~O~
Arabella walked quietly through their camp towards Solas' nook at the water's edge. His back toward her as he faced the beach's calm tide, she took in the poise of his posture, his hands held behind his back, shoulders set in a straight line. The familiar stirring of attraction nibbled at the edges of her mind as she let her eyes linger on the sturdiness of his lithe figure. With a small grin, she cleared her throat, alerting him to her presence.
He spoke without turning, his voice sounding distant, "Who do you think 'He' is?"
Arabella sidled up next to him, looking up at his stoic expression before following his gaze to the water's flat surface. "I'm not sure I know what you mean," she said with a curious look.
"Since waking in this realm, I have felt a strange sensation, almost like a whisper in my ear." He shook his head slightly. "This realm is fascinating, mysterious, yet, in meeting that ghoul today, I realized something."
Arabella looked up at him, her brow raised inquisitively. He looked down at her, his face clouded with something akin to indecision.
"There are forces at play here, greater than any I have ever tangled with. My being here may not be the accident I once thought it was."
Arabella's eyes widened a bit before nodding, a pensive look on her face. "It's not the same, but I've been feeling a similar sensation. As though perhaps my decisions and actions are not truly my own."
She reached out to touch his hand, a tangible spark of magic crackled between them, visible in the night's stillness. The sudden connection sent a jolt through him. He heard her gasp as a flood of vivid images and sensations overwhelmed them both. He was bombarded with memories of a passionate kiss, the feel of her skin under his touch, her soft mewls of pleasure, quickening his breath and sending his heart racing. Opening his eyes and looking at her, he knew she saw them, too; her eyes glimmered dangerously in his secluded corner of the camp.
Their intense moment of connection, however, was abruptly shattered by the increasingly familiar telepathic force that ensnared their minds once again. Through its invasive grip, shared visions of Solas' home world emerged with startling clarity: a majestic elven woman with silver hair and warm amber eyes transforming into a grand dragon; a large, menacing black wolf, its six red eyes aglow, stalking through the dense underbrush of a forest; and a cunning crow, darting just out of reach of the wolf's snapping jaws.
The vividness of these images, so deeply connected to his past and the very fabric of his world, left him gasping for air, the telepathic connection severed as suddenly as it had formed.
They exchanged troubled looks, a mix of astonishment and fear at the power and precision of the repeated mental intrusions that gripped them daily. It was becoming clear to Solas that the forces he spoke of were not only aware of his presence, but also possessed intimate knowledge of his past, a thought that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
With the night suddenly feeling much colder, they drew closer to the small campfire he had made near the water's edge, seeking warmth and a semblance of safety. Solas could hear the faint sounds of Alfira's lute, their companions embracing the short respite they all eagerly craved after yet another day fraught with uncertainty.
Arabella yawned, her hand covering her mouth delicately before running her fingers through her long black tresses. Solas studied her as her eyes looked into the dancing flames, and he frowned at the flickering shadows that passed over her distant stare.
"Do you truly remember nothing?" he asked, crossing his legs and leaning back against a defunct fishing boat.
She remained silent for a moment, her gaze dropping to the ground near the fire. Shaking her head, she looked at him with a sad smile. "I feel more than I picture anything, if that makes sense." Sighing, she seemed to weigh her next words carefully, sparing him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the fire. "There are these urges, this intense desire…" she held her hands out before her, opening and closing them tightly before looking at him again.
His worried frown deepened at the dark tendrils of dismay enveloping her gaze. He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "What is it?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper.
"Blood," Arabella said through gritted teeth. "I want to spill it," she closed her eyes tightly, biting her lip as the rise and fall of her chest quickened, "to taste it..." She opened her eyes, snatching her hand away from his warm touch. Shaking her head, an obvious look of disgust on her face, she stood and walked the short distance toward the shore.
Solas rose to meet her, his footfalls silently approaching her from behind. With a gentle pull on her arm, she turned her body toward him, her eyes still downcast.
"Arabella," he said softly, reaching for her chin and lifting her gaze toward him.
