Chapter Text
The inside of Carm’s Garms was the most welcome sight the city of Baldur’s Gate had offered the road-weary vampire spawn yet. While not the highest-class tailor he’d ever been in, after having to settle for random armor and clothing pulled from musty chests or off still-warm corpses, Carmen’s offerings of refined designs and tasteful textiles brought Astarion back to hazy memories of happier times.
“Gem?” It was one of Uk’el’s pet names for him, his other favorite being “My Jewel”. When poetic opportunity presented itself, he would sometimes stray into borrowing the names of specific stones, but those two were his stand-bys. Anyone else would have sounded like a soft-soaper trying on such drivel, but their cleric had proven himself so relentlessly, obnoxiously sincere time and time again that it would have taken considerably more convoluted mental gymnastics not to believe every bit of it was genuine. And Astarion didn’t have the wherewithal left that day to try.
“Yes, my little magpie?”
“See anything you fancy?”
“Other than your delightful self?” Astarion turned his eyes to shelf upon shelf of brocaded silks in rich shades of maroon, plum, emerald, and gold. The offerings ranged from elegant to ostentatious, teasing him with the melancholic spectre of what his life might have looked like save that one fateful night.
Hesitant, Astarion glanced about inconspicuously for their companions. Wyll was conversing pleasantly with the proprietress, Lae’zel was glaring at a row of mannequins in garish party suits, and Uk’el had somehow gotten caught up in patiently speaking with a pale young man whose audibility and intellect seemed tragically inversely correlated.
With small, reserved steps, he made a show of casually browsing their dinner jackets to hide the turmoil swirling in his breast that threatened to build to an inescapable vortex if he so much as acknowledged it. He had no need for such dress anymore, no occasions to attend. There would never again be parties to drift through making easy chatter and being seen and even envied. Even if - if - he escaped from under the heel of Cazador’s boot forever, even if they were able to end the nightmare of the Aboslute looming over all the Sword Coast, the city would no sooner welcome him back to its arms as a murderous vampire spawn than it would have as an ilithid monstrosity. Even the prospect of becoming the Vampire Ascendent gave no guarantee on that front. He would be able to walk in the sun once again, sure, but his history would not be so easily wiped clean. No matter what he might become, there would be those who knew what he had been.
Standing behind a mannequin, he let the sleeves of its fine silk shirt lay over his own arms and looked down at the vest with its brass buttons and daring trim. By chance, a glint off of the buttons drew his eye up to one of the shop’s full-length mirrors. He scowled in disgust at the headless dress form shrugging back at him.
“Do you like that one?”
Astarion turned with a start. Uk’el had somehow escaped the loquacious young man’s clutches and snuck up beside him while the rogue had been lost in his moping.
“The color doesn’t suit,” Astarion muttered, stepping away quickly. The cleric had already doted on him enough for one day, between mediating with the Gur and gracefully backpedaling from the invitations of the drow twins of Sharess’s Caress on his behalf, yet Astarion could sense he meant to continue being needlessly darling if he didn’t put a stop to it. And if he didn’t cut it off at the head now, he wasn’t certain he could maintain his preferred level of composure.
With a gentle smile, Uk’el turned the mannequin around to inspect its outfit before moving to a nearby shelf.
“What about this?” The half-orc held out a folded set of clothes identical in make to the one on display, except having traded oppressively heavy dark greens for a palette of red, white, and gold that Astarion couldn’t resist caressing with his gaze.
“Not bad. Maybe you’re not so hopeless in matters of fashion after all.”
“Hey! I know you think my armor’s garish, but it’s not like I can transmute the metal to something more subtle. Or are you talking about what I wear around camp?”
“All of it, I’m afraid. Right down to the small clothes.”
Taking the folded outfit, Astarion rubbed a bit of the silk between his thumb and forefinger. It was soft yet unyielding and felt entirely alien compared to the threadbare mess his own clothing had become despite his best efforts at repairs. These new clothes didn’t match the way he felt anymore.
“Well, I suppose the ayes have it then, haven’t they?” Astarion acceded, to Uk’el’s apparent delight. He’d only given in so easily so the matter would rest, but the joy in the cleric’s eyes threatened to infect Astarion as well, as though its radiance could burn away the shadows enveloping his heart.
He made for the counter before it had the chance to singe him.
“Excellent choice, Sir, if I do say so myself. And I do,” Carmen said, pausing her conversation with Wyll to ring them up. “That’ll be 65 gold, then.”
By the time Astarion had gotten his coin purse out, Uk’el was already counting out gold pieces from his own.
“Darling, I have both the communal purse and my own. Whichever this is coming out of, I have more than enough to cover it.”
“It’s a gift,” the cleric replied simply, as if that settled the matter.
“No, it isn’t!” The words flew out of his mouth far more forcefully than Astarion had intended, catching both Uk’el and Carmen by surprise. The shopkeep paused in the midst of scooping up the gold that had been paid, glancing between the couple tensely. He couldn’t decide if he was more thankful or annoyed that Wyll out of everyone seemed completely unfazed by the outburst.
Uk’el quickly recovered his pleasant smile before nodding to Carmen.
“Let’s talk about it outside, then. Thank you, Carm. Wyll: you and Lae’zel take all the time you need.”
“Aye aye.” The Blade of Frontiers gave a knowing salute and picked up his banter with Carmen where they had left off.
Astarion coldly grabbed their purchase, slid it into his bag, and followed Uk’el outside, kicking himself all the while for yet again failing to hold himself together under the crushing weight of what the cleric surely believed to be kindness, but which stung like the lash of a whip.