ASTARION POV

She really didn't know him. She had no idea who he was. Astarion steeled himself as they sat by the fire at camp, two days into their journey, listening to Gale from Waterdeep mutter over some book he had found in that abandoned temple. It seemed like madness, but Astarion couldn't ignore it, Amaya really didn't seem to know him. He had figured the ruse would wear off, that whatever game she was playing would end and she would admit it all. But no. Nothing. Amne, she called herself. Amne. Not a far cry from the truth of it, but still, she had not known him, and worse still, she didn't seem to know herself. She sat there, hugging her knees, occasionally sipping the water they had collected, watching the flames calmly. And yet, she was totally lost.

He was at a loss of what to do.

When he had awoken on the ground, surrounded by smoking debris, his mind had been addled by panicked confusion. In Baldur's Gate he'd been running after her, the moonlight bright against the cobbles, her having suddenly disappeared from the street. She had said she was returning to the Inn, to get something from the room she had forgotten, but it wasn't the right way. What was going on? She had stopped so suddenly. Looked so uneasy. Had she discovered his changed intentions somehow? How they had changed that night when he suddenly asked her 'home'? Had his self-hatred leaked out that much? No. Surely not. If she had figured out he was luring her back to Cazador, she'd have incapacitated him somehow. But still, as he had searched, as his heart ached with the dilemma of losing her and therefore possibly saving her, and yet dooming himself, the skies exploded into chaos. And the rest… A slimy tale of agony that landed him there, in the smoking debris, asking yet more questions. Like, for instance, why the hells his hand wasn't already set alight as it was swathed in sunshine.

That at least, had been a pleasant surprise.

For those few moments he simply stared at his own hand in the golden light of the day. The sun. For two hundred years he hadn't even seen the sun, let alone felt it on his skin. But there it was, real and tangible. The warmth. And no pain. If anything, it felt wonderful. His troubles dimmed for those few moments and he inched closer, sneaking bit by bit out into the open. First his hand, then his wrist, then his other hand, and finally, when still no flames erupted, when no pain sliced into his nerves, he stepped out into the light fully. It washed over his face. It kissed his skin. Glorious. Truly glorious. Two centuries of darkness, confined to the light of the moon alone, and he suddenly once again knew the touch of the sun. Of all the things that could happen, that had been the furthest from his mind.

But then the troubles snuck back in.

And he went searching for answers.

Only to be presented with another rather large question.

What the hells was Amaya doing there?

He couldn't believe she had been there, on the ground, amongst the debris just like he had been. A random attack, being snatched out of his life, dumped into some awful ship with tentacled freaks everywhere, plaguing their victims with squirming little worm things. But there she was. Amaya. His Amaya.

In the present, Astarion shook his head at himself and excused himself from the fireside, seeking his own tent in order to breathe easier as his mind whirled with the past couple of days occurrences. His Amaya? What a fool he had become in their short three months together in the city. The tent flap closed behind him and he paced. He would be pacing for a while.

After the crash site they had explored, scavenged, they met with others in a similar plight to their own, but with their own skills to be offered. Bit by bit their situation got a little less dire. Astarion still didn't trust it; the walking in the sun, the Wizard with too hungry an eye for powerful objects, the Cleric with her shadowy past, the Soldier from the stars with all her baggage of an ongoing war, and of course now a Barbarian straight from the hells with an dodgy engine for a heart that was ready to explode. It all made his own situation look downright mundane by comparison. Not that they all knew his own quirks just yet, and he intended to keep it that way for the time being. That seemed safest. But there they were, a band of mishaps. And as he peered past his tent's opening to where Amaya sat he smirked a little despite his troubled thoughts. It sounded like the start to some long-winded joke; two elfs, a Wizard, a Cleric and a Soldier walk into a bar… But he hoped the punchline didn't result in their collective full stop.

But they had all proven themselves useful in a fight. Amaya pulled them all together somehow, her determination and instincts working overtime as the rest of her had fallen away. It was wonderful really, to see her so bold and open to the world. They had shared so many nights, bonded over likes, debated dislikes, but she had always been keeping an eye on the door, double checking her surroundings. That was no longer the case – but that did mainly seem to be down to a lapse in memory, rather than whatever danger it had been, being passed. Then again, if her fears were based in Baldur's Gate, they had time to figure that out. The road would be long.

