Chapter Text
Astarion can’t rest again. So he lays in his bed, just… Thinking.
Thinking about yesterday’s little chat with Raphael, thinking about his scars, thinking about… Cazador. He just knows he’s going to have nightmares tonight, he can feel it. And he doesn’t want to face it.
Honestly, he could get up, creep to the next room over, and slither into Wren’s bed. She’d wrap her arms around him, he’d bury his face in her hair, and her heartbeat would warm them both.
He could… But he doesn’t.
Instead, Astarion shivers in the dark, listening to the other men snore and toss about in their sleep. Gale’s apparently got some sort of sleep apnea— the poor sod’s stopped breathing entirely once or twice before snorting back to life. It’s impossible to relax in here. Astarion never thought he’d miss his tent and yet here he is. Ugh.
He tries to close his eyes, counting his breaths. He doesn’t have to breathe, so it’s not exactly the most relaxing sensation to be so conscious of it. Making his chest rise and fall right now just feels like work, and Astarion’s been running low enough on perfume lately that he’s catching whiffs of his own undead smell again. He hates it.
He tosses on his side, facing the wall. Then he starts to feel anxious, thinking about having his back to the door, and turns to his other side. The moonlight barrier shining through the window is too bright, even when he closes his eyes. He pulls the blanket over his head, but the mildewy smell of his dead body is too concentrated and strong. He rolls over to his back, tossing the blanket off and covering his eyes with his arm, but his scars itch against his linen shirt. Gods, there’s just no winning.
Astarion supposes he could read, but he just doesn’t want to. He could go out and take a walk, but what’s the point if Wren’s not awake to join and chat with him? How’s he supposed to keep his mind quiet without the meditation of her breath and without the comfort of her warmth?
Perhaps he should go to her. Maybe he could wake her up, they could go walking and she could tell him that it will be alright. Maybe even they could set up one of their tents, just to have a little privacy and a reprieve from all the snores.
Would it be selfish of him to ask that of her? Undoubtedly.
Does Astarion have half a mind to just do it anyways? …Yes.
He sighs, staring at the ceiling. Water spots and mold decorate the darkness in uneven splotches, and there’s a distant dripping sound amongst the soft wooden creaking of this old place. Dust motes float in the air, silver in the moonlight, and Astarion pretends as if each one of them were his thoughts.
That one’s Cazador. That one’s Raphael. That one’s the mystery of his scars, that one’s his desire to control the tadpole, that one’s his anxiety about ceremorphosis.
And that one’s the warm, tender feeling inside his chest for Wren.
He watches them dance together, all of them, for a few moments. Then he takes a deep breath and blows them away, watching them disappear into the musty shadows and be replaced with entirely new motes. The exercise does nothing to dispel the actual thoughts in his brain, of course, but at least he was distracted for a moment.
His ear twitches as he picks up the sound of footsteps. Not the ones of the night guards downstairs, mind you— those are regular enough that they can be ignored. No, these footsteps are intentionally soft, made by bare feet on creaking wood. There’s the quietest knock on the door before it opens, the hinges softly groaning as someone tip-toes in.
Scratch stirs in Halsin’s arms, peering at the stranger briefly before settling back down again. Astarion doesn’t even have to look to know it’s her— he’d recognize that heartbeat anywhere. He closes his eyes, holding his breath and hoping against hope that she’s here for him. Slowly, Wren creeps to his bedside and gently nudges his shoulder.
“Astarion?” she whispers.
He turns to face her, to open his eyes and look at her nervous expression. The shadows coat her skin, the frizz of her curls are haloed by the moonlit window.
“Can I…” She shift on her feet and the floor complains beneath her. “Could we cuddle?”
Astarion’s heart flips, triumphant. Silently he nods, holding up the blanket in invitation. He scoots with his back to the wall as she crawls in, curling against him. He navigates his arms around her, embracing her against his chest until her warm breath tickles his neck. He sighs, his body finally warm.
“Is something the matter?” he murmurs into her hair. She’s still slightly damp, her hair chilly from the bath she took a few hours ago. At least she doesn’t smell like booze— ever since her little episode a few days ago, she’s been avoiding the stuff like it’s poison.
“I just missed you,” she says softly.
He squeezes her a little tighter, unwilling to admit aloud that he missed her, too. His hand begins to wander, to stroke the soft skin of her arm with his fingertips and make her skin prickle up in little gooseflesh bumps. She shudders under his touch, something of a quiet moan in her breath. Astarion, despite himself, feels his body react, feels the instinct to caress her until she crumbles.
Obviously, he doesn’t. They’re just friends, after all— he needs this to be just friends.
But gods above, she feels so good in his arms. He closes his eyes, his breath slowing as bit by bit, his body relaxes against her. The dust motes of his thoughts seem to vanish in her presence, allowing him to lose himself in the sound of her breath and the warmth of her pulse and the scent of her hair. He can feel her relaxing alongside him, can hear it in the slowing rhythm of her heart. He continues to gently stroke her arm, enjoying the sensations of her long after she’s deep in her trance.
He takes a while to follow, over an hour of this passes before his hand finally stills atop her bicep, too tired to continue. His breathing slows to a quiet stop as his trance eventually takes over.
But then Astarion relives that awful memory again.
It happened so often that the geography of his dream is ultimately immaterial. A bedroom, a hallway, the kennels… It doesn’t matter where it happened. All that matters is that it happened, over and over. For so many years.
And now he has to relive it. Again.
Astarion’s always been Cazador’s favorite toy to torment.
Sure, Cazador gave his other favored spawn soft attentions and gentle kisses on occasion— sometimes Astarion would even see Cazador give them a fresh rat or even a whole rotted dog to eat. But that grace was never extended to Astarion. Oh, no. Something about Astarion’s look, something about how he screamed and writhed excited Cazador in a way that his other pretty little pets just couldn’t satisfy.
So when Cazador feels that dark urge, when he turns on that “darling voice” of his, when he asks Astarion to follow him to the bedroom…
Well. Astarion honestly would prefer the flayings to this.
Because he can’t help how his body reacts. He can’t control that he moans when Cazador bites into him, he can’t control that his co*ck gets hard when stroked. Cazador’s control has him fully, of course, but in these torturous, intimate moments his master insists that Astarion move “of his own volition.” It’s awful, every single time, and Astarion’s always sore and bitter and so, so disgusted with himself afterwards.