He looked down at her, his brows furrowed as she looked up at him through glassy gray eyes. A tear spilled over onto a freckled cheek, and he ran his thumb gently over it, wiping it away.
Solas thought distantly of all the lives he had taken in his efforts to strip power from the undeserving oppressive forces of his home; the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins, before the powerful cathartic rush he felt at felling a foe. Yet, the look in her eyes, and her ominous words, spoke of something deeper, a darker bloodlust he had yet to experience. But amidst the chaotic call for blood lurking in her gaze, he felt no fear, only compassion for her as she laid her vulnerability bare before him.
Arabella frowned as she looked up at him, her gaze landing on his lips, licking her own and swallowing dryly.
"Do you feel that, Solas?" she whispered, her hand coming up and resting over his as he held her face. "The pull, the urge that dances on the edge of our senses, urging us to step into the darkness beyond?"
Solas, caught in the web of her gaze, found himself at a crossroads of emotion and rationale. The lives he had taken, the paths he had walked—all had been in pursuit of a greater purpose, a vision that justified the means. Yet, Arabella's words unraveled a different perspective, a glimpse into a shared darkness that neither judgment nor morality could easily define.
"In every heart, there lies a dormant whisper, a shadowed corner where our true nature resides," he responded, his voice steady, yet tinged with a reflective melancholy. "It is not the feeling itself that defines us, but what we choose to do with it." His hand, still resting gently on her face, slowly brushed a loose strand of black hair behind her ear.
A long moment of silence stretched between them. His hand fell to his side, his eyes looking past her at the calmness of the sea.
"Do I feel it?" he finally said, his gaze locking with hers. "Yes, Arabella, I feel it. But it is in recognizing that pull, in confronting it, that we find our true strength. Not in succumbing to the darkness, but in choosing how we let it shape us."
She nodded slowly, the faraway look in her eyes dissolving, replaced by a resolute determination. Arabella closed the distance between them, holding his hand in hers with a warm smile on her lips.
"Thank you, Solas," she whispered, reaching up on the tips of her toes and pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek.
As Arabella retreated to her tent, Solas remained rooted to the spot, watching her every movement with an intensity that surprised even him. The warmth of her lips lingered on his cheek. A tumult of emotions roiled within him, each wave crashing harder than the last, as the realization dawned upon him with the force of a revelation—he was irrevocably drawn to her, his affection deepening beyond the realms of mere camaraderie or fleeting attraction.
The night air, once a blanket of isolation, now hummed with the promise of something profound and uncharted. Solas stood alone, yet the sense of solitude that had always been his constant companion seemed to recede, replaced by a quiet anticipation of what the future might hold.
~O~
From the shadows, Astarion observed the scene unfold with an intensity that belied his usual demeanor of nonchalance. Despite his position as an observer, he felt a stir of curiosity and, perhaps, a hint of envy. His life had been one of manipulation and servitude, marked by fleeting connections and shallow alliances. The genuine moment of vulnerability and strength he witnessed between Solas and Arabella offered a glimpse into a different kind of existence, one where bonds were formed not just for survival but for a deeper, more profound reason.
As the night wore on, Astarion rested under the stars in front of his tent, his thoughts a complex web he couldn't seem to unravel. He found himself wrestling with a torrent of newfound freedoms and haunting memories. The realization that Cazador's iron grip had begun to wane was both exhilarating and terrifying. The strictures that had once bound him, the meager sustenance of rats he was forced to subsist on, and the deprivation of the rich, forbidden pleasure of humanoid blood—these were the chains that had ensnared him for what felt like an eternity. Cazador, with his sadistic whims, had reserved such luxuries for himself alone, leaving Astarion to wither in the shadow of an insatiable hunger, all the while enthralling and seducing victims for another's pleasure.
The cold, piercing gaze of his master often haunted his thoughts, a reminder of the oppressive darkness that had loomed over his existence. Yet, with each passing moment since the tadpole's inception within him, Astarion felt the yoke of Cazador's influence ebb away. This newfound liberation was a double-edged sword, offering a taste of freedom yet shadowed by the looming threat of confrontation with his erstwhile captor. The very idea of facing Cazador, of severing the last tendrils of control, seemed a massive feat—a mountain whose peak was shrouded in storm clouds.
