i am shocked that i didn't see a post about this when i looked through the tags on here. i need everyone to know that we are getting a karlach comic series!!
Astarion recalls scenes from his past as he receives a tarot reading of his love life.
Astarion pulls the final two cards to see what the future will bring
Pairings: Astarion x several original or known characters
Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance
Rating: Mature
Chapter word count: 2,747
Prologue | The Sun | The Tower | The Moon | The Magician | Death
Series Masterlist | AO3
This work is part of the Fate Spins Along Tarot collection by @bg3-fate-spins-along - please check out the other writers' and artists' works!
The Fool and Strength
The quiet snapping and cracking of the fire was all that filled the silence. A tired bitterness had settled in Astarion’s chest. He didn’t want to feel this way, hadn’t wanted to think about any of these people, and now the last two cards may as well have been boulders - he no longer had any interest in lifting them. Didn’t think how there could possibly be a point, either, and was about to voice that, when he and Asmodea were interrupted by Halsin emerging from his tent. The druid paused to light his pipe with a flickering flame rising from the tip of his finger, and headed to them.
“Am I interrupting a game?” he nodded at the cards.
“A reading,” answered Asmodea, “of Astarion’s love life.”
“With but a single deck?” Halsin asked with what appeared to be genuine surprise, to a vitriolic glare from Astarion. “Only a jest, friend, I meant no harm.”
“I’ll have you know, Astarion’s heart is a resolute maiden of high virtue, strict standards and immaculate moral integrity,” said Asmodea. “Would you like your own fortune read once we’re finished?”
The druid shook his head. “I will abstain. Those who look to the past and future do not see the life before them. Turning over the stones of the past muddies the waters one must wade through, and to know the future is to be trapped by it. I prefer to live in the present.”
“Wise,” shrugged Asmodea. “Boring, but wise. Suit yourself.”
“It was my intention to commence my watch, but… Shall I stay, or is this a private affair?” asked Halsin.
“It doesn’t matter whether you stay or go, these will be nothing but lies anyway,” Astarion gestured at the two remaining unturned cards. “The ‘Death’ card was the end of it. I know it was.”
“Aw, all that flirting ever since you tried to kill me, and you won’t pretend you’re hopelessly smitten by me?” Asmodea tsked, half-heartedly.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Astarion said, patiently, ignoring an amused chuff from the druid as he settled to smoke his pipe next to them. “I was only trying to take you hostage. …And then I tripped.” Would he never live it down? “…Anyway, you don’t need it,” he added. “…Nor deserve it.”
“Thanks… I think,” Asmodea frowned. “But as for the cards - there’s still present and future.”
The notion was surprisingly distressing to Astarion. “Eternal youth and beauty, immortality, vampire charm and magnetism, and I’ve only two significant trysts ahead of me?!”
“Oh, now your heart isn’t enough of a whore,” Asmodea laughed. “The cards only see as far into the future as the circumstances you’ve laid with your actions will allow. Your entire life isn’t spelled out in the stars, you are the master of your own fate.”
“That’s not what other fortunetellers say,” said Astarion.
“Other fortunetellers are quacks,” retorted Asmodea. “If everything is predetermined, then everything is pointless,” she added, seeing Astarion’s quirked brow.
“So you think there’s meaning to everything?” Astarion prodded. His two centuries of slavery, the countless times he’d gone on his back for someone else’s amusement, his ruined life, his ruined soul - was there meaning to all of it..?
“Nope, no meaning,” Asmodea said cheerfully.
“But you just said-”
“No meaning, no predetermination, no carefully laid out divine plans - only absolute chaos, and we’re all flailing around like helpless rag dolls, caught up in each other’s whirlpools, trying to create our own.”
“How is that any better?!” Astarion scoffed.
“It’s not!” she smiled. “It’s not better or worse, it’s just utterly meaningless, completely pointless, positively inane, and that… that is what makes it all so beautiful.” She grinned, ignoring his scowl. “Are you going to turn that card?”
