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“Which of our little party would—”
“Gale.”
The answer comes before Shadowheart has finished forming the question and she fixes Astarion with a glare.
Despite the darkness of the cell, she can see the infuriating little smile on his lips as he spreads his shackled hands. “What?”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
Their chains are loose — a careless oversight she would never have permitted were she in the cultists’ shoes — but she’s grateful for the freedom as she leans back against the stone wall, legs stretched out in front of her. Their weapons and armour are gone, leaving them in sets of worn rags, but the bleeding from the wound across her thigh has already slowed to a trickle.
“You were going to ask ‘which of our little party would crack first under torture’,” Astarion says, full of the same smug delight he gets when he’s winning an argument. “And the answer is Gale.”
It’s a genuine toss-up as to whether captivity, impending torture, and isolation is a better outcome than captivity, impending torture, and Astarion.
However, peaceable Astarion is preferable to sniping Astarion, and so she relents. “I suppose keeping quiet really isn’t Gale’s strength.”
Astarion preens. “I knew you’d see things my way.”
Shadowheart considers for a moment. “At the start of this fiasco, I might have said Wyll. He bore the fires of the Hells better than I expected.” Her mind drifts to columns of onyx, sobbing figures curled in their shadows. “I’ve seen men broken by far less.”
Astarion hums in agreement, gaze distant. She wonders if his memories are less fractured than hers.
Companionable silence settles for a moment and Shadowheart is a little surprised that she’s the one to break it as she turns the dilemma over in her head. “Who would you wager as lasting longer: Karlach or Lae’zel?”
“Wager?” Astarion echoes, one eyebrow raised. “My, how far our noble cleric has fallen.”
“What can I say, you make the gutter look so comfortable,” she bats back, drawing a smile. “Besides, I doubt any wager would ever come to pass. They both made it safely out of here, after all.”
“And were kind enough to leave us behind,” Astarion says. “It’s only fair we get to speculate over their grisly torment in return.” His grin is sharp. “All hypothetical, of course.”
“Of course.”
He tilts his head. Shadowheart guesses he’s running the same variables as her — resilience, tolerance for pain, ease of manipulation — but she stays silent until Astarion settles on his answer. “I’d take a hundred gold on Karlach.”
“Truly?” It’s a genuine surprise and she sits forward, intrigued. “I’d take Lae’zel.”
“Yes, you’re hardly subtle about it.”
The cell is just about narrow enough for her to kick him, and he laughs when her foot smacks against his. “Putting your money on that rigorous githyanki training?”
“She could withstand a lot,” Shadowheart says. “More than that, she has dedication to her cause. She’d die before saying anything to betray it. Zealots like that can be difficult to break.”
“But not impossible?”
There’s curiosity in his voice, no trace of mockery, and Shadowheart nods. “Pain can only go so far. You focus on their connection to their beliefs; find out how much of their self is built upon blind faith alone; and then chip at that foundation. It’s slow work but I—” She swallows, mouth dry. “The effect can be devastating.”
“Immensely disturbing, thank you.”
Shadowheart smiles in spite of herself. “And you? Why Karlach? I suppose surviving a decade in Avernus is nothing to be sniffed at.”
“True,” Astarion says. “Although mostly she’s just so very large.” At Shadowheart’s frown, he clarifies, “More to carve through, you see. It’d take more than a couple of lashes to hit bone.”
Unbidden, Shadowheart’s mind spools back to the days after the crash, the sight of Astarion half-naked in a creek as he scrubs his shirt clean, the clear line of his ribs and the jut of his collarbone beneath his skin.
“So we’re betting on an amateurish torturer then?” she says instead.
Astarion shrugs. “They can’t all be Shar-trained professionals, darling. Some of us have to make do with your run-of-the-mill sadists.”
There’s a noise from outside the cell, the clank of keys and boots, and they scramble to their feet in unison.
“And right on cue,” Astarion murmurs. He stretches as much as the chains allow, rolling his shoulders and twisting his cuffed wrists, then glances over at her, pondering. “What are we thinking: wife or sister?”