But perhaps… His mind trailed off, his vicious hunger gnawing at him incessantly. The melodic sounds of Alfira's lute came to a slow and soft end, and as he closed his eyes, taking in the growing silence of the camp, he licked his lips in anticipation.
Under the cloak of night, with the moon a mere sliver in the sky, Astarion made his silent approach towards Alfira's unsuspecting form. The camp was shrouded in the kind of darkness that made even shadows seem deep and impenetrable. He moved with a predator's grace, each step deliberate, leaving no trace nor sound in his wake. His eyes, gleaming with a predatory glint, darted around, casting wary glances at his slumbering companions' tents. The thought of being caught in this compromising act added a thrill to his mission, yet he couldn't help but muse over the potential consequences with a hint of dark humor.
"Imagine the scandal," he thought wryly, "Astarion caught red-handed—or should I say, red-mouthed? The indignation, the shock, the outrageously amusing attempts at an explanation I'd have to concoct on the spot."
In his crouching stance, he resembled more a mischievous imp than a formidable vampire spawn, moving with exaggerated caution. He imagined himself as a character in a farcical play, tiptoeing around with a comical level of stealth, all the while the audience is in on the joke.
As he neared Alfira, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the campsite once more, ensuring none of their companions were stirring. "Ah, to be caught now would be both a mortification and a masterpiece of comic timing," he contemplated, imagining the myriad of reactions. "Would they scold me like a wayward child, or join in the farce, offering tips on etiquette? 'Astarion, dear boy, one does not simply drink from a companion without a polite introduction first.' "
With a final glance, assured of his solitude in this endeavor, he leaned closer to Alfira, his predatory nature momentarily overshadowed by the absurdity of his thoughts. "Well, here's to hoping my midnight escapade ends with satisfaction rather than a slapstick discovery," he thought, as he prepared to indulge in the forbidden, all the while half-expecting an ill-timed cough or snore to turn the scene into a morbid comedy.
He gently brushed her hair from her neck, inhaling deeply before leaning down, his mouth hovering over her neck. His eyes cast about hurriedly one last time, before sinking his sharp fangs into the bard's delicate skin. A low growl rumbled in his chest, the feel of her warm blood rushing over his tongue and down his throat sending shivers down his spine. His eyes rolled back under closed lids as he relished the taste of her blood, savoring the spicy notes of her tiefling heritage.
In the midst of his clandestine indulgence, the sharp, sudden snap of a twig sliced through the silence like a knife, jolting Astarion back to the stark reality of his precarious situation. His eyes, which moments before had been half-closed in rapturous satisfaction, flew open, wide with a mix of fear and surprise. The blood, still warm on his lips, became a forgotten pleasure as he locked gazes with Arabella, who stood over them, bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight.
Rather than the expected shock of a horrified discovery, Arabella's presence was marked by a distant look in her eyes, coupled with a wicked grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. It was a sight that froze Astarion for a split second, caught as he was in the act, yet the expression on her face was not one of judgment but rather of a shared, dark amusement.
With a grace that mirrored his own predatory elegance, she knelt down opposite him, placing herself on the other side of Alfira's still-slumbering form. The tableau they presented was one of a grim, macabre parody of a dinner setting, with the bard unwittingly cast in the role of the feast that lay between them.
He watched in fascinated horror as Arabella leaned down, her tongue lapping languidly at Alfira's weeping bite wound. He swallowed loudly, his eyes following her hand as it reached behind her, pulling out a dagger and running it along the length of the bard's body. Alfira mumbled in her sleep incoherently, her fingers twitching at her sides.
Arabella locked eyes with Astarion, a flicker of dread crossing his gaze, and in a flash of movement she swung her dagger down sharply, landing squarely in the sleeping bard's chest. The drow let out a low moan, her head tilted back, her eyes closed in rapture. Astarion fell backward onto his romp, his eyes wide as the smell of Alfira's blood permeated the air around them.
