[ Gale looses an undignified hiss of breath, shoulders jolting up as Astarion leans over him. He supposes that he should be grateful that he’s still upright, when he felt as if a strong wind could bowl him over earlier.
In his addled state, Astarion’s invitation invokes how last night ended first — before he recalls his devil’s bargain. A crackle in the air draws his focus as he turns to meet Astarion, eyes quickly dropping to his throat. Oh. Dawning realisation, yawning hunger. It’s immediately clear that the arcane ache, not the blood-loss, slowed him today. ]
[ snappish, ] I’m not so insatiable. [ Oh, but he is, discretion forgotten. He reaches out on instinct, only stopping when his fingers brush Astarion’s cool skin to curl under the bright stone — overcome with the longing to consume, to devour. The orb shudders in his chest. It must be satisfied. Eyes glassy, he fantasises about yanking the necklace free of Astarion’s neck in his desperation (and of leveraging it to lean in for another kiss, like he failed to do last night).
In the end, he does neither, a tremor running down to the tips of his fingers. ]
Where’d you find this?
[ It’s a hushed, near reverent question. He can taste the Weave in his mouth as his thumb brushes over the set of the stone. The necklace is the fine work of a clever mage, infused with a spell of its own. A potent stopper for the cataclysm in his chest. A potential asset, if their other companions have spied it. ]
[ Oh, he is hungry tonight. The power dynamic has shifted between them, now that Astarion is sated and dangles the key to Gale's relief. The smarter way to bargain would have been offering Astarion his throat after securing an arcane meal, but Astarion likes this better, the desperation in Gale's eyes after hours of barely meeting his gaze. ]
I liberated it from an overcooked Fist.
[ Gale's touch is cooler than a human's should be--from both the bloodloss and arcane hunger, he imagines. Astarion bends down a little closer so the gem sways between them, away from his throat, voice low and measured. ]
Be a good boy and tell me what this does before I offer it up for dessert, hm?
[ Perhaps it's cruel not to mention the bracers tucked away in his tent, heavy armor that Astarion couldn't use even if he wanted to. There's a thrill in watching Gale sweat, knowing he can give him release or make him well and truly beg for it. He'd been so eager to please last night, and Astarion wonders what else he might offer when the stakes are so high. ]
[ Gale ought to says something about the ethics of looting, at least from ostensible allies like the Flaming Fist, but Astarion is thinking far quicker than he is, at present. (He’d been quicker in the rescue today, too, when Gale had dared to observe him, untouched by errant sparks and splintering beams.)
He makes a choked, half-offended sound at good boy, eyes widening and narrowing in rapid succession. ]
Astarion. [ A lacklustre warning. His fingers hook on the chain, as if he might seize it himself. He doesn’t. ] It’s — the stone holds a powerful enchantment. You can see how carefully it’s set to contain it.
[ Can’t decide where to look: Up, to meet Astarion’s immolating gaze or straight ahead, at the thing he wants most, lips parting at the thought of having it? His eyes flicker, torn. For once in his life, Gale would prefer to explain something in as few words as possible. His mouth feels altogether too dry. ]
Wearing it should give you the ability to cast a power word — [ Delivered in a rush. ] A near undeniable command, regardless of your magical aptitude or existing spell set. [ Brown eyes flit sideways, shifty. ] I’d need to hold it, to tell you the command.
[ Well, to be sure. He has an idea, from the knowledge of its former owner, the feel of it, the tang in the air. ]
[ A near undeniable command. The necklace is suddenly a pendulum between them, pulling the air taut as the balance shifts once more. Assuming Gale is speaking the truth--this could be the end of Cazador, this trinket he guilelessly plucked to feed to the party's magical black hole.
Astarion doesn't manage to stop his gaze widening perceptibly, nostrils flaring before he schools his expression again, closed and a little dangerous. ]
There's a pair of bracers in my tent. [ Apparently the time for using those as leverage is now. His voice is barely a murmur, ears pricked for any errant footsteps wandering in their direction. For now, all he catches are raucous voices by the fire. ] Wait until the rest have gone to bed and they're yours.
[ Harder to walk casually by the entire party with heavy armor that shimmers with arcane energy, no matter how good Astarion is at sneaking. The question, he supposes, is whether Gale is going to believe him and not just snatch the gem from his throat. ]
[ The terrain warps beneath his feet. Impossible to tell whether this will serve or trouble him, in the long run. He closes his fist around the necklace, heedless desire coursing through him. From there, he can confirm its specific mechanics of power by taction alone.
(The command is set to stun. Their corpse must have been an enforcer. Fascinating.)
It takes a moment for him to register that Astarion may possess two items of use, distracted by the bird in hand. ]
And what of this? [ He tugs on the chain to the point that Astarion will have to follow his grip, reeled closer, if he doesn’t wish to test the metal’s strength. Any sudden movements risk breaking the clasp and relinquishing power to Gale. ]
I fed you willingly. Generously. [ At first, his voice lowers to a whisper, matching Astarion’s, but his unease ratchets it higher, sharper. ] And now I’m to trust you won’t scurry away with the most filling thing I’ve seen since we crashed in the middle-of-gods-forsaken-nowhere — that you’ve a suitable alternative — [ A ragged inhale. Getting worked up ends one way (and offending Astarion shuts off future supply). His voice drops again. ]
You understand my hesitation. [ He does focus on Astarion himself, then, searching for anything that inspires trust. ]
[ It is a bit ironic that Astarion set his own collar around his throat, for once. He loathes being leashed, nearly snaps his head back and loses this boon forever just to avoid it, but there is a sick little swoop in his gut at Gale doing the tugging, the thrill of watching someone so eager to please at the mercy of his own temptation.
