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“Shadowheart. Come here, will you?” Astarion said. “Let’s have a little chat.”
She raised her eyebrows at him as he shouted at her from his tent, taking a sip of her wine. It was late, and all she’d wanted to do was unwind after another rough day of roaming around the Sword Coast with a tadpole in her head and a mess of her memories missing. But no—clearly, Astarion had something else in mind.
“What?” She asked. “I’m busy.”
“You’re hardly busy,” he retorted. “Just sitting and looking at the stars.”
“Well, that’s my definition of busy.”
Astarion huffed, staring at her with his arms entwined behind his back. “Fine then. I’ll come to you, I suppose.”
Shadowheart rolled her eyes, accepting his intrusion. His, hopefully brief, intrusion. “What do you want? This had better be worth you hauling yourself all of the way over here and interrupting my peace.” To her surprise, he sat down on the ground next to her, grabbing one of her many cushions and smushing it into his lap. He then leaned close, and just as she’d become concerned he was trying to hit on her, he surprised her.
“So, Finch.” He angled his head towards the ranger, who was sorting through his herbs in the distance. “What do you think about him?”
Her ears pricked up as she took a second to process the fact that Astarion had spoken to her in elvish. Gods, she’d almost forgotten she even knew elvish. Where had she learned elvish from? Astarion didn’t give her the chance to think about it as he continued. “You know, just a general first impression. Something like that.”
“What do you mean?” She asked, the unfamiliar language heavy on her tongue. “What specifically?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He tossed his hand up. “About his choice of class, his general… energy? Anything.”
Shadowheart observed him from afar. The halfling had begrudgingly removed her from her pod on the nautiloid, though regardless of his actual desire to help her, he had done so all the same. He was a bit older, maybe in his middle-ages if she had to take a crack at it. He was a good shot with a bow. He’d known tons of different remedies for the fever they’d all come down with, and he’d had salves for wounds on his person. He was mostly quiet, choosing to listen rather than speak more often than not—and when he did speak, he was monotone, and sometimes, even a bit snarky. “Well, I mean—all things considered, he’s been useful to the group so far. I’d even say he’s sort of in charge of the lot of us. Not sure how that happened, or why, but here we are.”
Astarion nodded, though he didn’t look satisfied with her answer. “Sure, sure. But go more personal.”
“More personal?” She sighed, continuing to stare. Finch looked in their general direction for a moment, so she tilted her head away. “I mean,” she added a bit more quietly, “he’s a bit prickly. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”
“Ha—and you aren’t?” Shadowheart kicked him lightly in the shin, though she found an amused smile slipping onto her face. “But yes, I agree. There’s something about him.”
“Wouldn’t you be prickly too, if you were stuck with this lot?”
“I am stuck with this lot,” Astarion retorted. “I suppose we’ve all been coping with it in our own ways.” He leaned his chin onto his palm, resuming his observation of Finch. “The name is strange.”
“Oh, don’t be mean,” she said, but unfortunately, she had to agree. It wasn’t so much of a bad name, or even an ill-fitting name, as it was an odd one. No, the name suited him. But it was sort of… “You’d think he was a druid, maybe. Though I guess a ranger like him could have that sort of name too.”
“Do you think he’s named himself?” Astarion asked. “Or maybe, it’s not his name at all. Maybe he’s going by something else with us around.”
Maybe he’s more observant than I thought, Shadowheart mused. Because that’s not a terrible theory. “You could be right.” Something itched in her mind as she said it, and it made the wound on her hand throb with pain. She did her best to ignore it. “Though I suppose I don’t know what halfling naming culture looks like.”
“How old do you think he is?” Astarion had taken her bottle of wine and was drinking from it shamelessly. She decided to let it slide, if only because this conversation was entertaining her.
“Oh, I don’t know. Hm… maybe in his fifties?”
“Sixties,” Astarion retorted.
“You’re an elf,” Shadowheart said. “You have no concept of aging.”
“And you’re a half-elf! How is that fair?!”
She broke down laughing at Astarion’s irritation. It only seemed to make him more irritated at first, until he couldn’t hold the facade anymore and began to laugh along with her. Finch looked in their general direction and raised his eyebrows at them, then somewhat unsubtly moved into his tent.
