Chapter Text
In a stone chamber in the deep dark, far from the intrusive sun, Belladawn paces slowly, rolling her pendant between her fingers. She hums to herself, the tune intentionally discordant. When next she blinks, her eyes glaze over black.
The little Lord Gortash’s arrogance has proved an unexpected boon – his arcane eyes watch the city, ever-vigilant and so conveniently susceptible to divination magics. This one hovers on the roof of a building facing Sorcerous Sundries. Belladawn peers through it and sees the scene as if through clouded glass. Even without sound, the panic amid the crowd nearest the shop is palpable.
Belladawn twists the pendant back and forth.
A figure runs down the alley below, one she recognizes. She watches them dart around a pile of crates. A handful of seconds later, a red-skinned tiefling woman crashes through, sending up splinters before she takes a roaring leap through the air and lodges her axe into the assassin’s back.
Belladawn clicks her tongue. “Pity,” she says quietly. Good help is so hard to find.
She watches the tiefling ensure the assassin is well and truly dead before she looks around, face twisted in rage and spattered with blood. The woman’s flaming eyes land on Belladawn. Or the scrying eye she’s currently peering through at least.
The tiefling bares her teeth in an open-mouth scream and sends the axe whirling through the air directly at the eye.
Belladawn winces as the eye goes dark and sends a small bolt of psychic pain back over the connection. She rubs at her temple with two fingers. When she hears the soft swish of robes behind her, she doesn’t react.
If Lord Szarr had wanted to go unheard, he would. He’s no danger at the moment.
“Your machinations remain intact, I presume?” Szarr says, coming to a stop a few steps behind her.
She opens her eyes and runs a hand over her long braid. “They do,” she says.
Szarr moves around her, giving a mindful berth around the radius of the radiant magic that protects her. He holds his hands behind his back as he looks over the various missives and vials on the desk she keeps in the chamber. She watches as he selects a vial full of viscous violet liquid and admires it.
“It’s a rather poor gift, you know,” he drawls, replacing the vial in its stand. “Poisoning the dog about to come to my door before making good on the offer you put before me. I’ve little interest in a thrall that’s already dead before I get to it.”
“You needn’t worry, my lord,” Belladawn says as she folds her arms. “This is a special cocktail. It won’t kill her outright.”
“Then what, pray tell, is the point?”
A mirthless smile touches her mouth and she bats her eyes at him. “Insurance, my lord. A bit of an incentive that will make for a convincing argument should she prove… obstinate.”
“Unfortunate,” Szarr says. He almost sounds sad. “I do so prefer them a bit obstinate. It’s so sweet when they break.”
There’s a part of Belladawn, very deep in the core of her, that is almost capable of feeling affection for her daughter’s various talents, despite all Orianna’s other failings. That part hopes, for just a breath, that the girl shows this utter cad how being broken feels.
Then it’s gone. She never had the heir she wanted. What’s done is done.
Ori won’t die today.
But she will die. One way or another.
At the edges of her awareness, Belladawn feels the vampire creep closer so he can run a hand over her long braid. She tilts her head, allowing it. Let him think he’s the one in control.
“My lord,” she says sweetly. “I think perhaps it is time to close the teeth of your trap.”
There’s a tug on her braid. Not hard, but firmly enough that he’s making it clear he could use more force should he so choose.
“I do believe you’re right,” he says.
There’s only one question for Ori to ask, really.
“Am I dead?” she says. Her voice sounds like a fragment of itself.
Petra Gondsgold puts her head to one side, considering. Out of the lighted mist, a table forms. It’s littered with bits and bobs, many of them mechanical. Petra seats herself at the stool behind it and beckons Ori forward.
“Not yet,” Petra says as she picks up a delicate tool and begins tinkering, her eyes on the locket she’s refining. “But you could be in relatively short order, things as they are.”
Ori doesn’t think she has a heart in this space, but even so, there’s the familiar feeling of it leaping to the back of her throat. Cautiously, she comes closer to the older woman.
“Are you dead?” Ori asks.
“Now that,” Petra says, pointing with her tool. “Is a more complicated question, though not by much. The short answer is yes.” She goes back to work. “The longer answer is that the body my soul inhabited died decades ago. What you see before you is an… echo, I suppose is the best word for it.”
“Is there a way for either of us not to be dead?” Ori asks.
