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Everyone is safe.
The streets of Baldur’s Gate bustle anew in the late hours. Taverns and inns have long been rebuilt as havens of peace after the narrowly avoided end of the world. Some have complained that their restoration has been privileged over the many homes lost. Others claim that it is a question of boosting morale amid darkness. No matter your opinion, if you venture the streets of Baldur’s Gate, you will hear cheers and songs belted out by souls who have seen too much gloom. Most lost dear ones. Most looked death in the eyes and got to live another day.
Everyone is safe.
There has been word from other lands that life is resuming and prosperous. The Shadow-cursed Lands were given breath again by the light of the Nightsong, and a small group has been working relentlessly to make it liveable again. No good-hearted soul should be barred from settling there, they believe, and they know that, soon, children’s laughter will fill the air again along birdsong.
Everyone is safe.
But not all are sane.
Sat in one of the red armchairs of Sharess’ Caress with his gaze empty, Astarion drowns his boredom and anguish in exquisite wine. Swirling the rich burgundy nectar inside his glass, he lets out yet another sigh, not bothering to acknowledge salutations from grateful survivors who recognise one of the city’s saviours.
There is a dimness to his ruby eyes that has not faded since he was rid of the tadpole gnawing at his brain. Shadowheart has never questioned him about it—she was never one to pry, after all. How could he even put the words on this ache that has seeped so deeply within him that it planted its claws into his bones?
No matter how often he has attempted to clear his mind for a good rest, it creeps back in and churns his guts with an uneasy anguish. It has been weeks since he last tranced for a full day or night. Most of the time, he finds himself staring at the ceiling with his eyes wide open.
And he drinks.
Drinks again.
Until the feeling becomes somewhat dulled.
But not quite.
Around the corner, a silhouette enters the corridor, passing by the few groups of talkative people. It heads straight towards Astarion, and he deliberately ignores it. He would recognise the aroma of this blood in a crowd of thousands. As they sit in the empty chair beside him, he sighs and chugs the rest of his wine. He tosses the empty glass onto the table and decides to take full swigs from the bottle instead.
Screw appearances. For once.
‘You look like shit.’
Astarion scoffs.
‘Good evening to you too, darling,’ he muses sarcastically.
Tav rolls their eyes and leans back into the armchair, drinking from a foamy mug of ale. Since the vampire does not utter a single word, uninterested in carrying out this conversation if it started this way, they decide to take the matter into their own hands.
‘Astarion, you look like you haven’t had proper rest since the Nautiloid. What’s going on? Really going on?’
At last, the pale elf casts a cold glance towards their former travel companion. He wants to play coy as he always does, sweet talk his way out of this conversation and possibly make his way downstairs to pay for company to warm his sheets. After all, that has always been the only way for him to not feel. Ministrations betwixt the sheets always do the trick. Dissociating would perhaps allow him to sleep soundly at last. Lose touch with his hurt by twisting the dagger into old ones whose pain he has long grown accustomed to.
But his tongue burns with the will to spill out all the words entrapped in his silent heart. That lump that has been occupying his throat for weeks now threatens to rupture.
Tav is safe. He tries to remind himself of that every so often when he catches himself spiralling with nightmares and terrors that leave him in dire want of a friend to vent to.
When has Tav ever let him down? Without them, he would not have fed properly for the first time in two centuries. He would never have survived the tadpole on his own. His hubris and unbridled cockiness would have caused his death at the first encounter out of the Nautiloid. But Tav has never minded.
Tav accepts him. Perhaps too blindly at times, truth be told. But they give him the space he needs to explore his newfound freedom. When sewer creatures and rats fail to fill his belly, Tav always offers some of their blood to keep him alert and healthy until they can find something better on the surface. They buy books in the city to keep him company when the sunlight makes his city hostile to his very existence. They often keep him updated on life out there, and even on gossip they could not care less about, but they know will keep him occupied for a few hours.
In other words, Tav is the only person he could ever express his distress to. Only they could understand.
Astarion groans and slams the empty wine bottle on the table, making the toppled glass quiver.
‘I know it’s stupid, alright?’ he starts with a disgruntled expression etched onto his refined traits. ‘Ever since we saved the city and killed Cazador, all I’ve been craving is to move on. To start over, I suppose. But…’
Attempting to find the right words to express his angst, he clicks his tongue.
‘Now that almost all is possible, that I’ve got eternity ahead of me, I can’t stop thinking about who I was before it all. Before the Gurs attacked me that fateful night and Cazador found me.’
Tav wipes some foam sticking to their upper lip with the back of their sleeve, which, honestly, makes Astarion want to screech considering that their garment is made of silk.
‘You mean your past when you were still alive?’
‘Is that not what I said?!’ Astarion snaps, before exhaling slowly. ‘My apologies. I’m still trying to figure out what I want.’
His friend listens attentively and considers his words. It does not surprise them in the least to hear this plea of his. If anything, they have been wondering when he would eventually voice this desire to uncover his past. As much as the vampire strives to build a secure and comfortable future for himself despite his predicament, he is somebody who inherently lives in the past. Nobody can blame him for that. Tav certainly does not.
‘What is it you want to know about your past, exactly?’
Astarion’s eyebrows raise and crease his forehead. In all honesty, he has never thought about that. The lack of memories is usually what he broods over, but never has he thought of questions he would seek answers to if, suddenly, all his memories could be restored. Would he like to know what his favourite dish was? Would he rather remember his usual schedule and routines? Or, perhaps, would he prefer to reminisce about what made him feel alive then?
As one of the waitresses passes in the corridor, Tav orders another bottle of red for him. Before long, an uncorked bottle of elegant Waterdhavian spirits is placed in front of him, beside a clean cup. Without waiting for him to reach out, they serve him a glass and bring the chalice to his hand.
‘I think I want to know about the people who raised me,’ he mumbles with a frown. ‘It’s silly, I know, but I wonder if I still have family out there.’
Tav smiles and gently clinks their mug against his cup.
‘It’s not silly at all, Astarion. They could tell you stories of your youth, and help you remember. And I’m sure that they would provide for you and introduce you to members of your clan whose births you missed.’
Astarion exhales sharply out of his nose with a corner of his lips raised. His eyes roll towards Tav.
‘You’re indulging me again.’
‘Indulging you in what, exactly? Supporting you in wanting to rediscover your path is hardly indulging you. It’s not a far-fetched wish, I’ll have you know.’
