Chapter Text
Astarion is used to being on his back.
The man looming over him this time, at least, is not particularly unattractive, though he’s certainly not Cazador’s preferred victim. Cazador liked pretty things. Perfect things.
The drow is not perfect, but he may have once been pretty. It’s still there, hidden beneath layers of burn scars that cover the left side of his face and reach across his nose, marring blue-grey skin dappled with soft freckles. When he snarls at Astarion, the scars stretch and pull.
“Now, now,” Astarion tries and casts a sideways glance at the drow’s companion, a half-elf woman who looks more than happy to let the drow beat whatever semblance of life Astarion still possesses out of him. “No need to get violent.”
“You were ready to slit his throat just a moment ago,” the half-elf points out, crossing her arms.
“Yes, well,” Astarion grunts as the drow, who’s got his arm braced across Astarion’s chest, presses down further. “That was before I realized how… competent your friend here is. I promise, no more throat slitting or attempted murder of any kind. Just,” he shifts, but the drow growls before he can gain and sort of leverage. “Just let me up and we can talk about this like civilized folk.”
He meets the drow’s gaze with what he hopes is a look of innocence. The drow stares back at him, unblinking; he’s got a patch over his left eye. His other eye is a pale blue.
He does not look particularly keen on letting Astarion go.
The half-elf, thankfully, seems to grow bored of the situation and walks over to place a hand on her companion’s shoulder. The drow doesn’t look at her, but his brow furrows and he lets out a final hissing breath before releasing Astarion and rising to his feet.
Astarion follows suit, staggering a few paces back and rubbing a hand beneath his nose; when it comes away bloody, he grimaces, his face smarting where the drow had head butted him earlier.
The drow, who towers over both Astarion and the half-elf and who is watching him from behind a curtain of matted silver hair. There’s a bruise blooming across his collarbone, perhaps from the crash.
He’s got a smudge of Astarion’s blood on his forehead.
“Well,” Astarion says and makes a show of brushing off his clothes. It’s useless; his tumble out of the Mindflayer ship has left him covered in a fine layer of dust and soaked with whatever strange fluid had filled the various pods and aquariums throughout the ship. He sighs, somewhat annoyed. “Now that that’s out of the way-”
Whatever he’s about to say, unclear even to him, doesn’t matter. He doubles over, a sudden rush of pain overtaking his mind and cutting off his voice. Out of the corning of his eye, he can see the drow do the same, before his vision goes completely white. He clutches at his head as a memory that isn’t his forces its way through the terror and suddenly he’s no longer standing in the sun, near the wrecked Mindflayer ship. Instead, his world spins, a mixture of unfamiliar voices and raging flames.
The fire burns bright all around him, licking at limbs that are both his and someone else’s. Panic overtakes him, not entirely his own, and he can hear someone crying out, screaming for him. Calling his name. Calling for-
“Nym!”
As soon as it starts, the vision ends, thrusting him back into the real world so fast that he’s barely able to stop himself from falling to his knees in the dirt. Across from him, the drow is not so lucky. He’s hunched over on the ground, one hand gripping the side of his head while the other clutches at his stomach. The half-elf is kneeling beside him, confusion and worry clear as day on her face.
“Nym! Nym, what happened?” She shakes him lightly. The drow grunts something unintelligible before slowly sitting up and letting out a shaky breath. This time, when he meets Astarion’s gaze, there is no longer any anger or aggression. Instead, he looks at Astarion with… pity.
“Like us,” he finally says. His voice is soft and airy, a striking contrast to his formidable figure. “He is… gods be damned. He is like us.”
“What are you talking about?” Astarion demands, only just starting to realize a few things.
One: He may have just seen into the drow’s mind, and whatever he saw was not at all pleasant. In fact, it was quite traumatic.
Two: The drow may have just seen into his mind and whatever he saw, Astarion can only guess was even more so. He bristles at the idea of it, thoughts racing with a million scenarios and two centuries worth of terrible things.
“The Mindflayers,” the half-elf starts, helping the drow - Nym - to his feet. “They captured us… and I’m assuming they captured you, too. Which means you’re infected. With a parasite.”