Despite his doubts, their first real fight as a group, (except the Barbarian Karlach, who they had stumbled across the next morning), had settled his mind. With the afternoon sun dipping to a deep orange, they had come to a large gate. Or rather, a large gate surrounded by goblins and some rather whiny sounding humans who had gotten in over their heads. Thankfully, they were still armed and with the group jumping into action (it being that or having the little green fiends to deal with alone) they made short work of the Goblins.

But it was what happened inside the gate that solidified his intent to stick with the group, with her, his Amaya.

As they entered the camp, the huge gate groaning overhead, Amaya had snorted at the sight of the blonde curly-haired man arguing with the Tiefling who had been in charge of the gate. They looked ready to kick off into their own scuffle. The danger was passed, and yet the man looked ready to explode with all his snarling and snapping.

Amaya shook her head. "Anyone else expecting to hear name-calling, any second?"

The man then landed his gaze on her and sneered. "And what the hells are you lookin' at Elf? Huh? Wanting something?"

"I dunno," she sauntered up and folded her arms, tilting her head and cocking her hip. Astarion simply watched, already enthralled at seeing her dress down some unknowing fool of a human. She shrugged. "Seems a thank you isn't all that out of the question, considering I just helped save your arse."

"I didn't ask for any bloody help."

The Tiefling laughed for them. "Oh please. You were begging for your life. This woman is half the reason you're even here to voice these childish protestations."

And there it was, a spark of rage in the man's eyes. Something deep set and visceral. Astarion knew it, and he knew that Amaya saw it, the way her shoulders tensed. He wondered what else she saw. Did she want to hurt the man? To put him in his place, or simply make him shut up?

The answer came as she thrust the hilt of her sword up in a sudden jab, catching the man's jaw, sending him toppling to the dirt. He was out cold. Immediately. Astarion had never really seen her in combat until that day, and he couldn't deny, he was impressed.

The Tiefling blinked. "Ah, well… That's that I guess. Thank you, I suppose."

"Apologies. It's already been a long day and I didn't fancy listening to more whining, or seeing him punch you simply for doing your job."

Astarion grinned. She was still his Amaya all right.

"A long day for all, indeed." The Tiefling dipped his head and waved someone over to remove the slack-jawed body to the side.

"Anyway, forgetting about the dog mess down there," she held out her hand and smiled. "Name's Amne, and you are?"

"Zevlor, and yes, you're quite right. I might not agree with the method, but it does keep him quiet for now. He'll probably sulk off after this, he's only been here for mercenary jobs." They shook and then he nodded to the rest of them, who had been quietly letting things unfold. "You have a strong group it seems, though I admit not a band I'd have ever expected to see together."

Astarion bowed. "Unexpected, just how I like to be. A pleasure, sir, I'm sure."

Zevlor smiled uneasily. "Feel free to look around of course. I'd offer you a place to stay but can't guarantee it'll be allowed, our own stance in staying here is a little uh… Up for debate."

Amaya glanced around, her brow furrowing as she took in the sights. Astarion only bothered to do so then, and he tensed as he saw several carts and groupings of Tieflings nearby, not exactly looking comfortable.

She sighed. "You're being kicked out?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. The Druids that tend to this place are enacting a special rite, it will close this place off to all outsiders. That includes us."

"I thought Druids were a peaceful sort," she glanced back to the group but Astarion was as lost as the rest of them. She turned back to the now tight-lipped Tiefling. "No?"

"Usually…" He looked along the passageway that seemed to lead into and out the other side of the hill. "Their leader Halsin is not here right now, so instead we have the leadership of a uh… Less favourable sort. Kagha is her name, and she isn't all that pleased with her Tiefling guests."

"So she's a racist piece of shit, gotcha." She patted his shoulder and headed along the passage. "I need to check out if there's a shop in here that fancies trading with folks that helped defend them against Goblins. And I'm guessing Druids might have some handy healing abilities as well."

"Uh, well yes of course, but be careful of–"

"If I bump into Kagha, I'll be sure to have a nice chat."

Astarion jolted and jogged to catch up with her, that confident stride spelling headaches ahead if she got the bit between her teeth over the Tiefling's plight. They had enough to contend with without endless charity. He spoke over her shoulder. "Do you intend to stick your neck out for every sob story we come across?"

"I didn't hear one, clear your ears out."

