Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61128289
Summary: Zevran recounts his and the Warden's love story, from the moment they met to the moment the Warden hears the Calling... And begs Zevran to fulfill his contract.
To Love a Man Destined to Die Young is a story that explores what it means to love someone, truly love someone, for better or for worse, through sickness and in health.
It is a strange thing, to be an assassin whose contract is both his curse and his redemption.
My contract, simple in its design and execution, was to end the life of a Warden. Not a man, not a hero – but a mage, barely nineteen. A city elf, no less. A boy named Alim Surana. On paper, he seemed so young, so fragile, especially in the eyes of an experienced assassin.
I had been briefed well, with only a few words about his reputation. But I underestimated him. Perhaps it was arrogance; I made the mistake of thinking that a mage, especially one so young, would be no match for me. How foolish.
What was meant to be a simple task was nothing more than the shattering of everything I once thought I knew.
-----
The first moment I laid eyes on him, it was not the mage’s youth that struck me – it was his eyes. The most extraordinary shade of brown – full of depth, of sorrow, of quiet strength. I had heard the rumours, of course. A Warden who fought for the oppressed, who fought for a world that had shown him nothing but cruelty. I thought to myself, “I will take him down in one clean stroke.” But how wrong I was.
It was not the Warden’s skill with a staff that unnerved me – though it was impressive for one so young – but the look in his eyes. Unflinching, as though he had already seen the end of the world and decided to face it head-on. He was no pompous noble, no hardened warrior. He was just a boy… A boy with a purpose greater than his own life.
I have met many men and women over my years, some stronger than others, some colder, some more ruthless. But Alim... Alim was different. He did not seek to rule, nor did he seek to destroy. He fought not for glory, nor for riches, but for the lives of those who had nothing to fight for.
The moment we faced each other – his staff raised in defense – I saw the courage in his stance, but it was not the brash, reckless courage of a fool. It was something else. I did not strike immediately. I hesitated. And that hesitation cost me everything.
When I failed my contract, I thought my life would end there. It would have been a simple thing – my life for his – but the Warden did not take my life. Instead, he accepted my offer to join his cause, almost as if he had always known I would come to him.
I, of course, jumped on the opportunity. How could I refuse? What man wouldn’t prefer a chance at life over certain death? But I did not realize then what I was truly agreeing to. It was not just that he had spared my life – it was that he had seen something in me that no one else had ever cared to see. He had seen beyond my façade, my charm. He had seen me for the man I was.
When he extended his hand and I took it, I began to understand something I had never thought possible. I, Zevran Arainai, had a choice, now. A chance. A second life.
I came into his service, yes. But not as his servant. No, Alim Surana, in his strange way, demanded nothing but my presence. And it was in that presence that I found something I had long since given up searching for: a purpose. A reason beyond the contract. Beyond the coin.
-----
As the months passed, I found myself watching him often, as one watches a dancer. At first, I thought it was just curiosity, the way he commanded the very elements with a flick of his wrist, how the earth obeyed him as though it was an honour to move for him. But as time wore on, I realized it was something more. He was young – far younger than others who had seen nineteen summers, a consequence of being raised so isolated in that tower, and yet... His power, his resilience, his spirit – it was as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and did so without flinching. I was in awe.
I watched him fight with a kind of passion that made even the most seasoned warriors look pale. But it was not his skill with a staff that set my heart ablaze – it was his unwavering commitment to the people he had sworn to protect. He fought not for honour, not for glory, but for those who had no one else to stand with them. Alim was more than just a man who wielded magic with ease. He was someone who made the impossible seem within reach, who took the most unspeakable burdens and bore them with a grace I could never hope to replicate. How could someone so young, so naïve in the eyes of the world, possess such strength? I could never have imagined it to exist outside of bards’ tales.
I would watch him, sometimes from the shadows, sometimes from the corner of my eye. His movements were fluid, graceful – almost too graceful for a man who spent so much of his life with his nose stuck in books. He was a warrior and a scholar, and yet it was his heart that I admired most. It wasn’t just the power he wielded. No, it was the way he could sit by the fire, exhausted from the day’s battle, and laugh like a child. The way he could still find joy in small things – a warm meal, the sound of a bird singing at dawn, the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder.
One night, I caught him looking at me as I prepared to head to my tent. He stared at me for a long moment, those brown eyes intense, probing, almost as if he could see into the very depths of my soul. In that moment, I felt something shift. Perhaps it was in me. Perhaps it was in him. But there, in the flickering light of the fire, I saw something. A spark. A question.
“Why do you fight?” he had asked me, his voice soft but filled with a depth of curiosity that seemed to see through the walls I had so carefully constructed around my heart.
I did not answer right away. What could I say? For coin? For survival? For the thrill of it? Because it was the only thing I knew how to do? Those answers felt empty now. Instead, I smiled, that charming smile of mine that had won many hearts and parted many legs – and yet, this time, instead of fire in his eyes, I saw Alim’s expression soften. The silence between us stretched, and I found myself unwilling to break it.
-----
The first time I truly understood the depths of what was happening between us was not in battle. It was not when we fought side by side in the dark, bloody depths of the Deep Roads, nor when we stood at the gates of Denerim, ready to face the Archdemon. No, it was in the quiet moments, in the spaces between the chaos, that I began to realize how much I was falling for him.
It started with the little things. The way Alim would absently twirl strands of his long blond braid between his fingers while he read, lips moving silently as if savouring each word of some dusty tome. The way his magic seemed to hum in time with his emotions, the air crackling with a vibrant, unspoken language that I could never quite understand – but couldn’t help but admire. The way he smiled, soft and fleeting, when he thought no one was watching. Maker’s breath, I never had a chance, did I?
At first, I told myself it was nothing. A dalliance. A distraction, perhaps, from the constant threat of death that hung over us like a shadow. I’d always been quick to admire beauty, and Alim was beautiful in ways I had no words for – beautiful in his defiance, his kindness, his sheer force of will. He carried a weight that would have crushed most men twice his age, and yet he bore it with a quiet determination that left me breathless. And though he was barely nineteen – a boy, in so many ways – there was a fire in his eyes, a ferocity in his spirit, that made him seem so much older.
Still, I tried to dismiss it. I had bedded countless lovers, felt the heat of passion and the thrill of conquest, but this… This was different. It wasn’t just the way he looked at me, though the way his brown eyes lingered on mine sometimes made me feel as though he could see straight through to my soul. It wasn’t just the way he spoke to me, his words laced with a gentle curiosity that made me feel, for the first time, like someone truly wanted to know me. No, it was something more, something deeper.
It was the way he laughed. Oh Maker, that laugh… Light and unrestrained, as if for a moment the weight of the Blight didn’t exist. It was the way he never hesitated to reach out to someone in need, even when it cost him dearly. It was the way he looked at the world, not with bitterness or anger for the losing hand he had been dealt, but with determination to make it better, no matter the cost to himself.
And Maker help me, I was lost long before I realized it.
The first time I truly recognized the depths of my feelings, we were camped near the ruins of some forgotten elven outpost. The others had gone to sleep, their breaths soft in the stillness of the night, but Alim was awake, as he so often was. He sat by the fire, the warm glow casting golden light over his features, and he was humming some soft, haunting melody that spoke of loss and longing. I had never heard it before.
I approached, quietly, not wanting to disturb him. But he looked up as I came near, and the smile he gave me… It wasn’t like his other smiles. It wasn’t the polite one he offered to strangers or the strained one he gave when the burden grew too heavy. This was something else. Something real.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice soft and warm. I sat beside him, closer than I needed to, and as always, he didn’t pull away. He leaned into me, our limbs tangling with ease.
“Ah, but how could I, mi amor? The night is far too beautiful for that,” I replied, gesturing toward the star-streaked sky, though my eyes never left his face.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Always the charmer.” But there was no amusement in his tone. Just a quiet warmth, an openness that made my chest ache in a way I didn’t quite yet understand.
“A charmer, yes,” I said, my voice softening. “But I speak only the truth tonight. You are a wonder, Alim Surana.” I meant it as a tease, light and playful, but the words came out heavier than I intended, laden with a sincerity I couldn’t disguise.
He blinked, startled, and for a moment, he was just a boy again – a boy who had grown up first in an alienage, and then in a Circle, always unwanted and unseen – suddenly faced with something he didn’t know how to accept. But then his lips curved into that quiet, fleeting smile, the one that always undid me, and he said, “You’re not so bad yourself, Zevran.”
As the firelight danced in his eyes, I knew I was lost. The world could have ended then and there, and I would have gone to the Maker’s side content, because I had seen something more beautiful than all the riches of Antiva, more precious than any jewel or artifact I had ever stolen.
I didn’t say anything else that night. I couldn’t. How could I put into words the way he made me feel, the way he had turned my world upside down without even trying? How could I tell him that I was falling for him, that already I loved him in ways I had never thought myself capable of? I had meant to seduce him as I had so many others – casually, without consequence. Instead, I found myself undone by the way he smiled when he kissed me, as though I were a gift the world had been kind enough to give him.
What a dangerous thing it is to love a man destined to die young.
-----
In the days that followed the fall of the Archdemon, I expected Alim to slow down. I expected him to revel in the quiet, to rest, for us to travel to faraway places. But no. Alim became obsessed. We had beaten the Blight – but that was not enough. His mind, his heart, had already turned to the next battle. The one he couldn’t face head-on in a fight.
The one that would take him from me.
The Calling.
He did not bow to it. He sought a cure.
I watched him tirelessly search for a miracle, traveling to the ends of Thedas, from the deep caves beneath Orzammar to the towering spires of the Circle of Magi in the Frostback Mountains. I watched as day after day he scoured every library, every temple, every distant corner of the continent for some shred of hope. And each day, his search grew more desperate, his eyes became darker, haunted by something I could not see. His laughter, which I so loved, faded. He withdrew, burying himself in books and ancient tomes, searching for something that would give him more time. Give us more time.
I tried to pull him from his obsession, of course, to remind him that life was still worth living. But I could see it in his eyes – he wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t give up. No, he would spend his life searching for the impossible, to escape the inevitability that had claimed so many before him. He spoke of the Calling as though it were a puzzle he could solve if only he had more time.
And Maker help me, I believed him. I had to believe him. For if he could defeat the Blight in a year, surely he could outwit this curse. Could he not?
-----
It was in the smallest moments that I saw it – the signs. The way his eyes would drift off in the middle of a conversation, his hand would tremble as he reached for his staff, as though he could not find the strength to hold it steady. His laughter, once so vibrant and full of life, became more strained. More distant. He would pause in the middle of a sentence, his eyes blank, his body frozen in place as though listening to something far away that I could never hear, no matter how hard I strained.
We never spoke of it. I knew, and he knew I knew. But neither of us could bear to name it aloud, for naming it would make it real. And so, I held him tighter, kissed him harder, as though my love for him could anchor him to this world.
-----
There is a moment, I think, when everything changes. When you realize that no matter how much you try to hold on, you are no longer in control. For Alim, it was the day he stopped sleeping.
It started out gradually, at first – just one night here or there. But soon, it became constant. His exhaustion was becoming more evident, his eyes heavy and bloodshot. And then, he stopped hearing me. When I spoke, he would glance at me absently, as if he had not registered I was there at all.
And then, one night, I heard him whisper to himself. His voice was barely a whisper, but I heard it clearly: “It’s too late.”
I wanted to reach for him, to hold him, to tell him everything would be alright. But I knew it was a lie. He knew it too. The Calling had already taken root. There was no turning back.
-----
I have seen many things in my life, in the years I’ve spent as a Crow, in the wars I’ve fought, the contracts I’ve carried out. But nothing, nothing, could prepare me for that moment. When he – my Warden – looked up at me, eyes wide with fear, and begged me to end his life.
I had never seen him cry before.
Not once. Not in all the battles we had fought together, in all the horrors we had faced, in all the times I had thought him unbreakable. But now, in the darkness of those final hours, he wept. And his sobs… Maker help me, they shook me more than any blow I had ever received. To see him like that, so small, so vulnerable... It was as though I could see the boy I had first met two decades ago, the boy who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, the boy who had been cursed to shoulder the impossible burden of saving a world that would never be kind to him.
He was afraid. My Warden was afraid.
Alim had never been afraid. Not truly. He had always been so certain, so steady. Even when we were on the brink of destruction, when the darkspawn overran the land and the Blight raged, even when he thought he’d be felled killing the Archdemon, he was always that solid rock, the leader who never faltered. But now, he was begging. Sobbing in my arms, trembling as though the very idea of dying alone, of facing the end without someone by his side, had shattered him completely. I had never seen him so vulnerable, so lost.
“Zevran,” he whispered, his voice breaking, “Please. Please, don’t let me die like this. Don’t let me die in the Deep Roads, fighting darkspawn. Don’t let my last moment be fighting them. I don’t want that. I want… I want to die in your arms, like people dream of. Please... Fulfill the contract.”
His words were like a blade to my heart.
I had always known I would be the one to end it for him. I had made peace with that. But the pain, the agony of seeing him – mi amor, my Warden, the one who had fought so hard, so long, to save us all – pleading with me...
How could I deny him? How could I make him suffer like this, when all he wanted was peace? When all he wanted was to be free?
I looked at him, his eyes unseeing – yet swimming with tears, and saw everything he had been through. The boy who had been cursed from birth to be both an elf and a mage, the man who had fought for all of us, who had sacrificed so much for the greater good... And now, all my love wanted was to rest. He wanted to be free of the pain, of the burden, of the never-ending fight.
I kissed his forehead, brushing his damp hair – hair that had never gotten the chance to ever turn grey – back from his face, and whispered, “I love you, Alim. Always.”
I hoped my words reached him, hoped they comforted him in some small way as I drew my blade. He had given me everything – his love, his trust, his heart. And in the end, I was the one who had to take it all away.
I pushed past the pain one last time. I held his gaze, trying to memorize every detail of his face – the face I had loved for so long, the face I would never see again in this world, and plunged my dagger in his heart. As the life slowly faded from his eyes, I whispered one last prayer.
“I hope you were right about the Maker, Alim. I hope we’ll meet again.”
And then, with one final breath, my Warden – my love – was gone. I had given him peace. But I was left with nothing.
I closed his eyes, and the world was silent.
-----
I returned to Antiva City as if I had been summoned there by some invisible thread, pulled back to the city of my youth. The scent of the sea, the streets buzzing with life, the constant hum of the marketplace – it should have been a comfort. It should have felt like coming home.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
Home, I realized, was not Antiva. It was a stubborn, brilliant elf who had laughed in the face of death and loved me despite my flaws. It was the man I had loved, the man I had sworn to protect, the man who had given me a reason to exist beyond the sharpness of a blade and the shadow of the Crows. Home had become the place where his laughter filled the air, where his fire burned bright.
Home… Home had bled out in my arms. My home’s name was Alim.
I walked through the streets of Antiva, the familiar paths under my feet, the sounds of merchants calling their wares, but it was all just noise. It all felt so distant, so hollow. And when I passed the Crows, the ones who had been my family for so long – and then my enemies for even longer – none of them dared to look at me. Not a single glance, not a word of greeting. They could see the contract had been fulfilled. They knew the price I had paid.
I had longed for this return for so many years, dreamed of it even. I thought the moment I stepped back into Antiva, I thought would feel relief. But now that I was here, there was nothing. No joy in returning to the life I had known, no comfort in the streets that once cradled me. Everything felt foreign. Empty.
I thought Antiva was where I belonged, where I could finally find peace, but it wasn’t. How could it be? My heart had been left behind in Ferelden, under the weight of his ashes, in the silence of his final breath.
