Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Sometime around 1268 DR

~

Gods above and below, I speak humbly to thee. Prethee, which one of the worst of my sins hath brought mine puny life to its violent end?

You’re not dead.

I beg your pardon?

Get out.

He felt a generous kick to his backside, and woke up in a coffin on the worst day of his undead life; the first one.

That was exactly how he’d found out speaking with gods was a fruitless endeavour.

1493 DR

~

“I have a question.”

“Of what kind?” Zevlor was distracted by the tiefling dancer on stage. Astarion couldn't blame him; the girl’s fluid movements were capable of entrancing even the most rigorous of Flaming Fists, not to mention one aging paladin who clearly hadn't been touched in a millennia. Maybe longer.

The vampire leaned closer, nearly breaching the boundaries of Zevlor’s personal space. “The kind that can only be answered by a man of, uh, religious persuasion.”

“Go on,” there was a shadow of apprehension in the orange eyes, and it failed to hide from Astarion.

“Are the rumours truthful?” the elf drawled, the amusement oozing out of each word. It was the kind of amusement that usually preceded him saying especially nasty stuff. “Does it make your partner thrash in ecstasy if you channel your divinity in the midst of an intercourse?”

Booming silence was supposed to follow, but the rumbling of the throng swallowed it.

At the moment, Zevlor wished he’d never come here. Frankly, he had no business standing like a support pillar in Sharesses' Caress and, if given the choice, he would avoid this place as a spider nest it was. Duty of all things had brought him here. As a matter of fact, he stood watch. Replacing a comrade wasn't anything new, but he had no idea it’d land him here, into this room full of smoke, chatter and a distinct smell of want.

Why would a brothel need to be guarded by a Flaming Fist, anyway? Baldur’s Gate was bursting at the seams with mercenaries who'd likely seen worse than whatever surprises this honest establishment could throw at them. He had filed it away for later discussion with his captain. She was perfectly aware of Zevlor's past and possessed a very strange sense of humour. Which was to blame for this, ahm, assignment. Perhaps he’d wronged her somehow?

They worked in tandem, but he refused to take any credit. He’d had enough of this in Elturel, with his hands tied and oath shattered once. Shedding half of the responsibility that came with a status was an option that he had chosen willingly. No more titles, big words, or unnecessary honorifics, please – he felt much too old and drained for that, thank you. Of course, it was quite unusual for a paladin to act behind the curtains, yet so far he’d been content with how things were playing out. Excluding the occasional moment when he’d been thrown into the mess as bait for attention, which he secretly and quietly disapproved of, but was in no place to complain about.

Also, staying undercover in the lower ranks meant Zevlor reverted to doing jobs he hadn't done in years. For example, to stalk the rooms that smelled like cheap sex and an even cheaper booze, and ward off any unwanted advances on the workers and himself. He had already dragged out one slurring fellow by the scruff of his neck, and kicked out another who had pulled out a knife. And the night hadn't even started yet.

His job was made a little harder by the old acquaintance; Astarion had sauntered into the dance hall at some point and spotted the familiar tiefling. Undoubtedly, the vampire had found Zevlor's presence in such a place absolutely hilarious and refused to leave him alone, buzzing about him like a particularly insidious mosquito.

He was a part of the group that had fought the giant brain and saved half of Zevlor's people when he himself had failed to do so. This exact fact allowed Astarion to pester Zevlor for as long as he wished without the risk of joining the kicked out squad. Hence the highly inappropriate question.

The tiefling frowned, hinting that the concept of going too far certainly existed and began hovering on the horizon, but Astarion was not deterred.

“Who in the world told you that?” The Hellrider gritted his teeth, trying to count imps in his mind. That generally helped with quelling anger. One, two, three –

“Oh, I have my own… informants,” the vampire sounded enormously pleased with himself. “So? I will carry this secret to my grave, I promise.”

Of course, Zevlor looked at the stage again, miserably. Four, five. Six imps. He was still composed. Good.

What in Ilmater's name was happening in Astarion's head. How did he even come up with this?

Answering was the easiest route. Which the Hellrider chose, still counting the nonexistent fiends to maintain a proper face. “When paladins – or clerics – ‘channel divinity’, they request an additional aid from the deity that supports them to power up certain spells. Usually, I send for divine assistance and decide on the spell afterwards. Others might prefer a different approach. Of course, some do… use divine magic for personal reasons, if their oath permits them. Not that I’ve heard of such cases myself.”

“Oh-o!” The red eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Does that mean you can make someone orgasm with a blessing?”

Keep it together. You're good at keeping it together.

Zevlor could see from his vantage point that the guy whom he’d been watching for the past hour now started to act up again. He hadn't done anything outrageous yet, but his grabby hands were going places they weren't supposed to go. At least, not free of charge.

Feeling that his time was running out and the vampire was distracting him far too much, Zevlor decided to make a demonstration. For a moment, he closed his eyes, bringing to the lips his right fist, and muttered a short prayer. It wasn't necessary, just easier. Astarion blinked; suddenly, the tiefling started to exude a slightly glowing, oppressive aura. The vampiric senses lit up and shouted in unison to run; his inner monster was afraid. This was divine, something that creatures from the dark avoided and feared.

Zevlor glanced at him. Technically, the spell was supposed to turn the undead and drive them away. He vainly hoped it'd naturally rid him of Astarion's company. A sneaky trick, perhaps; but the vampire didn't really react. Interesting.

The former Hellrider quickly took off his own gauntlet and held out his hand, “Touch it.”

Mesmerized, Astarion cautiously poked the proffered palm like it was a dead rat.

“Had that illithid tadpole chewed at your brain?” Zevlor watched him with something akin to wonder.

The elf sneered, flashing his teeth, and gave him a decent handshake. Or, rather, made an attempt to do so, but froze mid-action.

“It's thrumming,” the vampire uttered.

“Does this answer your question?” The tiefling was staring at the opposite corner of the room, where the troublesome customer was trying to climb onto the stage.

Thrumming. Well. No one had ever put it like that before, although Zevlor had been told numerous times by different living people that the sensation of the touch charged with divine magic felt rather nice. But for the undead?

They’d usually hissed before trying to smack Zevlor with something deadly.

Astarion gulped. “Is this always like th–”

He didn't manage to finish the sentence. The hand that he was still gripping tore itself out of his grasp as Zevlor rushed through the crowd towards the troublemaker. The vampire felt slightly entertained as he watched the scene unfold. Quickly, he retreated to the confines of his mind to get back to those gossips and rumors about paladins, their exceptional prowess not only on the battlefield, but in bed as well. They seldom got laid, but when they did get laid, people knew.

Astarion recalled the feeling in his undead hand brought back to life by the buzzing, incredibly, even fearfully nice sensation. Which was odd since he was, well, a creature of evil. The one made with malicious intent. Not that he asked to be made, he was perfectly fine as an elf, but Cazador had had other ideas, curse him.

Suddenly, Astarion realised what exactly all those enchanted wands had been trying to unsuccessfully replicate.

Oh dear, he thought as the gruff and obviously displeased Hellrider pushed past him with a protesting drunken body hauled over his shoulder.

And what was he supposed to do with this newfound information, now?

*

Strictly speaking, Zevlor couldn't care less about Astarion, and Astarion couldn't care less about him. The vampire had been granted a privilege of not being run through with Searing Smite and burned alive, or rather, turned into an absolutely and indefinitely dead undead. Due to his history with vampires as a species the Hellrider harboured something close to hatred towards them. The damage they had done to the Elturel's militia and the Hellriders’ name in general was irreversible. So after he’d found out that the group of helpful adventurers that had protected Elturel's refugees included a vampire he felt… conflicted. He didn't trust Astarion, and the disdainful glares the other had been throwing him proved it wasn't a mere paranoia.

Astarion himself would've been completely fine if the Emerald Grove had been burned by the goblins in its entirety. After he’d ransacked every corner inside of it, of course. Unfortunately, his voice had been outmatched by the others. Hypocrites. They itched to play heroes while suffering from a parasite swirling in their skulls, and he struggled to understand why they bothered. However, what Astarion had learned well was the skill to retreat when he couldn't win. It was no use going against all of them, so he kept his precious opinion to himself.

It had paid off; Cazador was dead, and Astarion was free to roam where he pleased.

He did regret not ascending, sometimes. Perhaps he would've, if the feeble-minded druid hadn't accidentally squashed one of the spawn, but since the man that had tormented him was dead, he could hardly complain about casualties, couldn't he?

He’d been focussed on survival and recovery since the Netherbrain's fall; that with the blasted tadpole burned to ashes just as his freedom. There was no walking in the sun anymore, no more squinting at it through his lashes, no more dawn watching. A day halved, just like that. Out of his reach again. The vampire had paid his price.

He’d scurried to the Underdark after the events, but had grown tired of the locals and returned to Baldur's Gate. It was his home, after all. He knew every corner, every shabby cat, and every pub where he could hunt. The undercity ruins preserved his memories, the worst of them, and he liked to know they were real, not the fruit of his wild imagination or broken mind. The atrocities did happen, yet he lived on.

Astarion wanted to live.

He didn't really want to fuck, however. Which was a shame. One of the basest pleasures in life still available to him, ruined by the meager two hundred years of slavery. Even staying in the city that resembled a boiling soup of sin at times, Astarion was bored out of his mind.

And then, in the midst of nothing, this.

He’d slipped into the brothel to look for a snack as usual, and noticed the familiar brick-faced tiefling. It was a miracle he’d even remembered Zevlor as a person, apart from the other tiefling bunch that he did not care about. Normally, the vampire would've ignored him altogether.

But the old guy looked so uncomfortable that Astarion sensed a potential fun. One glance at the gleeful pale face had caused Zevlor’s expression to shift subtly into the realms of slight horror, and the vampire was unable to resist this invitation.

