Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Shadowlands were appropriately dismal, existentially horrific, and just as treacherous as they’d all been led to believe. But worse than all that, they were agonisingly boring. Most days were spent trudging in a vague direction; Astarion was assured they weren’t just walking in circles, but he wasn’t convinced. 

And boredom, he knew, led to the dangerous exertion of thinking. He’d been left at camp for the second day in a row now. Their illustrious leader Wyll had decided that would be for the best when Astarion had accidentally activated a trap that had set Gale’s robes alight. Wyll hadn’t believed Astarion when he’d plead his innocence. He kicked at their measly campfire, sending sparks up into the nothingness above him. It was strange to watch how the light popped out of existence once it got too far away. 

Things had been weird between him and Wyll since the Teifling’s party. Before that, they had been peas in a pod. Wyll had a gleefully biting sense of humour, and despite their contrasting views on the world, it was terribly fun to debate with him. 

Wyll yearned for stories of the Gate, and in return he gave Astarion some of his own stories of travelling around the frontiers. For Astarion, who had been going stir crazy locked away in the city for so long, those adventure tales were like gold dust. 

When he had told the party about his vampirism and the man he was running from, Wyll had been understanding. He’d been fascinated by his vampire abilities and the freedom the tadpole had given him. Wyll had even admitted to killing vampires before, which instead of making Astarion nervous, filled him with hope for the future. He just had to get Wyll onside first.

So he had thought Wyll was giving off all the right signals for something more, but clearly he’d been wrong. He’d been wrong before. It was fine. He just had to… change his tactics. Go slower, perhaps, like Wyll had suggested. Except they didn’t have any fucking time to go slow. They had to stop a whole fucking cult and get these tadpoles out and as soon as they did that Astarion would be…

Well. All the more reason to try and speed things up. Maybe he needed to switch targets. But Karlach and Gale were on death's door, Shadowheart and Lae’zel were already very distracted with each other and Halsin had a rather single minded focus in the dead hellhole they found themselves in which didn’t help matters of seduction. 

Besides… there was a point to why he’d decided to pursue Wyll in the first place. There were all those aforementioned reasons, he was incredibly handsome, famously talented at monster slaying…

And he was kind. 

Astarion was a simple creature at heart. 

But now Wyll wasn’t really talking to him. All because of a few hastily-said words that Astarion obviously hadn’t meant. 

He’d pushed too hard too fast, and Wyll had reacted badly. 

Stupid dust for brains who ruined everything every time he opened his mouth. 

He huddled closer to the firepit, ignoring the whispers of fellow dead souls in the wind. The endless black of the landscape and the smell of rot and death made him feel almost at home. Perhaps he belonged here, amongst the desiccated and forgotten. The susurration felt as if it grew louder as the coffin of his mind creaked open. 

The sound of people-made shuffling through the brush brought him out of such reverie. He stood, brandishing his dagger.

“It’s just us, Astarion! No need to go all feral on us.” Shadowheart. As rude as ever.

The group came barreling into the clearing, passing through Gale’s protective barrier with a blip of purple magic. Lae’zel seemed to be carrying someone, while Karlach flitted around her anxiously. Steam was billowing off of her - and Astarion noticed that everyone else was absolutely sodden, as if they’d been caught in a torrential downpour, or fallen in the river. 

“Get him close to the fire. I must fetch something from my tent.” Halsin instructed Lae’zel, while Shadowheart unpacked a bedroll. 

“Alright, will someone explain to me who’s died?” Astarion sheathed his dagger, the sudden chaos disconcerting compared to the quiet just moments before. He dodged as Gale ran past with a little stack of books. Hair was falling out of his bun, and blood was smeared across his cheek. It wasn't his. 

“Wyll has had a bit of an accident,” Gale said, a little out of breath, “A beholder caught us by surprise. It pushed him into a small lake - a pond, I suppose? - But it was very deep, and dark, and it was a bit of an ordeal to fish him out. He’s not woken up yet. Halsin’s worried about the curse, in case he swallowed something - Astarion?”

Astarion was already striding towards where they’d laid Wyll down. He looked bad. His armour had been taken off, and his underclothes were plastered to his skin with foul-smelling liquid. There was a scratch down his side which Shadowheart was patching, and his skin was waxy and wan. But he was breathing, quite evenly at that. Not like a drowning victim at all. Though his breath looked odd in the warm flicker of the fire. Dark…an almost chimney smoke substance seemed to puff out of his mouth at every exhale. 

Astarion poked his cheek. There was no reaction. 

“Wake up.” He said. Nothing. 

“We’ve obviously tried that.” Shadowheart drawled. “We’ve tried everything short of true love's first kiss, he won’t react to any external stimuli.” 

Gale jogged up behind them, flicking through one of his books, some kind of detection spell sparking on his fingertips. “The effect seems to be not dissimilar to the Dream Stalker’s feeding patterns, which would trap the victim within an amalgamation of dreams. Stopping it would be as simple as killing it. But they require tactility to feed off people…and I don’t see one here. Perhaps it’s not a Bastellus afterall.”

“Then what is it?” Astarion hissed. “Figure it out, would you? You’re as slow as a patriar who can’t get his dick up.”

“Now now, no need to be vulgar. There’s not a lot of material on the subject, it’s really rather a feat that I have any relevant material at all, considering our circumstances.” He bent down over the tiny text again, effortlessly casting a small glow in his palm to read by. “Well they’re beings of shadow, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the shadow curse itself had similar effects. And a pond like that one would have been absolutely fermenting in the Curse. Oh dear. I would imagine the reaction would be rather nightmareish.”

Astarion’s patience was running thin. “What if we connected our tadpoles to him? Shadowheart said external stimuli won’t work. What about internal?”

Gale’s big stupid eyes lit up, like a spawn with a rat to chew on. “Well, I would assume it would be a rather surreal experience, all told.” He pondered. “Of course, I can’t be entirely sure, considering the abnormal nature of our Illithid hitchhikers. I imagine you’d enter his dreams – perhaps that way you’d be able to speak with him. But it’s theoretically equally likely you’d just end up getting cursed yourself and then we’d have two catatonic party members…”

Astarion had stopped listening a while ago. He thought about his plan for approximately five seconds, before waving the thoughts away. Thinking was for Gales, and he’d had enough of Gales. 

“I’m going to do it.”

“Wait, Astarion-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His tadpole snapped, wriggled, and connected. He felt vaguely nauseous; his gullet lurching, his head heavy, the back of his eye itching. He could smell jasmine, salt and sea spray. 

And then he was falling…

Falling…

Falling…

—

And plunged, heavy and hard into unforgiving icy water.

