Regaining consciousness to the sounds of an argument was really rather unpleasant, Astarion decided. His eyes remained shut as he took stock of the various aches and agonies his body was subjecting him to. If only he could fall back into sweet oblivion again. Alas, the arguing was making it rather impossible.
"-have left him." That was Lae'zel, spitting the words in tight disdain.
"I couldn't!" Gale's voice came from really rather close by. "How do you think he'd have felt?"
"He wouldn't have. He'd have been dead." Astarion cracked an eye open and saw the vague shape of Wyll looming nearby. "Personally, that might have been a better option. How much pain do you think he'll be in if he comes to?"
Lots. So much that Astarion didn't even know where he began and pain ended.
"Now we're going to have to waste potions and spells on patching him up. We could have just paid Withers 200 gold to bring him back. Cheaper, easier and much less painful for everyone." Even as she spoke, Shadowheart's hand glowed with a spell. It sank into Astarion's flesh and began knitting things back together. The relief wasn't much, but at least the pain was replaced by the strange itch of healing.
Only Gale seemed to be of the opinion that they shouldn't have let Astarion die and be brought back at a more convenient time. It was his arms Astarion was slumped in, held in a gentle embrace.
"How could I have left him behind to die?"
"You were an archmage, surely you're no stranger to the odd mishap and resurrection? It's more tidy than healing." The point was pressed by Wyll and was met with a scoff.
"I think I'd rather have friends who cared about me enough to not let me die in the first place."
"Your sentimentality is a weakness and an expensive habit." Once again, Lae'zel sounded ready to argue.
However, Gale huffed in frustration, rebuttal at the ready.
"If you want to put a price on friendship, then go ahead and be my guest. To me, he's worth it."
"Even with the suffering? Look at his injuries, that's got to hurt."
To be honest, Wyll did make a fair point; everything did hurt. Astarion groaned, now that he'd been healed enough to actually have the ability and energy to do so.
"Hush! He's coming to. Get a potion, one of Supreme Healing if you can!"
Hands brushed blood matted hair from Astarion's forehead and he tipped his head to look up at Gale, who smiled down at him.
"You're okay, we've got you."
A potion bottle was held against Astarion's lips and slowly tipped so he could swallow. The itch of healing intensified and he wrinkled his nose. All the same, he stared up at Gale with a look of disbelieving wonder. Once he could find his voice, Astarion leaned against his chest and muttered,
A year of isolation in his tower hadn't done Gale's social skills any favours. But that didn't mean he had wasted that year. He'd spent countless hours on his balcony, watching the world go by while he was too ashamed to join in. He saw so many people, so many interactions and had become quite adept at reading people. Which was why he was more comfortable staying by his tent while everybody else mingled at camp. It was comfortable and safe. It was also quite fascinating, seeing what his companions were like.
Karlach was boisterous, full of life and cheer which was forcefully dragged over barely concealed rage at the unfairness of it all. She laughed like she was making up for the horrors of the ten years she'd lost to the hells, she pushed happiness out of spite. As if she could fill every moment with cheer so then she had no room for anything else.
By contrast, Wyll held himself with such poise and grace. Definitely an upbringing that involved etiquette classes. Gale found himself fond of Wyll, especially when he relaxed enough to drop the veneer of The Blade and became a snarky bastard with a sharp tongue.
Then there was Shadowheart. She was a peculiar one, constantly catching herself by surprise and reeling herself back in. Gale liked to watch her as she forgot she was meant to be all mysterious and unknowable, instead she took small pleasure like smelling flowers and sipping wine indulgently when she thought nobody was looking.
Lae'zel was relative straightforward, or at least Gale thought she was. The focus was her mission, her purification. Her dedication to her quest was admirable, Gale had to respect her drive and ambition. No moment of her was wasted, she was constantly on the move, striving to achieve, to be the best. And when she wasn't, she worked extra hard to ensure that what she lacked before, she never would again.
However, Gale's favourite to watch was Astarion. He was impossible to read, a social chameleon. When he was with Shadowheart, the catty remarks and observation increased, as did the wine drinking. But if Astarion stayed near Wyll, he became more prim and proper, his back straightened and his words became sharper, enunciated like a proper lordling. The moment Karlach entered the picture though, Astarion was all laughter, smiles and coarse language. Truly, Gale couldn't figure him out. Watching him when he was by himself made no sense. The best way to describe him was like a doll that had been put back on his shelf. Without someone there to adapt to, Astarion seemed like a blank slate.
The truth about Cazador trickled out. Two hundred years of being eroded, following orders, torment, Gale struggled to wrap his head around the gravity and enormity of it all. So he did what he usually did, sat back and watched. When nobody was around Astarion, the facade disappeared, there were no plummy laughs, no snide remarks, no sharpening his blade and skills alongside Lae'zel. He just...existed. Denied the chance to drink from thinking creatures yet again, reduced to his skills in a fight. It wasn't fair.
Curiosity got the better of Gale. He'd seen how Astarion assimilated aspects of those around him to fit in, to lure them in. It was probably an automatic habit by now, a useful skill to entice victims back to Cazador. Now, Gale wondered how Astarion would adapt to him, what facets he'd take on and reflect back. The next time they made camp, Gale set up his tent next to Astarion's and offered him a small smile before holding out a book as an offering.
"In case you get bored," he said.
The book was snatched from his fingers and squirrelled away. Interesting. Gale made note but didn't push the matter further. He had to laugh a little when, days later, a different book went missing from his tent. Only for it to show up in Astarion's hands. Maybe he'd unleashed Astarion's inner bookworm. In a way, Gale was right. Stealing books became polite borrowing which turned into rather fascinating discussions about the ones they'd both read. Even better, sometimes one was left in front of Gale's tent as an offering.
Those quiet evenings spend reading side by side were much cherished moments. Gale found himself looking forward to the times when Astarion came over of his own volition, brought his own book or, without a care for propriety, rummaged through Gale's belongings to find a decent read.
What was even more interesting was how Astarion began to share his newfound love. Romance novels were shared with Wyll and Shadowheart, manuals picked over with Lae'zel and, though Karlach claimed to hate reading, Gale had spotted her curled around Astarion and listening as he read aloud from some choose-your-own-adventure tale.
So lost in all his observations, Gale failed to notice the most obvious thing. He was falling in love. Watching as Astarion figured out what he liked, who he was, what he actually wanted, it was charming. Even better, Gale was heavily invested in seeing who Astarion became. Which was why, when the time came, he left a simulacrum for Astarion to find. If anyone could help Gale make sense of his world and talk straight with him, he trust it to be Astarion.
Humiliation stung worse than the cut on Astarion's arm. He hissed and whacked the goblin responsible for it with the hilt of his dagger before shoving him for good measure. To be hurt was to fail in a rather undignified way. Of course his luck would be such that Gale saw the whole incident. Come the end of the fight, Astarion assumed he was coming over to gloat, maybe berate him. What he didn't expect was a squeeze to his shoulder and a soft,
"Are you alright?"
Wrenching himself free, Astarion offered an insincere smile.
"Peachy."
Only, it didn't seem to deter Gale. That evening, he appeared by Astarion's tent, a potion of healing in his hand.
"I didn't see you drink, either blood or potion. So I thought I'd bring you this, in case you need it. Or I could ask Shadowheart if she's able to help heal your arm."
Suspicious, Astarion snatched the potion and squirrelled it away. A little cut wasn't going to hinder him. And he wasn't going to give Gale the satisfaction of admitting he was hurt, even if he was in the middle of patching up the cut to his armour.
Only, it didn't stop there. Another day, another pointless fight when they could have just marched straight past and towards Baldur's Gate. Instead, they veered off course. The arrow had been meant for Wyll, Astarion hadn't been paying enough attention and managed to sneak in the way. It struck deep and true into the soft flesh between ribs and hip. Pain wrenched a cry from between his lips and panic rose as strong hand grabbed him.
