Work Text:
The full moon hangs lazily in a sea of slowly drifting clouds. The gentle wind brings in the damp smell of the river not too far from their camp. The woods are filled with a droning noise of wildlife. Crickets chirp, cicadas scream, animals skitter, and water trickles.
But it’s not loud. It’s annoying… but it’s peaceful, boring even.
Astarion hasn't heard anything but the nightlife of Baldur’s Gate for all his life- well- un-life. He grew to hate the never-ending sounds of the city that never slept. People always bustled. Horses clopped even at the dead of night, bringing a new shipment of clanking wine bottles to a loud bar. Rats snickered at passerbys. Drunken men and woman shouted and yelled and grated on Astarion’s nerves. And-
An owl hooted.
Millions of stars lit up the sky, unaffected by a city’s light pollution.
He wasn't in Baldur’s Gate. Right.
He can almost appreciate this new scenery. Almost. It would be better if he could appreciate all this in the comfort of a hotel, or cabin- hells- just anywhere indoors. Indoors, where he can take a bath and get rid of the dirt under his nails and the grime that he feels in his hair. Even the smell of the campfire sticks to him, clogging his senses.
“And my professor!” Gale’s voice draws Astarion out of his musings, “Gods, I wish I could conjure the perfect image of his face. A mix of shock, disbelief, and disappointment,” he laughs as he stirs the large pot of stew filed to the brim with different meats and vegetables the party collected over the day.
Right, Gale was telling the story of casting Fireball the first time. It had most of the party engaged.
Astarion was one of the only people not sitting by the fire. Instead, he worked on stitching up the new holes in his extra shirt. He worked the needle through the fabric, feigning ignorance of the bright mood around him.
The camp was missing one certain Dragonborn.
Dandelion was out most likely gathering the perfect pieces of wood for his next whittling project. He gathers enough wood for the next few days, which means he is gone all night.
Astarion glances over to the hastily put-up tent near him. The tent furthest away from the fire. The tent nearly hidden by shadows and foliage. An unoccupied tent.
Dandelion’s tent.
There has been a nagging question burning in Astarion’s chest.
Just what does that journal hold?
Dandelion hardly went two steps without his journal somewhere on his person. At night, when he wasn't whittling, he was doing something in the journal. But he always did it at the very edge of camp, so Astarion doesn't know if it’s a diary or something else.
Does it have Dandelion’s deepest secrets? His thoughts? His desires?
What was it?
His eyes drift back to the rest of the party. Gale had them enraptured in another story.
Wyll and Karlach laughed as they drank their alcohol, Lae’zel cleaned her spotless sword obviously paying more attention to Gale than anything else, and Shadowheart absentmindedly picked at her nails as she listened.
Nobody would notice if….
He put his needle back in his lockpicking case and pocketed it. He folded his shirt and set it aside.
Just a peek! He would only take a peek! Just to satiate his curiosity. He would put it right back and nobody would have to know he ever touched it. It’s not like Dandelion would even notice. The Dragonborn hardly even glanced at things that weren't bloodied.
He carefully picked his way through the shadows and to Dandelion’s tent, unnoticed by those listening to Gale’s story. He was so close. He reached out to the tent’s flap.
“Astarion?” Halsin asked, his voice curious, but not accusing.
Astarion jumped. “Aha- ah- Halsin!”
The druid was sitting at his own tent, whittling away at a wood carving in the vauge shape of a duck. “Hello, what brings you here?”
Astarion searches for a lie, “Dandelion borrowed my needles earlier and I need them back.”
“Couldn’t you wait for him to return? He may not take it well that someone was rifling through his tent.”
Astarion scoffs, “You know as well as I that he won't be coming back until morning. I need to fix my shirts now. Vampire and all that. I really shouldn't be running around with holey clothing.”
Halsin chuckles, “I suppose.” and the man goes back to carving away at the small duck in his hands, satisfied with Astarion’s bold faced lie.
Astarion does not heave a sigh of relief. Because he isn't doing anything wrong.
