Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Astarion meets him along an idyllic coast.

The sun glints in his hair, along the sharp edge of his sword. Warm eyes meet his own wary ones, a kindly smile beckoning him closer. This welcoming sight is warped by the blood that pools beneath his boots, spreading from two corpses in the dirt. A third one lies slumped above within a steel cage.

“Hello,” Astarion says cautiously, and the man’s smile widens.

His name is Gale. He’d been aboard the same ship as Astarion, plays host to the same parasite in his brain too. With stuttered breath, he clutches his weapon to his chest and pleads his case as self defense.

With wide eyes and the sweetest of faces, Astarion sees no harm in believing him.

They leave the bodies —two tieflings, one Gith— and traipse on further, past bloodied corpses and burning debris. Gale is a wizard, or so he claims. And though it shows not in his ragged leathers, nor the gleaming blade on his waist, Astarion sees it in his calculating gaze and sharp wit. He’s not as chatty as most mages are, but that is, to Astarion, a boon.

“I must get to Baldur’s Gate,” Gale tells him. Astarion frowns at this.

“And what of the parasites in our skulls?”

Gale doesn’t falter. “I have a plan.”

He doesn’t elaborate further, and as a horde of goblins descend upon them, Astarion doesn’t think to ask either. There is no need to look a gift horse (or well, wizard) in the mouth. Not when he slaughters them all in cold blood, flicks viscera off his trousers, then dons a pleasant smile to greet the famed Blade of Frontiers.

The blood on his shortsword has barely dried. Astarion catches his eye from across the Emerald Grove, and Gale winks at him. The Blade —or Wyll, as he introduces himself— doesn’t seem fazed by Gale. Neither does the sullen half-elf clad in clerical armour. They all make camp that night, supping on a stew Gale prepares with his own two hands, Astarion idling restlessly by the campfire.

Stained bandages adorn an arm. Astarion gestures carelessly at it. “Are you hurt?”

Gale barely glances up. “Aren’t we all, to an extent?” A soft exhale; Gale stirs the pot, then holds out a spoon. “But no. The trials we face have yet to harm me.”

Astarion swallows a mouthful, if only to keep up appearances. His night is restless, spent listening to Gale tossing and turning mere feet away in his own tent. When dawn breaks, they return to the Grove at Wyll’s request.

“Their healer knows of a cure,” he claims.

Though said healer isn’t in attendance, they do meet another wizard. He introduces himself as Rolan—then, upon seeing Gale, shoos his own companions away, before speaking with reproach.

“The great Gale of Waterdeep, in the flesh.”

“Oh, there’s no need for such formalities.” Gale smiles at him. “I don’t go by that any longer.”

“I know.”

Something passes unspoken between them. Rolan’s gaze darkens as Gale tilts his head to the side, a picture of guileless confusion. This strange hostility intrigues Astarion.

“You scorned her,” Rolan says eventually.

“She scorned me.”

“Because you wronged her.”

Gale’s face shutters. For a moment, he’s a different man; a wolf, almost, in sheep’s clothing. “And what do you know of us? Beyond watered down lies and petty gossip? I do not know you, and you know not I. Your baseless accusations are fuelled by stories that have been repeated and warped.”

“I know enough,” Rolan tells him, “To bid you leave.”

A short laugh. “Who are you to command me? You follow her in blind faith. I pity your folly.”

”Better folly than greed.”

“Is it greed?” Gale lifts his chin in challenge. “Or a hunger you wholly lack?”

Silence. Rolan’s face twists with revulsion, a wordless battle of wills passing between them two. Rolan is the first to look away.

“Stay away from my family,” he spits out. Gale bows deeply, almost in mockery.

”As you wish.”

He departs without a second glance. Rolan shifts on the spot and, alongside Astarion, watches Gale regale an awestruck group of tiefling children with a slew of complex illusions.

“Be careful of him,” Rolan says.

Astarion sees no danger in Gale. Quiet, if not a bit unreadable—a vampire is by far a bigger threat than some mild-mannered wizard. Still, Rolan’s reminder rings in his ears that night; as he braces his hands on firm shoulders, then sinks his fangs into the tender flesh of Gale’s neck.

And though Gale inevitably rouses, he hadn’t minded at all. Astarion sees an untamed hunger within Gale, the same that might grace him in the mirror—should he possess a reflection of his own. It’s like home, almost. Somehow, he feels far less alone.

“Take your fill,” Gale murmurs, and though he reeks of rot and ruin, Astarion drinks deeply anyway. A hand cradles the back of his neck and rakes through his tangled curls. “You need your strength.”

His devotion is immediate, and addictive. Astarion falls asleep full-bellied and rouses to the insides of some bard that had joined their party decorating the dirt. Gale, stumbling into the clearing fresh from a wash by the stream, stares at Astarion with wide eyes.

”It wasn’t me,” Astarion tells him. Judging by Gale’s horror, it’s likely not him either.

“Quickly, then,” Gale says, already grabbing her feet. “Before the others wake.”

He thinks that might be the extent of Gale’s grace. But half a tenday later, Astarion wades in the blood of countless tieflings amidst a backdrop of cheers. Goblins desecrate druidic relics as Gale draws back his sword and throws Rolan carelessly off it.

Lifeless, he collapses atop the bodies of his siblings. All around them, the Grove burns. Ash rains from the blackened sky and blood colours the ground, sticky and sickly-sweet. Astarion inhales deeply and basks in unbridled destruction.

“He was going to kill me,” Gale croaks. Astarion doesn’t question it. Doesn’t question any of this, really, even as Wyll stumbles onto the bloodied battlefield, rapier in hand.

“You bloody liar,” he shouts, and as Gale takes a step back, Astarion raises his daggers once more.

~`~`~

The eerie light of the Underdark bathes Gale in the faintest of glows, where he kneels in ardent prayer.

The camp is quiet. They are now joined by a fourth—Karlach, is her name. A tiefling with one horn and a heart of gold, they’d met her right outside by Grove, axe drawn as she stared up at it with poorly restrained horror.

“I know what you did.” Lips pulled back in a snarl, fires burning hotter than her engine. “Countless innocents. You killed them.”

What of it? Astarion had tried to say, but Gale had shaken his head, hair falling in his eyes as he’d clutched his blade.

“A massacre… a massacre most vile.” His voice cracks audibly. “It was him. The Blade of Frontiers. He lured us into it, tricked us all— in a bid to… to weed out a tiefling. Just one. The lives of dozens for a single target. Karlach, her name was.” Gale pauses, nibbles his lower lip. “Do you perchance know of her?”

Abject horror is the only way to describe her face. 

“It’s me.” She’d spoken with guilt eventually. “I’m Karlach.”

Karlach joins them, now, and Astarion doesn’t see fit to correct Gale’s little lie. The more the merrier, after all. She’s good with an axe and rather good fun. And—to his relief, she’s not a religious zealot.