"I've got you."
Which was frankly ridiculous but Wyll seemed intent on protecting Astarion now that he was down. Thankfully, it wasn't a long fight, or an overly difficult one. It made Astarion feel even more silly for ending up with an arrow sticking out. Just as he was about to grit his teeth and yank it out, Shadowheart knelt next to him.
"Do that and you'll do more damage. Let me."
Against his better judgement, Astarion allowed her to tend to the wound. It would likely cost him dearly in the long run, Shadowheart could demand all manner of things for repayment. The fact that Wyll stayed with him until he could help pull him back to his feet and clap him on the shoulder.
Once was a mistake, twice was peculiar, but three or more times and it was a pattern. Astarion kept track of how, whenever he got hurt, the others would flock to him. He had to test the theory.
Take a sword to the gut was a deeply unpleasant experience. Astarion regretted his choice the moment the blade pressed against his armour but the decision had been made and it was too late to change. He crumpled to the ground, trying to blink through the pain. This wasn't the first time and likely wasn't the last time this had happened, but he still hated every moment of it. Distantly, he was aware of being helped onto his side. He cried out at the sword was pulled free and quieted as a spell took hold and knitted his flesh together again.
Getting back to camp was a strange experience. Karlach all but carried him, fretting and pointing out all the wildlife along the way, offering to hunt for him if he needed a bit of a pick-me-up. It was oddly nice, touching even. And it didn't stop. For the rest of the evening, Gale sat with him, occasionally quietly as he read but all too keen to natter on and even read aloud from one of his books. Astarion thought he could get used to such treatment.
If only things had been so easy. Kindness came at a cost, it always did. But Astarion could play the game. He had to figure out a fine balance of not getting hurt often enough to be deemed incompetent or a liability, but frequently enough that he got a dollop of gentle care to see him through the next little while.
Each time he got hurt, the others were there. Offering their veins if possible, or other small comforts in their meagre means. Astarion didn't want to admit it, but he basked in those gestures, the kindness, the tender touches and supportive words. Yes, it hurt, but it was utterly worth it. He willingly stepped into a beam of radiant sunlight Halsin had cast, just to memorise the gentle brushes of hands as bandages were wrapped around skin that couldn't yet heal. He weathered the crack of a quarterstaff across his back in order to ensure warm hands skated reverently across his scarred back, making sure he was fully healed.
What he wasn't expecting was for that soft companionship to extend beyond the necessity of healing and making sure he was fit for another fight. Astarion wasn't injured, wasn't due another dose of healing and care for another couple of fights, yet Gale appeared, two bottles in hand.
"Would you join me for a nightcap?"
One bottle held vinegary wine but the other? Astarion's mouth watered as he smelled the rich blood of a thinking creature. It worked perfectly as a lure because he was nodding eagerly, making room for Gale to join him on his little mountain of soft throws and cushions.
"I noticed you've been doing well these last few battles. Thought you'd like to celebrate your uninjured streak."
Of course, it was meant as a joke but Astarion froze. He'd been rumbled, the others had to know. But surely not, he'd been so careful, left no pattern to his injuries, made sure it was relatively unpredictable so it seemed less manufactured. Unfortunately, Gale didn't seem deterred.
"I was talking to some of the others. And, you know, Karlach would be more than happy to sit with you, share her heat, without the excuse of taking an ice arrow to your being." Astarion kept his mouth shut which Gale seemed to take as encouragement to keep talking. "Also, Shadowheart would love to gossip with you without needing the excuse of healing you to spend time together. Oh! And Wyll was wondering whether you remember any dances of old? He'd wanted to ask sooner but then the whole dislocating your shoulder incident happened."
Astarion barely dared look at Gale but he still had to ask,
"And you?"
"I'm here already, aren't I?" Gale turned to look at him, smiling broadly. "Blood and wine, comfort and companionship, you and me. I quite like you like this, whole and healthy, without your face pinched with memories of recent pain. It suits you."
Between them, Gale's hand slipped across the gap in an offer, palm up. Unlike his usual, brazen self, Astarion was shy about reaching to take the offer. But, in a feat of bravery greater than what it took to take a blow for someone else, he took Gale's hand and gave it a squeeze. There was hope yet, even if he wasn't yet ready to believe it.
Those words haunted Astarion. What kind of poetry did Gale write? Given the way he spoke, full of unnecessarily long words - which he had the gall to call loquacious rather than excessive and redundant - Astarion had to assume he wrote poncy crap like sonnets, epics, and odes. If only there was a way to find out because, infuriatingly, Gale was tight-lipped about it in a way he wasn't about other, more personal, matters (like his love of Mystra).
What Astarion did know was that Gale had a notebook. Not his little book of spells that he guarded like a lacklustre pigeon, no, he had a pocket sized purple booklet that he jotted things down in. That notebook was squirrelled away at all times, shoved in a pocket the moment anyone is even in the vicinity. At first Astarion had thought it was some smutty secret that Gale was hiding but, the more he tried to sneak up on him, the more he learned that it wasn't anything scandalous. Unless Gale was composing some erotic ode to Mystra's nipple hair or something equally absurd yet sensual.
Stealing from a man when he was down was probably considered poor etiquette but Astarion didn't have scruples about it. The simulacrum had disappeared and left behind a pouch with infuriatingly specific instructions. A better man would have resisted. Alas, Astarion was an elf and a vampire spawn with sticky fingers. Resurrecting Gale came at the price of a five finger discount on the notebook. While their resident wizard was sleeping off the shock of briefly dying, Astarion settled in with a good glass of wine and steeled himself for reading some terrible poetry. He needed the ammunition for their future spirited debates. With that in mind, he flipped open the notebook at a random page.
Roses are red,
This poem will sicken.
Here's my dick,
In a rotisserie chicken.
What the fuck was a rotusserie chicken? And why was Gale's dick in it?! Astarion came close to snapping the notebook shut and never witnessing such words in that particular order ever again. But the point of art was to elicit emotion so Gale had succeeded at that. Tentatively, Astarion opened a more recent page. This one had the stains of the Shadowlands on it.
Roses are red,
The sun isn't shining.
My mental state
Is rapidly declining.
At least Gale was sticking to a familiar format. Consistency was the key, at least that was what Astarion believed. He needed to read more to find out whether it continued. Another page, no roses this time.
The once was a man called Gale,
Who pleasured himself with a snail.
It wasn't for leisure
Or sexual pleausre,
But for Mystra's happy wail.
That one definitely needed more work. The words tail, trail, whale and grail were all jotted near the bottom of the page as potential rhymes. Just thinking about Mystra's happy trail made Astarion's lips curl in disgust. In a bid for a palate cleanser of the mind, he flipped to the last page used.
Gale and Astarion, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Oh dear. But in a good way. Astarion was oddly touched and surprised. The way Gale had seemingly taken a shine to him was no longer just a wild fancy of his, this was confirmation that it was the truth. Really, Astarion ought to do something about it. A bright idea hit him and he grabbed a quill to scribble a line under Gale's latest poetry attempt. Finishing with a flourish, he snapped the book shut, bookmark firmly in place.
Rather than smuggle it back, Astarion strutted to the tent next door the following morning when Gale was finally up and presented the notebook with a wink.
"A most invigorating read."
Like a fish out of water, Gale gaped at him, lost for worxs possibly for the first time in his life. Astarion continued,
"I've left some annotations and suggestions. I hope you don't mind."
Sauntering off, he waited. And waited. It wasn't until that evening that Gale appeared by his tent.
"Really?" The question was accompanied by the notebook being waved menacingly at Astarion.
