Gale's teleportation sigil allows them to return to Reithwin town via the House of Healing, so they don't have to waste the little energy they have on travel. Aside from Shadowheart, not a single one of them was able to sleep for more than a couple of hours, plagued by nightmares and a sort of nameless prickling foreboding they hadn't felt since first encountering the curse. Even Karlach is subdued, head kept down, dark circles staining the skin under her eyes, hand reaching out to pet her stuffed bear, Clive, secured to the side of her pack, compulsively self-soothing.
No one speaks. If someone needs to communicate, they rely on the psionic link. It's not out of a fear that they might alert enemies to their presence that they remain silent—Lae'zel and Shadowheart's plate mail alone make enough noise to erase any possibility of stealth—they don't speak because it simply feels wrong. At least it does to Astarion. Any time he opens his mouth to make a comment, snide or otherwise, the words die in his throat.
For reasons he can't shake, Astarion feels as if his voice will summon a horror designed specifically for him. It's the same sort of feeling he used to get when Cazador was in an especially violent mood. To speak, drawing attention to himself in any way guaranteed Cazador's special consideration, so it was better to be as quiet and small as possible and hope that one of his siblings slipped up first. Better them than him.
On top of the general disquiet wriggling in his gut, it has become increasingly difficult to believe the worst of Siobhan, which troubles Astarion greatly. Because if she isn't looking to exploit the power imbalance in their relationship, if she sincerely wishes to help him, feed him, support him, protect him, for nothing in return—simply out of the kindness of her own heart—then Astarion has put all this effort into manipulating her for nothing.
Worse yet, he's offered himself up like a two-bit whore time and time again, endured the rejections and blows to his ego, and frustrated himself over the repeated failures needlessly.
Astarion doesn't miss his life under Cazador's thumb for even a second, but he did take some comfort in knowing what was expected of him and what the consequences would be if he stepped out of line. The boundaries of his cage had been well defined, and in that certainty was safety. Astarion's master wasn't always predictable; if a sour mood ever took him or simply grew bored, the rules went out the window, and inevitably, Cazador would set his sights on him.
Torturing Astarion was always Cazador's favorite way to pass the time, whether it was siccing Godey on him, inflicting new and creative sexual humiliations on him, or starving him to the brink of insanity. The method mattered little so long as Astarion suffered. But Siobhan was different—is different.
Compared to Cazador, she's spoiled him absolutely rotten. Feeding him more times than he can count, pledging her services to free him from Cazador, vouching for him to the group, defending him in battle—nearly dying for him. Not once has she ever suggested receiving anything in return for all of these boons. Not once has she ever propositioned him. For all of his efforts, their relationship has remained stubbornly chaste.
It's too good to be true. There's simply no way all of this comes for free. Right?
It scares him how deeply he's in her debt. Surely, there will come a time when she'll call in all these favors, and he won't have a choice but to comply. The window to bed her and be done with it, close out the balance as it were, has long since closed. It will take much more than a tumble in the hay now.
Or, Siobhan is a perfect dope, sincerely altruistic, and honestly committed to helping for the simple fact that she can. Maybe she actually cares. Maybe she—
But no. That's not it. It can't be because he knows that the price of unfettered access to her blood was to keep her self-harm a secret. His continued shows of affection had bought her protection and favor. The moment he hadn't lived up to the charming façade he put on, the moment the act had slipped, she'd totally shut him out and sought Gale's company over his. If Astarion is anything less than pleasant, her goodwill evaporates completely. Sure, her tolerance is greater than Cazador's, but there is a limit, and the limit is frighteningly easy to reach.
Astarion used to feel such contempt for Leon, who scrabbled and clawed—accepted every humiliation, indignity, and punishment with a smile and a thank you—just to remain Cazador's favored spawn for one more day. Oh, how he sneered at his brother for so easily playing lap dog, groveling at the Master's feet for a scrap of benevolence.
Astarion understands now. Once you've gotten a taste of comfort, a respite from the pain and the horror, no matter how slight, you'll do anything not to lose it, do anything not to go back.
