Wizards are made of glass. This isn't the first time she's heard the myth, though it's one of the first times when she's felt it - and it feels painful. Her whole life, from the moment when the School took her in, through to even running around the Tower with Harry and Ron to try and put a stop to that vile wizard trying to take it over, she has never felt as fragile as she does here, in the Shadow Cursed lands.
It's the lack of sunlight. The way hope seems to be a luxury, and her sanity feels fragile at best. Even if she were to try and stare at the mace on Shadowheart's back, emanating a bright light of day, it wouldn't be enough to be able to ignore how many horrors are around them.
The thing is, she's a scholar. The bard spells and abilities are a new addition to her character sheet, so to speak; she's always been a wizard first and foremost. Smart, bookish, stubborn, and only ever relaxed about rules when it suited her specifically. Being taken by the ilithids, having the tadpole implanted into her brain, finding herself in the company of a very diverse group (vastly different than her childhood friends), trying to find their long way around to Baldur's Gate and out of this predicament has been quite the wild ride.
She thinks she's taken it in stride. Back in school, when she'd started all of her (as Ron put them) "silly little campaigns" for the rights of humanoids and other magical creatures, she'd been very driven and singularly-focused. Now, however, her focus is divided.
One might say her focus is blurry as fuck.
"I think I might hate them," she mutters, swaying on her feet. "I think I might hate whatever the hells those shades are."
She's asked Shadowheart and Karlach to circle back to camp, now that they're all done fighting. She knows she'll need to join them soon, Halsin says he wants to speak to her in camp about Thaniel, but she might not be able to take another step. What would happen if she just took a nap on the bench outside the Last Light Inn? The inn is protected, after all.
Get it together, Hermione, encourages a sharp voice in her head, one that sounds more like hers than the guardian who keeps popping into her dreams. She'll feel better with some healing potions - whatever it takes to get herself to camp, where she will get some food in her belly and rest. Yes. Good plan.
As she reaches inside her bag, keeping one hand on the thick trunk of a tree for balance, she tries to keep track of everyone she's pulled along with her. Karlach and Shadowheart climbing the hill up ahead, Halsin far in front of them (stupid, sexy, long strides that the druid is capable of taking, ugh), and Astarion is - she can't see where Astarion is, to be honest, but maybe scouting up ahead or blending into the shadows, or judging the wine served at the inn. Who knows.
"Oh, come on - bollocks," she whines under her breath, her grip on a healing potion slipping. She pulls her hand out of the bag to check why her hand is slippery, and her heart sinks. There is so much blood - gods, there is so much blood, how did she not notice she was bleeding? This feels like the perfect time to utter a heartfelt: "Fuck."
The scent of blood isn't uncommon after a fight, but of late? There's been less blood spilled as their foes are more of this...rot. This shadowy infestation that leaves the air sharp and brittle, stinging in his nose. By contrast, the blood spilled by his comrades is a flush of warmth and richness that he has to studiously ignore in the heat of the fight.
Now, however? The scent lingers. More than it ought to. And the particular bouquet is quite familiar to him.
Astarion spots Hermione as she starts to fumble, to sway in her stance until she's propped against a nearby tree. Hardly a move he'd recommend, given the shambling mounds he's seen lurking in the dark. Then he sees the sticky crimson on her palm, the crestfallen look on her face.
And the others have already moved ahead. Leaving just him to notice.
Well. Fuck, indeed.
A hand moves to her back to help steady and guide her, preferably somewhere a little safer to go digging through her pack for a potion. "Oh no you don't. I know it's an effort, darling, but do try not to swoon out here." His voice is a little tense, as though this were some personal inconvenience to him.
There's Astarion - she found him. Or maybe he found her - probably sniffed her out. She can hardly hide the fact that she's bleeding right now from a vampire, although she's not yet on death's door.
Just on the door of whatever state makes her murmur a very ill-timed quip: "Of course, it's always an effort around you, dear."
The banter is always nice, but it rarely leaves her light-headed. And, as much as she's found herself lingering for conversations with him by the campfire, or barely concealing her smiles when he's dryly funny, or actually looking at him with the thoughts of maybe swimming in her head, she's not actually swooned around Astarion since that time he drank her blood and left her needing Lesser Restoration.
She wasted all her spell energy today. If she manages a fire bolt it'll be a miracle. At least she can manage a light cantrip on her quarterstaff.
"I think - those needles were doing more damage than I thought they would," she admits morosely, following him at her own page. "You were near those creatures - are you alright?"