-----
It is a cruel thing, to realize you could have had a lifetime when all you are left with is a memory.
I heard it in whispers first, a voice in the shadows of a tavern in Rialto. “It’s gone,” they had said. “The Wardens’ fate... No longer tied to the Blight. The Calling… It stopped.”
I didn’t understand at first. The Calling had always been an inevitability. Alim had told me once, in the dead of night, when the world seemed so much quieter, that he could feel it – he could feel the Archdemons clawing at his soul, calling him deeper into the abyss.
How could it just disappear? How could it just... Stop?
I penned a letter. A single piece of parchment, sent to the Wardens’ new headquarters in Amaranthine. It had taken me weeks to muster the courage to write it, even longer to find the words. I sent it with no real hope of a reply. It had been years since I last set foot in Amaranthine, years since I’d walked those cold stone halls by his side. Alim had spoken often of the Wardens’ bonds, how they forged family out of strangers, but would that bond extend to me? To someone who had no place among their ranks? Technically, I wasn’t even Alim’s family – the Chantry had never allowed us to marry.
The reply came swifter than I expected, delivered by an Antivan merchant who had traveled the Waking Sea. The seal was simple; the sigil of Amaranthine, unmistakable. My hands shook as I broke it, unfolding the parchment with a care I did not feel. And there it was, written in plain, unembellished script:
“The Calling has stopped.”
The details were vague, almost maddeningly so, but the message was clear enough: there was no more Calling. The darkspawn’s song that had once crept into the dreams of every Warden, the harbinger of their end, had fallen silent.
No reason given. No explanation.
Just a single, stark truth. It was gone.
I stared at the words, uncomprehending, as if by sheer force of will I could force them to make sense. The Calling… Gone? After centuries of death and despair? No ritual, no great sacrifice? Just… Gone? How could such a thing be possible?
My first thought, unsurprisingly, was of him. Of Alim. My Warden. Mi amor. I thought of his ink-stained hands, the lines of exhaustion etched into his face as he poured over ancient tomes by the light of a single flickering candle. Two decades he had spent searching for a way to break the curse of the Wardens – a way to save his brothers and sisters, to give them the futures they had been denied. He had unraveled secrets of blood magic that had been lost for ages, deciphered elven glyphs that defied even the oldest scholars of the Circle, and found a way to reverse the Rite of Tranquility itself. Alim Surana, the prodigy who remade the world… Even he, in all those years, had not been able to find a cure for the Calling.
So how, then?
How could it be that the greatest man I had ever known, the man who had taught me to hope and dream again, had failed… And yet, here it was, undone by some unseen hand? I wanted to laugh. To scream. To shake the letter and demand it give me answers. The ink on the page felt like an insult. An afterthought. “Oh, by the way, the curse is lifted. No need to die for it anymore.”
And that was all. As if it were so simple.
But it wasn’t simple. Not for me.
He had died believing there was no other way. Died in my arms, asking me to end his pain, because the Calling was inescapable. Because he was afraid. Because he trusted me to grant him the mercy that no one else could.
I could still hear his voice, trembling and raw, could still see the tears streaking his face. My Alim, who had carried the fate of the world on his shoulders and had never cried, not even once in all the time I had known him – until that final moment. I had held him as he begged me to end it, as he clung to me like a drowning man, desperate for something he could no longer reach. And I had done it. I had killed him, my Warden, because I believed there was no other way.
And now, they were saying there had been another way all along. That he could have lived.
I could’ve had more time with him.
The realization hit me like a blade to the chest. A wound that I could not stop bleeding, a gash in my heart that would never heal. How many more moments could we have had? How many more nights of laughter, of warmth, of love? How many more battles could we have fought together, side by side?
We could have grown old together, the weight of the Blight no longer a shadow over our lives.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or to weep. For all his brilliance, all his determination, all his time, Alim had not been able to save himself. And yet, somehow, the Wardens had been freed without him. It felt like a cruel joke, one that left a bitter taste in my mouth and an ache in my chest that refused to fade.
“It should have been him,” I whispered to no one, my voice cracking in the silence of my room. He should have been the one to see this day. Not me. Not the faceless Wardens across Thedas. Him. Because if anyone deserved to live a life free of the Wardens’ curse, it was Alim Surana.
I pressed the letter to my forehead, closing my eyes as if the contact could somehow numb the pain. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Because no letter, no revelation could ever bring him back. My Warden. My Alim. Mi amor. He was gone, and I was here, and the world was still too cold and too quiet and too empty without him.
But then, I heard his voice, clear as day, as if he were standing beside me. To this day, I don’t know if I hallucinated it in my grief, or if the Maker took pity on me and allowed me a glimpse across the Veil.
“What will you do now, Zevran?” my Alim asked, that teasing lilt softening into something tender. “Will you waste the time you have been given?”
And I knew the answer, though it felt like a weight pressing against my chest. I would not waste it. I couldn’t. Not when he had given so much. Not when he had taught me to believe in something greater than myself. I would live, and I would carry his memory with me, and I would do what he would have done, had he lived to see this day.
“When we meet again, amor, I want you to be proud of me,” I murmured, my voice trembling with the force of my promise. “Of the man I became because of you. I’ll spend the rest of my life doing what you would have done if you’d only had time.”
-----
I hope you were right about the Maker, mi amor. I hope you found peace, that the Maker took you into His arms and gave you the rest you so deserved. If there is any justice in this world, I hope that He’s waiting for me, too. Maybe, on the other side, there is a place where there are no Archdemons, no Crows, no Callings, and no Blights to tear us apart. A place where you will be waiting for me, your arms open, your smile warm. I hope, more than anything, that you were right. Because I want to see you again. To hold you again. To tell you how much I loved you, how much I still love you. To tell you that no matter how many years pass, you will always be my home.
The thought of that day is all I have now. I know you would want me to keep going, to make the most of this life. But I will never stop grieving for you. I will never stop wishing I could have held you, just one more time. I will never stop wishing we had more days.
But I will live, my Warden. I will live for you. And I will make you proud. I swear it to you now.
When we see each other again, I will be the man you always knew I could be. I will spend the rest of my life doing what you would have done – fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves. I will make the world better, in memory of you.
I will live as you would have lived. And when we are reunited, I will be ready. I will be proud of the man I became because of you, Alim Surana. I will be proud to stand by your side once more.
Until then, mi amor, I carry you with me, in every moment, in every breath. And I hope, wherever you are, you can find peace. Because I can’t yet. I can’t stop thinking of you. I can’t stop grieving for what we lost.
But I will keep going. For you.
Forever yours,
Zevran
—A letter, found lovingly tucked into the urn of the ashes of the Hero of Ferelden.
Also works for most of those news sites like WSJ or NYT that only let you read a little bit, or block adblockers. Also some disable the scroll bar but if you go to the right side of the console after hitting F12 and look for the CSS element “overflow” and change it from “hidden” to “visible” then you can continue scrolling for free. Might have to click around on different parts of the page to find it, but it should work.
There’s also a Firefox/Chrome extension called Behind The Overlay that does all that with one mouse click. Used it for years; what a time saver.
And if you encounter a true paywall, use Archive.Today to bypass it. Just paste the paywalled url into the blue “search archived snapshots” box near the bottom:
Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56871064
Chapter Summary:
In the heart of the Underdark, Astarion comforts Tav, confronting his insecurities - and Astarion interacts with the rest of the party.
Story Summary:
Astarion, a centuries-old vampire spawn, discovers unexpected love with Tav, a young half-elf. Drawn together after escaping a mind flayer’s grasp, they journey through perilous lands, where Astarion grapples with his feelings and the revelation of his true soulmate. Amidst adventure and uncertainty, they must confront their desires and fears in their quest for love and acceptance.
Silver Marks and Heartstrings is a tale of love transcending time and destiny, where two souls, marked by fate yet bound by choice, navigate the complexities of trust, desire, and the enduring power of love against all odds.
Ever since that night, Astarion couldn’t look away.
The bard had become a focal point in the vampire’s world, a light that drew his gaze and refused to let go. Days had turned into weeks, and the pale elf found himself increasingly captivated by Tav, watching the blond’s every move with a newfound fascination. It was as if, since they’d lain together, Astarion saw Tav differently – more clearly. He was enthralled by the way Tav carried himself with an easy strength, a confidence that drew others in and convinced them to trust a stranger.
It was maddening, mesmerizing, terrifying to watch the bard charm both friend and foe, persuading all to trust him fully. His ability to connect with others, to bring out the best in those around him or to ruin his enemies, left the rogue in awe – in all senses of the term. Even his Master – Cazador, who had controlled every movement of his spawn with mind control and vampire magic – paled in comparison. Cazador’s power had been absolute, yes, forcing his spawn to obey his every command, but Astarion had always felt the control take over. He’d always known when his own will was overridden, when Cazador used his powers.
Tav, however, didn’t need magic. His charisma and personality and words were enough to have others follow him with ease, to have them willingly doing what he wanted. Astarion shivered in awe and dread. He had never encountered someone who could wield such influence so effortlessly, and the thought of losing the half-elf’s favour was a fear that gnawed at him constantly.
Even then, fear intertwining with his admiration… Astarion couldn’t look away.
From the way he bargained with every shopkeep they met, his charm effortlessly lowering prices, to the way he absentmindedly played with the tattoo of the broken dagger on his throat when lost in thought… Every aspect of Tav captivated him.
Astarion’s gaze often lingered on that mark, the only one he had found on the bard’s body, aside from the constellation of freckles that decorated his skin. Combined with the movement of Tav’s fingers against his own neck, the vampire’s mind often raced with unbidden thoughts, the memory of their intimacy a whisper that never left him. He found himself yearning for the bard’s hands in his hair again, petting or pulling, yearning for the feel of the blond’s lips against his own. His hands ached to hold the man close, to slip hands beneath undershirts and waistbands and feel the warmth of tan skin against his own. The ghost of Tav’s kisses lingered on his skin, a sensation that both confused and intrigued him. He was unaccustomed to such longing, especially without the bitter aftertaste of repulsion thick on his tongue.
On one unusually quiet night, their first in the heart of the Underdark, Astarion was again watching Tav with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The blond sat far from the campfire he had hastily thrown together, away from the rest of the party. It was unusual for the bard to isolate himself; Tav typically encouraged everyone to interact, to talk, to bond.
A glistening tear slipped down Tav’s cheek as he cradled his flute, emitting a haunting melody that echoed against the rocky walls and through the fungi like a whisper of the past. The sight tugged at Astarion’s heartstrings, pulling him to his feet before he even realized he was moving. His heart pounded in his chest, his entire being begging to be by Tav’s side, even though his mind didn’t know what to do.
Awkwardly, he stood rooted to the spot, uncertain. Glancing over his shoulder at the three companions preparing the evening meal, he startled slightly as he noticed that they were all looking at him expectantly. Gale and Wyll’s eyes were filled with worry, whilst Shadowheart’s were brimming with encouragement.
“Go!” she mouthed, shooing him away.
Astarion squawked in indignation as she shoved at his legs. Finding no words to adequately brush off his initial reaction, he sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. Deep down, he knew she was right to send him; he was the one closest to Tav – and by his own hand, at that! – but still…
He glanced over at Tav, heart clenching as he saw another tear slide down the man’s scarred cheek. Could he really be of any help?
“Astarion,” Shadowheart hissed.
“Yes yes, I’m going,” he insisted, but still, he didn’t move. There was no way he could do this, he couldn’t help anyone, all he ever did was hurt people, he…
Cold hands pushed between his shoulder blades and Astarion stumbled forward, squawking again. He turned, ready to tear into the raven-haired cleric. Instead, he found himself face to face with two glittering mage hands and companions struggling to keep a straight face. Gale’s eyes weren’t even focused on the vampire, instead looking over at the other summoner, winking as Lae’zel caught his eye. The githyanki had the nerve to smirk, attention returned once more to grinding her weapons to the sharpest points.
For a moment more, Astarion stood there, mouth agape. No one was looking at him, all returning to their previous duties, and he knew no one would take pity on him and replace him. Flustered, he turned on his heel and marched towards the bard, cursing all his companions under his breath as he did.
But as he approached, as the familiar tug on his heart made itself known, the rogue couldn’t help but soften. He always did when Tav was nearby.
Curse these soulmarks, Astarion thought to himself, disquieted. This softness, this vulnerability would be the death of him if the bard ever tired of him.
It was instinctive for Astarion to move more quietly now, almost as if he were stalking prey, lost in his thoughts. What if Tav ever turned on him? Would he stand a chance? Despite the softening effect Tav had on him, Astarion knew that Tav, too, seemed to let his guard down around him. The bard trusted his party so completely that he didn’t notice the rogue’s approach.
From afar, Astarion continued to observe, assessing vulnerabilities and strengths. He cataloged Tav’s body, strong and toned from a life of adventure. Astarion knew it would be dangerous to fight him without weapons; Tav’s physical strength was evident even in the way he moved, with grace and purpose. The bard’s shoulders were broad, his arms well-defined beneath the fabric of his shirt, a testament to the physical demands of their journey. Despite the danger Tav could pose in battle, Astarion couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty of his form – the sculpted muscles he’d held under his hands spoke of years of training.
His thoughts turned to Tav’s injuries, the scars that marked battles fought and survived. The scar across the half-elf’s eye, once a wound but now a part of his rugged allure, somehow enhancing rather than detracting from his beauty. The bite marks on his neck from Astarion’s daily feedings, feedings that strengthened the vampire and weakened the bard. Astarion dragged his fingers across his lips, savouring the memory of Tav’s lifeblood pouring freely into his mouth, and his eyes moved back up to linger on the blond’s lips, full and expressive, remembering how they felt against his own.
His gaze shifted again, this time focusing on the freckles that dotted Tav’s cheeks and nose, like constellations against his tan skin. Each freckle told a story of days spent under the sun, a contrast to the pallor of Astarion’s own complexion. His gaze drifted lower, taking in the bard’s earrings – silver hoops and dangling blue jewels that glinted softly in the dim light, their cool glint contrasting the half-elf’s warm, tan skin.
Tav’s hair caught the soft glow of the glowing bulb above, a cascade of blond against the darkness of the Underdark, framing his face like a halo. His eyes, closed now, Astarion knew to be bright and expressive, knew to reflect a depth of emotion that he found himself drawn to like a moth to a flame. They were eyes that had seen both sorrow and joy, and they held a wisdom that belied the man’s youthful appearance. They were blue like…
Astarion froze, fingers stopping in their tracing of his soulmark. Reality reasserted itself with a jolt. If he was this distracted without the bard even turning those eyes on him…
Shit.
If Tav ever turned on him, if their fragile trust shattered like glass… Astarion would be utterly defenseless.
Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Astarion steeled himself against the tumult of emotions raging within. He had come here for a reason, to offer comfort and solace to the bard who had become both his weakness and his strength. Realizing just how out of his depths he was made it even more important for the vampire to make himself indispensable to Tav – to make sure the bard wouldn’t ever betray him.
And if part of him did care – deeply, irrevocably – for the bard’s wellbeing… If every fiber of his soul was screaming for him to be by the man’s side, to be his companion, to be his support – even if he knew not how, even if emotions other than greed and lust and wrath made him uncomfortable…
Well. No one needed to know that, did they?
“Tav, darling?” he called out, his voice carrying softly through the quiet of the Underdark as he stepped out of the shadows at last, his heart pounding in his chest.
Startled, Tav quickly wiped his eyes free of more tears. He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat once, twice, before finding the strength to respond.
