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Chapter Text

Despite Emmyth's protests, Tavali and Shadowheart carried Astarion to their getaway carriage as soon as the Aradoness and Alba confirmed that the rogue was well and truly resurrected. He could barely stay upright and or remain conscious, and didn't need a crowd of strangers poking and prodding at him more than was necessary.

Astarion flinched and twitched at almost every touch as it was now, even from just Tavali's bare hands.

They managed to get Astarion into the Elfsong with blessedly few witnesses. The early pre-dawn light was climbing over the horizon, leaving them cloaked in near shadow from the carriage door to the wide porch. Less than a handful of imbibers were scattered around the large lounge. The unknown exhausted bartender, not Alan, barely even looked up from his place at the counter.

All of which meant their seemingly drunken stumbling up the stairs drew little notice. Both women kept one of Astarion's arms around their shoulders as they briskly lugged him upstairs and into the small private room she shared with him. Setting him on the bed, Shadowheart abandoned his arm to quickly get some candles lit on the old dresser. Tavali removed his boots before heaving him up higher on the straw and feather mattress.

“There we go, love,” Tavali soothed him as he grunted. “There we go. All settled.” She set her right hand on his chest.

Astarion whined again, a sound he'd been making quite often since waking. His body arched and shifted, bucking into and then away from her hand. “S'too much,” he breathed. “All too much.”

Tavali furrowed her brow and lifted her hand from his chest. She sat on the edge of the bed and hovered over his right side. “What is, darling?”

Astarion swallowed thickly. “Feel,” he whispered. “I c'n,” he shuddered. “Feel it all too much.”

Tavali leaned back and rolled her lips. She turned to Shadowheart and watched as the cleric finished with the candles. “Is this,” she started slowly. She turned back to Astarion. “My love,” she leaned over him again. “Are you in pain?”

Astarion grimaced, but shook his head. “No. Yes? S’just,” he shifted uncomfortably again. “My skin. I feel,” his hands and fingers flexed at his side. “I can feel everything touching me.” He still didn’t open his eyes.

Tavali took a cursory view of the skin that was visible along his wrists and hands before moving up to his collar. His flesh didn’t look irritated. It was certainly still a pinker hue than before, but she saw no abrasions or scrapes.

Shadowheart approached the small double bed on Tavali's left. “It’s,” she sighed. “It probably is your skin,” the silver-haired woman said wearily. Tavali looked up at her. “You’ve been dead,” Shadowheart went on, speaking directly to Astarion. The rogue tilted his head toward her voice, and the cleric knelt in front of his face at the side of the bed. “It would make sense, I suppose, that someone undead would feel less. Physically, I mean,” she clarified when the high elf’s nose wrinkled indignantly. “Now that you’re alive again, it may be that everything else has come alive too.” Shadowheart’s lips quirked to the right. “Consider when someone casts a light when you’ve been in darkness a long time. Your eyes hurt because they became too used to the darkness.” Her grin turned more rueful. “There’s nothing wrong with your eyes, but you flinch and turn around anyway.”

Astarion scoffed. His breathing was still a little erratic, but it was deepening. “Joyous,” he said acerbically. “And how long until my ‘eyes’ adjust, do you think?” He turned his head again to face the ceiling.

Shadowheart shrugged, even though Astarion didn’t see it. “We can’t know. Probably not two hundred years,” she said sickly-sweetly. Tavali swatted her friend’s pauldron with her left hand, making her nails clink on the metal.

“Gods,” Astarion groaned again. He winced again, hands fluttering at his sides. “What in the hells am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Right now? Sleep,” Shadowheart commanded easily. “As you were meant to do now anyway. We’ll be here.” The other half-elf gave Tavali a soft nudge.

“We’ll be here, darling.” The sorcerer echoed. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk and figure out what comes next afterwards.”

Astarion’s lips pulled into his typical moue and he dug the back of his head into the thin pillow. His eyes flickered beneath the lids.

He looked exhausted.

“Sleep, Aster,” Tavali whispered. She set her hand lightly over his sleeve at his right elbow. “We’ll keep watch.”

He exhaled heavily and swallowed. “Alright,” he sighed. “Alright.”

Once he stopped fighting, it was only a matter of minutes before the rogue was out.

Tavali continued to kneel at Astarion’s side as dawn broke over the city and came in milky white through the curtains. Her love had only missed sunrise by an hour at most. He would no doubt be disappointed, but it was a cloudy morning. Better to save his first experience alive for a golden dawn.

Tavali’s eyes ached staring at Astarion’s sleeping form. It was certainly better than staring at his corpse, but watching still made her heart clench. Her love hadn’t even tried to trance tonight. He’d collapsed into genuine, human sleep. Not that he hadn’t done that on occasion before, but still. It was jarring to see him twitch and shift in dreams when he was often so still.

Worse, she suspected that Astarion wasn’t often blessed with happy dreams.

Shadowheart nudged her left side with a metal booted foot. “Hey,” the cleric whispered from her position on the small chair beside the bed. She hadn't bothered to take off her armor yet. “You were supposed to sleep first while I'm on watch.”

That was true. It made sense for Tavali to sleep while Astarion did so it was more likely they could be awake together later. It also made sense for the trained healer to take first watch in case something, anyway, went awry.

“I-” she inhaled carefully. “I’m waiting for dawn to reach him,” she admitted. The thin light had come into the room, but it had yet to fall over his body. “I need to see,” Tavali raised her right hand from the mattress to gesture up and down the length of Astarion’s body. “I need to be sure.”

In emphasis of her point, the strength of the sunlight weakened and then surged as the winter cloud cover shifted.

“You’ll get some rest then?” Shadowheart said after several moments of silence. “I’m not above manhandling you into that bed and casting sleep for good measure,” the cleric added with a wave of her right hand in Tavali’s peripheral vision. Her fingers shone a dull rose color to make her point.  “Hells, knowing him he’ll sleep easier once you’re in there.”

Tavali huffed, their voices barely audible were it not for the morning silence. “Or it’ll make it worse,” Tavali wondered softly. “And what if he feels me and it is too much on his skin again?”

“So better to kneel and make your knees sore?” Shadowheart parried. “He’s covered with the sheet and his clothes. And he’s so deeply asleep he’s unlikely to notice another mindflayer invasion at this point.”

Tavali snorted.

They waited quietly again, Tavali’s legs up against the bed and her hand near Astarion’s on the mattress as the minutes ticked by.

He was a wash of white on the mattress. His white shirt, his hair, the white linens that surrounded him except for the deep brown-red of the duvet. Tavali wondered if that was highlighting the new color in his face or if that was just her.

The rogue’s eyes twitched minutely beneath the lids. The half-elf realized that she still didn’t know what color the dark irises were. It had been too dim to get a good look, and Astarion had kept his head down and eyes closed for much of the journey in the carriage to the Elfsong. Tavali wondered what he would think when he saw them-

“Oh,” the sorcerer breathed. She rose as soundlessly as she could to her feet, leaning with both hands on the bed to keep her body steady.

“What is it?” Shadowheart whispered, a thread of worry in her voice.

“I’m going to check,” Tavali said back in a hush. She moved briskly over to one of her leather packs.

The small hand mirror was tucked into a cloth along the side of her pack. She pulled on the plain wooden handle until it came free and held it away from her head for a moment. The reflective face was mostly clean but for a few blemishes and spots of discoloration from the road. Her own wane face looked back at her.

The sorcerer turned to Astarion on the bed, clutching the mirror to her chest as she slowly walked back over to him on the other side of the bed.

“Not going to wait, then?”

Tavali spared Shadowheart a shallow glance before quickly shaking her head no. “I'd rather know now,” she whispered back. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t be there. No reason,” Tavali muttered to herself and her friend. “But I still can’t,” she cut herself off and rolled her lips. The edges of her teeth held them in, leaving her mouth looking pale and bloodless. 

This would be another test, another measure to ensure the ritual did what it was supposed to do.

Astarion’s fangs were gone. He had a heartbeat. He breathed. He’d drank water at the temple and in the carriage on the way back. His body had warmed on its own once wrapped in a jacket. His eyes weren’t red.

But what if this was the moment they realized not all was as it should be?

“Because if it doesn't work,” she swallowed thickly, “I'd rather have time to brace for the fall out.”

Shadowheart pursed her lips and darted her eyes over to Astarion and back. “Fair enough,” the cleric agreed lowly.

Tavali nodded and drew up alongside her love. Carefully, like she feared moving too quickly could startle his reflection away, she leaned over his body and tilted the mirror toward his face. The Cormyte bent down so her head was nearly to the mattress to get a proper look.

And there he was.

Astarion, his silver-white curls tousled and pressed against the pillow just like they were in reality. His pale skin with the barest rosy tint to it now. His neck and the lining of his shirt.

Tavali folded her lips in and repressed a whimper in her throat. She pulled away from him before she made a noise and woke the exhausted high elf.

He was there. He had a reflection. He was alright.

“Tav,” Shadowheart said cautiously from the other side of the bed. The mirror had been turned away from her, so she wouldn’t have been able to see anything.

“Sorry,” Tavali rasped. “Sorry, it’s good.” She flashed the cleric a watery grin. “Exactly as it should be.”

Shadowheart processed that for a moment before she exhaled heavily and leaned back in the chair again. She pushed her gauntleted left palm into her forehead. “You two. You’ll be the death of me.”

Tavali bit down on a laugh. “Thank you,” she said, crossing the room but staring at her friend as she knelt at Astarion’s right side again.  The sun was creeping ever closer to his bed. “For everything you’ve done.” Her smile wobbled but held. “Not just for this. You probably should’ve heard it more the last few months."

Shadowheart grinned but rolled her eyes. She cast her gaze toward the gap of light in the curtains. “You said it all the time. Half the time you were barely standing and trying to take hold of me to thank me for the healing.”

Tavali shook her head. “Still wasn’t enough.” The sorcerer leaned down to rest her head beside Astarion’s arm. The movement must have been okay since he didn’t flinch away. She kept her eyes on the cleric. “You, and all our friends, really, but most of all, you.” Tavali felt her eyes mist. I’m being ridiculous, she thought dimly. I dropped this on her back at the temple already, didn’t I?

Nonetheless, Tavali heard an echo of another friend then, her red face dry but her eyes molten gold in the aftermath of her revenge and despair. “Thanks for existing, you know?”

It was Shadowheart’s turn to sniff. “My pleasure,” she said, a little less sarcastic than Tavali thought the cleric would have preferred.

The two went back to waiting, though Tavali felt much less patient than before. Dust motes danced tauntingly in the light over them all. Noises drifted up occasionally from the bar downstairs or the cobble streets outside. The city was awake by now and moving on with its day.

Tavali couldn't. Not until she knew.

This is the last real question I can think of, she thought as she went through her mental list. He hasn’t eaten proper food yet, but if water was fine that should follow. His vampiric hunger is already gone. But sunlight? Pure, natural sunlight? The thing he misses the most?

Dawn was moments away from reaching him now. Neither spoke, watching as it crept ever closer to the sleeping elf.

“There’s no reason it shouldn’t work,” Shadowheart said, repeating Tavali’s words from only a short while before. “No reason.”

“No reason,” the curly-haired half-elf replied.

Whoever held power over the sun apparently agreed.

The weak light started to slowly cover Astarion's body. It found his hair, and they sat stock still as it incrementally fell over his face.

Astarion shifted, sending Tavali’s heart skipping, and then settled again.

Gods above, she pressed a shaking hand to her chest and willed her heart to calm.

No burning. No pain. Not even a wince.

Just sunlight on skin. Nothing special about it at all, really, except for how it meant everything to her now.

The tears did escape this time. Her breathed shuddered out of her more loudly than she expected. Tavali’s throat felt tight.

“Alright,” Shadowheart murmured from her left. “That’s it.” Her own voice sounded hoarse. “To bed with you. And don’t make me use magic to do it.”

Tavali’s lips trembled and all she could do for a moment was nod.

Then the sorcerer stood, wobbling over to the free left side of the bed and the drawers with her sleep clothes.  She changed mutely, trying to wipe her face discreetly as she pulled her warm sweater over her head and replaced it with a thick green nightgown. Once she shed her leggings, she delicately lifted the covers so she could slide beneath and hide from the winter chill. It was a struggle in the small bed, but she took care not to press too harshly against Astarion’s newly sensitive body.

The light drifted over them like a subtle blessing, like it had every morning they’d lain together in the city until the Brain fell.

“Shadowheart?” Tavali whispered, unable to take her gaze off Astarion’s sleeping face. He was breathing peacefully through his nose. His chest rose and fell with the action.

“Yes?” Her friend said back.

“I think,” Tavali shuffled carefully on the bed. “It’s all going to be okay?”

She didn’t hear anything back at first, and felt her eyelids drift downward.

“I think you’re right, Tav,” the cleric replied finally, smile in her voice. “Now go to sleep.”

Tavali exhaled shakily, letting a few more tears escape and spread along the pillow case, but she obeyed.

Chapter Text

In a rare turn of events, Tavali woke before Astarion after a handful of hours of sleep.

The sorcerer took the opportunity to dress then go collect the broth they’d prepared and preserved, somewhat with Alan’s permission, in the kitchens. She heated it in a pot and brought it back upstairs in a plain bowl to keep ready for her still-sleeping love. The high priestess had been clear that, even if all he wanted was to sleep, Astarion needed to start replenishing his energy sooner rather than later.

Shadowheart reported that nothing was amiss and dutifully went to grab some sleep herself and, more importantly, get out of her adamantine armor.

The sun was high by the time Astarion woke.

Fortunately, Tavali knew it was plain old hunger that brought him to consciousness this first time. His stomach started to gurgle quite loudly only a quarter of an hour before his eyes opened. She about jumped out of her seat at the small table in surprise at the noise. Astarion's stomach had never growled before, after all. But the warning was convenient because it had given her enough time to start carefully warming a bowl of broth for him again with heat from her own hands.

The Cormyte came to stand on his right side as he stirred. The rogue’s lips pursed and eyes clenched as he woke slowly and apparently uncomfortably. The groan Astarion gave as his awareness settled back into his body wasn't unexpected, but it still made her heart twinge.

“Aster?” The half-elf offered quietly.

He shifted and turned his face toward her voice. His mouth parted as he breathed heavily and it took several long seconds for his eyes to open.

The high elf squinted, lips pulling in displeasure at the effort and eyelids shutting again.

“Ngh,” he grunted. “S’bright.”

“Got it,” Tavali murmured. She drew the burgundy curtains more tightly shut, letting in only enough light to keep the room illuminated so that she wouldn’t trip.

As the she finished adjusting the curtain, Tavali turned just in time to see Astarion lift a trembling hand from the blankets. He turned his palm over and set it into the sliver of white winter sunlight sneaking past the drapes.

“Oh,” he exhaled, working his throat and flexing his fingers in the light. She saw him run his tongue over his teeth and roll his lips.

Tavali went to rejoin him at his side, kneeling on the hardwood floor again and leaning against the mattress.

“I forgot,” Astarion said wondrously. The rogue shook himself slightly, transfixed on the light on his own hand. He glanced at her after a few more moments of silent contemplation.

Then he smiled, shaky and beautiful and fangless. “I'm alive again.”

Tavali couldn't do anything but smile back as her throat tightened. She nodded, sliding her hand closer across the blankets but taking care not to touch him.

Astarion breathed deeply again. “It's gone.” He said quietly, dropping his hand back to the blanket so hers was tucked between it and his right side. The high elf swallowed and deliberately ran his fingers over the inside of her wrist. “It's all gone.”

Tavali looked between his caress and his eyes. “What's gone?” She whispered.

He chuckled, looking a little out of his head.

“All of it. Burning in the sunlight. The ache in my fangs,” his lips bulged again as he put his tongue momentarily to his front teeth. “My fangs,” he giggled a little this time. Tavali kept a small smile on her face as he went on. “And the hunger.” Now Astarion's voice broke again, catching in his throat. “It's just, it's nothing. The gnawing in my stomach is gone. I want to eat but I don't feel like I'm dying from it. It didn't even feel this good when I’d just drank from you,” he added, letting his head flop on the pillow to stare at her more fully. Tears were sparkling in his eyes again.

Tavali huffed, and gave up the pretense of calm. She reached with her left hand and wiped away the tears gathering at her own eyes. “Good,” she muttered, letting the backs of her fingers press against his hip through the blanket. “That's so good, Aster.”

“And it doesn't,” he paused, lips pulling as he looked away toward the ceiling. The high elf blinked a few times and his tears rolled down to his temples. “It doesn't hurt to touch you, now,” he confessed lowly. “I don’t have to fight myself.”

Tavali blinked, uncertain what he meant, when she felt his right fingers press pointedly into her wrist. Into her pulse point.

“I can't smell your blood. I can't hear your heartbeat. There's no wretched call to feed.” His fingers released their pressure and his thumb curled around her wrist in a gentle hold. “There's just you,” he exhaled, the edge of a smile at the corners of his lips. He closed his eyes again.

His words brought Tavali back to those first moments when Astarion had returned to life on the altar. His request for a kiss, his initial realization that his hunger was gone. She tilted her head to consider him. “Was that what you were doing at the altar? Kissing me to see the difference?”

Astarion’s throat flexed and he fidgeted again on the bed. “It was the,” he started slowly, “quickest way to know.” The high elf turned his head to the left on the pillow, facing away from her a little. “That was the first time I could kiss you,” he said ruefully, staring blindly away from her to the other side of the bed, “without wanting to bite you instead.”

Tavali couldn’t help the slight flinch that took her body at his blunt words. It was something she had known, something unavoidable in their relationship from the beginning. But it always hurt to be reminded that every moment they’d spent together before this day, Astarion had been suffering. He would have always been suffering, even in the moments when he was the happiest, were it not for the ritual.

“We’ll know the truth at last.” She offered playfully, though a rasp came into her voice. “Did you love me for me or my ‘delectable’ blood?” Tavali asked with her usual imitation of his accent. Her nails brushed the inside of his wrist.

Astarion gave a high snort but turned to face the ceiling again. “Too soon to tell, my dear.”

Tavali grinned back more widely. She looked down to their joint hands again after a moment. She could feel the heat of him along both sides of her hand. “Is touching still too much though?” Tavali asked cautiously. Astarion hadn't taken his right hand from hers yet, which felt promising. “Before you slept, you said that you could feel too much on your skin.”

Astarion shrugged, leaving his eyes closed. “It's still there, but far less than it was before. Everything just feels so different,” he sighed, snuggling into the bedding in a way that made her lips quirk anew. “It's hard to say what has my attention the most.”

The sorcerer pondered that. “As long as you aren't overwhelmed,” Tavali replied quietly. “You'll have to talk to me if things get bad again.”

Astarion waved his left hand limply from the bed. “You'll be the first to know, my love.”

They sat in silence again, fingers keeping a loose hold on each other as Astarion breathed carefully. The peace was interrupted by a renewed growl from his stomach. The rogue opened his eyes in surprise.

“Gods below,” he set his left hand on blankets over his belly and tipped his head forward to look down at it. “It just,” his lips pulled in distaste, “gurgled at me.”

Tavali didn’t bother to hold back her snicker. “You heard that plenty of times from me,” she reminded him with a pat of her left hand on his right shoulder.

Astarion turned to face her, his expression caught between mildly disturbed and annoyed. “Yes, love, but I never had to feel it inside me before now.”

“You’re hungry,” she said around her smile. “And you’re in luck,” she added as Astarion looked over at the far table. “There's broth if you're up for it.”

Astarion was already nodding eagerly. “Yes. Yes, let me try it.” He released her right hand and returned both of his to the mattress. The high elf started pressing down weakly in an attempt to sit upright.

“I’ve got you,” Tavali murmured as she got her left arm behind him. “We’ll get you up against the headboard.”

Once her love was firmly seated with a pillow behind him, Tavali walked over to take up the ceramic bowl of broth she had ready. It was warm, but not hot, in compliance with Alba’s strict dietary orders for a new body.

“I have to help you, love,” she reminded him apologetically as she turned back around and approached the bed. “We don’t want you to spill all over yourself.”

Astarion scowled, but Tavali held firm. There was nothing for it; his hands and limbs were shaking too much to trust him with the small bowl and heated liquid. They had enough problems without soaking the bed and his clothes.

The half-elf had Astarion put his hands on both sides of the bowl and then held over his while he tipped it to his mouth. She kept a steady grip as she watched him take that initial swallow.

Sure enough, Astarion’s body twitched at the taste. “Gods,” he said, blinking rapidly and sputtering. “It’s,” Tavali moved the bowl back from his face as he licked his lips. “I don’t know what it is,” he admitted with a brow furrowed in frustration.

“It’s watery,” Tavali clarified softly. “We’ll make you something thicker and richer once we know you can take it, but Alba said not to rush this,” she trailed off when Astarion shook his head.

“It’s not that,” Astarion broke in. “I can actually taste the flavors. It’s not oil and ash on my tongue.”

“Oh,” Tavali said simply. She took a moment to swallow thickly. How awful. Tavali glanced at the soup then back at him. “That’s good, right?”

He gave her a side eye before focusing on the brown liquid again. “But I can’t remember what it is.” He rolled his lips again, and started to tug back on the bowl. Tavali kept it stable while he took a longer sip.

“It doesn’t have much in it,” Tavali said slowly. “Chicken stock with carrots and onions. Salt and pepper. I threw in some thyme and garlic.” Astarion breathed after swallowing. They held the bowl a few inches from his face to ensure he didn’t drink too much too fast.

“Hmm,” Astarion hummed. “It tastes good. I just thought that I would recognize flavors,” he said lowly. “It smells delicious, too. I can pick up the garlic and chicken. But I wouldn’t have been able to guess what else was in it unless you told me.” Astarion frowned, eyes staring at the bedding near his still blanketed feet. “I could always recognize smells. Why shouldn’t flavors have been the same?”

Tavali didn’t answer, but didn’t think she needed to. He’d answered his own question just in the way he’d asked it. As a vampire, he’d continued to smell everything the world had to offer. Astarion had had a better sense of smell than mortals. But food for the living had been denied to him. It made sense that after two centuries he wouldn’t recognize different tastes anymore.

“Something to look forward to, remember?” She gave his hands a subtle squeeze on the bowl after he took a third and fourth sip. “Relearning what you like and don’t like.”

He hummed after a swallow, and they let the conversation taper off as he painstakingly swallowed every drop of the soup.

Astarion smacked his tongue and lips afterward, eyes deep in thought. Tavali thought he was probably adjusting to the flavors lingering on his tongue and the different consistency of broth to blood. She turned away to give him a moment and put the bowl aside. Then she picked up a pitcher of water and cup she’d had waiting.

“Let’s get you a drink, love,” she said quietly before turning around with a cup in hand. She gave him a gentle smile when he met her eyes. “Soup can be a bit salty.”

