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ellekhen · 5 months ago

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Hand, Hearth, and Home

Chapter 64 - Child's Play

Chapter Summary: Oliver subjects the party to the worst game of tag they've ever endured.

Pairing(s): Astarion x Male Tav (Main); Past OC x Male Tav Rating: Explicit Length: 331K+ words; Chapters 64/?? (Master Post)

Excerpt below:

Church dodges an eldritch blast from a recovered Wyll. What the hells? They can still cast…!

“Oliver!” Halsin’s desperate voice booms into the square. “Please, stop!”

“I won’t stop until I win!” the child taunts.

Church reaches into his mind, calling out to Tavi once more, but the Raven Queen answers instead.

“Flit through the shadows, my child,” the Raven Queen replies calmly. “Do you not recognize her stink?”

Church risks pausing to taste the magic, and oh gods…

It’s not the Shadow Curse that’s possessing his friends.

It’s his…

“…Mother!” Church shouts indignantly. “Why are you listening to him?”

He feels the wind whoosh in his ears as Gale manifests by his side, shadow-wreathed eyes ablaze with necromantic light as inky blood spits from his mouth and nostrils.

“When you left me I was lost!” Gale croaks, his voice accusatory and harsh.

Church blasts him away and winces as he hears something crack — likely Gale’s ribs. He then sees Wyll shambling towards him, disarmed of the Blood of Lathander that seems to have burnt his exposed, shadow-cursed skin.

“I had nowhere to go!” Wyll wails. “No one to protect!”

An arrow whistles through the air and thuds into Wyll’s shoulder. It knocks him prone but other than that the man doesn’t seem to react as he immediately moves to stand back up.

“A child cried out in the dark.”

With the help of his tadpole’s telekinesis, Church ducks as Karlach cleaves her fiery greataxe towards him. She continues nonchalantly after him, dragging it at her side.

“He needed me,” she wheezes. “I needed him.”

“Halsin!” Church hollers to the druid. “They’re like me in the mountain pass! They’re alive, just—!”

Halsin’s face shines with hope — and then terror.

“No,” he breathes softly, a single black tear rolling down his cheek.

His darkening eyes roll up in his head, and he staggers heavily to a knee as Oliver leaps off of his shoulders, his face grinning.

“Church!”

Astarion yanks the tiefling back by the collar. “Take us to high ground!” he demands.

Church attempts to cast Dimension Door again, but as the shadows swirl around him and Astarion, they don’t form a portal. Instead, they concentrate into two billowing shapes upon his shoulders like a cloak. No, like…

“Wings?” Astarion gawks. “Oh—shit—! Fly you idiot, fly!”

Church has no idea how the hells he knows how to do this, but he leans into instinct as he leaps upwards, hauling a yelping Astarion with him as the wings beat into the air. He soars haphazardly deeper into the town, sending the two of them crashing onto the rickety roof of another building.

“Fuck!” Church gasps, craning around his neck to try to examine his wings. “What the hells?”

“Yes, yes, you look splendid,” Astarion grumbles. “Let's hope there’ll be time to admire later, yes?”

“Yes,” Church pants, peering over the edge of the roof. “You can’t die. No one’s going to die.”

“Except for that little bastard,” Astarion mumbles.

“Well, not him either,” Church reminds him. “We need him!”

“Then what the hells do you suppose we do?”

Church sees his companions shuffling around in the distance —

Lae’zel.

Wyll.

Karlach.

Gale.

Halsin.

“Where’s Shadowheart?” Church hisses into Astarion’s mind, willing his enormous, shadowy wings to disperse.

“Maybe she made it out?” Astarion whispers back. “Shar seemed to protect her from the Shadow Curse, after all.”

“No fair!” Oliver’s voice rings shrilly across the square. “This isn’t hide and seek!”

“I’m not going to kill him, but I do need to take him down,” Astarion says. “Get out of here, darling! I’ll cover you.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone!” Church insists. “I never want to leave you alone again, you hear me?”

“Fine!” Astarion spits. “Any bright ideas then?”

There’s a roar in the air around them and a shadow wraith emerges from behind them; Oliver’s ‘Daddy,’ if Church recalls correctly. It wails as it dives down towards its prey, dark talons slashing.

“Fuck off!” Church roars, blasting it away into smithereens. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

Hells, everyone and everything probably heard that…!

“Shadowheart!” Church calls through their tadpoles. He feels her presence and it’s scared. Panicked. “Where are you?”

“Shar…” Shadowheart utters faintly. “She isn’t… listening. Why doesn’t she—?”

“Focus! We need to take him down!” Church implores her. “You, me, and—!”

“Oh… shit…”

Heart cold with dread, Church turns to meet Astarion’s eyes — still ruby red as he sputters out black blood. At his side, Shadowheart must have silently shadow-stepped up to them. Eyes smoking, she crouches there calmly, hand upon Astarion’s shoulder in a way that could almost be comforting.