It was sweet, really, Astarion found, watching Tav trying to look his best for him. It helped with the nerves, at least, to see that he wasn’t the only one putting on a show.
“Darling… I didn’t see you there.” Tav moved over on the rocky ledge, making room for the rogue to sit beside him.
Astarion hesitated, his discomfort with emotional situations palpable. He wanted to help, he did, but… “That song is... poignant,” he managed, choosing his words carefully. “Did you compose it?”
Tav’s eyes, usually bright with hope, momentarily dimmed as he glanced down at the flute in his hands. “It’s the last song my mother wrote before she died,” he replied softly. “A melody for my father, taken by the drow. It’s my way of keeping them close, even in this darkness.”
Guilt pricked at Astarion’s conscience for delving into Tav’s private grief when moments ago he’d been thinking of how best to take him down. He longed to offer comfort but felt ill-equipped, his own insecurities holding him back. Instead, he took the offered seat and settled beside Tav, their shoulders brushing in a gesture of silent solidarity. He hoped it conveyed more than words could.
“Are you alright?” Astarion asked, his voice tentative. Comforting people had never been his forte.
Tav sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I will be, in time. It’s just... memories. This place, this melody... it brings back things I thought I’d left behind.”
Astarion nodded, understanding the weight of past burdens all too well. “I understand,” he said softly. “Some memories are harder to escape than others.”
The glowing bulb above them flickered, casting dancing shadows across their faces. For a moment, the weight of their shared histories hung between them, unspoken yet deeply felt. Astarion glanced at Tav, silently hoping that their burgeoning connection offered even a fraction of the comfort and support the half-elf had given him in his darkest moments.
“Sometimes, no matter how far we run, our pasts have a way of catching up with us,” he added, his fingers flexing nervously, the lines between self-preservation and genuine concern began to blur. A part of him yearned to reach out, to offer tactile reassurance, yet fear of overstepping restrained him.
Tav looked at him, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “Like that Gur hunter?” he asked.
Astarion scoffed, playfully shoving the bard’s shoulder with his own. “Like that Gur hunter,” he conceded. “I’m still mad you let him get away, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Tav chuckled. “I don’t regret it, though, and I appreciate your understanding. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”
Blue eyes locked with red, and Tav extended a tentative hand, resting it gently on the vampire’s knee. Surprised yet comforted by the gesture, Astarion allowed Tav’s thumb to brush soothing circles against the rough material. He felt a faint warmth spread across his cheeks, a blush of embarrassment at his own emotional vulnerability. By the hells, Tav had been the one crying! But he couldn’t deny the profound relief he felt, knowing that the blond understood how agonizing it had been to watch him spare the Gur hunter.
All Astarion had wanted at that moment was to drive his dagger into the hunter’s neck, ensuring he couldn’t return to Cazador with information on his whereabouts. Yet, now removed from the heat of the moment, with emotions less raw and with time to reflect, he had to concede that the man at his side may have been right. The hunter might not have been sent by Cazador.
Though he couldn’t bring himself to voice it, he was grateful that Tav had prevented more innocent blood from staining his conscience.
Their eyes held for a moment longer, communicating unspoken gratitude and understanding. Astarion’s hand paused in mid-air for a fleeting moment, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. But then, summoning his resolve, he gently placed his hand on top of the bard’s. He felt Tav’s fingers twitch slightly beneath his touch, a subtle response that spoke volumes. Tav’s eyes dropped, his head tilting slightly to hide his face from Astarion, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. The pale elf’s heart tugged at the sight, tenderness flooding in.
With each passing second, Astarion's fears of betrayal dissipated, replaced by a genuine desire to see Tav happy, to see him safe. No matter what he tried to tell himself at night, Astarion knew he was no longer just trying to ensure his own survival; he was invested in Tav's well-being. The more he allowed himself to hope, the more he realized he wanted a true connection with his soulmate – not just a manipulated alliance.
As their hands rested gently together, Astarion again felt the pull on his heart, a surge of warmth that coursed through his veins. It was more than just physical contact, this holding of hands; it was a tether to hope and possibility. It reminded him of those visions he’d glimpsed when they rested together under the canopy of trees and moonlit skies, where fleeting images of a shared future danced at the edge of his consciousness. In those dreams, he had seen laughter and quiet moments shared; he had dared to imagine a life where Tav was more than just a companion in their perilous journey, but a partner bound to him by a deeper, unbreakable thread.
The memory of those visions stirred hope within him, igniting a longing he struggled to contain. Yet even as their fingers moved in harmony, intertwined, laced themselves together, doubts crept in once more. In all their weeks together, the elf had never glimpsed Tav’s soulmark. And while Tav sought his company, shared stories, and offered solace, Astarion had never sensed the same inexplicable pull from Tav. It gnawed at him, this uncertainty – did Tav feel the same deep, magnetic draw that Astarion did? Or was he merely a companion, albeit a cherished one, in Tav’s journey?
He wouldn’t put it past the gods to play one more trick on him. To allow him to finally find his soulmate, only for his soulmate to not lo-…
The rogue shuddered, not allowing himself to finish that thought.
Astarion’s mind raced with questions he longed to ask, fears he hesitated to voice. The glowing bulb sputtered, seeming to echo his turmoil, its unpredictable dance reflecting the turbulent emotions swirling within him. He wanted to ask the half-elf about his soulmark, to breach the subject that weighed heavily on his heart, but fear held him back. What if Tav didn’t feel the same pull, the same undeniable connection that Astarion felt deep in his bones? What then?
Shadowheart’s words echoed in his mind, her certainty that Tav was the one meant for him. But what if she was mistaken? What if his own desires had clouded his judgment, weaving fantasies where there were none?
He bit his lip, torn between the desire to know and the fear of shattering the fragile peace they had found. The rogue focused on the warmth of Tav’s hand in his, on the comfort the bard so freely gave – and he allowed himself to hope.
“Tav…” Astarion began, his voice trembling slightly. For once, he didn’t try to hide it. “Do you ever feel a pull towards someone? A sense of peace that you can’t quite explain?”
Tav turned to him, his gaze steady and thoughtful. “Yes,” he answered after a moment, his voice carrying the weight of introspection. “I’ve felt it forever,” he explained. “It’s like a part of me is always searching, always yearning for someone I haven’t met yet. But when I’m around certain people… It feels like I’m home.”
Astarion’s heart fluttered at the affirmation, hope growing with every word the bard spoke. “And... do you ever wonder who that person might be? If they’re out there, feeling the same way?”
Tav smiled softly, his eyes reflecting the flickering light. “I believe they’re out there somewhere,” he replied, his hand tightening gently around Astarion’s. The half-elf’s touch was reassuring, grounding.
A rush of emotions surged within the vampire – relief, longing, and the underlying fear beneath it all. He wrestled with the urge to reveal all his secrets, to lay bare all his marks, from his soulmark to the scars of his past and the darkness that haunted him still. But fear gripped him tight – fear of rejection, of losing this fragile connection that had become his lifeline in the depths of Faerûn.
He looked down at their entwined hands, at the pale skin against tan, the contrast stark yet strangely beautiful in the Underdark’s glow. Astarion’s fingers traced the intricate lines of Tav’s hand, a silent plea for understanding and acceptance. He wanted to believe that Tav could see beyond his past, beyond the bloodshed and the horrors he had endured.
But doubts lingered still, like the shadows that danced on the cavern walls around them. Would Tav turn away if he knew the truth? Would he recoil from the darkness that stained Astarion’s soul? The weight of his secrets pressed down upon him, threatening to suffocate the fragile hope that had begun to bloom in his heart.
He glanced down at his hands, at the blood he knew was on them, a constant reminder of Cazador’s cruelty. Would Tav be repulsed if he knew the truth? It was one thing to see the physical evidence of Astarion’s past, the marks that marred his body – he had been so kind when he’d seen them – but the marks that marred his soul…
Astarion’s mind spiraled further. Could he ever confide in Tav about the horrors he endured under Cazador’s rule? The unspeakable acts he was forced to commit, the lives he offered to his master? He feared that revealing these dark secrets would shatter whatever delicate bond they were building. He was terrified that Tav would look at him with disgust, that he would turn away and leave Astarion more alone than ever.
The thought of the blond’s rejection was almost too much to bear. Astarion clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself, but fear lingered, a constant, gnawing presence in the back of his mind. He had to know if Tav felt the same pull, the same inexplicable connection, but… He had to find the courage to seek the truth, even if it meant facing his deepest fears.
Silence continued to stretch out between them, but soon, Tav was reaching out, hands gently cradling Astarion’s own, his precious flute forgotten somewhere on the ground.
“Astarion,” Tav’s voice broke through his thoughts, gentle yet searching. “There’s something you’re carrying, something you haven’t shared. I can feel it.”
The vampire’s breath caught in his throat. How could Tav sense his turmoil, his hidden fears? Was he that transparent, even to someone who had become so dear to him?
“I...” Astarion hesitated, his voice wavering. “There are things... things I haven’t spoken of, secrets that...” He faltered, unable to find the words to convey the depth of his anguish.
Tav’s grip tightened, a silent gesture of encouragement. “You don’t have to tell me now,” he murmured, his voice a soothing balm against Astarion’s uncertainty. “But know that whatever it is, whatever burden you carry, you don’t have to bear it alone.”
Tears pricked at the corners of Astarion’s eyes, unshed and raw. In Tav’s presence, he could believe that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be accepted and understood, scars and all.
Their moment was interrupted by a soft cough, Wyll apologetically clearing his throat.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Wyll began, “but we need to gather some herbs for Gale. It’s best not to go alone.” He glanced around, explaining, “Karlach’s hands have a tendency to burn everything she touches, and Lae’zel doesn’t know mergrass from swarming toadstools…”
The rogue jumped slightly, his ears burning red at being caught in such a vulnerable state. He cursed himself inwardly for not hearing the warlock approach sooner, his usual sharp senses momentarily dulled by the intensity of his conversation with Tav. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling exposed under Wyll’s observant gaze.
Tav, ever quick-witted and understanding, chuckled softly at Astarion’s reaction and gave his hands a reassuring squeeze before turning his attention to Wyll. “No worries, Wyll. I understand,” Tav replied with a lopsided smile, gently withdrawing his hand from Astarion’s. “I’ll be right there.”
Wyll nodded gratefully, offering a bow of thanks before he turned and headed off towards the outskirts of the camp. Tav retrieved his flute from where it lay forgotten on the ground, giving the rogue a playful wink as he placed his hat askew on the vampire’s head. “Keep it safe for me, yeah?” he teased before jogging off to catch up with Wyll, leaving Astarion flustered and alone.
His blush deepened and spread across his cheeks. “Of course,” he muttered awkwardly, though Tav was already out of earshot.
Feeling exposed and uncomfortable, Astarion hesitated momentarily, wavering. He longed for the comforting embrace of the shadows, where he could shield his vulnerabilities behind a facade of nonchalance – but his companions had all pushed him to go talk to Tav, and they wouldn’t let him retreat to his tent without sharing something. Gathering his resolve with a deep breath, he strode purposefully toward Gale and Shadowheart. Nearby, Karlach practiced her combat maneuvers with focused intensity in front of her tent.
“Looks good on you, soldier,” the tiefling quipped, an amused expression on her face as she eyed the hat.
Astarion’s blush deepened, and he quickly removed the hat, stuffing it forcefully under his arm. “I was just keeping it safe for him,” he muttered, feeling even more self-conscious under their scrutiny.
Shadowheart and Gale exchanged knowing glances. The cleric wiped her hands on a cloth before stepping closer to Astarion, creating a semblance of privacy away from the other two, while Gale encouraged Karlach to go spar with Lae’zel.
The party’s other half-elf tilted her head slightly, her expression softening. “How did the talk go?” she asked quietly, her voice filled with genuine interest.
He hesitated, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “We... had a moment,” he admitted quietly, fingers unconsciously tracing his soulmark.
Shadowheart’s expression softened, and she nodded encouragingly while gently pulling his hand away from his elbow. “And?”
“I’m closer to telling him about, well… The mark,” Astarion continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “But not yet. I’m not ready.”
Shadowheart smiled. “You’ll know when the time is right.”
Before Astarion could respond, Gale interjected with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk. “What are you two plotting over there?”
Astarion and Shadowheart exchanged glances, both responding in unison, “Nothing!”
Gale raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “I understand the need for secrets, but please do share with the class if it has to do with us, hmm?”
Astarion chuckled nervously, glancing between the cleric and the wizard, relieved by the distraction from his own inner turmoil. He straightened up, trying to regain his composure as he replied, “It’s nothing serious, Gale. Just discussing... future plans.”
Shadowheart shot him a sidelong glance, clearly amused by his evasive answer, but she played along smoothly. “Yes, just strategizing,” she added, her tone betraying nothing of their earlier conversation’s intensity.
Gale raised his eyebrow higher, not fooled in the slightest. “Strategizing, huh? Well, count me in if it involves more of Tav’s intriguing tales or perhaps a new approach to dealing with Lae’zel’s unyielding stubbornness.”
Karlach strolled over with Lae’zel in tow, the githyanki warrior looking unamused as usual. “What’s this about strategies?” she inquired, her tone tinged with curiosity.
“Apparently, we’re planning the next great adventure,” Gale quipped, casting a knowing glance at Astarion and Shadowheart.
The vampire couldn’t help but smile at Gale’s attempt to diffuse the tension, grateful for his ability to lighten the mood. “Indeed, planning is essential,” he added, going along with the jest, “especially when facing the unknown dangers of this wretched realm.”
Karlach grinned, her tail flicking playfully behind her. “Well, count me in. Just make sure we have enough supplies and plenty of sharp weapons, and I’m good to go.”
Lae’zel grunted in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest. “As long as we don’t waste time with pointless chatter.”
Gale rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Fear not, Lae’zel. We shall proceed with the utmost efficiency and purpose.”
Astarion felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the banter flowed around him. Among this eclectic group, he found moments of solace and camaraderie that he hadn’t experienced in centuries. Even with his fears and doubts gnawing at him, he knew he wasn’t alone.
Feeling lucky indeed to have friends who could lighten his spirits and dispel his vulnerabilities, he resolved to show his support in return. With a determined stride, he approached Gale, who was deeply engrossed in preparing the evening’s meal.
As he neared, Astarion couldn’t help but notice the meticulous attention Gale paid to each ingredient. The wizard’s eyes twinkled with a subtle excitement, reflecting the dance of the firelight as he stirred the pot. Surprised by his own intensity of observation, Astarion found himself unable to look away. There was something mesmerizing about Gale’s focused demeanour, a dedication that spoke volumes about his commitment to their group’s well-being.
Astarion’s gaze wandered, drawn to Gale’s long locks which were tucked away into a practical bun, keeping them expertly secured away from the food. His gaze wandered again, and soon enough, brown eyes met his. Caught in the act, he felt a flush rise in his cheeks, but to his relief, Gale pretended not to notice, his attention focused once more on the stew bubbling over the fire.
Feeling a tad awkward, but appreciative of Gale’s discretion, Astarion cleared his throat lightly. “How’s that meal coming along?” he asked. He moved to lounge nearby, hoping his usual smirk was playing on his lips.
Gale looked up from his stirring, a faint blush – mirroring Astarion’s own – colouring his cheeks. He smiled warmly, choosing not to comment on Astarion’s momentary lapse, returning instead to his culinary masterpiece. “It’s almost ready, my friend. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“Tell me, Gale,” Astarion drawled, steering the conversation back to safer waters, “do you always put so much effort into making gruel, or is this a special occasion?”
