#perfect slaughter

Tyrus’s own wounds were unhelped by radiant magic, but they had almost closed up on their own already. Still, he leaned back against the bookcase, trying to steady himself through the deepened hunger pains and lightheadedness that was only growing worse over the last two nights since this mission started. He’d managed two rats before they snuck under the hidden passage of the Last Light Inn, then crawled back up in an anxious old fisherman’s shack who led them to a secret backway into the morgue. Since then they’d battled aggressive oozes, a flock of undead, and a few Sharran guards, with little rest in between.

Not that rest would fix the issue, Tyrus knew, ripping his eyes away from the blood dripping down Jaheira’s ribcage.

“We need to find a hiding place and rest,” he said aloud whilst moving to the doors behind them, casting Arcane Lock to buy time before any other medical staff tried to enter the amphitheater. “We’ll go to the Waning Moon next.”

When he turned back, Cynda nodded toward the small side door Astarion had lockpicked to get them in. “We could try hiding back in the morgue, or one of the mausoleums outside,” she said.

Jaheira scoffed, then winced as Cynda’s hands lit up and the deep cut knitted back together. “Are you ready for another fight, then?” she countered. “There are still many guards and Justiciars patrolling the streets. Sharrans seem to be more active in these dark hours of night.”

“An unfortunate coincidence for us,” Astarion replied in a light tone, though he wasn’t looking at anyone as he flipped his dagger once and sheathed it. “Shall I spy out a short resting spot for us above?” he nodded at the second level and began heading towards it.

Halsin protested, “It’s not safe to go alone—”

“Much safer than trying to sneak with you lot clattering next to me,” Astarion countered in a bright, unbothered tone as he skipped up the stairs two steps at a time.

Halsin glanced over at Tyrus beseechingly, but he just shook his head. 

Cynda was the one to snap on a twig and alert the guards they fought, just before this fight. And if this encounter with Malus Thorm had shaken Astarion even half as much as it did Tyrus, then he wouldn’t deny Astarion a bit of space to process it. Even if he’d much rather be held and comforted right now.

Tyrus skimmed over the bookshelf titles, trying to distract himself. But his vision was coming in and out of focus, his mind and body too sluggish to even stand for long. He’d never fought this many times in so short a period, of course—even during their trek through the Underdark, he and Astarion had taken regular breaks and avoided or ran from any danger they crossed wherever they could. He hadn’t felt this depleted, so thoroughly and so suddenly, since . . . well, since Cazador.

The scent of spilled blood in the air grew stronger, suddenly. Tyrus stiffened, turning to find Cynda approaching with Jaheira’s fresh blood still on her hand. Tyrus took a quick step back, hardly able to focus on his sister’s words, “Did your wounds heal alright?”

He couldn’t call himself nearly so experienced at ignoring blood as Astarion was, even if his damaged mind stopped him from enjoying it. So Tyrus used only the air remaining in his lungs to answer, “Just like usual,” with a shaky nod.

But then Cynda took a step closer, a hand reaching out—and Tyrus flinched, voice desperate as he pleaded, “Don’t come near!”

Cynda froze. Halsin and Jaheira both looked his way. Tyrus wished desperately for Astarion, but he wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Tyrus,” Cynda said, her dark red eyes round with concern as she began backing away. “We . . . we all just need some rest and replenishment right now, I know. Can I do anything?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tyrus quickly shook his head.

His sister gave him a sad little smile and a nod. Then she turned and moved over to Halsin, taking both of his hands in hers as she whispered quietly to him.

Tyrus sighed and turned away, wishing for his own hand to be held, to be consoled and reassured by the one person who understood why he felt so shaken—and whose proximity wouldn’t worsen his hunger pains right now.

Tyrus sat on the steps as his sister and Jaheira checked the area for clues, trying to breathe through the feeling and not recall Malus Thorm’s sickly sweet voice, his purring placations so similar to ones that still regularly haunted Tyrus’s mind and heart. He blinked back tears and cast Find Familiar, telling himself he would finally drink this time, and without retching or crying or shaking . . .