Astarion tipped his head back as she approached. They only had to use one hand each this time. She felt the loose grip Astarion had on the cup, and watched how slowly he had to take each gulp. He closed his eyes again with the effort.

The Aradoness and high priestess had been right about this without a doubt: Astarion had a ways to go to regain his strength.

But he would have help.

“More in a bit,” Tavali muttered once the cup was finished. “How are you feeling?”

The high elf let his head and back rest fully against the headboard again as Tavali took a step back. She let the cup join the pitcher and bowl on the table while he answered. “Better now than a moment ago. Still weak as a kitten,” he groused, “but I can move all my fingers and toes, so apparently I can’t complain.”

Tavali bent over him again and reached out and brushed his hair from his forehead. “You can to me,” she offered, fingers in the feathery curls near his right temple. “Especially if you are in pain or need something.”

Astarion turned into her fingers and opened his eyes again. He smirked slightly at her and she dropped her hand to his shoulder. “Careful what you say, my love,” he said sweetly. “You know I may take you up on it.”

Tavali scoffed and gave him a gentle shove. She opened her mouth to reply, to make another quip back, when she realized the light in the room was shining more directly on his face. In the dim glow, she could see his eyes.

Dark, but not red. But if they opened the curtain a bit more-

Oh, wait.

“What is it, darling?” Astarion asked, amused but confused at her pause.

He hadn’t even seen himself yet. She’d forgotten with the stomach growls and soup. “Aster,” she said carefully, “do you want to look in the mirror?”

The handheld looking glass was behind them on a dresser.

The rogue blinked twice, eyebrows scrunching together over his confused frown as he took in her question. Then those dark, indecipherable eyes went wide. His left hand came up to rest over his own cheek.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Yes,” his face brightened with renewed enthusiasm. “Yes, let me see. Let me see myself.”

“I have to open the window a bit then,” Tavali said apologetically. She wrapped her left fingers around the edge of the drape and pulled it an inch or so from the wall. More light broke slightly into the room. “Is that alright?”

Astarion squinted at the expanding glow, rolling his eyes beneath his lids for a moment to brace himself. “Yes, alright. Whatever I need to actually see the thing.”

Tavali huffed, but complied with his request. She didn’t expose his face to the direct sunlight, just let in enough that the white light suffused the room. His silvery hair took on its usual shine, and the new pink in his cheeks became more pronounced.

With the mirror held before him, Tavali sank onto the edge of the mattress at Astarion’s right side. She held it with both hands, one on the handle and one on the frame to keep it steady before his face. “Ready, my love,” she said softly.

Astarion didn’t hesitate. He opened his eyes again and she watched as his gaze hungrily sought the reflective glass.

His breath left his lungs in a rush, lips parting slightly to accommodate the reaction. He held his silence for a moment, eyes roving over the small circle of glass. After a few seconds had passed, Astarion lifted his left hand and pressed it to his cheek. His fingers pushed just enough against his skin to make it move. “There I am,” he whispered.

The hand traveled to his mouth. He opened his mouth wider and set his fingers where the left fang once sat. He leaned in closer to the glass and released his lips, sliding both hands back up his cheeks.

As the rogue focused his eyes on his reflection, Tavali dedicated her attention to his eyes.

Like she’d thought, they were indeed still dark. But now she could make out the color in the cool sunlight.

Violet. A deep, enigmatic violet that she could get lost in if given half the chance.

She took that chance while Astarion tugged and pulled more on his face, pressing and releasing his skin in apparent fascination.

The purple was dark, more so than some of the Seldarine drow she’d met with their lavender and lilac tones. She leaned in closer without thinking, watching the faint light catch on the lines of his iris.

Astarion looked up from the mirror then, distracted by her movement. He turned that that purple gaze to her, and Tavali’s breath caught in her throat. She lowered the mirror a bit and bent toward him another few inches.

With his face turned toward her and the light, she saw tiny specks of gold glinting among the violet.

Mesmerizing. Extraordinary.

“What is it, darling?” Astarion asked with a breathless catch in his throat.

Tavali inhaled shakily around a smile. “Your eyes, sweetheart.” She inched back from his face and held the mirror up between them again. “Did you look at them yet?”

Astarion blinked, and then quickly leaned toward the glass again. He squinted counterproductively at first before seeming to realize what he was doing. The high elf widened his eyes again and tilted his head to ensure they caught the light.

“Oh,” he said softly. He raised his right hand and feebly clutched the wooden side of the mirror to pull it closer.

Tavali kept her right hand on the mirror’s handle and lifted her left away to settle in the curls at the back of his head as Astarion took in this other change.

“Ha,” he chuckled once, more an exhale than a laugh. “Purple.” Those eyes flicked up to her face. A grin curled up his right cheek. “Your favorite color. How fitting.”

The unexpected comment made Tavali jerk slightly, fingers carding through his hair, before she laughed. “How beautiful.” She smiled in good humor. “And how rare. It figures,” she mused, “that you would have the most beautiful eyes in the world. What else would go with the most beautiful face?”

“Ah ha,” Astarion’s eyes thinned as his smile expanded into both his cheeks. “Such flattery, my love.” He glanced coyly between her and the mirror. “Though I suppose it can’t be helped with a face like mine.”

Tavali snorted. “You didn’t need a reflection to know that.” She leaned down to press her lips to his forehead. The angle was awkward with the mirror between them, and her mouth landed over his right eyebrow.

Astarion looked perfectly pleased with himself when she pulled away slightly. Tavali leaned in again to kiss his lips properly and was gratified when he returned the pressure.

“It is quite the coincidence, though,” Astarion murmured. He nuzzled his nose against her right cheek. “Perhaps I was made for you.”

“No,” Tavali muttered back immediately, lips catching on his as she shook her head.

Drawing back, Astarion looked at her with his left eyebrow cocked. “I was trying to be romantic, darling,” he said, slightly put out.

She ran her right down the back of his neck and back up into his curls. “You were born first,” she said simply. Astarion frowned slightly at the words. “So, if anything, I was made for you.”

Astarion’s throat clenched as he swallowed. His violet eyes looked misty, and he blinked several times. She felt his inhale and exhale against her lips.

It wasn’t the first time Tavali had said something like that. There had been other moments, silly and speculative, about what role fate and destiny played in their lives. And there had been snide and cruel jabs exchanged with Raphael in the House of Hope while he sought to kill them all. The cambion had apparently thought that it would be a pathetic fate to have been born only to love and support others. Tavali had thought it was a pathetic fate to exist only to spite one’s father.

“My love,” Astarion whispered tightly. He released the mirror and grabbed her face with both hands to pull her down more firmly. Tavali acquiesced and set the mirror to the side of the bed next to his covered legs.

They stayed there, Tavali sitting on the bed on Astarion’s right side while he kissed her with as much passion as he could in his exhausted state. He slumped backwards eventually, letting his back and head rest against the headboard and sliding his hands to Tavali’s shoulders to pull her down with him.

The high elf parted his lips and drew hers in and Tavali matched him.

The taste of garlic and salt lingered on his tongue.

She giggled a little when she noticed it, and Astarion drew back to frown at her. “What’s funny?”

“Well,” she chuckled again, “it’s just- you’ve never tasted like chicken soup, before.” Her smile turned a little devious. “Quite the change from my blood.” She took his bottom lip between both of hers for a quick moment before he could respond.

Astarion looked at her and made another face. “Darling,” he said a little grumpily, “you’re killing the mood.”

Tavali smiled winsomely. “Just making sure we’re keeping track of all the differences, beloved.” She pecked his lips again, earning a reciprocal kiss and a grumble.

“You know,” she said slowly, “your eyes aren’t just purple?” Astarion cocked his head to the left, and Tavali turned around to take up the mirror again. “You have these, tiny,” she lifted the mirror in her right hand and brought up her left hand to measure a small distance between her thumb and index finger, “flecks of gold in them.”

“Do I?” Astarion looked pleasantly surprised at the news. He shifted forward again and angled his head to better catch the light. “How charming.”

They both grinned foolishly for a few moments, Astarion at the mirror and Tavali at the ridiculous, preening faces Astarion kept making toward the glass.

It came to a sudden end when Astarion’s right hand shot out between their bodies to steady the mirror in front of him.

“Is that-” Astarion whipped the mirror closer to his face. He blinked at it rapidly for a few moments before slapping his left hand to his left cheek again. Tavali watched his movement, perturbed, until he spoke again. “Is that a mole?”

Tavali blinked in silence at him for one dimwitted moment before she furrowed her brows. “On your cheek?” Astarion’s scandalized eyes met hers again. “Yes?”

The rogue looked horrified. “There’s a mole on my cheek! Good gods, why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” He shook his head in dismay. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tavali gave a single scoff of laughter before she could help herself. Astarion only looked more outraged.

“I thought you knew!” The half-elf cried defensively. “You can feel it on your face, can’t you?”

“I thought it was a- a scar or something,” Astarion protested. “It’s,” he wiped his left hand down his face again, bringing the mirror in closer with his right hand on the handle. “It’s thin, it never felt large enough. But’s it’s a different color than the rest of me!” Astarion snatched up the mirror and poked at the spot on his cheekbone again.

“It’s hardly so bad,” Tavali tried to sooth him, though it came out a little exasperated. “I think it’s cute! I kiss it all the time.”

“You what?” Astarion squawked at her incredulously. When she lifted her left hand into the air and shrugged, his gaze grew more indignant. “Since when do you do that?”

“Aster.” Tavali rolled her eyes. She leaned forward and sealed her lips directly over the small brown circle, feeling the hard cheekbone beneath it. It was a place she’d kissed hundreds of times by now, in greeting and parting and in plain affection. The mole he apparently hated so much had become an unconscious target for Tavali’s lips over the months they’d spent together.

Astarion’s head tipped back slightly with the force behind her kiss, and she made an overdone smacking sound as she pulled away. “Mwah!”

Astarion shook his head and blinked rapidly, palming the spot with his left hand for a third time.

“Gods,” the high elf muttered again, but now he looked somewhat bashful beneath the aggravation. “I had no idea that’s why you aimed for that spot.”

The sorcerer snickered a little, adjusting her hands on Astarion’s shoulders and straightening his rumpled sleep shirt.

“I think it looks sweet.” Tavali insisted. “And anyway, I think it only makes you more beautiful. It gives your face character.”

“Character?” He repeated with a touch of snideness. “It’s a blemish.”

This time Tavali cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are my freckles blemishes?” she countered. 

Astarion leaned back, brows still furrowed. “Of course not. That’s different.”

Tavali’s mouth twisted, now torn between amusement and annoyance. “Aster,” she said with forced patience. “Sometimes you run your lips over my freckles like you want to map them out.” Tavali ran her right index finger from the apple of her right cheek to the left. Astarion tracked the movement. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you doing the same with the ones on my shoulders. Or the few on my breasts.” Though those had faded almost entirely as they spent the last chunk of summer in the Shadow-Cursed lands. Her cleavage hadn’t had much opportunity to gather sunlight outside of a few late afternoons at camp in autumn.

Astarion’s face blushed red at her words.

The sight was strange and new enough to momentarily disrupt the point Tavali was trying to make.

Astarion’s shyness or embarrassment were easy enough for her to read given how long they’d lived in each other’s pockets. But the evidence of it was never as prevalent as it was now. The natural pink in his skin flushed dark enough that she took a moment to consider it.

Astarion’s expression grew a little confused at her new perusal, jogging her back to her original thought.

“It’s no different,” she leaned in toward him again, putting her right hand over his and making him set down the mirror, “when I aim for this little dot on your cheek.” Tavali puckered her lips into a point until she could mark the spot again. Astarion’s eyes closed and she felt his eyelashes flutter against her cheek. She pulled back to smile a little dreamily at him. His eyes remained closed and his lips were pulled into a moue. Tavali only smirked at the familiar expression. “It’s just part of you. And I love all of you.” She darted down to cover the pout with her lips.

Astarion hmphed at the surprise kiss.

When she pulled back again, her love still looked miffed. But he opened his eyes, leaving them as slits in an attempt to keep her from seeing the softness of his gaze. He failed.

“Mad woman,” he mumbled. But he tossed the mirror to the side and wrapped both his arms around her middle to draw her down onto the bed with him and embrace her tightly. “But gods, a mole? You may need to show me the rest of those freckles of yours to comfort me.” His fingers tugged pointedly on her green sweater.

Tavali snorted and ran her hands up his back. Astarion groaned theatrically into the left side of her neck, and the sorcerer tossed her head back and laughed again.

Chapter Text

They took turns about the room once every couple of hours to ensure Astarion’s legs were in use, but that was the only other productive task the two accomplished that day.

Her rogue grit his teeth and bore the humiliation of leaning on either his lover or the bed to ensure he didn’t collapse straight to the ancient woven carpet on the hardwood floor. The muscles in his legs hadn’t atrophied, yet his legs burned with fire as if he hadn’t walk in weeks.

Or two hundred years.

“Why did that damn priestess have to be right?” The rogue cursed as his left calf shook and nearly took him to the edge of the mattress again.

Tavali squeezed his right hand. “It’ll be alright,” she assured him around a grunt as she fought to keep him upright. “We planned for this. You will get through it.”

Astarion snorted and went back to muttering obscenities to himself.

Despite his poor attitude, when night came and Astarion’s beleaguered body demanded that he rest again the high elf tugged and pulled possessively on Tavali until she lay down on his right side.

“I’m right here,” Tavali giggled as she lifted the blankets and settled them over their horizontal bodies. The winter chill was biting and she couldn't pretend the idea of snuggling with Astarion wasn't terribly appealing. Between their sleep clothes, blankets, and each other, it would be a cozy bedchamber.

Tavali kicked her feet until she felt comfortable against the mattress and pillow. Astarion squirmed about onto his back and did the same.

“Will you be able to trance this time?” The sorcerer asked quietly. She knew that would be better for him in the long run.

“Hmm.” Astarion nestled down into the mattress. “I think so.” He turned to his right and quirked his eyebrow at her. “Dare I hope you will get some more sleep while I’m at it?”

Tavali shrugged. The movement rubbed her left arm against his right. “I’ll try.” The yawn following that statement belied her nonchalant words.

Astarion snorted and threaded his right fingers through her left. “Get some sleep, my sweet. We’ll have plenty to discuss and fret about in a few more hours.”

Tavali huffed and let her posture loosen. She turned to the left to lie on her side and settled her right arm around his waist. Astarion left both hands at his sides as he readied himself to trance.

They breathed deeply together for several long minutes, Tavali’s hand stroking up the length of his chest and resting for a moment over his heartbeat. It was strong and steady; not a hitch or missed beat to be felt.

Noise reached their room from the window and door. The city was hardly ready to rest, and the pub several floors beneath them was thriving. The Winter Solstice was approaching and Baldur’s Gate was preparing. Tavali wondered idly if Astarion would feel well enough to venture outside for it.

There would be something symbolic in that; the Winter Solstice that he was denied and taunted about two hundred years ago returned to him a last. No marks, no dour mansion, no sadistic master waiting for him.

Just her and him, and maybe one or two of their friends if he felt up for more company. She wasn’t even sure they would be able to feed him solid foods yet, but only time would tell.

Tavali breathed against him, inhaling the faint scent of his stale cologne that she could already tell did not cover up the more unsettling smell of undeath that had marked him before. It had never truly smelled bad to her, had just been a part of him, but she could clearly pick up the difference now.

What do you smell like after a bath now? She wondered. After running? With no cologne on at all?

The half-elf closed her eyes, willing her mind to quiet from those strange thoughts, when Astarion broke the silence.

“Did you sing to me?” Astarion asked quietly. The words were a little slurred as his body tipped over the line toward sleep.

Tavali opened her eyes and turned left to look at him. She furrowed her brow in confusion. “What?”

He met her eyes uncertainly for a moment before licking his lips and turning away. “I think I remember hearing it.” Astarion swallowed. “After they,” he sighed unhappily, “stabbed me.”

Tavali’s entire body stiffened at the words. “There was nothing all around me. Not even darkness, really,” Astarion went on, speaking to the ceiling and not looking at her. “It was like drifting in an endless feather fall,” his lips curled humorlessly.

Tavali could not restrain the full body shudder that took her at his words. She rolled her lips as her throat clenched.

The sorcerer hadn’t been certain when, if ever, they would discuss what Astarion had endured immediately before and during the ritual itself. She certainly hadn’t expected him to bring it up today, on his first full day back among the living.

He does like to surprise me. But perhaps this is a good thing, she thought while Astarion paused and licked his lips nervously. Tavali wasn’t about to interrupt him as he gathered his thoughts. Her heart had quickened just broaching this topic. Perhaps this is like lancing a wound before it rots.

“Then I felt when something,” he lifted his left hand and curled his fingers inward. “Take hold of me. I was still surrounded by nothing, but I wasn’t falling anymore. It was like floating upward, trying to break the surface of water.” He let his hand fall limply back to the bedding. “And there were voices. I realized I could hear you. At some points it sounded like you were singing.” He turned to look at her again, this time a little shyly. “Were you?”

Tavali inhaled and pressed closer into his right shoulder. Tears pricked at her eyes. “Yeah,” she breathed. She dipped her head so her lips found the ball of his shoulder and the half-elf kissed him through his night shirt. “I did a bit.”

Astarion swallowed loudly. He bent his neck and brushed a fleeting kiss over Tavali’s forehead at her hairline. “I heard you,” he murmured against her skin. “I followed you back.”

Too much. Her throat constricted painfully. That was too much.

The sorcerer smothered the low sob that escaped her mouth against him. She pressed her hand down harder against his chest. Breath caught in her lungs while the first tear escaped her left eye.

“My love,” he whispered. He shifted his right arm free of her body and brought it around Tavali’s shoulders. She curled into him and pushed her right hand over until it completed the circle and embraced him behind his left ribs.

It wasn’t enough to stop the crying that broke free of her self-control.

“Darling, please,” Astarion said, something imploring in his voice. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Only to tell you that you helped me. You-” Astarion cut off thickly for a moment. “You saved me. Again. You really must take a break from that, my love,” he rocked her lightly again. “I’ll never catch up at this rate.”

Tavali only shook her head a little in response, mussing her curls against the pillow. “If I lost you,” she whimpered into his collar. “It would have killed me, Astarion. It would’ve-” Tavali bit off the next words. 

“You didn’t lose me,” he promised into her curls. His words didn’t do much to sedate her. The image of the stab wound, of his lifeless body on that slab, was far to prevalent. She’d barely had any time to think of it herself. “And you’re hardly likely to now,” he added with an audible, cajoling grin and a jostle to her shoulders. “No sunlight, no riverbeds, no clerics or paladins banging down our door.” Tavali felt him kiss the top of her head and she exhaled heavily. “I can do anything, now,” he said, snuggling against her and rubbing his right cheek against her. “We can do anything.”

Tavali hiccupped, endeavoring to choke off her meek crying. “Anything,” she echoed, letting a few more tears leak from her eyes without bothering to wipe them away. That would mean lifting her hands away from Astarion, which she was in no mood to do.

“You said,” he whispered into her hair, “that we could go to Eveningstar together. And the Feywild.” His right fingers caressed her shoulder carefully. “I think I’ll hold you to that.”

That brought a wet chuckle out of her. “Gods above, did you really hear everything I said?” She buried her face against him and tightened the grip of her arm on his body.

“Perhaps,” he said ambiguously. “Certainly enough to know I was promised a myriad of wonderful things once I was alive again.”  He tipped his head back away from hers to recline more comfortably against the pillow again. “You won’t go back on your word, will you?” He asked with another playful squeeze, clearly endeavoring to cheer her mood back up.

“Ha,” Tavali’s chest quivered with the forced laugh. She shut her eyes again and willed herself to settle down, to be calm enough for sleep. “Never.”

The wind sung past their window at that moment. It rattled the glass gently for a moment before passing on.

“Enough of this, then,” Astarion said with finality. “To sleep with you.” His right hand rested atop her head in a protective hold. “I’ll see you when we wake.”

Exhausted anew and comfortable against the high elf, Tavali didn’t fight sleep when it took her.

Chapter Text

Astarion managed not to make a mess of himself or his bed the first day and night he was awake.

But the less that was said about the leather bed liner Tavali insisted he use after that night and the extra underwear she had prepared, the better. 

The next morning, the high elf was more than ready for a rinse and change of clothes.

“If I don’t get out of this rag,” he plucked at his white sleep shirt, “I’m going to rip it clean off.”

Tavali rolled her eyes and laughed as she rolled out of their bed and walked to the dresser. “What color would you like, my liege?” The sorcerer gave a mocking curtsy as she opened the top drawer containing their shirts. “Your favorite red?” She held the thick dark red and black-trimmed sweater aloft from the folded garments. Tavali could already tell it would be a cold morning; best for them both to bundle up.

Astarion’s eyes were half shut as he sleepily brought himself to a sitting position. He blinked slowly at her and smiled. “I’ve a dark blue sweater, don’t I?” He gave her a fangless grin. “I’d rather that today.”

Tavali lowered the red sweater, face briefly flickering toward a frown before she righted it again. She gave him a nod and smile of her own before swapping out the sweaters.  The second shirt was a deep midnight blue, an expensive choice he’d purchased sometime before the final battle.  Tavali brought it, fresh underwear, and black pants over to the bed. She set the bundle on the end table once she saw Astarion’s clumsily pushing his arms through the sleeves of his sleep shirt.

The rogue bent forward and hoisted the faded garment over his shoulders until Tavali had an unobstructed view of his back.

It took her several seconds of staring before she realized what she was seeing. Astarion dropped the shirt in his lap and scrubbed his left hand through his curls, unaware of her focused perusal. The muscles around his shoulders shifted with the movement.

“Oh,” the half-elf said softly. “We- we nearly forgot.”

Astarion paused his movement to look at her on his right. His brow furrowed. “Forgot what, darling?”

She pointed cautiously to his back, finger only visible in his peripheral vision. “Your back.”

Astarion frowned again in confusion, but stiffened a moment later. “Oh,” he echoed her numbly.

They stared at each other for a moment before Tavali broke and looked at his skin again.

“The infernal,” she said slowly, leaning a little closer to him, “is gone, love.”

And so it was.

The intricate raised scarring that had made up Cazador’s diabolical contract was erased from Astarion’s back. In its place was new clean skin. Tavali immediately noticed a slight mole or two over the expanse of his pale back, heavily reminiscent of the one on his left cheek.

She met his eye again, blowing air in an “o” as she nodded. “I think it’s all gone?” She took a step closer to the bed and move to sit behind him.

Astarion held her eyes for a moment before turning to face forward and letting her prop her left hip on the mattress.  The rogue still shuddered when Tavali put her hands to his shoulders.  She gave him a moment to settle.

“Lean forward for me, beloved?” Tavali asked quietly. “I’ll take a better look in the light.”