Astarion flailed in the cold - he’d never been in the ocean, vampires melted in ocean water, he would die - when he remembered why he had dove in the first place. A mermaid! He had seen a glimpse, just off the docks, and he had to go look for himself. Perhaps even say hello if she was amenable. The water was very dark and he was beginning to regret jumping in with all his clothes and shoes as he tried to remember how to swim. Astarion had never gone swimming before. Wyll’s father said he was a natural.

It was hard to see much of anything in the silty water, amongst all the chains and concrete blocks keeping the boats tethered to land. They made a haunting, reverberating clanking noise in the deep, but he wouldn’t be scared off his mission. As he squinted through the sediment, the glint of something silver caught the sun at the bottom of the seabed. It didn’t look too far. A burst of bubbles rose out of him as he began to make a beeline - the weight of his clothes helping propel him downwards.

Once he had gotten about half way down, he knew he had made a mistake. The water had distorted his vision and made the seabed look much closer than it actually was. His lungs shouted for attention, the last of his air fizzing away. He tried to turn and make his way back up. But momentum wasn’t on his side as he continued to kick, a shoe flying off with the force of his strokes. His ears roared, black spots crowded his vision. The tips of his fingers were starting to lose sensation.

His mouth opened involuntarily, murky water burned its way through his nose and throat, right as the back of his jacket was grabbed and hoisted out of the water.

Wyll coughed and spluttered, expelling sea water in a lurching heave. The setting sun silhouetted the imposing figure of his father with a golden glow as he carried him away from the pier. 

“Tyr’s right hand, what did you think you were doing, Wyll?” Ulder’s voice was steel. Astarion winced from the tone, but Wyll knew the unflinching grip on his sodden, dirty clothes betrayed Ulder’s true concern and care. Wyll gripped him back. That was scary. He could have died. He blinked back tears, hoping his father would take the wetness as more sea water. He didn’t want him to worry.

“There was a mermaid, dad!” Wyll flung his arms wide. His voice shook, but he worked through it. Just like that clown he’d seen fall badly at the fair, but had continued the show anyway. “Like the stories! I wanted to make first contact between our two peoples and offer a peaceful trade union.”

The corner of Ulder’s mouth twitched. That was good. It was better when he smiled. Ulder set Wyll down, staying on one knee to be at eye level with him. “And how were you planning on talking to them, underwater?”

“Mmm…”

“This is why we must always think things through, alright?” His father brushed off Wyll’s damp face with a sleeve. “It’s all well and good having noble goals, but they are pointless if you have no means to carry them out. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Ulder sighed. “Now come. We will have to buy you new shoes. They mustn’t have been tied tight enough if you managed to lose one.”

Appropriately chastised, Wyll toddled along next to his father, his sock slapping wetly on the cobblestones. He was exhausted. Now the rush was over, his body had decided now would be the moment to panic about the near death experience, his limbs going heavy and trembling. He wanted to be carried again, but didn’t know how to ask. Instead he gripped onto his father’s huge, calloused hand so as to not get left behind. Ulder held on, tightly.

His father’s hand…

His hand, pointing at him, his mouth forming the shape “Go”. 

Ash in the air. Pain, sharp and tender, deep in his eye socket where he’d never felt it before. Deep scratches in his arms, his face.

A dark crypt. Pale, pointed talons digging into their cheek. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, and plunged them into the dark.

Astarion sighed on the edge of the balcony, dipping his glass back and forth, watching the way the thick liquid coated the expensive crystal. The party raged on behind him, another decadent affair by the Vanthampur estate, blazing with warmth and life and music. Everyone was dripping with golds and greens for the midsummer festivals. He remembered putting together his own outfit, sewing decorative filigrees and worrying that the colours would just wash him out more. He looked down at himself. The embroidery looked painstakingly intricate. The fit was perfect on his healthy, filled out form. He frowned. How had he found the time for something so elaborate? Not to mention the expense. When he tried to look at the detailing more closely, his eyes blurred. He was probably just tired. Social gatherings like this always made him rather nervous. He gulped down his drink, blood, strange for a gala to be serving blood. But he wasn’t about to complain. The taste was… not bad. Thick. Metallic.

“Astarion, there you are!” Wyll burst onto the balcony, with a sunrich beam of a smile. He was wearing a matching outfit to Astarion’s, the colours and styles complementing each other perfectly. Of course they did. Astarion had made them both. They arrived at this ball together and had wanted to make a grand statement of their union to the noble masses. 

“Here I am, darling.” Astarion turned to give Wyll a properly appreciative look. He didn’t have horns. Of course he didn’t, he never had. “Just taking a quick breather. There’s only so many times a man can be swept off his feet before he becomes exhausted.”

How did he know that was what he was supposed to say? 

Wyll laughed, taking Astarion’s free hand. He kissed it lightly. Astarion’s ears twitched to attention. Wyll had done this hundreds of times since they started dating officially, a year after their grand adventure. Despite that, why did it feel like this was the first time Wyll had ever brushed his lips against his skin? 

“I don’t suppose I can whisk you away for just one more? This next one is my favourite.”

“Another? Are you trying to kill me?”

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve already passed on.” Wyll said with a cheeky smirk. “Come, I think you’ll love the sarabande.”

“Well alright, if it’s just one more. Then I’ll need you to spirit me away to somewhere much more private.” 

With a laugh and a swirl they were back on the dancefloor, the golden chandeliers dousing everything in twinkling warmth. He’d never particularly enjoyed these gatherings with all the posh hobnobbing and tight crowded spaces, but they were a beloved dream to Wyll. A beautiful fantasy. It was worth mild discomfort to see him smile so unrestrained. He’d been so stressed recently. 

They twisted their way around the hall in lockstep, their arms lightly brushing as they came in close, then spun away again. The steps were quick and complicated. He didn’t remember where he learned them. 

The dance ended with each couple pulled close to each other, their hands clasped, noses touching. Wyll leaned in for a kiss. Astarion pulled away abruptly, shoulder checking the couple next to them. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t possible. Wyll - Wyll didn’t even like him, surely? But they’d kissed hundreds of times. And yet that movement of Wyll moving in close felt – monumental. Brand new and unthinkable.

“They’re getting worse. Look at Astarion’s skin.” Shadowheart said. Was she at this party too? He hadn’t seen her in years, not since she’d…

She’d what? 

Astarion coughed. A strange black ichor stained the back of his hand. He could see his breath, as if it was the middle of winter. But that couldn’t be right. They were at the summer ball. 

“No, fuck, that’s not what’s meant to happen.”

Wyll’s voice grew muffled. Astarion could taste grave dirt and bone dust. The walls were closing in on him. 

Wyll gripped him. The world seemed to fade at the edges, the other guests frozen in their twirls. 

