Chapter Text
Tragedy follows on Astarion’s heels, as it has for over one-hundred and sixty years, and will continue to until the end of his existence. It bites at his heels like the approaching sunrise does, taunting, waiting for the right moment to strike and burn him up from the outside in. How poetic, Gale might say by his ear, voice low and soft against the shell of it, that he had promised him a sunset, and here Astarion is, running away from a sunrise. Gods, when he finds that bastard, he’s wringing his neck.
It is the first dawn of their journey, and the closer it gets, the more Tara weaves her way around his feet. She hadn’t seemed particularly eager to communicate with either of them aside from the occasional chirps, or a paw against his leg, but he knows she’s trying to tell him the same thing Shadowheart is. There is only so much sunrise they can take before they land in dangerous territory. A cloak won’t be enough on a path with direct sun, not when the path isn’t shaded by a canopy of trees.
“There’s an inn up ahead,” Shadowheart mentions conversationally, “perhaps they have somewhere we can wait out the day. I didn’t leave the enclave without a spare bit of gold, so I should be able to rent us a room.”
There’s a pause, knuckles against his mouth, as he tries not to snap.
Rash anger will do them both nothing, and it surely won’t bring Gale back to him. It’s not something he would have even cared about at the beginning of their journey just a few years ago, but he’s been practicing patience with the children at the tower. They’re loud and quite messy from time to time, but between Gale’s little library and the classes he teaches, he’s grown used to their company. He should have had the foresight to put some sign up, sending them on their merry way until their return.
“Mr. Dekarios will survive another day.” Tara’s voice speaks directly into his mind, and despite having heard it before, he nearly recoils, reaching down to pick her up. “You both should rest, and you should take care to keep away from the sun.”
“Lead the way.” Astarion offers an exaggerated flourish, and Shadowheart leans in to drag the cloak closed before the sun can think about harming him before she steps past him on the path to start directing. She’s kind about the way she does it, and his heart aches. It’s the way Gale does it as well; to an outsider, it simply reads as someone blocking another from a chill, or a slip of exposed skin. A pat to the fabric.
He doesn’t dwell on it for much longer. The inn isn’t too far ahead, and they accept payment for a room with two beds quite willingly. Shadowheart is kind about it, offering what she can whilst trying to save some gold for future stops, and for food.
She leads him to the room after, and as Astarion cautiously sets Tara down on one of the beds, Shadowheart sets a plate of food on the counter. “Tonight,” she says, “and for tonight only, Astarion, if you’re starving…”
Oh, how kind.
He stares at her under half-lidded eyes, looking at least half as pathetic as he feels as he offers a shallow nod. She sits, turned away, and he leans in to bite, but there’s hesitation. He’s breathing warmly against her neck, and she turns to look at him over her shoulder. He warns, “It will hurt.”
“I know, Astarion. Just as much as you need, nothing more.”
He’s not greedy, not here. He bites, teeth sinking into giving flesh, the warmth filling his mouth. He takes what he needs, and slowly covers her neck with a cloth from the side table after. Vampire saliva and its anti-coagulant properties. Her blood is thinner at the surface until the rest of her blood cells make up for it.
That’s how Gale had explained it. Astarion’s head in his lap, a warm hand in his hair, and murmurs from a book of someone who had studied vampires face-to-face. All the medical words for everything Astarion understood already.
Shadowheart eats, and then she rests. Once he’s sure she’s asleep, Astarion lays back against the bed and stares at the ceiling. Tara decides it’s the correct time to curl up on his chest. “Mr. Dekarios loves you,” she says to him, silent, her voice a whisper in his consciousness, “dearly. He wouldn’t abandon you.”
“He sounded like it,” Astarion says aloud, quietly, and combs through her fur with idle fingers, “I still don’t understand why in any of the fucking gods names he couldn’t have waited to tell me in person. We were content.”
“You know him. Always reaching for more. He doesn’t believe in his worth if he’s not searching to do more.”
