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Chapter Text

"Fucking mutt." 

Astarion raises an eyebrow. "Thank you, darling." 

The tiefling True Soul grimaces at him and turns slightly, gesturing wordlessly to Scratch. Oh, the dog. Astarion titters and continues cleaning his clean dagger, hiding his embarrassment with nonchalance. 

"You're a different kind of mutt," the tiefling says, as if that will make him feel better. 

Astarion sighs dramatically. "You are such a sweet man. Talented, kind, complimentary." 

Giving him an indecipherable frown, the tiefling turns away again to awkwardly pat Scratch's head. As much as he just pretended not to like the beast, it's obvious to Astarion that the True Soul does in fact enjoy its company. It's a good thing they brought the creature along; a distraction, it seems. 

There's something in the air of the Shadow-Cursed Lands that makes everything droll and tedious. Frightening too, but Astarion won't ever admit that. Everyone's mood dropped significantly as soon as they entered, which was certainly saying something considering the glares that Lae'zel constantly wore. Even Karlach isn't as joyful as she usually is, whilst Gale keeps jabbering on about Mystra's forgiveness and Shadow-Weave. Halsin has just been moaning about nature the entire time. 

As for Astarion, he hasn't eaten in a month and a half - a starvation that he's used to but is slowly draining his energy. They went through the Underdark, where there were barely any opportunities to feed, and then circled back through the Mountain Pass, where he was too distracted fighting to consider drinking enemy blood. He would ask to feed from his four companions but nobody has offered. And anyway, gifts come with high prices. 

"You're breathing heavily," the tiefling notes, tone dry. 

Astarion freezes, chest as still as the corpse he is meant to be, and smiles despite the man not facing him. "Am I? Must be your lovely perfume. What is it?" He takes a long sniff, already knowing the scent he desires so greatly is the tiefling's rich blood. "Rose? Delicious." 

Scratch barks suddenly and runs away, the distant sound of Karlach's voice drawing the creature away. Drat, distraction over. He'll have to rely on himself instead. 

Now that the True Soul has no excuse not to look at him, he straightens and looks over.

"Yes, rose water." 

Astarion nods, wiping at his blade again absentmindedly. "Fascinating." 

The tiefling bares his teeth in a more open display of derision, arms crossed. "Did you need something or are you just enjoying bothering me?" He glances to the side. "Your mutt ran off." 

"Oh, did he? I didn't notice," Astarion drawls, earning him a sharp sigh. "And what if I just found you interesting and wanted to talk?" The cultist gives him no answer and Astarion feels the need to fill the silence. Pathetic, Cazador would have said. Pathetic how you insist upon speaking when you're unwanted. "So, what's your name? Unless you want me to just call you 'darling.' I'd be charmed if so." 

Usually that line has people blushing, particularly men like this tiefling. But he simply crinkles his nose for a second before it relaxes back into a disgruntled expression. 

"I don't care, I'm just trying to do my job."

And what a good job he is doing, getting side-lined by a vampire in the dingy corridors on the upper floor of Moonrise. Suddenly, the tha-thump of the cultist's blood sounds far too loud to ignore. It maintains the steady, calm rhythm of ignorant prey unaware of how solitude endangers its life.

The empty landing brings Astarion the first opportunity to feed in over a month and the scratching hunger within threatens to consume him if he doesn't consume others first. The voice at the back of Astarion's mind queries whether Gale feels this way when the orb comes calling for Weave-drunk objects. 

He has no time to wonder, however, not when his meal is tilting its head cautiously. Its pulse picks up slightly, a sharp inhale implying the prey's realisation that it is in front of a predator. The vivid green of his dinner's eyes seems to grow brighter with barely hidden nerves. 

It takes a tiny step backwards. It says something, voice irritated. Its hand strays towards a dagger at its side. 

A plain dagger. A boring dagger.

Astarion has better. 

"Astarion?" 

In an instant, he snaps back into his elven mind. What had he been doing? Talking to someone? The others watch with various levels of concern, Gale's fingers crackling from the remnants of a lightning spell. Smiling and suave, Astarion relaxes back into his easy façade. 

"Problem, my sweet?" His eyes drift downwards to the floor, a tiefling in green-brown armour crumpled in front of him. "Oh dear, what happened there?" He must have missed it when Gale zapped him to pieces. 

A finger twitches. Scratch wanders over to look at it. 

"We've removed the Disciple from the equation," Lae'zel states blankly, eyes narrow and tense like always. Astarion still hasn't figured out if her sternness is real like Karlach's generosity, or fake like his arrogance. 

He claps his hands together once in delight. "Wonderful! Now it's just the unkillable General and we're all sorted. I don't know why we're so worried." 

He also doesn't know why the great old Harper Jaheira couldn't have done this years ago, not to mention the dithering Halsin currently chatting at Last Light. Honestly, it is as if everyone is useless but our group. Perhaps that is why they've been chosen to be protected from the Absolute's harm. 

"This Balth guy will help, I'm sure. And if not, we can always figure something else out." Karlach grins, cracking her knuckles.

Scratch sniffs and growls but they pay him no mind, already understanding he dislikes the smell of corpses. 

"Forgive me if I am incorrect, but I believe the necromancer is named Balthazar," says Gale with a tiny knowing smile. 

"Yeah, that's what I said." 

Astarion rolls his eyes. "Did you get the moonlantern or not?" 

Lae'zel pats her pack. "Affirmative."

Oh, Astarion thinks, that explains the strange light coming from it. 

It's at this moment that the vampire realises there's another heartbeat in the corridor, pulsating weakly from the True Soul's body. He sets his shoulders at the same time as Scratch's growls become more consistent. The others soon follow suit, though Lae'zel rolls her eyes when she looks down, as if to say, 'he's not a threat, he's half-dead.'

The True Soul's eyelids flutter open, a ragged breath being exhaled from his lips. 

Astarion lets out a sarcastic cry of fear. "Gods help us, the beast's alive!" 

When Scratch goes to snap his jaws in the tiefling's face, however, the man's hand darts out and grabs onto the dog's leg. With only a firm blink, lightning lashes out from his palm and shoots through Scratch. He yelps pitifully and darts away, tail between his legs. The spell isn't nearly as powerful as Gale's but still makes everyone glare and tense up. 

Lae'zel raises her greatsword to slam it into the True Soul's head but recognition sparks (pun intended) in his eyes and with a swoosh, he's halfway across the landing and unsheathing his dagger and shortsword. 

"A mage," Astarion trills. "Finally, some fun." 

The tiefling's heartbeat is stronger now, faster, as he dodges attacks and suddenly slips into shadow, becoming near-invisible. Astarion raises an eyebrow in surprise and knocks back a flammable arrow into his longbow. Before he can fire, a matching arrow comes flying his way, scraping against the ground and igniting in an explosive bang. 

Shit. Perhaps this True Soul is better than he looks. 

For the next however long, it seems as though every one of their attacks either misses or gets reflected. Spells seem to come to the True Soul just as naturally as melee and Astarion is utterly perplexed as to whether he's a wizard or a fighter. 

Astarion hits him with delicate precision; his aim becomes just as deadly. Lae'zel manages to disarm him; in a few minutes he's disarming her. Karlach swings her axe with impossible strength; soon his strength feels doubled. Gale blasts him with Magic Missile; he casts it just one round later. 

His technique is far from perfect - below rudimentary, even - but when the True Soul casts a Firebolt straight after Gale does, Astarion dips into shadows for a breather.

Is he... copying us? 

The vampire grits his teeth together angrily. Of course. He can't believe he didn't see it before. The graceful movements. The tendency to rely on darkness. The darting eyes taking in every inch of the room and his opponents. 

A rogue of some sort. And he is stealing their attacks. 

Despite his frustration, Astarion can't help but feel... intrigued. The True Soul is a quick learner, very serious and obviously annoyed whenever he gets hit or it takes a few tries before he succeeds a new attack. There is something fascinating about that, about watching the way he moves and develops over just a few minutes. 

He would be a worthy meal. Astarion imagines chasing the tiefling down, watching as he learns how the vampire moves and gets faster, stronger, steadier. More vampiric with every twist and turn. The shadowed ruins of the Cursed Lands would be a fine maze for their little game. And when the cultist was finally worn down and beaten, he'd pray to his pathetic Absolute for help and hear only the stutter of his heartbeat as Astarion drained him dry. 

He really needs to feed. 

When Karlach steps closer to Astarion, he huffs miserably and mutters underneath his breath. "Can we go? We aren't going to win this fight, he's mimicking us." With a thunderous clatter, Lae'zel drops to the ground, fast asleep. "Or maybe he's not." 

Karlach gives him a horrified look before downing a healing potion in one chug. She throws the empty bottle at the True Soul, who lets out a low yell when it hits him in the side of the head.

"What if we just stopped attacking? He can't copy us if we do that," she suggests as she leaps over to shake Lae'zel awake. 

"No, he already knows our attacks," Astarion speaks louder, talking across the banister to the cultist. "Isn't that right, darling?" 

The True Soul shrugs. "What did you say? I thought I heard something of value but maybe it was just whining." 

So he could banter too. A pretty, thieving, cynical pet whom Astarion can tear to pieces for his own amusement. If he weren't dead, his heart would leap. 

Instead he laughs shrilly and shoots an arrow at the tiefling's head at the same time as Gale blasts him with magic. He can't dodge both and takes the arrow to the jaw, piercing through the cheek and making him groan miserably, dropping his weapons to clutch at his face. With a thud, he presses himself against the cold stone wall behind him and squeezes his eyes shut.

Lae'zel strides forwards, ready to cut his head from his shoulders. Astarion shudders, the image of drinking his rich-smelling blood causing hunger to gnaw even harder against his sternum. 

"Wait!" Karlach makes the githyanki freeze, all eyes turning to her at her outburst. "Shouldn't we, like, have a hostage to question?" 

The True Soul's expression begins trembling, the disgust morphing into fear and agony as his breaths become laboured. When he parts his lips, blood spills down onto his chin.

Astarion licks his lips. "Great idea, let's take him." 

Gale recognises his hunger and chuckles. "I fear that you are biased, Astarion, but I see no reason why an interrogation cannot take place. It would be most fortuitous if-" 

"Enough chatter," Lae'zel orders sharply, immediately hauling the True Soul towards her and gripping his bicep.

The tiefling's brows flicker as he tries to frown before pain overcomes him; his left hand moves slightly as if to attract their attention.

The group's resident wizard tuts. "A weak attempt at spellcasting, if I ever did see one. Now come, let us make to camp." 

At first, Astarion had laughed at the fact one singular arrow had taken the True Soul out of commission. When it becomes apparent that the head had lodged itself through his cheek, tongue, and into the opposite cheek, he feels less amused. Halsin spends a long time whilst the cultist is knocked out to heal the poor creature. 

Gale insists upon casting a bubble of Silence around them, cautious of their captive's magic despite his hands being tied. A decent suggestion and one that allows Astarion to get as close as he likes without the worry of getting burnt to ash if something goes wrong. 

Currently, they're all staring as the tiefling gradually stirs and blinks at his surroundings. As soon as he realises the predicament he's in, the struggling starts. 

"Yeah, soldier, you aren't getting out of those any time soon," warns Karlach when the cultist tugs a bit too hard on the ropes tying him to a chair. "I'm real good with knots." 

The True Soul continues shifting around, opening and closing his mouth to rid himself of phantom pain.

"Bastard," he mutters eventually. Then he seems to gain more confidence and sneers. "Fucking traitors, I'll rip you apart. Where am I? If I don't cut you to pieces, General Thorm will. He knows. The Absolute knows. The Absolute sees -" 

"Yes, yes, the Absolute sees all. We've heard that before," Astarion pointedly yawns, earning him a glare. 

"Perhaps it would be wise to extent the Prism's protection unto this man," Halsin suggests with that same-old calmness of his. 

The group look between one another, silently communing with just their eyes. After a few seconds, listening to the huffs of the True Soul, they nod. Gale (ever the mediator) is the one to ask their omnipotent guardian for the protection. 

"Prism? What in the hells is the Prism?" Demands their hostage, falling into a calm yet resolutely suspicious tone. 

Astarion doesn't trust the guardian nor the Prism - it seems far too abnormal and fake. Not in a manipulative way but in a mortal way; the guardian's form stirs and changes every now and then as though they are made of water, their eyes morphing into different shapes and positions whenever Astarion asks them a particularly contrite question in his dreams. Their ears don't twitch or move in the correct way long ears should, making them seem all the more subelven. They speak with various intonations and accents, sometimes high elven and sometimes speaking like those from the woods. There is something not quite right about them. He is starting to suspect they aren't the elf they portray themselves to be. 

Suddenly, the True Soul falls still. 

"It is done," announces Gale. 

They all watch cautiously as the cultist blinks and grimaces, brow furrowed in thought. "I..." The irritation returns in full. "What in the hells did you do to me?" He growls, leaning forwards so that the ropes cut into his flesh. "I can't hear Her, what did you do?" 

Astarion lets out a high-pitched laugh. People just didn't understand when they were being saved. "Stopping you from dying at the hands of a vicious cult, of course." The True Soul crinkles his nose. "You're welcome, sweeting." 

The cultist gives him a disbelieving look. "Blasphemous whore." 

He isn't wrong, per say, but the words still sting. Astarion is in front of him, dagger to his neck, in an instant. The tiefling draws back and tuts as if repulsed by him. It makes sense, Astarion reasons. He wouldn't want to be around a godless slut either. Paladins and clerics always were poor targets for Cazador, constantly leaving once they'd fucked Astarion dry as though that in itself was repentance. 

"You should be grateful you're alive, darling," he purrs slyly. "Be calmer. Be happier." 

"How about you choke on my balls?" 

Karlach guffaws behind them and Gale clears his throat, humming in an amused manner. Astarion licks his lips, the scent of his blood all the sweeter now that the man is irritated. The cultist's eyes widen slightly, clearly recognising the same hunger he saw at Moonrise. Astarion leans closer, lips brushing against his pointed ear. 

"Is that an offer?" The tiefling's heartbeat picks up. "Adorable." 

"What's wrong with him?" Karlach asks. "Shouldn't he be... you know... not loving the Absolute anymore." Astarion frowns and leans away.

The True Soul continues wriggling. "I would never hate the Absolute. How could you turn your backs on Her?" His anger twists back into disgust, calming down enough that the ropes stop searing his skin. "And infiltrate Moonrise, of all places? You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves." 

Strange, rings out the voice of the guardian. I have shielded him from the Absolute's voice, he should not be so insistent on adoring it. 

"Perhaps he has been so ingrained into the cult that he knows nothing else," Gale wonders aloud, making the True Soul look at him with loathing. 

"All religions are cults, you little shit." 

Astarion laughs darkly, delight coursing through him at the helpless rogue who only has his words to attack with. He'll enjoy interrogating him, once the submissiveness has finally kicked in. Once he's figured out there's no escaping them. 

"What's your name, darling?" He coos, lightly tracing the cultist's jaw with his dagger. His scruffy beard is tickled by the blade and the tiefling huffs in annoyance. 

"I'm not telling you anything, least of all my name." 

It is sort of cute that this man thought that his mind wasn't easily accessed via tadpole. In an instant, Astarion pushes through his thoughts, searching for anything valuable. 

Disgust. Hatred. Revulsion. 

Revulsion at travelling to Moonrise Towers. Revulsion at having to speak to cultists. Revulsion at every single turn of his pilgrimage and study of the new cult, disgruntled over one thing or another. Revulsion at being put on guard-duty. Revulsion at being captured. 

And confusion. 

Fear. 

Then comes the revulsion at feeling such emotions. 

The tiefling's parasite bites back, shoving Astarion out with a wave of tangled thoughts. None of those thoughts give him any clue as to who the True Soul actually is. 

"What was that?!" Shouts the tiefling, a mixture of horror and disgust twisting in his expression. When nobody immediately answers him, his voice becomes dark. "What was that? My..." His eyes dart around and land besides him, resting on his contraband equipment. He looks back to Astarion. "Listen, I don't know what you just did you me but how about you fucking let me go back where I belong, huh?" 

"You felt the mental connection between our illithid parasites trying to eat us rotten," Astarion says casually, earning him several scoffs and sounds of disapproval from his companions. 

The cultist grimaces. "That sounds believable, sure. What spell was that you used? Can I - nevermind."

Oh, that's right. True Souls aren't capable of understanding their skulls held an parasite intent on controlling their every move and ensuring their eventual transformation into a mind flayer. To them, the Absolute is simply a new and powerful god. Delusional, of course. Astarion knows all too well that deities never help mortals, particularly not out of the goodness of their 'hearts.' If the Astral Prism's guardian is currently protecting the tiefling from the Absolute (and isn't the liar Astarion suspects them to be) that meant he has been manipulated outside of the tadpole's influence. Perhaps he has been fed the cult's propaganda beforehand and travelled to Moonrise to be granted the 'wisdom' of other True Souls despite the disdain he felt.

Or perhaps he is just an idiot. 

Astarion zones out as Halsin and Gale begin to explain at length the parasitic situation, watching the True Soul instead. He'll admit, the tiefling is a pretty little thing if you look past the eternally petulant expression he wears. They'd stripped him of his armour on arrival at the campsite, meaning he is dressed only in leggings and the top half of his strappy underwear; quite the sight. 

But Astarion has looked at plenty of bodies and this one is just like all the others - although the two-toned skin is more interesting - and he finds himself examining the tiefling's face instead. At first the irritation was obvious, yet slowly it's faded away into grumpy defeat and acceptance. Every now and then he nods absentmindedly, his disinterest obvious, and his eyes trail back and forth between people and the ground. And his weapons. 

As Halsin starts explaining what the Astral Prism is (the True Soul's brows rise), Astarion bends down to pick up the man's shortsword. With a sudden jerk, the True Soul is pulling at the ropes to stare at Astarion. The talking promptly stops. 

"Is everything alright, my friend?" Halsin questions, making a laugh bubble from Astarion's lips. They are far from companions, nevermind friends. 

The cultist hums and leans further towards Astarion, nostrils flaring. "Perfectly perfect."

Something dangerous swims in those green eyes, as if daring him to try taking the blade from him. Astarion adores a dare. 

"If things are perfect, so is this sword. Delicately crafted, isn't it? My finest weapon yet." 

"Oh shut up, elf, you fight with daggers." 

Astarion shrugs. "I can fight with swords too. Not as..." Karlach was sighing at him. "What?" 

"We're meant to be getting along and making him feel welcome." 

"We are meant to be discovering vital information on the ghaik cult," argues Lae'zel. 

"You're doing a shit job both," spits the tiefling as he again attempts to rip himself from his bonds. "Let me go and things will go better for you." 

"I like him," Astarion trills happily as he gently places the sword back down. The True Soul relaxes. Astarion picks up his gloves instead. 

The tiefling laughs humourlessly. "You are so dead." If only he knew. "As soon as I get out of these fucking -" 

"Let us not be so brash and violent," Gale interrupts, ever the goody-two-shoes. He receives a vicious glare in response. "As we have explained, we are trying to help you escape the cult of the Absolute, such a volatile and - it would be preferable if you did not proceed to attempt to escape as I speak. I predict you shall only injure yourself with your amateur technique." 

The tiefling grumbles underneath his breath and there's a moment of stillness. He tilts his head to the side, thinking, and whispers something else. 

A pause. Lae'zel tuts. 

The cultist looks up at Gale sharply. "Silence spell?" 

The wizard nods. "Precisely." 

The whinging begins again, much to Astarion's growing annoyance. "Oh, fuck you, you stupid little mage." His insults are as childish as his personality, it seemed. "As soon as you lose concentration I'll destroy everything in sight." 

"Better not, you have no idea where you are and you're rather outnumbered," Astarion purrs, not resisting the temptation the trail a finger along the curl of the tiefling's horn. He jerks back but has nowhere to go. "And don't get any ideas for whilst we sleep, darling. We take turns watching out for danger." 

The cultist is retaining at least some of his dignity, for he immediately rolls his eyes and says blankly, "I'm the danger? I would be honoured but I don't have the energy." 

"Neither do I," Gale sighs. "How about we get some rest and talk come morning, yes? That shall allow our tempers to settle."

It will also allow the Prism's guardian to figure out what in the hells is going on with their new friend. Astarion grins salaciously down at the True Soul and moves his hand down to tap him on the nose before stepping away. 

"In that case, goodnight."

The tiefling makes a disbelieving expression. "What, that's it? Just 'goodnight' and you're all going to leave me alone?" 

"We need you to trust that we mean you no harm - we aren't Absolutists," Halsin explains calmly. 

"Chk, we mean him harm if he means us harm," Lae'zel snaps. From the way she glares, her bloodlust is obvious. 

Karlach quickly adds, "listen, all we ask is that you find it in your heart to hear us out." 

The True Soul narrows his eyes and thinks for several seconds. Then, slowly and painfully (it seems as though it physically hurts him) he smiles. 

"Okay. You can... trust... me too," he grinds out through his teeth. 

Astarion laughs shrilly. "Oh yes, very convincing." The poor smile instantly drops and he receives a scowl instead. 

Karlach claps her hands together suddenly, startling everyone. "If you're staying with us, we need to know your name." 

'Staying.' What a pleasant way to say that he is a hostage, Astarion thinks to himself. He smirks as the cultist throws his head back, offended. 

"I'm not saying my name." 

"Aw c'mon man, what is it?" No answer. "If you won't tell us, I'm gonna call you Soul." 

The expression on his face makes Astarion burst into cruel cackles. This cultist is simply the most precious thing ever, he decides. So protective over unimportant matters such as names and swords - so determined to continue praising a cult intent on his destruction. If Soul is so desperate to become a victim of the Absolutists, he is more idiotic than Astarion had expected. It's a little disappointing to say the least; the vampire had hoped to have something fun to play with. None of the others sate his hunger in the slightest. 

Though perhaps there was still time for fun, from the way he was being looked at. 

"I'm a True Soul. You ought to put some fucking respect on that, traitor," Soul raves. Astarion thinks the name fits him, what with the fact the cultists and mind flayers possess no souls. 

"Silence." Lae'zel demands, making Soul freeze up. Curious. "You chatter too much. We shall rest." 

Gale throws his hands up in the air in exasperation and walks away, clearly tired of the conversation. If Astarion is being honest to himself, he is too. It has been a long day of fighting and infiltrating Moonrise, dragging on his blood-deprived body like nothing else. He's not entirely sure how he even manages to stay upright and pretentious sometimes. 

"Rest," groans Soul. "Rest and rest and rest." 

Astarion leans over yet again so that they are both eye level with one another. "You won't be doing much of that once I'm done with you, sweet thing." 

Throughout his torture of two hundred years, Astarion has learnt many things about reading people. Their frustration, violence, joy, determination, desperation, or hope. Control of his emotions and therefore understanding of others was of the utmost importance in manipulating them to Cazador's door. It kept him safe from the rougher crowds but never safe from Cazador, no matter what he did. 

Even so, he felt as though he is rather excellent at reading people. Soul - as Karlach has now christened him - is the secretive sort. He feels the need to hide the tiny, pathetic facts about himself because he has nothing else. He lashes out in a similar way Astarion does; to hold dear their true selves. To find protection in the only person who actually matters. 

This weak-willed cultist will break under the slightest pressure. Ice seems tough to cut through until you find the right temperature and slice through its core. 

A hitched breath. A subconscious flutter of eyelashes. A tiny veer away with his neck. 

"Problem, Soul?" 

His lips part ever so slightly. He licks his lips and swallows. 

"You're too close."

Of all the emotions, desire was by far the easiest to notice. 

What 'Soul' looks like

Chapter Text

Astarion wakes from his trance to the smell of burning flesh. 

He sighs and listens to the heavy footsteps of Halsin stumbling sleepily across camp. There's the sound of magic and weapons whizzing through the air, a yelp, and then a thud. 

Astarion closes his eyes again. 

Except... he doesn't hear Halsin walking back to his tent again. Instead, there's only the rustle of dead leaves. 

Astarion wrenches his eyes open and bolts upright onto his feet, a dagger already in hand. As he slips out of his tent, he spies Soul treading lightly over Halsin's unconscious body. His body and face scream calm but from the stuttering fearful heartbeat of his, Astarion knows he's anything but. Astarion is about to follow the cultist - just to see who can out-rogue one another - but pauses when Soul steps too near Withers. 

The creaky, stationary skeleton whom Karlach has nicknamed Withers is a peculiar thing. Its bones meld into whichever surface it touches, giving it the appearance of decay that has been left unattended for centuries. Ash and dead fungi stretch across it as it leans haphazardly against a large boulder; its right palm faces the sky, a single coin held within its open grasp as an offering to either the gods or Withers itself. 

The skeleton has followed them ever since exploring an old crypt near the Emerald Grove. It's not as if they haven't tried scaring it off - it's that they simply never see it move. The group will leave Withers in their old camp and find it in their new one before they can even blink, melding into the environment as if it were always there. Astarion is starting to believe it likes them. The fact that it revives them if someone dies is also a sign. 

When Soul moves to pass by Withers, the skeleton springs to life. Well... 'springs' would be generous. Its skull slowly rips itself from the boulder, gunk stretching across the gap, as its jaw unhinges and hangs open. Soul jumps slightly and brandishes his shortsword at the thing. 

Withers, as per usual, is unbothered. Its voice rumbles from its teeth, eye sockets just as dead as skeletons should be. 

"What is the cost of a single mortal's life?" 

Soul seems even more shocked at the question (weren't we all?) and sneers down at it. "What? Shut up," he hisses, clearly conscious of everyone sleeping. 

"What is the cost of a single mortal's life?" 

"Uhh..." A pause. "If I answer, will you fuck off?" 

"What is the cost of a single mortal's life?" 

Soul shakes a hand around in frustration, groaning quietly. Astarion smirks to himself, amusement bubbling up inside his chest. 

"Shut up, shut up. Okay, um - " he glances around but clearly fear messes with his mind, for he doesn't spot Astarion creeping closer. "It's not worth anything, nobody's worth anything."

An unsurprising answer considering Soul has already successfully beaten most of them black and blue the past week. It never lasts but the attempts to escape are rather entertaining. Lae'zel and Gale are usually the ones to put him in his place, either with a smack around the head or a Hold Person spell, although yesterday it was Astarion who had Soul grasping at straws on the dead earth. It was extremely satisfying. 

Withers creaks quietly and for a horrifying moment, Astarion swears that it's staring right at him. The moment passes, however, when the elf comes to a stop behind Soul. 

"Perhaps to some. Very well, I am satisfied." 

"Huh? What does that..." Soul trails off as Wither's gaping jaw closes and goes still. "Fucking freak." 

"I don't know, darling, it's rather ordinary around here." 

Jolting forwards in shock, Soul twists around only to find himself face-to-face with Astarion's favourite dagger. It's only his favourite because they took it from the cultist, but that's besides the point. The tiefling crinkles his nose in obvious distaste. 

"Rude to sneak up on someone." 

Astarion shrugs and presses the blade to Soul's delicate neck. "You do that too often to count. I can... forgive you if you just let me rest." 

"I thought elves didn't need to sleep." 

He rolls his eyes. "But we do need to trance; come on, keep up, it's a rather simple concept." 

Soul's expression softens, an almost wistful tone inching into his voice. "Gods, I wish I tranced. Things would be so much easier." 

"Die and come back reborn as an elf, then you'll get your wish." 

The softness vanishes. Astarion wonders if it ever existed in the first place. 

The sharp sting of a blade digs into his stomach; Astarion glances down to see the edge of Soul's shortsword pushing into his flesh. The vampire winces, scenting the old blood seeping out, but makes sure to maintain his cold nonchalance. 

"That skeleton thing behind us... what is it?" 

Astarion remains immovable despite the pain radiating through his body. The torment is more than injury, which he has endured before; it's a demonstration of power, dominance, and unadulterated spite. As his dagger slices small incisions along Soul's throat, he imagines the cultist is contemplating the very same notion. 

And now, Astarion has the upper hand despite a shortsword being larger. He possesses knowledge. For a hostage in a cursed land, knowledge is everything. Offering just one piece could tip the scales in their favour. 

"Withers," he says simply. 

"Withers." 

He nods, jolting both weapons and making one another inhale sharply. 

"Indeed. I'm surprised you haven't noticed it beforehand." 

Soul wiggles his head about mockingly, seemingly unaffected by the dagger. "I've been a little preoccupied, asshole." 

"Oh, sweetheart, my name's Astarion, remember?" 

"And my name isn't Soul but you keep calling me that." 

Astarion sighs. He is constantly surrounded by idiots and it is absolutely exhausting having to be the smart one of the group. He would say that Gale is smart but the man is determined to kill himself for his goddess so perhaps there are a few braincells missing there. 

"Poor baby. Should I ask you what you wish to be referred to so that we can all hold hands and be best friends and be so very respectful towards one another?" 

Soul scoffs. "I have a feeling you ought to be nicer, considering I'm about to gut you." 

Astarion pushes his dagger further into Soul's neck, sighing happily as thick blood oozes from the cut. The tiefling doesn't move despite the fact they both know he's face-to-face with a predator. Because that's what Astarion is, isn't it? A predator. A monster. If Astarion hadn't been fed by Halsin last night, he might have a lot less self-control. He might be ripping Soul's throat out, right this second, at the feral speed of a starving spawn. 

"You're so adorable when you think you have the upper hand." 

"Who is suffering the worse injury?" 

Astarion shrugs, which fortunately doesn't tweak his wound, and cocks his head. "Your blade is blunt as a chewed-up cigar and you've chosen a terrible position of attack. You should have used to the point of the sword but instead you chose the edge merely because I did the same." Soul's eyes narrow. "Perhaps try thinking for yourself rather than copying people all the time?" 

"You aren't giving me much room to work with." 

"Says the one pressed against my dagger." 

"You all started this by taking me hostage for no real reason." Soul's voice becomes a high-pitched whine that does something strange to Astarion's stomach. "Can't I simply return to Moonrise where there's good food and light?" 

"Listen, my sweet." He raises a hand - Soul tenses his shoulders - and delicately places the back of it against the cultist's cheek. The man doesn't back away, likely too afraid to lose this game they're playing. "I truly hate to say this but I'm trying this new 'decent person' thing. Apparently, if you help people, they'll give you money and help you in return." He smirks, thinking of the tiefling refugees. "Even if they have just the clothes on their backs, they'll do anything to repay you. So..." Astarion begins stroking Soul's cheek, much to the rogue's clear disgust. "Play nice, realise the Absolute is trying to kill us all, and then maybe you'll get something in return. You can play nice, right?" 

"No, not really. I've been told I have the same attitude as a brick wall." 

Astarion gives him a fanged grin, voice lowering into a heated purr. "Hard and perfect to rut against?" 

Soul looks utterly horrified, his mouth dropping down into an almost comical expression. 

"What? No! No, that's not - how did you even reach that conclusion?" 

Astarion hasn't used his body as a means to an end in a long, long time. After getting rejected by everyone in the group, Astarion learnt that his skills were better used in combat and lockpicking than bedding someone. His companions respected him as a person and it shows in the way they ask his opinion on matters that don't concern him. 

But Soul doesn't care whether he's good during combat and can unlock any door - those talents are common in a land like this. The cultist himself can do both of those things with ease, no doubt glaring and grumbling as he does so, which means keeping him satisfied is far more difficult than it should be. It means that Astarion finally lands on the solution that he wishes didn't need to be used. 

His body. 

It isn't as if Astarion won't have all the control (his days of doing Cazador's bidding are behind him) so he should be jumping at the cultist. However, a sudden whirlwind romance was unlikely to seduce Soul like it would drunkards at a tavern or Halsin when he is... being Halsin. No, Astarion thinks. The True Soul is untrusting and scornful; he won't be easy to bring on side with just a pretty body and a few sweet words. It will take a little more pushing. 

And who knows? It could be a lot of fun. He has been looking for some entertainment other than murder and darkness, after all.

"Call it elven intuition," Astarion drawls. "Not that you would understand." 

"You aren't superior just because you're an elf." 

He scoffs. "Come now, I wasn't saying that. I would be blind to not see how ruggedly handsome you are, darling."

Astarion steps closer so that Soul's shortsword slides a little, the edge moving so that the flat of the blade is pressed against him instead. He tilts his head at just the right angle to look irresistible. Soul pauses. Perfect. 

"Rugged?" His voice comes out softer this time, more uncertain. 

Astarion hums thoughtfully. "And you smell so sweet." 

Soul scowls once more. "I don't trust vampires." 

"You trust the Absolute and, believe me beautiful, cultists are a lot more violent." 

Soul bares his teeth, pressing into Astarion's stomach harder than necessary. The elf glowers and does the same thing to his throat, making Soul choke and flinch away. The gentle balancing act crashes to the ground at that slight retreat; Soul recognises it instantly and accepts his failure, taking a tentative step backwards and withdrawing his sword. 

Astarion flicks his eyes downwards. There's a moment's hesitation - the True Soul debating whether to submit or lash out properly - before the shortsword clatters to the ground. 

"So you can be smart and give in," Astarion teases, stepping closer and resting his eyes on Soul's wound. The cultist is quick to grip onto his arm, halting his movements. 

"Don't you dare." 

He growls it out like he knows hunger still roils beneath Astarion's skin, the temptation to reach out and lap at his neck all too powerful. Yet Astarion isn't some feral creature when he's been fed and merely wets his lips, fangs out of sight. There's hesitation in Soul's eyes, the nervousness of prey who knows better, but the tiefling hasn't pulled away. If anything, his body has gone pliant. When Astarion places his hands on Soul's waist and pulls him so close that they only have to move two inches until their lips meet, the cultist lets him lead with only a subconscious flutter of his eyelashes. 

"Darling, you aren't curious what it would feel like?" 

"Like a bite, surely." 

"It would feel like a boring old bite if I weren't a vampire." Astarion almost rolls his eyes before he catches himself and gently cradles the back of Soul's neck instead, watching his eyes grow dazed. "Vampires have venom that is released once they bite, nothing fatal of course, but it's very... relaxing for their victim." 

"I've heard it's like an aphrodisiac," mutters Soul with only mild contempt. 

Astarion makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. "I suppose that would explain why all the goblins and cultists I drain dry look so happy about it."  

"Yeah..." 

Astarion's mocking obviously isn't having the same effect it was before, the True Soul gripping his arm tightly as if scared the vampire will run off. He can't help but smirk at that; he had thought practising lines for drunk desperate people in taverns was the only reason why he was successful in seducing them, but perhaps Astarion is just that irresistible. 

"Not that I would bite or drain you without permission, pet. Although, I might have to for other reasons if you continue running off." Soul hums absently at his words. "But why would you want to run off when I'm around, hmm? I promise to make it worth your while - I've been wanting you since I first laid my eyes on that dashing face." A simple line, yet sufficiently effective. 

Soul's hand loosens from the vampire's bicep as he talks and Astarion takes the opportunity to slyly reach behind Soul. The tiefling is far too distracted trying not to make a sound. Far too preoccupied to notice Astarion shifting. 

Karlach once scolded Astarion for grabbing her tail, proceeding to go on a ramble that left Gale flustered on overhearing and running off. Apparently the only time one should touch a tiefling's tail was when they wanted to, in her oh so wise words, 'get freaky.' 

Ever so softly, Astarion brushes his fingertips against the base of Soul's tail. The tail leans almost subconsciously into the touch, shivering as it does so. Astarion opens his palm, wraps his hand fully around it, and squeezes. 

A delicious shudder runs through Soul's body; the tiefling jolts away, pulling his tail out of Astarion's hand with one of his own. The cultist's eyes narrow, lip curling to show teeth, and in an instant his docile nature has crumpled. 

"Don't do that." 

Astarion hums, mischievous, blood still resting on his tongue. "Do what? Might I remind you that you're in our camp - one wrong move and things wouldn't go well for you." 

Soul tenses. Astarion's meaning is clear; no complaints, no trying to escape, or arrows fly. Astarion really shouldn't tease but it's so fun when he's finally the one in control. When he's desired and can choose whether to push or pull. Cazador wouldn't want this mark - it is his alone. 

So why did he still feel quietly uneasy? 

Astarion frowns. Soul instantly mimics it. Squares his shoulders. Ready for a fight. 

The elf rolls his eyes and slips back into seduction. No time to have a crisis, he tells himself. They need to give this cultist a reason to stick around. He is the reason. 

"With me, darling, you don't have to fear." He once again brushes a hand against Soul's tail. This time, he doesn't move away. "I can see it, you know. You want me." Soul's scowl deepens. "Don't give me that look, your pupils are blown far too wide to deny it." 

"I don't -" Soul stops sharply, eyes and lips squeezing shut, when Astarion grips the base of his tail again. 

Oh yes, I could get used to this. It's sort of like a lever used to open a door or button for a trap. One move and the stupid True Soul would be silenced. 

With his thumb, Astarion begins stroking the underside of the tail. Soul takes a faltering breath as his whole body presses against him, warm hands coming to rest on his hips. How amusing that lust renders people incapable of logic. 

"You don't what?" Astarion prompts helpfully as he continues stroking. "You don't want me? Oh pet, I have a strong feeling that you do." 

Soul gradually opens his eyes to stare into Astarion's. Whatever he sees there, it's obvious he doesn't like it. 

"This is disgusting," he spits. "Are you really that much of a rent-boy that you can't control yourself?" 

The sick self hatred brews low in his stomach. Who does this cultist think he is, shaming Astarion like this? The only thing he's ever been paid with have been rotting rats and lashes of a whip. 

Astarion's smirk falls into a glare. He loosens his hand slightly and with skill that he's perfected over all his wretched unlife, begins teasingly fisting part of Soul's tail like he would a cock. 

The effect is immediate. It's dry and can hardly be too pleasant, yet Soul exhales breathlessly, the sound almost a moan. I can do better. Astarion puts more pressure on the tail and relishes in the way Soul leans into him further, hot firmness pushing into the vampire's thigh. 

The tiefling's heart thumps loudly inside his chest, tempting Astarion with its steady beat as blood continues to drip down his neck. The vampire dares to inhale and swallows, closing his eyes tightly as the sugary scent of his blood wafting over him. He opens them again to watch Soul trying his hardest not to move or make a sound. 

"You're so quiet," Astarion purrs against his lips. "That simply won't do." 

"A little - ah - hard to concentrate." 

As easy as owning a skeleton key. 

"Why don't you just relax and let me handle things, yes?" 

Soul's lids flutter open, eyes hazy with lust. After a second, he nods. "Yes. Right, okay." 

It's humiliating, the way that Astarion finds himself falling into old habits and old commands, teasing someone else with pleasure to get them to listen to him. At the same time, if it's the only way they will be able to stop Soul from trying to escape, what good is talking to him and making him see reason going to do? They have been trying that method for days now and nothing gets through. 

As gentle as a babe, Astarion ducks his head down towards the cuts he dug into Soul's throat. He exhales coolly over the oozing blood, making the tiefling shiver and his tail to whip about in his grip. 