Petra’s laughter sounds like bronze bells. “Me? No. Petra is gone. I’m the imprint she left along with the enchantment. The conduit through which the abjuration flows. That’s my purpose.” She closes the locket and holds it up to her ear. Apparently unsatisfied, she reopens it and adjusts a different gear. “You, on the other hand, have options.”
Ori takes a deep breath through her nose. The atmosphere of this place has a unique ozone to it, and an underlying scent of what could be blackberry flowers. Possibly cassis. Sweet, warming.
“As much as I would honestly love to stay and chat about… all this…” Ori gestures broadly. “It’s rather important that I don’t die. Elias…” She swallows hard. “Elias needs me. Quite literally.”
The woman stops tinkering and puts her project down before folding her hands and meeting Ori’s eye. Her expression is soft and sad. “I know. I’m what’s keeping you bound.”
Ori blinks. “Oh. Thank you?”
Petra laughs again and stands, waving away the table before her. “I should thank you, really. It’s because of you and Corvan both that any part of Petra was able to get to know her child.” Her movement is precise and graceful at once. “I was originally intended to protect Corvan’s life in the event of assassination, which, given his entanglements, seemed likely. And eventually, it came to pass.”
“And the magic failed,” Ori says quietly, eyes downcast against the ache of old tears.
“No,” Petra says, and Ori looks back at her. “Your father was a complicated man, but he held fast to one constant. You and Elias were his world. When the noose tightened around his neck, he did the one thing he would always do – he protected you. He protected you both.”
“I don’t understand,” Ori says.
The woman moves her hands through the air and creates an illusion – a miniature version of Ori’s mandolin. It turns gently in midair, its filigree shining in the light. She says, “Life and death magic are complex things, Orianna. Intent matters, and so does spirit. When the magic that would have saved Corvan’s life triggered, he redirected it back. He infused it with his love. On a spiritual level, he gave his life for both of yours. Belladawn would claim him, but he ensured she would not claim either of you.”
“But she did,” Ori argues, tears forming in her eyes. “Elias died. I’m dying.”
Petra waves away the illusion. “Did they die?” she asks, simply. “Are you dead?”
“Well, you said no, but this is a first for me, so I can’t really be sure,” Ori says. “I’d prefer not to be, for Elias’ sake.”
The woman laughs again. “The selflessness of you all,” she says with a smile, shaking her head. “It’s what drew me to your father, you know. I knew who he was, of course, and why he sought me out. A spy and an assassin, guised as a charming man with kind eyes. Except for him, it wasn’t all an act. Just as it’s never been for you.”
She turns over her palm and the locket rests safely inside. “My purpose is to absorb and store protective energy, Orianna. To release it when called. Thankfully, you and this entertaining band of companions you’ve managed to pick up are delightfully adept at protecting one another, whether you all realize it or not. That and the connection you all share has had a curious amplifying effect on the magic.”
Petra steps closer and takes Ori’s hand. Ori lets her place the locket in her palm. It’s warm to the touch. The woman closes her fingers over it and holds it there.
“So, I have good news, and not-so-good news,” Petra says softly. The golden mist swirls gently around them.
“The good news?” Ori says.
“I can neutralize the more potent elements of the blended toxin Belladawn made just for you,” Petra says. “For as long as I have the reserves to do so. It’s a long-release toxin, so we have a good amount of time.”
Ori goes very still. “And the not-so-good?”
Petra squeezes her fingers, her golden eyes so like her child’s as she looks into Ori’s face.
“If the reserves grow too low, you will have to make a choice,” Petra whispers.
Outside the main entrance of Sorcerous Sundries, the world is in a confounding sort of quiet chaos.
Gale’s Silence spell holds as he fetches Rolan and a selection of potions and antidotes, none of which seem to have much effect as they’re poured one by one over Ori’s tongue and down her throat.
“That one is rather expensive, it’s not guaranteed-” Rolan begins.
Astarion snatches the vial from the wizard before he can finish. The gold doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Only Ori matters. And Ori is so very pale.
He brings the vial to her lips and watches the swirling silver potion disappear.
Nothing changes.
From the alley, Karlach comes stomping back, breathing heavily through her nose as her flames dim from red to a cooler blue. “Got his fucking arse,” she says through her teeth as she approaches. “Gods damned shitty motherf-”
“What is wrong with her?” Astarion cuts in, addressing Elias.
“I don’t know,” they say, still moving their hands over Ori’s inert body. They’re shaking. Or maybe it's their outline going slightly wobbly.
