Chapter Text
Pulling on the reins, Gandrel listened to the sound of running water as the wagon came to a halt. He let out a soft sigh, his eyes following the stream of the creek that ran along the side of the road. The water was crystal clear, the sound calming and soothing. It was drawing him in as if already washing away the filth from his body and his mind even without dipping a single toe in the cool water.
The water was tantalising, seemingly fresh and cool, making him acutely aware of the grime and filth that had accumulated on his body and his clothes. The sickeningly sweet, metallic scent of powdered iron-vine still filled his nostrils, the smell clinging to his clothes, nauseatingly pungent. Perhaps this was the perfect moment to wash?
The area was desolate, not a sound other than the faint chirping of birds and the rippling water that traveled along the boulders and rocks scattered in the creek, peeking out of the water. It was quite a scenic place indeed, a small safe haven among the dangers of the lands, far enough away from the goblin threat, yet not close enough to the Shadow-Cursed Lands to worry just yet.
Looking back at the wagon, he took a few moments to observe the captive elf, curled up in the cage, hugging his knees, his eyes closed as if asleep. He was well aware the elf was awake, merely resting his weary and battered body, trying to recover from all the horrors he had endured in the blighted village at the hands of goblins and an ogre. Every now and then, the elf twitched as a tremor ran through him. Clearly, he was in tremendous pain, his mind fractured and his spirit broken. The monster hunter had managed to tame the monster.
The monster deserved what had befallen him, evil as he was, paying for the hundreds if not thousands of innocent people he had lured to their deaths over the centuries, doing the bidding of Cazador Szarr himself. He deserved every bit of pain, every humiliating moment. And yet, there was something about his broken state that tugged at the strings of Gandrel’s heart.
Usually, Gandrel was a kindhearted man, willing to help and offer advice if needed, yet upon finding the vampire he had sought for so long, something inside him had snapped. A side of him he had never known existed had emerged, showing its ugly face, turning him into one of the very monsters he so vehemently hunted.
For the first time since capturing Astarion, the gentle souled Gandrel that everyone already knew, seemed to be winning the battle against the hatred and depravity that filled this new side of him. For once, he felt like he was himself, at least just for a moment. As if the anger he harboured had been momentarily satiated after seeing Astarion break at the hands of Lump the Enlightened.
It frightened him, knowing he shouldn’t feel any empathy towards a vampire, especially not the one responsible for the kidnapping of his two little daughters, Kass and Chessa. He could only imagine the horrors his children had been subjected to, what cruelty Cazador had put them through. He could hear their cries for their father to rescue them in his mind, calling out for him over and over until it nearly drove him mad.
But among the sounds of their lamenting cries echoing in his mind, the sight of Astarion breaking was lingering, a mixture of a deep seated hatred, sprinkled with a curiosity he had never felt before. He wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps he was falling victim to the vampire’s skills, being seduced by him without knowing?
He shook his head, clearing the fog from his mind. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t let the vampire lure him in, like so many men and women before him. He couldn’t let him do that. It would mean certain death for his daughters if he fell victim to the vampire. Only he could rescue them and he would do anything in his power to do so.
Taking a deep breath, he slid off the wagon, gently pulling on the reins as he touched down on the soft grass, guiding the horse towards a wilted tree, tying the reins around the branches. “Good girl.” he soothed, his voice low and gravelly, patting the horse on the side of its neck, allowing it a well deserved rest.
As the horse began chewing on a tuft of lush grass, Gandrel strode towards the wagon, keeping a keen eye on Astarion. He still wasn’t moving. He reeked of sweat, goblin and ogre jizz, a vile combination of stenches that stung in his nostrils. Gods, it would be a punishment in itself for Gandrel to leave Astarion covered in filth like that, having to smell him the rest of the way to Baldur’s Gate. He needed a wash even more than Gandrel did!
He narrowed his eyes, glaring at the pale elf for a moment before looking out at the streaming water. Vampires were hurt by running water, but Astarion was somehow different from the vampires he had previously encountered. He was immune to direct sunlight, something that shouldn’t be possible. Maybe he could tolerate running water too? He would have to find out, but not until he had washed first.
He wasn’t going to bathe together with the vampire. He couldn’t risk it. Not after nearly getting killed by him earlier. He couldn’t underestimate him. As weak as he appeared, the vampire was still a dangerous creature. One wrong move and it could mean his demise.