"Patience is a virtue," he trills against his neck. 

"I have a Virtue Name, asshole." Soul begins breathing heavier, chest rising and falling quickly. 

Oh? 

"And what is it?" 

Soul practically shakes like a leave in his hands, body pressing against him as though he wishes they were merged. 

"Huh? What - what?" 

Licking a soft path along Soul's bleeding neck, Astarion hums contentedly at the rich dribble on his tongue. Most blood tastes the same in the heat of the moment; it's when Astarion takes the time to sample that he notes the explosion of various flavours within each vein. He could spend an hour drinking and thinking yet never come close to recognising the true bouquet before him. 

"Your Virtue Name, my sweet darling. What is it?" 

As Soul realises what he's asking, the cultist stills, tail coming to a stop from its frantic movements and eyes opening to stare into the black sky. Astarion stills as well, hands coming to a rest wrapped around Soul to keep him close. He wouldn't want the man to swoon, after all. 

"Why are you so... desperate to find out my name?" 

"Why are you so desperate to keep it a secret?" 

He shrugs. "Would you believe me if I said it was to appear mysterious and cool?" 

Gods, this man is as irritating as Thorm. 

"That is an obvious lie." 

"Worth a shot."

With the same skilled hand as usual, Astarion brushes against the underside of Soul's tail. A shiver. The True Soul relaxes again, breathing out a tense sigh. 

"That's it," Astarion coos. "Imagine what I'll do to - ah, shit!" 

Lightning shoots through Astarion's body, Soul's hands sparking magic into his hips. Astarion leaps away, trembling, as the tiefling darts away across camp. 

That bloody bastard. Had he been faking his arousal? A trick to escape? 

It doesn't matter either way. With a snarl, Astarion is flying after him, dagger already in hand. That's the only good thing about the situation - that Soul dropped his sword and only has his magic to protect himself.

As Astarion runs past Lae'zel's tent, his eyes flick rapidly across the landscape. The group has set up their camp in a charming location near cliffs and the murky waters of a frigid ocean. There isn't much room for Soul to flee, as most of the exits involve scaling a rocky wall into the darkness. Nonetheless, Astarion can't immediately spot the irritating tiefling with his large horns and bright eyes that should stick out like white flags in the shadows. 

Drat. The True Soul is hiding. Hiding or gone. 

Astarion reaches out with his tadpole, the vile thing twisting inside his skull and spreading its feelers towards Soul. If he hasn't gone far, the tadpole should still pick up on his location, otherwise Astarion would need to rely on his vampiric hearing to track Soul's heartbeat. 

There. 

Astarion unsheathes a second dagger from his boot as he slinks through the thick shadows towards the cultist. Soul has sharpened his senses since sneaking earlier (unfortunately) and immediately notices Astarion from his crouched position between Halsin's tent and a cliff-edge. 

"A terrible hiding spot," Astarion sneers as he creeps closer. 

Soul's face stretches into an uncharacteristic grin, straightening and holding up his hands. The action makes Astarion pause, poised to strike. He won't be fooled by a smile and supplication - not again, at least. He will need to try harder to see past the façade and seduce Soul before the cultist scurries off to tell his friends where they are and that they are holding 'the weapon.'

He lets out an overly fake laugh. "Oh, you got me. I apologise, I didn't realise you were so perceptive." 

"I had a little help from our illithid friend." 

A frown. A crack. "You're still going on about illithids? Listen, there are no illi -" 

Astarion lunges forward, his fangs snapping and blades dancing. Soul leaps back, his horns colliding with the wall in a sickening crunch as he dodges the daggers. Despite the twinge from his stomach wound, Astarion dismisses the pain, driving the tip of one dagger into Soul's right shoulder. The tiefling lets out a low cry of agony, then seizes Astarion's wrist, pulling with the entire weight of his body.

The blade is wrenched out of his shoulder, blood gushing from the wound. Soul curses underneath his breath, sending lightning through Astarion's body. He hisses at the sensation, not yet accustomed to the feeling, and leans away. Soul takes the opportunity to rip Astarion's dagger from his loose grip and slices at his face. 

"Bastard!" Astarion yelps, darting away and out of reach. 

He swaps his offhand dagger to his dominant hand, snarling at his opponent for having the audacity to steal from him. No matter, though, he has killed men before using just one blade. 

Perhaps it's his confidence that is his downfall, in the end. For as Astarion thinks that very thought, Soul ducks under his outstretched arm and plunges the stolen dagger into his chest. Astarion stumbles over his own feet in shock. Soul yanks the blade out. In. Out. In. Out. Stabbing again and again, Astarion's dead blood oozing out and painting his white shirt pure red. 

The stench of tiefling and vampiric blood overwhelms him so greatly that Astarion doesn't even think to fight back. Sure, he kicks a little and musters his fiercest glare up at Soul's snarl, but darkness that isn't caused by the Cursed Lands tugs at his mind. 

Oh.

I'm going to murder this tiefling once...

once... 

Withers... 

Chapter Text

The horrible wrenching sensation of revival slams into Astarion as he gasps dead air and jolts upright, heaving in unneeded breaths. He blinks rapidly, growing familiar with unlife once more. The first thing he notices is that it's far darker than it should be. 

Someone has moved the Moonlantern. 

"He lives! Most excellent." 

Astarion cringes from Gale's voice, waving his companion away to give himself space. "Hearing your voice, I wish I were gone again." 

Karlach tuts. "Up and out, soldier. Soul's run off.”

Astarion groans. “That damned tiefling… I should have – ”

“The others are heading to Moonrise tracking him down. They took Scratch to sniff him out.”

Blinking, Astarion peers up at Karlach and Gale’s stern faces. Their brows are dipped with irritation, the barbarian’s flames crackling intensely on her body. Are they angry at him? He had tried to keep Soul under control; it isn’t his fault that the cultist is a tricky little thing who can use magic and weapons.

Astarion scrunches his nose and attempts to leap up to plead his case, only to stumble on unsteady feet. Karlach holds out a hand to help him and, offended, Astarion bats it away.

“He caught me unawares, that’s all.”

Gale pulls a face, eyes darting to Withers. “Some of us are more observant than others, it seems.”

The skeleton was watching the whole time?

That means Withers is capable of snitching and capable of speaking outside of its revivification magic yet chose not to alert the rest of the group that Astarion was fighting Soul until it was too late. Perhaps it hadn’t even said anything until they found his body.

Outraged, Astarion stalks towards the tattle-tale skeleton, laying frozen in the same position it always is. Two coins are now cradled in its upturned hand, glinting in the low light of nearby torches. Astarion sneers at Withers’ skull and swoops down to pick up the coins. The skeleton doesn't need gold, after all.

And… nothing happens.

Withers doesn’t close its hand around the air nor does it open its jaw to scold him. The lack of reaction is even more irritating than the possibility of getting attacked by another undead creature. Astarion lifts his foot and ever so slowly balances it against the top of Withers’ skull.

No reaction.

“He just revived you, if that wasn’t clear. Probably shouldn’t try crushing him.”

Rolling his eyes at Karlach’s words, Astarion forcefully slams his shoe down into the dusty bones. The action is strangely therapeutic so (naturally) he does it again several more times.

“Ah, if only you were just as enthusiastic about destroying our enemies as you are with our allies.” Gale clasps his hands pompously behind his back, a sweet smile upon his face.

“Shut up,” spits Astarion as he lifts his foot off of Withers’ broken form. “That godsdamned skeleton should have… have…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion spies the crawling clatter of bones against bones shifting around the dead earth. Withers’ skeletal body melds itself together again, an unsettling cracking sound resonating through the air when joints snap into place. The cursed fauna around it settles back upon Withers’ shoulder blades like a cloak, its jaw creaking open.

“Immature.”

Withers falls still once more.

Astarion grins wildly. This is excellent news, he realises. It means Withers can't die and will be his punching bag for as long as he wants. The vampire raises his foot to stamp it again but feels the hot hand of Karlach at his elbow.

“Leave it, Fangs.” Her voice rumbles with anger, making Astarion stop and look back at her with a scowl. “We have bigger problems and one of them happens to be a True Soul running to snitch on us, alright?”

He yanks his arm out of her grip and flicks his hair petulantly. “Fine. It isn’t as if he’ll make it far in this darkness but I suppose we should find him.” 

"Might I remind you of the fact the cultist possesses the Moonlantern? That in itself is quite an issue," drawls Gale, already gathering his quarterstaff and spell scrolls. "We shall have to make do with torches and even those provide weak protection against the curse." 

"It isn't my fault that Halsin failed keep a lookout and got attacked." 

If anything, everybody should be grateful that Astarion even attempted to get Soul on their side. It had been going well too, until the tiefling decided to try fleeing. When (if) they find Soul, Astarion will keep the wretched being on a tight leash and dote on him when he lays down like a good dog. 

Karlach sighs and grabs the nearest torch, lighting it on her flames and handing it to Astarion. 

"Just look out for horns and green eyes, yes?" 

"And the massive glow of light in the midst of pitch-black darkness." 

"Yes... that's probably a better sign that he's around." 

The shadows enveloping them appear ten times denser in the absence of the Moonlantern's protective serenity. Beyond the reach of Gale's torch and Karlach's flames, an impenetrable darkness gazes back at them. No deadened trees or cursed raven. Nothing. It hurts. Physically hurts. 

Astarion cringes and twitches at every movement, hyperaware of the curse swirling around inside his mind. Several times he gets completely distracted, believing Cazador is lurking behind him, only to snap back into the present with an undignified yelp. 

They don't find Soul near Moonrise. 

They find him trembling and cradling the Moonlantern on a shattered bridge just outside Reithwin. He recoils from Gale's warm hand, glaring and muttering furiously, but he doesn't resist when Karlach hauls him to his feet and holds him by his arm. There's a distant look in his roaming gaze that doesn't leave despite Astarion waving a hand in front of his face. 

Whilst Gale takes back the Moonlantern with no resistance, Astarion checks the True Soul's pockets to find... nothing. He's been stripped of his weapons and whatever else he stole from the group whilst they slept. There is something truly pitiful about it, to have wandered far enough from their camp to come near Reithwin but not far enough to keep moving to Moonrise. Something happened to Soul, that much is obvious, and Astarion can only look upon his hazy-eyed scowl and see an opportunity. 

They have saved him. The first time by removing the Absolute's voice from his head and the second by finding him before another cultist does. Soul owes them something in return and Astarion will hold that knowledge close to his chest. 

"It is imperative that you understand we mean you no harm, my friend." Gale receives no reaction. "What can I do to convince you that you are safe now?" 

An itch crawls and claws its way up the back of Astarion's cold neck. He turns, eyes flicking across the landscape but finding nothing except thick darkness beyond the lantern's glow. The darkness is a lie. He knows that there are creatures waiting for them. Hunting them. 

"It doesn't matter whether he thinks he's safe or not," he murmurs as he turns back around. "As long as he doesn't go to Moonrise, we're fine." 

Recognition sparks in Soul's vacant expression and he jolts away from Gale, only halted by Karlach's tight grip. 

"We aren't fine," he hisses. "There's something..." his eyes dart into the darkness, "I saw something over there." His eyes dart in another direction, brows rising in fear rather than anger. "Or was it over there? Or... no, it was over there." 

Unease squirms in Astarion's stomach. He looks between his companions' faces and sucks in a breath of freezing air as if it'll calm his nerves. 

"What exactly did you see?" He asks it as casually as possible. 

Soul's head jerks in his direction, pupils suddenly expanding. Astarion smirks, feeling immense satisfaction from such an adoring response. He's tempted to pat Soul's head - give him a pinch of affection to string him along - but the others watch them both with tense shoulders. 

"I'm not sure," Soul says slowly. "It was... gold? And wanted more gold." Irritation seeps into his expression again. "I was a little preoccupied with flinging everything I had at it in the hopes of killing it." 

Oh. So that's where his things went. 

"Did you kill it?" 

Soul shakes his head and tugs against Karlach's hand. "I ended up downing an invisibility potion and running. Came here and my mind kinda shut down. I'm still a little..." He inhales deeply. "I don't know, nevermind."

Astarion shifts anxiously, knowing all too well what that particular sensation feels like. His body and mind have split from themselves time and time again under Cazador and Godey's careful hands, his lips spilling incoherent words to appease those carving into him. It's happened whilst fetching targets as well, luring people to the palace with hazy vision but practiced words. 

Soul and him are similar in that aspect, he supposes. Except Soul was weaker - more vulnerable - and it's utterly perfect. When his mind dulls out the world, he's pliable and dazed. He handed the lantern over simply because Gale asked nicely. He likely would have followed them back to their camp if Astarion hadn't interrupted Gale's soothing tangent. 

"You're lucky we found you when we did." Karlach smiles down in Soul's furious face, which no doubt only annoys him further. "I just hope that the others are okay too." 

Astarion taps his chin with a finger. "If they aren't, then I suppose we'll find their cursed corpses leering at us soon enough."

Gale and Karlach look horrified at that and Astarion can't help but agree with their sentiment. The less people they have on side, the less chance they had against the Absolutists. Plus, he supposes, it would be a little bit sad to see his companions transformed into undead shades. 

"We're close to the Towers, aren't we?" Soul asks. "The curse is stronger here, near Reithwin. If anyone's here without a lantern, they're dead meat." 

"Helpful, thank you." Astarion receives an eye-roll in response. 

"Let us head back to our camp and if our companions haven't returned shortly, we can set out once more to search for them," Gale suggests with a smile. 

Astarion and Karlach nod their agreement and the trio begin marching Soul away from Reithwin. The cultist grumbles disapprovingly when Karlach moves her hold to the back of his neck, the threat of crushing his airway all too prominent. Astarion can't help but think of last night, where Soul struggled not to fall apart by his hands. When Soul meets his gaze, Astarion flashes him a salacious look that has the rogue frowning around a deep blush, heartbeat thumping quickly. 

As soon as they are out of the deepest parts of the curse, Soul's hands come alive with magical fire, singeing Karlach's skin and making Gale leap backwards, cursing.

Astarion sighs. It's going to be a long journey, he thinks to himself. 

In the split second that Karlach's attention gets redirected to the alien flames searing the fleshy parts of her body, Soul wrenches himself out of her grip. Astarion lunges at him, thinking he's about to run into the distance, but stumbles when the True Soul twists underneath his arms and jumps at Gale. The wizard has a spell at the ready, frost coating Soul's outstretched hands. He utters a loud curse and emits a burst of fire from his fingertips, then grasps the Moonlantern firmly with both hands and wrenches it from Gale's grasp whilst the wizard is busy putting out the flames dancing along his robe.

Astarion quickly unsheathes his daggers, pressing one into the hollow of Soul's back and the other against his throat. The cultist stills for long enough that Karlach manages to grab onto the lantern as well. 

A tense pause, both tieflings glaring at one another as Soul tries not to pierce himself on Astarion's blades. 

"Let go of the lantern, darling," Astarion purrs in his ear. 

"Fuck you." 

He isn't quite certain how the lantern opens, just that it does. Perhaps the glass cracks from a long, sharp nail of one of the tieflings. Perhaps one of them unlatches the little glass door. Perhaps one of their hands simply slipped, opening it by accident. All Astarion knows is that one second, they're bathed in the familiar glow of white light and the next, they aren't. 

"Shit!" 

"Oh, hells..." 

"Drat." 

"Ah." 

The curse presses closer, kept at bay only by fiery Karlach and Gale's spare torch. Astarion moves so that he wraps an arm around Soul's stomach and hands, keeping him hostage in case he tries to run now that the lantern has officially failed. 

He sees it then; the tiniest flicker of purple-white light floating in the air. As it draws nearer, up to their heads, Astarion faintly makes out the miniscule figure of a fairy. She has a mean little face for a fairy, with eyes that dart around assessing the four of them and a smirk that rivels Astarion's own. 

"I've been bloody trapped in that shithole -" squeaks the fairy, "- for months!" 

"My word, a pixie. What a magnificent one you are! How, might I ask, did you manage to get trapped inside that lantern?" Astarion glances at Gale's fascinated expression and scoffs. "Is there a problem?" 

"No, no, just don't go on a rant about pixies and such." 

The fairy - no, pixie - crosses her arms over her chest. "I can't stand people who talk loads." 

"Aww, I love her," Karlach cries, tilting her head and fawning over the creature. 

"Alright, back up. I don't want your stench all over me."

Soul struggles against Astarion's hold. "What about the fucking lantern?" 

"Oh yeah, that." The pixie does a small spin, clearly observing her surroundings. "I've no clue how I found my way into that death trap. Either way, you did me a good turn helping me get free, didn't you?" She addresses Soul, whose perpetual frown eases into surprise. 

"Me? Uh, oh yes, I did. It was me." 

"Liar," Astarion whispers in his ear. 

"Not a lie," he mutters back. 

The pixie considers the two of them for a moment. "Fine. You ask for something and I'll give it to you, how's that? Pixies like me are pretty safe in this..." She scowls. "In this really big shithole. I could help." 

"Protection," Soul blurts out. "Protection from the curse, yes?" 

"Ooh, you're a smart one. I like people who listen and pick up hints - it's fun." 

The pixie closes her eyes, her tiny arms unfolding and stretching out before her. As the purple glow intensifies around her, her hair dances wildly and her delicate wings beat swiftly to maintain her hover. She clasps her hands together, and upon separating them, a sphere of deep bronze light seeps through her fingers. An eerie melody of bells encircles her, the light in her grasp growing as the bronze turns opaque. Within just a few seconds, the light forms a solid ball of metal, an intricate pattern seared into its coating. She opens her eyes just as the purple glow of magic dies back down and holds the object out to Soul. 

"Here. Ring this bell and you'll get all the protection you want." She cocks her head facetiously. "Or, at least, you won't get cursed. You might die from other things, I guess." 

A pause. 

Soul coughs pointedly. "Let me go then." Astarion tightens his hold on him. "For hells' sake, let me go." 

Karlach shrugs and offers her hand to the pixie, letting the creature drop the bell into her palm. The barbarian peers at it for a few seconds and shakes it, that same unearthly melody ringing out into the darkness. Nothing visually happens, but her tense expression morphs into relief. 

"Oh fuck yeah!" She quickly hands the bell to Gale, who does the same. "Thank you, oh great and brilliant pixie." 

"The name's Dolly thrice, actually." 

"Dolly Dolly Dolly? That's so cute!" 

Dolly tuts. "Not so much 'cute,' but sure. Welp, that's my debt repaid." She spins around and flies higher. "Thanks again! Hope we meet if I'm stuck in a lantern a second time." 

Gale chuckles. "What a peculiar creature." 

He offers the magical bell to Astarion, who relieves Soul of one dagger pressed against his neck and gingerly shakes the bell. In an instant, sweet calmness settles over his shoulders. Astarion feels himself relax marginally - curse no longer directly threatening his very existence - only for Soul to somehow slip his grasp once he's distracted. 

Astarion groans when Soul lunges towards him, clearly aiming for the tiny bronze bell. The vampire dodges him several times before the cultist gives up, glowering at him. 

"That is my bell." 

"And now it's ours, sweeting." 

Karlach shakes her head and holds out her hand in a request for the object. "How about it's everyone's bell? Remember that we're trying to be nice, Fangs." 

"You might be trying to be nice but I'm certainly not," he trills before pocketing the bell out of anyone's reach. 

A sudden, dark emotion spreads over Soul's face as soon as the bell is out of his view. The quiet anger morphs into bubbling rage, eyes narrowing with overwhelming fury. Astarion looks at him, surprised, but is quick to slather nonchalance over his face, lest he be called out on it. 

"Cool," says Karlach merrily. "Let's go back, I'm damned exhausted already and we still need to check if the others are okay." 

Gale nods in agreement, pulling yet another torch from his pack, lighting it, and handing it to Astarion. 

"Take it. Despite our safety against the curse, the darkness still looms so thickly that it's impossible to see." Astarion rolls his eyes as the observation. It isn't as if he didn't know that; everyone in the group knew that. "Karlach and I shall go on ahead of the both of you in the hopes, Mystra forgiving, that Halsin or Lae'zel find us along the way. After all, it is far more likely that we are reunited if there are two groups." 

Astarion grins toothily. "Of course, darling. That sounds like a magnificent plan." 

The pair of them nod and, after a moment's hesitation, head off into the shadows. Astarion steps closer to the frozen Soul, watching his deadly, unblinking face. 

"That's mine." Soul's voice is a low rumble, hatred oozing off his tongue. 

"What's yours?" Astarion chirps, as if he has no idea the reason why Soul hasn't already run off is because he's pocketed Dolly's bell. "The torch?" 

"No. The bell." Soul's eyes spark, the green irises glowing in the darkness. "You ought to give it back." 

"Now, now, let's not argue." 

"It isn't an argument. Yet." 

Astarion crinkles his nose in distaste. "Why don't we talk about this in the safety of camp, hmm?" Soul clenches his fists. "The journey back will certainly... calm everyone's spirits." 

"You say that as if I have a choice in this." 

Is Soul breathing? Astarion is quite certain the tiefling hasn't moved since he took the bell.

He cocks his head, smirking. "You have the choice of being saved forcibly or willingly." 

"If you were truly saving me, you'd give me that bell." 

Astarion knows what to do, of course. It's a tale as old as time; manipulate and use to be granted exactly what he wants. Before the infection, he wanted freedom. Now, he has it. Now, he wants a pathetic, growling tiefling who could learn his every move and battle technique. Someone who, if Astarion plays it right, will use those techniques against his enemies. 

He might as well have some fun with it in the meantime. Be a little unforgiving. A little mean. Astarion could leave poor, unprotected Soul all alone in the dark without even a torch to keep him company.

Or he could be even crueller. 

"How greatly do you want to get the pixie's blessing?" He asks, slipping close enough to touch the cultist. "It's worth quite a lot, pet." 

Soul's nostrils flare. "I'm not your pet." 

It was always adorable when people don't realise they were falling under his control. Was this what Cazador felt? The carefully crafted power on the tip of his tongue feels almost as delicious as blood. 

"Not yet." 

There it is; the second of hesitation, where doubt creeps in and Astarion weasels his way into someone's mind. In this case, it is rather literal weaselling as the elf latches onto Soul's parasite with his own. 

Vile hatred swirls inside the tadpole, revulsion at how deep the True Soul's yearning goes. 'Yearning.' What a pretty way of saying he wants to use Astarion's body. The vampire likes that. Likes the idea of someone wanting him so much that they hate themselves for it. It makes for an easy, vulnerable target. 

"Won't you come back to camp with me?" Astarion's question is sly, pushing illithid charms into the shell that is Soul's mind. 

The rage in the cultist's expression eases away, mild confusion taking its place. To Astarion's delight, he doesn't attempt to push the vampire's parasite away - possibly because he still doesn't believe an infection drew him to the Absolute in the first place. 

"I just want to go to Moonrise," Soul mutters as Astarion's hand lifts to stroke against the tiefling's warm cheek. "I want that bell." 

"How's this idea; I give you the bell at my camp. That way you'll get protection from the curse and -" he sighs dreamily, "- we get to spend more time together." 

Soul's thoughts reel away from that idea only to suddenly calm and distort into submission. The cultist relaxes against Astarion's touch at the exact moment the parasite convinces him to trust him. 

"I... don't mind that idea." 

Astarion chuckles darkly and slides his hand down to grip Soul's wrist. No resistance. Perfect. 

"You're such a good plaything, Soul." 

With that, he snaps the connection. The cultist blinks, befuddled, but doesn't immediately start cursing Astarion out, so he counts it as a success. After a moment to collect himself, Soul frowns, sighs, and reluctantly nods. 

"To your camp, asshole." 

Astarion isn't such an asshole that he doesn't follow up on his promises. He wants Soul to understand that a debt owed means a debt paid, and as soon as the two of them are back in the fragile safety of tents and high cliffs, Astarion lets him frantically shake Dolly's protective bell. 

"Better?" 

"Better," Soul agrees. 

Lae'zel and Halsin haven't returned to camp yet. Scratch has, with a bleeding paw and morbid whining, and receives plenty of healing and affection from the more sentimental fools in the group. Astarion takes his time with ensuring Soul is properly subdued with rope sat on a cushioned chair. When Scratch begins to feel better, the mongrel wanders over to snap and growl at the cultist; he seems to understand who is the reason why his friends aren't around. 

"How long should we wait before we try finding them again?" Karlach asks when the group has gathered once more, moods low. "They might come back." 

"Should we look for them?" Astarion receives two glares for his suggestion. "What? We can't leave Soul alone and he's certainly not coming with us to check Moonrise." 

Soul perks up. "I could join you - I'll be able to get you in without hassle." 

"Not an issue," Gale says. "We have already brokered favour with Thorm, meaning we have established ourselves as True Souls and can enter as we please." 

"I meant the prisons." 

The three of them look down at Soul, who stares right back. Several seconds of consideration. 

"A terrible idea." 

"Awful." 

"You're staying here." 

Soul groans, frustrated. "Are you being kind to me or not? I thought you wanted us to all get along." 

"That was until you killed me for the second time this week," Astarion reminds in a sing-song voice. "We don't particularly trust you, darling." 

Gale smiles, uncharacteristic mischief in his eyes. "If Lae'zel and Halsin do not return soon, Karlach and I shall venture out to the Towers in the hopes of retrieving them. The two of you -" he gestures between Astarion and Soul, "- appear to already becoming fast friends. I am sure neither of you would dislike the other's company." 

The True Soul retches dramatically, tail whipping around in a manner that can only portray anger. Meanwhile, Astarion bursts into shrill laughter and, much to Soul's horror, sits himself down sideways in the man's lap, one arm draped around his shoulders. 

"Oh, my lover and I will have such fun together," he teases with thinly veiled malice. 

Soul bares his teeth, head pulled back away from Astarion's body. Gale and Karlach chuckle to themselves, though the barbarian's laughter is a little more pitying than amused. 

"Don't let him escape this time, okay?" 

Astarion throws her a glare. "Trust me, love, I won't be 'letting' him do anything." 

It doesn't take long after that to persuade Gale and Karlach that yes, Astarion will be fine on his own because yes, he'll have Scratch to tear through Soul's legs if the cultist tries to run and no, Astarion won't be untying him from the chair.

After what feels like half an hour, the duo gather their belongings once more and head out, promising that they'll return if they can't find the others and demanding no-one follow them if they don't come back. Considering the fact that Astarion has entertainment right here underneath him, the vampire is quick to agree with those orders. As soon as they disappear from view, Soul's pulse begins picking up speed, the delicious beating of his heart vibrating through Astarion's own body. 

The elf turns his head and smiles at the cultist's dilated pupils. Astarion, as always, is the perfect picture of curated seduction. 

Soul clears his throat. "So... what was this about 'spending time together?'" 

Chapter Text

There are parasites in my mind. 

Their wretched twisting soothes my aching soul. A bite at my fleshy brain means sweet surrender. 

I wonder if he would grant me such serenity. 

I wonder if he would bite. 

He is as gentle as the gods when he whispers in my ear. His cold gaze leaves me trembling.

I should not tremble. 

I do not tremble under the Absolute's gaze. Why tremble under his? 

He calls me his pretty plaything. I snarl out my disagreement. He purrs into my teeth. Leaves me breathless. I kick him for his efforts. 

And let him trail delicate kisses along my vile neck. 

Bite, I ask. Plead. Beg.

He promises me honeyed things. I only need to become a good, obedient pet. What a marvellous proposition. 

If I were a dog. 

If I were the mangy mutt dragging its teeth along the dirt at my feet. 

He disgusts me. Roils my blood. Makes me squirm. Enflames my hatred. Coaxes my lust. No. Not that. 

I am not so barbaric and sinful. My flesh is not so weak as to be moved by his attention. Not so... repulsive. 

"Astarion, stop teasing him." 

Astarion. 

Astarrrrion. 

Have I ever heard of such a sugary, fragile name? I do not mean to think of him. I do not mean to scowl at the red-eyed stars. 

"Gods, where have you two been?" 

Rotting. Rotting. Rotting. Rotting in the hells and back and back again to the rotting earth. I pray upon their fall from grace. I hope they suffered at the hands of my kin. I hope they now understand the Absolute's fury. 

"We lost our way without the lantern. It is most fortunate that Gale's light guided us back." 

Vile. Wretched. They do not deserve to hold a lantern blessed by Her. 

My kin carry light sacred to Her. 

I held the light. The lantern of the milky moon. 

I held theirs. 

Then it was mine. My lantern. My pixie. My bell. My bell, not theirs. Mine. Mine. 

"Actually, the lantern was ours first, soldier." 

Pitiful. 

The rest of the hive have returned too. Buzzing and swarming and staring.

I will growl out my irritation. Bare my teeth. Whip my tail. 

"Alright calm down, Soul." 

Soul. True Soul, she means. I would rather they keep me with the mutt than belittle my title. I will not give them the grace of my name. It is precious. Mine. 

"Not my name," I spit. I spit because I cannot claw. I cannot bite or crackle. Cannot slice. 

Cannot think. 

There are parasites in my mind. 

I call them anger, desire, and blasphemy. Only one is unleashed. I will not let them break me. 

"Soul here has been the sweetest little darling whilst you were gone."

I will not let the stars weaken me. 

"Really?"

Who speaks? Who mutters in my ear with sentences too long-winded to understand? 

I break my own mind with long words. Long sentences. Too many thoughts enrage me. My thoughts encompass Her. 

Despite what the sly weapon whispers to the parasites. 

"I want my bell back." 

I should crawl into their clutches. Be the dog that the stars want. Beg and grovel at their feet. 

"Bell?" 

They learn of the pixie. My pixie. I would not have let her go. I should have fought harder. Ran. Eased my mind with cursed darkness. 

Now I am leashed. 

Snapping and squirming. 

I will be good. Play the fool and the pet. Infect their minds. The stars. 

And return home. 

Revulsion isn't happy about his plan, of course. He would much rather continue fighting against his captors and free himself without the humiliation of submitting. However, he has slowly begun to understand over the course of the past eight days that fighting couldn't help him. He would simply be hunted down and captured again and again until the Shadow Curse took him instead. For all his posturing and arguing, he doesn't wish for that to happen. 

Additionally, he's rather hungry. 

"I will not hesitate to end you." 

Revulsion rolls his eyes at Lae'zel and tentatively reaches for the bowl that Gale is offering him. The wizard gives it freely, pompous after casting night-long Silence upon their camp. They all know that Revulsion could grab a spoon and scoop someone's eye out instead of scooping his stew, but they also all know he won't try it whilst they're sat around the campfire. It's far too dangerous to fight back when there are more than two people around him, this much he has learnt several days ago. 

"What meat is it?" He asks it to fill the silence. To regain a touch of sanity. 

"Beef," Gale states merrily. 

He idly (not obsessively) questions how they hunted a cow in the dead land; perhaps they frequently venture outside the curse to find unfortunate animals to eat. But none of the traitors have mentioned doing that, only that they carry the weapon and that everyone but Halsin is infected with a tadpole. 

Tadpole. Fetid tadpole. Vile. Frog? Illithid. Vile. 

He nods and blows on a spoonful of broth, hoping none of them can see into his fragmented head. 

The vampire watches him as the traitors talk between one another, discussing the plans for tomorrow. Astarion, he has learnt, has the same salacious thoughts as he. It's overwhelming, to want to let go. Now that Revulsion has finally decided to infiltrate the traitors and pretend he has been turned to the villainous side, perhaps it's a good idea to let Astarion do what he wants. There was some level of relief when he allowed his fellow rogue to fawn on him - until he saw an opportunity and ran. There had been disgust too, but Revulsion constantly feels disgusted so that was quite ordinary.

"You're staring, darling." Astarion speaks low in his ear, cold body almost touching him. 

If he were to indulge, to be tempted and lay with a man, it wouldn't count. Odonia would forgive him. The Absolute would forgive him. 

Everything as a means to an end. To survive. 

"Sorry," Revulsion replies with just enough bite to not be suspicious. "Wondering what you drink. Everything's dead here." 

A sly look as Astarion watches him eat another spoonful of stew. The vampire cocks his head and scans the cluster of traitors before focusing back on him. 

"I might take a little sample from these fools." He says it affectionately, as if they're friends rather than a band of blasphemous wretches. "If I'm lucky, I'll drain a cultist or two." The vampire flashes his fangs, mischievous, making Revulsion pull a face. "Last week, I was practically starved because we were so busy. I need to be more careful in the future." 

Would Astarion appreciate the offer of sampling his blood? It's a terrible idea, he'll admit, but he can always backtrack later if he changes his mind. Plus, Revulsion can always kill Astarion whilst he's distracted with piercing his teeth into places they don't belong. 

He chews and swallows a chunk of beef, glancing at Astarion for only a second, like he's nervous. Astarion hums thoughtfully - letting him know he's on the right track - and Revulsion looks back up to maintain eye contact. It'll be a slow process; he can't drop all his frustration at once. It'll be a few bashful, shy looks here and there, just to set the tone. 

He's already done as much, although without the act. Revulsion won't be caught off-guard again. Everything will be planned and perfected to ensure Astarion's trust. 

"I..." He scowls for effect. "I suppose you can feed from anyone." 

"So intelligent." 

"You could feed from me." 

Astarion's eyes widen for a split second, revealing his surprise, before the elf steps back into arrogance. 

"Darling, don't make promises you can't keep." 

"I don't," he mutters in irritation. "Are you scared you can't handle my blood?" 

From the suddenly predatory expression that takes over Astarion's face, he knows that that was the wrong thing to say. Before he can try to fix things, Astarion has captured Revulsion's jaw in a tight grip and is turning it back towards him. The elf tilts his face about, acting as though he's examining Revulsion when really, he's staring deep into his eyes. 

Revulsion's breath halts, pulse thumping in his ears. Astarion's gaze jumps downwards and the vampire moves quickly, catching Revulsion's bowl of stew before it can tumble to the ground. 

Foolish hands. Had he meant to almost drop his own bowl? He didn't even realise he wasn't holding it properly. Distractions are everywhere. I will not be... 

Astarion smirks. "Concentrate, Soul." 

Karlach clears her throat. 

Revulsion jolts away from Astarion and whips his head to his fellow tiefling, glaring furiously at her. Does she not understand that he's in the middle of seducing a vampire? Sighing, Astarion leans away and crosses his arms. 

"Problem?"

"Not while we're eating," Karlach says. 

"We weren't doing anything, darling. I don't know what you're talking about." 

She laughs, slapping a hand on her knee whilst Lae'zel grumbles besides her. 

"At least find some deep, dark corner to stare lustfully into each other's eyes, yeah?" 

Revulsion clenches his fists, enraged and wishing to cast fire into the air only to remember the Weave is deafened around him. His eyes flick to Gale, who purses his lips and gives him a knowing look. Revulsion never casts his own spells; he doesn't need to use words or dramatic gestures to bring things into reality. He takes. Borrows it straight from the atmosphere where Mystra's delicate rosewater sits in the air. Mine. Take it. Take some more from rotted flesh. It seems the human mage always knows when Revulsion is searching for remnants of magic to take for his own.

"I'm not lustful," Revulsion snaps out hatred instead of snapping Gale's neck. "Unlike some people, I'm not worth less than a common whore." He throws his sharp gaze to Astarion, just to make his point clear. 

The cloister of traitors protest at that, though Astarion's expression remains uncaring. After a moment, the vampire stands and stretches like a tired cat. 

"With that, my darlings, I had best be off. If I'm worth so little, I should at least enjoy a book and a trance." 

Revulsion grins, condescending and toothy, but falters when Astarion leans down to meet his gaze. 

"What in the hells do you w - aah nnh..." 

Revulsion lets out a surprised sound as Astarion drags a fingernail across the base of his tail. He immediately freezes, mortified, as the camp falls silent. Astarion merely straightens and waggles his fingers before slinking away to his tent. 

The elf definitely knows tiefling culture. It's the only possible way he would recognise that Revulsion's tail is sensitive to touch. Perhaps he has been chatting with Karlach, who sits staring at him in amusement across the campfire. He's tempted to ask what else she has told Astarion and whether he needs to be wary around the man so that Revulsion doesn't stumble into a vulnerable position. To make matters worse, he doesn't know what Astarion knows about tieflings. He might understand every little detail that expresses dominance over people like him. 

Where's Revulsion's bowl? He needs to focus on eating instead of leaping after the vampire and slitting his wrists to bleed him dry. 

"I trust that you two have built a bond over the course of today?" Halsin's voice is light, teasing, and all too polite. 

Revulsion glowers at him instead of trying to cast Shocking Grasp, and gingerly picks his bowl out of the dust. His dinner has been spilt over the ground, the dead earth drinking up the broth hungrily. 

"He's awful," Revulsion mutters. "He doesn't have any self-respect. He can get fucked." 

Karlach looks far too pleased with herself. "Oh yes, he does want to get fucked." Revulsion scoffs, dusting off his bowl. I will not be tempted by the stars. "You saw the way he touched your tail, he so -" 

"Shut up." 

"What is the symbolic nature of such an action?" 

"Can I fucking go?" Revulsion demands before Karlach can offer an explanation to Lae'zel's question. "And no, I don't mean leave this damned camp; Absolute knows you'll just chase me down again to 'save me.'" 

The traitors look between one another, Lae'zel shaking her head in protest but Gale shrugging. From what Revulsion has learnt of his captors, Gale directs them all. It was tricky to figure out everyone's names at first, what with the mage saying 'my friend' so often, but Revulsion has now gathered the information he wants. 

Gale sighs. "Before your overactive mind is emboldened by any ideas of escape, know that I have set wards along the camp's perimeter, which will notify me of any creatures entering or leaving this vicinity."

Revulsion pauses, suddenly uncertain. 

"Whatever, asshole." 

Without waiting for further permission to leave, Revulsion darts towards Astarion's tent. He halts a few feet away, gaze landing on the cliffs behind it. He didn't see Gale cast any wards - maybe it was simply a bluff. Should he risk it though? Should he dare check, if it meant that he would be held tight with ropes and left in the cold again? 

He glances back at the traitors sitting around their campfire, Karlach's eyes still on him. Revulsion tuts; he wouldn't be able to escape as it was with everyone so nearby. He should wait until they were asleep, perhaps seduce Astarion a little further to gain some trust, and kill the bastard whilst he trances. Revulsion tuts again, this time to himself, and lifts the flap of the tent. 

Astarion's tent is spacious enough for three bedrolls, though he only has one. Lae'zel has set it up so that the fabric falls into a trapezoid shape, ensuring that nobody catches their head on the roof. A few bags and books are neatly stacked in the corner near the head of Astarion's bedroll, a lonely wooden chair at the opposite end. 

As soon as Astarion realises that Revulsion has entered, the vampire sits on the chair casually, leaning back and looking up at him smugly, as if he knew he would show up. The thought makes Revulsion clench his fists, thinking of ways to kill the man before him. Suffocation would work - once he was done talking and such - considering Revulsion doesn't know where Astarion keeps his knives. He would need to wait until everyone else was asleep before sneaking out of the tent, of course, but laying next to a dead body for a little while is no problem for him. 