Immediately, Karlach is on her knees on the opposite side of Ori, reaching out to cradle Elias’ face. “Hey,” she says, her inherent rage all but evaporated. “Bug, hey. Look at me, yeah?”
Elias flickers, but refocuses and trains their eyes on hers.
Rolan looks deeply confused. “Who are you talking-”
“Not now,” Karlach barks. To Elias, she says, “I’m here, I’ve got you. We’ve got her. We’ll figure it out. As long as you’re here together, we’ve got you both.”
Elias’ form dims. They put a hand over Karlach’s and their fingers slip right through hers.
“No,” Astarion says, holding Ori tighter. “Don’t you give in. I will bring you back just to kill you again if you let go.”
Their voice is a whisper, their words lost in the commotion.
And Ori chooses that moment to gasp back to consciousness, her eyes flying open.
“Holy hells,” Gale says in surprise, flailing backwards. Elias’ form solidifies.
“Fuck me running,” Ori says with a cough, gripping Astarion’s arm where he holds her. “Fucking blackweed. El, here.” As everyone stumbles past their shock at her sudden recovery, she takes Elias’s hand and presses it to her wounds near where the daggers still stick out.
To Astarion, she swallows hard and says, “Take them out of me.”
He doesn’t question it, he’ll do that later. He grips the handles of both daggers in one hand and pulls them free in the direction of the wounds in one smooth motion. Ori yells and grits her teeth.
“I cast a restorative, you cast Remove Poison,” she pants to Elias. On command, their golden magic swirls together with her lavender.
“Extract together,” she says, face contorted in pain.
As one, they slowly pull their hands away from her shoulder, a twisted rope of black and violet poison stretching between the wound and their palms. When it breaks, they cast it aside and it spatters across the nearest cobblestones. Without asking, Elias’ hands are back on Ori’s shoulder to staunch the bleeding.
Astarion lets the daggers in his hand clatter to the ground and wraps himself around Ori as tightly as he can without disrupting Elias’ work. He doesn’t speak. Ori understands anyway.
She puts one hand over Elias’ and twists the other gently into Astarion’s hair where he’s buried his face in her neck.
“I know,” she whispers to them both. “I came back. I’m here.”
Deep in the center of her gut, Ori feels a sharp twinge of pain and grimaces, a single black tear falling from the corner of her eye and rolling over her cheek. Around her neck, a golden locket glints in the light. Everyone’s so preoccupied by everything else that they don’t notice.
Once, early on in their enslavement, Dalyria told Astarion in passing that tears came from blood. He’d looked at her like she was daft, so she clarified that most of the body’s beneficial fluids were directly linked to elements in the blood, pulling together the cleansing properties of saline, hormones, and anything else necessary for that function.
She often spoke that way. Functions, properties, elements. Healer’s gobbledygook he barely understood. His specialty was words – using them to get the outcome he wanted, poring over them to discover exploitable gaps in a case.
“Why are you telling me this?” he’d snapped, irritated to be expending energy on speaking at all.
Dal looked at him in that sad, hollow-eyed way of hers. “Because since I became… this, it hurts to cry,” she’d said. “Is it like that for you?”
And Astarion realized it was.
For nearly two hundred years, it physically hurt to cry. Like his body was forcing tar through a system made for water. It was like that until someone gave him the gift of all the blood he could drink. Now the tears flow freely, should he choose to let them.
He does not let them flow now, but he thinks of that conversation with Dal as he sits beside Ori’s sleeping form, brushing her hair off her forehead and running a light finger over the dark trail her tear left on her cheek.
They’re back at the Elfsong, in the main chamber of their shared floor. Ori’s currently resting in one of the spare beds in the common area. It’s about as far as she could get before collapsing. Just as well, as the others are keen to fuss over her and it would have been miserable trying to run interference on visitors to their private room.
As his gaze travels over her figure from her too-pale cheeks to the slow rise and fall of her chest, Astarion feels a heavy, razor-clawed, monstrous fury lay like a weight across his shoulders. It whispers in his ears, tempting him with visions of Belladawn broken, bleeding, shredded, poisoned, torn. Dead. It wants blood. Not to nourish. To bathe in.
He could go now. Find her, wound her, make her suffer. Peel the flesh from her bones and revel in every scream. But he won’t. Ori would never forgive him. Not anymore than he’d forgive her if she took the privilege of Cazador’s death blow from him.
