𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙜𝙞𝙛𝙩 .

'    I    should've    destroyed    that    book    when    we    found    it,    Is    it    still    telling    you    to    kill    everyone?    '   

The half-Drow brushed the dust from her garbs with the back of her fingers delicately. Pulling out any unnecessary creases as she approaches their handiwork.

"Delicately handled, as per usual," Amaltel glanced down at the carnage before them, arrows a plenty among the dead cultists and scorch marks from her lightning strikes still smoking. "I do hope we were not supposed to take hostages."

Then, he busies himself with digging through the dead’s meager belongings. He comes across a few things that interest him: a particularly clean and gleaming ruby ring, a light coin purse, and what appears to be a set of well made gloves. 

ah, shit, he's worked himself into a corner here, hasn't he? he was only babbling to fill the silence, talking about nothing in particular but whatever surface thoughts that popped up, because silence unnerves him. silence allows his brain to fill in the gaps between sentences with things that otherwise aren't nice for him to think about.

Astarion isn’t letting him off the hook that easily. He’s been made to spill a few of his less than savory secrets for the sake of the group. Of course he wants all the details he can muster, both for his own entertainment and to squirrel away if needed. Mostly, it’s the boredom that gets to him. See one tree and you’ve seen the next stretch of road for miles in either direction. 

“ Unless you were locked away in some temple. In which case, you may have to work hard to edge Shadowheart out on the zealotry. ”

"I might have noticed that a time or two," they say, feigning thought.

Astarion's sentiments aren't in question. Their mutual comfort is, and he's made himself clear on the matter; that's good enough for them.

They watch him now, the valleys and lines of face in repose. The vibrancy of his eyes by dimness. The fall of his hair, curling around his ears and against the bedding. They reach to smooth at his curls, and not for the first time, they are stricken with how wonderful he, this, is. Reveling in possibilities, what else the two of them might steal, defy, build if only time stays on their side.

He returns the embrace after a moment’s settling. He’s held many lovers after a quick tryst, but nothing lasting, nothing meaningful. Always accompanied by what they can have from him. That Ark demands nothing in return but whatever he’s willing to give makes something happen in his chest. Not a heartbeat, but something close.

He can't know with any certainty. May never know again. Instinct is all the whispers to him, that the way Astarion speaks to him now is new. Different.

Heavens forbid any of this is easy. 

So many hooks and claws and tethers unseen, writhing beneath her skin. She has ridden off the vitality of panic, the fine edge of gnashing and fleeing, for so long she cannot say when it begins. Her lungs ache for the breath she now greedily drinks, head bowed and her grasp tightening around his. Grounded. Anchored.

"This isn't about a petty tally of promises kept or broken, Astarion." Her voice is now a steadier thing. Clearer. Present. "No one would have blamed you if it was too much. I wouldn't have blamed you. A sense of self-preservation is the rational response."

But it is the exact reason Portia doesn't depart at first light herself, to leave them all to carry out the journey without her. She promised. Swore it to their faces to see this through to the end. For him, that means unraveling Cazador's plans and putrid flesh alike. Whatever she may be, whoever she has been, she can leave no one here to their fates, least of all Astarion.

Astarion, who is very much right. He could have left her a drained, hollow husk. Might have been tempted to do just that. Never had she known wariness or fear then. The serpentine quiet coiled in wait, reassuring that though he could have tried, she is and has been the only danger here. That she understood him and felt an enduring kinship. Still does, no matter how her hand yearns to twist the dagger.

When her eyes finally open, finding his patiently searching after hers, she is seeing him, truly seeing him, for the first time in hours, and he is a sight most welcome. She can't help the way her attention roams, committing him to fragile memory and checking he is whole and well.

"I don't want to be even. I want something better for us. For you. That's bloody all." There is a frustration, a harrowing wonder, aimed entirely at herself. "It shouldn't have to be this difficult, but I've found the worst way possible to make it just that."

The beat of silence that settles is her watching, bottomless gaze growing darker with a ring of unshed tears. She reaches for him without warning, to take him into her arms.

"I'm sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing in telling you to walk away. That's the last thing I want."

Stick up for him. Show him that he’s worth something.

Portia is so, so very precious. He doesn’t know how she can’t see it. She is so very patient, kind in her own unique way, so very at odds with the frothing, foaming creature he encountered the previous night. It isn't her.

