It is while she is in the midst of her ramble that he plucks the needle free, smooth as a lockpick. It'll still hurt like the devil, no doubt, but quick is the better option by far. Setting the needle aside he quickly reaches for the cloth, saturating it with as much water as he can, until it's fair near dribbling down over his hands and wrists.
"Your wish is my command," he replies dryly, red eyes darting upwards. "Now if you'd be so kind as to take these off and roll your chemise up, we'll do our best to make sure these don't find themselves infected, mm?"
That's all he's here to do, after all. Look after her, as the person providing his security and safety. That's all this is. Endear her to him so she'll be less likely to turn on him, if the circumstances should change...
Although that is becoming a harder scenario to imagine, as time goes on. It's easier to think of this as something he'd have done regardless. For someone he...likes, he supposes.
There is no bracing for it, it just hurts like a bitch. Not the worst injury she could have sustained but she still lets out an unbriddled yelp of pain when he pulls the needle out, and may manage to grit out something about how nature can die for all she cares.
She doesn't mean it, of course, but still.
About three new waves of cold shivers and sweat rush over her in the aftermath, and she would have felt faint if not for the stool anyway.
Something about this moment makes her easily listen to his instructions as if he's the most knowledgeable when it comes to tending to wounds. She imagines Astarion knows about stab wounds, she's seen him at work. (She's seen his back.)
"I wish I was like Lae'Zel," she declares, in a moment of pure vulnerability as she lowers her arm and starts to undo the laces of her stays. "You know, just capable of walking this sort of thing off. No pain, just pure grit - well, I mean I'm sure she feels pain too, everyone does, but does she allow that to set her back? No, sir. Lae'Zel would never be all blurry-vision over a sharp little shadowy tree needle. She'd have yanked it out on the battlefield, probably."
She's done loosening her stays enough to take them off by now, dropping the piece of corsetry on the floor by her with not even a care to clean it yet. Instantly, the absence of it brings into contrast the wounds that the healing potion did not fully close. She lets out a tired little sigh.
"Probably would've stabbed the tree with it as a reaction," she finishes her soliloquy for Lae'Zel's grit, and rolls her shirt up to her waist before grimacing. Lae'Zel would probably just pull the shirt off fully, but Hermione's not there yet in her self-confidence, so.
The process is slow and a bit clumsy, but she manages to pull her shirt up to her shoulders, revealing her bare back, but still covering most of her chest.
"I really hate not being good at things," she mutters under her breath, as a confession. The confession being implied: she is not good at the fighting. Or rather, not durable.
"You don't need to be Lae'zel. Oh I do love our murderous gith to pieces, don't get me wrong, but if we had more than one on the team I'm not entirely sure we'd survive each other, let alone the horrors at our metaphorical door."
There's a combination of both wry amusement and perhaps a small thread of sincerity, woven in subtly, as he presses the sodden rag to the visible wounds. Flooding them with water and seeing if whatever was inside might rinse out on its own was a good first step.
She was not going to be terribly pleased with the second and third steps. Perhaps another distraction was in order.
"Besides, you hardly need me to tell you all the things you are good at. We wouldn't have made it as far as we have without you leading the efforts of this herd of misfits and oddities." His mouth curves as he glances upwards once more, the angle a little difficult to catch her eye but not impossible.
"You're quite immpressive. Honestly, you're much stronger than I would have initially given you credit for."
The instinct is very much to twist and flinch out of the way, but she holds it together, forces herself to sit still while he washes out her wounds. It's such a...caring act. It leaves her feeling more exposed, all bare skin and raw emotions, than any form of sex might have.
She lifts her head, meeting his gaze in the middle, right after he's distracted her from the pain with compliments about her (cleverness and books, Astarion, hardly the leader that you all think I am) abilities to herd this bunch of feral cats.
She lets out a huff of laughter, low and soft, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know," she murmurs, "you were not exactly subtle about it the first time." She immitates a posher, more old-school accent, trying to sound like him when she says "Oh, chase down that awful boar for me, darling, and pay no attention to the dagger behind my back."
In his defense, she hadn't. He'd asked for her help and she'd started thinking of spells that would stun or kill a boar immediately, realising too late that it was a honeypot trap. Realising it when she was on her back with his dagger at her throat, her heartbeat thunderous in her chest, not out of fear of him, but from the memory of a different time, a different witch, a different dagger. He'd thought her easily fooled and small enough to take down single-handedly.
And now look at him, cleaning her injuries with a gentleness she knew he had in him.