Something squirms behind his eye, alien and foreign, and Astarion grits his teeth. The half-elf grimaces in understanding, before continuing.
“If we don’t hurry, we’ll be turned into Mindflayers. We need to find a healer, quickly.”
Astarion stares at her.
“Turn us into-“ He scoffs, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Of course.”
Of course.
“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster.”
The sun, warm on his back for the first time in nearly 200 years, feels like a taunt now rather than the grace of some benevolent god; like a gift given, only to be taken back moments later, he both relishes and resents its light. He rubs his hand down his face, lingering at his mouth. The other two are staring at him, waiting for his reaction, so he closes his eyes, briefly, and takes a moment to gather himself before sending the two of them a tight lipped smile. No fangs; he’s not in the mood to get infected and staked in the same day.
“Well, it seems that we’ve found ourselves in quite a rotten situation.”
To his surprise, Nym huffs out a laugh, though it’s rather humorless.
“Understatement of the century,” he says and then shakes his head. “Join us?”
“What?” Both Astarion and the half-elf say at the same time. Nym shrugs, looking between the two of them.
“We will have better luck of finding a cure the more people we have with us,” he explains. The half-elf scoffs.
“Or more chances for someone to get stabbed in the throat.”
“I said I wasn’t going to be doing that anymore,” Astarion pouts, but the half-elf just rolls her eyes. She casts a sideways glance at Nym, scowling, before holding out her hand.
“Shadowheart,” she says and it takes Astarion a moment to realize she’s introducing herself. He bites back a comment about how her parents must’ve been truly under the influence the night they came up with that name and offers her his hand in return, wincing when she grips it with threatening force.
“Astarion,” he says tightly.
Shadowheart fixes him with a piercing glare.
“I won’t hesitate to end your life should you decide to rescind your earlier promise.”
“Lovely,” Astarion deadpans, pulling his hand back. He turns to Nym. “You keep such wonderful company.”
“Circ*mstantial,” Nym responds just as dryly and Astarion doesn’t miss the twitch of his lips when Shadowheart sends him a withering look. Nym doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a response, though, instead saying, “Let us go then. I’ve no interest in sprouting tentacles or acquiring a sudden taste for brains.”
Then he turns on his heel, heading back towards the wreckage and muttering something about signs of a settlement near the shore. Shadowheart lets out a long suffering breath, as if, despite only just meeting him, Nym has already shaved multiple years off her life. When she starts after him, Astarion follows as well, feeling light despite the weight of the situation. Not ideal in the slightest, but he supposes he could have found himself far worse traveling companions.
He does his best to ignore the gnawing hunger forming a pit in his stomach.
They pick up two more that day.
The first is a wizard that Nym pulls from a rock like some sort of mythical weapon - except instead of a powerful blade with the power to kill gods, Gale spills forth from his magic portal a loud and rather pitiful excuse for a wizard. Astarion must give credit where credit is due; despite Gale’s rambling and disgustingly detailed way of describing how he too is the reluctant host to a Mindflayer parasite (oh joy), Nym remains rather plain faced through it all, accepting Gale’s enthusiastic handshake and inviting him to the group with mild words and a small smile.
The set of Shadowheart’s mouth tells Astarion everything he needs to know about her opinion on collecting more unfortunate souls instead of fully dedicating their time to finding a cure; he can’t very well disagree with her. He can feel the damned thing, twitching behind his eye, never letting him forget about its constant presence. It disgusts him in a way that reminds him a bit too much of how Cazador would sometimes slip into the minds of his spawns, flitting through their thoughts and searching for any sign of disobedience.
Astarion can feel the worm the way he could once feel Cazador; something wildly out of place, yet unfazed by its own wrongness.
He hates it.
The only one who seems to hate it more is their other newest companion - a githyanki woman who they find trapped in a cage and dangling from a rocky overhang, her tiefling captors arguing loudly beneath her.
Get rid of them. The voice is sharp, abrupt, and completely inside his head. By way of the others’ shifting expressions, Astarion assumes they can hear her as well.
Another Mindflayer victim.