They grin at each other and drink.
‘Even if I wanted to go down this road, I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, my situation doesn’t quite allow me to investigate either.’
With a shrug, Tav sets down their ale on the table, belching before leaning back.
‘I could look for them for you. Tell me anything you remember, and I’ll work from there.’
Astarion cocks an eyebrow again and stares at them for longer than he thinks.
‘You would do that? For me? But what’s in it for you?’
‘If you still think I do stuff for you for my own gain, then what’s our whole adventure been for? Perhaps I just want to see you happy, ever thought about that?’
‘Hah. I don’t know if I want to be happy myself. There wouldn’t be anything left to improve.’
‘I suppose. But your heart would be lighter,’ they insist, poking his arm. ‘Come on, Starry, let me help you. Do you remember anything?’
The pale elf sighs and chugs his first cup of Waterdhavian red, exhaling as it coats his tongue and drops down his throat.
‘Ancunín.’
It is the half-drow’s turn to eye him curiously.
‘Sorry?’
The vampire runs a hand through his hair, still staring into emptiness.
‘Ancunín. It was my surname, once.’
‘A pretty one at that.’
Amused by the compliment, he clicks his tongue again and playfully rolls his eyes. He tosses a leg over the other and shakes his foot.
‘And I’m the smooth talker?’
‘Most of the time,’ Tav responds with a snort. ‘Ancunín, then… Very well. I’ll start from there.’
The next morning, when the city rouses from its slumber, Tav is already out and about, determined to find anything about Astarion’s family. Since a part of the city’s archives have been displaced until the building in the Upper City is fully rebuilt, their first instinct is to head to one of the centres of knowledge in all of the city.
As they cross the threshold of Sorcerous Sundries, they are welcomed at the reception by a familiar figure.
‘Welcome to Sorcer—oh! By the gods, Tav, it is good to see you here!’
Tav grins and embraces the tiefling, who leans over the counter, nearly climbing on it.
‘Good morning, Lia. Everything still going smoothly for you in the city?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the bubbly young woman chimes, ‘Cal and I bought our first house in the Lower City. It isn’t much, but it’s quite an upgrade compared to the rocky road!’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
Lia beams with joy and Tav can see her long tail whipping the floor excitedly behind her. It seems that the tiefling is truly happy to see them again.
‘But I assume that you aren’t here to talk about the house,’ she whispers. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Is Rolan available? I would like to ask him something about the part of the city’s archives that was brought to Ramazith's Tower.’
‘Oh. Well. He should already be up, I believe. Go upstairs, third portal.’
‘Thank you. Send my love to Cal for me, will you?’
‘Will do!’
Without further ado, Tav climbs up the stairs above the front desk to find the upper floor, where four buzzing portals offer passage to different locations. The contraption is identical to the riddle that Lorroakan set up with the Nightsong, but there is something so incredibly Rolan about it.
The plaques which bore the different answers to the simple question that helped Lorroakan narrow down the flow of visitors to only let the serious ones in have long been tossed into a broom closet and forgotten. None of the portals bears a riddle of any kind, and passage to the wizard’s tower is left to chance. The fear of what is on the other side of each threshold is enough to deter any visitor and leave the tower secluded in its own peace and quietness. Zero is precisely the number of visitors that Rolan loves.
Following Lia’s instructions, Tav steps through the third portal and finds themself transported to a brightly-lit observation floor. Astronomical instruments and tools are posted at each window, ready to be manipulated and appreciated. Between a few richly ornamented bookshelves bearing nothing but volumes on the universe, the sky and celestial bodies, there is a mahogany desk illuminated by the lofty arches of the balcony. Piles of scrolls and open tomes bear witness to an ongoing, arduous research.
Tav glances around, hoping to find somebody. Anybody. But there is no soul in sight. Since they do not wish to impose, they are retracing their steps towards the portal, when a grunt resonates in their back.
‘Ugh, Lia will really let anyone in. Excuse me!’
Before leaving him a chance to begin one of his numerous grumpy monologues, Tav turns around and waves. The other tiefling gasps in surprise.
‘It’s you! I was wondering if you even made it out alive! Mh. Should I be surprised that you did? Not that I care.’
Tav snorts and approaches him. Despite the animosity that the wizard has often held against them, he allows a smile to play on his lips, wrinkling his amber eyes and creasing his freckled nose.
‘Morning, Rolan,’ they chime. ‘Love what you did with the place. You gave it a homely feeling.’
At the compliment, Rolan’s orange-red complexion darkens around his cheeks.
‘Thank you, Tav. What brings you here after weeks of not hearing from you?’
‘I was wondering if one needs any special permission to have access to the city’s archives that were brought to you.’
The wizard gestures towards a seat in front of his desk, while he sits behind it, ignoring the mess.
‘Not that I know of. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m trying to find anything about Astarion’s family and see if, perhaps, there are any survivors in the city.’
‘Ah, yes. Him.’
Upon the mention of the vampire’s name, the wizard scrunches up his nose. Nevertheless, he seems to give it a thought, folding his hands before him.
‘I do have some records from previous censuses. Would that be of any help?’
‘Most likely.’
‘What information do you already possess? I have some free time on my hands, I can help you look,’ Rolan adds with a smirk. ‘For once, it is you who needs my help, after all. How could I sleep on this opportunity?’
Tav shakes their head in amusement and takes out a crumpled piece of parchment from their pocket, handing it over to the tiefling. He grabs it and peeks inside, only to find a single word scribbled on it.
‘Ancunín?’
‘That’s his surname. All I know and all he can remember is this name, and the fact that he grew up in a noble family.’
‘Mh. Researching noble families from the city should not be a daunting task. Crests, acts of inheritance and the like should be kept within the archives. I would not be surprised if all records from the nobility are kept together. Hopefully, it is the case and our research will be all the quicker thanks to it.’
He drags himself out of his chair and beckons Tav over as he walks away. They follow him, avoiding small talk as they quickly realised during their adventure that it is one of Rolan’s pet peeves. Talking to say nothing? It makes his skin crawl.
The wizard leads them to the lower floors and into one of the high-security vaults where he has been keeping and guarding the documents entrusted to him. Memorising the orthography as well as the archival system used by the authorities, he begins to browse the collection, his clawed fingertip grazing the worn-out back of the numerous volumes on a shelf.
