Chapter Text
As soon as the sun dips below the horizon, Astarion lets out a sigh of relief.
Leaving the human and his accusatory remarks to his swimming, Astarion exits the hotel and heads back into the town. It’s been centuries since he’s had to learn a new environment all at once, and so he’s meticulous in taking in every detail, every nook and cranny he could use to his devious advantage. Night has truly fallen by the time his hunger rises within him, forcing him to abandon his mapping of Ioma Town in favour of fulfilling his needs.
Where everything else in his life has been turned upside down, the beast within begging for blood remains a strange comfort.
He can now make his own choices, rather than drinking from the rats Cazador liked to feed him; tonight, he can pick the ripest fruit all for himself. He turns his nose up at some half-Orcs playing a gambling game behind one of the taverns, and raises an eyebrow in surprise at a few Githyanki with pistols holstered on their hips, clearly on some kind of hunt of their own as they storm down the street. He gives them a wide berth, continuing to the fringes of the town, hoping to find someone by themselves for a quick bite.
He finds a pair of half-elves laid upon a picnic blanket in a flowering meadow, paying him no attention as they lose themselves in one another’s bodies. He watches the two men for no more than a minute, practising in his head the words he would say, working out which one he would bite first while pleasuring the other. It’s so easy, too easy to picture it, to slip on the old mantle and continue winning creatures over with a smirk, a smile, the gentle caress of his fingertips.
Just like Cazador always wanted him to.
He flees before he’s noticed. He finds a lone deer in some scrubland and lets his long-restrained instincts take over. It’s certainly an upgrade from vermin, although his shirt is dusty by the time he’s finished, having struggled to keep the writhing animal still as he fed.
Bloated on blood for the first time in his life, Astarion stands and makes his way back to the hotel, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Maybe, in the expanse of eternity before him, he’ll work his way up to feeding on people. It revolts him a little, because that’s what Cazador used to do, and he’s not the kind of vampire Astarion wants to emulate. Plus, no one cares about a dead animal abandoned on the edge of a forest, but if exsanguinated humanoids started turning up on this tiny one-town island, fingers would be pointed at Astarion rather quickly.
No, he reasons with himself. People aren’t worth the risk. There will always be a trail, there will always be witnesses, no matter how hard he tries. Unless, of course, he were to find a willing volunteer, and the scant few he’s met in his lifetime have rather put him off the whole idea.
This newfound freedom feels rather purposeless, and that’s a sombre thought indeed.
*
The next morning, Gale rises much earlier than he’d expected to, forgoing breakfast to head to the portal wall in the hotel lobby. He’d been plagued with strange dreams about magical artefacts dripping with blood, so when his phone pinged with a notification suggesting there’d been minor seismic activity on Mount Ioma, he was rather glad of it.
Just as he’s preparing to step through his portal to check if it’s affected the crystal vein, the vampire from the terrace, Astarion, appears in the lobby. He looks remarkably more bedraggled than he had when he’d been spying on Gale at the pool nine hours ago. “Hello, Astarion,” Gale says cheerfully, because the scowl on Astarion’s face just begs for being met with cheerfulness.
Astarion reacts with surprise, as if he hasn’t heard his name called for a while - Gale can empathise with him there - before he schools his features into a more neutral expression. “Now who’s stalking who, hmm?” Astarion replies suavely. He’s wearing a strange cologne as he passes Gale, something herby with a metallic note to it.
“I recall it was spying, not stalking, and you corrected me on that,” Gale retorts, turning to watch him go.
Astarion laughs. “Remembering my words too? You really are obsessed,” he throws over his shoulder as he passes, flicking his hand up in a dismissive wave.
Even in the dimmed light of the lobby, Gale’s eyes find the ring on Astarion’s index finger, a ruby set within silver, and his mouth drops open as Astarion turns towards the stairs and out of sight.
He knows that ring well; it, and its siblings, had been the focus of one of his most recent papers. Yet, he’d never seen one in the flesh, so to speak, knowing they’d fallen into the hands of a powerful vampire two centuries ago.
A sunwalking ring, to be worn by vampires. Here, in this tourist hotspot on a remote island, on Astarion’s hand.
The lobby is silent and empty, save for the human serving the graveyard shift at the reception desk. Now isn’t the time to beckon Astarion back down the stairs as his footsteps recede. No, Gale needs to think, and to prepare, if he’s going to confront a vampire. An unprepared wizard is a dangerous wizard, as his mother used to say; he’d never had the courage to ask aloud if a prepared wizard could be even more dangerous. Look where all that ambition had gotten him.
Shaking those thoughts physically from his head, he finishes opening his portal and steps into the night, high up on Mount Ioma, to come up with a plan.
