Thy People Shall Be My People - leomona (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The first thing to strike me about the Underdark camp is how silent it is.

Not that I’m complaining; ever since ceremorphosis, I’ve found overlapping sounds unpleasantly difficult to distinguish, something about the structure of my new body simply not as well-suited to the task as my human one. While there is typically little need for me to make out any individual voice when walking the streets of Baldur’s Gate – covered physically, or disguised by illusion magic, of course – and while my former companions are finally starting to respond to my attempts to train them in better habits… I would, I believe, prefer to have all my senses about me, when entering a location holding up to seven thousand and six vampire spawn.

Seven thousand and seven, rather.

“Well,” Astarion murmurs from his place close at my side, his hand gripping the hilt of one of his preferred daggers: the one he scooped up and used to stab Orin in the eye, when she was foolish enough to drop it directly beside him while transforming into Bhaal’s Slayer avatar. “Isn’t this a friendly welcome.”

I meet the gaze of one of hundreds of eerily silent spawn observing as we pass, taking in the utter lack of any blood-flush to her skin and the barely-leashed hunger in her expression as she looks me over, her eyes lingering on my throat and wrists. All the spawn in sight seem to have stopped what they were doing to track our progress through the passages carved from stone that seem function as streets for their – settlement, I suppose would be most accurate, rather than camp. For all that nearly every form of non-cave shelter I can see is either a cloth tent or a small, makeshift dwelling formed of unmatched, scavenged materials. For one shack, a giant rib bone of some sea creature for a support – or possibly for the entire wall, given that it looks to be largely formed from mud mixed with some type of pale reed – for another, driftwood reminiscent of what I’ve seen in svirfneblin settlements, and even what looks to be a hollowed-out giant mushroom akin to those in a myconid village, for a third.

“They knew to expect us; our presence is clearly not a surprise,” I murmur back as I let my eyes and my attention move away from the spawn again, dismissing her as unimportant. While I could speak to Astarion mind-to-mind instead, I have my voice right now, and will for as long as my illusory human form continues to hold up; why give away the potential for such a form of communication unnecessarily at this stage, by encouraging Astarion towards engaging in an apparent one-sided conversation?

“And yet we’re left to find our own way to my darling siblings’… stronghold? Sanctum? Gods know it certainly isn’t going to be any sort of palace, given the rest of this,” Astarion says, giving a disdainful sniff as his gaze roves over the entrance to what looks to be the start of livestock pens, going by the apparently strong smell wafting over from that direction, if how Astarion's now wrinkling his nose with a disgusted expression is any indication. The very heavily guarded entrance, which bodes – about as well as I expected to find, really.

“They would have us see ourselves as supplicants, perhaps,” I suggest. While I haven’t yet worked out a way to easily make my voice in this form reflect most emotions very well – it took me over a tenday’s worth of practice and arcane tweaking with Gale to even sound like my old self at all – Astarion’s grown comfortable enough with the less invasive variants of my mental presence; I don’t hesitate to press my condescending amusem*nt directly into his mind as I speak the words.

Astarion snorts. “As that would be entirely stupid of them, I expect you’re correct, my dear,” he says airily.

“Or maybe we simply don’t have the devas-and-devils-damned time right now to stand around by the front door all day as a welcoming party, even for our saviours,” a woman’s voice snaps from a passage off to the side, across and down a ways from the livestock pens and their guards.

Astarion and I both turn to face her. “Dalyria,” Astarion greets, with a brief, tight smile he doesn’t even bother attempting to make seem sincere. “Such a pleasure to see you again, as always, dearest sister. Lovely home you’ve got here; I do like what you’ve done with the place.”

“I see she’s not had any more success at teaching you manners than Cazador did, brother,” Dalyria replies, returning his smile with a contempt-laden simper of her own.

Astarion gives a low hiss, then clearly forces himself to shove down his first response.

“What can I say?” Astarion replies, his tone light and unbothered. “I’d hate to show you up. Tav, darling, you remember Dalyria, don’t you? The one who murdered that little girl who had the dictionary in her bag, our brother Leon’s daughter,” he adds helpfully, and also rather loudly, then smirks. “How is Leon? By the way. Not grieving too badly, I hope?”

Is there a point to this sowing of discord, or are you simply amusing yourself at the expense of all our plans? I ask Astarion privately, and find myself entirely ignored.

Dalyria’s jaw tenses as she glares at him. “If I’d succeeded, I stood to save potentially thousands of lives over the course of -”

She breaks off, shaking her head once, then starts over. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t betray Leon if that’s what you think, just as I didn’t kill the girl – that was Cazador, his bloody orders kicked in just as they always did and stopped me, despite measures that should have worked to delay them long enough, if only Leon’s damned magic hadn’t interfered – and she wasn’t even the real Victoria, anyway. Just some orphan we found to pass off as her to the m- to Cazador.”

“Wait, what?” Astarion says, frowning; I tilt my head to one side, considering them both, then lean against the stone of the passageway to observe in silence for now. “You’re making even less sense than usual; back up and start over.”

Dalyria hisses out an annoyed breath, closing her eyes, then draws in a deeper, steadier breath before opening them again. “Leon,” she states, precise. “Approached me roughly a year and a half before – the end, with a plan to smuggle Victoria out of the palace for good. We would replace her with a magically disguised orphan just long enough for me to – test out my idea for a potential cure, thereby giving Cazador reason to believe Victoria dead. Except apparently Leon decided it wouldn’t be convincing enough if the magic he’d been using on the real one didn’t take effect when I bit her. Which he didn’t see any need to tell me in advance, of course.”

“Have you considered that might have been entirely intentional, sister dear?” Astarion absently enquires.

A year and a half, and you picked up on none of this? I innocently ask inside his head; Astarion twitches slightly, the tips of his ears flushing – we’ll have to find him more blood soon, if that’s the extent of his display of embarrassment just now – but he doesn’t otherwise openly react.

Dalyria rolls her eyes. “Of course it was,” she says, scathing. “Just as Leon considered that I’d happily take his real daughter for my attempt, if he didn’t -” She breaks off, then, looking over to me with a distinctly wary expression, as if she’s just remembered my presence.

“Don’t mind me,” I tell her, taking advantage of the fact that mild is one of the few tones I can currently manage. “Continue your explanation.”

“It would have saved lives,” Dalyria insists again, tense now, and watching my face for a reaction that will never appear unless I perform it deliberately. “How many did the master have us all kill in a single year? Hundreds, at the very least. Sacrificing one for the sake of them all was – it would have been the right thing to do.”

“Oh, don’t bother,” Astarion snorts. “She’s not going to turn you – or Turn you, for that matter – to ash if you can’t convince her you’re well-meaning at heart, rather than the vicious, conniving little rat you are. Would I be standing here, otherwise?”

“You are a very poor liar for any longer than a day or two, that’s true,” Dalyria murmurs, studying me more thoughtfully.

As Astarion gives an offended squawk, I glance towards him, make my face display a hint of amusem*nt, then glance back. “You did what you had to do to try and survive Cazador,” I say simply. “All of you. I’m here to discuss the future, not condemn you for the past.”

Dalyria doesn’t look particularly reassured by my statement, but gives me a nod, nevertheless. She looks around, then, and says, “Why don’t we go back to my office to have that discussion, in that case? Rather than airing… family business, or pointlessly sniping at one another, out in front of everyone.”

“Oh, but we were never allowed to be anything other than perfectly-behaved little pets before, when we were out in public,” Astarion says. “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying being off the leash, hmm?”

A rather more genuine smirk flits briefly across Dalyria’s face, before she clears her throat, rubbing at her mouth to hide the expression. “All the same,” she says. “I meant what I said about not having the time right now. So if we could get down to business?”

“After you,” I state, pushing myself back up off the wall.

♦

Dalyria leads us back down the passage she appeared from, past yet more ramshackle huts and their silently staring inhabitants, before veering off at one of many unmarked junctions. A safety precaution, I wonder, that they keep their surroundings so maze-like? Or an indication of a lack of centralised planning and organisation?

This new passageway continues along for only a short distance before widening out into a proper, mid-sized cavern; where outside the lighting was intermittent, scattered – and primarily the result of scavenged luminescent crystals and a few transplanted mushrooms – here they have actual torches, set around the cavern at regular intervals and providing a more usual amount of illumination for ones used to a surface environment. Oh, not the spawn in general, of course – the only thing they’re used to is extended captivity – but though a couple dozen vampires are gathered within the chamber, I see a much higher number of faces I recognise than I did outside.

The anxious one, from first the flophouse and then the Rite, who had questioned why I would help them: there, over by some shelving that looks to hold stacks of folded linens. The tiefling woman, Aurelia, who blinks at us in surprise, then offers a cautious nod; I return it, unsmiling, and make note of how Astarion shifts a little, as if discomfited, before he does the same. And the tall human too, the sorceror with the not-so-murdered-after-all daughter, currently in conversation with a small group of spawn bearing actual armour and weapons, if nothing of any great quality.

“Leon,” Dalyria calls, and he looks up, recognition flashing through his gaze. He moves to join us at Dalyria’s curt gesture, following a final, quiet word to the one who looks to be the leader of the armoured group of spawn, going by how she beckons them to follow her out down one of the side passages.

But it’s a different doorway where Dalyria leads the three of us, one that’s been fitting with a door – crudely fashioned, yes, but in possession of an actual latch and offering at least some degree of privacy for anyone within the small office we now enter. Two more doorways lead to places unknown, both of them covered by hanging fabric of some type – an animal pelt for one, and what looks like sailcloth perhaps for the other? - while various tables and crates and rickety seating hold stacks of paper and roughly-bound notebooks, just as the overcrowded desk does at the room’s centre.

“Just – find yourself a chair and move the papers wherever there’s room,” Dalyria sighs, waving us vaguely towards the scattered furnishings as she moves to sit behind the desk. Leon and I both silently comply; Astarion doesn’t.

“Gods, what a mess,” he comments, gazing around and blinking in consternation. “Seven thousand spawn to put to work and you couldn’t find yourself a single secretary? Oh – thank you, darling,” he adds, as I use the chair I’ve retrieved for him to prod the back of his calves pointedly.

“Five thousand,” Dalyria tersely replies. “Give or take.”

“Five?” Astarion exclaims. “How in all the bloody hells did you manage to lose two thousand of them, Dal?!”

“Or to put it more politely, and with less accusation… what happened?” I ask, arranging my features into a look of reproof as I privately add to Astarion, Stop pointlessly antagonising her.

Astarion shoots me a little glare; likely as much for my telling him to do something in a way he can’t currently respond to as for the actual content.

“What didn’t happen?” Dalyria returns, sighing again, then holds up a hand to start ticking off fingers as Leon and I finish seating ourselves. “Suicides have been the biggest loss; half of that number was within the first tenday alone, by finding their way back to the surface and the sun, or getting someone else to stake them, or simply throwing themselves at the first proper threat they could find. Those have finally started to taper off, at least; I think most of the spawn who couldn’t take living – so to speak – like this will have made that obvious by now. I’m hoping that if we can keep living circ*mstances from becoming too intolerable, it shouldn’t continue in such large numbers.”

I nod. “What else?”

“Those proper threats have accounted for a few hundred; most Underdark creatures know better than to attack such a large group directly, but they’re happy to pick off stragglers at the edges if they get the chance, then disappear back into the darkness,” Dalyria reports, ticking off another finger.

“Spiders?” I ask, since I’m curious as to how they’re faring with regard to any nearby drow.

“Among others, but yes,” Dalyria says. “They act more like the other beasts than they do some sort of coordinated attack, though; I don’t think we’ve drawn the attention of Lolth and her priestesses, at least not yet.”

I hum an acknowledgement, pleased that she took my meaning so quickly, and nod for her to continue.

“A few dozen here and there are due to skirmishes with more intelligent Underdark residents,” Dalyria says, onto the third finger. “Some duergar slavers, the occasional beholder – we haven’t found any large groups of them nearby, at least – a couple of drow caravans or lone driders, that kind of thing. And then, of course, there’s the illithid.”

“Oh?” Astarion asks, not quite managing to hide the sudden sharp edge in his voice. “Having trouble with their own more... far-flung raiders and slavers, are you, or is there a – a colony?”

“A colony,” Dalyria grimly confirms. “If that’s what you call one of the bigger groups of them, with some sort of… great brain in charge. We questioned some of their dying slaves, but they weren’t very coherent.”

“An elder brain, yes,” I absently supply, mulling this over.

“There’s a colony under an elder brain living close to here,” Astarion repeats flatly.

“As I said,” Dalyria replies, raising an eyebrow at him. “Those losses aren’t from them killing us, though; not for the most part, at least, though we’ve found a few bodies with their brains gone in the aftermaths of the attacks. But mostly, they seem to want people to take and bring back with them.”

“They want thralls,” Astarion says, lips thinning, and shakes his head. “And here we’ve handed them thousands of perfect targets, ready and waiting to be plucked at their leisure! We should have just killed them outright; it would’ve been kinder than this. Maybe we should kill them, for that matter, while it’s still an option.”

“Or we could arm them and have the ones capable of defending themselves train the others to do the same,” Leon says, looking Astarion over with a contemptuous expression. “But I suppose we shouldn’t expect fighting back to be something that occurs to you, should we?”

“Ah, excuse me, but which one of us was it who killed Cazador, again?” Astarion demands, turning to face Leon more directly.

Leon leans in to meet him, staring Astarion down. “You think that erases two hundred years crawling willingly on your belly for him?” he hisses. “Of folding instantly, if he so much as slapped you? You did what you did because you didn’t want to die. Anything less, and he – when was the last time he even needed to compel you? Before my time, I’m sure; even Aurelia had more of a spine.”

Astarion’s face twists in an ugly sneer; before he can reply, I break in.

“Curious, that one who had personal experience of Cazador’s methods would condemn another of his victims for being susceptible to them,” I observe.

Leon’s gaze flicks past Astarion briefly to settle on me. “I had a daughter to protect; it was never what he did to me that mattered. Only what he might do to her.”

“Yes, and he knew that, which is why he never had to bother!” Astarion exclaims. “Why waste his time tormenting you, when he had Victoria to keep you in line and all the amusem*nt he desired from me?”

“Oh, good,” Dalyria says, rolling her eyes. “We’re back onto that insisting you’re his – you were his favourite, are we?”

“Don’t say that like I’m Violet, convinced she meant something to him,” Astarion says, a tiny waver in his voice. “I was his favourite target; nothing more. And certainly nothing less, however much you’d all like to pretend we got it equally from him!”

“Look,” Dalyria sighs, sitting back in her seat and rubbing at her temples. “Since clearly we’re going to have to have this discussion sooner or later, fine: let’s get it over with. I’m not trying to dispute that the master – preferred you, much of the time, when he was picking out who to play with that day; gods know I had to sit through more than enough rhapsodising over how pretty your face is, streaked with tears.”

“Don’t,” Astarion interjects sharply, head twitching as if he’s about to look over to me before he stops himself.

No, I tell him in his mind. It is not your shame; I will not and never have thought any less of you, for any of it.

Astarion shudders once, but otherwise doesn’t react.

“Make your point and cease editorialising,” I order Dalyria.

Dalyria glances to me, jaw tensing, but gives me a nod before transferring her attention back to Astarion. “But if you think that just because you got the most obvious of his attentions that meant he didn’t torment all the rest of us too, you’re lying to yourself. He liked to see you cry, and beg, and crawl for him, and bleed. He liked to see all of us crying and begging him, really; it was just a question of how he had the most fun getting it out of us. He liked to make Leon come up with his own punishments, under threat of compelling him to do worse to Victoria if they weren’t creative enough; it should tell you all you need to know, that he never once decided Leon had failed in doing so. He liked to find new ways to make me believe I was nothing, that I was entirely helpless and dependent on him, take everything that was once mine and turn it into -”

She stops speaking abruptly, rage twisting her expression until she forces it smooth again, then takes a careful breath before she resumes.

“For Petras it was degrading and damning himself; do this to earn my favour, earn the respect you think you so deserve from everyone around you, and know that by doing it you make yourself too low a creature to ever keep either of them, once the truth gets out. Violet, always just falling short of what might please him well enough that he’d love her like she wanted, always needing that little bit of extra compulsion before she could succeed. Yousen, it was still about the victims he was sent after, though I’d have given it a couple of decades at most before Cazador had to find something new, once he finally stopped being so soft-hearted. Or so stupid, letting him see when he cared. And Aurelia… that family she so wanted, filled with people who’d never do anything but despise and pity her for her make-believe; he didn’t even need to hurt her, not with us to do it for him. If you think that he did not torment all the rest of us too, you are lying to yourself,” she repeats as she grasps the arms of her chair and leans forward, staring unwaveringly at Astarion.

Astarion is silent; staring back at her, something conflicted in his expression.

“Or maybe you just never paid enough attention to anyone other than yourself for long enough to see it,” Dalyria adds, sitting back again.

“I paid attention,” Astarion says softly.

“Then try acting like it,” Dalyria orders. “And Leon, stop insulting him for not wanting to have his skin peeled off any more than it already had been. You weren’t with us long enough to have the right to do that; especially not when you were able to successfully protect your daughter. You weren’t the one sent out to the people who’d made you your surgical tools in order to have a set of custom-designed gilded flaying knives commissioned, and you weren’t the one who had to oversee the entire process, either, because gods forbid the master’s pretty toy end up with any of the ugly kind of scarring. So shut up about it, already. You’re here because you’re coordinating our defense, not so you can waste even more of my time today with your petulance.”

Leon sniffs, pointedly turning away from Astarion, but doesn’t argue.

“On that note, perhaps we should get back to it,” I say, my tone decidedly not that of one making a suggestion.

“Agreed,” Dalyria says. “Now where were we?”

“The illithid colony,” I say. “You were about to tell us of your troubles with them.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“The illithid colony, yes,” Dalyria sighs, slumping in her chair and digging her fingers into the back of her neck like she’s trying to relieve some tension in the muscles; I track the movement absently, a brief flash of an image in my mind of my tentacles prying their way between those muscles to get at what would clearly be an exceptionally delectable brain, then push the thought away again as she straightens and continues.

“The numbers they’ve taken aren’t large – after the first few clashes where we managed to kill and eat some of them right back, the mind flayers largely stopped coming out personally, which makes defending ourselves a lot easier – but I fear Astarion had the right of it,” Dalyria states. “They’re leaving us alone not because they can’t come out and take as many as they want, but because we – we’re like livestock to them. Except free-roaming; leave the herd to its own devices until you need a few, then send out your lackeys to corral them.” She shakes her head, and adds wryly, “It’s certainly different to be the one on this side of that dynamic, I have to admit.”

Astarion snorts, looking as if he’s holding himself back from agreeing with her too vehemently.

You are not my free-roaming goat, I inform him, purely for the pleasure of watching Astarion’s lips tremble violently as he fights not to laugh. His hand quickly raises to rub over his mouth as he adopts a grave, concerned expression and nods to Dalyria.

“And maybe, in the end, we’ll have to just deal with it the same way the city had to deal with us,” Dalyria shrugs. “Defend ourselves as best we can, knowing we’re not going to be able to avoid losing someone now and again, as long as it never gets to be too many at any one time.”

“That’s not good enough,” Leon says, his hands flexing.

“Well sometimes we don’t have any better choices available to us, brother,” Astarion says, snide. “Sometimes something has to be good enough, because it’s the only available choice we can actually live with!”

“It’s not our only choice,” Leon insists. “No, there’s not much we can do about it yet, but with enough time to teach them all to fight -”

“We’ll what, train ourselves up an army?” Dalyria interrupts. “Storm the mind flayer cit- colony, and take back those we’ve lost? Team up with those useless little gnomes who can’t go five minutes without getting themselves enslaved again, and slaughter everyone who stands against us, perhaps? You’re being unrealistic.”

“And you’re just giving up without trying!” Leon exclaims. “You’re better than this, Dalyria.”

“What I am,” Dalyria states evenly. “Is responsible for the lives and well-being of about five thousand vampire spawn who are currently quite literally starving, despite the fact that I did not ask for any of this. What I am is approximately one more tantrum over what you want things to be, rather than what they actually are, away from washing my hands of this entire godsforsaken mess and letting you go ahead and run things, if you think you’d do so much better! Gods,” she snarls, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling as she takes several deep, open-mouthed breaths, forcing them to come more slowly. Unnecessary in and of themselves, of course, but they do indeed seem to be helping her regain her composure, just as I’ve seen from Astarion as well.

“You are starving,” I state, setting aside the rest of her outburst for later consideration. “How badly?”

After a moment or two, Dalyria looks back down to address us again, calmer now. “Not as badly as we would be, had you not arranged for so many animal herds to be sent to us – and thank you, truly, from the bottom of my damned and blackened heart for that, though I’ve no idea how you managed it given that refugee situation when we left – but it’s not enough for any more than keeping them all from starving so badly they become unable to maintain control of themselves. As it is, we have to keep all the younger children restricted and under guard, so they don’t simply throw themselves at the neck of the first person with a pulse they encounter. We’ve also had to execute a few dozen of the adults, for helping themselves to the food supply or menacing someone from a settlement we need to be able to trade with,” she adds.

“Harsh,” I say, then as Astarion opens his mouth with a scowl, finish with, “But understandable enough, under the circ*mstances.”

Astarion closes his mouth again, blinking a couple of times, then shrugs a shoulder, nodding to nobody in particular as if he’s granting some point.

It would be so easy to press just a little deeper, see what he is – no. Even if he wouldn’t notice, no; it makes for a terrible precedent to start giving into temptation like that with him, I lecture myself, stern.

“There’s also the problem that most of these animals are meant for living on the surface,” Dalyria continues. “Yes, maybe they can adapt to the food available down here – though that’s its own problem, if thankfully not quite as much of one as I’d feared – but they’re not… they simply aren’t thriving here, surrounded by stone and darkness. Ideally, we’d be able to trade them for herds of deep rothé and the like, trade with other Underdark residents who have their own mercantile links to the surface, but that will take time to arrange. And while we do have some farmers, or others with expertise in animal rearing, among our numbers, it’s not as if this is exactly a common problem to have run into before; we have no way of knowing how long we have until they just… sicken and die entirely. Which isn’t much helped by us having to keep them all constantly in a state of low-to-mid level anemia,” she adds in a disgusted mutter.

She refocuses, then, and studies me with a calm expression, then inclines her head towards me. “This isn’t actually in any way your problem, you know,” she comments. “And even if it was… you’ve more than fulfilled your promise, with the herds alone. So why are you here?”

“My promise was that I would come and I would help, if you still needed it by this point,” I remind her. “And that I would not abandon you while I remained alive and free to do otherwise. All of these conditions remain in effect.”

More or less, I privately allow, given that one might make the argument that the person who made that promise is not, in fact, still alive. But as I told Astarion soon after we killed the Netherbrain, this is a promise I ought to keep for the sake of simple pragmatism, even if nothing else; maintaining a reputation as one who can be trusted enough to allow productive dealings is not something I intend to forfeit.

“That said,” I continue. “I can understand if you would be more comfortable with a greater amount of… reciprocity between us, rather than simply feeling reliant upon my ongoing goodwill.”

“I would, quite frankly, yes,” Dalyria confirms, looking somewhat surprised. “I don’t know what more we might possibly have to offer you, but…” She shrugs.

There is always the same thing you have to offer my kindred, I think to myself, amused, and let a corner of my mind spin out a nice little fantasy of demanding such tribute from them, after having made them so entirely dependent upon my contacts and support that they’re in no position to refuse.

“There is nothing I need at this time that you can give me,” I agree. “But I have my own interest in the illithid colony; realistic at this stage or no, I’m inclined to support Leon’s plan to better prepare your people to oppose them on more than just a defensive basis. Not immediately, of course, but… someday.”

“Oh?” Dalyria asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, oh?” Astarion echoes, twisting in his seat to give me an incredulous look.

“There will be time to discuss the details further once it is more realistic,” I state, and privately add to Astarion, That elder brain is a threat to me, without Orpheus’s protection. I will not allow it to survive even this close to my city. As long as it is alive, my movement through this area – aboveground as well as below, should the colony expand too far upwards – remains constrained.

“Fine, I suppose,” Astarion sighs, though he gives me a tiny nod as well before turning back.

“You’ll want to speak with Petras then at some point,” Dalyria says. “He’s been the one handling our trading with outsiders, and therefore the one who’s brought back what little information we have on the illithid attacks, given how rare it is to find survivors; at least they seem to know better than to come after us here.”

“That will not last,” I caution her. “Not for the illithid, not for the duergar, not for the drow. They are all simply still… evaluating.”

“For now, I’ll take it,” Dalyria says, shrugging.

“Uh, excuse me, but could we go back to the part where you put Petras in charge of dealing with outsiders?” Astarion interjects. “Petras? Really? Do you want to end up giving away half the storehouse to the first person who flatters and fawns over him enough?”

Dalyria shrugs again. “They seem to all respond well to excessive arrogance.”

Astarion snorts; my eyes crinkle involuntarily at the corners in my amusem*nt.

“The comfort of the familiar, I expect,” I say. “A pity you cannot send him to the drow, in that case; you’ll have to handle those negotiations and meetings yourself.”

Dalyria gives me a blank look. “Why?”

I give her an equally blank look right back. “Because he is… male?”

“Oh,” Dalyria says, then blinks, shaking her head and looking annoyed as she digs through the papers on her desk, pulling one out after a brief search and using a stick of charcoal to make a few amendments. “Of course not; stupid of me,” she mutters, largely to herself. “Violet, then.”