Their camp seems to be teeming with those. Shadowheart sits in prayer too, and while Astarion doesn’t care about her, he does wonder how he’s somehow ended up in the company of so many fanatics. Still, he watches Gale with mild interest, the way he’s bowed low enough for his nose to brush the dirt.

“In Your unholy name,” Gale murmurs, in hushed tones. “I give myself to you.”

Though confused, Astarion doesn’t question it. It ends shortly after anyway, Gale rising with a crack of his knees, making his way to where Astarion is pretending not to eavesdrop. He’s smiling lazily, a swagger in his step as he comes to a stop mere feet from him.

”Beautiful day,” Gale comments. Over the cliffside, Astarion sees nothing but an endless beyond.

“I agree,” he says anyway.

They’ve been travelling together for a while now. Like a bow tying off an offering, the destruction of the Emerald Grove had concluded with a party. Shit wine and terrible goblins for company, made markedly better by Gale’s company.

He had been oddly quiet that night. Far away from the events of the day, mind seemingly ill at ease. Astarion chalks it up to the way his arm must surely be bothering him, but is content to sit and drink quietly by his side as he observes the festivities around him.

“We did well,” Astarion had told him. And Gale had furrowed his brow, glanced down at his hands.

“We did,” he agreed, but there’s certain doubt to his tone that can be construed as regret.

Still, Gale speaks nothing more of the ruin he’d rained upon the grove, and Astarion isn’t inclined to bring it up. For more pertinent is the way the tadpole has been stabilised—for now. Astarion doesn’t know who or what their dream guardian is, but he’s been useful thus far, which is all that really matters.

Now, he watches Gale stare out into the darkness, quietly coexisting within a rare moment of respite. It’s how they spend most of their nights. In time, Astarion has come to greatly enjoy Gale’s company, and he hazards that Gale might feel the same.

One hand rubs idly at his chest, fingers still stained with blood from today. Concealed beneath thick fabric, Astarion isn’t sure what compels him to ask, today of all days. “It’s been bothering you for a while.”

Gale nods. “It has.”

He doesn’t specify what it is, but Astarion asks anyway. “Show me. Perhaps I could help.”

To his surprise, Gale complies. The spectacle beneath renders him speechless. Astarion has never seen anything like this.

Through a blackened, blistered expanse of ruined flesh, something pulses faintly on his chest. Caved inwards, it’s like a vortex; swirling with malevolent energy, illuminating the space with a violet glow. Should he reach out, Astarion wonders if it could consume him. It certainly seems to be consuming Gale.

“Netherese blight,” Gale tells him. “Prone to an explosion of catastrophic proportions.”

His horror must be evident. It takes Astarion all his self-control to not scuttle backwards. “That… might be outside of my capabilities.”

A dry laugh. “Fortuitiously, I don’t require your aid. It feeds off magic, but it’s long since been stabilised."

The vile tendrils of blackened rot suggest otherwise. “Who did this to you?”

A slow exhale. “Mystra.”

“The goddess of magic?” Astarion is torn between awe and disbelief. “And what did you do to deserve that?”

He’s offered no immediate response. When Gale does respond, his eyes are vacant. “I worshipped her.”

It’s a gruesome battlefield laid out before him, with Gale as the canvas. Quietly, Gale shrugs his robe back on, pausing when Astarion holds out a hand.

“May I?”

“I don’t wish to disgust you further.”

Astarion shakes his head. “You could never disgust me.”

It’s the right thing to say, with the way Gale’s face softens. And Astarion means it, too. With care, he explores the wreckage. The fine lines of ruin, the gnarled skin beneath. The sensation is odd, like static running through his hand, but not entirely unpleasant. Gale remains silent as Astarion’s fingers trace upwards, mapping out the corruption that seems to consume him, ending with his palm cradling the hollow of Gale’s cheek.

“Please,” Gale breathes, and Astarion pulls him in.

Desperate dig into his skin. Clothes get discarded amidst heated kisses. Astarion, for once, remains present in the moment. For all his decay, Gale makes for a sight most breathtaking.

Naked, bathed in nothing but the otherworldly glow of the cave—he crawls over to Astarion without an inch of shame. Dark hair dusts his frame, concealing the sickly tendrils that snake from his chest to faintly caress the soft curve of his stomach, the shadowed base of his cock. It glows in sync with his breaths, pulsing with an undercurrent of rot and illuminating something interesting.

“What’s this?” Astarion asks.

His wandering hand is slapped away before he can touch it. Gale cradles his neck, right where a collar sits around it. Runes glow weakly atop worn leather. For a moment, he seems to revel in the ebb and flow of its magic.

“Mine,” Gale says eventually.

And so Astarion doesn’t question it; not when Gale settles between his legs, not when Astarion guides his mouth onto his cock. Gale takes him so deep that he chokes, then settles into a lazy rhythm with his eyes blissfully shut. His matted hair is surprisingly soft in Astarion’s grip. Though he wants to pull it, to make Gale gasp, something compels him to cradle him softly instead.

“Good boy,” he whispers, and Gale smiles up at him with the prettiest of eyes.

In a frenzied blur of sweat and heat, time stands still. Astarion covers him with bruises, nibbling at scarred skin as he opens Gale up with steady fingers, then drops him gently atop his aching cock.

They make a bit of a ruckus. Gale’s shivery gasps bounce off the walls of the cavern, intoxicating in his wanton hedonism. He knows what he wants, Astarion realises, locked firmly into place as Gale rocks in his lap, taking his pleasure with single-minded focus. It rouses something within Astarion, the primal urge to tame the rising flames that seem to fuel him.

“Touch me,” Gale begs, and Astarion complies.

It’s all it takes, really; a firm hand wrapped around Gale’s prick, his fangs scraping faintly against the tender column of his neck. Gale bucks into his grip, arching his back with ardour as he tries to take Astarion further—and that’s how he comes, too, impaled as deep as he can go.

With eyes rolling back in their sockets and lips parted wide, Astarion holds him through it. He thinks he might ruin Gale. Because he’s so sweet. So soft as he shakes through his release, eyes glassy with unshed tears as Astarion comes inside him in turn. Astarion cradles his face, sees the way Gale leans into his touch, the way he hungers for more. He’s built for fine silks and vintage wine, not bloody trysts and a morally barren spawn. He burnt the Grove at Astarion’s behest. Astarion wonders what more he might do, and hates himself for daring to dream. They do seem markedly different.

“Stay,” Gale tells him after, sleepy and sated. “If you would have me.”

Astarion shakes his head. “You don’t want me.”

“I do,” Gale insists, scooting just a bit closer. His hair tumbles over his shoulders, shaken free from where they’d fought off a band of duergar. It had been wholly unnecessary, but Gale had swung his blade at them, lightning crackling through the air, and Astarion had assumed he’d been spooked into doing so.

