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The night is clear. The sky is covered with stars, the full moon providing light to the city of Baldur’s Gate. The moonlight shines through the balcony, giving more light to the large bedchamber, dimly lit by the fireplace providing warmth to the room.
A door opens as Wyll walks inside, holding both of Astarion’s hands, taking careful steps as they walk into their bedchambers.
Astarion’s eyes are closed. “I swear if you are here to scare me, it won’t work. I have seen horrors beyond comprehension,” Astarion gloats.
Wyll chuckles, resuming in guiding Astarion to the center of the bedroom. “I promise it isn’t that, my love.”
“Can I look now?” Astarion whines.
“Almost, my love.” He leaves Astarion where he is, making sure Astarion isn’t taking a peek. Wyll lights two lamps and candles near their bed. He looks at an impatient Astarion and the newly hung painting on the wall. It is the perfect surprise.
Astarion is standing two meters away from a wall where the painting hung. His eyes still remain closed despite his protests.
Wyll stands next to Astarion, exhaling to control his excitement. “Okay. Open your eyes.”
Astarion’s shoulders relax, feeling like he has been stuck in the darkness that was his own for far too long. “The theatrics were so unnecessary! You can just show me the surprise and…”
Astarion pauses, words unable to leave his mouth as he registers what he is looking at. His deep red eyes are entranced at the new painting that hangs on the wall of their bedchambers, perfectly positioned to be viewed from the comfort of the bed on the other side.
Astarion steps closer to the painting, studying the details, the brush strokes that made the face of someone familiar, yet foreign. The painting is a portrait of an elf with sharp facial features, pale skin that resembles that of the moonlight, deep red eyes. The shoulder-length white silver curls drape over his shoulders.
The man in the painting carried a serious expression, but the edge of his lips showed a light curve almost resembling a smirk, defining the smile lines of his face.
Astarion walks closer to the painting. His hand was about to touch the painting, but instead goes to touch his own face, touching his nose, cheeks, mouth, ears. His fingers brush at the tips of his white silver curls. He did all of that while his eyes never left the portrait.
It is like looking in a mirror. Pure perfection.
This painting is of himself, his own face, his hair. It is tangible. He can look at it every single day and admire his own beauty. After years of being unable to look at his own reflection, to fawn over himself, he is finally able to see how he looks.
”I commissioned the painter to do your portrait.” Wyll stands next to Astarion, going to hold his hand, entangling their fingers together. "I know how difficult it is to never see your reflection. I remember when you asked me to use the tadpole to send what I saw to your mind. But that was years ago, decades even. We have changed. You have changed. I wanted you to see that."
Astarion chuckles. "Darling, being a vampire doesn't give me the privilege to change, well, physically of course."
Wyll chuckles, his hand going to caress the long silver-white locks over Astarion's shoulder. To Astarion's surprise, as years passed, his hair grew. Perhaps it is because he is finally able to feed himself consistently. Gone was the time where he was just skin and bones, tortured by Cazador and only fed the blood of dead rats.
"For a man with no reflection, you always knew how to maintain your amazing hair," Wyll compliments, kissing his cheek.
"It is a skill," Astarion gloats, turning back to the painting. "By the gods. I still look gorgeous. And you, you are the beautiful sun that brings me life. My beautiful and handsome Devil.”
Wyll chuckles, adding a kiss to Astarion’s cheek. "Despite my aging, I still indulge in your compliments.”
Aging, a simple word that makes Astarion's smile fade. A word he refused to think about. Yet the evidence stands right in front of him.
Despite Wyll’s devil transformation, his lifespan still remains that of a human. In these twenty-five years since their marriage, Astarion witnessed how Wyll changed. The small wrinkles forming under his eyes, the roots of Wyll’s long dreadlocks now have shades of grays. Wyll’s beard still had the dark brown color, but one can easily find one coily silver hair hiding among them. Yet despite all of the changes, Astarion cannot deny how handsome Wyll is with his aging.
Throughout the decades spent rebuilding the Gate, Wyll still works in aiding those in need as Duke Wyll promised. Whether it's rebuilding a home for refugees or fighting off monsters that dare to break the peace of the city, he is as proficient with his rapier as he always was. Despite losing his warlock powers after ending the pact with Mizora, he is still a fighter. But Astarion cannot deny he has noticed other changes.
His dear Wyll, his prince, his husband, now finds himself tiring easily after a long day. The man with a vast life and energy now has been needing more sleep. Wyll has been making subtle comments on how his back and knees aren’t what they used to be.
Others would shrug it off, but Astarion is unable to ignore the signs. Wyll is aging.
He could try to be ignorant, to pretend those details do not bother him. But each year, the signs of aging become more apparent, impossible to ignore.
Wyll’s entire life is just a blink of an eye for an elf, especially for a vampire.
And for Astarion, that terrifies him.
Astarion’s eyes become unfocused, staring at Wyll’s face but also staring at nothing.
“Astarion,” Wyll calls.
