Summary: Astarion fed from a thinking creature for the first time last night, and it was better than he could have ever imagined. The only problem is that she hasn't woken up yet. He needs to figure out what to do, and quickly, before someone notices.

She hasn't woken up yet. Breakfast has long ended; the party is busy pulling on armor, preparing spells, or honing weapons in anticipation of exploring the blighted village just up the hill.

The tieflings' leader, Zevlor, had warned them that their scouting party fell afoul of a group of goblin raiders when they last ventured out. They had been looking for a viable route to Baldur's Gate. If they are still there, there is no guarantee the goblins will let them pass peacefully, so it's better to be safe than sorry.

In his opinion, they should have taken up the goblin prisoner's offer and broken her out of the druid grove in exchange for passage to the goblin camp. If they are going to help the tieflings be rid of their plight, Astarion is of the mind they do it as quickly as possible. Plus, there's the benefit of potentially finding a solution to their illithid problem from the goblin priestess.

But, no, it would be wrong to free the cultist that had killed those tieflings' brother as if it wasn't wrong to execute an unarmed prisoner trapped in a cage with no way of fighting back and without some sort of trial. Hypocrites, the lot of them. Astarion wouldn't have minded, of course, if they had executed her. Astarion rarely, if ever, saw people get what they deserved. That the tiefling girl had enough of a spine to take her justice if no one would give it to her filled him with a grim sort of satisfaction.

At least one of those soft-hearted fools understands how the world really works.

Astarion peeks over at her tent again, but the wood elf hasn't moved. The tent flap is still tied shut from when he had closed it the night before. She's still alive. He knows she is. He can hear her heart thud wetly in her chest—an ability he has always possessed but never so sensitive as it is now. Astarion never realized how weak the chronic hunger, at points starvation, actually made him.

The colors are sharper now, the cornucopia of scents that swirl around him are almost overstimulating, and he can feel the slightest change in the wind, giving him a preternatural sense of when anyone moves when they're out of his eyeline.

That's not to mention his strength and stamina. After drinking from the ranger last night, he went out to hunt for something more substantial. A passing stag, an animal he had never dreamed of catching, was a trifle. He can't remember expending so much energy at once without fatiguing. He understands now why Cazador was so strict with denying his spawn the blood of a living thinking creature. If he and his siblings had ever been fed properly, they would have risen up against him without hesitation. The clarity of thought alone is a wonder.

That same clarity of thought makes him realize that if he doesn't step in soon to check on her himself, then one of those officious intermeddlers will do so instead, and he will lose the opportunity to control the narrative. After the discovery of his meal the day prior, that blasted boar, there would be no denying what happened to their poor, sweet Siobhan. Knowing his companions' unfortunate tendency for heroics, they would be up in arms in a moment— pitchforks, torches, and all to hunt down the foul vampire who had dared attack one of their own. After that, it's only a matter of time before they discover that he is the vampire in their midst and swiftly plant a stake in his heart, an event Astarion would like to avoid at all costs.

"Has our ranger still not woken up?" Astarion complains loudly, straightening up from the wet stone where he was sharpening his knives.

Astarion crosses his arms in a show of petulance once he has enough of the party's attention. Wyll and Lae'zel are the only two that pay him no mind, as they're a ways off sparring.

"Imagine the gall of having a lie in after the bloody mess she dragged us through yesterday," Astarion drawls.

Shadowheart is the first to engage with his theatrics as the others, more forgiving or less easily baited, either ignore him or turn to look at the ranger's tent to confirm her absence.

"If you're going to whinge all day like you did yesterday, tell me now, and I'll cast silence on you and spare us all the misery," she hisses, and Astarion sneers back.

Karlach doesn't acknowledge their bickering but frowns in Astarion's direction, "You think she's all right? Should I check on her?"

Astarion smirks, "Ah, yes. She'd love to wake to her tent bursting in flames around her. I'll wake her."

Karlach pouts and mutters something under her breath about not being able to help it, you pale twat.

"Don't be unkind, Astarion," Gale looks up from his spell book to chide him, "You know she's doing her best."

Astarion pushes down the urge to bare his teeth at the insufferable wizard; his paternalism is uniquely grating this morning.

"Me? Unkind?" Astarion gasps, hand flying to his heart. "Perish the thought."

Once it's clear the others have accepted that Astarion will be the one to check on her, he walks over to her tent and ducks in.

Shit.