He doesn’t mind. A trail of bloody chaos makes for good fun.

“No, you don’t.” The scars on his back burn hot, the two centuries of desolation and degeneracy. Astarion thinks he will never, ever be clean. “I can’t permit that. I won’t let you sully yourself. I am a monster.”

He receives no protest, though Gale does roll over and hold him tight.

”We all are,” he whispers. “All that differs is how well we hide it.”

~`~`~

That proclamation ebbs away from his memory, resurfacing much later as Astarion stands amidst encroaching darkness. Last Light Inn feels like a bastion of faith, even if its occupants are quite annoying indeed. Gale, to his credit, seems unbothered by it all.

Granted, he’s been distracted lately. Astarion sees it in his restlessness, the way he falls asleep after Astarion and rouses before him. It’s not enough sleep for a human, but Gale seems perfectly functional regardless, so Astarion opts not to pry.

Besides, it’s a welcome respite from the darkness all around. The shadow-curse is unpleasant, made worse by the way Gale seems horribly distracted by something. He’s faltering, too, as the corruption consumes him. They take breaks more frequently than not, Gale leaning against various infernal structures as he cradles his own cursed body.

His nights are filled with prayer, more desperate than ever before. Astarion wonders if the rot has something to do with that.

Now, Astarion finds him by the bar, a clear spirit in one hand, a fresh roll of bandages in the other. With gritted teeth, Gale pours it over the ruined skin by his stomach.

Poorly stifled, his pained hiss cuts through Astarion’s heart. Still, Gale presses on, abandoning the glass in favour of emptying the entire bottle over the rest of his torso. Clear liquid sluices through the hollow orb in his chest, over the tendrils bracketing the round curve of his belly. The blackened corruption seems to pulse beneath, glowing angrily as Gale begins bandaging himself.

Clearing his throat, Astarion slides onto the seat beside him. “Can’t Shadowheart help you with that? Or one of the Harpers here?”

“I fear my condition is beyond their expertise,” Gale laughs, though there’s no humour to it. He’s ashen as he tries to wrap himself up, smiling gratefully as Astarion holds out his hand. “You don’t have to. This—all this. It’s foul.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Astarion tells him honestly. “A bit of rot is nothing when you’ve had your skin peeled off your body.”

Another pained laugh, ending in a cough. Black fluid stains his palm as Gale uncovers his mouth. “By His mantle, I shall hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Astarion pulls a face. “Whoever you’re praying to, he’d better get his act together.”

He laughs at his own joke; Gale, on the other hand, doesn’t. His face is impassive as he watches Astarion bandage him, betrayed only by the faintest little whines that escape him with each twist of the fabric.

“He loves me,” Gale says quietly. “The rot grows, but it… aids me.”

“Aids you?”

Astarion can’t hide his disbelief. But pushing doesn’t net the answer he wants; Gale skirts any further questioning, and Astarion is forced to let it slide. Up close, the stench of decomposition is faint, but present. It’s worse than his own corpse-scent.

“You must be in pain,” Astarion murmurs.

Hesitation, before Gale nods. “Your presence soothes the ache somewhat.”

For how long? Astarion wants to ask. How long before he’s consumed by the rot, how long before there’s nothing left of flesh and bone? How long before it takes his mind—or what remains of it? How long… how long—

How long before there’s nothing left of this man he’s grown to care for?

This goes unspoken, and hangs between them heavily, broken only when Karlach makes her way over. “All good, soldier?”

“Good enough.” Gale shrugs his tunic back on, winces as it tugs at his skin. “Though I could ask the same of you.”

Her engine is failing her. Overheating. Karlach sits by them as Gale peers curiously into the brilliant glow between her ribs.

“An Infernal Engine, you say?”

“Yes.” Karlach’s face goes hard. “Put into me by one Enver Gortash. A patriar in Baldur’s Gate. This is his foul invention.”

Something flickers in Gale’s eyes, though Astarion can’t read anything. Without breaking his gaze, he gestures at the engine.

“May I have a gander?”

“You? Artificer tech?” Karlach looks doubtful. “Oh, why the hells not? Sure beats heating to death. Mind those hands of yours, yeah? Don’t want you ruining them further with unnecessary burns.”

It takes a bit of infernal iron, serendipitously looted at some point by Astarion himself, but Gale fixes it. Somehow, inconceivably, he fixes it—or at least, enough to stablise the engine. As Karlach glances down in awe, Gale smiles bashfully, twirling a handful of pilfered tools in his hands.

“Soldier.” She exhales softly. “You’re a good man. I’ll never forget this.”

She pulls Gale into a hug. Her strength causes him visible pain, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning peacefully into her embrace.

“Fuck yeah.” She cracks her knuckles. “I can’t wait to give this baby a spin.”

Her chance comes sooner than later. A conversation with Isobel calls forth battle, led by a Flaming Fist and a barrage of winged horrors. The fight is bloody and long, sustained by Jaheira and her Harpers, who are as relentless as they are tenacious.

“To safety,” Jaheira shouts, as Astarion takes a claw to the shoulder. It splits his flesh and cuts to bone. “Get her to safety! Her protection cannot fall!”

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice. Isobel is wounded, too, blood pouring through her robe as he grabs her and drags her onto a balcony. Indoors, he can hear the sounds of bloody battle. Against a backdrop of screams, he empties his belt onto the ground, and shoves healing potion after healing potion down her throat.

Later, he’ll bemoan his impulse, as he’s trying to heal his own wounds. Right now, however, sheer instinct alone guides his hand.

“I’m fine,” she gasps, and he heaves a sigh of relief, pressing trembling fingers to his temples as he closes the wooden door. Clutching his aching sides, Astarion stands guard over her as the rest of the inn battles their attackers, then lunges forth as someone steps out onto the balcony.

“Oh.” Astarion sheathes his daggers, relieved. “It’s just you. Is it safe for—”

The rest of his words are lost to a yell, as Gale ends his Bladesong by slicing Isobel’s head clean off.

~`~`~

“What was that?”

It’s late now. They camp atop the ashes of the fallen. Astarion sees Gale perched atop a cliff, staring out at the barren wasteland beyond.

Gale hums noncommittally. “What was what?”

”That,” Astarion snaps. “You—you killed her. Isobel. She was going to protect us, she was going to help us—“

“Oh.” Gale looks unbothered. “Her. Old news; we don’t need her paltry protection to survive this.”

Astarion’s jaw falls open. He doesn’t know what Gale is on, or if the rot has finally reached his brain, but this is possibly the most ludicrous thing he’s heard thus far. Already, he can hear the whispers of the damned in his ears, wrapping slowly around the base of his skull.