‘I see a registry of Upper City families here. Look for an Ancunín family in there while I keep looking. There is a desk in the corner.’
Tav grabs the heavy tome that Rolan hands them and carries it over to the unoccupied desk in the corner, supporting it with their hip. Despite their attempt to be careful, they inadvertently slam the book on the table—earning a disapproving glare from their host—and open it. Their outstretched finger trails down a pages-long list of clan names, hoping to find the only one that matters. In the background, the flipping of pages and the weight of books sliding onto the shelves make for the only distraction available.
‘So, any luck?’
They look up and close the tome with a shake of the head.
‘I don’t see Ancunín in there. Perhaps he didn’t live in the Upper City.’
‘Mmh. Let’s keep searching, then. Bring the volume back, I wouldn’t want to lose any of the archives. The authorities trusted a tiefling to guard their belongings, I would not want to waste this opportunity.’
When Rolan instructs them to do it, they are already halfway through the room with the volume in hand. They place it back carefully and join the tiefling in the search for other possible traces of the Ancunín family. As they peruse the archives together, Tav eyes the wizard with a lopsided grin.
‘Busy with research, I noticed. What wonderful things are you studying?’
Rolan drops an arm by his side, flattening his heels against the polished floor and flicking his other wrist.
‘It is an incredibly fascinating subject, really, so much so that academics from all around Faerûn gave it its orthodox name, “None of Your Business”.’
Tav rolls their eyes and snorts, resuming the task at hand.
‘Always a pleasure to talk to you, huh? Well. At least you learnt sarcasm on your journey.’
Their comment is welcomed by a grunt, followed by a good-humoured chuckle. A few seconds later, they find two volumes compiling deaths in Baldur’s Gate for the past three centuries and take a seat at the desk to go through the lists together.
‘The death certificates are kept separately, from what I know,’ Rolan declares while opening one of the volumes and flipping through the first pages, ‘but if Astarion technically died in the city, his name should be recorded in there.’
They start reading the names, careful not to touch the pages too much considering how old the ink is.
‘Mh,’ the tiefling breaks the silence again, ‘from what I gather, each deceased person has the death certificate number written in the last column. If you find Astarion, you should write down the number and visit the part of the archives that is guarding certificates and official documents. Perhaps the names of his relatives are stated on it, although I suspect that you are more likely to find this information on a birth certificate. I’m not sure how bureaucracy works here, exactly.’
‘It’s a mess, that’s all you need to know,’ Tav sighs. ‘Hopefully, I can get my hands on a possible birth certificate by finding his death certificate?’
‘Possibly. I imagine that they are kept together.’
For the next hour, they go through the lists of deaths occurring roughly around two hundred years ago. Since Astarion did not give Tav a precise date—either out of forgetfulness or by omission—it only makes the search trickier for the both of them. Before either of them grows frustrated, they agree to broaden their focus by a span of sixty years around the two-hundred-year mark. Rolan agrees to research prior dates and Tav, later ones.
Without fail, another hour later, Rolan taps the page he is reading.
‘There he is.’
Feeling excitement well up inside their chest, Tav drags their chair over to sit next to the tiefling and have a look at the line that he is showing them.
In elegant calligraphy, typical of official records, the vampire’s name is squeezed between countless others.
Astarion Ancunín. Born 1229. Dead 1268. 39. Exsanguination. Buried (LCNE). 0181901781413
The mere sight of his name among all of the others makes Tav’s heart tighten. They bow their head almost in solemn reverence as they read it, despite knowing that they will find Astarion in the sewers later to inform him of their findings. Even with the excitement of having found a clue in the puzzle of the pale elf’s past, it is quite odd to find him in such a register.
For the first time since vanquishing the Absolute, it occurs to them that this simple entry in the record could have well been definitive, had the company failed their mission. While some of their former companions still had people to mourn them, who would have shed a tear for Astarion? Everybody thought him dead already. Even Cazador was no longer around to brood over the loss of the remaining piece of his black mass.
Tightening their fist against their thigh, Tav vows to themself that they will find at least one person from Astarion’s family and reunite them. Even if that means having to dig up a body in the middle of the night and cast Speak with Dead.
Rolan nudges the piece of parchment with Astarion’s surname on it against Tav’s other hand. He hands them a quill, already dipped in ink.
‘Write the certificate number down,’ he speaks gently. ‘You will need it.’
They obey mechanically, copying the number from the register and the dates of birth and death. When they hand the quill back to the wizard, they scrunch up their nose.
‘Exsanguination. Bullshit. Beat up and left for dead!’
‘Don’t get sentimental, Tav,’ the tiefling’s firm tone scolds at once. ‘Records can be deceitful and they sometimes embellish facts, even if we believe them to be models of truth. Besides, the causes of death omit gruesome details as much as possible so they can be standardised. Just… rejoice in the fact that he’s still undead and well, I suppose.’
‘You’re right. Sorry.’
Rolan furrows his brow and gently pats their hand, before standing up and collecting the books.
‘Now, your best bet is to go to the city’s archives directly. Ask them where they keep the certificates, if they’re still on-site or if they’ve been displaced.’
‘I wish I could. Don’t they require special authorisations to visit the archives, now? It will take me weeks before I can have one. If I ever do.’
Once the wizard has placed the registers back in their spot, he pats the dust off of his hands and turns around to face them with a shrug.
‘Didn’t you travel with the son of the Grand Duke? The devil with one eye?’
Tav snaps their fingers with a gasp.
‘Wyll! You’re right! And, if that’s not enough, Grand Duke Ravengard does owe me for saving his life.’
‘Didn’t he already pay that back by fighting against the Absolute?’
‘That was… the right thing to do. But still, surely, he can put in a good word for me.’
‘Mh.’
It is not until the next day, when Wyll has found a window in his schedule, that Tav meets with him. Escorted by two members of the Flaming Fist, they are brought to the Blade of Frontiers’ shiny new office in the Upper City. Upon entering, the familiar figure of their former travelling companion, now devoid of devil horns, stands up from the chair and the guards are dismissed with a simple order.
Wyll beams with joy at the sight of his visitor, and he wastes no time bypassing his desk to approach them with his arms wide open.
‘Tav, my friend! Ah, what a sight for one sore eye!’
The warlock lets out a hearty laugh and the pair joins in a tight embrace, patting each other’s back.