A sharp grin spreads across his face and he gently reaches out to the coarse tent fabric, pulling open the entrance.
Astarion isn't quite sure what he was expecting. But it certainly was not what he expected. Inside, Dandelion’s tent was a mess of sticks and logs tossed about randomly. Bark shavings covered the ground like some animal’s pen. A few white-capped mushrooms sprouted between the chaos. His bed was made up of fur, leaves, moss, and- is that human hair?
And the cherry on top was the blood.
Dried droplets and pools of blood everywhere. Like something had been murdered in here.
Astarion had assumed that Dandelion washed himself in the river before heading to bed after battles… that does not seem to be the case.
The shock of seeing the inside of Dandelion’s disastrous tent almost made him forget just exactly why he even wanted to come in here. He barely stopped himself from turning around and leaving.
But then his eyes catch on the journal. It’s sat on a bundle of clean(?) clothing. The only thing untouched by the gore and mess inside the tent.
Astarion steps inside and immediately he feels as if he entered a monster’s den. A chill runs up his spine. All his instincts from being a creature of the night scream at him to get out.
But curiosity gnaws at his bones. He may never have another chance like this.
The journal sits there, demanding his attention.
And Astarion would be foolish to leave without acknowledging it.
He reaches for the leather-bound journal. His fingers brush against its soft, smooth surface. A stark contrast to everything around it.
As if it’s a prized possession.
Guilt would weigh on his heart, if he wasn't so damn curious of what the hell could be in here. Why was this, of all things, what Dandelion treasured?
He turned open the first page.
The off-yellow color of the paper was nearly impossible to see under all the charcoal smudges. Astarion couldn't make out any legible words, phrases, shapes, or-
Anything.
The page was just- just smudges of varying values. Some blobs were deep, deep black, while others were only lighter because the charcoal was wiped away. There was nothing comprehensible under the lines and scribbles and smears.
This was it?
This is what Dandelion did in this journal? Just scribbled till his heart was content? Was this some Dragonborn thing? Or was this just something Dandelion did?
Astarion flipped to the next page. It, too, was attacked with charcoal. There was even a line left from Dandelion’s talon at the corner of the page. But this page at least looked… less of a mess. Astarion could make out bold strokes of charcoal depicting… something. A word?
Astarion squinted, attempting to read whatever was written in big bold font. The hieroglyphs did not translate themselves, no matter how much Astarion willed.
He scoffed. He would have better luck solving a Sphinx’s riddles than reading Dandelion’s awful handwriting.
Perhaps Gale had some sort of deciphering spell? He would have to ask later.
He flipped to the next page.
And the next.
And the next.
With each new page, was more charcoal lines and shavings. But with each new page, shapes emerged.
Until finally, he got to less smudged drawings.
Because that's what this journal was filled with. Drawings.
Not musings. Not thoughts. Not battle tactics.
Drawings.
Dandelion finally switched from charcoal to a pencil. The graphite didn’t smear like charcoal. The pictures Dandelion made weren't ruined when the journal closed or when a page was turned.
The first pencil drawing was of a patch of weeds with a small rodent hidden behind a leaf. The lines were scratchy; quick and efficient to capture what the Dragonborn was looking at.
It certainly wasn't the best piece Astarion had seen, but it was better than most other fools who decided to pick up a pencil.
As Astarion flipped through more pages, he found himself taking more and more time to look at each image. His eyes traced the routes, the twists and turns, that the pencil was lead through to make a final subject.
Broad, confident strokes of lines came together to depict a two stag’s locked in battle. Their antlers twisted together and the power in their muscles was felt through the page. The charcoal smudging came back, but only to offer deep faded shadows that forced attention to the deer.
Huh. Now this was more Dandelion’s style: vicious battle. But their was no blood, no gore, the deer didn't even look injured.
Curiously, he flipped the page.
It provided a new nightlife scene.
A boring campfire was turned into a glorious study of lighting and its interactions with the nearby grass.
