Chapter Text
Ever since Eira took the first breath of her second life, everything had been about death. Her resurrection left her skin a pale, hypothermic blue— a permanent brand ensuring she would never forget what happened to her. She never sat at a gambling table, but she'd still traded her life for necromantic talent. Nobles paid her adoptive family well for it: resurrections, funeral rites, conversations with the dead. The work brought her family money and respect. It brought her nothing but travel— the only freedom afforded to her. Necromancy was hers only because they couldn't take it.
Shadowheart's company is a revelation. Someone who doesn't want anything from her. Someone who isn't dead. It only works to highlight how lonely her life has been. How many years spent caring for the dead, mingling with people only when they wanted something? How many funerals has she performed for strangers?
When was the last time Eira had a conversation that didn't involve a corpse?
A pale elf stands just off the trail. It seems death can’t abandon her for long.
There is no warmth to him, no aura of vitality. Undeath hangs over him like a second skin, cloaking him in an eerily still haze.
Fascinating.
The undead have only ever been reduced to diagrams, warnings, stylized art, or annotated failures of the body. Things that should not be alive, yet are. Weaknesses to be explored with training. Holy water, radiant blessings in spells or weapons.
Sunlight.
Her fingers itch to investigate. She needs a closer look.
So when he asks for help with another intellect devourer, the opportunity seems to fall into her lap. Eira is already approaching. Shadowheart’s opinion on the matter fades to the salt-kissed wind.
First impression: he’s beautiful. It would be stupid to deny it. Eyes: a lovely Lolth red, a shade or two darker than the ruby she pulled from a mind flayer’s body. Skin: statuesque alabaster. Definitely not Drow.
Vampirism. Almost certainly. The only thing arguing otherwise is the sun on her skin, warm and indifferent.
The devourer is through the grass, he promises, but only her body is approaching. Her eyes try to stay on him, examining, picking apart any detail. She pulls her eyes away for a split second and–
His shadow on the ground is her only warning when he lunges at her. She allows him to take her down, but in her defense, she was curious. Was it stupid? Sure. Dangerous? Absolutely. But the close proximity is worth it.
She learns a few things: One, he braced the back of her neck and head to prevent injury. Obviously practiced to perfection, careful even when threatening harm. Two, a long-healed bite hidden below his collar. A vision shared between them reveals the third: fear of the light that isn’t burning him and the stomach-gnawing hunger that lights her throat on fire.
Definitely vampirism.
It’s only when they’re on their feet again that the tension leaves his body. Whatever vulnerability that was present is wiped away with a smirk. He tilts his head, flipping the dagger in a fluid motion before sheathing it. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.” His eyes rake over her, assessing something. It would feel less intimate if he had used his hands.
“My name is Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”
“As was I,” Eira stands, wiping the dirt from her clothes and adjusting her cloak. The black of her fabric isn’t doing any favors in this heat. “I was nearly out of Rivington before I woke to someone shoving a worm in my eye.”
“Rivington? We obviously run in different circles.”
Rude. She doesn’t need to explain herself to him. She knows who she is, she doesn’t need—
“I actually live in the upper city, I was on my way out for a job—” pathetic. She sounds pathetic. Blush paints her cheeks and splotches her chest.
“Yes, I'm sure your social standing is very impressive.” Complete indifference, worsened by him examining his nails. If the floor could swallow her up, it would be a mercy. It’s fine. She's already decided.
She doesn’t like him.
But she’s ultimately the deciding factor in whether he accompanies them. Shadowheart carries herself with the confidence of a leader, which makes it all the funnier when she— almost bored at this point— leaves his fate to Eira. “Look, I don’t care, but it’s getting late and we need to make camp. I trust your judgement, but keep in mind…” she gives Astarion a one-over, wrinkles her nose, then returns to Eira. “He was holding a knife to your throat less than a minute ago.”
When will she ever have another opportunity to study a vampire up close? Of course he’s coming with them, no matter how irritating he may be. His attitude is punishment enough. No matter, she’ll concern herself with a smack on the wrist later.
