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It hit him suddenly mid-skirmish, the jolt of absence ripping through him like a stake to the chest, knives still buried hilt deep into the flesh of some goblin who had turned its back too soon. His heart. It wasn’t stuttering or skipping beats, not the regular erratic mess he was used to–no, this was different, this was nothing. In the middle of battle his heart had stopped.
Astarion’s heart hadn’t been his own in over thirty years when one night he was rudely jerked from a trance by a new rattle of percussion beneath his breast.
What a curious thing, a vampire with a beating heart–no, better yet, a vampire spawn with a soul.
At the time, he didn’t have long to steep in the joyous occasion before resignation shadowed. Soulmate or no, he’d never meet them with this as his existence, not unless he brought them back to the manor and felt their heart stall in his own chest as they were drained dry. The realization didn’t sour his rapture though, because now, for the first time in centuries, there was life flowing through him, a bliss of animation he didn’t even know he had missed.
By surviving the crash of the Nautiloid he was able to bask in yet another restored sensation of existence, the loving kiss of warmth by the light of day. Sadly, that benefit, unlike the heartbeat in his chest, came with an extra drawback: ceremorphosis. But Astarion couldn’t resent the parasite or the circumstances that led to its intrusion, not when it had given him back his freedom, not when it had led him to the source of his life.
Looking back, it was obvious Gale was his soulmate; he couldn't believe he missed the fact dangling in front of his nose for so long. Every skipped beat corresponded with a pained grimace splashed across the wizard’s features, every ache matched as Gale gazed upon Mystra’s image. Astarion hadn’t put two-and-two together until he was actively feeding the orb’s hunger and felt the overflow of ease calm the rocketing storm inside his own chest. They had locked eyes then, the locket once digging into Gale’s core let go only for the cool spread of digits to take its place, a breathless whisper of “oh, of course, it would be you” released from a fanged grin. It took the resident intellectual another moment or so to catch up before quickly answering in kind. A final moment of eye contact and then the two had careened into an embrace of whispered nothings. “You make me feel so alive” said one and “You had me dead on arrival over you” said the other. It was sappy, it was overly sentimental, and it was perfect. Somehow, someway, they had found each other. After thirty long years of being without, they were finally together and in such a way where the possibilities of what they could do, of what they could be, seemed endless. And now, in some useless battle, over some arbitrary Grove, his heart had stopped and their time together possibly ended before it had ever really begun.
Fear gripped him as he ripped his blade from the body and snapped his head around the area, ruby eyes frantically scanning the battlefield for any sign of his soul's other half.
It couldn’t be true– it couldn’t. He couldn’t be gone, not when Astarion had just found him; not when they might have a real chance at this thing between them somehow actually working out, not now.
There. His gaze zeroed in upon a motionless robed form, an ever growing pool of blood spilling out from beneath it. With his hair splayed out like a crown around his head, Gale looked almost peaceful, if only the heart in Astarion’s chest was beating to match.
He made haste across the battlefield, paying little mind to the sounds of fighting coming to a close around him. All but collapsing to his knees upon reaching the fallen wizard, he grasped desperately at the hope of Gale needing but a simple pick-me-up, some sort of health potion or other and his wizard would be back on his feet no worse for wear. Gale was going to be just fine and maybe if he thought it hard enough it would turn out to be true.
Pawing at the bloodied fabric with shaking hands Astarion felt his hopes shrivel up and die, the front of the robe falling open to expose the cause of so much spilled blood. A gash ran the length of Gale’s fleshy stomach–entrails already spilling out from the rogue’s rough handling. He wailed for the help of their company’s cleric before forcing back the bile threatening to creep up his throat.
No mere potion could remedy this.
Trying in vain to push the organs back to where they belonged, he almost missing Shadowheart creeping up and kneeling beside him. “Astarion," She began, a hand settling on his arm lightly, "you must stop it.” Dainty palms cut through his peripheral and grasped at his hands, pulling them out from inside the cavity. “There isn’t anything more you can do.”
“No!” He jerked out of her touch only to then turn and grab at her wrists roughly, pulling her closer. “Then you do it!" He begged, voice breaking, "Go on then, fix him, that’s your role isn’t it. Look at me, I’m even saying please.”
Shadowheart’s face crumpled. “I can’t, you know that, Astarion.” Her eyes roamed from the slackened face of the downed wizard to the gruesome wound at his belly. “This needs much more than a simple, cleric’s touch.”