Gale glanced up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “This, my dear Astarion, is not gruel. It’s an exquisite stew, carefully crafted to appease even the most discerning of palates. And if you’re lucky, you might get to taste some.”
Astarion chuckled, his fangs glinting in the firelight. “If it tastes as good as it smells, I might be inclined to agree.”
Gale stirred the pot, a satisfied smile on his face. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Astarion felt a peculiar pull in his chest as his eyes locked with the wizard’s again, an odd sensation that made him pause. His teasing retort faltered on his lips as he tried to understand the feeling. It was as if an invisible thread was tugging at his very being, drawing him towards...
“Look what we found,” Tav announced, both him and Wyll stepping into the firelight with a bundle of fresh herbs in hand. “These should add some flavour to our meal.”
Astarion’s eyes flicked to Tav, the strange pull now making sense. Immediately, he calmed. “Ah, our heroes return,” Astarion said, regaining his composure. “Perhaps now this stew will be somewhat palatable.”
Wyll laughed, the sound warm and comforting. “I have faith in Gale’s culinary skills. And these herbs Tav found will only make it better.”
Gale took the herbs with a nod of gratitude, adding them to the pot. “Thank you, both. This will indeed elevate the dish.”
“I must say, Gale, your culinary skills are truly impressive. This stew promises to be a delight,” Wyll praised sincerely.
He glanced at Tav, his tone carrying a touch of curiosity as he continued. “And Tav, those herbs you found are remarkable. Quite a find in the depths of the Underdark. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve spent some time here before.”
Tav’s reaction was swift but controlled, a brief tensing of his shoulders before he forced himself to relax, an almost imperceptible shift that Astarion, ever observant of his companions’ demeanours, caught. His mind flashed back to their conversation earlier that, where Tav had hinted at lingering memories from his past – memories he seemed keen to leave buried deep within the shadows of the Underdark.
Tav had spoken with a vulnerability that resonated with Astarion, reminding him of his own struggles with memories long suppressed. The urge to reach out, to offer comfort, tugged at Astarion’s heart. Yet, uncertainty gripped him. He didn’t know how to approach Tav, how to breach the walls the bard had carefully erected around his past. Caught between empathy and his own hesitations, Astarion hesitated, his gaze softening as he observed Tav. The bard’s eyes flicked towards him briefly, as if sensing Astarion’s concern, but then Tav’s attention returned to the stew, his expression guarded once more.
Astarion shifted uneasily, his fingers tracing absent-mindedly over the familiar lines of his soulmark. He wanted to say something, to offer reassurance, but the words eluded him. Amid their banter and camaraderie, Astarion felt a pang of helplessness – a reminder that even among friends, some wounds remained unseen and untouchable.
Luckily, Gale smoothly defused any potential tension, ever the diplomatic host. “Indeed,” he chimed in, his tone light and agreeable as he stirred the stew. “Tav has a knack for finding hidden treasures, whether it’s in a melody or in the flora of the Underdark.”
The bard relaxed visibly at Gale’s words, a grateful smile touching his lips. “Just lucky, I suppose,” he replied humbly, his gaze flickering briefly back up to Astarion before focusing back on the task of helping Gale prepare the meal.
Gale continued to stir the stew, the aroma growing richer with each swirl of his spoon. “With these herbs,” he mused aloud, “I believe our meal is ready to be sampled.”
Astarion forced a smile, masking his inner turmoil as he accepted the bowl of stew from Gale. “After you, Gale,” he ended up saying, gesturing playfully towards the pot. “Let’s see if your culinary masterpiece lives up to its promise.”
Gale chuckled warmly, a twinkle in his eyes as he ladled out portions of the stew into bowls. “Only one way to find out.”
As the group settled around the crackling fire, each cradling a steaming bowl of Gale’s stew, a comfortable silence descended. The aroma of herbs and savoury spices filled the air, mingling with the warmth of camaraderie that surrounded them. Astarion took a tentative sip, the rich flavors bursting on his tongue, confirming Gale’s culinary prowess once again.
Wyll was the first to break the quietude, his voice soft and reflective. “It’s moments like these,” he began, his gaze drifting into the dancing flames, “that remind me why we’re here. Not just to survive, but to find moments of joy amidst all the chaos.”
Karlach nodded in agreement, her usual expression softened by the flickering firelight. “Damn right. Life’s too short to waste on bland shit.”
Lae’zel grunted, a rare hint of approval in her tone. “I agree, this stew is more than tolerable. Gale,” she added gruffly, “you may keep using your wizarding skills for future meals.”
Gale chuckled, clearly pleased by the compliment, however backhanded. “I’ll take that as high praise from you, Lae’zel.”
Astarion watched the interplay between his companions with a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in centuries. Their banter, their shared moments of laughter and concern, anchored him in a reality far removed from the haunting memories of his past.
He glanced at Tav again, catching the bard’s eye briefly. Tav returned Astarion’s gaze with a grateful nod, his eyes briefly betraying the weight of unspoken burdens. There was a silent understanding between them, a recognition of shared vulnerabilities that didn’t need words to affirm. It was enough for Astarion to know that Tav knew he wasn’t alone in his struggles.
The fire crackled and danced, casting shadows that flickered like memories across the cavern walls. Above them, the distant echoes of the Underdark whispered ancient secrets, but tonight, beneath their makeshift canopy, Astarion found solace in the present moment.
“We should rest soon,” Shadowheart remarked quietly, breaking the companionable silence. “Tomorrow will bring its own trials.”
Astarion nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. “Indeed. But for now, let’s enjoy this.”
And so, they lingered by the fire, their voices blending with the night’s chorus of distant echoes and the soft rustling of hook horrors. At that moment, amid the glow of camaraderie and the promise of tomorrow, Astarion felt peace settle within him again. Despite the perils of the Underdark and the uncertainties that awaited them, he knew that together, they would face whatever challenges came their way.
[start | previous | next chapter posted on sunday, august 04, 2024]
Want a little something written for two of the companions? Want a little something written for your Tav and their love interest? Want to see an interaction between two characters that never met in canon? Want to help someone in a writing slump for their own fic who is completely obsessed with BG3?
Look no further!
Rules:
Follow me (@bladesandbhaalspawn)
Reblog this post
Request your ficlet 😊 (either in your reblog or by sending an ask!)
Terms:
Any pairing (poly is good too!)
Any character (Origin characters, other companions, NPCs, Tavs and Durges)
Any rating (18+ in bio if requesting an E rating)
Extra details:
If submitting a request with a Tav and/or a Durge, please describe them (race, class, looks, personality, etc.)
There isn't much I won't write, but I retain the right to refuse your request if it makes me uncomfortable (if you're unsure, ask me first!)
That's it! Looking forward to writing for you all 💖
FAQ
Will add things here as questions come along.
What's the fic you're currently procrastinating writing?
I'm currently working on Silver Marks and Heartstrings, an Astarion x Tav Soulmate!AU.
You can read it [here] on Ao3 or [here] on Tumblr.
How long is a ficlet?
Usually under 1k words (definitely under 2k).
How much does this cost?
Nothing, it's free 🥰
I've always loved writing, and I'm currently super obsessed with BG3, so it's a win-win!
Summary:
Astarion, a centuries-old vampire spawn, discovers unexpected love with Tav, a young half-elf. Drawn together after escaping a mind flayer’s grasp, they journey through perilous lands, where Astarion grapples with his feelings and the revelation of his true soulmate. Amidst adventure and uncertainty, they must confront their desires and fears in their quest for love and acceptance.
Silver Marks and Heartstrings is a tale of love transcending time and destiny, where two souls, marked by fate yet bound by choice, navigate the complexities of trust, desire, and the enduring power of love against all odds.
TW: Brief mentions of Astarion's past abuse (physical, mental, sexual) - nothing is explicit.
FAQ
Most recent chapter?
Chapter 3 | Astarion's Gamble: During the tiefling celebration, Astarion seizes the opportunity to enact his plan, leading to an intense encounter with Tav that may alter their relationship forever.
Available on Ao3 [chapter 3 here]
Available on Tumblr [chapter 3 here]
Where to read it?
Available on Ao3 [full work here]
Available on Tumblr [chapter 1 here]
Word count?
14k (and counting)
How many chapters?
3 so far (I think there will be a total of 15)
Will the rating change?
No, the rating will stay M for Mature.
If I decide to write E, I'll write a side story. (Let me know if that interests you!)
Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56871064
TW: Brief mentions of Astarion's past abuse (sexual) - nothing is explicit.
Chapter Summary:
During the tiefling celebration, Astarion seizes the opportunity to enact his plan, leading to an intense encounter with Tav that may alter their relationship forever.
Story Summary:
Astarion, a centuries-old vampire spawn, discovers unexpected love with Tav, a young half-elf. Drawn together after escaping a mind flayer’s grasp, they journey through perilous lands, where Astarion grapples with his feelings and the revelation of his true soulmate. Amidst adventure and uncertainty, they must confront their desires and fears in their quest for love and acceptance.
Silver Marks and Heartstrings is a tale of love transcending time and destiny, where two souls, marked by fate yet bound by choice, navigate the complexities of trust, desire, and the enduring power of love against all odds.
The night of the tiefling celebration was a vibrant blur of laughter, music, and dancing. The air was rich with the scent of pine and the faint, heady aroma of mulled wine, mingling with the earthy undertones of the forest. The grove itself was alive with energy, torches casting a warm glow over the jubilant crowd, their flickering light creating a mosaic of shifting shadows on the rocks and trees.
Astarion stood on the outskirts, a solitary figure against the backdrop of joyous chaos. The swarm of tieflings moved around him in a swirling sea of colours – all different shades of crimson and indigo – each hue vibrant in the torchlight. The music that filled the grove was a blend of joyous melodies and lilting rhythms, a rich, enchanting tapestry of sound that wove through the crowd like a living entity. Tav’s flute and Alfira’s lute created a symphony that thrummed in the rogue’s chest, a palpable force that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the celebration.
From his vantage point, Astarion’s eyes were – as always, it seemed – drawn to Tav, the heart of the revelry. It was truly a sight to behold. This was clearly Tav’s natural element; the man was a born entertainer. The bard was an effervescent presence, his voice a clear, melodious sound that rose above the cacophony. He moved with an effortless grace, his hands deftly caressing the strings of a lute, fingers flying over the frets as he conjured melodies that wove through the crowd like threads of enchantment. Tav’s presence was magnetic, a beacon that drew all to him with an almost magical allure.
The vampire couldn’t help but marvel at Tav’s natural charm and ability to connect with others – a stark contrast to his own centuries-old veneer of detachment. The bard’s laughter rang out, a joyful sound that seemed to lighten the very air around him. His movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as he navigated the throng, his presence a beacon of light and mirth.
As he watched Tav interact with the crowd, Astarion couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy mix into his admiration. The bard’s charm was undeniable, a natural force that seemed to elevate the mood of everyone around him, something that was made all too obvious when Tav made his way over to the tallest and broadest of them all – the Archdruid.
Tav’s approach seemed to ignite a spark in Halsin’s eyes, a light that hadn’t been there moments before. Astarion’s fingers twitched involuntarily at his side as he watched the druid’s smile widen, his posture straightening with newfound attentiveness. The druid stood far too close to Tav, the space between them shrinking with each exchanged word. Astarion’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together as he observed the easy banter that flowed between them. With his charming smile and attentive nature, the other elf seemed to have a knack for drawing out Tav’s laughter, their easy banter tinged with a hint of flirtation that made Astarion grit his teeth in frustration. He noted how Halsin’s hands seemed to hover just shy of touching Tav, the druid barely restraining himself from reaching out to touch the other.
The tension in the rogue’s shoulders eased slightly as Tav eventually moved on, but his relief was short-lived. Envy twisted in his gut anew as he observed the blond’s interactions with Gale and Lae’zel, their offers to ‘celebrate’ in a more private setting hanging heavy in the air. Gale, ever the magician, proposed showing Tav a new trick, a flourish of magic that Astarion couldn’t help but roll his eyes at inwardly; after all, Tav was a bard well-versed in such arts. Lae’zel’s blunt invitation, to taste the sweat on Tav’s skin, resonated with a primal intensity that made Astarion’s insides churn.
Each interaction felt like a dagger twisting in Astarion’s chest, a stark reminder of the deep connections Tav effortlessly forged. His heart fluttered with a mixture of hope and fear each time Tav gently declined, choosing instead to move on with that bright smile that seemed to ensnare everyone in its warmth. Astarion couldn’t deny the pang of self-doubt that crept in, wondering if his own proposition would fall flat. Tav had reacted positively to his flirting and pet names in the past, but was that merely kindness? Yes, most of his own flirting was nothing more than a hollow manipulation to keep the bard close and himself safe, but still...
He hesitated, worrying his lower lip with his fangs. What would be worse? Tav turning him down as he had turned down all the others, or Tav turning down Gale and Lae’zel for him? The others seemed to sincerely care for Tav, offering him authentic companionship, while Astarion was tangled in his own web of lies.
Retreating into the shadows, Astarion wrestled with his emotions. His centuries of experience in manipulation seemed petty and inadequate against the force of Tav’s genuine connection with their companions. The plan that had seemed so clever in the cold, calculating recesses of his mind now felt naïve and hollow; he had sought to seduce Tav, to capture him with allure and charm, but now, in the bright light of the torches, the rogue found himself wavering. Could he really ask the man to spend a night in his cold arms when the honest promise of more was so close?
The rogue’s thoughts returned to the practical matter of survival. Tav was the key to his safety. The others might have accepted him when it was revealed he was a vampire spawn, but Astarion knew that it was because of Tav that they hadn’t turned on him; it was Tav’s voice that had quelled their fears, his presence that had soothed their doubts. The bard had vouched for him, and Astarion owed his continued existence to the blond’s unwavering support.
As the leader of their ragtag band, Tav held the group’s cohesion in his hands. If the bard ever decided to turn against him, Astarion knew he would be cast out – or worse. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He needed to make himself indispensable to Tav, to ensure that the bard would always keep him by his side, providing the safety and protection he so desperately craved. It seemed the best plan for securing his place in a world that had been hostile to him for centuries.
Astarion’s mind raced, sifting through the tactics and tricks that had served him well in the past. He had spent centuries honing his skills in seduction and manipulation to bend others to his will. All he’d ever known was how to make himself seem irresistible, how to use his tongue – whether sharp to enthrall with beautiful lies and empty promises, or wet and pliant against another’s body. It was a familiar dance, one that had kept him alive through the darkest of times.
Yet, this felt different. Tav was different. The blond had shown him respect and kindness, something Astarion had seldom experienced. He felt a pang of guilt for his intentions, knowing that the bard deserved more than just another layer of deception.
If he was being honest, deep down, a part of him longed for something real, something genuine. The vampire didn’t want to admit it, but he found himself caring for Tav in ways that went beyond mere survival. The rogue yearned for something more profound than his continued existence – he desired companionship, understanding, perhaps even acceptance.
The vampire’s mind raced with conflicting emotions, each thought more tumultuous than the last. He had spent so long convincing himself that safety was enough, that survival was the pinnacle of his desires. But now, confronted with the possibility of something more, something real, he found himself teetering on the edge of an abyss. The very idea of reaching out for more, seemed an insurmountable challenge.
Even if Tav was his soulmate as Shadowheart claimed, could he ever truly understand the depths of Astarion’s pain? Could he see past the darkness within him? Could he offer the solace and redemption the vampire so desperately craved? Astarion’s heart twisted with a bittersweet longing, a yearning for something he feared was beyond his grasp.
