Chapter Text
I’m awake just before the dawn comes. My night of meditation brought on some much needed peace, and I feel strength going into the day. Though the rest of my companions seem to still be asleep, I make my way toward the center of camp and work to get the fire started to make breakfast.
As I get the stone slab positioned over the beginning cracklings of the fire, I look up to see Gale making his way over.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you, I’ve tried to keep the noise down as best I can.”
“No no,” Gale replies, waving the notion off. “I was already awake. Finding sleep happened to be a quite tedious task, so I decided to make the most of the quiet morning to do some reading.” As he draws near and takes a seat on a tree stump, I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. It runs deep, as if it’s more than just one lost night of sleep.
“Are you feeling well?” I ask. “After last night, I mean. Losing sleep always tends to make one feel worse, but…” I break our eye contact. “If there’s anything I can do, I can make a tea, or–”
“I appreciate your willingness to help,” Gale says, a kind of resolution in his voice. “But unfortunately, there’s very little than can do me much good in what ails me.” He pauses for a moment. “If I may, there’s something I would quite like to discuss with you, in regards to last night.”
“By all means,” I nod.
“I know we’ve not been traveling together for very long, which is why I feel it may be best for me to bring this up now, rather than later,” Gale explains. “You see, I have this…condition, if you will. It’s quite different from our tadpoles, but unfortunately, it is just as deadly. I’ve found that the only way to appease said condition is for me to take artefacts imbued with powerful magic and, for lack of a better word, consume the Weave inside.” I keep my composure, but can’t help the slight raise in my brow. “It’s been days since I last found an artefact. It was before we all got abducted onto the nautiloid. I can feel it worsening within, so the sooner I’m able to get my hands on something saturated with the Weave, the less volatile my condition will be.”
“Alright,” I say.
“I understand if this notion is concerning, and I would furthermore understand if you find any concern with continuing to travel with me. You say the word, and I will be on my way without a second–” Gale pauses, tilting his head at me. “Alright?”
I nod. “At the grove, while you all were making trades in the makeshift market, I got to chatting with a few tiefling children. They tried to pickpocket me, but I caught on to their plan the same moment they realized I had nothing of value to steal. One of the kids gave me this,” I explain, reaching into my pocket. “I could feel the magic within as soon as it touched my fingers. Take it.” I pass the amulet over to Gale without a second thought.
He hesitates. “You’re sure?” I nod again. “Thank you,” Gale says incredulously, as if he didn’t believe I would part with something so easily.
“I know there’s not much there, but you have more need of it than I do,” I reply. “Your condition–” I stop myself. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
“There’s no cure, if that’s what you were going to ask,” Gale says a bit defeatedly. “I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve left no page unturned trying to find something that could take it away, or at least subdue its effects. The artefacts are of vital importance in stabilizing it.”
“So, what, you’re addicted to magic?” I ask playfully.
Though it’s clear he wants to fight it, a smile still breaks across Gale’s face, and he lets out a chuckle. “No, it’s nothing like that. Magic isn’t a narcotic to me – but it is a life-saver.”
“Well, then I don’t see any reason not to get you what you need,” I shrug.
Gale nods. “I do not take your kindness lightly, Wynn. I know how powerful magic-imbued artefacts can be, and I know that the loss of them could be a matter of life or death. As long as I’m able to consume strands of the Weave every few days or so, I’ll be fine.”
“Sacrifice is part of life,” I reply. “Sacrifice helps to maintain balance, particularly within nature, but it’s true of the world, too. Silvanus teaches us that we must uphold that balance.” We’re both quiet for a moment. “You will say something if your condition worsens at all, right?”
“Of course,” Gale reassures me. “And should it take a turn for the worse, I assure you I will make every effort not to let anyone else be affected by my affliction.”
I nod, deciding not to push any further. We move on after a few more moments of quiet between us. He helps to prepare breakfast as our companions slowly wake, one by one, and quietly trickle towards the fire.
* * *
Hours later, my feet ache, sharp pangs of hunger shoot through my gut, and I’m covered in smatterings of blood. We’re all covered in blood.
Lae’zel, surprisingly, joined Shadowheart and I while Gale and Astarion remained back in camp. We’d run into another group of goblins, a pack of gnolls, and a one-horned tiefling woman. After our minds connected through the tadpoles’ power, Karlach joined us. Lae’zel clearly respected her as a warrior, and gave no gripes about our newest addition.
Though I’d expected Lae’zel to decline Karlach’s request for aid in defeating a group of paladins that had been hunting her, she seemed delighted at the prospect of shedding some blood. The fight was over before it really began, and it was impressive watching Karlach and Lae’zel almost single-handedly cut through all of them.