Astarion loves a hint of corruption, for better or worse.
And so he lets himself be pulled a breath away from Gale, ever-conscious of the twin daggers in his thigh holsters if this takes a turn. If the stakes were less--if the trinket were interesting but not so powerful--Astarion would simply slip back into easy seduction.
He doesn't want to lose a reliable source of blood, either. They're both of use to each other. ]
I'll show you, then. [ Their faces close enough to kiss, it takes little effort to open his mind to Gale and offer the memory of snatching the bracers, if Gale will just press in. ]
[ If Gale were wholly present, he’d know that Astarion was telling the truth — if only because he isn’t twisting out of his grasp or spinning pretty lies.
He isn’t present. He doesn’t know. But Gale does trust this troublesome man enough to follow him into his mind. The bracers seem less consuming in his fine hands, held by someone sated, not ravenous. As a byproduct of the exchange, the feeling of fullness helps settle Gale’s rattling person. ]
Alright. [ Closing his eyes, Gale tries to centre himself (as if by not looking at the things he wants, he can cut off the wanting itself). His words slow to a rumble, reciting Astarion’s earlier instructions like an incantation. ]
After the others have gone to bed. [ Which could be hours from now, gods above. It takes every ounce of restraint not to whine as much aloud. His grip stiffens before he unlocks it, eyes flashing. ] I’ll come to your tent.
[ Finally, he drags his hand away, sagging once more as the reality of denying himself persists. What’s a few hours after agonising days? Nothing, he tells himself, unconvinced. Nothing at all. ]
[ The thread between them slackens again, and Astarion feels less like he's unwittingly tipped himself into the lap of something dangerous and hungry. And Gale is dangerous, for all that he doesn't always look the part. Astarion's lived under the thumb of a powerful wizard for the past two centuries, and he's seen Gale's command of a battlefield with barely a fraction of Cazador's power. Best to stay on his good side.
Gale looks pained, almost hollowed as he relinquishes his grip on the necklace. Astarion tells himself it's neither pity nor compassion nor genuine desire that makes him catch Gale's chin in his hand, kissing him softly before stepping back, away from the riverbank. It's just subduing a mark. The little tug of want he feels can't be real. ]
You're good at this part, aren't you? The waiting.
[ In the moments after the kiss (the second kiss Astarion has deemed him worthy of, for whatever strange reasons), his expression does something complicated. Surprise fades into appreciation, all his tired lines softening.
The commendation of his skills in this particularly pathetic arena startles a laugh from his throat, airy and bitter. ]
Oh, I’m an old hand at it, I suppose.
[ The waiting, the wanting. He spent his youth in the throes of devotion to his studies, to Mystra, to the Weave itself. Hadn’t he been elated to prostrate himself — at his goddesses’ beck and call? Even in the stretches where another Chosen held her fancy. ]
But I’ve found that growing accustomed to something — even mastering it — does not make it any more tolerable. [ A truth that surely applies to both their hungers. Turning away, he presses his hands into the dirt. ] Merely familiar.
[ He’ll wait out the hunger pangs alone, as before. Their companions already know his inclination toward melancholy; they’ll leave him be. ]
[ Whatever remains of Astarion's heart just can't handle Gale looking at him like that. Like Astarion's done him a kindness, like there might be more of them to come. He's an irritatingly handsome man who inarguably deserves better than whatever this is, but Astarion swallows the urge to blurt that out. ]
See you tonight.
[ With a theatrical bow, before he slips back to camp.
Astarion manages to put any sympathy hunger pangs out of mind as he retreats to his tent for the night, the party slowly dispersing to their corners of camp over the next few hours until finally the fire is little more than ash, and the moonless night is as dark as they get. Whenever Gale comes knocking, he'll find Astarion propped on one of his throw pillows outside his tent, reading a book by the light of a pilfered bronze candelabra. (Pay no heed to the bloodstains and filthy rags visible through the open flap; Astarion isn't exactly used to keeping a tidy house, nor entertaining guests and allowing them to leave alive.) ]
[ Once the noise has quieted, and the light has faded, Gale drags himself from the riverside. He never bothered returning to his tent to change into his camp clothes, still fully dressed in his wizard’s robes when he finds Astarion alone. At least he channelled his precious, dwindling energy into casting prestidigitation on his person, so he doesn’t smell of ash or blood.
Hard not to feel a touch embarrassed by his earlier wretchedness, at the sight of Astarion stretched out before him (waiting, as promised). Gale’s desperate actions have ruined entanglements built on stronger foundations — years of devotion to soften damnation into exile, as a consequence.
On approach, he nudges Astation’s leg with the toe of his boot, having reforged some of his control in the intervening hours. ]
You’ve hidden your acquisition. [ The necklace. His mouth quirks into a tired smile. A peace offering. ] Good. I doubt the heroes among us would let either of us keep hold of it.
[ Neither of them is trusted with such things. The Necromancy of Thay has remained safe in their leader’s pack, after all, despite their dual pestering. ]
[ Astarion notices him approach, of course, but still finishes the page of his book after Gale nudges his calf like a schoolboy, quirking a brow when he finally looks up at him. ]
Are you not a hero, Gale? [ It's teasing as Astarion sets his book down and gets deftly to his feet, deliberately standing toe to toe with him, right in his space. If Astarion's honest, he takes issue with Tav's unwavering need to do good everywhere they go, but they are at least a reasonably capable leader.