‘I’m so happy to see you, Wyll,’ Tav chimes. ‘Look at you! You look amazing! And look at this office! Who knew that you were cut for bureaucracy after all?’
‘Ah, nevermind the office, I am hardly ever here,’ he responds with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘They deemed that I should have one for my administrative tasks, but truth be told, I am never happier than on the field itself.’
‘Not surprising. But I thought that the Fist had their headquarters in the southwest?’
‘Most of the building is under maintenance due to the Nautiloid shellings. This is all temporary.’
Tav nods and glances around, genuinely impressed by the office in itself. But before they can truly admire it, Wyll clears his throat.
‘What can I help you with?’
‘I was wondering if you knew of a way to have access to the city’s archives. There is a document I wish to consult, and possibly related ones if I can find them.’
‘What sort of document, if I may ask?’
There is no use lying to Wyll, they realise. Not only could he be the key to the archives, but he is a friend. A dear one at that.
‘Astarion wishes to know whether he still has family in the city. From before his transformation, that is. I found a register at Ramazith's Tower with the code on his death certificate, which, Rolan said, is probably kept in the Upper City.’
‘I see. Well, as an esteemed member of the city’s bureaucratic system and the son of Grand Duke Ravengard, I can escort you to the archives myself and give you access.’
Tav’s eyes widen.
‘Really? Would you mind?’
‘Not at all! Hopefully, it won’t take too long. I do have an appointment with a recruit later on. You have the reference, you said?’
‘Right here,’ they answer, patting their breast pocket.
‘Then, shall we?’
Wyll grabs the keys to his office and locks the door on their way out. As they head towards the archives, they share news of their life now that the tadpoles no longer writhe inside their heads and danger is out of the way.
He reveals that his father, upon regaining his position as Grand Duke after Gortash’s death, named him a Blaze of the Flaming Fist. Most of his time has been spent learning the methods of the company, ensuring the proper logistics of his unit, and then filling in countless forms that left him drained by the end of the day. Despite appearing incredibly busy with his new tasks, with a bit of prying, Tav makes him admit that he has started to court a noblewoman from the Upper City and that they sometimes meet when he does not need to work for promenades through gardens or along the coast. When they ask him whether he loves her, he merely clears his throat and averts his gaze, which twinkles strongly enough for them to catch the hidden meaning behind his shyness.
As they almost reach the archives, Wyll turns to them and grins.
‘You know, I think it is a beautiful thing, what you are doing for Astarion. I knew you to be selfless, but this further proves the kindness of your heart. Not that I needed convincing, mind you.’
‘Don’t give me too much credit,’ they respond with a brief chortle. ‘I don’t even know if my new mission will succeed.’
‘But, still, this is a beautiful gesture. By the way, how is our vampire friend doing?’
‘He lives in the sewers and only comes out at night, now that he is vulnerable to sunlight again. Sometimes I bring him provisions and entertainment during the day, or we go out at night, depending on his mood.’
The new Blaze shakes his head with a sorrowful expression.
‘It breaks my heart that he can no longer enjoy the sun. It is the least that he deserves, after all of his ordeals. But I am glad that he’s got you. I wish I could visit him from time to time, but I doubt that he’d be willing to see me. He never really warmed up to me.’
‘In all fairness, sometimes it doesn’t sound like he’s warmed up to me either. But I think that, deep down, he would appreciate it. He still sees Shadowheart sometimes, but now that she has moved away, their encounters become rarer.’
‘Mh. I suppose.’
At the main gate, the guards instantly recognise Wyll and his uniform and they instantly salute him. When he explains the purpose of his visit, they clear the passage and let them both in. Inside the building itself, they are guided by one of the recordkeepers to Tav’s desired section and search for the certificate with the help of the reference number they provide from the parchment.
In no time, the librarian returns with a folder under their arm and beckons them over to one of the reading tables, illuminated by rows of candles. Settling the folder on a cushion due to its old age, she opens it and reveals the original copy of the death certificate. But, as Rolan suspected, there is no mention of Astarion’s parentage.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ they say to the archivist, ‘but do you know if the birth certificate for this person still exists? He was born in 1229 in Baldur’s Gate.’
‘I will have a look for you.’
Tav and Wyll patiently wait for her to return, sitting at the reading tables and eyeing each other every so often, sharing awkward smiles as they refrain from chatting and disturbing those working nearby. Thankfully, it does not take long before she comes back with another folder.
‘This is the birth certificate of Astarion Ancunín,’ she whispers to them, unveiling the document. ‘If you are looking for his parentage, their names figure right here, but time has faded the ink, I fear.’
‘It remains quite legible, I believe,’ Wyll responds as Tav squints to read the handwriting. ‘The mother’s name seems to be Arallia…’
‘And his father, Elaith Ancunín,’ Tav completes the thought. ‘Is there any way to find out if these elves still live?’
‘I can peruse the latest census,’ the librarian answers, ‘but you must keep in mind that it is nearly three years old. With the attacks on the city, who knows what became of them?’
‘I would greatly appreciate your help, ma’am.’
Before they know it, Tav is back in the sewers, shuffling their feet while holding up a lantern to guide their own steps to Astarion’s latest hideout. But even before they reach it, they hear a soft whistle coming from their side. In the darkness, two bright blood-coloured irises shimmer and invite them in. Yet there is no fear. As menacing as these appearances look, they know that it could only be their friend.
‘What are you doing here?’ Tav whispers as Astarion presses a finger to his lips.
‘Minsc was looking for me again.’
‘Has it ever occurred to you that he, maybe, very maybe, cares about you?’
‘Darling, do not take me for a fool!’ his grumpy tone emerges. ‘If I let him in, he will never leave!’
Tav rolls their eyes and follows him to his new lair. Once inside a makeshift shed, they both sit on the same bedroll that he travelled with during their great adventure. Despite having known mud, rocks and fungus, the thing is now smelly, stained, and rotten. Perhaps they should remember to get him a new one, one of these days.
‘So, any news of the search?’ he inquires, trying to play coy yet betraying his excitement with a nibble on his lower lip.
‘I have some, indeed.’
They smile at him and pat his shin.
‘I found your parents.’
Despite the reveal, Astarion’s reaction remains lukewarm. He huffs and crosses his arms with a crinkle of the nose.
‘Let me guess… Dead, I presume?’