The half-elf heard him gulp before he compiled. Astarion crossed his arms and held his own biceps as he bent forward enough to rest against his knees.

“Thank you,” she punctuated with a careful massage on his left shoulder before she started her more thorough examination.

The sorcerer had worried in the aftermath of the ritual that this part might not have worked. Tavali had not observed the clerics do whatever it was they did to scour the scars from Astarion’s back. She’d had little idea how deep the scars had run into his skin and the muscles beneath. Would the clerics have been able to tell how far to- to scrub?

The thought still made her nauseous.

But whatever the priests had done, it had worked. At least for the most part.

The pads of Tavali’s fingers caught here and there on slightly raised or indented skin as she passed over Astarion’s back. 

Whatever technique the Aradoness had directed they use to cleanse Astarion's back of his infernal text, it hadn't completely removed each mark.

Her fingers tripped over thin lines or small dots every so often. Astarion flinched as he felt the location of each one made manifest by her touch. But they were without a pattern, and nothing longer than an inch of so in length. There was no trace of the concentric circles or devilish script that had marred his back until yesterday. There were four, maybe half a dozen spots in total.

If she hadn't known the horrible story behind these tiny wounds, Tavali might have thought the marks were from ordinary battles. Perhaps a knife wound from close quarters at his lower back. A lucky hit with a dart that didn't heal perfectly beneath his shoulder.

In all, the remaining scars looked strangely natural. It gave him the appearance of a seasoned fighter rather than the dashing rapscallion he preferred to jest about. It was almost funny.

“Well?” Astarion asked a little testily.

“Sorry,” Tavali jumped a little. She put both hands down to grip his shoulders and lift him upright again. The high elf’s eyes, that new violet still so surprising and beautiful, were anxious around the shallow irritation. Tavali shook her head as she spoke. ‘A few marks are left, but it really is gone, my love.” Tavali squeezed the back of his neck with her left hand in hope of grounding him again. “New skin everywhere else.”

Astarion swallowed again, his eyes darting slightly as he stared at her as though looking for a lie. He sat up straight and awkwardly bent his left hand behind his back. The rogue put his palm against the center of his spine. His fingers splayed wide as he shoved his hand up and down his back in search of the old grooves and swirling text.

Tavali watched as he found nothing and swung his arm back forward to his lap. He inhaled slowly and deeply, holding the air in his lungs long enough that his cheeks pinkened before releasing the air. Astarion’s shoulder’s fell and he dropped his head forward to hang on his neck. Tavali dug her thumb carefully into his shoulder in a careless massage and said nothing.

He didn’t need words from her at the moment. He just needed a quiet moment.

Eventually, he lifted his head and sat up straight again. “Well,” he said to the opposite wall. “Glad that worked out. It would have been a terrible shame if they put in the extra effort for nothing,” he said glibly if not for the catch in his voice.

Tavali winced but didn’t argue. “At least it happened while you couldn’t feel it,” she said softly.

Astarion huffed. “Good news all around,” he rolled his head on his neck before looking at her again. His expression lightened and turned almost triumphant. “One more piece of him washed away.” He raised his left hand to capture her left at his neck. She gripped him back in turn. Astarion breathed for several seconds, face loose but his eyes closed. When he opened them to look at her again, his grin came closer to normal. “Now, how about washing the rest of me?”

Tavali snorted through her nose and carded her fingers through his limp curls. “My pleasure.”

“Ready?” Shadowheart asked.

Standing in the bedroom in front of Tavali and Astarion’s closed door, the cleric lifted the holy mace with a tight brown leather shroud covering its head.

On the bed, Astarion’s fists clenched in his red blankets. Tavali and their cleric had given him strict orders: He was to throw himself beneath the covers at the slightest pain from the radiant light.

“Get on with it, then,” the rogue said impatiently, though anyone watching and listening could see the trepidation on his face and in his voice.

Shadowheart’s lips quirked unhappily to the right, but she did as he asked. Tavali watched from the right side of the bed as the Selûnite carefully undid the leather strap and slowly uncovered the Blood of Lathander.

When the first radiate glow slipped out, Astarion flinched against the headboard, sending a pang of stinging terror through Tavali’s chest.

The high elf didn’t bolt for the covers as the light swept over him. His skin did not sizzle and char. It didn’t even gray.

It stayed pale and unblemished by the Morninglord's holy light.

The three of them collectively held their breath for several more seconds. Tavali glanced between the mace and Astarion like she suspected something might change from one moment to the next. Shadowheart kept the leather cover open to throw it back over the spiked head.

It was Astarion who started to relax first. He released his white-knuckled grip on the blankets and sagged back into his pillows.

“Well,” he lifted a weak right hand and turned it idly in the radiant light. “How unexciting,” he commented drolly. It did not completely cover the minute tremor in his voice.

Tavali let her back meet the wall to take some of her weight. “Sure,” she responded with matching forced facetiousness. “Nothing to worry about at all.” 

Shadowheart scoffed and lowered the mace. The cleric's movements lost their stiffness as she smoothly put the leather cap back over the head. “Better safe than sorry with this anyway. Can’t have you flinching every time I want to shine a little light,” she said with her typical sour sweetness.

Astarion matched her with a condescending grin of his own. “And you know what this means,” the high elf clapped commandingly. He looked over at Tavali in satisfaction. “I get to have my bow back.” 

Tavali frowned, but didn’t need more than a moment to figure out what he was talking about. Astarion wanted Gontr Mael, the strange bow that had exploded from the remains of the Titan Steel Watcher and that he had claimed for their fight against the Absolute.

He'd made excellent use of the bow and its radiant powers right up until the moment daylight burned him again.

When Astarion had fled from the sunlight at the docks, Tavali had chased after him to help. Against a battered shipping crate, Astarion had been writhing in frantic agony against the shadows on the dock. Neither of them had understood why he was still slowly disintegrating until Tavali had realized the fire coursing through him had been coming from the glowing bow strapped to his back. They'd thrown it away from him and nearly into the harbor itself to get the rogue away from it.

“So if any of our fine companions decided to borrow it in my place, tell them to sod off and return it.” Astarion smirked pompously.

“No one dared,” Tavali said back with mocking deference and an eyeroll.

“No one bothered,” Shadowheart clarified. “We’re all perfectly happy with our own bows. Although you may have to make sure Gale didn't take off with it.” Shadowheart added dryly. “A ‘marvel of magical creation,’ wasn't it? He wanted the artificers to take a look at it.”

Astarion looked appalled and then outraged. “He better not have!”

The bow was found and reclaimed in short order, sparing them all the high elf's overblown pouting and possibly a retrieval mission to Waterdeep.

The recovering patient learned he could keep a single bowl of broth and water down just fine.

At Astarion’s insistence born of curiosity and boredom, they tried watery porridge for breakfast on the third day. When he spent the next several hours desperately trying to keep it from making a reappearance, the rogue conceded that he needed to stick to the soups for now.

“Always pushing things,” Shadowheart griped when Tavali relayed this news. “Least that hasn’t changed.”

Tavali couldn’t help but agree there.

“But why should my muscles be so weak?” Astarion griped as he kept a desperate grip on her left hand with his right. They painstakingly made another turn around the corner of the bed. “I’ve been using them every blasted day.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Tavali said calmly. “It’s just part of using them while living again.”

“It’s absolute rubbish is what it is. How in the hells am I supposed to fight like this?” He grit his flat teeth as another muscle cramp took his left leg. “Gods.”

“You’re not, beloved.” Tavali answered simply while they sat him down on the edge of the bed. With new but practiced ease, she knelt and lifted his bare left leg onto her thighs. Tavali massaged her fingers into the stiff calf. “You won’t be like this forever. You’ll get your strength back and be as dashing a rogue as you ever were,” she promised, letting a little heat creep into her fingertips to work the muscle loose.

Astarion’s nose was wrinkled and his face tense from pain. “I’ll take your word for it, darling.”

Tavali rubbed her right hand briefly on his bent right knee. “Not just my word. Shadowheart says so, too.” Tavali briefly squeezed his knee. “And if we can’t trust our healer, who can we trust?” She asked rhetorically.

Astarion cocked an eyebrow at her. “That saying might go over better if our healer wasn’t a former Sharran. But I’ll take your point,” he raised his left hand and flapped it nonchalantly to ward off her rebuttal. 

Tavali huffed and focused her attention on his strained limb.

“Gods below,” he groaned when her fingers felt the muscles in his left leg begin to lose their tension. He hung his head limply on his neck. “You’re perfect. A godsend.”

Tavali chuckled and looked up at his face again. “That’s you, my love. Quite literally, now.”

Astarion’s eyelids fluttered as he blinked down at her. “Ha,” he laughed dully, though his eyes were soft. His captivating violet eyes that she would never tire of seeing. “As you say, my sweet.”

“Just a sip of wine, darling.” Astarion gave her wide eyes and a pouted lip from their bed.

“No, Astarion.”

“But darling,” he pleaded, “I haven’t tasted it yet. I’ve got to know if it’s different than before!”

“And you’ll learn when it’s safe for you. The same with all the other food you can’t have yet.”

“Beloved,” he moaned. “Cruel beloved.” He fell to the side against his pillows. His wayward curls became even more ruffled against the fabric.

“Yes,” she said tartly. “Your cruel beloved. Now would you like help with your bath now or later?”

Astarion grumbled into the feathery cushion for another moment. Then he dramatically held out his left hand for her to grasp and pull him upright again. His white sleep shirt slipped loosely around his neck.

“What about a sip of wine with my bath?” The high elf cajoled. Tavali didn’t think the understated leer he was giving her now or the subtle way he was flexing his shoulders to expose more of his collar bones and pectorals was a coincidence.

“So you can become drunker faster?” The sorcerer cocked an accusing eyebrow at him as she started tugging on his shirt to relieve him of it. His strength had returned enough to graduate to the bathtub itself rather than sponge bathing. “You think I don’t know that trick?”

Astarion grumbled into the fabric of his shirt as it came over his head. “Just trying to have a bit of fun.” He made a moue toward the ground between their legs. 

Tavali bounced onto the balls of her feet and squatted down until she could rest on her knees before him. Astarion blinked at her in mild startlement. “You can have all the fun you can dream of,” she said with mocking solemnity, “when you are well again.” Tavali rested her palm on his thighs. “Now help me get your trousers off so I can get you into the bath you’ve been begging for.”

Astarion groaned again but acquiesced. Then he groaned louder and deeper when his body was finally submerged in the heated water.

The high elf did not bring up the wine again that day.

Two days later, Tavali held her own glass of Baldur’s Grape to his lips to let him have the slightest taste with his pork broth dinner.

The momentary look of delight that overtook her love’s face and the way he licked his lips afterwards was worth it.

“Gods,” he breathed, face shifting back to something like melancholy and resentment. “That’s what it really tastes like. Tavali didn’t make him beg for another. She wordlessly held up the glass for his second sip, lips pursed as she tried not to smile overmuch. She managed to keep him from taking a full gulp by watching Astarion like a hawk. “What else have I been missing?”

“We’ll see,” she grinned at him a little. “I can’t wait until you can try whiskey with me again.”

Astarion woke one night from his trance with a wail of agony slipping the bonds of his teeth.

Tavali came awake in time to dodge most of his wild flailing on their bed as he tried to get away from her.

The debacle spiraled into hissing and spitting with Tavali getting distant across the room from the frantic rogue and Astarion throwing open their bedroom window to clear his head in the cold air.

The affair settled a quarter hour later with the older elf collapsed weeping against his lover’s body.

His hands roamed her back and into her hair. His fingers pressed down tightly as though reminding himself that she was real. Tavali crossed their ankles and whispered promises into his left ear, letting his tears soak the left side of her neck and collar. The sorcerer tangled her left hand in the hair at the back of his head and cuddled him deeper into the pillow and mattress beneath them. Tavali used the position to gently rock them both scant inches back and forth.

She couldn’t hide him from the world, but she could make it go away for the moment.

Dawn was making its way toward the horizon when Astarion’s desperate sobs tapered off into whimpers against her skin.

“I hate this,” he moaned into her shoulder and, quite conversely, struggled to get further into her embrace. It was hard when his nose was already in the crook of her neck. “This is awful. If I never cry again, it will be too soon.”

Astarion had lamented to her before that he abhorred his crying jags in the aftermath of Cazador’s death, even if Tavali thought they were better than keeping all his misery inside as he had for so long. The wounds inside him needed to be lanced over and over again if there was any hope of healing them in the long run. It might take longer than her lifetime, but she would help him do it while she could.

“No,” Tavali disagreed aloud and ran her right hand up and down his back again. Her love had sweat through his nightshirt. She left her other hand in his damp curls. “This is good. This can help if you let it.”

“I don’t want to,” he said piteously. “I don’t want to think about it all. I don’t want to remember anymore.  I’ve had two hundred years of it.” Astarion sniffed loudly into her nightshirt.

Tavali only soothed him the same as she had before and kissed the top of his head. Her tears fell into his hair and the pillow to mingle with the salt of his.

“Chicken has been the best so far,” Astarion announced to the bowl of beef broth sitting in front of him. “Which is rather disappointing, in its own way.”

“How do you mean?” Tavali asked curiously, lifting a spoonful of slightly overcooked beef and green beans to her mouth from her own soup bowl. She had fished all the solid pieces from Astarion’s own bowl.

“Well, the way you all went on when we found fresh cattle for you to cook,” Astarion looked at her, eyes open and lively. The more he’d gotten used to the light, the rounder his violet eyes grew. She kept meaning to ask him if he’d been squinting into the glare during those first weeks they traveled together. “You’d think a god had blessed us. And it’s always more expensive that other meat in the taverns.”

Tavali shook her head in denial. “Trust me,” she nodded to their bowls. “This is nothing like that. When we go to Waterdeep I’ll bribe Gale to cook you a proper steak.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “As if the wizard needs much bribing. He was only too thrilled to be trusted with the pot every night.”

Tavali waved her empty spoon idly. “If the shoe fits, wear it. The man could cook.” She smiled a little wider at him. “I thought he was talented while we were on the road. You wouldn’t believe the difference once we made it here and he had access to proper seasoning.”

Astarion, as he often did whenever she made a point to praise Gale, pouted just slightly. “Yes, well, I don’t want to rely on Gale for all my culinary delights. I’m sure I can find a decent steak in this city without him.”

Tavali rolled her eyes and went back to her soup. It was richer than the chicken and pork versions, to be sure, which was why Astarion was only getting to try it for the first time today.

Her rogue took another bite and then continued. “The chicken was better than the pork broth as well,” Astarion mused and took another sip. “I’d say the pork comes in last.” He glanced her way again while she ate. “You were quite sick of pig by the time we reached the city. Are you past that?”

Tavali grimaced a little at the reminder. “Yeah. And that was because we had to eat it so quickly.” It was well known while they were traveling that the mortal companions needed to do their best to finish the food before it could rot. She swallowed at the memory of smelly pink meat and fish. “There’s only so much pig you can eat in a day before you never want to see it again. Especially with all the jerky and sausage we had to use.”

“Ah yes,” Astarion leaned back a little against the headboard. “The infamous sausage links. Eaten whole, cut to make kabobs, chopped to go in soup, sliced to go on sandwiches. Yet the possibilities were distinctly not endless.”

“Ugh,” Tavali groaned. “Stop it,” she kicked her right foot aimlessly toward the bed. “You’ll put me off my lunch with the memory.”

The sausages had been one of the main staples of their travels and had been vital to survival in the Shadow-Cursed lands for their long shelf life. But that didn’t mean Tavali wasn’t thoroughly sick of them as well for the last few months.

“Very well, dearest,” Astarion said magnanimously. “Though you will have to get over your new aversion, I expect. We’ll need the right provisions whenever we set off on the next grand adventure of ours.”

Tavali made a noise of amused agreement. “Did you ever see me turn down food on the road?” She grinned cheekily at him. “I’ve been doing this for a decade. Between going hungry and eating the sausage, the sausage always wins.” She took a large, grinning bite of tough beef in emphasis.

Astarion’s eyes dropped to her chewing as she intended, but he winced just slightly at her remark and his smile dimmed. “Hmm,” he hummed. He looked away from her to face his bowl again. “Quite right.” 

Tavali blinked at the change in his demeanor. She took another slurp of her soup as he continued to face downward. After watching him take several more spoonfuls, she decided to just ask him. “Did I say something wrong, love?”

Astarion shook his and flicked his eyes over to her.

“No. Just a familiar feeling, my dear.” He rolled his shoulders. “Choosing to eat what's offered rather than go hungry,” he added dryly. 

Tavali made the connection now. “Oh,” she said quietly. Her heart sank a little. Rats and bugs, or going hungry. “That's not a fair comparison.” Tavali paused as she tried to think of what else to say. This was not how she'd wanted their meal to go. She certainly didn't want to discuss vermin while they were trying to eat. Speaking of which- The half-elf tossed her head to sweep a few curls out of her face. She met his eyes again. “And how did we start talking about this while we're eating?” She shook her spoon jokingly at him. “Pleasant topics only until your soup is gone, my love. Then we can be as melancholy as you like.”

Her flimsy attempt at humor worked enough to make Astarion scoff good-naturedly and return to his bowl.

Small victories were the name of the game during his days of recovery. She counted each one.

“But to be honest I think you’re right about chicken.” Tavali pointed to her bowl with her spoon. “It’s the best base for soup. I do promise to make you a proper bowl of the real thing as soon as I’m allowed,” she added with a wider smile. “We’ll see if I can’t knock your socks off.”

Astarion grinned more honestly again. “It’s a date, my love,” he said just suggestively enough to make heat rise in her cheeks.

Tavali sputtered and returned to her Elfsong variety soup while Astarion did the same.

Chapter Text

Tavali heated another bowl of broth, this time with solid vegetables and tiny slivers of meat included. She had made sure the chopped carrots, tomatoes, and celery were boiled as soft as could be before letting them soak in the soup.

Astarion was eagerly awaiting this improvement to his meals from his seat in the chair beside the bed.

“Perhaps we should worry more about you,” Tavali said with a false sweetness reminiscent of Shadowheart. “If you grow spoiled on the delicious cuisine in Baldur’s Gate, how will you cope with travel rations later?”

Astarion sniffed loftily. “So long as we don’t have to eat rats, I will survive.”

The half-elf shot him a frown in response. “Please don’t joke,” she began, only to be interrupted by a knock on their door.

“Are either of you in?” Jaheira’s voice came from beyond the wall.

Tavali startled at the unexpected greeting, fumbling her grip on the bowl. A few drops slid over the edges and landed on the table and her left hand. Tavali set the bowl down roughly on the table, just avoiding a second spill.

Glancing toward the door, Tavali quickly lifted her hand up to suck the broth off and then turned to look at Astarion.

He sat tense in his chair, both hands out to grip the edge of the red arms like he wished to bolt. A pointless gesture; the high elf didn’t yet have the strength to flee anyone. He’d barely made it up and down the stairs of the tavern the night before. His mouth was downturned when he met her eyes.

“One moment,” the sorcerer called back, turning slightly to the right toward the door while keeping her eyes on him. She went to crouch before him and saw Astarion swallow tightly. “If you are not ready for more company, I can speak to her outside,” Tavali whispered quickly. “I can just say you don’t want company right now. We’ll close the curtains-”

“No,” Astarion said shortly with a shake of his head. “No, there’s no point.” He lifted his head and some old haughtiness came back into his eyes. “Why should I hide? Let her in,” he flapped his left hand toward the door.

Tavali wasn’t fooled by the bravado, but she nodded and rose again.

The druid was waiting expectantly in the hallway when Tavali opened the door. She was dressed in her more casual green leather armor than the half-plate she’d donned once they returned to the city. “There you are,” Jaheira said pointedly. “It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen you around the city.” The high half-elf’s eyes cut to the room behind Tavali, and her brow furrowed in confusion. “Where’s your elf at this time of day? It’s full daylight.”

Tavali inhaled carefully. She poked her head out into the hallway and looked quickly up and down the length of it. There was no one lingering besides her friend.

“Come inside,” Tavali whispered and jerked her head backwards. She stood to the side and let the wary druid into the bedroom.

The older woman had just cleared the sweep of the door when she came to dead stop. Tavali quickly secured the lock and turned to face both Jaheira and Astarion as the former stood ramrod straight, staring at the latter.

Astarion was still in the chair, but he was reclining in it more insouciantly now. He had his right ankle crossed casually over the left and gave Jaheira maddening smirk. “Hello, Harper,” he greeted with a wag of his left fingers in the sunlight.

“What in the hells,” Jaheira breathed as Tavali walked back into the room and came to stand at Astarion’s right side. Jaheira looked between the two of them, her head moving in increments until she settled on Astarion again. Her expression grew more focused as she pushed past the initial shock. Tavali had always admired the woman’s quick mind. “What did you find?” The druid’s eyes dropped from his face to his body. “An artifact?”

Tavali shook her head but let Astarion take the lead. “Far better, in fact,” he said casually. Tavali looked at him while Astarion spread his smile wide enough to show all his teeth. Most importantly, his far shorter canines. The sorcerer picked up his right hand to thread their fingers together.

It took Jaheira another few moments of staring before she strode forward and dropped to one knee on Astarion’s left. She leaned toward him and put herself a foot from Astarion’s face. The elf flinched a little into the back of the chair at the proximity, but didn’t push her back or put his teeth away.

“Ye gods,” Jaheira inhaled and drew her eyes up to meet Astarion’s. Tavali saw her take in the violet of his eyes. Her mouth parted as she breathed out. “You’re living.”

“Ah ha,” Astarion gave Tavali’s hand a squeeze. He tossed his head carelessly, flicking his curls along his forehead. “Indeed I am.”

Jaheira’s perplexed frown morphed into a glare as Astarion’s blase response. She stood swiftly to her feet and looked between the two of them again. “Alright,” she said crisply. “Tell me everything.”

Astarion and Tavali took seats on the bed to give Jaheira the chair while the Cormyte explained. Tavali sat on the edge between Jaheira and Astarion while the rogue shoved himself to the back to relax against the headboard and spread his leg out behind Tavali. Astarion kept his contributions to the conversation to a minimum and mostly just added snark for embellishment. He otherwise sipped at the soup Tavali had reheated for him.

“We gathered most of the diamonds getting back to Baldur’s Gate the first time. We looted them from Ketheric, or Shar, or,” Tavali waved her left hand vaguely. “Then I bought more once I knew about the ritual.”

Tavali tried to keep certain details to a minimum if only to spare Jaheira the knowledge, but the druid was too sharp by half. The sorcerer needn’t have bothered to try.

“You robbed the bank,” Jaheira said in dawning awareness as Tavali discussed their rapid quest to collect diamonds. “Or he did,” Jaheira quickly amended, glancing over at the rogue helping himself to another long pull of broth. ‘Didn’t you?”