“We have to stay on script.”

Waves crashed. 

The Sword Coast was beautiful at night, the stars glistening in the choppy waters. They’d been travelling along the winding frontier roads for a few months now, packs heavy and faces dirty, but happy in each other's company. They went wherever the work was, and conveniently, the coastline was rife with monsters terrorising the locals. Said locals were lucky he and Wyll were altruistic enough to help. Astarion slit the throat of the goblin in front of him, a rush of delicious gore splattering his face. 

“One more for me!” He called over his shoulder. 

“Show-off!” Wyll shouted back, as he cut through a warg. The moonlight shone beautifully on his armoured skin. He’d grown his hair out recently, into long locs that fanned out around his face. It suited him. 

They ravaged the rest of the monsters with the speed and ease they had become known for, covering each other's backs without a second thought. Wyll stabbed his rapier into the sand, hands on his hips, admiring the carnage they’d wrought. 

“Another successful quest by the Blade and Dagger!”

“Ugh. You know how I feel about that nickname, darling.” Astarion wiped a smear of blood off Wyll’s cheek with his sleeve. “It gives me an inferiority complex.”

“Aw, but daggers are just as good as a blade! They’re a necessary part of combat, especially invaluable at short range. I’d be lost without your twin stings.”

Astarion wrinkled his nose at ‘twin stings’. His dual weapons were much more painful than a sting, thank you very much. “Yes but it still invites comparison, dear. A dagger is rather shorter and stubbier than your mighty length.”

Wyll flushed at the euphemism. 

“Well what would you rather be called? We can workshop it together.” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not an ideas man. Something cool and mysterious, to contrast your more…straightforward persona.”

“The Blade is hardly straightforward, he's multidimensional! But I see your point, a distinction between the two names would be fun… The Pale Elf?”

"Bit on the nose. And I hardly want to bring more attention to my complexion, thank you.”

“Alright, then how about something for a single word punch, say, Exsanguination?”

Astarion’s mouth twisted. “Rather corny, no?”

“Then maybe something more emotive? The Freed Spawn has a nice ring to it. Though perhaps we shouldn’t be announcing your vampiric nature to everyone we meet.”

…Freed?

“Freed?”

“Of course! Free vampire spawn are something of a rarity, that makes you both mysterious and cool.”

“But what do you mean, freed?”

Wyll looked at him, sidelong. “It’s been about a year since we killed Cazador, right? And now travelling together, going anywhere the whim takes us… That’s a rather good definition of freedom to me.”

As soon as he said it Astarion remembered, like a punch to the throat. The brawl in the manor, tearing down thick velvet curtains, cutting off Cazador Szarr’s head. The details were fuzzy. His memory had never been fantastic. But something so important, something he’d been dreaming of for years…surely he would remember something like that in vivid detail. 

The thing that stuck out the clearest in his memory was how Wyll had been there by his side. Bright, golden Wyll, violent and resplendent, tearing holes in the wretched form of his former master.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. The image of Cazador dying like that, and having a future like this was an impossibility. 

But Wyll believed in it. Wyll wanted it so much that he dreamed of it. 

Of course, because this was a dream. 

“You would do that for me?” Astarion’s eyes felt wet. 

“Absolutely. Why wouldn’t I?”

Astarion baffled at that. He’d known Wyll was heroic to the point of self-destruction, but to want to kill a vampire lord for someone he’d only known for a few short months, who had said such cruel things to him…

Astarion hadn’t earned it. He didn’t deserve it. 

“Then - then if I’m free, what about you? What about Mizora?”

The ocean, which Astarion swore had been going out with the tide, was suddenly all around them, churning white froth around their ankles. It looked like inky tar in the darkness, clouds moving in to blot out the stars. Wyll was sopping wet from head to toe, the practical fur-lined armour he’d been wearing just moments before stripped away to just his undershirt and thin outgrown trousers. 

And there, looming out of the black water, was a tall ash-blue woman, horns curving up into the sky, membranous wings stretching outwards. Sea spray coated Astarion’s face.

“No! You don’t get to be here!” Wyll shouted at the figure, though his voice was lost in the wind. 

The figure lunged at Wyll, claws digging into his face, his eye, his clothes. Astarion rushed forwards. He felt a strange kind of grief. Wyll had invented this reality for them both, but couldn’t think of a reality where Mizora didn’t exist. He couldn’t even dream a whole dream. 

A wave crashed into the three of them, the world tumbling head over heels as everything fell apart in the churning black water. He could see Wyll floating above him, the dim green light of the surface diffusing around him. Astarion swam against the pull dragging him down –

Reaching out –

Wyll reaching down towards him –

When the four-horned silhouette emerged behind Wyll. Mizora pulled Wyll’s arm back, yanking his floating body close to hers in a parody of an embrace. 

Astarion tried to shout, but brine filled his mouth, air pouring out of him, his eyes stinging from the salt, his lungs searing with pain. He fell into the abyssopelagic dark. 

Astarion skidded his way down the sandy banks of the Chionthar, two stolen wine bottles in hand. The Tiefling’s party raged behind him, as much as a party could rage when the only music was a single average bard. But wasn’t he just -? No, right, he was going to see Wyll. There was no better company in this whole group of weirdos. 

The man in question was sitting on the waterfront, staring out onto the glassy river. There was something strangely comforting about seeing the horns protruding from his head. 

“There you are, darling!”

“Astarion! I was just about to come looking for you.”

Astarion stopped short. “- You were?”

“I’ve had a little parade of companions coming to try and cheer me up. You were next on the list.”

Astarion ruffled at that. “I hoped to be the only one to check up on you. To make your night something special.”

“Well you still have a good chance of that. Gale tried to teach me how to connect to the Weave, despite, you know.” He wiggled his hand, a quick spark of dancing lights twirling around his fingers. 

“Wizards are uniquely obnoxious in that they assume they can do everything better than their magical peers. Our poor Gale doesn’t seem immune to that.” Astarion sat daintily down in the sand, removing the bottle corks with a practiced twist of a fang. He handed one to Wyll. “Cheers. Here’s to being better company than a wizard.”

Wyll laughed. “That’s not a particularly difficult task. And you’re already succeeding, with such a fine vintage.” He raised his bottle.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the reflection of the full moon dancing on the water. 

“I must say, I’m surprised at you.” Astarion broke the quiet. “I would have thought The Blade would be out amongst the masses, soaking in the adoration of the public.”

“The Blade is taking a bit of a break tonight, I’m afraid. He might be taking quite a long sabbatical these days.” Wyll gestured up to his horns. “He fears folks may treat him differently, now his warlock nature is out in the open.”

Astarion gulped down a big draught of wine, trying to hide his derision. “You’d think they’d be grateful no matter where the help came from, if it saved their lives.”