“That was unnecessary,” he says, finally finding his words once more. “All that, and for—for what? Mindless murder? Some sick sense of power? And you know I have a casual relationship with killing, but Gale, that was—gods, you better have a damned good reason for it, because it would otherwise just be plain stupidity—”

He trails off. Gale isn’t listening any longer, having gone back to inspecting his arm. The bandages are off today; an expanse of blackened veins and glowing rot that mars the surface of his skin. It’s grown substantially, almost blanketing the upper half of his torso. Gale exhales shallowly, then turns to look at a ruined palm.

“Something’s happening,” he says, before his neck snaps back with a sickening crack.

In macabre display, his body warps; twisting, reforming, growing and changing before Astarion’s very eyes. Pained screams morph into growling. In place stands a chittering beast, towering far above him like a gruesome omen. Horrified, Astarion can only scramble back.

“What the fuck is that?”

He receives no response. Gale —or the beast he’s become— stumbles to the side and stares down at his—or its hands. Black bile drips from its jaw, mingling with other fluids. Astarion doesn’t want to think about that.

“Change back.” Astarion swallows. “Now, Gale. That’s… that’s not how you escape a conversation.”

Gale doesn’t listen, and Astarion doesn’t really expect him to either. Laughter bubbles up in his chest, almost hysterical, before he’s suppressing another squeak, the creature taking a singular step forward. Astarion, fervently, reminds himself that this is Gale.

And Gale won’t hurt him.

Right?

For that much he’d be certain, if not for the events of the day. Astarion doesn’t know why Gale had seen fit to kill Isobel, and with this colossal beast standing before him, he doesn’t think it’s an appropriate time to ask either.

“Fine, if you won’t listen.” Astarion takes a step forward now, rests an experimental palm on Gale’s maw. Sharp teeth protrude out from a spiny jaw. Saliva drips to the ground. The sight is repulsive, but Astarion forces himself to stroke the roughened surface anyway. “Just so you know. Bite me, and I’ll stab you in the face.”

The irony of his words aren’t lost on him, neither is their futility. The only one doing the stabbing here is Gale—specifically, with one (or all) of his four claws. Gods. What a way to go indeed.

“You’re not that bad,” he says, when Gale doesn’t immediately eviscerate him. “Quite glorious, if I may. Perhaps more suited for the battlefield than the bedroom, but stunning nonetheless.”

A singular chirp. It sounds almost… disappointed. A little nudge, against his side; with growing realisation, Astarion realises what exactly this fiend wants.

Oh, hells beyond.

This shouldn’t shock him. He’s always suspected that Gale has strange tastes. This more or less confirms it, Astarion supposes.

“I’m afraid—” Astarion can’t stop his gaze from flickering down, to a slit in the carapace beneath his spiny abdomen. “Gale, do you even have a—”

The slit parts further, and reveals what he’s working with today.

And sure, he doesn’t technically know if there’s any part of Gale left in there, but Astarion knows he still stands in one piece. Surely it can’t be that bad, can it? He’s nothing if not adaptable. And vampire bodies are resilient, after all.

The heavy press of that monstrous cock against his palm has him taking pause regardless.

It’s heavy. Wet. The slit glistens with precome, the shaft is covered in ridges. The base is easily the size of Astarion’s thigh—optimistically, at least. If he were to be realistic, its width comes closer to that of his damned waist.

Then Gale chirps at him, and Astarion promptly decides to not overthink this.

His own cock throbs, too. It comes as a surprise, given his past; that Gale puts him at ease even in this nightmarish form speaks bounds of Astarion’s affection for him. Gale won’t hurt him. Not like this, at least.

Inconceivably, standing before this creature with its forked tongue hanging out of its maw, Astarion is aroused.

“Go on, then,” Astarion says, with feigned boredom, then gasps as he’s knocked off his feet. Two claws lift him up in a cradle, far above the ground. Two more hands spread his legs obscenely wide. A sharp nip, beneath the curve of his arse, before Gale flattens his forked tongue and licks a playful stripe from taint to tip.

Oh.

Pleasure crashes through him. The sensation should tickle, but all he feels is the rough pad of a damp tongue, curling slyly around his aching prick as curved nails run up and down his spine. Astarion arches into it, feeling just a bit filthy as he tries to coax Gale inside him.

Even in this form, Gale obliges so readily.

The beast caresses him. Consumes him. Snakes down his jaw, teases his nipples to hardness, before prodding at his hole. Decorum abandons him, now; Astarion moans, opening up around Gale’s tongue, sinking into his monstrous grip. There’s no precision with a tongue so massive, no finesse. It should be mortifying, the way he tries to take Gale deeper. Instead, all he feels is desire.

There’s something to its saliva, maybe. Astarion doesn’t know. But he swims in delirium, the knowledge of what he’s about to do. Gale is as thorough in this form as any; Astarion drips in monster spittle, oddly relaxed. He’s so wet that a part of him dazedly believes he might be able to take Gale.

He permits it, eventually, with an unsteady nod. Gale lowers him into the ground, then rests his cock on Astarion’s belly.

Oh, fucking hells.

His own twitches meekly beside, in the most pitiful of contrasts. Another chirp; the creature cocks its head to the side, as though to ask: Really?

“Get on with it,” Astarion chokes out, before he loses his nerve.

The initial penetration draws out a strangled cry. It sinks inside him, inch by searing inch. Each ridge nudges against his sensitive rim, makes him shudder deliciously. He’s soaked all over; with sweat, with spit, with—gods, this creature’s precome. His hair sticks to his scalp, his curls drip in his face. Even the hottest of baths can’t cleanse him of what he’s currently doing.

Still, his cock remains hard, if not harder than ever before. Deliriously, he wonders, what does this say about him?

Claws scrape against his belly, over the growing protrusion there. Another chirp, this time happy; vaguely, Astarion wonders if in some strange manner, Gale is trying to claim him. It certainly feels that way. He finds he doesn’t mind at all.

And when Gale finally stops, entirely sheathed within him, Astarion barely dares to breathe.

At this angle, he can’t quite see where they’re joined, but he imagines the sight anyway. His flesh flushed pink with exertion, dripping a grotesque mix of come and saliva. Split open around Gale’s width, quivering in his grip. Astarion wants to feel where they are joined, but wholly speared as he is, he can barely move.

Still, it’s not… unpleasant.

There isn’t pleasure, in the strictest sense of the word. But there’s sensation, nonetheless; the feeling of being stretched gloriously thin, opened wider than ever before. The animalistic nature of this act, the way he’s being pressed into the dirt, legs folded to his ears. The filth of it all, tenderly offset by the way the creature—no, Gale, runs his tongue over Astarion’s lips, in some mimicry of a kiss.

His orgasm takes him by surprise.