“Oh, the drow will love Violet, yes,” Astarion says, flashing Dalyria a quick grin, then glances to me and comments, “She’s just as vicious as our dear Dal here, really. Only Violet doesn’t bother with pretending otherwise, or exercising much self-restraint; she should fit right in. Like a cross between Orin and Lae’zel, if either were at all sane,” he adds helpfully.

“I don’t expect the drow to be a priority for some time yet, either as regular trading partners or a threat, given the distance to their nearest city proper,” Dalyria says, tucking her paper back away inside its stack. “The duergar are a more immediate concern. As is deciding how we want to handle the… question posed by them and the deep gnomes.” She hesitates, then, eyeing me with a hint of indecision, before adding abruptly, “I assume you would have some very strong objections to us allying with the slavers and turning the slaves into our own livestock, correct?”

I blink at this, because – no, in fact, I would not any longer, but I can hardly simply say that unless I’m willing to discard my cover identity entirely. But the chances of the spawn willingly working with one of the very creatures currently preying upon them are… not high enough for my liking, and I really am going to need someone to go kill that elder brain for me.

And, of course, that’s not even getting into the question of Astarion and his reaction to any behaviour which deviates too greatly from what I would have done previously.

“Yes,” I say. “I would object.”

Dalyria nods, clearly having expected this. “Then we won’t do so,” she says simply. “We’ll continue working to train and outfit small groups to act as protection for the gnomes, in exchange for being allowed to feed. And also a little additional payment, of course. What about feeding on the slavers?” she asks, folding her arms on the table before her and regarding me with a serious, intent expression. “I know you said before that you don’t object to us doing so, but there’s draining someone who attacks us – or even doing so after we attack them, as reprisal or containment – and then there’s… the potential to turn them into a more sustainable food source, let’s say.”

“You want to capture a herd of duergar for your livestock pens?” I ask, amused.

Astarion stifles a laugh, turning it into loudly clearing his throat, and shoots me a look of warning; I don’t need to read his mind to know he’s loudly thinking too far.

“Well, I expect we’d house them elsewhere, not least because they’d probably kill the other livestock,” Dalyria says dryly. “But in essence? Yes.”

“It seems a pointless distinction for me to make, provided they’re kept in decent enough conditions,” I shrug, then wonder, Is that answer consistent enough with my past behaviour? Perhaps not; walk it back some, then. “I don’t like it, especially not on any permanent basis, but for now I understand you need to eat, and better the slavers than their victims. But you may wish to consider whether you truly want the reputation of being yet another slaver group in the Underdark; it will decrease the opportunities available to you, particularly among my own contacts on the surface. And most likely at least some of the deep gnomes, as well. Of course, there are plenty of other groups among the svirfneblin who would applaud you for such an act.”

“Probably not the Ironhands, however, darling,” Astarion comments. “If you were planning on using more of our own contacts, they would seem to be the obvious choice for any dealings between here and the surface.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I’m sorry, you think the Ironhands would disapprove of us enslaving those who did the exact same thing to their own people, from what the locals have said?” Dalyria asks blankly.

“Oh, they’ve had a recent change in leadership, inconvenient though that now unquestionably is,” Astarion says, and somehow manages not to give me any too-pointed looks.

“The Gondians may have their own benefits to offer,” I state.

“Such as?” Astarion asks.

“We will see,” I say. “In time.”

Astarion snorts. “So – nothing, then; you’re just planning on waiting until you come up with something later on, then pretending it was your intention the entire time, aren’t you?”

“If you’re going to be moving onto the food situation now, can I get back to my own work?” Leon interjects, before I can respond to Astarion. “I still have a river fording to somehow barricade off, since it’s useless to anyone besides our enemies.”

“That sounds like the type of problem a group of inventors and builders would be able to help with,” I comment, then display a smile when Astarion flashes a rude gesture at me.

“That’s fine, Leon,” Dalyria says. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else from you. Though – if you would excuse me for a minute?” she adds to me. “If we’re going to be discussing the supply situation, I want to get Petras and Aurelia to join us.”

“Of course,” I agree, and she nods to me as she rises from her chair, rounding the desk and making her way to the door. She pauses there, glancing back to Leon who’s now on his feet as well, but at whatever it is she sees in his expression, she just raises an eyebrow, giving a tiny shrug and letting herself out.

Before he leaves as well, Leon stops in front of the door, not looking at us. “Dalyria told you of what we did with Victoria,” he states, no emotion in his voice. “Didn’t she.”

“Yeeees?” Astarion says. “Were you… what, hoping I might praise your cleverness? I wouldn’t wait around for that one, were I you.”

“Hardly,” Leon says. “I -”

He cuts himself off, then, one of his hands half-clenching and relaxing again. Then he turns suddenly, facing me with a determined look.

“I can’t return to the city,” he says. “It’s better if she thinks me not just dead, but – unanimated. But I don’t… know if she survived. If there’s – if the place I sent her to kept her, or threw her out onto the streets as soon as I was out of sight. I couldn’t risk going back. I can’t risk going back. You -”

He cuts off again, staring at me – glaring at me, really – with fear and desperation and anger and just the smallest touch of hope blazing from his expression.

“Oh, it’s a favour you’re after!” Astarion realises. “Why, brother; you should simply have said so at the start! Although we are very busy, of course…” he adds, striking a thoughtful pose with his arms folded, one finger tapping his lips.

“Just tell me your price,” Leon snarls at him.

“Our price, hmm?” Astarion asks, then glances to me with a smile overflowing with pure malice. “What do you think, darling?”

I blink at him once, expressionless, then turn to Leon as I force my face into a more relaxed, softer configuration, lowering the volume of my voice in a facsimile of gentleness. “There’s no price,” I tell him. “I’d be happy – we’d be happy to help. When we go back I’ll do everything I can to see that your daughter’s okay; I promise.”

Leon stares at me for a beat, then closes his eyes, shoulders slumping as he gives a tiny shudder. “Thank you,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” I murmur back, keeping my face as it is, in case he should open his eyes suddenly.

Another moment to collect himself, then Leon does indeed open his eyes, giving me a nod. Not Astarion as well, but then he doesn’t send any more hate-filled glares his way, either; simply turns and departs, shutting the door behind him with a soft snick.

Once he’s gone, Astarion turns to me, eyebrows raised expressively and hands spread in a what the f*ck gesture.

I have a facade to maintain still, I remind him privately, mindful of the potential for eavesdroppers. And my reaction to Dalyria’s idea of keeping a pack of pet duergar was enough of a slip as it is; I need to compensate for that to avoid suspicion. We can decide once we return whether there is any benefit in fulfilling this new promise. There will be other opportunities for you to make Leon squirm if you desire them.

Astarion sighs lowly, looking disgruntled, but gives a reluctant nod.

Chapter 3: Flashback: Justice

Chapter Text

“Justice,” Wyll muses, glancing around at the paintings again. “No pardon without repentance, and no penalty without mercy.”

“Mercy?” Ascarion scoffs, looking truly incredulous, rather than like he’s simply being contrary for the sake of it. “Oh, please. Justice should be a harsh lesson. All the better to deter the next vaga- what are you doing?”

“It was cursed,” I say absently, as the apparition fades with a high-pitched screech, then move to study my three options. I roll my eyes a little, then comment, “All right, well, it’s obvious what the right answer is supposed to be, but first… do you really believe that?” I ask curiously, glancing over to address Astarion directly, then gesture towards the first of the paintings, the one of the gallows. “You’d have sentenced a man to death, back when you were a magistrate, for nothing more than… stealing food? So that hungry people, hungry orphans, wouldn’t starve?”

“You may recall that going by the paintings, he did more than simply that, my dear,” Astarion says, nodding towards the one with the astrolabe.

“Well, sure, but… the hungry orphans part would seem to suggest that his motivations aren’t all selfish or greedy,” I say. “In any case, that’s not even… it shouldn’t be the point, actually. You’d sentence a man to death not because of what you think he does or doesn’t deserve, but purely to motivate others to do what you want them to?”

Astarion’s jaw clenches. “Fortunately, it seems the only judge present we need be concerned with just now is you,” he replies, snide. “So go ahead: pass your judgment upon me, and let us get on with this farce.”

I sigh, then give a little shake of my head. “No, you’re right; it’s hardly the best time for… debating legal philosophy, or whatever you want to call it. Doesn’t matter.”

“I’m hardly in any position for my opinions on the subject to even matter, any longer,” Astarion adds, apparently still feeling snippy.

“Well,” I say, straightening up, and moving the Cell painting over to the central plinth. “Who knows what the future may hold for us all, hmm?”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

As we wait for Dalyria to return with the others, I sit back, letting Astarion amuse himself with snooping through his sister’s papers and belongings as I idly contemplate Leon’s request. And my own promise.

I could tell him she’s dead regardless, I think to myself. Tell him she died in the attack, tell him another of my kind ate her brain, suggest she died suffering and screaming. He called Astarion weak; the insult should be repaid. And the chances of him ever learning otherwise and causing problems for us in recompense are negligible. Even if he did, the extensive grief would make him delicious. Astarion dislikes him, wanted to hurt him; he is unlikely to object too strongly, surely.

Astarion might not object in a more general sense, but he wants me to still be her. She would never do anything like that; it would have horrified her. To do this would grieve him. It would take you further from being the one whom he wants, the one who brings him joy.

The opportunity for revenge, likely causing enough sorrow and despair radiating outwards from my victim for me to enjoy even without being connected to his mind directly? The prospect of one day getting to consume that mind, after it’s been marinating in its pain for years? Weighed up against the conflicted desires of a single vampire spawn, who would wipe away all that I have become without a second thought, if he could? A simple choice, with an obvious answer; I discard my musings on the possibility – for now, at least – with only a touch of reluctance.

Besides, adds the annoyingly persistent ghost in my head. Such an act would be wholly contrary to the tenets of Ilmater. There’s likely some room for leeway, but he certainly won’t continue to grant his power to one who purposely and habitually causes others to suffer. Or one who uses his power for that purpose at all. Pragmatically speaking, it’s better to avoid forming such habits by giving into temptation like that, especially when there’s no greater benefit to the act.

True, I allow, and discard said musings entirely this time in favour of giving my attention to the three people in the process of entering the room.

“Astarion, stop going through my desk,” Dalyria sighs, waving the other two – Petras, the blond one Astarion tortured in the flophouse, and Aurelia, the cringing tiefling – to the chairs beside me.

“If you don’t want me looking around, perhaps you should invest in better locks,” Astarion sniffs, haughty, though he goes ahead and closes the drawer, slipping his picks back into a pocket. He stares at Aurelia, then, and states flatly, “You’re in my chair.”

Aurelia flinches. “Sorry, brother,” she says, hurriedly rising and moving to retrieve another.

“I’ll just send someone down the street to fetch the locksmith, shall I?” Dalyria retorts, as both she and Astarion get themselves settled. “Aurelia, stop fluttering about like a brainless pixie and update them on the situation with our specialist workers. You can start with the farmers, herders... anyone connected to our food supply.”

“This is, indeed, a mess, just as Dalyria said,” I murmur to Astarion later; we’ve finished meeting with Dalyria and the others for the day and are off on our own again, strolling along one of the central passageways with the aid of a hastily-drawn map. “But not as dire a mess as it might have been.”

Astarion gives me an incredulous look. “Darling, you do remember the part where they’ve already lost a quarter of their number in only a few months? How they’ve had to lock up the children to stop them attacking you the moment you walked through that gate?” he adds, waving a hand back the way we came. “That a good third of the camp is bordered by a river nobody here can safely touch, much less cross without going three miles upstream? Shall I keep going, or have I made my point?”

“Nearly three-quarters that have survived,” I counter, narrowing my eyes in warning at a spawn we pass who’s staring very intently at my neck. “Alliances and trade agreements set up with multiple svirfneblin villages around them, without any outside intervention necessary. Most of the livestock we pressured everyone we knew into arranging, still alive. And someone highly intelligent and competent in command here, who seems to have a number of well thought-out plans and ideas for not simply maintaining these circ*mstances, but improving upon them.”

Astarion stops dead, right in front of the entrance to a smaller side passage down which I spot a glimpse of – mushroom fields, it looks like? Cultivated fields scattered liberally with mushrooms growing from rotting organic matter of some sort, in any case. For trading purposes, I recall Petras mentioning, but possibly also for feeding some of the livestock as well? For all that Astarion meant it largely as an off-hand insult, he may have had a point about the value of securing a secretary. And for more than simply Dalyria; something to think about.

I turn from contemplating the ongoing farming efforts to find Astarion staring at me in horror. “You like her,” he accuses. “You actually like my conniving, ruthless, lying egomaniac of an elder sister!”

I blink at him, letting my amusem*nt lap at the edges of his mind. “A description that shares a number of similarities with that of someone else I like,” I observe. “Although you are more vain and prideful than egomaniacal. And only moderately ruthless.”

“And now you’re insulting me, too!” Astarion declares, gesturing towards me with an offended look, then huffs. “Well, then. Why don’t you just run along back to dear Dal, in that case, since she’s such enjoyable company to you? Oh, don’t worry about me, of course: I’m sure I’ll be perfectly -”

“Astarion,” I interrupt, before he can gather enough fuel to really get going with his rant. I hover a hand just above where it would make contact with his shoulder, using the threat of touching him to herd him inside the passageway we’re blocking, then lower my voice. “What is this about? You are well-aware that I like you more. That I like you best. You like Dalyria as well; probably more than you do any of the other five, although I have not yet seen you with Violet or Yousen directly. So what is it about this that is bothering you?”

Astarion glares at me, then sighs loudly, glancing aside towards where we just came from as he runs a hand through his hair. His gaze falls upon a small group of spawn nearby, currently engaged in clearing out the rubble from a small cave off the central passage – and also currently engaged in a distressingly unsubtle attempt to eavesdrop on us.

“Just – leave it, for now,” Astarion says, clipped, as he turns back to me. “Let’s just go find wherever it is we’re staying, shall we?”

♦

“Ah,” Astarion states, stopping dead just inside the entrance to the area marked on the map Aurelia gave us; it’s one of many small, hollowed-out spaces in the rock, this one looking like it may have had some extra help with explosives to widen it – or exploding mushrooms, perhaps – though just as with Dalyria’s office and a few other locations we’ve seen, it does at least have a somewhat flimsy doorframe and door to provide a little privacy for those inside.

It also has only the one bed for the both of us, and not a very large one, at that.

I purposely scrape my foot against the rock as I come up behind Astarion, to let him know I’m close; immediately, he resumes moving, getting out of the way so I can enter as well.

“Wait,” I caution him, and before anything else, take advantage of some of the simpler spells Gale’s been teaching me to ensure that the door will be securely locked, as well as making matters difficult enough for any would-be spies or eavesdroppers that Astarion and I can feel more free to talk openly.

Or rather, so that he can talk and I can refrain.

Done, I tell Astarion, once everything’s in place. What is the difficulty? You typically prefer trancing to sleep in any case, and you can do that sitting up as easily as you can lying down. For that matter, we have the bedrolls; we can alternate taking the floor if you wish to be recumbent.

“No, I know, it’s just -” Astarion sighs, then turns away to start sorting through our packs. “Well, of course they’re going to assume that, aren’t they?” he murmurs, the question sounding rhetorical. “All else aside, you did call me ‘love’ in front of them all, as Cazador so – aptly observed.”

I tilt my head to one side, studying him, then pick up the second pack and join in on the task of getting ourselves settled in for the duration of our visit. Aptly? I ask, not looking at Astarion directly.

At the edge of my vision, Astarion shrugs. “It’s what they know me to be good for, after all,” he states, quiet. “The only thing they ever have.”

I consider this, then note, They saw you kill Cazador as well. And not just at the very end; they saw how you were instrumental in defeating him.

Astarion shakes his head again, pulling out one of our bedrolls and shaking it out, then laying it down atop the woven rope supports with their thin layering of cloth that’s functioning as a mattress. “Even if they did have any reason to question the assumption, it would still be safer to – to handle things like this,” he says, gesturing towards the bed with a flick of his wrist. “Better to not risk offending you like that, by – well, it doesn’t matter any longer. You go ahead and take the bed tonight, darling; I’ll see how I manage with a trance and the second bedroll.”

Not risk offending me like that, by…?

“If I’d wanted to finish that sentence, then I would have done so,” Astarion informs me, snide, as he starts getting changed; my gaze still lingers on his uncovered form as he strips down, for all that my appreciation has shifted to the purely aesthetic these days.

If you had not wanted to say it, you would not have begun to do so in the first place, I counter, getting back a brief, angry glare and an extended silence. Rather than pushing any more, I simply finish unfastening my various buckles so I can set my armour aside, leaving the padded underarmour and clothing in place for now as I carefully test the reliability of the bed. I’ll need to figure something out both for bathing and changing in front of anyone else before long – an illusion for the readily visible parts of my face and body is one thing, but I don’t yet have enough confidence with the full-body version of the magic – but this will suffice for one night.

Eventually, Astarion gives another sigh, folding up the second bedroll in a spot on the floor where he can easily see the whole of the room, and be ready should anyone come bursting through the door. He drapes a soft blanket over his lap as he gracefully lowers himself into a relaxed kneel, his leg muscles flexed in a way that makes it easier for him to sustain the position for hours of trancing, from what I’ve seen in the past.

“Cazador would have… guests, at times,” Astarion states, regarding me neutrally. “Guests we were all expected to make welcome. And typically to make ourselves readily available to, should they take a liking to one or more of us. It would have been – unwise, to have given the impression of thwarting a guest’s desires. Of trying to… to protect one of the others; shield them, distract from them, cover for them, anything of that ilk. Trying that on the mas- on Cazador might amuse him enough to succeed, now and again, but we weren’t to ever show that much independent thought or rebellion around anyone else.”

So they are most likely going to be… facilitating, I say. Giving me what they believe I want, as a matter of learned habit.

“Almost certainly,” Astarion confirms.

Who they believe I want, rather, I correct myself belatedly, and get back a small, but genuine, smile.

“It’s all right,” Astarion says. “I knew how you meant it. And how you didn’t. I know things are different with you, Tav; that you’re different. Even after everything. But my brothers and sisters do not, and they are falling back on treating you as they would an important guest. Not least because, just as with a guest, your displeasure could lead to things becoming very difficult or unpleasant for them. And having to watch that, seeing Dal… defer to you in such a way, ask your permission for – for what she decides as leader, for even leaving the room, and not spare me even the smallest of glances at the same time, as if my only value is in how I lured you for them to -”

He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and just sitting silently for a long moment, his hands clamped down upon his upper legs.

Is this why you disliked the idea of me thinking well of Dalyria? I ask.

Astarion grimaces. “Oh, I don’t know!” he exclaims, opening his eyes again. “It was just… you do know she was trying to make herself more appealing to you? Not in the usual sense, perhaps – I don’t think she intends to flirt, at least not unprompted – but nonetheless. She was seeing how you’d react, testing what worked best to make those reactions positive. I’m sure she doesn’t like it, having your – your favour resting upon one who isn’t even a real part of things here. I’m sure she’d prefer to find some way to secure it for herself, or one of the others if you seem more inclined.”

And this bothers you because you know from personal experience that I’m highly susceptible to your wiles, and thus perhaps to theirs as well? I conclude, going ahead and letting Astarion feel how exceedingly amused I am by the entire idea.

Astarion glares at me. “They did quite obviously work on you, darling.”

Did they?

With an incredulous look, Astarion gestures expressively up and down the length of his body, as if to say I’m here right now, aren’t I?

You worked on me, I state. Not your wiles. If anything, half the time you worked on me in spite of them.

“Just… try not to let your guard down too readily, will you?” Astarion orders, as the tips of his ears flush pink. “I know you know better, but… not in any sense. We all learned the same lessons, after all. Even if some of us were significantly better at them than others,” he adds in a mutter.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

My eyes pop open as I go from deep sleep to full wakefulness in under a second.

It’s pitch-black but for a faint glow through the cracks in the door, courtesy of the mushrooms planted outside. I sit up, the rope supports of the bed creaking beneath me, then toss the blanket aside and stand. A quick flick of my fingers conjures up my usual light, cast every morning to suffuse my immediate surroundings with a soft glow for the day; still an unfortunate necessity, with my vision in dark areas now so reliant upon heat. Especially as Astarion gives off none of his own.

“Huh? What?” Astarion says, sounding startled, as I make for the door. I don’t respond; sounds of him throwing off his own blanket and hurriedly, clumsily, scrambling up onto his feet follow.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Astarion insists, darting between me and the door latch I’m in the process of reaching for; I halt, hand outstretched, and narrow my eyes at him, but don’t force physical contact by moving him aside. “Tav, love, what are you doing? It’s the middle of the night; where are you going? You don’t even have your armour or weapons or – or anything. Just – stop a moment and talk to me, will you? Please.”

There is another, I state. Here. Waiting for me. I must go.

“Another?” Astarion asks in a measured, soothing tone; he’s holding out his hands, low, palms facing down.

Of my kind.

“Another of - oh,” Astarion says, startled, and glances uneasily back towards the door before returning his attention to me. “All right, love, all right; we’ll go, just – two minutes first, all right? Let’s just get you into your armour first. It won’t take more than two or three minutes, then we’ll go, I promise.”

My tentacles, still tucked down inside my padded underarmour, try to flex in agitation; I let out an annoyed huff – one of the few sounds I can naturally produce without any vocal cords, and thus one of the few I’ve retained as unthinking reaction – then lower my hand. Fine. Help me with it, then.

Astarion pauses, already partway through shrugging on the set of enchanted robes he often wears when we’re not expecting to have to fight; for speed this time, presumably. “Ah,” he says, and finishes pulling the robes into place. “Yes, I – of course.”

When he still hesitates rather than moving, I reach for the door again.

“No, no, here you are, I’ve got it!” Astarion yelps, darting across the room to snatch up my armour and bringing it to me. I give him an impatient look, then hold out my arms to let him settle it over my shoulders. He’s cautious as he does so, tentative as he fits the plating to my body before helping me with buckling it into place.

Astarion, either stop dithering or stop getting in my way, I order.

Astarion grumbles something under his breath at this, but does indeed go ahead and start doing the job properly; making his hands press more firmly against my – largely cloth-covered – skin as he assists me. His jaw is clenched tight, expression very deliberately neutral.

As I expected, it does not take merely two or three minutes, but I suffer the delay all the same.

Once it’s done, I immediately open the door and head out into the dimly lit passageway; from behind me come the sounds of Astarion cursing, footsteps moving quickly away, the clatter of something metallic, then footsteps running back towards me again. He catches up perhaps twenty or thirty paces on, hooking my new, less good mace in its place at my belt and holding up my shield for me to slide my arm into the straps.

“What is it that you’re – what can you tell about it?” he murmurs lowly, once he’s got me outfitted to his satisfaction, and eyes the spawn we pass with clear wariness.

Little. It feels similar to how being near the Netherbrain felt, although much, much lesser. Lesser than an elder brain too. But still something… formidable.

“Tav, don’t -” Astarion starts, alarm in his voice, before he breaks off with a huff. “Fine, like this then, that’s fine; why not, after all?” he mutters, shaking his head a little. “Are you sure this is the right way to – wherever it is we’re going? I have the map here, if you -”

No. It is this way. I know.

“Of course you do,” Astarion sighs. “Just… be careful, all right? I’ll be there with you, of course, but… be careful, all the same.”

I don’t bother with a reply; Astarion, too, lapses into silence.

“Oh,” Dalyria says, startled, when we arrive at the currently closed and extremely well-guarded main gate; she, Leon, and one of the spawn I haven’t yet met – another elf, pretty and well-armed, presumably Violet – turn to face us. “You’re – how did you know?” Dalyria asks.

“Hmm? Know what?” Astarion asks, as I halt, gazing up at the gate and considering how best to get this obstacle out of my way. I can feel it, feel the other one just beyond, waiting and anticipatory and close now, so close, if I can just remove this barrier or even fly over, it’s high but if I can find somewhere to alight briefly up at the top it wouldn’t have to necessarily harm me if I try and go over it directly –

“Why are you here, Astarion?” Dalyria demands, with an edge of impatience.

“Well, it’s just such a lovely night for a walk, isn’t it?” Astarion says, giving a half-bow that includes a gesture towards the three others, as well as the various other spawn clustered nearby, armed and armoured themselves. “What are all of you doing here?”

“Illithid,” Leon states, terse. “There’s one of them outside, out of reach of any magic, or even arrows, with – dozens, at least, of their guards. And that’s just what we can see; there’ll be plenty more, kept back out of sight. But it’s not… it’s just standing there. Like it’s waiting for something.”

“If we had some longbows, we could reach it,” Violet says in an idle tone, scrutinising me, then jerks her chin in my direction. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing,” Astarion snaps. “What’s wrong with you? Shouldn’t you be off wreaking havoc somehow, sister dear? Sapping our defenses for the enemy, perhaps?”

“Our,” Leon snorts, shaking his head. “Since when is anything here yours?”

“Enough,” Dalyria breaks in firmly. “This is not the time for -”

“Open it,” I interrupt.

Dalyria pauses, blinking. “Pardon me?”

“The gate,” I say. “Open it. I am going out.”

Dalyria exchanges glances with the others. “I’m not sure that’s such a good -”

“I do not care what your opinion is,” I say. “Open it. Now.”

Dalyria looks to Astarion; Astarion shrugs.

“You heard her,” he says. “Open the gate, Dal. As Leon said, that creature’s waiting for something. So let’s find out what.”

A sigh, then Dalyria flashes some sort of hand sign to the spawn in sheltered locations carved out of the rock nearby; as they start to turn the winches that raise the gate, she gestures for the guards to move aside, leaving me a clear path.