With an exasperated growl, Astarion turned the next card, placing it the correct way up this time. It depicted an oblivious youth that was about to step off the edge of a cliff.
“Ah, the Fool!” Asmodea nodded at the card as though at an old friend. “…I didn’t realise you loved yourself that much, Astarion.”
“Frankly, I hate myself,” Astarion grumbled. He immediately regretted the words that came out of his mouth, as they were met with a bemused stare and a silence that lasted several heartbeats too long for comfort.
The awkward moment was broken by Asmodea leaning forward conspiratorially, as though to whisper a secret. “What a foolish thing to say,” she said, with a wink.
Astarion’s momentary embarrassment once again replaced by the habitual state of mild vexation this woman kept him in, he shook his head and took another swig from his bottle. “Funny,” he said. “But really now, what does it mean?”
“It’s… similar to Death, in some ways, actually. Where Death was a rebirth, the Fool is a new journey and a clean slate. It’s infinite potential and possibilities. It’s optimism and freedom, spontaneity and courage, wonder and curiosity. It’s boundless joie de vivre.”
“It’s zhwah dewhat? What language is that, even?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
Astarion sighed with exasperation again. “Again, that sounds lovely. So what’s the catch? …Why is it called the fool?”
“Well just look at this idiot,” Asmodea gestured at the image on the card, “he’s got no idea where he’s going or what dangers lie ahead. One wrong step and he’ll fall to his doom.” Astarion looked more closely at the card. A little yapping dog was at the fool’s heels, whether trying to protect and warn him of the dangers ahead or spurring him on - he could not tell. “The Fool is completely unprepared for whatever is to come his way,” continued Asmodea, “but he will face it anyway. He’s diving in headfirst without knowing how deep the waters are. He simply believes that everything will always turn out fine.”
Well that settled it - the card wasn’t about Astarion. Nothing in his life had ever turned out fine, nor had he ever expected it to.
“How can the Fool be so sure of that?” asked Astarion.
“He’s not,” retorted Asmodea. “He can’t be sure of anything, he simply believes and takes risks anyway. He’s very little to lose, after all. All his worldly possessions are in that little sack. Nothing’s tying him down.”
“Great,” Astarion clicked his tongue. “So my next big ‘flame’ will be an idealistic, impulsive, air-headed idiot tramp incapable of forethought, precaution and basic planning. Thank you for the warning, I will be on the lookout.”
“The Fool is joy and adventure!”
“The Fool is a cretin.”
As the two continued to bicker, Halsin quietly smoked his pipe, flicking his gaze from one to the other, and wisely said nothing at all.
“I’ve had enough,” Astarion said, eventually. “Let’s just turn the last one so this can be over and done with.” He carelessly flipped the remaining card, making it land on top of the Fool card. The image he uncovered depicted a woman wrangling some kind of beast with enviable nonchalance. “What in the hells is that?”
“Strength,” said Asmodea. “You’ll appreciate this one. It embodies courage, inner strength and fortitude. Compassion and the willingness to help others even at one’s own expense. Patience. In other words, everything one might require in order to handle you.”
Astarion snorted, allowing her this quip. “Finally, something nice,” he mused.
“I know, isn’t it?” Asmodea sighed wistfully. She then pointed at the image. “The beast the figure is handling signifies fears, passions and desires. She’s not attempting to kill the beast, she is only restraining it until the right time for the beast to be unleashed. Until then, she is calm, collected and in control.”
“And when the beast is unleashed?”
“Depends,” shrugged Asmodea. “When it comes to enemies - wrath. When it comes to lovers - passion.”
“Well then,” said Astarion. “As much as I’d love to complain, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be content with this one.”
Halsin had risen to commence his watch, having turned into a bear to patrol the perimeter. Astarion and Asmodea continued to linger at the fire: Asmodea taking her time to pack away her cards and other items, Astarion simply gazing at the embers.
