Siobhan wakes to the sensation of cool breath ghosting across her neck over her carotid artery. There's a leg between her thighs and two hands pressed to the ground on either side of her shoulders.
Astarion seems to sense her sudden wakefulness and pulls back from her throat in time to see her pupils dilate with fear, "Shit."
Siobhan's heart stutters, and her lungs fill in preparation to scream for help. Faster than she can react, Astarion presses a palm over her mouth, and with the other hand, he pulls up her torso as close to his chest as he can manage—her heart pounds. There's a split second where she considers struggling, and for a moment, her hands push against him, pull at his wrist, flutter weakly against him before old fears render her muscles limp.
Suddenly, it's not Astarion smothering her, restricting her, stripping her of her freedom, her voice, her body, but another man twice her size and just as much her elder, a thousand times as confident, so sure of his ability to take and take and take with impunity.
The joke of a scream-barely a whimper- that sneaks from under the palm pressed so tightly against her lips galvanizes Astarion into action. He drags her from her bedroll away from her tent and the others out of the clearing and past the thicket into the dense wood outside the camp.
The instinct to struggle returns, and her feet kick and flounder uselessly, unable to find purchase in the densely packed soil with how her body is angled. Astarion's arm tightens around her body, fingers digging painfully into her arm, and she's blinded as her face is pressed against his chest.
"Shhh! Don't scream, let me explain!" Astarion hisses before spinning and pinning her against a tree, hand still smothering any possible noise that could escape her. It's a miracle that her eyes focus as her vision swims with panic. But they do, and she realizes behind the unbidden tears pooling in her eyes that Astarion is also near insensate with similar panic.
"It's not what it looks like, I swear!"
Siobhan is still paralyzed, her limbs like lead, and it takes everything for her not to drift away to that familiar place outside her body, outside her mind, where she's safe from the horror of her body being taken from her, if even for a moment.
"I wasn't going to hurt you!" He says, "I just needed – well, blood."
Everything stops, and the numbness of her limbs bleeds away, sensation coming back slowly down to her fingertips. Siobhan blinks, and the tears pooled in her eyes skate down her cheeks. Astarion seems to notice for the first time her near unresponsiveness, then the tears. He flinches away as if burned.
"It's not what you think!"
Siobhan doesn't speak, doesn't move, and then –
". . . blood?"
She understands now. The pallor, the red eyes, she had never seen him eat, had never seen him drink except for the occasional pull of wine from pilfered forgotten bottles around the campfire with the others. Yet, he walked in the sun, could cross running water, and didn't need an invitation to cross any threshold. Were the stories wrong? Or was it another side effect from the tadpole?
Vampire. Not rapist.
"Oh . . ." Siobhan feels silly now. Mortified. Her face burns as she recalls her impotence. Even now, her body trembles with unspent adrenaline. Astarion is still watching her uneasily, waiting for her to do something, say something, but Siobhan can't concentrate around her shame. She can't think in the face of her uselessness. How easily her body had betrayed her. Had Astarion actually intended to do her harm, had intended to –
Siobhan had barely fought, resigned to her fate. It's not as if fighting had ever worked in the past. Her throat starts to close again at the memory, and her feet move of their own accord, leading her back the way they'd come, back to the camp.
Astarion stops her before she can get too far, his hand closing around her wrist, "What will you tell the others?"
Siobhan doesn't know what to say.
Astarion's face twists in indignation as if she's accused him with her silence.
"I'm not some monster!"
Siobhan nods distantly, still struggling to stay in her body. Maybe it's something in her expression, or maybe Astarion also fails to come up with anything to say next because he lets go of her wrist. He stands there stricken, and Siobhan realizes that perhaps Astarion thinks she'll turn on him, turn the others against him.
"It's okay. I won't. . . say anything."
Astarion frowns, skeptical. He opens his mouth and closes it again. It's so unlike him—the lack of quips and snark and deflection, the lack of affected nonchalance.
"Goodnight, Astarion."
