Boom surprise extra!


ASTARION POV

He dreamed… and he never usually got the chance…

His mind drifted back to their days in Baldur's Gate, him and Amaya, him and her…

A cooler evening had settled over the city. They had bid farewell to the day and now greeted the evening; bars and taverns filled, the cobbles shined with the lanterns lit and homes glowed with the warmth of their hearths. Astarion walked along, the late dusk having left the skies, his only glimpse of the sun in so many, many years, but still those lighter purples gave a small soothing notion to his bruised thoughts. Cazador had been particularly manic the night before, gleefully ripping that blonde man from Astarion's arms, sinking ancient teeth into that supple neck while the man's grey eyes sought Astarion's aid, help, mercy. Anything really. And all Astarion could do was watch. And he made himself do so sometimes. Not always. If he did he'd have gone mad by that point, no doubt. But occasionally, he forced himself to witness the fear, the loneliness, the cold acceptance of death or defiant disbelief. Because he put them there. It wasn't his teeth piercing their skin, it wasn't his greed gorging on their life, but it had been his hands to lead them there, his smile to entice them closer, his voice to coo them towards doom.

And that night he had watched. Until the last moment when the door closed and the screams cut off, he had made himself witness the fallout. And then for the rest of the day, with his own feeble meal choked down from the carcass of a rat, Astarion let those seeking eyes linger. It was the least he could do. Allow them to live on a little in his memories, haunt their killer. And it sickened him all the same.

But it always got a little easier with each step outside the palace, each breath sweetening the bitterness of yesterday, each flex of his hands free from immediate threat of punishment or humiliating order. Go hunt. It was still an order, but it allowed those few fleeting moments of free thinking. Who to pick. Where to hunt. How to do it. And those days he played an even more dangerous game, and while his own choice, he weirdly enjoyed how much he also felt compelled to seek her out. To find her smile amongst the tavern throng of people, to hear her call of his name above the hubbub, to witness that warm sweetness to her as she leaned in to kiss his cheek and he to her in turn. Bliss. Small pieces of it, scavenged away for himself to enjoy in peace when left alone in the dark.

And that night would be no different.

At least, that was what he thought.

He had walked into that same tavern for two months, and for two months he had found her waiting for him, one night with a bottle ready, the next waiting for him to take his turn buying, but that night.. No sign. Like clockwork he had always come in after her, because he had to wait for the sun to set. Not that she knew that. But the tavern, while busy, was empty of her. No smile. No wave. No call of his name. His heart, having not beat in more than a dozen decades, clenched. Where was she? Had something happened? Had the need to run finally taken over her and sent her into the darkness alone?

Stood in the middle of the room, eyes locked on an empty booth where she would often be sat, his nose wrinkled for a moment. The same moment he had smelt that awful, delicious, terrible, intoxicating scent. Blood. And it was hers. Everyone had their own vintage, and hers had been spilled. He knew that to his bones as they ached all of a sudden, disagreeing on whether to bolt or surge forward to find the trace. One part of him with a watering mouth at the scintillating temptation, the other revolted by such a notion, but also terrified as to why he could smell it on the air. Her blood.

"st…stario…"

He heard her voice, choked and wheezing, whispering through the hub of people. So many people. But still he couldn't see her. Where the hells was–

"Ast…rion…" She called again, a little stronger that time, amounting to a whimper more than a wheeze.

And he looked to the side of the bar, to where a barmaid was pointedly staring at him while she polished a perfectly clean glass, her eyes wide and pleading. He hadn't noticed her before. And as soon as he met her panicked gaze, she looked to her side, towards the hatch that led below the tavern, to where they kept their beer kegs and such. And then back to him, eyes popping wider for a second before repeating the notion.

Then it came again. "Please find h-him. Ast…Astarion…"

It took every morsel of self control he possessed to walk across in a fairly normal manner, to not tap into that extra speed buried in his old bones, but he managed. Just.

He approached the bar and put on his best mask at the barmaid, despite how much stronger the scent of Amaya's blood had become. The woman had some on her sleeve, but only a small drop. The kind you might get from helping someone rather than hurting them.

He cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you've seen any trace of my compan–"

"Go on, stop fucking about." She urged, turning away and then serving patrons as if nothing was amiss.

He dipped into the hatch and closed it behind himself, ensuring it wasn't locking automatically, but also knowing he would be able to free them if it did. Then he took a breath. And he wished he hadn't. The scent swathed over him. To the point that his hand shook against the hatch for a second as he held back that want to breathe deeply, to lose himself to that insatiable hunger and want. He had never known the nectar from any source but foul beasts and rats, but he had heard from his master how sweet some bouquet's could be. But that didn't matter. Not now. He steeled his nerve. No. He would not harm her. But it was all made so much easier when he turned. When he saw her. His already cold veins went to ice.

Propped in the corner of the tavern's basement, partially hidden behind a few beer barrels, her blood all over the stonework flooring, her glassy eyes landing on him and a pale smile pulling on her almost grey lips, Amaya.

He jolted. "What the hells?"

She coughed, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, staining on her cheek clearly from previous trickles she had tried to wipe away. Like she didn't want him to see. Her breathing was laboured, her heart still thrumming strongly, but he knew it was weakening. She was dying.

He dashed over, forgetting the need to be careful with his speed. Kneeling by her, he tried to assess what had happened. It was such a mess. A slash to her belly, a long slit along her neck, many across her palms, and a quickly bruising strike to her temple. Someone had intended to kill her, that much was clear. There was already bandaging tight around her belly, and more gauze pressed to her neck. But it wasn't enough.

Rage. It burned within him. He hadn't felt that kind of anger in so long, and not on someone else's behalf in as long as he could recall. It seared in his gut and flooded his veins, building at the base of his thickening throat.

He tried to clear it. "You need a healer."

"She's already… sent for one." Amaya whispered, brows pricking in the middle as her dulled eyes shone a little. "M' sorry."

"For what?" He scoffed, putting pressure on her belly to try and slow the steady pulse of blood leaving her small body. Doing his best to ignore how good it smelled. And all the while he couldn't ignore the fact he had never tasted blood from a person before; Elf, Human, Tiefling, Dwarf, Gnome, Halfling, Drow, none of them. Only ever rodents and such that Cazador allowed. But this was not the time to think of that. It wasn't blood for that. It was blood she needed.

"Not the usual evening." She smirked and winced, putting her hands atop his and holding (he feared) as tightly as she could, which wasn't very.

He shook his head. "Don't be foolish, for once. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you, hear me?"

"She was kind to get you over here." Amaya's eyes were distant, like she was only half awake. "I didn't… I didn't know who else to ask for help. Needed… needed you…"

"Well we've bought enough bloody wine from them." He laughed breathlessly, his eyes itching as he considered how cold she felt already. She was slipping away. "And you have me. I'm here."

And he meant it. Even if the sun came up and he was due a flaying for failing to return home in time, he would stay. Nothing short of a direct order from the one man he literally couldn't deny, was going to take him from her side. Because it couldn't end like that. No, he refused. After nearly two hundred years he had something to hold onto. More than stolen moments alone in that cavernous palace, lonely corridors where he could peek at the moonlight and wonder how it might feel to be free beneath the stars someday. No, now he had something tangible. And something growing weaker beneath his hands with every pulse of her heart.

She was smiling, but hadn't responded. Her heart had slowed again. Where the hells was the healer?

He gritted his teeth. "Darling, who did this to you?"

She coughed and tried to open her eyes, them rolling back a few times as dizziness no doubt took hold. But she got there, eventually. Ever the stubborn woman.

Giving his hands a squeeze, she frowned. "No one you need to be dealing with."

"It's who you're running from, isn't it?"

She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since he had descended into the basement. And he saw fear. Shining as bright as her tears. Was it fear of him having figured something out? Or simply the connotation of the truth alone that made her seem so utterly terrified? Neither option was great to consider.