The geography is ultimately immaterial— it doesn’t matter where it happens, all that matters is that it happens. Over and over and over…
Astarion gasps awake, shivering. He can smell his own undead stench in the air, mildewy and dead and so very like Cazador. He shivers, gently loosing himself from Wren’s arms and retreating to douse himself in perfume. He uses all that’s left of his bottle, but it’s not enough. Gods damn it all, it’s not nearly enough— Astarion can still smell him.
He hates it. And he hates himself for hating it, and he hates that it’s an inevitable part of him, and he hates that he can’t make it go away. He just can’t get clean enough, just can’t drench himself in enough perfume to make it better.
He grits his teeth and tucks the bottle away. He needs to make more. Right now. Astarion doesn’t give a sh*t how late it is, he has to make the smell go away somehow.
So he gathers what he needs. He’s careful while opening his trunk, doing his best to not make noise but those damn hinges always squeak. He glances over his shoulder, but no one’s stirred quite yet. He rifles through his clothes, through his spare bottles— ugh, they could really do with a good wash— and through all his books. His perfuming supplies are tucked near the bottom, lovingly wrapped in a velvet satchel stolen off a corpse. The bergamot oil, the rosemary oil, the bottle of water… All he needs is the brandy. With the satchel in hand, he creeps out the door, his footsteps lighter than air.
But his ear twitches, hearing someone stir. He looks over his shoulder— Wren’s sitting up in his bed, squinting at him and rubbing her eyes. She calls his name, her voice no louder than a whisper, but he hears it nonetheless. But he pretends not to notice, he pretends she’s still deep in her trance and dreaming of the sweetness of the Feywild as he creeps out of the room to go and steal some brandy from the bar. He ignores her footsteps padding after him, he doesn’t look at her as he picks out a table tucked in the far, shadowy corner and sets up his supplies. It’s only after she pulls up a chair beside him that he allows himself a glance at her worried face.
“Bad dreams?” she says.
“Just need to make some perfume,” he replies lightly. He’s carefully pouring brandy into his perfume bottle, eying the approximate amount he needs. As he sets the brandy aside, he catches her staring at it. He scoots it to the far end of the table, away from her.
“Perfume? At this hour?”
“Indeed.” Drop by drop, he adds the bergamot oil. He counts them silently, swirling the perfume between each drop to mix it in.
She leans in to give him a sniff, and he flinches away. Wren freezes in place, brow furrowed as she retreats.
“What’s going on?” she pleads. “Talk to me. Please.”
“I’m just low on perfume,” is all he says. Twelve drops of bergamot in total, and he’s ready for the rosemary.
“Can I help?”
“… No.”
She watches him silently add the rosemary oil, drop by drop. Halsin’s up now, Astarion can hear his footfall meandering through his morning stretches. The yawning night guards are on the cusp of their shift change, the regulars are starting to mill about and creak the floorboards in their rooms. Soon enough, this night will finally be over and Astarion can put the past behind him.
Wren hands Astarion the water before he has the chance to reach for it.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“I’m here for you,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to say anything, you don’t have to explain. I’m here for you, Astarion.”
He stills, staring at the bottle and too ashamed to meet her in the eye. How is he supposed to admit to her that he’s just so… Disgusted by himself? That the curse of vampirism has him gagging on his own smell, that he can’t stand to breathe the very air around him?
He frowns as he adds the water to the perfume, filling it up until the bottle is nearly full. He corks the thing and swirls it to mix.
“Do I smell dead to you?” he finally says. He sets the bottle on the table with a dull clink and looks up at her. “Underneath the perfume?”
She gives him a puzzled look. “Well… Yeah. You smell undead.”
Ugh. He knew it. He scowls and turns his head away.
“But it’s not a bad thing!” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her reach out to him. But she stops mid-air, reconsidering. As if she’s disgusted by him.
He doesn’t blame her.
“How could that not be a bad thing?” Astarion hisses. “Who’d ever want a corpse?”
She retracts her hand and hums, considering the question.
“Surely there’s people into necrophilia out there— I mean, there’s even a word for it, so it must exist.” She gives him a sweet smile in retort to his sour look. “But I don’t consider you to be a corpse. You’re you! You’re our prickly little leech with a sharp wit and great hair.”
Astarion scoffs. “If you’re going for flattery to make me feel better, I’d prefer it not in the weird Feywild style.”
“I like how you smell,” she asserts, fully ignoring him. “You don’t smell like a corpse, you just smell dead.”
“What’s the difference?”
She reaches out to him again, slowly, her hand outstretched like a question. Astarion eyes it as she very gently places it atop his hand.
“Corpses smell bad. And you don’t,” she assures. “You smell like…” She gives him a gentle squeeze. “You smell like my best friend.”
Astarion huffs, feeling himself soften. He maneuvers to hold her hand properly, to squeeze her back.
“That’s still weird Feywild flattery, darling,” he says, finally allowing a something akin to a smile on his lips. “Try again.”
“Hmm… You smell like a handsome, dashing man?”
He snorts. “Sure, why not.”
She grins at him, sticking out her tongue. “Makes plenty of scents to me.”
“Gods above,” Astarion groans. He releases her hand, feeling a hundred times better— all he can smell now is the honey scent of her blood and the overwhelming aura of his freshly made perfume. He reaches out and gives the bottle one final swirl as Wren watches, dabbing a bit on his wrist to test the scent.
Ugh, nevermind. He can still smell Cazador. He holds the feature out to Wren, who cautiously leans forward and inhales.
“Smells like Astarion,” she says with a sweet, soft smile. “Just the way I like it.”
He sighs, tucking the supplies away into their velvet satchel. He gives himself another dab of perfume behind the ears before tucking it away, too.
“I just wish it were different sometimes,” he says quietly. “Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” she murmurs. “I really, really do.”
They look at each other, their tongues too heavy with the unsaid to continue their bittersweet conversation. Without another word, he leaves her alone at the table to retreat back to the room and put away his things.
Once everyone’s awake and milling about downstairs, Jaheira insists they all have a “strategy meeting” about their “assault on Moonrise Towers” after breakfast. Apparently the Harpers share the same goals as Halsin— cure the shadow curse, dispel the Absolutists. And the others are just going along with it, like they’ve forgotten why they came here in the first place!
Peh.
Look, they can plan and scheme all they want. They can throw bodies at this curse, they can waste all their time. But Astarion won’t be falling for it, no way. He’s going to get to the bottom of this tadpole business. Astarion’s going to ride the coattails of these Harpers until he can sneak in and find whatever device or lever or thing that’s in control of these tadpoles. Then he’s going to take it for himself.
Easy.