The gate rises with the tortured screech of poorly-fitted metal plates rubbing against one another; a sound more familiar to me than I’d like, thanks to how long it took to get myself and my companions all decently armoured, after escaping that ship. I step forward, right up to the shuddering barrier of the gate and its frame, and wait impatiently for it to be raised up high enough. The second that it is, I duck underneath and out the other side, closely followed by Astarion.

As I start forward, I hear the gate come crashing back down again; Astarion spits out a low curse from just behind me, but I barely even register this background byplay. Not when I can now see it: the one waiting for me, standing in darkness some thirty or forty paces distant, ringed by numerous thralls both heavily armed and apparently defenseless alike – it’s a delegation, I realise abruptly, the thralls acting as guard as well as entourage, and their master the emissary – and staring at me just as intently as I’m staring at it. Its six tentacles move briskly in the air, twining around each other, stretching out towards me then falling back, all somewhere between the slow pace of relaxation and the fast, whipping motions of agitation.

It’s excited, clearly, though I hardly need to be able to see it to tell. Not with its emotions pulsing in waves between us, pressing up against the boundaries of my mind like it wants to join with me more fully, then retreating again almost immediately each time.

Astarion lets out a soft hiss, moving up to my side; he’s got a hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger, white-knuckled. “I’ve read about those ones, at least a little. That’s an ulitharid; they’re almost never seen outside of their colonies, and rarely even then. Tav – be careful. Please, my love.”

We come to a halt at the start of the procession, watched closely by thrall-guards; the ulitharid comes down off the open-topped palanquin in which it’s been waiting, floating forward to where we wait. When it alights in front of us – Astarion is tense by my side, but he doesn’t back away so much as an inch – it towers over even me by a good foot or so. It makes for an intimidating impression, one only enhanced by the high collar of its ornate robes; akin to what the Emperor would wear, though of different style and decoration. Likewise, the ulitharid’s skin is much more similar to other mind flayers’ than it is to my own: lavender hue, and a slight, slick sheen, as if it’s covered in a thin layer of water, or perhaps oil.

I glance down at my hand – pointless, it’s currently human in appearance, but I’m well-enough aware of how underneath the illusion the colouration is still humanlike, if much more pale than it is at present – and rub finger and thumb together, contemplating the dry, springy texture of my own skin; how it somehow feels just a little less supple, a little more tight, than something tells me it ought.

I am Aurangaul-Bites-the-World-of-three-hundred-and-thirty-seven-localised-rotations-Leader-of-the-Eighth-Shard-Rejection-of-Commencement, the ulitharid states; Astarion half-raises a hand to his head, with a small hiss of discomfort. You are the One-Who-Denied-the-Adversary-and-Slew-the-One-Who-Sought-Dominion, are you not? Why do you hide yourself behind such an ignoble form? Why do you come to dwell among the hidden-abominations-marked-for-true-death? It flicks two tentacles towards Astarion, then, and adds, What is wrong with that one? How have you made a thrall of one of the mindless?

Its curiosity, an almost childlike excitement, and a hunger for something utterly intangible presses eagerly at me as it speaks; were it one of the lesser races, it would be tripping over its words in its haste to get them out, I expect.

“Ah, excuse me?” Astarion demands, affronted. “Mindless? I am not mindless! And nor am I a thrall, thank you very much!”

Aurangaul blinks down at him. It truly hears. How is this possible? Tell me, tell me all, I would learn, it adds urgently, its two foremost tentacles reaching out towards me. Without any conscious input on my part, my own tentacles strain against the cloth and metal surrounding them, seeking to reach back but thwarted in their desire.

He is mine, I state, then at Astarion’s noise of protest, absently reach out to pat his shoulder; he flinches violently from my touch before forcing himself to still and endure it, but I barely even notice. He is not my thrall, he is no one’s thrall, kill you all if you try you will not touch him, but he is mine. As are – are the hidden-abominations-marked-for-true-death, I add, after a short hesitation. You will unmark them. They are mine.

A beat, then Aurangaul’s amusem*nt washes over me. You intend to claim nearly five thousand mindless as your personal stable, doomed one?

I do claim them, I say firmly, letting it feel the extent of my resolve and my confidence in my own strength and capability. You will unmark them, or I will see your colony crushed beneath my will and the forces of my allies.

Incredulity, even more amusem*nt, fascination. Perhaps, Aurangaul says. We will see what is revealed as fated. But we are no true colony, unnamed one; we have the Concord, and I act in place of an elder if necessary, but we reject the devouring-of-the-elders.

I meet this assertion with scepticism. The questioned thralls captured tell us – tell my stable, tell the hidden-abominations-not-marked-for-death-or-I-will-kill-you – otherwise. They speak of a great brain.

Tentacles ripple in what I recognise as equivalent to a shrug. There is an elder, and a colony. But it is not here. Deep, deep enough that it cannot touch us; Eighth-Shard has an agreement with Spurned-Elder-Below that it will not encroach farther upwards, but traders and emissaries are permitted. It regards me with an evaluative air, then, and states, We contemplate alliance with the colony. The mindless are anathema. How do you tolerate them?

Why should I not? I ask, with genuine confusion.

I get said confusion right back in response, only magnified. They are mindless, Aurangaul repeats, a weight behind the statement like it’s trying to press the words more firmly into my mind. They are cold and hidden to us, they exist only to oppose dominion. Or so we believe; perhaps this is something that must be bitten through? We must explore the possibility, distasteful or no.

“Darling, is this making any sense to you, because I am just completely lost,” Astarion interjects, while I’m still puzzling over the tail end of Aurangaul’s rhetorical question.

Some, I tell him absently. I would wish that I understood more, however.

Delight; a sense of communion, even, or at least a very strong urging towards such. You wish to know, too. Yes. Tell me your name, possibly-doomed-one, and let us discover together the truth of the unrealised now. Let us fail together, and learn.

I am Tav-born-human-twenty-eight-years-prior-of-Baldur’s-Gate-which-is-now-under-my-dominion-partner-of-Ilmater-formerly-servant-who-ascended-and-defeated-the-Netherbrain, I reply, despite my own startlement at just how much extra… depth my introduction carries than I had quite intended.

You are the one, then, Aurangaul states. The One-Who-Denied-the-Adversary.

The Adversary? I ask, then when it offers up a flash of a wordless concept as clarification, send back my agreement. The Emperor.

“Well, I suppose if they consider the Emperor their adversary, they can’t be that bad,” Astarion remarks, toying idly with his dagger; he’s relaxed somewhat, now up out of his tense, combat-ready crouch when all we’ve done so far is talk.

Aurangaul’s attention shifts over to him. How can you hear my words, claimed one?

“I… have no idea what you’re asking,” Astarion says blankly. “Why wouldn’t I be able to hear you? And it’s Astarion, if you please, not claimed one.”

Aurangaul glances to me, with a sense of questioning; I return my assent.

Astarion, Aurangaul grants. Your kind cannot hear us. You are mindless; none of the others we have taken from the trade caravans sent by these mindless have been able to hear us, had minds we could touch. All of you who have died and yet not died are the same in this respect. Until you.

I blink slowly, considering this – and considering some of what I’d previously been taught of the undead, including certain claims that many psionic powers won’t affect them as strongly, or sometimes even at all. Mostly in the context of those undead creatures which truly are mindless – reanimated skeletons, decaying zombies, that sort of thing; I can even remember hearing visiting paladins to the temple when I was a youth, discussing how the best way to kill a mind flayer was raising and sending skeletons after it – but perhaps the principle extends further than I’d realised?

I have not felt any echoes from the minds of the spawn-who-are-my-claimed-stable, I state. I had thought it to be because none had experienced sufficiently strong emotion near enough to me. And I have not yet tried to touch any of their minds directly; this form allows me to speak to the lesser beings in their own manner, and they still believe me to be the human I was when they first encountered me above.

A brief flash of distaste from Aurangaul at the thought of one of our kind lowering itself in such a way, before I feel it set the reaction aside as unimportant and – potentially offensive to me? Something I’ll need to return to, and consider, later.

But why would this one, the Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrall, differ? Aurangaul asks.

Astarion makes as if to say something, then sighs and leaves it alone.

He nearly underwent ceremorphosis, I offer. But the process was disrupted, halted and held in stasis partway through, then the larva destroyed. Perhaps that is the difference.

Confusion. Who would implant a larva into one of the mindless, even one of an intelligent strain? It has been tried before, as with all potential candidate beings. It has always failed. If this was an attempt to create something else... the blood-drinking-twisted-reflections-of-our-own are not tolerated. Their existence is even more anathema than that of the mindless themselves. None of our own would seek to create them; who has performed such an abominable act?

We do not know for certain, I reply. It may have been one in service to the Netherbrain, or under command of those who believed themselves in control of the Netherbrain, before they were all slain by my beautiful-vicious-deadly-beloved-not-thrall-Astarion. It may have been the Adversary, seeking one who could defeat the Netherbrain.

“Wait, what?” Astarion says, startled, and stops preening. “You think the Emperor might have been the one to do that to us? Why?”

It is a theory, I reply. I have not mentioned it previously because I have no evidence and it no longer matters, regardless.

Astarion hums, thoughtful, then waves this off. “Yes, never mind that for now; you, uh – Aurangaul, was it?”

Aurangaul-Bites-the-World-of-three-hundred-and-thirty-seven-localised-rotations-Leader-of-the-Eighth-Shard-Rejection-of-Commencement, I provide.

Astarion gives me an odd look. “Yes, darling, that’s what I said. Isn’t it?”

Amusem*nt from the illithid in question. Your Astarion cannot hear the fullness of our names, Tav-the-newly-born-partial-possibly-doomed-one-who-would-claim-the-mindless-ones-as-its-stable-and-denied-the-Adversary-and-defeated-the-dominion-seeker. My smallest name will suffice for the lesser races.

Aurangaul is acceptable, I inform Astarion.

“I did hear enough of that to gather that I’m missing some nuance, however,” Astarion comments. “Nothing too important, I hope?”

No, I confirm. Simply that it is roughly half again your age, it leads the eighth of something called a shard which rejects commencement, and it bites the world.

“What a coincidence,” Astarion says, his lips quirking upwards. “So do I.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

You have a question for me, Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrall?Aurangaul asks.

“Hmm?” Astarion hums. “Oh. Yes, justwhyis it that you keep calling Tav doomed,exactly? I do hope that’s not supposed to be a threat, you know; not after we’ve all been getting alongsowell.”

Aurangaul blinks at Astarion, confusion wafting from its mind.To be without thralls is to be doomed. It has none by its side but mindless ones and the not-mindless mindless one it has claimed but not yet taken to make itself complete. Should this continue, it will either lose itself or simply cease. Perhaps it will go to join this god it claims as its equal, just as some of our shard who worship have thought to perhaps join Ilsensine?it adds, looking to me with an inquisitive wave of its tentacles.It too will be without commencement, whether it rejects or no; a partial one can never be accepted by the elders.

“Partial one?” Astarion asks, frowning; he’s regarding Aurangaul rather intently, now, attending to the forthcoming explanations with the same focus as he once gave the Necromancy of Thay.

It retains too much of the form host; too much to safely excise. Perhaps even as much as the Adversary itself. And yet it is not the Adversary, forthatone was of the colony alongside us, once. It is good that we failed to subdue it, but it is still to be discovered whether the lesson learned from our failure is to the advantage of the possibly-doomed-one or not. I am excited to uncover the truth of this alongside you, possibly-doomed-one.

“Right,” Astarion says, drawing the word out in a way that makes it clear he very much isnotfollowing the majority of this. Which, unfortunately, makes two of us. “Back to that doomed one part: you’re saying sheneedsthralls? That without them, she’ll just… what, go insane ordie?”

Aurangaul radiates a feeling, disagreement and agreement mixed with tolerance and allowance, which I interpret as meaning ‘not precisely, but close enough for one of such limited capabilities’.Yes. Unless it takes a thrall, it is doomed.

“The Emperor -”

Duke Stelmane,I interrupt, not needing to hear the rest of Astarion’s objection to know what it’s going to be. Nor what thenextsuch objection is assuredly going to be, which is why I immediately head it off before he can give away Omeluum’s existence.But you are correct: we do not have enough information about others of my kind who claim to have survived without taking thralls to judge the –accuracyof these claims. We will look into the matter further.

A tolerant amusem*nt from Aurangaul.As you wish, possibly-doomed-one. But I would not delay overlong, were I you.

“Howlong?” Astarion asks sharply. “How long does she have?”

Aurangaul gives off a sense of contemplation.Perhaps one or two localised rotations. Perhaps less. Perhaps more.

“Oh, that’sveryhelpful, thank yousomuch,” Astarion says.

Perhaps we shall learn from its failure in this endeavour, and thus acquire greater precision, Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrall.

“Would youstop– that’s more than enough of that!JustAstarion, if you please,” Astarion orders, scowling.

Astarion,Aurangaul repeats, though I can still hear an underlyingwho-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrallin the name.

“Better,” Astarion says primly; I feel a targeted sense of amusem*nt brush against my mind from Aurangaul, and can’t help but return it. “And –purelyhypothetically, mind you, simply asking out of curiosity… if shewereto take a thrall, how would she best go about that, exactly? Anything in particular she’d need to know about suitable candidates, the process... anything like that?”

Astarion,I say.

“Yes, darling?” Astarion says, giving me an innocent look.

If I decide that I require that information, I will seek it out. For now we have more immediately pressing concerns. What are your intentions towards the spawn-who-are-my-claimed-stable?

Aurangaul considers the question, its tentacles weaving an absent pattern that sings to me of thoughtfulness and the seeking of some balance.They have the potential to be of use, even if they cannot also be thralls. Our shard is – not as strong as a colony. But even the strongest of colonies would fear such a sizeable force of mindless ones. And such a force might be less likely to spur many colonies to join together in pursuit of its eradication, if it had appropriate – oversight. Perhaps there is more than simply the one alliance to contemplate, in deciding how to dispense with the threat they present. The One-Who-Denied-the-Adversary-and-Slew-the-One-Who-Sought-Dominion could likewise be valuable to us. But I must bring these questions to our Concord for further discussion; I do not seek full dominion over Eighth-Shard. To stifle opportunity for our own to fail can only diminish us.

I look over to Astarion, who’s staring intently in my direction and raising his eyebrows; he nods significantly, and not at all subtly, in Aurangaul’s direction, then mouths ‘blood’.

A blink, then I turn back to Aurangaul.How many thralls does your shard have?

Enough,Aurangaul states, studying me.Do you expect me to simply hand you tactical knowledge of our forces and capabilities, possibly-doomed-one?

My tentacles strain against their surroundings again, trying to give an impatient wave; I compromise by offering up the emotion to Aurangaul’s mind instead.The spawn-who-are-my-claimed-stable require blood to survive; if you seek an alliance, a regular supply of blood from your thralls would be of interest to – me,I state, choosing the word in lieu of ‘us’ or ‘them’ at the last moment.But the degree of such an interest would depend upon how much you can supply, and how often.

I will present this possibility before the Concord as well,Aurangaul says.And I will seek an estimate from the Nourishers who maintain the thrall population. We might also consult our shard’s more distant trading partners; many of them deal in living flesh.

I thank you,I say, inclining my head towards it, then at the flash of confusion this garners, send a feeling of respectful acknowledgement instead.

I will return, or send a messenger to tell you of the outcome of our deliberations, before the next spawning of the empowering worshippers,Aurangaul says.Should you desire to meet with me again prior to that event… then you will find me without further guidance, if you are as worthy as you would present yourself, Tav-who-would-claim-the-plane-as-its-stable,it adds, seeming both amused and decidedlychallenging.

And in the interim?I ask.You will take no more from my claimed stable?

Aurangaul considers, then waves its tentacles in a shrug.I see no reason not to agree, provided your claimed stable likewise does not act to oppose Eighth-Shard.

“Ah, youdidsay there are other traders from the colony below, however,” Astarion puts in. “Just how are we to tell which forces belong to which group?”

If they attack you, Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrall-and-who-is-being-very-obtuse, they are not ours and you may fight in your defense,Aurangaul says.If they do not attack you, then they are ours and you should not attack them. Is this within your capabilities of comprehension?

“I’ll manage somehow,” Astarion snaps, folding his arms and glaring.

Then I bid you well, possibly-doomed-one, and bid you a faithful and well-rewarded service, Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-yet-thrall,Aurangaul says.May the failures of our enterprise bring us much wisdom.

Allow us to express the same hope for you and your Concord as well, Leader-of-the-Eighth-Shard,I return.

Astarion mutters something that sounds vaguely as if it’s in agreement, but is almost certainly the precise opposite.

As Aurangaul turns and floats back towards its palanquin, the blank-faced thralls immediately closing ranks before us, Astarion glances to me with his eyebrows raised about as high as they can go.

“Well,” he breathes. “Certainlynot what I was expecting. Oh, and –you’regoing to be the one explaining our new status as yourstableto my dearest siblings, darling. You can take the part about why the leader of a mind flayer… whatever a shard is, would find ahumaninteresting enough to come all this way in person, too, for that matter. But not to worry; I’ll be sure to protect youjustas a faithful servant should, if any of them decide to leap for your throat at some point, hmm?”

Thank you,I say, then turn and start heading back the way we came, dismissing the thralls at my back as unimportant.

“Ofcourse,darling,” Astarion says, falling in at my side. “I am, after all, at yourservice.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

It said 'some of our shard who worship', I muse, as we’re making our way back across the short length of open ground before the settlement’s main gate. It’s closed still, but I can hear creaking that suggests they’re in the process of fixing that.

“What?” Astarion asks, glancing over; he seems to be past his fit of pique, at least for the moment.

I was perhaps wrong to think us incapable, I state. If some of my kind do indeed worship, then I cannot be inherently incapable now due to the ceremorphosis. Whether the way Aurangaul conceives of worship is equivalent to my own understanding is yet to be determined, however.

Astarion stares at me. “That’s the most important thing you took from all this,” he says flatly. “Really. That’s really the part you felt was the most crucial, most immediate concern, out of everything that just happened?”

No, I say, and duck under the partly-raised gate rather than expanding further.

“Yeah, so, listen, thanks for saving our asses and all back in the city and – uh, here, too, I guess, but what the f*ck was that?” Violet demands, as soon as Astarion and I are back inside.

As the gate crashes down behind us again, I tilt my head to the side, regarding her. “A mind flayer,” I state, and hear Astarion snort.

Violet rolls her eyes, and opens her mouth to reply; Dalyria pre-empts her.

“Why don’t we all head back to my office for this discussion,” she says firmly, then raises her voice a little to call to the armoured spawn who looks to be in charge – the same one we saw Leon talking with yesterday as we came in, if memory serves. “Porphina, keep the shifts doubled for now; Leon or I will inform you when you can go back down to the standard rotation. And just as you did before, take a cautious approach and send for us if anything unusual occurs; you have good instincts, so keep listening to them.”

The spawn, Porphina – a wiry half-elf with a distrusting expression, who handles her weapons in the way of someone who’s had perhaps a few months to a year of dedicated training – shifts said distrusting expression away from me long enough to give Dalyria a silent nod of acknowledgement.

“Shall we?” Dalyria asks, then hesitates, a tiny flicker of something running through her gaze, and adds to me, “If that – suits you, of course.”

“Yes,” I agree, as Astarion shifts his weight, his own expression entirely neutral. I incline my head, gesturing for Dalyria to lead the way.

♦

“Much as I hate to say it, I have to agree with Violet,” Leon states, almost as soon as Dalyria’s got the door to her office closed behind us. “What the f*ck was that? You just – did you negotiate with that illithid?”

“Ulitharid, to be precise,” I say, taking a seat; for whatever reason, Astarion moves to stand just behind me, rather than claiming a chair of his own.

Leon’s eyes widen. “That’s – you’re not serious.”

“Oh, I assure you, she very much is,” Astarion says, slouching in a deceptively easy manner, given how tense I can see he is.

“An… ulitharid?” Dalyria asks slowly, her gaze flitting between us, as she pulls her own chair out from behind her desk, dragging it over to join us on a more equal footing.

“Illithid, but… worse,” Leon says. “Much worse. Which is about the extent of my knowledge, when it comes to that particular subtype.”

“Is this actually relevant right now?” Violet demands, throwing herself down into a chair; it creaks alarmingly, but holds. “Who cares what kind it is? I want to know just what they had to say to it that took so long.” She flicks a hand, gesturing towards Astarion and myself without looking over.

I turn my attention over onto Dalyria, considering. Evaluating.

Dalyria hesitates, watching me watch her, then carefully states, “I think we would all like some sort of explanation, yes. Given the – clashes we’ve had with those things before now.”

“Yeah, and how did you know it was there, anyway?” Violet demands, twisting in her seat to frown at us. “I checked: nobody went and told you. You just came, all on your own.”

“Impressive intelligence network you have there, for only a few short months,” Astarion comments. “If only you’d put that energy into keeping everyone fed, maybe you’d be up another few hundred spawn.”

“Stop trying to distract us and just answer the question,” Leon snaps.

Astarion huffs, but moves up a little; still at my side, but now partway between me and the others. He rests his hands near his belt – near his weapons – lightly, then glances to me and raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to decide.

“You have heard of what happened in the city after you left, I assume,” I say slowly, choosing my words with care. “The so-called monstrous brain; people transforming into illithid in the streets. Ceremorphosis, the process is called,” I add, and Leon nods in agreement.

“Of course,” Dalyria says, with a small frown.

“When Astarion and I – and many of the rest of our companions – first met, it was after having escaped from the crash of a mind flayer ship,” I continue. “We had been captured, and – implanted with illithid larvae, tadpoles. Typically, this results in unavoidable ceremorphosis soon afterwards; for reasons which do not need exploring at this juncture, this did not happen in our case.”

“Is this going somewhere, by any chance, or -?” Violet asks, sounding bored.

“Violet, be quiet,” Dalyria snaps; Violet rolls her eyes, slouching in her seat, but desists.

“Yes,” I say. “It is. When it came time for us to destroy the monstrous brain, we found it stronger than anticipated. It had transformed. And we learned – from two independent sources, enemies of one another – that the only way by which we might defeat it required one of our own to allow the previously-halted ceremorphosis to proceed; to become illithid. I volunteered.”

For a heartbeat, two – mine, obviously; not anyone else’s in the room – absolutely nothing happens.

Then, blurringly fast, Violet’s half out of her seat, her curved sword likewise half out of its sheath – and Astarion’s silver-encased wooden stake pressed to her chest, directly above her heart. Leon and Dalyria, both also partway through rising, go still at the sight, shock and fear flashing through their expressions.

“Astarion,” Dalyria exclaims, holding out a hand towards him.

“Drop it,” Astarion murmurs by Violet’s ear, ignoring the other two. “I promise that I will absolutely stake you, if you should ever harm her. I would suggest that you do not test me on this.”

“Vi, just – just do as he says, put the sword down,” Dalyria begs, her eyes flickering between the pair of them and myself, back and forth again and again. All the self-possession she’s shown since our arrival is gone again; for the first time, I see the woman we encountered in the flophouse.

With a snarl that bares her teeth, Violet opens her hand, letting the saber rattle back into place.

“Good,” Astarion says. “Now why don’t you just take that away from her before she gets herself hurt, brother dear? And don’t go getting any smart ideas.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Leon says, gruff, and leans forward, reaching around to – rather clumsily, which is presumably why Astarion chose him for this over Dalyria – unsheathe Violet’s weapon. He leans back, stretching to set it over on a stack of papers off to his far side, then gives Astarion a look as if to say now what?

Another moment of stillness, then Astarion withdraws the stake and steps back, all in a single, fluid motion. He retreats to his former place at my side, without looking away from his siblings.

“Violet,” Dalyria says, very deliberate, with a voice that shakes only a little. “Sit back down and do not ever even think of doing something like that again. Do you understand me? Not ever.”

Violet’s jaw works; she shares her glares equally between Astarion, myself, and now Dalyria too, only sparing Leon. After a moment – a long moment – she does as ordered and lowers herself back down into her seat, not replying.

As Dalyria does the same, her hands clamped down upon her chair’s armrests, I shift position slightly so I can see past Astarion’s looming, protective presence. “Do not be foolish,” I advise them – advise Violet, mostly. “Would I have done anything so obvious if I were colluding with the one who came here? If I meant you ill and had decided to dispense with secrecy, would I not have told you under more advantageous circ*mstances than these? I knew nothing of the other before today.”

Leon leans forward in his seat, studying me intently. “Mmm,” he hums, then with a quick gesture and a murmur, dispels my illusory form without warning.

Dalyria starts, eyes wide, pushing her chair back a few inches with the force of her reaction; Violet’s hand jerks, moving towards her empty scabbard. She stops herself from making any further aggressive motions when Astarion steps forward with a low hiss.

You might have asked first, I tell them – or rather, I try to tell them, because all of a sudden I know exactly why Aurangaul called them all mindless. Called them abominations.

I stand abruptly, one of my tentacles working itself free from the confines of my armour with its agitated thrashing; this time, Violet grasps the hilt of a dagger previously hidden beneath her clothing, though she hasn’t yet unsheathed it. Astarion is half-turned to keep the both of us in view, now, at my sudden movement, trying to split his attention between me and the others.

“Darling?” Astarion asks, sounding uneasy. Sounding like he’s trying to sound calm and soothing, to be more accurate, but like he’s unable to disguise the unease lurking beneath.