“Well…” Astarion chuckles, eyes welling up with thick, black tears. “It was… fun while it lasted… wasn’t it, darling?”

...and bonus contrast excerpt...

“I don’t think any amount of thread can repair this,” Church grimaces, inspecting his ruined robe. At risk of being electrocuted, Gale, Harper Evael, and even Bex had tried their damndest to launder and clean it up from its ordeal in the Shadowfell. While its threads still crackle with the electrical traces of the Weave, the tatters in the sleeves are a hazard in itself.

“Some things are just not meant to last,” Astarion sighs, taking the garment from him and wrinkling his nose at the burn marks left by the darkweaver’s blood. “What a pity. I did like this.”

“I did too,” Church smiles. “It was the first gift you gave me.”

“Was it?” Astarion raises an eyebrow. “As I recall, I think I simply handed it to you. Does it count?”

“I’m counting it,” Church shrugs, reaching for the robe. Astarion relinquishes it absently, eyeing him with a small smile upon his face.

“Well. Someone seems to be in high spirits.”

Church huffs a laugh, rolling up the robes and dropping them into a crate.

“I feel better than I have in ages,” he murmurs, pulling Astarion close and resting his head against his chest. “I feel more optimistic than I have in ages. And my brain, it’s…” he chuckles. “...it’s finally quiet.”

Church's expression falls. “But it’s hard for me to really appreciate any of it. You suffered needlessly for this, and I hate her for that…”

He hesitates, drawing carefully away from Astarion as he looks up at his eyes.

“Can I ask…” Church stammers, wringing his hands, “…after everything that’s happened between us… what are we, to you?”

Astarion answers far too quickly, “Gods, I don’t know!" he scoffs. "But isn’t it nice… not to know?”

Church feels his heart drop again as Astarion waffles on.

“You’re not a victim. Not a target. Not another night it’s better to forget,” he gestures vaguely, avoiding Church’s eyes. “But then…” he trails off, lost and uncertain as he forces himself to meet Church’s eyes with a guarded expression. “…whatever in the world… could you be?”

After a tense beat, Church ventures a smile at him.

“I mean, I’d take ‘friends?’” he suggests.

Astarion arches a brow, a hesitant smirk flickering to his lips. “…friends?”

“Yeah.”

Astarion hums thoughtfully, stepping closer to his companion. “Friends who do… this?”

Church closes his eyes into an unexpectedly soft, chaste kiss.

He peeks his eyes open at Astarion as he draws back, his expression smug even if his eyes remain guarded.

“Friends who have shared a tent and bedroll for weeks now,” Astarion adds playfully.

“Alright, then… ‘very good friends,’” Church quips.

“Indeed,” Astarion purrs, slipping his hands around Church’s waist and drawing him close. “Here’s to very good friends.”

He pushes Church down to their bedrolls as they kiss, their embrace slow as they savor each other’s touch. But rather than lie down, Astarion remains sitting upright, guiding Church to do the same.

“Look, I wanted to show you something,” Astarion says, breaking the expectant silence. “Well, demonstrate, really.”

He entangles his hand in Church’s. At first the tiefling smiles bemusedly at him, but then he gasps, his eyes widening.

“Wait… you’re warm!” he says, aghast. “How the hells…?”

“I’m afraid it’s not quite as miraculous as me coming back to life,” Astarion admits with a rueful smile. “But perhaps it’s close.”

Church gawks at him.

“Have you always been able to cast prestidigitation?” the tiefling asks him incredulously.

“No,” Astarion smiles bitterly. “At least not in this lifetime. When I became a spawn, the innate magic of my elven blood no longer came naturally. Even pathetic little cantrips were out of reach. But now?” he shrugs. “Whether it’s with the tadpole’s help or whatever horrid thing the Raven Queen did… I am slowly getting control of the Weave once again.

"It’s not much, but…" he squeezes Church's hands. "...it’s a little piece of a previous life I have back.”

Church gazes up at him with shining eyes.

“See? There was no need to fuss,” Astarion chides him. “The important parts remain.”

“I’m so happy for you,” Church murmurs, pressing a kiss to his warmed hand, as well as the one that remains cold.

Astarion blinks slowly back at him, before flicking his eyes over to where the ruined robe lies crumpled in a crate.

“That thing was designed by a gnome, was it not?” he muses. “Perhaps you can show it to that pathetic friend of ours. Marcus, wasn’t it? Gods know he could use a project,” he adds derisively.

“Barcus,” Church reproves him, but the tiefling looks thoughtful nonetheless as they lie down together. “Actually, I’m… surprised you remember that about Yrre the Sparkstruck.” He chuckles. “But yes, it’s worth a shot.”

He pecks a kiss to the elf’s cheek as he pulls a blanket over the two of them, tucking his chin over Astarion’s head.

The elf doesn’t seem to grumble that he’s messing up his curls this time.

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