Siobhan watches him now. Constantly. Like she can't help herself, her eyes drawn to him whenever she lets her focus wander. It's a welcome development, as Astarion was beginning to worry she would never warm to him the way he needed her to. But ever since the ambush, something has changed between them. Her smiles come more easily; she returns his banter with her own instead of merely acknowledging it, and best of all, she doesn't flinch away from his touch anymore.
He takes advantage of that at every opportunity. He lets his hand brush against hers whenever they hike alongside each other, plucks twigs from her hair, or gently wipes dirt from her face when he notices. And when he drinks from her? Well, he makes sure his hands wander, if only just a little. Enough to suggest something more intimate without being too forward or too explicit. He's learned that she particularly enjoys it when he rubs soothing patterns into the flesh just above her hip. Gentle touches. Always gentle. A bit of pleasure mixed with the pain. She still strictly enforces the "no neck biting" rule, a hang-up he hopes to overcome as she gets more comfortable with his closeness, but he makes do with what he has.
They've incorporated her knife into their sessions as well, almost as often as not. These are the nights he's most daring and the most successful. He had teased her about being a deviant, but Astarion has since realized it isn't a sexual proclivity at all. What she finds intoxicating about it is the vulnerability. To share something about herself she finds so shameful and have it received not just with acceptance but with indulgence, with his participation, and with none of the taboo of doing it herself. He's the one who hurts her now, and for some reason, it brings her more relief than doing it to herself ever has—his darling little masochist.
It's why he can't help finding humor in how quickly she accepts Abdirak's, a Priest of Loviatar's, offer to engage in a ritual scourging. Astarion thinks that her willingness must be, in part, due to their new dynamic, to the exploration of her limits. But even he is surprised with how much she ends up enduring. The priest beats her bloody. Siobhan's back is a mess of bruises and gouges, weeping enough blood that it makes him pause. When Shadowheart asks if he would have joined up with her had he known she would indulge in such a thing, Astarion says yes, of course.
And it's not even a lie. He had thought her a boring heroic type at their first meeting, vanilla. But Siobhan never ceases to surprise him. She rejects Shadowheart's offer to heal her, claiming that the cleric shouldn't waste her spells in the event that a fight breaks out. Astarion knows better; the minx wants the wounds to scar. It's why she prefers healing potions over magical remedies as the first line of aid for herself. The ranger is perfectly capable of casting her healing word and erasing all evidence of her injuries but that rather defeats the purpose in her eyes.
And as the priest put so beautifully, "Pain without purpose is a terrible thing."
They spend the night at the goblin camp, the idea being that they give themselves ample time to gather information about the goblin leadership and the cult of the absolute, find where the druid is being held, and extract him safely. Already, they've managed to barter for the bard Volo's freedom with a combination of well-crafted deceptions and a bottle of strong whiskey. The owlbear, too, Siobhan liberates after most of the camp has fallen asleep, creating the illusion that the ale-addled guards failed to properly secure the enclosure before turning in for the night. She instructs the owlbear to find their camp after they leave should it want to make a new home with them instead of returning to the wilds to fend for itself.
The goblin priestess proves to be a dead end. The moment she suggests Siobhan meet with her privately, without her companions, Astarion insists she reject the offer. No good can come from isolating herself from the others so deep into enemy territory. Siobhan, thankfully, agrees. However, the group's morale takes a deep blow once it's clear that yet another potential solution for their infection has proved fruitless. Their last hope now rested squarely on the druid Halsin for those of them who wanted to avoid the githyanki creche at all costs, especially after they came to learn that Shadowheart's mysterious artifact, the one that protected them at the gate of the temple, is somehow connected to the githyanki who are searching furiously for its whereabouts.
Astarion chooses to view their dwindling options optimistically. He hasn't turned yet, and it seems unlikely that he will any time soon. Which means he has more time to secure his alliance with the others, but first and foremost with Siobhan. More time to enjoy his days in the sun. If only the damn worm had also blessed him with the ability to see his reflection.
Astarion hadn't given it much thought, what with so many other things taking precedence over the past few weeks. But, while picking over the strewn-about valuables the goblins hoarded after their raids, he had discovered a small silver hand mirror and snatched it when no one was looking.
