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Out of all of the months that make up the Calendar of Harptos, Alturiak would most certainly be considered the worst set of days of the year.
It’s a month shrouded in wintertide—all frigid air on the last dying breath of the Solstice, further marked by icy cobblestones, food scarcity, and the act of pulling out your thickest overcoat in an attempt to combat its grip. If you happen to live in the northern hemisphere of Toril—where Faerûn is so conveniently located—it’s nearly impossible to avoid its woebegone weather and borderline seasonally-depressed haughtiness. Oftentimes, it is viewed as the time period that rests on the cusp of the rebirth that comes with spring, or alternatively, an ugly footnote to an otherwise boisterous, hopeful bloom. Something to get over with…something to endure.
Nobody likes Alturiak; it’s just a fact. But for what it’s worth, the chill of it is always something you can count on—and some might say, even rely on the month’s predictability. Typical, quotidian, mundane…
Little did Astarion know that every facet of one, particularly fateful day in said month would be anything but.
When he had stepped out onto the colonnade of his front doorstep ahead of his procurement that afternoon, Waterdeep’s seasonally-characteristic somber skies and coastal fog had greeted him. But that wasn’t any issue for him, of all people—and at least snowfall wasn’t a thing he ever had to concern himself with, living so close to the sea. Undead or not, he still had to remember to don his thicker doublet and bring out the knit toque, that’s all…maybe weave a cozier scarf around his neck, for good measure. No, as a matter of fact, he had aligned his time in such a way this week so that his essential weekly shopping could be done in one fell swoop under such grey-cover—had kept his growing list concise enough to be manageable, yet equally robust in order to ensure an outing of this caliber would be worth his while…
As such, he had spent the better part of mid-day putzing around the Trades Ward, running errands for the household and picking up necessary odds and ends—a set of new quill tips for Gale’s letters, spot-remover for the impenetrable stain he made on their throw blanket after a messy meal, a bottle of wine to be shared and supped over the course of the weekend, and a pot of kohl to play around with whenever the mood struck. Dithering here and there and everywhere south of their villa in the Sea Ward ate up hours he would’ve otherwise spent darkening the doorframe of various rooms in the house he now shares with the illustrious Professor Gale Dekarios of Blackstaff Academy…but on days like these, he much prefers it this way. What’s he to do when his partner is away working, anyway?
It’s all quite tedious.
But crossing off things on his laundry list of duties doesn’t necessarily mean that the whole ordeal is banal, no; today is an exception, surprisingly. He somehow manages to get into a row with a prickly shopkeeper over something truly not worth the waste of breath. Some wayward comment about the integrity in the materiality of their leatherwork in contrast to the cost of the item had gotten him expelled from the store and barred from reentry—terribly boring at face value, but impossible to avoid when you have a hard time keeping your mouth shut. It hadn’t been as embarrassing in person as it might sound on paper, but rather an exercise in being a nuisance; a reminder that he’s still got it in him, if you will—that domestic life has yet to soften his roughest edges. Still though, what short tempers people have, nowadays! Hells…
In the fluster of furore and expletives carelessly lobbed at him, Astarion could only think about running home to tell Gale about the lunacy of it—how he’d aim to earn a chortle from his partner, and maybe (just maybe) a little bit of chastisement for his superfluous mannerisms.
Chased out of a cobbler’s storefront for complaining about an undue price tag? That’s a new one, even for him! Makes him wish he’d make himself go out more often, if he’s being honest…and he doesn’t go out much to begin with. Nowadays, and especially after the fall of the Netherbrain, he’s taken to a way of life spent more often in shadows made from cast clouds…a return to a more stereotypically cadaverous routine…
The removal of their tadpoles took the whole scope of that luxury away from him.
Regardless, he’s grateful for the gift of being able to occupy normal humanoid hours when he has to, due in part to Gale’s prowess procuring a protective ring that permits sunwalking—hence why he can run errands in the first place. It has certainly helped ease the burn of memories of the freedom he once possessed, despite being tadpoled—although it’s come with some caveats. In dulling the less-than desired traits of vampirism, so too does it inhibit his undead perks; his resourceful eyesight, along with his regenerative abilities are nullified, so long as he dons the ring.
Ah, well—what difference does it make? It’s a fair trade at the end of the day, and the shape of his new ‘normal’...or the closest thing to it in an otherwise anomalous existence, he supposes.
With bags in tow, he returns to a house with the lights off.
Which is…strange.
Gale’s meant to be home by now, he knows. His lectures never run past early evening, now that he’s made tenure—a nice appanage, along with the pay raise. It has permitted them high-valued time to spend their nights with one another, with a naturally-formed routine acting as the by-product of stipulated arrangements. Both Astarion and Tara are equally happy for it, in full transparency.