The needles. Nasty little trick, wasn't it? Most of the little bastards had gotten caught in his cloak as he dodged out of the way, preferring to dart in and out of range before they could strike. But Hermione didn't have that mobility to hand, and barely wore any armor at all.
"Well I'm not currently leaking out of several holes in my body that weren't there when I woke up, so I'm going to say I managed just fine." His grip on her tightened slightly, prepared to sweep her up should her knees should any signs of buckling. But for now? She'd have the dignity of walking on her own two feet, somewhere where they could get a better look at the damage.
And of course, the scent lingers in his senses, coaxing. Alluring. Studiously ignored, even now. What? He can have self-control, when he felt like it.
He will notice that her pulse races a little faster, which should take care of some of his worries about her state, but there's no need to analyse why. It's definitely not because he's holding her steady. Or holding her. Nothing to do with that.
She's not exactly touch-starved here, not with new friends like Karlach being only too happy to be hugged, but her body keeps behaving like she's never been touched by someone in her life. All this excitement.
It's making her lose blood, for crying out loud.
"Good - good. Ow - here, let's just stop here, I'm going to try for a potion again," she asks, reaching up to steady herself, her hand briefly touching his elbow. She doesn't notice the stain she leaves behind, just using the momentum to reach into her bag again and find the damn bottle. This time she manages to grab it, and down it, no commentary to be made about the taste.
It's one of the good ones, too, the Greater Healing Potion, so effects are instantaneous. She feels some of those lingering injuries close up, a blush returning to her cheeks.
The change is an obvious one, and a relief, but those wounds will still need seeing to. And since when was that a concern of his? some voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like Cazador intones, before he can shake it away.
"Well! That seems to have helped. Think you can make it back to your tent? You're dripping blood everywhere still and we really ought to see to that. You never know who you might bring around. Something dangerous, perhaps."
One of her eyebrows quirks up and she gives him a pointed look. Something dangerous, perhaps?
"Present company not included?" She waves a prestidigitation cantrip over herself to remove the blood before it cakes and make life without a hot bath impossible, and out of the generosity of her pure heart she waves it over him as well. She did leave a stain, and she knows Astarion is peculiar about keeping his clothes pristine.
"Anyway, yes, camp. Please and thank you..." She assumes Shadowheart will be doing the looking over her wounds, perhaps even Halsin. It's not like she has any juice left in her to do any curing herself. Maybe she can be particularly nice and the druid will show her how to brew better healing potions.
She needs to make sure they can all survive this. Not just this godsforsaken place, but also whatever Raphael has cooked for them, whatever happens in Baldur's Gate, whatever the Absolute is. It's pretty clear that this is no longer about finding her way back home and tadpole free now, it's about whatever cult is trying to do away with innocent lives.
It would be best to keep walking now, but - she lingers. She is struck speechless for a moment, because Astarion illuminated by a subtle cantrip is something to behold. The protection ward that Isobel has around the inn and its surroundings emanates a soft blueish glow that catches all the handsome angles of his face and - ah, she's staring.
"Thank you," she manages out, patiently. "For waiting for me." She bites her bottom lip for a moment, hesitant, and then adds: "For staying."
He lifts his arm long enough to inspect where the stain was, giving her an amused little smile. Still enough juice left for a cantrip or two, eh?
"Handy little trick." Which might as well be a 'thank you', coming from him.
He lingers, too, waiting to guide her back towards the tent to finish looking after because...well. That's what he's doing now, apparently. Fortunately he has experience tending to bloody injuries, given all he and his siblings had been inflicted with over the centuries. Might as well put it to use now.
Except she's not moving. She's staring. It honestly takes a moment before he recognizes the look, a smirk tugging into place before he can stop himself.
"Well, it would hardly do to leave my favorite traveling companion to bleed out over the road in the wilderness, would it?" he replies, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I am capable of doing the right thing, from time to time. When it suits me."
"I'm your favourite?" It's what she chooses to focus on and what brings a bright smile to her lips. Is she preening? Is she standing proudly?
Yes. It's mostly the validation - yes, she knows, she's a mess for this.
"I know you are," she declares, all confidence in him. "I've seen you be good so far."
What people say, words are just armor. Astarion uses his to keep himself aloof and alone, but she's noticed him caring before. Much like Lae'Zel, like Shadowheart, there's hidden depths there - what moves them is anyone's guess. Knowing what she does now about the scar on his back (and it fills her with outrage, and pure hot rage to remember it every time) she can imagine what exactly makes Astarion use his words as armor.
