Chapter Text
The day had been harrowing to say the least. The whole party had ventured out together to take on the goblin encampment, and had they not all set forth, he was sure none who had would’ve made it back. He could only remember bits and pieces of the mission, so wracked with nerves and adrenaline as he was.
He remembered his awe at the skillful, deceptive manner in which you’d talked your way into the raid celebration; the searing pain in his skull and the voice of the ‘Absolute’ commanding abeyance at the bridge to entry before the little contraption Shadowheart carried around silenced it once again.
He remembered saving the ridiculous and terrible bard’s hide. He’d disagreed with your motion to help the idiot, but had ultimately been outvoted. Some case you’d made about ‘kindred spirits’, or the likes, had garnered enough sympathy from the rest to warrant standing idly by as you picked a fight with an ogre. He’d never admit it, but the rush of the ensuing fight had made saving the silly little man worthwhile.
He remembered a sense of pride at watching you command authority over the goblins guarding the temple doors, once again talking yourself into a place you didn’t belong, though the goblins were none the wiser. He remembered the way you’d expertly manipulated the priestess into giving you a private audience, and then ran your sword clean through her in her own chapel.
You’d had far less propriety with the drow, something fierce and dangerous sparking behind your eyes at the sight of her. You’d simply walked up, blade in hand, and brought your arm down in a swift and brutal arc over her front. Despite your surprise attack, she was not as easily felled as the priestess, and your stunt had earned the group another raging fight over your insolence. He’d found himself preoccupied by you throughout, fighting without finesse as he bore witness to the formidably masterful way you wove your magical artistry alongside your weapon attacks to create a devastating and beautiful offensive assault.
He remembered the distractingly delicious smell of your blood on the air, too absorbed in the warm comfort it brought him to notice the way your strikes had gone sloppy, your dodges glacially slow by comparison, as the group engaged the final horde.
He remembered the falling curve of the hobgoblin leader’s war hammer, as if in slow motion, and the sickening crunch of your skull echoing in the sudden and vast emptiness of his mind.
He remembered watching helplessly, transfixed in horror, as you crumpled to the sticky cobblestone of the temple floor, the fragrant essence of your life force that he’d come to know so intimately spilling in a hapless and rapidly spreading pool around you.
He remembered the deafening roar of shocked silence at the sight of you, so small and vulnerable at the monster’s feet, your beautiful countenance dulled by the pallor of death.
He remembered registering the piercing sound of a feral scream, remembered being spurred into action by it. Remembered the fury and the fear that pushed him to take life indiscriminately, reveling in the gratuitous bloodshed at his hands as he brutalized a path to your limp form. Remembered slaying all who came near with reckless abandon, almost taking Shadowheart out when she made to cast a healing incantation on you.
Remembered thrashing against the excruciating heat of Karlach’s arms as she hauled him backwards, intent upon fighting his way back to your side no matter the cost. The placating gestures of his other companions as he rushed to hold your slight frame, platitudes of ‘It’s over’ and ‘Let us help’ bouncing off the wall of his despair as he hissed at them to keep their distance. The poorly hidden grim expression drawing Shadowheart’s face into gaunt severity as she assessed the state of you from afar, any attempt she made to come nearer met with his rabid hostility.
The feel of Lae’zel’s swordpoint at his nape and Karlach’s burning hands fisted in his doublet as he was dragged away mercilessly, the shrill and penetrating sound of mourning ringing in his ears.
It was not until much later - long after you’d been revived and the last embers of the celebratory bonfire had guttered out - that Astarion realized the tortured wail he’d heard as he was wrenched from your motionless, cold body was that of his own. The lack of your warmth to guide and protect him, however fleeting, turned out to be an agony far more unfathomable than that of his plan’s ruination.
***
Despite Shadowheart’s use of the Revivify incantation, your wounds continued to pain you and your skin had a sickly dullness to it that rivaled that of a plague infected pauper. He was more than sure that even his mortal counterparts could hear the stressed whistle of your breath past your lips as the party trudged in the direction of the Grove. Everyone continued to glance worriedly at you as you winced and gritted your teeth through the pain of movement. For your part, you continued to refuse any offers of helping hands, pride making you stubborn.
Astarion would have found it amusing had he not found it disconcerting. You’d done so much for all of them, himself included, but could not accept help for yourself. It pointed to a deeper, more traumatic motivation than he was comfortable putting his finger on. He chose to remain quiet instead, eyeing you carefully should your ability to continue onward falter.
