Chapter Text
“I can’t believe you’re having me wear this to a normal dinner.”
Astarion stood behind Dreya, sliding his hands down her slender waist as she adjusted the cloth top of her dress in the mirror. “Why not? You look beautiful in it, my treasure.”
“I know. I also know that you’d usually only insist I wear this if it were a party like Arnir’s.”
“Mm. Who knows where the night will lead us?” he teased, fully wrapping an arm around her nearly unclothed waist and putting his hand on the collar she still wore, playing with the charm on it. “I never got to do more than sample you this afternoon, after all…”
Dreya chuckled, changing her focus to the long, full skirt, tugging it to the side a touch more to place the two slits over her bare legs properly. The silky black cloth reached the floor, brushing over the tops of her toes. Around her hips the cloth was solid, but the fabric somehow became more sheer as it descended, showing the lines of her legs quite clearly. “I was available, for once, but you just had to do other things outside the estate. Shame. Going to tell me where you went?”
“Just needed to ask a few questions here and there, pet. And I needed to ensure Gale would be back in time. Having the Chosen of a respected god at our table can only help things go smoothly. Now let me see you.” Astarion pulled her back from the mirror and spun her to face him, stepping back to take in the dress he’d purchased.
Even with her apprehension about the selection, Dreya could admit that the cloth felt wonderful on her skin, but then—there was a lot of skin the cloth didn’t even touch. “Astarion, this is a ridiculous outfit to wear to see an old friend. Whatever she thinks of you will only be made worse by having me half-clothed.”
Everything above the waist of her dress was comprised of a single strip of fabric that varied from a few to several inches wide, attaching to the skirt just behind the back of her waist, crossing her torso to wrap the wider part of the cloth over her breast tightly before draping around her neck to cover the other breast and return to her waist, creating an X shape. The thin cloth practically demanded letting the outline of her nipples show. It was as solid over her breasts as it was around her hips, but like the skirt, the lower parts of the cloth strip were nearly see-through. Dreya’s first thought when Astarion had given her the dress a bit earlier had been to wonder sarcastically if she should just go topless instead to be more modest.
The vampire lord waved off her concerns with a devilish smile. “I just want something to occupy my mind while she blathers about gods, my darling—and even if we’re not going to Arnir’s boudoirs, I may as well enjoy my purchase. With any luck the paladin will be so distracted by how lovely you are that she won’t even reach a diatribe about the undead.”
Dreya winced, hazily remembering some old discussions she’d had that could be classified as those. “Right… please tell me you’re just thinking with your cock and you’re not trying to use me to provoke her. I don’t want to sit there while you dangle me and see if she’ll react.”
“Maybe I’m trying to get you to seduce Gale,” he teased, returning to the mirror himself to button his own top. “Honestly, pet, you act like I’m upset about your past flame. I have you securely by my side. If anyone at the table tonight is jealous, it will be her.”
“Then you are trying to provoke her.” It wasn’t surprising, no, but Dreya did feel a deep sense of unease at the idea. She shook her head and hurried over to him, turning him towards her so she could finish the buttoning, more to give her hands something to do than out of any need to do it herself. Her brow creased slightly with worry. If only she could make him understand. She’d thought he would want to know more about their guest before she arrived, but he’d been off making other preparations both in and out of the estate instead of asking her even a single question. Shena probably wasn’t a personal threat to him, no, but it had been so long since she’d seen Shena fight… and paladins could be very powerful.
When she spoke, she only meant to sound casual, but her voice came out urgent, quiet. “Astarion, just—be careful. You don’t know her like I do. She hates the undead, especially vampires. Hells, she once told me that she frequently prayed to Lathander to guide her to a vampire lord for the honor of killing one! And I doubt she spared the spawn, either, if she ever found a lord… not that she ever talked to me about the difference or the details, but I’m sure she knew, she just… just mostly told me how dangerous and evil vampires are, to run if I see one, only try to destroy their heart or decapitate them if I’m trapped because they would kill me. If she’s like she used to be, she would probably consider killing a spawn to be a mercy.”
The buttons were long since done; she let her hands run over the silver-threaded black silk of his extravagant top, smoothing the red winged patterns stitched by the three white gold chains strung loosely over the doublet’s closure. Astarion was letting her ramble, she knew. Dreya forced a smile and made herself step away. “Gods, why don’t you just wear the bank vaults? Maybe some peacock feathers? It would be less showy.”
“An esteemed paladin of Lathander mustn’t be disappointed by the grandeur of a vampire lord, little love.”
“Should’ve worn one of your open doublets to let her see your chest if you wanted to show grandeur.”
Astarion gave a mockingly shocked gasp. “You never compliment me, pet!”
“Because I’m terrible at it, but you set that one up for me,” she admitted, turning to go through the bath towards their closet. It wouldn’t do to go to a dinner barefoot, even if it would be more comfortable.
Dreya didn’t hear Astarion follow her, of course; since his ascension he moved in utter silence when he wanted to. She wished she were used to it, but when she began to step into the closet and found arms around her and teeth nipping at the side of her neck, she still started with surprise. “Fuck—I was just getting shoes,” she muttered, trying to make herself relax. “She’ll be here soon.”
“You’re as tense as a bowstring. No need to be afraid. A single paladin has no chance against me, my love.” A nigh-feral grin crossed his face briefly, one she could feel against her skin as his grip on her tightened. “And if she decides you’re a spawn and so much as draws her sword in your presence, she’ll be dead before she even realizes she’s being attacked.”
Dread settled into Dreya’s stomach. This was the sort of thing she feared the night becoming. If one of her ex-lovers had to make their way to Baldur’s Gate and find her again, why couldn’t it have been the gnomish herbalist? At least then Astarion would have just made jokes about her height and left it alone. “I don’t want her to die. I just want to find out her business, catch up, and let her leave. That’s all.”