A sharp nail over the sensitive seam of his cock, the scrape of huge fangs against his neck; his mind goes blank, a gasp wrenched free as thick ropes spurt over his own sweat-slick torso. Black spots fill his vision as he shudders full-bodied. With pleased chitters, Gale holds Astarion as he trembles through his release.

Gods. He can’t ever recall having come this hard before.

It renders him loose-limbed, enough for the creature to grind slowly against him. Astarion’s grip falters on its massive back. Overstimulation makes him cry out, his spent cock twitching valiantly against the mess on his belly. He finds it in himself to stroke Gale’s jaw, to kiss his murderous maw, then sputters as Gale comes inside him, so deep he fears he might choke on it.

In the grand scheme of everything, it doesn’t fill him more than Gale already has. Spend dribbles down his thighs; gods, there’s so much of it. Astarion feels near-drunk as Gale finally withdraws slowly.

Astarion doesn’t move. Can’t move. He’s quivering so much. The beast holds him through it, its tenderness a stark contrast to its monstrous appearance. Astarion winces in discomfort; he’s aching between the legs, bruised along the spine. He can feel his hole spasming, gaping too wide. Still, he remains blessedly present, more so as four clawed hands begin stroking him soothingly, then urges him to…

…feed.

The monster’s blood tastes better than Gale’s ever did. Astarion drinks until he’s full-bellied, sleepy and sated. Remarkably, he’s rather at peace.

They drift off entwined. As a sunless daybreak marks a new dawn, Astarion rouses horrifically sore, and to Gale curled up tight, human once more and shifting in his slumber.

“Praise be, Father,” he mumbles. “I thank you for your blessing, and will reclaim my rightful place with haste.”

He doesn’t understand any of this. Not the monster, nor the man behind the mask. Gale doesn’t seem inclined to explain, and Astarion still reels from all this days later, as he watches Gale lift one Ketheric Thorm with a glowing mage hand, eyes wild with fury.

”Where is she?”

The rest of their companions hang back, struggling to hold off hordes. They do not hear the way the general sneers at him. “You do not belong. You never will; you can try to replace him, but you will never be good enough—“

A low growl. Gale shakes him harder and cuts him off. ”Where is she?”

”Gone,” Ketheric chokes out. “Gone; , and you shan’t find her, filthy interloper—“

A loud gurgle. Laughter fills the air as Gale snaps his neck in a spray of blood and spits on his corpse.

“In Bhaal’s name,” he breathes, and like explosions lighting up a distant horizon, every vile puzzle piece slides into place.

~`~`~

He views Gale in a new light thereafter.

It makes sense now. His unexplained bloodlust, so strangely at odds with his otherwise genteel demeanour. His religious fervour, the way he lights up at even the scantest praise. The one thing that eludes Astarion is the underlying guilt Gale seems to carry, but that much has begun to dissipate as of late.

The road to Baldur’s Gate is short, joined by Minthara. Their little party of five; though the three ladies keep to themselves. Or more likely, they steer clear of Gale, Karlach more so than the rest. Every little killing spree, every impulse he acts on, even the divine sacrifice of the Nightsong—Gale twists it with guileless charm, urging her to stay. Be it out of survival or pure naivete, Karlach doesn’t leave.

It’s hard to, Astarion figures, when Gale is the only one able to keep her alive.

Gale himself sinks deeper into a world of his own. His desperation seems to grow as they near the city. His nights are spent in fanatical prayer, trembling fingers wrapped around the Netherstone he’d taken from Ketheric’s body.

”Not much longer now,” Gale is fond of mumbling, knelt like an apostate. “Return me to your unholy embrace, and bathe me in your light anew.”

It’s not just at night. He talks to himself sometimes, mumbling something or another as they trek along the dirt pathways. Every obstacle goes down in a spray of guts and viscera. Gale, perpetually bloodied by battle, seems to revel in it.

“Gale is a liability,” Minthara hisses, at some point. “He’s lost his mind.”

He hasn’t really, Astarion thinks. He’s a desperate man in search of approval. It’s by sheer misfortune that doing so involves mindless murder of countless people. At least he’s efficient; beelining across Rivington with single-minded focus, stopping only at a Gur camp on the outskirts of the little town.

There’s a lady there. Ulma, she introduces herself as, then requests their aid in investigating Cazador’s palace. Gale, standing motionless the whole conversation, doesn’t seem to register any of what’s being said.

“The Gur killed you,” Gale says, once she’s finished speaking. “Didn’t they?”

It takes Astarion a moment to realise he’s being spoken to. Through growing alarm bells, he nods cautiously.

“They did.”

And Ulma’s face twists in confusion, before going slack. Screams erupt around them, but with Gale’s blade buried deep in her chest, she remains dead quiet. The air fills with static, the increasingly dissonant tune of Gale’s Bladesong—

He razes through the Gur camp in seconds, then smiles at Astarion with blood dripping off his leathers.

“We do not require their aid.” Gale sheathes his blade calmly. “I will kill Cazador for you.”

His gory offering should be sweet. Still, Astarion feels strangely unsettled, though Gale’s promise balms the churning in his belly.

“We’ll lose,” Astarion tells him. Gale’s smile goes wider.

“No, we won’t.”

It’s an arrogant promise. Still, it falls in line with Gale’s resolute belief in himself—the same belief that seems to die at the feet of divinity. Gale bows to no one else, and that much becomes obvious in the next stop they make.

“Sorcerous Sundries,” Shadowheart says, with a slight frown. “You’d rush through Rivington into the Lower City, but stop at a bookstore?”

Gale doesn’t justify her disdain with a response, but it doesn’t matter. His rationale becomes obvious soon after, even if Astarion doesn’t quite understand why: a book titled The Annals of Karsus, pilfered from a hidden vault in the basement. Their stealth mission seems successful, at least—until a projection appears as they are walking out of the shop.

The flickering man with a receding hairline pompously introduces himself as Lorroakan, then stares down his nose at them.

“You,” it hisses. “You’re not welcome here, apostate.”

They don’t leave. On the contrary, Gale guides them towards a series of portals, and into a tall, domed room hundreds of feet above the ground.

“Ramazith’s Tower,” he mutters, toeing the ground. “Now occupied by a half-wit.”

Perhaps Lorroakan hears this, perhaps he doesn’t. Regardless, their entry is met with hostility. Conjured elemental sentries snap to attention as Lorroakan staggers off his throne.

“Blasphemer,” he bellows. “Heretic!”

“Far better to sin than live in devotion to a lesser god,” Gale sighs. Two elementals grip him by the wrists, suspending him above the ground. As Shadowheart and Minthara step back, Astarion lunges forward with a shout.

“It’s fine,” Gale tells him. “This imbecile will pose us no trouble.”