When it inevitably did, he was at your side in an instant, beating even the hulking Elven druid in his wide and sweeping reflexive strides. He did not even have the wherewithal to chuckle to himself at the many disappointed expressions on the surrounding faces. You were his only concern, and he could smell the fatigue in what little blood had been restored to you. Ignoring your weak protests, he swept you into his arms with the strength of a man ten times his size and carried you the rest of the way to the Grove, warmth spreading from his chest when he recognized the evening out of your fitful, waking breaths into those of dreamless sleep.
Back at the Grove and with access to all of his magical medicinals, Halsin, Nettie and Shadowheart worked in tandem to restore your battle weary body to full health. It took quite some skill and patience, but it was managed, and he watched your expression with keen eyes, looking for any hidden signs of discomfort. Finding none, Astarion breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, feeling as though a heavy burden of sorrow had been lifted from him.
After some discussion with Halsin and the retrieval of the group’s reward, you sought out Zevlor to convey the news of the goblin leaders’ demise. It appeared, however, that the whole of the Grove already knew, as the tieflings were gathered en masse just inside the gate, hugging and shouting and laughing with their relief. The exiled Hellrider held out a meager coin purse, which you turned down vehemently.
Were he sure it would not reflect badly upon his character to reach out and take it in your stead, he might have done so. As it stood, Astarion ruefully averted his gaze from the little bag, jaw muscles working to hold his snide remarks safely behind his teeth. Just as he thought that things could get no worse, the tiefling leader suggested he and the others put on a celebration that night at camp.
Backwards as it was, you accepted the invitation graciously, though he could see a wariness hidden behind the warmth of your gaze. He was proud to have managed not more than a tired sigh at the refugee’s overzealous gratitude, eyes nigh on rolling out of their sockets as a chaste kiss was placed on the backs of your bloody knuckles. And he thought his own actions insultingly obsequious.
With a tiefling entourage, you led the group of exhausted adventurers out of the Grove gate and the short distance back to the campgrounds that he’d come to find some comfort of familiarity in, even with its lack of lavish accommodation. Had Astarion been a more sentimental man, he might even consider the little stretch of land to be home. He tried not to think too hard about the implications of that errant musing.
Once at camp, the tieflings began to set up for the impromptu celebration while the intrepid adventurers washed and rested. More than anything, he wanted to fall into the dreamless trance of his meditative state, but the ruckus of the tieflings made any real rest all but impossible. His mind wandered to you, those icy tendrils of dread constricting his chest for a moment at the memory of your death. He resigned to sit just in the mouth of his tent, eyes trained on your bloodied form as you darted from one guest to the next, providing help where it was needed.
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind’s eye, the fear of your demise continued to dog him, and the small voice in his head that demanded he solidify his importance to you reminded him of his ill-conceived notion of seducing you. It persuaded him to move forward with the next phase this evening, a feeling of wary excitement washing over him at the thought. As though reading his depraved mentation, your eyes found his in that moment, and you flashed him a tired but sweet smile. He felt a small smile grace his face in return, and he nodded his head in acknowledgment. Satisfied, you turned back to your task.
He supposed he ought to make his way over to the druid to have his wounds seen to. He heaved a sigh and stood with some effort, eyes continuing to track your petite form as you disappeared into your tent. He watched you emerge with a bundle of cloth in your arms, smelling the fragrant soap you loved so much. A flare of arousal shot through him, his mind wandering to the night he’d caught you bathing.
His stomach lurched at the memory, though with desire or disgust, he couldn’t tell. He reached the elf just as you bid the camp a temporary farewell and strode away to wash. It had been a long day indeed, and he lamented at the continued slow stretch of time before he would be able to set to his task.
***
Afternoon turned to dusk, and dusk to dark as the camp roared to life with celebration. The tieflings and his companions alike made merry together, dancing and singing and drinking with reckless abandon. He thought it silly, knowing the grueling journey still to come. So much death and loss, and still the little mortals found reason to be joyous. He presumed that this was what mortals figured they must do, celebrate whatever it was they were afforded, as their lives were fleeting in the grand web of the cosmos. He loathed their naivety, loathed his wisdom and knowing of life’s many pains.
Loathed just how shattered his perception of humanity had become.
He sipped gingerly at the terrible wine provided as he held back from the crowd, gaze following you as you flitted about the camp, taking stock of all there and thanking them for the lively party. He heard all of the honeyed words spoken to you, a twist of disdain marring the lines of his face. It seemed he had more competition for your hand than he’d thought; even the tieflings made their passes, hoping to grace your bedroll that night in thanks.