The brief time Siobhan had left him out in the cold and cut off his access to her was close to intolerable. Her silence gave him ample opportunity to imagine one catastrophic scenario after another. It was just his luck that Gale's temporary demise put her in a charitable enough mood to accept his paltry offering of the enchanted ring.
Or, it hadn't been that at all. She forgives him so easily, shares her blood with him, and supports him because they are friends—because she does care about him.
The problem is he doesn't bloody well know which one it is, and it's driving him insane. If she hadn't kept him so stubbornly at arm's length, fallen head over heels in love with him like she was supposed to so he could ensure his safety, then he wouldn't have to continue wasting time and energy analyzing every interaction, struggling to divine her intent, her motives, worry every moment when the other shoe will drop.
Their most recent feeding only confused him more. Siobhan let Astarion gorge himself on her, hadn't made a single sound of protest when he ravaged her neck, promised to feed him every day from that moment onward, and then held him.
Astarion cannot recall a single other instance of being held like that in over 200 years. The way her nails scratched pleasantly against his scalp as she ran her fingers through his hair, the soft kisses pressed against the crown of his head, and the weight of her arm slung around his shoulders had felt like a balm against the raw edges of his soul. That is until he finally calmed enough to gather his wits.
What at one moment was a gentle touch he craved more of so intensely that the desire might drown him suddenly became all too much because he could tell she liked it just as much as he did, maybe more. Astarion felt trapped, and dirty, and dreadfully ashamed. He had tried to play it off, but then Siobhan forced him to promise to ask her the next time he was hungry. Because she likes it, Siobhan likes that it hurts to feed him.
. . . Siobhan likes that it hurts.
Astarion's stomach twists sickeningly, his lungs seizing as it suddenly occurs to him that perhaps she's the one selling herself, not him. Who else would indulge her incessant need to harm herself? Who else would so openly and brazenly take advantage of her? That he'd showered her with gifts and affection at the same time was likely a happy fluke in her view. But then he had ripped all that away after the portrait, and the lack had made her spiral slowly into despair, pushed her desperation to the point where she endured his mouth on her throat even though it dredged up memories of that wretched Faolan.
And what had Astarion's response been? He'd thrown it all back in her face and had gone from merely distant to actively cruel and spiteful. That all she'd done was slap him and give him the cold shoulder for less than twenty-four hours is baffling to Astarion in its lenience. If she had been the one to use him so callously, he would have never spared a kind thought or word for her ever again.
His darling little masochist.
The endearment makes his skin crawl now as he looks up at her, walking by his side, neck bruised and ragged from the feeding. At least she's not bloodless, the chain of the amulet of Silvanus vanishing underneath her new leather cuirass now augmented by a layer of chain mail courtesy of the Harpers. Astarion vows at that moment, as they cross the threshold into The Waning Moon, that he'll no longer indulge her self-harm. He won't tell her to stop, for it's hardly his place, but Astarion won't ever be a participant again.
"Remember everyone," her voice echoes in their heads, "this is first and foremost a mission to gather intelligence. Avoid conflict as best you can."
They smell Thorm before they see him. The putrid scent of rot, unwashed skin, and sour vomit is nearly overwhelming—covered only by the sharp, stinging smell of liquor. He towers over the bar, his skin grey and tight with bloat, looking as if he might burst at any moment. Siobhan sends Wyll ahead, easily the most charismatic of the group, gently nudging the direction of the interrogation with telepathically communicated prompts. But, for as charismatic as Wyll is, he isn't sly enough to avoid going drink for drink with the monster, growing drunk unnaturally fast.
"Eternal, invincible, forever, except not . . . no more questions! Drink." Thisobald slurs. Wyll sways dangerously in his seat and swallows a burp, looking a bit ashen.
"Hang in there, Wyll." Siobhan encourages, "We almost have it."
Wyll swallows, lifts the tankard in a weak toast, and finishes the whole thing with a gasp.
"Father's special secret . . . said, ordered, commanded. Don't tell, don't say it! The cage. Her cage. Talk and perish . . . die, buried. Buried in Thorm tomb. Father told me . . ." Thorm's mutterings turn wild, his head shaking back and forth, doubling over and clutching his bloated gut in a panic.