Astarion doesn’t respond, his eyes still unfocused. Guilt creeps into Wyll’s chest as he realizes his mistake in what he said.
Wyll goes to kiss the back of Astarion’s hand, whispering words of assurance, reminding him of the night they expressed their love under the Wilden Oak. The pale elf blinks, pulled back into reality as he receives another kiss on the cheek from his prince.
The gesture makes Astarion’s pointed ears feel warm, his cheeks flushed.
"I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Wyll apologizes, whispering in Astarion’s ear.
Astarion chuckles, playing along. “As punishment, you have to kiss me on the lips.”
Astarion pulls Wyll for a long kiss, indulging in the warmth of Wyll’s body, the feeling of those soft lips against his cold ones. Astarion is the first to pull away with ease, seeing Wyll stay in the same position with his eyes closed, lips going from pursed to a dreamy smile.
Wyll opens his eyes, cheeks darkened with a mild red tint. “Was I punished enough?” He closes his eyes again, as if awaiting another long kiss. Astarion gives him a quick peck on the cheek, seeing Wyll react with confusion.
Astarion smirks. “You are forgiven.”
Wyll returns the favor by resting his forehead against Astarion’s, arms going around Astarion’s torso to pull him closer.
“Darling, this gift is amazing. I can just stare at myself forever.” Astarion looks back at the painting. “Things keep changing, and yet my body will remain the same. Time passes and others age. Time passes and I see how your hair goes from dark brown to shades of grey. I can’t stop thinking about how your time is so limited.”
“Astarion…”
“The truth is,” Astarion pauses. “I don't know how I will survive without you."
Wyll has no answer to that, only showing sadness behind those eyes. He lets Astarion lean against him, allowing Astarion’s head to rest on his shoulder as they embrace one another. One hand goes to Astarion’s, tangling their fingers together.
Astarion feels his eyes get damp, closing them to fight the incoming tears. He can’t muster the words on how thankful he is of everything to Wyll. He can’t say how it filled him with joy finally seeing himself again after all these years. But he also can’t say the pure and utter pain he feels knowing Wyll’s time is limited. Soon Wyll will pass away. What will happen to Astarion then? How will he be able to live without him?
Wyll parts from Astarion, walking towards the door of their balcony, opening it up, and allowing the night breeze to come in, making the candles in the bedchambers flicker but remain lit. He turns back to Astarion with a melancholic but loving gaze, the moonlight shining over him, reflecting on the golden jewelry that adorn his horns.
He walks back to Astarion, doing a bow and offering his hand. Astarion tilts his head at the gesture, but reaches for Wyll’s hand. Wyll gestures with a light tug to come closer and Astarion obliges, seeing Wyll’s other hand go to the side of his waist.
Astarion rolls his eyes but shows amusement at the gesture.
“Remember when we had our first dance in the Last Light Inn? It was after you told me how you really felt about me, about us.”
How could he forget? It was the moment Astarion realized his plans were not going as intended, when he felt something, a stir inside himself, an attachment to the Blade of Frontiers. A hero Astarion would read about in children’s books, a hero he wished had saved him sooner. It was the moment Astarion realized he still had the capacity to love. “Is this dance to make amends for my current tears?”
“Do you want to?”
“You know me too well, darling.”
“Well then, may I have this dance?”
“With no music?”
“Has that ever stopped us?”
Astarion grins, allowing Wyll to lead in a quiet waltz across the wide spaces of their bedchambers. Dancing around, Astarion rests his head on Wyll’s shoulder, no longer fighting the tears that trailed down his face.
“Remember when we shared what we assumed was our last kiss before we fought the Netherbrain? Our last night of intimacy? And yet, months later, there we were, saying our vows in front of all our loved ones at our wedding,” Wyll whispers in his ear.
“We traveled together through the Underdark, through Faerûn to explore the land. And when we returned, Lily Aurora came into our lives,” Wyll reminds him.
Lily Aurora. The child they adopted and raised as their own. Astarion’s daughter, Wyll’s daughter. Their daughter. Never did the thought of parenthood pass Astarion’s mind. When Wyll was contacted by the Open Hand Temple about the child, Astarion wasn’t sure he himself had the capacity to care for someone so small, let alone love. And yet here he is, twenty-five years later, still with Wyll and their daughter who has now grown up into a beautiful independent person. Despite all that, she will always be their little girl to them.
Astarion raises his head from Wyll’s shoulder. “How could I forget?”
“Sometimes I wish my transformation altered my lifespan.” Wyll paused, hesitation in his eyes. “Because I worry about what will happen to you and Lily when I… Well. I want to ensure you and Lily will be safe and comfortable. All I can do, all I want to do, is live our lives to the fullest, to leave behind so many precious memories for you.”
Outside, the soft, far tune of a lute playing could be heard from the balcony. Wyll and Astarion resume their waltz, losing each other in their embrace as they make their way to the balcony. Astarion knows the future will bring more pain due to his husband's limited time on this earth. But learning to love, to live again after two hundred years of suffering…
His love for Wyll is something he will never regret.