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ASTARION POV
He counted. Entering a meditative state he counted until he was sure four hours had passed, and then he began to reach out with his tadpole as Amaya had suggested. It was a good plan. He knew that. But as he sat there in the dark, the glow of the scroll's spell having long since faded and with only his dark vision to allow sight in the gloom, the plan still hurt like hell. She lay there, cradled in his arms. Still. Cold. No breaths moving her chest, no dreams making her eyelids flutter. Nothing. A corpse. A shell. He shuddered and shook away the word. No. She was still Amaya, she was going to come back. Even so, the rigamortis had claimed her face, the blankness now a rigid mask. Soon it would take to her limbs. He held tighter and curled around her slightly, comforting himself more than anything. She would come back. She had to.
For one thing, she had to know she had been right.
For another, he had to gloat about the fact he had managed to stop.
It hadn't meant much in the end, but he had still managed to stop, it had been everything else that stole her away from him. Her own injuries, the stress of the situation on her body, the shock no doubt as well. But she still had blood in her veins. He had resisted. And she had saved him. As that blade plunged into his body, and the horrid sensation swamped his senses, he knew it was a different kind of wound. Immediately the smell was of death, of decay. Of everything he had feared since fully realising his status as a Spawn.
In the Spider cavern he had confided in her about his fears of decay, but of course that had been before she knew what he was, so he hadn't gone into it much. But the idea of decay. That on the surface he might look pristine, and non-aging etc. but underneath there might only be rot and maggots. It plagued his mind for years after his transformation. To the point that he eventually cut into his own flesh simply to see what he would find. And when he found red blood, healthy tissue and no decay, he had struggled to believe it. Cazador had punished him severely that night, for damaging his property.
But as Myrkul's blade struck into Astarion in the fight with Ketheric, he knew it was doing awful things. Not only the wound, but everything beyond that. The way it crept through his system. He kept expecting spores to erupt with every breath. For maggots to writhe from his eyes. But then she came to him. Amaya. She lunged over, caught him and fought with everything she had to keep him in the light. Potions wouldn't work, so she called for Halsin, he was spent, so was Shadowheart. And Astarion had thought that was the end of it. But no. She kept going, kept pushing. And came to her brilliant but also awful conclusion.
The others would come. Shadowheart would enact the scroll and bring Amaya back, but as he held her tightly in the dark, rocking slightly as he hummed a tune to himself, he still found himself afraid. The scrolls worked. They knew that. But none of them had done it before, and they didn't know exactly how it might affect someone. He pressed his lips to her hair. Would it further muddle her mind? Would it bring back the truth of everything? Would she be okay?
"You have to be." He murmured in the close quiet, his voice cracked by his sobs from before.
When fully coming round and finding her fading, when speaking to her as her heart stuttered to a stop, his grief had overwhelmed him. Temporary. She would be back. But even with those ideas, she was still lying there dead for the time being. Her body empty. And his heart broke.
"Please, Amaya." He breathed her true name aloud and held tighter still, but still careful of the damage he had already caused to her wrist.
A rumbling sounded far off and he looked in that direction. Was it the team? His tadpole squirmed and he winced, feeling the voices of Karlach and Shadowheart combined as they called out to him. Yes. They were on their way back. They would be there soon.
He held Amaya close and continued to rock.
"We still have so much to do. So much to see… So much to say."
AMNE POV
It's so dark down here. That torch isn't doing anything but crackle against the damp and make me flinch whenever it does. Stupid thing. I curled tighter in on myself, trying to stay warm, but still failing horribly. Like everything else I did. Steps approached. Shit. There was nowhere to hide down there, nowhere to scurry to. Laughter. It joined the footsteps like it always did and I braced for the worst, and of course, never braced enough.
SLAM.
She kicked the bars and then threw open the door, those pale eyes wide and gleaming as she bared her teeth in a sickening grin. Orin. My 'slaughter kin'. She tilted her head and stormed forward, grabbing me by the threadbare collar of my filthy tunic and dragged me to eyeline height with her. My feet dangled a little. She giggled again. Her breath reeked of decay and she gnashed her teeth at me, only just avoiding catching against the skin of my nose.