They watch in horror and disgust as the monster begins to swell, impossibly tight skin tauter than Astarion thought possible, ballooning until finally—
Thorm bursts open, dousing them in a deluge of decomposing viscera and a river of the noxious brew Wyll had been forced to imbibe. The smell is so foul it pushes poor Wyll over the edge, and he empties his stomach, retching painfully until nothing more comes up.
"This might be the grossest thing to ever happen to me," Karlach gags, pulling a bit of intestine from her horn.
"If only we learned more in the process. Ketheric ensured his subordinates wouldn't be able to divulge his secrets." Lae'zel says with a frustrated cluck of her tongue, ringing out her hair to little success, "We'll have to go to Moonrise first, after all, uncover as much as we can and then head to the crypt."
"What about Wyll?" Karlach asks, wincing in pity as she gestures at the stupefied man.
"I can sober him up. It'll take a bit," Shadowheart says and then looks down at herself with a nauseated grimace, "and I'd rather wash up before we leave if it's all the same."
Gale, looking rather sick himself, nods in agreement.
"Fine. I want to explore here a bit longer anyway," Siobhan says. "Maybe Thorm kept a journal or correspondence— any wagers on what he keeps back there?" She nods at the heavy steel door behind the bar.
"More booze, perhaps?" Astarion jokes, but his heart isn't in it. It's a struggle not to stare at the purple blotches on the side of her throat.
"One way to find out. Would you like to do the honors?" Siobhan shoots him a half smile.
Astarion smiles back, pulling out his lock picks, hoping it doesn't appear stilted, "How can I say no?"
Astarion's prediction is half right. Thorm's backroom houses hundreds of bottles of the same ghastly liquor he'd drunk to the point of bursting, but that's not all. Thorm has an extensive alchemical store and a laboratory that is kept in impeccable condition. Siobhan's expression, upon seeing it, is bright and excited for the first time in over a month.
"Change of plans," she whispers, awed, as she inspects the pristine instruments with a careful, almost reverent touch, "Moonrise will have to wait until tomorrow. I need to make use of this as much as I can."
"But Last Light—"
"They'll have to wait," Siobhan cuts Shadowheart off, hardly sparing her a glance, so enthralled with the equipment. "With the elixirs I end up brewing here, they'll all be much better off when we raid the towers. Trust me."
"Look at this thing!" Karlach squeals, dancing happily around the deep basin of a massive tub tucked in the corner, "You think it can fit all of us at once?"
"A group bath? How naughty." Astarion teases. Karlach sticks out her tongue at him.
"Funny, isn't it? I didn't get the impression that Thorm cared much for hygiene. Did you?" Gale asks him.
Astarion blinks back, unsure if Gale honestly wants to know or if he's merely trying to joke with him. Astarion cocks his head and hums. The man slowly begins flushing the longer Astarion looks at him without replying, and Astarion can't help the amused smile that gradually tugs at the corners of his mouth.
How much a single kiss changes things.
The thought douses his amusement so quickly it leaves him cold. Astarion had wanted the kiss to be something nice, a small gift—not an invitation. By opening the door, Astarion has ruined the only thing he likes about Gale, which is that the man wants nothing from him. Obviously, that's no longer the case.
The sudden change in Astarion's expression makes Gale frown, confusion chasing the last of the redness from his face. Astarion has gone too long without responding.
"With that smell? You could have fooled me!" Astarion lets out a high laugh. Gale laughs back hesitantly; the awkward lacuna in their conversation goes unacknowledged.
"Alright," Siobhan claps her hands and turns to face them, "ladies first. It'll give Wyll time to finish sobering up, unless, of course, one of you wants to help him bathe?"
"Absolutely not!" Wyll protests, trying and failing to get to his feet.
"Let these perverts get an eyeful without either of them properly courting me? I won't have it! I'm a gentleman, and I ought to be treated as such." Wyll huffs and crosses his arms.
"Pervert!" Gale splutters. Astarion doesn't have to pretend to laugh this time, positively giggling. Astarion thinks Wyll should get drunk more often. He is such a joy to be around when he's like this.
Siobhan shoos them out and closes the door, leaving the three of them to set up camp on their own. Well, two, really. Wyll watches from the floor, offering the occasional word of encouragement. They otherwise work in silence. Gale summons a mage hand to assist Astarion with his share of the tents.