The small white cat he summoned on the stair next to him looked up at Tyrus with wide, innocent blue eyes. It didn’t fight when Tyrus picked it up—but he only held the creature close and stroked its fur, blinking and blinking until finally, he gave up and let the tears fall.

“May I ask something?” a low, gentle rumble of a voice asked, pulling Tyrus out of his deep melancholy.

He quickly rubbed away the tears and blinked up at Halsin who, even standing four stairs below, managed to tower over Tyrus. His strong-jawed, handsome face was lined with concern, though what Tyrus noticed more at the moment was the mouthwatering vibrancy and huge quantity of blood pumping through Halsin’s veins.

Tyrus felt his fangs begin to unsheathe and winced, holding the cat a bit tighter as he nodded in answer.

“Thank you,” Halsin said with a smile, then sat himself down a few steps lower than Tyrus—which was just enough distance that Tyrus could still focus on Halsin’s words as he nodded at the animal in Tyrus’s lap, “I hope I’m not interrupting supper.”

“Oh, no—I mean, I thought about it, but . . .” Tyrus stuttered, then shrugged, stroking a hand down the sleek fur of its back. Since Tyrus learned the spell for himself, he still had yet to actually do more than pet the cat. “I’ll find something soon, I’m sure.”

“Astarion’s mentioned you struggle to drink blood,” Halsin said with a gentle smile. “I’m sure, with how many injuries we’ve all sustained, I’m not the only one with an appetite right now.”

“We won’t make it a problem for anyone,” Tyrus said, glancing over at Jaheira and Cynda who were quietly speaking to each other across the room. “I was just—overwhelmed, a few minutes ago. We’ve both had ample opportunity to practice restraint, I can assure you.”

Halsin nodded. “And I notice you shapeshift into an animal most nights for Astarion,” he pointed out. “I’m sure that keeps his strength up—though he’s explained to me that it is not something he can offer in return, correct?”

The old memory of Astarion in lion form intruded then, crying and clawing in protest as Tyrus held him in his greedy grip. Whimpering and bleeding in the closet for minutes afterward.

Tyrus blinked around more tears. Too sickened by the memory alone, he gently placed his familiar down and silently instructed it to go and keep watch for Astarion’s return. 

“I thought I might instead,” Halsin continued. Tyrus’s head whipped toward him at those words, wide-eyed and a bit horrified. But Halsin looked perfectly at ease as he shrugged his huge shoulders and said, “At least, for the duration of this mission—though if all goes well, I might be open to other occasions as well.”

Tyrus swallowed hard. “Halsin,” he whispered, “I would never ask . . .”

“Which is why I offered,” Halsin said, smile widening. “I wouldn’t want my heart’s dearest brother to be left vulnerable at a time like this, especially with an easy way to help. We need you at full strength. Just tell me how best we might make you comfortable, and avoid any problems that make it hard for you.”

Tyrus had to fight the urge to stare at Halsin’s neck or start inching closer. Now on offer, his blood seemed to carry a tangible taste in the air, taunting Tyrus.

He was glad he was no longer holding the cat, his fingers instead digging into his thighs as he rasped, “It–it tastes good, I just . . . I just feel like I’m hurting something, whenever I do it. Makes me sick, I . . . I’ve already hurt so, so many people—” his throat closed up, the rest of Tyrus’s words choked off.

And just at the reminder, the sweet scent of Halsin’s blood took on a sickening quality. Tyrus swallowed down a roll of nausea, looking down at his lap again, all at once imagining the drained, disfigured rabbit corpse in his grip, Cazador Szarr’s voice creeping from the darkest shadows of his mind: No sensations, not even the sweet embrace of lovers, bring us true satisfaction any longer . . . nothing, compared to that taste in your mouth . . .

“You won’t hurt me,” Halsin replied with a confident tone, dispersing some of the shadows. “I am no stranger to pain—I even enjoy it, in choice circumstances—and unlike your spell, I lose none of my faculties or intelligence when I take wildshape. So long as you stop once I revert back into elven form, there shouldn’t be lingering effects either.”

He was right. Tyrus had never allowed himself to consider this option, but a wildshaped druid would be much better equipped to retain rational thought and resist fighting him than an animal or polymorphed individual, and wouldn’t risk draining their true health in the process either.

