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When the darkness that clouded his vision cleared, Malachite was hunched over a creature. A deer. Ribbons of red flowed from multiple wounds throughout the animal’s abdomen, matching the blood stains on his own hands. Malachite closed his eyes and wiped his hands through the grass below him.
“Shit.” he whispered to himself.
His breath caught, eliciting a shake to course through his body from his chest. He counted to ten before forcing himself to look at the deer again.
The poor creature’s eyes were still open, black and glossed over. Every white patch of fur that he could see was stained a deep crimson. Malachite winced when he noticed that its legs were bent at unnatural angles.
At least it wasn’t a person.
The condolence came from the not so twisted part of his brain, but made him wince all the same. At the end of the day, somehow, he was a druid. He cared for nature, for creatures, for the air, for the earth. He knew that faith predated whatever sick compulsion made him break all the animals legs.
Malachite had the feeling that he was never a particularly good one. He may not remember his past, but he was a drow. They weren’t typically considered in tune with nature as far as he knew. He had to have chosen this path later in life, or it chose him.
Malachite stood up on shaky legs and groaned when his head throbbed. All that filled his nostrils was the scent of blood and his stomach twisted in response. He leaned his head back and breathed openly through his mouth, not moving until the world stilled under his feet.
“I’m sorry.”
No, you’re not.
Malachite balled his hands into fists, ignoring the much crueler voice in his head. He looked around the dark forest to orient himself. He didn’t think he was too far away from where his crew had set up camp. Chances of anyone coming out here were slim and someone immediately assuming he was the cause of a dead animal were even slimmer.
He walked over to a patch of grass nearby that was harboring flowers. Well, mostly weeds if he was honest with himself. Dandelions in different stages of bloom and violets were the most notable. He plucked the dandelions that were still yellow and the violets that hadn’t been choked out by the other weed. He brought them over to the dead deer and did his best to arrange them around the corpse.
When he was done, he grimaced down at his creation. It was an attempt for sure, but there was no beautifying a dead, bleeding animal. He knew violets represented peace, at least, so he focused on that. Peace for the creature… peace for himself. Even if he didn’t deserve it after all he had done.
He forced himself to walk away, moving deeper into the forest. His head told him to go back to camp, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to calm himself down. All his companions would be asleep, so he wouldn’t be missed. If he even ever was otherwise.
Malachite walked until he found a clearing with a creek. He fell to his knees before the gentle current, dipping his hands in the water.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he thought as the water washed the remaining blood away. His conscious brain was usually full of apologetic thoughts. Always apologizing for horrendous acts he couldn’t remember doing.
If he could remember, would he still apologize then?
A chill went through his body at the thought. He cupped his hands in the water before bringing them up to his face. He let the water wash over his skin before he leaned his head back, hair falling behind his shoulders. A crunching sound had him snapping his head to the right.
He locked eyes with a familiar vampire. The tension that wrapped itself around Malachite’s torso gave way slightly as he noticed that Astarion’s hair was slightly tousled, his frilly shirt only half done up to reveal some pale skin. He had to have just woken up recently.
Malachite had spent one night with Astarion. They came out to a clearing much like the one they were currently in to… enjoy each other without prying eyes (and ears) from their companions. With everything going on, it was pleasant to have something like that. But, he didn’t know what that was, necessarily, and he didn’t make a habit of questioning or pushing Astarion. It was just whatever Astarion thought it was.
Malachite was the target of many of Astarion’s lovely compliments. Many, but not all. He wasn’t the only one he called darling, he wasn’t the only one Astarion called beautiful. Was he the only one of their current group to see him naked? Maybe, but he knew that wasn’t a thing of utmost importance to the elf.
Again, Malachite did not push.
“Why are you awake? It’s late.” Malachite found he couldn’t raise his voice to comfortably travel the distance between them. He attempted to quietly clear his throat.
He had a sudden pang of anxiety swell in his chest that maybe Astarion was here because he could smell the blood. Astarion being the one to catch him in the act would be the best case scenario if someone had to catch him. Astarion killed animals all the time to feed, or at least he did before Malachite started offering him his neck. However, the shame he felt around every indecent killing was all consuming while it was still fresh. He’d rather not go into it even if it was just a deer, darling.
“I’m always awake now. You, on the other hand, not so much. This is when I usually come over to you for a snack.” Astarion said and Malachite breathed out through his nose, looking away from him. Of course.
“You’re one of those people who can sleep through anything.” Astarion continued, having made his way over to him. He sat next to him, putting his hands in the water in front of them.