The monster seemed dormant for now. It would be wise of Gandrel to wash before the vampire came to. Not that he was capable of breaking out of the cage, it was sturdy and specially crafted to hold a vampire, but simply because he knew the vampire would most likely spit insults at him or demand to be set free so he could bathe too. He just didn’t want to have to deal with such nuisances.
With a deep sigh, he discarded his vest, folding it neatly and placing it on the seat of the wagon, making sure the leather didn’t crease and then began working on the buckles and straps, loosening the belt around his waist and the satchel tucked away against his hip. As he placed them by the vest on the wagon, his fingers picked at the strings tying the leather cuffs to his wrists, letting out a sigh of relief as they loosened.
It was nice, his aching wrists popping silently as he regained full mobility from the restrictive leather cuffs. They were a nuisance, but a necessary evil when handling a crossbow lest he wanted the string to bounce back and snap against his exposed skin. As a hunter, he only made that mistake once. He still remembered the sting as a young boy, learning to shoot the crossbow.
Years had passed by and he had become quite proficient, but even as skilled as he considered himself, the cuffs were still an important piece of armor. He smiled wearily, thinking back at his youth. The training, the lessons learned by his elders, the sights he had witnessed over the years. The path that had led him to this very moment, shaped him into the man he had become.
He hesitated for a moment, knowing full well he was becoming something he despised, something that by his own standards, should be destroyed. He only hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t fall any further. He could still redeem himself by bringing Astarion back to his tribe and save his daughters. He could still defeat the monster he was becoming before he lost all control of it.
Turning to look at Astarion once more, feeling a bit apprehensive about stripping down and leaving himself vulnerable, his eyes were fixated on the slumbering elf as his fingers worked deftly on his trousers, untying the drawstrings and kicking off his boots at the same time. Carefully, he placed the boots on the ground next to the wagon and let his trousers fall down around his ankles.
The chilled breeze felt nice on his skin, making him feel more at ease, but he still kept a keen eye on the vampire. Hooking his fingers in the hem of his tunic, he pulled it swiftly over his head, revealing his chest, scarred and marked from years of battles and fighting. One scar after another told its own story and reminded him of past battles won, each one carried like a badge of honour.
He was proud of each one.
Hanging the tunic on the side of the wagon, he rummaged through some of his belongings, including a small fragrant satchel he kept hidden in the bottom of the wagon. As he opened the satchel, he was met with familiar scents, comforting and reminding him of loved ones lost. Homemade soaps, crafted delicately from herbs and flowers, smelling sweetly. Recipes taught to him by the late mother of his children.
He missed her dearly and longed for her warmth, especially in times like these. He couldn’t give up the search for his daughters. He had promised her to take care of them, that they would never needlessly suffer again and it broke his heart knowing that he may have failed his promise to her.
His thumb rubbed over the smooth surface of the soap bar, feeling the fragrant substance soak into his calloused skin. Somehow the scent that was so dear to him was able to bring out the kind man he once was. The man she had fallen in love with all those years ago.
For a brief moment, he forgot all about the captive vampire, inhaling deeply as he discarded his undergarments, clutching the soap bar tightly in his fingers and carefully stepping into the stream. A soft gasp spilled from his lips as he felt the cool water rush over his feet, sending a wave of chills up his spine. It was colder than expected, but refreshing nonetheless.
In the tranquility of the calm stream, Gandrel began scooping up handfuls of water, splashing it on his body, enjoying the sense of normalcy. He felt almost like himself, a feeling he hadn’t felt ever since he set out to capture Astarion. He wanted to cherish this moment, cleanse himself off the grime and the blood, the depravity that seemed to have seeped into him like a venom poisoning his blood.
He rubbed his hands meticulously over his arms, letting the water trickle down his body before finally beginning to lather up his skin with the fragrant soap. He inhaled deeply, the soothing scent filling his lungs as the suds washed away the sins he had committed.
His ears perked up, picking up the soft whine from the wagon, the vampire finally stirring. He anticipated the insults, the spiteful taunts to come immediately, but nothing more than a quiet whimper escaped the pale elf. Turning to observe him, he felt a thud in his gut as he saw those crimson piercing eyes glaring back at him with a sense of desperation he had not previously witnessed from the elf.
He sighed as he kneeled into the stream, scooping up more water and rinsing himself. He watched the remnants of the soap wash away in the stream under him, like blood flowing from a fresh wound. Upon splashing the final scoop of water in his face, Gandrel retreated from the creek, picking up his tunic and quickly putting it on, letting it loosely hang over his hips and covering himself just enough to not feel bashful in front of the pale elf.