They are – there is nothing there, I tell him, my freed tentacle lashing wildly. Mindless, anathema, abominations, Aurangaul had the right of it, they should not exist, this should not be, must kill them kill them kill them all -

“Tav, Tav, love, easy, now,” Astarion says quickly, stepping in close before me, despite his clear discomfort at how he has to put his back to his siblings in the process. “Just breathe with me, all right? Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

They are wrong, they must not exist, we must destroy every last one before they can -

And then I’m pausing in the flow of my thoughts, blinking at Astarion in consternation, as he reaches out to take my hand and presses it firmly to his chest, no uncertainty or hesitation evident whatsoever. Presses it to his skin, even, the location only partly covered by his loose robes and the poet-style shirt he still favours beneath.

“Breathe,” Astarion repeats, voice soft, and takes an exaggerated breath himself to prompt me. “I’m here. You’re not in danger. My family are not presently a threat to you, and if they should decide otherwise at any point, we will kill them together. But right now, it isn’t necessary. After all, the worst of their crimes today is simple idiocy, and you told me yourself that isn’t a good enough reason to kill someone, remember? Do you remember telling me that, Tav? In Cazador’s mansion, when you said that we shouldn’t throw away potential resources before we had to?”

I remember, I say, after an extended pause; my hand flexes slightly, the blunt ends of my lengthened black nails denting Astarion’s skin, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Astarion?” Dalyria says, her voice uneven.

“Not just now, sister,” Astarion says faux-lightly, not looking away from me. “How are we doing, love? Back with me, now?”

I narrow my eyes at him. I did not go anywhere.

“Oh, you went somewhere,” Astarion murmurs, then gives a small shake of his head. “You told Aurangaul earlier that you hadn’t yet tried to touch anyone’s mind here other than my own; did you try that, just now? Try to speak to them mentally?”

Yes.

“And you couldn’t,” Astarion concludes. “Which felt… wrong, to you. Their – absence? As if they have no minds to speak to at all?”

Yes.

“Psionic magics don’t work on our kind,” Leon comments, sounding… cautious, more than anything else. “Are you saying she – tried to use them to share thoughts with us, and it failed – as expected – but it doesn’t fail with you?”

“Yes, well done, good to see you’re keeping up!” Astarion replies scathingly, still focused on me and on scanning my expression for any small changes.

“And is she going to be trying to murder us all now, or…? Because I can’t say how you were trying to talk her down just now was all that reassuring,” Violet comments, though curiously enough when I glance over towards her I see she’s let go of her weapon and is back to lounging in her seat.

“I suppose that largely depends upon you, in the end, so – don’t get your hopes up,” Astarion says, then, “Tav? Feeling calmer, now? Believe me, I know better than anyone precisely how insufferable my siblings can be. But I promise you can learn to tolerate their continued existence, just as I myself did.”

I am calm, I say, then call upon my newly developed abilities with the Weave to return to my illusory form. The first attempt fails – as it seems to do roughly one time out of every five or so, something Gale and I haven’t yet been able to explain beyond speculations that it may be related to my kind’s notable lack of affinity for, or resistance to, most arcane magic – but a second attempt has my human appearance back in place.

I drop my hand from Astarion’s chest and take a step back, folding my arms. “You should not have done that without warning me,” I tell Leon flatly. “Nor without asking my permission.”

A short hesitation, then Leon inclines his head to me. “My apologies.”

“Uh, excuse me, but are we all just going to be ignoring the whole murderous mind flayer thing?” Violet demands.

“Nobody’s ignoring anything,” Dalyria says. “Simply prioritising. You might try it yourself, on occasion.”

“I am not murderous,” I say, and take my seat again, resting my hands palms-down on my thighs. “Your lack of minds feels wrong to me, but I will not murder you for it. I will simply not attempt to reach for what I cannot touch again, and there will be no problem.”

“You are aware they actually do have minds, right?” Astarion checks, going ahead and taking a seat himself after only a short hesitation. “That it’s simply a matter of your magic not being able to – reach them, yes. Reach what is, in fact, there?”

I give him a withering look for this. “Yes. I am aware. But as that magic is now something fundamental to what I am, that is not how it feels. And if this is what all of my kind feel in proximity to vampire spawn, if they are not as inclined as I am to avoid reaching for others’ minds without some specific reason, then that has implications for the likelihood of a successful alliance being possible.”

“An alliance?” Dalyria says, startled. “With – with the mind flayers?”

I shift my gaze over to her. “That was one of matters we discussed with Aurangaul. Briefly; it must first bring the matter before its – Concord, it called it. A ruling or advisory body of some sort, I gather from context.”

“Right, so – Aurangaul’s that mind flayer who was outside, the special, worse type of them, the what-do-you-call-it -” Violet says, leaning forward in her seat with a furrowed brow, forearms resting on her upper legs.

“Ulitharid,” Leon says.

“Yeah, that,” Violet agrees. “And the colony that’s been taking our people sent it here because…?”

“Shard,” I correct. “Not colony. Reserve your questions for now, and I will briefly summarise the relevant parts of our discussion.”

♦

“So – they were planning on wiping us all out once they figured out how, not just picking us off a few at a time for modifying into thralls as we believed, which it turns out they may not actually be able to do to our kind at all,” Leon says, some few minutes later. “But now that their leader’s talked to you, it seems like it might be more interested in using us as a deterrant to stop any actual colonies from attacking them? Interesting.”

“Yes,” I say. “If it was telling the truth about such an alliance also functioning to deter colonies from attacking you, that would clearly be beneficial and worth considering. As could the regular provision of blood they might offer, though the quantities remain unknown. But I did not previously understand Aurangaul’s initial insistence that your kind is anathema to mine, and its confusion as to how I could tolerate you. I understand now.”

“All right, but if you can just… not go around trying to touch people’s minds when you know it won’t work and will just upset you, darling, surely the others can as well,” Astarion says.

“Perhaps,” I say. “I am clearly – different from them. I do not know how much, or in what ways.”

“For this Aurangaul to be the one to raise the possibility of an alliance would seem to suggest that it does indeed believe one might be possible, however,” Dalyria notes. “Instinctual aversion or no. I would say it’s worth considering, yes, depending on the exact details. For now, we’ll do as it suggested, and avoid further clashes with any mind flayer forces unless they attack us first. Agreed?”

Nods and shrugs from Leon and Violet, respectively; Dalyria nods back, then looks to me.

I hesitate before responding, two nearly equal impulses battling inside me: it is right that she should look to me, should seek my permission, they are mine, all of them, anathema or no they are mine to guide and mine to command warring with the remembrance of Astarion’s commentary the night prior on how it bothered him, having to watch Dalyria defer to me whilst as good as ignoring him.

“I am here to support Astarion by helping to resolve a situation his choices played an integral part in bringing about,” I say. “You would do better seeking his agreement in this particular case, rather than my own.”

Astarion’s eyes go a little wide, face softening with surprise and and a hint of gratitude. As Dalyria turns to him, he clears his throat, a more neutral – less revealing – expression snapping into place.

“Yes,” he states. “Agreed. Though we should continue to explore other possibilities for getting access to the blood we’ll need, of course. Tav, darling, now that we’ve… dispensed with the pretence, are you, ah – more open to the idea of working with the duergar instead of the gnomes? No longer quite so objectionable an idea to you as it was yesterday, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” I say, then add to Dalyria, “Though the concerns I raised previously regarding your reputation and what that would mean for working with my contacts still stand. Allying with the dwarves would be easier in the short term. Allying with the gnomes would arguably be more reliable and beneficial, over the longer term.”

“I’m inclined to agree, yes,” Dalyria says slowly, studying me with a rather puzzled expression. “We may find we don’t have much of a choice, but… I’d rather aim for solutions that leave more options open to us, going forward. Where the mind flayers and their, ah, shard might fit into that, I don’t know yet, but for now, I think the best way to proceed is to simply try and avoid doing anything… hasty, while we’re still acquiring information on our – potential allies. All of them,” she adds, glancing pointedly towards her siblings in turn, Violet getting an extra few seconds of it.

Astarion nods. “Well, I don’t have all my research into mind flayers with me, but from what I do recall, I doubt they’ll have enough thralls to support our numbers here; we’ll need to arrange other blood sources, either way. And – I’m guessing that the mind flayers themselves aren’t especially likely to agree to us, ah…?”

“No,” I say. “I would consider that very unlikely.”

Violet shudders. “Like I’d want to get that close to one of them anyway,” she mutters, then smirks as she adds to me, “No offense.”

She glances towards Astarion, then, with a rather speculative look in her eye. And while she doesn’t say anything directly, she does look over towards Leon, raising one eyebrow as her smirk deepens; he rolls his eyes at her, as Astarion’s face tightens.

“None taken,” I say evenly. “Yet.”

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

We wrap up our discussion with Dalyria and the others fairly quickly, after that. Not that doing so is that simple, of course, with all three of them clearly quite curious still. But enough ignoring of their hinting and implied questions – or direct questions on occasion, in Violet’s case – seems to do well enough to convince at least Dalyria and Leon that it’s a better idea to not pry too much, at least for now. We all easily agree that I’ll retain my human illusion at present whilst among the spawn – not least because it’s the only way I’ll be able to communicate with any of them, apart from using Astarion as mediator – but Dalyria assures me before we leave that she’ll see Petras, Aurelia, and Yousen informed, before we next encounter them.

It’s still early enough that I wouldn’t object to resuming my interrupted sleep, but the awareness that my true identity is nowknownhere, that back in her office Dalyria and the others will assuredly be discussing the possibility of simply killing me, and not least the many, many questions and half-formed hypotheses swirling through my mind in the wake of meeting Aurangaul, all combine to make sleep impossible. Astarion, of course, only needs half as much time trancing as I do sleeping. By unspoken agreement, we make for one of the secured storerooms shown to us during our short tour yesterday, where Dalyria had mentioned that Yousen always had various organisational tasks we could pitch in on, if we ever found ourselves with spare time on our hands.

Once past the guards and into the storeroom, I close the door again, lock it from this side, and cast the same sound-muffling magic I’d used for our sleeping quarters. I glance at the cold, unlit torches set into sconces attached to the shelving – an odd choice, at first glance, but I suppose the rock walls make more permanent installations somewhat difficult without specialist expertise and equipment – then gesture at the torches one after another, sending magelights out to hover over them all.

“So, darling,” Astarion says lightly, as he picks up a sheet of rough parchment sat out on the central table and starts scanning the list of tasks to be completed. “Care to place a wager on what Dal ends up settling upon as the best approach for appeasing you now?It seems that thralls are no longer an option, unfortunately, but I’ll wager you can get a nice, steady supply of brains out of her, provided the spawn continue committing execution-worthy offenses. Possibly even if they don’t, for that matter. Whichwouldsave us time going out on hunting trips, yes.”

We would still need to do so for you, regardless,I say, for all that I’m well-aware he’s being facetious.They are starving. You will not.

“Hardly seems entirely fair,” Astarion comments, glancing at me sidelong from beneath his eyelashes.

I do not care. I will not let you go hungry again if I can prevent it.

Astarion smiles slightly, stretching over to pass me the task list, then picks up an open crate filled with labelled jars in assorted shapes, sizes, and materials. “You do realise that if you need totellDal to ask me for our agreement, rather than you, it doesn’t solve the problem?” he says, starting to sort through the crate. Despite the content of his words, he doesn’t seem appreciably angry, nor even particularly displeased.

Yes,I say.But it may help do so in time, by encouraging her to develop the habit. And thus to see for herself what more you have to offer them all.

“Perhaps,” Astarion allows. “Although that – does rather suppose Idohave much else to offer.”

I glance over to find him determinedly avoiding my gaze; I consider his profile for a time, thoughtful, then set down the parchment and turn away to retrieve a nearby crate labelledTrading Goods – portion & pack for transport.

This is different from anything you have done before, but that is the case for most of those here,I say, as I start setting out supplies on the table before me.You cannot truly believe yourself less capable of contributing than all the rest of your siblings. All else aside, your knowledge of illithid vastly exceeds theirs. Knowledge you have almost entirely gained over the past few months; anything else you find you must understand better in order to surmount the challenges faced by the settlement, you will be equally capable of learning.

Astarion sighs. “That may be, but… Leon was right, you know: thisisn’tmine. Not the way it is theirs. The others have been here, doing this work and – and starving right alongside all the rest of them, from the very start. I don’t –haveanything that’s mine. I wouldn’t even know where to begin, or even if I want to for any more of a reason than -”

He breaks off, compressing his lips, and shakes his head tightly.

Any more of a reason than…?I prompt.

“If anything,” Astarion says, quiet. “I’m something thatyouhave. And that’s – not enough for me.”

I have never asked, expected, or wanted that of you. Not in that sense.

“I know,” Astarion agrees. “But nevertheless, it would be… very easy, I think, to – fall into it. For lack of anything else. But not wanting that to happen isn’t the same thing as having something else whichismine,something that Idowant. For myself; something that I would still want regardless of anything else. If that… makes any sense at all.”

It does,I say.And you are not entirely alone in feeling that lack, if it is of any comfort. I was a cleric, before. Even prior to that, I served Ilmater in his temple from the time I was a child. Now, powers or no powers, I am not his; I do not serve. It has left – a hole. I do not know what else might fill that hole. I do not know if it ought to be filled at all.

Astarion’s lips turn upwards, though the rest of his face remains pensive enough that I doubt it’s a true smile. “It is, as it happens,” he says. “A comfort; somewhat, in any case. If I must be lost, better that we be lost together. Selfish though it may be.”

I do not care if it is selfish,I say, carefully pouring a powdered pigment of rich brown flecked with gold in a jar labelledValuable!into a set of smaller, sturdy ceramic jars, utilising my illusion-hidden tentacle that escaped its confines earlier for extra stability.You may be selfish in this, if it will help you to feel better. I give you my permission.

“What happened to no more self-sacrifice and suffering in place of others?” Astarion wryly inquires.

You are, as ever, my foremost remaining exception.

“That mind flayer,” Astarion murmurs, setting his newly sorted crate to one side and picking up another. “It seemed to take it for granted that sooner or later, youwouldmake me into a thrall.”

I expect that it believes that to be the case, yes,I say.That does not mean it is correct.

“If it’s right about you needing it, about all of you needing it -” Astarion starts.

Then I still will not do that to you.

“Would you let me finish?” Astarion scolds, frowning over at me; I raise an eyebrow, then incline my head to him, getting back a huff before he continues. “Thank you. As I was saying, if Aurangaul was right about you all needing thralls… that duke of the Emperor’s. She might have volunteered for it, you know. Although if so, that could itself be considered evidence that something had clearly happened to her brain,” he adds, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “But still. If they truly were friends, and she was of the same foolishly selfless persuasion as you used to be…”

Why would it matter?I ask, genuinely puzzled. And discomfited by the fact, as well; for all that I ever enjoy learning new things about how Astarion’s mind works, I typically have little trouble following the direction of his thoughts. Something about failing to do so invariably strikes me as…wrong.

“Now, don’t misunderstand, darling!” Astarion says lightly, though there’s a touch of tension in the line of his shoulders, now. “Regardless of the details,Icertainly won’t be volunteering. But one of the others – the druids or the ranger, say, or one of your many grateful rescued idiots... I know you’re not entirely comfortable with the idea, but if it perhaps doesn’tneedto be as awful as it otherwise would, when it’s forced upon someone...”

We have already discussed this, and my answer remains unchanged. Any such information regarding Duke Stelmane that might affect my opinion is out of our reach now, quite likely permanently, given the lack of any trace of the Emperor itself. Even were it not, all indications are that she washarmedby what was likely done to her, volunteer or no. As for whether such a result is inevitable, Omeluum’s opinion and experience are now the only source of information outside of a wider illithid community. In my next Sending to Gale, I will tell him to inquire as to its current disposition with the Society. If it is present in the city, or known to be nearby, we can consider a brief trip back to meet with it. And with the Ironhands, for that matter.

“Mmm,” Astarion absently hums, looking at me curiously. “Omeluum, the Emperor… you used to refer to them both ashe,you know. You’ve switched to ‘it’; the same as Aurangaul used for you, and you used for Aurangaul. Is that – do you – I’ve still been using ‘she’, but if there’s something else you’d rather…”

I look back at Astarion blankly.I have no opinion on the matter. It is irrelevant. Call me whatever you wish.

“And if I were to start using ‘he’?” Astarion asks in a rather dry tone, arching an eyebrow at me.

Then I would briefly wonder at the reason you had for choosingthatof all possible options,I say.And I would continue to have no opinion on the matter. If you wish to use ‘she’ because it is what you are accustomed to, do so. If you wish to use ‘it’ because it is what my kind seem to often use for each other, do so. If you wish to use ‘they’ because it implies no particular positive stance on the question, do so. And if you wish to use ‘he’ in order to be contrary? Do so.

Astarion snorts, his lower lip quivering as he fights back a smile. “She, then, if you truly don’t care,” he decides. “It’s simpler, and – better, I think, for reminding others that youarestill you. Even if that is no longer all that you are.” He tucks his crate under his arm, and heads over towards the shelves along the outside of the room.

Very well,I say, then watch him silently for a time, debating with myself.

You touched me earlier,I observe.By choice.

Astarion remains silent in the wake of my words as he moves around the room, checking labels and shelving items appropriately. And I, recognising that he needs the time to think, likewise keep any further commentary or questioning to myself for now, simply attending to my own task.

“Do you know what I remembered, when you reached out and put your hand on me during our conversation with Aurangaul?” Astarion finally says, not looking over. “I remembered that ship. I remembered being held down as I fought and struggled and screamed and pleaded with them. To stop, to let me go... none of it made the slightest bit of difference. I remembered the feel of that – that tadpole, slithering inside my eye socket and burrowing into my brain. And I remembered the mind flayer who was standing over me the entire time, radiating this sense of – of malice, but also of glee. It was delighted by my fear and my pain. And the sensation of its delight inside my head was entirely indistinguishable from how that ulitharid’s delight felt today. Your own feels… different, yes. Somewhat. But not – not enough.”

Not enough?I ask, after an extensive silence of my own. I’ve entirely given up on pretending to be focused on filling and packing jars by now, instead turning away so that I can watch Astarion closely as he speaks.

“Not enough for me to not – be reminded of that, at least a little,” Astarion clarifies. “I’m not saying – just, that’s all I meant by it.”

All right,I acknowledge, finding myself strangely unsure of how to respond; what I might say that would be helpful. Perhaps this is a good time to draw upon what remains of my former self, and consider trying something more like how she would have responded?

I am sorry I caused you to remember that. I should not have touched you. I will be more careful.

“No,” Astarion says, setting aside his half-emptied crate and turning to regard me solemnly. “No, Tav; I want you to. It would be – not fine, maybe, but acceptable, if the reason I’ve been having so much trouble with this was because of… because of me, and needing more time to adjust. I could – be patient with myself, as you asked, if that were all it was. But I won’t have what those – those sad*stic monsters did to us be what stops me from touching the only person I truly care for. The only person who has ever made me feel truly safe. I won’t let them take that away from me again; not after everything I’ve – we’ve – gone through to get it in the first place,” he adds, his jaw set hard.

I nod slowly.If that is your preference. How do you wish to handle things, then?

Astarion looks suddenly amused. “Really? That’s it? No... arguments, no extensive back-and-forth over how you don’t wish me toeverassociate you and your touch with any unpleasant feelings, before you’ll agree?”

I was assuming that we are discussing simple touch, not sex,I say, and see Astarion flinch minutely.

“No,” he says quickly, then gives a small shake of his head. “Or – yes, rather: you assume correctly. That’s not… something I’m ready to consider at this point. Atall.”

In which case the potential for me to inadvertently cause you distress that would in turn causeussignificant difficulties going forward is much lower.Do Ienjoythe thought of you forcing yourself to submit to even an innocuous touch from me? Of knowing that I am causing you to feel such fear and horror? No; I do not doubt that many others of my kind would, but I am not among them. This is something that is important to you, however, and your reasoning is sound. Your discomfort – and therefore my own – will decrease, over time. It is a sensible way to proceed, one that is likely to benefit us both, and so I will accept it. Provided you do not push yourself too far, or too quickly.

“Very logical of you,” Astarion murmurs; when I tilt my head to the side in question, he shrugs a shoulder. “Just… little differences, that’s all; nothing important.”

You are being very insulting to my human self by speaking as if that is unusual,I comment, whilst privately feeling somewhat… frustrated.Thisis what strikes him as a noteworthy difference? That I am more logical is disquieting, but my willingness to allow the spawn to enslave deep gnomes – something to which he was so eager to gain my agreement, after my identity became known – isnot? Certainly it would be unreasonable to expect that his grief will always be entirely logical itself, but how am I to manage it or avoid provoking it if I am wholly unable topredictit?

“Hah!” Astarion laughs, then gives me a quick grin. “No insult intended; cross my heart. That’s not to say youweren’tlogical before, darling; it’s simply a question of… priorities.”

Youare my priority,I tell him, firm.

Astarion hums, studying me thoughtfully, then abandons his shelving to come lean back on his elbows against the table at my side, mere inches away. My eyes flick downwards briefly, evaluating the extent of the distance now separating us, but I neither comment nor attempt to bridge the gap.

“You do know that you can’t simply fill whatever you’re now missing withme,any more than I can with you,don’t you?” Astarion says, conversational.

I blink at him.Am I doing so?

“I don’t know,” Astarion replies. “Are you, Tav?”

Another blink, then I turn away, picking up my jars of pigment. There’s no extra stability from my freed tentacle this time; it’s drawn itself in close and curled up against my body, oddly reluctant to uncurl again.

Did you come over here because you wish to begin work on acclimating yourself to my touch?I ask.If so, it will be more effective if I dismiss the illusion; we will need to better secure the door.

“Oh,I must havereallystruck a nerve with that one!” Astarion exclaims, leaning forward to try and peer at my downturned face; I make it easier by lifting said face to glare at him, and he responds with another flash of fangs as he grins. “Sorry, love,” he says sweetly. “I’m no longer going to bequiteso easy to distract or scare off, I’m afraid. I’m disappointed, you know: I expect at least a little more subtlety from you than that.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head sorrowfully.

I huff out an annoyed breath.I am not… making you into my newgod, I tell him.

“And I’m not making you into my new master,” Astarion says, shrugging. “Even if I were to let myself just fall into – into making you the focus of my new life, it wouldn’t be like that. Although if you do find yourself feeling inclined to worship me, I could perhaps be persuaded…” he adds, leaning back again and adopting a thoughtful expression as he taps his thumb against his lips.

I roll my eyes at him, and shove down the temptation to discourage further conversation by replying that if he should find himself feeling inclined toserveme, I could perhaps be persuaded to enthrall him.

Exceedingly unlikely,I say.But thank you for the offer. And you are misinterpreting the reason for my making statements such as telling you that you are my priority. I am simply aware of the fact that my ceremorphosis has left you feeling less certain of the extent of my regard for you, along with the extent of my capabilities when it comes to… caring for others, in the way that I used to be able. I am offering reassurance. Not using you to fill a gap left in my life by my god’s absence.

“Mmm,” Astarion hums. “You mean the god you previously told me was going to be your foremost priority, even though youdidassuredly love and consider me to be of great importance in your life?Thatgod?”

I let my irritation dart across the surface of his mind, and he raises his hands in exaggerated surrender. “All right, all right; I shall leave it be, since it seems someone’s feeling grouchy,” he says, straightening up and sauntering back over towards the shelves and his abandoned crate.

Astarion,I say.

He glances back, raising an eyebrow at me. “Yes?”

You are neglecting to account for the fact that I presently exist in a state which is unnatural for my kind. I may not despise this… being partial, as Aurangaul put it, in the way the rest of us are said to. But all the same, it is my conscious choice to prioritise you which gives me a reason to preserve and encourage that part of who I am. I do not say this to threaten, or to warn you off pursuing this line of discussion with me, but – you should not be so quick to encourage me to do otherwise. That is not what you truly want; it will not lead to the outcome you truly want.

A hint of sadness enters Astarion’s gaze at my words. “And what of whatyoutruly want, my love?” he murmurs. “Is this it? Are you happy like this, Tav? Or are you just… forcing yourself into this unnatural state, for my sake?”

If I were unwilling, or dissatisfied by the result,I say.I would not continue. You overestimate my kind’s capacity for selflessness; I choose you because it pleases me to do so.Youplease me, and I wish to offer you the same in return.

Astarion lets out a quiet laugh, little more than a released breath of air. “Do I?” he asks. “Perhaps I do. Well. I suppose I shall simply have to see that you do not ever find yourself dissatisfied with your choice, then, shan’t I?”

Concerningly vague and ominous,I note, and this time get back a rather more genuine smile of amusem*nt.

“Come now, darling,” Astarion says, clicking his tongue. “It simply wouldn’t beusif I didn’t leave you with a mystery or two to fret over, would it?”

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

A few hours later the rest of the settlement likewise starts the day, with one-fifth of the spawn making their way to the distribution stations for their allotted ration of blood. And while Astarion had decided the day prior to give it at least a few more days before taking any for himself, well-enough fed as he was when they arrived, the controlled chaos of the distribution process does at least afford him a chance to corner Dalyria on her own, while Tav is off doing her daily arcane magic and illusory form visualisation practice in solitude.

“Dal,” he says, blocking the doorway of her office so she can’t leave; Dal stops and gives him a look of weary exasperation. Astarion shakes his head, waving off whatever it is she’s expecting from him in the way of needling her further, and simply asks, serious for once, “What do you need me to do here? How can I help?”

Dalyria blinks at him in surprise, then taps a thumb against her lips as she thinks. “Genuine offer?” she checks. “You’re planning on staying long enough for it to be worth it?”

“The most genuine of offers,” Astarion says, giving her a sweeping bow.

“And if your – if she decides she intends to leave sooner?” Dalyria asks, with only a short hesitation.