Now that they've made camp, he feels free to inspect it but is met with hot disappointment, his reflection still stubbornly out of reach. As always, the mirror reflects everything it sees except him as if he doesn't exist. There is, however, one benefit to having no reflection. You can always see who's coming up behind you.
"Looking at something?" He murmurs and smiles when Siobhan jumps at being caught.
"How did you know I was here?" She asks.
Astarion clucks his tongue and pouts, angling the mirror so her face is framed fully within its silver borders, "Don't tell me you've forgotten already. Or have my nightly visits really left so little of an impression?"
"Ah, yes," she winces, "vampire. Sorry. I should have realized."
"Not to worry, darling. I had hoped our little friend gifted me my reflection along with my ability to walk in the sun, but, alas," Astarion sighs, drops the mirror, and turns to face her. She's not wearing the shirt he mended; instead, she is opting for the shirt with the ragged burnt sleeve she had damaged after colliding with Karlach. Siobhan's holding herself stiffly, wincing slightly when she moves, still in pain from receiving Loviatar's blessing. He doesn't smell blood, so he expects she's finally taken something to close the wounds.
"Do you miss it?" Siobhan asks cautiously.
"Wouldn't you? I haven't seen my own face in over two centuries. Not since I grew fangs and my eyes turned red." Astarion laments. He does miss it. Desperately. And not simply because of his vanity. There is so little of Astarion that belongs to him ever since he was turned. Even his face belongs only to those who look upon him. Like a painting or a sculpture, existing only to please the aesthetic desires of another. An object of admiration, yes, but an object nonetheless.
"What color were they before?"
Her question disarms him. Firstly, because he had expected her to make some inane comment about what is inside matters more than one's looks, but secondly, because he finds he can't answer her. Astarion racks his brain, thinking back and examining the fuzzy memories of his past life, but they're like wisps of smoke too insubstantial to make much meaning of them, and he finds nothing.
"I . . . I don't know. I can't remember."
The admission fills him with rage at the unfairness of it all, "My face is just another thing I've lost," he throws the mirror to the ground, taking spiteful pleasure in the sound of it shattering, "another thing Cazador stole from me."
Siobhan's face falls, but Astarion has learned to tolerate her pity despite how it annoys him. He needs her to pity him, or how else can he expect her to take up arms on his behalf? Astarion is meant to be her damsel in distress, after all. His annoyance is replaced with apprehension when the expression fades as she leans in closer and begins staring at him with fierce concentration.
"What?" He asks, suddenly feeling self-conscious.
"I see you," she nods, looking so painfully earnest it makes his heart clench.
"And what do you see?" Astarion burns with curiosity as she ponders the question, her eyes flitting over his features.
Finally, she settles on the corner of his mouth with a shy smile, "The creases when you laugh."
Wrinkles!? He can't possibly have wrinkles! His hand flies up to cover the offending area, irritated with how her smile widens as she looks at him all the more endearingly.
"Excuse me? I'm an eternally young vampire!" Astarion scowls.
Siobhan's smile turns sad, "You must have smiled a lot . . . before."
Astarion huffs and crosses his arms; he doesn't want to think about that, "You can do better. . . what else?"
She hums, deep in thought, and then, "The way your hair curls around your ears. So white and soft, like feathers."
Astarion sighs with frustration; they're pretty words, sweet, but not exactly what he had hoped to hear.
"This is meant to be flattery, darling. If I wanted poetry, I'm better off asking Volo," Astarion waves a hand dismissively, "Just tell me I'm beautiful, and we can call it a day."
Siobhan cocks her head to the side thoughtfully, "Is that what you want?"
Before he can answer, Siobhan's face brightens and she holds up her hand to stop him from answering, "You know what? I have a better idea."
"Better than telling me I'm beautiful?" Astarion frowns, "Like what?"
Siobhan smiles playfully, shaking her head, and brings one finger to her lips, "A surprise. You'll see."
"I loathe surprises," Astarion sniffs, crossing his arms.
She shrugs, eyes bright with amusement, and saunters off with a wink.
"I loathe surprises!" Astarion calls after her, but she waves him off with a peal of laughter.
