Archive of Our Own

{1} ACT ONE

As they glance back at the motley band of strays gathered from the roadside, they think this has to be the oddest day of their life. Not that that means much, of course, as no other days come to mind at all. (Memory loss is a tricky thing.)

So far they’ve picked up: a supersoldier whose tongue cuts just as well as her sword; a cleric with an allegiance as curious as her artefact; a wizard who speaks a lot but says very little; and a liar—well, a ‘magistrate’, but really, a liar.

“I was a magistrate in the upper city before I was taken,” the elf said when they first met, his smile perfectly wide and eyes perfectly steady. They thought about the ease in which he swept them to the ground, the tips of fangs hidden behind his lips, the sunlit dagger flashing at his hip— and they also smiled, and let it slide.

“Sure. What a wonderfully reasonable occupation to have,” they said pleasantly. Because everyone deserves their secrets, and they aren’t one to push. Not when the only thing holding the five of them back from each others’ throats is their fragile tadpole-eaten brain and an even more fragile truce. “Though I presume that your convicts didn’t have similar sentiments.”

Astarion only gave a suitably amused hum, and that was the end of that.

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They track the column of smoke billowing from the campfire up to the canvas of the night sky. So many stars, so removed from the fabric of reality, adrift in their own void. Idly, their fingers toy with the neck of their bottle of wine.

Their days have gone by in a blur of sweet-talking and bartering and sweat and blood— a sticky friend, that last one. It clings to them in the spray of an artery under their blade, the iron-tinged aroma of a fresh corpse, the insistence of their thoughts crying crying crying for them to split more skin-tissue-bone.

Their fingers tighten. They take a swig.

They need a distraction before they truly go mad. So they let their feet carry them to the person most likely to oblige, plastering on an expression they hope masks their hunger for a blood-soaked kill.

“Hello,” they greet, plopping down gracelessly to sit cross-legged beside Astarion’s sprawl, “please humour me. What’s it like to preside over a court?”

Maybe they should feel bad for disturbing what little alone time each of their companions have, but Astarion is clever. He spins stories as easily as he slips his fingers into pockets, and his sharp quips have derailed their train of thought during negotiations more times than what’s safe. Also, he’s been a bit of a bastard; they can’t be faulted for wanting to retaliate.

Gaze sharpening, he looks from the wine in their hand to their face. He’s silent for a while as the mask slides on, and—bless him—he does not ask more questions. “What’s there to say, my friend? It’s rather dull.”

“Come now. I heard it’s like a play, what with those emotional outbursts and unravelled secrets. And all for you up there, the audience to their show. But what do I know,” they bait, gesturing blandly with the wine, “I’ve never been caught.”

He shifts into a more comfortable position to face them, eyes flashing in curiosity. “And what have you done to warrant being caught?”

I’ve killed and I've killed and I’ve killed, and I’ve savoured every delicious moment. “Why, I was only the greatest phantom thief of the Gate! I’ve broken into every other mansion in the upper city and robbed them to the grains of their coffers. Half the spoils I gave to the urchins in the lower city, and half I kept for myself, and not once has anyone caught a glimpse of me but for my calling card on the pillows of my targets.”

It is an absurd story, an overt untruth, because not only have they confessed about having lost their memory from before the crash, but they also can’t pick locks without Gale secretly casting Knock in sympathy. It is, perhaps, as absurd as Astarion’s lie about being a magistrate, and he knows it. He knows it, that his game is up, and he plays his part beautifully.

“I knew there was something dastardly about you, but to think you went after those who filled my pockets— how wicked!” he exclaims, hand on his heart. “Although, you might have to embroil yourself in more filth to hold up against those I sent to prison, darling.”

This is what they needed him for—an opportunity to be lost in starry fantasy far from skin-flaying thoughts. They lean forward. “So tell me more.”

And he does, injecting drama into his tales of intrigue as they respond in kind. About serial killers snared by their ego, cabals torn apart from the inside, traffickers of magical beasts maimed by their captives. They lay bricks of lies upon each other to form a barricade, until Astarion’s attention drifts and he stares a little too long at their neck when they laugh. He excuses himself after they tease him about it, and while it is unlike him to be burdened with politeness or shame, they are still buzzing with good talk and wine, and their mind is blessedly clear from lingering thought.

They will realise later that the hunger they clocked in his dilated pupils was from a different kind of lust.

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The next day, they find a boar completely drained of blood.

The night after, they find themselves at risk of being in the same position. They still let him feed from them, because he’s been sluggish and weak and they can’t stand the way his face twists when he pleads, but they can’t help themselves as they bare their neck. “So, a magistrate.”

Astarion pauses over them, clearly fighting his instincts to take. “Some might argue that magistrates are bloodthirsty leeches.” He curls his fingers into their collar, tugging it down. “You wouldn’t let that little trifle stop me, would you?”

“I’m not that petty. Drink.”

He bites down.

{2} ACT ONE

There is little warning before the tieflings, flush with their victory against the goblins, invade the camp to spread their enthusiasm. Within an hour of setting up, someone’s already giving an off-key rendition of a ballad, another’s casting illusions of fireworks, and there’s a kid passing around goblets of spiked wine while his partner-in-crime rummages through the pockets of those who accept.

Given that the edges of their mind, fresh off the battlefield, are still tinged with mania, it is a true feat that they’re able to field the tieflings’ small-talk with only a fine tremor in their hands.

Even then, when the leader of the tieflings comes up to thank them for their kindness, they barely collect themselves enough to not spill the facts—that they really just needed to direct the Urge at someone before it took over again, and the goblins were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and everything else was lost in a spray of viscera and bile.

