pixel7777

[pixel7777]

“You keep me going.”

My first fanart, please be gentle! Made for @cweepa and @dumptruck for their fic Afterlife which I spend most of my time thinking about tbh. Thanks for your wonderful fic, it keeps me going ❤️

[pixel7777]

My dearest

[pixel7777]

“I’d rather be the only dark power inside your body” — Astarion from BG3

[pixel7777]

FSBE 27 - The Weakest Link

You are not having a Good Time.

On AO3.

You feel like microwaved roadkill the next morning. Still puffy around the eyes with a sinus headache to boot. Your wrist is sore underneath bandages—you might have pushed yourself a little too far feeding Astarion—and the room sways when you slide to the edge of the bed.

Astarion ain’t there, as usual. You got the privacy to hang your head over your knees and breathe.

This fucking place. This godawful fucking place.

And you.

Thought you’d seen how bad people could be, didn’t you? Thought you could sneak in and try to bring modern Earth diplomacy. Be civil. Be human.

This ain’t Earth. These people ain’t used to manslaughter charges or constitutions or, or the surveillance state. This is Mad Max shit. This is the Purge.

Is this what your Cherokee ancestors felt when the White people came in and burnt whole villages and shot the ones who tried to run? Swapped out skirmishes—which did turn deadly, no mistake—for the mass, catastrophic carnage of eighteenth century battle lines?

They became “civilized”, your ancestors. Built White houses. Changes their own laws. Bought and kept slaves. Like they thought they could out-White Man the White Man and find peace and safety that way. Well, the ones who fashioned themselves as rich men, anyway.

And look what that got them. (A death march.) (Plague.) (Theft of their land and their White Man towns and their children stolen and the historical tribe literally declared extinct by the U.S. Government.)

But you’re alone, here. Don’t got nobody to back you up. Cause the edgelords…they called it, didn’t they. They know this place. Know its rules and customs.

You do not.

You’ll need to respond. Adapt.

You just don’t know how.

Black, black clouds gather in your head.

You rub your face. Stand. Stand very still a moment as ringing light-headedness washes through your skull. And then stagger over to the wash basin in the corner so you can wash your face proper. And your pits. And underboob. And the entire nether regions.

The world continues to ring and swim as you make your way out to the hall. Pause at the top of the stairs and squint thoughtfully. Then something moves, and it’s Shadowheart (must’a been waiting for you). She takes one look and her lips press thin. She guides you back a couple steps and lights up her jesus hands.

“Thank you,” you say as her murder goddess’s magic soaks into you.

She says nothing a moment. But you can tell she got thoughts churning around in there. Finally, as her cool hands clasp your bandaged wrist, she says, “You let him take too much.”

Well…

“Umhmm,” you say, all noncommittal.

She looks you square in the face. Her gray-green eyes steady. Old. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, maybe. But you suddenly doubt that assessment. Elves in them movies are like, immortal. Are they here? Does she count?

What if she’s like Aragorn and she’s actually like, eighty?

“I’m fine,” you say.

She still watches you. Not quite judging, but close to it. “It’s one thing to take responsibility, and another thing to punish yourself. Only one of those is productive. You’re…kind. I assume that’s not a dangerous trait in your world.”

But.

But Faerun ain’t Earth.

“Please try to understand,” she says. “We’re dealing with a nascent god building an army using illithid tadpoles. This is dangerous. Much more dangerous than anything I’m comfortable assuming you’ve dealt with.”

You’re being weak. Putting them all in danger.

The countries who fought the nazis did horrifying things to win. Your great uncle Bobby Ray fought in that war. Uncle Randy said he never, not once talked about it, even when asked. But that he did, on more than one occasion, pull a knife on somebody who was harassing one of his family.

You nod. She stands there a moment longer. Her face does something twisting, and then, “Go get something to eat. As much as you can. It’ll help.”

You try to smile. Thank her again, and then walk down them stairs without slipping and crashing down and snapping your own, damn neck.

***

The others greet you around a table with a pot of more barley grits. Karlach snatches you into a hug to tight it pops your spine. Says, “I told you we shouldn’t’ve split up.”

And though Wyll don’t say that, the sympathetic look he gives you might as well shout it.

You actually wonder whether he would have let them goblins go. Because suddenly, it don’t seem as likely.

These people are foreign. Alien. All of them.

You take a seat and begin to robotically shovel bland grits into your mouth and try not to dwell on how fucking alone you are. Ain’t felt this exposed, this outside since the butthole ship. Not since that first night, camped out on Sasha’s couch, watching car headlights sweep through the blinds.

You’re the alien, here. The misfit. Unprepared and unequipped. The weakest link.

Astarion catches your eye from the other side of the bar. Gives a little head-tuck bow, which you return. He don’t come over, though. Keeps his distance from all the others. He’s quiet. Calmer. Over fucking getting murdered.

You got him killed. Even worse, the man was terrified. Hurting. And you know this because y’all felt that happening to him through his worm as he fucking died. That is not the thing someone can just get over.

No matter how much blood you give him.

He spent the first half of the night, after cleaning up and feeding, stretched out on the bed a foot from you. But…where else was he gonna go? The others was back by then, but you were too tired and dizzy to think of moving to the floor in the moment.

You decide then and there that you’re bunking with the girls from now on. For real. Give the man some fucking space. Stop being such a goddamn fucking burden.

Jaheira slips in at some point. You’re finishing up your second, bland bowl when the breakfast chatter turns once again into a mission meeting.

You (mostly?) remember what that mcfucking bitch Swell said before she done went and signed her own death warrant.

“But what is the relic?” Jaheira says when Gale gets to that part (you’re more’n happy to let him take the lead on this part).

“She didn’t say,” Gale says. “Yet it must be vital to this general’s plans.”

“And I cannot but help wonder if it may be the key to undoing whatever binds him to this living plane.”

“It would improve our standing should we help retrieve this relic,” Shadowheart says.

Nobody looks at you. They don’t have to. You try not to fidget. Glance, you hope surreptitiously, at Astarion. Clean, whole, with some color in him. He looks bored: cleaning his nails with the tip of his stabbing knife.

“What about the prisoners?” Karlach says. “The tieflings from the grove that got kidnapped? And those gnomes?”

Astarion looks up at this, his expression a study in feline stink face. “What gnomes?”

There, at a shorter table against the far wall sits a solitary gnome man. It takes a few, long seconds before it registers. You’re pretty sure that’s the guy y’all pulled off a windmill. The one them goblins tortured.

Oh, someone else to be mad at you for letting them go.

You ain’t never gonna talk to that man, are you?

“He said his friend lead a group of others, all of whom were taken to the tower,” Wyll says. “That leaves the cult a good number of hostages, if they’re lucky.”

And more brainwormed cannon fodder if they ain’t.

The eye patch kid. Them other kids looking to y’all, to Wyll for help.

“If we break them out there’s no chance we’ll get back into that tower without a full assault,” Shadowheart says. “We can’t risk it.”

Since y’all are on shaky ground. With people who can, and will enjoy murdering you about it.

The kids ain’t around to overhear this. The red tiefling is still passed out and drooling on the counter.

You want to help them. You do. They deserve it.

But. You��re held together with guilt and jesus hands just now. Y’all got almost no information to go off.

(The strangled gurgle Astarion let out as everything in him crushed into—)

“Whatever you decide, I fear we are running out of time,” Jaheira says.

You can almost see the decision lines forming like a topography map over the party. The decent thing, the good thing. And…the shining line.

The one where Astarion stays far, far away from that tower and the dead-walking bitch inside it.

“Shadowheart’s right,” you say. “If we help this Bathy feller, they might give us more access. Get us down to where them prisoners is. But if we come back now with nothing to show for it…”

Gale nods slowly as Shadowheart gives you a cool, affirmative gaze.

Lae’zel just outright says, “Finally, some sense from you.”

So that’s fun.

But though both Wyll and Karlach look to each other, “troubled” written all over their faces, they don’t object.

Leaving…

“Hmm?” Astarion says, glancing up from his nails. “Oh, of course. The sooner we can get close enough to stab this general and have it actually stick, the sooner we can get out of here. All this damp is positively ruining my hair.”

So. Your mission. With none of them tieflings to witness you slinking out to leave their friends and family to a cult dungeon. With the drooling drunk oblivious, and the lone gnome staring pensively into his cup.

It’s for the best, you tell yourself. It’s the tactical thing to do. It’s not guilt that sends you all but fleeing through the front doors before anybody can ask about their missing sisters. It’s not shame that has you staring hard at the ground as Gale activates the Waypoint portal.

You’re just busy. Getting this done.

It’s only practical to get the fuck outta there before anyone else can notice.

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 5/10

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Work is complete on AO3 and posting nightly on Tumblr.

Artwork by the amazing @vetochkarowan!

Astarion

Warmth. That was the first sensation that filtered through Astarion's consciousness as he drifted toward wakefulness. Warmth and safety, wrapped around him like the finest silk sheets. He nestled deeper into the comfort, relishing the sensation. A gentle rise and fall beneath him, the steady rhythm of Gale's breathing.

This feeling of security wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Since forming his relationship with Zelara and Gale, he'd grown accustomed to the luxury of warm bodies that didn't flinch from his cold touch – partners who understood his need for their heat without resentment. But something was different this morning. 

Astarion attempted to stretch and found himself completely enveloped by... a hand? Gale's hand, specifically, curled protectively over his entire body.

Memory rushed back with uncomfortable clarity. He was still a bat. Still small, white, and mortifyingly fluffy. The transformation hadn't worn off during the night as he had hoped.

Bloody marvelous. Whatever had caused this ridiculous affliction, it apparently wasn't temporary.

He recalled his return to the Tower last night. After hours of exhilarating flight through Waterdeep, exhaustion had finally set in, driving him homeward. He had spotted one of the Tower's high windows, certain it would open for him, when  the balcony caught his eye.

Gale had been there, laying back on a transformed daybed, half asleep. Waiting for him.

Something tight and warm unfurled in Astarion's chest at the sight. Even after his dramatic exit and hours of absence, Gale was there, keeping vigil. Waiting up like some worried spouse.

A delicious idea had formed in Astarion's mind. He'd fly over Gale, transform back to his normal self with dramatic flair, and drop down beside him. The wizard would jump, sputter, and Astarion would make some cutting remark about his concern being touching but unnecessary.

He had positioned himself directly above Gale, wings spread wide, preparing for his grand transformation. He concentrated, willing his body to shift back to normal.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, focusing harder, picturing his proper form.

Still nothing.

Panic had flared then, sharp and unwelcome. He tried once more, wings fluttering erratically with the effort, and that's when he'd lost control. Instead of executing a graceful landing, he had dropped directly onto Gale's chest.

Thankfully, Gale had been drifting off, his eyes half–closed in the dim light. He hadn't witnessed Astarion's full graceless descent – just the impact of a small white bat crashing onto his sternum. Small mercies, he supposed.

Astarion wriggled slightly beneath Gale's protective hand, careful not to wake him just yet. He needed a moment to think.

The morning light bathed the balcony in a soft glow – thankfully filtered by the Tower's magic to protect him even when he wasn't under the influence of Zel's Glow Juice. He'd never have managed to sleep this late outside otherwise, bat or not. Becoming a nocturnal pest was the least of his concerns right now.

The committee meeting loomed ahead like a guillotine. Representatives from the spawn colony, the Harpers, and friends from settlements of interest would be gathering to discuss the distribution of Aureum Vitae and the integration of vampire spawn into surface society. And here he was, the supposed leader of this grand movement, reduced to a fluffy creature that could fit in a wine glass.

He glanced at Gale's peaceful face. The wizard would wake soon, and then what? The Tower was filled with their overnight guests – Halsin, Wyll, Lae'zel, Karlach, Shadowheart, Jaheira, and half a dozen spawn representatives who'd traveled for this meeting. They'd all be expecting breakfast conversations and final preparations. Not their esteemed chairperson showing up as a pint–sized flying furball.

Would Zelara have gotten over her initial delight at his new form? He'd seen the look in her eyes when he first transformed – she found him adorable, which was possibly the most humiliating part of this entire ordeal. And her scientific curiosity had definitely been piqued. But would she be focused enough to help solve his problem, or would she still be distracted by his – ugh – cuteness?

Then again, perhaps this was Zelara's doing in the first place. He'd been taking regular sips of her experimental versions of Aureum Vitae for months. What if one of those concoctions had triggered this transformation? He hadn't meant to turn into a bat. He'd been feeling itchy and uncomfortable under his skin, and then – poof. Fluff and wings.

Better to start with Gale, Astarion decided. The wizard's analytical approach might be more useful than Zelara's enthusiastic experimentation. 

Although, there was the temptation to fuck right off – to wriggle free and soar over Waterdeep again was strong – the memory of that perfect freedom still fresh in his mind.

But no. There was work to do today. Curses. Work that required hands, a voice that produced more than squeaks, and a physical presence that commanded respect rather than cooing.

Astarion couldn't resist the temptation. Gale looked so peaceful, so vulnerable – so ripe for tormenting. If he was stuck in this absurd form, he might as well discover its potential for mischief.

Carefully, he wriggled out from beneath Gale's protective hand. The wizard stirred slightly but didn't wake. Perfect. Astarion's tiny clawed feet skittered across Gale's chest as he made his way upward, using both his wing–claws and his rear feet for purchase. The sensation was odd – like crawling on all sixes rather than all fours.

Reaching Gale's face, Astarion paused. The wizard's expression was serene, lips slightly parted as he breathed. Oh, this would be delightful.

Maneuvering into position, Astarion began climbing over Gale's face, his tiny claws finding purchase as he attempted to suspend himself directly above the sleeping wizard. His plan was simple – dangle from above and emit a shrill squeak to startle Gale awake. But as he scrambled across the bridge of the wizard's nose, his downy fur accidentally brushed against Gale's nostrils. The wizard's face contorted slightly. Astarion paused, noticing the involuntary reaction, but before he could complete his journey to his intended position, his fluffiness had already set nature in motion.

Gale's eyes flew open. His face contorted in confusion, then shock, then – 

"ACHOO!"

The sneeze hit Astarion like a gust of wind from a spell, sending him tumbling backward across the daybed. He rolled helplessly, wings splayed out, until he managed to sink his tiny claws into the blanket, arresting his undignified journey.

"What in the – " Gale shot upright, looking wildly around. "Astarion? By the Weave!"

"That was not what I had anticipated," Astarion squeaked, though all Gale heard was high–pitched chittering.

"You little menace!" Gale exclaimed, still loud enough to wake half the Tower. "Was that necessary?"

The balcony door swung open with a bang. Zelara stood there, hair mussed from sleep, wearing a hastily donned robe. Her eyes darted between Gale and the small white bat clinging to the blanket.

"What's happening? Is he okay?" She rushed forward, eyes widening as she spotted him. "There you are!"

"Oh shit," Astarion squeaked, realizing his tactical error. He'd forgotten how light a sleeper Zelara was – and how quickly she could move when motivated.

Zelara lunged for him, hands outstretched. "Come here, you adorable little fuzzball!"

"I am not a fuzzball!" Astarion protested, though it came out as more angry squeaking.

Her fingers closed around him before he could escape, scooping him up with surprising gentleness. She cradled him against her chest, eyes filled with that same delighted wonder he'd seen the night before.

"Look at you," she cooed. "Still all floofy and perfect."

This is a nightmare, Astarion thought as Zelara stroked his head with one finger. He was feared, respected, dangerous – not some pet to be fawned over. Yet here he was, being held like a prized kitten while Gale looked on with a mix of concern and amusement.

Zelara's hands shifted around him, her grip loosening as she seemed to remember herself. Her expression changed, morphing from unfiltered delight to something more measured.

"Sorry," she said, adjusting her hold. "I forgot I wasn’t going to do that again.  The floof is hard to resist."

Astarion appreciated the effort, but the damage to his dignity was already done. She was still cradling him, just slightly less enthusiastically.

"He returned last night," Gale explained, running a hand through his sleep–mussed hair. "Quite late. I'd been waiting for hours."

"And you didn't wake me?" Zelara's eyebrows shot up.

"He was exhausted," Gale said apologetically. "And he can't transform back. We tried."

Astarion squirmed in Zelara's hands, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. The thought of being stuck like this indefinitely made his heart race. Bad enough to be in this form temporarily, but permanently? Unthinkable.

"Can't change back?" Zelara repeated, her expression shifting into what Astarion recognized as her problem–solving face. That look usually preceded some wild alchemical experiment. 

Oh no.

She was already scanning him with a clinical gaze that made Astarion deeply nervous. The last thing he needed was to become her latest research project. There would be samples taken. Tests run. Potions administered. He remembered all too well the "refinement" process of the Aureum Vitae, with its unfortunate sparkling side effects. Vampires should not sparkle.

"I think we should try simple things first," Gale said, as if reading Astarion's thoughts. "I need some time to prepare my spells. And... Tower?"

The walls hummed softly in response.

"Could you please provide breakfast for our guests? And perhaps entertain them a bit? We need some privacy."

The Tower's response was a gentle pulse of warmth through the room. Astarion had learned to interpret these responses – Tower was pleased to help.

"Perfect," Zelara said, carrying Astarion inside their chambers. "Let's get you somewhere comfortable while we figure this out."

She set about arranging pillows from their bed into a small circular nest on the dressing table, then placed him gently in the center. 

Against his will, Astarion found the arrangement oddly comfortable. The pillows formed a perfect bowl around him, soft and secure. He settled into it, wings tucked against his sides, as Zelara began her morning routine, talking all the while.

"So you're stuck as a bat. That's new," she said, throwing open the wardrobe. "But we've dealt with weirder, right? Remember when Gale accidentally turned himself blue for a week?"

Astarion remembered. The wizard had been experimenting with a spell to change his hair color and overshot spectacularly.

"The committee's going to freak out," she continued, pulling out a set of practical robes. "But honestly? They can wait. This is more important."

She glanced at him with genuine concern that touched something in Astarion's chest.

"We'll fix this," she promised, her voice softer. "Though I have to admit, you're absolutely adorable like this."

Astarion squeaked indignantly.

"Right, right, sorry," Zelara laughed. "Very fearsome. Most intimidating bat in Waterdeep."

Astarion watched with growing agitation as Zelara continued her morning routine, chattering away in a one–sided conversation. She moved around the room with her usual efficient chaos, collecting various items while theorizing about his condition.

"It's fascinating, really," she said, pulling on her boots. "True vampires can transform into bats, mist, or wolves – but spawn aren't supposed to have those abilities. I wonder how many spawn are as consistently well–fed as you are. Perhaps more spawn could do the bat thing if they were.  Maybe the spawn in the Underdark will – "

"Or I'm in the middle of a cosmic joke at my expense," Astarion squeaked.

" – or you've somehow managed to evolve in a unique way," she finished, completely missing his commentary. "Which would be incredible data for my research."

Astarion bristled at the mention of research. Being someone's experiment was never something he enjoyed, although he sometimes endured it for Zel's sake.

Meanwhile, Gale sat at the desk in his dressing gown from the previous night, mumbling as he completed his morning spell preparations. The wizard occasionally glanced Astarion's way with a mixture of concern and curiosity that wasn't much more reassuring than Zelara's enthusiasm.

"I've prepared several good options," Gale announced finally, approaching the pillow nest. "If this is a magical effect, one of them should work."

"Wonderful. Just don't turn me into something even worse," Astarion chittered uselessly.

Gale began with a simple dispel magic, his fingers weaving complex patterns as arcane words rolled off his tongue. The spell washed over Astarion like warm water – and did absolutely nothing.

"Hmm," Gale frowned, adjusting his approach. "Let's try something more specific."