So he just pretends to pay attention during the meeting. He watches Jaheira talk long-term strategy, watches Halsin talk curses and cures, watches Wyll and Karlach and Lae’zel all argue on how best to attack a well-fortified base. On his left, he hears Wren shifting in her seat. He glances to her— her eyes are completely glazed over and she’s struggling to keep her head upright. He glances back to the others, where Gale’s joined in the argument to take a stand.
“We should try the stealthy approach,” he suggests, “they have no reason to suspect us— we do have the tadpoles after all.”
“That could work,” Wyll muses, “we could use it as an opportunity to scout out weak points.”
“Chk,” Lae’zel scoffs. “It’s a fool’s errand to waste time on subterfuge.”
Wren snorts awake, knocking herself backwards and out of her chair with a small glittering purple combustion centered on her chest. She scrambles back up to standing, hair smoking.
“I vote subterfuge!” She exclaims, hand in the air.
“I vote subterfuge, too,” Shadowheart adds. “We need to play this smart.”
“I say we take them head-on!” Karlach says. “Sneaking around is no fun. I wanna go knock some tadpole-filled heads!”
“We can get to that in due time,” Astarion muses, “perhaps for now, subterfuge is our best bet.”
“Sneaking around is plenty fun!” Wren protests. Her eyes gleam, and tiny purple explosions sparkle around her head like fireworks. She has to speak a little louder to be heard over the popping. “We could do disguises! Ohoho, I haven’t gotten to do proper spy sh*t in a good long time.” The fireworks start to frenzy with the idea, lighting a bit of her hair aflame. Astarion licks the tips of his forefinger and thumb and quickly pinches the fire out.
“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Gale side-eyes her. “Perhaps we should stay recognizable, right? Makes us seem more trustworthy.”
“Technically, they can read our minds, after all,” Shadowheart assents. “We need to lay low and play it as close to the truth as we can.”
“If you are going with the stealth approach, you need to prioritize finding weak points,” Jaheira says.
“And the prisoners,” Wyll adds. “If we can find them alive, perhaps we can rescue them.”
Astarion scoffs. “It’s not enough that we have to creep into the belly of the beast and watch our own backs, but you want us to babysit a bunch of tieflings, too? Doesn’t our grand rescue at the grove already count for our good deed?”
“Astarion’s right,” Lae’zel huffs, “we need to focus on finding a cure.”
“Or focus on controlling these things!” Astarion argues.
“Yes, yes, we all know the end justifies the means with you two,” Wyll says, “but I still think we should go about this with as few casualties as possible.”
“I vote subterfuge! Less casualties, more fun!” Wren exclaims, tossing her hands into the air excitedly. A massive sparkling purple combustion radiates from the center of her chest, blasting her, the furniture, and their entire group backwards. Astarion slams hard into the wall, his chair shattering against his back and causing him to hiss in pain. He slumps to the floor and pats out his smoldering clothes, assessing the damage.
No one seems to be seriously hurt, but the table’s destroyed and all of Jaheira’s carefully-drawn diagrams are actively aflame. She and Halsin are both scrambling to summon enough water to save them.
Astarion turns to Wren and extends a hand to help her out of the debris that used to be her chair. Her hair’s smoking and the tip of her nose is blackened with soot, but she looks otherwise unharmed. Little firecrackers still pop around her head, more excited than ever, and she turns to face the others’ glares with a chagrined look.
“…I know,” she says sheepishly. “I’ll go.”
She steps over the remains of furniture, quickly making her way to the door. She’s got a little limp to her, seeming to favor her right leg. Hm.
Astarion watches her go before turning back to the others.
“My vote’s still subterfuge,” he says. “Let me know when you figure it out.” With a lazy wave of his hand, he, too, leaves through the front door, chasing after Wren.
It’s easy to catch up with her, she hasn’t gotten very far. Together they meander down by the river and sit on the rocky shoreline just inside the barrier to allow the fireworks to calm. The waters look almost oily through the false moonlight— black with an iridescent sheen. They sit just out of reach of the water’s edge and watch the colors dance. It’s strangely beautiful, and almost peaceful. Just the lapping of the waves, the distant chatter of the Harpers, and her.
“I spoke with Raphael yesterday,” Astarion says quietly. “Found him playing games with Mol.”
“Oh? Did you ask about your scars?”
“Yes.”
“…Aaaand?”
Astarion sighs. “He said he’ll translate them after we do him a favor.”
“And what’s the favor?”
“I don’t know. He said he’ll ‘come find me’ when it’s time to know. Unfortunately he comes and goes on his own schedule— so we’ll just have to look out for sulfurous odors or the sound of questionable poetry.”
Wren scoffs, rolling her eyes. “That guy’s head is so far up his own ass it’s a miracle he hasn’t been beheaded by his sphincter.”
Astarion snorts. “I don’t know,” he smiles, just a little. “I think he likes us.”
“Likes you maybe. I can’t stand a bad poet.”
He hums, contemplative. “I think writing poetry is harder than you think. Not saying what Raphael does is any good, mind you, but it’s not just all about pretty rhymes— you have to actually say something.”
Wren rolls her eyes and waves her hand dismissively. "Please.”
Astarion quirks a brow. “Go on, then. Prove me wrong.”
She chews her lip, thinking on it for a moment before she says,
“I don’t care much for Raphael
I think that he’s a prick
I know you want to make a deal
So I tolerate his shtick.
But I find his talent lackluster
And I don’t think he’s a poet
So once he breaks the filibuster
I’ll make sure he… Realizes it.”
“Kind of stumbled on that last bit there,” Astarion says. “Could’ve just said ‘knows it.’”
“But that would’ve been too easy! See, that’s the kind of thing that Raphael would do.”
“And you just came up with that?”
“Well, yeah! It’s very easy to rhyme in Common. Your words stay the same no matter the inflection. It’s much, much harder to rhyme in Sylvan.”
He hums. “Suppose I should learn it someday, perhaps. Then I’d make you write me a proper poem.”
She grins. “I’ll recite poetry to you in Sylvan forever as long as you can promise me the same.”
His mood darkens. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I used to do that sort of thing for my… Well…” he clears his throat. “Victims.”
“Ah.”
They sit in silence for a time. The river water reaches for them, its inky shoreline licking at their shoes. Wren withdraws, just out of its grasp.
“Obviously, I don’t think that of you,” he assures, breaking the silence.
“I know,” she says quietly. “I just wish I could take the past away from you sometimes.”
He sighs.
Wren stands, stretching. “I need to go for a walk,” she says, holding out her hand. He takes it, standing. “Want to come?”