Her mimicry ends, her smile softens. "I do like hearing that I'm quite impressive, though," she admits, with a bashful murmur. She might like praise a little too much, truth be told. It's an effective painkiller.
Ha. Better she laugh about it than worry about what he's doing, at the moment. Dirt and bits of debris does seem to be washing out with each press, along with a healthy amount of red-tinged water. He'll need to re-soak it before too long, perhaps with something to actually treat any potential infection the potion may have missed. A fever was the last thing they needed to worry about.
He's every bit as delicate about it as he would be with a needle and thread, repairing his clothing. Or with a lock that needed opening, or a trap that needed disarming, or a lover who needed pleasing. His hands are very steady, very skilled, but that doesn't mean he isn't focusing intently on his current task.
Still. He does look amused by her impression of his initial attempt to get answers. No. He hadn't thought much of her at all, at the start. "I'll have to make a point of telling you more often, then," he replies lightly, brows arching as he cleans the edge of another puncture before adjusting his posture, crouched beside her as he is.
"A fierce and clever beauty the likes of which ballads should be written, if you couldn't out-write all the bards in the Sword Coast yourself."
She bites her lip to not cry out loud, not wanting to attract the attention of anyone else to her tent, certainly not wanting anyone else to come running it. It would kill the mood, although the fact that she finds it a mood that he's cleaning her wounds one by one carefully and with focus is probably speaking volumes of her.
She's always been the odd one, even in the school, even before it all went pearshaped with Riddle trying to take over, even before it went bloodied with Bellatrix let loose on the student body.
Her mouth feels dry with the inevitable memories. She doesn't feel fierce right now, her back riddled with puncture wounds, her nerves frazzled. She definitely doesn't feel like a clever beauty.
"Don't be cruel," she murmurs, in response to that, letting her head drop forward, chin against her chest. She's nothing - what is she? Compared to the dazzling beauties he's likely seen in his significantly longer life? Compared even to the ones in camp right now.
She reaches up and pulls her head out of her shirt, clutching it gingerly to her chest with both hands. The gesture makes the fabric slip now from her shoulders, the sleeves bunched up around her elbows. In the candlelight glow, he may spot the scar on her arm too, if he is lucky; her own experience with torture, which she's kept hidden from everyone else. It would be fitting, too. Astarion has seen more of her than anyone has in years now.
She looks over her shoulder towards him, shifting on the stool. "You can stand behind me, you know? It can't be comfortable to crouch where you are."
"Of course, this is me being cruel, certainly. You found me out." Dry as aged parchment, that tone, as he clucks his tongue and continues. With a sing-song little hum under his breath, he reaches back for his pack to draw something else out. When he uncorks the bottle, the vapors from within sting.
"Although in a moment, I may lend some credence to that accusation. The needles went pretty deep, so a little dab of this ought to keep anything nasty from cropping up while it heals..."
He starts to offer her his hand to grip before his eyes flicker over the marks on her arm. The words. Carved, the same as the scars upon his own back. 'Mudblood'. His mind flickers through the possibilities before he puts them aside for now, propping his hand up further for her to grab without risking her shirt slipping any further.
"Don't worry about gripping too tight. I promise you, I can take it if you can."
It hits her nose with a delay, but she recognises it. It's what the healers cleaned her arm with, just in case the blade had been cursed, and she had very nearly soiled herself again from the pain.
She's not ashamed to grab onto the offered anchor of his hand when it is offered. She clasps it with both hands, in fact, pressing her forehead to his knuckles as if in prayer, bracing for it.
"Okay, I'm ready." No questions asked about this being the right course of action - with this, too, she has had experience. He's doing all the right things. And at least it isn't wine. Wine would just be sticky and sweet and make things worse.
Not to mention it'd be a waste of perfectly good wine! One mortal indulgence he's still fond of, even now when the taste is almost phantasmal.
But, wine later. Hermione probably won't mind a few stiff swigs of the stuff, either, once they're done here. His eyes dart towards where she has his hand pressed to her forehead, the warmth bleeding into him, and for a moment something in him twists uncomfortably. Not entirely sure he likes that...
Focus.
With a nod, Astarion soaks the cloth once again, and quickly presses it to her skin. He's been gentle thus far, but there's no amount of care that is going to make it burn less than the Nine Hells themselves. The merciful thing to do is be swift.
The ugly truth: she cries. The pain is at once too much and in too many places and familiar in the worst way, and tears just burst from her eyes. They stain his hand, with her grip on his arm so solid, her teeth on her lower lip to keep herself from shouting.
Internally she's shouting. Externally, there's whimpers and full-bodied trembles, but at least she doesn't embarrass herself further than that.