Gale does some good, but he is wavering. Which makes him interesting. And Astarion can appreciate his pragmatic approach to tactics over a loftily moral one.
Gale has height on him, but that makes it all the more satisfying to catch him a little off-guard, a hair's breath from pressing chest to chest and hip to hip as Astarion tilts his head to appraise him, murmuring. ] I suppose that's what gives your blood such... flavor.
[ And then he's turning to dip under his tent flap, expecting Gale to follow. ]
[ A hitch in his breath, at their sudden closeness. Astarion keeps pulling the same trick and, worse, it keeps working. He’d like to put its effectiveness down to his extended seclusion, but there’s something to it being Astarion bothering to menace him, after clearly not finding him interesting at first.
There’s novelty now in realising that he’s a bit taller, too, for all Astarion has towered over him, of late. His attention inevitably flickers to Astarion’s mouth, lashes low.
Gods, he’s starving, looking adrift the moment Astarion turns away. It takes him a moment to recalibrate and follow after. ]
[ dryly, ] I think that’s the forbidden magics, actually. [ which is, incidentally, the reason he can no longer claim heroism. It isn’t that he views himself as morally subpar, exactly, but he sees why his folly and over-intellectualising has cost him trust. ] And that flavour seems to have aided you in the field today.
[ After making him giddy last night. Leverage, of a kind. ]
i know i said the bracers were leather in a previous tag but i forgot so i am retconning
[ So far, Astarion hasn't noticed any less-than-agreeable side effects after imbibing magical blood; if anything, Gale is right that he was quicker on his feet than usual. Which means he's perfectly willing to continue this little arrangement for the foreseeable future. ]
Certainly helped me snatch you a few treats, didn't it?
[ Astarion's knelt on the floor of his tent, and unfolds a dingy blanket to reveal the silver bracers. Remarkably undamaged by the fire, all things considered. ]
All yours.
this is the new reality this is how it has always been
[ All white-hot need coiled low in his gut, licking up his insides, Gale has meagre resistance on tap. A temporary hesitation, prolonged by a forcibly discerning look between his prize and Astarion’s nimble fingers. Quick enough to snatch them away, if it amuses (and he seems to find Gale awfully amusing, these days).
With far less grace, he drops to his knees opposite Astarion. His single-minded focus subsumes the creak of his bones. ]
Certainly. [ A faraway echo. His world has narrowed to a single point, the thing he’s needed for days, hollow and aching. Before he realises, he finds his arm extended, fingertips grazing the metal. Oh, that will do just fine. ]
I’m not inclined to play with my food. [ Implying that Astarion is, obviously. Gale very much wants to ask if Astarion means it, if this can truly be given and destroyed, without having to, well, ask. ] Are you done toying with yours?
[ Gale is watching Astarion like Astarion's the rogue he is--like he'll deny Gale this, too. While power is a heady thing, he'd be a poor tactician if he thought leaving their wizard to rot another day was a good idea.
He's a little surprised Tav has, honestly. Though they do have a whole party's worth of bizarre little problems to juggle. ]
We've barely scratched the surface of how I play with my food, darling.
[ With a cool smile, as he sits back on his sad little pillow, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other knee bent, elbow resting on it. Astarion is realizing he's never actually watched Gale do this before: Tav usually takes careful inventory of their assets and brings Gale his dinner privately.
He flourishes a hand, palm up, toward the bracers. ]
But I have no interest in further denying you tonight. [ Unlike your goddess, is what he doesn't say. ] Go on, then.
[ At once, the thread of tension holding Gale upright snaps and he sinks deeper, sat back on his knees. It’s not comfortable, but this never is. ]
I dare not imagine your depravity. [ murmured to himself, as he takes a bracer in each hand, testing the weight and power of the things. A fleeting thought: He ought to warn Astarion. It can be unsettling, to watch him rattle apart, arcane power dissembling into pure weave on his skin. It had been upsetting for Tara, at any rate, when his condition first demanded treatment.
It’s too late, the braces held to his chest like treasured things, silver glancing off the orb’s mark — then gone in a burst of violet light. His Netherese brand glows, vibrant from his sternum up the taut muscles of his neck. The force of it unbalances him, pushed deeper onto his heels, back arched and hands scrabbling for purchase. ]
Ah — hah, that’s a relief. [ It’s such a rapid, overwhelming act, that he stumbles in the come down. Never has he been so close the precipice. It was reckless to allow it, but for all his chatter, he’s never quite managed to put the pain of his arcane hunger into words. Even the danger, he fears he undersold, for want of a place in this group.
On a rush of an exhale, his entire body slackens. Gale blinks until he can see clearly again, dragging a hand through his beard and over his face, then carding back into his hair to soothe away the aftershocks. The effect of consumption is immediate, searing pain dulled to a manageable sting. ]
Thank you, Astarion. [ Surer, a warm flush where his cheeks had been sallow for days. ] You’ve — [ no idea? ] Well, I suppose you’ve every idea, what this means for me.
[ For a moment, the entire tent crackles with power. Astarion will be shocked if it hasn't lit a beacon for the rest of the party to discern exactly what's happening here; but he also knows from his own late night prowling that the flood of purple light must not be so conspicuous, or he'd have clocked Gale's mealtimes before now.
Astarion has watched more than a lifetime's worth of suffering--and pleasure, always in the service of pain--but the magic held in precarious balance in Gale's body is something new to behold. He feels like he's watching something vulnerable, and for once isn't dissociated around it.