“She won’t,” Astarion says, shrugging, then reconsiders. “Well. She might, I suppose, but not – I’m sure she’d come back before long. And besides. There’s no reason I need to always accompany her, if it’s just – just a short trip back to the Gate or the like, is there?”

“You tell me,” Dalyria says, then takes a small step forwards, reaching out to pull him inside properly. Astarion gives her an affronted look for the presumption, but suffers her drawing him far enough into the room that she can close the door.

“What even is your – relationship with her now?” Dalyria asks in a low voice, frowning at Astarion with what he’d almost say was worry, if not for that fact that he’s met her.

“Dal, dear, if you’re working your way around to asking if I’m f*cking the mind flayer, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you by telling you to mind your own business,” Astarion sweetly replies.

Dalyria rolls her eyes. “I’m asking if we can rely upon whatever’s between you, especially given… what she is now. Will it be enough to keep her here, keep her helping? How invested is she? And what more can we do to… improve the odds in our favour?”

Astarion sighs, and makes his way over to a chair to drop down into a slouch that would’ve had Cazador ordering the backs of his legs whipped raw. “She’s invested enough,” he says, terse. “Don’t worry, sister; she’ll keep her promise, whether or not I’m keeping her sweet. Or whether you are.”

“Why?” Dalyria asks bluntly, settling into a chair at his side with significantly more grace.

Astarion shrugs. “Pragmatism. You can’t imagine it’s been easy, keeping everyone up in the city willing to work with her even in secret. She’s aware that she’s banking on her former reputation and their gratitude for now, but that’s not going to last forever. Which means she needs to make a decent enough reputation for herself as a mind flayer too. She needs everyone watching to see that she’s reliable, and hasn’t changed her – priorities too much.”

“So you agree that we should be seeking alliances with the gnomes instead of the duergar?” Dalyria asks, studying him.

“Why are you asking me? ” Astarion scoffs. “Figure out if you can wait that long before three-quarters of you starve to death and go from there, I suppose.”

“I’m asking you because you did once know something about upper-class society and politics with all their intrigue, however long it’s been,” Dalyria says. “You and I are the only ones with that experience, however much Petras or the others like to flatter themselves otherwise. And if I’m being honest, your own experience was – quite a bit more relevant than mine. I did it because I had to for my job; you enjoyed it, or at least parts of it. Maybe not anything too… complicated, no, but the managing and manipulating the right people, and their impressions of you. You did that and you liked doing that, before Cazador twisted it just like he did everything else he got his hands on.”

“Oh,” Astarion says, blinking in surprise. “Well, I – I suppose I did, yes. When it wasn’t… when the stakes were different.”

“So?” Dalyria asks. “You think you can be that for me again, if I need you to?”

Astarion straightens a little, unconsciously. “My dear sister,” he declares. “Consider me at your service. Whatever you need, simply tell me and it shall be done!”

Another eye-roll. “Don’t overdo it,” Dalyria advises, dry, then leans forward to grab a thick stack of papers from her desk, dumping it in Astarion’s lap; he scrambles to catch them and just barely succeeds in time, giving her a glare. Which she ignores, of course.

“You can start with those,” Dalyria instructs. “Put together some sort of functional legal and justice system for us, so I can stop having to make it up as I go along. When you’re done with that, or if you need a break to clear your head, you can have general physical infrastructure, too.”

“Infra- what in the hells do you think I know about that? ” Astarion says, incredulous. “The legal system, fine -” It’s very much not fine, it’s been two hundred years and even then he’d barely started his career as a magistrate before Cazador took him! “- but surely there’s someone better qualified for… all of this,” he adds, paging through the sheets of parchment at the bottom of the pile, most of it utterly incomprehensible to him.

“Maybe so,” Dalyria shrugs. “Talk to Aurelia and see if she’s managed to locate any city planners in amongst all our barely-functioning, recently imprisoned for decades-to-centuries, spawn. You find anyone, you’re welcome to give them most of the actual work involved. But right now Leon is doing it, and he has more than enough to do as it is. Especially as it sounds like we might find ourselves needing a well-protected border sooner rather than later, if the illithid really do hate us as much as – as she suggested.”

“What in all the hells do I know about mining out passageways?” Astarion grumbles, still paging through the sheets. “Really, Dal, one might almost start to suspect you want to get rid of this entire disaster by collapsing the rock atop all their heads.”

“Astarion,” Dalyria says firmly, and he glances up to find her leaning towards him with a serious expression. “I do not care how you do it. Find someone amongst the spawn, set up a dungeon and go kidnap us some deep gnomes, or call upon some of those contacts of yours up top to get qualified people to come help. You’re not stupid, however much you might pretend otherwise sometimes. Or however much the mast- Cazador tried to convince you otherwise. So don’t believe it; you may be out of practice with being the one making the real decisions, but you can figure out all of this just as well as I can.”

Astarion stares at her, then looks aside, rubbing a faintly trembling hand over his lower face to hide his expression. “Whatever’s gotten into you, sister?” he says after a moment or two, dropping his hand again. “One might almost think you want me to believe you care, for some reason.” He looks back, then, and smiles archly at her. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want, hmm?”

Dalyria raises an eyebrow, then nods towards the papers in his lap. “Why don’t you start with that legal system and we’ll go from there, brother?”

“Fine,” Astarion huffs, giving up on getting a proper answer out of her – for now, anyway – and gathers up the papers as he stands. He turns, making for the door, then pauses.

“You know, Dal,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately neutral in a way that probably tells her more than any outward expression of emotion. “I’m curious as to whether you’ve run across a spawn called Sebastian. Human, male; taken around one hundred and seventy years ago. He – he was a poet. Before.”

“Nothing that comes to mind,” Dalyria says; she’s certainly not trying to hide her curiosity. Nor the hint of calculation underlying. “Ask Aurelia, perhaps.”

Astarion makes a face, and lets himself out.

♦

“Dal is up to something,” Astarion announces, storming his way into our temporary quarters and slamming the door violently behind him. It makes an audible crack, but holds up under the treatment.

I slowly open my eyes, not moving from my comfortable, cross-legged pose on the floor, and raise an eyebrow since I currently have one to raise. Two, even.

“She’s trying to – to butter me up for some reason!” Astarion seethes, tossing a thick stack of parchment down onto his folded bedroll, and starts to move. It’s not pacing, not really – he’s not going far enough for that – but he’s clearly agitated, shifting back and forth just a step or two, a few inches, at a time.

Pacing if you’re used to not having much space at all to do it in, perhaps.

Oh? I prompt absently. Most of my focus is on checking the spells protecting us from being overheard and preventing unallowed visitors from entering too easily are still as they should be, given that they’re anchored to the door Astarion just structurally menaced on his way in.

“Giving me tasks to do, and telling me to just… work it all out myself, without any oversight from her, like she’ll just accept whatever I say she ought to do! Not to mention giving me all these little compliments about how I’m – not stupid, and have experience with manipulating people, and – and asking if I can be what she needs me to be for her again! She’s got something she’s planning on using me for; I just need to figure out what,” Astarion mutters, frowning.

I tilt my head to the side. The obvious answer would be manipulating me to her benefit.

“Well, yes, darling, but that one goes without saying,” Astarion says, waving this off. “She wasn’t bothering to try and be subtle about that. No, there’s something more going on here.”

A test of loyalties? I ask. Which of us you would choose, if it came down to it?

Astarion snorts. “She should know better, if so.”

Why?

He gives me an incredulous look for this, stopping his not-quite-pacing and leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “You think that I would ever choose her? Over you? You were the one to help me kill him. Meanwhile Dal was the one helping him flay me,” he adds, with a tiny frown that suggests he’s genuinely at least a little bothered – hurt, even – by this fact.

Was that any more her choice than your own actions were yours? I ask. Not because I’ve any interest in defending her, of course; simply because I am ever-hungry to comprehend the workings of Astarion’s mind.

After a moment of consideration, I send my curiosity over to him, just to be sure he’s clear as to my motivation for asking. Clear that I’m on his side.

“It doesn’t matter,” Astarion insists. “She still did it. I still have to remember her doing it. And she knows that just as well as I do; she’s not stupid enough to think I might – might prefer her over my…”

He trails off, gesturing wordlessly at me.

You have known her for two hundred years, I point out. Been allies, of a sort. While your – me has since become a mind flayer. And you are here, now, helping her. Why would it be so unreasonable for her to believe you might hold some – affection, for her? Or for her to feel the same for you, for that matter.

“It was hardly an alliance we chose, ” Astarion says, frowning at me now. “Nor even an acquaintance; Cazador, and necessity, forced them upon us all. What does it matter, anyway? Why do you care so much about this?”

I do not, I say, unfolding my legs and rising; it’s still a little more awkward, a little less fluid, than I’d prefer, thanks to the new configuration of my feet as something more appropriate for a water-dwelling creature. But you do. The other six are important to you.

“They are not, ” Astarion snaps, folding his arms again.

Very well, I agree, taking my armour and laying it out on the bed so that I can check it over for anything in need of repairs. They are not important to you, but you are nevertheless somewhat fond of them, despite your better judgment. You would not entirely object to having some sort of place here among them, or working on whatever it was Dalyria asked you to accomplish for her, but you cannot trust them enough for that. Is this a more acceptable summary?

“I suppose it’ll do,” Astarion mutters, then gives a huff and shakes his head, moving to join me at the other end of the bed, where he can assist with going over my armour. The rope supports creak alarmingly under the weight of the both of us alongside the heavy plate, accompanied by the feel of something slowly starting to give way beneath me; a moment of thought, a stretch to run my hand along the rope to find the fraying strands, a quick cantrip, and the weak point is repaired.

“It’s a pity Leon’s utterly useless when it comes to teaching his type of magic to others,” Astarion comments, nodding towards the fixed rope. “That seems like the sort of thing that would be useful around here.”

Surely there must be others with some arcane capabilities among all the rest of the spawn? I say, allowing the shift in topic for now.

“Probably,” Astarion shrugs. “We tended to avoid luring those types back, for obvious enough reasons, but I expect a few would have made it into Cazador’s… collection. Easy enough for him to simply order them not to use their magic once they were turned, after all.”

Is that what happened to you? I ask, keeping my gaze on the strap I’m working a water-resistant oil into.

Astarion flinches slightly, at the edge of my vision. “To – what do you mean?”

Your magic, I say. As an elf. All of your kind are naturally inclined towards the arcane, just as mine are to psionics. You have some small mastery of the Weave, but you were clearly very unpractised with it when we first met. Very – rusty. Did Cazador order you not to use it after you were turned?

“Of course he did,” Astarion says, after a moment. His hands resume their previous motion, running careful fingertips along the seams of the armour’s padding and fastenings. “I’d have found some way to burn that pretentious monstrosity he called a palace down around his ears decades ago, if he’d neglected to do so.”

I send across a feeling of vague acknowledgement, not pointing out that he could always have used more mundane means. And your people’s language?

“What about it?” Astarion snaps.

Were you ordered not to use that, too? I ask him, undeterred.

“Just -” Astarion sighs. “Say whatever it is you have to say, will you? How it is that you manage to pry even more than you would when you were still a priestess is beyond me,” he mutters.

I was too concerned with the possibility that prying overmuch might – scare you off, if you’ll forgive the terminology.

“And now?” Astarion asks, rather dryly.

Now I have more faith in your constancy and caring.

“You – oh,” Astarion says, ducking his head as the tips of his ears flush; I carefully don’t allow any outward indicators of how I’m smiling.

To answer your query, I say instead. If family who have not helped torment you is something that you desire, there are other inquiries we might make.

“Why in all the hells would I want that?” Astarion asks as he glances back up to meet my gaze, staring at me with clear incredulity.

I am not saying that you do, I reply. I am saying if you do.

“Well, I don’t,” Astarion scoffs. “Whatever – elven family, or heritage, or anything else I might once have had, there’s nothing there for me any longer. And nothing for them, either. Let the past, and the person I once was, remain buried.”

If that is what you wish.

Astarion gives me a suspicious frown, but when I say no more, simply huffs and returns his attention to my armour, working alongside me in not-entirely-easy silence. Soon enough, we come to a point where we’re handling sections which are in close proximity. I’m not truly paying attention when I hear Astarion take a small, quick breath, but I most certainly am when he follows it up by reaching out and resting his hand squarely over top of mine.

I jerk reflexively, nearly pulling away from his touch before I stop myself. After a moment, I deliberately relax my hand again, easing it back into place directly under his, and glance up to assess his current emotional state.

Astarion’s gazing down at our hands, expression pensive. “I wanted this with you so much, once,” he murmurs, as if to himself. “Just this, and nothing else. Such a simple little thing, but I – couldn’t get enough of it.”

I tilt my head to the side, studying him. Various potential responses run through my mind – it is yours whenever you wish it, I enjoyed it then too, she enjoyed it then too – but in the end I simply keep silent, waiting for him to lead the way.

Another short, steadying breath, then Astarion peers up at me through his eyelashes, managing a very small smile; it doesn’t look entirely false, at least. “You’re not holding my hand back, you know,” he comments, tone deliberately light.

I blink once at him, then go ahead and carefully turn my hand over beneath his so we’re palm-to-palm. I curl my fingers slightly, making it into more of a hold, but don’t go too far; if he comes into contact with the longer nails beneath my illusion, I’m not convinced it’s strong enough just yet to hold steady through the dissonance.

Astarion’s hand curls a little too, giving mine the smallest of squeezes, then relaxes into a loose grip. His gaze moves back down to my armour, then, his other hand reaching out to resume his interrupted progress over the seams, checking their strength and security. After a beat, I copy him; stretching to retrieve my leather oil with my free hand, thumbing open the cork, and clumsily tapping out a few thick droplets as I start on weatherproofing the next fastening.

It’s awkward, even a little uncomfortable at times, but neither of us let go of the other.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Your progress in refining that illusory form is impressive,Omeluum remarks, as it floats from one window to another inside the small, dimly-lit study, checking the curtains are all securely closed.But it is safe to discard it while we are within the walls of the Society, if you prefer.

I hesitate, then comply, leaning my shield against the wall beside the locked door.Thank you again for your assistance with the form’s development,I say.I have been having some difficulties on occasion with the spell failing to take hold the first time I try, however. Can you offer any insight?

It is not unusual,Omeluum says, floating back over to join me, though it comes to a halt with a good few feet still left between us. Something I find I appreciate, when being in its presence has come to feel just a little less comfortable – a little lesssafe– since my ceremorphosis.

We are all highly resistant to most forms of magic, and our typically poor arcane capabilities struggle to surmount this,Omeluum explains.As I told you when we first met, my own arcane facility is exceptional for our kind, yet even I initially had some trouble in this regard. But there are ways to bypass that resistance; the problem lies in the illusion not being fully recognised as your own native magic. You have, I think, enough arcane potential to be able to overcome this difficulty. Not at my own level, of course, but more than most of us. I will provide you with some reading material and further exercises you may do, before you return to the Underdark.

Thank you,I say again.You have been – very helpful, in the wake of my transformation.

Were we not becoming... friends, of a sort, before that point?Omeluum counters, clearly picking up on what I’m not saying directly; on my underlying suspicion.You rescued me from the Iron Throne when it was of no benefit to you. Call it friendship, alliance, or a debt owed, as you prefer. Even if that were not the case… I have been as good as exiled from my kindred for a very long time, now. Your company is not unwelcome to me.

Is it enough?I ask abruptly.

Omeluum’s brain pulses at the sides slightly; after a moment, I feel a tentative brush of its mind against mine, as if in question. Or offering.

At first I instinctually recoil, something inside meconvincedthat to allow this more direct connection – beyond the tiny fraction of such required for us to speak with one another, of course – would put me at entirely too much risk. But I force myself to pause, to think through my past experiences with Omeluum – in particular, my knowledge that it wentquitea bit deeper inside my mind when it was investigating the tadpole – and then reach out mentally myself, mirroring its previous offer.

There’s a distinct sense of caution aboutbothour minds as they meet, the feel of high, well-anchored walls in place to prevent the other from exploring too far. But it’s enough of a connection that we bothcanpick up on that mutual wariness. And in my case, pick up on Omeluum’s puzzlement.

Enough?it asks me.

This type of a connection,I clarify, one of my tentacles giving a little wave to gesture between the two of us.Any type of connection between us, or with others of our kind. You told me that there would be time for us to discuss the matter of thralls once I had grown more accustomed to what I have become, and experienced the instincts for myself. As I have since been told by another that to be without thralls is to be doomed, I believe the time for that discussion has arrived.

I see,Omeluum says, after a beat; its mind is now tinged with uncertainty, apprehension, a touch of concern. But there’s curiosity there, too.May I first ask after this other you mention?

I consider the request – privately, of course, keeping my deliberations and any related emotions carefully behind my mental barriers – then go ahead and offer Omeluum a generalised sort of concept encompassing my experience of Aurangaul. Just as Aurangaul itself indirectly showed me how to do, by offering up such a concept of the Emperor; something I can sense has caused me to attach ‘one-who-has-taught-me’ to my concept of it.

Omeluum’s tentacles stiffen in shock.The ulitharid. We were not of the same colony, but I encountered it once, at one of our larger gatherings. It made for an unforgettable experience: its mental presence was impressive. Almost overwhelming at times, even with our own colony’s elder to shield us; I wonder if Aurangaul-rogue-ulitharid has improved its own mental shielding, or if your experience with the Netherbrain has left you less susceptible. A pity that we cannot safely conduct experiments.

I was drawn to it,I offer.Its arrival woke me from a deep sleep, and I found myself seeking it out; the thought of delaying doing so felt almost intolerable.

It called you to its side,Omeluum agrees, comprehension and the satisfaction of a question answered filling its mind.A pity, too, that you do not have the experience needed to discern what else it might have influenced you to do. Assuming it did do anything else, of course,it belatedly allows; I get the impression from its mind that it’s trying to be fair, despite its own strong doubts regarding Aurangaul’s motivations and behaviour.

I… did not distrust it as much as I would have expected,I say slowly, working through my memories and impressions even as I speak.Not as much as I do you. By instinct,I add belatedly.You have given me no reason to distrust you, and many reasons to feel otherwise; I recognise and acknowledge that.

I take no offense, young one,Omeluum says, its tentacles briefly reaching towards me as accompaniment for its faint desire to reassure, before it pulls them back.Did I not tell you that it is natural, in the absence of an elder – or an ulitharid, perhaps, based upon your recent experience – to suppress the worst of that instinctual distrust for us? You are doing very well at controlling it even so much as you have.

It considers, then, before adding,You say that Aurangaul-rogue-ulitharid has formed a shard? A shard in a strong enough position to force one of the elders to negotiate, reach agreements with it, rather than simply destroying all its members? This is… unexpected information you bring. But certainly not unwelcome. And it would indeed seem to suggest that Aurangaul-shard-leader is capable of soothing some of our suspicion of one another on a larger scale than simply one to one. This shard may have more potential than most.

Whatisa shard?I ask, with an edge of frustration at just how much Istilldon’t know of my own kind.What is the context that I am missing, what do I need to know in order to meet or negotiate with Aurangaul-shard-leader myself?

A shard…Omeluum says carefully, back to its earlier hesitance again.It is a group that has split off from one or more colonies, and operates without the direction – or protection, orcontrol –of one of the elders. They are rare; very rare. The seventh shard was formed…

Its tentacles wave sluggishly in the air, uncertainty in its mind intensifying alongside an impression of thinking very hard. An impression that soon stops abruptly, its tentacles shrugging instead.

Many, many years ago,Omeluum finishes.A very long time. It did not last long; the nearest colonies joined together to destroy both it and most of the ones who had gone rogue. Dissent is rarely tolerated unless the one dissenting can force tolerance,it adds; there’s a philosophical air to the thought.Only the third shard likewise had an ulitharid; it was the strongest of them, though I do not recall much else. I would assume it, too, was eventually destroyed, as all the rest have been, but – it is curious that I do not have even vague recollections of learning such a fact. Perhaps it yet survives in hiding somewhere, as I myself do. An intriguing possibility.

And commencement?I ask, trying to draw Omeluum back on topic.Aurangaul-shard-leader said that they rejected commencement. And that it would be denied to me, whether I rejected it or not.

The joining with the elders after one’s death,Omeluum says, with a flash of a conflicted sort of melancholy.It is – immortality, in its own way. To live on forever as part of the colony-as-entity. There is no greater loss or punishment than to be denied, whether before or when one’s brain is presented to the elder after the end. A colony will go to great lengths to bring back the brain of one of its own who has ceased, rather than suffer the loss of a lifetime’s worth of perspective and experience. Those of us who know ourselves denied must seek our own immortality.

Is that what you do?I ask, curious now.Was that why you chose to ally with a lich, one who is mindless-anathema-abomination?

I get back a sudden sense of caution, of distrust, rather than an answer; my tentacles spread themselves slightly, without my conscious input, as I add,I have no reason or intention to hinder you in your goals, if so. I simply seek to better understand. And to understand how and in what circ*mstances our kind may bring themselves to work alongside any of the mindless for an extended period, given my own involvement with the community of spawn. It is relevant information for me.

True,Omeluum allows, its suspicion easing.Let us say, then, that while I am not opposed to learning more of that possibility, it was not my primary goal at the time. I chose to reside with the lich because I knew that my colony would not expect it, if they hunted me. It was… difficult, at first, yes. But in time, I learned to tolerate his unnatural presence. Until our diverging views and wishes for the world forced us apart.

My eyes narrow.There is something you are not telling me.

It is not an easy story for me to tell, young one,Omeluum replies, gently enough.I would prefer not to relive the pain of that time without need.

After a brief moment of unexpected chagrin, I send over a wordless sense of apology; Omeluum meets it with forgiveness and understanding.

Let us return to my original question, in that case, I suggest. Is it enough for us to have a connection to other illithid alone? Or was Aurangaul-shard-leader correct to say that I must ultimately take a thrall if I am to survive? Do we need them? And if we do, how is it that you have survived without?

It takes a great deal of effort to avoid asking the latter with an undercurrent of suspicion, or the suggestion that Omeluum hasn’t been entirely honest with me up to this point, but I’m hopeful that I manage it.

Omeluum dithers before responding, its tentacles hovering in the air between us.Our kindred will tell you that we must dominate the minds of others to be whole. To keep both our minds and our lives. It may be that they are correct; it is, I fear, undeniable that we needsomethingmore than a connection to a colony, or an elder, or our own kind. But I believe that it may be enough to have the minds of others – even a single other – beours. Belong to us still, yes, as the thralls do, but in a different sense. The extent is the same. But unlike with the thralls, the minds…fit, without the same unnatural imposition of that state. To make a new thrall fit requires careful modification by a Nourisher. By one who specialises in the work; one from amongst the group responsible for maintaining a colony’s population of thralls,it adds.

Fit?I ask, somewhat confused. I may, admittedly, be working largely off a combination of my own instincts and books written by outsiders, but everything I’ve thus far felt or encountered has suggested to me that it’s a question of simple mental compatibility, whether a potential thrall is suitable or not. Something easily evaluated, and quickly decided upon, with no more than a moderately extensive psionic investigation.

Omeluum’s tentacles wave in a shrug.It is difficult to explain to one who has not experienced either possibility. The thralls’ minds fit with ours because we make them fit. With greater or lesser amounts of damage, depending upon one’s skill at the task; it is why many prefer to have a Nourisher do most of the work. But with some thralls, one of our kind may sometimes find that they require less being-made-to-fit than the rest do. Not for all of us, but forthatone of us in particular. When such a thrall is found by one of our kind, they are treasured. Protected, even above how an ordinary thrall would be. At times, even at some risk to oneself, as to lose them would leave one – less than they were, less than they ought to be. I understand that this must be hard for you to believe without having experienced it for yourself -

No,I interrupt.It is entirely believable. Without my beautiful-vicious-deadly-beloved-not-thrall-Astarion, I would be forever incomplete. To accept some amount of risk to one’s life in order to preserve one’s self is the sensible choice.

It is like that with my Blurg-who-is-brilliant-beloved-loyal-friend, as well,Omeluum agrees, a warmth suffusing its mind as it says Blurg’s name.His mind fits with mine simply because itdoes. To reach such a point took time – too much time, for most of our kind’s liking – but it meant that I did not have to first force his mind into an unnatural shape. Though I would not have ever chosen to do so. Regardless, this is better for him, and it is better for us as a partnership, in a way that I cannot easily explain. Perhaps in time, it will be the same for you and your Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-thrall.

Better,I echo, tilting my head to the side and studying Omeluum intently. For all that it’s entirely pointless to try and discern more of a fellow illithid with such a simple visual inspection; habit, habit, it seems at times as if I shallforeverbe influenced by such old habits, even when they no longer serve me.

You prefer how things are with – your Blurg-who-is-claimed-but-not-thrall?I ask, choosing to adopt Omeluum’s own descriptor – Aurangaul’s too, when speaking of Astarion, I recall – out of the vague sense that it would somehow be impolite to do otherwise.You no longer desire thralls?

Another hesitation from Omeluum before it replies, a sense of deliberation about the words.I prefer to have this with my Blurg-who-is-brilliant-beloved-loyal-friend than havehimas thrall, yes. I would never trade the one for the other. But that does not mean I no longer hold any desire for a different thrall. I will never again engage in the enslavement of others that the rest of our kindred do, but the desire remains. The other races have their compunctions when it comes to mental privacy, after all. Even the most harmonious mind will never share in our desire for the type of pervasive,unceasingcommunion we have with the thralls. What I have nowisbetter. But it is never entirelyenough. Another of the compromises I have chosen to make.It shrugs again.