“Darling, my hand’s already in yours,” he smirks at her. “Where else would I go? Back in there?” he gestures with his head towards the inn, where the others are most likely still arguing over their plan of attack.
“Stars above, I know right?” she laughs, leading him to the barrier’s edge. They walk just along the inside of it, the pace slow to accommodate her slight limp. “How hard is it to infiltrate a tower?”
“Apparently, very.”
They titter together, walking along the shoreline and admiring the inky black waters just outside the barrier. It’s nice, meandering through the quiet, and their clasped hands swing slightly between them with every step. She’s a little too warm and slightly sweaty, but Astarion holds tight all the same.
Wren’s free hand reaches out and trails along the barrier, with little iridescent swirls glowing along its surface at her touch. It almost looks like a bubble of soap, like it’s ready to pop at any minute, and briefly Astarion worries that the magic may not hold forever.
But it’s still there. He’s still here, she’s still here, and they are just about as safe can be given the circ*mstances. It’s nice, being here. He gives her hand a little squeeze and she returns the gesture.
After a few minutes, the barrier begins to curve away from the river, leading them back to the inn. They stop to stare at the water for just a moment longer.
“Do you think dolphins ever look at sharks and wonder why they can’t breathe underwater too?”
Astarion snorts. “What?”
Wren tilts her head, her eyes on the water. “I think if I were a dolphin, I’d be so confused why sharks could breathe underwater but I couldn’t, right? I’d be all, those bozos have all these cuts on them but they don’t bleed! What the hells!"
“I don’t think dolphins live in rivers,” Astarion says, “nor do sharks.”
“That’s completely irrelevant.”
“Plus I’m pretty sure dolphins are smarter than that,” he hums, thinking on the matter. “I think Gale once mentioned that they’re some of the most intelligent animals on this plane.”
Wren furrows her brow, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “So, what, you think they’re smart enough to realize they’re not the same as sharks?”
“Certainly!”
“But are they smart enough to realize that the sharks got the better end of the deal? It must be so annoying having to surface for air all the time.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” Astarion nods, “a lot of people would rather be sharks— never surfacing, content with just the ocean. But, I don’t know, isn’t it a blessing to get to see the shore? Even if, as a dolphin, you’d never get to touch it?”
Wren grins at him. “Well, look who’s waxing poetic now!”
Astarion huffs. “I’m just playing in the space with you. It’s not my fault you come up with weird questions.”
“Well, I think—”
They both snap their heads towards a sound— a voice.
From the river.
Astarion drops Wren’s hand, immediately withdrawing his daggers. He glares at the surface of the water, but it’s completely undisturbed aside from the usual ripples of the tide. He glances back to Wren. She’s got her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide as she slowly steps away.
“You don’t think those awful monsters can reach us in here, do you?” she whispers through her fingers.
“No, no, of course not,” Astarion assures her, returning his eyes to the water. In all honesty, he has no idea, but he’s not about to let either of them be chewed up or drowned tonight.
The voice calls again, louder this time. It sounds like a child, echoing over the waters in Sylvan. Wren steps up to join Astarion, calling back nervously. The voice answers once again before a shadow materializes just outside the barrier.
It’s a massive, grasping thing— floating atop the water and chewing on the moonlight. But it condenses quickly, smaller and smaller, until it takes the shape of a little boy with horns and some awful black stuff marring his face. He says something to Wren in Sylvan, who furrows her brow. She glances to Astarion.
“Can you speak Common?” she says to the boy.
The boy replies in Sylvan. She rolls her eyes and searches her pockets for that little bell the pixie gave her. She tosses it through the barrier and the boy catches it triumphantly.
“Fine,” he says, pocketing it. “Let’s speak so the frilly man can hear.”
“Frilly?” Astarion scoffs.
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘foppish,’” Wren says, sending Astarion a wink. He scowls at her.
“Whatever he is, he’s not part of this.”
“Part of what?” Astarion demands. “And who the hells are you?”
“Astarion, this is Oliver,” Wren says, gesturing. “Oliver, this is Astarion.”
“Charmed,” Astarion says.
“No you ain’t,” Oliver says.
Rude little brat.
“Oliver,” Wren says very patiently, “I must say, I’m surprised you’d come so close to this barrier.”
He shrugs. “I got curious, I guess. Your fey magic just disappeared.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“… So do you want me to make more?”
The boy glowers, crossing his arms. He eyes the barrier jealously, his irritation causing the black marks on his face to writhe like smoke. Wren tilts her head, curious.
“Let’s make a deal, hm?” she says gently, “Let’s play a game for it— if I win, you have to meet my friend Halsin. If you win, then I will cast a nice hope-filled moonlight spell just for you, and only you. Deal?”
Oliver hums, considering. “…What game?”
“Hopscotch?”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Astarion says, “What exactly is going on?”
Wren rolls her eyes. “We’re playing hopscotch, Astarion. Try to keep up, yeah?”
Oliver pouts. “I want to play hide and seek.”
“Let’s do both then! Hopscotch first, then hide and seek.” She turns to Astarion. “You should get to pick a game, too. It’s only fair.”
Astarion blinks. A game? Does he even know any games?
“Hm…” He hums, thinking. His memories of the past are too foggy to really recall anything he use to play— but he does remember watching those Gur children play.
Before… Well. Before he kidnapped them and got them killed.
“Blind Man’s Bluff?”
Wren looks to Oliver, who nods.
“Fine,” he huffs. “Hopscotch, hide and seek, and Blind Man’s Bluff. But if you get to have him on your team, then I get someone on my team, too.”
A wave of his hand, and a tall shade appears.
“This is my Dad,” Oliver says, reaching out to hold the shade’s vague semblance of a hand. “He’s the best at playing games.”
Wren nods. “That is very fair,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you, Dad.”
The shade responds in a rasping, painful groan.
“Follow,” Oliver instructs, skipping across the river with the shade in tow. Astarion and Wren exchange a brief glance before she quickly casts a Water Walk between them. She takes lead, passing through the safety of the barrier first, but Astarion stops her.
“What the hells is going on?” he demands.
Wren shrugs. “This boy is part of the curse, somehow. And he’s fey, like me— I think if we can just find a way to get him to behave and meet Halsin, we’ll be one step closer to curing this place.”
“You are aware that this is incredibly dangerous right? That’s a shade!”
“I know. But I have a trick up my sleeve.”
“Oh?” Astarion quirks a brow. “What, planning on cheating again?”
“What? No!” she scoffs. “I don’t need to cheat here.”
Astarion tuts at her. “That’s bad politics.”