It's familiar in the worst kind of way, and that feeling twists a little tighter. I don't like seeing her hurt, that's all it is.
As soon as he's able, the cloth is pulled away, and water reapplied one-handed -- it doesn't feel like she's going to be able to un-claw her grip on his other hand, anyway. He presses again, soothing the bright red edges of the wounds, rinsing away what he can to soothe the burn.
"So, I hope what we've learned from all of this is to remember our Shield spell going forward, yes?"
Anger is a good distraction from pain. He's learned that, over the years.
A few beats of silence pass, then with a raspy voice - as if she has indeed screamed silly - she says: "Mage Armor at the very least. Shield is such a waste of a spell slot, Astarion." The latter almost sounds like her usual complaining tone.
She thinks that he's done pressing the desinfectant to her skin so she forces herself to release his hand. Astarion doesn't like to be touched, not unless he seeks it out, and even then - she's seen him shrug out of the way of a shoulder clap from Karlach. (Maybe because those can absolutely break you.) And Karlach is one of the nicest people she knows!
Still, uninvited her thumb brushes over the inside of his wrist as she lets go, in gratitude.
"Thank you for bullying me into taking care of my wounds," she adds with a stubborn pout, turning her head enough to be able to show him that she's - she's fine. It was bad fight but she's fine.
"Oh. Goodness. My mistake, then." Quickly withdrawing once she's started to disengage, he gathers up the cloth, leaving the water here for the time being. Then he pauses, long enough to see out her gaze and lifting a brow.
"I won't make it a habit, but you ought to look out for yourself more," the elf tuts softly at her. "Because I'm pretty sure if you wind up keeling over into a ditch, Gale will try to take command of our merry crew, and it's all going to fall over and catch fire in a hurry from there."
A smirk lingers in place as he shakes his head and rises briskly to his feet. "Go on and get as decent as you care to. I'll be back in a moment with step two of my fool-proof injury treatment plan."
She thinks he might do it again, even if she's determined to not repeat this again. He can't have done this for selfish reasons, there was too much care...
And apparently two steps. "I hope the second step is getting pissed," she mutters under her breath, and uses the same cantrip to dry her back off so it doesn't stick to fabric.
Since he's leaving, she gets to take her time to inhale through the knot in her throat, and let out a shaky breath. She lets her shirt fall to the floor, and opens up her chest to fish out a simple robe, the kind people wear about the home. She hasn't worn this one since she was still studying in the tower, but it's easier to wear without needing stays or a breast band.
There's a reason she doesn't wear this - it's sleeveless. It leaves the scar in her own full view. It's funny how this scar used to bother her so much, but in hindsight now feels like a small thing in comparison to what Astarion has on his back.
She's standing in the middle of her tent by the time he returns, frozen in the process of trying the belt of the robe on, and the first thing out of her mouth as soon as he rejoins her is a soft little "Thank you." More genuine than the grumpiness of earlier. More open, and a little surprised. She's usually the one sorting out other people's well being, so this was...unusual.
They might be friends now. She's going to go to hell and back if that's what Raphael demands of them for Astarion's request. If that's not friendship, what is it?
Astarion's brows lift as if surprised by the thanks. "Well of course, darling. You would have done the same for us. Now. If you insist on being sentimental, you'll need more of this."
And he presents her with a bottle procured from his stash, a smile dawning on his lips. There does seem to be an inordinate amount of wine lying about the place, wherever they go. Thankfully a few of these places have good wine hidden away.
She looks as if she could use it, to put it lightly.
"Just don't tell the wizard. If he catches on I've spoiled your appetite for dinner, he'll...oh I don't know. Be annoying at me. You know how wizards can be."
She takes the bottle with the hand above which scar is, making the decision to let him see. He's been forced to show his back scar to them by Raphael, which was a terrible and offensive thing for the demon to have done; all of his trauma laid bare so suddenly that Hermione hadn't even been able to say she knew what that felt like.
She is going to take a wild guess here that he doesn't want to talk about it, so she shows her weak underbelly first. Metaphorically.
"I have a vague idea of how they can be."
She has some goblets somewhere, grabbed from an old dungeon for the road because We're not barbarians and pours some for both.
She takes a long sip and lets out a sigh. "Alright - now can I be sentimental? I'm not used to people noticing when I'm injured, and I know you'll want to brush it off as some mention about how bad my blood smelled or something but I'm still very grateful."
No, he decidedly does not want to talk about it. And while he'd already seen the words carved into her skin, hazarded a few guesses of who and why, he can't imagine she wants to discuss her own scars either. Who would?