Wyll shrugged. “It’s good for people to be weary of others. Especially if they look the way I do now.”

Astairon couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “So instead of talking to them or explaining that you’re still the same good person they loved before, you’re hiding away in the corner like a proper little heroic martyr.”

Wyll adjusted his seat sheepishly. “Well when you put it like that, you make it sound silly.”

“That’s because it is.” Astarion pushed his shoulder, grinning. Wyll blushed at the contact, stopping himself from leaning into it. Astarion paused, and looked at him more closely.

“Say, I wouldn’t be wrong in thinking there’s something of a…spark between us, would I?” He let his hand drift along his arm with featherlight touches, enjoying the sparks of warmth against his cold fingertips.

Wyll looked at him sidelong. “We get along.” He said cheekily. 

Astarioin stood, kneeling over Wyll between his spread legs. He could hear his blood flow jumping. “So what do you say to filling this night with a touch more passion? I can help make this an evening to remember, you know.” 

Wyll looked at him a moment longer. The moonlight shone beautifully on his skin. 

“Okay.”

Astarion paused. For some reason, he felt like this was supposed to go differently. “Really?”

“Yeah. Let’s see where hedonism gets us.”

That was a rather strange thing to say, but Astarion wouldn’t complain. 

They kissed, warm and wet, vicious and deep, Wyll pressing against Astarion desperately, his hands fluttering anxiously over him. Astarion twined their fingers together, his other hand going to the back of Wyll’s neck, earning him a gorgeous moan. How did he know exactly where Wyll wanted him to touch, where it would get him the most delicious of sounds? 

He let his hands travel down, touching every part of Wyll that he could. The scarred slab of muscle of his waist, the sculpted lines of his biceps. His dancer's physique hid a powerful strength - he could overpower Astarion quite easily if he wanted to. But he didn’t. And that was intoxicating. A hand trailed its way under Wyll’s silly little crop top, and gave his pec a small squeeze. Wyll groaned. 

Astarion pulled away for a moment, admiring the mess he’d made with just a few touches. Wyll was panting, sweat beading at his hairline. Astarion thought about asking if he was enjoying himself, but the little tent in Wyll’s trousers told him what he needed to know. 

“Gods Astarion,” Wyll puffed, “You’re teasing me!” 

“Oh, is that what I’m doing?” Astarion toyed with his nipple, rolling it between two of his fingers. 

Wyll huffed, trying to close his legs to get some friction but stopped by Astarion’s own thighs. “You won’t make me beg, will you?”

“Oh never, darling. But I do know what you need. You need to be taken care of. Slowly…” Astarion leaned in close, nuzzling into the warm skin. 

“Lesuirely…” He nipped along the sinew of his neck, drawing beautiful beads of bright red blood. 

“And yes, perhaps I want to indulge myself along the way.” He said before licking up a stripe. He tasted… fine. Like salt and iron. Rather like old coins, not that he often put them in his mouth. 

Astarion had tasted Wyll’s blood just once before, when he had stupidly thought he could get away with a bite while everyone was asleep. Wyll had forgiven him, but it had been such a tense terrifying moment with Shadowheart and Lae’zel standing over him, he hadn’t tried again.

But that small sip had been transcendent. Warm and bright like life itself. Not like this. This just tasted like… blood.

Astarion jolted back into himself. They weren’t here. They had left the Tieflings on their own journey a week ago, and made their separate way into the Shadowlands. Wyll had fought some monster and gotten into a spot of bother with a haunted pond. And Astarion had dived into his brain to try and save him. 

A fat lot of good he was doing at that, if he kept forgetting reality. 

He looked at Wyll, beautifully flushed underneath him and felt a twist of shame and sorrow. This whole place was built on his subconsciousness and dreams. Wyll dreamed of this moment too? Had he also wished it had gone differently? 

Astarion touched his lips. Out of everybody in the world, and it was him who Wyll dreamed of. That wasn’t right. He’d done nothing to earn it.

How had this gone before? It had started very similarly. Astarion had sidled up, winebottles in hand, anxious not to miss the opportunity of good moods and good drink. He’d been thinking of seduction, agitated about Cazador, trying to plan ahead to garner some protection. Then Wyll had teased him. They had laughed together, talked for hours, distracted each other from their private worries. Then Astarion had asked for more. Wyll said no, and Astarion panicked. He’d had a plan that was collapsing around him, and he hadn’t known what to do. 

He’d put a hand on Wyll’s knee. Gotten into his space with stupid lines on wine-drunk breath. Wyll had been more firm. Stern. Astarion had thrown cruelties back at him. Called him a dry prude, a bluenosed prig. He’d stalked off, embarrassed and ashamed, leaving Wyll bemused by the river. And that, Astarion had assumed, had been the end of any goodwill between the two of them. 

He dug a nail into his bottom lip. And if it hadn’t… it would be, soon. Once Wyll knew that Astarion had seen these things in his mind that he never would have chosen to share. 

“Astarion? What’s wrong? I’m sorry - Was this too fast? We can do something else.”

“Wyll, I need you to concentrate on what I'm going to tell you. This - all this happened over a week ago now, and it certainly didn’t end this way. None of this is real. You need to wake up.”

Wyll huffed underneath him. His eyes slid away. “What are you saying?”

“We didn’t do this.” Astarion pushed off Wyll, walking to the edge of the river where it burbled between his toes. “You keep telling these stories, all these fancy fantasies but they’re just not possible, Wyll!”

“You don’t think I know that? Of course this couldn’t happen!” Wyll sat up as the wind began to pick up, ruffling their clothes with its chill. “To be with me is the same as being with Mizora. I won’t have her watching anyone else but me. I thought at least my brain would let me dream about it at least, but apparently not.”

The wind buffeted them both as rain began to fall, a misting drizzle that coated everything almost immediately with damp. The river seethed at Astarion’s feet, circulating up his ankles. 

“...What do you mean?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, being with you is like being with Mizora?”

Wyll scoffed. “She’s watching. She’s always watching. As if you don’t know. Gods, this is embarrassing. Now I’m arguing with my own dream.”

“I’m real, Wyll. I’m in your dreams thanks to the tadpole. The Shadow Curse got you but you’re safe in camp now. I’m trying to wake you up, or else you’ll…I don’t know. Get worse. Sleep for a hundred years. I need you to be normal again.”

Wyll laughed, in an almost cruel way Astarion had never heard from him before. Droplets had beaded in his hair, raining down around him as his shoulder shook. “People don’t save me. That’s not how this goes. You’re just some humiliating vestige my subconscious has cooked up to make me feel more sorry for myself.”

