After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Astarion (Spawn) x Named Character
Astarion (Spawn) x Tav
Astarion (Spawn) x Reader
Astarion (Spawn) x You
By PallidMoon
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences [Slow Burn].
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content. Read at your own risk.}
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Implied/Attempted Sexual Assault [Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions.
Additional Notes:
Tav is named - starts in Chapter 10.
Fabricated camp events as well as mentions of in-game story events.
Tav will likely have her own backstory.
Some details of Tav's appearance are/will be mentioned.
Mentions of Tav being a High Elf Draconic Sorcerer.
I am not familiar with the rules of DnD 5e, or how they affect the world, so for story purposes, some things may be fabricated and not congruent. I will try to avoid this as much as I can.
I write, edit and proofread most of my own works (big thank you to my friends who accept my infatuation and help me), I do apologize if there are typos or Incongruent content.
Chapter 1: Abandonment
Chapter 2: Home & Heartache
Chapter 3: Escape & Evade
Chapter 4: Magic and Mischief
Chapter 5: Soaked in Desire
Chapter 6: Reminiscence
Chapter 7: Complications Abound
Chapter 8: Flight
Chapter 9: Midnight Masquerade
Chapter 10: Eclipsing Shadows
Chapter 11: Fate's Folly
Chapter 12: Growth
Chapter 13: Imprisonment
Chapter 14: Peril
Chapter 15: Home
Chapter 16: Ruins
Chapter 17: Let Me Forget
Chapter 18: Who Are You?
Chapter 19: I Will Find You.
Chapter 20: A Plea for Tomorrow
Chapter 21: Scars Shine White in the Light
Chapter 22: Masks and Moonlight
Chapter 23: More
Chapter 24: Can You Turn Back to the Light?
Chapter 25: Hunting Ground
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write a fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
There is also an Evil Durge x AA fic exclusively under my A03 called "Lie to Me." They are a chaotic power couple.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 5.8K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The tavern is a grim affair, smelling of stale beer and sweat. Shadows cling to the corners, like oil slicks that refuse to be cleaned away, and the sputtering lanterns hanging from crooked beams seem too exhausted to illuminate the room properly.
The clientele is a mixed assortment of rogues, mercenaries, and people who look as though they have more secrets than morals. A large half-orc with a patchy beard glares at anyone who comes too close, while a wiry elf in a tattered cloak palms a dagger. Even the bartender, a grizzled man with a missing ear, watches with a hawkish stare, his hands never far from the club he has leaning behind the bar.
Astarion leans in close, his eyes shrewd with awareness. “We should split up and cover more ground. It will be easier to catch anything useful if we are not one conspicuous trio.”
Shadowheart nods, her attention already sweeping over the tavern’s interior. “Stay within sight of each other,” she adds, her voice a shade sterner than usual.
You swallow down the knot of anxiety that forms at the thought of leaving Astarion’s side. It’s irrational, you know, given how well he can take care of himself. He could charm half the room and slice his way through the other half if he needed to. Still, the idea makes your fingers twitch with a half-formed desire to grab onto him.
You nod, plastering on a smile that feels far too tight. “Be careful,” you murmur to Astarion, who gives you a wink and a roguish grin.
He slips away into the crowd, moving like silk through the mass of bodies, and Shadowheart gives you an understanding look before heading off. Taking a breath, you step forward and fall into character. A charming yet dangerously mysterious smile slides across your lips, the kind that hints at secrets and makes people wonder whether you’re a friend or a threat.
Your focus drifts across the room, and you catalogue the patrons. Rough-looking sailors huddle over dice games. A pair of cloaked figures whisper harshly at a table near the back. A barmaid moves between tables, her eyes hollow and far away, as if she’s detached from the filth of her surroundings.
This place is a den of treachery, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You know how to play the game, how to be what people in these places expect to see: a pretty face with the potential for ruin lurking just beneath.
A part of you remains on high alert, aware of where Astarion and Shadowheart are, keeping track of the distance between you. Stay focused, you think. Still, you keep one eye on Astarion, his silver hair catching the tavern’s oily light like moonbeams tangled in cobwebs.
He’s joined a game of cards, settling in with the kind of disarming ease that only he can manage. Shadowheart, meanwhile, glides around the edges of the room like a shadow given form. Her wolfish focus is sharp and attentive, missing nothing as she prowls the perimeter.
You take a deep breath, shedding the last of your tension, and begin your hunt with a simple trick: proximity.
You drift close to a group of rough-looking mercenaries boasting about their latest job and make sure they notice you. The trick is to be almost approachable, to seem just out of reach. You toss your hair, and the men’s curiosity sharpens, like wolves sniffing at the edge of the woods.
It isn’t long before one of them breaks away from the pack, sidling up to you with a swagger that tells you he thinks he’s in control of this encounter.
“May I buy you a drink?” he offers, leering in a way that would send shivers of disgust down your spine if you weren’t so practiced at this.
Instead, you tilt your head, considering him, and then let your smile widen just a fraction. “I was about to buy one myself, but I suppose it would be terribly rude to refuse.”
He grins, and you know you’ve hooked him. As he calls for a drink, you let the conversation flow, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. He’s eager to impress, telling you about some recent job escorting a merchant’s caravan, and you listen with feigned interest, nodding at all the right moments.
You slip away at the first chance of escape with a whispered, “Don’t be a stranger,” that leaves him grinning like a fool.
You move on to another cluster of patrons, this time a pair of traders whispering about how business has been suffering. Here, you adopt a different approach: you act the part of a fellow merchant, commiserating with their struggles and sprinkling in enough business jargon to earn their trust. You don’t push too hard, but you nudge the conversation toward anything unusual they’ve heard. They don’t have much to offer.
You glide between groups like a dancer changing partners. Each conversation is a delicate performance, a balance of charm and subtle prying. With a group of dockworkers, you switch to playful teasing, laughing at their ribald jokes and pretending to be scandalized, all the while coaxing out tales of trouble on the docks.
When a more serious crowd catches your eye—hard-eyed mercenaries with their hands never straying far from their blades—you adjust your act once again. Your smile becomes cooler, more challenging, and you weave your words with a thread of danger. They size you up, but when you don’t flinch under their scrutiny, they let you into their circle.
Here, you hear something more concrete: talk of graves being disturbed in strange ways.
It’s not much, but it’s a lead.
You’re nodding along, making the appropriate sympathetic noises as the woman in front of you drones on. Her voice is as grating as boots crunching over shards of broken glass, and you’re only half-listening, the other half of your attention firmly fixed on Astarion.
His laughter—smooth, melodic—floats across the crowd, drawing more attention than a moth-eaten tavern like this deserves. Even now, even here, he’s a beacon. The men and women at his table seem magnetized, drawn to his every gesture.
It’s maddening.
One of them, a rugged brute with arms like tree trunks, leans too close. His hand brushes against Astarion’s shoulder, lingering, and that familiar spark of jealousy ignites in your chest. It coils tight, a snake slithering through your ribcage, and you can’t help the way your gaze sharpens.
It’s absurd, really, the way everyone fawns over him, how they orbit his beauty like planets held captive by a star. Women, men—it never seems to matter; everyone’s drawn in, and you get it. Gods, do you get it, but still, it irks you.
The woman says something that makes your ears perk up, something about people disappearing from the lower districts, especially from a house of healing where the down-and-outs seem to be swept away like detritus in a storm. You refocus, flashing a smile that makes her puff up with importance, but you’re still watching Astarion, your peripheral vision locked onto that table.
You know Astarion can handle himself; you know he’s as dangerous as the blade he keeps concealed in his boot, but that knowledge does nothing to calm the roiling heat in your gut. The man is talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and when his hand drops lower to rest on Astarion’s knee, you feel your fingers curl into fists.
Astarion throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—deliberate, meant to disarm and entice. The minutes creep by, and your patience wears thinner than an old piece of parchment. Your attempts at charming conversation yield no further leads. The whispers and rumours all swirl around the same topics: the city’s underbelly swallowing the unfortunate whole.
Astarion’s game of cards continues, round after round, and he’s building up quite the impressive stack of coin. The gamblers around him are varying degrees of drunk and frustrated, their brows furrowed in disbelief at how thoroughly they’re being played.
Then, there’s the drunken ass—his hands have grown bolder, the touches escalating from lingering grazes to something more presumptuous. That ember of jealousy roars into a bonfire, and you resist the urge to stride over there and burn the oaf to ash.
Astarion remains poised, every move calculated to avoid the touch without looking like he’s avoiding it. His hands perform little flourishes, as if he’s merely emphasizing his amusement at the game, knocking away a grasp with an airy gesture. The ease with which he handles it should reassure you, but instead, it needles at your already raw nerves.
The man laughs, and he reaches out again. This time, he aims lower, his intentions crystal clear. Your vision blurs at the edges with the intensity of your fury, and you dig your nails into your palms to keep from marching over there and making a scene—or worse, letting the magic that hums under your skin break free and turn this entire bar into a funeral pyre.
Shadowheart’s presence is a calming anchor in your peripheral vision, but even she seems tense, her dark eyes darting between Astarion and you. She’s noticed your simmering anger, the way you haven’t moved from your spot in far too long. You press your lips into a thin line, silently willing Astarion to end the game, to finish this charade before your composure snaps like a brittle twig underfoot.
You exhale slowly, reminding yourself that your anger won’t help him. If you intervene, it’ll only draw more attention, but gods, it’s hard.
Gale’s manor looms, a great silhouette of stone and ivy under a sky washed with the fading indigo of retreating night. The air clings to a chill, fog curling in wisps around the base of the steps like restless phantoms. Astarion barely notices. He drifts, an apparition himself, anchored to the world only by the occasional murmur of Kamena’s voice.
His thoughts drift, unmoored, back to that tavern and to every awful, visceral memory it unearthed. His body is present, but his mind has been dragged back into places where hands claimed, used, and discarded. He swears he still feels it—phantom touches pricking along his skin, invisible fingers pawing at him, groping at his waist, his arms, wherever they could stake a claim.
He closes his eyes, but that only intensifies the memory: coarse fingers seizing his chin, breath hot and acrid against his ear, murmurs of desire that were nothing more than knives.
How is it that even with Cazador rotting in some forgotten pit, he remains haunted, every soft whisper of the past ready to drag him back to that hell? A deep shame burns through his chest. He’s stronger now, isn’t he? He should be past this.
But the hands don’t stop, and the breath doesn’t fade, and all he can do is stand there, fighting a war inside his head against ghosts who have never truly let him go.
“Hey,” Kamena’s voice is soft, a flickering candle in the dark, coaxing him back. “Astarion?”
He forces himself to focus, but it’s like trying to pull free of tar. He blinks, realizing he’s still standing in the manor’s foyer, Shadowheart long gone.
“Astarion?” Kamena tries again, worry threading through her words. “Where are you?”
He swallows, finding his voice and hating how fragile it sounds. “I’m… here,” he answers. “Sorry, darling. Lost in thought. Nothing to worry about.”
Kamena knows him too well, sees through every crack and flaw he tries to hide. Her eyes search his face, reading the pain he can’t disguise. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”
She turns, using her body to guide him toward the staircase, never touching him directly. Instead, she hovers close, her movements careful and deliberate, a hand gesturing to show him the way, an arm raised slightly to ensure he follows.
Astarion’s steps feel heavy, each one an effort as they ascend. He clings to her presence, attention trained forward, focusing on the sway of her movements, on the quiet grace that surrounds her.
As soon as the door clicks closed, Kamena’s fingers snap, and flames spring to life in the fireplace. She moves without hesitation, heading straight for the tub in the corner.
He stands, feeling unanchored, like a ghost in his own skin. His gaze darts to the flickering fire, but the warmth doesn’t touch him, doesn’t sink into the cold that’s burrowed beneath his bones. He walks aimlessly, every step a vain attempt to shake free from the invisible hands still clawing at him.
His eyes catch on the glint of his dagger lying on the side table. He grabs it, the cool steel settling into his hand with a familiar weight. He runs his fingers along the blade’s edge, feeling the whetted sharpness. He doesn’t notice the pressure building, the way his fingertips push into the edge of the blade, carving shallow lines into his skin.
Kamena’s voice floats through the haze, soft and steady, like an angel whispering down from the heavens. “Astarion. Give me the dagger, please.”
Her words tug at the deepest parts of him, the ones not quite lost in the tide of memories. He blinks, startled, as though waking from a dream. Astarion’s gaze drops to his hand, where thin, crimson lines well up across his fingertips. Blood beads and drips, painting streaks down his skin, but he feels oddly detached from the pain.
Kamena steps closer, her hand lifting instinctively as though to take his, but she catches herself. Her fingers hover in the space between them, trembling slightly, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
“You’re safe. You’re here, in our room. No one can hurt you. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”
Astarion’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt, the dagger feeling heavier with every passing second. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, the movement jagged, unnatural, as if his body is at odds with the instinct to surrender it.
Kamena’s hand reaches out and takes the dagger from him. He feels the absence of the blade in his hand like the absence of a limb.
"The bath is ready,” Kamena gestures toward the steaming tub.
Astarion shifts slightly, forcing his mind to settle as her voice touches him. "Are you trying to insinuate that I smell?"
Kamena hums, a small, amused sound, but she holds his gaze for a long beat, her smile there but tempered. "I’m not saying you smell, but the bath’s there if you want it."
She backs away slightly, giving him space, and in that moment, her gentleness, her patience, is almost more than he can bear.
He presses his fingertips together, the slick of his blood smearing beneath his thumb. The shallow cuts on his skin knit together as if nothing happened. It always heals—mending, sealing, returning to its cold, perfect stillness. A parody of life. Beneath the flesh, the raw, aching wounds of his soul remain open. Festering.
Why is it that his body—a cadaver dressed in silken skin—can stitch itself whole, while his spirit remains in tatters? Why does he carry these invisible gashes, these scars that pulse and throb? A single careless word, a fleeting glance, and the old wounds gape wide, spilling anguish like blood from a reopened vein.
He stares at the red streaks on his fingers, as if the answer lies there, hidden in the crimson swirl. But it doesn’t. It never does. His blood is lifeless, a mimicry of vitality. His soul, if it still exists, is no better. He feels trapped in this silent torment, a scream that no one can hear.
The healing is a cruel joke. His body pretends at recovery, as though that will make him whole, as though that will stitch together the fractured pieces of himself, but it’s a lie.
The promise of warmth, of something alive against his skin rather than that damnable ghost of touch, pulls him toward the tub. Without a word, he moves toward it, feeling the weight of his body dragging. His fingers trail the edge of the tub for a moment before he undresses, his clothes slipping from his body in careless movements. There’s no care, no thought—just the need to shed what feels too tight, too heavy.
Kamena watches him from the corner of her eye as she grabs a cloth and begins wiping the blood from his blade with meticulous care.
Astarion breathes out slowly, his chest tightening for a moment as he lowers himself into the warm water. He closes his eyes, letting the heat settle in his muscles, the soft splash of water against his skin distracting him. It feels different tonight, the comfort almost too much for his fractured mind to hold onto.
He’s lost in the warmth when he hears the soft swish of satin. Kamena’s presence fills the room, and for a brief moment, Astarion allows himself to simply look at her.
She’s wearing satin shorts and a tank top. Her hair, like a cascade of silk, tumbles over her shoulders before she tucks it behind her pointed ear with the grace of someone who doesn’t even need to think about it.
Kamena moves toward his discarded clothes, and without a word, she begins folding them. Her movements are careful and precise, as if she’s the one tidying up the remnants of his life, making order of the chaos. Each fold is deliberate, a small act of care, and it unsettles him in the best way possible.
His mouth opens before his brain catches up. “You’re stunning, Kamena.”
She pauses, and there’s no teasing smile on her lips, no quick retort. Instead, she simply sits down beside the tub. “Are you okay?”
Astarion stiffens slightly, the question landing like a blow he didn’t expect, and he tries to hide behind the banter that has always been his shield. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m positively glowing, as you can see.” His lips twitch, but the effort feels hollow, like something dying before it can be fully born.
Her eyes narrow slightly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the towel she’s holding. “Astarion… I saw what happened at the tavern.”
Astarion feels like a raw nerve exposed to the world. He wants to pull away, deflect, but he can’t. She sees through him, and he’s not sure if he hates it or needs it more than he can admit.
“Ah, that,” he starts, attempting once again to cover the tremor that has snuck into his voice. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of fawning. I’m used to it. Attention like that is... quite familiar, really. You know how it is. People just can’t resist.”
"I don’t think it’s nothing."
Her words sink in like a stone in water. He doesn’t want to show her how much it hurts—how close it is to the old scars, the ones that never really fade, the ones that still feel raw under his skin.
“I am fine,” he insists a little too forcefully, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m always fine. It is nothing.”
Kamena only nods, her eyes never leaving his. There’s no judgment there, no impatience. Just quiet understanding. She’s not asking for his confession. She’s waiting for him to offer it, in his own time.
Her fingertips skim the surface of the water, sending ripples across the stillness. Each movement is fluid and gentle, and Astarion watches her, the rhythm offering a strange kind of peace.
He realizes it then, like a sudden crack in the ice beneath his feet. He’s running too.
His chest tightens, something sharp and jagged biting at the edges of his ribs. Fuck. He’s been pretending, hiding, letting her think he’s fine when all he’s doing is locking himself behind walls she’s never meant to scale.
How could I be so foolish?
His voice is soft when he finally speaks, almost a whisper, like the words are fragile. “I have not felt like that in a long time,” he says, his gaze focused on the water. He clenches his fists, the memory still too fresh, too vivid. “That man at the tavern, he... he made me feel like I was nothing. Just a piece of meat, something to devour. I remember how it felt to be a toy, a tool, a thing that others could use as they pleased.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “That man wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last. All it takes is one touch, one moment of weakness, and I’m right back there. In their hands."
Kamena shifts closer to the tub, her hands resting lightly on the edge, though she doesn’t touch him.
Not yet. Not until he’s ready.
"I know what it’s like," she says, “to feel like you’re stuck, like every move you make could sink you deeper, and you have no idea if you can ever get back up to breathe."
The weight of her words hits Astarion harder than he expects. He can feel it—the echoes of the same fear, the same suffocating hesitation that creeps into his bones whenever he dares to move forward.
He knows she's talking about herself, the careful way she keeps herself distanced. It’s like she’s always half-reached, but never fully here. Her pain, her quiet self-protection—it’s all the same undercurrent that he’s been fighting for years, and it makes him ache in a way he can't quite explain.
Her fingers move over the water again, delicate, almost reluctant. There's a tremor in the motion, like the last fragile thread of a dream slipping away.
Without thinking, Astarion stretches out his hand, a slow, deliberate movement, and he touches her fingers. She freezes, her breath catching in her throat, but then her fingers curl around his.
There’s no grand gesture, no sudden shift. Just two souls, existing in the same fragile space.
The House of Healing stands like a crumbling tooth at the edge of the city, its façade streaked with grime and despair. The wooden shutters hang unevenly on rusted hinges. The smell hits you first—a rank cocktail of sweat, sickness, and something sour that clings to the back of your throat. It’s a place meant for those who have nothing left: no coin, no hope, no other options.
Inside, beds, if you can call them that, line the walls in uneven rows. Most are little more than pallets of straw covered in thin, stained sheets. Patients lie there like abandoned dolls, their faces hollow, their skin sallow. A woman coughs into a rag, the sound wet and deep, while another murmurs feverishly, her voice breaking into fractured words no one listens to.
The healers move through the room like wraiths, their robes smeared with grime and their expressions blank. They look as unwell as the people they tend to.
One of them, a man with a crooked nose and hands trembling from overwork, dabs at a patient’s brow with a damp cloth, his movements slow and mechanical. Another stands over a woman whose breaths come in rattling gasps, muttering a prayer under her breath as if words alone could stave off death.
Gale looks at the scene, more troubled than disgusted. His lips press into a thin line as he steps forward, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. “No one deserves this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. His gaze drifts to a child curled on one of the pallets, his tiny frame too still, too pale. "Not even the poorest soul."
A healer shuffles past you, her face lined like old parchment, her steps dragging. You catch a glimpse of her hands, fingers gnarled and reddened, shaking as she tries to tie a bandage. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even seem to register your presence.
It’s easy to see how someone could disappear here, swallowed by the chaos and neglect. No one would question an empty bed, assuming death had taken its toll again.
Hecat steps closer to you. “So, where do we start?”
“Fan out,” you instruct.
Each step carries you further from the relative order of the main ward. You pass a cracked window, the glass fogged with grime. Outside, the faint sound of the city’s bustle feels worlds away, muffled as if even the streets refuse to acknowledge this place.
You move through the rows of creaking cots, where patients lie motionless or thrash weakly against stained sheets. You kneel by a frail woman whose limbs seem to have withered away like autumn leaves clinging to a branch. Her skin is sallow, her lips cracked, and when you ask her name, her response is little more than a garbled whisper. A sound that isn’t a sound.
“Can you hear me?” you ask louder.
Her head rolls to the side, but her vacant stare continues past you, into some abyss you cannot fathom.
Across the room, Gale’s deep voice carries briefly before faltering. You glance over to see him standing with a man whose head lolls forward, drool pooling at the corner of his slack mouth. Gale straightens, shaking his head at Hecat, who crouches beside another and mutters under her breath. Frustration twists her features, and her shoulders tense like a bowstring about to snap.
Rusted syringes are discarded like broken quills that have long since lost their ink. Dirty rags lie slumped in buckets of water so thick with grime it has the viscosity of tar, and the smell is indescribable—like rot left to fester under the sun.
You spot a healer briskly passing by, their robes torn and smudged. They move with single-minded focus, carrying a tray of empty vials that rattle softly with every step. You reach out, catching their arm.
“Wait,” you say firmly. “What’s happening here?”
The healer doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. They try to keep moving forward. Even as you hold them in place, their worn shoes slide against the floor with each useless step. You shake them vigorously, hoping for any response, but get none.
“Answer me!” you demand.
Heat flares at your palms as you channel the Weave, not enough to hurt but enough that any normal person would instinctively recoil. The healer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Their face remains eerily blank, their eyes as lifeless as the patients’ around you.
Your grip loosens, and they slip away again, disappearing into the haze of the ward. You glance at Hecat and Gale, who have stopped their own efforts to look at you. Gale’s brow furrows, his lips pressed thin. Hecat’s mouth twists, her sharp eyes darting between you and the retreating healer.
The world tilts on its axis as you pivot sharply. A wave of nausea crashes over you, and your stomach churns violently. Your knees weaken, and it feels as though the floor rushes up to meet you. The blood drains from your face, and your mouth floods with bitter saliva as you stagger forward. Before you can collapse, Hecat’s strong hands grip your shoulders, steadying you.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, but you can’t answer, your throat tightening as bile rises.
You double over and retch, the sound harsh and raw in the oppressive silence of the ward. Gale is at your side almost instantly, pressing a neatly folded handkerchief into your trembling hands. You wipe your mouth, head pounding with every unsteady heartbeat.
You wrench yourself free of Hecat’s hold, her concerned protest fading into the background, purpose driving you past the fog of illness and fear. Your gaze fixes on one of the patients, and you fall to your knees beside them, ignoring the wet squelch of the filthy floor beneath you. Your fingers work quickly, brushing aside the layers of grime-encrusted cloth covering their neck, searching for something—anything.
“Hey!” Gale calls from behind you, his voice sharp with confusion. “What are you doing?”
You don’t answer. You can’t stop. The thought, the terrible possibility, grips you like a vice. You check their neck, their wrists, their arms—your movements frantic now. Your breath catches as you fling back the sheet covering their lower body, exposing legs marred with a lattice of puncture wounds. Fangs, puncturing flesh over and over like an unholy feast.
“They’re enthralled,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips with grim finality.
The three of you stare in collective horror at the grim tableau before you. Hecat’s jaw tightens, her sharp eyes narrowing, while Gale looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, his complexion pale and ashen.
“This isn’t a house of healing,” you continue, your voice hollow, almost breaking. “It’s a hunting ground.”
You see it now, in every detail—the desperate state of the patients, the apathetic healers who seem to be little more than empty vessels, the pervasive wrongness that saturates this place like a curse.
“They’re feeding on them,” you say, your gaze fixed on the patient’s legs, the bite marks overlapping in a grotesque pattern. “Draining them. Using them. Until there’s nothing left.”
“And then?” Hecat asks, though by the tremor in her voice, she already knows the answer.
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. “Then, they’re turned.”
The truth weighs on you like a stone, each piece falling into place to form a picture too terrible to look at.
This isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a factory. A grotesque assembly line, churning out victims and killers in equal measure.
Gale stammers, his words tripping over one another in his urgency, his hands gesturing wildly as if pulling answers from the air. “We can’t just leave them like this. There has to be something we can do!”
You, however, are unmoved. Perhaps it’s cynicism. Perhaps it’s realism. Or perhaps the hollowness within you simply cannot stretch wide enough to encompass this many broken souls. You glance from one bed to another, your gaze sweeping over the withered faces, the slack jaws, the glassy stares that don’t even track your movement. Each figure is a ghost tethered to a failing shell, far beyond any salvation you could offer.
You shake your head, the motion small but resolute. “There’s nothing we can do,” you say flatly.
Gale reels back as if you’ve struck him. “Nothing?” he echoes, aghast. “You won’t even try?”
You meet his eyes, and they burn with the kind of indignation that only comes from belief in a better world—a belief you no longer share.
“Look at them.” You gesture sharply to the room around you. “Do you think they can be saved? Their bodies are ruined. Their minds are gone. They’re not even living, Gale. They’re... leftovers.”
His face contorts, a mix of anger and heartbreak warring in his expression. “How can you say that? They’re people, not scraps on a plate!”
You exhale sharply, the sound carrying more weariness than frustration. “People, once. Now? They’re feeding troughs. Thralls. Whatever they were, it’s gone.”
Hecat steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s right. Even if you pour magic into them, it won’t undo what’s been done. They’re too far gone.”
Gale doesn’t back down. “We don’t know that!” His voice rises, ringing through the grim stillness. “We owe it to them to try. To do something.”
You glance at Gale and Hecat, your voice sharp and decisive. "We should leave. Take a few days to regroup and plan, and then come back when it’s dark."
Gale narrows his eyes, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. "And why, exactly, should we wait?"
“Because this place isn’t for the living. It’s a hunting ground. Come nightfall, the ones we’re after will return to feed, and we’ll be waiting for them."
Hecat smirks faintly, her arms crossing as she leans against the grimy wall. "Using their own trap against them. Clever. A little cruel, but clever."
Gale shakes his head, disapproval radiating from him like a chill. "And in the meantime, what happens to these people? You just leave them here, like bait in a snare?"
You fix him with a cold stare, your voice unwavering. "That’s exactly what they are, Gale. Bait. Better to use it than to let it rot."
Gale’s anger flares, his voice trembling with outrage. “Bait? That’s what they are to you? These are people.” His words lash out like a whip, sharp enough to sting. He takes a step closer, his face set in a righteous fury you once might have admired. “How can you stand here, look at this suffering, and decide their best use is as tools for your goals?”
You hold his gaze, unflinching, unrepentant. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I enjoy it? The only way to help them is to rid Waterdeep of the parasite feeding on them, and using what’s left of these people is the fastest way.”
His eyes widen, disbelief flooding his expression. “What’s left of them?” he spits. “You’ve already written them off, haven’t you? You’ve decided their lives are worth nothing, so why not throw them into the fire?”
You scoff, your voice rising. “You’re godsdamned right I have. Look around, Gale. What do you see? I see empty husks barely clinging to what could generously be called life. I see people who won’t thank us for whatever salvation you think you can offer. I see us wasting time on them when the real enemy is out there, thriving.”
Gale’s hands curl into fists, trembling at his sides. “You sound no better than the monsters we’re hunting.”
That lands like a punch, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you take a step forward, closing the distance between you, your voice a growl. “And what would you have me do, then? Heal them? Bring them all back from the brink with a wave of my hand? The best thing I could do for them is—” Your voice breaks, sharp and bitter. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”
The words are barely out before the heat ignites in you, surging like a storm unbound. Flames curl over your skin, licking up your arms and dancing along your hair. They flicker gold and crimson, light that bends and writhes like living poetry. The air around you crackles, the smell of burning ozone sharp in your nose.
Gale steps back, his eyes widening as the heat pushes against him. “This isn’t justice,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “This is rage. Destruction.”
You laugh bitterly. “Don’t preach to me about justice. Justice won’t bring back the dead or save the next victim. Rage? Destruction? They get results.” The fire swirls higher, casting shadows that twist and shift across the room. “So tell me, Gale—what do you want to do? Save them? Heal them? You can’t even get them to open their eyes!”
Your words echo in the space, your flames their only answer. They reflect off the grimy walls, painting the room in molten light that only underscores the decay. Gale stands frozen, torn between his ideals and the grim truth of your argument. Somewhere, you think you hear Hecat chuckle, low and bitter, but you don’t look at her.
You don’t need her approval.
You don’t need Gale’s either.
All you need is an end to this madness—an end that might, just might, begin with flame.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Hi guys! It's been WAY too long. I'm really sorry. Work is crazy for the holiday months, and I've been told I may lose my job, so... it's been rough. Except spotty updates until at least the end of January (either work calms down or I get let go 🤣)
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 5.5K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
As you and Astarion descend the winding stone staircase, the smell of fresh bread draws you toward the kitchen, but the moment you step through the doorway, it’s not breakfast but three pairs of very amused eyes that greet you. Shadowheart snickers into her tea, but Hecat rises from her chair, a dramatic grin spreading over her face as she starts clapping, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.
“Well, well,” she smirks, drawing out each word with exaggerated admiration. “Bravo, Kamena. You’ve clearly raised the bar for evening entertainment.”
Gale averts his gaze, face flushed, before he looks up at you with an apologetic yet amused smile. “I must say,” he begins, tilting his head thoughtfully, “I’ve never felt so assured that someone arrived home safely. An inspired way to announce your presence.”
You meet Gale’s grin with one of your own and bow with a theatrical sweep of your arm. “Always a pleasure, Gale. We wouldn’t want you lying awake wondering if we got lost in the night.”
Astarion quirks an eyebrow and adds with a smirk, “We do try to be considerate, don’t we, my dear? Nothing says ‘safe and sound’ like an overture of pure passion.”
You slide into the seat next to Shadowheart. Before you can pick up your fork, Shadowheart's hand darts out, her fingers brushing over the marks dotting your neck. She leans in, squinting as if examining a rare relic, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Oh dear.” Her lips twitching into a grin as she nudges one of the bruises. “Astarion, honestly—have you no restraint? Careless of you to leave such a mess,” she jeers.
Astarion feigns an indignant gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “Careless? Shadowheart, my dear, I was merely caught in a... whirlwind of enthusiasm.” He glances sideways at you, a grin breaking across his face. “Besides, you were hardly innocent in all this,” he accuses. “Tell them, darling, who truly started all that… enthusiasm?”
You stifle a laugh, lifting an eyebrow. “Oh, I seem to remember someone initiating this particular ‘whirlwind’,” you quip, leaning back in your chair. “But if you’d like to blame me for your lack of control, go right ahead.”
Hecat claps her hands together, clearly delighted. “Listen to you two—like an old married couple, bickering over breakfast!” She gives you both a look that’s part amusement, part genuine affection.
You settle into your chair, grabbing a piece of bread with a flourish, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. A few months ago, the thought of this conversation would have had you squirming, but now you’re a different person—or maybe you’re simply shedding the skin of the person you once were. There’s a freedom here, a sense of comfort among friends who know every sharp edge and flaw.
Shadowheart raises her teacup. “Here’s to a memorable morning.”
Gale sips his tea, watching the two of you with that knowing glint in his eye. “So, I take it you managed to get Astarion’s siblings to your house safely?”
You nod, keeping your voice even. “We did. Though,” you glance at Astarion, who narrows his eyes with a grumble, “someone has his doubts about how they’ll leave the place in one piece.”
Astarion sniffs, crossing his arms. “Wreck my furniture, and I’ll have them crafting replacements with their godsdamned fangs,” he mutters.
Shadowheart leans forward, her tone suddenly sobering. “The vampire lord—whoever they are—is out there. We need to find them, and fast.”
You nod, already feeling the tension coil in your chest. “I know. We’ve been working through what we know, but we need to dive deeper, turn over every stone. Whatever they’re planning, we’re running out of time to figure it out.”
Astarion’s hand rests lightly on yours, a silent reminder he’s in this with you, for better or worse. You look at him, then back at the others, determination steeling in your voice. “Most vampire lords have their followers, don’t they? Thralls, like those lackeys Cazador kept in his mansion—if they’re planning something big, they’ll need help.”
Astarion nods slowly, his expression turning serious. “That’s true. A vampire lord needs hands to handle daylight tasks and find... rarer supplies. If this one is as powerful as we suspect, they’re bound to have loyal thralls by the dozen.” His gaze sharpens, and a dark edge seeps into his tone. “They always flock to the shadows, like vermin.”
“Then it’s time we start wading into the underbelly of Waterdeep,” you say. “The black markets, the taverns for sell-swords and shadowy types.”
Gale leans back in his chair, fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. “Hecat and I can take one end of the city—check in with my contacts, feel out anything... unusual.” He glances over at Hecat, who nods, her sharp eyes already gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.
You exchange a look with Astarion and Shadowheart, feeling the silent agreement ripple between you. “We’ll sweep through the darker quarters, places you wouldn’t find on a map.”
Shadowheart’s gaze sharpens as she leans forward. “It’s a start. We will need to take care and remain vigilant. If Aldous crosses our path again, we’ll need to be ready.”
Her words settle like stones in your chest, and a surge of anger blazes up, fierce and unrestrained. Memories sear through your mind, visions that refuse to dull: Aldous’s blade stabbing into Astarion’s shoulder, the vicious gleam in his eye as he twisted the knife. You remember the jarring scrape of Astarion’s boots as Aldous wrenched him backward, their bodies entangled as they tumbled over the edge of the Arcane Tower.
Your heart hammers, almost painful in its urgency. In your mind’s eye, you see it as vividly as if you were reliving it. Astarion, sprawled and deathly still, his body battered and unmoving. For a moment, he had looked like a corpse. No movement, no breath, only the shock of blood staining his ivory skin. Aldous’s laughter echoed mockingly, knowing he had stolen something precious from you.
That could have been it, you think, a horrid twist of fear lancing through your stomach. He could have been gone. It’s a feeling that’s haunted you since, curling into your chest and anchoring there, clawing at the edges of your every moment with him. The idea of losing him, of holding his lifeless body—no, I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
Your fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles white. “The next time Aldous shows his face, I’m going to fucking incinerate him until not even a wisp remains.”
Astarion’s gaze flickers over you, a subtle gleam of approval and shared ire, but also a hint of worry you weren’t expecting to find in the depths of his crimson eyes.
Hecat stands. “Let’s hope the bastard makes it easy. A vampire lord, a murderous spawn—this city’s certainly growing on me.”
You take a breath. “Astarion, Shadowheart, and I will start tonight. We can meet here in the mornings to discuss anything we’ve found.”
You sit by Astarion, your mind half-focused on the page in front of you, though every few moments your gaze drifts to him. Shadowheart approaches and leans casually over your shoulder.
“Fancy a trip into town?” She asks as if reluctant to disturb the cozy silence. “I need to gather a few supplies while we have some daylight to keep the leeches at bay, and I could use some company.”
Astarion gives Shadowheart a mockingly offended look, his lips curling into a grin that’s equal parts teasing and indignant. "Leeches?" he repeats, drawing out the word as though it's the most scandalous accusation he’s ever heard. "Honestly, Shadowheart, I prefer the term ‘elegantly cursed connoisseur of blood,’ but I suppose leeches have their charm if you enjoy something slimy and without a shred of sophistication."
Shadowheart rolls her eyes, but a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Fine, I’ll remember to use your preferred title next time, Your Grace.”
You can't help the small smile that sneaks onto your face, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. The sun is high, and you know she’s right—it’s as safe as Waterdeep gets. Still, the thought of leaving Astarion’s side leaves a knot in your stomach. After everything that happened, you can hardly bear the thought of not being near him, like a noose pulling tighter each time you think of that horrible fall.
Astarion catches your hesitation and laughs softly, a velvet sound that pulls your attention back to him. “Go on, darling,” he says, brushing his fingers over your arm.
His touch lingers a moment longer, a silent reassurance before he releases you, leaving your skin feeling oddly cool where his fingers once were. You let out a reluctant sigh, but you stand, giving him one last look before following Shadowheart.
The manor looms behind you as you step into the bright sunlight, and Shadowheart stifles a laugh. Her magic whispers through the air, brushing over your neck and shoulders like an invisible veil. You give her a quizzical look.
“Hardly proper to go into town like that,” she teases, eyeing the marks on your skin with an arched brow. She reaches to sweep a stray lock of hair over a particularly stubborn bite mark on your neck, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You’ll scare the merchants half to death.”
You snort, smoothing the folds of your coat, and step beside her onto the cobblestone streets of Waterdeep. The sounds of the city pulse around you, lively and familiar, a strange contrast to the tumult inside your chest.
As you walk, Shadowheart watches you out of the corner of her eye. “You’ve been… different. Not in a bad way, just… quieter.”
The market hums with vendors and patrons alike, oblivious to the turmoil in your chest. Shadowheart gives you a searching look, her gaze unwavering even as the lively crowd flows around you both.
"Astarion told me that I’m hurting him. I know I’ve kept him at arm’s length, and he’s seen through it. I just—" you pause, weaving between a pair of boisterous children, "I don’t know how to stop."
“It’s understandable, you know,” she says finally, her voice carrying a softness that surprises you. “After all he’s put you through—leaving like that, disappearing without a word... Trust is fragile, especially with something so delicate.” Her words are careful, measured, as though she’s testing the boundaries of how far she can go. “I don’t think it’s wrong to protect yourself, Kamena.” She pauses, choosing her words with care. “I think you have to ask yourself if this self-preservation is costing you more than the risk of trusting him again.”
A pit forms in your stomach as her words sink in. You glance away, watching a group of children dart past, laughing as they chase each other. “What if I can’t handle it?” you say, almost to yourself. “What if he does it again? I keep telling myself it’s better to hold back, to not give everything. To keep something for myself, so he can’t… break me.”
Shadowheart’s face softens, and she places a hand on your shoulder, grounding you with her steady presence. “Kamena, sometimes strength isn’t in holding back. Sometimes,” she says, a flicker of her own past hurts surfacing in her expression, “it’s in allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Trusting again, even when you’re afraid.”
You swallow, her words piercing through the armour you've built so carefully around your heart. “But it feels safer this way. Like, if I keep him at a distance, then whatever happens, I’ll be prepared.”
A small, sad smile tugs at her lips. “Safer, maybe, but is it what you want? I don’t think Astarion wants perfection, Kamena. I think he wants you—all of you.”
You shake your head slightly, feeling the weight of your own doubts. “And what if he leaves again? What if one day he decides I’m not worth it?”
“That’s the risk with love, isn’t it?” Shadowheart says gently. She reaches out, pulling a stray lock of your hair back, her eyes brimming with understanding. “But that’s the thing about trust. You can’t just keep the parts that feel safe. You either take the whole risk, the rawness, the unknown, or you’ll be haunted by what it could have been.”
The streets of Waterdeep are humming with life as you and Shadowheart make your rounds and pick up scrolls and potions and browse through a couple of shops for anything that might assist you in your endeavours. The conversation takes on a lighter tone for some time and flows easily, though Shadowheart never misses the chance to tease you about waking the entire manor up with your late-night carnal pursuits.
Sunlight glints off cobblestones, casting fractured reflections that dance across the shadows of the alleyways. People move past in a blur of conversation and laughter, but your mind is miles away.
You pause, something heavy settling in your chest. “Shadowheart,” you begin, your voice quieter now, careful.
She slows beside you, sensing the shift in the air, and glances over. “What is it?”
You take a breath, words tumbling in your mind but refusing to come out. Finally, you just let it spill. “Astarion said something before... before he fell off the tower,” you murmur, the words more fragile than you want them to be. “He said he would have liked to marry me in this life.”
Shadowheart’s eyes flick to you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, her lips quirk into a knowing smile, a touch of sympathy behind the edges. She doesn’t say anything right away, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel like an eternity.
You feel your heartbeat quicken, your gaze turning to the side, looking anywhere but at her. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since, but... I haven’t brought it up. He hasn’t said anything about it again, and part of me wonders if he even meant it.”
There’s a pang in your chest, the same one that’s been nagging at you for days now. You’re scared—scared of what that admission means, scared of how much you want it, how much you need him to want it, too. But every time you try to voice it, the words catch in your throat, tangled up in the fear of being wrong, of opening a door that doesn’t lead to what you’re hoping for.
Shadowheart watches you closely, her gaze softening. “You’ve been afraid to ask him about it, haven’t you?”
You nod, your throat tight. "Yeah... afraid it might have been a passing remark when he thought his demise was all but assured, one he didn’t mean, or that he might regret it.”
She steps a little closer, her hand taking yours in a rare moment of warmth. “Astarion is many things, but he’s not one to say things he doesn’t mean. At least not to you.”
“You really think so?”
Shadowheart smiles. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? How he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. How his words always seem to soften when they’re meant for you.”
It replays in your mind, “I would have liked to marry you in this life, but I will find you in the next, thiramin.”
The words are like shards of broken glass lodged under your skin, too deep to remove but impossible to ignore. It scares you—how much you want to hear him say something about it, anything at all. Even a flippant joke, some casual dismissal, would be better than nothing.
But what if what he says isn’t what you hope for? What if he didn’t mean it, or worse, what if he did and now he’s changed his mind because you can’t let him close? The uncertainty makes your heart ache with a longing you’ve never known how to handle.
A few words shouldn’t hold this kind of power over me.
And yet, they do. Because the truth is, you’ve spent so long keeping Astarion at arm’s length, afraid of what might happen if you let yourself need him. Afraid of how completely he could ruin you if he ever left for good. You wrap yourself in that familiar armour of detachment, hoping it will keep you safe even though you know deep down it won’t. Because, Gods, you want more, and the yearning is a wound that never quite heals.
“Thanks,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, too lost in your own desolate thoughts. You shake your head and try to bring your attention back to the present. “Please don’t mention this to him, or anyone else for that matter. Not until I know what it all means.”
Shadowheart nods, miming a zipper across her lips and a slight flick of her fingers like she’s throwing away an imaginary key. “Anytime. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself, Kamena.”
You hate that you don’t know how to close the distance, how to let him past the barriers you’ve built so carefully. It’s a sad, quiet kind of fear that makes you restless. For now, you pretend it doesn’t hurt, because pretending is easier than facing the chance that you might never hear those words from him again.
Astarion sits on the edge of the bed, mending his armour with quick, nimble fingers. Each stitch is precise, a testament to centuries of needing to fix his own gear. He hums under his breath, pausing only when Kamena walks into the room.
She carries herself with a lightness he’s missed seeing in her, a trace of laughter still lingering in her eyes. He can’t help but smile, setting down his work and leaning back on his hands. “Well, well,” he drawls, a teasing edge colouring his voice, “someone looks positively radiant. Should I be jealous of your shopping adventure?”
Kamena rolls her eyes, pulling off her cloak and tossing it over a chair. “We got everything we needed, but Shadowheart wouldn’t stop teasing me. I’m quite sure she’s made it her life’s mission to try and make me blush at every possible opportunity.”
Astarion arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “I’d wager she has enough ammunition to keep you on your toes for weeks after our performance.” He stands up, moving closer to her, delight swirling in his crimson eyes. “Though I’m almost disappointed, I missed the spectacle. There’s nothing quite as endearing as seeing you flustered. Honestly, I’m starting to feel like I deserve some compensation for missing all this amusement.”
Kamena laughs, the sound rolling through the room like warm, ringing bells. “I’ll make it up to you somehow, I promise.”
He chuckles, his mood buoyed by her good humour. It’s moments like these, fleeting but precious, that make the madness of their world feel distant. “Oh, I’ll hold you to that. In the meantime,” he gestures at his half-mended armour, “I’ll just have to endure this torturous task alone. Unless you’re feeling particularly charitable?”
Kamena surprises him by stepping forward, grabbing the needle with an exaggerated flourish. “Fine,” she declares, the playful mischief in her eyes matching his own. “If you need charity so desperately, I’ll help. How hard can mending clothes be?”
Astarion stares at her in mock horror, his lips parting as if she’d just suggested something catastrophic. “Oh no!” he exclaims, lifting his hands as if to ward off an impending disaster. “Put that needle down, my love, before we both regret it.”
She narrows her eyes, fully aware of her lack of skill but leaning into the joke. “What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe a few crooked stitches? A bit of charm added to your otherwise perfect attire?”
He holds up his hands, palms out, as if coaxing someone to back away from a ledge. “Now, now,” he says in a calming tone, though his voice brims with mirth. “Let’s think this through, shall we? That’s precious leather you’re holding, and it’s been through enough trauma already. Imagine the tragedy, the uneven stitches, the frayed threads, the affront to fashion everywhere.”
Kamena bites back a laugh, attempting to appear indignant. “I think I could manage a simple mend,” she insists, though her smile gives her away. She knows she’s terrible at it.
Astarion takes a slow step forward, as if approaching a wild animal he must handle with care. “Easy now,” he teases, eyes gleaming. “Hand over the needle, sweetheart. No one has to get hurt.”
“You’re hopeless,” she giggles affectionately, but she doesn’t relinquish the needle, still holding it like a threat.
“And you,” he replies, “are a godsdamned menace.”
He winks at her, his heart feeling unexpectedly light. It’s absurd, really, how a moment like this—frivolous and small—can feel like an anchor in the storm of everything else they face.
Kamena raises an eyebrow, her smirk growing more devilish by the second. She angles the needle dangerously close to the fine leather. Her eyes hold a wicked gleam, as if the flames of her ancestors are dancing just below the surface.
“Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” he warns, his voice smooth and rich with faux horror.
“Are you sure about that?” She taunts, her voice like velvet laced with mirth. “I mean, I’m rather unpredictable, as you know.”
“I think I know exactly how unpredictable you are,” he counters, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I’m also faster than you think.”
He shifts his weight, ready to act. For a moment, time stretches taut, like the string of a bow pulled back to its limit. Kamena holds the needle poised over his armour. Astarion feels his phantom pulse quicken, not out of fear for his clothes—well, maybe a bit for his clothes—but because of the thrill of the game they’re playing.
“You think you’re fast enough?” Kamena goads. The needle’s point barely hovers over the supple leather, and her grin is wide, daring.
Astarion’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “Fast enough to stop you and make you regret ever threatening this poor, innocent garment.” He moves, swift as a shadow, fingers darting out to gently but firmly wrap around her wrist before she can poke the armour.
Kamena lets out a gasp, mock outrage spilling from her lips. “Cheater,” she accuses, but her laughter betrays her.
“Hardly,” he retorts, loosening his grip. “I’m merely protecting my one true love: impeccable fashion.”
Kamena’s giggle bubbles up like a spring as she allows him to wrest the needle from her grip. He expertly rescues his armour from her playful grasp, setting it aside as though he’s saving a small, fragile creature from certain doom. He turns back to her, eyes gleaming, and with one swift motion, he tugs her into his embrace.
“Now this,” he murmurs, a smirk curving his lips, “is the sort of behaviour I would expect from a very naughty girl.” His voice drips with honeyed mischief, teasingly accusatory, but his touch is gentle, arms wrapping around her.
He draws her close, so close that he can feel the beat of her heart against his chest, steady and wild, like the thrumming wings of a moth drawn to a flame.
Kamena tilts her head up, her eyes bright with mirth, and her lips part in a playful pout. “Me? Naughty?” she protests, her tone full of feigned innocence. “I was only trying to help, you know. You could use some assistance now and then.”
Astarion lets out a low laugh, his breath ghosting over her skin. “Help? Darling, if that’s what you call help, I fear for the well-being of my entire wardrobe.” He presses a soft kiss to her temple, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough to look into her eyes.
“But,” he adds, his voice dipping into a tender, almost reverent tone, “I do appreciate your very dangerous brand of assistance. It keeps me on my toes—and I do enjoy the challenge.”
His thumb brushes gently across her cheek, a touch so light it feels like starlight gliding over the water’s surface.
“Naughty girls get spanked, don’t they?” She quips in a honeyed, a blend of teasing confidence and something more—something dangerously inviting.
Astarion feels his own smirk widen, utterly captivated by the change in her. He’s noticed this shift, this semi-new boldness that has crept into her lately. She’s always had a fire, never truly timid, but this is different. It feels like a resurgence of the woman she was before he shattered her heart. The guilt still settles into his bones like ice, but seeing her like this, thaws it, if just a little.
He tightens his grip on her waist, leaning in close, his voice a silky murmur. “Indeed they do,” he whispers, savouring each word. “Though I’d argue that punishment should fit the crime.” His lips curve, and he lets the idea hang between them, savouring the tension that blossoms there. “And you, my dear, are racking up quite the list of misdeeds.”
His gaze slips down to her mouth, lingering there, a predator relishing the nearness of his prey. “From endangering my precious armour to distracting me so deliciously… I think it’s only fair you receive the full measure of your consequence.” He trails his fingers slowly down her back, each touch leaving a shiver in its wake.
Kamena’s grin only grows, her eyes sparking with the challenge. He delights in this game, in the push and pull of their flirtation. It’s intoxicating, the way she dances on the edge of boldness, and he has no intention of letting her slip away from this dance.
“Tell me,” he purrs, tilting his head with feigned innocence, “just how many spankings do you think a girl as naughty as you deserves?” His thumb brushes across her lower lip, and the gesture is both gentle and possessive—a lover’s caress and a warning wrapped into one.
Kamena arches a brow, meeting his gaze unflinchingly, and Astarion feels his hunger for her flare, a fire he can’t contain. Her defiance, her allure, the way she teases and tempts—it pulls him in, like a sailor drawn to the song of a siren, knowing the danger but too entranced to care.
Astarion’s breath catches, his chest rising with a sudden, greedy inhale as Kamena drifts toward the bed. The soft, summery fabric of her dress dances around her thighs, shifting like a wisp of cloud caught in a golden sunset, and he can’t help but follow the hypnotic sway of her hips. She pauses, bending over the edge of the bed with a deliberate casualness. Her gaze finds his over her shoulder, eyes glinting with a wicked spark, a dare that ignites the heat between them.
“How many do you think I deserve?” she asks, her voice smooth as silk yet tinged with a simmering edge. Her smile is pure devilry, the kind that beckons trouble.
Her question, that taunting glint in her eyes, sends a thrill coursing through his veins. Astarion swallows, his throat suddenly dry. It’s exhilarating the way she plays with him, each gesture calculated yet achingly natural. He steps toward her, each footfall a whisper against the floor. His eyes roam appreciatively over her form, lingering on the elegant curve of her back. The air is thick, like the moments before a storm, and he relishes the way it makes his skin prickle, the way anticipation coils tightly in his gut.
“Oh, my love,” he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. “You’re asking me to measure your sins? Why, that could take all night.” He plants his hands on the bed beside her, leaning over until his lips hover just above her ear. “But if I must choose… I would say you deserve enough to remember just how tempting you are.”
He lets his words hang, knowing full well the effect they’ll have. His fingers brush the bare skin of her arms, light as drifting snowflakes, and he savours the way her body tenses and then relaxes, yielding to his touch. Kamena shifts slightly, pressing back against him with a sultry challenge. The smile she gives him is pure fire, and he feels himself slipping further into that blaze, willingly burning up in her heat.
“You’re quite confident, aren’t you?” She teases, her voice a melody wrapped in temptation, sweet and lethal. “But are you quick enough to follow through?”
Astarion’s gaze darkens, and his smile curves with a kind of predatory delight. He trails his fingers over Kamena’s back, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress. “Careful, darling,” he purrs. “You’re tempting a monster.”
Kamena looks over her shoulder, eyes gleaming, utterly unafraid, and smirks. “That’s the idea.”
Astarion’s laugh is low and sinful as he places a cool hand on her lower back, letting the anticipation hang between them like the last moments before lightning strikes. His other hand comes down in a swift, playful slap, the sound echoing through the room, mingling with Kamena’s delighted gasp.
“Was that to your liking?” he teases. He brushes a strand of hair from her neck, trailing his fingers along the sensitive spot there, his fangs glinting in the light. “Or should I try again?”
Kamena laughs, low and inviting, and he swears he can feel the room spin with her audacity. Her laughter is a melody he wants to sink into, a song that fills the empty, cold places he doesn’t like to think about. For now, he’s content to let the moment stretch, to revel in the way she’s chosen to be here, with him, even with everything between them.
“Is that really all you've got?” she taunts. Her lips curl into a devious smile, goading him further, daring him to up the ante. “I've felt gusts of wind with more bite. Honestly, you hit with the strength of a child.”
He can’t help but laugh, rich and dripping with challenge. “Oh, is that how it is?” he drawls, his voice smooth as dark velvet, curling around the edges of her taunt. “Careful, love. You’re playing a dangerous game, and I’ve been known to be terribly competitive.”
Kamena shifts, glancing over her shoulder with eyes sparkling like jewels under moonlight. The defiance there is dazzling, tempting him like the edge of a blade whispering for blood. “I’ve yet to see any evidence of that.”
Astarion hums, his gaze raking over her, tracing the way her dress clings to her curves. “If it’s a demonstration you desire, I would be delighted to oblige.”
Without warning, his hand comes down again, this time harder. Kamena jolts, a shiver running up her spine, but she only laughs breathlessly. He marvels at her—his unbeating heart feels like it might thrum to life just for her.
“Better?” he asks in a seductive timbre.
His fingers trace slow, lazy circles against the small of her back, and he waits, poised and hungry, for whatever challenge she might throw back his way.
"Is that the best you’ve got?" she taunts. “Come on, Aerasumé, try again. Harder this time—make it fucking count.”
Astarion’s lips curl into a slow, devilish grin, a predator’s delight sparking in his crimson eyes. “Oh, you’re just begging for it now, aren’t you?”
Kamena’s challenge lingers—an open invitation he’s more than willing to accept. With renewed vigour, he raises his hand, delivering a sharp smack. A low moan of his name escapes her, and he trails his fingers over the spot he struck. The warmth of her skin blooms beneath his cool hand, like fire spreading over marble.
"Look at you, precious thing. So eager to challenge me. You should know by now—I always rise to the occasion."
He leans in, lips brushing against the nape of her neck, tasting the desire radiating from her. Her breath comes out in short, heated bursts, and he relishes every second of it, every whisper of his name and plea that stirs his own longing.