Still, his gaze lingers on the marks again for a moment before flickering upwards, a rigid smile on his lips. "Yes. I suppose you can."
But that's that, as far as he's concerned, leaning against a nearby post of the tent, accepting the goblet when offered and taking a sip that's honestly more for the scent than anything else. "Yes, well. I'd wager a guess you're more the sort to take care of than allow yourself to be taken care of. Am I close?"
She catches that, the look to her arm. She follows it with her own gaze, considering for a moment if maybe she should lengthen the sleeves of this robe, or perhaps change again - not that she can without being left bare from her waist up, in front of Astarion. It is what it is.
Her gaze drawn back up, she listens to the clever and well aimed analysis of her personality, which she could do without, but given everything he's done for her this evening, it doesn't chafe as much as it would with anyone else.
Not that, regrettably, anyone else would point it out. Harry and Ron certainly didn't, her help something that they accepted and took for granted in equal measure.
She glances down to his mouth, as he takes a sip of wine, catching a flash of fang and wondering how it is that it took her a while to notice them in the first place?
"Uncomfortably so," she admits, her voice quiet. She's far too used to taking care of herself, too, rather than being taken care of - in as many ways as he'll likely think. (It's funny, she's fairly sure he thinks she's some stuck up, virginal scholar. Many people do.)
She clears her throat. "My school was under the control of a vile wizard," she starts off. "He believed, and his followers believed, that a wizard is only powerful because the Weave, and magic, has been in their family for generations and generations. That allowing the school to take students who came from the common, unmagical masses was to muddy the blood."
And she's told him already about her parents, the dentists.
"My friends and I, we spent a good year trying to wrestle command of the school away from him, and to defeat his followers. One of them - she delighted in torture." She shrugs. "Just - if you were wondering. I don't share this often - and I've taken to long sleeves because...it's a long story to explain."
'Muddy the blood', eh? Well. That explains things rather neatly, doesn't it? It's a shame, how much the tragedy of their lives can be summarized in a few neat sentences. Of course, he could write volumes on what he endured and it still wouldn't feel sufficient.
That rage feels...bottomless. Perhaps the only way to fill that void is facing the source of his torment. Ending him. But they have more important matters to focus on now. Potentially world-ending, in fact. It doesn't leave much room for ruminating on personal tragedies or the desire for revenge.
As Hermione trails off, Astarion remains almost uncharacteristically silent, before taking another sip of the wine. His expression appears...oddly pensive.
"Someone was desperate to leave an impression, I suppose." There's a slightly hollow note to the attempted levity.
She paints a good picture, Hermione Granger. She certainly plays pretend very well, adopting the drive of a consumate academic, the fustiness of a wizardry scholar. The gifts that let her cast Vicious Mockery and Silvery Barbs at will, they have been around inside her far longer than she's been able to string a passable tune on a lute. She presents herself as such a bossy little know-it-all, always has; taking charge of a group of stragglers, each with their own trauma and hurt, and keeps it all together with sheer force of will. Infinite patience.
And so, Astarion declares that, and as the joke falls flat, her temper snaps. "Someone was determined to show me what they thought my place was," she says, none of the pensive tone to her voice anymore. "And now I carry the memory of that with me, and hide it from everyone who hasn't known me from before, because I do not want to be seen as some victim, some weak - "
She bites her tongue for a moment, just enough for a sharp burst of pain that refocuses her. Her grip on the goblet is white-knuckled; if not for the cup being made of silve, she'd have shattered it.
"Sorry, I'm just-" She exhales through her teeth and admits it, like ripping off a bandage for the scar below to show: "So angry - all the time. The very reason I was in Baldur's Gate when that illithid ship passed over it was because I left the school, because they were so forgiving of all those fucking monsters as long as their palms got greased."
A pause, long enough to realise her pulse is fast and she's panting, like someone on the verge of a panic attack, which - of all the things to break her, to snap her. Ironic.
"I didn't even used to swear before I started running around with you lot," she grumbles. Downs her glass in two long and greedy gulps, then waves it around, "Or drink. Or fight!"
Astarion lifts his own glass in salute. "And now you do all three. See how you've grown as a person? You're welcome."
This time the humorous note feels a little more genuine, but it's coming from a place of shared anger. For all that she pushes to do the right thing, the noble thing, she understands deep down that the world isn't noble. That people with power will do whatever the hell they want, whatever benefits them most, and to the Hells with everyone else.
It didn't even take her two hundred years to learn that lesson. Truly, a clever witch indeed.
