Astarion's relationship with Siobhan has come screeching to a halt ever since she gave him that portrait, and it's entirely his fault. The gift was so stomach-churning in its kindness, so thoughtful, that Astarion hadn't known how to respond. Mute from the uneasy twisting sensation building just behind his diaphragm. The hurt that flooded her face at his lackluster response should have been a triumph— his triumph. A sign that he'd finally won her affections enough to yearn for his approval, to go out of her way to try and make him happy. He should have made the effort to "properly" thank her once he'd gotten over his shock. Instead, he'd kept their interactions painfully polite and distant. Gone were the secret smiles, whispered flirtations, surreptitious touches. Even their nightly meetings were stripped of all their intimacy. No more half-dressed nuzzles or naughty bites below the waist or any use of her knife. Siobhan simply offered her right wrist and let him feed in silence.

Astarion stares at the portrait of himself every night since receiving it once he's retreated to his tent. He still can't really believe it's real. Such a simple thing to be able to see one's face. What's more, to be able to see one's face the way others see it. The way she sees it. Astarion recalls the features Siobhan had taken note of the first time he'd asked her to be his mirror. The way his hair curls around his ears, the color of it, the lines around his mouth. She has painted them with meticulous care . . . almost loving.

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Guilt. He feels guilty, although he really shouldn't. This is part of the plan, after all. Manipulate her feelings so that she'll never turn on him. Getting Siobhan to fall for him is what he's been striving to achieve for weeks. Now that she's finally falling, why is he being plagued with a fit of conscience? He's led thousands of souls to their deaths throughout his miserable life and barely felt a twinge of remorse. And it's not as if he's going to do anything of the kind to Siobhan, so why? Astarion thought he'd long gotten over pesky feelings like guilt or duty. That they've reared their ugly heads now over something so relatively benign feels like a cruel joke.

The portrait quickly becomes insufficient and he aches for more. Now realizing what Siobhan had been hiding from him, Astarion waits for the camp to head to sleep and then sneaks to Siobhan's tent to nick her journal from her pack. She's a restless sleeper. Tossing and turning, muttering unhappily under her breath. Eyebrows pinched, and mouth pulled down into a frown. But she never wakes. Astarion takes the journal back with him and, in the light of the small candle, flips through the pages until he finds her early attempts. They're almost as intoxicating to look at as the finished product.

She drew him tens if not hundreds of times. Over and over again. Imperfect, he assumes, compared to the final portrait. The nose too long, the eyes too wide, chin too square. Sometimes, it's just his face; other times, it's his whole body, posed with his twin knives, looking haughty or mischievous. There are a couple of drawings of him on his back, eyes closed, dappled with sunlight as if he's sunbathing in a grassy clearing. A string of later drawings depicts him snarling, fangs exposed and dripping with blood, eyes hard and determined. Once she starts practicing blending colors to try and match his skin tone and the look of his bloodred eyes, she starts leaving little notes in the margins.

Too warm

Too cool

Check veins for undertone

Make highlights a little bluer

Do his eyes look too sad?

He should see what he looks like when he smiles

Eventually, she gets to a point where she's confident enough to start on the final piece and the drawings stop. He starts again from the beginning, going through the drawings until his eyes ache and he's forced to return the journal. Siobhan is still fast asleep. He watches her for a moment as he puts the journal back where he found it. Astarion feels a sudden, rather silly urge to reach out and touch her. They hardly do these days, and, much to his surprise, he finds that he misses it. He misses her warmth. How odd.

That ugly twisting sensation behind his diaphragm returns, and Astarion flees back to his tent, heart pounding. He needs to get things back on track with Siobhan and put an end to this foolishness. It's a silly little drawing, for heaven's sake. Is he really going to let all of his hard work go to waste over this?

No. No, he will not.

Astarion agonizes over how to reinitiate contact best, but Siobhan beats him to it—pulling him aside as they follow Halsin through the Underdark. The Archdruid has the most experience with the area, apparently having lived some time as a slave in the pleasure houses of Menzoberranzan. It's a surprise to Astarion how . . . well-adjusted the Archdruid seems despite only knowing suffering from this place. Despite everything, Halsin's mood never falters, his kindness and geniality constant— unwavering.

"Do you have a moment to talk?" She asks timidly, slowing down to let the others pass them.

"Of course, darling. You know how I enjoy our little chats." Astarion flirts, flashing her a charming smile.

Siobhan is taken aback, blinking owlishly at his change in demeanor, jarred by the sudden warmth after days of cold politeness. She frowns, looking more unsure than before. Astarion can hear her heart fluttering in her chest from the nerves.

"Oh . . . right. Uh . . ."