‘No, actually. Very much alive.’
Within a heartbeat, Astarion’s arms loosen and his eyebrows shoot so far up his forehead that Tav worries that they will go past his hairline. There is a candid look in his eyes, a remainder of innocence in the gaze of a man who has so often relished in killing various creatures and would have been willing—more than once—to slaughter many more. It is as if his inner child has pierced through the thick armour that his hardships have driven him to forge for himself, letting himself known after being kept buried far into the depths of his person for over two centuries.
Astarion takes a moment to digest the news. How thrilling. How exciting! How so, very, frightening.
‘Do they still live in the city?’ his hushed tone inquires, almost afraid to ask.
‘I found their address in a census from three years ago. We don’t know if they survived the assault on Baldur’s Gate, but we could try. Would you like me to make contact?’
After long seconds of internal deliberation, the pale elf nods. And if his heart has long stopped beating, he can perceive the ghost of a tremor.
Three days later, Tav and Astarion find themselves on the doorstep of a grand villa in the Upper City, once the sun has mostly set and is hiding behind clouds. Dressed for the occasion, adorning fine embroideries on silk garments, the vampire cannot stop adjusting his clothes every few seconds, making himself look messier than he originally did. Swatting his hands away this time, Tav fixes his collar and sleeves for him.
‘Stop fidgeting!’
‘I’m nervous, alright?’ he hisses. ‘I don’t even know what I’m going to tell them. How do I even greet them? How did I usually do it? I can’t remember a damned thing!’
‘Calm down. Let me take the first step, maybe. And, in doubt, let them approach you first. And don’t behave like a cat if they hug you.’
The door opens and one of the servants of the house bows to them.
‘You must be Tav. We have received word of your visit. Our masters await you in their sunroom. Please, follow me.’
With one last shared glance, the pair follows the servant, and Tav discreetly slaps Astarion’s hand as he attempts to fix what does not need fixing in his appearance. Before he can protest, they raise a finger to shush him.
The maid walks them through the lavishly decorated home of her masters. The walls, adorned with elvish art and family portraits, are far from Astarion’s taste when it comes to interior design. In fact, he finds their choice so similar to Cazador’s that his stomach tightens the longer he stares. Yet, as they pass a gallery of portraits, he recognises none of the faces. And worse even, he does not see his own.
For an instant, he starts to doubt that Tav found the right people after all. The research went so quickly, he thinks to himself, it is bound to be a mistake. Perhaps they found somebody related to him but from a completely different branch of the Ancunín clan. Maybe they coincidentally have the same names. Mayhap they are not related at all.
He has no time to spiral further down in his doubt, for they now both stand at a door, whose glass is elegantly ornamented by the wooden motifs found on every other door they have passed. As the servant opens it and bows to herald their arrival, Tav places a hand on Astarion’s back, handing him a handkerchief.
‘You’re sweating,’ they whisper.
‘Thank you.’
As he quickly wipes his forehead and upper lip and sees the maid returning, he shoves the handkerchief into his pocket and straightens up. She beckons them over.
‘My masters are ready to see you. May I serve you refreshments?’
‘That… will not be necessary,’ Astarion responds, forgetting that Tav might be thirsty or hungry for mortal sustenance.
The maid steps aside to let them into the sunroom and Tav enters first to ease both parties into the reunion. They face two figures sitting stiffly in broad armchairs. On the left, a tall man with long blonde hair watches their display with an air of unspoken disdain. He pinches his thin lips, accentuating the wrinkles around his mouth and his natural frown. At first sight, they can already tell that he is no social animal. His fingers incessantly pick at the brass upholstery nails marking the border between the forest green velvet and the mahogany frame.
Beside him, a woman around his age squints at Tav. With her hands joined on her lap as she keeps her knees tight together, leaning away from her husband, her pose itself communicates that she is the judge in the home and the decision-maker. Her gown, closer to a court garment than to a lounging robe, suggests that she is often the one to speak to guests and visitors, while her husband remains in his own bubble or mulls over information conveyed to them before they deliberate in private and come to a mutual agreement. Or what he believes to be a compromise.
The cascading waves of silver-white hair shielding her pale blue eyes add an air of mystique to this woman. She is a painting come to life, blessed with the elegance and poise of the moon elves. Any glance cast towards them is stolen by her ethereal appearance, and it can be asserted, without a shadow of a doubt, which parent Astarion takes after.
Tav instantly understands that if they want the reunion to go smoothly, they have to impress her.
‘Lord and Lady Ancunín,’ they greet as they bow. ‘I sincerely thank you for accepting to receive me in your grand home.’
‘Your letter came as a surprise, I must say,’ Lady Arallia Ancunín speaks up in a cold tone. ‘Now, speak of your intentions.’
Within a heartbeat, and despite the fog that has long occupied his memories, Astarion recognises them. His breath hitches at the realisation and his eyes widen. Here they are, in the flesh; the two people he used to call ‘mother’ and ‘father’.
Tav does not need to introduce him. Arallia instantly peeks over their shoulder at the taller man standing behind them, and she hardly shows any surprise.
‘Oh. It’s you.’
All eyes turn to Astarion and, for once, he is at a loss for words. His usual cockiness and insolence are long gone in the face of his family, and if anything, it is as though he is shrinking from the attention.
With a supportive grin, Tav simply nods, giving him the strength and courage to step forward. As they did before him, he bows.
‘Lord and Lady Ancunín.’
Arallia scrutinises him without as much as a twinkle in her eye. She inspects every fold of his clothes, driving him to the brink of insanity as he becomes self-conscious over the way the light even reverbs on the embroideries. Do they insult her eyes?
‘I was wondering when you would come to our door.’
‘Who is this, dear?’ the man whispers to his wife.
Tav frowns in sheer disbelief. Perhaps the man they thought to be Elaith Ancunín was another man after all. It is possible that Arallia remarried after all this time. But the shape of his jaw still leads them to believe that it is his father. He has to be.
Arallia clicks her tongue and turns her head towards her husband without truly looking at him.
‘Oh, it’s um…’ she mumbles with a distracted wave of the hand. ‘Ah, what was his name again?’
Astarion’s world collapses in less than a second. She recognised him, yet forgot his name. Her own son, her flesh and blood. He expected shock since he has—literally—returned from the dead after more than two centuries, but oblivion? No, that was never one of the prospects. How could one forget their child? He never sired any, nor would he ever be able to, but he is sure that even a millennium after their death, he would have remembered everything about them.
