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The wind smelled like apples.
In the weeks after, when he was free to stand in the sun and wade across rivers and eat bread for the first time in two hundred years, the thing that startled Astarion most was how different the whole world smelled. It was rich and almost nauseating at first, but eventually he began to tolerate it, then appreciate it. The scent of flowers tickled his nose, loose tea in the jar made him feel awake, and he could smell the earth on Halsin’s hands after he’d come in from digging in the garden.
The world was alive, in a way it hadn’t been for Astarion in two centuries. He tasted blackberries and chocolate and crossed the cold waters of the Chionthar and when fall finally came, Astarion breathed and there were apples and spices on the wind.
“The orchards are producing good fruit for the first time,” Halsin said that morning. He sounded as proud of the trees as he might be of a child. And he should have — the work he and the other villagers did these last few years to bring the old fruit trees of Reithwin back to life was, well, fruitful. The Shadow Curse may have gone, but the roots of many plants were still infected with rot.
“How quaint.” Astarion held his mug of tea in both hands, inhaling the steam. There was a chill in the air, sharp and crisp. That morning he’d spotted frost shimmering on the vines. “Will you go and pick your fill?”
Halsin leaned down and kissed his temple. “I had thought you might join me.”
Astarion turned his head for a kiss proper. He tasted honey on Halsin’s lips. “I’d love to,” he said, and stood to get changed.
On the walk to the orchard, someone gave Halsin and Astarion each a basket. There was a good crowd there already, gathering fruit that had fallen to the ground and checking them for spots and worms.
“You can’t expect me to fill this,” Astarion said.
Halsin glanced over. “You think you can’t?”
“There isn’t that much fruit. There can’t be.”
Halsin chuckled. “I think you might be surprised. When you give all you can to nature, its bounty is often returned tenfold.”
Astarion opened his mouth to argue, but when they reached the orchard, he saw what Halsin meant. The orchard was not especially robust, not even a dozen trees had survived, but as they drew closer Astarion saw each one bore more fruit than he could count.
“...Oh.” He stopped, gripping the basket in his hands tight.
Halsin turned towards him and smiled. He reached out and cupped Astarion’s cheek. “You are not the only one returned to life, my heart.”
Astarion swallowed. “...Yes,” he said. “Yes, I see.” He followed Halsin to one of the trees, setting his basket on the ground and looking up into the branches. The trees in the orchard were few, but mighty. Astarion reached up and tested the strength of one branch before pulling himself up onto it, legs swinging beneath him.
Halsin looked up. The branch was low enough and he was tall enough that Astarion could lean down and steal a quick kiss before he pressed a freshly picked apple into Halsin’s hand. “Behave,” Halsin murmured.
Astarion smiled. “If you insist.”
It was a very pleasant morning, all things considered. Astarion’s arms were sore from filling and carrying his basket, which he firmly believed he shouldn’t have had to do, but Halsin was adamant they pull as much weight as anyone else. Balance and fairness and all that nonsense. Still, it was…nice, seeing the pile of apples everyone had collected, and how happy they were to do it. Astarion’s hands were dirty, and they smelled like apple skins. He wiped sweat from his brow and sat down beneath the tree, leaning against the trunk and looking up into the branches. The leaves were changing to a deep, rust-red. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
Apples. Sweet and crisp on the wind.
Someone nudged his boot. Astarion opened one eye and looked up at Halsin, who was carrying a basket half-full with fruit.
“Should I leave you here?” Halsin asked. “You look quite peaceful.”
“I’m resting. I worked very hard today.” Halsin laughed. Astarion sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “Are you planning on making something with those?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.
“I may.” He carried the basket in one arm and reached down to take Astarion’s hand. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I suppose. There were more trees than I expected.”
“They’re hearty, and they’ll birth a fine grove of their own someday.” They walked down the road to their cottage, set back and away from most of the village. Inside, Halsin set the basket down and began to chatter about dinner. Astarion half-listened, looking at the smudges of dirt on his palms.
Like a painting, he thought. Like a terrible, ugly painting.
He loved it.
The cold made a sound Astarion had never heard before. In Baldur’s Gate, it was hard to hear anything but the city. When he’d first come to Reithwin, it felt like Astarion could hear everything. The shift of every branch and leaf, every bird and insect. His head buzzed for weeks. Eventually he adjusted, but it was easy to close his eyes and recall those sounds. Even easier after he’d been cured. When hunger didn’t pound in his ears and chest at all hours of the day. When his mind wasn’t screaming at him to run.
The cold made a sound, and it was new and loud and different.
