” Astarion says loftily as he begins to turn away. “I’d say that was a productive first lesson, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah. Thank you, again.” Church hesitates. “Astarion?”

The elf spares him a nonchalant glance over his shoulder. “Hm, yes?”

The tiefling hesitates once more. “Nothing. Just… have a good night.”

Astarion makes his decision and leaves. 

Church says nothing else as the elf saunters away into the forest. With each step, Astarion can practically feel the tiefling’s eyes burning into him, the tension tightening as the distance grows between them.

The elf ignores a pang of regret as he hears the tiefling let out a harsh, shaky breath.

Pathetic, Astarion hisses internally, but to be honest he’s not sure who he’s rebuking more. 

—

And to his distaste, the tiefling simply won’t leave his thoughts. 

Astarion curses himself for another wasted opportunity. He could have used this extra night to convince the tiefling to just skip the damn crèche and head to Moonrise Towers, per Sebastian’s direction. With all the travel and skirmishes they’ll inevitably encounter along the way, who knows when the next opportunity will arise?

The spawn frowns. He vaguely remembers that Sebastian had been upset at him about something the last time they spoke. But what was it…?

Ah, yes — he had been careless and crushed like an insect. He’d hate to disappoint their guardian yet again — not when Astarion had already failed him so much.

Eager for a distraction, the spawn preoccupies himself by going on a hunt, hoping to take out his frustration at himself on some unfortunate deer. 

He has no such luck, unfortunately. Perhaps he’s simply too distracted. 

…or perhaps he’s being followed. Sure enough, he finally hears the snap of twigs as something else moves in the forest towards him. 

It smells… delicious. And… familiar? 

Oh. 

He straightens up as the footsteps come closer. 

“Astarion, it’s me,” Church calls, his voice soft and hoarse. He emerges from the trees with his cloak hastily draped over his camp clothes, fiddling with his elbows as he draws his arms tight across his chest. He seems to struggle to look up at the elf amid the dappled moonlight. “Listen, can we talk?”

“Can we?” Astarion sniffs. “I suppose we can.” He gestures irritably around them. “No wonder I can’t find any deer. Your bumbling must have scared them off.”

Church huffs a laugh. “Apologies,” he says dryly. “How about I make it up to you?”

He reaches up and Astarion’s eyes follow his hand as he tugs his collar down, exposing a stretch of gray, freckled neck. 

“Clear your head,” the tiefling says softly. “And then… let’s talk?”

It’s an enticing invitation. How could Astarion refuse? There’s no loss to him — except potentially being trapped in an awkward conversation. Otherwise, he gets his energy back, and he gets Church back in his pocket. 

Win, win. 

But perhaps he is too eager as he swoops towards Church, biting down hard upon his neck as the tiefling gasps and the two of them sink to the ground. 

“Fuck,” Church groans past the pain. “Well. You must be mad. Gods.”

“Sorry,” Astarion mumbles as he surfaces for a moment, and he actually means it. He’s usually far more careful than this. “Just… hungry, darling. Nothing personal.”

“I’m sure,” is all Church says for the rest of his meal. 

By the end of it, Astarion props the tiefling’s weakened body up against a tree, slumping beside him and grinning from the euphoria coursing through his veins. With a swipe of his thumb he tidies up a rogue rivulet of blood, smacking his lips as Church smiles wearily beside him. 

“So, darling,” Astarion drawls. “What is it you’re so eager to talk about?”

Church sighs, before gesturing vaguely before them. “That… whole thing that happened after your lesson,” he says. “I just couldn’t stop thinking about it…”

Good, Astarion smirks to himself. 

“…because I didn’t want you to think that I was rejecting you,” Church finishes, guiltily. 

Astarion blinks at him. 

“I… like our time together,” the tiefling says slowly, stilted. “Hells, I don’t just like it, I…” he trails off, waffling. “But… do you?”

Astarion hums, swinging his leg over to Church’s other side as he peers down at him from above. 

“It’s a pleasant distraction from our inevitable, horrible peril,” he says idly, settling himself down upon the tiefling’s lap and noting how Church’s throat bobs at the sensation. 

The tiefling blinks away for a moment as he smiles. “Indeed it is,” he chuckles. “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

They most decidedly are not, Astarion observes. He’s seen that look in his conquests' faces before. 

The sorry sod is in love. He may as well be — it certainly makes things easier for the elf. He certainly won’t have to work as hard. For instance, all he has to do is roll his hips just so, and…

…Church’s hand reaches up to rest upon his hip, stilling him. 

“What I meant earlier is that I don’t want to do this unless you do too,” the tiefling says gently. “This can be as far as we go tonight, if that’s what you want.”

Astarion finds that notion laughable. What he wants? Does the fool think it’s that easy? 

On the one hand, he is rather tired from their journey, and he would much prefer a break tonight. But on the other hand, he wants to maintain his hold on the tiefling. He wants to dominate his mind, wrap him around his finger so that he can take him to… 

…no, he doesn’t have to take him anywhere. So why is he…?

And on another hand entirely, Astarion doesn’t mind where he sits. Just as Church’s lifeblood surges into his wretched soul, he feels the tiefling’s warmth as it radiates up through him and it’s delicious. Perhaps he does want to stay here, just as they are. 

But he can’t seem to articulate this in time, for Church releases his hip with a gentle smile. 

“Let’s just go back to camp,” the tiefling suggests. 

“Fine,” Astarion sniffs curtly, dismounting the tiefling. “It’s getting late for you, anyways.” He reaches down instinctively to pull the tiefling up. 

Church takes his hand, but after he rises they just… stand there, swaying together. Astarion braces himself for the inevitable attack. He knows with tension as palpable as this, the tiefling will be flinging himself at him, mouth hungry for his. 

But instead Church lets go of his hand, stepping respectfully away. 

“Hmph, you’re no fun,” Astarion pouts. “But fine. Let’s go.”

Church huffs frustratedly. “Gods, I don’t understand you. What do you want from me? I’m just trying to—!”

“What I want,” Astarion breathes, stepping back towards him, “is the same thing as you.” He strokes the tiefling’s face. “Pleasure.” 

He retreats as the tiefling leans into his touch. “A distraction. A… boon. A…” he flourishes his hands dramatically. “...warm body to melt my sorrows away and put the tadpole to bed, so to speak.

“That… is what you wanted, wasn’t it?” Astarion smiles knowingly, reaching to trail his hand down the tiefling’s front. “To lose yourself in me?”

Church catches his hand and scoffs a little at the callback. 

“Maybe back then, in that moment,” the tiefling admits. “But what I want now, as your friend, is for you to feel… happy. Safe.” 

He gestures helplessly. “By all means, let’s take our nervous energy out on each other — so long as it’s actually doing you good.” He eyes Astarion. “But only if it’s doing you good. I don’t want to be some… camp chore that you feel obligated to do.” 