It’s Nym who responds to her, not with words, but still Astarion hears him.
Say please.
Astarion turns away, a hand at his mouth to hide his smirk as the gith lets loose a string angered thoughts. Meanwhile, Nym is talking, aloud now, to the two tieflings; he says something about a ship, urging the two to leave and get to safety. Somewhat annoying, considering Astarion was maybe looking forward to a little bit of bloodshed, but then Nym is waving him over to where the gith is still scowling down at them.
“Would you please shoot the cage bottom open?” He says, motioning to the bow strapped across Astarion’s back. It’s nothing fancy, something he picked up off a past victim in a rare moment of self-indulgence, but he handles it with care nonetheless as he removes it from his back and readies an arrow. It’s one of his only possessions not given to him by Cazador, permitted only with no small amount of groveling and his own insistence that he might use it to fend off nosy city folk.
“Are you sure I cannot just shoot her?” He asks out of the side of his mouth as the gith begins to hiss something at them in her strange language. Astarion doesn’t understand, but he’s smart enough to know that it’s probably something insulting. Unfortunately, Nym shakes his head.
“She claims to know a cure for our… unwanted stowaways. I’d rather she not die before she can divulge such information.”
“Fair enough,” Astarion says with a shrug and takes aim.
Three arrows later, the gith falls to the ground, grumbling as she rights herself.
“Lae’zel,” Nym greets her and Astarion raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, so you know this charming woman?”
“Met her on the ship,” Shadowheart supplies from somewhere behind him. The contempt in her voice is unmasked. “She insisted Nym leave me to die in that godsdamned Mindflayer pod.”
“We had no time for pity or rescue attempts, elf,” the gith spits and Shadowheart bristles.
“Half-elf,” she bites back. “Though I’m not surprised you can’t tell the difference, considering you’re an uncultured-”
“You said you know of a cure for the Mindflayer parasite,” Nym cuts in before it gets good. Astarion pouts, but if Nym notices he doesn’t react.
“We must find a creche,” Lae’zel says, still eyeing Shadowheart. “We will need a zaith’isk to extract the gaik tadpoles from our head, lest we ourselves become one of their sullied ranks.”
Astarion has no idea what a zaith’isk is, but even the word itself sounds unpleasant.
“What we need is a healer!” Shadowheart steps forward. She turns to Nym, incredulous. “You can’t seriously be considering listening to her?”
“K’chakhi! No mere healer will be able to rid us of this parasite! We need the zaith’isk-”
As they dissolve into another argument, Nym sighs, turning to Gale and then Astarion.
“Do either of you happen to know how much time we have left before we are turned?”
Gale sniffs, glancing skyward in thought.
“Usually, the parasite begins to eat away at the brain matter immediately upon entering the host’s body,” he starts, gesturing towards his head with a grimace. “From there, the brain is slowly destroyed and replaced by the growing tadpole. Once the brain has been fully devoured, the outward transformation of the host’s body takes place, usually reaching completion within a week after the initial insertion. From that point on, all previous personality, memories, and individual traits are considered destroyed.”
Astarion stares at him, horror and disgust warring with a sudden urge to wring the wizard by the neck for his complete lack of tact. Nym looks equally horrified, his one eye open wide with shock.
“Thank you… Gale…” he says, somewhat detached. Astarion hums in agreement, unable to take pleasure in the way the wizard seems to deflate in the wake of his own reveal.
A week. They have a week to find a cure.
A week before he becomes something even worse than he is now.
“I think,” Nym starts and then slowly looks to where Shadowheart and Lae’zel are nearly at each other’s throats. “I think we should make camp. And discuss our next steps.”
Gale nods, shifting on his feet.
“Yes, it… it is getting dark. Perhaps a good meal and some rest would do us all well.”
Gods, Astarion could go for a good meal. His fangs ache at the thought. It’s taking all his self-control not to turn and sprint off into the undergrowth after whatever poor animal has the displeasure of catching his eye first. He barely notices Nym stepping between Lae’zel and Shadowheart, nor the way both women begin to loudly disagree the decision to break for the night.