“Time to find out if water harms you, vampire…” he mumbled to himself as he stepped towards the creek once more, scooping up a big handful of water and carefully carrying it back to the wagon. Without saying a word, he splashed the water directly at Astarion, expecting to hear a shriek of pain as the water hit him. But there was no scream, only a quiet groan, not of pain, but of annoyance.
Gandrel chuckled at the discovery. Seemingly, the vampire could indeed tolerate water, same as with sunlight. He should be writhing in agony, the water melting his skin like acid. But nothing. How curious.
“Don’t resist, elf,” he spoke calmly, his lip curling up in a small smile as he opened the cage, gripping Astarion’s shackles and pulling him out, “Don’t make me hurt you again.” Astarion let out a weak noise of protest, but allowed himself to be dragged out and tumbling off the wagon and dropping onto the ground with a muted thud.
He tangled his fingers in those silver curls, tugging, dragging Astarion to his feet, the elf stumbling clumsily as Gandrel pulled him into his arms and hoisted him over his shoulder like a ragdoll, carrying him towards the water. Astarion let out a wail of terror, his legs kicking wildly, his mind filling with fear, believing he was once more being handed over to vile creatures to be used like nothing more than a vessel for pleasure again.
“Please!” he cried out, his nails digging into Gandrel’s moistened tunic, “I can’t! Not again!” He squealed brokenly, his whole body going rigid when Gandrel’s fingers closed around his balls, squeezing them painfully in order to make him stop moving and flailing.
“Calm down, elf.” he groaned, stepping into the water once more, his grip loosening on Astarion’s balls as he did so. “You reek of goblin and ogre. You’re getting a bath, that’s all.”
“A… Bath?” he questioned, another squeal escaping him as Gandrel tossed him into the creek, the elf shivering as his body hit the cold water. As the water engulfed him, Astarion shot back up, hugging himself as a chill ran up his spine. He gulped, turning to face Gandrel, his eyes filled with doubt. Just a bath? It was never that simple with Gandrel. There had to be some ulterior motive behind this.
As he stood there, his knees quivering lightly and teeth chattering, his eyes followed the Gur as he brought the bar of soap closer. He flinched instinctively as the slippery surface of the bar touched the back of his shoulder, sliding gently along his scars, soapy water trailing down over his back and dripping into the creek.
He stood frozen, perplexed, every muscle tense and strained. Gandrel’s hands were surprisingly gentle, rubbing the soap into his skin, his usually calloused fingers softened and silky from the soap. It felt almost… Nice? Pleasant even. It frightened him, expecting his touch to turn cruel at any moment.
A quiet whimper slipped past his lips as he felt Gandrel’s hands roam down along his spine, settling on his hips just above his buttocks. It was going to happen again, he was certain. Gandrel was going to brutalize him once more, use him like a disposable toy, a cheap whore.
He bit his lower lip, the oddly gentle touch grazing over the curve of his buttocks, parting them for just a split second, his body almost jerking away but somehow managing to keep in place, fearful of the consequences if he tried to recoil. But then the hands slipped off his skin, no longer groping him.
“Here. Wash yourself.” Gandrel demanded, his voice commanding yet soft, tucking the soap into one of Astarion’s shackled hands before trodding away, stepping onto the bank of the creek, once more rummaging through his belongings in the wagon.
As if petrified with fear and confusion, Astarion held the soap against his chest, feeling it slip between his fingers. His eyes followed Gandrel, wondering what he was retrieving from the satchel buried at the bottom of the wagon, hidden underneath provisions and supplies.
As Gandrel pulled out a small bottle, Astarion let out a gasp. What was that? A potion? An elixir? Something sinister, no doubt. As soon as Gandrel turned, walking back towards him with the bottle in hand, Astarion lowered his head, averting his gaze. He circled the soap over his chest idly, absentmindedly washing himself, his hand moving on its own volition.
“Please… Don’t hurt me again… I promise I’ll be good.” he whimpered meekly, tears welling up in his eyes, his fingers clutching the soap, digging into the soft mushy bar. If his heart had been beating, it would have skipped a beat, his eyes widening as he watched Gandrel break the seal of the bottle, twisting the cap open and pouring the viscous liquid out onto the tips of his fingers.
Gandrel never said a word, his lips curling up in what appeared to be a genuinely sympathetic smile as he placed one hand on Astarion’s buttocks, gently parting them. “Please, don’t…” Astarion begged, squishing the soap in his hand as he felt Gandrel’s slick fingers slip in between his buttocks.