“Fine…” Astarion pulled Dreya’s hand over her heart dramatically. “I promise, I’ll try to let the paladin leave alive.”
“And?”
“Alive and whole. If possible.”
“Thank you. Besides, the more bad blood we avoid with the church, the better.”
Astarion hummed in agreement, but he turned his attention back the collar on her neck, brushing his fingertip over it briefly. “I want to finish everything with her as quickly as possible,” he muttered, seeming annoyed. “She interrupted something far more important than the church’s curiosity—us. Have you tried to learn anything more about your gift, pet? Or were you distracted all afternoon? I’m eager to learn what my blood will bring out of your magic.”
He was obviously trying to distract her, but she allowed it, letting him hold her hand over her heart still. She closed her eyes, trying to just enjoy it and not think about how badly things could go at the dinner. “Ah. No, I spent the afternoon working on elixirs for Karlach and Wyll. I’ll need to find somewhere quiet to test the spells. There’s new incantations swimming in my head, but I don’t know what most of them are. Sorcerous Sundries isn’t secluded enough, I might hurt someone.”
“Still so tense…” Astarion murmured, sliding her hand from her chest down to her thigh. “Our guest could wait. Just a few minutes for me to taste you again…”
Dreya was tempted, but before she could decide one way or the other, there was a knock at the door. Astarion tensed, giving a long, low hiss. “I will kill that wizard… Get your shoes, pet.”
At least that finally made her laugh. “Blame yourself, you’re the one that seduced him.” Astarion huffed, but he finally let go of her and strode back to their bedroom. As Dreya chose a pair of strappy black sandals and began to fasten them, she heard him open the door.
“Sorry to bother you, Astarion. Your chamberlain sent me to inform you that Eshendra Duskfall has arrived. Very punctual, reached the gate right at sunset.”
“‘Duskfall’? A bit on the nose for a Lathander worshipper.”
“Well, some of them do choose their own names when they swear themselves to the church. Oh, is that infernal iron?”
Dreya heard Gale walk in and pick up an item—given that the only thing there made of infernal iron was the small, boxy Gondian device Dreya used for her portal to Avernus, it was obvious what he was looking at. “Fascinating… the runes on it are brilliant. This is what you use to send supplies to Karlach and Wyll? I seem to recall hearing you were going to do that.”
“It’s Dreya’s project, but yes.”
Dreya finished with the deceptively intricate sandals and hurried back out to the bedroom, giving Gale a quick nod. To his credit, he didn’t really react to the dress. “Come on, let’s not leave her waiting. Gale, if you want to examine that thing, I need it back by tomorrow’s noon.”
“Really? Excellent! I’ll have to make a few sketches.” The wizard pocketed the device. He hadn’t seemed to expect the opportunity to take a closer look, but the prospect of learning always delighted him.
The chamberlain, a rather serious blue tiefling named Zalreus, ushered their guest into a small side dining hall once Astarion made his appearance. The white marble of the walls and floor gleamed in the light of the fireplace, wall sconces, and chandelier, offset by the richness of the deep red rug that covered most of the floor. A few tapestries hung from the walls, depicting patriars lounging and eating and dancing, glimmering with threads of silver and gold. Even the six-foot square table spoke of wealth, hand-carved from ebony and inlaid with abstract silver patterns that brought decadence to mind.
Gale had reused the same purple doublet he’d worn to meet Astarion in this very room the night before. While it was excellent quality, it was almost quaint next to the vampire lord’s extravagant outfit. Eshendra’s was even more plain by comparison—a fine quality but modest grey doublet that fit her muscular frame paired with deep brown pants and boots. A short sword hung from her belt, the mark of the Morninglord carved into the pommel. Zalreus had quietly suggested disarming the paladin before leading them into the hall, but Astarion had waved it off.
As per Astarion’s earlier orders, the table already had the prepared food set out instead of being planned and served in courses like a proper banquet’s meal. He preferred not to have servants bothering them during personal evenings. Apart from the chamberlain and a few kitchen servants, the rest would be dismissed to return to their lodgings before the food had even gone cold. Grilled rothé ribs garnished with green onions and crushed nuts served as the centerpiece, with a few side dishes of potato scones, artfully chopped and arranged vegetables, and sweet and savory tarts. It was too much food for four people, but the scent did make Dreya quietly glad that she could still appreciate the taste of real food. She and Gale sat across from each other, with Eshendra and Astarion taking the other two places, conveniently keeping the paladin and vampire as far apart as possible.
Even so, once they were seated and had each filled their plates, Dreya found herself toying with the scone in her hand instead of eating it as silence lingered. Astarion seemed to be waiting for Eshendra to start, while Gale seemed to know he was mostly there as a third wheel, and Eshendra was delicately removing the meat from the bone of a rib while also half-watching Astarion, likely to see if he would truly eat real food. He deliberately took a bite of the meat while the paladin was looking.
Right. Beyond the business of the church, there was something Dreya actually wanted to say, and it seemed like the paladin and vampire were too busy paying attention to the other’s every move to start with the actual matters at hand anyway. The sorceress set down the scone and turned a bit more towards the drow. “Shena, I owe you an apology for how we parted. Leaving without a word wasn’t fair to you.”
Eshendra paused for a moment and gave the half-elf a measured nod, her expression carefully neutral. “If you want to apologize, I accept—but all these years, I assumed your patron directed you to leave, not that you left in such a manner by choice. Was I mistaken?”
The response caught Dreya off guard. There wasn’t much she could say specifically concerning her patron, but something simple was allowable. “You knew?”
“Of course. I assumed he became aware that I was attempting to discover him or simply became jealous.” The drow paused for a moment, a more pensive expression taking her. “I tried to follow you, sunflower. Perhaps it is I who owe you an apology for failing in my task. Your patron still lives?”
