Chapter Text
Late in the evening, exactly three months to the day after Cazador Szarr died, a messenger arrived at the spawn colony’s new encampment with an unexpected letter.
It was addressed in plain, no-nonsense script to “Leader of the Vampires,” with a meeting proposed for just after sundown that evening “to discuss their peaceful removal.” The messenger laid it just outside the barricade they’d made against a group of minotaurs—now yesternight’s supper—refusing to get any closer to the colony before running away.
But the wolf followed its mate up from a well-traversed tunnel of the Underdark to the surface an hour earlier than the message proposed, to prove a point.
Of course, once transformed, the wolf couldn’t remember what point they cared about anymore. Just bore its teeth at the many points raised at them as they entered the war camp teeming with humanoids, work animals, and sharp metal. Its mate seemed relatively unbothered by the hostile tones and steel claws they were greeted with. Astarion‘s answering voice was light and cheery in comparison. Still, his hand kept a grip in the wolf’s fur, grounding the both of them as they were eventually allowed through and deeper into the temporary settlement.
As humanoids led them past a few repurposed, half-exploded buildings towards the largest tent, a voice the wolf actually understood echoed in its head: I hope you’re not trying to trick anyone with that disguise, friend. We have many druids here.
The wolf’s eyes were quick in the sunlight, unlike its other form, but its nose was even quicker, not so overwhelmed by blood as to miss other singularities. Quickly it singled out the pine, musk and honey smell amidst so many bodies that somehow matched the low voice, emanating from a large bear lounging not far from the path the wolf and its mate followed.
I am not in disguise, the wolf found it could answer. This is my sun form, bear.
Sun form, you say? My curiosity is piqued, it chuckled back. But there are quite a few bears here—I am Halsin, Second Druid of the Emerald Enclave.
The wolf blinked at the bear, taking a moment to realize it was sharing a name. And had to pause for another moment, thinking hard through murky humanoid memories to recall: Tyrus Aman’del, Vampire Spawn.
The bear lifted its great head off its paws then, co*cked to the side as it repeated back, Aman’del?
But it was just then that they passed within the tent entrance, and the wolf’s simple mind became distracted by a large variety of scents.
Four humanoids, sitting or standing around a table. The tallest standing one smelled of grease, leather, and grass; the thickest one and the stooped, older one both of dust and sweat; the fourth and only feminine one, who was busy moving small objects on the table surface, of lilies, rain, and moss.
They all stiffened at the wolf and its mate’s arrival, the humanoid that led them inside muttering in the feminine one’s pointed ear before giving a nod and leaving them to face this group.
But instead of a tap on its snout, indicating to the wolf that it should leave its sun-protectant form, the wolf felt Astarion’s fingers tighten in its fur, a sharp gasp leaving his lips as the ground suddenly sprang thick, constricting vines around his shins.
The wolf growled, loud enough to drown out whatever threats the fourth humanoid was voicing at Astarion—and shed its form, leaving Tyrus Aman’del, Vampire Spawn and Necromancer standing in the tent.
The tall one jumped back in shock; one of the sitting men jumped to his feet. The half-elf woman who’d smelled like lilies only showed a single moment of surprise, however, before her eyes narrowed. “And you bring more tricks, I see,” she said, glaring at Tyrus.
Clearly they had not appreciated Astarion coming early, or showing his miraculous immunity to the sun in only a set of drow armor and an inconspicuous cloak.
Astarion and Dalyria had been entirely against treating with the people telling them to “get lost,” as Astarion put it—Dalyria was worried that the spawn were unprepared for any sort of attack, and Astarion was wary of any dealings that would rely solely on trust. But once Astarion had begrudgingly accepted they’d been outvoted not only by all the other ‘house spawn,’ but the greater colony’s representatives as well, he insisted that catching the surface dwellers off guard would at least give them an advantage. Make them believe they didn’t have the upper hand, no matter what holy or radiant magic they boasted of, and in turn, actually take Tyrus’s offer into consideration.
Tyrus wasn’t sure how well that theory had turned out for them, glancing around at the varying degrees of hostility on the leaders’ faces. “We came in good faith that you wanted peace, not another army at your back door,” he cut in sharply, stepping between Astarion and the woman. He nodded at Astarion’s legs, ordering, “Release him.”
The half-elf looked more likely to cast the spell again, however poorly that would end for her. “What kind of monsters are you, traipsing about under the sun?” she scoffed.
“Oh, just the reasonable kind, who will only consider unleashing five thousand hungry spawn on you for this,” Astarion said around gritted teeth, trying to wrench his legs out of the vine trap. Only a little more than four thousand, now, Tyrus couldn’t help but inwardly correct—but their numbers kept changing quickly enough he didn’t blame Astarion for the hyperbole. When Astarion couldn’t wrench himself free, he spat, “Though our smiles can always get sharper, darling.”
“Jaheira,” the tall one cut in, a bearded human man with dark skin wearing leafy, leathered armor and a firm yet pleading expression. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and though she shrugged it off angrily, with a reluctant wave of her hand and golden flash in her eyes the vines withered and then crumbled into dust at Astarion’s feet.
Tyrus felt a sharp prickle on his back—he wasn’t supposed to have dismissed Polymorph quite yet, no matter how protective the set of elvish silver chains under his clothes could be otherwise. He took a step deeper into the tent next to Astarion to avoid the small sliver of light beaming from the tent cover’s flaps, offering a brief smile at the flash of concern on his partner’s face before nodding in thanks at the man.
“We didn’t invite you here to make enemies,” the human said as he nodded back. “I am Ganyl, Archdruid of the Emerald Enclave. This is Jaheira, High Harper from Baldur’s Gate,” he motioned at the half-elf, blond and clad in green with scimitars sheathed on either side of her hips. Then he gestured at the two remaining half-elves, both grayed, thick-boned, and of near-identical appearance, save that one held a large mug in one hand and the more stooped one wore a leather patch over his right eye. “And Morfred and Halfred, the leaders of Reithwin’s Resistance before our arrival,” Ganyl finished. He let out a low sigh before finishing, “We appreciate your agreement to meet, if a bit . . . earlier, than expected.”