"Really."
"Tent. Now."
As the flap fell shut behind them, Astarion couldn't help but feel proud of his poetic prowess. It didn't have to be good to be fun. His addition had been quite simple really and now, well, life was imitating art.
Gale and Astarion, sitting in a tent, S-H-A-G-G-I-N-G.
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Ridding the world of Cazador should have been the end of Astarion's torment. The monster was gone, dead, leaving him and the spawn free for the rest of their undead existence. Except life was never that easy. Initially it wasn't even obvious. The group continued with their plans to destroy the brain and end the reign of the Absolute before it even started. There were fights, big and small, their victory was relatively secure. Only, as Astarion fought them, his accuracy dropped. The power of his hits dwindled. Consuming blood didn't seem to help, neither did healing potions, spells or rest. It only get worse as the others realised that he was becoming worse than useless. He was a liability. Leaving the Elfsong became a laughable notion when he could barely get from his bed to Shadowheart or Halsin for a pitiful request of help. Astarion didn't even know what help he was asking for anymore, the world was too large and he was too weak to fight off even a flea that might want to steal some of the blood he'd been gifted. Through it all, there was one steady presence next to him; Gale. The worse Astarion felt, the less he was left alone. A warm arm wrapped around his waist and kept him upright. There were gentle words and reassurances murmured in his ear, even when he couldn't make sense of them. Words drifted by and he could barely snatch the odd one. But he heard "masterless" and "dying" maybe what could have been "fresh start" but might have also been "re-sharred". The world slipped by and Astarion let it, not strong enough to keep even a tenuous hold on it.
Waking up in a tight box was terrifying. Slats of wood were inches from Astarion's nose. It all smelled of freshly dug earth with sounds muffled and dulled. He was back in the flimsy coffin after his first death. He was back in the tomb coffin Cazador had locked him in for a year. He was dying without the reprieve of an actual death.
"No! No no no no!"
He smacked his fists into the wood, clawed in desperation, leaving deep scratches. He couldn't be trapped. Not again. Not ever again.
"Let me out! Let me out!" His voice cracked as he screamed, fists pounding against the lid of the coffin and a bit of earth fell in his face. Somewhere, his name was being called, it had to be a hallucination.
"Astarion!"
Sharper, closer. Astarion blinked as more dirt fell in his face. A slat was broken, splinters and shards on his chest but the loose earth hadn't come tumbling down. Gasping for breaths, Astarion blinked.
"Astarion, look at me."
Turning his head to the right, Astarion jolted in shock. He wasn't alone. The coffin wasn't the expected narrow, barely wide enough for his shoulders kind of thing. And it wasn't pitch black, a soft glow emanated from Gale who was lying next to him.
"You're okay. You're safe, Astarion."
"Gale?"
"The one and only Gale of Waterdeep, former Chosen of Mystra, archmage in recovery. Hello!"
The joke fell flat as Astarion's gaze returned to the scratched up remains of the coffin lid. He gave it a shove but it refused to move under the weight of the earth above them. They had been buried good and proper. Misery twisted with panic and rose as bitter bile in the back of his throat.
"Astarion, listen to me. You're safe. But you need to dig yourself out of this grave."
He was in a grave. Buried. Again. A desperate sob broke through Astarion's tenuous control and he clamped a hand over his mouth. He couldn't do it. Not again. Even the first time had been one too many.
"I can't," he whimpered. "I can't. Don't make me do this. I can't. Please, Gale, don't make me."
A warm hand landed on his elbow. Against him, Gale was solid, warm, real.
"I'm sorry." The thing was, Gale genuinely sounded remorseful. "But you're not alone. I'm here with you all the way. The earth won't cave in, you won't have to fight it. All you need to do is make a hole and climb out. Can you do that, for me, please?"
Vehemently, Astarion shook his head. All his nightmares were turning into reality once more, he was trapped, needing to claw his way out.
"This was the only way we could save you," Gale continued talking. "We were losing you. Something about being the one to end Cazador had left you untethered. Halsin was the one who came up with the idea of maybe needing to help you be 'born' again, so to speak. It seems to have done the trick though."
"How long?"
"How long you've been down here for?" At Astarion's nod, Gale hummed. "Less than an hour. We figured that sunset would be a good time to do it, give you the whole night in case you needed it."
"And you've been here with me?"
"The whole time."
Somehow, Astarion didn't doubt the truth of that. He looked at the coffin again. It had obviously been hastily cobbled together, unusual in its size. In all honesty, Astarion didn't think he'd ever seen a coffin made for two. And, true to Gale's word, the earth wasn't spilling into the casket, it was held back by magic all while a soft glow lit up the interior, glinting softly off fine silk shroud that covered his legs and hips. His eyes met Gale's.
"I'm sorry it isn't better," Gale began to ramble, "we were rather short on time so couldn't make it as luxurious as you deserve. I'd have liked to add a bit more comfort to your second undeath."
A shaky smile was Astarion's reply. He looked back up at the coffin lid and reached for it. The wood split surprisingly easily under his touch, as though it had been chosen with that specific quality in mind. There was no fighting the wood for freedom, it granted it without strain to reveal loosely packed earth that refused to succumb to gravity.
"You've got this."
The first few handfuls of dirt were daintily scooped aside before desperation bit deep and Astarion frantically scrambled to get fresh air in his lungs. Around him, the cloying scent of grave dirt threatened to drown him. Dirt pooled around him as he made rapid progress hauling earth out of his way. Above him life became louder, heartbeats of people nearby, the mutter of nervous chatter. His hand broke through into the cool air and it was firmly grasped. Multiple hands helped haul him out of the freshly dug grave, a warm cloak was draped around his shoulders and a goblet of fresh blood was pressed into his hands.
A blink of magic and Gale was next to him with a wordless 'misty step', the silk burial shroud draped over his arm.
"I'm so glad you're back." The shroud was offered to Astarion with mild hesitation. "I've enchanted it, it should stay unmarred by time for a good few centuries so you'll be able to rest easy." He smiled a little, obviously pleased with himself. "And stylishly."
Astarion reached for him, goblet of blood forgotten as he yanked Gale in for a tight hug.
"You ridiculous man. Thank you."
He stole a soft kiss and watched as Gale's eyes crinkled with a smile.
Around them, their friends laughed in relief, glad to have their companion back safe and sound. All in all, Astarion was of the opinion that his second undeath was rather more pleasant than the first but he still didn't ever want to do it again.
Sometimes disdainful things were unavoidable. For example, Withers retiring was a most unwelcome reality but Tara couldn't do much about it. She was going to have to audition a new vet to see to her needs and Mr. Dekarios was going to help her.
Arriving at the practice in her comfortable chariot carrier, Tara was haughtily examining the waiting area. She'd seen it many times before, Withers had a strong opinion on what it should look like. Thankfully the leadership team had kept most of it as before. The only thing that was different was the removal of a mirror from near the bathroom. Maybe it was Withers' personal mirror and he took it with him when he left. Tara didn't have much time to contemplate or even mention it to Gale because a consultation room door opened.
"Miss Tara?"
The voice was plummy and a bit posh but there was a hint of warmth hiding in there somewhere. Mr Dekarios picked up her carrier and, once they were in the room, the door closed behind them with a soft thump.
"Shall we open up the carrier so we can proper introductions?"
Very good. Tara was most pleased by such an approach. There had been one vet who only talked to Mr. Dekarios and refused to even acknowledge her as a thinking creature. At least this one held some promise. The doors opened and she strutted out, stretching her wings before sitting primly in front of Mr. Dekarios, tail curled around her feet to hide the fact they were sweaty with nervousness.