"I've been wondering," begins Astarion with that perpetual arrogance of his, "how quickly you learn new things." 

Revulsion huffs out a dry laugh, crossing his arms. "I learn new things all the time, elf." Does the other rogue not understand what 'stealing' truly means? "I don't need to be directed or trained in anything that I do." 

His smirk grows wider, eyes narrowing. "I'm glad to hear it." 

"Why? What are you after? You aren't taking any of my techniques - you'd never be able to learn them." The way he fights is for himself only. 

Astarion waves him forward lazily; Revulsion scowls but takes a few steps so that he towers over the rogue in his seat. 

Revulsion could kill him now. He hasn't recently seen any monks fighting but he vaguely remembers how one in the Lower City moved when she attacked a thug. It was all smooth yet explosive hand gestures, one that Revulsion might be able to replicate if he tried. 

"I'm not talking about combat, Soul." 

Hatred flares hot in his chest. 

"Not my name." 

A head-tilt. "Then by all means, tell me your name." 

My name. Mine. 

"No." 

A long pause. Astarion's face shifts into sternness, only the hint of flirtation in his eyes. 

"I believe that you can't learn things outside of combat, which is why you mention killing so readily." 

He's being goaded into doing what Astarion wants, Revulsion knows. It doesn't stop him from rising to the bait, however, as he bares his teeth and whacks the vampire with his tail. He will prove the traitor wrong; he will prove that True Souls were superior in every single way. And once he's done, several days from now, he will strangle the living corpse until it bleeds out borrowed blood. 

"Whatever you're getting at, do it quickly." 

Astarion blinks at him, calm and collected. He gestures to the floor.

"Kneel, darling." 

"What?" Revulsion blurts out, taking a step back. "I'm not going to kneel - are you insane?" 

Astarion shrugs. "I thought you were good at learning. This is a lesson in obedience." 

"Obedience!" 

Revulsion stops himself from ranting, looking away. He doesn't know anything about elves except for their maturity rate and trancing. Is kneeling before an elf a sign of submission? Is it the same as allowing someone to grab a tiefling's horns? 

He doesn't quite know why he's so against listening in the first place; isn't his plan to seduce the elf before him? He can overlook elven customs for a while until he is able to return to Moonrise. Revulsion steadies himself, glaring as he does as Astarion wants and kneels. 

The vampire's lips quirk up into a smirk. "I'm so proud of you, pet." 

'Proud.' Revulsion stares at one of Astarion's hands instead of his eyes, warmth trickling into his face. He should not be blushing like a schoolboy. He's a grown man with full horns and a beard - he does not blush, especially not for another man. 

"Ah, look at me." Revulsion huffs in irritation but follows Astarion's direction. "Wonderful. You do learn quickly."

"Of course I do."

Slowly, with all the grace of water, Astarion reaches for the elaborately laced crotch of his own trousers. A sinking feeling dunks Revulsion's body in nervous shivers, his eyes flicking downwards and back up to Astarion's face. 

The Absolute will forgive him, all-knowing as She. She'd realise Revulsion was fraternising with the enemy only so that he can slip their grasp and return to Her, surely? 

"I... this seems a little fast." 

Astarion's expression shutters, disinterested. "Oh, you don't want to." He begins lacing his trousers up again. "In that case, you can leave. I don't want to waste my precious time." 

"Wait, no," Revulsion says in a panic, his plans being too early to already go awry. "I - same-sex fornication is..." He pulls a face to get his point across. 

Astarion relaxes again. "You've never been with a man? I'm surprised." 

"Surprised? I should hope that it's ordinary. Sexual relations that aren't for the purpose of baring children is..." Should he be saying this whilst he's trying to get on Astarion's good side? "Well, it's clearly only for pleasure. And selfish pleasures are wrong." 

A demeaning look. "I don't know, darling. I've slept with women with male genitalia and men with female. I find that rather pleasurable, even if -" 

"Oh, I've heard of that." 

Astarion raises a perfect (no, not perfect) eyebrow. "You don't seem disgusted by it." 

"As long as it isn't solely for pleasure, it's proper." 

With a more authentic expression, Astarion's laughter resonates from his chest, its melody even smoother than magic itself. He starts unlacing his trousers again, this time clearly putting on more of a show. 

"Poor, deprived thing," he mocks. "How tragic that you've never been able to trust your innate desires." 

"I don't have an - I have no innate desires." 

"Really, sweeting? Never thought about someone fondly?" Did Astarion's underclothes tent like that before now? "Never hoped for more whilst kissing?" Did Astarion have the ability to read minds? "Never left and pleasured yourself thinking of a man?" 

"What? No!" Yes. "No!" 

"For a rogue, you keep too many emotions on your sleeve." Astarion carefully slips his underclothes down, pale cock jutting into the air, almost proud. Revulsion tears his eyes away, glaring to cover his nerves. "See? That's what I mean, pet. It's so obvious that you're worried even if you try acting like an angry pup." 

"I'm not acting," he insists. 

"Here, I'll teach you how to please a man." Astarion shifts slightly, allowing Revulsion a better view of himself. "Or can you think for yourself? You did say you need no direction." 

Revulsion lets out a sharp, humourless laugh. "It isn't metamagic, elf. I'm more than capable of... this."

Women have performed with him before, so surely Revulsion could copy them. He copies (steals) techniques on a daily basis and this will be no different. 

Out of nowhere, Astarion reaches down and clutches at his curled horns, pulling him closer. Revulsion freezes, instead trying to move his head away. He stares up at the vampire angrily, not willing to submit so easily. After all, he surely understands that the longer one clings to a tiefling's horns, the greater the assertion of dominance. Revulsion has witnessed men holding each other's horns in a static embrace for hours until one relents, signalling his defeat. 

"Stop that," Revulsion snaps. "Do you not know what holding a tiefling's horns means?" 

Astarion looks confused. "No, why? Is it another sexual thing?" 

Revulsion inhales sharply. "Yes... it is. Meaning you should stop it." 

The confusion vanishes, flirtation returning to Astarion's face. He lets go of Revulsion's horns, much to his relief, and moves to brush a thumb against his lower lip. 

"Let's start with something simpler then," Astarion purrs. "Open." 

Revulsion gives him his best, fiercest glare as he hesitantly parts his lips. Astarion doesn't waste any time pushing his thumb into his mouth, pressing down hard against his tongue and making saliva well up, coating his skin. Revulsion fights the urge to bite, instead breathing heavily through his nose and burying the warmth that floods his body. 

Astarion simply smirks down at him with his thumb in his mouth. After a moment of silence, the vampire turns Revulsion's head about, examining him and making him gag slightly at the movement. 

"How unfortunate." Revulsion crinkles his nose as if to ask what is so unfortunate. "You're actually not that bad to look at, pup." 

Affronted, he tries to pull away only to feel more saliva well up when Astarion digs his nail into Revulsion's tongue. Automatically, he swirls his tongue around to push the thumb out, which seems to only encourage Astarion to remove his thumb and grab onto Revulsion's horns again. 

"Could you quit it?" He says without thinking. 

"I'm beginning to suspect touching your horns isn't inherently sexual but rather has a social meaning."

Revulsion drops his gaze but is forced to close his eyes when he accidently looks at Astarion's cock instead of the ground. 

"No, it doesn't mean anything, bastard." 

It feels like he's baring his neck to be drained when Astarion takes his words as a challenge, using his horns to manoeuvre him about. Revulsion squeezes his eyes shut even harder, willing the unease to disperse. He's doing this to be trusted, he reminds himself. This isn't temptation, this is an escape. 

Something presses against his lips, cool but firm. Revulsion exhales shakily, knowing the touch isn't from a hand anymore. It is strangely intriguing (vile) and Revulsion tentatively opens his mouth, letting his tongue provide a bed for the cockhead. 

"Still need no direction, pet?" 

"I'm fine," he mumbles around the intrusion. "Hurry up." 

"Impatient, needy thing. Mind your teeth." 

That's the only warning Revulsion gets before Astarion pulls at his horns, jerking him down the length of his cock. He gags when the head hits the back of his throat, hands coming up to grab onto Astarion's knees. The vampire groans, letting Revulsion pause and become accustomed to the sensation of something so fleshy in his mouth. Or perhaps Astarion is waiting for him to take initiative. 

They sit like that for what feels like hours but can only be a few minutes, droll slowly sliding from Revulsion's stretched lips in the same way that self-disgust slides around his fragile mind and warmth blooms in his gut. His eyes remain closed, unsure what he'd even see if he opened them. Another minute or so passes, the turmoil dies as an odd sense of calmness spreads over his thoughts. He sniffs and absentmindedly moves his tongue across the underside of Astarion's cock, earning him a soft, agreeable noise from above. 

Instinctively, Revulsion opens his eyes, glancing up at Astarion's face and flinching at the predatory look in those dark red eyes. He closes his eyes again and steels himself as his thoughts come rushing back. This is an escape. This is fine. The faster he gets things over with, the faster he can leave. Odonia bobs her head, he thinks to himself. As did Patience, once. He can likely do that, if the comfortable nature of just sitting didn't need to end. 

As droll continues to dry on his chin and neck, Revulsion swipes his tongue against Astarion's cock, swallowing his own saliva and a strange salty taste that he isn't sure the purpose of. Astarion lets out a breathy scoff. Behind closed lids, Revulsion rolls his eyes and repeat the gesture, debating whether to push against Astarion's hands that remain on his horns or to remain motionless.

It turns out he doesn't need to decide for himself, as Astarion starts moving his head back and forth, letting his cock slip against Revulsion's tongue. Heat pools in his gut, making Revulsion squirm to get more comfortable. 

"Stay still." 

Revulsion freezes, vaguely remembering to keep his teeth out of the way as Astarion continues thrusting his head on his cock. The repetition of slurping, fighting down a gag, and near-silent moaning from above relaxes him, allowing his thoughts to calm into a constant mantra of 'think not of temptation.' 

It's difficult to remain level-headed, however, when Astarion's movements become frantic, pushing and pulling harder than necessary. Revulsion grips at his knees, tears pricking his eyes as he swallows around the heavy cock. He realises a second later that his trousers feel tight, heat slathering his own crotch and sending pleasant tingles through his body. At Astarion's feet, he doesn't need to scowl or lie; he only needs to be quiet. Passive. 

There's still pressure against the base of his horns, Astarion's quickly warming hands keeping Revulsion in his place. That thought should not make Revulsion breathe heavier, hips subconsciously bucking into the air. This isn't submission, he tells himself as he silently hopes Astarion clutches at his horns harder. Will the elf offer to relieve Revulsion or will he force him to rut like a pathetic dog against his leg? Suckling against the tip of Astarion's cock as it passes near his lips, Revulsion's body inches forwards, hoping his crotch will blindly find a shoe to press against. 

"Gods." 

Astarion groans as cum spills into Revulsion's mouth, the thrusting slowing to a halt as it seeps past his teeth onto his chin. Revulsion panics, wrenching his eyes open and yanking his head off of Astarion's spent cock to desperately spit the putrid, bitter cum onto the floor of the tent. He pants, shame dripping over his arousal (not arousal) whilst Astarion strokes the ridges of his horns. 

"You were wonderful, pet." 

Revulsion coughs, fighting down a retch. "I had - shit - no idea what I was bloody doing. At least you were - ah - quick." 

Astarion laughs, though the sound is hollow. "I could tell." He finally releases Revulsion's horns and watches as he scrambles back, trembling. "And I apologise, I didn't realise holding me until the rest of camp went to bed was 'quick.' Next time, I'll make sure to be slower, hmm?" 

"Next time? Oh, there's no repeat of this." 

"No?" 

"No." What is he doing? He needs a repeat if he's to gain trust. "Well..." 

Astarion begins wiping himself off, throwing the cloth at Revulsion to do the same. He hurries to do so and silently wills his cock to soften, hiding his crotch unsuccessfully if Astarion's sly grin is anything to go by. 

"At least you enjoyed yourself, my sweet." 

"Best evening of my life," he fires back. "Especially when you were so quiet the entire time." 

A raised eyebrow. "I would have thought you'd appreciate that; our campsite is rather small and I doubt you want the others to know how much you enjoy being called 'good.'" 

"I don't." 

"You're blushing." 

Revulsion gags and turns his face away. "I don't blush." 

"Oh, I see. You're sulking because I haven't given you attention," Astarion trills. Revulsion frowns and looks at him again. "I'm afraid I'm all burnt out, darling - you'll have to relieve yourself on your own, though I'm happy to watch." 

"I -" Revulsion shakes his head. "Let's just sleep, elf." 

Something akin to irritation flashes across Astarion's face. "Who said you were sleeping here? You'll stay outside, like the hostage you are." 

"It's cold outside," he scoffs. 

"I don't believe I asked." Astarion stands, stretches, and gestures to the tent door. "Be a good boy and leave." 

The slipping of the sun on a dial is slow. Time-filled. Drunk. Time. Time. Slow. Trust is slow. 

Revulsion runs a hand across his face. "Alright, I'll leave." 

As he stands, wincing as his now only half-hard cock brushes against the fabric of his trousers, Revulsion absentmindedly laments the fact he now can't easily suffocate Astarion in the warmth of the vampire's tent. He'll have to do it later, when he's gained that beloved faith and is ready to return home. 

Chapter Text

Astarion isn't a planner. He doesn't like plans - he's far more impulsive than that. His plan with Soul, however, is fantastic. 

"Sleep well, handsome?" Soul gives him a vicious look. "You did? Oh, I'm glad." 

Unlike previous nights, Soul hasn't moved from his corner of the camp; he lies on his back, arms crossed over his stomach as dim candlelight flickers around him. Now that Gale has cast Silence and alarm wards everywhere, it seems that the True Soul doesn't think it's worth trying to escape. He likely also hopes to steal Dolly thrice's bell, which rests at the bottom of Gale's Bag of Holding. 

Soul shifts and curses, nose wrinkling in pain. 

"Something the matter?" 

"Nothing," he snaps. "Just a little stiff." 

Astarion narrows his eyes, suspicious. Now that he notices it, Soul usually bolts upright as soon as he sees anybody around, eager to not get caught out if an attack comes his way. Determined to maintain some sort of control. Yet, now, the tiefling remains reclined on his bedroll - atop it rather than within - hair untied and splayed out around his head, still wrapping his arms around himself. 

"What's wrong with your stomach?" Astarion asks lowly. 

Soul reacts poorly, with bared teeth and lashing tail. "Nothing. Keep out of it." 

Astarion sighs. He had hoped that last night garnered him some level of trust with Soul, but the obvious distaste demonstrates otherwise. Astarion will admit that yesterday went smoother than expected; he hardly dissociated from his body at all, the feeling of control keeping him steady enough not to retreat into his own mind and let Soul do whatever he wished. There were a few slip-ups, but he has always found that assuming a more dominating role in his seductions feels natural to him - it leaves less room for errors and being taken advantage of. He can't be ordered about if he is the one doing the ordering. 

The vampire steps closer, slinking down into a crouch and tilting his head curiously. Soul veers his head away but remains stationary. 

"Are you sick?" 

"No." 

"Sit up." 

"No." 

"Sit up." 

"No." 

Astarion relaxes onto his knees and leans over Soul, caging him in with his arms. Alarm sparks in the cultist's eyes, gaze darting about frantically. Usually, blocking any exits instils a sense of anger in Soul; now, he simply looks scared. 

"Take your arms away from your body," Astarion demands. "Or I'll do it for you." 

"It's just that I fell over and hit a pole, that's all." Soul lets out a short, dry laugh before placing his arms by his sides. "No need to be such a bitch about it." 

Someone-or-other has lent Soul their spare clothes, allowing the tiefling a bit of warmth against the chill of the Shadow Curse. Astarion gently lifts up his shirt to see the supposed damage and pauses. 'Pole' for certain. The injury is clean, which is the only good thing, but so blatantly caused by a knife being dragged along Soul's side that Astarion wonders if the cultist assumes him stupid. One slice would be suspicious. Five is purposeful. 

"A terrible idea to let me see how you tried killing one of us in the night and failed." 

"What? No, they wouldn't have managed to get a hit on me." The boast seems to bring Soul back to normality, his eyes narrowing into exasperation. "You'd be discovering a corpse in a bush somewhere." 

"Meaning... you found a knife," Astarion states coolly. "On which you happened to hurt yourself, and..." He straightens, immediately taking several steps away and moving into a defensive position. "Still have it on you." 

Perhaps Soul is correct in thinking Astarion is an idiot, considering he has been lulled into a false sense of security. No doubt Soul planned to lure him closer, and is now ready to draw a dagger from his bedroll and stab Astarion to slithers. 

But Soul merely struggles upright to cross his legs, hands in his lap. Astarion's mind races, picking out various places where a blade can be hidden. After a moment, Soul jerks his head towards a nearby bucket he has been graciously provided with. 

"There," he points out. "Needed to get rid of the blood." 

Astarion grabs the paring knife swimming in bloody water and squints up at Soul. 

"This little thing was the only blade you could find?" 

A shrug. "You keep all the good weapons in places I can't reach." 

"And instead of stabbing someone's eyes out, you chose to... do what?" Astarion knows the answer, they both do, but he loves to be given a chance to see the cultist squirm. 

Unfortunately, Soul does no such squirming and instead rolls his eyes, standing carefully. 

"It's a common practise, I'll admit." 

"I can only assume it's some sort of Absolutist ritual," coos Astarion. 

Soul scratches an ear, sighing. "Sure. Absolutist ritual." 

Astarion watches Soul as he slips on his shoes and, after side-eyeing the vampire, moves to grab a bottle of water. 

He can work with this, Astarion decides. If he doesn't push for details, he won't need to hear a sob story and won't run the risk of making Soul clam up by asking personal questions too fast, too soon. Questions on the Absolute, sure, but personal questions are always boring. Furthermore, Soul didn't go wild last night after finding something that can be classed as a weapon in his hand; he chose to turn it on himself rather than stab anyone's eyes out, which is surely a good sign. Not that doing either is necessarily good, but Astarion prefers not to be the one getting hurt. 

"So," the elf begins, "the rest of the group are heading out today. We'll be alone, it seems." 

Another sigh, more frustrated this time. 

"And am I allowed to ask for peace and quiet or will you be bothering me?" Soul stalks back to his bedroll and sinks onto it with his water. "Oh, I forgot - I'm a fucking hostage. Can't ask for anything or I'll risk dying." Astarion hums in amusement and sits down in front of him, much to Soul's obvious frustration. "Which, by the way, is odd. None of you have tried questioning me at all. Sure, the whole 'tadpole' thing, but what else? Is you aren't questioning me, can I leave? Can I have my bell?" 

There it is. 

"Why would you need more of the pixie's protection? Doesn't the Absolute protect you enough?" Astarion leans back on his hands with a smirk. "Here I thought you were a devoted worshipper." 

Something like genuine panic flits across Soul's face before he schools it into irritation. His grip on the bottle is tighter than before, his thumb wrapping harder around his fingers. 

"What? Of course I am. I'm always protected by the Absolute, you damned traitor." He straightens, wincing slightly. "I don't need a stupid bell, you're right, not when I've got Her."  

The only reason the goody-two-shoes of the group haven't allowed Soul to keep the bell is because even Karlach is worried that the cultist will somehow manage to escape. Now that he's immune to the Shadow-Curse, he'll have a reason to fight harder and run back to Moonrise to give the bell to his friends. Without that bell, Soul is forced to stay behind Gale's wards and their strategically placed torches that are the only things keeping the Curse at bay - within range of Dolly's protection. They discussed this only last night, whilst Soul was staring deeply into his bowl, but it seems the tiefling wasn't listening to the entire conversation or he wouldn't be asking. 

"Not to mention that you've got me too," Astarion adds happily, "and I'll protect you, darling." 

Soul scoffs and puts his bottle down. "More like you'll be the death of me." 

"Just some figurative death, I hope." 

"No, I mean you're trying to literally kill me." 

Astarion cocks his head, eyes narrow. "Why would I try to kill a hostage?" 

A shrug. "Why wouldn't you question a hostage?" 

The elf rolls his eyes and shifts closer, making Soul pull a face. If the cultist wants questioning, Astarion isn't the best person to do it. Halsin and Gale are the calmest - Gale holds such exceptional, persuasive charm that Astarion often accuses the wizard of spellcasting - meaning they're the most level-headed of the group. They're the most suited to interrogating, yet Soul never gives much information over. All they've weaselled from the man is that he's a simple guard for the upper floors of Moonrise. He claims he knows nothing. Astarion thinks otherwise. 

"Alright then, I'll ask some questions." 

Soul groans dramatically. "I'm suddenly regretting suggesting it. Can't this wait until I've eaten something?" 

"Hmm, no," Astarion hums. 

It's bizarre, the way that Soul glares but nods when he usually fights against any questioning. He usually argues a lot more as well, pacing and muttering. Now? Now he stays sat, scowling furiously but remaining largely unproblematic. Astarion can't help but wonder if the cause is his injury or Astarion's late-night seduction. 

"Let's start things simple," he says. "When did you become a cultist?"

'When were you infected' is what he really means, but if Soul still doesn't think he's the host of an illithid parasite, it's pointless to ask that question. 

"Around a year ago," Soul answers easily. 

Astarion stills. "You mean that... you heard the Absolute a year ago, yes?" 

Soul shakes his head. "You asked when I became a cultist. I first heard the Absolute a year and a half ago." 

Holy hells. Astarion's group of sad infected teamed up only two months ago. Soul is unlikely to have been the first to hear the Absolute, meaning the cult might have begun two years prior. What if the infections began earlier than that? They have no real way of knowing who was the first, only that the Absolutists have been at it for a long, long time.They have been infecting people for over a year and Astarion and his companions are the ones to realise what is going on. The first to be True Souls but not hear the Absolute. 

All because of the 'weapon.' The little Astral Prism that they stole from a surly half-elf whom they left for dead near the goblin camp. Left for actual dead, if Lae'zel catching up to them with a bloody sword is any indication. Not that Astarion is complaining, he knows all too well that selfishness keeps them all safe. 

"Alright. Where did you live before Moonrise?" 

Soul's eyes narrow with suspicion. "Why do you need to know that?" 

"Call it curiosity." Curiosity and the need to figure out if there's a pattern. "Unless you didn't have a home?" 

"Where did you live?" 

"My sweet," Astarion purrs. "Let's keep the questioning to me, yes?" He inches forwards and taps Soul on the nose. "Don't worry your poor little head." 

There's this moment where Soul looks as though he's about to burst into argument but suddenly thinks better of it. His posture becomes slouched, a defeated look falling over his face. His gaze slides away from Astarion's, very interested in his own lap and upturned, twitchy hands. 

"Baldur's Gate. Used to live in Baldur's Gate." 

It feels as though Astarion has won something, whether that's Soul's information or submission, it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Soul recognises he isn't getting out of this situation easily and that it's so much nicer to hand the big, scary vampire whatever he wants. 

Astarion gives him a perfect, dazzling smile. "My, my, I did too. We have more in common than I thought." 

A feeble sneer. "We're rogues, of course we have things in common." 

It's as if Soul is outright giving Astarion material to work with. As if he wants to be flirted with, seduced, and turned into a pretty little pet. Smiling sweetly, Astarion reaches out and goes to take one of Soul's hands. The cultist grimaces and appears reluctant, but lets him hold it whilst his tail swishes across the dirt uncomfortably. 

"We're also both alone with absolutely no company." 

Soul's brows shoot up. "I don't think that's a good thing. Perhaps we should -"

Astarion yanks Soul forwards by his hand. The tiefling, caught unawares, leans over too far and becomes unbalanced, collapsing into Astarion's chest. Astarion wraps his arms around him, one hand behind his head, and cradles him. 

"Get the fuck off me." 

Astarion lets out a shrill laugh. "Darling, you're acting as though I can't hear how fast your heart is beating." 

"I'm fucking pissed," comes a muffled reply. 

Astarion, generous as he is, releases Soul. The cultist huffs out a breath of relief and scrambles away only for Astarion to grab onto his chin instead, freezing him in his tracks. Soul's expression morphs into disgust and he goes to pull away. 

"Wait." Surprisingly, Soul listens. "Do you really hate me so deeply? I'm only being friendly, my darling." 

"Friendliness isn't described as whatever you're doing." 

Astarion lowers his voice, flicking his eyes to Soul's lips. Soul mimics him, his throat dipping with an obvious nervous swallow. How wonderful, Astarion muses, to have someone eating from the palm of his hand like this. Is this what power felt like? Is Astarion finally able to control the people around him? 

Cazador was always so wrong to try using fear to control people; lust and joy are far easier. Especially when Astarion is inches away from the face of a man whose pupils are dilated enough that only a ring of colour can be seen. 

"What is this then? If it isn't friendliness, what are we doing?" 

Soul licks his lips. It seems he hasn't yet noticed he's still poised over Astarion, hands on either side of the elf's hips. 

"I'm not sure," he murmurs quietly. "It goes against what I think I should be doing." He sniffs, parting his lips so that he breathes through his mouth. 

"'Should' be doing?" Astarion brushes a thumb against Soul's lower lip. "Oh," he laughs, "apologies, pet. I quite forgot about your little injury. I'll get you a potion, hmm?" 

Soul inhales like he's coming up for air. "What?" 

Astarion gently pushes him away, letting him find his footing again and shake himself off. 

"Your wounded side, darling. Surely you didn't forget?" 

"I..." Soul frowns. "Right, yes.”

As Astarion glides away, swinging his hips temptingly, he glances back at Soul. The tiefling is staring at the ground, eyes wide and unseeing. For a moment, Astarion feels little guilty for teasing, but only a moment. In the next second, he’s bringing a potion of healing and a new plan.

“Sit up properly, my love.”

Soul has gathered a fraction of his dignity, it seems, for the cultist glares at him when he follows the direction.

“You’re the whole reason I’m fucked up, so leave me alone.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow as he leans over, still standing, and uncorks the potion.

“Me?” He tilts his head and looks down at him condescendingly. “Don’t hurt yourself because of me, darling. That’ll become a bad habit if you let it.”

Soul tuts. “Because you’re an asshole who doesn’t care about others?” He reaches for the bottle and rolls his eyes when Astarion moves it out of his grasp. “Give it to me.”

Astarion pouts, leaning on one hip. “I feel terribly sorry for you and want to help. Won’t you let me help?”

He’s given a distrusting look. “How will you help?”

Feed from the palm of my hand. Let me dictate what you do and how you act.

“Here,” Astarion coos.

He tips the bottle ever so slightly, lowering it towards Soul’s face. The True Soul scowls and goes to grab it again, only for Astarion to move it away. After several more attempts, Soul clearly gathers what he’s being asked to do and his frown deepens.

“I’m not drinking without holding the bottle,” he snarls.

“But it’s an easy task.” Astarion bats his eyelashes. “I thought you were a quick learner – surely you can learn how easy it is to drink like this.”

Soul shifts warily before groaning. “Fine. Fucking – just don’t tilt it too fast.”

Easy.

Astarion is so kind, so sweet and gentle, when he presses the mouth of the bottle to Soul’s parts lips and tips it. Even though he was expecting it, Soul grimaces and accidently lets a lot of the liquid spill from his mouth and down his chin. It’s painfully reminiscent of his hesitation last night; unlike last night, Astarion pauses and allows Soul a moment to collect himself.

When the tiefling blinks up at him to signal he’s okay, Astarion tilts it again, even slower this time. The tiny gulps Soul takes are adorably eager, like he’s trying to do his best not just to ensure no spillage, but to impress Astarion with how perfect he is. As the bottle is tipped further, Soul’s lashes flutter, gaze turning up to meet Astarion’s.

There’s something… sensual about it. The act that Astarion had meant to be a display of power has suddenly become a new way to seduce and use.

A tense, uncomfortable feeling spreads through Astarion’s body. It’s a tale as old as Labelas Enoreth and what did he expect? He’s trying to use his body and looks to get Soul on-side, so why is disgust creeping into his chest and turning his stomach? He needs to get a hold of himself. He needs to stop being so precious.

The palm-sized bottle is empty and the cultist hasn’t noticed, obediently gulping down the last dregs in his mouth. Astarion smiles, fanged and sharp, and Soul’s pupils expand.

“Good pet,” Astarion purrs. “You listen well when you want to.”

In an instant, Soul is leaping to his feet, expression sour, and backing away until he reaches the nearby cliff face.

“You always have to ruin things, don’t you?” He makes a harsh shooing motion with his hands. “Go! Go on, leave me alone. Your mage’s stupid Silence spell has worn off and I’m not afraid to hurt you.”

Astarion chuckles. “I’ll have to call you up on your bluff, darling. If that was really the case, you’d have cast Shocking Grasp the second that I was within reaching distance.”

“Just leave me alone, alright?”

He holds up his hands. “I sincerely apologise. I’ll leave you be and let you fend for yourself, assuming that you aren’t hungry and don’t require breakfast.”

Soul hesitates and glances around. “I…” His nose crinkles unhappily. “I could do with breakfast.”

“That’s what I thought, darling.” 

Halsin is panicking about the Shadow-Curse again. The group return to camp bickering, their druid stomping around and eventually shifting into a bear to curl up on the shore and sulk. Astarion, Lae'zel, and Soul watch the others silently, though only the elf seems amused by the arguing. 

After what feels like hours of nonsense, Karlach reveals that they managed to free Wulbren (who turns out to be an asshole) and the tiefling refugees. Astarion gleefully counts the gold that they've been given as a reward and scolds Soul when he realises that several pieces go missing. He lets the cultist keep the coins, however, merely because he won't be spending it anytime soon and deserves a tiny treat for not killing anyone today.

“Why in the hells would you help refugees?” Soul asks suddenly after being silent ever since the afternoon.

Karlach looks confused. “They need all the help they can get – it’s doing a good dead, soldier.”

He shrugs. “They can handle themselves, I’m sure.”

Astarion really quite likes this cultist.

“Not when we’re trained adventurers and they aren’t,” Karlach responds sharply. “Plus, they’re kin. Don’t you want to help kin?”

Soul hesitates, scowling. “I don’t know every single tiefling in the world, and it –”

“That’s not what ‘kin’ means and you know it.”

Shockingly, Soul shrugs and looks away, silent. Astarion gives him a curious look that he ignores, instead kicking a stray piece of wood into the campfire.

The next time Soul speaks, it’s when Halsin has returned from his tantrum and the group are discussing the Astral Prism. Astarion tells everyone that Soul became a cultist a year ago and heard the Absolute earlier than that, making the tiefling finally look his way.

“I still don’t understand why none of you hear Her.”

“The Prism –”

“The weapon.”

“The Prism,” insists Gale, “was taken from a particularly disagreeable cleric who was rather rude to our githyanki friend here. We decided it was best to have the Prism for ourselves when it flew into Lae’zel’s hands and refused to leave.”

“So what, it just attached to you?”

“Precisely.”

Soul stares down at his empty plate. “Where’s the cleric now?”

Astarion crosses his arms over his chest. “Presumably rotting, considering she never chased after us.”

Soul doesn’t need to know all the details and he seems satisfied with that, making a bored-sounding hum.

“We were only told to start looking for the weapon around a month or two ago.” The time when we became infected. “I didn’t think it would be a tiny prism that makes people hate a god.”

The group collectively groan.

“All of us,” begins Lae’zel for the thousandth time, “have been infected with ghaik tadpoles. It is only due to the Absolute’s plan that we are not ghaik.”

“Sounds like the Absolute is a good thing then.”

Another collective groan.

As Soul sits and listens to Gale repeating the tale of their infection and their knowledge – without giving too much away in case the cultist escapes – Soul stares at the ground in front of him. He hardly seems to blink. Hardly seems to breathe. Astarion starts to wonder if he’s a statue.

When Gale has finished, the tiefling snaps out of his stupor and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I… don’t trust you.” His voice is quiet, however. Hesitant. Like he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying. “Why would the Absolute even do that? She could – She could have thousands of followers without parasites.” His eyes fly open. “No, no, there are no parasites.”

“Soul…”

The cultist glares at Karlach furiously, turning his gaze this way and that accusingly. He promptly stands and spins around, throwing a scowl at the five of them as he stalks away to his corner of camp.

“I think we ought to keep him in ropes tonight,” muses Astarion. “Just in case he thinks too hard about his precious goddess.”

It happens three days later. 

Astarion has been continuing his seducing whenever Soul is around and everything is going swimmingly. Soul will slip up and reveal his desires only to back away with a glare that rivals Karlach's when she's in a Rage. Every night, the cultist is subjected to listening to the group's discussions of the Absolute, the Shadow-Curse, and the mysterious Gauntlet of Shar that they have yet to find. Every night, Soul becomes a bit quieter.

The chase is thoroughly entertaining. Astarion enjoys the teasing and the banter, constantly poking Soul’s temper and laughing if he snaps. On the third day, however, Soul is largely unresponsive to Astarion’s chatter. It makes the vampire frown and scoff. Can’t the True Soul understand what’s going on? Can’t he be a good playmate?

It’s mid-afternoon and Astarion and Halsin have been left behind, much to the druid’s annoyance. Astarion keeps glancing at Soul, who is sat in his corner facing the cliffs with his head bowed.

“Your attention appears split, my friend.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “He’s amusing.”

“If that is what you wish you call it,” hums Halsin with a smile.

“Whatever do you mean?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “If I am boring you, feel free to find entertainment elsewhere. I think I shall whittle now.”

Astarion has watched Halsin whittle before (ducks upon ducks upon ducks) and he doesn’t consider the woodwork to be exciting. With another eyeroll, Astarion darts across camp towards Soul. As he gets closer, he hears the tiefling muttering to himself, his voice near-silent yet comprehensible.

“Vile,” he whispers. “Vile. I will not be tempted. Not be led astray.” Astarion smirks and opens his mouth to announce himself. “The Absolute is real. The Absolute is real.” Astarion freezes. “Real. As real as my skin peeling from my bones. As real as flesh and blood. My flesh. My…” Soul’s head jerks up and his twists around, eyes wide. “Don’t creep up on me like that, idiot.”

“You…” An uneasy feeling courses through Astarion’s veins. “How did you know I was there?”

Soul points to the ground. “Shadow.”

Astarion grumbles, ready to say something snarky, when the haunted look on Soul’s face makes him pause.

It isn’t normal, he thinks, to sit in the corner and talk to yourself. He used to do that when he was trapped in Cazador’s palace, during a time when he was too far gone to realise he was even doing it. Soul, however? Soul appears lucid in his speech now that Astarion is talking to him. It’s only his expression that is unsettling, Astarion tells himself. That and the crazed mutterings about bones and blood.

Astarion makes some sort of excuse to leave and rushes back to Halsin. In the evening, once everyone has gathered for dinner and Gale is serving hot pie and grinning like he’s won at life, Soul clears his throat to get their attention. As soon as they’re all looking at him, he seems to curl up on himself and become nervous.

“Yes, darling?” Astarion asks as encouragingly as he can with a smirk on his face.

A pause.

Soul licks his lips and looks at the ground.

“I’m starting to think… that the Absolute isn’t actually a god.”

Chapter Text

Gale gives Soul the bell. 

The cultist spends the rest of their meal shaking the thing frantically, as if Astarion didn't let him shake it long ago. The twinkling sound probably soothes him, though his posture is as tense as ever. 

"When did you first start thinking this?" 

"Can you still hear the Absolute?" 

"Have you had any bizarre dreams from a guardian?" 

"Do you know about the parasite?" 

"What is the Astral Prism to you?" 

"How did you make your way to Moonrise?" 

And then: 

"Are you alright? You seem shaken." 

Soul blinks out of his dazed state with a grunt, scowling at those who dare ask him questions. 

"I'm fine, can't you tell?" He shakes the bell again, harder this time. "And shut the hells up about the Absolute, I'm still processing it. If I try, I can still hear Her." 

Astarion cocks his head curiously. "So there are whispers?" 

Hesitation. 

"I suppose so. Something else too," murmurs Soul. "It has another voice. It... started from a dream."

His gaze shifts around uneasily, never once landing on a particular spot for more than a few seconds. Gradually, his repetitive bell-shaking comes to a halt, and a hush falls over the camp, interrupted only by the comforting crackle of the fire.

“May I ask if the voice sounds familiar to you?” Gale leans forward as his tone becomes low and questioning.

Soul wiggles his head about – an action that Astarion has come to recognise as uncertainty or used to mock someone – and rests his chin on his palm.

“Someone I ought to trust.”

The guardian, Astarion thinks. The group realised very quickly that their elusive dream visitor likes to disguise themselves as someone they trust. For Gale, it's his mother. For Karlach, her father. For Lae’zel, a childhood friend whom she insists is only an ally. 

Astarion doesn’t trust anyone, meaning the guardian must have had a hard time picking out a face. It’s likely the reason why a stranger greets him in many of his dreams.

Nonetheless, there is a theme with the guardian’s disguises; they always pick someone trustworthy and someone that is the same race as the person they’re visiting. They also always look wrong. Always shifting and abnormal. Always obviously fake. It rather ruins the effort that the guardian put into picking a face.

If the group’s observations are correct, Soul’s visitor is a tiefling who doesn’t look normal. No wonder he’s unsettled by everything.

“Who is it?” Karlach asks.

Fool. If Soul isn’t telling them his name, he isn’t likely to tell them who his trusted person is.

Like clockwork, Soul’s expression falls into the annoyance. His body curls in on itself, defending him from ‘attackers.’

“Like fuck I’m telling you that.” He shakes his head angrily. “None of you traitors know when to stop pushing, do you?”

“We only wish to help you,” says Halsin with a gentle smile. Soul scoffs. “You might not believe it, but it’s true. If keeping information a secret is helpful to you, then far be it for us to refuse you.”

Astarion rolls his eyes at the blatant lie – they’ve been trying to weasel information out of Soul ever since meeting him – but pauses when the cultist appears to relax. He sniffs and stares down at his hands.

“Right. Good.” He looks away to his corner of camp. “Can I go now?”

The others look between one another, all sighing and nodding. Astarion frowns. He isn’t ready to stop trying to pressure Soul into revealing something. Furthermore, the anxious whispering he heard from the tiefling a few days ago still rings in his mind. Had he been repeating things that the guardian said? Had he been relaying words of the Absolute?

Astarion’s insatiable curiosity has always been his downfall. When Soul stands, the vampire leaps up first and, with a trailing arm around Soul’s waist and a wink, silently asks him to follow. The cultist glares but the instant that Astarion’s skin leaves his, Soul chases after him.

It’s fun, thrilling even, knowing that he’s already wrapped someone so tightly around his finger that a single touch can make them crawl to him. He doesn’t even need to try as he opens his tent flap and offers Soul entry. The cultist simply rolls his eyes and ducks inside.