A normal tree was given too much attention. Dandelion must have spent hours staring at this one stupid tree. Its bark twisted and turned in the shadows, and its branches reached for a crescent moon. The graphite painted such a vivid detail that Astarion felt like he was there with Dandelion, looking at this dumb tree in the middle of a forest.
Dandelion moved from static scenes to lovingly crafted studies. Instead of a page having only one detailed drawing, it was filled with sketches of a subject. The first one? Scratch.
Scratch’s jaws stretched in a wide yawn. Each of the dog’s teeth were shaded with such detail and his tail was blurred, as if in mid wag.
Scratch with a ball in his mouth, his tongue lolled out the side as he waited for the ball to be thrown.
Scratch, well, scratching his ear.
And several more poses of Scratch doing various boring activities around camp.
It was all so… strange.
Dandelion, who was more bloodthirsty than him, drew a dog with such care. He drew trees and plants and weeds and-
He drew.
Dandelion, who claimed the battlefield as a second home, loved to draw.
Astarion turned another page, and froze.
This new page was detailed. The most detailed yet.
Spanning the entire page, was a party of travelers. A familiar party.
It was like someone took a snapshot of the outside perspective of their camp.
Gale was near the fire, cutting up some meat that would be added to the night’s meal. The soft smile on his face was highlighted by the fire’s glow.
Wyll had his ever-present glass of wine, but his hands gestured widly as he told a story around the fire.
Karlach and Shadowheart had their attention on him, while Lae’zel was in the background sharpening her blade.
And then...
There was another elf. He, too, was near the background, staring at the group near the fire. He had a book in his hands, but clearly was paying more attention to Wyll telling the story of sneaking out from one of his father’s parties.
Astarion blinked. This was them. Dandelion had lovingly drawn them.
Astarion could remember this night clearly, but only because the picture dredged up the memories.
Because this night was like any other night. There was nothing significant that happened in the day, nor at night.
It was boring.
And yet, Dandelion captured it like it was a fond memory. Each detail was thought out and there were no rough edges. It was soft.
Astarion realized he was looking at the world through Dandelion’s eyes. It was far less… angry than he thought it would be. Dandelion looked at the smallest details rather than the big picture.
As he flipped through more pages, more and more pictures of them came up.
A songbird perched on Wyll’s horn as he slept leaning against a tree.
Karlach’s boisterous laughter as she raised a glass, toasting to their victory over the goblin camp.
Shadowheart reading a book; her head resting on her hand in attempts to cover her smile.
Lae’zel cleaning her armor, but her eyes trained on something not depicted. Her lips were turned upward in an almost smile.
Gale pondering over something written in his own journal. A quill in his hand and a look of utter distain on his face. Ah, he must've seen Astarion’s notes.
Halsin whittling at a comically small duck, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth.
And a staggering amount of drawings of one specific elf.
Now, Astarion wasn't stupid, he could infer that this was… that this was him, but-
But it was just too perfect to really be him.
Astarion knew he was handsome, but Dandelion’s drawings weren't of his lustful gazes. They weren't focused on his good looks. They weren't…
They were of him hunched over, running a needle through his shirt. His hair was a mess from the day’s exhausting activities, and a fang poked out in concentration. It was an awful pose that made all his flaws stand out, but… really he couldn't spot anything to be ashamed of. He wasn't portraying himself as the perfect bachelor, and yet Dandelion took the time to draw him.
The fang was definitely artistic liberty, though. There was no way he did that.
Countless more drawings of him covered page after page.
And for the first time in… centuries, Astarion was seeing himself. It wasn't through a mirror, but it was like looking at himself through a window.
A window through someone else’s soul. Dandelion’s soul.
Astarion gently closed the journal and placed it back where he found it. His curiosity was now satiated, but his heart was heavy with an emotion he didn’t feel like naming.
He returned to his own tent and looked out to the happy faces by the fire. Would this also be a night Dandelion wanted to capture?
Astarion scoffed, of course it would be.
He returned to mending his shirt.
It was a boring-
It was a warm night. A night with no new worries tugging at their minds. A night not plagued with terror or gearing up for another battle in the morning.
No, instead it was a peaceful night. One Astarion would remember.