Shit, Astarion thinks to himself. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Church should be begging for his body, insisting upon fulfilling his pleasure… 

“Funny,” the spawn quips, grabbing hold of the tiefling’s waist and pulling him in flush. “I don’t recall gathering firewood with nearly this amount of enthusiasm.”

He gives the tiefling what he clearly wants — a few more stolen moments of snogging in the woods, wandering hands, soft words and crooning compliments. As he lavishes these upon the tiefling, Astarion reconsiders his shoddy plans. He supposes this is a factor he never had to worry about back in Baldur’s Gate — 

Time. 

He never had to work his victims longer than a week at most, back then. He’d shower them with compliments, tease them with false promises, and overwhelm them with unfathomable pleasure before delivering them to the slaughter. He was quite efficient about it.

So to be honest, he’s at a loss. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with the warlock at this point. It has been admittedly exhausting to lay it on so thick every day. He doesn’t even know to what end he’s been doing all of this. What more could he get out of the warlock?

Perhaps he could stop this all now. He’s already gotten the parasite and The Necromany of Thay out of Church. He could relent and cut his losses with the detour to the githyanki crèche.

He could give his body and mind a rest, for once. While his days with the tadpole have been a miraculous turn of events, he can’t recall the last time he truly rested…

“Astarion?”

Church pulls away from him, lips swollen and bitten, his eyelids heavy. “Where do you keep going?” he murmurs. 

“Mmhh, you’re just so incredible, darling,” Astarion coos to him breathlessly. “It’s so hard not to get lost in your touch, your taste…”

Church shudders at his relentless demonstration. “Then look at me?”

Astarion forces himself to smile at the tiefling’s face, and that bright yellow gaze burns into his as Church smiles shyly back at him.

”I like your eyes,” the tiefling says softly, even as his own betray uncertainty.

Astarion suppresses a shiver at how trapped he feels in Church’s scrutinizing gaze, and how unbalanced his sweet, earnest words make him feel. But he simply hums and presses a kiss to the base of the tiefling’s horns.

”Let’s get you to bed, darling,” the elf says as dotingly as he can. “I can already tell that you’re going to have a rough morning.”

—

Lae’zel has been itching to leave these lands immediately for Crèche Y'llek, but of course Church delays their departure once more, having managed to get them all caught up in yet another petty conflict. While passing by the blighted village, the party hears raised voices from the pathway below that leads towards the swamps — among them the voice of the familiar, eccentric old woman from the grove, Auntie Ethel. 

She had very conveniently disappeared from her tent at some point shortly after the adventurers had stumbled upon Pandirna paralyzed in the storehouse.

They approach Auntie Ethel and the two younger men confronting her. They seem to be — quite loudly — two brothers demanding that the old woman return their sister to them. As much as Auntie Ethel plays the victim, insisting that she has never seen this girl Mayrina and cajoling Church and his party into defending her, the tiefling has none of it.

“Bollocks!” she spits at him. “You were supposed to rush to my defense, love. Fat lot of good you are.”

Her eyes glitter with malice above crooked, oddly-sharp teeth.

This close to her home in the swamps, Church knows a fey when he smells one.

Especially a hag.

“Some advice?” she sneers. “You ever darken my door, you’d best have that head bowed and an apology at the ready.”

She poofs away in a puff of green smoke, bewildering all who she leaves behind.

“Bloody hells!” one of the brothers exclaims, shuddering. “She just disappeared. Ain’t seen nothing like that before.”

“She could shoot fireworks out of her backside for all I care,” his redheaded brother retorts in anguish. “The hag has Rina!”

“That’s your sister, right?” Church cuts in hurriedly. “How’d she get caught up in this?”

“Mayrina, yes. She is… well,” the first brother looks away regretfully, “she was in a bad way after her husband died.”

“Started saying weird things, like how she was gonna bring him back!” the other brother adds.

“Next thing, she’s gone looking for the hag. Of all the stupid things to do,” the brown-haired brother continues despondently. “We haven’t seen her since, and no good ever came from dealing with a hag.”

“None of this matters, all right?” blusters the redheaded brother, urgently. “We need to get her back. And fast!”

“I can help you!” Church offers insistently. “I’ve dealt with hags before — I can get her back for you.”

“Are you joking?” one of the brothers exclaims scornfully. “I ain’t got a clue who you are. No way I’m leaving Rina to you!”

The brown-haired brother looks uncertain. “But, Johl—!”

“Not a chance!” the redheaded brother growls. “We’re getting her back on our own. Now, come on!”

They hurry off without so much as another word, and Astarion has to catch Church’s arm before the tiefling can give them chase.

“Just let them go, darling!” he chides the warlock. “It’s no business of ours what their fool sister got herself into.”

“It’s very much my business,” Church retorts as he shakes him off. “They have no idea what to expect in a hag’s own domain. They’ll get themselves killed!”

Astarion makes another grab for him, but the warlock spins around indignantly.

“If you don’t want to come, then go back to camp,” he snarls. “I don’t have time for this.”

Karlach and Gale hold back warily, muttering to each other as the elf and tiefling stand off.

“...just tell the others where I’m going,” Church mutters, kneading his brow. “I won’t be long.”

“What, you think you’re going after them by yourself?” Karlach exclaims indignantly. “Fuck that, I’m in. Never killed a hag before!”

“I didn’t say anything about killing,” Church sighs. “Hags make… deals. We can outmaneuver her in other ways to get Mayrina and her brothers out of this.”

“You’ll need the Weave on your side for this one,” Gale offers as well. “Illusions and mindfuckery abound, and all.”

The warlock looks gratefully at his two companions, but there remains a tense, sulky silence from the elf blocking his path down the hill.

“We should get moving,” Church mutters after a moment, stepping around the rogue. “Stay safe, alright?” he flicks his gaze regretfully over to Astarion.

“Oh don’t be daft,” Astarion sniffs, matching the warlock’s determined pace. “You forget that I used to be a magistrate. I’m an expert at making deals.”

“A magistrate?” Gale remarks, aghast. “I pity your litigants.”

Church’s smile is tight and grim as he beckons them all to follow him down the hill.

“Stay on your guard,” he says. “She’ll know we’re coming.”

—

They don’t make it very far into the swamp before they find the green, putrid water red with blood. Fresh blood, by the smell of it. It drains from the corpses of the two brothers — eyes blank and mouths locked open in terror.

“Poor fuckers. They never even stood a chance,” Karlach sighs. 

“And whoever killed them did a masterful job,” says Astarion admiringly. “They must have bled out in seconds.”

“I know you’re not trying to be comforting…” Gale grimaces, “…but that… strangely works.”

Church crouches down to examine the bodies. 

“These are slashing wounds, and I doubt it was Auntie Ethel,” he notes warily. “So keep an eye out for the redcaps. I doubt two men are enough to sate their bloodlust.” He sighs. “Damn it. They just wouldn’t listen…”

Karlach hums mournfully and hauls the two bloody corpses out of the water onto solid land, arranging them side by side and shifting their contorted limbs into more natural positions. 

“And what do you suppose that does to help them?” Astarion chuckles derisively. The barbarian shoots him a reproachful look. 