"Ready for more training, slaughter kin? Come on, we must learn to paint with the best reds after all. And you were so unenthusiastic earlier on, no wonder you were punished. No time to pout though. No time!" And she dragged me back out, setting me onto my knees and dragging me along the harsh rock surface.
I struggled, I wriggled, and finally the threads actually snapped. I rolled and slumped against the corridor wall, body burning in pain as my bruises and cuts from before were treated so roughly. I didn't want this. My mind burned with revulsion. We were teenagers, kids basically, and yet somehow I knew with certainty I didn't want my life to be this. I'd grown so weary of it all. Death. Red. Death. Red. On and on for some 'father' we never saw, some overlord that supposedly beckoned from the darkness beyond.
A kick struck me in the gut and I vomited what little food I'd had that morning.
She knelt and gripped my hair, wrenching me to an awkward upright position, kneeling in my own sick. Her eyes burned. "You will learn to obey. You will become the blade that cuts."
And so I tried again. I really did. I crawled behind her, scraped myself from the floor and began my training for another day. The ache in my soul wormed deeper by the day, and the time rolled by like congealed blood down a grubby window pane. On and on. Worse and worse. And my hands did their bidding, that or be punished yet again, that or be flayed, that or be put to the screw. It was this or be abandoned by the only family I had ever known. Was I an orphan, dragged into this mess before I could remember? I didn't know. They said one thing, then claimed another. Bhaalspawn was the only constant, and even that wavered in what it fucking meant.
And that rage. The fury at all that I didn't know, and the denial of what I did, it hardened me to their pains and made me far better than Orin ever intended. Fuck you. Fuck her. Fuck this world. She hated my triumphs, scolded me for over-reaching all of a sudden, whimpered at the fact my blade cut deeper, cleaner, better. My ruby was the finest.
If I had to be cruel in order to survive, then fine. Forge me in bloodied gore, I'll take it all and make it run like a fucking river.
Then you'll see.
You'll regret forcing me into this shape, this deranged horribleness. Breaking my bones, tearing my skin, moulding me into this monster.
Oh yes.
You'll regret it.
Just as much as I do.
ASTARION POV
When the group had finally hauled back that last bit of debris he had looked up into the torchlight and blinked, smiling wearily as he continued to hold Amaya's body. She was completely cold by that point. Halsin stepped forward and offered to take her. It took a moment to let go, but Astarion had to. Her blood had saved him. But he remained weakened by the necrosis. The last thing she needed was being dropped. The druid took her, and she looked even smaller in his arms, cradled carefully of course, but utterly still. They all looked at her with sadness in their eyes. Karlach and Shadowheart helped Astarion out of the wreckage. They held tight, they cared. And they headed back to camp.
As they came to the tents, Shadowheart put her hand on Astarion's arm and frowned. "I still think she was right, by the way. Even if you didn't manage to… Well…"
"I did actually." He found his voice rough after not being used in that darkness other than humming. She blinked at him. He looked down. "She was hurt in the fight, and I think shock took her in the end. But I… I didn't actually drain her. She still has blood."
"Well then… She was definitely right."
He jolted.
Shadowheart smiled. "Thank you for stopping, then. That's quite the strength."
"I… Of course." He dipped his head and she walked away.
Halsin laid Amaya down by the fire on a bedroll, and Karlach kept the fire going. Shadowheart sat by Amaya's head and readied the revivify scroll, and the rest of them lingered nearby. They didn't really know what to expect; Halsin had used two scrolls before in his long life, and while one had been peaceful enough, with a gentle waking and few moments of disorientation at most, the other… Not so much. The other had woken in a panicked frenzy, their time across the veil having been littered by strange dreams and memories colliding. So with that in mind they had disarmed Amaya as much as they could – though Astarion was well aware she could still do plenty damage with only her bare hands.
The scroll glowed.
