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Due to the sun deciding Astarion wasn’t fit to walk under its rays anymore, they travelled at night, hand in hand, lost into each other or admiring the starry blanket spread above their heads.
They would speak and joke, their voices soft to avoid any unwanted attention – not that it would have been a problem, not with Astarion’s knives ready to pierce anyone who would dare interrupt them; not with Tav’s frighteningly convincing diplomacy.
But they liked the quietness offered by the night, the silent and regal regard of the stars, the sound of the playful wind making their cloaks flutter like sails or wings. Above all, they liked the sound of each other’s whispers – and Astarion felt like a shy boy dealing with his first love whenever Tav smiled at him and told him about something read in a book or heard in the last town they had visited.
Well… he was no shy boy, but she was his first love. No wonder her giggles and her loving gaze made him feel as if his heart was beating and blood was rushing to his cheeks to warm them again after centuries.
Just before sunrise, they would find a secluded, safe spot – sometimes it was a cave, sometimes a hidden grove or ruin -, and mount their shared tent there, covering it with multiple sheets and blankets to make sure no light could enter it and burn Astarion to a crisp.
Their nocturnal travelling was his favourite part of the day, but settling down to rest until the moon was hanging in the sky again was also a part of their journey – of their search for a cure – that he deeply enjoyed.
He loved lying down on their bedroll and hold Tav in his arms as she read a book or recounted some funny event from her past; he loved her soft kisses on his chest, her hand playing with his fingers, her nose nuzzling his hair, her grin as he said something funny, her blush as he smiled at her and caressed the freckles on her face (they seemed to increase each day, despite he and Tav travelling only at night, and he was determined to count them every time).
Sometimes, when he felt particularly brave and confident, they would make love.
It still shocked him how different – how better, how right – sex felt with her. Gone was his need to impress, to lure, to fill himself and the other with deceit. Theirs was a slow, sometimes even messy act, full of laughter and sloppy kisses, of hands finding ticklish spots, of pauses to allow Tav to catch her breath, of imperfect thrusts and perfect smiles, of grass stuck on their butts, and of kisses pressed on hands and cheeks.
There was blood, too – on Tav’s neck and into Astarion’s mouth, down his throat, on her fingertips which he kissed with devotion, on his chin which she cleaned for him with a brush of her thumb. Once, a droplet or two landed on his hair (they never understood how), and she helped him clean it and comb it, the intimacy and softness of it sending shivers of delight and wonder up and down his scarred spine.
Every time they reached a city or town, they would first try to locate an inn to make sure they would have a safe haven for the day.
Months spent in the wilderness while dealing with a tadpole in their skull, various people who wanted them dead, and traps laid in every godsforsaken corner had taught Astarion to lower his standards when it came to taverns and other establishments offering rooms and beds. Still, he would always make sure there were no bedbugs under the sheets, that baths were included in the cost, and that Tav could have a desk for her to write on.
She loved writing down on her journal. Notes and ideas about their journey and the next cities and libraries they should visit, silly drawings and doodles, flowers and leaves pressed between the pages… That thick volume contained multitudes, and she had already filled two.
(Once, she had drawn his portrait and shown it to him, apologizing for taking so long. His eyes had welled up with tears after seeing himself for the first time after two hundred years, and he had smiled at her, a sun scorching in his soul.
He had drawn her portrait in return and, a few days later, they had purchased two lockets in Daggerford, inserted the inky drawings into them, and put them on. Now they walked with the other’s face hanging right above their heart, she had said with a grin.
“Hot.” Astarion had said, smiling like a fool at his locket catching the light of the moon, Tav’s kind, beautiful face protected by its carved lid.
To be honest, he had been surprised by his own artistic skills. Tav’s portrait had taken him many long, painful minutes, during which he had tried to capture her smile and the warm light in her eyes within the small circle of paper, using the stubborn ink with the best of his abilities.