“Then what good are you then!” He screamed, ripping himself away from her and sliding his hands roughly into his hair. “You–you have to, you have to fix him. He can’t–”
“Astarion, please–. He’s gone. I’m sorry I am unable to do more, but, sitting here, in his blood? This is not helping anyone, you're simply punishing yourself by staying.”
He whipped his head back around and hissed. “You know nothing. I can’t go back, I won’t." He turned back to his lover's body, whispering the last pleading line directly to Gale's slacked face, voice breaking with despair, "Gale, love please– don’t make me go back.” His body slumped forward, head pillowing on a cold, unmoving breast.
That’s how the others found them, Astarion, covered in viscera, clinging to Gale’s still body and Shadowheart kneeling by his side. He could hear the soles of their boots squelch closer, stepping through Gale’s spilled blood and sending the sounds directly into his nightmares. He wished his ears weren’t so sensitive, wished he wouldn’t remember this moment and every single sensation within so vividly. He wished for a lot of things.
His gaze flicked up to meet with their companion’s wary, apologetic-pitying–faces before he slammed his eyes shut to the world.
Face blank, and mind elsewhere, he reached forward and let the pads of his fingers graze across the lines of life and laughter etched into Gale’s skin. He paused, hovered over the glazed brown eyes frozen in a lifeless stare, before resting his hand across them and dragging the lids to a close. The others stood by, their presence offering support where words wouldn’t do. His ears just barely catching the whispered prayer Shadowheart blessed before they all plunged into deafening silence.
Silent–Astarion’s bloodied hand came up and rested over his own still chest, pressing a print to his pectoral–in more ways than one.
Suddenly, the weighted, respectful hush of their party was shattered. First, by a zing of energy crackling through the air and then next, by a flash of light bursting forth from his mate’s core. A new figure joined the huddled group, its appearance sending a thunderbolt to his numb frame. Gale. Or at least…what looked like him, like some sort of mirror image. If not for the steady pour of electric blue from eyeless sockets he could almost pretend his love had returned.
The form stood unmoving and silent, flickering as if waiting for a prompt. Astarion turned a trepidatious stare over to Wyll, the unofficial leader of their group, and nodded toward the projection–imploring him to take charge.
Wyll blanched, throwing entreating glances at the rest of them, before sighing and settling into his given role. “Ah, yes well…hail and well met, stranger?”
“Well met indeed!” The form swooped down into a greeting. “I am a magical projection of the Gale of Waterdeep, and if you are seeing this that means I,” Here, the copy placed a hand upon its chest and bowed forward as if disclosing something confidential, “have prematurely perished.” Astarion would say his heart clenched at that statement but his heart laid with another and all that was left of either of them at the moment was the undead sensation of absence.
“However be that may, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience.” Remedied? What did it mean by remedy, was Gale not gone? “I have upon my deceased person a magical item that can accomplish my return, but such is the value and rarity that it is protected by a multi-layered security protocol. I will now explain the protocol…Step one–”
Astarion huffed a disbelieving laugh, his shoulders dropping in relief. A contingency plan. Of course his wizard would have a contingency plan! He should have known, Gale of Waterdeep–pretentious ass that he could be–would have thought of everything, would have known death was a very likely possibility and planned accordingly. He really should have expected something like this from his utterly–ingenious–madman of a mage.
He tried to stay focused, tried to follow along with the others to the instructions the figure directed them to complete, but he couldn’t–how could he possibly focus when a piece of himself was still hollowed out and missing. Why must the wizard have made his fail safe so damn difficult; why must he have Astarion sit and suffer through a solitary existence for a single second longer than absolutely needed.
Gods, this was worse than being flayed.
Astarion shifted, bringing Gale’s head to rest on his thighs, propping his torso up just so. He tuned back into the conversation when he started to hear…was that some sort of dirge, but it didn't hold his attention for long, too preoccupied now by the coolness of the cheek cupped in his palm. Gale wasn’t meant to be cool to the touch. Gale was meant to burn, to flare like sunlight so that he may bask in the presence of them both when alone. How wrong a small sensation could be, how jarring. This Gale wasn’t warm, this Gale wasn’t filled to the brim with life–this Gale was gone.
He stroked his finger down, from the corrupted lines branching forth from his love’s eye, to the curve of his jaw, and down further, to the breast of his chest. Splaying his hand over the leftmost part Astarion pleaded, one final time. “Come on you stupid, stubborn bastard. Come back to me.”
