Archive of Our Own

Xyros sat in the dim light of the tent, his back pressed against the worn fabric that separated him from the world outside. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them in an attempt to shield himself from the weight of his thoughts. The sounds of the campfire crackling in the distance seemed muffled, distant—almost like a faint memory he could not quite touch.

He had told himself that he remembered nothing from before the mindflayers. It was easier that way. Easier to swallow the lie. But the truth was not so clean, nor so simple. The memories he held on were a gaping black hole at best, a void where everything had been swept away, like dust carried off by an indifferent wind. There were no parents in his mind, no comforting faces to recall. His village, once vivid and full of life, was now little more than a blurred image, an impression left behind by a world he no longer inhabited.

Yet now, fragments slipped through holes of his mangled brain—pieces of his past that had been so teared apart, he'd forgotten they even existed.

He remembered the layout of the village, the way the streets twisted and curved, the faint outline of buildings that had once been his world. He recalled faces—people who must have been important to him at some point. There were no names to attach to them, but the familiarity in the way their gazes lingered on him felt like a heavy burden.

And there was the smell of the Underdark. The earthy, damp scent of decay that hung in the air like a suffocating cloak. The memory had crept in unexpectedly, lacing itself around him like an old wound, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. It was a memory of a place that had been both home and prison—a land where death was as constant as the flicker of candlelight in the darkness.

Then there were the clothes—fine, silken robes that felt smooth against his skin. The scratch of a quill on parchment, the delicate sound of ink being set to paper. He remembered the weight of authority, the way it had felt to be seen by others not just as a person, but as a force, a being of power. And with that power had come a sense of purpose, though now, that purpose felt as far out of reach as the stars themselves.

Xyros sighed and rubbed his eyes, attempting to push the memories away. They were fragments, disjointed and incomplete. There was no sense to them, no narrative to follow. They left him confused and disoriented, as though pieces of a puzzle had been scattered and were now beyond his ability to put them together.

Yet, there was something undeniable about these fragments. They stirred something deep inside him—something that clawed and twisted, refusing to be ignored. And as their journey across Faerûn continued, as the days stretched on with the promise of unraveling the mysteries of the tadpole, Xyros couldn't shake the feeling that this journey was leading him toward something else entirely. Something much deeper.

Scleritas’ cryptic words had become a persistent echo in his mind, like a prayer he couldn't forget, even if he didn’t fully understand it. The enigmatic creature’s insights confusing, painful to hear, but Xyros sensed that there was a kernel of truth buried within them. He could feel it, deep in his bones, a pull he couldn’t resist. Something in him refused to deny it.

It was like a shadow of a belief he hadn’t known he carried—something old, something tied to the very essence of his being. Scleritas spoke of a legacy, of power and bloodlines that ran deeper than the surface of things. And though Xyros couldn’t yet make sense of it all, something in him—something primal and ancient in his blood—resonated with those words.

There was a divine influence in all of this, something that tugged at the strings of fate, something that whispered to him in his quieter moments. It wasn’t overt—didn't shout or scream like the fiery rhetoric of priests or the desperate prayers of the lost—but it lingered. A subtle feeling of being guided, as though the hands of some force were subtly shaping his journey, nudging him forward.

Xyros shook his head, as if trying to clear away the heavy fog that surrounded his thoughts. He wasn’t sure if it was a divine hand at work, or if it was simply the shadows of his own mind playing tricks on him. But what he did know was that these feelings—the memories, the whispers, the sense of being on the cusp of something greater—were becoming harder and harder to ignore.

The truth of his past, whatever it was, was waking up. And it scared him.

What was he becoming? Was this journey just about removing the tadpole, or was there something larger at play? Was his path leading him to something more, something that connected him to the world in a way he couldn't yet fathom?

As these questions churned in his mind, he couldn’t escape the idea that, perhaps, he wasn’t alone in this. Perhaps the divine was walking with him, or perhaps it was the echoes of his own past—memories that longed to be remembered, truths that wanted to break free.

The world beyond his tent was still and silent. Xyros closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his thoughts, the uncertainty that now defined his very existence. His hands trembled slightly as they curled into fists. He didn’t know where this path would lead him, where the tadpole, the absolute, Bhaal, would led him, but one thing was certain—he could no longer lie to himself.

The pieces of his past were returning. Slowly, surely, like the reluctant return of a god’s favor, and whether he was ready or not, they were reshaping him into something new.

And in the back of his mind, a thought whispered, as if coming from deep within his very soul: You were always meant for more.

His mind was heavy with thoughts he didn’t want to confront, thoughts that circled him like vultures waiting for the moment of weakness. Those whispers in his mind meant something, he had been someone once. Someone powerful. Someone who held sway over others with just a glance, a whisper. It felt distant now, like the memory of a life that belonged to someone else. He couldn’t quite grasp the details—his origins were shrouded in darkness—but he knew the essence of who he had been. He had been dangerous, influential, feared. And though he would never call himself evil, Xyros could not deny the darkness that had defined him. He had been far from good, and there were moments when the shadows of that life still called to him, pulling at the edges of his conscience.

There was a part of him that wanted to claim redemption, to walk away from the bloodshed and violence that had been a constant in his life. But then there was the other side—the part of him that reveled in the chaos, that found satisfaction in the destruction of others. It was too easy, too natural. Killing was instinct for him now, like drawing breath or taking a step.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hesitate. His hand certain, steady. It never faltered. The blade, the magic—it came with ease. And worst of all, there was a part of him that enjoyed it. The satisfaction of seeing the life drain from another, the power that surged through him when he took control of another’s fate—it was intoxicating. It made him feel alive.

But the deeper Xyros sank into this abyss, the more troubling it became. What disturbed him most were the moments when killing felt like nothing at all. When the world went quiet, his senses dulled, and he acted without purpose or reason. He didn’t want to kill them, but it was as though his hands moved of their own accord. He could feel himself slip away, his body operating on autopilot, while his mind watched from a distance, powerless to stop it.

He had felt it with Alfira. Her face had been etched into his memory, a face he had not meant to harm, but in the moment, he had. The coldness of her eyes, the desperate gasps for breath as life left her—it had haunted him. And then there was Araj Oblodra, a drow he hadn’t meant to kill. A wrong turn, a moment of misplaced rage, and before he knew it, the deed was done. The weight of those deaths lingered, clinging to him like a shroud. He felt it in his bones—the hollow emptiness that came after each kill. The disconnection. The void.

It was the loss of control that bothered him most. Xyros didn’t mind chaos when he was the one pulling the strings, when he was the one guiding the madness. But to be swept away in it, to be nothing more than a puppet in a world he could no longer understand—that was something he could not abide. It was a feeling he couldn't put into words, a deep-rooted frustration that simmered within him, gnawing at his insides.

He craved chaos, but it had to be on his terms. He was the one who made the rules, the one who decided who lived and who died. Not the world, not fate, not the fickle whims of the gods. No, Xyros wanted to be the hand that shaped his destiny, not the pawn that moved along a predetermined path.

And yet, he was haunted by the idea that perhaps he had never been the one in control at all. Perhaps it had always been something greater, something divine, guiding his every step. His father Bhaal. for what scleritas had suggested. He had long rejected the concept of gods, he didn’t have a concept of them to begin with, everything shaped on the encounters he has had so far—deities who were as fickle as they were powerful, whose hands shaped the world in ways that made no sense to him. But there was, lately, a strange unease settling over him, as though he were being watched, as though there were eyes upon him that he could never quite see. It was a sensation that crept into his thoughts, like the soft whisper of a prayer murmured just outside his hearing.