All the worst scenarios flood his heart and Tav’s heart shatters at the sight. His shoulders slouch and his face falls.
‘Astarion,’ he sighs. ‘My name is Astarion.’
‘Yes. That.’
The vampire lowers his head and stares at the ground, a much more welcoming sight than his parents are. Tav squints and shifts their attention back to their hosts.
‘You said that you expected to see him again?’ they ask. ‘So, you knew that he wasn’t dead?’
‘Everybody knows, now. The mighty saviours of the Sword Coast! Among which my son, can you believe it?’
There is no hint of pride in her voice, nor of admiration. Merely contempt. Unabashed derision. As Astarion discreetly takes a step back, shaken by her reaction, Arallia raises an eyebrow.
‘Why the long face, child?’
‘Nothing, Lady Ancunín.’
She scoffs and stands up, crossing her arms against her midriff.
‘What did you expect when you showed your face here, boy? That we would cry and hug you? You are not a toddler anymore.’
‘N-No, I didn’t—’
‘You had two centuries to visit us, to let us know that you were alright. But you never came. As far as I am concerned, this ship has long sailed!’
Elaith rubs his upper lip with a finger, humming to himself.
‘It is no surprise. The boy has always been trouble,’ he declares without as much as a look towards his child.
‘Do you remember how needy he was, dear?’ Arallia adds with a short gasp. ‘Always begging for attention. Constantly! He would do anything just to get us to talk to him. I cannot handle people like that. So very impolite and embarrassing, really. It is just as well that he remained with his nanny.’
Astarion’s eyes darken and Tav gently holds the cuff of his sleeve. They cannot believe it. They are acting as though their guests are not even here, as if they are the audience of a play unfolding in that damned sunroom.
‘And now, look at him,’ Arallia continues, her upper lip curling up in a snarl. ‘A saviour of Baldur’s Gate! A hero! But I see you for what you are, boy, do not blind yourself with fantasies. I see your red eyes; I see your fangs. You are nothing but a monster.’
This is the last straw. Astarion spins around on his heel and shoves the door to the house open, storming off past the flabbergasted maid. Tav calls his name but hears no response. They turn to glare at their hosts.
‘With all due respect, Lord and Lady Ancunín—and there is none on my part—you are the only monsters in sight. You should be ashamed of yourselves and the disgrace you are to your son. He has brought nothing but honour to your clan’s name.’
They give the outraged elves a mocking bow and withdraw from the home, whispering a ‘thank you’ to the maid who showed them in. Once they slam the front door of the villa, they frantically look around, but there is no sign of Astarion. Cursing under their breath, they sprint towards the flashy sigil on one of the brick walls past the heavily guarded Baldur’s Gate. They reach out for it with their destination in mind and vanish from the surface of the Upper City.
When they emerge from the portal into the sewers, they search the countless corridors, nooks and crannies for the pale elf. They run until they are out of breath, scanning each side and calling out his name until their voice cracks and turns hoarse. Inside their chest their heart maddens, tightening at the idea of Astarion suffering alone, wherever he is. All they hope for is that he is not about to do something drastic.
Under their short breath, they pray that he is nowhere near water. They beg fate that he is keeping as far away as possible from particularly sharp objects. They despair at the idea that he might be drinking his sorrows away for the night on the shore, waiting for the sun to come up again. He would never do such things, would he?
Gods, if Astarion’s misery successfully leads him to such lengths, what would they do?
They come to a halt in a narrow corridor, whose end is nothing but a cramped chamber with a rotten wooden plank leaning against the wall. They lean over their knees, gasping for air, pressing their body to recover quickly enough so they can find their friend as quickly as possible.
But just as they start walking away, a soft whine resonates from behind the wooden plank. They snap their head around and slowly approach it with their dagger in one hand and the other outstretched in caution.
‘Hello? Is someone there?’
No response.
‘I’m pushing the plank to the side.’
As they do it, the dim light of a nearby torch reflects on the huddled-up silhouette of a man rocking himself back and forth. With his elbow resting on his knee and his fingers woven through his hair, his widened eyes peek through the gap between his forearm and his bicep.
‘Go away.’
Tav sheathes their dagger and kneels, reaching out their hand.
‘Astarion…’
‘I SAID GO AWAY!’
With a surprisingly strong shove, he topples them off their legs and glares at them as they fall into a puddle of dirty water. When they look up, all they see are the cheeks drowning under the salty tears and the look of unadulterated agony in his eyes. His traits contort and scrunch up as a strangled sob leaves his throat.
‘This is all your fault,’ he scolds. ‘You couldn’t stop yourself, could you? Being a hero, a helper, as always, without thinking about the consequences! Helping gets you off, doesn’t it? Well, I sure hope you’re happy.’
Tav’s brow furrows and they crawl up to him.
‘Hey, it is not me you should be after, it should be them. Redirect your anger at them. You were miserable and you couldn’t move on so long as you didn’t know for sure if you had a family. I searched for you and found them. They decided to be awful.’
Astarion scoffs and buries his head into the crooks of his elbows, shielding his head as though the weight of his torment is threatening to come crashing down on it. His weeping is muffled by his sleeves, but its intensity does not go unnoticed.
‘I knew it,’ he gurgles. ‘I have never been loved. I am unlovable.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You heard them! So needy… Always demanding attention… That is why I have always been alone. When I was a slave under Cazador’s yoke, I was lonely, but I least I found comfort in the idea that once upon a time, I was held and loved.’
He roughly rubs his eyes with the palm of his trembling hand.
‘But I have always been lonely. It is in my nature. I remember it all, now. Calling my mother and reaching out to her, but she would never pick me up. And my father… He would shrug and walk away as if I were nothing but a stray dog on the street.’
The vampire glares at them.
‘And that’s all I am, now. A filthy beast in the sewers!’
As he raises his fist to punch the wall, Tav swiftly catches his hand and resists the force he puts against their palm.
‘Astarion, you are none of these things,’ they speak softly, hoping to make him see reason. ‘Gods, they are the beasts, not you!’
He rolls his eyes with a scoff and drops his hand on his lap. Despite knowing that he has never been comfortable with promiscuity, they sit beside him and enfold him in their embrace. Gently rocking him from side to side, they fail to see the shock on his face.