So many years of guilt for abandoning her lover, and it seemed Shena had easily realized what had happened. Dreya felt a sense of humiliation that was all too old and all too new creeping through her gut. When the drow had been with her, she had only needed a few weeks to realize that Dreya had been bedded by someone after disappearing for part of a night. The sulfur smell had put the pieces together. She had never said a word, never demanded an explanation or accused the half-elf of cheating on her, but it had been obvious that she knew Dreya was being hurt every week. Then, just like with Astarion now, Shena had sat with her after the fact sometimes, held her quietly. Just like with Astarion now, Dreya loathed the fact that anyone knew of her shame. But the fact that Shena had been trying to hunt her patron? That was new.
Astarion answered for Dreya, knowing that her tongue would be bound. His face was knit into a scowl. “Yes, he’s still around, unfortunately. But it’s fortunate for all of us that you didn’t find him. Part of her pact says that if an ally of hers causes him physical harm, her life and soul are forfeit. You could have killed Dreya.”
Eshendra’s brow rose slightly. “Truly?” She didn’t look like she really believed it, for some reason.
“If it weren’t true, I would’ve killed him myself and given his heart to my darling as a wedding gift. Oh—I hope that doesn’t make me too violent for Lathander’s taste,” he replied, only keeping a tiny edge of mockery in his voice, to his slight credit. His smile gave Dreya some warning that he was about to say something upsetting. She picked up her fork and made herself eat a bite of a berry tart, hoping that Astarion wasn’t about to light a fuse.
“You know, as much as I loathe that vile, disgusting monstrosity, he may have been right to have my dove move on. It could’ve been done in a more humane way—I certainly don’t approve of that creature torturing her into leaving and breaking her heart—but he told me that the purpose of forcing her to leave people like you was to increase her future potential. And if she hadn’t left you, then perhaps she would never have met me! What a tragedy that would’ve been.”
The drow stared at him, blank-faced, and deliberately turned to Dreya instead. “Is that true, sunflower? Your patron tortured you to make you leave?” There was a pained note in her voice. The sorceress pursed her lips, knowing she couldn’t respond.
Astarion chimed in, accustomed to speaking when details about her patron arose. “Yes, it’s true, why would I have said it otherwise?”
Eshendra spoke sharply. “I was speaking to Dreya, vampire lord. Or did you remove your consort’s voice when you removed her clothes?”
Dreya gave the paladin a brief glare at the mention of her dress. It seemed Astarion had gotten under the drow’s skin with the outfit, whether he really had just intended it for his own benefit or not. “Gods’ sake, Shena, I’m right here.” Gale sat stiffly across from her, looking a bit annoyed himself.
“Her patron bound her tongue so she can’t speak of him,” Astarion replied lightly, but he didn’t bother hiding his smile. “At least… to anyone but me. I have no pact with him, so he can’t force me to stay quiet. And since I helped renegotiate my darling’s pact, it was necessary for him to let her have my ear.”
The paladin sniffed once. “Convenient.”
“Isn’t it?”
Time to interrupt before they found some other way to annoy each other about a patron that didn’t torment either of them. Dreya stabbed her fork through the tart hard enough to loudly clatter as she forced a smile. “Well, my apology went spectacularly poorly. Wonderful. Shena, what have you been doing for the past years?”
Shena set her serious silver eyes on Dreya. “Sunflower—if what he says is true, you should never have taken torture to remain with me. But I will speak no more on that matter, for now. After you left and I failed to follow your trail, I returned to the hunt of the unholy. My prayers to Lathander were for your safety and my vengeance against the Morninglord’s enemies. In time my prayers were answered.”
Her brow creased slightly with painful memories. “In time I killed many vile creatures. I protected many in the name of Lathander. A village had lost some of its youth to the night. When I hunted for what had taken them, I found a vampire lord. And I found you in his lair, or so I thought. I and others invaded the beast’s stronghold and rained the fury of the righteous on him and his ilk. I myself took his head. But there was a pit where the bodies of his victims were thrown, a dry cistern where his rats fed on the corpses he left. Near the top, there was a half-elf roughly your size. Her face was too mangled to identify, but her hair was red, like yours used to be. The locks that were white on your head when I last saw you had been torn away, leaving uncertainty—but I thought she was you, that being taken by him was why your trail had gone cold. To arrive in Baldur’s Gate and find the statue of a dead woman hailed as hero was a shock.”
Dreya listened quietly, unsure how to feel. The story was painful. If she’d ever thought she found Shena’s corpse, she would’ve been devastated. But in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but wonder if the paladin would have preferred her to truly be dead than to be serving a vampire. Gale interrupted her struggle to find what to say with a remark of his own, trying to keep the conversation going in the line Dreya had chosen.
“A terrible story, and a terrible burden to bear, Miss Duskfall. As a man of faith myself, I imagine you were quite thankful to Lathander for guiding you to find Dreya safe. The gods may not intervene often, but on occasion their missions for us bring great personal gratification. Where did you journey after the vampire lord?”
Eshendra seemed to note Gale taking a sip from his red wine and followed suit; maybe she’d wondered if it was poisoned. “I was led to another woman, a cleric of Selûne, one much like you, sunflower—a smile that warmed my broken heart, the bravery and ferocity of a dragon guarding its brood, and compassion that knew no bounds. We were together for seven years.” She steeled herself visibly, setting down her wine. “Then Mirwei was taken from me. She gave her compassion to the wrong creature, and by the time I found her—no magic of the gods or the hells could have saved her. I carry her moonstone with me always. May she rest in Selûne’s embrace.”
Dreya’s heart dropped into her stomach. The paladin was cold-faced, but she knew Shena, knew the passion she gave and the depth that she loved. The sorceress couldn’t truly understand her loss, she couldn’t understand the grief lingering on day after day, but just the moment of thinking Astarion was dead at the hands of Myrkul had been wrenching enough. To lose someone that close… “I’m so sorry, Shena. I can’t—”
“I don’t need your sorrow today, sunflower,” Shena interrupted, her voice cold towards Dreya for once. “Mirwei is beyond my help, but she lives in splendor, and my work in this world continues. My renown as the Morninglord’s sword grew, Mirwei’s loss and yours driving me to remove both piteously base and beautifully deceptive evils from the world, lest they ensnare the compassionate. I have felled fiends and vicious foes and foul undead in the hundreds, all in the name of the dawn. Which brings me to why I’m here.”