You politely declined every advance, much to his relief, and continued your rounds about the guests. He listened in on your low conversation with Zevlor, his voice heavy and pained with loss. He watched your small hands grasp the Hellrider’s, much the same as you’d held his not so long ago, and that tumultuous green monster in his gut forced an unbidden low growl from his throat. Thankfully, he was too far from the action for anyone to discern his ire. The tiefling leader merely expressed his gratitude for your assistance and strode away.
His gaze followed you to Alfira, listening contentedly to the peals of your laughter like so many tinkling feywild bells as she suggested writing a ballad of your heroics. You sat with her, cradling your lyre like a newborn, and played bawdy tunes of frivolity and bliss. A growing crowd gathered to listen, singing along where the words were known and listening intently where they were not. He found himself gravitating towards the fray, some invisible pull drawing him to be nearer to you.
He stopped just at the edge of it and stood quietly by Shadowheart, who eyed him with a knowing smirk. He scowled at her, snickering when she rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine.
“Something catch your eye, leech?” she drawled.
“Only all of the foolish food laid before me, blood rife with drunkenness and unwarranted gaiety,” he quipped back.
“Naturally. While more cheerful than I’d prefer, loss is indeed a thing to be celebrated. The Dark Lady graces us this day,” she nodded.
Astarion held his tongue, a biting retort just at the tip of it.
Shadowheart sighed into his silence, continuing, “Any plans to take a bed partner tonight?”
She turned to look at him fully, brows raised in a quizzical expression. He moved to mirror her, face betraying nothing more than amusem*nt.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, my darling Cleric,” he chuckled.
Shadowheart’s expression softened uncharacteristically, her voice lowering to match, “I see the way you look at her. It’s the same as we all do. There is much to be admired there.”
He nearly spluttered, so taken aback by her sudden change in countenance.
“I suppose there is,” was all he said in response. With that, the conversation ended.
He turned his attention back to you, noting the lull in the music, and piped up from his place at the back of the crowd.
“Would you be so kind as to grace us with The Lament for That Which Is Lost, my dear? I believe all of this whimsy is in need of tempering.”
Your eyes snapped to him, a question held in your now-somber gaze. He nodded imperceptibly and watched as your shoulders sagged with the weight of reality. You looked to Alfira, who shook her head with a perplexed tilt to her brows. You heaved a great sigh, and he could smell the inquisitive trepidation floating along the breeze as you began to pluck your sorry tune.
He closed his eyes, the smell of sadness heavy in the air, and hummed along with your lovely voice. He could hear the start of quiet sobs and sniffles from all those before him and felt a sudden pang of guilt at ruining their moment of jubilation. Worst of all, he could smell the agony and unease pouring from you, fragrance more poignant than the rest. Though your voice did not waver once, he could tell from your choked breaths that tears flowed freely from you.
As the song came to a close, he opened his eyes and looked around. All of the tiefling guests held each other close, exhaling their grief into the surrounding atmosphere. He saw Alfira lean forward to hug you, and you melted into her arms, shoulders slumped and shaking with your sorrow. Even Shadowheart dashed tears from her eyes.
“That was beautiful,” Alfira marveled, her own eyes glassy and dripping. “Would you teach me sometime?”
“Of course, my dear friend,” you responded with a watery laugh. You then turned to address the group.
“While it is pertinent to remember all that has been sacrificed for this victory, tonight is a night of celebration. We should never forget the cost of what it took to get here - I’m not sure any of us even can - but we must remember ourselves. Even in the face of loss, we have held onto the strength to carry forward in their memory, just as they would want us to. Now, I bid you go enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink and be merry, just as they would, were they here to join us.”
With a hearty cheer, the party returned to its former resplendence, though not without a small amount more solemnity. He attempted to slink away, unprepared for your disdain in the face of his actions. He was once again reminded of just how little of his autonomy he’d held as Cazador’s spawn - his slave - and just how much he did not belong among this rag-tag group of do-gooders.
“If it was my attention you wanted, you could have just asked,” you quipped from behind him. He could feel your scrutinizing gaze as his shoulders slumped infinitesimally lower in dejected self pity.
He turned to face you, chewing his words carefully before responding.
“This sort of revelry is a bit garish, don’t you think?” he asked, trying to salvage whatever dignity he might still hold in your eyes.
“Not at all. A hard battle was won, and this lot can finally move onward with their lives. Build homes, families. Learn to be grateful, to love living again.”
