Chapter Text
Astarion has been good today. In fact, he has been good for an entire, valiant, soul-crushing week. The first half of it was technically punishment for his disappearing stunt that one adventuresome day—of which he has still managed to convince the most gullible third of the household staff did not happen. The second, he willfully committed himself to good behaviour, if only to convince Mother that he was trustworthy enough for a little slack. It is a Sunday, after all, no better time in a week to seek out his new friend. Only, Astarion is far too aware it will not be so straightforward as simply asking to go meet some strange boy in the city’s slums.
“Mother, may I please go to Rivington today?” Astarion inquires sweetly as he enters the solar.
“Whatever for, my dear?” Lady Ancunin says without looking up from her embroidery, her thin, tremulous fingers working diligently at a complex stitch. Her supplies lie on the table before her in a colourful, chaotic spread—the only instance of disorder she seems able to tolerate. “It is such a distance away. And your father will be returning home this evening, too.”
All the more reason to be away, Astarion muses. He traipses over with purpose, pulls out a chair beside her to primly settle himself, before destroying all illusions of proper posture by plastering half his body on the table next to her sewing supplies. He can only meet her gaze this way.
“Oh please, Mother? I have been ever so good. And I will continue to be good on this short trip.” Astarion glances up imploringly at the same blue eyes he sees in the mirror each night and morning, though his own are never so perennially shadowed by nervosity. “Father won’t be home until late evening. I thought I would go to that temple in Rivington to pray for his safe return! It is reputed to be a very good place, you know. Plus, the long walk there would do me good after an entire week of lacking exercise, don’t you think? If it is too inconvenient for the house staff, I can even make the trip alone—”
“Going all the way to Rivington by yourself? Not a chance, my little star.”
“Does that mean you do approve of me going out by myself, if not as far?”
Mother reaches out with clear intention to ruffle his hair. Astarion nimbly evades her fingers. Amusement leaves her in a single, short exhalation.
“I would not trust you to go anywhere on your own farther than Basilisk Gate. If you need to pray, the Stormshore Tabernacle will do just fine. Lucas and Bronn will see there.”
“But Mother!” Astarion whines, his cheek plastered to the table, looking the part of a proper afflicted child. He knows she can see his antics—or at least the spirit of the performance—even if she isn’t directly looking at him.
“No ‘buts’ about it. Lucas and Bronn will see that you arrive at Stormshore and accomplish what you wish to do there.”
“But it is a private matter! You’ve said it yourself before: ‘What is uttered in prayer should be between you and’—”
She sighs.
“Very well. They will leave you to your prayers in the Temple itself.”
It is all Astarion can do to not leap for joy. A few moments by himself are all he needs. Astarion perks up, back ramrod straight as he returns to exemplary posture. Perhaps it is a bit too much even for him, but he cannot afford to let her catch on now. Rivington was never the goal; he purposefully overshot his request just for the bargain to land precisely where he wanted. Perhaps he has managed to learn from Father a thing or two in the art of negotiation after all. The thought occurs to Astarion so suddenly, he can’t help feeling a bit unsettled.
“Oh, thank you Mother—”
“Return before sundown. Your father will wish to see you before he retires for the day.”
He very much doubts that.
“I certainly shall.” Astarion lies. Before Lady Ancunin can tell it as such, he loops his arms around her neck and plants a kiss on one of her gaunt cheeks. “Thank you.”
Astarion bolts for the door before the permission can be rescinded, though not quickly enough to outrun Lady Ancunin’s final demand.
“And finish your assignments first!”
“I have! Ask the tutor!”
.
Back in his own chambers, Astarion’s heart is still drumming a restless beat. An almost-full day with his first friend. He has not stopped thinking of Durge’s waving form since it disappeared behind his family’s garden hedges. Ever since their last misadventures—no, ever since they met, Astarion has found each moment of his days a little more tolerable, spent in anticipation of… something. There is more to life out there: stale pastries to be shared, bar fights to instigate, excitement. And at least one person in the world who seems glad to be in his company. In a way, it almost feels like Durge has saved him.
His mind wanders to fairytale princes breaking forlorn maidens out of their prisons of grey towers or bleak, impregnable fortresses, returning them to a vast, richly coloured world. Durge very much had the bearing of a dashing prince when he carried Astarion across those rooftops, did he not? All sharp, bright eyes, strong arms and a quick mind, and oh so capable. Astarion’s heartbeat is an unruly steed under his ribs as his recollections grow ever more vivid. His eartips sport a rosy tint in the mirror, poking out of his white curls.