How exactly the innocent tomfoolery had ended with Astarion himself standing dumbfounded and confused remained unclear. He was still relishing that ghostly feeling in his fingers. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. A new thing. Even the word new turned stale in all those years spent in an unending circle of seduction, rat-devouring, and torment. Astarion more than welcomed new experiences, unless they included his torture.

If something or someone stood against him at any given time, it was paladins. Not a single wasted, piss drunk, half-unconscious and bleary eyed paladin had ever accepted his proposition. Not that he tried often, anyway. Not for Cazador, for sure; the bastard would've skinned him for even an attempt to drag a bloody god-servant into their den. Astarion did it for sport. It was a good challenge of sorts, and the vampire enjoyed challenges when they promised new discoveries… or gains. However, he’d never managed to coerce any of those do-gooders into joining him in his bed. Which was a shame, really; however much Astarion despised them, to control one of them could make a good entertainment. Only imagine: the writhing chosen of divinity on their knees. Would they beg, or stoically endure? Would their god come down from the Heavens to punish them for blasphemy?

Ah, he truly marveled at the possibilities. Sex itself had turned into a chore over the years, especially those years that he worked for a Master. Astarion ended up avoiding it, using his seductive facsimile of a person primarily to feed once a week and switching it off as soon as he was full. There was no need to partake in old habits for the sake of repeating what he’d been doing at another's bidding. The blood could get him going, that was true, but seldom anything else.

He was really curious now, which prompted him to turn round sharply on his heels and march out of the room to follow an angry tiefling he didn't care about.

Zevlor was busy guarding the entrance from an unruly customer with his averagely sized, yet solid wall of an armoured torso. He stood in the doorway, preventing the guy from coming back and wreaking havoc. That also meant that no one else could enter or escape for a time being, and Mamzell wasn't having it.

“Use those horns, for gods' sake, what'd' you have them for?”

Zevlor didn't move. The bugger tried to kick him then, aiming at his crotch, but he was met with plate mail and a subsequent knee to the kisser. He dropped dead unconscious and spread eagle right in front of Sharesses' Caress doors. Which had signified the end of this unfortunate incident.

“Commendable job,” an unexpected Astarion chirped over the Hellrider's shoulder.

Mamzell continued to murmur under her nose, and folded her hands when Zevlor had finally stepped aside and let a couple of complaining dwarfs leave the premises. They had to jump over the unlucky body, but didn't seem to be put off by the fact.

The tiefling's expression was sourer than spoiled milk. Astarion grinned, keeping his canines stealthily hidden. He slithered closer then, his astute eye catching on all the signs of tension and exhaustion the paladin carried in his posture. He could use some relief indeed.

“Bravó,” the vampire lingered beside Zevlor, playing on his nerves. “You're a hero this district deserves.”

“Why are you still here?” oh, the incredulity in that voice. How sweet.

“Why wouldn't I be? You see, the whole night is at my disposal.”

“Don't you have anything better to do?” Zevlor sighed, tossing his gauntlet from one hand to another.

“Not really,” Astarion shrugged, and looked sideways with a sort of expression one unfamiliar with the distinctly Astarion behaviour might have called sheepish. “It’s all rather dull and, ah, tedious. No brawls to gawk at, no exotic wonders to find. The life in town has been distressingly peaceful, tame, and incredibly boring since the Absolute. Wouldn't you agree?”

It was utter nonsense. Zevlor as a Flaming Fist could testify that Baldur's Gate nowadays resembled a beehive full of disturbed wasps who'd devoured the bees and were now annoyed at the lack of anything else to devour. But who knew what exactly Astarion viewed as entertainment.

“You’d prefer the hard times?”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you want from me?” Zevlor's gauntlet was back in its place. He got busy with straightening the various straps of his uniform, checking the buckles and making sure everything was in order. All for the sake of not just staring straight ahead in pretense of civility. Seven imps, eight…

“I’ll be frank,” Astarion began. “You look like you could use a break. Such a battered soldier, you are. Ever vigilant. It's admirable, honestly.”

“Admirable?” Zevlor blinked. This word in relation to him coming out of the vampire’s mouth called for excessive caution.

“Oh, yes. I’d seen you fight. Impressive.”

It was rather blunt, but flattery usually got Astarion somewhere. And Zevlor looked like a kind of man who appreciated some straight-forward approach, surprised at the compliment as he was.

What Astarion forgot to keep in mind was that Zevlor had once called himself a Hellrider. The Commander had shouted about it at the heavens when they’d been struggling to stay alive up on the giant floating Queen of carnivorous brains. Alas, the vampire’s own brains had been fried by primordial fear back then and that important information might have escaped him in the heat of the moment.

The tiefling pinned him with a narrow-eyed gaze. Contrary to Astarion's hopes, the saccharine words only made the paladin become more suspicious.

“What. Do you. Want,” Zevlor repeated, each word a pinpoint. This – This undead next to him was really testing his resolve. He still had a job to do, and was eager to get rid of unwanted attention.

The case would've been deemed unsalvageable by anyone, but not Astarion. He knew human (or humanoid) minds through and through, and even better — how to ignite a kindling of interest. It could be fueled by many things besides love, or simple physical attraction. Each person had their own set of matches. One just needed to find the right angle to cause a spark.

The vampire tilted his head, and smiled wistfully.

“That… glow of yours. It felt familiar. And reminded me of sunlight.”

Zevlor's expression slightly changed, his features relaxing somewhat. “I recall you could walk in the sun contrary to all odds.”

“The tadpole allowed me. And since that blasted critter is gone, no prancing in daylight for me either,” Astarion sighed serenely. “Your divine power is the closest thing I’ve felt in months. Don't get me wrong, this is frightening to a lowly creature like me. But even lowly creatures enjoy poking their heads out of the shadows in search of warmth.”

Zevlor stared at him for an awkwardly long moment.

“You're a weird vampire spawn,” he finally muttered.

“I might be,” Astarion admitted. “And I didn't ask for it, you know. To be turned into a spawn. It was done against my will.”

“You have my sympathies,” the Hellrider snorted. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’d rather get back to my work. The owner has been staring a hole in me, and I wouldn't wish to find out what can happen next.”

Zevlor hurried to extricate himself from the situation. He didn't like Astarion’s evident and sudden interest in his persona.

Anyone sensible would have left the rather aloof tiefling alone for good, and Astarion did consider himself sensible, at times. He preferred not to risk his fluffy hide for no reason. And he did not, in fact, follow Zevlor into the half-drunk crowd that had formed at the bottom of the steps to the second floor.

Perhaps he could try his luck somewhere else tonight.

The vampire scoffed softly under his nose, threw Mamzell a curious look, and slipped out to vanish into the late evening streets.

*

It took Zevlor a little too long to notice strange things happening right behind his back. Not that he hadn't encountered that sort of stuff on the job, only the few recent days seemed especially bizarre.

It’d started when he was heading, or rather, lurching back to the Wyrm’s Rock one early morning. Someone had told a barbarian the cost of his drink and he’d made a scene at the Elfsong. Zevlor and Velns had been nearby; the other tiefling stormed ahead, narrowly escaped the skillfully thrown axe and had immediately gotten tackled by the excited barbarian who’d probably already forgotten his complaints and was happy to wrestle with a guard. Zevlor had joined the mess and managed to save his comrade, but received a heavy blow to his head, which still wasn't enough to throw him off his feet. Velns had been lucky and just a little rumpled; he’d apprehended the drunk guy, and Zevlor left him to deal with the formalities.

Only in the middle of an alley, the Hellrider figured he shouldn't have gone anywhere in his state. He’d healed himself enough to walk alone, but was still quite disoriented and unfocussed, a dangerous condition for a lonely Flaming Fist on the streets at that time of hour.

At this realisation, he heard a dull thud and swiveled around to discover an unfamiliar gentleman sliding down the side of the nearest wall with his face pressed to the masonry as if he’d run into it head-first. The gentleman looked like a thug, which had become even more obvious when Zevlor noticed a dagger laying nearby.

When the man had finished his descent, everything fell quiet.

Confused and still a little concussed, the Hellrider wandered closer to the unconscious body to inspect it. Another slim dagger was stuck in the thug’s throat.

Someone’d thrown that at him deliberately.

The dizziness suddenly disappeared, and Zevlor listened to his divine sense since his eyes and hearing were stubbornly telling him no one was around. The paladin ability didn't clarify anything. Had someone protected him, or was it a coincidence?

Zevlor had a guess, however he lacked any evidence. As usual.

The second time was even stranger.

They’d been alerted of a fighting between two groups of smugglers on the westside in the Lower City, at the docks. The rickety building got disturbed after the scuffle had ensued, and the two Flaming Fist squadrons swarmed the place, Zevlor included. He’d almost missed the archer on the balcony and would've ended with an arrow in his eyesocket if the archer suddenly hadn't bent over the rails and dropped down into the ongoing fray. Zevlor blinked; it was unclear to him how that enemy had been apprehended and by whom, but he had no time to dwindle on that and rushed up the stairs.

The problem had been dealt with, eventually. Zevlor had a small part in it, he was too busy protecting another Fist from a dog. The dog, unfortunately, did not survive that encounter, adding to the many victims that night had taken.

Fights like these were becoming a common occurrence in the city, and it was obvious to everyone that the Flaming Fist Order struggled and failed to maintain any semblance of peace.

Astarion had been right about one thing: the situation was tedious. No better way to put it. They needed the City Watch back, and they needed it back yesterday.

Talking about the vampire; clearly the strange timely deaths around the Hellrider weren't accidental, and however much the paladin believed in his god, it certainly wasn't divine intervention.