It’s only when they approach an unstable portal that it occurs to her:
“Like you killed the others.”
He had been watching them long before they found him.
And she completely missed it.
Wonderful.
Eira’s magic only irritates the portal, so ‘Gale of Waterdeep’ is the full-grown man they’re forced to pull from it. First impression: pretty to look at, his intellect is charming, but what is it with wizards and their incessant use of pretentious names? Every wizard she’s met has a name that should have been bullied out of them in their school years. ‘Gale of Waterdeep’ is useful, at the very least.
His magic resonates differently from Shadowheart’s and hers and she can barely contain her excitement. Sure, there’s a ticking time bomb in their heads and they need to find a defuser, but when will she ever have the opportunity to mingle with so many diverse magic users again? Shadowheart at least keeps them on track, ushering them through the forestry ridden with goblin corpses when Eira and Gale lag behind from conversation.
Their conversation cuts short.
Voices ahead. Two: a man and a woman. She moves forward without thinking, parting the brush of a bush just enough to see.
Two tieflings have trapped Lae’zel.
Her stomach drops. She reels back as if the image bit her. Her body finds Astarion without thinking, her back hitting the wall of him, his hands closing around her upper arms on instinct. Cool through the fabric. Resuming the proximity between them. Her clammy skin breaks out in goosebumps.
"What is it?" Shadowheart whispers.
Her mouth is sandpaper. Her fingers reach for the staff she lost on the nautiloid. “Hellspawn.” Her family's word. Her family's voice: They'll know what you are. They'll take you back.
Her hands press her bangs flat against her forehead, hiding the smooth skin where her horns should be. As practiced as Astarion bracing her fall.
It's okay. You're okay. Breathe. They won't know. They would die trying.
Strangely… no one seems particularly alarmed. Shadowheart is scrunching her nose in mild distaste but somewhere, distantly, she thinks she can hear Lae’zel’s voice in their heads. Her ears are ringing too loudly to focus. Gale's hand lands awkwardly on her shoulder, a well-meaning attempt at comfort that doesn’t necessarily go unwanted.
Hellspawn. Two of them. So why is she the only one shaking?
Neither Shadowheart nor Astarion want to help the Githyanki. Gale is sympathetic but ultimately useless on the matter. Eira doesn't particularly like Lae'zel either, but she was on the ship, she's infected, and she helped them without being asked. That means something even if nobody else thinks so.
She can handle herself. Shadowheart's final word on the matter, already walking away. Big words from someone who would also be dead if not for Eira.
Gale drops his voice. "You're not in any shape to fight if you’re this afraid."
He means it kindly. She knows he means it kindly.
Astarion moves closer to whisper in her ear, irritation wafting off of him like cologne. It mixes with something like rain, bergamot and rosemary.
“Not that your little hero complex isn’t adorable, but one Gith can handle two tieflings.”
“She was on the ship with us. She’s infected too, she helped me—“
“Yes, I’m sure she did,” he’s nodding his head too condescendingly and his voice is dripping with too much sarcasm. “Giths are historically celebrated for their generosity toward others and not at all for slicing people open neck to navel.”
He doesn’t believe her.
Heat floods her cheeks, her jaw set tight, taking a split second so she keeps her voice low. “What is your problem?”
“My problem? I’m not the one slowing us down from finding a healer for someone who can obviously help themselves.” He hisses. “The group has decided. We’re moving on. And you—“ he pokes her shoulder, “have fun fighting when you can’t even say ‘tiefling’ without shaking.”
She grabs his wrist, leans close. The cold of his skin surprises her. "Don't tell me what I can and cannot do."
Something in his face shifts, barely perceivable. She releases him.
Gale's hand is warm on her shoulder. "Maybe we just calm down."
She doesn't look at him. She stares at Astarion instead, searching for— what? Permission? Further defiance? "Do you have my back?" she asks Gale.