“I dunno?” she sighs. “The animals will probably take them anyway. They just deserve a little dignity… fools or not.”

She exchanges a small, sad smile with Church as he nods gratefully. 

“There’s still a chance for their sister — Mayrina,” he says urgently. “I reckon that’s Ethel’s ‘teahouse’ up the hill.”

He adjusts his grip on his staff, loosening his collar against the swamp’s oppressive humidity. 

“Let’s go pay her a visit.”

Chapter Text

As soon as Karlach throws open the Riverside Teahouse’s doors, the party finds themselves intruding upon a tense moment between Auntie Ethel and a blonde girl who can only be Mayrina. Her wide green eyes look up from a tear-streaked face, and she looks nauseous as she prods a fork at a half-eaten treacle tart. 

Her hands rest protectively over a round belly, and Astarion has a hunch that it’s not the treacle tart that fills it…

“Oh for crying out loud!” Auntie Ethel scolds her visitors, glaring in particular at the warlock at the front. “If it isn’t the cheekiest pup of them all… you’d best have one hells of an apology for me, young man!”

“That’s not what we’re here for,” Church says coldly. 

Auntie Ethel scoffs incredulously. “Can’t an old woman have any privacy in her own home?”

“You can have your privacy,” Church says evenly. “…after we talk to Mayrina.”

The old woman’s thin mouth twists and the girl’s eyes go even wider. 

“Wh-what?” the girl squeaks. 

“Gods grant me patience…” Auntie Ethel looks sternly back at her. “Eat. Up, Mayrina. I won’t say it again.”

Church steps forward but Astarion catches his arm, whispering sharply into his mind. “Perhaps we should take our leave, darling. The girl looks well enough after all?”

The tiefling wrenches his arm away, but his expression is sympathetic as he turns back to the bewildered girl. 

“Mayrina…” he says gently. “I’m so sorry, but your brothers…”

“…are quite well!” Astarion cuts in affably. “They just asked us to check in on you to see how you’re faring!”

Mayrina looks stricken. “But… they’re not here, are they?”

Church shoots Astarion a reproachful look. 

“…no,” the tiefling says, lamely. 

“Keep your own little nose in your own little dish, petal,” Auntie Ethel sneers. “I don’t like busybodies, and my girl specifically asked for no visitors.” She tilts her head knowingly. “And don’t you have much bigger problems? You’ve still got that wriggler swimming in your brain juice.” 

“Let her go!” Karlach growls, stepping forth and smoldering upon her feet.

Auntie Ethel looks unimpressed. “I told your little friend here, that girl is none of your business! Now keep that hole under your nose shut.”

“Must you stick your neck out for every dimwit in distress?” Astarion projects scornfully into all of their minds. 

“It’s our business,” Church declares, ignoring him. “And so, let’s make a deal, hag.”

Auntie Ethel scowls, and with a terse gesture, Mayrina disappears in a shimmer of green light. 

“I knew I smelled the stink of an archfey’s brat!” Auntie Ethel spits, her words dripping with scorn. She begins to convulse, glowing bright green as her body grows and contorts itself into something far more monstrous. 

An honest-to-gods hag. Astarion had almost hoped she was just some batty old woman after all. It would certainly make killing her far easier. 

“Much better!” the hag sighs, cracking and rolling her withered neck. “That human skin is fierce restrictive.”

She sniffs in Church’s direction, scowling. “But I’ll take it any day over your mother’s lot. I can’t imagine being stuck with that infernal stink for years on end.”

“I didn’t think she was so well-known,” Church says blandly.  

“And I’m thinking of the best way to send your bones home in a box!” the hag sneers. “But that’s what she’d want, isn’t it? So maybe I’ll just bury you out in the swamp — let the peat turn you black and leathery for your friends to dig up — if they can find you. 

“Or maybe I could use a new pet,” her pale eyes glitter hungrily. “Or a snack. I haven’t eaten goat in a minute, after all…”

“I’m sorry,” Astarion interjects loudly, gesturing petulantly between the two of them. “But do you two know each other?”

Auntie Ethel laughs scornfully. “Every Unseelie fey knows the story of the glassy bitch, her uppity sister, and her damned pet.”

Church seems to wince a little at that. 

“I’m a mite surprised your mummy’s lasted this long in the Material Plane, petal. Most of the court hasn’t smelt her stink ever since they dragged her grubby little paws from the Night Diamond! Maybe she’s realized that she and her sister are no better than the rest of us!” 

“Ugh,” Church sighs. “Don’t make me defend my mother. I thought hags stayed out of the courts — why would you even care about Unseelie politics?” 

“Politics,” Auntie Ethel spits. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about politics. But this is my territory — my swamp, and your dear mum has no place here!”

She scowls. “Or that Netherese shite in your pickle. I’ve poked around that druid’s cave to know enough to get a whiff of that filthy shadow magic. It brings nothing but chains and misery!”

Church hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. 

“Netherese?” Gale mutters curiously. 

“Oh don’t worry, we’re not here about our tadpoles,” Church says impatiently, not nearly as curious as the wizard. “Nor any petty fey matters. Our business is between you, me, and Mayrina.”

“Is it now?” Auntie Ethel simpers. “Are you here to make a deal, petal?” She grins widely. “Because it went so well for you last time!”

Church’s mouth twitches. “Nothing messy, Auntie. We’re simply not leaving without Mayrina — safe and unharmed. In exchange, you keep your life.”

The hag titters — and then she throws her head back in a barking laugh.

“Oh you dimwitted little imp, bringing threats to the bargaining table,” she spits. “Death and I are old friends, sweetness. You’d be an inconvenience at most. 

“Besides, the girl is staying here willingly, petal,” she simpers. “You’d make a deal on her behalf and take a girl against her own free will?”

“For her own good, yes,” Church says firmly. 

Auntie Ethel cracks a wide, toothy smile, her eyes glowing with a sickly green light. “You are just like your mother, aren’t you?”

With a burst of that light, she disappears into thin air. 

“You should have stayed in your nest, little bird,” Auntie Ethel’s voice resonates throughout the teahouse. “Now let’s watch you fly!”

Church yelps as something unseen grapples hold of him and hurls him against a wall, sending dishes, pots, and pans crashing as the tiefling slumps down it. 

“You want to play the hero so badly? Fine!” the hag’s disembodied voice cackles as he groans. “Enjoy playing with your new friends! Bye- bye!”

The rest of the party looks wildly around as they hear the growls and snarls of the redcaps outside — bloodthirsty and ready to slice and dice the adventurers for their next meal. 

Astarion gives a long-suffering sigh as he strolls over to the groaning warlock and pulls him to his feet. 

“The fireplace!” Gale shouts urgently to them, gesturing towards the masonry behind a bubbling cauldron. “She went in there. It’s an illusion — hurry!”

The wizard dashes boldly into the back of the fireplace, disappearing with a rippling, distorted shimmer. The rest of the party braces themselves and follows suit. 