It takes a moment for it to click but she rounds on him, finger raised. “Don’t you dare.”
“I just think—”
“There is no way that will—”
“Well, well,” a deep voice says, “if it ain’t my two favourite elves.”
“Half-elf,” Shadowheart corrects tartly. She may develop a complex about the length of her ears if this keeps happening.
“Oh, my apologies, your highness.” The door to their cell swings open and a burly human swaggers inside. He’s enormous, even compared to the hobgoblin following behind him, with a scar running down over one milky-white eye, and Shadowheart keeps her expression blank when his good eye scans down over her body. “I’ll be extra careful with those half-elf ears of yours when I’m tearing ‘em off.”
He takes a step further into the cell, meaty hand outstretched, but is stopped by the sound of someone clearing their throat somewhere behind his right knee.
A dwarf steps out, hands on her hips, and cranes her neck to look up at the human. “The questions, Rorn.” She sounds very tired. “We need information, not ears.”
The human — Rorn, apparently — huffs, and Astarion moves forward.
His eyes are wide with fear and he looks between Rorn and the dwarf when he says, hands spread in surrender, “Please, I’ll tell you everything we know. Just please let my wife go.”
Shadowheart bites her tongue. While she would dearly love to throttle him, she has to admit the performance isn’t bad. She didn’t know Astarion’s range extended beyond sharp-tongued and seductive but as he moves in to plead with their captors, he does a decent impression of a terrified spouse trying to be brave.
“Where’s the cleric?” Rorn asks, towering over Astarion. “The Selûnite?”
Astarion shakes his head. “I- I don’t know—”
He doesn’t get to finish before Rorn’s fist slams into his stomach. He crumples with a cry, falling to his knees at their captors’ feet, and Shadowheart tugs on her chains when Rorn’s hand fists in Astarion’s hair.
“Let him go!” She’s far better at stoicism in the face of danger but does her best to sound meek and pathetic when she begs, “We don’t know any cleric, I swear.”
“You had others with you,” the dwarf chimes in. “The ones who fled, the tiefling and the toad. Where are they?”
“They aren’t anyone important,” Astarion says. Rorn pulls on his hair and he winces, reaching up to grasp his arm, pleading and pacifying. (His hands even tremble a little as he does so. It’s a nice touch.) “Please, they won’t bother you again. We won’t bother you again if you just let us—”
Rorn smacks him hard across the face. His gauntlet is leather rather than metal, limiting the likely damage to a bruise rather than a broken cheekbone, but something coils in Shadowheart’s stomach when Astarion topples to the ground with an exaggerated whimper of pain.
The dwarf taps her foot, impatient. “Dharz, take the other one.”
The hobgoblin steps forward, towering over Shadowheart. It’s only her training which keeps her from lashing out in self-defence, the Mother Superior’s lessons echoing in her mind, and she gasps when a huge hand closes around her braid.
“Wait!” Astarion staggers back to his feet, chains rattling. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll tell you where they are.”
“No!”
Astarion looks over at her in surprise and Shadowheart tries to hide her smile. There was always something a little fun about amateur dramatics.
“Don’t tell them anything!” Her breath hitches, almost a sob. “It’s not worth it, my love.”
Astarion looks like he may vomit at the term of address, which she takes as a resounding victory.
Her yelp when the hobgoblin yanks on her hair is much more genuine, and she puts up some perfunctory struggles when Astarion looks to the human and the dwarf.
“There’s an underground compound,” he says, defeated, “beneath the town. I’ll tell you where both entrances are — they won’t be able to escape from you. Just promise you won’t hurt her.”
Rorn looks deeply disappointed by this turn of events, so it’s left to the dwarf to nudge her way forward, eyes bright. “As long as your information’s good, she won’t feel a thing. Now start talking, elf.”
Shadowheart makes a tragic noise of defeat when he starts talking. (In this fictional scenario, she has decided that any woman willingly married to Astarion would need to be at least as melodramatic as he is.)
It’s a good performance on his part, all fearful sincerity as he explains what they need to do in order to access the non-existent hideout, down to the precise details of which dagger to touch in the Sharran sanctuary and where to use fire in the House of Healing’s morgue.