He hasn’t fed in over a week and, even then, one rotting rat is not enough to sustain even the smallest of vampires for more than a day or two. As if catching up to him all at once, his hunger and the past day’s events suddenly find him shaky and exhausted.
He jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder, instinctively flinching away. It is Nym, looking down at him with a look of mild embarrassment and… sadness?
Astarion remembers, suddenly, of their sharing of memories. He wonders, again, what Nym might have seen. It leaves a sickly taste in his mouth.
“Forgive me,” Nym murmurs, gaze lingering on where his hand remains suspended in the air. “You seemed distracted. We are off to find a place to camp for the night.”
Astarion blinks, the words taking a moment to register, before he shakes his head and gives Nym a thin smile.
“Of course. Yes. Right.” He gives himself a small shake, though it does little to help the sudden feeling of unbalance. “It’s… been a long day, is all. I could use the rest.”
“As could we all,” Nym responds. The others are already a ways ahead. Astarion can hear Gale chattering away, seemingly unaware of the deafening silence from the other two.
When Nym begins to lead him away, back to the group, Astarion finds himself following on instinct, caught in the shadow of the larger man as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. For a moment, he has a fleeting fear that, come tomorrow, he may no longer be immune to the sun’s light. He steps out of Nym’s shadow, intent on feeling its warm touch once more before it finally disappears.
Nym doesn’t comment, only glancing back as if to make sure that Astarion is still following him.
“You hail from Baldur’s Gate, then?” He asks. He seems uncomfortable, for some reason, hands fiddling with the hem of his tunic. It’s dark blue, adorned with what was once delicate silver embroidery, and nearly threadbare. Astarion can make out patches of varying colours at Nym’s elbows and one or two on the body of the tunic, as well as small stitches where years of tears and pulling must have been patched by a careful hand.
A once expensive garment, reduced to a ragged shadow of its former self.
Astarion swallows and turns to look ahead.
“Yes,” he finally answers when he realizes he’s been quiet for too long.
“What do you do?”
A dreaded question. Astarion grits his teeth before making a show of waving his hand dismissively through the air.
“I’m a magistrate back in the city. It’s all very tedious.” The lie comes easy.
“I see. A magistrate?” Nym cants his head to the side, before turning it fully to look at Astarion with his one eye. “How old are you?”
“I-” He’s not sure what to say. A complicated question, considering the circ*mstances. He clears his throat, lifting his chin to give Nym the impression that, were Astarion a bit taller, he’d be looking down at the drow. “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question. Don’t you know never to ask someone such things, especially someone you’ve only just met.”
Nym barks out a laugh, high and bright.
“Ah, forgive me once more then. It seems I have lost my manners in the crash.”
It’s clear he doesn’t believe in Astarion’s reasons, but at the very least he’s tactful enough not to force the issue. It’ll have to do for now.
Somewhere ahead of them, Gale calls out that they’ve found a spot to make camp. Astarion feels a simultaneous rush of relief and anxiety; his hunger demands to be satiated, sitting heavy in his stomach like a river rock, but his legs ache and his head pounds from the excitement of the last 24 hours. Beside him, Nym yawns, his jaw cracking loud enough that it seems to startle even him. Astarion watches as a dark blue blush spreads over his cheeks, interrupted only by the heavy scarring. Nym huffs a nervous laugh, his shoulders rising up towards his large ears.
“Erm.”
Astarion quirks an eyebrow.
“Cute,” he tries and, to his satisfaction, the blush deepens.
Interesting.
“Well then,” he sighs and makes a show of stretching as he walks on ahead. “We’d best go make sure they don’t take all the good shady spots, yes?” He looks back over his shoulder, blinking demurely. If this works… “Come along then, darling.”
Nym stumbles a bit, looking confused and flustered.
Very interesting.
Camp is a solemn affair, the looming and rather terminal nature of their predicament leaving their party quiet and sullen. Astarion finds himself a shady spot, sequestered away from the others but still close enough to the fire to feel, if not its warmth, than at least some semblance of comfort.