Ever since that talk in Sharesses' Caress, the back of Zevlor's neck tingled with an unmistakable feeling of being thoroughly scrutinized. The Hellrider often found himself under scrutiny simply due to his looks, or the presence that he still carried with him despite his shed titles. However, he could tell the difference between an occasional harmless stare and the pair of stubborn eyes that were set on boring holes through his chainmail. The vampire was good at hiding, he’d give him that. Zevlor never actually caught him crouching in the corner, but he’d had a certain number of near-death experiences that had taught him how much darkness was supposed to fit in one particular shadow. In Avernus, you were bound to stumble upon an imp ambush first thing in the morning (or in whatever passed for the morning there), and you had better be prepared to either sacrifice your eye or dignity, sometimes both. Even then, you’d be grateful to only get attacked by imps.

Zevlor had gotten very proficient with imps.

He’d trained to stay sharp through trial, his divine sense notwithstanding.

Yes, he was not in Avernus anymore, but the habit of watching shadows remained permanently etched in his subconscious, and Zevlor was certain that Astarion trailed after him pretty often. The former Commander held high suspicions it was related to his paladin abilities and the way they affected one’s senses. The mere idea made him wrinkle his nose. Had the stealthy rascal absolutely no shame?

Trying to wear Zevlor down like that, circling him each time he went on the night patrol? All without a specific goal in mind? Was hard to believe, that. The Hellrider had all the patience of his years added to the experience with incredibly stubborn fiends. And yes, the vampire was much older, yet he didn't strike Zevlor as someone overly patient. He liked to toy with people, apparently. But not for very long. Zevlor, on the other hand, avoided these sorts of games, especially where a bloody vampire was concerned. The tiefling had been quite young when the whole Companion story had unfolded, however the aftermath had left its imprint in his memories and beliefs. He could tolerate insolent humans, dwarfs, elves, drows – what have you. But the undead couldn't be helped. A vampire would always be just that: a blood-sucking menace, a creature stealing someone else's time to prolong its own. A parasite.

Regardless of Astarion’s personal accomplishments, Zevlor could only grant him the courtesy of not carrying holy water in the inner pocket while on night patrol.

If he strived to get under Zevlor's skin, he’d achieved it in part. The tiefling couldn't help but remember him as he paced the streets, or stood watch at a tavern. He wasn't doing a lot of standing these days as, despite all of his hard work, he’d been promoted to manip. They needed people who could use words just as their swords, and he’d been reckless enough to jump right into whatever challenging situations he could find. So far he’d managed to emerge out of them unscathed, thanks in no small part to an apparent aasimar assisting him from the shadows. Supposedly that called for a promotion, so he had people under his command again. To refuse would've been strange as it had also given him a pay raise, and he could use money. He donated to the Temple every tenday, and slipped in a few coins here and there, making sure they would reach Lackrissa, Dammon, or Alfira. Dammon was the only one of the three who knew where this coin came from, and then it traveled to other refugees who could use help. Only, they wouldn't have accepted it directly from Zevlor. None of them had forgiven him, and he didn't wish to stress it again.

*

As expected, the spawn lacked the Commander’s patience, and started to pop up on the streets to make himself known. Zevlor had seen him once or twice from the corner of his eye this week, aware that calling it a coincidence would've been naive. Yet, he pretended he noticed nothing. If the man possessed so much time, it would be a shame to rob him of a good opportunity to surprise a paladin.

It had been raining sparingly since the morning, rendering the cobbled streets perpetually wet and dragging everything that usually festered in the alleys out into the open. People ignored it, as well as the weak sprinkle above their heads. Not unlike the past Elturel, Baldur's Gate was a warm city with comfortable weather, and the pesky rains like this one were rare in late summer.

The crime levels had risen to insanity after the total annihilation of Steel Watch. Its absence created a hole in the city's defences that nothing could fill quickly enough. Zevlor had only been a Flaming Fist for three months, and he alone had already encountered eighteen murder cases, fifteen of them unsolved, thirty three considerable rubberies and the insurmountable amounts of petty theft that thrived here in the ruins ripe for the taking. People nicked everything that could be nicked out of the crashed houses, the owners of the said houses either dead or evacuated for a time being. Gangs formed with incredible speed, some of them under the Nine Fingers or Zhentarim, some of them independent, the formerly fair citizens desperate to grab any protection or coin they could reach. The Order was scrambling to organise some sort of governmental support, but so far those attempts weren't satisfactory.

And what little the thugs had left untouched, the remnants of Bhaal's cult tore apart in no time. Despite their chosen abandoning them, her followers still preyed on the defenseless and weak. God forbid a refugee to hide in the sewers – the ones that tried had seldom been found breathing.

Zevlor coughed, waving a hand in front of his face to chase away the smoke.

“You won't last long smoldering like that,” he chastised his partner. He was paired with another tiefling today who he’d come to know relatively well. The man carried stashes of tobacco with him at all times.

“I won't last long either way, Commander,” Velns scoffed. He could use some manners, Zevlor thought.

“I’m no Commander, Velns.”

“You should be.”

The smoke continued to grow in puffs despite the rain's best efforts. They stood near the wall of a building opposite the Sorcerous Sundries, watching the crowds drift past. Velns casually leaned against the bricks, and Zevlor stood at ease next to him, hand resting on the guard of his sword. It was rather dark all day, and promised to grow darker still. The shop’s lights shone like a bright anchor in this muddy evening.

They would watch the place for a while, making sure nothing suspicious went on, and follow their usual route down the street a bit later. Zevlor knew the drill at this point. It was soothing, in a way. No one was able to tell he had participated in the glorious mission to poke the Netherbrain with spears until it had collapsed into Chionthar with a gigantic splash that had flattened the nearby boats. After the other two Hellriders had moved on, Zevlor had been on his own.

He was simply one of “‘em devils” here. A mercenary, no one special. Just as well. Baldur's Gate didn't care who you were as long as you minded your own business.

Velns wasn't from Elturel and had no way of knowing that Zevlor had once been a Commander, yet he stayed adamant in calling him that.

“I would've made a terrible leader,” the Hellrider said resolutely.

“You’ve got that commanding presence. The newbie from yesterday was near groveling.”

“You can't possibly compare training the recruits with controlling the troops that may include dozens.”

“We all start small.”

Zevlor suppressed an urge to smile. The way the new fellow had been holding his sword was so abysmal that Zevlor had taken some pity on him and had shown him a few moves. Apparently, it didn't slip Velns’s attention.

There was a time when the Hellrider thought he’d been worthy of that name, and people had died for it. No more.

“Didn’t expect you to develop a soft spot for anyone, let alone me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

A comfortable silence had settled between them. Habitually, the Hellrider scanned the square in front of him, when he noticed a familiar figure strolling right towards them. Few people ever approached the Flaming Fist patrols, even when in immediate danger. The stranger was wearing a cloak and moved with a sort of fluidness that thieves possessed. Zevlor recognised the triangular face along with the thin complexion, and tensed.

“Gentlemen,” Astarion stopped in front of the two armed men and beamed at them, his fangs hidden stealthily under the thin lips.

“Aye, aye,” Velns raised his hand. “What’s the matter? Any trouble?”

“Ah, no, not at all. I only wanted to stop by and wish you a good day. Or, rather, evening,” the vampire's eyes were on Zevlor's. Astarion winked. The Hellrider, who was poised for some inevitable trickery, startled and abruptly let go of his sword that he’d been gripping.

“Well, good day to you too, lad,” Velns was a perceptive enough man, and his gaze travelled steadily from his partner to the stranger. “Don't do any crime out there, eh?”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Astarion smirked once more and sauntered away, vanishing in the nearby alley like a ghost.

“Weird,” Velns commented.

Zevlor allowed himself to slightly relax. That undead nuisance was starting to get on his nerves. He ought to smoke him out and teach him a lesson or two, preferably without any blades included.

“Quite so.”

“You know ‘im?”

“Sort of,” the Hellrider shifted his weight to the other leg, pointedly not looking in the direction of the alley Astarion had disappeared in.

“He took a liking to you, it seems, whoever he is.”

“No. He’s just screwing with me. Forget him.”

Velns chuckled, but dropped the topic. One had either learned to drop certain topics, or simply didn't live to thirty. Velns was in his tiefling fifties.

“You ready to move?”

Zevlor nodded and stepped forward, pointedly not looking into the alley again, “Let's go.”

*

Astarion could tell that the old man Zevlor did not hate him in particular. The paladin disliked the vampire, not Astarion. It was impossible to remain ignorant of this issue. Books told the tales of terrors the Hellriders had endured before and after the Descent.

Elturel had a rich history with vampires, and so Zevlor's meager distaste when it came to communicating with Astarion practically equaled a warm welcome. Not that Astarion’s persistence was helping matters.

A lot of people wished him agony for what he'd done, and only a few of them were afraid of the vampire bit.

The Gur despised him, and it had somehow multiplied after he’d set their blood-thirsty children free. Oh, they were happy at first, until they realised that those kids had been better off dead. Astarion had done a good thing, hadn't he? Only that the little shits had soon gone on a rampage and slaughtered their own community. Who could've expected. In his defence, he warned them it was bound to happen, but they didn't listen.

Those lot never listened. They preferred the comfort of mindless faith. And then Astarion was the one to blame, because it's so easy to blame an ill fate on a vampire, isn't it?

Cazador hadn't hated him before the kidnapping, per se, but it would've been less unbearable if he had.

Almost all the spawn that Astarion had seduced and brought to the Szarr mansion and which had then been granted freedom refused to look at him. A couple had actually tried to kill him, but failed. Part of the reason why he had – not run, no – retreated back to Baldur's Gate. Screw them all, ungrateful victims of his.

They’d never forgive him, and he didn't expect them to.