Astarion’s hand is deceptively gentle as it adjusts the blankets covering Ori. He stands and walks to where most of the others congregate around the fireplace, some seated on the red leather couches and others pacing or speaking in low voices. By all appearances, Ori seems on the mend, but the attempt on her life has rippled throughout their little group.
He feels as if it’s carved into his ribs.
Before he gets far, he’s accosted by the crone druid.
“Come, let me look,” Jaheira says, putting a hand on his arm and turning him so she can better examine his shoulder.
Astarion bares his teeth at her and she bares hers right back before checking the dressing under his shirt. “The bleeding’s stopped. Good sign.”
“Thank you so very much for your concern,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. He knows he’s being a complete arse. He just doesn’t especially care.
In response, Jaheira replaces his bandage a shade too roughly and jerks her head toward Ori. “She’d be upset with me if I let you go untreated like a mean, wild dog. Go take your ire to the others if you must.” She points toward the fire.
“I will take my ire wherever I bloody please,” he says to her with a sneer. And then, because he had no other plan, he stalks off in the direction she’d indicated anyway.
Wyll reaches out a hand to clap him on the shoulder as he approaches and Astarion does his best not to recoil from the touch. He could crawl out of his skin right now.
“How is she?” Wyll says softly, as if Ori could hear him from the other side of the floor.
“Almost murdered, but not quite,” Astarion responds, shrugging Wyll’s hand away. “She’s resting.”
“El is, too,” Karlach says, approaching them. “Resting, I mean. In their… wherever it is they do that. I think it took a lot out of them both.”
“Are we certain it was her mother?” Wyll says, folding his arms across his chest and widening his stance.
“Assassination attempt, mysterious poison, shady character holding a note with her seal embossed on it?” Astarion drawls. Karlach holds up the scroll with said seal and Astarion points at it. “Fairly certain, yes.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“What do we plan to do about it?” Wyll presses.
From a far corner, an elegant voice says, “You could all get very drunk and moan about your myriad woes, I suppose.”
Wyll rolls his good eye and glares at his patron, who apparently decided to take up residence in their encampment at some point during the day. “Piss off, Mizora,” he says.
Mizora clicks her tongue. “My good boy never had an attitude like that until the lot of you,” she pouts.
“No one asked you, arsehole,” Karlach calls. She lowers her voice and says to the others, “She’s not wrong, though. Little tankard and a night off might do us some good. I don’t know that there’s much we can do while Ori’s on the mend. Not that she wouldn’t kill us herself for, anyway.”
Halsin, who’s been leaning up against the stone fireplace, straightens and says, “You know, I do have a few bottles of mead I’ve been saving.”
Shadowheart and Lae’zel walk past them toward their case of shared potions and begin picking through them.
“We’ll take a pass,” Shadowheart says, handing over a few vials to Lae’zel. “Gale says you all left quite the tab with that apprentice back at Sorcerous Sundries.”
From near the door, there’s a resounding huff from Dame Aylin. “Why do we delay?” she demands. “There are scoundrels to vanquish.”
Gale, who stands beside her, shrugs back at the others.
“There was also some mention of slaying a… how did you put it?” Lae’zel says to Karlach. “‘Bitch-arse wizard?’”
“Sounds like something I’d say, yeah,” Karlach agrees. “Cheers. Take that fucker out.”
Halsin returns and offers up a few unlabeled bottles. “Made from mountain honey,” he says with a smile. “They promise to be excellent.”
Astarion scoffs. “I’m not leaving Ori under the care of a bunch of drunk dullards. What’s wrong with you lot?”
“Fear not,” Halsin says, holding out a bottle. “I’ll keep my wits and stand watch over her.”
Astarion narrows his eyes. Looks down at the mead. Back up at Halsin’s face.
“Well, in that case,” he says, snatching the bottle.
Two hours later, there have been two drinking games, one instance of Two Truths and a Lie, and several boozy confessions of undying platonic love, complete with tears. The latter was mainly Karlach.
Dame Aylin returns victorious with their companions still intact to rapturous applause that’s quickly stymied by the growl of the overlarge brown bear currently laying at Ori’s bedside.
“Always knew that idiot wizard with the stupid tail had it in him,” Astarion says, raising his goblet into the air. “May the fool enjoy his new tower and his… stupid handsome face.”
“You all right there, Pointy?” Karlach slurs.
