Hand, Hearth, and Home
Chapter 60 - Leave What is Buried
Chapter Summary: Church and Astarion get separated within the Fortress of Memories — with terrifying consequences for both.
(Author Note: I'm lowkey especially proud of how this chapter turned out. :') Hope you all enjoy(?) 💙🦋)
Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 310K+ words; Chapters 60/?? (Master Post)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt below:
“I’m done with your games,” Church declares into the Raven Queen’s halls as he slams another door shut, his voice echoing back at him. “Show him to me!”
“Come closer,” a child’s voice whispers excitedly. “Come and see. What will you do?”
Church hurries down the hall. He turns around the corner and yes, he sees it —
A lonely tomb — out of place as it sits in the middle of this vaulted, glassy room.
He hears nothing from within.
“Astarion?” Church breathes, taking in its sealed stone door — shimmering with the barest trace of red magic. “ASTARION!”
He races up to the tomb, pressing his ear up against the cold stone and somehow, just somehow…
…he hears the smallest, softest sound.
… scrrrtch… scrrrtch… scrrrtch…
“Gods. Oh gods — I’m coming, love!” Church stammers frantically. The shadows dance around his fingers as he calls upon the magic to wrap around the sealing stone of the tomb and pull. “I’m here. I’m here!”
The tiefling grunts as his shadows flare and writhe around his crackling arms, vibrating the stone. As he strains to break the seal, the Raven Queen manifests back into the corner of his eye, watching him with that impassive porcelain face.
“I have seen your possible fates, child,” she murmurs. “If you let me finish the ritual, then you will be free from them.”
Church tries to ignore her.
“I know that in a possible future, he will hurt you,” she informs him. “So terribly. Possibly even kill you. He will betray you. And you will betray him. Or is it the other way around?” she muses. “No matter. But you are destroyed by him, or you destroy yourself, child. And I would not like to see you destroyed.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Church growls. “It’s just one future. Fate’s always in motion.”
“Yes,” the Raven Queen says, her soft voice distant. “But I promise, dear child. Letting him go will only reduce your possible futures of pain and grief. I will not see you lost to Shar’s domain.”
Church ignores her, channeling his shadows into the stone until it begins to crack…
“You are going down a dark path,” she warns him. “I know that you both seek answers from a devil. But the answers are the key to his downfall, and yours.”
Her hand settles to rest upon Church’s as it contorts with magic. And Church can’t help but look up to meet her hollow eyes.
“You are at a fork in the road,” she murmurs. “You hold a butterfly in your hands.”
“...then I’ll let him free,” Church whispers.
With an explosion that echoes throughout the fortress’s endless halls, the shadows disintegrate the stone into dust. Church waves away the smoke, coughing as he ducks inside.
“Astarion—?”
His heart nearly thuds to a stop.
“Oh, love,” he breathes, tears burning in his throat. “Oh gods. Oh…”
He steps carefully towards the pale, emaciated figure curled up upon the floor facing away from him.
He is so, so still.
At last, with almost imperceptible movement, Church sees a frail, skeletal hand stretch slowly towards the ribbon of light cast across the wall opposite of him. His fingers… gods… his fingertips are nearly completely gone — ragged and blackened by old blood as they reach to caress the intangible light.
Church doesn’t think any further. He reaches in and carefully pulls the poor thing out, muttering apologies and reassurances until the prone elf is out of the tomb and back onto the smooth, crystalline floor.
“Astarion?” Church murmurs. “Can you hear me?”
He slowly lowers to his knees, crawling cautiously around to face Astarion so as not to startle him.
“I’m here,” the tiefling whispers, reaching towards the elf before pulling his hand back apprehensively.
On the other side of that disheveled, but familiar head of limp silver hair Church finds a gaunt face with blazing red eyes — wide and dancing as they take in the sight of him. He has bitten his thin arms bloody, and his fangs are perpetually extended over a rabid, panting mouth.
“It’s me,” Church whispers, forcing his mouth into a shaky smile. “It’s Church. It’s—”
The vampire spawn launches himself at the tiefling with a feral snarl, smashing him back against the glassy walls with surprising speed and strength. Wind knocked out of him, Church slides down the wall with barely a groan. But before he can make any other move, the spawn’s bloody fingers grapple the tiefling down — pinning him against the cold, hard floor as the emaciated elf lets out an otherworldly, rattling shriek.
“Astarion! N-no…! No!” Church struggles against him, and though the spawn is starved and weak he still manages to overpower him in his unnatural rabid fervor. Even with his muscles dehydrated and sinewy, he still manages to bash the tiefling’s head back against the ground before wrenching it back to expose his neck.
Vision swimming, Church shouts — bracing himself for the fangs to tear out his throat.
But they do not come.
The vampire spawn instead presses his chapped mouth desperately to the tiefling’s throbbing jugular, moaning and whimpering. He buries his nose helplessly into the warm flesh, breathing in the forbidden blood that pumps tantalizingly beneath. His paper-dry tongue licks hungrily at the skin but his teeth, his fangs…
Thou shalt not drink the blood of a thinking creature.