The dwarf has two pages of notes by the end of it but she looks satisfied when she waves Rorn and Dharz back. “You know you’re gonna regret it if you’re lying to us, yeah?”
Astarion nods. “It’s the truth, I swear.”
The dwarf’s smile is all teeth. “Well, aren’t they lucky to have friends like you. Sit tight, lovebirds. Once we get your friends’ heads, maybe you’ll get to go meet the Absolute Herself.”
The door clangs shut behind her, the mechanical lock sliding into place, and Shadowheart sinks back down against the wall as she listens to them talk amongst themselves.
“Should’ve known that poncy git would talk,” Rorn says, audibly sulking. “Didn’t even get to have any fun.”
“We got answers,” the dwarf snaps. “Go toss a gnome out into the shadows if you’re bored.”
Dharz huffs. “Would prefer the pretty one...”
Rorn chuckles. “You mean the girl? Or the husband?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?” The dwarf’s voice fades as they move out of earshot. “What does ‘yeah’ mean? He gave you two options...”
Another door clatters in the distance and Shadowheart waits a moment longer out of caution before stretching out to kick Astarion again.
“Ow!” He glares at her. “I know life is difficult for you with those enormous clown feet but could you not aim for right on the bone?”
“Please don’t hurt my wife?” She wrinkles her nose. “Surely you could have come up with something a little more dignified.”
“Oh, perhaps I missed your more upstanding suggestions?” he says archly. “What were you going to do, stare at them sullenly until they left us alone? Besides, a little begging and pleading goes a long way in a dungeon.”
He settles back against the wall, venom fading, and Shadowheart settles too as she admits, “It was good information to feed them. Clever, to send them to Lady Shar’s shrine.”
Astarion puts a hand to his heart. “Am I concussed or was that a compliment?”
“Can’t it be both?” She finds the smile that comes is genuine as she gestures to where their captors struck him. “How’s your face?”
“Magnificent as always.”
She fixes him with a stare and after a long moment he sheds the posturing. “It’s fine. Nothing broken and I doubt I have enough blood in me for a bruise.” He hums. “Maybe I can eat whichever of those idiots survives. I quite fancy lightly-toasted dwarf.”
Silence descends once more. Shadowheart is almost certain that Astarion is thinking fondly of eating people but when her own thoughts drift happily to Lady Shar’s sentinels obliterating their jailers, she finds she can’t judge too harshly.
———
“Let’s say Karlach and Lae’zel are tied for now. Which of us would last longer?”
Deep in meditation, Shadowheart cracks an eye open in annoyance. “I was praying.”
On the other side of the cell, Astarion is flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Yes, well, I was bored. We all have our burdens.” He swivels to sit, folding his legs cross-legged as he faces her. “Of course, if you don’t want to answer, I’ll just assume you agree that it’s me.”
She scoffs. “I trained under the Mother Superior. You complain if you have to walk more than two miles.”
“Cazador was never a fan of hiking.” Astarion’s disdain is shared equally between his former master’s name and the concept of long walks. “One of his many failings, I’m sure. He did have a deep fondness for flaying though, which I feel should stand me in good stead.”
A retort sits on Shadowheart’s tongue but she takes a longer moment to consider it. She’s proud of her own training, her skills in extracting information and resisting interrogation, but in terms of sheer damage survived, Astarion is clearly the victor.
“Does it feel the same as it would for a mortal?” she asks, curious. “I know that without the tadpole vampires heal far faster than we do. Does the pain still hurt as much when it’s inflicted or is it lessened, like a broken nail instead of a broken finger?”
Astarion blinks, apparently surprised at the question. Between the rough fight that landed them in this position and the day or two in captivity, they’re both exhausted and so she can only attribute it to tiredness when he doesn’t simply deflect the question.
“I don’t remember,” he says quietly. “I remember the, ah… sensation of dying, the blows and the shouting, not to mention the damned embarrassment of being beaten to death in the streets like an animal, but I don’t remember the pain. We’re not immune to lesser wounds — a slap still stings, a cigar still burns — but I don’t remember enough of my mortal body to compare the two.”