The first blizzard Reithwin had seen since the shadows left came after he was cured, falling heavy on the house and ground. It battered the windows, blowing into towering snow drifts around the village. Astarion woke to the sound of children screaming and laughing, throwing snow at one another and leaping from the rooftops into piles of the stuff.
It was loud and it smelled clean and cold and good. Astarion stood in the garden and marveled at it sparkling under the sun. He’d seen snow before, but it was city snow — dirty and detested, causing more trouble than joy. Astarion had never enjoyed hunting for Cazador in the winter. He relished the season now.
And cold didn’t just mean new sights and sounds. Cold meant Halsin lingering in bed a little longer each morning. Cold meant Astarion’s first mug of hot chocolate since he was a boy. Cold meant long nights by the fire, reading under a blanket while Halsin worked on something alongside him, huddled for warmth.
Seasons were new and strange. Winter crawled into spring, green and colored blooms bursting from the earth and startling him with their song. He remembered the overgrown garden Cazador never paid any mind to. It had a mind of its own and would grow back wilder and stronger every year, until one summer when Astarion’s master burned it all to the ground.
Halsin showed him how to plant bulbs in the cold season, and Astarion was delighted to find the green tips of Harper lilies and hyacinths peeking out of the ground, promising to grow into the spring. They planted medicinal herbs, too, which came in handy when Astarion caught his first cold.
“I’m not sick,” he insisted. “I don’t get sick.”
“You didn’t used to,” Halsin said, patiently urging Astarion back into bed. “But you are not a vampire anymore, my heart.”
Astarion huffed, staring as dramatically and forlornly out the window as he could. The tree in their garden was green and blooming and the last place Astarion wanted to be today was cooped up inside. Halsin pushed a mug of tea into his hands.
“The sun isn’t going anywhere, Astarion.” He stood and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “It will still be there when you are well.”
Astarion wanted to argue that he knew that, of course, but he was suddenly very tired, so he drank his honeyed tea and tucked himself back into bed, the scent of feverbalm heavy in the air.
Summer arrived and brought a sapping heat that struck to the bone. It was humid and it felt like the first month was a barrage of rain and thunder, battering the cottage at all hours, flooding out the front garden.
“Perfect way to find any new leaks in the roof,” Halsin said, setting another bucket on the floor to collect the steadily dripping water. He was on the roof the next morning, patching it and humming to himself. Astarion didn’t understand that at all.
But he understood this — he understood waking from a trance to the sound of rain against the window panes, turning over to find Halsin not quite awake. He understood that smell, rich and earthy, just before a rainstorm arrived. He understood the cold, pleasant splash of water on his skin as he stood in the garden and held his palms toward the sky and breathed.
“You will catch your death of cold,” Halsin warned him, toweling his hair dry and making something warm to drink.
“Oh, tomorrow we’ll be lounging around begging for winter again,” Astarion said. He slid the towel from around his neck and put it away, coming to stand behind Halsin in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around his waist.
Halsin sighed. “You must be a bit more careful with yourself, Astarion,” he said gently.
Astarion knew this. He wanted to push and fight against it, but he knew it was true. Being cured meant being mortal again. Well and properly mortal. It also meant the time he had with Halsin, with the world, was now very real. The years would trudge ever forward, and Astarion would be able to mark the days on his own body, as much as he could mark them on the tree in their garden.
“I will be,” he said. “I promise.”
Halsin turned, keeping Astarion flush with his chest. He leaned down for a long, indulgent kiss, and Astarion wound his arms around Halsin’s neck and sank into the feeling.
During his second spring in Reithwin, Astarion woke one day to find that the daffodils they’d planted the year before seemed to have spread to other parts of the garden. Little patches of them, blooming like magic overnight.
“They’re like that,” Halsin said. “Hearty things. You plant them and they return every year.”
“They survived the winter?”
Halsin nodded. “Indeed. Just as they survived their first.”
Astarion turned to look at them, their white and yellow petals fluttering in the wind. Flowers are so overrated, he’d once said. And he supposed in some way they still were. They served no real purpose. They couldn’t be turned into potions or tinctures. They couldn’t nurse a fever or ease a stomach ache.
But maybe…maybe that was the point, he thought. Not every flower needed to make medicine. Not every apple needed to become a pie. Once, Astarion and his hands served no purpose besides Cazador’s, but now, they picked fruit, and planted flowers. Now, he made tea. Now, he stood in the sun.
Like a bulb planted in the winter, Astarion had lasted every year that passed, and he would last many more. He looked up into the cottage to see Halsin watching him through the window.
Astarion smiled, and went inside to face all the years that would come.