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Uk’el glanced at the moon nervously. In nights past, he had never thought of that massive pearl dominating the cloak of night as ominous. Mysterious, perhaps. Beautiful, certainly. And while he’d never been a dab hand at estimating time by the movement of heavenly bodies, he could at least tell that the moon had already swung from the spot low in its arc where Astarion had walked off from camp to bathe in the nearby stream all the way to its apex. As much as Uk’el wanted to give him space after all that had happened at Cazador’s palace, he was also worried about his being off alone for so long. Not that he thought Astarion might do anything rash, but he was in an understandably vulnerable spot emotionally.
It was entirely possible he was simply taking his time enjoying the afterglow of victory - safe in the knowledge that he had finally shed the bonds of his old master - or that he’d simply lost himself in thought, the paranoia of being hunted finally quieted. But with all the dangers they had faced on their journey thus far as well as all that yet stretched ahead of them, Uk’el knew he would feel better after seeing for himself that his beloved wasn’t lying face-down in the stream bed with Orin’s dagger between his shoulder blades.
Making his way out of camp and down to the bank, it didn’t take long to spot Astarion’s ethereal form amidst the dark of night. The gleam of the moon’s fair light over the elf’s equally pale skin sent a wave of relief crashing over Uk’el as soon as he crested the embankment. Faced away, waist-deep in the midnight black waters, he couldn’t read the air from so far away, but at least he could see that he was safe.
“My Jewel?” he called quietly, watching his step as he crunched down the loose gravel slope towards the water’s edge. “You all right? You’ve been at it for a while. Take all the time you like, of course, I just…wanted to check in.”
Even at his call, the elf was as still as he was silent. In the light of the full moon, every letter of the contract etched into his back was clearly distinguishable. Even if Uk’el couldn’t read Infernal, he let his eyes walk their spiraling path like a meditation maze, until at last Astarion’s voice broke the spell.
“Yes. Just…trying to get the last bits of gore off after all the carnage.”
Closing the last few strides of dry ground between them, Uk’el took a seat at the very edge of the shore’s divide, all the better to bask in his lover’s presence. This close and with the moon so bright, the monochrome palette of his darkvision gave way to meagre shades of color - from the still wine-dark water to the green of leaves drifting by on its surface. Returning his gaze to the curves and angles of his beloved’s form, he noticed patches of raw, pink skin across Astarion’s arms and torso.
“Gem… You’ve scrubbed yourself raw.” He winced, surveying the extent of the damage. “Surely you’ve gotten it all.”
The rogue glanced over his shoulder, then turned away again quickly before Uk’el could catch his expression. There was a stretch of silence wherein Uk’el couldn’t help but hold his breath, suddenly overcome by the sensation that time had stopped.
“It isn’t just that,” Astarion admitted in a whisper, and it was as if Uk’el had surfaced and could breathe again. “Can you believe what that malformed mongrel said to me in the ballroom? That I-” Anger melded into visceral disgust. “That I still smelled like him?”
Astarion shivered visibly; close enough to see, but still too far to touch.
“For what it’s worth,” Uk’el offered, “you’ve only ever smelled of yourself to me.”
Astarion gave an exasperated, little scoff.
“If that was supposed to be romantic or comforting, it wasn’t. First off, you’re not a dog. Secondly, you don’t have the point of reference necessary to make the distinction. Besides, I just- Whether or not you can tell, I hate the entire concept that some bit of him still clings to me. Invisible, imperceptible, but still objectively there. So much so that a complete stranger could take one look at me and just know, see the threads hanging off of me leading right back to him. The thought that I might never truly be clean of him.”
Looking down into the stream’s dark waters, Uk’el studied his own reflection. Though he’d doffed his armor and changed into comfortable clothing after they had all retired to camp for the evening, he had yet to remove his makeup. The soft, black shadow dusted around his eyes yet ran down into short, purposefully arranged tear trails. The style - along with the tattoo cascading down the left side of his face - were symbols of his faith, taught to him by other Damaran clerics of Ilmater at his home temple. The tear trails were symbolic of their sorrow for those who yet suffered. And although the tattoos’ lettering was reversed in the reflection, he naturally knew their meaning by heart: ”By my words or by / my blood, Peace.” Orcish lacked the punctuation of Common, but the phrase’s meaning was still clear, assuming one spoke the language. One temporary and one permanent, he wore these marks of his faith on his face for all to see, that they might know his creed without needing to inquire. It was somewhat less effective outside of rural Damara - with fewer seeming to speak or even recognize Orcish the father he got - but they were still pieces of himself he had chosen to replace those marred beyond recognition by the violence of his upbringing.
He was proud of them. They were not a mask, but a portrait of the man he strove every day to be. That so few could see the scars of his abuse beneath this patchwork and that even fewer could scarce believe they were not merely a trick of the light when they did see them was a testament to his craftsmanship of self. And he knew in the truest depths of his heart that - with the same support he had been offered - Astarion could achieve the same.
“May I join you?” he asked in the stillness.