He scoffed. "Oh come on, we have enough to deal with without–"

"All I heard was that some racist bitch is closing off what's usually a sanctuary for people, and right now, considering what we just escaped from, sanctuaries are probably a good thing. Plus I'm not sticking anything out – I need a shop, we need supplies, and other than the few scraps we have found along the way, we have fuck all to trade with. Plus Druids are good with healing, and don't you think we could all do with some?" She turned to him and tapped her temple, her bright hazel eyes just as warm as ever, but now with a confident shine. She knew what she was doing.

Gale nodded, lips thinned. "Amne has a point. We're not exactly in a situation in which we can be picky about where our aid manifests from. Perhaps some good luck has come our way by us being drawn to this place."

Lae'zel grumbled. "We should seek my Creche before anything else."

"The light's fading fast, we won't get anywhere tonight." Amaya clicked her tongue then raised a brow at Astarion – and he knew he hadn't done well at withholding his unimpressed and clearly waiting gaze. "Look, if I happen to bump into the racist bitch and she happens to be racist near me, then I might happen to voice my opinion on that shitty attitude. That's all."

He opened his mouth to continue arguing but then closed it and raised his brows. "Alright… Supplies, some shelter, and only circumstantial heroism. That makes some sense, I suppose."

"How gracious of you." She rolled her eyes and nudged him before carrying on her way.

And that was that.

As he had stood watching her go about her business in the shadowed area of the camp, talking with the vendors, learning about this Halsin, Astarion had found himself trailing behind. She was listening to him, but she wasn't being swayed by him either. Not much at least. He had no real effect on her beyond what he had earned, and beyond being decent with a bow and arrow, that didn't amount to much. His good looks and charms would have their place, he knew she cared for those from their time together in the city. She had complimented him plenty while he pressed her back into a mattress. But that wasn't the case anymore. They weren't in the city. She didn't know him. And they weren't anywhere near that cosy tavern. No. Of course not. They weren't in a place of leisure. No, they were fighting to survive with scraps at their disposal. But even with all that in mind, she still looked at him warmly, she accepted his presence. In fact, she seemed to value it. For something beyond his looks… Well that was downright odd. Refreshing even.

And so he stayed. Not only were his odds better with the group anyway, but he had to figure out where this all might lead.

Back before it had all happened, before their worlds were turned upside down, when his life had been two centuries of darkness and blood… He had met Amne… Amaya, in Baldur's Gate.

He first saw her three months ago as he headed to the bar to get another round for his most recent prey, his hunt only just started. But there she had been, perched on a stool, cradling a glass of wine, staring at the bartop. A pretty little thing, a foot at least shorter than him, he guessed, slight and pale in the otherwise warm glow of the tavern. Her dark hair was short, a slight wave to it making it look tussled and soft in its raven shades, coffee strands clear in the candlelight. And her eyes. So focused on the wood grain before her, framed by thick dark lashes, her cherry lips either pressed to the glass or paled under the bite of her teeth. She looked afraid, and for some reason, that made him look around to see if the source of that was nearby. But no one else was looking at her. Not a soul. Interesting. No one would miss her, perhaps he would be having two birds with one hunt…

And then she had stared at him. Those eyes, as it turned out when they bored into him, were a bright hazel. Little flecks of green lingered near the edges of the iris, and a coffee-like brown swathed through the shades of gold. Stunning. And clearly she had noticed his staring. She was looking him over, brows quirking in question as she weighed up his threat.

He was still waiting on a drink, so just looked for the barmaid again, before back to her and shrugging with a smirk. "Always the way, isn't it? They disappear when you're at your thirstiest, don't you think?"

She eyed him and then looked for the barmaid herself, and indeed there was no one to be found. Probably clearing glasses elsewhere. As those eyes looked away for a moment, he continued his study and found small marks along her hands – scars it looked like, from small cuts. Defensive wounds, maybe? They reached down to her thin pale wrists, before melting away under her black leather jacket. Not armour, per say, but not casual attire either.

Her eyes returned to him and she lowered the wine, setting it onto the bartop. "You lost your companion?"

He blinked, people didn't often object to him speaking to them. Usually they seemed keen to have the chance. But he pushed the surprise away and maintained the smirk. "She awaits me across the bar, in that little booth just there. Why? Do I look lost, Little One?"

"No, but I'm not sure why you're speaking to me either." She shrugged and sipped her wine again. "You should go back to your pleasant evening, Pretty Boy."

"Pretty boy?"