Gale keeps sneaking glances at Astarion when he thinks Astarion isn't looking. Keeps looking as if he's about to say something before shaking his head, thinking better of it. The way Gale's face falls in disappointment when Astarion shuts himself up in his tent with the request he not be bothered until it's their turn to bathe is more than he can stomach.
Gods, he misses when Gale still hated him.
Astarion keeps Siobhan company while she brews, the others having long since turned in for the night. She's been at it non-stop for hours, grinding ingredients with a mortar and pestle, suspending others in solutions of alcohol or salt water, carefully monitoring numerous alembics and other devices while a titration drips steadily in the background. Eventually, there comes a point where the active labor required subsides, and she plops down on the stool she'd dragged from the bar.
"Okay, I've got an hour before I need to do anything more, and it's past midnight—I felt the amulet recharge ten minutes ago. You ready?" Siobhan asks, looking tired but pleased with her progress.
Astarion's mouth waters. He'll be gentle, as gentle as possible. No more indulging her self-harm.
"Always, darling." But his feet won't move. Why can't he move?
Siobhan begins to tie her hair up in a knot to get it out of the way, complaining under her breath about its length.
"I could cut it for you," Astarion blurts out unthinkingly, feeling as surprised by the offer as Siobhan looks.
"Would you really?" She asks hopefully, "It's been such a pain to manage; I'd almost forgotten how much effort long hair requires. I would have cut it myself, but Cathal always did it for me."
"Cathal?" Astarion repeats, "One of your adoptive siblings, right?"
Siobhan nods and smiles, "And dearest friend. We're the closest in age, so it was inevitable, I suppose. Although, we weren't always friends. They were a bit jealous of the attention I received when Domnhall first found me."
"Dearest friend, but not so dear that you could tell them about Faolan?" Astarion asks because he doesn't understand how she could speak so fondly of the people who failed to protect her.
Siobhan's smile vanishes, "I couldn't tell anyone. You know why."
"Your leader would trust his word over the word of his own child?"
"Faolan would just say I'd misled Cathal."
"And Cathal would believe him over you, is that it?"
Siobhan pauses; her chest heaves as her breaths start to quicken. She looks away, twisting and untwisting the leather tie she uses for her hair around her forefinger tightly—too tightly. Siobhan's breaths slow, and she looks back.
"I don't know. I don't know who they'd believe. He's their uncle. Anyway, it's not like I could take that risk. Not after Éanna."
"Right." Astarion picks at the instruments on the workbench before settling on a pair of shears—not as sharp as he would like, but sharp enough to do the job. "Tell me about her."
"Éanna?"
Astarion nods at her.
"You're asking a lot of questions about my family tonight. Why the sudden curiosity?" Siobhan asks.
Astarion shrugs, "No reason in particular. Just making conversation. How about you tell me about your sister while I cut your hair, hmm?"
But that's not exactly true. He wants to know about Siobhan's sister because perhaps if he gets to know more about her life and her family before all this mess with the Absolute, he can finally begin to understand what it is that she wants, how she feels—who she is.
". . . okay."
While Astarion combs and snips Siobhan's hair, he learns that Éanna loves music. Loves to sing and play the fiddle. Loves playing pranks and poking fun. Hates overly serious people and being serious generally. Quick to smile, blunt but kind, a little reckless, and a lot of fun.
Talking about her sister lifts Siobhan's mood significantly. More even than the alchemy lab. Astarion finds it difficult to reconcile the stories of a seemingly happy life alongside her siblings with the knowledge that Siobhan was being raped all the while. But apparently, she's like Astarion in that regard, skilled at keeping the dark parts of herself carefully separate.
"She does have a terrible temper," Siobhan smirks up at him, keeping still as he takes some of the length off her fringe. When Astarion pulls back, she brushes the fallen hair from her lap. He combs her hair with his fingers to see how it lays and walks back behind her to take another inch off. It's still a touch long.
"You wouldn't believe the tantrums she used to throw if we went too long without taking a break from traveling or if we skipped a meal. Or, this one time, Cathal dropped a mouse down the back of her collar to get back at her for dying all their shirts yellow. Gods, the way she screamed at them—swearing to never speak to them again. Her rage was incandescent."