Halsin is by far the largest wood elf he's ever set his eyes on. Judging by the stunned look on Siobhan's face, he gathers he's not alone in thinking so. Despite his intimidating stature, the wood elves warm to each other right away and Astarion has to work to keep a scowl from his face, irritation twisting in his gut. The irritation only grows when Halsin enlists them to kill the goblin leadership as if they hadn't done enough already.
Of course, Siobhan agrees, though Astarion shouldn't have expected any different.
They manage to dispatch Priestess Gut and Minthara quietly enough, but everything goes to shit when they confront Dror Razglin. Unlike the other two, Razglin is very publicly holding court surrounded by goblins and cultists alike, and the confrontation quickly devolves into a bloodbath. To make matters worse, one of the goblins manages to sound the alarm, hammering on a war drum nestled near Razglin's throne, summoning wave after wave of raiders to rebuff their assault.
The battle is hard won. Shadowheart is near fainting from the magical exhaustion of healing them over and over again. There isn't a single one of them that isn't drenched in blood, goblin or otherwise, when they make the journey back to the grove. When they arrive, they're given a hero's welcome. Druids and Tieflings alike are ecstatic at their victory over the goblin invaders and plans for a celebration start circulating.
It isn't until after Halsin is finished dressing down a repentant Kagha, now demoted to a novice of their order, that Halsin reveals he cannot cure them of their infection.
"I may not be able to remove the parasites, but I have found the next best thing," he informs them, "their source."
Moonrise Towers. According to the First Druid, if they want to find their cure, they would have to travel there to determine how the parasites were being altered and perhaps put an end to the Absolute's plot once and for all.
Lae'zel disagrees, "Have you finally seen reason? We have exhausted all other options, and I've endured your delays, but no longer. We must find the creche. If you will not come, I cannot make you. If we must part ways, then so be it."
Astarion has little faith in Lae'zel's people but even he cannot think of a reason to avoid them any longer.
"No, you're right," Siobhan relents, "once we've recovered, we will go."
While they rest, tend to their injured, and bathe to clean themselves of goblin gore, the grove is a flurry of action. A hunting party is assembled and sent out to catch game for a grand feast, libations are retrieved from the tiefling and druid's stores alike, and the tieflings' caravan is readied for their departure the following morning.
Astarion loses track of Siobhan for a while in the commotion, giving him ample time to worry about his future. Suppose the githyanki creche does prove to have a solution for their infection. In that case, the only thing binding their group together will be gone, along with his ability to walk in the sun but, most importantly, his ability to resist Cazador's compulsion. This could be his last chance to secure Siobhan's allegiance once and for all.
If he was going to seduce Siobhan, it would have to be now or never. Astarion takes extra care in his appearance as he gets ready for the party. He scrubs himself clean until he's shiny and pink, coifs his hair, making sure that a few strands fall artfully over his right eyebrow, and dresses in his best clothes. From the druid apothecary, he purchases an aphrodisiac, maca root. He ignores the halfling druid's snickering at his request, having long since gotten over the shame. After about fifty years of luring innocents to their deaths, Astarion's body had simply stopped responding normally to sexual stimuli. The use of the root to help him perform in bed is a trick he picked up from the whores at Sharess's Caress. It had yet to fail him.
Even so, as the party gets in full swing, Astarion can't chase away the dread pooling in his stomach. Especially since Siobhan seems to revert to her usual treatment of him, avoiding him most of the evening to mingle with the others. He sinks deeper and deeper into his cups as he watches her laughing and dancing, blushing madly at the numerous advances from some of the braver tieflings and even, at one point, Halsin himself. Their merriment is positively hateful.
When she finally makes her way over to him, cheeks pink and eyes glazed from the wine, wearing the shirt he mended for her, his mood lifts slightly. Apparently, the combined pressure of the celebrating tieflings and their companions has loosened her resolve to abstain from drinking, making his job much easier. He would need all the help he could get to lure her to his bed.
"Here's my little treat with their cheeks all flushed," he purrs at her, running a long, delicate finger along the rim of his goblet.
She laughs, "Little treat?"
"Oh yes," Astarion nods, "I could eat you right up, darling. You look absolutely delectable in the moonlight."
"You're ridiculous."
"Am I?" He smiles slyly, "I'm not the only one who seems to think so. Halsin hasn't stopped staring at you all evening."