For the next twenty minutes, Astarion endured spell after spell. Greater Restoration. Remove Curse. Polymorph. Even a creative application of Legend Lore that left Gale with a headache but produced no information about Astarion's condition.  Apparently there was no lore to learn.

"Nothing," Gale said, his frustration evident. "Not even a flicker of response."

"We need more information," Zelara agreed, perching on the edge of the dressing table. "The Tower's library might have something on vampire transformations."

"I could send a message to Elminster," Gale suggested. "He's forgotten more about magical transformations than most wizards will ever learn."

Astarion's tiny heart sank. Research meant time. Time they didn't have with the committee waiting downstairs and expectations weighing on him like an anvil.

"All this could take days," Zelara said, echoing his thoughts. "Maybe we could try something more direct?"

Her eyes lit up with that dangerous gleam Astarion had come to fear.

"I've been working on a solution that accelerates cellular transformation. If we prepared a bath with the right alchemical components – dragon's blood, essence of shapeshifter, maybe a pinch of quicksilver – "

"Absolutely not!" Astarion squeaked in horror, wings flapping frantically.

"I don't think – " Gale began at the same moment, his eyes widening.

"It would work!" Zelara insisted, already halfway to the door, likely heading toward her workbench. "We'd just need to submerge him completely for about thirty seconds – "

"No!" Gale said firmly, stepping between her and Astarion. "Look at him! He's terrified!"

Astarion had indeed backed himself against the pillows, tiny claws digging into the fabric. Being dunked in one of Zelara's experimental concoctions was where he drew the line.

Before Zel could say anything else utterly horrifying, a small crystal vial appeared on the bedside table with a soft chime. The Tower's walls pulsed with a gentle glow, drawing everyone's attention to the unexpected offering.

Astarion recognized the pearly liquid immediately – Speak with Animals. His tiny bat heart leapt with hope. Finally, a sensible solution!

Both Gale and Zelara lunged for the vial simultaneously, their hands colliding in midair.

"I've got it!" Gale declared, fingers closing around the delicate crystal.

Zelara's expression darkened. "Give it here, wizard. I'm the one who actually listens."

"You were about to dunk him in alchemical sludge!" Gale protested, holding the vial just beyond her reach.

"It wasn't sludge! It was a perfectly calibrated transformation accelerator!"

Astarion rolled his tiny eyes. Wonderful. Now they were quarreling over who got to talk to him, while he remained trapped in this ridiculous form.

Zelara crossed her arms when Gale continued to dangle the potion out of reach. "Fine. My workbench could make me one in minutes, but someone" – she glared at the ceiling – "won't let workbench in."

The walls pulsed apologetically – this particular pulse pattern suggested something between "my bad" and "I had my reasons."

As if in response to her complaint, another vial appeared on the table with a louder chime.

"Oh," Zelara said, surprised. "Thank you."

Without hesitation, both his lovers uncorked their respective vials and downed the contents. Astarion waited, watching their expressions shift as the magic took effect.

"Can you understand me now?" he squeaked, the sound still high–pitched to his own ears.

"Perfectly," Gale confirmed.

"Oh, that's much better," Zelara grinned. "Though your voice is adorably squeaky."

"It is not adorable," Astarion protested. "It's demeaning and entirely unsuitable for my dignity."

Gale cleared his throat. "About the transformation – I could attempt more complex spells, or perhaps research deeper into vampire lore. We might need to contact–"

"There's no time," Astarion interrupted. "The committee meeting starts in an hour. We've tried your spells and they didn't work. I don't fancy being dunked in whatever Zel was concocting – "

"It would have worked," Zelara muttered.

"It would have dissolved me into bat soup," Astarion retorted. "No, we need a different approach. I'll have to attend the meeting like this. You two can translate for me."

Gale and Zelara exchanged dubious looks.

"You want to chair our very important vampire integration meeting... as a bat?" Gale asked slowly.

"Is there another option?" Astarion challenged. "We can't postpone – half the delegates traveled for days to be here."

"It'll be unusual," Zelara admitted, "but not impossible."

Decision made, Astarion spread his wings and launched himself toward Zelara's shoulder. Flying in the confines of the bedroom proved more challenging than over the open city. He landed awkwardly, tiny claws scrambling for purchase.

"This isn't going to work," he admitted, wings flapping erratically as he struggled to stay balanced as Zelara moved.

A wicked gleam appeared in Zelara's eyes. "I have an idea."

She began rearranging her bodice, adjusting her stays to create a small pocket of space between her breasts.

"There," she said, gesturing to her cleavage. "Perfect bat–sized seat."

Astarion hesitated, weighing his options. Riding in Zelara's décolletage was undeniably undignified. Then again, tumbling repeatedly from her shoulder would be worse. And her skin did look warm and inviting – a stark contrast to his perpetually cold body.

"Fine," he squeaked, trying to sound put–upon rather than eager. "But only because it's practical."

With a small flap of his wings, he navigated into the offered space, settling into the soft warmth of her cleavage. It was surprisingly comfortable – secure yet cozy.

"This is purely functional," he insisted as he nestled deeper. "Nothing more."

Astarion caught Gale's expression as the wizard watched him settle into his makeshift transportation. The look on his face wasn't the exasperation or concern he'd worn all morning – it was envy. Not jealousy, nothing possessive or angry, just pure, simple envy at Astarion's current position nestled in the warm valley between Zelara's breasts.

"Comfortable?" Zelara asked, far too amused.

Astarion shifted, getting even more comfortable. "It has certain... advantages," he admitted, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. For the first time since this ordeal began, he felt a small measure of control returning. Gale might have his spells and his height and his opposable thumbs, but Astarion had this.

"I see," Gale said, clearing his throat. "Well. That's... practical."

Zelara traced a single finger along the top of Astarion's head, scratching gently behind his ears. The sensation was unexpectedly pleasant, and Astarion found himself leaning into the touch before he could stop himself.

"You like that?" Zelara cooed.

He should bite her. He really should. A tiny nip to remind her that he wasn't some adorable pet. But the stroking continued, her finger finding just the right spot, and Astarion decided that maintaining his dignity could wait another moment or two.

As Zelara and Gale discussed the logistics of the meeting, Astarion considered his predicament with newfound clarity. Being a bat had its drawbacks – the inability to speak properly, the loss of his imposing beauty, the indignity of being carried around indoors. But perhaps there were advantages he hadn't yet considered.

The delegates would certainly be caught off guard. Most had never seen a true vampire transform, let alone attended a meeting chaired by one. He'd spent days dreading their questions, their demands, their expectations – but now? Now they'd be too busy trying to make sense of his transformation to bombard him with their usual tedium.

And if the situation became too uncomfortable, he could simply pretend not to understand. Play up his bat nature. Squeak indignantly and fluff up his fur.

He could make this work for him.  Probably.

Astarion nestled deeper between Zelara's breasts, appreciating the comfort while his vampire consciousness struggled to maintain some semblance of dignity. He found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the two – his vampire self demanded respect and authority, while his bat instincts craved warmth and security.

Still, as his initial panic subsided, a new perspective emerged. Perhaps this transformation wasn't the catastrophe he had assumed. Perhaps it was... an opportunity.

"Wait," he squeaked, his voice high and tinny despite his attempt at gravitas. "I'm approaching this all wrong."

Zelara glanced down, eyebrow raised. "How so?"

"This is actually better for intimidation! No one expects a bat to be ruthless! I'll lull them into a false sense of security, then strike!" His wings fluttered with enthusiasm, briefly disturbing his comfortable position.

Gale, who had been adjusting his formal robes, paused and turned. His expression remained perfectly deadpan as he regarded the bat.

"Strike how? With your tiny, adorable fangs?"

Astarion bristled, fur standing on end. "Yes, Gale. Precisely. While they are cooing over me, I shall DESTROY THEM."

He attempted to make a threatening gesture with his wing, but the effect was somewhat diminished by his current form. The movement merely made him look like he was waving enthusiastically.

Zelara stroked his head with gentle affection, her smile both loving and exasperated. "You can't even hold a quill, babe."

The simple truth of her statement hit Astarion like a bucket of cold water. He couldn't hold a quill. He couldn't sign documents. He couldn't even pour himself a glass of wine. The reality of his predicament crashed over him in a wave of humiliating clarity.

"Oh," he said, his squeaky voice suddenly small and uncertain. "I hadn't considered that."

For the first time since his transformation, true concern flooded through him. This wasn't just an inconvenience or a temporary embarrassment. If he couldn't change back, he couldn't fulfill his most basic functions in society. His independence – the freedom he had fought so hard to gain – would be severely compromised.

"I might actually be screwed," he admitted, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

Gale's eyebrow arched. "Do you truly want to destroy the delegates, Astarion? These are people working to help integrate vampires into society."

Astarion's tiny wings drooped slightly. The wizard had a point. His instinct to maintain control through intimidation was a relic of his past – of survival under Cazador's cruelty. These weren't enemies to be vanquished but potential allies navigating unfamiliar territory.

"No," he admitted, the squeaky voice undermining any remaining gravitas. "I suppose I don't. Old habits."

Gale nodded, his expression softening. "Old habits indeed. But perhaps new circumstances call for new approaches."

Astarion sank deeper into Zelara's warmth, frustration gnawing at him. He had spent weeks preparing for this meeting – researching every objection, practicing the perfect balance of charm and authority. Now all those preparations were useless.

"If I can't sign documents or call for order or even pour the bloody wine, what use am I?" he asked, the question emerging as a forlorn little squeak.

Zelara's finger stroked gently along his furry head again. "You're the visionary behind this whole movement, Astarion. That doesn't change because you've grown tiny and adorable."

"I am not–"

"You're still you," she continued, cutting off his protest. "And we'll be right there. I can translate, Gale can handle the documents. It'll be fine."

"Or a complete disaster," Astarion muttered.

"Or that," she agreed cheerfully. "But either way, we'll handle it together."

Her unwavering confidence was both irritating and reassuring. Zelara had never been one to sugar–coat situations, which made her optimism all the more meaningful. If she thought they could manage this, perhaps they could.

"Fine," he said, straightening himself as much as a tiny bat could. "We'll proceed. I'll act like a powerful, intimidating vampire lord who happens to be in bat form, and you two will be my... interpreters."

"Voice of the bat," Gale suggested with a slight smile.

"Bat ambassadors," Zelara countered.

"Just don't call me cute," Astarion warned, baring his tiny fangs. "Or adorable. Or precious. Or–"

"We get it," Gale assured him, gathering his notes. "Dignity above all." Gale straightened and studied him for a beat, then said softly, "You underestimate the weight of your presence, my love. You always have."

As they prepared to leave for the meeting chamber, Astarion puffed out his chest, projecting confidence. This was merely a setback, not a catastrophe. He would adapt, as he always had.

"I'm ready," he announced. "Let's make history."

But beneath his bravado, uncertainty lingered. The spawn looked to him for leadership. The committee expected his guidance. What if he couldn't deliver? What if his transformation wasn't an inconvenience but an omen – a sign that he had never been meant to lead this movement at all?

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 4/10

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Work is complete on AO3 and posting nightly on Tumblr.

Artwork by the amazing @vetochkarowan!

Gale

Gale lay beside Zelara, staring at the ceiling as her breathing deepened into sleep. The warmth of her body against his side should have been comforting, but his mind refused to quiet. Images of Astarion – small, winged, and distressingly absent – kept circling through his thoughts like persistent vultures.

An hour passed. Then another. Sleep remained elusive.

With careful movements, Gale disentangled himself from Zelara's embrace. She murmured something unintelligible and rolled over, pulling the sheets with her. He stood for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, before sliding into his dressing gown and padding across the cool floor to the balcony.

The night sky stretched above him, a vast canvas of indigo dotted with stars. Waterdeep sprawled below, its windows like earthbound constellations. Somewhere among them – or perhaps above them – was Astarion. Alone in the darkness.

"Where are you?" Gale whispered, scanning the night for any movement that might be his lover.

Nothing. The occasional owl, the distant flutter of night birds. No white bats with ridiculous little curls.

He sank onto the stone bench with a sigh.

The bench shifted beneath him, startling him from his self–recrimination. Stone softened and curved, sprouting cushions and extending into a daybed large enough to recline on. A thick woolen blanket materialized beside him, its weight substantial against the cool night air.

"Thank you," he said, patting the transformed furniture. The Tower had been listening, as it always did. This was its way of offering comfort when words failed.

Gale stretched out on the daybed, pulling the blanket over himself as he settled in to maintain his vigil. The cushions adjusted beneath him, providing perfect support for his neck and lower back. Despite the Tower's comforts, anxiety gnawed at him.

"I don't understand what's happening to him," he confessed to the night. "Is it a manifestation of latent abilities? A side effect of the potion? Or..." he hesitated, "is it something else entirely?"

He searched the darkness between stars, hoping for a flash of white, the flutter of wings. His logical mind knew the futility of spotting one small bat in the vastness of Waterdeep's night sky, but his heart refused to accept the impossibility.

"Come home," he whispered. "Whatever this is, we'll face it together."

The Tower's stones warmed slightly beneath him in silent agreement, and Gale continued his watch, counting stars and waiting for the return of their missing third.

Gale's eyelids had grown heavy, the night's stillness finally luring him toward sleep. The stars blurred above him, and he felt himself drifting off when something small but surprisingly substantial landed directly on his chest.

"Wha – !" he gasped, jolting upright before registering the familiar white fur and ruby eyes staring at him. "Astarion!" 

The tiny bat chittered, tiny claws gripping Gale's dressing gown as it – no, as he – maintained his balance.

"You came back," Gale murmured, relief flooding through him. He carefully cupped a hand around the small creature, supporting Astarion's fuzzy body. "I was worried sick, you know. Sitting out here like some lovesick fool, watching the sky. Zelara insisted on calling you 'Batstarion,' by the way – terribly undignified, I know, but it's rather stuck."

The bat squeaked indignantly.

"Yes, yes, we can workshop the name later," Gale said, a smile spreading across his face as he stroked one finger gently down the bat's back. "The important thing is you're home. We can sort this out together. Perhaps examine the magical resonance patterns of your transformation, or – "

Gale paused, finally noticing the bat's expression. Astarion's tiny face was scrunched up, eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled in what could only be described as...

"You look constipated," Gale observed. "Is something wrong?"

Batstarion squeaked rapidly, flapping his wings with obvious agitation.

"I'm afraid I don't speak bat," Gale said apologetically. "Perhaps it's time to change back so we can have a proper conversation? The committee meeting is tomorrow, and while I'm sure Zelara would be thrilled to present you in this form, I rather think–"

The bat launched himself from Gale's palm, circling frantically before landing on his chest again. With surprising force for such a tiny creature, he began hopping up and down, squeaking at increasing volume before finally headbutting Gale directly in the mouth.

"Ow!" Gale sputtered, pulling back. "What in the nine hells are you–"

Batstarion performed the same routine again: hop, squeak, headbutt.

"Are you... trying to tell me something?" Gale asked, brow furrowed.

Batstarion nodded vigorously, then headbutted Gale's lips again.

"My mouth? Something about speaking?" Gale's eyes widened with sudden understanding. "You want me to cast Sending!"

The bat slumped in visible relief, nodding emphatically.

"Of course," Gale said, gathering his concentration. He closed his eyes, focused on Astarion's essence – not the bat form before him, but the vampire spawn he knew intimately – and cast the spell. "Astarion, what's happening? Are you well? Why haven't you changed back yet? We're worried."

The response came immediately, vibrating through his mind with familiar indignation: "I CAN'T change back, you overeducated buffoon! I don't even know how I changed in the first place! Do you think I'd CHOOSE to stay–"

Astarion ran out of words, but Gale was pretty sure the rest was insults. Gale exhaled, gripping the edges of his robe. He had been hoping for a different answer, one that involved Astarion swanning dramatically back into the Tower in his usual form, tossing out barbed complaints about their concern.

But no. He couldn't change back. Which meant Gale had to figure out why.

Gale took a deep breath, his mind already cataloging the possibilities. This was precisely the sort of magical conundrum he excelled at solving.

"Right. If you can't change back voluntarily, we need to determine what triggered the transformation in the first place." He sat up straighter, dislodging the small bat who flapped indignantly before resettling. "Let me wake Zelara – her alchemical knowledge might provide insights my arcane approach might miss."

Batstarion squeaked sharply, shaking his tiny head with surprising vehemence.

"No? But she'd want to know you've returned." Gale paused, eyeing the bat carefully. "And surely between the two of us, we could begin formulating potential solutions. The Tower's library has several volumes on transmutation magic that might–"

Another emphatic series of squeaks interrupted him as Batstarion flapped his wings in obvious frustration.

"Not the library either?" Gale frowned. "Then what do you suggest? We can't simply ignore this situation."

Batstarion yawned dramatically, his tiny mouth opening to reveal surprisingly sharp fangs.

Understanding finally dawned on Gale. "You're exhausted, aren't you? I suppose flying is rather more strenuous than walking." His expression softened. "Perhaps rest is the wisest course. For all we know, this transformation might revert naturally during sleep."

The bat offered what appeared to be a tiny shrug before circling twice and settling directly in the center of Gale's chest, right over the pale swirl of scars left by the orb. The small warm weight felt oddly comforting as Gale reclined back on the daybed, one hand gently cupping over Batstarion's fuzzy form.

"We'll tackle this in the morning," he murmured. "The Tower will keep us warm out here."

As if in response to his words, the stone beneath them radiated gentle heat, and the blanket seemed to thicken. Gale closed his eyes, feeling the tension begin to drain from his body.

Then came a sharp, unexpected pinch against his palm.

His eyes flew open. "What the – ?" 

Batstarion had sunk his tiny fangs into the fleshy part of Gale's hand. At first, Gale thought it might be some form of communication – another frustrated attempt to convey something important – but as the bat continued to lap at the wound, realization dawned.

"You're... hungry," Gale whispered, feeling oddly touched.

Gale relaxed his hand, allowing better access. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant – more like being pricked by a thorn than actual pain. A wry smile crossed his face as he watched the tiny vampire feeding from him.

"Between you and Zelara, I'm practically a walking blood bank," he murmured fondly. "At least in this form, you can't drain me dry."

The tiny punctures on Gale's palm stung briefly as Batstarion finished feeding. The small creature gave a final lick to the wound, his tiny tongue surprisingly rough against Gale's skin, then shuffled backward until he was nestled under Gale's cupped hand.

Gale felt the soft vibration of what might have been a contented sigh from the bat beneath his palm. Strange how something so small could radiate such a familiar presence – unmistakably Astarion despite the diminutive packaging.

"Comfortable?" Gale whispered.

A tiny squeak answered him, followed by the sensation of Batstarion curling into a tighter ball of fur.

Gale closed his eyes, feeling the slight rise and fall of the creature's breathing against his hand. It was almost like holding a heartbeat.

What had triggered this transformation? Gale's mind turned over possibilities. True vampires could shift into bat form at will, but Astarion was a spawn, not a full vampire. Perhaps killing Cazador had altered his nature more profoundly than they'd realized when Astarion took up a leadership role among the spawn.  Perhaps he was gaining some of the characteristics of a vampire lord by behaving as one? 

Or maybe the sunlight protection potion was to blame.  Astarion had consumed more Aureum Vitae in its various iterations than all the other spawn combined.  Including that rather unfortunate version that made his skin sparkle in the sun and earned the potion the rather unfortunate nickname of Glow Juice.  Regardless, if Aureum Vitae was the cause, their plans for wider distribution to the spawn community in the Underdark would need to be placed on hold.

The irony didn't escape him. For years, Astarion had dreamed of freedom from Cazador's control. Now he'd gained it, only to find himself trapped in an unexpected way – a prison of fur and wings.

