Chapter Text
Something was killing Ciaran’s sheep.
No farmer in the Dales would ever pray for wolves, yet as he stood in the pale light of morning, Ciaran found himself whispering for just that mercy. One of his flock lay still in the dew-soaked grass, its white fleece dulled and heavy, as though the earth itself were already claiming it. But when he turned the poor beast, he did not find a torn throat or ragged wounds. Instead, there were two small punctures, scarcely an inch apart.
At the sight of them, cold fear clenched his heart.
Fear had always been an old companion to the half-elf. It might surprise anyone who had heard the tales whispered about him - of Baldur’s Gate saved from a mind flayer invasion nearly a decade past - but Ciaran had never been brave. What others called heroism had been, for him, little more than a frantic effort to preserve his own skin, to cling to the fragile scrap of life he still dared to claim as his own. The life that he owed to the Raven Queen.
Shadowmagic coursed through his veins, and perhaps that was why he had been so foolishly drawn to the white-haired vampire spawn. He was, after all, only a few steps removed from undeath himself. He had understood the pale elf’s hungers. His fears. He had recognized himself too clearly in that desperate wish to never be afraid again. And when the moment came, the shadowsorcerer had helped the vampire spawn commit an unspeakable act; to ascend beyond fear entirely.
Ciaran learned too late what followed when fear was stripped away. Those who have nothing left to fear often find pleasure in becoming fear itself. It was a truth he could understand, but never share.
He had convinced the vampire ascendant to grant him one small mercy: the chance to say farewell to his brittle, mortal life, to make peace with abandoning his goddess and embracing the darkness waiting to claim him. But when the Netherbrain fell, and smoke settled over Baldur’s Gate, Ciaran fled before that peace could be made. Amid the celebrations, he slipped away with what little he could carry.
The city rejoiced, unaware that they would never be safe again come nightfall.
He ran until his feet bled, and then ran farther still. When the pain finally broke through the haze of flight, panic followed close behind: the fear that he was leaving a trail no river or rain could truly erase, one that a creature with a hunger for blood might follow for miles. He had been terrified of accidentally bringing the monster near either side of his family, so he didn't seek refuge at his elven mother's cloister, where he grew up, or at his Vistana father's troop, whom he'd been traveling with before getting abducted by the mind flayers. He prayed to the Matron to guide his steps, but no ravens crossed the sky to mark his path. He took their absence as judgment, as abandonment. He crossed rivers and streams whenever he could, letting the cold bite his skin raw. He accepted shelter wherever it was offered and begged his hosts to bar their doors to anyone who could not enter uninvited. He traveled only beneath the sun and forced himself to remain alert through the long, listening nights. None of it would keep him safe from the monster he had helped create, and he knew that well enough, but the pretense of caution was better than admitting there was nowhere left to hide. Without even the comfort of a lie, he would have lost his mind entirely.
In time, his wandering carried him to the Dalelands. There, in Battledale, he found an old farm by the river and called it home. The roof sagged, and the timbers bore the rot of years, but he had a deed - three hundred gold pieces paid and recorded - to prove that the place belonged to him. That it was his to open to others, or to keep closed.
Few came in those first years. The folk of the Dales were cautious, slow to trust, and content to keep their distance. It suited Ciaran well enough. He inherited a small flock of sheep with the land, and they proved quieter company than most.
Even the hounds of ill omen, it turned out, made for capable sheepdogs.
In time, the half-elf became a familiar sight throughout the Dalelands, trading mutton and wool for grain and jars of pickled vegetables. Tinted lenses concealed the blackened sclera and pale irises of his eyes, and if the good folk of the Dales happened to glimpse something amiss through the fall of his long dark hair, they chose - politely and wisely - to mind their own business. And if he flinched whenever one of the older women called him darling, they elected not to remark on that either.
And now something was killing his sheep.
In theory, Ciaran had until sundown to decide what to do. He could run again. But he would not get far if leeches were already lurking beyond the treeline. And if the thing responsible were him, then even daylight would offer little protection. Perhaps it was only a stray. A wayward spawn that had fled its maker and learned to hunt poorly. It would not be the first such creature Ciaran had encountered, nor the first time he had tried to convince himself of a gentler answer.