Was it the gods who had shaped him into this? Had they made him a weapon, a tool of destruction to wield as they saw fit? The thought made his stomach churn, but there was something almost comforting about it. If he was chosen, if there was a purpose to this violence, it would explain the emptiness. Perhaps it wasn’t his fault. Perhaps he was just fulfilling a role, playing his part in the grand design of things.

But even as the thought flickered through his mind, he rejected it. He refused to be a pawn in anyone’s game, to let some distant force pull the strings of his existence. He had been in control once, and he would be again.

The flickering flame cast long shadows on the ground, flickers of light that danced and twisted like the shapes in his mind. For a moment, he let his guard down and allowed himself to wonder—what if there was something more? What if the gods had been there all along, watching, guiding, molding him into something greater? What if all of this—the violence, the chaos, the disconnection—was part of something divine? He had been powerful before, after all. Powerful enough to be chosen, perhaps.

But no. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself believe that. The emptiness he felt after each death was proof enough that he had lost control, and he would fight to reclaim it.

He clenched his fists, the anger rising once again—an anger born of frustration, of fear, and of the knowledge that he didn’t truly know who he was, or what he was becoming. There was only one thing he knew for certain: whatever divine hand had shaped him, whatever plans had been set in motion long before his birth, he would not be their instrument.

Not anymore.

The night grew colder as Xyros stared into the empty walls of his tent, his thoughts tumbling like the embers falling from the flames. The questions would not stop. The memories would not rest. But as long as he could hold onto the illusion of control, as long as he could keep the puppet strings from taking hold, he would fight to the end.

In the stillness of the night, he heard a faint whisper in the back of his mind— I know, love. But you are not alone in this.

Xyros’ relationship with death was anything but simple. It was not just an act, not merely the slashing of a blade or the incantation of a spell; it was a complex web of satisfaction, emptiness, and confusion. At times, killing felt like a release—a strange sort of peace washed over him as the life drained from another. The weight of the world would lift, if only momentarily, as he stood amidst the ruins, his hands slick with the proof of his power. It was an odd comfort, a return to something familiar, like the coolness of the stone floor beneath his bare feet, the hum of latent magic pulsing in the air.

In those moments, it was as if the act itself quieted the storm of voices in his head, allowing him a fragile clarity. Memories, fragments he had long since lost, would bubble to the surface like forgotten whispers, haunting but revealing. A glimpse of a face—a woman, perhaps his mother, though the details were blurred, but there was always the constant of everything being stained crimson. A sense of belonging to a time, to a place, that no longer existed. These fleeting moments of lucidity were both a blessing and a curse. They reminded him of a past he could not remember, of the kind of person he had been.

But it wasn’t just the echoes of his past that troubled him. There were the voices. Soft, insidious whispers that crept through the cracks in his mind, seeping into his thoughts like poison. His companions, in their ever-growing concern for him, blamed the tadpole, that insidious little parasite that had latched onto their minds, twisting and corrupting. But Xyros knew better. The voices had been with him far longer than the tadpole. They were not the product of some alien influence; they were a part of him, as much a part of his essence as his magic or the blood that ran through his veins.

Most of the time, they spoke in a language of malice, urging him toward acts of violence, pushing him to cross lines he never thought he would. They promised power, control, freedom from the chains of his memories and his guilt. But when the chaos settled, when the blood had dried on his hands and the silence crept back in, they would leave him with an unsettling emptiness. In those moments, he would wonder if they were merely a reflection of his own desires, a twisted manifestation of his dark nature.

And yet, there were times—rare, fleeting times—when the voices weren’t urging him to kill. Instead, they whispered secrets, tiny fragments of truth that he could barely grasp. They spoke of the man he used to be, fragments of his past hidden in the corners of his mind, waiting to be pieced together. It was as if they were guiding him, like the faintest whisper of a forgotten prayer. The idea unsettled him, and yet, in some strange way, it brought him a small measure of comfort.

He wasn’t alone in this, not really. The voices were a twisted sort of company, companions of a darker nature, but still companions. They helped him sift through the wreckage of his fractured memories, offering glimpses of what was lost to him. Perhaps they weren’t all bad—just as death, in its many forms, wasn’t entirely evil.

Then there was Astarion.

Xyros had never been one to shy away from physical desire. He had used and been used in his time, bedding whoever struck his fancy, without care or attachment. His relationships had been nothing more than fleeting moments of pleasure, distractions from the chaos within. He had taken lovers on whims, chasing the thrill of conquest, the heat of the moment, without ever stopping to consider the consequences. He used to love the most basic meaning of the word debauchery. The sins he might have commited. The sweaty piles of bodies, images flashing behind his eyes, moving in sync bringing pleasure, and then after, those same bodies piling up one into another discarted, unmoving, eviscerated.

But Astarion was different. From the moment they met, Xyros had felt something stir within him—something deeper than lust, something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the vampire’s beauty, his allure, though that was undeniable. It was something more, something hidden beneath the surface. Astarion was a mirror, reflecting parts of Xyros that he had long since buried, parts that were now rising to the surface with each passing day.

At first, it had been easy to brush it off. They had shared plenty of physical encounters, moments of heated passion that had sated the more primal parts of his nature. But now, as the days passed, Xyros found himself thinking of Astarion when he wasn’t around, wondering what lay beneath the seductive facade. He wanted to know the man behind the sharp grin, the man who hid his pain beneath layers of mockery and arrogance.

For the first time in a long while, Xyros found himself drawn to someone for reasons that went beyond the physical. It wasn’t just about the bed—though that, too, had its place in their growing connection. No, it was about something more subtle, something deeper. There was an understanding between them, a bond that neither of them had asked for, but that seemed to grow stronger with each passing day.

It was in the way Astarion looked at him sometimes, as if he could see something Xyros himself couldn’t. There were moments when their eyes met across the campfire, when the air seemed to thrum with an energy that neither of them could ignore. The pull between them was undeniable, and yet, Xyros wasn’t sure if it was something he wanted. He had spent so much of his life pushing people away, embracing the isolation that came with power and control.

And now, with Astarion, he was being pulled in a direction he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

The voices in his mind whispered louder now, urging him to give in, to embrace this strange connection. But Xyros hesitated, unsure. He didn’t know if this was another part of the chaos he had craved all his life or another trap, another puppet string waiting to ensnare him.

He realized that the voices had fallen silent for once, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He thought of Astarion again, of the strange warmth he had begun to feel in the vampire’s presence. There was no clarity, no answers—only the growing sense that whatever was happening between them, it was something he could no longer ignore.

Maybe, just maybe, the darkness within him wasn’t all he was. Maybe there was something more waiting to be discovered, something that had been buried for far too long.

And if it was, maybe Astarion was the key to unlocking it.

Astarion had become more than just a passing attraction, more than the alluring creature who had captured his attention in the beginning. Xyros had been captivated by the vampire’s beauty, his sharp wit, his effortless charm. He had told himself it was nothing more than a physical infatuation, a fleeting desire, an itch to scratch. But as the days passed, as they fought side by side and spoke into the long hours of the night, Xyros began to feel the pull in a way that went far beyond skin-deep.

It was as if Astarion had unlocked something inside him, something buried beneath the weight of years, something that had been dormant for far too long. Astarion wasn’t just a body to share his bed with—he was a catalyst, a key that turned the lock to a past Xyros hadn’t even known he was seeking. The more time he spent with the vampire, the more memories began to stir, each one more terrifying than the last, each one carrying with it a strange comfort, a familiarity that Xyros couldn’t quite place.