Astarion wonders if he should apologize to her but decides against it. Maybe it's best if he pretends like nothing has changed. If he apologizes for his behavior the past few days, he likely would also have to explain it, and that's not something Astarion thinks he can do. He hardly understands it himself.

"I guess. . . I just wanted to apologize, I suppose. I think maybe I upset you . . . the portrait. I didn't mean to— well, I appreciate that I may have overstepped. I just thought that it could be a nice thing to do, but I didn't consider . . ."

Astarion feels an overwhelming irritation, almost anger, flood through him, and he has to work hard to keep it from showing. Siobhan looks so small to him, stumbling over her halting apology, wincing and uncertain, eyes round and doleful. Pathetic.

Astarion wants to love how she grovels. He wants to love the way she's crawled back to him, hoping to win back the affection and attention. He should feel powerful. He should be able to enjoy that power. But really, it just makes him embarrassed for her. He wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her.

What is she apologizing for? Just because he didn't leap for joy at her gift means that she's hurt him, offended him? What does she take him for? Some wretch that needs to be coddled and fussed over? Oh, poor Astarion and his fragile feelings. He's not made of glass! He's not so weak that a stupid fucking painting of himself would shatter him.

Or worse, maybe she feels entitled to his praise. Has approached him to make a faux apology, a barely disguised bit of theatre to make her into the victim of his callousness. Maybe she knows she has nothing to apologize for but is doing so to make him feel guilty. Guilty for not being sufficiently grateful to her. Prove that he's a bastard unworthy of her kindness. Well, he won't give her the satisfaction.

"Why on earth are you apologizing? The portrait is lovely! I told you that, didn't I?" Astarion cuts her off breezily.

Siobhan's eyebrows furrow, and she looks more confused and upset than before. Good. "Oh . . . well, I just thought . . . I mean, you seemed . . . distant? Or maybe . . . I thought . . . you've just been acting different since—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, darling. Oh! Is someone feeling neglected? Well, if you want to spend more time with me, all you need to do is ask." Astarion relishes the mortified look on her face and hopes she feels like an utter fool.

Siobhan looks like she doesn't quite know how to respond, but after a beat, she says, "Oh, okay. Maybe I just read too much into— sorry. Never mind, then. My mistake."

"Shall I visit you later? After the others have gone to sleep? Maybe bring out our sharp friend? It's been a while since we were naughty. Could be why you're feeling a little bereft, hmm?"

For a terrible, gratifying moment, it looks like Siobhan might cry. Her bottom lip wobbles for a second before she bites down on it and composes herself. There's the danger that she might decline in an effort to preserve her pride, but he knows her. She's a glutton for punishment, and Astarion has been so kind as to offer some up. Siobhan flashes him a pained smile that doesn't reach her eyes and nods before excusing herself, muttering something about checking in with Halsin.

Astarion watches her go, the spiteful pleasure evaporating, leaving him feeling deflated. The twisting in his chest is no less present than before.

As promised, Astarion ducks into her tent as soon as the others have gone to sleep. His visits are no longer a secret to the group, so he doesn't mind when Lae'zel, who volunteered for first watch, sees and gives him a short nod from her perch atop the cap of a giant mushroom. All the same, he and Siobhan agreed it's best to meet at night so as not to draw needless attention to it. Astarion thinks she also likes the privacy it affords. She so hates making a spectacle of herself.

Siobhan barely reacts to his arrival, picking at the fraying sleeve of her singed, tattered shirt again absently, seemingly lost in thought. She never wears the shirt he mended for her on nights when he's coming to drink her blood; she doesn't want to ruin it with bloodstains accidentally, she'd explained.

"How are we this evening?" Astarion asks while making himself comfortable.

His greeting snaps her out of her contemplations, and she flashes him a wan smile, shrugging. The smile is gone in a blink as she reaches out for an open bottle of wine and takes a few deep pulls. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand and then holds out the bottle for him. He takes it from her slowly and wonders how long she's been drinking before he arrived. Siobhan's cheeks are rouged with garish spots of twin color, flushed in a sickly, almost feverish way. But she doesn't seem drunk, not yet, at least.

Astarion takes a drink of the wine, watching her as he does, but she doesn't hold his gaze for long. Glancing away before the bottle leaves his lips.

"Gale made some more of that chalk of his," she starts, pausing to take the bottle back when he offers it, "bought the ingredients from that hobgoblin at the Myconid Village."

". . . Oh! Well, isn't that . . . nifty?" Astarion blinks when she takes another drink from the bottle. For someone who purportedly doesn't drink, if she can help it, she's drinking a rather lot.

"Told Gale that he should buy up whatever stock the hobgoblin has once we get back from the Arcane Tower with the ingredients for Omeluum. Just in case. I don't want to be caught without it again, like at the creche."

