Chapter Text
When Astarion feels the sun on his face and the silence in his mind for the first time in two hundred years, he wants to weep. He’s spent those two hundred years forced into the shadows lest he is literally and figuratively burned by the sun. He’s spent those two hundred years as a puppet under a master who reveled in torturing his spawn. He’d given up on finding freedom in his first decade of unlife, and here he is, experiencing it again. Yes, the tadpole that crawled into his head will prove to be an issue, but he’ll be more than happy to deal with it if—
Oh. Oh.
A sudden wave of nausea suddenly runs through Astarion’s body, and he rolls over onto all fours to retch. He hasn’t been fed in a tenday, so there’s no blood in his system to throw back up. Suddenly, he wants the nausea to be his body rejecting the sun, but he knows that isn’t the case. He heaves and gags a few more times before daring to lean back onto his knees, breathing heavily.
“It would’ve been too much if that tadpole got rid of you as well, wouldn’t it?” he mutters, his hand fluttering to his abdomen. It’s still too early for him to show, but Dalyria told him (had it been the third time? He can’t remember) that the creatures inside recognized their parents’ voices. He wonders if it feels his animosity towards it, even if it can’t understand him. A shame that nothing, not sheer resentment nor surgical methods nor even a tadpole to the brain, can remove it from him. His siblings all tried with their first, and some even their second, but Cazador must’ve placed some sort of anti-removal spell on them before he sent them out.
Fucker.
Astarion wipes his mouth and stands up properly, ears twitching at all the sounds around him. He hears the typical forest wildlife, but also the flames flickering on the nautiloid wreckage, and…battle cries? He dares take a few steps down the cliffside to get a closer look. In the wreckage, he sees two women—half elves by the looks of them, one a cleric and the other a spellcaster—dealing with those awful brain creatures. The cleric looks more powerful than the spellcaster, but Astarion has fought worse.
Their battle finished, the two women poke around the wreck for supplies. Astarion bolts back up the hill and wait until the women make their way to him. As much as he wants to drain the boar snuffling nearby (Cazador hadn’t even deigned him with insects in the last tenday) he knows its movement and noises fulfill his plan perfectly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion sees the two women make their way up the hill. He suppresses a sneer as soon as he sees the spellcaster. She’d run past him in the ship and made friends with one of the brains. Clearly a terrible choice in ally, but an excellent source of information. He takes a deep breath and starts calling for help, and both women move faster until they’re right in front of him.
“Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered,” he says. Briefly, he wonders if showing would’ve made this easier, before moving onto his next sentence. “You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others.” A sane person would’ve known that this is a ruse and run away. Unfortunately for her, the spellcaster isn’t one of those people.
“Easily,” she says. “Step aside.” She brushes past him, and he hears a tongue click from the cleric. Good; she won’t get involved. The spellcaster steps on a twig, startling the boar, but she still believes that there is a four-legged brain in the weeds. Before she reacts, Astarion holds the knife to her neck and pulls them both onto the sand. She tries multiple ways to get out of his grip, but what eventually tears them apart are the things in their heads connecting. He has no choice but to apologise; they clearly share the same infection.
“So,” Astarion says after they make introductions—the spellcaster is Taviss but prefers Tav, the cleric, Shadowheart— “What can you tell me about these things in our head?” Tav worries her lip between her teeth before answering,
“They’ll turn us into mindflayers.”
“Turn us into--?” Astarion trails off before the laughter of a madman bubbles from him. Isn’t it enough that he has one parasite inside of him? What has he done in his life to have the gods forsake him so badly? He almost misses Tav’s next sentence.
“You know…Shadowheart and I are only two people, and you seem clever enough to trick us. I’m sure we’ll find a use for your cunning somewhere.” Shadowheart rolls her eyes, but Astarion fixates on Tav’s face. She’s not joking. If she knew what he is and what he has inside him, she might change her mind, as who knows how long he can hide his secrets. Still, he gives Tav what he thinks is a grateful smile. He knows he gives her a sarcastic flourish.
“All right. I accept.”
