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And the warmth of the campfire starts to seep into your bones—cold from the creeping darkness—and into your soul, even more so. But there’s something—or rather, someone—that unsettles the moment. A flicker of unease growing in your chest.

You notice it instantly: Astarion is off.

He’s not hovering in his usual haughty way, making snide remarks about seasoning and poor camp etiquette. Not trying to micromanage a dinner he won’t even eat. Not that he’s ever truly blended in with this group of would-be heroes, but tonight… tonight there’s something different. Something that makes your jaw tense as your eyes instinctively follow his movements around the camp.

He appears out of nowhere, doesn’t greet anyone. It’s like a cold blade cutting through the evening’s warmth. His steps are heavier than usual—just barely dragging. There’s stiffness in his posture. He moves unsteadily, shoulders slightly hunched forward. Small, nearly imperceptible details… but you’ve known him long enough to notice. To pay attention. To read even the subtlest twitch of his mouth.

You remember him like this once before—after feeding on a bear. But in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, there are no bears. In fact, animals—like anything else living—are a rare exception.

Then it hits you. He hasn’t even styled his hair tonight.

That shining, silver mane—always carefully maintained—is disheveled, damp, and flat. Curls falling haphazardly across his forehead and down the back of his neck.

That is the first real red flag.

And with it, the weight in your chest grows heavier.

With a sudden motion, Astarion snatches the good bottle of wine from Gale’s hands—the one you’d found earlier during the day’s exploration. A bold, aged red. Rich, full-bodied.

The kind you save for celebrating something grand.

“Ah, finally something worthy of this illustriously shitty day,” he mutters, sarcasm dripping, as he brings the bottle to his lips—no glass, of course.

Wyll raises a protest. “Hey! That was—”

“—for those who managed to keep your precious, delicate asses intact, I presume,” Astarion cuts in sharply, casting him a glance like shattered glass. “Sorry, darling, maybe next time try a little harder and show off a little less. Honor, blah blah, loyalty. Even the Blade of Frontiers can stab the enemy in the back once in a while. You’ll see the results, hero.”

The silence that follows is sharp. The owlbear stops chewing on the blanket. Even Karlach’s wide grin falters.

You stiffen, but thankfully, nothing escalates. Astarion turns sharply, stumbles just a little, and walks off. Lae’zel snarls something under her breath, but he doesn’t respond. He simply disappears into the black rocks and flickering shadows of the camp—swallowed by the darkness as if he’d always belonged to it.

And you… You watch him go.

There’s something that claws at your chest. Something you can’t ignore. Something you won’t ignore.

It’s not just the moodiness. Not just the biting sarcasm or the stolen wine. It’s the way he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Not even yours. The way his left hand hovered over his side more than once, fingers curling slightly whenever he moved—or spoke—as if hiding a pain too raw to show.

And if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Astarion…

It’s that when he pretends he doesn’t need anyone—when he plays strong and untouchable—that’s when he’s hurting the most.

You take a breath, set down the pot you were holding, and make your decision. You’re going after him.

You can’t leave him alone. Not now.

You step into the shadows beyond the camp, guided only by the certainty that he’s out there—somewhere just ahead. He can’t have gone far—not in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Out here, every step beyond the reach of light is a gamble, even for someone like him. And you don’t take him for a fool reckless enough to risk that, not just for the sake of a dramatic exit.

You press on through an almost unreal stillness, broken only by the crackle of torches and braziers scattered around the perimeter. The bitter wind rustles the brittle, lifeless shrubs with little conviction. You narrow your eyes—and there he is, barely outlined on the edge of the light’s glow.

He’s seated on the ground, slumped against a large blackened rock clawed by thick, gnarled roots. Like the talons of a hag.

You take just a moment to observe. His neck is tilted to the side, head hanging as if it’s become too heavy to hold up. His shoulders are hunched. The bottle he stole lies abandoned in the dirt, rolled a short distance away.

He didn’t even finish it.

“So,” you say quietly, careful not to startle him, “is this how your grand dramatic exit ends?”

Astarion lifts his head just barely—and for a heartbeat, you hope he’s smirking at the jab. Or that he’ll shoot something back your way with his usual biting charm, faster than a crack of lightning.

Something familiar. Reassuring, even.