Siobhan leaves him at the edge of camp, and by the time she makes it to her bedroll, she finally loses her grip on staying present. It's a mercy at this point and aids her as she slips back into restless sleep.
When Siobhan wakes, she half expects Astarion to be gone. For a moment, she thinks he is as he's nowhere to be found, but his tent is still up and his belongings are undisturbed.
The others are moving through their morning routines, blissfully unaware of what transpired during the night. Karlach is lugging a bucket of water back from the river with Wyll, who is carrying his net and a tether of fresh-caught fish; Gale is feeding the campfire with wood Lae'zel gathered the day before, and Shadowheart has her head down in prayer, eyes closed and palms pressed to her thighs.
When she asks where he's gone, Gale tells her that Astarion took off early with his bow into the wilderness, saying something about going on a hunt.
"Odd, I know," Gale remarks, catching the disbelief that crosses her expression, "Doesn't seem the sort."
She moves to sit beside him by the fire and Gale makes room for her. The log is only long enough for them to sit comfortably, though their knees are in danger of knocking together from the proximity.
"But you're up late. You didn't sleep well?" Gale asks in the way he asks almost every question, as if he knows the answer already and he's merely asking as a rhetorical device to help one reach the same conclusion. This irritates her more than usual, especially when paired with the patronizing smile Gale wears by default, magnanimous though not condescending. Siobhan knows, however, that the question is sincerely meant, so she endeavors to remain polite.
"I slept fine." Siobhan offers diplomatically. A familiar scoff makes her turn so quickly that her body collides with Gale's and nearly unseats him.
"Sorry!" She apologizes, and Gale brushes her off as he rights himself.
Astarion looks pale and drawn. Moreso than usual, with dark circles staining the skin beneath his eyes, the lines on his face more pronounced, and the hollows of his cheeks slightly deeper.
Tired.
Hungry.
"Our little ranger was tossing and turning all night. I'm surprised she didn't wake you as well."
"Oh?" Gale frowns, "You two were up together?"
Astarion unslings his bow from across his body and drops it near his pack, "Jealous, darling?"
He has a playful, mocking smirk fixed on his lips that's both intentional and careless, "Perhaps she thought me the better conversationalist. I should hardly think anyone would want to devote a midnight chat to perfect, powerful Mystra after hearing you drone on and on about it all day."
Siobhan glares at Astarion with confusion. Why would he call attention to their . . . encounter? Why when he had been so obviously concerned with being found out the night before? When he thought he might be chased away or hunted by the others if they had discovered what he had attempted to do?
Gale, apparently, is not immune to feeling self-conscious because the crests of his cheeks turn pink, "Ah, forgive me. I have been told I can fixate on certain topics . . ."
"Ignore him. He's just being an ass," Siobhan hisses, abandoning her spot on the log, which Wyll soon takes up with his cleaned fish to prepare breakfast with Gale. She huffs back to her tent and starts packing her belongings to busy her hands and mind, struggling to distract herself from wondering what Astarion is playing at.
A few hours later, they break camp and continue heading towards the blighted village Zevlor had marked on their map.
It is not her intention to pick a fight with an owlbear, but they find themselves battling one nonetheless, and when it's all over, she's choked with guilt not just because of the now orphaned cub but because of her injured companions. It's ultimately all for naught anyway because when she clumsily reveals to Brynna and Andrick that they are the victims from the nautiloid crash, they have to fight and kill them as well.
When it's all said and done, night has fallen, and the others retreat to their tents to lick their wounds. No one is in the mood to socialize. Well, no one except Astarion who cannot seem to help but rub it in whenever the opportunity presents itself.
He's in a foul mood and has been all day. Complaining, griping, and needling at the others so incessantly that Karlach has to step in at one point to stop Lae'zel from removing Astarion's head from his shoulders in one fell swoop with her longsword.
It doesn't help that the party had stumbled upon an exsanguinated boar earlier in the day, and Wyll correctly deduced that a vampire had to be lurking somewhere in the vicinity.