“Though we do not generally appreciate your presence, which is the point of this discussion,” Jaheira added in.
Astarion gave her a wide smile, resting his hands on the table and leaning forward. “Funny, I don’t particularly recall ever caring what a Harper thinks.”
“We know nothing of whatever hole you’ve all crawled from, or what the Thorms might have promised you,” the stooped, older half-elf cut in with a gruff voice. It wasn’t necessarily loud, and yet the others all turned immediately to listen. His hands, large and leathery and scarred, steepled in front of him; his single, watery, drooped eye flickered between Astarion and Tyrus with a surprisingly sharp intensity before he sat back a bit in his chair. “But your presence in the Underdark poses a problem. We have little time to fight you as well as Thorm’s Justiciars in the deep—but we will make time, if needs must.”
Tyrus blew out a breath, reminding himself this wasn’t a group of mad spawn in need of a sharp word and quick hand. They meant to try diplomacy first, before intimidation.
“We are not an army,” he replied, in as level and entreating a voice as he was capable of these days. “We haven’t come to these parts in some alliance with your enemies. We seek a place of permanence, a haven of safety to build new lives for ourselves. I learned of the ruins under this area, and thought we might have luck here.”
“Luck in the Underdark? Now that’s one I never heard,” the one called Halfred chortled, raising his mug in toast before taking another drink.
The High Harper crossed her arms, her frown slightly softened at Tyrus’s words. “Even if you speak truth, you are vampires,” she pointed out. “And in such a quantity our scouts are still struggling to number. If these were more peaceful days you would be our priority to fight. It is thanks to Ketheric, really, that you are offered this kind allowance to scatter and run.”
Tyrus’s spine stiffened. “. . . Ketheric?” he repeated slowly. Only associating the name with the first skeleton he ever animated and nothing else, till now.
Jaheira rolled her eyes. “Ketheric Thorm, yes. Where have you been living the last six months? Under a rock?” Then, just as Astarion’s mouth opened, she scoffed, “Oh fine! Maybe you have been it seems. The point remains: we cannot trust you. You are historically evil creatures, aligned with Ketheric or not.”
“And we appreciate that you haven’t allied with him,” Ganyl cut in, giving her a look. “Or come in the night for our blood of your own accord.”
Halfred raised a brow, adding, “That we’ve noticed, anyway.”
Astarion put on one of his most dashing smiles. “Oh, is it only a vampire’s reputation that has you worried now? We’re a rather special bunch, you know. We hunt the beasts and monsters of the Underdark. The occasional slaver too, of course—but our main diet consists of the deep rothe variety, not deep gnome, I can assure you.”
A few gnomes had died, of course, before the ravenous wave of spawn had been calmed, along with duergar, drow, traders, and even a few unfortunate myconid until enough spawn realized there was no blood to be rewarded from the venture. But the last incident had been more than a month ago. No one could be called well-fed quite yet—except Astarion, Tyrus silently corrected himself. But with the Underdark’s plentiful monsters and the Gur people’s help, most did not have to wait more than a tenday between meals now. Most had grown accustomed to the smell of living blood, if not comfortable.
It was progress. It was more than Tyrus had had any hope for, three months ago.
In response to Astarion’s claim, Jaheira looked incredulous, Halfred amused, Morfred unreadable, and Ganyl fascinated. “Could you assure us?” the archdruid asked.
“Yes,” Jaheira said, “is there not some vampire master or two pulling the strings? Creating more of you?” She looked Tyrus up and down with particular suspicion.
Tyrus had been prepared for this part: “We killed him and govern ourselves now,” he said firmly. “And we have had Gur hunters living with us—living still, alongside the undead. They can attest to what we’ve said.”
The tribe kept their distance for the first month, only wishing to take their children and leave. But when Chessa and the others gained enough control to be near their family and speak, they said they wished to stay. Luckily, Ulma saw the wisdom of not isolating them from those who could teach control—and in turn, provided new tools to help: herbs once used to dull minds, now gathered for sedatives to ease hunger and pain; restraints built to hold undead, now repurposed and replicated to help protect them from themselves.
The Gur children did struggle the most still with control, besides the rabid, mindless ones that had killed one another or disappeared into the dark. Lady Amanita had been correct, as she often was, about the correlation between control and the age at which one was Turned. But Tyrus dared to hope they could help each of the children build a happy, meaningful existence for themselves regardless, if not a perfect one.
It was all he could do, really, to atone for one of the two deaths he truly regretted his hand in.
Ganyl looked encouraged, Jaheira still skeptic. But it was Morfred who replied in that low, gravelly voice of his, “Vampires can charm even the most experienced monster hunter.” He glanced at Jaheira as he asked, “For how long, in your experience?”
“Up to a full day, if they’re meant to be a puppet, not a snack,” she retorted.
“If one of these living Gur will come and stay at our camp, with no contact from any of you for that time period,” Morfred stipulated, “we would consider your presence less of a threat. For now. But I doubt, in the long run, Reithwin’s inhabitants will have any tolerance for a nest of bloodsucking monsters living right under them.”
Negotiation was important—but intimidation still had its place. “We don’t need your tolerance,” Tyrus pointed out. “Your forces will be weakened after one war; you don’t want to fight another one you can’t win,” he replied much more coldly.
“Especially with the undead,” Astarion agreed, bearing his teeth more than smiling now. “You’ll find we don’t go down very easily. At least, not the first few dozen times.”
Jaheira’s hand was resting on the hilt of her scimitar. Ganyl’s hopeful look had faded. Even Halfred had a tighter grip around his mug.
Only Morfred seemed unphased, if listening more intently, as Tyrus continued, “You’d much rather work with us.”
He looked down at the map laid over the table, noting the wooden pieces on each location. Then he grabbed an unused red piece from the edge of the map, placing it over top the Underdark entrance right next to a black one already positioned there.