Tavali nodded guiltily. “We didn’t want you to know,” she said subduedly. “So you wouldn’t be involved.”

“The Fist said they had no suspects and the perpetrator vanished into the water.” Jaheira scowled at the two of them. “But my sources told me otherwise. They said an assassin with dark rusty blades attacked the bank, turned into a cloud, and flew away into the fog like a wraith.”

Tavali didn’t respond immediately, and Astarion took up the story. “That is very much how the escape went, yes.”

Jaheira’s look turned blacker. “You did that on purpose,” she accused. “You wanted them to think it was Bhaalists to deflect everyone. Do you know how many Harpers combed the Undercity looking for traces that assassins were still lingering in that temple?”

Tavali winced. She heard Astarion scoff and shift around behind her. “I chose the path that kept Tavali safe and you all ignorant of wrongdoing. Spare me your scorn, Harper,” he said dismissively. “I don’t feel much guilt for frightening a few guards. And it doesn’t hurt to patrol through that hellhole once in a while, anyway,” Astarion added before Tavali reached back with her right hand to place it on his knee. She gave him a squeeze that tried to convey please, stop talking. “There probably are straggling Bhaalists looking to take over the place.”

Jaheira inhaled, and Tavali heard the anger in it. “You attacked the guards, Astarion. Innocent guards, this time.”

“He didn’t kill anyone,” Tavali whispered firmly before the rogue could. “Hurt, yes, but only while escaping. He swore to me he wouldn’t, and he didn’t.”

“That barely makes it better,” Jaheira muttered. “And what of the rest? Your descent into common thievery?”

Tavali opened her mouth, but Astarion beat her to it. “Excuse me?” He protested pompously. “I’ll have you know breaking into the Counting House is far harder than common thievery. It was quite impressive if I do say so my-”

Tavali twisted around to her right, took her hand off Astarion’s knee, put it on the left side of his jaw, and gave him a look. The high elf’s mouth clicked shut. “Please,” Tavali said plaintively. ‘Stop helping.”

Astarion made a moue, but rolled his eyes and went back to his soup. Tavali trailed her fingers down his jaw as she turned to face Jaheira again. Now the druid’s expression had a trace of exasperation mixed in, similar to whenever one of the couples at camp had shown affection. It was distinctly missing the tolerant amusement of those days, however.

“He really was only after diamonds,” Tavali said quietly. She clasped her fingers together and dropped them over her lap. “He grabbed some other things to cover it up, throw off any pattern. But he didn’t just run rampant in the vaults. And I made a record,” Tavali said faintly, keeping her gaze cast downward, “of everything and everyone we robbed. Once things have settled, I’m going to find a way to pay them all back. In coin, if nothing else.”

The Glittering Gala had been the worst victim, considering the pouch Astarion had stolen. It had been a few thousand gold worth at least.

“That is where all those gems came from and why you wanted to trade so much in the Underdark,” Jaheira said in realization. “I couldn’t figure out why you wanted to offload so many goods down here.”

“I thought of that afterward,” Tavali caveated softly. “It was too risky to sell the things he took to the guild or merchants in the city. Someone might have realized.  Or someone we stole from might have been able to track it. But no one’s going to investigate that far into the Underdark. The Fist certainly won’t,” Tavali said with her eyebrows briefly raised knowingly. “But we bought up any diamonds we found there, too. So it sort of,” she quirked her lips to the side, “worked out for us.”

“And this is the true reason we went into the Underdark?” Jaheira asked bluntly to Astarion. “To get more diamonds for you?”

Astarion shrugged, but Tavali shook her head again. “We, he,” she jerked her right thumb over her shoulder to point it at the silent elf, “really did want to see the spawn and figure out what to do about them. We were already planning to go there before I knew about the ritual. So this really was just,” Tavali brought her right hand forward again and held up two fingers, “two birds with one stone.” She left her index finger extended for a moment.

Jaheira pursed her lips. “Quite the criminal mastermind you’ve become these last few weeks,” she commented lightly but disapprovingly.

“Chsh,” Astarion scoffed from behind. “She’s always had a clever mind, Harper.”

“But to my knowledge she used it for the greater good,” Jaheira snapped back. “Not to rob Baldurians blind.”

“Oh, my apologies,” Astarion sneered. “Forgive me if my life and immortal soul matter more to us than some shiny rocks. The patriars must be truly suffering.”

Jaheira leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes and inhaled very deeply, pressing folded fingers together at her brow. All three sat silently while she gathered her words. Tavali felt how stiff Astarion’s legs were behind her. “I do not,” Jaheira began more sedately, “mean to cheapen your life. I am glad that you live again,” she added sincerely.  “And it is not that I don’t understand, Tavali,” the druid said directly to her. “I know loss and the desperation it breeds all too well.” Tavali winced in response, swallowing a little. She saw Khalid's amulet around Jaheira's neck. She'd taken to wearing it again during the battles against the Absolute. “But you got lucky this time that more wasn’t asked of you. What darker path will you be willing to follow for each other now that you’ve crossed this first line?”

Tavali huffed an unhappy laugh. “I don’t know,’ she whispered in admission. Jaheira's lips thinned again. “I can’t know,” Tavali looked away before forcing herself to meet her friend’s gaze, “because this was all fate,” Tavali waved her left hand aimlessly, “asked of me. Those diamonds were the difference between life and death for him. More than that, even” Tavali said more darkly. She hadn’t forgotten the warning Alba had given her about elven vampires and reincarnation. They couldn’t really know, but the resurrection might have saved Astarion in more ways than one. “He didn't have time. If I had to be a thief to make it happen, so be it. It worked. I have decades to pay it back now. He only had weeks.”

Jaheira’s grimaced and turned to their window. Tavali didn’t look down this time. She leaned back against Astarion’s legs harder in silent support.

His life and soul for diamonds. That was some of the easiest math I’ve ever done. I’d do it again.

When the druid turned from the icy window, her face lost some of its severity. That wasn’t to say she didn’t still look unhappy. “You could have asked for help,” Jaheira tried slowly.

“Don’t pin that on Tavali,” Astarion broke in again. “I told her not to. I wanted us to do this without involving everyone else.”

‘And yet Shadowheart played a role in this game of yours,” Jaheira retorted.

“Barely,” Astarion sniped. “And only because she lived with us at the inn and was too nosey for her own good.”

“We didn’t want to draw more attention than necessary,” Tavali cut in before they could argue further. “A cleric of Lathander already criticized me for even considering the ritual because of how many diamonds we used for one man. And, gods above,” Tavali ran her left hand through her loose curls, “I can’t imagine what the Gur will do if they get wind of this. I’ve no doubt they are watching us when they can.” Tavali and Astarion had briefly spoke of that. The sorcerer didn’t doubt for one second that Ulma’s vow of peace would hold up with the rest of her clan once they saw Astarion was mortal. They had a dozen vampiric children to worry about. She bet that some of those parents would say they were more entitled to the ritual than Astarion was.

They have two hundred years to save up the gold and hunt the diamonds, Tavali had told herself weakly for weeks. Astarion had weeks, she’d repeated every time she worried. 

Those protests wouldn’t mean anything to the grieving tribe. They would probably attack on sight, and Tavali would deal with it as mercifully as she could.

“We didn’t,” she looked at Jaheira directly again. “I didn’t,” she amended more honestly, “want you to know about it.” Jaheira looked slightly wounded at that. “You’re the High Harper,” Tavali said around a tight throat. “You couldn’t be involved in a heist like this.” Tavali’s lips twisted. “What would you have done? Sent agents into Bhaal’s temple when you knew it was a waste of time? Or told them not to look into it and risk suspicion?” Tavali’s fingers wove together in her lap. “Better this way. No one will ever be able to blame you.”  Tavali finished, leaning forward and putting her palms around her knees.

There was a deep, ancient sigh from the older half-elf. “I do not ask you to protect me, cub,” she said reprovingly. “I am an old woman. I have looked after myself for a long time.”

Tavali swallowed then looked up to meet the hazel eyes opposite her. “You don’t have to ask. I’m going to do it anyway.”

Jaheira inhaled, preparing her retort, when Astarion cut in a final time. “Oh, don’t bother, druid,” he said exhaustedly. “What are you going to tell her? ‘Don’t help someone you care about?’ “Don’t go to great lengths to keep them safe?’” The high elf scoffed. “You may as well tell the sun to stop setting.”

Tavali looked to her right and pinched Astarion right arm. He harumphed obligingly.

The Cormyte turned around in time to see Jaheira drop her head into her right hand. “By the roots, I am too old for this. You children will be the death of me after all.”

Tavali’s lips quirked. “Never,” she quipped back. “You’ll be here forever. Minsc said, remember?”

Jaheira ran her hand down to cup her chin and left her fingers pressed against her cheek. Her expression was flat.

Tavali’s grinned broadened in return.

Chapter Text

Watching the sunset from the roof of the Elfsong was probably more pleasant during warmer months, but Astarion wasn't willing to wait that long.

The amber and golden beams of light cut through the clouds to bathe he and Tavali in their glow. They didn't bring much heat with them, but the brazier before them and blanket around their shoulders were compensating for the chill. As had the succulent chicken soup and fresh baked bread devoured from the tray behind them. Tavali had scrounged up a mulled wine she could heat up, orange and spices sparkling on their tongues as they indulged.

Astarion was finally past those first days of broth and could finally eat a meal with a glass of wine.  His face had glowed with pleasure so bright Tavali had struggled to look away and eat her own meal.

“We should look into those other neighborhoods on the northwest side,” Astarion went on. “They looked quite spacious.”

“With what money?” Tavali chirped back. “I hate to break it to you, dearest, but we're considerably poorer this month than we were last.” She snuggled against his right side, his right arm behind her back for balance. “And we don't need a lot of space for just the two of us.”

“Hmph.” Astarion pouted and took another sip of the spiced wine in his left hand.

Tavali knew they weren’t actually poor by any means. They could easily afford some pricey rent payments for a while if they felt like wasting their money. After dividing their spoils among their friends who remained on the Material Plane, each Hero of Baldur’s Gate had walked away from the adventure with a great deal of wealth.

When Tavali broached splitting the loot before Gale departed with far less than he deserved, Astarion turned to face her and quirked an eyebrow. “Split up among who? Karlach and Wyll are in Avernus.” He said it pragmatically, even if he darted an unhappy glance over to where the bard and barbarian had bedded down together in the inn. “They can’t exactly collect. Lae’zel rode away on a red dragon. That leaves you, myself, Shadowheart, and Gale.”

Tavali tilted her head and looked toward where the druids and ranger had slept. The high elf pouted and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are not counting Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc in this.”

Tavali grimaced and gestured toward their currently empty beds. “They were with us in the Shadow-Curse. They helped so-”

“No, no, they do not get an equal share. Halsin didn’t help us the entire trip through the Underdark, sitting at camp and ‘meditating’ or what have you. And he only helped in the Shadow-Curse after we saved his spirit friend.”

The argument went back and forth before petering out.

Either way, twenty-five thousand gold worth of diamonds had just come out of Astarion and Tavali's shares. It had put quite the dent in their savings.

“I just think it will be safer to get something less,” Tavali curled a little tighter against him. “Conspicuous. You’re still recovering and we have a lot of enemies now.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d started this conversation. Tavali liked the idea of getting out of the Elfsong at last, especially since Shadowheart and her family had finally left for the peace and quiet of the countryside near Reithwin. Without the protection their half a dozen allies provided for each other in sheer numbers alone, the half-elf hoped to find a place safe and out of the way as the city rebuilt and Astarion relearned his body.

They did not need to be drawing attention to themselves by becoming wealthy tenants in the Upper City. Or worse, wealthy landowners. Servants of the Dead Three or Shar would all too happily slaughter the lot of them if they laid out so obvious a red carpet. Tavali had no more faith in the guards of the Upper City than she did the Lower.

“But it might be a good investment, dearest,” Astarion cajoled. “With all the havoc in the city, we might be able to find a place far cheaper than you’d think.” He brought up his wine glass again and took a slow sip. “A modest estate, a gated yard, thick walls,” he added lasciviously, running his lips over her ear left. Tavali jumped at the unexpected move. “Plenty of privacy.”

The sorcerer started to giggle as his mouth trailed down her cheek toward her neck. “O-oh, of course,” she said a little breathlessly. “It’s important to have privacy.” She turned her head and inadvertently brought his kisses to her chin. “We want to be safe.” 

“Too right, darling,” Astarion murmured before fastening his lips over hers.

“Is that your plan then?” Tavali asked when they broke apart. “Buy a house and make Baldur’s Gate our home? I thought there was a world you wanted to see,” she teased.

Astarion snorted and went back to nuzzling behind her left ear. “All the more reason to have my own space to regain my strength,” Astarion responded easily. “As soon as I’m back in killing form,” he went on with a soft growl, “we can set off for parts unknown. And we don’t have to buy a place, dearest.” He nudged their shoulders. “Do you think there aren’t plenty of desperate landlords in need of tenants right now?”

Tavali hummed in agreement. “There are, with plenty of small, ordinary homes available for a young couple,” she kissed the front line of his throat, “just starting out.”

Astarion grumbled but angled his head to let her lips trail down the right cord of his neck. “How small? We can't live in a shack along the Chionthar.”

“Hmm.” Tavali found the first puncture mark on his neck. “Would a simple apartment be good enough?” She found the second. “Something tucked away from the world. Something quiet,” she ran her lips back up again. “Somewhere we can just be Tavali and Astarion?”

Astarion breathed gustily as she put a final kiss against his jaw. “I hardly think there is ‘just Tavali and Astarion,” he muttered, though the pout in his voice couldn’t mask the sincerity of the words. “Not anymore.” Tavali tipped her head back to look at him. Astarion cut his eyes to her and quirked an eyebrow. “The Hero of Baldur’s Gate will be in demand for a long while to come.”

Tavali grimaced a little before resting her forehead against his right cheek.  “Heroes of Baldur’s Gate,” she corrected unconsciously.  “And we’ve made it this far, haven’t we? People hardly bother us anymore. Even in the Elfsong,” the sorcerer added with a thump of her right foot against the rooftop in emphasis.

“That probably because until now you kept showing up to clean up the mess of this city,” Astarion rejoined. “Once you disappear, they'll start asking where you went. You're- we're,” Astarion corrected with an eyeroll at Tavali's immediate nudge and wordless grunt of annoyance, “going to have a hard time blending in with the common rabble or living in anonymity.”  He set down his wine glass and lifted his left hand to run his fingers through his hair. “That’s not even counting trying to hide this face,” he added with coy nonchalance. “Or yours.”

Tavali rolled her own eyes at his japes and tapped his chest with her right hand. “Incorrigible,” she muttered. “And I bet you're wrong. If we keep our heads down and don't shout who we are, we can be another young couple of renters just like every other refugee.”

“Young couple,” Astarion scoffed and tossed his head lightly again. “I'm over two hundred-”

Tavali tweaked his left side with her right fingers. Astarion jumped lightly in surprise. “A young couple just starting their lives together,” the sorcerer said firmly.

Astarion wrapped his left arm around her waist to tweak her right side in retaliation. “Witch,” he murmured into her curls. He nipped at her ear and earned a sharper jolt. “I hope you’re right, darling,” he murmured once she settled again, right palm over his heart. “While I’ve no desire to be bored, I’d like a little relaxation before the world throws another hurdle at us.”

Tavali rubbed her hand to his left shoulder and back. “I hope so too, my love.”

Chapter Text

Their small townhouse is, according to Tavali, very lovely.

Astarion has slightly higher standards for what “lovely” is, but he’s been working on broadening his horizons beyond what he learned the last two hundred years.  Apparently, bouncing back and forth between abject, inhumane squalor and ostentatious, extravagant opulence has given him a warped perspective on how most people live.

At least, that was what Tavali, Shadowheart, and Jaheira all thought, though they’d said it in different words.

But the small, single bedroom home had a quaint charm to it, nevertheless.  There was a kitchen and small sitting place for them on the first floor where Tavali giddily cooked and promised to teach him to cook. On the second level, there was a small bedroom with a decent mattress large enough to support them both and a tiny bathing chamber to the side. The bath wasn’t big enough for two, which was practically a crime in Astarion’s mind, but it was in decent shape and didn’t look liable to leak everywhere.

Most importantly, their bedroom featured a wide, south-facing window that captured the sun nearly every minute it was up. Astarion woke with delicate rays bleeding past their thick curtains, always left open just the right amount to let the daylight in each morning. It made him lazy, rolling in the glow like a cat and bundling up against the warm body of his lover until returning to sleep sounded like the best option for the day.

Since his body was still learning to be alive again, excessive rest was often in the cards.

During their second week in their new residence, Astarion’s energy flagged as it was still want to do in the evenings. It was to be expected after several days of excitement and training his body alongside Jaheira, Minsc, and Tavali.  The ranger had, in essence, moved in with Jaheira, who herself lived close by.  Having their friends an easy walk away had delighted Tavali, and it certainly made it easier to set up training times for Minsc and Astarion to practice their archery and Jaheira and Astarion to train with their swords; not to mention Tavali’s renewed desire to practice her druidism in earnest at the older Harper’s side.

It made for very busy if productive days, watching Tavali’s magic sparkle and flourish while he felt his own muscles tense and loosen but slowly, slowly, start to feel strong again.

Either way, the consistent hard use of his body led to his head drooping at their dinner table as they finished off their mushroom soup. Astarion asked if they could retire early for the evening, and Tavali smiled and quietly agreed.  They cleaned up their dinner things, polished off the wine, and made the slow walk up their stairs to their bedroom.

After some quick ablutions and a change of clothes, Astarion almost immediately fell asleep. The last thing he remembered was reclining on their bed and wrapping his left arm over Tavali’s waist from behind her. He ought to have tranced, probably, but there was satisfaction in lying alongside his lover and sharing body heat until sleep took him.

The high elf woke to the late-winter sunrise, slowly and gently becoming aware of himself again as the room brightened and Tavali’s chest rose and fell against his arm. He settled himself back against the pillow and relaxed with the cloudy light on his skin and Tavali’s wild hair against his nose.

The aches in his body were still present but lessened after a good night’s rest.  He could feel a spot on his back he’d need to stretch out but it could wait until Tavali woke.

The half-elf followed his example under a quarter of an hour later, shifting under his arm and pushing back against him. Astarion rolled his shoulders and legs, working the annoying rigidity out of his spine and letting her turn to curl against his chest. Both his arms came around her back.

“G’d morn’n,” she mumbled into his blue cotton shirt collar.

“Good morning, my dear,” he whispered into the curls above her forehead.

“Did you sleep well?” Tavali asked, stretching out her own legs beneath the sheets and letting her feet knock against his.

“Very,” he said with a contented sigh and closed his eyes. “I could do this forever,” he went on without opening them. “A full stomach, a warm bed, a warm body,” he tickled her once with his fingers at her ribs, grinning into her hair when she jumped slightly and made the bed shake. Her right fingers curled in barely-there reprimand over his left pectoral. “And a sunrise to wake me.” Astarion pressed a noisy kiss to the top of her head. “All that’s missing is a set of servants to bring us breakfast,” the rogue added impishly. “Hot coffee and fresh scones sound delightful.

Tavali snorted and tapped his chest a few times. She turned her face from the window and deeper into his chest. Her lips moved against his shirt. “You hav’n even tried scones yet. Or coffee!” 

“Ah haha, too right, my sweet,” Astarion pressed another quick kiss to her head, feeling buoyant with the ease of the morning. She was apparently ignoring his request for hired help. Ah well. “But it sounds delicious. We’ll have to do something about that. Much as I’ve appreciated your efforts with the tea and porridge these last few weeks. And the broths,” he added offhandedly.

Tavali sighed heavily and turned away from him. Astarion released her with his left arm and pouted, but she only turned so they lay alongside each other.  The rogue kept his right arm around her shoulders to pull the half-elf in close. Her head found his right shoulder. “Coffee can be very bitter,” she warned. “I know Gale liked it and it smells great, but don’t be surprised if you don’t.”

Astarion frowned at the wooden ceiling above him. “You drank it,” he countered with light confusion. “I remember. So did everyone else. Except maybe Karlach,” Astarion frowned as he tried to recall such a trivial detail.

“Well, sure,” Tavali agreed easily. “We needed the help waking up some mornings. Black coffee is one of the fastest ways. But I prefer flavors to mine, or milk and sugar.”

“Well then,” Astarion shrugged to jostle her a little. “I’ll keep that in mind as I try new things.”

Tavali turned her head and kissed his collarbone. “Do you mind if we wait on the fresh baked scones?” She asked quietly. Tavali angled her right hand with his left to intertwine their fingers between them. “I’m not ready to head outside just yet.”

“Hmm,” Astarion hummed in mock aggrievement.  “I suppose, my love.”

They sat in silent relaxation for many long minutes, letting the slip of sunlight fall over them through the curtains. Approaching the second month of the new year, the bite of cold had not yet begun to break.  Cloud-cover and dreary rain made appearances more often than not, but it was still leagues better than being confined to the Underdark.

“There is,” Tavali started slowly, tracing her right fingertips across the ridges of his first knuckles, “something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. Something I should maybe tell you. About my family,” she clarified as he pulled away just as many inches necessary to look her in the eye.

Tavali’s face looked sheepish.

“If you’ve been secretly betrothed to a, a lich or something this entire time, I’m walking.” Astarion threatened mockingly.

Tavali ducked down and snorted against the hollow of his throat at the joke.

“No husbands to be found, secret or otherwise.” She released his hand and patted the left side of his chest.

It was silly, but the assurance did matter. The last thing he wanted was to face down an ex-lover. While he was confident he could win, he suspected Tavali wouldn’t like the bloodshed.

Not to mention Tavali's old fear that I might have a spouse and children from two hundred years ago lurking somewhere.

Astarion was still very confident that wasn’t the case, but who knew anymore?

“It- it is a secret, though,” she whispered, looking up at him again instead of his shoulder line. “You really could not tell anyone.”

Astarion quirked his left brow. “Sounds ominous.”

Tavali looked serious, but slightly dejected. “Not, it’s not really a bad thing. It’s just part of my family’s history that we don’t talk about. Didn’t talk about,” she corrected quietly.

Astarion furrowed his brow. “Why not?” he asked in an undertone.

Tavali shifted, squirming just slightly in her position but not pulling away from him or standing up. She aimed her gaze at his collar line. “It could,” she muttered, “cause issues. If the wrong people learned about it. So, my mother and I only discussed it when I was old enough to understand and to keep it under wraps. She said to never tell anyone but my husband or children with my blood.” Tavali glanced up at him slowly, but then looked back down. “I know we aren’t there, that this is still new. But, we keep saying ‘forever,’ so,” she inhaled, deeply and dauntingly. “You probably deserve to know what you might be signing up for.”