Something is caked under their nails. Something is stuck at the back of their teeth. They give Zevlor a smile they hope doesn’t reveal too much, and swallow down the compulsion to scream at him to run for his own good.

Because he doesn’t know what happened to Alfira mere nights ago. He doesn’t know what it’s like to still feel a film of her blood on his hands, ever warm and sticky-sweet, after five hysterical rounds of scrubbing. Amidst swells of jubilant cheer and laughter, the absence of a tiefling’s lyre strains the loudest.

“It was my pleasure,” they choke out. They don’t know what they’re referring to. They need to excuse themselves before something else threatens to come up with the truth.

They stumble towards the forest. Flash a smile to those who meet their eyes. Slant it crooked to pass at tipsiness.

Deep in the gloom, they crumple back-against-bark at the roots of a tree, and breathe, breathe, breathe.

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An indeterminate amount of time later, when they’re less untethered, they are found. Astarion clears his throat. “There you are, darling, I’ve been looking for you.”

They uncurl in ticks—neck, fingers, spine. They blink blearily at the forest floor. “What is it?” Croaky. They try again. “Has the camp burned down?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He hums, “Though I’d find a pyrrhic victory hilarious.”

“Has someone gambled away all our supplies? Eloped with a tiefling? Did you finally piss Gale off enough for him to take drastic suicidal measures— No. I would’ve known about that one.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” he chuckles. “And here I thought I was the only one who found the festivities dull. What’s gotten our merry leader so sullen?”

They run their tongue over their teeth, then say, mildly, “Extraordinary circumstances. Nothing to concern yourself over. I’ll be back to my witty self by morning.”

They hear the rustle of leaves as he crouches down, then his voice, pitched low. “Well. I could help with that.”

“What?”

“Hasten the process, I mean. Provide a distraction. Kiss it all better.”

Their head snaps up to finally take him in properly. There’s an open question in his face. His hair is tousled, collar open enough to be coy, and he is all moonlit lines and catlike grace. Beautiful. Approachable. So that’s what he came for. They repeat, slowly, “What.”

Focused as they are, they do not miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “By the hells. Need I spell it out? A night of passion. Sex.”

“Astarion, if this is about repaying me for my blood—”

“It’s not,” he soothes quickly. “I want this. I want you. Is that so hard to believe?”

They stare hard at him, and he does not flinch. Perhaps it wouldn’t be hard to believe, were he not so immaculately styled, were his words not so practised, were there any conviction at all behind his eyes. Yet here the both of them are. Dancing between the lines again. “I hadn’t even thought you interested.”

“Darling, you are as lovely and decadent as your blood. Of course I crave to indulge in you,” he purrs, not even dropping a beat. “I’ve been waiting ever since the night began.”

Something must have shown on their face then, or they must have missed their cue, because he corrects their stumble once more. Smooth as silk. “I know somewhere more comfortable, if you’d like. Somewhere we can—”

“Astarion,” they heave, and they know they won’t be able to stop what’s about to tumble out, and it’ll ruin this fabricated dance he’s worked to set up but they can’t follow through with it, not tonight, not until this awful weight eases— “I killed someone.”

A long moment of silence. They have to look away, pinching at a flower until its petals crumple.

“Yes, dear,” he says slowly, as if to a particularly dim animal, “we were there when you killed multiple someones, even.”

“No!” they exclaim. They could’ve let it slide. They should’ve. “I meant— do you remember Alfira?”

He blinks, considers. “Who?”

“The bard. Tiefling. Purple hair. Stayed at our camp a couple of nights ago.” Their voice threatens to weaken. “Gone by morning.”

Astarion’s brows draw together in sober understanding. “Yes. Gone by morning.”

“Yes,” they echo hollowly. “Except. I killed her. Woke up to a gaping hole in her chest and my hands drenched in blood. She was gone. I don’t know why I did it. I couldn’t even remember doing it.” There it is. Their greatest sin confessed, out in the air. Should they be feeling so relieved? They don’t know what they expect Astarion to do—stab them, maybe, in his own brand of judgement.

“Right,” he huffs. His hand comes up as if to run through his hair, but he thinks twice of it. “Was it too much to hope for someone who isn’t an abject lunatic in this camp?”

Or maybe they sorely overestimated his morality. They dare to breathe, “Sorry. And I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

A sharp, dry laugh. “Believe me, darling, it was ruined long before that. Do keep me from becoming another one of your blood bags though. I’ve been the star of many a midnight impulse, but none so murderously consequential as this.”

They wish they could understand the way he thinks, what he must have gone through to treat such cruelty as nothing more than an anecdote. As if they didn’t deserve wrath, as if they had something to offer that was worth the peril. They study each other, bleached in bone-white moonlight, one red-handed sinner to another.

“I’ve done worse, you know,” he says blithely after a few moments. “If I’ve managed not to be staked thus far, there might be hope for you yet.”

They catch a laugh before it trembles out. From them all, they think ‘hope’ is the loveliest lie he’s spun.

{3} ACT TWO

The Shadowlands are a dismal, loathsome place, not least because they constantly have to fight off its clinging tendrils. Shadows—alive, awful—try to encroach into their vision in the sunless day. At night, their dreams are visited by shapes that groan and warp when they’re not looking, and stare back when they do. They had learned early on, when the campfire went out one night and darkness crushed in to fill the vacuum, to always keep someone tending to the flame.

There is no rest to be had. More often than not, they startle awake from their companions’ cries from nightmares, thoughts scattered and at a loss of how to help.