“The location we hoped for is infested with the same enemy you fight,” he gestured at the map. “So, in exchange for your town respecting the ruins as our domain hereafter . . .” He picked up the black piece representing the Justiciars and cast Fire Bolt directly onto it, the polished wood burning with a short, powerful flare before he tossed the tarnished and brittle remainder of it back on the table. “Then we will help you wipe out the cultist army from below.”
“An army of mage vampires,” Halfred said with a surprised laugh, relaxing. Turning to Morfred as he continued, “We might actually be f*cked, brother—or else, have a fanged edge of our own!”
“Not all of us are fighters—” Tyrus admitted, only for Jaheira to interrupt:
“But you’re all vampires, no? Fanged and clawed, naturally.”
“Some are children,” Tyrus snapped, perhaps a bit more sharply than he should have given how she reared back a bit, eyes widened. He swallowed and softened his voice, continuing, “And some are . . . still healing, from the circ*mstances they’ve endured before freedom.”
“Children? Who in the Gods’ name sired all of you?” Ganyl breathed out.
Tyrus and Astarion exchanged glances—they’d agreed to not mention the Szarr name unless absolutely necessary. “Perhaps we can share all of that trauma with you in time,” Astarion said in a smooth but pointed tone, and succeeded in making Ganyl at least give a short, guilty nod. “For now . . . you have the call of at least 2,000 spawn to aid. Do we have an accord?”
A beat of silence followed.
Morfred slowly stood—and then his brother did as well, while the High Harper and archdruid turned toward him, all deferring to the old half-elf. “If your forces can take out their stronghold in the old Grymforge,” he sighed, shaking his head. Then looked up with an extra shining gleam to his eye as he finished in a rougher voice, “If you can take down Ketheric’s Justiciars in the stronghold below, lads . . . you will be a miracle, not monsters.” He shook his head down at the war map in front of them, muttering, “A miracle I’d do much worse for.”
There was a brief silence, shock felt on both ends of the negotiation. But Ganyl’s face soon split into a smile. “Oakfather bless us,” he laughed, “what a strange miracle indeed!”
“Though should we at least test their word about controlling themselves, before making such a deal official, Morfred?” Jaheira implored, still looking a bit concerned. “I would hate to defeat Ketheric only to learn the remnants of your people became dinner for our supposed allies once I arrive back at Baldur’s Gate.”
Morfred nodded slowly. “An exchange of individuals,” he agreed. “One of your living Gur comes here—and one of our people will brave a night or two with your lot. Then we can discuss allowances, borders, dealings allowed between our peoples.”
Tyrus grimaced, wondering which of the Gur they’d be able to convince. Jaheira didn’t seem so different from Ulma, in many ways, but that might only mean they’d butt heads to a detrimental degree.
“I’d be happy to volunteer,” Ganyl put in, though at Jaheira’s raised brow, gave a sigh and amended, “Well, one of my druids, perhaps.”
“We’ll ask the Gur,” was all Tyrus could offer in return, glancing at the exit to make sure the sun had at last set.
“It’s safe now, darling,” Astarion muttered in agreement, peering more directly through the gap in the fabric before clapping his hands and saying louder, “Wonderful! Then you’ll select a friendly little druid to join us down there, and we’ll send a Gur up shortly, yes?”
“And we’ll need more than your word,” Tyrus added, glancing at Jaheira. “You’ll forgive us if we don’t trust you to not double cross—how did you put it? ‘Historically evil creatures’?”
Jaheira’s eyes narrowed once again at him . . . and then the half-elf relaxed, co*cking a hip. “I suppose I should add intelligent to that description, no?” she smirked.
“We can discuss giving you assurances once you’ve met ours,” Morfred agreed, then looked over to the archdruid, prompting, “Would you find us that volunteer, then? Someone comfortable in the Underdark domain perhaps?”
Ganyl brightened with an eager nod, gesturing at Astarion and Tyrus as he said, “Yes, come. I’ll leave you in my second’s hands while I talk with the Enclave . . .”
And with that they were led back outside, crickets chirping, a full moon rising from the east, and the first stars winking into existence as they followed him along the path.
Another thing the wolf handled better than Tyrus was so much open space. It took in its environment with a simpler, more directed kind of awareness, whereas his true mind found it hard not to feel utterly exposed with nothing to put his back up against. Especially with so much noise all around them. Of course, there were places in the Underdark that felt nearly as large and unsafe, but even then Tyrus could usually find a crevice or small cave to retreat to within a minute. In the surface world, his only retreat was within his own mind.
But he didn’t want to Polymorph again and leave Astarion to face the rest alone. He just waited till Astarion had shed his cloak with a dramatic groan and stuffed it into their bottomless bag before Tyrus interlaced their hands with an overly-tight grip.
Astarion gave him a look before sending via Message: However much I still disapprove of this scheme, that did go much quicker and easier than I’d thought, love. Who knew you were such a negotiator?
Only because I had you there, Tyrus answered back, smiling at how pleased the words made Astarion right before he leaned in and gave Tyrus a quick, pronounced peck on the cheek.
They didn’t have as much time for words as expected, however, before Ganyl stopped them right in front of the bear Tyrus remembered strangely being able to speak to in wolf form. But before he could recount much of the conversation, it reared up quite suddenly in front of them, and with a harsh snapping contortion changed into something almost just as large—an elf man, wearing the same sort of armor as Ganyl, but with nearly a head of height above Tyrus and shoulders three times the width.
A wildshape—Second Druid, he’d called himself. The elf gave them an easy grin, speaking in that same low, warm voice out loud now to Tyrus, “Is this your moon form then, vampire?”
Tyrus gave him a small, surprised smile, as Ganyl laughed, “Oh, did you chat together already? I admit, I don’t even know your names for introduction, but these are the representatives of the vampire colony below—”
“Tyrus Aman’del, wasn’t it?” Halsin said, smile widening. Then he turned, asking politely, “And your companion?”
“My name’s Astarion,” Astarion cut in before Tyrus could answer, stepping forward with a slight bow and a smile Tyrus could immediately tell was pasted on. His hand clenched a bit tighter in Tyrus’s own as he remarked, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . . ?”
