Work Text:
Astrid is… Frustrated. She tries to wax poetic upon the pages of her too-fresh unused journal, yet no beautiful words come to her. She attempts to cloud her mind with thoughts of better times, but all that comes to her is the visage she is sure not to be Lyra that appears in the recesses of her mind. She endeavors to rid herself of the horrific squirming in her mind, yet still, the tadpole writhes, making her ever-aware of its presence. Though she faces the outskirts of the city from a high vantage point, and strives to conjure beauty in the little ways she can–memories, a hummed tune–all she manages to bring to light is the bitter truth that her family is gone and never will be whole again.
It is at this watchpoint that Astrid finds herself shedding a tear or two over her lost love. It hurts her more and more with each passing time that Lyra’s face is shown to her, a sour reminder that she will never draw breath again, that she will never smile at Astrid’s antics or sing along to her songs or tuck Estella in, or, or, or. There are endless things she could have done, cut short from her in her death. Now all she can do is hope to rest in peace, yet she is not even granted that reprieve, as someone–some thing ?–is using Lyra’s face to haunt Astrid as though her spirit were tied to the realm–no, to her . She refuses to believe it is truly Lyra, for she is not that foolish. She does not know who it really is, though, because, as all things in her life these days do, her questions go unanswered.
She is restless and angry and mourning someone she never truly received the chance to mourn. How is one expected to move on after learning the sun that gave light to their moon has been dimmed, never to burn brightly again? Surely it is impossible, Astrid thinks; yet, she has been doing much of the impossible lately, she supposes. It had been seemingly inconceivable to free the tieflings from Kagha’s grasp, yet she’d gotten to sip wine with them in celebration at their camp and send them on their way with the hopes that the road ahead would not be rocky for them. Learning how they’d suffered further on the road did nothing to help her to come to terms with the fact that some things are out of her control, though–if anything, it just made her feel guilty, as though she should’ve continued traveling with them to see their journey through. Logically, she knows she has much to do still, but it would’ve been nice to just beeline to Baldur’s Gate with them. Instead, she was tasked with taking down Ketheric Thorm. It was nice to see Aylin and Isobel reunited, but it only hurt her heart more to know that her love won’t be coming back from the dead like that. She wouldn’t want that, anyway.
Even with that in mind, though, she still wishes Lyra were alive. Maybe things could be different. Better. Maybe she wouldn’t have been abducted by the Nautiloid at all, if that were the case. Though… She glances back at the camp behind her, at all of the people she’s helped rescue–and who have helped rescue her. It’s not exactly easy to forsake that kind of companionship, even if it means accepting a death she never thought she’d have to believe. How she wishes to go back to those days of naivete, those days of wonder, those days of freedom. She wants to be the carefree performer she once was, not the seasoned adventurer she has become. She wants to step to music in the spring and sing in the summer and fall further in love in the autumn and wax poetic in the winter, not spit in the face of death at each and every turn. But, as is life, it is unfairly true that she must go on, that she must continue to try to defeat the evils that are much more far-reaching than she could ever have expected. It is almost funny to her how far she’s come facing and defying death only to come to fear that she will just die to the tadpole in her head–or worse, become illithid once and for all. Almost .
But, no, instead of laughter, she laments. Instead of succor, she steels herself. Instead of release or freedom, she is required to face her fears. Instead of joy, she feels nothing but jealousy–for those able to live their lives more freely. Instead of peace, she feels only pain that those people rely on her and her companions to bring justice and goodness once more to Faerûn.
She wonders how long that will last.
Once more, Astrid picks up her journal in an attempt to write down how she feels, even if it is not in the form of a poem, but she barely gets out an “ I ” on the page before she hears someone on the ladder nearby her. She closes the journal and turns herself just in time for Wyll’s head to pop up, smile and all. She does not understand how he can still smile at her after how she’d frozen when he’d danced with her. She’d enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed it a lot , and she’s felt nothing but guilt since then. As though she were cheating on her one true love, her soulmate. But her soulmate… She is gone. She is gone, never to return, despite how badly her mind wants to convince her otherwise. It pains her to see Lyra–a facsimile of her–in her dreams, for it is just another reminder of her failures as a wife and a mother.