His smile is tight, the glimpse of vulnerability not quite sealed away securely. “Well, that and I don’t recall ever being whipped bloody as a mortal. Far too sheltered, clearly.”
Bile rises briefly in Shadowheart’s chest. A memory crests, knees on hard stone, arms wrapped around herself, the crack of the whip echoing again and again and again, before it’s submerged once again in the peace of Lady Shar’s darkness.
The wound in her hand pulses, fire coursing through her blood, and she grasps at it with a cry, conscious of Astarion’s eyes on her as she fights to get herself under control.
“Your own personal divine torturer,” he says but she’s in too much pain to make out his tone. “How can these cultists possibly hope to compete?”
She glowers as she catches her breath. “The Dark Lady has granted it to me. It’s a test, a sign of my faith.”
Astarion inspects his nails. “Yes, that’s just what Cazador used to say when he brought out the pliers.”
Shadowheart glares at him. Her heart is still pounding in the aftermath of the wound flare-up, her body tensed as if in danger, and she takes a deep breath to regain her composure.
“You know, if this hypothetical torturer were looking for information, I think you may actually last longer,” Astarion says.
Shadowheart blinks. That may be the nicest thing he’s ever said to her.
“You can be really quite stubborn,” he adds, because he’s still Astarion. “Just tremendously pig-headed.”
She flexes her aching hand. “That’s quite the compliment. Not the pig-headed part.”
He shrugs. “I am gracious enough to recognise other people’s strengths, you know. Unlike you, I can’t say I’ve ever been tortured for information before. At least not information I could give.”
She frowns and he explains, “Vampiric compulsion, darling. Even your Sharran torture prodigies wouldn’t have been able to pry out secrets that Cazador didn’t want known.”
“Interesting.”
He eyes her. “You’re filing that nugget of information away, aren’t you? Just in case you ever need to interrogate a vampire spawn in future.”
“Hadn’t occurred to me,” Shadowheart lies and then diverts before he can laugh in her face. “If they didn’t seek information, then why were you tortured?”
Astarion laughs anyway, sharp and bitter. She can’t take her eyes off his fangs when he flashes a vicious grin. “If you want a list, we’ll be here for the next four tendays. Spoke too much, didn’t speak enough, moved at the wrong time, raised my eyes at the wrong time, breathed at the wrong time, struggled too much, didn’t struggle enough—”
“So, as punishment,” she cuts in, before the list can make her stomach turn any more. “That seems… inefficient.”
“I’ll be sure to relay your disapproval to Cazador before I tear his heart out,” Astarion says. “Although I can’t imagine punishments from Sharrans were any more merciful. Don’t tell me it was all stern words and extra chores in the Dark Lady household.”
Another shimmer of memory, curled on the stone floor, head bowed before the altar, sobbing with each fresh lash, then a warning throb of the wound to follow.
“Correction is not the same as torture,” she says, terse. “All initiates require discipline, to learn how to best serve our Lady.”
“Quite the model of efficiency.” Astarion’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. “I can’t see any similarities at all with the behaviour of a power-hungry vampire lord. Like chalk and cheese.”
Shadowheart grits her teeth in frustration. “You don’t—”
“Understand?” He scoffs but when he speaks again, his tone is fierce, “I understand far more than you do. You were trained to make people talk, yes? I would have said anything, anything to make it stop. I did say anything; I begged, I pleaded, I offered up anything and everything they wanted to hear and it still wasn’t enough because that was never what they wanted in the first place.”
He pauses, chest rising and falling with breaths he doesn’t need, and it’s only when he speaks again that Shadowheart realises she’s being persuaded rather than rebuked, “They were never seeking information or ‘good behaviour’. They want pain, power, people broken down at their feet until there’s nothing left of what they once were, and the only thing they deserve in return is the bloodiest death we can offer.” He holds her gaze, eyes blazing. “Not worship or gratitude or whatever other shit you’re clinging to.”
Silence engulfs them as soon as he finishes.
Astarion sinks back, the fire of his anger guttering out, and Shadowheart’s mouth is dry as she tries to formulate a response.