“Oh, we’ve ruined it,” Astarion whined through his giggling. “Oh well. Guess we’ll have to talk about him more openly now.”
“Let’s settle in the middle,” Shadowheart said. “He’s fifty-five. How about that?”
“Fine.” Astarion leaned back into her cushions, lying on his back and crossing his legs. “What about that scar of his?”
“The one over his eye?” Finch’s disappearance was now unhelpful, but she did her best to visualize it in her memory. “I’m not sure what happened with that. I do know that he must not have had it healed properly. He wouldn’t have lost his eye if a cleric had gotten to it.”
“You think he can’t see out of it?”
“Oh, there’s no chance. The iris is shattered. Take a closer look next time you see him. It’s actually rather interesting.”
“How in the hells can he use a bow, then? Because I hate to admit it, but he’s a decent shot.”
“Sight in the other is probably fine. And if he’s been without an eye for a long time, then he’s likely used to it. Wyll is missing an eye too, you know.”
“Hmm… true.” Astarion went quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. The silence was oddly peaceful, and though she would have never claimed to be comfortable around Astarion, she would have been lying if she didn’t say that this little chat of theirs hadn’t changed her view on him. Apparently, he was capable of socializing in a somewhat acceptable way. “…I think he’s gay.”
She took that back.
“Astarion!” She elbowed him in the ribs and he coughed. “Have some decency—that’s none of our business.”
“Ugh, I didn’t take you as the type to care,” he muttered. “But here we are.”
“I don’t care so much as I think there’s no sense speculating,” she replied. “Would you want him thinking about your sexuality?”
“I am boldly queer my darling, thank you.”
“That’s not my point.” Shadowheart drained her glass, rolling her eyes. She didn’t want Astarion to know she was thinking about it now. Granted, she knew nothing about Finch beyond his name, and even that was questionable. But he didn’t wear a ring. He didn’t seem to have a partner of any kind that he was trying to get back to. When their parasites had connected the first time they’d met, she had seen deep forest, hands flaying fish, crystal clear night skies. In fact, she hadn’t seen a single other person in his memories. That didn’t direct her towards any kind of… gayness, though, for lack of a less crude word. “…Explain.”
“Of course!” Astarion replied, looking pleased with himself. “I will admit, it’s mostly a vibe. I see it in the way he speaks, too.” Shadowheart stared at him, unconvinced, so he continued. “A straight man wouldn’t keep a beard so meticulously, either.”
“So, stereotypes.”
“Accurate stereotypes!” He threw his hand out. “How about the fact that he didn’t even bat an eye at Mizora?”
“Mizora is a terrible person. Er, devil.”
“Yes, but she’s hot.”
“…She is hot.” Shadowheart frowned, crossing her legs and leaning onto her hands. “I’ll think about it.”
“If I’ve got you thinking about it, I will take that as a win.” He stood up from his spot abruptly, brushing the grass and dirt off of his legs. “Well, this has been fun.”
“Running off already? Very well.” She shook her head at him. “If you come back to me tomorrow and say you’re attracted to him or something of that nature, you will never hear the end of it.”
“Absolutely not!” He looked so comically disgusted that she couldn’t help but snort. “Ugh, I’m done with you. Good night.”
“Good night Astarion,” she teased, waving at him as he stalked off. As she fixed her pillows around her tent she smiled, feeling oddly upbeat.
“Pardon the viscera. One should cherish all of nature’s bounties, but goblin guts are quite far down the list.”
That was the tallest godsdamned elf she’d ever seen in her life. Was he an elf? No, he was—he had those distinctive elven eyes. So he was one. Right?
“You’re Halsin?” Astarion stammered. He’d never sounded so shocked. Shadowheart went from looking at him, to the man they now knew was the Archdruid, to Finch, who had to look up at him even more than the rest of them did. His eyes were wide—his cheeks were comically pink, though the spatters of blood hid it somewhat well. She watched as his gaze flicked from his face, to his chest, then back up again.
Astarion made eye contact with her, and smirked. She could only glare back.