Yet… Wyll does not know this about her, does he? He does not know much about her. She’s kept so quiet to everyone save a few people, and she’s found it extraordinarily difficult to open up to him when he is so sweet to her despite her flaws. Despite her fear. Despite her . Despite everything , he cares. He cares deeply and it pains her to see that, because she cares deeply for him, too. He makes her heart race in ways that Lyra once did, as much as it pains her to compare the two. It is not comparing apples to apples, though–rather comparing a blanket of stars to the seas: both are magnificent and beautiful in their own ways, coexisting, loving the moon all the same.
Wait, is that what that look is? Those puppy-dog eyes? That beautiful smile? Is that… Love? Could it even be? They’ve been so close, shared so much, even if she doesn’t share much of her past. She knows that he just assumes it to be too painful for her to speak of. This is true, of course, but it doesn’t pain her to speak of Lyra or Estella. It brings her joy, despite the tears she must shed alone afterwards. So, why has she kept them from Wyll? Is it anything other than a stupid, unfeasible hope that he may continue to love her should he not know how flawed she is?
As Wyll silently situates himself next to her, Astrid considers this. Is it not unfair of her to keep her loves from Wyll when he very clearly loves her ? Surely it is borderline lying at this point, something he does not deserve. Yet it pains her all the same to consider telling him–what if he judges her? What if he feels differently of her? What if he, young and impressionable, does not want to be tied down by someone who is a widow and mother ?
What of that is for her to decide?
She supposes she should… Tell him. Be honest with him. They are dance partners, after all, even if she’d frozen and walked away after twirling about with him as she used to in her carefree days.
Wyll does not say a word as he settles, nor does he attempt to connect their minds, nor does he do so much as even look at her. No, he simply looks to the stars. After a long yet comfortable pause, he finally asks, “beautiful, isn’t it?”
Astrid hums a soft, affirmative reply, then adds, “I’ve always loved the view from inside the city, but it’s even more beautiful outside its walls.”
“I couldn’t agree more. There is something sweet about the still night air away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Still, it is my home, and I am excited to return, even if I fear what lies ahead of us.”
Astrid smiles sadly. “I feel the same way.”
“Say,” Wyll starts, almost… Carefully. “You’ve told me you’re Baldurian, but not much of your life in Baldur’s Gate. I feel as though I’ve prattled on and on about my time in the city, yet I haven’t heard a word of it from your perspective. Would you care to enlighten me?”
Astrid’s weak smile falls, and she looks down to her hands. “I could,” she sighs. “And it’s not that you’ve been dominating the conversation–not of your own volition, anyway. I’ve been avoidant. I don’t like talking about how I feel about the city. It’s… A strained relationship.”
“Then you do not have to–”
“No, no, I want to,” Astrid interrupts. “I trust you. A lot. And… I want to talk about it, I just don’t like it.”
“I understand.”
Astrid contemplates how to start, then it dawns on her. She doesn’t have to say a word. As much as she hates the illithid tadpole, she doesn’t quite mind being so connected to him. Their thoughts–and their souls–can resonate. So, she asks simply, “may I just show you?”
“Of course.”
She closes her eyes, focusing all of her energy on pawing at the corners of Wyll’s mind. Once she has access to his mind, she feels more at ease, like a peaceful wave washing over her as she floats in warm waters. He’s always had that effect on her, though, hasn’t he? Even since he joined her in sitting here, she’s been more calm. She focuses, lest her mind wander enough to tell him how she really feels about him.
Flashes of Astrid’s past weave around one another in the tangle of their minds, beginning with the soft strum of a lyre, unlike the violin that Wyll is so used to hearing from her. The lyre is accompanied by a soprano’s lullaby, easing a young Astrid to sleep. When she awakens, it is not to the harmonious tune of the lyre, but instead the discordant sound of chaos. She is older now, much older, but that melody still lives on in her heart. Each step of the stairs she takes is more timid than the last, but eventually, she makes it to the bottom. Standing in the doorway to her home are two of the Flaming Fist, looking… Angry. Fear washes over Astrid, clear enough to make the memory an uneasy purple hue for a moment. That fear, that violet, turns to blue when she hears her mother wailing, as though she were in pain. Astrid rushes to her side, but she is not hurt. Not physically.