It disarms her a little, enough that she lets out a spontaneous burst of laughter, which pulls at some of the wounds on her back and makes her grimace. It's all very dumb looking from the outside - laugh, flinch, grimace, groan, laugh weaker.
"My palate has been expanded," she mutters, setting the goblet down on top of her closed traveler's chest. She looks up at Astarion with a solemn seriousness, the night - the weeks? months? the year? - catching up with her.
"Listen, I - " she starts, then hesitates. He doesn't like to be touched, she doesn't imagine it comes from an excess of cuddling in the past two hundred years of his life. And yet tonight he stayed behind for her, helped her, nursed her bloody wounds and let her grip his hand through the pain. It's enough to form a knot in her throat, a flutter of nerves.
All the more reasons for this declaration to be spelled out.
"I know that you brush these things off because perhaps signs of kindness and friendship make you sceptical, so perhaps you will trust signs of understanding instead? If you need to make a deal with Raphael to find out what it is that's on your back, I'll follow you. When he names his price, I will help. Don't - don't sign your soul over to him, there is bound to be some other way, but if the devil is the only way, that's fine and..."
This part is conjecture. She's drawing conclusions about him and putting them into words: "And if you need a friend who will fight your demons with you, then I hope that you know you can consider me said friend. We are friends, I think." A pause, and a little bit more levity in: "I mean you've seen one of my battle scars now, which makes us at least level five friends."
It almost stings. Bitterness coils in his chest like an angry serpent. Perhaps just the realization that this existed in the world all along. Just never where he needed it to.
While she's put her goblet down, he hasn't. He in fact polishes it off entirely as she speaks, before licking his lips and leaning back once more. "I suppose it does. We do share that in common, don't we?" he replies, arching a brow at her.
"Having...people in our past trying to determine what we should be so badly, they'd etch it into our very skin. Here's to living to spite them."
She would toast him with wine if she still had a full glass. Her chin juts out proudly, her shoulders straight, and the anger melts into something else - unstoppable determination.
"That's a good declaration - I agree." Her gaze flicks down to his mouth - in the worst of times, clearly - and she notices them after he's licked them.
"You've got something," she murmurs, gesturing to the left corner of her lips. "There." It's a droplet of wine still sitting, unfairly perched on his lower lip.
Casually he lifts his thumb, tracing the edge of his mouth until he catches that stray bead and licks it away, quick as blinking. "Ah. Thank you. Shame to let something this fine go to waste, no?"
The anger starts to subside in his eyes, though the heat does not. And he's kept eye contact the whole while.
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"Your wish is my command," he replies dryly, red eyes darting upwards. "Now if you'd be so kind as to take these off and roll your chemise up, we'll do our best to make sure these don't find themselves infected, mm?"
That's all he's here to do, after all. Look after her, as the person providing his security and safety. That's all this is. Endear her to him so she'll be less likely to turn on him, if the circumstances should change...
Although that is becoming a harder scenario to imagine, as time goes on. It's easier to think of this as something he'd have done regardless. For someone he...likes, he supposes.
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She doesn't mean it, of course, but still.
About three new waves of cold shivers and sweat rush over her in the aftermath, and she would have felt faint if not for the stool anyway.
Something about this moment makes her easily listen to his instructions as if he's the most knowledgeable when it comes to tending to wounds. She imagines Astarion knows about stab wounds, she's seen him at work. (She's seen his back.)
"I wish I was like Lae'Zel," she declares, in a moment of pure vulnerability as she lowers her arm and starts to undo the laces of her stays. "You know, just capable of walking this sort of thing off. No pain, just pure grit - well, I mean I'm sure she feels pain too, everyone does, but does she allow that to set her back? No, sir. Lae'Zel would never be all blurry-vision over a sharp little shadowy tree needle. She'd have yanked it out on the battlefield, probably."
She's done loosening her stays enough to take them off by now, dropping the piece of corsetry on the floor by her with not even a care to clean it yet. Instantly, the absence of it brings into contrast the wounds that the healing potion did not fully close. She lets out a tired little sigh.
"Probably would've stabbed the tree with it as a reaction," she finishes her soliloquy for Lae'Zel's grit, and rolls her shirt up to her waist before grimacing. Lae'Zel would probably just pull the shirt off fully, but Hermione's not there yet in her self-confidence, so.
The process is slow and a bit clumsy, but she manages to pull her shirt up to her shoulders, revealing her bare back, but still covering most of her chest.
"I really hate not being good at things," she mutters under her breath, as a confession. The confession being implied: she is not good at the fighting. Or rather, not durable.