“Halsin. It’s wonderful to officially meet you both,” the large elf nodded, before glancing at Ganyl. “Can I be of assistance, your grace?”
“Briefly, at least,” Ganyl replied. “Would you mind looking after these two while I speak with the rest of the Enclave? An alliance may be possible, but we are in need of a volunteer to brave a night or two in the Underdark with their people. As a show of faith, you see.”
Halsin’s eyes widened briefly, then narrowed. Just as suddenly as he’d moved from wildshape, at once he fell to one knee, raising a fist across his chest with his head bowed. “Let this volunteer be the only one you require, master,” he said in a low, quiet tone of reverence.
And though both Tyrus and Astarion flinched at hearing the word ‘master,’ Ganyl was quick to reach his hand out in return, Halsin grasping it to rise as the archdruid replied, “I did not think to make you go there under any sort of peril again, Halsin,” smiling up at him with a touch of concern. “But if you are truly willing—”
“I am,” Halsin nodded, though his eyes began to stray to a point over Tyrus’s shoulder. “Though—if I may?—might I stop by and let my heart know, before we go?”
“Of course,” Ganyl said with a fond laugh, shaking his head. “Inform all your lovers, pack your things for the night, and let me write down a few instructions before you head out. Yes? I’ll come find you.”
Halsin nodded with a smile, watching with equal fondness as Ganyl headed back towards the largest tent. Then he turned and looked down at Tyrus in particular, an excited light in his hazel eyes. “Come,” he gestured at a row of narrow but long tents on the other side of the path. And began walking past them in that direction, adding over his shoulder, “She’ll be in here at this hour, still.”
Astarion gave Tyrus a very skeptical look as they followed. And how exactly did he know your name, love? he asked through another casting of Message. Have we at last found someone from your past? A potential lover you’d forgotten?
Tyrus shook his head. He could communicate with me, while I was a wolf and he was in bear form. Just gave his name, and I gave him mine, really. As the blurry wolf memories came into focus, he frowned and added, Though he did seem rather interested in my last name, then and just now.
All at once Astarion’s whole visage changed. Perhaps he knows your family, then! Or at least has heard of them, he replied, suddenly sounding much more genuine in his interest. You said you lived along the Chionthar, darling—this town could be the very one you were raised in!
Tyrus looked around them and shuddered: collapsed buildings repurposed into armories, tents filled with tired soldiers, the smell of smoke and decay wafting from the front lines, which from the brief glimpses they got had looked littered with bodies, old blood, and spiked barricades along the riverside.
I hope you’re wrong about that, he answered back, just as Halsin stopped ahead of them and peeked through a gap in the tied flap of the canvas.
The great man hesitated, shoulders tensing just for a moment, before he untied the entrance and stepped back. “You go on ahead,” he gestured at Tyrus with a small, almost saddened smile.
Tyrus frowned in confusion. “We—we can just wait outside, here . . . ?”
Halsin shook his head. “I’ll join you shortly. But . . . I’d rather give you this moment first,” he spoke in a grave tone, then grabbed one of the flaps, holding it half-open.
And suddenly Astarion was pulling his hand out of Tyrus’s, his eyes wide. “He’s right,” he said, and when Tyrus’s frown deepened Astarion gave an encouraging tilt of his head towards the tent. “We’ll be right behind you, darling. I swear.”
Panic was beginning to crawl up Tyrus’s gut, however, constricting his lungs and tightening his throat as he shook his head. He didn’t know what this was. He didn’t want to understand, suddenly—he wanted to turn around and run from whatever truths his past was likely about to tell, both about who he’d been and who he would never be again.
Tyrus took a step back. “I don’t . . . I don’t think there’s anything in there, for me,” he whispered.
Halsin’s eyes grew teary. “I can assure you, my friend, there is,” he said in a kind but fervent voice.
Whoever was inside remembered him fondly, then. But how much more would that hurt, when they met Tyrus now?
“I know it’s unexpected, darling,” Astarion soothed, reaching out and giving his upper arm a small squeeze. “Not planned for, not rehearsed. But if I know you well enough by now—you’ll feel better once the anticipation is over, won’t you?” When Tyrus didn’t answer, only swallowed hard, Astarion murmured, “Haven’t you waited long enough, love?”
Cynda, Cynda, Cynda, Cynda . . .
Tyrus’s eyes filled with tears as well, then. But he still didn’t feel quite brave enough. Not on his own.
He turned to Astarion with a pleading look and whispered, “Come with me?”
His partner hesitated for a moment, but then gave a nod. “I’m all yours, darling,” he smiled, interlacing their hands again.
And after Tyrus gusted out a slow, steadying breath, they walked into the infirmary tent.
It was a show of trust already, Halsin letting two vampires walk into an area filled with the scent of fresh blood and open wounds. Tyrus swallowed hard and had to concentrate, for a moment, to make sure his fangs didn’t immediately unsheathe as his eyes swept over the long rows of the injured. Some lying on cots, others on bedrolls, a few with just a blanket between them and the ground.
There were healers running about too, paying Astarion and Tyrus no mind yet in their hurry to tend to the new wounded from what must have been a recent fight. Tyrus felt at once terrified and entirely out of place in their midst, until his focus narrowed in on one crouched figure.
Just another healer, tending to an unconscious soldier nearby. But the pink knitted sweater she wore under an otherwise practical breastplate set her apart. Not to mention the long white hair tied up at the top of her head and plaited into a long braid down her back, exposing a set of freckled, dusk-toned ears.
Her back was turned to them. She was clearly busy. And still, Tyrus found himself walking down the aisle of cots, compelled by a sudden, deep-seated longing that urged him to turn and look.
Soft light distracted him—it glowed from the woman’s palms as she pressed hands to a bandaged man’s middle. A magical healer, then. But when Tyrus moved his gaze up and took in her face, he felt no recognition. Just quiet awe, as her pupils were awash with the same soft, grayish glow as her hands, an incantation whispered from her lips while her brow furrowed in concentration.