And so it follows, from inevitability or otherwise—

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You dream of violence. Ritual blade in your hand, knife-slash grin upon your lips. Savagery is woven into your being as intricately as the network of arteries in your prey. It is your lifeblood, your calling.

Why do you resist? Don’t let go now. Make the offering. Prostrate yourself before his altar.

The serrated edge of your blade glides along the sternum of the lucky sacrifice on the altar. Her skin parts, spilling hot blood onto stone. She barely shivers against the hold of the paralytic. You cannot suppress your own.

Close your eyes. Relish in it. You have earned this bliss.

Deeper. Your knife slips between her ribs to hover just above her heart. You feel the pulse of her as if it’s yours. The iron scent of her blood hangs thick in the air, congealing at the back of your throat, choking you with disgusting delight. You wonder if this is what intimacy is.

You know what to do. Hold steady. Remember, he loves you the most.

An itch builds at the back of your mind. Reverence swells behind your eyes. You tighten your grip, then your blade plunges through cartilage and tissue and fibre. And her breath catches, and her heart seizes, and you begin to cry.

You are his most perfect creation.

(Your knees give out, a headache building with the forceful heave of your sobs. This is not who you are. This is not who you want to be. You hurt with the weight of repentance. Pain throbs within your skull, insistent, and as it surges in intensity you recognise it to be writhing. Like the undulating segments of a worm, or an unwelcome guest.

In seconds, the temple falls away around you, and you are flung into the head of someone else.)

Scenes flash before you, almost too quickly for you to grasp. You dream of lamplit bars and darkened alleyways. Putrid rats and rotten smiles. You prowl the night for those who walk willingly to their graves, and with them you bury your regret. Over the centuries, you have learnt to stop resisting.

Offer yourself. Kneel before their beds. To feign worship is simple once your prayers go unanswered.

You watch as he rips at their throat, his eyes rolling back at the nectar of their blood. Hunger lacerates the lining of your stomach, the length of your gullet. Your teeth are sharp with the ache to bite. When he gives you a rat with breaths that pull its skin tight to its ribs, you do not hesitate.

Look away. Pretend to relish it. This will be your only bliss.

He takes you to his room, telling you to strip and kneel. You do not disobey, cannot disobey, for you still bear the marks of his fury, and undying creatures carry scars that last forever. You hold tight to your knees as he starts to carve, knife to back to agonising pain.

Don’t move. Remember, he told you he loves you the most.

Pain is all you know. Pain and pain and hunger. When he’s done, he takes a finger to your bleeding wounds, and he calls you beautiful. Throat hoarse from screaming and lashes damp from tears, you swallow your bitterness.

You are his most perfect creation.

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They gasp awake, heart in their throat, their own blood on their tongue. The bit about murder was theirs, sure, but what of the torture? The hunger? Those memories hurt too much to look at, like staring too long at the sun. Afterimages linger in shadows burned on their retinas.

Fingers clawing into the fabric of their bedroll, they catch movement in front of them. Blood roars in their ears. They blink hard to get rid of the spots in their vision, and they see— white curls, flowy shirt, red eyes wide in horror. Astarion takes a step back, almost involuntarily, a sound choked off in his throat. He looks as bad as they feel, as if waking from a nightmare himself, as if waking from the same nightmare as them, and both of them have a tadpole, so that would mean— that means—

“—had only wanted to wake you up. But your tadpole lashed out—” he’s saying, shuddering. Their thoughts spin, his words barely registering, because that would mean those terrible visions, that man—

“—was this bad. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

—that pain was his. And he hadn’t told any of them. Had let their team believe that callousness was in his nature. Had let them take his body with a painted smile. Did he not trust them with his past? They whisper, a damning sentence, “Why didn’t you?”

Astarion hesitates, confusion playing across his face. “My dear, would you care to repeat that?”

“In my dream. The seduction, death, rats for a meal. Those were from you, weren’t they?” they wonder, pieces of a vicious puzzle snapping into place. “That scar on your back. That was from your master, wasn’t it?”

With every word, his face hardens; the muscles pull tight in his neck, his mouth pulls back in a sneer. The campfire’s glow throws his features into relief, and the shadows beneath his eyes have never looked starker. “Do you always like to exhume graves? Dredge up secrets that ought to stay dead?”

“That’s not my fault this time—”

“So it’s mine then?” he scoffs. “I come to snap you out of whatever nightmare situation you landed yourself in, looking like you were having a seizure, and the blame falls on me, does it?”

They’re losing the thread of the conversation, brows furrowing, ire uncurling. “Stop. You know I didn’t say that.”

“No,” he utters, deadly as a dagger under cloak. “You have said nothing other than things I kept hidden for a reason.”

Shit. They’ve hit the nail on the head, slipped their knife between his ribs. The pulse of his anger thrums under their blade. “Astarion, I know you’re fond of secrets. I am too. But you saw something from my tadpole too, and…” And that was them at their worst. A despicable puppet. A slave with a life half-lived. They shiver, swallowing against the thickness in their throat, but they don’t miss the way his eyes shift in recognition. They finish weakly, “…and we’re in this together. I could help.”

Ragged with years of shattered scorn, he laughs. His fingers curl tight into his palms. “There is no helping someone who died centuries ago. But if our hero wants to know so badly, fine.”

So he spits out his truths like they are acid on his tongue, but they are no cleric, and the shadow-soaked lands no confessional, and he speaks not with penitence but vehement vindictiveness. Look at me, taunt the set of his shoulders, the gleam of his fangs. Look how late you are. Where were you when there was something left to be saved?