As the sun dipped low, he herded the flock into the barn with Nimbus’s help. The shadowhound moved among the sheep with quiet precision, swift as her namesake, ensuring none were left behind. The animals bleated and shifted, resentful at being denied the cool grass of a summer night, but Ciaran had no intention of offering any more of them up as meals. One black sheep broke free, and he guided it back with his crook, his hands steady despite the knot of fear coiling in his chest. With the gate barred and the barn doors locked, he retreated to the farmhouse and set about the careful fiction of an ordinary evening. He ate his supper, fed the scraps to Nimbus, then poured himself a glass of Mermaid Whisky - an indulgence brought inland by a coastal caravan - and took his seat facing the door, where he could see it without turning his head.
The sun had been gone for some time, and the tumbler in his hand was nearly empty, when the knock came. Nimbus growled low in her throat, hackles lifting, but Ciaran raised a hand to still her. He set the glass aside and rose, every step measured as he crossed the room. The bolt slid back with a soft scrape. The door creaked open. Candlelight spilled across the porch, revealing the figure standing there.
Wavy white hair caught the glow, and Ciaran’s heart stumbled painfully in his chest. Then he noticed the ears beneath the pale locks - rounded. Human.
“Ah! Sorry to bother you so late, sir,” the young man said, offering a bashful, close-lipped smile.
“That’s alright,” Ciaran murmured, though his eyes never left the darkness behind the stranger. “But what brings you wandering so far from the road at this hour, lad? Are you racing to meet the Queen of Ravens? You know there are wolves about. Lost a sheep to one just last night.”
The fair-haired man frowned, only a slight twitch of his brow, before his eyes widened. In the low light, they might have been red or merely a muddy, reddish brown. It was hard to tell.
“Well… that’s unfortunately why I’m here, sir,” he said. “My horse was spooked by those mutts while I was traveling. Threw me clean off and bolted. They chased after the beast instead of me, and I’ve been walking for hours, hoping to find some shelter.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ll pay you for letting me stay the night, once I find my saddlebag.”
“No need for that,” Ciaran replied, easing the door open a fraction more and stepping aside. Not quite an invitation. “Wouldn’t want you to end up as dogfood.”
It was simply true. Behind him, Nimbus let out a low, resonant growl, the sound of something that already knew how this might end. Ciaran found himself dwelling, unhelpfully, on how much he disliked the way people screamed when he let her feed.
The man on the porch shifted his weight, heel to toe, then back again. He did not cross the threshold.
“Does that mean I can come in?” he asked. Perhaps he was only being polite.
“Would you rather stay out with the wolves?” Ciaran asked, moving farther from the doorway, leaving it open and empty between them. Any other person would have taken the silent invitation without a second thought.
The man stepped forward.
And stopped.
It was not a stumble, nor hesitation, but a sudden, absolute halt, as though he had struck an invisible wall. The air itself seemed to resist him, the threshold holding fast.
“I thought so,” Ciaran murmured. The pleasant, bashful mask tore away. The man’s face twisted with naked rage and hunger, civility collapsing into something feral. His hand snapped out, fingers clawing for Ciaran’s throat, only to be caught short again, halted by the same invisible force.
Ciaran didn’t flinch. He took a small, private pride in that.
“Tell me this now,” he said, tilting his head, voice mild as if discussing the weather. “Were you only out lookin’ for a bite? Or is there some other reason you’ve decided to make a fool of yourself at my doorstep?”
The spawn hissed, a sharp, venomous sound that made the hairs on Ciaran’s neck prickle.
“You’ve been summoned by Master Ancunín, shepherd,” it sneered. “If you know what’s best for you, don’t keep him waitin’.”
Cold fingers of fear clenched at Ciaran’s chest, but he gave no sign beyond a slow, deliberate click of his tongue.
“Impatient bastard,” he muttered. “He can wait a bit longer, so. Now get off my porch.”
The spawn’s face twisted in indignation, fangs bared like knives glinting in the candlelight. It opened its mouth to speak again, but Ciaran’s hand was already raised.
“Nimbus,” he said calmly. “Sick ’im.”
The shadowhound sprang through the doorway with a bark that tore the night in two, leaping at the spawn. It yelped, scrambling backward across the porch as her jaws snapped just inches from its throat.