Shaking his head, Astarion checks himself. How very silly of him. Shameful, even, to get so quickly swept up by the charms of some street urchin. Besides, they have hardly even—
Two quick raps at his door. Lucas’ voice filters in from the corridor beyond.
“Young Master, are you ready?”
“Do you mind?” Astarion snaps, suddenly irate. “In a minute!”
“My apologies, sir.”
With a huff, Astarion returns to grooming himself. His curls are adequately combed and fluffed, perhaps… On to the question of what to wear. He has his favourite fits, of course… a good number of which are immediately disqualified for being far too tricky to put on by himself. He settles for a stylish but relatively practical selection: a light jacket of pale blue velvet, accented with delicate silver thread, over a crisp, white chemise with lace trim, a silk scarf and stockings. Though simple, the whole look hardly skimps on his preferred amount of volume and ruffles. More importantly, there is not as much lacing to fasten himself.
Astarion can count all the times he has dressed himself without assistance on one hand. All of them entailed handling a single frock coat or jacket at a time that he still managed to pull on crookedly, thus requiring subsequent help with adjusting anyway. But something about this particular occasion feels too personal, puts him in a far less charitable mood to receive any potential scrutiny of others. Lucas would certainly question his choice of clothes, interrogate him on this and that. Worse, he might even pick out something unforgivably plain that he would deem more appropriate for Astarion’s ‘temple visit’. Plus, it would be somewhat humiliating to have snapped at the man only to require his assistance.
Yet, even with his very smart choices, this still proves more challenging than he thought. It is difficult enough to position everything where they should be, even more so if he wishes to meet his own standards. For the life of him, Astarion cannot tie the silk scarf in a way that makes it not hopelessly crooked. The lacing at his back also feels far too loose, making everything else sit oddly on his body. His stockings are already slipping down his calves. This will not do; he has to look perfect…
Astarion’s cheeks warm inexplicably. Why is he trying so hard? It is only a playdate… with possibly his favourite person yet. But daylight is finite and by fussing needlessly over his appearance, he has wasted precious minutes. It is not a feeling Astarion remembers ever experiencing: not spending hours being groomed for some social function where his absence would hardly be noticed, but dressing himself in honest anticipation of somebody’s sole attention. How quaint that Durge would manage to give him new experiences from half the city away. Still, it is true that he cannot afford to waste more time on this. Swallowing his pride, Astarion calls out.
“Lucas! Get in here!”
The valet has the sense to catch his souring mood and not needle him with questions, at least. Once finally prim and pretty, Astarion grabs his fashionable embroidered satchel—its content consisting of fruits, biscuits, and a book pilfered from his father’s study—and does a final, indulgent spin in front of his ornate standing mirror before heading for the exit.
.
Lucas and Bronn make a point of watching Astarion closely to make sure he enters the building proper. In turn, Astarion makes sure they take in the full extent of his frowny displeasure before the vicar ushers him through the door. Once inside, he begins the onerous task of browsing the various statues for one to which to fake-pray.
Astarion does not immediately recognise any of these gods and goddesses, has never cared to learn. There is a good chance the vicar would gladly tell him not only their names, but regale him with each of their extensive histories if he only asked. He could not be more uninterested. Gods rarely take centre stage in his favourite tales. If they do appear, they are often tyrannical, obstructive forces in the way of the dashing hero. Though he might care to hear about deities just a little if they were explained to him by Durge. Astarion is simply convinced Durge knows everything.
He stops before a statue that he thinks is probably in the likeness of Helm—or whichever god oversees protection—tosses a couple gold coins into the offering box, and mutters a half-hearted prayer.
“Please let my father, Lord Ancunin, arrive safely in Baldur’s Gate this day… May he not trip and stumble on his way home; it would be so embarrassing for him…”
The armoured figure responds only with its indifferent stone gaze. Astarion has a mind to make a face at it. How pointless, a waste of good stone and mortar this place is. An even greater waste of time to pray for a man who hardly even acknowledges his own son’s existence. What is the point of honouring Lord Ancunin with his presence, when it is unlikely to make a difference on how he treats Astarion thereafter? Even as a perfunctory ruse, anything to do with his father never fails to worsen his mood.