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There's a combination of both wry amusement and perhaps a small thread of sincerity, woven in subtly, as he presses the sodden rag to the visible wounds. Flooding them with water and seeing if whatever was inside might rinse out on its own was a good first step.
She was not going to be terribly pleased with the second and third steps. Perhaps another distraction was in order.
"Besides, you hardly need me to tell you all the things you are good at. We wouldn't have made it as far as we have without you leading the efforts of this herd of misfits and oddities." His mouth curves as he glances upwards once more, the angle a little difficult to catch her eye but not impossible.
"You're quite immpressive. Honestly, you're much stronger than I would have initially given you credit for."
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She lifts her head, meeting his gaze in the middle, right after he's distracted her from the pain with compliments about her (cleverness and books, Astarion, hardly the leader that you all think I am) abilities to herd this bunch of feral cats.
She lets out a huff of laughter, low and soft, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know," she murmurs, "you were not exactly subtle about it the first time." She immitates a posher, more old-school accent, trying to sound like him when she says "Oh, chase down that awful boar for me, darling, and pay no attention to the dagger behind my back."
In his defense, she hadn't. He'd asked for her help and she'd started thinking of spells that would stun or kill a boar immediately, realising too late that it was a honeypot trap. Realising it when she was on her back with his dagger at her throat, her heartbeat thunderous in her chest, not out of fear of him, but from the memory of a different time, a different witch, a different dagger. He'd thought her easily fooled and small enough to take down single-handedly.
And now look at him, cleaning her injuries with a gentleness she knew he had in him.
Her mimicry ends, her smile softens. "I do like hearing that I'm quite impressive, though," she admits, with a bashful murmur. She might like praise a little too much, truth be told. It's an effective painkiller.
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He's every bit as delicate about it as he would be with a needle and thread, repairing his clothing. Or with a lock that needed opening, or a trap that needed disarming, or a lover who needed pleasing. His hands are very steady, very skilled, but that doesn't mean he isn't focusing intently on his current task.
Still. He does look amused by her impression of his initial attempt to get answers. No. He hadn't thought much of her at all, at the start. "I'll have to make a point of telling you more often, then," he replies lightly, brows arching as he cleans the edge of another puncture before adjusting his posture, crouched beside her as he is.
"A fierce and clever beauty the likes of which ballads should be written, if you couldn't out-write all the bards in the Sword Coast yourself."
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She's always been the odd one, even in the school, even before it all went pearshaped with Riddle trying to take over, even before it went bloodied with Bellatrix let loose on the student body.
Her mouth feels dry with the inevitable memories. She doesn't feel fierce right now, her back riddled with puncture wounds, her nerves frazzled. She definitely doesn't feel like a clever beauty.
"Don't be cruel," she murmurs, in response to that, letting her head drop forward, chin against her chest. She's nothing - what is she? Compared to the dazzling beauties he's likely seen in his significantly longer life? Compared even to the ones in camp right now.
She reaches up and pulls her head out of her shirt, clutching it gingerly to her chest with both hands. The gesture makes the fabric slip now from her shoulders, the sleeves bunched up around her elbows. In the candlelight glow, he may spot the scar on her arm too, if he is lucky; her own experience with torture, which she's kept hidden from everyone else. It would be fitting, too. Astarion has seen more of her than anyone has in years now.
She looks over her shoulder towards him, shifting on the stool. "You can stand behind me, you know? It can't be comfortable to crouch where you are."
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"Although in a moment, I may lend some credence to that accusation. The needles went pretty deep, so a little dab of this ought to keep anything nasty from cropping up while it heals..."
He starts to offer her his hand to grip before his eyes flicker over the marks on her arm. The words. Carved, the same as the scars upon his own back. 'Mudblood'. His mind flickers through the possibilities before he puts them aside for now, propping his hand up further for her to grab without risking her shirt slipping any further.
"Don't worry about gripping too tight. I promise you, I can take it if you can."
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She's not ashamed to grab onto the offered anchor of his hand when it is offered. She clasps it with both hands, in fact, pressing her forehead to his knuckles as if in prayer, bracing for it.
"Okay, I'm ready." No questions asked about this being the right course of action - with this, too, she has had experience. He's doing all the right things. And at least it isn't wine. Wine would just be sticky and sweet and make things worse.
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But, wine later. Hermione probably won't mind a few stiff swigs of the stuff, either, once they're done here. His eyes dart towards where she has his hand pressed to her forehead, the warmth bleeding into him, and for a moment something in him twists uncomfortably. Not entirely sure he likes that...
Focus.
