#astarion: stares into the void

[roguelioness]

despite being amongst myconids, Astarion proves he's no fungi

[justporo]

So you'll see tomorrow

A/N: Seeing a beautiful piece of artwork by @velnna and listening to Half life by Livingston I got a very angsty idea for a drabble (so be warned, it's sad). This idea came to me first a while back listening to Just a Man (you know from *that* BG3 edit). @velnna as always thanks for letting me play with your son - and sorry I hurt him... Also thank you to Dad on Maf's discord server for the inspo for the final line.

Warnings: implied character death (but this is just an alternate timeline ok??), self sacrifice

~~~

So this was it.

This is how they would all die.

There was no way they would defeat the Netherbrain. All their endeavours that led them here, all for naught. Unless…

Staeve saw it in his eyes first. How their expression changed from swimming and hopeless to hardened and determined. Astarion’s brows drew together - the crease they created between them as sharp as his daggers he lifted up once more.

“Staeve.”

He had never heard his voice like this. The tone as sharp as a knife and hard as rock.

It scared him.

“I’m going to create an opening for you. Be ready.”

Fear dug its claws into Staeve’s throat, choking him, as he began to realise what was about to happen.

“No,” the half-drow whispered, weakly grabbing for his lover’s wrists with all of his remaining strength.

“Astarion, no! You can’t do this!”

Panic gave Staeve new power. Helped him to forcefully turn Astarion around to him. Helped him make his love stare into his eyes as he screamed at him again. And again.

He shook him, even making the daggers drop from his pale, blood-speckled fingers.

Staeve kept screaming, feeling his voice become hoarse, hot streams of tears washing away the grime and gore as they made their way down his face.

But as he kept throwing everything at Astarion he noticed ruby eyes remaining hard and unfaltering. The decision had been made.

The last of his strength went with his last drop of hope as Staeve’s hands fell weakly from Astarion’s. His legs gave up, knees hit the ground hard.

And only then did Astarion shift, taking a final step back before making the run-up.

He dropped down in front of Staeve who could only stare up at him anymore.

“Let me do this one thing right, Staeve,” he whispered solemnly, cupping his love’s face. “Just this once let me make things right.”

Staeve’s vision was blurred, his head swimming. But he still clearly saw the warmth in Astarion’s eyes as he leaned his forehead to Staeve’s.

Astarion’s hand wandered to the nape of his neck as he pressed his eyes closed. “Promise me, you’ll live for me, Staeve. To the fullest.” When the vampire opened his eyes again, Staeve was sure there were tears in Astarion’s eyes as well.

There was nothing in Staeve to do or say. He wasn’t in control of anything anymore it felt like. Not even his own body as he solely kept listening to Astarion’s final words.

“And promise me,” the vampire continued, voice breaking, “sometimes - when you sit in the sun - you’ll think of me, Staeve. Promise me.”

Astarion only waited only long enough for Staeve to weakly nod, seemingly the only thing he was still capable of.

Then he crushed his mouth to his lover’s, the motion so forceful their teeth crashed together.

Desperation had them kiss so hard it hurt, that it felt like perishing already. Astarion’s hand on Staeve’s neck pressed down so hard it felt like bones might crush. A single last breath was passed between them as their lips moved against each other as they tried to make this the most vivid moment they had ever experienced.

One so he could never possibly forget this final kiss - how it had felt.

The other so he would go to his end, with the taste of his lover on his lips.

When a small eternity ended and Astarion broke away he grabbed Staeve’s face a final time.

“I know in another life, I would have loved you forever,” Astarion uttered with a smile.

Then he let go, Staeve almost toppling over, suddenly void of anything still lifting him up.

Astarion grabbed his daggers, turned around with a last glance and a smirk - and then he leapt.

[mistiell]

If you’re doing requests and it’s not too much trouble what about Astarion and getting patched up and taken care of by mc

Here you go babes <33 (Also, if he's a little out of character, I apoligize, I really did try my best lol) WC: 1k

---

“Ow! Gods, could you at least try to be gentle?” Astarion hisses at the sting of the salve you’ve concocted, startling you into jerking the cloth you’re using away.

You huff and drop your hands into your lap, brows furrowed in very clear annoyance, “I am trying. If you’d stop squirming, it wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Well, if it didn’t hurt so much, I wouldn’t be squirming, would I?” He quips. You roll your eyes.

Taking his wrist ever so gently, you turn it so you can see the gash on his forearm, fingers deft and kind even despite his whining. He’s being difficult; unreasonable. You’d be justified in being cruel with him.

You’re careful not to press so hard as you swipe the cloth over the jagged edge of his wound, blood seeping into the fabric and staining the off-white linen a dark crimson. Mouth quirked down, your face is drawn tight with a frustration he’s never seen on you before.

He hates it.

The fabric catches with a jolt of pain and he flinches more than he would normally, startling you away again.

You tut at him, stern, “Astarion.”

Sighing, he returns his arm to you wordlessly and glances away with a small, “Sorry.”

“You should have been more careful.” You chastise as you press the cloth against his wound; firm, but not harsh. Never harsh.

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, “So you're saying this is my fault.”

He wasn’t being serious, but it seems you take it as such. Your nose scrunches, and for a split second, you look properly upset with him. He’s expecting you to snap at him, maybe shout and finally leave him to tend to his wounds alone as he usually would.

You don’t. Instead, you take a breath and sigh, looking rather disappointed.

“You know that’s not what I meant. Contrary to what you may believe, I do actually care about you and your wellbeing.” Your voice is void of any sort of humour as you look back at his arm. Swapping the soiled cloth for a smaller, cleaner one, you fold it in half and press it to his arm, not sparing him a glance as you instruct him, “Hold this.”

He does as you’ve asked, and a stifling silence engulfs his tent. As you rifle through some healing supplies, he tries to come up with a way to get you talking again.

“Why-,” His voice doesn’t come out right and he clears his throat to fix it. It comes out wrong anyway, “Why are you helping me? This wouldn’t have been the first time I’ve dressed a wound on my own, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to.” You reply as you begin securing the cloth to his arm with bandages, “No one deserves to suffer alone.”

The sentiment makes his stomach twist. “No one?” He huffs a wry puff of laughter, “Not even someone like Cazador?”

Your face contorts in abhorrence, “I meant good people don’t deserve to suffer alone. That bastard deserves every bit of suffering he has coming to him.”

He barely even registers the second part of what you’ve said, too busy reeling from the first.

Good people don’t deserve to suffer alone.

Good people.

“You... think I’m good?” He asks far too softly.

Finally looking back up at him, you look utterly confused as you nod, “Of course I do.”

He opens his mouth only to find he’s seemingly lost his voice. His gaze flits over just about every inch of your face, searching for any sign that you’re lying; a glance away, a twitch of your mouth. Anything.

He doesn’t find one. His heart sinks and sings simultaneously and suddenly, he can barely breathe.

“Why?” He murmurs. Part of him thinks he’s not equipped to cope with your answer.

There’s a moment where you just... look at him. He’d say staring, but he doesn’t think that’s quite what this is. What you’re doing would be better described as seeing him; all of him. His heart, his soul. Everything.

“Good people can do bad things and still be good, Astarion. And being good doesn’t always mean being a saint.” Your voice is kind; tender. Maybe a little joking towards the end. He guesses you’ve seen the apprehension on his face when your hands slide down his arm to cradle his own. Dipping to catch his gaze, your own is suddenly serious; unwavering, “What happened to you, the things you did. None of that was your fault. You told me what Cazador did to you when you disobeyed him. I’d be just as terrible to deem you a monster for going along with it knowing what would have happened to you if you didn’t.”

Your words strike him like a hard blow to the chest. Perhaps he’s not all that concerned with being a good person, but he’s never truly wanted to be evil, either.

Eyes stinging, he lets out a shaky breath through his nose as he cups the nape of your neck to guide your forehead to his lips. He lingers there for a moment before he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight, mumbling against your hairline, “Thank you.”

Snaking your arms around his waist, you squeeze him just as fiercely, “Of course, my love.”

The laugh that escapes him comes out too watery for his liking, but he finds he doesn’t mind quite as much when its only you around to hear, “‘My love’? Isn’t that my line?”

You snort, and he feels you smile against his collar, “Perhaps.” “You do know that reusing material that isn’t yours is in poor taste, don’t you, darling?”

“Hush.” You pull back smiling, shaking your head as you ask in faux exasperation, “Now, will you please let me finish bandaging this?”

He follows your gaze to his arm and huffs dramatically, “I suppose.” “Oh, you suppose, do you?” You sass as you take hold of his wrist again, careful not to wrap the bandages too tight, “Do you also suppose you’ll sit still for me this time?”

“I do.” He grins.

And he does.

[moonselune]

heyo! your writing is phenomenal and I thank you for sharing it with us!

If you're still open to prompts/requests, would you consider writing a matching piece for the Bg3 male companions reacting to no ability to revive their partner? If not, that's okay!

Thanks again for your writing and for sharing your talents!

Goddamn this hit me hard in the feels writing this x thank you so much for your support and thank you for reading it xox

Gale:

The battle had been fierce and unrelenting, the ground littered with the bodies of fallen enemies and friends alike. In the heat of the chaos, Gale had fought with all his might, casting spell after spell to protect his comrades and turn the tide of the fight. But despite his best efforts, he couldn't save you.

When the dust settled and the reality of your lifeless body sank in, Gale's heart shattered. He rushed to your side, his hands trembling as he cradled your head in his lap. Your eyes, once so full of life and love, stared blankly into the void. He could feel the warmth leaving your body, and with it, his own will to fight on.

"No, no, no… this can't be happening," Gale whispered, his voice breaking. He frantically searched his pack for a revivify scroll, but found none. The last one had been used in a previous battle, and now he was left with nothing but despair.

Desperation clawed at his mind as he looked around at the others. "We need a damned scroll, something, anything!" he shouted, his eyes wild with panic. But the somber faces of his companions told him what he already knew—they were out of options.

"I won't accept this," Gale muttered, his determination hardening. "I will find a way to bring you back. I swear it."

Despite the protests from the others, Gale refused to listen. He cast a gentle preservation spell over your body, ensuring that it would remain untouched by decay. He would find a way, to bring you back, to bring you back to him, no matter the cost.

As he carried your preserved form back to camp, his mind raced with possibilities. Ancient rituals, forgotten tomes, divine intervention—he would exhaust every option. Gale's heart ached with the loss, but his love for you fueled his resolve. He would bring you back. He had to.

Astarion:

The battlefield was eerily quiet, the sounds of clashing steel and agonized cries fading into a haunting silence. Astarion's sharp eyes scanned the aftermath, searching for any sign of you. When he finally spotted your lifeless body, his heart plummeted into an abyss of despair.

"No!" Astarion screamed, his voice echoing across the blood-soaked ground. He sprinted to your side, collapsing beside you. His hands shook as he desperately tried to find a pulse, a sign, anything that you were still with him. But there was nothing.

"Please, no… you can't leave me," he whispered, his voice choked with tears. He tore through his own pack, then yours, searching frantically for a revivify scroll. When he found none, he turned his fury on the others.

"Where is it? Where's the damned scroll?" he demanded, his eyes blazing with a mix of rage and sorrow. He tore through their packs, heedless of their attempts to stop him. "There has to be one! There has to be!"

But there was nothing. No scroll, no hope. Astarion's strength gave out, and he collapsed onto your body, sobbing uncontrollably. His tears mixed with the dirt and blood on your face as he held you close, his heart breaking with each passing moment.

"I'm so sorry… I should have protected you," he murmured between sobs, his voice filled with guilt and anguish. "I can't… I can't do this without you."

Astarion's cries echoed through the battlefield, a haunting reminder of the love and loss that war brings. In that moment, all he could do was hold you, his tears falling like rain, and call out to every god- every devil, for a miracle that would never come.

Wyll:

The battle had been brutal, the toll high, but the true cost was only just being felt. Wyll had fought valiantly, as he always did, his heart and sword guided by a desire to protect those he loved. But it hadn’t been enough. He found your lifeless body amidst the carnage, your eyes forever closed to the world.

"No… no, this can't be happening," Wyll choked out, his voice trembling with grief. He fell to his knees beside you, his hands shaking as he cradled your head in his lap. Tears streamed down his face, unchecked and unstoppable, mingling with the dirt and blood on your skin.

"I should have been better," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I should have fought harder. This is all my fault."

Wyll's sobs grew louder, his body wracked with grief. He clung to you, his heart breaking with every passing second. The others watched, helpless and heartbroken, knowing there was nothing they could do to ease his pain.

In the back of his mind, a dark thought began to take root. What if he made another pact? What if he sought out a devil, any devil, who could bring you back? The idea terrified him, but the prospect of living without you was even more horrifying.

"I can't lose you," he murmured, his tears falling onto your still face. "I can't do this without you."

Wyll's sobs echoed across the battlefield, a haunting sound that spoke of a love lost too soon. He held you close, his mind torn between his grief and the desperate, dangerous hope that he could find a way to bring you back.

Halsin

The silence that followed the battle was deafening. Halsin stood amidst the fallen, his eyes scanning the field until they found you. His heart clenched painfully in his chest as he approached your lifeless body, his expression a mask of stoic calm.

He knelt beside you, his large hands gently lifting you into his arms. The others watched in silence, their grief palpable, but it was Halsin's reaction that truly frightened them. There were no tears, no cries of anguish—just a terrifying, emotionless silence.

Halsin stood, cradling your body as if you were the most fragile thing in the world. Without a word, he turned and began walking towards the forest. The others called out to him, their voices filled with concern and confusion, but he did not respond.

He walked deeper into the forest, the shadows closing in around him. The sounds of the battle faded away, replaced by the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant calls of woodland creatures. Halsin's face remained impassive, but inside, a storm of emotions raged.

He carried you to a secluded glade, a place of peace and beauty. Gently, he laid you down on a bed of moss, his hands lingering on your face as he memorized every detail.

"I have failed you," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I should have protected you."

Halsin knelt beside you, his heart heavy with sorrow. He knew he would never return to the camp, never face the others again. His place was here, with you, in the quiet solitude of the forest.

Ngl when I did Halsin's all I could think about was him never being seen again and it developing into some kind of myth/legend about the druid in the woods forever mourning his beloved.

mwhahahaah

Hope you all liked it ! - Seluney xoxo

[silent-stories]

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader

Summary: Astarion fears that he is forcing you to spend the rest of your life in darkness.

Astarion was lying on the bed, next to you, his eyes were staring at an indefinite point on the ceiling and between his eyebrows there were a few more wrinkles, as if he was intensely thinking.

The inn room was comfortable, clean, and scented with lavender. It was nice to finally be able to spend a few days of peace after Cazador's death and sleep in a real bed, next to someone you loved.

You looked at his profile, the curve of his lips, the white curls on the pillow and some falling onto his forehead, the way his chest remained completely still, devoid of a beating heart and air in his lungs.

His ruby ​​eyes looked darker now that they were no longer in daylight and you found yourself thinking that you already missed the way they sparkled when hit by the sun's rays.

You glanced at the window in the room, the curtains were drawn so as not to let in the slightest bit of light, obviously. Ever since Astarion went back to not being able to be in the sunlight, you were always careful about that.

"Is something bothering you, Star?"

You already knew the answer, you knew him, but you didn't want to force any explanation.

"Don't you think you made the wrong choice?" He responded with another question, his voice low.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you think I am the wrong choice?" He continued speaking without looking at you, his pale hands lying one on his stomach and one on his side. You wanted to grab one, kiss his knuckles and play with his fingers in that way that always made him laugh no matter how hard he tried to hold it back.

You decided against it only because he seemed so deep in his thoughts that a sudden touch would start him. You knew that some types of physical contact were still new to him.

"Star-"

"I feel like I'm forcing you to spend the rest of your life in the dark, hiding."

"You're not forcing me, it was my decision to stay with you."

"This is exactly why I ask you: don't you think you made the wrong decision?"

"You will never be-"

He interrupted you.

"I want you to know that if at any moment you realize that this is not the life you want to live, that you are tired of hiding from the sun, I will understand.

And although I may never be ready to let you go, I will, because you deserve to live. You deserve to walk among people, village festivals, going through the markets, you deserve the sun's rays kissing your skin. And I don't want to deprive you of what you deserve, my love. I can't deprive you of living."

The way he spoke and the sincerity in his voice, devoid of any hint of sarcasm and irony, struck you in a way you couldn't quite place and left you speechless.

He was telling you to leave him for your own good.

"As much as I would like to have you next to me for eternity, I find it a too selfish idea. Even for me." He continued, "So I'm telling you, if one day I won't find you lying in bed next to me, don't feel guilty for running away from someone who was limiting you, who was forcing you into the darkness when you wanted to see the world.

I'll understand it. I won't lie and say I won't spend the rest of my days trying in vain to fill the void you left in me, but that won't change my mind. You deserve to live, my love. Not to hide."

He was saying you could go, even though it would cause him pain. That it was more important to know you were happy with someone else than unhappy with him. You wondered if there was a greater sign of love than this.

"My star."

The way you called him, maybe stirred something in him. He turned his head towards you and his gaze finally met yours, his red eyes were big, sad and full of affection.

“I would rather spend the rest of my life in the darkness with you than in the daylight with someone else.”

He slowly moved his body towards you, his hand gently brushing your hip and so you reached out to trace his features with your fingertips, brushing a curl away from his forehead.

You kept talking.

"The world is still alive when the sun goes down, we can go out and live with it. We can see how the moon reflects on the waves of the sea and on the surface of the lakes, we can walk in the woods that only we know, we can try to count the stars and invent new constellations."

His grip around you became firmer but still extremely gentle as he pushed you closer to his body. You put your arms around him in the same way and with your hand you caressed his back, aware that under the light fabric of his shirt, the scars of his past stood out on his skin.

You remembered the day he told you that it was okay, when you touched them, that they hadn't caused him physical pain in years and that, when he felt the tips of your fingers run gently over them, it was as if they were healing for a second time.

"I don't care what we do, as long as we're together. I'm not interested in running away from you because I don't want anyone else. You won't find my side of the bed empty one day, because that's the only place I want to be. You didn't force me to do anything, Star, it was my decision to be with you. And it will be my decision to stay with you every day to follow."

There was a moment of silence, then his lips curved into a slight smile. Almost invisible, but enough to show the tips of his white canines.

“You have always been so stubborn.” He murmured before leaving a kiss on your forehead. It was light and sweet and made you giggle.

"I think you like that."

"Just a bit."

"Just a bit?" You asked, pretending to be shocked.

"Mh-mh."

"Now don't you try to tell me that-"

When his cold lips met yours, you couldn't finish your sentence. The kiss was sweet, full of meaning and slower than usual.

Because in the end, you had all the time.

Because you weren't planning on leaving anytime soon.

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter six: leftovers

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Five |🩸 Chapter Seven (Coming Soon)

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi recalls what brought her to Baldur's Gate

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“No one will remember the dead queen in a few short generations, but a great lament might be sung a thousand years hence.”

-Libris Mortis

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

The mantra in Naomi's mind works as well as Astarion’s compulsion to remember. No matter how many times she repeats it, she can’t shed the raised-hair awareness tingling through her every inch. She can’t shake the realization settling stony in her stomach.

This isn’t a nightmare at all. All her life before must’ve been a slumber. This is as awake as she’s ever been. 

The very air of the room feathers over her arms, cool like the marble pressing against her back. She never realized, before, even having grown up in the Underdark, how many soft-crushed hues the shadows have. In the moonlight slanting in from the tall arched windows, Naomi sees at least a dozen glittering colors she doesn’t have names for.

She licks her wet lips, the lush taste of life bursting succulent on her tongue. Even her unbeating heart seems bathed in this sudden flood of feeling. She could run for miles without tiring, such is the vitality throbbing through her limbs. 

But instead, she cowers, tucking her knees tightly to her chest, too aware of the sticky coating on her skin. Of the sweat, tears, and blood painted there. She blinks feverishly, but the room is still scintillating in its saturation. There’s still vivid, crimson stains in the plush ivory rug blanketing the vestibule. And the pitcher is still painfully empty. It rolls to stillness nearby, not one drop left to leak from it.

Despite the dizzy state of her senses, cutting beneath the heady nature of them all is an ache. Longing. It’s not what she should feel, staring at the bloody mess she made, void of her husband’s company for the first time since this nightmare started. And yet, her gums pang with it. 

Will it always hurt? she wonders, grazing her new fangs with trembling fingers. The answer comes from an instinct within, but it feels entirely foreign to her -- like the snarl that slipped from her lips when Astarion tried to take the pitcher away.

No, it won’t. It didn’t hurt when she drank. For those few spellbound seconds, she didn’t feel anything but divine.