But Astarion does neither.

The silence lingers.

He glances up at you, and you catch a strange glint in his eyes through the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead.

It’s cold. Sharp.

You stiffen slightly. He’s looking at you like you’re a nuisance. Or worse—a threat. There’s a warning buried in the faint gleam of his eyes and the sneer tugging at his lips like the start of a snarl.

“What’s this?” he spits. “Did I break poor Wyll’s heart? If you came to lecture me, my dear, do us both a favor and save your breath.”

You hesitate, unsure how to proceed.

So you say nothing.

You let the provocation hang in the air and step forward slowly—like you would with a wounded animal.

Close enough now to see where his hand is pressed tightly against his side. His shirt is stained—a dark patch blooming beneath pale fingers that tense the moment your gaze lingers there too long.

“What happened?” you ask, and your instinct is to kneel beside him, to gently move his hand and take a better look—the urgency plain in your voice.

“Oh, for the gods’ sake—really?” he snaps, rolling his eyes skyward in a motion that seems to cost him far more than it should.

“I just want to make sure—”

“Touching,” he cuts you off, venom dripping from every word, “but I’m afraid there’s no tragedy to be found here. Disappointed? Try the Last Light Inn—still full of sniveling tieflings, suicidal Harpers, and even a stray Flaming Fist or two. Plenty of options to unleash your noble urge to help.”

A beat.

A single breath.

“Now get out of my sight.”

The tone—half irritated hiss, half full-on growl—lashes out at you without mercy. A sharp pang hits your chest. The impulse to turn on your heel and leave slams into you, strong and sudden. Your pride screams, your jaw tightens, and the tip of your boot scrapes ever so slightly across the dry earth and dust, already beginning the motion.

But then that question comes back to you—and it stops you in your tracks.

“What do you see?”

He was the one who asked it, back then—standing in front of a shattered mirror that reflected nothing at all, his eyes wide with fear, his brow furrowed in worry.

“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” he’d said.

So you look again.

And you see him—not the sharp tongue, not the brittle, snarling façade.

You see someone who needs help.

Someone who needs you.

But he can’t say it—not the way others might. And you won’t give him that satisfaction—no, that confirmation. You won’t let him believe he’s alone. You won’t let him cling to the lie that yes, tieflings, Harpers, even Flaming Fists deserve help—but not him.

Not the monster.

You steady your breath, calm the pounding of your heart, and move toward him.

One step. Then another—each more determined than the last. No words, no explanations: just the firm, silent decision that you are not going anywhere.

Astarion’s eyes narrow dangerously as you approach. He rises too—jerky, uneven—squaring off against you despite the state he’s in. Stubborn, you think. You’re not surprised he managed to survive under Cazador for so long.

“I told you to leave, didn’t I?” he growls. He’s furious now—but there’s something else beneath it, something deeper that leaks through his tone, his gaze.

Fear. And a faint, aching shadow of shame that tugs at your heart once more.

“Gods, you’re insufferable. What the hell do you want? You here to finish the job or something?”

You try to reassure him, raising your hands in a gesture of peace—palms open. An instinctive motion. Perhaps too much so. Because Astarion misreads it. He grabs your wrist as if you were about to reach out and touch him.

His grip is clawed and tight enough that a gasp escapes your lips.

“I… Astarion, please,” you manage to say.

You feel your skin burn where he holds you, but you let him cling to the only thing within reach. Because that contact tells you everything.

You can feel it—how much he’s shaking, how hard he’s trying to stay upright. He could collapse any moment now.

So you offer your arm and hold him the only way you can, in this moment when every fiber of his being screams at you: don’t look at me.

“So what do you want?” he spits, continuing his tirade. “Want me to throw myself at your feet and thank you for coming to save me, is that it? Want me to spill my shattered dreams while you hold my hand?

Is that what you want?

Pathetic—you’re pathetic—coming here, playing the hero, acting like you give a damn—”

His voice cracks. He falters. The fury starts to fray at the edges, and even his grip on your arm loosens for a moment. You want to scream at him to stop, to stop doing this to himself, to save his strength—but you can’t.

Not when rage seems to be the only thing holding him togheter.