One memory in particular had surfaced after the death of Araj Oblodra—bloody, chaotic, carnal. It had come crashing back with all the force of a tidal wave. Xyros had seen himself in the midst of a hedonistic, violent scene: bodies tangled in a blur of sweat, blood, and desire. He had been a part of it, undeniably, and he knew it had been his choice. The strange thing, though, was that he didn’t feel disgusted. He didn’t recoil. Instead, there was a spark of recognition, of belonging. It wasn’t the first time he’d lived through such a scene, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was something in him—something deep—that thrived in the chaos. But, as he sorted through the wreckage of that memory, Xyros realized that it was not just the physical act that haunted him. It was the acknowledgment that this was who he had once been, a man of impulse, a creature of destruction.

And yet, here he was, tethered to Astarion in a way he hadn’t expected.

At first, Xyros had tried to push those feelings aside. He had promised himself—sworn it—that he would not get caught in the net of emotions. Astarion was nothing more than a diversion, a distraction from the endless chaos of his mind.

Xyros found himself thinking about Astarion when he wasn’t around, wanting more than just the heat of their physical encounters. Astarion had become the mirror Xyros had been avoiding for so long, reflecting pieces of himself that he wasn’t ready to see. He didn’t know if it was love, or if it was just another dangerous game he was playing, but the feeling lingered. And as the days turned into weeks, it became harder to deny.

The aftermath of Araj Oblodra’s death had been a tipping point. As the blood had dried and the body had cooled, something inside Xyros had shifted. The haze of violence had faded, leaving behind only the sharp sting of realization. As he clung to Astarion, seeking something—anything—to steady himself, his mind had begun to unravel the tangled mess of forgotten memories.

There, in the dark recesses of his mind, a face had emerged. A soft, freckled face with the most enchanting purple eyes he had ever seen. Miz. Miz’ri. Her name echoed through his mind like a prayer he hadn’t known he remembered.

Miz had been his first love, the one who had captured his heart with a ferocity that he could never quite explain. She had been everything to him: tender, passionate, wild. She had been his one true connection. He could remember her laugh, the way she smelled, the feel of her freckled skin beneath his fingers. She had been his anchor in a world that had constantly tried to pull him under.

But she was gone now. And with her, a part of Xyros had died, leaving only a hollow, aching void.

The more he thought about Miz, the more he found himself torn. He hated the memories of her, hated how they seemed to cling to him like a shroud. And yet, deep down, he couldn’t help but treasure them. They were all he had left of her, and in that treasuring, there was pain.

And now, Astarion. Now, with Astarion, there was a new kind of longing, one that unsettled him in ways that he didn’t fully understand.

The bond between them had started with something carnal, something easy to dismiss, something that hadn’t required any effort. But now, it was becoming more. The way Astarion’s words lingered in his mind long after they had spoken them, the way his touch felt like a tether that Xyros couldn’t break. He couldn’t ignore it anymore, this pull between them, this thing that he couldn’t name.

But as much as Xyros wanted to give in to it, there was a part of him that recoiled in fear. His memories of Miz were still too fresh, still too painful. And the more he allowed himself to feel for Astarion, the more he feared the consequences.

In his mind, a sharp, desperate thought pierced through: he wanted to carve his heart out. He wanted to rip it from his chest, throw it to the dogs to eat, anything to escape this agony of feeling. He had known violence, destruction, chaos—those were familiar. But this, this longing, was something else entirely. It felt like weakness. It felt confusing.

And yet, the more he resisted, the more it consumed him.

When Miz ended their relationship, Xyros had been standing on the precipice of something unrecognizable—a future he had once believed to be so certain, so woven into the fabric of his life. Her words had come slowly, almost painfully, as though she were fighting against something just as heavy inside herself. "It’s not because I stopped loving you," she had said, her voice trembling as if each syllable took more effort than the last. She had told him that she wasn’t in the right mental state for a relationship, that she needed to find herself before she could give herself fully to anyone. The rawness of her confession had torn at him, and yet, in a strange way, he understood. Her pain mirrored his own, and her struggle felt like something he had always known, something buried deep within himself.

She told him she loved him with all her heart, and though the words should have been a balm to soothe the sting of her departure, they only deepened the wound. He had believed her, of course. How could he not? Miz had been the one constant in his life, the one person who had loved him not for what he could offer the world, but for who he was—flaws and all. She had seen him in his most vulnerable moments, and still, she had chosen to love him. Even now, her words clung to him like a sacred vow, an echo of something that no longer existed in the present.

But as much as he longed to hold onto that connection, he respected her wishes. He had learned long ago that sometimes love meant letting go, even when it hurt more than anything else. And so, he had let her go, though every fiber of his being screamed to fight for her, to hold on until the world fell apart around them.

In the beginning, they tried to stay close. Their conversations were awkward at first, filled with the remnants of a love that had once flourished, now wilting under the weight of separation. The attempts to remain friends only deepened his pain, each shared moment reminding him of what he had lost, each smile she gave him cutting deeper into his chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her in his life; it was that being near her made everything more unbearable. She was no longer his, and the ache of that reality settled into his bones like a cold, unyielding truth.

As time went on, life pulled them in different directions. The bond that had once felt so unbreakable began to fade, like smoke dissipating into the air. And yet, no matter how much time passed, no matter how many new faces entered his life, the hurt never quite faded. Every time Xyros thought of her, that familiar ache bloomed in his chest again, a ghostly reminder of a love that once consumed him completely.

He knew he could love again. He could, without a doubt, fall in love deeply and fiercely, just as he had with her. But even so, he knew that part of his heart would always belong to Miz. That was a truth he would carry with him for the rest of his life. He would never leave someone new for her, not even if she came back, asking for him. That chapter, as painful as it was, was closed. It had to be. The world had moved on, and so had he. But the love he had for her didn’t feel like a burden or a chain—it was a bittersweet reminder of something pure, something he had once had and lost. It wasn’t something that shackled him to the past, but rather a quiet part of him, a piece of his soul that would always hold her, even from a distance.

Xyros had healed in the sense that he could breathe again, could function without the constant ache of her absence threatening to swallow him whole. He had moved forward, embracing the chaos and destruction that had always been part of him. But there was a quiet, unspoken truth buried within him, something he didn’t often acknowledge, even to himself. Every so often, when the world was still and his thoughts turned inward, he could feel her presence there, tucked away in the darkest corners of his mind, just out of reach but never entirely gone. And in those moments, he realized that, despite everything, a small part of him still loved her.

It wasn’t a love that threatened to undo everything he had fought for, but it was there, in the quiet spaces between breaths, in the places he couldn’t quite touch but knew were always present. It was as if the gods themselves had woven it into the fabric of his being, an unchangeable part of who he was.

And so, now that the memories of her resurfaced, the ache flared up again, Xyros didn’t fight it. He didn’t try to bury it beneath layers of chaos and violence. Instead, he let it exist, a quiet echo in the back of his mind, a reminder of the love he had once shared and the price he had paid for it. It was his—his memory, his scar, his gift. And in the end, it was enough. It was finally a part of him, a part of who he was. Returning to him, something he didn't know was lost and missing.

Xyros felt his mind teetering on the edge of something dark, something beyond his control, unwillingly pulled toward memories that had long dissappeared. His psyche, already fragmented and raw from the chaos of his past, seemed to crack further with each passing day. In the wreckage of his fractured memories, only a few truths remained—those sharp, jagged fragments of himself that still had the power to dominate his thoughts. His dark urges, like a constant whisper in the back of his mind, called him toward bloodshed, a hunger that never truly dulled. And, of course, there was Astarion.

Astarion. Every thought of him seemed to draw Xyros deeper into the vortex of his own memories, unlocking things he had long tried to forget. Miz. Her name echoed like a bell struck in the distant dark, reverberating through his mind. The vividness of the memory—the feel of her soft skin against his, the tenderness of their love—came flooding back. And just as quickly as it arrived, the emptiness followed. His heart wrenched in two, as it always did when he thought of her, he knew that now. A painful reminder of something he had lost, a piece of himself that was forever tangled with her.