He was stalking the Hellrider because of that pleasant tingle capable of satisfying someone as unsatisfied as Astarion. And because the said Hellrider was demonstratively ignoring him. A challenge.

The vampire was very proficient at charming people. He was even quite good at charming some of his enemies.

In Zevlor’s case, the whole concept of charm seemed impossible and strictly prohibited. He practically wore the non-verbal sign spelling ‘a good time over my dead body’, and Astarion had taken the bit in his teeth.

He'd never met someone so disinterested. He'd been hated, despised, wanted and used, even discarded, always with a certain passion. With Zevlor, however, he'd run not into refusal. He'd run into a boulder. The flirtatious attempts just simply… slid off the surface.

The vampire had convinced himself he was curious to explore the “buzzing feeling” more, and not seeking to find out how else Zevlor would react to him. At some point, he even thought of dropping the whole idea altogether. It was dangerous.

Then, he saw the two Flaming Fists occupying the wall at the square, and something in him clicked. Without any specific plan in mind, the vampire had come closer to them with an intent to… with no intent. Thank god these two turned out to be a friendly pair.

He didn't even speak to Zevlor directly. It was all, frankly, embarrassing. Astarion felt like an idiot, although Zevlor's puzzled reaction to the wink had remedied that disaster somehow.

Only after he had left them behind and stopped to self-reflect, he found that he couldn't quite gather why he did that. To make the paladin twitch? To make himself twitch? Not really. It was just that he wanted to wish them a good day. Nothing more.

He was turning too chaotic and careless for his own good. That warranted for a drink.

*

The Hellrider threw a blank look at the Sundries as he walked past it. This time, he was alone, and headed towards the jetty to maybe have a bottle of ithbank and watch the sunset. Not that there was much left to watch; the sun had been barely visible through the thunderclouds. But he used this as an excuse to have a moment to himself, away from the bustling barracks or the city rumble.

The fishermen were wrapping up their business, and the jetty gradually became comparatively empty. No one minded a lone tiefling Flaming Fist that had sat down on a barrel and fished out a bottle, looking at the frowning horizon. He’d done it before, and he found that people here didn't care what he was up to as long as he didn't bring any obvious trouble. The local thugs knew him already, and they also knew what the pointy end was from experience, so they didn't try to cross him. An occasional assassin or a drunk hothead could happen, but the Hellrider didn't fear them enough to change his routine.

To tell you the truth, it wasn't very beautiful today. The sky scowled at him, and the river was murky, reminding him a little too much of the dead waters that surrounded the Moonrise. After he…

“May I join?” The familiar voice jingled behind him.

The tiefling sighed, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Astarion. I was wondering when you’ll tire of hiding.”

“Whatever do you mean? I’m only taking a breath of fresh evening air,” the vampire gracefully strolled closer as if he owned the docks, and took a place on the nearest crate, ignoring that he wasn't, in fact, invited.

Zevlor made a sound that was more a grunt than a scoff, ”Smells fishy, isn't it?”

“Ah, so you do have a sense of humor. A rather questionable one, but the effort is appreciated.”

The tiefling didn't answer that. He was in a relatively good mood, a rare occurrence. And he’d gotten used to the thought that the vampire spawn wouldn't leave him alone anyway, so why bother with snarling.

“You know,” the said vampire began after a moment of empty silence. “There was a time when I would've seen it beneath me to talk to someone like you. Can you imagine?”

“Certainly.”

“My point is, I’m not as posh as you think,” Astarion added with purpose.

“I don't think anything of you,” Zevlor murmured. “But you follow me on patrols, covering my back. Stalking me.”

“Did your divine sense tingle?”

“Why?” The Hellrider put the bottle at his feet and shifted to face the vampire. Astarion batted his eyelashes at him in a carefully controlled surprise. He didn't intend to, and thought, shit. If he felt a bit threatened in a conversation, his body summoned an unassuming look that had gotten him into trouble more often than carried out of it.

Zevlor didn't pay attention to the vampiric eyelashes. He spread his legs, planting his feet on the wet boards, and twined his fingers. Then, he slightly leaned forward to give Astarion a glare one hair away from threatening. As if he was about to interrogate a criminal he’d caught red-handed.

In truth, he was dutifully trying to conceal the fact that it was his fourth bottle in a row after the bet he’d lost and that he’d gotten so inebriated he couldn't quite focus.

Meanwhile, Astarion had to make a certain effort to look unperturbed and keep the conversation as light-hearted as possible. It felt like performing in front of a Steel Watcher.

“I told you why,” he decided to, once again, speak plainly. Nothing else would've worked here. “That divine glow of yours. I feel pulled to it. I like it. What else is there to say?”

Those expressive eyebrows rose in bewilderment.

“You are pulled to it? Not the other way around?”

“Yes?” Astarion wasn't certain what he meant, but decided to play along just in case.

“But why me? If you want a paladin to touch you – if that is indeed what you seek – there are far better options in this city. I wouldn't recommend anyone because I don't want them to turn into your target of interest, but it's a fact. Clerics might be able to help, too. The Sharrans, they wouldn't mind,” Zevlor winced just as Astarion made a face. “Fine, not the Sharrans. My point is, I’m not the only one with divine powers here. I don't understand why you chose to follow me of all people. You know I carry a sword.”

Astarion had his lips curl in a sly smirk.

“Ah, but you have such an interesting past, Commander,” he drawled. Zevlor's eyes narrowed. “If one knows where to look. So many vices in one short-tempered tiefling. It was foolish to disregard your person, you're quite intriguing. I love a flaw where it's most unexpected. You had carried the title of an oathbreaker for some time, hm? What happened, I wonder. Did you punch someone important?”

“I’m tipsy and won't feel guilty if I punch you,” the tiefling warned.

Astarion chuckled instead of cowering.

“I’ve been helping you, have I not? Not many reasons to punch me yet, I'm afraid. Paladins don't harm innocent people who are simply trying to be of assistance. Oh, don't pout. You're showing impressive levels of self-restraint for someone with that kind of history. For clarity, it was a compliment."

Zevlor stared at him intensely. No thanks came out of his mouth, but at least he wasn't glowering anymore.

It was probably not the right moment to take risks, but Astarion leaned closer to conspiratorially purr, “And compliments are just the sliver of what I can offer. These stiff muscles,” a slender finger ghosted over the tiefling's shoulder plate, “could use a bit of kneading. What do you say?”

A number of events happened in short and rapid succession. The realisation dawned on Zevlor, and he went stonefaced. The muscle on his jaw twitched; he calmly, without breaking eye contact, thrust with his sword hilt forward, hitting Astarion’s arm and causing him to topple sideways, over the crate and then fall into the boat moored at the docks. The vampire landed with a strangled yelp into the stinking heap of the rotting seaweed and discarded fishnet.

Theoretically, Zevlor wasn't attacked, and his paladin oath required him to take anything to his face. But he’d been a paladin for thirty years. He knew how much gods preferred to see and what exactly didn't count as malice.

Harassing an undead, for example.

That must have been one of the most embarrassing assaults Astarion had ever suffered in his life. He didn't even drop into the water. He ended up covered in seaweed and the fish… remains, and they smelled foul.

Hells knew how he got caught unawares and failed to avoid this. He just didn't think someone like Zevlor would do such a thing in response to –

Another mistake.

When the absolutely furious vampire jumped to his feet, the Hellrider was still in his place, sipping from the bottle and watching him with mild amusement.

“What was that for?!” Astarion cried out. His hit arm protested too. He was ready to strangle the paladin with his bare hands, if he only managed to get out of this bloody boat with at least some of his dignity intact.

“Compliments,” Zevlor paused, then barked out a laugh. “You really thought that’d work? If you intend to mock me, do it properly.”

“I wasn't trying to mock you!” To his shame, the vampire heard his own voice rising to a higher pitch. “I was propositioning you, you imbecile.”

“Were you, now? And I guessed you could use a bath, but you managed to miss the river,” the tiefling snorted. “Evidently, both of our plans didn't go as expected.”

“Were you trying to murder me? You know we can't go into running water, do you? Are you even allowed to do that?”

Zevlor ignored the questions.

Yet the paladin didn't look like he had a murderous intent. He seemed to be having fun, if anything.

Astarion managed to haul himself out of the boat, standing straight once again to haughtily peer at the sitting Hellrider. Zevlor wrinkled his nose, and helpfully offered: “No offence, but you stink of fish guts.”

“I’m aware,” the vampire hissed. “Thank you very much. I will make sure your life’ll be as miserable as possible from now on, you old devil.”

“Can't wait,” Zevlor replied evenly, finishing his drink. Astarion sucked his teeth, but controlled himself and stormed away, his undead heart struggling to start a beat. He should've bitten the damn brute. Yet, he had deemed it unworthy to start a fight on the streets over something like that. Yes, he’d been rejected, and rather heartlessly. Laughed at, even.

How terribly exciting.

Astarion had done his research. He'd listened around, followed those useless tieflings they'd helped, and even asked them a couple of questions. It turned out as a surprise they held little respect towards the man that had been their leader. Apparently, the Shadowlands had destroyed his reputation for good.

An old hag had also called him out on being too soft when a firm grip was needed and explosive when it came to arguing. That was one of those rare moments Astarion heard the word "flaccid" used in regards to a person.

Personally, he wouldn't say Zevlor was explosive by any means, but he most certainly had a nasty streak that seemed to be hidden rather well. An oathbreaker, that was something Astarion could work with. A believer that intentionally had chosen to believe after glimpsing the other, Astarion's, side. The man had been a Commander, and yet he decided to keep a low profile in Baldur’s Gate. A guy like that wouldn't have fallen for a blunt tease shrouded in even blunter flattery.

And, to Astarion's own chagrin, it had been historically proven that he enjoyed some push-and-pull before the main course.