Astarion takes a shuddering breath he doesn’t need, shutting his eyes. Against afterimages, maybe. Memories that burn too much when looked at for too long. It hits them then, that his venomous glare and coiled stance weren’t to lash out for a strike, but to brace against one.

“I’ll kill him with you,” they hiss, unbidden oath bound by crackling flame and eternal night. They can’t begin to provide comfort—not when they’re on the same path to being damned—but they know something about the ways one must change to survive. And the phantom aches from what’s shed behind.

“So all it takes for your fealty is a guileless heart-to-heart,” Astarion says, a little tiredly, a little bitterly. “Best not to let the Absolutists know. They’d crack their chests open for you by the dozen.”

“I think I’m more than capable of doing that myself.” Coaxing him into meeting their gaze, their voice bleeds into sincerity. “I would’ve killed him for you anyway, you know. I’m with you always.”

The corners of his mouth tip up, but it’s a mockery of a smirk. Pride sits hollow where it’s usually assured as he says, “I suppose you would miss our nights together otherwise.”

Heroically, they resist rolling their eyes. “No, I’d miss you. I haven’t had many friends, but you’re one of my finest— you know, vapid flirting aside.” Him with his theatrics, his sharp wit, his odd brand of caring only when no one’s paying attention— somehow, he’s managed to endear himself to them, bark and bite and all. He seems as disarmed about it as they are. They add, when he continues to stare, “Also, no one else is as laissez-faire about my… affliction.”

Astarion’s smile is faint and slow, but it makes relief echo in their chest all the same. He speaks with the careful cadence of a creature off-balanced. “But we are alarmingly similar, aren’t we? I only realised it after my jaunt in that dagger-happy head.”

They huff in muted humour, thinking of silhouettes of hunger and hatred and helpless inevitability seared at the back of their eyes, and they say, “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any more tonight. Stay with me?”

His brows lift, lips parting, “And… do what?”

“I don’t know. Watch the fire. Stargaze. Gossip. Pass the time with me, until the rest wake up.” They shrug. “Whatever you want.”

For a moment, they think he’ll return to his tent to nurse his wounds, but he goes to perch on a log beside them, cautious and unpractised. Relief blooms into contentment. Easy happiness.

They don’t speak very much for the rest of the night as they watch the push-and-pull between firelight and shadow, and for two souls treading a doomed path, it should feel mournful. But it isn’t, not always.

{4} ACT TWO

They did not sign up to fight a god. They probably would not have signed up, had they known that—surprise!—maybe killing the unkillable Ketheric Thorm would draw the ire of the immortal deity who gave him his immortal powers. And now their celestial ally is chained up, and there are skeletons clawing their way through the earth, and there is the literal God of Bones glowering at them from his dais.

“Oh,” Astarion says faintly. “Oh dear.”

“It’s been a riot, soldiers,” Karlach says, sparks kicking off her shoulders as she swings her greataxe up on them. “If I die here, promise me you’ll find and gut that fucker Gortash.”

Already glowing with divine light, Shadowheart hisses, “I did not betray my life’s purpose for this to be our last stand. None of you are dying. Let’s go.”

The battle is gruesome. They are deep in the lair of illithid cultists, and as one enemy falls, Myrkul resurrects another in their place. The cave fills with clatters of bones and clashes of steel.

When they fight, time slows to measured breaths and deliberate steps. Here is the precise arc to swing their blade to slide past the writhing tentacles of a mindflayer and into its throat. Here is the angle to twist to dodge the arrow of ice aimed at them, so close and cold it burns. Here is the glee that swells as they strike skeletons down one by one by one, and the elation at bones collapsing at their feet.

In the distance, as they shatter the sternum of another, they register a beam of moonlight and the cry of an aasimar scorned. Astarion must have freed her, the sneaky bastard. Watching Dame Aylin soar to Myrkul in a rallying flare of brilliance, they allow their grin to split manic.

Then Myrkul roars—so great it shakes the earth, so guttural they feel it in their bones—and he booms, “Fools. You think this worthless aasimar can save you?” He glows a sickly white, the air around him holding its breath.

“I am Death itself. I am eternal.”

In a blinding rush, much much faster than thought, they and everything else are flung up towards Myrkul’s dais and slammed into stone. They wheeze, struggling to fill their lungs, and— hells, that rib’s definitely broken.

A bone scythe sweeps towards them. They leap on instinct away from its singing edge, poise be damned, and spit out a curse. They need to reorient themselves. There’s Shadowheart beside them. Karlach. Dame Aylin. All alive—battered and heavily bruised, but alive. There’s Myrkul looming ten feet away, cold and furious, swaying with the heft of his weapon. And where’s—

An arrow embeds itself in Myrkul’s eye socket as he lifts his scythe to strike, shocking him into a stagger. Ah, Astarion’s somewhere behind and above. Probably on a rocky outcropping, far from Myrkul’s reach. Safe.

Steadied, they raise their weapon. The Urge howls to see this walking pile of bones ground into dust and marrow. It drives them to stab their blade into the sinews at his joints, breaking his stance as Dame Aylin and Karlach draw his attention with flame and light.

Time resolves itself into the movement between seconds, measures of counted breaths and steps. And it is in these moments between seconds that they catch a bolt of necrotic magic hurtling at Shadowheart. Shadowheart, in the midst of casting a spell, sluggish from physical and emotional toil. Shadowheart, their only healer, and a person who’s never had a chance to live until a day ago. It’s no choice at all.

Shoving her out of the way, they take the strike. Instantly, shards of ice shoot down their veins, their breath wrenched out of them in a curl of ghastly green smoke. There is a pain in their chest so great that they think they’re dying. Then Myrkul’s scythe slices past their armour to bury into their belly, and they know they’re dying.