“Rude! I’m not some - wet dream ephemera. As if your imagination could come up with something as fully realised as me.”

Wyll laughed again, sadder this time. “See, I would think you’d say something like that. It’s a nice thought, to think that you care enough to help me. But I know the truth.” 

Stars winked from behind the clouds, peering down like eyes on them both. The sensation of being watched crawled up Astarion’s back. The wind cackled in his ears. 

Wyll turned away. The water crept up to Astarion’s knees. His feet were sucked down into the wet sand. He tried to wrench himself forward anyway. 

“I can’t be helped. It’s my destiny, you see. The tragic hero pulled down to the Hells.” Wyll was sinking too now, but he made no effort to pull himself out. The water billowed around his waist in white foaming clouds. 

“You fucking - drama queen!” With each step the earth tried to suck him down further with a wet slurp. The water was up to his chest now. “You’re not just some - sob story! You get back here!”

Wyll had stopped speaking. Just his head was visible now. Astarion reached forward, grabbing at nothing, losing his balance as he was pulled further under, down into the black. 

Wyll kneeled in the corner of a large hall, with two hellhounds sitting on either side of him. The rust red walls arched high above, with intricate grotesque designs chiseled out of the rock. A triforium gallery had creatures of all sorts of strange shapes and sizes looking down at them, the whites and reds of their eyes gleaming in the dark. Astarion recognised cambions, the points of their horns reaching into the shadows of the ceiling. And succubi, sting-tipped wings towering over heads. There were merregons, quasits, and a bearded devil with snakelike barbs extending from its chin, clanking over the side of the balcony. Imps squawked from the rafters. Devils, the lot of them. 

Astarion swallowed. Despite the open space it was swelteringly hot, the air oppressive and parched of any humidity. He could see Wyll struggling to breathe in the arid heat. He looked young. Even younger. 

One end of the hall had a rounded, decorative apse, with a mural depicting who Astarion assumed was the Archdevil Zariel in all her bald skinny glory, haloed in righteous fire. Standing underneath it was Mizora, along with other cambion women. It looked like she was holding some kind of evil court. Devils stepped forwards, offering reports, bribes, slaves… he couldn’t make out what any of them were saying. The cawing and cackling of the gallery drowned out all other sound. 

It was almost a bit nostalgic. The temperature and colour theming was a big contrast to the cold manses Astarion was used to, but everything else felt violently similar to how he and other spawn were made to stand at the side of Vampire Lord’s gatherings, just waiting to be used.

Assuming this was more memory than dream… Astarion hadn’t known things like this had happened to Wyll, too. Caught up in all his own worries and drama, he’d never really thought about it before. He hadn’t thought about what it really meant for Wyll to be at the whim of a devil, who could pull him around and put him wherever she wanted. It was very familiar. Painfully so. He tried to ignore the strange sting of it. 

But right now, this whole thing was just a dream. Astarion looked down at himself. He was kneeling behind Wyll, separated from whatever memory this must be derived from. He was wearing the comfortable white linen shirt he’d gotten comfortable in camp with. And he remembered why he was here. The Shadowlands. Falling into this dreamscape. Wyll was just asleep, with the company of their party in relative safety. Mizora, all these devils, they were no threat here. All they needed to do was wake up. 

He reached forward to shake Wyll. He moved, but didn’t seem to react beyond hunching his shoulders further. He was wearing elaborately filigreed golden metal armour. Beautiful - but thin and flimsy. Not Wyll’s style. And a terrible choice for this heat. Sweat was dripping down his chin. 

“Wyll?” Astarion stage whispered, shuffling forward to peer at his face. His eyes were screwed shut. “Wyll, this isn’t real. It’s a dream. You need to get up.”

Wyll breathed, speaking on the exhale, lips barely moving. “Be quiet. They will notice you.”

Astarion looked back at the court, at Mizora’s mold-dust blue horns towering over the heads of the other devils. 

“She seems rather busy at the moment. We could slip away, just for a moment, hmm? She won’t even notice we’re gone.” Astarion touched Wyll’s hand, moving to stand.

The hellhound on Wyll’s right barked, lips peeled back to show multiple rows of pinpoint sharp teeth. The room fell silent. Eyes crawled across their skin like insects. He could feel Mizora’s gaze especially, like the panopticonal view of a mantis. 

“You need to hide. Now.” Wyll breathed. Astarion floundered. There was nowhere to go. 

But then he remembered - he needed to take his own advice. This was a dream. Anything could happen. Surely he didn’t need to look like this. But what…

In seconds, a small white vampire bat took Astarion’s place. Wyll blinked in surprise. With a wobbling unpracticed flutter, Astarion swished into a shadowed rafter. 

With a snap of wings, Mizora was in front of them. 

“Oh dear, my poor puppy. Have I left you too long all by yourself?” Her voice was chitinous. Her jewellery clacked like mandibles. She didn’t seem to notice Astarion.

Wyll opened his mouth, but all he could do was croak. 

“Aww, sweetpea. Let’s sort you out, shall we? Court dismissed!” 

She took the hellhounds by the collars, Wyll following behind the dogs, and Astarion flitting through shadows behind him. He was quite pleased with his spur of the moment bat idea. He thought he was rather suited to it. Much better than a rat. They walked through swooping corridors and dizzyingly tall halls until they came to a separate suite of rooms. A particularly stately doorway was guarded by another human warlock in similar armour, who smirked in Wyll’s direction. 

Mizora’s office was smaller than the previous hall, but no less imposing with a high ceiling and raised black obsidian desk facing the entrance. Tall mirrors surrounded her workspace, each one showing a different location in either Faerun or the Hells. The light from all these different windows covered the room in odd, disorienting patterns. The hellhounds sat obediently by the door, blocking anyone from leaving or entering. Astarion flew through just before the door shut behind him with an echoing slam. 

Any space of wall not covered by mirrors was instead taken up by pitch black display boards, with a frankly impressive selection of insects pinned to them. Green jeweled beetles and huge carapaced scarabs glittered in the light – meticulously organised. He crawled along the wall, trying to find a shadowed corner to peer down from. Who knew bats had little claws on their wings! Wyll must’ve known. His subconscious mind must contain all kinds of animal facts. He settled himself next to a collection of fuzzy moths, trying to blend in. A shimmering iridescent butterfly caught Astarion’s eye. It twitched. He gulped. 

Looking down from his spot on the wall, Mizora was bringing Wyll forward to her desk. It was elevated on a dais, forcing anyone who came to speak with her to look upwards. Unless they were an orthon or something. But the doorway wasn’t large enough for anyone taller than a cambion. Wyll seemed trapped in this memory. Not even Astarion’s impossible presence had brought him out of it. He needed to find an opportune moment to try and break him out of this scene...perhaps when Mizora left, then he would be able to talk to him more easily. Wyll squared his shoulders as Mizora looked down at him with steel eyes. 