“And then what?!” he lashes out again. “Want me to cry? Break down? Collapse into your arms like a good little broken toy? I’m sorry to disappoint you, darling, but you’ll get nothing from me.

I owe you nothing. Not gratitude. Not trust. And certainly not the truth—”

He stumbles. His voice cuts off—half growl, half sob. His fingers slip, and he drops to his knees in the dirt without warning. If you weren’t there to witness it, he’d already be curled up like a dying animal. Instead, he laughs.

At you.

At himself.

A low, bitter sound that slices through the darkness of these cursed lands, through the silence, through even your resolve.

“—Go on, look at me. Look at what your noble, useless concern has dragged out. Happy now? Is this what you wanted—this disaster? This fucking wreck—”

“Astarion,” you say—his name solid, like a fixed point in the fog. “That’s enough.”

You’re shaking now, too. Tears sting at your eyes, and you realize that good intentions alone aren’t enough when faced with this kind of pain.

The real kind.

Deep. Rooted in the soul.

The kind that hurts just to look at.

And the sight of Astarion like this—so defeated, so overwhelmed—not just by the wound (that’s the least of it)… It steals the breath from your lungs. And suddenly, you feel guilty.

Guilty for walking in too fast, for stepping into this fragile, uncertain territory without enough care, without a map to guide you.

You grit your teeth. Ball your fists. There’ll be time for self-pity later. Right now, Astarion needs you—whether he knows it or not. Whether he likes it or not.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, “but I’m going to check your wound now.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement—so he has time to brace himself. So your presence, your touch, won’t feel like an invasion.

“It’s nothing,” he coughs, collapsing onto his side. “Just a scratch. It’ll pass. It always does,” he insists.

But this time it’s pain, not anger, that curls his lip and bares his teeth.

You kneel beside him—slowly, respectfully. You slide your arms under his shoulders and lift him just enough to shift him, propping him gently back against the root-twisted rock. Then you shrug off your cloak and fold it up, making a makeshift cushion to tuck behind his neck and head. Astarion half-closes his eyes and exhales, letting his head fall back with a soft groan of relief.

“Not this time. It should’ve healed by now,” you murmur, turning your attention to his side and reaching for the fabric of his shirt.

His fingers catch your wrist again—stopping your motion. You let him. You wait. Patient.

Your eyes meet.

They’re glassy, fever-bright—but you see it, immediately. He’s studying you—digging deep, maybe trying to tell if your help is genuine, or if it comes with strings attached.

Or worse, a price.

Whatever he finds in your gaze… it must be enough. Because slowly, he lets his arms fall to his sides. He allows himself to be vulnerable.

A silent permission.

You turn back to the wound—and you’re almost surprised when he speaks again, no longer with arrogance, but with a weariness that tastes of resignation.

“I made a stupid assumption,” he murmurs at last. “I thought it would heal. Like always. But it hasn’t. There was… something in that weapon.”

The mention of the weapon is timely. Your mind kicks into motion—frantic—and you begin to retrace every detail of the day up to this point, as if rewinding a reel of film, searching for a clue that had slipped past you.

You recall the skirmish in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, one scene after another. It had gone surprisingly smoothly. A brief but brutal battle against a group of humanoid figures—corrupted and disfigured by shadow. Empty husks moving within the darkness, neither alive nor dead, yet no less lethal for it.

You think back to the aftermath, how you’d all begun to relax, basking in the quiet relief of having made it through yet another fight. But then—there was the last of those creatures. The one that had waited, hidden among the skeletal, leafless bushes, and taken Gale by surprise.

Astarion had been the first to react—sharp reflexes always at the ready.

You remember the way he’d moved: a curse muttered in Elvish through gritted teeth, and a shove to push the wizard out of harm’s way. Then he’d faced the enemy alone.

The clash had been so fast you can barely recall the exchange itself—but a detail, almost out of context, pierces your memory now. Sharp. Distinctive.

The creature’s clothing.

A torn, weathered robe. A sacred vestment, blackened by time, by the darkness of these cursed lands, and by crusted blood. But still recognizable.

The symbol of Kelemvor.

Your eyes widen. Your stomach knots. Astarion wasn’t wounded by just any weapon. He was struck by the consecrated blade of what once was a paladin or a cleric—a war relic still soaked in divine power, waiting who knows how long to strike the right target.