For a brief moment, the flood of memories left him lost, adrift in the current of his own pain. But at least this time, he had not lost himself completely. This time, it was only in his mind, not in the carnage of his hands. That was the only solace he allowed himself.

He had tried to move beyond the chaos, beyond the violence that so easily overtook him, but there were moments when he needed a reprieve. A moment to breathe, to think. The weight of his desires, both destructive and romantic, clashed inside him. He wanted something real—something pure. But the very thought of love, of truly opening himself to someone, terrified him.

What was the point of love when it could so easily be shattered. He had loved Miz once—deeply, fiercely—and for a time, he had believed that love was something invincible, something unbreakable. But that belief had crumbled the moment she left. He had known that they had loved each other, but life had gotten in the way. Forces outside their control had wrenched them apart, leaving them both hollow.

The cruelest part of it all was the realization that no matter how real love is, it’s not invincible. It isn’t some divine, unyielding force that can withstand the trials of life. Even love as pure and passionate as what he had shared with Miz wasn’t enough to stand against the whims of fate. The idea had shattered him. There was no promise of forever, not even for soulmates, if such a thing existed. Love, in all its beauty, could be taken just as easily as it was given. And for someone like him, someone who had already suffered too many losses, the thought of risking his heart again felt like an unbearable weight.

Xyros’s mind wandered to the question that had plagued him for so long: Was he strong enough to love again? Even if he wanted to, even if the desire burned in him like a fever, was he truly capable of enduring the agony of loss once more? Could he truly open himself to another person, knowing that no matter how deep the love, it might not be enough?

It was a harsh realization, one that felt as though it had been branded into his soul. Love, no matter how beautiful, could never be guaranteed to last. It was a fragile thing, easily broken by the cruel forces of the world. Xyros was slowly beginning to understand that love was a gift, but it was also a curse. It was something that could elevate the soul, but just as easily bring it to its knees.

He had always struggled with the concept of divinity. The gods seemed so far removed from the pain and chaos of the world, as if they watched from a distance, cold and indifferent to the struggles of those below. The gods of his past—Bhaal, mostly—had used him, twisted him into a tool of violence. And now, even the smallest spark of what he could consider faith felt like a betrayal to himself. But there was still something in him, some faint trace of belief, that gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the same thing that had made him seek something real, despite the bitterness of his past. A hunger for connection, for meaning in a world that felt like it had none.

He couldn't shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, love—true love—was something divine in itself. Something that transcended the fragility of the human condition, even if it was fleeting. But the question remained. Even if he was strong enough he didn’t know if that love would be enough to heal the wounds that had been carved into him, or if it would only add to the scars that already marred his soul.

Xyros closed his eyes, feeling the weight of his thoughts. There was no answer. Not yet. But something inside him whispered, a quiet, almost imperceptible voice—a prayer, perhaps—to the forces that had shaped his life. A prayer for strength. For redemption. For love that could endure the storms of his own making.

But the answer, as always, remained just out of reach.

Xyros sat motionless, his eyes locked on the drab walls of his tent as though they might somehow provide clarity. The flickering candlelight cast restless shadows that seemed to dance in the corners of his mind, teasing out the doubts that gnawed at him. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, each one tangled with the next, some lingering longer than they should. He could feel the weight of his past pulling at him, a constant pressure that never quite allowed him to breathe. The echoes of violence, the aching memories of lost love, the knowledge that something inside him was broken—it was all there, threatening to spill over. He had been trying to make sense of it all, but the answers seemed as elusive as the stars, hidden behind the thick clouds of his own self-doubt.

The silence was broken by the softest of footsteps, the kind that barely disturbed the air. Xyros didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Astarion’s presence had a way of slipping into a room like a whisper—silent, but all-encompassing.

Astarion stood in the doorway for a moment, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips, before stepping forward. He extended a flask of water and a plate of food, the simple gesture something Xyros had grown accustomed to. Xyros tried to return the smile, but he knew it was a poor imitation, a mask barely held together by a thread of weariness.

For a long beat, Astarion didn’t move, his gaze fixed on Xyros. There was something in his eyes—something that lingered, unspoken, as though he could sense the storm inside Xyros. And Xyros felt it too, the weight of it—the knowledge that there was something more, something Astarion wasn’t saying, something both wanted to understand but neither dared to speak. The words were there, on the tip of Astarion’s tongue, but he swallowed them, like a prayer too dangerous to voice aloud.

Then, as if deciding against whatever it was he had almost said, Astarion began to turn toward the exit.

"Stay."

The word slipped from Xyros’ lips before he could stop it, a low murmur that seemed to hang in the air, vibrating with unspoken need. His gaze never left the wall, the distance between him and Astarion a physical thing that he didn’t know how to bridge. But that simple plea—so soft, so reluctant—was an invitation, one that felt more like a desperate prayer than a command.

Astarion paused. For a moment, Xyros thought he might turn away, that the fragile thread of connection would snap, leaving him alone again in the chaos of his own mind. But then, after a soft sigh, Astarion returned, his steps slow but deliberate. He settled beside Xyros on the tangle of blankets that made up his bed. The movement was gentle, careful, as though Astarion, too, was walking on fragile ground, afraid of disturbing whatever tenuous peace had settled between them.

Xyros didn’t look at him, not at first. He couldn’t bring himself to do it—not with the storm still raging within him. But the presence of Astarion beside him was a quiet balm, one that eased the ache in his chest just a little. They didn’t speak immediately. The silence between them was comfortable, oddly soothing.

The smell of the food, simple as it was, filled the air, and Xyros’s stomach growled—loudly, embarrassingly so. He reached for the plate of food, but his hand faltered, hovering above it as his thoughts wandered once again. His mind wasn’t on the food, nor was it even on Astarion, not entirely. It was on everything else—the storm of emotions that churned within him, the fear of what he might feel for this vampire, the doubt that plagued him like a dark presence lurking just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to feel for Astarion. No, that much was clear. The way his heart quickened when Astarion was near, the subtle pull he felt when their eyes met—it was undeniable. But Xyros had learned that desire, that longing, could be a dangerous thing. Love had cost him before, and even the most fleeting affection had the power to burn him to the core.

Here he was, sitting beside someone who seemed to ignite the very feelings he feared, someone who could very well become the next source of his heartache. Astarion, with all his charm and mystery, was a mirror to everything Xyros had lost.

Yet, despite all of this, Xyros found himself strangely comforted by Astarion’s presence. Perhaps it was the gentle weight of his body beside him, but something about it felt sacred. Not in a religious sense—not in the way his past had twisted the idea of divinity into something painful and consuming—but in a way that made him feel less alone in the vast expanse of his thoughts.

Xyros closed his eyes, leaning back against the worn cot. In the quiet, he let his thoughts wander again, this time allowing them to drift toward Astarion, toward the connection that seemed to pulse between them, like a flickering light in the darkness. He didn’t know what this was, or where it might lead, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to push it away.

Maybe it was okay to let himself feel this, even if it was only for a moment. The gods, after all, were silent, and fate had its own cruel sense of humor. But in that moment, the silence was enough. And that, perhaps, was the greatest prayer of all.

Xyros sat hunched over, his body leaning against the worn fabric of the tent as if it might provide some kind of support, though the weight of his own exhaustion bore down on him like an unrelenting tide. His thoughts spun in dizzying circles—too many questions, too many doubts, too much history that weighed on his chest like an iron chain. He was tired. The kind of tired that went beyond physical fatigue and seeped deep into his very soul. He didn’t want to think anymore. He didn’t want to feel anymore. But the storm inside him—those incessant, gnawing thoughts—refused to stop. They clawed at him from within, always present, always there, even when he tried to block them out.