(He should’ve angled it upwards to nick their heart. Amateur.)

Someone screams. The world tips backwards. Their hearing goes muffled. The ceiling, blurry. Blood seeps into the fabric of their tunic, but it’s cold. Shouldn’t blood be warm? They’d know.

Belatedly, they realise Shadowheart is trying to heal them. One flare of blue. Two. Their flesh stays parted, blood continuing to pour, helpless against the icy phalanges of necrotic magic digging into their skin.

There’s a whoosh of displaced air to their side. “Heal them already! What are you doing?”

Shadowheart’s voice, desperate. “I’m trying, it’s not— Something’s blocking my magic!”

“Damn you. Damn it!” Astarion’s gaunt face swims into their vision, brows pinched in concern. He can’t seem to tear his eyes from their abdomen.

Don’t be rude, they try to say, but their tongue feels rather clumsy, and their limbs rather like lead, and all they manage is a moan.

“Stop that,” he snarls, eyes snapping to theirs. His voice scrapes too harsh. Too raw. “Save your breath. You are not dying.”

They wonder who the lie is for this time. It’s not a very good one—they’ve dealt too much death to not have an inkling of what it feels like, sounds like, and this is it. But they’ve been giving in to him more, ever since they tried to kill him one night and he tied them down and waited for the Urges to pass till dawn, so patient and trusting they hardly knew what to do with him after.

So they’ll give him these too: a wisp of a smile and moments more of his bluff. The last thing they see is his face fractured in fear, before Myrkul’s will drags them under.

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The process of having one’s story rewritten is quite delicate. First it requires the erasure of one’s final statement—and only one’s final statement, lest they lose paragraphs of themselves in the process. Next, the continuation of that statement, close enough to fit the genre, artful enough to escape its outcome. Lastly, a spark of inspiration, a shock to spur one’s heart into beating, until one’s breath comes deeper, and one’s soul feels lighter, and words flow torrential onto the parchment—

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They barely get their first lungful of air before they’re smothered in a hug that smells of night orchids. At the corner of their vision, they glimpse ink-stained dregs of cloth flitting out of the room.

“Shadowheart…” they manage to croak, her crown digging into their chin. It’s not that they’re averse to hugs (on the contrary, really), it’s just that courting asphyxiation so close to being revived seems unwise. They tap her back with a manner of desperation, but she only squeezes tighter.

Laden with years of practice spreading Shar’s words, Shadowheart utters, with absolute conviction, “You stupid, blithering fool.” She pulls back and they take a much needed gasp, and then her face scrunches in frustration and they’re being shaken by their shoulders. “What were you thinking? We had him. We had him! He fell to one more hit after you— after you!”

They try to explain, head raising from their pillow, but she places a palm on their forehead and pushes them down. Her mouth twists. “I couldn’t heal you. Karlach had to carry you back to the inn, and I don’t know how Withers managed to begin to untangle that cursed magic, but even he nearly failed. It’s taken us hours. It’s only by the grace of— well.” Her voice drops to a near whisper, lashes weighed down by fatigue. “It’s a miracle you made it.”

Their head reels. Hours of healing when it should’ve taken Withers alone seconds. They don’t know the right words to say: They didn’t have time to think. They saw a threat, and they intervened. They didn’t see the scythe, didn’t know it was a final gambit. They didn’t think they’d die. They didn’t think she’d be so distraught. They're grateful. They’re sorry.

They’d do it again.

“I’m sorry—”

“No, you’re not,” she corrects softly. “Thank you for taking that hit for me, but know this: if you attempt it once more, I’ll send you off myself.” She presses a kiss to their cheek. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

With that, any lingering sympathy flees her, and she deems it fit for them to be visited by everyone in their camp. Everyone. Because it turns out that rejecting Shar’s embrace doesn’t wipe away one’s mean streak. By the end of it all, there are more tears and hugs than they’ve ever been the cause of—certainly more than they think they deserve—but if that is to be the extent of their consequence, they will happily suffer it.

It is only once they’re alone and sleep beckons to them in lazy drags that they notice footsteps by their door—hesitant like they don’t know where they’re heading, uneven like they’ve forgotten how not to be heard. Clumsily, they push themselves up to a sitting position, sheets pooling at their waist. “Astarion? Is that you?”

Dead silence. They must have gotten it right. That, or this was Faerûn’s worst and most inopportune assassination attempt.

They have learnt, with him, to treat him like they would an easily spooked animal: telegraph their intentions and always phrase them in a way to give him an out, no matter how badly they want to see him. “If it is, will you come in? I missed you when the others came by.”

A heavy silence once more, until the door creaks open. Astarion slips in through the gap. The moment he sees them, he halts. The emotions that flicker across his features are so rapid that they barely track them, but the fact that they can, without any pretence, frightens them a little. Distress, relief, anger—he has never looked less composed, never worn his heart so freely on his sleeve.

The words are out before they can stop them. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Did something happen?” he snaps roughly. “Yes, darling, I would think that you dying would qualify as something that happened.”

“But I’m back now, aren’t I?” It’s nothing new. One of them falls in a fight, gets healed, pops back up for the next one well and healthy. It’s just that this time, admittedly, there was a brief scare. They tilt their head, saying, “I’m sorry for taking so long.”

Tension pulls him taut. Astarion holds himself deadly still, like he doesn’t trust himself not to move. “You don’t seem to understand that there is a glaring difference between getting hurt in battle and being an endless slave to death, which, lest you forget, was the miserable state you were in. And still you make it sound so simple.” His voice wears thin, goes pinched. “Nothing with you is ever simple.”

