Work Text:
They still hadn’t found a way to cure Astarion. At more than two hundred years dead, True Resurrection wouldn’t work for him; they had to look further afield for other means.
Yet along the way, they had managed to find other things – items and spells designed by vampires and vampire spawn who were trying to live as close to mortals as possible.
Balms that held off the sun for as long as ten minutes – longer at dawn and dusk. A bangle that, if worn continuously, would give the illusion of the wearer aging at the normal rate for humans, provided it was never taken off.
And the mirror. A mirror that could reflect vampires.
When they’d first found it and taken it back to the camp, Astarion had looked at himself for hours, turning this way and that, taking himself in.
Yet tonight, at an upscale Baldur’s Gate inn, he was looking into it more thoughtfully.
Mera’s skirts swished around their legs. They wore a gown of light purple silk which, as Astarion once put it, concealed everything whilst implying a great many things, such as what an enterprising person could do with Mara’s legs.
Astarion did not turn to look at Mara immediately, though he had already dressed for the evening in a blue-grey doublet. He sat on the padded bench at the dressing table and examined himself in the mirror, then traced a fingertip along the lines that bracketed one corner of his mouth. “Would that they came from laughter,” he murmured to himself.
“You don’t know that they didn’t. You might have been a very happy man, back then. Before.”
Mara had considered looking into the life Astarion had led before he died, but had decided against it. They would not pry unless Astarion made it clear that he wanted them to.
“After everything that happened… I can’t help but think that they come from screaming. I’ve got the frown lines to match it.” He turned then, to look at Mara. “Though perhaps it’s just because I did so much screaming under Cazador.” He sighed. “I was… I felt rather ashamed, when Godey told you that I screamed more than the other spawn. I didn’t want you to think I was… weaker than the others.”
Mara walked slowly over to him, gently pressed a finger under his chin, and tilted his head upwards to look at them. “I will not judge your strength based on how you bear pain.”
Astarion gave a small smile, though it was not quite a smile. “Good. Because I’m not so very good at it.”
Mera leaned down to press their lips to his, then sat on the bench beside him. They kissed him twice more, once at each corner of his mouth, where the faint lines were. “Well, I like them. They make you look very dashing.”
Astarion glanced at himself in the mirror. “Oh, I know.”
“They might be from laughter.”
“We don’t know that,” said Astarion. “It’s not like – it was a very small tombstone, not at all cared for, hardly the kind of thing set up for a man with a large, loving set of acquaintance. It was probably just something I’d had provision for in my will.”
Mara looked into the mirror, at themself and their lover reflected side by side. Then they looked back at Astarion.
“Regardless of who you used to be, however much pain is in your past,” said Mara, taking Astarion’s hand and holding it tight, “What matters is that I get to see you laugh now.”
Astarion honoured them with a smile.