But as soon as they make it through and survey the dark passage before them, Church pulls his hand from Astarion’s. The spawn hadn’t even realized he was still holding it…

“Why?” the tiefling demands to him, angrily. But he doesn’t wait for an answer as he walks purposefully down the wooden steps. 

“Why what, darling?” Astarion snips back, following him with far lighter, cautious footsteps. For fuck’s sake, the hag will know they’re coming from a mile away with the way he’s tromping about. 

Karlach and Gale follow, glancing at each other warily. 

“We should’ve told Mayrina about her brothers,” Church frets agitatedly. “The only parties who actually have the power to break or renegotiate a fey’s contract is the hag or the signee. We could’ve avoided this altogether!”

“Oh come on,” Astarion retorts scornfully. “Did you really think that hag was going to just let her go on a whim? The girl was upset enough. Upsetting her further won’t make her any wiser!”

“Chin up, we can still save her!” Gale interjects hastily. “But we have to focus, Church.”

The warlock seethes, continuing his descent without so much as looking at the elf. 

—

The stairs spit them into a cavern, illuminated by a central fire and eerie green lamps. Auntie Ethel reappears, greeting them with less-than-cordial threats. But before anyone can retaliate with more choice words, she disappears with a sinister cackle. 

The room itself is a miserable place, lined with the hag’s trophies — artifacts and corpses frozen in time. But despite all the trapped and stifled souls, it’s far from silent. One of her victims begs relentlessly in a corner, and Karlach, Gale, and Church find themselves caught up in both interrogating and reassuring the pleading, hysterical man. 

Astarion, meanwhile, examines all these exquisite exhibits. They are fascinating in all their stories that warble into his mind in Auntie Ethel’s voice. At some point while examining a skull propped up in front of a mirror, the spawn hears footsteps shuffling up behind him. 

“Astarion…”

He glances irritably at the wary tiefling at his side. Church’s voice is far too quiet and tentative — a stark contrast to the righteous tone he took with the elf on the way down to the cave. 

“I wanted to apologize,” the tiefling says diffidently. “I… took this whole thing too personally, and I had no right to snap at you like that — especially when you just wanted to protect us.”

Astarion blinks at him. Apologies — he’s admittedly still not quite used to them. 

…he decides that he could get used to them. 

“Hmm, well to be fair, I should have expected you’d get us caught up in something like this,” Astarion replies loftily. “You just can’t help yourself when it comes to fools needing a rescue.”

To his own shock, this remark comes out far more affectionate than he expected from himself. Church huffs a humorless laugh, casting his eyes uncomfortably around the room.

“Your face…” the tiefling says softly. “Does this all remind you of… him?”

“This is different,” Astarion says dismissively. “Each of these dolts got exactly what they asked for. They each came to the hag willingly. It’s not her fault they weren’t specific.”

For a moment, Church remains silent. 

“But isn’t that what happened with you and Cazador?” he says pointedly. 

Astarion scoffs sharply, scornfully. “That was different. I was dying, I didn’t have a choice. I just… wanted to live.”

He laughs bitterly. “And don’t you worry, darling. It’s not like I think I’m any better. I got into that mess myself and paid the consequences — just as these sorry sods did.”

Church, damn him, grants him another silence. 

“Fine, it’s… similar,” Astarion admits in a grumble. “The insane, wasteful cruelty. Objectively, I admire the craft of it, but it certainly is reminiscent of the kinds of games Cazador enjoyed playing.”

Warm fingers brush against his, and Astarion suppresses the petty urge to snatch his hand away from the mercurial warlock.

“We’ll free you,” Church says insistently. “Just like we’ll free Mayrina. And anyone we can save, down here.”

Astarion snorts. “It’s a bit early to promise that, darling.” He turns away from a full-length mirror — there’s nothing to see there anyways. “Let’s move on.”

The tiefling nods and the two return to the others. The begging of the enchanted, anguished elf continues to grate upon their ears. 

“Don’t touch those,” Church warns Karlach hastily as she reaches curiously for some unnerving wooden masks upon a table. “Don’t touch anything if you can help it.”

After convincing a sentient, illusory door to let them into the next chamber, the party slinks into the shadows as they hear the pacing of multiple people in the room beyond.

Thralls, Astarion recognizes grimly. Best to put them out of their misery now than to…

“Knock them out, if you can,” Church beseeches them all. “They can’t help themselves.”

“Well… fine,” Astarion thinks back peevishly. “Perhaps we can just sneak past if you’re so worried about it?” 

But he was asking too much, for as soon as Karlach’s foot slips and splashes into a puddle, the thralls begin to rush towards them with murderous intent. 

“What a shame,” Astarion sighs aloud, spinning his daggers as he flies at the nearest thrall.

—

By the time they have knocked out all of the thralls and painstakingly descended into the tangled roots and depths of the hag’s lair, Church feels his adrenaline raring to take down Auntie Ethel. 

Their welcome leaves something to be desired.

“NO!” Mayrina shrieks as they arrive. “Just leave me here, please! Go!”

She clings to the bars of a wooden cage dangling precariously over a foreboding chasm, but she leaps away from them with a scream of terror as it goes up in flames. 

“I’ve got this!” Gale quickly extinguishes it by conjuring a sheet of water, but it’s only the beginning of their host’s vicious ire as she materializes further below them, turning her pale eyes towards the party.

“Oh look, it’s Mystra’s little toy,” she croons, her mocking voice layered in magic. “Such a pity no one wants to play with you…”

“Well, she’s just lovely, isn’t she?” the wizard chuckles hollowly to Church. “I see she’s done her research…”

“She can get in your head but she can’t make you a — get down!” the warlock shouts, yanking Gale out of the way of a ray of sickness.  

“…and here we have the fey’s little freak,” Auntie Ethel taunts. “Always tailing after those who can take your punches for you. If only putting out was enough to keep them from leaving you behind!”

Church determinedly does not make eye contact with anyone else as he lobs a fire bolt at the image of Auntie Ethel, which merely cackles as it burns away. 

“Don’t let her get to you!” Karlach snarls as she cleaves at yet another illusion — narrowly missing stepping on an explosive flower. 

“Oh sweetness… when I’m done with you, not even the hells will want you back!” the duplicate cackles as she shimmers away. “You’re defective. Broken. Doomed. No one wants you — not your mummy and daddy, not your master, not even the…!”

Karlach snarls and charges at the hag, but her greataxe merely embeds itself into gnarled root as Auntie Ethel disperses with a cackle.

Mayrina screams in terror from where she huddles in her extinguished, but still smoldering cage. Church hopes that its structural integrity will be enough to keep her from plummeting into the chasm.

“Stop it!” she begs. “All of you! Don’t do this!”

“She’ll just keep making more, darling!” Astarion grunts as he pulls Church behind a rock, grimacing. “Any bright ideas? How do you hunt a hag?”