The saying was “don’t shoot the messenger”, not “don’t send him back with bite marks on his heels”. Served him right for creeping about and feeding on Ciaran’s flock.
The half-elf closed the door behind him. Nimbus would chase off the spawn, then patrol the fields through the night. If it somehow bested her, he’d simply summon her again come morning. With numb fingers, he seized the bottle of Mermaid Whisky and drained a swig straight from it before collapsing into his worn armchair. He had found him. After nearly eight years, the vampire ascendant had come for him.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up and tore through Ciaran’s throat, quickly breaking into body-wracking sobs. Flashes of soft, red eyes and cold, gentle hands tore through his mind. Flashes of whispered confessions, of fear shared and love dared and desire promised. Promises that he would be his, entirely and forever.
Ciaran had kept that promise. Not a man nor woman had touched him in all these years. Every time he allowed himself the faintest thought of warmth, of intimacy, of closeness, it felt as though the very air was watching him. Dread, sorrow, and longing clung to him, and in the end, he had always abandoned the thought.
“Mother,” he choked, clutching the ravenskull pendant bound at his throat with black leather. “Do not make me face this alone. I beg you.”
Ciaran cried himself to sleep, the whisky-soaked haze of exhaustion tugging him under, and woke only when the pale, hesitant rays of morning sunlight slipped through the windows and touched his eyelids.
—
They were watching him. Just beyond the treeline, in the thick shadows. More than the white-haired one, Ciaran realized. He had seen another snatch a sheep that wandered too close to the shade, gone in a blink.
At night, one had come knocking at his door. Ciaran hadn’t bothered to open it.
“I apologise for my brother’s rudeness,” a soft, melodic feminine voice had called from the darkness beyond the threshold. “We only wish to bring you to the Master. It’s for your own safety.”
“Get off my porch,” Ciaran had snapped. “And stop eating my damn sheep!”
Even as he tended his flock beneath the summer sun, his mind spun with escape plans. He could cross the river by dawn and have sixteen hours of sunlight to put distance between himself and them. But that would only keep the spawn off his coattails. No, if he had decided to come for him, there'd be no running. So instead, Ciaran pretended at normalcy, savouring every moment the sunlight fell on his face.
One dewy, cold morning, Ciaran went to the barn, grass clinging wet to his boots. He opened the door and let the pale light spill in to awaken his flock. But there was no bleating, no rustle of movement. The sheep were unnervingly still, and the silence made the hairs on his neck prickle.
And then he saw him.
Amid the white wool, a figure sat, locks of wavy white hair catching the sunlight, skin pale as polished ivory. Cradled in his arms was a small lamb, born late in the summer, sleeping in blissful ignorance of the predator holding her. He rose slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace. The sight could have belonged in a stained-glass window of celestial saints, the kind Ciaran had glimpsed at the Church of Lathander during spring celebrations.
And then the eyes caught him. Red, gleaming, unflinching. Ciaran froze, as if he were the one bound by the invisible law of invitation.
“There you are,” Astarion said, his voice honeyed silk with a hidden edge. That smile - slow, knowing, and teasing - curved his lips, pulling Ciaran’s chest tight. “Hello, darling.”
Ciaran’s breath caught. Every nerve screamed to run, yet he remained rooted. It was unwise to turn your back on a predator.
Astarion stepped closer, still cradling the lamb as if it were the most delicate treasure in the world, yet every movement radiated power and threat. He stopped at the chest-high fence, his gaze sweeping over the barn, and then back to Ciaran.
“What a quaint little refuge you’ve found,” he murmured, voice soft, playful, but threaded with something darker. “Rustic charm… though far from anywhere, which suits you perfectly. You always did like to hide, didn’t you?”
The shadows in Ciaran’s blood coiled tighter, chilling what little warmth he had left.
“Don’t… hurt her,” he managed, voice trembling, tight with fear and something more, something he dared not name.
Astarion tilted his head, mock innocence lighting his features, the picture of mischief and menace entwined.
“Who, darling?” he purred, voice sweet as poison. “Someone I’ve overlooked? Someone sharing your bed? Come now, show me. We can all have a very… pleasurable little conversation.”
