Astarion is in a wretched mood on the march back to camp from Kagha's secret rendezvous spot. He is soaked through with swamp water and caked with mud from head to toe. Siobhan, Lae'zel, and Shadowheart are no better. The ancient mud mephits guarding the area had buried them under a deluge of the noisome sludge that clung to every surface, slowing and blinding them more times than he could count. When they finally managed to destroy all of them, their only reward was the discovery of another letter, which revealed a plot to wrest control of the grove for the Shadow Druids and install Kagha as the new First Druid under their banner. The Rite of Thorns, they learned, is not, in fact, a ritual to protect the grove, as Kagha had claimed, but instead a ritual to convert it into the Shadow Druids' domain.
Astarion doesn't think the day can get any worse until Siobhan comes to a sudden halt in front of him with a gasp.
"What now?" He groans, desperate to get back so he can wash the ick from his body.
"Look," Shadowheart points with a whisper. He follows their gaze to find two corpses strewn in pieces on the ground before them. It's the brothers who had accused Ethel of being a hag and taking their sister.
Siobhan stands over the bodies transfixed, staring blankly at their ruined faces that are fixed in a rictus of terror. Their abdomens are shredded, leaking viscera, and surrounded by a thick cloud of buzzing flies.
"Can't have been dead too long," Shadowheart sighs upon examining them, "a few hours at the most."
"How can you tell?" Astarion grimaces, peering at the remains with disgust.
"In this heat, the duration of rigor mortis will diminish quickly. These two are still stiff," She explains.
Lae'zel unsheathes her great sword with a curse and scans the perimeter in case the culprit is still nearby, but whatever has done this seems to be long gone.
"We just missed them," Siobhan says numbly, "if I had just listened, helped, they wouldn't be here."
Astarion has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, "and if they hadn't knowingly wandered into a hag's domain and announced their intent to kill her to anyone who listened, they might still be alive."
Siobhan tears her gaze away from the bodies to glare at him, quivering with barely concealed outrage at his callousness, "They were looking for their sister."
"They were looking for trouble. It's not our fault that they found it." Astarion huffs and crosses his arms.
"He's right," Lae'zel nods, "they were foolish to pursue a quarry for which they were underprepared and ill-matched."
"Exactly. Thank you, Lae'zel." Astarion says smugly, "Now, I suggest we leave before we join them."
"We shouldn't just leave them here to rot," Siobhan frowns quietly.
Shadowheart places a gentle hand on Siobhan's shoulder, "What would you have us do? Bury them? We can't stay here."
Siobhan flinches away from her touch, refusing to be consoled.
"What's done is done," Astarion reminds her flatly, "you're welcome to mope if it'll make you feel better, but putting them in the ground won't change anything. I, for one, have no interest in mucking about in the mud for one more second."
"Astarion!" Shadowheart scolds, and Astarion shrugs unapologetically. He has nothing to feel sorry for. What good is it to stand there, wasting time, just so that they can enable Siobhan's self-flagellation when they could be doing anything else? Namely, get to camp so that they can bathe and rest.
"Don't bother," Siobhan says coldly. Her shoulders are hunched, folded inwards, and rigid with tension, "He's right. What's done is done."
She looks at the bodies again, her face twisting with remorse, before steeling herself and kneeling beside them to rummage through their sundered clothes. She recovers a tattered letter, which she skims quickly and then stuffs it into her pocket. Siobhan stands, wiping the gore from her hands on a bit of moss that blankets the ground around her.
"C'mon, let's get out of here."
Once they return to camp, Shadowheart takes it upon herself to inform the others about what had happened since Siobhan makes it clear that she is in no mood to talk. When Gale tries to speak with her alone in an attempt to comfort her, Siobhan dismisses him and shuts herself up in her tent.
Siobhan is the last to go to the stream to wash up. He waits long enough that she's had time to finish before he slips away from camp while the others are distracted to meet her at their spot. As he walks there, he fusses with his still slightly damp hair for a moment to make sure it falls just so and then fixes a coquettish smile on his lips. As expected, she's bathed and dressed, hair slicked back loose to dry in the warm air, still dripping slightly. She's sitting back against a tree, turning her special dagger in her hands, pressing the point against her thumb absently.
"Been waiting long?" he purrs, announcing his arrival, and she regards him vacantly. Her mouth is set in a persistent frown, and her eyes look red and puffy. Has she been crying?
"Let's just get this over with. I'm tired."
Astarion feels a sting of disappointment at her gloominess. Their nightly meetings were often the only chance he had to work his charms on her when he had her full attention, and the burdens of leading the group and managing their needs weren't a constant distraction. But Astarion wonders if there might be a way to leverage this.
"I see you've started without me, darling," He gestures at the dagger, and she freezes, no longer turning it in her hands.