If Astarion didn't know better, he would have thought he was looking at a corpse. She's almost as pale as he is despite the coppery undertone of her skin. Even her lips are leeched of all color except the slightest tinge of blue. The skin under her eyes is bruised, and the arm that he fed from –

Nine hells.

From the middle of the inside of her forearm to her bicep, the limb is swollen twice the size it should be and stained purple, almost black. He blew the bloody vein. He warned her this would happen.

Astarion crouches over her and feels the soft puffs of her rapid exhalations crash against his face. He shakes her firm but not rough, "Wake up, darling. Come now, what will the others think if they see you like this?"

She doesn't stir.

Fuck.

Astarion looks up and searches the tent around him frantically. The chit must have more of those health potions stashed somewhere. She brews them compulsively whenever she has the time and ingredients on hand.

Astarion rips open her pack and digs through its contents, hoping to find something— anything he could give her. When his hand fails to touch anything remotely close to glass or crystal, he upends the pack entirely. He studies what falls out in dismay.

Trinkets, a few wooden figurines carved in the shape of an eagle, wolf, and a bear, some baubles, a gold ring (unenchanted), a silver ring set with a small bead of peridot (enchanted), a dark, worn leatherbound journal, a short dagger wrapped in oiled animal skins and tied with a leather thong to protect the edge from dulling, a thin wooden box that on closer inspection reveals to be a watercolor set and a few thin brushes, and a few sets of wrinkled clothes.

Astarion makes a note of the journal (to snoop through on a later date) and ignores the rest. He makes a mess of her space in a moment, rummaging through anything he can find until finally, he discovers a small case made of stiffened leather with a seam running along three sides, held shut with a series of buckles.

He smothers his yip of triumph so as not to alert the others when it falls open to reveal a bounty of neatly stowed vials and bottles. Astarion recognizes a handful of them to contain the same cordial-colored liquid as the one he'd forced down her throat last night and plucks one from its pocket.

Astarion positions himself so that he's seated behind her, lifts up her limp body, and pulls her between his outstretched legs, her back resting on his chest. Last time, she was semi-conscious, actively trying to swallow the potion he was feeding her, and it was a struggle not to drown her by mistake. This time, he can't expect the same level of cooperation.

With one hand, he tilts her chin up, pulls the stopper from the vial with his teeth, and feeds her a mouthful of potion. Once he feels some start to dribble from the corners of her lips, he presses his palm over her mouth and pinches her nose, hoping it will force her to swallow.

After a moment, her head bucks slightly, instinctually trying to escape the obstruction, looking for air, and Astarion sighs in relief when he sees her throat bob as she swallows. Astarion gives her a chance to breathe and repeats the process until the potion is gone, and the wood elf stirs in his arms.

She's still deathly pale, but her lips are no longer white, her swollen arm has shrunk to half the size it was when he first arrived, and the bruise is now mottled blue and green with a tinge of yellow instead of the uniform purple it had once been.

"Ohh . . . ou – ch," she croaks, and her eyes flutter open, but they're unfocused, glossy. Astarion spits out the stopper and readjusts himself from beneath her now that she has started to support the weight of her own body.

"Good morning," he says lazily with a smirk to hide his relief, "How do you feel?"

He's rewarded with a whimper and clucks at her soothingly, brushing the sweat-matted fringe from her eyes, her head still tucked against his neck.

"It'll pass," Astarion mutters, taking a moment to frown into her temple. She is still in no condition to face the others. He reaches over to the potion case and takes another potion.

"Do you think you can drink this for me, darling?" He asks, holding the vial up before her so she can see.

"Ngh . . . don't . . . waste . . ."

"A waste? Not at all. What would we do without our fearless leader? Still a wonder. A wood elf ranger, still young enough to dream, is who we've deemed the fittest to make the decisions around here. You should be flattered, honestly," Astarion teases.

"Now be a good girl and drink this for me, hmm? We're all counting on you to rescue kittens from trees, kiss babies, and all that rot." He presses the vial to her lips, and after a moment, she tips her head back, drinking obediently.

The color returns to her cheeks, pink circles blooming underneath the pallor. Her eyes focus, and she can sit up on her own now.

They both jolt as Gale's voice cuts through the thin canvas of the tent, "Everything all right in there?"

"G—give me a minute!" She says, finally alert enough to form a complete sentence. Her voice is scratchy and weak but clear. The ranger pushes herself away from Astarion's lap and wobbles to her feet like a newborn faun.