"Alright, I feel a little better - let's make it to camp," she murmurs, breaking eye contact before he has a chance to retreat into innuendo and meaningless flirtation.
She lost concentration on the light cantrip that was illuminating the quarterstaff, and while it won't bring any shades to her now that they're inside the circle of protection, she's still very much a human and it's bloody dark. So she lights it again, and starts walking.
They always camp just next to the Inn, on a spot of land by the water that isn't being used, buffeted by the blessing of Selune.
Tonight, she's glad they're so close to the Inn, and to everyone else, because her whole body is screaming at her to rest.
"You know what they say? If you can't be good, be good at it. And I'm very good at it."
He laughs, mostly to himself, before escorting her further into the camp. Now he walks at something of a distance, though not far enough that he couldn't catch her should she still find a way to stumble. The last fight took it out of her in more ways than one, and he's perfectly capable of chiding her into rest if need be.
"Now, I do believe I have some bandages and water on me, thankfully. We can at least see about cleaning those wounds of yours."
Truth be told, the offer - while not explicit - takes her by surprise, but she is walking far enough in front that he doesn't get to see her eyes widen with it. She is definitely not a very good healer herself, talent with alchemy aside, but who is she to say no to such a generous offer?
Her companions must be equally exhausted - they all defended the portal from so many enemies, they deserve at least a night's rest, if not to be left to heal up properly in camp for a while. (At some point, they need to investigate the House of Healing again, she promised Arabella. She's also fairly sure that the ruins of Raithwynn are near Moonrise, and she can't be dragging the same three people for everything. After all, she also promised Wyll to take him with her when they find the tower.)
Bottom line is, she has made a lot of promises to help each and every one, and when it does come down to it, Hermione still does not feel entitled enough to go knocking on Shadowheart's tent for a Cure Wounds. Not that the cleric has any spells left either. She thinks that given the gruesome fight, they're all drained, so it'll be bandages and sleep for her tonight.
And Astarion is alert and offering, and her tent is right there - bless whoever pitched it up in her absence - and she still carries the stench of rot and death on her.
"Alright," she says, pulling the flap out of the way and looking over her shoulder at him. "Come in, then."
She has read the mythology. The Curse of the Vampyr has been tucked into the bottom of her bag ever since she found it on one of their earlier adventures. She wonders if the invitation is merely a formality now, if maybe he doesn't need one - hasn't ever, or hasn't needed to be invited into people's homes since the tadpole. Even if he didn't, even if she's being silly, she still wants him to know he's welcomed in here.
Especially since she's fairly certain she needs to take her stays and shirt off for him to clean her wounds.
She sets her quarterstaff against the central beam of the tent, and cancels out the light by waving her hand to light every candle in the tent. Her companions have taken to collecting trinkets and making their tents more personal, she's noticed, and Hermione is not one to distinguish herself with a sparse lifetime. There are blankets gifted to her by the tieflings in the Grove, and books sitting in little piles where she would sleep, when not camping by a fire in the wild, and spell scrolls and alchemy ingredients and recipes and - it's a mess. It's chaos, for the outsider, but for Hermione it's very well organised.
She starts to take her robes off first, standing near the stool by her bedside.
"I've been thinking I should buy a proper armor before we set out again," she starts to talk, as she unknots the sash that holds her wizard's robes cinched at the waist, and slips them off. "Technically I think I am strong enough to manage a light armor, and I often forget to cast Mage Armor on myself because I don't expect a fight - more fool is me, I suppose."
The top layer, those dark red robes she likes to wear, out of the way, she is left in a practical pair of trousers and a white - well, beige at this point - shirt. Every pragmatic, even the stays on top of the shirt are functional rather than pretty. They are also, unfortunately, rather pinkish with the whole bleeding on them. A single sharp needle still sticks out of her, on her right side just under the ribcage, looking like one of the whalebones snapped in half. Except dark and very much coming from a cursed tree creature.
"Oh - " she murmurs with some dismay. "Didn't notice that."
The joke is half-meant to distract her from the pain, rolling off his tongue even as he narrows his eyes on the needle. One hand lifts to flutter briefly in the air, gesturing for her to sit while he gets a better look at it--
And focuses through the scent. Stronger, now. And he hasn't fed in some time, now, with no new fresh necks to bite. Perhaps once they get closer to Moonrise Tower there will be a few tasty cultists to snack on. But that's something to dwell on later.
