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To some, death was an inevitability: a simple fact that every being would face. To others, like Ketheric Thorm, it death was a mere obstacle to be overcome, something that could be tamed like a beast or bargained with. A pinch of truth laid in such a perspective, one Astarion could recognize quite well. While it was an impossible thing to truly delay, lives provided an easy bartering token to those with power, no matter how much a life could be worth. To a wealthy lord, one soldier plucked off too early would be hardly a fuss. A hundred or so would raise problems. Who would guard his manor? Who would enforce his rule? The hundred families left grieving were a trifle, just as the thousand friends left with holes in their pitiful hearts that one soldier, one life, once filled. One life was only worth the amount it could ruin. Astarion knew it better than most.
Or so he believed he knew, until the life in Zaline’s eyes almost flickered away.
Her violin sang high and proud above the clashes of blade and eruptions of spells, a hopeful, powerful sonata vowing to each of them that they’d live another day. Even as the Apostle of Myrkul rose from its ancient depths, zeal emanated from every note in her breathtaking finale. She would survive. They would survive, she promised without a word, and their stories and scars would prove it.
If Astarion’s heart could beat, it would have pounded a war-drum rhythm in his pointed ears as he loosed the night’s final arrow. With bated breath, his sharp elfin eyes followed its trajectory through the air, praying to the gods he never revered that it would hit its mark. The Apostle was weary. One perfect strike could end the battle- sow healing in the scars of the shadowed land.
Astarion repeated the moment to himself immeasurably. It was a perfect pocket of time that weighed deep and heavy in his chest, holding close to him with every victorious goblet of wine shared and every triumphant laugh bellowed by the gleeful patrons of the Last Light Inn.
The arrow hit its mark.
The Apostle howled in agony, shaking the very earth with its thunderous cry.
It raised its ghastly scythe- one last strike readied, aimed to kill.
The music stopped. Shadowheart’s armor clanged horribly as she fell to the floor, pushed out of the blade’s inevitable path. Someone had taken her place.
It sliced through the air with a grim hiss. Finally, the scythe completed its arc.
Zaline screamed. An excruciating sound, one that echoed through the vastness of the chamber as the Apostle fell.
Reality afterwards faded into a dream, hazy and vague with only the briefest moments of lucidity. Some things, Astarion remembered as vivid as Lathander’s light. A trail of blood followed the Apostle’s scythe after it tore across Zaline’s stomach, the ruby droplets chasing the blade weightlessly through the air and splattering onto the ground. Voices and blurry memories swayed and shifted, and eventually, the Sword of the Moonmaiden, Dame Aylin carried Zaline off, cradling her limp form close in her arms as she flew into the pitch-black horizon on pearlescent wings.
People were eager to point out even the smallest changes in the land, after Thorm’s fall. A hundred years of his blight left only the skeletons of any flora and fauna behind, but many would insist that the grasses and scattered shrubs were already beginning to plump with fragile new vitality. Not only that, but two days had passed; they could tell it well enough, not from any precious clock or pocket watch, but by the glimpses of sunlight penetrating the weakening shroud of darkness. The inn was abuzz with the bustle of refugees and Harpers alike, each of them inspired with newfound optimism as they shared drinks and bid their goodbyes. Trunks were packed, oxen were hitched, and excited chattering tittered through the air around every corner. The merriment made Astarion sick to his stomach, truly, but he knew better than to sour spirits with his mood.
Bawdy tavern tunes now rung from drunken mouths, filling the inn to bursting with song. Astarion leaned over the second floor’s railing, watching from above as steins of ale and wine-glasses clinked and clanged in toasts to friendship, love and the journey to a new home. It was the tieflings’ last night at the inn, he had heard. The following morning, they planned to begin their journey once again, but not before the most raucous night of celebration yet. How the alcohol hadn’t run dry by then was both a mystery and a miracle, considering how much Karlach alone had been drinking.
He swirled his wine-glass idly, face kept in a perfect mask and body puppeted perfectly. Though he had little use for it in recent months, his old routine served its purpose well. The corners of his lips were pinched upwards in an artificially pensive half-smile, eyes gently lidded and occasionally flicking to the odd point of interest below, whether it be Lae’zel loudly threatening a Harper for cheating at poker, or Wyll giving the tiefling children a clumsy, albeit well-intentioned lesson in courtly dance. Not unapproachable, but a mite tipsy and lost in thought, no matter how much he’d truly had to drink. Usually, his act served enough to ward off any curious souls without raising the attention of any bleeding hearts voicing their concern.