“Now what?” Soul grumbles, standing awkwardly in the middle of the tent.

Astarion knows how this goes, of course. He can hardly start out with an interrogation - it’ll scare Soul away – but with seduction, he can do anything. After all, when he first started flirting, Astarion mentioned the word ‘virtue’ and Soul had been so distracted that he linked it to Virtue Names and almost revealed his. It makes Astarion far more excited than when he was luring disgusting strangers to Cazador. The emotion churning inside his gut that he now recognises as dread isn’t so bad anymore. He can push past it and focus on his plan.

“Have you ever played Deck, darling?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and picks up his set, throwing several pillows onto the ground so that they can sit opposite one another.

“Deck?”

Astarion waves the cards at him. “Deck of Many Things. Playing cards.”

Soul’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, yes, I’ve played before.”

“Join me.”

Soul practically slams himself into the pillows, crossing his arms and pulling a face. Astarion chuckles to himself as he starts dealing the cards.

“So do you think you can out-cheat me?” 

Soul harrumphs. “Of course I can, darling. I’ll just copy whatever you do if you’re winning, which I doubt you will be.”

“Then I’ll know to purposefully lose so that you lose too and then we’ll have to draw,” Astarion trills.

“You’d be that petty?”

The elf grins toothily. “It’s more entertaining that way.”

Soul’s shoulders untense, a finger tapping against Dolly’s bell before he stows it away in a pocket. Avoiding Astarion’s eye contact, he finally picks up his cards.

“Which game are we playing?” He questions as he flicks through his hand. 

“Which ones do you know?” Astarion looks through his own cards and maintains a smug expression despite the fact that he’s dealt himself a terrible hand.

“Well, you’ve given us a set number so I’m guessing you've already picked what you want to play. This one doesn't allow for any cheating, which is a darn shame.” Soul looks up at him again. “I haven’t played any card games in years.” The shadow of a smile graces his lips. “We used to call it D.O.M.T instead of Deck, like you did.”

He pronounces the acronym as if it’s a word rather than separate letters, making an odd sound that forces a (horrifyingly) genuine laugh out of Astarion.

“D.O.M.T?” He blurts out. “Honestly?”

Soul frowns around a smile, clearly trying not to laugh. “It was funny at the time.”

“And it’s funny now,” Astarion declares. “Who made it?”

A shrug. “One of my childhood friends. I can’t remember who.”

“I never had childhood friends,” Astarion says casually as he shuffles his cards and places them face-down. “I was an only child and the Upper City isn’t built for children.”

“Upper City?” Soul gives him a sly look. “No wonder you’re so prissy.”

Astarion gawks at him. “Prissy? Prissy?”

“A prissy, effeminate little man,” tuts Soul.

“Excuse me, for an elf I’m extremely masculine.” Astarion watches as Soul’s tail flicks across the pillows. “I’m a stereotypical male elf.”

“You’re masculine for your people?”

“Yes. Not all races can think that beards and muscles are a sign of a good man.”

Soul makes a comically loud ‘huh’ sound. “I’m not that muscular, you know.”

Astarion snatches up the opportunity to flirt with both hands, leaning forward with a carefully crafted flutter of his eyelashes and coy glance down to his arms.

“You’re bigger built than I am, and I’ll admit that I find that… delicious.”

Soul’s gaze drops to his cards, a scowl crossing over his face. If Astarion weren't able to see the subtle tells of bashfulness in his eyes, he’d think Soul was annoyed.

“Shut the hells up.” His voice comes out nervous and he seems to realise this, straightening and clearing his throat. “Let’s just play, alright?”

“Such an eager pup,” Astarion purrs.

A blush rises. “Just be lucky this isn’t a magic D.O.M.T, otherwise you would be cursed to the moon and back.”

Astarion raises his eyebrows in surprise. “No Deck is ordinary.” 

He’s given a condescending look. “Your wizard’s Silence spell is in action. Makes for a boring game, honestly.”

The vampire loses some of his confidence, letting out a short, embarrassed laugh. Soul shuffles his hand and turns them over, picking out cards at random and setting them in the middle.

“Two.”

Astarion turns them over. “Flames. The Fates.”

The elf hums, smiling. If Gale’s Silence weren’t in affect, one card would summon a devil as Soul’s enemy and the other would allow him to unravel reality and avoid an event. Astarion can’t help but be thankful they’re playing without such magic; as hilarious as a devil chasing Soul would be, he doesn’t think risking the cultist changing reality so that he was never captured is a good thing.

He decides to hide the Deck of Many Things after their game in case Soul hunts them down once the Silence ends.

Soul snorts in amusement. “Shame. Maybe Flames would be worth it if Fates came true.”

“Don’t be suspicious, darling. What event would you change if the magic were working?”

“I’d be a –” Soul freezes. “Nevermind.”

Oh?

“You’d what, sweeting?”

“Nothing.”

Suddenly, playing Deck doesn’t matter. Astarion throws his cards down and inches closer, head tilted to the side.

“Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Soul scoffs even as his eyes trail down to Astarion’s lips. Easy as pie. The heady feeling of power comes rushing back; Astarion wets his lower lip with his tongue, making sure to brush it along one of his fangs on the way. Soul’s heartbeat quickens, pupils dilating ever so slightly.

“Can’t we just play?”

“Play?” The elf coos gently. “We can certainly do that.”

Soul clears his throat. He veers his head away as if he’s only just realising how close Astarion has gotten and takes a deep breath.

“Not in that way, you bastard, and you know it.”

Astarion chuckles, the sound falling against Soul’s lips. “How should we play then?”

Another deep breath, shakier this time. The cultist’s eyes slip closed.

“With the cards.”

“It doesn’t sound as fun without the magic,” he replies softly. “Although if I had my way, the Fates' magic would come true.”

Ever so gently, Astarion cups the back of Soul’s neck with a hand and grins at the tension he feels fading from the tiefling’s body.

“What would you change?” Soul asks.

Astarion nips at the corner of Soul’s mouth, earning him a sharp inhale.

“All my thoughts are debauched, darling. I don’t think you’d want to hear them.”

Soul’s eyelids flutter open. They stare at one another, Astarion’s vision blurred due to their proximity, as a familiar fuzziness settles over the vampire’s mind.

“Can you…”

“Can I what, pet?” Astarion hears himself saying.

His spare hand somehow finds its way to the base of Soul’s tail, and the tiefling lets out a breathy gasp at the contact.

“Holy fuck – I – holy fuck.”

“Darling, I’ve barely touched you.”

“I think I’m a little overwhelmed,” Soul mutters.

It’s easy to press his lips against Soul’s, silencing him and relishing the way the cultist melts into Astarion’s arms. The fuzziness grows as Astarion goes through the motions of encouraging Soul to reciprocate, tugging with biting and pausing when Soul needs to breathe.

He’s a good kisser, Astarion absentmindedly admits. Very hesitant but fine enough that Astarion feels he’s doing a good job of seducing him. Best of all, Soul doesn’t touch. He simply sits there, allowing Astarion to do whatever he wants and pretending he hates it whenever they part.

“You’re such a pretty thing,” Astarion murmurs.

“Pretty?” Soul leans in for another kiss, chasing Astarion’s mouth when the elf leans back slightly. “Where are you fucking going?”

“I’m merely appreciating how sweet you are now that the Absolute isn’t jabbering in your ears.”

Soul tenses. His tail whacks against Astarion’s leg, startling him.

“Right…” Soul mutters, voice thick. “Except now I have another chattering on.”

Astarion’s mind wriggles back into his body. He blinks and moves to part Soul’s lips with his tongue, choosing to ignore the excited, stuttering breath he receives in response.

“Who’s talking in your dreams?” He purrs when they break again. Soul shakes his head. “Come, pet, tell me. I won’t tell the others, I’m just curious.”

“If you – shit – if – stop touching my bloody tail.” Astarion halts his teasing strokes with a sly smirk. “If I tell you, will you shut up about it?”

Vague plans seem to go well, and even if disgust swirls underneath the satisfaction, he can’t help but feel victorious that he’s gotten to this point. Astarion’s companions don’t understand what using their bodies really gets them and they fail at every interrogation because of it.

“I’ll reward you if you do tell me.”

The promise sounds honeyed and sickly in his own ears, but Soul shudders and nods imperceptibly.

“Odonia.”

“Lovely name. Who are they to you?”

“Guess.”

Astarion hums, intrigued. “My immediate guess is a lover but that can’t be –” Soul’s eyes widen. “Oh.” Astarion lights up with a grin. “Oh, you naughty thing.”

“Shut up.”

“You have a lover yet are –”

Soul shoves him away harshly, baring his teeth as Astarion bursts into laughter.

“I’m serious, shut up.”

Astarion collapses onto the pillows behind him. “Do you picture your precious Odonia whilst you kiss me?”

“That’s – that’s not –”

“Is that why you’re so angry all the time? Because the cult keeps you from your one true love?” He makes an amused high-pitched sound. “I suppose not your one true love, if I’m involved too.”

Soul jumps up, stumbling slightly on the uneven ground, and slams a foot down into Astarion’s crotch before the elf can process it. Astarion shrieks in pain, curling up as shards of lightning pierce his body. Are his ears ringing? He’s certain his ears are ringing.

“I hope the Absolute fucking smites you,” comes a low snarl from somewhere above him.

Astarion heaves in a breath around his tears. “How can she do that when she isn’t a god?”

Silence.

By the time that the pain has faded, Astarion’s tears have dried enough to realise that he’s alone once more.

“You didn’t know that tieflings are carnivores?”

Astarion shakes his head, bewildered. “No! Why would I know that?”

Soul gives him a withering look. “Basic perception.”

“We can eat other things,” Karlach chimes in. “It just doesn’t taste that good.” She gnaws at a chunk of bread as if to prove a point.

Soul, Astarion has figured out, really enjoys pretending that certain events haven’t happened. The next morning, after their little argument, the cultist is acting like nothing is wrong. He even banters with Astarion and the rest of the group, although he appears to be favouring his left arm rather than his right. When Astarion unsubtly grabs onto his right arm, Soul hisses in pain and yanks it away.

The vampire throws him a healing potion when nobody is looking.

“As this camp’s resident chef, I personally knew that tieflings have a diet of meat.” Gale waves a fork about proudly.

“Yes, well, it isn’t like I particularly pay attention to your meals.”

“You are far too focused on desire to do much else,” Lae’zel says with a pointed glare between him and Soul.

“You can hardly blame me when he’s so –”

“There’s this horrible wriggling behind my eye,” the cultist interrupts hurriedly.

The group freezes. They're immediately distracted, as Soul obviously hoped for.

“What is it?” He continues. “I hate it.” 

“The ghaik parasite,” replies Lae’zel. “Have we not been clear on the infection?”

Soul nods several times. “Right, the parasite.” Then, near-silently, he mutters: “there are parasites in my mind. Parasites. Parasites.”

When he glances up again, meeting Astarion’s confused gaze, Soul bunches up his shoulders and chews on some bacon.

“That’s good progress, isn’t it? Knowing that you’ve got a tadpole?”

Gale nods at Karlach. “It is a sure sign that the Astral Prism is protecting our dear friend from the Absolute’s voice.”

Soul rubs a hand across his hand in a tired manner. “So the Absolute does have a voice? She is a god.”

Everyone clammers to disagree.

“The Absolute is controlling the parasites. We don’t know what it is, but cultists hear that voice and believe it –”

“Believe it to be a god, yes,” Soul groans. “You’ve said so many times that I think I can recite your speeches from memory. I’m just struggling to wrap my head around it, alright? I have, after all, been an Absolutist for a long, long time.”

Halsin, for the first time this morning, speaks. “Would it help to venture outside camp with us?”

“What?”

“I’m uncertain if that’s the best course of action.”

“Fool.”

“Good idea, soldier!”

An awkward pause.

Soul’s eyes narrow. “You would let me come with you?”

Gale opens his mouth but Halsin beats him to it.

“If you promise to behave, I don’t see why not. It might put your mind at rest knowing you are safe to wander with us rather than trapped and cooped up in one place. And, before you ask, we would not yet return to Moonrise.”

Soul laughs dryly. “If the Absolute isn’t a god, why would I want to return to Moonrise at all?” 

It is at that moment that the group realises that the True Soul is no longer a True Soul. Lae’zel looks around approvingly as everyone else attempts to contain their relief and excitement.

Astarion isn’t sure if it was the guardian who somehow convinced Soul of the truth or if the forced proximity to the Prism did, but he’s glad. There’s something incredibly satisfying about manipulating someone’s beliefs, whether that be for the greater good or not. And, if Soul is here to stay, Astarion can keep up his grand plan and make the little tiefling fall so hard for him that he’ll throw himself in front of Astarion to protect him. 

Being good truly does reap plentiful rewards. 

“Are we exploring the town again?” Astarion asks politely instead of pouncing on Soul like he’s his rightful prey.

With that, they decide to continue searching Reithwin for signs of Halsin’s freakish ghost spirit that will apparently cure the land, this time bringing Soul along as well. He’s given strict instructions not to run off, but with Dolly’s bell in his pocket and blades on his belt, what would stop him?

The answer is desire. He sticks to Astarion’s side like a leech, watching as the vampire slips on his own armour and stows his daggers away in hidden places.

“Where do you put them?” Soul eventually asks. “How do you draw them quickly?”

Astarion throws him a wink. “A gentleman never tells.” 

“Show me.”

As graceful as ever, Astarion steps forwards and tilts Soul’s chin upwards from where he’s sitting at the campfire. The tiefling frowns but doesn’t pull away.

“Perhaps if you’re good today, I’ll let you copy me.” Soul tuts at his words. “You will be good, won’t you?”

“On my best behaviour as always,” he drones.

Astarion suppresses a laugh and, before he can complain, presses his lips against Soul’s. The other rogue tenses and pushes him away, cursing under his breath.

“Best behaviour,” Astarion reminds him.

“What, I can’t curse today?”

“You should be nice.”

Soul wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his armour and scoffs. “Whatever. Let’s just go, alright? Are we ready?” He looks around the camp. “I want to see a different view than this shithole for once.”

Astarion isn’t quite sure how he got here. He understands that the group left camp, started exploring the old brewery, convinced a twisted version of Thisobald Thorm to drink itself to death, and then Soul discovered a secret room at the back. He understands that the others didn’t discover it and thus never followed them when the door slammed shut. He understands that he recognised the opportunity to flirt and took it.

However, despite all of this, Astarion isn’t quite sure how he came to be zoned out, letting someone (Soul? It must be Soul) grind against his knee in the ominous glow of candlelight. The only blessing is that whoever it is, they’re quiet. Quiet and desperate, if the gasps and insistent touches are any clue.

“Needy, aren’t you?” He receives a tug forward in reply. “You’re doing so…”

The door swings open.

The person – Astarion blinks and it’s Soul pressing against him – groans, shuddering and pulling Astarion in front of him to provide cover.

“Oh, what’s this room you’ve found?” Comes Gale’s distant voice.

Karlach laughs. “Let’s give them a moment.”

“Wha –”

“Come on, Gale.”

The door shuts.

An unpleasant tingling sensation in his fingertips brings Astarion back into his sorry mind. Disgust roils hot in his stomach and he fights back the desire to detach from himself again. Instead, the vampire takes a steadying breath and stares at the brick wall behind them.

“Fuck… fucking…” Soul pants against his shoulder, still gripping onto his biceps. “Holy shit.”

“You’re a man of few words,” Astarion mutters blankly. 

“Shut up. This is… awful.”

Pushing him away, Soul licks at his own lips and pointedly avoids his gaze. Astarion distractedly notes the flare of magic from Soul’s palms, which seems to result in nothing happening.

“Invisible magic. How interesting.”

Soul cracks his knuckles. “Prestidigitation.”

Astarion doesn’t have it in him to laugh at that. Soul licks his lips again and begins repetitively rubbing his hands together, stumbling away to look around the room. If Astarion’s hearing is correct, the word ‘vile’ pours constantly from the other rogue’s mouth.

Anger sparks inside Astarion’s chest, making him spin to glare at Soul’s back.

“If you’re that disgusted by me, why do you continue to bother me?” He spits, making Soul turn.

“You’re the one who started this bullshit.” Soul continues to rub his hands together, the movement slowly turning into harsh, quick scratching. “Gods, they saw. They know, don’t they?” 

"Gale likely doesn't know, poor thing. Karlach, however? Yes, she knows." 

"Oh my Absolute..." 

The scratching worsens.

Astarion stomps over and pulls his hands apart from one another, resisting the temptation to lick up a drop of red oozing from a particularly deep scrape.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Soul grimaces and flexes his fingers, only relaxing when Astarion lets go. He takes several steps back but doesn’t continue scratching.

“I’ve already told you that – that this is wrong. What more could you want to hear?”

That I’m not giving you my body for no reason. He refrains from admitting this, choosing to give Soul more space to breathe.

“That I’m not upsetting you, darling. As much as I hate to say it, I’ve…” He adopts a sheepish expression. “I’ve come to enjoy your company.”

A pause.

“As have I.”

Astarion waits for Soul to continue only to be met with more silence.

“Can I help in any way?” The elf attempts.

Soul coughs out a humourless laugh. “Take me back to m – my home.”

Astarion stills. Something about the way he said that wasn’t quite right – as if he was going to say something else but stopped before he could slip up.

“M-m-m-my home?” Astarion muses, suspicious. “And where is your home, pet? Moonrise?”

Soul’s brows raise in contempt. “I’m pretty sure I’ve said I used to live in the Gate, asshole.”

Although sceptical, Astarion can’t fault him if he is covering for almost saying Moonrise. The Towers have been his place of twisted safety for an entire year and with the previous cosiness of the Absolute whispering in his mind, the memory of it might be hard to abandon.

“And don’t call me ‘pet.’”

“You enjoyed it earlier.”

“Don’t remind me,” Soul groans. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean again.”

Astarion squeezes his eyes shut, despising that he can relate so closely to that thought. I need a distraction. He turns and immediately starts flicking through a stained book on the table before them, ignoring the unease sizzling beneath his skin.

“Dunk yourself in water and it’ll go away,” he snarls. “Keep your head under until you drown.”

To his surprise, Soul chuckles. Astarion glances up at him just in time to see the fleeting smile on his face.

“Fucking bastard,” he grumbles in an almost affectionate way. “I’ll keep that in mind, though. If you find my body floating in a nearby river, know that it’s your fault.”

Astarion looks down at the book again, feeling a tad lighter than before. The tension is lesser now, still present, as always when the two of them are together, but Astarion feels as though he can breathe. Foolish, considering he doesn’t need to breathe. A relief, considering he wants to.

“I shall have to watch out in case of suspicious bodies in watery places.”

Another laugh.

“I’m afraid that you will.” 

Chapter Text

“What have you found there?”

Soul jumps, shooting up from his crouch and whipping around to face Astarion. In an instant, the thing that holds his interest is hidden behind his back, a look of feigned innocence on the cultist’s face.

“Found what?”

Astarion hums, amused. The group might have now given Soul his precious bell, but they aren’t completely stupid. They still don’t know how long Dolly’s blessing lasts and they aren’t about to let Soul out of sight and allow him to run off with the bell in tow. Anything that Soul has done since possessing Dolly’s bell has been under the watchful eye of someone from their group, including when the stealthy tiefling tries to loot corpses undetected.

“The shiny thing,” answers Astarion casually. “This House might be dimly lit, but most expensive objects glitter in any light.”

After a pause, Soul rolls his eyes and reluctantly reveals a small ring with a gem in the centre.

“Fine,” he mutters. “It’s enchanted. Some sort of Dancing Lights spell, I think.”

Astarion claps his hands together in exaggerated delight and reaches to grab the ring. Before he can, however, Soul pulls back and slips it onto a finger.

“It’s mine, if I wasn’t clear enough.”

Brat.

“And why should I let you keep it when we’re being so generous already?” Astarion cocks his head and bounces on the balls of his feet.

“It’s one object – I doubt you need or want a useless spell like that.”

The vampire inches closer, relishing in the way that Soul tenses more with each passing second.

“Pet, this isn’t about the stupid ring.” Soul frowns at his words. “It’s about control.”

Soul makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever been honest to me.” Astarion smirks slyly as the tiefling crosses his arms. “Fine. Control. I get to keep one piece of loot for… what?”

Astarion considers it for a few seconds. “One day of you being good?”

Soul scoffs. “‘Being good’ sounds like you think I’m a dog.”

“A feral one, for now.” Astarion is given a dirty look as Soul moves away to continue sifting through the House of Healing’s cabinets.

It’s almost sad how the tiefling can’t see the comparison. Slow to trust. Snappish. Flighty. Scratch is different – likely due to the fact that he had been a domestic hound prior to joining their group – but all animals are the same in the end. No matter how insistent a dog is that it doesn’t want to be around a person, it will always come sniffing for affection. Soul might not see the truth as of yet, but his gradual change from outright violence to quiet derision only encourages Astarion to continue. To train him even further.

“I’m not like that mutt that you keep around the fire,” Soul states after a while.

“No, he obeys,” Astarion trills in reply. “And anyway, you’re a purebred rather than a mutt.”

Soul mutters under his breath and hands the elf a box of soaps that he seems to deem uninteresting before he stands and flicks dust from himself.

“Fine,” he grumbles as he turns to face Astarion. “If I can keep two objects today, I’ll give you a day’s obedience.”

Astarion hums and crosses his arms. “Does the pixie’s bell count as an object?”

“No.”

Astarion holds out a hand. “Then I’ll take it back.”

A long pause stretched tight over their twin glares. Soul looks to the ground in frustration and for a second, Astarion thinks he’s going to run away, but then the cultist digs through his pocket to hand him Dolly’s bell.

“Alright then, but I’ll say one item per day.”

“Two per day.”

“One.”

“Two.”

Astarion crinkles his nose in a snarl. “Two then. Happy?”

Soul lets out a sigh of relief and nods. “Very. I don’t start listening until I choose the second thing, alright?”

The vampire shakes his head angrily. This agreement is hardly fair, he thinks to himself, seeing as he’s already getting the short end of the straw. If Soul is so desperate to keep his shiny ring of Dancing Lights, then he can, but he needs to understand what their deal really means.

“A full day, darling. Meaning that you had better start being a good, obedient boy now or else I’m taking your ring and anything else you happen to find.”

The reaction is immediate and predictable. Soul slams his palm over the ring on his other hand, clearly protecting it from thieving fingers. His customary glare softens into distress for just a moment before it hardens again.

“No.” He turns away sharply but doesn’t walk away. “I’ll start now, you – you complete and utter asshole.”

Astarion grins and prances over to link arms with the tiefling. Soul pulls away in obvious disgust but appears to catch himself and falls stationary in Astarion’s hold. Blissful gratification spills into Astarion’s chest, sweetening his smile until it feels sickly and twisted. He reaches up and pulls at Soul’s chin until he turns his face towards him, irritation burning in his eyes.

“I ought to collar you, just so we know who you’re doting on.”

Soul exhales angrily through his nose. “I thought we agreed that I’m not some common mutt. And I’m not doting on you.”

Patience, Astarion reminds himself. Not everyone can learn to listen and bow under a stronger hand in a short amount of time. He himself took years until he realised fighting against Cazador was futile; it’s harder to manipulate Soul without the overwhelming command of vampiric compulsion, but Astarion is managing it somehow.

Most importantly, he is managing to puppet Soul without torture. Cazador is a fool for thinking fear can remain a constant, stable method of control when pleasure and faux kindness are far better.

“No, you aren’t a mutt,” purrs Astarion. “Purebred through and through, just like I said.” He pouts and tugs at Soul’s face when he tries to look away. “But purebreds are precious and delicate. They need a collar and leash so that they don’t get hurt, don’t they?”

Is that an intake of breath? Is that a dilation of Soul’s pupils and an anxious lick of his lips? Astarion’s lips peel back into a cruel smirk that Soul meets with a rabbiting heartbeat and glance away.

“I… does this deal extend to night time too?”

Astarion gasps, feigning being scandalised whilst a mixture of self-satisfaction and nausea swims in his gut.

“You want to be good later too?”

Soul fumbles through his words, a blush darkening his cheeks. “That’s not – you’re depraved – it’s – I’m wondering if I can kill you as you trance or not.”

Astarion hums in amusement. “All day means all day, my sweet. Tell me when you find –”

“Ah, there you two are.”

Their heads whip around at the sound of Gale’s voice, Astarion narrowing his eyes to let him know he’s interrupting. The wizard merely cocks his head and smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s walked into, and opens his (irritating) mouth yet again.

“Halsin believes that Malus Thorm is blocking our way to obtaining Art’s lute, which may help us to awaken him.”

Astarion rolls his eyes and lets go of Soul. The cultist sighs, clearly relieved, and he’s given a glare for his joy.

The Thorms, dead and alive, are a constant annoyance to Astarion and his unfortunate companions. If realising that the Absolute isn’t a goddess hasn’t convinced Soul to not return to Moonrise, the knowledge that Ketheric cursed his own family to an eternity of shadowed suffering might. Key word, ‘might.’ After all, Soul’s desperation could lead him back to the Towers despite all the realisations he is having.

“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” Astarion drawls.

The elf strolls over to Gale, followed quickly by Soul, who doesn’t stray more than an arm’s width from Astarion. He throws Soul an approving look that the tiefling scowls at but says nothing more.

“Oh, and before I forget,” says Gale calmly as they move through the building. “Perhaps you should refrain from discussing collars and such whilst people can overhear.”

The horrified choking gasp from Soul keeps Astarion laughing and grinning all through their fight with Thorm and his rotting, maggot-filled nurses.

The second item that Soul finds is extremely dull. Astarion watches him, all of them standing just outside the House of Healing, as he pokes and prods at a dusty skeleton in the cemetery. The bones faintly remind Astarion of their beloved Withers, although this skeleton doesn’t seem to hold any magic.

“Whatcha find there, soldier?” Asks Karlach in an attempt to befriend her fellow tiefling.

Soul tenses and picks up a crinkled, ruined book with a leather cover to show her, turning away from the skeleton.

“Someone’s diary.” His gaze darts towards Astarion. “Seems interesting – I think I’ll keep it.”

The silent request for permission is gratifying to say the least. Astarion shrugs nonchalantly and runs a hand through his hair.

“Tell me if there’s any family drama written in it.”

“Or anything that might aid us,” adds Halsin.

With that, their attention is redirected to the rest of the cemetery. Astarion doesn’t believe they’ll find anything useful here – nevermind finding wherever Balthazar has run off to – but at least he is entertained by flirting with a certain ex-True Soul for the single purpose of seeing how far he can push.

It turns out that he can push far and for quite a while until Soul snaps and threatens to slice his neck. Astarion raises an eyebrow and the other rogue is instantly grumbling an apology and looking sheepish, clutching his book and covering his ring like he’s worried they’ll be taken from him. Astarion despises that he can see himself in that fearful grip, when the spawn used to beg for his meagre possessions to remain his after disobeying his master. Former master.

Astarion shakes himself off and resolves to reward Soul tonight. Even if Astarion himself doesn’t want to offer a night of – what’s the word? – passion, he knows what will truly keep Soul under his command.

Thus, when their companions settle in for the night, Astarion lures Soul to his tent and orders him to kneel. The demand provides him a little bit of satisfaction, but not enough to keep his mind clear from disgust. Soul hesitates, glaring as always, before he reluctantly kneels.

“I don’t want to do this,” Soul grinds out through clenched teeth.

Astarion sighs. Neither do I, he wants to say. “We both know you’re lying to yourself,” he coos instead. “Besides, I haven’t mentioned what we’ll be doing. Perhaps we’re simply going to talk.”

Soul perks up. “I can talk. We can just talk.”

There’s this strange moment of… understanding that overcomes Astarion. He, like all those who have used him before, holds the power. He can push Soul around until he pleads and breaks, or he can be a decent person and let him go to his own bed like he undoubtedly wants. The first option is intriguing, he won’t lie, but he’s quite certain that breaking his new toy before Soul is ready will only destroy the shaky trust that Astarion has built. Even so, he’s bored and doesn’t want to be alone just yet.

“Sit at my feet whilst I read,” says Astarion after several long seconds of silence. Soul gives him a questioning look. “Oh, alright, you can rest your head on me if you really want. Also, fetch me that red book over there.”

“Get it yourself, bastard,” snaps Soul. Astarion crosses his arms. “What?”

“Obedience, pup.”

A pause.

Slowly, Soul shuffles awkwardly on his knees to grab the book and places it roughly in Astarion’s waiting palms. The vampire hisses down at him and yanks Soul closer by a horn, making the tiefling tip over and land heavily on his wrists.

Soul cries out, pulling away and nursing the joints with a fierce scowl. Astarion looks down at him passively, a twinge of guilt making his chest hurt for the smallest moment. Once Soul has decided he’s fine, however, Astarion gathers himself and smirks, opening his book to a random page.

It takes a while for Soul to settle down, combined with a few insistent tugs of his horns so that he stops fidgeting, and Astarion eventually loses himself in his book. After around ten chapters, he jumps at the warm touch of something against his thigh. He stares down to find Soul’s cheek resting against it, his breath even and eyes closed.

“Tired, are we?” Astarion teases quietly. Soul’s nostrils flare for a second, an indecipherable and gruff-sounding word passes through his lips. “Good boy.”

With a sleepy flutter, Soul opens his eyes to glower up at Astarion. His gaze is hazy, either with exhaustion or something else, and the anger doesn’t come across nearly as strong as it usually does.

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” Soul grumbles.

Something soft and sickly inside Astarion’s chest makes him laugh, a hand reaching to stroke the base of one of Soul’s horns.

“I trance, not sleep.”

Soul closes his eyes again. “Worg-face.”

“Don’t talk to yourself like that,” hums Astarion.

Whatever insult Soul has lined up next is lost when the tiefling huffs out a sigh and falls still. Astarion freezes, suddenly unsure what to do. He isn’t one for gentleness and the mere thought that he is currently being nice has him raising his hackles and preparing to shove Soul away from him.

But he’s better than that. He has a plan and said plan is apparently working. No matter how abhorrent a quiet night of reading is. He supposes, as he pets Soul and flicks the page with his other hand, that it isn’t so bad in the end. He would rather be here than in the kennels.

Astarion despises Halsin. Despises Gale. Despises Karlach. Despises all of their do-gooding nonsense that means he is now darting away from a wraith and a cursed raven at the same time.

The rogue spins out of the way of a Fireball that Gale shoots far too close for comfort and looses an arrow into the wing of the raven chasing him. Suddenly, a figure races past him, slamming into Astarion’s shoulder and disorientating him. He shakes his head, vision blurry, and stumbles through knocking another arrow into his longbow.

“Stop bumping into me, elf!” Comes an enraged cry from Soul.

“You’re the one who –”

He stops himself, however, and concentrates on shooting down an undead Harper who is about to strike Lae’zel in the back. When Soul speaks again, it’s from directly behind him and quieter than before.

“When is this bastard going to leap out of that stupid portal and help us?” He growls.

“You think that I know?” Astarion yelps as a roar of fire from behind alerts him to Soul figuring out how to cast Fireball.

“Oh, awesome,” says Soul under his breath. A gust of wind and deafening boom. “Your mage is great to steal from.”

Astarion rolls his eyes and shoots down yet another raven (where are they coming from?) before it can claw out Karlach’s eyes. He has half a mind to leave certain companions be so that they learn from their mistakes but he would hate to be killed because of his own ego, so instead shouts at Karlach to stop missing her attacks. He receives a middle finger in return.

It’s several downed enemies later that Gale decides a curved wall of flames is the best option to stop more undead from inching closer to Halsin’s portal. From their position in front of the glittering circle of light and fauna, Astarion and Soul are the first to see Gale cast his spell and burn a group of creatures to a crisp. Astarion is the first to see Soul freeze, stare down at his hands, and look back up towards Gale.

“That’s – I’m gonna –”

The vampire pulls back his teeth in a snarl. “Don’t you dare try casting that as well; there’s no room for another wall of fucking fire. You’ll burn us instead of them.”

“But –”

“Soul,” Astarion barks. “You want to be helpful and obedient?” The tiefling frowns but nods. Astarion quickly hands him his longbow and quiver, unsheathing his daggers and already stepping away. “Start shooting arrows whilst I help Karlach.”

Soul awkwardly clutches Astarion’s weapons. “I can only use shortbows.”

He’s an absolute idiot. I’ve chosen an idiot as my pet.

“So? Learn.”

Astarion slips away before he can argue further, making his way towards a struggling Karlach. Maybe it isn’t the best idea to leave Soul alone to stand near the portal, but Astarion trusts that none of them want Halsin to fail in his mission. If what the druid says is true, the curse will be lifted once he’s done. As much as Astarion appreciates darkness, he hates fighting off cursed undead more.

He slices through shadowy Harpers left, right, and centre whilst Karlach brews in her Rage besides him. The heat of her anger burns his eyes, forcing tears to his eyes as he blinks away the flames from the barbarian and Gale’s Firewall. He’s so distracted tearing through a slippery Wraith that he doesn’t see the second one leaping at him until it’s too –

The second shade evaporates into thin air, an arrow digging into its dark, half-corporal form and crumpling it in an instant. Astarion spins around, locking eyes with a triumphant, smirking Soul. He doesn’t get time to feel proud, however, not when Halsin still hasn’t returned. He turns away and continues to despise the druid for getting him caught up in the battle in the first place.

By the time that Halsin has returned, everyone is exhausted. Lae’zel inhales long, deep breaths and pretends as if she isn’t winded and on her last legs, but eagerly downs an entire healing potion when offered it. Soul joins Astarion’s side as Halsin rambles on and on about how Thaniel needs to be reunited with his spirit. Astarion doesn’t listen much, paying more attention to the way Soul’s arm wraps cosily around his waist as they rest.

“Getting comfortable?” Astarion teases.

Soul shrugs. “I suppose so.” He turns his head towards the elf, expression tired but content. “Did you see how quickly I learnt to use your bow?”

“Yes, yes, we all saw that.”

“I think the first item today will be your bow.”

Alarm fizzes inside Astarion’s chest. “What? I – no, you aren’t taking that.”

“Second item will be your quiver. I can find my own arrows.”

The vampire shoves Soul away, scowling furiously. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling.”

Soul shrugs yet again and holds up a tiny bottle of something. “Alright, I’ll take this then.”

Astarion squints. “Is that…” He straightens, pats himself down, and jumps up with bared fangs. “Give that back, you cretin.”

“What are you fighting over now?” Lae’zel turns her nose up at the pair of them.

“He stole some of my poison,” Astarion accuses as he tries to snatch the bottle back.

“I found it!”

“In my pocket!”

The rest of the group sigh and mutter weak protests at them, watching as Astarion chases after Soul in an attempt to retrieve what is rightfully his.

“If – shit – if I can keep it, I’ll let you do whatever you –”

“Please refrain from causing a scene,” interrupts Gale from a distance.

They pause, panting and glaring at one another.

“Were you going to say I can do whatever I want to you?” Asks Astarion through gritted teeth.

“I’m already doing what you want, it’s nothing different.”

A display of power. A chance to show everyone, including pesky Soul, who belongs to whom.

Perhaps Astarion doesn’t need a tiny bottle of poison when he has at least ten more. He’ll let Soul keep it. He’s kind and generous, after all.

“If I find that poison anywhere near our food or drink,” threatens Astarion lowly, “I will drain you dry.”

Soul’s eyes glow in the darkness, deadly and piercing. “Promise?”

Astarion hums thoughtfully. “No… you’d enjoy that too much, wouldn’t you?”

“Possibly.”

“Do you like torture?”

Soul frowns. “Who does?”

“If you poison any of us, I’ll introduce you to my former master.” The tiefling seems to shrink at Astarion’s words. “Trust me, he’s nowhere near as gentle as I am.”

Soul nods slowly, pocketing the bottle. “Duly noted.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Chapter Text

There is one parasite. Creeping and clutching and cursing. 

The bane of all existence. 

Him. 

Shine as he might, he cannot truly touch me. 

I trust none but the Absolute. 

Absolute. 

Ab-so-lute. 

Pretty words in my ear whisper blasphemy. Old parasites. New parasites. All drain my will to live. 

Ab-so-lute. 

Where are the pretty words coming from? They do not sound like my goddess. They sound like - 

But nobody whispers in my ear except myself. She remains far from my fragile body. So, it is not her. It is not her. It is not her. It is not her. It is not her. Not her. Not her.

I said it is not her. 

Why does it sound like her then? 

Creeping and clutching and cursing. The both of them. 

I despise them all. 

The issue with the Silence spell smothering the entire camp is that Revulsion is unable to practice his magic. He understands which components and strands of the Weave he needs to pull from the air to copy Gale's spells, yet cannot try things for himself outside of battle lest he arouse suspicion. It's irritating. It's inconvenient. 

He can't wait to escape. 

Revulsion sits in his dark corner of the campsite, back against the cliff-face, idly watching the traitors. The wizard, druid, and barbarian all chatter amongst themselves around the fire, drinking cups of something. Currently, Revulsion cannot spot the other two but guesses that they'll appear when he least wants them to. 

He lazily spins his gold ring around his finger, gaze flicking between the traitors and the jewellery. Revulsion keeps the second, matching ring in a secret pocket sewn into his armour; he's rather proud knowing that nobody has found it yet. If Gale has noticed that the ring on his finger is enchanted, he hasn't been called out for it. The tiefling is hoping that it will stay that way - he'd hate for one of the Warding bands to be taken from him. After all, he's saving them for a special occasion when he can leech from someone's energy and keep it for his own. 

Unfortunately, Revulsion hasn't found anything else of note whilst the group traipses around Reithwin. He has pilfered a bottle of poison or a potion each day from the traitors and substituted them with solutions of soap and lake water, but coming across magical items is a challenge in a land that's cursed. He has had to feign contentment with a gem or book for the past two days so that Astarion doesn't realise the 'two items in exchange for a day of obedience' agreement is merely a ruse to hold onto his golden ring. 

Revulsion has been on his best behaviour. He constantly entertains Astarion's (vile) flirtations and acts as if he's interested in Karlach's stories about the hells. He complimented Lae'zel's fighting technique twice and received one in return. He has avoided Halsin and Gale. Admittedly, Revulsion recognises that he should soften the two of them to ensure his return to Moonrise, but he can't seem to connect with them. Halsin carries himself like a wise, aged elf, but has the humour and pass-times of a much younger man. Gale always seems to hold an air of superiority; when Revulsion tried to talk about magic earlier today, it hadn't gone well. 

"We both learn similar spells, don't we?" Revulsion had asked in an attempt at conversation. "That's pretty cool." 

"Quite, except you do not learn magic," Gale grinned. "Or, apologies, perhaps you do. Where did you become studied in the Weave?" 

Revulsion had bared his teeth in a grimace. "I study through practice. I learn through seeing." 

"Meaning?" A glint in those dark eyes that had screamed of passive aggressiveness. 

