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chapter ten. first bite
Dark night. The moon full and shooting through the trees. Snap, snap: dry twigs underfoot. Shooting pains up her arms as thorny branches braced against her. There was no grace in her movements, no room for thought, bidding only the command to flee like a deer downwind from the hunt.
It wasn't until the wind guttered up to her that she was stopped in her tracks. She stood on the lip of a sharp toothed ravine, dark and rushing water far, far below. Silt clouded beneath her boots. The ground, dusty and dry, crumbled an inch from her toe. Fallon threw herself back, landing safely on her behind as the ground where her left foot had been cracked and gave way. She dragged herself backwards until she felt a shrub half digesting her and she rolled herself from its thicket to collapse on the ground, heart hammering against her chest.
One more step and that would've been it.
She rubbed her hands on her face, groaning. Removing them, she spread her palms wide. It was her. Her skin. Her scars. Her flesh. Yes, she recognized herself. But she hadn't recognized what she had done.
The parasite wriggled. Seconds later, Fallon sensed the air change. She rolled over, up, reaching to her belt, dagger by the hilt. The blade flashed an inch from the hand that waved through the trees, lodging deep into a nearby trunk. She was reaching for another when Astarion emerged, looked over at the dagger, back to her, back to the dagger. Then he had it in his hand, calmly tossing it in a smooth rotation, catching, perfect every time, as he approached her, unable to hide his bemusement.
Fallon began to struggled to her feet. As she pushed against her knee to standing, Astarion touched a hand, not indelicately, onto her shoulder.
"We both know you're better placed on the ground."
She was equal measure annoyed and relieved that she didn't need to stand, she was still quite drunk after all, but fell back to the ground with a huff, pulling her knees to her chest.
"Go away," she said.
"No."
"I mean it."
"But do you?"
Fallon froze. The flat of the blade was beneath her chin, raising her head upwards with a firm and steady pressure. Her breathing hitched. When she met his eyes, they were shining bright as a man who'd won at cards, and she felt a strange chill pass through her, one that settled in her stomach and sunk like a stone. He tilted the dagger and the tip brushed, fingernail soft, against her fresh made scar.