Wren rolls her eyes. “Perhaps, but this is beyond politics.” She lowers her voice. “The point isn’t to win, the point is to have fun.”
Astarion gives her a blank look.
“Just trust me, alright?”
“Obviously, I do,” he sighs.
She beams at him. Gods above, damn that stupid smile of hers— it’s getting embarrassing how easily she makes him want to smile back. He takes her outstretched hand, passing through the barrier and stepping atop the river. Their footsteps make quiet little splashes as they walk, and Astarion carefully watches out for any sign of movement or traps.
“We should tell the others,” he says quietly. “What if we die out here? They’ll never find our corpses in time.”
“You’re probably right,” Wren sighs. She pulls out a copper wire, and the end smokes with her magic as she says, “Hey Gale, let everyone know Astarion and I are going out into the woods to play games. If we’re not back in an hour, come looking for us in the north.”
She tilts her head, listening as Gale responds.
“No, I have a very good reason! I think we found someone who’s connected to the curse— I’m going to try to convince him to meet Halsin. Just please come looking for us if we disappear, ok?”
Wren rolls her eyes at Gale’s reply.
“Yeah, yeah, obviously we’ll be careful. Are we ever not?”
Another pause.
“Fair. Ok, tell Halsin good luck with that healing house. Don’t die, alright?”
She puts the wire away.
“There,” she says. “Happy?”
“I suppose that’s the most I can ask for at this point,” Astarion sighs.
They walk quietly for a time as they finally reach the forest, stepping deeper into the shadows. This place is darker than dark, and Astarion can smell Wren's bitter fear in the air. It's not easy to make a vampire feel anxious in the shadows, but this place is certainly doing a wonderful job at it.
“I don’t think Oliver realizes he’s cursed,” Wren says softly. “I think my magic makes him feel better. He’s the one who killed your plant initially, and we met when I first healed it.”
“And you’re just now deciding to mention this now?” Astarion hisses.
Wren shrugs. “It just never seemed relevant.”
Astarion sighs, completely resigned.
**********
With every step, the world grows darker. I close my left eye, relying entirely on my right to guide me. The color beyond color barely coats the world in this place, but it’s still there… Sometimes.
It’s better than being completely blind in the dark, at least, and at this point that’s my only alternative. I make sure to walk near Astarion was we follow Oliver and Dad, descending deeper and deeper into the forest beyond. I have to limp a little to keep up with their brutal pace— my ankle got twisted something fierce back at the inn, and I can feel it swelling too much in my boot. I don’t think it’s quite broken, but, f*ck.
Hopscotch is going to hurt. I wish I had grabbed my pack, or at least put some healing potion in my alchemy sack. But no, of course not— all I’ve got on me is some cooking oil and water. Stars above, I’m an idiot.
We reach a small clearing in the woods and I hold out a hand to summon a small flame. The garish orange light coats us all, and Oliver dispels it with a resentful wave of his hand.
“Too bright,” he hisses in Sylvan.
“You overstep, little boy,” I chide him in Common. “And I paid for you to speak so Astarion may understand.”
Oliver pouts, the black markings on his face writhing irritably. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he mutters in Common.
“I am not telling you what to do,” I assure. “But you and I both know that our kind must abide by the rules of reality.”
Oliver rolls his eyes, and Astarion shifts anxiously on his feet.
“Well?” he demands. “Let’s get on with it!”
“He’s very rude,” Oliver notes.
“I am not!”
“You kind of are,” I say softly. “You don’t quite understand Fey customs.”
Astarion scoffs. “He didn’t even give a proper greeting upon our introduction!”
“He’s a child, darling.”
“What, so children shouldn’t have manners?”
“Not at all! In fact, he was very polite to point out that you were, in fact, not being charmed.” I grin at him.
Astarion huffs, clearly not understanding.
“Are you two dinguses ready to play or not?” Oliver drawls. “It’s not like we’ve got all day.”
“Let’s play!” I say confidently.
Oliver points a finger to the ground, where a line of shadows burns into the crimson grasses below, leaving behind a smoking brand of a hopscotch grid.
“I’ll go first,” he announces, tossing a small flat black stone onto the grid. “If you trip and fall, you’re out. Last team standing wins.”
Astarion looks at me, then back to the board, clearly unamused. I shrug, and together we watch Oliver hop through the grid, avoiding the stone. He turns around at the peak on one foot, his tongue poking out as he concentrates on his balance, and grabs the stone on the way out. He hands it to Astarion.
“Your turn,” he announces.
“Bossy little brat,” Astarion grumbles, tossing the stone. He’s aiming for a far square on the right, but the stone seems to stop in mid-air and fall to the very first square. Oof. He’s going to have to make quite a leap.
Astarion takes a deep breath in, then leaps over the first square to land in the next set. As soon as he lands, both squares turn shiny with grease and his feet slide out from beneath him, causing him to land hard on his back. Oliver laughs.
“You’re out!” He giggles, his tone maliciously gleeful. “Now it’s Dad’s turn!”
Astarion carefully stands, clearly tender from the fall as he joins my side.
“Little cheating prick,” he mutters to me. “We should’ve cheated too.”
I shush him, watching as Dad tosses the stone. It lands on a central square, but the placement ends up being completely irrelevant as the shade just floats over the board. Astarion releases a disbelieving huff, gesturing.
“How is that fair?” He complains. “I get a grease trap and the damn shade can just float?!”
“I’ve never seen a grown man so upset about losing a children’s game,” Oliver grins. “It’s just hopscotch, Astarion. Grow up.”
Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes as Dad returns with the stone. I outstretch my hand, allowing the shade to drop it into my waiting palm. The stone is freezing cold. I toss it as if skipping it across water, and it lands on the far end of the board. I smile triumphantly to Astarion, pleased with my aim, but he does not celebrate my little victory— rather, he crosses his arms and impatiently taps his foot, gesturing with his head for me to get on with it already.
I mind the grease as I hop carefully, just barely keeping balance through the board and gritting my teeth through the painful twinge in my ankle. I bend down to pick up the stone and try to turn, but my feet get snagged in a thick, vining brush that suddenly grows around my shoes. The force of my attempt twists my ankle a little further, causing it to pop and I stumble out of place, falling hard. Oliver snickers.
“Looks like I win!” He calls, triumphantly. “Come on, let’s go play hide and seek!”
I groan, staggering to my feet and dusting off dirt. I glance at Astarion, who’s tittering at me, too.
“Ha ha,” I deadpan. “It’s so funny that I hurt myself. Would’ve thought by now you’d care that I’m in pain.”