There will be no hunting tonight, no matter how loudly the night’s wildlife calls to him. He cannot risk the others catching on and, with everyone on high alert, he’s got no chance slip away unnoticed. So, he leans back against a large stone and closes his eyes, doing his best to push away the thoughts of blood and hunger that seem intent sticking around.
He almost succeeds until, much to his annoyance, Lae’zel decides to set up camp right next to him; somehow, despite having been recently kidnapped, infected, and thrown from the sky, she seems to have everything she needs to survive in the wilderness, including a decorated tent and a full whetstone. Where and how she acquired it, Astarion is unsure.
When the loud grinding starts, he begins to entertain thoughts of draining her dry, if only to get the horrid noise to stop.
Instead, he does his best to make his displeasure known, glaring at her from where his spot and sighing loudly whenever she happens to glance in his direction. Unfortunately, she seems to be either purposely ignoring him or incredibly stupid; despite his best efforts, she continues to loudly sharpen her sword, muttering unintelligibly to herself as she does so.
His only solace is that the others seem just as put off about it as he does.
Shadowheart, in particular, looks ready to remove the githyanki’s head from her neck with her bare hands. Even Gale, who sits placidly beside the fire attempting to scrounge together some sort of meal, keeps flinching every time a spark flies, the furrow of his brow growing deeper and deeper as the night wears on.
Astarion lets out a long, unnecessary breath through his nose, tilting his head back; the sky tonight is cloudy. He can barely see the silhouettes of the surrounding trees against its dark backdrop.
“A shame. Out here, the stars must be quite beautiful,” says a voice beside him and he jumps, biting back a rather unflattering yelp. He whips around, lips already curled.
“Do you delight in surprising me? Or do you truly just not have any manners?” He asks and Nym, dark in the night if not for the firelight, smiles sheepishly. He has a strange pallor about him, as if the world doesn't sit right on his skin.
“I think it is rather than you have a habit of getting lost in your head, instead of it being any desire to scare you on my end.” Nym tilts his head. “Though I am sorry nonetheless.”
Astarion snorts.
“That’s the second time you’ve snuck up on me and the third time you’ve apologized today, and we’ve only just met,” he says. “I am sensing a pattern forming.” He closes his eyes again, before reopening one to send Nym a pointed glare. “And you did not scare me. I am simply worn from the day.”
“Of course. Forgive me for the mistake.”
“Fourth time.” Astarion sits up, realizing that Nym has no intention on leaving him alone. “Is there a reason you’re standing over me like an orc ready to strike? Or am I just so stunning that you cannot look away?”
Nym blinks at him, before his gaze trails somewhere to the left.
“I, erm... came to see how you were faring.”
Astarion blinks up at him.
“You… what?”
Nym gestures to Astarion’s chest and then to himself, a sweeping motion that seems meant to encompass the breadth of his own substantial bulk.
“Your chest. Where I, ah, held you down earlier. I know that I am quite… large. I wanted to make sure that I did not hurt you too badly.” He pauses, mouth twisting. “And to apologize for that as well.”
Surprise and confusion fight with Astarion’s urge to lash out at such coddling. In truth, he’d nearly forgotten about their earlier scuffle, hastened healing making it so he wasn’t even left with a bruise from the encounter. One of the few perks to his vampiric nature.
That Nym had remembered and apparently felt bad about the situation is mildly alarming and also… intriguing.
“I’m… fine,” Astarion finally says, the words feeling strange on his tongue. An idea starts to form as Nym nods in relief, the same one that had found him earlier while he teased Nym on their way to camp. Now it only grows as Astarion watches Nym make his rounds around the camp, checking on each person and asking after their well being. Even Lae’zel gets a quick look over, though when she begins to berate him for making them stop for the evening, Nym quickly takes his leave.
It seems Astarion has found a bleeding heart. Someone eager to help. To care for others.
Someone eager to protect.
The plan forming in his mind is built off the back of centuries worth of seeking out and seducing targets, though now he finds himself troubled at the thought that this is a target he will need to keep alive.
But Astarion’s been dealt sh*ttier hands to work with and years of hanging around in seedy taverns means he’s become quite good at counting cards.
He can work with this.
It is nearly perfect.