"Goodness me, you must be Miss Tara, your notes did not do justice to your magnificence." The vet was an elf, very pale with the sweet smell of death about him, like all vets tended to be. "My name is Astarion Ancunin, your vet for today. It's an absolute pleasure to meet you and Mr. Dekarios."
He was laying it on a bit thick but Tara could forgive him, especially when she looked over her shoulder at Mr. Dekarios who was stood, staring like he'd just seen the most resplendent of sunsets. Interesting. Tara might have a new task at hand. Turning to Astarion, she gave him a long look.
"Hm. Meow."
"Tara!" Mr. Dekarios hissed at her, mortified while Astarion laughed. "We talked about this. I'm so sorry, she's usually not quite as obstinate. And please, call me Gale."
"I cannot fault Miss Tara for being discerning in who she graces with conversation, Gale."
Smugly, Tara unwound her tail. It seemed Astarion was as interested in Mr. Dekarios in return. Excellent. Even better, she was still Miss Tara, just because Mr. Dekarios didn't have standards and let everyone call him Gale didn't mean that Tara didn't insist on being addressed properly. Many people fell into the trap of over-familiarity with her when it was just Mr. Dekarios they had permission to call by his first name.
"So, Miss Tara," Astarion continued, a smile on his lips, "I understand you're here for your booster jabs. Unfortunately, it does come with a couple of questions which, under normal circumstances, I would never ask a lady. Or a gentleman at that." Here, his eyes shot to Gale. "But I fear I must ask how much you weigh, Miss Tara."
The cheeky pup. He was good! Tara found herself thawing out despite her determination to be aloof. She turned to Mr. Dekarios who dutifully pulled out a slip of paper with her weight written on it.
"Most discreet. Fear not, Miss Tara, you look to be in perfect shape and this only confirms it." A wry smile curled Astarion's lips. "Usually when I'm passed a piece of paper with numbers on it, it's of the contact details type."
Behind her, Mr. Dekarios was blushing something fierce. It brought Tara great comfort while she suffered through the indignity of being checked over, hear heart was listened to.
"Wonderful, you take superb care of yourself, Miss Tara. All that's left is the booster. A sharp scratch and it'll be done. I do apologise for my cold hands, we try to keep the consultation rooms on the cooler side for the comfort of our clients."
Astarion hadn't been joking about his hands being cold, they were a sharp contrast to Gale's almost perpetually warm ones. Still, they were gentle and firm, Tara could accept them touching her. Even better, the injection was barely noticeable, Astarion was quick and skilled with the needle.
Once done, Tara saw herself back into her carrier. The pleasantries could be carried out by Mr. Dekarios who sounded more than eager to chatter about tressyms, Astarion's recent arrival at the practice and how he was settling in, having moved from Baldur's Gate to Waterdeep. Sadly, time was short and all too soon Gale was driving them back to their tower.
"So, does Astarion meet your standards?" Gale asked, hope in his voice.
"He wasn't an abysmal failure. I will peruse the local veterinary listings to see if there's anyone better available."
"Of course. This is your health, you need to be comfortable."
Tara sighed to herself, Mr. Dekarios sounded as pitiful as a kitten whose toy had rolled under a cabinet.
"You could always see if Astarion would like to have a coffee with you when he's free."
"I will not proposition someone at their workplace! Really, Tara, you know you've taught me better manners than that."
So, once again, it was down to dear old Tara to sort things out. Typical. Over the next couple of days she schemed, timing was important, she couldn't make her meddling obvious. A week was long enough.
"Oh Mr. Dekarios," she cried as he was sorting out her breakfast. "My wing hurts something fierce."
For full effect, she let her left wing droop, feathers almost brushing the floor. As expected, Gale's whole focus was on her. Gentle hands felt over the allegedly sore wing and Tara was encouraged to move it and show what she could and couldn't do.
"Please be a dear and book me in with Astarion. I fear this may need an expert opinion."
Years of trust and respect meant her wish was heeded. At ten past two in the afternoon, Tara was back in a consultation room with Astarion.
"Miss Tara! I had been hoping to only see you in a year's time. What seems to be the problem."
Acting was a fine art. Tara had to balance the pitiful with just enough resilience that nothing untoward would be suspected.
"I think I was too vigorous in hunting a bat," she sighed. "Please tell me it's nothing more serious than a sprain."
Cold hands felt over both her wings, careful and focused. Actually, it felt rather nice and Tara accidentally let slip a soft purr. While Gale missed it, Astarion gave her a confused look.
"I can't feel anything, movement seems to be unimpeded. I am inclined to agree, it's probably some overzealous hunting leading to a strain. May I recommend some rest and TLC. Maybe curl up with a hot water bottle and some treats, take it easy for a couple of days. If it's still acting up, come see me again."
The look of relief on Gale did make Tara's heart twinge with guilt a little. But this was for his own good.
"Thank you, Astarion," she replied. "Please talk Mr. Dekarios through the finer points, I feel I must rest. This ordeal has rather taken in out of me."
With that, she swanned back into her carrier and proudly listened as the conversation turned from resting to TV show preferences. Yes, she was definitely doing the right thing. Back in the car, Tara was the one to probe the matter.
"You and Astarion seem to have a fair amount in common."
"He was just being nice."
"He was. But you both like animals, are highly invested in learning and knowing more, excellent in your chosen fields, and you both have terrible taste in television."
"He's excellent in his chosen field? Is that approval I am hearing from you, Tara?"
Of course Gale had to focus on that. Still, it meant Tara hadn't been rumbled and her plans were still secret. Small sacrifices and all that.
Over the course of the next month, Tara demanded to have her teeth checked (pristine, as expected), a broken claw disinfected and paw wrapped to prevent infection and, horror of horrors, she even pretended to have eaten a rat so she could have indigestion and the scare of eating something that was poisoned. That one came with a lecture about safe sources of food but she sat through it in the name of love. Unfortunately, she was running out of ailments.
"Oh Mr. Dekarios, I can't decide whether I'm hot or cold. I must have the seasonal fevers."
It was a last ditch attempt. So far Astarion and Mr. Dekarios had been dancing around each other, neither making a move but the tension between them was getting thicker and thicker.
"Tara, I didn't think tressym got things like the flu."
Tara coughed and looked at Mr. Dekarios with big, sad eyes.
"Please take me to see Astarion. I think only he can help."
"Honestly. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a crush on him! You've never been to the vet this much before. I'm really getting worried for you, Tara."
Tara?! Having a crush?! On Astarion?! Ridiculous! This was projection at its finest, obviously, but Tara wasn't going to point it out. Instead, she pulled herself into a tighter ball and shivered for show. In the end she got what she wanted and they were on their way to the vet clinic once more.
"Miss Tara!" Great, even Astarion sounded worried. "Your notes say you're feeling feverish. What's been going on for you?"
As he spoke, Astarion was pulling out his stethoscope and a thermometer. Tara hadn't thought this ailment through properly.
"Mr. Dekarios, please wait outside," she said firmly. "I do not wish to have an audience for this indignity."
A tube of lubricant joined the thermometer on the table. Thankfully, Gale left after one last worried look. As soon as the door closed, Tara turned back to Astarion.
"You bring that anywhere near me and I will scream bloody murder before scratching your eyes out, ripping your ears off and shoving them in your hollow eyes sockets." Astarion took a step back, eyes wide and breath hitching. Tara sat on the consultation table primly, satisfied that nothing untoward was about to happen. "My apologies for the drastic measures, but this really has gone on for too long. I cannot take sole responsibility for you and Mr. Dekarios finding time to spend together. This has gone on quite long enough."
Confusion and concern coloured Astarion's cheeks pink.
"I'm not sure I understand, Miss Tara. You've been quite poorly recently with an array of health concerns."