How long?I ask.Aurangaul-shard-leader estimated one to two years before I would need to take a thrall for my own survival. Whether thrall or some other solution, such as you have found, how long do you believe I have?

I’m still very undecided as to whether I cantrustwhatever answer Omeluum gives me, of course, but there is little enough harm in asking for its opinion while I am yet deciding.

Omeluum's tentacles wave sluggishly, this time accompanied by an unsure, helpless sort of air.It is difficult to say. I – am ashamed to admit that when I fled the colony, I took the one personal thrall I have ever had with me. When one is part of a colony, to take a thrall of one’s own is expected. Required. And once taken, for me to have left them behind would have been… difficult. For uncounted years, while I was partnered with the lich, that thrall’s presence – my domination of their mind – sustained me. But my opinions, my desires for both myself and all other denizens of the planes, were shifting more and more away from the opinions and desires of most of our kind. After my thrall’s death, after the solitude I had only ever known when newly born began to settle fully into the depths of my mind… I had even less reason to remain with the lich helping me survive.

I observe the faint echo of Omeluum’s emotions as it speaks, the deep, buried loss it still holds even at this point, contemplating both that and its words – contemplating myownlikely emotions, in the wake of Astarion’s hypothetical death – then state,You sought your own death.

With no other prospects before me but the loss of my mind, or the abandonment of my morals, yes. I thought to find some worthy reason to give my life, before my will might begin to fail me. And in my searching, I found Blurg-who-was-unknown-to-me-but-was-kind. He feared me, of course, but his curiosity has always been irrepressible. We talked; at length. I decided… perhaps it would be a small enough risk, if I were to delay my end long enough to help him with his research, as he asked of me. But it would have been wrong to take that risk withhislife and freedom, in the event that I should ever lose control, without informing him of the possibility in advance,Omeluum adds.

Is that – a danger?I ask, my tentacles starting to thrash in agitation before I force them to still.I know that we may attack and consume others as a reaction to strong emotion. And I know that hunger can drive one to desperation, even if I have not experienced it so strongly myself. But is there also the potential to lose control to the extent that we take a thrall against our own will?

Any being may fall to a strong enough temptation,Omeluum says simply.Though it is not as it is with the need to feast – ah, to consume brains. Taking a thrall is always our choice; to the best of my knowledge, at least. But the agony of existing in such an isolated state can only ever increase, as long as that state continues. Tell me how unyielding your will is in the face of such torment, young one, and we will know the extent of the risk to those at your side.

My eyes flicker downward, then back up to meet Omeluum’s gaze again.Clearly your Blurg-who-is-claimed-but-not-thrall agreed to the risk, then.

He did,Omeluum agrees.More than that: he offered me sympathy. He attempted to inquire with the Society, with others he knew, about other ways to alleviate my suffering. He did not wish for me to cease. Not enough, in itself, to sustain my mind, but enough to give mehope. And hope can sustain us long past the point we thought possible, I have learned. Long enough to find some solution we otherwise would not have.

Howlong?I ask again, impatient.How long does my beautiful-vicious-deadly-beloved-not-thrall-Astarion have to decide? How much must I ask that he let me take from him for this purpose?

It is not a taking,Omeluum tells me, gentle.Not when it is like this. But I have only my own experiences to answer you with, young one, and our circ*mstances are different. I had a thrall for decades, first; you have gone entirely without since your birth. You are afflicted with partialism; I am not,it says next, and while I can feel a flash of its distaste, even horror, at my condition, I can also feel how it makes the effort to suppress the reaction.I do not know how these factors might influence the outcome. But in my case, it took us approximately one year together to reach the point where we now are; a year of slowly deepening the psionic connection between us. It cannot be rushed, or pushed; you must be patient.

I would never push him,I return, the words sparking with genuine offense and outrage.

Omeluum's tentacles wave gently.Peace; I meant only to warn, not to accuse. It is natural to feel some – desperation, as the condition worsens. To want to reach out to the one you desire to have soothe it for you. And you may do so; even if what your Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-thrall can offer you is not yet enough to sustain, it will still be enough to ease the pain, at least a little. Exist within his mind and let him share in yours to whatever degree he welcomes; it will help. And it will help to show him that such communion is nothing he need fear. Not fromyou.

I send over a feeling of cautious assent.He will let me share my emotions with him,I state, then add with an undercurrent of mournfulness,He keeps his own mind closed to me.

Yes,Omeluum agrees, with a wash of sympathy – no, empathy.It is a hard thing for the other races, it seems, to be known in such a way. I cannot understand it, but I have felt it in the mind of my Blurg-who-is-brilliant-beloved-loyal-friend. Theyfear. But that fear can lessen, with time.

You cannot tell my beautiful-vicious-deadly-beloved-not-thrall-Astarion of this,I command.You cannot tell him what we have spoken of today. I will not have him pushinghimself,either. I will tell him what he needs to know. You will not.

I will not tell him,Omeluum says, with a tolerant sort of amusem*nt for some reason. After a moment it fades, making way for hesitant curiosity.Do you intend to meet with Aurangaul-shard-leader again?

I do,I say, meeting its curiosity with my own.Why?

Tentacles wave in an uncertain, rather wary, pattern.If you can learn anything of how Eighth-Shard views arcane magic and its practitioners – without telling it, or its leader, of my presence – I would be interested to know more. Of that, of their stance on the Grand Design, and of how they handle their thralls. I do not think there is ever again to be a place for me amongst our kind, even with a shard rather than a colony. But I have been surprised by fate before.

I will see what I can safely learn for you,I agree.

Thank you,Omeluum says.And – while it may not be enough, just as a shallow connection with your Astarion-who-is-claimed-but-not-thrall is not enough... it may be that there is stillsomebenefit to you in having a deeper connection to one of our own. I am willing to try, if you need it. If your condition reaches the point that you would rather try with me than continue as you are. And of course, you are welcome to come visit me anytime you wish for something more simple, like this. Your company is welcome.

I... thank you for your offer. I will remember it,I make myself say, for all that my mind is screaming a vehement denial at Omeluum.

Amusem*nt, and understanding.Simply bear the possibility in mind,Omeluum advises, and I give my wordless assent.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“You know, darling, after how strongly you objected to the idea of me staying behind in the Underdark, one would think you’d be less eager to leave me behindhere,” Astarion idly comments, as I enter our residence in the Blushing Mermaid’s cellar. He turns a page of his book without looking up.

“I do not trust Aurangaul and its shard to refrain from attacking the settlement in my absence, whatever promises it offered,” I repeat, setting aside my shield, a satchel of books from Omeluum, and my gauntlets, then hanging up my cloak. “There is no equivalent danger likely to be present here.”

“Ah, I see,” Astarion replies, voice light in a way that immediately has me looking over and narrowing my eyes. “So you – what, wanted somewhere you could safely tuck me away until you’re ready to play with me again?”

I blink once, then move to take a seat in the armchair across from his. “You are not my toy,” I state. “When have I ever treated you as such?”

Astarion snaps his book closed, tossing it onto the table at his elbow. He lounges back more comfortably in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regards me. “Howwasyour chat with Omeluum?” he inquires. “Did you manage to attend to all your private mind flayer business successfully?”

I huff out an annoyed breath. “You know that I only attended alone at its request.”

“And since when are you inclined to heed requests for things you’d rather not grant, dear?” Astarion returns, baring his teeth briefly in a not-quite-smile.

“When I am requesting assistance myself, when there is little harm in the granting, and when I am curious as to the reason for the request,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him as I tick off the explanations on my fingers. I make myself start counting with the wholly illusory one, for the additional practice.

“And?” Astarion asks. “Did you get a reason? Maybe even a good one? Not that I’m getting my hopes up, mind you.”

“As I surmised, it seemed,” I say. “Omeluum asked before I left that I keep certain details relating to its own past between us. It mentioned as well that it went against its natural inclinations, to give much information on the colonies and how they operate to an outsider,” I add. “Even one such as myself. But it also said it recognised that I was unlikely to keep such information from you without better cause.”

“Well, at least it isn’t beingentirelyunreasonable about all this,” Astarion says with a haughty sniff, seeming to begin settling out of his pique; I’m careful to give no indication of my resultant satisfaction at having successfully managed his mood.

“Most of what it had to say on the topic of the colonies was only – incidentally useful, or of interest,” I say, surmising that providing further information unprompted is likely to continue to help improve Astarion’s temper. “Although it did provide some context for what we learned from Aurangaul,” I add, and give a quick overview of some of the basic factual information I just gained: shards, commencement, and the assumed capabilities of ulitharid in particular, as well as what Omeluum had to say regarding my illusory form and our kind’s arcane capabilities.

“Mmm,” Astarion hums once I’m done, studying me. “And the thralls? You didaskabout the entire reason we returned here so soon in the first place, right?”

“It was not the only reason,” I remind him. “We also returned in order to meet with the Ironhands, the Gondians, Duke Raveng-”

“Are you trying to avoid the question, or is this just you being naturally irritating again?” Astarion snaps.

“I avoid nothing,” I state; it’s of arguable truth, as properly what I was doing was merelydelayinganswering, in order to give myself more time to consider how best to do so. “Yes: I asked about Aurangaul’s statement that I require a thrall to survive. Omeluum’s response was that it is unsure if that is true – or accurate, perhaps, rather than true – but that it does not believe it to be the case.”

“And did it have areasonfor that belief?” Astarion asks, pointed, as he raises his eyebrows and waves his hand in a littlekeep goinggesture.

“Yes,” I say. “But much of the details would fall under what it asked that I keep private.”

Astarion stares at me. “Darling,” he says, after a time, in that particular way he does when what he really means is ‘idiot’. “Under the circ*mstances, I can’t say that I see why either of us should care. Do youreallyexpect me to believe that youdo? This is yourlife.”

“By its own account, however, it is not an immediately urgent concern,” I counter. “Aurangaul estimated one to two years before it might become so for me. Omeluum’s experiences would seem to support this. There is plenty of time for me to further investigate the various possibilities. And to later decide to betray Omeluum's confidence, if I should come to decide that is necessary.”

“No,” Astarion says, scowling, and slashes a hand through the air. “No, I could have bought this from theoldTav, but you can’t seriously expect me to believe that youstillcare this much about respecting people’s privacy. What aren’t you telling me?”

“You already know what I am not telling you: that which Omeluum asked that I keep between us,” I say, striving for a dry tone, and am rewarded with irritation flaring in Astarion’s gaze. It’s not anidealreaction, of course, given the efforts I only just made to get himoutof a similar mood. But the more he’s distracted by his annoyance, the less he’s likely to work out of what I’m not telling him.

“Allow me to remind you that Omeluum is likewise a psionic being,” I continue. “It is not about respecting its wishes: it is about the fact that it would be significantly more difficult for me to lie to it than most other beings. And when it is the only other illithid we know of that is not aligned with some manner of larger group of our kind, I am not eager to alienate it before I must.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow; he makes a noise of exasperation, and shakes his head. “Fine,” he says, clipped. “For now. Is thereanythingmore you’ll tell me, then, or should I just – return to my book, and provide you with an attractive view whilst you deliberate?”

It is, I reflect as my own irritation likewise flares up, an unfortunate reality of the relationship that by this point Astarion is equally capable of successfully needlingme.

“I do not require an attractive view,” I say, outwardly calm. “Though you have certainly never failed to naturally provide one. And yes: Omeluum suggested that I continue as I have been, with improving my psionic abilities so that I may choose to directly share my emotions with others. To – exist within their minds, in Omeluum’s words. It believes that this would be likely to help.”

“And the other way around?” Astarion asks, after the smallest of pauses.

“The other way around?” I ask, stalling again. I truly should have found some pretext to delay my return; given myself more time to come up with a better way to direct the course of this discussion in advance. Assuming that such a way evenexists.

“Other people existing withinyourmind,” Astarion clarifies. “Sharing their own emotions –thoughts– withyou.Did Omeluum mentionthatas something likely to help, as well?”

“Why do you assume it would have?” I ask.

“You meanbesidesthat it’s the obvious next step, that it’s something you alreadytoldme you instinctually want, not long after you transformed, and how you’re not just giving me a straight answer?” Astarion says, incredulous. “Really,Tav. I’m almost insulted. No, you know what? I think Iaminsulted, that you clearly think so little of me!”

I make myself visibly frown. “I think very highly of you.”

“Then stop treating me like I’m a child or a – afool, and act like it!” Astarion snaps.

A huffed breath of annoyance. “Very well. Yes: Omeluum also mentioned that as a – potential possibility which might help me. That does not mean you are under any obligation to -”

“I know that,” Astarion interrupts, scowling at me.

“I do not ask it of you,” I state. “I do notwantit from you if it is something you feel obliged to give me, in any way.”

“Oh, so it’s fine foryouto reluctantly give me blood if I’m starving or getting ill, but when it’s somethingyounow need -”

“It is different,” I interrupt. “When you drank my blood, you could avoid hurting me in the process. For the most part,” I allow. “To do this to you when you are not truly willing – it would be harmful. Not hurtful: harmful. Tell me the thought of it, of having me deep enough inside you that I know your every thought and emotion, does not still horrify you,” I command.

Astarion stays silent, jaw clenched and the tips of his ears flushing very slightly.

I nod. “You see?” I say. “I will not violate you like that.”

“Even if refusing costs you yourlife?” Astarion demands, his hands balling into fists on the arms of the chair.

“Your trust is precious to me,” I state. “Do you imagine that I would enjoy feeling it break?”

Astarion closes his eyes, covering them with a hand and shaking his head a little. “How are youstillso -” he breathes, then cuts himself off with an audible sigh. “All the times I ask myself who you even are, now, and then you just… go and do something as – as foolish, as recklessly self-sacrificing, asthis.Fine, then: don’t take what you require from me to bloodysurvive, if you’re so determined. But if you won’t do that, then just…bea damned mind flayer and take a thrall already, will you?!”

“You do not want a mind flayer,” I remind him. “You wanther.”

“Yes, and I can’thaveher withoutyou!” Astarion exclaims, dropping his hand from his eyes to glare at me.

I’m silent in the wake of his statement; Astarion makes a wordless, frustrated noise, then stands, heading for the rack holding our outerwear.

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, clipped, as he swings a deeply hooded cloak around himself. “I’ll be back before dawn, I expect. Do try and avoid getting yourself needlessly killed while I’m gone, dear.”

Astarion,I say, inside his mind.

Astarion ignores me, stalking over to the door and letting himself out.

It slams shut behind him.

♦

Lying curled together in the dimness of their tent in the Shadow-cursed Lands, after he’d told her the truth. Smiling up at her, as she’d smiled back; she couldn’t see him in such low lighting, of course, but she’d have felt him moving his head against her shoulder to see her expression. And she had always,always,smiled at him whenever he glanced her way; as if it was pure instinct, to want to offer him the reassurance of her continued affection. Even if that smile was only in her gaze; even if it took time to learn to see it there.

“You’re sure you’re satisfied with – this?” Astarion had murmured to her, during one of those many cherished, hushed nights that have since flowed and blurred together within his mind. As if it isn’t enough to take more such nights together, takeheraway from him, without that creeping devouring at the edges of her memory, too. “Just this?”

“I’m satisfied withyou,” Tav had murmured back, lifting a hand to brush along his cheek and card her fingers gently through his hair, andgods, how many times and in how many different ways had she told him exactly that, over and over again throughout their few, too-short months together?

“You. I getyou.”

“I wantyou.All the rest is just details we have plenty of time to figure out together.”

“I don’t want to make you feel like I want you to be someone you’re not, love.”

“You know that I love you as you are right now, right?”

“I’m yours because I choose to be.”

“I do, I think. What doyouwant, Astarion?”

“OfcourseI want her!” Astarion yells, kicking a dislodged cobblestone into the shadowed depths of a stableyard strewn with rubbish. It hits some loose metal sheeting propped against the ruins of the stable, sending up a clattering noise; startled, a few rats come scurrying out of their disturbed shelter, disappearing into whatever little holes and hiding places they can find.

His stubbornly persistent wisps of guilt remain unalleviated, but if nothing else, he can at least takesomecomfort in the reminder that he no longer need eatratsto survive.

He changes course, turning down the nearest alley leading back towards the rougher parts of the city, rather than continuing on towards the parks and the mansions and the sharp-tongued cleric he’d half-thought to drop in on, for a spot of companionable complaining. But Shadowheart’s parents rest uneasily enough as it is – much as itdisgustsAstarion that he’s apparently bothered to retain such pointless details about such pointless people – and he’s more likely to be turned away than invited inside, this late in the evening.

And it’s not like he can just enter regardless, any longer.

So, then. The docks, the drunkards, the merchants with their fat purses, and most importantly: the would-be muggers. He’s not exactly dressed right for it – only a lighter set of amour, at least, with it and his weapons alike covered by the cloak, but the cloak itself is too plain. As is the rest of his clothing, but he’ll make do. Half the time the muggers have about as much discernment as the drunkards, after all; a bit of stumbling, a clink of his coinpurse in the right deserted alleyway, and dinner tonight should deliver itself right to him. And if he’sverylucky, maybe he’ll even get to –bleedoff a little aggression, hah, in the process.

A slight smile twitches Astarion’s lips at the thought, before it fades again, scowl returning.Whyhe’s even bothering to keep to her old rules, to the rules he’d agreed with the oldher,he doesn’t even know; it’s not like she’dcare,now. At most, he’d get a lecture on discretion and reputation and forming bad habits, notmorality. And gods knowhecertainly doesn’t care whether his targets meet some overcomplicated list of shifting, interconnected requirements for whether theydeserveit enough. Especially when he’d half-suspected Tav had just been making large parts of it up as she went along. For all her attempts once upon a time to convince him of his own capacity for all that nonsense so near and dear to her heart.

I suppose at least that’s one thing I can be thank-

Astarion cuts the thought off before it can finish forming, stamping it viciously back down. He tilts his head to the side, listening, then turns down another side street. There’s raucous laughter not too far off and he heads towards it, determinedly thinking of nothing at all besides his plans for the hunt that awaits.

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Self-defense, defense of someone he’d probably have mugged later on, close enough,Astarion thinks, eyes heavy-lidded with the warm satisfaction of hunger temporarily sated. He thumbs a wet smear of blood off the corner of his lip, then sucks it off slowly, savouring the last of the rich, brandy-tinged flavour. Relieving the corpse of its coinpurse, he lets the man slump to the ground; hefts the purse’s weight and gives a quick, smug little grin as he nods to himself and tucks it away.As I thought;muchtoo much wealth for someone dressed likethatto have gained by any honest means.

Humming just under his breath, Astarion saunters back out of the alley and down to the broader avenue overlooking the docks, finding himself in the mood for a nice stroll along the waterfront beneath the waxing moon, only a few days off from full. The ships in port creak softly, swaying back and forth with the light breeze and the water’s currents; most look to have a sailor or two on watch to guard against attempted theft. They’re of varying degrees of wakefulness, admittedly; Astarion eyes a distant figure propped up against a mast below, then shifts his gaze up to a woman in the crow’s nest of the ship nearest to him. Struck by a sudden whim, he sends her a jaunty salute; her shoulders shake briefly, then she returns the gesture.

Smiling a little to himself, Astarion continues on, away from theMermaidand in the direction of the Counting House, soaking up the sounds and sights – and sometimes smells, unfortunately – ofhiscity. Damaged though much of it still is, in the wake of the Netherbrain’s attempted conquest. But all that really means in the long run is a few crumbling buildings demolished, new ones to be raised in their places. A new section of the wall, too, perhaps, or an additional gate or guard tower; a staircase just like the one he’s in the midst of carefully picking his way down, replaced. Repairs that ought to have been done long ago, in other words, and can now no longer be put off, waiting in the hopes of an increased budget that’s only ever given grudgingly.

It’s almost a pity he won’t be here to watch it happening, Astarion thinks with a tinge of wistful regret, even nostalgia. Over two centuries he’s seen the Gate go through plenty such changes, of course, but he was never really in a position before to properlyseeit: to explore, watch it happen, slowly learn the shape of his territory anew, one crisp autumn night after another. He thinks it might have been…nice, to do so this time. Now that he’s finally free to think of more than just securing the next victim; more than just walking that delicate highwire between holding ontohimself, and keeping Cazador appeased enough to avoid having any further scraps forcefully torn away.

Free,Astarion muses, and shakes his head a little, remembering his own words to Tav, the night after she’d changed.I was just thinking about freedom. How I’m free from Cazador. How I have a whole new life stretching out in front of me, and you’re…

Well, what are you?

That’s the question, Tav, isn’t it?

Sighing, Astarion abandons his stroll, opting instead for clambering up a low pile of loose rubble left over from something blasting a hole in the staircase’s protective wall. He boosts himself up onto a more level part of the barricade, at one of the landings, then settles in with one leg propped up, his chin resting atop his knee as he stares out over the Chionthar, idly toying with a dagger.

He doesn’thaveto stay, of course; hells, not even Tav,hisTav, would have expected - or likely evenwanted -him to. Hadn’t she said at the end that she wanted him to be happy? Hadn’t sheaskedhim to be happy? The last thing she ever asked of him at all, really.

Well. Other than not burning down her temple, but he isn’t counting that one. Theimportantpoint is that he very clearly haseveryreason to feel entirely justified in leaving, whenever he so chooses.

Doesn’t he?

Tav, standing before him, solemn in the wake of finding Sebastian and the other imprisoned spawn, but managing the smallest of smiles, just for him. Just for a moment, just to let him know she sees him: him, and what he’s trying to do. An aching sympathy in her gaze, but no compromise. Nowillingnessto allow him refuge in all his attempted justifications.

Sheseeshim, and all his attempts to claim there are no other solutions besides killing all those people, giving up on them, are dashed and broken upon the rock of her immovable certainty that therecouldbe. That there is still hope.

“It’s just whether… their lives, thischance, is worth enough for us to try and find it together.”

With a wordless noise of frustration, Astarion reaches blindly behind himself, groping about for a bit of rubble; his hand closes around stone and he whips his arm forward, violently chucking the debris in the direction of the river.

It falls short, hitting the sand with a soft thump; Astarion scoffs, shaking his head again, then leans back a little, stretching out his other leg. Flips his dagger up into the air and catches it again, the motion rather more vigorous than his previous absent-minded fiddling.

Athrall.Of all the things she might need to survive, it justhadto be a thrall. Or rather: either a thrall, which she continues to refuse to even consider, or…that.

“Haven’t I given enough?” Astarion hisses lowly, still staring out at nothing in particular, and hells, he’strying,all right? He’sbeentrying, been forcing himself to stillseeher, still look for her beneath the surface, and all the while doing absolutelyeverythinghe can, everything learned and perfected over two centuries of playing a desperate role for his very survival, to keep her from realising just how muchworkit all is. Not just doing it: making this impossible, agonising attempt to hold onto whatever scraps of her might yet remain lookeasy.Look like it’s easy onhim.

Or at least not sohardon him thatshedecides to be the one to leave. Since apparently that idiotic inclination towards self-sacrifice, forcibly hammered into her head before she was old enough to know any better, couldn’t have the decency to have been one of the scraps she’d lost.

And it’s hardly as if he’s unwilling, after all. Hardly as if this wasn’t his own choice. He’s been doing it and he’llkeepdoing it, keep making himself look for her within the mind flayer, smile easily and pretend seeing her like this doesn’t hook claws inside the gaping wound of his chest and set him bleeding anew, each and every day. He’d told her he wanted to try, and he’d meant it –stillmeans it – because of course it’s worth it, to try. Even the smallest chance would bemorethan worth it, but he justdoesn’t knowif what he’s looking for, what he’s seeing, is something real or simply what he so desperatelywantsto see.

Of course it’s not enough, though: what he’s given, what he has to offer. It’s never been enough, not for anyone. Not untilher.

If he could onlyknow –

But he can’t, and she won’t take a thrall, and now she’s startedhidingthings from him, too -

(- assuming she hasn’t been hiding things all along, that this isn’t just a single, tiny misstep in the ongoing deception, that it isn’t some deeper manipulation initself, such a foolish, witless child, no hope of ever grasping the truth of the mind flayer’s trap before it snaps shut around him, swallows him whole-)

- and the only way she’ll agree to take what she needs from him, evenwithhis godsdamned agreement,is if he can find some way to make himselfwantit and he just f*ckingcan’t.

Not when he doesn’t know. And honestly? Probably not even if hedid. How is he supposed to make himself wantanyoneseeing him that deeply, even his Tav? Unable to lie, denied the refuge of a mask, no solitude, noprivacy–

And he can’t even justpretendfor long enough to get her past that first hurdle, get her inside his mind and then convince her it’s done now, that she may as well stay at this point and take what she needs; not when she already knows it would be a lie. Knows that he could more easily lay himself down for the creature she’s become, force himself through the horror and disgust as he’s done with countless others – if, admittedly, to a lesser degree – and smile up at her and let her inside his body, than he could lay open his mind for her and let her insidethat.

Surely itmuststill be her, if she refuses to take from me only because she knows I don’t really want it, right? Who besides Tav has ever cared? It has to still be her.

It’s hardly as if that’s all there is, either: her unwillingness to invade his mind, so unlike almost everything he’s ever heard or experienced of mind flayers. To such an extent that itshouldbe enough, all on its own… if it wasn’t for that ‘almost’. For Omeluum, and its – half-orc, or bugbear, or whatever that Blurg is. And more importantly, what heisn’t:Astarion might once have doubted whether the bugbear had truly been left in control of his own mind, but he’s seen entirely too much ofrealthralls, now.