Siobhan reddens and half hides her face with her free hand, "You heard that?"
Astarion smirks, "I didn't need to. A blind man could see how much he admires you, as he should."
"Careful, Astarion," she smiles, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."
Now's his chance. Astarion cocks his head to the side and hums thoughtfully, "And if I said I am?"
Siobhan sobers slightly, her smile falling gradually, "I'd say you shouldn't tease me."
"I wouldn't dream of it, love."
Siobhan blinks at him, stifling a hiccup, "Very funny, Astarion. But you'll have to use better lines than that. I've become quite desensitized after the night I've had."
"Is that so?" He smirks devilishly, "How about this: All these accolades from the tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips."
Siobhan snorts, hand clapping over her mouth to stifle the giggles spilling from her, "You can't be serious. Does that really work for you?"
"Hmm, let me give it another go . . ." Astarion taps a finger on his lips, feigning searching for a better line before settling on, "Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation— it's as if the Gods made you just to ruin me."
Siobhan laughs at his theatrics, clapping her hand against her glass, "Bravo! Very charming."
"I can go on all night if you wish," Astarion teases, "but is that really what you want? How about if I said these little words . . . everyone's favorite . . ."
Siobhan freezes as Astarion takes a step forward, closing the little bit of distance between them. He looks down at her, letting his face soften as he brushes an errant strand of her hair behind the shell of her pointed ear, "I love you."
Astarion is careful not to let his triumph show on his face at the way her breath catches in her throat and her heart stutters in her chest.
"You'd be lying," she breathes, staring up at him transfixed.
"Ah, but isn't it such a beautiful lie?" Astarion sighs, letting his thumb brush along her cheekbone.
"Beautiful or not, it wouldn't be real."
"Perhaps not," Astarion admits, "but the truth is, I've had my eye on you from the moment we met. I can't stop thinking about you, and I think you feel the same way."
Siobhan doesn't reply, mouth open with surprise, eyes unsure. Carefully, now, Astarion. Gentle touch. Always gentle.
"You don't have to make your decision right away; the night is still young. But, if you find yourself thinking of me tonight, I'll be waiting," Astarion leans in ever so slowly and smiles with satisfaction when her eyes flutter closed, waiting for his kiss.
"Go on, enjoy your evening. Shadowheart looks like she wants a drinking partner." Astarion pulls away, happily noting the twinge of disappointment that crosses her face. Siobhan nods quietly, dumbstruck, and ambles away, looking dazed, thoroughly charmed.
Astarion has no doubts that she will come to him.
The wait for her to arrive is agony. He wants to get this over with as soon as he can, but these things can't be rushed. Astarion keeps himself plied with wine as he makes sure everything is perfect. He's swept the clearing of debris, laid out a blanket for them to lie on, and lit a few small candles to illuminate their hideaway. In his restlessness, he opts to shuck his shirt so that his chest is bare, better to dazzle her with his perfect body on display to relieve any lingering doubts.
The night air is blessedly cool on his face, and he chews on the root he purchased idly until the sounds of the party start to die down. He hears her approaching before he sees her and quickly disposes of the macerated root. The sight of him, awash in moonlight, stops her in her tracks. Through the haze of alcohol, he can tell that she's perhaps as drunk as he is. Swaying gently and so flushed from the wine that he can almost feel the heat of her body from where he stands.
"You came."
Siobhan nods slowly, like she can hardly believe where she's found herself. Astarion walks towards her with slow, deliberate, tantalizing steps.
"Are we actually doing this?" Siobhan asks. She looks apprehensive. Like this is all a trick Astarion is playing on her, and at any moment, he'll burst into laughter and admit this has all been an elaborate joke at her expense.
"Having second thoughts?" He asks quietly, cupping her cheek with one hand while running the back of his fingers against the other.
"I—"
Astarion frowns gently, "Isn't this what you want?"
Siobhan's eyes are lidded, pupils dilated, breaths quick and shallow, "What do you want?" she whispers.
Astarion hums, thumb tracing along her bottom lip, "What any of us want. Pleasure. Yours, mine, isn't that enough? To lose yourself in me?"
