Chapter Text
Astarion’s back was pressed against the rough, twisted roots that snaked across the cavern wall, their coarse texture biting into his skin through his clothing. His breath came in sharp gasps as he faced the hag that loomed before him. Her green skin glowed sickly in the dim light, her fingers tipped with claws that glistened, eager to rend his flesh from the bone.
The hag lunged at him and he ducked, the swipe only just missing as he rolled to the side. A wide grin tugged against her cracked lips as she struck again, this time aiming for his midsection. The sharp edge of her claws caught on his leather armor, leaving a thin tear as he danced backward, his boots finding precarious purchase on the uneven ground.
“All by yourself?” she hissed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Oh, you poor, broken thing. Did you really believe any of them care for a bloodsu—”
- No.
Before she could finish, Astarion struck again, faster this time, a surge of panic rushing through him. He dipped around her, dodging another wild swipe of her claws, and brought his dagger down with all the strength he could muster. The blade sliced through her form—and for a moment, she flickered, her mocking grin wavering before she vanished into thin air.
As the illusion dissipated, his gaze searched frantically for the others, trying to make sense of the chaos that surrounded him. The cavern was a dreadful cacophony of shouts and cries, punctuated by that wretched hag’s ghastly cackling. The rancid stench of decay and mildew hung in the air, and the flickering green and orange lights dancing across the walls only furthered the assault on his senses.
He found them huddled together on the far end of the cavern. He watched as Shadowheart extended her hand toward a hag of her own and a flame-like radiance suddenly descended from the shadows above, engulfing the creature in searing light. The old bat screeched as the radiant fire licked at her form, before she too vanished. Just beside her, Lae'zel was a blur of lethal efficiency, her blade carving through an illusion that threatened to close in on them. Gale stood farther back, his brow furrowed with grim concentration as he hurled spell after spell into the fray. Everything felt disjointed—too fast, too overwhelming.
All by yourself.
They were together, moving in sync, covering each other’s weaknesses, protecting each other. And here he was, on the periphery, barely keeping his head above water. This is precisely why he needed-
Wyll?
Again, his eyes darted across the twisted roots and jagged rocks, searching until they landed on Wyll, who was on the opposite end of the cavern. The man was fighting off two of the hags at once.
One of the hags lashed out, her claws aimed low. Wyll parried, his rapier ringing out as it deflected the blow, but the second hag seized the opportunity. With a sharp slash, her claws raked through his side, cutting through his armor and flesh. Wyll grunted in pain, his balance wavering as the force of the blow sent him staggering backward. His boot caught on an uneven stone, and he stumbled, his rapier slipping from his grasp as he fell to the ground, perilously close to the edge of the drop.
Astarion’s stomach leapt into his throat as he saw the rapier teeter on the brink before plummeting into the darkness below. He reached for his bow, nocked an arrow, and aimed at one of the hags, her green form hunched over as she prepared to strike at Wyll again.
Astarion released the arrow, but the hag ducked at the last moment, her twisted hand sweeping out in a vicious arc. The arrow sailed past her, embedding uselessly in the mossy wall. Meanwhile, Wyll, the absolute idiot, was attempting to fend off the hags’ relentless attacks with his bare hands.
“Wyll, you bloody fool, get up!” Astarion shouted. He could feel the anger churning in his chest—He knew the man had magic at his fingertips. So why in the hells wasn’t he using it?
Without wasting another moment, Astarion abandoned his bow and sprinted towards the hags, daggers drawn. If the stories were true, this man was his best chance at any semblance of safety out here—against those vile goblins, the hunters Cazador would surely send, and perhaps even the others if they ever turned on him. He needed Wyll alive.
The air around Wyll rippled, and with a blink, one of the hags vanished from his path. Before Astarion could slow himself, she materialized before him, her wicked grin flashing in the dim light. With a quick motion, she seized him by the throat and flung him into the wall as if he were nothing more than a paperweight. His back crashed against the jagged stone with a bone rattling thud, and he crumpled to the ground, one of his daggers skittering across the floor.
The hag advanced on him, her voice dripping with venomous glee. “The slave’s found a new master then?” Her breath was hot and foul as she leaned closer, her expression twisted in a mockery of pity.
