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“Astarion…?”
Tav poked her head into the tent, hands unsure as they gripped the red canvas, and eyes nervous . From the outside, she had seen the candlelight flickering within, where everyone else’s tents had already gone dark; Astarion always did seem to stay up the latest. Whether this was because he was an elf, or because he was a vampire, was unclear.
To call his tent homey would perhaps be a little misleading. It had all the trappings of nobility, if not for the distinct veneer of use- or, in some cases, disuse. The carpets and furs covering the dirt floor were probably once rather expensive, but their patterns were now faded under years of bootprints. On the other hand, the standing mirror against the back wall was all but untouched; she always wondered why he kept one at all. Self-pity, perhaps? A sense of longing? In her mind, it represented only the dead weight of pain that he seemed to drag with him everywhere.
And there he was, in the corner. All fluffy white hair and fancy clothes (though, threadbare- she had been close enough to see the stitching), seated with his legs crossed upon a reclining chair. His brows were furrowed in the low light as he tried to parse through the massive tome upon his lap, thumbing the thick leathery pages with anticipation. That’s the very same book he had asked to borrow from her pack days prior, and had conveniently neglected to return.
“ Yes , my sweet?”
Flowered words, but there was a hint of annoyance there. She was interrupting something. He looked up at her with a smile that she was familiar with, the one that made her stomach churn. A look that he was probably certain was able to trick her into a sense of security, but she was more perceptive than most, and knew it for what it was. This was a false smile. He didn’t like her as much as he said he did, perhaps at all. The proclamations of love were lies at best, and mockings at worst.
“How’s, uh… How’s the book been?”
“Difficult,” he muttered, “It’s not very cooperative. I think it’s been able to read me far easier than I’ve been able to read it .”
She found herself staring at him. His attention, once again gripped by the (unfortunately fleshy) tome before him, moved to shift away from her. There was an intensity to his glare that made the marrow in her bones feel less-right. Like she was using True Sight to look past some arcane disguise, peering around the mask of debauchery and shallow interest to see the man underneath. Smile lines. The freckle he doesn’t (and will never) know about. A very real, dark look in his eyes. In the brief moments when he thought about “home”, she saw it. There was an ache there. He kept up the aloof facade as best he could, with a faux puppy-love to match, but that was more obvious than he knew.
Despite this, no matter how much he didn’t care for her, she still liked him. She found it hard not to- he was alluring, in a feral cat sort of way. All sharp edges and panic.
“...Now, if that was all- ”
“Can I sleep in here tonight?”
The man looked up with a start. The book, closed .
“... Why , if I may ask?” he hummed, a smug grin crawling onto his lips.
“ Notforthereasonyouthink ,” she blurted out, trying to correct that smile, “I just-”
She glanced out towards the clearing. Even the moon was dim on a chilly night like this. Flecks of darkness were beginning to appear on the dirt outside, signaling the beginning of the downpour that the dark clouds above forewarned. It was just a few drops for now, but soon enough it could get rather bleak. Every other tent sat as dark and dormant as the last time she checked.
A sigh, “Listen. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a tent. And i-it’s been getting colder lately, and it’s starting to drizzle, and you’re the only one who’s still awake, and, just… Can I please come in?”
“If you must,” Astarion answered, putting in an effort now to sound more annoyed, “Take off your boots.”
With the canvas flap closed behind her, she could now say with confidence that it smelled a tad like her mother’s homemade coq au vin in his tent, in a way that almost made her homesick- all red wine and rosemary. Things he used to cover up his self-proclaimed “corpse smell”, though she had never caught a whiff of anything of the sort. Perhaps the lingering scent of dirt and soil met her senses every once in a while, but that was never unwelcome.
Most importantly, it was warm. Perhaps by way of candlelight, or habitation, the interior of Astarion’s tent somehow managed to be a good ten degrees warmer than the stiff air outside.
“Ah, shoot, hold on, I forgot my bedroll out there-”
“No need, you’re free to use mine,” he waved dismissively, “I barely use it. Four hours of meditation hardly necessitates a bed .”
She’d been in his bedroll before. A few times, actually, but now she found herself staring down, unsure of what to make of it, as if nervous to make a movement to partake in the use of such a personal item. He was right, of course- he really didn’t use it all that often. It’s altogether possible that she had spent more collective hours asleep in it than he had. So why did she feel anxious as she stooped down to crawl inside?
Perhaps due to that disuse, or who they were being used by, as Tav tucked into the layers of wool and furs, she found that there was still a distinct chill about them. It seemed it was rather hard to keep the linens warm when one doesn’t have a pulse. It smelled like bergamot, though. And it was soft. She could manage. With a shudder, she pulled the roll right up to her chin.