“Oh how sweet — already slobbering for another taste?” Auntie Ethel simpers far too close to their ears. “But, oh look — there’s a little rat stuck in your teeth, slave…”

Astarion swipes out blindly with a flash of dagger, but it just whistles through the air. Church casts faerie fire in front of them, and as it outlines the invisible hag he blasts her viciously with eldritch magic. 

“Nice trick, brat!” she spits. “But why even bother protecting him at all? You’re just another fattened pig, headed straight to the slaughter at his hands!”

A ray of sickness sends the elf and tiefling diving out of the way. Improbably, it’s Church who ends up catching Astarion by the collar and yanking him away from yet another trap.

“Do you think that pretty elf really wants you?” Auntie Ethel simpers from somewhere above them. “You’re just meat that sucks him off while he sucks you dry. But maybe you just like to be used, petal…!”

Astarion shakes the tiefling’s shoulder, eyes hard and brow furrowed. “Are you just going to let her wax poetic or are you going to light her up again?”

“We all heard the sad little story, imp,” the hag snickers from another direction. “Your real parents shat out a tiefling and left you to die where no one would find you. No one wants you except your bitch mother, ‘forever and ever…!’”

“Don’t listen to her, damn it!” Astarion hisses, shaking the warlock as Church tries to focus himself. “I’ll cover you!”

“He’ll never trust you, spawn,” Auntie Ethel growls viciously. “You’re one thirsty night away from betraying everyone — betraying him and waking up next to a corpse! They’ll have to tie you up when you go feral!”

She laughs, cruelly.

“But then again… deep down you actually like being leashed, don’t ya?”

Now Astarion is the one avoiding Church’s eyes as he glances over to him. 

But the warlock merely jerks his head in the direction of the duplicate across the chasm from them. “That’s her,” he says with certainty. “Light her up and I’ll misty step down and take her out!” 

The elf nods affirmatively, giving his arm a quick squeeze before igniting an arrow and sending it down towards the image of Auntie Ethel. She solidifies with a scream.

“Bloody clever clogs!” she screeches.

Church misty steps down, readying himself to eldritch blast the hag. But with a swift gesture she splatters him with a foul, sizzling liquid, sending him gagging and reeling backwards before the incantation can leave his throat.

“Now go on, sweetness!” Auntie Ethel cackles. “Go be a hero!”

As the warlock squints through his stinging eyes, he sees two streams of green light shoot out from the rickety wooden cage. They spit out one Mayrina — and then another.

“No!” one wails. “Get me out of this hellhole!”

The other one cowers and sobs. “Don’t let that awful hag hurt me!”

Both look equally terrified under the party’s scrutiny.

“So, Gale!” Astarion calls up to the wizard peevishly. “Which one is it?”

“N-no! Please don’t hurt me!” the one nearest to him wails as the rogue warily points his blades towards her.

Gale hesitates as he looks back and forth between the two women. 

“I can smell what’s under those robes, wizard,” the hag growls through the air. “You’re all rot and ruin!”

“There’s too much of the Weave around that one!” Gale calls just as the hysterical Mayrina closest to Astarion makes a brazen attempt to bodily shove him into the chasm. 

“Perfect,” he grins, slicing her glamor away and revealing the hag underneath. She shimmers into thin air with a snarl, and the cavern fills with her echoing, sinister laughter. 

“Oh thank the gods!” the real Mayrina exclaims in relief from above. 

“Stay behind me!” Karlach roars at her, readying her greataxe and looking wildly around.

Church tears his eyes off of them to locate the source of the hag’s cackling — just as something invisible triggers a flower that explodes in a deafening inferno nearby. It knocks the tiefling away, but before he can topple into the chasm he reaches with his parasite —

Its telekinetic pull yanks him upright and stumbling back into the cinders. Well, better than the alternative. 

“Are you alright?” he shouts up to Karlach and Mayrina. The girl wails but his friend shouts back reassuringly. 

“We’re fine! I’ll carry her out!”

Church soon spots Gale and the two fall into position — back to back as they hold their staves at the ready. 

“Where’s she gone?” Church growls. As if in response, her vicious mockery reverberates through the cavern. And with it, the warlock hears more than the fire whooshing in his ears as his head throbs with a sharp pain. 

“Bow to your betters, slave! You remember how, don’t ya?”

And then Church hears his name. It’s a familiar voice, but with a terrified timbre unlike anything he has heard from that voice before…

“CHUUURCH!” repeats that horrible, desperate cry.

“Astarion?” Church searches wildly for him. Shit — he shouldn’t have taken his eyes off of him to begin with. They were supposed to have each other’s backs. What kind of a leader is he when…?

He finally spots the elf cowering upon the ground on the other side of the chasm, eyes glowing bright green and unseeing as he cries out again in wordless terror, clawing at the air. 

“What the devil?” Church breathes. 

“Hold on!” Gale barks beside him, and the two spellcasters dimension door over to the prone elf. 

“Astarion!” Church kneels at the writhing elf’s side. “Come back, love!” He gathers up his companion, looking urgently around for the cause. “Come back to me!”

But he gasps in horror as twin rivulets of dark blood begin to descend from Astarion’s nostrils. Church’s hands shake as he attempts to steady the elf’s head as he continues to sob and cry out at whatever he’s seeing. 

“Phantasmal killer,” Gale explains hastily. “He’s seeing his deepest fears right now. If he can’t shake it off on his own we’ll just need to break her concentration!”

Karlach shouts from above and Church looks up in alarm. 

“Go help her!” Gale orders. “I’ll keep trying to dispel this!”

Church forces himself to leave Astarion in Gale’s hands, blasting Auntie Ethel away from Karlach’s shoulder and a whimpering Mayrina. The duplicate fades away with a low laugh. 

“Poor piggy,” her mocking, otherworldly voice taunts. “He doesn’t even like being touched by you.

“But it’s just as well, isn’t it petal? For everything you touch dies, one way or another.”

Church wheels around to see nothing except Gale vigorously shaking and slapping at Astarion. So much for dispelling…

Auntie Ethel’s voice is vicious as it continues to crowd insidiously into his brain.

“What would Tavi think of his precious Church — off rolling around with a spawn while he saves your worthless hide?”

Something snaps inside of the warlock. 

“Leave them out of this!” he snarls. Down below, he sees the hag flicker back into view — solid. Menacing. Real. 

Far too close to his friends. 

He misty steps back down and casts bone chill, rooting her in place with necrotic pain. She makes full eye contact as she grimaces, wide-eyed at him. 

“Do you think anything you did ever mattered? You’re nothing without your mother! And you’ll be nothing with her soon—!”

Her voice is caught in a soundless scream as her body and skeleton alights with Gale’s shocking grasp.

In that moment, Church vaguely realizes that Astarion is no longer prone. He is crouching — alert — at the wizard’s side, his pale face smeared in blood. 

“Where’s Church?” he hears the rogue bark at Gale. The two men dodge away as the hag — recovered from the lightning — flings a ray of sickness towards them both.

“I—!” Gale squawks. “Right there! Right there!”

Seething, Auntie Ethel raises a gnarled hand once more, and the warlock’s eyes turn black and smoky.