She wonders why Astarion hadn't done a better job hiding the evidence, but it strikes her that perhaps his hunger is taking a toll on his strength. During the fight with the owlbear and the cultists, she noticed that he was sluggish, clumsy, missing almost as often as he could land a hit successfully, and even when he did, they were glancing shallow cuts.
He's so incensed the others with his behavior that Shadowheart doesn't offer to heal him in protest when they finally finish making camp. Astarion, either too proud or too stubborn, refuses to ask.
So instead, Astarion takes the opportunity to inflict his frustrations on her.
"Next time some needy mewling vagabond begs for your assistance with their silly problems, I hope you'll have the good sense to decline. We've got enough on our plates as it is with these bloody worms in our heads," Astarion sneers whilst leaning against the tree next to her tent.
Siobhan ignores him, trying to focus on fletching new arrows to replace the ones that could not be salvaged from the fight.
This irritates him all the more, and he clucks his tongue in a way that uncannily reminds her of Lae'zel.
"You could at least offer up one of those healing potions you're hoarding. If not for your bloody crusade, I wouldn't be nearly slashed to ribbons."
This is a gross over-exaggeration, of course. Astarion is not nearly as injured as he claims, but Siobhan does have to admit he's worse for wear. There's a healthy gash extending from his ribs to his hip that he has bandaged underneath his flowing white shirt.
His uncharacteristic sluggishness left him open to a near-devasting swipe from the owlbear's massive paw. It's a miracle he evaded disembowelment.
In addition, Siobhan can see that his pale arms are covered with scrapes, and he sports a nasty bruise that is beginning to bloom across the left side of his face. That he won after he lost his footing, jumping across a gap to get a higher vantage point to rain down arrows from above, away from any more close calls with the enraged beast.
"If you hadn't been so insufferable all day, then maybe Shadowheart would have spared some magic to heal you."
"Stingy bitch," Astarion mutters, completely disregarding the rest of her comment. His sulking would have been endearing any other day. It's usually affected, so obviously performed that no one could mistake that he does it to diffuse tension, the court jester.
But like the others, Siobhan has no patience for it today.
"Why'd you tell Gale about last night?"
Astarion sniffs at her as if she's said something stupid but declines to answer. A flash of discomfort crosses his face, and her guilt resurfaces, prompting her to put down her work to pull out one of her healing potions, which she thrusts in his general direction.
She doesn't miss the self-satisfied smirk that crosses his lips before he pulls out the stopper and finishes the potion in a few quick gulps. The bruise instantly fades to a washed-out yellow, and the cuts on his arms and face close completely.
"Feel better?" Siobhan asks, and Astarion scoffs.
"Hardly," he tosses the empty bottle next to her pack with disdain.
Siobhan knows precisely what he means by the comment. If he was hungry enough to risk the stunt he pulled the night before, he must be ravenous now. She studies his face, and he seems almost sunken in, not quite skeletal but only just.
Astarion notices her eyes lingering a second too long because his gaze catches hers, and he snaps, "What?"
She frets with the finished arrows before looking at the rest of the camp. The others have called it a night, and they're in no danger of being interrupted.
"I've been thinking . . ."
Astarion rolls his eyes, "Oh great, because that's –"
"Would you shut up for a moment? I'm trying to tell you something." Siobhan hisses, and Astarion lifts his palms in surrender before miming locking his lips and throwing away the key.
"I was thinking . . . about last night . . ."
Astarion's sardonic smile falls, and his face is fixed in a cautiously neutral position.
"Well, I know you're not totally to blame for your mood today. I know how I get when I'm hungry. . ." Siobhan has trouble maintaining eye contact as she fumbles through her speech.
"Also, I noticed you seemed . . . off when you were fighting. That is – I mean . . . it's not like most people have the energy or focus to fight their best when they're starving so . . ."
"Oh, do get on with it, Siobhan. Your stammering is getting on my nerves."
She glares at him past the shock of her name on his lips and almost decides to withhold her offer but falters as she notices that Astarion's exhaustion is so profound he fails to mask it under her scrutiny.