Then, her form began to contort, skin stretching tight across her bones with a sickening series of cracks. This close, Astarion could hear every grotesque sound of flesh twisting and bone snapping. Her features warped and reformed, the once-green skin paling to an all-too-familiar ashen hue, yellowed eyes blazing into a deep, fiery red. Before him stood a man he knew all too well, staring down at him with a cruel smile.
“Deep down,” the illusion sneered, Cazador's voice oozing through the hag's lips, “you enjoy being leashed, don’t you?”
A cold dread gripped Astarion’s chest, his breath catching as panic clawed its way through him. His once steady hands began to tremble uncontrollably, his remaining dagger slipping from his grasp as if even his own body rejected the thought of fighting back.
He cowered back instinctively, but the wall behind him was unforgiving. He knew it was an illusion—had to be—but his eyes betrayed him; They darted around, desperate for any evidence that this was just another twisted trick of the hag’s magic. But every detail was painfully accurate. It was all there, all terrifyingly real. He wanted to lash out, to rip this vile illusion to shreds like some feral animal, but his muscles felt as if they were encased in lead.
His master’s sneer deepened, his eyes—the hag’s eyes—boring into Astarion with a predatory gleam. She leaned in closer when suddenly, something shifted. The malice in her gaze wavered, confusion flickering across her features for the briefest moment.
Astarion blinked, his vision swimming as the illusion before him began to unravel. The pale, familiar face of Cazador warped, the red eyes dulling, the cruel smile faltering. Then, just as swiftly as he had appeared, his features snapped back into the gnarled, hideous visage of the hag. Her expression twisted in shock and pain as blood, dark and viscous, bubbled up at the corner of her mouth and she staggered. Only then did Astarion notice the dagger—his dagger—plunged into the meat where her neck met her shoulder, the familiar hilt glinting dully in the dim light.
“Ah, you gave yourself away too soon, Miss Ethel,” came Wyll’s voice, calm and edged with grim satisfaction. Before the hag could react, Wyll struck again, his other hand driving Astarion’s second dagger into the opposite side of her neck with a startling force.
The hag's eyes widened in a mix of shock and agony. Her lips trembled as she tried to form one last curse. But before any words could escape, her strength drained away and her body swayed, a lifeless puppet caught in an invisible wind, before crumpling forward. Astarion instinctively rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding her fall. Wyll finally relieved the hag of Astarion’s daggers, letting her slump completely, the final vestiges of life leaving her as her blood pooled around her.
“She got too co*cky in the end, didn’t she?” Wyll’s voice broke through the oppressive silence, almost too casual considering the carnage that surrounded them, as he squatted beside Astarion. “They always do.”
As he moved to return the daggers to Astarion, Wyll paused, his expression shifting to one of faint disgust. He frowned down at the bloodied blades, then glanced back at Astarion. With a grimace, he wiped the blood off on his own pants, the fabric darkening as it absorbed the crimson streaks.
Astarion’s tongue finally caught up with his thoughts as he took back his daggers.
“I- She was co*cky? Are you completely out of your mind?” he snapped, eyes narrowing into a sharp glare at Wyll. “You were practically wrestling her with your bare hands! What were you trying to do—make her job easier? You’ve got all those little tricks hidden up your sleeves, and yet you choose to go in swinging like some tavern brawler? Why didn’t you just—”
A piercing wail sliced through the air, freezing the words in his throat. It was a desperate, keening sound. Astarion’s exasperation evaporated in an instant, his head snapping toward the noise.
“You’ve ruined this! You’ve ruined everything!”
· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·
“Gods, are they always so ungrateful?” Astarion muttered as he watched the vanishing figures of Mayrina and her zombie husband, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “You’d think we’d cursed her instead of saving her miserable life.”
Leaning against the gnarled planks of the teahouse, Wyll appeared the very picture of weary resignation. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “After everything they’ve been through, it’s no shock they’re not at their most gracious. It’s hard to feel gratitude when your whole world has gone up in flames.”
Astarion briefly remembered the moment Wyll had crouched beside him after the hag fell. The basem*nt. The arrow.