Astarion nods, not sure why she's brought any of this up. He waits for her to continue, but she just keeps drinking.

"Shall we . . . get to it then? Where's the dagger?" Astarion asks.

Siobhan usually has it out and ready before he arrives whenever she plans to use it. Her eyes flit to her pack and then back to him. She takes another swig and ignores his questions.

"I just wanted to mention it. We'll be able to cut down on travel time rather significantly. So . . . helping the myconids . . . the gnomes— it won't delay us very much."

Astarion manages not to scowl but only just. "I see. We are helping them, then?"

Siobhan continues as if he hadn't spoken, "I was thinking we could try something else tonight . . . if you're game."

Astarion freezes. She can't mean— he doesn't have any maca root. He's not prepared for— if he'd known he would have—

"I wondered if maybe you want to drink from my neck this time," Siobhan says, eyes fixed on the peeling label on the bottle as she picks at it with her fingernails, totally unaware of Astarion's racing thoughts. When he doesn't immediately answer, she looks up at him expectantly.

"Any reason?" Astarion asks. "You—ah—you don't really . . . you usually prefer I bite elsewhere . . ."

She shrugs and Astarion thinks he might slap her if she does it again.

"All right, then." He says slowly, flashing her a coy smile when he remembers he's supposed to be charming her. "If that's what you want, I certainly won't say no."

She nods once, takes one last drag off the bottle with a smack of her lips, and pulls her shirt off so that she's dressed in just her breastband and trousers. At his raised eyebrow, she sighs.

"I imagine it might be a bit messier drinking from my neck, and I'd rather not have to try and get blood out of this shirt." Siobhan frowns at him, "And since when do you care what I'm wearing?"

Astarion's eyes narrow, "My you are in a mood tonight, aren't you? You can dress how you like, pet. Don't mind me."

Siobhan's jaw clenches, her lips thinning.

"I can lie down, or you can sit behind me and bite my neck that way," Siobhan says evenly, avoiding his gaze.

"Whichever you prefer, darling. It's your neck."

She hesitates, then nods and crawls up to him, gently tapping his left knee so that he'll make room for her. Astarion complies, and she turns her back to him, slotting herself between his legs and leaning back against his chest. She pulls her hair over her left shoulder and then tilts her head to the side to give him access to her throat. Astarion twines his fingers in her hair with his left hand to keep it out of the way and wraps his right arm around her waist. He can see the vein in her throat jump with the pounding of her heart, the sight of it absolutely mouthwatering, chasing away all feelings of irritation.

"Okay, I'm ready," Siobhan mutters shakily.

He can feel how tense she is, can feel how she trembles slightly in his arms. Astarion tightens his grip on her before sinking his fangs into her flesh. She jumps at the pain, her left hand flying up to grip his wrist. Blood rushes into his mouth in a gush, faster and at a greater volume than he's accustomed to. Astarion moans against her throat, sucking hard and swallowing mouthful after mouthful of the seemingly never-ending fountain of blood. It's sweet and rich and slakes the gnawing ache in his stomach and soothes the burn in his throat. Siobhan struggles weakly, instinctively, but Astarion pins her against him more tightly. She hasn't told him to stop, so he won't. Not until he's had his fill.

It doesn't take long before she starts to sag, her strength fading from the blood loss. Astarion lingers a bit longer than he ought to. This is the first time he's ever drank the blood of a living thinking creature straight from a major vein. He feels gluttonous and intoxicated. Usually, the blood starts to clot, interrupting his feed and requiring him to bite again to keep the flow steady. Not this time. Not from here. It's almost as difficult to stop this time as it was the first time, but he pulls himself away with a gasp.

The blood keeps coming.

"Shit." Astarion curses. He untangles his fingers from her hair and palms the wound, hand wrapped around her throat.

Astarion struggles to keep her upright against him without choking her as he pulls his arm away from around her waist to reach out for the health potion. Blood seeps between his fingers, over his knuckles, and runs down the length of his arm, dripping to the ground off his elbow. He strains to reach the bottle, fingers fluttering against the neck, trying to tip it so that it'll fall closer.

Siobhan slips a little under his hand, slick with blood, and Astarion's grip clamps down around her throat reflexively. She lets out a strangled cry as Astarion lunges towards the bottle, finally managing to grab it. He unstoppers it and forces it to her lips, loosening the hand around her throat enough to let her swallow. She drinks it without protest, and Astarion doesn't let go until he feels the wound close beneath his palm. He readjusts her, pulling her back flush against him, wrapping both arms around her again. Her head lolls back against his shoulder. Her face, he realizes, is wet with tears.

"Siobhan? Darling? Are you all right?" Astarion asks, his cheek flush against her temple. He reaches up and thumbs away some of the tears. Her eyes are closed, but he can tell that she's still conscious, her breaths quick and shallow. She eventually nods.

