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Shortly before dusk, the camp outside Rivington is heavy with late summer heat. Everyone’s gearing up for their short travel into the city tomorrow morning, sharpening blades and organizing what little supplies they have, and the few that aren’t preparing are fanning themselves and hoping for cooler nightfall. Astarion has chosen to spend this time repairing his armor. One stray arrow had hit him just right and split the padded canvas. It’s a minor fix, one he’s all too happy to do while it’s still light out. Needlework in the dark is a recipe for hurt fingers and messy work, something he’s been made acutely aware of these past two centuries.
He sees well-worn flats at the edge of his vision and looks up from his current handiwork. Wyll seems impossibly tall at this angle, his curved horns blotting out the setting sun. His smile is warm- everything about him is warm- and he holds a bundle of familiar fabric in his arms like an offering. “Got any thread?” He asks with a smile. “I seem to have run out of black.”
The elf sighs- he’s not a charity, after all. But Wyll does so clearly need it, holding his tattered robe as delicately as possible to keep it in one piece. And due to the rather reckless selling habits of their so-called team leader, they have very little else but the clothes on their backs and slowly rotting provisions. He pats the ground next to him. “Sit. Just don’t ask me to mend that for you.”
“Don’t worry- the Blade is just as adept with a needle as he is with his rapier.” Wyll says, delighted in the way Astarion rolls his eyes back into his head. Wyll seems to do this on purpose- says something grand, in the third person- just to get a rise out of him. It works every time without fail. Wyll sits next to him cross-legged and begins to look through the small basket of thread and notions between them, a smattering of buttons and leather cording alongside spools of every color. It’s an impressive, well-organized assortment by anyone’s standards.
“I didn’t realize you knew how to sew.” Astarion remarks off-handedly, pinching the two sides of his ripped sleeve together to stitch them closed. He looks to the sleeveless, threadbare cropped tank Wyll is wearing. “Sew well , I mean. Did you fix that one in the dark? It’s very… organic.” Wyll chuckles as he measures his thread, flicking the edge of it against his forked tongue to keep it from fraying. “I’ve had this shirt since I was exiled, Astarion. I’ve taught myself a few things these past seven years. You’ll see.” He threads his needle and gets to work.
One problem Astarion has with Wyll- there are many, truthfully, and none of them are problems so much as they are inconveniences- is that his tadpole seems particularly conversant. Wyll may not divulge much to the rest of the team, and he often deflects questions in a good-natured, if not a little distant manner. But his tadpole seems desperate to share the contents of Wyll’s brain with the world. It makes Astarion wonder if Wyll himself is desperate to share, but won’t- or can’t . The specifics of Mizora’s pact still elude him. He’s unsure of what Wyll would say if he could speak freely.
But in this fleeting moment, Astarion catches the image of a young boy on an open road, cold and alone with nothing but a measly campfire to keep him safe from the encroaching darkness. His right eye aches, the stone eye heavy in the socket and rough against his flesh. His hands shake as he pulls a needle through lush black fabric, in and out, the stitches irregular and unsteady. The boy- Wyll - is afraid. He isn’t sure when the next enemy will come from the shadows. He’s not sure when Mizora will return, and what she’ll demand of him. What she may take from him if he disobeys. It’s an awful, all too familiar feeling. Of feeling completely and utterly trapped by your maker. Astarion closes his eyes tight and a shudder rips out of him, which makes this memory of Wyll’s dissipate like smoke, the aura crashing until he opens his eyes and is met with the uneasy man in front of him.
“You were just a boy.” Astarion says. He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps his eyes on Wyll’s until Wyll has a chance to gather his thoughts. The man in front of him now is so much more confident, more sure of himself, and braver than he has any right to be. It’s nearly impossible to see that boy in him now. But Astarion also knows the importance of keeping your secrets close. Vulnerability generally gets you very little.
“Working on the behalf of a devil puts a target on your back. And threats are coming from all sides.” Wyll starts, looking back down at his robe. His new fixes are almost invisible, and despite their sturdiness are nearly imperceptible against the purple sky. “I would have to work for Mizora in secret, but if the truth behind the source of my powers got out… there was virtually no one I could turn to. Few open their doors to a boy working for the hells.” He bites the inside of his mouth and sighs. “I wish I could- I want to say more. Astarion.” He looks to the other man and says his name as a plea. Astarion hates it- hates it because he truly does want to help ease that ache sitting so firmly in Wyll’s chest. And then hates himself a little for such a selfless admission.