Cracked open, he thinks, and his fingers flex against his knee. Somewhere, there's a goddess who once thought Gale a very interesting little ant, and now he's living with the profound consequences of one moment of her attention.
Can he blame her? Gale is lovely on his knees. So very human, despite his brush with the divine. But for all that Astarion covets power, the cruelty of the gods is something else. ]
It's different though, isn't it? [ Watching the color bloom again on Gale's skin, lifeblood that is his instead of something stolen. Astarion's expression is serious as he drinks him in, not masquerading as predator or charlatan. ] I can go quite a long while without blood. It's not pleasant, but it's possible.
[ Cazador loved to deny them. And when he wasn't denying them, they were fed worse than scraps. ]
I don't know what it is to be alive on the knife's edge of death. I haven't felt alive in a very long time.
[ It’s rather curious the way Astarion watches him now, alight with neither amusement nor disapproval. Gale finds that he has to look away, thumbing his earring as he turns to take in this space properly, for the first time. His senses return to him slowly, the metallic tang of blood coming from somewhere nearby — an unsightly mess, when Astarion seems to pride himself on his coiffed appearance outwith this space.
Absentmindedly, he hushes a spell that cleanses the area, stains dissipating, the smell of fresh parchment in the air. He catches Astarion’s gaze again only at the admission of understanding — there is but one explanation for why Astarion knows hunger intimately, and it twists his insides into brambles. Somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, there is a vampire lord waiting to reclaim him. Gale swears he’ll not find Astarion alone.
His expression shifts, neutral in his consideration of their similarities and differences. Strange, that Gale should be more alive for winding nearer and nearer to a permanent death, with Astarion stuck in limbo. No matter how his strength surges as he recoils from the jagged ledge, he always finds himself closer to the abyss than he was the last time, unable to regain lost ground. One storm, a rush of slanting rain to upset his footing, and he’ll fall. Even now, so freshly sated, a hollow ache builds in his chest. For all his cleverness, he is almost certainly running out of time. ]
I could show you. [ He taps his temple, indicating their connection. ] If you truly wished to know.
[ His tent suddenly smells very much like Gale--not just the crackling ozone from that surge of magic, but also parchment and warm, time-weathered skin. He wonders what Gale might look like, if he actually had years ahead of him rather than two potential time bombs inside, the orb and their shared problem of the worm.
Humans go so quickly. Spawn tend to be turned during their prime, and age never marks them thereafter. Astarion feels a tenderness he can't look at straight-on for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of Gale's eyes, the faint wisps of grey at his temples. They make him real, and they make something ache in him, like thumbing a bruise.
Astarion might bristle at his territory being marked under different circumstances--because cleaning it means Gale noticed the filth, the familiar squalor he lets himself live in--but strangely, he doesn't mind this tonight. Their transaction is technically done, but he considers the offer, curiosity drawing him in.
Maybe more than curiosity. A desire for closeness, to not be left alone to brood in his clean, Gale-scented tent for the rest of the night. But he won't look at that straight-on, either. ]
Why not. [ Astarion extends a hand, even though they technically don't need to touch for this, his voice soft. ] We've given each other stranger things.
[ Part of him expects a rejection, despite the softness rounding Astarion’s eyes. Their scales have been balanced, for the time being. Anything else is surplus to requirements.
That Astarion seems intrigued by the very thing he sought to rid himself of — well, it’s a novelty. Confronted with Astarion now, Gale finds that he may have valued his humanity too cheaply. ]
True. [ His fingers catch on the mark at his throat, unable to keep his thoughts on track. ] But this will be less pleasant than my previous gift. [ His intoxicating blood doesn’t agree with him in the same way it does Astarion, to be sure. ]
[ Gale scoots closer. Without hesitation, he takes Astarion’s hand and brings it to the vee of his robes, pressing it flat against chest (over his heart, as well as the orb encasing it in blackest weave).
His eyes shutter — the tadpole seems pleased to be used, to invite another inside — and he tries to grasp the moments before the fall. A time of power that dwarfs his present weakness, unfettered by the blight. There. He’s so breathlessly alive, blood and Mystral weave coursing through his veins.
He turns the corridor in his mind and finds himself in a decrepit place. The bound book in his hand seethes, begging to be opened — a fragment of something too unreal to take shape in his mind’s eye becomes part of him before he can snap the tome shut. His face twists, in the present. The thing’s razored teeth, its demanding claws tear his insides, an unstoppable force that hollows him out, gorging on the weave until it can take the place of what was lost, leaving him near-death. The hunger rises alongside it, swift and all-consuming. His fingers curl around Astarion’s, holding his hand in place — suddenly, the memory of them threaded through his curls, silver-soft, supplants the nightmare. Just as quickly, Gale closes the door. ]
[ Astarion knows that this connection will leave an opening for Gale to root around in his memories, as well. Some of their party are quicker to share these things than others; Astarion would prefer to keep his own door under lock and key.
The momentary feeling of power is intoxicating, pleasure and strength coursing through him as if it were his own. Of everyone in their party, Astarion might understand Gale's fall the most--chasing undiluted power like it will change everything, having a taste and wanting more. Others might blame him for it, and Gale seems ever-ready to take whatever judgment is meted. Astarion, ironically, isn't one to judge.
But that pleasure is momentary. Aliveness is only truly felt when pinned against its opposite, and as Gale shares his own precipice, something in Astarion's mind unlocks itself, shudders forward.