As it turns out, Tav is one of those awful types of people who helps everyone. Before they’ve even set up camp for the night, Tav helps a githyanki (Lae’zel) escape a hanging cage; pulls a wizard out a malfunctioning portal of his own doing (Gale); and vows the “Blade of Frontiers” assistance in finding his little devil friend (Wyll). She saves one child from a serpent and another from a quartet of harpies. She promises the druids that she’ll find their leader in the goblin camp a few miles away. She’s the sort of person who makes his teeth itch. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever, thinking they do good in the world, ignoring all of those who actually need help. Still, looking at all of his newfound campmates, Astarion can’t help but notice that none of them would trance to rest. No, they actually need to sleep.
He can sneak up to one of them and get a taste of their—
No. Foolish to even think of it. Even if Cazador’s compulsions have faded with the tadpole in his head, there is no indication that they’ve stopped entirely. Besides, even if Cazador’s compulsions have stopped, he’ll still end up with a stake in the chest for getting his fangs out. But there are plenty of animals surrounding him that smell better than rats. They’ll be enough, for both his hunger and the creature inside of him. It has to be enough.
“I’ll take first watch,” he calls. “We’ve all had a long and exhausting day, and I think you all need your beauty sleep more than I do.”
“Chk!” Lae’zel spits. “Looking at you, you’d be screaming for us the minute you heard a twig snap. I should be taking first watch.”
“Do you trance, my dear?” Astarion says.
“You know as well as I do that elves are the only race that trance.” Lae’zel frowns. “That is not the issue. There are stronger fighters amongst us, elf—”
Before Lae’zel can say more, Tav rushes over from her own tent. “We should be fighting those goblins, not each other,” she says. “Let Astarion take first watch if he wishes, Lae’zel; surely you’ll be better for watch once you have some rest in you. Astarion, you will be armed in case something happens, won’t you?”
“Oh, my dear, do you think me a fool?” Astarion says, taking one of his daggers out and flipping it. “I wouldn’t dream of taking even a step outside of our camp without a weapon on me.”
Tav nods curtly, before walking back to her tent. Lae’zel glares at Astarion’s back as he walks towards the edge of the camp. He turns and gives her a jaunty wave, before turning back to the forest behind them. There’s another boar about, and his mouth waters at its salty, heavy scent. Still, he waits until he hears all five of his compatriots’ sleeping breaths before following it.
The boar hasn’t gone very far: just towards the entrance of the bridge near the grove. There’s still the scent of Aradin’s fallen groupmates nearby, but even drinking from those corpses feels too risky. Instead, he waits until the boar is distracted by a burrow before he pounces, sinking his teeth into the boar’s neck almost immediately. He holds its jaw shut so it can’t squeal. It thrashes against him fruitlessly as Astarion takes big, shuddering gulps of its blood.
Even if he’d be given a rat in the past tenday, it still wouldn’t compare to this boar’s taste. Its scent doesn’t do it justice: it’s the closest he’s been to eating pork in two hundred years. He remembers feasts that he’d attended as one of Cazador’s “wards” and he knows that suckling pig is always a popular option amongst the Upper City patriars. Perhaps he should’ve grabbed an apple before heading out, but no matter. His own version is just as good.
When he’s a quarter through, the boar stops struggling completely. When he’s halfway through, the boar’s heart stops. When he’s done, the boar is still warm. Astarion drops the boar’s carcass and kicks it towards the burrow it inspected only a few minutes prior. Perhaps a bear or mountain lion would ignore their camp when such an easy meal lay at their feet. Astarion wipes around his mouth with his finger, before he suckles off the remaining blood. The boar isn’t as good as a humanoid would be, but it still leaves him with the clearest head he’d felt in gods know how long. He turns and makes his way back to the camp.
He is halfway there when his stomach churns again. “Oh no,” he groans, clutching his abdomen with both hands and leaning over. “No. This is the best meal I’ve had since I’ve been turned, and that was probably your best meal ever in your short little life. So do be considerate of the person who’s playing host to you for the next seven and a half months and let me keep it down, hm?”
The nausea ebbs away and Astarion dares to stand up properly. “Good,” he says. “Keep that up and we might be friends.”