"I'm fine, there's nothing wrong with me! But Mr. Dekarios was never going to work up the courage to ask to see you outside of the clinic. I had to do something to prevent his pining."
"Miss Tara, are you saying you've been faking all this time, just to try and play matchmaker?" Something akin to a laugh was bubbling in Astarion's voice. "Wait. Did you say Gale's been pining?"
"Yes!"
"You do realise, if I were to pursue something with Gale, I would no longer be able to attend to you as your clinician."
"It is a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Mr. Dekarios deserves to be happy and there are other veterinarians I can audition for my care. Unless you have a recommendation, I'm inclined to trust your opinion."
Three short minutes later Tara was leading the way out of the consultation room, tail up in the air as Astarion followed her. She hopped up onto the receptionist's desk to arrange for an appointment with a Dr. Hallowleaf to meet her and discuss her needs. Meanwhile, Astarion approached Gale.
"Is she okay?" Gale asked.
"Miss Tara is fine. We've had quite an enlightening conversation. Perhaps it's one I could recap with you over a coffee?"
"Now? Oh gods, is it something long term? Or serious? I've never had coffee at a vet's office before unless if was terrible news that needed sitting down."
"Mister Dekarios!" Tara snapped, done with the beating around the bush. "Astarion is asking you on a date. You will accept. You'll have lunch on Tuesday at half past eleven at the little cafe round the corner from here. Wear your purple shirt and cologne. Astarion, bring him a bouquet of tulips, preferably purple. Do I really have to do everything around here?"
Thankfully, Tara's words were heeded. Gale wore his purple shirt and cologne, Astarion brought some tulips that were such a deep purple they were almost black. They had lunch, they had a good time. The rest, as they say, is history.
A question that had kept Gale up at nights was one that he didn't really want to ask. See, the problem was Astarion's duality, he was an elf so he should rest through trancing for maybe four hours a night, but he was also a vampire and they were notorious for sleeping in coffins during daylight hours. Throughout their travels, Astarion seemed resistant to trancing, though he did succumb to it from time to time. Gale had assumed that his elven heritage had won out over his vampiric curse, though it didn't feel quite right because of how Astarion avoided trancing. Answers to his unspoken question came after their first recon mission to Szarr Palace.
"And this is the spawns' bedroom, we were stashed here whenever there was no use for us," Astarion drawled like a seasoned tour guide, detached from the horrors he was showing. The barren room was rather the stuff of nightmares and Gale shivered at even imagining life in such a setting. Thankfully, the others with them were also far too caught up in the moment to hear Astarion's soft "aha!" of triumph. However, Gale heard it and saw how a grey scrap of fabric was snatched off one of the bunks, hurriedly stuffed down the front of Astarion's doublet. Definitely something to question later, in private.
Gale didn't get a chance to ask. After wandering the rafters and attics of Szarr Palace, they returned to camp in silent contemplation. Only Astarion seemed in good spirits as darkness approached. He fussed as he spread out the stolen fabric next to Gale's bedroll before flopping down on it with a happy sigh. Rather than question it, Gale settled down and let himself be treated as a large teddybear that Astarion clung to. Not entirely unusual for their sleeping arrangement but the enthusiasm was new. Gale wasn't going to complain.
He should have complained. Usually, Gale had no issues sleeping. But now he was wide awake as a horrendous wet snarling echoed in his ear. Heart pouding, he craned his neck towards the weight on his shoulder. Astarion was snuggled up against him, mouth open and...snoring. Another eardrum shattering, globby inhale and Gale winced. This was new. Astarion had never snored before. Ever the one to explore a conundrum, Gale tried to figure out what brought it on. The only real change was the coarse fabric Astarion was sleeping on. Like a bolt of lightning, understanding struck Gale. It must have been Astarion's burial shroud! According to some lores, vampires couldn't rest without gravedirt or their burial shroud. All this time Astarion must have been pushing through! Guilt ate away at Gale even though he couldn't have known. To start making amends, he didn't nudge Astarion or try to wake him, he needed sleep and probably moreso than Gale.
That was the first night. Gale had hoped it was a one-off and time, along with more rest, would help. He did so hate being wrong. As beautiful and alluring as Astarion was while awake, when he was asleep he was rather the harsh opposite.
"Is he dead?" Karlach asked, eyes glued to Astarion who had settled down in a beam of sunshine for a nap. He was on his side, face pressed into a pillow until his face wrinkled, mouth open and one eye drifting under a half closed lid. Before Gale could answer, Astarion let out a snort, smacked his lips a couple of times and went back to dreaming.
Karlach shrugged, "No more dead than usual. Got it."
Only a few nights later they were sat around the fire, chattering. Astarion had draped his shroud around his shoulders. As the evening wore on, he leaned agaisnt Gale more and more, heavier with each passing minute until he was fully slumped, cheek smooshed into the meat of Gale's shoulder. That would have been fine. The growning damp patch on Gale's sleeve was not. Drool soaked the material until even Wyll couldn't draw his eyes from it. A quick glance revealed Astarion's mouth half open as he slept.
"It'll wash out," Gale said more to himself than anyone else.
Not all of it was terrible. To be perfectly honest, none of it was terrible, just mildly off-putting. But seeing Astarion curled up in his lap, fast asleep had Gale's heart swelling. The little twitches and grumbles Astarion let out as he dreamed were precious. After a particularly vigorous jolt, his jaw started clenching, much like a kitten suckling in a dream.
"Is he dreaming about eating?!" Shadowheart had abandoned her book in favour of watching.
"I think so."
"That's adorable."
Gale levelled her with a stern glare. "Not a word of this to him when he's awake. Understood?"
"How about we give him a blood soaked rag? I've seen women do it with their babes."
"Absolutely not!" Although...Gale entertained the idea briefly, it would have been sweet but Astarion's ire wasn't worth it. He treasured this vulnerability far more. Shadowheart just shrugged and continued to watch Astarion dream about feeding on someone or something. In turn, Gale returned to idly stroking through Astarion's curls. It was nice, knowing that even someone as perfect as Astarion could wake up with pillow creases on his face after having spent hours sleeping in the least attractive way possible. The fact it didn't put Gale off in the slightest, in fact made him feel more for Astarion than before? That was probably true love.
In BG3 Chat GPT actually means Chat (to) Gale Please (and) Thankyou. If Gale doesn't have an answer for you, he will gladly trot off to the nearest library and return within 3-5 business days not only with the answer you need but also a whole host of new information he learned along the way.
There's an alternate world out there where Gale wasn't the one abducted by the nautiloid. He was too busy throwing himself a pity party in his tower to go out and get taken. But you know who was out and about when the nautiloid arrived? Tara. She was catnapped, stuck in a pod and a tadpole popped in her perfect, apple-domed head.
Suddenly, she found herself with more than just one charge to corral and keep alive. Shadowheart with her lack of memories definitely needed help to stay on the straight and narrow, Lae'zel had never known a gentle kittenhood so obviously needed to be given quiet softness now. Karlach was delightfully warm without having to be touched by her and Wyll was kindness wrapped around a filthy mind and sharp sense of humour. Then there was Astarion. Quite possibly Tara's most troublesome kitten charge. He had a singular way of being sociable yet isolated from everyone. A cat in all ways but physiology. And Tara knew exactly what he needed. Or rather; who. Her trans-dimensional cat flap was still a work in progress but travelling with her new colony of strange kittens had given her ample time to make it work. The tadpole in her head had even been kind enough to offer feedback on it through sharing collective memories from the nautiloid and how it travelled.
"Mr. Dekarios," she trilled as she stepped into the darkened tower. Her friend and charge was still in the depths of despair, shut off from the world. An adventure was exactly what he needed. "Come along now, you need some fresh air. And a shave if you will. There's places to be, people to meet."