With all of her might, Astrid’s mother yells, “you killed him! Just leave!”
The officers–if they can even be granted the grace of being called that–share a glance, then do exactly that, closing the door behind them as Astrid’s mother falls to her knees, with Astrid just barely catching her.
Astrid knows what it means before she even asks. She almost doesn’t have to, doesn’t want to. Her voice quivers as she fights the instinct to clam up and run, and she inquires, “mama? What happened?”
“Your father,” she sobs, bitterly. “He’s gone. Th-They said it was a bar fight gone wrong. A bar fight ! How could a bar fight make me a widow?!”
After that, what once was a vibrant soul becomes a dim one, something felt through the connection that Astrid and Wyll share. Wyll is able to feel the exact moment that Astrid’s heart sinks and shatters, and Astrid knows this, for she feels it once more as though it were the first time.
That is just the beginning, though, isn’t it? The beginning of an end–that much becomes clear in the shared bond. Wyll can feel both physically and mentally as Astrid shrinks–now and in the past. It is met with nothing but warmth from him, a hand placed on her shoulder despite them already being connected far more intimately via their link.
After that, Astrid’s mother becomes distant. Cold, almost. Not to Astrid, necessarily, but to the world. Wyll watches–or, feels, rather–as Astrid’s mother deteriorates. She does not eat. She barely sleeps.
Within the year, she, too, is gone.
Heartbreak, they’d called it. Astrid didn’t understand then, but it is clear to Wyll and herself that she does now. Had she not the resolve, the necessity, to stay alive, she would likely have withered away to ash as well.
But she stands, still, despite the aching in her heart, despite the holes in her soul. She wants to explain to Wyll why that aching is larger than that of losing two people, so she continues, even if it pains her to the extent that it is almost a physical ache. His hand is steadfast on her back, having migrated from her shoulder in soft, slow circles.
Astrid continues.
Performance after performance melt into one another, all on her mother’s lyre. Her voice is beautiful though sad, as though in a minor key even in the major key in which she sings all of her ballads. She sings of love that she has not experienced, of joy she no longer knows–or perhaps never knew. Her songs are upbeat and catchy, just as crowds like them, even if she does not believe a word of them.
That is, until her eyes meet with golden brown ones from across a tavern, a honeyed soul so sweet she can feel it just through a gaze. It nearly makes her take pause in her music, but she manages. She does not finish out her set, too hellsbent on getting to know the woman behind those gorgeous eyes.
Astrid cannot seem to control her flood of memories from there–dancing in the rain, singing in a meadow, rolling around in fallen leaves under the trees, and kissing in the snow. It is all so fresh in her mind as though it was yesterday, but these are times of half a decade past.
Those memories, though overlapping one another, all culminate in the same core things: laughter, joy, peace, freedom. They only become more prominent when she thinks of one of her favorite memories, if not her favorite–the day Lyra showed her a crib in the spare room of their house.
“ Why would we need a crib if we don’t have– oh. ”
She remembers those words from her own mouth so clearly–she’d been so clueless as to her own situation to not even notice that she was pregnant. It was Lyra’s ever-observant keen mind that had figured that one out, and her ever-silent way of telling Astrid the truth.
What follows next are thoughts that Astrid, from time to time, still finds herself getting lost in. Sitting and absently rubbing her belly, speaking to it, and knitting tiny blankets for the days to come. Peace.
For Wyll’s sake and her own, she does not recall Estella’s birth, simply the feeling of relief and love when the small, sobbing bundle was handed to her, tiny horns protruding from the tiniest, faintest hint of what would one day be bountiful curls. Wyll’s hand takes pause on her back for just a moment, but she knows it is not a pause of fear, it is that he, too, is overjoyed by this love for Estella, because he, too, is feeling Astrid’s strong care for her.
This is not where Astrid severs the connection, though she wishes she could. She wishes she could tell Wyll, I am sorry, I care for you, too, but I have a family waiting for me in Baldur’s Gate.