Her head falls forward when his fingers course over the fabric of her panties, already saturated with her desire. A drawn-out groan of appreciation hums in his throat as he deftly pulls the material aside and glides his fingers up and down her slick lips, parting her torturously slowly.
A knock on the door cuts through his enthralment, and Shadowheart’s voice follows, dry and impatient. “It’s time to go. Stop rolling around like lovesick teenagers and get moving.”
Kamena curses under her breath, the kind of low, sultry expletive that’s more alluring than frustrated. Astarion can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, even if the timing is infuriatingly inconvenient. “Well," he drawls, "it seems your punishment will have to be... postponed."
She calls out to Shadowheart, "We’ll be right down!" before turning back to him. Her kiss is swift but fierce, a promise wrapped in passion, leaving his lips tingling. “I’ll hold you to that. Until later then?”
With that, she slips away and starts changing into something more suitable for the gritty, shadow-choked underbelly of the city.
Astarion watches Kamena from the corner of his eye as she moves around the room. What will I do if she never truly trusts me? The thought slithers into his mind like poison he can’t quite shake. He knows her reasons, knows the way he broke her heart before, how he left her with wounds she might never fully heal from. The uncertainty digs into him, a sharp ache he carries quietly. It feels like a cruel joke, really: to finally be free and yet still feel tethered, unable to be the anchor she can cling to without reservation.
She is trying, but he wonders if he’s strong enough to accept it if she cannot find her way back to trust, to live with this half-trust if it means she’ll stay by his side for centuries to come. After all, he endured centuries of horror under Cazador. Compared to that, shouldn’t he be able to tolerate this? If I survived being his favourite puppet, he thinks bitterly, surely I can survive not being wholly trusted.
But it’s not the same, and he knows it. This isn’t about mere survival. It’s about yearning—yearning to be the one she confides in without hesitation, the one who holds her heart as securely as she’s managed to grip his. He hides the pain behind a charming smile, a facade he’s perfected over centuries. But inside, it hurts. It hurts to wonder if she will ever see him as more than a shadow of the man who broke her heart, and it terrifies him to think that maybe, no matter how much he loves her, no matter how much he tries, he’ll never be enough to cross the chasm of his own making.
Still, he tries. Gods, he tries, and he’ll keep trying, even if it means pretending the pain doesn’t matter, because for now, having her close, even with the space between them, is better than the alternative.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
- I promise we are going to progress the plot soon, but I got side tracked.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
As you slip through the heavy wooden door of Gale’s tower, a chill runs down your spine, the cool air wrapping around you like a shroud. The familiar scent of aged parchment and lingering magic fills the air, but it’s overshadowed by the thrill of being back in Waterdeep, a city that’s both a sanctuary and a danger. The moonlight spills through the tall windows, casting eerie shadows that dance across the floor, and you can’t help but feel a sense of excitement mixed with apprehension.
You and Astarion move silently through the darkened hallway, though you’re acutely aware that your idea of stealth is somewhat lacking. As you take your first step toward the staircase, the floorboards betray you with a loud creak, echoing in the quiet like a thunderclap.
Astarion stops beside you. “Oh, darling, do be careful. You sound like a herd of stampeding ogres,” he teases, his voice low and smooth.
“Excuse me, but I’m not exactly trained in the art of stealth like some people,” you quip back, feeling a flush warm your cheeks. “If you recall, I’m more about casting fireballs than tiptoeing around.”
“True,” he replies, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “But it would do you well to practice a bit more.”
You scoff playfully, but another creak interrupts you, and you wince. “It’s not my fault the floor is out to get me.”
“Out to get you? Hmm. I was not aware the floor became sentient while we were gone.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying your predicament, his laughter swirling around you like a warm embrace. “Now, let me show you how it’s done.”
Before you can protest, he sweeps you off your feet with a sudden flourish, cradling you against him. “Astarion!” you squeal, both surprised and exhilarated as you’re lifted into the air, your heart racing. “Put me down! I can walk!”
“Can you?” he counters, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he begins to carry you up the stairs. “I fear you might cause more chaos with those thunderous feet of yours. It’s not my fault you’re more adept at casting spells than at being inconspicuous.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes, but there’s an undeniable flutter of excitement in your stomach as he navigates the winding staircase, each step a testament to his agility. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” you challenge, nudging him.
“Only a little,” he admits, a feigned innocence in his tone. “But can you blame me? Watching you squirm is rather delightful.”
Astarion carries you down the hallway with steps as silent as a drifting cloud; his grip on you is both firm and reassuring. You can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the situation. When you reach the door to your shared room, he pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Well, my dear,” he says, tilting his head. “It seems we’ve arrived at our destination. But alas, I find myself in a bit of a predicament.” He shifts slightly, pretending to struggle with the weight of you in his arms, even though you know he could carry you for miles without breaking a sweat.
“What kind of predicament?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He gestures dramatically with his free hand, the other still securely holding you. “My hands are, quite unfortunately, full of a lovely sorceress, and thus I am unable to open the door myself. A tragic turn of events, really.”
You laugh, feeling the warmth spread through your chest. “Oh, so you want me to do the heavy lifting now?”
“Precisely! If you wouldn’t mind,” he replies with mock earnestness, his lips twitching into a grin. “I’d hate to drop you—imagine the scandal.”
With an exaggerated sigh, you reach out for the door handle, unable to suppress your smile. “Fine, fine. Just this once, I’ll help you with your grand plans.”
“Ah, music to my ears,” he says, a note of triumph in his voice as you twist the handle and push the door open. “Now, let’s see what other mischief we can conjure up together inside.”
As Astarion carries you through the door, he strides into the room with an air of triumph. With a flick of your wrist, the fire in the hearth roars to life, casting a golden glow throughout the room and illuminating Astarion's playful expression. He looks down at you, his smirk widening as he takes in the scene.
“Welcome to our humble abode, my dear,” he announces theatrically, before, with a sudden, cheeky motion, he tosses you onto the bed instead of the gentle placement you anticipated. You land with a soft thump, the pillows surrounding you like a fluffy fortress.
“Hey!” You exclaim, half-laughing, half-surprised. “You threw me!?”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, come now; don’t act so wounded. I barely tossed you,” he teases, taking a step forward as you sit up, still giggling at his antics.
“You just wanted to show off your strength,” you retort, unable to keep the smile off your face. “As if you could ever manage to hurt me.”
“Please, I could toss you around this entire room and still not break a sweat,” he quips back, the laughter in his voice infectious.
You roll your eyes, your heart swelling with warmth as you catch the way his gaze softens when it lands on you, despite the cheekiness of his words. You and Astarion begin your evening routine, shedding the day’s layers like the armour they are. You laugh softly as you reach for the hem of your robe, pretending to fumble, letting it slip to the floor with a flourish.
“Careful now,” Astarion warns with mock seriousness, “if you keep that up, I might think you’re trying to distract me.” His eyes glint with mischief as he starts unfastening his own shirt, letting it slide off his shoulders.
You smirk, leaning against the edge of the bed, enjoying the view. “Me? Distract you? Never! I simply thought you might enjoy a bit of a show.” You throw a teasing glance his way, and he responds with a chuckle, his hands moving to his trousers, skillfully working the laces with practiced ease.
“A daring display, indeed,” he replies, stepping out of his trousers and stepping closer, his body illuminated by the flickering light. “I must admit, it’s rather effective.” He arches an eyebrow, leaning against the bed beside you, his proximity sending a delightful shiver through your body. "I hope you know,” he says, taking a step closer and placing a hand on your waist. “You are quite possibly the most stunning sorceress in all of the realms.” His fingers trail along your skin, teasingly light yet igniting your senses. “What do you think? Shall we partake in a little thrill tonight?”
“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, your heart racing as his kisses trail further down your collarbone, each gentle touch stirring a deeper yearning within you.
“I prefer the term… enthusiastic,” he quips, his voice sultry.
He steps closer, bare chest brushing against yours, and the touch ignites a sun flare that burns hotter with every second. His eyes glint with hunger churning in the scarlet depths, raw and insistent.
His lips ghost over your ear, his breath cool and tantalizing against your skin as his hands slide down your shoulders, then lower, his touch firm and possessive. He traces the curves of your body with the confidence of someone who’s memorized every line, every sensitive spot that makes you tremble.
A grin curls your lips, though it’s more of a challenge than a smile. “Is that an offer of thrill, or just idle talk?”
Astarion’s laughter is low and dangerous as he presses closer, his lips finding your neck. He nips at the skin just hard enough to draw a gasp from you. “Idle talk?” he murmurs against you, each word vibrating through you. “Oh, my sweet Kamena, you know me better than that.”
There’s a roughness in the way he kisses you then, like he’s staking a claim, and you meet him with just as much fervour, your fingers digging into his shoulders. The kiss is all heat and hunger, a clash of lips and teeth. As Astarion moves against you, a different kind of urgency coils inside you—one that’s less about desire and more about desperation. The memory of his voice, raw and unguarded as he confessed how much it hurt to watch you pull away, lingers at the edge of your thoughts.
You hadn't realized until that moment just how much you had hurt him, how your own walls and your instinct to keep him at a distance had left marks on his heart. And now, with every touch and every gasping breath, there’s a part of you that wants to erase those hurts, to drown out the shadows of doubt with something real—something he can feel.
Your hands move over his skin, tracing the lines of his body with a frantic fervour. You cling to him like you’re afraid he might slip through your fingers if you let go, trying to show him—no, prove to him—that you love him, that you can be everything he deserves. And yet, that same fear twists inside you—a nagging voice that says that maybe it’s too little, too late.
But for now, all you can do is hold on tighter, kiss him harder, and hope that somehow he feels it—the wild, desperate love that thrums through you like a second heartbeat. The unspoken plea hidden beneath every touch: don’t give up on me, not yet.
You drag him toward the bed, your hands roving over every inch of him you can reach, a silent demand for more. But when you expect him to set you down, he surprises you by tossing you onto the mattress with a force that leaves you breathless. A startled laugh spills from your lips as you bounce against the sheets, your hair a wild tangle around you.
You push yourself up on your elbows, fire burning in your veins as you look up at him with a smirk—that’s all challenge. “So much for being gentle.”
Astarion’s answering smile is all sharp edges, his gaze devouring you as he stands at the foot of the bed. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He leans over you, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in. His thumb brushes over your swollen lower lip, his touch gentle, but the heat in his eyes is anything but.
You reach up, hooking a leg around his waist and dragging him down until his weight presses against you, your lips brushing his in a teasing challenge. “I want you to be rough with me tonight.”
His mouth crashes against yours with a force that sends your head spinning, his teeth catching your lip in a brief bite before his tongue sweeps in. The kiss is all-consuming, a heady mix of want and something darker, something that speaks of unspoken pain. Astarion’s lips are relentless, trailing fire down your neck, across your collarbone, leaving marks that burn with a pleasurable sting. He follows the path of his hands as they slide down your body, each touch hard enough to leave your skin tingling, as if he’s determined to remind you who is driving you to this edge.
You can’t help the way your breath hitches or the way your fingers curl into the sheets beneath you. There’s a wild edge in Astarion tonight—something untamed that makes your heart race faster, and you meet it with a matching hunger, urging him on with every whimper and moan that escapes you.
He laughs, the sound dark and rough. “Is this what you wanted, my fierce little love?” His hands tighten on your thighs, fingers digging into your flesh as he shifts his weight, pinning you beneath him with ease. “I can feel that desire of yours, burning like wildfire.”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you could keep up,” you manage, your voice strained and breathless, but a teasing lilt finds its way in. You arch into him, pushing back against the restraint he holds over you, your nails digging into his shoulders. “But is that the best you can do?”
His eyes flash with a dangerous light, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his mouth curling into a wicked smile. “Oh, darling, you should know better than to challenge me like that.” His voice drops to a whisper, brushing against your ear. “I’ll fuck you so hard you can’t walk if you let me.”
The heat in his words sends a shiver down your spine, but you match his smile with one of your own, feral and unafraid. “Then do it,” you breathe, daring him to follow through. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Astarion lips claim yours with a ferocity that steals the breath from your lungs, and his hands explore every inch of your body with a possessive hunger. He moves with a confidence that has you melting beneath him, every touch leaving you more undone. When he pulls back, it’s only to flip you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress with his body against yours. His hands slide up your back, fingers trailing over the curve of your spine, sending sparks skittering through your veins.
He nips at your ear, voice husky with desire. “Tell me what you want, Kamena,” he growls, his lips grazing your skin with each word. “Tell me how badly you want this.”
You can feel the tension thrumming between you, the way his breath hitches as you arch back into him. “You think I’m going to beg for you?” You taunt, your voice edged with that familiar defiance. You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his eyes narrow, the dark promise in them as he holds you pinned.
His laugh is low and rough, a sound that sends heat pooling in your core. “Oh, I think I’ll get you there. One way or another.”
His teeth graze your skin, and you can't suppress the shiver that runs through you. Astarion's weight presses you deeper into the mattress. You feel his smile against your neck as your breath catches.
"Already trembling for me, darling?" He purrs, his fingers tracing intricate patterns along your sides. "And here I thought you weren't going to beg."
You bite back a moan, determined not to give him the satisfaction. "You'll have to try harder than that," you challenge, even as your body betrays you.
Astarion chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "Oh, I intend to,” he whispers like a wicked promise.
His fingers dance along your inner thighs, feather-light and maddening, but never quite giving you the touch you crave. You can feel the ghost of his breath against your neck, the press of his body against yours, every point of contact electric.
"Still so defiant," he grunts, nipping at your earlobe. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Fingers ghost over your ribs before cupping your breasts. You whine as he kneads them gently, his thumbs circling your nipples with exquisite precision. The sensations ripple through you, desire spiralling and pooling at your aching flesh. Astarion's lips trail down your neck, leaving a path of ice in their wake that makes your feverish skin prickle. He shifts his weight, allowing just enough space for his hand to slip between your bodies. His fingers trace the curve of your ass before dipping lower, teasing along your folds. You bite your lip, fighting back a moan as his skilled fingers explore your most sensitive areas. He circles your clit with agonizing slowness, building the tension until you're quaking beneath him.
"So wet for me already," he cajoles, his voice a silken caress. "Are you sure you don't want to beg, darling?"
You shake your head stubbornly, even as your hips rock against his hand, seeking more friction.
Astarion chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. "We'll see about that.”
Long, elegant fingers slide inside you, curling in a way that makes you suck in a sharp breath. He sets a devestatingly slow rhythm, each thrust of his fingers sending flares of rapture coursing through you. His thumb circles your swollen clit, the dual sensations threatening to overwhelm you. Your breath comes in ragged pants as Astarion works you closer to the edge, his skilled fingers playing your body like an instrument. Your fingers clutch at the sheets as you struggle to maintain your composure, but Astarion's relentless ministrations are quickly eroding your resolve.
You can feel the hard length of him pressed against your thigh, a tantalizing promise. Your hips rock back instinctively, seeking more contact. Astarion groans against you, his own control clearly slipping.
He increases the pace, his fingers moving with practiced precision as his lips and teeth tease the sensitive skin of your neck and shoulders. The room fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and the occasional muffled moan you can't quite suppress. Your body shakes beneath him, caught between the exquisite pressure of his weight and the rhythm of his fingers.
"So eager.” Astarion’s free hand slides up your arm, fingers intertwining with yours as he pins your hand to the mattress. The gesture is oddly intimate, a counterpoint to the raw want pulsing between you. His breath is cool against your ear as he whispers, "You're close, aren't you? I can feel it."
You nod, unable to form words. Astarion's fingers stroke that spot that makes your vision obscure with every pass, increasing the firmness just a touch. “Surrender to me, darling,” he coaxes, his voice a velvety caress.
His words, combined with a particularly skilled twist of his fingers, send you careening over the edge. Your back arches as waves of pleasure crash over you, your body shuddering beneath him. Astarion doesn't relent, his fingers working you through your climax, drawing out every last tremor.
As you come down from your high, Astarion withdraws his hand. You whine as he brings his fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with a low, appreciative groan. The sight sends a renewed surge of desire through you, your body still hypersensitive from your release. Astarion shifts, his weight lifting off you momentarily. You feel the loss of his weight acutely, but before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, urging you onto your knees. You comply eagerly, your body thrumming with anticipation. His hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your spine before tangling in your hair. He tugs gently, pulling your head back as he leans over you.
"You're exquisite like this," he praises. ”Flushed and trembling.”
You feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, teasing but not yet entering. You push back against him, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place. His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. With agonizing slowness, he begins to push inside you. The stretch is exquisite, your body yielding to him inch by spellbinding inch. You suck in a sharp breath as he fills you completely, your inner walls clenching around the intrusion.
Astarion groans, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gods, Kamena," he breathes. "You feel divine."
He starts to move, setting a languid pace that has you writhing beneath him. Each thrust sends crackles of electricity coursing through your body, building upon the lingering sensitivity. You moan wantonly, your fingers clawing at the sheets as Astarion's pace intensifies. His grip on your hips tightens, fingertips digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks.
"More," you whimper, arching your back to take him deeper. "Please, Astarion..."
He responds with a growl, primal, and hungry. His thrusts become harder, faster, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room. You cry out as he hits a spot deep inside you that makes your world narrow down to nothing but Astarion and the ecstasy he gives you.
Astarion leans over you. His hand slides from your hip to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head swim. The other snakes around to your front, his skilled fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy.
"I want to feel you come undone,” he growls, his voice rough with passion.
Your body obeys his command, pleasure crashing over you as you spiral into bliss. Your inner walls clench around him, pulsing with each wave of your release. Astarion groans, his rhythm faltering as he feels you tighten around him.
"Fuck.” His breath hitches, fingers digging deeper into your flesh.
He pulls you up suddenly, your back flush against his chest as he kneels on the bed. The new angle drives him impossibly deeper, and you cry out, overwhelmed by the intensity. Astarion's arm wraps around your waist, holding you steady as he thrusts up into you with renewed vigour.
His other hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head to the side to expose your neck. You feel his fangs graze your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The threat of his bite, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, sends you hurtling towards another peak.
Astarion's lips brush your ear, his voice a husky whisper. "Do you want it, my love? Do you want to feel my fangs pierce your flesh as I take you?”
You can only whimper in response, words escaping you as euphoria builds to a fever pitch.
Astarion chuckles darkly, his grip tightening possessively. "Say it," he demands, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust. "Beg me for it."
"Please," you plead, your nails digging into his thighs. "Please, Astarion, I need—ah!"
Your plea is cut short as he sinks his fangs into your neck. The sharp pain of his bite quickly melts as Astarion drinks deeply. Your body arches against him, every nerve aflame with sensation. His grip on your waist tightens, bruisingly fierce as he drives into you with animalistic vehemence. The dual assault of his fangs and his cock pushes you over the edge again, and you cry out his name as ecstasy takes you under.
Astarion growls against your neck, the vibrations sending aftershocks through your already overstimulated body. He withdraws his fangs, lapping at the wound with his tongue as he pushes you forward onto your hands and knees.
"I'm not finished with you yet, darling," he taunts, voice thick with lust and bloodlust.
He re-enters you in one swift motion. Your fingers curl into the sheets, anchoring you as Astarion's relentless pace threatens to overwhelm you. Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of nirvana radiating through your body, your oversensitive flesh singing with every touch.
Astarion's hands roam your body possessively. He traces the curve of your spine, then grips your hips as he plunges into you even deeper. You cry out, a wordless plea for more, for everything he can give you.
Astarion's grip on your hair tightens. "You're mine," he growls, his voice dark and possessive. "Say it."
"Yours," you breathe, the word barely coherent. "I'm yours, Astarion."
He rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your vision splintering white. His free hand skates around to your front, clever fingers finding your aching bud once again. You writhe, caught between the dual assaults of his cock and his fingers. Astarion's pace becomes more erratic, his own control slipping. He releases your hair, both hands gripping your hips as he ruts into you with relentless intensity. His nails dig into your flesh, but the pain blends seamlessly, every sensation heightened to an almost unbearable degree. You feel yourself balancing on the knife's edge of climax.
Astarion leans forward. ”Come for me, my love. Let go."
His words unlock something within you. You shatter again, crying out his name. Your inner walls clench around him, pulling him even deeper. Astarion's control snaps at the exquisite sensation of your release. He snarls, a primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. His thrusts become savage, almost punishing. You're overwhelmed, caught in a maelstrom of sensation as he chases his own climax.
His fangs graze your shoulder. You arch your back, offering yourself to him completely. With a growl, he sinks his teeth into your flesh again. The sharp pain blooms into molten bliss as he drinks deeply, your blood singing with the remnants of your orgasm. Astarion's hips stutter; his hands grip your hips tight as he slams into you one final time. You feel him pulse inside you, his cool release flooding your core as he shudders against your back.
For a moment, you're both frozen in ecstasy, bodies trembling and breath ragged. "My love," he mumbles. "My exquisite, perfect thiramin."
You melt into his embrace, savouring the afterglow. The room is filled with the lingering heat of what just happened between you, bodies tangled together on the sheets, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Your skin still hums from his touch, your heart racing in a way that should be satiated, but the ache that pulses through you is deeper, more insistent. It thrums in time with the rhythm of his breath, with the way his hands still cradle your hips, possessive and reassuring.
You’re not sure what it is—why, after everything, you still crave him like this, as if by pulling him closer you might erase the distance that’s grown between you. Maybe it’s because in those breathless moments, when his hands are on you and his mouth is claiming yours, you don’t have to think about the pain you’ve caused him or the wounds he’s opened in you. Maybe it’s because when you’re lost in the heat of his touch, you can pretend that nothing has changed, that you still trust him as easily as breathing.
Or maybe it’s just easier this way. Easier to lose yourself in the carnality and the rawness of your bodies moving together than to face the vulnerability that lingers between words. Easier to drown out the things you can’t quite say with desperate kisses and whispered pleas. You dig your nails into his skin, your breath coming out ragged as you move against him again, searching for that sweet oblivion he can bring you. It’s a distraction, a balm against the jagged edges of everything else you don’t want to feel, but it’s a damn good one, and right now, all you can think is that you need him—more.
“Astarion," you breathe, your voice husky. Your fingers trail down his pale chest, tracing the contours of his sculpted form. "I need more."
“More?” A wicked grin spreads across his face, fangs glinting in the dim light. "My insatiable darling," he purrs, rolling you beneath him in one fluid motion.
Without a word, you pull him closer, crushing your lips against his with renewed fervour. Your fingers tangle in his silvery hair as the kiss deepens, tongues battling for dominance. Astarion growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you and igniting a fire in your core. In one fluid motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. His eyes roam over your body hungrily, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin and heaving chest. You arch into him, desperate for more contact.
Astarion's grip tightens on your wrists as he lowers his head, trailing a path of searing kisses along your neck. He nips at your collarbone, the sharp sting followed by the soothing flick of his tongue.
"Is this what you need, my love? To be claimed, marked, devoured?"
"Yes," you moan, arching into him. "Please, Astarion.”
He releases your wrists, his hands sliding down your arms and along your sides. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as he captures a nipple between his lips. His tongue swirls around the sensitive peak, teeth grazing just enough to make writhe beneath him. Astarion's mouth continues its torturous descent, leaving a trail of bites and kisses across your abdomen. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. You whimper, torn between the pain and the exquisite tension building within you.
"So responsive," he growls, nuzzling the junction between your thighs.
Without warning, he buries his face against your sex, tongue delving deep. You cry out, back arching off the bed as he devours you with primal ferocity. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place as he laps at your most sensitive areas. The dual sensations of his cool tongue and the hint of fangs against your sowllen flesh drive you to the brink of lewd madness. Your fingers twist tighter into his silvery hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away from the overwhelming sensations.
Astarion's crimson eyes flick up to meet yours, burning with predatory hunger. He maintains eye contact as he slides two long fingers inside you, quirking them up. Your hips buck against his face, chasing the building pressure. His tongue flicks relentlessly against your clit as his fingers pump in and out at a merciless pace.
"A-Astarion," you breathe, teetering on the edge. "Please, I need—“
He pulls away abruptly, leaving you aching and desperate. Before you can protest, he pushes your thighs apart and drinks in the sight of you—swollen, wet, drenched in his heady essence, and trembling. Astarion fists his cock, giving himself languid strokes while gazing down at you. For a moment, you think you’ve pushed him too far tonight, and you search his expression, but you don’t find anything other than reverence there.
Astarion wraps an arm around your thigh, pulling you closer to him, and runs his cock through your slick folds. He enters you with a single, powerful thrust, eliciting a cry from your lips. He buries himself to the hilt, stretching and filling you. For a moment, he remains still, savouring the sensation of your warmth enveloping him. Then, with a low growl, he begins to move. His hips snap against yours with increasing urgency, each thrust driving deeper than the last. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more. Astarion's pale skin gleams with a sheen of sweat, his silvery hair falling in dishevelled curls around his face as he pounds into you relentlessly.
"Is this what you needed, my dear?" He barks, his voice rough. "To be thoroughly ravished?"
You can only respond with breathless moans as he shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside you with every powerful thrust. The new angle allows him to drive even deeper, and you cry out as he fills you completely, stretching you to your limits. His thrusts become more forceful, more fervent. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving marks on his alabaster skin. He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand while the other grips your hip firmly.
"Look at me," Astarion commands, his voice a low, dangerous growl. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. The raw hunger you see there makes you shudder. His grip on your wrists tightens as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of marks that brand you as his. The pleasure builds to an almost unbearable intensity, your body trembling on the edge of release. "That's it," Astarion murmurs against your throat. "Show me how much you need this."
His hips snap forward, fucking you mercilessly. You arch your back, pressing your chest against his as you dissolve once more into that decadent pleasure that numbs your mind. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a feral growl from deep in his chest. Astarion's rhythm falters as your climax washes over you, his own release building. His tempo becomes erratic as your walls flutter and clench around his hard length, and he groans, his eyes momentarily falling shut.
Astarion's eyes snap open, blazing with savage yearning. He releases your wrists only to grip your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as he pounds into you with renewed vigour. "Mine," he snarls, voice silvery and dark. "Say it, Kamena. Tell me who you belong to."
"Yours, Astarion! I'm yours!"
He rewards you with a deep, bruising kiss, tongue plundering your mouth as he claims you completely. The coil in your core winds tighter, threatening to snap once more. Astarion's movements grow more frenzied, his control slipping. Your climax hits you like a tidal wave, more intense than the last. You cry out his name, nails raking down his back as your body convulses.
Astarion groans, the feeling of your walls clenching around him pushing him to his own peak. He buries himself deep inside you with a final, powerful thrust, his body shuddering as he finds his release. His fangs graze your neck as he growls your name against your flesh. For a moment, you're both lost in the throes of ecstasy, bodies intertwined. Astarion's weight presses you into the mattress, a delicious reminder of your passionate coupling. His cool breath fans across your heated flesh as he peppers kisses along your collarbone.
As the waves gradually subside, Astarion gently withdraws, eliciting a soft gasp from you both. He rolls to his side, pulling you with him so that you're nestled against his chest. His arms encircle you, one hand tracing lazy patterns along your spine while the other cradles your head.
"Are you alright, my dear?" he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. His crimson eyes hold a warmth that makes your heart flutter.
You nod, still catching your breath. “I’m fine," you manage to whisper, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
Astarion chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Good. I do so love seeing you come apart for me." His fingers thread through your hair, massaging your scalp. "Why did you need that tonight?"
A flicker of worry tightens your chest, and you shift in his arms, searching his face for any signs of hurt. “Are you okay? Did I push too far?” Your tone is quick, almost urgent, trying to hide the nervousness that claws at you.
He arches an elegant brow, the corner of his mouth curving into a sly smile. “Me? Oh, darling, if I had any complaints, you’d hear them. Besides, it’s been ages since we’ve put on such a... spirited performance.” His smile deepens, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’m sure the others have had quite the education tonight, judging by the enthusiastic symphony you orchestrated. And as for these,” he gestures to the bite marks and nail marks marring both your bodies, “I daresay they’ll have a few questions come morning.”
You swat at his chest, rolling your eyes. “So you’re saying I should expect a round of applause from Gale? Or perhaps a performance critique from Shadowheart?”
He laughs, the sound low and velvety, but his expression softens as he looks at you, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “I’m serious, Kamena. Are you alright?” His tone shifts, more gentle, more curious. “This isn’t how you usually—well, not since—” He trails off, but you know what he means.
“Not since you left me,” you sigh. Astarion just nods, and you swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your chest tightens. “I just... needed it,” you say, but even you know that’s not a real answer. You can see it in the way he watches you, his brows furrowing slightly, his fingers still gentle in your hair. “Why are you so interested?”
He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, but there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that makes your heart ache. “Because I want to understand you, my love. I want to understand what you’re afraid of, what you’re running from.” His thumb brushes the corner of your jaw—a touch that sends a shiver through you. “It’s not like you to want it quite so... forgive my choice of word here, but desperately. Not that I’m complaining, but I can’t help but wonder.”
You flinch at the word, but there’s no malice in it—just a gentle truth, laid bare between you. Your throat feels tight, your pulse quickening with emotions you don’t know how to name. “I—” you begin, but the words stick, so you force yourself to take a breath to meet his gaze. “I guess... I don’t know. Maybe it’s because when we’re like this, it’s the only time I feel like... like I’m not losing you.”
He watches you for a moment, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, something that holds a tenderness you don’t often see. “Kamena, you don’t have to prove anything to me.” His thumb traces the line of your cheek, a gentle caress that makes your breath hitch. “I’m not going anywhere. I meant what I said, all of it. If you need this, if you need me, then I’m here. All of me. Just... let me see you. Let me in, even if it’s messy. I’ll take it all, darling—every part of you.”
Tears sting your eyes, and you press your face into his neck, clinging to him as if he might slip away. You don’t know if you’re ready for everything that comes with this—letting him see all the things you’ve tried to hide.
It could either bring you closer together or push you further apart.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.5K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The night begins with a promise of trouble. You can feel it in the air—that electric thrill racing down your spine as you and Astarion slip through the narrow streets of Baldur’s Gate, the cobblestones beneath your feet glistening faintly in the dim light of the moon. The city feels alive, pulsing with an energy that mirrors the mischievous gleam in Astarion’s eyes. You’ve always loved this part of the city, where the respectable folk dare not venture after dark and where you can embrace your more... adventurous side.
“You know,” Astarion’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth, and full of that playful edge you adore. “I think I’ve been rubbing off on you a little too much, my love. I distinctly remember a time when you were far less... scandalous.”
You roll your eyes, a smirk tugging at your lips as you walk side by side. "Oh, please, you can’t take all the credit. I was perfectly capable of mischief before you waltzed into my life, darling.”
“Is that so?” He arches an eyebrow, the hint of a challenge in his tone. “Because I seem to recall you being a bit of a goody-two-shoes when we first met.”
You scoff, nudging him with your elbow. “If by ‘goody-two shoes’ you mean someone with a sense of responsibility, then yes, I suppose I was. But let’s not forget, you were the one who dragged me into this life of crime and debauchery.”
Astarion chuckles, the sound low and wicked, sending a pleasant shiver through you. “I’ll gladly take the blame for that. It’s been a delight corrupting you.”
You laugh, glancing sideways at him. He’s practically glowing in the moonlight, his pale skin luminous against the backdrop of the dark city, his silver hair catching the light like stardust. He’s the picture of elegance and danger, the perfect partner for whatever chaos you’re about to unleash tonight.
“So, what’s the plan?” You ask, your voice filled with anticipation. “You didn’t drag me out here in the middle of the night just to take a stroll, did you?”
Astarion grins, his fangs glinting in the light. “Oh, I have something a bit more exciting in mind than a mere stroll, darling. I was thinking we’d pay our old friend at Sorcerer’s Sundries a little visit.”
Your heart leaps at the mention of the shop. The last time the two of you were there, it had been pure pandemonium—shelves of magical trinkets and forbidden tomes knocked over in your haste to avoid detection after Astarion had casually “borrowed” a few enchanted rings. You remember the rush of adrenaline, the thrill of getting away with it, and the laughter you’d shared once you were safely back in the shadows.
“You mean we’re going back there?” You ask, excitement bubbling up inside you. “Didn’t we cause enough trouble the last time?”
Astarion’s grin widens, full of wicked glee. “Darling, one can never cause too much trouble. Besides, I happen to know they’ve recently acquired some rather valuable new stock.”
“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “And how, exactly, did you come by this information?”
He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “I have my ways.”
You chuckle, knowing full well that his “ways” likely involved charming some poor unsuspecting fool into spilling their secrets. Not that you mind. In fact, it’s one of the things you love about Astarion—the way he can talk his way into or out of anything with that deadly charm of his.
As the two of you approach the familiar shopfront of Sorcerer’s Sundries, you can feel your pulse quicken, the thrill of anticipation making your fingers tingle. The street is quiet, deserted save for the occasional stray cat darting across the road, and the faint glow of the shop’s magical wards shimmers faintly in the air.
Astarion stops just outside the door, turning to you with a smirk. “Shall we, my love?”
You nod, your heart racing as you glance up at the shimmering wards. “Any idea how we’re getting past those?”
Astarion waves a hand dismissively. “Please, as if a few wards could keep us out. They’ll be no trouble at all. For you, of course.”
You cross your arms and lean back slightly, giving him an incredulous look. Astarion winks at you and gives you a sweeping, shallow bow with a smirk. You grasp the Weave, the tendrils of energy feeling about the warding, to determine where it’s tied off. Wards have never been your expertise, so to speak, but Gale taught you enough to get by. You find the knot, where the trigger lies buried beneath magic. Astarion slips behind you, hands settling on your hips, his chest pressed hard into your back.
“Hiding behind me, are you?” You jest, leaning sideways slightly to glance at him but still leaning into his comforting presence. “Worried I’m going to set them off?”
“My faith in your abilities is unshakable,” he explains smoothly with that delightful glint in his captivating eyes. “A mere precaution.”
“Yes,” you giggle, “a precaution.”
You carefully unravel the knots tied to the trigger, cutting threads of Weave with the same mastery that Astarion disarms physical traps. The wards shimmer and then slowly fade out.
“Impressive,” he purrs, grinning as the path clears before you.
“Only the best for you, my love,” you reply with a wink.
Astarion crouches by the door, his tools in hand, and he makes quick work of the physical lock. Rolan clearly had not prepared for the likes of him—a silly mistake that will cost him. If nothing else, you’re giving him a lesson in security. The interior of the shop is dimly lit, the shelves lined with all manner of magical items, from glowing potions to strange amulets. You can feel the hum of magic in the air—a faint thrumming that seems to vibrate in your bones.
“Alright,” Astarion says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s see what we can find.”
You follow him deeper into the shop, your eyes scanning the shelves for anything that catches your interest. The shop is eerily silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of your clothes and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath your feet. The air smells faintly of dust and incense, adding to the mysterious, almost forbidden atmosphere.
Astarion moves like a shadow, his hands deftly plucking items from the shelves as if he’s done this a thousand times before—and knowing him, he probably has. You can’t help but admire the way he moves—so graceful and sure of himself, as if he owns the very air he walks through.
“You know,” you murmur, watching him with a fond smile, “you’re really in your element here.”
He glances back at you, a wicked grin on his face. “Well, I do enjoy a good heist. Something about the thrill of it all—it’s positively exhilarating.”
You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re terrible.”
“And yet you’re here with me, darling,” he replies with a wink before returning to his pilfering.
As you reach the back of the shop, something catches your eye—a small, ornate box sitting on a shelf, glowing faintly with a soft blue light. You pick it up carefully, feeling the hum of magic pulse through your fingers.
“Astarion,” you whisper, holding up the box. “Look at this.”
He glances over, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the item. “Interesting. That’s definitely not something they had the last time we were here.”
You examine the box closely, turning it over in your hands. “Do you think it’s dangerous?”
Astarion’s grin widens. “Oh, undoubtedly. Which is exactly why we should take it.”
You laugh softly, your heart racing with excitement as you slip the box into your bag. The two of you continue your search, gathering various trinkets and enchanted items until your bags are nearly full.
Just as you’re about to suggest making your exit, you hear a faint noise from the front of the shop—a soft creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of footsteps. You freeze, your heart leaping into your throat as you glance at Astarion, who has already slipped into the shadows, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“We’ve got company,” he whispers, his tone light and teasing.
You nod, quickly moving to hide behind one of the shelves as the footsteps draw closer. Your pulse pounds in your ears, the adrenaline surging through you as you wait, your breath shallow and quiet.
A figure appears in the doorway, a tall, shadowy shape that moves cautiously through the shop, their steps slow and deliberate. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve been caught—if this is the end of your little adventure—but then Astarion moves like a ghost, slipping up behind the figure with practiced ease.
Before you can blink, he’s right behind them, his hand hovering just above their shoulder. “Looking for something, darling?” he purrs, his voice a silken whisper in the dark.
The figure jumps, spinning around to face him, their expression one of pure shock. You stifle a laugh, watching as Astarion’s grin widens, his fangs glinting in the dim light.
“Wha—who—?” the figure stammers, clearly caught off guard.
“Ah, don’t mind us,” Astarion says casually, waving a hand. “We were just browsing. You understand, don’t you?”
The figure blinks, still looking thoroughly confused and more than a little terrified. You can’t help but admire the way Astarion effortlessly takes control of the situation, his confidence and charm disarming the poor fool with ease.
“Well,” Astarion continues, his tone light and airy, “I do believe it’s time for us to take our leave. Don’t you agree, love?”
You nod, stepping out from behind the shelf, your heart still racing from the excitement of it all. “Absolutely.”
With that, the two of you make a swift exit, leaving the bewildered shopkeeper, who is intriguingly and conveniently not Rolan, standing in the middle of his shop, staring after you in stunned silence.
Once you’re back on the street, you burst into laughter, the tension of the moment finally giving way to exhilaration. “That was brilliant!” you exclaim, grinning up at Astarion.
He smirks, clearly pleased with himself. “Oh, it was nothing, really. Just another night on the town with my favourite partner in crime.”
The adrenaline from Sorcerer’s Sundries still pulses through you—an electric buzz that doesn’t seem to want to leave. Astarion has that effect—his mischief is contagious. You can’t help but laugh as the two of you slip down the narrow streets of Baldur’s Gate, your bags filled with magical trinkets and shiny treasures that shouldn’t be yours. It feels like a game; only the two of you know how to play.
Astarion is grinning beside you, his fangs catching the moonlight as he twirls one of the stolen rings between his fingers, admiring the craftsmanship. “I must say, darling, tonight’s haul is rather exquisite. You do have a talent for picking out the most delightful things.”
You bump your shoulder against his playfully. “What can I say? I have excellent taste.”
"Indeed, you do. You love me, after all,” he muses, slipping the ring onto his finger with a dramatic flourish. He stops in his tracks, then holds out his hand for you to inspect the ring with a mock-serious expression. “How do I look?”
You take his hand in yours, pretending to scrutinize it. “Like a man who just stole that ring and doesn’t give a damn.”
“Ah, you always know just what to say to make me blush,” he teases, but then tugs you close, his breath a cool whisper against your ear. “So, what’s next on our little adventure, my love? I’m determined to make tonight one you’ll never forget.”
You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. His crimson eyes are dancing with excitement, and you know he means every word. Whatever happens tonight, Astarion is intent on making sure you have fun—no matter how much trouble the two of you stir up.
A glint catches your eye as you glance up, and you spot the clock tower looming in the distance. It’s the tallest structure in this part of the city, its intricate mechanisms and gears visible through the large, circular windows. It’s a marvel of engineering—and, more importantly, it’s completely off-limits to anyone without special clearance.
A mischievous idea forms in your mind, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face. “How about we sneak into the clock tower?”
Astarion raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “The clock tower? My, my, someone is feeling daring tonight.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to see the inside of that thing,” you challenge, stepping closer to him. “We’ll get a great view of the entire city from up there. Plus, I bet there are a few things we could... liberate along the way.”
He laughs, his eyes glinting with that familiar, wicked light. “You make an excellent point, darling. Very well, let’s go.”
The two of you head toward the clock tower, your steps quick and purposeful. As you approach the base of the tower, you notice that the heavy wooden doors are locked and warded, a faint shimmer of magic indicating some sort of protective enchantment.
“Hmm, seems they don’t want just anyone wandering in,” Astarion remarks, already inspecting the lock. “But then again, we’re not just anyone, are we?”
You watch as he deftly produces a set of lockpicks from his coat, a devilish grin on his face as he works on the lock with practiced ease. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times, but it never gets old—the way his fingers move with such precision, the slight furrow of concentration on his brow.
After a few moments, there’s a soft click, and the door swings open with a quiet creak.
“Shall we?” he asks, offering you his hand.
You take it, your heart pounding with excitement as the two of you slip inside the tower. The interior is dark and quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock’s gears high above. The air smells of old wood and metal, and there’s a sense of timelessness here, as if the tower has been standing for centuries, quietly marking the passage of time.
“This way,” Astarion whispers, leading you up a narrow staircase that spirals around the interior of the tower. The stairs creak underfoot, and you hold your breath, half-expecting someone to hear and come rushing in—but no one does. The two of you are alone in this mechanical marvel.
As you ascend, you can hear the ticking of the clock growing louder, the gears above turning in a slow, rhythmic dance. It’s hypnotic, in a way, the steady beat of time echoing through the tower.
When you finally reach the top, you’re greeted by a breathtaking sight. The large, circular window offers a panoramic view of the city, the rooftops of Baldur’s Gate stretching out beneath you like a sea of shadows. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over everything, and for a moment, you feel like you’re standing at the edge of the world.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Astarion murmurs, his arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you close.
You nod, resting your head against his shoulder. “It’s perfect.”
For a few moments, the two of you simply stand there, watching the city below in silence. There’s something almost peaceful about it, despite the fact that you’ve just broken into a restricted area. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world, standing above everything, untouchable.
But the peace doesn’t last long.
“Now,” Astarion says, breaking the silence with a mischievous grin. “What’s the point of sneaking into a place like this if we don’t leave with a little souvenir?”
You laugh, already knowing where this is headed. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Not when there are so many delightful things just begging to be taken,” he replies, already scanning the room for anything worth pilfering.
Your eyes follow his gaze, landing on a small cabinet tucked into the corner of the room. It looks unassuming, but you know better than to judge by appearances. There could be anything hidden inside.
Astarion strides over to the cabinet and opens it with a flourish, revealing an assortment of gears, tools, and—most interestingly—a few glimmering, enchanted timepieces. He picks one up, turning it over in his hand as if appraising its worth.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice full of amusement. “A little memento of our time together, perhaps?”
You chuckle, walking over to join him. “You’re incorrigible.”
“And yet, you love me for it,” he quips, slipping the timepiece into his coat pocket with a wink.
With your prize secured, the two of you make your way back down the tower, your hearts still pounding with excitement. It’s not until you’re back on the street, the tower looming behind you, that you both exhale, laughing at the sheer audacity of what you’ve just done.
“Alright,” Astarion says, his arm around your shoulders as the two of you stroll away from the tower. “What’s next, my love? We’ve already broken into a shop and a clock tower—shall we aim for something even more ambitious?”
You grin up at him, your mind racing with possibilities. “What about the noble district? I hear they’ve got some pretty fancy parties going on tonight.”
Astarion’s eyes gleam with interest. “Crashing a party, are we? I do love the sound of that.”
The noble district is everything you expected—extravagant, opulent, and filled with people who look like they haven’t had a fun day in their lives. The perfect target.
You and Astarion blend in easily, slipping past the guards and into the large estate where the party is already in full swing. The ballroom is filled with noblemen and women, all dressed in their finest attire, sipping wine and making idle conversation as if they have nothing better to do.
“Ugh, these people are so boring,” Astarion whispers in your ear as the two of you make your way through the crowd. “We’re doing them a favour by being here, really.”
You stifle a laugh, glancing around the room. “So, what’s the plan?”
Astarion’s smile is all mischief as he plucks a glass of wine from a passing tray and takes a sip. “We blend in, darling. Look the part, act the part, and then... well, we’ll see what kind of trouble we can stir up, shall we?”
You nod, following his lead as the two of you glide through the party like a pair of shadows. You chat with nobles, pretending to be interested in their dull conversations about trade agreements and estate management, all the while scanning the room for an opportunity to cause some chaos.
It doesn’t take long.
You spot a small group gathered around a table near the back of the room, their attention focused on what appears to be a game of cards. But this isn’t just any card game—it’s a high-stakes gamble, with piles of gold and precious jewels scattered across the table.
Astarion follows your gaze, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “Ah, now that looks interesting.”
You grin. “Think you can win?”
“Darling,” he says, flashing you a wicked smile. “I don’t think—I know.”
Before you can say anything, Astarion is already making his way over to the table, his confidence radiating off him in waves. He slides into an empty seat with the kind of grace that only someone like him can pull off, and within moments, he’s part of the game, charming the other players with his silver tongue.
You watch from the sidelines, your heart racing with excitement as you see him in his element. He’s smooth, calculated, and completely in control, his hands moving deftly as he plays the game with precision. But what the other players don’t realize is that Astarion isn’t just relying on skill—he’s cheating, subtly manipulating the cards, and using his vampiric senses to his advantage.
You can’t help but smile as you watch him work. He’s good—too good, really—and it’s clear that the other players have no idea what’s happening. One by one, they start to lose, their piles of gold and jewels dwindling as Astarion’s stack grows larger.
By the end of the game, Astarion has won nearly everything on the table, and the other players are left staring at him in disbelief.
“Well,” he says, standing up and gathering his winnings with a smug grin. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen. Do try to work on your strategies, hmm? Maybe next time you won’t lose quite so spectacularly.”
Before anyone can protest, he’s already walking away, motioning for you to follow. You join him, barely able to contain your laughter as the two of you slip out of the ballroom and back onto the streets, the stolen riches clinking in his pockets.
“You really are incredible,” you say, shaking your head in admiration. “I don’t know how you do it.”
He smirks, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “It’s a gift, my dear. A very profitable gift.”
By the time the night begins to wind down, you’ve both had your fill of crime and mischief, and your stomachs are aching from all the laughter. But Astarion isn’t done with you just yet.
“Come,” he says, taking your hand and leading you down a narrow alleyway that opens up to a secluded spot by the river. The water glistens in the moonlight, and the soft sound of the current lapping against the shore fills the air.
“What are we doing here?” you ask, though the answer is already obvious by the look on his face.
“I thought a little moonlit picnic might be a nice way to end our night of debauchery,” he says, pulling a blanket from seemingly nowhere and spreading it out on the grass.
You laugh, sitting down on the blanket and watching as he produces a small basket of food and wine. “You planned this, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” he says, handing you a glass of wine with a wink. “What kind of date would I be if I didn’t have something special planned?”
You shake your head, accepting the wine and taking a sip. The two of you sit there for a while, enjoying the peacefulness of the river and the quiet of the night. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier, but it feels just as perfect.
After a while, Astarion lies back on the blanket, his arm draped lazily over his eyes. “You know,” he says, his voice softer now, “I’ve been thinking.”
You glance over at him, curious. “About what?”
He hesitates for a moment, then lowers his arm and looks over at you, his crimson eyes unusually serious. “About us. About… this.”
The shift in his tone sends a tremor through you, like the gentle breeze that stirs the water beside you. His crimson eyes are no longer full of mischief and mayhem but something deeper, more vulnerable. You can feel the weight of his thoughts pressing between you, a contrast to the lightheartedness of the night.
You tilt your head slightly, watching him with cautious curiosity. “What about us?” you ask, your voice softer now, matching his.
Astarion doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sits up slowly, crossing his legs beneath him, his eyes searching your face for a long moment. His hands rest on his knees, but his fingers twitch, a telltale sign that his mind is racing.
He chuckles, but it lacks his usual arrogance. "You know, I’ve lived for over two centuries, and yet, I find that sometimes—this”—he gestures between you two—"baffles me more than anything else I’ve experienced." His gaze holds yours, and for once, there’s no playful glint behind it. Just sincerity.
You set your glass of wine down, shifting to sit cross-legged across from him, mirroring his posture. "What is it about ‘this’ that baffles you, Astarion? You seemed pretty sure of yourself when we were causing trouble all over the city."
A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it fades quickly. "That’s the easy part, my love. The fun, the games, the heists—that’s all... familiar. Comfortable." He pauses, his gaze dropping to the blanket beneath you as if searching for the right words. "But this—this quiet moment, just sitting here with you by the river, sharing wine, with no agenda, no thrill of the hunt… it’s unnerving."
The confession catches you off guard. Astarion, the suave, confident vampire who thrives on chaos, unnerved by something as simple as a picnic by the river? It almost seems laughable, but you know better. You’ve seen glimpses of the man behind the mask before, and this moment feels like one of those rare times when he’s letting you see him—not the charming thief, not the manipulative vampire, but the man.
You reach out, your fingers brushing against his knee in a gentle, reassuring gesture. "Unnerving because… it’s real?"
His eyes flick up to yours, and for a heartbeat, he looks almost relieved. "Yes," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. "Real."
The word hangs in the air between you, laden with unspoken fears and uncertainties. You can see it in the way his eyes avoid yours for a split second, as if he’s afraid of what he might see reflected back. Vulnerability, it seems, still doesn’t come naturally to him. Not after centuries of survival, manipulation, and hiding his true self.
You scoot closer to him, closing the distance between you, and take his hand in yours. His fingers are cold, as always, but you are the fire that combats his icy nature, and you squeeze them anyway, grounding him in the present.
"I get it," you say softly. "I do. This—what we have—it’s not easy. It’s messy, complicated. But it’s real, Astarion. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything."
He stares at your joined hands for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he chuckles again, this time softer, more genuine. "You’re annoyingly insightful sometimes, you know that?"
You smile, squeezing his hand again. "Someone has to be, with the amount of chaos you bring into my life."
Astarion smirks, a little of his usual bravado returning, but it’s tempered now with something softer. He turns his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours, and for a moment, the two of you just sit in comfortable silence, the gentle lapping of the river filling the space between you.
After a few beats, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time. "You... you’ve changed things for me, you know. I didn’t think—after everything—after Cazador, his tortures, all of it—I didn’t think I’d ever feel anything like this again."
You raise an eyebrow, your heart pounding a little faster now. "Like this?"
He meets your gaze, and for the first time tonight, there’s no mask, no pretence. Just Astarion. "I’ve never had anything like this. Not even before…" His voice trails off, his eyes darkening briefly as old memories surface. He shakes his head slightly, as if banishing them. "You’ve made me feel something real again. Something… frightening."
Your breath catches in your throat. He’s being honest with you in a way that you know doesn’t come easily for him. Vulnerability isn’t in his nature—not after what he’s been through. But here he is, laying it bare for you to see, and it hits you how much this moment means to him. To both of you.
"You don’t have to be afraid of that," you say softly, your fingers tracing the back of his hand. "We don’t have to rush anything or figure it all out right now. We’ll just... take it one step at a time. Together."
Astarion’s eyes search yours, and for a moment, you can see the uncertainty warring with something else—something deeper, more fragile. But then, slowly, he nods. "Together," he echoes, his voice soft but resolute.
There’s a quiet moment of understanding between you, and you know that this is a turning point—one of those rare, defining moments that will shape whatever comes next for the two of you.
You smile, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He responds immediately, his grip tightening on your hand as he pulls you closer, his other hand coming up to cup the side of your face. The kiss is different from the playful ones you’ve shared throughout the night. This one is slower, more tender, filled with the weight of unspoken promises.
When you finally pull away, your foreheads rest against each other, and you both exhale softly, the tension between you easing.
"I’m still going to get us into trouble, you know," Astarion murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks.
You laugh softly, your heart feeling lighter now. "I’d be disappointed if you didn’t."
Astarion's arms remain wrapped around you, his usual smirk still lingering on his lips, but there’s a shift in the air. You feel it before you even see the flicker of something darker in his eyes. It’s subtle—just a tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers stiffen slightly against your back.
He’s about to say something. Something that’s been brewing beneath the surface for a long time.
“You know,” he begins, his voice soft but laced with something rawer than the lighthearted banter from moments before. “Ever since I returned, for all the trouble we get into, for all the chaos and fun, there’s always been this... barrier.”
You freeze, barely breathing. The lightness of the moment evaporates in an instant, leaving behind a heaviness you hadn’t been ready for. A barrier. You know exactly what he means, and it cuts deeper because you’ve felt it too—the distance you’ve maintained, even as you laughed with him, stole with him, kissed him, made love to him. It’s always been there, lingering in the back of your mind, a wall you’ve put up without ever truly acknowledging it.
But he’s noticed.
You feel his eyes on you, searching your face for a reaction. His hand moves from your back to gently cup your chin, lifting your gaze to meet his. His crimson eyes, normally so filled with mischief and arrogance, are clouded with something that looks far too much like pain.
“I’ve tried, Kamena,” he says quietly, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. “I’ve tried so damn hard to be what you need to make this work. But no matter what I do, no matter how many nights like this we share, it always feels like I’m fighting something invisible. Like there’s this part of you that’s locked away—just out of reach.”
His words twist something deep inside you, an ache you’ve been ignoring for far too long. The truth of it stings because you know it’s not a lie. You have kept a part of yourself back. Even now, with Astarion—the man you’ve shared more than just a life of crime with—there’s been a wall. A wall you thought was for your own protection, but now, as he speaks, you realize it’s been more than that.
It’s been a shield. A way to keep him at arm’s length, to protect yourself from being hurt again. From losing control. From giving yourself to someone who could break you.
But in doing so, you’ve been hurting him.
He lowers his hand from your chin, and you feel the absence of his touch like a chasm opening between you. His voice drops, the next words quieter, more strained. “Sometimes... it feels like you’re punishing me.”
Your breath catches. You try to speak, to deny it, but nothing comes out. His words hit too close to home.
Astarion swallows, his gaze dropping for a moment, as if gathering the strength to keep going. “I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I’m not perfect. Hell, I’ve done things—things I’m not proud of.” He pauses, his voice faltering for a second before he continues. “But I’m trying, Kamena. For you. For us. I’m trying to be better.”
The lump in your throat grows as you listen to him, his words cutting deeper than you could’ve imagined. He’s right. He has been trying. In his own way, with his own scars and wounds, he’s been trying to be better for you. And you… you’ve been holding him at a distance, afraid to let him too close. Afraid of what might happen if you let him in completely.