Usually.
Halsin’s deep, friendly voice broke the silence in Astarion’s mind. “You seem more keen on staring at that glass than indulging, friend. I’m not much for this particular vice either.”
He rested a hand on the wooden rail and greeted Astarion with a smile, one that Astarion returned after swallowing a sigh of irritation. A great burden was lifted from Halsin’s shoulders with the curing of the curse. Hazel eyes once hardened with the vagaries of time were beginning to soften; to allow himself respite from the century of guilt and fear. Being a man of the land, he’d spent the past days scouting nearby rather than joining in the frivolity, no doubt as a way to prove to himself that his quest was finally over. Beside him, Gale was as cheery as any of the inn’s patrons, in his own uniquely Gale -and oddly sober- way.
“Considering the effect vampirism has on one’s taste buds, it’s hard to blame him,” Gale chimed in, “I do believe we’ve seen him...Well, in a state similar to drunkenness. Before we met you, Halsin, might I add.”
Astarion bit his tongue harshly, his smile unfaltering. “Oh, I only vaguely recall that night. And I’ll have you know I’m far from the first person to do something foolish under the influence, should that have happened.”
“Zaline asked me about it after talking with you,” Gale added avidly. Halsin raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue, “at least, she came to me with an inquiry about animal blood and their mundane and magical properties that night. Wondered how or why bear blood could’ve had that effect on you, she did. The question wouldn’t leave my mind afterwards, and like a splinter in one’s finger-” Gale paused, waving his hand dismissively for effect, “-it wouldn’t stop bugging me until I took care of it.”
Another one of the Wizard of Waterdeep’s famous rambles, Astarion thought. He sniffed subtly at his wine, hoping that someone had poisoned it.
With the prospects of a long-winded tangent becoming inevitable, his mind had already begun to slip from his body’s tether. In a fairer mood, he may have humored Gale’s lecture. They’d grown close enough for Astarion to attempt to understand out of politeness, and even if he didn’t, there was always a sprinkle of interesting facts atop the layers of prattle.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the patience to humor Gale, nor the irritation enough to send him off. It was as if he were led by puppet strings, nodding along to the talk without another thought. To fight against the tides of the conversation would have been a waste of energy that Astarion didn’t have.
Just as Gale paused for a breath, Halsin laughed, “You’re a wizard, through and through. Book learning is all well and good, but to truly attune oneself to nature’s creations is not a matter of knowledge or memorization. It’s to know the heart of the land and let it-”
“-Beat within me, yes, yes, I’ve heard this before!” Gale groaned, “Gods, how did we end up here again? I just wanted to tell you lot about what I found out about bear blood.”
“Do forgive an old elf for his insistence, lad. Suppose I’m only curious.” Halsin gestured amicably to Gale, continuing, “You’re a gifted mage, perhaps one of the most promising prodigies I’ve seen in my years. It’d do you well to expand beyond studying the world and learn to live in it...Silvanus is an excellent teacher, if you’ve got the ear for His lessons.”
A gentle challenge, veiled modestly with praise. Gale was certainly smart enough to recognize Halsin’s proposition, and the earnest appeal to his pride would be just enough bait for him to accept it. The consideration in his eyes lasted only a moment before swiftly being replaced with firm determination. Crossing his arms with a self-assured nod, Gale looked hesitantly towards the door downstairs.
He shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to dabble in other forms of magic.”
“Not at all. Your clear conviction is impressive,” Halsin replied, smiling briefly at Astarion. “If you’re as intent as you seem, remember my advice, child: where you may feel the urge to observe, instead, let yourself feel.”
Gale muttered the mantra to himself before giving the pair a swift farewell, trotting towards the exit on the floor below. As he wove through gaggles of drunken fools, a new sense of emptiness made itself known in Astarion’s chest. The silence between him and Halsin was thick enough to choke on, settling stiflingly in his throat as he watched the door close behind Gale. To say that Halsin was difficult to converse with was an understatement. Before their arrival in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Astarion was content with keeping on his good side, if from a firm arm’s length. As the makeshift leader of their herd, Zaline had quickly taken a shine to Halsin, which gave him all the more reason to be cordial. His gentle nature inspired equal parts admiration and annoyance, and admittedly, a few sparks of reluctant attraction- not that Astarion intended to let them glow any brighter. Though, a small, cheeky voice often reminded him that he’d had a similar start with Zaline.
“She misses you, I hope you know.”
Astarion blinked incredulously, turning his head to gape at Halsin. Plenty of other topics to rekindle the small talk with, there were, and he went straight for the one Astarion dreaded.