Her instinct is to focus on him, on the depths of fury that she hasn’t seen from him before, and how best to use it to her advantage in future, but Astarion’s words have wedged themselves between her ribs like a blade.
“I—”
A door swings open in the distance followed by hurried footsteps, and Astarion exhales. “Finally. Even idiot cultists will be better company at this rate.”
Shadowheart’s injured thigh aches as she climbs to her feet, their imprisonment steadily taking its toll. Nonetheless, she draws herself up to her full height alongside Astarion when their jailers stomp into view.
It’s an effort to keep from laughing. The hobgoblin is nowhere to be seen, the other two flanked instead by a couple of dour-faced prison guards. The dwarf walks with a limp, cradling a broken arm and wearing a fresh scar across her face that sings with the magic of Shar’s defenders, while the burly human carries the stench of burnt hair and scorched leather alongside an array of half-healed wounds.
“Oh no,” Astarion drawls, not bothering to hide his amusement, “did it not go well?”
“You lying sack of shit,” Rorn snarls, stepping up to the bars as the mechanism slides open. “You led us into a fuckin’ trap.”
Astarion grins. “I think you’ll find I led you into two traps, actually. Did you have fun?”
Rorn growls. “We lost five loyal soldiers out there!”
“Good thing I directed you to the morgue then,” Astarion says sweetly. “Very considerate of me, I know.”
“You fuckin’ prick—”
As soon as the door opens, Rorn is on him. Shadowheart can’t do anything to stop him when he grabs Astarion by the throat and slams him hard against the wall, and she pulls helplessly on her chains in an attempt to fall back on their earlier deception. “Let him go!”
Rorn ignores her, and it’s left to the dwarf to motion to the guards with her good arm. “Hold her.”
They obey, gripping her arms hard enough to bruise, and she struggles when the dwarf draws a sword.
“I’m going to give you one last chance,” the dwarf says, looking up towards Astarion. “You tell us where your friends are or I gut your precious wife right here.”
“We don’t—”
One of the guards claps an armoured hand over Shadowheart’s mouth before she can finish the protest. She thrashes as much as the chains will allow, testing her reach and readying for a counterattack before the dwarf follows through on her threat.
On the other side of the cell, Astarion simply dissolves into laughter.
Rorn looks back at the dwarf, confused. “I think he might’ve hit his head, Braena.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion says between cackles, “do you still actually think we’re married?”
Braena and Rorn exchange looks.
“But you said…” Rorn begins, uncertain, and Astaron just laughs again.
“Yes, dear, I’ve been lying to your face for a while now,” he says patiently. “Did sending you into two separate death-traps not give it away? I’m sure I can find a third for you to explore if you’d like.”
Braena looks up to where her sword still rests below Shadowheart’s ribs. “If she’s not your wife, then who the hell is she?”
Astarion waves a hand as airily as the shackles allow. “Let’s say a coworker at best. Certainly not someone I’m willing to die for.” He shrugs at Shadowheart. “Sorry, darling.”
She recognises the tone all too well. She’s been on the receiving end of it enough times, when Astarion is trying to rile someone up or test their boundaries. He’s done it less lately, comfortable enough that the party aren’t going to stake him in his sleep or strike him for mouthing off, but it still gets under Shadowheart’s skin with infuriating ease.
It makes her want to punch him, albeit for a slightly different reason than the rest of the people in the cell.
She yells through the hand covering her mouth, a wordless and half-hearted protest, but otherwise slows her struggling.
Astarion has many talents but goading is one of his most effective, and if he’s painting himself as a target, there’s no need for them to both face their captors’ fury. One of them should stay relatively intact, after all; it’s a sensible, pragmatic approach.
(She tries to ignore the little voice that whispers cowardice in the back of her mind.)
Braena frowns, lowering her sword as she looks between the two of them. “What’s to stop us from killing her then?”