With a nod, Astarion soaks the cloth once again, and quickly presses it to her skin. He's been gentle thus far, but there's no amount of care that is going to make it burn less than the Nine Hells themselves. The merciful thing to do is be swift.
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Internally she's shouting. Externally, there's whimpers and full-bodied trembles, but at least she doesn't embarrass herself further than that.
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As soon as he's able, the cloth is pulled away, and water reapplied one-handed -- it doesn't feel like she's going to be able to un-claw her grip on his other hand, anyway. He presses again, soothing the bright red edges of the wounds, rinsing away what he can to soothe the burn.
"So, I hope what we've learned from all of this is to remember our Shield spell going forward, yes?"
Anger is a good distraction from pain. He's learned that, over the years.
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She thinks that he's done pressing the desinfectant to her skin so she forces herself to release his hand. Astarion doesn't like to be touched, not unless he seeks it out, and even then - she's seen him shrug out of the way of a shoulder clap from Karlach. (Maybe because those can absolutely break you.) And Karlach is one of the nicest people she knows!
Still, uninvited her thumb brushes over the inside of his wrist as she lets go, in gratitude.
"Thank you for bullying me into taking care of my wounds," she adds with a stubborn pout, turning her head enough to be able to show him that she's - she's fine. It was bad fight but she's fine.
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"I won't make it a habit, but you ought to look out for yourself more," the elf tuts softly at her. "Because I'm pretty sure if you wind up keeling over into a ditch, Gale will try to take command of our merry crew, and it's all going to fall over and catch fire in a hurry from there."
A smirk lingers in place as he shakes his head and rises briskly to his feet. "Go on and get as decent as you care to. I'll be back in a moment with step two of my fool-proof injury treatment plan."
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And apparently two steps. "I hope the second step is getting pissed," she mutters under her breath, and uses the same cantrip to dry her back off so it doesn't stick to fabric.
Since he's leaving, she gets to take her time to inhale through the knot in her throat, and let out a shaky breath. She lets her shirt fall to the floor, and opens up her chest to fish out a simple robe, the kind people wear about the home. She hasn't worn this one since she was still studying in the tower, but it's easier to wear without needing stays or a breast band.
There's a reason she doesn't wear this - it's sleeveless. It leaves the scar in her own full view. It's funny how this scar used to bother her so much, but in hindsight now feels like a small thing in comparison to what Astarion has on his back.
She's standing in the middle of her tent by the time he returns, frozen in the process of trying the belt of the robe on, and the first thing out of her mouth as soon as he rejoins her is a soft little "Thank you." More genuine than the grumpiness of earlier. More open, and a little surprised. She's usually the one sorting out other people's well being, so this was...unusual.
They might be friends now. She's going to go to hell and back if that's what Raphael demands of them for Astarion's request. If that's not friendship, what is it?
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And he presents her with a bottle procured from his stash, a smile dawning on his lips. There does seem to be an inordinate amount of wine lying about the place, wherever they go. Thankfully a few of these places have good wine hidden away.
She looks as if she could use it, to put it lightly.
"Just don't tell the wizard. If he catches on I've spoiled your appetite for dinner, he'll...oh I don't know. Be annoying at me. You know how wizards can be."
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She is going to take a wild guess here that he doesn't want to talk about it, so she shows her weak underbelly first. Metaphorically.
"I have a vague idea of how they can be."
She has some goblets somewhere, grabbed from an old dungeon for the road because We're not barbarians and pours some for both.
She takes a long sip and lets out a sigh. "Alright - now can I be sentimental? I'm not used to people noticing when I'm injured, and I know you'll want to brush it off as some mention about how bad my blood smelled or something but I'm still very grateful."
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Still, his gaze lingers on the marks again for a moment before flickering upwards, a rigid smile on his lips. "Yes. I suppose you can."
But that's that, as far as he's concerned, leaning against a nearby post of the tent, accepting the goblet when offered and taking a sip that's honestly more for the scent than anything else. "Yes, well. I'd wager a guess you're more the sort to take care of than allow yourself to be taken care of. Am I close?"
Sip.
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Her gaze drawn back up, she listens to the clever and well aimed analysis of her personality, which she could do without, but given everything he's done for her this evening, it doesn't chafe as much as it would with anyone else.
Not that, regrettably, anyone else would point it out. Harry and Ron certainly didn't, her help something that they accepted and took for granted in equal measure.
She glances down to his mouth, as he takes a sip of wine, catching a flash of fang and wondering how it is that it took her a while to notice them in the first place?
"Uncomfortably so," she admits, her voice quiet. She's far too used to taking care of herself, too, rather than being taken care of - in as many ways as he'll likely think. (It's funny, she's fairly sure he thinks she's some stuck up, virginal scholar. Many people do.)