His hands were deft with lockpicks and knives, but with the sharpened point of a quill? Not so much. He enjoyed reading, but he had never been one for jotting down his thoughts like Tav was. There was simply no reason nor time to do something like that while in Cazador’s clutches – he would have just written about the daily tortures he was subjected to, or the targets he had lured into the Palace.
But he had poured all his black soul and unbeating heart into Tav’s portrait, and she had beamed at him, a veil of happy tears in her eyes as she saw the completed work.
“Astarion, it’s beautiful!”
“Heh.” His chest had swelled with pride. “I guess I’m not only good at sex, after all.”
“Astarion.” She had glared at him. She hated his self-deprecating jokes; she would often say they needed to work on his self-confidence and pride, but he already felt pretty prideful despite living through two centuries of shit as a body to be used. It was a miracle, really.
“Alright, alright, I apologize! I know I’m good at many other things.” He hadn’t mentioned them, because his mind couldn’t provide any list, but Tav was always ready to remind him he was amazing with this and that. He would preen and grin and make her repeat herself during those occasions, but that day they had been interrupted by a knock on the door (a servant telling them the bath they had requested was ready), and his ever-reforming doubts and fears hadn’t been assuaged.)
They would buy as many books on vampirism, potions, and special magic as they could. Sometimes they stole them, too, if the book was too promising to ignore and the price too high or simply absurd.
However, if the volume catching their attention was in a library, they would leave it there, renting it, studying it from cover to cover, and bringing it back before departing for their next destination. Astarion didn’t really care, but he assumed letting other people get a good education was part of a hero’s duty as well. He would let his dear Tav deal with these technicalities and trust in her judgment.
So far, they hadn’t found many leads, but one booklet in particular had mentioned how any kind of ailment in Faerûn could be fixed with a potion or a particularly powerful concoction, no matter how peculiar or serious said ailment was. If that was true, then even vampirism – or at least its most serious, detrimental characteristic after bloodlust – could be cured and allow Astarion to walk freely under the sun again.
Not that he was in such a big hurry to find a remedy. Travelling and exploring and reading with his beloved was the apex of bliss and joy. Had someone told him this would be his idea of happiness and freedom just some years ago, when he was still grovelling at Cazador’s feet for scraps of vermin, yearning for power, he would have sliced their throat.
But how was he supposed to know such simple, undiluted happiness could exist? That someone like Tav would choose someone like him?
Sometimes, when he looked at her resting, his chest tightened and the act of breathing (unnecessary for a vampire) became more difficult. It was a kind of choking different from the one he had felt whenever Cazador was in the same room as he. The one he felt with Tav was a good feeling, like a slightly-too-tight hug or the comforting weight of a heavy blanket during a cold, rainy day.
- - -
They came to a small village as the first stars started blinking in the sky. The place was so tiny it wasn’t even on their map, and they couldn’t find any signpost with a name on it to at least tell them where they were.
“I doubt we will find anything good here, my love.” Astarion mused. At least the houses were decent. Made out of stone, the doors painted with animal motifs, flowers on the windowsills, clean laundry hanging in the gardens.
The two roads visible from the village entrance looked clean, too, devoid of mud and grime. And was that a tavern in the distance? He wasn’t sure, but he hoped it might be, for Tav needed to buy some more food and clean water.
There weren’t many people around – the sun had just set, after all, and they were probably busy in their homes. But Astarion’s hearing caught loud laughter and raucous activity in the building he had spotted at the start, and he determined it was indeed a tavern, the only one in the village. It seemed the majority of the populace – and they couldn’t be that many – was busy drinking and eating there, probably feeling safer and warmer among old-time friends and family.
Close-knitted community such as this one could usually mean two things: either he and Tav would be chased out, seen as two unfamiliar, dangerous faces, or officially adopted by an elderly mayor. Both scenarios had already happened in the past weeks, and both had been surreal at best.