“Aw, don’t be so sour,” he grins as I limp over, “at least you didn’t get grease on your trousers.” He turns and gestures to his backside, where, indeed, a dark grease stain covers his rump and back. That’s going to be an absolute bitch to get out.
“Shouldn’t have shown me that,” I say playfully, “now I’ll just set you aflame if you laugh at me.”
He bats his eyes, mocking. “Is that a promise?”
“What, you got the hots for me?” I bat my eyes back. “You falling for me?”
He tuts, reaching over to pull a stray twig from my hair. He eyes it a moment before flicking it away. “Darling, I think you’d know if that were the case,” he purrs.
“Are you coming or not?” Oliver calls impatiently from the shadows. With a grin, I grab Astarion’s hand and allow him to lead us forward, following the sound.
We don’t walk far, just a minute or so before reaching our destination deep in the woods. The skeleton trees are thick with thorning bramble, and the ground crunches with every step. I can barely make out anything in the darkness, but I catch movement all around, as if the vines themselves were writhing in the freezing air.
“Dad and I will seek,” Oliver announces. “You two hide.” He holds a hand aloft, producing the silver filigreed bell. He ties it around Dad’s neck with a long length of twine, explaining, “There’s lots of shades in this part of the woods. This’ll help you figure out when he catches you.”
“We need a time limit,” I argue, “you can’t just have infinite time to seek. That’s not fair.”
Oliver hums, thinking. “Fine. How long?”
I rifle through my hip pouch, producing a small vial of olive oil. “Give me some twine and I’ll make a lamp,” I say, holding out my other hand. Oliver obliges, and I set the homemade lamp onto the ground, igniting it with a snap of my fingers. The glow barely makes a dent in the darkness. “When the flame is out, the game is over. So long as either Astarion or I have not been found, we win.”
Oliver stares at the lamp, frowning. “How long will the wick last?”
Astarion huffs. “At that size? At least an hour.”
Oliver grins. “Deal.”
“Give us a count to thirty,” I say, grabbing at Astarion’s hand. He’s slightly greasy from his fall.
Oliver turns around and faces a tree, hands over his eyes. “One, two, three…”
“The shade, too!” I call over my shoulder. Oliver huffs, but makes Dad turn around.
“Four, five…”
Astarion and I barrel through the woods together, hand in hand.
“Shouldn’t we separate?” he hisses. “We’re making this too easy!”
“Shush!” I whisper. I slow to a stop, listening for Oliver in the distance.
“Thirteen, fourteen…”
Astarion looks despairingly at the rampage we left behind. “There’s no way we won’t get caught within the hour,” he sighs. “Is your plan for us to lose?”
“Nope!” I grin and squeeze his hand, sending an Invisibility spell up his arm. In an instant, he’s gone, save for the slight glow of his form in the color beyond color. “I’m going to keep them distracted as long as I can,” I say, releasing his hand. “You go tiptoe off and hide, alright?”
“Now that’s more like it,” Astarion says.
“Twenty-four, twenty-five…”
“Go!” I hiss, closing my left eye to watch him creep silently away. I swivel my head, now completely alone and in the darkness. I can barely see anything in these shadows, and clumsily feel my way to a nearby tree.
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine…”
I scramble up the tree, trying to be as quiet as I can. I settle in the topmost skeleton branches, curled tight against myself and ready to spring into action.
“Thirty! Ready or not, here I come!” Oliver calls. Distantly, I hear him and Dad both begin to follow our broken path. I have to get away from here and throw them off the scent. I glance to another tree, and quickly Misty Step over to it. The branches are a bit weaker here, and groan under my weight, ready to crack. I spring forward to another tree, just barely catching myself on a branch, but the movement causes a nearby flock of ravens to startle. sh*t.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Oliver calls. I press my body as flush to the branches as I can, holding my breath. I can just barely make out his outline in the forest below.
Oliver’s taken to carrying the oil lamp with him, lighting the darkness in its garish orange glow— I suppose he wanted to make sure we didn’t sabatoge it or something. Not that it crossed my mind until now. Thinking on it, I probably should’ve done that. Damn it.
“Where are yoooou?” he sing-songs. He approaches the initial tree I climbed, touching at the scrapings my shoes left behind on the bark. “Is there a hider up in the tree?”
I carefully pick a bit of fleece from my coat and squeeze it into the magic in my palm. I blow the spell out of my hand, aiming it as far away as it will go.
The spell lands, creating a sound like quiet footsteps stumbling away. Oliver snaps his head towards the noise and gives chase. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
We can do this.
I stay as still as I can, just waiting. The world is quiet and cold, save for the occasional flutter of bird wings and the wind rustling through the grasses below. The branch I’m on groans softly anytime I breathe too deeply, so I keep my breath shallow and silent. I cling to it, my nails digging into the bark— with the way I’m pressed against it, my right nipple is painfully squished against some node, but there’s no way I’m about to risk being caught shifting into a more comfortable position. No, it’s better to just keep watching the shadows and stay absolutely still.
There’s no sign of anyone— no Oliver, no Dad, no Astarion. I wonder how Astarion’s doing, I wonder where he’s hiding. Obviously, he has far more practice than me, and I bet he’s dancing circles around the other two right about now. I smile to myself, picturing him tiptoeing right behind Oliver with the child none the wiser.
I'm starting to get cold, my breath is starting to puff out in little white clouds, frost is starting to crystallize on my skin. My chest is growing heavy, my fingers turning numb and blue. A low, raspy moan whispers in my ear, as if the freezing wind itself were drawing out my very life force.
And then I hear it— Astarion’s scream. I see the orange blaze in the forest beyond, see his silhouette shrieking as Oliver tosses the lantern onto him. I want to cry out, want to scream for him and save him from immolation, but I just can’t seem to move. The rasping groan in my ear grows louder than Astarion's distant agonized cries, punctuated by the silvery sound of a tinkling bell.
“Get off her!” Astarion hisses, his voice suddenly above me. In the color beyond color, I see him leap from another tree, grabbing the branch above as leverage and kicking something off me with teeth bared. Dad falls to the ground below, rasping, and dissolves into a black mist upon impact. The bell around its neck tinkles merrily as it hits, bouncing twice before being lost entirely to the blood-red grass. I gasp for breath, suddenly warm again.
Astarion carefully drops down onto my branch, and it shivers and groans with his landing. Quickly, he yanks me up to a semi-sitting position, his invisibility entirely gone.
“You alright?” he whispers, grabbing me to steady my shoulders, his glowing red eyes searching my face. His left hand reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind my ear.
“I saw you burning,” I whisper back, “are you alright?”