Now, she feels nothing but nauseous. With a sigh, Naomi peers down the narrow hall shrouded in steam. Astarion said there was a bath. 

Her senses tell her she could reach her destination in an instant -- power throbs within her bones. But the idea of moving at more than a snail’s pace makes her stomach lurch. So instead, she crawls down the corridor.

It feels like hours before she finally reaches the chamber at the hall’s other end. A vast monster of a tub awaits her there. The golden claws propping the tub above the floor belong to an ornately carved dragon clinging to the underside. At one end of the tub, a hissing plume of magic steams from the dragon’s maw, billowing against the porcelain. Naomi catches her own reflection in the pearly white sheen as she heaves herself upwards.

Experimentally she dips a toe. Heat prickles pleasantly across her skin. Hot, but not scalding. She casts a wary glance back at the empty vestibule and the bedroom beyond, then sheds her robe and the sheer nightgown beneath it. The bulky amethyst on her left ring finger won’t budge one bit. Resigned, she slips below the surface with it stuck stubbornly in place.

For mere seconds, the water clouds red. She frowns as it clears again. No trace of blood is left behind. It’s only her, stewing in the steam, peppered in freckles she recognizes, but a few stray, decidedly aged scars she doesn’t. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, her head swirls with a semi-sweet, familiar scent cloying in the air. Astarion’s cologne mills in it, but it’s softened with floral notes -- lavender -- that inexplicably soothe her.

Once she’s scrubbed clean, she lets her head loll back against the tub’s edge. Gods above, the whole ceiling’s a mirror. For a vampire, Astarion’s awfully fond of them. But then, Astarion doesn’t seem bound by the same rules as the vampires she’s heard tales of before. And by association, it seems, neither does she. A familiar stranger with cherry-red eyes scowls down at her.

It’s then that she hears it: the faintest echo of a song, played on some far-away piano, close and far all at once like a teasing breeze. She can nearly taste the lyrics dancing, bittersweet, on the tip of her tongue.

The song carries her mind away to a world where her eyes were still violet, down the path of the scar that curls across her nose. Her fingertips find it now, skimming its thin trail as if she could so easily retrace the path that led her here. Her mind tries to, like following faded pencil marks on aged paper. Memories that should have been recent, but now wear the dust of three years she can’t account for.

A hairline slice of sunlight used to cut across the hot springs near her Underdark home for no more than a few minutes each day. What a mighty blade the sun must be, to delve to such depths. Someday, Naomi would think, each time she saw that searing razor appear and then vanish again. Someday, she would see the surface.

Someday, the waterfalls by the temple seem to whisper.

There was no lightning strike moment marking the day where ‘someday’ became ‘now, or never’. It wasn’t the twentieth funeral she sang for or some other macabre milestone. It wasn’t the first or last time the temple would lose members to the Lolth-sworn. They weren’t the closest friends she had lost. The color of their blood on the stone wasn’t what sent her away from the Eilistraeean temple that raised her. 

It felt cumulative; every drop of blood her kin shed at the hands of Lolth-sworn, the duergar, and all the Underdark’s other dangers weighed down the scales over time. Nearing her one hundred and twentieth year, Naomi began to see her life from the bottom side of the hour glass.

Drow can live just as long as any other elves, in theory. Down in the Underdark, they hardly ever do. She didn’t want to die for something righteous, like her parents and their cult did, like her brother would have wanted her to. Like so many of the temple’s residents had and would. 

And in a way, wouldn’t ascending like the birds tattooed on her cheek be honoring her parents, after all? Sure, she didn’t manage to ‘pray the drow away’ like they’d hoped. But wouldn’t seeing the surface they made such a fuss about be the next best thing?

Naomi wanted to live, out in the light, singing songs bathed in it. So, she left while she still could.

The surface greeted her with the glare of the sun setting her skin alight, branding it with a shade she’d never seen herself in. And so many freckles, she was sure it had to be death pox. Sure her adventure to the surface had ended before it had truly begun. Sure she would die in the bed of the first inn she could find, shivering in scratchy, flea-bitten blankets with only the sound of her own retching for company.

Except, the inn she happened upon happened to have a bard. On the day when Naomi’s fever reached its apex, that bard played the flute.

The tune crept beneath her door, curious and lilting. The song caressed Naomi gently, like a hand stroking her back and wicking the sweat from her forehead. Soothing, in its sweetness. She can’t remember for the life of her how that song goes, only that it saved her from certain death.

The sun sickness burned fiercely, and then faded. When, finally, her legs could bear to wobble from the room, she learned her bardic savior was another drow. Her name was Melle. She’d never seen the Underdark before. Naomi had never seen anyone half as pretty in her entire life.

“I’ve never known anyone who plays like that,” Melle told her, after their first performance together.

“Like what?” Naomi asked.

“Like you’re trying to haunt everyone here. It’s a tavern, love, not a fucking funeral.”

So Naomi practiced her fingering. Her vocals. She refined all of her arts with precision and care until even her harshest critic would cry for her. 

Please, please.

And when she stroked her fiddle, night after night, the coin fell into her cups and Melle fell into her bed.

“How about now?” Naomi asked when they’d finished one evening, and sent the last barfly staggering home. “Am I still haunting you?”

Melle shrugged with a coy smile. “I think you’d fare fine with one of those acting troupes in the Gate.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re great at playing a part.”

“You think I’m faking?” Naomi laughed. “I know you didn’t, love.”

“I think,” Melle said, twining her wrists behind Naomi’s neck, “you should play something that’s really you.”

Naomi doesn’t remember what song they played their last night together. But she knows the melody that patters through the palace by heart. It came from hers, after all. 

And Astarion knows it, too. She sinks deeper into the tub with a growing unease. If he knows that song… Perhaps he had something to do with what happened next.

Naomi was always shit at the lute, but it’s easier to sing with than a fiddle. So she strummed a few quiet chords, and let her lips pour with the song she wrote for her summertime lover. 

And when her song was over, it was all over. The look Melle gave her wasn’t just unaffected. It was unfeeling. Cold. Callous. Indifferent. She left that way, without so much as a word.

For a tenday, Naomi was the inn’s sole player. The proprietor was furious at first, but came around when they saw the coin that came in droves for Naomi on her own. More than she and Melle ever made together. 

Naomi danced. She played. She drank. She laughed. She was over it, of course. Melle was just the first pretty person she saw on the surface. She’d seen precious little of it, even after all her plans and anticipation. There would be prettier people. Better sights and songs. Come summer’s end, she'd set out to see it all herself.

Maybe she’d fare fine with one of those theater troupes in Baldur’s Gate.

But then--

Melle’s face in the late night crowd.

“You came back!” Naomi gasped. Melle’s arms were rigid as swords, but she swooned into them anyway. She didn’t see her lover’s eyes glinting with steel while hers were blurred.

She didn’t feel the chill until Melle spoke, her words flat. Lifeless.

“You stole from me.”

The dagger  flashed across Naomi’s face. Her scream tore from her throat like a page ripped from its binding. All the color, the laughter, the light of the tavern sloughed away with that sound. Torn off like a mask. 

Gone were the inn’s patrons, its hearth, its warmth. In an instant, all of it was snuffed to gray, permeating silence. Naomi stood at the heart of the husk that remained in its stead. Thick dust coated the vacant tables, as if no one had stood there in a century.

But it was real. Naomi staggered to the cracked mirror nailed to the wall, swiping it clean with her sleeve. The new scar on her nose still glistened, red and raw. Fresh from Melle’s dagger, lying discarded with her flute among the other leftovers. Here and there, such trinkets rested, faded or rusted like ill-tended antiques. Yet she couldn’t find a single body. Not one other soul. 

Her eyes dropped to her quivering hands. There wasn’t one speck of blood on them, but still they were stained. Black marks crawled from her fingertips to her wrists, like ink filling her veins. 

When she stumbled out into the night, the crickets still hummed. Little flickers of candlelight still quivered in the windows of the nearby village. She whirled around, and the dark windows of the empty inn glared back at her like empty sockets in a skull. In that numb moment of disbelief, Naomi thought of Calaerys, of the way her brother’s very skin seemed to dissolve in the wake of her shriek, of the moment he became nothing but bone before her.

She fled back beneath the ground, back to the Underdark, where she never meant to leave again. Except when she arrived, she found her temple buried. A rockfall. All that was left of her home was rocks, bones, and…her.

She’s not sure how many eulogies she’s given. How many friends she buried. But she remembers her last lament keenly. It was the last song she ever sang. She laid her kin to rest, and surfaced again with a solemn swear: no soul left alive had ever heard her sing, and she’d never sing for another. Not again. Not ever.

She set off for the Gate. To play a different part. To start a different story. One she’s apparently missing many chapters of. Naomi swirls a finger in the water as the last notes of her song slip fluidly into some moody melody she doesn’t recognize. 

Did she sing for Astarion? Did she break her promise for him? For her…husband? Does she haunt him, too? 

Does the devil she met along the way to the Gate have anything to do with her broken recollection? His name is scalded in the back of her mind: Raphael.

She can’t be sure how much time passes, soaking and dwelling. Maybe it’s the nature of eternity, to lose track of hours as if only minutes have passed. The water never cools, and her skin never seems to prune, either. 

The distant music from elsewhere in the palace is a welcome sort of company. Less so is the second sussur bloom humming in the far corner. She briefly contemplates ripping it out, root and stem, but she isn’t certain the sudden flow of the weave back into the room won’t cause Astarion to be immediately alerted. Instead, she lets the music lull her, even if her connection to it feels muted.

Birdsong breaks through her fogged mind. Sunrise bleeds scarlet over the marble floor. She jerks up abruptly, water sloshing over the sides as she stands and clenches the edge of the tub. Astarion said he’d return in the morning. She’d rather he not find her waiting naked. Not in a bath clearly big enough for two.

Her stomach flips as she looks up. Nothing and no one stares back at her from the mirror overhead. Even her reflection has left her. Naomi’s legs wobble, slipping on the slick marble. She flops from the bath like an overcooked noodle.

Grimacing, she pulls herself upright with limbs like jelly. All the strength surging through her before seems entirely sapped from her body. A strange, gnawing feeling wakes in her stomach, a familiar dryness prickling at the back of her throat.

It wasn’t enough; Astarion will bid her to drink blood again when he returns. Something more fitting for her palate, he said. He was hardly keen on bargaining to begin with. He’s even less likely to entertain the idea, this time.

And she’s not keen on fighting him anymore -- on that matter, at least. She can pretend it’s wine. Be civilized.

Once it’s in her mouth, it puts anything else to shame, anyway. If it means being strong enough, or sharp enough, to seize an opportunity to slip from the room, or the palace altogether, then it’s necessary.

Still, her stomach twists as the sight of the bloody handprints, drying dark in the vestibule’s fur rug. She finds her robe, and a plush black towel, and surveys the macabre scene she left behind.

Nobody died. Here. Either Astarion keeps his supply captive, or, someone did die. In a different room.

She’s not precious about death. Or a stranger to it. No child of the Underdark is. But she’s not exactly keen on slaughter or slavery, either. Those are the hobbies of the Lolth-sworn, not Eilistraee’s followers. She eyes the empty pitcher warily. That…couldn’t have been a whole person, could it?

It’s not an answer she’s likely to find staring at it. She turns her attention to finding clothes instead. There’s a shut door on either side of the short hallway leading from the vestibule to the bathing chamber. Experimentally, she pushes one. It opens readily. Warily, she steps inside.

She’s not sure what she expected to find, exactly, but it wasn’t a sewing closet. Well, ‘closet’ is a significant understatement. Studio would be more apt. Naomi paces the bolts of fabric that line the wall on one side of the room, her fingertips periodically grazing over silk and satin. The opposite wall is comprised entirely of dark polished drawers. She peers inside of one to find dozens of glinting needles. Another is filled with nothing but spools of black thread. Others hold more thread, along with ribbons and pins, in all manner of colors.

There’s a heavy, ornate desk at the heart of the room with a mess of sketches strewn across it. A mannequin poses in front of the desk, a half-finished skirt of midnight velvet clinging to its waist. Hesitantly, she drifts closer, picking up the parchment at the top of the stack.

The nausea rears its head again. The back of her throat burns. She drops the pages, as if burnt by them, and leaves the room briskly. She shoves into the door on the other side of the hall.

Well, she won’t be spoiled for choice. Inside the closet -- which is the same size as the vestibule itself -- hang dozens upon dozens of glittering gowns, slinky shifts, and low-cut garments of every shade and sheen. Those that resemble anything modest are adorned in swirling, shimmering embellishments. Her fingers graze several gowns as she passes, sure all that lace has to itch something awful. But everything she touches practically melts into her fingers. 

She frowns, her mind racing. Surely he doesn’t…make all these himself? He hardly seems the sort to be bothered with labor.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle with unease. A figure lurks in her periphery. She spins about to face the intruder, stomach lurching. 

It’s…only another mannequin. The groan of relief she lets out sounds more like a growl. Her glare gradually softens as she studies the rather imposing figure poised at the center of the room. The wood is painted -- she recognizes the shade of bluish lilac. The mannequin wears a pristine set of scale mail and leather armor. She recognizes the colors of the dyed leather, too: deep burgundy, and bright turquoise. Just like the bedding in the other chamber. There’s even an ivory wig atop its head, braided back into a bun. Sheepishly, she tucks her own damp hair behind her ears.

This is supposed to be her. Unless it isn’t, and her vampire just has a fetish for a particular look of drow. Vaguely, she recalls stories of another vampire -- Strahd -- with a similar obsession. That might explain all the sketches of her in his sewing room.

But then, Astarion hasn’t called her by any other name. And those colors happen to be her favorite. They remind her of home. Of simmering hot springs, colorful stalactites, and bright mushrooms. They’re the most frequent colors among the many garments surrounding her.

There’s a second mannequin, clad in decorative leathers. They’re not as ostentatious as what Astarion, apparently, wears on most days. Practical, but still pretty, with a ruffled collar and sleeves. The other side of the room seems to house Astarion’s clothes. It’s hard to say which side has more.

She finds smallclothes in a polished dresser near the mannequins. Though, there seem to be sparingly few to choose from. And what choices she has leave sparingly little to be desired. Strangely, in her search for underwear, she encountered drawer after drawer filled with evening gloves. The vampire has strange priorities.

Sighing, she shifts through several selections on the racks, relieved to see they’re not all ball gowns. There’s a few outfits that seem suited for travel -- fine black leathers and fanned lace collars. All very vampiric. There’s a spattering of doublets and trousers, too. Similar to what Astarion wore before, but tailored for a different figure. 

The rather simple dress shirt hanging between two backless numbers sticks out like a sore thumb. She pulls it from the hanger, rubbing the cream-colored fabric between her fingertips. There's a storied nature to it, written in the subtle stitches outside the seams. It must’ve been mended a time or two. The ruffled collar isn’t out of fashion per se, but seeing it among such pristine, ostentatious ensembles, it looks to be from another life entirely. 

Someone else’s. Not a vampire lord, ruling from his castle. Naomi can empathize. She doesn't belong here, either. Or, maybe it's simply her bardic nature drawing her to the only garment here that seems to have any history besides hanging in wait.

The once-fine shirt is big on her, but she finds a strange sense of solidarity, of comfort, in tucking it into a pair of too-long, belted leather trousers, and tightening the criss-crossing strings across the breast for some semblance of modesty.

And not a moment too soon. She feels the quiet knock on the door like it's pounding against her own ribs. Naomi staggers hastily into the narrow hall, a sudden flurry of nerves leaving her lightheaded.

Astarion surveys her from the open archway into the bedroom, her own bloody handprints paving a path across the rug between them. It shouldn’t surprise her that he’s already entered the room soundlessly. That he’s already there, awaiting her. Still, her stomach flips as their eyes meet. His wide ones match the carmine color of the stains she left.

And, somehow, he looks to be the one startled by the sight of her.

“You--”

His eyes scan her up and down, his jaw slack for a moment before he collects it from the floor.

“You sweet, sweet thing.”

His smirk blooms into a full, sharp-toothed smile. Naomi blinks feverishly. It’s like the clothes she chose dissolve altogether beneath his hooded gaze. She crosses her arms over her chest, abruptly uncrossing them as she realizes the motion only offered him better view of her breasts and why did she pick this thing to wear anyways, it doesn’t even fit, it--

She freezes. His stomach quivers with a chuckle she can only surmise is at her expense. 

Oh no.

A/N: So, more backstory. But maybe more questions than answers for now. 👀

I am so sorry this one took me so long! I switched gears for a while to work on another fic, Dhampir Dreams (go check it out if you need a fix of breeding smut!), and then life got hectic. This chapter ended up splitting in half on me so the good news is, I already have a bit of the next one written!

More time with Astarion coming next chapter. And then an Astarion POV chapter after that. 👀 HUGE thank you to my beloved @amoremagnificentbastard for doing a final read-through, being just a fountain of support, and an overall stellar human who I am blessed to call friend.

Thanks for reading, I hope life is being kind to you!

[chloesolace]

Hello! May I request an Astarion x reader?

Reader is a happy girl who likes to help others. However, they help others because they feel inadequate. Astarion notices they slip into a depressive episode (which at first, they hid well), and comfort ensues. If possible, could s/h or s/h scars be included? In need of some comfort. (No suggestiveness, please).

Thank you!

Moonlight - Astarion x Reader

summary: You meet Astarion at night while the others are sleeping, and he quickly realizes something is wrong. He was been observing you rather closely, which makes it hard to hide your pain from him, but you quickly realize that perhaps you do not need to hide from him after all.

pairing: Astarion x Reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: mentions of self-harm, scars

a/n: Thank you so much for this request <3 and I hope that you are well, anon. I hope that this story gives you some comfort.

Masterlist - Discord Server - Request Info

The sky had long turned dark, illuminated only by the stars and moon, their distorted reflections staring back at you from the surface of the river. Around you, crickets chirped, and a handful of fireflies danced underneath the soft glow of the moon. You turned your head to the side, staring at the dark grass beneath your feet as you exhaled deeply.

Your party had set up camp nearby since the river was a good source of food and fresh water. Now, everyone lay asleep in their tents. You had tried to sleep, feeling it tear at your eyelids mockingly, yet your body had never allowed you to drift off, keeping you awake for reasons you could not fathom. After what felt like hours, you gave up and decided to seek solace by the water. It often calmed you when you were nervous or sad, but tonight was different. 

“Did you want to go fishing? I fear it might be too late in the night for that,” a voice behind you said, causing you to tense. You turned to find Astarion, an amused smile on his face. You averted your gaze, wrapping your arms around your upper body.

Astarion clicked his tongue and took a step toward you. “Silence? Come on, darling, you’re more interesting than that.” 

“I’m in no mood, Astarion,” you said hesitantly, hoping your words wouldn't anger him. Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and brushed past him, leaving the riverbank. Perhaps some fresh air would help you fall asleep easier now.

"Hey, wait," he said, his voice more serious than before. When you didn't stop, he continued, "(y/n). Please."

Your steps faltered, and you breathed out, turning your head in his direction. Astarion stared back at you, letting the silence between you stretch for an awkward moment as you looked at him expectantly. Mentally exhausted, you didn't attempt to initiate conversation, keeping silent until he spoke again.

"I didn't want you to feel like you have to leave," he said, any hint of teasing playfulness from earlier vanishing from his voice. A firefly circled behind him, and you kept your eyes locked on it until it flew away, meeting his gaze only when it did.

"It's okay," you replied with a raspy, quiet voice and a dry throat. A shiver ran down your spine as a breeze enveloped you both, too cool for your simple garments. The nights were getting colder, a sign that you were moving further north.

"You do this a lot, you know," Astarion remarked as he lowered himself to a fallen-over tree trunk, sitting down and observing you. You furrowed your eyebrows as you studied him, arms crossed in front of your chest.

"Do what?" you asked.

He made a gesture in the air that pointed to you from head to toe, an elegant twirl of his fingers. Yet, his serious gaze remained fixed on you. "It's like you fall into this void sometimes. Your eyes become empty, and your face paler." He paused, seemingly trying to find ways to put it into words. "It seems as though you stop feeling for a moment."

You swallowed, blinking away the threatening tears as you noticed him pat the empty spot next to him. His eyes found yours again, pleading. Once, you had thought his red irises to be menacing and fearful, but now you realized that after spending all this time with him, having him save your life again and again, you found comfort in them. It calmed you to look at him, the way his gaze softened when his eyes landed on you, no matter what kind of enemy you were fighting. The way he had made you feel safe when you kissed first, and you had done the same for him.

Still, you hesitated, before you sat down next to him, resting your hands in your lap as you stared out at the water. You hadn’t shown him your vulnerable sides yet, and today was one of those nights where everything weighed heavily upon your shoulders. You watched as dragonflies created small waves when they touched the surface, distorting the image of the moon further. Pressing your lips together in a fine line, you dropped your head.

"I know what it's like to feel like you're not enough, you know," he whispered, his gaze settling on the faraway trees behind the river. Their crowns blended into a large, dark wall of leaves that occasionally rustled in the wind. You did not look up but listened intently.

"You try to fill these gaps by giving to others what you wish you could receive yourself," he said, not in an accusatory tone but a calm, observing one. There was resonance in his voice, too. You dug your fingers into the hard bark of the trunk you were sitting on, your breathing becoming more shallow as you continued fighting tears. A hand on your shoulder made you tense.