Astarion’s words are measured and slow. “It seems that no good deed goes unpunished.” Wyll smiles at that but his eyes look like he’s somewhere far away, scanning Astarion’s face and then flitting away to the darkening sky behind him. “There was a family on the outskirts of Elturel who gave me shelter for a few nights. They had a boy not much younger than me at fourteen. The mother- she told me it was no good to let a young man sleep on the ground when they had an empty bed to lay in.” He begins to weave his needle through the fabric like he casts his spells, assured and smooth, the barest hint of a flourish as he flicks his wrist. The slightest tinge of showmanship. Astarion finds that those little flourishes are a good look on the younger man.
“I was woken up in the middle of the night by a scream. Mizora picked that night to come to me and demand my hand in slaying some beast. I can hardly remember who now. I just remember that mother’s face. Betrayal. I had let a devil into her home. Her son was so scared... If he had any childhood like mine, he knew the stories parents tell about devils to keep their children on a righteous path.” He cracks a wry smile. “The mother had the decency to let me stay until morning. But when the first rays of sunlight came I was gone.”
Astarion isn’t sure what to say, if anything, to make it clear he won’t admonish this reveal. If anything it feels like one more puzzle piece, one Wyll has so graciously given, that he can slot into place. The cruelness is fathomable. Familiar, even. Your servants are no good to you when they have hope.
“It’s probably of little comfort, but I truly am sorry.” The words feel strange on the tip of Astarion’s tongue. If there’s another thing Astarion hates about Wyll, it’s his goodness, and that his goodness seems to rub off on anything it touches. It makes Astarion feel so much younger than he is. The sun is a thin strip along the horizon and Wyll’s eye begins to glow, gently, in the ensuing darkness. The look on Wyll’s face- the other man can’t place it.
Wyll ties a knot and reaches for the small scissors between them to snip the threads. The handles are carved to look like the wings of a bird. “What matters is that the strength I have now, I owe to the boy I was. I recognize that not everyone could have survived with what little I had. Not everyone could have done what I’ve done, to ensure the ones I love are safe.” Wyll looks to Astarion and smiles, his new fangs glinting. “And loneliness is of minor importance to me now. After all, I find myself in much lovelier company these days.”
The phrase is yet another offering that Astarion is all too willing to take. Their occasional flirting has amounted to very little in the way of touch, but it hasn’t stopped them from continuing the dance. It’s comfortable for the both of them. Astarion presses the tips of his fingers into the stitching on Wyll’s robe, aware of the fact that it’s thin enough for his touch to register where it sits crumpled in the other man’s lap. “What’s really lovely, Wyll, is this. Who knew you were this good with your hands?” When Wyll doesn’t shy away from his touch and laughs, the rumble low in his chest, Astarion leans a little closer. “Those hands could be put to better use right now. I’m sure there’s many things the Blade of Frontiers can learn with a little practice.”
The look Wyll gives him is a sight to behold. Heady and vulnerable. Wanting so bad to be with someone. But Astarion sees that it’s not the time nor the place. They both know this, as much as it pains him to admit that. Yet that heady feeling stays even as Wyll clasps his warm hand around Astarion’s and says quietly, “I should go. The light is dwindling- I can hardly finish mending this tonight by candle alone.” He gently returns Astarion’s hand to his own garment, completely forgotten by tonight’s conversation. “I always enjoy our talks, Astarion. Perhaps I can come by tomorrow night. I’d rather not finish this alone, if it’s all the same to you.”
Astarion is sure he must look dumbstruck. He keeps repeating the lines over and over in his head like a tinny little music box, cranking it again just to let it play one more time. “I… enjoy them too.” And there’s no witty turns of phrase or lines of seduction he could possibly use to cause the smile that graces Wyll’s features. It took a week for Wyll to smile wide like this, the pain of healing scar tissue and new cartilaginous growth too much to bear. Astarion wishes he could trace his fingers along the shifting scars and ridges, to feel his skin and whisper to him about painful rebirth. After all the hedonistic nights he’s had, thinking of this simple thing and feeling arousal almost brings him to hysterics. He feels almost unrecognizable to himself, delirious with wanting something so stupidly genuine.
Wyll gets up and folds his robe over his arm. “I know you don’t sleep as such, so the phrase ‘sweet dreams’ doesn’t particularly apply. Pity. I hope your night is sweet all the same.” He walks toward his tent, moonlight swallowing him until he’s just a small shape at the far edge of camp. Astarion watches him go.
Sweet. Funny choice of words, that.