The third one, a dangerous cult trying to eviscerate them to offer their organs as sacrifice, hadn’t occurred yet, but Astarion was always cautious around new people. He wouldn’t let some peasants harm his beloved Tav or his own magnificent person.
“Maybe there is a temple or church where they keep books.” his love said in a hopeful tone. “And I doubt anyone here is an expert on spells, but it couldn’t hurt to try and ask.”
“Darling, I bet no one here even knows how to read.”
She swatted him, playful, and he grinned when he saw her smile.
She entered the tavern first, then turned to him and invited him in - all in in a low voice to avoid piquing the other patrons’ interest or, worse, suspicions. Now that he was a normal vampire spawn again, they had to use that method to let him enter places and not stand in the entryway like a fool.
The tavern was indeed full. Full of people, from the most decaying old woman to the pinkest newborn. There were two fireplaces in which flames and wood logs roared and snapped, and the air was filled with countless different aromas, none of which inspired any kind of hope or appetite in Astarion. Meat and ale, sweat and cheap perfume, roast and mead, milk and piss.
“Ugh.” he groaned. “Why are there kids in a tavern?”
They were everywhere, dining with their families, playing on some rugs near the fireplaces, sleeping on their mother’s or father’s bosom. The place looked more like a communal dining hall rather than a standard tavern, probably due to the minuscule size of the village. If that was indeed the majority of the townsfolks, all huddled there to eat and laugh together, it was no wonder the place had no name that they knew of and wasn’t drawn on their very complete, very expensive map.
“I like this place.” Tav said with a bright smile, observing the scene before them.
“It’s chaos.”
“You like chaos!”
“Only when we are the ones wreaking it, my love.”
She laughed, and the sound made fuzzy warmth spread over his chest and cheeks.
They had been noticed – many heads turned in their direction, and the kids stared and pointed at them. The innkeeper, a large Human with large hands and a large smile, waved them over.
“Welcome, welcome!” she said, cheeks round and red like apples. “Visitors! We don’t get many around these parts!”
“No wonder.” Astarion mumbled, earning himself a light kick in the shin. Tav greeted the innkeeper with her usual kindness, while he pou- studied the counter with a pensive expression on his face.
“Don’t worry, though, we do have a room ready. It’s not much, but I always make sure it’s clean, in case some adventurers chance to come here.”
“Thank you kindly. Would it be possible to buy some supplies, too? I fear we don’t have many left.”
“Of course! Tell me what you need, lass.”
Huh. The counter was surprisingly clean. And the bottles of wine behind it looked good, of decent quality. Astarion’s opinion of the village – or at least of the stuffy, hot tavern – started to improve.
“… And some vegetables. You never know when they might come in handy. Anything else, Astarion?”
“Huh?” He looked back to his Tav and smiled at her. “Remember the ink for your journal, too, my love.”
“Oh, right, ink!”
“What would you do without me?” he sighed melodramatically, shaking his head with a fond smile. Tav laughed, her freckles looking like ruddy pearls under the firelight.
The innkeeper looked at them, a knowing smile on her face.
“Husband and wife, I take it.”
Astarion nearly choked on his spit, the sun which had been burning in his chest ever since he and Tav had officially gotten together now filling his entire body.
He now had an answer to the question Tav had asked him twice during the early weeks of their relationship.
What are we, to you?
Oh, he could write entire books on what she meant to him. He would never be able to tell her without sounding and looking like an absolute idiot, but the most important words were there, burning in his veins and on his tongue, making his kisses feverish and his hugs tight and trembling.
And now this stranger had added another word to his already long list – darling, my love, my beloved, sweetheart, my soulmate, life of my life, wife.
He wasn’t sure he was exactly husband material. Too vain and chaotic at times, with a mean streak in him directed at anyone who wasn’t Tav – but she loved him all the same, and he was too weak to refuse her gift. He could only hope he was enough for her happiness.