Lorroakan raises his staff. ”Silence! You know not what you speak of—“

”Oh, I think I do.” Gale laughs, eyes going mockingly wide. “To chase on the heels of her divine favour; the same heel she’d so readily put in your back? To give up your soul for scraps in return? To live in service of an uncertain tomorrow, to be discarded so callously when you have been wrung dry?”

Another laugh, bordering on insanity. Within him, Astarion feels something lurch.

”No, no,” Gale adds. “I saw the light. But you; oh, you are welcome to remain in the shadows if you so desire.”

“Do your companions know?” Lorroakan turns to them. “Do you know of the monster who keeps your company?”

Karlach, mercifully, is resting at camp. Though Minthara and Shadowheart don’t answer, Astarion does.

“Darling,” he says, twirling his dagger. Even as his heart threatens to burst out of his chest, even as apprehension grips him. “We’re all monsters here.”

Lorroakan considers this, and seems to size him up.

“Mystra’s former lapdog,” he sneers eventually. “Now prostrating himself before the foulest of gods. He was her Chosen. A great wizard; fallen from grace and out of her favour, all because he bit off more than he can chew.”

Gale bares his teeth. “This tale is not for you to—”

“And when he failed,” Lorroakan adds, with unrestrained glee, “Poor Gale was imbued with a piece of the Karsite weave, of all things. Mystra cast him out for that little transgression, of course. To wilt away in agony, until it inevitably claims him.”

Astarion hears it; the pounding of Gale’s heart, his heavy breathing. He’s livid, but Lorroakan doesn’t realise.

“But you’re still alive! Barely, if the—hah, state of your foul form is any indication. What did Bhaal offer you, then? A fancy title, a bloodsoaked future?” Lorroakan pauses, then grins. “Oh! Do you spread your legs for him too? I wonder, Gale; how many gods will you let pass you around, before you—“

“Shut up.” It’s a crack in his armour, the first of the day. Gale strains against the elementals. “Don’t make me warn you again.”

”You’re in no position to threaten me,” Lorroakan sighs. “Gale, oh Gale. You had it all. You were her Chosen. Her lover. And you’d toss it all away, for—what? A rotting body that reeks of ruin? A mere scrap of Bhaal’s foul power? ”

“Unfathomable power,” Gale corrects. “But I don’t expect you to understand. You’ll see it soon enough, anyway. Perhaps I’ll permit your survival, if only so you can watch the curtains fall on your precious realm.”

Lorroakan chokes on incredulity. “Permit me? I will kill you. Burn you, destroy you in Mystra’s name, cleanse the world of the blight that you’ve—“

With a sharp crack, Gale dissipates into a sea of sickly red, and reemerges before Lorroakan’s throne.

”Dolor,” he sings out, and Astarion shields his eyes.

~`~`~

“He saw me, where Mystra didn’t.”

It’s late now. Astarion sits with Gale beneath the starless night and watches him polish his sword. A gleaming staff leans against a tentpole, pilfered from the fight and now used as a fire poker. A slip of the blade draws blood; unfazed, Gale brings his finger to his lips, and tastes it with naked rapture. In the waning moonlight, the rot is more obvious than ever before. It snakes past his waistband, branches over his throat.

Astarion hums softly. “Bhaal?”

A nod. “He saved me.” Gale shuts his eyes. “He talks to me. Listens to me, understands me, believes in me, rewards and respects and adores me.”

A pause. Overhead, the wind is silent.

“He loves me. And in turn, I grant him my devotion.”

“As you once did with Mystra?”

”That was never the same.” There’s no bitterness, no malice to his words. “She left me to perish. He, however, granted me life.”

Gale fingers the collar. It glows softly, runes lighting up with each laboured breath. The flesh around his neck is scarred and rubbed raw. If he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“It helps you,” Astarion states. Gale nods.

“His divine power resides within this. The orb feeds off the magic in it and not from me. So long as I wear this, I’ll live to see another day. He offered me salvation when I was left to die. For that, I grant Him my undying loyalty.”

In the dark, the corruption pulses weakly from his chest. It’s almost entirely consumed his upper body. Astarion can’t take his eyes off it. ”And yet, the rot grows.”

”Bhaal has granted me His blessing,” Gale replies. He holds out his bandaged arm. “My strength grows with its spread. Its growth is a boon.”

Though Astarion accepts that, the collar bothers him. “Isn’t it degrading? Walking around like you’re some sort of… of collared beast?”

Gale smiles at him pityingly. “There is nothing degrading about His favour. Nor the power he offers me.”

“And you mean to help him grow it.”

A nod. “This isn’t a task I must undertake alone. You could work alongside me. Gain His favour.”

He speaks eagerly. The thought… is tempting, truth be told. But Astarion laughs anyway.

“Ridiculous. You know how I feel about the gods.” Still, Gale remains unblinking, and Astarion adds, “Besides, if I were to humour you for a moment, how exactly would one go about this?”

“Cazador’s ritual. The one Ulma mentioned before her delicious demise.” Gale sighs dreamily in recollection, before shaking his head. “You could take his place. Such power at your fingertips; together, we could be unstoppable.”

They could. The thought should be appealing. Strangely, all Astarion feels is nauseous.

“And turn out like you?” he finds himself saying. Gale raises an eyebrow.

“What of me?”

Demented. Desolate. With each passing day, the light in Gale’s eyes dies. A part of Astarion wonders if there ever was any to begin with, but in shared moments of warmth, he can’t deny those glimpses of the man that once was.

“Unhinged,” he says eventually, which is true enough. Gale murders carelessly and takes triumph in bloody slaughter. Much as Astarion enjoys the chaos, unfettered death does seem rather… wasteful.

Gale looks annoyed. “You speak as though I kill without regard.”

“But that is your ethos,” Astarion reminds him. “And I don’t know if I can be like that. Who you… want me to be.”

There are words he can never take back, moments in time that cause a paradigm shift. This, Astarion realises, is one of them. Gale’s face shutters.

“You think I’m a monster.”

Astarion shakes his head. “No. But you bear the insurmountable burden of one.”

For the briefest of moments, he thinks he sees a crack in Gale’s mask; a glimpse of the man that once was. But distraction comes at a time most inopportune, because Astarion is certain they are cursed to never have a moment of peace in this damned camp.

“Hang on a second,” Gale tells him, and sends a Firebolt across camp. A scream splits the air before Astarion can react, revealing a lady in a bloodied skin suit.

Oh. The smell is repulsive. More so than Gale.

“She’s caught me off-guard once,” Gale mutters to him. “I shan’t let it happen again.” He raises his voice, smiling pleasantly. “Orin. You’ve been trailing us since Rivington, haven’t you? I’ve been wondering when you’d finally step closer. I’ll admit; I thought it would be sooner.”

She rocks on the balls of her feet. “Did you? That excited to see me?”

Ashen lips jerk upwards. Still, there’s a twitchiness to her mania, the way her eyes keep straying from Gale. She’s nervous, Astarion realises. He’s not quite sure why.