Astarion stomps his foot unhappily, which produces a ‘smack’ far louder than he ever intended thanks to the temple’s cavernous ceiling. The vicar’s questioning gaze is upon him in an instant, prompting Astarion to mouth an apologetic ‘pardon’ in turn. Less than a quarter of an hour in, and he is already sick of this place. Time to get out. He reaches into his pocket for (what is hopefully) a bottle of invisibility potion pilfered from the vicar’s on-sale wares on his way into Stormshore. Ducking out of sight, he pulls off the cork and swallows down its content in three large gulps.
The potion tastes like nothing, yet has the discomfiting viscosity of slightly thickened water. At least it went down more easily than a lot of the medicines he has had the displeasure of taking, Astarion muses. Mercifully, he needs not dwell on the experience of taking the potion long before its effects are felt. Astarion looks down at where his own feet should be and is pleasantly met with nothing. How exciting. Same goes for his hands as he raises them to eye level. Quickly but carefully, Astarion tiptoes out the door, slips past Lucas and Bronn at the entrance (they seem bored out of their minds yet simultaneously engaged in some inane conversation about fishing, probably complacent that there is nowhere for him to exit the temple without their notice), and into the street. Once any noise he makes could reasonably be masked by those of the surrounding crowd, Astarion makes a break for it.
He is headed straight for the backstreets near Basilisk Gate where his intel on Durge’s home leads. It is a little scary, making his way through a new part of town all by himself. Astarion has never been any place where he is not promptly and obsequiously welcomed. The streets get narrower and dirtier the further he goes, lined with yellowed, mildew-eaten buildings that crowd together like hideous broken teeth. The abandoned structures sport perpetually shattered windows, while occupied ones choke out the sky with lines upon lines of stained, frayed laundry hanging between them.
The characteristic odours of the city seem most concentrated here—not only of uncollected waste baking in the sun, but the smells of too many living, breathing things sharing too little space. Astarion stands out like a sore thumb among the locals, with his perfumed silks and finely coiffed hair. People huddle together like bundles of threadbare rags, adults eyeing him with lukewarm contempt and children with inappropriate curiosity.
Astarion’s fingers tighten instinctively around the shoulder strap of his satchel, his hackles raised. He would like nothing more than to be somewhere else, somewhere safer, were this not the place where his leads have ended. He has a vague idea of the general area of where Durge lives, but not the precise address. Hells, he wonders if any of these people even know what an address is, or whether they can even read.
“You there, boy.” Ouf of options, Astarion calls out to a young human boy loitering by a broken wagon.
The boy looks at him wonderingly, as though he does not think it is him who is being spoken to.
“Yes, you. I require your assistance.”
The boy squints at him with suspicion.
“I don’t know, mister. What’s my assistance to you?”
Astarion fishes some gold coins out of his pocket. Scepticism practically melts off the boy’s grimy face as he bounds over. At closer proximity, it becomes apparent that he is even smaller than Astarion. How refreshing. It isn’t every day that he gets to literally talk down to someone. At the boy’s expectant, slightly sullen gaze, Astarion flings one coin in his direction. It is deftly caught with one hand.
“I know someone called Durge lives in this area. Do you know him?”
“Durge, you say?”
“Tall, scaly, big swishing tail.”
“Yes, yes. That does ring a bell…” The human taps his chin, brows furrowed. “Though I’m having trouble remembering clearly...”
Astarion throws two more coins at him.
“How about now?”
The boy’s face breaks out into a broad grin.
“Turn right at the next intersection and follow the slope all the way down. Take the second to last turn left before the fork. Little house with a weird shrub at the front. Got all that, mister?”
“Weird shrub?”
“Yeah. You shouldn’t miss it. Weird scraggly, brown thing that looks kind of dead.”
“…Alright, thank you. Have a good day.”
As he heads for the sloped street, the boy calls out from behind him.
“Oh, and beware of dog! Tell Boss I said ‘hi’!”
‘Dog’? ‘Boss’? Astarion is half tempted to turn around and toss his intrepid guide a few more coins to elaborate, but decides he has wasted enough money to get drip fed bits of information that only raise more questions than they answer.
The street is longer than he expected, to his chagrin. It makes one dread to think what the trip back up up the slope will be like. At last, what must be the ‘weird shrub’ enters his view—brown and scraggly as promised—followed by the faded front of a small, two-story wooden house. The place seems hardly larger than his family’s solar yet, with its clean walls and relatively well-maintained, albeit minuscule front yard, still seems far more habitable than the buildings he passed near Basilisk Gate.