Astarion had to push through the uptick in his heartbeat from those incendiary words; husband, children, forever. They were terrifying yet exhilarating in his ears.

But Tavali was trying to tell him something else just now.

Astarion stroked down her right shoulder with his right fingers. "You're making me nervous, darling.”

Tavali flicked a grin briefly up her right cheek. “It’s a little nervous for me, too. But, can you promise,” she held his gaze now, something resolute in her eyes, “that you won’t tell a soul what I tell you? Even if we part someday,” she said it with an unhappy twist to her mouth that he felt himself mirroring, “you cannot tell anyone. So if you don’t want to promise that, I can’t tell you now.”

Astarion huffed. “This is torture. Duress. Telling me a secret exists and then demanding promises before you’ll tell me.” He pouted, giving her hand a squeeze. Tavali only quirked her left eyebrow at him, not giving an inch.

The former vampire sighed.

“You are serious, aren’t you? Very well.” Astarion brought their joined hands up to his heart, pressing hers and his flat to his breastbone. He twisted his right arm carefully out from around her back and clapped his right hand over the other two. “I solemnly swear I will not tell a soul what you share with me here today,” he recited monotonously. “Does that satisfy?” Astarion asked pointedly and cocked his eyebrow.

Tavali rolled her eyes and took their hands away from his chest. “It’ll do.”

Astarion lifted his left pointer finger up to wrap in a free curl near her right ear. “Will you tell me this secret, then?”

Tavali reached up and took his hand away from her hair. She tucked his left hand in both of hers at her chest, cocooning his fingers in additional warmth. Astarion put his right arm back around her shoulders beneath their blanket.

“My family has known for a long time, and I mean a really long time, that we had fey blood,” Tavali began slowly. “And we knew not to draw too much attention to ourselves.” She looked up at him, but her gaze was far away. “Any kind of unique power can bring around the wrong kind of people. So we kept to ourselves in the village and it,” she hesitated again. “Protected us.” Her green gaze flicked to him again. “My home was special. I couldn’t even describe it to you well. It’s only something you could feel if you went there.” Her eyes focused more on his. “And even then, it wouldn’t feel to you how it does to me.”

Astarion quirked an eyebrow softly this time. “I’ll take your word for it, my sweet.”

Tavali huffed.

“But until the 1300s, that was our secret. We had a slightly unusual bloodline and some of us were born with magic. And if you were like me and went to the Feywild, you could become more powerful.”

Tavali paused, gathering her thoughts, and Astarion broke in softly. “Did you,” he asked cautiously, “become more powerful?”

Tavali half-grinned at him, looking somewhere along his collarbones. “I had the benefit of my human mother’s fey bloodline and a wood elf druid father. I was strong, but not enough to be notable.” She rubbed her right thumb over his fingers. “Yes,” she said softly toward his right shoulder. “I became far more powerful. It’s why I’m still alive.”

Astarion knew there was a deeper story there. She’d never really gone into great detail about the specifics of her journey in the Feywild or the adventuring party she’d gone with. He knew her well enough to suspect the story did not, perhaps, have a happy ending. She likely would have shared it by now otherwise.

Is that what I’m about to learn about?

“But, anyway, something else happened with my family in the 1300s. My great, a lot of greats, grandmother had a baby. She’d just gotten married, and everyone thought her husband was the father.” Tavali inhaled carefully. “But he wasn’t.”

Astarion’s lips curled to the left at what would usually be a salacious detail in family history, but Tavali’s face was too solemn. “I take it you’re not just sharing your grandmother’s tawdry history because of infidelity alone?”

Tavali scoffed quietly, but nodded.

“I don’t really know most of the details. What’s been passed down is just the essentials. But that grandmother conceived her son Jerald with a man passing through our inn. The man who married her was her friend, I guess, or at least someone who cared enough to protect her reputation. After Jerald was born, the Royal Magician of Cormyr paid her a visit and told her the truth.” Astarion twitched at that unexpected detail. Tavali looked up at him again, eyes daunted but unclouded. “The father was Prince Azoun. Later to be King Azoun IV.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open an inch as he looked at her.

Gods above.

He was no expert, knew little of Cormyr’s history and certainly didn’t retain anything he knew before Cazador, but even he knew about this. He'd been alive and out hunting marks often enough to learn details about the man in real time.

King Azoun IV. The kind of man upcoming and naive adventurers tried to emulate. Died heroically in battle if Astarion wasn’t completely off. Some sort of mythic figure in modern times.

The rogue leaned up more to face her more directly, letting his right hand sink behind her to the bed.

“You,” he sputtered, “you aren’t having me on, are you, love?” Tavali chuckled and shook her head no. “You’re great, however many greats,” he tossed his hair distractedly to the left, “grandfather was actually a king of Cormyr?”

Tavali sighed and rolled her head back against the pillow. She stared up at the ceiling and kept his left hand over her stomach. “Unfortunately,” she answered. 

Unbelievable.

He’d given up on the princely type. How in the hells had an actual princess landed at his side?

He twined his fingers over hers again. “And this is a bad thing?” Astarion prompted, lowering his right elbow to the bed and tucking his arm behind her neck to hover more closely over her face.

Tavali's rolled her lips in thought. “It might be.” She shuffled her shoulders. “So, as far as I'm aware, no one else knew about our royal bloodline. Grandmother Meg ordered the magician away and to never return. She insisted the prince wasn’t the father, and King Azoun never visited to see his son. I don't even know if he knew the baby was his. And then that same Magician, Vangerdahast was his name, well, he died. Or was sealed away somehow? I'm uncertain what happened. Our lessons said he became a spirit protecting the palace and royal family.” Tavali shook her head. “But I learned, after the war ended and I was traveling again, that he was resurrected. Supposedly Mystra herself brought him back.”

Astarion furrowed his brows at her. “After a century? What did he do to earn that?”

Tavali huffed and shrugged again. “Who knows? I can't fathom why Mystra does as she does.”

Astarion tended to agree. Their wizard was still strutting about just fine, no divine bomb necessary to destroy the Absolute despite Mystra's original insistence.

“So, now that he's alive again, there is someone outside the family who knows about us. It's- I think the odds of it meaning anything after so many generations must be low. But for the last four or five years, I've been worried. It's kind of nonsense,” she tossed her head with a self-deprecating grin. “He may not even know I'm a descendent or have any reason to care about me if I am. But, my mother, she said we were told this story as a warning. It was so we wouldn't be caught off guard if someone came for us someday. Now that he's actually back, I worry that he may come around and want something.” Tavali swallowed. “Whatever it is he wanted the first time.”

Astarion took several moments to think on her words. “What do you fear he could want? Not to disparage your apparent pedigree, my love,” he jostled her left shoulder lightly, “but what use could you be in politics after so many generations of separation? Surely there's no way to prove you are Azoun's granddaughter now?”

Tavali sighed very deeply. “It's not something I put much effort into learning, but there are curses and enchantments that require sacrifices of royal blood. If someone knew about me and wanted to use one, it would be much easier to capture me than a Duke or Count or the Queen and her family. And fewer people would make a fuss if I were to disappear than someone already part of the court. And, hells,” she cursed quietly. Her face scrunched in agitation. “There are laws about the throne of Cormyr. The Dragon Throne. Only someone with Obarskyr blood may sit on it.” She squinted into the sunlight. “At the end of the day, blood matters in that kingdom. If, gods forbid, the royal line is extinguished, it will be all hands on deck to find a replacement. And maybe that sounds crazy or really unlikely, but I hate even knowing it's a possibility.”

Astarion tilted his head at her while she chewed morosely on her lip.  “Where do you,” the high elf asked curiously, “actually fall in the line of succession, then?” Tavali glanced at him, unamused. “Not that I've any desire for you to claim the throne,” he said innocently, “perish the thought. Far too much paperwork.”

Tavali didn’t look entirely convinced by his denial based on the way she lowered her eyelids and stared at him in exasperation. “Use the tadpoles’ power,” the sorcerer said, invoking her imitation of his voice. “Trust the dream visitor. Take control of the Absolute.”

“Yes yes, alright,” he acquiesced with an eye roll, “the man I was last summer would have told you to claim the throne and rule with an iron fist. I’ve changed, darling.”

Tavali scoffed but her lips quirked as she shook her head against the pillow, mussing her curls even more than sleep usually did.

“But it is interesting to consider.” His violet eyes twinkled at her. “All those royals, dukes, earls, whatever else they call themselves in Cormyr. Who do you outrank if push comes to shove?”

The sorcerer shrugged. “No idea. His trueborn children only gave him one grandson, but after that? I've no idea how many descendants carried on, which lived and had more children, which line survived until now. We’re mainly only taught about the royals who end up crowned. No one outside Suzail cares if some Count is a King’s grandnephew two generations from the line of succession.” She rolled her head and stretched her neck over his arm. “I must be fairly far down by now, though, if we have to include every trueborn heir between me and King Azoun, and any more recent bastards that have come from them.” She huffed a small laugh. “Queen Raedra was actually engaged to one of her legitimized cousins a few years ago. Everyone assumed it was just to,” Tavali brought up her right hand and crossed her middle and pointer fingers together, “close the loop on the succession. But she broke it off once she was proclaimed Queen. No idea what he's been up to.” Tavali shrugged. “Hopefully not a bid for the crown,” she added with a weak chuckle.  The half-elf paused again. “I- Queen Raedra is my cousin. Fourth cousin once removed, when I took the time to look it over a few years ago.”

Of course that was the detail she knew. Of course she wouldn't have bothered to calculate her right to the throne. Tavali didn't want it. No, she just wanted to know who was family, and how closely.

“And never forgot, I see,” Astarion said pointedly.

Tavali just shrugged again. “Like you said. It was interesting to consider. But I’m the only one left from this particular family branch, so to speak.” Her face looked melancholy. “The Spellplague came about fifty years after Jerald and wiped out the other royal bastard-born Willowcrofts except my great grandfather. He only had my grandmother, and she only had my mother, who only had me.” She rolled her lips again. “The only one left after over a century and a half. Mama always said before the Spellplague, the Willowcroft bloodline stretched far and wide. But so many of them died when magic went into chaos. It’s why our line of mages went thin the last few generations.”

“Gods,” Astarion murmured, letting himself flop back down onto his pillow while still facing her. 

“All of this to say,” Tavali shifted to face him again. “You need to know it may happen. I pray it never does, and Vangerdahast never hears my name or thinks of my family again. But if anyone shows up someday, looking for me,” she rolled the right side of her lip under her teeth, looking forlorn, “well, it’s something to keep in mind.”

Astarion cocked an eyebrow at her. “To keep in mind about what, my sweet?” He tried to keep any accusation out of his tone, but suspected that some slipped through.

Tavali met his eyes again. “If you want to take that risk,” she said, vulnerability bleeding through. “You have- it’s important you know what the risks are,” she finished lamely. Her green eyes were earnest on his face. “If you want to be with me. I never want you to think I lied or deceived you.”

A drip of old, familiar poison tightened his stomach. “As I did,” he said dully.

Tavali’s eyes blew open wide. “No,” she rushed to correct him, releasing his fingers to put her right hand over the left of his neck. “No, not at all. That wasn’t it at all,” she rushed to say. “I promise, I wasn’t even thinking of- I haven’t thought of that in ages. Ages, Astarion,” she insisted and tightened her grip on his neck.

Astarion reached up with his left hand to hold hers at his neck. He didn’t know if he believed her entirely, but he didn’t really want to have an argument at the moment, so he nodded subtly.

“I just- I want you to have the facts so you can make a decision,” she leaned forward until their foreheads bumped together. “And more than that,” she trailed off. Then she tipped her face up so her lips skipped across his. “I want to tell you everything,” she said in an embarrassed hush. “Everything there is about me.” She gave him a faux reproachful look, though it was difficult to see from such close proximity. “You make me want to spill my guts about everything. I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

His right arm wrapped around her back again until her body was pressed alongside his. “We’ve been here before,” he hissed before closing the scant distance and kissing her again. He thought back to a meddling dryad and a truth spell that had ripped his selfish fear from his throat. Her left hand shoved between him and the bed to wrap around his back in turn. “You can tell me anything.” Astarion promised against her upper lip. “Anything.”

“Ha,” Tavali breathed against him, shaking her head hastily. “Okay. Okay,” she repeated, kissing him again like she needed the reassurance. The rogue all too happily indulged her, parting her lips with his and letting his tongue sink into her mouth.

“Honestly, darling,” Astarion reproached her when they both came up for air. “You think some ancient wizard will scare me away?” He ran his arms up and down her back. “Have you forgotten what we’ve already faced?”

Tavali exhaled a shallow laugh. “Just- just want to be sure,” she panted, tucking her face between his and the pillow like she wanted to hide there.

“Mad woman,” Astarion repeated the well-worn refrain. He planted a smacking kiss on her again before pulling away to look at her more clearly. “Enough of this serious talk. Come help with breakfast. Aren’t you showing me proper eggs today?”

Tavali blinked, something fragile and adoring glowing in her visage. “Anything you want,” she promised, but she didn’t get out of bed. She just sat up to take his face in her hands and kissed him like she could do it all day.

Chapter Text

That night after dinner, as Astarion set the kettle boiling for a light tea, Tavali pulled a small wrapped parcel out from a cupboard. The high elf cocked an eyebrow at her as she made a presentation of opening the yellow cloth to reveal the small basket inside.

“Oh, for-” Astarion’s words broke off as he laughed and smiled widely. He turned away to set his left palm on the countertop for balance.  Then he looked back inside.

Two perfect cinnamon scones sat within.

Tavali giggled and looked perfectly pleased with herself. “They’re better piping hot in the morning,” she acknowledged, “but then one of us would have to get up early to go buy them and neither of us want to do that.”

Astarion chuckled and turned away to take the now whistling kettle off their stove. “Mad woman,” he said, turning back around to try to chide her. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering, and the incessant curl of his lips belied the effort. Tavali beamed and set the dessert down on their table. “Must you remember everything I say?”

Honestly.

Tavali put her hands primly on her waist. “That’s rich, coming from you,” she retorted with a glimmer in her eye. “I’ll stop when you do.”

Astarion huffed and went to pick up their mugs for the tea. He hadn’t thought he would enjoy it, but Tavali did, and the spiced flavor was growing on him slowly.

They sat together as Astarion took his first bite. He rolled the buttery pastry on his tongue and inhaled deeply at the sweet and spiced blend. He looked over at Tavali, chewing her own piece more sedately.

“Quite good,” Astarion said with an air of deference. “One for the list of likes, I think.”

Grinning good-naturedly, Tavali reached over to grip his hand for a moment.

Over a month since his resurrection, and the difference between their body temperatures still felt strange to him. Meaning, there was negligible difference now. Where once she was a blaze against the ice of his skin, now she was like a warm bath.

Astarion still ran somewhat cooler than the average man according to Jaheira and Shadowheart’s examinations. He wasn’t chilled with undeath anymore, but he was no furnace like Minsc. Tavali speculated that his body heat might be perfectly natural; some people were cooler than others. Neither Jaheira nor Shadowheart could say if he would remain like this or grow warmer with time.

And that wasn’t the only possible remnant of the last two hundred years upon him, even excluding the puncture scars on his neck. The rogue was still paler than almost anyone else he met. He blushed easily enough now, much to his chagrin and Tavali’s delight. But Astarion worried at his complexion some days as he never grew darker than just a step above wraith-white.

That was another thing Tavali didn’t seem to worry about.

“You’re almost certainly part star elf,” she said succinctly as she braided her hair and he brushed his. “They are said to be very pale.” 

And some had silvery hair and some had gold-flecked purple eyes. They’d had this conversation before.

Tavali looked up to meet his eyes from her chair across the room. “Please don’t worry yet,” she asked with a weary grin. Her fingers didn’t stop braiding as she spoke. “If something is wrong, we will face it.”

But Astarion couldn’t help but worry some days. Two hundred years of torment will do that to a person, even with several months jumping between slavery, illithid infections, freedom as a spawn, and as a resurrected high elf.

Some mornings he relished the sun, others he flinched away. Some days he didn’t think about eating or drinking if Tavali didn’t remind him because the mild pain in his stomach wasn’t always strong enough to alert him to his body’s needs. If it didn’t feel like gnawing emptiness, he forgot about it.

The damned cleric of Corellon Larethian loved to pry details like this out of him.  The redhead scribbled away with his quill and asked infinite probing questions into Astarion’s resurrected body, but answered few of the rogue’s own inquiries in return. Over and over again the healers in his life told him he needed to be patient. He needed to let his body adjust at its own pace and do nothing to expedite it, lest he suffer a permanent complication.

No one who knew Astarion would be inclined to call him patient.

But with Tavali’s fingers in his and pastry flaking on his tongue, he did his best to try.

Between sips of tea and bites of scone, Tavali told him that she liked the halfling woman who ran the small bakery a few streets over. “She seems sweet, but I think she may be lonely.” Tavali swept away their crumbs and set the dishes in a pile as they both rose from the table. “She doesn’t seem to have family nearby any longer.”

“Moved away,” Astarion said carefully, “or lost?” Either was a possibility in the aftermath of the Netherbrain.

“I couldn’t quite tell,” Tavali admitted sadly. “And it seemed too cruel to ask. She’s alone either way.”

The conversation carried on as they moved up the stairs and prepared for bed.

“Oh,” Tavali spoke up as she stripped off her day clothes to change into her cream nightdress. “I almost forgot to mention.” Astarion turned to face her as he pulled on his own grey sleep shirt. She looked amused again. “I think we have a bit of a gossip for a neighbor,” she smiled ruefully.

“Is that so?” Astarion straightened his shirt at his shoulders. He left the collar ties undone.

“Yes. An older woman named Maeve, I think she said.” Tavali sat on the edge of the bed and watched him walk the few steps over. “She cornered me, a bit,” the sorcerer went on, “about two houses down. She asked a lot of questions. Just the usual ones, at first. Who I was, who you were, where we came from.” Tavali shrugged and set both palms on the mattress to scooch herself backwards as he joined her on the bed. “I kept it pretty bland, but in case she ever pins you down, I gave your first name but kept mine as Tavi.” She looked at him apologetically and he quirked an eyebrow as he crawled over to her. “Sorry. I couldn’t come up with a nickname for you and I wasn’t,” she added a little forcefully as she leaned her back against the wooden headboard, “giving her ‘Aster.’”

“Absolutely not,” he concurred swiftly. “That is not,” he purred, “for anyone else.” Tavali’s cheeks pinked a little. “And hardly anyone knows my name in all that drama. You and Gale seem to be the highlights of the tale, next to renowned Minsc the Mad Rashemaar and the High Harper.” Astarion put his left leg between both of hers. “Two new heroes to go with the two old ones.” He cocked his right eyebrow at her. “And what did you say to her other questions, so I am prepared?”

Tavali shuffled beneath him and brought up her hands to catch his arms and smooth her palms up to his biceps as he braced them at her shoulders. “Ah,” she thought back, “that you were from the Gate, I was from Cormyr, that we were recovering from the invasion here.” Tavali’s lips quirked to the left. “Then she asked how long we’d been married, what we did for a living, and whether we were expecting any children yet.”

Astarion choked on a guffaw. “Gods below,” he cursed around an incredulous chuckle. “No accounting for tact, I see.”

Tavali grinned back at him. “I told her we were adventurers and that no, we had no children on the way.” She lips pulled into more of a smirk. “I don’t think she liked that answer. She started complaining about the old couple that used to live here with their family and how nice they all were. We must sound like new riff raff.” She rolled her lip and bit the lower one as she gazed at him.

Astarion leaned away a little, mild surprise coloring his face as he settled back to sit on his legs. “No denial of our marriage?” He asked blandly.

Tavali blinked, vulnerability flitting across her face, before she chuckled a little humorlessly. “I got the impression that would have just led to more questions and judgement.” She slipped down to recline more against the pillows, making him look down at her. “And I wanted to get back home to you, so I just didn’t answer that one,” she added with a hint of cheek.

Astarion hummed in consideration for a moment. “Good to know,” he whispered as he leaned down and set his mouth against hers.

Tavali made a matching sound and tilted her head up to meet him. He sank down onto her body, unlocking his arms and aligning their curves until he was flush to every inch of her.

Tavali tilted her hips and shoulders so that Astarion lay alongside her instead of crushing her into the mattress. He grunted and quickly retook her mouth with his. His left arm slid between her and the bed and his right came around her waist to embrace her fully. His right leg settled between both of hers until their bellies were pressed together and the high elf relished the stifled moan that broke free from Tavali’s lips.

Their easy caresses brought him to another predicament, which was really just a rehash of an old problem.

They had not lain together since his resurrection. There had been excessive amounts of warm cuddling beneath blankets as his body learned to heat itself again, sweet kisses between meals, and fierce embraces in the dead of night when nightmares took either of them. But nights of passion had yet to return.

There were several reasons behind that. The largest was the weakness of his body. It would not do to start making love to his sorcerer and have his legs, arms, or back cramp and give out halfway through. Or have anything else quit before the race was run.

The second, less acknowledged reason was that Astarion had realized everything was far more… sensitive than it had been before. Mortal skin reacted to tactile sensations in a way his vampiric skin hadn’t. The sun didn’t roast him alive, but fire burned hotter, ice was colder, and cuts felt deeper with living skin and blood to feel them. Certain important parts of him were not excluded from this new normal.

Forget his manhood failing him in the throes of passion. It would almost be worse if they barely got started before he lost control of himself and finished. Astarion had known enough humiliation in his life, and he couldn’t even remember his youth and any possible fumblings in the bedroom. He had no desire to acquaint himself with that embarrassment now.

And none of these myriad problems even addressed the fact that sometimes he did not want to be touched, let alone bedded. Such was the awful labyrinth of his relationship with his body.

The whole situation was painfully similar to the self-imposed dry spell he’d had in the Shadow-Curse and early days of Baldur’s Gate. Except this time he didn’t want to hold back.

Worst and best of all, Tavali was the same as she was before. She didn’t push. She mirrored him in many ways: where his hands fell on her body, she let hers fall on his. When he took off his or her clothes, she did the same. When he pulled away, she did as well. It was a dance, and she let him lead.

Wretched, wonderful woman.

They stayed entwined until their hearts were racing between them and Astarion needed to withdraw or press forward. With a resigned sigh, he did the former.

Tavali lay beside him in the bed, panting slightly but smiling dreamily at him when Astarion looked at her from his pillow.

She tucked her right hand under her chin and squeezed his right shoulder with her left. In this position, only half of their faces were visible to each other: Her left and his right. The other halves were buried in their respective pillows.

As their breathing settled and the lassitude of the night began to take him over, Astarion’s mind drifted back to their last conversation. A quivering curiosity had bloomed in his breast at her words.

“When you spoke to the woman today, and she mentioned marriage,” he ventured carefully. “Is that something you want?” Astarion whispered. Tavali’s green eye flicked back up to his, but he looked away from her to the collar line of her cream sleepwear. “To be married?”