Strangely, there was already a packed bag by the door. And Gale was fiddling with envelopes, stuffing parchments in them.
"Tara! I wasn't sure when you'd be back." A heavy air of resignation sat around Gale. "I was making sure I left everyone letters before setting out."
"Where are you going?"
"The Underdark. I was going to find an uninhabited spot as far away as possible."
That was just nonsense. But at least the Underdark was where Tara had left her newfound colony. It could work.
"Very well. We have no time to waste. I have some important business in the Underdark that you'll accompany me to first. Come along now. I suppose a shave will have to wait."
Though Gale looked crestfallen and baffled, he got his bags and locked the tower with a sigh. Patting the door in a fond farewell, he turned to Tara.
"Well?"
Rather than reply, Tara led him through her magical cat flap and straight to camp. Everyone was there and Tara marched to the fire, wings spread grandiosely.
"My dears, please welcome our helping hand, none other than the Wizard of Waterdeep himself, Mr. Gale Dekarios. He'll be setting up his tent next to Astarion." She turned to her vampling. "Be a dear and help him find the spot. I would quite like to rest my wings by the warm fire. And share some of your magical finds. There's a ring of colour spray that I know is useless to us all but Mr. Dekarios will have great need of it."
"And there I went, hoping you'd brought me a snack," Astarion replied with a purr to his voice. There was no missing the look he was giving Gale though and Tara purred in satisfaction. Sometimes, integrating a new member into her colony was troublesome but it seemed her beloved Mr. Dekarios was going to be just fine. Still, it didn't stop her from using the tadpole to give Astarion a sharp warning, Mr. Dekarios was not for eating! The withering look Astarion shot her would have worked on a humanoid, as it was, Tara flicked her tail and wings and ignored it.
With such a large group of wayward kittens to tend to, Tara found herself very busy. So much so, she missed the first steps of the budding romance between Astarion and Mr. Dekarios. No matter, she had plenty of time to ensure things stayed on track. In the evenings when Astarion disappeared into the blue tent and the two spoke softly long into the night, Tara sat outside the closed flaps vigilantly and warded off any interrupt. Be that Karlach looking for a friendly game of axe tossing or a rude githyanki group there to tell Lae'zel the truth about Vlaakith.
Disaster struck when a construct of Elminster greeted them at the edge of the Shadowcursed lands. Tara's hackles rose and she hissed in disdain. At least the orb in Mr. Dekarios' chest was quietened. Which meant the nights were less peaceful. Tara had half a mind to cast silence over the tents and maybe threaten Astarion's tadpole into closing off from everyone else when he was...otherwise engaged. The idea of going further away from the tent never occurred to Tara, she wasn't going to abandon her oldest friend and leave him unprotected, especially not when he was in such a...vulnerable...position. Actually, the less said about positions the better.
The crown atop the netherbrain was the Crown of Karsus. Tara should have known. Instead, she got to learn of it at the same time as all the others and she watched Mr. Dekarios very carefully. He had a knack for getting grandiose ideas that he needed dissuading from. At least this time she had Astarion to team up with, he had already done an admirable job of arguing against Mystra's orders. Now though...Tara was having second thoughts.
"If you get the crown, can I at least have a tiara?" Astarion asked and Tara grumbled to herself as she warmed herself in Karlach's lap.
"Is that all you'd want? You'd have a god as your partner and all you'd want is a tiara?" The pot over the campfire bubbled away under Gale's careful attention. "You could have anything you wanted."
"I'll have lost what I want at that point," Astarion replied and Tara's ears swivelled. This was not what she'd been anticipating.
"Oh?"
"You become a god and I lose Gale Dekarios."
"I'd still be me, just better."
"But what if I don't want better? What if I want you as you are."
Tara watched them with great interest. How Mr. Dekarios' eyes went wide and wet, how Astarion was coiled tight despite appearing to be in a relaxed sprawl. She urged her tadpole to brush up against Astarion's and pushed her sense of approval and appreciation through. That evening she sat, faithful as ever, outside Astarion's tent, guarding her favourites as they held each other close.
The crowdfunding campaign to fund publishing of our next erotic anthology, Monsterotica: Tales of Unusual Courtship and Coupling, is now live on Kickstarter!
Now through December 2nd, 2025, we seek to raise $10,500 to cover publishing of the anthology and creation of the related merchandise. This awesome book contains 16 queer stories by 16 awesome authors, each story up to 7,500 words long. We encouraged authors to pitch us stories featuring unusual creatures and unconventional genitals; you won’t find any vampires or weres here, but you will find insectoid aliens, mountain cryptids, scales and feathers, tentacles, detachable anatomy, interspecies shenanigans, courtship confusion, and much more. And of course, in addition to featuring monster x monster and monster x human relationships, every single story also includes queer characters and queer relationships!
The contributors to this anthology are Jaye Anderson, Katia Anyway, I. A. Ashcroft, E. M. Beka, Nicola Doen, Annika Sage Ellis, Ivy L. James, MJ Kiwiana, Kitty Lee, Lyonel Loy, Cedar D. McCafferty-Svec, Taliesin Owens, Ambra Rossi, T. L. Sly, Teddy Sweet, and Dei Walker.
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Sure, he's not necessarily a bright spark, nor smooth & suave like Astarion
But
Petras isn't dumb, he's just in denial!
He's bought into Cazador's narratives, specifically "We're a family" & "You will ascend with me"
Because, if Petras were to see the reality of his situation, it would drive him to despair & hopelessness
Denial can be one hell of a coping mechanism
I do think Petras gets a lot less sympathy & understanding from the fandom than he deserves sometimes
Honestly? I don’t think Petras is exactly a brainiac, lol. BUT! That doesn’t mean your point about him being in denial is invalid! The two things aren’t mutually exclusive — in fact, they’re not even directly related. Quite the opposite.
Focusing solely on “Petras is an idiot” prevents us from noticing all the layered implications behind Astarion’s confrontation with his siblings. Context matters. Past experiences matter. Their mental states — both of them — matter. Especially in this case. There’s a lot to consider… and a lot to analyze! Yay!
So, let’s start with context. We know all the spawn are actively looking for Astarion, who somehow managed to escape Cazador’s grasp. We also know Cazador “motivated” them in his own way — though we don’t know exactly how often or how cruelly. And of course, we know he dangled the prospect of ascending together in front of their faces.
That alone provides meaning: “I’m enduring all this pain, all these humiliations, because there will be a reward at the end.” Freedom. It’s an incredibly powerful motivator.
Now, Astarion escapes. He gets free. Right in front of them — while they’re the ones left behind, still enduring the master’s wrath, partly because of him. I think that pisses Petras off — a lot (and not just him). Especially in a group that’s always been trained to tear each other down over even the smallest scrap of favoritism.
In this toxic dynamic, Astarion is the “arrogant spawn” — but also the weak one. The one who, after being buried alive for a year, stopped rebelling and simply obeyed. No more defiance, no more fight. And yet, with his peers? He never backed down. He kept acting like a smug bastard, maybe even a bully. Because he needed to. That arrogance was his armor — a hard outer shell meant to look strong while he crumbled on the inside, just like the others.
We can even imagine a past where Astarion taunted Petras about his intellect, played up the idea of him being dumb, just to make him feel smaller. But that doesn’t mean Petras is truly or irreparably stupid. Any excuse would’ve done the trick. The point wasn’t truth — it was power.
Power — whether wielded or endured — is an omnipresent dynamic when it comes to Astarion and vampires in general in Baldur’s Gate 3. Naturally, the one holding true power is Cazador, but his spawn — desperate, starved, and dehumanized — would do anything to taste even the faintest trace of it. To be able to manage even a crumb of that power, however fleeting. Just enough to regain some semblance of validity. “I exist too. I matter. My presence has an effect.”