“Yes, indeed.” he said, placing a hand on the small of Tav’s back. He stood straight, letting the amber light from the fireplace play with his hair and the planes and lines of his face.
He wanted to be handsome for her. He wanted to be someone Tav could be proud to have at her side.
She stared at him, surprised and joyful, then looked back to the innkeeper and nodded, her lips curled into a huge smile.
“That’s correct.”
“It’s obvious from the way you stare at each other.” The innkeeper chuckled, that knowing, amused glint still in her eyes. “Ah, love! It’s always nice to see.”
Astarion was about to pronounce some funny quip or joke to change the subject (he was imploding inside and he wanted nothing more than to get to their room and hold Tav for the rest of the night, books be damned) – but then something touched his sleeve.
No, someone. Someone who wasn’t Tav.
He turned abruptly, but his eyes saw no one. Not right in front of him, anyway. He lowered his gaze and there – a Halfling child, staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. Wonderful.
A part of him, still marred by shame and guilt, squeaked in protest at the sight of the child. After meeting the Gur children in Cazador’s prison, he had started to remember the wails and screams they had let out as he had dragged them away from their camp, a disgraceful, bitter memory now echoing in his head as he stared back at the little one.
“Pretty!” she said, her eyes as wide as saucers. Astarion’s defences came right up, perfectly knowing how to deal with praise for his looks after centuries of habit.
“Well, it seems there is hope yet for the next generation.” he said with a smirk, slightly inclining his head to the Halfling to thank her for her kind comment.
But then he noticed the child wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the golden embroidery on his doublet, the one he had sewed just a few days before.
He had decided to try something different from the usual floral or lined motifs, and had used Tav as inspiration, embroidering suns, stars, and moons on the smooth velvet.
“Oh, this?” he said, then he pretended to be offended, raising his chin in a haughty manner. “And here I thought you were talking about me.”
The child seemed to notice him, now, but her confused look and tilted head clearly indicated what she thought about him.
“You are pretty too, I suppose.”
“You suppose-”
“But that is prettier!” And she squealed in delight at the embroidery, clapping her hands.
A part of Astarion pouted, used to being fawned over, of being admired. It had clearly expected the child to mistake him for an Elven prince, as it had happened many times before, but it seemed not everyone in Faerûn could recognize true beauty.
But another part of him, one he had allowed to resurface after getting together with Tav, was relieved and happy. It felt good not being seen simply as a beautiful sack of meat, as an unreachable standard of handsomeness and nothing else, all his thoughts and facets forgotten, cast aside in favour of his otherworldly charm.
“Well, I shall thank you all the same.” he said, inclining his head again. “For I stitched it.”
The child gasped and now she looked at him with admiration and awe.
“You made that?”
“Indeed!” Astarion grinned at her, hoping the shadows of the tavern hid his fangs. “I decorate all my clothes with my own personal embroidery.”
The Halfling child now was staring at him as though he was her hero, a paragon of dressmaking, an artist beyond comparison.
She climbed on a stool near the counter to be able to better look at the golden stars and sun on his doublet. She didn’t touch him again, but it was clear she wanted to trace the embroidery with her fingers.
“Necey is our tailor’s daughter. She’s learning the trade from him.” the innkeeper explained while Astarion was torn between telling the child to scram and allowing her to touch his clothes. Tav was instead smiling at the little one, even though the Halfling had eyes only for the golden threads seemingly glowing under the firelight.
“I like embroidering.” Necey said, but her face fell as she rummaged into her pockets and took out a wrinkled piece of cloth. “But I’m not very good at it yet…”
Astarion frowned at the crude stitches, raised knots, and uneven loops.
“… Is that a fish?”
“It’s a cat!” Nicey gasped, before pouting at her handiwork. “It’s supposed to be, at least…”
Astarion nearly – nearly – laughed, but he knew Tav would be very upset with him if he did. So he did the next best thing. He snorted.
Necey’s face crumpled like a piece of paper, and her lower lip trembled.