Ciaran shook his head, finger trembling as he pointed to the lamb in Astarion’s arms. He might have once considered butchering the young ones himself, yet the thought of Astarion - this Astarion - hurting one of them made his stomach twist with helpless dread.
The vampire’s gaze flicked from the lamb to Ciaran, and then, without warning, he threw his head back and laughed, a high, shrill cackle that scraped against the quiet of the morning, sharp enough to make the lamb startle awake. The creature struggled, and with a casual flick, Astarion set her down. She bounded immediately into the flock.
Ciaran blinked.
And suddenly, Astarion was in front of him.
Startled, he stumbled backward, and Astarion’s hand caught him by the small of his back, steady and unyielding. Ciaran could feel its chill seep through the fabric of his shirt immediately. A sound reached the half-elf's ears, faint at first, but gaining volume as he focused on it. A cacophony of screams and cries, layered and endless, tearing through his skull. He clapped his hands over his ears as the sound grew unbearable, raw and pleading, as though something ancient and damned were crying out all around them.
“What- what is that noise?” he gasped, the screams almost deafening him now. Astarion tilted his head.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said lightly, almost amused. How could he not hear it? The screams were everywhere, inside him, around him, through him. Ciaran folded into Astarion’s shoulder like a child seeking refuge, hands pressed tight to his ears, but it did nothing. The sound only worsened.
Astarion watched him for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he reached out and pried one of Ciaran’s hands away from his skull, fingers firm, inescapable.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, my sweet,” he murmured, low and intimate, his chilled body pressing close. “Be a good boy and come along.”
His breath brushed Ciaran’s ear, carrying no warmth at all.
“I have work for you.”
Ciaran’s hands trembled. His heart galloped so hard it seemed intent on tearing its way free. The only coherent thought he managed was a futile, aching hope that somehow his flock would break their pen and flee as well. That something, at least, might escape.
“Et alibi!”
Shadowmagic snapped tight around him, and the world folded. In a blink, he vanished from the vampire’s grasp, Misty Step flinging him thirty feet away in a wash of cold darkness. The moment his feet hit the ground, he ran.
Not as though death were chasing him.
But because something far worse was.
He tore toward the river, lungs burning, legs screaming, but the path betrayed him, carrying him beneath the long, reaching shadows of the forest. The light fractured there, broken into strips and stains. He could hear them approaching: footsteps rushing him, too fast, too light, darting from shadow to shadow. Two shapes slipped into his peripheral vision, pale and swift. He shaped power between his hands, a roiling, unstable mass that vibrated with barely contained violence.
“Imbris Chaos!”
The spell splintered as he hurled it, twin bolts screaming through the air. One struck true, ice exploded across a spawn’s body, freezing flesh and splitting skin in jagged, crystalline wounds. The other dodged aside at the last second, and the bolt detonated against a tree in a corrosive burst of acid, bark hissing as it dissolved. Ciaran tore Nimbus from the shadows, the hound immediately falling into step and covering his side. She growled and lunged at a spawn that was gaining on him, tackling it to the ground. Ciaran heard it hiss and scream, but he did not stop to watch the struggle.
Then something slammed into him.
He hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs. They rolled, dirt and leaves smearing his vision, and through the chaos, he caught a flash of white hair and bared fangs. Panic sharpened into instinct. His hands managed to form the somatics.
“Detono!” The Thunderwave exploded outward, and the force hurled his attacker into a tree with a splintering crack. The scream that followed was sharp and wet, and Ciaran could see now that it was the white-haired spawn, not Astarion, who had tackled him. A branch had staked it through the torso during the impact, not through the heart, but keeping it from moving away from the ray of sunshine that fell on its face. The spawn shrieked, a high, agonized sound, as its skin blistered and caught, smoke curling from burning flesh.
Ciaran scrambled to his knees.
And hands seized him from behind.
He was wrenched backward, slammed flat against the forest floor, arms pinned above his head. He fought wildly, tried to Misty Step again, but a cold, merciless hand clamped over his mouth, stealing the words from him.
“Jack!” That same soft, feminine voice he had heard beyond his door shouted in a panicked tone. “Sister, hurry up! Jack is burning!” Ciaran thrashed harder, his shouts reduced to muffled gasps beneath the icy grip.