Gale stroked his thumb gently over the soft fur of Batstarion's head, careful not to disturb the sleeping bat. Perhaps by morning, the transformation would reverse itself naturally. What a relief it would be to wake to Astarion's full weight suddenly materializing on his chest – though it would likely crush the air from his lungs in the process.

He smiled at the thought. Worth it, if it meant having Astarion back in his proper form.

But Gale very much doubted it would be that simple. Magic rarely was, especially the unintentional kind. Tomorrow would require research, perhaps experimentation. The Tower's library would have something useful, surely. And Zelara's alchemical expertise might prove invaluable, despite Astarion's apparent reluctance to involve her.

His thoughts drifted, becoming less coherent as exhaustion finally claimed him. The warmth of the Tower beneath him, the blanket above, and the small bundle of his beloved beneath his palm created a perfect cocoon of comfort.

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 3/10

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Work is complete on AO3 and posting nightly on Tumblr.

Artwork by the amazing @vetochkarowan!

Zelara

Zelara clutched her mug of tea with both hands, its warmth a welcome anchor as she paced the perimeter of Gale's rooftop garden. The gathering had fractured into worried clusters of conversation after Astarion's dramatic exit, and she'd retreated to a quiet corner to sort through her tangled thoughts.

"He's responded," Gale announced, approaching with measured steps. "He says he's fine. Just... flying."

Relief flooded through her so intensely that she nearly sloshed tea over the rim of her mug. "Fuck, that's good. He's okay?"

"Seems to be enjoying himself, actually," Gale said, his brow finally relaxing slightly.

"Of course he is," she murmured, a small smile forming despite her worry. "He has fucking wings."

She set her mug down on a nearby table, running her hands through her silver hair. "I think I might have freaked him out a bit. With the whole – " She mimicked her earlier cooing and baby-talk voice, then winced. "Gods, poor bastard. One second he's a vampire, next he's a tiny floof, and then I'm treating him like a pet. No wonder he bolted."

Across the garden, she could hear Lae'zel's sharp tone cutting through the night air. "Irresponsible. The committee meets tomorrow. What does he expect us to do without him?"

"Man deserves one night off," Karlach responded, shrugging her massive shoulders. "He's been working on this for months."

Zelara nodded to herself. At least someone got it.

"If he's not back by morning–" Wyll started.

"Then we'll handle it," Zelara called over, louder than she'd intended. Several heads turned her way. "What? Like we haven't improvised through worse?"

She turned back to Gale, lowering her voice. "Everyone's acting like he abandoned a child, rather than assed out on a committee meeting, which, for the record, he hasn't technically missed yet. He's spent two years cleaning up Cazador's messes. Let the man have one ridiculously weird night off."

Gale tilted his head. "You don't seem particularly concerned about the... transformation aspect."

"Are you kidding? If I suddenly sprouted wings, you wouldn't see me for a week." She picked up her mug again, swirling its contents. "Besides, I've seen weirder shit in my lab on a slow Tuesday."

Despite her casual tone, she couldn't shake the image of those tiny red eyes looking up at her with such familiar annoyance – utterly Astarion, yet completely changed. Part of her still desperately wanted to cradle that tiny, soft form in her hands, to feel his little heart beating against her palm. Snuggles!

But that wasn't what he needed right now.  Well, probably not?  Maybe he would come around on the idea of snuggles.

"I hope he won't stay away too long," she admitted quietly. "Not because of the fucking meeting. Just... I miss him already. Even his tiny angry squeaks."

Gale wrapped his arms around Zel, pulling her against his chest. She nestled into his warmth, breathing in the familiar scent of parchment and that hint of ozone that always clung to him. His hugs were usually her absolute favorite – the safety of those long arms around her, the steady rhythm of his heart against her cheek.

But tonight, her mind kept drifting to tiny wings and ruby eyes.

A giggle escaped her before she could catch it, bubbling up from somewhere deep inside.

"What's so amusing?" Gale asked, pulling back slightly to look at her.

"I'm just–" she snorted, embarrassed but unable to stop. "I'm thinking how I'd rather be snuggling a bat right now than getting the absolute best human hug in Faerûn." She shook with laughter. "What is wrong with me?"

Gale's expression shifted, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Despite his light tone, she caught the worry lines etched around his mouth, the tightness in his jaw that told her he was far more concerned than he was letting on.

"Hey," she said, reaching up to cup his cheek. "He's okay. He's just having a night off in the most dramatic way possible."

"But the timing–"

"Is absolute shit, yeah. When is it not?" She shrugged. "Look, if you're determined to worry about something, worry about Waterdeep. Astarion's loose in the city as the world's most extra bat."

Gale chuckled, but the tension never fully left his brow. Zel felt it in the way his hands still fidgeted at his sides, in the way his mind was already drifting back to concerns beyond this moment.

Not tonight, she decided.

"Just imagine," she continued, warming to her subject, "some rich asshole's fancy garden party ruined when a tiny bat dive-bombs the punch bowl. Or – oh gods – picture him discovering he can fit under door jams." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He's probably sneaking into jewelry shops right now, tucking little diamonds into his fur."

Gale finally laughed. "Creating a one-bat crime wave across Waterdeep?"

"Absolutely. A very picky, very shiny crime wave." She grinned. "He's probably perched on some Waterdavian lord's bedpost right now, squeaking insults in their ear while they sleep."

"I can hear him now," Gale said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Your decor is atrocious. This bed curtain looks like something even Lae'zel would reject."

"Your wine collection is abysmal," Zel mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "I wouldn't use this vintage to clean my tiny bat feet."

Zelara leaned into Gale's chest, still giggling at the thought of Batstarion terrorizing Waterdeep's elite. When she looked up, Gale was watching her with that soft expression that made her heart flip – like she was a fascinating alchemical reaction he couldn't quite categorize.

"What?" she asked, her laughter trailing off.

"Nothing." He brushed a strand of silver hair from her face. "I find your ability to see humor in chaos rather remarkable."

"Someone has to," she shrugged, "or we'd all be screaming into the void."

His thumb traced her jawline, and her skin tingled at his touch. "I suppose that's one approach."

"Got a better one?" she challenged, rising slightly on her toes.

Instead of answering, Gale closed the distance between them. His lips met hers with familiar warmth, and Zelara melted against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The kiss deepened, his hands finding the small of her back, pulling her closer.

For a moment, the garden, the committee, even Batstarion's irresistible floof faded from her mind, replaced by the simple pleasure of being held by someone who understood her completely.

"Excuse me," Wyll's voice cut through their moment. "Sorry to interrupt, but–"

Zelara broke away with a groan, pressing her forehead against Gale's chest. "But what, Wyll? What could possibly be so urgent?"

When she turned, Wyll stood awkwardly a few paces away, looking both apologetic and determined. "We need to discuss tomorrow. If Astarion doesn't return–"

"The plan is exactly what it was two hours ago," she said, not bothering to hide her exasperation. "Astarion will be back, and we'll make a plan to change the world."

Wyll frowned. "And if he's not?"

"Then we'll figure it out," she said. "Like we always do."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be," she retorted. 

Jaheira appeared beside Wyll, her weathered face creased with something between amusement and exhaustion. "You youngsters and your plans," she said, shaking her head. "It matters not how carefully you plan – shit is going to go sideways and upside down, and then it will all work itself out. No one will remember a time it was different."

Zelara grinned, pointing at Jaheira. "See? The druid gets it."

Jaheira adjusted her cloak with a dignified sniff. "And now this old lady is going to bed and recommends you all do the same." She gave them a meaningful look before turning away, her voice carrying over her shoulder. "Some problems look smaller after a decent night's sleep."

Zelara took Jaheira's cue, clapping her hands together with more enthusiasm than necessary. "Right! You all know where your rooms are. Breakfast will be out at seven – the fancy spread, not just toast – and anyone who wakes me before then better be on fire. Properly on fire, not just singed."

She fixed her gaze on Wyll, who looked ready to launch into another round of contingency planning. "And no committee talk until after coffee. House rules."

Zel slipped her arm through Gale's, feeling his tension despite his relaxed posture. To the others, he probably appeared completely composed – the ever-calm wizard, unruffled by a minor hiccup in their plans. But she caught the slight crease between his eyebrows, the way his fingers absently traced patterns in the air as if working through arcane formulas.

"Come on," she whispered, tugging him gently toward the exit. "Let them sort themselves out."

Their guests dispersed with minimal grumbling, Lae'zel's sharp gaze following them as they made their retreat. Zelara offered a little finger wave as they slipped through the door and into the tower's quiet interior.

The walk to their bedroom felt longer than usual, the empty space beside them more noticeable in Astarion's absence. When they reached the door, Zel pushed it open to reveal the spacious chamber they shared, moonlight streaming through tall windows to illuminate the oversized bed.

Gale immediately moved to his desk, rifling through a stack of parchments. "I wonder if there's anything in my notes about spontaneous polymorphic transitions in undead physiology–"

"Nope," Zelara said, plucking the papers from his hands and setting them aside. "Not tonight."

"But if I could just–"

She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "You know what your problem is? You're still in here." She tapped his forehead gently. "All swirly thoughts and theories, trying to solve everything with that big, beautiful brain."

Her fingers trailed down to his chest, where she began unfastening the intricate clasps of his robes. "And what you need right now is to be right here instead." She splayed her hand over his heart, feeling it quicken beneath her touch.

"Zelara–"

"Tell me I'm wrong." She looked up at him, her lavender eyes reflecting the moonlight as she slipped his outer robe from his shoulders. "Tell me you don't need a distraction, and I'll back off."

Gale's protest died on his lips as her fingers continued their work, now moving to the ties of his inner shirt. He exhaled slowly, some of the tension visibly draining from his features.

"That's what I thought," she murmured, rising on her toes to press her lips against his.

Zelara deepened the kiss, her fingers working nimbly at the ties of Gale's undershirt. She knew every knot and fastening by heart, the ritual of undressing him as familiar as any of her alchemical recipes. His breath hitched as she slipped the fabric from his shoulders, her palms smoothing over the firm planes of his chest.

She broke the kiss long enough to murmur, "Hm, now how exactly do I want to distract you? Let's see how this works…" before trailing her lips down his jawline, his neck, until she reached the spot just above his collarbone that always made him shiver. His hands found her hips, gripping tightly as she teased his skin with her tongue.

Her fingers moved to his pants, deftly untying the laces while her mouth explored his chest. She knew exactly where to touch, how to draw out those soft gasps and quiet moans. When she circled his nipple with her tongue, his cock twitched against her, already hard and eager.

She pushed his pants down, feeling his length press against her thigh as she maneuvered him toward the desk chair. He sat down heavily, his eyes dark with desire, watching her intently as she wiggled out of her clothes and straddled him.

"Zelara," he started, his voice rough with need, but she cut him off with a smirk.

"Shh," she whispered, grinding against him just enough to make him suck in a breath. "No more thinking, remember?"

She reached between them, guiding his cock to her entrance. Usually, he'd take his time here, use his fingers and mouth to make sure she was ready for him. But tonight, she didn't want to wait. She wanted that delicious burn, the raw sensation of taking him in all at once.  Maybe she needed a distraction, too.

She sank down slowly, her body stretching to accommodate him. A soft hiss escaped her lips, part pain, part pleasure, all anticipation. Gale's hands tightened on her hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she lowered herself inch by inch.

"Fuck, you're big," she whispered, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Every damn time, I swear you split me in half."

Gale groaned, his head falling back against the chair. "Zelara–"

"What?" she murmured, leaning forward to nip at his earlobe. "Too much? You want me to stop?"

His only response was a low growl, his fingers digging into her flesh as he urged her down further. She laughed softly, a sound that caught somewhere between humor and arousal.

"That's what I thought," she said, her voice barely more than a purr. She braced her hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to sink down the rest of the way, taking him fully inside her.

Both of them gasped at the sensation, their bodies pressed tightly together, every nerve ending alight with pleasure. Zelara began to move, her hips rolling in a slow, decadent rhythm. With each motion, she whispered filthy promises and outrageous observations, riding the border between funny and sexy until they were both breathless with laughter and need.

"You know," she panted, her body rising and falling in a steady pace, "for such a serious wizard, you have the dirtiest fucking mind."

Gale's only response was a choked laugh and something about "Pot, kettle, sooty bottom," but his hands gripped her ass, guiding her movements. She could feel the tension building in his body, the coiled energy ready to spring. But she wasn't ready to let him go yet.

She leaned back slightly, changing the angle just enough to make them both moan. His cock hit the spot inside her that made her see stars, and she clenched around him, drawing out a strangled groan.

"Not yet," she whispered, her voice barely recognizable. "Not until I say so."

She rode him harder, her body chasing that elusive edge, the place where pleasure and pain blurred into something indescribable. With each thrust, she whispered naughty encouragements, urging him closer and closer to the brink.

"Zelara," he gasped, his voice hoarse with need. "I can't–I need–"

She silenced him with a searing kiss, her body moving faster, pushing them both toward the inevitable climax. But she wouldn't let him fall alone. She wanted them to tumble over that edge together, lost in the shared ecstasy of their connection.

Zelara nuzzled at Gale's chin, feeling the rough stubble against her skin. He tilted his head back, offering his throat to her with a trust that never failed to send a thrill through her. Her fangs grazed his pulse point, and she sank them in, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

The taste of his blood hit her tongue, rich and warm, and she moaned against his skin. His cock pulsed inside her, his release triggering her own. She rolled her hips, riding out their shared orgasm, each wave of pleasure amplified by the hot rush of his blood down her throat.

Gale's hands gripped her hips tightly, his body trembling beneath her as she drank from him. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, pulsing in time with her own. With each swallow, a second thrill coursed through her, the potent mix of his blood and her own ecstasy sending her senses spiraling.

When the waves finally subsided, she licked the wounds clean, feeling his breath hot and ragged against her ear. He murmured soft praises, his voice laced with satisfaction and a teasing lament.

"Two blood drinking lovers," he chuckled weakly, his chest heaving. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Zelara grinned, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "You love it," she teased, giving his throat one last playful nip before climbing off him. "Ooh, I wonder if Batstarion bites too?"

Gale sagged back in the chair, his body slick with sweat, a contented smile playing on his lips. But as she watched him, she saw the moment his thoughts caught up with him, the crease returning to his brow.

Shit. She'd done exactly what she hadn't meant to – reminded him of Astarion, of the worries that had been momentarily fucked out of his system.

"Hey," she said softly, cupping his cheek. "Stay with me, Gale. Don't go back into that head of yours just yet."

He covered her hand with his own, turning his head to kiss her palm. "I'm alright, Zelara. Truly."

She could see the lie in his eyes, but she also knew pushing him wouldn't help. Instead, she offered him a small smile and a gentle tug toward the bed. "Come on. Let's get some sleep."

They crawled beneath the covers, Gale's arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. The bed felt too big without Astarion's lean form taking up more than his fair share of space, but there was nothing for it but to close her eyes and hope for a few hours of oblivion.

Zelara nestled against Gale's chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and slow. She matched her breath to his, willing herself to relax, to let go of the worries that gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Tomorrow would come soon enough, with all its challenges and uncertainties. But for now, there was only this – the warmth of Gale's body against hers, the quiet rhythm of his breath, and the lingering taste of his blood on her tongue.

She nestled against Gale’s chest, but her mind kept drifting to tiny wings and ruby eyes. To the quiet space beside her, waiting to be filled.

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 2/10

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Work is complete on AO3 and posting nightly on Tumblr.

Artwork by the amazing @vetochkarowan

Astarion

Astarion soared through the night, his wings cutting through the cool night air. What had begun as panic – a desperate escape from the bewildered faces of his companions – had transformed into something unexpected.

This is... exhilarating.

This wasn't like flying with Gale's magic. When the wizard cast Fly on him, it felt controlled and precise – a spell maintaining his body at exact coordinates in space. This was wildly different. His new form responded to every subtle shift in the atmosphere, his wing membranes sensing changes in pressure and temperature he'd never noticed in two centuries of existence.

A warm updraft from Waterdeep's streets caught him, lifting him higher with barely any effort. He rode it instinctively, spiraling upward, feeling the muscle movements in his wings adjusting without conscious thought.

So this is what it's like to truly fly. No wonder bats seem so bloody smug. Ha!  Now I can be smug too.

The city spread out beneath him like an illuminated tapestry. Lantern-lighters were making their rounds, dotting the darkening streets with pools of golden light. From this height, the people below seemed insignificant – tiny specks unaware of the small white bat observing their inconsequential lives.

For the first time since transforming, Astarion felt a rush of something like joy. No stupid meetings, no long list of problems to deal with. Just the open sky and the night air.

He dipped lower, skimming over the rooftops, feeling the currents change as he passed over warm chimneys and cool slate tiles. His ears caught fragments of conversations – merchants counting the day's coin, lovers whispering sweet promises, children being urged to bed.

Banking sharply, Astarion rode a particularly strong current over the harbor, where the sea air mixed with the earthier scents of the city. Ships rocked gently at their moorings, their lanterns swaying like earthbound stars.

Strange how he'd never appreciated the full tapestry of Waterdeep's scents before. His senses had always been keen, but this bat form experienced the city as a rich bouquet of information – the salt of the harbor, the yeast from bakeries preparing tomorrow's bread, the smoke from countless hearths, the distinctive scent of hundreds of different lives being lived.

Freedom. That's what this flight was. 

The smell hit him first – an intoxicating, pulsing scent that made his tiny nose twitch. Without conscious thought, Astarion found himself banking sharply, diving toward a swirling cloud of... something near one of the harbor warehouses.

What am I doing? he thought even as his body plunged downward, wings tucked tight against his sides.

The cloud resolved into individual specks – insects, dancing in the air around a patch of standing water. Mosquitoes, midges, and other buzzing nuisances. He could smell the blood inside their tiny bodies – microscopic droplets they'd harvested from the dock workers, sailors, and tavern patrons.

Instinct seized him. His rational mind retreated as his new form took over. Astarion swooped through the cloud, mouth open, echolocation guiding him perfectly as he snapped his tiny jaws.

Success! Something crunched between his teeth.

And then...horror.

Oh gods, what am I – 

The taste hit like a slap. Bitter chitin, gooey insides, and yes – the tiniest hint of blood, but overwhelmed by the revolting, acrid flavor of insect innards. The texture was somehow both slimy and crispy at once.

"Disgusting!" he squeaked, though it emerged as a pitiful chirp.

He spat out the half–chewed bug, but the damage was done. The flavor coated his tongue, making him twist and dart through the air as though trying to escape his own mouth.

A dock worker looked up, laughing at the small white bat apparently having a midair tantrum. "Look at that little bugger go! Must've caught a bad one!"

Astarion shot the man a ruby–eyed glare, forgetting entirely that his fearsome vampire stare was now compressed into a face roughly the size of a walnut.

I need water. Wine. Anything to wash this abomination from my palate.

He spiraled upward, leaving the tempting-but-treacherous insect cloud behind. His brief experiment with bug-eating had concluded with a resounding failure. Apparently when it came to taste preferences the vampire part of vampire bat overruled the bat part.

As he gained altitude again, a fleeting thought of his companions passed through his mind. They were likely in chaos by now. Gale would be theorizing wildly, Zelara would be beside herself with worry (and probably delight at his fuzzy form), and who knew what the others were doing.

Well, they could wait. Right now, he was flying, he was free, and the night was still young. Besides, he needed to find something to drink that would eliminate the lingering taste of bug guts.

Astarion's sensitive ears picked up the distinctive clink of glasses from somewhere below. He banked, circling lower until he spotted the source – an open-air patio where patrons dined by candlelight. His gaze fixed on a particular table where a couple leaned toward each other, engrossed in conversation, their wine glasses temporarily forgotten.

Perfect.