Astarion felt a little bit bad. Just a tiny bit.
“Well, you are young.” he conceded with a sigh, sitting on a stool next to the kid to be less tall. “You don’t really expect to be able to embroider such masterpieces” he pointed at his suns and moons, “with just a few years of experience under your belt, do you?”
Necey looked at his doublet as if it were the most beautiful creation in the world.
“I suppose not…”
He opened his hand, long, manicured fingers waiting for the kid’s permission.
“May I?”
She gave him her embroidery, and he studied it further. He could already see what her mistakes were. After centuries spent taking care of his clothes, constantly fixing them and decorating them so that they could last a little longer in the rotten dungeons of Cazador’s Palace and the dirty streets of Baldur’s Gate, he knew how to handle a needle and some threads.
“Ah, see here? You need to sew evenly, otherwise the stitches will be too loose. And this… you wanted to make an Elven knot, right? This is how you do it.”
He took out the small, neat sewing kit he kept on his person, and showed her how it was done, slowly, so that she could see and study every step.
“Try to find better cloths to practice.” he sighed, shaking his head. “This cotton is coarse, too hard. I bet you were having difficulty pushing the needle through.”
“Yes.” the Halfling murmured, her eyes big again, following every movement of Astarion’s fingers.
“The thread you chose for your… cat is of good quality, however.” He admitted, then he showed her how to make a blanket stitch, one of the easiest ones he knew. Once he was done, he put the cloth back into her hands.
“Now you do it.” he said, tapping his index finger on an empty corner. “Try to make a star.”
Necey’s eyes moved back and forth from the stars on his doublet, studying them, to the cotton in her hands. Then she bit her lips and started, slowly and cautiously, her gaze moving to the golden stars from time to time, using them as a reference.
“Mh, no. You need to hold the needle like this. May I?”
She nodded, and he gently corrected the position and tightness of her fingers.
Some minutes passed like that, with Astarion correcting the child and she diligently following his advice. The sounds of the tavern seemed to dim, and he was only barely aware of the stares aimed at his direction. For a moment, he even forgot he was slouching, bended over a scrap of cotton while sitting on an uncomfortable stool.
“I did it!” Necey gasped, wonder on her face as she held the embroidery in front of her face, a slightly-crooked, but complete star staring back at her.
“Well done.” Astarion even clapped, a genuine, only-a-bit sardonic smile on his face. “Now you are on your long way to become a master seamstress.”
But the child didn’t hear his harmless irony and launched herself into him like a magic missile, hugging him and squishing her cheek against his chest while repeating “thank you, thank you, thank you” at the speed of light.
Astarion tensed up and he heard Tav move behind him, but he didn’t push the kid away. He awkwardly patted her back, clearing his throat, and let out a long breath when she ran away, showing her masterpiece to everyone.
He did notice the stares, now. They were warmth, appreciative, thankful. He saw smiles, nods, grins, even some thumb-ups.
“Oh dear.” he groaned. “It seems we will be adopted by another village, my beloved.”
When Tav didn’t reply, he turned to her. She also was looking at him, pride and joy in her eyes and smile. He felt bare, naked, under her gaze, but in a good way. He always felt good with her.
Still, he groaned again, knowing his face would have been on fire, had he still been mortal. The feeling of blushing was still there, though, a phantom sensation as if his body still remembered how to do it.
“I’m very proud of you, Astarion.” Tav said, kissing his cheek, and he stood straighter, preening and smirking, his chest filled with satisfaction and love.
“Excuse me.”
“Agh!”
He jumped and turned around, staring at a Halfling man standing right behind him. Either his vampiric senses were dulling or the people in that village were really good at stealth.
“Hells, man, where did you come from!?”
“Thank ye kindly for what ye did for my daughter.” The man’s smile under his moustache was wide and warm. “She puts her heart into the craft, but she still struggles with the simple stuff.”