With surprising precision he draws the cloth and the bottle of water from his own pack, setting it aside as he inspects the needle. No getting the stays off with it in, unfortunately. "Puncture wounds can be particularly nasty. I can't say this is going to be pleasant, so if you've got something to hold onto? I might suggest it."
She lets out a little grunt of pain as she sits, the needle easing its way further in. She lifts her right arm to not jostle it, twisting her body a little so that it can come out easier. It's going to have to come out - she knows it. She's sure of it.
She's already grabbing onto the edge of the stool under her, one arm raise up and poised like a ballerina caught mid-dance. She looks down at Astarion, eyes catching on the sharp features - the elegance of his nose and the pointy chin, the fact that she can see some wrinkles around his eyes, and bloody hells his eyelashes are so long.
"Do it," she whispers, her breath caught. Then she pulls a face, and starts to nervous ramble: "Just get it over with - and don't say that must be what I said to my tiny pricks wielding lovers, Astarion, or you'll make me laugh, and I swear to the weave, if I laugh and it hurts -"
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.
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campvamp; the shaaaaade(ow-cursed lands)
It's the lack of sunlight. The way hope seems to be a luxury, and her sanity feels fragile at best. Even if she were to try and stare at the mace on Shadowheart's back, emanating a bright light of day, it wouldn't be enough to be able to ignore how many horrors are around them.
The thing is, she's a scholar. The bard spells and abilities are a new addition to her character sheet, so to speak; she's always been a wizard first and foremost. Smart, bookish, stubborn, and only ever relaxed about rules when it suited her specifically. Being taken by the ilithids, having the tadpole implanted into her brain, finding herself in the company of a very diverse group (vastly different than her childhood friends), trying to find their long way around to Baldur's Gate and out of this predicament has been quite the wild ride.
She thinks she's taken it in stride. Back in school, when she'd started all of her (as Ron put them) "silly little campaigns" for the rights of humanoids and other magical creatures, she'd been very driven and singularly-focused. Now, however, her focus is divided.
One might say her focus is blurry as fuck.
"I think I might hate them," she mutters, swaying on her feet. "I think I might hate whatever the hells those shades are."
She's asked Shadowheart and Karlach to circle back to camp, now that they're all done fighting. She knows she'll need to join them soon, Halsin says he wants to speak to her in camp about Thaniel, but she might not be able to take another step. What would happen if she just took a nap on the bench outside the Last Light Inn? The inn is protected, after all.
Get it together, Hermione, encourages a sharp voice in her head, one that sounds more like hers than the guardian who keeps popping into her dreams. She'll feel better with some healing potions - whatever it takes to get herself to camp, where she will get some food in her belly and rest. Yes. Good plan.
As she reaches inside her bag, keeping one hand on the thick trunk of a tree for balance, she tries to keep track of everyone she's pulled along with her. Karlach and Shadowheart climbing the hill up ahead, Halsin far in front of them (stupid, sexy, long strides that the druid is capable of taking, ugh), and Astarion is - she can't see where Astarion is, to be honest, but maybe scouting up ahead or blending into the shadows, or judging the wine served at the inn. Who knows.
"Oh, come on - bollocks," she whines under her breath, her grip on a healing potion slipping. She pulls her hand out of the bag to check why her hand is slippery, and her heart sinks. There is so much blood - gods, there is so much blood, how did she not notice she was bleeding? This feels like the perfect time to utter a heartfelt: "Fuck."
no subject
Now, however? The scent lingers. More than it ought to. And the particular bouquet is quite familiar to him.
Astarion spots Hermione as she starts to fumble, to sway in her stance until she's propped against a nearby tree. Hardly a move he'd recommend, given the shambling mounds he's seen lurking in the dark. Then he sees the sticky crimson on her palm, the crestfallen look on her face.
And the others have already moved ahead. Leaving just him to notice.
Well. Fuck, indeed.
A hand moves to her back to help steady and guide her, preferably somewhere a little safer to go digging through her pack for a potion. "Oh no you don't. I know it's an effort, darling, but do try not to swoon out here." His voice is a little tense, as though this were some personal inconvenience to him.
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Just on the door of whatever state makes her murmur a very ill-timed quip: "Of course, it's always an effort around you, dear."
The banter is always nice, but it rarely leaves her light-headed. And, as much as she's found herself lingering for conversations with him by the campfire, or barely concealing her smiles when he's dryly funny, or actually looking at him with the thoughts of maybe swimming in her head, she's not actually swooned around Astarion since that time he drank her blood and left her needing Lesser Restoration.