The others must have finally had some luck, or swearing must have been the key, because Astarion suddenly felt a jolt shoot through him. Like the first deep breath of fresh air into burning lungs after a dive too great, Astarion felt alive with relief. His core was erratic but moving, pounding at his chest as if to escape. He found himself curling inwards in a pointless attempt to trap it within.
A breath gasped out from the man in his lap and Astarion quickly made to hold him back as Gale shot up and bucked, trying to break the embrace. He flung himself around the heaving chest to stay its leave–he was not letting go of the wizard that easily, not so soon at least. Heaving in breaths-not beats, something Astarion still found terrifying even knowing the absence of such is what marks the wizard as his, his love finally settled back and calmed.
Gale looked up from where he sat, exclaiming as he took in the circle of companions surrounding him. “Oh, OH–haha my word, you did it! By gods you did it. OH it is good to be alive!” He must have then noticed the arms circling his torso because he turned his head over his shoulder to greet the vampiric presence at his back. “Star!” He snuggled back into Astarion's arms and whispered in his ear. “Apologies dear, but my limbs might still be a bit too cold for what you usually prefer.”
“Never, never darling, they’re perfect, you’re perfect– don’t move, not a muscle, not even a twitch. I’m not letting you go so don’t even think about leaving.”
Gale’s eyes widened at the begging. Astarion didn’t beg. It wasn’t in his nature to grovel or to pray, he took and ignored forgiveness later. What had possibly happened while Gale was gone? He flicked his gaze up to the rest of their group seeking answers only to be met by turned backs as they left to give the two space.
It seemed like he was on his own for this mystery.
“Astarion–Star, is everything alright? Did I miss something important that happened while I was away…Are you injured?!” The thought crossed his mind as he finally wriggled far enough around in their embrace to fully take in the other’s form. The rogue was positively dripping in gore, perfectly maintained curls now matted and messy, white blouse marred by the print of a hand over the breast. Gale placed his own hand over top the mark and pressed. “By the Gods, Astarion...what happened to you?”
Astarion reared back, eyes wild as they danced between Gale’s own, tears slipping down his cheeks. “What happened?" He cried, words flowing out like a tidal wave, "What happened?! What in the sweet hells are you thinking, asking me something like that? I knew you were dumb wizard but I never thought you dim. You. Died.” He spit each word with vitriol like he couldn't bear to have the taste of them on his tongue. “And you left me here alone. Lifeless...”
Astarion pushed his chest hard into Gale’s still outstretched palm, his hand releasing from its clutch at the other’s back to come around and force the flat palm impossibly deeper. “Feel that?" He asked, eyes wild and words manic, "I didn’t! It was gone. The beat, the rhythm, the very song that I have been living my life to for the past thirty odd years was gone, and that meant so. were. you.”
Fresh tears pricked at his eyes before falling down his cheeks, leaving tracks through the smears of blood adorning his face.
“What happened to me you dare to ask?" Astarion put on a falsetto cheer to his voice, the words falling flat, "Oh, nothing much darling, I just had my very soul ripped from me! How about you?”
He slumped, energy spent, hand slipped off the others to fall lifelessly to his lap. He reached up to wipe at his eyes but blanched at the red stained sleeve, and quickly slammed his lids closed instead. He felt wretched, heartsick and feverish, at the very end of his rope. Astarion never wanted to feel like this ever again.
Across from him sat Gale, stunned silent from the barrage, eyes unblinking as he attempted to contain the sheer amount of feeling that was thrown his way. He never knew love like this before, all encompassing and all in–that was reserved for Her.
Sitting there, still wrapped in the other, he felt for the first time truly loved in return.
Not knowing how best to respond, he settled on softly prodding at the other. “That…that must have been a lot for you.”
“It was.”
“Would you…would you mind forgiving me? For putting you through that, even if it was unintentional.”
Astarion let out the smallest of sighs, his eyes opening to grab hold of the others, sheer exhaustion pouring out from behind them. “There’s nothing to forgive Gale, nothing at all." His voice dropped to a whisper, "You came back.”
Gale released a breath, brow furrowing while his eyes softened. Leaning carefully forward, he knocked his forehead against the vampires, letting it lay where it fell. His hand strayed down to lift the fallen palm back up, settling it over his own left breast before patting it in place. Pulling his hand away and back towards Astarion’s core he splayed his own similarly over the left hand side.
They took a moment, in a pool of drying blood, wrapped tight in each other’s arms, companions watching closing from afar, to sit and simply feel–each carefully attuned to the proof of their shared existence under each other’s palms.
One breathed and one beat and together, they were whole once more.