"How was . . . did you— was that good? For you?" Siobhan asks, the words slurred on her tongue.

Astarion tenses, that sick twisting in his chest warring with the euphoria of having recently fed. Feeling a bit too blood drunk to handle Siobhan's melancholy and trying not to think about being the cause of it.

"Exquisite, darling . . . thank you."

Siobhan tucks her face into his neck, hiding it from his view. The collar of his shirt turns wet from her silent tears.

"You were my first, you know?" Astarion starts, trying to distract her.

"That is, you're the first person whose blood I've drunk. Cazador only ever let us eat putrid dead rats . . . when he let us eat. He made it seem like a reward. Would invite you to dine with him and then offer up vermin. If you declined, he'd have you beaten for being ungrateful. I don't know which was worse . . ."

Siobhan clutches his hand weakly, thumb dragging against his knuckles as if to soothe him. Astarion swallows around the lump forming in his throat and grits his teeth. He wonders if a creature's blood can be flavored by their emotions the same way fear can sour the meat of an animal.

"Can I tell you something?" Siobhan asks, her lips brushing against his neck as she speaks.

"Anything, love."

"I think my sister was on the nautiloid. I think she's at Moonrise Towers."

Astarion hesitates, not knowing which question to ask first. Why do you think that? Why have you kept this a secret? Why are you just telling me now? Why are you telling me at all?

He eventually lands on, "And you want to delay us further to help some mushroom people and the gnomes?"

Siobhan tenses, her breath audibly catching in her throat, "I don't know that she's actually there. But these people are here, and they need our help."

Astarion doesn't think she means to, but he catches a thought projecting through their psychic link, the worm twitching behind his left eye.

Does that make me a bad person?

Huh. What a silly moral trap she's created for herself. She could either sacrifice dozens to rush to her sister's aid or sacrifice her sister to save dozens. If one is totally objective about the whole thing, then whichever choice saves the most people must be the right one. But, of course, one couldn't be objective, could they? It's her sister, after all. Plus, she owes nothing to the gnomes or the myconids. To forsake her kin for perfect strangers is a sin in itself.

Astarion has siblings in the loosest sense of the word. He doesn't have an attachment or loyalty to them the way Siobhan does with hers. If presented with the same problem, he'd likely tell both parties to kick dirt. What does he care? Why should he do anything for them?

"What are you asking?" Astarion probes. "Do you want me to tell you to go after your sister? Or reassure you that you've made the right decision to delay and help here?"

"I'm not asking you anything, Astarion," her voice cracks, "I'm just . . . I don't know. I'm just telling you."

"I say, do whatever you want, darling, and stop caring so much about what you should do," Astarion counsels anyway, "It'll save you, and more importantly me, a lot of headache."

Astarion can almost feel the disappointment that washes through her, Siobhan's body sagging infinitesimally, the hand clutching his falling away. Hot resentment crawls up his chest, and his lips curl in a sneer. Why must she insist upon judging him all the time? Demand that he be other than he is. Impose these expectations on him and then moan and pout when she inevitably finds him lacking.

"Well, I better get back to my tent. Let you get your rest," Astarion says, easing her away from him.

"Wait!" Siobhan stops him, pulling her face away from the crook of his neck, looking at him with wide, desperate eyes.

"Can you— you can stay . . . tonight. If you want . . ."

Astarion wants to say no. He feels smothered and claustrophobic. He wants to hurt her a little more, punish her for making him feel all these wretched feelings all day long. Punish her for her insipid kindness, for throwing herself in the way of that crossbow bolt, for offering up her neck, for crying, and for making him that blasted portrait that means so much. But he can't say no. He gave up the ability to say no when he decided to seduce her. Astarion wants to punish her for that, too. Because for all she claims that she'll help with Cazador, there's no guarantee. Even her own sister comes second to whatever helpless souls she might stumble across. Why would he be any different?

"Turn down an invitation to your bed? Never," Astarion purrs, "little minx."

Siobhan stares at him like she doesn't trust a word that's come out of his mouth. Like he's making fun of her for even asking. Astarion smoothes her furrowed brows with his thumb and tuts.

"You're so adorable when you pout. Rest, love. Don't you worry. I'll stay."

Astarion pulls her out from between his legs and then lays her down. He soaks a rag in water from the basin in her tent and scrubs them both clean of her blood. Once he's finished, he lies down next to her and tucks her against his chest, threading his arm under her neck and around her shoulder. She falls asleep quickly, the blood loss finally catching up to her. Astarion stays up to watch her for a moment, trying not to feel comforted by the warmth of her breath on his neck or the weight of her hand over his heart. He feels so caught and foolish.

This was supposed to be easy. But then again, when has anything ever been easy?