She wasted all her spell energy today. If she manages a fire bolt it'll be a miracle. At least she can manage a light cantrip on her quarterstaff.
"I think - those needles were doing more damage than I thought they would," she admits morosely, following him at her own page. "You were near those creatures - are you alright?"
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"Well I'm not currently leaking out of several holes in my body that weren't there when I woke up, so I'm going to say I managed just fine." His grip on her tightened slightly, prepared to sweep her up should her knees should any signs of buckling. But for now? She'd have the dignity of walking on her own two feet, somewhere where they could get a better look at the damage.
And of course, the scent lingers in his senses, coaxing. Alluring. Studiously ignored, even now. What? He can have self-control, when he felt like it.
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She's not exactly touch-starved here, not with new friends like Karlach being only too happy to be hugged, but her body keeps behaving like she's never been touched by someone in her life. All this excitement.
It's making her lose blood, for crying out loud.
"Good - good. Ow - here, let's just stop here, I'm going to try for a potion again," she asks, reaching up to steady herself, her hand briefly touching his elbow. She doesn't notice the stain she leaves behind, just using the momentum to reach into her bag again and find the damn bottle. This time she manages to grab it, and down it, no commentary to be made about the taste.
It's one of the good ones, too, the Greater Healing Potion, so effects are instantaneous. She feels some of those lingering injuries close up, a blush returning to her cheeks.
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"Well! That seems to have helped. Think you can make it back to your tent? You're dripping blood everywhere still and we really ought to see to that. You never know who you might bring around. Something dangerous, perhaps."
The corner of his mouth quirks upwards.
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"Present company not included?" She waves a prestidigitation cantrip over herself to remove the blood before it cakes and make life without a hot bath impossible, and out of the generosity of her pure heart she waves it over him as well. She did leave a stain, and she knows Astarion is peculiar about keeping his clothes pristine.
"Anyway, yes, camp. Please and thank you..." She assumes Shadowheart will be doing the looking over her wounds, perhaps even Halsin. It's not like she has any juice left in her to do any curing herself. Maybe she can be particularly nice and the druid will show her how to brew better healing potions.
She needs to make sure they can all survive this. Not just this godsforsaken place, but also whatever Raphael has cooked for them, whatever happens in Baldur's Gate, whatever the Absolute is. It's pretty clear that this is no longer about finding her way back home and tadpole free now, it's about whatever cult is trying to do away with innocent lives.
It would be best to keep walking now, but - she lingers. She is struck speechless for a moment, because Astarion illuminated by a subtle cantrip is something to behold. The protection ward that Isobel has around the inn and its surroundings emanates a soft blueish glow that catches all the handsome angles of his face and - ah, she's staring.
"Thank you," she manages out, patiently. "For waiting for me." She bites her bottom lip for a moment, hesitant, and then adds: "For staying."
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"Handy little trick." Which might as well be a 'thank you', coming from him.
He lingers, too, waiting to guide her back towards the tent to finish looking after because...well. That's what he's doing now, apparently. Fortunately he has experience tending to bloody injuries, given all he and his siblings had been inflicted with over the centuries. Might as well put it to use now.
Except she's not moving. She's staring. It honestly takes a moment before he recognizes the look, a smirk tugging into place before he can stop himself.
"Well, it would hardly do to leave my favorite traveling companion to bleed out over the road in the wilderness, would it?" he replies, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I am capable of doing the right thing, from time to time. When it suits me."
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Yes. It's mostly the validation - yes, she knows, she's a mess for this.
"I know you are," she declares, all confidence in him. "I've seen you be good so far."
What people say, words are just armor. Astarion uses his to keep himself aloof and alone, but she's noticed him caring before. Much like Lae'Zel, like Shadowheart, there's hidden depths there - what moves them is anyone's guess. Knowing what she does now about the scar on his back (and it fills her with outrage, and pure hot rage to remember it every time) she can imagine what exactly makes Astarion use his words as armor.
"Alright, I feel a little better - let's make it to camp," she murmurs, breaking eye contact before he has a chance to retreat into innuendo and meaningless flirtation.
She lost concentration on the light cantrip that was illuminating the quarterstaff, and while it won't bring any shades to her now that they're inside the circle of protection, she's still very much a human and it's bloody dark. So she lights it again, and starts walking.
They always camp just next to the Inn, on a spot of land by the water that isn't being used, buffeted by the blessing of Selune.