Instead, she has to continue. She has to continue, and face the fact that she was… Not the best mother. It is not that she was distant or cold like her own mother in her final days, it is that she was rather… Flippant about it all. She took for granted what she had, and when Lyra fell ill, she could barely handle the full responsibility of being a mother. She tried, though. She really, really tried.
It was not enough.
What follows next is almost too painful for her to bear, so much so that a tear slips down her cheek as she recalls the day they separated. The day Lyra decided that enough was enough–with their daughter having fallen ill, too, she needed to return home to Baldur’s Gate and live with her parents in the hopes she’d find the cure she so desperately needed, in a home Astrid was not welcome in.
Lyra’s last words to her echo in her mind so loudly it is almost painful to hear, as though yelled directly in her ear despite them having been a soft whisper: “ One day, my stars, I may come back to you. Should this not happen, know I always loved you. ”
Astrid sighs, but she does not yet sever the connection. How desperately she wishes that were the end of it all. That Lyra were alive and well and in the arms of someone else–someone better .
Instead, she has to be reminded that Lyra is in the cold embrace of the earth, and she has to break this to Wyll in the only way she knows how: showing him the conversation she’d had with Lyra’s parents.
“ And just what are you doing here? ”
“ I’m here to see my wife and daughter, as should be my right .”
“ You should have come sooner. ”
“ You would not have let me in .”
“ This is true, but now, you are too late. Lyra has passed on. Please, leave us be. ”
Astrid remembers pausing then. She remembers understanding why her mother fell to her knees and wailed as though a beast with its leg caught in a trap: that is exactly what it is. Her only option, then, was to chew the leg off, sever her connection with something she so desperately needed.
The bravest Astrid had ever been in her life, she had simply mustered up the courage to say, “ I am sorry, ” as though the loss was not her own, too. “ Where is Estella ?”
“ Lyra wished for us to keep care of her. She said you are far too… Irresponsible. ”
If the pain of losing Lyra was a knife into her heart, the agony of hearing that she did not find her fit to be Estella’s mother any longer was the serrations on the blade as it was pulled back out.
Astrid sobs, both in her memory, and in the present. It is a small little bark of a cry, but a cry nonetheless, buried deep behind a closed fist. The words she’d said then were laced with venom, but now, looking back on them, she understands it was the venom of a small garter snake trapped underfoot.
“ Keeping a girl from her mother is a horrendous mistake. This will not be the last you hear of me .”
With that, she’d turned on her heel. With that, she’d walked away. With that, she severs her connection with Wyll, the pain of their link far too much to bear even a moment longer.
Wyll’s hand does not stutter even a moment on her back, though no reassurance comes from him. Not immediately, anyway. Astrid knows this not to be uncaring, but thoughtful. After careful contemplation, Wyll quietly says, “I can see they meant a lot to you, Astrid. It is not every day you find love that gleams like sunlight, like yours did. I am truly very sorry you experienced such pain.”
“Th-Thank you,” Astrid manages. It’s all she can manage.
“Faerûn is lesser for their losses.”
“You’re right,” she sighs. It’s unconscious, what she does next, as though by rote, as though on instinct. She leans her head against Wyll’s shoulder, and he responds by moving the hand that is on her back to the shoulder furthest from him, grasping her in a half-hug.
“I… Do apologize if I’ve overstepped. Had I known… Well, just… I am sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Astrid murmurs, shaking her head. “If anyone, it’s me who should be saying sorry. I shouldn’t have kept them from you for so long.”
“May I ask… When did you find out?”
Astrid sighs, again. “The day I was abducted.”
“As I suspected. Astrid, you should not even come close to sorry for feeling grief that you have not had a chance to heal from. How can a wound heal if it is reopened, time and time again, salt rubbed into it? It is fresh in your mind–even if it has been some time, that time has been mere months, weeks, not the years and even decades it takes to heal from such pain. I can’t say I quite understand, but I do know what it is like to… To have everything you once knew slip through your fingers like sand on a beach. It is terrifying. So… Please, do not apologize.”