"You called me 'Little One', I guessed nicknames were alright." She snorted and ran a hand through her hair, tussling it further. "Or are you suggesting you don't know you're pretty? Because sorry, I ain't buying that. You know full well."

"I'm not sure if you meant that as a compliment or not."

"Mm, guess I'm not either." She nodded ahead. "Hey miss, this one's keen for another round I think."

And then he was whirled into a conversation with the barmaid. Dismissed almost entirely by the small dark haired beauty, swatted like some fly. It hadn't happened in a very long time. Someone took one look and said 'no thank you'. Clearly she had more on her mind, more to be dealing with than simply sinking the last few hours of her day into a glass of wine, no, she was running from something. Or someone? Interesting again. No wonder he had been keen to go back for more – though at the time he had told himself it was simply for the hunt. A little bit of chase in a hunt was always welcome, it broke up the monotony like nothing else.

She had been there again the next night, looking slightly more tousled and bit less at ease. Not that she had seemed all that relaxed to begin with. But that second night she had been in the far corner, wedged at the back, eyes darting around the room. Intrigue peaked and so he tried again. He found himself trying again for three nights in a row, and gradually she had started speaking to him properly, even laughing with him once she was sure no one was watching. And as that smile beamed across her lips, her head thrown back, cheeks flushed with it too, he finally admitted it to himself that hunting was the last thing on his mind. He knew he couldn't hand her to Cazador. No, he wanted to know her.

His other hunts became sloppy, grabbed souls to make up the quota for a night otherwise spent in her alluring company. Sharing sweet words, laughter and stories. And on the fifth night, two weeks into knowing her, a stolen kiss when he had been saying goodnight. She went onto her toes and pecked his cheek, quickly rushing off as her embarrassment rouged the apples of her cheeks. So sweet. So wholly too good for him and his ilk. And it would only become more from there, kisses to cheeks melting into ones pressed to lips, tongues gently caressing, hands holding oh-so-softly, before tugging closer and clasping desperately. She was something else entirely. His heart hadn't beat for two centuries and yet it leapt whenever seeing her there for another night. No, Cazador couldn't have her, not Amaya. Not her quick wit and shrewd looks, not her warm smile and melodic laughter. No.

And yet…

Of course, Cazador knew all.

He noticed the more panicked prey brought back, he saw the lack of lustre in Astarion's offerings. And so he had him followed. And so, Amaya was a named target. Something else had driven his cold-hearted master, beyond Astarion's small rebellion. But Astarion hadn't been able to find out what, or why Cazador suddenly insisted on her being the next victim. It burned. It revolted Astarion, but the order was set and his bones moved accordingly. And of course, selfishly, he wanted it to be a wonderful last night… for the both of them. Wine. Dinner. More wine. A stumble up the stairs to the room he had already booked, and then clasping her close. They had already shared a bed several times, but that night he held onto her so tightly there was probably still bruises on her thighs now, at the camp, by the fire where she saw unawares of all that they had shared together. How he knew the taste of her, the feel of her, the warmth of her under him, curled around him, writhing on top of him. And then, as they basked in a sweet afterglow, after he poured what he thought would be their last glass of wine together. He had no choice. He had to take her back, watch her be claimed by Cazador, to become another murky memory amongst so many hundreds of others. And then, in a strangely fortuitous twist of Fate's strings… they were taken.

And the world was indeed flipped upside down.

He had suspected her to be part of some plot to take him instead, but no, she had been just as lost as him and even more so. She didn't know him. She didn't know herself. But now they were bound again, on a journey to Baldur's Gate, to find the answers and rid themselves of a newer problem. His mind ached with the new intrusion and he laid down on his bedroll. Should he tell her what little he knew? Her name, for one thing. She was on the run, for another. But really, even though they had shared so many nights and talked about themselves, she had avoided her reasons for running, just as he had avoided his reasons for being there. And if he brought it up now, questions would rise. And the shame with it. He was a Vampire Spawn, nothing more than a mutt for Cazador to order around, and those orders had led him to that tavern where they met, and almost dragged her back to those greedy jaws.

Astarion turned over and tried to find the meditative state he needed for rest.

She might never remember anything…

Their bond could be forged out there in the wilds, free from all that tangled murk of the city, of Cazador and whatever it was she had been hiding from as well. Yes. They could start fresh.

Or was that just selfish cowardice…?

He would not rest well that night.

Then again, he doubted that he deserved to.

Thanks for reading, cya next time!