Apparently, the lower parasite has other ideas. Astarion just makes it back to the outskirts of camp when the nausea returns, closer to the feeling he’d had on the beach. “Oh, you little shit,” Astarion gasps out, before he crouches over the nearest bushes and empties at least a third of what is inside him. Once he’s certain nothing else will come up, he sinks to his knees. “The one time I consider helping the both of us and this is how you repay me?” Tears of frustration well up in his eyes, and he bites his lip to contain the sob that threatens to spill. He is so focused on his own misery that Astarion doesn’t hear that there are now only four people sleeping.
“Astarion?”
Astarion jumps to his feet and whirls around, his hand on his dagger. Gale holds up his hands in peace. “My apologies for disturbing you. It’s just that, based on the sounds I was hearing, it seemed only fair for us to change watch. You need to make sure you’re physically equipped to handle tomorrow as well, especially if your body is…” He gestures vaguely at the bushes. Astarion gives him a winning smile, as if he hasn’t just been crying and vomiting only a few minutes ago.
“Of course, darling,” he says. “Let me just be fair and clean up my mess. I know that most of the time I smell delightful, but I don’t think this aspect of me does, does it?”
“Oh, let me,” Gale says with a wave of his fingers. “We don’t need to be wasting our supplies when a member of our illustrious party has the ability to wipe away messes with just a brief waggle of their hands.”
“Right,” Astarion says. “Well, if you excuse me, wizard, I think I shall go and take your advice. Do keep an ear out for wildlife; I’m fairly certain I heard a bear or something large about.” With that, Astarion slinks into his tent. He doesn’t assume his usual trancing position, though: instead, he runs his fingers over his belly, even though he knew that the small beast lay fully in his womb.
“I don’t like you, but you could be the first one to live,” he mutters. “You have a plethora of creatures nearby that I can use. Food so much better than decaying rats and rancid cockroaches. Please don’t fight me on this, darling.”
He knows that it is still too small to react to any of his comments or give any inclination that it was sentient. It is still barely bigger than his little fingernail. Sighing, Astarion settles properly into his trancing position and tries to rest.
The animals weren’t enough, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. The next night, he found two boars and drained them both. He’d gotten a little careless with the second one and Tav found it the morning after that, but he’d been able to get her off his back with just enough vagueness about there being vampires about. He tried smaller animals on that night, draining at least six rabbits, but it was still no good. At least four of them ended up out of his system and splattered into the mud.
But the fourth night…well, with the fourth night it was now or never. The group had been suitably chastened when Wyll—sweet, naïve Wyll—decided to grow a brain and realize that the little (actually quite big) devil was an innocent tiefling. In response for his good deed, Wyll ended up a devil himself. It was actually quite gruesome: the scent of boiling oil turning into the scent of burning flesh, Wyll’s terrified screams…when that devil, Mizora, left, no one seemed in the mood for dinner. Everyone preferred an early night.
And that was perfect. Astarion waits until everyone is properly asleep before he leaves his tent, surveying his merry little band.
First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.
Astarion sucks his tongue. Cazador’s rules echo in his head, but they have no actual effect. Still, he won’t know until he tries…and if it would stop the nausea…and Tav, foolish Tav, had abandoned her tent and slept by the dying embers of their campfire…
Before he can stop himself, he stalks towards Tav’s bedroll, fangs bared. Perhaps in his overeagerness, he’s stepped on a twig or nudged her on his approach, but suddenly her eyes are open, staring at him in horror. He stumbled back. “Shit.” Tav scrambles to her feet and he raises his hands in defence. “No, no, it’s not what it looks like! I just needed…” Astarion trails off, realizing there is no easy way to say it. “Well, blood.”
“We found that boar you snacked on,” Tav hisses and Astarion is, briefly, thankful that she has the sense to keep her voice down. “When was the last time you killed someone? Yesterday? The day before?”
“I’ve never killed anyone,” Astarion says, before backpedaling. “Not for food, anyway. I just need a little to—to think clearer, fight better.” To keep the thing inside me silent because it craves blood just as much as I do. “Please.” The tadpole twitches, and based on Tav’s expression, it does the same to her. Her frown deepens and she crosses her arms.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Astarion balks. She surely can’t be that naïve, could she? “At best, I thought you’d say no,” he says. “At worst, I’d end up with a stake in my ribs.” He takes a shaky breath. “I just needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”
Tav sighs and her face softens. “I do trust you, Astarion.” She looks to the side before turning back to him. “How much do you need?”