“Methinks somebody’s a mite touchy about the wizard’s brief history with his bard,” Wyll says with a sloppy wink. He waves the others over. “Come, there’s more to be had. Strong stuff, this.”
“Excuse me,” Astarion says. “I have… we have… done so much more tongue. Than that. Stupid red man.”
“Very convincing,” Shadowheart says as she steps forward and accepts a mug of mead from Wyll.
Astarion sets his beverage aside and flails his hands. “Whatever. Come on, we were about to air grievances.”
Gale approaches the group with, shockingly, a large book under his arm. “That sounds like an absolutely terrible idea,” he says. “Perhaps once everyone’s a little less, ah. Inebriated?”
Astarion pushes past him without acknowledgement and throws open the nearest window shutters, leaning halfway out and yelling, “Eat shit, Belladawn, you rank twat.” He tips forward and Lae’zel manages to grab him by the back of the shirt before he falls to yet another death. “And fuck you, Cazador, your end is nigh.”
“Okay, okay, I think that’s enough for this evening’s festivities,” Shadowheart says as she helps Lae’zel guide Astarion back into the common room. “Come on, let’s get everyone a nice restoration and a good night’s sl-”
Karlach takes up Astarion’s former position at the window. “‘Ey Gortash, you bloated demon nutsack! Get fucked raw, dickhead.”
Wyll stumbles toward her and puts an arm around her shoulders, leaning to the side and yelling, “And… fuck your contract, Mizora!”
There’s an affronted noise nearby. “I’m right here,” Mizora says, pointing at herself.
Wyll whirls and teeters, gesturing at her with his mug. “And fuck you very much, m’lady,” he says before he takes another swig. “Your deals are… very bad.”
“Would someone close that… yes, okay, now that we have that out of our systems…” Shadowheart says as she shepherds them away.
“Vlaakith'kan zharn, tsk’van shka'keth,” Lae’zel shouts behind her before closing and latching the shutters.
“Oooooooh, that one sounded nasty,” Astarion lilts from his seat near the fireplace. “I like it. What’s it mean?”
Lae’zel dusts her hands as she turns from the window and gives him a scrutinizing glare. “May Vlaakith know agony. Shitty arsehole.”
“Nice,” Karlach says.
“And that’s a Lesser Restoration for you…” Shadowheart says, putting a hand to Wyll’s chest and letting the pale glow take hold. She touches Karlach’s arm. “And you…”
When she moves toward Astarion, he dodges behind a chair in a way that would be graceful for anyone else and is notably sloppy for him.
“No no no, I worked very hard for this inebriation, thank you.”
Wyll is cradling Gale’s face in his hands. “Have I told you lately, my love, that you are the most handsome man on the continent?”
“Objectively untrue,” Astarion calls back as he dodges Shadowheart again.
From between smushed cheeks, Gale says, “You’re quite sure that restoration spell worked?”
“Give it a moment,” Shadowheart says, winded as she tries to outwit an intoxicated rogue.
There’s another few seconds of commotion before a thin voice from the other side of the room croaks, “With love, would you all shut the hells up?”
Astarion’s head whips around. “Everyone quiet,” he hisses, waving a hand. “My darling’s awake.”
Shadowheart smacks him hard in the back of the head, leaving a Lesser Restoration spell in her wake.
“Oooooow,” Astarion whines, rubbing the sore spot and glaring at her.
She rolls her eyes and walks off.
Astarion briefly considers retaliation, but Ori’s pull is too strong. He weaves his way across the room and awkwardly steps over Halsin’s massive bear paws while the druid watches with an entertained look in his ursine eyes. On the other side, Astarion kneels by the bedside and clasps Ori’s hands.
“My darling, my dear, my sweet,” he simpers. “Are you well?”
Ori squints at him, disheveled curls stuck flat to one side of her head. “Are you drunk?” she responds.
He holds up a finger. “Momentarily, yes. Should remedy itself… any…” His head clears and his focus sharpens. “There it is.”
As he literally sobers and gives himself a shake, Bear-Halsin gives an affectionate huff and stands, turning to wander off toward the others and give them some space.
Astarion watches him go over his shoulder, brow arched. He glances back at Ori and conspiratorially says, “... have you thought about it when he’s…?”
Ori’s eyes go wide and she hides her grin behind her hand. “I have thought about it. Have you?”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Well, obviously I’ve thought about it, that’s why I’m asking.”