She fixed her eyes on Astarion. “I assume you already know this, vampire lord. Perhaps your consort is aware as well. But for Mystra’s Chosen, allow me to enlighten you all. There is a potential heresy spreading through the Church of Lathander. I have been sent to examine this new doctrine—and if I find it has no merit, to set to work snuffing it out.”
The dread in Dreya’s gut deepened. She dug her fingers into her bare knee beneath the table, hoping that snuffing out this doctrine didn’t mean snuffing out Astarion. Truthfully, she hadn’t paid close attention to doctrinal squabbles in the church. She sat stiffly, interrupting the paladin. “Shena, if you’re here to kill my lord, say so now.”
Eshendra’s lips pursed for a long moment. It was impossible to tell if she was angry, disappointed, or both, but the tension in the air became palpable briefly. Astarion enjoyed another bite of the rothé ribs, amused by the possible threat. The drow forced a tight, brief smile. “No, sunflower. I’m not here to kill Lord Ancunín, but to assess if he is a danger. My orders were to leave him untouched unless he became violent.”
The half-elf felt like she could breathe again. She gave the other woman a slight nod. “Good. Then please—continue. What is this new doctrine?”
“That despite being an undead creature, the Ascendant that walks in the sunlight freely is not an abomination, but a new breed that bears the favor of Lathander. Some say that he has been granted these abilities to rein in the vile vampire lords that torment the planes. Others believe that he, as the living undead, will destroy all other undead.”
Astarion laughed lightly. “Yes, pet, they seem to think I’m a savior for the sun god’s followers, as if I care about the will of the gods at all. It’s all quite ridiculous.” The very notion seemed so bizarre… no wonder he hadn’t mentioned it to Dreya. The sorceress couldn’t hide a half-smile at the thought of the vampire lord following a god’s orders. And considering where his power had truly come from, well…
Eshendra smiled as well, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We have something we can agree on, then. I came here with an open mind, praying to have your nature revealed to me. Then I found you sating your bloodlust in the neck of someone you claim to love. Your heart truly does beat, you eat food and have a reflection, you imitate life well—but you are as unfeeling as all others of your kind.”
Gale interjected, openly annoyed by the paladin’s assertion. “With all due respect for your beliefs, miss—I travelled with Astarion and Dreya for months, I saw them grow close. Denying that Astarion has true feelings is ridiculous, even if you don’t care for their relationship.”
Dreya let out a long, low breath, resting her head on her hand for a few moments as Gale voiced his objection. Unsurprisingly, Shena had taken the first sign that something might be wrong and used it to reach the conclusion she preferred. Quickly, she picked up her knife and fork, busying herself with cutting up her tart just to have something to do with her hands. “Shena, I told you in the shop that the bite was consensual. If you must know, I asked him to bite me. It’s simply a way of being intimate, like a kiss. Don’t use me showing him affection as a way to judge Astarion. Judge me for it if you must judge someone.”
Eshendra frowned, obviously unconvinced. “Dreya… do you recall why I consider vampires to be the most loathsome undead in Lathander’s sight?”
The half-elf bristled a bit, knowing what was about to come out of the paladin’s mouth. She set her utensils down and smiled tightly, folding her hands in front of her. “Yes. Yes, I do. Why don’t you go ahead and tell Astarion and Gale yourself? I’d hate to not imbue it with the appropriate venom.”
The paladin looked terribly sad, just for a moment, then her expression was steel once more. “So you do recall, and you still fell into his clutches. I… forgive me, sunflower. I failed you in many ways, it seems.” She took a deep breath, folding her own hands in front of her. “All undead are parasites to the living. They use the flesh and blood and bone of natural species to make or sustain themselves. With or without the consent of the consumed, this alone is enough to make the undead abominations in the sight of the Bringer of Renewal. But the reason that vampires are the most dangerous undead, the most unholy and repellant to life, is because they can feign love. Their affections seem real. Yet due to their evil natures, it is a twisted, warped thing that only ends in misery. You, Chosen of Mystra—surely you can tell the difference. This creature you travelled with—by the tales, he was a lesser vampire, was he not? A trickier subject than a vampire lord, closer to mortality and closer to true feeling. Perhaps he did once love, but with his change, how can you be sure he didn’t lose the ability to love at all?”
Dreya listened to the paladin’s speech, the dread she’d been nauseated by turning to quiet fury in her chest. She’d wondered the same thing sometimes—how much had Astarion changed when he ascended? She had nearly broken herself that night, sobbing into her arms and wondering if she’d killed the man she loved along with all the spawn she had betrayed. And yes, he had changed. His nature had darkened when he ascended, like putting a cloak around his shoulders that whispered to his worst impulses and deepened so many things he felt beyond her comprehension, for both good and ill. Yes, Dreya did not fully trust him. Their current fight was more than enough proof of that. But truthfully? The fact that all of this was based solely on Astarion being a vampire disgusted her. And whatever problems they had, Dreya had never doubted that Astarion loved her.
The half-elf stood up abruptly, cutting Gale off before he could respond. “Eshendra… how fucking dare you come into my home, sit at my table, and call my lover an unholy abomination because you feel that you can judge whether or not he loves me simply because of what he is? You don’t know me, not anymore, and you don’t know him.”