The walls of a dark alley, stone spattered with his blood. Broken ribs, a lung collapsing, no god to answer or even bring him a swifter mercy than a slow succumbing to internal bleeding, bones splintered and puncturing everything soft inside him.
Only another shadow darkening the alleyway, and an even longer death ahead. Blood filling his mouth when he'd tried to call for help, blood in his mouth forevermore.
Their twin hunger is too much for a mind or body to hold. And then Gale's hand is an anchor, and they're back at the edge of the fire, fingers tangled in his hair. Astarion feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him as Gale slams their connection shut. ]
Just when we were getting to the good part.
[ The dry humor he'd normally inject doesn't make it past his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Gale's heart, knowing if he does his body will betray him, the tremor he's holding steady barely kept at bay.
His eyes are wet. He feels it, and so he keeps them shut, head bowed slightly between them. ]
[ Astarion is with him, slender fingers turning those cursed pages, until he isn’t. Until they’re both in an alley, gasping for air with punctured lungs. Gods above, he knows what that must be (when that must be). It’s different because Gale manufactured his end with his own wanting hands.
For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]
[ Gale is being kind to him, tender with him. Astarion only knows one way for tenderness to end: his body at the end of a lure, dragging the sweetest morsels back to his master. He feels the unending march of that even now, even when there's nothing for him to obey. Impossible to imagine a different ending when you've never experienced one.
Astarion wasn't a good man in life. He's certainly not a good man now. Perhaps both of them deserve whatever consequences live inside them, and neither deserve sympathy. But he leans into this, anyway. Curls his free hand at Gale's hip as he rests his head against his shoulder, so close to the closed wound at his throat. He's still full from last night, but he listens to Gale's pulse all the same, perhaps to distract from the knowledge that his eyelashes are leaving Gale's robes a little damp. ]
Ha. [ It's all he manages for a moment, fingers flexing in Gale's hand. ]
It's strange to see myself, you know. In someone else's memory. [ Closest he'll ever get to a mirror, though Gale didn't show him much. ]
[ Astarion’s hand at his hip allows him to relax, just a touch. Gale’s desperate clasp loosens to a gentle hold, thumb arcing over his knuckles. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, only that he’s doing it — rusty as he may be in the physical plane, he’s not unfamiliar with such affection. ]
I hadn’t realised. [ That vampires and their spawn do lose their reflections, denied self-image. So much of the literature on the topic is tawdry. Few have known spawn and lived to write of it, after all. His fingers tap, tap, tap against Astarion’s hand, considering. A knot to untangle, a problem to solve. He has to stay his thoughts to keep them from running away from him, towards things Astarion hasn’t asked for. Stay here.
His chin drops, nosing dangerously close to Astarion’s hair. Just as soft as it was last night. A shade lighter, without the warmth of the fire to colour it. How much had Astarion seen, anyway? Just that moment of closeness, or the way Gale hadn’t been able to look away from his pale skin, wondering if all vampires were alluring or if it was just this particular one, teasing him so.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
no subject
In his addled state, Astarion’s invitation invokes how last night ended first — before he recalls his devil’s bargain. A crackle in the air draws his focus as he turns to meet Astarion, eyes quickly dropping to his throat. Oh. Dawning realisation, yawning hunger. It’s immediately clear that the arcane ache, not the blood-loss, slowed him today. ]
[ snappish, ] I’m not so insatiable. [ Oh, but he is, discretion forgotten. He reaches out on instinct, only stopping when his fingers brush Astarion’s cool skin to curl under the bright stone — overcome with the longing to consume, to devour. The orb shudders in his chest. It must be satisfied. Eyes glassy, he fantasises about yanking the necklace free of Astarion’s neck in his desperation (and of leveraging it to lean in for another kiss, like he failed to do last night).
In the end, he does neither, a tremor running down to the tips of his fingers. ]
Where’d you find this?
[ It’s a hushed, near reverent question. He can taste the Weave in his mouth as his thumb brushes over the set of the stone. The necklace is the fine work of a clever mage, infused with a spell of its own. A potent stopper for the cataclysm in his chest. A potential asset, if their other companions have spied it. ]
no subject
I liberated it from an overcooked Fist.
[ Gale's touch is cooler than a human's should be--from both the bloodloss and arcane hunger, he imagines. Astarion bends down a little closer so the gem sways between them, away from his throat, voice low and measured. ]
Be a good boy and tell me what this does before I offer it up for dessert, hm?
[ Perhaps it's cruel not to mention the bracers tucked away in his tent, heavy armor that Astarion couldn't use even if he wanted to. There's a thrill in watching Gale sweat, knowing he can give him release or make him well and truly beg for it. He'd been so eager to please last night, and Astarion wonders what else he might offer when the stakes are so high. ]
no subject
He makes a choked, half-offended sound at good boy, eyes widening and narrowing in rapid succession. ]
Astarion. [ A lacklustre warning. His fingers hook on the chain, as if he might seize it himself. He doesn’t. ] It’s — the stone holds a powerful enchantment. You can see how carefully it’s set to contain it.
[ Can’t decide where to look: Up, to meet Astarion’s immolating gaze or straight ahead, at the thing he wants most, lips parting at the thought of having it? His eyes flicker, torn. For once in his life, Gale would prefer to explain something in as few words as possible. His mouth feels altogether too dry. ]
Wearing it should give you the ability to cast a power word — [ Delivered in a rush. ] A near undeniable command, regardless of your magical aptitude or existing spell set. [ Brown eyes flit sideways, shifty. ] I’d need to hold it, to tell you the command.
