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The fire was low, and no match for the storm outside. Amongst the embers, a small flame remained, offering up all it had to keep everyone warm—prepared to burn itself out trying.
A weak cough roused Astarion from his thoughts, and he rearranged the quilt over Halsin’s sleeping form. Astarion toyed with the edges of the cover, rubbing the satin ribbon between his fingers. This had been the ribbon that tied the corset on his wedding dress. It had yellowed with age-as had all the scraps that made up their memory quilt.
A bit of woven wool from commencement robes, a strip of soft brown fabric that used to be a knitted toy bear stuffed with soft fur, a patch of silk from a banner, presented in thanks of service to a regretful father.
‘I’ve taken it for granted—‘
Astarion slipped off the chair to kneel beside the bed, getting in Halsin’s eyeline. ‘I doubt that very much, my love.’
‘When you live for centuries the concept of mortality becomes diminished. What is the moment of my death compared to all the days of my life? It’s such an insignificant event.’
Astarion stroked the pecan coloured hair back from Halsin’s face, watching the wind-battered branches thrash angrily on the window.
‘Oh, not so insignificant as you’d think, love.’ Astarion fussed with the edge of the quilt, tucking it more tightly around his husband, as though he could keep fate away from him through sheer will. ‘Though, that was bound to be the case, when you’ve lived such a significant life.’ He smoothed a hand across his brow. ‘I hope you’re as proud of you as I am.’
‘I’ve never appreciated what it would be like to outlive everyone that I loved.’
Astarion choked down a broken sound. ‘Ah, ah, ah, darling,’ he chided softly, ‘I believe I won that distinction. You’ll have to think up another epitaph for your stone.’
Together, they two had sat in many rooms just like this one. Holding hands that grew colder as the sun set lower. Whispering reassurance and comfort to hold steady their friends as they stepped through the veil. Then doing the same with their children, and theirs after. Retelling the tales they’d borne witness to, like they were legend and lore. Stories of their friends who stood bravely against gods and monsters. Stories so fantastic they could only be true.
‘We’ve held a lot of hands, haven’t we, my heart?’
‘We have indeed.’ Astarion tried to smile, but had to settle for gazing upon his love with soft eyes. ‘This quilt has a lot of miles on it.’
‘I remember our room in Baldur’s Gate.’ When Halsin chuckled it came with a hollow rattle deep in his once broad chest. ‘Nine of us stuffed into a single room.’
‘Ten, if you count that devil lady who stalked poor Wyllyam.’
‘You hated it.’
Astarion lifted the Druid’s large hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. ‘That’s not saying much. I hated everything then, darling. Except you.’
‘Oh, even me for a while.’
Astarion hummed. ‘Who knew I’d be won over by goodness, of all things?!’ He made a face like the idea was vinegar on his tongue.
Halsin rumbled like the far off thunder, and put his hand to his husband’s cheek. Astarion closed his eyes and leaned in. Halsin wasn’t the great stone wall he once was, but he remained Astarion's shield to this day. To this last day.
‘Do you think we’ll see them all again, my heart?’
Astarion looked over the quilt again, touching a bit of lace, a patch, a button.
‘I think you will, darling. And they’ll all be so pleased to see you again.’
Astarion laid his head on Halsin’s chest and clenched his jaw until it hurt. The rise and fall of it was slowing, each breath ever more precious, each thump of his heart another step towards a place Astarion could not follow.
He made to stand and Halsin grasped for his hand. ‘Don’t go,’ he said, a flash of fear that Astarion had never seen before.
‘Never,’ Astarion assured him, and lifted the quilt to climb in beside him.
He lay warm and close, brushing his lips over Halsin’s creased brow until finally, outside, the trees grew still.
'Not ever.'