She clears her throat. "My school was under the control of a vile wizard," she starts off. "He believed, and his followers believed, that a wizard is only powerful because the Weave, and magic, has been in their family for generations and generations. That allowing the school to take students who came from the common, unmagical masses was to muddy the blood."
And she's told him already about her parents, the dentists.
"My friends and I, we spent a good year trying to wrestle command of the school away from him, and to defeat his followers. One of them - she delighted in torture." She shrugs. "Just - if you were wondering. I don't share this often - and I've taken to long sleeves because...it's a long story to explain."
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That rage feels...bottomless. Perhaps the only way to fill that void is facing the source of his torment. Ending him. But they have more important matters to focus on now. Potentially world-ending, in fact. It doesn't leave much room for ruminating on personal tragedies or the desire for revenge.
As Hermione trails off, Astarion remains almost uncharacteristically silent, before taking another sip of the wine. His expression appears...oddly pensive.
"Someone was desperate to leave an impression, I suppose." There's a slightly hollow note to the attempted levity.
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And so, Astarion declares that, and as the joke falls flat, her temper snaps. "Someone was determined to show me what they thought my place was," she says, none of the pensive tone to her voice anymore. "And now I carry the memory of that with me, and hide it from everyone who hasn't known me from before, because I do not want to be seen as some victim, some weak - "
She bites her tongue for a moment, just enough for a sharp burst of pain that refocuses her. Her grip on the goblet is white-knuckled; if not for the cup being made of silve, she'd have shattered it.
"Sorry, I'm just-" She exhales through her teeth and admits it, like ripping off a bandage for the scar below to show: "So angry - all the time. The very reason I was in Baldur's Gate when that illithid ship passed over it was because I left the school, because they were so forgiving of all those fucking monsters as long as their palms got greased."
A pause, long enough to realise her pulse is fast and she's panting, like someone on the verge of a panic attack, which - of all the things to break her, to snap her. Ironic.
"I didn't even used to swear before I started running around with you lot," she grumbles. Downs her glass in two long and greedy gulps, then waves it around, "Or drink. Or fight!"
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This time the humorous note feels a little more genuine, but it's coming from a place of shared anger. For all that she pushes to do the right thing, the noble thing, she understands deep down that the world isn't noble. That people with power will do whatever the hell they want, whatever benefits them most, and to the Hells with everyone else.
It didn't even take her two hundred years to learn that lesson. Truly, a clever witch indeed.
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"My palate has been expanded," she mutters, setting the goblet down on top of her closed traveler's chest. She looks up at Astarion with a solemn seriousness, the night - the weeks? months? the year? - catching up with her.
"Listen, I - " she starts, then hesitates. He doesn't like to be touched, she doesn't imagine it comes from an excess of cuddling in the past two hundred years of his life. And yet tonight he stayed behind for her, helped her, nursed her bloody wounds and let her grip his hand through the pain. It's enough to form a knot in her throat, a flutter of nerves.
All the more reasons for this declaration to be spelled out.
"I know that you brush these things off because perhaps signs of kindness and friendship make you sceptical, so perhaps you will trust signs of understanding instead? If you need to make a deal with Raphael to find out what it is that's on your back, I'll follow you. When he names his price, I will help. Don't - don't sign your soul over to him, there is bound to be some other way, but if the devil is the only way, that's fine and..."
This part is conjecture. She's drawing conclusions about him and putting them into words: "And if you need a friend who will fight your demons with you, then I hope that you know you can consider me said friend. We are friends, I think." A pause, and a little bit more levity in: "I mean you've seen one of my battle scars now, which makes us at least level five friends."
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While she's put her goblet down, he hasn't. He in fact polishes it off entirely as she speaks, before licking his lips and leaning back once more. "I suppose it does. We do share that in common, don't we?" he replies, arching a brow at her.
"Having...people in our past trying to determine what we should be so badly, they'd etch it into our very skin. Here's to living to spite them."
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"That's a good declaration - I agree." Her gaze flicks down to his mouth - in the worst of times, clearly - and she notices them after he's licked them.
"You've got something," she murmurs, gesturing to the left corner of her lips. "There." It's a droplet of wine still sitting, unfairly perched on his lower lip.
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Casually he lifts his thumb, tracing the edge of his mouth until he catches that stray bead and licks it away, quick as blinking. "Ah. Thank you. Shame to let something this fine go to waste, no?"
The anger starts to subside in his eyes, though the heat does not. And he's kept eye contact the whole while.
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