Gale tilts his head to the side. “Come to finish what you couldn’t before? You infected me with the parasite and left me at Moonrise to die. Suppose you didn’t do a very good job. I’m still alive.”

A shrill screech. Orin stamps her foot.

“And most fortuitously, my memory remains intact,” Gale adds. “Killing his Chosen? Our Father won’t like that, you know.”

“My Father.” Her face twists. “You will not sully His unholy name like that; your place within our ranks is as much a sham as the blood that runs through your veins!”

“What blood?” Gale’s eyes go wide. “His blood?”

Silence meets her. Orin’s grip on her dagger goes tight as Gale continues speaking.

“I supped of His blood, as He drank of mine. He gave me his blessing like I was His kin, and filled me with His undying love. I am a canvas of His design, a portrait of His reviled ambition. I will achieve what no other has ever before, and I will do it in His name.”

A loud scream. Orin lunges at him, and misses.

“Interloper!”

“Perfect,” Gale corrects. “Powerful. Chosen.”

“You killed him,” Orin rasps, shrill and twisted. “My kin. You murdered him, bathed in his revered blood—“

“And stole the very crown from his rotted mantle,” Gale finishes. He laughs again, spinning his own blade in one hand. “Your blood-kin was sloppy. Variable. He cared little for craft nor ambition. He would have slaughtered mere dozens in his Father’s name.” Gale lifts his chin. “Whereas I will burn down this whole world for Him.”

“Traitor! Your blood runs impure!”

“As does yours.”

Heavy breathing. Astarion watches them stare each other down, and takes a subtle step backwards.

“You’re here for the Netherstones,” she states. When Gale doesn’t respond, her lips pull back into a grin. “Does he know you’ve returned?”

Orin’s tone is sly, gaze shifting between them both. Near imperceptibly, Gale goes tense. “That is none of your business.”

“Which means you haven’t.”

Gleeful laughter. It rings in Astarion’s ears, dissonant and distorted. Gale’s face remains impassive.

“I will, in time.”

“Sooner rather than later, I think.” A manic giggle; Orin toys with her braid, then leans in unnervingly close. “Before I’m forced to pay him a visit myself.”

She vanishes then, in a mist of red. The night comes and goes in uneasy silence. For the first time, Gale doesn’t join Astarion in his bedroll.

~`~`~

Already, Astarion doesn’t like Enver Gortash.

He stands pompous and tall, commanding the room with a steady ease that sickens Astarion. For it’s not his greasy hair that unnerves him, nor his gaudy clothing, nor the fact that his voice is far too slick, far too suave.

No, it’s the way he’s staring at Gale.

Amongst their group, Karlach is spitting with rage. Her engine burns bright, brighter than ever before. Astarion fears she might finally overheat.

“Let me at him,” she snarls. “Gale, I need this.”

To her agitation, they don’t approach him just yet. Rather, Gale hovers in a corner, watching the proceedings with mild interest as a patriar appoints Gortash the first archduke of Baldur’s Gate. Ulder Ravengard, Astarion recalls. He wonders if he knows of his son’s untimely demise, but the vacant-eyed look on his face suggests he’s not quite there at the moment.

The festivities commence. Gortash continues staring. And finally, Gale deigns to stop forward.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Gortash steps off his platform, both arms outstretched. His gaze flickers to Karlach briefly, before landing on Gale once more. “You have been busy. Word of your achievements have reached my ears. You hold General Thorm’s Netherstone, don’t you?”

A nod. Gortash’s grin widens.

“Just as I’d hoped. Bane answers my prayers today! Your return shall spell greatness for our cause. Our plan is in motion. You bear witness to the first archduke of Baldur’s Gate.” He lowers his voice, leans in close to Gale. “But Orin proves treacherous. She desires our Netherstones, and will dampen her blade to get them.”

Gale’s face shutters. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s tried to get rid of me.”

“That much, I’ve heard too.” Gortash looks displeased. “But you seem otherwise unharmed. The… obvious, aside.”

He gestures at the corruption, though there’s a light-heartedness to his gesticulation. Astarion is confused; Karlach more so, as she steps forward brusquely.

“You both know each other?”

As it turns out, they do. To what end, Astarion isn’t certain, but it’s enough to infuriate Karlach, who lunges forward at them both, as though she can’t decide who to attack.

“I trusted you!” She’s spitting mad, wielding her axe. “I thought we were friends! You’ve known him all along?”

“A familiarity that you’ve benefited from,” Gale points out. “How else would I have known how to repair your engine?”

Another incensed yell. Gale ducks as she swings at him.

“So you did listen to my ramblings.” Gortash looks impressed. “Colour me impressed, old friend.”

“Shut up,” Karlach shouts, swinging her axe once more. Gortash narrowly ducks, staggering back as screams erupt around them. “I’m going to kill you, Gortash, and then I’m coming for you—”

It happens in a flash. The shrill wail of Gale’s blade, the sickly squelch of blood. Gale moves in a blur, takes advantage of her wrath to stab her in the back, right over the weakest point of her machinery. Her face twists with shock, then betrayal, before she’s slumping to the ground.

The light drains from her eyes. Blood pools beneath her. Astarion feels his heart stutter to a stop.

“We were—” He can’t find his voice. “I thought you were—”

Friends, his mind supplies. But as he turns his gaze back to Gale and Gortash, the growing softness in Gortash’s eyes, it becomes rapidly obvious that what they have —or had— far transcends mere friendship.

Where does that place him, then?

“My bloodthirsty companion.” Gortash’s smile goes wide. A gauntleted hand cradles Gale’s cheek, turning his face from side to side. Gale doesn’t try to stop him. “Oh, it’s good to see you again. You remain as glorious as ever. As obedient as ever.”

The latter statement seems to snap Gale out of it. Stepping back, he inspects his sword, reflection distorted by its angled surface.

“I will kill Orin and procure her Netherstone,” Gale tells him eventually. “But give me a day or so. There is something I must do first.”

Gortash considers this. “I’m not in favour of waiting. But you—oh, you know I can’t ever deny you.”

A brief nod. “Then we shall depart.” For a moment, Gale lingers, eyes locked with Gortash, who holds his gaze the same. Something simmers between them, mere inches from breaking the surface—over where Karlach’s body is still cooling on the ground.

Astarion doesn’t like it at all.

~’~’~

He’s crying, tonight.

Astarion rouses to choked whimpering, shifting from the room right next to his. A silent trip towards the open doorway grants him the sight of Gale lying amidst tangled sheets, panting and writhing in agony as the rot in his body glows a sickly violet.