He’s right, they don’t understand. They suspect they’re talking about different things, and the distance between them has never felt more pronounced. Or more intentional. Lowering their gaze, they state, “You’re angry with me. And it’s not just because I took the hit.” Doubt hollows out the space behind their ribcage, unmooring, chilling. “Is it the Urge again? Have I done something very wrong?”

“No— that’s not it,” he says, and does not elaborate.

Curse this man’s reticence, especially now, but he looks so horribly torn up about it that they just barely restrain themselves from ceding to his silence. Clenching their fists into the blanket, they sigh defeatedly. “So why…”

“Earlier, when you said you missed me.” They pause, watching him flex his hands, bite his lips. Anger slips flimsily from his features and leaves behind residues of nascent hope. “I had missed you too. I couldn’t— can’t bear to—” he cuts himself off, pained, and their own breath gets stuck on an exhale. His eyes are wide when he seeks them out, beseeching and flayed open, and he says raggedly, “I care about you. More than I thought I was capable of. And when you went and died, I— I didn’t know what to do with myself. I thought I would never see you again.”

“Oh…” they murmur, more a sound torn out of them than anything else. It is woefully inadequate against the tightness of their chest. That wretched, burrowing ache. “Can I hug you? I’d really like to hug you.”

“What?” He flinches, and their heart sinks, before he bursts into a flurry of motion and babbled words, “I can’t— You must know. The only intimacy I’ve learnt to give is an act. That’s what we started as, and you are worth so much more—”

As if they didn’t already know he was lying. But they stopped propositioning him the moment they learnt about his past, and he dropped the act the moment they called him a friend. They swing their legs off the bed and shift to stand at the foot of it, deliberate enough that he can track their every move. There they hold their arms up, and say, despairingly fond, “Please.”

He wavers. Then, like being pulled by an inexorable tide, Astarion takes one step towards them, and another. When he crashes into them, it is a tentative thing. He holds himself too tense, too foreign; his hands flutter at their back. It is only when their own come up to clutch him tight, smoothing down the line of his spine and tucking his head into their neck, that he finally sinks into them. His weight presses them into the bedpost and their feet slip a bit, but they are far beyond minding.

“I care about you too. Deeply,” they profess, curling around him as he makes a noise of disbelief. “You’ve been so kind to me despite what I’ve done. Why do you think you can’t be treated the same?” They brush their fingers over the tip of his ear, down his soft curls to tangle at the strands at his neck. Gentle and lingering and completely, devastatingly unfamiliar. He shivers at their touch.

“You make me feel things that are out of place,” he whispers into their shoulder, as fervent and brittle as a new revelation. “Things that are unlike me.”

And they understand, of course they do. Tenderness isn’t second-nature to someone bred to kill. But maybe, they think, “Maybe this is how you’re meant to be. You deserve to be able to find out.”

“As do you,” he insists, and they can tell, from the firmness of his tone, that he means You deserve to know me as much as You deserve to know yourself too.

There is no blueprint for the likes of them. No steps from a playbook or ritual. They hope a day comes when a caress doesn’t feel like a laceration and intimacy a dagger tip against their heart, but they hold their vulnerability close now, humming into his hair, “We’ll find out together.”

{5} ACT THREE

The night before their planned crusade on the netherbrain, with the whole of Baldur’s Gate holding its breath, their camp decides to throw a feast with all their allies. Officially, it is to boost morale. Unofficially, it is an attempt to finish months worth of scavenged food before they expire, or before their team expires. Jaheira might have been on to something with the morale booster.

It is the perfect excuse they’ve wanted anyway. One can only deal with arbitrating guild wars and disassembling institutions of power for so long before they seriously start considering letting their intrusive thoughts take over. (Figuratively speaking this time! Getting rid of those was another arduous journey of its own.) Point being: they notice the weariness in their companions’ footsteps, the tension in their quips, and they’re not stupid enough to disregard a day off.

Which leads them to the present, in a room in the Elfsong that they had completely bought out, laying out an outfit they had purchased earlier in the day in a fit of vanity. It had been so elegantly woven, silver embroidery shining like starlight on the dark fabric and glittering like the Weave… They couldn’t help themselves. A concession to finery, after frugal months of living off the wild.

As they slip it on, careful not to disrupt the delicate filigree, they’re not even remotely surprised when they hear the door open behind them. Even less so as it’s followed by the clink of jewellery spread over their dressing table—all of which are definitely lustrous, definitely tasteful, and definitely stolen.

They allow themselves a smile, doing up the clasps on their ensemble. “You do realise we get a saviour’s discount for those. You didn’t have to shoplift.”

“We never have to do anything. But surely I’ve managed to impress upon you the value of doing things for the hell of it,” Astarion counters. “What do you think, darling, are rubies a good look for me?”

“You know they are,” they say, turning to find him preening over a ring on his finger. He’s already cleaned up, dressed in a lush brocade of black and red and silver, and he cuts a profile so lovely against the dying light that they’re reminded again why anyone would follow him to their doom. But it is the crinkles around his eyes, soft and pleased, and the genuine, crooked tilt of his smile that strips them raw. Helplessly, they drift towards him. They pray they don’t look as struck as they feel. “Have I told you you’re beautiful?”

He catches their hand in his, eyes glinting in a way that suggests he knows exactly the effect he has on them, though perhaps not to what extent. How despicable of him. “Yes, but I could stand to hear it more often.”

“It would lose its meaning if I say it any more.”

He murmurs, low and hushed, “Not if it’s you.”

