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The message about his parent’s death had reached Astarion through a courier letter as he had been attending a social gathering. A disease had withered them away more quickly than anyone could’ve had believed. He was duke now. He now owned the estate.
He’d read the words. And a second time and a third. Then he had excused himself without further words and had gone home to pack.
Had someone observed him they would have probably only thought he’d encountered a mild inconvenience. Nothing of consequence really.
And Astarion would have preferred it if had been nothing but a minor inconvenience. That he didn’t have to return to his hometown, to his parents’ - no his - estate now.
But duty demanded it. And duty, in the end, had always been the master that the young duke had bowed to.
On the inside though, conflicting emotions had been wreaking havoc: a certain sadness about all of this, surely, but more than that fear, concern, lodging below his ribs.
But deeper another thing entirely had reared its head: a spark of yearning suddenly being reignited, that he thought had gone cold a long time ago. Almost ten years ago, to be exact.
But as he had quickly arranged for everything to be packed up, a carriage to be sent and for a message to be delivered to a friend to hopefully accompany him on this trip that was bound to become a disaster, he felt his mind preoccupied not with thoughts of mourning. He had barely remembered to request for his all black attire to be laid out for him as visions of forest green hair, teal eyes and that wicked grin flashed through his mind - long past, but surely not forgotten. Never forgotten.
And with memories of old clouding his mind, he had begun his journey towards home - and an unsure future.
Coming home had hurt.
Not merely because of the harsh reality of Astarion’s parents' untimely end. Because this was obviously all very tragic and unfortunate of course.
But in truth he had been estranged from his parents for as long as he could remember. And it had gotten worse over the ten years he had been spending apart from them - and there. Scarce letters had been his only bridge to a past he usually tried to forget.
The real pain though, as the carriage rattled down the rough roads to his past home, had lingered in how everything was still the same.
The same flower fields being turned into grassy seas of green speckled with colour by the wind rushing through them. The same rocks the carriage’s axle struggled not to break under. The same sky painted grey with a storm that might or might not come. The same small town, the same houses, the same ancient weeping willow up on the hill.
The same people.
The same memories.
The same pain pestering him as his hometown came into view after the same final turn of the road.
The same ache he had felt when leaving all those years ago.
Not even Jenevelle accompanying him and laying a calming hand on his knee as Astarion had kept staring out of the carriage window, with his arm propped up and his hand pressed to his cheek, had been able to soothe this particular pain.
Stoically, he had carried on, just the same.
He’d been welcomed at the Ancunín estate with everyone of the staff wearing black and sullen faces. All of them had waited in a line before the manor. Awaiting the new duke with heavy, grieving hearts.
And word of the young duke returning home must’ve had travelled fast because almost immediately after he had received the staff’s condolences, shaking everyone’s hands and exchanging the customary friendly words and sad smiles, people from town had made visits.
There had been more handshakes, eyes full of understanding, even some tears had shed and Astarion’s shoulder patted more often than he would have liked. And even a few confused glances as people noticed his company of a young fair haired woman without the accompanying rings on either of their hands. But at least the shock about his parents’ untimely demise and the grief laying on the whole place like a sheet had spared him the judgement.
It hadn’t spared him of people coddling him though.
So now here he was at a small get-together at someone else’s estate. Having been pushed to attend because visitors had felt guilty about leaving the mourning man alone at this giant estate where everything must be reminding him of the family he had just lost.
Astarion would have much rather stayed at the Ancunín estate. But he couldn’t have exactly told anyone that. Not when polite and caring invitations had been made - and duty demanded of him to kindly take them up on it.
Unfortunately, the small get-together had also turned out to be a not small at all ball. People were dancing and drinking. And then quickly hiding their smiles behind their hands, putting on masks of sadness and concern as soon as they spotted him.
The evening had been filled with more people crowding around Astarion, grabbing his hand to offer him words of support and understanding or a story about his parents he had to pretend he hadn’t heard a million times yet.
Finally, after Astarion had badly mimicked almost breaking into tears after having been told the same story of how his parents had organised that one particular ball, everyone in town still remembered, for the fourth time in a row, he had been left alone. And thankfully even Jenevelle had, after throwing him another asking look, just went to explore the event on her own.
Now the young duke was sitting in a corner alone, holding on to what was now his third cup of wine, as he observed the couples turning on the dancefloor. He watched through people passing by and obnoxious, incredibly pretentious and tasteless low hanging palm leafs from trees that had been placed everywhere. At least they also provided for a nice and rather hidden corner where Astarion had fled so as to not be approached by griefing townsfolk anymore.
Cheerful dance music drifted through the air and the sweet smell of spring flower bouquets filled the massive room as gauzy skirts in all kinds of pastel colours swished over the floors with young ladies smiling coyly and young men nearly falling at their feet for just one of those smiles.
Even as Astarion found himself not as closely moved by grief as people expected him to be, he found it all abhorrent.
It were the same tasteless people with their same tiny mindsets only reaching from here to the next bigger city and their same annoying and boring soirees.
There had only ever been the one person who had made this place interesting.
Astarion downed the rest of the wine in one big gulp and got up to grab another one while wondering how much longer he would need to stay for it to not be considered rude.
He spotted a servant with a silver tray carrying new drinks in crystal glasses - unfortunately almost on the other side of the room. With a curse under his breath he began moving through the crowd, his head held low to avoid eye contact and more people feeling the need to talk to him, reach for him, console him.
As he passed the edge of the dancefloor he made the mistake of looking up and across the dancefloor where couples were still happily moving in endless twists and turns.
And found the sight he’d been fearing most for. Or yearning for. Astarion really wasn’t quite sure.
On the other side of the dancefloor stood the inspiration and source for those pictures and memories plaguing him since he had sat down in that carriage travelling here. And that ache. And that longing.
The trillering joyful music drifting through the air suddenly seemed muted, time almost slowed down as all those images suddenly came together all at once.
He looked almost like he remembered - the only thing he was not mad about for being the same.
Long dark green hair messily tied back, clothes fine but just a tad dishevelled as to let everyone around know that he wasn’t just like everyone else around. That he didn’t fear to be a little rough around the edges. Teal and black eyes were glinting just as vividly as in Astarion’s memories as he was talking to some lady and lazily holding his cup of wine by the rim.
And then there was his smile. That wicked smile curling up the corners of his lips as he listened to his companion talk.
The freckles on his dark skin had gotten a little more intense and plenty, Astarion could immediately tell. They suited him just as nicely though as they had back then. There were a few lines around his mouth and eyes now and his face just a little leaner, having lost the softness and immaturity of youth in the flesh. But - as Astarion kept being transfixed by watching him - not his manners or his mind it looked like.
Staeve.
Almost all the same.
As were Astarion’s emotions, finally having torn themselves free from below the worry and the fear. The twinge of longing setting his chest ablaze, threatening to let him burn up right on the spot. His heart began to thunder and his hands still clutching the goblet started to tremble as he stood there rooted in place and beholding the sight of the man that had made him leave his home so many years ago.
Then Staeve’s expression changed. Eyebrows drew together and his eyes darted to the side. As if he had caught on that he was being watched. His head flew around, probably rudely interrupting his date’s words and immediately spotting Astarion.
The young duke immediately felt the heat spread to his cheeks and he hastily tried to turn away as if nothing had happened.
But Staeve didn’t even waste a heartbeat to smile at him, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes even further. The moment drew out between two heartbeats, feeling endless, as they laid eyes upon each other after ten years apart.
Then Staeve lifted his cup in greeting - as if it had only been yesterday.
And only then did Astarion feel that he had returned home.