Chapter Text
Cold.
That was the only thing Astarion could register when he woke up that night, clawing his way out of the wet earth. He coughed and spat up clots of blood and sod with no one around but the dead in their graves. The faint memory of what happened flickered through Astarion’s mind of the stranger, who recently moved to town and started to frequent the church. There had been something unsettling about them, their eyes were the colour of blood and their skin the colour of porcelain upon first glance.They had stayed back one evening after one of Astarions nightly sermons, gripping the sleeve of his robe tightly once they were alone.
“Please,” They begged, pleading to him with fear in their eyes.”I need to speak with you in private, I fear I have done something that will damn my soul.”
“Of course my child,” Astarion responded in kind with a soft smile, covering his hand over the trembling hand of the stranger. He noticed how ice cold it was, wondering where the poor souls gloves were. But, that was a question after he spoke with them in the confessional booth.
He kept his hand on top of the strangers, walking them towards the divided wood stained oak cabinet where he offered repentance to speak with them there, watching the stranger glance quickly everywhere.
“My child, you are safe in God’s house. His embrace will shield you from whatever fear has taken hold of you.”
“I fear it’s not God that makes me feel this way,” The stranger murmured, whipping their head to look behind them quickly at the chapel door, sweat slowly trickling down his brow, plastering strands to their skin, a hand continuing its iron vice on Astarions sleeve.
Astarion remembers the stranger freezing in place, refusing to move, he was about to turn to ask what the matter was when a flash of pain coursed through him. The heat and shock of fangs piercing his neck.He felt the stranger’s hand clamping over his mouth, stifling his scream, his trust turned against him in one terrible, heart-stopping moment.
Now, the silence of the graveyard weighed on him, colder and heavier than any night before. His robes, once white and clean, were now stained and dirt-covered. A strange, fierce hunger gnawed in his gut, and he felt a painful sensitivity in his teeth, his fingers still trembling when they lifted to his neck and hissing in pain when he could feel the puncture wounds under the pads of his fingers.
He wondered who the stranger could have been when he started to pull himself from the open grave, sighing with relief when he felt the cool blades of grass under his palms.
Once Astarion finished hoisting himself up, he spat out the last dregs of clotted blood and earth from his mouth. He sighed, his thoughts swirling with the many questions in his mind to ask the stranger when he saw them next. Who was he? What was he doing there? When did he start coming to sermons, slipping into the chapel without ever seeing the man at the door? Where did he live? And the one that stuck to him the most Why did he stay after the sermon to talk to him with such fear in those eyes.
Astarion steadied himself, shaking the dirt from his robes before he walked back to the chapel, his eyes roamed the various headstones that had crumbled from years of dealing with the harshness of the weather. A breeze stirred the trees and flowers scattered throughout the cemetery- a reminder of autumn’s chill. He knew it should be cold due to being autumn, yet, there was no chill, no shiver or even goosebumps spreading on his skin. It was like there was no temperature outside, yet he knew there should have been. The various moments of the past having to wear gloves and a downy lined coat to keep him warm, the one instance he had frostbite and had to keep his hands bandaged made him worry with what disease the stranger had.
“It must be one a warm breeze,” Astarion muttered under his breath, trying to reassure him nothing was out of the ordinary except waking up in a freshly dug grave.
With each step, the chapel loomed ever closer, its spire jutting into the night sky. A single light illuminated from within—likely the candles he always kept burning for wandering souls seeking solace and comfort from the darkness of the night. Usually, he found the light comforting; tonight, however, it felt more like a warning, as if he were someone no longer welcome nor allowed inside.
“Nothing a night’s rest can’t cure,” Astarion muttered to himself, his voice tinged with unease. He rubbed the nape of his neck, wanting to help ground him into reality. He would try to find the stranger tomorrow, hopefully asking what exactly he did to him.
Once he reached the front of the chapel door, Astarion paused, hesitating for the briefest moment before stepping inside.However; the moment he stepped inside,he was met with a sharp pang through his chest, forcing him to stumble and fall to the floor. A wave of nausea churned his stomach, forcing him to swallow the bile rising in his throat. His breath hitched when he flinched in pain from a rosary that someone dropped onto the chapel floor, it’s touch like liquid fire when it came in contact with his skin.
“It’s just the illness” , he told himself, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing himself to breathe slowly. Whatever that stranger was carrying, it must be playing tricks with my mind."
Yet while he tried to rationalize, the discomfort didn’t fade. A dull throb began at the back of his mind, like the constant tolling of a bell calling people to Mass.The chapel suddenly felt too large and too small all at once, the vaulted ceilings–painted with various scenes from the book he preached– felt like they were pressing down on him. Like it was telling him he didn’t belong here, like he was a thief getting caught with stealing from the market.
Sweat trickled down his forehead, his curly hair sticking to his head while he staggering toward the door behind the pew that led to his office. The familiar path now felt like a labyrinth, each step taking more effort than the last. His hands trembled and shook when he reached for the doorknob, the silver knob white hot in his palm, though he knew it wasn’t hot, he couldn’t see or smell any smoke inside the chapel. He yanked his hand back, staring at it in confusion. His breath heaving in his chest, trying to get some air in his lungs that seemed to refuse every inhale or gulp of air he tried to take..
“What in gods’ name…” he whispered, pulling the sleeve of his robe over his hand to turn the knob. He shut the door behind him, his hands continuing to tremble and head starting to now spin once he slumped into the chair by his desk. A mirror on the far wall caught his attention, but the faint haze that clouded his mind prevented him from making out his reflection.
He shook his head and closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair. Sleep. He just needed sleep. Whatever the stranger had given him, he would fight it off with rest and prayer.
Yet deep down, a gnawing unease whispered that this was no ordinary sickness.