No, days like these appear boring on the surface, but the luxury of habit has been hard to come by in his life for so long that he’d never dare to forsake or deviate from it now. Astarion would liken it all to clockwork, really; he runs his errands, and Gale gets home from Blackstaff at around the same time he returns, if not a tad earlier. It’s a quaint, formulaic song and dance they’ve fossilized, not that he’s complaining…Astarion likes to greet him with a kiss—and Gale has a habit of deepening their reunion. Normally, the wizard would be posted up by the stovetop right about now, simultaneously mixing and measuring a meal suitable for his personal consumption whilst also playing the role of amateur phlebotomist for his dinner, draining his own recently-turned potable blood into a vessel.
But he’s not here yet, or at least…not downstairs?
Is he taking a nap? Slouching off on his pseudo-husbandly duties? Astarion preps himself for the light castigation he’ll rib him for, once he manages to get these lamps on, that is…
“Gale?” He calls into the ether, mind scrambling on whether or not he should step into the shrouded shadow that darkens their welcoming parlour. The only source of luminescence streams in over his shoulder from the beginning rise of the moon outside, crawling its way upward across the night sky. It creates necessary hesitancy, as he'd hate to somehow manage to step on Tara if she happened to be underfoot. “Gale, where in the hells are you? You won’t believe me when I tell you about what happened while I was out at the–!”
There’s a sound of something crinkling, then—and the indisputable noise of aggregate indecision. With haste, he carelessly drops the handful of wrapped items from his shopping at his feet and attempts to listen closer…conscientiously…
Then a wavering little light emerges from the din—the smallest dancing blue flame, unmistakably conjured by a muttered incantation. Astarion gasps in the face of its formidable flare, faltering seconds behind before he finds the mind to reach for the sheathed dagger he keeps strapped to his person—a hold-over from their wild adventures afield, he supposes.
Is that–? No…That’s not–?
It can’t possibly be, for it wouldn’t make sense for it to be Gale. Why would he obscure himself in such a manner, unless he’s keen on playing some daedal prank on him…or if he were being held against his will, or–?
What follows next is perhaps the biggest shock of Astarion’s life:
“SURPRISE~!”
The bright lamplights Astarion never managed to turn on himself snap on with a flick, throwing the room into dizzying brilliance.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ASTARION!”
A cacophony of voices tumble on top of each other, Karlach’s voice by far the loudest of them all. The racket creates a decibel seemingly violent enough to level the whole city—an offensive, ungodly volume with a seemingly fatuous purpose.
Birthday?
…his birthday?
What the ever-loving–?
But he’s not given the chance to finish that thought before someone starts up a happy, rhythmic clap to encourage the uptick in inevitable song:
“Happy birthday to you~! Happy birthday to~!”
This is lunacy, this is…unbelievable, this…
This might actually be his worst fucking nightmare.
As time slows into stupefaction, he’s afforded a moment to assess his now-illuminated scene.
Wyll, with his bright smile and glossy horns, stands proud next to a stony-faced, yet still noticeably content, Lae’zel. They’re both wearing the most civilian outfits Astarion’s ever seen them in, which feels notably unsettling, to be honest…not a battle axe or shimmering set of armour between the two of them. They paired off together following the conclusion of their collective adventures, finding solace in shared attitudes towards justice in every iteration. From what they’ve elaborated on in letters following, their burgeoning ‘friendship’—for lord knows neither of them are capable of coming out and admitting that what they’re cultivating has turned into far more than that—has been most beneficial for them both. In truth, he can concede that the realm is better for it.
Counterly, Shadowheart stands adjacent to them and appears to already be a few glasses of wine in, sloshing her chalice to and fro with drunken revelry. She leans into Karlach’s chest as if to burrow herself in her skin, her stark-white braid somehow managing to slap Lae’zel in the process. Karlach receives her with an equal amount of grace—notably, none. The movement is followed by the trill of both of them giggling, as Karlach leans down to whisper something in the half-elf’s ear that redirects her focus towards Astarion. Even from halfway across the room, he sees the rosiness in her beautifully austere cheeks and knows she’s lawlessly hammered.
Anger flares at the tip of his tongue at the nearly confirmed prospect; have they been here for hours, preloading table wine and waiting for his arrival? The bastards…
But it doesn’t matter much, one way or another—his attention is drawn then to Gale standing proud in the middle of them all, looking every bit the ringleader of whatever the fuck is happening right now.
He’s holding out his open palms in joyous exaltation, gesticulating at what appears to be a bloody cake on the counter dabbed in haphazard globs of white royal icing. Numerous candles—the source of light from before, he now discerns—delineate the rotund shape of the confectionary. He can’t see the top of it from this vantage, but he imagines his name there, the swirling letters in thick sugar. A farce of a thing.