You turned to look at Astarion, his gaze soft as he observed you with empathy. It was a side of him you didn't see often. Your hand pressed against your chest, where your heart was located. It was as if it was physically aching, causing your upper body to cower in defeat.

"I sometimes feel like no matter what I do, it's never enough," you said through sobs, not caring about the tears falling from your cheeks anymore. "I can't make anyone happy, and everyone leaves me. It's like I'm cursed."

Raising your arm to wipe your tears, your sleeve fell, revealing several thin lines of elevated skin on your forearm. They differed in color from your regular skin tone. Some were old, almost faded, while others still had dry blood on them.

His jaw tensed as his eyes locked on the scars, his hand reaching for yours. "(y/n)," he said in a low voice, placing a hand on your cheek to turn your head towards him, capturing your eyes with his. 

"You are possibly the most remarkable person I have ever met. You have a kind heart, the kindest I know. Those who do not recognize your worth do not deserve to stay in your life. You give so much of yourself to others, but don't forget that you need some gentleness yourself. You—" His voice broke for a second, and he averted his gaze as he seemingly looked for the right words. Then, he looked at you again, his eyes determined. 

"You are the hero I always wished for. My only regret is that the Gods have kept you from me for so long."

You sniffled, cupping his cheek for a moment before pulling him into a tight hug, burying your face in his neck. You inhaled his scent and felt his protective arms around you. He was not ready to let you go.

"I will not leave you, (y/n)," he said, as if to underline your thoughts. "Loving others is always easier than loving oneself. Perhaps we can teach each other how to do the latter."

You hugged him more tightly, enjoying the moment for a second before pulling away to meet his eyes; they were filled with worry. Lips curling up into a soft smile, you stroked his cheek gently, nodding at him.

"Yes," you said finally, your voice hoarse from having cried and barely talked, yet your words were not any less significant. "Yes, I believe we can." Your hand brushed over his back, feeling his own scars beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. He had shown you them before, and opened up to you about their origin. You had been there for him then, much like he was there for you now.

The night continued, and you and Astarion sat by the river, holding each other. The silence that followed was comfortable, despite both of your scars lying bare. The moon hung low, still casting reflections on the water as the rustle of the leaves whispered to you. Astarion held you tightly, and you finally felt safe enough to close your eyes and lean your head on his shoulder. Sleep took you soon after, and your spirit finally seemed at ease, even if just for tonight. 

[anacdoce]

New beginnings Chapter 2 - A Promise

The screenshot above is from @iizven, who kindly gave me permission to use it.

Pairing: Astarion x you (f!reader, implied sorcerer with no magic anymore)

Rating: T

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: post game events; fluff; Astarion is trying his best; a bit of angst to spice it all; sequel of "I wish" and so Astarion is mortal again.

Summary: Unintentionally, Astarion ruined your plans for the New Year's Eve. Will he be able to make it up to you?

a/n: This story continues to have a special place in my heart, and I'm very glad I was able to give it more from me. And who knows what tomorrow can bring us? 😏

Again, happy New Year to everyone!

Lots of love! ❤️

Previous chapter

Read on oa3

A few hours later, you are thrown into a prison cell to spend the night and who knows for how long more. 

Once the guards move away from the dungeon, you start to frantically examine everything in the cell, searching for some weak spots for you to escape. After a while you finally move your attention to Astarion again, who is patiently waiting for it, sitting on the only bench present in that cold, disgusting cell. And he just knows what you’re going to ask him next. One more hole for him to bury himself. One more disappointment…

“Well, what are you waiting for? Why are you not trying to pick the lock of the cell’s door?” 

Astarion sighs deeply, clearing his throat next. “I don’t have any lockpicking tools with me, Darling.” His voice, very low.

“What?” You frown, trying to understand what he just answered you.

“I don’t have any lockpicking tools. I left them in my backpack… at the inn.” He admits, embarrassed.

“You what?” The exasperation showing in your face. “But you always carry some with you! Always!”

“Well, apparently not today.” He replies, a little bit more harsher than he intended.

You show him a very displeased and angry grimace. And you have all the right to it. It’s nothing like him, he’s always prepared. But… lately he’s been finding himself a little more… relaxed. You make him feel like that… you offer him a perfect life at your side, and he sometimes lets his guard down, because it feels good to be able to just savor the life at your side, his and your new life. 

Walking to the railings of the cell, you grip them and stand there for a while, staring out into the dim corridor of the dungeon. After some time, a frustrated voice escapes your mouth. “If only I could get us out of here…” You raise one trembling hand to the level of your eyes, contemplating it. “I can’t do anything… Not even a simple dimension door to save us from this mess. I’m useless…” 

Oh, no… He won’t allow you to say things like that. “Please, Love, that’s not true. And you know it.” He lifts from the bench and takes an hesitant step toward you.

“I don’t! I feel empty! All I feel is this numbness in my fingers, making me remember everyday what I lost!” Your cruel words, hitting his heart without mercy. All because of him.

He stays in the same place, frozen, glued to the ground, blinking repeatedly, his eyes staring into the void, while you wave a hand to the side, dismissively while retreating to a corner of the cell to curl into yourself, looking at the small window on that cubicle you’re trapped in, watching the snow fall. 

Is he not enough? Apparently not. How could he have ever thought he would be? 

Astarion lowers his head, defeated. His hurting beating heart, remembering him that this is all because of it. This is all because you sacrificed everything to give him the blessing of a mortal life. But he’s starting to believe that maybe this is not a blessing after all. He knew this day would come… 

Turning to you, he glares at your trembling body, huddled against the bitter cold of the ground. He never saw you like that. Not even when you faced the Elder Brain were you like that. Not even then, when the odds were not in your favor you let the fear consume you. You never let your determination falter, your strength, your willingness to fight. He learned so much with you… and even so, here you are, broken.

And that hurts him way more than your cold words.

If only I could give you your magic back…

But he can’t. Can’t he? 

Slowly, he takes off his coat and approaches you, wrapping the warm fabric from his body around your shoulders. And when he’s about to leave you alone again, you hold him by his ankle. 

“Please stay.” You plead, your voice, failing. “I’m so sorry, Astarion… I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” And instantly he crumbles at your side nestling around your arms.

“Shh, my dear. I understand. No need to apologize.” He tries to comfort you.

“No! I was mean… and you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve any of this…” You sob against his shoulder, your fingernails digging into his back, grasping his shirt tightly. 

He doesn’t respond to you. You don’t need any answer. Instead he let you cry, just like you let him countless times in the past, and still do, when his mind insists on playing tricks on him. And you’re always there for him, as he is for you. Always.

A wave of affection invades him, and he needs you even closer to him. Crossing his legs, he lifts you from the ground and places you on his lap, your head on his chest, offering you the comforting sound of his heart, like you do for him when he needs it the most. And he embraces you, like he never wants to let you go again, cradling you gently.

“I’ve been on edge lately…” You admit, after a while, your voice steadier. “Ever since we left Waterdeep, to be more precise.”

Replaying your last weeks in his mind he remembers that you definitely have been more grumpier than ever, so it makes sense. “Do you want to return to Waterdeep?” Astarion asks. He doesn't want to go. He just wants to be with you for a while, he just wants to enjoy your life together again, to savor his freedom, his true freedom from his curse… he just wants to live everything that life has to offer, with you. But if that is what you want, what you need, he will not hesitate to give some steps back and return to Waterdeep.

“No, I don’t want it.” You lift your head looking for his eyes. “I swear. I just want… you. I want us to live our lives, to go on our adventures together like we planned to. And that’s why I’ve been like this, because I’m not what I used to be. I feel fragile, I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing, I feel like I can’t help you when you need me.” He sees your lips trembling, the sorrow is real and your suffering is his. If he could take all that from you he would. He would carry all of your wounds alone, just to spare you from that shadow over your shoulders.

You once told him that you would do anything for him. And you did, and you do. But what you don’t know is what he’s capable of doing for you…

Is it possible for him to love you more than he did the day before? Because he does. 

“You? Fragile? Do you even know what you’re talking about? You’re the most fearless woman I have ever met.” His hand, cupping your face, caressing your soft wet skin.

“I’m not…” You try to hide your face in his chest again but he doesn’t concede it to you.

“My love, some months ago you were fighting for your life, tied to a bed, unconscious for weeks, because you chose me above yourself. You, my brave beautiful woman, chose to give me life even if that meant taking yours away. It was your choice. Yours. I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, because I was so afraid of losing you, as I still am. I was a coward because I was so scared. But you weren’t. Because you’re not fragile. You’re the most courageous woman I have ever known.” A single tear rolls down your cheek, and he catches it with his lips, kissing you. He then presses his forehead against yours, muttering, “I really understand how frustrating it must be… your magic, part of your identity, is gone, and you feel lost. But please, let me help you to find your way again. Let me take care of you as you have always cared for me. Let me amend this tragic New Year’s Eve…” 

You let out a small laugh, making his lips curve into a smile. “It’s really tragic, Astarion…” You look around the cell, catching the sounds of people in the street celebrating. “No but, really… I was silly to think that celebrating it properly would bring me some comfort. The whole story of getting a lantern and asking for things for the new year to come… I thought I could get some closure. As if anything like that would make me feel better…” And you rest your head against his shoulder.

Placing a hand on your head, caressing your hair, he closes his eyes, swaying his head to the side to meet yours. “You’re not silly… I mean, you are. But there is nothing silly about that, Sweetheart. And if I wasn’t so eager to please you, to make your night unforgettable, we wouldn’t be here and you could have had all that… I ruined it, and I’m sorry.”

“Well, it sure is unforgettable, Star.” And you giggle again. “But nothing is ruined. Because in the middle of all that I understood that it doesn’t matter how I spend the last night of the year. As long as all the new years to come I can be at your side, holding your hand, nestling in your lap when I need the most, as I’m doing right now. As long as I’m with you, nothing, and I mean, nothing else matters.” 

How can he possibly feel anything but love for you? You, who constantly remind him that he has the most precious thing in the whole world. You really don’t need any jewels. No tiara could match your true beauty, and he was a fool to think otherwise. But he learned his lesson. There are more important things to worry about. There are more important things to be done. He knows that now.

Again, he holds you close, softly inhaling your scent, and making secret wishes for the new year to come. And you stay like that, lost in time, wrapped in each other’s arms, while he feels your breathing getting steadier and getting deeper as the time goes by. 

The screams of joy, the sounds of happy laughter from outside are fading, and the celebrations have ended. The New Year has already started. 

But the most urgent matter is still to be resolved. How in the hells are we going to get out of here? 

The more he thinks about it, the more he feels his body getting heavier, his mind wanting to shut down. Well, I can think about that in the morning. It’s not like I’ll have anything else to do… 

Snuggling into you, he closes his eyes ready to begin his trance, when suddenly, an idea sparks in his mind. He straightens up against the wall instantly and stares at you, peacefully sleeping in his arms. It’s a crime to wake you up. He knows you need to rest, but… this is the perfect time to escape. 

“Love.” He whispers, gently shaking your shoulder, but you don’t move. “I’m sorry, my dear.” He murmurs again, shaking you more firmly this time. 

“Hmm? What is it?” You stir, opening your eyes, confused.

“Sorry, Darling, but we need to get out of here.” 

“Yes… all right.” You rub your eyes, yawning. “But… you told me you don’t have any lockpicking tools.” You mumble.

“Well, I don’t. But you have. Or at least, a sort of…” Astarion glares at you, smirking, while you frown at him.

You lean back, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. “What are you talking about?” 

“Your bra. Give me your bra.” He requests, his hand extended.

“My bra?” You shout incredulously. “Now it’s not the time, Astarion!”

“No, no! Not that.” He chuckles, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t mind taking a bite of you. But no, I actually need your bra.” And he keeps his hand in front of your face, waiting.

Reluctantly and mumbling, you pull your arms out of your sleeves, and after some struggle under your shirt you finally deliver the bra to Astarion. As soon as he grabs it, he starts fidgeting with it, finding what he was looking for. You shift off his lap, sitting beside him, watching him, while he wrestles with that torture instrument. He lost count of how many times he asked you to not use it… such perfect breasts deserve to be free all the time, and he really doesn't appreciate seeing you with all those fancy lingeries. Because… truth be told, he doesn’t have time to appreciate it. When you take off your clothes he just wants to see your bare skin, your beautiful naked body waiting for him. And that thing just gets in the way… but he’s glad you were using it right now.

Finally, he finds a weak spot on the fabric, but before proceeding he turns to you. “Can I destroy it?” He asks, raising one eyebrow.

“It’s one of my bests… Is it really necessary?” You look at that devilish piece of clothing with so much pity in your eyes making him roll his own eyes.

“Yes, Darling. It’s an utmost necessity. Believe me.” He places a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it.

Resigned, you nod, and with no more delay he returns his attention to the bra. Lets force it here. The sound of stitches breaking. Then he manipulates it a little more, forcing again in the same spot. And here it is! 

“The wire!” You exclaim, widening your eyes.

“Exactly!” And he gazes at it like it is the most precious jewel he ever saw, he gazes at it like he did at the tiara some hours ago.

After that, everything happens smoothly. Astarion works on the door lock with the wire, and with no surprises, and no difficulty, he opens it in a blink of an eye. Holding your hand, he leads you through the dungeon corridor in silence and with no setbacks you reach outside. The guards, as he predicted, are slumped against walls or sprawled on the floor sleeping profoundly with their bottles of wine laying next to them, empty. A perfect night to escape from a prison, because everyone celebrates the New Year, don’t they? 

At least almost everyone. Astarion really didn’t care for it before, it was a night like all the others, one more night to cross off on his lost eternity. Not anymore. Discreetly he gazes at you, walking by his side, following his lead, and in that moment he decides that from that day onwards he will celebrate all the New Years to come.

Outside, after the snowfall from the night, everything is painted white, the streets are silent and the sky is clear, starting to brighten with the sun that is almost rising. What a perfect day to begin a new year. And instantly he looks everywhere, searching for something. He must, and he will give you the most unforgettable first day of the year. With no effort he finds what he needs a few steps ahead from him, half hidden in the snow. Astarion strides towards it, crouching beside it, brushing the snow from the mysterious object.

“What are you doing, Love?” You inquire, curiously.

“I’m just giving you the opportunity to make your wish, my sweet.” And he lifts a lantern from the ground, still covered with some snow.

You open your mouth, surprised. “My wish? But I can’t make any more wishes…” Your voice, trembling with emotion.  

My silly little girl. 

Smiling softly, he leans to you and kisses your forehead, tenderly. “Come, Darling. The sun is almost rising.” 

With you by his side, like always, he runs through the snowy streets, with one destiny in mind. And he reaches it just in time. Near the docks, there is a small beach he had spotted when you arrived. The perfect place to watch the sun rise.

When you arrive there, he leads you near the water, and sets aside his boots, and you do the same, still puzzled, not knowing what he’s doing, but nonetheless trusting him, making his heart swell with affection. 

Facing the horizon, the ruthless sea from the north is strangely calm at that moment, and he can see the sun starting to appear. The sun… for so long he was robbed from his warmth, and now he’s there, waiting for it, waiting for you to make a wish.

Lifting the lantern in the air he stares at you. “Make your wish, Sweetheart.” He whispers tenderly.

“But the lantern has no light on it, Star.” You say.

At that moment the sun rises from behind the sea, its shining rays passing through the glass of the lantern, making all the drops of water from the melted snow shine, reflecting its light, making it glow like a starlit sky. “Not anymore, my love.” He smiles, softly.

A tear rolls down your cheek, as you look from him to the lantern. He knows that if he was still able to hear your heart he would be hearing it sprinting like a wild horse, making his own heart want to run after along. 

“I wish never to wish for anything else.” You finally confess your wish to the lantern as you place a hand above it, making Astarion look at you puzzled. Then you fill your chest with air, straightening your shoulders, resolution spread on your face. You smile, and you proceed, “Everything I truly wished for I already have. I don’t need anything else. And that is my final wish.” You run your hand through his hair, entangling your fingers in the strands of his hair, caressing his head. 

Is this really happening? Am I truly all you wish for? 

He keeps staring at you, fascinated, questioning himself over and over how someone like him can be so lucky, his racing mind bringing him back all the memories where you told him countless times that your love for him is way more valuable than anything else.

“And you? Don’t you have any wish for the new year to come?” You interrupt his thoughts.

Returning to the present, he chuckles at your question. “Oh, Darling, but I already asked for my wish, while I was holding my most precious light in my arms during the night.” He pinches your nose, gently. And how beautiful you are with your cheeks all flushed, gazing at him with your shining eyes. “But since you insist…” 

Holding the lantern with both hands he opens it, bringing it closer to his mouth afterwards. “I wish…” He whispers to the inside of the glassy lantern.

When he’s done, he closes it again, trapping inside his wish. 

“Now, let's give our wishes to the sea, Darling.” Astarion holds your hand again, walking to the water.

“Why? There’s no need, Star… There is nothing about that in the tradition.” You say, following him.

“I know. But I want the sea to carry away my wish, to take it to wherever it needs to go to be fulfilled.” He places the lantern in the water. “If it’s not on this land, then in another. I don’t care where. I just want to know where to go. And I will know. And I will have my wish granted.”

Wrapping his arm around your back he brings you close to him, resting his head above yours, while you both watch the lantern, fogged by his breath, fogged with his wish, float in the water, drifting away slowly from you.

“What did you wish for, Astarion?” You ask, after a while.

I wished to give you back all you have lost. I wished to do for you, what you did for me. I wished to give you everything from me. And I will do it. I will make it happen.

I promise.

“Now, now… you have to wait and see, Darling.” 

You turn to him, hanging your both arms around his neck, kissing him with your soft lips. “Happy New Year, my shining star.” You murmur. 

Embracing you, he nestles his treasure around his arms, replying to you with a full smile on his face. “Happy New Year, my love.” And he mutters again, his eyes fixed on the horizon, “Happy New Year.”

Thank you so much for reading my story. Likes, reblogs and comments are very welcomed!

Lots of love 🖤

[alstrodurge]

You know the answer.

Because you can give him true pleasure.

Magic flows from your fingertips, threading its way into the most hidden corners of his mind. You feel it slip past the barriers built from years of fear and submission, feel his desires like a trembling vibration through the web of your spell.

They are buried beneath layers of pain, humiliation, and false hopes—some so deeply hidden that he has long stopped acknowledging them.

But you find them.

Freedom. Not just from Cazador, but from the weight of his past.

Power. The ability to seize his own fate—and shape the fates of those who dare stand against him. Safety.

To be seen. To be wanted for who he is, not for what he can offer in return.

Your magic brushes against these desires, weaving them into a perfect harmony, shaping them into something tangible, something real.

It is all here. Safety. The gentle caress of sunlight. The taste of rich, aged wine.

Pleasure, no longer something to be given—only to be received, savored.

His breath quickens. His lips part, trembling, curving into a tentative—genuine—smile. His eyelids flutter, as if he’s seeing something wonderful.

Is he… happy?

Again, the question echoes within you.

Why are you doing this?

The answer crashes over you like an icy wave, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You’ve done this before.

Again.

And again.

A sharp jolt of memory spears through you, cutting like a blade.

Dark walls of cold stone.

Flickering candlelight.

The scent of blood.

Faces staring at you in reverence—worship.

As if you were their godess.

You remember the thrill.

To be the reason for their bliss.

To be the reason for their agony.

Oh, that moment—

when a tender caress turns to cold steel against bare skin.

It was always your little game.

Your art.

Your favorite way. To kill.

Darkness crashes over you, dragging you under.

The air is gone, your lungs burn, the void swallows everything—sight, sound, self.

But this time—you refuse to surrender.

With staggering effort, you rip yourself free, as if breaking the surface of a dark sea where no light, no sound exists.

The air sears your throat as you gasp, sharp and ragged.

You are you again.

You don’t know how much time has passed, but your eyes snap down to your hands—

Nothing.

Not a single drop of blood.

Your heartbeat pounds so violently it drowns out all other sound.

You’re lucky. It was only a few seconds.

Still breathing hard, you cast a wary glance toward Astarion’s unmoving figure.

You lean in, holding your breath.

He’s asleep. Deeply.

You’ve never seen his face so at peace.

So… serene?

And… gods, it almost looks like he’s dreaming of something good.

You step back soundlessly.

Your fingers tremble.

"Never again," you whisper, your voice breaking—so soft, so fragile it is almost a plea.

And you can say nothing more.

←previous next

[justporo]

By candlelight

A/N: Ah yes, you know the drill by now. I play barbies with @velnna's Staeve. And quite often so lately. If you followed me for Astarion, guys, I'm so sorry - but at least he's always in here as well! So this was inspired by something @reijenhere said, namely something along the lines of: what if Astarion notices Staeve has grown first grey hairs. So here we are, thanks again @velnna for letting me play with your son and @reijenhere for the inspo, mwa!