He coughed. “I really need to be going if you want me to catch that deserter, Mizora. I’ll lose the trail if I'm here any longer.”

She looked at him, tapping a manicured nail against her cheek. With her other hand she conjured a crystalline decanter filled to the brim with glistening ice water. It twinkled in the odd light. “You don’t want any of this before you go, pet?”

Wyll swallowed audibly. Astarion could see his back muscles shaking. “There’s water with my pack, on the sword coast. Assuming no one's gotten to it since I’ve been gone.” 

Mizora tutted. “Shame.”

The glass tipped, spilling a quarter of the water all over Wyll’s shoes, sinking into the red rock floor. He closed his eyes. 

“The catch can wait. Disciplining my pups is just as important to get good results. Now, what do you think you did wrong this time?”

“I don’t know! I was on the hunt, as usual. Then you plane shifted me here.”

More water splashed to the ground. “Wrong answer.”

“Gods, Mizora! Your punishments never make any bloody sense. Just tell me. I’ll apologise and we can move on.”

Astarion’s bat fur shivered with the tone he was taking with her. Mizora had the power. She could do anything to him. And yet Wyll still spoke to her like that. He thought back to how Wyll had spat back the one time Astarion had seen Mizora in person – when Wyll had been pulled through layers of the hells and irrevocably changed. 

Perhaps chatting shit was his way of defying her. Like how Astarion had casual little ways of defying Cazador. He’d spent hours of his nights in the Gate just wandering around, enjoying the fresh air and people watching. He’d hidden little stashes of books and baubles all over the place, just so he could say he owned something. He knew better than most just how important those defiances were. 

But Astarion also knew how to protect himself. He knew when antagonism would lead to more pain instead of just lying down and taking it. Astarion carefully calculated his defiance as things Cazador wouldn’t notice. Wyll’s all piston’s firing approach straight to Mizora’s face was terrifying. 

“Wrong answer again, puppy. Gosh. It’s like you’re asking for discipline.” She took a sip of the water, swirling it around her mouth before swallowing slowly. “Perhaps I’ll just show you what I mean.”

With a snap of her fingers, all the mirrors in the room changed. The viewpoint switched to the first-person angle of someone in a tavern. There wasn’t any audio, but they were clearly talking to bartenders, drinking beer and seemingly having a nice time. Wyll’s back had tensed even further. 

“That’s not-”

“Bup-bup, keep watching. It’s quite the little show.” 

Mizora clicked her fingers again. The scene changed again to a bright sunlit day on a farm. The person was lying down, watching clouds. Then it switched again, to the same person patting a horse.

“I know what you’re getting at, Mizora. But punishing me for stopping every now and again by bringing me to the Hells and making me sit in the corner of your meetings for hours doesn’t make any sense. It’s just wasting more time.”

“I told you to keep watching.” The steel in her voice was enough for even Wyll to shut up. 

The person - Astarion had enough context clues to realise that the mirrors were showing Wyll’s viewpoint - was still with the horse. Another face popped out from the other side of the big beast, freckled and grinning. A farmhand. 

A click of fingers. The screen changed to the tavern. Wyll was sitting with the same farmhand. Even with no audio, Astarion was trained in the art of flirtation and could see it from a mile away. That young lad was laying it on thick, and Wyll was clearly not immune. Click - lying in the grass with the man. Click - training swords with him. Click - Dancing by moonlight.

“Stop.”

Click - ginger hair caressing against Wyll’s face, the sharing of a tender first kiss. 

“Please.” 

Click - Moonlight shining on bare freckled skin. The unmistakable languid movements of intimacy.

Wyll wasn’t looking anymore. “Please.” 

The mirror screens all shut off, leaving just the reflections of the room they were in.

Astarion clenched his bat jaw closed to stop an involuntary chitter. Under Cazador, he had been cursed to always know where his master was at all times, thanks to rule number three - thou shalt always remain by my side. His brain always had this subconscious impression of Cazador's location tugging away at him, like a buzzing mosquito that screeched louder the further he was from him. But over time he'd managed to make it useful for himself - he'd always known when to hide things before Cazador walked in a room, and when to make himself scarce. Some of his other siblings had never quite mastered that.

Wyll on the other hand, had something of an opposite dilemma. He never had any clue where Mizora was or when she was watching him - and thanks to this, for all he knew she had a complete panopticonal view of everything he said and did at all times. From what Wyll had inferred before, he wasn’t even entirely sure that his mind was private. Astarion couldn't imagine how his unlife would have been if Cazador was the same. If he'd not even had his own thoughts to escape to. His little petty secrets to hide. He twisted with guilt knowing that he was the one currently invading Wyll’s privacy in that respect. He didn’t want to be comparable to Mizora. Especially not to someone like Wyll.

Wyll, who was good and brave and kind. It wasn't fair for things like this to happen to him. The world didn't make sense.

“Aw, pet. Was that too much for you? Come here.” Wyll didn’t move beyond the shaking of his shoulders. Mizora twisted her wrist. Wyll walked forward, with just the smallest of stumbles. 

She took his face in her hands, kissed it, and pulled him in for a hug. “None of those tears, okay sweetpea? You’ll make yourself sick. Here, drink this.”

She held up the last of the water in the decanter. There was less than a quarter left. Astarion could see Wyll’s hesitation but he eventually opened his mouth. 

“That’s it, puppy, that’s it.” She tipped the water into his mouth, which he gulped down fervently. “You understand, don’t you? You’re mine. No playing with anyone else, okay? You have to save yourself for me, love.” 

Wyll choked on the water. Astarion couldn’t take much more of this. He shouldn’t be seeing this. Any of it.

“You know what, fuck it.” He flung himself away from the wall, knocking off boards of dead bugs as he turned back into an elf, dagger in each hand. He catapulted downwards towards the devil, landed directly on top of her with a crash, Wyll pushed away with the force. 

Astarion plunged the dagger into her face, once, twice, three times, ignoring the pain of her talons scratching along his arms. Insects fell like a waterfall around them until her hands fell away with a final, dead, thunk. 

“Gods but that was satisfying, not too bad for twin stings, hmm? Who knew murdering dream ghosts of abusive bitches would be so cathartic.”

Wyll looked at him blankly. 

“Will you believe me now, darling? This isn’t real. I assume all this happened a long time ago - as much as I would have loved to, I couldn’t have killed Mizora here. You have to wake up.” 

Mizora’s body melted into tar underneath him. The mirrors cracked one by one with a snap. They shuddered and shattered, falling on top of each other in a poof of deadly sharp glitter dust. Astarion leapt out of the way with a yelp, but Wyll barely reacted. 