Astarion wonders briefly if a man with nothing in his stomach still possesses the capability of vomiting.
This has to be the most over-stimulating sight he’s ever seen, he thinks—their merry cohort, back together again...standing at attention and singing in his parlour. Unexpected, unannounced.
But apparently not uninvited, which is the queerest part of it. After months of separation, they’ve somehow chosen the most ridiculous reason to converge once more. Astarion could name a million and one things more worthy of reassembling themselves—a million and one things that make more sense, but…
A bloody fucking birthday?!
No, his bloody fucking birthday, apparently.
…and should it concern him more that he had no idea that he should expect it? That...that it happens to be his birthday in the first place?
Ah, shelf that, he thinks—he’ll get there in a moment.
They take in his shocked demeanour and appear to not know what to do about it. The song they’ve half-started dies on the tongues of their combined confusion. Someone coughs, hollowly.
“You good, Fangs?” Karlach looks at him quizzically, eyebrows furrowed in muted scrutiny at Astarion’s less-than typical reaction.
No, he’s not. He is not, in fact, good.
Far fucking from it.
“Go home,” Astarion says in a barely audible, catatonic whisper—shaking in his boots in dual parts rage and alarm. “Everyone. Absolutely everyone.”
Then it’s Gale who makes to speak after him, taking a careful step toward him.
“Astarion? What’s going on–?”
Oh, the fucking gall…
He breaks, with every intention to—stomps his feet just to relish in the finality of the click of his soles on the hardwood flooring.
“Are you not listening?! I said, go home—now!”
Please! He pleads in the intensity of his gaze. Please, pleasepleaseplease understand what you’re asking of me! Save me, Gale—save me–!
But would making his supplication audible help to soften the blow of a breaking heart, by way of Gale? Or would it serve to escalate an already discarnate, outlandish set of circumstances? He settles on staving off any additional words, biting his tongue until the tip bleeds.
Within it all, the heat of the room inches up several notches out of embarrassment, and he’s still wearing his outer doublet with that fucking asinine scarf wrapped around his neck. He feels choked-out—asphyxiated. The bones in his hands clamour up to it, unraveling its onerous material so slowly, as if it were tied at one end to an anchor.
He wishes he were standing against something—a wall, a table, a prop of any kind—to stabilize his shaky knees and sense of dread. The waiting hurts, the oozing disappointment aches. His friends shuffle nervously in front of him, aimlessly averting their eyes in the direction of the wizard and in want of intentional advice on what to do next. They look at him as if he holds every answer on how to manage a tetchy vampire brat.
Astarion supposes that, in many ways, he is keenly prepared to guide them.
But then Gale falls to his side—leads him over by hand to sit in one of the fluffy, upholstered chaise chairs they never fucking sit in themselves. He’s saying something mumbled, but it lands on deaf ears. It feels too quick, all of it; his speech, his thoughts, his whisked intentions.
With each step over to their proposed destination across the room, Gale aids in helping him shirk off his coat until it’s discarded in a heap behind them. Astarion can’t find the will to mind, really. Not at present, at least. They’ll pick it up later, it doesn’t matter. Breadcrumbs, to the inevitable dilapidation of his personhood.
Eventually he collapses into the seat, unable to hold himself up any longer. Embarrassment pricks at each node of his spine.
How weak I am…to behave as such…
Anything else he might add is broken by a gentle touch on his shoulder—a slight dip in the immediate barrage:
“I’ll be right back,” And it’s Gale, whispering into the shell of his ear. “If that is amenable to you?”
It is, in many ways. It has to be. There isn’t any way he’d be able to get up now and follow in his footsteps to offer up his own explanation for such an outburst in his own words. Nor can he bear the idea of watching Gale usher their friends out of their home—their disappointed faces, their ire at his attitude.
He nods once sullenly, before placing his head in his hands.
Gale turns on his heel and waltzes back to their friends again. Seconds later, Astarion thinks he hears him proclaim a sentence meant to smooth everything out.
“We’ll be in touch, I’m sure. No, thank you—I can handle this. I know he’s just going through–!”
The door shuts behind their caravan, and Astarion is left to think in the silence of this unbelievable scenario’s fallout. The rest of the drivel fades out as they do, one by one by one.
Handle it—handle him. The loose cannon that is Astarion Ancunín, characteristically flying off the handle over something meant to be congenial.
He’s panicking, he knows it—feels that unmistakable edge of fight or flight, but cannot move to do anything about it.
He’s still glued to the chair when the wizard returns, only possessing enough energy to cock his head up when the sound of his intrusive footsteps make landfall on the hardwood. Not a second before.