That butcher in the colony under Moonrise Towers: the one Tav had so uncharacteristically insisted upon killing, after she’d used her tadpole to probe his mind somehow. She hadn’t given the rest of them any real details, but that tense set of her jaw, the carefully leashed anger in her gaze and her movements… for all that Astarion’s strongest reaction had beenintensecuriosity, seeing so much fury in her had been rare enough that the memory of it – and of what had caused it – had lingered.

Stelmane, of course, had very obviously been made into a thrall by the Emperor, regardless of the details. And – much as Astarion may have tried to convince Tav otherwise, without success – had clearly been too…damaged,by the process, for it to make any difference whether or not she’d consented to it. If anything, he’s likely better offnotgoing poking at that question any further, with how the answer might just push Tav away from taking her own thrall even more. He’ll just have to try and keep her distracted with more promising options, and hope that this new tendency of hers to have more minor matters and intentions slip her mind will work in his favour on this one.

And then, of course, there’d been the ulitharid.

Tav halting in front of the dozens – if not hundreds, past the curving edges of the rock-carved passages and out of their sight – of almost expressionless thralls. She’s staring past them at the ulitharid as if they don’t even exist, and while Astarion can appreciate keeping your attention on therealthreat... it’s that ‘almost’ which distracts him, even as the monster approaches. It’s not most of them – not even many, the ultiharid’s mental domination clearly too extensive, too well established, to allow such a thing – but heknowshow to read people, has trained himself to catch even the smallest hints they try to keep hidden, and here and there, dotted throughout the ranks of the thralls, the evidence is clear.

A tiny tremble of a hand, immediately stilled with an abrupt jerk.

No actual tears, but moisture, gathering within an eye in preparation for an escape which never arrives.

Clothes and armour identical to the point that they become uniforms. Every head shorn of hair, shaved down to bare skin; likely every body as well, from what little Astarion can see of those thralls hirsute enough that there’s a hint of stubble visible. He finds himself abruptly remembering the hidden embroidery inside his own shirt – never worn now, but still carefully tucked away – and wonders for a moment if any of these slaves might have anything similar hidden from his sight, but… he knows they don’t.

Tav looks past them all, her only interest in their master; Astarion tears his gaze away and follows her lead.

But there’s nothing of any of that in Blurg, unless it’sverywell-hidden. No hint of the fear or despair or desperation Astarion just can’t believe he wouldn’t be able to spot atall, and no sign of damage or deterioration, either. And yes, he may have only observed Blurg over the course of less than a full year –it’s not enough, it can’t possibly be enough to conclude anything for certain, but how long does Tav evenhave? - and it’s not as if he was even paying that much attention when they’d first met Omeluum and its pet bugbear in the Underdark, but, well…

Surely the rest of the Society of Brilliance would have noticed by now if something’soffabout the bugbear, right?

(Like those thousands of victims knew something was off, refused to follow him back to be slaughtered?)

Surely they’d havecaredif they noticed something; not just allowed the mind flayer in their midst to keep a thrall openly. Right?

(How many patriars and dukes and Flaming Fist officers and other influential, respected members of society had attended Cazador’s parties over the centuries? How many had he entertained personally, before they’d all gotten back up and left him there?)

He doesn’t even know which answer it is hewants!For Blurg to secretly be a thrall, so Tav’s refusal to do the same to him means something? For Blurgnotto be a thrall, so that they have some real, direct evidence of some other way to save Tav’s life? One which she might actually be willing to accept, if Astarion can only find the right way to convince her?

What kind of creature will he be inviting inside his mind if he succeeds?

One so afraid she’ll feel his own fear, directly experience the shattering of his trust if she agrees, that she’d rather risk her very life?

Or one still toying with its prey; watching in eager anticipation, hiding the lurking malice andglee?One that’s simply waiting for Astarion to break, to reach the point ofbeggingit to violate him in the precise way it claims to find abhorrent? The way it knows he fears the most, thanks to scraps of stolen memories picked through for whatever it can best turn towards its purposes?

“I am not leaving you behind,” Tav tells him, as she carefully, methodically folds her spare sets of clothing and places them inside her pack. There’s an unaccustomed, almostunnatural,rigidity and precision to how she goes about the task; while Astarion couldn’t point to any single action or movement that isn’t whathisTav would have been doing, the feel of it taken as a whole is that of one going through the well-worn steps of a practised performance.

Something no amount of clever costuming or magical tricks will convince the audience is real; not unless they willingly throw themselves into the illusion.

“Darling,” Astarion tries, and very pointedly doesnotgrit his teeth, or spit the word like a curse. “Don’t you think you’re being a little… overly cautious? How would that ulitharid evenknowyou’ve left? And even if it does, why should that make any difference? If it decides to attack -”

“I can see to it that you and I are able to safely retreat from here, even should such an attack by Aurangaul and the forces of its shard, and of any colonies it allies with, manage to overwhelm the spawn and prove to be too much for us to defeat,” Tav interrupts, and oh, but he trulyhatesit when she does that: answers his objections, replies to thewholeof his arguments, before he’s even made them, and hethinksit’s just her increased mental capacity at play, but how can he possibly know for certain?

“All right, but -”

“Astarion,” Tav interrupts again, leaving off her packing to turn and look at him with that beloved face, so entirely devoid of both animation and a subtle warmth. “We have been debating this matter for nearly a full hour. If your arguments have not yet succeeded in changing my mind, what is it that makes you believe restating them with slightly different phrasing will be worth attempting? I am not leaving you behind. If you are determined to remain here, then I will do the same.”

“Youknowyou need to talk to Omeluum about thralls,” Astarion snaps, giving in and glaring at her openly, on the grounds that if he doesn’t findsomeway of expressing his frustration he’s going to snap and just start yelling at her.

Tav doesn’t reply; simply continues to look at him, expressionless.

Not that Astarion needs a direct reply to know what she’s saying just now, of course. “Fine,” he growls, stalking over to grab what’s left of the carefully folded clothing and shove it all in the pack, squashing it down so everything will fit. He makes sure to rumple Tav’s clothes especially, so they’ll be sure to wrinkle terribly. “Fine, but if we come back and find Dal’s managed to burn the place down in our absence -”

“I will take full responsibility,” Tav replies.

Astarion likewise squashes down hisexceedinglystrong desire to hiss at her.

There’s this, too; isn’t there? Surely onlyhisTav would so stubbornly insist upon risking herself even more, just because there’s some small chance he might come to harm if she doesn’t.

Right?

(- even the cruellest ghaik will be quick to protect, even coddle, a favoured thrall, and Orpheus had called it possessiveness too, had acted like heknewthings about her kind, how much do he and the githyanki really know, how much might they be keeping to themselves, couldtheytell him more about not just mind flayers in general but how he might be able to tell the difference, might be able toknow -)

“Ofcourseit’s worth enough to try and find,” Astarion grumbles, huffing in annoyance – not even here,andstillshe’s winning their arguments – then sheathes his dagger and stands, hopping down off the wall and starting on his way back up the stairs, back into the twisting streets of his city.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

“- ask them to go and work with creatures who might plate them up for breakfast, and you’resurprisedthey -” Jaheira’s in the midst of saying, when we both pause, looking over at the sound of the cavern’s main door opening.

When Astarion appears in the doorway, he likewise pauses for just a moment before continuing onward, up the stairs to come join us at the table. “Well,” he says, in tones of faux astonishment. “A visit from the High Harper herself!Suchan honour. What’s the occasion?”

“I need a reason to visit friends now?” Jaheira asks, raising an eyebrow at Astarion as he pulls out a chair and settles in.

For whatever reason, he’s avoiding my gaze; the stray thought floats through my mind that perhaps I should have retained my illusory form, but I push it aside. He can hardly pretend to unawareness of what I am bythispoint, after all.

“Ofcoursenot,” Astarion stresses. “Really, I’m just touched you managed to find the time. I can tell how busy your schedule must be, after all; what’s it been? A month? Two?Surelynot three. Why, that’s – not that far off the time we all killed the Brain together, isn’t it?”

Jaheira and I have been corresponding with one another,I remind Astarion.

Fangs flash briefly in an unfriendly grin as Astarion glances over to me. “Yes, you have gained so very many eager correspondents in the wake of our grand triumph, haven’t you, darling? Our illustrious High Harper here, Dukes Ravengard and Florrick, that Fist officer… really, it’s a wonder you find the time! But then, it’s hardly as if you could just drop by and have a chat with any of them in person, instead. What with how busy all their schedules are.”

“I take it there is something I am missing here?” Jaheira says sardonically. “Some context to bring sense to these ramblings?”

In the immediate aftermath of killing the Netherbrain, many of the city’s officials were willing to provide assistance, as well as benefit from having our acquaintance be a matter of public knowledge,I state.But I was soon required to inform certain among them of my ceremorphosis, due to the time it took for the development – and then mastery – of my illusory form. There were a few... incidents that might have led to some inconvenience for me, if the city’s leadership had remained unaware that the presence of one particular illithid in the city was not a cause for concern. However, most of those informed of the matter became disinterested in fostering any kind of public relationship, even following my successful development of a reliable human form. They did, however, continue to provide us with more practical assistance. And agreed to an increase of such very recently, for that matter,I add, pointedly staring at Astarion on the latter addition.

“Oh, yes, the dukeswereeager to give us just enough of what we asked for the settlement to placate you, then immediately rush us back out of their fortress again. Almost as eager as they were to avoid inviting you there in the first place!” Astarion snaps, scowling atmefor some reason.

“Does it matter why they do it, if they will give you what you want from them? You think most allies of the Harpers come to our aid because they care?” Jaheira asks, then snorts. “If you mean to demand they respect you – or our mind flayer friend, here – you will find yourself waiting for some time, Astarion. That kind, whether our city’s leaders or others like them, they respect only a few things, yes? Coin, power... reputation. So. You bribe them, you make them more popular, or -” A half-shrug. “You back them into a corner. Show up at their offices without warning, if you want some example.” She shakes her head, then clicks her tongue at him. “You choose to play their games, do not complain after the fact that the rules are not to your liking. Nor that the other players expect you to abide by them, mmm?”

Astarion just scoffs at this, giving her a little glare as well, though the tips of his ears are flushing.

“As for my own schedule,” Jaheira continues, rolling her shoulders and tilting her head from side to side, stretching the muscles of her neck. “It is busy, yes. You recall I have the bulk of my organisation to rebuild, after most of my friends were murdered not so long ago, yes? Pfah. You want to see me more often, come visit me yourselves, why don’t you? Perhaps you would not make for much of a statue any longer, but that does not mean I am ashamed to be known as your companion,” she adds, gesturing to me with a little flap of her hand.

Thank you,I say, before Astarion can get any further than opening his mouth, for what I presume would be some manner of sniping at Jaheira, thereby further derailing or escalating the conversation. Still, perhaps it would be for the best if I were to find some way to distract him more thoroughly? Given that he seems to have returned in the mood to pick a fight of some sort, and at present I find that I have minimal interest, at best, in indulging him.

Jaheira and I were discussing whether she might have any contacts of her own who might prove more willing to assist with the practical parts of the engineering challenges in the Underdark,I inform him.But you are better placed than I to give the exact details of what the settlement will require, should the Gondians remain so… reluctant to provide their own direct assistance.

Astarion makes a face. “Undersized ingrates,” he mutters, then clears his throat, giving Jaheira a repressive glare when she snorts derisively.

The exact details?I try prompting him again.

“Oh, it’s mostly just that river fording, I suppose,” Astarion sighs, slouching a little in his chair as he draws his dagger and starts scoring a pair of parallel, curving lines into the dull wood of the table; a discard from the tavern above, its surface is already quite thoroughly scratched and gouged.

Not that this stops Jaheira commenting, of course. “What, you’ve no parchment now? Clearly Idoneed to be coming by more often to check in on you two, if three months apart has made you forget all your manners. Tell me, is this the worst of how you’ve started –indulginghim, hmm, or must I concern myself with more serious lapses?” she adds, raising an eyebrow pointedly at me.

I look blankly back at her.It is an item of furniture,I point out.One which is already damaged, moreover. Why would I have any opinion whatsoever as to what Astarion chooses to do with it?

“I don’t think this is actually about the table, darling,” Astarion comments; he’s stopped carving a representation of the Underdark river into the tabletop, now, in favour of studying Jaheira with open curiosity. Tellingly, though, he has the dagger only a small shift of his fingers off being gripped properly; a half-second off being ready foruse.

“It is not about the table,” Jaheira agrees, her gaze shifting to Astarion; it flickers briefly down to the motionless dagger in his hand and she rolls her eyes, then lifts them to his face again, ostensibly – pointedly – ignoring the weapon. “What – or who, rather – have you been eating within the past month or two, Astarion? Here, within the city proper.”

“What?” Astarion frowns at her, then scoffs, his chin jerking up as a touch of haughtiness enters his expression. “You know, Jaheira, I can’t recall you ever showing such concern over the contents of my diet before, when we were in the Shadow-cursed Lands. Actually, now that I think about it, Iseemto recall you telling Tav it was none of your concern, what I ate or what it was doing to me. So why don’t wekeepit as none of your conc-ow!”

Jaheira leans back again, regarding Astarion with a tolerant sort of amusem*nt as he scowls at her and rubs at the spot on his forehead she just flicked. “Do not act so petulant, cub,” she advises him. “And do not assume you know my reasons for what I do and do not agree to, mmm? You did not starve, and I did not force myself to endure a vampire feeding on me without better cause, after we were subjected tomorethan enough of that, back in Athkatla. So. Answer my question, will you? Have you been gorging yourself recently on the fine, upstanding residents of this city – near where I have made my home, perhaps – or do I have someothervampires to track down and teach how things work around here?”

My head tilts to one side slightly, but I content myself with continuing to simply observe and listen for now.

Astarion’s frown deepens, though his grasp on his dagger loosens alongside; he’s holding it almost idly now, rubbing a thumb up and down the ridges of the hilt, as if he’s largely forgotten its presence. “The only people I’ve been eating around here arehardlyfine or upstanding,” he says with a snort. “Idiots who try and mug me, usually. And I’m hardly going to go all the way out to your neighbourhood forthat.”

“Mmm,” Jaheira hums, frowning herself a little now, too. She sighs, then, and comments, “It would have been nice to have such a simple solution to my growing problem. But eh, I suppose I do not wholly mind that I do not find myself having to stake you out in the sun, my vampiric friend.”

“Jaheira! Once again, I’m almosttouched,” Astarion says, then smirks and opens his mouth to add something else.

“No,” Jaheira sternly admonishes him, though there’s clear amusem*nt tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You are very muchnotgoing to be, so put such thoughts from your mind, mmm? Assuming that you are capable, that is.”

A snort, and Astarion finally resheathes his dagger as he comments, “It’s likely just stragglers from the spawn we sent down to the Underdark. Dal said they had – oh, probably a few hundred or so that went up top to burn themselves up in the sun, back at the start of things. But it’s not as if she went along towatch.” He shrugs. “Go ahead and do whatever you want with them, if they came back up to the city. Theywerewarned.”

“Thank you for the permission,” Jaheira says, dry. “I plan to, yes. A few hundred, you say? Pfah; a dozen at most, I will wager, going by the number of victims we have turned up. Easy enough.”

“A dozen vampire spawn is what you’d calleasy?” Astarion says, suddenly looking amused. “And there I thought you Harpers were still rebuilding. Sure you’re not… biting off more than you can chew, dear?”

Jaheira turns her own look of amusem*nt on him right back. “A dozen or so vampire spawn is what I would call easy formeto handle on my own, Astarion. Why do you think your former master never did anything to add my territory to your hunting grounds, mmm?”

“Why do I – what?” Astarion says, his brow furrowing. “What are you talking about? There were – easier places, safer ones, with better pickings for us. Why would Cazador havebothered?”

“Yes, why bother doing anything about the threat living practically upon your doorstep, after she leaves your spawn for the sun to find, then sends the pair of you scurrying off like rats when you come and retrieve him?” Jaheira asks, then snorts. “Buy me a pint next time I come to visit with you, and perhaps I will tell you a story or two.”

“You know, I think I justmight,at that,” Astarion says, his lips curving in the smallest of smiles.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

Once the pair of them have finished going over the details of the Underdark river – drawn on parchment this time, for reasons known only to Astarion – along with what he knows of the assistance it seems the Gondians will not, in fact, be providing the spawn settlement, Astarion clears his throat, sitting back and fiddling with his pen in lieu of a dagger.

“You know, Jaheira,” he comments, sounding entirely too unconcerned for my liking. “As long as we’re on the subject of your contacts… you wouldn’t happen to know of any talented locals of a more arcane persuasion, would you? Oh, it’s nothing that can’t wait, of course; just if anyone happens to come to mind,” he adds, inspecting his fingernails.

Jaheira gives him a flat look. “It is an arcanist you are after, now? There is one whose name springs to mind, yes: a certain Waterdhavian wizard, only recently hailed as a hero of the city, mmm? Perhaps you will even have heard of him.”

Astarion snorts and waves this off. “Oh, Gale’s gone haring off east somewhere, chasing down another of his littleleadson the Crown. I’m sure it’ll turn out just as well as all the rest of them have. That’s why I’m asking, really; who knows when he’ll be back, or what we might find ourselves suddenly needing while he’s gone? We should be prepared for these sorts of – ah, situations, shouldn’t we?”

Astarion,I say, as Jaheira folds her arms, her eyebrow twitching upwards.

Astarion glances over, giving me a pat smile. “Yes, darling?”

What is it that you are planning?

“Planning?” Astarion echoes, shooting me a look justbrimmingwith confusion and poorly-disguised hurt at my suspicion. “I’m not sure what you -”

For one who so recently upbraided me over treating you like a child or a fool, you are certainly willing enough to indulge in the same behaviour, yourself.

Astarion’s faux-offense drops away in favour of a scowl, followed by an annoyed huff when Jaheira snorts at my words. “Fine,” he grumbles, glaring. “I was simplythinkingthat it – might be helpful, if we were to pay a visit to Orpheus and Lae’zel sometime. Soon, that is. Sometimesoon.”

I look at him blankly.They are presently engaged in a war to overthrow their god-queen,I remind him.And while Lae’zel and Orpheus themselves, and perhaps Voss, might think more positively of me, you may recall that the githyanki as a whole are not overly inclined to think well of illithid, due to their historic enslavement by my kind and the ongoing war by all githyanki factions against any illithid colonies they manage to locate.

“Yes, thank you darling, Ihaven’tactually forgotten,” Astarion says, a muscle pulsing in his jaw as he forces a smile that’s closer to a baring of teeth. “That’s exactlywhyit would be helpful: who better to tell us more about mind flayers and theirtruestrengths and weaknesses, than the people who have dedicated themselves to destroying them for… I don’t know, however long it’s been.”

“Well, it is far from being the worst idea that I have ever heard come out of your mouth, I will say that much,” Jaheira allows, while I’m still working on formulating a better way to try and make Astarion comprehend that the githyanki would find my presence amongst them highly displeasing.

“Oh,” Astarion says, sounding a little startled. “Really?”

“Bear in mind that you have voiced a truly excessive number of poor ideas around me, over the course of our acquaintance,” Jaheira dryly replies.

The githyanki would find my presence amongst them to be highly displeasing,I inform Astarion, interrupting his scowling at Jaheira.

Astarion flaps a hand, waving this off. “Oh, I’m sure Orpheus can keep them under control. Besides,” he adds, with a small smirk. “We already wiped out one creche, didn’t we? What’s one more, if it comes to it?”

“An excellent way to gain their assistance, yes,” Jaheira says. “Perhaps you will allow me to suggest some alternative, mmm?”

An alternative?I ask, confused, and feeling as if I’m rapidly losing my grasp on the direction of this conversation entirely.

It is, I am forced to admit, not as entirely unprecedented a feeling as I might prefer, whenever I am in Astarion’s company.

“A little something we picked up along the way, when Minsc and I travelled in the company of our Bhaalspawn friends,” Jaheira says, shrugging one shoulder. “We picked up a few githyanki raiding parties too as a result, set on reclaiming the thing. One of their silver swords,” she adds. “But with some... historic or symbolic meaning or the like, I gather; I will admit that I only paid so much attention to all the outraged yelling of our attackers, hmm? Enough to say that I will wager they would welcome its return.”

Something of enough historic or symbolic significance could prove useful to Orpheus in further legitimising his claim to rulership,I remark, thoughtful now.

Jaheira gives me a quick, approving grin. “You do not say, cub,” she replies, and I hesitate only briefly before brushing my amusem*nt over her mind in return. Her smile grows, and she inclines her head to me in acknowledgement.

“So this – this sword,” Astarion breaks in, leaning forward a little in his seat with his gaze fixed intently upon Jaheira. “You’ve had it all this time? Just… sitting around?”

“Hah,” Jaheira scoffs. “Our illustrious – and at times perhaps overly optimistic – leader, they entrusted the thing to Sarevok, of all people. A pity the githyanki did not rid of usthatparticular annoyance, before it had the chance to arise once more. Hunt us endlessly through the streets of Athkatla, sink our ship upon the open sea a tenday or more from land, even turn on us after we work together to escape a mind flayer colony in the midst of the Underdark, oh, yes, they were more than willing to do all ofthat. But you ask them to track down and despatch a single troublesome ex-Bhaalspawn right in the midst of Baldur’s Gate, and suddenly they are nowhere to be found,” she adds, momentarily caustic, before settling once more, with another small shrug. “But we are rarely gifted such fortunate boons, whether by the gods or otherwise, mmm? And perhaps now, we find that in the end, it works out well enough.”

You did not ever mention this to Lae’zel,I observe.Nor to any of the rest of us, myself included.

“Speak of some secrets too openly, and they have a habit of making their way back to those you would least want hearing of them, hmm? Something I have had the misfortune to learn a time or two more than I would like, over my many years. You think that adding in githyanki raiding parties, set upon searching the whole of the city until they either found their sword or tore the place down around our ears, would have helped us?” Jaheira demands. “That they would have left their fugitive kinswoman in peace, if they came upon her? No. Wherever Sarevok hid their sword after parting ways with us, I could trust that he would have known to protect it from direct scrying magics. Better for me to leave it wherever that might have been, keep my own counsel, and worry about looking for itafterwe had dealt with more urgent matters.”

Or in other words, you wanted to wait and claim it for yourself and your Harpers after everyone else had left.

I get twin snorts at this, from Astarion and Jaheira alike; Astarion raises an eyebrow at her, challenging, but Jaheira simply returns him – and me, for that matter – an amused look.

“Ehh… will you blame me for a little temptation, if so?” Jaheira asks, with a small smirk. “I may have considered it for a time. Perhaps even gone so far as searching it out, while deciding what I meant to do with it. But no: I’ve enough troubles of my own as it is, without adding in those raiding parties coming aftermeonce again. If you will return it to its people, and let them use it to topple a tyrant into the bargain, then as far as I am concerned, it is to the benefit of us all, is it not? So. It is yours to use for gaining their good-will, with my blessing, if that is what you decide to do; I’ll bring it by, before you are ready to leave.”

Perhaps,I say absently, ruminating on the sudden…possibilitiesthis may present. And to see the Astral Sea, once the heart and stronghold of the Illithid Empire, for myself, properly,rather than simply in the briefest of glimpses of a pocket plane under control of the Emperor...

“Ah, just a moment, before you go… dropping off any valuable and important swords right where we’re living at the moment,” Astarion says hurriedly, with an uncomfortable little laugh. “What about that scrying magic you just mentioned? Arewegoing to get Vlaakith’s people popping in for a visit?”

“You cannot handle a few githyanki, now?” Jaheira asks him, lips quirking in a mocking half-smile. “What has become of the man who was just boasting of taking down a creche, and ready to storm their palaces himself, hmm?”

“Oh, I’d just like enough advance warning to put the tea on, that’s all,” Astarion snipes back, simpering at her.

Jaheira snorts again. “If you are so worried, you may take the bag of holding I – and Sarevok – have been keeping it inside, as well. They may scry all they like, and will see nothing beyond darkness and fabric. Plus a lurid book or two I confiscated from the youngsters,” she allows.

“Jaheira, I’m surprised,” Astarion comments, with a sudden look of amusem*nt. “I never took you for acensor.”

“Tch,” Jaheira huffs, clicking her tongue at him. “It is not the content I object to, Astarion, but the trulyatrociouswriting. You may takethemwith my blessing, as well.”

“How kind of you,” Astarion says, dry. “Any other little inconveniences to offload upon us for disposal, as long as you’re at it?”

“Mmm... nothing that comes to mind, but I will inform you if that should change,” Jaheira replies, unfazed.

“And that arcanist I asked you about?” Astarion demands.

“What is it that you would need them for?” Jaheira asks, raising an eyebrow at him. “I can help you better if you bother to inform me of what it is that you truly need, mmm?”

“Well, unless you happen to have adragonstashed away inside that bag of holding, too, I don’t see howelsewe’re supposed to make our way to the gith,” Astarion huffs. “There are… spells and things, for travelling between different planes, aren’t there?”

“Oh, I expect you can find something, yes,” Jaheira says, tone dry. “Might I suggest -”

I can handle the matter, if we decide to go,I absently comment, cutting her off.

“You what?” Astarion asks, startled, and I pull some of my attention away from my musings on the Astral Plane and its sights to attend to him.

The Plane Shift spell,I patiently explain.I can see to it myself, if need be. Provided that Ilmater remains willing to facilitate me in these matters.

“What?” Astarion says, frowning now. “Sincewhen?”

My tentacles wave in a shrug.Roughly around the time we killed the Netherbrain.

Astarion stares at me. “And this… didn’t seem like something worth mentioning to you? At…anypoint, up to now?”