‘And by all that is sacred, you are loved, Astarion. Shit, I never thought that I’d say this out loud, but I love you. I’m not sticking by your side out of pity, or out of obligation. I do so because I want to. Because you’re worth the effort it takes to bring you everything you want from the surface.’
‘How can you say that?’ he whimpers. ‘You’d be better off without me.’
‘Nonsense,’ they grunt, before pressing a brief kiss on the top of his head. ‘I was so scared when you disappeared. I was afraid that you’d gone and get yourself hurt, or worse. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, living here on your own and never seeing the sun again. And now, this. I swear to you, if I could ease that pain singlehandedly, I would. I would carry it with you.’
Astarion clings to them and cries on their shoulder as they clasp one another. Tav gently rubs his back, feeling tears sting their eyes in turn.
‘Losing you would’ve broken me, Astarion. Don’t you dare think for a moment that you’re unloved.’
Another moment passes where they give the vampire the time to exteriorise their pain and process the failed reunion with his parents. When, at last, he regains some of his composure, he pulls away from their embrace and leans back against the wall.
‘I never thought it would end like this,’ he whispers. ‘I don’t know what I did wrong.’
‘You did nothing wrong, Astarion. All of this is way more telling of them than it is of you. Do you want me to tell you what I found out about them at the archives?’
He eyes them curiously.
‘They are drowning in debt. Your mother has been cast away from the Grand Duke’s court for cruel comments, and most noble circles are barred from even speaking to them. Your father lost his livelihood a century ago and he relies entirely on your mother. But you? You risked your life and sanity to save the city that has been so hostile to you. Perhaps that wasn’t your goal at first, but you couldn’t bear to see your home defaced in the name of evil. You could’ve run away at any given moment, but you didn’t. You saved them, and you saved all of Faerûn. Your parents do not even hold a candle to your achievements and your growth.’
If blood could still flow through his veins, he would blush at the sincere praise that Tav presents him. It surprises him, to say the least. While they are never afraid to give compliments, they never pay them lightly. Certainly not to flatter anyone.
He relaxes against them and slowly leans his head until it rests on their shoulder.
‘Without you, I would never have made it,’ he confesses. ‘You saved me from myself, more than once. You saved me from my blindness. I could have sacrificed seven thousand souls for my own gain, and sometimes it still haunts me that I didn’t. I wouldn’t suffer so…’
‘You would have lost yourself in that power. Nobody remains intact when such ambitions are given to them. Honestly, between you and Gale, it was hard to juggle,’ they add with a brief laugh.
Tav links their arm through his and gently grazes their fingertips along the sleeve in a comforting gesture. A bashful grin tugs at the corners of Astarion’s lips as he finally gets his thoughts in order.
‘What I mean to say is… Thank you. For everything.’
‘You don—’
‘Ugh, accept my damn thanks, will you?’ he groans. ‘It is not every day that I say it. Hold it against me for that one time, if you so wish!’
They look into each other’s eyes and crack up. Tav runs his fingers through his hair, and while they did anticipate a rejection, Astarion does not move. The tension in his shoulders alleviates.
‘Come live with me.’
‘What?’
Astarion frowns and stares at them, unsure whether he heard them well.
‘Come live with me. I mean it. I have enough money to buy a small house now that I sold all the armour I gathered during our journey and all the weapons I’m not using anymore.’
They shift to face him.
‘Think about it. It will be more comfortable than the sewers, and cleaner, and you can receive as many visitors as you want. It will be your home as much as mine.’
‘Darling, I cannot picture myself ducking whenever I want to pass a window to avoid sunlight.’
‘You wouldn’t have to! I can make sure to buy one of those homes with a large cellar, and that could be your flat. We’d have a common space on the ground floor, then I could have my room and a washroom upstairs, that’s all I need. We can build direct access to the cellar from outside in case you ever wish to bring some conquests.’
‘Conquests?’ he repeats with an eyebrow raised and a smug smile. ‘Darling, please, it’s less embarrassing to say “lovers”.’
Tav smirks and shakes their head.
‘It would be home, Astarion. I can still provide for you. You’ll never smell the sewers again and you can decorate the place as you like. I’ll give you full permission. Even for my bedroom.’
‘This is a dangerous game you’re playing, you know that?’
‘Maybe. But I trust your taste.’
Astarion considers the offer for a few seconds, then nods.
‘I… would like that. If you are sure that it would not be a bother to you, then…’
‘You’ll never be a bother to me, Astarion.’
The vampire and the half-drow share a smile. Tav holds out their hand, and he stares at it for a moment, before shaking it. They both entertain hope for the future. Perhaps things will be alright after all.
‘In the meantime,’ Astarion coos, pulling out a small frame from under the flap of his blazer, containing a painted portrait of Arallia he snatched from the lobby on his way out, ‘would you be interested in a game of darts?’
It takes quite a few weeks before Tav manages to purchase the small house they promised for Astarion and themself. Located in the bustling centre of the Lower City and within walking distance of the Elfsong Tavern for his entertainment, it contains almost everything that they compromised on during further discussions on the matter. It stands tall enough to overlook the bay, with a covered balcony for late-night contemplation and drinks.
Tav claimed the attic for their bedroom, not requiring more than that for themself. After years of moving from home to home in the Underdark back in the day, elementary comfort has always felt more familiar and safer than a bunch of lavish rooms, which they would not have known what to use for.
The front door stood at the top of the outside stairs leading to the middle floor. As agreed, this part of the house hosts common facilities, including a basic kitchen, a living room, and a washroom. Another enclosed space brought them much strife when it came to finding a use for it. Then, after a long brainstorming session, they decided that it would become a small library for the both of them and that they were free to borrow books from each other. He has read all of them already anyway.
As for the lower floor, at street level, it is dedicated to Astarion’s comfort. A private and spacious bedroom with an en-suite bathroom is hidden from view at the bottom of the stairs, behind antique doors that clash with the rest of the place, but which he has already grown fond of. On the other side, a walk-in closet enables him to store and cherish his clothes, with enough space for him to mend them if he wants. Only, the floor is not underground, as Tav promised, and the sight of the windows permanently barred by shutters pains the vampire. But for now, this will do.