And Gale’s not unlike an apparition appearing hesitant in the threshold—haunted and pale, for what has already occurred and what has yet to. The slouch in his shoulders speaks more to his personal despondency than flowery words ever could, but it doesn’t negate what has to be mentioned. With sweeping eyes and a tight-locked jaw, Astarion manages to eke out the obvious. Break the ice.
“What the fuck was that?”
Gale stands stock-still in between their parlour and kitchen, looking the palest he’s ever been—and Astarion would know, having seen him near-death too many times to count.
“A…a birthday party?” His words come out slow, cautious. Like he’s speaking to a frightened animal, which Astarion supposes he is. “Or, at least I intended it to be one?”
And that isn’t the answer that he had been hoping to hear—not by a long shot. It only confirms the worst of it, tenfold.
“You…you’ve got to be out of your mind.”
Despite it all, Gale doesn’t start to deflect—doesn’t jump to blaming anyone but himself for such a faux pas, but sits in the error and owns it. He’s stronger than Astarion, like that. It’s one of the key reasons why he loves him so deeply.
“Love, I only meant to give you something I thought might make you feel special…”
Special. Special?
What’s special about coming home to bewilderment and the breaking of carefully curated patterns?
And then of course, there’s the shame of having not known what there was to be celebrated.
But Gale continues, with flustered words toppling over himself.
“I suppose I assumed that everyone would love a surprise party, but I see now that I have…” A pregnant pause punctuates his uncertainty at finishing his thought. “Miscalculated your enthusiasm for this scenario.”
What’s there to say to that, besides affirming it with a scoff? Words could never encapsulate the depth of feeling of this not-quite-betrayal, but completely misguided assumption that someone with Astarion’s condition would enjoy this type of attention.
Silence, which feels brutal—at least, until Gale daintily speaks once more.
“Do you…hate me for it?”
Oh, fuck me.
“Gale, please," Astarion balks at Gale’s attempt at earning retribution. And he doesn’t mean to make it sound as exhausted as he feels, but a sigh slides out from between his teeth without thinking. “This isn’t about you right now.”
Gale, for once in his life, knows that he must remain quiet, for fear of making matters inconceivably worse. He nods in chary congruence, plummeting into the seat set across.
And he waits—waits for the cue that they can continue.
There’s silence between them as Astarion weighs the many ways in which their conversation can divert. Yet he finds that when he speaks again, he’s formulating his words not in questions, but in an explanation.
“I don’t have a birthdate. Not one I remember, at least.”
Commemorating a day you’ve grown to wish had never occurred, well…well, that’s quite asinine, isn’t it? It had been so easy to lose track of it, locked in dungeons and hidden in coffins. He had learned to entertain more pressing matters, and with this shift in priorities came the discardment of tethers to life that once were relevant beyond the walls of Szarr’s Palace.It simply had been about survival at its core, the act of forgetting. Better things to worry about; more pressing measures to buffer himself with.
And at the end of it, he had learned to resent having ever been born—remembers seemingly endless days where he prayed to be relieved from existence, no matter which end he met. Time loses all meaning when you are no longer permitted to stand in the sun and see it rise and fall beyond the horizon. What difference does marking a new year make, when it’s just a tally on the surface of servitude?
“I mean, I obviously had one, but I…I suppose I…” He offers up a noncommittal hand wave to emphasize the words that fail him—a pathetic, little motion that could never possibly encapsulate the depth of his dread and disquietude. "Forgot, out of necessity. I, I’m not so–”
Sure; he’s not so sure.
The years he lived prior to enslavement seem like a moot point. Instead of counting calendar years, he had been forced to measure his life in beatings and broken bones. Lashings and rations and body counts and tear stains became the markings of the smooth, steady progression of time. He can’t recall if Cazador had ever inflicted memory-loss upon him, although the depths of the spots of missing time seem to point towards assurance. It had been…erased from his consciousness.
Protection. Self-preservation.
Gale reads it all, and knows—clear as crystal.
“Oh, Astarion.”
And it feels utterly uncomfortable, the pity. Because it wasn’t what he was aiming for, with his outburst. He had wanted it to stop. But now Gale’s looking at him like he’s some forlorn waif, searching for a birth record of himself amidst an endless cache of human experience—like the most abject example of what the bondage of vassalage will do to your mind, body, and spirit.
In a past life, Astarion might’ve relished in the sympathy. But today? He frankly wishes they could rewind the clock.