Zevlor didn't watch him leave, he turned back to look at the horizon. His thoughts were scattered, and he was now busy with sorting them out. So, he had probably just made himself a new enemy that could steal his purse and puncture his throat while he slept. Great. He might have died a hero fighting a red dragon, and instead they were going to find him in his bed in his own pool of blood. And probably half-naked, as it usually went. A fine story for his tombstone.

Still, he hadn't felt even a sliver of guilt after pushing Astarion off the crate. The moment the vampire's eyes rounded and he grasped helplessly at nothing before losing his balance was absolutely priceless. If he’d have a chance, he’d do it again.

Arrogant peacock. Was he used to getting everything he wanted that way? A suggestive word here, a seductive smile there, a couple of bandits killed – and the deed’s done? Zevlor preferred women, for a start. He’d never entertained the thought of bedding a man. And the thought of bedding a vampire he entertained even less. It didn't matter if the vampire in question had an attractive face and was born an elf a long time ago. Inside, there was a man older than Zevlor himself, delusional, self-absorbed and probably a little insane.

He put the empty bottle aside and took a deep breath of unpleasantly smelling humid air. It was about time he headed back; his shift was almost over.

*

The next day as he was closing the door to his lodgings, Zevlor found a polite question written on it with a flourish that inquired just how big, exactly, was the stick that the Hellrider had shoved up his arse. It was harmless enough, Zevlor conceded, and left the words untouched. Unfortunately, he didn't possess the answer to the anonymous question since there was currently no actual stick to be found up his arse. Not the one he was aware of.

The undead influence had begun to show the day after, when some younger comrades started to give him looks. Due to him forgetting that he had offended a very sensitive snake, Zevlor wasn't bothered by their behaviour until Velns had shown up and began giggling idiotically at the sight of their manip. He refused to explain himself and continued to snigger until Zevlor finally lost his patience and hit the dining table with his fist. This sent a couple of utensils into the air, and the whole room into silence. Everyone knew Zevlor to be a very lenient man, except the times when he wasn't.

But Velns was special. In what regard, no one could quite describe, but everyone thought some rules didn't apply to him. It wasn't like he didn't have the self-preservation instinct, it was more about his uniquely filigreed ability to sense the difference between a case of the pie hitting the windmill, and the situation when the pie had only been flipped over in the air to surprise a few simpletons.

So he chuckled, “A pretty adornishment you have there, sir. How often do you look at your tail?”

Zevlor instinctively jerked the tip of the said appendage upwards to stare at it, and indeed it brandished an adorable, although covered in dust, miniature pink bow. At first, all colour drained from his face, changing it from deep vermilion to a pale red. But the Hellrider recovered quickly, swinging his tail curiously as the dozen pairs of eyes watched him with bated breath.

“In fact, not very often. I don't know which one of the kids did it, but I must say, we should petition for the return of tail cuffs. It adds a certain flair."

“Absolutely,” Velns agreed, and felt around for his tankard. Multiple people had remembered how to breathe again.

Zevlor walked with the pink bow on his tail for the rest of the day, had forgotten about it and went to sleep still wearing it.

After the bow, there was the smell. He woke up to it, and was forced to close his eyes for a second in an attempt to adjust to his new reality. It was unsuccessful. The smell couldn't be called bad by any means. It was just oppressive. And it was also obviously, even aggressively, feminine. Zevlor had no idea how the vampire had done it, and didn't want to guess. It had to have included some trespassing and alchemical wizardry. The smell stuck to the tiefling in a way that could only be achieved by soaking him in perfume fit for massive barbaric women with hydration issues.

This did force him to take a day off and go to the Sorcerous Sundries, where they’d helped him to get rid of it before he’d suffocate. The day that followed this, Zevlor stank of garlic instead of perfume, because he had scattered the cloves all over his place and set up some mouse traps. As a warning.

He'd been spared that night.

These increasingly petty misconducts had to stop. He didn't do anything to Astarion besides not wanting to do anything with him. It seemed the man couldn't cope with the word no. Zevlor had begun regretting he even talked to the vampire for the second time. He shouldn't have antagonised him. Ilmater's grace, there’d been a number of ways he could've escaped that situation without conflict.

In truth, he had simply lost his temper. It did happen to him more often than he wished to admit. The divine sense had been screaming at him to do something about the undead being too close, he’d been a bit drunk, the vampire had been annoyingly intrusive, and when he’d touched Zevlor out of the blue with an implication again, Zevlor's brain short-circuited. No, the fault was still Astarion's, he could’ve been harmed irreversibly if it was someone else. Zevlor half-expected him to dodge that poke and laugh at the obstinate tiefling. Yet he had dropped like a sack of potatoes.

A very weird vampire spawn indeed.

Perhaps he wasn't in his right mind, which Zevlor could understand. They did tend to go nuts. The vampires. Especially the ones that had been enslaved for a long time.

However, none of it was Zevlor's problem, and Astarion was keen on making himself one.

He was also completely unpredictable as Zevlor couldn't possibly have predicted that he would find him bleeding on his doorstep one evening when coming back from the shift.

The red eyes regarded him disdainfully. The vampire looked battered, his fancy clothes torn in places, splattered with traces of blood and mud. His leg was either broken or just badly wounded, Zevlor couldn't tell in this light. Astarion had clearly been through some nasty and merciless beating, and he had crawled to the paladin’s place like a stray cat silently asking for help. All of this after passing a couple of staircases and the guards. Quite a lot of effort for someone in his condition.

Why he trusted Zevlor with this after all the game of tag wasn't really Zevlor's business, but it perplexed him all the same. He ought to shackle this pompous parasite and throw him into prison.

No one would judge him for it.

The Hellrider assessed the damage without a word, slightly shook his head in reprimand, and opened the door to his lodgings. Stepping inside, the tiefling snapped his fingers to summon the blue flame and light up a sconce as he usually did.

“How did you get in here?” He asked absentmindedly. He withheld the how did you manage to do this unnoticed.

Since he’d been granted the new position, Ravenguard used it as an excuse to give him personal lodgings located on the upper floor in Wyrm’s Rock. He could argue that simple sergeants didn’t get this kind of treatment, but it meant he didn't have to sleep next to others and disturb them with his snoring, so he reconsidered this argument. And he would really rather not fight Ulder over this of all things.

What puzzled him was that this place was heavily guarded. Obviously, Astarion had an ability to seep through the wall cracks.

“I sneaked in,” the vampire muttered. Which meant a potion of invisibility and the misty step. He leaned against the doorframe, glancing incredulously at the piles of garlic still scattered on the floor.

“Should I invite you in?”

“That won't be necessary,” Astarion flinched.

“I figured. Some things don't work on you anymore, do they?”

“Just like garlic.”

The tiefling left it without any commentary.

Zevlor moved further into the room to light the other candles that were coincidentally placed in the darker corners. These were the bachelor's quarters; tidy enough, but without all the little napkins folded or the cups on walls. The curtains on the small narrow window were of common cheap variety, and an unfinished bowl of stew sat on the table. Zevlor quickly emptied it into the bin and then threw it to the basin with no consideration.

The place screamed of neglect and loneliness. It was obvious that whoever lived here, they came mostly to sleep and preferred to spend their active hours elsewhere.

“Oh dear,” Astarion sighed. He was too drained to summon the sass.

“Not as comfortable as a coffin, eh?” Zevlor deflected the unspoken jab, unfazed, and pulled the basket from on top of the cabinet. “I’d be grateful if you closed the door. I don't need questions in the morning.”

“You mean the awkward questions about why you had a handsome guest visiting at midnight?” The vampire grinned, showing his teeth. He seldom had the opportunity to do so.

Zevlor stared at him deadpun, unrolling the bandages.

“I mean the questions about someone bleeding on my doorstep. Close. The door. Or get out.”

Astarion scowled, displeased, but did as he was told. Why was he even bothering? He hadn't come for a cheerful chat, after all.

He could use some… politeness, though. Not that he’d expected to find it here.

He shouldn't have expected much help at all, for that matter, due to his own tantrum. He’d been a little brat about the whole thing and he knew it.

Why couldn't he leave the tiefling alone?

He didn't even want to sleep with Zevlor, not as much as he wanted to sleep with anyone else. It wasn't about attraction, really.

He’d be content with just being acknowledged as more than dirt under the paladin's boots.

Perhaps that was what had pivoted him here after he’d stupidly gotten himself ambushed when hunting. Astarion avoided biting people too often, and charmed them before the deed, but sometimes he encountered other monsters that pretended to be vulnerable victims. This was one of those cases. The guy had conspired with his friends that jumped at the vampire the moment he’d coaxed his target into an alley. He was lucky to get out of there in one piece. It had all happened in Wyrm's Crossing, so the option of paying Zevlor a visit seemed logical enough. He tried not to dwindle on the thought of why he trusted the paladin not to finish the job the thugs had started.

With his head low, Astarion humbly limped to the table and dropped into the wooden chair. It creaked. He was bruised, his clothes ruined, and his leg hurt. That knife must've been coated in poison or something, otherwise why was his own black viscous blood feverishly pounding at his temples?

Zevlor rounded the table and came to stand in front of the vampire. He was still in his Flaming Fist gear that smelled of beer spilled on him in the heat of a struggle. The dwarf in Elfsong had taken offence when the paladin had tried to persuade him to let go of a chair and descend from the counter. Zevlor wasn't even on duty, he had stayed to help introduce the ‘fresh meat’ to the basic guard responsibilities. His reward was a tankard in the face, which he promptly dodged but still managed to get dirty.

He also faintly smelled of tiefling blood. Astarion wouldn't have called it delicious; it was close enough to a human blood, sure, however it was overly spicy and always burned his tongue. He wouldn't say no if Zevlor offered it, but he had a sneaking suspicion the chances of it ever happening were close to zero.