~~~

Astarion woke up in the middle of the night - shaken by nightmares like he sometimes still was. No matter how many years had passed.

The candle on the nightstand hadn’t fully burned down to its butt yet. So warm light still spilled from it, drawing long shadows on the pale elf as he slowly sat up with a silent moan leaving his lips, trying to not wake his partner beside him.

Staeve was sleeping peacefully on his stomach, one arm absentmindedly wrapped around Astarion’s waist, even in his dreams. As if he had felt that his love might need an anchor tonight.

The vampire felt the comforting weight of it as he pressed the balls of his hands to his eyes, leaning his head back against the wooden headboard. With deep breaths, he tried to let the unsettling memories and fear be washed away - piece by piece with every wave of air. Unknowingly adjusting to the calm rhythm of Staeve’s body rising and falling beside him.

And when his tension had eased enough to feel rooted in the present once more, he lifted his hands from his eyes and let them rest gently on Staeve’s arms. One wandered up over it, fingers tapping over the hairs and freckles softly before they wandered further over his shoulder and neck, then his jawline and one pointy ear before they lightly curled in dark green hair.

Astarion observed how the softly flickering light from the candle painted his lover’s skin and added a warm orange sheen to his hair. How it reflected on their matching pair of silver bands on their fingers.

He kept caressing his unaware lover, counted some freckles on his arm while feeling the fine hairs there beneath his fingertips, with his other hand curling strands of silky moss green around his fingers. Astarion’s shoulders slowly relaxed, the steep wrinkle between his drawn together brows flattened as crimson eyes kept wandering over the form of the resting half-drow, along with pale, light fingers.

Then all at once his eyes and hands came to a stop.

The vampire’s eyes were suddenly trained on a single strand of Staeve’s hair twirled around his fingers.

Something there wasn’t catching the light quite like the rest.

In fact, now that he had spotted it, it was blatantly obvious: a single hair that shone brightly in a sea of green. Silver, like the wedding rings on their hands.

Astarion stared at it, eyes wide, his whole body right back to being as tense as it had been moments ago, the wrinkle between his brows deeper than before.

It was hard to spot, even for a vampire and his heightened senses, barely more than a needle in a haystack. Staeve probably hadn’t even noticed.

But once noticed it was impossible for Astarion to overlook.

When he finally dared to let his eyes move further he quickly spotted more: single, painfully light hairs peeking through; on his arm too.

As another kind of dread than before slowly rose up within him, Astarion’s gaze jumped to his lover’s face. And he saw it there too, now that he was aware of it: how the lines around those lips and eyes had become a little deeper, more threatening to be drawn soon.

Staeve was inevitably growing older. While Astarion was doomed to never change.

Thankfully, at this moment the candle died out as it reached its end. It left the room in merciful darkness, forcing the vampire to lose sight of this harsh truth.

He sat there in darkness for a few more moments longer with his mind racing.

Then, void of anything else to do, Astarion softly took Staeve’s arm as he laid down beside him again. Unconsciously in his sleep, Staeve groaned lightly, turned to his side and drew his partner in closer with his arm looped around him until they were neatly cuddled up on their sides.

Astarion was left with his thoughts running through his head.

But he felt the steady rhythm of Staeve’s heartbeat and his warmth slowly sleeping in, his smell and the reassuring weight of the arm wrapped around his waist. 

Despite himself Astarion noticed how he was softly pulled back to hopefully more pleasant dreams, his body slowly falling victim to his lover’s calming presence.

Something that, despite anything else, hadn’t changed yet.

[littlelovelyra]

I Could Love You

Tav teaches Astarion that there are things way better than sexual intimacy and that he does not owe her his body <3

Astarions POV

AO3 if you prefer

Lil one shot to get me back into the swing of things - please note this was a quick idea so there may be a few errors and may not be my best work :)

For ease all my work is 18+ - MINORS DNI

TW: Fluff, mentions of sex, mature themes, strongish language, angsty

It all happened so fast, one minute she was there beside you fighting the bulette, and the next she was hanging off the ledge. The beast had swung its claws in her direction and she expertly dodged out of the way, however, when its massive claw returned on the backhand it caught her by surprise and sent her rolling down the hill struggling to get a grip. 

The fear in her eyes as she toppled off the edge would have stopped your heart if it could still beat but you felt the nauseating sensation squeeze through your gut when you lost sight of her. Your legs were moving before your mind comprehended the events unfolding. As you slid your way down to the edge desperately peering over, you see she has managed to lodge the dagger you gifted her into the crevice wall. 

“Your hand. Give me your hand!” You reach out to her knowing time is of the essence, that dagger will not hold her long. The dagger slides down in one jolt moving her down only a few inches and you watch as her wide eyes twinkle in fear, fighting back her tears and her bottom lip trembles slightly causing your chest to tighten in panic. “You need to give me your hand! Now!” A crack of desperation resonates in your voice as you plunge your hand down gripping her arm just as the dagger gives way and falls into the dark void beneath her. 

“Listen to me. I’m going to pull you up but you need to hold on. Okay? Can you do that for me?” Your eyes search hers as you try to remain calm, she nods quickly in response as she tightens her grip and you begin to pull. It takes all your strength to bring her back up but as you expend the last of your energy she finally topples over to safety and knocks the two of you away from the ledge. Her arms tangle around your neck and her panicked breaths start to slow as your hand circles her back in comfort. 

“I lost my fucking tent.” She breathes out, her voice filled with irritation and her brows pinch together in anger.

“I’m sorry?? You almost died and all you can say is you lost your tent?” A laugh escapes your lips and she turns to you steaming with rage. “A thank you would have been nice. Don’t worry about the tent, I’m sure Gale would offer you some space in his.” The minute the words leave your mouth regret washes over you. Whatever this thing was between you and her confused you. This was meant to be a strategic alliance and you did what you knew best, that being sex. To your knowledge, the fastest way to build an alliance with someone is to fuck them and fuck them so good that they wouldn’t want anything else. Simple. So why in the nine hells does your stomach twist every time she’s in danger? Why does the thought of her in someone else’s tent fill you with disgust and rage? 

“Well, thank you, Astarion! Of course I would ask Gale; there is nobody else here that I would want to share a tent with. So thanks for saving me.” Pink stains her cheeks with rage as she dusts herself off and storms towards the group, leaving you staring after her like some love-sick puppy. Standing to your feet, you stroll towards the group with your usual nonchalant swagger, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in your chest as you watch her approach Gale. The wizard is practically beaming as she asks to share his tent for the evening, and you wonder to yourself if all this excitement would set off that orb in his chest… what a tragedy that would be…

“It would be my honour, Tav.” Your daydreams of a self-destructing Gale are interrupted by his ridiculous, chirpy voice as he bows slightly at the waist. What an idiot. You think to yourself.

It doesn’t take the group long until you find a suitable spot to set up for the evening, and you can’t help but notice that she has avoided you the entire time. At this point in the night, she is setting up inside Gale’s tent, and the melody of her laughter drifts through the air, cutting through your chest. It stings knowing that another male can bring out a sound that beautiful from her lips and with clenched fists you stalk off away from camp. Maybe hunting for your next feed would help take your mind off her. 

“It wOuLd bE mY hOnOuR TaV”, you mock Gale’s voice as you scan your surroundings, looking for a suitable option to feed on. “If she chooses that gods damn wizard over me, then I’m waltzing straight into the sunlight once I get this tadpole out. How humiliating would that be? Though… I suppose I don’t help myself by practically pushing her into a tent with him. GODS Astarion. Use your brain. You’ve been around long enough!” You throw your hands in the air as you converse with yourself, thankfully the under dark doesn’t have many people around… if anyone heard you, they may label you insane. 

After about an hour of walking, you notice a single beast wandering around in a clearing. It’s rather large, but you feel up for the challenge as you tread lightly towards it. Carefully, you unsheathe your dagger, preparing to leap once you find the right angle. As you bolt forward, the beast whips around, snapping its mouth over your arm, and you feel its teeth sink in. Fuck. That’s sharp. In a desperate attempt, you swiftly pull free and feel a white-hot pain shoot across your arm as its teeth tear your flesh. Expertly, you twist around its body and plunge the dagger into its throat, and the beast releases a gurgled cry. Just before you can sink your teeth into it, you hear several screeches in response.