He caves, but demands they retreat if anything goes wrong.
Fair terms. She turns toward the tieflings.
Astarion rolls his eyes hard enough to give himself brain damage but ultimately unsheathes a dagger anyway.
Every step screams retreat, but what else did she expect? No one’s jumping in for her. This is all her. It has to be.
She fixes her cloak. Steadies her hands— or at least tries to. Green necromantic magic curls around her fingers like a security blanket.
I am not afraid. I am not afraid.
The tieflings haven’t noticed her yet. Blush-red skin, dark hair, arguing about whether to leave Lae’zel in the trap or slit her throat now. The woman wants to go. The man doesn’t trust a githyanki to let them walk away.
She steps into the clearing.
“Let her go.”
Her voice comes out steadier than she expected. Both tieflings spin toward her, weapons half-raised. The woman’s eyes narrow. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It does, actually.” Eira lets the necromantic magic build, cold and visible, swirling up her forearm. She focuses on the man; he’s more aggressive, more likely to force her hand. “Either you leave now, or you’ll be dealing with something far worse than a Gith.”
They’ll know what you are. Her family’s voice again, louder now. They’ll see through you.
Her magic flickers.
The man notices. He steps forward. “You’re shaking.”
If they know what you are…
“I’m giving you a chance to leave.” Her voice is still steady— gods, how is it still steady?
…they’ll take you.
She curls her fingers. All around the tieflings, skeleton hands begin digging their way out of the dirt, reaching to grab onto their legs.
A minor illusion. It’s not her best work,but fear rarely inspires creativity.
The man freezes. The woman drops her weapons.
“Wait— wait, okay!” The woman’s hands come up, palms out. “We don’t want trouble. We just— we didn’t want her to hurt anyone.”
Eira doesn’t move. This is surely some kind of trick; they’re trying to disarm her, convince her they mean no harm so she’ll be weak when they strike.
“Please,” the man says. His voice cracks. “We just wanted to keep this thing from hurting someone.”
She’d prepared for cruelty. For violence. For everything her family said they were capable of.
Instead, a pitiful “please.”
Her magic fizzles out. The skeletal hands crumble to dust.
They don’t waste any time, they immediately run.
She stares after them, heart pounding, hands shaking, adrenaline with nowhere to go. She’d been ready— certain— and they just… left. Begged for mercy.
Behind her, Astarion and Gale move to free Lae’zel. She doesn’t turn around.
How was it that easy?
Maybe they’re weakened by this mortal plane or saving strength for something else. Maybe it was a fluke. But even weakened, they could have crushed her. Why didn’t they?
A hand on her back. She flinches.
“Just me.” Gale pulls away, concern written across his face. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is far away. “Yeah, sorry.”
When she finally turns, Astarion is looking at her. Approvingly.
Another unexpected surprise, second only to the butterflies in her stomach.
Despite Lae’zel’s complaints, day turns to night, and traveling alone in an unknown place is practically a death sentence. Well… so is the ticking time bomb in their heads, but they should have turned hours ago. They find a clearing and set up camp.
After fishing from the lake, Gale is almost eager to cook for everyone, seeming as thrilled with company as Eira is. Shadowheart and Lae’zel have to stay on opposite ends of the camp or she’s convinced they’ll kill each other. She spends her time with Gale, helping him cook the best she can, only to be shooed away by her “poor knife skills.” Shadowheart’s tent closes when Eira approaches, so that’s out.
She could be alone. It's likely the only time she'll get at this point. Her cloak lands in her tent and she makes her way to the lake without telling anyone.
The water is still and quiet. Only the sound of cicadas, the distant crackling fire, and animals rustling bushes in the woods.
Her deep exhale doesn't help. The anxiety has been building since she woke in that pod and a sigh isn't going to touch it, but the sand is pleasant, coarse and soft all at once, grounding her to the now rather than the spiral. The front ties of her vest loosen easily, she barely registers doing it.
"Do you mind?"
She nearly jumps out of her skin.