*
Astarion rests for most of the day. He unpacks his belongings from his suitcases, rather hastily stuffed in his efforts to escape Baldur’s Gate at the drop of one vampire lord. His best clothes are in there, alongside his favourite books, some treasured mementos that have survived the ages, and his slim diaries from the last couple of centuries. The entries are succinct and spread-out; after all, not much changes day-to-day after the first decade or so.
24 Flamerule 1653 DR. Fed - a rat, half a pigeon (shared with Dal). A Grand Duke was assassinated today, but no one really liked him; he won't be missed. May rain tomorrow. Master has been in a terrible mood this whole month. The wounds on my left shoulder blade are still puffy, but the others are scarring cleanly. Hopefully that will please Master.
Astarion places the diary back into the case. Not today.
He unpacks his latest acquisition upon leaving Baldur’s Gate - a portable telephone. He’d never had any need for one under Cazador’s control, or perhaps he wouldn’t have been permitted one, had he asked; he doesn’t dwell on that notion for long.
It takes a few hours for Astarion to get used to the slim device as he sets it up. It didn't come with any of the magical modifications much of today’s technology can be infused with, opting to keep things simple for now, but he can still connect to the internet, which had been his main goal. He’d always known that a world existed beyond Baldur’s Gate, but books and overheard tavern gossip could only give him so much information.
The sun is forceful today, the temperature hotter than it had been yesterday when he’d arrived. Astarion still isn’t used to the pain sunlight brings, let alone a warm, dry climate, so instead of opting for further exploration he stays in his room with the curtains drawn and finds something else to occupy his time. He browses the few internet sites he’s heard people talking about before - the Faerûn Times, the Daily Jabber, and Baldurdash, which seems to mostly be full of dwarves arguing with each other over various topics relating to the city.
After a while, he looks up Doctor Gale Dekarios.
“My, my,” Astarion mutters to himself as he skims the results. “What do we have here?”
The first link takes him to a page on the University of Waterdeep’s website, listing Gale as a wizard formerly on the staff of the Faculty for Magical Arts, Blackstaff Academy. “A professor,” Astarion reads aloud, hearing the piqued interest in his own voice. “Specialising in arcane crystallography. Hmm.” He hums as he scans the long list of publications Gale has either authored or co-authored, mostly on topics Astarion has only ever read about in passing, until his lips part at a publication dated just two years ago.
Septem ānnulī sanguicapinum: an examination of the legendary arcane crystallographic rings permitting vampiric sunwalking. Dekarios, G. 1764 DR. Waterdeep: Blackstaff Academy.
Astarion drops his phone down onto his bed, touching a fingertip to the ruby set into his ring. If Gale thought these rings were legendary… if he found out that they really existed… would he be willing to kill Astarion to get it?
For a human wizard, Gale seems to have a deep and profound knowledge of the Weave, gathered over a career that easily spans fifteen years, judging by the publication dates here. It explains his scent too, his blood mostly magic below the chlorine that lingers on his skin - not like Astarion has paid much attention, of course. He could confront Gale head-on, which would probably result in a tonne of collateral damage; Astarion’s own knowledge of the Weave is rudimental, but he’s old enough to know that wizards of the Evocation School are bad news, fond of fire as they are. Therefore, he’ll need to be more intelligent about confronting Doctor Gale Dekarios.
He smiles; it’s been a long time since he’s been allowed to come up with a plan all of his own.
*
Gale is sitting at the desk in his room, repurposed as a workbench, when the previously locked balcony door clicks open.
He looks up in shock, but night fell hours ago and his room is shrouded in darkness, save for the pool of light surrounding the crystals he’s currently examining. Before he can cast anything, before he can even turn to look at his assailant, a hand clamps down over his mouth. “Don’t try a single spell,” is breathed into his ear, and Gale’s fight or flight response chooses the third option; he freezes, his exposed forearms covered in goosebumps again. The fingers over his lips are cold.
Astarion.
A pale hand is thrust into his line of sight. “I take it you recognise this ring? Nod.”
Gale’s eyes widen but he nods immediately upon seeing the ruby on Astarion’s finger once more. How does Astarion know that he studied his ring? How–
“Then you know why I’m wearing it. And you know what I can do to you if you try to do anything foolish.” These words are purred just below his earlobe, and Gale’s heartbeat quickens as he realises where Astarion’s mouth is, the fangs inside that he hadn’t noticed before. “Good, you’re scared. An appropriate reaction. I’m going to release you now, so we can have a conversation like civilised adults.”