On the day of moving in, they gather his clothes and belongings in crates and carry them to the house in the middle of the night. Within a few hours, the place is squeaky clean and each of their possessions has found its place within their humble abode. They spend the rest of the night bringing furniture in from the nearby Guildhall and designing the future improved dressing room for Astarion, drinking wine and laughing over the simplest things.
When daylight shyly pierces the windows of the living room, Tav quickly shuts the blinds. Astarion sighs; he did not think that witnessing the sunrise yet missing it at the same time would be so difficult.
Around midday, they drop everything they are doing and stretch out their sore limbs. Tav’s attention is drawn to the frame above the front door, still bearing Arallia’s portrait, but pierced by darts and riddled with empty holes.
‘Astarion, when is your birthday?’
Sprawled across the couch, he lifts his head and raises an eyebrow.
‘I don’t remember. Why do you care?’
They shuffle their feet towards him and place their hands on his hips. He has never looked so comfortable and at ease since they met almost a year ago. And they were incredibly proud to witness it.
‘I’ve been thinking. Since you don’t know when it is, do you think that today, since it is the start of your new life, could become your new birthday?’
Astarion kicks his legs off the cushions and sits up, dumbfounded by their question.
‘Mh.’
A smile plays on his lips.
‘I would like that, actually.’
‘Oh, perfect.’
‘Why?’
Tav trots up to their cloak, hanging from a peg by the entrance, and reaches into the breast pocket to take out an envelope, which has already been opened. They play with the paper for a second, enjoying the gentle crumpling sound it creates, before facing him.
‘Follow me.’
Utterly confused, Astarion hoists himself up and walks over to them, shrugging and eyeing the envelope. They open it and carefully read its contents, without letting him see any of it. Then, they shove the paper into their pocket and beam with joy.
‘May I cast a spell on you? It will not harm you, and it has been tested. No danger here.’
‘Uh… Sure. I suppose. As long as there is no wild magic outburst that brings our house down before we have even lived in it.’
They nod and concentrate for a few seconds to summon the Weave into their fingertips. As their hands glow with a powerful light, they utter an incantation and touch Astarion with their palms. Swirls of coloured light wrap around his limbs and then vanish as quickly as they initially appeared.
Astarion looks down at his body, expecting to feel different, but he does not.
‘What is it supposed to be doing? Nothing’s changed.’
As a sole answer, Tav unlocks the front door and opens it. Astarion yelps and frantically steps back, stumbling over his own foot as he flattens his back against the opposite wall, wanting to avoid the intruding sunlight threatening to reduce him to ashes.
But then, there is a cheer. He cracks an eye open and sees Wyll, Karlach, Gale, Shadowheart, and a simulacrum of Lae’zel on his doorstep. Although the Gith is not nearly as excited as the rest, they all chant in unison.
‘Happy birthday, Astarion!’
With his jaw slacking, the pale elf stares at his former companions.
‘What are you all doing here?’
‘We’re here to celebrate your new life,’ Shadowheart responds with a grin.
‘A new house! I’m so proud of you, soldier!’ Karlach squeals, jumping up and down.
Tav comes over to Astarion and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
‘How about we head out to the tavern?’
The vampire scoffs and rolls his eyes.
‘It’s midday, Tav.’
‘Try it.’
‘I-I can’t.’
Wishing to show him that it is safe, Tav slips away from him and crosses the house’s threshold to stand among the rest of the group, right under the sun. Astarion shakes his head nervously, with anger pooling in his guts.
‘Now what kind of sick joke is this, Tav?’ he growls.
‘Come to us, Astarion. It’s safe.’
Tav smiles and holds out both of their hands. Hesitating at first, the pale elf slowly peels himself off the wall, staring at the inviting hands awaiting him. His whole body is trembling. His teeth are chattering. What is going on?
He cautiously steps into the halo of sunlight, but nothing happens. Forbidding himself from crying victory, he tells himself that it is not direct exposure. The real thing would reduce him to cinders. Yet, as he continues his progress, the star’s warmth gradually enfolds the skin of his outstretched hands.
Then, before he knows it, he is standing outside, surrounded by his friends, and, right above him, the sun welcomes him within its glow. Nothing is burning. There is no pain. Nothing.
He is outside. And it is warm.
He stands there for a long moment, speechless, while the others affectionately squeeze his shoulders and arms.
‘Welcome home, Astarion,’ Gale murmurs.
He turns around to face them all.
‘H-How?’
Tav pats his back.
‘Rolan, Gale and I have been devising a spell to protect you from sunlight for weeks. It is not permanent, so no hasty behaviour, please. Whenever you want to go outside, I will cast the spell on you.’
‘You—’
Words escape him. Refuse to linger even a second longer on his tongue. As tears well up in his eyes, the group gathers around him to share a tight embrace. Despite his contempt for physical contact, knowing after all this ordeal with his parents that he is free at last and loved overwhelms him. He would almost grow sappy from the sensation if he were not so… Astarion.
As they pull away from him, Shadowheart presents him with a beautifully decorated hammer.
‘We all pitched in to commission this hammer for you,’ Wyll says. ‘The designs engraved on the sides were inspired by that mirror you carried around at camp.
‘I drew the designs and I had Gale replicate them so they could use it,’ Lae’zel’s projection explains. ‘I do not see the beauty in those motifs, they are nothing but primitive, but they said that you would appreciate it.’
Astarion picks up the hammer and admires the craftsmanship, albeit with astonishment.
‘Why a hammer, though? That was never a weapon I really used.’
‘We found your headstone in the graveyard of the Lower City,’ Karlach adds, pointing her thumb over her shoulder. ‘Wanna go smash it?’
He adjusts his grip on the hammer, weighing it in his hands, then smirks.
‘It’s show time.’
The whole group cheers and descends the stairs, while Tav stays behind to lock the house. Astarion looks over his shoulder at them and shakes his head.
‘You sneaky little thing!’ he muses.
‘Why, are you complaining?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
They walk side by side, already laughing at the banter that fuses among the group, now that everybody has gathered again. Astarion spends his time with his head tilted back to embrace the sun on his face, sighing in relief.
‘How did you even manage to get Rolan on board for that spell?’
‘I might have promised him a date.’
‘You devil.’
Tav throws their arm around his shoulders and soon, they all enter the graveyard.
Everyone is safe.
The soul cast out from the light against his will has taken his first step back to bask in its glow.
Everyone is safe.
And Astarion is loved.