Astarion huffs, "Over a mouse?"
"She's terrified of them. But it hardly matters," Siobhan laughs. "She might be quick to anger, but Éanna rarely manages to hold on to it. It took her less than an hour to have a laugh with Cathal over the whole thing."
"There, take a look and see if you like it." Astarion prompts, pulling his hands away once he's satisfied.
Siobhan runs her fingers through her freshly shorn hair before standing to walk over to the small mirror next to the tub. A thick layer of grime and verdigris covers the surface, but a couple of swipes with her sleeve cleans it enough for her to get a look.
Siobhan's hair falls just past her chin now. The blunt ends curl ever so slightly from the humidity that fills the room from the stewing potions.
"Huh, you did a pretty good job. Thank you." She flashes him a shy smile and then glances at the lab.
"Oh, we better get you fed. I'll need to get back to work soon."
"Are you planning to sleep at all tonight?" Astarion asks, returning the shears to their place.
"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Siobhan waves him off. "C'mon, I made a promise to you yesterday, and I keep my promises."
Astarion doesn't move—Siobhan's eyebrows furrow.
"What? What is it?"
"Do you? Keep your promises?"
That's what Astarion wants to say, to ask, but instead, he says,
"I kissed Gale the other day."
Her expression quickly cycles through a myriad of emotions. Shock first, then confusion, disbelief, and finally, Siobhan grins.
"Did you really? Whatever for?"
"I . . . I don't know. It sort of just . . . happened."
Siobhan accepts the half-lie uncritically, and Astarion wonders why she isn't more skeptical of him.
"And? How was it? Did he kiss you back? Are you going to kiss him again? Do you want to kiss him again? What did he say after?"
"You're taking this rather well," Astarion didn't know what he expected, but it certainly wasn't for Siobhan to treat the revelation like little more than a piece of juicy gossip.
Does she really think he's developed feelings for that oaf? Doesn't she remember their plan to sway Gale away from self-detonating? Why would she think the kiss was anything other than a gesture of pity for a dying man?
"Was I not supposed to? I thought we discussed this. We're free to pursue whoever we like, right?" Siobhan frowns.
"Are you sure you're not polyamorous?" Astarion teases instead of answering any of her questions. Why had he mentioned the kiss at all? It was never his intention to do so for precisely this reason. Astarion doesn't like having to explain himself.
"I never said I wasn't. Besides, how should I know? It's not like I ever had the opportunity before." Siobhan admits, turning red.
"No time like the present, darling. Halsin will be so pleased when he finds out."
"You are so irritating, you know that? Stop distracting me; you're supposed to be eating. I need to get back to work." Siobhan scowls.
Astarion stills again. He wants to. He wants to drink so badly that his fangs ache, but he just can't bring himself to do it. Astarion can't stop staring at the ragged punctures on her neck, still raw. This used to be simple—easy. It should still be. Astarion has to eat, and Siobhan has the means and willingness to feed him. All he needs to do is walk up to her, find a vein, bite down, and—
"Or . . ." Siobhan begins cautiously, unsure as to why Astarion hasn't moved or spoken. "We can skip it? If you're not hungry."
"That's it," Astarion exhales, relieved, "I had more than enough last night. Stuffed to the gills—couldn't possibly— tomorrow should be fine, I think. Good luck with your brewing. Try to get some rest, if you can, darling. We'll need you sharp and ready!"
Siobhan stares at him for what feels like an eternity. Astarion wishes she would stop.
"You're lying, and I don't know why."
Astarion doesn't bother denying it.
"Have I done something wrong?"
Astarion doesn't quite know how to answer that question. It isn't that simple.
"What do you need?"
Siobhan had asked him the same thing yesterday at the docks. He hadn't given her a reply but she'd managed to deduce the answer all the same. Perhaps she can do it again because Astarion still doesn't know what to say.
"Do you want to sit and think about it, or would you like me to let this go?"
Astarion doesn't hesitate this time, "Let it go."
". . . okay. I'll be here if you change your mind. Good night, Astarion."