If Malachite was honest with himself, he enjoyed being awake when Astarion drank from him. He did sleep through most of the times Astarion bit him, but sometimes he felt him approaching. He would feel Astarion crawl over him, knees either side of his thighs, one hand finding its way under Malachite’s jaw. Then there was the cold, piercing pain in his neck from Astarion’s fangs. The kind of pain he had trained himself to be quiet during. His breath always kept steady, Astarion always thought he was asleep.
Astarion would linger and lick over the puncture wounds until they stopped bleeding. Sometimes he would hum in approval, sometimes he would kiss his neck goodbye, and rarely he would whisper,
“Thank you.”
Malachite would never let him know.
Malachite moved his white and purple hair off of his shoulder and tilted his neck for Astarion. “I wish I could sleep through anything.” he lied, “Have at it.”
Astarion huffed beside him. “I didn’t come all the way out here to bite you, darling. Even if this is one of my favorite positions to find you in…” Malachite silently panicked, feeling sweat tingle down his back. Was he out here because of the deer, then?
“I came to see if you were alright.”
Malachite pursed his lips, righting his neck. “Right…” he breathed, bending his knees to bring them up to his chest.
Astarion cared about everyone in camp when they were useful to him. Not randomly and not out of the goodness of his heart. Malachite didn’t hold that opinion maliciously. The small nuggets of information Astarion had allowed himself to tell him about his life before the tadpole was enough for Malachite to know that kindness had been something beaten out of him. Or, at least, attempted to have been.
“I… didn’t leave camp to do some unspeakable horror while everyone was asleep.” Malachite lied through his teeth, “For once. So, go back to camp and go to sleep.”
“Even if you had, you know I’m the one who doesn’t mind.”
Yes, I know, he thought. Astarion wouldn’t even consider what he did tonight to be a horror, if he was honest.
“God, forgive a man for having hobbies. Am I right?”
Malachite rolled his eyes, hearing the slight smirk in Astarion’s voice. The corner of his own mouth twitched up. Slightly.
The silence stretched between them for a while after that. Malachite looked to the forest beyond the creek in front of them. The clearing continued on for a while, a mossy log disrupting most of it. Malachite focused on the ambient sound of nature around them as he tried to force the memory of the deer out of his mind. The crickets were chirping and there was a gentle breeze blowing through the leaves of the trees.
Unfortunately, what happened to the deer was not the worst of what Malachite had done over the past couple… days? Weeks? Time was hard to keep track of when he was blacking out. Forcing the image of the bloody deer out of his mind just made room for his other atrocities.
Malachite breathed out shakily. At least Astarion was here to stop him from having a meltdown. Hopefully.
“I don’t think I’m alright.” He allowed himself to break the silence, “I’m losing control. I’ve lost myself. Everything I do… it’s wrong.”
Malachite felt Astarion’s eyes on him and he forced himself to hide a scowl. Opening up to Astarion was probably a mistake. Astarion might care about him, sometimes, but Malachite knew deep down that he just wanted something from him. And what he wanted wasn’t the affection Malachite found himself wanting to give him.
No, what Astarion wanted was more selfish than that. Malachite knew he would give it to him anyway. Whatever it was.
Malachite slid back so he could lay in the grass without getting his legs in the water. He looked up at the stars above them, hearing Astarion sigh beside him.
Astarion leaned back slightly, but stayed upright for the most part. He looked down at Malachite from above. Malachite kept his mouth shut when Astarion’s hand found its way to his hip.
Yes, he and Astarion had slept together. And, yes, Astarion drank from his neck almost every night. Outside of those moments, however, Astarion kept his hands to himself. He didn’t kiss him, he didn’t reach out for him. Malachite didn’t ask and didn’t try either.
Astarion had his own problems. He wasn’t going to add himself to them by throwing himself at him.
He moved his gaze from the sky to Astarion. His curls fell gently towards his face which held no typical smirk, nor typical scowl. He was just looking down at him, red eyes meeting his own heterochromatic ones.
The only thing he could read on Astarion’s face was tiredness. He had gray bags under his eyes and gentle lines etched into his skin near his nose to down around his mouth. His eyes trailed down his face to the bite marks on his neck. He didn’t linger there long before returning his gaze to his face.
Astarion couldn’t see himself. He had made it a point several times and Malachite had tried to explain his appearance to him on different occasions. That just made the vampire tut and tell him, “I’m looking for compliments, not poetry. Just tell me I’m beautiful and call it a day.”