Crafted to punish the undead.

To burn them.

To keep them from healing.

Now all the pieces fall into place. The dramatic entrance, the hostile attitude toward companions who’d been careless in battle, the biting sarcasm, the stolen bottle. The anger. Vast. Overwhelming. Because it’s not just about the wound, or the pain, or the price he paid to keep everyone safe.

It’s about something worse.

Something unjust.

A divine punishment he didn’t deserve—yet received all the same. Not for what he’s done, but for what he is. And now he must pay simply for the stubborn act of existing.

You hold your breath, summon calm into your chest, and return your focus to the wound.

His shirt is soaked now. You hadn’t even thought someone like Astarion could sweat—but he’s drenched. The fabric over the injury clings to him, not with fresh blood, but something thicker, darker.

You touch it carefully, revealing the edges of the tear carved into pale flesh. And when your fingers brush bare skin, Astarion growls softly through clenched teeth. His body goes rigid, muscles tensing—but he endures. He lets you continue.

He’s warm.

Too warm for a vampire.

It’s unnatural for the body of an undead—but perfectly in line with the fever-glassiness you’d seen in his eyes earlier. The skin around the wound is inflamed, red and angry. The cuts themselves are clean, precise, and the bleeding stopped some time ago.

Still—if you focus, if you really listen—you can almost feel it: divine magic lingering in the air, radiating from the gash on Astarion’s side.

It’s still active. Still eating into him.

Crawling deeper and deeper into places you can’t see.

Astarion lets out a quiet moan, closes his eyes, and surrenders his head to the makeshift pillow beneath him. He’s exhausted. Overwhelmed by the feverish state that’s gripped him. And he no longer sees you as a threat.

He lets go.

Relinquishes control.

“You really do care, huh?”

The question barely reaches you, just a thread of sound. But the meaning—unexpected and yet unmistakably clear—hits you all the same, straight in the chest.

Astarion hasn’t moved. Hasn’t opened his eyes. Only his lips part, in a motion that seems to cost him an immense effort. And yet, he still manages to mutter something more.

“What a disastrous development… and such an inconvenient surprise. You really are an idiot, darling.”

Your heart skips a beat—then starts pounding, wild and fast.

You feel the urge to say it—to tell him.

Yes.

Of course you care.

You’ve cared since that first night, deep in the forest, when you shared kisses, love-sick sighs, and whispered promises beneath the stars.

When, far from you, at camp, there were still laughter, music, voices—tieflings and companions caught in celebration.

You’ve cared since then, even if you never truly knew what he felt in return. And it doesn’t matter.

Because you’d still care, either way.

You want to tell him all of that—and so much more—but Astarion simply… gives out. His body relaxes all at once. His shoulders slump, his head tilts to the side in an awkward, almost unnatural angle. For a moment, your breath catches—your heart stops—but you realize almost instantly: he’s only lost consciousness.

There’s no time to waste.

You lean in closer, making sure he’s settled against the makeshift pillow. With care, you adjust his soaked shirt, rolling it up gently around his waist. Then you rummage through your pack and pull out clean bandages and your water flask.

Being careful not to aggravate the wound, you rinse it and wrap it slowly, keeping it clean and dry.

There’s little else you can do. And the urge to call the others is strong—surely Gale or Shadowheart would know better.

But you can’t.

Not like this.

Not after everything that’s happened.

Exposing him like this—laid bare and vulnerable in front of the others—would be a betrayal. An unbearable humiliation.

He would hate it.

You can’t allow that. Not after he gave you even the smallest sliver of trust.

No matter how little it may be—it’s all he has.

You sigh. It’s probably just a matter of waiting now. Letting the divine power fade on its own.

But you have no idea how long that will take—or what might happen in the meantime. He’s still burning up. The heat radiating from his skin is shocking—unnerving—for someone who’s supposed to be undead.

So you do what you can.

You take the last bandage and soak it with water from the flask. Then, gently, you press it to Astarion’s sweat-drenched forehead, where his silver curls are stuck and tangled.

“Mmh,” slips from his lips—a whimper, a barely decipherable murmur. “Please… I-I…”

“Shhh,” you say gently. “It’s all right.”