“I just…” He exhales, and when he looks back at you, the hurt in his eyes is unmistakable. “I wonder if you’ll always punish me. Even if it’s not intentional. Even if it’s just... you protecting yourself. Is that all this will ever be? You keeping me at arm’s length because of my mistakes?”
The rawness in his voice breaks something in you. Your defences crumble; the wall you’ve so carefully built to keep yourself safe from the potential pain of losing him or being hurt again starts to crack. And with that crack, all the feelings you’ve been burying—all the guilt, the fear, the confusion—it all comes rushing to the surface.
You pull away from him, your arms wrapping around yourself, as if trying to hold yourself together. But it’s no use. The weight of his words, the truth behind them, crushes you.
“I—” Your voice cracks, and suddenly, you can’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. “I didn’t mean to.”
You don’t even finish the sentence because, the truth is, you don’t have the words to explain what’s been happening inside of you. How could you possibly explain to him that, yes, you’ve been holding him at a distance, but it wasn’t because you wanted to punish him? It wasn’t out of malice or anger—it was out of self-preservation. A defence mechanism.
A sob escapes your throat before you can stop it, and suddenly the tears are falling, hot and fast. You bury your face in your hands, ashamed of how much you’ve hurt him—hurt yourself.
“Kamena…” His voice is soft now, and you feel his hand brush against your arm, a hesitant touch, as if he’s not sure if you want him to comfort you. “Talk to me.”
You shake your head, trying to get a handle on your emotions, but it’s impossible. The weight of everything you’ve been keeping locked away—the fear, the guilt, the need to protect yourself—it’s all too much.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice muffled by your hands. “I’m so sorry, Astarion. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He doesn’t pull away, even as your shoulders tremble with the force of your emotions. Instead, he stays close, waiting for you to gather your thoughts to find the words you need.
You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to speak through the tears. “You’re right. I have been... keeping you at a distance. But it wasn’t because I wanted to punish you. I swear, it wasn’t that.”
You can feel his eyes on you, patient and understanding, even as the pain lingers between you.
“It’s just—" You struggle to find the words, your voice breaking with the weight of it all. "I’ve lost so much. I’ve had to survive on my own for so long, and the idea of letting someone in—of really letting you in only to lose you again—it terrifies me, Astarion."
The tears come harder now, and you wipe at your face, your hands trembling. "I’ve been so afraid of losing control, of being hurt again. And I know it’s not fair to you. I know that, but... it’s all I’ve known since you left. And I didn’t realize how much I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length until now. Until you said it."
His hand moves gently to your back, tracing soft circles in an effort to soothe you. His touch, as always, is cool but familiar.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible now. “But I was afraid. Afraid of losing myself in this. Afraid of what it might mean if I let you too close.”
The truth of it is like a knife twisting in your gut, and you hate yourself for it. For hurting him. For not realizing sooner just how much your own fear has been holding you both back.
Astarion doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a tight embrace that offers both comfort and forgiveness. His chin rests on top of your head as you cling to him, your sobs quieting, though the ache in your chest remains.
“It’s alright, darling,” he murmurs against your hair. "I understand. More than you think."
His words are a balm, soothing some of the guilt that’s been gnawing at you. But they don’t erase it completely. You know you’ve caused him pain, and it cuts you deeply to realize just how much he’s been hurting without saying a word.
You lean back slightly, wiping at your eyes, but you don’t pull away from his embrace. You need his closeness now more than ever.
“I’m going to try,” you say softly, your voice still shaky but resolute. “I’m going to try to let you in. I don’t want to keep hurting you, Astarion. I don’t.”
He cups your face gently, his thumb brushing away the lingering tears on your cheek. His eyes meet yours, and in them, you see a flicker of something hopeful, something that makes your heart ache even more.
“I’m not asking for perfection,” he says quietly, his voice filled with that same vulnerability you’ve come to love. “I just want you. All of you. No more walls. No more barriers. Just… us.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you place your hand over his, holding it against your cheek.
“Us,” you repeat softly, your voice trembling but filled with sincerity. "I want that too."
In that moment, with the moonlight reflecting off the river beside you and the weight of everything that’s been unspoken finally brought to light, you feel a sense of clarity. It’s not going to be easy, and you know there will still be moments when your fears creep back in. But you also know that Astarion is worth fighting those fears for.
And as you sit there in his arms, the cool night air wrapping around you like a blanket, you make a silent promise to yourself—and to him—that you’ll try. You’ll try to let him in. To be vulnerable. To stop punishing him for mistakes that are in the past.
Because you love him. And he deserves that.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Long chapter without breaks to move onto new scenes, but date night was a blast to write. No regrets.
These two really do get up to some trouble when they are in pacing mortal peril.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 7K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
Unlike before, time seems to fast forward, seemingly leaping ahead with every blink as Aldous approaches. The dagger quakes in your grip, and chastise your body for being so wimpish.
A golden beam of light splits the tenebrosity, akin to the sun crowning over the horizon at the break of dawn, and you reflexively throw yourself over Astarion to shield him from it. The sheer brightness makes your eyes clamp closed.
When you open them again, darkness shrouds you like a thick cloak, but this darkness is not natural. It’s teeming with the vitality of the Weave. Somewhere, you can hear the metallic clashing of blades. Your fingers curl into Astarion’s armour, terrified that if you let go, you will lose him in this rayless depth.
Your ears twitch as you catch the quick patter of footsteps, and you bring the dagger back up. It’s difficult to discern which direction the sounds are coming from, and your eyes dart around in an attempt to catch any movement.
The slightest flicker of light is all the forewarning you get before a figure breaks through the fog. The dagger is poised and ready to strike when the icy blue aura of healing magic scintillates within the penumbra, and Shadowheart drops down on one knee beside you.
Her hand nearly touches you before you drop the dagger, catch her wrist, and plant her hand on Astarion. The magic bathes him, flowing over his skin like a wave stroking the beach and fading out as it sinks into him.
Shadowheart’s hand searches through the gloom, finding your forearm. She fumbles around, shuffling on her feet until she can see you more clearly, and wraps her arms around you in a gentle, quick hug.
“Is he?” She gestures toward Astarion, trying once more to heal him.
“I don’t know.”
The spell is dismissed and diminishes within a split second to reveal Gale and Hecat. Gale breathes heavily, his eyes still glowing with the Weave, and Hecat’s sword is still poised in a defensive position. A thick river of blood drips from a wound in her bicep, off her elbow, and to the ground. You scan the area, but Aldous is nowhere to be seen.
“He’s gone, my friend.” Gale confirms with more spite in his voice than you can recall he ever had, even when he was talking about Mystra. “His master must have tugged his leash.”
Gale and Hecat’s eyes sink to Astarion’s body, which still lies at rest in your arms, and you follow their line of sight with your head hung low over him.
“I tried,” you mutter. “He can’t be. He can’t… He…” You trail off, unable to even think of the word, or you’re positive that you will fall apart and never get up.
Hecat’s sword slumps down, the tip burying itself in the ground, and it strikes you that the woman is crying.
“We should go,” Gale says, kneeling and placing his hand on your shoulder gently. “There is no telling when he might return with greater forces.”
“I won’t leave him here,” you choke out between sobs. “I won’t.”
“Nor will I.” Hecat adds with a sombre intonation, her voice shaking.
Her stalwart loyalty to someone she doesn’t truly know strikes you as strange, but in this moment, you’re thankful for it.
“Of course we won’t leave him.” Shadowheart assures, wrapping her arms around you once more.
“He was our friend, too,” Gale weeps, rubbing the tears that are starting to form in the corners of his eyes.
Was our friend.
Was.
“Was your friend?” Astarion coughs hard, his eyes cracking open slightly. “So lovely to know what you’ve written me off already, my friends,” he groans satirically.
Your arms wrap around him, and for whatever reason, you cry harder with the overwhelming relief. Shadowheart’s arms encircle him as well, her tears leaving tracks down her rosy cheeks. Then Gale and Hecat join.
Astarion bemoans it. You worry it’s making him uncomfortable, but when your eyes meet his, there’s a small smile on his face. You think he’s finally realizing that he has people who truly care about him — much more than he thought.
“Let’s get you two back to camp,” Gale says, hooking his arm around Astarion and helping him to his feet. “Dinner should be ready when we return.”
You groan out loud even though you didn’t mean to, and Shadowheart stifles her giggling. “Kamena is quite injured,” she offers as an excuse to Gale.
“Yes, I’m sure that was it.” Gale scoffs.
“Good Gods,” Astarion barks. “Is no one going to tell him?”
“Tell me what?” Gale asks, brows arched curiously.
Astarion, ever truthful, ignores all of your frantically shaking heads and states the truth that everyone else is too nice to say. “They all hate your cooking, Gale.”
Gale shakes his head with a genial laugh and a Cheshire smile. “Oh, I’ve known that for quite some time. Yet they continue to eat it without complaint, too afraid to hurt my feelings. I wanted to see how long it would go on.”
“So, you’ve been feeding us food we don’t like on purpose?” Shadowheart’s eyes are wide, and her expression is stunned.
“Oh-yes,” Gale chuckles.
You lay with Astarion in the tent, but once he’s deep in his trance, you sneak away to sit by the fire. You’re exhausted, but your mind refuses to oblige your command to trance. It seems the others are in the same predicament, and one by one, Shadowheart comes to join you, then Hecat, and then Gale.
The three of you sit around the fire in silence for a while, each of you contesting with your own inward thoughts on the days events.
“How did you know to come?” You finally ask, staring at your fingers.
“It was Hecat, actually,” Shadowheart answers, and there is a lilt of surprise in her voice. “She said that you had been gone too long, and she was going to look for you.”
“Naturally, we couldn’t leave her to do it on her own,” Gale adds. “So, we joined.”
“And it was a godsdamned good thing we did!” Shadowheart’s voice borders on scolding. “You nearly got yourself killed, Kamena! What the Hells happened?!”
“Aldous happened.” You don’t have the energy to recite the entire story right now.
Hecat? She is the one who prompted them to come to look for you and possibly saved both of you and Astarion’s lives. Guilt sinks into your bones. You have not treated the woman very well. When you glance at her, she shrugs and offers you a warm smile.
Getting up, you awkwardly make your way over to where she sits and wrap your arms around her. “Thank you, Hecat. By the Gods. Thank you.”
“Don’t sweat it, Kamena!” She says warmly. “Did you find what you’re looking for or just trouble?”
“Just trouble.” You sigh and drop back onto the ground, rubbing your tired eyes.
“You seem to be a magnet for it,” Hecat assesses.
“She is.” Shadowheart and Gale confirm unanimously.
They snicker, and you narrow your eyes at the pair. “It was your great misfortunate that I ended up in your prison cell.”
“I would say the opposite.” Hecat retorts, her flame-filled eyes cast to the ground. “I’ve been an outcast most of my life, and friends were a foreign concept to me until I met all of you. I know you don’t like me much, but you still have my gratitude, even if being here has put my life in mortal danger.”
“I…” You trail off while the guilt makes your heart squeeze in your chest. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”
Hecat waves her hand flippantly with a small, sad smile. “You don’t have to lie. I know I say stupid things. I’m aware that I have a hard time filtering my thoughts before speaking and only realize I shouldn’t have said something or worded it differently when it’s much too late.”
You’re usually a master with responses. You can twist letters and syllables into a tidy little package to persuade, intimidate, deceive, or placate at your whim, but your silver tongue stalls, and you cannot think of a response to save your life.
Shadowheart clasps your shoulder, interjecting to rescue you. “You should get some rest.”
You swallow hard, eyes pouring over the little camp. “Aldous might return—”
“Shadowheart and I will stay up to keep watch.” Hecat reassures, grabbing her sword and laying it across her lap to polish. “You look worse than I did when I escaped the Hells. Get some sleep, or whatever you elves do.”
You look to Gale in hopes that he might come to your aid and tell the others that you don’t need babysitting, but his bourbon brown eyes gaze at you with a hint of melancholy you were not expecting to see.
“They are correct, my friend. You require rest. We can regroup after and determine what our next move will be,” he says cajolingly, as if he were trying to persuade a rebellious child.
Being spoken to in such a way makes you cringe, and the voices in your head chant, broken, broken, broken. Much like a wilful youth, your first reaction is to be obstinate, to berate them for treating you in such a way that makes you feel small, but their intentions are good and they are not wrong.
You offer them a curt nod, not trusting your tongue to keep its remarks to itself, and shuffle toward the tent. Once you’re safely inside, you nearly collapse onto the furs and bring your knees to your chest while resting your head on them. How could you possibly sleep when every time you close your eyes you hear the clattering of boots, see the flash of chrome, and hear Astarion tell you he would have liked to marry you?
“So, you fly now?” Astarion’s groggy timbre surprises you, and your head jerks up to see flashes of crimson eyes peeking from behind thick lashes. “You have wings? Literal wings? I am not easily impressed by people, but you are quite a good person to know should I be thrown from a building... again.”
Before you can think better of it, you’re an ungainly mess of arms tangling around his neck with your hands twisting into his hair and grabbing handfuls of the silver-spun silk.
Astarion wraps his arms around you, pressing you into himself with an almost bruising strength. “I’m okay,” he soothes, his fingers stroking your hair. “I’m here.”
“You should be resting,” you murmur, still angling your body so that every part of you is pressed against some part of him.
“I can rest when I’m dead.”
You jerk upwards and glare at him with narrow eyes. “Not. Funny,” you scold in a sotto voice.
He smiles, brushing your hair back and taking your face in his hands. “Come now. It’s a little funny.”
You try to wrangle enough residual anger to chastise him for his ill-timed jokes, but as you just learned, time is a precious commodity. You never know when the last tick of a second marks the end, and you will not spend such a priceless asset on anger.
“You’re insufferable.” It’s a struggle to keep your expression serious.
“Aren’t I just?” He snickers, using his thumbs to pull your lips up in the smile they wish to curl into anyway. It breaks your composure, and you smile, silly and girlish. “There’s my girl.”
He pulls you back down to lay on his chest, curling his fingers into your hair. It’s quiet for a spell as you revel in the embrace you nearly lost.
“When did you learn that?” He asks in a low rumbling voice.
“Learn what?”
He pulls away only a little to arch a brow at you as if you’ve asked an immensely stupid question. “To fly?”
“When I jumped off the tower, I felt a weird feeling, like instinct, and—”
“I’m sorry, but hold that thought for just a moment. What?!” He cuts you off with a snap of cold in his voice. “You didn’t know you could do that before you jumped off the damn tower?”
“Well, no, but—“
“Have you lost your godsdamned mind, Kamena?” You can’t quite make out if it’s anger you hear in his voice, chastisement, or astonishment. Perhaps it’s an amalgamation of all three. “What in the Hells were you thinking? Jumping off like that! What a bloody stupid thing to do!”
His anger is similar to that of when you accidentally dropped a building on him, and although you probably shouldn’t, you’ve always found it humorous.
“Stop giggling!” Astarion scolds with a huff. “Can you not see that I’m angry with you?”
You cover your mouth to try and stifle your ill-timed laughter. “I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out. Clearing your throat, you steel yourself back into some semblance of poise, though you cannot wipe the smile from your face. “Sorry. Of course, I can see you’re angry.”
Astarion’s brows furrow while he searches your face. He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You still want to giggle like a merry school girl, don't you?”
You curl your lips inward, pressing them together, and nod.
“Hells below,” Astarion groans, racking a hand over his face. “You’re terrible. You know that?”
You nod again, not trusting your mouth to open lest you continue your undignified and improper laughter.
“Well, what are you waiting for, darling? Astarion tosses the furs back. “Get in here before I drag you in here.”
The red gash and dark bruising around it stand out garishly against the rest of Astarion’s pristine alabaster skin, and you suck in a sharp breath, poising your hands over the wound as if you might be able to heal it through sheer willpower alone.
“I’m fine, love.” He coos, slipping his fingers under your chin and guiding your eyes to his. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”
“You should feed,” you murmur, already pulling your hair away from your neck.
“As much as I do appreciate the offer,” he pokes your bruised forehead to bring attention to the fact that you are wounded as well, making you mouth “ouch” to him silently. “I will have to decline for tonight.”
“Fine,” you concede with a pout. “Tomorrow then. You know you always heal faster when you’re full.”
“Remember that, do you?” Astarion muses with a canted head, wrapping an arm around you as you sidle up next to him. “I’m not sure how much I liked this being known thing. It takes away from my intriguing mysteriousness.”
“Pardon me,” you quip, gesturing to yourself as if scandalized. “Allow me a moment to forget all things vampire so you can continue to bewitch me with your enigmatic charms.”
Astarion shakes his head, smiling boyishly, but it transforms into something more sombre and serious. “You could have died today, Kamena. If you hadn’t been able to fly...” he trails off, shaking his head. “Gods. I dare not think about it. Do not throw your life away so readily for me.”
“Don’t jump off any more buildings, and I won’t have to.”
“Kamena,” he starts with a sigh.
“No!” You shout a little louder than you had meant to, cutting him off and glaring at him with enough intensity to make him swallow thickly. “No.” You repeat more hushed. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do with my life, Astarion. It’s my choice. Do not take that from me. Please.”
Astarion nods, though you can tell he’s a little vexed, and you’ve likely not heard the last of his objections.
“I would also like to point out that I did not jump; I fell.” Astarion huffs dramatically in an attempt to ease the overbearing tension.
You lean in close to him and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. When your lips ghost his ear, Astarion shudders with a breathy whimper, and you whisper, “If I were you, I would go with the jumping story. Falling off a building is incredibly embarrassing, don’t you think?”
“Bloody Hells, darling,” Astarion groans, twisting his head to catch your lips. “Get some rest.”
Astarion wakes to a familiar smell, though not one he wishes to be reminded of, and a discordance of gruff voices that are trying to stay hushed. He glances at Kamena, who is still pressed up against him with her eyes closed, seemingly deep in her trance. An amalgamation of purple, blue, and yellow bruises extends down her forehead around a laceration that glares at him like he’s the guilty party.
He shifts Kamena slowly and carefully until she lays on the pillow and pulls the fur blankets up around her. She murmurs in her sleep, hands incoherently grasping for him, but soon settles. He tugs on his clothes, grabs his weapons, and marches out of the tent, prepared to see Aldous invading their camp.
When his eyes fall onto Aurelia and Leon, he nearly drops his dagger in numbed shock. Leon, he spent countless years with. The man was always striving to be Cazador’s favourite, and oh, how Astarion loathed it. Looking at Leon now, he pities the poor foul. He appears emaciated, hungry, and covered in filth from head to toe.
Aurelia is in much the same condition. Her clothes are darkly stained from sleeping in the dirt, her red skin appears sallow and wan from hunger, and one of her horns is broken off near her skull.
It’s clear that the Underdark has not been kind to his siblings, but anything is better than living in Cazador’s primitive hell.
Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat are already speaking to them in low tones, but as soon as Astarion is visible, all eyes snap to him.
“Astarion?” Leon says. “Is it truly you, brother?”
Astarion nearly cringes at being called “brother,” but schools his expression into one of near indifference.
“You have siblings, Astarion?” Hecat asks, and he only nods his affirmation.
“You’re… alive.” Aurelia says almost as if confused. “They haven’t caught you yet.”
“Are you truly surprised, sister?” Leon remarks. “He always was the wiliest out of all of us, to his own determinant. It’s the reason Cazador favoured his pain over ours.”
“Cazador preferred my screams because they were far more becoming than all of your croaking,” Astarion quips to hide his discomfort at the mention of his old master’s preoccupation with him.
His siblings do not know the truth, of course. He may have given up trying to escape, but he instigated Cazador to save the rest of them from his torments. Well, that and because it was dreadful fun to piss him off even if it did get him flayed.
“Why have you come, brother?” Aurelia asks.
“We came looking for you.” He states indifferently. “It seems you may have landed yourself in a spot of trouble.”
“That’s an understatement.” Leon says, glancing at Aurelia. “Someone has been hunting us and the spawn you released. We know not who they are—”
Astarion puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Yes, we are aware of the situation. It appears another vampire lord has caught wind of the Black Mass. They need our scars to complete the contract.”
“Can another vampire lord do that?” Aurelia asks, fear permeating her eyes. “Complete the rite?”
“It makes sense,” Leon sighs, coasting his fingers through his dirty hair. “They’ve been rounding up the feral spawn and our brother’s and sisters.”
“And Cazador was not exactly subtle,” Astarion adds quickly. “When Kamena and I were there, we found correspondence between him and other lords boasting about the power he was about to acquire.”
Leon and Aurelia sigh at the same time, obviously bone-weary and at their wits end. Astarion holds little love for his “siblings.” Cazador called them a family but did not refrain from pitting them against each other to create animosity between their ranks. It’s far safer to pit the spawn against each other over who gets to stay in the lavish, preferred spawn quarters, then run the risk of them conspiring against their master.
Astarion had caught onto that little plan straight away, but his siblings were too embroiled in their competition against one another to give a damn what he said.
Imbeciles.
“Where are the other spawn?” Shadowheart asks. “The feral ones.”
“Gone,” Leon answers immediately. “Those of them that were not killed by the dangers lurking in the Underdark were swiftly rounded up.”
“I told you to take care of them,” Astarion nearly snarls, but he manages to keep most of the animosity from his tone.
“We tried, Astarion!” Aurelia fumes with her fists balling up at her sides. “They were too far gone. Many of them had been starved and rotting down there for centuries!”
A flush of guilt labours through him. He had feared as much when he saw them, but he thought they deserved a chance like he had.
Then again, they did not have someone like Kamena at their side to love them through their bloodlust, pain, and misery.
“I should have killed them,” Astarion states with his eyes cast down at his shoes. “Selfishly, I did not want anymore blood on my hands than I was already drowning in.”
“You couldn’t have known, my friend.” Gale reassured quickly, his expressions sullen.
A placation, at best. Astarion had known. He had been lucky to come back from the year he spent in solitude, starved and alone with only silence and darkness as his company. When he had been released, he had long abandoned the abilities for speech and reason. If it had not been for Cazador’s compulsion, he would have tore through Baldur's Gate like a rabid animal.
“None of us did.” Leon acknowledges and offers Astarion a small smile. “What you did was admirable. It is a shame it turned out this way.”
“So, do you have a plan? Aurelia’s voice is high with anxiety, and her eyes run amok over the land.
Astarion observes her demeanour. She had never been the most courageous of the bunch of them, but this level of restlessness was rare even when Cazador was hunting her through the hallways.
“Find the vampire. Stop the vampire. Kill the vampire.” Astarion drawls in a devil-may-care fashion. “We are workshopping the details as we go.”
“They won’t stop, Astarion.” Aurelia sputters. “We’ve just spent Gods know how long hiding with fish.”
Astarion nearly chuckles. “Ah, the Kuo-Toa, yes? Fascinating creatures, are they not?”
“You could say that,” Leon groans. “So another vampire lord is looking to complete the Black Mass. Where does that leave us?”
“Targets obviously,” Astarion concludes briskly.
“Yes, we get that, Astarion. Thank you.” Leon remarks vexed. It makes Astarion smirk that he’s still able to get under their skin. “But where do we go from here?”
“We’ll take you to our home.” Kamena’s voice is flat, weighed down by the lingering traces of her trance.
All eyes jerk to her as she rubs her eyes and yawns. Kamena winces, and her fingers prod the bruises and cut on her forehead, testing the tenderness. She moves stiffly toward them, and though she manages to hide it well, he can tell she’s still in pain.
How could she not be? She leapt off a fucking building.
For him.
Him.
Try as Astarion might, he cannot fathom why anyone would put themselves in harm's way for him.
“It’s nice to see you again, Kamena.” Leon says with an awkward smile. “I’m happy to see you recovered.”
Kamena smiles politely, but it does not reach her eyes, and she refuses to look at him. He’s still not quite sure what happened down here. All his attempts to get her to open up are met with reluctance. He is trying, in the only way he knows how, and he knows he shouldn’t resent her for the problems he caused partially, but a small part of him does all the same.
She just has it so easy. Kamena can pick and choose when and what to open up about at her whim, but it’s clear that she doesn’t fully trust him. He will admit, he’s made mistakes—more than a few at that, but he has been trying, hasn’t he? He forces himself to open up to her even when it feels like he’s tearing apart his ribs to show her his heart and stitching himself back up.
But his openness is met with reserve, and it hurts him—a constant, blunt ache in his chest where his heart should beat.
In spite of the pain, Astarion sweeps the festering wounds to the wayside once more. What is pain to him anyway? After centuries under Cazador, pain is an old friend, although this pain is new to him.
Physical pain he can handle. It is known. It is predictable. This pain, though, he’s not quite sure how to traverse.
He can see that she is trying. He just wishes it was faster, so that they can luxuriate in the warmth of it for as long as possible before Kamena leaves him alone to forget how to love once again.
“What do you mean, take us to your house?” Aurelia asks uncertainly.
“It’s somewhere you will be safe.” Kamena morphs her tenor into something resembling a summer breeze — soft, warm, and welcome. She must have recognized his sister's unease. “You don’t have to go. The choice remains yours. If you want to stay with the Kuo-Toa, you’re welcome to.”
Astarion is still not very delighted with the idea of having his siblings in his home, using their bed, hunting in his woods, but leaving them here is a worse option.
“Does it have things to eat?” Leon asks hopefully, the pang of starvation in his tone.
He watches his brother and sister carefully. They should be nearly as practiced at controlling their bloodlust as he is, but he would be a fool to trust them completely. That kind of hunger can drive even the sanest souls mad.
“Animals,” Astarion confirms, and gives them both a pointed look. “Only animals. Is that clear?”
Both the spawn nod their acknowledgment.
“Lovely,” Astarion exclaims with terribly mimicked mirth. “Now, do any of you know Prestidigitation by any chance? They smell rank.”
Astarion and Kamena jog toward the Elfsong, with dawn threatening the horizon. Escorting his siblings to his house had taken longer than they had estimated, and staying the night there was out of the godsdamned question.
“Hurry up, Astarion!” Kamena urges him, placing her hands on his back and pushing him to run quicker. Panic infects her voice like a pathogen. “You can run much quicker than me. Go. I’ll catch up.”
He glances at the sky. They are pushing it close, but there is a little room to be had. Astarion has to choke back a scant chuckle. Kamena is more terrified of the sun touching him than he is, and it baffles him. She has seen the sun touch him on several occasions. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not a death sentence.
“We’re fine, love.” He tries to reassure, but it’s of little use to calm her. “We’re nearly there.”
Kamena gives him a firm swat on the ass, but her face is adorned with the most ambrosial, angelic smile. “I wasn’t asking, Astarion. Get this very charming ass moving!”
“Well, when you put it that way,” he purrs carnally, and then switches his demeanour on a dime. “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.”
"Corellon, grant me patience,” Kamena groans.
Kamena darts into the Elfsong, pushing the sweaty strands of her hair behind her ears, and placing a bag of coin on the counter. “We need a room for two nights.”
The barkeep meanders over slowly, and Kamena shifts on her feet, her eyes darting to the windows that are beginning to brighten. He remains unconcerned about the sun. His concern is for her. Fear has a musky, sour aroma that numbs his tongue. Then there is terror, and it smells like absinthal, burning metals that numb his entire body.
Kamena smells like terror.
“Sure thing,” The man dumps the bag of coins out onto the counter to count them.
“You can have the whole bag if you tell me the room number right now,” Kamena blurts out.
Astarion’s eyes bulge. That pouch held far more coin than what was necessary for a room. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. No matter. He will just steal it back for her later.
“Room three,” the man says, cupping his hand at the counter's lip and sweeping the excess coin into it.
She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him upstairs. Unfortunately for him, the upper-floor windows are not shielded from the sun by the other buildings, and he has to dodge through it quickly to get across the hallway. A hiss of pain whispers through his lips when the rays dawdle over his arm.
Kamena bursts into the room, pulling all the drapery closed in a rush while he stands off to the side in a shaded corner until the room is cloaked in darkness. She snaps her fingers, and he watches little orbs, like infant suns, float through the air and land on the candle wicks.
She rushes over to him, grabbing his arm gently to get a look at the burn. “Are you okay?”
Astarion glances at the small patch of cracked, matte skin. “It’s a piddling injury, darling.”
Her brows pinch, and her eyes squeeze closed as she takes a deep breath. Astarion cocks his head, trying to read her. Sometimes he finds that he actually misses the worms in their heads that allowed them to link minds.
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” he reassures, his hands finding her upper arms and squeezing while his thumbs gently rub. “A little sun is not going to be my end.”
“I know. It’s just…” She trails off, looking askance.
Astarion’s heart feels like it leaps, even though he knows it remains gripped by death. Is she finally going to open up to him? Is she finally going to let him in?
“Nevermind,” she sighs, and his heart stings with yet another dismissal.
They are both tired, dirty, and wounded. Astarion knows this conversation needs to be had, but he cannot bring himself to inflict any further pain right now.
“You forgot the fire, sweetheart.”
Kamena’s fingers snap once more, and the fire crackles and pops, flames gnawing at the kindling. They settle in, each having a bath and shedding the Underdark’s grime.
Kamena towels off and runs a comb through her hair. “Are you tired?”
“No,” he admits. “The last couple of days have been a lot.”
“Good. I’m going to go downstairs and fetch us some wine.” Kamena rummages through their bag, finding a pair of clean trousers and a shirt to toss on. “Any particular vintage I should ask for, snob?”
“Snob!” Astarion huffs false indignation, puffing his chest out. “It is not my fault you lack a refined palate.”
“Says the vampire,” she smirks. “I’ll ask them for their most expensive bottles.”
“It’ll likely still be plonk.”
“Probably, but not to worry. You can make merry with my vintage wine later,” she winks.
Just before she’s about to shut the door, he calls out to her. “Do make sure to get yourself some food as well.”
Kamena pokes her head back in to shoot him a pointed look and sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, shutting the door behind her.
Astarion settles in front of the fire and gets lost in the dance of the leaping flames. What will it take for her to start unwrapping the fragile, broken parts of her and trust that he will hold even the smallest slivers with care? Vulnerability does not come to him easily; not after emotions had been systematically squeezed out of him, but he swallowed his pride, fear, and bitterness for her.
It hadn’t been easy. Giving her access to his heart and having to trust that she would hold it gently had been the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Day after day, he’s placing his heart in her hands, but she’s unable or unwilling to put that same trust in him.
She loves him; he has no doubts about that, but he still feels like he’s swimming in a lake, and she’s standing on the sidelines, picking and choosing when to dip her toes in. Is that what their relationship has been reduced to?
He was her sanctuary once, where she ran to find peace when the pandemonium of their tribulation got a little too loud. Now she retreats. Less often these days, but still often enough for it to pain him.
What else can he do?
The creak of the door breaks him from his rumination, and he blinks, his eyes dry from staring off into the void of his mind. Kamena uncorks a bottle and sits with him. To his great delight, she carries a plate of food, which she nibbles on slowly. They speak idly about nothing in particular, passing the wine back and forth between them. A permanent blush stains her cheeks pink from the wine, and Astarion drinks in sight of her with a tipsy grin.
“Do you remember...” Astarion stops, trying to recall the name, and takes another sip of wine. “Gods. What was his name? Ah, yes! Kar’niss.”
Kamena visibly shudders. “The Drider? Gods. Why would you bring that up, Astarion?” She giggles unreserved. “I still have nightmares about him.”
“You threw the Lyre at him as soon as he popped up from the shadows, and do you remember what you did, darling?”
Kamena snorts out a small laugh. “I ran behind you. You make a very good shield.”
“Ran? Darling,” Astarion chuckles, shaking his head, “you yelped, scrambled behind me all flailing limbs, and forced me to talk to the damn abomination!”
She shrugs. “It was time you started pulling your damn weight!”
“All the locks I picked and traps I stopped you from barrelling into were not enough? You would have blown yourself up in that godsdamned ruined temple had I not been there to stop you from pressing buttons and walking over pressure plates.”
“My morally questionable, very pale hero!” She simpers and giggles delightfully.
“Don’t forget beautiful,” he quips.
Kamena places her wine down and approaches him. He grabs her waist and pulls her into his lap to straddle him.
“My morally questionable, very pale, devastatingly beautiful hero,” she amends, kissing his face between every word.
He gathers her hair, sweeping it away from her neck to press unhurried kisses down the column. His fingers ruck up the hem of her shirt, and she takes it off, throwing it off to the side unceremoniously. Astarion takes a moment to take her in, his hand cradling her face and his thumb stroking her cheek. He dips his head to catch her lips. Astarion groans with the heat of her breath in his mouth, and he allows himself to get lost in his love for her.
Kamena undoes the buttons of his chemise with clumsy fingers. Once it’s undone, she smooths her hands with her palms slightly heated from her magic up his abdomen and chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, almost as if the sun’s rays were warming him.
His cock is already throbbing. “I want to lead,” he says huskily. “Like we used to.”
If he can get her to trust him in this, maybe, just maybe, she can start to trust him outside of intimacy. She requested he stop being so gentle with her, and maybe that is part of the problem. He’s too gentle, too affable, too meek, scared that one wrong move will send her spiralling — running.
It’s a long shot, but he’s running out of ideas. It does idly cross his mind if this is a manipulation tactic, but he doesn’t mean it to be so. He just needs to gain her trust, and this is as good a place as any to start.
There’s a small flicker of uncertainty before she nods. “Okay. You lead.”
“Do you remember what word you use if you need to stop?”
“…Astarion,” she says warily.
“I shan’t push too far, my love.” He comforts, lowering his voice into warmed honey so that its timbre sticks to her skin. “And you have only but to say the word if you want to stop.”
The look of wariness slowly ebbs and is replaced with determination. “Orchid.”
“Correct. Good girl.” Astarion pats her leg, picking at her trousers. “Stand and take these off.”
While she does that, he slips out of his pants, his cock finally relieved of that too tight hug of his leather trousers. He settles back on the chair, legs spread wide, and grabs her hips.
“Come.” He turns her around. “Sit. Yes. Like that.”
Kamena settles herself on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His cock is stiff and yearning against her heated sex, and it takes him considerable effort to thwart the temptation to sink into her.
Astarion draws her in close, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing down the back of her neck to the base of her spine. He settles his chin on her shoulder, making sure to position himself in a way that he can see down her body, and his breath fans her ear.
He trails the backs of his fingers down, lightly brushing them against the hardened peaks of her nipples, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the stimulation. He proceeds and feels her tremble in anticipation, but he stops short and traces his fingertips featherlight around her belly.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers into her ear. “Tell me exactly what you want, when you want it, how you want it. Where. Harder. Faster. Slower. Tell me everything.”
Kamena leans back into him. “I thought you wanted to lead?”
“I am. Just not in the way you were expecting.” He grins mischievously. “I await my instructions, my dear.”
“Touch me,” she mutters under her breath.
“Where?” Astarion plays stupid, bringing his finger to rest on the tip of her nose. “Here?”
She laughs, grabbing his hand and placing it exactly where she wants it. Her clit pulses against his fingertips.
“Okay, now what?” He asks.
“Play with my clit, gently at first.” Kamena’s legs jitter when he starts swirling circles around the border, and to his delight, she gets a little more brazen. “Faster with more pressure.”
Her cheek presses into him, her back arching, and she whimpers. Astarion slides his fingers down, parting her folds, spreading her open for him to admire.
“So wet for me, aren’t you, my sweet?” He nips her ear, a graze of his fang along it, and then he sucks gently. Kamena whimpers, and her fingers grasp any part of him available as her hips buck. “So needy.”
“Fuck.” She groans. “Fuck me with your fingers.”
A low, delighted growl rumbles in Astarion’s chest. There is his Kamena, unashamed to tell him exactly what she wants from him. His fingers skate around her entrance, veiling them in her silky desire, before he pushes his cock to the side slightly and slips them in. He starts slow, dipping in and out in the smallest increments to tease out her pleasure.
“Open your eyes, love.” Astarion instructs smooth as velvet. “Watch me fuck your pretty little pussy. You look positively divine with my fingers inside you.”
He smirks when he sees her face flush red, with an amalgamation of desire and embarrassment. Though she likes it, Kamena does not have much experience with vulgar dirty talk, despite the fact that he’s heard some downright obscene things drop off her tongue.
With his fingers sliding against his shaft on every pump, groans escape him unbidden. Kamena clenches around his fingers at the sound, answering him with whimpers. The fact that Kamena is aroused further by the sound of his need exhilarates him.
“My clit,” she pants with her eyes anchored on his fingers. “You can do both at the same damn time. Don’t be so lazy.”
He growls into her ear approvingly. “As you wish.”
His thumb presses against her clit, sweeping across in a regular rhythm, and her hips jerk and roll thoughtlessly. He increases his pace, driving his fingers deep and fast, curling them up with every pass. Kamena’s fingernails dig into the meat of his thighs as she gasps and jerks, sweat starting to coat both of their bodies.
Precum dribbles from his cock, and his hips start to buck involuntarily as it begs him for the attention he so desperately craves.
“A- Gods! Astarion,” she sputters. “Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”
He would have liked to make her cum like this, but he cannot deny that he much prefers to feel her walls spasming around his cock, begging him to fill her with his spend.
“Lean in me,” he barks, and she relaxes into him straight away. He hooks his forearms under her knees, spreading her wider for him. “A hand, if you would be so kind, love.”
Kamena grasps his cock, swirling her thumb over his precum soaked tip and giving it a slow stroke before she aligns him at her entrance.
“Hard or soft tonight?”
“Bite me and fuck me hard,” she growls at him, sweeping her hair to the side and exposing her neck.
A shot of pure, unmitigated desire shoots straight through him at the words, and he buries himself to the hilt with one smooth snap of his hips. His eyes fall shut, revelling in the sensation of being sheathed in her — so tight, so wet, so warm, so perfect.
Astarion opens his eyes, watching himself pull out almost all the way and slamming back into her again and again.
He kisses her neck, moaning against her. “Gods above. You look magnificent on my cock. Do you like to watch me fuck you, Kamena?”
A desperate whine comes from her. “Gods, yes.”
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Play with your clit.”
Kamena’s hand reaches down shakily, skimming across her tender flesh. Astarion moans once more at the divine sight before he bites, quick and accurate, knowing exactly where and how to illicit the correct response. His fangs sink into her tender flesh, and her blood surges into his mouth.
His eyes roll back as the sanguine nectar skips across his tongue. If heaven has a taste, he’s positive that this is it. Astarion centres his attention on the push and pull of her walls, the ridges dragging against his hard length.
He can feel every squeeze of that slick, warm grip sending him reeling into mind-numbing pleasure. Kamena’s hips undulate in time to meet his hard thrusts, her fingers working her clit at a frantic pace.
Astarion drives into her, harder and deeper, making her take all of him with every thrust. Kamena whimpers and moans his name in an almost prayer-like chant, and every time it sends another wave of affection coursing through him.
She cries out, her cunt spasming and clamping down on him. The tightness, the way her walls squeeze him, makes it too hard for him to stave off his orgasm. He has to withdraw his fangs from her neck when he comes, the pleasure so intense that his toes curl and a sonorous whine erupts from his throat.
Astarion’s fingers dig into the meat of her thighs, holding on for dear life. His hips stutter, dipping his cock into her again and again and again, coaxing out every bit of his release and flooding her. His being narrows down into nothing but an impossibly compressed point of white-hot bliss as his hips buck, riding out his own shockwaves until they finally abate.
Kamena sags into him once he unhooks his arms from her legs and lets them relax. He presses a kiss to her temple, burying his nose in her hair with his own satisfied sigh.
“We might have ruined this chair.” Kamena shifts to look down at the evidence of their enjoyment. “We definitely ruined this chair.”
Astarion barks out an abrupt laugh in response. “Possibly,” he concurs with a rakish grin. “To Hells with them. You gave them enough bloody coin to furnish this room twice over.”
She turns to face him, draping herself over him with her arms around his neck. “You’re just going to steal it back for me anyhow.”
He grins at that, his chest feeling lighter. It feels good to be seen, known. “You know me too well.”
Kamena rests her head in the crook of his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as her eyes fall shut. “That was... fun. We haven’t done that in a while. You are okay?”
A typical question after they make love, but he finds it hard to answer this time. It’s not the physical intimacy that troubles him, but her lack of emotional intimacy is another matter entirely.
“Yes, my love,” he purrs. There will be a time and place for that discussion, but this isn’t it. “I’m fine. I would tell you if I wasn’t. Shall we clean up and go to bed? We have a long night ahead of us.”
She leans back, quirking her brow at him. “A long night?”
“Oh yes,” he smiles cunningly. “I believe I owe you a hot date, and I intend to deliver before we leave the city.”
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
😮💨 Some complicated feelings going on for poor Astarion.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 5.5K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
Marry me?
The fabric of time warps, slowing and then seemingly stopping in concordance with your heart as you watch Astarion and Aldous grapple with each other. Your throat constricts around the sound of the erratic scuffing of Astarion’s soft-soled boots as he loses his footing. Every blistering beat of your heart circulates a new shockwave of escalating panic that paralyzes your body. It feels like being trapped in your own skin, your bones becoming a cage that keeps you frozen in time. The only indication that you’re screaming is the burn that roars through your throat as you let out a soul-shattering wail.
They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes, but what happens when it’s not you who is dying but your soulmate? Your mind’s eye combusts into a carnival of flashing memories: the first glance of him on the coastline, the first real smile, his infectious laughter, the first kiss, the first hug, the first time he said I love you, the way his scarlet eyes always seemed to dance with a mixture of mischief and adoration when he looked at you.
Every memory is so vivid that it floods your senses. You can hear his voice uttering words that leave you defenceless, feel his skin against yours with every touch in stolen moments, feel the coolness of whispered secrets fan the heated skin of your cheeks, and hear his promises of eternity toll like a soft bell in your ears.
An eternity that now dangles in a void. You can almost see the seductive smile of death, circling like a raven-coloured vulture in the squirming shadows of the Underdark, ready to descend on the ruins of your life and pick them clean of the last scraps of hope.
How many times will you be forced to lose him? How many times can your soul stand to be broken again and again and again until nothing of you remains but a shattered husk? The memories twist into you like a knife, piercing your heart and soul, poisoning the joy into a medley of nauseating heartbreak.
Why didn’t you listen to Shadowheart, Gale, and Hecat? They had protested before you left camp. You paid little attention to their pleas and focused instead on Astarion’s protests. It made sense to leave them behind when you thought the feral spawn were a danger. The more beating hearts, the more it would send them into a frenzy should you run into them, but you had not anticipated Aldous.
You should have known better. Turn your head for one second, and fate will twist the tables against you. You’re used to keeping steps ahead of your adversaries, but you’ve been too caught up in your own pain, too afraid to think straight, and now that preoccupation has had an unfathomable cost. The realization washes over you in waves of shattered dreams and love, leaving only emptiness and unbearable grief in their wake.
No.
It cannot be.
It will not be.
You’re not sure what you would call the feeling that takes over your body as you sweat off the ice that has kept you bound in place, and you begin to wake up from this nightmare and spring into action. You sprint and leap off the edge of the derelict tower. Is it an impulse? Instinct? An inherent tendency toward self-destruction? Whatever it is, it blanks your brain enough to barely recognize that you’re moving forward until you’re plummeting.
A prickling sensation across the skin of your back invites you to lean into it, and you do, allowing your body to take control. The Weave revolves around you, sweeping across your skin in a rosy aura. Your robe is shred to pieces as a pair of dragon wings sprout into existence, expanding to their full span with a thunderous roar.
Your eyes lock with Astarion’s, and your adrenaline surges, detonating into determination. Mustering all your strength, your wings beat the air in a powerful down stroke, and you send yourself hurtling earthward. The tattered strips of your robe flutter in the rush of the current, your hair whips wildly across your face, and your arms outstretch, reflexively teaching toward Astarion as you dive.
Aldous bursts in a red puff of haze in midair, similar to what Astarion’s siblings had done when Cazador called them back from the attack on your camp. You’ve never been against killing, per se, realizing that sometimes it’s necessary, but you’ve always considered it more of a last resort. It was one of the reasons you agreed with Astarion when he wanted to release the spawn. They deserved a chance to live.
Aldous will not be given the same opportunity. Whether he can control his actions or not, you cannot wait to bring about his demise.
The tips of Astarion’s fingers brush yours as he reaches toward you with an awestruck expression. I’ve got you, you whisper, but the sound of your voice is lost in the torrential roar of the wind. The gentle brush against your fingertips is like pulling the ripcord from your heart, and your steadfast stubbornness and obstinacy drive away the survival instinct to slow your rate of descent as you see the other spawn begin to shatter against the looming earth in sprays of blooming red mist.
With a quick aerial manoeuvre, your arms enfold around Astarion’s waist, hooking under his arms to catch his dangling body, and your wings shoot out and expand to their full span. The lurch from his weight and yours as you try to slow the rate of descent feels like it nearly tears your arms from your body, and you grit your teeth against the pain of your bones and muscles straining in their sockets.
The ground is still coming up to embrace you much too quickly, and your wings beat against the air furiously as you try to fight the laws of physics and gravity. You manage to shift your position slightly to your left, so that the small, spindly Sussur tree is far enough away that your magic cannot be depleted and its branches cannot inadvertently stake Astarion.
With each beat of your wings, your altitude continues to diminish, and you realize that you will not be able to carry the weight of both of you. Your hope wanes, and Astarion seems to have the same realization. He tugs at your wrists in a plea for you to let him go, lest you both meet your demise. Your grip on him only intensifies along with your resolve, and with a final, desperate surge of power, your wings buffet the air, slowing your fall just enough to cushion the impact.
Curling your wings around Astarion to protect him, you crash into the rigid terrain, bouncing across it like a skipping stone. The force of the collision rips Astarion out of your arms, and the coarse sediment rends your arms, legs, and face as you skid over the abrasive soil. The air is expelled from your lungs in a heaving wheeze, and you fight to fill them again when your body finally lies fallow.
Agony radiates through every one of your limbs, and a piercing ache snarls your lungs with every breath. The frigid air gnaws at the skin exposed between the remaining ragged pieces of what is left of your robe, chilling you to the core. Seconds, minutes, or hours pass, trapped in this limbo while you fight the relentless pull of darkness beginning to envelop you like a suffocating blanket.
You war against the threat of unconsciousness as black creeps further and further into your vision with every stunned, slow blink. Eventually, you lose the battle to cling to the fragile thread of life, and you’re carried away on the wings of vestigial oblivion.
Your sandals clack against the paved streets as you and Astarion make a quick getaway from the Blushing Mermaid. You try your best to stifle your inebriated giggling as Astarion ducks you in and out of dark alleys and passageways, over fences, and through backyards, until he’s assessed that you’re far enough away that the patrons you swindled will not be able to track you down.
“That was your fault, love.” He chuckles exuberantly while smoothing your sundress down, tugging at the hem that rode up during your retreat, exposing the skin of your upper thighs.
“My fault?” You huff and shove him playfully. He barely wavers on his feet, and you end up sending yourself stumbling backwards, the spirits in your blood making your limbs loose and unsteady. Astarion’s quick to dart forward, and he wraps his arms around you, lifting you off your feet slightly. You wriggle in his arms, but eventually give up trying to escape his clutch. You wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m not the one who robbed them of all their coin in a game you knew they had no hope of winning!”
“Smart people don’t make bets unless they know they can win,” he snickers with a mischievous delight twinkling in his ruby-red eyes that are still bright against the dim light of the alley. “You were encouraging me!” He mimics your voice irritatingly well but adds his own flamboyant touch. “Come on, Astarion. Just one more round. Give them a chance to win their coin back.”
You snort to showcase your dissatisfaction and descend into a fretful fit of giggling. “Okay. I may have done that. What can I say? I just adore watching you in your element, Rogue.”
He pushes your back up against a wall and catches your lips in a kiss almost as rough as the stone pressed against your back. His skilled fingers kneed into the meat of your thighs with the perfect pressure, almost bordering on pleasurable pain.
“I’d be happy to demonstrate all my talents if you’re amenable,” he purrs, running his fingernails up and down the sensitive skin on the backs of your thighs. It sends a shiver cartwheeling down all the nerves of your spinal cord, and you sigh into his greedy mouth. “Come. Let’s go home, yes? As much as I would adore to take you right here, I am far too selfish, and you, my love, are far too loud.”
“As if you’re not equally as loud,” you taunt.
He places you carefully back on your feet, making sure you’re steady before offering his hand.
“I never was before, you know,” he says, half bashfully, half thoughtfully, with a slightly canted head. “I suppose you make me feel heights of pleasure that were previously unknown to me. The firsts are ever abundant with you.”
“Is that another one of your famous lines?” You quip with an arched brow.
He laughs heartily. “Sweetheart, my lines are markedly more exceptional than that.”
Astarion peeks around the corner to make sure that there are no guards walking the main concourse before you venture out onto it and start to make your way home. The conversation between you flows light and smooth until suddenly Astarion goes silent, and you realize he’s not beside you any longer.
When you look back, he stands and stares up at the tall, dark tower that stands like a poltergeist, looming high into the sky and casting a shadow over the city streets. You usually try to avoid this area with him, because every time he sees his old home, the now abandoned Szarr Palace, he looks at it sombrely. Sometimes you wonder if he regrets not completing the Rite, and that tower is an ever-standing reminder of what he could have had if only he hadn’t listened to you.
“Astarion?” You look up at the tower, standing like a thorn in the sky, casting a black mark upon the soul of the city. “Are you alright?”
With his attention enraptured on the abandoned palace, he doesn’t answer for a spell, and a frown settles over his expression, creasing his forehead and curling his lip up. You place your hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hmm?” Astarion jolts slightly at the physical contact and does a double take, as if he didn’t even remember you were there in the first place. “Apologies. I’m fine. I just detest that building.”
The words erupt out of your mouth before you have time to think about them. “Let’s burn it to the fucking ground.”
Astarion chuckles but cuts himself off abruptly as he reads the fire in your eyes and the motivated heat in your expression. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“No.”
Your fingernails press into your tingling palms as your magic spikes and warms your skin. You may not be able to cleanse his mind of the horrors that infect his thoughts, but maybe you can cauterize the still-bleeding wounds in his soul, however slightly.
Astarion glances around and speaks in hushed tones. “As much as I would very much love that, the damn thing is constructed mostly of stone.”
“You’re about to be very impressed with me,” you wink. “Come on.”
You take his hand and tug him along, sneaking up through the back where you entered the first time. Not entirely surprisingly, it’s sparsely guarded, and by sparsely, you mean not at all. With Cazador dead and the Netherbrain attacks reducing the number of Fists substantially, they no longer patrol this area, and you’re able to walk straight in.
The door creeks forebodingly as you push it open, finding it unlocked. Cobwebs hang from the scones and writhe in the light breeze from the open door as they hang from the ceiling like strings of thinning memories. The obnoxious art is starting to peel away from the canvases, along with the wallpaper. It looks nothing like you remember it — forgotten and forsaken by the elements and time. Yet, the oppressive atmosphere still bears down on you with the weight of centuries.
Astarion stares spitefully at a decaying portrait of Cazador that seems to stare back at him with the same haughty disdain.
“Burn it, love,” you coo, letting a flame hover above your palm. “You cast terribly, but well enough for this.”
Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been casting—“
“Since before I was born,” you finish with a smirk. “Yes, yes. You keep reminding me how old you are. It doesn’t mean you cast well.”
Astarion’s nose wrinkles, but he shakes his head with a smile. He stares at the painting for a moment longer before he reels back. “Ignis!”
Cazador’s painting takes on a flame like dry timber and burns brightly in the midst of the gloomy darkness. You hope he burns in the flames of the Hells with such ardent fervour.
With a quick twitch of your fingers, you cast Telekinesis and fling a table across the foyer. It slams into the wall with a thud that echos through the deserted hallways and bursts into pieces that land haphazardly around the floor.
“Let’s trash it!” Astarion growls excitedly with a half-crazed, dark smile snaking across his lips.
The two of you run through the palace halls, laughing and breaking everything in sight. Sometimes you smash it, sometimes you burn it, and sometimes both, depending on what the item is or how it seems to affect Astarion. It’s quite cathartic, even for you, and you were not witness to the horrors that took place within these walls.
You can only hope it’s similar, if not better, for Astarion.
Astarion pays special care to Cazador’s study, where he was barred from going for two centuries. He flips the desk with little effort and sets the books aflame. His expression is one of almost madness as he tears through his prior life like a dragon tears through flesh.
You keep quiet, allowing him to relish in this destruction until there’s nothing left but your ragged breaths and the broken pieces of a life that once was. Smoke clings to the air from the burning furniture.
“Well,” Astarion pants, “I suppose that’s the best we can do.”
You smirk and lay your hand on one of the stone columns. Fire encircles it, burning brighter and brighter until the stone itself becomes molten and starts to drip like the wax of a candle. It takes not a trivial amount of your power to do so, but you do not let the effort of it show.
“You have the power of dragons at your side, my love. Stone is no match for me. What do you say we bring this whole building down?”
“Burn it, my fiery love.” Astarion takes one last glance around at what had been his home, or perhaps prison, for centuries. His brows pull down low over his eyes, and his teeth are bared. His voice is all gravel and malice. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”
The Weave swarms into your body as you gather all the power you can possibly muster. The air around you vibrates, crackling with anticipation and energy. The auroral shimmer from your magic mirrors that of the frenzied blames you’re about to unleash.
Your eyes anchor on Astarion’s, and you hold your hand out to him. “Together.”
He takes your hand, fire blooming in his palm, and he gives you a curt nod. You unleash a torrent of fire that expands outward like a supernova. Your magic and his intertwine, tangling together like the limbs of long, lost lovers who have finally found each other’s embrace once more. The inferno swims through hallways like liquid, up the walls, and decimates everything in sight. The stones begin to melt under the searing heat, and black smoke billows across the ceiling.
Pushing yourself to the limits of your power, you compel the fire to burn white hot and shroud every possible surface in it until all is flame, ash, and smoke. There is a fierce sense of satisfaction that emboldens you, like you are cleansing the world of the atrocities that were committed within these walls. The flames leap as if aggravated, a pyre of vengeance, and they begin their insatiable dance across any surface they touch.
The fire burns with a brightness unknown to these corridors in countless years, and you have to squint your eyes against the light and heat of it. Sweat instantly veils your skin, dripping down your forehead. Astarion tugs on your arm, pulling you toward the doorway and across the threshold into the night.
You and him watch from a safe distance, staying off the main road so as not to be seen. Flames twist like serpents out of windows, black smoke billows into the night sky, and embers rise from the stone tower like angry red eyes against the darkness. With a final explosive burst, the palace begins to collapse in on itself.