Astarion shrugs. “You tell me. She’s hardly my type — I enjoy the strong, charming sort rather than the tragic and religious.” He flashes a grin, even as Rorn’s hand tightens at his throat. “Some friendly advice though? Perhaps let someone a little taller do the threatening next time. Holding a dagger at someone’s neck is a classic for a reason; a sword poking at someone’s stomach just seems so gauche…”
Even from this angle, Shadowheart can see the dwarf’s ears redden in rage and embarrassment.
“Oh, you’re gonna be fuckin’ grateful for a sword in the guts when I’m finished with you,” Braena snarls. She snaps the fingers of her good hand at the guards. (It’s a little clumsy.) “Leave the girl and bring this arsehole with us.”
The guards move to obey. Astarion fixes Shadowheart with a sharp look of warning but his obnoxious smile is back in place a moment later when Rorn lets go of his throat. “Over so soon? And I had such high hopes for your stamina.”
The gut-punch that follows is unsurprising, but Astarion makes no attempt to dodge. He slumps back, coughing, and only puts up a cursory struggle as the guards free his chains from the wall and haul him out of the cell, locking the door again behind them.
They don’t travel too far. She hears the metal scrape of another cell door unlock further down inside the prison and then the jangle of chains. The burble of voices continues, too low to pick out anything but tone — Astarion mocking and defiant, the cultists angry and annoyed — but Shadowheart freezes when she hears the crack of a whip.
She slides back down to sit against the cell wall, grounded only by the ripple of pain through her thigh, and takes steady breaths as the blows start to fall with vigour.
She’s more than familiar with the sounds that accompany a beating, whether it’s the heavy thwack of a flogger or the sharp snap of a bullwhip. She knows the difference between someone sparing their arm, either for a pleasurable experience or just to warm up their captive slowly, and between blows at full force, but there is no reassurance in knowing that the cultists have opted for the latter approach with Astarion.
Her head pounds, the wound on her hand throbbing like a flame failing to spark. Memories ignite and douse in the blink of an eye, a searing line of pain across her shoulders, a whip coiled and heavy in her hand, drops of blood scattered against stone, and she curls in on herself, clutching her hand as she tries not to black out from the pain.
She doesn’t know how much time passes.
It feels like hours, listening in helpless silence for proof Astarion is still alive. The sounds blend with her memories until she isn’t sure whether it’s him, herself, or her victims who are crying out.
Nonetheless, she can still make out the progression from muffled groans to pained cries to hitching sobs, all overlaid with their captors’ laughter.
(If she hears a plea for mercy and a desperate apology to a phantom master, she chalks it up to her imagination. She can grant Astarion that at least.)
———
He’s unconscious when they toss him back into her cell.
Rorn and Braena offer some vague threats of more if she doesn’t provide the information they seek, but they’re clearly both too exhausted to act on it so Shadowheart opts to ignore them. (Beating someone to death is more strenuous than one might expect.)
She keeps her distance until she hears them exit, guards in tow, but when she kneels down to check on Astarion, she thinks death may have been kinder.
The rags he’s wearing are shredded, the thin fabric torn under the force of the blows, and blood slicks her palms as she manoeuvres him carefully onto his side. The welts cover him from neck to ankle, raised and angry and beaded with blood, and she winces when she sees that not even the soles of his feet were spared.
“Idiot,” she hisses. “We could both have taken some of the damage; it wasn’t necessary to antagonise them like that.”
She knows full well that any response would be both unapologetic and actively infuriating, but when Astarion doesn’t stir, she finds herself missing it anyway.
“I can’t heal you,” she chides. “You know I can’t — we haven’t had a real rest down here.”
Her fingers go to his neck out of habit, but she curses her own stupidity when there’s no pulse to be found. He’s still breathing faintly, a lingering instinct despite two centuries of undeath, and she lets that anchor her as she checks him over, cataloguing and prioritising the wounds that need the most urgent attention. Absently, she notes the way the wounds interact with the infernal scars across his back, already closing slightly faster where they intersect the carving, and reminds herself to tell Astarion, once he’s awake and they’re free from this cursed prison.
The wounds take less time to inspect that they did to inflict, and Shadowheart’s hands curl in frustration when she drops back to a seat against the wall.
