Chapter Text
The words tumble out of your mouth a touch too quickly. It’s merely an observation, although an admittedly astute one.
“Maybe what you really need is a friend, not a lover.”
Astarion responds stiltedly, with an awkwardness that you find refreshing. Endearing, even. “I — I would like that.”
Tentatively, he brings his hand to yours. Then, another. You bring your gaze upwards and peer into his amber eyes. Upon further observation, they were trembling ever so slightly.
You realise that at this moment, you’ve doomed yourself to a future of dishonesty. Unbefitting of a truly good ally, you like Astarion so much you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your group was traversing the shadow-cursed lands, facing death at every turn. And yet, here you are, your heart racing over the touch of a hand like a virginal nun.
That same night, you sigh into your pillow. Despite your attempts to stifle the protests of your heart against your head, they haunt your thoughts, mixing together with other internal arguments about the so-called ‘greater good’. The greater details are lost on you, with the only resounding conclusion in your head being that you’re a dirty, dirty liar.
Raising your upper body, you resign yourself to a restless night. You turn to peer into a mirror perched upon the sparsely-furnished table in your tent, your own reflection staring back at you in a way that feels hilariously accusatory. Sighing, you remember the feeling of Astarion’s palm under yours, cool to the touch. You remember how in stark contrast, his eyes seemed uncharacteristically warm. He trusts you. Only you, perhaps. And what did you have to show for it? Lust? Love?
Your moral compass looms heavily over your head, and it declares that the beauty of Astarion’s vulnerability was not to be indulged in. Instead, it was meant to be nurtured and protected. In this moment, you remember your vows. Tenets of honour and duty, tracing back from your gallant predecessors.
What is love, if not the desire to shield?
Surely, this is for the best. A half-elf’s life, while still terribly long, seems like hours compared to the eternity Astarion was decidedly sentenced to. Sighing again in resignation, you toss your back against the bedroll, staring into the ceiling of your small, unremarkable tent. Look at me, dwelling upon decisions that can’t be taken back.
At least there’s one thing you can be certain of: You hate Cazador Szarr. Sure, you were already eager to sink your blade into the monster just from Astarion’s anecdotes alone. But within minutes of meeting him in this decrepit dungeon, your blood is left positively boiling. It’s hardly befitting of a paladin to be motivated by personal vengeance, but Cazador seems to test your patience to no end. You unsheathe your blade, muttering a guiding prayer under your breath: “Bright wit, clear thought, keen sight.”
When Cazador is brought to his knees, you do your utmost to maintain razor-sharp focus. It was far from over, and in the back of your mind, you worry that this part may be harder to endure than the battle itself. This is a scenario you’ve played thousands of times in your head, but at this moment, you lose every single prepared line. You’re left with nothing but a twisting sensation at the centre of your chest.
“I can do this, but I need your help.”
Astarion was asking you for help. You. The same person he had mocked and ridiculed for their naïve righteousness. And yet, you knew from the moment that you flung open the doors to this dungeon that you were going to disappoint him.
“I…I shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do this.”
You frown at how your voice wavers. It doesn’t do much in the way of persuasiveness.
“I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free — truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”
In comparison, Astarion’s argument lacks any logical flaw. It goes without saying that you want nothing more than Astarion’s freedom. He’s been deprived of the power to break this never-ending cycle of abuse he was thrust into for centuries. You would be cruel to fail him now.
Except, when you meet Astarion’s gaze, in place of hope you find desperation. A chill runs down your spine at the thought of what that desperation could spell for the future. Silently, you pray that he will forgive you when this is all said and done.
“But what I want is for you to stay…you. For you to live a life you can be proud of. Please.”
You feel wet tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and when you blink, they slowly roll over your cheekbones. You’ve survived nautiloid crashes and fights against the Chosen of gods. And yet, this is the first time anyone’s seen you openly weep. It’s embarrassing — mortifying, really, how your heart bleeds for Astarion.
But when the aggressive, uncontrollable flame in Astarion’s eyes starts to yield, you feel nothing but pure relief.
Astarion stabs Cazador repeatedly, in an almost manic show of violence. It’s all gore and blood, and you should find it abhorrent. Instead, there’s an almost poetic sense of beauty to it as you watch through teary, glistening eyes. While his old master’s blood pools onto the floor, Astarion sobs, chest heaving as his emotions peak. It reminds you that no matter how highly you thought of the man, in Cazador’s palace, Astarion was always reduced to a mere boy.
Thankfully, the spawn are all spared, none of them sacrificed to the Black Mass. Astarion leaves his siblings to help with the aftermath, as the spawn begin their journey to the Underdark. Rather short, as family reunions go. But considering how dreadful the place is, the last thing you want to do is complain.
When you push open the doors back to town, you’re surprised to see that it’s only late afternoon outside, the sun still in the middle of its descent. The dungeon was so ominously dark, as if shrouded in a permanent night. It reminds you of the Gauntlet of Shar, in that sense.