The flames will consume the last vestiges of that place, and there will be nothing but a smouldering ruin where Cazador’s grand palace once stood by morning.
You wish Astarion could stay and see it.
Astarion’s ears twitch suddenly. “As much as I would love to stay and watch, we must be going. Guards are on their way, and I would rather not get arrested tonight. Dawn will be upon us soon.”
He grabs your hand and leads you to avoid the paths of the guards. It’s a silent retreat, with the both of you glancing back periodically to admire your handiwork.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay and watch,” you say, sweeping your thumb across the back of his hand comfortingly.
“It’s okay, my sweet.” He offers you a small, albeit sad, smile before pulling you along. “I belong in the shadows. They are part of me.”
But they don’t have to be…
Astarion hesitates, only for a moment, and brushes his thumb across your cheek, wiping away the mix of sweat and soot. “This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I won’t forget it.”
Taste is the first sense that comes back to you, and the copper tang of blood films your mouth. Dirt grinds between your teeth when you clench your jaw, and you try to force your eyes to open. Your eyelashes hardly flutter, even though you’re straining. It’s as if they’ve been glued shut. There is a persistent ringing in your ears, like insects are buzzing annoyingly right beside them, and you cannot hear your surroundings well.
Your stiff and achey fingers twist into the soil beneath you, and you grasp blindly for anything that might keep you from descending back into the unconsciousness that your battered body yearns for. When you are finally able to pry your eyes open, the world is nothing but a confusing swirl of darkness and light that makes your brain pulse in your skull.
You try to move, but your limbs are laden, and a searing agony shoots through you that keeps you pinned to the cold, damp earth. A wave of thick dizziness blankets you with every small movement. Your hand comes to your head as if you might be able to steady your vision by holding it and comes away, slick with blood smeared across your dirty palm.
Fragments of memories begin to coalesce until they wash over you like a tsunami, nearly knocking you back to the ground in their intensity.
Aldous. The spawn. The battle. Astarion.
Astarion.
Your heart begins to pound against your ribs, revived by panic and love simultaneously. You manage to sit up, but the world around you swims, blurs, and distorts. Your wings are limp, dragging at your back, and you relinquish the manifestation. They waver, flickering as the magic is dispelled, and fade out, leaving behind only rosy, needlepoint glitter that rises into the air and ebbs.
Dread claws at your throat. “Astarion?!” You croak; your voice is rough and cracking. “Astarion!”
Just like it didn’t the first time you were down here alone, the only answer you get from the impenetrable darkness is the echoing of your own frightened cries. Gathering your dwindling strength, you manage to drag yourself to your hands and knees. Everything spins, blurring and contorting in a sickening disarray, and you dry-retch repeatedly. Your unquenchable desire to ensure Astarion's survival propels you forward.
You do not allow yourself to think about the alternate possibility.
Crawling on your hands and knees, you search forward blindly while your injured body screams in protest with every movement. The earth is uneven and littered with remnants of the tower that have crumpled away over the years, and you must drag yourself through the rubble.
You manage to hoist yourself to your feet with the aid of a large boulder. Leaning against it to keep yourself upright, you survey the bleak surroundings. Pale, motionless figures litter the ground in broken heaps. With your vision still hazy, it’s hard to discern details from afar. You stumble toward them, tripping over your own feet, rocks, and roots alike.
The scene is like walking through a surreal nightmare. The bodies are gruesomely mangled, some of them barely recognizable as people. Blood from the wound on your head drips into your eyes, sitting heavy on your lashes. Your horror mounts, your hands shake, and your breath rattles out of your trembling lips the longer you search.
“Astarion?” You call out again, and again, a deafening silence is the only answer you receive. “Astarion, please,” you whimper, devastated, rubbing your eyes to try and clear your vision.
An arm shoots out, clawed fingers wrap around your ankle, and they sweep you off your feet. Blood-red eyes set against a backdrop of inky black bore into you with a crazed fixation. The spawn crawls up your body, its fingers clawing at your flesh. Its legs are broken and bent in unnatural positions, and its jaw hangs loose on one side as it tries to sink its fangs into you.
Your tired arms strain against its weight, struggling to keep it away from your neck. You grit your teeth against the pain, and a deep-seated, previously repressed rage kindles and arcs within you. This world has used you up and let you down. Gods and devils alike have tried to use you for their own means, stepping on you, and you have refused to break.
You will not be killed here. Whatever it takes. You try to call on your magic, but it barely sparks across your fingertips before fizzling out.
Your power is depleted until you rest.
One hand relinquishes its grip on the spawn and chaotically searches the earth beside your body for something, anything, you can use as a weapon. The spawn lurches forward, its fingers blindly grasping at your face and hair, trying to drag itself closer. Its unhinged jaw snaps dangerously close to your neck, and saliva drools out of its mouth.
Your fingertips finally brush against the cool, rough surface of a brick sticking out of the dirt, and you frantically wrap your hand around it. With a roar, you bring the brick up, bashing it into the side of the spawn's skull hard enough to knock it sideways and off balance. You scramble to take advantage of the opening, pinning it down with your body, and bring the brick above your head and down as hard as you can.
You strike it again and again and again, ignoring the way the blood splatters across your face and coats your fingers. In your bitter frenzy, you don’t stop until you’re out of breath and your arms ache, even when the body beneath you lays still.
Getting to your feet, your chest heaves, and your eyes finally come away from the disfigured form lying by your feet. They dart around until the tiniest flash of silver catches them. You stagger toward it, the brick still held so tightly in your grasp that the bones of your hand jut out abnormally.
Astarion lies stationary, and he does not stir when you drop down beside him, discarding the brick, and take his face in your hands. His usually silver-white hair is matted and weighed down with drying blood, and only patches of his alabaster skin are visible between the blood and grime.
“Astarion.” You shake him vigorously — much harder than you should. You brush back the red-tinged hair sticking to his forehead. The coldness of his skin is a chilling echo of death. “Astarion, please get up.”
Tears trickle from your eyes while you unbuckle the clasps and undo the ties of his armour to get a look at his wounds. Pushing the leather jerkin to the side, you gasp at the puncture wound. You press your hands against it, putting pressure on it to stem the bleeding. His blood oozes between your fingers, relentless in its flow.
You shuck off what remains of your robe quickly, balling it up and pressing that against the wound instead. Can vampires bleed out? You’re not sure, and you’re not interested in finding out.
“Come back to me,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken. “I need you. I need you to… to….” The word lodges itself in your throat, refusing to be spoken.
I need you to marry me.
You press your lips against his forehead, the warmth of your breath rippling against the cold of his skin. When you met him, you knew intuitively that the threads of your life would always entwine with the threads of his. Now, the threads seem fragile and prone to snapping.
“We have beaten Gods together,” you rasp in shaky breaths, pulling him into your lap with the last of your remaining strength. “Remember the Goblins? They had been no match for us. The hag? Both times, we took her down, laughing. Bhaal’s chosen? Slayed. Raphael? Slaughtered in his own home, no less. We felled a Netherbrain and lived. We have beaten the odds time and time again together, and we are together. Please, fight. Let us beat the odds once more. Stay with me.”
Could you get him back to Shadowheart? No. You are too far from camp to drag him that far, and your wings are a once-a-day use. All the scrolls and potions of healing you had are somewhere in a bag, likely at the top of the tower, smashed to useless bits.
Your heart stutters in your chest as you look for any signs of life, but you find none. Astarion is technically already dead; you’re not entirely sure what you can look for. He doesn’t have a beating heart, so you cannot check his pulse; he doesn’t need to breathe, so you cannot judge that; his skin is always ice cold. You cannot tell if you’re sitting with the corpse of your soulmate on your lap.
That thought alone threatens to choke you.
“Please,” you plead again. To him. To any God who is listening. To time itself. “Don’t leave me. Not again,” you choke out, your tears spilling and mingling with the blood and mud slathered across his face.
A torrent of anguish washes through you. It feels as if your soul is being wrung dry, and fear once again gnaws at your core. Why have you been hiding from him? Why have you been afraid to be with him? Life looks so different when you are safe and sound, tucked away behind walls. In those moments, the illusion of time seems to stretch on infinitely.
You thought you had so much time to figure things out, but all it takes is one wrong move, one wrong choice, one wrong step, and one lucky swing of a blade, and all that time you thought you had is severed in an instant.
The crunch of peddles beneath boots makes you sigh, squeezing your eyes closed for a moment in exasperation. There is no need to look up and see who it is. You can feel his repulsive stare creep over your skin like waves of endless spiders.
“That was quite the show, sorceress,” he drawls. “Wings to go along with those spectacular scales.”
“Come one step closer,” you growl under your breath in a voice that sounds far too dark to be your own, “and I will kill you.”
Your hand grips the hilt of one of Astarion’s discarded daggers lying in the dirt by your side. There is no way to know how long you were unconscious for or how long Aldous has been watching. Does he know your magic is depleted? Why did he not kill you and abscond with Astarion when he had the chance? Is Aldous so hellbent on vengeance that he would wait until you’re awake so you can witness your death?
Probably. Aldous is many things, but smart or a strategist is definitely not one of them.
“I always did admire your spirit.”
He takes a middling step closer, and your hand tightens on the hilt of the dagger. Your fingers shuffle it into your grip, twisting it so that it fits comfortably and is balanced in your palm.
“I suggest you admire it from afar.” You hiss with serrated contempt.
“Your persistent obstinacy is inspiring,” he sneers with his lips pressed into a thin line. “But stupid, given the predicament you find yourself in.”
“Good Gods, Aldous!” You snap. What is he waiting for? Why hasn’t he attacked? Is he simply revelling in your pain, or is there more to his perceived constraint? The mortal man you knew had very little in the way of self-control. “What do you fucking want? Whatever you’re doing here, get it over with! I tire of your childish games.”
“My master will give you one last chance to take the deal offered. All of this could end here and now.” He crouches down, gesturing toward Astarion and fastening his eyes to you. “I will allow you to leave with your life intact, and you can return to your life free of this strife.”
It does sound nice, doesn’t it? In a perfect world, you could take the deal and never look back. There is a dark stain on your soul that yearns to take the deal, damn Waterdeep to its fate, and let someone else take up the mantle and play hero. You swallow hard as whatever light is left in your soul wars against the taint of dark temptations.
Your eyes fall to Astarion, and you recall the conversation you had with him. He did not think he could take the deal and live with the guilt. When did he become the voice of reason while you lean toward chaos and self-preservation? You bark out a sad laugh at the thought while sweeping your thumb across his cheek.
“In the next life it is, my love,” you whisper.
“How touching.” Aldous feigns sympathy with a scornful, ridiculing pout.
The numbing embrace of promised death caresses your heart, laughing from the shadows upon its winged chariot, ready to take you away. Your brow pinches as your eyes fall on Aldous with a grim defiance.
“It is like you say,” you chime with a voice of taunting, iced honey. “I am pigheaded to a fault. My answer remains the same. There will be no deal.”
“Honourable,” he concludes, “but foolish.”
“The only fool here is you, Aldous.”
He growls, launching himself forward with inhuman speed. His blade glints with an icy blue, reflecting the light of the Sussur tree. Your hand squeezes the hilt of the dagger, and you bring it up.
Gods.
You thought you had more time.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
I did some research, and dragon wings are an actual thing for draconic sorcerers! Naturally, we had to give Kamena wings.
I've made a 3D render from a scene in the last chapter of these two. Since I have not included many details of Kamena's appearance in the story, so everyone is free to imagine their own Kamena, I'm going to link it instead of posting it here in case anyone would rather not see it since it is my vision of Kamena.
If you're interested in viewing it, the link is posted at the bottom of this chapter (20) on my AO3 here.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 4.8K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The constant drip, drip, drip of water raining from the stalactites is unnerving, and your fingers tremble as you set up the tent. Astarion wraps his hand around yours, giving it a small squeeze. He takes the metal stake from your quaking grip and hammers it into the stony earth.
“We should not have brought them.” You catch just a flit of Astarion’s crimson eyes as they flash to the side to leer at you accusingly. “Their hearts beating is like ringing a dinner bell.”
“They promised to stay in camp while you and I do the scouting,” you conclude in a clipped response.
The initial idea was for Astarion and you to go alone into the Underdark and search for the siblings whose scars did not match the parchment that was discovered in the derelict manor. You would have been able to convince Gale to stay behind with Hecat, but Shadowheart was as obstinate as ever, declaring that you would have need of a Cleric should things go south. It’s not common for you to lose arguments, but after hours of back and forth, you eventually conceded.
Gale, Hecat, and Shadowheart are all erecting their tents in a tense silence. A makeshift fire pit has already been situated in the middle of camp, crackling and popping with whatever wood you could scavenge.
“Lovely,” Astarion chirps with feigned cheeriness. “A stationary meal then, like a hobbled goat left out for wolves.”
“I tried,” you say under your breath, trying to keep the agitation out of your voice while unrolling bedrolls and placing furs. “They are not sheep I can shepherd. If you could have done a better job convincing them to stay behind, you were more than welcome to try your hand at it.”
He scoffs. “As if those imbeciles ever listened to me.”
“They just want to help.” You try to assuage his irritation.
“I know,” Astarion sighs, brushing his hands together to clean off the dirt. “I just wanted you all to myself again. I miss home — our home. Gale’s is lavish, but it’s becoming rather crowded as of late.”
You crawl into the tent, and Astarion joins you, holding his arm up for you to curl up next to him.
“I miss home, too,” you acknowledge. It may have started out a little rocky, but those days spent lounging in bed, talking, and making love from sunup to sundown fill your heart with longing to return. It had been nice to leave behind all of this and just be. It makes you rethink your decision not to pursue the deal offered by Aldous. “It was nice, just you and me.”
“Indeed,” he agrees with a heavy exhalation. He buries his nose in your hair. “I cannot wait for this to be over, and we can return. We could buy a new residence if the other is too… painful.”
“Maybe,” you muse on the notion. “Where would you want to live?”
He shrugs. “It matters very little to me. Anywhere is home with you.”
“Even this tent?” You twist, crawling further into his lap, and he cradles you in his arms with a grin.
“Yes,” he coos softly. “Even this godsdamned tent.”
You brush your fingers through his hair and narrow your eyes mischievously. “You’re a terrible liar, Astarion.”
The crimson of his eyes burns, and he scoffs with a rumbling, deep laugh. “I said it’s home as long as you’re here. I did not say it was an acceptable accommodation for someone of my import.” He glances around. “There is very little room in here to do all the terribly depraved things I wish to do to you.”
“That never stopped you before,” you taunt back with a giggle.
“And it will not stop me now,” he purrs, dipping his head to mould his lips to yours. "I am a master of improvisation, after all."
Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he tightens his grip on you, slipping a hand into your hair to hold you to his insistent mouth. Astarion sucks on your lower lip gently and takes advantage when you gasp, slipping his tongue in to tangle with yours.
“If you two are quite done canoodling in there,” Gale’s says from somewhere outside the tent. “The meal has been served.”
Astarion breaks the kiss abruptly to stare at the tent door with a vexed, furrowed brow. He leans close, keeping his voice low. “Canoodling? Truly? How old is he?”
You giggle at his ire. “What’s the problem? Don’t you want to canoodle with me?”
Astarion groans, rolling his eyes. “Decidedly not. I want to make love to you; commit the carnal sins of depravity, fuck. I do not canoodle.”
Kissing the tip of his nose, you taunt. “I see so much canoodling in the centuries to come, my love.”
“You’re terrible,” he grunts, pushing you away playfully. “Come. We need to get you fed lest your stomach growl and keep me up all night.”
“How bad does it smell?” You whisper.
“Bad,” he smirks. “Atrocious, if I am being totally honest. It’s times like these that I am thankful I do not have to sup on food.”
He was definitely not lying. The food is rather bland, and you would prefer not to eat it, but it’s either this or listening to Astarion complain about your growling stomach all night, so you shove spoonfuls into your mouth and try to focus on the conversation and not the taste.
Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat share stories, though it’s mostly Shadowheart and Gale reminiscing while Hecat is enraptured and dazzled by every tale of daring they spew. It unsettles you to let her know this much of your past, but you cannot quite see the harm in it. They know well what to keep to themselves and mostly just tell her perfunctory random things.
“Did you really do that, dragon girl?” Hecat inquires, breaking you from your thoughts.
“Do what?”
“Allow a servant of Loviatar to beat you bloody?” Hecat grins widely. “And taunt him the entire time.”
You narrow your eyes at the pair, who are snickering like fools. Astarion chimes in before you can confirm or deny this. “Oh-yes. That was a splendid day,” he says dreamily. “So much blood, although a dreadful waste for it to end up on the filthy floors.”
“I seem to remember you enjoying yourself a little too much, Astarion.” Shadowheart quips blithely.
“Nonsense. There is no such thing as too much when it comes to watching others be beaten and bloodied by an imbecile in a costume,” he taunts deviously.
Gale shakes his head in disbelief. “I must say, I am glad I missed that particular spectacle. It sounds positively hedonistic.”
“Gods. You are truly as vanilla as they come, Gale.” Astarion laments with a smug undertone.
Gale’s brows furrow. “What’s wrong with vanilla?”
Shadowheart bursts out laughing, Hecat snickers, and Astarion cannot hide the jubilant chuckling even though he tries.
“Do you remember that time you got drunk on blood, Astarion? You came out of the forest, stumbling and slurring your words, looking for our fearless leader,” Shadowheart says, bringing her hand to her mouth to hide her laughter. “I do not believe I ever saw you in such a spectacular mood again.”
“My friend!” You mock him, and giggle when he shoots you a pointed look.
“Do you people even realize how much blood there is in a bear?” Astarion grunts, crossing his arms to feign irritation and jutting his chin out pompously. “It would be comparable to you drinking a barrel of spirits to yourselves.”
“You can get drunk on blood?” Hecat asks, obviously astounded by this new information.
Her eyes sparkle with the firelight when she looks at him, and she swoons. It makes you bristle like an angry cat, but you manage to conceal it before you can scoff.
Astarion nods. “If there is enough of it, but it’s not exactly drunk, it’s more of a euphoria.”
“It’s drunk,” you retort quickly, shoving another spoonful into your mouth. “He couldn’t even stand without tripping over his own feet. I would never have believed he possessed the capability to be so positively ungraceful. Embarrassing, really.”
Astarion bumps you with his shoulder, making you almost spill your soup or stew. Honestly, you’re not quite sure what to call this connection.
“Ungraceful? Let’s not go throwing stones, sorceress. Glass houses, and all that.” His eyes narrow, and he tries to frown at you, but his eyes are glinting with amusement. He gets up and bows shallowly. “As delightful as his conversation has been, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire for the night before we can do any more of,” he waggles his fingers at the group. “This," he cringes.
“Me too,” you add in, taking his offered hand. “We have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow.”
Gale smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Yes. I’m positive you’ll be going straight into your trances. Rest well, you two.”
“Would you mind keeping it down tonight?” Shadowheart gibs with a snooty upturn of her nose. “It was a long night of travelling, and I would like to get some sleep.”
Hecat eyes rake over Astarion, and you flush, but not with embarrassment. You take what you hope looks like a normal step in front of him to shield him from her sultry gaze. In all truth, it’s less for him and more for you, but both things can be true.
“Hmm…” Astarion muses, tapping his chin with his finger. “Unlikely. We will canoodle as nosily as we please,” he chirps boisterously.
Shadowheart groans out loud , letting her head hang, and mumbles, “I’m going to cast Silence over your tent.”
Astarion smirks. “You must concentrate to keep that up, don’t you, flower? I wish you the best of luck. I am positive I can draw it out far longer than you can manage to stay awake.”
Gale nearly chokes on his food, going as red as Karlach. Shadowheart pats him hard on the back with a sly grin. “Hells below. Goodnight,” she finally says, chuckling and making her way to her tent.
When you crawl into your tent, Astarion digs through the pack and tosses you one of his shirts, which you quickly hurry into and slip under the furs.
He joins you quickly, his nimble fingers doing up the laces at the front of the shirt you’re wearing. “We cannot have you catching a chill.”
“I do not get grumpy!” You snort.
He smiles widely, the tips of his fangs peeking out from his perfect lips. “You get downright petulant,” he jeers. “Would you like to read or rest?”
“Read,” you confirm.
Astarion grabs the book, lays back, wraps an arm around you, and pulls you close. “Lights, my dear.”
Tiny, pinpoint spheres float from your palm into the air, like tiny golden stars. You read the pages with your head resting on his chest, and he turns them when you tap him with your finger. Before long, your eyes begin to flutter shut despite your attempts to keep them open.
He presses a kiss on your forehead, pulls the furs up, and tucks you in tenderly. You murmur, moving to push your face into the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. The orbs of light ebb, blinking out one by one, and Astarion hums low and lyrical until you slip into your trance.
The Arcane Tower dominates the horizon with its spectral glow from the lit lamps. It’s simultaneously an unsettling and welcome sight. Though the devastation of the spawn on the environment can be seen on account of the skeletal remains of creatures large and small, none have crossed your path. It’s hard to know whether to be glad or alarmed by it. The last time you were overtaken without much warning.
“I would hear them long before they could descend on us,” Astarion assures, sensing the neurotic turbulence that’s making you grip your quarterstaff so hard that your knuckles are white and straining. “If I give the order, run and do not look back.”
Your brows pinch, and you exhale noisily through pursed lips. “You can give the order, but I will not run,” you retort, shaking your head. “If you think I will leave you, you’re out of your godsdamned mind.”
“They are less likely to attack me.” Astarion grunts with a pronounced sigh and a rigid scowl. “I will not smell like food to them, but you smell delectable.”
He doesn’t understand - can’t understand — how wild and raging they are because you’ve run from this conversation despite his repeated attempts to have it.
“Tell that to Sebastian,” you murmur dryly. You don’t pay any mind to what you said until you realize Astarion has stopped dead in his tracks and is staring at you wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
The fondness in his voice is unmistakeable, and even though it is beyond silly, your jealousy spikes your blood with flames, and your heart rate soars on the wings of the envious monster you’ve become.
“He saved me last time I was here when I was attacked,” you reply tunelessly in an effort to keep the resentment out of your voice. This is not the time or place to have yet another conversation where Astarion reassures you, but it does nothing to assuage your fears. “He was the only one of the spawn that didn’t seem completely savage.”
Astarion’s head cants slightly, picking up on the revving engine that is your heart. He knows, you think, and you wait for him to react in one of two possible ways. He will either chastise or soothe, depending on his mood.
“That soft heart is what got the idiot killed in the first place,” Astarion remarks frivolously in that devil-may-care breeze he so easily encompasses.
It’s hard not to laugh at his flippant comment. Perhaps many would find it cavalier and uncaring, but to you, it’s wholeheartedly something Astarion would say.
“Humans are incredibly slow learners,” you quip back offhandedly with a rascally smirk while continuing down the path toward the village.
Astarion grins deviously. “That, coupled with their supremely short life spans, it’s a wonder they have not gone extinct.”
“There’s still time,” you concur.
“I think we should kill them,” Astarion blurts suddenly with furrowed brows, looking at his feet in contemplation.
“The humans?” You arch a brow at him, not quite following the switch.
“What? Hells. No. I have a casual relationship with murder, not genocide. Gods. What do you think of me?” He chuckles, smirking smugly, when you scoff at him. “The spawn. If we find them and they are beyond any hope of redemption, I think we should put them out of their misery. I likely should have done it when I had the chance. I had hoped they would be able to learn control, but if that’s not possible..." He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. “It’s what I would want should I ever find myself robbed of speech and reason again.”
You put your hand on his chest. His hands come to your waist, and his fingers firmly squeeze. “Whatever you want to do, Astarion, I support you. I will follow your lead.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are scarlet mirrors reflecting a canvas of sorrow and regret. “Thank you.”
Your footsteps on the rickety boards that make up the scaffolding in the abandoned village thump, echoing out into the cavernous crepuscule ceiling blanketing the lake. The boats that once carried you towards the old temple of Shar and the forge have scuttled themselves, lying on their sides with their masts reaching out like the arms of drowning men begging to be saved.
The village is as silent as the dead, except for the soft whooshing of waves brushing the banks of the shore. Astarion offers his hand and pulls you up the small cliff, and you both crane your necks to look at the tower dwarfing you.
“Do you hear anything?” You ask as your heart leaps into your chest with memories of watching his siblings deliberate your fate.
And subsequently begging them to let you die, which they obviously decided was not in their best interest.
“Nothing.” Astarion says with a frown. “They could be sleeping.”
The idea of walking through the floors of this place fills you with nothing but dread, and you swallow thickly, your muscles buzzing with something between adrenaline and terror. Astarion’s hand snakes into yours, and he holds your shaking fingers tightly.
“You do not have to go in there,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low in a timbre meant to soothe. “I am capable of searching the place by myself.”
Have you really become so timid that Astarion now offers to leave you behind and retrieve you when he’s finished? There was a time when he never doubted your ability to handle a situation, but it seems those times are long gone. Is it that he cannot trust you to react in time in the face of danger? Does he think you will fold like wet parchment?
The woman you were might be a memory, but you are sick of being afraid — of being the weak link. Most of all, you’re appalled by the pity you see reflected in his eyes as he looks at you like an abused pup.
Maybe you might not be who you were, but you have the chance to become whatever or whoever you want. For better or worse, a new you awaits, lurking just outside of the box you’ve built around yourself, addicted to this lonely kind of love that has done nothing but hurt.
She might be dead.
But you live.
You live.
You squeeze his hand, tugging him a little more harshly than you meant to toward you, grabbing his armour, and pulling his face down to your height. “Where you go, I go. Remember? Stop treating me like a child. You requested I stop being so gentle with you; I’d like the same curtsy.”
Astarion’s surprised expression morphs into a sly grin, and he closes the distance between you, catching your lips. You melt into him, pressing your body into his. He grips your hips, pressing them firmly into his, and grinds against you. It seems like an odd place for this sort of act, but you’re not complaining. It’s been some time since he’s taken you into the dirt.
Unfortunately, he breaks the kiss just as the throb between your legs makes you squeeze your thighs together for relief. “It’s been some time since you bossed me around like that with such delicious authority,” he grins. “I quite like it, you know,” he purrs.
Astarion turns quickly and gives you a gentle shove and a playful swat on the ass. “Come on, bossy thing. After you.”
You roll your eyes at him with a huff, but you cannot hide the yearning smile quirking your lips up and dazzling in your eyes.
You only make it a couple of steps before you hear his taunting voice. “And Kamena? If you want me to make love to you in the dirt, you have but to ask. I would be more than pleased to throw you down, let my hands explore every inch of you, map your goosebumps with my tongue, taste you.”
How would the old you have reacted to such lewd comments? No. How would the new me react? Who do I want to be?
You pivot quickly on your feet and walk backwards while he stalks toward you like a predator. His scarlet gaze is filled with a hungry desire that makes your flesh ache.
It’s time to start reacting without thinking. You were never innocent or soft-hearted, but you were sweet once upon a time. It no longer feels right. There is a new bitterness to you — a fiery bite.
You would rather be whisky neat than sweet tea.
“It makes me wet when you look at me like that, Astarion. If you’re not careful, I might request that you take me right here.” You purr low and seductively, and you relish the way his eyes light up.
Hedonism suits you.
Astarion chuckles, smirking mischievously. He taps his nose. “My love, I know you’re soaked. I hope the others have rested while we are doing all the hard work. I doubt they will be getting much sleep tonight.”
“I’ll hold you to that, darling,” you taunt, turning and hurrying toward the tower. “Gale and Shadowheart will be more than used to our… late-night trysts.”
“You’re a tease, Kamena.” He grumbles, adjusting his trousers. “This is not comfortable.”
“I’m happy to assist you out of that armour at your request,” you quip, and giggle when he groans.
“Good Gods. You’re cruel, sweetheart.” Astarion growls low and silvery, walking up to you and ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear. “Now, get going so we can get back to camp. I’m feeling rather peckish.”
Astarion drags his fangs down your neck — not enough to break skin, but it sends a pleasurable shiver cavorting down your spine with the promise of later. You don’t smother the breathy sigh that shakes out of your throat, and your core clenches involuntarily.
You groan and push forward, determined to scour this damned place as fast as you can so you can retreat to your tent. The massive front doors to the tower are already ajar when you approach, and the first floor holds nothing more than barrels, crates, shelves, and boxes. There are some signs of life with random articles of clothing strewn around, but they are covered in a thick layer of dust and sediment.
The third floor is likewise unoccupied, but there are random packs here. Astarion and you rifle through them but find very little to indicate who they belonged to. They could have been travellers, adventurers, or his siblings.
Or aventurers his siblings ate...
Astarion stands with his arms crossed by a bed when you glance toward him. Walking over, you follow his anchored gaze and see a doublet that he seems particularly interested in.
“Petras’s,” he mumbles.
“Was he always such an asshole?” You ask, remembering the way he wanted to eat you to get back at Astarion.
Astarion snorts out a small laugh. “He was always a snivelling idiot. We did not get along particularly well. Why?”
“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you,” you shrug. It’s not exactly a lie. The way he talked to Astarion when you found him in the flophouse had made your blood boil, and you actually rather enjoyed watching Astarion burn him, but you refrain from telling him the whole truth.
He regards you with a highly arched brow, reading you the way he does, so you quickly move off toward the elevator to get out of his scrutiny. There is little point in telling Astarion the specifics. It would only create more animosity, and his siblings are the only family he has. You will not be responsible for the further deterioration of whatever relationship he has left.
In the event you die, from old age or otherwise, they might be the only thing he has left.
“Come on. We should keep moving.”
“In a rush, are we?” He saunters over.
“I have a date with my very charming, handsome lover that I wish to get to.” You wink at him, your foot hitting the button to go up to the fourth floor. “Post haste.”
The elevator ascends to the topmost floor. From what you recall, it’s mostly destroyed, and you doubt there would be any reason for his siblings to be there unless they were trying to watch for attacks. If that were the case, though, you imagine they would have made themselves known by now.
When the elevator clicks into place, your heart stops in your chest when you see the pale, snake-like grin of Aldous staring back at you with several other spawn poised just behind him.
“Sorceress,” he pouts sarcastically. “I’m disappointed in you. I thought you would have been smart enough to recognize a good deal when it was offered.”
You scoff, turning your nose up, and your teeth grate together. Astarion growls, sliding in front of you with his daggers already held, poised and ready to kill. You cast Stoneskin on Astarion out of a reflexive habit.
“I’ve been waiting to meet you,” Aldous chimes, his voice braided with choler. “It seems the odds between us have evened out, and I cannot wait to make you watch me drain her dry just as you did to me.”
Astarion laughs cruelly, snarling. “I enjoyed your death the first time, but I will enjoy it all the more the second.”
This is not a good place for a battle. The floor has fallen prey to the ravages of time in too many places, with large blocks and rubble littering the pieces that remain, restricting space and movement in equal measure.
You try to find the button to descend, but Aldous notices your movement and barrels toward you. Astarion leaps into battle, and the clash of blades rings out in the air. The two are almost a moving blur of glinting steel as they grapple. Astarion’s footwork is superior, and he gains ground until the other spawn join in the fight.
Adrenaline anoints your muscles and nerves, and your heart throttles in your chest. You cannot lose him here. You will not allow it. Flames writhe over your body, your skin heating to unfathomable temperatures, driven by a hatred so intense it seems to consume all fear. You Misty Step between Astarion and Aldous to intercept the charging spawn.
Thunderwave throws them back. Your fingers dance in their perfected rhythm, and you lace the Weave into spells with quick and masterful precision. You catch a spawn by the neck to your left, and flames erupt from your palms until their screams subside. With your other hand, you summon Chain Lightning, killing some but causing the remaining ones to seize up with paralysis.
You skate through them with your quarterstaff in hand. With limited space and Astarion and Aldous moving around the battlefield with the speed of a shooting star, there are a limited number of spells you can use for range. You’re forced into close-quarters combat, which hinders your abilities.
Clawed fingers rend your skin, sending a sharp agony radiating through you, making you suck in a sharp breath. The spawn hisses at you through their teeth, fangs bared. Before you can retaliate, Astarion is at your side, his shoulder slamming into the spawn and throwing them to the side. There is no time to catch your breath before Aldous attacks while Astarion is preoccupied protecting you.
“Astarion, down!” You shout.
He remembers the command and leans down, flattening his back so you can roll over him. Scorching Ray blasts from your palms, buffeting Aldous and forcing him to counter and change his path on a whim. It gives Astarion enough time to get into a better position and continue pushing Aldous back while you deal with the other spawn.
You cannot use Sunbeam in such a small area, not with the way Aldous and Astarion are moving, but you’re not merely the embodiment of fire; you’re a wildfire that cannot be thwarted. You pellet the spawn with fire that burns as white-hot as your hatred and rage. A ball of fire to the chest of one sizzles straight through them. Shatter to throw the ones to your right off the edge of the building.
You sink into the battle and luxuriate in the ghostly-coloured death that writhes over your skin and explodes from your fingers.
“Solicallor, switch!” Astarion snarls.
He only ever asks to switch in battle when he’s been injured and needs a moment to recover. You look back in horror at the blade buried in his shoulder and Aldous’ maniacal laughter permeating the air.
You cast Telekinesis, throwing the spawn in your path to him off the building, and try to sprint to his side, but you’re not fast enough before Aldous instructs the spawn remaining to create a barrier.
Every spell in your arsenal jumps off your fingers and rolls off your tongue, but you cannot get to Astarion before Aldous has pushed him near the edge of the tower.
In a fraction of a second, the spawn all sprint toward Astarion, throwing themselves off the edge of the tower to their deaths. The last thing you see are his scared red eyes and him shifting as fast as he can to grab Aldous by his armour. Aldous thrashes, trying to pull free from Astarion’s grip, and another blade sinks into Astarion’s stomach.
“I love you, Kamena,” he smiles as his feet lose their footing. “I would have liked to marry you in this life, but I will find you in the next, thiramin.”
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
- Chapters might be a little smaller for the foreseeable future. Sorry!
- Astarion 🥺
- I smash my keyboard angrily whenever I have to write Aldous' name.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.4K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The ruins stippling the mountainous valley look ominous at night when the chalky light of the moon stumbles upon the toothed edges of broken walls and sharp-angled vestiges of what used to be a grand temple. The wilderness has reclaimed the land stolen, and the spindly trees forge stringy shadows that squirm when the wind tangles through the cliffs.
Your legs dangle over the brink of a dizzyingly sheer precipice, and you’re laid flat on your back to stare at the celestial blanket, embroidered with flecks of stars. The party will leave this behind come dawn and enter the Shadowlands. You’ve never ventured there; not many have after the curse eclipsed the land in Shar’s dark silhouette, but from what you know, it’s entirely possible you will not make it out alive. If that is to be the case, you want to remember that there is light in the universe.
The serene silence is fractured by the snapping of twigs and the rustling of dried leaves and underbrush. You sit up with orbs of fire already hovering above you in an arcing semicircle.
Astarion stands with his hands up, but a haughty smirk quirks up the corners of his lips. “And here I thought we were friends,” he drawls.
“You really should learn to announce yourself when you’re lurking around in the dark.” The balls of fire descend into your hand and fade out. “It’s not like you to be so careless with your feet.”
“Careless? Hardly.” Astarion crosses his arms, jutting his hip out. “I was loud on purpose. I feared that if I popped out of the shadows, you might throw yourself off the damn cliff.”
“You know what would have worked? Saying, “Kamena, it’s Astarion. Please don’t burn me to death.” You throttle the laughter that threatens to snap out.
“Oh, please. You’re no fun. I think I was being very polite giving you any warning at all.” Astarion saunters over, lying beside you. “What are you doing out here anyway? Should you not be trying to get some rest?”
“Probably, but I wanted to see the stars before we entered the land of monotonous darkness.”
Astarion nods. “I’ll miss the sun.”
“You’ll see it again,” you reassure, even though you know it’s entirely possible he won’t. The thought makes your lower lip quiver, but you’re swept up in a sudden surge of pure defiance. You will survive the Shadowlands, if only to get him back into the sun. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“You’re sweet,” he quirks a brow at you, rolls onto his side, and props himself up on his forearm. “But I am no fool. I know well enough that the odds do not favour us. You don’t have to coddle me.”
“Coddle? Gods forbid anyone tries to reassure you!” You roll your eyes at him. “The odds might not be particularly charitable, but neither were the odds of making it this far in the first place. We seem to make impossibilities into possibilities daily right now.”
“True. The odds of a vampire spawn being infected with a tadpole that just so happens to break his master’s compulsion and most of the other rather pesky downsides of vampirism are infinitely minuscule, yet here I am.”
“Wow, that sounded very close to optimism,” you quip. “I’m impressed!”
He scoffs, deigning not to answer, and flops down onto his back.
You bashfully whisper. “Can I ask you some questions about vampires?”
“I suppose,” Astarion says hesitantly, sitting up to look at you with a furrowed brow. “I guess I am the only one here with a wealth of knowledge on the subject. What exactly would you like to know?”
“Vampire Lords, how do you kill them?”
He shrugs. “Like most vampires, a stake, beheading, dismembering, incinerating. The trick is not so much how to kill them; it’s actually getting them weak enough for it to even be plausible. They are incredibly powerful and resilient bastards.”
You sit up, crossing your legs, and peer out into the valley. “But it can be done?”
“Yes, of course, but I wouldn’t advise it.” Astarion looks at you skeptically, leaning back and away.
“And what happens to the Vampire Lords spawn if they perish?”
“They are free to do as they please.” Astarion’s forehead pinches, creating a line between his brows. “Why?”
“Cazador is in Baldur's Gate, correct?”
“Yes, but…” Astarion’s eyes bulge, and he starts shaking his head. “Kamena. No. Please tell me you’re not thinking about doing what I think you are?”
You smile at him angelically. “I would, but it would be a lie, and I don’t relish the idea of bullshitting you.”
“Cazador is not to be trifled with.” Astarion blurts out hastily. “He will kill you. I was not exaggerating when I said he could walk into our camp and kill us all before we even woke.”
“Oh, Astarion, don’t worry. I don’t plan on trifling with him. I plan on killing him outright.”
“You’re actually serious?” Astarion exclaims.
“Dead serious.”
“I…” Astarion looks around. “Why would you do that for me?”
Because I’m in love with you.
It nearly leaps off your tongue like a startled frog off a lily pad, but you manage to snare it before it can be ejected from your lips. You feel the heat rush to your face as if your skin is trying to mimic the scarlet of his dissecting gaze. You glance away, clearing your throat and regaining the poise that was misplaced when your judgment nearly lapsed.
“You’re my friend, and you deserve to be free. I will do everything in my power to make that possible.”
Astarion looks down, picking up a rock and idly running his fingers over the surface. “I do not believe the others will share your sentiments.”
“You leave the others to me. You have not yet witnessed exactly how persuasive I can be.” You smirk with a foxlike guise. “Plus, I think they all rather like you even if you do annoy the shit out of them.”
Astarion chuckles. “Perhaps with the exception of Gale.”
You quirk a brow at him, not quite understanding. Gale seems no more annoyed than the rest of the group at Astarion’s antics. “Why do you think Gale has anything against you?”
Astarion’s eyes snap to you, and a handsome, crooked grin coils one side of his lips upward. “I have become rather close friends with a charming sorceress he fancies, I presume. Intimately close, one might say.”
You flush red again and flop onto your back with a groan, hoping it might hide the rosy hue of your skin. Unfortunately, your traitorous heart lurches into a rapid pace you know he can hear, and he giggles spritely and genuine. You close your eyes and smile at the lightness and mirth that remind you of softly tinging windchimes. It’s not a sound you are granted too often, but you would do anything to hear it.
“You’re so easy to fluster. It’s utterly adorable,” he purrs. Astarion lays back down beside you, looking up at the sky.
The light of dawn is breaching the horizon, and the stars are starting to appear faint. The coolness of Astarion’s hand butting up against yours surprises you, and you tentatively lock your pinkie with his. Gradually, your hands seem to move of their own volition until his hand covers yours. You splay your fingers, his curl, and fit themselves perfectly in the spaces between, like your hand was made to hold his.
“I envy you,” he murmurs. “Even when a literal God appears and threatens your very existence, you are fearless.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” you say, shaking your head. You crane your neck to the side to look at him. “I’m terrified.”
He seems surprised by your candidness. His jaw clenches, making the muscles in his neck strain and pop out. You want to reach out and soothe that tension away, but instead you twist your hand into the earth to keep it from roaming where it shouldn’t.
“How do you do it, then?” He finally asks, looking deeply into your eyes. There’s an openness there that makes you feel as though you’re truly seeing him, perhaps for the first time. “How do you keep going?”
“I place one foot in front of the other, and then I do it again, and again, and again.”
“You make it sound easy,” he breathes with a frown that’s weighted in the heaviness of sorrow.
You know, at some point, he’s let fear paralyze him. Does he have any memories of true happiness? Are his memories all pain, torture and slavery at the hands of a barbaric master?
“It’s not easy.” You conclude tightly. “Every step is hard, and sometimes you have to take a break between steps, but eventually, you take another step.”
“Hmm.” A silence stretches out, and you just gaze at each other as the first rays of sun begin to plod over the land. “Take another step… May I kiss you?”
The young beams of sunlight appear to infuse his eyes, lighting up the desperation in them. His stare is intense, like that of a coiled viper that’s ready to strike. You sit up, letting your hand drift toward him like it’s been yearning to do, but you hover just shy of his cheek. If he wants to be touched, he will close the gap. He glances at your hand, smiles sweetly, and pushes into your touch, closing his eyes when your thumb sweeps across his cheek.
"Of course.”
Before the consent can even finish sighing from your lips, Astarion’s hand winds into your hair, and his lips catch yours with a greedy fervour that makes you groan into his mouth. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring, tentatively stroking yours in a slow erotic dance that’s all sensation and passion.
His arm wraps around your waist, tugging you closer until you’re pressed tightly against the muscles of his chest. Your fingers twist into his shirt. You’ve never been kissed quite like this. It feels like he steals the air straight from your lungs and replaces it with him until you’re drowning in him.
You can’t say you mind that much.
Astarion breaks the kiss only when your heart is racing like you’ve been running up a mountain. He smirks, placing one more chaste kiss on your still parted, swollen lips as you try to iron out this disequilibrium making your head swoon.
“Do you kiss all your friends like that?” Astarion quips playfully.
“No!” You squeak too high and a little too hastily.
“Good,” he surmises plainly with a curt nod.
“Good?”
“Good. I think I would rather like to keep it that way.” Astarion stands, offering you his hands. “Come on, darling. We best get back to camp before Gale’s brain starts to conjure up images of the sinful delights we’ve snuck away to partake in. I fear he might explode and kill us all out of sheer jealousy.”
You slip your hands into Astarion’s, and he helps you to your feet. Your eyes drop to your embraced hands with a million questions revolving in your head, but you don’t dare ask any of them as you let him lead you back to camp hand-in-hand.
The courtyard door clicks closed behind you, and you lean on it with a resigned sigh. The woman you used to be, who now only lives in memories, would never have entertained such a proposition, but she had nothing to lose. Now, you have your soulmate, friends, and yourself, who all stand to lose their lives if you decide to pursue this fight to its inconclusive end.
Does a ring with the power Aldous described even exist, or is this just a very clever rouse to pique your interest? It would be smart to prey on your greatest desires, and it’s something a Vampire Lord would certainly take advantage of.
But ... a little voice whispers, But what if it’s true? What if the answer to Astarion’s sun intolerance is sitting somewhere in Waterdeep, and all you have to do is make a deal and walk away?
Astarion likely won’t agree, let alone let them sketch his scars, but you’ve been trailing your fingers over those scars every night. You might not be much of an artist, but you could replicate them closely enough.
Your back slides down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, shivering, with your fingers twisted in your drenched hair. You can’t seriously be considering this, can you? Who are you anymore? Are you too far gone? You used to be so fucking unshakable, and now you’re shaking on the floor, stuck between what you are and what you think you should be.
It feels like the vultures are circling, the walls are closing, and the devil is knocking.
But you will always do whatever it takes to keep those you love safe, and they will never be safe if you allow another Vampire Lord to ascend. There is always the risk that, as soon as your usefulness has been depleted, they will kill you, Astarion, and your friends.
It’s not a risk you’re willing to take.
“Sorceress?” Tara’s eyes gleam in the low light as she trots in from the corridor with her tail held high. “You are soaked! Did no one ever teach you how to dry yourself?”
You let your chin rest on your knees and hold your hand out. At the invitation, Tara comes trotting over, and you scratch behind her ears while she gives you a rumbly purr and butts her head against your palm.
“You are burdened this night.” Tara states, sitting and wrapping her tail around herself. Her words make tears prick your eyes, but you force them away. You are so tired of crying. “I see how the others look to you for answers you do not have. You carry much responsibility on your shoulders. Yet, I do not believe this is what bothers you this night.”
“Astute, as always, Tara.” You push yourself up to your feet, grab the milk, and pour some into a bowl, letting your palms heat until the milk steams slightly.
Tara’s tail sticks straight up in the air and vibrates happily as you put the bowl down for her and return to your spot on the floor. She waits for you to speak while she laps up her milk.
“I feel like I’m constantly falling apart. I’ve changed. When I look in the mirror, I don’t always recognize the woman who is reflected back.”
“And this is a bad thing?” Tara asks, taking a break from lapping at her milk and licking her lips and chin. “Change is inevitable, sorceress. Seasons change. Time changes. People change. Even the stars change given enough time.”
“It’s not the change itself; it’s what I’ve changed into,” you sigh, letting your head rest on your knees. “The me in my memories was dependable, sure, and bold. Even when I was afraid, I was at least steadfast and reliable. I cannot say that’s the case any longer. Now, sometimes, I fear the dark or storms — things I would not have batted an eyelash at before.”
There’s no stopping the tears now. Despite your restraint, the rivulets inch from the corners of your eyes. “I’m just so fucking sick of crying, of being afraid, of running, of being this version of me.”
“Yes, you have struggled with fear since you came to stay.” Tara looks at her feet, almost as if she’s contemplating what you need to hear, but more likely, she’s trying to decide if she needs to clean her face. “Fear is a serpent whispering uncertainties and breeding unease about moving forward into the unknown. It convinces you to remain rooted in your misery simply because misery is known and safe. Sometimes it helps us avoid legitimate danger, but other times it keeps us stuck in a self-perpetuating cycle.”
“I don’t know how to break the cycle.” You wipe the wetness from your cheeks and eyes. “But I know I will never be who I was again.”
“Nor should you be.” Tara scoffs. Her lips curl, pulling back her snout, clearly dissatisfied. “Stop glancing backward and look forward toward growth and change. Let go of this foolish notion that you should be who you were.”
“I liked myself better that way.” Your voice is harsh and bitter, but Tara does not so much as flick an ear or twitch her skin.
“Stop being so stubborn, Kamena.” Tara scolds you with a hiss, arching her back. “It is okay to be afraid, to be hurt, and to feel broken, but you needn’t wallow in it. You have two options. You can either let your fears chase you and run, or you can chase your fears and make them run from you.”
“What if I make the wrong choice and get us all killed?”
“Well, then you’ll be dead, and you won’t have the capacity to dwell on it.” Tara concludes brashly.
She’s not wrong.
“I would hug you if I wasn’t worried you would scratch my eyes out.” You hiccup out a laugh.
“You are positively sodden!” Tara scampers back, far out of reach, and crouches low to the ground, ready to flee. “You would wet my fur! I would have to leave a dead mouse in your bed for such an egregious trespass!”
“Hmm,” you hum, patting your lips with your index finger. “Worth it, I think.”
When you sneak down the quiet halls back to your room, you’re surprised to see soft light radiating out under the doorway. Depending on how long he’s been awake, he likely heard the entire conversation with Tara and probably Aldous as well.
Stupid vampiric hearing.
You let yourself in and suck in a sharp breath at the incredulous scowl on Astarion’s face. A small fire is popping and crackling in the fireplace, eating away at the timber and suffusing the room with a light pine scent.
Astarion sits in bed, leaning against the headboard with one knee up and the sheets pooled around his waist. Even though you know you’re likely in for an earful, your eyes still devour the sight of him — chiselled, toned muscles, pristine ivory skin, and those scarlet eyes that are seemingly burning as bright as the fire, bleeding into you.
“Well?” Astarion asks.
“Well what?”
“Come now,” Astarion drawls, but his intonation is bordering on cruel, rougher than any stone. “I heard the little deal that worm offered you. Please tell me you’re not truly thinking about this. I do not have to remind you that Vampire Lords are not trustworthy.”
You slip out of your wet clothes, grab a towel, and dry your hair. “I’ll admit, it’s tempting.”
“Have you lost your godsdamned mind?” Astarion balks, eyes narrow, with a scowl so menacing that if you didn’t know him, it might scare you.
“Probably,” you say solemnly, staring at your feet. “I was going to discuss it with you first.”
“Oh,” Astarion’s scowl eases, and he looks askance. “I… Why?”
“Because it’s your life, your siblings, your body, and your scars,” you state, sitting on the bed cross-legged and staring at him. “If what he said is true, and I’m not saying it is, there’s also the matter of that ring. You could walk in the sun without worrying again. I want that for you more than anything, but I won’t make these kinds of decisions without you. We are a team.”
Astarion racks his fingers through his hair with a sigh. “If it were me a couple years ago, I’d likely have taken the deal and ran, but... I’m not that selfish a man any longer. Even if the ring does exist, it’s not worth all the lives that will be lost should we turn a blind eye.”
“I suppose not,” you murmur, looking down at your lap. Your damp, wavy hair creates a wavy curtain between you and him, and you’re thankful for the coverage.
“You would turn a blind eye to it?” Astarion asks, brushing your hair back. “All the lives the Rite would cost, and all the deaths that would come after?”
“To ensure your safety and gain the ring to let you enjoy the sun again?” You breathe heavily. “Yes, I think I would. I would take the deal, run, and never look back.”
Astarion cradles your cheek, bringing your gaze back up. “Tell me where this truly comes from, because it does not sound like you.”
“Maybe this is the new me,” you growl. The fire sparks angrily as your emotions become manic.
You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to turn back time and forget all of the last years.
You want peace.
But peace has shunned you.
You dig your fingernails into your palms, jerking away from his fingers poised under your chin, and lower your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Maybe I’m not who you think I am; maybe I never was. Maybe all that’s left of me is broken pieces and ragged edges.”
One of your legs jiggles erratically, shaking the bed. The old urge to run or hide is overwhelming, and you cannot keep your body still. Poisonous resentment and spiteful thoughts cross your mind. It’s his fault you’re this shattered shard of the person you once were; your soul a broken mirror that reflects some recognizable pieces of you, but some - most - of the splinters are too small to retain anything. You gave him your heart, and he absconded with it, like he had done to so many naive people before you.
Now, he thinks he can return and tell you that you don’t sound like yourself without any consequences? Of course, you are not yourself! How could you be? But if you are not you, then who the fuck are you?
Will whatever remains be enough? Are you enough? It would be so easy to blame him, so splendidly simple to lay the burden of pain at his feet, and he would shoulder it, likely without complaint. You don’t truly believe any of these thoughts. They are misguided animosities searching for anyone or anything to blame other than yourself, because at the crux of it all, you loathe what you’ve become.
“Darling, tell me what’s going through your head,” Astarion urges, and his voice breaks you from your spiral and makes your head jerk up.
“No.”
You know your response and tone are clipped. Pulling away from him seems like the easiest way to keep yourself from hurting him needlessly in moments like this when your pain and anger coalesce into venom. Though it seems you’ve failed as you watch the hurt skip across his features and settle in his imploring eyes.
“You talk to the cat more openly than you talk to me.” Astarion shakes his head, clearly frustrated.
“Tara’s never abandoned me in the middle of the night,” you hiss through a clenched jaw.
The memories of waking up to a tomblike silence, the creaks and groans of the wooden walls well up in your mind, his voice whispering to you that everything was going to be okay, which was a blatant lie. He had known he was going to leave. He had premeditated the breaking of your heart, and it stings.
“I did,” he snaps, his shoulder tense. “I left you in the middle of the night. I abandoned you, and I knew what I was doing. I knew it would hurt,” he goads.
His intention to provoke you into lashing out is obvious, but you seethe nonetheless. The guilt of having such toxic thoughts is gnawing at you, making your stomach unsettled. How could you even consider hurting him for a moment? He is your heart. Your soul. Your world. Your everything.
He could kill you, by accident or purposefully, and somehow you would still find a way to crawl out of your grave and back to him, to love him so completely that you wonder if there’s even enough room left in your heart to love yourself.
Astarion examines you for a moment, searching and trying to read you. Most days, you like being seen, but right now, it’s only intensifying your pique.
“Stop it,” you sneer as the hurt simmering in you only grows.
“Do you remember asking me if something was wrong that night?” He continues with a forced calm. His pain is carefully hidden behind a stone-cold expression, but you see it because, try as he might, he cannot keep it from his eyes. “Do you remember telling me you were scared, and I lied to you, didn’t I? I told you everything was fine when it was anything but.”
Nothing will ever be able to erase that night from your memories. No amount of alcohol, tears, or running will ever be enough. You need him to shut up, lest you lose your tongue with unreasonable cruelty. White-hot rage clouds your mind, and there is a creeping sense of wanting to hurt him, wanting to let the corrosive words rise from your tongue and burn him. There is a sick part of you that wants to see just how far you can push him to see if he will leave.
This conversation has become too much, and you do the worst possible thing you can in your desperation to hide. You lunge at him, slamming your lips into his in a bruising kiss and twisting your fingers into his hair hard enough to be painful. Astarion is not the only one who can use sex as a weapon, as a means of avoidance, or as a way to distract.
His surprise is barely registered in the half-yelp he was able to get out before your lips mould to his despairingly, but his discomfort is abundantly obvious. There is a rigidity to his body; all his muscles are tense and flexing under you like someone who is waiting to be struck. Though he returns the kiss, it is mechanical. You know that this is wrong, but you press ahead heedlessly.
“Stop,” he gasps against your lips.
You throw yourself off the side of the bed as soon as the tight plea skitters across your lips. You clutch at your heaving chest, staring at him wide-eyed and wild with the horror of your actions. You stand awkwardly, half-lurched over, and unable to think straight.
The same question keeps plaguing your mind: Who are you?
“Astarion, I—“
He doesn’t let you finish. “No, don’t be sorry. I know better than most what that was. I see you. I understand you. You do not need to use sex to hide from me.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair.