Astarion had told Church of his master’s commandments during one of the watches they shared, soon after when the spawn bit the tiefling for the first time. Church forces himself to relax beneath the starved spawn’s desperate attempts to feed — the mere memory of a thrall somehow enough to keep Astarion from tearing the tiefling’s throat out entirely.
Church won’t let himself feel grateful to Cazador. He only feels more rage, more determination to destroy him as painfully and violently as possible. But that is a thought for later. He needs to help Astarion now.
The spawn’s grip loosens enough for Church to breathe easier and relax a bit. It’s a struggle to keep himself from wrapping his arms around the feeble elf, or to keep himself from stroking his hair and kissing away the bloody tears that leak from those flickering, glowing red eyes.
“It’s me, love,” Church whispers instead, nuzzling gently against the starving spawn’s matted curls — almost afraid to see the hungry, gaunt face buried against his neck. “I’m Church. You’re Astarion. We were both kidnapped and infected by mind flayers. We’ve been traveling together for months now.”
Astarion groans so softly with a voice disused.
Church continues. “You make lockpicking look easy. Sewing, too. You’re deadly with your daggers and bow. You can walk in the sun. You can bathe in the river, and as much as you complain I think you secretly love it.”
Despite everything, the tiefling smiles softly into his hair.
“You’re ruthless with your enemies, but to me, at least… you’ve got gentle hands. And you don’t dare admit it, but I know you like cats. You’re deadly, you’re funny, you’re fussy, and…”
He shudders, resting his head fully against the filthy elf’s.
“...and I… love you,” Church whispers, voice choked. “I love you. And I’m here.”
He can’t resist any longer. He reaches his hand up to brush against the shuddering elf’s hair. The fact that the spawn doesn’t recoil from his touch is encouraging — or perhaps he is simply too hungry.
“I’m here,” Church repeats softly, stroking his hair. “I’ve got you, love.”
The spawn whines but remains so still, his shallow breaths barely perceptible.
Whatever nightmare of a memory the Raven Queen trapped him in, Astarion can’t seem to escape on his own. They are out of health potions, and he is too starved, too weak even to try anymore. In his desperation, Church feels the shadows and magic furling upon his tongue, ready to use either his illithid or fey thrall to snap the elf out of it…
No — the warlock won’t dare do that. He can’t do that — not to him.
…but perhaps there’s another way to wake him up and bring him back to reality.
“Come on, you need to heal,” Church murmurs. “I’m… I’m so sorry, love.”
He tilts his head away to expose his neck further.
“I’ve never wanted to force you to do anything,” Church whispers. “But you have to wake up, alright? I’m not leaving here without you.”
He reluctantly grabs hold of the back of Astarion’s head now, guiding it to press his mouth more firmly upon his neck. The spawn struggles and whimpers against the skin, mouthing at it desperately as he’s simultaneously enticed and repulsed by the scent of the sinful blood.
“Bite me,” Church urges him softly, burying his fingers into his hair. “You can do it… it’s fine. He can’t hurt you. He can’t control you anymore — no one can. You’re your own master now.”
His breath hitches as the fangs within Astarion’s gasping, protesting jaw finally catch upon the skin of his straining neck.
“This is proof,” Church groans through gritted teeth, squeezing the panting Astarion’s head so firmly against him that those fangs puncture through his skin at last. “You’re free. You’re you.”
As soon as the smallest bit of blood begins to bead up around his fangs, Astarion’s starved tongue laps it up hungrily. And then, as primal hunger kicks in, the spawn eagerly sinks his fangs deeper into the tiefling’s neck with a strangled growl.
Church lets out a gasping cry, failing to stifle his pain and fear as his blood spurts warm and wet from the wound. Even the first time Astarion bit him was not nearly this bad. In his normal state of mind, Astarion had more precision regarding where to bite, and to what depth, and what amount, but this time…
He bites brutally hard into the tiefling, his bottom jaw clamping tight against Church’s throat as the tiefling lets go of the spawn’s head, desperately resisting his body’s own instincts to push him away. Astarion’s labored, excited breath is fast and harsh from his nose as he drinks in the tiefling’s blood greedily, moaning in unfettered ecstasy and relief. His entire body writhes on top of the tiefling in the throes of pleasure and relief as he drains him with gusto.
“There you go…” Church whispers encouragingly through the pain, whimpering sharply as the spawn pulls his head further sideways. “There you go, love… it’s okay — I’ve got you.”
He feels himself quickly fading from consciousness, and in his dizziness he forgets himself, letting his arms drape limply around Astarion’s back to hold him close in a final embrace.
If this is the end, it may as well be, Church thinks blearily to himself. Astarion will survive. He will find Halsin and Thaniel. The Raven Queen will have what she wants — Church’s soul — and she’ll send the rest of them home.
They will lift the Shadow Curse at last. His friends will find a cure. The Absolutists will be defeated.
…without him.
These are all lovely dreams — such sweet dreams that he doesn’t mind sinking into as those dull lights from multitudes of memories slowly diffuse back into darkness.
It’s okay, he tells himself. You did your best.
“...hnngh… wha—? … Chu…rch…?”
Well, he thinks to himself ruefully. You tried to, anyway…
“…CHURCH!”
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