Shena took a breath, but Dreya raised her voice a touch more. “I’m not through! You know what beings have hurt me the most in life? Humans. Spare me your lectures on feigning love and evil natures when my own human mother sold me like a broodmare. Not just her, either—the rest of my family knew. My father. My sister. But for Lathander and his obsession with life, you’d kill a dozen of Astarion without question to let one human like my mother flourish—not because of something understandable like fearing their bloodlust, but solely because they’re undead. ‘Unholy.’ And you! You’re still a hypocrite, daring to pronounce every member of a species to be evil when you’re a drow! Not two hundred years ago, your kind could barely tolerate the sun, and even now most drow serve Lolth! Yet if someone had told me never to be with you because you’re a drow and all drow are evil, you would’ve been angry, you would’ve been hurt, and I know that because it fucking happened! Remember the barkeep that threw you out and tried to convince me to stay behind? And now you’re doing the same thing to Astarion!”
The paladin was briefly silent. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve become more assertive, sunflower. But this is different. Drow are born, not made.”
“Then it seems that I’m still not through, am I?” Dreya snapped, her voice rising further as she strode closer to Shena, stopping at the corner of the table by her. Gale was sitting stock-still, his eyes a bit wide at the unusual sight of the half-elf going on a tirade. Astarion wasn’t in her view, though, and she didn’t bother to look at him.
“You know, in some ways you’re right. Vampiric nature is made. It’s a curse that gives its bearers some tendencies, and Astarion is plagued by many of them. Again, if you feared vampires because of the bloodlust, I could understand—but you’re not evaluating Astarion by that measure. You’re not even criticizing him for his actions, you’re solely basing your opinion on his fangs and what you assume he feels. Should he be condemned immediately for an evil nature, or commended for restraining himself from what he’s capable of? You supposedly came here to—to what, assess whether or not he’s still an abomination because some of your church members make up stories about him? But you’ve done nothing but talk about me and allow your personal feelings to cloud your judgment. Have you even looked at anything Astarion has done besides bite me? What in the nine hells are you even here for if you’ve already made up your mind?”
Eshendra took another few moments—a familiar habit of hers, an attempt to consider what was said before speaking herself, though whether it worked as intended was another matter. The paladin got to her feet and gave Dreya a small, contrite nod. “You have a point. Perhaps my sight would be more clear if Lord Ancunín were not involved with someone dear to me. I know no other way to assess a vampiric creature’s worth in the eyes of the holy but to look at its relationships, at least when it restrains itself from wanton murder. Forgive me, sunflower.” She put her hand on Dreya’s bare shoulder, gripping her lightly. “I… I have no desire to bury you for a second time. In my haste to protect you, I have allowed knowledge of other vampire lords to persuade me that my mission was complete before it began, and I persuaded myself that Lathander allowing me to see Lord Ancunín feeding on you was enough.”
Well. At least it was an apology. The most ironic part was that both Astarion and Eshendra were apparently fixated on protecting her, as if she, a sorceress that led the defeat of the Absolute, was incapable of making her own decisions. At least the threat Astarion was wary of was real, though. Shena’s threat was a man she had no real knowledge of.
Shena held Dreya’s eyes with her own, the silver to green, reading her as deeply as she could. “Sunflower, let me ask you, then, the only one that could know. Is Lord Ancunín actually capable of love? Or is it twisted into obsession?”
It was a hell of a question to ask in front of Astarion, but perhaps the paladin thought it would be her only chance. Dreya didn’t hesitate with her answer. “He is. And if you would count it as obsession instead, I don’t care. He’s the best thing I’ve ever had, whether as a spawn or a lord. Astarion may not be my everything, but he’s the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve chosen to be his, because he needs me to be his. And he’s not what you’re likely picturing—he’s a hedonist, not a sadist. He’s capable of cruelty, of course, everyone is, but he’s never intentionally hurt me.”
The fact was, though, Dreya didn’t think the paladin believed her. Every doctrine about the undead that the drow held dear screamed that Dreya had been charmed or fooled by a clever monster. Of all the worshippers of Lathander to try to persuade, why did it have to be the one so thoroughly sure that undead were all vicious, lying beasts to their very core? There was a difference between the reality of Astarion being manipulative, but having the best intentions for his consort, and Eshendra’s view of a vampire lord crushing her underfoot.
Still, the drow gave her a nod and squeezed her shoulder once more before releasing her grasp. “Very well. My conclusions must wait, but I apologize again for my haste. And to you, Lord Ancunín. My thanks for your hospitality. May Lathander guide your steps.”
Dreya was unconvinced of the paladin’s good will, but she would take the apology and remain hopeful. It would all be fine. She cocked her head slightly. “Shena, I have to ask… what was your plan to assess Astarion’s nature before you arrived and found out who I was? Surely you didn’t expect a vampire to welcome you into his estate.”
“To find and question the others involved in the Absolute Crisis,” she answered promptly, giving Gale a slight nod. “They seemed like the best way to begin understanding the new breed of vampire, since it has yet to slaughter the innocent. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate Mr. Dekarios before he left Waterdeep, though it is a pleasure to meet him here. The rest prove more elusive. Would you—”
The smell of sulfur.
A red portal blazed open next to Gale, spanning five feet wide. Hot wind flooded out, carrying the stench of Avernus, the roars of devilish combatants. This was the portal from the Gondian device, it had to be. Ten seconds and it would close.
Ten seconds.
Wyll ran out of the portal and slammed into Gale, letting out a hoarse gasp of pain as an arrow pierced his tattered leather armor in the joint between his waist and hips. The wizard moved automatically, grabbing the other human and shoving both himself and Wyll over by tipping the chair. Three imps flew out, only narrowly missing Wyll with their swiping claws because of Gale’s maneuver.
Nine seconds.
Before the chair could even fall, Dreya was holding the incantation of Flight in her mind. Before she could cast it, the intent bled through her. Volo non fugia. The incantation never left her lips, but she was levitating over the table, her long sheer skirt fluttering around her legs in the wind. The imps were diving towards Astarion, perhaps thinking he was unarmed.