He smiles kindly when he looks up at you. It only makes you feel worse. His arms spread, offering you sanctuary. As much as your first impulse is to dive into the safety promised, you take small, careful steps, keeping a close eye on him. Astarion waits patiently, and you see no signs of discomfort or the blankness that echos in his eyes when he withdraws.
Climbing up the bed, you slide into his embrace. He pulls the duvet up, tucking you both in, and you settle into the comfort of being tangled up with one another. Your head rests on his shoulder, your forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, and your legs hooked over his lap. Astarion wipes away the wetness from your cheeks that you didn't even realize was there.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur again. “I don’t know what happened. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just—“
“Can’t get enough of me,” Astarion says, keeping his tone lighthearted. You can feel the smug smirk slink across his lips. “I’m not surprised.”
But you know what you’ve done is a serious offence, so you try again. “Astarion, I’m serious. I feel terrible and sick over it.”
“If kissing me makes you feel sick, I think we have bigger problems than you throwing yourself at me to get me to shut up, my love,” he quips, but his arms hug you tighter, pulling your flush against him.
You’re flooded with warmth and gratitude, and you wordlessly press a small peck to his throat. It’s not nearly enough to express your appreciation or make amends for the boundary you just crossed, though.
“We will get through this, Kamena,” he assures in a low baritone. “But we will have to talk about it at some point. You cannot keep running and hiding from this conversation. It must be had. I’m trying to be patient, and I can wait. Gods know I have a literal eternity, but I do not like to see you suffer so. I do not know what you need from me to feel safe.”
“Was it easy to leave me?” You blurt out before you can rethink.
Astarion jolts as if you’ve slapped him, easing back just enough to see your face but not enough to break the amount of contact between your bodies. “Leaving you that night was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Two centuries of torture, and nothing has ever hurt me that much. Nothing.”
This information sickens and stirs a revolting sense of gratification in equal measure. It is comforting to know that you’re not the only one who has suffered at the hands of his desertion. It should not console you, though, should it? You should not be relieved that he hurt just as you did. The knowledge of just how far you’ve fallen disgusts you to your core, and you have to smother the urge to retch as if you might be able to purge this darkness your soul harbours.
Maybe that is why you’re so afraid to move forward, one step at a time, into the future and away from the miseries that cast their grim shadows across your past. You are afraid that you will not like what you find there and that you will not like the iteration of you that awaits.
All you can think about is how you wish for him to spread you open and fill you with him, with pleasure, with his love, as a reminder that you are still capable of feelings beyond fear, loathing, and disgust. You can’t even bring yourself to look up at him, afraid he will see the delight reflected in your eyes.
“I know I’ve said it before, but I will keep saying it until the end of time; I’m sorry,” Astarion starts. “I—“
You clutch at the blankets and pull them up to your chest in a foolish attempt to shield your heart with something, anything. You cut him off. “We’ve discussed this. You don’t have to say anything. It’s in—“
“Stop,” he barks, and you can feel his glare, the heat of his eyes boring into the crown of your head. “Enough, love. Stop granting me avenues of excuses and room to distance myself from what I’ve done at your expense. You need to hear this, and I need to say it. Listen to me — I’m begging you.”
You freeze, your fingers curling into his chest with enough force to leave red welts on his skin. Astarion doesn’t so much as flinch. If it hurts him, he does not show an iota of it. He cups your cheek, trying to get you to look at him, but you refuse, squeezing your eyes shut.
He continues anyway, his thumb gently sweeping back and forth across your cheek. “What I did was cowardly. I was terrified to lose this, the love we share, due to my difficulties. You deserve so much more than I can ever hope to give you. By leaving, I thought I was protecting you from a lifetime of pain.”
You mean to tell him to stop before your heart bursts, but words do not form, and it comes out as a pleading whine as you press further into him. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your breaths come quicker and quicker, progressively getting shallower until you’re dizzy. His arms tighten, and the hand on your cheek gently presses your face against his chest. He kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair.
Astarion inhales deeply. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. “Breathe, my love,” he coos. “With me now.”
It is a difficult task to sync your panicked breathing to his calm, and it takes minutes before you’re able to do so. He waits patiently, humming in a deep dulcet like he used to.
When you begin to relax, he picks up where he left off. “I knew I should have spoken to you about my worries and told you my doubts and fears, but I didn’t. It has always been my way; for centuries, I suffered in silence. I lost the fight between what I knew to be right and two hundred years of programmed behaviour. I am sorry for the pain I’ve inflicted upon you, for making you doubt how much I care for you, for making you afraid — all of it. I cannot undo what I've done. Gods, I wish I could go back and change it, but I cannot.” Astarion strokes your hair.
His voice is becoming strained with emotion as he forces himself to bare his heart to you. “I hope we can rebuild what we’ve lost, and maybe it’s different than before; maybe we are both different than before, but that’s okay. It’s okay to be different. Whether you are light or dark, fire or ice, good or evil, you are still you, Kamena. You remain the same wild, goddess-like woman I met on the beach and referred to as a shrew."
A raspy giggle sighs from your throat, and you finally tilt your head up to look at him. A small smile breaks through onto his perfect lips, and you trace them in the perfect bow as they curve upwards slightly.
“You would still love me if I were evil?” You ask a little shyly, with your thumb still brushing over his bottom lip.
If he can love you, even in darkness, maybe you can face whatever lurks in the future you’ve been avoiding by digging in your heels and sitting in your misery.
If the only thing you have left is him at the end of this, you can live with whatever life throws at you.
“Oh,” he smiles fiendishly, grabbing your hand and kissing each finger with his attention completely rapt on you. “Most certainly. If you want to burn the whole of Faerûn to the ground and dance in its ashes, I will hand you the match and help you start the fires.” He smirks momentarily. “Not that you would need matches, of course. You are fire incarnate, but you understand my point.”
He pauses, placing a kiss on your wrist against your veins. His eyes comb over your face, studying you and reading the hidden language of your soul as if it were etched upon your skin.
Pain and anxiety are largely writ on Astarion’s face. “I love you. I wish you would tell me every dark thought you’re having, even if they are about me — every wicked inclination, every doubt, and every fear. I would have you tell me every thought that goes through your head, so I can show you that I will always love you anyway and that I am not going anywhere.”
The fact of the matter is that you resent yourself for being stubborn and unable to fully trust him when he is so evidently trying to show you in any way he can think of. It’s not that you don’t see it; it’s that you purposefully ignore it, but there is no ignoring it tonight.
You must do better than this. You steel yourself. Take the step.
“I’m scared, Astarion. I’m scared that if I take the steps to move forward, you will not like the person I’ve become. Underneath all these broken pieces, there is a darkness there that wasn’t there before. I can lose everything, but I cannot lose you.”
It may not be healthy, but you would rather spend your lifetime in his broken state, battling with yourself all the while, if it means that you will rest, wake, and do everything in between with him by your side.
“Come here, my heart.” Astarion shifts you so that you’re straddling him, arms wrapped around his neck, and your head resting on his shoulder. He presses a soft kiss on your shoulder, rubbing your back. “You could never be unloved by me, Kamena.”
You are better than this ; your shame whispers in your ear. Try harder. Be better. The way forward is clear, and you can walk into it at any time. Why do you languish here?
What rises tends to fall, you answer solemnly.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.4K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
With the medley of parchment laid out on Gale’s lengthy kitchen table, the silence hangs heavily over the room, suffocating the air with an oppressive stillness and unspoken words. The only sound is the angry rain, drumming on the grand, arched windows, and the raging wind that buffets the manor with forceful gusts.
It is a foreboding sound. You have never been afraid of storms; you enjoyed watching them before, but you find yourself closing your eyes at every quaking groan of Gale’s tower and every rattle of the windows as they hold out against the blustery squalls.
Gale finally takes one piece of parchment and examines it. His brows furrow, and he rubs his chin. Eventually, his eyes flit up to Astarion.
“Dal’s.” Astarion sighs, answering the unasked question. Wracking his fingers through his hair, he points to each piece. “Petras’s. Yousen’s. Violet’s.”
Shadowheart’s voice is softer than normal when she speaks. “Where are your siblings, Astarion?”
“In the Underdark, as far as I know.” He shrugs. “I never returned to see them.”
Your hand coasts over the indented, scarred skin of your arm from the time you visited the Underdark. “They were in the Underdark. They were using the Arcane Tower as a home.”
“You saw them?” Astarion asks. “All of them?”
“Dal, Petras, and Leon were definitely there, as well as the spawn we set free.” Your fingernails bite into your scars as you try to repress the memory. “I’m not sure about the others.”
“Did they say anything?” Astarion turns to you with his speech a little more rapid than usual. “Anything at all?”
“It was many moons ago, Astarion. They weren’t interested in talking to me much, but no, they never mentioned someone was hunting them or requesting to sketch their scars.”
“Why do they have scars written in Infernal?” Hecat’s brows furrow as she regards the symbols. “It’s pieces of a contract.”
“We know.” Shadowheart says brusquely. “We know what it says and what it’s about. What we don’t understand is why it’s here.”
“Do you have scars like this, Astarion?” Hecat asks carelessly.
Your whole body immediately tenses, but you master yourself and attempt to appear unruffled by her inquisition. Astarion is capable of deciding how to answer this for himself.
“I do,” he nods. “A… gift from my old master.”
“Who must be dead?” Hecat presumes, still trying to make sense of everything. You’re not sure how much you want her to know. “Since you’re here and all, and still a spawn.”
“Yes, he’s dead.” Astarion answers calmly, but he subtly rests his hand on your thigh, and you realize his fingers are trembling.
Taking his hand, you give it a reassuring squeeze. He squeezes back while breathing deeply. It is not something you’re used to seeing him do unless he’s trying to calm you. It alerts you to his unease, setting you further on edge.
“I suppose I will ask the question none of us want to.” Shadowheart surmises with her lips pressed together and a clenched jaw. “Why are Astarion's siblings' scars drawn on pieces of paper we found in a manor hidden by illusion magic?”
You frown and chew on your bottom lip. “Is it possible that another Vampire Lord can try to fulfill the contract?”
Gale shakes his head. “We destroyed everything that even dared hint at that ungodly ritual.”
“We destroyed the paper trail.” You nod and glance at Astarion.
“But not the pawns of it.” He finishes, looking down at his lap. “The only people living who might be able to tell someone how to complete the ritual are my siblings, me, and all of you.”
“Hells.” Gale rasps, his hand rubbing his forehead. “Do you really think that’s what this is all about?”
“It makes sense,” you murmur. “But what we don’t know is if they are trying to collect the spawn that are already marked for sacrifice or if they simply need the markings on them.”
“Either way, they will collect them.” Astarion concludes bitterly, with one corner of his lips curling up in contempt. “Likely to make sure no one else has access to those markings. Furthermore, the spawn we set free in the Underdark will be rounded up as well. A Vampire Lord is not going to waste time making 7,000 spawn if there are already that many running around in the Underdark who have been conveniently carved up already. Gods. I knew I should have killed them.”
“So, what do we do?” Gale paces around, clearly agitated. “What can we do?”
“There are still two of Astarion’s siblings unaccounted for.” You sit back in your chair. “Maybe Astarion and I should visit the Underdark. If they are rounding up his siblings, maybe we can get to them before they do.”
“And bring them where, exactly?” Astarion spits, twisting in his chair to look at you. “Certainly not here.”
“Not here, but maybe our house?” Astarion’s brows pinch together, and his mouth snaps shut. You continue, “It’s well hidden; they can hunt in the forests, and it’s already set up for the particular needs of a vampire.”
You’re not particularly fond of the idea of letting them stay in your house. It feels like an encroachment, but it is the best idea you have right now. Judging from Astarion’s sour expression, he, too, is not pleased with it.
“Kamena…” Gale’s hands rest on the back of a chair, and he looks at you with his expression clouded by somberness. “I don’t wish to overstep, my friend, but are you certain it’s a good idea for you to return there?”
Astarion quirks a brow at you, and your hand moves to cover the scars everyone is now staring at. You ignore the urge to get as far away from this conversation as you can and take deep breaths. Admittedly, you don’t want to return there, but you don’t want to stay here either.
If you’re being completely honest, you would take Astarion, disappear, and never look back. If this Vampire Lord is truly after the contract in an attempt to complete the ritual, then Astarion is in peril staying here. You should be getting him as far away from here as you can.
But you cannot leave your friends, who are now tangled up in this mess.
“Thank you for your concern, Gale, but I’m fine.” You lie, and you’re rather impressed that you manage to keep your voice steady and strong. “What do you think, Astarion?”
“I think the more of my siblings we can keep away from them, the better, but I do not relish taking you into a den of vampire spawn who are likely feral.” Astarion rubs his eyes, squeezing them shut hard, creasing the corners. “Perhaps it would be best if I went alone.”
The thought of Astarion leaving makes your heart thud in your chest, seizing and being crushed under his words. He promised he would never leave you alone again, and now he’s trying to.
You try to breathe deeply, but the air seems unfathomably thin, and you feel like you’re drowning. Your eyes feel frozen open, just staring at the table but not really looking at it.
He wants to leave.
He wants to leave.
He wants to leave.
He wants to leave me alone again.
Would he ever come back?
Does he want to come back?
Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to gag that voice in your head that tells you to run, to break his heart before he can break yours, and to repress the whirling thoughts of loneliness, abandonment, and dread.
Is this just his way of trying to get away from me?
“Kamena?” Astarion touches your shoulder featherlight, but it still makes you jump up.
Your chair falls backward and clatters to the floor, and you stare the confused faces at the table. You ball your hands into fists at your sides so that they can’t see how badly you’re trembling.
“Excuse me.”
It takes considerable effort to force yourself to walk down the hallway as nonchalantly as you can, but as soon as you get out of sight, you pick up speed and jog to your room. No matter how hard you try, the panic continues to grow like thorny vines around your nerves, and your breath comes rapidly through parted lips.
You need a distraction from this downward spiral, so you grab the lock and thieves’ tools Astarion gave you to practice and draw a bath. Sitting in the tub, you listen to the soothing sound of running water, place the lock on a stool, kneel and hunch over the edge, and start trying to replicate what Astarion has shown you.
Your fingers still tremble fretfully with both tools in hand, and you cannot, for the life of you, find the first pin in this stubborn hunk of metal. Even as your trembling settles and your mind stops its incessant whirling, you cannot get the stupid lock to turn even slightly.
How many times has Astarion shown me this?
Would he give you a defective lock you never had any chance of opening? Yes, you think he would. He would find that to be quite humorous once you figured it out. You peer into the keyhole to see if any of the mechanisms look... Well, fuck. You’re unsure what you should even be looking for, and you frown at the lock with spite.
“You are staring at that lock like it has personally offended you.” Astarion chuckles, leaning his shoulder on the frame of the archway.
“It has,” you grumble. “It will not fucking open!”
“May I join you?” Astarion points to the bath.
You nod, continuing to try to manipulate the lock while he undresses and slips behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, and he presses the sculpted planes of his chest into your back, hovering over you to watch your incompetent attempts while he rests his chin on your shoulder.
“I can veritably hear you scowling at me, you know.”
“Hells below.” Astarion groans dramatically. “This is truly painful to observe.”
His arms come around you, and his cool hands grip yours as his expert fingers guide the tools in your hand to demonstrate again. He turns the tools slowly, performing some sort of Rogue devilry, you’re quite sure, until you feel a small pop and hear a metal clink.
“Feel that?” Astarion glances at you, kissing your cheek. “That’s what you’re looking for.”
He relinquishes his control and goes back to resting his head on your shoulder with his arms tangled around your waist. He murmurs, “Are you okay?”
“You told me you wouldn’t leave me alone again,” you say shakily, swallowing the burbling fear. You hate how pathetic you sound. “Where you go, I go. Remember?”
“The Underdark is dangerous — far more dangerous now than it was when we went gallivanting down here.”
You hold your scarred arm out for him to see before going back to tending to the lock. The distraction is helpful, allowing you to focus instead of spiralling. “I’m well aware of how dangerous it is down there now.”
Astarion’s hand glides down your arm, his fingers brushing over each indented blemish gently. “Are you going to tell me what in the Hells happened down there?”
“I don’t know.” You answer truthfully. “The short version of it is that the spawn down there are feral and starved, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I suspect there is far more to it than that.” Astarion rubs your back in soothing circles, kissing the back of your shoulder softly. “Alright, fine. Where I go, you go, and vice versa from now on, yes?”
You glance over your shoulder into crimson eyes. “Promise?”
He sweeps a lock of your hair back from your cheek and places his hand on his chest, above his heart. “You have my word.”
You nod with a small smile and return to the lock in your hands before your mind can whisper and pull you under into a riptide of doubt. Astarion brushes his fingers through your hair, untangling any knots as he goes gently. It is entirely distracting, and one of the sharp tools slips from your grasp.
“Focus, darling,” he tuts, picking up the tool off the floor and handing it back to you.
“I think this lock is faulty,” you huff in annoyance.
Astarion has always made lockpicking look like child’s play. Most locks take him a matter of seconds to pick; even the ones in the Counting House only took minutes at the most.
“Do you really think I would do that to you?” Astarion laughs when you quirk an accusatory brow at him over your shoulder. “Fine. Fine. I might for a laugh, but I assure you, this lock is perfectly fine. You’re just too impatient.”
You groan, rolling your eyes, and take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. A low growl of frustration rumbles in your chest as the tool catches on something and refuses to budge.
Astarion chuckles as he takes control once more to correct the position of your fingers. “You cannot just brute force it like some barbarian. You must be patient, focus, listen to it, and tend to its unique needs.” His fingers brush the back of your hand softly. “Much like making love.”
“For the love of...” you scoff. “Did you really just make that comparison?”
He helps you rotate the metal rods deftly, pressing his body further into yours. “You’ll find it to be accurate. Every lock is different and requires a personalized approach. You cannot just shove the tools in the hole like an oaf and expect it to open and reveal its secrets.”
“You’re making it sound intentionally sexual in nature.”
“I cannot be blamed for the fact that dexterity comes in handy in a variety of situations.” He says, clicking his tongue softly. His lips ghost along the ridge of your ear to the tapered tip, and he whispers, “It is how I make love to you, no? Listen to your body, read your mood, and tend to your needs.”
Heat rushes to your face, reddening your cheeks, and your heart jolts in your chest, escalating into a quickened pace as his words play your heartstrings like a lyre.
“My mood?” You rasp with a silvery timbre.
The pop of another pin clinks. Astarion rescinds his control but keeps his hand poised near yours, skimming the back of your hand with his fingertips to encourage you to keep going.
“Yes, your mood." Astarion drawls, "Sometimes you want it tender and loving, and other times rough and wild. Sometimes you want to control; sometimes you want to be controlled. It all depends on your mood, really.”
You swallow hard, finding it extremely difficult to concentrate all of a sudden. Shivers spread across your body, prickling your skin as Astarion’s lips ghost along the back of your neck, raining kisses down your spine.
Your hands jitter in the lock, making the rods ting against the metal housing.
“You’re awfully distracted.” Astarion coos.
The heat seems to drain from your face and into your lower abdomen, flaring at the seductive, husky baritone of his taunting.
You clear your throat. “And what mood would you say I am in today?”
“Hmm…” Astarion hums lowly. He regards you silently for a moment, as if reading a particularly interesting chapter of a book. “I think today you want to be taken, claimed, fucked. Perhaps, if you’re a very good girl, I will give you what you desire if you can unlock that lock.”
His knee nudges between your legs, edging them further apart, and his hand cups the curve of your ass, giving it a teasing squeeze. Your mouth drops open as his fingers trail through your folds and settle on the intensely aching flesh.
Your hips jerk, and your fingers quiver, nearly dropping the tools, but Astarion's other hand steadies your grip. “Focus,” he purrs, starting to rub circles around the throbbing border of your clit. “Keep a firm grip on it now. Try rotating it to the right a little.”
He cannot possibly expect you to keep focused like this, and you let out something between a whimper and a mewl, frustration and desire mixed. With his free hand, Astarion takes control of yours, guiding the tool in your fingers to turn the mechanism as his fingers change the direction of their circling — counterclockwise, clockwise, and back — in whatever way he makes you twist the lock.
Another metallic pang comes from the opening, but you barely hear it underneath your gasps. “Hear that? You’re nearly there.” He groans, pressing chaste kisses down your neck. “Keep going, love. You’ve got this.”
You are nearly there, but not in the way he’s implying. “Astarion… I can’t... Gods. Not when you’re-”
“When I am what?” He increases his pace, making you slump over and moan, closing your eyes against the pleasure. “If you stop, so will I.”
Good Gods. There is almost nothing you wouldn’t do to get him to continue, so you force your eyes to open, center them on the lock, and try to continue manipulating the godsforsaken device.
Astarion presses his erection against your lower back with a shaky groan. He drags his finger up and down your seam, teasing your entrance, and then back to circling your demandingly pulsing pearl. The sensation is too overwhelming, making your core spasm involuntarily, and the tools drop from your hands in favour of holding onto the edge of the bathtub for dear life.
His ministrations pause instantaneously. “The tools do you no good unless you use them, darling.”
You roll your hips in a vain attempt to get any friction, but Astarion grasps them and forces them to remain still. You lean back into him; his cock pulses against you, and despite his outward poise, the low grunts and growls in his throat tell you that he’s losing his composure.
“Astarion,” you whimper in disapproval. It takes everything you have not to take matters into your own hands, so to speak.
“You want more?” He taunts, with a featherlight stroke to entice you. “Go on then. Unlock it.”
You smile at his choice of words and grin at him mischievously. Before he has time to correct himself, your fingers dance, the incantation rolls off your tongue, and the lock clicks open for you.
Astarion chuckles — rich and low. He kisses your shoulder, clicks his tongue, and tuts. “That’s cheating, Kamena.”
“You said unlock it,” you tease. “You didn’t specify how.”
“You naughty little vixen,” he scolds, kissing up the column of your neck. He whispers, letting his cool breath fan your heated skin. “I have half a mind to withhold your prize.”
“What does the other half of your mind say?” You press into his arousal, rocking your hips side to side.
“Fuck it."
His fingers clutch your chin, turning your head in a possessive hold, and he kisses you ravenously. You only feel the blunt head of Astarion’s cock at your entrance for a moment before he drives himself to the hilt with a swift snap of his hips.
Your eyes roll back, and Astarion’s hand covers your mouth to smother the loud, rapturous cry.
“We are not at home any longer,” he grunts as he pulls back slowly, so you can feel every crest of his swollen head exquisitely drag across your ridges. “Are you going to stay quiet, or shall I keep you quiet?”
There is no hope that when you speak, your words will be intelligible, and you simply put your hand over the one covering your mouth to let him know he should keep it there, lest the entire household know what carnal depravity you’re partaking in.
“As you wish,” he purrs, nipping at your shoulder and snaking an arm around your waist to hold you steady.
Your thighs tremble as you ride out the relentless pace Astarion sets. The bath water splashes over the edges of the tub with every one of his powerful thrusts. Every thought shatters into fireworks that burst behind your eyes, and all your doubts are drowned away as he slams into you, hitting a spot so deep that it makes your legs weak.
“You are mine,” he growls, dark and dominating.
Yes. Yours. Make me forget every month, day, second I spent without you. Make me forget.
I want to forget.
Astarion’s fangs crawl down your neck and sink into your flesh with a quick snap of his jaw. He doesn’t ask permission, but he knows he doesn’t need to. He plays with your clit, the pads of his fingers rubbing and circling, and the combination of all these sensations borders on overwhelming.
The world seems to fall away around you, and all that’s left is you, him, and devastatingly intense ecstasy. Your hand drops and grasps Astarion’s thigh, fingers squeezing the taut muscles, feeling them work as he pounds into you unrelentingly. You’re a moaning, whimpering, mindless mess as the pleasure grows and grows until every nerve is humming with blissful tension. A loud moan rumbles in Astarion’s chest, and the tension snaps suddenly like an overwrought elastic band.
You come, hard and loud, thighs shaking, hips rocking into him, every shockwave clenching upon his thickness so strongly that it draws ragged breaths from his throat.
He removes his fangs from your neck. “Kiss me,” he orders.
Even though your spirit feels like it’s just finding its footing back in your body, you turn your head with parted lips, blinking at him slowly. Your blood is smeared across his silken mouth, dripping down his chin. His eyes are glossy with genuine pleasure as he moulds his lips to yours.
Astarion’s hand wraps around your throat, and he buries his cock as deep as you can take him thrust after sensational thrust. He entices your lips to part, his tongue eagerly seizing the whimpers and sighs from your throat.
His hips stutter, eyes squeezing shut, and he cries in your mouth as his cock twitches and pulses, spilling his seed deeply inside you as he unravels in the Eden of his climax.
You both slump forward as you catch your breath, holding onto the edge of the bathtub for support. Astarion’s hand slips from your throat to just under your breasts, and he keeps you pressed firmly to his chest, supporting your still-trembling body.
In his arms, you feel safe and secure.
Yet, there is a voice at the back of your head that warns you not to get too comfortable being this in love because if his life is in danger and being in Waterdeep with you puts him in mortal peril, you will send him away.
You will break his heart to save his life — even if it breaks you.
The shadows spread out around you, with only the soft bioluminescent glow of crystals, flora, and your small fire providing any illumination to the hopeless dark. You gaze at the fire, absently morphing it into shapes of things you miss from the surface — the sun, trees, birds.
Astarion.
How long have you been down here trying to track down his siblings and the 7,000 vampire spawn you set free?
Days? Weeks? Months?
Long enough for your skin to start losing the kiss of the sun.
When the flaming figure looks up from the book in his hands and waves at you, tears start to prick your eyes, and you curse under your breath as you relinquish your control and the fire rolls down into its natural state.
You know better than to allow your mind to wander. Why you keep doing this to yourself, you’ll never understand.
You glance around your little, makeshift, one-person camp situated in a spot you remember well. You thought it would bring you comfort to stay where you have happier memories, but the barrenness is only another aching reminder of his absence. Sighing, you grab the edges of your bedroll and start wrapping it up. You left your tent months ago when it became too threadbare and worn to be of much use other than slowing you down.
Your fingers comb through your knotted hair quickly and tie it back. It’s not been properly washed in some time, and it feels stringy and gritty against your hands. You look briefly around the camp before walking down the little slope, taking particular care to evade the spore clouds from the timmask.
Picking up where you left off the day before, you follow the path and keep a keen eye on the ground. Without the banter from your friends, an eerie silence spreads in all directions around you.
But that’s how it’s been for months — just you, the road, and your nightmares.
You crouch down, studying the tracks in the silt. Pressing your fingers into the dirt, you find it to be dry and dusty this far away from the lake. The ground would not hold impressions for long.
I’m getting closer.
Something snaps in the murk, making you jump to your feet and study the surroundings, but the darkness is deep and obscure.
“Hello?”
The stillness doesn’t answer.
My mind is playing tricks on me again.
After adjusting your pack, you do your best to follow the trail. The Arcane Tower looms in the distance, a spire that seems to blend in with the gloomy atmosphere except for the burning braziers giving off their blue glow. A flurry of pebbles bounces down a nearby cliff, clattering against the stone. Perception heightens all your senses, your skin prickles, and your hair stands on end.
You’re being watched, tracked, and hunted.
Casting Misty Step, you vanish and reappear, swiftly descending into a crouch, shrouded in darkness. Frenzied red eyes and dirty, gaunt faces begin to appear with their fangs bared in deranged toothy grins that spell danger. They scent the air, and their eyes snap directly to your position, their fingers poised in front of them, ready to claw their prey.
They twitch and quiver, snarling and hissing like feral animals. You try to speak to them, but your words fall flat, muted by malnourishment and bloodlust. You search the faces for someone you recognize, but good Gods, they are filthy, cadaverous, and emaciated.
Hells. Are they suffering because I didn’t have the strength to end it when I could have?
You do the only thing you can and run. Their pursing footsteps thunder like a stampeding herd of Bulette. You sprint, pushing your body to careen over the uneven terrain faster, faster, faster until your muscles burn and cramp.
But it is not fast enough.
You scream for Astarion as your mind blanks momentarily from panic, but he’s not here; he’s never here, and he never will be again.
You trip.
Gods.
You trip on rocks and gnarled roots, scraping your knees and palms. The scent of blood in the air only sends them further into a frenzy, and bony hands grab at you from all sides. You try to pull away, but it’s too late. You are jerked forward, back, and side to side as they contend over you as if you are the last decaying scrap of carrion in all of Faerûn.
Numerous pairs of pointed fangs pierce into the flesh of your arms, legs, and neck. They are not gentle. Hells, they are not gentle at all, nothing like Astarion. This pain does not ebb into a pleasant, dull throb. It is sharp, with ice and fire rending your skin. They shake their heads, ripping and tearing, and their fangs sink through muscle and hit bone.
How many of them are there? Hundreds? Thousands?
Crimson eyes and hollow cheeks fill your vision, blotting out everything else. You thrash, you struggle, and you call for Astarion in high-pitched screams, but none of it is of any use.
You lash out at them with your magic, allowing the flames to envelop your skin, but they hold your arms and legs, grinding your limbs into the dirt. They burn, but they do not stop; they cannot stop. They are too starved and too crazed. They will drain you dry even as they char and blacken.
It’s over.
You will die alone in the dark.
A sheen of cool sweat dusts your skin, you grow cold, and the pain begins to recede into a cradling senselessness. You resign yourself to death as you walk the edge of it. When the darkness calls, you find that you want to heed it and tumble into the respite of your imminent demise. Your heart beats slower, slower, slower. It palpates in your chest, trying to pump blood that is no longer in your body.
Your eyelids are heavy, lashes fluttering as they beg to close. Death approaches you, seductive and charming, with outstretched arms. It is attractive and tempting. It whispers relief. Death is all embrace me and never be alone again. It says don’t be afraid. It beckons you to join it in sweet, all-encompassing release. You reach toward it, taking it’s hand, and allow yourself to be led away from the pain, the cold, the loneliness — all of it.
And you finally feel at peace.
A voice bellows, agitating the edges of the still serenity you’re sinking into, and fangs begin to rip from your arm and legs.
A man?
You blink, trying to clear your clouded vision. The voice urges you to move, to get up and run. You try, but the earth here is unable to swallow your blood quickly enough, and you slip and fall into the pools collecting on the ground. Your eyelashes flutter weakly as you squint to look at the man standing before you, hauling, and throwing the hysterical, blood-mad spawn away.
Astarion?
The feeble beat of your heart jolts with hope, and you turn away from death, releasing its hand and resisting its siren song. You turn away from the peaceful nullity it offers, walk out of its dark caress, and back into your body.
But all hope is expunged as soon as the shroud is removed from your sight. The blurred figure begins to take shape, and previously formless details sharpen.
No…
Not Astarion.
Never Astarion.
Though you do recognize him, your mind sluggishly tries to connect the familiarity with memories.
His name. Gods, you know it, but what is it?
Sebastian.
The spawn attack, throwing themselves at him, rendered insane by the smell of your blood. You try to push yourself up again, but you only make it to your knees, wavering unsteadily as your head spins and unconsciousness summons. Sebastian starts calling out over his shoulder.
“Get her out of here,” Sebastian barks to Leon who looks at you with brows furrowed in confusion. “Her blood is only making it worse. Dal and I can keep them busy long enough for you to get her away.”
Leon nods curtly, sprinting toward you and throwing you over his shoulder. It’s not a comfortable hold, as his bony shoulder juts into your stomach and lungs. The swaying makes your head throb sickeningly, and you fade in and out of consciousness.
Panicked voices rouse you back from the dark, but you cannot open your eyes. Your senseless fingers twist into your robe as you try to find a way to hold onto your wakefulness.
“What are we going to do with her?” A woman’s baffled voice quivers. “What in the Hells is she even doing down here?”
“If we don’t do something quickly, she’s going to die,” Sebastian says.
“Let her die,” another man’s voice drawls, heartless and cold. “I could use a snack.”
“Petras!” Leon scolds.
Your eyes finally begin to open while they debate your fate. You’re slumped against the stone wall of the Arcane Tower.
“You cannot seriously be suggesting we let her bleed out.” Sebastian mutters from the corner. “She killed Cazador. She saved our lives. She saved Astarion.”
“She-” Petras stomps with his fists balled at his sides. “ She stood by and watched while Astarion roasted me!”
Dal scoffs. “Are you still sour about that? Gods. Let it go.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head and jutting his chin out haughtily. “I don’t think I will, sister.”
“She means much to Astarion,” Leon sighs, rubbing his forehead. “We owe him to at least try and save her.”
Your voice is weak, barely even a whisper. “Have you seen or heard from him?”
All of their heads snap toward you with narrow eyes.
“Who?” Dal tries to smile, stops pacing, and comes to crouch by your side.
“Astarion. Have you seen him?”
Leon frowns. “No. The last time we saw him was at the Black Mass with you.”
You nod and let your head loll to the side. It takes every ounce of energy you have left, but you cast Detect Thoughts covertly.
You knew it was a long shot, but they are not lying.
“Let me die.” You sob. “Have mercy and let me die.”
When your eyes crack and creep open, darkness so thick that it presses in on you, being drawn into your lungs with every shallow, rapid breath, suffocating you from the inside and out, is there to greet you once more.
Death had been a mysterious, charming man, holding your hand, and gently walking you into that final repose, and you turned away from him and told him to wait.
You told Death himself to wait because you thought Astarion was there.
But he wasn’t.
He was never there.
Your eyes cry silent tears of mourning for the loss of the peace that was all but promised to you. Now, you must walk on the precipice of two existences. One in which you exist to hold everyone and everything together — a fearless leader, a lover, a light in the darkness — and the other where you watch yourself continually fall apart, crushed beneath the weight of it all.
Shutting your eyes so tight it hurts, you clench your teeth, and instead of shying away from the pain, running, as you so often do, you delve into it. You force your heart to ingest your fears, doubts, and suffering until it shatters, you run out of tears, and you let it hurt until that too stops.
A remarkable numbness circulates through your veins, like a wave cast out from your heart as it burst into fragments of all the things you used to be. There is no happiness or sadness, love or not, just a soft lull into emotionlessness, and you wade ever deeper into the treacle of frigid calm.
Somewhere, deep inside you, a voice whispers that this is worse, that this is not healing, that this is running.
You tell that voice to shut the fuck up.
You manage to slip out of the room without waking Astarion, pad through the silent manor, and go outside into the courtyard. The storm still rages on. Rain splatters against your face, thunder and lightning crack overhead, and the wet strands of your hair whip wildly in the wind. You stay as the rain drenches you to the bone, you’re shivering, and watch the wild orchestra; the chaos of it mirrors the turmoil of your own soul.
“Sorceress.” The voice comes from behind a locked, wrought-iron gate.
The voice should make you jump, scream, run, but it does not even spur the shattered remains of your heart to quiver in their grave.
“Aldous.”
“My master would like to parlay with you.” He sneers as if it physically pains him to say. “She believes a deal can be struck to avoid fatalities on both sides.”
“I don’t make deals with Vampire Lords.” You hiss, “You can tell your master I said to fuck off.”
“Kamena,” Aldous slinks closer to the gate. Can he come through the gate? Is it just houses they can’t walk into uninvited, or is this part of the house? “You did not even ask what her offer was. I assure you that you will want to hear it.”
Curiosity gets the better of you. “What’s she offering?”
“Safety, for you and yours, including the blood sucker,” Aldous hisses the last part, and it makes you smirk. It must just be killing him to offer safety to the man who drained him dry and left him to rot.
“Not interested,” you yawn, and stretch dramatically. “There are other ways to ensure our safety that do not rely on a deal with a Vampire Lord. I much prefer those ways.”
“What about this?” Aldous holds up a ring. A golden band with a large ruby, but it looks otherwise unremarkable.
“Jewellery?” You scoff, “Gods. Are you just fucking with me now?”
“I admit it appears rather unremarkable, but it is the Ring of the Sunwalker. It will allow your lover to walk in the sun again unharmed.”
Could it be true? Could an enchanted ring be mere feet away from you that will allow Astarion to see and walk in the sun again without fear?
“What’s to stop me from taking it from you right now?” You stalk toward the gate, fire ablaze in your palms.
“Ah-ah, Sorceress.” Aldous wags his index finger at you. He holds the ring in his palm, and you realize it’s an illusion. “My master is willing to give up such a unique treasure if you can come to an agreement.”
“Because she means to complete the Rite of Profane Ascension, the one I stopped Cazador from completing. She will be able to walk in the sun, and she won’t need it anymore. Correct?”
“Something like that.” Aldous smiles snake-like. “So, what do you say?”
“Astarion and my friends are guaranteed safety, and we get the ring, but what’s the catch?”
“We require an exact sketch of his scars to complete the contract as well as the incantation.”
You could end this. You could take the deal, take Astarion, and run as far from Waterdeep as you can, leaving it to its fate under an Ascended Vampire Lord.
How far would you go to ensure Astarion’s safety? Would you turn a blind eye to another Vampire Lord ascending and all the thousands of deaths that means?
Could you live with yourself?
“I will think about it.”
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Do we think Kamena is going to take the offer seriously?
I am curious. Would you consider it if it means safety for all your friends and Astarion, and a ring that allows him to walk in the sun unharmed, even if it means turning a blind eye to all that death?
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.9K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” You ask, glancing at Shadowheart.
Her eyebrows pinch, and she studies the map in her hands with Gale looking over her shoulder.
“This is the correct location, according to the map.” Gale says, with his fingers cradling his chin.
You walk through a grand wrought-iron archway toward the two-story manor with a facade of azure tiles that gleam in the sunlight. A marble staircase leads to the portico, lined with stately round columns and a double door with intricate carvings of mermaids and sea serpents.
“You look perplexed, Gale,” you say, as he comes up beside you with his arms crossed. “Something wrong?”
“Just lost in thought." Gale cants his head. "I cannot recall ever seeing this building before, and something with this much grandeur stands out.”
"So, are we just going to spend the day outside or are we going to discover what treasures this puppy has inside?" Hecat prompts with her voice high with excitement.
You barely manage to stifle the groan that tries to cow its way from your throat, but your face deforms into a disgruntled scowl despite your intentions to remain impassive.
Why did I insist on bringing her again? Ah-yes, because it was either this or leaving her alone with Astarion.
“We cannot just go barging into homes,” you conclude with an authoritative edge. It’s been a while since you had to take this tone with anyone, and it feels strange to be playing the role of the fearless leader again. “Gale grew up here. If he says he hasn’t seen this building before, then something is up, and we must proceed carefully.”
Hecat purses her lips with her hands on her hips, and then she laughs like an overly energetic child. “Of course, dragon girl. Whatever you say.”
“Well, it’s possible I missed it.” Gale says, trying to ease the tension. “Though, unlikely.”
“No.” Shadowheart hisses with distain. She looks at you with a mischievous smile. “Kamena is right, Gale. You wouldn’t miss a bright blue building in your hometown.”
You make a mental note to hug Shadowheart later. There’s a peculiar feeling rife in the air, and you glance around and study the environment. Though it looks picturesque, no birds fly in the sky above, no insects hover above the vivid yellow and blue flowers that line the gardens, and the salty breeze doesn’t rustle the trees or grass.
An illusion, and a sloppy one at that.
The Weave suffuses you, infusing every pore of your being, until the essence emanates from you in a blushing radiance. Reaching out, you project vines of power to twist and penetrate into the illusion and expel the magic that holds it in place.
The mirage flutters and dissolves away like paint on a canvas left out in the rain, revealing a forsaken structure with thorny, sunburnt vines that run up cracked walls of dirt-stained limestone.
“Someone went through a lot of trouble to hide this,” you mutter, drawing your quarterstaff, Markoheshkir. “Be on your guard.”
Gale fills himself with the Weave, Shadowheart brandishes her spear, and Hecat unholsters the sword she procured from the prison as you approach. The door squeaks on its hinges as you push it open and enter the grand vestibule. A discarded chandelier lays sprawled on the floor, which is layered with dust and rubble that grinds under your boots.
It doesn’t look like anything aside from rodents and insects has resided here in a long time as you search the forgotten manor. Clothing is strewn with holy moth-eaten rags hanging from wardrobes and chests as if the drawers were retching the clothing, indicating whoever lived here fled quickly. Jewellery of all kinds still sits on tarnished silver platters in the bed chambers.
“Don’t mind if I do!” Hecat yammers with a wide smile as she fills her pockets.
You roll your eyes as you flip through the embrittled pages of what looks to be an old journal, but the pigment in the ink has faded with age and become nearly unreadable.
Leaving Hecat to her ransacking, you meander through the upper-floor bedrooms and libraries, trying to imagine what this place would have looked like without the mould eagerly crawling up the walls, spreading its tendrils of decay, and the dreary, dirt-clad flooring. The ceiling was once frescoed to depict epic scenes of something that's no longer discernible through the fractures and decayed patches.
Shadowheart trots up beside you and whispers. “Hecat is going to need someone to carry her out of here if she keeps stuffing her pockets.”
“Good.” You lean close to Shadowheart, putting your arm around her shoulder. “I will happily leave her and her overstuffed pockets here.”
Shadowheart chuckles under her breath. “Me too, but I imagine we will have to drag Gale away.”
You wiggle your glowing fingers with a devious grin. “What do you think Sleep spells are for?”
Ducking into a bed chamber, you use the sleeve of your robe to wipe the grime from the window, allowing some light into the dim space. Shadowheart follows you, pulling out drawers and opening containers, analyzing everything with a quizzical furrow pinching her brow.
Your boots thud off a floor plank with a hollow plunk, making you stop in your tracks. Crouching, you brush away the debris and rap your knuckles against various boards until you find the source. It’s barely perceptible, but you can see the scratches where the beam has been moved.
“Shadowheart. Do you think you can pry this up with the tip of your spear?”
Shadowheart wedges the point of her blade between the board and pops it out to reveal a small compartment full of the silky remains of spider webs, and you cringe.
Shadowheart laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of spiders.”
“Oh, don’t you start to!” You huff theatrically. “I take enough shit from Astarion over this.”
“Well, you did throw rocks at him that one time.” Shadowheart goads, trying to stifle her chuckling.
“Once! I did it once! Gods above. I’m about to throw rocks at you too!”
“Spiders, huh?” Hecat simpers, leaning against the doorframe with a smarmy grin. “Don’t worry. We all have our weaknesses. I’ve got you, dragon girl.”
You and Shadowheart glance at each other with palpable caution. Hecat has never been quiet, always stomping around Gale’s manor with footsteps so loud that it’s like her feet are made of lead. Yet here she is sneaking up and eavesdropping on your conversations. This one was innocent, but if she is capable of moving that quietly when she wants to, you will have to be more vigilant.
Hecat reaches into the hole, shooting you a smile that looks genuine but doesn’t reach her eyes, and produces a small diary with leather straps, keeping it tied shut. She hands the item off, probably unhappy that it’s not another gem or golden necklace for her to stuff in her already plump pack.
You open it carefully. The pages feel weak, as if they might fall to pieces like a dried leaf. The ink is dull, but there are passages that are legible, and you scan them. It’s written in an old dialect of common and speaks of meeting a handsome man in a tavern with eyes red like the sunset and skin pale and impossibly smooth like a pearl’s surface.
Several pages have to be flipped before you find another passage clear enough to read. It talks about sneaking out to meet the unnamed man in the rose gardens bordering the estate every night, how he seemed oddly cold when they embraced, and how his smiles were only ever tight-lipped.
Another excerpt speaks about sneaking him into the basement of the manor, falling in love, and how he spoke in sweet promises of eternity.
The rest of the words are illegible until the last page, which reads, “I am dead. I am dead. I am dead.”
By the time you look back up, Gale is standing with Hecat while Shadowheart reads over your shoulder.
Shadowheart shakes her head. “Poor fool.”
“I didn’t see a basement in this place.” You glance between Shadowheart and Gale, who both shrug.
You meticulously search the main floor for anything that looks out of place. Hecat and you move overturned furniture, Shadowheart tosses books off shelves, and Gale uses the Weave to look for any illusion that may be still at play, but all you get for it is dirt-streaked faces and grimy hands.
“You could just break the walls,” Hecat muses, looking around. “You’re powerful enough to do that, aren’t you?”
“What a bright idea!” You cannot keep the poisonous sarcasm out of your voice. “I will just bring the entire place down on our heads. That will surely do it!”
Hecat scoffs, but before she can lash you with a clever counter, Gale shouts, “My friends! I think I found something!”
Shadowheart pats your back as you trail behind Hecat with a fearsome frown. You really would like to melt her eyes from her sockets. She’s been eyeballing Astarion ever since you returned, and try as you might, letting go, or growing up, as Astarion so harshly put it, has been a challenge.
You’re trying, but insecurity is a rabid beast, and it hasn’t quite had its fill of you yet.
Gale points to an unremarkable shelf built into a wall. “Seek, and you shall find! There’s a draft from the cracks in the wood.” Gale grabs your hand, sticking it close. “Feel it?”
Although it’s barely perceivable, the air coming from behind the cracks is cooler than that of the ambient room. Your fingers trace around the edges. If there were any scratches or marks to indicate a way to open this, they’ve been hidden by peeling paint and swollen, cracking wood.
You fill yourself with the Weave making your eyes burn pink, and Shadowheart and Gale move away habitually, an old habit from your adventures. Hecat, on the other hand, stands close, tapping her foot impatiently. You’re very tempted to let her get caught in your destruction — an unfortunate accident — but Gale guides her away before you can make up your mind.
“Detono!”
The wood boards are thrown inward, hailing splinters with a loud boom. The dank, mildewed air fans your sweaty face as you peer into a dark corridor. Shadowheart casts Light on her spear, and you hold fire in your palm as you make your way through the cramped alley with mindful steps until you come to a stone staircase that winds down.
The shadows seem to stretch and distort along the stone walls ominously, and your footsteps echo throughout. It takes minutes to reach the bottom, where it finally opens up into a room with a dirt floor. There are dirty, hay-stuffed mattresses strewn about, but the room extends too far to see properly.
You crouch as Shadowheart stops by your side. You hold your arm out to halt her and scan the earthy ground. “Traps.”
Astarion taught you many things — identifying traps was one of them — but he laughed boisterously until tears shone in his eyes when you asked him to teach you how to disarm them.
“Ah-no.” Astarion giggles mirthfully. The harder you scowl, the funnier he thinks it is.
“What?” You pout and shoot him the puppy eyes that you know he has a hard time refusing. “Please?”
Astarion smirks, leaning back in his chair with his hands laced behind his head. “You can look at me with your sad puppy eyes and precious pout all you like, darling. The answer is still no."
“Why not?” You snort. “Don’t you think it would be prudent for me to know? What if I get myself trapped somewhere?”
“Well, since I go where you go, I don’t see that being a problem.” Astarion grins handsomely, fangs peeking out from the perfect bow of his lips.
“You’re scared I’m going to blow myself up, aren’t you?”
“Scared?” He chuckles with a highly arched brow and a slight shake of his head. “No. I have no doubt you will blow yourself up. If you die, who is going to light the fire for me? Gods forbid I would have to return to doing it the old-fashioned way. With these nails? Truly a travesty."
“You know that I am well aware you can cast Fire Bolt, right? I mean, you don’t cast it well, but well enough to light the fire."
“Don’t cast it well? Hells below.” Astarion groans. “It’s a cantrip; there’s hardly any skill needed for such child's play. The same cannot be said about disarming traps. If you fuck that up, you die, and your dexterity is atrocious. I’ll leave the magic to you, and you leave the traps to me, yes?”
“Fine!” You relent, giving your foot a stomp because you know it will earn you another lilting giggle from him, and it’s somehow the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard. “I didn’t hear any complaints about my dexterity last night.”
"Sassy tonight, are we?" Astarion smiles, patting his lap. “Do you ever stop thinking about sex?”
“With you?” You settle with your legs at his hips and his hands around your waist. “Never.”
“Well, stop thinking and start doing, my sweet.”
Returning at night is a dangerous prospect. You’ve been doing most of your scouting during the day and making sure you’re well within the safety of the manor long before twilight blankets the city.
You sigh. “We will need to return with Astarion before we can proceed any further.”
“Oh, goody!” Hecat squeals. “I cannot wait to see the vampire in action. That must truly be a real pleasure to see.”
You close your eyes tightly, scrunching up your entire face with a white-knuckled grip on Markoheshkir.
It would be so terrible if she tripped and fell into the traps. Wouldn't it?
“That vampire has a name,” Shadowheart scolds with a surly intonation. “And you would do well to mind your tongue, or you’ll find yourself on the streets.”
“Now, now,” Gale mewls in his too-cordial, assuaging intonation. “I’m sure Hecat didn’t mean to offend.”
“I—“ Hecat trips over her own words. She tries to keep her voice steady, but you catch the faintest tremble of dread braided with embarrassment. The Tiefling doesn’t want to be left on the streets, it seems, but you cannot help but wonder if it’s all an act. “I didn’t mean to antagonize anyone. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me.” Hecat grabs your arm, forcing you to turn and look at her. She pleads, “Especially you. Truly. My mouth can run a little brainlessly. I’m sorry.”
She sounds sincere, and her eyes don’t radiate any ill-will. Guilt sneaks up on you like a shadowed figure, unnoticed until it’s standing behind you and smothering your conscience in its dark silhouette. This woman has been decent to you. In prison, she protected you from the riffraff and was essential to your escape; outside of it, she’s done nothing more than make obtuse comments and salivate over Astarion, but most people do the same when in his presence.
You wonder idly if there is anything you can do to make him slightly less earth-shatteringly handsome — a moronic contemplation. Your best idea is that you could polymorph him into a sheep, but knowing him, he would find a way to make even that look good.
Ridiculous, bafflingly beautiful man.
With a lungful of musty air, you acquiesce and try to gag the mistrustfulness that has made its home in your bone marrow. “It's alright. Let's return home, and we can think about if we want to return here at night. We could be walking straight into a trap.”
Astarion greets you, standing just shy of the sun flooding in from the door, having heard your approach. “Gods. You’re positively filthy. What in the Hells were you up to? You look like you’ve been rolling in dirt.”
“What? Not going to give me a welcome back hug, lover?” You tease.
“Bloody Hells no,” he taunts, quirking a brow at you with a mock disdainful grin. “You seriously cannot expect me to sully all of this with all of that.” He gestures wildly toward you.
“I’m certain I recall you enjoying a little roll in the dirt once in a while.” You taunt, shimming your shoulders with a whimsical smile.
“Good Gods, you two really haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Shadowheart chuckles, placing her spear on the weapon rack. “At least take it upstairs, will you?”
Astarion smirks with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Gladly.”
Hecat strolls past Astarion without even glancing his way, and you wonder if the woman has finally — fucking finally — taken the hint, but there is still a slight sway to her hips and the tip of her tail ghosts over his upper thigh. Whether it was done on purpose or by accident, there’s no way to tell.
Astarion darts to the side at the unexpected contact, and his features contort in a knee-jerk response. He swallows hard, making his Adam’s apple bob, and you see it written in his eyes.
Disgust. Loathing. All those feelings he tries so hard to forget.
You seethe, your skin worming over your frame in a sea of flames, and you step forward with magic braced on your fingertips. Astarion slips in front of you and shakes his head in a silent plea to overlook it. It makes you physically ill, but you yield and stalk upstairs to your room to change into something less covered in muck.
“Thank you,” Astarion murmurs.
“For?”
“I do love it when you act pig-headed,” he grunts, currying his fingers through his hair. “Hecat. I know you saw it, and I know you saw my reaction to it.”
“She made you uncomfortable,” you hiss under your breath, tossing your dirty robe and trousers away aggressively. You want to say she is lucky to still have her life, and that is a godsdamned truth. Relax, you think. Astarion is capable of taking care of himself. He needs my support, not my ire. You take a deep breath and say, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about, really,” Astarion laments, sitting on the bed with his hand on his forehead. “Not that you’re not aware of anyway. It was a spontaneous response to being touched in a way I wasn’t expecting, and perhaps a little too close to home, if you catch my drift, but I am not convinced it was purposeful.”
Sometimes you wonder if you pushed him too hard in the Shadowlands when he confessed. Should you have backed off and been his friend instead of his lover? Is that what would’ve been better for him? In the moment, it felt right to hug him, but sometimes you look back and see it as a selfish thing to do when he was telling you he didn’t enjoy intimacy.
Oh? Intimacy brings up feelings of disgust and loathing? Well, let me press my body right up against yours without asking!
Foolish fucking woman.
You cannot help but worry that you cause the same discomfort on occasion when you touch him unexpectedly. Though his issues surrounding affection are difficult for him to navigate, they are also undeniably demanding of you. Where you find solace in his touch, regardless of whether it’s expected or sudden, the same cannot be said about him, and it’s all too easy to misplace the mindfulness of that fact.
How often do you touch him out of reflex and cause the same feelings to crop up? How many times has he ignored it and simply let it happen without saying a word?
“Don’t.” Astarion pleads suddenly right in front of you, taking your hand and pressing it to his chest in the way he knows soothes you. His face and voice are a ledger to his anxiety. He blurts frantically. “Don’t pull away from me now. Don’t run from me. Please.”
In another lifetime, you would’ve asked the questions plaguing your mind without hesitation. You have memories of when communication was harmonious and uncomplicated. He would tell you when you were being an obstinate, pigheaded child, and you would tell him when he was being a haughty, old prick.
And then he left me, you think, in the dead of night.
That time is dead, buried in a graveyard of uncertainty and doubt. You’re beginning to trust him; day by day, it gets easier and a little less daunting, but will you ever be that confident in your relationship again?
Astarion’s crimson eyes don’t leave yours, and his thumb sweeps across the back of your hand, the picture of patience. You allow your body to lean into him slowly so that he knows your intention — a gesture of comfort and reassurance that you aren’t going to race out the door like you’ve done on so many occasions. His response is unforced and natural, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight.
“Tell me what’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours, my love.” He coos, soft and gentle, in that whisky-warm voice that allays your turbulent thoughts. “You can talk to me about anything.”
You mull it over in your head, not completely sure that you can handle starting down this particular road. Quiet minutes stretch out between you. Astarion’s hand rubs slow circles across your back, but he does not press you further.
“Do I ever make you feel like that?” You mutter against his chest, sheltered in his arms from whatever painful truths this ends with. “I forget sometimes to make my intentions to touch you obvious or known. I need you to remind me when I lapse.”
“Oh, love, no.” Astarion smiles as you venture a glance up at him. He leans forward but halts inches above your lips, making you meet him halfway. You kiss him, your hand caressing his cheek. “When it’s just us, you needn’t be heedful of when or where you touch me, Kamena. You haven’t made me feel that way in some time, but if you ever do, I will tell you. I do not intend to keep anything from you again.” He reassures.