"Meaning... I'm... not a wizard." 

"Correct! Such a shame that you have not poured your heart and soul into magic." Gale raised his chin upwards and continued to smile slyly. "I, on the other hand, have. It is a rather different experience than filching the Weave from another's spells." 

Revulsion had stormed off before he could say something incriminating. 'I'm going to filch the Weave from your body and suffocate you with it,' had been on his mind.

The True Soul sighs and stops fiddling with his ring, instead staring deep into the orange flame of a nearby candle. He keeps around ten in his corner - a few are unique and waxed with ink to turn them black - and the light reminds him of fireflies hovering low to the ground. A glimmer of comfort whilst he has none. 

The stars approach. Revulsion hauls himself into a more upright position, no longer slouching, and watches as Astarion greets the rest of his companions, has a minute-long conversation, and makes his way over to Revulsion's corner. The tiefling watches him passively, burying the rabbiting pulse of his heartbeat with a tut.

Anger, he tells himself. It’s anger that he’s feeling.

"Aren't you the sweetest thing, sitting here patiently for me," purrs the vampire. 

Revulsion grunts some sort of hello and shrugs. "Wasn't waiting for you -" liar "- but I suppose your company is tolerable.”

Astarion laughs, high and delicate-sounding, and moves to sit. No-one has given the tiefling a cushion, so Astarion makes do on the tiny, wobbly stool that stands next to Revulsion’s bedroll. Somehow, the elf manages to make his movement appear just as graceful as everything else that he does; Revulsion glares to cover up the twisting feeling in his gut. It feels as though everything he does nowadays is a cover-up for his sickening emotions.

“I hear you and Gale have had fun without me today,” Astarion says.

“You would think,” spits Revulsion, “and yet he refuses to engage me in basic conversation.”

“How surprising. Usually he’s the sort to talk your ears off until you want to fall on your own blade.”

Revulsion scoffs. He isn’t the type to hesitate in that regard, he thinks to himself. The too-wide smile on Astarion’s pretty face tells him that they both know that.

“Is it so bad that I want to be friends?”

Astarion laughs again, louder this time. “Nothing about you says ‘befriend me,’ darling.”

“Oh, pity.”

They lapse into silence, Astarion watching Revulsion and Revulsion watching the ground. After a moment, the vampire slides towards him and places his head on Revulsion’s shoulder. He resists the temptation to push him away, knowing his escape depends on his constant pandering to Astarion’s whims.

“It’s a shame that you couldn’t join us at Last Light, but it seems that Lae’zel doesn’t trust you enough to agree to take you there.” Astarion cocks his head, smirking. “That’ll change soon, I think. By morning, she'll see you in a new light.” 

"Yes, well, I came close to entering when the druid opened that portal," replies Revulsion. 

"Oh, you mean us tempting you with a roof over your head so you'd stop complaining? That was fun." 

“We have very different opinions on what counts as ‘fun.’”

Astarion laughs. “Power, money, sex; that is what's fun to me. Killing above all else, naturally, but those other things are good too.” 

Revulsion hums thoughtfully. He's never considered power or money as something fun. Something to obtain, certainly, but fun? He's always believed ambition to be a chore one has to complete in order to get anywhere in the world. Astarion, on the other hand, seems to think the opposite. He looks like he enjoys himself whenever he exerts his control over Revulsion. The elf grins and titters and fawns. It's irritating. It's repulsive. 

And yet... Revulsion can't help but feel intrigued. 

"Isn't sex another form of power?" He asks. 

"Everything that I listed technically falls under a play for power," Astarion murmurs. "The rich are powerful, as are those who flaunt their violence and intimidate others around them. Neither of us are rich at the moment and you keep crawling back far too quickly for someone who is intimidated by me, so we can only assume that it's the sexual aspect that grants me power." 

Revulsion wriggles uncomfortably, jostling Astarion as he does so. The vampire leans away to glare up at him before sinking against him again, a hand now placed casually on Revulsion's thigh. The touch, although cool and still, burns through his clothes. He can practically feel the warmth rising to his cheeks, and Revulsion is acutely aware of the way Astarion's hand tightens momentarily as his heartbeat accelerates.

"You disgust me," Revulsion hisses. The hand creeps upwards. "Stop that, stop." 

Astarion harrumphs but listens, instantly moving away to sit close by, side-eyeing him. "I suppose that you haven't chosen two items to keep today, so your obedience isn't necessary." 

Yet obedience is so sweet in his arms. As much as Revulsion longs for Moonrise and for the power that a True Soul is granted by the Absolute, letting go of that power has slowly become just as tempting. The crawling doubts and hatred in his fetid mind fade into the darkness when Astarion purrs prettily in his ear. 

Revulsion shakes his head to clear it, willing his body to cool before he makes a fool of himself yet again. The familiarity of hatred spreads throughout him again, and Revulsion shoves Astarion away from him. The vampire falls forward onto his hands, hissing sharply at the sudden movement. 

"And here I was, about to help you feel better about yourself," Astarion grumbles. 

Revulsion pulls a face. "What do you mean?" 

"Your entire drab 'two men cannot fall into bed with one another' idea. Ludicrous, of course, but I've never thought you particularly intelligent." 

That hurts his pride. Not the concept of incorrect fornication, but that somebody thinks Revulsion isn't smart enough. Isn't good enough. He would have thought that Astarion would be able to see his skills and linked it to intellect, yet clearly that isn't the case. Relating Revulsion's smarts to sex is a good manipulation tactic, he recognises, and it won't work on him. It won't. It won't. Won't. Will not. It won't. Revulsion is good enough without sinful acts. Therefore, Astarion's easy smirk and hooded eyes won't work. They won't. Will not. Will not. 

"Perhaps just a quick moment... of... pleasure, if you will," Revulsion says uneasily. 

Astarion's grin widens, eyes growing hazy. The tiefling expects him to lead the pair of them away to his tent, far from prying eyes. Instead, Astarion begins stroking his cheek gently. Revulsion hisses out a sharp breath, horror and heat rolling inside him. 

"The others are -" 

Astarion cocks his head mischievously. "Did you want them to watch? To join?" 

For some reason, those words sting. He can't stand it; the idea of someone else having Astarion's attention. Revulsion has worked hard to gain even a handful of the vampire's trust, and nobody but he should receive it. Inside the confines of Revulsion's mind, he backtracks and tells himself that he isn't jealous nor upset over his intelligence being doubted. He's merely keeping his enemies close. 

"No," Revulsion snaps. 

If it's possible, Astarion's expression becomes even more predatory. His body leans forward, hand pressing soothingly against Revulsion's hardening crotch. The tiefling gnaws on the inside of his cheek, the shame of his arousal only fuelling it. 

"Then you had better be quiet, pet." His touches grow more confident. "It's a pity that you can't cast Darkness, isn't it?"

Astarion's voice is silk and sin. Revulsion despises how it makes part of him melt, pliant under Astarion. The heat pooling quickly in his gut, filling out his undergarments, almost distracts him from the other man unlacing his trousers. 

Sanity drags itself back into Revulsion's body. He freezes, hastily stopping Astarion's cool hands. 

"W-what are you doing?" He blurts out a little too loudly. 

Yet another smirk. "Trying to bring you pleasure, my sweet. Don't you want it?" 

Astarion is mocking him, he has to be. The lustful, hazy look in those gorgeous crimson eyes is fake, he knows it. After all, it is wrong for a man to desire another man. Revulsion has had that knowledge drilled into him for years. 

"I -" 

A hand finds the base of his tail and all thoughts cease as a gasp escapes his lips. Revulsion pants, the panic fading away as Astarion resumes his sweet ministrations. 

"There we go," purrs Astarion into his ear. "Just relax." 

It's simple and so tempting to listen to that voice. Revulsion is (a voice at the back of his mind shouts in protest) content to slip into bliss under Astarion's hands. It's easy, and perhaps better, to forget why he was so insistent to be alone in the first place. 

A teasing swipe underneath Revulsion's tail forces a shudder through his entire body, lips parting breathlessly. 

"Shit - you -" he tries to heave out. 

Astarion shushes him gently. "You wanted this, didn't you? You needed this." 

Revulsion shivers, brow furrowed, yet nods. "Right, yes, okay." 

Astarion has somehow finished untying Revulsion's trousers, his hand sneaking inside to reveal the tiefling's now hard cock. Revulsion crinkles his nose, unsure what to do, heat spreading through him at the dark hunger in Astarion's eyes. 

"Already coming undone for me," Astarion says. "Let's see how quickly this ends and remember... be quiet." 

Revulsion scowls in a vague attempt to keep his dignity, only to bite back an embarrassing whimper as Astarion wraps a hand around his cock. He can feel the smooth texture of Astarion’s skin, the agonising chill of his fingers, and the knowledge that it's Astarion with his fist around his cock makes every sensation blaze hot with guilt. 

“Good, just relax.” 

With no magic to help him, Astarion licks his hand and slicks it over Revulsion’s cock, saliva mingling with the precum bubbling on the tip. A flicker of dismay that he’s already a mess crosses Revulsion’s mind before his thoughts narrow to the way Astarion thumbs over the wet slit, making his hands tremble and hips buck. With Astarion’s other hand, he slides it across the underneath of Revulsion’s tail, teasing him so sweetly.

Astarion leans forward and for a terrifying, heady moment Revulsion thinks he’s about to be kissed, only for the elf to rest his head against Revulsion’s shoulder, lips brushing against his neck. Teeth brushing against his neck.

The tiefling’s heart thumps in his chest, skin prickling. Astarion gently scrapes a fang against his jugular, making Revulsion exhale shakily. As much as he hates to admit it, the thrill of being bitten is worth the temporary blood loss. In fact, the feeling of losing his blood – life seeping into someone else – is the main motivating factor.

Revulsion looks over Astarion’s shoulder towards the rest of the traitors around the campfire. They continue to talk, not even glancing over once, and Revulsion absentmindedly notes that Lae’zel has joined them now. A nip at his throat has his attention back on Astarion, mind reeling once more.

“I’m – shit – I’m paying attention,” he pants.

“Oh, good,” murmurs Astarion against his neck. “Focus and breathe, pet.”

Astarion’s hand is moving on his cock, stroking him lazily, agonizingly slow and delicate. His thumb rubs at a delicious spot right under his cockhead before sliding up to tease at his slit again, coaxing out drops of precum that spread down his skin. Revulsion takes Astarion’s advice, breathing as steadily as possible as his hands reach to grab the elf’s waist. Astarion makes a quiet sound of surprise before relaxing against him, still moving his hands teasingly.

Then someone stands up in the background of Revulsion’s mind, moving away to their tent from the campfire. Panic sears him, the thought of getting caught stirring his blood hotter and hotter. If he’s to earn Astarion’s trust, he’s doing well. He doesn’t need to endure more than necessary, even if his hips buck eagerly under Astarion’s skilled hands.

“Faster,” he whispers, sounding a little desperate. “Go faster.” 

Astarion listens, quickening the pace on his cock, long and fast, pressing harder against the slick skin. Revulsion chokes down a gasp, making a shiver run through his aching body. A voice at the back of his mind scolds him at the same time as it pleads for more. More movement, more heat, more pleasure.

“Needy little thing,” Astarion coos in his ear. What he needs, Revulsion thinks to himself, is for things to hurry up before the others happen to see them. “Being very quiet, aren’t you? You listen very well, pup.”

“I need –” Revulsion’s words end in a moan as Astarion’s presses a fang against his jawline. “Fuck, bite me if you’re going to.”

For some reason, the vampire doesn’t, instead nuzzling into his collarbone and stroking Revulsion’s leaking cock with a harsher pace. The True Soul pulls him closer, subconsciously moving a hand to the back of Astarion’s head, pushing into his body. Revulsion isn’t even aware that in his dazed, panting state, his hand finds itself brushing against Astarion’s neck instead. He thrusts into Astarion’s tight fist, fighting down moans and pitchy whines, cautious of the people still milling around the fire nearby.

Astarion exhales airlessly, his movements pausing for a second as his body shudders. A moment of lucidity washes over Revulsion even when Astarion continues to stroke him so headily. He thrusts upwards, one hand on Astarion's waist and the other clutching at his neck, his thumb pressing into the point of Astarion’s ear.

Wait. Revulsion rubs against the ear again, earning him another trembling gasp from the man in his arms. The tiefling hums, pleased at the realisation that he’s found something of leverage against Astarion, before his thoughts leak from his brain as Astarion digs a nail into his dewy slit.

He goes back to the hot, quick stroking, rubbing and pressing in the places that send Revulsion shivering and melting against him. It feels like an impossible feedback loop of disgust at enjoying himself and delight at the sensation itself. Astarion against him, him against Astarion, wet and cool and warm all at once.

“I’m –”

Revulsion’s warning stops, the split second decision to muffle his cry in Astarion’s shoulder silencing him, quiet moans vibrating through his own skin. Astarion guides him through it just as rapid as before, only coming to a halt when Revulsion chokes out a plea to stop.  

He can feel it so intensely: the pounding of his blood, the rush of the warm cum pooling around his cock and Astarion's guiding hand. Revulsion grits his teeth. He hates it. Hates. It. The guilt pulsates through him just as harshly as the lust, ruining everything. He curses himself. He cannot enjoy a single orgasm without remembering how improper the cause is. 

“Good boy,” purrs Astarion as he pulls away.

Revulsion can’t help the shudder that runs through him at the words, a tiny wisp of annoyance coursing through him that Astarion is daring to stop touching him. The vampire notices, of course.

“So sweet,” he murmurs. “So sweet and all mine, aren’t you?”

Revulsion’s heart humps, head spinning wildly between disgust and desire as he meets Astarion’s intense, hungry gaze. Revulsion hates the idea of belonging to anyone but the Absolute, and yet… it sounds almost nice coming from the vampire before him. Astarion looks as though he wants to eat Revulsion alive, and that alone makes him let out a shaky breath.

“All yours,” he lies.

Astarion cocks his head, eyes sharper than before. “We really need to get you that collar,” is all he says before rising to his feet.

Something hot and wanton stirs against in Revulsion’s gut. Vile. Vile creature, for longing so deeply. He pretends not to watch as Astarion cleans his hands in a nearby bucket of water – pretends he doesn’t feel like lightning and rain.

“I’m not a mutt,” Revulsion declares, though his voice trembles more than he would like.

“No, you’re purebred, like I’ve said before.” Astarion throws him a smirk as he leaves, waggling his fingers teasingly in farewell. “Sleep tight, my adorable pup.”

When he’s left alone, in the darkness and the cold, the hatred creeps in again. 

The water is just as frigid as always. It laps eagerly at Revulsion’s feet, luring him deeper with the gentle back and forth of the ocean. His mind is quiet now, typical for when Astarion leaves him to mull things over.

Revulsion doesn’t know how to die, not truly, and that alone has always made him choose to bleed over anything else. Bleeding is the most common method of dying, and therefore Revulsion often picks a knife over a spell when it comes to his own mortality. He doesn’t have a knife now, though, only the chilling waters that stretch into the thick darkness of the Shadow-Curse. He cannot harm himself, so he chooses the next best thing.

The True Soul takes a deep breath and releases it into the air, watching his steamy sigh dissipate before him. Silent revulsion is something that he fears he will always carry with him. His skin itches at the memory of Astarion’s touches, the need to wash off the lingering lust too great to forget.

Revulsion walks into the ocean, careful and steady in case of creatures lurking beneath the black waves. He never thinks about ending his life in terms of misery and the desire to escape from crushing sadness. Death is always an idle thought, an idle action, and one that Revulsion is content to perform if needs be. Being murdered by another is a constant threat as it is, and he doesn’t see how killing himself is any different. One slip of a blade when he’s finding release by himself could end his life, as could a thrust on the field of battle.

Odonia, whom Revulsion has never admittedly been close with outside of their sexual relationship, has told him not to think about killing himself so freely. She hid her concern behind the guise of ‘I would miss your body,’ but Revulsion could see through her flimsy words. Now, even if Revulsion did die by his own hands, he would likely live again. After all, the True Soul had slaughtered Astarion only for him to be walking around come morning. It makes the dark waters so much more tempting than they ought to be.

He stares down into the cold, mourning the lack of reflection before him. He goes to pull magic from the air, wanting some light to cast a mirror into the water, but stops himself when he remembers the Silence embracing him. Instead, Revulsion continues to walk further and further until his feet barely touch the thick sludge acting as sand beneath the surface.

“Take a breath,” he grumbles to himself as he lowers his face to the water. “This is gonna be cold.”

Revulsion’s mind remains eerily silent as he takes that last breath, hair falling into the ocean and pulling him lower with its sodden weight. His lungs already protest at the lack of air and he hasn’t even sunk his head below the surface yet. Revulsion pants for a few seconds before trying again, holding his breath and –

Splashing far behind him stirs his thoughts. Revulsion straightens, picturing a Wraith coming towards him, only to find Halsin wading his way over. A tight-lipped smile is on the wretched druid’s face, a large hand raised in greeting. Revulsion flips his wet hair over his shoulders and pretends he wasn’t doing anything other than bathing.

“Such waters remind me of ice and snow,” Halsin says when he joins Revulsion. “Stay here for much longer, and you shall catch your very death, my friend.”

Revulsion snorts in amusement. “That would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

A nod and a warmer smile than before. “Indeed it would. Why don’t we swim back to shore?”

Revulsion is quick to nod, knowing that his idle attempt at drowning has failed before he can even begin, and follows Halsin through the freezing water towards land. The tiefling watches the elf out of the corner of his eye as they wander over to the still-burning campfire. Nobody else is awake, and it soothes Revulsion to know that he is mostly alone. A week prior, he might have tried killing Halsin to escape. Now, he knows he can’t give up the safety of company, especially when he’s so close to returning to his fellow cultists.

“Here,” says Halsin, taking a black kettle from above the fire and pouring the liquid into a cup, “warm yourself thoroughly.”

Revulsion takes it, staring at the brown drink. “Is this…”

“Coffee,” Halsin replies proudly, “we found a stash at Last Light and were permitted to take it.”

“I haven’t had coffee since Moonrise,” Revulsion hums. “I haven’t had it without milk, either.”

When Halsin begins stripping off his wet clothes, Revulsion cringes and turns away. He is suddenly hyperaware of his own nakedness, and fumbles for a spare dry robe that someone-or-other has placed nearby. He sneaks a peek back at Halsin and relaxes when he sees the elf is dressed once more.

“Alas, we have no cows nor goats to milk for our own.” Halsin settles before the fire to pour his own cup of coffee. “There are two heifers at Last Light who do not produce anything, but rather are used for hauling carts.”

Revulsion raises an eyebrow. “That is twice now that you’ve mentioned Last Light; am I to visit it finally, instead of dancing around the area?”

“I see no reason why you cannot,” he says with a smile. “Although the Towers are our priority tomorrow.”

Hope sparks hot and unnatural inside Revulsion’s chest. He tenses, trying not to look too eager at the druid’s words. If his excitement is noticed, Halsin isn’t concerned by it.

“The Towers,” Revulsion repeats slowly with a monotone voice. He sips his coffee and wrinkles his nose at the strong, overpowering taste. “That is awful.”

Halsin chuckles as he drinks from his cup. “On its own, such a beverage is an… acquired taste. More mature, shall we say.” Revulsion bristles. “That isn’t to say that you are immature,” Halsin assures him with annoying kindness. “I merely mean that age often makes even the awful things taste sweet.”

Revulsion scoffs but falls silent. He occasionally dips his tongue into the steaming coffee in his hands, but decides he dislikes it too greatly to continue drinking. The pair of them dry in front of the campfire, and at one point, movement around Astarion’s tent shows that another elf is preparing to join them.

“I’d have thought you would be asleep by now,” Astarion drawls when he spots Revulsion.

The tiefling shrugs. “I was busy doing other things.”

“Perhaps, if you are dry, it would be best for you to retreat to bed,” says Halsin. “After all, tomorrow is a day of the utmost importance.”

Revulsion frowns as he places his nearly full cup on the ground. “I thought you said Moonrise Towers was on tomorrow’s agenda; I won’t be coming with you for that.”

A pause. Halsin and Astarion look at each other, speaking without words.

“Maybe with some… convincing,” begins Astarion slowly, “you will be able to join us.”

Revulsion’s breath hitches, eyes wide and unseeing at the flames before him. He dares not look up, lest the other men realise his budding elation. He won’t be given free run of the Towers, but one step at a time will do him fine. If he can speak to another cultist, he might be able to point out the traitors and every –

Calm. No creeping thing like hope shall reign. Think. Think. Slow. Think.

“That would be good,” Revulsion answers, cool and collected. He chances a glance up at the others and hums at their quietly curious expressions. “We could show the cultists what the Absolute really is.”

Halsin seems pleased at that. “Quite – the more people free from the cult’s grasp, the better.”

Astarion cocks his head and folds his arms over his chest. He looks Revulsion up and down before falling into nonchalance, face turned away.

“The others might not be easily convinced to take you, even if you aren’t hearing the Absolute anymore.” His gaze lands on Revulsion once more, calculating something. “I suppose that you’ll have to plead your case come morning, won’t you?”

The words sound like a warning. A careful threat that if Revulsion does anything disagreeable now, Astarion will ensure that he can’t return to Moonrise. The vampire has turned tail and is retreating back to his tent before Revulsion can truly process the words, and it makes him irritated.

Fine, he thinks to himself as he stands and throws a grumpy goodnight to Halsin, if his actions up until now haven’t convinced Astarion to be by his side, he shall have to do better. Revulsion slips after his quarry and whines sweetly for him, begging for his company whilst interspersing it with a familiar glare. When Astarion doesn’t push him out once they’ve both finished, he knows he’s returning home.

Chapter Text

"So, how does it feel to be going back to Moonrise, soldier?" 

Astarion watches as Soul's back straightens slightly at Karlach's question, his eyes narrowing with what can only be suspicion. 

"Fine," he says shortly. 

"Come now," Astarion trills at his side, "do try to contain your utter excitement." 

Soul rolls his eyes. "Yes, I've been looking forward to going back to the place where I was a cultist for illithid scum." 

"Well, we don’t know if there are any mind flayers lurking around in there, but yeah, true," says Karlach as they continue walking through Reithwin. 

The group have had many a debate on what the Absolute is, and Astarion is beginning to believe that they’ll never find out. Even if they do come across the so-called deity itself, Gale continues to sound ready to detonate himself to save everyone. Astarion rolls his eyes at the thought of losing an opportunity to convince whoever or whatever is controlling the cult of the Absolute to surrender power over to them. Or, specifically, over to Astarion. And I suppose losing Gale would also be a shame. He is a good reading partner.

“Netherese magic is incredibly powerful,” notes the aforementioned Gale. “Illithids are notorious for being more intelligent than folks such as us; it would be preferable if the Absolute is not one of them, although I deem it more likely with every passing day.”

Lae’zel tuts, kicking a stray skull out of her way as she stomps alongside him. “Must I repeat myself, wizard? An Elder Brain is the sole power which –”

“Holy hells,” interrupts Soul suddenly, making everyone freeze. “I forgot how huge the Towers are.”

They all sigh in relief and continue walking. Soul – staring ahead of them at the looming Towers bathed in light which spills into the thick darkness around them – doesn’t move. Astarion backtracks, looking between the ex-cultist and Moonrise. He can certainly understand its beauty on an objective scale, with its hundreds of rooms they have yet to even touch, and the grand, ancient architecture, but the knowledge that parasites writhe inside dampens his view of it. Moonrise encompasses everything that Astarion works towards – control, freedom, mystery – and the vampire still isn’t sure how he feels about that.

“We’ll meet a shadow if we don’t hurry up,” he warns.

Soul blinks out of his daze with a customary frown. “Right, alright.” He starts hurrying after the others, throwing a grating, “why are you holding us up?” behind him.

Astarion curses underneath his breath as he follows, keeping a watchful eye on Soul as he gradually relaxes the closer they get to Moonrise. It confuses him, the way in which Soul looks around him in silent appreciation when they finally make their way into the main foyer. Astarion wonders if the tiefling grew up poor and the Towers were the first piece of wealth that he’s ever seen – it’s understandable, then, that even though Moonrise is a troublesome place for him, Soul would still enjoy its grandiosity.

“And to think,” Astarion says to him quietly, “that the Upper City has even more opulent buildings.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re still impressed by this and you were positioned here a long time ago, imagine how much you’ll appreciate the Upper City.”

Soul’s expression turns puzzled. “I’ve… yes, I suppose I am still impressed by it all.” He raises a finger to point at the frieze above the main hall’s double-doors. “I’ve never even noticed that before now.”

“You haven’t?” Astarion asks in surprise.

The embellishments and art had been the very first things he had noticed. They were tastefully done, if not a little over-the-top with the sheer number of them, and Astarion prefers them over the gaudy decorations and paintings in Cazador’s palace of gloom.

A head-shake ‘no.’ “Is it like this everywhere?”

“The friezes?”

“Yes.”

Astarion laughs only for his amusement to taper out at Soul’s expression. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. I suppose I’ve always been preoccupied with my duties here and not paid any mind to the building itself.” Soul takes a deep breath and looks to the rest of the group, where Gale is talking to a guard. “Will this take long? I want to see the rest of the art.”

“We aren’t here to stare at the walls,” Astarion scoffs.

Soul shrugs uncaringly. “I’ll do what I want.” He glances at Astarion’s stormy face and immediately changes tack. “What you want, I mean.”

Astarion relaxes again, contentment rushing through him. Yesterday evening was an interesting development in whatever they’re doing; moments in time are hazy and forgettable in Astarion’s mind, but he was aware enough that he understands they fell into bed with one another by the end of the night. Strangely, despite the disgusting sexual aspect, Astarion awoke from his trance in the early morning with a satisfied smile. He thinks it’s simply the warmth and joy of knowing someone is following him so closely, ready to devote themselves to him. After all, he’s pretty sure that Soul had said he was Astarion’s, and nobody says such a thing lightly.

“Obviously, within reason,” Soul adds.

“What constitutes as ‘reason?’”

A sly expression passes over Soul’s face. The tiefling leans closer, nose brushing against Astarion’s.

“Whatever you want.”

Astarion hums, pleased. It appears as if Soul is about to move closer, silently begging for a kiss, but Gale finally finishes his chat with the guard and they are called through into what the Absolutists call the ‘leisure rooms.’ Astarion huffs, mood ruined. The ‘leisure rooms’ aren’t particularly relaxing at all, used for trading, training, and talking. The cacophony of noise hardly makes for a leisurely experience, although Astarion supposes that taking a break could be considered as such.

A cluster of goblins – often seen lingering now that Minthara and Nere are out of the picture – give Lae’zel side-eyes from their corner as they play with knives. Halsin quietly reminds the group of their purpose to trade supplies and gather information on new guards and the newest Disciple, and with that, they disperse. Astarion latches onto Soul, who merely glances at him before staring around them, gaze trailing from the people to the walls, taking in every bit of information.

“Have you been in here before?” Astarion questions.

Soul wiggles his head uncertainly. “Not sure. Maybe I’ve been… oh.”

Astarion looks over to where Soul’s eyes are trained, spying four cultists who seem to be playing lanceboard. Astarion gives the tiefling on his arm a curious look, and watches as Soul's tail goes from calm to wagging quickly. The ex-True Soul rips himself from Astarion’s grasp and starts making his way across the large room.

"Wha -" 

"Noxori?" Soul's voice is an echoing shout, feet hurrying across the large hall. It puts Astarion immediately on-edge as he slinks after him. "Noxori, is that -" 

Noxori, a half-orc with a more humanlike face than orclike, whips his head around in confusion, and then jumps up in pure delight. Noxori laughs, the sound bellowing deep from his belly, and hurries over. Soul gets pulled into the cultist's arms and the pair of them are laughing and rough-housing one another before Astarion can even blink. When they part, Noxori holds Soul at arm's length, staring in disbelief. 

"Oh, man, you look so different," he says, "I almost didn't recognise you." 

"Good different, I hope," responds Soul. 

"Of course! Nice hair, you know."

Noxori grabs onto Soul's face, making the tiefling playfully bat at him, and the half-orc begins tilting his head here and there to look at him. Something hot and jealous stirs in Astarion's gut, a frown spreading across his face at the uncharacteristic serenity on Soul's face. He has never made Soul look as relaxed as that, nor has Soul allowed touch without a glare and insistence for him to stop. 

Soul finally shoves Noxori away, pretending to blush. "Hells, thanks I suppose." 

"And you finally decorated your horns," adds Noxori excitedly. "It looks real good, man." 

Astarion has had enough. He steps forward, smirking and oozing as much sensuality as possible. He’ll show this half-orc who Soul really wants to associate with.

"I didn't know you had a friend here, darling," he says smoothly. 

Soul starts, turning towards Astarion as if he forgot the elf was even there. Noxori throws Astarion a smile and nod in greeting before looking back down at Soul. It makes Astarion clench his hands, irritation coursing through him. 

"Oh, well, I didn't know this idiot was here," Soul reasons. 

Noxori booms out another laugh and swings an arm around Soul's shoulders. "I didn't know you were here, either. You used to say you would never follow any god, didn't you?" 

Soul huffs and rolls his eyes. "That was until the Absolute. But whatever," he brushes Noxori off, "since when are you a True Soul?" 

"A week ago; came here with a bunch of the lads.” He points behind him to his table. “Remember Henry? Fellow with the pink hair?”

Soul shakes his head. “No idea.”

Another laugh. Astarion grinds his teeth together; he despises this Noxori with his friendly demeanour and laugh that could equal a Thunderwave in volume.

“Ah well, I’ll introduce you,” Noxori promises. He finally looks at Astarion, brows raised in mischief. “Are you going to do the same? Who’s your boyfriend?”

Astarion harrumphs, internally delighted at Noxori’s acknowledgement that Soul belongs to him. Soul, on the other hand, sputters angrily and goes bright red, tail lashing at his own legs.

“Not my – w –”

“Just messing around,” Noxori guffaws. “We both know you’d never be on his level.”

Interesting, Astarion thinks to himself. Soul’s shame over same-sex relationships isn’t a result of peer pressure, it seems. Where did he pick up the idea, then?

Noxori holds out a polite hand for Astarion to shake, which the elf hesitantly does. His grip is warm and all-encompassing, swallowing Astarion’s cold skin with his own for a few moments.

“Noxori Bloodstone, at your service.”

Astarion smirks at his simple statement. The half-orc is fortunate that he won’t be taken seriously, not when Soul is standing nearby.

“Charmed,” he replies easily. “I’m Astarion… Ancunin. Astarion Ancunin.”

“Ancunin,” repeats Soul, “that’s a surprisingly nice name.”

Astarion hasn’t thought about his surname in months, possibly years. For the entirety of his enslavement under Cazador, he has been called everything except for his name; he held onto it with both hands and a scrap of parchment with it scrawled on hastily, alongside his death date. Hearing it coming out of Soul’s mouth stirs something both grateful and greedy inside him. The other rogue says it in a simple tone, not questioning the name nor mocking it. He just accepts that it belongs to Astarion. The vampire doesn’t want to hear ‘Ancunin’ tumbling from anyone else’s mouth.

“Not as nice as yours, eh, Privacy?” Noxori laughs again, hitting Soul in the shoulder.

Soul playfully scowls up at the half-orc, avoiding Astarion’s curious gaze. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Sure, but you never did tell the lads and I what your Virtue Name is.”

Astarion is beginning to appreciate this conversation a bit more. It isn't just us that he's secretive with. That's good to know. Perhaps, with the right push, some half-decent information about 'Soul' will be revealed.  

“Me and the lads,” Astarion corrects.

Noxori gives him a confused look. “Sorry?”

“It’s ‘me and the lads,’ not ‘the lads and I.’ If you are to remove ‘the lads,’ it won’t make sense if you say it how you did.”

Soul snorts, turning his face away to hide obvious laughter. Noxori gawks between the two of them, clearly unsure what Astarion is talking about.

“Does it matter? I was never that good in literature.” 

"Paladins never are that smart," teases Soul. 

Teases. He teases people now, and not in the aggressive manner he does with Astarion, where the vampire is certain Soul is about to bite at him in the next second. This time, the traces of a genuine smile flit across the tiefling's face. It irritates Astarion to no end. 

Noxori shakes his head at himself. "As if you're any smarter, man." 

"I am," insists Soul. He looks towards Astarion. "I am, right?" 

"Of course," coos Astarion, if only to disagree with Noxori. 

It seems, however, that having the both of them disagree was part of the half-orc’s plan. His eyes light up even further, grin widening. 

"Then you'll have nothing against playing lance with us. You and me, Privacy, one game." 

Astarion glowers up at the paladin. How dare he try to peel Soul away? Can he not see that the ex-cultist is far more interested in Astarion, not him? Noxori is goading him, he can tell, and Astarion hates that he's tempted to give in and knife someone.

“Sure, we can play,” says Soul easily. “It’ll be nice to talk at the very least.”

How sweet it would be to rip a throat apart, Astarion muses hungrily. Drain someone dry and keep them all to himself, safe and pliable in his arms. How sweet it would be to rip a body apart. Drain someone dry and tear into them for the audacity of trying to take away what is rightfully his.

“No,” Astarion states.

Soul and Noxori both seem surprised, though the vampire can’t think why. Soul considers Astarion and cocks his head in thought.

“No?”

“No. We’re busy.”

Oh, how Astarion wants to grab onto Soul and not let him go. The dumb thing is thinking things through, obvious from the furrow in his brow, and he seems to decide that doing whatever Astarion wants is still the best option. Despite all his shame over desiring Astarion, Soul will continue to be a good little pet.

My pet. Mine. All mine.

Soul looks back at Noxori, entirely unapologetic as he says, “actually, yes, we’ve got things to do. Maybe another time.”

“Or never.” Astarion’s voice comes out a little snappier than he’d have liked, but since when has subtlety been in his nature.

Noxori, a grown man, pouts. “Aw, man, can’t we just have one game? Knowing you, I won’t see you again for bloody years.”

“I’ve got to go,” reiterates Soul with a shrug. “And you’ll see me around here more often, so don’t fret so much.”

The cold hunger growls deep inside Astarion’s body. His fangs itch at the temptation laid out before him, all eager to please behind his uncaring mask. But Astarion can’t indulge, not while others bustle about around them. He’ll take a bite or two later, just for himself, and give Soul whatever he wants in return.

Astarion wraps an arm around Soul’s waist, gentle but demanding, and smiles as sweetly as possible at Noxori’s pitiful little face. Soul allows himself to be led away across the room, an air of discontent passing over him.

“Whatever’s the matter, pet?” Astarion purrs into his ear. “Don’t tell me that you actually wanted to spend time with that simple-minded fool?”

Soul mumbles something underneath his breath before looking sideways at him. “I haven’t seen him for quite some time. It would’ve been nice to talk.”

Astarion frowns. “Isn’t it nice to talk to me?”

The tiefling examines him as the pair of them join the rest of the group, who are trading with a familiar halfling. Astarion’s relaxed hold on his waist tightens slightly in warning.

“You’re jealous.” He says it like a fact, as if there’s undeniable proof of his words. “That’s funny.”

Astarion bristles. “Why would I be jealous of that thing?” He glances behind him to see Noxori back at his table playing his silly board game. “I just thought that we agreed that you’re better off with me.” Soul tuts and squirms uncomfortably. “Correct?”

“Yes, you’re correct.” He taps his foot, eyes darting towards the door leading into the next room. “I’ll be right back.”

Astarion bares his fangs, grabbing onto Soul’s bicep to make him pause. “What? Are you serious right now?”

Soul, annoyingly good rogue that he is, manages to slip out of Astarion’s grasp and takes a step away. The ease of which he moves only acts as a reminder to Astarion that Soul chooses to be his pet; the ex-cultist can slither away faster than even he can catch. It both stirs his doubt and soothes his satisfaction that Soul, as difficult as he is, remains at Astarion’s side. The vampire moves with him, watching with narrowed eyes.

“Need to find the latrine,” Soul mutters.

Astarion relaxes in an instant, suspicion fading. “Oh, alright. I saw one just outside the Towers.”

Soul throws him a disgusted look. “I’m not going outside, are you mad? They have internal ones here.”

The elf makes an impressed sound in the back of his throat. “They clearly had money when they built this place. I thought only Upper City –”

“Yes, yes, I really do need to go,” snaps Soul impatiently.

Without another word, he flees the room, clearly intent on his new mission. Astarion decides not to follow him – he isn’t that interested in Soul – and turns to listen to Gale’s terrible haggling skills. In the end, it doesn’t matter. Astarion pickpockets their gold back from the Zhentarim when she isn’t looking.

An hour later and Soul hasn’t returned from his latrine break yet. Astarion is starting to get a little annoyed.

“No, please! I-I swear I haven’t seen –”

“Stop crying, you little shit!”

“Everything alright?”

Astarion snaps his mouth shut and drops the wailing goblin back on the floor. She cowers, rocking back and forth on her knees, eyes wide. Astarion scoffs and considers whether he should finish the job and just put her out of her misery, but at Gale’s appearance at his side, the vampire sheathes his dagger and turns his glare to the wizard instead.

“Soul has disappeared,” he hisses.

Gale raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “And your profoundly marvellous solution was to threaten this poor woman’s life?”

“N-not just me! He hurt me mates too, he did!”

“Shut up,” Astarion snarls.

The goblin squeals and begins biting furiously at her nails, clipping them into sharp points. Astarion predicts her lunge towards him and sidesteps around her, letting her crash onto her face and grinning sadistically when one of her front teeth flies from her mouth. She starts sobbing harder.

“Astarion,” says Gale with the same tone as a father scolding his misbehaving child.

Astarion folds his arms petulantly. “You all ignored me when I first said he was missing. I had to take things into my own hands.”

“You declared him absent within the first minute of his departure,” sighs Gale. “How many cultists have you harassed since then?”

Astarion kicks at the stone flooring with the back of his boot. “A… not that many.”

Gale’s disappointment radiates from him in harsh waves. Astarion rolls his eyes and stands his ground; Gale sighs again and looks away. Astarion preens, pleased, only to receive a final warning in the form of a quick scowl from the human.

“I’m telling on you,” shouts the goblin as she scrambles to her feet. “You can’t –”

“Ah, alas, if you do so, you shall have to admit that you were bested and injured yourself in the process.” Gale’s expression is purposefully innocent, a threat woven into his crinkled eyes like Weave in his hands.

The goblin thinks about it for a moment and nods. “Yeah, aight, I’ll keep quiet about it, like.”

“Wonderful,” Gale exclaims. He turns his gaze to Astarion. “Join me, won’t you?”

As much as Astarion wants to ignore those words, he knows that Gale is ordering him, not asking him. The vampire sulks as they enter an empty storage room big enough for at least twenty crates and fifty brooms and buckets. Astarion snorts at the location and goes to spit in Gale’s face over drawing him away from his search for Soul when he freezes at the human’s dark expression.