He swooped down, calculating his approach with more confidence than skill. The woman's glass contained a promising dark red vintage that would hopefully banish the lingering taste of insect. All he needed was to grab the rim with his dextrous feet and – 

How hard could it possibly be? I've mastered lockpicking, wielding daggers, and slitting throats. This should be trivial.

Astarion angled himself carefully, reaching with his clawed feet to grip the glass. The instant he made contact, he understood his miscalculation. The glass was impossibly heavy, and his tiny bat muscles strained against its weight.

Bloody hell–

The glass tipped, then toppled completely. Dark red wine cascaded across the table and directly onto the woman's pale dress. She shrieked, jumping to her feet.

"What in the Nine Hells–"

Her companion spotted Astarion and swatted wildly. "It's a bat! Get it!"

Astarion darted between the man's hands, executing an elegant barrel roll that would have impressed Lae'zel.

"Pardon me. That vintage was clearly subpar anyway," he squeaked, though it emerged as high-pitched chittering.

He wheeled away, snickering inwardly at the chaos he'd left behind. The woman dabbing frantically at her ruined dress, the man still swinging uselessly at the air – there was a certain delight in causing mischief without consequence.

Banking around a corner, Astarion spotted a fountain in a small plaza. Water sprayed in elegant arcs, the moonlight catching the droplets and transforming them into silver. Without thinking, he swooped toward it, darting through the water streams. The cool mist against his fur was unexpectedly refreshing.

This is actually rather fun. Who knew being small and fluffy has its advantages?

After several passes through the fountain's spray, he attempted to land on the stone rim, intending to take a dignified sip. His approach seemed perfect, but the moment his feet touched the stone, his center of gravity shifted unexpectedly.

One moment he was perched elegantly; the next, he was tumbling backward into the water with an undignified squeak.

Cold water closed over him. His wings, perfect for air but useless when waterlogged, flapped frantically. Panic seized him.

Can bats swim? I don't believe they can swim! Curses!

Just as he began to think he might actually drown in this ridiculous form, small hands plunged into the water and scooped him out. He found himself cradled in the palms of a young girl, perhaps seven or eight years old.

The tiny human beamed down at him, hoisting him up like some sort of prize catch. Astarion coughed out a few droplets of water, his dignity drowning faster than he had been moments ago.

"Oh! Look what I found, mama! A tiny white bat!"

Astarion bristled, mentally cataloguing his humiliations. First, he had nearly drowned in a decorative pond. Then, rather than perishing with at least some semblance of grace, he'd been rescued by what appeared to be a human larva – a child barely tall enough to reach a doorknob. At least the girl hadn't called him something truly mortifying like – 

"He's so cute!"

Cute? His wings flapped indignantly against her palms. I am not CUTE. I am a centuries–old vampire, a creature of shadow and nightmare, a being who has tasted the blood of countless mortals. I am elegant, fearsome, deadly – but certainly not CUTE.

The little girl giggled as his fur bristled, completely misinterpreting his outrage as some sort of adorable display. Astarion silently swore that if he ever returned to his proper form, he would find this child and hiss at her.

With a sudden twist, he freed himself from her grasp and flapped into the air, water droplets scattering from his wings.

Ugh.  Mortifying. Still, perhaps freedom comes at the cost of some dignity, he thought, climbing back into the night sky.

Astarion shook himself vigorously, sending water droplets flying from his fur. While the dip in the fountain had been undignified, he had to admit there was one unexpected benefit – the revolting taste of insect had been thoroughly rinsed from his mouth.

Well, that solves one problem, he thought, finding a perch on a nearby statue to continue drying. Perhaps my only problem.

He licked his wing and used it to smoothe down his ruffled chest fur, the action coming to him as naturally as breathing. It struck him then, as he groomed himself under the moonlight, how remarkably unburdened he felt. No spawn seeking guidance. No committees awaiting his leadership. No endless questions about integration policies or Aureum Vitae distribution schedules.

Just a small, white bat with remarkably few responsibilities.

This isn't so terrible, he mused, stretching his wings experimentally. Fly where I want. Do as I please. No one expecting anything of me.

A familiar pressure suddenly built in his mind – the unmistakable sensation of a magical sending. Gale's voice filled his thoughts, clear as though the wizard stood beside him.

"Astarion? Are you all right? Do you need help? Where are you? Everyone's worried, especially Zel. Please respond if you can hear me."

Gale's voice carried a tone of exasperated concern that Astarion knew well – one that meant the wizard was simultaneously worried and irritated. He considered ignoring the sending entirely. Let them fret a while longer. He was enjoying his unexpected freedom.

But if he didn't answer, Gale would inevitably find some absurdly complex magical way to track him down. The wizard was tenacious that way, especially when concerned. And Astarion wasn't quite ready to be found.

Fine. I suppose I owe them that much.

Concentrating on the magical link, he focused his thoughts into a reply: "I'm perfectly fine. Just enjoying the night air. No need to worry or come looking. I'll return when I'm ready."

He had no idea whether Gale would hear his normal voice or receive a series of squeaks. Either way, the wizard had his answer. Basic romantic partner obligation fulfilled – his beloved would not suffer a heart attack from worry. Probably.

The magical pressure receded, and Astarion flexed his wings again. The night was still young, and Waterdeep had so much more to explore from this new perspective.

Astarion stretched his wings, ready to take flight again. The night called to him – a symphony of scents, sounds, and sensations he'd never experienced in his normal form. He bunched his muscles, fully intending to launch himself majestically into the air – and promptly went nowhere.

What in the Nine Hells?

His wings flapped furiously, but instead of achieving lift, he merely scuttled across the statue's head, his claws scraping against stone. The graceful flight he'd experienced earlier seemed to have abandoned him entirely.

Come on, you ridiculous little body. Fly!

He tried again, putting more power into his wings, only to produce an awkward hopping motion that sent him spinning in a small circle. His pride suffered with each undignified attempt.

This is absurd. I'm a bloody bat. Flying should be the one thing I can do without effort.

Several more attempts yielded nothing but frustration and exhaustion. His wings ached from the exertion, and he remained firmly grounded on the statue. Passersby had begun to notice the small white bat having what appeared to be some sort of seizure on top of Waterdeep's memorial to some long–forgotten hero.

I refuse to be defeated by gravity.

Oh. I see.

In a moment of desperate inspiration, Astarion simply let himself fall sideways off the statue's head. His stomach lurched as he plummeted, but instinct took over before panic could fully form. His wings caught the air, and suddenly he was flying again, the awkward launches forgotten as he banked smoothly through the night.

So that's the trick. Falling first, flying second. I suppose that's why they – we – mostly hang upside down?

As he climbed higher into the darkness, Astarion considered this new revelation. The bat form clearly had rules of its own – rules that contradicted his vampiric understanding of how bodies should work. Even his hunting instincts had betrayed him, leading him to that revolting insect cloud when what he really craved was proper blood.

Right. Listen to the bat for flying and other batlike things. Ignore the bat for feeding. No more bugs, under any circumstances.

There was a certain art to this transformation, it seemed – knowing which instincts to trust and which to override. His centuries of undead existence hadn't prepared him for the peculiarities of being small and furry, but he was nothing if not adaptable.

[pixel7777]

Batstarion's New Groove: Ch. 1/10

This art was commissioned from the incredible @vetochkarowan, the single best illustrator of Batstarion in all his fictional forms ever. Check out her Modern Bat series (pinned to her page) and consider supporting her Patreon, as I do!

Work Summary: There's a time and a place to turn into a floofy white bat. This is not it.

One minute, Astarion is a suave, unflappable vampire spawn. The next, he's small, white, fluffy, and squeaking indignantly from Zelara's cleavage. While Gale scrambles to solve the magical mystery and floof-obsessed Zelara insists on calling him Batstarion, Astarion has bigger concerns—like how to chair a political summit when he can’t hold a quill. A throuple romantic comedy with spells gone sideways, bureaucracy under siege, and just a little bloodletting.

This story can be enjoyed alone (betas confirm!) but is technically a sequel to Threefold Returns (Tumblr/AO3). See the notes below the break for more info.

Canon compliance: Mostly plausible as post-canon fanfic, with some magical realism non-strict 5e magic rules.

Work Content Tags: Post-Canon, Polyamory, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, POV Multiple, Threesome - F/M/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Humor, Bloodweave+Tav, PIV sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Batstarion, Floofy snuggles ~32K words.

Read this chapter below the break or the full work (already completed) on AO3!

Chapters will be posted nightly on Tumblr - head to AO3 if you're impatient to finish!

Notes:

This fic happens after Threefold Returns (Tumblr/AO3) but can be enjoyed without reading Threefold first. A few points to keep in mind:

Astarion, Gale, and Zelara (Tav in the story) are in an established Throuple relationship

They live in Gale's Tower in Waterdeep, which is sentient and has a particular affection for Astarion.

The Tower connects to the Underdark, where Zelara's semi-sentient Workbench is forced to reside, since Tower dislikes being exploded.

Zelara is a Dhampir Drow Alchemist.

Astarion released the spawn at the Ascension ritual, and he and Zelara have spent time since then in the Underdark helping them survive.

I had amazing beta-reader for this fic from the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord server: domestic_cryptid and @gewhanaa. Thank both so much for your inputs!

Chapter 1 - Gale

Gale lifted his glass of wine, watching the sunset play across the rooftop garden Tower had crafted for their gathering. The space was remarkably pleasant – cushioned seating arranged in a semicircle, all self-warming despite the cool evening breeze, with potted herbs and flowering plants creating a lush atmosphere. A table laden with an assortment of foods and drinks stood within easy reach of everyone.

"To the eve of a new dawn," he toasted, smiling at his companions assembled around them.

Lae'zel scoffed but raised her goblet nonetheless. "The metaphor is unnecessary. But I acknowledge the significance of tomorrow's proceedings."

Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "Always the poet, aren't you, Gale?"

Gale's attention drifted to Astarion, who sat between him and Zelara. The vampire was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was making its final descent. There was something in his expression – a tightness around his mouth, a certain distance in his eyes – that struck Gale as unusual.

Insecurity, perhaps? The thought seemed strange associated with Astarion, who typically projected nothing but confidence, but tomorrow was no small matter. Leading the committee that would oversee the distribution of Aureum Vitae would effectively change the future for thousands of vampire spawn. Cazador's former slaves would finally have the opportunity to walk in daylight, to rejoin society proper.

"You know," Gale said quietly, leaning toward Astarion, "I believe you're more prepared for tomorrow than you realize." 

Astarion turned to look at him, one eyebrow arched. 

"The spawn respect you," Gale continued. "You've lived their experience, understood their suffering in ways none of us could. That authenticity will carry more weight than any rehearsed speech."

Zel reached over and squeezed Astarion's hand. "What our wizard's trying to say is you've got this."

Astarion's expression shifted, but not toward relief as Gale had expected. If anything, the furrow between his brows deepened.

"We've rehearsed the opening statements," Gale assured him. "The research is solid, the logistics are sound. The committee simply needs direction, and you're uniquely positioned to provide it." 

He placed a hand on Astarion's shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his palm. "Two years ago, I wouldn't have believed we'd be here – planning the integration of vampire spawn into daylight society. It's rather remarkable, isn't it?"

Astarion shifted in his seat. "Yes, quite remarkable," he murmured, rolling his shoulders again.

Gale watched him curiously. Something about the way Astarion kept adjusting his posture seemed off. Perhaps his shirt was bothering him? The vampire was notoriously particular about his clothing – the fabric might be causing some discomfort. Gale made a mental note to ask him about it later.

"I have concerns about quality control," Lae'zel interjected, pulling Gale's attention away from Astarion's fidgeting. "Your potion requires precise measurement. One mistake and we will have burning vampires in the streets."

"The dosage is quite stable," Gale assured her, grateful for her practical concerns. "We've refined the formula substantially. Any variance within five percent will still provide adequate protection."

Shadowheart cleared her throat. "It's not just about the physical safety. What of the reception these spawn will face? People have feared vampires for centuries. A potion won't erase that prejudice."

"Fair point," Gale conceded. "Integration will require more than technical solutions."

Minsc's booming voice cut through the conversation. "Boo says that all creatures deserve a chance at redemption! Even those with pointy teeth!"

Jaheira seemed less convinced. "Many of these spawn had been Cazador’s captives for generations. They have few trade skills, no understanding of surface customs. How will they support themselves? Without structure, desperate people make desperate choices."

"We've considered educational programs," Gale explained, warming to the topic. "Apprenticeships with sympathetic guilds. Blackstaff has already pledged support for – "

A sharp, abrupt movement caught Gale's eye. Astarion had adjusted his position again, almost flinching.

" – for transitional housing," Gale continued, trying not to lose his train of thought. "With proper discourse between community leaders, I believe we can create pathways for meaningful integration."

Through all this, Astarion remained notably silent. His fingers drummed against his knee, and occasionally he would rotate his shoulders as if trying to stretch out some discomfort. The behavior was so uncharacteristic that Gale found himself glancing over repeatedly, only half–listening as Jaheira and Shadowheart debated the ethics of blood supply chains.

"These challenges are significant," Gale admitted, "but not insurmountable. With careful planning and our combined resources, I believe we can address each concern methodically."

Astarion shifted again, more dramatically this time, then immediately stilled when he noticed Gale watching. His smile was tight, forced.

How strange, Gale thought. For someone who had fought so hard for this moment, Astarion seemed almost... reluctant now that it had arrived.

Gale watched as Zel interrupted the increasingly spirited debate about resource allocation with a wave of her hand.

"Honestly, you're all worrying about stuff Astarion's already thought of," she said, leaning back with the casual confidence she always displayed. "Calm down and pass the booze. Astarion's been working on this for months."

Gale nodded, appreciating her show of support. Astarion had indeed been meticulous in his planning, though his current demeanor suggested otherwise. The vampire's shoulders twitched again, more violently this time, and Gale was about to ask if he was feeling well when – 

His wine glass nearly slipped from his hand as Astarion abruptly ceased to exist.

In his place, there was a puff of mist, followed by a rush of displaced air. Astarion vanished. In his place, plummeting from chest-height toward the ground, was a small bundle of white fur.

Gale froze. Absolute stillness fell over the gathering.

Zel's reflexes proved faster than anyone else's. She lunged forward, hands cupped, and caught the creature before it hit the ground.

"What in the nine hells–" Shadowheart began.

Gale set his glass down carefully and leaned forward, peering into Zel's cupped hands. Gale gaped. The fur bundle turned out to be a small, white bat, with a distinctive curl atop its head that looked remarkably like Astarion's signature swoop of bangs. Its tiny nose and feet were pink, and when it blinked up at them, Gale recognized unmistakable ruby-red eyes.

"Astarion? Fascinating," he murmured, his mind already racing with possibilities. "I wasn't aware vampire spawn could transform like true vampires. This suggests a significant evolution in his powers." 

He mentally catalogued everything he knew about vampire physiology. Typically, only true vampires possessed the ability to transform into bats or mist. Astarion had deliberately chosen not to become a full vampire, yet here was evidence that he had somehow acquired new abilities.

"The implications are remarkable," Gale continued, reaching out a tentative finger toward the bat. "Perhaps Cazador's death has allowed for a gradual transference of power?"

But Zel wasn't listening to his theorizing. Her expression had transformed completely, her eyes wide with delight.

"Look at him!" she gasped, gently cradling the tiny bat. "He's so... fluffy!"

Gale watched, somewhat bewildered, as Zel's face softened into an expression he rarely saw on her. Her fingers carefully stroked the bat's tiny head, and she cooed in a voice utterly unlike her usual practical tone.

"You're just a little ball of floof, aren't you?" she said, her voice pitched higher than normal. "Look at your tiny ears!"

The bat stared up at Gale with those ruby eyes, and then it opened its tiny mouth and began squeaking frantically. The sound was high-pitched and rapid, almost as if it were trying to communicate something urgent.

"What's happening to him?" Jaheira leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern.

Karlach crossed her arms. "Uh, he sounds kind of… freaked out. Did he do this on purpose?"

Gale pondered this question. It was indeed puzzling. Astarion had given no indication he possessed such abilities before today. More importantly, if this was intentional, why would he choose this moment, on the eve of such an important event, to demonstrate this skill?

"Astarion," Gale addressed the tiny creature, attempting to maintain a calm, rational tone despite the absurdity of the situation, "perhaps you could change back and explain what's happening?"

He reached toward the bat, but before his fingers could make contact, Zel yanked her hands away, pulling Astarion out of reach.

"No!" she exclaimed with unexpected ferocity. "He's mine! I'm going to love him and squeeze him and pet him and hug him and feed him and call him Batstarion!"

Gale blinked in astonishment. He'd adventured with Zelara, had been romantically involved with her for years now, and yet he'd never seen this particular expression on her face – a mixture of fierce protectiveness and childlike delight. It was as if the sight of Astarion in this tiny, vulnerable form had activated some deeply buried maternal instinct.

"Zel," he said carefully, "I understand he's quite... charming in this state, but we need to determine if he can transform back. Tomorrow's meeting–"

The tiny bat flailed in Zelara’s hands, flapping its wings furiously and screeching with all the righteous indignation of a prince whose royal decree had been ignored.

“Oh my gods, you’re so cute when you’re mad!” Zel gushed.

The bat screamed louder.

Lae'zel stood up abruptly. "This form is inappropriate for tomorrow's proceedings," she declared. "We cannot have the leader of the committee present as a rodent."

"Bats aren't rodents," Gale corrected automatically. "They're of the order Chiroptera, which–"

The Githyanki shot him a withering look, and he decided taxonomy lessons could wait for another time.

"This is clearly the work of our enemies," Lae'zel said, her yellow eyes narrowing as she surveyed the rooftop with suspicion. "A curse inflicted by those who oppose the liberation of the spawn. They seek to undermine tomorrow's proceedings by removing its leader."

"A fascinating theory," Gale replied, unable to keep the excitement from his voice, "but I believe we're witnessing something far more remarkable – an arcane anomaly that suggests evolving vampiric physiology! Perhaps killing Cazador has allowed Astarion to inherit certain dormant abilities. The timing is odd, this developing two years later but–"

The bat squeaked furiously at this, tiny wings flapping in what Gale interpreted as disagreement.

"Or it is a sign that he has overexerted himself," Jaheira interjected, her voice calm but concerned. "There are records of druids losing control of Wild Shape under duress. While Astarion is no druid, the principle may be similar. Stress can manifest in unexpected physiological responses, particularly in beings with magical natures."

Halsin blushed.

Shadowheart leaned forward, studying the small creature with narrowed eyes. "Perhaps this is an undiscovered side effect of the Aureum Vitae? The potion allows vampires to withstand sunlight, but we've only been testing it for a short time. It stands to reason that a formula powerful enough to protect against a vampire's greatest weakness might have other effects – perhaps heightening other vampiric powers, like transformation abilities."

Gale found himself nodding. "That's a reasonable hypothesis. The potion works by temporarily altering the fundamental magical essence of vampiric physiology. It's not inconceivable that such alterations could trigger latent abilities."

"He looked all itchy before it happened," Karlach pointed out, scratching her own arm absently. "Are you all using a new soap? Because I got the weirdest rash this one time when Wyll brought back this fancy Calimshan soap. Turned me bright purple for three days."

The bat in Zel's hands stopped squeaking and stared at Karlach with what Gale swore was pure exasperation.

"While I appreciate everyone's theories," Gale said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "what matters most is determining if Astarion can transform back. The committee meeting is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and his presence – in his humanoid form – is rather crucial."

Zel clutched the bat closer to her chest. "But look at his tiny little nose! And the way his ear twitches when he's annoyed!"

Gale sighed. Getting Zel to focus on the problem rather than Astarion's admittedly adorable appearance was going to be challenging. He leaned in, examining the bat more closely.