You pause for a moment as you trace the line of his jaw with the damp cloth. He’s beautiful—even now, even in unconsciousness. But you notice it: his features are too sharp, almost sunken; and the pallor of his lips is even more pronounced than usual.

The realization hits you like a punch—you hadn’t seen it before:

He hasn’t fed.

And the question that follows knocks the air from your lungs: since when?

The possible answer is unbearable to consider—because living enemies are scarce in these cursed lands.

And you know it.

You’ve always known it.

A wave of frustration rises in your chest—hot and sudden. Why didn’t he tell you? Why does he keep pretending he’s fine, while he wastes away right in front of your eyes?

But more than anything… why didn’t you think of it sooner?

You grit your teeth.

“I’m a real idiot. But if you think you’re not worth the trouble… then you’re even more of an idiot than I am,” you say to him, to the shadows.

You shove down the guilt—and the simmering frustration over this whole situation that is, yes, an inconvenient surprise, as he would put it.

You still feel the emotions kicking around inside you, desperate to be heard—desperate to remind you of everything you should’ve and could’ve done to prevent this.

But there’s no time for that. Not now.

You need to act.

You’ve always respected his wishes. You only truly discussed it once—after the first night you let him feed on you—and his proposal had always seemed fair, after all.

You had promised that it would be up to him to decide if, when, and how he fed.

Mostly on enemies.

But this isn’t just any night.

This is a damn emergency, and you can’t afford to hesitate or hold back. Astarion needs to feed. It’s a necessity—his regeneration won’t progress otherwise, he won’t be able to fight off the holy effects of the weapon that wounded him, and he won’t heal.

“No… I don’t want… s-stop,” he stammers.

Another groan reaches your ears. He’s growing more restless with every passing second, lost in unconsciousness, overwhelmed by fever and who knows what nightmares. All the more reason to act quickly.

With swift but careful hands, you grab the waterskin from the ground and wedge it between your knees. Then you reach for the small knife you always keep tucked in your boot—good for cutting ropes, herbs, or in this case—skin.

Without hesitation, you slice the pad of your middle finger.

The pain is sharp, immediate.

A short cut, but deep enough. You press your lips together as thick, slow drops of blood begin to fall.

You let them drip into the waterskin—one, two, three… then a few more. Just enough to stir his instincts.

“I’ll be good, I promise… I’ll be good. So p-please, j-just this once…”

His voice is barely more than a whimper. You didn’t think he was even capable of sounding like that—so small, so filled with terror. Your heart clenches, but you keep your focus. Even though every instinct is screaming at you to run to him, to hold him tight and shield him from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in. You force yourself instead to watch the water change color—dark red blooming like liquid smoke in the metal container.

“I’ll kill you… I’ll rip out your throat… I swear—”

Astarion’s screams and threats falter, swallowed by a ragged gasp that rattles straight through your bones. You swallow hard. You take the cloth you’d been using to clean his face and soak a portion of it with the blood-infused water. Then you return to him, sliding an arm gently behind his neck to lift his head just slightly.

“D-don’t touch me… don’t tou—”

He’s begging now—and a tear rolls down his cheek.

He writhes. Rejects you. And those words hurt you. They cut deep with their meaning. With their weight. Because you don’t want to do this. But you have to.

So you blink away the tears stinging your eyes, and bring the soaked cloth to his lips. You press it gently against them, urging him to open. A reddish sheen stains his pale skin. Astarion flinches again—refusing the contact, the offering, the invasion.

Just once.

The next time you try, something changes.

You pause, hovering the cloth near the split of his mouth—and there. You see it. A small, almost imperceptible movement. His tongue lifts, like a timid shadow, seeking the spot where the cloth releases the blood. He gathers it. Tastes it.

And a shiver runs the length of your spine.

It’s such a simple gesture. So human—and yet not. More than anything, it’s fragile. Childlike, almost. And it lasts barely a heartbeat. Because the transformation is nearly instant. Whether it’s the taste or the scent, the predator in him recognizes it.

And wants it.

His muscles tense all at once. His nostrils flare. His eyelids twitch open just a sliver—just enough for you to glimpse a glint of ruby between damp lashes, oddly sinister. Then, with a sharp snap, his jaw closes around the hand holding the cloth.