I stare blankly back at him, pressing my incomprehension into his mind as I reply.Why would it have been? We have had no need to reach any other planes besides the Hells and Avernus, and we already have everything that we require to take us directly to Hope’s house whenever we wish.

A bitten-off sigh, as Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, then drops his hand and addresses me once more, clearly striving for a calm, even tone. “Just – is there anythingelseyou’ve picked up the ability to do andhaven’t seen the needto mention to me or anyone else as yet? Oh, but that’s assuming that itwasn’tjust me you’ve not bothered informing, of course,” he adds, tone growing decidedly less calm and even as he continues. “I’msureit’s come up in your little magic lessons with Gale by now, hasn’t it?”

“As fascinating as this conversation looks set to shortly become… all the same, I think that I shall leave you to it, and be on my way,” Jaheira interjects, standing, while I’m still tilting my head to the side and studying Astarion in puzzlement as I try and decide how to respond to him. “Enjoy yourselves; within reason, in any case. Astarion, I will come by in a day or two with that sword, and you may buy me that drink before you two depart, mmm?”

“Yes, yes,” Astarion says crossly, waving her off, as I absent-mindedly send a vague sense offondness-respect-sorrow-hopeful-anticipationto her mind, in an approximation of a farewell.

Jaheira stumbles slightly on her way over to the stairs, glancing back at us over her shoulder with raised eyebrows, then gives a final, small snort, shaking her head, and departs without saying anything further.

This is the second time you have expressed some manner of jealousy or insecurity in regard to my studies with Gale,I note.My response remains the same: what you have to offer me is different from what he has to offer me, but it is most certainly no less valuable to me. If this is instead more closely related to the question of my – need for a mental connection, and your feelings of insufficiency inthatregard –

“It’s not,” Astarion snaps, glaring at me. “And besides, I don’t feel…insufficient,either! Look, could you just – is there anythingelseyou’ve picked up from your maybe-god that you haven’t told me about? Since Iam,in fact, the one person who’s spending the most time with you, and might actuallyneed to knowabout these things at some point!Gods.”

I eye him a moment longer, debating whether to continue pressing, then put the matter aside; for now, at least.Some few things relating to my healing abilities which are exceedingly unlikely to ever be at all relevant to you, as either they would be unable to affect you, or your own vampiric abilities would be equally capable of achieving the same,I state.Which is why I likewise have seen no reason to mention them.

It’s not quite the whole of it – I canfeel, deep inside what’s not quite my mind and almostcertainlyno longer my soul, that I’ve also been...giftedthe ability to create a secure place of worship and temporary protection dedicated to my would-be god – but it’s certainly the whole of what I presently feel like mentioning or discussing or eventhinkingupon further, whether with Astarion or anyone else. And as it is certainly something I will never be doing absent circ*mstances of extreme duress, it must equally certainly fall under the category of irrelevancies.

“Fine,” Astarion huffs, crossing his arms as he sits back in his seat and frowns at me some more. “But if we’re going to be turning toIlmaterfor the power to go… hopping around between the planes, I want some sort of back-up. I don’t -”

- wish to rely upon any gods for something that may prove essential?

“Ah. Yes; exactly,” Astarion says, blinking, and a measure of his irritation slowly fades from his expression as he nods to me.

I know,I assure him, letting my enduring fondness and regard for him brush gently across his mind; he shivers slightly, catching his lower lip with his teeth as he watches me unblinkingly.And I am not over-inclined to simply… trust that my former god will continue to provide me with these powers, myself. We will secure some alternative before we consider departing this plane, yes; it is a good idea. Thank you.

“Oh,” Astarion says, blinking again with a sudden look of uncertainty – ofvulnerability– then glances aside, clearing his throat. “Well. It’s only sensible, isn’t it?”

His tone is dismissive, but there’s the smallest of flushes at the tips of his ears.

It is,I agree.Which is why I am glad that you thought of it, when I had not as yet.

Astarion glances back, giving me a suspicious little glare, now. “Are youtryingto sweet-talk me into something, or -”

Astarion,I interrupt, and rather than saying anything more, simply press a few more of my current emotions into his mind: exasperation, gentle amusem*nt, gratitude, and most of all, the deep wellspring of my quiet joy anddelight,both in him and in his ongoing companionship.

Astarion just huffs in response, the flush upon his ears deepening as he resumes avoiding my gaze.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

“Ah, Mla’ghir!” Orpheus greets, as I step daintily down from the Githmir fortress’s portal platform, closely followed by Astarion. Orpheus is smiling warmly at me, for all the scowls and distrusting looks of his new honour guard. Well; most of them, in any case.

“My liberator,” Orpheus adds in Common as he comes to a halt before us, reaching out with both his hands to take my own and give it a half-squeeze, half-shake; I’m careful to angle my nails back from his wrist as he does so. “You have made it to us safely – and with impressive speed, for one unaccustomed to traversing this plane. It is good to see you – and your companion – looking so well.” He gives Astarion a nod of greeting; Astarion returns it, no particular expression upon his elegant features. His gaze continues to jump between the various heavily armed githyanki around us – no more than a dozen despite the size of the space, the room was likely cleared in anticipation of our arrival – and his shoulders remain tense, hands resting lightly near his belt. Near his weapons.

Prince Orpheus, I reply, choosing after a moment of consideration to project my words into the minds of all those within this room. Your assistance with your subordinates and the order to allow us safe passage was most certainly responsible for the ease and speed of such. And do allow me to express the same sentiment. As well as our congratulations upon your new throne.

“Thank you,” Orpheus nods, releasing my hand; before we continue speaking, however, I gesture subtly for him to wait, turning to address one of his people off to the side of the room who’s now staring at me with barely-leashed violence in their posture.

I apologise if I have offended you, or anyone else here, I say. I sought only to make myself heard as I once would have been, when I had my voice to speak with still. If it is your preference that I do not touch your mind even for such a reason, I will refrain.

The guard’s jaw tenses; she shifts her weight, shrugging the shoulder bearing her greatsword, but she doesn’t respond.

“No,” Orpheus says, looking between us with a small frown. “No, my friend, that will not be necessary; your voice is only the smallest part of all that you sacrificed for myself and my people. Do what you must so that you may be understood while you are with us; any who have sworn themselves to me will learn to adjust.”

If you are certain, I say, dropping the matter where my old self would have insisted upon respecting each individual githyanki’s preferences. As my apology was entirely insincere and for diplomatic purposes, however, I decline to do the same.

I turn my attention to the gith woman standing at Orpheus’s side, my eyes crinkling up at their corners. Lae’zel. How goes the slaughter of the enemies of your liege, my once-companion?

“It is glorious,” Lae’zel states proudly, with a hint of a smile. “I have no doubt they will soon be routed and fleeing; outside of Tu’narath, the seat of Vlaakith’s power, and her few other remaining strongholds, we hunt them like the scurrying rats they are. A task we often make use of to train our young; Vlaakith’s traitorous fools neither need nor deserve any better.”

I go ahead and let my amusem*nt at her words brush lightly across the edges of her mind; hers, Orpheus’s, and Astarion’s. Lae’zel stiffens, meeting me with a bolt of wariness – one she seems to be projecting to me intentionally; I suppose the gith are nearly as naturally inclined towards psionics as my own kind – then huffs and shakes her head, rolling her shoulders and relaxing again.

“It will take some adjustment, yes,” Lae’zel comments. “Being… friends with one who communicates in the ways of the ghaik. But I am willing to compromise.”

“Oh, you think that you have adjustments to make, do you?” Astarion laments, purposely dramatic.

“Hah!” Lae’zel laughs. “Your choices have led you down this path, Astarion; accept their consequences.”

Or in other words, you made your bed, now lie in it? I murmur to Astarion alone, after weighing up the likelihood of the implications discomfiting him versus that of the remark amusing him – and indeed, he barks out a loud laugh, only a word or two into giving Lae’zel some response.

“Ah, sorry, private comment,” Astarion says, at the quizzical looks his odd behaviour receives. Then he shoots me a faux-disappointed look as he tchs and adds, “Really, darling, is that what you call making yourself heard? If you’re going to indulge in innuendo, no need to be so bashful about it! I’m sure we can all guess what most of our new friends here think of me, can’t we? So why bother pretending this is anything other than what it is?”

He offers the room a smile filled with teeth. And ignores the sense of dubiousness I send him, unsure as to what the point is of provoking the disgust of those present so directly – and with something so misleading, at that.

Though there are worse ways to proceed, I suppose, than immediately gaining a better understanding of how the inhabitants of this stronghold city are likely to view – and react to – our presence among them. Not to mention our relationship – or rather, what they likely believe our relationship to be, especially after Astarion’s own suggestive statements. It may not be the way I would have chosen to approach things, myself – may not be anywhere near as cautious as I’d have preferred – but now that it’s done…

Orpheus, I say, since the matter’s been raised so directly. I do not know what etiquette you follow in your court. But Astarion stays at my side; if he is targeted by your enemies or those who despise me for what I am, I will defend him. Even at the cost of their lives. Almost certainly at the cost of their lives; I will not hold back. If that is unacceptable to you, we will depart now.

“It is acceptable,” Orpheus says steadily. “You are both my guests, and liberators of us all; should any of my people move against you, I will strike them down myself if you do not.”

“Oh, she’ll get to them first, not to worry,” Astarion says, nonchalant. “Normally I’d just handle these things personally, of course, but Tav’s become rather delightfully vicious when it comes to killing those who attack us, these days.”

“Good,” Lae’zel huffs. “It is unbecoming for a mighty warrior to restrict herself solely to the duties of a ghustil, when healers are so easily found upon your plane.”

I am pleased that you finally begin to have reason enough to approve of me, thanks to the ceremorphosis, I reply, amused, and once again allow the emotion to reach the three I know willing to receive it from me.

I keep back my enjoyment at how the suggestion she might prefer me like this makes Lae’zel… twitch, however.

Orpheus smiles and claps me on the shoulder without any apparent discomfort, turning back towards where he entered the portal room. “Come,” he says. “Let us adjourn to my more private audience chambers. Lae’zel may join us, as will your…?”

An expectant look for Astarion, who exchanges glances with me.

As you prefer, I tell him privately.

“Just don’t call me her thrall, and I’ll have no complaints,” Astarion dryly replies.

My heart, I inform Orpheus. He is my heart.

“Oh gods I take it back, I have complaints!” Astarion splutters – after a moment of staring at me wide-eyed, flushing deeply. “I refuse to have an entire city full of disgruntled githyanki going around referring to me as your heart, of all things! Give them something less embarrassing,” he orders, gesturing impatiently.

My companion, in that case.

“Better,” Astarion sniffs, settling down again.

“Companion of the Mla’ghir,” Orpheus states, giving us a nod. “It shall be known.”

♦

As the four of us settle in to the small audience chamber where Orpheus leads – he joins us in the seating below the dais, purposely ignoring his throne – I reach inside my armour to pull out a small, battered-looking bag fashioned from dusky rose fabric.

A gift, before anything else, I state, and reach inside the bag of holding to withdraw a gleaming greatsword of what appears to be pure silver, all of one piece.

I leave those lurid books Jaheira confiscated tucked away, however.

Lae’zel gasps audibly at the sight of the weapon, her eyes almost entirely round. “Is that -?”

The Silver Sword, I confirm, laying it across my palms and holding it out for Orpheus to take. The true Silver Sword, as I have been given to understand by those I consulted.

“I was told this has been lost to our people for more than a century,” Orpheus says softly, reaching out with careful, reverent hands to accept my offering. “We thought it lost for good, to the depths of the Sea of Swords. How…?”

Sarevok Anchev, I say, quickly deciding I’d best keep the precise details of Jaheira’s long-standing knowledge – and temporary personal possession – of the weapon private, at least for now. But it should be simple enough, to imply Astarion and I located it ourselves. Found amongst his sequestered possessions, upon returning to the Temple of Bhaal to search through the ruins more thoroughly. By the High Harper’s account, he received it as a gift from his Bhaalspawn sibling, they who had once slain him. All I learned from those I spoke with on the matter suggested it belongs with the githyanki above any others.

Orpheus shakes his head. “Again, you do us a service that can never be repaid,” he says. “This is one of our most holy of holies, and – and my mother’s sword as well, forged for her use by Zerthimon; you have not only helped to make us free, Mla’ghir, but to make us whole. Tell me. This Bhaalspawn who dared treat it as a token of favour, to be passed around at their will – are they dead?”

I am unsure, I reply. Regardless, I would not recommend that you embark upon a hunt for one I understand also ended every other potential contender for Bhaal’s throne, up to and including a demigod, over a matter that has now been set to rights once more. You have more important considerations than a dated insult to your people’s honour, borne of istik ignorance, do you not?

Orpheus laughs near-soundlessly. “She has learned while in your company, it seems, my warrior,” he comments, standing and moving to lay the Silver Sword in the place of pride, atop an empty weapons-rack beside his throne. Going by the form of the it, the style and simplicity of design, even the very fact of how naturally the sword fits into place, I can’t help suspecting the stand may have been custom-made for this sword in particular.

“Too much, perhaps,” Lae’zel replies, scowling at me.

The corners of my eyes crinkle. If you ever find yourself restless, for lack of worthy enemies, then leave the Bhaalspawn be and come with us to Avernus, I offer. Wyll and Karlach have carved themselves out a respectable domain, centred upon the House of Hope; we shall all hunt together once more.

“Ah, speaking of hunting,” Astarion breaks in, tilting his head to regard Orpheus as he passes by at our backs, on his way to his seat again. “We really should figure out just what Tav and I are to – eat, if we’ll be accepting your gracious hospitality for very long. Not to mention – well, I’ll just, ah… leave that one to you, darling, shall I?”

This is one of the questions we have for you, I continue for Astarion. I have spoken with a scant few other rogue illithid regarding our kind and our needs, but to be entirely frank, I do not trust their motives – or even necessarily the extent of their knowledge, rather than simply what they believe to be the case. I do not know how much I must consume to survive, nor to remain healthy and at the peak of my capabilities. I do not know what I must eat; while animals seem to provide some amount of sustenance, they do not leave me feeling satisfied. And I apologise for the bluntness with which I speak of such a distasteful subject; I have few others I may turn to who hold the knowledge I require.

“May I ask first what it is that makes you believe we do?” Orpheus inquires, after a short pause. “We are not in the habit of regularly providing for the needs of ghaik. Not since freeing ourselves from the yoke of their oppressive ownership.”

And yet the chances that you have never taken ghaik prisoners, nor then taken the opportunity to study their physiology as thoroughly as possible, including experimentation aimed at finding the limits of what they could survive, are negligible, I reply. You know what I need to know; to think that you do not would be senseless, or a purposeful blindness to the realities of war.

“You have the right of it,” Orpheus grants, a touch wryly. “Very well. I will see that our knowledge and historical records regarding your kind are made available to you. And we shall see if a reminder of the newly-restored presence of the First Sword is enough to convince any of my council who would balk at my doing so. A most immediate reminder, if required.”

“Do let us know if you’d like any help with that,” Astarion says, smiling slightly before it fades into concentration. “Now, back to what I was asking, maybe? Have you any… appropriately immoral brains for her to devour, or should we expect to be doing our own hunting?”

“How long since you have last feasted upon a higher being?” Orpheus asks me directly.

Days only, I say. I intended to delay doing so again until we returned home, but Astarion wishes to be prepared for any unexpected eventualities that might result in us staying longer. Whether likely to occur or not.

“I’m simply being cautious, darling,” Astarion stresses. “Really, I’d have expected you to approve. Isn’t that what you want me to be more often?”

I do not approve of requiring our friends and allies to so directly confront the reality of what I now am, when it can be avoided.

Both Orpheus and Lae’zel stiffen at this, seeming distinctly affronted.

I am not accusing you of cowardice, I add, before they say anything. I do not intend offense. I am simply aware that my very being is offensive to you, and I do not wish to ask you to tolerate even more than you already are. You in particular, Orpheus; Lae’zel could be said to owe me some amount of tolerance, in deference to our friendship before ceremorphosis. You do not. Our prior relationship was one where I was complicit in your enslavement, regardless of my later actions and attempts to redress my fault. Your generosity deserves only the highest consideration.

“Pfah,” Orpheus scoffs. “You will not so easily convince me to unfairly adjust the balance of debts between us so that it favours you less, Mla’ghir; do not waste your breath. Or your thoughts, as the case may be. We will aim to have another brain for you within two tendays; Vlaakith’s vin’isks are not the only prey we hunt, ourselves. And to answer your question… one adult brain from a higher being every three tendays, as the Prime reckons such things, will keep you fed and healthy. Twice or thrice that will allow you to feel the satiation you crave, but it is not required. The brains of exceptionally intelligent examples of certain lower species can keep you alive and – well enough for most purposes, but you will not thrive on such a diet. If that is an approach which you care to pursue -”

“No, that – that won’t be necessary,” Astarion puts in quickly, before I can reply. “The higher species will do perfectly well, thank you; no need for any others.”

“You mean to make self-aware creatures your primary source of food, then,” Orpheus remarks to me, and surprisingly, there’s no hint of judgment about him; it seems to truly be nothing more than an observation.

“She will, yes,” Astarion says firmly, again preempting my reply. “One brain per tenday, was it? Should be simple enough.”

Astarion.

“I’m not having you going hungry,” Astarion hisses. “Any more than I’ll watch you chasing down stray dogs in the streets. Do not ask me to abide that, Tav. Try it, and I’ll start dragging the muggers I hunt for myself before you, still alive and in terror, until you give in.”

Lae’zel mutters something under her breath at this; it doesn’t sound complimentary, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“A temptation few ghaik would be able to resist, even if they were so inclined,” Orpheus notes. “It seems you are not entirely without knowledge of the needs and desires of your – of her kind.”

“Well of course not, darling,” Astarion replies, giving Orpheus a little half-bow from his seated position, his eyes glittering and his voice deceptively light, edged with some largely-masked emotion. “How could I possibly do otherwise than seek to dedicate myself to attending to her needs, whatever they may be? Really, you might even call it my responsibility now, wouldn’t you say?”

Orpheus simply hums an acknowledgement; I roll my eyes at Astarion’s posturing.

You are playing up some manner of imaginary hierarchy between us, I state. You are neither my thrall nor my subordinate. Now please stop prodding at our host.

Astarion gives me a smile, allowing through a flash of fangs. “If I’m not your subordinate, darling, then don’t try and tell me what to do,” he says sweetly.

I did say please.

Astarion huffs, then leans in to address me. “If they are going to think you a monster,” he says, serious now. “Then what role does that leave for me, other than your adoring thrall?”

“Did I imply I thought her a monster?” Orpheus asks, while I’m still deciding how I want to respond.

“You implied there was something suspicious about my having knowledge of her needs,” Astarion snaps, then scoffs. “As if we haven’t had months to research, and find other mind flayers to ask. As if we haven’t had her own reactions and urges to interpret! Do you want to know how it was we learned that having a terrified, helpless mortal within her grasp makes her hunger, gith?” he adds, glittering eyes fixed upon Orpheus, now.

Orpheus just gives him a calm look and waits.

“It was when she was helping tend to those injured in the attack on Baldur’s Gate, and her disguise unexpectedly failed,” Astarion says. “We were alone, in a secluded location, with a pathetic little half-elf who didn’t have a chance in all the hells of fighting her off. And she clearly knew it: she tried to scream, but couldn’t get out a single, solitary sound. Tav told me later that the woman’s fear was so strong she didn’t even have to enter her mind for it to reach her. Hells, for that matter, I saw for myself how it made her start salivating. And she didn’t. Touch. Her. Any more than she did the next dozen times we were around some innocent wretch overwhelmed by their fear of – of whatever. It doesn’t matter what the cause is; the reaction, the hunger, is always the same. And Tav has never let her hunger control her.”

“She is worthy,” Orpheus says simply. “And deserving of the respect I bear for her, though you would doubt its existence.”

Astarion is angered by how the leadership of our city chooses to shun and hide me away, due to the fact that acknowledging my role in their survival would be politically inconvenient, and of questionable popularity among the citizenry, I volunteer, in the hopes of keeping things calm. It has left him with little patience for any he feels judge me too harshly. He may at times neglect to consider that it is in fact very wise to always remain at least a little on one’s guard, when one has dealings with a mind flayer.

Astarion scowls at me for this, folding his arms. “And that’s what you would advise me, is it?”

Of course. If I ever try and enthrall you, I expect you to strike at me just above the apex of my spine, or in one of the other spots that I have shown you for use against enemy illithid, whether with a blade or with your fingers.

“If you decide to enthrall him, Mla’ghir,” Lae’zel says darkly. “You would not give him the chance to resist.”

Of course I would. The desperate hope of success would only make his fear when he failed all the sweeter; if I ever loosed my control to that extent, I could never resist the temptation. Which is why I expect him to be prepared to take full advantage of such self-indulgence.

“And you would warn him of this openly; arm him, against the worst eventuality. Against yourself. You… care for him,” Orpheus says slowly, studying us both with a small frown. “Still.”

“Are you really only just getting that now?” Astarion exclaims, incredulous – though I caught the slight tremble of his hands to suggest he’s not quite as sanguine about my statement of my hypothetical actions as he’s pretending to be. Something to come back to later, then, once we’re on our own. “ Gods. You people!”

“I hoped it might be true,” Orpheus replies, more softly. “It has never been before. But I… have considered the possibility that your time spent under my protection, however unwillingly granted, affected the balance of power between you and the parasite. Your brain had a great deal more time than most to grow and create new pathways, new connections, around the creature, even as it struggled over tendays – months, even – to try and change you. By the end of such a process, you may very well have changed it just as much as it has now changed you. Remade it in your own image, one might say. And so, I have hope. And I remain vigilant.”

Good, I reply simply. To the next of my questions, in that case: can thralls be freed? If their master is killed?

“Must you?” Astarion asks, a little plaintive, but he can’t possibly hide from me just how intently he’s waiting to hear the answer.

Yes.

“They – can,” Orpheus says slowly. “Whether they can ever recover is a different matter. Much depends upon the length of their time in thrall. As well as upon the – habits, of their master. We do not know all the details, but it is clear that some of the usual practices among the ghaik cause more permanent damage to thrall minds than others do. Unfortunately, by its nature it is not something where we can gather much knowledge directly; there is nothing left of such severely abused creatures which remains capable of telling us what exactly has been done to them.”

You will kill me, if it becomes necessary. If I should ever do that to – to any who are unwilling, but most especially to those of significance to me.

“Of course,” Lae’zel rushes to assure me, with a jerk of her chin. “I will see to it personally.”

You are a good and worthy friend, I tell her, letting my sincerity brush against their minds.

“Could we please move on from talking about killing her?” Astarion demands, waving a hand in a get on with it gesture. “Just – tell us if she needs a thrall or two to keep her from going mad because she’s all alone in her mind, or if there’s some… other option, will you?”

Orpheus nods to himself, studying me more closely. “This is beginning to become a concern for you, then.”

No.

“Yes,” Astarion snaps, glaring at me. “Would you kindly stop pretending otherwise?”

I’m unable to sigh, but I’m certainly thinking the reaction very loudly. It is not pretense. Your worries in this regard are greater than my own. My current situation may not be… ideal, but it is not a problem to the extent that it requires any consideration of that solution. I will not become akin to the rest of my kind; I will take no unwilling thralls. If you doubt my ability to continue as I have been, then once again I invite you to look to Omeluum.

“As if that bugbear it has is any different from a thrall,” Astarion mutters.

Hobgoblin, I correct. And you exaggerate; he respects Omeluum, he does not revere it. But that speaks to my point: whatever need for mental connections we may have, we have very good reason to believe that there are ways to address it other than full thralldom.

“Ones which you refuse to take !” Astarion bursts out.

I tilt my head to one side. You know why that is. You know that there is time yet. And I do have… other friends I might approach, regarding the possibility of forming a short-lived but deeper mental connection. Karlach, for one.

“If even I can’t bring myself to agree to it, how could anyone else?” Astarion demands, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“It seems to me that one in your position, honoured companion, would have greater concerns about allowing so all-encompassing a link between the two of you, rather than lesser,” Orpheus observes. “You have the setting of precedent to consider, after all, do you not? When you are, I assume, intending to remain in her company going forwards. But regardless, she is correct: to the best of my knowledge, there should be many months yet before the matter becomes potentially… urgent. And even then, there is likely to be the possibility of more – temporary solutions, yes.”

“Oh, the best of your knowledge,” Astarion says, ignoring Lae’zel’s hiss at his rudeness. “Well, then, that’s all right, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ve spent plenty of time studying mind flayers who’ve gone their entire lives cut off from their colonies or any others of their kind! Much more than the mind flayers who have actually lived it!”

Enough, I say, before Astarion can give genuine offense, or give away too much regarding Aurangaul and its Shard. If I must, I can commune with Omeluum directly. It has made the offer.

Astarion stares at me in disbelief. “And… the reason you haven’t bothered to mention that before now…?”

The thought is discomfiting. It feels… less safe. But if it should ever be required, I will do it.

“Fine,” Astarion grumbles. “For now; we’re not done talking about this. Another mind flayer… we still don’t know that it’d be enough. All of you must take thralls in the first place for a reason; you wouldn’t want it so much if you didn’t need something that comes from it, Tav!”

“There… may be another possibility,” Orpheus says, deliberate in his speech; Lae’zel’s head jerks around and she narrows her eyes at him. “But I will need some time to look into the matter. I will inform you if it should come to anything, Mla’ghir.”

I narrow my own eyes as well. Then I incline my head to him, cautious but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, after everything that has passed between us. As you say, Prince Orpheus. My thanks, again, for your understanding and your tolerance. And – for your friendship, as well.