“Need I remind you that discretion is needed when moving through the Towers?”

Astarion is lucky that he’s a quick thinker when it comes to lying. If he weren’t, he’d probably fumble and say something ridiculous or truthful instead. He’d admit that he didn’t even consider discretion and that his thoughts were consumed entirely by a feral, starving beast craving the return of his playtoy. He doesn’t say that all he could think of was ‘mine.’ That would be embarrassing.

“If he’s been gone for so long, he’s clearly telling the new Disciple everything about the Prism and that we’re protected from the Absolute,” Astarion barks.

Gale shushes him, “lower your voice.”

“You –”

“Our companions have been subtly exploring to find Soul,” explains Gale with that same severe expression of his. “If he has revealed anything of worth to Disciple Tu’larne then a simple spell or potion shall inform us of this so we might be able to solve any issues immediately. Is that understood?”

Astarion doesn’t see any fatal flaws in Gale’s plan, but he doesn’t want to admit that either. He turns his chin up at the wizard, who simply shakes his head in exasperation and opens the door again.

“Excellent. Let us rejoin the others, shall we?”

It’s pure coincidence that the moment they walk out of the storage room, Halsin and Soul stroll past. Soul stops walking and looks over, nonchalance oozing from him like honey.

 “You little –”

Astarion cuts himself off and pushes Gale harshly out of the way, vision tunnelling to the cause of all of his problems. He storms across the room, gaze blazing hot and fangs itching to tear into flesh. Soul raises an eyebrow, completely at ease. It makes the fire roar louder inside Astarion’s tight chest.

“Where were you?” He spits viciously.

“Pissing,” Soul states. “Why? Did you want to join?”

“’Pissing,’” mocks Astarion with an eyeroll, “for an entire hour and then some? There’s something wrong with your body if that’s the case.”

Soul laughs. Laughs. As if he is entertained by Astarion’s fury. As if his fury doesn’t matter to him.

The tiefling brushes dust off of Astarion’s shoulder, letting his hand rest there for a moment too long before his arm falls to his side again.

“If you had allowed me to continue, I’d have said that I was pulled aside on the way back and ordered to inform Disciple Tu’larne why I’ve been gone for such a long time.” Soul has the audacity to continue to look quietly amused, tilting his head to the side and crossing his arms casually. “Apparently, disappearing for several weeks doesn’t get you any promotions in this shithole.”

“You didn’t think to tell us where you were going?”

A frown flits briefly across Soul’s self-satisfied expression. “A little difficult when I wasn’t anywhere near any of you. And before you start accusing me of anything, I didn’t reveal that I know the truth about the Absolute, and I didn’t mention the Prism.” Astarion opens his mouth to snap at Soul’s attitude, but the ex-cultist carries on. “They’ve given me the new task to join you in your aiding of Balthazar. Oh, and we’ve been given a suite to sleep in. You’re welcome.”

Astarion seethes, fists clenched. “Why would they provide us with a suite? What did you actually tell them?”

Soul’s good mood turns acrid in an instant. “Five True Souls and a druid pilgrim come to the Towers and don’t have anywhere to stay – of course they’d provide us with beds. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because…” Astarion curses and falls silent.

As annoying as it is, he does believe Soul. He’s been given no proof of deception and the ex-cultist’s words make sense. Astarion is simply anxious and possessive by wanting to keep his eyes on Soul. You need to calm down. He shakes himself off and straightens, wrapping his body in a familiar blanket of apathy.

“Fine, I’ll bite and believe you.”

“Oh, I hope you’ll bite,” Soul says, voice low.

Astarion blinks in surprise at the same time as Halsin and Gale start mumbling out reasons why the conversation should be shut down. Prudes, the both of them.

“We shall still examine whether your mind was twisted while speaking to Disciple Tu’larne,” Halsin declares. “Memory can be a difficult thing to deal with.”

Soul peers up at the druid with an enigmatic smile. It isn’t coy or pleased, nor is it calculated or malicious. It confuses Astarion and for several seconds, he forgets what the conversation even is. He opens his mouth to mock the tiefling for not being able to express happiness properly when Soul opens his own.

“That sounds wonderful to me. Better to be safe than sorry.” He continues to smile strangely, heartbeat relaxed.

The three other men look between one another, puzzled, but decide it’s best to simply ignore whatever Soul is trying to do with his face and find the rest of their group. When they are all finally traipsing up to their assigned suite on the fourth floor of Moonrise, Astarion slips an arm around Soul’s and flutters his lashes at him.

The other rogue scoffs. “Finally stop throwing a tantrum?”

“It wasn’t a tantrum,” Astarion answers sharply.

“Whatever it was, it’s fine, I’m here now and I didn’t get any bullshit from the Disciple for not being around.” A pause as they enter a small set of rooms decked out with simple beds and cupboards in each, a vanity and bathtub in the last room. “This is nice.”

“Private enough that the others won’t disturb us,” he agrees quietly.

Soul smirks. “Are we sharing a room now?”

Astarion drags a finger across Soul’s jaw and down his neck, watching with sick satisfaction at the shiver which runs down the tiefling’s body.

“We are. Any objections?”

He expects the same scowl and retch that Soul always does before succumbing to Astarion’s flirting; the same hatred that makes the vampire want to own him completely. He doesn’t anticipate Soul chuckling, the sound dark and mean, and for the ex-cultist to step closer.

“I can’t imagine why I’d have any objections, Star.”

Astarion hums. “Star? You make me sound like some sort of divine being when you say that.” It’s his turn to smirk. “I like it.”

“Good.” Soul’s gaze darts away and he crinkles his nose. “The skeleton followed us.”

Astarion turns around, and sure enough, Withers has found its new home half-melted into the wall, stone crumbling around it. He titters and pulls Soul to follow him, eyes hooded and seductive as he pushes down any irritation he wants to feel.

“Ignore him; let’s have some fun.”

Chapter Text

Soul is lying about something. Astarion isn’t sure what, and doesn’t have any proof nor reason to believe that, but he knows that his instinct is correct.

Perhaps. Possibly.

Soul isn’t lying about something at all; Astarion is simply going mad.

Moonrise Towers brews an inescapable itch beneath his flesh, the damp air lingering like a curse around his tense shoulders and smothering his nostrils when he takes a deep, steadying breath. The rot festers at the core of the place, spreading hungrily as it seeks any living mind that it might feast upon.

Beautiful friezes watch from above, mocking Astarion with their carefully carved smiles as he paces back and forth, restless and itching. A battle between Sharrans and Selunites tumbles out in a long strip above his head, several of the Selunite faces chipped away purposefully in an effort to deface them. Damn them. Remove their being and their memory, lost in time as yet another enemy who lost the battle against darkness.

Astarion stops pacing and looks upwards. A fallen Selunite figure is portrayed on the ground, an arrow piercing her chest, expression twisted with painful fear while a Dark Justiciar looms above her, their cold mask staring at their target. Indifference versus abject terror. Astarion knows the situation well, Cazador’s cool stance of power against his own barely contained weakness. Fear is represented as hideous and vulnerable, something to be hated on by the superior thing above it. He sees it now, in the way the Selunite cowers underneath the Justiciar, her life slipping easily from her.

Astarion bares his fangs in disgust and turns away. Later, he’ll reach up and chip away at the vile fear on that Selunite’s face and make her just another felled enemy to Shar. Now, he’ll inhale the humid air and let the damp settle in his dead lungs. The rot festers, he reminds himself. The longer they dawdle, the more it spreads.

“Oh, there you are.”

Astarion grits his teeth before donning a charming smile, spinning around to face Soul. The other rogue has his head cocked to the side, amusement tugging at his lips. The sight of his newfound confidence is disconcerting, particularly as Astarion has no idea where it has come from.

“Here I am,” he says blithely.

“The others want to head out and try tracking down Balthazar again,” says Soul. He cocks his head to the other side and drags his gaze up and down Astarion’s body, taking in every single inch as if he’s trying to memorise it. When Astarion pointedly clears his throat, Soul’s eyes snap up to meet his once more. “So, we’re going out. Get your weapons, or anything you might need. The Disciple has given us another Moonlantern. Generous, in my opinion.”

“It’s almost as though they want us to succeed,” Astarion hums.

Soul slinks forward, stirring an unease under Astarion’s flesh as the tiefling’s right hand casually goes to rest on his waist. A slow smirk stretches across Soul’s face, eyes piercing in the dim light of the hallway.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to get eaten by a shadow,” he agrees, voice as smooth as silk. “There is hunger lurking in the darkness, isn’t there?”

Hunger lurks and dances in the light, too. Astarion’s smile turns tight at the way Soul’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up again, greed playing about the tiefling’s smirk like he thinks he’s entitled to Astarion’s attention. Yet isn’t that what Astarion has drawn him in with? The promise of pleasure – the only thing Astarion has to offer – is not a big ask of him. Why should he begin to regret things now, when the power has shifted into Soul’s hands rather than his?

No. No, I still have power. So long as Soul is interested, Astarion holds his life in his hands. He can toss it to the dogs if he so wishes, informing the rest of the group that Soul has been caught doing something-or-other and can no longer be trusted. Astarion holds the power. The past day in Moonrise has done nothing to diminish that, no matter how much his body wants to reject the hands upon his skin.

“Oh, you are adorable,” Astarion purrs, shrouding himself in a familiar cloak of easy smirks and trailing touches. “Don’t tell me that you’re worried about me? I thought that I disgusted you, what with me being a man.”

Soul winces and pulls away, the heat in his eyes vanishing into the air. “FobAlthesulogyreot, don’t remind me. I was having a good morning, as well.”

With that, Soul shakes his head and turns to walk away, his shoulders relaxed but tail tense and irritated. Astarion goes to follow him, then pauses, a frown passing over his face.

“What did you just say?” His tone is calculated, thoughtful, and that alone makes Soul pause too, head turned to look over his shoulder.

“Huh?”

Astarion narrows his eyes. “You said ‘glory of the Absolute.’ That’s a rather odd exclamation. What does that mean?”

For a split-second, Soul’s eyes widen, something akin to surprise darting in and out of his eyes before he furrows his brows in annoyed confusion.

“What are you talking about? I di –”

“You said,” Astarion says slowly, “and I quote, ‘glory of the Absolute, don’t remind me.’ And then something about a good morning.”

“No, I didn’t,” comes the immediate denial.

“Yes, you did.”

“No,” Soul states firmly, crossing his arms. “I said ‘gods,’ as in ‘oh my gods,’ as in ‘fuck you.’”

“I –” Astarion stops himself, the crawling beneath his skin rising and rising until he can’t resist scratching his forearms in an attempt to relieve it. “No, you…” he looks back to Soul, taking in his exasperation, and sighs, ceasing his scratching. “Apologies, I must have misheard you.”

Soul’s scowl shifts, concern melting the harsh lines of his face. He hesitates, taking a half step forward, fingers twitching as if he wants to reach out to Astarion. The elf tilts his head questioningly even as his mind races with confusion. He’s certain that he heard – but if Soul says – there’s nothing that –

Astarion is right. He’s going mad.

Soul gnaws at his lower lip, worry now clearly written in the action. “Are you feeling okay? You didn’t drink any of the water from the tap, did you? Halsin said it’s only good for bathing, not for drinking.”

Astarion presses the heel of his palm to his temple, pushing until he winces from the dull pain. He shakes his head and gathers himself, flashing a toothy grin at the tiefling before him.

“Halsin says a lot of things, darling, and most of them are nonsense.” Soul doesn’t seem content with the diversion and Astarion rolls his eyes. “I’m not sick, simply… there’s something about this place that unsettles me.”

Soul nods as he considers his words. “Enemy territory,” he murmurs lowly. “We’ll feel better when we know for certain where Balthazar is.”

“We?”

“I don’t like this place either,” admits Soul. His gaze trails to the frieze behind Astarion. “It feels as though even the walls are watching.”

He finds himself untensing, bit by bit, at the thought that he isn’t the only one suffering under Moonrise’s roof. The anxious restlessness coursing through him yesterday and this morning has been growing increasingly unbearable, but the acknowledgment from Soul that he isn’t alone in that feeling soothes him, clearing his mind like the sweet letting of rotten blood.

“The Scrying Eyes don’t help,” Astarion drawls.

Soul shudders dramatically. “Those things give me the damned creeps. I was about to get changed the other day and closed the door, only for one of them to slip through the crack.”

Astarion can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from deep within his stomach. “Wait, is that why you started shouting for no reason in the middle of the night?”

“Yes,” grumbles Soul. “I almost missed the fucking thing. Whoever made them the size of our own eyes needs to be stabbed.”

“Think of them like flies and swat at them,” Astarion says brightly.

“That doesn’t work!” Soul clenches his fists, hands quivering with frustration. “They just continue staring. It’s unnerving and I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before now.”

“It was the tadpole blurring your thoughts,” states Astarion, though the words are only a theory.

Soul hums, nodding in thoughtful agreement. “Right, yes, that must have been it. You’re less likely to notice the tiny, floating eyes if you’re focused on the Absolute.”

Astarion slinks closer with a smirk, earning Soul’s full attention when they grow close enough to touch. Astarion doesn’t touch, not yet, and he can immediately tell that it stirs hunger deep within Soul’s chest. Just like that, the scales tilt back into Astarion’s favour, his pretty playtoy back in the palm of his hand.

“There’s always the buzz of magic following them,” says Astarion cooly. He trails his hands along Soul’s chest, watching the gentle rise and fall of it beneath his fingers. “Can’t you feel it? Sense it? It lingers and stinks of lightning, no matter where in the room they are.”

“I thought you don’t breathe,” mutters Soul.

“I do when I need to – when there are strangers around or…” he lets his smirk stretch wider, predatory. “Or when there’s something interesting to smell. Sweet blood, for instance.”

Soul’s steady breathing quickens, pupils dilating until the fiery green licks against the deep black. Astarion hums, pleased at the predictability, but frowns ever so minutely when Soul tugs him closer, pressing their torsos together. The ex-cultist isn’t meant to move first, Astarion complains to himself. Confident touches aren’t his place, and it’s foul to think that Soul might becoming pushier.

“Sweet blood,” echoes Soul, lips hanging after the words, desire dripping from his tongue. “Mine? My blood, right?”

Astarion quirks an eyebrow up. “Yours, sweeting.” Soul chuffs out a breath and inches closer, hands groping eagerly. “Patience,” Astarion bites, teasing and light.

Soul pauses, clutching onto his every sound like an obedient dog barely unable to contain itself in front of a treat.

“Yeah?” His pupils grow ever larger, a tooth catching at his bottom lip. “What are you after? Just say the word, you know. Anything you want, Star.”

Alright, better. The tiefling knows to wait, at the very least. Astarion grants him a modicum of a reward – a hand brushing against the base of Soul’s tail – and watches as Soul shudders, lids fluttering closed. Astarion narrows his eyes. There’s something… off about the way Soul moves today. More pronounced and dramatic, as if he’s performing and knows that he has an audience, fully intending to please their insatiable nature. When he’s performing, he’s touchier. Astarion despises it.

“If we return here tonight, visit me,” the elf coos.

Soul’s eyes snap open. “If?”

“Well, we might die.”

The mischief slips, slow and easy, back into Soul’s expression, his hands stilling on Astarion’s hips.

“Oh, joy,” he chirps. “How are we dying, exactly?”

“Your enthusiasm is astounding.” Soul wiggles his head at Astarion’s words and the vampire can’t quite stifle the laugh that bubbles up from his lips. “But we could die in a multitude of ways,” Astarion continues slyly. “Is drowning still your favoured path to death?”

“Of course.”

“Then we had better be careful not to die in Reithwin; there aren’t any rivers or lakes in-town, after all.”

“What?” 

Astarion looks to Soul's confused expression and frowns. "It's a joke. I'm continuing your joke." 

"Oh." Soul seems to consider this, then shrugs, looking away. "I don't get it. You realise that jokes are meant to be funny, right?" 

Astarion reels back, scandalised. "The audacity..." 

Something about Soul's constant snarling and biting at Astarion's hand sparks mirth in the elf's heart. It twists his view of Soul ever so slightly, from untrained dog to untrained guard. And anyway, he thinks to himself, wasn't his initial idea to mould a perfect bodyguard out of the tiefling? Why doesn't he simply stick to his original plan? He needs no attached, loyal pet; it would be inconvenient when he kills Cazador and Soul wants to stay by his side like a pathetic pup. A loyal shield - one that can train in all aspects of combat - is a far more attractive approach. 

Pets are stupid, Astarion decides. A man ready to attack those who go against him is easier to manipulate. Pets don't understand words, only commands. Men, however, know when to stay and when to go. Furthermore, turning Soul into a shield is more entertaining than simply teaching him to be obedient. If Astarion's perfect plans falls through, at least he'll be entertained by the process.

“Are we going or what?”

Astarion snaps out of his own head and throws Soul a broad grin, wrapping an arm around his waist and ignoring the suspicious glance he’s given in return.

“If you were so eager to leave, you ought to have said,” he says.

“I literally came to get you,” disputes Soul.

Astarion waves a dismissive hand and begins leading Soul down the nearest staircase towards the grand hall.

“Details, details. My point is that you must have come to collect me because you wanted to spend more time with me, correct?”

Soul barks out a sharp laugh and rolls his eyes. The action is playful, something like amused fondness slipping through the cracks of whatever mask he tries to wear.

“Sure, if that helps you trance at night.”

Every day, the darkness grows. Past a few metres, the land continues to be pitch black, the oozing thickness overwhelming even when merely glanced at. Gale and Lae’zel stick close together, walking with a torch lit between them, refusing to use the group’s new, spare Moonlantern for fear of attracting unwanted ghostly attention. Astarion scoffs at their logic; any living creatures stalking through the Cursed Lands draw enough attention as it is.

Shadows lurk beneath their feet, their bodies casting shade which shifts and curls upon the dead ground. Astarion watches them, the shadows of their hands turning sharp, then smoothing out again, only to break into harsh, jagged shapes as though predicting the painful snapping of their bones. He shudders, hoisting his quiver higher on his shoulder. His gaze flicks to Soul, the tiefling resting a hand on the handle of his sheathed shortsword.

Strange. Despite the darkness, Soul’s steps are as confident as can be. His back is deadly straight, head turning here and there, eyes narrowed with careful focus. He no longer slouches, nor does he drag his heels, each footfall silent and precise. For a moment, Astarion thinks Soul is being more vigilant because he was attacked last time he ventured into Reithwin. Yet when he considers it more, this rigidness wasn’t present when the group was returning to Moonrise after the attack. The vampire shakes his head and looks away. He can’t afford to be distracted by other people right now, not when danger crawls around them at every second.

The further they walk, the closer the shadows seem to loom. Astarion finds himself startling at each turn, whispers echoing in his ears despite knowing that none of his group are speaking. The ruins of once thriving squares, once bustling taverns, and once happy homes are daunting as they pass by, their eyes hunting for sneaking shades. It isn’t long before Astarion has unsheathed his blades, wary of all surrounding him.

“There, ahead.”

The group freeze. Soul’s breezy whisper sounds thunderous amidst the cold nothing, silence parting for just a moment to call out their presence. Astarion purses his lips. Is it not obvious that they should all be silent? Why would Soul even attempt to communicate aloud?

His glare goes unseen, however, when Halsin strides forward to where Soul is pointing, the cracked helm of a Dark Justiciar laying peacefully against a cliff. The druid looks back, his expression questioning. Soul widens his eyes and steps forward, crouching down and pointing something out to him. In less than a second, Halsin’s body has warped, limbs cracking and bending as his flesh morphs into that of a mouse. When Astarion moves closer to see what they’re both looking at, he spies the flash of Halsin darting through a deep split in the cliff face and into even crueller darkness.

“Is there meaning to the druid’s shifting?”

Astarion grits his teeth and gives Lae’zel a pointed ‘be quiet’ look that is ignored.

“The Disciple told me the whereabouts of one of the entrances to the Thorm Mausoleum,” explains Soul, voice still a calculated murmur. “It’s no wonder you couldn’t find it, not when it’s so well-hidden.”

“If it can’t be found, people can’t rob your grave,” muses Karlach.

“And if we cannot squeeze through that gap like Halsin can,” says Astarion, deciding to give up on being quiet now that the others have, “then how do you propose we enter?”

Soul turns his head; his eyes feel brighter in the darkness, the ring of green flames around the pupils heavy with derision. Astarion narrows his eyes, wondering if his own red irises are as piercing as his. He wonders if Soul knows just how deeply his gaze digs into Astarion’s chest.

“Halsin left to explore and return to us when he’s found out how to get in,” says Soul slowly.

Astarion opens his mouth to complain about Soul’s tone when the sound of stone scraping together makes him pause. The whole group, still and silent, listen as the scraping becomes soft hammering, emanating from the crack in the cliff face. Lae’zel treads nearer, bending down to place a hand against the rock, an ear pricked cautiously.

Astarion hears it then. The tiny grunts of Halsin, coming through the rock. He raises an eyebrow and ducks his head down, soon spotting the druid clawing frantically at the stone with a bear’s strong paw. The vampire grins toothily, then gestures for Karlach to try hitting it with her axe. She frowns but does so, warning Halsin to back away so that his skull isn’t accidentally cleaved in two.

After several deafening swings, Karlach breaks through the small crack, revealing a dusty Wildshaped Halsin, his black, beady eyes glistening in the low light of the barbarian’s flames. He huffs, then wriggles around, thudding off down what seems to be a long tunnel, its exit unclear. Astarion and Soul exchange a doubtful glance, but the group are soon crawling through the tunnel after Halsin. Astarion (naturally) grumbles all the while, asking why he needs to dirty his clothes and hands over finding an idiotic necromancer who is likely already dead.

“Because we need to find more about Ketheric’s relic,” Soul bites out into the darkness. “Or are you that forgetful?”

“Please refrain from being annoying until we’re out of this tunnel,” Astarion jeers back.

After that, it only takes another minute of agonising crawling to see the flickering light of candles at the tunnel’s end. As soon as the last person has clambered into the clear, Halsin’s body undulates, his limbs rippling into a familiar elven form.

“Silvanus must look down upon us fondly, for us to find our destination so swiftly,” comments Halsin as he brushes dirt from his hands.

“Or I’m good at following directions.”

Astarion gives Soul a smirk, sick delight swimming through his body. “Aren’t you just?”

“Okay, quit flirting, start searching,” interrupts Karlach.

Gale nods, already looking around. “We should examine the premises in pairs, to ensure that the greatest amount of space shall go explored.” Astarion instantly latches onto Soul’s arm, batting his lashes in his direction. The tiefling rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull away. “I believe it would be most productive if Karlach were to join me, and Lae’zel were to join Halsin. Therefore, both Lae’zel and I will be accompanied by a person who is able to peer into the darkness with limited issue.”

A ripple of agreement spreads through the group, the pairs separating and deciding which direction to walk in first. Astarion tugs Soul forward, curiosity getting the better of him. Soul mutters to himself, clearly wanting to protest but choosing not to.

The section of the Thorm Mausoleum they’ve found themselves in is as dingy as one would expect form a tomb. Simple floor mosaics are crumpled with time, pieces of the artwork cracked, ruining the picturesque décor. The plain columns holding up the ceiling are uninspired but sturdy; Astarion supposes that the dead don’t need to appreciate the finer details of their resting place, so he decides to let that particular design go.

The intriguing parts of the mausoleum are the candles and skulls. Why there are so many skulls is a mystery, Astarion thinks to himself. Piles of them lay under a tattered desk, and a circle of bones stays put in the corner, reminding him vaguely of Withers’ flimsy form. The multitude of candles that are spread out spark to life as Astarion and Soul pass by, the magic instilled in them continuing to go strong. Astarion finds himself staring into one of the dark green flames on the abandoned desk, watching it dance morbidly at him.

“An open sarcophagus… nice.”

Astarion’s stare darts up to Soul, the tiefling standing a few feet away, head bowed. Frowning, Astarion trots over to him and finds that he’s telling the truth – an open tomb with no contents but dust and spiderwebs greeting them.

“Let’s hope that – oh…” Astarion reads the tomb inscription again, then again, then a third time just to be certain he isn’t delirious. “Isobel. Thorm. Isobel…”

“Isobel,” repeats Soul, dragging the name out. A pause. “Isobel?”

Astarion straightens, meeting Soul’s confused gaze. “A cleric we know, that’s all I can tell you.” He turns back to the open sarcophagus. “She is… definitely alive. Was not aware she is a Thorm, either.”

“Do we send her back to the afterlife?”

Astarion gnaws on his lower lip to contain a smile. “That would be entertaining, but no. Again, I’m trying out the ‘being a good person’ thing.”

Watching people running away from oncoming shadows would be hilarious. Nonetheless, the refugee and Harper traders at Last Light are useful, and Astarion would hate to no longer have a safe place filled with allies. If Isobel – whoever the woman truly is – were to die, Astarion would have no way to swap old daggers with new.

Soul hums, thoughtful. “Yes, you being a good person.” He smirks, eyes glinting facetiously. “Sounds plausible, Astarion.”

The elf raises an eyebrow. “’Astarion?’ What happened to ‘Star?’ No good anymore?”

A scoff. “Sorry.” Soul leans in, eyes lidded. “I’ll remember next time, my Star.”

Astarion shivers imperceptibly. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t feel pleased at such blatant possession when he’s the one who is meant to be in charge. Even so, the idea of being worth the stars themselves causes Astarion’s gut to stir, the pedestal on which he wishes to stand seeming not so out of reach anymore.

“Your Star, hmm?”

His voice is a purr, smooth and warm. Soul responds with hands resting lightly on his hips, fingers twitching in evident desire to pull him close.

“Stars, sun, moon,” coos Soul, “and everything in between.” Astarion hums, satisfaction brewing hot in his stomach. “I’ve been thinking it all over, and I’m… I’m okay with meeting you, I think.”

“Of course you are.”

“You’re good company and have the prettiest face,” admits Soul.

The corners of Astarion’s lips pull into a content smile as he relaxes into the other rogue’s hold. He’s heard such compliments before, of course, yet the way in which Soul says them feels truthful. This time, it doesn’t feel as though Soul is simply trying to bed him; there’s raw honesty in his expression, in the nervous furrow of his brows and awkward smile.

Astarion is allowed this. He’s allowed honesty and soft touch that he’s never sincerely cherished before. Soul’s skin is blazing hot in comparison to his, and that in itself melts his fears into quiet bliss. He doesn't care if Soul is clutching and grasping him anymore. He only wants some semblance of affection. 

As sweet as honey, Soul's hand slips up to the nape of Astarion’s neck, fingers teasingly stroking the curls there. Astarion leans back, suddenly desperate for the touch. He doesn't even realise his eyes are closed until they snap open again at Soul's amused chuckle. 

"That's nice," he hums. 

Astarion blinks sluggishly. "What's nice?" 

"You're good when you want to be." 

Astarion fails to hide the instant heat which rolls through him at that, his lips parting in a soundless gasp. There's a thing he's good at, a voice in the back of his mind chirps happily. He's good at talking and he's good at this. 

With each moment, Astarion's vision blurs, the edges of the world becoming dizzy with pleasure and something else that he can't name. 

"There we go, just like that," murmurs a sugary voice. 

Astarion feels his limbs turn to liquid as, out of nowhere, a steady touch at his left ear sends deep, long-forgotten arousal piercing through him. Astarion groans, head tilted back, searching for the hand. He sucks in stale air, silently begging for the pinching and stroking to continue. 

He's good at this. 

Astarion’s eyes flutter open, the tiniest bit of clarity peeking out from his fuzzy mind. 

He's good at this. 

Internal voices sound suspiciously like Cazador begin to gripe at him, hissing venomous names in the corners of his mind. Of course he would enjoy sweet touches, says a voice, he's a natural whore. 

Astarion furiously yanks himself out of the arms holding him. He blinks, vision still unclear, as he gradually comes back to himself. What was he doing? Why isn't he - 

"What's wrong?" 

Astarion jumps. Soul looks at him blankly, tail flicking behind him. 

"I - you're distracting me." 

Soul cocks his head in thought. After a second of wondering if the tiefling will accept his deflection, Astarion sighs in silent relief when Soul nods. 

"Yeah, maybe not the best place to mess around." 

"Exactly!" Astarion flinches at his volume and clears his throat. "Right, well, yes, let's keep searching and - other stuff." 

Soul cocks his head the other way. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

Astarion scratches a tingling ear. He starts matching the collected pace of Soul's breathing, the action bringing him greater peace than it probably should. 

"I'm darling, darling," Astarion insists. 

Soul nods hesitantly, then begins backing away. "Alright. Let's find where Balthazar has gotten off to." 

Nothing is meant to happen. 

Astarion doesn't make mistakes as grave as this. 

He's perceptive. Aware. Perfect. 

But he's only just gathering himself, skin burning and gut heated. 

For some reason, at the last second, his eyes drop to the floor. Perhaps it's a sixth sense he's lucky enough to possess, or perhaps he wanted to keep track of where their feet are. 

All he knows is that Soul is walking away normally. 

And then he's stepping on a trap. 

Chapter Text

"Shit, don't move!" 

"Huh?" 

"No, no, don't move!" 

Soul stands there, completely frozen, staring down at his feet. He seems to realise what's going on then, because he curses under his breath and starts muttering to himself. Astarion's arm is raised, outstretched like he can pull the tiefling back from the trap he's already stepped on. 

"Okay..." Astarion's mind whirs, thoughts racing frantically for a solution. "Perhaps I can disarm it." 

Soul's voice turns venomous. "How the fuck are you going to do that? It's a pressure plate; it's like a button and my weight is already on it." 

"I know how pressure plate traps work, darling," spits Astarion. "Now keep still and let me figure out how to not make you explode.”

Soul drops silent. Tension is clear in his tail – in the way his shoulders are locked up and fingers are twitching. Astarion takes a deep breath, crinkles his nose at the overwhelming stench of death in the air, and crouches low to the ground.

“What in the hells…”

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing,” says Astarion. “Keep still.”

Now that he’s looking, there are pressure plates everywhere from this point onwards into the room. He counts himself extremely lucky that he hasn’t stepped on one himself, with the way the plates are nearly completely melded into the pattern on the stone floor. Somebody is hiding something precious down here, he thinks to himself. His eyes flick back to Isobel’s open tomb, a frown crossing over his face. Did Isobel bring her soul and body back to life on her own or was she helped? Did the Harpers do it, hoping for protection against the curse?

Astarion shakes his head, looking back to the plate underneath Soul’s feet. Now isn’t the time for speculation, and he isn’t the best person to consider twisted, malicious plans when they don’t directly concern him. The elf peers down at the metal against stone, then grins toothily when he notices that Soul has conveniently stood on only one corner of the plate, leaving the rest of it lifting from the uneven weight distribution.

“Alright, I see where I can get underneath it,” Astarion announces. “I’m hoping that the trigger can be reached from the sides, not solely the middle.”

“What if…”

Astarion looks up, watching Soul turn his head to peer back at him. “Yes?”

“I could Misty Step away from the explosion if Gale casts a spell nearby,” Soul suggests slowly.

Astarion presses his lips together, thinking. “I could cast Fire Bolt and you’ll be able to do the same.”

“Okay, do it.” Soul breaks eye contact, then does a double-take. “Cast it away from this room.”

Astarion stands, stretching languidly. “I’m not an idiot.” Soul grumbles something to himself. “What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Astarion rolls his eyes and steps away, cautious as he moves out of the room and a safe enough distance that when Soul’s weight is suddenly released, the elf doesn’t get caught in the explosion. He throws a quick bolt of fire at a nearby crumbling skull – the ancient elven magic tastes powerful on his tongue – and he watches Soul take several steadying breaths.

“Anytime soon,” he shouts across to him.

Soul sticks up his middle finger, then twists his torso in a sudden movement as the swish of magic flows around him. Astarion blinks and Soul is beside him, tripping over his own feet for a second before righting himself and clearing his throat.

“Easy,” Soul drawls with a smirk.

Astarion looks between him and the room, waiting. Waiting. He scratches his head.

“It didn’t activate,” he says blankly.

“Hmm?”

“The trap; it didn’t explode when you Stepped away.” 

Soul cocks his head. "I guess not. Perhaps that one was disarmed already? I can test the others." He makes a move forward and Astarion flings out his arm to stop him. "You can test it if you really want." 

"No, you fool," Astarion scoffs, "you can try if you insist. Just... who would disarm all the plate traps?" 

"Balthazar." Soul stares back at Astarion's surprised expression and shrugs. "We are following after him, if you weren't aware." 

"No, I know. None of the plates look disturbed though. Are they fakes?" 

A thoughtful frown. "How do you usually deal with plates? I've never disturbed those kind of traps when I disarm them." 

"Uh... they crack." 

"They... crack?" 

Astarion shifts uneasily and crosses his arms over his chest. The look in Soul's eyes screams of amusement, as though Astarion is saying something completely idiotic, and he doesn't like that. Why don't you show him who's the real idiot? Astarion sniffs and uncrosses his arms. 

"It's not -" 

"Yeah, yeah, alright," Soul cuts in. "I'll go and see if the traps are disarmed and if not, I'll disarm them properly. You know, without breaking –”

Soul is jolted back by a forceful pull against his arm. The tiefling goes to protest, but whatever twisted expression is on Astarion’s face makes him pause.

“Listen here, you little shit,” snaps Astarion, “I’ve been kind enough and good enough to keep you with my friends. I could spin a lie at any second and get you kicked out into the shadows, so don’t test me.”

Soul’s mouth opens, eyes wide, yet he doesn’t say anything. He closes his mouth a second later and nods, eyes flicking down to where Astarion is clutching at him.

“Do you understand?” Astarion’s fingers tighten. “Or do you want to meet another cursed Thorm on your lonesome?”

Soul inhales sharply and nods again. “Y-yeah, sure, I understand.”

“Better.” Astarion releases him, sending Soul stumbling back half a step. “Now, where were we?”

“I – uh – was going to check the traps,” Soul stammers, confidence gone.

“Ah yes, be a good boy and do that, then.” Astarion grins, toothy, and relaxes when Soul gives yet another jerky nod and turns back into the room.

The vampire watches from the doorway, taking in every one of Soul’s movements like he’ll be able to memorise them to his advantage. Every tail twitch, every slow motion, every careful pause. Soul moves with calculated precision, wary of anything around him. It’s a wonder that he missed the first trap he stepped on. The other rogue stops on the far end wall, fingers pushing against the bricks as his head tilts curiously to the side. He moves on after a little while, muttering to himself under his breath.

When Soul has searched the room thoroughly, he frowns, staring at the floor before making his way over to Astarion. His feet step onto every single pressure plate, but none of them trigger.

“They’re duds,” Soul says. “Either that or Balthazar disarmed them before us.” He glances behind him and points to the furthest wall. “Looks like there are two hidden doors back there; I dunno how to open them, though.”

Astarion crosses his arms, assessing Soul. “Did you know that you talk to yourself?”

Soul’s eyes widen. “Oh, I – yeah, well, I get some crazy thoughts sometimes. It helps if I think them out loud.” He shifts on the balls of his feet, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “So, what now?”

“I suppose we tell the others that we’re in the right place,” Astarion says with a shrug. Soul hums his agreement and goes to walk away. Astarion follows, leaning in and whispering into his ear. “By the way, if you question my abilities again, I’ll cut you from top to tail, just as Lae’zel desires.”

Soul’s footsteps falter for a moment. He throws Astarion a scowl, but the elf can sense his clear anxiety.

“Yeah, sure.” He gathers some of his usual disdain, just enough for Astarion to believe he’s back to normal. “Promise?”

Astarion can’t resist licking his lips. He wonders if he were to scent the air, whether he would be able to smell Soul’s barely hidden fear.

“Oh yes, darling. Promise.”

The place which Halsin calls the Gauntlet of Shar is a tad too morbid even for Astarion’s liking. Thick stone walls made of greys and blacks loom all around them, magical light casting harsh shadows across their feet. Purple banners drape the stone, lining the walls as an eerie breeze shifts the heavy fabric. Astarion’s boots make no noise against the purple carpets along the floor, emblems cast in every available surface like some sort of ward rather than worship.

The worst parts are the statues. Astarion stops, overlooking a grand chasm, and can see only the huge figure of Shar staring back. Her head tilts downwards, looking upon them all with a blank expression, flawless stone skin swathed in more indigo fabric. Gold decorates the statue, thick lines of it highlighting the effort and wealth poured into Shar’s deification. The cultists who made her likeness sacrificed all for her; Astarion wonders what befell them in the end, whether they were swaddled in her empty embrace or left for nothing.

Astarion has prayed to Shar before. He remembers his prayers vividly, like they happened only yesterday. Pleading – begging – for an end to the torture only to find endless darkness as an answer. He supposes that even spawn, the ones cursed to walk in the shadows, are worthless to the Lady of Loss.

“It’s an impressive statue.”

Astarion blinks, turning his head to look at Soul. The tiefling isn’t looking back, his focus instead on the Shar towering above them from across the chasm. The rest of the group are exploring ahead of them, Lae’zel’s steady voice drifting through the stagnant air. Astarion turns away, letting his gaze rest back on the hideous figure.

“I’ve never been fond of religion,” Astarion admits quietly.

“Why not?” Soul’s tone is curious more than judgemental, and it puts Astarion’s mind at ease. “I understand not liking the Absolute,” Soul continues, “but the other gods are…” He trails off, clicking his tongue in place of words.

“None of them helped me when I needed it,” says Astarion.

“They require indulgent worship,” replies Soul easily, “and don’t give things without reason.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, mimicking the sick rolling of his stomach. “If you want to blabber about the gods, speak to Gale and Lae’zel. I’m sure they have plenty of stories about being wronged by their deities, although Gale will likely sing Mystra’s praises no matter what.”

Soul scoffs, making Astarion look at him. “I never used to be religious,” he says. “The gods disappointed me. The only deity I’ve ever outright worshipped is the Absolute.”

“Oh? You’ve never prayed to the Helm for protection?”

Soul scrunches up his nose and meets Astarion’s gaze with familiar contempt. “Too personal, don’t ask.”

“Demanding,” sighs Astarion. "At least you shared a little about yourself." 

Astarion looks away. Despite his exasperation, a sense of comradery swirls within. Soul knows what it’s like to be shunned by the gods, for his problems to be considered miniscule and too irrelevant to be fixed. Lae’zel is still coming to terms with her own worship being all for nothing, Gale is willing to sacrifice himself for a goddess who doesn’t love him back, Karlach has never mentioned her feelings towards religion, and Halsin is respected by his god of fickle nature. Soul, however? He understands.

Astarion relaxes, pushing cheer into his face, ease into his posture. Soul glances at him and copies it, an elbow leaning against the balcony in front of them.

“I do like the idea of having a massive, extravagant statue of myself for no reason other than ego,” he says. “If I ever become a god, make sure to build one of me.”