“That was just the shade, darling, feeding off your fears. Come on, we need to go— surely Oliver’s heard the noise.”
I nod, silently, watching as he crouches and leaps back into the other tree with catlike agility. Yeah, there’s no way I’m doing that. Inside, I summon my magic with a shiver and Misty Step, appearing beside him.
“How many more of those do you have left?” he asks quietly.
“Not many,” I admit. “I didn’t get enough rest to replenish my magic last night.”
“Best start taking some leaps of faith, eh? Follow me.”
He crouches again, jumping to land silently in another tree. Below, the glow of Oliver’s lamp finds Dad’s remains. The boy begins to wail in fury, his voice piercing through the trees loud enough to make the ravens stir.
Astarion gestures at me. I can feel Idiot stir as Astarion’s tadpole makes a connection between us.
Come on! he insists. We don’t have much time!
There is no way I can make that jump! I protest.
Astarion holds out a hand— I can just barely see him in the dark. I won’t let you fall.
I grimace.
Don’t you trust me?
I sigh. Obviously, I do. Silently, I try to copy his crouching position. Just below, the glow of Oliver’s lamp starts to dim as a coating of pure darkness fills the air. I try not to look at the void below as I take the leap.
I miss. Completely. I start to scream as I flail in the air, but Astarion’s firm grip finds my arm. He hisses as my weight yanks him downwards, causing the branch beneath him to crack as I slip on the remnants of grease still coating his skin. He growls, digging his claws into my wrists as something in his shoulder pops, but he manages to find the strength to drag me up towards him. I scramble onto the branch beside him, heart pounding and gasping for breath.
“Please don’t make me do that again,” I whisper. He says nothing, clutching at his shoulder and wincing. I raise my shaking hand to my face, just barely able to see the long, deep scratches down my arm. My blood looks black on my skin.
“There you are!” Oliver says from just behind us. The two of us whirl around to face the boy, who’s joined us in the uppermost branches. I let out a little shriek, nearly losing my balance.
The black growth on Oliver’s skin is growing and writhing, his eye glowing fiercely in the dark. I can see the glint of his white, pointed teeth as he says, “I win!”
“Where’s the lantern?” I say. “The game is done if the wick is out.”
A beat of silence passes between us.
“Ha,” Astarion titters, “you dropped it didn’t you?”
“Did not!” Oliver protests.
“Then where is it?” I press. “I saw you carrying it earlier.”
Oliver says nothing.
“If you cast Darkness down there, and you left the lantern behind, that means the flame’s snuffed,” I grin. “Since the flame went out before you found us, that means we win.”
Oliver releases a low, angry growl. I can nearly hear his jaw grinding.
“Fine,” he relents. “You win. On to the next game.” With a single decisive motion, he leaps forward and shoves me hard.
“Wren!” Astarion calls, reaching for me, but he’s too slow— the pain of his arm causes him to stutter in his motion, and there's so much grease and blood smeared between us that my blind grasping at him causes him to lose balance. Together, we scream as we both plummet into the darkness, our bodies meeting the ground hard in total darkness. Something in my ribs cracks as I land on a rock, and my raspy breath sweeps agony through my torso. I whimper.
“Little brat!” Astarion gasps, pain causing his voice to crack. “Gods above, I told you this was a bad idea!”
“You’re it!” Oliver calls from atop the tree. “You have until the shades devour you to find me. Good luck!” He laughs derisively, his voice fading into the air until it’s a mere echo.
“Now he’s just outright cheating,” Astarion mutters. “Fey and their damn games.” I feel him reach for me, feel his cold hand on my face. “Are you alright?”
“I think I broke something,” I manage to rasp. “I can barely breathe.”
“Gods damn it,” he huffs. “Damn it all to hell.”
The temperature of the air suddenly drops and my heart stutters against my loose ribs as a cacophony of hoarse groans starts to surround us. Every breath is agony, but I manage to force myself to stumble to standing.
“We have to get out of here,” I say. “I can already feel the shades closing in.”
“Me too,” he shudders. “I can’t see a damn thing. Can you?”
“Nope.”
Blindly, we grasp at each other in the dark, until my hand is in his. My blood still gushes from the wounds on my arm, and I hiss as he raises it to seal them with his tongue.
“That hurts!” I cry.
“Come on, we don’t have much time,” he insists, choosing a direction and blazing forward. We have to go slow, since his good arm is otherwise occupied and I am barely able to stumble through the pain, but anything is better than standing still.
“Could you dispel this darkness somehow?” he says.
“With what magic?” I grumble darkly.
He says nothing, gently tugging me forward. We don’t bother stepping softly— rather, we carefully feel out every step forward, doing our best to avoid the thorning brambles and grasping trees. The both of us frequently stumble, constantly jostling our wounds into deeper planes of agony until I have to stop and catch my breath. Every inhale is red-hot pain, shooting through my ribs and up my spine, and I drop Astarion’s hand to clutch at myself.
“Don’t you have some healing potions or something?” he demands.
“I didn’t think we’d need them!” I moan. The icy air smells like iron. The groans of the shades are upon us, breathing in my ear.
“Gods above, we’re going to die out here,” Astarion whimpers. “Do you think the others will find us?”
“We won’t die,” I say. “We can’t. Not like this.”
“There’s no point fighting it,” he mutters, his voice growing flat and cold. “Might as well succumb.”
I shiver, feeling the freezing hand of a shade on my shoulder. I can feel it drawing out my heat, feeding off my every breath. I feel the hopelessness of its eternity in the dark start to eat away at me, feel its claws caress my face.
The touch is strangely… Gentle.
I turn to face the shade— or at least, where I think it is. Its rasping moan is icy cold and stinks of iron.
“You used to be a person,” I say to it. “Didn’t you?”
Another shade’s hands laces through my hair, and another grasps at my arms. I can just barely make out blackened teeth just inches from my face, an open mouth hovering in front of mine to feed off my words.
“Do you remember who you used to be?” I whisper. “Surely, there must be some humanity yet.”
Why am I even trying?
I’m so cold, the pain is nearly gone. All I need to do is succumb, and I will be embraced by the eternal sleep. This is what I wanted, right? A simple answer, right in front of me.
Succumb to the darkness.
Succumb.
“I’d want someone to remember me, were I a shade,” I say into its mouth. I push what little magic I have into my words— they glow like little silver wispy ghosts between its teeth. “My name is Wren. I came here to help you.”
More icy hands grasp at me— around my ankles, holding my hips, caressing my neck.