Astrid can only nod, and cry. She would not admit to anyone how long she sits with Wyll, weeping silently into her hands. It is a quiet cry, for she does not want to alert anyone below, lest they come looking for her, but it is a painful crying all the same. It is a purging of emotions she has tried so hard to bury, a catharsis with which comes no true relief. That does not matter to Wyll, though, it seems. He is content to just sit with her in silence, holding her, his hand rubbing her shoulder as she cries. The only thing he does differently is to reach for a handkerchief in his pocket to hand to her, for which she thanks him.
Eventually, as all things do, the crying comes to pass. She wipes her eyes clean of tears, then says to Wyll, “I really appreciate you being here.”
“I am here for you,” he whispers. “As sure as the sun is there for the moon, I will be by your side, if you’ll have me.”
“Wyll,” she whines. “That means the world to me, but… Do you really mean it? I can’t… Give you what you’ve been looking for in me, I don’t think.”
“Pray tell,” he says, with only sincere kindness, “what you think it is that I want?.”
“I don’t… Know. Something more than just an adventuring buddy, a dance partner.”
“Sure,” he shrugs, “but your friendship is what matters most to me. I am not hurt by your hurt, I feel only concern for you, for the one who has to bear the burden of all of that pain and still lead us on into the coming days.”
Astrid nods. For a long time, she is silent. For a long time, she contemplates what to say. For a long time, she finds herself whispering in the quietest corners of her mind to a soul who is no longer connected to hers.
Lyra, I’m sorry. I love you. I will always love you. But if I am to move forth, I must move on. You will always have a place in my heart. You will always be my heart. Yet… I deserve to love a heart that still beats, and you deserve to rest peacefully. This does not come easily to me, but I know in my heart it is what you’d tell me to do. It’s what you told me to do–should you meet your untimely end, to find someone who makes me smile as you did… Wyll does. You’d love him. I… Love him.
It is then and only then that Astrid realizes what little remnants of connection between the two of them had been strengthened once more, mended, that those words resonated too in Wyll’s mind. She realizes this not because Wyll says anything, but because of the mortified look on his face. Yet she can tell that is not one of fear or hatred, but of embarrassment on her behalf, of someone who’d overheard words not yet meant for him. It is a look of concern, not panic.
That comes as such a relief to Astrid that she doesn’t even apologize, she just looks to him, to his good eye, with tears once more forming in her own.
They simply stare at one another for a while, until the silence is broken by Wyll.
“You do not have to rush,” Wyll offers. “Or ever choose me. But should you decide… I’m what you want, moving forward, know I will respect what love you had in the past, and that… That I will fight to assure you may hold your daughter once more, should you want to pursue that. I will be by your side as long as you’ll have me, Astrid.”
Astrid leans forward, as though to kiss him, overwhelmed by her feelings for him. Yet… Their lips do not meet. He puts a gentle hand to her shoulder to stop her, and she opens her eyes to look at him in confusion.
“Let your wounds heal before you try to move on from the pain,” Wyll whispers, reaching to caress her cheek. “I will be waiting for you, as long as you need, but… Please, take that time.”
Astrid wants to protest, but she can’t. Love him as she may, he is correct. She deserves to heal, and he deserves not to feel like a rebound. So, she just nods, and she wraps her arms around him, and rests her forehead on his shoulder. He holds her in return, rocking slightly from side to side.
“Thank you,” she finally manages.
“Don’t mention it,” Wyll hums. “I am only doing what I’d like done for me, were I in the horrible situation which you’ve been placed.”
“It still means a lot to me,” Astrid whispers.
“Then… It is my pleasure.”
“I really do care about you,” she insists. “Okay?”
“Hey, I know,” Wyll responds, squeezing her only tighter. “You do not have to convince me of that. I can feel it. I can also feel that you feel love far greater than what you and I feel for one another. That is okay, though. Time may not heal that wound fully, but it will allow me to grant you the grace you need to heal the wound yourself.”
She nods. He’s so genuine it almost hurts her, but it only soothes her instead.
“Would you like to be alone, Astrid?”
“No. Please don’t leave.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”