The reading had been accurate, he knew. Uncomfortably so. And none of it painted him in a good light: not the past itself, not his outbursts and admissions - it all threatened to ruin his carefully laid groundwork. What woman ever wanted to hear about her lover’s (however loosely that term applied to them) past, or, even worse, future affairs? He had to make amends before she became completely disenchanted with him.
“What about you?” he asked. “Were you reading your own fortune before I joined you? Do you know what lies ahead?”
Asmodea shook her head. “I was trying to make sense of the past, not looking into the future,” she said. “I agree with Halsin: I don’t want to know what’s ahead.” She had finished putting away her things, and stretched her legs before the fire. “I don’t think a reading would work for me anyway.”
“Why? What makes you so special?” asked Astarion.
She leaned back on an elbow, watching the dancing flames while Astarion watched her. She seemed to glow in the amber firelight. The effect was ethereal - so much so, Astarion could almost believe she was a creature truly capable of scrying his past and future with some divine gift, and hadn’t merely produce a series of coincidences.
“Fate can’t touch me, because I never let it know my next move,” she said, giving Astarion a wry smile. “It’s when you fall into patterns and fit into ruts and grooves that destiny catches you and forces you onto a path.”
“Not you, though,” Astarion cocked his head.
“Nope. One day I’m becoming a warlock and getting abducted by mindflayers, the next I’m pulling wizards out of portals, fighting goblins and fucking vampires. Fate wouldn’t even know where to begin with me.”
“And how much of that was by your own choice, really?” chuckled Astarion. “To me it seems more like fate is hurling any random nonsense at you and seeing what sticks.”
“Shhhh…” Asmodea shushed him, reaching to place a finger against his lips. “I don’t like all this sense you’re making.”
Astarion needed to get back on track. He took her hand from his lips, holding on to it.
“How about I read your fortune?” he asked.
“You?” she laughed. “Since when do you have the skill?”
“I can read a palm as well as any painted carnival gypsy, darling,” he said. “Shall I?”
Asmodea laughed again, but agreed, sitting up to let him observe her palm comfortably.
None of the thoughts that entered Astarion’s mind as he circled the palm of Asmodea’s hand were helpful.
For instance, there was the thought that for elves and their sensitive palms, in terms of intimacy and impropriety, suddenly grabbing and playing with one’s hand was only a few steps below casually pinching someone’s ear. That in turn was only marginally more acceptable than giving someone a casual tug or pat on the groin as a greeting. It simply was not done.
As for half-elves, one never knew which elven or human traits they had inherited. Though if one did not know - one could plead ignorance and not grant them the same considerations as one would an elf. And so Astarion pretended not to notice Asmodea’s face flush as he lightly traced the lines on her palm. Attuned as his vampire hearing was to it, he picked up on her heart rate rising as well. It was all extremely distracting. Now what in the hells could he say about her damned fortune..?
He cleared his throat. “My, just look at that broken, shattered heart line - are these your seven annual paramours?”
“That’s the fate line,” she corrected him, grinning. “I told you, fate’s got nothing on me.”
“And this ah…”
“Head line,” she helped.
“…Wait, really? This short little thing? Well that certainly explains a lot…”
Asmodea’s fingers curled into a fist, turning and leaving only the middle digit extended for Astarion’s perusal. He snorted and took her hand back into his, to continue.
“But never mind that, your life line - shh, I do know that one - certainly makes up for it… Deep, strong… Hmm, are there supposed to be two of them..? And as for this…”
“Love,” offered Asmodea.
“Yes, I know, love line. Long and curved. Almost like a smile. Well it’s good that you’re so optimistic, all things considered.” He snickered, narrowly avoiding the same hand rising to flick him on the forehead, before settling back.
“What else…” He was, however, rapidly running out of things to say. “…Oh. Oh no! Oh, darling!!” he said with mock horror, leaning in toward her palm.
“What? What??” Asmodea played along, also leaning in until they were both hunched over her hand, their foreheads nearly touching, as though trying to decipher minute text in an ancient tome. “What do you see?”