They were staring each other down. Eventually, Astarion bit his lower lip and glanced up, purposefully trying to look harmless, fragile and just a little pathetic.

“Cease that,” The Hellrider braced against the table, “And show me the wound. The one you're hiding too.”

The vampire's eyebrows shot up – he was surprised by the tiefling's perceptiveness. Although, he shouldn't have been surprised by anything at this point. Zevlor demonstrated time and time again that he was quite observant.

Reluctantly, the vampire unbuttoned his jerkin and what had remained of his shirt, pushing the fabric aside to present an ugly shallow cut crossing his ribs. It ached like hell and oozed dark liquid. The "nice" purple bruises splayed on his sides were the cherry on top.

Zevlor scrutinised him for a bit, and brought a fist to his lips, concentrating. Astarion recognised the gesture; the paladin was channeling divinity. The vampire's body tensed immediately, ready to bolt.

The Hellrider then reached slowly, his fingers visibly glowing. Shadowheart had been able to heal Astarion while he carried a parasite, yet the tadpole burned and went out of his skull months ago. He was an undead.

Surely Zevlor didn't intend?..

“I don't know how my healing powers will affect you, since your reaction to my magic is abnormal. This won't harm you too much ‘til I decide so,” the tiefling explained. “Hold still.”

Well, the promise that it “won't harm too much” was one hell of a reassurance.

Astarion’s gaze was glued to the glowing hand, the tips of black claws eventually touching his bare skin, and then the whole scorchingly hot palm was pressed against his chest. He controlled himself, preventing a sigh from escaping him. All of his instincts were screaming to run away from this, it had potential to hurt, hurt like holy water and worse. This spell was filled to the brim with divination. He should've turned to ashes the moment that hand had touched him, and yet there he was, just feeling a bit itchy. The sacred flames danced in front of his eyes, the sensation itself dipping into ecstatic. It bordered on painful, the thrumming getting through his ribcage straight to the cursed soul. He got a feeling he was being mercifully spared from purification, which in his case would've meant a certain vanquish.

It spread wide, covering all of his chest and the stomach. The magical aspect of this couldn't be called nice, the physical… A whip hit didn't exactly feel nice in general circumstances. Unless directed by a gentle hand, with the appropriate mood set, and the right amount of strength applied.

Astarion wasn't into this kind of thing for obvious reasons.

And yet, with this man in charge and this power, it felt spectacular. Zevlor had given him a careful stroke, a mere tease.

His nipples perked up. Oh dear, he thought again.

After a minute had passed, Zevlor shook his head and retrieved his hand, leaving a slightly reddish mark on the pale chest. Doubtfully that he noticed Astarion’s subtle reactions. The Hellrider's mind was elsewhere.

“It's no use,” he grumbled. “I had hope since you chased me for a week to get this. No undead would normally do that. Unfortunately, I’m not the man to heal you. Lay on Hands doesn't damage you as it might, but your body refuses anything divine. And you're lucky that's all it does.”

Refuses? The memory of that touch was still pulsing in his abdomen. Hells, that tingled. And tickled. It had scratched something deep inside.

“Well. I’m out of healing potions. You should've come after tomorrow when I usually restock, or robbed an apothecary. As it stands, we’ll have to revert to the classic ways,” the Hellrider nodded at his medical kit splayed on the table, bandages unrolled and the flasks lined up. The vampire regarded the metallic box that contained needles of various sizes, and his expression changed to mildly horrified. “You need stitching. I doubt your wounds would fester, and I’m aware you regenerate. Let me know of the specifics.”

Astarion’s gaze slowly moved from the medical supplies to the figure standing before him. That was the god’s servant for you. Ad protegendos infirmos, right? Zevlor was willing to lend his hand even to an undead, the monster he was theoretically supposed to eradicate.

How kind. And repulsive.

“I’m a vampire,” Astarion said in a dispassionate voice. “There’s one effective way you can help a vampire without sticking needles in them.”

He really wanted to see the darkness prevail over chivalry. In Astarion's world, chivalry only served as another sort of foreplay between blushing maidens and stiff virgins. His world was a bit vulgar at times, to think of it.

Zevlor's face didn't betray much. His face had also betrayed very little back then when he pushed Astarion off the jetty, irritated by the blatant flirting. Frankly, tiefling eyes weren't that expressive in general, the black and glowing kind at least, but Zevlor's in particular could show emotion pretty clearly when he wanted it.

“I invite you here regardless of your pestering, and you dare to imply blasphemy?” It didn't boom. The paladin didn't sound loud, but Astarion suddenly had an almost irresistible urge to slide under the table and curl there in its shadow.

“I didn't ask for a thing,” the vampire hissed, feeling small. “Only thought of mentioning it in case you have forgotten.”

“You didn't bite your attackers, whoever they were?”

They. Perceptive indeed.

“Didn't have a chance,” Astarion shifted to subconsciously cover his bare chest.

“Well. I’m not letting you drink my blood,” Zevlor stomped past him to rummage through the kitchen drawers. “There are some things I can't allow. Patching you up is still on the table. If it's not to your vampiric tastes, you're free to leave. And, uh,” he paused and turned to meet Astarion's judgemental eyes. “If you continue being insolent, you’ll be kicked out. That's my only warning.”

Astarion giggled maniacally, “Darling, any of your valiant attempts to discipline me will be two hundred years late at this point. And futile, I assure you."

“It’s not an attempt,” the darling had been duly ignored. “I’m just saying, between us: I’ll kick you out if you won't stop trying to get a rise out of me. Is that understood?”

The vampire thought that his mouth was going to hurt worse than his leg from all the scowling it performed. Teasing a paladin was fun when your health didn't depend on the said paladin's mood. And the Commander seemed as unwavering as a troll in storm, which could mean two things: he was either preparing to strangle Astarion or just didn't care.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Zevlor put a rather large teapot on the small brick stove that he had ignited moments before, and approached the table, “I have a drink that’s supposed to sedate a tiefling, but I’m not sure it’ll work on you. Do you want to try it?”

“If it's not a poison or blessed, I can take whatever,” Astarion shrugged. "Actually, scratch that; poisons are even preferable. They're good for digestion, provided we're talking acid."

The Hellrider gave him a side eye and picked one of the flasks. The vampire watched him prepare the drug, pour it into the tiny cup, and then get busy with removing his uniform. Astarion tilted his head to the side as deft fingers dealt with the buckles and clasps, each snapped and undone with ease. He knew for a fact what else those sorts of fingers were capable of. He had been with many tieflings with rough hands used to gripping a sword handle, and that grip could be, indeed, quite reliable. You had to feel the amount of force applied, the resistance of the enemy's steel, the give and push and all the things that decided which one of you would be laying dead when you're done fighting.

The vampire didn't like the claw scratches, but he remembered enjoying the steadiness. Tieflings were more dexterous than, say, humans, and so even soldiers like Zevlor could precisely control the pressure of –

“Can you interact with people without mentally undressing them?” The Hellrider rudely interrupted his fantasies. He was down to his shirt now, and rolling up the sleeves.

Astarion sneered.

“I didn't have to mentally undress you. You were undressing. And I myself am half-naked, aren't we on equal terms?”

Zevlor smirked, and pointed at the little cup waiting between them, “Drink the sedative. It doesn't start working right away; we’ll clean your wounds in the meantime.”

With that, the tiefling took the teapot off the stove and poured the hot water into the prepared metallic tub. He was doing something else with it, but Astarion got bored of watching him and dragged the cup closer to himself, holding it with the pointing finger and thumb.

He sniffed the contents. Herbs. Well, he had little choice on the matter, didn't he?

“Take off your clothes,” Zevlor said and put the tub on the table with a thud. Astarion almost startled, miraculously avoiding choking on the drink. “The trousers can stay on.”

“Ah, what a mercy,” the vampire chuckled and quickly went quiet under the heavy glare. While Zevlor finished the preparations, Astarion reluctantly shrugged off what had remained of his clothing and threw it over the back of his chair. The cut still bothered him, and the leg throbbed painfully.

The Hellrider sank down to one knee holding a thin towel. The tangy alcoholic scent hit Astarion's nose.

“It’ll burn,” the tiefling warned as his hands moved to touch the vampire once more.

“How did you know?” He asked, for the sake of making a small talk.

“Know what?”

“That it wasn't just one.”

“Guessed,” Zevlor said, voice low and detached. “You share some priorities with thieves, and you’re slim. I don't think you’d take on someone who could fight you back in close combat. So my first guess was that you were ambushed by more than one guy.”

“A rather good guess,” Astarion’s lips twitched in a small smile.

Zevlor hummed in agreement.

The vampire closed his eyes. He imagined Shadowheart tending to him, and somehow it made the sting less unbearable. He felt no divine presence this time, just the unusually hot hands, warm water, and the bite of spirits. Undead flesh appreciated care in much the same way as the living one did. Goosebumps arose, and Astarion permitted himself a quiet hiss.

“You’re doing well,” the vampire was so surprised at the praise that his eyes flew wide open, and he stared at the kneeled tiefling. Zevlor didn't look at his face; he was busy with cleaning the cut. Which was rather pointless, but Astarion found himself reluctant to address that. “I’m not going to lie, this is interesting. You may not believe me but I hadn't had the chance to inspect a vampire spawn so closely. Your blood is almost coagulated, I don't know how it can course through your veins. I’m positive you can't get gangrene, in fact you seem to be immune to anything rot-related.”

“It’s the venom,” Astarion replied, humouring the man. Zevlor arched one brow. “The same one that we use to feed.”

“Ah. Your bites bleed longer.”