A spell cast without uttering an incantation… impossible.
Eight seconds.
No time to think. Wyll twisted himself over and flung an orb of infernal metal back through the portal, the motion costing him another tortured cry. Two more arrows flew out, striking the chair. There was movement, a long spike-skinned green arm reaching out. Astarion snatched an imp out of the air and tore its head from its body.
Seven seconds.
Dreya’s feet lit on the edge of the table about three feet back from the portal. Another incantation in her mind, another rush of intent, focus on avoiding any tieflings that might be out of her sight—Karlach had to be there. Adolebitque omnia ut cinis. Lightning sparked from her fingertips without words, arcing into the devil’s arm. Howls and screams rose from the roar of the hells as the white blaze chained into others. Another imp died from Astarion flinging its dead companion’s head into it, crushing its chest and throat.
Six seconds.
The spiked arm lashed out, longer than she’d thought it was, its bony hand snatching her left forearm. Dreya didn’t have time to understand, dissociating from her own scream as acidic pain ate through her skin, its touch burning her. Its claws sliced long, jagged gashes from the crook of her elbow as it yanked her down, dragging her before the massive devil’s eyes. The seven-foot-tall fiend was lanky, reptilian, spiked over much of its form. Its arm and body were burned by her lightning; behind it, other fiends lay dead, smoking holes haphazardly left in their chests and heads. The last imp—Dreya heard it squall, but the portal was between her and Astarion now. And now that she could see through the portal, where was Karlach? Shouldn’t she be with Wyll?
Five seconds.
Dreya felt none of the pain, just focusing on fighting back against the pull trying to take her through the portal. More lightning gathered in her hand, then broke as a stab of the agony made it to her mind. She heard Gale completing an incantation for a globe of invulnerability, felt his arm seize around her waist and try to drag her inside.
Four seconds.
Astarion. He materialized in front of her, his right arm curled back around her, her gripped arm pulled between his and his body. Words she didn’t understand spilled from his mouth, his left hand rising to slice down across the fiend’s chest and arm. A razor-sharp shard of ice far longer than his own arm materialized from nothing. The horrifying, fearful cold of his rage boiled out of him, making the devil shriek and Gale shrink away.
Three seconds.
A slice, but not only from Astarion. The paladin appeared next to them. In the same moment that his ice blade slashed across the devil’s head and body and bicep, Shena’s short sword slashed through the wrist of the hand grasping Dreya, a perfectly precise cut to free her. Astarion’s ice didn’t stop with the mere blade, though; it sprouted further in, freezing the flame-baked rocks of the hells in a broad line.
Two seconds.
Without the devil’s arm attached, Gale yanked Dreya into the globe, half-stumbling as he caught her to keep her from falling on Wyll. The devil didn’t have time to appreciate the power of the lord in front of him before its head split. Astarion kicked it back violently. A single archer peeked up from behind a rock, apparently hiding from the lightning that had poured through.
One second.
An arrow struck Astarion in the chest.
Dreya felt frozen, and not from the chill. She heard herself scream and lunged away from Gale, out of the globe, starting to grab Astarion. If it was a wooden arrow, no no no—
The portal closed.
Astarion snatched up a napkin to yank the grasping severed hand away from Dreya’s forearm, his face cold and serious. The devil’s skin had burned hers badly; her skin bubbled slightly, and Dreya suddenly realized she was whimpering. Her blood leaked from the gashes, spattering on the floor and bleeding over the acidic wound. She didn’t dare look at her own injury yet. Her eyes were fixed on his chest. No—no, the arrow was metal, not wood. It had hit him distressingly close to the heart, but it seemed like he’d barely noticed it compared to the attention he was giving her forearm. Devil’s blood was spread liberally over his clothes and face from the imps, making him leave a few smears of it on her skin when he gingerly grasped her arm. “Darling—”
“Wyll? Wyll! Miss Duskfall, we need a healer!” Gale removed the globe, already kneeling beside the devilish Blade of Avernus.
Wyll grasped Gale’s arm weakly. “Karlach… please…”
Dreya swallowed the pain and dragged herself away from Astarion, ignoring the angry glare he gave her when she did. “Wyll? Where’s Karlach?”
From the sight of the Blade, it couldn’t be good. The arrow he’d taken had been the last wound of many. He lay on his side, laboring to breathe. He clutched a broken sword in his hand, and while he had a quiver, there was no sign of his bow. The leather armor she recognized as a set she’d tossed through her portal a few months ago. It was badly torn across the chest by large claws that had rent through the armor straight to his skin. By some miracle he was alive, but he was bleeding heavily. An acid burn was fresh on the side of his neck, dangerously close to an artery. Short, smaller claw marks raked over his legs in the joints, shallowly cutting him, but who knew what was on those claws?
Eshendra knelt next to him, setting aside her sword and prying Wyll’s broken blade away from him as she whispered a prayer, summoning healing energy to her hands. Wyll hacked up some blood. “Karlach… House of Hope. Please protect…”
Gale grimly looked to the drow, speaking to her quietly. “I’m going to pull out the arrow to lay him on his back, then put pressure on the chest wound until you can stop the bleeding. Ready?”
Wyll’s eyes opened wider, one still with blackened sclera from his patron’s transformative magic, the other still his sending stone. He tried to pull Gale closer, seeming delirious. “No! No, help Karlach! Her heart—she can’t—”
Dreya swore under her breath and quickly crouched by Gale, hiding her arm behind him so Wyll couldn’t see that she was hurt. “Astarion and I will go to the House of Hope right now, Wyll. Rest, let them heal you.”
The transformed devil might have had more to say, but he choked on a scream as Gale ripped the arrow out of the wound. Shena laid her hands on Wyll’s side, channeling the power of her god into staunching the bleeding. “There’s poison in his wounds, I cannot say which. Lay him back, wizard.”