She's still hesitant, her heart thundering in her chest, her body trembling even. Nothing Astarion hasn't dealt with in the past. He's been told his beauty can be overwhelming. With someone like Siobhan, a little nervousness is to be expected. Astarion kisses her slowly, gently pressing his parted lips against hers. She tastes sweet, like wine and elderberries. He can feel the root starting to work its magic, his skin tingling with oversensitivity, a rising sense of euphoria washing over him.
"I should tell you," Siobhan gasps, pulling away from him, "I haven't— it's been a while since I—"
"Shh shh shh," Astarion hushes her, "let me take care of you."
He captures her mouth in another kiss, this one searing with passion, and she melts against him, a moan building in the back of her throat. It's easy to let his body take over once he's started, his mind drifting away into the feelings brought on by the wine and the maca root, going through the script he's followed thousands of times before. This will all be over soon.
Astarion pulls her shirt over her head as their kisses grow hungrier, guiding her to the blanket on the ground and then freeing her of her trousers. It's not long before they're both naked, pressing against each other, mouths dragging over each other's skin wantonly. Astarion registers somewhere through the haze that her shaking has worsened but disregards it as excitement, or perhaps the air feels extra cool against her overheated skin.
It's not until he's poised to enter her, his nose trailing across the hollow of her throat, that he realizes something is seriously wrong. Siobhan has gone completely still, frozen beneath him, holding her breath. He looks up at her face and his stomach churns; her eyes are fixed on the night sky, awash with tears.
"Siobhan?"
She shakes her head, and it takes her a few agonizing seconds to speak, "Ignore me," she whispers, "I'm fine. It'll pass."
"It'll— what?" Astarion feels as if someone has dumped a bucket of cold water over his head.
"Please," she begs, her face crumpling, but it's too late. Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle a choked sob.
Astarion is off her instantly.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, covering her face with both hands and curling into herself. "I'm so sorry."
"Did I do something wrong?" Astarion asks, panicked, bewildered. He's well and truly fucked it now. Gods, what a disaster.
"No! No," Siobhan takes a stuttering breath and wipes her tears away furiously, "It's okay. I'm okay. We can keep going. I—" another sob rips through her chest.
Astarion is at a loss. This has never happened to him before.
"Don't be ridiculous; you clearly don't want this."
It quickly becomes evident that this is the wrong thing to say because her face twists with despair.
"But I do, that's the problem. I want to, but I can't because he's— he's ruined me."
All at once, everything clicks into place. Oh, what a fool Astarion's been. That night, that very first night he had tried to drink from her and every night after. Her panic upon waking to him hanging over her, the aversion to touch, her refusal to be pinned underneath him so he can drink from her neck, it's all been because someone had done to her what she thought Astarion had attempted to do. It's no wonder she's been so impossible to woo.
Astarion feels no relief at the realization that he won't have to go through with their little tryst. The avenue for control he'd been relying upon so heavily may be well and truly closed to him now. All because some bastard in her past didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer.
"I'm so sorry—"
"Stop apologizing," Astarion sighs, "just stop. Not to me. Not for this."
Astarion hands Siobhan her discarded clothes, and they dress in a wretched silence, tears streaming quietly down Siobhan's face, twisted with shame. Neither of them stands to leave once they're clothed, feeling emotionally spent. They just sit there quietly until Siobhan lets out a bitter chuckle.
"I told you I wasn't a very pleasant drunk."
That startles a laugh out of Astarion, "No, not at all."
There's something so ridiculous about the non-sequitur and his response that they both dissolve in a fit of manic giggles, starting quietly at first but then quickly growing until they're gasping for breath.
"And I'm supposed to be the tragic one!" Astarion cackles, eliciting another peal of laughter from Siobhan.
"They—" she gasps between laughs, "they put me in charge because I'm supposed to have it all together—"
"Wait until they find out you self-mutilate for kicks!"
They laugh and laugh, falling into each other's sides like the pair of drunkards they are until they're flat on their backs. It takes them a while to settle, but they do, and Siobhan reaches out to twine her hand in his.
"Is it okay if we just lie here?"
"Of course, darling. As long as you want."
She curls up into his side, and he automatically pulls his hand out of hers so he can wrap his arm around her shoulders. They might not have had sex, but that something more he is hoping to achieve with her could still be within reach.
Perhaps this evening isn't a total loss after all.