“Call off your damn mutt, sorcerer!” the feminine voice hissed close to his ear. Her nails pressed into his cheek, and Ciaran attempted to bite her, but she held his jaw in a punishing grip.
“Master, hurry! You have to-”
“In a moment, dear,” Astarion’s voice rang out, sudden and absolute, and Ciaran redoubled his struggle, terror lending him desperate strength. “Keep holding him for me.”
White hair entered his vision as Astarion knelt beside him, one knee sinking into the earth, red eyes alight with furious possession. He looked down at Ciaran as though inspecting something broken and beloved in equal measure. The echo of screams rose again at the edges of Ciaran’s mind, but his own heart was louder now, pounding so hard it drowned them out.
“Shhh, darling,” he murmured, trailing a cold finger along the sorcerer’s cheek, intimate and merciless. “I admire the effort. Truly. But if you try that again…”
His smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful.
“I will go to that little square where you sell your wool and mutton, and I will drink every soul there dry. I will turn them, and I will make sure they know exactly who inspired me.”
He heard a loud yelp and felt his tether to Nimbus snap. The screaming stopped. The forest seemed to still completely. So did Ciaran.
“Good boy,” Astarion smiled approvingly. Another spawn approached. She was a big tiefling, reminding the sorcerer a lot of his late fiery companion, and she was covered in dirt and canine bitemarks. At least Nimbus hadn't gone down without a fight.
“Now, the four of you behave while I go fetch the carriage and-”
“Three,” the spawn pining Ciaran’s arms to the ground corrected quietly. Astarion lifted an elegant brow, his expression calm and cold.
“I beg your finest pardon, Kristen?”
The grip on Ciaran’s wrists tightened. Bones ground together and pain lanced through his arms, but his whimper was stifled beneath the cold hand pressed over his mouth.
“The sorcerer murdered Jack!” Kristen said, her voice cracking with outrage. Ciaran couldn't see her face clearly, a curtain of dark brown hair covering her sideprofile, but he followed the direction of her gaze. Sure enough, where the white-haired spawn had been impaled on the branch was now only a pile of ash drifting faintly in the sunlight. “He should pay!”
Astarion hummed, entirely unbothered by this outcome.
“As I said, you three behave while I get the carriage. If our little shadow sorcerer here tries to disappear again, break his leg. If you let him get away or otherwise hurt him unnecessarily, I will flay you.” He paused, waiting for the order to sink in. “And look at me, Kristen. Getting revenge over your good-for-nothing boy toy is not a necessity. Am I clear?”
The iron grip on Ciaran’s wrists finally eased a bit.
“Yes, Master Ancunín.”
Ciaran let his head fall back, limp, his gaze drifting up into the shaded canopy as Astarion disappeared from sight. His thoughts raced uselessly, but he could feel the fight bleed out of him all the same, draining away with each shallow breath. Radiance might have given him an edge against his two undead wardens, but the shadows in his blood had never tolerated that kind of magic. They recoiled from it, stubborn and uncooperative.
“We could just tell the Master he tried to run,” Kristen offered. The suggestion landed lightly, almost casually.
“Sister,” the tiefling spawn replied, her tone flat with disinterest. “You know what he’ll do when he realizes you lied. It isn’t worth it.”
“Oh, so Jack isn’t worth it?!” Kristen snapped, outrage surging back into her voice. The grip on Ciaran’s wrists tightened in reflex, sharp enough to drag tears from his eyes.
The pain lit something fierce in him. If he could reach the sun, they wouldn’t follow. They couldn’t. He reached inward, seized the shadows in his blood, and forced them to obey, no gestures, no words, only raw will and desperation.
The world folded.
He reappeared thirty feet away, staggering into a clearing flooded with the warmth of morning sunlight.
And then he screamed.
Something struck his leg with brutal force. Bone shattered with a wet, sickening crack as a stone tore through the air and crushed his shin. He collapsed to the ground at once, pain white-hot and absolute.
“Hey!” Kristen’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears, petulant and sharp. “Damn it, Silvia! I wanted to do that!”
Through the blur of tears, Ciaran watched the two of them approach the edge of the clearing, stopping before the shadows thinned and failed. Their red eyes gleamed from the dark, predatory and unblinking.