He knew it. It was so obvious. Of course the filthy Gur would violate him again, especially when he was in such a vulnerable state.
His eyes squeezed shut, his fangs pricking into his lower lip, nearly drawing blood as he waited for the pain to come. He was still sore, his sensitive skin ripped from the massive size of the ogre, his body still needing time to recover fully.
Crying silently, the tears flowing freely from his eyes, Astarion felt himself clench, the sting of Gandrel’s fingers rubbing over his torn skin, pressing and prodding with a far gentler touch than expected. He waited for a finger to enter him at any moment, but nothing happened.
He opened his eyes slowly, craning his neck to look back at the Gur behind him, catching his gaze, intense, yet kind. What was happening? What was he doing to him? He gazed down, his eyes traveling down Gandrel’s tunic, the fabric moist and partly translucent in places where the water had soaked into it.
“What are you doing…?” he forced out, his voice shaky and hoarse, his hips twitching slightly in response to the tender touch. He caught a whiff of the ointment being rubbed in between his buttocks, pungent and medicinal with a hint of herbs. A healing salve? Gandrel wasn’t harming him? He was tending to his wounds.
Astarion felt a lump in his throat, not understanding what was happening or why Gandrel was suddenly being so kind with him after having beaten, tortured, raped and violated him over the past few days. He had shown no mercy at any point, so why now? Why had he changed all of a sudden?
He was conflicted, his body craving the tenderness, enjoying the gentle aftercare, the subtle prickling sensation of the salve seeping into his broken skin, his flesh absorbing the ointment that seemed to soothe his pains and discomforts.
The Gur was quiet, meticulously rubbing the salve into his skin as if he truly cared, wanting to tend to his wounds. It was a side of Gandrel he had never witnessed before, one he would have preferred to experience rather than the vicious, cruel monster that he had only encountered up until then.
There was an obvious bulge beneath Gandrel’s tunic, evidence that he was obviously aroused in the moment. There they stood in the middle of the flowing water, naked and vulnerable, intimately touching, yet the ruthless Gur didn’t assault him. He had every opportunity to do so, bend Astarion over and take him against his will as he had done before, but for some reason the Gur withheld his desires.
Astarion was afraid. This was wrong. Was the Gur really so unpredictable? Like two different men locked in the same body, his personality switching depending on Astarion’s actions? If he kept behaving, would it mean Gandrel would continue treating him with care and allowing him a bit more leeway?
If he crossed him again, would it mean he would be beaten to a bloody pulp? Raped until he was raw and bleeding? Only time would tell.
A soft sigh slipped past his lips as Gandrel’s fingers withdrew, the pain from his injuries already diminishing, turning to a dull ache. He watched with a puzzled expression as Gandrel stepped around him, moving in front of him, pouring some of the salve from the bottle out on his other hand, coating the tips of his clean fingers.
He inhaled sharply, flinching as Gandrel swiped his fingers over the cut above his eyebrow, smearing the salve over the wound left by the jagged rock, the ointment instantly making the wound prickle and tingle. He was stunned, staring dumbfounded at the man who had abused him for days, now caring for him like a friend in need.
Why?
“There we go.” Gandrel muttered softly, smiling kindly under his moustache, little crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. “This should help speed up the healing process.”
Unable to form any other words, “T-thank you…” was the only words that spilled from Astarion’s lips, earning himself an even bigger smile from the Gur.
Gandrel took the squished soap from Astarion’s fingers, looking down at it and chuckling. “Looks like I need to make more of these seeing as you’ve mashed the last remaining one.” Make more? The soap was handcrafted by Gandrel himself? Astarion was even more baffled as he seemed to learn more and more about the savage Gur. There was a gentle side of the brute he had never known existed.
Had his hatred for Astarion really pushed the man so far it had turned him into the monster that indulged in violating and torturing him? Driven him to depravity and deprived him of his compassion? In a way, he wasn’t at all surprised. He would probably follow in those same footsteps in regards to Cazador, throwing away all decency in order to torment and destroy him.
“Get dressed, elf. Evening is approaching and the nights are getting colder.” Gandrel spoke calmly, stepping back onto the bank of the creek, stuffing the ointment and the remnants of the soap back into his satchel, picking up his own clothes and getting dressed. “We’re nearing the Mountain Pass. Tomorrow we should reach the Rosymorn Monastery, if the Gods will allow it.”