It was a helpless sort of exhaustion, one that gnawed at him from every corner. He knew better than to indulge in self-pity, but even so, he couldn’t stop himself from sinking deeper into the mire of his own thoughts. The weight of the past clung to him like a shadow, always following, always reminding him of what he had lost, what he couldn’t control.

Yet, despite all of it, there was something about Astarion’s presence that made it a little easier. A little lighter. It was a strange, unspoken solace, as if Astarion were a quiet balm to the jagged edges of his pain. The vampire’s presence didn’t solve anything, but it gave Xyros a small reprieve—a momentary escape from the tempest that churned inside him. It was more than he had expected, more than he had asked for.

Xyros let his head fall back against the cot, his limbs heavy and uncooperative. His body ached, every muscle strained from the tension of the battle within himself, but it was the mental fatigue that truly wore him down. His mind felt like a twisted maze, one with no end in sight. He couldn’t even bring himself to care about the defenses he had carefully built—those walls he had crafted to keep the world at bay. It was too much effort to maintain them now. Too much effort to keep pretending he had it all together when, deep down, he knew he didn’t.

And then, just as if the universe had decided to offer him a moment of peace, Astarion’s hand brushed against his. The contact was light, fleeting, yet it was enough to unravel Xyros in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He felt a shiver run through him, the touch sending a strange, electric sensation coursing through his body, almost as though it were calling him to surrender—to stop resisting, to stop fighting.

Slowly, almost as if in a daze, Xyros let himself lie down. He didn’t think about it, didn’t question it—he simply did it. His head found its place in Astarion’s lap, the warmth of his body a soothing contrast to the coldness that had clung to him for so long.

Astarion’s body stiffened, and for a brief second, Xyros thought he might pull away, might question what was happening between them. But the hesitation didn’t last long. Astarion’s hands hovered uncertainly in the air for a moment, as if unsure of what to do, but then, Astarion’s fingers finally settled on Xyros’ hair.

It was a small gesture, almost absent in its simplicity, but it felt monumental in that moment. Astarion’s touch was delicate, like he was handling something fragile, something precious. His fingers worked through Xyros’ hair, threading through the marble strands in a rhythm that was surprisingly gentle—soothing, even. Xyros closed his eyes, feeling the steady, methodical motion of Astarion’s hands, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to relax. The tension, the fear, the weight of everything that had been holding him captive—it all began to melt away.

The silence between them stretched on, comfortable, unhurried. It was the kind of silence that could be felt—like a presence in itself. The world outside seemed to fade into oblivion, as though it no longer mattered, as if it no longer existed at all. There was only the chill of Astarion’s hand, the softness of the blankets, and the steady rhythm of breath. The chaotic mess of thoughts that had plagued Xyros' mind for so long began to recede, their constant clamor reduced to whispers in the background, too distant to be heard.

And for a fleeting moment, Xyros felt at peace. Not because he had solved any of his problems, not because the pain was gone—but because, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t need to fight. There was no need to think, no need to question, no need to feel guilty for the feelings he couldn’t control. He simply existed, in the warmth of this moment, and it was enough.

Xyros’ eyelids fluttered as exhaustion weighed down on him, a heavy blanket that seemed to wrap itself tighter with each passing second. It was a rare moment for him—a moment of vulnerability, when sleep nearly overtook him. Meditation was usually enough to calm his mind, to still the restless ache that pulsed through him day and night. But tonight, the weariness was too much, the physical and emotional exhaustion pushing him closer to the edge of surrender. The pull of sleep was slow, almost reluctant, like a gentle current that promised to carry him away from the current of his thoughts.

He was almost dozing off when Xyros noticed the change in the air, his brow furrowed slightly, a small disturbance in the calm that had enveloped him. He didn’t need to open his eyes to sense the change. He didn’t even have to think about it. Astarion’s breathing—it was different now.

There was something off, something jagged in the rhythm of Astarion’s inhalations and exhalations. The breath didn’t come easily. It hitched, paused, then resumed, as though something was being held back. Xyros could hear it, even feel it, the way it seemed to hang in the air around them. It was an uneven, almost frantic pattern—a stark contrast to the usual calm.

Xyros’ mind sharpened, that lingering haze of sleep dissipating like smoke in the wind. He knew Astarion didn’t need to breathe. He knew the vampire could go on for hours without taking a single breath if he chose to. Yet, despite his immortality, Astarion often mimicked the act, as if to blend in with the human world that constantly reminded him of his separation from it. But this—this was different.

Astarion would hold his breath for a moment, as though the very act of inhaling might give away a secret. Then, as if realizing the thought was foolish, he’d exhale, letting the silence stretch out between them again. But it was never quite as still as before. The quiet felt strained.

Xyros’ frustration flared up, though it wasn’t the usual anger that he carried so easily. No, this was something different—something softer, but still persistent. The silence was starting to get under his skin, tugging at him, drawing him away from the peace he had been slipping toward. It wasn’t exactly annoyance, though it felt close. It was more like a strange irritation at the tension in the air, at the way Astarion’s uncertainty seemed to spill over into the space. Xyros had learned over time that Astarion would always—always—let him know what was on his mind when it was important. No matter the hour, no matter how difficult the conversation might be, Astarion would speak. He had always done so, never hesitating to voice his thoughts when they were truly needed.

And yet, tonight, Astarion was holding back, keeping something just out of reach.

Xyros’ lips parted slightly, as if to break the silence himself, but then he paused. His gaze remained fixed on the way Astarion’s chest rose and fell, the subtle movement betraying something hidden beneath the surface. It was a simple thing, but it made him wonder. He had seen Astarion’s strength before—the mask he wore, the quiet confidence that often cloaked his true thoughts. But this hesitation, this uncertainty, it tugged at something inside Xyros.

Astarion knew better than to hide anything from him. Xyros had given him that unspoken assurance long ago, the understanding that no matter what was on his mind—no matter how dark or twisted the thought—Xyros would listen. He always would.

It was both irritating and endearing. The vampire’s attempt to be considerate, to hold back, struck a chord with Xyros. It wasn’t typical of Astarion to be so cautious with him. And yet, there it was, the very thing Xyros was both drawn to and repelled by. Astarion’s hesitance felt almost like a fragility that he didn’t often show. It wasn’t a weakness, Xyros knew that much. No, it was something far more human.

A slow breath escaped Xyros’ lips as he turned his head, his gaze meeting Astarion’s for the first time since they had settled into the quiet. He didn’t need words to express what he was feeling—he simply waited, his eyes steady, expectant.

"Say it," he murmured, his voice low, a command wrapped in a question. "Whatever it is, say it."

There was a long moment of silence—then Astarion’s gaze softened, just for a heartbeat. The walls around him, ever so carefully constructed, seemed to crack ever so slightly.

With a soft, almost reluctant sigh, Xyros cracked one eye open. His body felt heavy with the pull of sleep, but his mind, still tethered to the quiet weight of exhaustion, resisted letting go. He blinked, the blur of the world slowly sharpening as the edges of his reality swirled into focus. His voice, groggy and low, slurred around the words as he spoke.

"Astarion," Xyros murmured, his words soft and tired, nearly breathless, "what’s wrong?"

The words cut through the stillness like a scream in the night, sharp and uninvited. He didn’t mean to make Astarion flinch, but the response was immediate. Astarion stiffened, a tiny gasp escaping him as though he hadn’t expected to be caught off guard.

"Nothing, darling. Just rest," Astarion replied, the words slipping out too quickly, accompanied by a forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that looked too practiced, too hollow, and the slight twitch at the corner of Astarion’s mouth betrayed the falseness of it. Xyros felt the flicker of annoyance stirring inside him. He wasn’t a fool.