Astarion gestured tersely to the stretch of water surrounding himself as if to say, ‘Well, I don’t own it.’
Standing up on the rocky shore, Uk’el stripped to his skin before stepping in. The chill, midnight waters were bracing, to the generous, and the shiver it sent up his spine reminded him of the icy grip that had swallowed him whole the first time he had allowed Astarion to feed on him. By the time he’d waded out to his partner’s side, all of Uk’el’s skin had turned to goose flesh.
“May I touch you?” he asked. When Astarion only froze in reply, he clarified, “Just on the back and arm. Nothing below the navel.”
“...all right.” The rogue still sounded hesitant - wary, even - so Uk’el moved slowly. He started by tracing a finger lightly over a few letters of the contract so prominently displayed across the skin of his back. Even knowing their purpose, for Uk’el they were chiefly a reminder of the first night they had spent together at the party celebrating the rescue of the Emerald Grove and the tiefling refugees. Even if it had been a farce, nothing more than a means to an end for Astarion, for Uk’el it had been the first glimmer of hope that the elf might open up to him, that bridging the gap between them might not be a mere pipe dream as he had come, at the time, to believe.
Letting the Infernal script alone, he next ran a hand from Astarion’s shoulder down to the silken underside of his wrist, lifting it out of the water and parallel with the stream’s surface. The man’s skin was as cold as the waters surrounding them, pale as the moon shining down on them, and smooth as marble. Uk’el knew they were symptoms of the spawn’s undead nature as much as the lingering hint of stale earth that hid beneath the higher notes of his usual perfume. But to the cleric, they were not the marks of a monstrosity but elements of a work of art.
“May I kiss you?” he whispered, his voice a husky rumble low in his chest.
“If you’ll explain what the devil you’re doing, then fine!” Astarion huffed over his shoulder.
Starting at the shoulder blade and moving down the arm, Uk’el planted a trail of gentle kisses all the way to the back of Astarion’s hand.
“When I think of you, I see your face. When I dream of you, I hear your voice. When I picture you, I smell you. And no one else. For every centimetre of you that bastard sought claim to, all and a thousand more remain yours. You shine like the full moon at dusk with a light that is yours and only yours.
“Our pasts will always be with us, in some measure. But as long as we’re alive, we have the chance to make them a smaller and smaller part of ourselves with each passing day. Not all wounds heal with time alone, but with time and effort they do fade, even if the grooves they once traced remain.”
Slowly, gently, Uk’el turned Astarion around by the shoulders to face him. The elf’s eyes were puffy and red - redder than usual, even - but at the moment there were no tears to dry. Leaning down, Uk’el waited to see Astarion tilt his head up and close his eyes in anticipation before placing a deliberate kiss upon his lips. When they parted, Uk’el noticed a pink tinge blossoming on the vampire’s pallid cheeks and at the tips of his ears. It was strange for Uk’el to think it was his own blood filling his lover’s veins, betraying Astarion’s emotions as though he had a spy on the inside - other than the tadpoles’ crude telepathy.
“Hmph. Perhaps you aren’t hopeless after all, aside from a hopeless romantic,” Astarion teased, recovering his composure.
“Ha. Glad to see you’ve still got your bite.”
Astarion scowled disapprovingly at the wordplay.
“I still think you make it all sound far too reasonable. Although… I realize now how much effort it took for you to make it look so effortless.” Astarion frowned at the washcloth in his hand. “It took so much to endure everything, just to get this far, and it still isn’t over. It seems wildly unfair that I should have to be patient all over again without knowing for how long. It took a lifetime to break free of Cazador. Will it take another to be free of his ghost? Will it…outlive you?”
“I don’t know that anyone could say.”
“It was rhetorical, Magpie. Do try to keep up.” Astarion drew a sharp breath and shook his head. “I suppose even just the chance at healing is better than nothing. If my options are ‘try and maybe fail or maybe succeed and be happy’ or ‘doom myself to certain misery for the rest of eternity’... Well, I suppose I might as well try.” He gave Uk’el a tiny smile, and his eyes softened from the sharp daggers he wore to protect himself to those soft, round rubies he had only just begun to let Uk’el know even existed. “Blind faith seems to have worked pretty well for us so far, after all.”
Uk’el smiled back. Taking a lungful of fresh air, he glanced down at the raw patches of Astarion’s skin once more, better able to assess the damage up-close.
“Could I interest you in starting your new commitment to self-care and self-betterment with a salve made with rogue’s morsel and frost salamander tongue? It’s normally for sunburns, but I think it could provide some relief here as well.”
Astarion thought for a moment; a longer moment than Uk’el was expecting even as a set-up to a tease. The long sort of moment usually reserved for philosophical ponderings or major life decisions moreso than topical balms. The only thing that kept him from worrying he had overstepped was that Astarion’s expression was merely unreadably blank and not angry or tortured.
Eventually, the elf looked up at him again, still looking mildly dazed and bewildered by a seemingly simple question.
“I’d like that. And, er…” he struggled for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. “Thank you.”
“Every time, My Jewel.”