The question made him nervous. He wasn’t- he wasn’t opposed to the idea. He loved her, he didn’t want to separate. She’d said this relationship was what she wanted. But marriage? Wasn’t that too fast?

That wasn’t even getting into his reticence to ask for any other sort of godly blessing in his life. The first good thing any of them had done was give him his mortality back.

(Not counting Selûne coming through for them in the Shadow-Curse, but he usually didn’t. The goddess of the moon had clearly had her own agenda in that: namely, getting them to free her daughter.)

Tavali exhaled a chuckle through her nose and interrupted his racing thoughts. “Maybe someday?” She shrugged, the blankets tugging a little along her ribs. “But that’s not,” she trailed off briefly, shuffling herself on the bed. The sheets and blankets sighed against her body. “We’ve just been through hell and back,” she said, reaching up to stroke through his curls on the right side of his face. “You’ve only just gotten your freedom back,” Tavali continued into the hush of their bedroom. “We don’t need to make more life changing decisions so soon.” Her smile was a soft quirk, just barely set into her left cheek. “I love you. There’s no rush.”

Astarion reached up to take her hand, dragging it down to his lips to press them against the knuckles of her pinkie and ring fingers. He nodded into her hand, feeling like a knot he hadn’t realized was in his chest had loosened. Tavali wouldn’t rush him. They had time.

The reassurance gave him the courage to ask a second question.

“And,” he said slowly, “children?” He could barely fathom that. It wasn’t like he could have fathered any in the last two hundred years; he’d been an underfed vampire and every woman he’d taken to bed had been, he’d thought, killed shortly thereafter. Learning they’d all been transformed into other spawn didn’t change that math.

Astarion wasn’t a fool, despite some of his other failings. He knew he wasn’t ready to be a father. He didn’t know if he wanted to ever be one. He didn’t know if such a day would come. He’d taken so many lives, and so many more were ruined because of him. The idea of making one went against everything two centuries had taught him.

But then again, so had everything else that had happened in the last six months.

To his surprised, Tavali only huffed a laugh. “That’s, uh, another ‘maybe someday,’ my love.” She shrugged again. “I’m certainly in no hurry for that. I’m only thirty, I’ve got decades more to decide and try if that’s what I want.” Her lips quirked to the left. “Do you want them?”

Astarion shifted against the pillow. “I can’t quite picture it, no,” he confessed toward the feather-stuffed cotton.

“Hmm,” Tavali only hummed. “Well, beyond what we may want, there’s also,” she whispered more subduedly, “what I told you about my bloodline?”

Astarion blinked, realizing what she meant, and nodded. “The more recent specialty, I take it?”

Tavali snorted. “That, yes. I’m not sure if I want to have any, now.” What he could see of her expression fell. “Before, I always thought I would have some in the future. Being a mother, having a family, it was part of my far-flung plans. But now with the risk, with that wizard out there,” she shook her head against the pillow. A curl fell over her eye, and she reached with her left hand to tuck it behind her pointed ear again. Her gaze fell to his chest. “I’m not sure. No one else in my family really worried about it too much because he was dead and the truth might have died with him. Now I have to decide if I want children who will have to look over their shoulders.”

The mood turned decidedly glummer with her words, and Astarion was once again taken by contradicting thoughts.

He thought he would be glad if Tavali wasn’t inclined toward children. It would mean it wasn’t something he would deprive her of if he never wanted them; she could always think it had been her choice to spare future babes from an old wizard’s machinations.

But that wasn’t what he felt. Or at least, it wasn’t most of what he felt.

Instead, the rogue found himself feeling a surge of resentment on Tavali’s behalf. That she would live with such fear, that she might choose not to have children only because some creaking mage might come sniffing about for them, rather than remaining childless because that was what she wanted? That her choice would be influenced by such a man?

It kindled a spark of protective ferocity in his stomach. “Tell me something truthfully,” Astarion began lowly.

Tavali glanced up at him again, a slight frown on her lips. “Alright.”

“How often,” the rogue continued, shifting a bit to turn his right shoulder toward her and set his hand against her cheek, “do you think of this man and worry he will find you?”

The sorcerer blinked, brow furrowing, but considered his words. “Not- not often, truly.” She brought up her left hand to hold his wrist. “I certainly wasn’t thinking of him much this half of the year,” she added ruefully. “And I didn’t think of him much at all once I left Cormyr after the war and took up proper adventuring. But when I first learned he was back, my gut clenched to think of him. He was,” Tavali looked away again, shamefaced. “It was part of why I left Cormyr and started adventuring away from there. I already hated the adventurer registries and charters. With my name in their records of adventurers, I would be too easy to track down. And I know this- this is paranoid and self-centered because Vangerdahast should have far too many problems to deal with to give a damn about me. But I’d rather he never finds me and I never have to speak to him.”

Astarion’s throat clenched a bit. “Can we not just kill the man if he comes?”

It worked with the monster dogging my steps.

Tavali pursed her lips and met his eyes again. His right hand fell to cup her shoulder. “No, we cannot just kill a man who hasn’t actually harmed us. And, even then, you assume we would win.” Her visible eyebrow arched. “He’s a Chosen of Mystra, or he was. He’s lived for centuries-”

“So have I,” Astarion protested haughtily, but Tavali rolled her eyes. She turned away to lie on her back and stare at their ceiling, leaving Astarion’s right hand to fall at her collar between her breasts.

Not a terrible place for his hand, all things considered.

“And he was the leader of the War Wizards during his first lifetime. He may not be Elminster himself,” Tavali muttered, raising her left hand to wipe it down her face, “but we’d have about as much luck killing him as the Sage of Shadowdale.” The half-elf swallowed. “The only way to beat him is to avoid him, really. He’s too powerful. He has too many powerful allies. The whole country would support him. Trying to fight would just get us both killed and solve the problem for him-”

Tavali’s words abruptly cut off, leaving her open mouthed and gaping at the ceiling. Her lips shrunk and widened in an “o” several times over before Astarion raised his head from the pillow to stare at her. Her hands flew up to press against her lips and over her nose, leaving only her cheekbones and eyes visible. “Oh,” she gasped through her fingers. “Oh gods.”

“Darling?” He asked cautiously, moving his hand to rest against her right arm.

“Oh my gods,” Tavali repeated under her breath, throwing her hands out from her face to hover open in front of it instead. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. “Oh my waking gods!” She whispered the cry, right hand shooting out to seize his right forearm. There was an incredulous smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and it was the only thing that kept his nerves in check.

Astarion's gaze darted quickly back and forth between her hand and her face. He got his left elbow beneath him and brought himself upright to lean over her. “Tavali, if you don’t make sense soon, I’ll-”

“I'm not in the line of succession anymore!” She hissed, turning to look at him with bright eyes. “Because I died!”

Astarion jerked violently against her. “What?” He asked sharply. His right arm twisted beneath hers so that his fingers clutched her back in return.

The words brought back flashes of a hideous green chamber, the scent of blood, the crack of a skull against the stairs, and terror that had blasted through him like a thunderclap.

“I died, so I've fallen out of the line!” Tavali's face was, absurdly, shifting to disbelieving glee. “Oh, gods, I think? I don’t really know the rules completely. But,” she looked at him more intently, and Astarion saw silver line the bottom of her eyes. “In Cormyr, there are ancient laws, or treaties, or something, about the succession. It’s the same laws that say an Obarskyr must sit on the throne. No one who has died and been resurrected may sit upon the Dragon Throne. If they do,” Tavali’s voice took on different lilt, like a student reciting her lessons, ‘the Throne shall shatter beneath them and the dragons shall return to retake the land.” She smirked at him now. “That probably won’t happen,” she chuckled, “but it’s still the law. And Royal Magician Vangerdahast is bound by the law. Cormyr is,” she raised her left hand and made a fist, “rigid about rules, especially for the succession. So,” she flopped back down onto her pillow and covered her face again. Tavali exhaled so forcefully against her hands her neck bent forward. “That’s, I think that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about from him. If he does show up, or anyone else does, I can say I’ve already died and been resurrected. I can say I have half a dozen witnesses who will back me up, including renowned wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep.” When she took her hands away, her cheeks were flushed and the rims of her eyes were wet, but no tears were flowing. “I can never be dragged to that throne, and neither can my children, I don’t think,” she finished quietly but triumphantly, letting her left hand fall limply over her heart.

Oh, right, Astarion thought dimly. That’s what started this maddening conversation. Whether or not you wanted children.

Staring at the abject relief and the weepy smile she was giving him now, Astarion had a better answer to that question than Tavali had given before.

You will want children someday, he thought with another swallow as he reached out with his right hand to lay it against the left side of her neck. Far in the future or no, this isn’t a ‘maybe’ for you. You only hesitated because you feared they might suffer. How like you.

But right now, adrenaline was fighting the sleepiness they’d been relaxing into before he chose to ask questions of marriage and children, and he didn’t want to linger on the topic any longer.

He just wanted to make sure the sorcerer thought through the other angle to this wizard’s possible plotting. “Not to step too much on your joy, my love. But could he not,” Astarion inquired cautiously, “still make use of your blood?” Tavali looked at him again. “It would still be royal blood, would it not?”

Tavali ran her left hand through her curls. “To be honest? I don’t know. I don’t know when blood stops being ‘royal.’ It’s been over a hundred years since that baby, and no one in my family has ever even held a title.” She rolled toward him on the bed, letting her stomach press into the mattress while her left arm swung around his back. “But I’ll take the distance between me and that throne as a good starting point.” She sighed deeply against him and dug her face into his right collar. “Never dreamed there could be a bright side to dying that day,” she mumbled.

Astarion scowled, though she couldn’t see it. “Not funny, my dear,” he grumbled into her hair. The high elf didn’t think he would ever want to joke about that day, least of all about her death at Cazador’s hands.

Her left hand gave him a squeeze. “We have to take our silver linings when we can get them, beloved.” The rogue felt her press a kiss to his right shoulder. “Even with resurrections. We’ll just try,” Tavali yawned against him, “t’not make ‘em a habit.”

Astarion choked on an exhausted guffaw. “Yes, my sweet,” he rubbed his arm up and down her back. “Let’s not.”

Chapter Text

The attack, when it comes, comes just after sunset when she and Astarion are taking a walk from their neighborhood toward Jaheira’s house. The druid had, as had become her wont, asked them to join her family.

Dinner was more or less an excuse. What Jaheira usually wanted was a pair of adults who weren’t her children to discuss rebuilding plans and efforts to contain the simmering chaos that still brewed within the city.

The early evening air was chilly, typical for Hammer, but their cloaks and thick clothes beneath their leather and hide armor provided ample protection for the short trip.

They aren’t even on an empty street when the blow landed only a few feet in front of them.

Tavali winced back at the bright white light radiating out from something that had not been there before.

“Time to burn, spawn.” The female voice came from somewhere in front of them.

Tavali had her staff unhooked and in her arms in a moment, squinting and backing up a few paces to get away from the light.

“Aster!” She called, hoping he was following her lead. She heard feet scuffling close by on her right and the familiar whine of a metal sword leaving its sheath.

“Ready, darling,” he said back.

The spots cleared from her vision as Tavali blinked rapidly. She heard gasps and startled voices as the few pedestrians around them backed away from the burgeoning fight.

Scant seconds ticked by when the distinctive crackle of a prepared spell reached her ears. Tavali threw up her magical shield on instinct, but it was the sharp metal tip of a bolt that crashed against the bluish barrier and sink to the ground instead of her hide armor at her chest.

A split second later, a radiant ball of light shot directly for Astarion instead.

The blast caught the high elf’s left side as he juked to the right in an attempt to evade it. “Agh!” Astarion yelled, tucking and rolling quickly to the ground to pat at the fresh burns.

Tavali barely had a moment to react, either to offer her limited healing skills or ask if he was well, before Astarion was up and running again.

Tavali looked up to follow the direction of the bolt that had assailed her, and saw a tall man in leathers still holding a crossbow aloft. He lifted the crossbow again, still aiming at her, and the sorcerer bared her teeth. She swung her blue quarterstaff hard into the cobblestones and the witchbolt took the man directly in the chest. He stumbled back at the force of it, left hand moving up reflexively to clutch at the blue streaks that now bound their bodies together as if he could tear them away.

It gave Tavali time to get into a better position relative to the cleric Astarion had just charged.

Her love didn’t miss. Both shortsword and dagger sank into the human woman, as Tavali now saw, with deadly efficiency. The cleric screamed, raising a light hammer high in her hand to bring down against Astarion’s head. But even now, even without the enhanced speed of a vampire, her rogue’s reflexes were incredible. He darted to the right and dodged her.

Tavali had to focus on her own foe at that point. Her face settled into a battle scowl as the man cast aside his crossbow and took up a long greatsword in both hands.

“Who are you?” She barked even as she prepared more lightning between her fingers.

The man didn’t answer, only rushed forward with both hands holding the blade to the right of his body. Tavali knew that sword form. She’d seen it often enough with Lae’zel.

Right then, Tavali thought scornfully. The man’s sword slammed into a fresh shield, leaving her to glare at his lethal expression through the haze as her witch bolt continued to spark between them. Tavali whipped up her right hand and caught the man in a shocking grasp. He shouted in pain and tried to pull away from her, but no sooner had she released him than she summoned her speed with a quicken spell and blasted the witch bolt through his chest again.

The dual attack left the man gaping as he fell to one knee, his heart and lungs no doubt spasming from the lighting coursing through him.

“Pumler! Get up!” The woman cried, even as Astarion dodged a second swing from her weapon when Tavali glanced over.

Her lover struck again without mercy, driving his shortsword into her back and knocking the air clean from her lungs. The woman fell to both knees, palms sliding on the stones as she tried to stay upright.

“One more time,” Tavali cut in, holding out a desperate hand for Astarion to hold his second blow. “Who are you?” She demanded as she skipped nimbly away from the man again to keep both attackers on either side of her.

The woman, a relatively sturdy human with wavy brown hair that was cut just below her jawline, looked up at her in fury.

“My children are dead!” The blonde woman shrieked. “He killed them!”

The words were just startling enough that Tavali, like a foolish novice, reared back and looked between the two again. She saw Astarion do the same from the corner of her eye.

Taking them in, Tavali realized their leather armor was unique in its tailoring and embroidery. Moreso, that she recognized it.

“Are you,” she said slowly, willing her battle calm to remain intact, “from the Gur tribe in Rivington?” The sorcerer didn’t recognize them, but that alone wasn’t surprising. She didn’t think she’d recognize any of them besides Ulma and Gandrel.

“What’s left of it,” the man spat blood onto the ground. “The only two left who remember our vows.”

Tavali’s mouth parted in confusion and dismay. “Why are you doing this?” She pressed, doing her best to keep them both in sight. Astarion had backed up and was doing the same, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “We made peace with your people. Didn’t your children go with you-”

“They are dead,” the cleric wailed again, slamming a fist weakly into the ground. She forced herself upright, raising both hands with a pained gasp and quickly casting a healing spell. Tavali’s lips thinned as she saw both the woman and man inhale deeply, though the healing didn’t look particularly powerful. “Murdered by you and your master! And now my tribe,” the woman gasped, hatred nearly strangling her words even as tears spilled hot down the woman’s cheeks, “my tribe has taken them. Puppets my babies’ corpses,” she palmed her left knee, unsteadily lifting herself upright from the thick streaks of her own blood. “Because of you,” she snarled at Tavali. “Playing house with a vampire.” She inhaled heavily again. “They won’t let me finish it and bury them, won’t let them find peace and it is your! Fault!” Without even waiting for her feet to steady her, the woman raised both hands together with a golden light. “It’s your fault!”

Both Tavali and Astarion dodged the sacred flame, neither entirely certain who she was actually aiming for.

“We used to stand for something,” the fighter said, taking a swing at Astarion first while the rogue was still trying to evade radiant attacks. “And then you destroyed us. Killed our children,” another swing of the greatsword. “Turned them into beasts- ugh!” The man faltered as the witch bolt charged through him again. “Turned Ulma away from our purpose,” he gritted out, hands shaking on his sword.

“You’re mad,” Tavali snapped back. “You’re mad and you are throwing your life away!” She summoned more lightning to her right palm, tossing her staff into the crook of her left arm. “Turn around and leave,” the sorcerer ordered desperately. “Go back to your people and-”

“Never!” The woman screamed from behind him while he ground out “Never. I will not abandon justice, even if the rest are too cowardly.”

Tavali sent another bolt of lightning through their connection, and the fighter crumbled back to one knee.

Astarion didn’t give the man time to recover. First the dagger found his throat, then the sword slipped into the gap in the man’s armor beneath his left armpit.

Tavali’s face contorted as her witch bolt faded away before the man even had the chance to slump over entirely. 

A waste, her heart repeated in anger and despair. A waste, a waste. Why do this?

The half-elf turned, palms raised to focus on the cleric still trying to heal herself and keep fighting. The woman had picked up the light source on the ground, holding it aloft in her left hand.

“Why isn’t it hurting you?” The woman's, the grieving mother’s, eyes glittered with tears. She glanced between Astarion and whatever small object she held in her hand, and Tavali realized what the problem was. She couldn’t look at it directly or make out what it was, but she quickly understood what it was meant to be.

Something with daylight cast on it, something meant to be eating away at Astarion’s skin with radiant magic every moment he stood beside it.

It was the very same trick they'd used against Cazador in the ritual chamber.

Astarion guessed the same, because he stood fully upright and whipped his blades out at his side. “Didn’t you hear?” He said cooly. “I’m the spawn who walks in the sun.”

“You’re not,” the woman bellowed. Her form was still trembling. “We’ve watched you! You can’t go out in the sun anymore, you’ve lost whatever unholy power granted you that!”

Tavali started, backing up a pace and looking at Astarion.

A cool shiver ran up her spine at those words.

Watching him? How long have they been watching him? And how do they not know, Tavali’s thoughts spun, that he’s mortal again?

He was scowling harshly. “I’ve gone out in the sun every day this week,” he replied snidely. “Perhaps you need better spies.”

How could they be watching but not know? He’s been mortal for over a month!

But the time for words, even enraged ones, had passed. The cleric threw the light at Astarion in a fit and then slammed her hands together again.

Tavali was prepared for the guiding bolt this time, and her counterspell dissipated the radiant light as soon as it left the woman’s fingers.

Leave, was on the tip of her tongue. Go back to your family. Please.

But this woman and the deceased man had already said it plainly enough. She and the man had left their tribe behind as surely as they had left reason.

Grief did this to them, the burgeoning druid thought despondently as the woman cried out again and lunged for her with the hammer. Grief and a vengeance they were denied any part of.

Tavali’s shield sprung to life for a final time, sending the hammer bouncing back away from her freckled face.

Astarion’s shortsword buried itself in the woman’s chest, ripping up into her heart.

Blood spurt from her mouth, pouring down her chin in a thick stream as the hammer slipped from her fingers. The cleric coughed once, fresh tears slipping down and mingling with the red as she crumpled to the ground.

It was over.

So quick, like any of their other battles on the road to Baldur’s Gate. Brutal efficiency that they'd honed together through miles of cultists and the Dead Three's servants.

Except this didn’t feel like victory.

This was-

Astarion came to her side, putting his blood-stained left hand on her right shoulder. “Are you alright, darling?” He asked hurriedly.

Tavali nodded mutely. She raised her right hand and laid it over his left arm.

Teal green healing magic bloomed, covering the radiant burns that lingered there.

The high elf swallowed, casting a glance down at the fresh corpses at their feet. Blood had pooled around them, thick and black even in the light.

“We shouldn’t,” Astarion cleared his throat and dropped his left hand to her forearm. “Stick around, love.”

Tavali nodded shakily, glancing around and taking Astarion by his left arm in return. “Let’s move,” she said hastily. “The guard,” she nodded toward the now empty street. “They’ll be coming. We don’t want,” but she didn’t need to finish.

There was no good explanation for this fight, and it broke Tavali’s heart to consider it. The Flaming Fist would demand answers that neither of them wanted to give.

Why would renowned monster hunters attack Tavali and Astarion? What was the young couple hiding? Could they say no, saer, my partner isn't a vampire. We've no idea why they attacked us. Or well, he used to be a vampire, but we didn't take the time to explain he's mortal now.

Or what if they attacked the Gur out of prejudice?

Or, somehow worse still, would the Fist assume the Gur were acting according to the foul stereotypes that surrounded their poor people? Would they figure two Gur had tried their hand at mugging Tavali and Astarion and run out of luck?

It made Tavali’s stomach sink to think about it.

They didn’t stick around to learn how it would go either way.

Chapter Text

The sorcerer and rogue made haste down the roads and side streets that led toward Jaheira’s home with her family.

They were panting slightly once they were in range of the door and windows. Light leaked out from behind the window panels. It was followed by the soft voices of children as they drew closer.

Tavali and Astarion stood outside for nearly half a minute in silence, their hearts still quick and harried.

“Do you think,” Astarion said with only a slight tremor around his voice, “we could give Jaheira our apologies instead?”

For the third time since they slew the Gur, Tavali nodded. “I was,” she said quietly, “just thinking the same thing.”

It was too much to go to dinner now. Tavali was shivering, but it had nothing to do with the cold. And they couldn’t- For all that they and their friends were given to morbid humor, Tavali couldn’t sit down to eat with Jaheira’s children while she and Astarion both had wet blood on their clothes.

“Let me,” she swallowed and wet her mouth. “Let’s just pop in and let her know.”

Had they both been thinking a bit more clearly, they would have known that would never work.

“No,” Jaheira said firmly once Tavali had explained in a few short sentences what had happened. “You do not get to come into my home, tell me you were attacked in the street, and then leave.”

“Jaheira,” Tavali said a little pleadingly, “we really aren’t fit for company.”

“Or in the mood for it,” Astarion added darkly from the doorway.

“Since when has that stopped us?” Jaheira asked with an arched brow. “You don’t want to sit with us? Fine. But you don’t know me at all if you think I’m going to let you wander back to your house like this. Minsc!” The druid turned to call over her left shoulder.

“Oh, gods,” Astarion grumbled, looking for all the world like he might bolt then and there. Tavali snuck her right hand into his left before he could.

“Yes, Jaheira?” Came the booming voice from around a corner.

“Take Tavali and Astarion downstairs, would you?” The older half-elf faced them both again, her expression unrelenting. “They need to take a moment.”

The Rashemaar came bounding eagerly around the corner. “A moment?” He looked between the two of them lingering awkwardly in the doorway. His eyes dropped to the blood still coating Astarion’s hands and then to the patches of it on Tavali’s arm. “Oh, were you set upon by fiends? Merely on your walk to dinner?” The ranger looked profoundly offended at the idea.

Astarion chuckled once forcefully. “Quite right. Is nothing sacred?” He said glibly.