The sorceress got to her feet, pressing her lips together tightly to stifle a whimper down to a low hum. The acid hurt so badly… she had to hurry. Who knew what was happening in the House of Hope? Astarion scooped her up into his arms, careful not to touch her wounded arm, and walked out with her, murmuring for her to lean against him. Behind them, Dreya heard Wyll give a pained sob. “Gods, I killed her, I’ve killed Karlach, I killed her…”
“I can walk,” she protested, trying not to think too hard about what Wyll had just claimed. “We’ve got to get to Helsik’s! She’ll still have her sigils.”
“He’s hallucinating, my love. We’ll go to the House of Hope, but I’m sure Karlach’s fine. That self-righteous ranger would rather cut off his own hand than hurt her.”
Dreya tried to stifle another hiss from her wound throbbing more deeply. Shakily, she held her left arm’s wrist, forcing herself to take a better look at the injury. The devil’s palm and three long fingers left greenish acid on her forearm in their shape, the palm over her inner wrist and the fingers up towards her elbow, its thumbprint behind her wrist. The three fingers had each been tipped with an inches-long claw; they had dug into her, cutting deep gashes. The acid had nearly stopped bubbling, but the burning sensation continued, mostly. The patch from its palm didn’t hurt much except around the edges, but she was fairly certain that meant her skin there had been decimated to the point that she felt nothing. Her blood dripped freely onto her bare abdomen, running down the curve of her stomach onto his expensive top.
No. It didn’t matter. She dropped her voice, just to be sure that no one could hear her but him. “With a sip of your blood and your will, this will heal. We could be on our way in less than a minute. Please.”
Astarion tightened his arms around her knees and back, holding her more firmly as he started up the stairs. “Hold still, pet. You’re not going anywhere until you’re healed, and I don’t want to make your flesh regrow until the acid’s gone. Karlach can wait a few more minutes,” he said sternly. She accidentally nudged the arrow still in his chest, drawing a small grunt from him. His expression was tense, but he managed a tease. “Careful, darling, hurt me too badly and I might give in to my evil nature. Or am I too obsessive to hurt you? I’m not sure, maybe our religious friend can give me some pointers.”
Dreya relented in her attempt to get down, just focusing on holding her trembling arm high enough to not touch the burned parts against herself. If there was anything active left in the acid, it wouldn’t be ideal to have it against more of her bare skin. “Fine. Fine, I’ll have to scrub this off… haven’t fully memorized prestidigitation yet. Not in the bath, though, I don’t want to wash this shit into where we wash ourselves.” They rounded into a hallway, his strides as long and fast as if he were carrying nothing instead of a grown woman. Show-off, she thought grumpily. “And we’ll have to get the arrow out of you. I assume you didn’t want to bleed around her.”
“Who knows what the church of Lathander might do with a sample of my blood? Apparently some of them are overly invested in me.” He half-laughed, picking up his pace. “You were right about the dress, though. It seems you do need to wear armor to greet an old friend. Stop bleeding so much, it’s distracting.”
“I’ll get right on that when you stop smearing imp blood on me.” She measured her breaths still. The burn crawled, feeling like it was still searing. “Your ice—that was new to me. I haven’t seen you fight in a while.”
“Another gift of the night. And you found a new gift too, didn’t you? I seem to recall you having to use incantations for, oh, every spell you’ve ever cast in my presence.” A tiny, self-satisfied smirk had appeared on his face. “You’re welcome. We’ll have to give you a gag, see if it still works.”
It was hard to focus on something but the pain or Karlach, but she knew he was trying to distract her. Fine. “I’ve never heard of anyone being able to cast without an incantation. This magic, your bond between my mind and the spell focus—it can hear me and feel my intent, so I can still cast. That’s my first guess for ‘how.’”
“Don’t thank me, pet, your gratitude might make me become even more obsessed with you.”
That finally got a chuckle from her, even if it was cut off by another short whimper. Fuck, this had to be the worst acid burn she’d gotten. “Fine, thank you. Even if you didn’t know what you were getting me. What about your casting, though? I heard your incantation, but what about a focus?”
“I don’t need one. The Ascendant’s body is strong enough to channel all the powers I’ve gained without a trinket.”
Then Astarion couldn’t be disarmed. He would never be without his strongest weapons unless he could be silenced. It was a comforting thought. Dreya nuzzled against his chest slightly, closing her eyes and trying to focus on relief. He wasn’t in any danger, and she’d known he wasn’t, but she still worried. “We should experiment with our powers, both of us. And, umm—I’m sorry about tonight. Maybe I care about it more than you, but you shouldn’t have had all those things said to your face.”
He scoffed, only narrowly avoiding rolling his eyes. “I don’t care what some zealot has to say about me. For most vampire lords I might even agree with her. Listening to you get so angry about it was quite a delightful show to go with the rothé, though.”
Astarion waved open the door of their room in front of them and hurried her to the bath, finally setting her on her feet. Dreya went to retrieve some soap and a soft rag while Astarion snatched up a basin to fill from the magicked faucets of the large bath inset deeply into the floor. The sight made her laugh inside a little, recalling their early days after the remodel of their first bedroom had given them a very similar bath. He had pretended to seriously consider having servants bathe them instead of doing it themselves, going for a few minutes until Dreya was rendered speechless, unable to figure out another way to explain to him that it seemed awkward to pay someone else to scrub her body. Him finally breaking to laugh at her utter confusion was a sweet memory, one that was like who he used to be, before, well… everything.
His genuine laughter then was a sharp contrast to the pinched tension on his face now. He returned to her and set down a basin of hot water as she finally sat on the tiled floor, looking at the trail of blood drops she’d left behind. “Fuck. He got me worse than the spawn did. What kind of devil was that?”