"I'm saying that I'll let you feed from me. But only if you promise to take no more than what you need."
Astarion's mouth opens in shock, his eyebrows disappearing under the feathery white hair falling across his forehead.
"I – really?" He regards her with the same suspicion from the night before. There's an unspoken question in the air and a pause where it seems like he might ask her why, but it passes unacknowledged. When she makes no move to withdraw, the hesitation melts away, replaced with a placating smile, charming without looking self-satisfied. "Of course. Not one drop more."
"Wait till the others are asleep, then come find me," she tells him, and he smiles again with a slight bow and a wink as if she's just invited him to meet her for a more indecent purpose. He saunters away like the cat that caught the canary, taxing what little sympathy she has left for him but remembers the gauntness of his face, so she pushes the irritation down and settles back into her work.
The moon is full and bright in the sky when Astarion returns. It's quiet and slightly warm. The air humid and smelling faintly of mud from their proximity to the creek near the village and the former owlbear cave. While she had waited, Siobhan removed her leather cuirass and bracers, left only in a long-sleeved homespun shirt and fitted cotton breeches. A healing potion and a few strips of linen cloth, soaked in the same to apply to the wound after Astarion is finished, are arranged carefully next to her bed roll. She's the fussy sort. The kind to overthink and over-prepare if the opportunity arises to do so, but as a ranger, it's seldom failed her. Assuming, of course, she had the clarity to identify every way something could go wrong.
"Well, look at you. I see you've been preparing, darling. You shouldn't worry so; I said I would be gentle." He smirks at her, and she doesn't know why, but it embarrasses her.
"I don't think you did." Siobhan counters and his smile widens.
"Didn't I?" He moves closer, so close their noses are almost touching, "Not to worry, you sweet, generous thing. I'll take good care of you."
Siobhan doesn't like that.
Thing.
He's called her a thing.
Astarion notices the way she bristles, and he changes tack instantly. The flirtatious set of his face melts to sincerity as he pulls away to create a more comfortable distance.
"Thank you for this, by the way. It's a gift. I won't forget it."
He seems genuine, of course, but with Astarion, it's always hard to tell. She watches him uncertainly and he gestures to her bedroll.
"Might be best if you were lying down. More comfortable?"
She shakes her head, "I'll sit. It'll be easier to tell if you've taken too much."
He nods at her, letting her lead as she awkwardly arranges herself, crisscrossing her legs, and then checks her medical supplies one last time to ensure everything is in order. Unable to stall any longer, Siobhan clears her throat and looks up at him, gesturing to the ground by her feet, an invitation to join her. He kneels, watching her like a cat stalking a mouse, and waits for further instruction.
"I think it's best if you drink from here," she offers the crook of her right arm, "easier to hide the bruise, won't affect my draw too much in case we have to fight again, and –" Siobhan stops herself.
"And?" Astarion probes.
She hesitates. Fidgets with a thread that's coming loose from her shirt.
When it's clear she won't elaborate, Astarion speaks instead. "It's customary, I think, to drink at the neck. And if it's bruises you're worried about, it's harder to control the depth of the bite in the place you'd like me to feed from. Even practiced vampires make the mistake of biting all the way through. Blown veins leave the nastiest bruises, darling."
"Speaking from experience?" Siobhan mutters.
Astarion twitches and then smiles stiffly, "You could say that."
They're silent again, and Siobhan considers his advice, her heart pounding erratically at the thought of being pinned underneath him again, his mouth at her throat. The numbness from the night prior starts creeping up her torso until she can barely feel her lips, and she shakes her head.
"No. Not the neck . . . I can't." She sounds breathless even to her own ears, and Astarion is quick to acquiesce.
"Of course, darling. Whatever you want."
Siobhan nods, but she already feels the floaty distance begin to paralyze her, unable to focus much on Astarion's face, how he takes her arm in his hands, the feel of his lips on her skin.
"You promise to stop? When I tell you to?" Siobhan asks nervously. Astarion nuzzles into her, his nose trailing over the vein there.