It fell flat to Tavali’s ears, and she suspected to Jaheira’s as well.

Nevertheless, both Tavali and Astarion found themselves ushered and secluded in Jaheira’s cavernous “basement,” as they jokingly called it when in a better mood. The cave was at least warm, made so by whatever ancient magic Jaheira had woven into the wood and rocks over the years, and still smelled of moss and roots.

It was an extremely comforting place for Tavali, if less so for Astarion.

“It is nearly Midwinter,” the rogue groused. “Why does she still have flowers blooming?”

Tavali only huffed and walked down the sloping path toward the water. They washed the blood from their hands, though Astarion had to prestidigitate most of it out of their armor. The radiant bolt he’d taken to the side had charred some of the leather at his arm. They’d likely need to visit Gloomy at the Stormshore Armory or Dammon to get it repaired.

Minsc eventually brought them both piping hot plates of savory pie, “made just this hour by Jord!” The bald man proclaimed loudly as he set them down on Jaheira’s long wooden table. “He has grown most skilled at cooking for the household. You will find all your strength restored in but a few bites!”

Tavali grimaced at the steaming slices. “Thank you, Minsc,” she said dully. “But I’m not sure how hungry we are.”

In truth, Tavali’s stomach was in knots tight enough to make her nauseous.

“Hmm,” the ranger hummed. “Boo thinks you are hungrier than you think, and will want to eat quite soon when your belly starts to talk.” Minsc shook his head. “Minsc can’t understand what stomachs say, but Boo is quite insistent about it.”

Tavali chuckled and sank slowly onto the straight bench attached to the table as the ranger darted back upstairs. Her head sank to rest on the tabletop beside the plate.

The pie did smell delicious. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, the half-elf started the ordeal of convincing her throat and stomach that she wanted to take a bite. “He’s right,” she sighed. “We ate full dinners every chance we got when we were infected,” Tavali mused to a subdued Astarion. “Or well, most of us did,” she half-heartedly teased.

The high elf rolled his eyes. “I only ate well if you did, dearest,” he said sarcastically.

The sorcerer sighed. “We were always hungry after a fight. Even a bad one. We may as well make an effort now. We didn't let our dead enemies stop us then.” Tavali still had to choke down the first few bites before her stomach became more actively engaged. They shouldn’t have had to be our enemies.

They didn’t make much conversation at first. The pie crust was flaky and the peas, carrots, and onions were soft and well-seasoned among the strips of beef. But as they ate, a new thought occurred to the sorcerer.

“How are you feeling?” Tavali asked softly between small bites. Astarion glanced up at her from her right side. “That was,” she rolled her lips. “That was your first fight as a mortal, wasn’t it?”

Astarion pursed his lips, chewing methodically before swallowing. “It was,” he answered lightly. “I’d say I did quite well for myself, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes were hooded with ill-humor. “Much better than I did the last time the Gur attacked me in the streets,” he added scornfully.

Tavali’s stomach lurched slightly at his words, churning what little dinner she’d gotten down so far. She hadn’t realized, too caught up in the rush of the fight and then fleeing to safety.

But that was what had just happened, wasn't it? An evening walk, an unsuspecting high elf, and an attack by members of a Gur tribe seeking vengeance.

The differences were two hundred years of dirty fighting with a blade and a partner at his side.

“Gods,” she muttered, setting down her fork with a muted clatter and putting her left hand briefly over her eyes. “I didn't even,” Tavali shook her head, “think of it like that.”

Astarion hummed out of sight. “Do you suppose it says something, that the first people I killed in my new life were part of the group that killed me in the first?”

Tavali dropped her hand back to the table and looked at him. She pursed her lips unhappily and met his cool side eye. “No,” she said bleakly. “But it sounds like a cycle of vengeance I’d hoped we’d stopped.” She breathed heavily and turned back to her pie.

“Yes,” Astarion said shortly. “You would. But getting attacked by Gur in the streets twice has put a sour taste in my mouth.”

“This isn’t-” Tavali bit her cheek. “Ulma gave her word. And it’s not the first time someone has betrayed either of us but,” she clenched her left fingers around her fork. “It may have just been those two. Did you hear what they said,” she turned to him again, tines picking at the edge of the yellow crust, “when I tried to get them to stop? The man said something about Ulma forgetting their purpose but they were keeping their vows?” She shook her head slightly. “It really may have been just them.”

Astarion’s look was dark and skeptical. “Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

“Ever the pragmatist,” Tavali fired back softly but unyielding. “If more of them wanted you or us dead, there would have been more of them. But they singled themselves out.” She faced the pie again, pulling out a carrot slice from the inside of her pie. “And they didn’t even know you were mortal now,” she said, still perplexed at that bizarre detail. “I really don’t think,” she said slowly, “that this was all of them against you.” She turned to face him again. “It really does look like the two of them weren’t willing, or really, able, to move on without revenge. Even with Ulma’s command.”

“Oh, as they are surely entitled to, my sweet,” he said evenly. His expression morphed with the mixture of guilt and bitterness that saturated his voice.

“That doesn’t-” Tavali took a breath. “They lost their children, and a monster hurt them horribly. We can’t just forget that. But,” she reached out and put her right hand beside his left and let their pinkies brush together. “You aren’t to blame for all of it,” the sorcerer said in a low voice. “You know that. I know that. We both know it was Cazador behind it all.” Astarion’s eyes tightened, as they often did, at the mention of his master’s name. “They don’t, and you’re the only revenge they have left. It doesn’t mean we’ll stand by and let them take revenge on you,” she added fiercely, “but it does mean we can understand why two people would risk taking us on alone.” Tavali finished with a note of pleading.

Astarion’s nostrils flared and twitched up with his scowl. “So I’m to forgive the people who wanted to murder me a second time over?” He hissed, wrenching his left hand away from her and getting up to pace around Jaheira’s small study. Tavali watched him go in dismay. “Is that what you’ll demand of me now?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “And forgive who?” She asked with her arms out at either side. “We killed them both. And that’s- what I’m trying to get at, is it may be over already.” She turned her legs out from under the bench to face him again. He met her stare with a glare. “There may not be anyone for you to forgive even if you wanted to. You can’t just lump everyone together, Astarion,” Tavali continued intently. “The Gur that attacked us tonight are not the Gur that attacked you two hundred years ago. And they as good as admitted they did it without the clan behind them-”

“Why should I care?” Astarion spat. “Why should I set it aside?” There was something frantic brewing in his eyes. It made Tavali wince to see it as her heart started to speed up at his plain agitation. “Two hundred years ago I made a ruling and they killed me. This year I-” Astarion faltered, an awful expression coming over his face. “Well, this year I kidnapped their children, got them turned into vampires, and then just barely got them back to their parents.” He put his right hand over his face. “Perhaps I would deserve it for that, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over and take it.” He bared his flat teeth at no one, right hand still covering his eyes. When he looked at her again, his violet eyes were a little wild. “I just started living again. I will not,” the rogue swept his right hand out slightly at his side, “lose it all over again.” Astarion’s throat clenched. “Certainly not the same way as before.”

“Beloved,” Tavali said, finally rising to stand in front of him, leaving a healthy distance of half a dozen feet. “No one’s asking you to,” she said with her palms raised. “I’m asking you not to judge the entire tribe based on those two. They didn’t even know you were mortal!” Tavali repeated in emphasis. “So maybe, maybe we ought to reach out to Ulma ourselves,” she went on, “and set things straight on our terms.”

Astarion looked at her like she was mad. “Reach out?” Astarion looked at her incredulously. “What, let them know I’m just a man now and easier to kill?” The rogue panted slightly, and Tavali’s eyes widened. “Yes, I’m just a man again, no vampiric strength to rely on, have at me!” Color was high in Astarion’s cheeks, and his eyes looked glassy. “Come find me in a back alley and jump me!” Nausea rolled in Tavali’s gut again. “Gang up on me and kick in my ribs until I’m,” Astarion brought his right hand up, splaying his fingers over his sternum. Tavali took a step closer, but Astarion turned to the left away from her and the opening to Jaheira’s little hut. “I’m choking on the blood.” He looked at the half-elf then, pain and fury on his face that made her shrink back even if it didn’t budge her feet. “That’s what I should do? Give them another shot at it?” He snarled as he leaned toward her.

Tavali swallowed and opened her mouth to exhale wetly. The memory, not even hers, of his brutal beating surged in her mind at his words. The Emperor’s vile trick had burned the images into her, drawn as they were from Astarion’s own recollection of that night.

The blows, the blood. His screams and whimpers as his lungs failed him.

This damn cycle of revenge that will not die.

Not unless we kill it ourselves.

“I think if we ignore it,” she said slowly around a tight throat, “or strike back, this will never stop.” Her voice warbled slightly. “It’ll make more blood following us everywhere we go.” They had enough world-endingly powerful enemies. “We- we already have to watch out for the Dead Three,” she whispered, as though to conceal the name and avoid drawing their eyes, “and the Lady of Loss for the rest of our lives. We don’t need ordinary people coming after us over and over.”

Astarion drew back then, brows furrowing over his shining eyes. Tavali took that second step forward.

“So no, I will strike down anyone who comes after us. But it is better to try to keep allies where we can,” she implored quietly. “I want to try to make peace when we can. Because I won’t,” she said more resolutely, “let that be our lives. We will not,” she reached for him, letting her fingers alight on his stiff arms, “live in fear every day. We won’t.” She let her fingers squeeze him gently. The tension didn’t bleed out of Astarion, but he didn’t withdraw from her touch. She brought them close enough that only a few inches remained between their chests. 

Incrementally, Astarion let his head fall forward, knocking his forehead against hers and leaving it there. He didn’t raise his hands to hold her back, but breathed unsteadily against her for several long moments. His chest rose and fell against hers and his breath gusted past her lips.

“I was waiting,” Astarion muttered against her face. “Waiting, for him to crawl out of the dark.” He swallowed thickly, and Tavali matched him. “Just like the first time.”

The half-elf’s heart ached at the words. “He’s gone,” Tavali whispered back. “He is never going to come after you again.” She dug her thumbs lightly into his biceps, hoping to be grounding without overdoing it. The sorcerer wasn’t certain how much touch he could bare right now.

Astarion’s inhale was harsh and he dug his forehead more firmly against hers. Tavali closed her eyes as he tilted his head to the left and set his left temple against her instead.

“He lingers.” Astarion said, just barely audible. “In- small places. A noise,” he spoke into the air to Tavali’s left. “Or a smell, or a color.” Tavali thought back to a conversation they’d had months ago now, about how Astarion was allowed to like black and red for himself with or without Cazador’s influence on his wardrobe. The rogue still tended toward blues and browns nowadays. “And in my damn dreams,” he concluded, although Tavali knew that full well.

Her lips twisted. “He will fade,” she promised, thumbs sweeping in arcs over scant inches of his arms. “He is gone and he will disappear.” She pressed her forehead against him and willed the words to be true, even if it took another two hundred years of time. His nose came down to nudge against hers. “You are going to outlive him. By centuries, you are going to outlive him and everything he did, do you hear me?” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “In a hundred years, you will still be here and still have people who love you. And he will be so far gone that the city will not even remember him. Just like no one remembers those monsters that came before him.”

Astarion huffed, but said nothing for a moment. “They’ll remember for quite some time,” he said, but she was relieved to hear some of his drollness return to his voice. “All they need to do is look at his abandoned palace and wonder.”

Tavali snorted. “Well, maybe next we can knock down his mansion.”

A beat passed. Then another. And then Astarion’s hands came up and took her by her arms in a mirror of her hold on him. Tavali looked up at him, glad that he had embraced her but surprised by the wicked grin starting to curl up his cheeks.

“Do you know something, darling?” There was fire in his hooded violet eyes again, the kind she was simultaneously heartened and made alert by. He leaned toward her and lifted his right hand to cup her left cheek. “I think that might be just the thing.”

Chapter Text

More than an hour later, Jaheira came down to join them.

“You better not have wasted that pie,” she warned firmly as she strode down the path. “Jord worked for hours on it.”

“We didn’t,” Tavali called back, still poking at the remaining crust, vegetables, and thinly sliced beef that had entirely cooled.

The druid swept into the house with an olive-green bottle of deep red wine in her left hand. Minsc marched in happily behind her.

“So,” Jaheira walked casually up to the table and quickly opened a bottle of wine. Tavali straightened and took up their goblets. “What are we thinking about so deeply?” The burgundy liquid poured smoothly into Astarion's glass, and the rogue took a long pull from it without waiting for anyone else.

“The Gur,” Tavali said plainly. “And what to tell them.”

“About you, I take it?” Jaheira jerked her chin at Astarion while pouring Tavali’s glass.

“I've no desire to seek them out, let alone make myself vulnerable.” Astarion took another sip of his wine. “But the idea of them watching from the shadows is hardly any better.”

“The two you fought,” Jaheira began, “they said as much?” Two more goblets were filled for she and Minsc.

Tavali nodded, taking up for cup. “Which didn't make much sense,” she went on. “They thought he was still a vampire and tried to fight us with daylight. I don't-” the sorcerer shook her head and swung her legs around on the bench so she could sit facing their comrades. “Understand how they could have watched him all this time and not realized. Especially since they did know he couldn't go in the sun.”

Jaheira took a sip of her wine, considering them both. “You've kept your heads down quite a bit since the ritual. And if they planned to spy on a vampire's movements,” Jaheira tilted her goblet toward Astarion, “it makes sense that they would dedicate their efforts to watching you at night once they saw you could not go in the sun again.” The Harper grinned grimly. “They operated on incomplete information without ever knowing it, and it killed them.”

“Hmm,” Minsc hummed in commiseration in the background after picking up his own goblet. “A most deadly error. This is why Minsc prefers to have no information, so he cannot make such a blunder.”

Tavali folded her lips and blinked rapidly, trying very hard to keep a smile off her face and her laugh in her throat. Astarion groaned and took another healthy gulp. Then he swallowed and spun around himself to face the room.  When Tavali glanced over at him, his lips were pulled into his classis moue. It pleased her to see it, since she preferred his annoyance to the distress and anger from earlier.

The druid sat at the chair in front of her small desk, ignoring Minsc beyond a mild eyeroll. “So now the question becomes whether you should seek them out to tell them the truth.”

Tavali swallowed dryly. “It worries me,” she murmured and looked to Astarion. “We've talked about it before, and it scares me. The Gur may have promised not to hunt him as a vampire anymore, but if they learn he used a ritual to become mortal again?” She shook her head slightly, a stray curl falling over her forehead. “They may go back on their word. I'm sure most of them will think their child should have received the blessing. They wouldn't care that Astarion's clock was nearly up.” She took the rogue's right hand in her left. “In their place I'd feel the same.” The half-elf looked up at Jaheira. “But, it feels cruel not to tell them what we know. I don't want their tribe's whole existence to become about collecting diamonds, but,” Tavali shrugged helplessly. “It's their choice. I was,” she rocked Astarion's hand in hers and looked at him again. “Ready to stay with you as a vampire. It didn't feel like a sacrifice to me so long as you were in my life.” Astarion's fingers squeezed her back. “Most of the parents in the tribe must want their children just as much, if not more.” Tavali glanced between her three companions again. “But they should have the information at least. What they do with it is their own affair. If they are making it work with the children as vampires, they'll need to keep doing that for a long time anyway. And if we approach them to tell them on our own, at least we have some say in the situation. I don't,” Tavali adjusted her fingers in Astarion's again. “I don't want another ambush waiting around the corner. If they're already watching, they will figure it out eventually.”

The group sat in silence for a few moments.

“They may never accept their children as they are,” Astarion broke the quiet, “if you tell them of the ritual. Right now, they think their only option is to accept their children’s transformations.” He took a slow sip. “But if you tell them about the ritual, all they will see is what could be, and not what is.” His expression was dark again. “I don’t imagine anyone will be happy, then. Whether or not they’re happy now.”

Tavali winced at the words, fearing the same outcome and knowing Astarion spoke from experience. She'd learned to love Astarion believing there was no other way for them to live together beyond that of a mortal and a vampire. She'd accepted it and forged ahead regardless. But if they hadn't had that foundation together, hadn't been willing to try with each other despite the obstacles in their way, would they have worked out so well?

Once, over a cutting board and chopped vegetables, Jaheira had asked Tavali if she loved Astarion for who he was or if the sorcerer was merely in love with the idea of him: a world-weary, pained rogue whose heart Tavali could heal. Tavali hadn’t been particularly offended, and the conversation hadn’t lasted long. But it had touched on the reality of their relationship and how they’d met.

Tavali didn’t know who Astarion had been before Cazador. There was no alternate version of the high elf for her to compare him to. There was no standard against which Astarion could fall short.

But that wouldn’t be true for the Gur and their children. The adults and the children had full knowledge of their lives from before. Comparisons to happier, easier times were inevitable. 

Would the Gur keep learning to love their children as they were now, or would their existence become tethered only to the hope that one day they would be mortal again?

“And they may very well,” Astarion went on, “spend the rest of their lives fighting tooth and nails for diamonds and never find enough for each child.” Astarion's face was grim when Tavali looked at him. “And what then? Do they have more children and teach them to dedicate their lives to collecting diamonds until two hundred years are up?” The rogue scowled at the words.

Would Tavali have looked at Astarion differently if she'd known from the beginning there was a chance to revive him? Would she have so easily accepted the nuances of loving a vampire if she’d thought it was only a temporary state, not anything she would need to become accustomed to? It hurt to wonder about herself like that, but she couldn’t just turn away from it.

Or was she just the worst hypocrite to even be thinking these things? To worry for the acceptance of the vampire children even while she sat here with her own lover restored to life?

There were too many conflicting thoughts floating around for one night, and it all circled back to the same answer. For her, at least. They needed to tell the Gur about the success of the ritual. The dice would have to fall where they would.

Thankfully Jaheira cut in. “It is hard to say if they already know of true resurrection or not,” the high half-elf said thoughtfully. “It is not the most common knowledge, but many have heard of it at least in legend.” She sipped her wine. “But regardless, I agree with the Cormyte.” Jaheira tipped her glass toward Tavali. “You are a mortal and have all the vulnerabilities of one, whether you tell the Gur yourself or they figure it out. It would be best to rip the bandage off on your own terms. And then,” Jaheira’s eyes narrowed, “you may see for yourself whether an attack if forthcoming.”

“Hmph,” Astarion scowled into his wine glass before taking another sip.

“Do you want us to accompany you, Astarion?” Minsc asked from his place beside one of Jaheira’s storage shelves past her desk. “Perhaps if the Gur see Minsc, Boo, and Jaheira at your side, they will think twice before taking you on.”

Tavali’s lip quirked, but Astarion shook his head. “No,” he said shortly. “I’d rather know what they plan to do outright. If they want to take a run at me, let them do it thinking I’m without allies.” He glared unseeing past his goblet. “I’d rather catch them off-guard.”

Tavali swallowed at his words, wishing again to point out that the Gur of today were not the people of two hundred years ago. But she knew that wasn’t going to help, and there was a more pressing point to make.

“You’re not,” Tavali said frankly, “going without at least me.”

Astarion’s lips twisted as he looked at her, but he didn’t disagree.

“How do you plan to handle this, then?” Jaheira inquired, leaning forward on her chair.

Astarion leaned back on the bench, letting his back rest against the table edge. He swirled the wine around in his cup, eying the dark liquid. When he looked up at them all, there was a spark in his eyes. “I think we should stick to what we know works,” he said blithely. Then he looked over at Jaheira. “Would you be willing to lend me a bird summons again?”

To Tavali’s relief, Ulma and Gandrel agreed to meet with them in private two days later.

The sorcerer remembered the tense meeting they’d had with Astarion’s siblings in the Underdark; a secret meeting to keep the greater number of possible foes at bay.

Tavali hoped this conversation ended without a group of the Gur breaking off to come after them. Self-defense or no, she had no desire to fight them and dwindle their numbers even further.

The beach beneath Wyrm’s Rock was empty, as Tavali had hoped it would be in winter. The sun had set over the water only half an hour ago. Gandrel and Ulma had been waiting for some time, while Tavali and Astarion had clung to the shadows until the right moment.

It wasn’t that they wanted to deceive the two monster hunters. But opening the conversation with a display of Astarion’s body withstanding the sunlight seemed like a poor choice.

When they all stood about ten feet from each other, they came to a cautious halt. No one drew any weapons, but everyone was wearing armor. Tavali had opted for her circlet and hide from the Feywild, fully prepared to use its power to ensnare Gandrel and Ulma if they made a move to attack. Astarion was in his Graceful Cloth. It had been his preferred garment while training to regain his strength and speed. The Yuan-ti armor would require more time for him to be comfortable in it again.

After inclining their heads to each other in greeting, Ulma spoke first. “We assume you are here,” she said stoically, “about Pumler and Katelyn.”

Astarion, to Tavali’s chagrin, scoffed. “We didn’t catch their names,” he said scathingly. “They didn’t exchange pleasantries before attacking us.”

“But yes,” Tavali cut in before the tribe leader could respond. “The woman was a cleric with brown hair to her chin,” Tavali lifted her right hand to her neck. “The man was taller, with a dark beard and hair in a braid.”

Gandrel grimaced, looking briefly toward the water.

“We realized they were missing late that night,” Ulma continued. “Yesterday morning, guards came to our camp demanding answers we could not provide.” The fighter looked at Astarion’s, eyes old and hard. “But I suspect you can.”

Tavali glanced at her lover, and Astarion’s lip curled back. “I think you can guess. I don’t imagine it will come as a shock to you to hear that they attacked us in the street on our way to dinner?”

Ulma waited a moment. “And you killed them,” she answered impassively.

Astarion’s face twisted. “Killed my would-be murderers? Yes,” he said with dripping condescension. “I suppose I did. And I’ll-”

Tavali slipped her right hand briefly around his upper left arm. Astarion bit off whatever threat was nearly past his tongue, but his face remained hostile as he let her speak. “Were they acting alone?” The wild mage asked bluntly. “Or will more of your people come after us?”

Gandrel’s mouth moved, twitching under his mustache, before he spoke. “Katelyn and Pumler were the most outspoken against the edict to leave you be,” he said lowly. “Some of the others agreed, but they showed no sign of acting. Katelyn,” Gandrel’s face fell with grief. “Katelyn was a cleric. She struggled more than the others to accept the children. She has been,” he closed his mouth, throat flexing.

“Calling for them to be culled?” Astarion asked pitilessly.

“Astarion,” Tavali chided quietly. Gandrel’s face grew angry, but Ulma cut in.

“They were,” Ulma answered. “And they were kept away from the children until they could be trusted with their safety.”

Tavali’s throat tightened at the idea. Of Katelyn seeing her children transformed into vampires, of being kept from them because she could not accept them as undead, of her faith calling for their destruction. Of her tribe permitting them to live in the face of all their teachings.