In theory, it was a perfect solution. 

In practice . . .

“Do you think Cynda would mind?” he had to check next, giving a furtive glance towards his sister who, for all her acceptance of Tyrus and Astarion, had already shown to be endearingly protective of Halsin.

But just then Cynda was leading Jaheira towards the back doors into some sort of office, giving Halsin a meaningful nod and Tyrus a soft, loving smile before she closed the door behind her.

Halsin stood and walked back down the stairs, gesturing for Tyrus to follow. “As long as you’re willing to try . . . she actually suggested it, a few minutes ago.”

Tyrus felt his lingering reserves fade. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how he’d argue further. And he didn’t want to—he stood and walked down the stairs, swallowing hard as Halsin waited for him with a gentle smile. 

The druid said nothing once Tyrus reached him, just bent forward, his back in a tall arch . . . then landed on all fours with a swirl of bright green light, and a large cave bear with kind, intelligent eyes stood there in his place.

“You and Cynda are far too good, Halsin,” Tyrus whispered, shaking his head ruefully before he finally gave in to the Hunger.

Then Tyrus closed the remaining distance, burying his face in Halsin’s furry neck.

It tasted wondrous. The blood of a thinking creature still, Tyrus realized distantly as his fangs sank in and the first drops landed on his tongue, the flavor earthy and animalistic but carrying the richness and vitality that normal animal or polymorphed blood simply lacked. He retracted his teeth and drank deeper, arms moving on instinct to cling to this creature and continue feeding. 

The bear tensed a bit at the bite, but otherwise just let out a snorting breath as Tyrus drained it, standing perfectly still. Willing. Not fighting Tyrus, not crying out, even responding with a soft, soothing rumble when a desperate whimper escaped him. Tyrus felt tears prick in his eyes yet again and clung harder, sweet relief sweeping through his body when Halsin didn’t so much as cringe away, but stayed firm—even leaned against Tyrus.

Till he drank so much Halsin grew faint, of course, the bear’s legs swaying and then crumbling under it. Tyrus knew he could pull back—he probably should, with the druid sure to change back at any moment—but he fell to his knees with it and stole a few more mouthfuls, stroking a hand through the great bear’s fur just before green light flared in his half-lidded vision and Halsin’s form shifted.

Tyrus leaned back and swayed as a wave of euphoria washed over him, even stronger than what he’d experienced when he first tasted a thinking creature’s blood from the charmed, thrombophilic victim. Power and energy coursed through him—life essence, this time with no terrible side effects to anticipate, only the brief wonder whether the vitality surging through him was enough to start his dead heart beating again. 

Halsin wasn’t limp and drained under him either, only sighing as he shuffled his large limbs to sit more comfortably on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” Tyrus tried to check, though he couldn’t quite focus through the blissful rush of blood energizing him, from his senses to his thoughts to his connection with the Weave itself.

“Yes. That was rather . . . relaxing,” Halsin smiled, feeling at his neck—where not even a bite mark remained. “Too tired for wildshaping again till we rest,” he reported, “but otherwise, perfectly whole.”

“There’s a little room in the attic where we might sleep away the day,” Astarion’s voice interrupted from a distance.

Astarion’s light feet were nearly silent as he walked back down the stairs, Tyrus’s familiar trailing behind him with a perked tail. Astarion came to a hesitant stop at the sight of both Halsin and Tyrus sitting so close on the floor, however, his dark eyes glancing between them. “Unless we’ve already started a cozy nap here . . . ?”

Tyrus stood up quickly—and then swayed, grateful when Astarion dashed forward and his arms were suddenly there to steady him. “I’m fine,” Tyrus assured before his lover could worry, feeling a blood-drunk smile briefly twitch at his lips. “I . . . I’m much better, actually, thanks to Halsin offering his blood just now. Thank you, Halsin.” Then Tyrus looked over Astarion in return, asking in a soft murmur, “How are you?” 