Instinctively, you try to pull back—but before you can move, before you can speak, his fangs sink into your flesh with no grace, no warning.

There is no reason. No control. No finesse.

Only instinct.

You gasp, body flinching under the shock of it. It’s nothing like before. No velvet words. No teasing smiles. No seductive charm. Just hunger. Just desperation.

Just pain—yours.

And still…

You let him.

And he feeds.

Gods, he feeds like a ravenous animal. There’s no trace left of Astarion—not the one you know—only raw, primal, uncontrollable need.

His jaw tightens, and you feel it—his fangs sink deeper, tearing further into the already wounded flesh. He tries to grab you with both hands, to hold you in place, to keep you from escaping—but only his right manages to clamp onto your arm. The left falls uselessly beside him, too heavy, too weak to be of any help.

Hot blood pulses from the wound like a raging river, and he drinks with a desperation that borders on violence. His Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, a strangled sound escaping him every time.

It burns.

It burns.

And at the same time, it’s cold as ice—chilling you to the bone, and the numbness begins to creep in. You grit your teeth and try not to scream—but it’s impossible to stay still. Your muscles tense, your vision blurs, and the world starts to spin.

He doesn’t stop.

“Astarion,” you whisper through clenched teeth, trying to shake him, to snap him out of it—“Astarion, stop!”

He doesn’t hear you.

He’s gone—lost to hunger, to fever, to instinct.

You push him—at first gently, not wanting to hurt him. In response, he sinks his fangs in deeper, like a starving dog guarding a bone. And the cold from his bite pierces your very mind, pain exploding through your body until you’re trembling violently, eyes shut tight, jaw locked.

So you brace yourself—feet and knees firm on the ground—and push him away with all the strength you have left, before it’s too late. A choked cry rips from your throat as your muscles strain and fight against the beast’s frenzy—the one inside him. The pressure tears into your hand, where his fangs are buried—but you grit your teeth and hold your ground, even as you feel your flesh begin to rip.

Finally—finally—he lets go.

Not by choice.

Not really. Not even because of your push.

His body simply gives out. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, by injury, by pain. His head falls to the side, your blood streaking his lower lip and staining his chin, and he collapses against your chest with a broken exhale. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. But also sheer, utter exhaustion.

You stay frozen for a moment, heart hammering, hand throbbing and bleeding. Shock trembles through your limbs. You look down at him, slumped against you like a child, and it’s hard—so hard—to reconcile this vulnerable figure with the ravenous spawn who almost killed you seconds ago.

You were lucky, you realize. And the weight of blood loss and fear crashes down on you all at once. You’d just like to let go, collapse to the ground yourself, and remain motionless. But you can’t rest. Not yet.

Slowly, you ease Astarion down onto the makeshift pillow, doing your best to settle him in a comfortable position.

Your hand trembles as you pull it back and inspect the damage: the bite is deep, ragged from the force of his hunger and your brief struggle. The skin is soaked, blood still spilling steadily, soaking your sleeve.

You let out a soft curse under your breath, biting back a harsher one. You tear off the sleeve and use it to fashion a makeshift bandage.

It takes time—and a good deal of effort—but you manage to wrap the hand well enough to stop the bleeding. The pain is sharp and constant, but you welcome it.

It keeps you awake.

By the time you’re done, you’re drenched in sweat. You settle down at his side. With your good hand, you find his. You need it. Maybe he needs it too. You squeeze gently, just to let him know you’re there. And for a moment, it feels like the world steadies. Like the simple weight of his hand in yours is enough to anchor you both.

Astarion’s fingers are still warm—but still. No more tremors. You sigh, allowing yourself to relax—just a little.

You stay.

All night.

Listening to his murmurs, spilling from fevered sleep into the quiet. Disjointed phrases, half-formed thoughts. Fragments of names you don’t know. Pleas. Threats. Apologies. And still you watch him, guard him, always alert to whatever might lurk in the shadows—threatening this fragile sliver of peace you’ve fought so hard for.

But slowly, the fever recedes. His rest deepens. And even his lips regain some of their usual pale color. On his cheeks, you swear there’s the faintest flush of pink. Not much—but enough.

Enough to count.