Shifting with deliberate slowness, Xyros pushed himself up from where he had been resting in Astarion’s lap. His muscles ached with the effort, his body still sore, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the gnawing curiosity settling in his chest. He needed to know, needed to understand what was troubling Astarion. He needed to know what he was hiding behind that smile.

He sat up, facing Astarion now, his gaze intense. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. His tone was more insistent this time, the irritation creeping into his voice, though he tried to keep it measured.

"What’s on your mind?" Xyros asked, his words steady but pointed. "Something’s troubling you."

Astarion’s eyes flickered to his, a brief flash of hesitation passing over his features. For a moment, Xyros thought the vampire would simply lie, hide the truth from him. But then, to his surprise, Astarion’s expression softened. The guarded walls he had so carefully built around himself seemed to crack, just a little, and Xyros caught a glimpse of something—vulnerability, maybe, or fear—before it was quickly tucked away behind the mask of the charming, composed vampire.

Astarion’s voice was slower now, measured, as if choosing his words carefully. But there was an honesty in the way he spoke, a sincerity that Xyros hadn’t expected.

“I…” Astarion hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before meeting Xyros’ eyes again. “I wanted to thank you.”

Xyros blinked, confusion flickering across his face. He wasn’t sure if he’d heard that right. He was the one who should be grateful, not Astarion. His mind raced for an explanation, but it was Astarion who continued, eager to explain himself.

“For what you said when I was facing that vile drow… and for what you did afterwards,” Astarion’s hand moved in a vague gesture, as if he couldn’t find the words to express the depth of his feelings. "I spent two hundred years... using my body to lure people back for my master. What I wanted, how I felt about it… it never mattered." His voice faltered, just a moment, as though the weight of those memories, the cruel past, pressed down on him. "You could’ve asked me to do the same. To throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned." A bitter laugh slipped from him, but it was soft, almost lost in the silence of the tent. "But you didn’t. And I’m… grateful."

Xyros sat there, the flickering shadows of the tent walls dancing in the dim light as his thoughts spiraled. His mind felt like it was caught in a whirlwind of confusion, trying to make sense of Astarion’s words, his gratitude, and the undercurrent of something darker that seemed to lurk beneath them. Xyros had never been one to shy away from his own discomfort, but this, this was different.

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,” Xyros said, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. He was trying to make sense of Astarion’s complicated feelings, trying to decipher the weight that rested between them. It felt strange, this unexpected gratitude from Astarion. Xyros had always been the one to fight against being controlled, to carve out his own path, and now, Astarion was thanking him for not pushing him into something he hadn’t wanted.

Astarion’s response was quiet but laced with a bitterness that made Xyros’s stomach tighten. "It’s a novel concept, I admit," Astarion said, the words almost mocking, as if the idea of freedom—of choice—was something foreign to him. "And a little intimidating."

Xyros’s heart twisted at the bitterness in Astarion’s voice. He could understand the weight behind it—Astarion had spent so long in chains, in servitude, that freedom must have felt like a strange, overwhelming thing. But Xyros couldn’t help the flicker of frustration that sparked within him.

"Astarion, I think it’s pretty clear where I stand on body autonomy," Xyros replied, his words more forceful than he intended. He wasn’t angry, not really, but something about Astarion’s reaction, his inability to fully grasp the significance of his own agency, gnawed at him. Xyros was fighting too hard for his own freedom to stand by and watch Astarion belittle his choices as though they meant nothing.

But Astarion wasn’t really listening anymore. His eyes were distant, his gaze unfocused as he slipped further into his thoughts. The walls of the tent seemed to close in, the air growing thick with the weight of his monologue, and Xyros could see the struggle etched into Astarion’s features.

“It would’ve been so easy to bite her,” Astarion muttered, his voice carrying a dark edge, as though he was speaking to himself more than to Xyros. "To just do what I was told. A moment of disgust to push myself through, and I could’ve kept going just like before” His voice wavered, and Xyros could hear the desperation buried beneath the words, a hint of self-loathing in the tone.

Xyros’s chest tightened, his breath catching for a moment. He understood the impulse, the simplicity of just giving in to what was expected of him, of following the familiar, even if it was painful. But hearing Astarion say it like that, it twisted something inside of Xyros, something raw and protective.

“That would’ve been wrong,” Xyros interjected firmly, his words cutting through the air like a sharp blade. His voice was low but resolute, a quiet force that left no room for argument. He didn’t know exactly where Astarion was going with this, but Xyros couldn’t stand by and let him keep belittling himself like this. He refused to let Astarion think that his past—those horrors he had been forced to endure—were somehow the price of his worth.

“Astarion,” Xyros murmured, his voice soft but unwavering. His gaze held steady, cutting through the tension between them, a force that held more weight than any harsh word or grand gesture. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to yourself. You deserve more than that. You always have.”

The words hung in the air, but Astarion didn’t respond right away. His silence spoke louder than any retort or dismissal could ever have. Xyros could feel the rawness of Astarion’s internal battle, a war fought deep inside him, and yet, in this silence, Xyros hoped—no, prayed—that somewhere, deep down, Astarion was beginning to hear the truth in his words. That, just for a moment, he might believe he was worth something more than what had been drilled into him over centuries of suffering.

Astarion’s voice raised again—heavy, laden with bitterness. “The entire reason for my existence was to seduce anything with a pulse.” His words cut through the air. His tone was thick with disdain, and the bitterness was so sharp, Xyros could almost feel it, like acid creeping under his skin. “And every instinct I have still tells me that nothing has changed. I’m still just a means to an end.”

Xyros felt a coldness settle in his chest at the words—horror trickling in like an unwanted chill. The thought of Astarion still tethered to that monstrous past, still viewing himself as nothing more than an object, something to be used, made Xyros’s stomach twist. He opened his mouth, ready to say something—anything—but the words stuck, refusing to form.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Astarion’s voice softened, though it still carried that weight, that burden, like a shadow he couldn’t shake off.

“You made me see that I’ve never stopped thinking like I was his slave,” The words slipped out, almost a confession. Astarion huffed, a frustrated sound that seemed to carry centuries of anger and self-loathing. “Even in freedom.” He drew in a sharp breath, as though steeling himself against something unseen. “But I’m more than that. I’m more than just a thing to be used.”

Xyros’s heart clenched, a raw ache tightening in his chest. The vulnerability in Astarion’s admission was so fragile, so real. He wanted to say something profound, something to lift that weight, but nothing felt adequate. He couldn’t find the right words to heal what had been broken in Astarion for so long. So, instead, he let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. Xyros didn’t think. His body moved on its own, driven by an impulse to bridge the gap between them. In one swift motion, he closed the distance. Astarion stumbled back, his breath catching at the sudden movement.

His breath came out in a whisper, so soft it could have been mistaken for a dream, but he meant it with everything in him. “I care about you,” Xyros murmured, the words almost lost in the space between them, but he couldn’t let them stay hidden any longer. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the confession. Some part of him had braced for the inevitable pullback, the awkwardness, the distance that usually followed such admissions. It was safer that way, to keep things light, to keep things at arm’s length.

Astarion tensed in his arms. For a heartbeat, Xyros felt the shift—the hesitation, the guarded silence that threatened to break through—but before it could, Astarion did the last thing Xyros expected. He closed the gap even further, as if some invisible thread between them had drawn him in. Astarion’s body pressed against him, his breath coming in soft, shaky waves against Xyros’s neck. The warmth of it seared through him, causing a shiver to run down his spine, but it wasn’t discomfort—it was something both thrilling and bittersweet.