Every single drop inside of you roars inside of him, though he can’t tell if it was the bloodlust or the creature that screams it. He licks his lips, before saying, “Just a taste, I swear.”
Tav looks like she regrets every decision she’d made in her life at this point, but she sighs again, dropping her arms. “Fine. But not a drop more than you need or I’ll drive a stake through your chest.”
Well. That is unexpected. Astarion rearranges his face into the expression he’s so carefully curated over two hundred years. “Of course. I’ll be as gentle as a babe. Let’s get you comfortable, shall we?” A poor choice of words on his end, but Tav gingerly backs down onto her bedroll. Astarion crawls over her. She’d already taken the liberty of moving her hair away from her neck, giving him clear access to her veins.
Who is he to look a gift horse in the mouth?
He dives down, teeth breaking her skin almost instantly. Tav jumps, but one hand snakes around his back—to pull him off or help him, Astarion isn’t sure. But he soon forgets about her touch—forgets about everything, because she tastes wonderful.
How cruel of Cazador to keep thinking creatures away from his spawn. The boars and rabbits had been good, better than good, but Tav tastes divine. Like a nine-course meal after only eating broth for most of your life. Like the lightest, sweetest lemon tart when all you’ve ever been given is charcoaled, blackened biscuits. Like actual food when you’ve only been given shit. He’d promised her only a taste and he had meant it—one can’t lose all their allies, after all—but she is too much. Gods, is she too much.
“Enough,” Tav gasps, and she shoves him off as hard as she can. Tav isn’t strong, probably only slightly stronger than him or Gale, but her pushing his chest hurt as much as if it was Lae’zel or Shadowheart. He gasps in turn, returning to reality.
“My—my apologies,” he says. Tav’s eyes are a little glassier, her skin a little paler, but she still looks alert. “That was good. I—I feel happy.” It is an inadequate word to describe what her blood does to him, but she manages a smile.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she says. Her voice sounds slurred, but not inexcusably so: the way one sounds from lack of sleep, perhaps. “I’m looking forward to watching you fight.” He returns her smile.
“Excellent,” he says. He stands up. “Now, you tasted wonderful, but I think I’ll need to find something a little more filling. You should get your rest.” He starts walking away, before realizing he probably should say something a little more filling too. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”
He doesn’t turn around to see Tav’s expression before he stalks off to the woods. A badger stands only a few meters away, and he makes quick work of it. Its mate follows, and he drains that too. He is about to pick them both up and toss them into the nearest burrow, but as he leans down his shirt brushes against his chest, and he hisses in pain. A shove from Tav he understands, but his shirt?
He abandons the badger corpses and dashes back to the camp. He pauses briefly to make sure Tav is still breathing, before running into his tent, pulling the flap closed, and lighting a few candles. Then he steadies himself, before untying the laces on his tunic and pulling it over his head. Even that was enough to make him gasp in pain again, but he tosses his shirt to the floor and examines his body.
His chest remains as flat as usual, which reassures Astarion for a moment before he realizes that his areolas have changed colour. Not a noticeable change at first glance, but even in the dim candlelight he sees they’d darkened from their usual pale pink. He runs his thumb and forefinger over his right nipple and winces. If this didn’t go down by the morning, he’d need to loosen his armour. He lets go and begins checking the rest of his torso…and unless his eyes were deceiving him, his belly is definitely fatter than it was a few moments ago.
Trying not to cry out, Astarion runs his fingers over his belly before pressing in. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding; it’s just bloat. Not an ideal situation if he needs to use his body, but he’d gorged himself. He would just need to stop earlier in the future. But his chest, though…his left hand creeps up to it, though even a feather brush of a touch still makes it ache. But it had to be the tadpole, surely? It would all stop as soon as the tadpole was gone. It had to stop.
Not even the lack of nausea for the first time in half a tenday soothes Astarion as he drifts into an uneasy trance.