“Unfortunately.”
He tries to picture Gale, but Tara presses a little too deeply on his sternum to draw his attention. “He’s talking to someone right now,” she relays to him, “under the sun. He’s in a city. I’m not sure entirely, but it looks like Baldur’s Gate.”
“You can see him?” Astarion hisses, grasping her face in his hands. “You rat. Why wouldn’t you mention it earlier? We’ve been searching aimlessly.”
Oh, their memories in Baldur’s Gate are nothing short of epic love stories according to Gale. He recounts times of strife, of cradling Astarion as he sobbed just a foot away from Cazador’s corpse, and times where they had stood by Mystra’s statue as Gale had promised her that crown — the Elder Brain and its monstrous crown, the search for the crown after… He remembers the nights after, too. Lips pressed against one another’s at the site of a grave, or the raucous noise after the Elder Brain was gone and dead.
Finally, after the crown had been handed over, the orb had disappeared permanently, leaving nothing but a scar. He recalls Gale’s laugh, hearty and kind, and the absolutely awful taste of his food, though he blames that on his tastebuds.
Oh, how he misses him already.
The sun sets far too soon, and they’re preparing for their journey once again. Tara earns a fond little pat as he’s fixing his hair, and then he invites her onto his shoulder. She’s a tad heavier than the normal parrot-on-a-shoulder or other pets that are better suited to the position, but she’s a solid little reminder of Gale that he can’t currently bear to part with. She purrs and presses her head against his neck, and he’s turning to Shadowheart.
”We’re heading to Baldur’s Gate,” he announces rather flatly, “can’t you just picture it already? Home sweet hells.”
Shadowheart raises an eyebrow. “I suppose,” she replies, “it’s been a while. It’ll be fairly familiar strolling into Baldur’s Gate by your side. I wonder if anyone we know will be around.”
Astarion tilts his head down after a moment, and he feels an unwanted surge of emotion rising in his chest as he thinks about their traveling companions. He’d last heard of Halsin helping some children outside of the gate, but Wyll and Karlach had gone right to Avernus, trying to seek out an answer to what was happening with her infernal engine. Gods, he hasn’t heard anything about them in ages. He can only hope they’re safe, living some white picket fence life that they’d thought about.
Kids. He thinks they mentioned it once or twice — and proposal, even.
Lae’zel, Jaheira, Minsc… He doesn’t remember where they’d all gone after they’d parted ways. He was a little head over heels at that point, as much as he’s embarrassed to admit it.
“Baldur’s Gate,” Shadowheart says after a moment, casting a glance toward Astarion, “it was the tressym that told you that, wasn’t it? I never pictured myself as a cat person, but Gale certainly was taken with her. I wonder… Can you hear her because Gale trusts you, or because she does? I’m not quite sure how that magic all works. A few people have mentioned that we could consider keeping more animals around the enclave, but I think Silver and the other wolves are plenty enough.”
Refreshing. Scared of wolves, and here she is fond of them years later.
“Tara,” he corrects her, though Tara doesn’t seem to mind the comments much, “Gale summoned her himself when he was a boy. He’s rather fond of her, though his mother wasn’t. She didn’t want an animal around the house — another mouth to feed, another to take care of.”
Shadowheart’s expression takes on something of pity. “Mystra found him quite young. I remember Minsc saying something about that — that Mystra had quite the type for young boys.” she sees Astarion scowl and she switches subjects, saying, “I think Baldur’s Gate will take us a few days at most on foot. We’ll likely have to consider finding a carriage to take us, or paying for horses.”
They rest at another inn that night and Astarion writes a letter he’ll never send.
♡
Gale,
Though I’d usually address you as my love as well, I’m rather fed up with your antics. I was plenty content with our life in Waterdeep, yes, and plenty content with you. I am not your goddess, and nothing close. I need only you, and not sunsets nor sunrises nor anything else.
I ask that you return home to me in one piece, and nothing else.
Yours,
Astarion.