Xyros felt Astarion’s breath hitch, a quiet exhale that seemed to release more than just air. It was a surrender, a letting go of something he had been holding onto for far too long. Xyros pulled back just slightly, enough to meet Astarion’s gaze, his heart pounding, an overwhelming mix of affection and something else he couldn’t quite place rising in his chest. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, one that felt both fragile and real. His scars pulled tight across his chin, his filed teeth scratching his lips, but it didn’t matter. The smile wasn’t for anyone else. It was for Astarion—only for him.

Astarion’s expression shifted, a brief flicker of disappointment passing across his face as the hug came to an end, however briefly. It was fleeting, like a shadow that didn’t quite belong, and it was gone almost as quickly as it had come. But then, then—Astarion’s smile softened. The edges of it, usually so carefully controlled, relaxed into something far more real than Xyros had ever seen.

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion’s voice was soft, rich with warmth, like honey melting on a summer day. The words lingered between them, the tenderness in his tone making Xyros feel as if the ground beneath him was shifting, melting into something unfamiliar. 

Astarion leaned in just a little closer, his presence so near that Xyros could feel the breath of him, a subtle chill that seemed to warm his very bones. “Honestly,” Astarion continued, his voice dropping even lower, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret only the two of them were meant to know, “I have no idea what we’re doing or what comes next. But I know that this, right here… this is nice.”

Without either of them realizing it, Astarion’s hands found Xyros’—fingers brushing first, then locking, an unspoken promise. The touch was solid, certain, a hold that didn’t waver. Xyros, still reeling from the strange comfort of Astarion’s words, felt his breath catch in his throat. He could see Astarion now—really see him—the intensity of his gaze pinning him in place, and suddenly the room felt smaller, the air heavier.

Those eyes, Astarion’s gaze was like a magnet, pulling Xyros in. They were dark, full of secrets and fire, but tonight there was something new there too—a rawness that seemed to tear at the edges of everything Xyros had known about him. In the depth of those eyes, Xyros saw something dangerous, something primal, and before he could stop it, a storm of thoughts swirled in his mind. Dark, jagged thoughts. He wanted to rip that smile off Astarion’s face, to tear through his chest and consume his heart—he wanted to feel it beat under his fingertips.

The chaos in his mind flared, sharp and insistent, but it wasn’t the kind of darkness he used to revel in. It was something new. Something alive. His heart, the one he thought had long since shriveled and died, was pounding now. Wild. Frantic. Reminding him that despite everything, despite all the violence and the shadows, he was still alive. He could still feel. He felt desperate, brimming with too many emotions.

The question, though quiet, left Xyros’ lips like a plea, raw with uncertainty: "Can I kiss you?"

Astarion lunged forward their lips crashing hard. It wasn’t gentle, nor was it controlled. It was messy, unrestrained—a collision of heat and urgency. Astarion’s lips were insistent, bruising in their hunger, and Xyros met him with equal force, a fierce, desperate passion that seemed to have no beginning or end. The kiss was a whirlwind, a storm in its own right, sending shockwaves through Xyros’s body. The taste of Astarion was all he could think about, intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

Everything else—the chaos in his mind, the confusion, the tension—faded into the background. The kiss was everything. It was a crack in the dam, a moment of clarity amid the darkness, a reminder that, for all the destruction inside him, he could still have this. He could still want this.

Astarion’s hands tightened around his, pulling him closer as if there was no space left between them, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Xyros didn’t feel the need to escape. He didn’t need to break free from this. In fact, he wanted more—more of Astarion’s heat, more of that raw, primal connection. And as the kiss deepened, Xyros felt something shift within him, something he didn’t want to name yet. Something that burned, bright and consuming.

He was caught between happiness and fear, the voices in his mind screaming, horrific and loud. Each one was a jagged edge, a distorted reflection of everything he had been through. Yet, amidst that cacophony, there was a stillness—something soothing, like the calm eye of a storm. It was a strange contrast, the chaotic noise of his inner world competing with this unexpected peace. A stillness that seemed to cut through the turbulence, like a sudden breath of cool air in the suffocating heat. He couldn't quite explain it, but in that moment, it felt like a fragile lifeline. A contradiction, yet it made everything feel a little brighter, a little less impossible.

If Astarion, with all his history, with the weight of his past—so heavy and broken—could be this sure, this confident, then maybe there was something to believe in after all. If Astarion could speak those truths so openly, could take those steps into the unknown, could allow himself to feel despite the scars that ran deep—then Xyros could believe. He wanted to, more than anything. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, the voice inside his head urging him to run, to hide, was quieter. This was worth the risk. This was worth the leap into uncertainty. And for once, he didn’t want to fight it.

Astarion held him tightly, almost desperately, as if Xyros might slip away into the ether if he loosened his grip for even a moment. It was something fierce, something real—a possessiveness that felt almost primal. A strange comfort wrapped around Xyros, and yet, with it, came a tremor of unease. A subtle shift that made him feel exposed. Astarion flinched when Xyros hands got inside his shirt and a quiet gnawing shifted under his ribs.

When they finally pulled apart, suddendly the space between them felt like a chasm. Astarion didn’t release him, his hands still clinging to Xyros as though he was the only thing anchoring him in this moment. His grip was firm, insistent, but there was something else there—a tension that wasn’t quite fear, but something equally unsettling. It wasn’t the kind of tension that made Xyros feel safe. No, it was a pressure, an weight that pressed against his chest. A pang of worry flickered in Xyros’ mind maybe he had done something wrong or perhaps he had overstepped some invisible line he didn’t know was there.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, his voice soft, as though trying to reassure both Astarion and himself. He needed to create some space between them, to give them both room to breathe. To see Astarion more clearly, to understand the storm that seemed to be stirring behind those haunted eyes. But when he tried to pull back, Astarion’s grip remained tight, unyielding.

Astarion turned his head slightly, looking away from him as if trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. For a moment, the silence stretched long between them, heavy and unsettling.

“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” Astarion finally said, but his voice faltered just a little, the words coming out as if he was trying to convince himself more than Xyros. “I just… feel awful. After what you said, I feel like there’s something else you should know.”

The statement was like a jolt to Xyros’ chest, his heart suddenly skipping a beat. He frowned, unsure where this was heading, but instinctively, his body tightened, bracing itself for whatever came next. What could Astarion possibly be keeping from him? What was it that needed to be said now, in this moment where everything had felt so fragile and new?

Xyros opened his mouth to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he simply nodded, his mind racing, trying to prepare himself for whatever truth Astarion was about to unveil.

“Look, I had a plan,” Astarion said, his voice dark with an unsettling laughter, as though trying to force the words out with humor but failing to conceal the weight beneath them. "A nice, simple plan—seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn your back on me.” He chuckled nervously, a sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and for a moment, Xyros was frozen, unsure of how to respond. “It was easy... instinctive. Two hundred years of charming people, of using them. All you had to do was fall for it, and all I had to do was not fall for you… which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart.”

The admission hit Xyros like a blow to the chest, and it was all he could do to stay still, his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words refused to form. His mind was spinning with thoughts he couldn’t untangle. So this is how it started. Xyros thought, the fragments of their time together slowly piecing together into something sharp, jagged, and bittersweet. He had suspected at first—maybe even known on some level—that there had been manipulation at play, but hearing it from Astarion’s own lips. It stung, a deep ache that swirled in his gut, the kind that made you question everything that had come before.

But then Astarion spoke again, his voice cracking with something Xyros couldn’t quite place, something vulnerable. “You are incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.” The words were an apology, a confession, and something more, all wrapped into one. They clung to the air between them, heavy and raw.

Xyros’ heart clenched. Astarion’s voice struck him more deeply than anything he had expected, more than any revelation of betrayal could. He wasn’t angry. Not at Astarion, at least. What he felt wasn’t anger—it was pain. The kind of sorrow that knotted itself around your ribs and squeezed tight, leaving you breathless. But he didn’t blame Astarion, not really. He understood.