“Get down,” Church says coldly, calmly to no one in particular. 

He only catches one glimpse of Auntie Ethel’s widened eyes before he sends triple eldritch blasts her way, smashing her to pieces against the wall behind her with an electric crackle. 

The explosion echoes throughout the entirety of the cavern for a full minute as they catch their breath.

—

Church observes Astarion in the aftermath of the battle. As the elf interrupts Mayrina’s impetuous verbal abuse of the tiefling, he speaks airily and carries himself casually, but his hands…

…they’re shaking as he sheathes his daggers.

“Tactful,” Church mutters to him as the anguished Mayrina flees through a nearby door. 

He jumps as those cold, trembling fingers brush against his cheek.

“You’re here,” Astarion whispers. His eyes are round as they search his face. For what, the tiefling does not know.

“…yeah,” Church smiles uncertainly at him. He hesitates before removing his filthy glove, reaching out to stroke his thumb against Astarion’s cheek in turn.

They stand there together in tense silence.

Church frowns, troubled. “May I ask…” he starts, trailing off with uncertainty. “I’m curious. You don’t have to tell me, but what exactly did you see when you were cursed?”

Astarion shrugs, flashing him a roguish smile.

“Oh, you know,” he says dismissively. “Cazador, who else?”

There’s more to it, Church thinks as he nods. Why did he… why my…?

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

Astarion laughs lightly. “It’s nothing new,” he smirks at the tiefling through lowered eyelashes. “Not my top choice of people to make me scream…”

“—Astarion,” Church cuts in, and his voice shakes as he looks up into those guarded eyes. “You kept saying my name.”

The echoes of his eldritch blast and Auntie Ethel’s laughter have long faded into silence, but he can’t shake the sound of Astarion’s anguished scream from his head.

Church watches him as he speaks. “I thought you needed my help — that you were being attacked by something new and horrible she had thrown at us. But why was I… what could your greatest fear possibly be that it would involve me?”

Astarion’s mouth silently opens and closes, his eyes distant as they stare over his shoulder. Church hesitates before beginning to reach out towards Astarion’s hand that hangs limply at his side.

But the elf merely waves him away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says dismissively. “Now, if it’s all the same to you, I hate it here.” His eyes flash warningly up to the tiefling’s. “We should really move on.”

He turns away abruptly, flourishing towards the bloody pieces of hag nearby. “Think there’s still a mouth intact among all that?”

Church sighs, walking over to examine Auntie Ethel’s remains. After a moment, he reaches into his pack and hands an amulet to the elf.

“She won’t speak to me since I killed her,” he says mildly. “Have at it.”

Astarion shrugs and dons the amulet. With a beckoning gesture, the air fills with whispers. With a rattling breath, Auntie Ethel’s head and what remains of her torso floats up into the air before the elf. But something upon her neck flashes with a different glow. 

The hag’s mouth falls open in a snarl.

“ARGH!” she exclaims. “Where’s the infernal brat that killed me?”

Astarion blinks glowing green eyes at Church. “Well, she’s quite lively for a corpse,” he says mildly.

It’s not a question, but the hag responds anyway. “I’m a hag, slave — you think I didn’t plan for this? Like I said — death and I are old friends.

“But I won’t be a corpse forever — that I can bloody promise you,” her mouth sneers. “Now where’s your damned blood bag?”

Church sighs, crossing his arms. “I’m right here, Ethel.”

“You cretin,” she spits. “You will bleed — you will choke on your guts for this. I will make you beg, plead, weep for what will always be denied,” she grins grotesquely, “the sweet release of death.”

“You’re dead and I’m not,” Church says flatly. “Deal with it. Now, what did you want with Mayrina?”

“I didn’t want the girl, ya dullard,” the hag groans. “I wanted her babe. I would have gobbled it up and given birth to my very own hag daughter. From my guts she would’ve come — my blood, my bile. It would have been glorious.”

“And I thought my mother was bad,” Church mutters. “What deal did you make with Mayrina?”

“The brat’s husband is dead. So sad,” she adds insincerely. “She wanted me to bring him back to life. Little fool thought it would fix everything.”

Church sighs. Poor girl… she would have been susceptible to anyone who made such a promise.

“Well, I am so sorry that your family planning didn’t work out,” he says sarcastically.

“The only thing I’m sorry about is that I don’t get to see the flesh melt from your bones, your guts dissolve, and your brain liquefy as you turn into a mind flayer!” Auntie Ethel spits. “You’ll weep, you’ll beg, you’ll plead — anything to make it stop. And once you stand tall, proud, and tentacled?

“You’ll butcher your friends and your loved ones LIKE THE ILLITHID SCUM YOU ARE.”

“Well this has been a lovely conversation,” Astarion cuts in smoothly. “Satisfied?”

Church nods grimly, gesturing helplessly. “Yeah. Gods, why are hags… like this?”

“Oh please,” Auntie Ethel sneers at his rhetorical question. “It’s you lot who come to me. All you do is want — to be prettier, to be richer, to be loved. People are their own worst enemies, petal. I just let them see it.”

She smirks grotesquely. “You should know, ‘sweet boy.’ You know the price you’ll pay, and you’ll wish I could grant you the death you’ll be begging for when she gets ahold of you.”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Church says blandly. “Enjoy death, Ethel.”

He reaches over and yanks the charm off her neck, and as her remains fall limp, he studies it closely.

“A snack for later?” Astarion asks lightly. “For Gale, I mean.”

“We’ll see what he or Withers makes of it,” Church shrugs, pocketing it. “Let’s see what other arts and crafts projects she's been hiding.”

—

After raiding the hag’s workshop, Church joins Gale in examining a mushroom-ringed portal at its corner.

“What’s that?” the wizard asks with a frown, staring at something in Church’s hands.

“A hunch,” Church mutters, stashing it in his robe. “Where do you suppose that goes?” he asks, gesturing at the portal.

“From the feel of it… not too far at all,” Gale observes. “But there are no other exits, so if Mayrina ran into here…”

Church creeps closer to the mushroom circle, resigned. “Well, if it’s as close as you say, I’ll tell you through the parasite if it’s safe.”

“Really? We’re just going to let him jump in that?” Astarion calls shrilly from across the workshop. 

Church sighs and holds his breath as he hops into the portal. It spits him back out into the foul, humid air of the swamp. His ears fill with the sound of frogs, bugs, and… 

Someone weeping. 

Unlike the hysteria and fear of the earlier battle, that someone now sobs bitterly — grieving in her defeat.

Church walks quietly around the corner. He seems to be on the other side of the teahouse, and at the base of some gnarled roots sits a coffin. Slumped beside it is Mayrina, her face buried in her knees.

“Mayrina,” Church calls softly, stopping a few paces away from her.

The woman hiccups, looking up at him in alarm. “Gods, I didn’t hear you…” 

She chokes and melts back into quiet, shoulder-shaking sobs, her head falling back into her hands.

“May I come closer?” the tiefling asks softly after a long moment.