“I think you’re doing well considering the circumstances.” Astarion stole him from his thoughts with a squeeze of his hip, “You’ve done a lot of nauseatingly good deeds that no one would consider wrong besides me.” his thumb gently rubbed against his skin, “And maybe Lae’zel, she does have a bloodthirst…”
Malachite breathed out, closing his eyes. Astarion wasn’t someone anyone would go to for comfort. Malachite accepted his attention, though. As he always would.
“Alfira. That damned squirrel. Minthara.” He found himself listing off his crimes. He pointedly kept the deer off the list. Astarion didn’t need to know. Not yet.
“Um, no, no.” Astarion sounded a bit miffed above him, “I don’t think Minthara fits in that list. She was going to lead a raid against that damn grove.”
Minthara was the first drow he encountered since the Nautiloid. He had no idea how long it had been since he had last been amongst his own. The feeling in his gut told him it had been a long, long time…
Which was why Malachite let Minthara tell him about her plans. To destroy the grove that was giving a group of tieflings refuge, albeit unwillingly. She wanted to find the artifact, the one in Shadowheart’s very possession. The one that stopped them from becoming mindflayers.
At least, for now.
He had agreed to help her find it despite already knowing the location. He had felt the burning stares of Karlach and Wyll on his back. When Minthara turned around, Malachite brought the blunt end of his weapon down hard against her head. And she collapsed.
It wasn’t a bad move for a jaluk.
“And the squirrel? They’re overpopulating this damn place. Disgusting vermin.” Astarion scoffed.
Remembering the squirrel that he had kicked the life out of at the grove reminded him of his most recent animal kill. He opened his eyes slightly to look at Astarion. He had to cut him off before he got to Alfira. He still wasn’t ready to talk more about that. She was returning to the earth and he didn’t have the guts to live through the why of it again.
“I’m going to be fighting against myself for my whole life. However much longer that is.” Malachite began, “One day I’m going to black out and get myself killed. Or, kill the wrong person and be… burned at the stake or something by our friends.”
Karlach, Wyll, and Gale in particular were the ones that were different towards Malachite after Alfira. He was surprised they didn’t kick him out right then and there. But, there was safety in numbers. Even if one of those numbers was decidedly unsafe to be around.
“We won’t be burning you at the stake. They’d much rather take one and drive it through my heart anyway…” Malachite opened his eyes to find Astarion grimacing, shaking his head.
Astarion took that moment to lay down completely besides Malachite. Malachite breathed out slowly when he felt Astarion’s hand sliding over his stomach to his other hip. He found himself grabbing it before his touch could leave him completely.
He felt Astarion’s hand tense under his own, but the vampire didn’t fight against him. Malachite turned onto his side, moving his other hand to clasp around the back of Astarion’s hand. He held their hands to his chest, locking eyes with him.
“Promise me that if I do something that even you find morally reprehensible that you’ll drive that stake they want to use against you through my heart instead.”
If Malachite had to die, he thought it would be best if Astarion was the one to do it. It would send a message to the group that Malachite was truly too dangerous to keep. Being murdered by someone closer to him than anyone else would be appropriate. It would be what he deserved.
“If you do something that I find ‘morally reprehensible’ wouldn’t that just be the right thing to do?” Astarion whispered back at him, something in his voice dying at the end of his sentence.
Malachite didn’t respond and just held his gaze. If Astarion wanted he could dress him up the way Malachite tried to with that deer. Cover him in flowers and let him return to the earth. Violets amongst the mysterious purple streaks in his hair as he decayed…
Astarion’s hand finding its way into his hair stopped the darkness from encroaching Malachite’s vision. He breathed out shakily, finding Astarion’s red eyes staring into his own.
“I do not humor my friends’ suicide wishes.”
Malachite felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him, his grip on Astarion’s hand softening. He never felt himself slipping when he was thinking of his own death before. If he had faded away then, what would he have done?
Malachite felt Astarion pull his hand back and he expected for him to sit up, to leave him, but he wrapped his arm around Malachite’s shoulders and pulled him closer instead. He felt Astarion’s face meet his shoulder, his one hand still curled in his hair.
“I am on your side.” Astarion whispered against his shoulder.
Malachite closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He found himself wrapping an arm around Astarion, his hand finding a place to rest heavily against the middle of his back. He felt Astarion’s scars underneath his shirt and let them remind him that he wasn’t the only one being haunted. He pulled him closer.
“And I’m on yours.”
Too soon, Astarion pulled away.
“It’s settled then. We have each other.” Astarion got up, extending his hand to Malachite, “I like our odds.”
Malachite looked at his hand before finding it within himself to slide his hand into Astarion’s. He took a shaky breath, feeling the sweat drying on his face.
But, he smiled.