Tonight, she's glad they're so close to the Inn, and to everyone else, because her whole body is screaming at her to rest.
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He laughs, mostly to himself, before escorting her further into the camp. Now he walks at something of a distance, though not far enough that he couldn't catch her should she still find a way to stumble. The last fight took it out of her in more ways than one, and he's perfectly capable of chiding her into rest if need be.
"Now, I do believe I have some bandages and water on me, thankfully. We can at least see about cleaning those wounds of yours."
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Her companions must be equally exhausted - they all defended the portal from so many enemies, they deserve at least a night's rest, if not to be left to heal up properly in camp for a while. (At some point, they need to investigate the House of Healing again, she promised Arabella. She's also fairly sure that the ruins of Raithwynn are near Moonrise, and she can't be dragging the same three people for everything. After all, she also promised Wyll to take him with her when they find the tower.)
Bottom line is, she has made a lot of promises to help each and every one, and when it does come down to it, Hermione still does not feel entitled enough to go knocking on Shadowheart's tent for a Cure Wounds. Not that the cleric has any spells left either. She thinks that given the gruesome fight, they're all drained, so it'll be bandages and sleep for her tonight.
And Astarion is alert and offering, and her tent is right there - bless whoever pitched it up in her absence - and she still carries the stench of rot and death on her.
"Alright," she says, pulling the flap out of the way and looking over her shoulder at him. "Come in, then."
She has read the mythology. The Curse of the Vampyr has been tucked into the bottom of her bag ever since she found it on one of their earlier adventures. She wonders if the invitation is merely a formality now, if maybe he doesn't need one - hasn't ever, or hasn't needed to be invited into people's homes since the tadpole. Even if he didn't, even if she's being silly, she still wants him to know he's welcomed in here.
Especially since she's fairly certain she needs to take her stays and shirt off for him to clean her wounds.
She sets her quarterstaff against the central beam of the tent, and cancels out the light by waving her hand to light every candle in the tent. Her companions have taken to collecting trinkets and making their tents more personal, she's noticed, and Hermione is not one to distinguish herself with a sparse lifetime. There are blankets gifted to her by the tieflings in the Grove, and books sitting in little piles where she would sleep, when not camping by a fire in the wild, and spell scrolls and alchemy ingredients and recipes and - it's a mess. It's chaos, for the outsider, but for Hermione it's very well organised.
She starts to take her robes off first, standing near the stool by her bedside.
"I've been thinking I should buy a proper armor before we set out again," she starts to talk, as she unknots the sash that holds her wizard's robes cinched at the waist, and slips them off. "Technically I think I am strong enough to manage a light armor, and I often forget to cast Mage Armor on myself because I don't expect a fight - more fool is me, I suppose."
The top layer, those dark red robes she likes to wear, out of the way, she is left in a practical pair of trousers and a white - well, beige at this point - shirt. Every pragmatic, even the stays on top of the shirt are functional rather than pretty. They are also, unfortunately, rather pinkish with the whole bleeding on them. A single sharp needle still sticks out of her, on her right side just under the ribcage, looking like one of the whalebones snapped in half. Except dark and very much coming from a cursed tree creature.
"Oh - " she murmurs with some dismay. "Didn't notice that."
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The joke is half-meant to distract her from the pain, rolling off his tongue even as he narrows his eyes on the needle. One hand lifts to flutter briefly in the air, gesturing for her to sit while he gets a better look at it--
And focuses through the scent. Stronger, now. And he hasn't fed in some time, now, with no new fresh necks to bite. Perhaps once they get closer to Moonrise Tower there will be a few tasty cultists to snack on. But that's something to dwell on later.
With surprising precision he draws the cloth and the bottle of water from his own pack, setting it aside as he inspects the needle. No getting the stays off with it in, unfortunately. "Puncture wounds can be particularly nasty. I can't say this is going to be pleasant, so if you've got something to hold onto? I might suggest it."
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She's already grabbing onto the edge of the stool under her, one arm raise up and poised like a ballerina caught mid-dance. She looks down at Astarion, eyes catching on the sharp features - the elegance of his nose and the pointy chin, the fact that she can see some wrinkles around his eyes, and bloody hells his eyelashes are so long.
"Do it," she whispers, her breath caught. Then she pulls a face, and starts to nervous ramble: "Just get it over with - and don't say that must be what I said to my tiny pricks wielding lovers, Astarion, or you'll make me laugh, and I swear to the weave, if I laugh and it hurts -"
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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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