Gale’s mouth is released as promised, and he sucks in a breath. “Really? You breaking into my room is what you’d call civilised?” He stares at the wall above his notes, not daring to turn to face the darkness he knows Astarion lingers in. Goddess, he’d even joked about being one with the shadows just last night. Gale’s plan - to speak to Astarion after dinner, or the next time he’d seen him (which he is aware is not a good plan, but it was the best he could come up with under pressure) - goes out of the window and over the edge of the balcony to the poolside two storeys down.
He doesn’t even want to know how Astarion climbed onto the balcony, let alone found out which one was his.
“I mean, the lock was hardly difficult.” He can almost hear the pout in Astarion’s voice. “I’d expected protective wards, or something.”
“Right, because I would ward the hotel room I’m staying in while on holiday.” Gale turns in his chair to find Astarion leaning against the wall, all long, elegant lines. His arms are crossed over his chest, but that’s about as much as he can make out in the sudden darkness, having turned away from the light.
“Well, except for those hideous clothes, it hardly looks like you’re on holiday,” Astarion counters, gesturing loosely at Gale, who glances down at his loose fitting short-sleeved shirt and shorts combination. He’d thought he’d looked rather cool, for once. “Oh, can you please remove those ridiculous glasses, I cannot take you seriously. What is it that you’re up to, exactly?”
Gale had forgotten he’d been peering over the top of his magnification loupes. He takes the glasses off and sets them down on the desk behind him, before pressing the switch for the room’s main light, bringing Astarion out of the shadows. He hadn’t realised night had fallen, entranced in his work as he had been, and glances at the room reflected in the floor to ceiling windows. Astarion isn’t there, which throws him off kilter for a moment. “I’m… I’m studying the properties of Iomic crystals. There’s a vein on Mount Ioma, which was where I was headed this morning when we last met.”
Astarion hums. “It’s boring enough that I believe you’re telling the truth.”
“Please, hold me in high enough esteem to know that I would’ve set glyphs of warding if I were working on anything even remotely worth stealing.” Gale leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. His feet are bare, and suddenly he feels underdressed; Astarion is clothed very similarly to how he was last night. “Which returns us to the original question. Why are you breaking into my room? And shouldn’t you have to have asked permission?”
Pushing off the wall, Astarion makes a derisive sound, throwing his nose up into the air as he does so. “Technically, no, because you don’t own it.” He glances around at Gale’s trunk, suitcases, and lab equipment on the desk. “Even though you’ve brought half of Waterdeep with you, apparently.”
Gale is unsettled by the mention of Waterdeep, but tries to maintain a neutral expression. He’s rather sure he’s failed when a satisfied smirk settles on Astarion’s lips. “You’ve done your research,” he concedes.
“You did me the honour of gifting me your full name. Have you never heard of the fey, Gale Dekarios? Dangerous little menaces, they are.” Astarion grins, fangs on full display.
The dangerous little menace in this very room seems to be intent on getting under his skin. Astarion somehow manages to add another syllable to Gale’s first name, giving it far more importance than it has even been given before. He’s not even sure Mystra called him by anything other than Gale of Waterdeep, and that was only when she wanted something.
Just as Astarion seems to, as well.
“You’re avoiding the question.”
With a sigh, Astarion sits on the edge of Gale’s perfectly made bed, leaving Gale biting down a noise of despair. “This damned ring,” he says, proffering his hand towards Gale. “You’ve studied it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but I… We assumed it was lost.” It’s beautiful, the ruby glinting in the lamplight. He notices Astarion’s fingers are long and fine, the silver sitting well against the pallor of his skin. “I’ve never seen it in anything other than sketches… may I?”
He looks up to Astarion’s raised eyebrows. “May you touch my hand and look at the ring? Or may you remove it from my finger and face down an exceptionally angry vampire?” He doesn’t let Gale finish. “Do you know how very important this ring is to me, Gale? Do you know,” he asks, and his voice dips so low that it becomes a whisper, “the lengths I would go to to get this again, were I to part company with it?”
Gale furrows his brow. “You’d made it sound like there was a problem with it. Maybe I could help.” Goddess knows why he’s offering to help a vampire with continuing to be a vampire, but seeing as he’s already lost both his job and his goddess, he supposes anything other than black magic is above board. There’s nothing untoward about these rings, either; all of the Weave worked into them had been, as far as Gale had read, completely legitimate.
Astarion glances aside, pulling his hand back to his knee. He’s wearing another shirt with the cuffs rolled to the elbows, this one a pale blue, and the muscles of his forearms tense with the movement. “It works,” he admits, somewhat reluctantly. “I can stand in the sun but it hurts. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to, if that’s part of the trick. I… tried to read your article, but in truth I couldn’t understand most of it.”