“Okay.” You exhale heavily through your nose and try to relax the rigidity in your body. “I still get scared sometimes that you’re going to leave again, that I’ll wake up one morning and you’ll be gone.”
“I know,” Astarion sighs, kissing your forehead. He takes your arms and gently guides them around his waist, encouraging you to touch his back with a steady gaze. When you hug him, you rarely wrap yourself around his waist, ever mindful of his back and scars. It is a show of how much he trusts you and how your touch does not bother him. “I know it will take time, and I will never stop trying, but do you think you will ever be able to trust me again?”
“I’m trying,” you reply truthfully, even though it’s far more complex than that. You bury your face in his chest, finding it easier to confess when he isn’t staring at you with those eyes that impair your ability to speak honestly. “It just... it still hurts.”
“I’m well aware. You mutter in your trance sometimes, begging me not to go or to come back.”
A flush of embarrassment tidal waves through you, pricking across your skin all the way to the tips of your ears. Hells. You knew you often woke up screaming, but you didn’t realize you were also talking during your rest.
You wave it off, trying to play it as insignificant and something you can easily disregard.
Astarion grabs your arm. His touch is gentle, but his expression is grave. “No. Don’t pretend it’s nothing when it is anything but.”
You ground yourself and attempt to persuade him. “They are just dreams, Astarion. It’s really not— “
“Serious?” Astarion retorts, clearly a little irritated that you think you can manipulate him into believing this little white lie. “It is significant, Kamena. Those fears, the ones I caused, do not just infect your dreams; they bleed into the waking world as well. I see them on your face; endeavour to catch them before they latch on and take root; keep them at bay as much as I can.
“I do not begrudge you, but don’t discount your residual pain.” Astarion looks askance, his eyes darkening like cloudy skies. “If you minimize it, then you also discard the effort I am putting in to dispel them and prove that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I--" you stutter, trying to govern the impulse to keep cementing your suffering behind a wall and hope he doesn’t see it. Your throat feels dry all of a sudden. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know this has been difficult for you as well. I didn’t mean to undervalue your efforts.”
Astarion’s eyes return to yours, full of hope and appreciation for acknowledging that you know he’s trying. “Thank you. Now, quit leaving me in this dreadful suspense. Did you find anything on your little expedition today?”
You dig through your bag and hand him the diary. “Not much, but the place was glamoured like the bog, if you remember.”
“Do you think my memory really that fickle?” Astarion scoffs while he pours over the pages. “I may not remember everything from two centuries ago, darling, but I vividly remember a couple years ago, especially your sun-kissed skin, rosy cheeks, and eyes that could slow galaxies. Though, I would have preferred if you had left that illusion in place.”
“Perhaps it would have been more pleasant, but it was pretty funny to “Baaa” at the Redcaps, no?”
Astarion laughs. “You surprised me that day.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes,” Astarion simpers with a smug grin. “I did not expect you to bleat like a sheep so well — a flawless performance, truly.”
“A flawless performance, truly,” you repeat, doing your best to imitate him with a mocking flair.
“Sorceress.” His eyes swing up from the journal with a handsomely quirked brow. “Not half bad! You’re improving.”
You giggle at his praise. “Do you still have armour and weapons, Rogue? Or do we need to go on a thieving spree?”
That gets his full attention, and Astarion’s head jerks up. “I would never say no to a night of splendid depravity, but I do indeed still have my armour and weapons. Why?”
“There’s a basement positively brimming with traps that need disarming.”
“Hm, well, now I kind of wish I picked the thieving spree.” Astarion pouts. “Disarming traps all night sounds like much less fun.”
“You could always teach me how,” you taunt.
“This again? Gods.” Astarion groans, smoothing his hand down his face, exasperated. “The answer will be no until the end of time, sweetheart, but nice try.”
“You suck sometimes.”
Astarion laughs, saunters over, and folds his arms around you. He presses the sculpted muscles of his chest against your back and kisses your neck, tracing his lips up the column. “I am a man of many talents. I suck, bite, and lick, if you ask nicely enough, love.”
“Please.”
“Good girl,” he purrs.
Approaching the derelict estate slowly, Astarion’s eyes flit about the shadows as he methodically scans every concealed corner. He holds out a hand, halting you and Shadowheart at the archway, and listens. You and Shadowheart know this routine well, and you stand muted and motionless until Astarion indicates otherwise.
“I don’t hear or smell anything out of the ordinary, but that doesn’t mean they are not waiting downwind or out of sight.”
“You don’t say.” Shadowheart snickers satirically. “I would never have guessed that. Thank you, Astarion, for your impressive observations.”
“You’re very welcome, flower.” Astarion drawls with a boyish grin.
It feels like old times watching Astarion in his strikingly etched, black leather armour with gold stitching and buckles. Shadowheart still wears the Adamantine armour from your travels, but it’s been dyed sky blue, white, and gold. You adorn Wavemother’s robe, dyed deep lilac, orange, and black. The chains have been altered to include dragons that appear to soar up your chest.
It is, unsurprisingly, Astarion’s favourite among your robes.
Brandishing Markoheshkir with a flourish, you keep the Weave poised at your fingertips as you make your way inside.
“Do you think I could have a little look around?” Astarion asks, looking at you for permission as if you were still the leader of the ragtag group of misfits. “Perhaps I will find something you… overlooked.”
“Missed,” you grunt. “You want to look for things we might have missed. Be my guest, but if you’re looking for valuables to steal, Hecat already pocketed them all.”
Astarion nods, strolling off to pick through the ruins of someone’s life long since dead and turned to bone dust. Your fingers pass over dainty figurines that are chipped, dulled, and antiquated.
“How did you get Hecat to stay behind?” Shadowheart asks.
“I don’t know if you remember, but I can be exceptionally persuasive, and if that fails, intimidating.”
“Oh,” Shadowheart picks up a tattered book, tossing it aside. “How could I ever forget your silver tongue? It got us into and out of so many situations.”
“Didn’t it?”
“Who do you think these people were?” Shadowheart’s brows furrow. “They were obviously affluent and left in a hurry, but people with this type of money don’t tend to just go missing without notice.”
“Left, taken, or were killed.” You cast Light on your quarterstaff to illuminate the gloomy space and peer around.
“Killed,” Astarion concludes, descending the stairs with silent but rapid steps. “Massacred really.”
“How do you know?” Shadowheart frowns.
“Come now. Need I remind you that I’m a vampire?” Astarion crouches, sweeping away the layers of grime to reveal tenebrous, old floorboards. He twitches his fingers at you, and you toss him your glowing quarterstaff. He hovers it above the cleared patch and gestures toward an almost invisible discoloration. “Blood,” he concludes. “Very, very old, but blood nonetheless. It’s positively hither and yon in this place.”
“Hither and yon?” Shadowheart giggles. “Hells below. I do forget how old you are.”
“Curious.” Astarion arches a brow at her with a dastardly gleam in his nebulously red eyes. “I never forget how much of a child you are.”
Shadowheart scoffs indignantly, her arms crossing with a scowl.
Astarion chuckles, spinning Markoheshkir like he would his daggers, and then handing it to you. “Well, shall we head down into whatever horrors await us? You’ve only paid for my services until dawn, sorceress. It will cost you extra if I have to make an additional visit to this hellhole.”
“I don’t know if I can afford your fee, Rogue.”
Astarion pivots on his heel, tugging you by the waist into a chaste kiss with a knavish grin. “I am positive we can work something out, love.”
Shadowheart grunts her displeasure, making Astarion smile against your lips. You give him a playful shove away and point. “I’m not paying you to stand around.”
“Oh,” Astarion murmurs with a wink. “I do like it when you take charge and boss me around.”
Descending the stairs is even more imposing with the knowledge that you could be walking straight into a trap. The drum of your heartbeat spikes, and your breathing starts to quicken. Astarion glances back with a nod that tells you he still hasn’t detected anything unusual lurking in the abyssal depths. He offers you his hand, and you take it gladly.
At the bottom, you, Shadowheart, and Astarion all shuffle into the minimal space that Astarion indicates as a safe zone. Each of you tries peering into the nethermost bowels of the basement, but the shadows are far too thick. Even the Light emanating from Markoheshkir is hardly enough to brighten the vicinity around the three of you.
Shadowheart stares at the ground with a mix of trepidation and hesitancy. “Can you disarm traps in such low light, Astarion? Safely, I mean. I rather like my limbs attached to my body.”
“Not all traps are bombs, my dear.” He drawls nonchalantly, taking your staff and holding it out over the ground. “And these are an invigorating mix between acid and explosives. Hmm. If the acid is combustible, we would be in for quite the show. Not to worry. I can defuse these in my sleep. However, I’ll need some light, so Kamena, you need to stick close to me and step only where I indicate, understand?”
“Are you sure?” You ask, gripping his arm.
“If I was not sure, I would not have you follow me. I would never put you in danger.” Astarion assures with his eyes anchored on you, covering your hand with his own. “Do you trust me, Kamena?”
A nod to your earlier conversation where you admitted you’re still afraid he’s going to leave. You meet his gaze resolutely. “I trust you. Lead on.”
Astarion leads you through the tangle of traps, pointing where to place your feet. With Markoheshkir gleaming and slung across your back, you let fire hover in your palm at a distance Astarion deems safe and impel the element to burn white-hot. It is, admittedly, an excessive expenditure of your sorcery.
Even with Astarion’s mastery, it’s a slow-going process. There are far more traps than you were able to perceive at first glance, and the room extends further back than you anticipated. It seems every time Astarion has you proceed, you get naught more than a couple of shuffling steps before he’s crouching over another trap lying in wait for a careless foot. You glance back at Shadowheart, who has cast her own weapon with Light and call back to make sure she’s safe.
“Tell Astarion to bloody hurry up!” She grunts. “I think he’s out of practice.”
Astarion rolls his eyes, groaning under his breath as he fiddles with the device before him. You watch the deftness of his fingers as he makes short work of the mechanisms. It’s obvious why he refuses to teach you this particular skill. You wouldn’t possess enough patience or adroitness to perform this task. How Astarion knows which wires to cut, levers to adjust, or shells to remove is a mystery to you. They all appear different visually.
“She knows I can hear her, yes?” Astarion grumbles, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“She knows. Are you getting tired? We could take a break.”
“Tired?” Astarion quirks a brow at you with a frown. “What gives you that impression?”
“You’re sweating,” you reply bluntly.
“Yes,” he says snidely. “You are hovering a white-hot orb of flame over my head.”
“Why didn’t you just say something?” You scold him, trying to hide embarrassment. You know you’re being overzealous with the brightness. “I think I can coerce it to burn cooler.”
It’s an utter certainty that you can; fire is in your blood, and it bows to you, but it will require more endurance. As adept as you are, power is not limitless.
“I didn’t say anything because it’s kind of like being in the sun again, Solicallor.” He smiles authentically, but there is a sadness behind it that he doesn’t try to hide.
He misses the sun.
You nod your understanding, but still focus on marginally reducing the heat.
“How did you learn this?” You blurt out the question that’s been whirring around your mind since you started watching him.
You can’t imagine a magistrate would have much use for this, even a crooked one. Picking locks, absolutely, but this?
“Books at first.”
“Books?”
“Yes, darling, books. You know those things with paper and words all bound together? Books.” He teases.
“Ha-ha.” You say flatly. “I meant it more like you can learn this from books?”
“The basic principles of it anyway.” Astarion nods. “The application of them requires a little more hands-on experience.”
“There is not much to do during the day when you’re a vampire, besides trance, so I would read.” He glances up at you. “At night, after my orders were completed, I would peruse the city and disarm every trap I found. I blew myself up, poisoned myself, and had my skin eaten away by acid plenty of times before I got it right. Cazador would get positively peeved when I returned injured. It was good fun. Looking back at it now, I think I was trying to get myself killed, either by the traps themselves or Cazador.”
He seems bemused by the whole reminiscence, and you’re trying to decide whether to be horrified or not.
“Vampire spawn are obnoxiously hard to kill.” He muses thoughtfully. “I think that’s the last of them.” He stands, eyeing the ground and looking for anything he might have missed. He reaches for the quarterstaff draped across your back. “May I?”
You nod, and he takes it. He instructs briskly. “Stay here. I’m going to double check.”
“Astarion…”
Astarion squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “If one of these things blows up on me, I will survive — a little blood and I’ll be right as rain — but if one blows up on you, it could kill you, and I would never be able to forgive myself. Please don’t be mulish for once. I will be right back, and you’re more than welcome to continue scowling at me.”
You huff, rubbing your forehead. “Fine.”
Astarion strolls off confidently while you mutter under your breath, keeping the fire in your palm animated mostly for the solace it provides. You observe Astarion’s movements only by the lambency of Markoheshkir bobbing around in the dark like a dancing spectre.
He returns, calling out to Shadowheart to let her know it’s safe to move about.
“Should we spread out and search, or should we stick together?” Shadowheart asks, directed at you. “How big is this place?”
“I’m not sure.” Spreading out doesn’t sit well with you when you don’t know what could be skulking around in the darkness, but time is also of the essence, and it would be more efficient. You find yourself giving instructions, falling back into the leader role you so loathed. “Spread out, but always keep each other in sight. We can work our way down systematically.”
You recast Light on one of Astarion’s daggers, making the spell keeping Markoheshkir aglow fade. Astarion opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off. “I have fire. I don’t need it.”
It surprises you when Astarion merely nods and concedes. He knows well enough that there’s nothing he can say to change your mind, and it’s a pointless venture to try.
You can veritably hear him in your head calling you pig-headed, and you smirk to yourself as you start combing through the space. Mattresses litter the ground, stained and soiled. Pieces of loose paper, utensils, cracked or broken dinnerware, and sometimes stuffed animals are scattered around chaotically.
When you finally get to a wall, it’s just plain bedrock. This place is more of a cavern than a basement. Droplets of water dribble down the stone, and gnarled roots reach out from the ceiling like spindly fingers. You swallow hard when you come across sets of rusty shackles and bindings affixed to the walls, nailed straight into the stone. A shiver runs down your spine; whether it’s from being cold or your increasing disquietude, you’re unsure.
It may have been prudent to wear a thicker robe.
You, Shadowheart, and Astarion don’t need to communicate much as you work your way through foot by foot. It takes little more than a glance or a curt nod for any of you to indicate you’ve found nothing and it’s time to proceed.
The nostalgia is equal parts wonderful and unnerving. You cannot deny that you enjoy having a clear goal — the danger and exhilaration of peril — but the small voice of reason affirms that this, too, is another way of running from yourself.
Barrelling headfirst into hazards gives you something to focus on instead of facing the fact that something within you is broken, perhaps beyond repair, and you don’t have to admit to yourself the thing you fear most — that you will never be able to trust Astarion again and any chance of a real relationship is fated to fail.
Can you go to bed every night terrified that when you wake, he will not be there? Can you spend the rest of your days wondering if today is the day he disappears?
Furthermore, is it fair to keep him with you if you’ll always doubt him?
Your inability to let your fears go and move forward affects him just as much as it affects you. Would he be better off finding someone else — someone who can be with him without reservations, someone who can love him completely and utterly without worry.
He deserves that, the kind of love you had for him before, and you’re not sure you will ever be able to get back to it.
“Kamena!” Astarion hollers with a too-high, almost panicked timbre that rips you from your contemplations.
You lunge into a sprint, Shadowheart following closely behind, both of you with spells already sparking on your fingertips, and Markoheshkir poised by your side. In your alarm, your mastery of your dragon Hellfire slips, and flames writhe over your body like a nest of molten serpents wrestling to escape.
Astarion is standing by a dilapidated desk, with moss growing over the surface and up the tottery legs. He holds a piece of wet parchment in his hands that he’s inspecting with a dismayed look.
He hands it to you when the flames around you wane. “Recognize these?”
The red ink has been smudged and streaks down the parchment like crimson tears, but you would know these markings anywhere. You’ve been trailing your fingers over similar ones every night.
Infernal script.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 7K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The day is cloudy, obscuring most of the sky, with brief breaks where the clouds crack to let through cerulean rivers and dapples of sunlight. The flames in the fireplace flicker and dance in the breeze coming in off the Great Harbour.
You flip through another book on vampire covens in Waterdeep. So far, Gale has procured an impressive amount of information, but most of the texts are outdated. You’ve searched crypts and ancient mausoleums and scouted every location mentioned with Shadowheart, but they’ve all been long abandoned dead ends.
“I brought you lunch.” Shadowheart smiles, nudging the door closed with her hip. “Before you turn your nose up, I made it.”
“Thanks. Already sick of Gale’s cooking?”
Shadowheart’s nose wrinkles, and she smirks slyly but refrains from answering. The gleam in her eye tells you all you need to know. She nods toward the book in your lap. “Anything?”
“No,” you say with a shake of your head. "According to these, most vampire covens in Waterdeep don’t last. They’re either eradicated by something or vanish."
“You’re thinking this is the work of the Vampire Lord we’re looking for?”
You nod. “Astarion said vampires are territorial. If other covens have tried to make a home in Waterdeep for decades, even centuries, and none have survived, I think whoever we’re looking for predates all of it.”
“That’s disconcerting.” Shadowheart’s brows furrow, but she sheds her trepidation easily. “We’ll figure it out. We always do. Gale and I sent letters to the others to see if anyone could come and help.”
“If they are able to come, Gale’s going to have a lot of mouths to feed.”
“And Astarion is going to have to answer for his foolish disappearance.” Shadowheart scoffs with a frown. “I still have half a mind to—“
“Shadowheart." You cut Shadowheart off as nicely as you can while still sounding assertive. "I know you mean well, and I love you for being so protective, but what happened between Astarion and me is our business. He had his reasons, and maybe I didn’t understand them at the time, but I do now. Furthermore, I understand him better.”
“You cannot be serious.” Shadowheart retorts sourly. “I swear that man could thrust a dagger through your heart, and you would still find a way to exonerate him with your dying breath.”
She’s not wrong.
“Please give him the benefit of the doubt.” You swallow the irritation and try pacifying it with the knowledge that her prickliness is her way of showing you she cares. “You must keep in mind that he’s never experienced a relationship before, and he’s still learning who he is as a free man. Some of the blame falls on me too. It might have been prudent to allow him to decide if he wanted to live alone for a while before we moved in together. I might have pushed him too fast.”
“He could have at least told you he was leaving.” She snorts. “Coward.”
“That’s enough,” you growl in a warning that you’ve reached your limit of her tartness. You take a deep breath. “None of us can fathom what he’s been through and the scars he carries. He deserves our understanding, not our expectations of what we think he should have done.”
“Fine, ugh, fine,” she replies coolly. Her expression softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay,” you smile. “I’m sorry I ruined your vacation. I know you came to see the House of the Moon, not possibly die helping me fight another vampire.”
“Do you want to know a secret?” She giggles gleefully with a broad smile. “Retirement has gotten rather boring. I may not have chosen another Vampire Lord as our next foe, but at least we have experience with this particular enemy.”
“Hells below.” You laugh. “I thought I was the only one who found all this lounging around in safety utterly dull!”
“I hear you and Astarion haven’t been doing much lounging around since he returned.” Shadowheart waggles her brows with a sly, bright grin.
If you were a more bashful person, your cheeks would be heating, but Shadowheart became your best friend during your travels, and you don’t need to be shy with her.
“Oh,” you smirk smugly, “about that. You may want to reconsider moving your room to the upper floors of the tower with Gale, or I suspect you’ll never get any rest.”
“You are downright uncivilized, Kamena!” Shadowheart dissolves into a fit of laughter. “I think I will survive. It’s not like you two were exactly quiet in camp, and I’d rather keep a close eye on Hecat.”
“She’s still here?” Your brows furrow. “I was rather hoping she would take her leave after the whole vampire thing.”
“Me too. Instead, she seems rather keen to help. I haven’t decided yet if she’s an idiot or up to something.”
You rub your tired eyes. Your nightmares have returned with ferocity, and Astarion has had to wake you up several times every night lately. “We will watch her closely.”
“You mean you’re going to watch her closely around Astarion?” Shadowheart giggles, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I saw that at breakfast the other day. She could not stop gawking at him!”
“I know!” You grunt with an exasperated huff. “I could veritably see her undressing him with her eyes. The woman is lucky I didn’t pluck them out with my fork!”
Shadowheart takes your hand in hers. “Astarion’s heart is yours. It has been since he met you. You have no reason to be worried.”
“I am not worried about him. I trust him.” You groan and try to push away the little green monster that seems to infect your very essence. You’ve always been a jealous person, although you prefer to call it territorial. Though this is a little much, even for you, “I’m worried about her.”
“If she lays a hand on him, he will likely cut it off before she can blink.” Shadowheart cajoles, obviously trying to reassure you.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “He won’t have time to before I make her spontaneously combust.”
Shadowheart leans in close, whispering, “You don’t need to worry, Kamena. You’re much prettier than she is.”
You both laugh until your eyes are watery and your cheeks are sore. Shadowheart sits with you, reading a different text and making notes. The words on the page start to blur before your tired eyes.
“Go rest.” Shadowheart nudges you awake. You didn’t even realize you had slipped into your trance until she roused you. “The books aren’t going anywhere.”
“Yes.” You nod with a yawn. “I think that’s a good idea.”
Descending the spiral staircase to the lower floor of the manor, Astarion’s voice draws you to the grand sitting room, where he’s chatting with Hecat. For some reason, you don't enter the room and decide to eavesdrop on the conversation. Astarion will undeniably know you’re there, but Hecat wouldn’t have heard you.
What does she say to him when I am not around?
She asks him questions regarding his vampirism. It makes you uncomfortable, though you cannot put your finger on why. Astarion seems unruffled by her interrogation. In truth, they are rather innocent . She asks simple things like what blood tastes like, if he can eat food, and what it tastes like to him, among other pointless inquiries. Her line of questioning is much like what you imagine a child’s would be.
“Can I see your fangs?” Hecat asks with a chortle.
You smother the urge to stomp into the room and tell her that he’s not a spectacle for her viewing pleasure. You did ask the same thing once, but that was at least after you agreed to be his meal. Gods. If she asks him to bite her, you will surely lose your shit.
Taking a deep breath, you enter the room as nonchalantly as you can, feigning surprise to even see her.
“Afternoon, dragon girl!” She chimes happily. “Your friend and I are getting to know each other a little better. I’ve never seen a vampire that’s not a bloodthirsty maniac.”
Hecat makes a point to emphasize the word friend with all the subtly of a neon sign flashing in a dark hallway, and it makes you fume like a kettle left unattended over an open flame. You can feel the pressure building up to a deafening whistle in your ears, and you’re ready to blow your lid off in frustration.
“Then you don’t really know my friend very well.” You retort with a curt smile, and you’re proud that you manage to keep the bitterness out of your intonation. “He’s just very selective about his meals.”
Astarion cocks his head at you, smirking with a low chuckle. “She is correct. All vampires are bloodthirsty maniacs. I just happen to be a picky, bloodthirsty maniac."
Hecat regards you thoughtfully, and her eyes land on the telltale puncture wounds on your neck that are still in the process of healing. She laughs, looking at Astarion. “By picky, I assume you mean you prefer blood that’s spiced with a hint of draconic fire?”
Your hand shoots up to your neck, the pads of your fingers running over the scabbed skin.
Astarion seems rather bemused by the entire conversation. “I do indeed enjoy spicy food. The hotter, the better.”
“I’m from the Hells.” Hecat remarks confidently with a wolfish grin. “You can’t get much hotter than me.”
The fire in the hearth discharges with a sonorous crack. Embers and sparks eject from the fireplace, making both Hecat and Astarion jump. You have never been more tempted to show her that, though she may hail from the Hells themselves, nothing is hotter than the Hellfire of an angry dragon. You’re not sure if she’s trying to irk you or is just terribly stupid.
Probably a combination of both.
“Excuse us.” Astarion’s drawls as if nothing is amiss, taking your hand, but you don't take your glowering eyes off the Tiefling until she yields, and her eyes snap away in deference.
Astarion virtually drags you away from the interaction before you can decide if murdering this woman might be worth any further trouble it would bring to your doorstep.
You follow him reluctantly back to your room. Before he can lecture you or comment, you blurt out hastily. “Pack some clothes and your things. We’re going to get away from here for a couple of days.”
“We’re leaving?” Astarion quirks a brow at you. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, given the predicament we find ourselves in?”
“It’s only a couple of days.” You sigh, sitting on the bed, letting your head drop into your hands. “I’m tired, and I need a break. I spoke to Gale about it already. He’s positive they will manage without their fearless leader. If you would rather stay, you don’t have to come.”
“Stay here? With them? Alone? Hardly.” He scoffs, clicking his tongue. “A worse fate than even the kennels. Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Gods. I hate surprises.” Astarion groans with a cheeky grin. “It’s rarely anything good. Surprise! You’re a vampire. Suprise! You’ve been tadpoled and might burst like a boil into a grotesque squid at any moment. Surprise! That sweet, demented old crone is indeed a hag.”
“I think you’ll like this one, petal.” You tut, smirking back. “If you don’t, feel free to kill me.”
“Hmm.” Astarion taps his lips with his finger. “That’s very tempting. I’m almost convinced. Alright, deal. Lead on.”
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Astarion groans, bringing the dapple-grey gelding beside your mare.
“Stop being testy.” You giggle at the frown he shoots you. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I am centuries old,” he scoffs, jutting his chin into the air cavalierly. “I did not once say I couldn’t ride. I said I do not like the beasts. Horrid creatures.”
“I do forget how positively ancient you are. Did horses even exist all those long years ago, or Gods forbid, did you have to walk everywhere?”
“Ha-ha!” Astarion’s says sarcastically, curling his lips into a scowl. “You are so very funny, my dear. Where in the Hells are you taking me?”
“Follow and find out!”
Easing your mare into a gallop, the horses easily soar over the terrain on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. The night is clear, and the stars shine brightly, their raw celestial energy dotting the sky like grains of sugar.
Despite Astarion’s plain distaste for horses, you can’t help but admire the way he looks in the saddle: confident, refined, and mouth-watering. The wind’s fingers flow through Astarion’s typically perfectly coiffed hair, mussing it up handsomely, and the silver moonlight plays between the rolling waves, casting an ethereal luminance across his porcelain skin.
Spotting the pathway, surrounded by a dense forest, you rein the horses into a walk through the narrow pass. The canopy of the towering trees filters out the beams of the moon’s waxen rays, so you cast Light. It makes eerie shadows dance around the thick trunks like restless spirits, their ghostly tendrils writhing around in the dark like tentacles, and you’re surprised to find yourself increasingly unnerved by the sight.
Your heart flutters around your chest like a scared bird in a cage as your eyes dart and track the serendipitous, playing shades. Your mind plays out memories you would rather forget, and you find your palms tingling as you seize the Weave reflexively.
Mind flayers and their slithering tentacles. Tadpoles squirming behind your eye.
The hungry shadows of Shar’s curse twisting their vines into you and sapping your life.
Good Gods. That abomination, Kar'niss.
Intellect devourers. The Netherbrain. The Emperor.
The feel of countless fangs of feral spawn, wild with hunger, piercing your skin in the Underdark.
Aldous. The sound of fabric ripping when he wrenched at your robe.
Prison. The crack and pop of breaking ribs.
“Hey.” You jump when Astarion’s hand touches your forearm. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” you quickly brush away the wetness strung upon your lashes.
“Pass me the reins of your horse.” Astarion instructs.
You do so mindlessly, staring into the penumbra obscuring the land between sagging boughs, as you continue to spiral through a tornado of every terrible thing that’s happened to you.
Astarion halts both of your horses, bringing his as close to yours as he can in the limited space. He ties the reins to his saddle and scoots himself back. “Come on, love.” Astarion leans over and folds an arm around your waist. “Slide over here.”
Wrapping your arm around his neck, you carefully ease over to Astarion’s steed with your back pressed tightly to his chest. He keeps an arm fixed around your trembling body.
“I am here, sweetheart.” Astarion murmurs, pressing his cheek to yours. “You can talk or not, but I am here.”
Astarion continues along the trail, humming a soothing tune that you don’t recognize. Every time the horse's hoofs snap a twig or thud off a rock, you cannot help but flinch. It’s not like you to be spooked so easily. You’re not fearless, but Gods, you’re far from this coward currently swallowing the urge to weep in Astarion’s arms at every unexpected sound.
You squeeze your eyes closed so the darkness stops staring back at you. Screaming inside your head, you try to quell the onslaught of thoughts, but it’s hard to forget your past when it’s written into the scars on your psyche. Some wounds never seem to heal and bleed again at the slightest provocation.
You want it to stop.
You want to drink until you can’t remember your name.
You want to beg Astarion to touch you, drain you, or both until you're numb.
You do not care how, as long as it fucking stops.
“Kamena…” Astarion trails off, and your eyes spring open, broken from your descent into madness. His eyes widen with recognition, and he gasps, “Hells. Are we where I think we are?”
“We are home."
Even with the dust covers removed from the furniture that remains and the fire spitting and popping in the brick fireplace, your cottage looks sparse and empty, devoid of all the belongings that made it look like home. The fine threads of dusty cobwebs hang in all of the corners. It makes you smile, warming your heart, when it’s the first thing Astarion attends to, listening attentively, his expression frozen in concentration.
“Well?”
“Oh, darling,” he feigns solemnity, looking gravely serious. “There are spiders everywhere. Millions of them, hiding in every nook and cranny, just waiting for you to fall into your trance so they can crawl all over you.”
Astarion takes quick, silent steps, grabbing you by the waist and crawling his fingers gently up your arm, laughing boyishly at the way you cringe, shudder, and try to twist away.
“Astarion!” You squeak, swatting him in the chest playfully while he giggles at you. “This is no joking matter! You know I will burn this place to the ground around me.”
“Perhaps,” he smirks, jutting his hip out confidently, “but you won’t burn it down around me, especially not with the sun out.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you smirk, letting liquid-like flames swirl around the two of you, and letting them ebb out. “I just might if you don’t tell me the truth!”
“Go ahead,” he challenges, pretending to yawn and lying down on the bed with his hands behind his head. He smirks boldly. “You’ve dropped a building on me before. How much worse can it be?”
“Are you going to hold that against me for the rest of our lives?” You groan, climbing onto the bed. Astarion pats his lap with an enticing grin, and you straddle him. “You were very enthusiastic in your approval to yank the weapon out of the device, you know.”
“I wanted to see what would happen. What can I say?” Astarion laughs, sitting upright, ghosting his lips over yours. “You should have known better than to listen to me of all people.”
“You’re the thief! I figured you already had it all planned out, Rogue.”
“Interesting that you thought I was a details person when I much preferred to sow blood and chaos wherever we went.” Astarion taps your nose with each word he tuts at you. “Not very astute of you, Sorceress.”
“Gods above,” you snort, galled, and stick your nose in the air. “We just got home, and I already want to break up with you.”
“And here I was thinking we were just very special friends.” Astarion muses flippantly, tilting his head and looking askance. “What do you think Tiefling blood tastes like? Brimstone? Smoke? Char?”
You spring up, staring at him with an icy scowl, your lips pressed together firmly. Astarion’s brows raise and curve, wrinkling his forehead in puzzlement as he scrutinizes you. It makes you want to hide, and you fold your arms around yourself to strangle the diffidence making bile rise into your throat.
“Maybe you should ask her for a nibble if you’re so goddamn curious, friend.”
Astarion’s mouth drops open at the choler braided into your voice. “What in the bloody Hells is going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you swallow thickly.
“The Hells you don’t.” Astarion snaps. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to skip this part of the argument where you try to convince me nothing is wrong. I am not a fool.”
The bilious bubble bursts, and you shout, “Then stop acting like one! You allowed Hecat to pester you all about your vampirism like it was an ordinary thing for someone to do! You hid it from me when we met, but you seemed more than happy to humour her, even while she gawked at you like she was lost at sea and you were driftwood to cling to!
“Good fucking Gods. Grow up!” Astarion booms with bared fangs, making his expression severe, bordering on frightening . It’s not often you’ve seen him so angry, especially with you. “You have always had a jealous streak. I find it quite endearing most of the time, but this magnitude is new even for you, and it’s decidedly not cute.”
He’s right, and you know it, but that fact does nothing to assuage the indignation. Your eyes jump around the cottage. There are so many happy memories that now have a vinegary tartness after being pickled by heartbreak.
The bed you laid on for days with that damn letter weaved between your fingers.
The window you sat in front of at night, drunk and dazed, hoping beyond hope that he would appear between the trees.
His favourite lounge, where you spent days curled up crying until your eyes were sore.
And so many more.
You thought coming back here was a good idea. It was the last place you remembered feeling truly happy and whole. Now all you see are the reminders of a life that could have been if only you had been wise enough to catch the signs of him withdrawing.
I wish we could go back to a time before it was too late.
Now it's you who needs to withdraw, because this is all you're good at now. Isn’t it? Running away from your problems and fears.
You are afraid to fall because if your fire is extinguished, you’re unsure if it will ever burn again. Your soul is too indurated with heartbreak. You will have nothing left but to stand in the ashes of who you used to be.
“Get away from the door,” you say despondently.
Astarion steps toward you to stop you, but you open the door and stand in the streaming sunlight so he can’t touch you.
“Where are you going?” Astarion sighs, easing his tense posture and shying away from the sun.
It makes your heart clench in your chest to see him so afraid of something he used to love, and now you’re using it as a weapon to shield yourself from him.
What is wrong with me?
“To go grow up.” You spit harshly and disappear out the door, slamming it behind you.
Astarion listens as the sound of pounding hoofs races off until he can’t hear it any longer. He combs his fingers through his hair, scraping his fingernails over his scalp, while looking around the cottage that he used to call home.
Ever since he left, he’s dreamed of returning, where his memories are full of her smiling face, joyful, feathery laughter, peace, and safety, but now that he’s here, it feels like a bleak reminder of the life they could have had.
It’s empty, quiet, and dark without her. Kamena has always been the fire that banishes the shadows. Her smile warmed these cold walls, and her laugh threaded the air with sweet life.
Fuck.
He sits on the floor with his back pressed up against the bed and takes a deep breath. His eyes wander and focus on a crack in the ceiling, and he lets his mind drift back to the conversation. Before he left, usually, their quarrels ended with a swift recovery and reconciliation. They hardly ever turned into escalated disagreements.
And she never ran.
Astarion's head drops into his hands, and he winces at the recollection of his own gruff voice telling her to grow up. He admonished her when he should have been trying to figure out why her reaction to the Tiefling’s brainless queries was so uncharacteristically intense.
His mind races as he delves into the depths of his memories, seeking clues to explain Kamena’s fragile security.
Well, at least she was generous with her blood tonight, Astarion thinks, as his fingers part and find her folds slick with arousal. If nothing else, he got a meal out of it.
Astarion’s eyes stay open, even while their tongues dance, staring blankly at the pattern of the tree bark in the distance. He does not need to focus much as his finessed fingers fall into a perfectly choreographed rhythm engineered by how her thighs shake, her breath hitches in her throat, and the sighs that slip from her lips.
He will have her coming undone for him in no time, and then he will take her again, perhaps from behind.
It’s always easier when they don’t look at him.
Gods. The only being that has treated him like a person in the last two centuries, and he’s still playing the rake, but this is all he knows - all he’s good for. He needs her help and protection, so he might as well make himself useful.
His mind is clapped back into reality rapidly when he realizes her moaning has stopped, her body is still, and their lips are no longer locked in a kiss.
Shit.
He glances down, and she’s staring at him thoughtfully. “Is everything okay, Astarion?”
He reels to think of some beguiling response. He weaves together words like spider silk in the deep, purring timbre he knows will current her away in the river of his verse. “Apologies. I was just getting lost in the bewitching melody of your moans.”
It’s half-assed, admittedly, but he thinks that should do it.
It does not, in fact, do it, and he does not like that she doesn’t look entirely convinced. She stares at him as if she’s undressing his mind, unbuttoning his thoughts with those eyes that could swallow whole universes.
It’s... unnerving.
He doubles down on his ministrations to distract her. Moving forward to the next act in this play, and eases two fingers into her, pressing upward to find that pad of sensitive flesh that should send her spiralling into pleasure.
This one is more observant than his usual fanfare and far more clever. He will have to be mindful.
Astarion barely registers when she tumbles into her orgasm, spasming around his fingers and crying out his name. He should say something. They usually like it when he says something.
He leans down, kissing up the column of her neck, skin flushed under his lips. He whispers, letting his lips brush up against the shell of her ear. “Gods. You’re beautiful, darling.”
Unoriginal perhaps, rehearsed to oblivion, but par for the course of this performance.
At least she is truly a vision with her doe-eyes, heavily lidded, sparkling as if flecked with moonstones. Her long hair waving upon the ground, and the pale light glints off her prismatic scales cherubically.
He lets himself admire the arc of her waist and the curve of her hips. It helps when they are attractive. He’s seen many seductive bodies, but hers is different somehow. It’s enchanting... inviting even.
He settles between her thighs, hands splayed on the loamy ground, to brace himself, and he eases his cock into her aching core. Gods. She’s tight, and it makes him sigh out a hissing breath.
He pumps into her at an easy pace until her body adjusts, and then autopilot takes over as he descends into the recesses of his mind, floating out of his body and away from what he’s partaking in.
It’s not that it doesn’t feel good. In fact, he’s rather confounded to find that, despite his mind trying to separate itself from his body, he keeps being dragged back, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of pleasure.
She feels... good. Hells below, really, truly, good.
This is... different. Her body flush against his, her tightness so wet, warm, and disconcertingly sublime.
“Astarion,” she breathes as her hand gently comes to his cheek, bringing him back into his body, and his eyes snap open to meet hers. “Show me what you want and what you like, not what you think I want.”
His hips stutter for a moment, processing the request. When’s the last time someone cared about what he wanted or liked? Hells. What does he like? He’s usually so focused on providing other people with their fantasies that he hasn’t bothered to consider what he likes in centuries.
"I... I don’t know,” he murmurs shakily. A revelation cracks into him — something he’s never done, never been allowed to do, never had the agency to do. Another first . “I want to taste your blood as you come for me.”
She smiles, nodding her assent, and Astarion’s hips snap erratically, changing the depth and pace of his thrusts until he finds one that has him squeezing his eyes shut, enraptured in his own bliss.
She whimpers his name as she nears her climax, lolling her head to the side to give him access. His name in her breathy whimpers sends shivers down his spine.
He bites, pulling her blood into his mouth and letting it sit on his tongue. He can taste the spice and fire of her desire, a beautiful harmony that makes him groan. His hand grabs her hip so he can plunge into her deeper and fuck her harder into their combined euphoria.
She crests, fingers curling into his hair as she clenches around him. Her blood floods with a new flavour in her nirvana. It tastes like dawn, hope, and... home?
His orgasm takes him by surprise when it charges through him. His cock twitches as he spills himself into her with a grunt against her throat.
When he lays down beside her, she makes no move to touch him or get closer, and he’s beside himself to find he’s disappointed with the lack of intimacy. When he looks over, she’s once again observing him, gentle yet contemplative.
“What is it, my sweet? Already looking for round two?”
“You weren’t all there tonight.” She whispers, looking up at the stars.
Fuck.
He’s a master performer, able to improvise and fabricate on a dime, but he cannot think of a single cunning explanation to reply with.
Why, oh why, couldn’t it have been the gullible Tiefling or braggart Wizard leading this group of godsdamned misfits?
He catches the hoofbeats long before they approach the cottage. When Kamena opens the door, sunlight no longer spills through the gap. She doesn’t speak as she curls herself around him, her head on his chest, taking a deep breath. He wraps her in a tight embrace, kissing her hair and pressing his cheek against her forehead.
Astarion closes his eyes and revels in her warmth before he speaks. “I spoke out of turn today.”
“Ugh. Stop being so nice to me.”
Kamena shucks off her robe, disappearing into the bedroom, and returns attired in one of his shirts. The red tunic is too large for her, with the hem rippling about her thighs, putting her long, shapely legs on display for him.
She smirks at him as he feigns irritation, crossing his arms and jutting his chin up. “Did you not bring your own bloody clothing?”
She descends into a chair by the fire, curling her legs up under her, and whispers. “It makes me feel close to you. When you left, it was one of the few things I had left.”
Her answer takes him aback. He had expected a clever retort, not such raw vulnerability.
“You still doubt my commitment to you,” he states, rummaging his fingers through his hair. “I can hardly blame you. Our relationship didn’t exactly start or end candidly. If I would have opened up instead of running out on you-”
“Should have, could have, would have,” she shrugs. “You had your reasons, and I'm not much better, it seems. Gods. I’m a mess.”
“Perhaps, but you’re my mess.” He purrs, crouching and hooking her chin with his finger to guide her gaze to his. “I want you, Kamena. I always wanted you, even when I didn’t know what I wanted.”
“Hecat.” The shakiness in her voice makes every one of his bones ache as her eyes begin to well up. “I should not have overreacted. I just… You don’t understand how hard it is to watch everyone covet you like you’re a prize to be won. I hate it. It makes my blood run hot, and sometimes I just don’t recognize it for what it is - insecurity.”
“The Tiefling is just another fool in a long line of idiots who sees how positively beautiful I am, but their interest goes no deeper than flesh. You are the only one who ever saw me and took the time to get to know me, even when I was being an insufferable prick.”
Kamena hiccups out a laugh. “I just really want to burn her eyes out of her skull.”
“HA!” He giggles, kissing her forehead. “That’s my girl. Not to worry. Dear Shadowheart is right. If she touches me, I will cut her hand off swiftly.”
“You heard that, did you?”
“Of course.” He smirks, leading her to the bed and giving her a playful shove. “I hear everything that goes on in that tower.”
“Am I more attractive than the Tiefling?” She pouts adorably with a sassy undertone.
“Digging for shallow praise, are we?” Astarion chuckles. “Alright. I’ll bite. Let me see. If an angel fell for every time I thought of you, the heavens would be empty.”
She giggles – sparkly and beautiful and bright. Home suddenly doesn’t feel so desolate.
“You can do better than that,” she teases.
“Hmm... What about this one? Even in the astral plane, where gravity is fickle, I would still fall for you.”
“Oh, Gods above.” She laughs until her eyes shine. Astarion leans down and kisses the single teardrop creeping out of the corner of her eye. “One more.”
“Another?” He looks deeply into her eyes, which gleam brightly as if laced with flame, shining with every beautiful shade of her being. He grins at the memory, and this time, when he says it, it does not sadden him. “I love you, Solicallor.”
“I love you, too, Aerasumé,” she says, running her fingers through his hair and tousling it playfully. “You’re cute.”
“Bad girl,” he purrs. “Retribution is required.”
She warns, “Don’t do it!”
“Don’t do what, love? This?”
Astarion tickles her until she is fighting for breath between her laughter, squirming under him as he pins her with his body, and pleading for forgiveness.
“That was rude!” She sucks in heavy breaths. “You better watch your back, Astarion. I’m going to strike when you least expect it.”
“I await the day you’re spritely enough to catch me.”
Astarion moulds his lips to hers, basking in the warmth that radiates across his cool skin. He nips her lower lip impatiently when she doesn’t part her lips for him. If miracles have a taste, he’s positive they would taste like her. He places chaste kisses along her jaw and down her neck.
She looks at him lustily, batting her long lashes. “What are you doing?”
“Well,” he rucks up her shirt, placing a kiss on her stomach. He grins. “We find ourselves alone, truly and completely alone, in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, darling, do I have to spell it out for you? I want to make you scream while I make love to you in our home, in our bed.”
She stares at him with her wide doe-eyes shining brightly as if scattered with dewdrops. “Be mine, Astarion.” She whispers.
“I have never not been yours, Kamena.” Astarion murmurs between kisses, inhaling the scent of her.
She pushes his shirt over his shoulders, and he throws it off hastily. Astarion cups her breast, thumb rubbing over the hard peak of her nipple. She moans, and every breathy little noise and pound of her hectic heartbeat is a symphony to his ears. He rolls her sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger. She sucks in a sharp, wavering breath, and his cock twitches, rock hard and eager against his trousers.
Her hands run reverently up his sides to his chest, letting the pads of her fingers ghost over his nipples, making him shudder with a groan. Every place her lips meet his skin radiates vitality, as if she’s breathing life into him with every kiss. The fabric of his breeches strained against him is far too restricting, and he kicks them off, freeing his erection.
Astarion slips his hand between her legs, sliding his fingers into her wetness, swirling them around the border of her achy pearl, and she arches into him. Her tepid breath tickles his skin as she muffles her cries against his shoulder.
“Gods,” he pants, and is surprised to find himself breathing so heavily. “Don’t hold back. It’s just us. Scream for me, my love.”
Her eyelashes flutter as she cries out, and he cannot help it; he fucking moans with her. Every sound emanating from her makes his yearning flood him in an intense upsurge, making his cock twitch and beg for attention. He’s not sure he’s ever been this aroused, this openly intimate, with no hint of the shadows that have constrained him before.
He desires her like a magnet clings to its polar opposite, impossible to sever and hopelessly drawn to the very core of its existence.
Astarion eases two fingers into her, pumping them slowly deeper and deeper while he sucks her tender rosebuds, wresting whimpers and moans from her full lips. Once her body has adjusted, he hooks his fingers just so, finding and stroking her most sensitive spot. He adjusts the pressure until he finds one that makes her breath catch and has her moaning, unbridled and wanton.
“O—oh,” she whimpers; her eyes squeezed closed, tugging at the bedsheets. “Hells. A-f-fuck—Astarion.”
Gods. He loves that sound; his name a prayer upon her lips.
He could undo her like this, but Hells, he craves the taste of her lust. Astarion licks and kisses her stomach as he continues to thrust his fingers into her sensually. She blinks slowly and watches him crawl down her body with half-lidded eyes and parted lips.
Astarion snaps his eyes to hers, kissing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and then pushes her leg, spreading her for him. He pants shakily, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against her clit.
He groans gutturally under his own rampant desire as he laps up her sweet arousal. She squirms and whimpers with every lick of his tongue, every pump of his fingers, and he can’t help but wrap his hand around his throbbing cock and stroke himself.
Her fingers twist into his hair, and he closes his eyes as he savours her. Astarion takes his time working her to her climax until her thighs start to tremble, her moans come between uneven breaths, and a flush blooms over her skin.
Astarion’s fingers continue to rub that perfect spot inside her. His lips close around her swollen clit. He sucks gently, flits, and flutters his tongue in the way he knows will send her cascading into ecstasy.
Her body convulses, thighs trembling on either side of him as she succumbs to her climax. He indulges himself, watching her come, watching her lose herself in blinding sensations.
He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything so godsdamned spellbinding and arousing.
But he’s not quite done with her yet. He angles his fingers, pulses his tongue, and watches her ride out every wave of pleasure, drinking in her nonsensical whimpers. Only when she’s gasping for breath and shaking does he let up.
“You, my love, are a delectable treat.” He purrs, crawling up her flushed body until he’s holding himself above her. “In so many more ways than one.”
“Show me,” she stammers between irregular breaths.
He kisses her intimately, his tongue still coated in her rapture, exploring her mouth. Kamena carves her curves into every contour of his body, pressing her heated skin to his.
This is the way he remembers her - unapologetic, unafraid, and passionate.
Astarion grasps her hips, pulling her toward him, and runs his aching cock through her seam. “S-shit,” he stutters at the exquisite sensation.
He watches raptly as his cock sinks into her, swallowed in tight warmth, his girth stretching her. They fit together too perfectly to be anything other than made for each other.
He thrusts slowly, deeply, and intensely. Every moan he liberates from her is echoed with his own. They are both a mess of desiring hands, deep, intimate kisses, and promises of devotion and love.
She folds her arms around his neck, pulling herself flush to him, her breasts heaving against his chest. He leans back, sitting on his ankles with her in his lap and her legs around his waist. He plunges deeper, grinding into her, and she clenches, squeezing him as his length massages her ridges.
She is like supping on dawn’s fire, the way she lights up just for him is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.
Bliss escalates and flows, surging between them, and she melts into him. He laces his fingers into her hair, and her body tenses at the threshold of her release, every muscle quivering against him. She whines into his mouth, and he increases the pace of his thrusts, bringing her higher, higher, higher.
His own breathing is ragged and uneven; his body taut and veiled with sweat. Every thrust draws a panting whimper from his lips. He kisses her deeply, devout and passionate, as he throws her over the edge.
Her sex is still spasming around him as he bucks his hips into her, his forehead pressed to hers and her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Every erratic pump of his hips is met with another shockwave running through her, stimulating his sensitive head, and he cries out loudly as his own release takes hold, a swelling wave of fire blazing through him with an intensity he’s never known.
He grinds his hips while his cock pulses deeply inside her, filling her completely.
Time seems to stop as they sit together in this everlasting serenity, holding each other closely, bodies trembling in the aftermath.
Marry me.
The thought comes unbidden to him. In his confusion, he does not dare speak it aloud. An idea spurred on by a moment of passion, surely.
Once her heart rate has returned to a steady pace, he nuzzles her, nose to nose, and she giggles, light, airy, and happy. He would give anything to keep her here in this moment where she is weightless and worry-free.
He kisses her once more, gentle and cherishing. She looks up at him, and he gazes back at her. There is no need for words. Their eyes have a secret language that only their souls are fluent in.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.3K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
Time itself moves sluggishly as the spawn descend upon the petrified, screaming miscreants that share your cell. Your heartbeat thuds in your chest, fighting your ribs like striking bolts of lightning. You steel yourself against the rising panic, wrapping yourself in unflappable poise and watch for your opening.
As soon as the wave of spawn crashes and parts, you squeeze Hecat’s hand to signal her it’s time to move and bound through the gap. The corridor is a catastrophe, the stones painted in fresh crimson, bodies of guards ripped open, with their raw innards spilling out like gruesome garlands wreathing the walls. Hecat pales at the sight, dry heaving, but you’ve long become acquainted with such nightmarish affairs.
You tug Hecat along behind you, bare feet smacking the stone with such force it sends jolts of pain charging up your legs as your bones shudder with the impact of every step. That is nothing compared to the acute, explosive pain stabbing your chest with every inhalation.
Hecat stops, acquiring a shield and sword from a fallen guard. The blood makes the stone slick, and every step must be taken carefully. You cannot afford to fall. A stumble will almost surely mean death. Spawn that have finished their meals are starting to take notice. Hecat deflects them with her shield, stabbing with her sword when she has an opening and keeping you safely behind her.
The passageways are labyrinthine, confused tangles of convoluted twists and turns that sometimes double back or arrive at dead ends unexpectedly. Tears are creeping out of the corners of your eyes, dallying down your grimy, red cheeks from the agony radiating from your ribs with every expansion of your lungs. Panic starts to crumble the blanket of calm, surging through you as you frantically dart through the shadowy, disorienting hallways. The angry army of thudding footfalls of the spawn in pursuit echoes through the corridors.
Bounding up a dim stairway, the hilt of a dagger peeks out from between the joints of armour, nestled into the corpse of a guard. You yank it out with a quick tug, but time is not on your side this night. A spawn grasps your ankle, its clawed fingers sinking into your flesh and jerks you off your feet. Your head bounces off the stone slab stair, peppering your vision with black sparks of dazing pain. The only thing you can see through your muddled sight is those glowing eyes. You lash out with the dagger and sink it deeply into the socket. As soon as you’re released, Hecat is already towing you back to your feet, pulling you up the stairs and into the next room.
The milky eyes and pallor of bloodless bodies greet you. The undead in this part of the prison seem to roam, unsure of their orders, but as soon as the thudding of your heart is heard, their heads snap in your direction. They swarm around you like enraged bees. Despite Hecat’s exhaustion, she is unwavering. Her sword slashes through the air, shield deflecting the snapping fangs and shredding claws.
You feel the pangs of irritation at your uselessness. Your magic, once your greatest weapon, is now a prison in its own right. The vampires press in closer, surrounding you like a pack of ravenous wolves, their movements orchestrated by an unseen hand, but they don’t move to attack further as they corral you.
“What are they doing?” Hecat pants with wild eyes, frantically searching for an escape.
“I don’t know.”
A red aura shifts around the spawn, the same one Cazador used to control Astarion’s sibling during their midnight visit to your camp. They part for a tall, pallid figure that appears seemingly from the shadows.
“Nice to see you again, Sorceress,” it speaks. You recognize that voice, and your heart arrests in your chest, sinking into your stomach.
Aldous.
Your mind reels, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. No. He is dead. You watched the life be abducted from his eyes yourself. Yet, he stands before you, pale as death with glowing crimson eyes. His face splits into that repellent smile, and his cackling resounds off the walls.
“That one.” He points at you, “She is to be taken alive. The Tiefling matters not.”
“What the fuck,” Hecat breathes.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sorceress,” Aldous laughs, hysterical and bone-chilling. “And your fanged friend. I cannot wait to drain you dry in front of him.”
A harrowing scream tears from your throat, a melody of rage and sorrow as Aldous disappears in a burst of red, drawn home by his unknown master. Grabbing Hecat’s hand, you eye a door and dash toward it with renewed vigour. The vampire’s claws and fangs pierce your skin as you burst through the legion. You stab and slash with reckless abandon, sinking the dagger into anything that attempts to halt you.
Hecat and you stumble into the room and try to close the door on writhing arms and legs. Hecat lashes out with her sword, severing limbs from bodies obstructing it until it slams shut and locks.
“Help me!” Hecat yells as she throws a table over. You help barricade the door with whatever is available.
“They want you?” Hecat snaps, levelling the sword at you, “Who the fuck are you, dragon girl, and why the fuck do they want you alive?”
You’re doubled over, hands on your thighs, trying to inhale as much air as your lungs can possibly take, but the splitting pain in your side hampers your ability to catch your breath.
“I don’t know,” you retort venomously, eyeing the sword and Tiefling.
“That one knows you,” she hisses, shifting her stance and getting ready to strike. “Who the fuck is he?”
“A dead man,” you sigh, pushing your hair from your eyes. “I killed him. Apparently, it didn’t stick.”
“You’re a murderer?!” She gasps, bringing the steel blade to your neck.
“Yes,” you growl, unbothered by the threat.
Hecat laughs, withdrawing her blade, “I would not have thought you possible of such a heinous crime.” She winks, “I like you even more now.”
You cannot help but choke out a pained laugh, but it’s more of a groan than anything. You look around. Waxy moonlight floods the room from a small window. It’s the first window you’ve seen, but bars in a crisscross pattern make escape impossible, and the wood door is starting to splinter and crack under the barrage rattling it on its hinges.