“Yes, well…” Astarion cleared his throat and made a vague gesture with his hands. “You… You are welcome.”
“Say, young man, are ye in the business, by any chance? I can’t believe anyone with yer kind of talent not to be.”
The tailor nodded appreciatively at the embroidery on Astarion’s doublet. “Neat, clean stitches, mathematical precision, excellent quality of thread. Yes, yes, an expert’s hand if I’ve ever seen one.”
Astarion believed it was better he didn’t explain he had been stitching and repairing his clothes for over two centuries, hence his expertise which would have required a mortal an entire lifetime of practice to acquire.
“I’m… not a tailor, no.” he replied, not yet knowing how to stand, how to speak, how to think in front of someone who wasn’t Tav giving him harmless, kind praise.
But that praise was genuine and not directed at his body. Only Tav – and sometimes their old companions – had ever complimented other things about him. Hearing that kind of normal compliments from other people, from strangers who weren’t aiming at getting anything out of him, felt… reassuring.
“Really?” The Halfling man’s eyes widened, and he looked a lot like his daughter in that moment. “Hells, ye learned for fun!? That’s incredible, young man!”
He patted his forearm, his moustached grin returning, and Astarion tried not to tense up too much.
“And here I was ready to ask ye and yer wife if ye wanted to take my daughter under yer tutelage!”
Astarion blinked. Tav gasped.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m not the best of teachers, ye see?” The tailor sighed, dismissing the innkeeper’s protests with a wave of his hand. “No, no, it’s true, Colra! I’m not good at explaining stuff and I’m too busy at the shop to teach my daughter everything she wants and needs to learn. It’s a mess.”
He looked at Astarion and Tav with a sad, resigned look.
“I was thinking of sending her to some guild to learn the craft the way she wants to, but hells, I can’t stand the thought of us separating. She’s still a child!”
Astarion knew nothing about kids and normal families, but he doubted sending a little girl in a foreign city, surrounded by unknown faces, was a good idea. If one loved and cared for someone else, they should keep them as close as possible, he believed.
“And so I thought, if ye and yer wife were planning of staying here…”
“We are simply passing through, my good fellow. And as I said, I’m no tailor, so I doubt I could give your daughter the lessons she needs.”
“But you just did!” the innkeeper intervened, but Astarion scoffed and nodded at the child bragging with her friends near one of the fireplaces.
“That wasn’t a lesson! Just a… a short demonstration!” He turned to Tav, silently asking for her help. “Right, my love?”
“He’s right. I fear we’re too busy for this.” She rested a hand on his back to steady and calm him down.
She knew this was too much… unfamiliar attention from strangers, the kind Astarion hadn’t known for centuries. He was still getting used to having normal conversations with people, normal interactions that didn’t lead to him luring them to their deaths.
“Yes, too busy, exactly! Now, if you could give us the key to that room you mentioned, we will go rest for a bit.” They would come back down before the sun rose, anyway, and he hoped the Halfling tailor wouldn’t still be there to insist further.
“And if you could tell us if there is any library here, we would be very grateful.” Tav added with her most diplomatic, polite smile.
Apparently, there was only a small temple dedicated to Yondalla where some books about herbal medicine, common magic, and history were available for the townspeople to study, but that was it.
“I’m surprised they even have some.” Astarion grumbled as they climbed the stairs to their room, the corners of his lips lifting when he heard Tav’s giggles.
Their room was clean, thank the Gods, full of odd trinkets, spare chairs, and wooden furniture which must have been there for years.
“Rustic.” he sniffled, running a finger over the dresser to make sure there was no dust.
Tav sat on the bed and bounced a little to test it. She nodded.
“It’s comfortable. And it doesn’t even creak.”
“Of course it doesn’t, I’m sure it’s never been used in the first place! Who would ever come visit this village?”
He fell backwards on the mattress with a long sigh, finding it to be soft, but not too much, just like they liked it.