As the dark sky begins to take on a cold, pale shade of slate grey, you realize the night is coming to an end. And that’s when Astarion’s eyelids flutter—then open. His eyes are clearer now. Still tired. Still heavy. But aware. He blinks slowly, adjusting to the dim light of your camp. And at last… he sees you.

Right there. At his side.

“…You’re still here,” he remarks softly, his voice slightly hoarse.

There’s a different light in his eyes now—bright, yet calm. He almost looks surprised, if you go by the small creases forming on his brow.

“And here I thought I’d been perfectly clear about that. Either you’re deaf or you’re devoted to the point of martyrdom, I suppose. May Loviatar’s blessing be upon you!” His gaze slide to the bandaged hand resting in your lap. You tense up in response, as if caught red-handed.

“In any case, I expected more sense from you. Or at least a bit more survival instinct.”

The light in his eyes shifts again, dimming as he studies your wound. He’s brooding on something, though you can’t tell what. The thought unsettles you, but you stay silent and lower your gaze. Shame floods back in, along with the guilt you’ve been holding at bay all night.

“I shouldn’t have done it without asking you,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry, Astarion.”

You don’t reach for excuses. You made a decision, and now you’ll bear the consequences. You hear him let out a short, soft sigh, though you don’t see it—you’re still staring at the dust on the floor, still avoiding his eyes, waiting for a verdict straight from his lips.

“I only remember… blood. And… you calling me. Then nothing,” he replies at last; and only then do you realize he hasn’t pulled away from the hand you’re still holding. Your heart jumps. “I imagine something terribly heroic must’ve happened, something that would’ve made me roll my eyes on the spot with extreme disapproval.”

You shake your head and give a faint laugh, your good hand’s fingers still intertwined with his, tighter than ever.

“I’d recognize your taste among a thousand, darling,” he says at last.

He reaches out, brushing your chin with a tenderness that jars against the last image you have of him—starving, fevered, a slave to his instincts and dangerously strong despite his failing body. With a gentle pressure, he urges you to lift your head. You obey and meet those red eyes at last. You find nothing you feared there: no disgust, no blame, no hate. You don’t want to delude yourself, but you think you see the faintest lift at the corners of his eyes, the ghost of a smile—one that vanishes at once as some thought crosses his mind. You can tell by the way he blinks, looks away, tilts his head.

“I really did it, didn’t I? I bit you… like some damned animal.”

A pause. His voice turns quiet, almost flat. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

The way he says it hits you hard. It hurts, even though he’s right. Even though you thought the same thing—he’d looked like an animal. Yet it leaves you with a sense of helplessness and injustice that makes you tremble from head to toe. You don’t care what others might think, or what some god like Kelemvor might deem righteous. You don’t want him to talk about himself that way, to believe that’s all he is. Because he isn’t. He’s not just a predator and his instinct. Not to you. He’s so much more. And he doesn’t even see it, and that makes you angrier than you ever imagined.

“Astarion, you were literally burning with fever. You collapsed, exhausted and delirious. And you hadn’t fed for days. Do you know how I felt when I saw you like that?”

You bite your lip as guilt surges back, reminding you how busy you’ve been—leading the group, fighting the shadows, planning the infiltration of the Moonrise Towers and Ketheric Thorm’s downfall with the Harpers—to notice how one of your trusted companions was suffering. How Astarion, of all people, was facing it alone.

You don’t wait for a reply, of course. You just shake your head and let out a sharp, sarcastic smile—self-directed mockery, as the words, and everything you’ve been holding in all night, finally come spilling out like a broken dam.

“I felt like shit,” you say, your voice harsher than you intended. “An idiot, like you called me. Because I should’ve seen it sooner, and part of me did. Gods, I did. These cursed lands offer nothing for a vampire spawn. And yet, I didn’t notice. I let this happen to you. To you.”

You shake your head again, bitterness rising in your chest.

“And you didn’t say a word. You told no one, Astarion. Nothing. You kept it from me.”

Maybe it’s a rebuke—at least on the surface—but there’s no anger in your voice. No resentment. Just exhaustion. And regret. Because he didn’t trust you. And guilt, and something deeper still: affection. Most of all, that. Affection you wish he could understand—could accept.

The silence that follows is full. Not heavy, not light. Just… full. Saturated with all the meanings and feelings floating between you.