“Oh, COME ON!!” You push the animal away in frustration and sprint from the clearing; you are not foolish enough to try to take on multiple beasts, as you’ve felt the damage their teeth are capable of. Walking to camp, you open a lesser healing potion and drink its contents. It won’t heal your wounds completely, but it will be enough until you can feed again, and since you’ve been gone for a couple of hours, you assume everyone will be asleep in their tents, which means no one will fuss over you. 

The walk back is becoming increasingly difficult, and you find yourself stumbling, your head begins to swirl, and the world seems to be spinning. When last did you feed? Was there something in the bite of the creature? The dull flame of fire comes into vision as you quicken your pace and stumble into camp.

“Astarion?” Her voice is soft and cautious as she closes her book, shifting her attention to you. 

“Oh, hello, pet. Yes. I am fine, just went for a little bite to eat. Though… I was not the one doing the biting… HAH.” You take a few wobbly steps forward and plant yourself next to her. “Enjoying a little late-night read, hmm?” You give your best smile despite feeling like you’re about to faint at any given moment.

“Yes, I told Gale I would be in later… I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to read… but… that’s not important right now. You look awful. You need to feed.” Her brow furrows in concern as she holds up her wrist to your lips. 

“Darling, I appreciate the offer but-.” 

Her voice cuts off your refusal as her eyes lock in with yours. “Just feed Astarion… Please.” Her features soften as she presses her wrist to your lips once more. 

You delicately hold her arm as you slowly lower your head and sink your teeth in, the sweet, warm taste of her blood coats your mouth, and you groan as you drink her in. Nothing tastes as sweet as her, and nothing ever will, no one could compare to her. Your mind begins to clear, your strength slowly returns, and you begin to pull away, but her free hand weaves itself through your curls and holds you in place. Your gaze meets hers with curiosity as you raise your brow, silently questioning her.

“I said drink Astarion. I will tell you when I can’t handle it. It’s okay.” A soft smile spreads across her lips as she frees her hand from your curls and places it against your cheek.

After a few languid pulls, you feel her thumb stroke your cheek. “That’s enough now; I can’t give anymore.” Her smile never falls as you release her wrist, and as if your lips had a mind of their own, you place a soft kiss against the puncture wound and you watch her cheeks flush ever so slightly. 

“Thank you, Tav.” Your voice is a whisper as you notice her hand is still on your cheek, and you bring yours up, locking her fingers with yours. “You should stay in my tent tonight; you wouldn’t want to wake Gale since you’ve stayed up so late reading.” Still holding her hand you stand up and she follows. 

“I suppose it would be quite rude of me…” she purses her lips together in thought and gives a quick nod. “Okay, let’s get you to bed so you can recover.” 

Once you’ve both changed, you notice she has laid out a spare bedroll on the opposite side of the tent. Nope. That just won’t do. You slowly crawl your way over and her brows rise in suspicion. 

“Pet… why are you all the way over there? How am I supposed to repay you for your kindness tonight?” You lower your voice seductively as you trace your thumb along her bottom lip.

“Astarion. You don’t need to repay me. I helped you because I care. My actions are MY actions. You are not indebted to me. You don’t owe me your protection… you don’t owe me a place in your tent, and you certainly do NOT owe me your body.” She shifts out of your grasp and faces you, her brows creased with concern. “Besides, there are better things to do with someone that doesn’t involve sex.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” You scoff out, feeling slightly rejected as you inch your way back to your bedroll. 

“Is that a challenge?” She raises her brow and smirks, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Alright then, lie on your back and close your eyes.”

“I thought you said no sex.” Your voice is light as you follow her orders.

“Shut up.” She scoffs. “Are your eyes closed? Good.” The warmth of her body settles beside you, and you fight the urge to open your eyes. “There are many things that are more enjoyable than sexual intimacy, for example, having someone run their fingers through your hair…” Her palm moves up your cheek until her fingers comb through your hair. With slow, long rakes, she delicately moves her hands through the waves of your curls, and a shiver runs down your spine at the gentle sensation. The storm within your mind calms and for the first time you feel the warmth of peace settle over you. 

Her hand moves from your hair, and you feel the featherlight touch of the back of her hand against yours before she brings it back up to softly trace the features of your face. “The electricity from a subtle brush of hands as you pass each other in a dimly lit hallway… or a soft caress to the skin…” She shifts beside you and lightly skims her lips against yours. “Or the feel of an almost shared kiss. A promise of something to come… there is magic in the anticipation.” As she lays back down, she gently guides your head to her chest, and once again, you fight to keep your eyes shut. 

“… but my favourite thing… is this. The feel of your loved one’s chest as it rises and falls with each breath, hearing the steady beat of their heart, knowing that it beats for you… and the best part? You could mix all these things together.” As you lay there on her chest, listening to the thrum of her heart and feeling the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, she begins to run her hands through your hair again. If heaven existed… this was it, you were sure of it. 

“This Astarion… this feeling is better than sex.” Her words are barely above a whisper. She was right; you have taken many people to bed, but nothing compares to this. Right here at this moment, you have never felt more secure than you do now, and you wish you could stay here forever. She was brilliant, and you would be a complete fool to let this slip through your fingers. 

“Tav?” You open your eyes now and move to your side to face her. 

“Yes?” She whispers back as her eyes meet yours.

“Can I try? I mean… do you want to… uhm…” You fumble your words, and your brow creases in frustration. She takes your hand and smiles sweetly, nodding only once as she rests her head on your chest, and you begin delicately combing your fingers through her hair. "When you went off that cliff earlier... I don't think I have ever been that scared, Tav." The words are hard to get out but you know it needs to be said.

"I wasn't angry about the tent..." she whispers back. "I lost the dagger you gave me. I was angry about that but... I dont know why I couldn't just say it." her head shakes subtly on your chest.

"Probably the same reason why I suggested you staying in Gale's tent... pride? Denial? Maybe both." You keep your voice low as you continue to run your fingers through her hair.

"Denial?" She asks.

"Yes... that perhaps this... perhaps we are in denial of what we mean to each other." You release a soft sigh.

She pauses a moment and you feel her breath still. "What do we mean to each other?" the words are barely above a whisper as it leaves her lips.

"I... I don't know. But its not something casual. Its a little more than that. Just promise me you wont go falling off cliffs before we can figure it out, alright?" a strained laugh escapes your mouth.

"As long as you promise to not hunt things that are clearly too big to handle." She quips back lightly.

A soft chuckle rolls through the both of you and then you are met with a comfortable silence.

It’s not long before she falls asleep on your chest with her arm draped around you, but you continue to run your hand through her hair. A warmth swells within your chest, and you realise that, for the first time in a long time, you feel alive, and you never wanted to let her go. You may have lied earlier... not to her but more to yourself. You knew what this was but you were afraid to admit it to her... you were afraid to admit it to yourself.

But as you lay there in the silence of the night while she sleeps on your chest, you bring your lips to the crown of her head and a soft confession escapes from your trembling lips:

“I could love you.” 

[lendeah]

The currents of destiny

Chapter 3: Guilt and remorse.

Summary: In his third vision, Astarion observes himself trapped in a relentless cycle of thirst, remorse, and yearning within the shadows, witnessing others moving forward while he goes back to familiar patterns of the past. Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader/Tav Word Count: 3.6k Tags: Heavy Angst, Psychological Trauma, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Psychological Torture (kind of), Emotional Manipulation, Verbal Abuse, but just chapter 2, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending.

a/n: tysm to @tinystarfishgalaxy for helping me with this chapter &lt;3

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[AO3 Link]

Astarion wept, as his body shook uncontrollably. His thoughts and emotions were swirling, Tav's agonized screams still echoed in his mind, haunting him. And those staring, lifeless eyes... they would forever haunt his darkest dreams. He shuddered at the thought of what he could have become: a soulless monster who would have used and abused Tav without remorse. The weight of guilt and regret bore down on him like a heavy cloak, suffocating and unrelenting. He wanted to kill that version of himself, he wanted to erase him from existence.

He briefly believed they were returning to the vast emptiness of space. But before he could process that thought, he was being violently pulled once more. Then, everything went black.

Astarion's heart clenched with fear as he quickly realized that he was inhabiting another body, once again a different version of himself. His mind was still spinning from the previous vision, but he forced himself to calm down and focus on his current reality. None of this is real, he told himself, you can still change everything.

The first thing he noticed was the emptiness in his head, the silence. The lack of parasite buzzing over his senses. That explained why his limbs felt heavier and slower, without the surge of power he had grown used to. He was back to being a vampire spawn.

We won, then. We beat the Nether Brain.

He would have laughed, had he not noticed the feelings coursing his body: regret and a deep-seated remorse. It was a stark difference from the empty void of emotions that had possesed him while inside his Ascended body. This version... this future Astarion, was filled with nothing but guilt. And hunger, so deep it shook his frame to its core.

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was crouched against a damp stone wall, his body weakened and exhausted. The putrid stench of the city sewers filled his nostrils, adding to his misery.

His clothes, ragged and wet, were clinging uncomfortably to his body. Hells, he looked like a wild animal.

Disgusting.

Astarion's senses heightened as his body caught a whiff of fresh blood, human blood. His stomach growled and he could feel the thirst coursing through his veins, demanding to be sated. How long had it been since he last fed? Judging his estate, he estimated it had probably been weeks, if not a whole month.

He hadn't felt this feral in years. Since...

Since Cazador buried him alive for a year. Have I been starving myself?

His body forced itself to stand up, legs shaky and weak from lack of nourishment. He stumbled through the dark corridors of the sewers, following the scent of fresh blood like a predator on the hunt. The sound of voices echoed off the walls, growing louder as he neared his destination. He froze at the end of the tunnel, straining to make out their words.

"There's another body. How many innocent civilians have to disappear before someone takes action?" A woman's voice said.

"I know. We're doing our best to find those damned bloodsuckers. But the Dukes seem to have other priorities at the moment." Another male voice responded wearily.

Astarion's heart sank as he realized what they were talking about. Shit, the spawn. They are in the sewers too.

From behind the corner, he could see two Fists standing outside. Their weapons of choice were stakes and swords, a comical sight if he wasn't in so much pain.

He crouched down, trying to gather his strength and formulate a plan. But before he could process everything that was happening, his body was wracked with searing agony. His vision blurred as he fell to the ground, clutching at his stomach.

Then, everything was a blur.

His body launched itself at the unsuspecting guards. The sudden attack threw them off guard, their shocked cries echoing through the darkness.

What are you doing? Stop, you bastard!

Astarion willed his new body to halt, but it paid him no mind. With ruthless precision, he sank his fangs into one of the guards' necks, and tore the soft skin in seconds, hot blood pouring all over him. The other guard scrambled for his weapon but Astarion was too fast, too desperate. He struck again. However, the guard managed to slide the sword out in the process and lunged forward. Astarion barely managed to dodge it, the blade grazing his arm instead of piercing through his heart. The pain shot through him like lightning but did little to deter him.

He buried his fangs in the man's neck, relishing in the warm rush of blood as it filled his mouth and quenched his hunger. The guard struggled against him, but Astarion was far too strong in his primal state.

It wasn't until both guards lay lifeless at his feet that Astarion snapped out of his bloodlust-induced haze.

The silence was deafening. He released the limp body from his grasp, letting it slump onto the cold stone floor. The hunger had subsided for now, and he was left with a chilling emptiness; a void that echoed with his victims’ last moments.

He felt…dirty. Disgusted with himself and the monstrous actions he was forced to commit while under the control of this abhorrent future self once again.

The future version of Astarion sat in a corner of the room, his back against the unforgiving stone wall. He crouched over the blood-soaked floor, holding his knees tightly to his chest.

A bitter laugh escaped his body. "Look at what you've become," he muttered, "A monster...a butcher." His voice was barely a whisper, drowned out by the steady drip, drip, drip of the sewer pipes.

Oh, hush, Astarion supplied inside his brain, you are just trying to survive.

Survival was indeed his main priority now. With no friends or allies, Astarion had to do whatever it took to stay alive. And if that meant giving into his vampiric instincts and becoming a ruthless killer, then so be it.

But even as he tried to justify his actions to himself, guilt gnawed at him from within. One thought kept resurfacing in his mind - Tav. The one who had shown him kindness when all others saw him as nothing more than a tool to be used.

How could he face her after what he had done? Would she still see him as someone worthy of forgiveness or would she turn away in disgust?

How did you even get to this point? he asked himself.

Astarion's future self felt a strong urge to chase after her and make amends, begging for her forgiveness and asking her to take him back. But his pride wouldn't allow such a display of vulnerability. Instead, this version of himself reveled in the anger he felt towards her for not helping him complete the ritual. After all, it was her fault this had happened. If only he had ascended, he wouldn't have resorted to killing innocent people now.

No, he told himself, you would be killing her, you idiot.

But as always, he didn't listen. Didn't know.

As his eyesight blurred and shifted, Astarion found himself in another scene. It was late at night, and he was slowly making his way to the Elfsong tavern. Astarion felt a sense of unease, concerned that future him might harm his companions. But then it became clear: he was there to beg for forgiveness at last.

He watched for a moment as his body hesitated at the entrance of the inn. From within, he could hear the sound of laughter and music spilling out into the night. Through the dimly lit window, he saw his companions seated around their usual table, their faces glowing with warmth and camaraderie. There was Wyll, spinning tales of his latest exploits while Shadowheart listened with feigned indifference. His heart ached as he saw Tav, alive and well, her eyes sparkling as she shared a story with Lae'zel and Gale, her laughter more enchanting than any song sung in this tavern.

His heart swelled at the sight of her, revealing on seeing her unharmed, happy. If he had been in his own body, he would have cried of relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to hold her in his arms again, to feel the warmth of her embrace. What he would give to feel it right now.

But instead, he felt future Astarion's heart sink. A sense of longing for the life he could have had if he had chosen a different path. He could have been sitting with them, laughing and sharing stories instead of being haunted by guilt and regret, like a wild animal, resorting to living in the sewers to escape the sunlight.

The weight of his shame was too much to bear, and he couldn't bring himself to ask for their forgiveness. He convinced himself that they were better off without him anyway. As tears threatened to spill from his eyes, he glanced one last time at the scene before turning away from the window. He didn't want them to witness his broken state - humiliated, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self.

And a part of him, real him, thought it was true. They seemed so happy without him, like he had never been there to begin with.

Do they even miss me?

His consciousness was pulled away once again. When he came to his senses, he found his body standing pressed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned alley. He took in his surroundings, trying to make sense of this new place. Through his future self's eyes, he sensed he was scanning the darkened streets for potential victims. His gaze lingered on a handsome young merchant, who despite his drunken state, still exuded a certain innocence. His body stepped out from the shadow, a charming smile already playing on his lips. The image was too familiar, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he had somehow traveled back in time instead of forward into the future.

The merchant's eyes, predictably, lit up at the sight of him.

"Well well, what do we have here? A handsome stranger wandering about all on his own?" he purred, trailing his finger down the man's arm. "My dear sir, it's far past bedtime for such daring adventure on your own."

The merchant blushed and stuttered something about getting lost. Astarion chuckled softly and offered to escort him back to his lodgings - an offer the man happily accepted.

His real self could only watch everything in disgust and shame; he had reverted back to his old ways. And this time, he wasn't even under the influence of his master.

Guiding him down an even narrower alleyway, Astarion couldn’t help but curse himself inwardly for what he knew he was about to do. Astarion wished he could look away as he saw his body lean in close, his voice a smooth whisper in the man's ear. He could see his blush and giggle, taken in by Astarion's false charm.

Oh, how he wished he could warn him of what was to come. But all he could do was watch on helplessly as his body continued this dreadful performance he had practiced so many times before.

I am back to being a puppet.

"Astarion?"

His body stiffened at the sound of his name, and he turned to face the voice.

"Tav," his body breathed her name. Their eyes locked, and for the first time in a year, he felt something other than the hunger that had become his constant companion. A sly smirk danced across his lips as he effortlessly masked his true emotions. "Well, well, what brings you to this enchanting alleyway?"

"I could ask you the same," Tav replied, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and shock. She glanced at the merchant standing next to him, stumbling in his drunken stupor. Her eyes filled with sadness as she took in the scene.

There was a tense silence as they stared one another down. Astarion swallowed hard, racking his brain for an excuse that would believably explain his current situation. Before he could come up with a response, Tav spoke again.

"Astarion," Tav uttered again, her voice trembling slightly. "Are you... are you okay?"

No, I am not.

"Of course, darling," he replied smoothly, flashing her a charming smile. "Just enjoying a late-night stroll with this... gentleman." He gestured towards the drunk merchant, who was now leaning heavily on Astarion for support.

Astarion's heart, however, constricted at the concern in her voice. He desperately wanted to tell her the truth, to hold her close, to kiss her breathless.

Do it, tell her. Kiss her. Save yourself.

"Are you sure you're okay, Astarion? You... you can tell me," Tav asked once again, her voice tinged with worry as her eyes flickered between them, clearly not buying his explanation. Astarion could feel her searching gaze boring into him, trying to read him like an open book.

Just as he was about to confess everything, Shadowheart appeared behind her, sliding a hand around her waist.

What?

"Love, what are you doing in an alleyway? You are asking to get murd-" her eyes suddenly locked on Future Astarion. Recognition and shock flashed across her face before it hardened into a scowl.

"Shadowheart," Astarion acknowledged her presence coldly. His gaze was caught on the way Shadowheart's fingers rested possessively on her waist; a sight he found increasingly difficult to stomach.

What is the meaning of this?

For once, Astarion felt the same way as his future self; confusion and hurt mingled with betrayal and anger. Shadowheart and Tav... together? When did that happen?

Tav turned around to look at Shadowheart, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. "I was just..." she began nervously, gesturing towards Astarion and the merchant. "I saw..."