“I know it’s not my business,” he sighed, “But-”
“-You’re right, my friend, it’s not your business,” Astarion interrupted.
“You’re not the only one who cares for her.” Halsin’s thick brows furrowed sternly, his gaze firm yet calm. “Zaline has been restless as a caged beast. She’s healing miraculously fast, mind, but Isobel and Shadowheart practically have to beg her to stay in bed. Unless you stop by her room to show you’re alright, they might as well slip her a sleeping brew before she worries her stitches back open.”
It wasn’t since before their last battle that they had spoken. Lae’zel and Shadowheart were trying each other’s patience as always, and while the two were distracted, Zaline looked at Astarion with a coy, confident smile. She promised the performance of a lifetime, one he wouldn’t soon forget, slyly adding the offer of a violin lesson once they had their next camp established. Her eyes shone and her tail flicked as happily as ever, as if it were no more than a handful of goblins they planned to take on. Despite his exhaustion already being bone-deep, he played along, cultivating a careful optimism under the sunlight of her easy grin.
When her body crumpled to the floor, he felt it wither. Every threat of death in the months past, every trouble and every strife the party shouldered in the name of finding a cure to their shared affliction finally came to crush him. It was as smothering as silence and Astarion would have called it unbearable, if he hadn’t bore worse before. Even outside Cazador’s control, what control did he have, he wondered.
“It’s been hard on all of us,” Halsin sighed. “But if there’s one thing that the lass taught me, it’s that we don’t have to bear our burdens alone.”
With a deep, contemplative breath, Astarion weighed his options. On the surface, to visit Zaline was the obvious choice. She was the makeshift leader of the pack for many reasons, most of all being that she was fair. Eminently reasonable, he’d called her once, and she had lived up to that standard ever since. She would understand him. She always did. What terrified Astarion was how far her understanding went.
“We’re not oxen, if you haven’t noticed,” he said dryly, setting his glass down on the flat of the rail, “I can’t pretend I’m not sweet on Zaline, but if you asked her for a hand, she’d cut hers from her wrist and offer you the spare. With or without my pestering, she’s got enough on her plate already, don’t you think?”
“Hm. How would you know, if you haven’t spoken to her yet?” Halsin offered craftily.
If it weren’t for his situation, Astarion would have complimented Halsin for such sly tactics. Would that they hadn’t been used against him.
Rolling his eyes grimly, he eyed a doorway down the hall. All throughout the past nights, everyone from the grateful reunited families to Thaniel himself were intent on giving their thanks to Zaline as she recovered. There was a near constant stream of comings and goings, and even when Astarion believed himself steeled enough to face her, some knock-kneed tiefling child would barrel past him, hoping to show Zaline whatever worthless trinket had caught their fancy before Shadowheart could chase them off.
“You’re a damned thorn in my side, druid,” Astarion grumbled.
“What a charming way to say I’m growing on you,” Halsin chuckled in return. There it is, Astarion thought. That magnetic warmth. “Go on. I just left, so snatch her room up before someone else does.”
With a wordless goodbye shared between them, each step down the hallway and towards Zaline’s door introduced ten new reasons each to turn tail and return to his brooding. Nonetheless, his body carried him forward against the wishes of his churning stomach. To expect her to be angry with him would be to expect table manners from a beholder; not utterly impossible, but undoubtedly a ridiculous thought. In a twisted way, it made him long for the days before his illithid abduction. When he hadn’t anything to his name but his own regrets, it was much easier to be selfish. Before anyone cared for him, before he cared for anyone in return, manipulation came naturally to him, unlike much else. In the cold, dark nights of Baldur’s Gate, there was familiarity. Comfort, even, in the depraved routine he followed.
The light of hope was a luxury impossible to expect, but through a series of miracles, he found it. It glimmered in the crackling campfire at camp and his comrades’ laughter as he joked about whatever dire circumstance had come onto them that day. Zaline’s eyes, twin golden eclipses in the dark of her night-black sclerae, were inextinguishable beacons of that very light he’d come to crave.
At first, Astarion was blinded by it. Afraid, unused to its warmth, even as he began to take solace in it.
As he stood before the door to Zaline’s room, his fist hovered briefly in the air in consideration; then finally, he knocked. Astarion was truly, deeply tired. Even mustering the courage to knock was taxing, with the prospect of talking to Zaline after days of silence being even more so. Unfortunately for the darkness he was once content to hide in, he had grown strong enough to take weary steps towards what he truly wanted.