“It’s a bit early, but…”
You inhale deeply, taking in the fresh air of freedom. Glancing towards your right, you notice that Astarion does the same.
“Let’s rest for the day.”
Unsurprisingly, no one objects. The sombre atmosphere doesn’t leave your group immediately, the journey back to the Elfsong Tavern remaining quiet. However, when you push open the doors, rushes of laughter and merrymaking pour out. It helps, even if only by a margin, to calm the deafening silence.
“You know, you ought to speak with him in private,” Shadowheart says, twirling a night orchid between her fingers. Upon further inspection, you notice that it’s the one you had plucked for her back in the shadow-cursed lands, its petals starting to wilt at the ends.
You raise your eyebrows at her, to which she does the same. “You have a soft spot for him. It shows.”
“My people claim what they covet,” Lae’zel chimes in. “It would be wise for you to do the same.”
It’s so incredibly in-character for the warrior to say so, and it makes you laugh for the first time since dawn broke. How stoic, and yet, how reassuring.
Your companions leave for the tavern downstairs, relenting camp to you and Astarion for the time being. Rather than reading a book, Astarion sits at the edge of his bed, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers are loosely interconnected together as he stares off into the far corner of the room. It’s as if time has stilled around him.
“Copper for your thoughts?” You ask, imitating a familiarly husky tone.
Astarion laughs weakly, and you internally applaud yourself for your successful attempt at humour.
“Karlach could have your head for that terrible impression, my dear.”
You smile, your eyebrows firmly lowered. “Thank you. Now, do you need someone to talk to or not?”
“Need is a strong way to put it, but since you’re already here to listen…”
When your friends, pleasantly buzzed, climb up the stairs to return to camp, you and Astarion have somehow gotten comfortable on the floorboards. The two of you sit with your backs against the bed frame, with only your heads lying on the mattress. Your shoulder is pressed firmly against Astarion’s as the two of you stare off into the ceiling blankly.
“Astarion?” You call out softly, your eyes unmoving.
“Yes, dear?”
Dear. Darling. What was it with Astarion and these terms of endearment? For what seems like the hundredth time, you tell yourself not to read too much into it all. You roll your head to the side, gazing at his profile. You clear your throat, trying and failing to ignore how delicately crafted it is.
“I’m proud of you.”
Your statement, in all its honesty, is far from imaginative. And yet, Astarion’s mouth hangs ajar, as if at a loss for words. From your place beside him, you can see the faintest glimpse of a sharpened fang.
“I...Thank you.”
You let out a throaty laugh at this rare example of awkwardness from Astarion, who always seems to make an effort to appear suave. It’s charmingly amusing, and your shoulders raise as you continue giggling, waking up a mid-nap Scratch in the process. Scratch dashes towards your side, and you smile lovingly as you give the good boy a good series of pats on the head. In your reverie, you miss how Astarion’s gaze follows you, a faint trace of affection flickering in his amber eyes.
When everyone is preparing to go to bed, you ask Gale about how you could possibly procure a certain item. You ask him plainly about whether there was any magical item that could allow a vampire to walk under the sun’s rays. He tells you about the Ring of the Sunwalker, about stories that seem more like urban legend than fact. As for its whereabouts...
“If I had any ideas, trust me — you’ll be the first to find out.”
You inhale, ready to ask why, but then the wizard’s smile spreads into a knowing grin. Shadowheart’s words echo in your head.
“You have a soft spot for him. It shows.”
Instead, you simply rub at your temples, your ears slightly tinted pink. You're grateful, despite the slight embarrassment you had to ensure. You thank Gale for his helpfulness, and bid him a friendly goodnight.
Weeks after, you defeat the Netherbrain, but with no sunlight-shielding ring to show for it. Your face contorts in horror as you're forced to watch Astarion’s skin start to sear under the sunlight. He runs away from the unrelenting rays, presumably to crawl back to the shadows.
Becoming the saviour of Baldur’s Gate felt odd, more than anything. You were no hero. You were merely a servant. A daft one, even. Who else but a complete fool would leave their other companions without a word, instead opting to chase after a doomed vampire spawn?
Before your mind can even take a second to react, your body lunges forward. Ignoring how your chest heaves and your calves ache, you sprint desperately along paved roads and between alleys, expertly weaving past crowds of celebrating citizens and buildings waiting to be rebuilt. Astarion couldn’t have run far, surely.
Realistically, it's for the best to just let Astarion go, allowing him to dissolve into the dark. You can forget all about silver curls, hands that run cold, and how each piece to the puzzling elf made your chest tighten. But this can’t be the last time you see him. You don’t want it to be.
Of course, you realise just how futile your chase was when you hit a dead end, coming face-to-face with a brick wall. You’ve overestimated yourself for even hoping that you could catch up to someone with centuries of experience of living among the shadows.