Astarion snatched the fine, soft cloth from her hand when she moved to wet it, taking it himself. With a quick, impatient motion, he tore the arrow from his chest and tossed it aside carelessly, like it was a clothing ornament that got in his way. “It doesn’t matter what it was.” Ill temper finally took hold in his voice as he tried to gently brush the wet cloth over her shaking forearm, drawing another hiss of pain when he touched the burn. Quickly, he seized the back of her hand, holding her arm still. “Why were you so close to the portal, anyway?”
A fair question; as a sorceress, she really should have been further away, ideally. “I was thinking about getting just close enough to see some creature that I could cast chain lightning on, trying to—fuck, that hurts—stay far enough to the side that I wouldn’t get shot with an arrow, hoping to see if Karlach was coming. And I suppose I—gods, fucking, damn it—was getting a little between Gale and Wyll and whatever was coming out of there. I didn’t think its reach was as far as it was, though.”
“You should’ve stayed much further back! If you weren’t my spawn, this could be a serious injury.”
“But I am a spawn. That’s half the reason I needed to get between the portal and them. I’m not sturdier than them, but I heal better.”
Astarion glared at her, clearly disliking her logic. He rinsed the rag a little in the basin, then went back to gently wiping away the spent acid. “Five minutes, pet. Not two. You’re far too reckless. I have to be sure you’re able to last.”
It took her a few moments to realized he was talking about the fight. Dreya gave a long, slow breath, controlling her urge to yelp while he wiped another patch of the injury clean. “Five’s too long. You’re stronger than other vampire lords, don’t forget that. We’ve got to fix me and go, can we talk about this later?”
“No, it can’t wait!” he snapped, his hold on her hand tightening a bit more. He was visibly frustrated, focusing on the last few broad strokes he needed to clean. In the frustration, though, she thought she saw fear. “Darling, give me this. Seeing you have your arm torn open hasn’t made me more confident that you can withstand whoever tried to take you. But now you’re stronger, too, aren’t you? With your new present you should be able to manage for five minutes. I won’t even know when you’re casting until it’s too late.”
Well… he did have a point there. If she could cast silently, she was far stronger against something trying to stalk her. And with the incantation floating around in the collar’s enchantments that she’d recognized… But was it worth agreeing to a harder fight just for his peace of mind when her loss meant agreeing to lose what freedom she had? Her chest tightened at the thought. There was one awful, pervasive worry she couldn’t shake.
Astarion finished wiping the acid from her wound and tossed away the rag. He started to bite his own wrist, presumably to let her feed without breaking her disguise. She caught his hand with her good one before he could break his skin, struggling to voice what she wanted to say. Her eyes stayed down.
She pulled his hand over her heart, bracing her injured arm against her knee to keep it from trembling. There was still the rasp of a whimper in her voice, mostly from the painful itching sensation of the deep burn. If he wanted to talk now, then they would talk now. “Astarion… listen to me. You broke my trust. If I’m going to entertain this fight at all, potentially give you permission to compel me whenever you want, I need you to promise me something. Promise me, and I’ll believe you.”
Trying to actually say the promise was harder. He wrapped his free hand over hers, his voice eager, urgent. “Anything, my love. Name it, and it’s yours.”
Gods, it hurt to say aloud.
“Promise me that you won’t enslave my mind, Astarion. Even if you compel me, you won’t—you won’t undo me. Making me become someone I’m not, having you lock me away in my own body, unable to disobey, it would—you know it would break me. I don’t think you would do it, I just need to hear you say it.”
There was a conspicuous pause. His hand moved to her chin, turning her eyes up to him. She held her breath, unable to hide her fear that she might’ve gone too far in mentioning what she feared he could do, gone too far to use the word ‘enslave.’ But strangely, he didn’t even look displeased, more like he was on the verge of smiling.
“Is that all, my treasure?” he purred, snatching her uninjured hand to pull it to his lips, kissing her fingers gently. “Easy. I only want to compel you to keep you safe. You, every sweet, angelic, adorably rebellious bit of you, every part that another vampire lord would ruin. I promise—you will always belong to me, but I’ll never treat you like a slave. You’re my beloved consort, not a mere spawn snatched out of the gutter.”
Dreya said she would believe him… and she did. She gave a long breath, managing to relax a little. “Thank you. Then, I’ll give you your five minutes.”
Astarion seemed to relax, just barely, and finally gave his wrist a small bite. He pressed it to her lips, letting her drink as he willed for her wounds to heal. The burn eased almost immediately, the pain drifting away as the skin rapidly rebuilt itself. As he watched her drink him, he nipped at her fingers, teasing her. “Trust me, pet, once we aren’t rushing away to save your friend, I’ll need far longer than five minutes to finish with you. Now put on a decent robe. Wyll’s cryptic little request awaits.”
Drinking Astarion’s blood again after not having it for weeks was heaven, like tasting cold spring water after months of drinking from tepid mud puddles. Maybe the absence had made her grow fonder of it. But once her arm was nearly healed, she reluctantly pulled herself back from his wrist, swiping a drip of blood from her lip. She got to her feet, quickly stripping off the revealing, heavily bloodied dress as she headed for their closet. “I’m surprised you’re not pushing back, Astarion. As I recall, you ignored Wyll completely at Withers’ party. Aren’t you still upset with him?”
The vampire lord followed her, taking off his also-bloodied top as he mused airily, his mood greatly improved by her agreeing to his new terms. “He called me a degenerate on a day that should’ve been nothing but celebration, but that hardly makes him unique. Gale was the only one who managed to congratulate us. At least your paladin will be thrilled to have someone else around that agrees with her.” He huffed, folding the cloth over the edge of a laundry hamper; the servants would have a hellish time trying to clean and mend the intensely rich fabric without ruining it. “… I do still like Karlach, though. I suppose she might be upset if Wyll died. On the way out I’ll tell Zalreus to send for a cleric.”
“Good. Then get ready to charm or threaten a diabolist into opening a portal for us.”
“Do you think Shena would approve of me using my oh-so-horrific powers against someone if they worship fiends?”
“Who gives a fuck.”