"Astarion." Shadowheart's voice interrupted, cold as ever. Her grey eyes looked past him to the merchant who was almost passed out at this point. "You have poor taste in company these days."

Despite the icy edge to her voice, Astarion could make out a hint of worry in her eyes as she looked at Tav. It was a concern that echoed his own, one that served only to intensify the bitter taste of jealousy creeping up his throat.

"Perhaps," Astarion finally replied, his voice filled with false cheerfulness."But at least he knows how to appreciate a good drink." He then mumbled, "Anyway, I should probably take him home," gesturing towards the unconscious man.

As he started to walk away, Tav weakly protested and broke free from Shadowheart's grasp to approach Astarion. "Hold on!" Tav interjected, still unsteady on his feet. "You still haven't answered my question."

A tense quiet settled over them as they locked gazes once more. Astarion could see the mix of emotions in her eyes - confusion, pain, and yet a glimmer of hope. His other self didn't understand, but he did. He saw right through her.

She wanted him to ask for help, because that would mean he was ready to rejoin their group. She needed to help him. To redeem herself and close the wound he had opened a year ago.

He desperately yearned to do it, to return to his friends, to her. Instead, his body betrayed him and spoke on his behalf, "I assure you, Tav," he declared with stiffness in his voice, fighting to keep his emotions in check. "I am doing perfectly well without you."

Like hell you are!

Tav's face fell at his words, her eyes widening in shock and hurt. But before she could respond, Shadowheart spoke up again, her tone sharp and accusatory. "Oh yes, Astarion. You are the very definition of perfectly well." She directed a pointed look to the boy, who was sobering up and looking utterly confused, "You should go home," she said firmly.

The boy stumbled away, casting a final bewildered look at Astarion before disappearing into the darkness. Astarion watched the boy leave and turned his gaze back to Tav. He could see the disappointment in her eyes, but he couldn't explain or apologize, trapped as he was inside his own mistakes.

Tav hesitated for a moment before talking again

"Why didn't you return? We could have searched for a solution together."

Astarion's heart was heavy with the pain in Tav's voice. However, watching them together, watching how they had moved on without him, was stirring up a sick and ugly sensation within his chest. He could feel the longing consuming him, but his future self chose to focus only on the anger instead. Focus on the pride.

"Yeah, looks like you all missed me so much." Astarion quipped bitterly, glancing between Tav and Shadowheart.

Tav flinched like she had been hit. Astarion wanted to hit himself for it.

"Astarion, we didn't mean to hurt you, I-"

"That's not what it looks like. In fact, it seems like you both have moved on quite easily without me."

"Enough, Astarion," Shadowheart snapped, her patience clearly at its end. "Stop playing the victim. You disappeared without a word. What did you expect us to do? Wait for you forever?"

Yes. Maybe.

Tav's words were softer, her face etched with worry and regret. "You could have come to us... we would have helped you..."

Astarion scoffed. "Like hell you would." His tone was bitter, but he couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes. "You were the reason I left in the first place. Your betrayal."

His body had expected to feel relief upon seeing them again... but all he felt now was an overwhelming sense of loss. The sight of Tav and Shadowheart together brought a reality crashing down on him – they had moved on and he was stuck in the past. In the same toxic cycle from his time with Cazador.

There was another tense silence between them as they stood there in the dark alleyway. Astarion could feel their gazes burning into him, but he couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes again.

Shadowheart spoke up again. "What are you going to do now?"

Astarion shrugged casually. "Who knows? Maybe I'll just find someone else who actually keeps their promises," he said with a tone of bitterness.

But that was far from the truth. He felt completely isolated and alone, with no one to turn to for comfort or support.

Tav glanced at him once more, her head shaking as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," she said brokenly.

No, I'm the one who is sorry.

The need to reach out was overwhelming. But he could just watch in despair as his body decided to keep quiet, and observe as she silently turned around and left.

Shadowheart, however, stayed put, looking at him dead in the eye.

"I thought you'd come back for her, you know?"

I almost did, he told himself, I almost did, but I am a coward.

"You know, I thought you of all people would understand why I left. How could I stay after she ripped me off my only opportunity at freedom?" Astarion responded, finally meeting Shadowheart's gaze.

He expected anger, but was instead met with deep sorrow.

"When you left, something in Tav... it broke. She cried for you, night after night. For months, Astarion."

Of course, he knew. He had seen the scene at the Elfsong Tavern. However, this version of him hadn't.

He scoffed in an attempt to hide his pain, but Shadowheart continued relentlessly.

"She suffered so much because of your selfishness," Shadowheart said, her voice barely a whisper. "I... I had to pick up the pieces, Astarion. I had to convince her not to... not to lose herself."

Astarion felt a wave of guilt wash over him as Shadowheart's words hit him like a physical blow.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage to say, his voice breaking with emotion.

Shadowheart's expression softened for a moment before hardening again. "Sorry doesn't fix what you've done. What you said," she replied, her tone biting.

"I know," he mumbled quietly, feeling the weight of his mistakes crashing down on him.

They stood there in silence for a few moments longer before Astarion spoke again. "She's hard not to fall in love with, isn't she?"

Shadowheart's eyes opened in surprise, and the softened slightly.

"Yes. Yes, she is," she replied under her breath.

Astarion shook his head.

"Is she happy?" he asked, unable to help himself.

Shadowheart sighed. "She’s getting there," she admitted quietly. "But she won’t be if you drag her back into your mess now."

And he knew what that meant. Let her go. She is happier without you.

Astarion hung his head, feeling a familiar pain bloom in his chest. He was quiet for a long moment before finally looking back up at Shadowheart.

"I won't," he promised, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Shadowheart’s gaze bore into him for another moment before she nodded, and finally turned to leave.

"And Astarion?" she called over her shoulder, causing him to look up at her again.

"Hmm?"

"I hope you find your happiness too. You deserve it."

And with that, she walked away, leaving him alone with his thoughts. Astarion watched as she sauntered towards Tav, who was standing a little ways off. He could barely make out the details of her face from where he was standing but even from the distance, he could tell she was beautiful – more beautiful than he remembered.

Shadowheart gently approached Tav, her hand resting on her arm before leaning in for a tender kiss. Astarion couldn't help but feel like an outsider, witnessing this intimate moment between the two. As he watched them, he noticed the way Tav gazed at Shadowheart with such adoration and love - the same way she used to look at him.

He watched their retreating figures until they disappeared into the night. And his heart threatened to break into smaller pieces at the thought that this had probably been their last conversation.

In a flash, Astarion was once again standing in the void, surrounded by darkness. He felt a sense of unease wash over him as he waited for G'axir's voice to come through again.

See now... Astarion? G'axir's voice echoed around him.

See what? All I see are stars. Astarion asked, feeling frustrated at the cryptic messages.

Amidst the shroud of remorse and longing... lies the opportunity to redefine. Hope's whisper still lingers... in a realm unseen.

Tag list: @tinystarfishgalaxy, @imaginarypetlizard, @nanamisfriedstick, @stuckinaoaktree, @madislayyy, @cosywinterevenings, @fandom-garbage, @generalstephkenobi

a/n: I kind of hate G'axir. If I was Astarion I would be throwing hands, ngl. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the last angsty chapter! Thanks for the support! And lmk if you want to be added to the taglist☺️✨

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[sfehvn]

intruder part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

Description: A year has since came and went following Astarion's ascension ritual. He is no longer himself, but then... Where is he? A/N: This part is a lot of lore-building so no actual Astarion appearances but I hope it's enjoyable all the same! Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 1,820 Characters: Characters: ascended!Astarion x Tav

 ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

  The forest of Emerald Grove manifests around you. Thick trees and rocky precipices grace your views, abruptly causing a wistful awareness to settle into your mind. The odd situation you were currently in aside, you never dreamed you would yearn to return to such a time. Memories flooded your head. Your very first encounter with the man who had so gracefully held a knife to your throat out of fear and turmoil. The very first time you had welcomed him with open arms and a profound desire between these very trees. Despite the rockiness your relationship had survived through at the time, you remember how heartbroken you felt when Astarion revealed his true motives of gaining security out of you through bedding you. At the leading edge, though, you recall his admission of falling for you.

  “How-” You struggle to find the words as you turn to stare at the man who had approached you in the Elfsong Tavern, “What are you doing?”

  Your query was disregarded as the man spoke, “You wish for your lover to be restored.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, the corners of his lips turning up into a  smile. “Ah, but you have said lover.” The man pointed his words.

  Alarm bells rang through your skull. You took a moment to survey your surroundings and breathe in the familiar fresh air, glancing at the shimmering moon. Were you actually here? Or was this all an illusion? You let your eyes falter back to the man whose name you still had no clue of. “How do you know this?” No good could come from this particular situation, you knew. “Why are we here?” Your intimidation ultimately failed, causing your voice to crack and waver. 

  “My apologies. I can take us somewhere more suited to your tastes. Where would you prefer?” His hand raised, and with a quick snap of his fingers, you are transported to the Last Light Inn. It is empty and void of life. “Or would you choose not to stray too far from home?” Another snap, and you’re back on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, the dead city a stark contrast from your walk to the tavern. “Where is comfortable for you, dear?”

  You close your eyes tightly for a moment before reopening them. You knew better than to entertain this man; the last time you had made good with someone who miraculously appeared before you with offers of fixed problems, it had not worked out for you or Astarion. While eager for some sort of answer to your dire questions, for a fix of the situation at hand, the red flags rang. You had never told this man your problems, yet here he was, claiming it to be destiny bringing the two together to fix them. “I am not interested. Return me to the tavern at once.” It was a demand.

  “As you wish.” His smile is sly as he brings his hand up once more, transporting you two back to your previous spots seated at the table in Elfsong. This time, not a soul resides in the tavern. You take note that the barkeep, Alan, was also gone.

“Where is everyone?” In bewilderment, you look back at the strange man.

  “The apparitions are a bit much to maintain for long. Suppose if that makes you comfortable, though. It shall be done.” Another snap, and the small, jovial crowd is back once more. Alan is back behind the bar, shining glasses, a grin large enough to make you uneasy stretched onto his lips.

  “What is this?” The defeat was thick in your cadence. You return your anguished glare to the man. You scanned him for a break in facade, but there was none. He just- well, he looked like any other man you may have come across. Looks could be deceiving; a lesson learned many times.

  “You can provide me with something I want.” His response was quick, with no hesitation. “In turn, I will return your lover to you. As he was before.” Your brows furrowed in indignation. While your entire body screamed at you to take the deal, no questions asked, trepidation stopped you from responding too hungrily.

  “I will be making no deals with devils. I’ve come to understand it could never end well for the one who is not the devil.” Despite this man seeming to be your only option with the watchful eye of Astarion on you at what feels like all times, you couldn’t risk making the situation any worse. Could it get much worse? Your subconscious nagged. “Besides, I would still like to know how you’ve found me.”

  The man let out a howl of laughter, throwing his head back in amusement. “I am no devil, Tav.” He shifts forward, hands clasped before him and coming to rest on the table. “Though I can understand it may be hard to discern given our meeting. However, I did not have much opportunity for a natural one since you are under lock and key at all times.” You recall the trance-like state in which you left the palace and come to realize it must have been every bit a trance. “I am but a humble sorcerer. As for how I found you, well, it seems we share a common enemy. Though, I could feel your heartache dimensions away.” His head quirks, and it feels as if he is boring into your very soul.

  Unprompted, the man continues. “Your lover, Astarion, opened himself up to the very demons that reside in the hells during his ascension ritual. Now, stay with me because this is going to get complicated.” He glances around the room before snapping the apparitions away. You hadn’t even realized how disfigured the residents in the tavern had become. “I hope you don’t mind. As I said, the apparitions can be daunting.” He clears his throat.

  “Are you insinuating a demon resides within Astarion’s body? Demons are physical beings.” You dig your mind for anything you may have heard about demonic possessions, but none come to mind. Sure, you’ve seen your fair share of ghost possessions among mortals, but this was not what was being implied. A demon could impose a sort of mind control, but the soul would still be active and aware. Not pushed deep into the darkness of its own body. The demon must also be present for such a thing to occur.

  “Precisely. Demons are physical beings, but are you familiar with the apothecary swindlers that reside in the hells?” A slow shake of your head urges the sorcerer to continue. “This covenant has made enough gold to fill all of the pockets of Faerûn with their scheming. A truly unfounded market, I’ll give them that.” He chortles lightly before continuing, “Anyhow, they slay these demons, extract, and capture their very essence to be repurposed as a medicine for all ailments. Most folks are smart enough to steer clear, but you will always have your bold noblemen and ladies who strive for the power and fame that these apothecaries promise.”

“So Astarion-” You start but are cut off.

  “Your lover did not seek these services, no.” He states quickly. “This is where things get a bit tricky. These very regular people oftentimes do not end up with precisely what they’ve paid for. The essence of these demons seeks power, a vessel in which they can reign in a new physical form and physically rebuild themselves. The process is slow; it can take centuries for this transformation to occur. Most mortal bodies will not even make it to see this through, as the demon residing within them does not grant the vessel immortality.”

“But an ascended vampire…” You trail, the dots connecting in your mind.

  “An ascension ritual such as the one Astarion partook is exactly the thing to send the dinner bells ringing to a demon’s essence.” The man confirms. “The most plausible explanation is one had been freed from its confinements and made its way into your lover’s body. After a few hundred years, his form will take on the one of the demon who controls his vessel- erm, body.” He corrected after your pointed glare was received.

“What exactly do you get out of this?” You ask quickly, the suspicion in your voice evident.

  “While I would love to say I’m doing this solely to save your and your lover’s tortured souls, that would be a blatant lie.” There is the faintest pause in his words. “The demon Elralluun rules his body. In his prime, he was known for brutalizing hundreds of villages. Would kill men, women, and children all the same.” You sense a deep tinge of sorrow masked in the man’s words and decide you won’t pry further. “I’ve thought him dead until recently. I felt him. The heat of rage and hatred lit afire in my bones. One that left my being the second he was slain. I felt it all.”

  You nod numbly in understanding. “How do we free Astarion?”

There’s silence as you watch the man find the words to say. “To destroy the vessel is to free the soul.”

“Absolutely not.” You snapped, heart sinking to your toes. You could never kill Astarion knowing he was still in there somewhere.

  “Tav, think this over. He will be gone anyway once the transformation has taken hold. I understand this is a tough decision, but his sacrifice may even save him from total damnation. This is the only way. I do not have the power to defeat him. You do. You are a hero, through and through.” The man’s words struck your chest, causing you to gulp in a large, unneeded breath. Tears pooled in your eyes and you feverishly wiped at them, standing from your seat.

“Well, find another way.” Your voice was raised, eyes shooting daggers into the still-sitting man.

  “There is no other way.” Each word was emphasized, with a look of empathy but seriousness on his features. “Think this through. I will find you again soon, and you can give me your answer then. You may come to see this to be the most merciful outcome for you and your companion.” He stands from his seated position, giving you one last look of sympathy before departing the Tavern.

-

  Disoriented, you raise your head from the oak desk, acting as a pillow for your rest. You couldn’t discern if the encounter had happened in reality or not as you shifted your head to see the tower of books beside you, exactly where you had left them before making your exit from the manor. You were back in the library. A note scrawled in careful penmanship sat on the desk that had not been there before.

‘I will continue to search for an alternative. I will return in seven days time for an answer regardless. I trust you will make the right choice. 

Leif’

[brabblesban]

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable. 

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan. 

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves. 

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears. 

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed. 

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you. 

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive. 

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet. 

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead - 

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave. 

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace. 

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore. 

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up. 

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh. 

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway. 

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies. 

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now. 

  

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[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 11: 'Till Death Do Us Part

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.1k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

“I want… more,” Astarion concludes, confident and sure. “I want to be us again.”

Us. I do like the sound of that.

“I don’t know, Astarion…” You pull your knees to your chest. You want nothing more than to be his as you should have been this entire time, but what does more even mean to him?

“Why? What’s stopping us?” His expression is closed and hardened. His intonation is steady but otherwise void of emotion, “You love me, yes?”

You sigh, drop your head to your knees and try to dispose of the urge to cry. You’re scared that if you deny him while you’re here, and it upsets him…. Well, that spells the end for you. There is nowhere to hide from the sun here except perhaps the bottom of the lake. You stare blankly at the serene rayless deep and miss the consoling palliation of nothingness, hushed as the grave.

“Yes, I love you.” Your eyes don’t leave the water, reflecting the glimmer of the sky like a mirror, unable to look into his eyes for fear of losing your rational thought and jumping into his arms. “That’s not the problem.”

“Tell me the problem, and I will remedy it.” Astarion appeals insistently. His fingers brush down your arm as softly as a summer evening breeze. “Whatever you desire, I will make it yours.”

Good Gods, you need to breathe. Your chest is tight. It expands with a whistle as you inhale a sizeable breath, defying the rigour that has set into your lungs. The sun heats your skin, as pale as a pearl, yet your body trembles as if cold. You’re on the verge of falling to pieces, but you cannot allow yourself such weakness. You must be as emotionless as a stone and twice as hard.

You meet his gaze and reach out to the connection you share with him. You cannot read his emotions. He is too poised and practiced, but you can feel them if only he will allow it.

Astarion’s eyes widen slightly at the request, “No,” he shakes his head. “Not right now.”

“Why is that?” You cock your head at him with a frown, “What are you hiding?”

“No, darling. It is for you that I will not do this here. I can hear your thoughts, remember? Last time you called me the devil,” he chuckles with a smug smirk. “That would hardly upset me, but if you do think something untoward, I do not want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no place to hide should you need to. Just tell me what is troubling you.”

It sounds like a very convenient excuse for him to keep things from me.

“Can we not just wait and have this conversation at the manor then? Will you open the bond there?”