A sudden shift in the atmosphere makes your skin prickle as the dam of suppression is released, and the Weave returns to you in an overwhelming deluge. You don’t have time to wonder why or how, and you don’t much care. The Weave causes the air to crackle, abuzz with powerful energy, and you fill yourself with it. You grip the iron and allow the potency of your draconic fire to spill out of you with a daunting laugh you cannot stifle. The bars heat, whine and wail, glowing white-hot and oozing, and Hecat thrusts her sword into the gooey mess of molten metal to clear your path.
The moon hangs high in the sky, casting an eerie glow upon the building, and the air is brisk as you clamber onto the roof. You cast Shatter, crumbling the stone around the window to block the pursuing spawn.
“That’s some potent magic you have there,” Hecat grins. “I’ve never seen anyone melt metal with their hands before.”
Her words of praise float over you as you eye the raging war of the courtyard below. Some guards remain alive, fighting another horde of spawn descending on the grounds. From the height, you can see beyond the solid walls surrounding the compound, and your feet move unconsciously, eyes skipping over the landscape - searching, searching, searching…
There.
“We could jump,” Hecat says hesitantly, peering over the edge.
“No,” you bark with a smile. “We fly. Follow me.”
You cast Fly, taking her hand and soar into the air. Hecat yelps at the suddenness of your movement and clings to you. You cannot quite reach your target before your feet hit the soft, muddied terrain. Spawn trample the ground, careening toward you like a blight on the land. Hecat stands in front of you, but you are muzzled no longer.
“Detono!” You howl, and the wave of crackling energy bowls the spawn over.
You cast Fireball and rain blazing death, warping the fire into flames that burn blue, bending it to your will. Your fingers dance in the moonlight, under stars that envy how bright you burn. Hecat stands at the ready, prepared and reinvigorated, but with unfathomable rage, you don’t miss. With every step, every twitch of your fingers, every syllable that brushes off your tongue, you are violence, you are slaughter, you are death incarnate.
It feels magnificent. Exhilarating. You are so wonderfully, splendidly fucking alive.
Whatever spawn remain have begun to retreat, much to your displeasure, disappearing in puffs of red mist, back to whatever hole they crawled out of.
“Kamena!” Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you off the ground, and pressing you tightly to firm, sculpted muscles. You would do anything to stay in this embrace but the pain in your ribs forces a pained cry from your lips, and Astarion jerks away from you.
Hecat screams, charging forward with her blade levelled at Astarion before you have time to explain. Astarion dodges swiftly and has one blade to Hecat’s throat and the other pressed firmly to her stomach before you can blink.
“Astarion, don’t,” you wheeze, shaking your head. “She helped me escape. Hecat, this is my friend.”
“Friend?” Hecat barks as Astarion releases her with a skeptical frown, and she reels back. “You failed to mention that your friend is also a fucking vampire.”
“Astarion is a person,” you growl. Without the adrenaline rocketing through your veins, your injuries and weariness have begun to take their toll on your body, and you stumble.
Astarion catches you, “You’re injured?”
“Her ribs are broken, I think,” Hecat replies for you. “The guards did not treat her well.”
“Shadowheart!” Astarion bellows and slightly lifts the hem of your shirt, revealing the edges of mottled blue, black and yellowing bruise expanding up your side. “Good Gods, my love.”
“I’m fine.” You bring Astarion’s eyes to yours, gazing into the scarlet sea you have longed to swim in. It almost makes it past you, but your brows furrow, “Did you just call for Shadowheart?”
A hand lays on your shoulder, and blue magic laves away the cutting pain in your side, “This was supposed to be a nice, boring vacation,” Shadowheart tuts, nose rising into the air with a snort. “I should have known better than to think you might be able to keep yourself out of trouble.”
“Shadowheart!” You pivot, wrapping your arms around her. “Gods. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” She drawls, returning the hug gently.
“Where is the wizard?” Astarion asks, “We should get her home. She smells terrible.”
Shadowheart chuckles with Astarion as you frown at them. “She really does. If I can smell her, I can’t imagine how bad she smells to you, vampire.”
“Be glad you can’t,” Astarion wrinkles his nose at you but sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing your forehead.
“Take her home,” Shadowheart instructs. “I’ll wait for Gale.”
The conversation between them starts to sound far away as lethargy drags at your mind.
“What do we do about this one?” Astarion gestures to Hecat.
“Leave her with me,” Shadowheart concludes with a tinge of threat. “She can bring me up to speed on exactly what in the Hells is going on around here while we wait for Gale.”
“She helped me,” you murmur. “Be nice, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart smirks, “Aren’t I always nice?”
“Wake up.”
“No,” you grumble, forcing your eyes open.
“Yes.” Astarion purrs with cold breath on the shell of your ear that sends delightful shivers down your spine. “You are not crawling into our bed smelling like a flophouse latrine.”
You giggle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body tightly to him. He tries to tug you away half-heartedly between his grunting protests, but there’s no real force behind his playful pulling.
“Now, you smell, too!” You chime as he sets you back on your feet and starts drawing a bath.
“Naughty girl,” Astarion smirks, chuckling.
You catch a glimpse of yourself in the gilded mirror. Your hair is matted and dingy with grime. Filth streaks your face, dulling your complexion. Your shirt, once a pale blue, has been rendered brown, stained with dirt and blood that’s both new and long dried.
Movement behind you catches your eyes, whisking them away from your reflection. Bottles of oils float through the air, appearing to move on their own as Astarion pours oils into the water, and notes of lavender, sandalwood, and vanilla arise with the steam. This is something you’ve never gotten used to. Objects seemingly floating, as if picked up by a breeze and carried aloft of their own free will.
“Odd, isn’t it?” Astarion says, moving your hair and bringing you back from your contemplations.
“What?”
“No reflection.” Astarion’s cool fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, allowing him to peel the disgusting garment from your body, “Objects moving on their own, a ghost underdressing you.”
“A little,” you admit. “I just don’t understand how you always look so fucking perfect all the time.”
“Oh,” he giggles, turning you around, hooking his fingers in your waistband, and crouching. “Do go on.”
You put your hands on his shoulders, leaning some of your weight into him while he strips you, lifting one leg at a time, “I missed you."
“I missed you, too. Very much.” He says, taking your hand in his, “Come. Into the bath with you before it gets cold, and you chastise me.”
Climbing into the steaming water is like climbing into a sun-soaked dream. How very odd is it you can forget how your skin feels when it’s clean. As you slough off the dirt, blood and filth, the pads of your fingers do not recognize the buttery softness of your skin without the grainy texture.
“Tilt your head back,” Astarion instructs. He pours hot water over your head, fingers gently detangling your matted hair, lathering it with soap.
The bruise extending up your side is still faintly visible, staining your skin in hues of blue and yellow, and your fingers skate up, poking and prodding.
“What happened in there?” Astarion brushes the backs of his fingers gently down the marbled skin.
“The guards had a bone to pick with me,” you shrug, trying to cover the solemnity of the conversation with a pleasant smile. “I don’t wish to talk about it right now, Astarion.”
“Kamena…” Astarion sighs with a sullen shake of his head.
You press your fingers gently under his chin, bringing his eyes to yours. Gods. When he looks at you, it is not a glance. It is a song, a message, a constellation of promises wrapped in scarlet, and you never want to look away.
“I’m not running, Astarion.” You assure him, “I will tell you all about it, but tonight, can we just be us?”
Astarion smiles, nodding his understanding, “Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Astarion’s fingers massage your scalp as he washes the soap from your hair, rinsing it until the water finally runs clear.
“Do we have wine?” You ask on a whim.
“Gale does,” Astarion grins momentarily, but his lips press into a thin line. “Is this celebratory drinking or “it’s better to forget” drinking?”
You wince at the question. You know it’s not exactly the healthiest way to deal with your problems. You are tempted to lie to him but force the truth from your lips, “A little of both?”
“I can live with that, I suppose,” Astarion nods, helping you stand and wrapping a plush towel around you, patting you dry. You smile as he dotes on you, “I know where the wizard hides the good stuff. I will go raid his cellar.”
Slipping into one of Astarion’s shirts, you light the fire with naught but a thought. It feels good to have your magic back after being deprived of it for so long. You grip the Weave, pulling the mystical essence from your blood and bones, and it feels like taking a deep breath after you didn’t realize you were holding it. Fire spurts out of your palm, and you fashion it into a ring, forcing the flames to move unnaturally as they chase each other around in a never-ending loop.
You lift the flaming ring above your head, hovering between your palms like a fiery halo, and force it to expand and contract simply because you can.
“Did no one ever teach you it’s dangerous to play with fire, Sorceress?”
“Perhaps for the untrained, Rogue,” you smirk, snap your fingers, and the halo bursts like a firework, pinpricks of fire whirling around you.
You let the fire ebb and die out slowly, relinquishing your magic with a sorrowful sigh. The Weave fills you with life, comfort and peace. Without it, you’re thrust back into a stark reality. Astarion hands you a glass, and you grab the bottle and wink as you drink deeply. The wine is a crisp white wine, buttery with hints of vanilla. It sparkles on your tongue and fizzes down your throat, and you cannot help but close your eyes at the pleasure of it all after drinking brown-tinged water for a week.
“Shall we sit, or would you prefer to keep standing in the middle of the room?”
“Gods,” you smirk, handing the bottle to Astarion and trotting over to the bed. You flop onto it gracelessly. “Let’s drink in bed! I’ve been sleeping on stone for a week, and this is lovely, but it’s missing something.”
“And what’s that, my dear?” Astarion cocks his head handsomely with a boyish smile that tells you he knows exactly what you think it’s missing.
“You!”
“In that case,” Astarion giggles and removes his shirt. He thrusts the wine bottle into your hands. Your fingers fumble to catch it, senses entirely possessed by him, “We might as well get comfortable, yes?”
“Yes,” you breathe, swallowing thickly.
Astarion saunters around the bed, discarding pieces of clothing along the way. He makes it look casual, unpremeditated, but it’s maddeningly slow.
“You’re a tease,” you mutter under your breath, sipping the wine and slipping out of your shirt.
“I am not!” He chuckles, “You’re just exceptionally impatient. Good things come to do who wait, sweetheart.”
“Do they?” You quirk a brow at him, “I’m not so sure about that. Do you have proof of this notion?”
“I waited two hundred years for you.” Astarion purrs as the bed dips under his weight, and he presses his body against your back, wrapping his arms around you.
“I love you,” you murmur, craning your head to look at him, slipping your fingers into his hair.
“I love you, too. I should not have let the wizard talk to me into leaving you in there so long. I—“
“Not tonight, Astarion.” It sounds like a whimpering plea, “Please."
“Right. Apologies,” he rasps, lips against your neck.
“Have you been eating?”
“Always so worried about me,” his lips twitch into a smile. “I’m fine.”
Perhaps he is fine, but you are most certainly not. Suddenly, you’re impacted with a deep-seated need to feel that intimacy, that descent through the branches of his veins. You want to bleed into him, your soul and his, intertwined as one. The intensity of the emotion catches you off guard.
Are you chasing the bloodless daze that his feedings provide? Are you hoping it will lay a shroud over the dread sinking your stomach? Is this another way to run?
Maybe.
But you are so good at running.
“Would you like a nibble?” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the hint of anticipation from your voice.
Astarion jerks his head up, pushing your shoulder until you’re lying on your back and looking up at him with an arched brow. He regards you thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea tonight.”
“Why?”
Astarion rifles his fingers through his hair, “You are well aware of the effect you have on me when I feed on you. I cannot promise that once your blood dawns on my tongue, your skin under my fingertips, I won’t lose myself in the need to make every inch of you mine.”
You wrap an arm around Astarion’s neck carefully, kissing along his jaw. You whisper in his ear, “So make me yours.”
Astarion shudders amorously as you ghost your lips over the ridge of his ear to the tapered tip. He grabs your waist with a low, rumbling growl, pulling you into his lap to straddle him. His desire for you pressed firmly against your already slick sex. Astarion looks deeply into your eyes, holding you still as if trying to figure out if you’re in your right mind.
You’re trying to figure out the same thing.
He catches your lips in his, gentle at first but with progressively more ferocity. He groans into your mouth. It radiates down your spine, stealing your breath, and a chill rushes through you, settling in your core. Your heart flutters with desire, the increasing drumbeat of it making its way between your thighs.
Astarion’s hand grips your hips, undulating them, his cock sliding between your folds, brushing up against your swollen flesh. You have been so fundamentally deprived of his affection that every touch sends shivers over your skin, every slide of his tongue against yours makes you want to sigh, and every groan steals the air from your lungs.
His fingers tease the peaks of your nipples, and you throw your head back and gasp. Astarion kisses up the column of your throat, his free hand cradling the back of your head, fingers twisted in your hair.
There’s but a moment of clarity. You are running headfirst, barrelling into anything that might hope to make you numb - him, pleasure, alcohol, bloodlessness.
Astarion’s fingers glide between your lips and sweep over your sensitive pearl, and coherence is lost in a white-hot rush of pleasure. You melt, draping your arms over him and biting his shoulder to hush your cries. His lips trace along your neck, and you roll your head to the side. His fangs sink into your flesh, and he growls, deeply and lofty, his chest rumbling against yours as if thunder was rolling through it. Your essence trickles through his veins like a gentle rain as he draws in methodical sips, savouring every drop.
Your hips buck as he continues his ministrations. You yearn to feel that decedent stretch of your walls as they envelop his cock, and he knows it. Astarion encourages you to lift your hips, pressing the swollen, blunt head of his cock to your entrance, and you sink down his length as he rubs against all your ridges so exquisitely that it makes your vision blur.
You don’t even notice his fangs retreat from your neck as his lips mould to yours to dampen your unadulterated breathy moans. You close your eyes and fade in and out as your head spins around with pleasure so intense you cannot think straight. The woozy fog of blood loss only adds to your dwindling reason and logic. With every pump of his hips and every roll of yours, you are walking on the fine edge of paradise.
But there’s something not quite right in his movements. They are tactical, methodical, and too perfect. You drive your eyes open, blinking away that haze of ecstasy. When you look into Astarion’s eyes, he’s not looking back at you. He’s looking past you as if through you, but his body knows this dance well enough, and he continues to go through the motions even when he’s a million miles away.
You go rigid, halting all movement in a split second, and your heart seizes, bound by the flash freeze in your chest. It jolts him back to himself, and he blinks rapidly, almost confused.
“Astarion,” you purr, concealing the hurt in your voice. Why didn’t he tell you? Why didn’t he say something as he promised he would? “Let's stop.”
“No,” he protests, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay, my love.” You cradle his cheek, trying very hard not to move a muscle until he tells you, “Tell me when I can move.”
“I’m sorry,” he looks away from you, brows downturned, rubbing his eyes. “I want this. You. I was there, and then I just… wasn’t. I don’t know what happened.”
“Healing is messy. Isn’t it?”
“You are a gift,” Astarion folds his arms around you, hugging you close to him, and you try to hug him back, but it’s admittedly awkward when he’s still inside you, and you’re trying your best to keep yourself still. He laughs, “You can move, Kamena. I’m not uncomfortable.”
“You’re still inside me,” you retort, almost as if to alert him to this fact.
“Yes, that’s considerably obvious, but thank you for pointing it out,” he chuckles as you relax slightly. “Do you think we could stay like this? Just for a little bit? I find it… strangely helpful.”
This is new. Not unwelcome, but definitely new, “You want to sit here with your cock inside me, and what, chat?”
“Precisely!” He chimes happily, leaning back with a grin, “I’m so glad you understand, darling. Hells. Do I have some stories for you! Do you know how hard it is to break into the government buildings here? They are locked up tighter than a patriar’s purse, but I do love a good challenge.”
You can’t help but burst laughing at his carefree attitude, the way he’s still rock hard inside you, talking about committing crimes as if you were sitting at a table sharing stories over dinner and drinks. This is not typically how you remember him reacting, but this… this is progress, and you will take it.
You groan, “Why were you breaking into the civil buildings, Astarion?”
“How do you think Gale knew where to find and nullify the device suppressing magic at the prison?” Astarion drawls, pleased with himself. “That man is terrible at stealth. Even worse than you. He complained about his knees the entire time! Gods. I am centuries older than him, and you don’t see me bellyaching.”
“How utterly annoying! I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” you giggle at how he smirks with a wily glint in his crimson eyes. He definitely considered it. “In that case, you’re going to have to take me on a date where we break into this government building that gave you a hard time. This is something I must see.”
“You cheeky little minx,” he laughs. “I would love nothing more.”
The murmur of voices, clinking of cutlery on the tableware, and smell of what is surely Gale’s cooking drift down the hallway as you approach. Astarion follows closely behind, his hand at the small of your back. He has not stopped touching you in some fashion since you returned, as if he’s worried that you might disappear.
You stop dead in your tracks when you see the back of Hecat’s head, sitting at the table, shovelling whatever gruel Gale provided into her mouth and nodding as he recounts tales of your grand adventure in the Underdark. It takes substantial effort not to tell Gale to shut his trap. He does realize that you met this person in prison, right?
Shadowheart sees you first, leaping from her chair and dashing over, sweeping you into a tight hug, “Gods. You smell much better,” she giggles when you groan and squeeze her hard enough to expel some air from her lungs, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you nod, but you haven’t been able to take your gaze, etched with skepticism off Hecat.
Shadowheart whispers, “She had nowhere else to go. Gale invited her.”
You snort, “Of course he did.”
“I’ve been watching her closely,” Shadowheart sniffs. “And I will continue to do so.”
You suppose the woman was instrumental in your escape, and perhaps, for now, you should give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Sit,” Astarion instructs, pulling a chair out for you. “I will get you some food.”
You arch a brow at him and give him an almost imperceptible shake of your head. Although anything will be better than the stale bread and dried meat the prison served, whatever Gale has fashioned resembles wet dog food, and your stomach, as hungry as it is, flops in your belly.
Astarion kisses your temple, “Trust me.”
You sit, and Astarion gathers fresh fruit from the fridge, cutting it up in deft, precise movements. He glares at the knife spitefully, assessing the edge and rolling his eyes. You would giggle, knowing he’s judging Gale for the state of his knives, if you were not so flabbergasted that Astarion is preparing your food.
Hecat’s voice breaks you from your astoundment, “You clean up nicely! I almost forgot what colour your hair was under all that crud.”
She, too, looks substantially different without dirt smudged on her face, “I could say the same about you,” you retort a little too sourly.
Hecat smiles, not catching the venom in your voice, “Your friends are very nice.”
“Yes,” you give Gale a sideways glance, and he looks bashful. “Gale is very generous and trusting.”
Gale’s face flushes red, and he clears his throat, putting a finger in the collar of his robe, and pulling it away from his neck like the garment is restricting his breath.
Astarion places a bowl of perfectly diced fruit before you. He sits, dragging his chair close to yours so he can keep a hand resting on your thigh. You don’t miss the way Shadowheart glares at him with unspoken bitterness.
“Dear Shadowheart already gave me quite the berating,” he shimmies his shoulders as if he enjoyed it.
He actually might have.
“Not enough of one if you ask me.” Shadowheart scoffs, her eyes narrowed and blazing with acidity.
Hecat arches a brow, confused at what is going on, and you’re not about to lay out your life story for some stranger you met in prison, so you push the conversation forward.
“Aldous is a vampire,” you say far too casually and are met with looks of shock and silence.
Gale and Shadowheart eye Astarion.
Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my bloody doing. I am a mere spawn. I do not have the power to turn anyone. Gods,” he shakes his head. “I don’t believe it possible. I disposed of him. Thoroughly.”
“Did you destroy his body?” You ask. Gale almost chokes on his tea at the indifference in your voice.
Astarion nods, “Entirely. There was nothing left.”
“Is that the man who was after you?” Hecat asks, but her eyes are not on you.
They are moored to Astarion, like a shipwreck lying on the ocean floor, irretrievably bound. Astarion doesn’t seem to notice as he typically does not, but these dew-eyed ogles always make jealously flare to life. You place your hand on Astarion, stop yourself from growling “mine,” and instead, settle on scowling.
Astarion is alerted to your discontentment by the heat radiated from your palm. He makes a show of kissing each of your fingers, slow and lingering, trying very hard not to snicker. He finds your jealousy endearing but equally foolish, and perhaps it is.
Hecat does not seem to care or notice. It drives you mad, so you crawl into his lap, placing yourself between him and her gawking orange eyes. You can hear Shadowheart chuckling under her breath. She knows your protectiveness of Astarion all too well.
Astarion remains casual about it as if it’s not unusual for you to sit in his lap during breakfast. He grabs the bowl of fruit you have yet to finish and shoves it into your hands, “Eat.”
You grumble curses under your breath only he can hear, at him and his bossiness, at Hecat, and shovel fruit into your mouth.
Astarion chuckles, kissing your cheek, and purrs reassuringly, “I only have eyes for you, thiramin.”
You know this, but it’s not his eyes you’re concerned about.
A knock on the door breaks you from your brewing hostility, and you nearly answer it as a reflex, but he holds you and shakes his head, “No. Not this time.”
“I’ll get it,” Shadowheart chimes.
Gale accompanies Shadowheart. All three of you are holding the Weave, ready to cast at a moment’s notice. There is an undertone of mumbling, and Astarion’s face transforms into a formidable scowl. His grip on you tightens, and he brandishes a dagger.
“Blackwell,” he growls.
Flames immediately jump to life across your skin, licking up your forearms and through your hair. Hecat is on her feet, her fists balled, stirred by your unease.
Gale returns, looking contrite, wracking his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, my friend, but we must hear him out.”
Astarion is the first to answer, his voice rough and grated in warning, “Absolutely fucking not! I don’t care what information he has or what he has to say, Gale. If you let him into this house, I will kill him. I promise you that. You would not want to get blood all over these lovely floors. Would you?”
“Information?” You ask, placing a hand on Astarion’s as he grips the dagger so tightly his fist shakes.
“Don’t be an idiot, Kamena,” Astarion snarls.
“My son,” you hear Mr. Blackwell’s voice as he sidles up behind Gale as if using him as a shield. Shadowheart has a tight clutch on his shoulder, bristling with fury, “I’ve made a grave mistake. I know I have no right to ask, but I don’t know where else to turn. I... I need your help.”
“Help?” You seethe, fingernails digging into the table to keep yourself from burning him where he stands, shoulders slumped, wringing his hat in his hands. “You want our help?! That’s laughable.”
“You killed him.” Mr. Blackwell mewls, “Didn’t you?”
You do not answer. No one does. Instead, you level him with a glower sharp enough to cut through mountains.
It is answer enough.
“I made a deal,” he continues. “No one would listen to me. No one cared. I was out of options, and then I was approached by a woman while I was at a tavern. She told me she could bring him back. She told me there was a spell that would return him to me. She said the only payment she would ask was that he would be in her service. I... I did not ask questions. I did not know what she was!”
“You godsdamned idiot,” you hiss, clenching your teeth so hard the nerves trill. “You made a deal with a vampire?”
“Nobles,” Hecat scoffs with a disgusted twist of her lips. “All wealth, zero intelligence.”
“I didn’t know!” Mr. Blackwell cries, slipping to the floor into a puddle of sorrow. “She said he would return to me the next night, and he did, but he was not the same. His mother let him in. She was so happy to see him she did not notice or care. She hugged him. He… He bit her! I could not get him to stop. He looks like you,” Mr. Blackwell says sullenly, nodding toward Astarion. “Red eyes, pale as a sheet.”
“I am sure he does,” Astarion beams a fanged, threatening grin at him, making Mr. Blackwell squeak like a mouse caught in a trap.
Questions are whirling through your mind. Why would a Vampire Lord take notice of you? Why would they waste resources – spawn, scrolls or otherwise? Why bother having you imprisoned, beaten, and weakened? There is always a purpose to their madness, but what could you have that they want?
“What could a Vampire Lord possibly want with you?” Gale echos your thoughts, fingers on his chin. “And why bring Aldous back? How did they bring him back?”
“Aldous is easy. Most likely a scroll of True Resurrection. I imagine they turned him because they knew his thirst for revenge would make him easy to manipulate. Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Your brows furrow, tapping the table with your finger rapidly, “What I don’t understand is what use they would have for any of us. I can’t think of a single relic in our possession that would do a Vampire Lord any good.”
Hecat looks between all of you with a puzzled look. She knows too much now, adding yet another complication.
“Astarion,” Shadowheart prompts him, “You’re the resident expert on vampires. Care to speculate as to why they would go through all this trouble?”
Astarion’s brows furrow and he shrugs, “I don’t have the slightest clue. Vampires are territorial beasts, but I do not think they would go to such lengths when they could have simply attacked me while I was hunting if their concern was territory.”
You give the worn noble on the floor a once over, and you feel nothing but hatred for the pathetically snivelling man. Should you feel merciful? Gods. When did you become so callous? “Did Aldous say anything else?”
“He muttered things here and there.” Mr. Blackwell sighs letting his head drop into his hands, “Something about ruins being the key and a contract, but none of it made any sense. He seemed like he was in a haze, drunk-like.”
Ruins being a key and a contract? It's not much to go on at this point, but you suppose, it’s a start.
“Whoever this Vampire Lord is,” Shadowheart crosses her arms, “They will know exactly who we are. They will not underestimate us.”
“Indeed,” Gale agrees with a curt nod. “We must take precautions, prepare and plan for the worst.”
“Who the fuck are you people?” Hecat asks, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“Adventurers,” you trample over Gale who is about to spill your entire story, looking him in the eyes with a warning. His mouth snaps shut. “Nothing more.”
It seems your adventure in Waterdeep is just beginning.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Shadowheart ❤️
I'm dying to hear all your theories on why a Vampire Lord has taken an interest! 😁
Are we trusting Hecat?
Fucking Aldous 🤬 Hopefully we get the chance to kill him... again.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.2K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
The guards aren’t gentle as they march you through the streets, soaked in the mid-morning sun. You were not even extended the courtesy of putting on shoes, and your feet are chilled by the stone-paved roads that have yet to amass any warmth from the sun as they are gouged by pebbles and glass squishing in revolting puddles of fluids you dare not give much thought. The guards push and prod with unyielding pointed tips of their gauntleted fingers, chewing your skin and causing pinprick points of blood to plume on your pale blue shirt.
Mr. Blackwell trails the procession, spitting lies and causing a stir. Waterdhavians whisper in hushed tones, snickering and gawking. Parents holler and cheer as their unruly children throw rocks with their trilling laughter as you progress through the crowds toward the Waterdeep County Jail, which lies just beyond the city walls. It’s a mercy when you reach the large, square-shaped complex.
You instinctively scan the building and surrounding area, counting guards and inventorying potential escape routes and exits. The corridors and halls are a maze as you’re ushered through them into a small, cramped cell. Rubbing the raw skin of your wrists, you realize you don’t occupy this cell alone. Dirty faces with sunken eyes barely reflecting the low light are huddled along the walls, peering at you through the murk. Some are sullen and morose, barely lifting their heads at your arrival, while other’s lips are twisted in repellent smirks.
The air is damp and chilled without the sun to warm it, and you shiver harshly, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and muzzle the nip that feels like it’s penetrating your bones. The Weave doesn’t heed your call when you reach for it, and there’s an uncomfortable hollow pang where your magic usually resides in a burning reservoir.
You limp to the back of the cell and eye a corner that might give you an advantage if one of these ruffians decides to try and see what you’re made of. This is not the first time you’ve been in prison, and just as in the animal kingdom, the weak are conquered.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” an amiable voice from your left warns. “Tempting as it is, that’s the… lavatory corner.”
“Thanks for the warning,” you mutter with a cringe, peering around to scout out a place to sit and think about how in the Hells to get yourself out of this mess.
“Here,” you hear shuffling, and the woman’s voice growls, telling off whoever was beside her. “You can sit with me.”
You squint to make out details in the dim illumination. The woman is as dirt-streaked as the rest of the prisoners. The Tiefling’s white hair is tied back, and her flaming orange eyes starkly contrast the drabness. She pats the floor beside her with a sincere and kind smile that gives her an appearance of harmlessness. Then again, all the best and worst scoundrels appear innocuous at first glance.
The options are limited, and she looks less malicious than the rest of the brutes huddled around you, so you sit with a feigned affable smile.
“I’m Hecat,” she holds out a deep purple hand. “A pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you, Hecat,” you shake her hand but do not offer your name in return.
You glare at your upturned palms, trying to claw at the Weave, but it doesn’t matter how deep you dig; you cannot even get the faintest of sparks or magic to emit. Having your magic suppressed like this feels akin to having a limb amputated, and you let your head rest on the wall, staring up at the ceiling.
“A sorcerer?” Hecat chimes pleasantly while she throws and catches a small rock for amusement, “Right?”
“How do you know?” You hiss more harshly than you should, narrowing your eyes at the Tiefling.
“Oh! Easy now,” she chuckles and puts up her clawed hands innocently. Hecat points to your face. “Your scales. Draconic sorceress, right? Not many of your kind around. You blend in with those as much as I do with horns.”
“Oh,” your fingers idly dawdle over the glassy-smooth, iridescent scales engraved into your skin. “I’m sorry. I— I’m a little on edge.”
“Not a problem,” Hecat nods curtly with a toothy grin. “We are all a little on edge given the environment we find ourselves in. I’ve been in more pleasant sewer canals.”
“Me too,” you can’t help but let out a small laugh, remembering Astarion’s expression when you told him you had to go trudging around the sewers under the Lower City.
“Come now,” Astarion cringes with an exasperated huff, “Do you really expect me to go down there? In these boots?! With this hair and these nails?! You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You don’t have to join us, Astarion. You are free to lounge around camp while we do all the hard work,” you giggle, rolling your eyes at his theatrics as he glowers at you with crossed arms. “I’m sure Karlach or Halsin won’t mind getting out for a bit.”
“Absolutely not! No, no. Nope! Don’t you dare think about asking me to stay behind.” Astarion clicks his tongue disapprovingly, jutting out a hip and cocking his head defiantly. “There is no way in all nine Hells I will let you go without me. I can’t trust those fools to protect you sufficiently. Where you go, I go, my love. Always. Even if that means I have to go gallivanting through the bloody sewers. Gods above. Well, come on then - lead on. Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m definitely going to splash you when we’re down there,” you laugh mirthfully, jogging away from him, trying to retreat quickly.
“That had better be a joke, Kamena!” He growls. In a couple of soundless, long steps, Astarion picks you up by your waist, crushing your back against his muscular chest, kisses your neck and grumbles low near your ear. “Don’t jest, darling. I bite.”
Astarion whined every minute you spent down there. He annoyed everyone except for you, of course. You could happily listen to that voice nonstop, even when it’s complaining, scoffing at your not-so-funny jokes, or calling you “idiot” or “pig-headed.” Gods. You wish you could hear his voice now. You swallow the urge to cry and scold yourself for being weak. This is not the place for another pathetic breakdown. Inhaling a deep breath, you contract and relax every muscle, from your shoulders to your toes, to centre yourself. You’re not a maiden that needs saving from the jaws of a dragon; you are the dragon, and you will pour oceans of fire and eat the shadows whole.
“Your magic will do you no good down here, I’m afraid. They have an anti-magic field wrapped around this place.”
“Lovely,” you sigh while inspecting your bloodied feet, trying to pick slivers of glass out of the soles.
“Did they drag you straight out of bed or something? Hecat queries.
“You could say that,” you mutter, cool and dry.
Gods. I should have stayed in bed this morning.
“Animals,” Hecat scoffs. She shuffles around and offers you her soiled coat. You glare at her with questions in your eyes. She shrugs nonchalantly, “You look cold. We can share while we’re stuck here.”
The days in prison drag by slowly. It’s hard to know how much time passes in places like this where the sun does not rise or fall, but you’ve been paying attention to the stone’s temperature to figure it out. During the day, the walls and floor are still cold but generally dry. During the night, the bricks are bitterly icy and damp. It’s the best you can do in your situation. Your best guess is that you’ve been here nearly a week. You’ve been watching the guards, their routines, counting how many are on duty at once.
The prison corridors and halls are always well-lit by several wall torches placed at specific increments to leave no corner or cell door obscured by shadow. Sneaking out of this place is unlikely to be feasible. Magic is also out of the question, and there’s no knowing how far the barrier extends. From what you can gather without looking too suspicious, there are always ten to fifteen guards on duty. Pairs of them walk in perfected circuits.
You’ve been taken from the cell a dozen times for interrogations that you’re not sure usually happen. The guards query you about attacking Mr. Blackwell and why you would do such a thing to such a nice man. Then, they move on to his son and ask you where Aldous is. When you don’t answer the guard’s questions, they try to beat the answers out of you.
You’re tired, battered and bruised from head to toe. The last time was particularly rough, and you’re sure that one or more of your ribs have been broken, as indicated by the large hematoma that now extends up your side and the need to take shallow breaths lest the pain make you nearly faint.
Despite the dire situation you find yourself in, you’ve become increasingly close to the Tiefling, Hecat, coming to rely on her much more than you want to. The first night, you accidentally fell into your trance. The other prisoners thought that might be an excellent time to see if you had anything valuable to offer them. Hecat had stepped in and scared them off. She was a formidable Fighter that much is clear to you. Now, you take watch while she sleeps, and she watches when you trance. She also assists you with your wounds in any way she can, which is admittedly not much, but she tries. You continue to share the grimy coat, although she tends to let you have it more often.
If Astarion were here, he would say it’s because you’re “grumpy when you’re cold.” You can practically hear his voice tutting you, and it makes you want to laugh and cry concurrently.
The other captives in your cell have started to dwindle, and the room isn’t so crowded now. You and Hecat have taken a corner to yourself, far away from the dreaded lavatory corner.
“How are those bones of yours today? Hecat asks when she sees you yawn upon waking, wince and strangle back a whine.
“Never better,” you smile, but your voice sounds breathy.
“When they come for you next time.” Hecat snarls with her fists balled at her sides, “I’m going to take them out.”
“Don’t bother,” you sigh, shaking your head. They didn’t seem to take any other prisoners, but you haven’t yet figured out why. You assume Mr. Blackwell has paid them off, “I wouldn’t doubt if they were being paid to torture me personally. It’s fine.”
“You must have pissed off someone with deep pockets.”
Neither of you speaks to the reason you’re in prison. For all you know, Hecat murdered her entire family, or perhaps even worse. But, right now, you need each other, and the alliance has turned out to be rather helpful.
“The guards deviated from their routine last night,” Hecat whispers low, leaning in by your tapered ear. “There was some commotion, but I couldn’t make it out, and they all left their posts.”
This commotion she speaks of, you pray, is not Astarion. Hopefully, Gale has been able to talk some sense into that marvellously beautiful bastard. You’re relieved he hasn’t come in here, blade swinging. It would just cause a further scene that there is likely no coming back from. You believe, on some level, Astarion knows this. You can and will get yourself out of here. It’s just going to take a little time.
But Good Gods, you miss him. His voice, his fragrance, the way he feels like home, safety and happiness. You miss his lips on yours, his hands on your body, and his cock stretching you.
Not the time for these thoughts. Hells, Kamena. Get a hold of yourself.
“Would it have given us a chance?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Hecat shakes her head, “They were all summoned to the gate for something, and if what you’ve said is correct, that gate is the only way in and out of this godsforsaken place.”
Truthfully, you don’t know if that’s even the way out. At most, you know it’s the way out of this wing or sector, but what lies beyond the door is a mystery.
“We just have to bide our time.” You smile half-heartedly at the memory, “A smart friend once told me that “with patience, anything can be done.”
“Sounds like a smart friend indeed,” Hecat winks. There must have been a little too much fondness in your voice when you said that. Damn. “Patience has never been a virtue of mine.”
“Nor mine,” you laugh, but it’s low and almost sullen. You want out of this place before you get taken for another talking to. “But I don’t think we have much choice in the matter right now.”
“Will this friend of yours be coming to perform a heroic rescue anytime soon?” The Tiefling teases with a toothy grin. She’s obviously caught on to the fact that this friend of yours is a little more than a friend. You’re going to have to be more careful, “Throwing rocks is getting very boring.”
“I am hopeful he’s smarter than to come barging into a place he doesn’t know, but there’s still time for him to do something stupid, so who’s to say?"
Hecat laughs, “So, is this friend smart or stupid?”
“I’d wager a little bit of both,” you sigh. Missing Astarion hurts in a way that’s hard to describe. You’re undecided if talking about him is making it harder or easier, “He’s the most cunning man I know, but he can be reckless and a little murder happy.”
“Oh. Murder happy? I like him already,” Hecat says, and although it’s silly, your jealousy flares wildly. It takes considerable effort to remain poised, “What if those brutes come again and take you?"
You’re not sure if her concern is really for your safety or because she thinks you’re the best chance she has of escaping this place.
I assume it’s the latter.
“Don’t worry about it. Really.” You assure her, hiding your fear behind confidence. The beatings have only been progressively getting worse. You’re not sure how much more your body can take.
You are, of course, a little worried that if you do take Hecat with you when you escape, you’re releasing a murderer back into the city, but you’re going to need her fighting skills to get through the guards. You suppose if she is some heinous criminal, you can deal with her after. Astarion would likely be happy to have someone to murder.
Hecat puts a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, “Should we go over the plan some more?”
“Sure,” you nod and start reviewing all your possible escape routes and options.
Currently, you both think the best course of action is to rush the guards when they try to come and drag you away, but that will need to be done at night when fewer guards are on duty. Unfortunately, the guards do not appear for you at night often. There’s a concerning abundance of details that remain unknown. Like the prison layout, for example. You’ve only been in this corridor and one other where the small room of your torment exists. You don’t remember much of what you saw on the way in. There were too many twists and turns, and they made you walk briskly so you couldn’t get a good look at them. Hecat mentioned her arrival was much the same.
You’ve only seen the outside of this place once when you were being brought in. You remember very high stone walls, guard towers and gates. None of these would be any trouble if you had your magic, but you don’t, and you can’t imagine they would stop the anti-magic barrier until you’re at least outside of the complex, which means you will need to figure out how to get over the fucking walls or through the gates while being chased by guards.
No wonder Astarion always says that murder is efficient.
“Not exactly much of a plan,” Hecat snorts, but she already knew this.
“I never was much of a planner,” you shrug and comb your fingers through your increasingly filthy hair, trying to brush the knots and snag out, but to no avail. “Chaos was always more my thing.”
“I like you,” Hecat laughs. “I’ll take the first watch tonight. Get some rest.”
Your cottage amid a heavily forested area is hidden away on the outskirts of Rivington, close enough to the city to enjoy the comforts, shops and taverns and easy access to the forest so Astarion can hunt freely. You’d offered to be his primary food source, and he’d giggled at your enthusiasm to be a vampire’s juice box.
The wildflowers grow in patches, filling the air with a honey-sweet aroma. The tall trees filter the dappled sunlight as they sway slightly in the afternoon breeze. You tap on the door before opening it a crack to warn Astarion to get away from it if he happens to be nearby upon your return home. You only open the door a crack, enough to fit your body through, close and lock it promptly.
“Darling,” Astarion chuckles as he strides toward you with a bemused grin. It doesn’t matter how long you live with this man. You’re always awe-struck by his beauty, especially when he’s smiling at you like he is now - broad, happy, and unashamed to show his fangs. “You know you don’t have to knock when you get home. How many times must I tell you? I can hear your trampling approach long before you arrive.”
“I’m aware. You keep chastising me,” you roll your eyes with a snort. “What if you were tranced or otherwise occupied? Maybe I am extra quiet one day, and you don’t hear me? It’s just safer this way. It hardly takes any effort to knock on the damn door.”
“You, my sweet, fiery love, could never hope to be quiet enough to be successful in such an endeavour,” he taunts with a hand on his hip and boyishly handsome lop-sided grin. “You do realize that even if the sun touches me, I will be fine. It’s not an immediate death sentence. You have seen it for yourself.”
You cringe at the memory of the docks as it warps your heart, making your chest burn with a mixture of rage and despair. You still have nightmares of watching Astarion’s hopeful expression contort into one of mourning as his milk-white skin starts to smoke and turn matte grey. It was just not fucking fair, life rarely is, but this was an injustice that you’re having a hard time reconciling with. Astarion had accepted it with little fuss, but to you, it was unacceptable. You curse every single God in your head for their abandonment of the hero before you.
"I know,” you mutter. Your body suddenly feels heavy, laden under the weight of memories of watching the sunrise together, basking in the sun with him in meadows and fields, the way he was so captivated by colour, and you slam your palms onto the table to stabilize yourself. “I will find a way for you to walk in the sun again, Astarion.”
Astarion’s demeanour changes instantly. He knows this is a sore subject for you, even more so than himself.
“Kamena.” The timbre of his voice lowers into an auditory caramel, soothing, buttery and rich, “It doesn’t bother me any longer. I missed it briefly, but the shadows are part of me. I am at home in them. You are all the light I need in my life. You are my sun, Solicallor.”
The guilt makes tears start to prick your eyes. Astarion should not have to be comforting you over this; you should be comforting him. Your stomach sinks nauseatingly like an anchor has been tied to it and cast into a bottomless ocean. The feeling is so physical that your head spins and throbs.
“I will find a way,” you say, quieter than a whisper through a clenched jaw, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself.
“Sweetheart?” You totter on your feet, and Astarion wraps a solid arm around you. He places his hand, which feels colder than usual, against your forehead and cheeks, “You’re hot.”
“Why, thank you,” you try to giggle through this rather odd stupor you find yourself in and sag into him, allowing him to hold your body weight up.
“Not exactly what I meant.” His warm voice is steeped in cottony concern with a hint of alarm, “You’re a vision, but I mean, your skin feels hot - too hot. I think you have a fever.”
“Oh,” Astarion guides you to a chair to sit on, helping you into it. “I suppose that makes sense. I’m not feeling great.”
“You’re sick?” The tenor of his voice increases into a high treble, showcasing his worry.
“Maybe,” Astarion’s eyes are streaking around the room. No doubt, for some potion, scroll or other supplies that could help. He looks terrified, and you guide his eyes to you. “It’s okay, Astarion. Mortals get sick sometimes. It will pass. It’s nothing to be troubled over.”
“But I—“ he swallows thickly, making his Adam’s apple bob, “I do not know what to do. I haven’t had to worry about being sick in two centuries, and I hardly have practice taking care of someone ill. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how I can help you.”
“You don’t have to take care of me.” You walk his bouncing eyes back to you. You would find this a little humorous if Astarion weren’t so clearly distressed. He must understand that not every sickness is terminal, right? In another situation, you might taunt him playfully, but you decide reassurance is the best route. “Everything is okay, my love.”
Astarion places his hands on your forehead, which starts to sheen with sweat and then to your neck and chest. He looks utterly disorientated and afraid, believing a fever might kill you.
“I’ll help you get undressed and into bed,” he finally instructs, but his voice shakes.
Astarion’s fingers have less finesse than usual as he undoes the claps and ties, keeping your robe on, and removes it. Scooping you into his arms, he takes you to the bedroom and gently places you on the bed. Astarion busies himself with removing your underclothes until your bare, even while you protest that you’re okay. He glowers at you, and you’re sure he’s going to call you an idiot, but he keeps his mouth closed, deciding he probably called you an idiot enough with his eyes.
He has.
He pulls his shirt over his head, folds it neatly just as he did for your clothing, and starts unlacing the ties of his breeches. Astarion catches you staring and winks with a roguishly handsome grin, and you think this, right here with him, is bliss. Fever be damned.
“What are you doing, Astarion?” You chuckle but watch in rapture, taking in how magnificent he is; all toned muscle, perfect skin, perfect hair you long to tangle your fingers into and those damn breathtaking red eyes, “I mean... I wouldn’t say no.”
You would, in fact, scream a resounding “yes,” or probably several.
“Bloody Hells. Get your head out of the gutter,” he teases, head falling back and laughing, deep and gravelly. “You have a fever, and I am deathly cold. I don’t know much about mortal sickness, but I’m pretty sure we need to try to break your fever, yes? What better way than to curl up with your cold, vampiric lover.”
“I will take any chance I can get to cuddle naked with my vampiric lover,” you giggle, patting the bed with a theatrical pout, “What are you waiting for? Get in bed, Aerasumé. Come cool me down. I am ever so warm.”
“Always so eager.” Astarion chuckles, climbing into bed and pressing your back to his chest, making sure to get every contour of his body to align with yours. He places a gentle kiss on the back of your neck. “If you’re not feeling better come nightfall, I will fetch Jaheira. She’s still in the city being an absolutely fantastic mother, I assume?”
“Yes, she’s still in the city. She’s helping with rebuilding efforts. I spoke to her the other day, but you don’t need to trouble her.” You shiver against him, and he rubs your arm with his nose in your hair, gripping you tighter to him. “This will pass.”
“I could steal some Potions of Healing or whatever else you need.” His words come a little too quickly, not in his usual balmy, drawling baritone. “Tell me what you need, and I will get it, or I will be fetching the Druid come nightfall. I will drag that wizened elder here if I must.”
“I only need you.” You roll over to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead on his. Astarion hugs you tight as if he’s afraid you might drift away. “Tell me why you’re so scared, Astarion. Surely, you’ve seen sick people before. It’s normal.”
“Of course, I have seen the infirm before,” he says, hands roaming your body in gentle, soothing caresses. You know Astarion is trying to use himself as a vampiric thermometer, but his touch always feels good - so you won’t complain. “The difference is I have never cared about anyone before. Whether they lived or died was of no consequence to me. You are the first person I truly care for. I love you. I can’t lose you. I could not bear it.”
“I love you too. You will not lose me to a fever. You’re stuck with me for hundreds of centuries yet.” He smiles widely at that and kisses you intimately, slow and savouring, with his fingers combed into your hair, massaging your scalp. You suppose one of the perks of having a vampire for a partner is you can’t exactly get him ill.
“Stuck with you for hundreds of centuries, am I?” He pulls you in so that your head is resting on his shoulder and his on yours, “I think I can live with that.”
“You think?” You purse your lips, jutting out your chin in a way that mimics how he does it. It takes a monumental amount of effort to keep your giggling suppressed. “I’m offended.”
Astarion knows you too well and simply chuckles at your display, “You know an eternity with you still wouldn’t be enough, silly thing. Now. If you’re quite done being dramatic, what would you like to do with our day lazing around in the boudoir?”
“Will you read to me?”
“Of course, love,” Astarion points at a pile of books beside the bed. He chooses which book to read on any given day depending on his mood, so he’s always in the middle of several at once, "What would you like me to read today?”
“You pick.” You giggle, making sure it’s the sweetest, chiming giggle he’s ever heard. “But will you do the voices?”
“I don’t know,” he glowers at you playfully while you wrap yourself around him, slinging a leg over him. You’re sure he’s softer than any silk you could ever import, “It’s terribly unbecoming of a hero.”
“Please, Astarion.” You pout, batt your lashes, and give him your best puppy-dog eyes. “I am sick.”
“Ugh,” he rolls his eyes, trying to look irritated, but it fails as the corners of his perfect lips twitch up, “You’re too fucking adorable. It’s inconceivably irritating. Fine, but only because you are not feeling well! If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking kill you.”
“What fun!” you snicker.
“Get up, dragon girl!” Hecat is furiously shaking you from your trance.
It takes you a minute to become fully aware of the clash of steel swords vibrating like a swarm of angry bees bounding off the cold stone walls. Metal boots thud, sprinting down the corridors with the angry wails and roars of battle.
“What in the Hells is going on?” You ask, looking to Hecat for answers. Your heart is pounding in your chest, requesting more breath than you can give it without feeling the shooting agony of your fractured ribs.
“I don’t know,” Hecat shrugs. “I tried to get a look, but the bloody cells are designed so you can’t see much of anything going on beyond a couple of feet.”
Please. Please. Don’t be Astarion.
Shoving and pushing the other prisoners away from the cell door, you try to get a good look, craning your neck to see if you can view anything over the stone lip, but as Hecat had said, visuals are limited. These cells are built depressed into a thick block arch to block prying eyes. You can see, at best, about halfway up the corridor, give or take a little. The melodies of battle are only increasing, but where there were bellowing battle cries and roars. Now, there are screams and pained yelps for help, but whether the screaming is from the attackers or the guards – you're unsure.
You and Hecat slink to the back of the cell together, giving yourself distance from the other prisoners so you can talk in private. Thankfully, everyone else is too focused on what’s happening outside the cell to pay you any heed.
“This wouldn’t happen to be your daring friend trying to rescue you,” Hecat waggles her brows with a saucy grin. “Would it?”
You shake your head at her, “No, I doubt it. My friend would not create this much havoc.” Something doesn’t feel quite right, and it’s nagging at you. You rub your arms to try and dispel some of your rising anxiety, “No. This wouldn’t be a rescue for me. Something else is going on here.”
Hecat gives you a once over, “You’re not wearing any shoes, and your ribs are still broken. You’re in no shape to be running, even if we manage to get out of here. Much less battling with guards and who knows what.”
“You let me worry about myself,” you scoff, crossing your arms with a scowl. Hecat has no idea who you are, and you’ve kept it that way on purpose. Although, you are sure that you don’t look very battle-proficient right now. “If I fall behind, you can leave me and get yourself out. You don’t owe me anything.”
“You think I would leave you behind?” Now it’s Hecat’s turn to scoff and glower at you. You like her, but you only trust her as far as you can throw her, and that isn’t far at all.
“Look,” you try to put your silver tongue to work. The last thing you need right now is to fight with the one person who has helped since you got here. “I didn’t mean it like that. If I become a burden, you need to watch out for yourself. I might not seem like much, but I have been in countless battles. I can hold my own with or without shoes and intact ribs.”
Hopefully.
“Can you use a sword?” Hecat’s pacing, tapping her lips in the usual way she does when trying to think, “If we could procure some from the guards, we might have a better chance.”
“No,” you admit, almost sheepishly. “But if we can get our hands on a dagger, I am slightly better with those. I am death incarnate when I have my magic, though. If we can get out from under the suppression, that’s where I will really shine. Admittedly, I won’t be much help here.”
“That’s okay,” Hecat smiles, patting your arm. “We planned to run, and I think that’s exactly what we should do as soon as we get the chance.”
“I agree. Running is our best bet. There are too many guards for only the two of us.”
Hecat nods and keeps talking strategies, but you’re drawn away from the conversation as you listen to the screaming getting quieter and the clash of blades reducing. There’s an odd aroma in the air. You’ve smelt it before, but it’s not quite strong enough to connect any specific memory to; it smells organic, earthy, wet, and cold. Whatever that smell is, even if your brain cannot comprehend it, it seems your body does. You’re shaking, surging with adrenaline, but you cannot place the unease you’re feeling.
There’s commotion in the hallway by the cells near the front where you can’t see. All the prisoners seem to gasp at once and start screaming, skittering and flailing. You can hear the sound of boots grating on the ground as they press themselves up against the walls of their cells. The high-pitched screeching of iron bars being wrenched on and doors being forced open increases the utter cacophony. People shout, but you cannot make the word out when it’s buried under so much noise.
You and Hecat push your way to the front of the horde, everyone trying to stick their heads through the bars so they can see what’s going on. They step on your bare toes with boots, and elbows smash into your already smashed ribs, making you let out a whimpering breath.
Hecat is right. You’re in no shape to fight or run.
Suddenly, it hits you like a gust of icy wind of a summer’s day, freezing you to your core and sending shivers down your spine. Your maltreatment wasn’t done as some pointless abuse at the hands of petty guards - no. They weren’t truly interrogating you for information or because they were paid to make your stay here extra special.
Someone wants you to be weakened, hurt, and your magic stripped away.
Someone needs you to be weak and helpless.
But that still begs the question - who and why?
You catch rapid glimpses of a pale arm here and an ashen leg there. They are sickly looking, slim and emaciated. Your heart palpates in your chest as you remember where you last smelled that raw organic scent.
The Szarr Palace.
You drift to the back of your cell, taking Hecat with you until your backs are pressed against the stone. Hecat quirks a brow at you, obviously confused with the dread you’re sure is framed in the features of your face. Sticking your hands behind your back, you hope she didn’t notice them trembling.
You swallow and whisper, “Have you ever fought vampire spawn before?”
Questions march through your head like a restless army, but you try to focus on the most important ones. How many spawn will you need to outrun? You shudder at the thought. You know firsthand how quick vampire spawn are, and your fingers hover over your broken ribs.
Hecat gawks at you with brows raised so high they look like they might be trying to mount her scalp. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Vampires,” you repeat hoarsely, obliviously trying to fight back tears. “Have you ever fought them before?”
You just got Astarion back, and now you might fucking die here in this prison after being arrested for a crime you didn’t even commit. What kind of cruel joke is this? Why can’t life give you a damn break? Why can’t you have a happily ever after with the man you love?
Fear suddenly relents and bursts into anger, and you stoke those flames to kindle it because anger is far more productive than fear.
Hecat is looking at you with a slack jaw and round eyes, “How do you know what’s out there is vampire spawn?”
“I have had a lot of experience with vampires.” You try to keep your intonation as unwavering as possible. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You will see them soon enough.”
“Yes,” Hecat confirms. Her forehead creases in worry, “I have some experience with them, but not much. I tend not to enter into battles I’m not sure I can win.”
Smart woman. Maybe I need to take a page from her book.
“The plan is still the same,” you instruct. “Run and only fight when you have to.”
“They are fast!” Hecat is pacing now, hands in her hair. “There’s no way we can outrun them, especially with you injured and magicless.”
“With this much blood, they will be frenzied. Their bloodlust will make them distracted. It works in our favour.”
“And the others?” Hecat points to the horde of prisoners still trying to figure out what’s happening, craning their necks at the gates.
In another life, you might have tried to save them, but you’ve learned that not everyone can be saved.
“Fodder.”
Hecat eyes widen at your detached answer, but she doesn’t have time to argue with you as the first spawn start coming into view from your cell. Everyone jumps back from the bars as their bloodied fangs snap, claws clench, and they hiss like snakes. Their eyes bore into you, black and glowing crimson like Astarion’s siblings when they were under Cazador’s compulsion.
“Oh, fuck,” you hear Hecat stutter as several more come to stand before the cell.
“Get ready,” you slide your feet across the stone floor, curling your toes into it, testing your purchase.
The spawn lunge at the cell door. Their teeth snap around the iron bars with loud, metallic pinging. They wrap their hands around the bars and pull with ferocious growls. The metal whines under the force, the stone where the door is moored cracks and crumbles, and the door gives way.