[ Well, to be sure. He has an idea, from the knowledge of its former owner, the feel of it, the tang in the air. ]
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Astarion doesn't manage to stop his gaze widening perceptibly, nostrils flaring before he schools his expression again, closed and a little dangerous. ]
There's a pair of bracers in my tent. [ Apparently the time for using those as leverage is now. His voice is barely a murmur, ears pricked for any errant footsteps wandering in their direction. For now, all he catches are raucous voices by the fire. ] Wait until the rest have gone to bed and they're yours.
[ Harder to walk casually by the entire party with heavy armor that shimmers with arcane energy, no matter how good Astarion is at sneaking. The question, he supposes, is whether Gale is going to believe him and not just snatch the gem from his throat. ]
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(The command is set to stun. Their corpse must have been an enforcer. Fascinating.)
It takes a moment for him to register that Astarion may possess two items of use, distracted by the bird in hand. ]
And what of this? [ He tugs on the chain to the point that Astarion will have to follow his grip, reeled closer, if he doesn’t wish to test the metal’s strength. Any sudden movements risk breaking the clasp and relinquishing power to Gale. ]
I fed you willingly. Generously. [ At first, his voice lowers to a whisper, matching Astarion’s, but his unease ratchets it higher, sharper. ] And now I’m to trust you won’t scurry away with the most filling thing I’ve seen since we crashed in the middle-of-gods-forsaken-nowhere — that you’ve a suitable alternative — [ A ragged inhale. Getting worked up ends one way (and offending Astarion shuts off future supply). His voice drops again. ]
You understand my hesitation. [ He does focus on Astarion himself, then, searching for anything that inspires trust. ]
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Astarion loves a hint of corruption, for better or worse.
And so he lets himself be pulled a breath away from Gale, ever-conscious of the twin daggers in his thigh holsters if this takes a turn. If the stakes were less--if the trinket were interesting but not so powerful--Astarion would simply slip back into easy seduction.
He doesn't want to lose a reliable source of blood, either. They're both of use to each other. ]
I'll show you, then. [ Their faces close enough to kiss, it takes little effort to open his mind to Gale and offer the memory of snatching the bracers, if Gale will just press in. ]
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He isn’t present. He doesn’t know. But Gale does trust this troublesome man enough to follow him into his mind. The bracers seem less consuming in his fine hands, held by someone sated, not ravenous. As a byproduct of the exchange, the feeling of fullness helps settle Gale’s rattling person. ]
Alright. [ Closing his eyes, Gale tries to centre himself (as if by not looking at the things he wants, he can cut off the wanting itself). His words slow to a rumble, reciting Astarion’s earlier instructions like an incantation. ]
After the others have gone to bed. [ Which could be hours from now, gods above. It takes every ounce of restraint not to whine as much aloud. His grip stiffens before he unlocks it, eyes flashing. ] I’ll come to your tent.
[ Finally, he drags his hand away, sagging once more as the reality of denying himself persists. What’s a few hours after agonising days? Nothing, he tells himself, unconvinced. Nothing at all. ]
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Gale looks pained, almost hollowed as he relinquishes his grip on the necklace. Astarion tells himself it's neither pity nor compassion nor genuine desire that makes him catch Gale's chin in his hand, kissing him softly before stepping back, away from the riverbank. It's just subduing a mark. The little tug of want he feels can't be real. ]
You're good at this part, aren't you? The waiting.
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The commendation of his skills in this particularly pathetic arena startles a laugh from his throat, airy and bitter. ]
Oh, I’m an old hand at it, I suppose.
[ The waiting, the wanting. He spent his youth in the throes of devotion to his studies, to Mystra, to the Weave itself. Hadn’t he been elated to prostrate himself — at his goddesses’ beck and call? Even in the stretches where another Chosen held her fancy. ]
But I’ve found that growing accustomed to something — even mastering it — does not make it any more tolerable. [ A truth that surely applies to both their hungers. Turning away, he presses his hands into the dirt. ] Merely familiar.
[ He’ll wait out the hunger pangs alone, as before. Their companions already know his inclination toward melancholy; they’ll leave him be. ]
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See you tonight.
[ With a theatrical bow, before he slips back to camp.
Astarion manages to put any sympathy hunger pangs out of mind as he retreats to his tent for the night, the party slowly dispersing to their corners of camp over the next few hours until finally the fire is little more than ash, and the moonless night is as dark as they get. Whenever Gale comes knocking, he'll find Astarion propped on one of his throw pillows outside his tent, reading a book by the light of a pilfered bronze candelabra. (Pay no heed to the bloodstains and filthy rags visible through the open flap; Astarion isn't exactly used to keeping a tidy house, nor entertaining guests and allowing them to leave alive.) ]
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Hard not to feel a touch embarrassed by his earlier wretchedness, at the sight of Astarion stretched out before him (waiting, as promised). Gale’s desperate actions have ruined entanglements built on stronger foundations — years of devotion to soften damnation into exile, as a consequence.
On approach, he nudges Astation’s leg with the toe of his boot, having reforged some of his control in the intervening hours. ]
You’ve hidden your acquisition. [ The necklace. His mouth quirks into a tired smile. A peace offering. ] Good. I doubt the heroes among us would let either of us keep hold of it.
[ Neither of them is trusted with such things. The Necromancy of Thay has remained safe in their leader’s pack, after all, despite their dual pestering. ]
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Are you not a hero, Gale? [ It's teasing as Astarion sets his book down and gets deftly to his feet, deliberately standing toe to toe with him, right in his space. If Astarion's honest, he takes issue with Tav's unwavering need to do good everywhere they go, but they are at least a reasonably capable leader.