Astarion sighs, combing fingers through his damp hair, “Yes, I suppose we could. Is it because of my- “

“No, it has nothing to do with your condition.” You cut him off, “It’s... I will be plain. I have accepted that you cannot love me, but that is what I desire. I will not be your dutiful consort, Astarion. I want something real.”

“What you’re looking to hear,” he glances away, almost sheepish. It would be winsome and nostalgic, this glimpse of his past self, if you were not worried that it’s a clever ruse, a tactical manipulation to appease your doubts. “I have said it before, you know.”

“And therein lies the problem,” you wince at the memory - “I love you. That’s what you want to hear. Isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been waiting for.” You brush your expression with bedrock, “You say it because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“No,” he protests with a twisted mouth. “I meant every word.”

“Then say it, Astarion,” you urge, praying he will. Gods, it’s what you’ve longed to hear. There’s a desolate part of you that would savour it, even if it is just a beautiful lie, and you hate yourself for being so broken, “Open the bond and say it.”

“I…I-” he trails off with a rasp and grimaces. His lips smack together, but no sound emerges from his mouth. It’s as if the words are lodged in this throat. He shakes his head with a low, pained groan. “Perhaps you are right. This is a conversation better had at home.”

He won’t say it.

Pieces fall from your heart like petals off a dead flower.

The sun is dipping below the horizon as the mare moves under you in a fluid canter with Astarion’s black gelding leading. Your hips roll steadily with the pace, and you barely perceive when Astarion pushes his gelding into a gallop. Your mind spins with questions, concerns, doubts and desires you dare not act on. His words still ricochet around your mind as quickly as the booming of the horses’ hoofs pounding the earth.

“I want to be us again.”

“I have said it before.”

“I meant every word.”

A tear rolls down your cheek as you watch him from behind. Nothing is more torturous than having everything you want laid at your feet, only to force yourself to walk away. You wipe the tear off your cheek and push away the others welled in your eyes, fluttering on your lashes like dew on blades of grass.

Astarion reels his gelding around on its haunches, shifts into mist and crashes into you abruptly, throwing you out of the saddle and to the ground harshly on your stomach. The horses scatter with bucks and rears, squealing and frightened. You try to push yourself up to your feet, but Astarion presses his chest down hard on your back, sinking you into the tall grass.

Reacting instinctively, you rival his dominance as dread mauls you, “Astari-“

“Shut up,” his hand covers your mouth, muffling you.

You crane your neck, trying to get a view of his eyes. If he’s gone, that’s a surefire way to tell. Astarion studies the trees around you with an acute glare. His heart thuds so hard in his chest that you can feel it against your spine. He looks like a hunter stalking its prey, but otherwise, his eyes are the vivid crimson of his and not the matte frost you expected.

He looks down, removes his hand from your mouth and leans low, bringing his lips beside your ear, “When I give the order, you run back to the manor. You do not stop for anything or anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

“I don’t understand,” you keep your voice as low as his. “What’s wrong?”

“Do as I ask, and do not challenge me on this,” he commands assertively.

His expression is grim and severe as he brandishes his blade, snapping his wrist and twirling the hilt into his grip. Something is wrong, and you follow his glare to the trees, trying to figure out what danger he’s detected looming in the shadows.

Astarion leaps to his feet and hauls you up with him by the back of your shirt so fast you’re dizzy by the time he pushes you and commands, “Run!”

You hesitate. Does he really expect you to leave him here when there’s a threat nearby? Is he out of his mind? Has he forgotten who you are and the power you possess?

“No,” you shake your head, gripping the Weave. “Whatever is coming, we can fight it together like we always did!”

“I said RUN!” Astarion shouts gruffly.

“I’m not leaving you here!”

Astarion sighs, “You leave me no choice. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, you feel that presence in your head, but not in the way as if he were opening the bond. No, this time, it takes your control, wicking it out of your muscles, tendons, and bones and bequeathing it to him. Your eyes widen as all your muscles go stiff and await the incoming command.

Compulsion.

Hells, you can barely blink without his godsdamned permission. You’re trying to shake your head, to speak, to fucking scream, to get him to stop, but your body pays no heed to your instructions. The only command that matters is his, and you await it like an obedient hound.

Astarion speaks precise commands, “Run to the manor as fast as you can and stay there until I return. You will stop for no one and nothing.”

“Run to the manor as fast as I can and stay there,” the words are pulled out of your lungs without your consent. “I will stop for no one and nothing.”

Your body pivots without your approval, and you break into a full sprint, streaking through the forest like a meteor. You hurtle over fallen trees and boulders while ducking under long-limbed branches and zigzagging between trees at a break-neck pace you can’t control. Your mind chants your command in a hypnotic chorus.

Run. Run. Run. Run.

The repeating instruction is nearly all you can focus on. It drowns all other thoughts out. There’s a quiver outside that melody, the beating drum of footsteps and heartbeats. You can’t turn your head. You do not have the authority to do so, but your eyes scan your surroundings. Catching movement between the trees, you finally comprehend what’s going on.

The Gur.

It’s hard for you to focus on anything besides your mad dash, but you vaguely make out that they are stalking in the forest all around you. You strain to focus on the sounds outside of the tittering in your head, and you finally hear the sound of howling, enraged warriors and clashing steel.

No. No. Why did he send me away? I can fight!

Good Gods. It’s hard to think. Hands catch you, stopping you in your tracks, but your body is not yours. You’ve been told to run and stop for nothing, and it’s agonizing to disobey, like a million sharp nails being hammered into every atom of your being, making you cry out. You would do anything, fucking anything, to make this suffering end.

You cast Thunderwave, throwing anyone in the vicinity backward and then Fireball in quick succession almost unconsciously. You can barely focus on anything but the order to run and the pain of not doing so. You whirl to continue running, but another hunter grabs you, snarling with yellow teeth and spittle flying from his lips.

By the Gods, it hurts. You can’t think through the white-hot pain.

Clawed, furry paws grab the hunter from behind before a snout full of razor-tipped, serrated fangs sink into the Gur’s throat and rip it out. Your mind is so singularly focused you can’t even be bothered to be tempted by the blood. Hells. You don’t even have permission to smell it, so you don’t. It takes you a moment to recognize the werewolf standing before you as part of Astarion’s powers.

Will his hellspawn mutt attack you as well? It drops the hunter with a howl that would make your blood run cold if it was not already and stares at you, waiting and watching, flexing its claws and growling. Its fangs are dipped in crimson, and blood drips from its snout. Astarion must have sent it to protect you. That’s the only reason it would be here with you and not helping him.

No! Go back. Help him.

You want to scream at it, but you’re already running again with the werewolf as your shadow.

It sprints ahead and kills any hunters that aim to thwart you, but if it misses, you do not hesitate to kill. You will take a million lives if it means you don’t have to feel that pain again, you will do anything to continue obeying, and you cast subconsciously with deadly power and finesse. Even the thought of turning around and going back, of defying your orders, causes pain to slice into your psyche like hot steel. An arrow plunges through your shoulder, swords and axes slice into your skin, painting your body vivid red, yet you feel nothing but the undeniable need to comply. Your nerves have not been given the authorization to feel pain. Could you even die, or are you not allowed?

When you finally break the treeline, the werewolf trailing you sinks back into the gloom as you bolt toward the manor with a resounding, echoing bay as if it’s signalling to Astarion that its job has been completed.

Run. Run. Run. Run.

You sprint full speed through Rivington, Wyrm's Crossing, and the Lower City without slowing your brutal pace. You blow past citizens who stare at you with wild eyes and angry shouts as you push past them with desperation so intense it eclipses everything else. Is this how Astarion felt when Cazador compelled him? Was he as helpless to refuse as you are in this moment?

Astarion has never compelled you before, at least that you know about. How long will this last? How far does his reach extend? If he told you to run forever, would your body run until the ground gnawed your legs into bloody stumps? What would happen if you could no longer run? Would the pain from disobeying eventually kill you, or would you be stuck in a purgatory of white-hot agony for eternity?

When you finally get to the manor and slam the door behind you. You stand stiff as a statue in the foyer. Sweat runs down your face and chest, but you can’t get your arms to move to wipe it from your eyes, and blood splashes, dripping onto the floor from your fingertips like a leaky faucet. Your head won’t swivel to look around, and your eyes will not move in their sockets, so you're stuck staring straight ahead. At least the chanting in your head has gone silent, and you can think freely, or perhaps that’s worse. Now, you can’t think of anything but Astarion, alone in battle with however many Gur. If they knew who they were hunting, which they must, they would come in vast numbers.

What was that idiot thinking? You could have helped him! He may be the Vampire Ascendant, but he’s not indestructible. Unless he is? Truly, you have no idea what he is capable of. Astarion is a force to be reckoned with, but will he lose himself in this? When he gets back to the manor which him will he be? Will you still be stuck like an effigy and unable to defend yourself? What if he doesn’t come back? Will you forever be a statue in this foyer?

Gods. You need to get back there and help him, but as soon as you have any intention of trying to move, trying to break this authority over your body, your mind warbles the enchanting tune of compliance.

Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.

Fuck! You try your magic. It glows on your fingers and even heats in your palms, but without being able to move your arms, it’s useless. There’s nothing you can do. You’re immovable until either his compulsion wanes or he gives you new orders.

With nothing else to do, your mind wanders.

You prowl the halls of the Crimson Palace looking for Astarion after escaping from the prison of your room. The air in this place is musty, and you can still smell what remains of Cazador in the rooms and halls. This place is oppressive and cold, and he’s changed nothing.

“Astarion!” You scream in a blind rage that sweeps over you like wildfire.

You round the corner and see him sitting at his desk, glaring at you with a bland, expressionless stare. You fill yourself with the Weave until you’re awash with it, and your palms are so blisteringly hot that the skin boils and blisters. Whoever this man staring at you is, not the Astarion you knew.

You should try and kill him, but you cannot bring yourself to do it. Is that a consequence of being his spawn? Is your loyalty to him poisoned, or is it love that refrains you?

Astarion leans back, “What in the Hells,” he growls, his brows pinching together in a fearsome scowl, “do you think you’re doing out of your room?”

“Astarion. Listen to me, please,” you plead. “Something isn’t right. This is not you. Why are you doing this? Why do I have to stay in my room? What happened to Aeterna Amantes?”

“Oh, love,” he scoffs with a sneer. “Come now. Did you truly believe I would ever be beholden to one person? For eternity? HA! I told you before. I am a man of enormous appetites. Don’t worry,” he purrs. “You will always be my favourite.”

Angry tears roll down your cheeks at his taunts, and you can see in his face that he takes satisfaction in your pain. Fire bursts from your palm, licking up your forearms, “The Rite changed you. This isn’t you. You were never cruel before.”

“Are you positive you truly knew me?” Astarion stands slowly, “Yes, the Rite did change me. I am a veritable God! All thanks to you. You will forever have my undying gratitude. If you’re a good little pet, I will take excellent care of you. You will want for nothing.”

A good little pet...

“What I want is the old you back!” You shout at the top of your lungs.

“You want cute, cuddly Astarion?” He laughs mockingly and then hisses with venomous contempt, “That pathetic wretch is dead. He was a miserable, weak little pest. Grieve him, for he is gone, and he is never coming back.”

"Fuck! You don’t have to be cute, cuddly Astarion, but there isn’t even a hint of Astarion left in you, whoever you are!”

Astarion is advancing on you with slow steps, and you reflexively take steps back. Good Gods. He’s herding you like an animal.

“I am the Vampire Ascendant and your creator, and you will give me the respect I am due.” His hands come to his chin, “I think you will call me Master from now on.”

“I will never call you Master!” You retort in a voice dripping with defiance. Flames twirl around your forearms like a tornado.

“I could make you,” He rebukes with an impassive inflection, “All it would take is a thought, and you will do anything I say.”

“Then do it, you fuck!” You conclude, baring your teeth. You’re sick of his threats. If he’s going to make you a puppet, you would rather he get it over with. “Go ahead, Ascendant! Show me your power.”

Astarion laughs lightheartedly, but his face is as expressive as a white wall, “Don’t be such a fucking bitch.”

Oh. No.

You cast Scorching Rays against him, buffeting him repeatedly with a sorrowful, hopeless scream. It burns him, some of his pallid skin ruddy and his clothes hang off him in tatters. Astarion lunges at you, a streak of silver lightning, and throws you to the ground, breaking the floorboards beneath you. He snarls in your face with his fangs bared and pestilent abhorrence in his numb eyes.

“Do you feel like a man, Astarion?” You spit with a wheeze, “Does throwing me around make you feel good?”

It’s barely perceptible, but there’s a meagre flash in his eyes. The pressure with which he pins you to the floor recedes slightly. He shakes his head, and it’s gone. Astarion drags you through the halls by your ankle, down the stairs, uncaring as your head smashes against each step. You grimace, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out. You don’t bother to cast again as grief smothers your anger, and the flames die out along with your will to live.

Astarion tosses you into your room, your body skipping across the floor like a flat stone across the surface of a lake.

“Stay, pet.” He commands with an aloof chuckle, whirls around and leaves.

The lock clicks, and the metal bolt slides into place. Knock does not work on locks like that. It seems he’s learned your tricks.

“No!” You scream, rattling the door, “No! Please! Astarion, don’t do this.”

He does not answer.

It’s hard to tell how much time goes by. Days? Weeks? Who knows, but you’re so hungry that you’re sitting on the floor, sobbing against the door, clawing at it as if you might be able to dig your way out. Your fingers are bloodied, and you’ve ripped off your fingernails in your desperation.

“Astarion!” You wail, sobbing as your muscles jerk and spasm painfully.

He does not answer.

He never answers.

Your knees give way, and you crash to the ground, breaking you out of the memory. Astarion’s compulsion has broken, and your body is finally your own to control. You yank the arrow from your shoulder and burn it to ash.

Astarion… 

Peering around and listening closely, you surmise that he still has not returned. Pushing yourself to your feet, your muscles cramp severely and twitch, a tune of overexertion from your retreat. With the compulsion gone, sensation returns, and you feel the wounds you received with a biting ferocity. The only thing on your mind is finding Astarion, and you lunge for the door hastily. Golden rays of sunlight flood the foyer as soon as you fling it open, and you're washed in the agony of the Hells. Every nerve melts as you're immersed in rivers of liquid fire in Phlegethos. Your skin sizzles, snapping into fissures and greying rapidly.

It’s the kind of pain that makes you want to scratch your skin off to escape your body. You throw yourself back with a screech, and the pain ebbs as your skin slowly stops smouldering. Dropping to the ground, you cast Telekinesis and throw the door closed with a frustrated roar. If you cannot go into the sun, Astarion is not nearby or… Gods, you don’t even want to think about it. You don’t even want the thought to run through your mind, but it does, regardless of your restraint.

Astarion could be dead.

The only solace you have is that feeling in the back of your mind that still lingers. If he was dead, would that also disappear? You’re unsure. You tell yourself it would because you desperately need the lie to keep you sane. Reaching out to it, you try to force it open, but it does not budge, and Astarion does not respond to the request, increasing your panic further.

What can you do? You need to do something, anything, but what? You’re stuck in this fucking manor until the sun goes down. You get up and pace back and forth, rage building inside you. Why did he send you away? You’re a godsdamned terror in battle. You could have helped him, and now you’re stuck here, unable to do anything.

Fuck!

You scream as tears streak down your burnt face, grabbing a mirror from the wall and throwing it against the floor, shattering it to bits. He made you stand here like a foolish statue all night while he… you don’t finish the thought.

You can’t.

Come back to me. Please.

Things are falling apart quicker than you can piece them back together. Astarion told you he wanted you to be his, and you balked. All the reasons you felt so resolute about suddenly seem so trivial. For a year, you would have done anything to have him back, and now you do, and you’re too scared to put your already dead and broken heart on the table.

This love might kill you, but it’s not over. It was never over. It could never be over.

You chuck a vase against the wall and snarl like a wild animal. It bursts, showering the floor in a spray of glass. You cannot control your rabid emotions. You punch a hole through the wood panelling, tear paintings off it and snap them into pieces as you fall into a tailspin of misery.

You pace the hallways in a rage. At him. At yourself. At the world.

You will not lose him to whatever that thing is inside of him.

You will not lose him.

You cannot lose him.

The jagged pieces of your frenzy are strewn haphazardly throughout the manor and resemble a portrayal of what remains of your life. Everything is broken, fragmented and sharp enough to cut down to bone.

Desperate to feel close to him in some form, you run up to his room. It smells like bergamot and rosemary with a hint of aged brandy - it smells like him, and he smells like home. You inhale deeply. Grim thoughts race through your mind like a whirling flood that creeps out of your eyes in the form of tears.  Without Astarion’s heartbeat, the silence in this place is heavy and dark, like a passing cloud.

You lay on the bed, and your hand skims over where he was this morning when you woke with your head on his chest. Astarion held you all night and long into the morning. When your eyes opened, Astarion was already gazing at you with scarlet eyes as gorgeous as the heavens and as deep as the hells. His expression was warm-hearted, loving even. He looked at you like he used to.

“Well, hello, beautiful.”

He smiled, sweeping your hair out of your sleepy eyes. All the things he’s said to you start echoing through your mind.

“I missed you, you know. When you left.”

“You make me feel.”

“I could never get you out of my head.”

“I told you I can be romantic.”

“Yes, little love, true feelings.”

“My feelings for you, of course.”

Good Gods. Has he been trying to tell you he loves you through his actions this entire time? You’ve been so caught up in not letting yourself fall into another trap that you didn’t see it. You were reading random pages and not the entire book.

It ends today. You don’t know where this will end, but you know where it must start.

Curling up on the bed, you cry until you manage to push yourself into your trance because that’s all you can do.