But when the glow faded, the eyes that looked up to see their approach darkened into a warm crimson. Enough like Astarion’s in the dimness of the tent that Tyrus felt his breath catch in his throat.
The woman also froze, staring at him as if she’d seen a ghost.
Then those familiar eyes widened in disbelief. “Ty . . . Tyrus?” she whispered.
Meanwhile, Tyrus’s every instinct told him to run. All at once he found himself questioning everything again, as he watched the growing hope alight on her face.
Could he really claim this? Take the spot her brother held in her heart for his own, however distant he was from that person, however unworthy of the same affection? Would she even want him to, after learning what he’d become?
He glanced at Astarion next to him, who clearly was only just containing his own excitement. But the eagerness softened as he took in Tyrus’s face. Astarion gave him a gentle, encouraging nod and let go of Tyrus’s hand to make a little ushering gesture, mouthing, Go on .
So Tyrus swallowed hard and forced himself to face this. “You’re . . . Cynda?” he had to make sure as he looked back at her. “Cynda Aman’del?”
Her eyes glistened with tears, then, a hand covering her mouth just as a choked sound escaped it.
Tyrus had no idea what to do or say, how to comfort her or explain. Her eyes were the only indication to his mind he’d even found the correct drow woman, if there happened to be others in the room.
But then she crossed the remaining distance around the cots in a quick, staggering rush, and every whisper of breath was promptly squeezed from his lungs as the woman wrapped him in a bone-bruising hug.
“Tyrus,” she gasped against his chest, tears already dampening his shirt, “of–of course it’s me, but what—how—?”
Tyrus returned the hug with light, tentative hands, feeling a dusty, wilted sort of hope shake off its cobwebs within him.
He’d found her. He’d made it back to Cynda.
He wished the notion held the deep feeling of relief it was probably supposed to, not so much of this lingering anxiety and worthlessness . . . but maybe that would come with time.
“Cynda,” he whispered, and found it felt less foreign when spoken aloud on his tongue. “Cynda. Cynda.”
“It’s me,” she let out a soft, pained little laugh. “Oh . . . but Ma,” she pressed her forehead even harder into Tyrus’s chest, voice growing heartbroken. “She always said it was suspicious, how they sent just your shirt—we inquired so many times where they’d buried you after the thugs attacked, but the merchant acted so strange, and Lord Szarr only sent me one reply—and, and now,” she let out a soft hiccup, “it’s too late for her to see she was right!”
Tyrus blinked, taking this in. “Is she dead, then?”
Cynda let out another soft, heartbroken sob and nodded against his chest. “I’m so sorry, I should have convinced her to run, not stand up to them—but . . . yes. Yes, we’re orphans now.”
So his father was dead too, Tyrus put into place.
“What were their names?”
“What?” Slowly she eased up on the hug, pulling back to look up at him with teary, concerned eyes.
Tyrus realized it was a very strange question, without context, to ask about his own parents. But he wasn’t sure he had it in him to explain everything yet. “Please,” he whispered. “I just want to know.”
“C-Cena and—and Syldrus Aman’del . . .” her face managed to look even more heartbroken, if that was possible, as she whispered, “Ty . . . I don’t understand . . .”
“I can explain,” he said around the constriction in his throat—and then a bit louder, with more resolve, “I’ll explain everything.”
And he would; everything he could stomach the telling of, so that Cynda was properly informed before choosing to accept him as her brother’s replacement.
“Yes, but—but Ty,” her brows drew together, looking him up and down with an incredulous sort of amazement now, “you’re alive.”
Tyrus held back a grimace, at a loss when he glanced over at Astarion.
It seemed the pale elf was about to step in anyway. “The important thing is he’s free and was able to return to you, darling,” he said warmly, while moving forward to put a grounding hand on Tyrus’s shoulder. “The details are . . . secondary, right now.”
Cynda fully let go of Tyrus—only to jump into Astarion’s arms next without warning. “And you helped him, didn’t you?” she gushed, laughing and crying at once. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing my brother back to me.”
Astarion looked immediately bewildered by the sudden intense affection, and Tyrus found a smile creeping on his face at last, remembering the first time he’d impulsively hugged the man.
Perhaps there were still little things like this, buried in his subconscious, his mannerisms, his habits, that had come from his family and survived the last ten years, Tyrus thought then.
Or maybe he’d changed beyond recognition. It was more than a little frightening, to realize he’d found the only person who would know.
Astarion met his gaze and softened at whatever he saw there, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his lips before he rested a hand on Cynda’s back. The other stayed on Tyrus’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Oh no, my dear,” he replied, though he looked straight at Tyrus as he spoke, “I was quite the hopeless captive in this situation. It was your brother, who gave me my freedom.”
Cynda pulled back and smiled at Tyrus proudly—and it was so hard not to crumble under that gaze knowing all he would need to confess, all that he had lost—but he managed to shake his head. Then whispered, “We saved each other.”
For all that he refused to ever budge on his belief that Astarion would have survived just fine without Tyrus’s existence, after enough conversations and near-arguments they’d come to an agreement. Tyrus would try to stop seeing his presence in Astarion’s life as a negative sum, and Astarion would try to stop worrying about whether he was less capable or weak in comparison. They would both attempt to be less reckless—Tyrus in his self-sacrificial manner, and Astarion in his urge to secure protection.
In three months, they’d made some progress. But one truth had steadied the ups and downs: they were always better off together.
Cynda let go of Astarion and looked between them, a knowing sparkle in her dark eyes. “Well then, Ty. Are you going to introduce me to your co-savior?”
Astarion bowed, and with a flourish took Cynda’s hand up in his while laying on the charm, “Oh how remiss of us—my name’s Astarion,” and kissed the back of it. “His partner, or dearest love, as you’d like,” he added with a wink.
Cynda immediately flushed, and then she gave them both the biggest, happiest smile, so bright and full of joy it was impossible not to return it. “I lose one brother, and gain two, it seems,” she laughed, arms widening to embrace them both at once.