To Astarion’s even greater relief, there is no dog in sight. A lone gnomish girl is sweeping dust from the front steps, jet black braid hanging over her shoulder. Her presence is no less surprising to him, however. So used to his life as an only child, Astarion has defaulted to the assumption that every other child alive must be just as lonesome as he is. In retrospect, it does not seem so out of place that Durge would have younger siblings; the boy does awfully like to fret and patronise. But… it would not make sense for this girl to be Durge’s sibling, would it? For one, the girl is clearly bereft of scales. He cannot even begin to imagine how a dragonborn and a gnome would…
I chill races up his spine—she is returning his blatant staring with a sullen, vaguely threatening one. Being smaller than any child he has ever seen, the broom in her hands easily dwarfs her diminutive figure, yet Astarion finds himself unsettled by her presence.
“Ahem, hello. I’m here to see Durge.”
No response. The girl’s brown eyes are hard as dark granites as they fix on his face, unwelcoming and utterly void of curiosity.
“I have some business with him, you see. So if you would please go fetch him—”
The girl abruptly charges at him, screaming. She is fast for one carried on such little legs. Sheer reflex saves him from a faceful of dusty straw as she swings her broom at his head. Astarion has barely regained his balance when she swings again, grazing him by the elbow this time.
“Are you mad!?” He yelps, leaping away from another attack.
The gnome keeps charging at him, screaming. It is unfair how good she is. The fundamentals of Astarion’s fencing lessons can at least tell him that none of her strikes wants for control or purpose. The same lessons have kept him from eating straw for this long. If he survives this, Astarion thinks he might never skip out on another one again.
“Stop, would you!? I just want to talk!”
“Die!”
“Drop it, Mel!”
A new figure emerges from the house, rushing over to where Astarion has just been forced onto his back with Mel’s broom raised over his head. Two long sleeved arms wind over her front, lifting her into the air kicking and screaming. Astarion quickly rolls away, his entire body buzzing from adrenaline. Mel’s broom drops to the ground as she flails in the tiefling boy’s arms. The tiefling, for his part, seems able to restrain her without much effort, like someone truly adept at the handling of vicious small dogs.
‘Dog’. Ah.
“Mel, calm down.” The tiefling boy says calmly, a gentle smile on his lips. “It’s okay.”
“Let me down!” Mel thrashes.
“I will, the minute you settle down, okay? Promise. Now, breathe with me.”
The tiefling boy begins rocking Mel in the air like a doll. Astarion is so busy gawking at the absurdity in front of him he completely forgets to pull himself off the ground. It is not until the tiefling has set his attacker down, muttering something placating that causes her to finally retreat into the house (backfirst, glaring at Astarion the whole way) that he remembers to scrounge for what is left of his dignity.
“Sorry for that.” The boy grins, extending one ruddy, copper-tinted hand. “My sister can be a bit wary of strangers.”
Astarion takes the hand and pulls himself to his feet.
“Wary?” He grumbles, picking broom straw off his jacket. “The little beast was close to ripping my head off!”
The boy laughs.
“To be fair to Mel, we don’t get a lot of visitors, let alone strange visitors… I mean, someone as fancy as you. I’m Lexis.”
His hand still trapped in Lexis’ palm, Astarion begrudgingly welcomes the handshake. It is an awkward, overly energetic thing, lasting for far longer than he is necessarily used to.
“You are as quick to assume me a friend as your sister was to deem me a threat; how quaint.” Astarion remarks, pulling away for a quick bow. “Astarion Ancunin. Pleasure.”
“You really are fancy. What business does someone like you have with the lot of us, then?”
Astarion is beginning to tire of his motivations being questioned. He huffs, hands flying to his hips.
“My business is my own. And that of the one called Durge. He lives here, does he not?”
Lexis levels him with a look equal parts amused and scrutinising. For the first time since their meeting, his perennial smile seems just a little strained. Astarion notices the tiefling’s hands withdrawing behind his back. Abruptly, the near imperceptible change in his expression is gone as his affable grin comes back at full force.
“Then I’m afraid you got the wrong house, friend. No such person lives here.”
Astarion’s stomach drops. It cannot be.