“Uh…Wyll?”

“You’re here? You’re here to save me?” He sounded so young. Gods, but his face was still clinging to the baby fat of childhood. The walls shook as the insects on the walls all started fluttering as one, wrestling their way out from pins and glass. Needles fell all around them, and Astarion had to dive to protect Wyll’s small head.

“Yes, Wyll. I’m here to get you out of this stinkhole. I think this whole place is about to crash down around us.” He hauled Wyll to his feet dragging him by the hand to get out of the shuddering room. “But I can’t just haul you out of here myself. I need you to try for me. You need to… Oh, I don’t fucking know. Let all of this go, or something. Be at peace. Open your eyes. Rise and shine, or whatever.”

Wyll’s body morphed in front of his eyes, legs growing, muscles forming, beloved familiar horns protruding from his head. Masonry had begun to fall from the ceiling as the room began to shake itself apart. 

“Astarion?”

“That’s me! Can you please poof us into a different setting so we don’t get crushed by your collapsing trauma?!”

Wyll looked at him. Then they were plunged into darkness.

Astarion couldn’t hear anything. Or see much of anything beyond his own hands. It was a different kind of darkness from the Shadow Cursed lands, where he could still see the odd looming shrub, and hear the wind rustle all the dead twigs.  

This was just…nothing. 

He swallowed, something in his throat making a clicking noise. 

He walked forwards, the quiet space strange and disorientating. The ground didn’t look any different from the sky.

“Wyll?”

As if he were a God, Wyll popped into creation in front of him. He looked like how Astarion had last seen him in the real world, soaking wet, horns and all. He was turned away. Tension lined his broad back. Astarion reached forward, but before he had the chance to tap his shoulder, Wyll zipped around. His face was free from anxiety, mostly just seeming incredibly bemused. 

“Astarion! Tyr’s wound, do you have any idea what’s going on?”

Astarion tried not to breathe too large of a sigh of relief. It was just really nice to see a Wyll that felt so much like his. 

“You got yourself bonked by the shadow curse, that’s what.” Astarion clapped his hands together as a demonstration. The sound was oddly muffled. “You’re stuck sleeping like one of those narcoleptic princesses from the stories.” 

“So where we are now, this is… not real? Part of the curse?”

“Gale mentioned something about your consciousness being trapped in a nightmare of your making, and honestly darling, you need to sort yourself out. Your brain is like some matryoshka of trauma.”

Wyll rolled his eyes dramatically, but Astarion could see it was to hide a wince. “Thanks a lot. Then if I’m napping, how come you’re here?”

“Tadpole. I just sort of dove in.” Astarion made a diving motion with his hands.

“Well that wasn't very clever now, was it?” Wyll said, a smirk fighting its way onto his face in fond exasperation. The dark shifted to a diffused overcast light. Water rose calmly up to their thighs, spreading a grey mirror as far as they could see. It glittered with marbled foam.

“Don’t rush to thank me for trying to help!” He swatted Wyll’s arm. “I’m starting to regret it now. I thought I’d get a fun little insight into the weird way your mind works but it’s a total mess in here.”

“Oh, that’s why you jumped in, is it? Not because you were worried about me?”

Astarion sniffed, eyes flitting away as he started walking in a direction. The endless open grey was rather disconcerting. “Of course not. I was looking for blackmail material, obviously.” 

“Oh, of course.” Wyll stepped quickly up beside him. “And ah, you saw all that, did you?” Wyll always chewed the inside of his lip when he was anxious about something. Astarion could smell the tang of fresh blood as he pricked through skin. 

Dread, guilt and shame coiled through Astarion like an unwelcome tongue. How could Astarion sit there, having peeled away the layers of Wyll’s mind with the disgusting worms in their heads, and make jokes? He was worse than Mizora. He was a mildewed bloodsucker like a maggot in a wound. He was the poison to Wyll’s nectar.

“All those…dreams.” Wyll smiled, though he looked faintly like he was going to be sick. “If you did see them, well. I suppose that’s plenty of blackmail material.”

Astarion curled his claws into his palm, cutting into his skin. “I was there for them, yes.”

Wyll closed his eyes. “Ahh. That's rather embarrassing." 

The water churned underneath their feet. The wind whipped at their clothes. 

“I’m sorry Wyll - I didn’t mean to. Please, I just wanted you to be alright - I wanted to help you -”

“Get out of my head, please.”

“Wyll - “

“Get out of my head!” 

The ocean surged. Salt spray and jasmine filled his nose. 

Lae’zel’s big amphibian eyes stared down at him.

“Wargh!” Astarion sat up with a start, clocking her in the forehead. “Personal space, thank you very much!”

Lae’zel rubbed the sore spot looking more than a bit put-out. “Chk. I was checking whether you still lived. Undead do not breathe in their sleep.”

Sleep. Right he’d been asleep. Wyll! 

“Wyll, wheres W-” 

At some point in their supernatural sleep they had been laid out next to each other by the fire. Wyll was already standing. He was turned away.

Gale, who had been scribbling in a thick book of notes open on his lap, was looking up at them in shock. “Gosh, it's only been a couple of hours! We were about to try some magical solutions - what made you wake up in the end? Did you manage to communicate?”

“Nothing happened.” Wyll smiled down at them. “I just feel like I've had the oddest snooze. Isn't it strange how you forget dreams as soon as you wake up? Isn't that right, Astarion?” The firelight reflected off his stone eye.

“I ah, yes, that's right. Don't remember a thing!” Astarion swallowed.

Gale frowned. “Then what caused your awakening? There must have been some kind of variable.”

“Perhaps it was just natural. Our bodies probably needed a full rest, with everything that’s been going on. Speaking of natural, eugh, I stink of pond water. I'm going to go change my clothes.” Wyll hurried off.

“Wyll - wait -” Astarion scrambled up, chasing after him. His body certainly did not feel rested. 

“50 gold they boned in the shadowcurse nightmare.” He heard Shadowheart murmur. 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

Wyll was very fast when he wanted to be. He didn't go to his tent like he said, instead his horns dipped around shrubs, weaving around the edges of their protective barrier. 

“Wyll, wait please.” 

Wyll stopped. He didn't turn around.

The guilt churned into panic. Astarion couldn’t resist the siren’s call of opening his gods damned mouth.

“I’m really sorry, Wyll. I - I just jumped inside your brain without thinking which I don’t feel entirely guilty about by the way, because I needed to save you and there didn’t seem to be many other options but. I saw things that you never would have wanted me to see, and I know how much you hate being watched because of Mizora, and now I’ve taken that autonomy away from you again, just like her -”

Wyll turned, and put on a forced smile. “Astarion, you’re nothing like her. You said it yourself, it was unintentional. Mizora never does anything by mistake.”