Gale does some good, but he is wavering. Which makes him interesting. And Astarion can appreciate his pragmatic approach to tactics over a loftily moral one.
Gale has height on him, but that makes it all the more satisfying to catch him a little off-guard, a hair's breath from pressing chest to chest and hip to hip as Astarion tilts his head to appraise him, murmuring. ] I suppose that's what gives your blood such... flavor.
[ And then he's turning to dip under his tent flap, expecting Gale to follow. ]
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There’s novelty now in realising that he’s a bit taller, too, for all Astarion has towered over him, of late. His attention inevitably flickers to Astarion’s mouth, lashes low.
Gods, he’s starving, looking adrift the moment Astarion turns away. It takes him a moment to recalibrate and follow after. ]
[ dryly, ] I think that’s the forbidden magics, actually. [ which is, incidentally, the reason he can no longer claim heroism. It isn’t that he views himself as morally subpar, exactly, but he sees why his folly and over-intellectualising has cost him trust. ] And that flavour seems to have aided you in the field today.
[ After making him giddy last night. Leverage, of a kind. ]
i know i said the bracers were leather in a previous tag but i forgot so i am retconning
Certainly helped me snatch you a few treats, didn't it?
[ Astarion's knelt on the floor of his tent, and unfolds a dingy blanket to reveal the silver bracers. Remarkably undamaged by the fire, all things considered. ]
All yours.
this is the new reality this is how it has always been
With far less grace, he drops to his knees opposite Astarion. His single-minded focus subsumes the creak of his bones. ]
Certainly. [ A faraway echo. His world has narrowed to a single point, the thing he’s needed for days, hollow and aching. Before he realises, he finds his arm extended, fingertips grazing the metal. Oh, that will do just fine. ]
I’m not inclined to play with my food. [ Implying that Astarion is, obviously. Gale very much wants to ask if Astarion means it, if this can truly be given and destroyed, without having to, well, ask. ] Are you done toying with yours?
[ With him. ]
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He's a little surprised Tav has, honestly. Though they do have a whole party's worth of bizarre little problems to juggle. ]
We've barely scratched the surface of how I play with my food, darling.
[ With a cool smile, as he sits back on his sad little pillow, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other knee bent, elbow resting on it. Astarion is realizing he's never actually watched Gale do this before: Tav usually takes careful inventory of their assets and brings Gale his dinner privately.
He flourishes a hand, palm up, toward the bracers. ]
But I have no interest in further denying you tonight. [ Unlike your goddess, is what he doesn't say. ] Go on, then.
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I dare not imagine your depravity. [ murmured to himself, as he takes a bracer in each hand, testing the weight and power of the things. A fleeting thought: He ought to warn Astarion. It can be unsettling, to watch him rattle apart, arcane power dissembling into pure weave on his skin. It had been upsetting for Tara, at any rate, when his condition first demanded treatment.
It’s too late, the braces held to his chest like treasured things, silver glancing off the orb’s mark — then gone in a burst of violet light. His Netherese brand glows, vibrant from his sternum up the taut muscles of his neck. The force of it unbalances him, pushed deeper onto his heels, back arched and hands scrabbling for purchase. ]
Ah — hah, that’s a relief. [ It’s such a rapid, overwhelming act, that he stumbles in the come down. Never has he been so close the precipice. It was reckless to allow it, but for all his chatter, he’s never quite managed to put the pain of his arcane hunger into words. Even the danger, he fears he undersold, for want of a place in this group.
On a rush of an exhale, his entire body slackens. Gale blinks until he can see clearly again, dragging a hand through his beard and over his face, then carding back into his hair to soothe away the aftershocks. The effect of consumption is immediate, searing pain dulled to a manageable sting. ]
Thank you, Astarion. [ Surer, a warm flush where his cheeks had been sallow for days. ] You’ve — [ no idea? ] Well, I suppose you’ve every idea, what this means for me.
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Astarion has watched more than a lifetime's worth of suffering--and pleasure, always in the service of pain--but the magic held in precarious balance in Gale's body is something new to behold. He feels like he's watching something vulnerable, and for once isn't dissociated around it.
Cracked open, he thinks, and his fingers flex against his knee. Somewhere, there's a goddess who once thought Gale a very interesting little ant, and now he's living with the profound consequences of one moment of her attention.
Can he blame her? Gale is lovely on his knees. So very human, despite his brush with the divine. But for all that Astarion covets power, the cruelty of the gods is something else. ]
It's different though, isn't it? [ Watching the color bloom again on Gale's skin, lifeblood that is his instead of something stolen. Astarion's expression is serious as he drinks him in, not masquerading as predator or charlatan. ] I can go quite a long while without blood. It's not pleasant, but it's possible.
[ Cazador loved to deny them. And when he wasn't denying them, they were fed worse than scraps. ]
I don't know what it is to be alive on the knife's edge of death. I haven't felt alive in a very long time.
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Absentmindedly, he hushes a spell that cleanses the area, stains dissipating, the smell of fresh parchment in the air. He catches Astarion’s gaze again only at the admission of understanding — there is but one explanation for why Astarion knows hunger intimately, and it twists his insides into brambles. Somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, there is a vampire lord waiting to reclaim him. Gale swears he’ll not find Astarion alone.