Tucked out of sight is Astarion, half-shadow, half-reclined on a bedroll. One knee bent, an arm over his eyes. "I'm brooding."
"Gods—" A hand to her chest and an embarrassing amount of recovery time. "Sorry. I didn't think anyone was over here." It comes out as an irritated mumble. She turns to go.
"How would you like to die?"
She stops. "Excuse me?"
He sighs, sitting up. "We got off on the wrong foot earlier. Humor me."
Did we now. All of it hits at once: the fear, the adrenaline, the emotional whiplash, the tieflings, fuck the fear, and he’s right here and quite target-shaped.
She approaches so she doesn't have to raise her voice. "I beg to differ, I think we got off on a great note." She tilts her head. "You tried to kill me, blamed me for the worm in your skull, shunned me as an apology, acted like I was selfish for wanting to help someone— who helped me first, for the record, and now you want to grovel where no one can see you do it."
She expects loud. Defensive. That’s how people usually are when they’re angry.
Instead he nods slowly, almost to himself. "Mm. Thorough." His eyes drag over her. "And here I thought you were the reasonable one."
He’s quiet. Why is he quiet? What is she supposed to do with that? Something inside of her, something ancient, evolutionary screams for her to move, to run. A gazelle meeting eyes with a lion.
He stands in one fluid motion, sand brushed from his clothes like an afterthought. "Surely if you know me so well, you’ll know I was impressed with your little display earlier." A pause, almost gentle. "What did you call them again, darling? Hellspawns?"
The skin where her horns should be pulls tight. Everything in her wants to flatten her bangs. She doesn't.
"At first I thought—" he moves toward her, unhurried, eyes never quite meeting hers, "—poor little noble girl, so far from home, so sheltered she’s threatened by tieflings." A small pout. Close enough now to lift a strand of her white hair, fingers brushing her collarbone as he does. "But you do have a talent for conviction."
He twirls the strand slowly. She watches his face, then his fingers, then his face again. The scent of him mixes with the water and the forest, bergamot and rosemary and the moss on the boulder hiding them from view of the camp.
"You’re upset I put a dagger to your throat." His voice drops. His eyes finally find hers, almost black in the low light. "Yet when I had you on your back… not so much as a struggle."
Her stomach drops. Her breath stutters, heat rising, sharp and sudden.
The phrasing twists something ugly and familiar— half-remembered warnings, the way her family spoke about girls who didn’t know better, who let things happen to them.
Heat floods her face before she can make sense of it.
…That’s not what he meant. It can’t be.
She could say it. I know what you are. But all of her conviction fades under his gaze, something in her recoiling, but also alive and humming. Her eyes can’t help but drift to where the healed bite should be on his neck, invisible in the darkness.
Something moves through his expression. "I've played that over a time or two, I'll admit." The sultry quality of his voice erases the shame of his accusation.
Her eyes flick back to meet his. He’s fucking with you.
That feels right, but why does he look so genuine?
He’s trying to disarm you.
That makes more sense, but also… testing her. It dawns on her. Conviction.
"If you’re threatening me,” despite the tremble in her body, her voice doesn’t betray her; it’s steady and even. From his expression, too even. “I just have to say the word and you'll be gone."
Amusement settles in the corner of his mouth. His eyes drift to her neck. The back of his hand is cool against her skin as he pushes her hair back— gentle, almost curious— and the soft pads of his fingers find the line of her throat. Her skin breaks out into goosebumps. Heat floods her neck, her chest, somewhere lower that she isn't going to think about right now.
He meets her eyes.
"But you won't." No threat or malevolence. Just a fact spoken between two people who know he’s right.
Fear. And— embarrassingly, undeniably— heat.
Gale's voice carries from the camp, announcing food is ready. The tension snaps.
Astarion holds her gaze a moment longer, eyes heavy as a hand. Then he steps back and the air pressure normalizes and she remembers that breathing is something she can do.
"You should go." A glance at her throat. "I'll eat later."