Still, the truth hurt. It always hurt.

“So the nights we spent together didn’t mean anything?” Xyros asked, his voice soft, devoid of anger but laced with that quiet sorrow. His gaze never wavered from Astarion’s, searching for the unspoken meaning in his eyes, the places where the truth hid behind his carefully guarded facade.

There was no anger in his voice, not even in the smallest inflection. Just that aching sadness, that feeling of being caught in the aftershock of something that had never been what you thought it was. He didn’t blame Astarion, but hearing those words, those words—Xyros couldn’t help but feel like a knife was twisting deep inside him. It wasn’t about the sex. Not really. It was about being made to believe that something real, something good, was blooming between them, only to discover it had been rooted in manipulation, even if it wasn’t Astarion’s intent.

Astarion’s expression softened, guilt bleeding through the cool mask he had perfected over the years. “Of course they did—that’s the problem. Or part of it,” he began, voice thick with something deeper. “Being close to someone—any kind of intimacy—was something I performed. Something I used to lure people back for him.” He exhaled, as though the weight of those words was a burden he had carried for far too long. “Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels… tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don’t know how else to be with someone, no matter how much I’d like to.” The rawness in his voice made Xyros’ chest tighten.

That was the truth, wasn’t it? That Astarion had learned to love people in the way a predator loved prey—through manipulation and control, through that constant dance of power. But somewhere beneath it all, Xyros had glimpsed something real, something so raw in Astarion, and he realized now—maybe for the first time—that Astarion was fighting it. Fighting against his past. Fighting against everything that had shaped him into the man who stood before him now.

Xyros blinked, pushing past the ache that threatened to choke him. He had no right to demand anything. No right to make Astarion feel guilty for his past, for the way he had survived.

“We can be together without sleeping together, for as long as you need,” Xyros said, his voice steady, though it was a struggle to keep the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips from faltering. He understood now, completely and fully, everything Astarion had said. And if Astarion could summon the courage to lay himself bare, to risk everything—his own rejection, his anger, even his very life concious of how unstable he was—Xyros could believe in this. Could believe that it was worth whatever risk came with it. He didn’t need perfect. He didn’t need something clean or uncomplicated.

This—Astarion—was worth it. Even if it hurt now, maybe, just maybe, Astarion could be the balm that soothed the wounds he had inflicted on himself.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I care for you.”

Astarion’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face as if he had been expecting anything but that. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at Xyros, his expression unreadable. It was as though he couldn’t quite process the words. Couldn’t quite fathom that Xyros, despite everything, still wanted this.

“Really?” Astarion’s voice was barely a whisper, soft and uncertain, as though testing the waters.

“Really, Astarion,” Xyros replied, his voice steady and sincere. His heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to take a breath, to steady the whirlwind of thoughts that rushed through his mind. He reached out, gently cupping Astarion’s face, urging him to meet his gaze. “Hell, I don’t care about those things. Well, I do, but you were honest. And that’s what matters.” His thumb brushed softly over Astarion’s skin, as if to anchor them both in this moment. “You’re a mess, but I’m even worse. But I want everything you’ve said. If that means no sex, I don’t care. Even if you never want to again, I want you. I want to be with you.”

The words felt like a promise. It was a vow to take it one day at a time, no matter how difficult, no matter how much it hurt. But it was real, and for the first time in a long while, Xyros wasn’t afraid of what came next.

Astarion’s eyes were glassy now, the weight of his emotions finally cracking through the facade he had so carefully constructed over the years. His lips parted, but the words that were meant to spill out faltered, as though they couldn’t find their way past the lump in his throat. “Darling, I—but you said you used to—”

Xyros didn’t let him finish. His voice was low, but it carried with a weight that couldn’t be ignored. “Astarion, I was a whore,” he said chuckling, the words raw but somehow clear, each syllable heavy with truth. “I would’ve slept with anyone who moved and was willing. I don’t remember much of it, but I know that better than you do.” He paused, taking a slow breath, feeling the sting of his past in his chest. “But I still don’t care.” His gaze softened, and he reached out, fingers brushing against Astarion’s trembling hand before he grasped it tightly. “When I first told you this, yeah, I probably would’ve slept with every single one of our companions. But since you came into my life, since we got close, the thought never even crossed my mind.”

The truth was out now, and Xyros wasn’t afraid of it anymore. He wasn’t ashamed. For the first time in a long while, there was no shame. And that made everything, in some strange way, feel lighter. He felt more. himself, than he ever had in the past months.

“And that’s why” he continued, his grip on Astarion’s hand tightening, his voice steady even though his heart was beating faster than it had any right to. “Even if we never have sex again, I don’t care. How many times do you need me to say it? Because I’ll say it until you believe it. The only thing I care about is this. Us.”

The words hung between them an oath that needed no explanation, no justification. Xyros let go of his own fears for a moment—of his past, of the things that haunted him, of what he might become. He wasn’t looking for perfection, he realized. He wasn’t even looking for something complete. What mattered to him was right here. What they had now. Astarion.

Astarion opened his mouth as if to protest, but no sound came. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling with the weight of it all. Xyros watched him, waiting for the dam to break, and when it did, he wasn’t surprised. Astarion’s face crumpled, the fragile mask he had worn slipping away, leaving him vulnerable in a way Xyros had never seen before. And then, before Xyros could react, Astarion closed his eyes tightly and buried his face into his chest.

For a long moment, Xyros didn’t move. He simply held him, one hand rubbing gently along the back of Astarion’s neck, feeling the tremors that ran through his body. He wasn’t sure if Astarion was crying, but he could feel the tension in him, the way his shoulders shuddered beneath Xyros’s touch. It didn’t matter. If this was what Astarion needed right now—this release, this moment of rawness—then Xyros would give him that, without question.

When Astarion finally guided him down onto the filthy blankets of the tent, Xyros followed without hesitation. If Astarion needed to be close, needed to cling to him in the silence, Xyros would be his anchor, his steady place amidst the storm. And if the quiet trembling continued, if Astarion’s body shuddered with emotion, Xyros would hold him tighter, offering the comfort he had long ago stopped believing in.

Time seemed to stretch then, as if the world outside the tent ceased to exist. There was no fighting. No harsh words. Only the weight of Astarion against him, the rhythm of his breath, the heat of his body pressed against Xyros’s side. And for a moment, everything else fell away. All the fears, all the doubts, all the things that had once seemed insurmountable—they didn’t matter now.

The tremors in Astarion’s body eventually ceased, though Xyros didn’t move. Astarion’s breathing evened out, slow and steady, as he settled into the comfort of Xyros’s arms. There were no words between them now—just the simple, connection that had always run deeper than either of them had dared admit. The silence was a balm, and Xyros allowed himself to sink into it, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of Astarion’s presence soothe him.

Xyros was still exhausted, his body aching from the long day, from the emotional weight of everything they had just shared. But in this moment, in the quiet of the tent with Astarion wrapped around him, he felt a peace he hadn’t known in a long time. There was still fear—fear of what might lie ahead, of what he might become. But for now, that fear seemed distant, muffled by the sound of Astarion’s steady breath.

He allowed himself a moment of comfort, of contentment, despite the uncertainty that loomed over them both. They had time. Not much, perhaps, but enough. Enough to simply be here, in this space, together.

And so, Xyros let himself drift, his thoughts quieting as the weight of Astarion’s body anchored him to the present. The future could wait. Xyros allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the future wouldn’t be as bleak as he had once feared. Perhaps there was something worth fighting for after all. Something real. Something that, despite everything they had been through, could be theirs.