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Astarion knew that Karlach was looking at him, when he was stumbling. But he didn’t want to hear anything from her. Bloody tadpole. No matter how much he enjoyed the sun, he kinda missed his regenerative abilities right now.
Just barely he made his way over to his tent, falling to the ground in front of it. But of course, Tav was there. Behind him. Because this man was a fucking idiot, who just would not stop caring, no matter what Astarion did.
“Hey,” he said, putting one hand onto Astarion’s shoulder. “Let me heal you.”
“Oh please,” Astarion muttered. “You are barely standing yourself.” Those darn spirits or whatever those bone knights were. The dead Justiciars or something, still haunting those halls down here.
“I am good enough to heal you,” Tav insisted. “Let me see.”
“You are an idiot, you know that, right, darling?”
“Yeah, I know,” Tav said. His eyes were scanning Astarion for the source of the pain, making Astarion grunt and push up his shirt, where the head of an arrow was still ledged in his flesh just above his hip. Blood was still trickling from the wound – the only reason that it was not gushing out of the wound was the fact that he was undead.
“Ouch.” Tav ran his fingers carefully over the skin next to the wound. “I need to get that out, first.”
“No kidding.”
Tav hesitated for just a moment, before he got out his knife. “I am sorry. This is gonna hurt.”
“Promises,” Astarion muttered, shifting his weight just a bit in the hope to make it more bearable. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Just do it.”
There was once more worry in Tav’s eyes, but then he nodded. “Alright.” He carefully pushed the tip of the knife into the wound, trying to dislodge the piece of old metal from it.
Astarion was hissing, but managed to keep down his voice. He still groaned, when the bard managed to get the arrowhead loose, now pulling it out with the fingers of his left hand.
“There.” He smiled carefully, before putting his hand onto the wound, muttering the incantation for the healing cantrip. Not a powerful spell, not in the way that Shadowheart was able to heal, but it was enough, making the wound slowly close up and the pain subside.
“Better?” Tav asked.
Astarion nodded. He closed his eyes and sat up properly, before carefully wrapping his arms around the bard’s neck. Something… He wanted to feel the man for just a moment. Wanted to be close to him. Even though those feelings made still so little sense to him. To have someone who actually cared about him. It didn’t make any sense. Why would that idiot care about him?
But Tav understood. He wrapped his arms around Astarion as well, holding him so tenderly. There was softness in him. Just so much softness. Again Astarion was wondering why he could feel safe with this useless man, but he somehow did.
“Sit with me for a bit, will you, my sweet?” Astarion finally said.
“Of course.” Tav sat down next to him. “Can I hold your hand?”
“You can,” Astarion whispered. He looked at the man’s hand. The fingers so rough from playing the lute for so long. There was the scar on the back of Tav’s right hand. A burn scar, looking as if hot metal had burned him there. Astarion was still wondering, where this scar came to. It seemed this man had so many secrets still. And yet he was so warm and seemingly so unconcerned with everything.
“You know,” he muttered, “as much as I love the idea of going out into the sun, I do miss my ability to heal myself.”
Tav smiled. “I can see that. It seems useful.”
Astarion took a deep breath. “When I finish that ritual, I… I will have both. The healing – and the sun.” He already knew the look the bard would give him. He could tell in fact, even without looking at Tav.
“Is it really worth it?”
“Of course it is,” Astarion said. “You will see. And once I have those powers, we will have the power to defeat the absolute. It will be good. For both of us.”
Tav didn’t reply, though his silence spoke loudly. Astarion understood it quite well. He understood that the man would not allow it. Because Tav was an idealist, who would not shut up about doing “the right thing”. And Astarion knew quite well, that he did not consider sacrificing however many souls for him to ascent to be “right”. Astarion still wondered, what the man would do, if Astarion tried. Would he stop him? Would he even go as far to try and kill him?
He knew at least one thing. They would not be together. They would never be anything to each other again if the did. At the same time, though, Astarion also knew one thing. If he did it – if he managed to finish that ritual in Cazador’s stead – there would never be another Cazador to hold him down, to torture him.
What worth was the care or whatever other softness this man was providing him in comparison? Astarion needed strength, not a softhearted idiot trying to save the world.
But then why was he sitting here, holding the man’s hand and soaking in the warmth? Why did he want to get lost in the man’s eyes? He just didn’t understand himself. This was weakness and he couldn’t have it. He could never be weak again. Yet, he couldn’t let go of that warm hand. He didn’t want to.
“What do you think is waiting for us at the heart of this temple?” the bard asked, clearly trying to change the topic.
Astarion sighed, forcing another smile onto his lips. “Whatever it is, I bet it is dreadful. Those Sharrans are quite… something, don’t you think so, darling?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Tav whispered. “Maybe.”