“Oof—well, now I know where your brother gets his incessant neediness for cuddles,” Astarion joked with a wheeze, though he was leaning into it even more than Tyrus before Cynda pulled back.
“I’m Cynda, as you might have heard,” she told him.
“Oh, I know your name well,” Astarion smirked back. “You were one of the first things he ever told me about himself.”
Cynda gave Tyrus a soft, tender look at that, saying, “And you were one of the first things I talked to my love about as well.”
Tyrus glanced towards the exit, at last catching on. And then had to school the small amount of scandalized shock that ran through him, given her petite size and Halsin’s sheer enormity. “Y-you mean—the big bear, he’s—?”
“Oh, you’ve already met him then!” she laughed loudly. Then covered her mouth as one of the other healers glared at them. “Come on, Ty,” she grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards where they’d come—and something about the small, familiar shape of it in his own had his breath catching in his throat a second time.
“We have a long decade to catch each other up on,” she continued in an only slightly lower volume while they left the infirmary. “And I want it all told—though first, I must say, you’re both freezing; I have an old sweater of Ma’s you can wear, Ty, and I finished a scarf just the other day that would be perfect for you, Astarion . . .”
She was rambling on still as they ducked outside, but at the sight of Halsin waiting Tyrus realized he’d already ran out of time. If and when he ever found an old family member, Tyrus had expected to have much more preparation. Maybe a whole visit, before he broached the subject of what he’d become.
But if he wanted Cynda to hear it from him, it was now or never.
“I’m a vampire,” he blurted out over whatever she was saying.
Cynda blinked, the next word dying on her lips, though her mouth stayed open. Tyrus felt his dead heart sink to the floor as her hand slipped out of his, his sister taking a hesitant step backward in stunned shock.
Meanwhile Halsin moved in a bit closer just behind Cynda, and placed a gentle-if-huge hand around her waist. He gave Tyrus an encouraging smile.
Tyrus swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “We both are,” he motioned at Astarion and himself, eyes downcast and unable to meet anyone else’s as he hurried in a rush, “I–I was killed, just not how they said it happened. I stayed at Szarr Palace for 10 years. I’ve drunk people’s blood—killed them—and my memories, anything good I used to be . . .” His voice faded into a whisper as he admitted, “It’s gone. All of it. Astarion is the only reason I even held onto your name.”
No one said anything for a moment. Then, after a few drawn-out seconds that lasted an eternity, Tyrus felt two hands encompass one of his.
He dared a glance up as Cynda guided his hand closer to her. And for a moment all Tyrus noticed was a detail he should have paid attention to much sooner—the holy symbol of Selûne, engraved onto an amulet of pale moonstone hanging from her neck.
She wouldn’t have to run for a cleric, Tyrus thought then, nearly smiling at the irony. His own sister could turn the power of the gods against the undead thing he’d become.
He decided he wouldn’t fight her, if she did.
But she was pressing his hand against the right side of her abdomen, he realized, entirely confused until she said in a soft voice, “I died a year ago. One Dark Justiciar dealt me a killing blow here; Halsin is the only reason I’m alive once more. It still aches, at times.”
Then Cynda glanced up at him with such pain, sorrow, heartbreak . . . and understanding.
“We both lost everything, everyone,” his sister said with such kindness and love in her eyes. “I’ve prayed nearly every night since your disappearance that, if somehow you were still out there like Ma believed, Selûne would watch over you for me until I could. And now you’ve returned to me.” She brought Tyrus’s hand up, then, pressing it over her heart as she finished around a tearful laugh, “Tyrus . . . do you think I care how?”
All at once, the anxiety, dread, and self-loathing that had weighed like a millstone inside Tyrus’s chest crumbled. Still a bit heavy and sharp-edged in places, but with not half so much weight as what had been building up inside him for years.
Tyrus crumbled as well—this time, the one pulling his sibling into a tight, breathless hug.
The rest of the world fell away as brother and sister cried, long and hard, in each other’s arms.
Eventually, however, they pulled apart, further introductions were made with Halsin, Ganyl returned with instructions for Halsin before it was time to depart. A brief, sanitized telling of Tyrus’s story came out, once they began their walk back towards the tunnels—and of course it ended up being both Halsin and Cynda accompanying them. Tyrus found it easier, keeping his eyes on the path ahead, focusing his efforts on the uneven rocky descent during the hardest parts of the tale.
Tyrus told her about being tricked, turned into a vampire, and initiated as one of Cazador Szarr’s spawn. Cynda told him about their search for answers after his disappearance, waylaid by a growing cult movement in their own town that was led by the man once revered as Selûne’s greatest defender.
Tyrus told her about meeting Astarion, if not all the circ*mstances around it. Cynda told him about first getting to know Halsin, when Morfred sent a small group to entreat the Emerald Enclave for help and she volunteered.
Tyrus told her about Cazador’s abuse, to some small extent. Cynda explained in brief terms, that their mother had been killed as an example, her body hung in a cage on the streets just before the Selunite Resistance and all worship of the goddess went underground.
Tyrus told her about winning—and about killing. That there were ones he deeply regretted, others he didn’t think much about, and a choice few he’d end again in a heartbeat.
Cynda told him about growing her faith in Selûne, being cured of her curse by the goddess so long as she served Her, and killing townsfolk she’d grown up beside in Her name.
You were trying to remove a curse of hers, Astarion had said once. Tyrus found himself now in sudden mourning for a failed hope that had clearly been a driving force for his past self’s ambitions. And in his absence, a problem his sister had had to solve on her own through dubious means.
“So, my hands have grown bloody as well,” she finished with a sigh.
“Still, a much more hopeful tale than mine, I’m afraid,” Tyrus pointed out just as they reached the colony. “Ending with faith in a goddess and everything.” Though silently he wondered if he might research and find a less conditional way of curing Cynda after all, once this conflict was over.
Halsin had spent the better portion of the journey as a bear, which Cynda rode on for the last half hour. But as they stopped in front of the barricade, she slid off his side, landing next to Tyrus and Astarion and vehemently shaking her head. “No. There is so much hope in your story,” she argued. “You didn’t give up on yourself, in the bleakest, most awful of circ*mstances. You conquered your enemy. You found love.”