“That doesn’t make it any less hurtful! You’re just saying that to make me feel better but this is about you. I’ll - get Gale to wipe my memory or something. Or! Even better - I could show you my traumatic memories! That way things are fair. Whenever Cazador found out my little secrets he would tear out my spleen and leave me to bleed out in the kennels - dog metaphors huh, our fuckers have that in common.” As he spoke he could taste dust on his tongue. The edges of the dark closed in on him. He could hear the clinking of chains. “I would never have quite enough blood to really bleed exactly, but the rats would like to come nibble on exposed muscles. It would be something of a game to see if I could grab one through the pain-”

“Astarion. Please, stop. I don’t want to play this fucked up trauma game with you.”

“It’s not a game, I’m opening up my heart! We’re trauma bonding!” 

“We’re really not. Look…” Wyll pressed the palm of his hand to his temple. “It’s fine. I’m not angry. Let’s just forget all of it, alright? Nothing happened. We’ve got to focus on getting to Moonrise.”

Astarion sputtered. “But - but. You’ve been dreaming of fantastical futures with me! And kissing me! How am I supposed to ignore that!”

Wyll covered his face. “Gods, this is so mortifying.”

“Wh - mortifying?! So even just imagining flirting with me is disgusting to you?” 

“No! Gods, that’s obviously not what I meant. It’s embarrassing that you saw it at all. You weren’t supposed to know I was having thoughts about…us. Let alone everything else.” 

Astarion huffed, throwing his hands in the air. “Well whyever not? I’ve spent days thinking you hate my guts while you’ve been off doodling our names together in your mind diary! We clearly need to talk about it!” 

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry that I’ve fucked all this up, Astarion, but I…” Wyll started to back away. “I just can’t do this right now. We’ll talk later. I promise.” 

And with a flash of blue light, he misty stepped away. 

—

Once again, Astarion was subjected to the silent treatment. Wyll talked to him enough to direct where he needed to stand to not get hit by monster shrubs. To tell him what resources he should buy from the merchant Harper in Last Light. And what resources he needed to “buy” from merchant cultists. But Wyll wouldn’t look him in the eyes. He wouldn’t linger long enough for casual conversation to occur. Astarion missed it, terribly. 

It was hopeless. Wyll had said they would talk later but it was clear he just wanted to avoid the matter entirely. If Astarion wanted to get anything from him, even if that something was an ending, he would need to corner him. 

It took him two more days to find the perfect moment. 

He hadn’t intentionally been following Wyll. He’d needed to ask him an important quest related question about daggers and how many is normal to have on him when they siege Moonrise. But Wyll walked so fast and stopped to talk to everyone and it was excruciating to try and approach him when every person in Last Light would be watching them for any juicy drama. 

Wyll had trudged down to the small quay around the back of the inn, staring into the opaque water as it lapped at the rock. He looked deep in thought. Perhaps he didn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe jumping Wyll like this when he’d already clearly expressed his desire to never talk to Astarion again, especially about their shared dream adventure, was a bad idea. He hesitated, taking a step back.

“I know you’re there, Astarion.”

Astarion jumped before sauntering forwards as if he hadn’t just been hiding in a bush like a rat. 

“I was just going on a leisurely stroll, same as you, darling. Pure coincidence that we both wanted to stop by this little dock. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Wait, Astarion. Please, would you come here?” Wyll sat cross legged on the jetty, patting the spot next to him. Astarion hesitated before perching on the edge, affecting casualness. “Don’t get your legs wet. I seem to have learned the hard way that the water here is a little strange.” 

“Yes, you won’t catch me touching the stuff with a 10 foot pole now. It does raise the question of what we’re going to do about laundry when the time comes.”

“I’m sure the Harpers have figured out a system.”

“Have you smelled Jaheira lately? I’m not so sure about that.”

Wyll laughed looking down in the black river. They shared a beat of silence. 

Wyll took a breath. “I don't think I'm ready to talk about some of the stuff you saw. You have a rather…different relationship with your memories than I do, so it feels like you keep expecting me to bare all with everything that has happened with Mizora. And maybe one day I will! But I'd really rather not, right now.”

“That’s fine, Wyll. Fuck, of course that’s fine. You’ve more than made it clear how much your privacy means to you. I just don’t get why you had to go all silent mode on me again. I get the first time was me being…something of a cad, but now, I suppose I’m just rather confused.”

Wyll didn’t say anything. They sat for a long few minutes, watching as the river rippled underneath them. Astarion wouldn’t rush him. Wyll had established a boundary and Astarion would hate to cross it and betray his trust again. Even if it made his leg twitch in anxiety. 

“I think I'm mostly bothered by you seeing the - the dancing. And the intimacy. It’s terribly embarrassing, especially since we had that argument and you’re not looking for something long term and romantic, but sometimes my imagination... runs away with me.”

“Wyll, for Sharess's sake, your subconscious is allowed to want things.” Of course the soft things would hurt him the most. Any soft thing Wyll had ever tried to hold onto had been used as fodder against him for so long. Astarion hissed. “Mizora, that thieving, battered old troll.”

“Careful, she could hear you.” Wyll kicked at the water.

“Let her hear! How else is she going to get an honest review on what a miserable hag she is?” Astarion hesitated before looking up at Wyll through his eyelashes. “Also, well. I never said I didn't want those things. The flirting, and kissing and the like. Our minds were kind of merged somehow, with the tadpoles. You don’t know that I wasn’t dreaming about those things as well.”

“You were?”

“Well. Maybe? Like, subconsciously? I don't really - I don't know what I want. I cant…I don’t think that far ahead. You're thinking about futures when I can't think past our journey to Baldur's Gate. What’s going to happen when we destroy these tadpoles. But…It was a nice fantasy. I liked dancing with you. Being free with you.”

“We won’t let anything happen to you, Astarion. I swear it, on my honour. My name. On my soul, if I still had it with me.” 

Whatever had he done to deserve this man?

“We ought to do something about that as well, you know. Your soul, I mean. If you’re going to swear my freedom on it then we ought to get it back. You know, so it’s legally binding and everything.” 

Wyll smiled. “Then that’ll be the second time you save me. You’ve killed Mizora once already, remember? Once upon a dream.” 

“Oh gods, you’re going to be unreasonably corny about that forever, aren’t you.” 

“Would you have ever guessed that you’d be the knight in shining armour to someone?”

Astarion felt his ears go pink. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Wyll leaned in. “My hero.” And kissed him on the cheek. Astarion moved, and caught his lips. 

So that was what it was supposed to feel like.