“And the children?” Tavali asked quietly. “How are they faring?”

Ulma’s and Gandrel’s expressions were weary and sorrowful. “They struggle with their hunger. We have sought to teach them discipline and control, while trying ourselves to learn greater patience. It has been,” the wrinkles on Ulma’s face seemed starker. “A difficult time.”

“Made harder now,” Gandrel broke in, “with the loss of two of us. And we’ll have to explain to Katelyn’s children that she is gone.” His face was grim. “It will be a heavy loss.”

Astarion glared at him. “You can thank the cleric for that,” he said coldly. “And anyone else who tries it will end up the same way.”

“We did not come here,” Tavali said before more warnings could be made. “To make threats. We wanted to tell you what happened, and make a few things clear.”

Gandrel and Ulma straightened. “Such as?”

“We know you’ve been watching us,” she said without hesitation. “The woman said as much.”

Ulma stiffened. “You are a vampire spawn living among humans in a heavily populated city,” she said frankly. “We may not hunt you, but we would be fools to leave you to your own devices without a care.”

“That’s going to stop,” Tavali proclaimed, her tone brooking no argument. “We will not be spied on.” Gandrel’s face was rigid, and he glanced between Ulma on his left and the two of them before him. “And more than that,” Tavali took a deep breath, physically and mentally bracing herself for what came next. “You have no cause to watch Astarion anymore.”

Ulma’s mouth was tight. “And why is that?” The warrior said sternly.

Astarion took a step forward, rolling back his shoulders. “Because I am not a vampire,” he said, loud enough that Tavali could hear the forced calm in his voice. “Not anymore.”

Ulma and Gandrel both twitched back at that, their eyes fixing on Astarion. Ulma’s brows furrowed, her body shifting as she took a wary step forward.

Tavali raised her right hand and, with a crisp nod from Astarion, cast one of the spells Jaheira had taught her in their druidic training.

The sphere of daylight hung at Astarion’s side. It was bright enough in the dim evening light to make Astarion’s eyes wince slightly. He put up a hand to shield his eyes and squinted, but otherwise to did react to the white glow.

The sorcerer focused on the Gur, watching carefully in case this meeting became a confrontation.

Gandrel looked stunned. His mouth was parted, eyes sweeping up and down Astarion’s body as though seeking a trace of radiant burning. Ulma did the same. At the perusal, Astarion opened his lips and pointedly bared his flat teeth.

Both fighters swallowed, their bodies newly tense. “H-How?” Ulma said, her voice rough with emotion.

“True resurrection,” Astarion said bluntly. “A cleric was able to perform the ritual to restore me.” He held both his arms out at his sides. “And if you agree to play nicely, we’ll tell you how it’s done.”

Gandrel leaned back, looking hastily between his leader and the high elf. “How?” He echoed Ulma, though with a great deal more desperation in the words.

Astarion looked over at him. “It’s probably the most expensive ritual in the world,” he answered brusquely. “You need diamonds. Twenty-five thousand gold worth per life.” Tavali watched the Gur rear back. “White or black will do, the spell doesn’t care.

“How-” Gandrel stammered. “How could anyone have that much wealth? He looked directly at Astarion. “How did you?”

The rogue shrugged indelicately and crossed his arms over his chest. “Good luck and friends at the right time,” he said obliquely. “We had quite the adventure to defeat the mind flayer invasion. We happened to collect a great many diamonds before it was over.”

“And you used them for yourself,” Ulma bit out. Tavali thought her eyes looked red in the daylight still hovering around them all.

“The spell only works within two hundred years of death,” Tavali cut in steadily. “Astarion made his deadline with maybe a few days to spare. Otherwise, he could not have been revived at all.”

The tribe leader turned to her. “You don’t think that would have been a fair punishment?” Ulma demanded of her, eyes blazing and fingers twitching in and out of fists. “That he shouldn’t have to give the chance to one of the children he kidnapped? After what he’s done? The lives he took?”

“No,” Tavali shot back. “I don’t. None of us know what it is to be a vampire’s thrall. We’ve never had to follow orders by compulsion. If Cazador had taken one of your people, they would have obeyed the same as Astarion did. There wouldn’t have been any other choice,” she finished a little hotly, trying to reign in her temper.

“We’d choose death,” Gandrel shook his head in disagreement. “We’d have killed ourselves before living like that.”

Astarion snorted. “You’d have tried,” he said shortly. “And you’d have failed before you could even complete the attempt.” His dark eyes snapped between the two of them. “It’s one of the first orders you’re given as a spawn. You may not stray from your master’s side.” His nostrils flared in old, impotent fury. “Trust me,” he growled, “that covers suicide.”

Tavali’s lungs shuddered in her chest at those bleak words. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard their like from Astarion. He’d said similar things before. But it still rattled her heart to think that he had tried, at some unknown time and place, to kill himself to escape Cazador. He’d tried to take his own life only to find even that avenue of escape blocked to him.

“We aren’t here to debate what is or isn’t fair.” The would-be druid spoke again before the argument could reignite. “We’re here to tell you that the ritual does work, if you can get the components for it. But there’s something else you need to know,” Tavali cautioned when she had the humans looking at her again. “To work, the person has to be completely dead, not only undead.” Tavali saw them take in the news, saw Gandrel blanch. “We asked why, and the cleric explained that the ritual cannot restore undead if they are still in the body, so to speak. So if this is something you want to try some day, the child would- would have to be killed first.” She felt a little sick even speaking the words. It set her blood racing in a way that made her queasy with remembered panic. Alba and Emmyth’s assurances hadn’t been enough to persuade her to take the risk with Astarion’s life. “And their soul would have to be strong enough to hear the call and return.”

“Sweet gods,” Gandrel nearly moaned, raising his right hand and wiping it over his mouth. Tavali saw the man’s knees bend as he bent over slightly and faced the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said more softly. “I wish I had better news, or even easier. But that is how we did it.”

Ulma’s lips spasmed in her face. She looked between the two of them with anger and devastation on her face.

It was a horrible thing, to be told there was hope for something only to learn that hope was premised on so awful a ledge.

Astarion sniffed. “I wouldn’t worry so much about the dying part,” he said nonchalantly. Ulma whipped to look at him again, outrage plain on her face. “I was tortured for two hundred years, but I still came back when I heard the call.” His arms were still crossed and he shrugged again. “I expect children in the care of their loving parents wouldn’t hesitate to come back either.”

Tavali sighed, allowing herself a brief moment to close her eyes and bemoan her lover’s distinct lack of tact.

“You’re assuming,” Ulma said tightly, “that we could even find enough diamonds for this in our lifetimes. The fighter straightened. “I am old. Older than most of my people live. The rest are younger, but still moving out of their prime. Katelyn was one of our youngest, and now she’s gone.”

“These are for you,” Tavali lifted a small, tightly sealed leather pouch from her right side and waved it in her right hand between them. “Five diamonds that we didn’t use.” The small stones had been sitting on the stone altar after Astarion’s ritual. One had even been partially consumed, clearly the last trace of diamond dust to meet the heavy cost of the rite. Alba had returned them to Tavali the first time she and Astarion had returned to the temple to answer Emmyth’s questions about Astarion’s experience with the ritual. Astarion had been shocked at the honesty of the cleric. Alba had been offended at his shock. “I know it’s not enough,” she said sedately, “but it’s a start.”

Gandrel and Ulma’s eyes locked on the small leather bag before flicking back to Tavali’s face.

“And that’s it?” Ulma’s voice was bitter. “That makes up for it? He gets,” Ulma lifted her gauntleted left hand to flap it at Astarion, “to walk off into the sunlight while our children must hide away in the hope of living again?”

“You promised to stop hunting him,” Tavali retorted. “Months ago, you promised that. Why should it change now that you can’t hunt him as a monster?”

“That was before we knew he’d- before he took a chance to live again that our children could have had!”

Before Tavali could say anything, Astarion interrupted.

“Your people killed me two hundred years ago,” he said deceptively softly. Both Ulma and Gandrel looked away from Tavali and her pouch of diamonds to stare at him in confusion. “I made a ruling as magistrate against the Gur tribe, and they took it out on me by beating me to death one night.” Tavali’s skin prickled at the deadly calm suffusing the high elf’s voice. “As I was dying, Cazador,” that same familiar snarl in the name almost perversely reassured her, “appear and offered to save me as a vampire. I accepted. Perhaps I should have known better,” Astarion added with false flippancy. “But I don’t make the best decisions with my ribs poking through my lungs and my head ringing from someone’s boot,” he said cuttingly. Tavali heart jumped again at the awful recollection. “That night brought us all the way to today. I displeased your people, they attacked me in the street. Cazador turned me into a vampire, I became his slave. Cazador ordered me to take your children, so I took them. Through unforeseen circumstances, I escaped. Cazador got a tip to your tribe about where I was, you came after me.” Astarion tossed his head back to move his hair off his forehead.

“Are you blaming our people,” Ulma asked with deadly calm, “for you kidnapping our children last year?”

A warning slid up Tavali’s spine. She lowered her hand to bring the diamonds back toward her chest, wondering if she needed to grab for her staff. Gandrel looked away from Astarion to her again. But his eyes were not dangerous. They were fixed on the pouch still in her fist.

“No,” Astarion said, a prim coating over the steel. “But I dislike this,” he glanced over at her, something grudging in his eyes. “Cycle of vengeance we seem to be trapped in.” Tavali’s lips thinned and she bit her lower one, hearing her own words in his and feeling an uncertain stirring of pride to be so quoted by him. Astarion looked back at Ulma. “I managed to free your children, and managed to live again for myself. And now some of your people tried to kill me as payback. Again,” he said forcefully. The rogue took a deep inhale of breath. “This has gone on long enough. We’ve visited enough pain on each other,” he said, some exhaustion slipping into his speech now, “for more than one life time.”

Ulma and Gandrel stood there in silence, nothing but the gentle waves lapping at the sand to be heard for several long moments.

“Let us go our separate ways from here,” Tavali said, infusing her voice with the quiet authority she’d learned to wield among the journey to defeat the Absolute. “No more following us, no more surprises lurking in alleyways.” Tavali lifted her chin, throat sticking a little at the words. “Cazador is dead. Your children’s murderer is dead. And I’m sorry, for what can’t be undone. But there will be no more vengeance.” She met Ulma’s stony gaze, feeling a terrible helplessness beneath her resolve. This mother and grandmother did not deserve her enmity, and yet Tavali didn’t think she would accept a hand in friendship now. “It’s over.”

Ulma stood tall, her lips pursed and features unmoving. The sphere of daylight glinted in the woman’s silver hair and against her bright circlet.

“Ulma,” Gandrel said. His voice was surprisingly pleading. “Please. We’ve lost so much already.” The half-elf thought back to their only meeting with Gandrel after Cazador’s defeat. He’d wept to see his children, to see what had been done to them, but he had not turned away from the two blonde little girls. They’d looked at him with glowing red eyes and scarred faces, and the pleading love of a child to their father had still shown through.

Tavali took a moment to breath, and then offered the pouch again. “Do we have your word?”

Ulma looked ready to spit, but she nodded once. “You do,” she said cuttingly. “For all the good it will do you.”

Tavali didn’t hesitate to underhand toss the pouch to Gandrel. The fighter caught and clutched it to his chest for several seconds before hurriedly undoing the ties and checking the contents. The sorcerer worried he would drop the diamonds to the sand with how his hands shook.

“Well,” Astarion said lightly. “We’ll be off, then,” he rolled his shoulders and took a few steps backwards. Tavali matched him, not quite turning from the Gur while still at such a close range. Gandrel had a wicked looking crossbow on his back, after all.

The fighters matched them, taking steps back until Tavali felt reasonably sure they were all going to walk about from this.

“This is not redemption, you know,” Ulma said as they all started to walk away. “Do not think your slate is clean just because you convinced a cleric to help you.” Tavali looked at the older woman and saw the ferocity on her face even from the distance. “You’ve quite the tally to still make up for.”

Astarion stopped in the sand, his head dipping down and his body rigid. But when he turned to face Ulma, his expression was blank. “Worry about your life, old woman,” he said casually. “I’ll worry about mine.”

He turned away then, striding determinedly through the sand, and did not look back again. Tavali waited to make sure the two humans were truly leaving without a quarrel, and then followed after him.

Chapter Text

Astarion loved waking up to the sunlight in the morning.

Even in winter, when barely any heat could make it through windows frosted by both cold air and their own manufactured opacity, Astarion loved waking up in the light.

Some mornings he woke before the dawn. When that happened, he usually stayed in bed until the sun had risen, unwilling to face another day in the dark. He went out of his way to keep Tavali there with him. His limber arms would wrap soundly around her waist if she tried to leave, and he would beg for her and her warmth to stay beneath their blankets with him. The sorcerer would giggle and shift and tangle their legs together until she surrendered or he released her with a woeful sigh to breakfast or the privy.

In Hammer, one of their first late morning lie-ins at their new townhouse was very rudely interrupted by a series of pounding to their front door. The bangs made Astarion sit bolt upright in bed with Tavali coming fully awake beside him.

There was silence for several long seconds as they both caught their breath and rolled into action. Tavali crawled to the foot of their bed and reached for her staff while Astarion plucked up the dagger he kept handy on the bedside table when he heard a bellowing voice.

“My friends! Do you wake?” Minsc’s voice echoed from the street below.

“Shut the hells up!” Another voice, female, screamed back.

Tavali slipped on house shoes and darted downstairs to let the mad Rashemaar into their house before their neighbors became even more irate.

“Minsc apologizes for waking you so early,” the large man nodded to Tavali, “and you right when it was time for your daytime sleep,” the ranger nodded to Astarion. “But there has been a development in the Guild, and,” the Rashemaar went on as Tavali closed the door.

Minsc spoke as Astarion blinked at him. The high elf wondered how long it would take the oaf to realize something was different.

It took several minutes of Astarion standing in the morning light at their window, curtains drawn open, a cup of hot tea in the high elf’s hands, and then Boo chittering in Minsc's ear before he abruptly cut himself off. “Ah! Astarion!” Minsc gaped and pointed at him with his right index finger. “You are standing in the sun!”

Astarion rolled his eyes heavily, but couldn’t help the smug grin that formed around his lips.

Breakfast was always something to treasure. To wake feeling hunger and to nearly immediately have it sated. Eating was an easy task now that his stomach had settled back into mortality. Tavali had taken it upon herself to keep a journal of recipes they liked and to teach him the basics of cooking. She said that her mother, Laira, had kept a book just like it to mark what foods Tavali and Citric liked best.

“We'll start with the simplest things. Including,” her eyes gleamed, “how to make a good stock.”

Being well fed meant that his other strength was returning, even if he would never achieve the brute force Astarion had wielded as a vampire. Unfortunately, his fighting prowess was slower to return. He was slower, so much damn slower, and his blades didn't fall with as much bite as before.

Pun not intended.

Jaheira and Minsc made time to train with him, and he appreciated their help even as it irked him to let them see his weakness. Jaheira showed him how to angle a sword or dagger to maximize the blow without a vampire's strength. Minsc, the behemoth, was helping him get back his speed and power with a bow.

And when Jaheira was not helping him with his blades, she was helping Tavali to heal and cast other spells known to druids. The four of them had settled into a rhythm, training and defending the city and learning to live in the aftermath of the Absolute’s wreckage. Jaheira and Minsc had done it before, and so they passed on lessons of rebuilding to the latest generation. Old heroes teaching the new, as always happened in the fairy tales.

Never mind that Astarion was older than both Jaheira and Minsc, which the druid in particular seemed to forget.

Never mind that, until recently, he’d been one of the monsters stalking the streets that Jaheira and the ranger would have cut down without a second thought.

In that vein, Jaheira opened one sparring session about a week after the attack by the two rogue Gur.

“The Gur tribe has moved on from Rivington,” Jaheira mentioned while she and Tavali set themselves up on a clear patch of land to practice conjuring plants. To practice fleet footwork, Astarion and Minsc would be charged with navigating through any vines or brambles without getting caught. “I've asked my Harpers to let me know if they return, same as any large group coming in and out of the city. But for now, it seems we can rest easy.”

Astarion scoffed. "I'll believe that when we go a month without someone trying to run me through."

Tavali didn't disagree. "Hopefully we can get at least a month," she said wryly.

“You’ve certainly earned it, this last year, but,” Jaheira frowned in dismay. “It pains me to see how paranoid you've become so young.”

Tavali scowled into the ground, readying her staff. “It's not paranoia when this keeps proving me right.” She held up her right hand and flashed the ring of proof.

Neither she nor Astarion ever took off their rings of proof that shielded them from scrying. They never dared. Both had seen saw the dark blue gems within the center flicker with attempted scries at one point or another almost every day. Astarion could only begin to imagine who would have the time to be doing that, and wondered if that many people wanted to know their whereabouts.

Astarion turned to look at his lover, still asleep on his right side. Tavali lay on her left side beside him with her hair around her face. The milky light of Alturiak cast shadows along her dark curls.

The rogue shifted to lie on his right side and reached out with his left hand to brush the wisps of hair away from Tavali’s right cheek. After a few moments of careful caresses, Tavali began to stir beneath his fingers. Astarion tucked his fingers deeper into her hair to pull her closer. He brushed dainty kisses against her cheek, the bridge of her nose, and her lips. When Tavali came awake with a soft inhale, she leaned into him and brought her right hand up to hold his sleep shirt at his back. The sorcerer arched her neck as Astarion kissed her more forcefully. As he wrapped his right arm around her shoulders and dropped his hand to her hip, Astarion trailed his lips down her jaw and over the right side of her neck.

“Aster,” Tavali whispered, forcing her left arm beneath his right and around his back.

“My love,” he mumbled into the two scars on her neck. He raised his left hand back up along her body and the tips of his fingers caught along her nightgown. His thumb reached her breast, and he relished the hitch in her breath.

Many long minutes of kisses and caresses later, Tavali only balked when he moved to lift her nightgown away entirely.

“Aster,” she murmured, settling her hands on his waist. “It’s- Are you-”

Astarion silenced her with a long kiss that parted her lips and slid their tongues together. “You’ve told me before you don’t want me to make promises about the future,” he started slowly, speaking into her lips with their noses alongside each other. Her skin was heated and pink. “Because of how easily things can change.”

Tavali shifted in his arms and Astarion felt her lashes flutter against his face.

“So I won’t make many. But this one, I have to make. For both our sakes.” He pressed his face in tighter against hers, their breath mingling together with nowhere to go. “I promise you, I will never touch you,” the high elf put his left palm over her right cheek so his finger buried in her hair, “if I don’t want to.”

Such a peculiar thing to say aloud.

Tavali’s breath shuddered out of her.

“And I promise you, right here,” he traced his lips down to her left ear, slightly smothering the side of his face against her pillow, “right now,” he took her ear lobe between his teeth for a quick nibble and felt her fingers twitch and then smooth up his spine. “That I do want to.”  His left hand drifted down to the hemline of her gown currently wrinkled at her thigh. “Do you, my love?” He drew his hand upward and felt the line of her undergarments at her hip.  “Want me to?’

“Yes,” Tavali whispered back after another shaky inhale. She jostled her hips and lifted her arms with a roll of her shoulders to get her nightgown loose. She put her own hands to his nightshirt strings, and Astarion didn’t hesitate to lift it away from his own body.

Her nimble fingers dropped to the laces of his soft sleep trousers then, but she started when he pushed them down and came back up to lay against her.

“Um,” she hesitated, and Astarion drew back slightly to meet her eyes in the early sunlight. She blinked and bit her lip briefly. “It's only, I haven’t taken anything,” she murmured, “to avoid a,” her fingers flexed against his bare hips. “Pregnancy.”

The words jarred him badly enough that he drew away from her.

To his deep, deep chagrin, he’d rather forgotten about that. It wasn’t like such things hadn’t come up in two hundred years. But when it had, Astarion had always lied and assured his victims that he took a tonic to prevent children so the mark wouldn’t worry about it. Astarion hadn’t had to worry about pregnancy when everyone he bedded was doomed to die within hours.

And he and Tavali had discussed it once, in the early stages of his recovery.  Tavali had mentioned that when they did want to start having sex again, if he ever felt up to it, they would need to take precautions.

Tavali smiled a little ruefully. “Have you?”

“Ah,” Astarion matched her expression. “I confess, darling, it seems I forgot about that part. Old habits,” he added a little derisively.

Tavali shrugged and stretched beside him, rubbing her right foot up and down his left ankle and calf. “So, what would you like to do?”

Astarion looked down at her, flushed and grinning a little knowingly. His eyes dropped to the constellation of freckles on her chest and shoulders above their thick blanket.

He most certainly did not want to stop altogether. So, time to adjust. “Well,” Astarion said, voice heavy with false despondency. “As much as I would like to sample all of you,” he put his lips back to the right side of her neck and nipped at her. She jolted against the bed. “I suppose we’ll just have to start slow,” he muttered, “and entertain ourselves with safer acts.” He trailed his right fingers back down her chest, swirling over a nipple before sliding down to the edge of her underwear. Tavali dragged her nails lightly down his bare, nearly unmarked back. Her breath whooshed past his right ear and her blush deepened as she started to squirm.

“Ha. For the best,” she murmured and dropped her face into his right shoulder. “Starting slow.”

In the sweaty aftermath, Tavali lay panting and spent on her back while Astarion collapsed onto his stomach on her left. When he opened his eyes to look back at her, her forest green eyes were already fixed on him. Breathless as the sun rose higher with the morning, Tavali looked at him with such naked adoration Astarion had to roll over closer and kiss her again in the hopes she would close her eyes and stop.

He pulled her onto her left side and wrapped his arms around her back, aligning them from neck to naval and tangling their legs.

“I love you,” she murmured into his lips when he let them part for a moment. Her left arm wound around his back to hold him tightly to her. “Love you,” she said again, lips and tongue catching on his as she resumed the kiss without greater pause.

“I love you,” he answered. “More than you can imagine.” And for so long, he hadn’t imagined. What would have been the point? “These last months are a counterweight,” he nuzzled into her cheek with his nose, “to two hundred years of misery.” When he drew back to look at her again, her eyes were glittering. “My love. My partner.”

Tavali seized him by the mouth this time, rolling their bodies together again even if they were still panting from before.

Ten minutes later, his stomach growled loudly and Tavali’s echoed it. Unlike the first day of his resurrection, Astarion couldn’t quite bring himself to be annoyed. The sorcerer chuckled and let her head fall back against the pillow. Her eyes were crescents above her wide smile as she ran her right fingers through his curls.

“Breakfast?” She offered, catching her breath.

Astarion made a noise of agreement, but brought her back against him with his left arm around her shoulders and his right around her waist. She moaned into his mouth when he fastened their lips together again.

They would decide when he was done kissing her.

Astarion was not a slave to his hunger. Not anymore.