“Cold, still?” the vampire called, in that leading sort of lilted voice he used when looking for something.
“I sincerely doubt you would provide any warmth. No offense.”
“My darling, you’ll find that while my skin may have a chill touch, my body is very much still capable of… Warming someone up .”
She knew that tone.
“I’m not here for sex, Astarion.”
“You wound me! I meant nothing of the sort,” a pause, “...Was I not good enough for you the last two times? ”
“That’s not the reason,” she muttered, rolling over onto her side, “M’just tired.”
There was a beat of silence. Then another. Then another. No playful retort? No scoff? No mocking little quip that would have had her leaping out of the sleeping bag, wanting to strangle him? Odd... That wasn’t like him at all. So often he seemed to have the exact right string of words that would make her blood boil, make her skin hot- for a variety of reasons. Perhaps he was simply too preoccupied with his book to be concerned with something like her. After waiting another minute for his voice to break that dead air, and finding only the gentle patter of rain outside, she began to let her eyes drift closed.
The sound of his chair creaking drew them open again. Movement. His book set down onto the lid of a chest, then footsteps against the worn carpet, drawing closer. Tav tucked her head under the covers, feeling all at once like a kid again, hiding her books from her mother when she knew it was supposed to be lights out.
Suddenly, there was a weight behind her. Astarion. He grunted to himself, muttering something under his breath (unheard, and unminded) as he lowered to her level, stretching out on the ground beside the bedroll. Pulling her close, his chest pressed flush to her back, he wrapped his arms around her, pushing one beneath her neck, and draping the other over her waist. A light touch. Nothing prying or pulling or gripping. Nothing possessive. Just quiet.
“...What are you doing?”
“Keeping you warm.”
He wasn’t an especially tall man, but she was still totally wrapped up in him, his knees tucked up under her thighs, pulling her deep into his being. Rosemary.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” she said, “It’s okay.”
“I’m finally in the business of doing what I want - and believe me, I would be remiss to do anything else. ‘Have to’, hasn’t got a thing to do with it.”
“M’okay.”
Perhaps she shouldn’t find his touch as comforting as she did. These were a murderer’s hands, every inch of him bloodstained. He was uncouth, and unkind, and very often disagreed with her more pacifistic choices. But… She understood him. He was easy to read, despite all the layers of false faces he wore to protect himself. In this way, he felt almost akin to safety.
She reached down, and pulled his wrist up to her level, looking at his hands. They weren’t soft. Years of living under someone’s boot heel will do that to someone- countless hours with your fingers gripped around the hilt of a knife, or spent clawing the cobbles as someone else dug its blade into you. Her fingertips found his scars. Running over them, as light and gentle as she could be, as though trying to memorize their patterns, she discovered there were more there than she had anticipated. Many more.
When she was a child, she had fancied herself a palm reader, right up until her human mother informed her that it was considered a form of magic - and the arcane was strictly forbidden in her household growing up. Either due to that firebolt incident when she was four, or her elven father’s disappearance, she wasn’t sure.
But now, her fingers tracing the lines in his hand, she understood. Yes, this was magic. An electric feeling of skin on skin, a tender softness. Without even thinking, Tav lifted his hand up to her lips, planting a single, slow kiss upon his fingertips. In an instant, she felt him stiffen up behind her, every muscle in his body tensing, as though frightened by the sensation.
“ Why did you do that? ” he whispered, voice strained.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“I… No.”
The man pushed forward, burying his face into her hair, and mumbled something into her curls. Some three word phrase. Her heart skipped a beat, thinking for a second he might have said those little words. Everyone’s favorite. But she knew it wasn’t the case. Even if he had, they wouldn’t have been real. A quiet manipulation to hold her still, to keep a grip on the last line of safety that he felt he knew.
It wasn’t as if she was being totally truthful either. At any point, she supposed she could have told him she knew. With any wink, any pet name, any flirtatious little comment, she could have blurted out that she knew for a fact that he was lying. Over time, Tav had convinced herself that saying so would be too painful, but that wasn’t true either. No, she was simply just as afraid as he was. If she spoke on it, there was a possibility he would run. Or stop playing pretend. She didn’t know which was worse.
“ I’ll protect you, Astarion. ” she whispered, barely above a breath, “ I’ll make sure nobody ever hurts you again. And you won’t have to run anymore. You can just stay. ”
“Mm?” he responded, a half-lidded purr, “...Did you say something, my sweet?”
“No.”
She was comfortable being two liars together. Intertwined. And finally, warm.