It did, however, result in Lae’zel criticizing my lack of skill in combat. Despite my attempts at explaining to her that I’ve never been an apt fighter - nor did I need to be back home in my grove, or since living in the Lower City - she insisted that my prowess in battle was a sorry attempt at self defense. Karlach was a little more encouraging in her criticism, and explained that a sword may be more effective than a quarterstaff.
When we arrive back at camp after dark, a third figure - Wyll, I realize - is seated around the campfire with Astarion and Gale. He turns to greet us with a smile and a wave, but draws his blade the moment his eyes fall on Karlach.
Though we convince him of Karlach’s innocence and Wyll’s misdirection, there’s an uncomfortable shift in camp for the rest of the night.
* * *
Days have passed. We scout as much around the perimeter of the goblin camp as possible, and make a plan. Lae’zel wants to go for blood, refusing to exchange any pleasantries with the goblins. Astarion seconds this, though Shadowheart and Wyll seem to think that we should charm our way through, and only turn to violence in self-defense. I tell Karlach and Gale to join me in our pursuit of the captured druid Halsin. We toss a coin between our remaining companions, and the winner - Lae’zel - joins us, while the other three scout and wait in defensive positions outside the camp on the chance that we have to fight our way out.
And as luck would have it, that’s exactly what happens.
“That was fun,” Astarion croons as we make our way back to camp later that night. After finding Halsin, fighting our way back through the goblin camp was exhausting - especially after taking out the three leaders. After seeing some of the atrocities and torture being committed there, my sympathy ran dry. We’d slaughtered them all. “Shame about the poet, though. What was his name again?”
“Volo,” Shadowheart answers, her voice tired. “If only he’d kept to himself…”
“But he didn’t,” Lae’zel cuts in, her voice still edged in sharpness. If anything, she sounded even more invigorated after the fight than she had before. “And he received the consequences of his foolish actions.”
We saved who we could. A man named Liam had been set in some sort of torture contraption, and was so grateful when we’d released him, he lended us valuable information. There’d also been a slightly ungrateful deep gnome who’d been the source of entertainment for a handful of goblins, though he ran off shortly after we cut him down. Then there was Halsin, who’d made his way back to the Emerald Grove after thanking us.
“Lae’zel, I must say – I am truly fascinated by your infatuation with combat,” Gale says thoughtfully.
“Githyanki are trained from birth to fight,” Lae’zel replies. “My people are zealous in our pursuit of mind-flayers. In times past, my people were slaves to the illithids. My people grew strong, therefore it does not do well to be a weakling. They are culled from the training pits the moment they misstep so their failure does not insult our kind.”
“Your mentors kill the weaker fighters?” Shadowheart asks with scoff. “That’s barbaric.”
“No,” Lae’zel replies coolly. “We do. Part of our training is spotting the weakest link, and ending them before they become a threat to us all.”
Most of the trek back is in silence.
Back at camp, Gale makes his way to the cookpot and Wyll jumps to his aid. Shadowheart begins cleaning herself of the blood from her clothing and weapons, while Lae’zel seems to relish the feeling on her skin. Astarion seems to have disappeared, but it’s no matter - he takes off all the time, presumably to get away from the rest of us. Karlach has taken to burning off some steam - literally - by jumping in the lake and going for a swim.
I’m so exhausted I can’t even think straight. I remove my leathers and outerwear and wash them half-heartedly on the shore of the lake. I take the time to scrub my arms and face of the remaining smatters of goblin blood, but the rest of my body feels numb. After laying my clothes on a flat-topped boulder, I loosely weave my hair into a braid and take up shelter in my bedroll. I fall asleep before dinner is finished.
When my ears twitch at the sound of creeping footsteps, my heart begins to pound in my chest. I open my eyes to a dark, star-scattered sky. The campfire has been extinguished, as have the candles at each of my companion’s personal tents. There’s a shadowed figure hovering over my body. I move without thinking, shoving the figure away and clambering to my feet. My chest pounds, my breathing heavy as I lock eyes with my opponent.
“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?” I ask Astarion.
“sh*t,” he says quickly. I have no weapons and nothing nearby to use in self-defense. He takes a cowardly step back. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear!” He says, his voice panicked, though he intentionally keeps his voice down to refrain from alarming our other companions. “I–I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he amends, “I just needed–”
“You needed what?” I ask, my heart still thundering.
Astarion winces a bit. “I just needed…well, I need blood.”