His expression shifts, neutral in his consideration of their similarities and differences. Strange, that Gale should be more alive for winding nearer and nearer to a permanent death, with Astarion stuck in limbo. No matter how his strength surges as he recoils from the jagged ledge, he always finds himself closer to the abyss than he was the last time, unable to regain lost ground. One storm, a rush of slanting rain to upset his footing, and he’ll fall. Even now, so freshly sated, a hollow ache builds in his chest. For all his cleverness, he is almost certainly running out of time. ]
I could show you. [ He taps his temple, indicating their connection. ] If you truly wished to know.
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Humans go so quickly. Spawn tend to be turned during their prime, and age never marks them thereafter. Astarion feels a tenderness he can't look at straight-on for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of Gale's eyes, the faint wisps of grey at his temples. They make him real, and they make something ache in him, like thumbing a bruise.
Astarion might bristle at his territory being marked under different circumstances--because cleaning it means Gale noticed the filth, the familiar squalor he lets himself live in--but strangely, he doesn't mind this tonight. Their transaction is technically done, but he considers the offer, curiosity drawing him in.
Maybe more than curiosity. A desire for closeness, to not be left alone to brood in his clean, Gale-scented tent for the rest of the night. But he won't look at that straight-on, either. ]
Why not. [ Astarion extends a hand, even though they technically don't need to touch for this, his voice soft. ] We've given each other stranger things.
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That Astarion seems intrigued by the very thing he sought to rid himself of — well, it’s a novelty. Confronted with Astarion now, Gale finds that he may have valued his humanity too cheaply. ]
True. [ His fingers catch on the mark at his throat, unable to keep his thoughts on track. ] But this will be less pleasant than my previous gift. [ His intoxicating blood doesn’t agree with him in the same way it does Astarion, to be sure. ]
[ Gale scoots closer. Without hesitation, he takes Astarion’s hand and brings it to the vee of his robes, pressing it flat against chest (over his heart, as well as the orb encasing it in blackest weave).
His eyes shutter — the tadpole seems pleased to be used, to invite another inside — and he tries to grasp the moments before the fall. A time of power that dwarfs his present weakness, unfettered by the blight. There. He’s so breathlessly alive, blood and Mystral weave coursing through his veins.
He turns the corridor in his mind and finds himself in a decrepit place. The bound book in his hand seethes, begging to be opened — a fragment of something too unreal to take shape in his mind’s eye becomes part of him before he can snap the tome shut. His face twists, in the present. The thing’s razored teeth, its demanding claws tear his insides, an unstoppable force that hollows him out, gorging on the weave until it can take the place of what was lost, leaving him near-death. The hunger rises alongside it, swift and all-consuming. His fingers curl around Astarion’s, holding his hand in place — suddenly, the memory of them threaded through his curls, silver-soft, supplants the nightmare. Just as quickly, Gale closes the door. ]
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The momentary feeling of power is intoxicating, pleasure and strength coursing through him as if it were his own. Of everyone in their party, Astarion might understand Gale's fall the most--chasing undiluted power like it will change everything, having a taste and wanting more. Others might blame him for it, and Gale seems ever-ready to take whatever judgment is meted. Astarion, ironically, isn't one to judge.
But that pleasure is momentary. Aliveness is only truly felt when pinned against its opposite, and as Gale shares his own precipice, something in Astarion's mind unlocks itself, shudders forward.
The walls of a dark alley, stone spattered with his blood. Broken ribs, a lung collapsing, no god to answer or even bring him a swifter mercy than a slow succumbing to internal bleeding, bones splintered and puncturing everything soft inside him.
Only another shadow darkening the alleyway, and an even longer death ahead. Blood filling his mouth when he'd tried to call for help, blood in his mouth forevermore.
Their twin hunger is too much for a mind or body to hold. And then Gale's hand is an anchor, and they're back at the edge of the fire, fingers tangled in his hair. Astarion feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him as Gale slams their connection shut. ]
Just when we were getting to the good part.
[ The dry humor he'd normally inject doesn't make it past his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Gale's heart, knowing if he does his body will betray him, the tremor he's holding steady barely kept at bay.
His eyes are wet. He feels it, and so he keeps them shut, head bowed slightly between them. ]
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For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]
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Astarion wasn't a good man in life. He's certainly not a good man now. Perhaps both of them deserve whatever consequences live inside them, and neither deserve sympathy. But he leans into this, anyway. Curls his free hand at Gale's hip as he rests his head against his shoulder, so close to the closed wound at his throat. He's still full from last night, but he listens to Gale's pulse all the same, perhaps to distract from the knowledge that his eyelashes are leaving Gale's robes a little damp. ]
Ha. [ It's all he manages for a moment, fingers flexing in Gale's hand. ]
It's strange to see myself, you know. In someone else's memory. [ Closest he'll ever get to a mirror, though Gale didn't show him much. ]
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I hadn’t realised. [ That vampires and their spawn do lose their reflections, denied self-image. So much of the literature on the topic is tawdry. Few have known spawn and lived to write of it, after all. His fingers tap, tap, tap against Astarion’s hand, considering. A knot to untangle, a problem to solve. He has to stay his thoughts to keep them from running away from him, towards things Astarion hasn’t asked for. Stay here.
His chin drops, nosing dangerously close to Astarion’s hair. Just as soft as it was last night. A shade lighter, without the warmth of the fire to colour it. How much had Astarion seen, anyway? Just that moment of closeness, or the way Gale hadn’t been able to look away from his pale skin, wondering if all vampires were alluring or if it was just this particular one, teasing him so.
When he speaks again, his voice is a low burr. ]
Are you…as you imagined?
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