But he had given up, Tyrus wanted to argue. For years, he’d lost hope, lost himself. And in the end, it was Astarion who Cynda had to thank for Tyrus being here and still breathing today, who had pulled him out of his despair and ultimately made Cazador’s fall possible.
But Astarion had needed Tyrus too, he could recognize now.
“I found love,” he agreed, glancing over at Astarion. Who gave him such a warm, fond look in response, Tyrus wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in that warmth for the rest of the night. Light a fire and have them all sit together around it, perhaps, share much happier tales to Cynda and Halsin of the times since their freedom: Astarion figuring out that Polymorph allowed a vampire another way to walk in the sun; taking down the mummy lord Carrion in the sewers; working with the Gur to help all the remaining spawn learn control; discovering hidden treasures together in the Underdark.
Night was a busy time for vampires, however. Once Tyrus and Astarion led them through what first looked to be a crevice in the wall, but was actually a tight, heavily-trapped side entrance—Halsin having to lose his bear form to fit, though even then it was a squeeze—Aurelia and Violet waited on the other side.
No one in their walled-off, temporary haven pounced at the smell of new blood. But certainly all red eyes in the immediate vicinity quickly turned toward Cynda and Halsin.
“Magus Aman’del, who are our new guests?” Aurelia asked with a hesitant sort of curiosity.
He’d asked her multiple times at the beginning to not call him ‘master.’ When kind requests didn’t work, however, Tyrus had snapped in a much colder and harsher manner at her—and this had been their compromise ever since. Unfortunately, most of the spawn had caught on to the title and decided to use it as well.
“Do we fight, magus?” asked one in the growing crowd, and “Did they let you speak at all?” questioned another.
“Whose blood do we spill?” Violet asked with much more excitement. She’d voted yes, of course, on Tyrus’s proposal to offer the surface dwellers aid, ever-eager for any carnage.
Before Halsin or Cynda could get worried, Tyrus quickly answered, “Dark Justiciar blood. We still have negotiations to finish, but first, we need to prove the colony safe to our potential allies,” he nodded at their guests.
“And then we’ll need to train hard if even half of you expect to survive an army of clerics, dark or not,” Astarion said in a much more scathing tone, giving all around them a pointed look that sent many spawn quickly hurrying on their way.
Hours passed as they showed Cynda and Halsin around, found them a safe place to rest on one of the more private terraces along the southern rock wall of the enclosure, and then negotiated with Ulma and her family until she grumbled in agreement that two of them would head up to the surface.
It was long past midnight, Cynda in the midst of answering another spawn’s eager questions about what their new enemy was like, when she let out a long, full-body yawn.
“Oh, apologies, I—” she covered her mouth, blinking bleary, tired eyes.
Halsin let out a low, rumbling chuckle and interrupted, “We have thoroughly enjoyed everyone’s company, but it’s been a long night. We need you strong, my heart,” he added with a soft look down at her.
She gave him a sheepish grin, but nodded. “I will see you in the morning, Ty?” she turned and asked Tyrus, a vulnerable sort of worry suddenly taking over her expression.
“And the next, and the next, if I have anything to say about it,” Tyrus nodded with a small smile—to which Cynda grinned wide and gave him one last rib-aching hug.
“If it’s in your hands, then I have no doubts,” she said with such love in her eyes, giving Astarion an only slightly-gentler hug before she and Halsin headed to rest hand-in-hand.
Then of course Tyrus still had to check in with Dalyria and Sebastian, who had become their first line of defense when it came to skirmishes and disputes that needed to be settled amongst all the spawn. But all was quiet. The last item before Tyrus could trance was checking in with the eastern side of their makeshift sanctuary—a sharp cliff face that fell off into a black, bottomless lake, from which the old Grymforge ruin lay just out of view.
“We’ve found your sister,” Astarion murmured quietly as they gazed off into the dark, watching the barely-visible reflective surface of the water. Nothing stirred. Either the Justiciars still weren’t aware of their close presence just across the water quite yet, or they were biding their time. “Is a fight still the right decision, with even more to lose?”
When Tyrus turned to look at him, Astarion’s face was tight and lined—as it looked whenever they took risks he disliked, of late. “It’s even more necessary,” Tyrus tried to reason. “If we can help them win? Build a home beneath hers, even . . .”
“And if we can’t?” Astarion countered, his voice brittle.
There were less-than-happy tales to tell since their freedom as well, of course. Like Tyrus ignoring his thirst for weeks, and now often retching up half of it whenever he drank blood at Astarion’s insistence. Or like Astarion’s needless aggressions against the other spawn whenever he felt out of control. Like Tyrus still hating open spaces. Like Astarion suspecting that everyone around him wanted something from him. Like the fact that both of them struggled to trance, most days, memories so stark and vivid sometimes they’d have to reassure each other over and over that Cazador was actually dead.
Tyrus blew out a breath and nodded away from the lookout area. “It’s been a long day—and night,” he said, holding out a hand.
Astarion had found and decorated a little nook for them since the spawn all moved here a tenday ago—a much smaller cave secluded from the colony, filled with glow crystals, mushroom, and moss in an array of color. Most importantly, containing a small natural pool they could heat up whenever the fancy took them.
It was no silk sheets or perfumed bath . . . but away from everyone and everything, it was heaven.
Tyrus quickly took Astarion there, lying back and pulling him down with him in the most mossy area. Holding each other tightly, for a few minutes, before Astarion spoke again.
“When did you last feed, darling?”
Tyrus tried not to stiffen at the question. “A few nights ago, I think,” he replied as vaguely as he could. And then tried a deflection that sometimes worked: “Are you hungry?” while exposing his neck.
Astarion laughed at his eagerness and hummed against the fragile skin there, brushing his nose and then his mouth along its angles for a few long, anticipatory seconds before murmuring, “You fed me only yesterday, darling.”