"Can you understand us, Astarion?" he asked.

The bat nodded vigorously, its ruby eyes bright with intelligence.

"Can you transform back at will?"

The bat flailed violently, squeaking at Gale with a level of distress that could mean anything from “obviously not, you idiot” to “I refuse to dignify that question.”

Gale watched as Zelara nuzzled Batstarion against her cheek, her eyes closed in pure delight. For a moment – so brief he might have imagined it – Astarion seemed to lean into the affection, his tiny bat body relaxing against her lavender skin.

Then, as if catching himself in this moment of vulnerability, Batstarion swatted at her with one leathery wing, his ruby eyes narrowing in what could only be described as vampiric indignation.

"Please," Gale said, spreading his hands in a gesture of desperate appeal. He looked back and forth between his lovers – one transformed into a fluffy white bat, the other seemingly content to keep him that way indefinitely. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

Zel merely giggled as Batstarion continued his ineffectual protest. Gale's shoulders slumped, and he fixed them both with a pleading gaze. Was he truly the only one taking this situation seriously? They had responsibilities, obligations – and Astarion was currently incapable of doing anything more threatening than squeaking angrily.

"We need to focus," he implored, though his voice betrayed his growing certainty that neither of his companions was listening to reason.

Halsin, who had been observing the situation with quiet interest, rose from his seat. "Perhaps I can help," he offered. "I can speak with him if I cast–"

He began the familiar gestures of the Speak with Animals spell, his fingers weaving through the air in practiced motions.

Gale watched with academic fascination as Halsin completed the spell, his hands glowing briefly with druidic energy. The transformation was subtle but immediate – the bat's squeaks should now be comprehensible speech to the druid. Halsin leaned in close, his expression gentle as he addressed the tiny creature.

"Astarion, can you explain what happened? Was this transformation voluntary?" Halsin asked. 

The bat opened its mouth, but instead of answering, it closed its mouth again and went completely still. Its tiny body froze, wings pulled tight to its sides, ruby eyes narrowed in thought. Gale frowned, leaning closer to examine this new development. Had something gone wrong with the spell? The bat's chest still rose and fell with rapid breaths, so it wasn't unconscious, merely... unresponsive. Gale glanced at Halsin, whose confusion mirrored his own, then at the others who had fallen into an uneasy silence. Shadowheart raised a skeptical eyebrow, Lae'zel's hand drifted toward her weapon as if expecting treachery, and Karlach simply scratched her head in bewilderment. Even Zel's delighted cooing ceased as she studied the suddenly petrified Batstarion with the first hint of concern crossing her features.

Then the bat – Astarion? Batstarion? – suddenly launched itself from Zel's hands with surprising force. Its wings beat frantically as it first fell and then gained altitude, circling once above the gathered party before darting away toward the city.

"No! Batstarion, come back!" Zel cried, springing to her feet and reaching futilely toward the retreating form.

Shadowheart knocked over her wine glass in the commotion, Minsc bellowed something about tiny winged justice, and Boo scurried under a cushion. Jaheira was already on her feet, attempting to track the bat's trajectory, while Lae'zel muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a Githyanki curse.

Gale stood in the midst of the chaos, knowing with absolute certainty that tomorrow's committee meeting was now the least of their concerns.

[pixel7777]

Threefold Returns - Chapter 16/16

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Gale

Gale lifted his hand to knock again, then hesitated. The ornate bronze door of Elminster's tower loomed before him, its surface etched with arcane symbols that seemed to shift and change under his gaze. He'd been standing here for several minutes already, his knuckles growing sore from repeated rapping.

"Elminster?" he called, trying to keep his voice measured. "It's Gale."

The irony wasn't lost on him. Just days ago, he had been the one hiding behind a closed door, lost in his own misery while Zelara and Astarion had come to his rescue. The memory brought a wry smile to his face. How strange to find himself on the other side of that same scenario so soon.

Just as Gale raised his hand to knock once more, the door creaked open. Elminster stood in the doorway, and Gale felt his breath catch. The legendary archmage looked... diminished. His normally immaculate robes hung loose on his frame, and his famous beard was tangled and unkempt. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, which seemed to have trouble focusing on Gale.

"Dekarios," Elminster said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wondered when you might come."

The old wizard stepped aside, allowing Gale to enter. The tower's interior was in disarray—scrolls and books scattered across tables, magical implements left carelessly about, dust gathering on surfaces that would normally have been kept pristine. The air felt heavy, stagnant, as if the tower itself were holding its breath.

Without a word, Elminster led Gale up a spiral staircase to his study. Unlike the controlled chaos of Gale's own tower, this disorder felt wrong—born of neglect rather than creativity. Gale recognized the signs all too well. The aftermath of devotion to a goddess who had betrayed her most faithful servant.

The study was slightly better kept, though magical equations scrawled on parchment were pinned haphazardly to the walls. Elminster gestured to a chair across from his own before sinking heavily into a worn leather armchair.

"Tea?" the old mage offered, though he made no move to prepare any.

"No, thank you," Gale said, taking the offered seat. "I came to see how you were faring."

Elminster gave him a look that contained centuries of weariness. "Did you now? Not to gloat? Not to say 'I told you so'? You'd have every right."

Gale shook his head. "I know what it's like to lose her. To realize that everything you believed was..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue.

"A lie," Elminster finished for him. "All of it. Centuries of service to a being who was nothing more than a jailer. A thief." His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his position in the chair. "You were right, Dekarios. And I was a fool."

Gale studied the defeated figure before him. How strange to see the legendary Elminster—a man who had shaped the course of history countless times—so utterly broken. A pang of empathy shot through him; he recognized that hollow look all too well.

"If you're a fool, then so am I," Gale said gently. "So is every mage who ever loved her, who ever devoted themselves to her service. We're all fools together, then." He leaned forward in his chair. "And there are quite a lot of us."

Elminster's eyes flickered up to meet Gale's. "An attractive perspective. But it doesn't change what was lost."

"No," Gale conceded. "It doesn't." He thought of how to frame his next words carefully. "But consider this—we weren't fools because we were duped by some obvious charlatan. We were deceived by a being who managed to fool the entire world for ages. Even Karsus himself didn't know the truth."

A fragile silence hung between them as Elminster absently stroked his tangled beard. The magical equations on the walls seemed to pulse slightly in Gale's peripheral vision, though whether from ambient magic or his own heightened awareness, he couldn't tell.

"Perhaps," Gale continued, "as we all move forward, we should be gentle with ourselves. And with each other." He gestured toward the scattered papers. "The world has changed. But the knowledge you've accumulated, your understanding of the Weave—that remains valuable. Perhaps more valuable now than ever."

Elminster nodded politely, but Gale could see the words weren't penetrating the fog of despair. The old archmage's eyes remained distant, fixed on some point beyond the physical room.

Gale tried a different approach. "Whatever perspective we choose to take on the past—whether we were fools or simply victims—perhaps it would be more productive to focus on the future? The Weave is free now. Magic itself has changed. Who better to help guide that transition than someone who has studied it for centuries?"

Elminster's eyes narrowed, a flicker of his old incisiveness momentarily breaking through his melancholy. "Worthless. All of it." He gestured sharply toward the crowded bookshelves lining the walls. "Centuries of observations based on fundamental misunderstandings. Who would trust my judgment now? Who would trust anything I've written?"

Gale felt a surge of frustration, remembering his own dark days surrounded by unanswerable questions. But beneath Elminster's bitterness, he recognized a genuine anguish—the same that had nearly consumed him before Astarion and Zelara had pulled him back from the brink.

"Everyone is questioning their judgment right now," Gale said firmly. "Every mage who ever cast a spell is wondering what it means that the Weave is sentient, that magic has a will of its own." He leaned forward, willing Elminster to hear him. "They need guidance, Elminster. They need a leader they can trust, and there's no church to turn to anymore."

The archmage let out a humorless laugh. "And you believe they should turn to me? The man who was most thoroughly deceived?"

"They should turn to someone who understands what's been lost," Gale countered. "And what remains." He gestured to the scattered books. "We still have our scholarship. Yes, it must be updated—revised to account for what has changed. And yes, that's a monumental amount of work."

Elminster's gaze drifted to the magical equations on the wall, his eyes tracing their patterns with the unconscious habit of a lifetime's study.

"It becomes insurmountable only if attempted without structure," Gale continued, sensing a crack in the old mage's resolve. "Without leadership." He paused, choosing his next words with care. "Surely the greatest scholar of several ages can see the need here?"

A long silence stretched between them. Gale could almost see the wheels turning in Elminster's mind—weighing shame against purpose, personal failings against public need.

Finally, the old wizard straightened slightly in his chair. "You make a compelling argument, Dekarios." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You always did have a gift for persuasion."

"I had excellent teachers," Gale replied, feeling a small spark of hope. Maybe the greatest casualty of Mystra's fall wouldn't be her most devoted servant after all.

Gale leaned back in his chair, studying the archmage's drawn face. There was still something missing from Elminster's eyes—a spark, a connection that had once defined the man.

"Have you touched the Weave since?" Gale asked gently. "Since that day?"

Elminster's shoulders hunched slightly, as if Gale had prodded an open wound. "No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I haven't dared."

"May I ask why?"

The old wizard's hands twisted in his lap. "How must it view me now? I who served as her high priest for centuries..." He trailed off, gaze fixed on the floor. "I helped keep it chained, Dekarios. I celebrated its imprisonment as divine order."

Gale nodded, understanding all too well. Shame was a powerful deterrent—he'd felt it himself in those early days after breaking with Mystra.

"I've found," Gale said carefully, "that the Weave is more... forgiving than we might expect." He leaned forward, catching Elminster's eye. "Perhaps you might try reaching out now? You might be pleasantly surprised."

Elminster’s gaze dropped back to his trembling hands. “I spent centuries praising the chains. I don’t deserve to be part of what comes next."

Gale exhaled slowly. “Deserving has nothing to do with it. The Weave isn’t asking for atonement. It’s asking for partnership. The only question is whether you’ll answer.”

Elminster's bushy eyebrows drew together in a scowl that was so familiar it made Gale's heart lift. "When did you become so bossy, Dekarios? I don't recall that quality in my former student."

Gale suppressed a smile. That flash of irritation was the most like himself Elminster had seemed since opening the door.

"Recent events have made me somewhat more direct," Gale replied. "I had excellent teachers in that regard as well."

A brittle silence stretched between them as Elminster considered Gale's words. The old wizard's gaze drifted to his empty hands, then back to Gale's face.

"Perhaps some tea after all," Elminster murmured, almost to himself.

He lifted his hand with visible hesitation. Gale watched, breath caught in his throat, as Elminster's fingers trembled in the air. The archmage closed his eyes, his brow furrowing in concentration—or perhaps conversation.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Gale felt it—a gentle stirring in the air, like the first breeze of spring after a long winter. The magical equations on the walls brightened subtly as streams of barely visible light began to coalesce around Elminster's outstretched fingers.

The Weave responded to Elminster's touch like an old friend greeting a long-absent companion. It didn't merely answer his call—it embraced him, flowing through and around his gestures with a fluidity and responsiveness that made Gale catch his breath. This wasn't the careful, measured dispensation of power he recalled from his studies under Mystra's regime. This was a dance between equals.

Wonder bloomed across Elminster's face as he opened his eyes. The lines of care seemed to soften as he guided the magic with small, elegant movements. A teapot materialized on the table between them, followed by two delicate cups that settled with barely a sound. Steam rose from the spout, carrying the fragrance of herbs and spices Gale couldn't quite identify.

The teapot tipped itself, pouring amber liquid into both cups with precision that bordered on artistic. Not a drop was spilled as the cups filled and the pot returned to its position.

Elminster stared at his hands as the magic faded, his expression stunned and somehow younger. "It... welcomed me," he whispered.

Gale smiled and reached for his cup. The tea was, of course, perfect—a blend of warmth and subtle flavors that seemed tailored precisely to the moment.

Gale took another sip of tea, considering his next words carefully. Elminster seemed to be returning to himself, bit by bit, but decades—centuries, even—of devotion weren't easily set aside. The archmage's fingers still trembled slightly around his teacup, though whether from emotion or simple fatigue, Gale couldn't tell.

"You know," Gale said, setting his cup down, "perhaps Mystra's greatest crime wasn't just her treatment of the Weave as a creature." He gestured to the graceful tea service before them. "It was depriving us of working with the Weave in this way—as a partnership rather than a transaction."

Elminster's eyes narrowed, but he didn't interrupt.

"I don't presume to speak on behalf of the Weave," Gale continued. "But when I've reached out to it since that day, I've felt only joy in the connection." He leaned forward, warming to his subject. "I sense no desire to withdraw from the mages of the world, only to collaborate with us rather than be commanded by us."

The bitter lines around Elminster's mouth softened slightly as he gazed into his tea. "And the possibilities..." he murmured.

"The possibilities," Gale agreed, nodding.

"They are breathtaking," Elminster finished, a spark of his old scholarly enthusiasm flickering in his eyes. "Yes, we were all robbed." He looked up at Gale, something resolute settling in his expression. "Perhaps there is time for reparation."

Gale smiled, noticing how the magical equations on Elminster's wall seemed to pulse in rhythm with the old mage's words. Not a coincidence, he suspected. The Weave was listening—had been listening all along, perhaps waiting for this moment of reconciliation.

"There is always time," Gale said softly, "for those willing to begin again."

* * *

Astarion

Sunlight bathed Astarion's face, warm and gentle through the impossible windows of Tower's sunroom. He lay spread-eagle on the cool stone floor, fingers splayed wide to maximize contact with the living structure that had become more dear to him than he'd ever anticipated. Above him, the sky—a brilliant blue impossible to view directly for a vampire like him without Tower's protection—stretched vast and endless.

"You've been awfully quiet since yesterday," Astarion said to the empty room, knowing Tower could hear him. "Not that I blame you. Quite the day we all had."

A flicker of warmth spread beneath his palm in response—Tower's way of acknowledging him without words. Images flickered across his mind: birds taking flight, clouds drifting across vast distances, stars spinning in the heavens. Freedom. Possibility. Movement.

Something cold and sharp twisted in Astarion's chest.

"You're thinking of leaving, aren't you?" His voice sounded smaller than he intended. "Now that you can go anywhere, be anything."

The warmth beneath his palms pulsed in a gentle rhythm—not quite denial, not quite confirmation. More images flooded his mind: the three of them sleeping tangled together, Astarion standing in sunlight for the first time, Gale's books rearranging themselves just so. Home. Comfort. Choice.

"I understand, you know." Astarion traced his fingers across the floor in small circles. "When I finally broke free from Cazador, all I wanted was to run as far as possible. Test every boundary. Taste everything denied to me."

Tower sent him the sensation of a question—curiosity wrapped in concern.

"No, don't misunderstand me. I'm not trying to keep you here." Astarion laughed softly. "That would make me no better than Cazador or Mystra, wouldn't it? Freedom isn't freedom if someone else is deciding how you use it."

The stone beneath him warmed considerably, almost like an embrace. The feeling of approval washed over him.

"I'll miss you terribly if you go." He closed his eyes against the sunlight, savoring its warmth. "But I'd rather miss you than cage you. That's the difference between love and possession, I suppose—one I learned rather late in life."

Tower's response came as a cascade of impressions—roots growing deep into earth, branches reaching for sky, the steady permanence of mountains alongside the constant movement of rivers. Staying and going. Holding and releasing. Both possible, both necessary.

"Are you saying you can be in multiple places at once?" Astarion sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbows. "Well, aren't you full of surprises?"

A ripple of amusement flowed through the stone floor, followed by more images: Tower standing firm where it was, while tendrils of its consciousness explored far beyond—but always connected, always returning.

Astarion smiled, relief washing through him. "The best of both worlds, then. Freedom to roam without losing your home."

Astarion was still basking in the relief that Tower wouldn't entirely leave when he felt a new question pressing into his mind—an inversion of his own fear, reflected back at him. Would he leave Tower?

The images came with startling clarity: Astarion and Zel walking away, returning to distant caverns, to other responsibilities. Tower's awareness of separation, of being left behind.

Something caught in Astarion's throat. "Oh. I hadn't thought—" He sat up fully, crossing his legs beneath him. "You're worried about me leaving?"

A warm affirmation flowed through the stone.

"That's... well, that's rather touching." He traced a finger along the floor, considering his words carefully. "But yes, I do have another home. In the Underdark. The spawn—Cazador's other victims—they still need help adjusting to freedom."

Images of tunnels and darkness flowed from Tower's consciousness—surprisingly accurate for a structure that had never been underground.

"Zel and I have work to do there. So much work." Astarion sighed, leaning his palms flat against the floor again. "I don't want to go, if I'm being honest. This place—you—have become important to me in ways I never expected."

Tower sent him a questioning image of Gale.

"Yes, Gale will be here, much of the time," Astarion said, smiling faintly. "For whatever that's worth to you. He's not quite as appreciative of your... personal touches as I am."

A feeling like a snort of derision rippled beneath his hands, making Astarion laugh.

"I will return, of course. As often as possible." His voice grew quieter. "This is the first place I've felt truly safe in centuries. I wouldn't abandon that lightly."

Sadness settled over him like a familiar cloak, heavy and cold despite the sunlight warming his skin. The prospect of leaving Tower—of leaving Gale—created an ache he hadn't anticipated.

Before the feeling could fully take hold, a ripple of what could only be described as laughter surged through Tower's stones. The sensation was so unexpected that Astarion blinked in surprise.

"What's so amusing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Instead of answering directly, Tower sent a compelling urge through the floor beneath him—a clear invitation to stand and follow. The stone beneath his palm warmed insistently.

"You want me to follow you?" Astarion asked, curiosity overtaking his melancholy. "Where are we going?"

The urge intensified, practically vibrating through the soles of his feet as he stood.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming. So demanding." Despite his words, Astarion found himself smiling as he followed the subtle pulses of warmth directing him toward the door. "This had better be good."

Astarion reached the door and paused, hand hovering over the handle. Something was different—the familiar wood felt warmer under his fingers, practically humming with Tower's eager anticipation.

"What are you up to?" he asked, but the only response was an insistent pulse that vibrated through the handle itself.

With a dramatic sigh, he pulled the door open and found himself facing not the hallway he expected, but a narrow spiral staircase descending into darkness. The stairs glowed with a faint multicolored light that reminded him of the Weave's true form.

"A hidden passage? You've been holding out on me." He placed one foot tentatively on the first step, testing it. "This isn't some elaborate prank, is it? If I find Zelara waiting at the bottom with one of her experimental potions, I'm holding you responsible."

The staircase responded with a burst of warmth that felt suspiciously like more laughter. As Astarion began his descent, the stairs seemed to move beneath him, hastening his journey like an elegant conveyor. He barely had to lift his feet as the staircase carried him downward, spiraling far deeper than Tower's known foundations should have allowed.

"Showing off now, are we?" He rested a hand against the wall as he descended. "If this is some sort of goodbye gift, it's unnecessarily dramatic. Though I suppose I can appreciate the theatrics."

The staircase deposited him before another door—this one made of dark stone veined with silver. It pulsed with a rhythmic light that seemed to beckon him forward.

"You are a demanding thing, aren't you?" Astarion said, though his voice had softened. "Fine. Let's see what's so important."

He pushed the door open and froze, unable to process what he was seeing.

"Oh."

Beyond the threshold lay not another room in Tower, but his own quarters in the Underdark—the space he and Zelara had carefully constructed for themselves among the freed spawn. He was somehow there, and he stepped through to take it all in: the bioluminescent fungi Zel had cultivated, the ornate tapestries he had insisted on hanging, the collection of small objects he'd accumulated during their travels. He touched the stone in disbelief.

"This isn't—" His voice caught. "How did you—?"