His mouth parts, and there's a puff of cool air that sends goosebumps up her arms and says, "I promise," before the pain.
It's like shards of ice into her arm. Quick and sharp but then fades to numbness like the rest of her body. She can feel a pulling sensation as the blood leaves her and disappears into Astarion's mouth. It's an odd, though not altogether unpleasant, sensation. As he feeds, she wonders why Astarion so readily let her leave the night before, remembering the expression on his face, caught like an animal in a trap. He hardly tried to persuade her against revealing him to the others. Didn't try to convince her to stay so he could explain away his actions, to frame them more palatably. Didn't even ask if he could finish what he started.
She's jolted from her thoughts when his grip tightens, and he pulls her arm closer to him. Her forehead is now flush with his shoulder as his free hand presses against her back. The moan of relief that vibrates against her makes her heart stutter, and she can't tell if it's with pleasure or fear. Her breath catches, and her pulse quickens, almost in rhythm to the deep swallows Astarion takes of her blood.
Then, the dizziness. Her vision swims, and her spine buckles as her strength starts to fail her. Her head lolling against his neck. She can't tell how long he's been drinking, but he isn't stopping yet and doesn't seem to be slowing down. Does he still need more?
". . . 'starion," She can hear how weak her voice is. So must he with her mouth so close to his pointed ear. But he doesn't withdraw. With a sinking sensation, she realizes he doesn't care. He's long past caring. She has underestimated his hunger. Or maybe she didn't seriously consider how difficult it would be to stop once he started. She's seen how men, near the brink of starvation, gorge themselves, not knowing their bodies can no longer tolerate food the same way. How they eat and drink themselves to death just to relieve the gnawing ache in their stomachs. But Astarion is no man, and she's never heard of a vampire drinking themselves to death. The blood keeps leaving her steadily like a punctured waterskin.
She starts to feel cold, the numbness flowing through her in waves. Her body is limp—a marionette with its string cut.
"Stop . . ." It's a whisper – not so much a rage against the dying of the light but a whimper. Her vision is starting to go, black shadows creeping at the edges. There's an uncomfortable swooping sensation in her gut, an indication that she's close to swooning.
"You promised."
She almost can't believe it when Astarion pulls away with a gasp; she was so sure he was going to drain her completely. Her heart pumps sluggishly in her chest, the rhythm erratic and painful.
Siobhan finds it difficult to breathe, and Astarion gently lays her down, cradling her head until it touches the bedroll.
Her eyes can't focus, and an errant thought passes through her before slipping away. She's forgotten to tell Astarion to administer the potion and apply the bandages – all of that preparation for nothing. If he hadn't been so distracting . . . no, she really only has herself to blame for how everything has played out. A series of miscalculations and oversights that could very well mean she won't wake tomorrow.
He has forgotten as well because she can feel his hands fluttering over her uncertainly, brushing her short hair that's curled around her chin away from her face, pressing his palm against the bite wound to stem the blood that continues to ooze from her.
"Come now, darling. That won't do at all."
She can groan in response, but that's about it. Her arms feel like lead, and only her fingers twitch as she tries to reach out for the potion. Her tadpole wriggles from behind her left eye, and Astarion, thank the heavens, remembers the potion. Or maybe their minds connect and he gleans her intentions that way.
He unstoppers it and lifts her head, propping her up against his knee, tipping the vial up against her lips. She manages a few clumsy swallows, nearly choking, half the potion dribbling down her cheeks, but it's enough. She won't slip away in her sleep, at least.
"Sorry, got swept up in the moment." He mutters, fingers dancing across her cheek. It's a tender gesture. Another thing he does that's so unlike him. Her heart clenches. Is it really unlike him? It's not as if she knows him very well at all. They only met a week ago. Astarion's thumb brushes across the bridge of her nose and then along her cheekbone. How long has it been since she's been touched so gently?
She's still too weak to respond, feeling herself fade fast even after the few mouthfuls of potion.
She thinks Astarion says something more but can't hear him as the darkness takes her completely. All but dead to the world.