There’s no water down here to clean the wounds or potions to heal him, so she’s limited to just positioning him in a way to avoid choking on his own blood and then waiting. Logically she knows she’s done all she can but as she looks at the bloodied corpse beside her, her own inadequacy doesn’t make her feel any better.
At some point, her own body must start to give out too. It’s been at least a couple of days of stress, exhaustion and starvation, but she doesn’t realise she’s fallen asleep until she’s jolted out of it by a groan.
“Astarion?”
Another groan, somehow sulkier. “Do fuck off, Godey,” Astarion mumbles. “Can’t hunt looking—” He coughs, then winces as it pulls on his battered body. “—looking like I’ve been flattened by a cart.”
Shadowheart can’t keep from smiling in relief. Her own body aches from sleeping against the wall but she moves over to him quickly. “I don’t know,” she says, voice low, “your charm seems quite resilient.”
Astarion freezes in fear. She can see the instant when he remembers where he is, and he flops back with a groan. “You know, I’d hoped to wake up back in my tent. Remind me to have strong words with our rescue party, assuming they ever deign to turn up.”
“They’ll be here,” Shadowheart says, and finds that her confidence isn’t faked. “You should rest.”
Astarion huffs and glances down at himself, crinkling his nose. “At least these hideous rags didn’t survive the experience.”
He looks in her direction, gaze sweeping over her, and Shadowheart holds out her hands under the familiar scrutiny.
“No injuries,” she says. “At least not beyond the ones from the fight. They left after they’d finished with you.”
“Hmm.” He sinks down again, exhaling through gritted teeth when his wounds come into contact with the floor. “I do hate to deprieve you of their attentions.”
“Oh?” She manages a smile. “Anyone particularly skilled?”
“Gods, no,” Astarion says in disgust. “An ox would have done a better job.”
“I suppose I should be grateful for their incompetence.” She can’t quite meet his eyes. “And for your decision to take the brunt of it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, darling,” Astarion says, brazen as always. “I can’t help that I’m far more appealing of the two of us.”
By his standards, it’s a clumsy lie, and Shadowheart fiddles with a hole in her rags as she tries to find suitable words. She suspects she’s about as experienced at offering sincere gratitude as Astarion is at receiving it.
“It was brave,” she says eventually, “drawing their attention like that. I—”
“Quiet.”
She scowls. “I’m trying to say thank you, you—”
“No,” Astarion cuts in, propping himself up as much as his wounds allow. “Don’t you hear that?” He wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, or smell it? It’s like sulphur mixed with smokep—”
The cell explodes before he can finish.
Shadowheart ducks for cover, throwing her arms up to shield her head and leaning over Astarion to provide as much protection as she can. Rocks rain down around them, pummelling down over her back, and she sees Astarion go limp again beneath her as the blows take what little strength he had left.
Her ears ring, the cacophony around her sounding miles away, and she cries out as flying masonry clubs her hard on the back of the head. The scent of burning smokepowder fills her nose and she blinks through blurry eyes at the figures now standing in the smoking ruins of the back wall of their cell. “What…”
The world tilts, blackness rushing up to meet her, but just before she slips into the abyss, she swears she hears Karlach’s panicked voice in the distance, “Oh shit, maybe that was a bit much.”
———
It takes far too long for them to release her.
Jaheira hovers like a mother hen, albeit one primarily concerned with pecking at her for information, while the Flaming Fist’s clerics linger despite her obvious ability to heal her own wounds once she’s fed and rested. The Selûnite steers clear, which is a small mercy at least, but it’s offset by the parade of guilty companions she’s forced to endure. Even Lae’zel — Lae’zel — offers an apology of sorts for allowed them to be captured, at which point Shadowheart almost starts to miss being in captivity.
Only after two days (and some vehement threats of bodily harm) do they allow her to wander freely, and so she immediately goes to track down the one person who won’t walk on eggshells around her.
It takes a lot more wandering than she’d anticipated — perhaps her leg isn’t healed quite as well as she thought — but she eventually finds Astarion perched on the rocks looking out over the lake.
He makes no move to flee at her approach. She notes the bottle of wine and the glass of something that’s definitely not wine as she takes a seat beside him. “The inn have extended their menu, I see.”