“Enough talk,” Lae’zel suddenly commanded. She glanced at the darkening sky, her eyes reflecting the dimming light. “The day wanes, and we need to find a place to make camp. We’ve wasted enough time on the human and her dead mate.”
Shadowheart, her eyes scanning the wetlands with distaste, added, “Agreed. Preferably somewhere far from this place.” She wrinkled her nose as she continued, “I’ve had more than enough of the stench for one day.”
Gale, who had been quietly assessing the hag’s dwelling, suddenly perked up. He had a curious gleam to his eyes. “Absolutely, we should get moving,” he agreed, nodding towards Lae’zel. “But first—let me take a quick look around inside. If she was keeping Mayrina well-fed, there must be something useful left behind. Perhaps some spices, herbs... It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”
Without another word, Gale rather enthusiastically disappeared back into the gloom of the house.
· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·
The thin fabric walls of Astarion’s tent could hardly be considered a barrier against the noise of the camp, but he’d take what he could. He gently turned the page of a book he’d found within a long-abandoned cabin earlier in the day. It was a fanciful piece, full of predictable romantic drivel, but for now, it served its purpose. He needed something—anything—to drown out the constant chatter and squabbling of his companions after the day he’d had.
Shadowheart and Lae’zel in particular seemed to take perverse delight in bickering over any topic the former could think up during their travels. Gale, despite claiming to enjoy traveling in silence, liked to prattle on about the most dreadfully boring of subjects. And as for Wyll—Astarion was starting to realize he might actually be the worst of them all. When he wasn’t begging Lae’zel to regale him with stories of her adventures in the Astral Planes, he had taken a liking to partaking in the rest of their bickering, and Astarion was beginning to suspect he was only defending whichever side amused him most. Astarion would have found it quite entertaining, if it weren’t for the fact he hadn’t had a moment of peace to himself since the nautiloid crash—nor a proper bath or meal. The weight of it all was beginning to wear on him.
The story was typical of its genre—an idealized romance with little to no basis in reality. Astarion couldn’t help but scoff at the heroine’s antics, but even as he did, he found himself lingering on, even rereading, certain passages. He was just flipping another page when he heard a soft, rhythmic tapping against the fabric of his tent.
“If this is an attempt at courtesy,” Astarion began, his voice sharp as he snapped the book shut. He moved to step outside, grabbing at the tent’s opening, “Might I suggest a more subtle approach next time? Like, leaving me to my lassitu—”
The sight of Wyll standing just outside his tent stopped him short. Instinctively, the tension in his posture melted away and he met Wyll’s eyes from beneath his lashes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he purred, stepping out of the tent and closing the distance between them. His voice dropped to a low, teasing drawl as he added, “Hello, beautiful. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Wyll, ever the gentleman, stepped back, “I was hoping we might continue our discussion from last night. If you’re interested, I’d be more than happy to show you a few techniques with a different weapon. It’s a good opportunity to get some practice in before dinner is ready.”
His gaze flickered to the book still in Astarion’s hands, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I understand you may rather be left to your lassitude—” said smile grew around the word before nodding to the novel, “—or perhaps you’ve already found other ways to entertain yourself this evening. But if you’re keen on a bit of training, now would be a good time.”
Oh. He wanted to do this now?
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t mind a bit of fun, darling—”
He trailed off as his gaze fell on the rapiers Wyll held in each hand. His smile wavered.
Oh.
The fool was genuine. He intended to teach him how to wield an actual sword.
For a moment, he was in that cavern once more. His master looming over him. His limbs so pathetically frozen. If he ever dared to be free, he’d need more than just strong allies—he’d need strength of his own. So, while this wasn’t quite what he had envisioned, Astarion found himself oddly... grateful.
He collected himself, letting out a soft chuckle as the teasing lilt returned to his voice. “Oh, so we’re actually doing this, then? I was half-expecting you to suggest something more... hands-on.” He raised his gaze to meet Wyll’s with a small, playful grin—one that, to his surprise, felt almost real. “But I suppose a bit of proper training could be fun too.”
Wyll’s eyes crinkled with a smile of his own.
“Let’s see if we can’t make this fun, then.”