“He could still teleport away,” Kristen said. “Let me break the other leg. Then even if he does, he won’t get far.”
“Come over here and do it, you bitch!” Ciaran snarled through gritted teeth. “Let's see if you fare better in the sun than your boyfriend!”
He could see her clearly now. She was the one he had hit with the ice Chaos Bolt. She was a half-elf, lovely in the way poisonous flowers were lovely, bright and dangerous all at once. Hatred filled her eyes, bright and bottomless. Ciaran braced himself for the second blow, but it never came. They only watched silently as he curled inward, clutching his shattered leg, pain pulsing through him in nauseating waves. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until at last it was broken by the slow rhythm of hoofbeats. A large carriage emerged from the trees, drawn by two white horses, its wheels crunching softly over leaf litter and stone.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Astarion sighed, leaping lightly from the driver’s seat. “Does nobody ever listen to me?” He stepped into the sunlight without hesitation and knelt beside Ciaran once more.
“Well… one of you did,” Astarion remarked mildly. “Good shot.”
The sorcerer yelped, a fresh cry joining the unseen chorus that clung to the vampire, as cold fingers sized his leg.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ciaran hissed, then gasped as Astarion drew his trouser leg aside. Astarion inhaled sharply through his fangs at the sight of the shattered, grotesquely swollen shin.
“Come now, darling,” he murmured. “Up you get.”
He hooked Ciaran’s arm over his shoulder and hauled him upright, ignoring the sharp, ragged cries torn from the half-elf’s throat.
“I believe,” Astarion continued pleasantly. “We have an entire town square to add to our little undead family.”
Ciaran’s heart dropped.
“N‑no,” he choked, dragging uselessly as Astarion pulled him toward the waiting carriage. “You can’t-”
“Oh, but I can. And I will,” Astarion hummed while he lifted him into the carriage. The interior swallowed them at once. Heavy velvet curtains smothered the light, sealing them in a dim, airless hush. The seats were upholstered in fabric the color of old blood, dark and lustrous, drinking in what little illumination remained.
“Actions have consequences, my dear,” Astarion said, settling in. “You won’t learn a thing if I let you off gently.”
“Astarion, please!” Ciaran begged, his voice splintering as the vampire lifted his broken leg with careful precision and propped it atop a cushion, arranging him as one might a favored ornament.“They haven’t done anything! Please, I'll be good, I'll do whatever you want!”
The pale elf studied him in silence.
“Would you let me turn you?” he asked at last, softly.
Ciaran’s heart stuttered. His throat closed entirely. No sound would come. He stared at Astarion, desperate, searching the red of his eyes for even a sliver of the man he had once loved.
“Please,” he managed to whisper. “Anything but that.”
“Oh, come now, my sweet,” Astarion said lightly. “I’ve even chosen a beautiful place to bury you. The ground is soft this time of year, far more forgiving than when I had to claw my own way out.”
Ciaran began to shake, full‑body tremors he could not control. Astarion ran a hand down his side, the gesture practiced, almost tender. It did nothing to soothe him.
“Oh, the look on your face is priceless, darling,” the vampire chuckled. “Very well. How about this instead?”
He leaned in, voice lowering.
“You let me drink from you, whenever I please. You behave. You remain a good boy, as obedient as any of my spawn, and you do not cause trouble while we travel. And in return, I will leave your little Dale‑folk untouched.”
“Please,” Ciaran breathed, terror knotting his chest. He could not tell whether the offer was mercy or mockery.
Astarion’s smile revealed the faint glint of fang in the low light.
“What do we say?” he hummed, sing-song sweet. Ciaran stared at him blankly for a heartbeat too long. Patiently, almost indulgently, Astarion shaped the words with his lips, exaggerating each syllable.
“....Thank you,” Ciaran whispered.
Astarion’s smile widened.
“Delightful,” he said. “Turning that many people would have been terribly tedious. A dreadful waste of time, really.”
Something cold settled in Ciaran’s gut. The threat, perhaps, had never been meant to be carried out. Perhaps it had only ever been a leash, slipped neatly around his throat. He did not dare test the thought.