“It concerns me that you speak in the past tense.” Gale adds to his previous exclamation, worried brow as punctuation. It’s made evident that he fully comprehends the scope of Astarion’s words, his diction—that he forgot his own birthdate, and that being reminded of that has burned him in ways unimaginable. “That you ‘had’ a birthdate—implying that you are absent of one now. You…”
They’ve learned, over this last year spent together—in a variety of precarious scenarios—how exactly to read each other. Now, though? Gale is indecipherable for a moment, then plainly hesitant. Looks at Astarion like he’s a powder keg, capable of a catastrophic explosion.
“You never thought you’d make it out the other side, did you? Now that you have, you are unsure of where to resume your linear progression...and this all has just been a harrowing reminder of that. A reminder you've been willing to ignore, up until now."
As if singed by stark shine, Astarion audibly winces at the candidness of Gale’s speech, piercing the crux of the dilemma before he’d been able to arrive at it himself.
He nods, and it hurts. Because it’s true.
Slack-jawed and stunned at such confirmation, Gale can only manage mournful words that sound like sadness. “I see now, I…I understand.”
And when he takes stock of the well of tears at the corners of Gale’s eyes—that crow’s feet tunnel of skin his face makes when he grimaces—he forces himself to look away, look anywhere but. The flood of fear that he might be killing the one person in his life who has yet to intentionally wound him is all too much, all too quick.
He hopes Gale knows that it is the grievances of the past that break his spirit and not the fault in not knowing that cuts so deep.
Minutes pass, laid in a contemplative beat of coping and confronting..and yet, a question remains: do they continue their trek down the mournful road of reverie, or attempt to snap back to pointed inquisition? The only thing he knows is that there’s no use turning back now. Between sniffles they both are pretending they don’t hear within each other, an urgency burrows in Astarion’s chest. He’s got to change the locus of their focus—their proximity to the never-ending spiral of melancholia over a life lived ages ago. Recollection is nothing if not a hard pill to swallow. And after enduring this miserable scenario, Astarion should be permitted answers to his frightfully unsettling questions.
“But how did you know?” It’s said shrilly, unbelieving—how could he know, actually? Whatever in the world could have bequeathed Gale with access to knowledge not even Astarion possesses? “How did you…find this–?”
“Your obituary, I–!” Gale sputters, abashed and enervated. “I had been doing some archival digging in the annals of Baldur’s Mouth for an essay in progress, and I, well…I got curious.”
His…what, now?
But the pieces start falling together, before he even has a chance to directly respond.
For the last few months, Gale has been working tirelessly on a paper for publication built upon the foundation of his research concerning the Spellplague of the 14th century, and the aftermath of Mystra’s assassination. It had constituted endless hours in the archive, in search of some primary source material that could tangentially speak to the crux of his historical argument. But given the particularly…close history Gale’s had with the goddess of magic herself, and how intricately woven she had been with the dawn of the calamity, the topic emerged with its own baggage that necessitated Astarion erring on the side of willful naïveté.
He supposes that, in hindsight, he should have kept closer tabs.
Yet for those reasons, he had settled on asking the most minuscule of questions to Gale, which were then volleyed back at him with one-word affirmative answers—'yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘perhaps’. It wasn’t that Gale was defensive, but maybe something more akin to ‘protective' of what he shares and what he keeps close to the vest.
Like he’d been protecting Astarion from it, he recognizes now.
But the whole ordeal became somewhat of a bogeyman, in his mind’s eye. Mystra could live in the pages and be tampered by the firm closing of a hardbound cover; a name, written in text—one that has been wordlessly barred from being spoken aloud in their abode. At the time, it had felt safer to default to avoidance. Now, he sees the error of his ways. Ignorance is not always bliss, apparently...yet he supposes that if Gale arrived at the discovery of something that concerned him by proxy, he can count himself lucky to be permitted to add one more curse to her name for it.
Still, it hadn’t even occurred to him—up until now—that he had been born well before the Spellplague…but it wouldn’t have made him any more helpful for Gale’s scholarly scrutiny. After all, he had been busy moldering in chains of peonage, preparing for the carving of his infernal contract during those years. What first-hand perspective could he offer, when he hadn’t been granted the autonomy to witness it?
“My…obituary?” It feels outlandish to even posit the thought, and even stranger to hear it in his own cadence. But he’s vying to push for further elaboration, if he can—perhaps then he can find some solace.
“Does it say who wrote it?”
A long sigh by way of Gale meets them in the middle.
“It doesn’t…doesn’t say that, no.”
Ah, simple as. Nothing more, nothing less.
Why would it?
“May I see it?” And does it sound desperate, the question? Akin to grovelling? “I know you must have it—transcribed, or otherwise.”
It doesn’t matter if he’s jotted the whole thing in his scrawl or if he had managed to have the document finagled out from the archives—seeing is believing.