I study his face as the moonlight glints off his skin. I narrow my eyes at him, and take my own step back. His eyes – one of the first things I’d noticed about him. An alarming shade of crimson. Gods, how hadn’t I seen it before?
“You’re a vampire,” I say, not really an observation, but not a question either. The words are barely audible, coming out on an exasperated breath. My panic takes over. “How long has it been since you killed someone?” I ask. “Days?” My eyebrows raise. Astarion breaks eye contact and begins to wilt under my ire. “Hours?”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” he answers, still keeping his voice down. He seems hurt by the accusation. “I feed on animals,” Astarion says earnestly. “Boars, deer, kobolds. Whatever I can get, really.” He finally returns his eyes to mine. “But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel weak.” I study him for a moment. A feeling settles low in my gut that he’s telling the truth. “If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer – I could fight better. Please,” he adds.
I feel the adrenaline and defensive panic subside within me. I stare at him for a long moment, weighing my options. There’s a surge of power that resounds in my head, a voice urging me to look within his mind for any fragment that would reveal any deception. I blink away the voice.
“Why weren’t you upfront with this from the beginning?” I ask.
Astarion lets out a breathy laugh. “At best, I was sure I would’ve been spurned, or likely had a stake run through my ribs. I needed you all to trust me, wretched as it sounds. But you can,” he says. “You can trust me.”
I nod slightly, though my jaw remains tight. I fold my arms over my body, wishing I wasn’t the only one awake to make this decision.
“All I ask, Wynn,” Astarion continues, his voice a little more gentle this time, “is that you trust me just a little further. I only need a taste, I swear.”
“You’re mad,” I say. “It’s–it’s not a no,” I say quickly, running my hands over my face in exasperation. “But I’d like to point out that attempting to bite me in my sleep doesn’t do much for encouraging trust between us.”
“I know,” Astarion recedes. I let out a tight sigh, then move to where our cooking station sits. “What are you doing?” Astarion asks, though he’s smart enough to not follow me.
I rummage through a small crate until I find a tin cup, then head back to my bedroll and unsheath a dagger from an outer pouch. “I will give you my blood, Astarion,” I say calmly.
“Really?” He asks, surprised at my words.
“But you can drink it from a cup, and not my neck,” I amend.
“But–” He stops himself. “I promise I won’t hurt you, I–”
“Do you want my blood or not?” I whisper yell, sharply turning my head in his direction. He opens his mouth as if to argue, but instead remains silent and nods his head in resolution.
I kneel down into the dirt, and set the cup before me. I hold out my hand just above the cup, and hesitate. I can’t look at him. I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anything other than my outstretched hand, the cup, and the blade just barely hovering over my palm. If I wait any longer to do this, I’ll lose my nerve, I think to myself. Without a second thought, I drag the tip of the blade across my palm.
It’s not the worst injury I’ve sustained as of late, but the cut does sting. I close my eyes as I squeeze my hand into a fist, letting the blood run down and drip drip drip into the cup. Astarion clears his throat, and I instinctively look at him. His pupils have dilated, and he looks as if he’s just barely holding himself together.
I pull my hand away and begin whispering an incantation. It only partially heals the wound in my palm – the bleeding has stopped, and the tissue has begun to knit itself back together, but it won’t fully close and there’s still a sting of tenderness to my skin. Passing up the opportunity to eat clearly wasn’t the best choice. I nod towards the cup for Astarion, and as he moves to pick it up, I grab a strip of linen from inside my bag and one of my poultices, and begin treating my hand.
I see Astarion out of the corner of my vision. His back is towards me, and he knocks the cup back in one swift movement. He lets out a soft groan of satisfaction, though he tries to cover it with what sounds like a cough or clearing of his throat. He tosses the cup to the ground.
“I’m sure it would’ve tasted better from the source,” Astarion says a bit raggedly, “but, thank you.” He glances over his shoulder at me as I begin tying off the linen wrap. “My mind – it’s finally clear. I feel strong,” he explains. “I feel…” Astarion’s voice trails off, and he looks up towards the night sky. “Happy.” His voice is saturated with a peace I’d not seen or heard in him since we met. He begins to walk away as I put away my supplies, but turns once more to face my direction. He keeps his eyes low, looking at the ground. “This is a gift, you know,” he says quietly. “One I won’t forget.” Without another word he stalks towards the forest.
The weight of my exhaustion hits me again, coupled with the woozy feeling and discomfort from the cut on my hand. I decide against any more critical thinking for the night, and get comfortable in my bedroll once more, drifting off once again into a dreamless, meditative sleep.