Soul smirks, nodding. “I’ll make it true to reality, don’t you worry.”

“Good,” Astarion preens. “Make sure you get my stunning beauty true to –”

“I’ll add that unsightly mole on your face.”

Astarion droops. His hands fly to his face, feeling over the unblemished skin with increasing distress.

“I – I don’t have any – what are you talking about?”

“You know, you get freckles and moles from the sunlight,” Soul drawls, still smirking. “It must be from all your time spent under it.”

Astarion lets his hands fall, unimpressed. “Oh, you’re only teasing, I see.”

A shrug. “You have the tiniest mark, right…” Soul steps closer, a warm hand brushing against Astarion’s cheek, finger landing on his face. “…here…”

What would happen, Astarion thinks, if he were to lean into Soul’s gentle touch? Soul looks at him with no disgust, eyes flaming softly in pools of thick black, lips pressed together in neutrality rather than hatred. Astarion has been under so many loathsome eyes that it’s instinctual for him to want to back away – to escape before pain lashes across his skin.

Soul lingers there as if he wants to say more, words latching onto his tongue but not leaving his throat. Astarion allows himself this moment, this small second, of peace and warm touch. Soul notices the unimportant details that he himself has never seen, whether dead or alive, and it stirs something indescribable inside him. He has absolutely no idea what to do about it.

“Anything else of note?” Astarion can barely hear himself over the uneven pounding of Soul’s heart, the thunder of it close enough to touch.

Soul wiggles his head, thinking. “Your eyes are like rubies,” he mutters. His hand falls away; Astarion resists the urge to chase its lingering warmth. “They’d be prettier if they belonged to a woman, though.”

Astarion blinks. Annoyance lances through him with the same viciousness as a poisoned arrow. He pulls away, scowling miserably.

“What a magnificent way to ruin a moment, sweeting,” he spits.

“It’s –” Soul looks to the ground, a frown upon his face. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry. I have no idea why I said that.”

Astarion gives him a repulsed look, eyes trailing his body up and down as though seeing it sends disgust through his own.

“I can only imagine what goes on in that head of yours,” he scoffs. “You ought to get it together before things greatly deteriorate between us.”

“Right…”

Before Soul can concoct something more hideous and frustrating, however, Karlach’s voice calls over to them, the question of what’s holding them up on her lips. Astarion doesn’t spare Soul another glance, striding over to the rest of the group and saying nothing when Soul traipses after him, tail low. It serves him right to feel bad, Astarion tells himself. It isn’t his problem if Soul can’t handle being attracted to another man.

If Soul simply told Astarion where he got the idea that he can’t lay with the same gender, then Astarion would be able to help. I’d be able to manipulate better. It’s true that Astarion hasn’t been the most forthcoming about his own struggles, but Soul has never bothered to ask. He’s always been more interested in Astarion’s body (everyone always is), and it sets up a divide between them because of that vile interest.

What if Astarion revealed the resentment he holds towards himself? Would Soul understand, finding similarity between their emotions? Or would he turn away, finding no other use for Astarion?

For as long as he can remember, Astarion has kept his impurities closely guarded. He twists around when people try to face his back, insists that he prefers looking upon whomever desires him as they fuck him into the horizon. He lies. He hides. Astarion cannot look at his own scars, shielded from his very eyes like the scars themselves are ashamed of their existence. He has never been able to decide whether not seeing them is a good thing or not. Letting the memory of their creation wilt away into rot has always been the more flattering idea.

“The Gauntlet,” Gale is saying, “is such a profound example of godly worship.” Astarion rolls his eyes at the obvious statement. “Its grandiosity shall be most difficult to probe. Hmm, yes, most difficult, indeed. Perhaps it would be best if we were to divide ourselves int–”

“We shouldn’t split up,” interjects Karlach in a hurried voice. “I know I’m gonna get lost and I don’t want to be by myself when that happens.”

“If we come across anything dangerous down here, we’re fucked if we split up,” adds Soul.

“They are correct,” says Halsin. “We shall endeavour to explore every room, Gale, have no worry.” He glances around and frowns, features shifting into animalistic scorn. “Despite this place’s wretched deity, we must rid the land of the curse. We cannot leave until it is so.”

Astarion crosses his arms, a flicker of determination coursing through him, fiery and bright.

“Assuming Balthazar is here somewhere, we’ll find him in no time,” he declares.

Soul nudges his shoulder against the elf’s, the slightest smile crossing face. He says something that Astarion filters out, the surprise of seeing a smile – a genuine, non-arrogant smile – on Soul’s lips freezing his mind in place. He looks less cruel like that, as if Astarion might have a chance to spend time with him where they aren’t at each other’s necks, bickering about unimportant details.

The smile disappears.

What in the hells am I thinking? Astarion shakes his head, eyes snapping to Lae’zel, her next words sounding muffled against his ears. A bodyguard, Astarion reminds himself, Soul is simply a bodyguard. He’s someone Astarion can use and discard when he’s done with Cazador, not someone to keep around and fantasise about.

After all, Astarion isn’t the kind of person who is soft and caring. It wasn’t what he was made for. It isn’t who he is. Cazador reminded him every second of every day; Astarion isn’t a man who is wanted by others, even those who wish to befriend him. Nobody is friends with a vampire.

Astarion’s gaze travels over the group. It lingers on Gale’s focused glare, Lae’zel’s tense shoulders, Karlach’s nervous grin. If Astarion weren’t useful, would any of them truly be by his side? If his dagger faltered and his arrows mis-shot, would they care or ignore him? He tells himself that they would care and that he’s being ridiculous, but the thought stays with him as they begin to explore, hovering like a fetid carcass, refusing to be moved.

“Hey, Fangs.”

Astarion blinks. Karlach tilts her head, hair brushing her eyelashes where it falls against her scarred face. He raises an eyebrow, hands clenched at his side.

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

She noticed. She sees that he’s distracted and likes him enough to check. Astarion’s smile feels too wide for his face, delight shining from his body as a beacon from the moon. He tapers his relief back when he realises how uncharacteristic joy is from him, and nods in a tiny, slow movement.

“Perfect,” he assures her.

Karlach’s eyes sparkle in a way that shows she saw his excitement, but she’s just about smart enough to know not to comment on it. Her thumb jerks behind her and points towards a door.

“Great! Mind picklocking this thing for us?”

Oh.

Right.

Astarion’s usefulness to the group, that’s what matters. They all watch him, expectant, and even Soul looks at him as though he’s waiting for great things.

The smile on Astarion’s face doesn’t feel as casual anymore. He steps closer anyway – he ignores the churning in his gut and ache in his heart – and pulls out a toolkit with practised ease.

“Darling, of course.” The words come out as a purr, yet Astarion knows the arrogance behind them doesn’t exist right now. “What I wouldn’t do for a skeleton key.”

Karlach laughs, boisterous, and grips his shoulders as he kneels to the keyhole of the grand door.

“Soldier, you are our skeleton key.”

“Oh… wonderful.”

There’s a mirror in Astarion’s tent.

It’s the length of his torso. It shines in the dim light of his space, reflecting nothing back at him. He doesn’t know why he has it. It doesn’t bring him any comfort. It only brings him pain.

Nonetheless, there’s a mirror in Astarion’s tent.

He stares deep into it and wishes for his face to stare back at him. When the wishing doesn’t work, he prays. When the praying doesn’t work, he returns to staring. His fingers absentmindedly trace the closest scars on his skin, arms stretched around to reach for his shoulders and back like a faint dream.

Astarion wishes he could see the scars.

He prays he could see them.

He stares at nothing.

If he weren’t so focused on his own despair, perhaps Astarion would have noticed the tug on his tent entrance. However, it’s too late to hide when he finally realises another set of eyes are watching him.

“What are you doing?”

Astarion lurches around, arms wrapped about his body as he snarls up at Soul. The tiefling has the decency to look caught out, and backs away a step.

“I – right, my bad,” he babbles. “I’ll go.”

He doesn’t go. Soul’s hand holds onto the tent fabric, frozen like he wants to say more, or wants Astarion to ask him to stay. They both look at one another, daring the other man to speak before it’s too late.

“Do…”

Soul’s eyes dart towards Astarion’s shoulders, to the place one of his hands rests, hiding part of his scars. A cold sensation crawls along Astarion’s skin and sinks deep into his chest. It numbs the fearful shock of Soul’s presence, at the very least, and Astarion lets his arms fall away to reveal his torso and chest.

“Nice scars,” Soul eventually says, tone even.

Astarion purses his lips and looks away. “Always the comedian, I see.”

“Did you do it on purpose?”

Astarion’s gaze meets Soul’s again. He cocks his head, taking in the way the tiefling’s lips threaten to peel up in a sneer. He’s horrified by the thought – repulsed – and it gives Astarion a little more confidence to see others as disgusted by the disfigurement as he is.

“I’m a vampire spawn,” Astarion begins slowly, “not a true vampire. I have – I had – a master.”

Soul hums. Astarion sighs and gestures vaguely to the floor in front of him; Soul hurries to sit, his focus entirely on his fellow rogue.

“His name is Cazador Szarr and he’s a bastard.” Soul says nothing, letting Astarion take a breath and figure out what he’s comfortable revealing. “He turned me almost two hundred years ago and tortured me as his slave. Spawn have no will of their own while their masters are still alive, you see. He… carved my scars into me, reworking them if I moved or cried too hard.”

Silence.

“Sounds like shit,” murmurs Soul.

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Are you his only spawn?”

Astarion shakes his head, heart squeezing at the thought of his miserable siblings. “Seven of us in total,” he explains. “We all received our scars but were compelled not to look at each other. We couldn’t heal our wounds, either.”

“What does…” Soul clears his throat, aversion clear in his eyes. “What is it like, to be compelled?”

Astarion lets out a bitter, sharp laugh. “Like you’re fighting your own body. You get no choice in what you do. If you fight too hard, you feel your mind breaking.”

Cazador has taken so much from Astarion that he can’t even pretend his mind is his own anymore. For a while, he held onto it, deluded by the idea that he could maintain his true wishes. The tomb fixed that. Astarion was delirious with relief at seeing Cazador’s face, so much so that he smiled at him.

Smiled. At Cazador. What a damned fool.

“When I first came to Moonrise, I…” Soul hesitates, eyeing Astarion’s carefully curious expression. The tiefling mulls over his words for a few seconds, choking on them as he struggles to verbalise what he wants to. “I resisted the Absolute,” he admits. “I remember… singing… I thought it was strange and cultish and I went to turn away.” His gaze grows distant, the memory of whatever he heard haunting him. “I felt like I couldn’t, though. The singing just kept repeating, over and over until…”

The air is heavy between them. Tension lies, thick and fat with greed, in the space that distances the two men. The cold within Astarion melts a little, his fear bleeding into calm respite. Soul shared something with him. Soul divulged a piece of information about himself despite never wishing to do so. Astarion cradles the secret in the palm of his hands, the little thing trembling, wanting to break.

“It sounds terrifying,” Astarion breathes.

Soul shrugs, though his face screams of disquiet. “Maybe I’m lying so that I can manipulate your feelings. Have you ever thought of that?”

“You wear your heart on your sleeve,” snorts Astarion. “Believe me, I’d be able to tell otherwise.”

They fall into silence again, both looking at the other. Astarion shifts, swallows, and becomes hyperaware of his exposed body again. He glances at the mirror in the corner of his eye, spying Soul looking back at him, expression stiff yet somehow cool at the same time.

“I’ve never seen what’s carved into me,” Astarion says, voice but a whisper.

“Not once?”

“No.”

A pause.

“I could… have a look for you. If it’s on all of your siblings, it probably isn't nonsensical scribbles.”

Astarion straightens. “I don’t need your help,” comes his automatic response.

Soul wobbles his head in that mocking way of his. “And I don’t have hair. Now, turn around.”

He shouldn’t. Astarion tells himself that he doesn’t need to expose such a vulnerable part of himself, body or mind. Yet there’s a firmness in Soul’s gaze which speaks of a desire to help, and to perhaps be helped in turn.

Astarion shuffles around, scars on display at the circus freakshow. Soul is soundless for a long time, setting Astarion on edge with each passing moment. He needs to curl in on himself and hide away, but whenever he tries to, Soul pokes him straight again.

“It’s incomplete,” Soul finally says. “The sentences don’t make all that much sense on their own; I guess your siblings have the rest of it.”

“What is it?”

“An Infernal pact.” Shit. “It’s written in Infernal too, so only Karlach and I would’ve been able to help. Though Gale might be able to, seeing as he’s a massive, stuck-up assho–”

“Don’t tell anyone else,” hisses Astarion suddenly. Soul goes quiet, the silence brewing with contained irritation. “This – this can be our secret, yes?”

“Sure… our secret.”

Astarion grits his teeth and stands, twisting to pull his blouse back on and cover up the symbols that have caused so much harm. A devil pact, he thinks to himself. He can’t imagine the horrific things Cazador did to him without his knowing, and it’s possibly better if he doesn’t think about it. It isn’t as though anybody will be able to help him understand the…

Raphael. Raphael would know, if I asked him to find out. Except the group haven’t happened upon Raphael since their first encounter, and Astarion highly doubts he’ll show up when they want him to. Devils are innately attracted to desire and despair, both of which Astarion harbours at all times. He’s practically a feast for devil deals, and it can’t be too long until this new information about his scars draws Raphael to him, eager for a contract.

“You’ve got a look in your eyes like you’re planning something,” Soul observes.

Astarion throws him a fanged grin and slumps down amongst his blankets. “You wouldn’t understand my plans even if I wrote them down for you.”

“Let me guess: you’re going to kill Cazador and the Absolute.”

“Alright, that’s cheating.”

“It’s obvious!”

“Shut the hells up.”

Without warning, Soul collapses on top of Astarion, smothering his face with his long hair. The elf coughs, dramatically yanking himself away until Soul’s head rests on his chest instead, an ear pressed to his pulse-less heart. They let silence surround them, although the air isn’t nearly as heavy anymore.

Astarion closes his eyes, listening to Soul’s steady breathing. It isn’t long before the breaths deepen with exhaustion as sleep tugs at Soul’s mind. Swallowing thickly, Astarion rests a hand against Soul’s head. After a moment of consideration, he scratches at his scalp, soothing himself more than Soul. A good shield, he thinks to himself. One who is helpful and shows him things Astarion didn’t know before. Soul is useful to him, just as Astarion is useful to the group.

“Yes,” Astarion whispers absently under his breath, “yes, a good shield and… gods, maybe you’re something more, too.”

Chapter Text

The parasites do not bite anymore. 

My mind is full with nothing but my own thoughts. Fat. Bloated. Vile. I do not like the fullness, no matter what they say. 

The Absolute has bled me. Blessed me. I do not fear being discovered now. I did not ask for great skills, and yet She gifted them. 

Me. Lowly me. 

She sees value in me and blesses me. 

My lies are unseen. When I wish to deceive, they all think my lies to be true. The Absolute gifted me unfounded deception.

The parasites in my mind do not bite, yet She blessed me.

I could speak, say the sky is pink with blood, and they would trust in me. 

Trust. 

Trust. 

Lies. 

The stars trust me. He holds faith that I am faithful.

A lie. 

I am faithful only to Her. 

Shar is disgusting. 

The Absolute is beautiful. 

I saw Her face and could hear nothing but my own thoughts. Why? Why is that?

The weapon. They hold it, these blaspheming wretches. The weapon makes my thoughts my own. It separates me from hearing Her voice.

It breaks me.

The visitor in my dreams tells me she is helping, but I know otherwise. The visitor is a false image intent on my fall from the Absolute's grace. 

I will not fall. Not when She tells me to play the part of the fool and to deceive the heroes. After all is said and done, She says I will rise. 

All shall know my name. 

And my repulsive heart will reign free. 

Revulsion shouldn't be staring. Staring and thinking are both terrible for his health. For some reason, however, he can't stop looking at Astarion. 

The elf is trancing right now, laying by his side with a cotton sheet twisted around his gangly limbs, mouth open just enough for a sharp fang to poke out against his lips. 

Pretty. Pretty stars. 

Revulsion groans and runs a hand over his face. He must still be tired if he's thinking such gruesome things. 

"Mm... awake already?" 

Revulsion's eyes snap back to Astarion, his red gaze blurred and soft. The vampire stretches, elegant, and bares his fangs in a wide yawn. For a moment, Revulsion wishes those fangs would pierce through his fragile skin. 

He looks away again. 

"This place gives me the creeps," Revulsion complains, hoping his desire isn't written in his expression. 

Astarion nods and sits up as he combs through his hair with long fingers. Revulsion finds himself tracking those fingers, though he has no idea why. 

"They really went all out in the décor, didn't they?" 

"Too much purple," agrees Revulsion.

Astarion looks at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. He blinks and stares up at the ceiling of his tent, then lets out a long sigh.

“Cazador owns a grand castle,” he explains slowly. “It’s horribly decorated, with gaudy golds and reds. His taste in artwork is definitely something to be… destroyed.”

“You want to burn the place down,” Revulsion notes.

“Oh,” Astarion looks back at him with a smirk, “you are perceptive.”

Revulsion shrugs. “I try to be. I’ll get into danger otherwise.”

Astarion's smirk widens. When he speaks, his voice is but a whisper, so low that Revulsion has to strain to hear the words. “And what, might I ask, is so dangerous about my lips that you need to be so focused on them?”

“I –”

Revulsion jolts back, eyes ripping away to the opposite end of the tent as Astarion cackles to himself in the background.

“I’m only teasing, precious thing,” Astarion coos. Revulsion sneaks a glance sideways to find the elf’s gaze already on him. He looks away. “What’s the first rule of being a rogue?”

Surprised by the question, Revulsion meets his eyes again. He rolls over onto his front, elbows propping his body up from the front rather than from behind.

“Not getting caught,” Revulsion says.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It’s that you take what you want.” 

Revulsion has never felt right in his body. It took him a while to realise why - to realise that disgust lingers, fetid, under his skin - and he doesn't have the strength to flood it out. He tries his hardest to divert the feeling into others; if he's nauseated by others, he can't possibly be with himself. 

It doesn't work. 

No matter how hard he tries, how strong his hatred is for the world around him, Revulsion can only be disgusted with himself. Body, actions, soul. When he was younger and the thoughts began, he believed he was cursed. If he was to be cursed, then why not curse others too? He can brew wrath and revulsion through taking what isn't his with greedy hands and a sly touch. His mind is a constant whirr of words and plans, fingers reaching for magic like its power is a coin from a purse.

Stealing doesn’t feel like this, though. Stealing doesn’t feel wrong or immoral, a peculiar queasiness writhing in his gut. His heart pounds loudly in his chest, beating so quickly that he can hear the sound in his ears and feel it pulsing through his chest.

Revulsion flicks his eyes away, avoiding Astarion’s heavy gaze. Astarion scoffs and shuffles closer, placing a cold hand around Revulsion’s back, his fingers grazing the base of his ribs.

“You seem stressed,” Astarion whispers. “I can help with that, darling.”

“I’m fine,” Revulsion says, voice high.

“You’re fine,” repeats Astarion slowly, “but you could feel great.”

Revulsion inhales sharply, looking at Astarion and shuddering under his lidded stare. Without waiting for a response, the elf shifts, rolling Revulsion over and swinging his own body around. He settles there, straddling Revulsion’s hips. The tiefling can feel the moment his own breath picks up, heat pooling in a now familiar way deep in his gut as Astarion rests his hands against the base of his horns, steady and controlling.

“There we go,” Astarion purrs, “right where I want you.”

Revulsion still doesn’t know what to do whenever Astarion grabs onto his horns. His instincts tell him to buck him off – to dominate rather than submit – but Astarion is no tiefling. Revulsion can’t lock horns with him and come out the winner. In this battle, he’ll always lose.

“The others will hear,” says Revulsion.

Astarion raises an eyebrow. “Then you’d better keep quiet, unless you want them to know you lay with men.”

Revulsion almost pushes him way for that. He grits his teeth and curses internally, hands flying to clutch at Astarion’s waist and dig his sharp nails into the flesh there. Astarion grins, wide and toothy, and rocks his hips back, ass meeting Revulsion’s crotch.

“S-shit…”

“Open your mouth,” orders Astarion.

Revulsion obeys before he can think to protest, breath thick against his lips as he parts them wide. He’s expecting a thumb, or perhaps a line about how he’s able to keep quiet like this, not for Astarion to open his own mouth and spit inside his.

Revulsion almost chokes in surprise, the warm saliva landing on his tongue. He swallows, mouth snapping shut. He wishes he could say it disgusts him like everything else does, but the sudden humiliation has his body heating up in an instant. Astarion smirks down at him and wraps a hand around his throat.

“I didn’t say to swallow,” he observes. Revulsion stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Open.”

Revulsion listens. This time, when Astarion spits inside his mouth, he lets his tongue tremble from the sensation yet doesn’t try to get rid of the slickness. He watches Astarion, cautious, and fights to still his body against the continuous, gentle rocking of the vampire’s body against his.

“Swallow.”

A jolt runs through Revulsion’s spine. He gasps as he obeys, hands gripping onto Astarion like he’s the one who will bring him salivation.

The stars create sin. I do not quake with sin.

Revulsion shakes his head at the thought, dislodging Astarion’s hand from his left horn and making him bring it to join the other at his throat.

The stars create sin. I know of sin. I do not indulge in it.

Revulsion opens his mouth before Astarion even says anything. The vampire pauses and looks down at him in surprise, gazing upon his waiting tongue like he doesn’t understand.

“Fuck, a-again,” Revulsion heaves. His whole body burns, trousers too tight against his heavy cock. He squirms under Astarion, desperation clawing at the pits of his stomach. “Do it again. Come on.”

“Gods,” groans Astarion, “what in the hells did I do to deserve you?”

Astarion presses a thumb to Revulsion’s lower lip, silently demanding he open his mouth again. Revulsion does so without hesitation; this time, Astarion lets a trail of spit run from his tongue to Revulsion, only letting it snap when he dives down and forces their mouths together.

Revulsion swallows down Astarion’s fierce kisses, surging forward and pushing his tongue into the elf’s mouth. He can’t breathe against the other man, yet pleasure courses through him in a low pulse, mimicking a heartbeat.

“Y-you’re –” Astarion breaks apart to look down at Revulsion, eyes wild and intensely present. “And you aren’t even – I’ve never been in control like this. You’re just –” Revulsion’s hips jerk upward, startling Astarion back in a firm rocking motion. “You’re just letting me – mmh – do what I want.”

“Don’t-t get cocky,” bites Revulsion. His next words are silenced with another consuming kiss, teeth clanking together.

Astarion pulls away, gasping as he shifts. Their clothed cocks press against each other, the slow grind quickening with each steady rock. Revulsion grits his teeth together, vision blurry. The racing thoughts in his mind slow to a dull thrum, disgust overtaken by burning pleasure as Astarion swallows down his remaining guilt like it’s sweet blood.

The hands on his throat are firm. Possessive. They feel more like a brand than a sensual touch, and Revulsion finds himself leaning into them, wishing Astarion’s fingers were the mark against his skin, not the Absolute’s.

Heat sears Revulsion’s body, shooting across his skin like an arrow. He cries out, a choking noise that becomes a strangled moan when Astarion puts pressure onto his neck.

Not the Absolute’s?

“G-good, good,” pants Astarion, “good fucking boy.”

He licks his lips, staring down and continuing to grind his hips into Revulsion’s. The pleasure twists after a moment, sending Revulsion keening and trying to get away.

Not the Absolute’s?

“No, no, you don’t get to cum and not help me out, pet.”

Vile. Vile! Disgusting thing. Not the Absolute’s?

Revulsion coughs, gasping and pushing Astarion away. What is he doing? Why is he succumbing to such hideous temptations as this? Why is he – why did he, for a second, believe that Astarion’s hands feel better than the Absolute’s embrace?

Not the Absolute’s? Traitor. Heathen? Heathen.

I deserve such a name as mine.

“Stop,” snaps Revulsion suddenly, “stop it, stop it!”

Astarion’s gaze melts into something Revulsion can’t name as he scrambles away, skittering into the corner of the tent. He feels like a coward, hiding in the darkness and shocked silence, but he can’t bring himself to do much more. Astarion watches him as if he’s a scared animal, the vampire’s body low to the ground, careful as the arousal drains from his eyes.

“What the actual hells was that?” Astarion speaks slowly, each word sounding bitter on his tongue.

“I gotta…” Revulsion sighs and stands. “Fuck this shit.”

He’s off and out of the tent in the next second, skin prickling from the sudden cold as he escapes the warm confines of Astarion’s tent. He pauses when he gets to the outskirts of their makeshift camp and looks back. The five tents, arranged in a neat circle, look peaceful. Astarion hasn’t followed Revulsion out, and it soothes his prickly self-hatred.

“Stupid…”

Revulsion continues muttering to himself as he makes his way to the edge of the floor they’ve taken up. He looks down, the rest of the Gauntlet yawning back at him, broken rock and cracked ledges watching his every move. He watches them back, quiet.

Sighing, Revulsion sits down, letting his feet dangle over the edge of the platform. He wonders what would happen if he rolled over – if he dropped from the ledge and into nothingness. He doesn’t suppose anyone would miss him, not that he cares much about others in return.

Revulsion’s hands grip the thick rock of the ledge; he swings his legs back, feeling nothing beneath him. Slowly, he shuffles forward and looks down, a darkness tinted with purple swirling around him.

“You good there, soldier?”

Revulsion jumps and whips his head around. Oh, he thinks to himself, he had forgotten Karlach was on watch. Revulsion shrugs in answer to her question and quickly looks down at himself, covering his crotch with the bottom of his blouse. The other tiefling thuds over, collapsing onto the floor next to him and crossing her legs like a child.

“Soldier?”

Revulsion blinks and looks away, avoiding her curious gaze. “I’m fine,” he says, “just can’t sleep.”

Karlach hums, clearly thinking hard. “Usually, I’d say that you can talk to me about anything, but you don’t like sharing stuff about yourself, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Not even with your kin?”

Revulsion scoffs and looks at Karlach, glaring up at her wide, teasing grin. He reaches over to hit her arm, making her dramatically clutch at the place where he touched, feigning a great injury. Despite himself, Revulsion chuckles.

“You know I don’t care about kin,” Revulsion mumbles.

“Okay,” says Karlach, drawing the word out, “then how about telling me as your friend?”

“We aren’t damn friends.”

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Sure, Soul.”

Not my name.

“Fuck off.”

A long pause, the only sound Karlach’s heartbeat thudding dully inside her glowing chest.

“So, are you gonna tell me what’s the matter or what?”

“Holy hells, would you just –”

Revulsion stops. He looks at Karlach as she looks at him, confusion marring her gentle smile. Gentle. Too gentle. Horrible.

Why should he not share what happened with Karlach? The Absolute has given Revulsion the task of joining this group of traitors, for whatever unknown reason She has. When Revulsion spoke with Disciple Tu’larne, he had never expected to meet the Absolute Herself. In person. In real life. Her gift to him was untold deception, and although it intrigues Revulsion to no end to wonder why She gave such power to him, he doesn’t want to abuse it. He doesn’t want to weave a tapestry of lies without cause.

So why not speak a few truths amongst the lies? What is the worst that could happen? Anything, in his opinion, is better than despising his own skin because Astarion touches it too freely. Anything to survive, he reminds himself. Anything to win.

“I thought to myself that I would rather have another brand than the Absolute’s on me,” Revulsion says slowly. “That thought terrified me – it still does, now that I say it aloud.” He scowls, nails digging into his palms. “Such blasphemy sounds punishable by death.”

Karlach watches him, lips pursed. Cautiously, she reaches out a hand and tugs on Revulsion’s sleeve.

“Let’s get away from the ledge, yeah?”

Revulsion nods, following her back several paces. When they drop back onto the ground again, Karlach sighs and runs a hand through her hair.

“Listen, we all do care about you, soldier,” she states. “Fangs has been the calmest I’ve ever seen him since you arrived and that’s saying something. We’ll help you however we can, even if we need to rip out that stupid brainwashing they did straight from your skull.”

“I’d rather not have any cranium damage done to me.”

“Cranium?”

“Nevermind,” huffs Revulsion. “But anyway, Astarion doesn’t bloody care about me. He just wants protection from his big bad vampire master.”

“Nah,” Karlach chirps, “he didn’t try to kill you when we brought you into camp. He only attacked coz you did, and if my memory’s correct, he’s the one who wanted you as a hostage. He likes you. Big time.”

“He keeps threatening to kick me out,” argues Revulsion, temper inching upwards.

Karlach gives him a shit-eating grin. “He killed me when he first saw me, so I’d say you’re winning right now.”

Revulsion opens his mouth to oppose Karlach, then stops. His glare twists into a baffled look, half-smiling, half-scowling.

“He… killed you?”

Karlach barks out a laugh and nods merrily. “I was forced into the Blood War for, like, ten years, and when I finally escaped via mind flayers, Zariel’s cronies tried coming after me.” She sniffs and rubs at her chest, mood dimming slightly. “Turns out her so-called paladins found these guys before me and thought they needed to kill me to get rid of a devil.” Revulsion cringes away. “I know right. Calling a tiefling a devil. Original, huh?”

Revulsion looks Karlach up and down. “So, Astarion killed you for that.”

“Yep. Well, Astarion and Lae’zel, but yeah, he did most of the damage.”

“But you’re alive now.”

“Yeah! Gale felt bad for me and made Lae’zel drag my body to Withers.” She wriggles where she’s sat, clearly pleased. “Withers revived me! Ain’t that great?”

“Uh, sure, great.”

“Yup! And – well – wait, what were we talking about again?”

Revulsion sneers at the barbarian, unimpressed by her forgetfulness. “How you all care about me, or some sappy shit like that.”

“Oh right,” hums Karlach, “yeah, well, we do and me getting revived is proof that people can change their minds and do better the second time! You’ve spent ages in Moonrise, soldier, so of course you’re still gonna be unsure about all this ‘Absolute is trash’ nonsense.” She places a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go. “You’ll get there one day; I believe in you.”

Revulsion’s frown doesn’t lessen, his skin crawling at the sight of her wretched hope. His mind whispers disgust to him, no matter how much he tries to push it away.

“Sure,” he says instead of voicing those thoughts, “thanks.”

Astarion is avoiding him. Revulsion keeps trying to meet his gaze but finds that those red eyes are slipping away from his before he can hold contact. It sets Revulsion’s nerves on-edge, moreso than they already are.

“Oi.”

Astarion hunches his shoulders and continues walking.

“Oi, Star.”

More walking away.

Revulsion groans and jogs to keep up, only slowing down when he’s by Astarion’s side. The elf rolls his eyes and raises his chin, stubbornly looking forward.

“Star, look,” begins Revulsion, pushing a pleading tone into his words, “I didn’t mean to run off like that.” No answer. “I freaked out, that’s all.”

“I can imagine…”

Astarion starts, eyes widening for a second as if he didn’t mean to speak aloud. His posture straightens even further, and his pace quickens. Revulsion matches his speed, immediately going toe-to-toe with the other rogue.

“Come on,” begs Revulsion, “I just – the Absolute – I – my brain’s fucked up and –”

Astarion stops, making Revulsion stumble and come to a stop beside him. The vampire draws in a deep breath and turns to him, looking his face over with a critical eye.

“You look like an utter mess, my dear,” he says flatly. “I would have thought that using me solely for your own pleasure would put you at ease.”

Revulsion’s pathetic performance comes crashing down, a scowl darkening his expression in an instant.

“My own pleasure?” He looks to the ceiling, exasperated. “You idiot, I don’t know how to handle things like that. I don’t know how to handle –” he pauses, waving his hands between the two of them wildly, “– whatever this is. You think that I would manipulate you over something so small as pleasure?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know anything about you, not even your name.”

“My name,” Revulsion blurts out, voice booming through the hallway.

Astarion’s mouth opens, words failing to exit as they both stare at one another, tension in the air. Revulsion didn’t mean to sound like that, like the whispering voices in his mind shouting for the world’s attention. He takes a faltering step backward, venom on his tongue.

“Right,” says Astarion, “your name.” He seems uncertain then, like he isn’t sure how to move on from Revulsion’s outburst. “I’m going to… right…”

Astarion turns and begins walking again, hurrying after the rest of the group. Revulsion curses and rushes after him, heaving out words as he goes.

“Look, my point is is that I like you,” do not give in to temptation, “and I don’t want to upset you because I’m irritational or whatever. Not to sound cliché, but it really fucking is me, not you.”

“Oh, darling, I knew it was you,” tuts Astarion. “I was simply waiting until you realised that as well.”

“I –”

“Soul.” Revulsion freezes. Astarion’s eyes dig into him, burning through his mind until all he can see are lethal rubies. “So long as you listen to me and let me keep control, then all will be fine and dandy. You’re in this group to help us, to please me, and to protect me. Understand?”

Revulsion stamps down upon the urge to snap back. He reminds himself that everything will go according to the Absolute’s plan in the end, and the thought soothes him. The tiefling nods, posture easing into simple acceptance. From the look in Astarion’s eyes, it seems as though Revulsion is agreeing with him. In the midst of the swirling chaos of Revulsion’s mind, however, he’s knows who is truly in charge of his decisions.

“Of course,” he says smoothly, “you know I only want to help you, Star.”

“Good.” Astarion leans forward, pressing a kiss to Revulsion’s lips. “Now, let’s go see if we can find anything in this madness or if Gale has decided we need to return to Last Light and get some Harpers to come along.”

“Will I finally see Last Light if he has decided that?”

Astarion considers this, a thoughtful smirk upon his face. “Yes, you’ve been good enough. I suppose I’ll put in a good word for you, my sweetest little darling.”

Chapter Text

“The Gauntlet goes deeper than we can possibly imagine. How are we meant to find Balthazar if we’re trying to not get lost at the same time? You’re making no sense.”

“It would be most foolish to abandon our current progress. Forgive my boorishness, but I cannot trust that you would have any semblance of comprehension concerning the matter of adventuring.”

“Maybe not, but I have plenty of comprehension about shoving my boot up your ass.”

Astarion laughs, high-pitched and wavery, as he steps closer to Soul. He places a hand against his arm, drawing his eyes back to the vampire with a sudden jerk.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t irritate the man who could Fireball us into the stratosphere,” Astarion titters.

Soul glares at him, yanking his arm out of Astarion’s grip with a harsh motion. Gale raises an eyebrow when the tiefling stomps up to him and shoves a finger in his calm face.

“I don’t give a shit whether you think you’re in charge or not,” spits Soul, “you’ve been making bad decisions all day.”

“In your view,” says Gale coolly.

“In everyone’s view!” The rest of the group shift uncomfortably around the pair, Halsin opening his mouth like he wants to speak before shutting it, a hand going to his chin instead. “Let’s be real,” continues Soul, “you’re human. You don’t have proper darkvision and you’re blinded by ego.”

“Okay,” interrupts Karlach, eyes narrow with irritation, “let’s not get into racial stuff, hey?”

From this angle, Astarion can’t see Soul’s face, but he can picture the way he rolls his eyes and huffs.

“Gods, I mean he’s a wizard so he’s got the world’s biggest ego and thinks he’s smarter than everyone,” Soul corrects. “And he has bad eyesight because – duh – human.”

“Wow, you are indeed rather observant,” Gale chimes, sarcasm dripping from each honeyed word. “Allow me to ask, if I may, what your improved plan of action is? Howabout should we endeavour to explore instead?”

Soul leans back on one leg, arms crossed and fists clenched. “We need more eyes, for a start. Even another mutt would help us more.”

Scratch whines at Halsin’s feet, seemingly understanding the insult thrown his way. Astarion sighs and is about to tell the druid to leave Scratch with Withers as they’ve been doing time and time again, when Gale opens his talkative mouth.

“We have no more hounds.”

“I thought you guys have friends here. There’s a safehouse somewhere, isn’t there?”

Oh. Clever thing. Astarion’s lips curl into a smirk, amusement bubbling inside his chest. It’s obvious to him what Soul is doing, so curious is he to see what Last Light Inn is like that he’s practically begging to be led to it. Astarion can’t blame him; the inn provides one of the only sources of safety and light in the entirety of the Cursed Lands. It makes sense that Soul would want to see it for himself, rather than spy its tempting light from a distance like he has done so before.

“A fine idea, actually,” says Astarion. Soul glances at him over his shoulder, his vicious scowl softening into subtle appreciation. “Those Harpers aren’t doing anything but lazing about. I’m sure they’d be grateful to have something to do.”

Mumbles of agreement echo around the group, Lae’zel nodding firmly.

“The Harpers are foolish warriors, to lie in wait when a plan of attack is needed,” she declares with a stamp of her foot. “Wizard,” Gale looks to her with a hum, “we shall return to the Selunite’s base and prepare for combat in this godsforsaken place.” She mutters something in Githyanki under her breath.

“Well, I don’t think we need to fight anyone,” says Soul. “We just need more people to help us find Balthazar.”

“And when we discover the necromancer’s location and gather what knowledge we require of him, he shall be slaughtered,” decides Lae’zel. She grits her teeth and wraps a hand around the handle of her greatsword. “There is no other choice to be made.”

Astarion and Karlach make eye contact, the barbarian’s eyes twinkling with barely suppressed laughter. The two of them have joked about how Lae’zel is always eager for battle, and it seems that feeling hasn’t lessened since then.

“We’ll think about that later,” Karlach says, soothing some of Lae’zel’s aggression.

With that, Halsin begins leading the way, tracking their path back to the surface and pausing every so often to let Scratch sniff something interesting. It doesn’t take long for Soul to find his way back to Astarion’s side, temper dulled now that he isn’t fighting with Gale.

“He fucking hates me,” Soul grumbles under his breath, gaze focused on the human several metres ahead of them.

“You hate everyone in turn,” counters Astarion.

“Don’t hate you.”

The words are said so quietly that Astarion thinks for a second that he mishears them. When he glances at Soul, however, he sees the faintest blush under the dim light of the corridor.

“I – well – that’s…” Astarion looks away before Soul can make eye contact. His body suddenly feels lighter, quicker, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that. “That’s sweet of you,” he manages to say.

Soul seems more earnest lately, Astarion thinks to himself. Ever since leaving Moonrise for the second time with him, there’s this honesty about Soul that Astarion can’t quite understand. He doesn’t appear to lie much anymore – or perhaps he’s grown so good at lying that even Astarion can’t tell – and his manipulations are so miniscule in comparison to Astarion’s.

Astarion tells himself that he doesn’t care about how Soul acts, but there’s something small and unknown lingering inside his chest, hidden by hatred and fear. Not that – not that I’m scared or anything. Don’t be ridiculous. Astarion simply doesn’t know how to navigate whatever is happening with Soul; manipulating someone over long periods of time is clearly far more difficult than coercing a stupid, drunk person down at the Blushing Mermaid to follow him home. It takes patience and tact and avoidance of the feelings trying to stir inside himself.