Your gaze penetrated the very depths of his soul, and he feared what you might find there. Was it just as much a bottomless, dark void as he thought it to be? He felt the swelling tide of panic clawing at his insides, and fought to keep his grip on the reality of the moment. Logic told him you could see no more of him than he of you, and he could not feel the tadpole squirming behind his eye, nor the telltale fuzziness of thought detection magic. Those truths lent him the strength to maintain his composure.
“Besides,” you added, a curious tilt to your head, “I don’t believe you’d think that for a moment. When have you ever been one to turn down a little revelry over bloodshed?”
A wave of icy fear nearly consumed him at your accusatory words - until he caught the uptick of a smirk on your lips. He breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, widening smile gracing his own face.
“Truthfully, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…”
You raised a quizzical brow as he swigged the sour wine.
“I hate it. This is awful!”
The bark of your surprised laughter was worth his flippant antics. Your smirk had turned into a wry grin, no doubt mirroring his own.
“You’re terrible, Astarion,” you giggled. “Is it truly so bad? Think of all the goblins you killed! Surely that must count for something!”
You hid your snickering behind your hand, and his expression softened some, finding joy in making you laugh.
“True enough, I suppose. That was fun! Still, I would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine,” he sniffed playfully, barely containing his own giggles.
“Give me that, you bloody scoundrel,” you chuckled, snatching the wine from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his as you clasped the neck of the bottle, and he watched a slight shiver run through you as you brought the mouth of it to your lips, taking a great gulp. He watched the line of your throat bob with each swallow, spilled rivulets running from the corners of your mouth and down the exposed column of flesh.
He licked his lips unconsciously, the movement reflexive as he trained his gaze on the translucent trails of redness disappearing into the bosom of your dress, stains blooming along the neckline…how he wished he could follow them with his tongue and leave a different dribble of red in their wake.
He was broken from his reverie by your heaving gasp, having finally broken your mockery of a kiss.
“Have you no taste, dear Star? A full-bodied, dry red. I would’ve thought you’d like anything of the sort,” you smirked at him, still panting with breathlessness. Your eyes had glazed some with the haziness of the alcohol swirling in your blood. He wondered briefly if you would taste different while soused - and then caught the heavy-lidded heat in your eyes, your words registering as bold flirtation, as bold as you’d been with him.
Now is my chance.
“I have plenty of taste, darling. I’ve been eating you, after all,” he purred. His sly grin only widened as your cheeks heated further, desire chasing the warmth of the wine in your system.
“All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” he continued, intonation rich and low, enticing you to draw closer in order to hear his words.
“Knowing you?” you giggled, “Most likely.”
“Come now, don’t be so sour,” he tutted, “I like a good time as much as anyone.”
His voice had become more vibration than sound, the gravel of it surprising even him. That disorienting fire had ignited low in his belly, and he found himself almost eager to ask you to lie with him.
“You know,” he murmured, “we could always make our own entertainment, darling. Get a little…closer, so to speak.”
As if heeding his own words, he drifted ever nearer to you, reaching out to take the half-empty wine bottle from your grasp. His fingers purposely brushed over yours, and he reveled in the shudder that wracked through you, a small noise catching in your throat. He bit back at the groan that threatened to bubble up from his own.
“Maybe…” you breathed. After a brief pause of thought, you added, “If you say ‘please’.”
“What?”
He could not hide his shock at your request, your eyes unwavering in their seriousness despite your stifled giggle. He steeled himself, the sound of your laughter lending him the courage to proceed.
“Please,” he whispered.
A flash of surprise etched its way across your features, followed by an almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw and hardening of your gaze. You held yourself rigidly, hardly daring to breathe against whatever onslaught of discomfort had overcome you.
“While a most tempting offer, I’m afraid I must decline.”
Though you continued to smile pleasantly at him, there was a hollowness to it that had not been present before. He faltered momentarily, perplexed by your response and unsure of what to do next. Should he press you? The thought left him dizzy with abhorrence.
Recovering himself, he gave you a stiff and shallow bow.
“As you wish, my sweet. The offer stands, should you change your mind.”
“I’ll remember that,” you said, voice devoid of the fondness you’d so openly displayed just moments before.
With that, you spun on your heel and traipsed away, bidding everyone a good night and disappearing into your tent.
Astarion was rooted to the spot as he watched your retreating form, dumbstruck by your sudden change in demeanor and swift exit from the conversation. The camp had begun to quiet as the darkness of night deepened, the growing number of visible stars telling of the late hour. He gazed morosely into the dying embers of the once roaring bonfire, wondering just where he’d gone wrong.