Her lip wobbled. "Yes. She… She got me when I was crossing the bridge…"

"The bridge? As in, you were going into the city? Across wyrm's crossing?" He pressed harder on the wound and hoped he was right when he caught the scent of healing herbs from above. But he had to keep her talking in the meantime. "My darling why were you out th–"

"Knew they were following, had to make it look like… I was heading deeper into the… c-city. To the docks." She winced again and swallowed hard. "Think it worked, but after I wriggled free of the attack… took… took so much longer to get back here. I didn't… Didn't know where else to go. Idiot…"

"No, no, you did the right thing." Astarion looked over his shoulder as the hatch creaked open and down came a man who looked like he might be a healer of some sort. "Finally. Where have you been?"

"Came as soon as I could, mate, now what's going on?"

And Astarion gave his summation. They laid her flat, and they got her warm. The healer made up some concoctions and instructed Astarion to keep Amaya talking. Which he did. As much as she kept drifting in and out, he kept her focused when he could. And as her eyes sought his, the warmth there made him ache once again. She was still there, fighting to stay with him. Of all people, him. And suddenly the look from his latest victim, from those seeking grey eyes the night before faded a little easier. That had not been his choice, that had been his orders. But this. Underneath an unassuming tavern in the bustling city of Baldur's Gate, clinging to the chilled but no longer getting colder hand of his friend, his confidant, his Amaya. Now this had been his choice. And he would choose it again and again. As long as she still looked at him with that warmth, with that affection. As long as she still deemed him worthy of it.

With the healing done as best as possible, she had stabilised. She would be alright. Now, she just needed time. So as the sun was due to rise in a couple of hours, he persuaded himself he could leave. He hadn't even had to ask, she had told him to go. She knew he had somewhere to be. He always did. And so Astarion paid the healer, he persuaded the barmaid to let Amaya stay for the rest of the day until he returned the following evening, and he made sure she was able to sleep undisturbed.

Amaya kissed the back of his hand and smirked, too weak to speak, but the look practically screaming 'thank you' at him. He pushed back her hair and kissed her forehead, glad to feel a little warmth under her soft skin, but no fever.

Then he put his head to hers and smiled softly. "Rest, Little One. You'll be safe until I return, all right? No moving. Not one inch. Just rest, everything else is taken care of. You're… You're taken care of."

And he realised with those words what else he had been feeling as her symptoms improved; relief. True. Unfiltered. On account of another person's suffering being lessened, he was glad. The rage he had felt when seeing her pain had been palpable, almost a solid thing he could chew, but that warm sense of hope was nearly choking.

She angled her head and he found himself automatically leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. She reached and held his collar tight for a moment, her lips insistent and saying so much louder 'thank you' than she could have screamed.

And then she slumped back, smiled wearily and drifted into a safe slumber, a flush on her cheeks, and her hold on his hand and collar only slackening as dreams took her. He watched for a few moments more, but then had to tear himself away.

He ran back to the palace, the sun peeking over the horizon as he did. He grabbed a drunkard lying in the gutter and slammed himself against a wall a few times before staggering into the palace with the sun on his heels. He had a story. He pleaded excuses of attack and barely getting away un-staked. But still the punishment came, still the taunting, the humiliation, the silvered blades against his skin. How dare you be late. How dare you present such a poultry offering after so long a hunt? Rat. Useless boy. Fool. On and on it went, Astarion was tormented for hours for such failure, such insolence.

But he just thought of that basement, and the fact she was safely sleeping.

And inside, he smiled.

His Amaya was safe.


Astarion woke from his meditation and stared at the roof of his tent, tears still rolling down to linger against his pillow, or to sink into his hair.

Please. He thought to himself, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat as the dream faded. As the memories curled up back to sleep within his befuddled mind. Please let her mind clasp for details, to recall things. Or please, please let it be that even without their previous connection, she was still drawn to him. If nothing came of it, yes, of course it was easier. But it was not better. Nothing but having that warmth radiating out at him would be better ever again. He hadn't intended to end up needing her like that. It hadn't been in the plan. But he had… And he did…

"You damned fool…"

And so he stamped the ache down as hard as he could, and he stood from his bed roll. A different kind of ache had made itself known, the thirst. Everyone else was asleep. He snuck out the back of his tent, into the wilderness to sate that which he couldn't ignore. At least, not for as long…


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