Astarion rose and leaned out of the carriage door. “Keep watch, ladies. Give us a moment of privacy, no interruptions.”
A murmured chorus of yes, Master Ancunín answered him. The door shut, and with it the world, light and sound smothered beneath velvet and wood. Ciaran pressed back instinctively, spine meeting the wall. His broken leg screamed at the shift, but the pain barely registered over the way Astarion watched him now, intent, possessive, and hungry.
“Right now?” Ciaran asked, voice barely more than a breath.
Astarion’s gaze flicked to his throat.
“Whenever I please,” he said quietly. “You agreed to that.” His tongue traced one fang, unashamed. “And I have wanted you like this again for a very, very long time.”
He moved closer, slow enough that Ciaran could have stopped him. When the half-elf made no move beyond white-knuckling the seat beneath himself, the vampire smiled.
“You know,” Astarion purred as he swung a leg over Ciaran’s thighs and settled into his lap with deliberate care, fitting their bodies together with intimate familiarity, as though no time had passed at all. “In the beginning, I could never tell if you were frightened… or excited.”
Ciaran’s breath hitched. The distant echoes of screaming crept back into his mind, a rising tide, and he clung desperately to the sensation of Astarion’s weight, the press of his thighs, the touch of his hands, anything solid enough to anchor him.
“Your heartbeat always sounded so steady to me.”
He brushed a stray lock of hair behind the sorcerer’s pointed ear, fingers lingering longer than required, the contact both gentle and claiming.
“That was before I realized,” he murmured, hand sliding down to cup the center of Ciaran’s chest, palm pressing firmly against the frantic thrum of his heart. “That with your little shadow-affliction, your pulse runs so slow that this…”
His thumb traced the beat beneath his palm, feeling it spike and falter under his touch.
“…is your heart racing.”
A shiver ran through Ciaran at the intimacy of the touch, at the closeness of the breath, at the way Astarion knew him so thoroughly, so entirely. To his horror, heat bloomed beneath the vampire’s hands, traitorous and undeniable.
“A perfectly normal resting rhythm,” Astarion cooed, fondness threading the cruelty. “Quite endearing, really.”
“Just get on with it, Astraion,” Ciaran snapped, mortification heating his cheeks. His body had always had an unfortunate habit of reacting to fear and excitement the same way - and not just with the quickening of his pulse. And judging by the wicked glint in the vampire’s eyes, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“My my, somebody’s eager," Astarion chuckled while shifting his hips to grind slowly against the sorcerer's growing erection. “Have you missed me that much, darling?”
A shaky moan escaped Ciaran as the friction made him buck his hips involuntarily, pain flashing through his leg at the sudden movement. He squeezed his eyes shut, hiding from the vampire’s thoroughly amused gaze, and tilted his head aside, exposing his neck in a wordless plea to simply get it over with.
Astarion laughed under his breath, and Ciaran could feel him shift his weight.
“You could fight me,” he whispered. His mouth hovered just shy of skin, close enough that Ciaran could feel every word against his pulse. “Lash out with your shadows. You might even land a few good blows.” A fang dragged lightly along the thin skin of his neck, not enough to break it, just enough to promise. He bit back a whimper in response.
“You could listen to that little, terrified voice begging you to flee,” Astarion continued. “Disappear in a rush of magic. I know how easily you could.”
His thumb pressed beneath Ciaran’s jaw, tilting his head just a fraction further back.
“But you won’t,” he said softly. “And isn’t that just delicious?”
The hand at Ciaran’s jaw tightened, not painful, just undeniable.
“And it isn’t because you lack the choice, as my spawn does,” Astarion went on. “It’s because you are choosing obedience.”
His lips brushed Ciaran’s throat, feather-light and lingering, a mockery of a kiss.
“Obedience,” he breathed, reverent and cruel. “Is so much sweeter when it’s voluntary.”
For one awful instant, Ciaran understood. The threat of turning him, too, had likely been another lie. Another hook, baited with fear.
Then the fangs pierced his skin.