“Bhaal,” Gale chokes out, twitching weakly. “Bhaal… save me—“

He’s clutching the collar like one might a lifeline. More broken sobs spill out, Gale twisting into himself as he shudders through each wave of pain. Blood spills from his lips, staining the sheets beneath. Astarion thinks to enter, but a shadowed form in the room reveals itself, and he therefore hangs back.

“You poor dear,” Gortash murmurs, and Gale whines pitifully.

He’s biting his pillow, clambering for purchase as pain seems to shock him. Gortash runs a hand along Gale’s hair; a stark picture of composure; a beastmaster with his pet taken in hand. Beneath that accursed gauntlet, Gale moans weakly and curls into himself.

Astarion thinks he might be begging. He can’t be certain, for Gale is near unintelligible.

The bed shifts as Gortash seats himself and uncovers Gale carefully. It pulls a raw cry from his lips; in morbid display, a small chunk of flesh snags on the sodden fabric and wrenches free from his putrid form.

A choked scream. The glow goes dim, then flares brightly once more.

”You need me,” Gortash says, in hushed tones. “You need me, as I need you. We were so good together. And we could be more, if you so wish.”

Another cry. Gale grips his collar tight, tugging at the ruined flesh of his neck. His body is on display, now; bare, save for his tattered underclothes. The spreading corruption stands on flagrant ceremony tonight, consuming him with each painful, passing moment.

The rot is spreading. Astarion can smell it.

“Lay on me, my sweet.” Though Gale doesn’t move, Gortash shifts anyway, cradling his quivering body, the soft curve of his trembling stomach. “This will pass in time. May Bhaal and Bane watch upon you tonight.”

In the throes of delirium, Gale doesn’t respond. Sweat drips off him, mingling with an odd, black liquid. It drips from his ruined flesh, through the onset of what seems to be decomposition. There’s a moment of silence where Gale stops moving—before he lurches over the side of the bed and throws up.

Blackened bile splashes against the ground, mingling with red. It’s nothing but blight and blood.

“There we go.” Gortash brushes Gale’s hair back, barely flinching as a chunk comes free. “I’ll send for housekeeping later. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

The sight horrifies him. Astarion hadn’t known how bad it’s gotten. It’s been a while since they’ve gone unclothed together. Intimacy has taken a backseat as Gale nears his final goal—and though Gale still makes his affection for Astarion very much known, such moments have grown few and far between. Loathe as he is to admit it, Astarion misses them.

That should be me, Astarion thinks, then chastises himself for doing so. They aren’t even together.

“You must rest,” Gortash says, as Gale moans weakly. The flickering lamp above illuminates the sickly sheen of sweat on what remains of his skin, the hollows of his face. His eyes glow an eerie violet, in tandem with that of his orb. Trembling hands clutch the collar tighter, as Gale utters a stream of prayers, with laboured breath.

Astarion doesn’t catch any of it. Judging by the way Gale arches his back with a sickening crack, he suspects Bhaal hasn’t either.

This isn’t thriving. It’s barely living. Gale wears his pain like a badge of honour, and most days, he wears it well. Today, evidently, is not one of those days.

The rot grows at an exponential pace, faster than ever before. Warping him beyond comprehension, consuming the man Astarion knows. That accursed collar is the only thing that keeps Gale from blowing up. With the rot this far gone—hells, forget a mere city. The ensuing explosion would be of catastrophic proportions.

Bhaal would like that, Astarion finds himself thinking, but surely that isn’t the case.

“Rest,” Gortash says again, and as Gale rests his head in his lap, blood staining fine embroidery with every minute twitch of his withering muscles, Astarion takes it as a sign to depart.

~’~’~

The ground is sticky and stained crimson.

It’s a bloody battle. Astarion staggers from a bite to the side, one of Cazador’s dark wolves getting the better of him. It’s felled shortly after, by the discordant squeal of Gale’s enchanted blade.

The werewolf’s head comes clean off. Astarion doesn’t know his name, but he’s certain that even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference to Gale.

“Ungrateful child,” Cazador screams. “Wretched child!”

He’s losing. It’s not something Astarion could have ever imagined, the taste of freedom so damned close. His ghouls lie in tatters, his macabre army in shreds. Powerful as Cazador is, he is no match for Gale, who rips through everything with unrestrained glee.

It’s a sight indeed. Blood flies through the air with each twirl, each manic slash. The trembling spectre from last night is no more; in place is an architect of destruction; a bringer of torment and anguish. Each slash is timed perfectly, each spell calculated. Gale kills with precision, and that’s perhaps far more terrifying than unbridled insanity.

But they’re winning. And that’s all that matters.

Screams fill the air as Gale rains destruction upon them, though he’s fast faltering. Through the thin robe he’s begun to wear, in favour of fitted spiked leathers, Astarion sees the rot pulsing weakly, as a swathe of skin hangs free.

“Gale—”

His words are lost to a crack; without pause, Gale shifts.

Towering above them all, the rampage of the slayer is unmatched. Gale tears through the crowd with ease, in stark contrast to the tender night they’d shared before. It’s unnerving enough for Astarion to take pause, but the comical horror on Cazador’s face is enough to detract him from Gale’s bloody slaughter.

“That’s not one of mine,” Cazador states, and Astarion laughs right in his face.

He’s mine, Astarion wants to say. But that’s not quite true, either.

The ground drips with viscera, as does Gale. The slayer barely falters, a macabre dance in the arms of death, felling each beast that Cazador calls forth. Bile drips from his monstrous fangs, blood flying through the air as Gale tears with his teeth, until they stand before Cazador himself.

He’s on his knees. Oh, the glory.

“You call me a monster,” Cazador spits, as Astarion approaches him. “Yet, do you not see the company you keep?”

The air seems to twist; with a sharp gasp, Gale staggers to the side, human once more. Cazador doesn’t blink as he bares his fangs.

“My point remains.”

Heavy breathing. Gale clutches his side, fingers blackened with bile. It trails down his jaw, too, spat promptly out onto the ground, right by where Cazador is knelt.

“Remember what we spoke of?” Gale rasps.

It’s all Astarion has been thinking of, really. The dagger burns in his hands as he clutches it tight, to where his once-tormentor trembles before him. It’s an end to the hurt, to two hundred years of agony. But if he were to go through with the ritual—

He’ll never have to hurt again.

“Join us.” Gale smiles at him, just a bit too wide. His eyes brim with fear, his hands tremble with desperation. “Astarion. Join us. Use the tadpole; connect our minds, and carve Cazador with his own foul design.”

The thought is intoxicating. It consumes him like a fog, the headiest of red wines. Blood drips from his blade, from his armour. It pools on the ground around him, a macabre mirror of Gale’s love for rampant slaughter. He’s twitching slightly, bandages stained through as he holds out a decaying hand.

Seven thousand souls. To pay the toll for a… a modicum of freedom? The same freedom… he sees in Gale?

“I’m sorry,” Astarion whispers, and raises his dagger.