It is a fantastically bad time to notice that he’s rubbing small circles into the base of their thumb, especially when they’re trying to ignore how his line is somehow working on them. Not unkindly, they shove at his shoulder with their free hand. “You horrible charmer. Tried that one on anyone else?”

“Oh, loads!” he titters, holding fast to them even as the persona drops in theatrical flourishes. “But I so rarely mean it. You, my love, bring out the honest man in me.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” they tease, twisting his ill-gotten ring. There’s no reason to look for the truth in his words too closely, not when he drapes it in jest and irony, and not when they already know it well. They tug at him gently. “Shall we? I broke out the vintage red just for you.”

“By which you mean—”

“Straight from the arteries, I’ve been promised. Although I’m not sure who the bartender sourced it from.”

“You do spoil me!” he gasps delightedly. “I wasn’t looking forward to another droll meet-and-greet, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

-----------

There’s something to be said about the specific atmosphere that only exists before a storm. Like the calm people speak of, born from a juxtaposition of uncertainty and preparedness so precise that it collapses into a vacuum away from reality. A nexus where people can do what they want, be who they want, before having to step out to weather the tempest.

That’s what the Elfsong has become, at least for the night. The centrepiece is, of course, the lavish spread of meat and fruit on the main table, and with the tavern bathed in mellow lamplight and familiar faces warming the room with camaraderie and chatter, they think they can lose themselves easily. The tieflings greet them with a shout and a smile. The Harpers raise a toast. One of the Ironhand gnomes stops in her tinkering of a lamp to drop them a salute. They return it, hoping that she has the sense to not create an explosive in an enclosed space.

Whilst they set about catching up with their allies, Astarion leaves to claim his sanguine consolation. (That’s what he tells them, anyway. They think it’s because he’s aware they need to preserve good relations for their crusade, and he is, at most times, a waspish cad to strangers.)

Besides, they have little problem with playing the host. It’s much simpler without a voice in their head whispering bloody murder, and they quite enjoy listening to stories—each time they do, the void in their memories yawns a little less insistent. A drink is pushed into their hands at every table, toasts made to courage and liberation. By the time they finish making their rounds and discern their companions lounging in a side room, the flush they feel swells into fondness. Like a spill of warmth over their skin.

Pushing past the curtains that bracket the archway, they catch snippets of a heated conversation they can’t be bothered to distinguish beyond superficial jests. There’s a space beside Astarion on the plush chaise he’s on. He must have been saving it for them—how sweet. They collapse into it, into him, bonelessly, and he barely makes a noise of dissent.

“Thank the gods you’re back,” he cries, words inflected with token anguish. “These antiquated bats wouldn’t understand beauty if Sune showed up in a dress as transparent as their attempts at style.”

They don’t start laughing, but it’s a near thing. “Remind me again,” they say instead, loud enough to eclipse the incensed outbursts of half their companions, “what were we discussing?”

Lae’zel sets down her goblet of wine with a severe crack. “Chk. The actual antiquated bat was critiquing the clothing of our allies. A pedestrian hobby.”

They hum thoughtfully, entirely too familiar with Astarion’s propensity for histrionics and entirely too indulgent. “What, less insipidly chaste, more gossamer and lace?”

“Precisely!” Then he wraps an arm around their waist, and he purrs so smokily that their heart speeds up in alarm. “Or they could take a page from you, my dear, who looks ravishing even in nothi—”

With one hand braced on Astarion’s knee, they’re midway to physically shutting him up when lovely, lovely Wyll wrests control of the situation. “I think you’ve guzzled down too much blood, my friend. Since our valorous leader is back, what say you to a rally of our own?”

Their breath leaves them in a relieved huff, slumping back against their goblin of a partner. He merely gives them a very amused, very unrepentant smile. “Wyll, you’re far better at those than I am.”

Ever the gracious saviour, Wyll laughs, announcing, “Then let us drink to our plans for what comes after, so that we know what we’re fighting for.” The gold rim of his goblet catches the light grandly as he raises it. “To more adventures, and becoming a beacon of hope across the nine hells!”

“Dysfunctional as I find most of you,” says Shadowheart, regarding all of them with a tip of her cup and recognition in her gaze, “to new beginnings with new families.”

“To getting this blasted thing out of my chest,” Gale declares. His eyes crease in thought. “And afterwards, perhaps a nice cup of tea with Tara.”

Lae’zel’s proclaims, loud enough to reach the astral plane, “To the liberation of my people!”

And Karlach, red-hot and blazing. “To living on my own terms!”

“To endless debauchery and sin far from heroes,” Astarion toasts, and it’s a true testament to their journey together when he’s just met with good-natured dismissal. An honest man they’ve made, indeed.

As for their own truth, pulled from depths where once only bones were thought to lay: “To living fearlessly as yourself, for yourself. And to all of you! For teaching me that we don’t have to go at it alone.”

Hope, to them, was like a poison willingly drunk—slow to kill and impossible to reverse. But for reasons they still don’t fully comprehend, their companions had taken a chance on them. It was senseless. It was miraculous.

Amid cheers and the clink of goblets, they knock back their own, exhaling as it slides down in a defiant burn.

{+1} EPILOGUE

For months now since the netherbrain’s fall, they’ve been travelling with Astarion across Faerûn. It used to be about the destination—magic cloaks and scrolls against daylight, all so rosy, so promising. Then every item turned out to be a dud, and they got used to the rhythm of the moon and stars, and the ends very slowly began to look like excuses for the means.

The line’s gotten a little blurred. Neither of them really want to redefine it.