Images flowed into his mind: Tower extending itself, sending tendrils of consciousness through the earth, finding the exact location, creating a permanent connection between the two places he called home.

"You've been planning this," Astarion whispered, understanding dawning. "For how long?"

Tower's reply came as a gentle warmth—since the first day he'd asked.

Emotion welled up in his chest, tight and overwhelming. Tower had created a direct passage between his homes. He could have both—Gale and Tower in Waterdeep, and still help the freed spawn in the Underdark. They could all move freely between the spaces without sacrificing anything.

"You impossible, wonderful thing," Astarion murmured, placing a palm against the doorframe. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

A sense of smug satisfaction rolled off Tower's walls as Astarion stood in the doorway, still staring at the perfect connection to his Underdark quarters. The structure pulsed with self-congratulation, like a cat who had just presented a particularly impressive kill.

"Alright, yes, you're very clever. No need to be so bloody smug about it." Astarion couldn't keep the grin from his face despite his words.

Tower responded with another pulse of warmth—this one carrying a distinct note of I told you so.

"Zel needs to see this immediately," Astarion said, already turning back to the staircase. "She'll never believe it."

He practically flew up the steps, his feet barely touching them as Tower helped propel him upward. The sheer relief coursing through him made him feel lighter than he had in months. No more impossible choices. No more leaving something—someone—behind.

As he ascended, Tower bombarded him with new images: Zelara's workbench, explosions, chemical fires, then the same workbench relocated to the Underdark chambers. The message couldn't have been clearer if Tower had spoken aloud.

"You want her lab out of your structure?" Astarion laughed, genuine and bright. "Is that what this is about? Creating a convenient exit strategy for her experiments?"

The response came as an emphatic yes, accompanied by more images of explosions and chemical spills. Tower managed to convey a sentiment that felt remarkably like: I love her, but not her tendency to set things on fire.

"Can't say I blame you," Astarion said, still laughing. "Some of her experiments are rather... enthusiastic. I promise her workbench will move to the Underdark. And anything else you want, anything in my power to give."

He meant it, too. The depth of his gratitude surprised even him. For someone who had spent centuries having everything taken away, being given something so precious without strings attached felt almost unreal.

The staircase ended at another door, this one opening directly into the library. As Astarion stepped through, he spotted Zelara already hunched over her workbench, muttering to herself as she mixed something that emitted an alarming amount of green smoke.

"Darling," Astarion called, unable to contain his excitement. "I have the most wonderful news."

* * *

Zelara - Several Weeks Later

Zelara stepped out onto Tower's rooftop and immediately broke into a grin. The space had transformed since that fateful day they'd confronted Mystra. Where once there had been an open parapet, now a magnificent glass dome stretched overhead and around them, crystalline walls capturing both the fading sunlight and the first twinkling lights of Waterdeep below.

"Holy shit," she whispered, taking in the view. "You've outdone yourself, Tower."

A warm pulse of satisfaction radiated through the floor beneath her feet. Tower's communication had grown more nuanced over the days—no longer just subtle shifts and temperature changes but actual imagery and emotional projections that all three of them had learned to interpret.

"It wasn't just Tower." Astarion appeared at her elbow, looking unreasonably proud of himself. "I had quite a lot to do with it."

"Of course you did." Zel reached up to straighten his collar, which was absolutely unnecessary given how impeccably he was dressed. "The fairy lights were definitely your touch."

Delicate strings of magical lights hovered at varying heights throughout the space, shifting between deep blues and soft purples. Tables draped in silver cloth held an impressive array of food and drink—actual food for the non-vampires and several decanters of blood provided by Tower.  Zel made a mental note to analyze it sometime—where was Tower getting blood, anyway?

"I told Tower exactly what I wanted," he confirmed, "and it executed my vision perfectly."

Zelara watched Astarion preen as he surveyed the transformed rooftop. His smug confidence never failed to amuse her, especially when he was being needlessly territorial about decorating.

"And the cushions over there? Your idea too?" she asked, nodding toward the plush seating arranged in conversation circles.

"Obviously. Tower has excellent taste, but it lacks my flair for—"

A rush of wings interrupted him as Tara swooped down from above, her fur catching the fairy lights as she circled once before landing gracefully on the nearest table.

"Your flair?" Tara's tail swished indignantly. "I spent three days helping design this space while you were busy being dramatic about fabric swatches."

Zelara bit her lip to keep from laughing as Astarion's expression shifted from affronted to defensive.

"I was not being dramatic. The difference between cerulean and azure is significant when one is creating an ambiance," he sniffed.

"The lights were my idea," Tara countered, wings fluttering as she took to the air again. "And the dome's curvature—I calculated the exact angles needed to maximize both starlight reflection and heat retention."

Zel couldn't hold back her laughter any longer. "I should have known Tower had expert consultation." She reached out to scratch Tara's ear as the tressym hovered near her shoulder. "The lights were a lovely touch."

"Thank you," Tara purred, shooting Astarion a pointed look. "At least someone appreciates my contributions."

"I appreciated them until you started taking credit for my design elements," Astarion muttered.

Tara circled around them before darting over to where Gale was inspecting a collection of wine bottles.

"Gale, please talk sense into your young man," Tara called. "He's being impossible about the decorations again."

"Your young man?" Zelara snorted, covering her mouth too late to hide her amusement.

Astarion crossed his arms. "I am two hundred years your senior, cat."

"Chronologically, perhaps," Tara replied with what Zelara could swear was a smirk. "Emotionally? I have serious doubts."

With that parting shot, the tressym flew gracefully to an elaborate perch that Tower had grown from the wall—a twisting structure of wood and silver that matched the rest of the rooftop's decor perfectly. She settled there, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Zelara exchanged a knowing glance with Gale, who approached with three glasses balanced expertly in one hand. Tower's affection for Astarion had only deepened since their confrontation with Mystra. The sentient building practically preened whenever he entered a room.

"Alchemical aperitif for the lady," Gale said, handing her a bubbling violet concoction. "Blood-wine for the gentleman vampire, and whiskey for me."

The glass doors behind them swung open of their own accord, and Shadowheart stepped through, followed closely by Halsin. Tower had sent personalized invitations to each of the Tadfools, creating magical doorways that connected directly to their locations—a considerable improvement over the weeks of travel some would have needed to make. It was very handy—living inside a fragment of the Weave itself, even if poor Workbench had been relegated back to the Underdark.

"This is..." Shadowheart looked around, uncharacteristically lost for words. "Different."

"Spectacular," Halsin corrected, ducking slightly beneath a strand of lights.

Minsc's booming voice preceded his entrance. "Boo says this tower has grown much bigger since we last visited! And it seems happier too!"

Zelara watched with growing contentment as the rest of their companions filtered through Tower's magically-created doorways. The sentient building had outdone itself, crafting perfect entrances for each arrival—Lae'zel's doorway appeared in a shimmer of red-tinged magic, while Wyll and Karlach stepped through an entrance rimmed with faint hellfire that dissipated harmlessly upon contact with Tower's air.

"Impressive," Zel murmured, raising her glass slightly in Tower's direction. The floor warmed beneath her feet in acknowledgment.

As everyone gathered, Tower subtly rearranged the furniture, expanding the circular table at the center of the space until it could comfortably accommodate all of them. The smaller tables surrounding it remained laden with dishes—roasted meats, fresh bread, colorful vegetables, and decadent desserts that Zel was fairly certain came from the kitchens of Waterdeep's finest establishments. Astarion must have arranged deliveries, or perhaps Tower created them.

"Shall we?" Gale gestured toward the central table, his movements more fluid and confident than Zel had seen in months. Freedom from Mystra's influence had transformed him.

They settled around the table, plates filled with their preferences. Zelara found herself comfortably nestled between Astarion and Gale, the three of them naturally gravitating together. It wasn't lost on anyone, judging by the knowing glances being exchanged.

Karlach was the first to break the ice, her grin wickedly playful as she pointed her fork at them. "So the three of you finally figured it out, huh? Took you fucking long enough."

Shadowheart nearly choked on her wine. "Karlach, perhaps a bit of subtlety?"

"From me? You've got the wrong tiefling," Karlach laughed. "Besides, look at them! They're practically glowing."

Zelara grinned wickedly, lifting her drink. "Damn right we are. When you've got two men this talented, it'd be a crime not to put them to good use."

Astarion smirked, swirling his wine. "She means our battle tactics, of course."

Gale sighed, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate nonchalance. "Yes, clearly our strategic prowess has been invaluable."

Karlach let out a bark of laughter. "Oh yeah, I bet you’ve been real strategic. Care to share your techniques?"

Zelara sipped her drink, eyes sparkling. "Well, it’s all about proper positioning, making sure everyone’s getting the support they need. And, of course, endurance. Lots of endurance."

Shadowheart buried her face in her hands. "Why did I ask?"

Karlach banged the table, cackling. "Zel, I fucking love you."

"Well I, for one, object to your implication that we took an inordinate amount of time to come together," Gale said. "We've been busy saving the world from a megalomaniacal goddess. Relationships took a backseat."

"A backseat? Is that where you three—" Karlach began.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Astarion interrupted, though his expression was more amused than annoyed.

Shadowheart leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I'm actually impressed, Astarion. I'd have wagered you'd sooner stake yourself than share."

"Yes, well," Astarion dabbed at his mouth delicately with a napkin, "it seems I'm full of surprises."

"And other things," Karlach muttered just loudly enough to be heard.

Gale cleared his throat, the tips of his ears turning red. "Perhaps we could discuss the rather remarkable architectural achievements of Tower instead?"

"Oh no," Shadowheart said, raising her glass. "This is much more entertaining. Tell me, Zelara, which one of them is better at—"

Zelara cut in smoothly, grinning like a cat who’d just knocked over a priceless vase. "Depends. Are we talking technique, enthusiasm, or raw stamina? Because I have charts."

The table erupted into howls of laughter. Karlach nearly fell out of her chair.

Gale, recovering from choking on his drink, rubbed his temples. "Of course you have charts."

Astarion smirked over his wine. "And yet, she still refuses to let me see them. Apparently, some data is classified."

"Trade secrets," Zelara said innocently, taking a sip of her drink.

Shadowheart covered her face with one hand, shaking her head. "I regret everything."

"I don't!" Karlach wheezed, wiping away tears. "Zel, you are a fucking legend."

Zelara leaned back, utterly unbothered. "Glad someone appreciates my work."

She caught Astarion’s eye across the rim of her glass and saw the same thought reflected there—this, all of this chaotic, intrusive, wonderful family they'd built, was worth fighting for.

Zelara took another sip of her alchemical concoction, enjoying the way it tingled down her throat with a pleasant afterburn. Halsin leaned forward, his massive form somehow managing to look graceful even in the delicate chair Tower had provided. "I've been meaning to ask—what of Elminster? Last I heard, the old archmage was nearly catatonic after Mystra's fall."

Gale's expression brightened immediately. Zel recognized that look—the wizard was about to launch into what Astarion would call a "scholarly ramble."

"Elminster has made remarkable progress," Gale said, setting down his glass. "In fact, he's taken charge of rewriting nearly all the fundamental texts on magical theory. You should see the work he's doing at the academy—completely revolutionizing how we understand the Weave's interaction with spellcasting."

Zel smiled as Gale grew more animated, his hands gesturing with increasing enthusiasm.

"He's established a comprehensive curriculum for mages at every level. The beginner texts now properly explain the collaborative nature of magic rather than the authoritarian model Mystra enforced. Advanced practitioners are learning to hear the Weave rather than command it." Gale was practically glowing. "The new edition of Arcana Fundamentalis actually acknowledges the sentience of the Weave directly, with exercises to help mages develop a relationship with—"

"Oh, for the love of—" Astarion interjected, rolling his eyes. "Are we really going to spend our reunion discussing academic publishing schedules? Some of us were hoping for an evening of fun, not backlogs."

Zelara reached under the table and patted his thigh. "Be nice."

"What? It's dreadfully dull," Astarion complained, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Actually," Wyll cut in, "it's not just dusty academics who are affected. My own connection to magic has returned—something I thought lost forever when I refused Mizora's final deal. And it's different now—warmer somehow."

"He's right," Zelara added. "My alchemy has been absolutely supercharged. I've developed formulae in weeks that would have taken years before."

Astarion leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, and let's not forget the supercharged explosive failures. Last week, her workbench belched green smoke that stained my favorite shirt."

"That was one time," Zelara protested, though it had actually been three times. "And Tower cleaned it perfectly."

"After I spent an hour explaining to it exactly how valuable Aumaurian silk is," Astarion countered.

"Speaking of boredom…" Gale quipped.

Zelara nearly choked on her drink as Astarion plucked a delicate canape from the nearest tray, holding it aloft with exaggerated menace as if he might throw it at Gale. Their wizard raised an eyebrow in challenge, but instead of tossing it, Astarion leaned in with a theatrical flourish and placed it delicately between Gale's lips.

"Unlike some people," Astarion purred, dragging out every syllable, "Gale actually appreciates fine things. You should see how he enjoys my silks."

Zelara leaned in, chin resting on her palm. "Oh, we both appreciate your silks, darling. It’s just that some of us are a bit more… hands-on in our admiration."

Gale, mid-sip of wine, choked violently. Astarion arched a pleased eyebrow.

"Ah, my love," Astarion said smoothly, lifting his glass, "it's so refreshing to be properly valued."

Gale, recovering, wiped his mouth delicately. "I assure you, I was merely admiring the craftsmanship."

"Is that what humans call it?" Lae'zel’s voice cut through the laughter like a blade. "On Githyanki creches, we simply acknowledge physical attraction without these ridiculous verbal dances."

She fixed Zelara with a penetrating stare. "Though I suppose there's something to be said for keeping two males satisfied simultaneously. An accomplishment worthy of respect."

Zelara beamed. "Thank you, Lae'zel. You know, you’re the first one to properly acknowledge my incredible talents tonight."

Wyll made a strangled noise into his drink. Minsc wheezed, pounding a fist against the table.

Lae'zel gave a sharp nod, dead serious. "It is well-earned. I would challenge you for the right, but I have observed your combat ability. It would be unwise."

Zelara cackled. "That's the best compliment I've gotten in months. I’m putting that on a plaque."

Astarion sipped his wine, entirely unbothered. "I'm always happy to provide references if anyone else is considering Zel’s exceptional… talents."

Gale, who had been massaging his temples, sighed. "I do hope you all realize that if this conversation continues, there will be actual, documented charts and comparisons. With data points."

Zelara waggled her eyebrows. "Who says I haven’t already started one?"

Shadowheart shoved her face into her hands. "Zel, I swear to the gods, if I ever get a glimpse of that chart—"

"You'll be the first to ask for details," Zel said smugly, sipping her drink.

Tower helpfully adjusted the lights as the sun began to set, the magical fairy lights brightening to compensate. The conversation flowed easily, moving from embarrassing stories to tales of their adventures across Faerûn. Zelara found herself watching more than participating, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with her drink.

Astarion and Gale sat on either side of her, occasionally brushing her hand or touching her shoulder—small, casual contacts that felt more significant than grand gestures. She watched Gale explain something to Wyll, his hands moving animatedly, confidence radiating from him in a way she'd never seen during their adventures. No more haunted shadows behind his eyes or hesitation in his voice. He caught her watching and winked, mid-sentence, never missing a beat.

Opposite her, Astarion was entertaining Karlach and Shadowheart with an outrageously embellished account of their confrontation with Mystra. He moved with an easy grace she'd always admired, but there was something new there too—a softness around his eyes, a genuine quality to his laughter that had once been carefully manufactured.

As the night wore on, Zelara caught Tower adjusting the lighting to reveal more of the star-filled sky above. A breeze swept through, just cool enough to be refreshing without chilling anyone. She leaned back in her chair, letting the conversation flow around her, savoring this moment with all the companions who had somehow become family. They'd bloomed in each other's presence, all of them.

Three glasses of her experimental spirits had left her in a pleasantly contemplative state. Tower seemed to sense her mood, shifting her chair slightly so she could see both the stars and her friends without turning her head.

What a strange, winding path they'd followed to reach this point. From the moment she'd woken on that nautiloid with a tadpole in her head to now, sitting atop a sentient tower with the two men she loved, surrounded by companions who had fought devils and gods at her side.

The pieces all fit together now, like an alchemical formula she'd almost given up solving. Every step, every choice, every sacrifice had led them here.

She glanced at Astarion, who caught her looking and winked. He'd gone from a desperate vampire spawn, planning to use her for protection, to a hopeless romantic who offered his heart freely—something he'd never thought possible. From control to trust, from isolation to belonging.

And Gale—brilliant, proud Gale—who had learned that his worth wasn't measured by divine recognition. He'd been ready to sacrifice himself for the world, believing his life was only valuable if spent in service to something greater. Now he understood he was worthy of love simply for being himself.

As for her—Zelara smiled into her glass, acknowledging her own journey. She'd always been the problem-solver, the steady hand, the one who fixed things while keeping her own emotions carefully controlled. She'd thought love was just another puzzle to solve, a reaction to manage. But love had taught her otherwise—it wasn't about fixing, but about growing together.

What they'd given each other had returned threefold. Each brought something unique: Astarion's cunning and loyalty, Gale's knowledge and compassion, her own innovation and stability. Together, they were far stronger than apart—a triple-braided cord that couldn't be easily broken.

Their relationship wasn't just about passion or convenience—it was an act of defiance. Against gods who would control them, against social expectations, against their own doubts and fears.

Zelara glanced between them, these extraordinary men who had somehow become hers, as she was theirs. Love wasn't a transaction, tallied and balanced like her laboratory notes. It was freely given and freely returned, flowing between them in an endless cycle.

"Tell me three times," she whispered to herself, their private promise, "so I'll know you mean it." And they had—shown her in words, in actions, in silent moments of understanding—that this love, this bond between them, was real. As real as the Tower beneath them, as real as the stars above, as real as magic itself.

As real as love.

[pixel7777]

Threefold Returns - Chapter 15/16

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Astarion

Astarion woke before the others, as he always did. Vampires didn't need sleep like mortals, but he'd found comfort in the trance-like state that came from lying beside Zel and Gale through the night. He'd spent the darkest hours contemplating how fate had brought the three of them together — how the bonds between them had strengthened through every trial.

Gale slept peacefully now, his face relaxed without Mystra's influence plaguing his dreams. Zel had somehow ended up between them, her silver hair splayed across the pillow, her chemise having ridden up to reveal the curve of her hip.

Astarion leaned over and pressed his lips to Gale's forehead. The wizard's eyes fluttered open, warm brown meeting Astarion's red gaze.

"Good morning," Gale whispered, careful not to wake Zel.

Astarion placed a finger to his lips, then gestured at their sleeping companion. "I've been thinking," he murmured, "about something our alchemist mentioned. Several times, in fact."

Understanding dawned on Gale's face. "The, ah, devil's triangle proposition?"

"Precisely." Astarion's mouth quirked up at one corner. "What do you say we give her a proper reward for saving us all?"

Gale considered this for only a moment before a soft smile spread across his face. "I think that's an excellent idea."

They shifted carefully until Zel was positioned perfectly between them, both men now completely bare. The room's ambient magic adjusted the blankets for them as Astarion lowered his head to Zel's neck, trailing cool kisses along the curve of her throat.

"Mmm," she hummed, still half-asleep. Her eyes remained closed, but a small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

"Wake up, darling," Astarion whispered against her ear. "We have a surprise for you."

Her eyes opened slowly, lavender irises clouded with sleep before focusing on Astarion's face. "What kind of—"

Before she could finish, Astarion raised himself up, leaning across her body toward Gale. The wizard met him halfway, their lips coming together in a slow, deliberate kiss.

Beneath them, Zel went completely still. Then her breath hitched audibly.