Astarion’s lips thinned, his eyes shifting away despite how quick he was to reply, “Halsin’s blood, hm? Darling, I’m much better now, knowing you’re not starving anymore.” He let go of Tyrus and asked Halsin curtly, “Though it seems you lost track of the other Aman’del you’re so fond of?”

Halsin stood, his smile unwavering as he said, “I’ll let them know we’re finished,” and moved toward the back room.

Any minute now Tyrus’s spell on the doors could get dispelled—so the group didn’t waste further time before hurrying up to the second level, following Astarion to a small pulley elevator they took up to the attic, and then up a ladder to a small, circular study isolated at the very top of the hospital. They found thick drapes to cover the east-facing windows just before dawn broke, sitting in silence for the first hour or so as alarms and shouts echoed through the building, the dead doctor and nurses discovered.

But they weren’t discovered. Eventually Cynda took to exploring the room, showing Tyrus any books of interest she found, while Jaheira sat in one corner and sharpened her swords with a deep frown. Halsin was deep in meditation the second he laid on some old folded drapes, and Astarion sat back against the wall and closed his eyes with his hands in the official position for the same, though Tyrus seriously doubted he was actually trancing.

It wasn’t until all three mortals had finally laid down and seemed deep in sleep or trance, that Astarion’s eyes opened and found Tyrus already watching him.

Through Message Tyrus asked, Are you actually alright? I wanted to crawl out of my own skin the moment he started speaking. 

I’m glad you had a big bear to comfort you, then, Astarion replied in a barbed tone. Tyrus gave him a single look, however, before Astarion’s prickly exterior wilted. He certainly didn’t remind me of anything good, no.

I’m sorry, Tyrus replied. Can I do anything . . . ?

Astarion let out a soft huff. You do plenty. Then he hunched in on himself, admitting, I am jealous he could be there for you like that, darling. You look so much better now. How I wish I was able . . .

I do too, Tyrus admitted, but it’s alright. You are there for me in every way that matters.

Astarion scowled, unconvinced. Am I? He got onto his knees and crawled over to Tyrus and, once there, wrapped his arms around Tyrus’s waist. As Tyrus held him in return, he felt Astarion’s forehead fall to rest on his collarbone. I want to give you everything . . . but here we are, with nothing but danger and new horrors to boast of. I want to see you content, healthy, happy. I want to be the one to make it so. Astarion blew out a breath and leaned back, regarding Tyrus sadly. And yet I ran off. Left you for Halsin to comfort.

And found us the perfect hideaway, Tyrus pointed out, enjoying the little scoff Astarion gave him in response. I’m only sorry it meant I couldn’t comfort you, my love, he said, cupping Astarion’s smooth cheek. That was . . . an ugly reminder, to say the least, of the kennel. 

Astarion shuddered underneath his touch, his eyes slotting closed. Finally, he nodded. Jaheira may be angry we got no information, but . . . I didn’t want to hear any information from such a despicable person. He opened his eyes again, searching Tyrus’s face. I’m glad you finally restored your health, darling. Is there anything else I can give you?

Tyrus smiled, repeating an old request out loud: “Hold me?”

Soon enough they laid down on a dusty rug, Tyrus curled up against Astarion’s side with his head on the other man’s chest. And it was strange, he knew, that the one person who should remind Tyrus of all the horrors he’d survived, was still the one he yearned for above anyone else when he felt haunted by memories, or worried about the present, or scared for the future.

For all that he’d needed a few minutes to himself, Astarion held him just as firmly back now, running fingers through Tyrus’s hair until they’d both settled and managed something close to four hours of a trance. 

It took a bit longer for the others to stir. Cynda, the last to rise, sleepily stretched out her limbs from where her small body had curled up in Halsin’s lap, just as Jaheira checked behind the drapes and declared the sun had officially set.

Everyone besides Astarion and Tyrus quickly consumed their rations, then all put on their armor before pulling out an old, annotated map of the town. Cynda was to plan their pathing for the tavern that night, Jaheira to estimate how many guards they might expect, Tyrus and Astarion to plan the stealth and potential fighting strategies needed—but before all such plotting began, Astarion looked over at Halsin and placed a hand on his large forearm. “Thank you, by the way,” he said in a quiet, fervent tone.