"I didn't . . . I wasn't –" she starts, but Astarion cuts her off.
"No need to explain; like I said, I won't tell you to stop."
She nods hesitantly and resumes turning the dagger in her hands. Astarion moves closer, slowly, deliberately.
"Would I be wrong to assume you were thinking of putting it to use tonight?"
She shrugs, keeping her eyes fixed on the blade.
Astarion has to fight to keep the naked interest off his face as a thought occurs to him, "You know, we could always kill two birds with one stone if you like?"
Siobhan snaps her head up to look at him. "What do you mean?" She asks, her eyebrows knitting with surprise and curiosity.
"You cut I drink. Or I cut and drink. Really, any combination will do. That way, we both get what we need. Efficient, no?" Astarion says with a coy smile.
She looks down at the dagger and then back up at him. He can tell that he's struck a chord with her and waits as she processes his offer.
"I— would it be deep enough for your purposes?" She asks hesitantly. "And, I usually do my legs, so I don't know how that would work . . ."
Astarion's smile widens, his fangs flashing, "Oh, I'm sure we can figure something out. I have no objections to working with your lovely thighs, love."
He's surprised when Siobhan doesn't immediately redden at his lewdness. She's usually so prudish that it doesn't take much to embarrass her. But it's clear she's seriously considering his suggestion.
"Sure, why not. . ."
She hesitates for a moment, then sets down the dagger. With slow, practiced fingers, she undoes the drawstrings of her breeches and carefully begins pulling them down over her hips. Astarion briefly debates offering to help her undress but decides against it. Siobhan's skittishness around her body is not something he can ignore, as any false step would put an end to this little development.
Once she's shucked her trousers completely so that she's left only in her homespun shirt and underclothes, she looks up at him, her face pale and nervous. Astarion carefully situates himself between her outstretched legs, crouching over them but mindful not to touch her, not yet. He looks up at her from under his eyelashes and holds out a hand for the dagger. Siobhan watches him like a hawk as he does and hesitates.
"Should I— I can show you how to do one first, so you know how . . ."
"By all means," Astarion encourages, swallowing his fascination.
Siobhan exhales shakily and nods, pressing the blade to her left thigh a few finger widths above the knee and drawing it across her flesh slowly. The skin splits easily, a testament to the keenness of the blade, and blood wells to the surface. The cut is a hair too deep to be called shallow but still superficial.
Astarion pulls his attention to look at her face and sees as she progresses past the subtle pain that crosses her features and gives way to a wave of relief, her eyes fluttering shut.
"How does it feel?" Astarion asks lowly, his throat burning softly with thirst.
"Good," she whispers with a sigh.
Astarion pries the dagger gently from her limp hand, and she releases it readily. He mimics her sure motions and cuts another line through her flesh a few centimeters above the first. More blood wells up from the wound and Astarion can no longer resist. His tongue skates over her skin to lap up the blood that has already begun to trail down her thighs until he reaches the cuts, covers one with his mouth, and sucks.
She hisses, stiffening with surprise or pain, he can't tell, but slowly relaxes. Astarion looks up and catches her watching him with wide eyes, pupils blown and dark, mouth open slightly as she exhales shakily. She jerks lightly under him when he cuts again and licks the blood as it comes up. He steadies her leg, pins it with his free hand so it doesn't shift, and then sinks his teeth into her flesh. Blood rushes into his mouth more quickly, and he groans as it soothes the ache in his throat and dulls the sharp edges of his hunger.
He doesn't linger long, careful to keep his promise only to take enough to regain his strength without draining hers. He pulls away, crawling back so he's no longer crouching over her legs. Astarion can hear the thundering of her heart. Siobhan's neck and cheeks are flushed.
"Satisfied?" Astarion asks breathlessly, and Siobhan only nods, looking more than a little flustered.
"Good."
It takes her a second to gather herself, but soon enough she's reaching into her pack and pulling out her bandages. She doesn't take out any potions. Siobhan has left her medical supplies back at camp the past few nights and started rationing them for only the more severe injuries. The available flora did not include the ingredients she needed to brew as many potions as she's accustomed to replenish their stock.
Once the cuts are adequately bandaged, she dresses and packs her things, carefully cleaning the dagger thoroughly and wrapping it in the protective coverings before putting it away.
Before they leave, Siobhan stops him, "Was that . . . okay? You don't think I'm . . ." she flounders, looking for the right words.
"What? Some kind of deviant?" Astarion teases.
She scowls at him, "No, that's not what I meant."
"I wouldn't worry about it too much, darling. We all have our little quirks. You wouldn't believe the things some people have to do just to—"
He stops mid-sentence when Siobhan's brows furrow suddenly, her eyes focus on something over his shoulder. Before he has a chance to turn to see what it is that has caught her eye, she's pushing him to the side and gasping, "Look out!"