He looks and sounds ashamed, refusing to meet Gale’s eyes. On one hand, Gale could rattle on for a good few hours about the sanguine rings, as they’d been nicknamed, but that would require the audience to have a fairly solid comprehension of the Weave and its workings. Astarion diminutively flicks his eyes back to Gale, and for once Gale chooses to swallow down the knowledge bubbling in his chest and keep things simple.
“As far as I could tell, which was from ancient texts alone, mind…” he starts. Astarion gives him another type of look, one Gale’s quickly learning is some kind of warning. He swallows; Astarion has no right looking so handsome while also looking so murderous. “They weren’t created as some kind of bargain, or a like-for-like type of invocation, as in trading walking in the sun for incessant pain. That shouldn’t have been the case.” Gale rubs at his chin, his beard bristling under his thumb and finger. “Hmm. Maybe their magical properties have deteriorated over time. They were made nearly three hundred years ago.”
“They belonged to my master,” Astarion says quietly, avoiding Gale’s eyes. He places his hands either side of his body on the bed, his shoulders sagging. “Not once were we permitted to use them.”
There seems to be much more nuance to the words Astarion is saying than he’s letting on, but Gale senses that now is not the time for uncovering it. “I could look at yours, if you like. See what traces of the Weave are in there, and compare it to the findings I made in my study. A more practical implementation of my theory,” Gale says with what he hopes is a reassuring smile.
Astarion’s face is stony. “At night, of course, unless you want me to be a prisoner here in your room.”
Gale represses a shudder at the thought. “At night, then.” On cue, his stomach rumbles. “Not right now, though. I should get to dinner, if it’s still open. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Mmm, dinner,” Astarion murmurs, standing up. “There’s a thought.”
“I thought vampires didn’t have to feed each night?” Gale can’t help the interest bubbling inside him; monster or not, Astarion is the only vampire Gale’s met before. “I’m going to assume that that’s what you were returning from, by the portals this morning.”
A flicker of emotion crosses Astarion’s face. Gale for once is perceptive enough to realise it’s because he’s deciding how much of the truth he should tell, if any. “I usually don’t,” he relents with a sigh. He puts his hands on his hips. “Look, my master was killed quite literally yesterday. I then took a long-haul portal straight here from Baldur’s Gate–” At this Gale gasps, but Astarion presses on, building up to a performance, “--to one of the sunniest places in the world with a ring that I’ve only just discovered doesn’t work properly. So, please, excuse me if I need a bit of sustenance to get through an ever so slightly stressful time.”
“You took a long-haul portal straight from the Gate? Without stopping?”
Astarion spreads his arms wide. Gale watches their fluid movement; Astarion can’t seem to keep still, and it’s strangely captivating. “Of all that, that is what you’re focussing on?” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows drawn together. “Yes, I did, because I had a bunch of bloody Gur on my tail, so to speak. And unlike some of us, I haven’t left the city since before I was turned, two hundred years ago. I didn’t know any better, alright?”
Gale, for once, is speechless. A two-hundred year old vampire, here in his hotel room. This is so far from what he’d expected his research trip to look like.
“I’ll be off, then,” Astarion says, turning towards the balcony, before thinking better of it and turning towards the proper door to Gale’s room.
“Wait.”
“Yes?”
Gale stands up too, realising he’s ever so slightly taller than the vampire as he does so. Astarion looks him up and down, in a similar way to how Gale is about to choose his meal at the buffet downstairs.
Gale licks his lips before he speaks. “Could I ask you… not to kill anyone? I know,” he starts as Astarion laughs, high-pitched and mocking. “I know it’s not really my place to ask, but if I’m helping you, I’d rather know I’m not helping you kill innocent people by proxy.”
Astarion sniffs, sobering. “I’m more likely to f*ck people than kill them, but fine. As you wish.” He gives a mocking little bow and turns to the door again, but his fingers pause on the handle. “You’ve been honest with me,” he says lowly, “so I’ll be honest with you.”
Gale’s mouth goes dry, mind reeling from the moment Astarion said the word f*ck and now desperately trying to catch up. He almost expects Astarion to flick the deadbolt and kill Gale as he’d first intended. He continues speaking though, still facing the door.
“I didn’t answer your question earlier, about why I broke in rather than talking to you, one-on-one, man-to-man.” Astarion gives a little laugh at this. “Well.” Finally, he turns around and looks Gale in the eye. “I can tell you’re a powerful wizard. I just wanted to check you weren’t going to kill me.”
With that, Astarion leaves Gale’s room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
It takes Gale a moment to realise that with those words, they’ve come to some sort of truce.