They’ve developed a routine, see: instead of a campsite, a rented room with velvet-thick drapes; instead of conversations over a foraged meal, the lullaby of stories read aloud before bed; instead of urgency, unhurried mundanity.

So when they finally emerge from the shower, feet sore and sides bruised, they’re more than ready to turn in for the night. They were ambushed by thieves after leaving the ruins of a temple earlier, and while the thieves were plenty inept, the ensuing fight was still protracted enough to wear them out. (Curse the invention of darkness spells.)

At least one of them had fun. Astarion watches them from where he’s lounging on the bed, pleased as he only ever is with a full belly. Half-dried after a bath, his hair curls even more, and he is the very picture of a spoiled pet.

“You’re happy tonight,” they say, crouching before their bags to unpack their supplies. Here are various trinkets to sell, an empty carafe of water to be refilled, a riddle scrawled on an old map to be solved. “Found something nice?”

“I was just thinking.”

They shift the objects to the work table. Problems for another time. “Hm?”

“Those bandits we fought,” Astarion muses, “they wouldn’t happen to be the same ones the innkeeper was cursing out, would they?” His gaze stays sharp on them, even as he spins his comb idly about his fingers. “And that detour we took to come back wouldn’t happen to be the same road the innkeeper warned us away from, would it?”

Oops.

“Well…” In their defence, they hadn’t considered that he could’ve been paying attention to the conversation. But he was bound to find out anyway. “You did mention that you were getting bored the other night.”

A laugh startles out of him, bright and swift. “So I did,” he concedes. “And I suppose I can excuse some charity from time to time.”

“Charity?” They don’t quite manage to suppress their mirth as they retrieve the small bottle of hair tonic from his pack. Who does he take them for? “Last I spoke to them, the innkeeper was very convinced that our stay here should be free of charge.”

“Cheeky.” He tosses his comb onto the dresser when they return to sit on the bed. With conditioned ease, he turns his back towards them, tilting his head. “You’ve devised such wicked schemes for me. I’d be blushing if I had the complexion for it.”

“How’s this, then?” They plant a lingering kiss to the curve of his neck, laughing as he sags against them even more. “Happy anniversary, dearest.”

“Six months.” There’s a tug at the corner of his lips. The kind of private, wondrous smile he thought himself incapable of and the kind they would maim to keep.

Humming in acknowledgement, they uncap the tonic, breathing deep as the citrusy sweet scent of bergamot fills the space between them. They aren’t sure when they started to help him with his hair—it wove itself into their routine some time from when he had the mixture made, and when they learnt how pliant and agreeable he could be once they ran their nails across his scalp. It was an act of unadorned affection for him; for them, gentleness in simple strokes.

They rub two drops of oil between their palms to warm it up. Then, section by section, they work it into his roots, pulling lightly at his hair until the tangles resolve. After a few moments of placid silence, Astarion says, “Do you know, my dear, that I can’t think of a time in the past six months when I was miserable.”

Their fingers slide through another thicket of soft curls. “I should hope not. I wouldn’t be travelling with me for half a year otherwise.”

“Listen, you awful thing. I’m trying to tell you something.”

“Mhm.”

He sits relaxed, body loose and unguarded, but the measured lilt of his voice hints at sobriety. “It was one thing to escape from my past; it’s another to be free of it. The misery, the darkness… for two hundred years, they felt impenetrable.” They tug at a particularly stubborn snarl. His head follows along without any resistance, trusting. “When we first started, I had thought… If my past had weighed you down too, I had thought to leave.”

They freeze. That’s new. He’s lucky they know him better now than six months before, when they might have been tempted to cuff him on the ear—even if they still think him a halfwit now. They force themselves to continue with their task, running their fingers through his silken locks. Already untangled, they part easily. “But you haven’t left.”

“I haven’t. I haven’t thought about that in months, and it’s because of you.” He catches one of their hands, pinning it on his thigh, lacing their fingers together. “Because each day with you has made me unthinkably happy. Because each memory I’ve made with you tips the scales away from the phantoms of my past and towards the person I want to be.” Turning to look at them sidelong, bleeding raw and open, he says, “I love you.”

He can lie all he wants; they’ll meet his every bluff, deflect his every dagger. But for all the practice in the world, they will never have a defence against his sincerity.

“I love you too,” they respond, alight with the quiet intensity of a hearth. They coax him around to face them—this person who taught them that their past shouldn’t define them, that they could be more than who they were made to be—and sweep his fringe back to press their lips on his forehead. “And because I love you, I would never abandon you even if the shadows of your past were to creep back. Do you understand that?”

He smiles wryly, a mix of self-deprecation and pride. “It took a while, but I do.”

“Oh, good,” they sigh. “I was ready to make an example out of myself so you’d discover what empathy is.”

Laughing, Astarion tackles them flat onto the bed. Their limbs tangle together as they put up a token struggle, until he quells them with a deep, sedating kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are luminous with victory. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I don’t know, there are so many dark gods out there who’d answer my call.” Hooking a leg over his knee, they roll them both so they’re on their sides and nestled into each other. The scent of bergamot washes over them like a heavy blanket, and they can’t help but yawn. Drowsily, they mutter, “They wouldn’t be opposed to the revival of my glory days.”

He runs a slow, comforting hand down their back. “All right, love, we’ll talk about the resurgence of your unholy desires tomorrow, when you can pick up a knife without fumbling it.” He captures their lips once more, no heat behind it, and even as their hand moves to clutch at his neck, their eyes slip shut.

“Sleep now,” he soothes.

They fall into slumber, dreaming only of the void and the infinite dance of stars.