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They'd thought a sun-walking ring would be easy, a trifle for adventurers who'd saved the world. Call in a favor, make a good bargain. Years pass, then decades. No ring ever comes.
Astarion watches from the window as Halsin tends his garden, the sunlight catching in his silvering brown hair. The druid looks up, squinting against the gold, and waves. Astarion raises a hand back.
The glass is warm against his palm. It doesn't travel very far, tot far enough to soothe the hollow ache in his chest.
Small price, he tells himself. He kept his love. He kept himself.