Chapter 2 – Tav
I have such a headache.
It pounds against his skull like a hatchlighg breaking out of an eggshell. The world is distant and muted, bleached to near-nothingness by the cursed sun, and Tav walks around it as if through a strange dream where every heartbeat is ringing agony.
In the dream, his pale friend offers a hand to help him back on his feet. His pale friend who almost cut his throat open, thinking him an enemy. His pale friend who, it turns out, is not a vampire; he cannot be. His pale friend who got snatched by the mind flayers because of him. Or was it the other way around?
Oh, I can’t think.
Astarion asks if he’s alright, and his kindness fills Tav’s eyes with tears. Everything fills his eyes with tears. Bright things, dark things, things near and things far, things that happened in the past, things that might happen in the future. Astarion asks about the other survivors and Tav tells him he’s not seen any since the crash, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true. He thinks he remembers a black shape leaning over him on the beach and shaking his shoulders, but it might’ve been another dream.
They agree they should search the wreckage.
Then Tav’s on the ground again, only now it’s cool, damp grass instead of the packed-dirt road. There’s something blissfully cool on his burning eyes and forehead. It wriggles, and he realizes it’s his friend’s icy knuckles: Tav’s holding Astarion’s hands and pressing them to his face, and for a moment, the pain subsides.
“This isn’t normal, is it?” Astarion asks in a voice tight with uncertainty. “You’re burning up. Could it be a sign of—”
“Ceremorphosis?” His own voice sounds strange to him. “It’s too soon. Lae’zel said it would take a few days.” His breath is dry and hot in his mouth, and slightly… phosphorous? At last, he understands. “No. This feels… like heat.”
“From the sun?”
“No. Dragon heat.” He moves Astarion’s hands to his cheekbones and risks cracking his eyes open just enough to intuit the pale elf’s silhouette against the backdrop of bright greenery. They’re under the trees, thank the gods, shielded from direct sunlight. “I haven’t had trouble with it in decades, not even when working fire spells. The tadpole might’ve compromised my control of the Weave.”
“So instead of sprouting tentacles, you’re liable to… combust? I feel better already.”
Despite everything, Tav grins. “Just need to catch my breath. Got any water?”
“No.” His fingers slide out of Tav’s grasp as he gets up. “But I can get some. I’ll scout out the area while at it. Will you be all right on your own?”
“Yes,” Tav lies. “Don’t worry about me.”
The famous last words of his grandmother, before the fire within finally consumed her: mind first and body much, much later. She’d taken the entire west wing of the palace with her. In a spectacle fit for a queen’s burial, the blaze had raged white for a tenday, turning stone to glass. Tav had been twenty two. To this day, his own fire leaps with hungry glee when he recalls the sight. He’d hated the old hag.
He manages to sit up and look around. Everything past the road is a blur, but he knows the river hides behind the bluff where Astarion accosted him. From the beach, it seemed too narrow to be the Chionthar, but what does he know. The climate and flora don’t impress him as especially different from what he’d seen coming from the north down the Trade Way, which means they can’t be too far from the city. But all that matters now is how far they are from someone who can rid them of the parasites.
The strain on his eyes makes the headache stir, throbbing dangerously at the base of his skull. Better not to think too hard.
There’s a backpack at his feet. Not his. He doesn’t remember seeing one on Astarion either, but given the state he’s in, that doesn’t mean there hadn’t been one. Next to it lie a rolled-up wool blanket and a battered quarterstaff. Tav could use that in a pinch. All his own things are gone, of course; he made his peace with that while still on board the nautiloid. It was surprisingly easy. Whether because immediate survival took precedence over all other considerations, or because he was unconsciously eager to shed the last vestiges of his past life, only time would tell. The only thing he truly misses is his cloak. It shielded him from the sun by day, and from prying eyes at night. He’d had it for nine years. Four since Talice died, and another five of her disastrous second marriage. It had been a wedding gift.
“I found a way into the wreckage.”
Tav starts from shallow sleep. “Hm?”
Astarion drops an armful of blood-specked plunder on the ground. An ax, a book, a bedroll, a bundle of diverse arrows and crossbow bolts. “Those four-legged brains are feeding on the corpses inside. But it seems our only way inland.” He hands Tav a wet bottle. “From the shallows,” he says. “I don’t know if it’s—good for drinking.”
Too late. Tav’s already gulped down half of it. Gods, what a bliss! Choking, he remembers his manners and offers it back.
“I’m fine,” Astarion says. He’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat. “Have at it.”
Tav takes a few more gulps, pauses, then pours the rest over his head. Shockingly cold, the water trickles down his face and neck and under his armor, waking him to full alertness. His vision clears and he blinks at his friend like one born anew.
There’s blood on Astarion’s chin.
“Were you in a fight?”
“A fight?” Following the direction of Tav’s stare, Astarion wipes his face and looks at his right hand. Brass and silver rings shine dully from three of his fingers. His left, where he was injured, is bound over the palm with a piece of dirty cloth. “Oh,” he says. “Just one of the four-legged brains.”