Your hand slams into the wooden door with a force that causes it to whine. Night has finally consumed the sun, and Astarion still has not returned. When you woke, the manor was still deathly silent.

Shadowheart opens the door a crack, and her eyes widen when she sees you. She scowls fiercely, “Did Astarion do this to you!?” She growls with a clenched fist.

Did he do what to me? Oh....

“No,” you assure quickly. Your skin is still creviced and grey with red, scabbed lacerations marring your flesh. You push yourself into the house. “This was not him. He’s missing. I need your help to find him.”

Shadowheart’s magic washes over you, healing your wounds, and she takes a quick step back. She knows better than to get too close to you, but right now, your hysteria is overriding any bloodlust you might feel.

Even though she does smell delicious.

Gale frowns, “What do you mean missing?”

“We were attacked by Gur in the forest last night,” you blurt out rapidly. “He hasn’t come home.”

Gale smiles. He fucking smiles, and it takes everything in you not to slap that grin off his face. He shrugs, “Good riddance, I say.”

“I’m sorry, but I agree with Gale,” Shadowheart crosses her arms. “He told me what happened. Is it true Astarion was going to kill him?”

“Gale attacked him!” You roar with a hiss, narrowing your eyes at Gale who noticeably jolts at your rough inflection. You sigh and try to calm your rampaging temper, “You don’t understand, and I do not have time to explain it right now. Without Astarion, I cannot be out in the sun. I only have until dawn to find him. We must hurry.”

Gale scoffs, “I’m sorry, but there is no “we,” in this, my friend. If the Gur took care of that monster for us, we should be thanking them.”

You knew Gale would be a longshot, especially after what happened at the manor, but Shadowheart might still be swayed but your pleas.

“Shadowheart, please,” you beg, tears kissing your cheeks once again. “I need help.”

“I don’t know...” She sighs, rubbing her face. “He’s dangerous. Why not just leave him to his fate? If he is dead, you’re free. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Not if his death is the price of that freedom,” you rasp. You clutch your chest, wishing to feel his heart beating behind your breast, to feel complete, because, without him, you are so vastly empty. “Dangerous as he is, he is my safe, Shadowheart.”

“How did you get away?” Shadowheart asks.

“He compelled me,” your voice breaks. “The idiot compelled me to leave.”

Shadowheart arches a brow and purses her lips, “Does he compel you often?”

“He’s never compelled me before,” you groan at the memory of your body betraying you. “Astarion told me to leave, and I refused. It’s the first time he’s compelled me, and it was to get me away from danger. Stupid, foolish imbecile!”

Well, it’s the first time he’s compelled you that you know about, but alas, she doesn’t need to know that.

Shadowheart looks you over and you’re not exactly sure what she’s looking for, but she finally nods, “Okay. Give me a moment to get ready. I will help you look for him.”

“You cannot be serious, Shadowheart!” Gale says hoarsely.

Shadowheart sniffs and waves dismissively, “We have all had our demons, Gale. Astarion is no exception.”

“He killed her!” Gale shouts. “He turned her into,” Gale cringes with a gesture toward you. “This.”

Gods, you’ve had just about enough of everyone blaming him for your choices, and you step forward, “I wanted to be turned into this,” you hiss in contempt. “Astarion did not force me. I’ve told you this time and time again.”

Shadowheart gives your arm a light tug, pulling you back, “I will help you look. Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, and Gale,” she scolds with a sniff, “I expected better of you. Gods know you reached for unfathomable power, and you would have taken it in a heartbeat.”

The air is crisp in your lungs. Shadowheart was right to send you outside. There is no time to participate in an argument right now, but you will have to return and speak to Gale and Shadowheart eventually to sort this out - if it can be sorted out.

Shadowheart joins quickly, dressed in her armour with her spear slung across her back and a pack around her shoulders, “Let’s go,” she nods. “How much ground do we have to cover?”

“We were on the outskirts of the forest when they attacked. It’s not a substantial distance, but it’s not close either. We will have to hurry.”

You can run endlessly since you don’t require air, and you bolt ahead of Shadowheart to scout the way. Your body is sticky with sweat. It rolls down your temples like a stream from your pores. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is a welcome distraction from the woe warping your heart.

How had the Gur known where you were? Someone must have tipped them off, but who?

It doesn’t take long until the air smells of sweat, death and old, congealed blood, and you can at least follow the scent. The forest is eerily soundless, with only small streaks of moonlight as pale as ghosts streaking through the dense canopy. No animals scurry. No wind blows. No insects chirp. Only the sound of your feet crunching over the forest floor.

Mutilated bodies of Gur, werewolves, and hundreds of bats litter the earth in a carpet of flesh and gore. The ground is a blood-stained dark maroon and squelches under your feet as you slow your pace. Your mouth drops open as you look around, astonished at the number of bodies. Terror sinks into you, and you start pulling on bodies only to uncover more underneath. Heaps of dead in unfathomable numbers. Hells. You listen for a heartbeat but hear none. You choke back sobs. There’s no way he could have survived this, and you hate him for making you leave.

Your ears twitch as they catch the sound of twigs breaking behind you. If it were Shadowheart, she would surely make her presence known. You whirl just in time for snapping fangs to miss your throat as a werewolf lunges. You cast Gust of Wind and send it reeling off its feet. It stands snarling, but it’s gravely wounded, with a sickeningly large festering gash in its belly. You don’t know if this thing will listen or if it can even understand you, but you must try.

“I’m a friend.” You put your hands up but are ready to cast should this prove to be a futile attempt. “Your master’s friend.”

Its ears flick and twitch around as it listens. It sniffs the air and makes no further move to attack.

“Take me to him,” you instruct as commanding as you can. “Now.”

Its lips pull back to reveal rows of sharp teeth and growls, but it turns and plods away unsteadily. You don’t know if it’s just decided you’re not a threat or if it will take you to Astarion, but you pursue it.

The number of bodies dwindles the further you follow, with only a few scattered here and there like dead leaves shed from the trees. Sliding down a steep incline, it finally turns to you, ears flattening against its head, drooping at the tips, and points its disfigured paw with a melancholy whine.

You scramble forward, eyes skimming the ground, and finally see Astarion lying motionless on the rust-coloured earth, painted with blood and gore. His ivory skin only peeks through between the cracks in the drying crimson veil sheeting his body. Countless wounds mar his flesh, some superficial and others that make your stomach twist in your belly, threatening to spill its contents.

You flop to your knees and shake him vigorously, “Astarion!” Your voice is a screeching pitch that could shatter glass, “Astarion! Wake up! Please.”

He does not wake or rouse. He’s cold, deathly cold like he used to be. Leaning down, you put your ear to his chest and try to stifle your loud sobbing so you can listen. You hear nothing. His chest is as silent as yours, seized by the dominion of death. Touching his cheek, you scream shrilly into the night, lamenting your pain to the heavens.

Shadowheart.

You don’t want to leave his side, but you pull yourself away and charge with renewed vigour until you catch Shadowheart’s scent and the hammering thud, thud, thud of her heart. You nearly crash into her in your haste.

“Hells,” She jumps, grabs your shoulders to steady you, and sees the inconsolable look on your face, “What’s wrong?”

“I found him,” your knees are rickety. The only thing keeping you upright and from hurtling off the edge of collapse is the need to return to his side. He can’t be dead. He can’t be! “I think… Gods, I think he’s dead, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart’s mouth drops open in a gasp, “Show me.”

Sliding down the slope, you dive to Astarion’s side, hands coming to his face, sweeping your thumb across his frigid cheek. Shadowheart drops to her knees with magic already glowing on her fingers. The colour drains from her face, leaving her as pale as you, awash with horror at the grotesque sight.

“Hells below,” she mumbles. “Is his heart beating? Does it usually beat?”

She knows your hearing is sharper than hers, “It usually does,” you falter and place a splayed hand on your chest. You glance at her and shake your head, “It’s as still as mine.”

Shadowheart casts and her magic sinks into Astarion, but he does not stir. She tries again, and again, and again, increasing the strength with every successive round with no result. Astarion does not so much as twitch a finger or muscle.

You shake him again, screaming into his face as your tears fall like raindrops splashing on his cheeks, “Don’t you dare think about leaving me! Please... please, don’t leave me alone. I need you, Astarion.”

Shadowheart’s cheeks are red, and her eyes brim with shiny tears. She gives you a look of regret, and you know what she’s thinking without her even saying it because you’re thinking it, too.

“He can’t be...” you choke as you fall to pieces.

“I’m sorry,” Shadowheart shakes her head. Her face contorted in sorrow, “I’m so sorry.”

You fall forward onto Astarion’s lifeless chest, blanketing him with your body, and you scream, guttural and ear-splitting as continuous as the stream of time.  

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

I'm releasing this chapter earlier than I usually do because I've finally had some time to sit and do nothing but write (my favourite), but that means it may push back the release of the next chapter. It will depend on how work and life go this week.

Apologies, darlings. For the cliffhanger.

[sitboi]

Bloodweave : hemophobia (or the fear of blood)

I'm sickly and my braincells are all soggy, and it took both hands and an army (my beta) to keep me from turning this story into crack fic. I hope you enjoy it regardless.

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Read On AO3 | G | 1.7k Words

CW for gross blood bite scene, and a bit of fainting.

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Gale sleeps on his back with his neck tilted tantalizingly to the left. 

Astarion has observed him for too many nights now, creeping silently into his gaudy purple tent, and staring down at the wizard’s pulse point with the deepest hunger he’s ever known. He’s never planned to act on his impulses—to bite, to maim, to savage open every vein and drink until Gale becomes no more than a dried up husk beneath Astarion’s teeth—but as he inhales the deep rich scent of wine and honest luxury that Gale exudes, the urge grows. 

They’re deep in the underdark—too far removed from acceptable prey for far too long—and Astarion can feel his convictions wavering with each tempting breath the wizard takes. He knows the real risk is a stake to the heart, but still allows himself to lean in further; eyes locked to the smooth planes of flesh peeking above Gale’s robe. It would be so simple, so easy, just to bite down on that junction. Astarion would be careful enough, so careful that Gale may not even wake. 

He’s aware of the minutes passing, ticking them off with each grind of his indecisive teeth, and chasing Cazador’s rules around his warring thoughts. ‘Don’t drink from thinking creatures’ becomes an even crueler guideline when the only other option is a dry, slow starvation. 

He’s going to do it, he has to do it, he— 

Gale shifts slightly, hand coming up to press on his chest like something pains him, but he still doesn’t wake. 

Astarion waits for him to settle again, toying with patience he’s never had and quietly placing his palm on the ground by Gale’s head. It’s a matter of inches now—Gale gives a snuffling exhale, and Astarion is so close he can feel it pass his lips—there is no backing down. 

Smells so much better than a boar, he thinks, finally letting his control slip as the aura of Gale’s latent magic enters his nostrils. His fangs ache with it, and he can’t help the way his tongue laves against Gale’s skin as he finally sinks into it. It’s heady, warm and slow and so perfect for such a very short moment. 

Then, a nightmare erupts onto Astarion’s tongue. 

He gasps, unable to stop himself from jerking back as a black stream erupts from Gale’s open throat. Astarion has no time to consider it, as he coughs and retches around the vilest acid. It sears from his stomach to the base of his skull, and he gags twice to force it from the back of his mouth. 

Astarion had anticipated blood like brandy, zipping with aged zings of arcane energy, but Gale—who’s staring up at him now with widening, horrified eyes—tastes of poison. 

“Astarion?” Gale questions flatly, apparently void with shock. 

Astarion has to force in a breath to even answer. 

“Y-you taste disgusting!” He coughs, pressurized tears forming as he speaks, “Are you made of bloody bile?!” 

“...a vampire?” Gale blinks like he didn’t hear Astarion at all, voice still flat in the observation, but eyes finally seeming to refocus in the dim light.

“Astute observation,” Astarion wheezes, still on his knees and forcing air he doesn’t need. He watches a few drops of Gale’s blood drip from his own chin and hit the dirt below them; so pitch-dark it could be used as ink. “And great way to avoid the question, darling. So I’ll ask a different one. Are you some kind of monster?”

Gale’s face pinches—like Astarion’s words hurt worse than the torn flesh of his throat—and Astarion thinks, this is it, this is the moment he retaliates. He stiffens his shoulders, preparing for the strike, but it never comes. 

Instead, Gale’s eyes move to the mess smeared across Astarion’s mouth, and his hand flies to his own throat. He presses down like he’s attempting to staunch the already slowing bleed, then pulls away his fingers, coated in whatever ilk flows through his dark veins. 

“Oh dear,” He says, staring down at it. Gale barely looks back to Astarion, then his eyes roll upwards and the wizard crumples backward, flopping formlessly onto his bedroll. 

Astarion stills. For a horrible moment, he thinks the wizard is dead, but if he focuses he can still hear the faint pulse of his heart in his slowly rising chest. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Astarion seethes, when the situation registers fully in his overwrought brain. 

Gale has merely fainted. 

♦

Astarion mulls over his options, then turns them inside out and mulls them over again. 

Gale remains unconscious, though why is not something Astarion has pieced together. He didn’t get past the first sip of Gale’s noxious, roiling blood, and not nearly enough seeped out of the wizard afterward for a child to faint, let alone a fully grown man. 

If that’s what he is, Astarion thinks, using a cloth and a bit of water from Gale’s supplies to fully clean his face in the dark. Gale seems human enough, but it won’t be the first time someone in camp turns out to be more than they seem.

 The irony. 

And that’s the other issue, Gale knows Astarion’s secret now, and if he wakes up there’s nothing stopping him from screaming it across the camp and waking the others. By all rights, Astarion should kill him. It’s number one on his current list of considerations, and he reaches for his dagger with renewed conviction. 

Before he can hover it over Gale’s throbbing heart the wizard gasps his way back to wakefulness, bolting up in one stiff motion and nearly knocking Astarion over. He freezes, waiting—knife still trembling in his palm—for Gale to scream. 

Again, it never comes. 

Gale keeps his eyes firmly shut, moving a hand out warily and feeling the air for Astarion’s presence. Astarion is a step too far for those curious fingers to grasp him, and he moves even further as Gale finally speaks. 

“A-Astarion?” He questions again, in a whisper so low Astarion strains to hear it. “If you’re there, I need to ask something of you. Beg it really,” he pauses, hand still outstretched and covered in dried filth, “It’s quite shameful, but I promise I’ll explain…well, everything. If you’ll allow me.” 

It would be so easy to slip from the tent without a sound, but Astarion feels the weight of the air change around them and knows he can use the shift to his advantage. 

“I’m here,” he admits with reluctance, “and of course I’ll let you spill your little secrets. You’re privy to mine now, after all.” 

It’s admission—confirmation thinly veiled in a threatening tone—but he wants to see Gale’s reaction to the reminder. 

Gale winces, face turning toward Astarion’s voice with his eyes remaining closed. 

“I know, but I fear my situation might be a bit…” He trails off, and Astarion can hear his heartbeat go slightly off-pace, “I can tell you why my blood is…vile, for lack of better terms, but first I need you to clean it off of me,” he pauses again, this time with a deepening frown, “and yourself.” 

“You need me to,” Astarion says slowly, watching the wizard with narrowing eyes, “clean us off?” 

“Yes,” Gale confirms, though his voice is still shamefully quiet and wimpish, “please.”

Astarion looks down at the rag he pilfered earlier with disdain, its center a gray smear from the amount of Gale’s blood already on it. 

“Why?” He dares into the silence. 

Gale doesn’t answer immediately, biting his lip and fidgeting. 

“Why?” Astarion presses again, putting his dagger away, and reaching for the cloth. He’s already decided to obey Gale’s pleas, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hear more of them. 

Gale sighs, pinching his face tighter. His hand is still outstretched, and Astarion takes it gingerly, starting to wipe his fingers as he waits for a reply. The black blood smears like ink too, Astarion scrubbing harder than necessary where it’s beginning to dry and flake away from Gale’s fingernails. 

Perhaps it’s what urges him to finally answer. 

“If I see my blood,” he says softly, “I won’t be able to explain my condition, because I’ll…” he hesitates further and Astarion sees his jaw clench as he forces himself to continue, “Well—I’ll faint, much like before.” 

Oh, Astarion files the information in the back of his mind and stifles the mild chuckle he feels bubbling in his chest. A vampire and a man afraid of blood, he thinks, what a pair they make. When he doesn’t speak aloud—silently moving from Gale’s hand to his collar and moving the cloth down cautiously—Gale continues. 

“I-I know it’s ridiculous. Especially when we seem to be in battle more often than not these days, but it’s really only…” he tilts his head back to give Astarion better access to his now much-less-tantalizing throat. “It’s really only my blood. So, as long as I stay as far back as spell casting will allow, there’s usually no reason to fret.” 

“I see,” Astarion says, because he does. He’s watched the wizard stand above them on high rocks, casting down into the fury of battle enough times to know Gale speaks the truth. He thinks there’s a few layers of reasons beyond the wizard’s embarrassment, though. “And I’m sure it’s much simpler, not having to explain why you bleed black, if you never get hit in the first place, hmm?” 

Gale snaps his eyes open to meet Astarion’s firm gaze. “Y-yes, and that.” 

Astarion folds the rag into his palm in a way that Gale won’t see it as he pulls back, a small courtesy. 

“I do expect the full tale, darling.” He says lowly, moving to sit primly on the only pillow not against Gale’s bed roll. “Even if it takes us all night.”

Gale’s swallow is audible, and Astarion tracks his shaking fingers as they reach for the neck of his robes. 

“Will we be even then?” Gale asks, clicking the clasps open slowly, revealing the deep indigo of a rather horrendous magic mark. “After we’ve shared our secrets in the dark?”

Astarion smirks, tracing the mark with new concentration from Gale’s sternum all the way to his cheekbone; hard to miss now that he’s truly looking. 

“That, my dear wizard, will be up to you.” 

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