“ Well, I’ve never been one to ignore a pretty face in need, ” he teases, more of the tension in his shoulders melting. “ Again, I could say the same of you, my love. ”

Whatever affliction infects Portia may be one with a cure. But Astarion? Poor, dead Astarion will never be anything but a vampire. His hunger will be ever present. If he feeds from Portia, he has to be meticulous in his self control. One drifting moment and she’ll be snuffed out like a candle under his carless hand. 

Astarion is selfish, however. He will not give up on this now. Not unless Portia is completely sure.

“ No. No, it isn’t right and it isn’t fair. ” Astarion’s face hardens. “ I can only promise you that we’ll figure this out together. You are not to blame for whatever has overtaken you. ”

He thinks of Cazador’s infernal ritual, not for the first time. If he could just seize that power for himself, he knows he could be the perfect protector. Never fearing the sun, stronger, faster, more capable than a spawn. Portia’s twitching knife hand would never be a source of harm. He could do something for her. For himself.

Then, Portia takes him in her arms once more. Unlike the first time, he’s ready to slip his arms around her, burying a hand in her midnight colored hair. Her warmth seeps into his skin, like breathing in the sun’s rays. It strikes him just how much he’s missed casual affection, how much he craves it.

There is a question that remains in this. Why?

Though the answers might be in short supply, it is plain for him to ascertain that there is blame to place, as far as Astarion is concerned, and he would happily unburden it at Vindolanax's feet.

It is nothing compared to his own surprise, the cold wash of it settling over him. It is his turn for his focus to narrow.

"Illithid parasites. When? Tell me you are rid of them." The alternative would change the entire course of this visit. "Why should I have been among them? If you speak so casually of mind flayers, you can only mean the younglings pact-bound to the githyanki. Don't conflate circumstances you understand so little."

It’s more of a statement than a question. Vampires aren’t exactly all knowing, mind reading creatures people make them out to be. It seems dragons are also deeply flawed, if also capable of terrible destruction like breathing fire on a terrorized village.

That doesn’t ease Astarion’s dislike. In fact, it makes it all the more apparent. 

Why does he get to saunter off to laze in the sun or next to a pool of lava while Arkezet has suffered? Aren’t they supposed to be a family? Aren’t families supposed to take care of one another?

Perhaps his anger isn’t all directed towards Vindolanax. 

“ Yes, we’re rid of them. ” Astarion doesn’t add unfortunately, in his case. “ Perhaps you heard about the little Elder Brain crisis in Baldur’s Gate. I’m shocked Arkezet hasn’t told you. They led the charge. ” 

Undoubtedly, he possessed the ability to be charming and enigmatic when he wanted to be. Yet, his penchant for sly wit and sarcasm often left her exasperated. Astarion was as unpredictable as they come, veering between charming and manipulative with ease. His moral compass seemed to sway with the wind, frequently pointing toward self-interest—a trait Clara found disconcerting. However, she had also witnessed glimpses of empathy and kindness from him that led her to believe he wasn't as bad as he seemed. She begrudgingly was forced to acknowledge a certain allure about him, despite her reservations.

"Your silver tongue is certainly not lacking, I'll give you that," Clara remarked with a hint of fondness, lingering near his tent's entrance. She was mindful of invading anyone's personal space. "I sometimes wonder if we'd be knee-deep in trouble on a regular basis if it weren't for someone keeping you in check."

“ I don’t need minding, thank you very much. Least of all from someone a quarter of my age, ” he huffs, taking a great deal of interest in the dirt that’s managed to accumulate beneath his nails. Perhaps he’d do things differently, perhaps they’d be mistakes, but he would be free to make them himself.

He’s spent the last two hundred years without a will of his own. Being a little reckless and impulsive seems the least of his concerns. 

“ Oh, I don’t know, do you need to hold my hand through it? ” The smirk is back in place. “ Of course I liked it there. There’s culture. There’s intrigue. There’s running water. ”

He pauses for dramatic effect. 

"Ah, in a way," he mused with a soft smile, relishing the opportunity to show off with a simple cast of mage hand to fetch the bottle from his tent. With one finger raised, he summoned the bottle with his other hand. Once the bottle swiftly came into view, he grasped it as the mage hand dissipated due to the loss of concentration.

Now, if Gale finds a way to exsanguinate someone in a similar manner, then Astarion knows he’ll be badgering him for it. THe taste of an unwashed neck sometimes lingers in his mouth. Hence, the wine.