With an indignant yelp, Astarion stumbles and braces himself against a tree to keep himself from falling.
In the commotion, he almost misses the tell-tale mechanical twang of a crossbow bolt firing. He hears it sing through the air and then the abrupt wet thud as it impales Siobhan right below her sternum. The force of it knocks her off her feet, and she hits the ground hard, the air leaving her lungs all at once in a pained gust.
Astarion instinctively dives behind the tree he's fallen against to get out of the firing line and unsheathes his daggers. His heart pounds with terror, and he glances at Siobhan's fallen form helplessly. She's gasping and choking, clawing at the ground around her in agony. Astarion can only watch as she coughs; a fine mist of blood sprays from her mouth.
Their eyes meet, and he can just make out her pained whisper, "Run!"
Astarion half lurches to leave at her command but hesitates, torn with indecision. Is he really going to just leave her there to die? He peers around the corner to see if he can catch a glimpse of the assailant but sees nothing. Whoever it was that shot at them has hidden themselves for another attack. He ducks back behind the cover of the tree and takes a deep breath.
Fuck.
It's not as if he can help her. Even if he did try to come to her aid, he knew no medicine. He can't carry her back to camp safely without getting himself shot in the process. He doesn't even know if more than one enemy is waiting for them in the shadows. They could be hopelessly outnumbered. He would have to make a break for it and try to get back to camp, to the others, and hope whoever has attacked them doesn't finish Siobhan off before Astarion gets back with reinforcements.
Quick as a cat, Astarion dashes from his hiding spot towards the direction of the others, but as soon as he's exposed, he feels his body freeze unnaturally mid-step, and his heart plummets into his stomach. He can't move. It's as if his limbs are made of stone. He knows this feeling. Someone's cast Hold Person on him.
He fights fruitlessly against the enchantment, begging his petrified limbs to heed his will, but to no avail. Out of the darkness, a tall bearded man holding a crossbow approaches carefully, his eyes scanning the surroundings to make sure nothing interrupts his hunt. Astarion watches as the man kneels next to Siobhan, who's still gasping and writhing in the dirt. Her movements have started to slow, sluggish as the wound takes its toll.
"Deepest apologies, madam. I was hoping to hit your companion. I have no quarrel with you," the man says remorsefully, "but I've been tasked with bringing him to my people in Baldur's Gate. It's not a mission I can fail."
Astarion fights against the enchantment with renewed vigor. Gods, the bastard is here to take him back to Cazador. His worst nightmare is unfolding before his very eyes, and he can do nothing to stop it, can do nothing to save himself. If he hadn't been totally immobilized, he would have broken down into tears right then and there.
"No . . . don't—" she moans.
"I would help if I could, but the bolt has been coated in a paralytic. Your friend here would have survived it, being a vampire spawn, but I'm sorry to say that its effect is deadly for mortals." He pats her gently on the shoulder, "Don't fight it. The pain should ease soon enough."
The man stands and pulls a length of rope from his pack and disappears behind Astarion. He feels his arms being pulled behind him, his hands forcibly crossed at the wrists. The rope is wound roughly around them and cinched tightly.
Siobhan's crying now, tears streaming down her face as she tries crawling towards them on all fours, desperate to intervene, hand cradling the protruding crossbow bolt. Astarion knows it's no use. They're both doomed. How quickly everything, his freedom, his life, has been torn from him. He doesn't think it can get worse until the man steps back into view, holding a muzzle made of stiff leather in his hands.
"Best be safe. The spell will wear off soon enough and we have a long journey back to the city."
The man forces his jaw open painfully and slides the leather bit into his mouth. Below them, Siobhan has crawled close enough to tug at the leg of the man's trousers. The man's face twists with annoyance, and he tries to kick her hand loose. Instead, her fist closes around his ankle like a vise, and with the last of her strength, she mutters an incantation. Twisting vines erupt from the earth and wind up the man's legs until he's totally encased with them.
With a shout, the man tries to struggle free, and suddenly the spell binding Astarion falls as his concentration breaks. Astarion crumples to his knees as his limbs regain the ability to move, the momentum of his earlier attempt at escape rushing back like it had never been interrupted. He spits out the gag and staggers to his feet, dazed with the rush of his newfound freedom.
Now that he has a chance to get a proper look at the man, he recognizes him as a Gur, and he's filled with a ferocious bloodlust. His kind was the reason Cazador had been able to offer him the impossible choice between death and eternity as his spawn. His kind was the reason he'd suffered 200 years as a slave. And now, a Gur had tried to deliver him back into the hands of his tormentor and torturer.