Personally, I’ve always felt that during Astarion’s encounter with his siblings — and here I’m focusing in particular on Dalyria and Petras — all the old family dynamics come rushing back at once. Facing his brothers and sisters again, Astarion undergoes a kind of emotional regression, slipping right back into those familiar, dysfunctional patterns. Patterns the others, by the way, never left. By now, after centuries, they’ve become a sort of conventional language between them — twisted, but familiar.
And honestly, the way Petras and Astarion speak to each other suggests to me that Petras might have been Astarion’s “favorite victim” — the one who was easiest to bully, precisely because of his limited intellect. I put victim in quotation marks because it’s important to remember that in this context, they’re all victims — all of them ready to tear each other apart over the tiniest scrap of attention or power.
I’m also certain that, at times, alliances formed between them — temporary, bound to break, yes — but still, I believe every spawn had a sibling they preferred, and conversely, one they looked down on the most.
That’s where I think Petras and Astarion fit in. Their rivalry and mutual disdain seem to exist at an extreme — with the added tension, for Petras, that Astarion is clearly much more cunning than he is.
Within this climate of underlying tension unfolds the very encounter we’re discussing. It’s also worth noting that Dalyria seems to be the sibling with whom Astarion gets along better. This is especially evident when playing as Astarion — there’s a sense of mutual respect between them. Dalyria is even willing to trust him, particularly if you choose the right dialogue options — so much so that she actually asks Astarion to save them, all of them.
This, in turn, greatly irritates Petras — the brother who seems to despise Astarion the most on a personal level. He remains firmly attached to the idea of “family” and to Cazador’s empty promises, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
So when we analyze Petras’ behavior, we can’t ignore these foundations. It’s not just about stupidity. It’s about years and years of learned behavior, of indoctrination carved into them through fear, suffering, and the constant need to fight for survival — not only in the physical sense, but mentally too. Preserving one’s mind becomes a form of survival in a context like this.
And in that moment, the one trying to open Petras’ eyes is the very same brother who — for years — was a conniving bastard to him. So… why should he believe him?
On the other hand, Astarion, the sibling once seen as weak — and who’s now slipping back into old family dynamics — can’t wait to flaunt his new condition in front of the others: free from Cazador, immune to sunlight, finally in a position of overwhelming superiority.
And god, does he love it! After centuries of rats and groveling at someone’s feet, it’s a feeling he’s desperate to experience to the fullest. Even better if he gets to do it in front of the bastards who mocked him, judged him, made him feel weak and unworthy.
And again — I say all this without assigning blame, because in this context, they’re all victims, each doing what they can to survive. The situation itself is so toxic that it brings out the worst in all of them.
So, let’s circle back to Petras. Saying he’s in denial — that his mind simply cannot conceive of a world other than the one Cazador, the true and only abuser, promised him — is not only accurate, it’s also entirely separate from intelligence.
Even the smartest person in the world could fall into that kind of psychological trap.
Trauma bonding is a psychological phenomenon that occurs in abusive relationships, especially when cycles of punishment and intermittent “kindness” or rewards are present. The victim becomes emotionally attached to the abuser — often as a means of survival — and begins to interpret control or domination as care, or even love.
That’s exactly what we see in Petras. He repeats Cazador’s mantras — “We’re a family,” “We will ascend together” — not because he’s foolish, but because these beliefs give him a sense of structure, purpose, and hope within a system that would otherwise be unbearable.
When reality is too painful, denial becomes a functional coping mechanism. It allows him to preserve a fragile identity and avoid psychological collapse.
Accepting the truth — that he has no agency, that he’s been groomed and used for centuries, that Cazador never saw him as anything but a tool — would be devastating. So Petras clings to the illusion.
I’d also like to offer another possible reading of Astarion. Astarion has just escaped that system. He’s angry. He’s raw. He’s trying to redefine himself outside of that web of domination.
So when Astarion sees Petras still clinging to the narrative — still echoing Cazador’s language about family and loyalty — it triggers not just anger, but also fear.
Fear of where he might have ended up if he hadn’t managed to escape.
And a fear that he’s not really as free as he wants to believe.
In trauma recovery, it’s common for survivors to project unresolved feelings onto others who remind them of their past selves. This could be another reason why Astarion’s bitterness toward Petras is so sharp. He’s not just disgusted by Petras — he’s disgusted by the part of himself that once believed Cazador’s lies too.
And in a twisted way, Petras represents safety. Predictability. The devil you know.
That’s terrifying for someone like Astarion, who is desperately trying to reinvent himself.
In this readings, when he calls Petras an idiot, it’s not only about Petras. It’s also about how Astarion sees his former self.
I don’t want to go too far or overstate things… but there may also be a component of survivor’s guilt here.
We got a glimpse of it when he first talks to Tav/Durge about his brothers and sisters, saying: “And now that I'm gone... I don't know... I pity the other six.”
Astarion escaped. He was “chosen” to ascend. He gained power, freedom, options. Petras didn’t. That disparity stings — and it’s easier to cope with that guilt by blaming the one who stayed than by mourning the systemic cruelty that kept him there.
So, even if the fandom often treats Petras as comic relief or a footnote, he is arguably a narrative foil to Astarion: someone who never broke free, who still lives inside the story Cazador wrote for him.
And that makes him tragic, not pathetic.
He shows us what could have happened to Astarion if things had gone differently — or what might still happen if he doesn’t process his trauma with care.
Because — let’s not deny it — whether he’s aware of it or not, Astarion has internalized many of Cazador’s “lessons”, though unlike Petras, they tend to push him toward retracing his master’s footsteps, rather than clinging to him.
They were late. The coronation had already happened, Gortash was the new Archduke of Baldur's Gate. Karlach was fuming - both literally and metaphorically at the sight of Gortash lounging on the throne and holding court.
"You're late," Gortash called by way of greeting, eyes roving over their little group. Wyll had a hand on Karlach to hold her back from charging in and causing more trouble than they could handle in that moment. It meant Astarion strode out in front of Gale with a small smile as he bowed deep.
"Archduke, what an honour," he purred and took Gortash's extended hand. Much to Gale's surprise, Astarion kissed it, lips pressed against the gauntlet for a few long, awkward seconds before straightening and stepping back, making way for Karlach to loom.
"Gortash you bastard!"
"Karlach, what a delight. The hells have treated you well."
"Like fuck they have."
The anger was palpable, heat poured from Karlach and Gale had to intervene, fearing things were about to escalate.
"We're here to congratulate you on your new title," he said. "Isn't that right Astarion?" There was no response so Gale nudged Astarion with his elbow. "Right, Astarion?"
"Hm?" The distracted little hum was accompanied by a wide eyed look. Whatever had been on Astarion's mind, it was far from the room and Gortash. Gale pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said we're here to pay our respects to the newly crowned Archduke of Baldur's Gate."
A nonchalant hum that would have made Doni proud left Astarion as he shrugged and turned away. It made Gale want to scream. Instead, he grit his teeth and turned to Wyll and Karlach.
"Orin sends her regards," Wyll said unprompted. At least it got the conversation moving, Gortash made a play for an alliance that Karlach bristled at. All through it, Astarion was oddly quiet, not even a snice quip or a murmur in Gale's ear.
As bad as it all started, it didn't end in bloodshed so Gale could chalk it up as a success. Even if they were no closer to defeating the Netherbrain. Once they were out of the coronation hall, Astarion started hurrying along more visibly. By the time they left the room with the guards, he was clutching Gale's hand and pulling him along, running at full pelt. Shouts went up behind them and Gale tried to look. Mostly, it looked like disapproval and judgement rather than anything worse, there was no steelwatch hot on their heels.