“Mhm,” the vampire winced; the alcohol-soaked fabric was now pressed to his calf. The Hellrider had rolled up his trouser leg and was now holding Astarion's foot with one arm, positioning it on his own thigh.

Both of them stayed silent until the cleaning was finished, and Zevlor pulled the scary needle box closer. “How do you feel?”

“Dizzy,” Astarion admitted.

The Hellrider carefully probed his leg that he was still holding, right next to the wound. Nothing really happened.

“I think it works,” the tiefling decided and chose one of the needles. “I’m not a qualified healer, but I can confidently say you have no broken bones. The stitches should be enough. You don't have to look.”

“Wasn’t about to.”

The vampire threw his head back to watch the ceiling instead. The beams supporting it sported a nice cobweb and a couple of the fat happy spiders. It was also covered in soot, especially in the corner occupied by the stovepipe. He could barely feel Zevlor's hands on his skin, and the room span languidly around him.

How did he end up here? Half a year ago he wouldn't have regretted killing this exact man for some supplies. He did steal something from one of the refugees, but those pockets were so empty it made him feel dreadfully disappointed. Astarion didn't like helping anybody but himself. But he suspected Zevlor knew that, and was patching him up anyway. The paladin hadn't asked why Astarion chose to trust him. He just worked silently, as only a military medic could, quick and efficient.

“Done,” the tiefling said. Astarion gazed down and turned his leg this way and that to inspect it; the tissue was mended rather crudely together with a thread, but it held strong. It would make him whimper later, for sure. Unless he’d find someone to bury his fangs into. “Now, your chest. I suspect it’ll close itself anyway. You want me to continue?”

Astarion didn't reply, his head swimming in the puffy gentle clouds. His attention zeroed in on the tiefling’s eyes, the two little glowing rings. They got closer; Zevlor began to prod at the edges of the nasty cut on the bruised chest, looking for the right spot to start. In immediate haze Astarion felt the heat of those fingers brushing against him. He couldn't tell the texture, only the temperature. The vampire threw his head back again, ignoring the familiar thump in his temples and the uncalled response of his body to the experience. He remembered the thrum, the buzz, and the caressing threat of divine power washing over him.

He was aware he might’ve looked debauched, but he didn't care.

A velvety chuckle echoed.

“I see it has hit you nicely…” the Hellrider murmured to himself, the rumble of his voice getting slightly louder as he leaned closer to focus on what he was doing. At least Astarion wasn't making Zevlor’s life too difficult at the moment. The doze that the tiefling had given him could be higher than necessary since Zevlor couldn't possibly know exactly how much was required to knock out a vampire. It softened the tissue as well. Astarion relaxed, making the Hellrider's job easier.

God bless the alchemy.

Then, the unnaturally cold palm cupped his cheek, and Zevlor froze. Astarion let out a sigh, spread his legs wider and brushed a thumb over the tiefling's lips.

The Hellrider abruptly stood up, cutting off the remaining thread with a claw edge. He’d managed to almost finish the job, that'd do. Then, he strolled to the stove and threw the used towels and rags into its hungry maw.

He couldn't even reprimand the vampire now because he’d been drugged, and who, you ask, had drugged him? People did stranger things under influence. Touching his cheek wasn't a crime.

Still, the whole of his being shook as if violated. The dormant holy magic in him bristled, seething at the audacity. How dare this vile creature touch him! In the suggestive way, at that!

Zevlor sighed, leaning against the masonry wall. There was no suggestion. He had intentionally incapacitated the vampire, and then the vampire went silly. End of the topic.

The shuffling noise behind him startled Zevlor out of his thoughts, and he turned to witness Astarion attempting to clumsily bandage himself across the chest. He noticed Zevlor's stare, smiled brightly and toothily, then pointed at his work. “Feel perfect!”

“I’m sure you do,” the tiefling coughed, masking a laugh. He’d never seen Astarion look so genuinely proud of his own achievement. “Think you can manage the rest of it?”

“Of course!” The vampire exclaimed, and proceeded to unwrap the bandages with courage. Zevlor left him to it, taking the needle box away for safety reasons and getting rid of the murky bloodied water.

He’s in no state to walk the streets at this hour, the Hellrider admitted begrudgingly, I can't let him out.

He judged the vampire’s condition. Astarion was wrapping his own leg, now, swaying slightly in his seat, with the roll of bandages safely secured in his mouth. He’d done a commendable job, considering how high he was.

Zevlor’s brain switched into the military to allow some appropriate emotional distance. He approached Astarion, squeezed his shoulder and yanked him upright.

“You’ll sleep it off here. Or whatever it is you do,” Zevlor said indisputably. Astarion had to clutch the table edge to steady himself, and his gaze meandered to the tiefling's eyes.

“Here?” He repeated, apparently in a stupor.

“Mercy upon me… There's a bedroll. Please, don't argue.”

The vampire was very far from arguing, distracted by something on Zevlor's neck. Most likely an artery.

The Hellrider didn't want to waste any more time prancing about it and guided a half-naked Astarion in the direction where he needed him, using a motivating factor as simple as the nudge between his shoulder blades. That got them into another room where Zevlor usually slept. He kept a couple of bedrolls in here just in case; in the aftermath of recent events, the Order squadrons sometimes went on the week-long patrols way past Baldur's Gate walls, and they had to make do with what they carried. Nothing the Hellrider wasn't used to.

To the tiefling's chagrin, Astarion immediately headed for the bed and landed on his back, beckoning to Zevlor. The vampire’s smile was so innocent one could believe the fangs were decorative.

“Come here, darling,” he drawled almost without slurring. “I’ll comfort you. It’ll get so, so warm between our bodies.”

Zevlor contemplated smacking the man after all with the roll of bandages he still held, and decided it wasn't worth the hassle. Only one of them had their brains melted to treacle, and it sure as hell wasn't Zevlor.

“Fine, have the bed,” he waved his hand dismissively and went to the corner with an intent to drag one of the bedrolls out of the dusty chest.

“Ah, I can't undo my breeches,” the Hellrider heard from behind. “Could someone help me?.. Anyone?”

Zevlor hauled the bedroll onto his shoulder, and nodded to the plastered pale figure, “Don't break the furniture”. Astarion sat up to watch the tiefling resolutely trudge out of the room.

A sharp click then indicated that the door was promptly locked.

*

He woke up from the ache. And waking up meant he was unconscious for an unknown period of time. Astarion hated being unconscious, when absolutely anything could happen and he wasn't there to witness it happening. Especially if it had been happening to him.

Where was he, again?

The vampire rolled to his side. The side protested loudly. He groaned in refusal to accept the reality he had found himself in. He was, evidently, laying flat in the modest bed. It was quiet around him, and dark, apparently. His body felt horribly bruised, which couldn't be considered new, and he remembered getting into trouble yesterday. Where did he go afterwards? Ah, yes, the old paladin.

…Wait.

Astarion sat up with a start in complete disregard to the pain shooting through his chest, and looked around him in panic. He managed to make out the bed that he was occupying – alone – a chest in the corner, a rug that had seen better days and a wardrobe. Nothing here had told him about the person whose bedroom it was. Was it a guest room, perhaps?

The vampire stared downwards and saw the bandages criss-crossing his torso. He didn't remember Zevlor doing that. Had he done that? The last thing Astarion could recall was him slowly sinking into clouds and the sensation of hot hands on his pectorals.

Oh. Oh dear. Not like this.

He tumbled from the bed awkwardly and stalked to the closed door, shifting his weight to not cause a creak. The door was locked. Instinctively, he searched in his pockets and twirled a lockpick in his fingers, then a sudden click thundered through his head and the door swung wide open.

Zevlor was staring at him in mild confusion. His eyes darted to the vampire's nimble fingers holding the lockpick.

“You could've knocked,” the Hellrider pushed the door wider to keep it from closing and disappeared from Astarion's view, returning to the main room.

Like a ghost, the vampire tiptoed after him and stopped, attempting to comprehend what had happened.

“How long had I been out?” He found the right question to ask. I was moving soundlessly, his thoughts jingled. He always knows where I am when he's not asleep. Not good.

It smelled of coffee and the curtains were shut, creating an intimate, sleepy atmosphere and preventing the light from entering. Zevlor had been in the process of brewing himself a concoction that only a tiefling could consume without fear. He was wearing the same shirt as yesterday. A packed bedroll was tucked into the corner.

Any evidence of the night activities was gone from the table, replaced with a breadplate, sliced cheese, and butter. An enormous overgorged spider was steadily making its way down from the ceiling, hanging on a thread.

Astarion continued to stand still, squinting from the pounding headache that swiftly added to his other pains. He was not, in fact, in the best of his moods, but too cautious to open his mouth and let the world know. Besides, there was something wrong with that coffee, he knew it by the fact he could smell it effortlessly.

“I believe you slept approximately seven hours,” Zevlor responded, not looking at his guest.

“I feel like some very important memories have been misplaced,” Astarion refused to beat around the bush. “Care to fill in the gaps?”

The tiefling grunted, stirring in the pot. “Relax. Nothing happened, you’ve bandaged yourself and I put you to sleep. Frankly, I didn't expect you to claim my bed, but arguing with you wasn't really an option.”

The vampire felt the suspicious tension leave his shoulders. Whatever he himself had done, Zevlor the honourable knight hadn't used it to his advantage. He had even let Astarion to “claim” his bed. Did the tiefling sleep on a bedroll, on the floor?

However much venom the undead soul contained, the elf in him wanted to bow as was customary in such cases. He didn't, of course. But the thought was there.

“Thank you,” he said.

The Hellrider glanced at him in surprise, his answering smile more genuine than the previous ones, “You're welcome.”

“What's wrong with that coffee?”

“It's a special recipe. One of my comrades came up with it in Avernus. Puts you on your feet faster than pepper stashed where the sun doesn't shine.”