There's a beat of silence, and they can see Gale's silhouette through the canvas hesitate until it starts to shrink with his departure, "Hurry up, we're all waiting on you two. That village won't clear itself!"

She sighs in relief, running her left hand over her face tiredly before freezing to turn to him with an accusatory glare.

"What in the hells happened last night?! What happened to 'gentle' and taking 'not a drop more' than you needed?" She hisses. Her outburst seems to fatigue her because her eyes close as she sways for a moment and exhales sharply. As she braces herself with her right hand, her eyes snap open again, and she yelps in pain. Instantly, she pulls her weight off it and draws it to her chest, finally noticing the bruised mess that used to be her right arm.

The second health potion pulled all the blue stains from her skin, leaving only the yellow and green of a weeks, if not month, old bruise in its wake. The arm is now back to its correct size and no longer swollen.

Astarion leans back on his palms, to all the world looking as if he is on holiday sunbathing, "I warned you that the bruise would be nasty if I fed from there. Didn't I say you'd regret it?"

"I hate how you do that." She snarls at him between rummaging through her upended belongings and glaring at him. She finally finds what she's looking for: a strip of linen, which she soaks in a green, mint-scented poultice.

"I hate how you say a true thing and then follow it up with a lie as if I won't remember it didn't happen that way."

Astarion sniffs and turns his nose up her haughtily, "I don't know what you mean."

She takes the now saturated strip of linen and starts wrapping it clumsily around her arm so that the bruise is completely covered.

"You said it might be a nasty bruise if you accidentally bit too deep and blew the vein. You never said I would regret it like it was inevitable that this would happen. Maybe you implied it, but you never said it."

She curses as the edge of the treated bandage slips from her arm, fingers too clumsy to tie it.

Astarion rolls his eyes and, with a sigh, gets to his knees to scoot up beside her. He gently slaps her fumbling hand away, eliciting another glare, to tie the bandage himself.

"Just be glad I'm not a true vampire. There are worse fates than a little wooziness. You could have woken up a spawn like myself. All of a vampire's hunger," he pulls the ends taught into a neat knot and sits back on his feet, "but few of their powers."

Their eyes meet, and Astarion sees that her anger has cooled some with her curiosity. Her reddish-brown eyebrows pinched together, wrinkling the skin above her nose. A nose, he notices that is slightly uneven, a bump marring the otherwise straight bridge. Likely broken and then healed before it had been set properly.

"I had wondered how. . . is that why you can walk in the sun?" She asks.

"Oh no, you can thank the tadpole for that. I should be cinders in the light. I hadn't seen the sun in 200 years before we crashed here." He scoffs dryly, playing at indifference like it wasn't one of the few blessings in his life to feel the sun's warmth on his skin finally.

The ranger's eyes widen with shock, then pity that turns his stomach. That wouldn't do at all.

"Come, we've lingered long enough. The others will start to wonder what we're up to in here," Astarion makes sure to whisper that last bit in her ear. She recoils, irritation deepening the spots of color on her cheekbones, and she all but shoves him out of her tent. But Astarion didn't miss the initial shiver that ran through her at his suggestive remark.

It fills him with part satisfaction and part resignation because, of course. He had wondered what prompted the ranger's generosity after the disaster of his nighttime visit. The poor thing had been insensate, imagining him as quite a different sort of predator if her shock and confusion at his revelation was anything to go by. He might have been more offended at her assumption had not the only other possible explanation besides a vampire attack been that a strange man was trying to take liberties with her while she slept.

But now, the utter betrayal on her face that night makes much more sense. She has been lusting after him, romanticizing the little quips he throws her way, perhaps expecting him to make some invitation to ravish her in the woods like one of those rakish heroes in smutty novels.

The possibility that Astarion was debasing her in the night without her consent instead of sweeping her in his arms after an overblown confession would explain the disappointment underneath the terror—an involuntary reaction from having her fantasy utterly spoiled.

Perhaps it's easier this way. If that shiver was any indication, then maybe she still harbors attraction towards him. He can play into her fantasy, give her a taste of what she desires, and then, in turn, he can continue having a taste of her. Having her wrapped around his finger was no slight advantage either.

Astarion isn't a fool. He knows it's simply a matter of time until the others discover his true nature. If he can have their leader vouch for him and defend him, he won't have to worry about losing his only lead for a cure, or worse, that he'll wake up with a stake buried in his chest.

