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It’s a monumental journey–to love, and to be loved. An uphill battle, a boulder pushed up said hill, no peak in sight. It is teeth sinking into rock–impossible; nails against a chalkboard–grating; air in a syringe–excruciating. It is not simple. It is not easy. It is not fun . It is mortifying. It is to be known in a way you could not possibly have known yourself–in a way you thought you knew yourself. It is all-encompassing, it is not enough, it is everything, it is nothing, it is the backbone of community, it is the catalyst of destruction.
It is . It just is .
No matter how hard one may try to push love away, how much love has been inaccessibly tucked away in the recesses of one’s mind, it finds a way. It prevails. It does not come to you with a bouquet in its hand, a smile on its face–rather, it sneaks up on you in the midst of the night, teeth bared. It is a rogue in obscurity, shrouded by shadow, ready to strike at your vital points beneath umbral cover.
It is the heat of a fire set ablaze, the pot that hangs above bubbling with what it boils. It is the water within, threatening to boil over.
It is all of this, and yet more.
Should any one person try to explain what love is, what being loved is, they surely would be wrong, for no one person can know the experiences of the next–even the one they love. Astarion must find comfort in that, in knowing that his love is unique, every love is unique.
Yet he finds nothing but pain in the chambers of his stilled heart, knowing his days with his love are sorely numbered. He yearns for more time–time he will not get–and he aches to go back, to accept love sooner, to enjoy each moment as though it were the last, to appreciate more what he’d had before it had started to fade.
As much as he yearns and aches, though, time continues ever-forward, the clock excruciatingly moving in only a single direction. His love grows more frail and weak by the day, and he remains ageless, remains pitifully and painfully himself, remains.
The day comes too soon.
They’d been planning, Astarion and Tav, how Tav would go. When she felt herself slipping, slipping too much to remain any longer than the centuries she’d already lived, she would tell him, and they’d spend one last night together. She couldn’t play her violin anymore, her fingers were far too fragile. But he could, and he would. He’d play her a final song, his lament, and he’d lay her to rest himself, as cleanly as he could. He’d drink her blood one final time, though, this time, he would not stop when he should. He would continue, and he would drain all of the color from her once lively face. On their own terms, they called it. A final gift, Tav called it.
Almost too much to bear, Astarion called it.
Through their time together, Astarion has grown stronger–not physically, but in mental fortitude–and he has grown more resilient. Still, he doesn’t know that he could go through with it. For ages now, generations, he’s been feeding from her, and for just as long, she has lived.
But now, in the faint autumn breeze–not too cold to close windows, yet just chilled enough that the hearth is ablaze–he feels her slipping faster than he can choose whether he wants to follow through with being her demise. It’s poetic, that, in a way–for him to be her ending, when she’d told him countless times he’d opened her eyes to so much. He feels pathetic for even considering going against her wishes, yet… Can he go with them? Can he kill her?
It matters not, it seems, for when Tav calls for him today from the confines of their bed, she sounds… Different. She’s sounded frail for some thirty-odd years now, but it’s a different fragility that chills him to the bone. He is by her side at once, and he can sense what is wrong before she even says it.
“I… Don’t feel so good,” she coughs, with a weak attempt at a chuckle. “I think this might be it, Star.”
“No,” he whispers, getting on a knee beside the bed, taking her hand. “No, not yet. I haven’t made my choice.”
“I think that the gods–” she stops to cough, a rough, grating thing, “have made that choice for us, my darling.”
“Please,” he begs. “It’s too soon.”
“You know well and good that it’s not,” Tav sighs. “I’m old. I’m… It’s time, Astarion. You have to let me go. You don’t have to be the one to do it, love. Only do what you want.”
“Please,” he pleads again, “don’t go where I can’t follow.”
“You’ll find me,” she hums, eyes slipping shut, “eventually.” Sternly, she continues, “don’t you go walking in the sun for me, though.”
“I…” He trials off. “I won’t. Can I get you anything to make you… More comfortable?”
“Just lie with me,” she whispers. “It won’t be long, now.” Another weak cough escapes her. It sounds unbearable–as excruciating as falling in love had been in the first place, as awful as it will be to lose her.
He moves quickly, then, to lie next to her. He rests his head on her chest after placing the faintest kiss to her cheek, wanting to hear her breathing one last time, before he can’t anymore.
Her hands, though weak, move to his hair. One plays gently with his curls, the other smooths them down. “I love you,” she whispers, nearly trailing off at the end. “Fight, Star. To keep our love alive, even when I’m…”
That’s when her hands go limp, when that ragged breathing lurches one final time before coming to a halt.
Astarion closes his eyes as tears pour from them, but he does not protest. He knows there was nothing he could do. Though he’d heard her breathing end, he checks her pulse anyway.
Confirming what he already knows, Astarion finishes her sentence for her: “gone.” He sighs, and sits up. Her hands are limp at her sides. She looks… Like she’s sleeping. Peaceful. He tucks the blanket below her chin, and he leans down to kiss her forehead.
“Rest easy, darling.”