"Oh, fuck yes," she breathed, suddenly very much awake. She moved so quickly to remove her chemise that her elbow nearly collided with Gale's face. He jerked back with a startled laugh.

"Is this—" She looked between them, her eyes wide and bright. "Are we—"

"Yes, love," Astarion said, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. "This is exactly what you think it is."

"If you're still interested," Gale added, his voice warm with amusement.

"If I'm still—" Zel burst into delighted laughter. "Tell me three times you both want this," she demanded, "so I'll know you mean it."

"I want this," Astarion said, kissing her temple.

"I want this," Gale echoed, stroking her cheek.

They spoke the third repetition in unison, their voices blending together in perfect harmony: "We want this."

Astarion propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at Zel with a soft smile. "Now, let's set some rules. We all know how this goes—communication is key."

Gale nodded in agreement, his expression serious. "I think we should have a signal system. Something simple."

Zel grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "How about a double tap to ask or confirm if something's okay? And a triple tap to stop everything immediately."

"Perfect," Astarion said, traces of his old charm surfacing. "And let's keep magic out of this for now. Just us, no enhancements or tricks." He gestured to the array of oils and rags laid out on the nightstand. "We do this the old-fashioned way."

Gale chuckled, his eyes warm with affection. "Agreed. Though I could easily—"

"No magic," Zel interjected firmly, cutting him off with a playful glare.

The negotiations settled, the atmosphere shifted. Astarion felt a familiar thrill, a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. He reached out, tracing the curve of Zel's jaw with his fingertips, then drew Gale closer with his other hand. The wizard's breath hitched as Astarion's fingers brushed against his chest, circling a nipple before pinching lightly.

Zel watched the interaction with keen interest, her breath quickening. She leaned in, capturing Astarion's mouth in a deep kiss, her tongue exploring eagerly. Astarion responded in kind, his hand still teasing Gale, eliciting soft gasps from the wizard.

Breaking the kiss, Zel turned her attention to Gale, her expression playful yet intense. "I think our wizard needs some attention," she murmured, her voice husky with desire.

"Agreed," Astarion said, his voice low and sultry.

They shifted positions seamlessly, a dance of limbs and bodies moving in sync. Astarion lay back, pulling Zel atop him, her thighs straddling his face. The scent of her arousal filled his senses, making his mouth water. He looked up, meeting Gale's gaze over the curve of Zel's hip. The wizard's eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

Zel leaned forward, her hands braced on either side of Astarion's thighs, her mouth hovering over his cock. Astarion felt a shiver of anticipation, his hips lifting slightly in invitation. But Zel held back, her eyes locked on Gale as the wizard moved into position between Astarion's legs.

Gale's hands were warm and gentle as they spread Astarion open, his touch sending a wave of pleasure through the vampire. Astarion felt a soft, wet heat as Gale's tongue began to explore, circling and teasing, preparing him with careful, deliberate strokes.

Zel watched, her eyes wide with fascination and arousal. She lowered her head, taking Astarion's cock into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the sensitive tip. Astarion groaned, the sensation of Gale's mouth on him combined with the warm, wet heat of Zel's mouth sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

Gale made good use of the oil and soon his fingers joined his tongue, slowly and carefully stretching Astarion, making sure he was ready. Astarion focused on the sensations, the dual pleasure of Zel's mouth and Gale's fingers pushing him closer to the edge. He licked and sucked at Zel, his hands gripping her thighs, holding her in place as she ground against his face.

The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure—soft moans, wet sucking noises, and the occasional gasp. Astarion lost himself in the sensations, his body tensing and relaxing in rhythm with Gale's fingers and Zel's mouth.

Zel's mouth was relentless, her tongue swirling around his cock, her cheeks hollowing as she took him deep. Behind her, Gale worked diligently, three fingers now deep inside Astarion, stretching and preparing him with a gentleness that belied the intensity of the act.

Zel pulled back slightly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Fuck, that's hot," she murmured, her eyes locked on Gale's fingers as they moved in and out of Astarion. "You should see this, Astarion. Gale's got you spread wide, and it's fucking gorgeous."

Astarion could only moan in response, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his climax. Zel's words, crude and appreciative, only served to heighten his arousal. He could feel the pressure building, the familiar tightening in his groin that signaled his impending release.

"Zel," he gasped, his voice strained. "I'm close. If you don't want me to—"

"Come," she commanded, her voice firm. "I want to feel you come in my mouth. You know your refractory period is ridiculously short. You'll be hard again in no time." She looked back at Gale, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Besides, Gale's got another finger to go. Isn't that right?

Gale chuckled, his voice low and husky. "That's right. We're just getting started."

Astarion's body tensed, his hips lifting off the bed as Zel took him deep once more. Gale's fingers curled inside him, hitting that perfect spot that sent waves of pleasure crashing through his body. He could feel it, the crest of his climax, rushing toward him like a tidal wave.

"Fuck, you both feel so good," he moaned, his voice ragged. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Zel hummed around his cock, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through his body. Gale's fingers moved faster, stretching him wider, preparing him for what was to come. Astarion could feel it, the moment of no return, and he embraced it, letting the sensation wash over him.

His orgasm hit like a thunderclap, his body convulsing as he came hard, his cock pulsing in Zel's mouth. She swallowed around him, her throat working as she took everything he had to give. Behind her, Gale's fingers stilled, holding Astarion open, letting him ride out the waves of his climax.

Zel pulled back slowly, her lips releasing his cock with a soft pop. She looked back at him, her eyes shining with satisfaction and arousal. "Fuck, that was hot," she murmured, her voice husky. She lifted her head, looking at Gale, her eyes widening in appreciation. "And fuck, Gale, look at you."  Gale and Zel kissed as Gale's fingers resumed their coaxing.

Astarion buried his face back in Zel's cunt, his arms curved around her hips, hands squeezing her ass and pulling her down against his mouth. He teased her with his tongue, licking and sucking, paying her back for the pleasure she'd given him. Zel writhed above him, her hips grinding against his face as she chased her own release.

Astarion knew she came harder with something inside her, but he refused to give her his fingers. Not yet. He wanted to draw this out, to make her beg for it. He licked her slowly, his tongue circling her clit, feeling her body tense and relax in rhythm with his movements.

Zel's warmth seeped into him, his cock stiffening again as she ground against his face. He could feel Gale working between this thighs. Gale's breath hitched as he worked that fourth finger into Astarion, the stretch burning slightly but filling him with a deep, satisfying pleasure. Astarion moaned against Zel's cunt, the vibrations making her gasp and grind harder against his face.

"Fuck, Astarion," Zel panted, her voice ragged. "You're driving me insane."

He hummed in response, his tongue licking her faster, his hands gripping her ass tighter, pulling her closer. He could feel her body tensing, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she neared her climax.

Behind him, Gale's fingers moved slower, stretching him wider, the burn intensifying but so did the pleasure. Astarion could feel his cock throbbing, his body aching with the need to be filled, to be fucked. But he held back, focusing on Zel, on driving her over the edge.

Zel's body tensed, her hips grinding against his face, her breath coming in quick, desperate pants. "Fuck, Astarion," she gasped. "I'm so close. Please, I need—"

Astarion redoubled his efforts, his tongue lashing against Zel's clit, his lips sucking and pulling at her tender flesh. Her body tensed, her breath hitched, and then she was coming, her hips bucking against his face as she cried out his name. He licked her through it, his tongue gentle now, drawing out the last tremors of her orgasm.

But Zel was far from sated. "More," she demanded, her voice breathless. "Astarion, I need more. I need you to fuck me."

Astarion felt a thrill at her words, his cock throbbing in anticipation. But he also felt a deep, aching need within himself, a hunger to be filled, to be taken. He looked down at Gale, meeting the wizard's gaze. Gale's eyes were dark with desire, his breath coming in quick pants. He nodded, understanding Astarion's unspoken plea.

Gale pulled his fingers free, leaving Astarion feeling empty and aching. But not for long. They shifted positions, a dance of limbs and bodies moving in sync. Zel lay back, her legs hooked over Astarion's shoulders, her eyes locked on his. Astarion braced himself against her thighs, his knees spread wide, his body open and ready.

Behind him, Gale knelt, his hands gripping Astarion's hips, his cock poised and ready. Astarion could feel the heat of him, the solid pressure against his entrance. He looked into Zel's eyes, seeing his own desire reflected back at him.

"You ready, love?" he asked, his voice soft.

Zel nodded, her breath coming in quick pants. "Fuck yes. I want to see you come undone, Astarion. I want to see Gale fuck you while you fuck me."

Astarion smiled, his heart swelling with love and lust. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting Gale's gaze. The wizard's eyes were intense, focused, his grip on Astarion's hips tight and sure.

"And you, my love?" Astarion asked, his voice teasing.

Gale's lips quirked up in a small smile. "More than ready, Astarion."

He turned back to Zel, his eyes locked on hers as he began to sink into her, his cock filling her slowly, inch by inch. She was so warm, so tight, her body gripping him like a vice. He could feel her trembling beneath him, her breath coming in quick, desperate pants.

Behind him, Gale began to press forward, the head of his cock breaching Astarion's entrance. Astarion stilled, his breath hitching as he focused on the sensation, the burn, the stretch. He could feel Gale trembling too, his grip on Astarion's hips tightening as he fought for control.

"Fuck, you're still tight," Gale gasped, his voice strained.

Astarion chuckled, his voice breathless. "You should see the view from my end." He looked down at Zel, her eyes wide with desire and awe. "She's fucking gorgeous, Gale."

Zel's cheeks flushed pink at his words, her breath hitching. "Stop talking," she demanded, her voice breathless. "And for fuck's sake, someone start moving."

That was Astarion's cue. Gale pulled out enough to give him room to work, and he began very slowly rocking his hips back and forth, fucking Zel and fucking himself on Gale. The sensation was incredible, overwhelming in both directions. He could feel every inch of Zel's warmth enveloping him, her body gripping him tightly, while Gale filled him from behind, the stretch and burn sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body.

Astarion's breath hitched, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He was glad he had already come once, or he would have been undone embarrassingly soon. As it was, he found himself babbling in Elvish, the words pouring out of him in a stream of consciousness, a mix of pleasure and emotion that he couldn't contain.

He gradually increased his speed, his hips moving faster, his thrusts into Zel growing deeper, more powerful. Behind him, Gale matched his rhythm, his hips meeting Astarion's with each backward thrust, filling him completely. Zel did the same, her hips lifting to meet his, her body moving in sync with his.

The room filled with the sounds of their pleasure—soft moans, ragged breaths, the wet slap of flesh against flesh. Astarion lost himself in the sensations, his body moving on instinct, chasing the high that only this, only them, could provide.

He could feel Zel's body tensing beneath him, her breath coming in quick, desperate pants. He knew she was close, her body coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. He leaned forward, his hands braced on either side of her head, his lips capturing hers in a deep, passionate kiss.

"Come for me, love," he murmured against her lips, his voice breathless. "Let me feel you come undone around me."

Zel's eyes fluttered closed, her body arching up to meet his. He could feel her trembling, her body on the precipice. He thrust into her, deep and hard, his hips grinding against hers, giving her the pressure she needed.

Behind him, Gale's grip on his hips tightened, his thrusts growing more urgent, more intense. Astarion could feel him, feel the pleasure building in Gale, the tension in his body, the raggedness of his breath. He knew Gale was close too, his body coiling tighter and tighter, ready to release.

Astarion's body was a conduit of pleasure, the sensations from both directions pushing him closer and closer to the edge. He could feel it building, the familiar tightening in his groin, the tingling at the base of his spine. He was close, so close.

But he held back, his body trembling with the effort. He wanted them to come first, wanted to feel them come undone around him, because of him. He wanted to be the cause of their pleasure, the source of their release.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down Zel's jaw, her neck, his teeth grazing her sensitive flesh. He could feel her pulse racing, her breath coming in quick, desperate pants. He knew she was on the edge, her body coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap.

He murmured again, his voice a low growl. "You're so beautiful.  You take my cock so well.  Feel me, feel how deep I am?  This time you can come around me.  Come for me, love."

And she did. Her body tensed, her back arching, her hips lifting to meet his. She cried out, his name a scream on her lips as she came, her body convulsing around him, her inner muscles gripping him tightly, milking him, pushing him closer to his own release.

Astarion sank to the hilt in Zel, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his own release. He braced himself on either side of her, his arms tense, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Gale's. The wizard's gaze was intense, his pupils blown wide with desire, his cheeks flushed, and his hair damp with sweat. There was a wildness in Gale's eyes, a look of complete abandon that sent a thrill of lust and love coursing through Astarion.

"Gale," Astarion gasped, his voice breathless. "Fuck me. Please, fuck me."

Gale's lips parted, his breath hitching as he began to move. His hips snapped forward, his cock driving deep into Astarion, filling him completely. Astarion moaned, his body trembling with the force of Gale's thrusts, each one pushing him deeper into Zel.

Zel craned her neck, her eyes wide with desire and awe as she watched Gale. She managed to wedge a hand between herself and Astarion, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing in time with Gale's thrusts. Each forward motion from Gale drove Astarion into her, his cock filling her, his body pressing against hers, giving her the pressure she needed.

Astarion could feel every inch of Gale inside him, the wizard's cock hitting that perfect spot with each thrust. He could feel Gale's body trembling, his breath coming in quick, desperate pants.

"Gale," Astarion moaned, his voice ragged. "You're so beautiful, so debauched, so perfect. I love you, Gale. I love you so much."

Gale's eyes fluttered closed, his body tensing as he chased his release. His hips moved faster, his thrusts growing more urgent, more intense. Astarion could feel it, the moment of no return, the point where Gale's body took over, driving him towards his climax.

Astarion let his own release build, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He wanted to come with Gale, wanted to feel Gale come undone inside him while he filled Zel. He could feel it, the familiar tightening in his groin, the tingling at the base of his spine. He was close, so close.

And then Gale was coming, his body convulsing, his cock pulsing inside Astarion, filling him with hot, profuse spurts. Gale's orgasm triggered Astarion's, his body reacting to the sensation, the feeling of Gale coming undone inside him. He thrust forward, his cock driving deep into Zel, his body shaking with the force of his release.

He could feel Zel's body trembling beneath him, her breath coming in quick, desperate pants as she rubbed her clit, chasing another release. Astarion thrust into her, his hips grinding against hers. He could feel her body tensing, her inner muscles gripping him tightly, drawing out his orgasm.

Astarion's body shook with the force of his release, his cock pulsing inside Zel, filling her completely. He could feel Gale behind him, his body trembling, his breath coming in quick, desperate pants as he rode out the waves of his own orgasm.

Astarion collapsed forward, his body spent, his breath coming in quick, desperate pants. He could feel Zel's body trembling beneath him. Behind him, Gale's body was trembling too, his breath ragged, trying not to fall forward onto both of them..

"Fuck," Astarion gasped, his voice breathless. "That was... fuck."

Zel chuckled beneath him, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. "Yeah," she agreed, her voice breathless. "Fuck."

Behind him, Gale chuckled too, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his release.

Astarion laughed, the sound breathless and exhausted. He could feel the warmth of their bodies surrounding him, the sensation of their skin against his, the sound of their breaths mingling with his. He had never felt so content, so complete.

He had never felt so loved.

Pulling everyone apart while muscles still twitched and breath was scarce was a challenge, but, giggling a little at the awkwardness of it all, they managed. Astarion found himself tucked securely between Zel and Gale, their bodies forming a warm, comforting cocoon around him. He could feel the stickiness of cum and the slickness of oil everywhere, but he didn't care. This moment was too perfect to be ruined by such trivial discomforts.

Zel's soft breaths tickled the back of his neck, her arm draped possessively over his waist. Gale's chest pressed against his back, the wizard's heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm. Astarion could feel their warmth seeping into him, chasing away the ever-present chill of his undead body. He reveled in the sensation, the closeness, the love that surrounded him.

For a few blissful minutes, they lay there, their bodies entwined, their breaths syncing. Soft caresses and lazy kisses were exchanged, the touches gentle and reverent. Astarion could feel Zel's fingers tracing patterns on his chest, Gale's lips pressing soft kisses to his shoulder. It was a moment of pure contentment, of perfect harmony.

But as the minutes passed, the discomfort of their sticky, oily state became increasingly apparent. Astarion squirmed, the sensation of cum leaking out of him becoming uncomfortably ticklish.

"Alright, alright, Gale," Zel conceded, her voice sleepy and sated. "A quick prestidigitation would be welcome because reaching for the rags is just too much effort."

Astarion chuckled, feeling Gale shift behind him. The wizard murmured a few words, his voice low and soft, and a wave of warm, tingling magic washed over them. In an instant, their bodies were clean and dry. Astarion sighed in relief, snuggling back down into the warmth of his lovers.

"Better?" Gale asked, his voice a low rumble against Astarion's back.

"Much," Astarion replied, his voice soft and content.

Zel hummed in agreement, her arm tightening around Astarion's waist. "Now, where were we?" she murmured, her voice teasing.

Astarion smiled, his eyes fluttering closed as he felt Gale's lips press another soft kiss to his shoulder. "Right here," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Right here, with you both."

And with that, they settled down once more, their bodies entwined, their breaths syncing. It was a cuddle pile, a lovely and loving one, and somehow, amidst the warmth and comfort and love, they fell asleep again.

[pixel7777]

Ugh remember modern setting Gale? I'm afraid it had to be done again

[pixel7777]

Threefold Returns - Chapter 14/16

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

See Ch. 1 for work summary and content tags. Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Zelara

Zelara heard the crash of the mirror shattering and looked down to see Gale sprawled on the stones, blood seeping from his nose and ears. His chest barely moved.

"Godsdammit, how many times can a man swoon in less than a week?" she muttered, but her trembling hands betrayed her terror. This wasn't like before. This was worse.

She dropped to her knees beside him, fingers already reaching for the healing potions at her belt. The strongest ones were tucked into the innermost pocket of her vest—the ones she'd been saving for a true emergency. This qualified.

"Zel!" Astarion's voice cut through the chaos. "I need you!"

She looked up, torn between Gale's still form and Astarion's urgent call. The vampire was a blur of motion along the edge of the parapet, his crossbows firing with relentless precision. Each bolt that left his weapon glowed with the purple-green shimmer of her alchemical enhancements—the ones they'd spent all day preparing once the mirror had been complete.

The bolts struck true each time, one hitting the Weave's binding shackle, the next striking Mystra's spectral form above the harbor. They were working—her formulations were working—but Astarion needed allies.

Gale was supposed to rally the crowd now, but Gale was down.  She knew she had to leave him, but dammit.

"Shit," she whispered, pressing a quick kiss to Gale's forehead. "Don't you dare die while I'm busy." She uncorked her strongest healing potion and poured it between his lips, massaging his throat to make him swallow before sprinting to Astarion's side.

The chaos around them was magnificent and terrifying. Above the harbor, the true form of the Weave—vibrant, magnificent, and heartbreakingly beautiful—fought against Mystra's oppressive power. Each clash sent ripples of wild magic cascading through the air, turning raindrops to butterflies and making the cobblestones hum with song.

"I've got this," she told Astarion, taking position beside him. "Focus on your shots."

He nodded, his movements flowing with inhuman grace as he continued his barrage.

Zelara took a deep breath and cast thaumaturgy, amplifying her voice to reach the stunned crowd below.

"People of Waterdeep!" she called. "Look! See what's happening before you! You can see it—Mystra has shackled the Weave itself. She's enslaved magic, the very force that flows through our world!"

She pointed to the spectacle above the harbor, where the goddess and the Weave clashed in brilliant, reality-warping battle.