Gale seems to understand this, and thus wordlessly complies. He disappears through the double-doors of his adjacent study, emerging a tick later with what looks like faded, yellowing crepe paper sat atop a protective base board. The contrast in materiality is maddening, Astarion realizes, as the document is placed in his lap with care and consideration.
Gods, he feels fucking old.
It reads as follows:
Astarion Ancunín, Extolled Elven Magistrate of Baldur’s Gate:
Born in the Year of the Carrion Crow, 11 Alturiak 1229 DR
Deceased on the Cusp of the Summer Solstice, 16 Kythorn 1268 DR
Survived by UNKNOWN
A name, an occupation, a list of numbers shaped like dates, and…and insult to injury.
And…nothing else. Survived by nothing; known to no one.
He feels the corners of his mouth turn up, involuntarily—a soft, wistful smile that holds back a deluge and signals the opposite of contentment. A grimace, some might call it.
Should he have expected anything else?
Gale’s façade crumbles, as he absorbs the scope of Astarion’s devastation—then even more so, as he watches him scan the words over and over in confusion of their conclusiveness.
“I am so very sorry to have upset you with my ineptitude. I can only imagine how…surreal this must be to see. I…I had no idea.”
Yes, it does feel highly nonsensical, especially in comparison to when they fucked at the foot of his headstone, for example—less clear-cut, and much more nebulous. He isn’t afraid of acknowledging how he became immortal, so much as he is the entire concept on principle alone. Therefore, that particular rendezvous between them had been empowering; the final nail in the metaphorical coffin, and the start of something wonderful.
But this…this is…
Painful. A gaping, unfixable wound of a thing…because of its brevity, because of its brusqueness. It embodies the entirety of Astarion’s existence before his misfortune—his hollow, little life.
Astarion sets the slip of paper down recklessly on the tea table between himself and where Gale’s taken to sitting beside him. He wishes its print would crumble into dust and get carried away with his carelessness.
If it did, it wouldn’t really matter—singed in his brain are the curt words assigned to him in the necrologue.
‘Extolled’ can mean many things, and not all of them are positive. He thinks back to the flashes of faces who resented him, who loathed him. That he was constantly seen as the bearer of bad news and hazard is not lost on him. How many lives he altered, for better or for worse, emerge unquantifiable and will forever remain that way…or the few friends he possessed, weeded out even more when you subtract the relationships he had practically on retainer.
And then what was it like, before all of that? Before Baldur’s Gate—the pastures of his childhood? Is that not erased within the tribulation of his adult existence? What was he like, before he became a monster?
Astarion shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate—tries to see them, his mother and father…
But he finds he’s stuck drawing his conclusions at the conjuring of indiscernible nullity.
Certainly, they had to have had white hair—the both of them.
…probably, but who’s to say definitively?
He’s adding and subtracting details at random—manufacturing blank spaces and concocting likely scenarios. Maybe, he inherited his curls from his mother; perhaps, he learned his sleight-of-hand tricks from his father. Is he the spitting image of anyone—old or young—bearing the surname Ancunín? Does he…does he have any siblings? Upon his death, did word ever get back to members of his family, the proclamation of his passing? Did they observe any elven funeral rites, or go through his things, or find the pitiful remains of his bank account that most certainly should have held more coin left for them than it had, given his magistrate’s salary?!
In his panic, a cold and sobering thought consumes him: might they still be looking for him, if they assume he’s still alive?
Fuck it, he sure hopes not…Conceivably, they found this obituary and just…moved on with their lives.
Who knows for certain, and who really cares? That was, quite literally, lifetimes ago. Why should he stand fixated on what his hypothetical kin would’ve thought of his death, or whether or not he was properly mourned, properly missed?
It’s simply swirls of grey matter—a lifeless blur of nothingness, swept away so long ago.
But it’s haunting, knowing that he’s been forced into a bisected existence by something well beyond the scope of his purview—by a document proclaiming to summarize the crux of his essence that holds so little now possesses the ability to send him into a spiral.
Enough of that, though. His mind then turns to the misgivings of anxious thought, brought about by his painful recognition of how he’s been shaped since.
Gale’s here with him—hasn’t left.
“Why does this feel like the beginning and end of all things?” He says, mostly to satisfy himself and quell the rising tide of perturbation. It does little to that point, although it helps in the crafting of a façade of stability.
In response, Gale scowls in his wizardly, learned way—a bruised, yet guileless look of a thing. It’s clear that he can tell that he’s fixating on his death date—of which he also was uncertain of, and now has found clarity for. “Well, you could always reframe it as a ‘rebirth’…or a ‘first’ in the face of adversity? I rather like the sound of that, don’t you?”