Centuries of manipulation and survival had left him a hollow shell, his soul battered and bruised by the relentless march of time. To let Tav in, to truly let him see the broken, desperate creature lurking beneath the charming facade, was a risk Astarion wasn’t sure he could afford to take.
The self-deprecating voice grew louder, its insidious whispers wrapping around his thoughts like a suffocating fog.
You are not worthy, it hissed. You are nothing more than a creature of the night, a manipulative charlatan undeserving of love. Tav deserves better, better than the hollow promises and used-up body you have to offer.
With a heavy sigh, Astarion forced himself to confront the harsh reality of his existence. He couldn’t afford to be greedy, to reach for a dream that might shatter in his hands. Safety, however cold and empty, was a certainty he could cling to. It was a small comfort, but it was better than the relentless agony of hope unfulfilled. No matter how much he wished for more, he would settle for security. It was a meager consolation, but after two hundred years of torment, it was all he could dare to ask for.
Old habits died hard, and the rogue couldn’t shake the feeling that this was his best – his only – option.
After all, he knew nothing else.
“I’ve survived centuries on charm and allure,” Astarion murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “Surely, that will be enough.”
He straightened, his decision made. He would play his part, charm and seduce as he always had, ensuring his place by Tav’s side. It was the only way he knew to protect himself, to secure a future that, while not filled with love – he had long since abandoned the notion of genuine affection, his heart encased in layers of cynicism and mistrust – would at least be free from the horrors of his past.
He adjusted his attire with meticulous care, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles with practiced precision. He drew a deep breath, letting the rich aroma of wine and the distant scents of the forest fill his senses, steeling himself and straightening his posture, drawing upon all the charisma and confidence he had honed over lifetimes. He emerged from the shadows, heart racing, his steps deliberate and measured as he headed back to his tent, and waited.
When he saw the half-elf making his way towards his tent, Astarion donned the mask of confidence that had served him well over the ages.
“You know, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they toast for saving so many lives,” Astarion began when Tav was within earshot, his voice laced with a carefully crafted blend of self-deprecation and intrigue.
“And now that I’m here…” he continued, taking a large gulp of the wine, the sharpness of the liquid a brief distraction from the nerves that gnawed at him. “I hate it. This is awful.”
Tav’s laughter, genuine and heartfelt, washed over Astarion like a balm, stirring emotions he struggled to name. “It’s not that bad,” Tav chuckled warmly, his eyes holding Astarion’s with an intensity that sent a shiver, both thrilling and unnerving, down his spine. “Think of all the goblins you killed,” he added with a wink.
“True. That was fun,” he agreed. Emboldened by Tav’s attention, Astarion found himself teetering on the edge of vulnerability, a place he rarely dared to tread. “Still, I would’ve liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine,” he continued, scoffing.
Tav’s response was gentle, his gaze unwavering as he reached for the bottle Astarion held. Their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of unexpected warmth through the rogue’s veins. Tav lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. Astarion couldn’t help but let his eyes wander, watching in awe as the broken dagger bobbed across the taut skin over his Adam’s apple, as Tav’s brow furrowed in concentration. Instinctively, he leaned forward to smooth the crease from the bard’s forehead, but Astarion caught himself just in time to reclaim the bottle instead.
“See what I mean? Awful. All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” Astarion said, more to himself than to Tav, though the bard’s attentive gaze didn’t waver.
Tav hesitated, his expression briefly unreadable before he cautiously asked, “And what’s your idea of ‘a little fun’?”
“By the hells.” Astarion’s mind raced. This wasn’t going as smoothly as he had hoped. Why couldn’t Tav be as easy a target as the others he had seduced? Was he losing his touch? He pushed aside the doubts. This had to work.
“Sex, my dear,” he clarified, trying to read Tav’s reaction. “A night of passion.”
He was met with silence, but this time, the emotion that flitted across the bard’s face was one that Astarion immediately recognized; lust. That much was unmistakable, even as it mixed with something deeper, something the elf couldn’t quite place.
Undeterred, Astarion pressed on, unwilling to let this opportunity slip away. “Let’s wait until things quieten down. Once the others are asleep, we’ll find each other.”
Tav hesitated once more, and Astarion’s heart sank. Had he overplayed his hand? Was he about to be rejected, by his soulmate, no less? By the gods, Tav hated him, Tav was disgusted by him, how could he ever think that…
“All right, let’s do it,” Tav’s husky reply broke through Astarion’s spiral of self-doubt. He glanced up, a surge of relief and exhilaration pulsing through him. He met Tav’s intense gaze, his breath catching in his throat. The look in the man’s eyes – a mix of desire, kindness, and admiration – left him momentarily breathless.
No one had ever regarded him with such tenderness before. It felt fragile, vulnerable – a stark contrast to the masks he wore to survive.
“I’ll see you later,” Tav promised, his words breaking Astarion out of his reverie.
“Indeed you will, my love,” Astarion replied, the mask slipping back into place with practiced ease. Inside, however, his thoughts whirled. This encounter felt different, perilously close to revealing parts of himself he had long kept hidden. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. “Indeed you will.”
________________________________________
The wait for Tav felt interminable, each passing minute amplifying Astarion’s unease. He knew he had been the one to ask the other man to come find him once the revelry quieted. In hindsight, he realized he had underestimated Tav’s nature as a bard – as an entertainer who thrived amidst the ebb and flow of festivities, the half-elf wouldn’t consider things quiet until everyone was asleep, passed out, or partnered up.
Astarion paced in the shadows, nerves buzzing. What if Tav didn’t come? What if he had changed his mind? He cursed himself for his vulnerability, for placing his hopes on the whims of another – for placing his survival in the hands of another. The fear of rejection, of abandonment, gnawed at him like a persistent, insidious parasite.
Before his mind could spiral completely out of control, Tav appeared in the clearing, his entrance a confident swagger that made the rogue pause. Seduction was Astarion’s domain, his skill honed through centuries of practice, yet now he wondered if Tav’s natural charisma surpassed his own. The way Tav moved with effortless grace, the subtle sway of his hips that seemed as natural as breathing… It was captivating, drawing Astarion’s gaze despite his resolve to remain in control. He watched the half-elf with a mixture of admiration and apprehension, his heart pounding in his chest.
Swiftly, he shed his shirt, a deliberate display of confidence masking the nerves churning within. This was his realm, where he excelled. Yet, the nagging doubt lingered; if Tav outshone him here too, how could he hope to hold onto him?
He shook his head. No time for doubts, now. He had to focus, to remind himself of his strengths, of the centuries of experience that had kept him alive.
Emerging from the shadows, the vampire met Tav’s gaze through half-lidded eyes. “There you are,” he said, seductively. “I’ve been waiting.”
Oh hells, did that sound like a reprimand? Astarion wondered, panicked. His mind raced to amend the statement, to infuse it with the right balance of desire and allure.
The rogue’s heart tugged in his chest and raced wildly as Tav moved to close the distance between them, his eyes never leaving Astarion’s own. Every step the blond took seemed to radiate confidence, and Astarion couldn’t help but be awed. The bard’s presence was magnetic, a force that drew him in despite all of his instincts screaming at him to remain guarded.
As Tav neared him, Astarion’s breath hitched. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness now. This was his one shot. He needed Tav to want him, to need him. It was the only way he knew to keep someone close.
“Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you,” Astarion quickly corrected, hoping he sounded suave as he said it. He sauntered over to where Tav had stopped in his tracks, eyes drinking in the sight of the pale elf. He willed himself to exude confidence, to let his body language convey the desire he knew Tav wanted to see mirrored in his eyes.
Tav’s eyes were half-lidded too, from the booze or lust, Astarion couldn’t tell… But he hoped it was from lust. Lust was easier to work with. Safer, at least.
Well, most of the time.
As he made his own approach, Astarion’s mind raced. This had to work. Tav’s gaze felt like a physical touch, sending shivers down the vampire’s spine. With every step closer, with every heartbeat, Astarion felt the apprehension rising. He was about to gamble everything on this one moment – and the stakes had never felt higher.
He couldn’t afford to panic any longer. Astarion gathered his resolve, allowing his instincts to take control, relying on the familiar rhythms of seduction that had served him countless times before.
“Waiting to have you,” he continued, as if following a script, his words honeyed. He let the words hang in the air, a tantalizing promise of what could be.
But, just like with everything else, Astarion should have expected the unexpected from the extraordinary man standing before him.
“You don’t have me yet,” he teased. Tav’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, and Astarion’s heart skipped a beat.
Oh, maybe this would work. He could play this game.
“Don’t I?” Astarion replied amusedly, seizing on the playful banter. “You’re here. And I don’t think you want to talk.”
He paused, offering Tav his sweetest smile. He extended a hand, hovering just shy of touching the half-elf, allowing the anticipation to simmer and build between them.
“I think you want to be known. To be tasted.” Astarion’s voice was a seductive murmur, each word carefully chosen to ignite the flames of desire, to draw Tav into his web.
Tav’s previous hesitancy returned, a fleeting moment of uncertainty dancing across his features as he searched Astarion’s eyes, ever careful, ever thoughtful. “And what do you want?” The question hung in the air.
Taken aback, Astarion felt his mask fall for a moment. No one had ever really asked him what he wanted before, not since those first years. Most were all too happy to fall into his pretty arms and take, take, take – without caring about Astarion’s wants or desires at all, just looking for a body to use to satisfy their needs.
As quickly as he could, the elf pushed aside the thoughts, concentrating on the task at hand. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. He couldn’t falter, couldn’t dwell on these thoughts. This was the pivotal moment. He needed to convey desire without revealing the vulnerability gnawing at him. His heart raced as he contemplated his response, every beat echoing in the silence between them.
“What do any of us want?” Astarion echoed softly, his voice a murmur that carried the weight of centuries of faked desire. He stepped closer to Tav, bridging the gap between them, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. His hand twitched, as if it was taking all of his willpower to not reach out and touch.
“Pleasure,” Astarion continued, his tone low and intimate, as if sharing a secret. “Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.” His gaze locked with Tav’s, daring the bard to match his intensity.
But Tav’s earlier words echoed in his mind, and Astarion couldn’t help but hesitate, caught in those gentle eyes. His heart pounded in his chest – not just from the fear of rejection, but from the flicker of hope that burned within him. If they were soulmates… Could Tav be different? Could this bard, with his blond locks and tender gaze, offer him more than another night he’d rather forget? Astarion dared to entertain the thought, however briefly, that Tav might treat him with the respect and dignity he craved.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asked, unsure, his voice a mix of vulnerability and something he thought he’d lost hundreds of years ago – longing. “To lose yourself in me?”
As if sensing that Astarion was leaving things unspoken, Tav didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he held Astarion’s gaze, his blue eyes seeming to peer through to the rogue’s very soul. The edges of his eyes softened as if with understanding, and he acquiesced with a small, almost imperceptible nod that conveyed more than words ever could.
Then, in a gesture that spoke volumes, Tav removed his own shirts with deliberate slowness. His movements were not hurried or impatient; they were deliberate, as if each fabric falling away was a step towards revealing more than just skin. In the moonlight, Astarion saw not just the freckles, moles, and scars that adorned the blond’s chest like constellations, but also a vulnerability mirrored in Tav’s gaze.
Relief washed over Astarion in gentle waves, mingling with a newfound sense of wonder. Moonlight spilled over them, casting shadows that danced around them like a silent audience to their unfolding intimacy. “I thought so,” Astarion finally managed to say, his voice a little too breathless for his liking.
Who initiated the kiss, Astarion couldn’t tell – he had no idea whether it was his own yearning or Tav’s that had them finally pressed chest to chest, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. The sensation was unparalleled, a sense of peace enveloping him, flooding him with a warmth he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. Whether it was the fulfillment of being with his soulmate or the completion of his plan, he couldn’t quite tell, but all that mattered was the feel of Tav’s lips, soft and yielding against his own.
His body reacted instinctively, his mind finally quieting as he surrendered to the moment. He wrapped his legs around Tav’s waist, drawing him closer, their bodies pressed together in a fervent embrace. Tav took the lead, guiding them against a nearby tree and pressing Astarion’s back up against it before kissing him senseless once more. He felt as though he were drowning in sensation, overwhelmed yet anchored by the solid presence of the bard’s body against his own.
Astarion felt as though he were seeing stars. This kiss was unlike any other, grounding him in the present moment in a way he had never experienced before. Usually a million realms away during such intimate encounters, letting his body follow its instincts and habits, he now found himself wanting to stay firmly in his body, to savour every sensation, every connection shared with the man who was holding him up like he was valuable – a treasure, something to be cherished.
Moments passed in a blur of passion and urgency, Astarion barely having the time to catch his breath before Tav gently manoeuvred them to the forest floor. Finding himself beneath the bard, Astarion’s heart raced with a heady mix of desire and anticipation, his senses heightened by the proximity of the half-elf. Tav straddled the vampire’s hips with a playful smirk, his weight pressing tantalizingly against the rogue’s body before again surprising the vampire by rolling them over.
Tav settled onto the undergrowth, his large frame illuminated by moonlight, a breathtaking sight. Astarion couldn’t help but marvel at the half-elf’s muscular build, a testament to strength hidden beneath the guise of a bard. Tav lay there, limbs sprawled out, grinning. The moonlight caught a glint in his pale blue eyes, a playful challenge and an invitation all at once. His head tilted to the side, exposing his neck in a blatant invitation that made Astarion’s heart tug familiarly in his chest. The bard’s pulse beat steadily, both a confirmation of his complete trust in the vampire and a rhythmic invitation that the vampire couldn’t resist.
Without hesitation, he leaned in, drawn by the vulnerability and trust Tav offered. His fangs sank into Tav’s pulsing artery, an act that had become ritualized over the past weeks, yet felt more intimate – more profound – in this moment of shared closeness. As he drank his fill, he felt a surge of sensations flooding his senses: Tav’s essence, rich and vibrant, mingling with the heady rush of their recent kiss. It was as if every touch, every taste, resonated deeper within him. It was more than feeding; it was a communion of souls, each heartbeat resonating deeply within him, echoing the unspoken bond they were forging.
With the blond’s heartbeat thrumming against his lips, Astarion felt more alive than he had in centuries, even more so than when he’d first fed on the man. His body, so often a vessel of for other’s desires, now found itself listened to, honoured in a way he had never experienced. Tav offering his neck so readily, an act of complete and utter trust, spoke volumes to the pale elf. It wasn’t just about taking what he needed; it was about being offered something so intimate, so easily, for his own pleasure. For once, someone cared about him before even considering themselves, and the weight of that realization settled deep within Astarion, stirring emotions for the bard he constantly tried to keep buried.
In the quiet of the moonlit forest, Astarion’s fingers traced the curve of Tav’s jaw, memorizing the warmth of his skin, the faint brush of stubble. He relished in the sensation of being held in such high regard, of having his needs acknowledged and respected. It was a stark contrast to the centuries of fleeting encounters, where he had been used and discarded, his desires secondary to those who sought only pleasure or escape.
Savouring the taste of Tav’s lifeblood, Astarion felt a certainty unlike any he had known before. Despite not yet seeing the other’s soulmark, he couldn’t deny the profound connection they shared. His heart, quieted for years, whispered that this man was more than just a mark or a means to an end – here, held safe in Tav’s arms, their bodies entwined in a dance of shared passion and vulnerability, Astarion dared to believe that he finally found his soulmate.
Eventually, they lay entangled on the cool forest floor, limbs intertwined, their breathing gradually synchronizing in the aftermath of their shared desire. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, woven into the silent understanding that had blossomed between them. As their connection deepened in the quiet of the forest, Astarion and Tav embraced the lingering warmth of their intimacy. The night air carried a serene stillness around them, punctuated only by the rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of nocturnal creatures. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they settled into a state of peaceful elven trance, their breaths synchronizing in the moonlit clearing.