“And all it took was a little torture,” Astarion says, taking a long sip of blood. “We should get captured more often if it leads to fresh blood on tap.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she says and is pleased to draw a chuckle from him. He’s back in his armour, any evidence of Moonrise hidden away beneath solid leather, but as her eyes track over him, she sees fading bruises peeking above the line of his collar.
“Here,” she offers, hands already glowing blue. “You have a little…”
He tilts his head to allow her access, seemingly pliant, but she doesn’t miss the clench of his jaw as the magic curls gently around his throat before seeping into his skin.
“Do not tell the druid he missed a spot,” Astarion warns her. “I’ve had enough guilty looks to last me a lifetime. Two lifetimes.”
Shadowheart hums in agreement. “I know the feeling.”
“And not one of them has the courtesy to make it the fun kind of self-flagellation.” He sniffs. “Useless, the lot of them.”
She reaches for the bottle of wine and takes a long drink when Astarion offers no objection. The night is almost beautiful like this, the darkness swallowing up everything around it, but the wound on her hand pulses a little when she finds herself admiring the glow of the Selûnite’s barrier too.
“I take it Halsin took care of your healing?”
Astarion nods.
“And that had nothing to do with you threatening to bite any Flaming Fist cleric who came near you?”
Astarion smirks into his cup of blood. “Who can say?” His smile fades a little as he swirls the liquid in the cup. “Wyll said the druid even came along for the rescue. I suppose we should be flattered at managing to pry him away from his precious shadow-curse for a few hours.”
“He carried you out, as I recall.”
Astarion’s gaze snaps to her. “Did he now?” He huffs. “Please tell me that oaf didn’t haul me out like a sack of potatoes.”
Whether due to their shared captivity or due to Astarion being too tired to perform to his usual standards, Shadowheart finds she’s getting a little better at reading him. She doesn’t know exactly what there is between him and Halsin, whether it’s romantic or simply friendly, but she remembers watching Halsin clamber over the rubble with Astarion cradled safely in his arms, as though carrying something precious.
“Who can say,” she parrots back with a grin, and laughs when Astarion elbows her. “Like a very handsome sack of potatoes, at least.”
“Ugh.” There’s no malice in his tone when he mutters, “Brute.”
He downs a mouthful of blood and Shadowheart summons her courage while she takes another long pull of wine.
“Thank you,” she says eventually, “for what you did back there. It was foolish and reckless and you’re beyond lucky to be alive, but I’m grateful.”
Astarion eyes her with deep suspicion for a long moment. Shadowheart gets the sense that he’s not accustomed to being thanked, but before she can redirect the conversation, he manages a lazy shrug. “You’re welcome. It was… odd, to have someone else there who wasn’t trying to make things worse. An improvement, I think.”
Shadowheart raises an eyebrow. “Well, glad to know I’ve cleared the lowest bar possible.”
Astarion laughs at that, sharp and surprised, and she takes the opening where she can.
“We’re close to taking down Ketheric,” she says. “After that, it’s not far to Baldur’s Gate. Your former master won’t live much longer.”
She braces for a snide retort, either about the challenges still ahead or the difficulty of killing Cazador himself, but still Astarion manages to catch her off-guard.
“Neither will your Mother Superior.”
Shadowheart can’t help her flinch. The notion is heresy, a ridiculous suggestion from a godless undead. Her memories of her education are hazy but she’s grateful to her tutors, and to the Mother Superior especially, for saving her, strengthening her, shaping her so that she might best serve the Dark Lady’s will.
Still, no defense comes to her tongue. She thinks only of the dark of the cell, the crack of the whip, the venom in Astarion’s voice as he snarled the only thing they deserve in return is the bloodiest death we can offer.
“Mm.”
The quiet, non-committal noise is all she can bring herself to say. A tremor runs through her as she rises to her feet — from the chill of the night, nothing more — and she keeps her voice level as she says, “Have a good evening, Astarion.”
He inclines his head in mocking politeness but says nothing as she retreats back to the inn, the path through the dark lit by Selûne’s glow.