“It…” he held a theatrical pause. “It says here you’ve slept with a clown,” Astarion said, hushed, looking up at her.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she whispered back without missing a beat, looking up to meet his gaze.
Caught off-guard, Astarion broke away, laughing. Asmodea’s hand was still in his, fingers now interlinked. He discovered he didn’t want to let go, though he no longer had an excuse or reason to keep holding it, and no longer knew what to do with it. He brought it to his lips to kiss the knuckles, looking into her eyes. Her gaze and smile had softened, somehow turning the moment intimate in a strange way he had not intended. Well. He could always steer back into more familiar waters.
“Come to my tent tonight?” he purred.
Some regret flashed on Asmodea’s features as she responded. “Tempting, but I am utterly exhausted and can’t wait to get to sleep…” she said.
A pang of disappointment stung him. “Of course… Well, we don’t have to-” he began to say before cutting himself off. Didn’t have to what? If it wasn’t for sex, then what in the hells would it be for? Meanwhile, Asmodea lifted a quizzical brow, waiting for him to finish what he was saying. “We don’t have to,” he said, releasing her hand. “Let’s not keep each other from our beauty rest.”
“Another time,” she said, getting up. “Good night, Astarion.”
It was as though a spell had broken. The night was cold and quiet, and he was alone. He had no choice but to get up and retire to his own tent.
Astarion tossed and turned on his shabby bedroll. What an absurd night it had been. The memories that had resurfaced had not been pleasant - it was all bittersweet, with an emphasis on ‘bitter’. Yet now that the initial shock of the memories returning had subsided, they no longer perturbed him. It was all done and dusted, the flames snuffed out so long ago that all traces of smoke had long blown away. None of those spectres seemed inclined to haunt him any longer.
What did haunt him was an image of Asmodea’s eyes, which seemed to be ingrained in his mind. Green eyes, the same colour as that of leaves when morning sunlight filtered through them - he knew what that looked like, now. Verdant even in the light of the fire. Speckled with flecks of gold, which seemed to flicker and shimmer in the light. The way they lit up her entire face when they laughed at him, those eyes, even when she tried to remain deadpan. He would have recognised them from a thousand.
He groaned and turned again, trying to chase the image from his mind.
Ridiculous, absurd, foolish thing...
Astarion’s own eyes suddenly shot open.
No.
A harrowing realisation began to sink and take root in his gut.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no…
It spread and washed over him, ignoring his feeble attempts to reject and deny it, knocking over the walls he had reinforced with hostility and resentment. It stayed deaf to his pleading as it carelessly trampled through the fields he had carefully sown with his bitterness.
It laughed at him with the sound of her laughter: explosive, nerve-grating, too-loud, and undeniably contagious. He did not join in this time, instead he lay, staring up into the roof of his tent, in what could only be described as resigned surrender.
“Shit.”
~~~~~
*roll credits*
Тhank you so much for reading! I hope you've had as much fun (or, you know, whatever other appropriate emotion given the subject matter) reading as I have writing this collection of stories. This work is part of a larger series, so if you enjoyed Astarion being at his wit's end with Asmodea - there's plenty more of that across my other writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day.
When I finished this illustration today, I thought "Wow, that was fast!" Then I checked the time spent on it and... well, it still took 40 hours! 😅 I’m really happy with this piece! I feel it perfectly captures the dynamic between El and Astarion! I play on console, so I don't have access to those amazing photomode tools! Back when BG3 had just released, I really wanted to see Elfrida and Astarion represented like this, but I couldn't. So after some months I started drawing, trying to do it myself and this illustration really made that wish come true! Is it perfect? Absolutely not, there’s still SO MUCH room for improvement! But today, I’m happy!🥹💕
Failed attempts at painting Astarion in the style of a Van Gogh portrait. I think they came out kinda cool even if I didn't succeed with my goal. Reference included for the giggles. Will attempt again one day.
kianamaiart
prguitarman
romaincrisis
baratheonpilled
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
yousharknotpass