________________________________________
Astarion was deep in trance when a faint noise roused him. Years of captivity had finely attuned his senses to the smallest of sounds, and he was instantly alert, pointy ears straining for any sign of danger. The rustling of leaves in the distance, a branch snapping underfoot – it could have been a harmless animal, yet Astarion’s heart raced as if it were a threat from his past.
Once he was sure there was no immediate danger, the vampire tried to calm his racing mind. But the serenity he had found was shattered, replaced by a restlessness that kept him awake. He remained hyper-aware of Tav beside him, the taste of him still on his tongue, his senses ablaze with the lingering echoes of their intimate connection.
Silent and contemplative now, Astarion traced patterns on the arm Tav had thrown around him, fingers gliding over the smooth skin as if seeking answers that lay hidden beneath. His touch was gentle, each movement deliberate, as if he could soothe his own anxieties through this simple act. As he drew intricate designs, he found himself imagining a different life.
He envisioned them lying together in a cozy feather bed, soft sheets tangled around their legs, the warmth of a hearth fire casting a gentle glow over their entwined forms. Astarion could almost feel the comfort of a feather mattress beneath him, hear the distant hum of city life or the serene quiet of a remote cottage. In his mind, they were free from the dangers and uncertainties of their current existence. No more battles, no more monsters, no more running; just the two of them living a simple life.
Astarion imagined waking up to Tav’s sleepy smile, sharing quiet mornings over breakfast, their conversations unhurried and filled with the mundane comforts of a shared life. He pictured evenings spent in the comfort of each other’s arms, the world outside their door forgotten as they lost themselves in each other’s eyes, in each other’s words. The thought was almost enough to bring a smile to his lips.
In his daydream, Tav stood by a rustic stove, whistling a light-hearted tune as he cooked himself a simple meal. The melody was cheerful and infectious, filling their cozy home with warmth and joy. Astarion imagined Tav asking for his help, a playful glint in his eyes. “Astarion, darling, I’m stuck on a rhyme. Lend me your ear?” Astarion would laugh, feigning reluctance as he would reach up and hook his chin over Tav’s shoulder, their closeness a gift to cherish. He’d suggest a witty line, maybe offer up a pun or two (no matter how much he despised them), and Tav would light up, his face radiant with inspiration. “Perfect!” Tav would exclaim, pulling Astarion into a spontaneous kiss, the simple act of creation binding them closer together.
Suddenly, Astarion gasped, clutching at his chest as the now all-too-familiar tug pulled at his heartstrings. The sensation was jarring. The tug was insistent, demanding his attention, and Astarion found himself caught between the comfort of Tav’s presence and the relentless pull of the bond, the rhythmic rise and fall of the blond’s breath a stark contrast to the tumult within Astarion’s heart.
The vampire closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing as the tug continued to gnaw at him. The weight of the unspoken words pressed down on him, making it difficult to find peace. His thoughts circled back to his initial motives for seducing Tav, the selfish desire to use their connection as a means of protection. Even having doubted that they were soulmate, he had never anticipated caring for the bard beyond the physical or emotional safety he provided. Now, however, Astarion found himself caring deeply, perhaps too deeply for his own comfort.
Once more, the rogue’s heart tugged in the telltale fashion of the soulbond, and this time, Astarion’s eyes flickered to Tav’s serene face, bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the trees. The bard lay in peaceful repose, undisturbed by the inner turmoil that gripped the pale elf. His lips were slightly parted in his trance, his expression calm and untroubled, a portrait of peace.
Astarion’s heart sank. There was no hint of the soulmark’s influence on Tav, no furrowed brow or restless stirring that mirrored his own unease. It was as if the bond existed only within the rogue, an invisible thread that tethered him to Tav without the bard’s awareness.
“Do you feel it too?” Astarion murmured softly, both worried and hopeful. The bard did not stir, meditating away just as peacefully as before. He dared not disturb Tav’s peaceful slumber, yet the question burst out of him; luckily, his voice had been barely a whisper against the backdrop of rustling leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures.
He searched the other’s expression, desperately looking for any hint of the inexplicable pull he had felt from the moment they met. With a cautious touch, Astarion gently folded Tav’s arm and turned his left elbow upward, fingers tracing over the smooth skin. His heart quickened as he searched for the telltale sign of their connection – a small, barely noticeable mark that would confirm what he dared to hope.
As his fingertips brushed over Tav’s elbow, Astarion’s breath caught in his throat. There was no matching mark, no confirmation of the bond he longed to find. Disappointment flickered through him, but he continued his exploration, hoping to discover the hidden mark that would reveal Tav’s true connection to him. He moved his hands to Tav’s chest, tracing over the smooth planes of muscle, searching for any sign of the soulmark. He hadn’t noticed any when Tav was pressing his body into his own, or when he himself had been on his knees, but soulmarks were known to be fickle things. Often, they would only appear in the right lighting, at the right angle.
His fingers lingered on Tav’s arms, legs, and shoulders, but the mark remained elusive. The bard’s back was pressed firmly against the cool earth, concealing the one place Astarion had not yet looked. Frustration mingled with a deep, abiding yearning. He desperately wanted to believe that Tav felt the same tug, the same inexplicable draw that had guided Astarion to him. But the evidence was hidden, just out of reach.
The lack of a matching soulmark drove the vampire’s thoughts to spiral into darker territory. What if he had invented everything? What if all of Tav’s gentle gestures, lingering looks, and the playful exposing of his neck were just figments of Astarion’s desperate imagination? Perhaps Tav had only been stretching, not offering his neck in a gesture of trust and intimacy. The possibility that he had misinterpreted everything, blinded by his yearning for a soulmate, clawed at Astarion’s sanity.
His breath quickened, and a cold dread settled in his chest.
He wanted to believe in the bond, in the soulmark that pulled at his heartstrings, but the absence of tangible proof made him doubt everything. The fear of unreciprocated affection gnawed at him, threatening to unravel the fragile hope he had nurtured. The echoes of his past whispered insidiously in his mind, reminding him of the centuries he had spent using his body as a means of survival, trading intimacy for a semblance of protection. This body, now his own, free from Cazador’s grip and control, was supposed to be sacred, untouchable unless it was by someone who truly respected and cherished him. Never again would it be groped, fondled, used and abused.
Never again would he be groped, fondled, used and abused.
He had made a promise to himself that if he were ever free from Cazador, he would never let anyone touch him like that again. Yet here he was, lying beside Tav, his heart tangled in confusion and fear, unsure whether or not the bard wore his mark, whether or not he had lain with Astarion for the pleasure of one night or as the beginning of something more.
Had he compromised himself for just one more day of safety? Had he betrayed his own vow, letting the specter of his past dictate his actions in the present? The panic clawed at him, a cold dread that threatened to consume the fragile peace he had found within this party of misfits.
The rogue felt a movement beside him. Tav, even in the throes of sleep, reached out for him. A hand gently petted his white curls, fingers weaving through the soft strands with a tenderness that caught Astarion by surprise. A small smile played on the blond’s lips, serene and content.
Astarion stared, unable to trust his own eyes. Was this another trick of his mind, a desperate fabrication to soothe his frayed nerves? But as the moments passed, the smile didn’t fade. Tav really was smiling at the simple act of caressing his mussed, sweaty curls.
The unexpected gesture pulled him out of his spiraling, frightened thoughts. The gentle touch, combined with the peaceful expression on Tav’s face, was enough to bring Astarion back from the edge. He felt his breath slow, matching the calm rhythm of Tav’s, and the overwhelming sense of panic began to dissipate.
He continued to watch Tav, the serene features and the small, contented smile that spoke of sincere affection. The moment was grounding, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had been raging within him. Astarion allowed himself to believe, if only for a fleeting moment, that perhaps his fears were unfounded. Perhaps the bond he felt was real, and maybe, just maybe, Tav felt it too.
Astarion let one rest gently on the blond’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his palm. He studied Tav's slightly elven features, the relaxed lines of his face softened by the night’s tranquility. His serene expression, his calm breath, and the complete trust he displayed by sleeping so peacefully next to a vampire – even if just a spawn – offered Astarion some solace. Tav trusted him, at least somewhat, and that helped the rogue pull back from the precipice.
Beneath the solace, guilt gnawed at him. He felt ashamed for doubting the bard’s genuine care, for suspecting that Tav’s gestures might be anything but sincere. Deep down, Astarion knew that even if the bard didn’t share the same depth of feeling, the half-elf undoubtedly cared for him. The rogue’s thoughts spiraled further into self-reproach; he hadn’t broken his vow to himself by being with Tav – in fact, Tav had shown him more respect than anyone ever had.
Closing his eyes, Astarion willed his breath to calm. Again, he tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Tav’s heartbeat, using it as an anchor to ground himself. Each rise and fall of the blond’s chest under his hand became a lifeline, a reminder of the present moment, far removed from the horrors of his past. He let himself pretend, just for a moment, that everything he feared was unfounded, that the bond he felt with the bard was real and reciprocated. The thought gave him a fragile sense of peace, enough to let the edges of his panic soften.
With each passing moment, the weight of his fears grew a little lighter. He focused on the warmth of Tav’s body next to his, the gentle cadence of his breathing, and the reassuring sound of the forest around them. Slowly, the tension in his muscles began to unwind, and his mind drifted towards the calm state necessary for trance. For now, it was enough to lie beside Tav, their souls intertwined in a tentative dance of whispered secrets and unspoken desires, beneath the watchful gaze of the stars.
[start | previous | next chapter posted on sunday, july 21, 2024]
So y’all know the classic edge trope of “my blade cannot be sheathed until it has tasted blood”? What if a magic sword that has that requirement, except it’s sort of inverted. A sword that, instead of being inhabited by an evil spirit which once awakened cannot be lulled back to sleep except by blood sacrifice, was inhabited by a benevolent spirit who would not allow the sword to be drawn unless bloodshed were the only possible solution. A sword whose power could never be misused because it would only allow itself to be used in situations where it was justified. What about a Paladin who spends their entire journey fighting with a sheathed sword, incapacitating but never killing or maiming. The party believes that the Paladin has taken an oath of no killing, until they face the big villain. And it is in that moment, and that moment alone, that the sword will allow itself to be drawn.
Ok but what could make this very interesting is if the big bad has the ability to look harmless and charming. To connive and get people on its side because it's so weak and helpless and in need
And everyone in the party is ready to fall for the trick but paladin for the first time ever draws their blade
Because humans can be tricked but the sword can't be
Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56871064
TW: Brief mentions of Astarion's past abuse (physical, mental, sexual) - nothing is explicit.
Chapter Summary:
Astarion and Shadowheart discuss soulmarks, stirring up Astarion's buried traumas.
Story Summary:
Astarion, a centuries-old vampire spawn, discovers unexpected love with Tav, a young half-elf. Drawn together after escaping a mind flayer’s grasp, they journey through perilous lands, where Astarion grapples with his feelings and the revelation of his true soulmate. Amidst adventure and uncertainty, they must confront their desires and fears in their quest for love and acceptance.
Silver Marks and Heartstrings is a tale of love transcending time and destiny, where two souls, marked by fate yet bound by choice, navigate the complexities of trust, desire, and the enduring power of love against all odds.
As they wandered the wilderness together, Astarion learned more about his new companions. Taviroth Branwen was unlike anyone he had ever met. The man always had an instrument strapped to his back, whether it be his trusty flute or another’s lute, was quick to offer a helping hand, and quicker to offer a witty reply. Standing tall and muscular, his short white-blond hair ruffled by the breeze, Tav was striking. His pale blue eyes, almost otherworldly in their intensity, scanned the surroundings with habitual caution. Despite the deep scars that marked his tanned face, a broad smile often played on his lips, adding to his roguish charm. His dark teal clothing shimmered subtly, catching the light as he moved with a bard’s innate grace.
Alongside Tav, Astarion met Shadowheart and Gale. Shadowheart, a raven-haired half-elf cleric of Shar, was enigmatic and fiercely guarded, her dark eyes always scanning for threats. Gale, a human wizard with a wealth of knowledge and an insatiable curiosity, was equally impressive. His chestnut hair framed his face in soft waves, and his keen eyes sparkled with an inner fire that belied his calm demeanour.
Their journey took them through treacherous landscapes, and it wasn’t long before they encountered other survivors of the ill-fated ship. Lae’zel, a fierce githyanki warrior, joined them soon after their escape. Her yellow eyes glinted with the promise of vengeance against their mutual enemies, and her aggressive nature added a sharp edge to the group’s dynamic.
Wyll, a charismatic human warlock known as the Blade of Frontiers, became part of their band shortly after. With his chiseled features, contrasting light and dark eyes, and a devil-may-care smile, he was both charming and deadly – especially when horns sprouted high on his forehead. His pact with a devil added an intriguing layer of mystery to his character, and Astarion found himself both wary and curious about the man.
Finally, they had rescued Karlach, a tiefling barbarian with a fiery spirit and a past as tumultuous as her temper. Her crimson skin and glowing, molten eyes made her a striking figure, and her fierce loyalty quickly earned her a place in their ragtag group.
As the days turned into weeks, Astarion couldn’t ignore the persistent tug in his chest. It was a sensation he had felt for decades now, a constant reminder of his soulmate’s existence. At first, he tried to dismiss it, focusing on the immediate dangers and his desperate need for survival. But as they continued their journey, the feeling grew stronger, becoming impossible to ignore. It became a comforting presence after a while, a reminder that he was not alone in the world. The peace he found in their camaraderie began to erode the walls he had built around his heart. He started to see his companions not just as tools in his quest for survival, for his freedom, but as potential friends.
One evening, as they sat around the campfire after a long day of travel and listened to Tav’s flute-playing, Astarion found himself lost in thought. The warmth of the fire, the sound of his companions’ laughter, and the soft glow of the moon overhead created a sense of serenity he could scarcely remember. If the rogue was being truly honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he had ever known such peace. For the first time in hundreds of years, he allowed himself to relax.
Immediately, realization struck him: the tug in his chest was not just a reminder of his soulmate’s existence. It was a beacon, guiding him towards them. And it was so powerful because his soulmate was not just nearby; they were right here, within the camp.
His heart raced as he looked around at his companions. Could it be Tav, the man who had shown him such kindness and understanding when he’d found the vampire crouched above his body in the dead of night, about to drive his fangs into the bard’s neck? Astarion’s mind raced as he tried to recall the moment he first felt the bond, to match it with Tav’s age. It seemed possible, even likely.
But it could also be any of the others. The possibility both excited and terrified him. He began to calculate the ages of all of his traveling companions, recalling the moment he first felt the bond appear.
Could it be Shadowheart, with her mysterious past and guarded heart? The cleric’s age was difficult to guess, her enigmatic nature obscuring any clear understanding of her past. Or could his soulmate be Gale, with his boundless intellect and arcane prowess? Gale’s arcane knowledge and experience suggested a long life, but how long had he been alive? Could it be Lae’zel, with her fierce determination and alien heritage, or Wyll, with his devilish charm and heroic aspirations? Lae’zel’s githyanki heritage made her age a mystery, while Wyll’s pact with a devil added another layer of complexity. Even Karlach, with her fiery temper and fierce loyalty, could be a contender. Astarion had never spent much time with tieflings; how old did tieflings live, anyway?
Each one presented a tantalizing possibility, and Astarion was surprised to find himself drawn to them all in different ways.