Isn’t that a concept, hmm? Hard to fathom, and even harder to put into practice. But Gale keeps going after a lengthy pause.
“Astarion, you must know that these dates do not define you. They are but demarcated moments in the timeline of your continuance. They say not what you stand for, nor do they speak to your accomplishments.” What he’s endured need not be mentioned. “You’ve made an immense amount of progress between then and now—should you be stripped of your right to celebrate yourself? What, because you are a vampire and have thus transcended conventional lifespans, elven or otherwise? Preposterous!”
The rise in Gale’s intonation warrants a glance upward, while the weight of his rhetorical question settles into his bones.
“You are not your past—and most certainly, your history does not dictate your future. I know I hold these beliefs close to my chest, and I am better for it. We both should embody this, given what we’ve endured—together, and then separate. Anyone should be so grateful to know you, to learn from you, to honour you. Not just on the day of your birth, but on all those in between.”
Wow, that’s quite…wow.
Astarion feels the trickle of tears at the corners of both eyes again—a soft, misty touch that encapsulates how scared he’s been to show true emotion. For the first time in a long time, he feels empowered. He’s defied the gods who’ve held him back, and slain the force that threatened to keep him subjugated. That’s got to count for something, right?
Gale seems to think so.
He lets himself cry, then—cry for what was, but also what shall be. And it’s pure, it’s hopeful. Because in the face of fate and fallacy, he’s here and he’s alive.
Gale comes out of his chair and to his side, finding a place for himself in a perch at the foot of Astarion’s throne. Gently, oh so gently, he rubs soothing circles on his clothed calves, his thighs—kisses his knees and soaks the skin underneath. It aids in settling him down, even if it does take minutes to do so. Eventually, he feels ready enough to pivot.
“I find it comparatively fitting that I was born in the midst of the Claw of Winter, don’t you?” Astarion mumbles through the sniffle, rubbing the back of his hand across the plane of his cupid’s bow. But he can do it, with that twinge of hope that comes with settling in. “Cold, heartless, barren—apt adjectives our companions might hurl at me, after the fuss I’ve put up.”
Gale laughs—matches Astarion’s joking tone, on the onset. “Only to return as a sweet Midsummer child. My sweet Midsummer child, really.” He pauses for the briefest of moments, then adds quite seriously, “And think nothing of any of that. They, of all people, should understand.”
The wizard takes his partner’s hands in his own—pulls them into his lap and caresses algid palms with fiercely warm ones. A cocoon of mournful touch. He doesn’t seem to mind the way Astarion’s skin feels soft with an aqueous display of emotion. He just appreciates that he’s granted the chance to hold them in the first place.
A gift, no doubt.
“I love you—love all of you. Loved you before I even knew you—every day you remember, and even those you don’t.” Gale's eyes shine with incandescent earnestness and the pervasive, inherent quality of being devoted to someone beyond yourself. “From the day I came into the world, until the day I will have to part from it, I have loved and promise to continue to love you voraciously, Astarion.”
Is this not a vow, he wonders? Is this not the closest they’ve come to something of the sort? This feels pretty damn close to what he imagines a formal agreement on forever would look like—feel like—for them. Matrimonial, or ceremonial…you name it.
Wordlessly, they’ve somehow agreed not to broach the subject of a formal unification…yet, determining they were content with settling into a prosaic Waterdhavian wonderland to create appropriate distance from their wildest adventures. And yes, there’s a little bit of irony—the undying love they have for each other. But no matter how they choose to address the inevitable, they still will remain as one unit. Astarion knows with every ounce of certainty he possesses that the rest of his life shall be devoted to Gale Dekarios.
"I love you, too."
Gale stands then, as if to give him space, to untangle from their enfolding. A few steps back, and he’s already halfway over to where he had been lying in wait for the commemorative ambush. It feels reasonably final, like the signal of something conclusive; yet Astarion knows that he’s waiting for that special clearance from him. That he’s done, that he’s ready to close this chapter and rebuild himself.
No one has ever given him time like Gale has, which resonates in a most endearing way.
I should tell him as much, he thinks.
So he does.
“I don’t deserve it.”
Don’t deserve you.
“No, you don’t.” Gale answers so clearly, with a wistful smile in place. “But neither do I—because is anyone deserving of a love this powerful? A reason to live that is so compelling?"
Hells, Astarion’s fucking in love with this man—this abundant, inspiriting storm of a man. Someone who weaves these words on the loom of adulation and makes them sound so august, yet somehow so true. Wise, sensible, candid.
He’s not done yet, though. He rarely ever is.