He waves Gale off when the wizard approaches him to ask after their still cloistered ranger, "She's putting on her leathers. Won't be a moment."

The smile slides from his face the second Gale turns his back on him.

The plan then: seduce her, sleep with her, manipulate her feelings so she'll never turn on him. Simple. Easy.

It's funny, Astarion thinks, that even here, so far away from Cazador and Baldur's Gate, when he finally can choose for himself, act on his desires and no one else's, he still has to trade his body for something as simple as food. He thought that things would be . . . different now that he is out from under Cazador's thumb, and they are but –

Siobhan finally emerges from her tent, hands tying the hair along her temples away from her face in her usual half up half down style, the bandaged arm hidden beneath her sleeve and leather bracer. She catches him staring and addresses him with a short nod before looking away, the tips of her pointed ears flushing slightly.

Things are different. It's just . . . he hoped he wouldn't have to do this anymore.

"Hello, soldier! What took you so long? Been waiting an age for you to get your sleepy bum moving," Karlach laughs, and the wood elf flushes harder.

"Sorry, everyone, I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I – uh – took something last night to help me sleep."

"Seems it was too effective," Gale scolds gently, "Ought to be more careful in the future. We can't have our ranger and most talented alchemist overdosing on sleep aids."

"I suppose one would call our only alchemist our most talented. But I agree with the wizard. If we are to make it to a creche before the ceremorphosis is complete, then you must be more vigilant. I, for one, have little desire to be further delayed by your carelessness." Lae'zel scolds ungently.

"Tell her how you really feel," Wyll mutters, but the gith hears him.

"I did, or are you deaf?"

Shadowheart snorts unattractively and turns almost as red as the ranger at having found Lae'zel funny. Publicly.

"Oh look, the cleric has a sense of humor," Astarion teases to make himself feel better, "I had wondered if you were capable of laughing, what with that stick up your lovely rear."

The wood elf intervenes before things spiral out of control and starts going over the plan. It proves to be an effective distraction because the bickering settles, and they all focus on the task ahead.

Ideally, negotiate safe passage for the party with whatever goblin contingent remains, explore the village for whatever supplies they can get their hands on, and then continue to the sunlit wetlands where Auntie Ethel's home can supposedly be found.

The medicine woman claims to have some cure for their illithid problem, and the others are anxious to see if the promise holds up. Well, except Lae'zel. She thinks their salvation lies in finding a githyanki creche. Astarion has no desire to put himself at the mercy of Lae'zel's people, but he's of the same mind as her in so far as Auntie Ethel.

It is clear that whatever the tadpole is doing in Astarion's head, it is the reason he isn't hindered by as much of his vampiric weakness as he should be. Most importantly, it's the reason that Cazador's compulsion no longer holds any sway over him. Any solution for the tadpole that ends in removing it entirely instead of finding a way to control it so that he doesn't go illithid and can stay in the sun is not an option.

And it could be controlled; he had felt the urge to impose his will over the cultists on the road and knew somehow that it would have worked. The sooner they found the source of these blasted creatures and figured out how they worked and their purpose, the better.

Then, there was also the matter of Kagha's secret rendezvous with a mysterious Olodan. Astarion half regrets ever snooping through the Interim First Druid's things. If he had known their leader was incapable of keeping her nose out of other's business, he would have kept mum about the whole thing.

But Kagha wants to expel the tieflings, and Zevlor wants to kill Kagha, and Siobhan wants both of them to hold hands and sing kumbaya.

She could be so bloody tiresome.

It would be easier if the others had formed a united front, put their collective foot down, and disavailed her of the notion that they would tag along indefinitely while she cures every hurt she stumbles across, despite the clock ticking down to their doom. Unfortunately for them all, Wyll is just as much a meddler as she is, Karlach melts at the sight of the pitiful, and Gale, while by no means a sycophant, is as spineless as he is arrogant, too busy chasing after the wood elf's skirts to do anything more than gently disapprove.

With Lae'zel too devoted to the unpopular plan of setting out for the creche and Shadowheart too unsure of herself to actively disagree with the majority, Astarion is left without allies in the matter. So, he swallows his discontent, plays the fop, and bides his time. Like it or not, this collection of misfits is not only his best shot at avoiding becoming a thrall to the illithid empire but his best shot at freeing himself of Cazador once and for all.

All Astarion has to do now is not fuck it up.

What could possibly go wrong?

A/N Leave a review with your thoughts! Going to be updating weekly for a good while. Until next time!