“I’m drained.” he whined, his hand looking for Tav’s. Holding hands with her was among the top five things he liked doing with her.
“I know. I’m very proud of you. You were very kind with that child.”
She leaned down to kiss his forehead (kisses on the forehead were also on his “Best Things To Do With Tav” list). “But you’re right, that has been a lot of interactions for a single night. Would you like me to go visit the temple tomorrow morning, while you stay in and rest?”
He hummed, his fingers gently rubbing the back of her hand.
“No, let’s just stay here for a couple of hours, then we can go see what this temple has to offer.” He scoffed, but without real bite. “I doubt the Goddess of the hearth will have books about vampirism, but you never know.”
His smile turned sweet and sultry, and he pulled Tav down, right into his arms.
“Astarion, I’m all sweaty! I smell!”
“Yes, my dear, you smell delicious.”
She lowered the collar of her shirt, some old puncture wounds still visible on her neck.
“Are you hungry? You can feed if-”
“No, my love.” He kissed her nose (on the list, too). “I’m fine, truly. Let’s just stay like this.”
She rolled to lie down at his side, but they kept holding each other, not caring about their dusty cloaks and muddy leathers, their feet hanging from the bed.
Astarion smiled at her, raising a white, perfect eyebrow.
“Who would have thought, though? Offered a job as a teacher! Of all things!”
“You would be great at it.” Tav rested her forehead on his. “I already told you, Astarion – you’re a man of many, wonderful talents. You just need to believe it.”
He smiled at her, a soft, tender smile, and brought her fingers to his lips (oh, definitely on the list).
Then he cleared his throat and said half-jokingly: “Well, at least we now know that if we ever need some money, we can count on my sewing abilities.”
The thought filled him with pride.
- - -
As expected, the temple of Yondalla didn’t have anything useful. They went back to the inn and rested there until the next night, pretending to be two very tired travellers who wanted to relax a bit before taking to the road again.
The tailor and the innkeeper didn’t insist any further; instead, they added more stuff to the supplies they had already paid for, dismissing Tav’s protests and smiling at Astarion’s enthusiasm (how could he say no to useful gifts for his beloved?).
Necey kept to herself for the whole evening, too busy embroidering something on a soft piece of cotton set in a small embroidery hoop. Every time Astarion accidentally walked near her, she hid her work, resuming as soon as he was out of sight.
The sun had barely set when he and Tav left the inn, their bags heavy with food and all kinds of things adventurers needed to survive in the wilderness.
They had decided they would keep going north for the moment, avoiding the main roads and focusing instead on the hinterlands, where people who practiced peculiar magic and studied peculiar afflictions would definitely prefer to hide.
They were barely outside the village when a shrilly voice called out to them.
“Wait! Mister Astarion, wait!”
They turned to see Necey run towards them, holding something white above her head and waving at them with it.
“This…” she panted, handing Astarion a piece of cotton. “This… is for you!”
“Oh?”
He pretended his voice hadn’t broken, and gingerly took the cloth. It was folded in half, and he opened it, holding his breath.
Stitched on it with colourful thread, surrounded by stars, was his name.
A painful lump formed in his throat, and he tried to push it down by clearing his voice.
“It’s…” He swallowed, mustering all his elegance and charm. “It’s quite nice. You did a really good job, little one.”
His voice broke again. The child beamed at him.
“Thank you.” he said sincerely, smiling back, and he bowed his head – not a simple, haughty tilt, but a full bow of his neck which made some white curls fall near his eyes.
The child bowed back, first at him, then at Tav; then she giggled and ran back to the village, turning once to wave at them and wish them a good journey before disappearing behind a house.
Astarion looked back at the gift and sniffled, before delicately folding it again and putting it inside a satchel on his belt.
Then he hid his face against Tav’s shoulder, hugging her tightly.
“Ugh.”
“I know, my love.” Tav said, her hands stroking his back, her body shaking with laughter.