The lines of Amaya's face did as well, and the words poured from Shadowheart's mouth, rumbling through the air with a tranquil warmth that seemed to soothe all that heard it. And then the light dimmed. The early evening gloom retook the space, and the fire crackled alongside. Amaya did not stir. They all jolted. Shadowheart frowned and placed her hands on Amaya's shoulders as she continued to lay completely still, muttering some prayers or something.
"Please." Astarion said aloud, in a whisper, but it was clear for them all to hear. And they all nodded. Their hands were clenched. "Please…"
Amaya convulsed, her back arched at an alarming angle, a hollow wheezing gasp dragging air into her lungs, her eyes wide and staring for that moment, before she then slumped back down and returned to looking like she was sleeping. But, this time she was breathing.
They all sighed in relief.
Though as Astarion knelt beside her sleeping form, glad to see familiar movement in her face and the shift of her eyes, he worried at how deep she had sunk. What was she seeing? Was she reliving something awful? Would she wake and know everything he had kept from her? Only time would tell, and he feared how much more of it he would have to wait.
AMNE POV
So many long years alone in this temple full of maniacs. And every day, since tasking myself to dedicating myself, I did the work and played my part. And yet everyday, I hated them more. Fitting, really, because Orin hated me more as well. Her anger brewed hotter, her thirst for blood deepened. She wanted rid of me. It was in the slashes during training, the grins if I got injured, the gleam of her bloodied teeth when I was spent at the end of a day. And yet… I found myself starting to not care. If I woke with a blade in my chest… So be it. Bring it on. Make it end.
Such melancholy lasted for weeks, maybe even months.
Until eventually a true 'successor' was named.
And it was me.
Apparently my dulled approach to life had only sharpened my blade in death's name. For Bhaal, I was doing my best, supposedly. And the news made me numb. I didn't want to lead them, I wanted to run away and find even an inch of me worth salvaging. Was there any left? Could I scrub at this tainted skin for long enough to rid it of this grime? I had no idea. But as the words rang out across the temple, and cheers rang up, I knew it was a line in the rusted sand. Both for me and for Orin. She had been robbed, that much was plain to see between her clenched teeth in that rigid smile. She clapped. And I knew she plotted.
So with that knife now being sharpened in her mind, that final straw cracking the spine of her patience, I suddenly found myself not so apathetic. No. In her fury I found that I wanted to live. And I wanted to do it free of this place. Free of the red. Free of the stench of death.
And so I ran. I dressed plainly, took a couple of blades and basic supplies, and I made my way to the exit. No one saw me. No one knew. I think. But there wasn't time to check, I just had to get out, to feel something on my skin other than torchlight, braiser heat and stagnant water that only smeared instead of cleaned. I'd grabbed a few handfuls of gold as well, them only sitting there as 'tribute' anyway, but being a vital commodity in the world beyond. I didn't know much about it really, but I knew that. Gold and nerve. That would be my currency.
And my gods the outside world took my breath away.
The sky above. So open, waiting, welcoming. Stars winked and clouds wandered by. So much space so much possibility, so much… everything.
And as I stepped out into a strange city, the cobbles gleaming in the moonlight and the sounds of people's voices whispering through the breeze, I breathed deep for the first time. I drank deeply. I felt freedom sneak into my veins and tantalise my mind.
Out here what could I accomplish? What could I–
"Slaughter kin!" Orin screeched from down below, miles down the passageway. Perhaps she had gone to do it that night, and found my bunk empty. I stared at the gaping doorway and began to push it closed. "I'll find you, Slaughter Kin, you will be so pretty when I'm done painting you red!"
And so I ran. The wilderness was tempting, the road only to my right. But instead, I went left. She would expect me to run as far as I could, as fast as I could. She didn't know the city all that well either. So if I could lose myself here, amongst all these other bodies, perhaps I could keep myself safe. Just run. Hide. Run and hide. Every turn and every new face made my heart lurch, made my veins sing with adrenaline. Freedom, yes. But not without fear. Where was she? Would she find me? How do I stay hidden? Questions raced through my mind and so did the terror.
Just keep going.
Keep running.
Keep fucking fighting.
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