Your Dark Gospel (Complete)

Chapter Eleven

Astarion

Astarion watched the large elf gently lay Elira on a bed of moss. The cave he had led them to was warm and humid and teeming with plant life—Astarion could only assume it was some sort of enchantment. There was simply no way such a place could exist of its own accord in the frozen bowels of the hells.

The stranger was gentle while examining Elira’s wounds, though she wouldn’t know it. As soon as the threat against their lives had ended, she passed out, allowing the tall stranger to carry her to safety. Though, he supposed tall was an understatement . The male was an absolute beast . There was hardly a size difference between his current form and that of the bear that had so easily ripped apart the insect-like demons that had attacked them. Astarion was familiar with druids who could shape-shift into animal forms, but he had never seen an elf of such height. Perhaps there was some orc blood in his lineage.

Was it rude to ask?

He supposed he should be on his best behavior. This strange druid had saved them, after all. He'd even gone so far as to offer them shelter, despite the fact that they were complete strangers. What a stupid thing to do.

Astarion decided there was definitely orc blood in him.

The cave he had brought them to hadn’t been far, and despite his preternatural vision, Astarion might have walked right past it were it not for the druid leading the way. It was half buried in the snow, nestled at the base of a large, jagged mountain. Likely, the mountain Elira had been hoping to find once they’d reached the end of the icy forest. But he hadn’t seen any sign of the Citadel, nor any civilized form of life, for that matter. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there. The snow had a way of masking things, hiding them from sight until they were close enough to smack you in the face.

Astarion might have said that he couldn’t wait to put the endless land of winter behind him were it not for the freedom it granted him from Cazador. It might be a barren wasteland, but it was a barren wasteland where he was free . A concept he hadn’t yet had time to sit down and consider.

They’d spent the last two days just trying to stay alive.

Trying to keep her alive .

The druid leaned over Elira’s limp form, his hands placed gently on her midsection as he whispered to the trees and air or something along those lines. Astarion wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying, but praying to trees seemed illogical in a place where there were no trees.

He paced the dimly lit cave, obsessively straightening his cuffs. “Well?”

The druid turned to face him, giving Astarion a clear view of his scarred and tattooed face. He was handsome in a rugged, battle-worn sort of way. The scars were of an old wound, three slashes down his forehead that were nothing more than pale lines on his tan skin — a stark contrast to the red whorls that lined the other side of his face, twisting down his cheeks and neck, curving below the collar of his leafy armor. Astarion couldn’t help but wonder just how far down they went.

Something deep and aching stirred in him. What would his blood would taste like? Ripening summer blackberries, honeyed wine, musk, and the dust of a well-trod forest path? He wanted to know.

“She’ll live.” The druid’s voice pulled Astarion away from his dangerous thoughts and back to the cave. He watched him remove his hands from Elira’s stomach, exposing the shredded, blood-stained material. The skin beneath it was smooth and unbroken, thank the gods. “We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Halsin.”