“You are certain? I was assured that…”
In retrospect, he was not actually assured of anything, was he? That gods damned brat could easily have just taken his money in exchange for useless information. He was played for a fool. Some son of a storied merchant house, he is; father would not be happy were he to learn of this. Astarion’s blood rushes to his cheeks. Half the day gone, and all that effort wasted on that long, onerous walk. His eyes start to sting.
Perhaps sensing his distress, Lexis hurriedly adds.
“Hey, easy now. That’s no reason to be upset.”
“I am perfectly calm.” Astarion’s voice wobbles.
“Sure you are. But there are still plenty of houses around here! Maybe you just haven’t got to the right one—”
“Astarion?”
The familiar voice has Astarion immediately swiveling his head in its direction. There he stands, just beyond the house’s threshold: Durge, in all his tall, bescaled glory. The little gnomish girl is peeking out behind him, her full height only reaching a little past his hip. Durge has a small ax in his hand that he unceremoniously drops before jogging towards them. It is all Astarion can do to stop himself from charging at Durge and tackling him to the ground. Mel doesn’t follow him; any hostility on her face has been replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. The look is, to a lesser extent, mirrored by Lexis.
“Durge!” It is almost a sob. “But I thought…”
“Haha, oops.” Lexis scratches his cheek. “You actually know this fancy boy, big brother?”
“He is a friend.” Durge turns to Astarion. “Are you alright? Did you get hurt or something?”
“Your little she-demon of a sister attacked me!” Astarion blurts out, full of outrage and feeling emboldened in Durge’s presence to express it. “I only wanted to meet you. I said I would find you, remember? You promised that we could see each other again…”
“How do you know the fancy boy, big brother?” Lexis’ brows wiggle above his luminous green eyes.
“Shut up.” Durge groans.
“And he,” Astarion points an accusing finger at the tiefling. “bald-faced lied to me about you not living here, even though getting here was such a pain, and—”
“Durgey was going to ax you, you know.” Mel says.
“…He what?”
“Enough, both of you.”
The authority in Durge’s voice promptly brings his siblings to heel. Even Astarion feels some compulsion to obey, somehow. But as Durge turns to him, his voice and expression just as quickly soften, almost jarringly so.
“I’m sorry for the less than warm welcome, Astarion.” Durge’s authority falls away as he looks truly apologetic.
“You had better be.” Astarion pouts. “And I expect you to make up for it by spending the rest of your day with me.”
For a moment, Durge’s face lights up in a familiar way—there is the same twinkle in his eyes as when Astarion suggested they used magic to sneak into that tavern. But his fledgling enthusiasm is overtaken by concern as his gaze falls upon his two siblings. An anxious knot forms in Astarion’s stomach. It feels like standing in that shaded corner again, by a hole in the garden wall of his family’s estate.
“Don’t worry, Boss, we can handle ourselves for a day.” Lexis chimes in, perhaps once again sensing their reservation before either has voiced it. “Just go on ahead with your date, yeah?”
“Lexis, I swear to the gods—”
“No, we can’t handle ourselves for a day! You can’t go, Durgey. We’ll die if you— mmph!”
“Right, that’s enough, my little shark.” The tiefling declares cheerfully, one hand clamped over his sister’s mouth. “Let’s cut our brother some slack for a few hours. Have fun! Don’t do anything stupid!”
With that, Lexis merrily retreats inside the house, a flailing, grunting Mel in tow. As the door slams shut and latches, Durge lets out a bone-deep sigh. Blessed silence returns to the tiny courtyard, only broken by the occasional breeze whispering through the strange, patchy bush, and the distant squeals of other children chasing each other a few blocks away. It is odd to think how argumentative Astarion was but moments before. Yet now that he has finally won Durge all to himself, conversation does not feel so easy. It is, after all, technically only their second meeting.
“I am glad to see you again.” Durge blushes, immediately failing to beat Lexis’ implicit allegations. “You look… great.”
“Thank you.” Astarion clears his throat. “It is your day off, right? I know The Wide is empty on Sundays.”
“So that’s why you sought me out today.” Durge smiles. “How thoughtful.”
“Aren’t I?” Astarion grins. “I expect to be a part of whatever you do to entertain yourself on your days off, aside from books or wrangling those small hooligans you call siblings.”
Durge chokes on a laugh, finding himself in agreemnt with the way Astarion has characterised Mel and Lexis.
“Slim pickings you’ve left me. But I do have something in mind that we can do.”