Despite his growing hope, Astarion couldn’t shake the fear that had been his constant companion for centuries. The pain of Cazador’s control, the horror of the tadpole in his brain, and the uncertainty of their quest all weighed heavily on him. He struggled to let go of his instincts for self-preservation, to trust in the people around him.
Astarion’s thoughts were interrupted by Tav’s voice, pulling him back to the present. “You seem lost in thought, Astarion. Everything alright?”
The rogue met his gaze, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The tug in his chest grew ever stronger, and Astarion’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t have the answer yet, but he knew he was getting closer. Closer to understanding his bond, closer to finding his soulmate, and closer to a future he had never dared to dream of.
“Yes, Tav,” Astarion replied, a genuine smile touching his lips. “Everything’s alright. In fact, everything’s more than alright.”
Tav’s eyes sparkled with warmth and curiosity, ever an open book, and Astarion felt his heart swell with a mix of hope and anticipation. The journey ahead was still fraught with danger and uncertainty, but he felt he was on the right path for the first time in centuries. And with his new companions by his side, Astarion was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, determined to find his soulmate and forge a future worth living.
________________________________________
As they journeyed onward, Astarion found his fears gradually easing, soothed by the banter and camaraderie of the group. Tav’s presence was particularly comforting; his kindness seemed to penetrate Astarion’s defenses, seeing through the layers of charm that Astarion wore like armour.
As they gathered around the campfire, Astarion couldn’t help but watch Tav closely. The bard’s laughter rang out melodiously, his stories captivating the group. It was Shadowheart’s voice, though, that broke through Astarion’s reverie, her knowing smirk catching him off guard.
“You’re staring again,” she remarked, her eyes flicking to Tav and back to Astarion. “He’s quite the character, isn’t he?”
Caught off guard, Astarion chuckled, ears tingeing with pink as he tried to put on a face of nonchalance and bravado. “I’m not blind. Besides, he’s a bard, what do you expect?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Shadowheart bit her lower lip, trying to suppress a laugh at his haughty attitude. “Have you ever met a bard like Tav?” she asked, her tone teasing.
Astarion waved a dismissive hand. “Of course I have, I’ve met plenty of talentless quacks in my day. Baldur’s Gate is filled with boys who think their very existence is a gift to all of Faerûn.”
Silence stretched out uncomfortably, and the elf found himself shifting awkwardly in his seat, his confident facade slipping. He turned to her, the words coming out more defensive than he intended. “What? Don’t you think…”
He stopped short, taken aback by the soft expression on her face. “We both know Tav’s not like those other bards,” she said gently.
Astarion flushed, his eyes roaming back to land on Tav, who was putting the finishing touches on Lae’zel’s braids. As the bard picked up his flute to play a new melody, simple and melancholic, hauntingly tender as it drifted through the night air, Astarion felt the familiar tug in his chest grow stronger – and he felt his walls fall a little more.
“No, he’s not,” Astarion admitted, almost to himself. “He’s different. It’s… refreshing.”
Astarion closed his eyes, letting the music envelop him. Each note from the blond’s flute seemed to unravel the tight knots of tension within him. Tav’s presence, his kindness, and his talent stirring something deep within him, a part of his soul he had thought long dead, locked away under layers of survival instincts and cultivated charm.
Sensing an opportunity to broach a delicate topic, Shadowheart leaned in closer, her voice low and gentle.
“You know,” she began, “I’ve noticed something about you.”
Astarion quirked an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Shadowheart glanced around to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. She pressed on, her eyes intense. “Your soulmate is in this camp, aren’t they?” she whispered.
Astarion’s body went stiff, taken aback by her perceptiveness. “What are you talking about?” he deflected, his voice a touch too defensive.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Shadowheart pulled aside her camp attire to reveal a small, intricate mark on her collarbone – different from Astarion’s, yet unmistakably a soulmark. The silver lines, etched permanently onto her skin, depicted a moon and stars intertwining amongst the cosmos.
“Yours is on your left elbow, isn’t it?”
Astarion’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you…”
Panic surged through him. His mind raced, thoughts spiraling into confusion and dread. All the punishments he had received for keeping secrets – or more accurately, for not being able to keep them – rushed to the forefront of his mind. The worst punishment he had ever endured was when he had almost let slip that Cazador was a vampire lord. To this day, Astarion was surprised that he was still alive; that one mistake had cost him years of starvation, endless nights of beatings, and round after round of punishments so awful that his mind had broken to keep him from going insane.
He knew what the punishment was for being bad at keeping secrets – how could he have let himself get so sloppy?
It was his new companions, it had to be. Here, among these people, he had allowed himself to soften, to let his guard down. He had honed a persona to survive all those years, perfected the art of deception to keep himself and his secrets safe. Yet, in a few short weeks, these people had dulled his blade, eroded the walls he had built so carefully. It was terrifying. He couldn’t breathe.
His heart pounded in his chest, his eyes widening in alarm. He felt on edge, his anxiety mounting, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He flinched ever so slightly. Master was going to be even more creative with his punishment, he was sure of that much…
Tav’s music suddenly took on a new, more feverish pace, a sharp contrast from before. The notes were fast and intense like a storm breaking through the calm. The sound jolted the pale elf out of his spiraling thoughts, the urgent rhythm snapping him back to the present. He realized where he was; somewhere Cazador was not.
Astarion pulled in a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself even more, following the beat of the music that had once again slowed down. The tension in his body began to ease, replaced by a cautious sense of relief. Cazador couldn’t touch him anymore, couldn’t lay his vile, demanding, frigid fingers on his skin anymore. He was free.
“I’ve been watching,” she said, gently interrupting his thoughts. “You’re obvious when you’re touching your soulmark.”
His hand instinctively moved to his left elbow, fingers tracing the mark hidden beneath his sleeve – a pair of crossing daggers surrounded by arcane symbols. The sight of it had been seared into his memory since it turned from red to silver all those years ago.
“Like that,” Shadowheart remarked, her tone teasing yet gentle, her chin jutting towards his elbow.
For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Astarion felt himself flush at being caught so unawares. He pulled his hand away, fretfully grabbing a nearby bottle of Ithbank and pouring himself a goblet of the wine, trying to keep his hands too busy to unconsciously touch his mark again.
“Truth be told, it’s not just that,” she continued. “You’ve been more distracted lately, more… hopeful. It’s a good look on you.”
As the music tapered away, ending with a soft, hopeful flourish, Astarion felt the tension in his shoulders ease, the frantic beat of panic gradually subsiding. He took another deep breath, grounding himself in the present moment. He glanced around their group, each member immersed in their own thoughts or tasks. Tav was now helping Gale mend a tear in his robes, their voices mixing in laughter and jest. Lae’zel was sharpening her blade with focused intensity, while Wyll and Karlach were sprawled on the ground near one another, lost in quiet contemplation of the stars.
Astarion swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the liquid catch the firelight in shimmering patterns. His gaze settled on Shadowheart, her eyes graciously trained away from the rogue as she let him process her words. At that moment, he felt a wave of relief wash over him. Despite the revelation, she didn’t seem poised to expose his secret; instead, she had approached it with a surprising understanding and tact. Now that his emotions weren’t completely in turmoil, Astarion quietly realized the cleric wasn’t trying to blackmail him as he’d first suspected; she was just trying to help in her own way.
He couldn’t help but feel fortunate that it was Shadowheart who had noticed his soulmark. With her devout faith and the weight of her own secrets, she seemed a trustworthy confidante. The knowledge that she wouldn’t betray him brought a measure of solace – a fragile trust forming between them amidst the complexities of their journey.
Still, Astarion couldn’t shake the lingering unease entirely. He tugged at his sleeves, pulling them lower over his left elbow where his soulmark lay hidden beneath a thin layer of fabric. He made a silent vow to be more vigilant, to ensure no one else glimpsed the telltale silver lines etched into his skin.
He glanced across the fire at Gale, whose loquacious nature was well-known among the group. A small smirk tugged at Astarion’s lips as he imagined the wizard inadvertently blurting out the details of his mark for the entire camp to hear, turning his elbow this way and that to get an exact description, ensuring that whoever wore the same mark would know that…
Whoever wore the same mark…
Astarion sat up straighter, his conscious mind trying to catch up to what his instincts had already grasped. Everyone bore a soulmark, so why had Shadowheart chosen to reveal hers to him? She could have simply acknowledged his mark without showing him hers. The act of baring her mark hinted at a deeper understanding, a level of empathy and insight he had initially underestimated.
Setting down his goblet, Astarion turned his gaze back to the raven-haired half-elf. Her profile was illuminated by the flickering light, her eyes still focused intently on the dancing flames.
“Shadowheart,” he began tentatively, his voice breaking the tranquil silence. “Is your soulmate in this camp, too?”
At his question, Shadowheart tensed imperceptibly, her expression guarded yet contemplative. For a moment, she didn’t respond, as if weighing her words carefully. Astarion watched her closely, sensing an unspoken story behind her eyes.
After a pregnant pause, she finally spoke, her voice low and measured. “Yes,” she admitted quietly, her gaze still fixed on the fire.
Astarion nodded slowly, absorbing this revelation. He hadn’t expected such a candid admission, nor the vulnerability it implied. In the flickering light, he could see the lines of fatigue and determination etched on her face.
“Do you…” he continued, his curiosity piqued, “Do you know who your soulmate is?”
The cleric scoffed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll need more wine to talk about that,” she muttered, reaching for the bottle.
Astarion chuckled, refilling her glass. “Of course it had to be the gith, didn’t it? Lae’zel.”
Shadowheart took a long sip, her expression grim. “How did you guess?”
“Well, your reaction for one,” Astarion said with a smirk. “But how do you know for sure?”
Grumbling, Shadowheart set her glass down and leaned forward. “I saw the mark on the nape of her neck. It’s an exact match to mine.” Shadowheart sighed, recalling the moment. “It was during one of our sparring sessions. She had her hair up, and it was just... There.”
Astarion nodded thoughtfully, his gaze shifting between Shadowheart and the flickering flames. “That’s why you asked me if my soulmate was in camp. It’s not just that you saw my mark,” he said. “You know what it’s like to feel that tug when they’re finally so close.”
Shadowheart inclined her head slightly, acknowledging his observation. “Yes,” she admitted softly, her voice carrying a mix of resignation and yearning. “You know, I’ve longed to meet my soulmate since I can remember.” She chuckled wryly, a hint of bitterness underlying her tone. “Admittedly, I don’t remember much, but still... It’s like I always knew they were far away. But I never expected them to be...” She sighed heavily, her words trailing off.
Astarion sensed the weight behind her words, the complexities of emotions she wrestled with at that moment. He reached for his own goblet, taking a thoughtful sip before speaking again. “A githyanki you met aboard a nautiloid after having a tadpole inserted into your brain through your eye? No, I suppose this was all a bit of a surprise.”
She laughed at that, but her gaze remained distant. “True. I suppose if I had predicted that all of this would happen, I would’ve been better suited to be a divination wizard than a cleric,” she joked, but the rogue could feel the pain in her words.
Curiosity tugged at Astarion. “Have you two... spoken about it?” he ventured cautiously.
The cleric shook her head slowly, a rueful smile playing on her lips. “No. We haven’t had the opportunity.”
Astarion raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her choice of words. “Opportunity?”
Shadowheart sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “She’s not the easiest person to talk to about personal matters. And besides, she’s so dedicated to her mission to get us to the crèche as fast as possible... It doesn’t leave much room for idle conversation.”
“No, I imagine it wouldn’t,” he agreed quietly. He spent most nights in a tent next to Lae’zel’s – he knew firsthand how she was the first one to rise, practicing her drills as soon as she was dressed, and how she would polish her armour and sharpen her blades until the moment sleep claimed her.
Silence settled between them, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of their companions. Astarion watched Shadowheart closely, sensing the vulnerability she rarely displayed.
Finally, Shadowheart looked up, meeting his gaze with a small, sad smile. She shook her head, cleared her throat, and downed the rest of her glass. “Well, enough about me. If it’s someone in camp, and it’s not me or Lae’zel, or Karlach and Wyll...”
“Karlach and Wyll?” Astarion interrupted, his surprise evident.
Shadowheart laughed, the sound light and unexpected. “Oh, you’ve really only had eyes for Tav, haven’t you?”
Astarion stammered. “I… what? No, I mean... maybe?”
Shadowheart laughed again, a genuine smile on her lips. “Yes, Karlach and Wyll. Once he grew his horns, his soulmark appeared, a perfect match to hers, and they’ve been spending all their time together since. Didn’t you find it odd that they only dance with each other?”
Astarion’s blush deepened, and he looked away, feeling a pang of shame. “I... I didn’t notice.”
He glanced back towards where Wyll and Karlach were stargazing, his expression softening as he observed their quiet intimacy. Karlach’s eyes were bright and adoring as she listened to Wyll point out constellations, stars she hadn’t seen in a decade due to her time in Avernus. The heat of her flames ensured that their bodies weren’t touching, yet they were as close as could be, their hands outstretched as if longing to lace their fingers together.
Shadowheart’s playful tone drew his attention back. “Do you look that longingly at your friends?” she teased, nudging him lightly and pouring more wine for them both.
Astarion scoffed lightly, his mock affront betraying the vulnerability he felt at witnessing such genuine affection. “You don’t know what I do with my friends,” he retorted, attempting to regain control over his emotions.
Rolling her eyes, she teased back. “Oh, I’m sure it’s all hedonistic debauchery with you.”
The wine mellowed Astarion’s nerves, the comforting crackle of the campfire soothing him as he leaned back against a log, chuckling at her words. His gaze drifted towards Tav and Gale, whose banter had shifted to a discussion on the intricacies of spell components. He found himself smiling at their antics before he could stop himself, but he rapidly schooled his face into a more neutral expression before turning his attention back to Shadowheart.
“If you’re so knowledgeable about everyone’s soulmates,” Astarion began, trying to keep his tone casual despite the underlying curiosity, “do you have any guesses for me?”
Shadowheart smirked, a mischievous glint in her eye as she grabbed a bottle of Esmeltar Red from her pack and poured herself yet another glass of wine. “Well, it certainly could be Withers,” she teased lightly.
Astarion’s brow furrowed in mock offense. “Withers? Really? I’ll have you know, I have far more discerning taste,” he retorted, though his smile betrayed his amusement.
Shadowheart laughed brightly, the sound carrying through the quiet night air. “I’m just joking,” she reassured him, her eyes softening with a rare warmth. “But seriously, Astarion, is it Tav?” she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Astarion hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering once more to where Tav sat, his expression animated as he conversed with Gale, the only two contenders left. The bond he felt with Tav was undeniable, pulling at him like a tide he couldn’t resist. “I think so,” he admitted quietly, more to himself than to Shadowheart.
Shadowheart nodded knowingly, her smile gentle. “It’s written all over you,” she remarked softly, filling the elf’s goblet. “You know, Tav has a way of drawing people in. It’s no surprise.”
Astarion accepted the drink gratefully, taking a thoughtful sip before meeting Shadowheart’s gaze again. “How did you know about everyone’s soulmates?” he asked, genuinely curious now.
She shrugged casually. “Observation. It’s a skill that comes in handy when you’re part of a group like ours. People are not as subtle as they think.”
Astarion chuckled awkwardly, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. “Clearly, I’m more transparent than I thought,” he muttered, remembering how he’d initially reacted to Shadowheart simply mentioning soulmates.
Shadowheart’s smile widened, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re not exactly an open book, Astarion,” she teased gently. “But sometimes, it’s what we don’t say that speaks the loudest.”