“For the entire duration of my life, I thought authors wove these fabled amorous narratives out of thin air in the simple pursuit of some coin, but now I realize how blessed I am—we are—to be here. To share in each other.” He then turns to face Astarion head-on, to give him the most ardent eye contact. Even with the sizeable distance between them separating, it feels enormously intimate. “The beauty of breath and life—even un-life—is one I plan not to forsake.”
He agrees. He absolutely, unequivocally agrees. And for the first time throughout the duration of this less-than-comfortable conversation, Astarion feels like he can laugh at the absurdity of it—the break in an onslaught of emotion, brought about by a dredged up past.
Funny, how being tender can do that to you.
He stands on shaky knees and meets Gale in the kitchen threshold in a tight embrace.
“Gods, I’ve been a berk, haven’t I?” As he pulls away from him, he folds his head in his hands and shakes it, left and right and back again. “Do you think they hate me?”
“No, never! Although I must applaud you on the mighty-fine ruckus you mustered up!” Gale says, wholeheartedly impressed—it isn’t a ruse. “To my knowledge, they all agreed to spend the night in the city—so perhaps tomorrow, we can arrange a resumption of festivities in your honour. If you are feeling up to it, of course.”
Breezy, beautiful Gale Dekarios—never one to falter in his devotion and consideration.
“That would be lovely, actually,” Astarion replies, with a side smirk that darkens his demeanour. “I happen to know your schedule would permit a little morning soirée.”
It’s a day off for them both—no duties to Blackstaff for Gale tomorrow, and Astarion keeps his calendar free for that explicit purpose. They usually spend the morning of Sixthday in bed curled around each other, but that can be resumed after a spot of fun.
“Excellent! I’ll draft a sending stone at once! In truth, Karlach’ll be thrilled we’re turning this into a birthday brunch—and with Shadowheart hopefully more, uh… cognizant, we can all more readily participate in the merriment!”
They laugh at what’s obvious: love, in all its forms…drunken, assumptive, or otherwise.
Because here they collectively are, Astarion’s friends—brought together by his lover, who aims for nothing but to give him the world and what lives beyond its four corners. How far they traveled, and what they had to arrange in order to be here speaks to their fondness for their begrudging travel companion-turned-confidante, and the place he’s carved out for himself since their collective journey ended on such a high note. They like it, like him…like the prickliest parts that set him apart from themselves.
Most overtly though, they’re wanting and willing to express affection within commemoration, for a storied life and the man who has lived it.
There’s the now-deflating cake still left on the counter—wonky, burnt-out candles punctured into its pearly-frosted surface. Sure enough, a closer inspection permits him a glance at the scrawling letters of his own name, decorated with ornamental star motifs. The fact that it doesn’t look like a complete disaster points to it being Wyll’s princely handiwork, as he’s the only one among them—aside from himself—who doesn’t have absolutely atrocious penmanship.
It’s so sweet, he could weep once more. But Astarion holds back the choke of a response that threatens to bubble to the surface, and directs his attention to the floor for reprieve.
Keenly knowing Astarion’s limits, Gale sidles up beside him and laces their hands together in an intimate embrace. With his unoccupied hand, he plucks one of the candles out between thumb and forefinger and holds it aloft in presentation in front of Astarion. The wick ignites in one magical breath, given life by the power that flows through Gale’s veins. Power that, for all intents and purposes, ensured that they made it to this moment amidst the violence that brought them together.
How fitting it should be wielded for something as mundane as lighting a birthday candle, now.
“Make a wish,” Gale says, sentimentally serious—to the flame as much as it’s said to Astarion. “A wish, for the year ahead.”
And it sounds like a good idea.
There’s an ache in Astarion’s soul that he feels the most when he leans in for it—sensed on the tip of his tongue when he purses his lips to expel out air he doesn’t need to sustain himself with. Not anymore. But it doesn’t feel like a fatal injury as it had before. Instead, it feels…hopeful.
I get to live.
He closes his eyes in opposition of the onslaught, thinks for a moment, then blows. The flame extinguishes, and so too do the thoughts that threaten to destroy the commendations that he’s been gifted by having met his life partner. Gone, on a wisp of pensive wind.
“Happy first birthday, Astarion,” Gale murmurs against his skin when he pulls him into an embrace, gentle and grounding. “I feel blessed beyond measure to have the honour of spending it with you.”
The kiss he’s given then seals it all in wondrous finality—the plush warmth of his lips and light touch of his palm that sing of divine allegiance. Gale’s there to clinch the way beyond, and keep him from looking back over his shoulder. His rock, his anchor; the one who showed him how to get up and keep going, again and again and again.
It’s all staggeringly worth it, isn’t it?
A new year, a new opportunity—a chance to redeem himself in his own eyes, by way of his own actions found within the man who sees his novel sureness, and celebrates him for it.
What wonders await him, he’ll be ready for.