Pain bloomed, sharp and cold, and whatever understanding he had left dissolved into a helpless, broken sound swallowed by velvet darkness. He writhed against Astarion’s hold, helpless before his body’s traitorous response. The movement only pressed them closer together. Ciaran’s hands scrabbled for purchase. One clenched at Astarion’s hip; the other tangled in white curls, desperate, grounding, and Astarion groaned low in response. The sound vibrated through Ciaran, drawing a violent shudder from him as his breath stuttered and shortened. The world began to blur. Thoughts slipped loose, edges softening, fear melting into something heavier, headier, more intoxicating. Darkness pressed close, wrapping around Ciaran’s mind like velvet chains, and just as his awareness began to fracture completely, Astarion drew back, only a little.
“Aah,” he groaned against the tender curve of Ciaran’s neck, his cool breath sliding over the wound. “Absolutely delectable.”
His voice carried quiet satisfaction, indulgent and precise.
“Like a full-bodied, well-aged wine.” He let his tongue trace the wound slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste, and the sensation drew an involuntary whine from Ciaran’s throat, raw, trembling, and breathless. Astarion chuckled softly, delighted.
“Oh dear, that really did a number on you, didn't it?” he laughed, shifting his hips again. Ciaran whimpered, loud and helpless, as the painful pleasure of overstimulation pulsed through him. Cold clarity cut through the haze all at once, and humiliation flared bright and scalding beneath his skin. He turned his face away, desperate to hide as he realised he had come in his pants from having his neck bitten. The man responsible for this didn't grant him mercy.
“I would’ve called it pathetic,” Astarion murmured. “Had it been anyone but you, darling.” His lips brushed the edge of Ciaran’s jaw, teasing, intimate, and cruelly close. Despite the honeyed cadence, mockery still threaded his tone. “I’m flattered. You really have missed me, haven’t you?”
A hand closed around Ciaran’s jaw and forced his head back to center. Astarion stilled, unmistakably waiting. Ciaran opened his eyes slowly. For a small, fragile moment, he could pretend the crimson gaze before him held the same softness it once had. The same dangerous warmth.
“Yes,” he confessed, the word barely more than breath. “I have missed you. Terribly.”
In every sense the word could bear. What a terrible thing, to yearn like this. To ache for the monster he had once fled. To cast his gaze backwards and hope he had followed. Something was profoundly wrong with him, and it was not only the shadows in his blood.
For a heartbeat - a rarity between them - those red eyes softened.
It was so easy, then, to close his eyes and lean forward slightly. So damnably easy to press his lips to Astarion’s and pretend they were better men. To pretend Ciaran was not a coward, flinching from the darkness braided into his blood. To pretend Astarion still possessed a heart that could ache rather than hunger. To pretend they were not both shaped by macabre circumstances and sharpened by survival. To ignore the screams still echoing through Ciaran’s mind, the ones the other man somehow could not hear. Or perhaps simply refused to.
Copper bloomed on Ciaran’s tongue. His own blood. A fang nicked his lip, precise and careless. Astarion’s tongue followed instantly, soothing over the cut, collecting every drop with indulgent thoroughness. When he finally leaned back, the world tipped. Dizziness washed through Ciaran, and his heart began to race again - which was to say, it settled into that deceptively calm, steady rhythm that betrayed him so easily.
“Well then, my sweet,” Astarion hummed. Whatever softness Ciaran had imagined vanished, replaced by a familiar, hungry glint. “Let’s not delay any further. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
He rose, straightening his doublet as though nothing of consequence had just occurred, and stepped out of the carriage. Almost immediately, the two spawn flitted inside. The brunette half-elf wrinkled her nose.
“Ew,” she grimaced. “It stinks in here. Why does it smell like cu-”
“All of you play nice,” Astarion cut in sharply. “The curtains stay drawn.”
His gaze flicked pointedly to Ciaran. “If I lose any more spawn,” he added pleasantly. “I will have to create more.”
The meaning was as clear as freshly spilled blood. Ciaran gave a small, obedient nod.
The door shut, and a moment later, the carriage lurched forward. Pain speared through his broken leg as the movement jostled it, tearing a wince from him. The half-elf spawn glared openly now, red eyes burning with malice, while the tiefling pointedly pretended to stare out the window through the heavy, drawn curtain.
Ciaran sank back against the cushions, breath shallow, mind aching, pain throbbing through his leg, and his own release drying in a tacky mess in his pants.
This was going to be a very long road to the Gate.