There’s a beat of quiet before they break into giggles and he crawls up into the full bed with her and pulls the privacy curtain behind him. They tangle together and he lets nerves and terror slough off him now that she’s in his arms. He puts his hand to her face and brings her lips to his, catching her in a searing kiss again and again.
With the curtain drawn, it feels like it’s just them, alone in the quiet. Astarion cracks open the tiniest bit as he breaks their kiss with a shuddering breath, his thumb rubbing circles into her cheek.
“You frightened me,” he whispers to the space between them.
She swallows. “I know,” she says, rubbing her palm gently over his back and shoulder. “If I could’ve avoided it, believe me, I would have.”
Her fingers brush over his bare skin where his shirt has fallen loose and pause as they catch on the bandage wrapped there. She lifts her head, trying to get a better look.
“When did you get hurt?” she says. Then, panicky, she puts her palm over the wrapping and adds, “Gods, were you hit? Tell me you didn’t-”
Astarion catches her hand. “I didn’t get hit.” He feels Ori physically relax until he adds, “Not directly.”
“What do you mean, not directly?” she whisper-yells at him. “They were poisoned blades!”
“Look, it’s… here.” He takes her hand in his, lacing their fingers together and turning their hands back and forth so she sees both of their rings. “These. It’s happened twice now, and it’s the only thing I can think of.”
“What’s happened twice?” she insists.
He takes a deep breath. “They’re linked. When you get hurt, some of it is reflected back on me. I think.”
Ori doesn’t move for a moment. Then she pulls her hand from him and goes to remove her ring. Astarion takes her hand back and stops her movement, shaking his head.
“Don’t you dare insult me,” he says. He tries to sound scolding and fails miserably.
“I’m not going to hurt you like that,” she says, pulling against him. He lets her go.
“You aren’t,” he says.
She stops taking off the ring and looks at him.
He shakes his head and glances down. “You aren’t hurting me. You’re letting me protect you.” She opens her mouth to interject and he cuts her off with a mirthless laugh. “I’m not good for much, Ori, and I need to be able to give you something back. Let me give you this.”
Ori takes a few seconds, twisting the ring around her finger. With trepidation, she releases it and reaches out to hug him close to her.
“You are worth so much more than you believe. You’re giving me comfort right now, just like this,” she whispers, fingers brushing soothingly along his ears. “When you hold me, you’re doing what no one else can. No one else is you.”
He tightens his arms around her and buries his nose in her hair. Breathes deep and exhales. Says, “You’re going to rest. One worry at a time, for now.”
Ori holds him tighter still and he feels warm, wet tears on his neck. Astarion thinks about how those tears come from the same place that nourishes him.
“Okay,” she whispers.
It takes about twenty minutes for her to fall back asleep. Astarion lays on his back with her curled into his side. When her heartbeat finally slows, he turns his head and presses his lips to her forehead. He’s nearly ready to drop into his trance when there’s a muffled “mrrrr” and the light weight of something at the foot of the bed.
“What in the hells?” he whispers, squinting into the dark. The mystery is solved quickly when the ginger girl’s equally ginger cat creeps up the mattress toward him. “Oh. Go away.”
The cat does not go away. The cat, in fact, crawls shivering onto Astarion’s chest and curls up, despite his furious whispered protests. He’d shove the thing off, but he doesn’t want to disturb Ori.
“Gods, this is humiliating,” he grumbles under his breath as he scratches the cat behind its ears to settle it.
Eventually, Grub’s purrs go from anxious to smooth and deep, reverberating through Astarion’s own chest in what he begrudgingly admits is an extremely relaxing fashion. A constant vibration that soothes his own nerves, frayed clean through from the day’s events.
Astarion’s eyelids grow heavy. Ori’s a comforting weight at his side. The bloody cat is casting some sort of sleep spell, he’s certain of it. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He doesn’t. He wouldn’t have, normally.
So it’s quite the splash of cold water when he’s woken hours later in the dead of night by a cat screeching and scrabbling off his chest, leaving a short clawed gouge in its wake.
“Bleeding hells,” Astarion curses, jolted out of unconsciousness with murderous intent.
Which is unfortunately immediately overwhelmed by surprise when a pair of hands twist into the front of his shirt and pull him close to their face in the dark. He meets a pair of eyes red as his own.
“Come, Brother,” Leon says. “It’s time to go home.”