Mayrina doesn’t remove her hands completely, but she eventually nods with a whimper.

“Church!” Gale’s voice rings sharply into the warlock’s parasite. “Where are you?”

“Up above, outside of the teahouse,” Church replies hastily. “Mayrina’s here. Please — give us some space when you come through.”

As the tiefling approaches, Mayrina drops her hands to hug her knees tight to her chest. She continues to shudder, but the worst of her tears seem to be over. Church sits beside her, trying his best not to gag at the ripe smell emanating from the coffin.

He surmises that this is Connor, the husband in question. 

“I know you’re angry,” Church says softly. “I know you’re grieving. None of… this… is fair.” He sighs. “It’s never fair — not when it comes to hags. I asked Ethel about your deal, and…”

Mayrina whimpers.

“She was planning to turn your baby into a hag,” Church continues quietly. “Did you know that?”

The young woman shudders. “I just didn’t… it didn’t matter. I was just going to give her the baby and get him back. That was all that mattered.” She closes her red-rimmed eyes. “Connor would have done anything to save me — I had to do the same. I had to try, but… he wouldn’t have done this.”

She groans angrily at herself. 

“I’m so stupid. I was going to give that monster my baby.” She begins to weep again in earnest. “I know you’re thinking it — I’m already a terrible mother.” 

She lets out an agonized keen of grief. “I just wanted everything back the way it was!”

Church sighs. 

“It’s not too late to do right by them. You have another chance, and I can damn well assure you that you’ll make a far better mother than that hag,” he says pointedly.

“That said, I am… so sorry about your husband,” he continues gently. “You still love him so much, and I understand why you came to Auntie Ethel and made that deal.” He rubs at his forehead. “It’s a deal… I tried to make, once upon a time, with another fey.

“What I’m saying is… I know what it’s like to lose someone you… love.” Church swallows. “I’ve also felt that desire to do… anything to bring them back.”

He decides it’s probably best not to mention how the person he lost did come back. He’s still not sure what to make of that.

“Soldier,” Karlach calls softly from the side, Church looks over to her with a shake of his head. She instead screws up her eyes to speak to him through their parasites. “We’re going to check on the hag’s other victims — see if there’s any survivors.”

“Thank you,” the warlock smiles at her gratefully. “I’ll only be a moment.”

Karlach gives him a significant look. “Take your time. Really.”

Church sees Karlach and Gale climb the steps to the teahouse, which means Astarion is probably lurking somewhere hidden nearby. It would be typical of him, really.

“I know I should go… but the thought of putting him in a wheelbarrow and making the journey all over again…” Mayrina’s voice breaks.

Church continues to sit with her in silence.

“We were just kids when we met,” Mayrina recalls fondly, and she chuckles sadly to herself. “I might have pushed him off a swing I wanted. He got right up and pushed me back. I was so surprised that I just laughed. He did too.” 

She looks over at Church with a small, wistful smile. “We’ve barely spent a day apart since.”

Church smiles ruefully back, a familiar pang in his heart. 

But at least she had his body, a voice inside of him thinks wryly. She at least knew for certain he was gone. 

“My brothers…” Mayrina croaks suddenly. “Johl. Demir… they’re dead, aren’t they?”

Church closes his eyes and nods. “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh,” she says thickly, tears welling up again. “I came here with one dead love… and now I’m gonna need to wheel back three.” She sobs. “Where am I gonna get a cart for all of them? How am I gonna find a horse?”

“We could help you bury them,” Church volunteers, and he can practically feel Astarion’s irritation from wherever he’s hiding. 

“…yeah,” she says in a tiny voice. “They deserve proper burials. They deserve some rest.” Her face crumples. “But they won’t get that here.”

“Oh, definitely not here,” Church amends hastily. “But we could take them somewhere better. We know some people nearby… people who could give some funeral rites, bless them properly.”

“You’re sweet,” Mayrina chuckles sadly. “Listen… I’m sorry I cursed at you. I know you meant well, I just…”

“I understand,” Church whispers, smiling back at her gently.

“So you said,” Mayrina sighs. “Does it… does it get better? Ever?”

Church had an answer for her question, once upon a time. But after Tavi did return, that answer is now… complicated. But she doesn’t need to know all that.

“It does,” he murmurs. “The pain, it… it becomes a part of you. But with time it stops being a bitter taste at the forefront of your mind. It fades slowly, and sometimes you’ll… panic that maybe you’re forgetting them. You’ll hate yourself for it. 

“But you won’t just forget — not like that. It scabs and scars into something you learn to live with. And at least the scar… it’s a reminder that they were there. They were with you, for however long. And they’ll have always made their mark on your life, with their love.”

Mayrina sniffs and nods. She seems to have run out of tears.

“Are you all right?” Church asks softly.

Mayrina chuckles. ”Not even a little bit. But…” she looks up at him. “…I will be.”

Church stands, holding out a hand. She takes it gratefully as he helps her up. Out of the corner of his eye, the tiefling catches Astarion stepping into view.

“I wish I could tell you to take your time,” Church tells her regretfully. “But we’re leaving this area soon, so if you need our help…”

Mayrina nods, but before she can say anything else, Astarion clears his throat.

“Church darling?” he calls. “We found something interesting down in the hag’s workshop, didn’t we?”

The warlock shoots him a wary look, before looking back at Mayrina. “Give us a moment, please.”

He hurries over and pulls the rogue to the side.

“You pocketed the wand,” Astarion says pointedly, nodding down towards where Church’s hand clenches upon his robes. “I know you read the journal, so…” he raises an eyebrow. “You know what it does, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Church says faintly.

“Then I’m surprised you didn’t tell her. I thought you’d be eager to save a damsel in distress,” Astarion prods him curiously.

“We don’t truly know what that wand does,” Church protests in a whisper. “I need to study it. Maybe the time it’ll take to bring their bodies to the grove will be enough…”

“May I remind you that we have no such time?” Astarion flails his hands with exasperation. “Come on, darling. Wouldn’t it be cruel to keep the truth from her? And if something bad happens, then at least we’ll be here to save her — again.” 

Church eyes him, unimpressed. “...you just want to see what happens.”

“I do want to see what happens,” Astarion admits far too eagerly.

The warlock sighs. “Fine, just…” He turns around, kneading his brow. “…gods, I hope I don’t regret this.”

He approaches the woman, who seems to be tracing her fingers mournfully along the moldering coffin’s lid.

“Mayrina,” he calls, voice cracking. “My companion found a wand in Auntie Ethel’s workshop. It… may be a way to resurrect your husband.”

“What?” Mayrina’s eyes widen in astonishment. “You can?”

As Church wordlessly slips the gnarled wand from his pocket, it seems to flourish of its own accord, glowing green with the hag’s fey magic. There’s a surge of power, and the air suddenly tastes acrid upon his tongue as he raises it.

It wants to be used.

Mayrina gives a shuddering gasp. “Bring him back,” she pleads. “Bring Connor back — please!” 