Astarion, to his own astonishment, allowed himself an undignified snort.

“Does it have the same aftertaste as this joke?”

“What joke?”

It was a proper moment for the crickets to chime in, but apparently the room only housed spiders.

“Do you even drink coffee? Tea?” Zevlor tried to recover.

“Only wine,” acutely aware of his own half-naked state, the vampire skulked closer to the table, looking for the remnants of his clothes. They were still hanging on the chair's back. “And that's for decadence. I can't really… Well. Taste.”

“That is unfortunate,” Zevlor sounded sincere. Astarion stared at him like he’d never seen a tiefling.

Something had clearly happened last night. The unbreakable wall between them was gone. Astarion had a feeling that the wolf he'd been trying to feed had finally decided to eat in his presence, instead of vanishing into the woods. It was gratifying, even if he had no idea what he'd done.

He ought not to pry.

Zevlor noticed the vampire walking closer, but stayed at ease. He knew he had nothing to worry about, Astarion was weakened and in no mood to pester or attack him. As the paladin went to put his mug of hazardous coffee on the table, Astarion watched him from the corner of his eye. They were now standing right next to each other.

Petting would be early. He’d get bitten.

“I must apologise,” the vampire said so suddenly Zevlor almost dropped his mug.

“What for? Mind you, I’m asking because you’ve done plenty.”

“Ha,” Astarion replied dryly. “Contrary to your belief, I’m not in the habit of harassing men for petty reasons. I prefer when my partners enjoy themselves.”

“I did enjoy the view of you wallowing in seaweed.”

“You’re no less insufferable than me, I swear. Has anyone told you that?”

Zevlor muttered, “Fine. Apology accepted.”

They were both painfully aware of the proximity for all the wrong and proper reasons.

To quickly distract himself, Zevlor glanced at the thin fingers resting on the table surface.

Icy as marble, skin sickly white, nearly translucent.

The two dots on his neck, the mark of a bite that had sealed Astarion's fate. The dried smudges of his own blood on chin. The piercingly clear, intelligent eyes, looking for an elusive clue.

He opened his mouth again. “Your place seems a bit lonely.”

“I’m a lonely man. And that's fine. You're not the one to lecture me about solitude, given that you ended up here instead of somewhere else.”

Astarion turned his head away, frowning slightly. “I could've gone somewhere else. You were just… convenient.”

“Convenient? The place’s guarded by the armed Fists.”

“A minor obstacle.”

Zevlor felt distantly the disgusted scream of his inner faceless divinity. Banish! Abomination! Grind to a pulp! Get rid of it!

Astarion was knowingly placing himself at his mercy. He had shown it openly enough, crawling wounded to the paladin's doorstep. The vampire could be smited or paralyzed in seconds, and yet he risked to get further than he was allowed to. Looking right between the open jaws of the opposing power, to the core of the magic destined to erase him.

That spawn had killed his own Master, Zevlor had heard before the battle above Chionthar. Perhaps he had no honour, but what he certainly did have was the kind of dishonour Hellrider recognised. The tiefling had once defied his own Master in exchange for a freedom of choice, he knew what it felt like and why it might've happened.

Astarion continued to stare into the corner with an expression of deep thought. He was frozen in place and time, seemingly contemplating his recent life choices.

Silently, Zevlor directed the radiance that continued to whine and protest to the vessel of his own body. The familiar overflowing magic coated him, channeled into one tiny point on this plane; his soul.

He reached out.

Astarion's eyes widened. His body made a tiny move to step backwards on instinct, but he stopped himself as the tiefling's hands paused at his reaction.

“Permit me?” Zevlor didn't sound gentle, his intonation remained the same. Slightly rough, rumbling voice, not soothing by any means. As if he was asking to check on Astarion's wounds again.

The vampire looked, and stayed still.

He had no time to protest or celebrate when the calloused hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into the static glow. Another hand wrapped itself around his torso, to let yet more of the radiance sink in. Zevlor's sleeves remained rolled up, and the contact with his bare arms seared Astarion's skin.

His world collapsed in blinding, golden flames. He thought he was dying. Oh, he’d been really, really bad. He required specific treatment. A punishment, if you will. He’d go nicely with a sprinkle of desperation and spiced with shame. You’d burn so sweetly, hissed to him the flames, like a dry wood. We’ll eat you right up.

Astarion tensed and moaned involuntarily. Stifling it proved impossible. His knees trembled. The heat of dangerous, hostile power enveloped him, its wrathful claws nicking his spine, its whisper running along his torso in thick waves. There was boundless warmth, and fulfillment. He’d never felt so fulfilled in his whole life after —

Zevlor took a careful step back and let go of the vampire.

He was baffled, to put it mildly. He did not expect this.

The man had shuddered in his arms like a virgin that had never been touched before. And it wasn't an act, he could tell. You’d have to be a virtuoso to imitate being wrecked like that.

Astarion did whimper, however it wasn't from pain. The... noise couldn't be interpreted as anything other than the sign of pleasure, and judging by the pitch, there was a lot of it.

The vampire braced against the table, breathing heavily, and then his face cracked in a wicked content smile. “Oh, that. Ah… woah.”

Zevlor remembered to sever his divine connection before he’d drain the entire daily supply. He could see the reddish marks from his own hands on Astarion's skin.

The Hellrider stared at them, frowning.

“You alright?” He clipped out. “Didn't hurt?”

“No, certainly not. I’d call it a divine experience,” the vampire laughed. “I was positive you were about to push me away or something. What came over you?”

“Compassion,” Zevlor grumbled and took a sip of coffee. He didn't want to admit he saw touching the vampire as an easy way out of this predicament. And, well. He was curious too. Astarion had been so insistent. It had got to be worth it, he surmised.

As before, there was no lust nor other earnings on Zevlor's part. He did it to see what would happen. That body breathed and struggled as any other, but it was morbidly cold to an Infernal. He felt pretty conflicted about the whole thing. Zevlor could almost hear the metaphorical drumming of Ilmater’s fingers against his oath shield. What are you up to, child?

But the vampire’s face was lit with something Zevlor hadn't had the honour to yet witness.

Tastes dulled. Smells meaningless. Only the steel of blood left, and hunger, and the night.

Yes, he could imagine. The spawn would welcome any unbidden experiences.

Zevlor tried to resurrect the hollow, grey memories after he’d lost his vow. He had chosen wrong, and broke an oath that bound him to Elturel, running with his tail between his legs. It was the purposeless path he had wandered, feeling mute in the dark fog.

Was that Astarion’s life? Two hundred years, he’d said. And against his will. Gods.
The vampire saw his solemn expression.

“I don't trust sympathy,” he calmly said. “And I don't need it. I spoke from the heart, you know. At the jetty,” Zevlor stared at him blankly. “Well, I meant most of it. I’m tired of people, I don't enjoy shit, then suddenly I meet you, you – never dreamt of meeting you again, no offence – in Sharesses' Caress, and life’s gotten a bit more entertaining. Considering we haven’t even fucked, that's encouraging.”

Zevlor was speechless for a moment, contemplating if it was truly worth it to chastise a rogue vampire on the topic of obscene language.

Astarion didn't try to cling to him, outright flirt or get an upper hand; he just smiled dreamily, looking dazed. The Hellrider found it comforting.

“I should see myself out, shouldn't I?” Astarion asked airily.

“I don't imagine how you plan to do that, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.”

“To the sewers we go.”

“Really?” The Hellrider blinked.

Astarion chuckled, stretching, “I'm staying with Nine Fingers. And since I don't want them to be raided by the Flaming Fist Order, I won't tell you where.”

“Even if I hug you again?”

To Zevlor's amusement, the vampire actually took a pause to consider that offer.

“I don't need to know,” the tiefling hurried to say before he’d be obligated to form a squad for the most pointless raid in the history of Baldur's Gate.

“Of course you don't, it might just disturb some agreements that don't require any disturbing, hm? Besides, your little weasels work for them,” Astarion sighed. “Mol is my sole reliable lockpick provider these days. Still, it’d be an interesting show.”

“What, chaos and revolt?”

“Exactly, dear Commander, exactly,” the vampire grabbed and held out in front of him the rags that his clothing had turned into, wrinkling his nose, “Ah… I wouldn't dare to make a request…”

“I’ll give you a spare shirt,” Zevlor finished his coffee, biting into the loaf of bread with cheese. Then, he stared at it. He’d hugged a vampire and the world didn't flip over. Unlike perhaps his forefathers in their graves. But a piece of bread was still a piece of bread. “And I would be grateful if you’d return it. Unlike you, I’m not allowed to steal fancy doublets."

“I could steal one for you,” Astarion shrugged and had the gall to look scandalised when the Hellrider gave him another warning glare. “What? I’m in your debt.”

“Consider it paid.”

“Splendid, then,” the vampire rolled the tatters into a neat heap and put it back on the chair, “I feel distinctly too bloody for my tastes. Is there a wash basin at this house I could borrow?”

“The closet to your right. The water can be gathered here.”

After one more hour of swift washing, or, rather, wiping and redressing, Astarion wrapped himself in a cloak he’d sworn he would return later and slipped out of Zevlor's apartments. The tiefling was soon to follow, his afternoon shift about to start. Surprisingly, he felt a bit more joyful than he did yesterday evening.

When not playing the pretend, Astarion was an interesting character, despite his undead nature. Zevlor could picture fighting alongside him, as they had, technically, already done, even if it was from the different corners of the same barricade. He wondered what would've happened if the vampire didn't like the feeling of radiant magic drilling into his palm back in Sharesses' Caress.

When the Hellrider strolled down the street that evening, watching the shadows from the corner of his eye, the divine sense had told him he was not, in fact, being followed.