Astarion lunges at the Gur and his jaw closes around the man's throat. He screams, writhing against the vines restraining his body, trying to escape, but it's cut short as Astarion yanks away, tearing a hunk of flesh from his neck. A spout of blood shoots from the man's jugular, spraying them all with its metallic heat. The man dies in seconds.
Astarion's heart thunders in his chest, air filling his lungs in ragged gasps as the vines crumble to ash around the man's corpse. Siobhan has fainted, or the paralysis has progressed enough to disrupt her spell.
"Get up, damn you!" he calls to her, but she's unresponsive. He searches frantically for his fallen daggers and kneels when he spots one. His bound hands close clumsily around the cold hilt, and he saws at the ropes binding his hands until they come loose.
Astarion scoops her up as best he can. She's limp as a corpse in his arms, eyes open and fixed, and runs towards camp as fast as possible. She's not particularly heavy, but he's never been strong, and the horror at what almost happened to him makes his limbs lock up with the aftermath of his panic.
When he finally hears their voices and sees the light of the fire flickering against the trees, he almost collapses in relief.
"Help!" He begs as he stumbles past the brush into the clearing. "Shadowheart! She needs help!"
"What in the hells?!"
"Siobhan!"
"Astarion! What the bloody—?"
Lae'zel is the first to reach him and tears Siobhan's body from his arms. She's stronger and faster than he is, and she rushes her to meet Shadowheart, who's pale with shock. The cleric jumps into action, calling for Gale to bring her a scroll of Revivify and Siobhan's medical supplies as Astarion sways weakly into Wyll's side.
"Sit down, Astarion. You look like you're going to faint. Tell us what happened."
Astarion lets Wyll guide him to the ground, eyes fixed on Siobhan, whose head has lolled to the side. Her face is slack, pupils blown and glazed, lifeless even as Shadowheart's healing magic settles over her gently with radiant light. They have pulled the bolt from her abdomen, and Gale's hands are pressed over the gaping wound. He can't hear her heart beating.
"Attacked," Astarion croaks, "was supposed to be me. Pushed me out of the way."
"Who attacked you?" Wyll asks.
"Are more coming?" Lae'zel hisses, sword drawn. Vigilant for incoming threats.
Astarion shakes his head numbly, "Dead. Killed him. Just one."
"What were you two even doing out there?" Karlach asks, but he's saved from answering when Lae'zel commands her to cover the other side of camp, and Karlach obliges, brandishing her great axe.
Wyll pins him with a knowing stare, and Astarion shakes his head slowly, begging him quietly not to say anything.
"Cast the bloody spell, Shadowheart!" Gale yells when the blue light of Shadowheart's magic slides off Siobhan's body. The healing magic is unable to repair the damage. It won't work on someone dead.
Shadowheart rips open the revivify scroll and chants the incantation, palm pressed against Siobhan's skull. Her eyes flash with divine light, and with a gasp Siobhan's eyes focus. Her heart restarts with an erratic thumping that quickly settles into a familiar albeit quicker rhythm. The relief doesn't last long, though, because as she regains awareness, a wail of agony erupts from her lips, and she begins twisting and writhing underneath Gale and Shadowheart's hands.
Astarion claps his hands over his ears. He can't bear to hear her. He just wants this nightmare to end.
Shadowheart uncorks one of their precious potions of angelic slumber from Siobhan's stash and forces it down the screaming wood elf's throat, hushing and soothing her until the potion is gone and Siobhan's eyes flutter close. Finally, everything is quiet.
"Is she— is she going to be okay?" Karlach asks, her face twisted with fear and wet with hot tears that evaporate as they hit the skin of her cheeks.
Shadowheart nods hesitantly, still pale, her hands shaking, "We lost her for a moment, but the potion should fix the worst of it. Can somebody help me bring her to her tent?"
Wyll volunteers and leaves Astarion's side to gingerly pick up and carry their unconscious leader to her bedroll with Shadowheart and Gale in tow.
"You're certain there's no one else coming?" Lae'zel demands and Astarion nods. The githyanki pins him with a searching stare before nodding and heading towards Siobhan's tent, where she sits on a rotten stump, sword on her lap, to stand guard.
He expects the inquisition to descend upon him now that Siobhan is stabilized, but no one comes. He catches Wyll's gaze, and the man nods at him slowly. A rush of gratitude flows through him. Wyll must have told the others to hold off until the morning.
After a while, Astarion finally finds the will to get up from where he's sat in the dirt and shuffles listlessly to his tent. Once inside, he rips his bloodstained clothes from his body, for the first time, sick of the smell and the feel of it on his skin. He dips his hands in the bucket of cold water he keeps in his tent to splash on his face in the mornings and scrubs as much of the blood from his flesh as he can. The water is red when he finishes, and he crawls to his bedroll, still damp, before collapsing, exhausted.
It takes hours, however, before sleep finally finds him.