As if of its own accord, Church feels the wand’s point veer magnetically towards the coffin. He can almost hear Auntie Ethel’s laughter echo in his ear once more as the wand flourishes.

There’s a long heartbeat, and then —

A gravelly growl comes from the coffin, and before their eyes, the lid pops open — a rotted arm reaching up to push its owner up upon the edge of the coffin.

”Oh, fuck!” Astarion laughs in astonishment.

”Oh fuck,” Church groans, his wand hand dropping to his side. “Damned… fey…”

Chapter Text

Years earlier, Church returned to where it all began.

“My sweet boy,” the Mother booms, rattling the rafters of the church. “You came home. As I knew you would.”

The young warlock sways upon his feet, exhausted in body and soul. 

A soft breeze within the church swells into a storm, and the shadows spill thick and suffocating to coalesce before the young warlock. They concentrate in the air before him until they form a vaguely humanoid shape with long, wicked fingers and a pair of yellow, orb-like eyes.

“My love,” the Mother coos. “Embrace me.”

The warlock does not move as his shoulders sag before her.

“Mother,” Church croaks in a quiet, broken voice. “Was it you?” His shoulders begin to shake. “Did you kill Tavi?”

The shadowy figure hesitates, her spindly hand retreating slightly.

“Well did you?!” the warlock snaps.

“I did not,” the Mother says quietly, a whisper in the wind. “Is that… the only reason why you came back? To ask me this?”

Church falls to his knees upon the hard stone floor, breathless and lightheaded. He had barely slept the entire journey from Waterdeep, afraid that as soon as he gave into oblivion he’d fall back into a nightmare.

But then again, he had already woken into a nightmare — every day since he received Mairead’s letter.

Cold, obsidian-taloned hands cradle the young man’s face and shoulders, pulling him into an icy bosom. The tiefling begins to tremble as a sob erupts from his throat, and fingers as sharp as glass comb soothingly through his hair.

“Oh — how much you have grown,” the Mother sighs in gentle astonishment. “But you are still my little boy.” She pulls him closer. “I am so sorry to see you in pain. I will take care of you, my love. I will keep you safe from this cruel world. Forever.”

Through his tears Church frowns, and he attempts to collect himself, pulling away from her grip.

“Remember your promise, sweet boy,” the Mother says quietly, her embrace tightening as he resists. “You promised to stay with me whenever you came back. Forever and ever.”

Church grunts as he kicks away a shadowy tendril, backing away from the shadows that ebb towards him even as the figure continues to cling to him.

“I said I’d visit!” he protests. “I said… I said I’d stay over, every so often,” he strains to pull away. “I never said it would be forever. I never…”

With a shout he unleashes a burst of fire from his hands, freeing himself and dispersing the shadowy figure in her entirety. The Mother doesn’t scream. Instead, she lets out a deep, affronted gasp.

“You said that you would stay with me,” the Mother rumbles forebodingly down at her child from the cupola. “That was our deal. That was your promise.”

Shadowy tendrils shoot out of the darkness, entangling themselves around the warlock and pinning him to the cold stone.

“No!” Church yelps. “Mother! Mother, stop—!” He feels her creep into his mind, ready to blot out his will to escape as readily as the shadows now blot out the meager sunlight coming through the cupola —

“—I want to make another deal!” the warlock declares into the darkness.

The Mother’s shadows go silent and still.

“I said!” Church shouts. “I want to make another—!”

“I heard you, child,” The Mother says coldly. “So… name your terms.”

“I’ll come back and stay with you in a hundred years,” Church says, his mouth dry as cold settles into his stomach. “I’ll stay with you until I die. But…”

The dread in his heart is swiftly drowned out by burgeoning hope as he makes his wish. 

“Bring Tavi back,” he beseeches her. “Bring him back to us. To me. I want to see him again. I just wanted…” his eyes fill with tears. “…I just wanted more time, mum. Please. Please…”

There is nothing but silence, and the sound of Church’s sobs that intrude upon it, echoing throughout the nave. 

Minutes go by before the Mother breaks her silence.

“Fifty years.”

“Ninety,” Church counters wearily.

“Sixty.”

“Eighty.”

“You are testing my patience, child,” The Mother’s rafters groan impatiently. “Sixty-five.”

Church does the calculations in his head. How long does a human typically live? 

“Seventy,” he insists. Seventy more years with Tavi in his life, come what may — they could be lovers. They could be friends. Hells, they could even be enemies or total strangers. The world needs him back one way or the other.

“Seventy,” the Mother relents. “You will see Tavi again, and I will have you home in seventy years. And you will stay.”

“Fine,” Church whispers hoarsely. 

“That’s not enough, my love,” the Mother chides him.

“...yes,” Church amends hastily, clearing his throat. “Yes. I agree to these terms.”

He holds out his hand, and from the shadows the spindly, obsidian hand creeps back out to grasp it.

“Then it will be done.”

—

By the time the party returns to their main camp in the evening, most of it has been packed up for the journey ahead into the mountain pass. There’s a general air of excitement and anticipation among the adventurers, but as much as Astarion wishes to partake in the speculation and provide snarky commentary on the discussions of strategy, he finds himself distracted.

He can’t unsee the images from his nightmare — a patchwork of real memories and horrible imagination from nearly two centuries of enslavement. And there — the quarry of this vividly-imagined hunt — was Church.

Just another stupid, naive boy traveling alone.

Dying alone.

It wasn’t real, Astarion tries to remind himself.

Maybe not for him, another part reminds himself. But it happened to hundreds of others who had the misfortune of crossing paths with you.

Everything about the nightmare had felt so real — the heat of the fire and the chill of the night air, the sparkle in the tiefling’s gaze as he laughed, the warmth and taste of Church’s body, and…

…the fear. The sense of resignation as Cazador pulled both spawn and victim towards his throne. The cold horror of watching the vampire poke, prod, and slice into the struggling tiefling like a sadistic experiment. The screams of terror that came from Church were unlike anything he has ever actually heard from the tiefling. 

Whose screams was he remembering, then? Astarion could never know. There had been so many, after all. 

He feels fortunate that at the very least his imagination spared him the image of Cazador compelling the tiefling to crawl into his lap and couple with him. But the thought alone — the memory of the many times it had happened — is enough to send the spawn into a sickening, stormy spiral.

“Hey?” someone calls out to him softly. 

Astarion isn’t sure if it’s the last voice he wants to hear or the only voice he wants to hear as he stews by the river. At the very least, it reminds him that the warlock is alive and relatively safe.

But perhaps not safe enough from him. There were elements of truth in all of Auntie Ethel’s taunts, after all.

“All packed up?” Church asks casually, his boots crunching through the river rocks to stand beside the rogue. 

“More or less,” Astarion flourishes a vague gesture back towards his tent. “I don’t have too much, after all.”

They stand in silence, gazing up at the stars over the Chionthar. It’s not quite a clear night, but some still peek out between breaks in the clouds.

“I hope Mayrina’s doing alright,” Church mutters.