Astarion watches you closely, his eyes drinking in every detail, calm and searching. You can tell he’s taking his time—processing, considering. There’s no joke. No deflection. He’s not running. He’s not pretending. And already, that is a kind of answer. A kind of recognition. Of what you share. Of what you feel for him. And it’s all there, plain as day—in the dark circles under your eyes, in your mortal pallor, in the bandaged wound on your hand, in the fingers still curled around his, in the simple fact that you stayed.

Then, slowly, his fingers twitch inside yours. A hesitant, deliberate movement. A caress? You hardly dare to name it.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he says at last, voice low. “Because your gaze is the only one that matters to me.”

You arch a brow—quietly asking for more—and Astarion, as always, picks up on it instantly.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he continues, letting out a dry laugh that dies before it fully forms. “Broken. Pathetic. Something to pity. Or a starving, repulsive beast. Dangerous.”

“A moment of need doesn’t define you, Astarion. It doesn’t make you weak.”

The words rise to your lips instinctively—but the look in his eyes, the shadow of bitterness there, tells you everything you need to know about the years he spent under his master. Where even need was weakness. A tool to exploit. To diminish. To shame.

The thought alone makes your blood burn, but you fight to stay composed.

“It doesn’t diminish you in the eyes of your companions,” you press on gently, as if trying to remind him that those days are over, that Cazador’s shadow is far behind. “It doesn’t diminish you in my eyes.”

And as you say it, you squeeze his hand between yours like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Astarion stares at you for a long moment—longer than you expect. Studying, weighing, just as he had during the night, when he couldn’t decide whether to let you help him or not. But in your gaze, he finds only honesty. Steady, unwavering, real. So bright it almost seems to catch him off guard. Maybe even move him, if the subtle lightening of his features is anything to go by.

You see him hesitate. His tongue wets his lips.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“…Thank you,” he says softly, his voice trembling just slightly. “For staying. Even after I—”

“Kicked me out so rudely, called me an idiot, and bit me?” you interrupt, though this time your lips curl into a smug, teasing little smile. “Oh, and if I recall correctly, you also swore you’d rip my throat out—but maybe that was just fever delirium. You made so many threats throughout the night I lost track, along with who they were even aimed at.”

You keep the rest to yourself—the tears, the pleas. You guard them deep inside.

“Details,” the vampire spawn mutters in reply, rolling his eyes with a half-smile. “I prefer to think of it as… an overwhelming act of passion directed at you, my dearest.”

You chuckle, relieved to see him back to his usual self, with his quick tongue and sharp wit. The same as ever, and yet somehow different. Better, you like to think. A new kind of silence settles between you. Lighter than the last, yet just as heavy. Like the glances you exchange. Then, suddenly, it hits you: you both vanished into the cursed shadowlands in the dead of night without telling anyone.

“I should go check on the others, they’ll be worried sick,” you say, starting to rise, your gaze already drifting toward camp.

Astarion’s hand tightens around yours, with no intention of letting you go, and you freeze mid-motion. You turn back. He’s still there, lying down, his head sunk into the makeshift pillow—your cloak, carrying your scent. His silver hair spills in messy strands, his gaze fixed squarely on you. The sight steals your breath.

Especially for what lights up his eyes. Something bare. Something true.

“Stay,” he says, “just a little longer.”

The request is not spoken with fear, nor with need. It is pure and simple. A desire voiced aloud, as natural as breathing—from the same man who hissed at you to disappear the night before. You don’t answer with words. You simply sink back down beside him, hand in hand, and rest your head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and lowers his forehead against yours, a touch so intimate, so delicate. Your breathing slows, softens. You haven’t slept all night, and this is the most perfect place you could ever imagine to rest for a while.

And, once again, you simply stay.

Devider by @saradika-graphics! Thank you very much! <3

Well, what can I say? This is my very first Astarion x Reader ever, so please be gentle with me. I’m not even sure if I did things properly, since in a way the reader and Tav kind of overlap, lol. I’m well aware this theme has already been tackled countless times, so I don’t pretend to have written anything particularly original. But it’s still my own take on how Astarion might react if he were in need of someone’s assistance—especially when he doesn’t fully trust them yet.