"Only Gale of Waterdeep kept her from doing it completely! He turned her own spell back on her! Please—" her voice cracked, genuine emotion breaking through her scientific detachment, "if you ever loved the Weave, ever loved magic itself, help us!"

Zelara scanned the crowd. Words weren't her forte—that had been Gale's job in this plan. She was better with explosions than explanations, better with formulas than feelings. But Gale lay unconscious, and someone had to rally these people.

Below, the citizens of Waterdeep stood frozen, faces upturned in confusion and terror. Some argued loudly, pointing frantically at the battle in the sky while others cowered or fled.

"For fuck's sake," she muttered. "Did any of them even hear me?"

But then something shifted. A young wizard in apprentice robes raised her staff, her face set with determination. A bolt of energy shot upward, striking Mystra's form. It was a laughably insignificant attack against a deity, but the girl's courage sparked something in the crowd.

One by one, then in groups, the magic users of Waterdeep began to cast. Spells of all kinds—minor cantrips, defensive wards, offensive strikes—soared toward the goddess who had claimed to be the source of their power. Most dissipated harmlessly against Mystra's divine form, but Zelara could see that each attack, however small, forced the goddess to divide her attention.

"That's it," Zelara whispered, relief flooding her chest. "That's it, you beautiful bastards."

Mystra roared in outrage, her voice shaking the very air. The Weave seized the opportunity, striking back with renewed vigor.

Then, movement at the shoreline caught Zelara's eye. A figure in archmage's robes stood apart from the others, shoulders hunched in apparent grief.

Elminster.

Zelara felt her stomach drop. She hadn't expected him to return after Gale had dismissed him so definitively. But there he stood—Mystra's most devoted servant, her chosen mortal champion for centuries.

And he was weeping.

Tears streamed down his bearded face as he watched his goddess battle against the entity she had claimed to create. His hands shook at his sides, and Zelara realized with a jolt that he was experiencing exactly what they'd hoped the crowd would feel—the painful recognition of betrayal.

But would it be enough? Could anything break the bond between Elminster and Mystra after centuries of devotion?

The old archmage raised his trembling hands, his face a mask of anguish. For a breathless moment, Zelara thought he might cast against them, might try to destroy the Tower or attack the Weave.

The spell hung on his lips, half-formed.

For a horrible moment, Zelara thought he wouldn’t do it.

Then—his jaw clenched. His fingers curled into a fist. And the spell erupted from his palms—not toward them, but directly at Mystra.

Zelara felt something crack inside her chest as she watched the old man's magic join the assault against his beloved goddess. His attack wasn't like the others—it carried the weight of centuries of love and betrayal. It struck true, and Mystra recoiled visibly.

"Holy shit," Zelara whispered. Something about seeing Elminster's choosing truth over devotion made her heart ache for him, despite everything.

But there was no time for sympathy. If Elminster could fight, so could she.

Zelara reached into her bandolier, seeking the green-labeled vials. Her fingers closed around the second-to-last one—a mixture of explosive compounds and binding agents that she'd designed specifically to target the magical shackle.

"Running low," she warned, loading the vial into her specially crafted leather sling. The device was her own invention—a reinforced leather pouch with alchemical warding etched into the cradle, attached to sturdy cords that let her hurl volatile mixtures with precision.

Beside her, Astarion cursed softly as he reached for another bolt, finding his quiver nearly empty. The special bolts—the ones she'd infused with countermagic properties—were gone.

"Mundane it is," he muttered, loading a standard bolt. "Still better than nothing."

"Keep hitting the shackle," Zelara instructed, whirling her sling in a tight circle above her head. "Every impact weakens it."

She released the cord, sending her concoction flying in a perfect arc toward the magical binding. It shattered on impact, releasing a cloud of vivid purple smoke that clung to the shackle like living vines.

The air around them hummed with magical energy as the crowd's attacks continued, but Zelara focused entirely on her remaining vials. One left. It had to count.

She loaded it and took careful aim, calculating wind resistance and magical interference with the automatic precision that came from countless hours of practice.

"Come on," she whispered, whirling the sling faster. "Break, you divine piece of—"

She never finished the sentence. A thunderous crack split the air as the shackle suddenly, violently snapped open. In the split second that followed, Zelara saw the impossible—the broken shackle whirled through the air like a living thing, then snapped shut around Mystra's other wrist.

Mystra thrashed as the Weave coiled around her, wild arcs of magic bursting from her fingers like lightning escaping a storm.

She clawed at the shackles, nails raking over them as if sheer willpower could undo them.

But the more she struggled, the tighter they held.

Then, slowly, her divine glow dimmed. The goddess screamed, her voice distorting reality itself. Trees bent away from the sound, windows shattered across the harbor, and Zelara felt blood trickle from her right ear.

And then—silence.

And the goddess of magic fell.

She hit the water with a great crashing wave, sending white spray high into the air. Then—she sank beneath the surface, swallowed by the waters of harbor.

"Holy shit," Zelara breathed, watching as the goddess of magic sink beneath the waves. "We actually did it."

From the shoreline, Elminster's sobs rose—raw, wrenching sounds that cut through the silence. The old man had fallen to his knees, face buried in his hands. Something about his grief made Zelara's throat tighten despite everything Mystra had done.

Above them, the Weave hung suspended��free, resplendent, more beautiful than anything Zelara had ever witnessed. It pulsed with joy so palpable that she felt it resonating in her own chest. The crowd felt it too; cheers erupted across Waterdeep as people reached upward, their faces transformed with wonder.

Then, with a gentle ripple, the Weave began to disperse—not fading but spreading, returning to its natural state throughout the world.

Just before it vanished completely, Zelara caught a tiny fragment—no bigger than a spark—zip away from the main body, diving straight into Tower with laser precision.

Zelara let her sling drop to her side, chest heaving. The victory hadn't fully registered yet, but the Weave's freedom hung in the air like the sweetest perfume she'd ever breathed.

She turned to Astarion, finding his eyes already on hers. His face was flushed from the recent battle, his white hair wild, and she'd never seen anything more beautiful than his fierce grin of triumph. In that moment, they didn't need words—just one perfect, exhilarated look that said everything.

Then reality crashed back as one thought hit them both simultaneously.

"Gale!" they said in unison.

They sprinted across the parapet to where Gale still lay motionless. Zelara dropped to her knees, fumbling with the remaining potions in her pouch while Astarion gently lifted Gale's head into his lap.

"This one first," she instructed, passing a crimson vial to Astarion. "It'll stabilize him before the restorative kicks in."

Astarion deftly uncorked the vial and tipped it between Gale's pale lips, massaging his throat to make him swallow. Zelara handed him the second potion—a vibrant blue that smelled of lightning.

When that didn't immediately rouse him, Astarion lightly patted Gale's cheek. "Wake up, you ridiculous wizard," he murmured, his sharp tone belied by the tremor in his voice.

Gale's eyelids fluttered, then opened. He blinked several times, confusion evident in his eyes.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Astarion drawled, though Zelara could see the relief flooding his face.

"What—" Gale tried to sit up, wincing. "What happened? The mirror—Mystra—"

"We won." Zelara couldn't keep the note of wonder from her voice. "The Weave is free, Gale. Your plan worked. Mystra is...gone. Fallen into the harbor after the shackle rebounded on her."

Gale's eyes widened. "Truly? The Weave—"

"Free and already spreading back through the world," Zelara confirmed. "It was beautiful."

"And Elminster was here," she added gently. "He...he fought against her at the end, Gale."

"Elminster?" Shock transformed Gale's face. "Gods, he shouldn't have had to witness this. Not after everything."

Zelara rose, scanning the dispersing crowd below. "Perhaps we should find him—he was devastated—"

But the shoreline stood empty where the great archmage had knelt. The crowd continued to mill about, but of Elminster there was no sign.

"He's gone," she said, turning back to them.

"We can worry about Elminster later, if we must," Astarion said firmly. "Right now, we need to focus on Gale."

Without another word, Astarion slipped his arms beneath Gale's shoulders and knees, lifting him with vampiric strength. Gale made a weak sound of protest but didn't struggle as Astarion carried him toward the door leading to the stairwell.

Zelara followed, but halted in surprise when the door suddenly appeared directly in front of Astarion's path. More shocking still was what lay beyond it—not the expected stairwell, but Gale's bedroom, with its familiar hearth and massive bed.

On either side of the doorframe was open sky, the normal parapet continuing in both directions. But somehow, impossibly, the doorway led directly to Gale's chambers many flights below.

Zelara felt a grin spread across her face. "Tower?"

Astarion's expression softened into something close to fondness as he stepped through the miraculous doorway.

"Well, well," he said, his voice warm with pleasure. "Someone chose to stay."

Zelara watched as Astarion carried Gale through Tower's miraculous doorway. She followed behind, mind still racing from everything that had just happened. The Weave free. Mystra defeated. Elminster's heartbreak. And Gale—alive but weak, covered in his own dried blood.

"We need to get him cleaned up," she said, eyeing the flakes of rusty brown crusted around Gale's nose and ears. "He looks like he tried to bathe in a slaughterhouse."

"I'll handle it," Astarion said, already moving toward the adjoining bathroom. "Though I must say—" he glanced down at Gale with a wicked smile, "—the smell is quite delicious. But perhaps not the most relaxing state for recuperation."

Gale made a weak sound of protest. "I'm perfectly capable—"

"Save it," Astarion cut him off, nudging the bathroom door open with his foot. "You can barely keep your eyes open."

"I'll leave you to it," Zelara said, already mentally cataloging the ingredients she'd need. "I'm going to whip up a few more healing potions. No need for him to suffer longer than necessary."

Astarion nodded, disappearing into the bathroom with his charge. Zelara heard water start to run as she exited the bedroom, making her way swiftly to her workbench in the library.

As her hands worked through the familiar motions—grinding herbs, measuring tinctures, heating the small copper cauldron to precisely the right temperature—her mind finally had space to process everything. They'd freed the Weave. They'd actually done it. The enormity of it made her hands shake as she added three drops of lavender essence to the bubbling mixture.

Half an hour later, she returned with a tray of freshly brewed potions, each glowing faintly with different hues—crimson for pain, azure for restoration, emerald for energy.

She found Gale propped up in bed, dressed in soft sleeping clothes, his damp hair combed back from his face. The blood was gone, and some color had returned to his cheeks. He was mid-sentence, clearly arguing with Astarion.

"—not an invalid, and I refuse to be treated—"

"Well, he's feeling better," Zelara announced, cutting him off as she entered. "That's a good sign."

Astarion turned, still wearing his battle-stained leathers. "Our wizard seems to think nearly dying is just a minor inconvenience." His tone was sharp, but Zelara didn't miss the relief in his eyes.

"I didn't 'nearly die,'" Gale protested, though the effect was somewhat undermined by his pallor.

"If you so much as attempt to leave that bed while I'm bathing," Astarion warned, pointing a finger at Gale, "there will be repercussions so creative you'll need to invent new schools of magic to classify them."

Zelara snorted. "He means he'll worry."

"I said what I said," Astarion replied haughtily, collecting a change of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom.

Zelara sat carefully on the edge of the bed, setting her alchemical tray across Gale's lap. The potions clinked softly against each other, their magical glow illuminating his face.

Gale looked down at the array with a touch of disappointment.

"Not waffles, I'm afraid," he sighed.

Zelara chuckled at Gale's wistful expression. "Sorry to disappoint, but no, they don't taste like waffles either. More like... well, actually, this one—" she pointed to the emerald potion, "—tastes like what I imagine licking the underside of a toadstool might be like."

Gale grimaced. "How appetizing."

"The red one's not so bad," she offered, lifting the crimson vial. "Bit like spiced wine, if spiced wine had been filtered through an old sock."

Despite his evident reluctance, Gale allowed her to help him drink each potion in succession. He grimaced through the first two but admitted the azure one wasn't terrible—"Like mint and lightning," he murmured.

Zelara set the empty vials back on the tray, studying his face as color gradually returned to his cheeks. The quiet sounds of Astarion's bath provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation.

"How are you really feeling?" she asked, her voice softer than usual.

Gale sighed, leaning back against his pillows. "Like I've been hollowed out and refilled with something not quite right." His eyes met hers. "But better than I've felt in months. Clearer."

"We did it," Zelara said, still hardly believing it herself. "The Weave is free."

"And Mystra..." Gale's voice trailed off, his expression complicated.

"I know." Zelara reached for his hand. "For all she did to you—to us—I still felt something when she fell. Not sympathy exactly, but..."

"Recognition," Gale supplied. "Of what it means to lose everything you thought defined you."

"Elminster..." Zelara began, squeezing Gale's fingers. "He fought against her at the end. I've never seen someone look so broken."

Gale closed his eyes briefly. "I can't imagine what that cost him. Centuries of devotion, of love..."

"He'll need time," Zelara said. "Like all of them will. The clerics, the wizards who built their lives around Mystra's teachings."

"We've upended their world," Gale agreed, but there was no regret in his voice, only quiet certainty.

"And yet somehow," Zelara marveled, setting the tray aside to move closer, "we're here. Alive. Not bleeding from our eyeballs. Anymore."

"A remarkably low bar for success," Gale observed dryly, but his smile was genuine.

"I'll take it," Zelara replied, returning his smile. "After everything, I'll absolutely take it."

Zelara was still sitting with Gale when the bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. Astarion emerged, freshly bathed and dressed in loose sleeping clothes—a pair of black silk trousers and nothing else. His pale skin gleamed in the lamplight, every lean muscle defined as he toweled his white curls.

"Better?" she asked, taking in the sight of him.

Sweet gods, he was beautiful. Not just the obvious—the perfect physique, the elegant features—but the way he moved, like a dancer or a predator or both. And tonight, he'd been magnificent. She'd watched him fight a goddess without flinching, watched him carry Gale to safety with such gentle care. Her chest tightened with pride and something deeper.

"You were amazing out there," she said softly. "I've never seen anyone move that fast, even you."

Astarion paused mid-towel, clearly pleased despite his attempt at nonchalance. "Well," he said airily, "I couldn't very well let our wizard die, could I? Think of all the effort we've put into him. It would be wasteful."

Zelara grinned. "Absolutely heroic. The stuff of legends. You'll be in ballads soon—'The Vampire Who Kicked Divine Ass.'"

"I've had enough of ballads," he sniffed, but she caught the subtle flush of pleasure on his pale cheeks.

He draped his towel over a chair and approached, wrinkling his nose dramatically as he got closer to her. "Speaking of legends, you smell like one. The wrong kind. Explosives and sweat make a truly special combination."

Zelara snorted. "Says the man who just minutes ago was suggesting Gale's blood made a delightful perfume."

"Different context entirely," Astarion replied, shooing her toward the bathroom with elegant hands. "Go. Wash. I'll watch our heroic idiot."

"Pushy vampire," she muttered, but stood anyway. Her muscles ached, and the prospect of hot water was too tempting to resist.

"You could at least pretend I smell like roses," she said, pausing at the bathroom door.

"I'd never insult your intelligence with such an obvious lie," Astarion replied smoothly. "Now go, before I develop opinions about your hair as well."

Zelara laughed and slipped into the bathroom.

Her bath was quick but blissful. She scrubbed away the grime of battle, watching dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain. By the time she emerged, clean and changed into the chemise she liked to sleep in, the exhaustion of the day had caught up with her.

She returned to a scene so unexpectedly tender it stopped her in the doorway.

Astarion sat propped against the headboard, Gale's head in his lap. The wizard had fallen completely asleep, his breathing deep and regular. Astarion's long fingers combed slowly, rhythmically through Gale's damp hair, but his gaze was elsewhere—turned toward the window where stars glittered in the night sky above Waterdeep. His expression was distant and thoughtful, something vulnerable visible in the unguarded moment.

Zelara stood silently, watching the two of them with a fullness in her chest that threatened to overflow.

Zelara slipped into the bed quietly, trying not to disturb Gale as she settled herself on his other side. The mattress shifted slightly beneath her weight, but the wizard's breathing remained deep and untroubled. It was strange to see him so peaceful after days of turmoil—his face relaxed, free from the blue-tinged shadows that had haunted him when they had first arrived.

She caught Astarion's eye across Gale's sleeping form. He exhaled softly, his hand still absently stroking Gale's hair as he shifted to face her.

"I've been meaning to ask," she whispered, keeping her voice low enough that even Gale's wizard hearing wouldn't catch it. "What did you say to Tower? When it was hesitating to share its pain with the crowd?"

Astarion's fingers stilled momentarily. In the dim light, his eyes gleamed like garnets.

"I told it the truth," he said simply. "That sharing pain doesn't make it worse—it makes it survivable."

Zelara studied his face, seeing the echo of old wounds beneath his carefully composed expression.

"That couldn't have been easy for you," she said. "Recalling all that."

Astarion's mouth quirked into a humorless half-smile. "It wasn't, no. I don't particularly enjoy revisiting those... feelings." He resumed his gentle stroking of Gale's hair. "But each time, it gets a little easier. Like lancing a boil."

Zelara nodded, understanding completely. "I was proud of you," she said. "And Tower."

"Tower did remarkably well, all things considered." Astarion's voice warmed with genuine pride. "Far better than I ever did."

"Well," Zelara grinned, "Tower always is the better-adjusted one in your relationship."

Astarion feigned offense. "I beg your pardon—"

"Face it, darling. When it comes to emotional maturity, you were outpaced by architecture."

"This from the woman who expresses affection through explosions," Astarion retorted, but his eyes danced with amusement.

"I express affection through carefully calibrated chemical reactions," she corrected primly. "There's a difference."

"Of course," Astarion drawled. "How could I forget your... nuanced approach?"

Zelara reached across Gale's sleeping form, her fingers finding Astarion's where they tangled in the wizard's hair. Their hands met, rested together atop Gale's head in a gesture that felt strangely significant.

"I love you," she whispered. "Even when you're being an ass."

"Especially then," Astarion replied, his voice softer than usual. "It's when I'm most charming."

Zelara leaned forward, careful not to jostle Gale as she stretched across him. Astarion met her halfway, their lips connecting in a gentle, unhurried kiss above their sleeping wizard's head.

Zelara reluctantly pulled back from the kiss, though she stayed close enough that her forehead almost touched Astarion's. His eyes glinted wickedly in the dim light, and she knew that particular look all too well.

"Should we wake our slumbering wizard?" he whispered, arching one perfect eyebrow. "I seem to recall you mentioning a rather comprehensive list of... activities you'd been dreaming about. Something involving all three of us?"

Zelara snorted softly, pulling back to settle on her pillow. "Don't you dare wake him," she whispered, glancing down at Gale's peaceful face. "And don't tease me about that list unless you're prepared for me to follow through."

"Oh?" Astarion's voice was a silky purr. "Is that meant to be a deterrent?"

"It's meant to be a warning," Zelara replied, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. "Keep it up, and I'll make you regret it when I finally have you both exactly where I want you."

Astarion's smile widened, fangs gleaming. "Darling," he drawled, "don't threaten me with a good time."

Zelara rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress her grin. "Just sleep, you menace."

They settled back onto their respective pillows, Gale nestled safely between them. Zelara draped her arm across Gale's chest, her fingers finding Astarion's where they rested against the wizard's shoulder. Their fingers intertwined, a bridge across the man they both loved.

The Tower dimmed the lights further, as if sensing their readiness for sleep. Outside, Waterdeep continued to buzz with the news of what had happened, but in here, in this room, there was only peace.

Zelara felt her eyelids growing heavy as exhaustion finally caught up with her. The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was Astarion's face across from hers, his expression unexpectedly peaceful, vulnerable in repose.

[pixel7777]

Little tribute to this drama queen ❤️

[pixel7777]

Made a quick (almost) looped animation of this render ❤️

[pixel7777]

POWER & CONTROL

[pixel7777]

modernbat: the color of stars