“I play the mandolin,” I tell the shade, “but my best friend gave me a lyre.” My magic flows a little easier from my tongue, curling into the air like smoke and alighting the dark, skeletal faces of the shades in an eerie glow. I’m surrounded completely, barely able to make out Astarion passed out amongst the crowd. A shade cradles him in its arms, holding him in a somewhat intimate embrace.
“I think I’m in love with him,” I say quietly. All around me, the shades begin to sigh as more of my magic fills the air. “That was a lie— I know I’m in love with him. Sorry about that, I lie all the time. Force of habit. Suppose that’s why he associated me with a lyre.”
One by one, the grip of the shades start to fall away. My magic coats their amorphous bodies, its silvery sheen soothing atop the dark. I can feel my skin begin to warm again as one by one, they tell me their stories.
This one on my right played an instrument, too— he loved to play the flute. Drove his mama crazy with all the tooting, all the way till the end…
This one with its hands in my hair was a healer. She tried to help those wounded by the Sharrans but there were just so many…
This one on my left hid while the sounds of battle came closer and closer. Didn’t matter who won, so long as the fighting stopped…
The one at my face is last to let me go. She worshiped Shar till the end— why was she not spared from the curse? It’s not fair. It hasn’t been fair for a long time. And now she’s here…
With the last of what hope I have, I toss a mote of silver moonlight into the air and ignite the world with my magic. The shades all dissipate into a black mist in the light, fading into the shadows beyond. I slump in relief as the chill vanishes, my body trembling from the return of the pain. Astarion’s shade abandons him and he collapses to the ground, coughing and curling into a ball. I stumble to him and brush some stray curls from his brow.
“You ok?” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open, terrified and glowing as they search my face.
“I watched you rot,” he rasps. “I stayed the same and watched your smiling corpse bloat and turn to dust.”
“I’m still alive,” I assure.
“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” he groans as he sits up. Together, we manage to make our way to standing. The little mote of moonlight casts the magical darkness into gray monochrome— the crimson grasses are purple in the light and Astarion looks paler than usual. Only his eyes seem to maintain any semblance of color here.
“Was I a pretty corpse?” I tease. He scowls at me.
“Apparently I’m still in the nightmare,” he mutters. “Let’s get this over with.”
The light follows us as we push through the dark, silent. I can see the shades watching us with bated breath from a distance, can feel the threat of their icy breath on the very edge of the light. I shiver, and another wave of agony rocks my spine.
It doesn’t take us too long to find the end of the darkness— we can hear Oliver’s laughter long before we see him. He’s sitting at the entrance of a hexagonal stone crypt, right at the top of the stairs. On either side of him, two shades watch him patiently while he chatters on.
“—And then I pushed them out the tree!” he giggles in Sylvan. “Let the others have them, I did. Shows them right!”
The shades moan in agreement.
“Hello, brother,” I call in Common. “Looks like we won the game.”
Oliver’s head snaps towards us. “What?” he snarls. “How are you two dinguses alive?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Astarion admits. Oliver’s eyes find the moonlight mote, the darkness on his face twisting and growing to cover his entire body.
“You cheated!” He growls, his voice becoming more monsterous. He begins to transform, growing larger and falling to all fours. His mouth lengthens to a snout, snarling and foaming between sharp teeth as he shouts, “I HATE CHEATERS!”
“You never said I couldn’t use magic,” I argue. “And you’ve been using magic, too. Fair is fair.”
Oliver howls, his massive claws cracking into the stone as he leaps at us. Astarion starts to draw his daggers for a fight, but I rush ahead, gritting my teeth through the pain to wind back and punch the beast in the nose as hard as I can.
Oliver stumbles backwards, falling to his rump as he instantly shifts back into the form of a young boy. He’s entirely stunned, looking up with tears welling in his eyes and blood dripping from his nose.
“That was rude,” I scold in Sylvan, wincing as I hold my side. “You should know better than this. Fair is fair— honor your word.”
Oliver begins to cry, burying his face in his hands. The two shades at the top of the stairs watch the whole spectacle, unmoving as I kneel down to wipe away his tears.
“I know you're just scared,” I tell him softly. “I’m scared, too.”
“I’m not scared,” he sniffs, “It’s impossible for fey to feel fear.”
“Maybe in the Feywild that’s true. But it’s very, very possible here. That awful feeling inside you right now? The one that makes your hands shake and your tears hot? That’s fear.” I rub his arms reassuringly. “It’s ok that you’re afraid, Oliver. We can help you.”
He won’t look at me, turning his face away so I can no longer see the shadows marring it.
“You will be ok. We want to help you.”
Oliver sniffs. “Promise?”
I nod solemnly. “I promise that I will help you,” I swear. “I want to lift this curse from you, brother.” I pull on his shoulders softly, and he easily collapses into my arms for a hug. He buries his face into my shirt and sniffs.
“I know how you feel,” I murmur. “I’ve been so scared all the time ever since coming here. It doesn’t feel good, huh?”
“Thaniel left me here,” Oliver admits, his voice small. “Left me here all alone. For so long. Does he even want me back?"
“I don’t see why not,” I assure. “You two could play together.”
“I’ve… Changed,” Oliver admits. “I ain’t the same anymore. I don’t think I can ever go back.”
I rub his back reassuringly. “The only constant in this world is change. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Oliver says nothing, taking a long, deep breath to compose himself before he pulls away. His nose is running. I look to Astarion.
“Do you have a handkerchief or something?”
Wordlessly, he hands me a silk cloth and I use it to gently wipe Oliver’s face and nose. I hand it back to Astarion, who grimaces and throws it aside.
“Are we done?” he says impatiently. “Did we win or what?”
I throw him a glare. Astarion rolls his eyes.
I force myself to stand with a pained groan, ignoring the crimson agony and holding out my hand to Oliver. “Do you want to meet our friend Halsin?” I say in Common. “I think he may be able to help you.”
Oliver nods his head, wiping his eyes. “When Thaniel’s back, I’ll come find you,” he says. “I’ll honor the deal and meet Halsin, too.”
I nod, watching as he stands and takes a step away, then another. The shadows below reach for him, devouring him whole until he is entirely gone. The shades beyond dissolve into a distant black mist, leaving just Astarion and I alone in the deathly silence.
“Well, that was productive,” Astarion says. “Can we leave now?”
I look at the crypt, at the grand stone statue atop it. This place is just so sad. My heart shatters amongst my broken ribs, yearning for nothing more than to dissolve this curse forevermore. Hot tears begin to drip down my cheeks.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Let’s go.”
Together, we slowly limp back to the inn.