She paused, carefully choosing her words. “It’s in the way you look at him, you know,” she said. “The way you listen to him play, the way you watch him laugh. It’s in the way you smile all haughtily when he comes to see you every morning to offer you his neck again, and in the way you smile so softly at him when he leaves… When you know he can’t see you. You… You care so deeply it scares you.”
Shadowheart’s words struck a chord within Astarion, stirring a mix of emotions he hadn’t fully acknowledged before. He stared into the flickering flames for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts amidst the warmth of the fire and the soft buzz of wine in his veins.
Unable to find an immediate response, Astarion reached out and grabbed the bottle of wine from Shadowheart’s hands, surprising even himself with the boldness of the gesture. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long, deep drink, letting the burn of the wine distract him momentarily from the vulnerability he felt at being so accurately perceived.
The silence between them stretched for a few heartbeats, filled only by the crackling of the fire and the distant murmur of their companions. Astarion lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned to look at Shadowheart, his expression a mixture of defiance and resignation.
“It’s not easy, you know,” he finally admitted, his voice quieter than before. “Caring... deeply. It’s a weakness.” Before he realized it, honest words were tumbling out of his mouth. “It’s a weakness I’ve learned to hide well.”
Shadowheart watched him with an understanding gaze, her earlier playfulness giving way to a solemn appreciation of his honesty. She nodded slowly, her demeanour shifting to one of empathy. “I know,” she said softly, her tone carrying the weight of shared experience. “We all have our masks, Astarion. But sometimes, it’s okay to let them slip, even if just for a moment.”
Astarion sighed, leaning back against the log once more, his gaze drifting upwards to the star-filled sky. “Perhaps,” he conceded quietly, his thoughts turning to Tav. “But being vulnerable... it’s a dangerous game.”
Shadowheart nodded in agreement, her eyes following his gaze to the heavens above. “It is,” she agreed. “But it’s also where the deepest connections are forged.”
“But what if he doesn’t feel the same?” Astarion questioned bitterly, his tone tinged with self-doubt. “He couldn’t possibly feel the same way. I’m a creature of shadows and deceit. He’s a beacon of light and goodness. Why would he choose me?”
“He deserves better,” Astarion admitted softly, voice thick with emotion, his gaze fixed on the ground. “He’s too good for me, but hells, I wish... I wish I could be worthy of him. He deserves someone who isn’t burdened by darkness, someone who can offer him the purity he embodies.”
Shadowheart regarded Astarion with a steady gaze, her expression soft but resolute in the flickering firelight. She took a thoughtful sip of wine before responding. “Deserving or not, Astarion, love doesn’t always follow the paths we expect. Sometimes, it simply is.” Her eyes flickered towards Tav, who was still engrossed in his conversation with Gale, their gestures animated against the backdrop of the night sky.
Astarion’s gaze followed hers, his heart constricting with an ache he couldn’t name. “I fear I’ve spent too long in shadows,” he admitted. “It’s hard to imagine stepping into the light, even for someone like him.”
Shadowheart nodded. “Change is never easy, especially when it challenges the very essence of who we are.” She paused, then continued with gentle determination, “But you’re more than just shadows, Astarion. You’re capable of more than you realize. Tav sees that, whether you do or not.”
Astarion furrowed his brow, mulling over her words as doubt and longing warred within him. “But what if he sees too much?” he whispered, his voice raw with helplessness. “What if he sees the monster lurking beneath the facade?”
“You’re not a monster,” Shadowheart asserted firmly, her voice cutting through his self-doubt. “You’re a survivor, and that’s a strength, not a curse.”
Their eyes met, and Astarion searched hers for reassurance, for understanding. “Survival has its costs,” he admitted quietly, shoulders sagging under the weight of years of solitude and self-condemnation.
Shadowheart reached out, placing a hand on his arm in a rare gesture of comfort. “And yet, here you are, seeking more than survival,” she said softly. “You’re seeking connection, belonging. That takes courage, Astarion, more than any darkness can diminish.”
The wound on her hand flashed at her words, but Shadowheart kept her hand where it lay.
A flicker of gratitude crossed Astarion’s features, a fragile hope stirring within him. “Thank you, Shadowheart,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Your insight... it means more than you know.”
She offered him a small, understanding smile before withdrawing her hand. “We all carry burdens, Astarion. It’s in how we carry them that defines us.”
The night deepened around them, the crackling of the fire the only sound for a long while as they sat in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Astarion’s gaze drifted back to Tav, who now was trying to hide behind his hat as laughed at something Karlach had said as she and Wyll headed to their tents, his smile radiant in the firelight. The ache in Astarion’s chest intensified, a bittersweet mix of yearning and doubt.
“Perhaps,” Astarion finally spoke, breaking the quietude, “perhaps it’s time I stop hiding from the light.”
Shadowheart’s eyes softened with encouragement as she regarded him. “Perhaps,” she echoed softly, her tone imbued with quiet optimism. “You’re safe with us, Astarion.”
Safe. The word echoed in his mind, foreign and yet so desirable. Could he truly be safe with them? Could he allow himself to hope for a future free from fear and pain? The pain of two hundred years of captivity clawed at his thoughts, making it impossible to fully embrace her words. He wanted to believe her, to trust in the security she promised, but the wounds of his past were deep, and his trust was fragile.
As the fire crackled and his companions’ laughter filled the air, mingling with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint sound of Tav’s flute in the distance, Astarion’s gaze locked onto the bard, the tug on his heart giving him an idea. He desperately wanted to be safe, but he knew he couldn’t rely solely on others’ assurances.
Safety had to be secured, earned, manipulated into being. He had to take matters into his own hands.
Astarion’s thoughts churned with a fervent resolve. He would ensure his own safety, no matter the cost. Leveraging his potential soulbond with Tav was a bitter necessity – but it wouldn’t be hard. He had done far worse for far less before.
His past had been a relentless cycle of manipulation and survival, and the darkness within him was a shadow he feared he might never truly escape. Yet, that same darkness had taught him to be resourceful, to use every weapon at his disposal. This time was no different. He would use every tool he had, every bit of knowledge and skill, every bit of charm and cunning, to carve out a place in this new life, to ensure Tav kept him close. Even if it meant straddling the line between light and shadow, he would not let his chance at safety slip away.
As the stars painted patterns across the sky and the campfire burned low, Astarion allowed himself a moment of fragile hope. Perhaps, amidst this tumultuous journey, he could find a semblance of peace. He couldn’t afford to be greedy, but he could strive for safety, for survival.
With a determined glint in his eye, Astarion made a silent vow. He would protect himself, secure his future, and keep Tav close. No matter what it took.
[previous | next chapter posted on sunday, july 07, 2024]
Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56871064
Summary:
For the first time in the over two hundred years he’d been alive, he felt it – a faint, inexplicable tug in his chest. It was as if something, someone, was calling out to him across the vast expanse of the world. Astarion’s eyes widened in shock, and he clutched at the soulmark on his elbow. Could it be? After all these years?
Scanning the Elfsong Tavern, Astarion saw no one else reacting, no one clutching a matching soulmark. Dismissing his hope, he chided himself for expecting the gods to intervene now. Why would they grant him a soulmate now? They never deigned to listen to him before.
-----
Astarion, a centuries-old vampire spawn, discovers unexpected love with Tav, a young half-elf. Drawn together after escaping a mind flayer’s grasp, they journey through perilous lands, where Astarion grapples with his feelings and the revelation of his true soulmate. Amidst adventure and uncertainty, they must confront their desires and fears in their quest for love and acceptance.
Silver Marks and Heartstrings is a tale of love transcending time and destiny, where two souls, marked by fate yet bound by choice, navigate the complexities of trust, desire, and the enduring power of love against all odds.
Chapter 1 - Origins
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a pale glow over the dark streets of Baldur’s Gate. Astarion prowled through the shadows, a mere specter of his former self, a puppet on the strings of his master. His eyes were gleaming with predatory hunger as he stalked his next victim. This was his existence, his curse – to seduce and lure the unsuspecting to their doom for Cazador’s insatiable appetite.
He was out after a particularly brutal punishment, the sting of it still fresh in his mind. He had lain in his cell, body aching and spirit broken, the echoes of Cazador’s cruel laughter lingering in his ears. The wounds on his back were raw, a grim reminder of his master’s wrath and the unending torment that defined his existence. The chains that bound him felt heavier than ever.
But then, for the first time in the over two hundred years he’d been alive, he felt it – a faint, inexplicable tug in his chest. It was as if something, someone, was calling out to him across the vast expanse of the world. Astarion’s eyes widened in shock, and he clutched at the soulmark on his elbow. Could it be? After all these years?
Scanning the Elfsong Tavern, Astarion saw no one else reacting, no one clutching a matching soulmark. Dismissing his hope, he chided himself for expecting the gods to intervene now. Why would they grant him a soulmate now? They never deigned to listen to him before.
Stupid, stupid man, he berated himself. Nothing has ever gone right in your life. Why would you think the gods would ever give you a soulmate?
Across the room, he spotted his target: a young, unsuspecting noblewoman, her beauty evident even in the dim light. Her elegant gown shimmered, catching the moonlight as she walked. Astarion felt a momentary relief wash over him.
Finally, he thought, a hint of vanity surfacing. It's always easier when they're beautiful.
Approaching her with practiced charm, he whispered sweet promises and tantalizing lies. As they moved to a secluded alley, he felt a tug in his chest again, an as-of-yet unfamiliar yet undeniable pull. His heart skipped a beat, hope blooming once again. Was this it? Had he finally found his soulmate?
Excitement mingled with trepidation as he leaned in to kiss her, expecting to feel the sparks of connection. But as their lips met, there was nothing. No warmth, no sense of belonging. The emptiness gnawed at him, more palpable than ever. Confusion and disappointment clouded his mind. He had felt the tug, he was sure of it, so why wasn’t she the one?
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning, another cruel joke the gods deigned to play on his cursed existence – his soulmate hadn’t existed until now. The tug he felt wasn’t from the person in front of him; it was from a soul just born into the world. Astarion’s heart clenched with urgency. If it had taken over two centuries for his soulmate to be born, they couldn’t be of a long-living race. He didn’t have centuries to wait; he had to escape Cazador’s grasp soon, or risk never meeting the one destined for him.
Disoriented, he pulled away from the noblewoman, mumbling an excuse before disappearing back into the night. As he slinked through the shadows, his mind raced with new determination. He had to survive, had to break free. For the first time in centuries, he had something real to fight for: the hope of love.
For now, though, all he could do was walk back into the tavern. The punishment for returning to Cazador without a victim would be severe. He swallowed his disgust and forced a smile, ready to lure again. Their soulmate would forgive him for his crimes, wouldn’t they?
Astarion fought back the tears and plastered on a brighter smile. He could only hope.
________________________________________
Years later, fate intervened with a nautiloid ship. Implanting him with a tadpole, it left him stranded in a foreign place, yet free from the vampire’s curse. Panicked, Astarion spotted three figures approaching — survivors from the ship. He needed a plan.
“I need some help!” he called out to the two half-elves and human. “Hurry, I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.”
The leader of the group stepped up, his white-blond hair swaying in the wind. Dumbfounded at the sight of a half-elf so tall and so large, and so beautiful, Astarion had to quickly blink away his first instinct to seduce the man.
“There, in the grass. You can kill it, can’t you? Like you killed the others,” he continued. He purposefully kept his back to the group, knowing that it usually helped to lower people’s guards.
“Easily, stand back,” the blond replied, still approaching even as his companions stayed further back. They were wary of him, Astarion could tell. He made a note of it, adjusting his plan.
“There, can you see it?” Astarion asked, pointing to where a boar was currently grazing. Hopefully, the half-elf would be distracted by the movements he would see there, and Astarion would get his chance.
The blond didn’t reply, but he expertly pulled a dagger from his hip before stepping in front of Astarion, effectively protecting him with his body. Something tugged at Astarion’s chest, but he ignored it, too focused on the task at hand.
Stupid man, turning his back on a stranger, Astarion thought.
The boar chose that moment to jump out of hiding. Astarion quickly pulled out his own dagger, hoping the other two wouldn’t notice, but before he could bring the blade to the blond’s neck, the half-elf was turning, surprise obvious in his much-too-trusting eyes.
“Put it away,” the half-elf was saying, his voice deep and melodious. “We don’t need to fight.”
“Don’t we?” Astarion immediately answered, despite noticing that the man had already sheathed his dagger and had his hands up in a placating manner. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as he had originally thought…
That only made him more dangerous.
“I saw you on the ship – free, scuttling about,” Astarion continued, never lowering his dagger. “You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Those tentacled – argh.”
Pain gripped vampire, his mind twisting; he was looking out of unfamiliar eyes, entertaining bright, loud taverns. Suddenly, it dawned on Astarion that if he could see the blond’s memories, the other could see his own. Fear gripped him tighter than the pain, and just as quickly as it had begun, he felt his mind disentangle itself from the other’s own.
“What was that? What’s going on?” he growled.
“It’s the mind flayer’s worm – it connected us,” the man replied, arms still outstretched.
Surprisingly, Astarion realized he believed him. “You’re not one of them,” he says, finally understanding. “They took you, just the same as me.”
His eyes darted towards the ground, momentarily ashamed by his actions before reminding himself that he didn’t know this man, this group. He had no reason to trust them. He had done the right thing. He was just trying to survive.
“And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies,” Astarion said, his persona slipping back on. It was easier than breathing.
The other man dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Apology accepted,” he said. A sly smile crept onto his lips, and he chuckled softly as he added, “I might have done the same were the roles reversed.”
The raven-haired half-elf smirked behind his back, and for the second time that day, something pulled at Astarion’s chest. He surprised himself as a chuckle – a genuine chuckle – erupted from him.
“Ah, a kindred spirit,” he replied, mirth in his eyes. A new plan was forming in the vampire’s mind as he reevaluated the group in front of him, no longer seeing them as a threat. He pressed on, worried now to let them pass him by.
“My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me,” he said.
“I’m Baldurian too!” the man exclaimed, excitement shining in his pale blue eyes. “The name’s Taviroth, but everyone calls me Tav.”
Oh, those eyes are much too expressive… It will be all too easy to manipulate him, Astarion found himself thinking.
“Is that so? We clearly move in different circles,” he said, trying to seem aloof. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager. “So do you know anything else about these worms?”
Tav glanced over at his two companions, who both shrugged, before answering. “Yes, unfortunately,” he said. “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”
Astarion stared, dumbfounded. “Turn us into – ha.” He couldn’t help but burst into laughter, doubling over. Of course. When had the gods ever been kind to him?
“Of course it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” He paused. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe… Maybe, just maybe, if they stuck together… Maybe he could be free of Cazador. Of his vampirism. Of this new curse.
“Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we,” yes, he insisted on the ‘we’, “can find an expert – someone that can control these things – there might still be time.” He paused again, looking over at Tav.
There was no hesitation.
“You should travel with me. Our odds are better together,” Tav immediately agreed.
The blond was looking at him with a smile so kind it hurt, and it took everything within the pale elf to one, not stare incredulously at the man, and to two, not immediately jump on his offer.
“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea,” he replied, turning on the charm. “And you seem like a useful person to know.”
He let the words hang in the air for a moment. Keep him wanting more, keep him hanging on your every word, Astarion reminded himself.
“All right, I accept,” he finally said, bowing to the man. “Lead on.”
The brightness of Tav’s smile could have rivaled the sun. For a fleeting moment, Astarion feared that he would begin to burn in its light, even when the sun had decided to spare him.
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
origamiaround
blakekathryn