His nostrils flared at the alluring aroma, all sense of dread leaving his body as his vampiric urge to feed subdued any rational thought. They exchanged a dark and heated glance, filled with the primal bloodlust surging between them.
Arabella pulled the dagger out, holding it above her head, eyes trained on Astarion's as he crawled over to Alfira's neck. In one smooth motion, the dagger sank into Alfira's chest again, Astarion accompanying the piercing of flesh as he sank his fangs into her neck at the same time. He shut his eyes in ecstasy, drinking greedily from the bard, all the while feeling the sharp jolts beside him at Arabella's persistent stabbing.
Several chaotic moments passed before they both pulled away, chests heaving with exertion and the rush of adrenaline. Astarion's eyes glinted in the darkness, taking in Arabella's blood covered face. She looked like a feast before his eyes, the desire to bury himself in her overwhelmingly strong. He knew he must have been a sight, too, the wet sensation of blood covering his mouth and chin filling him with a deep sense of animalistic pride.
Arabella returned his gaze through a drunken haze, and with a low growl she leaned toward him, reaching behind his neck and pulling him toward her. He growled against her mouth, their lips opening for each other upon contact. He kissed her back hungrily as he crawled over the bard's limp body. The sound of ripping garments and heavy breathing echoed in the darkness of the night.
Arabella pulled Astarion down over her as she laid back, positioning him between her legs, their kiss an unbreakable tether. He pressed himself into her, groaning at the warm wet heat that enveloped him, his thrusts set at a bruising pace. His mouth covered hers in an effort to quiet her moans, the sound and feel of her arousal ramping up the urgency building in his loins. Burying his face in her neck, he growled as the compulsion to bare his fangs grew too strong to resist. His fangs sank into her skin, her surprised gasp quickly replaced by soft cries as she shuddered around him. Her blood filled his mouth and spilled down his throat deliciously, as he joined her at the peak of their euphoric release.
Slowly removing himself from her, Astarion looked down at her with a perplexed expression. His chest housed a tempest as she met his gaze sleepily, a sated smile forming on her lips. He chuckled nervously.
As the rush of adrenaline began winding down, his gaze hesitantly landed on Alfira, and he closed his eyes tightly at the horrific scene. The bard's mutilated body lay on the ground contorted, intestines spilling out onto her side, and her neck appeared as though it had been mauled by a wild animal.
The vampire's eyes went from Arabella to Alfira, and back again, surprised to find that the former had drifted off into sleep. The night's events had taken an unexpected turn, leaving him with a dilemma that was as much about self-preservation as it was about the intricate dance of relationships within their group.
"Well, this is a fine mess, isn't it?" he thought to himself, the irony of the situation not lost on him. "Leave it to me to complicate a simple midnight snack into a potential diplomatic incident."
With a sigh, Astarion set about the grim task of concealing their actions, his mind already weaving a tapestry of alibis and contingencies. In the shadowed silence of the night, he worked with a blend of urgency and care, ensuring that no trace of their transgression remained to tell the tale of their midnight indulgence.
Satisfied he had taken care of the mess sufficiently, he stood over Arabella's sleeping form. She looked completely at peace, a serene expression that contrasted sharply with her blood stained skin and wild hair. He sighed as he bent down, scooping her into his arms and cradling her gently. He felt a small twinge somewhere in his chest at the sound of a small mewl that escaped her lips, her head nestling into his chest as he walked toward her tent. Entering quietly, he laid her down gently on her bedroll, covering her with a nearby fur. The smell of the tiefling's blood still strong, Astarion couldn't help but lean over Arabella and inhale deeply, his lips hovering over hers. With a great deal of restraint, he pulled back and looked at her once more before crawling out of her tent.
Once outside, he let out a contented sigh, an unexpected rush of anticipation for the morning to come taking him by surprise.
"Here's to hoping the dawn brings forgetfulness," he thought, a wry smile playing on his lips, as he prepared to face the consequences of his nocturnal endeavors, whatever they might be.