“That was while Polymorphed,” Tyrus shook his head slightly, then arched to lean into it when Astarion kissed him there. “What if . . . this time . . .”
Astarion immediately knew what he meant—drinking straight from Tyrus’s neck had been possible ever since Cazador’s commands died with him, after all. But no matter how Tyrus could tell Astarion wanted to, he had yet to take him up on the offer.
This time was no different. “Hmm. Can’t have you weakened before we storm the stronghold,” Astarion sighed, nuzzling his head to rest against Tyrus’s shoulder instead.
Usually Tyrus left it alone. This time, however, he pleaded, “Just a bit?” When Astarion raised his head to offer a questioning look, Tyrus admitted, “I want to feel you do it in my own head—feel closer, physically, to you.”
Astarion’s entire body tensed around him. “I suppose we . . . haven’t, in a while,” he asked, voice forcibly light.
Tyrus took a moment to understand—and then, once he had, wondered at why Astarion skirted around the word.
It was true, since everything happened, neither of them had initiated sexual intimacy. Plenty of kisses, touches, and embraces, of course. But Tyrus hadn’t thought of it in between all the other adjustments and stresses at first, and when he did once in the last month, it was only fleeting before Astarion stopped pressing against him and made some indication of being tired.
But perhaps Astarion hadn’t just been tired.
“Not what I meant,” Tyrus assured, petting a hand down Astarion’s tightened spine now. And when his partner still didn’t relax, added, “You know, I liked it—but I wouldn’t care if we ever had sex again, really.”
At that, however, Astarion’s head whipped up from Tyrus’s shoulder with a consternated look on his face. “You wouldn’t care?” he repeated with emphasis.
Tyrus gave a small, exasperated laugh. “When have I before?”
Astarion let out a sharp sigh, though his eyes slid away from Tyrus’s. “Yes, you're right. It’s just, I . . . I had different expectations for myself, I suppose,” he muttered. “I thought, once we were free, I could . . .”
He didn’t finish, just swallowed hard and looked down.
Tyrus brought a hand up to cup his jaw, turning Astarion’s head back to face him. “We can be together without sleeping together,” Tyrus reaffirmed, giving him a gentle smile, “for as long as you’d like. There are other ways to be close.”
Astarion’s lips twitched, then he let out a soft laugh, gaze slanting down again as he said coyly, “With you in my arms every night? Sounds like quite the challenge.” He leaned down and kissed Tyrus’s neck before whispering a bit more seriously, “I have wanted to try. And I do want to taste your blood at last, my love, but . . .”
“But?” Tyrus tilted his head further.
Astarion leaned back and gave him a look, then sat up further to begin untying the complicated, over-the-shoulder braid he’d fashioned Tyrus’s hair in before their important meeting. “But I am a bit more wary these days of indulging your self-sacrificial nature too much,” he said while his nimble fingers undid their work. “Considering how badly that went for us the last time, love.”
He reached forward and lifted Tyrus’s neck to finish undoing it all, leaving Tyrus’s hair splayed around his head in the moss.
Astarion looked down at the sight and let out another audible sigh, smirking. “You are a picture.” He leaned in and pressed their lips together in a short kiss, pulling back just an inch to say, “Except you might hate it in your true form the way I do in general. And even if you don’t . . .” he paused, brows furrowing low over his eyes. “. . . well, I find myself terrified, even now, that whatever joys I indulge in will just tempt the gods further. That somehow, in—in some way—”
He cut himself off, shaking his head, but Tyrus at last understood: “If we grow too happy, fate itself will try to rip everything away?”
Astarion’s head sagged forward, eyes squeezing shut as he nodded. “I know you’ve said it’s–it’s paranoia, likely, but why should it continue going so well? Yes, we both survived the rite; we’ve come far since; you even found your sister at last.” When his eyes opened again, they were wide and desperate, his voice growing in volume, “Yet what is left, now, except for pain? Or more loss? Especially if we walk into another fight!”
Tyrus winced. He knew he wasn’t to blame for most of this deep-rooted anxiety in Astarion—but some of it felt like his fault.
He sat up, Astarion repositioning to straddle his lap as Tyrus wrapped arms around him and leaned their heads together. “Breathing or not,” he swore this time, “Nothing will ever make me leave your side now.”
Astarion let out a broken laugh. “You still can’t promise such a thing—”
“I’m a necromancer of near-legendary skill,” Tyrus interrupted. “Death cannot stop me any longer. Nothing can.” And when Astarion leaned back a bit, Tyrus hoped he could see the resolve on his face. Even more, the hope.
“You truly aren’t worried?” he murmured, searching Tyrus’s features.
“About you and I? Not since you killed him,” Tyrus smiled. “What are a few cultists in comparison?” He tightened his grip on Astarion, his voice dark and low as he finished, “Let fate try to keep us apart.”
One side of Astarion’s mouth lifted up, just a bit. “You are . . . a gift, truly,” he whispered. “An impossible one, that I distrusted and feared, and wanted to reject from the beginning. And then . . .” His lips spread into a shyer smile as he continued, “Then you taught me how to love again. To fight. To trust.” Astarion cupped his cheek, before declaring, “Very well, darling. Together? Perhaps there is nothing we can’t do.”
Then he buried both hands in Tyrus’s hair and kissed him, long and deep and passionate, in a way the two hadn’t since the day before their vampire master’s death.
And when he gave a playful shove, Tyrus fell back against the moss again with a soft grin.
It was simple bad luck, either of them meeting Cazador.
Chance, that Astarion was there to scent Tyrus’s neck, and Cazador decided to use them against each other.
Serendipity, that they got along even better than he intended.
Yet it was in defiance of fate, that the two fell in love and refused to taint it with darkness. Self-made destiny, to spurn power on the mere hope of preserving something good. And it was in that act that they won not only their freedom, but a love and future they could build entirely together.
There was nothing of his old life to return to—but with the acceptance of his long-lost sister, a plan for the spawn colony in place, and Astarion’s teeth at last pricking his neck, Tyrus had never felt more at home.
The End.