“The one hiding in the bushes where we met, no doubt.”
“Possibly.” He holds Tav’s stubborn stare a few moments longer, then his right eyelid flutters and he turns to the pile of loot.
“Thank you,” Tav says, lifting the bottle, while he makes a mental note of the lie. The intellect devourers are Ilithid and have silver blood.
“Thank me if it doesn’t poison you.” Astarion kneels and starts to inspect the arrows one after another. “I could only go upstream as far as the cliffs and there were corpses and worse in the water.”
“Worse?” Tav registered none of this while he stumbled along the beach, half-blind and crazed with headache.
“Parts of the wreckage. Broken pods. Barrels and crates with gods-know-what in them.” He stoves away all arrows except one, then takes the ax and tests the blade. “Dull as an orc.” He tosses it into the bushes, picking up the backpack next. The hat looks really good on him. Heh. Tav suspects most things do. Did they really kiss last night? It already seems like a tale from someone else’s life.
“That’s a nice hat.”
“Oh!” Astarion giggles, taking it off. “I’ve forgotten about it. It’s for you.”
Tav blinks, speechless.
“Well? Put it on.”
It’s a plain straw hat, frayed at the brim and torn on top, but to Tav, who’d been on the road, alone, for months, after fleeing from the life-long neglect and abuse at home, it might as well be the world’s greatest treasure. How long has it been since anyone gave him anything? Even the cloak he loved so much had been a gift for Talice, not for him, and he only got to keep it because she hated it.
He pretends to fumble with it while he wrests his rampant emotions into submission. The hat has picked up a faint whiff of Astarion’s hair. Lemon grass and brandy, and under it all, barely perceptible, the smell of death.
Yet no vampire has ever walked in daylight.
“It suits you,” Astarion says.
“Thank you. Truly.”
“Not to worry. There will be plenty of opportunity for you to return the favor, if the day can be judged by the morning. How about this?” He pulls the quarterstaff out of the pile. “Sorcerers are usually good with these, if I’m not mistaken?”
“I prefer a blade when I can’t use a spell,” Tav says. “But it will do.”
“What else have we got,” Astarion murmurs, rummaging through the backpack. “There’s some food in here. Bread, cheese. Are you hungry?”
Tav’s stomach turns. Dismal memories crawl back from his distant youth under the old hag’s tutelage. Heat always comes with headache and nausea. Lovely. “No, thanks. You go ahead and eat if you want.”
“Is this a potion or a poison?” Astarion says, pulling out a vial of bright red liquid.
“Potion.”
“You can tell at a glance?”
“I can sense the magic in it.”
“I’ve forgotten how useful magic can be. Other than for murder and domination, obviously.”
“And making a dildo vibrate.”
Astarion barks out a laugh, and Tav joins, but the mirth doesn’t last.
“Can you believe that was only several hours ago?” Tav says.
“No.” Astarion looks around, spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture. “I can’t believe any of this. And yet,” he shrugs, shrinking back into himself, “here we are.”
Tav smiles. It’s almost pleasant, sitting here in the cool shade, with this beautiful man whose every movement tells a story. But then he remembers the tadpole, and a wave of dread he’s been numb to so far puts his heavy limbs in motion. “Let’s get going,” he says, getting up. A dizzy spell darkens the world, granting him momentary reprieve from the brightness of the day, but he manages to stay upright, clutching the staff.
“Are you sure you’re well enough?” Astarion says, looking up at him doubtfully. “You’re no use to me if you faint as soon as we’re back on the road.”
“I’ll be fine.” To prove it, Tav swings the staff in a wide arc over Astarion’s head. The muscle memory is still there, if a bit rusty. It’s a good staff. Solid but light, and well-balanced.
“All right. Can you carry this?” He means the backpack, which he has stuffed with most of the plunder. “It won’t be nearly as heavy as that monstrosity you had before.”
“My whole life was in there,” Tav says, absurdly offended.
Astarion snorts. “My whole life could barely fill my pockets.” He’s been strapping the bedroll to the bottom of the pack but now he freezes in mid-motion, and Tav doesn’t need to read his mind to know he said more than he meant to. Sympathy floods him as he remembers the anguish that made Astarion flee from him last night, but now’s not the time.
“What about the book?” he says, pretending he didn’t notice.
Astarion opens it, glances at the first page, then tosses it next to the discarded bolts and rags. “It’s rubbish.” He stands, light on his feet, his hair rumpled from the hat, the corners of his lips still stained with crusted blood. “Shall we?”
“Lead the way.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Astarion nods and heads back towards the road.
Tav picks up the book. It’s bound in worn leather that might’ve once been green, the title faded beyond recognition. He opens it and frowns at the large, ornate print. The letters swim in his vision. C-U-R-S-E, he spells under his breath. Curse. The next pair is easier: of the. V-A-M-P-Y-R. Vam-pyre?
Vampire!
His heartbeat speeds up. Quickly, he slides the book into the pack and hurries after his strange friend.