"What's going on?" Karlach asked as she jogged along, keeping pace easily.
"Astarion?" The name came out in three harsh pants as Gale ran, he was not made for such activities.
They rounded a corner, hoped down to some rocks and stepped out of sight under the bridge. Only once they were certain that they weren't being followed or watched did Astarion relax and let go of Gale. His hand moved to his face and, to Gale's disgust spat in his palm. Something pink and shiny, slick with spit sat in his palm. Proudly, Astarion presented it to the others.
"Is that-?"
"Fuck me, mate. That's genius!"
Gale stared at the netherstone in silence. Ketheric's one was in his pack back at camp, it was impossible for it to have ended up in Astarion's mouth. Which could only mean one thing. Suddenly, Astarion's odd silence and hums made more sense, as did the awkward kiss to the back of Gortash's hand. A laugh bubbled up in his throat.
"You menace," he huffed.
"It's why you love me."
It was nice to hear Astarion's voice again, even if it had only been silent for a handful of minutes at most. Above them, the bridge rattled as Flaming Fist and steelwatchers thundered over, searching for them. Turning back to Astarion, Gale scooped up the netherstone and stashed it in his pack.
"It's one of the many reasons I love you, yes."
"Urgh," Karlach sighed mock dramatically. "Get a room, you two."
That, among a few other ideas, was indeed the plan.
Working in HR was meant to be a quiet, peaceful job. Mostly, it was actually dealing with new hires, time off requests, exit interviews and the odd disciplinary. Minthara wasn't one for quiet or peaceful but she did love the cold power of HR. Plus, the disciplinaries and disputes were fun. There was one blight in the organisation. One cheerful bastard who just wouldn't stop coming in.
"Good morning, Minthara. What a wonderful day this is already shaping up to be, isn't it?"
There he was. Gale Dekarios. And behind him was...Wyll Ravengard, looking all bashful and not meeting her eyes. Pitiful.
"The sun is out when it should be a dreary autumn day. And you are in my office. There is nothing wonderful about it."
"Ah, I love your dry sense of humour! Now, if you wouldn't mind printing off a couple of copies of form 872.2b that would be rather wonderful. Wyll and I shared a rather magical night but you know I'm all about keeping things above board as it were."
The fact Minthara had the form as a shortcut on her desktop spoke volumes about how often the Staff Fraternisation Incident form was used. And it was almost always Gale. She printed out two copies and handed them over with a blank expression.
"Dekarios, I trust you know your way around this form. Ravengard, you'll need to sign, date and tick all relevant boxes. Are you capable of reading them or do you need it read to you?"
"I've got it, thank you."
Wyll still couldn't quite look at her but Minthara couldn't care less. She'd seen all manner of reactions from various members of staff coming in with Gale. Halsin had looked content, Lae'zel proud, Shadowheart like she would kill anyone who dared say anything, Karlach was giggly and handsy (thankfully only one form was needed unless more than a month passed between the filing of the form and further sexual contact). By now, Gale was quick at filling the form out and was handing over, pocketing his pen.
"Thank you, Minthara. A delight as always."
The form was filed. Most members of staff had a thin, paper folder in a filing cabinet. Gale had his own drawer with two sturdy box files. Minthara shoved the latest form on top and ignored Wyll's wide eyed stare. The form he handed over was filed in a boringly slim file and Minthara watched his retreating back as he left her domain.
Another day ending in 'y' meant it was another visit from Gale. Squeezing through the door behind him was Minsc.
"Minthara, your radiance in a blinding highlight of visiting these offices. I don't suppose I could trouble you for the usual?"
"This is not a coffee shop, you do not have a 'usual'."
Minsc was watching the exchange with great interest and Minthara regarded his coldly. Actually, she didn't want to know. Some things were best left out of even imagination. She printed two copies of form 872.2b and watched the men fill it out. At least Minsc's file wasn't completely bland and slim. He'd been reprimanded for bringing his hamster to work in his pocket numerous times.
"Ah, I see the great Withers himself was not immune to Gale's most excellent mouth." The words boomed around the office as Minsc looked at the folder Minthara was shoving Gale's latest form into. Sure enough, one of the forms in the messy pile was poking out and Gale's name was listed along with Withers. It was rare that Minthara was rendered speechless and she could only blink at it, grateful for her eternal resting bitch face.
From the side, Gale let out a wistful sigh as he said, "You know I value discretion and will never talk about encounters. Those are strictly between me, the other person and the sheets. Or the wall. Oh! And Minthara of course as she needs to handle the forms."
That lunchtime, Minthara sat in her chair, staring at the wall rather eating her food. Withers. Gale and Withers. She'd never considered Withers even capable of such an act. Yet, the way Gale's cheeks had flushed indicated it was a night he avidly remembered.
The next time Minthara's doors were darkened by Gale's presence, he had Jaheira half a step behind him. Minthara fixed her with a stare.
"Et tu Brutus?"
"Et me. The cub's as good as rumours have it."
They filled out the freshly printed forms and Minthara sighed. Even the staff she respected were falling for Gale's charm. She'd heard the rumours but refused to believe them. Yet...intrigue had lodged deep in her chest.
Having Gale saunter in alone was unheard of. Yet there he was, looking at her with big, brown eyes and a wicked smile curled the corners of his lips.
"872.2b requires the presence of the other member of staff for filing."
"I know," Gale replied easily. "I was hoping you'd be willing to help me fill it out today."
"Are you coming onto me, Dekarios?"
"I was hoping you'd be coming on me, my lips and tongue specifically."
The cheek! The fool! To think that Minthara was would fall for such simple, blatant things. She locked the office door. An hour later she sat behind her desk, hair spilling from its usual, perfect bun as she filled out form 872.2b, thighs still quaking. Opposite her, Gale looked unfairly calm and happy. She was going to need Kagha to file the forms, it was against policy for Minthara to handle her own one. But she'd be busy with the new hire, setting up payroll and all that. He'd seemed like a curious one, either destined to be an eternal member of staff or wash out in a few short weeks. Usually, Minthara could call it quite easily but this one's fate was eluding her. She couldn't even tell when he'd fall for Gale's charms. Whether he'd even fall in the first place. Secretly, Minthara already liked this Astarion.
Answers to her musings were rather quick to surface. The ink had barely dried on Astarion's contract, he was still in probation two weeks into his tenure when he trailed in after Gale, smirking.
"Already?" Minthara asked, impressed at how quickly Gale moved. She reached for her computer mouse to print the from.
"Actually, not so fast please, Minthara." Gale actually looked bashful as he sent Astarion a shy little smile. "I think we'll be needing form 873.2c please."
"Formal declaration of relationship between members of staff?"
Once again, Minthara was thankful for her resting bitch face as she watched Gale take Astarion's hand and intertwine their fingers before turning back to her.
"That's the one. This one might be serious."
"I should hope so," Astarion scoffed but he looked just as besotted. It was disgusting really. Those two were already in love.
Finding the form, Minthara printed it and filed it. She eyed 872.2b on her desktop. With 873.2c filed, it was unlikely Gale would be needing 872.2b again. Oddly, there was a pang of regret as Minthara deleted the shortcut to the file. She was going to miss the near ritual of Gale's visits and judging his conquests based on how they handled the paperwork. But all things had to come to an end and, this time, there was a happy ending.
Three days later there was a knock on the door. Minthara looked up and narrowed her eyes as Gale strolled in. Behind him, Zevlor stood tall and rigid. Her eyebrows didn't raise in surprise or disappointment but it was a close call as Minthara looked over them. So much for happily ever after then. Or so she thought, until Astarion sauntered in, smug as anything. The truth slapped Minthara in the face. Lolth have mercy and kill her now, she was going to need more box files. The two were as bad as each other.