Last night didn’t help. Astarion’s mind was more present, his blurry vision not so blurry. He felt in control, a sensation he hasn’t experienced since before he can remember. It was jarring, now that he thinks about it, and he wouldn’t hate doing it again. As a test. Only as a test. He needs to see if the pleasant feeling swathed in agonising discomfort was a fluke or real. He needs to know how to forget about the hands on his skin and instead focus on keeping his mind and body intact. Cazador hasn’t ruined Astarion yet, and he won’t ruin his current freedom either.

“Yeah, whatever,” grumbles Soul, interrupting Astarion’s spiralling thoughts, “don’t bloody call me ‘sweet.’”

“You are though, when you want to be.”

Soul gives him a hideous side-eye, so disgusted that Astarion feels a bubble of laughter burst from his lips. His amusement makes Soul even more disdainful, and the tiefling picks up his walking speed. Astarion quickly follows.

They walk together in silence for a while, staying at the back of the group as per usual, watching the others track their way back to the entrance of the Gauntlet. Without meaning to, they’ve all organised themselves into in a formation they only occasionally break when exploring.

Gale and Halsin walk at the front, the druid’s wary eye and keen awareness of nature ensuring they don’t get too lost. Gale (egotistical bastard that he is) is admittedly excellent when it comes to reflexively attacking. His hands spew fire without a second-thought, and the crackling energy through his veins serves him well when he wishes to be threatening. Unfortunately, Scratch, bounding around the entire group and usually finding his way back to Gale and Halsin, lessens the threatening energy by quite a lot.

Lae’zel sticks close behind them, a hand constantly on the handle of her sword, ready to leap forward and defend the human and elf in front of her. Karlach walks at least two metres behind, keeping herself entertained by dancing every so often as she walks, her flames roaring up when she’s too stationary. Large backpacks never seems to slow Karlach and Lae’zel, and Astarion is grateful that the barbarian is foolishly kind enough to carry his things for him. She provides a beckon of light for everyone to follow if they’re separated as well, so it’s only natural Karlach stays in the centre.

Astarion and Soul consistently remain far away, right at the back of the group and just out of earshot of the front three people. Astarion has sharp senses and quick legs – the perfectly trained assassin ready to shoot wherever he needs to. Soul is slower, but he seems to notice things. He fell short the other day when he stepped on the plate trap yet realised a way to escape far faster than Astarion could have. If there’s an ambush awaiting the group, the two rogues at the back are the ones who will notice first, despite their distance from the point of attack. Astarion would be the one to kill. Soul would be the one to know what to do with their bodies.

“We work well together,” Astarion says into the thick quiet of the Gauntlet.

“Do we now?”

Astarion meets Soul’s firm gaze with a nod. “You adapt to different situations very well. Do you remember when you learnt how to use my shortbow in less than ten seconds? I hone my existing skills until they’re flawless, but you learn constantly. It’s… intriguing.”

Soul frowns, as he always does. He considers Astarion for a moment, then says, “you keep complimenting me. Why?”

Astarion bristles, matching Soul’s frown with his own. “I’m simply talking about our abilities, darling. If I wanted to compliment you, I’d mention your looks. Gods know that’s the only decent thing about you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you flatter me,” replies Soul in a mocking voice.

“As I always do,” Astarion snaps back.

“Ah, so you do flatter and compliment me, then.”

Astarion’s eyes go wide. “Well, no –”

“I thought so,” says Soul, a smirk tugging at his lips, “thank you.”

“I – that isn’t –”

Soul glances in front of them while Astarion sputters out some sort of response.

“The mutt is growling,” Soul says over the elf’s words.

Astarion looks ahead, spying Scratch off to the side, head ducked low as he snarls at something in the corner. The rest of the group carry on, not noticing the hound’s attention focused elsewhere. Without a word, Astarion and Soul slip their blades from their sheaths and come to a stop.

“Rat.” Soul nods at Astarion’s observation. “It’s nothing, then.” 

Discomfort crawls under Astarion's skin. Rats are ordinary, he tells himself, they don't mean anything. He doesn't think of bloated bodies swimming in their own fetid juices, served to him on a gold-gilded plate under Cazador's shadow. He doesn't. He doesn't. The small creature who has captured Scratch's ire can be easily destroyed, so therefore it means nothing. Astarion could kill the palm-sized thing with a quick stab of a dagger. He could. Definitely. 

He should. 

Soul raises his sword-wielding hand toward the two animals in the corner. “He still doesn’t seem happy about it,” he murmurs.

“The damn beast doesn’t like rodents,” says Astarion. 

For a second, he wonders if Soul knows he isn't talking about Scratch. What would the tiefling think, if he realised that Astarion fights down vomit at the sight of that furry body? Would he laugh? Would he kill the pesky thing for him? 

“Another rat.”

“Whe – oh, yes.” Astarion swallows, throat gunky around the words. "Two. Great." 

Scratch barks. The sound echoes through the dark corridor, making Lae’zel whip her head around. She narrows her eyes and stops, alerting the others to the pause. Astarion kisses his teeth and wills his legs forward, steady and careful, until he’s at Scratch’s side. His eyes stick to the dog's ears, refusing to trail to the rats beneath him. 

“Come,” he orders. Scratch looks up at him, then back at the two rats squeaking at his paws. “Come, Scratch. Heel.”

Astarion doesn’t realise Soul has followed him until the tiefling whispers next to his ear, voice cautious.

“Okay,” he says, “let’s back away from the rats.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Astarion reaches out to Scratch, aiming for his collar. “Come, Scratch. I-I don’t like rats either, so we need to leave.”

“Just so you’re aware,” Soul undertones slowly, “those aren’t rats.”

Astarion halts, hand outstretched. “What?”

“I don’t know. There’s some sort of magic around them. Dark. Trickster magic.”

Astarion takes a deep breath, scenting the damp air. He can’t sense anything magical or out of the ordinary, and the tiny rodents sniffing and showing their teeth don’t seem to be anything but rats.

Dirty. Putrid. Fat with disease. 

Delicious. 

“Scratch.” The dog looks at Astarion and whines, tail wagging low to the ground. “Heel.”

This time, he listens. Soul reaches down and grabs onto Scratch’s collar before the hound can change his mind, and leads him exactly five steps away, both of their bodies tense. Astarion gives the rats once last glance, noting how they’re calmer without a huge dog leering over them, and trails after Soul as he guides Scratch to the others. The vile sensation in his gut weakens with distance; Astarion shakes off the feeling, collecting himself with a mask of perfection. 

“Those rats were magical,” says Soul, addressing Gale.

The wizard hums, thoughtful. “Indeed. There is a plethora of latent magic in this grand place. We must investigate on our return.”

“Fucking duh.”

“I truly do aspire to possess your beautiful way with words, Soul.”

“Shut your –”

“Alright!” Karlach claps her hands and sidesteps the group, looking ahead of them. “Let’s get out of here before we’re swarmed by a ton of magic rats, yeah? Balthy is waiting, soldiers!”

Astarion and Soul make eye contact, snickering.

“Karlach, my dear, perhaps you’re the one with a beautiful way with words,” titters Astarion.

Grinning, Karlach winks as she rifles through her pack to pull out a short rope.

“Thanks, Fangs!” She begins tying one end of the rope to Scratch’s collar, making a temporary lead. “Reading is boring and hard, so I get all my knowledge from devils in the hells. Cool, right?”

Karlach’s words trigger a waterfall of protests from Lae’zel, and a thousand questions from Gale. Astarion scoffs and rolls his eyes, zoning out of the conversation as they finally crawl from the chasms of the Gauntlet and back into the thick darkness of the curse.

“Does Karlach ever shut up?”

Astarion tuts at Soul. “Do you?”

“You love me really.”

Astarion looks Soul up and down. His smirk is slow, self-assured, as it spreads like water across his face.

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Soul’s expression twitches slightly, just enough to show he knows Astarion is talking about last night. About the way Soul ran off and likely slept without a bedroll, too embarrassed to come slithering back to Astarion. The tiefling looks away after a second, shoulders tight, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the journey.

Isobel doesn’t look dead. Astarion doesn’t know what dead people ought to look like, and she doesn’t look like a corpse, nor does she look like him. So, she can’t be dead.

Unless it’s really good magic. Astarion scrunches his nose up and shakes his head at himself. He watches as Isobel and Jaheira interrogate Soul, asking him question upon question about Moonrise and the tadpoles.

“I didn’t fucking know about the tadpoles until these guys kidna – rescued me,” Soul is insisting. “I can tell you where Moonrise is and that’s basically it.”

“And… and Ketheric,” says Isobel, “did you meet him?”

Soul raises an eyebrow, tail flicking near his feet. “Yeah, of course. Intimidating guy.”

“Good. Then you know how important it is that he is defeated.”

Soul nods, though the look in his eyes says he isn’t really listening anymore as Jaheira changes the conversation to the rules of staying in Last Light Inn. The other rogue turns his head, that same look on his face as he meets Astarion’s gaze and cocks his head to the side. Astarion mimics the gesture, silently asking what he wants.

‘Isobel?’ comes Soul’s silent, mouthed query. It’s clear he remembers the name from the open Thorm tomb, and Astarion gives up on ignoring the possibility of Isobel being undead. He steps forward, drawing the two women’s attention.

“… so don’t break any of the protective – oh no…” Jaheira stops her tirade and crosses her arms. “I don’t like that look in your eyes, Astarion. Come, what is it? Asking for another cattle to feed from?”

“Jaheira, please,” gasps Astarion with a hand to his chest, “who do you think I am, to take food from the needy?” Jaheira gives him an unimpressed scowl. “Alright, well, Soul and I found something rather interesting in the –”

“A private conversation would probably be best,” interrupts Soul suddenly. He pointedly glances around the room, the calm ground floor still hosting tables of chattering people. “It might not be something Isobel wants to be shared.”

“Right, of course,” agrees Astarion.

Isobel shifts uneasily and wraps her glittering armoured robes tighter around herself. She looks like a cocooned barn owl in the dim light of the Inn, the moonlight only reflective in her silver-streaked hair. Her dark makeup makes her babyface seem rounder than it actually is, and in the moment, she looks a lot like an unprotected animal rather than the cleric of a moon goddess.

“I’m sure whatever you need to say can be said in the company of the people here,” Isobel chirps. “They likely aren’t listening, after all.”

Astarion looks to the heavens for patience, then back down at the cleric. “Have you ever been to the Thorm Mausoleum, Isobel?”

Her shifting stops. “No, why? Gale explained that you all found it. Well done, I’ll say.”

“Are you quite certain you’ve never been in that family’s tomb?”

Isobel goes silent, watching Astarion as though he’ll spew something even more accusatory than that. The rest of their group are elsewhere, each of them talking and gathering supplies and people. Perhaps it’s a good thing that it’s only Astarion and Soul, the two people who noticed the ‘Isobel Thorm’ inscription. The less people who suspect something foul afoot, the less distrust there is in the cleric who protects them all. Though it would be hilarious if everyone turned on her.

“Let’s go upstairs,” suggests Isobel, voice strained. “Jaheira, you stay h – you – okay, you should come too.”

Isobel’s room looks the same as it has always done, with its neatly placed flowers and organised rows of colour-coded books in clean cabinets. Nothing is out of order, especially not her altar to Selune that stands peacefully on the balcony, its offerings visible through the open doorway. Light which can only be born from the moon shines brightly onto the stone there, piercing through the darkness in a way Astarion hasn’t seen in months. He automatically moves towards it, transfixed, before a grey-white hand reaches out to urge him to stay still.

Astarion glances at Soul’s face, the tiefling’s own eyes focused solely on Isobel. If not for the hand against his bicep, Astarion would assume Soul is only paying attention to the cleric. When Astarion yanks his arm away, Soul rolls his eyes and continues to stare at his target.  

“Alright,” sighs Isobel, “let’s get this over with. What’s the matter?”

“We found an empty tomb labelled ‘Isobel Thorm.’ Is that a coincidence or something else?”

Isobel’s lips part in surprise, eyes wide. “I – oh. Oh, I see.” Jaheira moves behind her, arms crossed as she watches the three of them. “I…” Isobel exhales, then seems to steel herself. “I’ll admit it then: I am indeed a Thorm. But not how you think,” she hurries to add when Astarion and Soul glare at her. “From what I understand, Ketheric, my father, brought me back to life. He turned to Shar and darkness and I never wish to be with him again.”

“Well, well, well… our precious cleric’s daddy is an evil war general,” chimes Astarion with a sly scowl. “I never thought you had it in you, darling.”

Isobel shakes her head, immediately exasperated. “I want to do everything to stop Ketheric, not to help him. He has no mercy, no morals, and it’s destroying lives in so many unimaginable ways.” Tears, crystalline and delicate, prick at her eyes. Isobel blinks, letting a droplet run down one of her cheeks before she wipes it away. “I-if darkness prevails for much longer, I’m not sure how I would be able to handle it. I-I don’t think –” She cuts herself off, eyes downcast and wet.

Astarion wants to tell Isobel to get a grip. She can’t have suffered the curse of night for longer than he has, and he hasn’t given up. Astarion has had his spirit trodden on and controlled for two centuries, yet Isobel can’t handle less than half of that while she stays safe inside her goddess’ magic. Isobel has deluded herself into believing she’s suffering because she cares about others.

Astarion internally scoffs; he’s never understood the need to protect others, especially when he himself is in danger. Sure, he’s being a good person according to most of his group, and he is trying, but that doesn’t mean he has to save everybody if his own life is on the line.

“So, just to be clear, you aren’t evil,” says Soul.

Isobel laughs through a wet sniff, Jaheira’s hand coming to pat her shoulder in a firm, comforting way.

“Not unless you’re talking to my poor plants I’m trying to keep alive,” she sniffles. “But no, I’d like to think I’m not evil.”

“Isobel is one of the best of us,” agrees Jaheira. “Without her, we’d all be lost to the curse, no hope of saving this land nor the next.”

“Okay, this is boring if you aren’t evil, then,” Soul drawls.

Astarion presses a hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter. Jaheira, on the other hand, is obnoxious as she guffaws at Soul’s words. After giving Isobel a once-over to check she’s no longer crying, the druid strides over to Soul and gives him an appraising look.

“Do you find villains funny?”

Soul shrugs, looking uninterested. “If they’re stupid, I suppose.”

“I would have thought you would relate to those kinds of villains,” teases Astarion.

Soul presses his lips together. His expression tenses in a way that shows he’s hiding laughter, chest spasming a few times when he chokes down a chuckle. Something light sparks inside Astarion’s lungs, and suddenly the world feels brighter. Astarion dims the second the tiefling’s laughter fades, the image of Soul grinning at his friend in Moonrise flooding his mind. The feeling inside Astarion twists, bitter, and he looks away, blinking hard.

“Good.” The two men look towards Isobel, her eyes dry and that small, graceful smile of hers back on her face. “I’m glad you’re here, new True Soul.” Soul jerks his chin up in acknowledgement. “And I apologise for the confusion over my tomb. You can imagine that it isn’t my favourite piece of information to share, nevermind having to hear of the goings-on in Moonrise.”

Astarion waves a hand, half-dismissive, half-reassuring. “Nonsense. We were only checking if you were dead or not, that’s all.”

“Were we?”

“Yes, Soul, we were.”

“Pfft.”

Jaheira sighs, though the sound is fond. “Whatever your reason, please enjoy your few hours here. When you are ready to brave the darkness again, my Harpers will be ready.”

Soul nods and bounces on his heels for several seconds. “Great! I knew I came to the right place for my holiday.” Laughter ripples through the room, soft and appreciative of the humour. “I know, I’m fucking hilario–”

Somebody is shouting downstairs.

Astarion’s head snaps to the side, ears pricked as he listens to the outside world. The room thickens with apprehension, building and building as more voices join the fray. Jaheira storms across the room, heading straight for the closed door. Just as she’s about to open it, a tiny knock is heard from the landing. The doorhandle rattles – a nervous, shy sound – and Jaheira swings the door open, eyes fierce.

A small tiefling girl stands there, doe eyes wide and glimmering with orange flame. She wiggles on the spot, then turns her pout into a harsh frown.

“You said nobody should fight here,” the child declares.

“I did, Ide,” Jaheira replies tersely.

“So, why are Karlach and the Blade fighting?”

Chapter Text

“… fiend!”

“Fuck off!”

The air in the courtyard is loaded with thick clouds, a storm brewing through the quiet before it. Tension weaves its way around the drawn weapons, the scent of rage and rain infiltrating Astarion’s steady breathing. Two figures stand in the middle of the storm, their gazes piercing and aflame with overwhelming wrath. Their bodies are frozen, too furious to turn away yet too cautious to attack, wary of the Harpers around them who will stop their clash before the rain can thunder down.

“I will not let you endanger the people here.”

“I’m not endangering anyone!”

Karlach tosses her greataxe from her left hand to her right, shifting her fingers along the handle to get a better grip. Towering over the man three metres away from her, Karlach looks every bit the hells’ prisoner that she once was, flames crackling against her skin, lips twisted into an ugly grimace. Metal in her outfit burns red hot from her anger, leather curling at the edges, threatening to break. Her tail flicks from side to side, catlike in nature but monstrous in every other way.

The man is human. Plain. Unassuming. Cheaply dressed with hair braided in a way that suggests he needs to redo the style, lest it become an even wilder mess. Nevertheless, he holds a righteous air about him, one which pierces through the oncoming storm like lightning. His posture is ramrod straight. His stance is practised and poised, rapier outstretched toward Karlach like he knows how to strike true. Scars speak of past, hard-won battles, and the stone eye whispers of determination.

Who is he, to continue onward despite such scars? What has he encountered, to know how to come out of battle alive? The Blade, as Ide called him, looks the part that the little girl heralded him with.

Astarion knows better. There’s a tremble in his free hand. His eyes are a little too alert. A little too fretful. Every adventurer knows when they’re outnumbered. It seems as though the Blade recognises it now too.

“Why the fuck,” comes a low hiss in Astarion’s ear, “do we have so many problems?” Soul groans, then adds, “I’d like just one mission, please. We can handle one task, not twenty.”

“We can handle it all,” Astarion assures, though he isn’t happy with the answer himself. “Or rather, I can. Here, look, I’ll handle it now.”

Soul gives him a curious look; Astarion throws a smirk his way and begins slinking over to the storm in the centre of the yard.

The people at Last Light like Astarion. He’s heard the rumours when he’s sneaking around while most are asleep. They find him obnoxious yet charming, with his wide smiles and cocky tone. The adults – Harpers and refugees alike – believe him to be amusing at the very least and a nuisance at the most. He vaguely remembers teaching some of the tiefling children how to steal properly back at the Emerald Grove, and based on their new collection, the tiny thieves have been using his advice. He told a Harper that her shooting was terrible and arrogantly showed her how to hit a target. She shouted at him to go away, but he later found her arrows perfectly sticking into the manakin she had been aiming for.

Overall, Astarion can trust that once he steps foot onto the grounds of Last Light Inn, his company is enjoyed. The quiet mumbles of insecurity inside his mind fade away and he grows calmer. He thinks it might be the effect of Selune’s protection.

Therefore, when Astarion walks up to the Blade, opening his mouth to spew forth some inane comment for them all to be friends, he isn’t expecting the human to turn his scowl towards him, a hand smoking with necrotic magic.

“Stay where you are,” the Blade warns.

His mismatched eyes drag over Astarion’s face, latching onto his toothy smile like there’s something interesting about it. The elf slowly lets his expression fall, covering up his fangs. There’s an air about this man that suggests he can’t be trusted with the information that Astarion is a vampire, and he curses himself for jumping into the conversation without thinking.

“Darling,” Astarion is quick to coo, “why are we fighting? Didn’t you know that this place is meant to be a safehouse?”

The Blade’s eyes jump back to Karlach, focus torn. “This Inn isn’t a safehouse while that devil tries to bring the Blood War to us.”

“Oh…” Astarion trails off, at a sudden loss for words.

“Fucking – I told you I’m not a devil!” Karlach stomps her feet, sending sparks flying through the air with the movement. “I escaped Zariel, not joined her!”

Astarion’s eyes light up, wide and understanding. “Oh! You think Karlach here is a devil.” The Blade gives him a look as if to say ‘well, duh.’ “Oh no, my friend, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Karlach throws a hand up in exasperation. “See?! Like, sure, it’s an honour to be chased by the fucking Blade of Frontiers, but it gets a little tiring after a while. Can’t you – nnh –”

The illithid parasites have given Astarion many things: freedom, sunlight, and adventure. They’ve also given him several months’ worth of paranoia and terror that his parasite would connect to someone else’s and broadcast his thoughts like a bulletin board. Such connection appears to happen then, Karlach’s desperation latching onto the Blade’s, their faces scrunching up in discomfort. The Blade’s head tilts dangerously to the side, almost as though he's trying to shake the sensation from his skull. It doesn’t work, however, not until Karlach’s parasite releases his.

A pause.

The Blade’s face is strangely blank, a flash of realisation piercing through his eyes before it disappears just as quickly. He stumbles away half a step, the magic dying in his palm and the grip on his rapier faltering. Then, the strength is back.

“No,” he decides, “no, I won’t be tricked. You mean to harm –”

Karlach’s expression droops, shedding her fury to a cool frustration. “Shit, man, I thought you wanted to do good. Look at me, seriously look at me, and tell me you think I’m a devil. That I’m working for Zariel.”

Astarion isn’t sure what exactly makes the Blade relent, his agitated anger rushing into the air to waft away some of the thunderclouds, but he relents all the same. His shoulders slump, rapier pointed towards the ground in bitter defeat. His mismatched eyes slip closed, whatever emotion behind them hidden, if only for a moment. When the Blade opens them again, relief swims within the brown eye.

“Thank the gods,” the Blade breathes out, “I thought I was going to have to traumatise these children further than they already have been.”

Karlach’s flames sputter, the grip on her axe loosening. “Ha! Like you could ever get a shot on me, Blade.” Her smile is disarming, bright and relaxed. “But who cares? Truce, eh?”

The Blade nods, sheathing his weapon. “Truce. And call me Wyll; it’s what all my friends use for me.”

He steps over to her, holding out a hand for her to shake in new companionship. Karlach backs away, reholstering her axe as her chest continues its constant glow.

“I – the fire’s a bit hotter than I’d like. I’m all for a good handshake, trust me,” she explains hesitantly. “Here, I’ll get it checked again by Dammon and we can shake hands all we want.”

The Blade – Wyll – takes this in his stride, chuckling. “Well, if the material plane can handle your heat, I think I can too.”

“Straight to flirting, huh?” The pair begin walking off, the storm above them fading into cautious sunlight. “But anyways, the story’s a wild one. You won’t believe how long I’ve…” Her voice quietens with distance, leaving only the calmness her encounter has left behind, people dawdling around as if unsure what to do now the threat has been resolved.

Astarion blinks and Soul is by his side.

“You didn’t help much, did you?”

Astarion scoffs and nudges Soul away. “Shut up. I practically had to rip them apart from one another.”

“If we have another goody-two-shoes on our team, I’m going to jump,” Soul growls out.

“Off a cliff or on the spot?” His tease isn’t appreciated by Soul, who simply glares at him. “You’re no fun,” Astarion bemoans.

“What’s fun is finding Balthazar, destroying Ketheric’s relic, and getting the fuck out of this place.” Soul shifts, uneasy. “It all gives me the creeps.”

“We still have a lot to do here; Halsin wants to continue helping Thaniel and I want to find Raphael.”

It’s the first time he’s verbalised his desire to speak with Raphael, and Astarion can tell the meaning of doing so is lost on Soul. The tiefling cocks his head, looking at him with a blank expression.

“He’s a devil who has offered to help us,” Astarion adds.

Soul rolls his eyes and straightens up. “Shit idea to deal with devils.”

“Shit idea to not use all that can be granted us. I –” Astarion falters, then says, “my dream visitor is constantly telling me to use the parasite’s powers, and I’ve been tempted once. I might be tempted again, should we come across a spare one.”

A pause.

Soul looks to the ground, suddenly very interested in a pebble near his boot. He kicks it, watching it come to a stop a few feet away. The ex-cultist follows after it, kicking it a few more feet until he’s several metres from Astarion. The elf sighs and slinks behind him, placing a foot on the rock so that Soul can no longer kick it. Soul frowns at him, stomping on Astarion’s boot for a little while before he tires of the activity. He mutters something under his breath, then addresses the man next to him.

“And did it give you more power? This spare parasite.”

Astarion shrugs. “Sometimes. I occasionally feel extremely lucky for no reason, and the damned worm is smug about it.”

“So, you feel lucky,” concludes Soul. “That’s pathetic.” His eyes flick away for a second. “Whatever. I don’t care how many tasks we have, nor whether you want to find a devil. I just need to destroy Ketheric – that’s all I care about now.”

“You care about me.”

Soul stills. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing in the slightest twitch of movement. His lips part, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth like he wants to speak but is stopping himself. Then, Soul’s eyes dart away, expression clouding over. Astarion’s hand is on the tiefling’s jaw before he even realises it, fingers gripping onto his warm skin and yanking his attention back to him.

“You care about me,” Astarion repeats, low and certain.

Soul’s response is only a sharp laugh. It erupts out of him in a putrid spark. Dangerous. Ready to be ignited with a word.

“Sure.”

Astarion’s hold tightens. He doesn’t blink, eyes fixed a little too long on Soul’s.

“What’s gotten you so worked up, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” Soul hisses. “Fuck. Off.”

“You’re a bad liar,” answers Astarion easily.

He leans forward, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of Soul’s mouth. He can feel the short inhale of breath against his skin, the air stirring around them like the storm is back.

“Hate you,” whispers Soul. He wrenches his head from Astarion’s grip and twists to face the other way, tail flicking behind him. “Don’t follow me,” he demands.

Without a glance back, Soul flees, slipping his way through the courtyard as though distance will rip the tension between them into tiny shreds.

Astarion knows better. After all, when someone’s eyes droop, half-lidded and soothed, because of your touch upon them, Astarion knows they feel the opposite of hatred.

Last Light Inn is a mess. Dilapidated and falling apart, the effects of the Shadow Curse ripping it apart prior to the Harpers’ arrival. Part of the roof has caved in in the furthest corner of the building, where nobody is allowed to go near in case they trip and accidently stake themselves on broken wood. There’s mould, black and splotchy, in several of the bedrooms, meaning the children aren’t permitted entry lest their little lungs develop infections worse than Isobel can heal. The gutters leak and dribble despite there being no rain, and the courtyard is full of cracked paving stones and weeds which crunch underfoot. The fountain no longer spouts water, no matter how hard people try to force it to do so.

Yet the light persists. The Moon-shield casts an angelic glow upon the Inn, drawing hopeful shadows across the ground in a land where shadows are morbid and constant. Beyond the shield, the world weeps, mourning the loss of the light it so craves. Selune’s protection settles on their shoulders more pleasantly than the temporary light of Moonlanterns and Dolly Thrice’s bell. It’s a reminder that they aren’t as alone as they might think.

Astarion finds Soul at the edge of the Moon-shield. It’s silent where he sits, feet barely a few inches from touching the pearlescent barrier between curse and safety. If he strains his ears, Astarion can make out the faint sound of tainted water lapping at the shoreline, marking where Halsin tore through reality to find Thaniel’s body.

Soul doesn’t react when Astarion sits down beside him. His breathing remains steady, mouth moving in soundless motions as he wordlessly thinks to himself. Astarion sniffs. Soul doesn’t blink. He simply shifts minutely, hands flexing against his elbows and knees knocking together gently as he continues to stare at the Moon-shield.

Turning his head, Astarion follows Soul’s gaze to the swirling pattern of the shield. It dances before his eyes, melting each speck of light into the other, swarming together in a sea of white and blue. There are layers to the light, every new stream of brightness overlapping the one in front of it as if eager for attention. Eager to prove it can provide safety better than its twin. Astarion raises a hand, slow and calm, towards the shield. His fingertips dip into the moonlight, a cool sensation not dissimilar to liquid swallowing his skin and sending a shiver through his spine. He idly moves his fingers, watching the light twirl around him with a smooth swish.

When he drags his hand away again, droplets of light cling to his skin for a moment, tracing the fingers like glittering water. For a split-second, the section Astarion touched seems to glow brighter, silently thanking him for giving it a chance to touch the thing it longs to protect. Then, it fades, the shield remaining as strong as ever.

Soul makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. Astarion glances at him, watching as Soul blinks at the spot he was touching. The tiefling wiggles his head slightly, then continues looking straight ahead of him. Slowly, Astarion exhales. He leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting them brush the air before the shield.

“You’ve picked a good place to sit,” Astarion hums quietly. His voice fills the air in a featherlike way, gentle against the glow of the shield. “It’s quiet here.”

Soul doesn’t answer.

Pressing his lips together, Astarion looks back at the Moon-shield. He zones out, the light spilling in heaps across his vision until it’s all he can see, mind strangely blank.

“That human has a parasite in his head.”

Soul’s voice is so quiet that Astarion isn’t sure he even spoke. He looks at the tiefling, waiting with bated breath for more. When he isn’t given anything else, Astarion nods.

“Seems he is,” he murmurs.

“Have you seen him before?”

Astarion raises an eyebrow, confused by the question. After searching his brain for memories of Karlach’s opponent, he shakes his head.

“No, although I’ve met many people like him, all keen on helping but never doing much in the way of heroics.”

Soul’s tongue darts out to lick at his lips, pressing against the corner of his mouth for a second before he lets out a deep, exhausted-sounding sigh.

“I think I’ve met him before,” he confesses. Astarion gives him a surprised look that goes ignored as Soul carries on staring at the Moon-shield. “He looked younger and had an eyepatch.” His right hand lifts to cover his eye, then lowers it. “He called himself Wyll. I guessed it might be the same person, that’s all.”

Astarion lets the words hang in the air; he buries him inside his chest, holding onto the scrap of information like it’ll give him power over the man beside him. Or comfort. Astarion pushes away that particular thought before it can progress.

“Did you two get along?” He asks instead of diving into his own mind.

“Can’t remember,” says Soul. “We probably didn’t.” He licks his lips again and, finally, meets Astarion’s gaze. “He’s way too nice for me to like.”

“Men like him only care about how they look,” Astarion agrees. “I can guarantee that when push comes to shove, our little Blade won’t help those who need it.”

Soul frowns even as he nods. “He only made friends with Karlach because people were watching.”

“Perhaps we should be careful to make sure that he doesn’t kill her when we've have turned our backs,” muses Astarion, concern creeping like a plague into his voice.

“Karlach told me you killed her when you first met her,” Soul says coolly. “The skeleton revived her.” Astarion nods, snorting out a laugh at the memory. “What’s the point in worrying about death if it just revives people again?”

A sharp twinge of pain shoots up Astarion’s arms. He moves, lifting his weight off of his hands to get comfortable again.

“I suppose if all of us were to die, Withers wouldn’t feel like bringing us back,” answers Astarion after some consideration. “Why do you ask?”

A shrug. “Would you bring me back if I died? If I did jump?”

“What sort of question is that?”

Soul curls his lip in annoyance. “Answer it, fuckface.”

Astarion harrumphs, unable to hide the smirk the comment creates. “New nickname. I like it.”

“Star –”

“Of course I’d bring you back,” Astarion interrupts. “Who else would I bother if not you?”

He’s deflecting. Hard. It’s obvious in the way he laughs too loudly – too arrogantly – and in the way he throws his head back to not look Soul in the eye. If Soul thinks about it for more than one second, he’ll realise the truth as well. Astarion has all but forgotten about his trade of obedience for one possession, and he now calls Soul normal petnames rather than degrading ones. He’s quieter when Soul is around, more willing to talk instead of flirt, and Astarion wonders if those around him have noticed his slipups.

“You could bother literally anyone else,” Soul argues. “You have the face for it.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

They fall into silence. Soul’s gaze returns to the Moon-shield, the toe of his boots inching forward until they collide with the dancing light, its shine licking at the hard leather as though curious of the taste.

“This is a weird ass question,” Soul begins, “but what makes a person good? Why is that Wyll guy…” he trails off, not finishing his sentence.

Astarion shrugs to himself, unhelpful. “You’re asking the wrong person that. Why do you ask?”

“Dunno.” Soul takes in a long, hissing breath through his teeth. “I suppose I feel bad for those worthless fucks who still think the Absolute is a god. They think they’re all doing the right thing, following the voice in their heads. They don’t know what’s really going on, so are they bad people? They’re doing what’s proper ‘n shit. In their eyes, at least.”

“I don’t care for moral quandaries,” Astarion drawls.

“Be serious,” snaps Soul with a glare in his direction. “I thought you were being what you call a ‘good person.’ Or was that bullshit?”

“Wow, darling, you’re cursing a lot,” Astarion ridicules, “I’m not certain that makes you a very morally righteous –”

“Star.”

The name is a firm demand. It has Astarion’s words dying in his throat, mouth snapping shut. Frustration rolls off of Soul in waves, a subtle desperation lapping over the external anger. Astarion sighs and looks away, trying to ignore the itchy feeling of Soul’s eyes digging into his like poisoned claws.

“I like the praise and money,” Astarion admits after a moment’s hesitation. “I like the safety that being pathetically nice to people brings me. I'm not a good person. I'm not built to be a good person. How’s that for an answer? Satisfied now?”

Soul mulls over his response, then says, “you once said you only cared about power and stuff.” Astarion tuts and looks up at Soul, thinking back to when he explained such desires to the tiefling. “Do good people give you power?”

“Eventually they will. I help them and they’ll help me when the time comes.”

“When you kill Cazador,” Soul says.

Astarion shifts back onto his palms. “Yes. When I kill Cazador. It’ll all be worth it when he’s finally gone. He’ll beg and grovel and it’ll feel so good. Then, everything he has ever owned will be mine.”

“You’ll have bad memories associated with his things, though.”

Astarion barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “Why would I? He won’t be able to touch me, and neither will those godsforsaken hands.”

A pause.

“That was strange wording.” Astarion’s eyes widen just enough for Soul to notice – for him to solidify whatever theory that wording began. “Cazador’s hands or someone else’s?”

“That’s – that’s none of your business,” Astarion gripes. Soul makes a soft, indecipherable sound. “What?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

Astarion nudges Soul’s knee with his as he shuffles closer, for once not worrying about the way dirt sticks to his armour.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” he urges.

When Soul chuckles, it’s an ordinary noise. But, for some reason, it feels good. Astarion finds himself hanging onto the laughter like it’ll give him answers to questions he hasn’t yet formed. He wants to hear the sound again. He hates himself for it.

“Just…” Soul lifts his chin up, vivid eyes twinkling in the light of Selune’s protection. “You really are just a pretty face, aren’t you?”

The floor of Astarion’s stomach drops. His words stutter and die in his throat, the sensation of stability ripped from beneath him in an instant.

“W-what?”

“Like, sure, you’re good at killing, but you don’t do plans, do you? You aren't smart enough.”

“Wh–”

Soul’s smirk is wide and mocking, his voice oozing with slick condescension. “How are you going to kill Cazador? What deal are you going to make this devil of yours? How will you stop them from trapping you and your soul so tightly that you get a new master as well as the old one? You know that the parasite can’t help you forever, right?”

“I – know that,” Astarion grinds out, fists clenched against the ground.

“Sleeping with people more powerful than you won’t help you in the long run,” Soul taunts. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You’re just a whor–”

Astarion is on him, dagger against Soul’s throat, before the other rogue can even react. Soul doesn’t resist, going easily as they both tumble backward, Astarion’s other elbow digging into the base of Soul’s neck and restricting his steady breathing to a shallow wheeze.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” Astarion snarls. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.” Soul somehow manages to heave out a laugh. Astarion’s blade presses against his throat until the skin splits, forming a line of red on the dark grey. “I’m impulsive – I know that – but I’m good at what I do.” A darker smirk. “Stop it. Shut up.”

Soul struggles against him as his breathing becomes thinner, hands grasping frantically at Astarion’s long limbs. He manages to dislodge Astarion an inch, letting the tiefling breathe a little easier. Unfortunately, doing so also allows him to speak.

“All that talk of being a good man and you’re still quick to violence,” Soul huffs.

“All that talk of what makes someone good and you still slut-shame,” Astarion bites back.

“I call it like I see it.”

Astarion swallows, his throat thick with restrained emotion he is unable to decipher. His eyes jump down to the blood pooling at his blade. He moves it, watching the red spill down the side of Soul’s neck as sharp hunger makes itself known under the eternal thrum of starvation in his gut. A new line of red forms under the blade. 

“I won’t deny that I’m bad at making plans and thinking things through,” Astarion says through his teeth. “I’m not used to the freedom of doing things for myself, so why would I know how to think accordingly?”

“I can teach you,” Soul gasps. He strains against Astarion’s hold, eyes darting here and there like he’s deciding how to escape. “You’ll be able to – shit, that fucking hurts, man.”

Astarion blinks. He hadn’t realised he was cutting into Soul a tad too deeply. The vampire licks his fangs, then his lips, and tosses his dagger to the side. His fingers have found the cork of a healing potion before either of them blink, releasing Soul from under him so that the tiefling can grab the potion and down it in three thick gulps.

“Don’t call me a whore again,” Astarion orders, voice all but a murmur.

Soul looks at him and drags a hand through his ruffled hair; his fingers clumsily catch on the long strands, making him tut and roll his eyes. Without thinking, Astarion leans forward, undoing the messy bun Soul always throws his hair into. The ex-cultist freezes, eyes wide as Astarion combs through the mess with his fingers. When he can’t handle the expression any longer, Astarion moves to sit behind Soul. He continues to untangle the hair, slow and steady, until Soul’s heartbeat has returned to the dull thump it usually makes.

“I won’t make fun of your whatever-it-is,” Soul eventually says. “Or I’ll try not to. No promises I won’t slip up sometimes.”

“Good. At least you’ll try.”

Soul turns his head, glancing back at Astarion over his shoulder. “I will.” He falls silent for a moment as Astarion begins drawing his hair back into a neat bun, then hesitantly speaks again. “Did he… did Cazador, y’know… did he rape you or something?”

The clouds return. They don’t crackle or drum with tense anger like when Karlach and Wyll threatened to tear into each other. They weep. Each grey cloud yearns to pour over them, tiptoeing the line of no return.

Astarion takes a deep breath. Soul doesn’t smell of rosewater like he did when they first met. The scent has long been overtaken by dust and leather, and Astarion can’t understand why he remembers the floral smell now of all times. He closes his eyes, fingers intwined with Soul’s dark hair.

“He never needed to rape me,” Astarion says. “He had me let others do it for him. I was forced to go out, get raped, and lure them all back for nothing but a dead rat.” 

"Oh. I'm... sorry." 

Astarion laughs. It's a sound of contempt, harsh but soft. Soul tenses under his hands, as Astarion expected him to. 

"Yes. Yes, you're all sorry in the end. You're all good people until it matters."