The spawn flood the cell like an ashen wave, cresting with bared frothing fangs over a restless, screaming sea.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments :) Keep them coming (if you feel like it - of course 😅)
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
Expect us to stay in Kamena's POV 75% of the time, but we will be returning to Astarion's eventually. I want Astarion's POV to remain interesting and special, so there will be less of it. We're still going to explore more of what he got up to when he left though.
Vampire attacking the prison? Why? Is it Mr. Blackwell's doing or something more sinister?
I just want to express that I hate, loathe, detest, Mr. Blackwell.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.5K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
You stare into the pale Elf’s vibrantly red eyes as he holds the razor-sharp edge of his dagger against your neck, which he seems to be looking at rather too ardently for your liking. You frown at him, struggling against his hold on you. He’s stronger than he appears at first glance. You knew this man was bad news as soon as you laid eyes on him. You’ll never be able to comprehend why you thought it was a lovely idea to turn your back on this stranger and walk away.
Perhaps you can blame it on being tired, having a worm thrust into your eye socket, falling out of the sky, or your head injury that smarts fierce and unforgivingly under the baking heat of the noonday sun.
You’re about to burn him to a crisp for this attack, but as you gaze into those eyes, your soul sparks with recognition you can’t place. You know this man, somehow, but you’re sure you’ve never seen him before.
The way he leers at you almost makes you giggle. “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me.”
Fear. You can see it plainly, hidden behind this facade of confidence. Your arm holds the dagger's tip steady as the steel kisses your neck. Keeping your voice as balanced as you can, you retort, “You have it backwards - they took me prisoner, just like you.”
“Don’t lie to me. I - agh.”
Your mind twists. Gods. The squirming behind your eye is beyond uncomfortable as it moves your brain matter around. You close your eyes and surrender to the sensation. It seems like the only option lest whatever is wiggling might break open your skull like a melon. A vision is steadily anthropomorphized. You’re looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold onto the memory, but it fades, and you’re left with the light and a potent fear that makes your stomach churn.
“What was that?” The pale Elf stares at you with a suspicious glower. The tenor of his voice increases. You recognize distress when you hear it. You better proceed carefully, or you’re going to wind up with a blade in your windpipe, ”What’s going on?”
Well, there’s no point in lying. Is there?
“It’s the mind flayer’s worm - it connected us."
His grip on you eases as he draws the pointed tip of the dagger away. You think about asking him if he recognizes you or if you’ve met before, but there’s nothing in his demeanour to indicate such. Have you hit your head far worse than you thought, and it’s scrambled your brain like an egg?
“You’re not one of them. They took you, just the same as me.” His scowl eases and becomes… artificial amusement? Real amusement? This man is decidedly hard to read. “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”
Apologies? Apologies?! Is that really all he has to offer you after he dragged you to the ground with a godsdamned dagger? He’s lucky you didn’t hail fire from the fucking sky! Gods. You want to punch him in his pointy, pale, beautiful face.
Well, I was contemplating burning him to death.
“Apology accepted.” You hiss at him, dusting off your robe. There’s sand in your mouth, gritty against your teeth. It makes you want to punch him all the more, “I might have done the same if roles were reversed.”
He chuckles at your taunting, “Ah, a kindred spirit.” He leers at you with a haughty glower, “My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur's Gate when those beasts snatched me.”
The streets were familiar as the vision played out behind your eyelids. If the glimpse wasn’t enough to convince you that he’s telling the truth about his origins, his accent does.
“I’m a Baldurian as well,” you glower back at him, meeting his arrogance with your own.
“Is that so? We clearly move in different circles.” You roll your eyes at his pompous intonation. “So, do you know anything about these worms?”
“Yes, unfortunately.” You hesitate but decide truth is the best course of action. He might as well know what he’s up against, “They’ll turn us into mind flayers.”
“Turn us into - ha. Hahaha!” You jolt at his mordant laughter like a giggle at a funeral. There’s such a deep sadness woven between the facade cracking. “Of course, it’ll turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?”
Your heated palms itch. Not with the draconic fire that squirms underneath the thin skin, but to reach out to him, to comfort this total stranger who has been nothing but a pain in your ass since you met him moments ago. So, why do you desperately want to hug him?
What in the Hells is wrong with me? Good Gods.
He continues with an abstract hopefulness, “Although it hasn’t happened yet. If we can find an expert - someone that can control these things - there might still be time.”
“Control it?” You scoff and quirk a brow, shaking your head. Control the worm? No. You need to fucking expel it immediately! You lean forward and resist the urge to poke his chest, which you are currently trying to imagine without that lovely doublet. You shake your head again, trying to rid yourself of your thoughts, “We need to get rid of it!”
“Well yes, of course,” he drawls as if you’re an idiot. With the way you’re acting and thinking, you begin to wonder if your head wound is worse than you thought, “But first things first.”
“You should travel with me.” The words are blundering out of your mouth before you have time to consider what you’re asking. He’s already been enough trouble, and you’re requesting more, but maybe, if you’re lucky, you will see him shirtless… Fuck! What in the Hells is wrong with you? You clear your throat, “Our odds are better together.”
“You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.” Astarion, this pale Elf you don’t know but somehow recognize, sizes you up as you frown at him, “And you seem like a useful person to know. All right,” he bows shallowly, “I accept, lead on.”
A useful person to know?
Ah. Yes. Of course. He’s one of those. He does not see you as another living being. No. You know his kind well. He sees you as a tool he can use to implement his liberation from your new friend who’s currently in a competition with your brain matter for space in your skull.
You walk a couple of steps before your outrage gets the best of you, and you whirl on him, fire in your palm and the Weave aglow in your eyes, “You said your name was Astarion, correct?”
“Yes,” his hand moves toward the dagger’s hilt at his hip. “That’s correct.”
“Don’t make any sudden moves, Astarion,” you snarl and toss Firebolt as close to his toes as you can without burning him.
“Ah,” he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. You’re sure it’s merely a placation so that you let your guard down. His voice is as smooth as butter and warm as daylight, “I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, yes? I apologized. What more do you want? I’m all out of wine and chocolates - I’m afraid.”
“Listen closely, Rogue,” you try to hide the insecurity you’re feeling behind an illusion of poise. “If you ever put another knife to my throat, if I have even a suspicion you might, I will reduce you to dust.”
“Oh, sorceress,” Astarion smirks, cavalier and handsome, “I would love to see you try, you brute. I don’t fancy your chances. I know a thousand ways to kill you before you can so much as utter an incantation, but I digress. You’re welcome to try, of course. You’ll find I am particularly hard to kill.”
You scoff, holding your hand in his view as fire edges over your fingers, up your arm, and back before petering out. “Who said anything about incantations? I hope you’re as good with that blade as you seem to think you are.”
“I assure you, I am. I’ve had more practice than you can possibly imagine,” he turns his nose up, puffing his chest out in bravado that makes you want to deflate that cocksure attitude.
You roll your eyes, stalking away toward the wreckage. You need to find supplies, coin, food-
“Ah-ah, sorceress!” Astarion chimes behind you with a jeering lilt that makes you close your eyes and curse under your breath as your patience wears incredibly thin.
Gods, give me strength.
“What?”
“Hells. You’re a snappy one. Are you always this rude?” He quips. “Do you have a name, or shall I just continue calling you sorceress, brute, shrew….”
“SHREW?!” You cut him off, trying very hard to hide your amusement but finally relenting and dissolving into raving laughter.
“I fail to see what’s so funny,” he peers around, crossing his arms, jutting a hip out. He’s obviously not accustomed to his jeers being scorned, but you’re not some soft-hearted juvenile.
“If you mean to upset me,” you giggle as he glares disdainfully, “you will have to try much harder than that. Until you can come up with a worthwhile slight, you may call me Kamena.”
“Kamena…” Something flashes in Astarion’s ruby-red eyes, dazzling and animated in the sunlight. His lips rap together as if he’s sampling how your name feels on his tongue. He shakes his head, sweeping the perplexity furrowing his brow away, “I would say it’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying. Now, if you’re quite done threatening me, may I suggest we get a move on?”
The spoon in your hand idly churns the thick, pasty curds of the cold porridge that was supposed to be your breakfast. You stare, disconnected and disgusted by the thought of consuming any form of nourishment despite the grumbles in your stomach indicating that you’re hungry. You slump in the chair, pushing the bowl away from you with a grimace. Your appetite is insufficient, and you can’t conjure the will to shove a spoonful of the algid, viscus goop into your mouth.
Days have turned into anxious nights with naught a syllable uttered between you and Astarion. Your heart is heavy in your chest with longing and uncertainty. He doesn’t come out of his room during the day and leaves late at night when he thinks you’ve fallen into your trance. Your nightmares have returned with a savage vengeance now that Astarion is no longer there to wake you from them before they start to escalate. Dark, puffy bags are beginning to extend under your eyes as you avoid slipping into your trance night after hopeless night. Your head spins misery like a web around your last interaction.
Perhaps I should have kept my feelings to myself.
“Sorceress,” Tara grumbles by your side, but you’re so tired her voice is forgotten as soon as it whispers over your ears. “Kamena!” She asserts more stridently, jolting you awake.
“What?” You snap at her, digging your fingernails into the table.
“I did it,” you whisper, trying to swallow the heavy shadow of your heart constricting your throat. “I told Astarion how I felt. He has not spoken to me since.”
“I see,” she considers your words and then smirks as much as her little nose will allow. “So, now he is being the idiot.”
Even with tears welling in your eyes, seeping from the corners, mutinying your control, you laugh, “I suppose you could say that.”
“Did the vampire tell you he did not feel the same?” She looks at you softly with those green eyes that hold the wisdom of a sage in their depths.
“No. Nothing like that,” you say with a tremoring voice and shake your head. “He requested I give him space.”
“And this troubles you,” she cocks her head, “this request for solace?”
“No,” you try to find the words to explain your melancholy. “No, it’s not the space. I can give him that. It’s the avoidance. The silence. He is usually so hard to shut up.” You give a meek laugh and let your head drop into your hands. “I will never get this right, will I?”
“Come, idiot,” she tilts her head toward the door. “Take a walk with me, will you?”
Tara half flies, half-scampers beside you, leading you deep into the forest. Golden sunlight flickers gently through the canopy. A brisk wind shakes the withering leaves from the trees, and they float down around you in a shower of oranges, reds and yellows. She leads you into a small alcove. Her wings flutter as she lands, stretches and settles them.
“What are we doing out here, Tara?”
“Pick a tree and make it fall.” Tara’s eyes glimmer as bold and keen as a hawk. “It matters not how.”
The request is odd, even for her. You can’t begin to fathom why in the world she would drag your sleepless, sapped self out here to simply fell a tree. You grasp the Weave and let the peaceful force thread through your muscles, giving them a pleasant buzzing tingle that starts in your toes and gambles up your spine. The incantation rolls off your tongue like poetry and the electric blue of lightening hisses as the current churns around your fingers. Picking a tree far from you or Tara, the bolt strikes true right at the base with a resounding, echoing boom that causes birds to flit away from the high boughs.
Tara shakes off the splinters of timber your grand display deposited on her fur. “Did it make a sound, sorceress?”
“Are you deaf?” You scoff. Your ears are still ringing from the blast, “Yes, of course, it made a sound.”
“When a tree falls, it tells the forest the tale of its demise, yet its seeds will grow in silence,” she says softly like a purring lullaby. “Growth and creation are often quiet. Even in this silence, you and the vampire are still growing.”
Oh, Hells. This godsdamn cat.
Shit. Tressym.
Astarion sits in the dimly lit confines of his room with his head in his hands and fingers curled in his hair. Turmoil surges within him as long-dormant fears roil, unravelling a tapestry of overwhelming emotion. He scolds himself with a scoff. He’s being a fucking fool, but those catacombs of pain and darkness have once again cast their baleful spell on him. Old insecurities he thought he had conquered paralyze him.
Cazador’s words often float through the darkness in his room. Will he ever stop hearing his voice? How many years will it take for it to fade away, lost to time like the colour of his eyes?
“You are nothing but an insignificant little insect, my boy.”
"You are no one. A monster, a fiend, a creature that can never be loved.”
“You are an abomination, unworthy of affection or compassion.”
It’s not an easy thing to untangle the web that Cazador wove. There are so many knots, snares and tangles that he keeps getting caught on. He feels trapped in this bloody prison of his own making, bound by the chains of his past. Fear has become his warden, prattling doubts that feed on his shattered self, holding him captive. Why can he not leave these things behind? Why do they keep cropping up to plague him?
Gods. He yearns for her touch, the warmth of her embrace to melt away the ice that has solidified in his veins, but shadows loom over him like monstrous spectres, threatening to extinguish any hope of happiness.
He heard the snarky feline call him an idiot today, and he’s loathe to admit it, but she’s right. Two hundred years of being surrounded by lover after lover, victim after victim, and never did he feel any real connection. Not until he met her.
“You look dreadful in that colour, sorceress.” He tuts, clicking his tongue. “That robe is quite unsightly. It leaves much to be desired.”
“It’s a good thing that you already desire me so much then,” she turns, walking backward and taunts. “Perhaps this will stop you from drooling over me like a lovesick pup.”
“I do not drool!” He scoffs.
“You’re drooling over my very delectable neck right now.” She grins, caressing her buttery skin. She does have a very lovely, biteable neck. He would not mind another nibble.
“Gods. You wish.” He crosses his arms, glowering at her presumptuousness. “No one will drool over you if you keep wearing that.”
“I think Gale finds this robe particularly attractive,” she giggles, twirling to showcase the horror show of a garment.
He attempts to remain impassive and emotionless, but a scowl devours his features nonetheless. The wizard has been all over her since she pulled him out of that damned portal. He hoped that Gale might be deterred after their little late-night tryst. It didn’t seem to dissuade him any. He should not even care if she finds herself in the arms of another. Yet, the more he witnesses Gale, Wyll, Hells, even the Gith, ogling her, flirting with her, giving her those amorous looks and suggestive comments, the more it simply rubs him the wrong way. He cannot quite comprehend why. He’s never been a jealous man before. He tells himself it’s because they might ruin his “simple plan” if they gain her affections.
“That’s not a good thing, darling. Do you see that purple curtain he’s wearing?” he snorts, grimacing.
“Need I remind you that you were also wearing purple when we met?”
“Yes, but it looks decidedly fabulous on me,” he retorts. “You look like you're wearing a burlap sack.”
“Oh,” she brings a finger to her lips and cocks her head in an adorable fashion. “Now, that’s a great idea. I shall adorn a sack on our next outing for your viewing pleasure since you seem so utterly invested in my outfits.”
“Hells below.” He grumbles. She likely will do it to get a rise out of him. “By all means, embarrass yourself further. I care not. Just have the decency to leave me at camp so I don’t have to be seen with you.”
“You know what?” She giggles, her face crinkling with the delight of teasing him. “I’ll just take it off right now. Will that shut you up, or will I have to rescue you from drowning in a puddle of your own saliva?”
“First, I cannot drown. I do not need to breathe.” He huffs, sticking his nose in the air. “Second. I do not drool. Third. I’m calling your bluff. Surely, you would not disrobe right in the middle of the road.”
“Hmm.” She ponders with her eyes cast skyward, twinkling in the fading light. A mischievous glower splits her lips, “Challenge accepted.”
“What?”
She laughs as her fingers unlace the ties on her hideous robe. His mouth drops open. Surely, she will stop. Even if she doesn’t, surely, she’s wearing something more than her undergarments under that.
Right?
…. Right?!
It falls open as she fiddles with the last couple of ties, and he’s glad she’s not looking at him because his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. She is decidedly not wearing anything other than her undergarments, and fuck, she is not stopping. He swallows thickly. She is a sight to behold, but good Gods, he does not want anyone else to behold it!
She chuckles and throws the robe over her shoulders, letting it drop to the dusty ground in a puddle around her feet and saunters off with a provocative sway of her hips. It takes him a moment to regain his poise as she strolls down the road in nothing but her underclothes and tall boots.
“What are you doing?” He grabs her robe off the ground, shaking it off and jogging to her. “Are you out of your mind? There are Goblins, Gnolls, and, ugh, Gnomes, roaming all over these parts.”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I am not shy, hm?” She laughs lightheartedly. “You’re gawking, Astarion.” She leans in close, swiping a thumb over the corners of his mouth, “And drooling.”
He swallows. He might be drooling a little, but he will never admit it.
“You, my dear, are intolerable sometimes.” He smirks. This woman is full of surprises. “Now, get dressed before I hold you down and redress you forcibly.”
“No, darling,” she tuts, mocking him and poking his chest. She purses her lips, glowering defiantly at him, “I don’t believe I will.”
“I will do it, sorceress,” he asserts with a low growl. “Do not tempt me.”
She giggles and takes off in a sprint through the trees. She calls back over her shoulder, “Consider yourself tempted, Rogue.”
Day bleeds into nightfall, and you sit with your back pressed against the headboard of your bed, resting your chin on your knees as you make the fire transform into various shapes. Your ears seemingly twitch with every tick, tick, tick of the clock, which is maddening as it seems to mock every second spent without Astarion. You’ve considered breaking it several times, and tonight may be the night it meets its fiery end. You see a shadow crawling across the floor, and you jump to your feet on the mattress, looking for the offender. Your heartbeat reflexively patters in your chest as you scan the floor. Your door opens abruptly, and you yelp.
Astarion looks around and arches a brow. He leans a shoulder on the doorframe with a regaled smirk, “Let me guess,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You saw a spider.”
He knows you too well. His voice is a salve to the deafening silence, and for a moment, you just let the sound and sight of him wash over you.
“I saw the shadow of a spider,” you finally reply, eyes flicking toward the floor to make sure the errant arachnid is not crawling toward you. “I have yet to see that actual perpetrator.”
“Well,” Astarion giggles. “If you can calm the thumping of your heart. I could find this transgressor rather quickly.”
“It’s not funny, Astarion!” You scold him and cringe, “Have you seen all the legs?”
“On the contrary, darling. It’s fucking hilarious and entirely adorable.” Astarion strolls around your room with silent footsteps. He cocks his head, listening intently, “It’s under your bed.”
Fire instantly leaps to life on your fingers, and you wonder how angry Gale would be if you burned his manor to the ground. You feel like it might be justified.
“A little excessive, no?” Astarion’s hand covers yours, making you smother the flames. “Come, love.” He grabs your legs and throws you over his shoulder. “I will rescue you from this most deadly of foes.”
You giggle as Astarion strides down the hall to his room. He places you back onto your feet and closes his door. You nearly wrap your arms around him until you remember he asked for space. Instead, you fold your arms around yourself and shrink away, taking quick steps back.
He frowns at your retreat, and an awkward silence stretches between you. “I’m sorry I’ve been distant lately,” Astarion begins, breaking the silence, “I just needed time to-“
“Are you okay?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but you finally find your voice. Unfortunately, it means everything you’ve been holding in starts spewing out in a blundering regurgitation of words. “I’m sorry. It was perhaps an ill-judged confession. I don’t expect you to feel the same. Nothing will change between us if-“
Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cutting off your verbal vomit. He holds you close, your body perfectly pressed into the contours of his. He takes his time tasting you, savouring your flavour with an intimacy that makes your knees feel like hot jelly.
“Well,” he smirks, breaking off the kiss, leaving you once again breathless and wordless. “That always did work wonders to shut you up. Now, will you allow me to get a word in, or shall I keep kissing you until you forget what it is you were going to say?”
“I’ve sufficiently been shut up,” you say breathily.
“Good. Sometimes, your mouth is bigger than mine.” He chuckles, taking your hand and kissing all your fingers and palms, rubbing them comfortingly, “Cazador devoted much of his time to convincing us that we were nothing, that we did not matter - not to him, not to any of the Gods, and certainly not to anyone else, and the centuries proved him right, unfortunately. No one ever saw me, really saw me. They saw the rake, the persona I portrayed, and never thought to look any further than that - until you came along with that very darling neck, all your questions, and your objective stupidity.”
You open your mouth to answer, but Astarion puts his finger against your lips and tsks you, “Uh, uh. Patience, sweetheart. It never was your strength.”
His voice is trembling with a vulnerability he seldom allows himself to display. “My past… makes me believe that I am unworthy of such love, but more to the point, it makes me unworthy of you.”
Your eyes widen in genuine surprise. Your features are a gentle portrait etched in a mix of concern and resolve. “Astarion,” you implore, reaching for his hand, “there is no past that can make you unworthy of love.”
“I have done… unspeakable things,” Astarion protests, casting his eyes away from you. “Things that will haunt me for eternity and beyond.”
“I’ll always be there to fight those phantoms of your past with you if you will allow me,” you assure, trying to keep your voice steady while tears streak down your hot cheeks. This is starting to sound a lot like a goodbye, and you’re not sure if you’re ready, “If you’re going to tell me you’re leaving, it’s okay. I understand.”
“What?!” Astarion looks at you with his eyebrows curved upward in shock. “Gods above. No. Come here.” Astarion pulls you in, pressing you against his chest. He only pushes you away slightly so he can guide your eyes to his and looks at you with an intensity that makes you shiver. “I’m not afraid anymore. Not of our future together. I once told you the Gods sent you to ruin me. I realize now they sent you to save me. My heart is yours now and forevermore.”
He pushes you up against the door, pinning you with his hips. Your lips are locked with his in a passionate embrace. Astarion gently skims his fangs down your neck. Your hands tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. He scoops you into his arms and throws you on the bed playfully. He crawls over you, removing his shirt and catching your lips in his with a wild and ravenous desire.
He peels off your nightdress with desperation as if his hands simply cannot bear to not have your skin against them for a moment longer. Astarion kisses your chest, taking your nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the stiff peak. Your back arches off the bed, pushing yourself further into him. Your skin is hot, melting the icy chill of his, and you shudder as he bucks his hips into you.
He looks up at you through thick lashes, “What would you say if I said I wanted to make love to you tonight?”
His question consumes all the air inside your lungs, and your body goes rigid as stone. Your heartbeat kicks up as you stare at him with rounded eyes. “Astarion… What are you saying?”
“Hmm,” he cocks his head and arches a brow at you with a charming smirk, “I thought I was rather clear. No matter. Let me try that again. If a night of passion is on offer, I would very much like to make love to you tonight.”
“I… Are you comfortable with that? Are you ready? We don’t have to. We can wait for as long as you need.”
“Oh, my love,” Astarion purrs, taking your hand, kissing every knuckle while never taking his eyes off you. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep my hands off, well, mostly off, you. Do you? I have been thinking about being inside you nonstop. It has been quite distracting.”
You sweep your thumb across his cheek and along his strong jaw. Trepidation slightly pinches your brow. Good Gods. You want this, but you are afraid.
“I will stop if I need to.” Astarion assures assertively, kissing your forehead and cheek, “But I do not foresee the need. Do not hold back. I want this, Kamena. Really, really want it.”
“Hells, Astarion. I want you too.”
“I know,” he smirks as his fingers find your folds already slick with arousal. “Always so eager for me,” he teases. “Gods below. I love the way your body responds to me.”
Astarion parts you, running his fingers up and down your seam, coating them in the sleekness of your desire. He circles the border of your swollen flesh, and your hips jerk in a plea as you whine against his needy mouth. You wrap your arms around him, and Gods - he feels like he’s been made to fit in your embrace. Astarion’s arm snakes around your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His fingers finally sweep over your sensitive bud, and he groans as he coaxes whimpers and moans from your throat, catching your sweet cries on his lips. The outline of his desire is pressed against you. Your fingers undo the laces of his pants and grip him greedily, eliciting a hiss from his clenched teeth.
“Gods,” he pants, kicking off his trousers and freeing his throbbing cock. Precum already beads from his swollen head, and your mouth waters with the memory of the salt of him on your tongue.
Astarion sinks two fingers into you, twitching the pads up so that they hit that sweet spot that makes white flash in your vision with every languid pump. He expertly settles into a rhythm that drives you senseless. You could not keep your eyes open if you tried, and you jerk your hips, sinking his fingers deeper into you with the cry of his name.
“O-oh! Gods. A-Astarion.”
“I love the sound of my name on your tongue,” he purrs, peppering kisses down your neck, and he increases the speed of his thrusting fingers.
“Astarion…” you mewl into the crook of his neck, dragging your fingers through his hair as your muscles tighten. “F-fuck. You’re s-so good. I’m going to… fuck. Astarion! You’re going to make me…”
“Yes,” he groans, guttural and eager, as you both drown in each other. “Let me feel you come.”
Your head drops back, and you cry out with the pure blissful intensity of your climax. Your core grips his fingers, clutching and spasming around him as he hauls you tightly to him and catches your lips in a savage and passionate kiss.
He’s between your legs before you’ve fully recovered, hooking your knee with his. His hands guide your hips in little rolls against him as he glides his cock that weeps with his arousal through your folds. The chill of him on your heated sex is decadent, bracing and sets your nerves aflame.
“Hells,” he purrs with a heavy breath, sweeping his thumb across your cheek. His voice is gentle, yet rough as sandpaper. “I will go slow. Tell me if it hurts or if you need to stop.”
“Make love to me, Astarion,” you murmur, kissing his chest, nipping his neck playfully, and letting your lips whisper up to the tapered point of his ear.
Astarion gasps, shuddering and curling his fingers into your hair. He eases in inch by delicious inch, slowly working you open. You let out a pained whine, and he stills, allowing your body time to adjust to his girth. Gods. The stretch is such a pleasurable kind of pain that you wrap your legs around him and plunge him into you, savouring the fullness.
“Shit,” he hisses, blinking slowly, looking into your eyes. “You feel divine wrapped around my cock, Kamena,” he pants darkly. “Fuck. I missed this.”
He thrusts, tender and sensual, almost painfully teasing in the measured pace. He rocks his hips into you, coming to his forearms and caging you beneath him, pressing himself into every curve of your body as if he cannot possibly get close enough. You sputter nonsensically, twisting your fingers into his silky silver curls. Astarion increases his tempo, and you buck your hips in time to meet his thrust. He presses kisses to your forehead, your cheek, and down your neck. You roll your head to the side in an offering.
He growls, unadulterated and wanton. His fangs sink into your neck. Your eyes snap open. Your hands grab the taut muscles of his side, and then the pain ebbs to an all-consuming ecstasy as you’re spiralling through his body and drizzling in his veins. Your skin prickles as you chase your release. Astarion’s hips stutter as your walls flutter around his hard length, and he moans, a sinfully heavenly rumble deep in his chest. Astarion’s pace becomes less measured and masterful, his movements frantic and hungry.
When you’re walking on the precipice of your orgasm, Astarion rests his forehead on yours. His face is twisted in pleasure, lips parted, taking heavy breaths with every snap of his hips. It’s a beautiful sight that brings tears to your eyes. Astarion purrs, “I love you.”
Fuck. That’s it. That is your undoing, and you crash into a blissful rapture so intense you’re sure that your heart skips several beats.
With one last plunging pump, Astarion joins you as your core is still in the throes of clenching and spasming, massaging him. You can feel his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself into you, “Gods above. Oh, f-fuck! Kamena!”
You wrap your arms around him and take his panting lips, dragging him into a ravaging kiss, pressing your sweat-slicked bodies together. Astarion rolls, somehow keeping his cock in you, catching you in his arms and pulling you atop him. You nuzzle your face into him, breathing in his scent. His chest rises and falls beneath you as he heaves a contented sigh.
“You are perfect,” he coos, pressing a kiss into your mussed-up hair and checking the bite on your neck. His breathing is as uneven as yours, “Every time.”
You lay there with him for a while - you’re not quite sure how long, while his hand skates up and down your back, and he hums comfortingly. You could stay like this forever, wrapped in his embrace, sheltered and shielded from your troubles and worries.
Eventually, after your heartbeat settles, you crane your neck to look at Astarion. He smiles at you with ardent love impassioned in the vibrant scarlet of his eyes, “Are you okay?”
Astarion chuckles and points to his temple, “Up here, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I am free, safe, and happy.” He sweeps some wild strands of your hair back and runs his fingers along your jaw, “I have you in my arms, in my bed and on my cock. It would be a most grievous understatement to say I am simply okay.”
“So vulgar!” You giggle, “Are all vampires so crude?”
“Oh yes,” he drawls, grinning devilishly. “It’s a well-loved pastime of ours. We often meet to exchange vulgarities to unleash upon the unsuspecting masses.”
“I would love to see you unleash some of those upon Gale,” You laugh, letting your fingers trace the defined muscles of his arm, “I wonder how red he would get.”
“Sweetheart,” he snickers, “Gale would positively expire on the spot if he heard some of the things that come out of my mouth. Even yours. You are not innocent, sorceress.” He leans close to your ear and gives you a playful jostle, “I’ve heard some delicious, sinfully indecent things from your very lovely lips.”
“I learned from the best,” you quip with a clever flare in her eye.
“Oh, as much as I would adore taking the credit,” he chuckles with a wicked grin. “I think you’ve always been an absolute freak.”
When you wake, you’re famished, and Astarion practically pushes you out of bed, grumbling about how your growling stomach annoyed him all night.
“You’re a vampire,” you retort, giggling at the look of annoyance scrunching up his face. “You don’t even need to trance.”
“Need and want,” he tuts, clicking his tongue, “are very different things. Now, get out of my bedroom and eat something.” Astarion’s lips quirk up, lop-sided and handsome. His curls are mussed, falling with reckless abandon. He winks, “I have some very depraved, hedonistic plans for you later. If you hope to keep up with me, you need your strength.”
Good Gods. You're already wet. Astarion chuckles as you roll your eyes and slink out of the bedroom. The remnant of your night together is still sticky between your thighs, and your skin prickles with the exhilaration of it all.
Astarion is here, in your bed, in your hands and in you.
“Good morning!” Gale greets you as soon as you step into the kitchen. “I trust you had a… good night?”
You hear Astarion’s loud laughter echoing through the manor and try to stifle your own.
Oh… shit.
“You could say that.” You feel the blush burning your cheeks.
Gale chuckles, sipping his tea while you shovel cut-up fruit into your mouth. The silence is a little awkward, and you’re not sure if participating in useless small talk will make it worse or better, so you opt to stay quiet.
There’s a tap on the door that makes you jump, “I’ll get it. Gale, are you expecting someone?”
“I don’t believe so.” Gale’s brows pinch, and then he smirks, “It’s likely a neighbour coming to make a noise complaint.”
You groan, feeling the heat erupt, rushing back to your face. The early morning sun dazzles you as it streams into the open doorway, blinding you momentarily. When you blink, you realize it’s not the sun that blinds you; it's the gleaming of the silver, metallic armour of the guards standing before you.
“That’s her!” Mr. Blackwell snarls from behind the City Watch guards. The noble is bruised and bleeding, with an eye swollen shut, his lip split and seeping, and a cheekbone that appears to be broken along with many of his teeth. “She’s the one who assaulted me!”
“No!” You gasp as the guards grab your arms, forcing them behind your back. “I didn’t do this!”
“Save it for the courts,” the guard drones, paying your protests no consideration as iron manacles snap shut around your wrists, biting into your skin with an uncomfortable pinch.
“Gale!” You shout over your shoulder as they drag you away. “Don’t let him do anything utterly fucking foolish!”
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
Small Notes:
We are finally getting to the smutty goodness :)
And then Kamena is entirely ripped away from the promise of these depraved plans. I, for one, would kill Mr. Blackwell simply for that alone.
Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.
Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.
The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.
With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?
Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.
Word Count: 6.4K
Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.
Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]
Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.
Winter has gripped Faerûn in a deadlock. The trees have long since shed their leaves, and the bare limbs reach for the sky like bony fingers trying to scratch the heavens. The winter sun is dipping below the horizon, leaving the land stark and frigid. The wind whistles over the plains and whips your hair, churning it wildly around your face. You can’t even pick your feet up anymore, so your boots scuff across the hard earth.
How long have you been walking this road without stopping to eat or sleep? Your feet ache, your eyelids feel like lead weights, and your mind urges you to make camp for the night to allow yourself to slip into your trance, but you dare not. You don’t want to be assaulted by your nightmares any longer as they feed off sorrow and torment you. They pain you more than this exhaustion ever could.
Your fingers are frozen and numb. Lifting your hand, you try to summon fire, but you’re so tired even the Weave has abandoned you until you rest. With a defeated sigh, you pull your hood up and wrap your arms around yourself, shivering so hard your muscles cramp painfully, and your jaw chatters, clicking your teeth together.
If I can keep walking, at least I am advancing toward him.
… Hopefully.
As you continue your sluggish walk, your eyes begin to drift closed of their own volition. You’ve pushed your body too far, and it’s succumbing to exhaustion. You trip, sending yourself sprawling, and pebbles, twigs and gravel bite into your palms and knees. With no energy left in your reserves to push yourself up, you can do nothing but slump over on the cold earth and curl up.
If you do not trance, it will force itself upon you, and you quickly fade into a half-conscious state. You can feel the ground sap your body heat and infuse you with a raw, frigid sting that balls up your muscles and lances your skin as it permeates your robe. Your head hits and cracks the thin layer of ice atop a muddy puddle, splashing and submerging your hair in the slush. The murky liquid is piercing on your forehead and scalp, but you don’t have the energy to move. Unable to keep your eyes open, you drift and see Astarion in your mind’s eye.
Astarion relaxed at home, reading to you, cuddled up in bed while you giggle at his theatrical character voices. He only does these for you. He would never do such a thing in front of anyone else.
Astarion and you drinking his favourite wine by the fire all day, laughing, and dancing.
Astarion and you jump into a cold lake in the dead of night because he challenged you to see who would get out first. He won, of course.
Astarion walks through the rabble of taverns, playing your little game with a mischievous glimmer in his beautiful eyes, and he winks at you when he catches your glance.
Astarion and you making love. Your ears twitch, and you can almost hear his voice panting, “I love you, Kamena, my only one.”
Astarion humming a soothing tune because you were having trouble sleeping while you lay on his chest.
A wolf howls somewhere in the distance. When your eyes finally allow you to open them, your eyelashes are burdened with frozen teardrops, an icy stage for your woe. Your hair is an icicle of mud rooted to the ground. The first snowflakes drift from the sky, kissing your cheeks. You don’t have any strength left to rise, so you lay there as the snow starts to form a blanket akin to a death shroud on your body. You can’t even weep. You lay and wonder if this is it. Is this the end of your story? A powerful, fierce sorceress, torn asunder, doomed and destroyed by true love?
Why did you leave me, Astarion? What did I do?
You wake with a start, lunging upright and taking deep breaths. Your bones still ache from the cold, the remnant of your dream still evoking shivers. You flex your fingers, forcing them to release the bed linen balled in your fists. Nightmares still plague your meditation, but at least this one didn’t wake you up screaming. You glance at Astarion’s side of the bed, letting your hand slip over the silk sheets. He must still be out hunting. Every time he leaves, you worry that this time is the time he does not return.
Will I ever be able to trust him again?
Winter is starting to settle over the land, and the nights have become far too cold for your liking. There is no way you’ll be able to fall back into your trance. Flicking your wrist, a fire roars to life out of thin air, and you push it to burn unnaturally hot. Slipping Astarion’s shirt on, you sit on the floor before the fire and hold your fingers close to the flame, hoping the heat might blow away the remains of the dream gripping you. It doesn’t work. Your fingers still tremble with that panging soreness that will not relent.
Intense shivers run up and down your spine, making your body tremble with the same verve it did on that rigid, icebound earth. A cutting, frigid cold settles over your body as if you’ve been plunged into a crevice and fallen to the very depths of Cania. The flames of the fire start to turn a frightening blueish-white. Yet, no matter how hot you push it to burn, you cannot get the gnawing ache to abate.
You don’t hear Astarion enter, and you jump when he sits in the plush chair behind you, with you between his legs. He drapes a blanket over your shoulders, rubbing your arms, “You are up late or early, depending on how you view it. Nightmares again?”
“Yes,” you sigh as you pull the blanket around you. Your teeth continue to chatter despite the sweat sheening your skin.
Astarion kisses the top of your head, “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
What does he expect you to say? The year you spent without him by your side still haunts your dreams and thoughts. Lately, it has been all-consuming, and it’s absorbing your happiness. You can feel yourself slipping, and no matter how hard you try, the slipping never seems to stop. Anything you say will hurt him, and he’s had enough pain in his life. He does not need to bear your misery.
“We used to talk about everything and anything. I told you all about my…,” Astarion’s jaw clenches. He’s uncomfortable talking about that night he cried in your arms for hours, but he pushes himself to continue, “My feelings and fears. It’s not easy for me either, you know. I am unaccustomed to sharing my weaknesses. Hells, I’m not even used to feeling it. I spent so many years feeling only hatred, disgust and loathing, and then you came along and ruined it all,” he smirks, trying to lighten the gloomy mood.
“We used to before you left me,” you whisper. There’s a hint of irritation in your voice. Being pushed to share your pathetic moments and weakness grates at you, but then again, maybe you need someone to drag it out of you. You’ve been keeping this woe bottled inside you for so fucking long, “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Astarion. Whatever I tell you will be painful to hear, and I don’t want to do that to you because it’s not your fault.”
Astarion bursts out of his chair. He shouts with an inflection rough as gravel, “It is my fault! Stop making excuses for me because there is no excuse for what I did. I am not a fool, and I am not fragile. What did you ask of me? The truth even when it hurts? Do I not deserve the same courtesy?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whimper, hand covering your mouth and blinking away tears.
“I deserve the hurt, and I can handle it. Let me bear it with you.”
“No,” you shake your head, eyes fixed on him, “You don’t deserve it.”
Astarion wracks his fingers through his hair and over the frustration that darkens the planes of his face, making him look severe, “Stop being so bloody pig-headed!”
You’re swayed in a sudden grip of outrage. It festers in your veins, heating your skin and palms. The fire leaps wildly as if pure alcohol were poured onto it as you jump to your feet. You can’t help yourself, and you pace as you scream at him, “What do you want me to say, Astarion?! You want me to tell you that I walked for days at a time. All day and all night! I never stopped to eat or rest because if I did, I didn’t know if I would have the strength to get back up!”
Good Gods. You’re so fucking livid that flames are starting to writhe over your skin like snakes in a pit. That draconic fire is hard to control when your emotions are high. All the feelings you’ve been tampering start to spew out of your mouth spitefully, and you can’t stop the avalanche.
“You want the fucking truth?” You roar, unable to stop the emotion seeping from your pores, “I walked until my feet and legs were numb from pain. I walked until I was so exhausted that my eyes closed without consent, the Weave, even fire abandoned me, and my pathetic body forced me to stop. Do you know what happened when I stopped? Exactly what I feared would. I had to relive memories of when I was happy, memories of us, as the cold earth sapped the rest of my strength. When I came to, I did not have the strength to continue, so I lay there while snow blanketed me and considered letting death have me because I was so godsdamned miserable without you!”
Tears stream down your face, dripping from your chin. When you look at Astarion, his cheeks are as wet as yours, scarlet eyes ashine behind sorrow. This is what you did not want to do. You don’t want to hurt him. Astarion told you he left you because he was afraid, and at the time, it felt like the best option available. That need to run, ignore, and flee your problems is an old friend now, and you can’t blame him. It’s what you did for a year and are continuing to do.
Instead of facing the fact that he was gone and he did not want to be found, you kept pushing your body to its limits and putting yourself into stupid situations because you could not accept the fact that maybe he did not want you any longer. Your heart is hammering as you choke and suffocate on all the memories you’ve been repressing. Days and nights of walking or running as far as your feet could take you until you were senseless. Battles with brigands, ne’er-do-wells, and all manner of beasts. The boiling heat of summer and the glacial cold of winter. Staring at the moon while you wept because your soul could practically feel the distance between you enlarging.
The fact he’s made you upset him stokes those embers of anger further. You rasp low, wiping your eyes, “There. Now you know how pathetic I am. I am not a fearless leader or a fucking hero. I am just a broken, foolishly weak woman who could not even take care of herself and could not accept that you left me. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now that my fragility and broken pieces are displayed for you to gawk at and judge? Go ahead, Astarion. Tell me how objectively stupid I am.”
Astarion’s brows furrow as tears tiptoe from the corners of his eyes, gliding down his cheeks. Astarion’s voice is gruff, a woven lace between anger and anguish. “By the Gods. Why would you do that to yourself? For me, of all people?!”
Good Gods, is he truly so blind?
“Because I love you! The way I fell for you was as effortless as breathing. When you left, the moon split, and the stars fell from the sky into the sea I was endlessly suffocating in. I watched my whole world crumble.” Splaying your hand on your chest, you try to halt the ever-increasing tightness constricting your lungs. You laugh sarcastically at yourself, “And it’s all my damn fault. You are not accountable for my happiness or lack thereof, or how I handled you leaving, or what I did after the fact. It’s all on me.”
It’s an epiphany of sorts. All that anger, fear, and hurt you’re holding onto, repressing, and running from is not his doing - it’s yours. You cannot blame Astarion for how you reacted to his leaving, regardless of how he handled it. You’ve been smothering yourself, and your anger is entirely misplaced. You are angry at yourself, and you have been for some time.
The silhouette standing in the road, blocking you from happiness, is yours.
You need air and space to think, and you dress quickly while Astarion begs you to stop and talk to him. Gods, you’re going to asphyxiate if you stay in this house. Your chest heaves in short, quick breaths that only make you dizzier. Your heart is thudding in your ears. Your muscles tremble with the urge to run, and you lunge toward the door.
Run.
Astarion steps in front of it quickly, “No,” His voice shakes, tears streaking down his cheeks as he blocks your path.
“Get out of my way, Astarion,” you snap at him sharply. “Get out of my way, or I will move you out of my way.”
Please don’t make me move you.
“Then move me,” he challenges with a scowl.
With a grimace, you cast Telekinesis and glide Astarion across the floor to the other end of the room gently. His eyes round, shocked. You’ve never cast against him in anger before. Guilt devours you, consuming whatever was left of your rationality.
Once again, panic takes the wheel, and you run.
I’m sorry, Astarion. I’m so sorry.
He watches the slow rise and fall of her chest and listens to the somnolent beating of her heart as she trances by the fire to keep warm. He only needs a taste, a nibble, to test how far this newfound freedom truly spans. He can walk in the sun, and so far, Cazador has not been able to control him, but is he still bound by the rules Cazador planted in his mind?
If he’s quiet enough, he should be able to… Her eyes snap open, and she jumps to her feet with a scowl.
“…Shit.” He puts his hands up and backs away slowly, watching her intently to see if she reaches for a weapon or if magic starts to dance on her fingers, “No, no - it’s not what it looks like, I swear!”
Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s got to recover from this. Quickly, or she might try and stake him, “I wasn’t going to hurt you. I just needed - well, blood.”
“How long since you killed someone? Days? Hours?”
“I’ve never killed anyone! Well… not for food,” He glances at the ground. How much should he reveal? It’s a fine line to tread. He needs to tell enough of the truth to earn trust but not enough to unveil his “little plan.”
She is not wholly soft-hearted and pure, but he’s spent two hundred years manipulating people. He can surely get her to spread her legs for him, to fall for him, and ensure his safety. The living are as much of a slave to their more animalistic desires as he is to bloodlust. It makes them simple prey.
“I feed on animals. Boars, deer… Kobolds. Whatever I can get. But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight! I feel so... weak. If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” He slips on his expert manipulative demeanour and intonation, ”Please.”
He feels an odd pinch in his mind as it half unfolds for her. Gods. She has access to his memories and thoughts. Will she intrude into his mind unapologetically and violate him as so many have in the past? More than likely. He sighs, resigns himself and awaits the transgression.
Her brow quirks up, and her defensive stance relaxes slightly as she shakes her head to rid herself of the unfamiliar sensation of the tadpole writhing behind her eye. Her voice is gentle, almost hurt, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She… she didn’t force herself upon him? She didn’t take the bait and play his mind like an instrument, plucking the strings of his memories?
“At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.”
She scrutinizes him in a way that makes him feel like he’s been stripped of his clothes and naked. “I do. I believe you.”
“Thank you.” he sighs, relieved. She trusts him? Objectively stupid, but he will take it. “Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste, I swear.”
She nods, “Fine. But not a drop more than you need.”
His brows shoot up his forehead. Is she really just going to allow him to bite her? Stupid woman. “Really? I - of course. Not one drop more. Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
“Wait!” She halts him, pushing him back by the shoulders.
He recoils, a little aggravated at her blockage. He was so, so deliciously close. “What is it, Sorceress? Don’t tell me you’ve chickened out already. I’ll be gentle, I swear. It will only hurt for a moment.”
“No, Rogue,” she frowns at him. She is cute when she’s angry. Her fingers hover by his lips, “Pain does not frighten me. Open your mouth.”
“Open my mouth?” He arches a brow at her, “Why?”
“I’ve noticed your fangs, but I’ve never paid them much thought,” she muses with a wily grin. “I would like to see what you’re about to plunge into my neck.”
He scoffs, “I am not an exhibition for your eyes to feast upon.”
“Do you want to eat or not?” She smirks, “I believe it’s a simple request.”
“You’re very strange,” he clicks his tongue but opens his mouth for her with a roll of his eyes. It is a small price to pay if this works.
She pricks her finger against his fang, “Ouch! Sharp!”
“No, shit.” He chuckles with a scoff, “Have you finished examining me now? Shall we continue?”
She scoffs back at him, “You’re very impatient. Very well. You may continue with your supper.”
She lolls her head to the side. His fangs break her supple flesh, and her blood flows freely into his mouth. Cazador’s rules do not bind him any longer. Gods, she tastes like clouds parted, heaven is stroking his tongue, and angel wings flutter through his veins. She leans into him with a sigh. Her body shakes, excited. Excited? An odd reaction, but alas, who is he to complain? He can feel her inside of him. Her essence fills him, and his nerves hum a sonnet he’s never heard or felt. He loses himself in her.
She pushes against him feebly as her body starts to grow cold, “Stop! It’s too much.”
Reluctantly, he removes his fangs, cleaning his lips, and licking his fingers. He will not waste a drop of that liquid bliss, “Ah! Of course. I was just swept up in the moment. But it worked. I feel good. Strong. Happy.”
He got carried away. He will have to watch himself more carefully if she ever allows him near her again.
She wavers on her feet, hand coming to her forehead and eyes glossy. She groans, and he expects her to chastise him. Instead, she steadies herself and chimes resolutely, “I’m looking forward to seeing you fight.”
That’s it? No beating? No flaying? No putrid rats? Not so much as a “bad vampire!” Just... looking forward to seeing him fight. What in the Hells?
He hides his surprise behind that practice veneer of confidence, “Shouldn’t take long. So many people need killing. Now if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more filling,” he lies. He’s full, happy, but inexplicably highly aroused.
Is this something that always happens with thinking creatures? Is it simply a natural response because she’s his first? He has nothing and no one to compare this experience to.
“This is a gift, you know.” She might be a gift from the Gods after they’ve ignored him for centuries. He is no longer bound by his puppet master or the rules rooted in his brain. He has broken his chains. He purrs, “I won’t forget it.”
She stops him, giggling lightheaded and ethereal, “The boar was you, wasn’t it?”
She is clever, isn’t she? He chuckles, “Yes, my dear. I said a vampire killed it, did I not?”
She plops down on her bedroll, “You conveniently left out that you were that vampire. Very clever, Astarion,” she smirks. “I’ll watch you and the pretty words that leave your beautiful mouth more closely from now on. Happy hunting.”
She thinks his mouth is beautiful?
The door slams hard enough to cause the tower to shake, and she’s gone. Kamena had always been the unshakable light of their group of misfits. She took everything in stride.
Gale’s orb might explode and kill them all? No problem, we will find magical items for him to consume.
Sharran Cleric? No sweat. Your beliefs are your own.
Warlock bound to his contract? Easy. We will find a way to break that.
Murderous Gith with a superiority complex that could rip out her spine? Tell me more about you and your people.
Tiefling spewing Hellfire from her body with an infernal engine for a heart? Welcome aboard. Now, let’s find a way to fix that heart of yours.
Vampire spawn who tries to bite her while she tranced one night? No matter. I trust you. While we are at it, let's make a pit stop and kill your master so you can be free.
She never flinched when confronted that they might all burst into Mind Flayers any second. She always kept the group moving forward toward their goals while taking the time to sort out everyone’s problems. His stomach sinks. It’s nearly dawn, but he can catch her before the sun rises… probably. He sprints out of the room and down the stairs.
“Let her go, Astarion,” Gale grips his arm and shakes his head.
“Are you mad?” He pulls his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You look lost,” Gale pats his shoulder. “Despite our differences, we do share one thing in common. Our love for her.” Astarion’s jaw tightens. “Purely platonic on my end, of course,” Gale assures with a genial smile. “If you need to speak to a trusted… friend. Well, I do hope you might consider me one such friend.”
“Are we,” he quirks his brow at the wizard and grimaces, “… friends?”
“Perhaps friends is a little superfluous,” Gale chuckles. “But I am here for you if you need a friendly ear or advice. I have navigated the waters she’s currently treading. It can be a dark path.”
“Ugh,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. The wizard always likes to beat around the bush. He prefers someone to speak their mind, “Just speak plainly.”
“Come, my friend,” Gale gestures toward the sitting room, “Let’s sit. I would offer you some tea, but… I know that doesn’t fit your particular dietary needs.”
Astarion groans, relinquishing his hold on the door handle. He looks longingly, willing it to open and for her to rush back into his arms. He sits on the sofa and lets his head fall into his hands. His fingers splayed into his hair.
“Do you want to be with her, Astarion?” Gale begins.
“What are you getting at, Gale?” He mutters annoyance weaved in the deep baritone of his voice that he can’t hide, “Get to the point.”
Gale’s voice loses the honeyed intonation, “Do you want to spend your life with her until hers ends, or will you run again when it gets hard? There is an imbalance in your relationship. You are immortal. She is not.”
“You know as well as I that there are ways to extend life - beyond my… condition,” Astarion drags his hand through his hair.
“There are, but nothing is assured,” Gale retorts, “If she cannot extend her life or find a cure for you, are you willing to stay with her when she gets old, and you remain forever young? It’s an eventually you must consider.”
Can he do it? Is he capable of spending the next 800 years with her only to have her age and die, leaving him alone again? Gods. A world void of her fire? Perish the thought.
Astarion cants a brow at him and scoffs, “If this is your attempt at a pep talk, you’re failing abysmally.”
“You have enough pep,” Gale chuckles, rubbing his hands together. “No, I am trying to have a real discussion with you, and you are making it exceedingly gruelling.”
“Yes,” he answers truthfully. Astarion swallows hard, trying to dissuade the ball in his throat to ease, “I want to be with her. More than anything.”
“Good,” Gale’s hand comes to his chin as he contemplates. “Then you must keep fighting for her. Every day, you must treasure her. When the days are cold, warm her. When the shadows disturb her rest, hold her tight. When she needs space, let her go. Show her you can handle the storm, and be prepared to weather it with her.”
“I am trying,” he sighs, leaning back in his chair. His brows furrow as he eyes Gale with palpable caution. Gale is still in love with her, and he knows. It makes him wary to have these conversations with him, “I have never done this - a real relationship. Love. It’s all new to me, and I have no idea how to navigate it.”
Gale’s bourbon brown eyes reflect the firelight as he examines Astarion with a probing case that makes him uncomfortable, though his expression remains nearly blank. Is there empathy in his eyes? Delight? Pain?
“You hurt her deeply, but I don’t need to tell you that,” Gale finally says and leans forward. “You, of all people, should know that pain leaves scars, whether visible on the skin or unseen on the heart. Remember, Astarion. When you’re speaking to her, you are touching her scars.”
Hells below. He had not thought of it like that before.
Gale smiles, “Now, that awkwardness is over. Tell me, Astarion. What do you know of the Wish spell?
Astarion balks at the quick change in subject, although he’s happy about it, “Wish? I know it’s a powerful spell, but not much else. Spells are not my expertise, Gale. You know this. I leave magic up to you and Kamena - much more so Kamena.”
“Kamena is a substantially powerful sorceress. We have not seen the like of her kind for some time,” Gale smirks with an amused chuckle. “She gave up sparing with me because I could not keep up. Can you believe that - an archmage unable to keep up with a sorceress? I often wonder if her ancestor is Tiamat herself.”
“I am well aware of how powerful she is,” Astarion snickers, “But you’re getting off-topic. What of this Wish spell?”
Gale’s eyes brighten, and he beams. “Kamena never stopped looking for it, you know. Even when you left, she continued and persuaded me to continue as well. I have a lead - an excellent lead.”
“Is Kamena capable of casting it?” Astarion mouth drops. “Could she actually use it?”
“She is more than powerful enough to cast it,” Gale nods, but his expression turns sullen. “Though spells of this power often have a cost and can be rather… finicky. It could be dangerous - for you and her. I have not found it yet, but I believe we are getting close. In theory, she could use it to cure you, but it might go awry. We cannot be sure of the consequences, though. We have not found any documentation on such.”
“Can it kill her?” Astarion asks bluntly. Spells of such power often have unforeseen consequences. You cannot evoke such power without cost. Sometimes, it is minimal. Other times, it is life itself. He’s read enough books to know this much.
“Possibly,” Gale concludes with a grim look. His jaw clenches, setting his lips in a thin line.
“Stop looking for it, Gale.” Astarion shakes his head. His heart sinks a little. This would be the closest thing he could get to a cure since he didn’t complete the Rite, but he cannot justify the payment, “Her possible death is not worth my possible life.”
“My friend, you will have to speak to her about that,” Gale chuckles with a sullen shrug. “She has already been appraised of my objections.”
“Ugh,” Astarion scoffs, tousling his hair, “Let me guess. She said, and I quote, “Your objections have been noted.”
Gale’s laugh booms through the halls, “Yes, precisely. She is stubborn, and that silver tongue of hers is dangerous. Sometimes, she persuades me to do things I was adamant I didn’t want to do! Are all Elves like that, or is she just special?”
“Gale,” Astarion smirks, “I think we have much to discuss. I do not indulge in tea, but do you have something harder?”
Gale’s fingers come to his chin, “Like wine?”
“No,” Astarion tuts, clicking his tongue with a scoff. “Much harder.”
Gale grins widely, “Oh, now you’re speaking my language, my sharp-toothed friend! Join me in my cellar, and pick what you like best!”
You close the bedroom door softly behind you and lean on it. Astarion is sitting before the fire in one of the chairs. He does not even twist to look at you, but he would have heard and smelt you coming even before you reached the manor. He sits with his head in his hand, propped up by his arm.
You take a deep breath and force the fire to take the shape of a dragon, fly out of the fireplace, around him and to you before you make it land on the log and continue burning in its natural state. Astarion does not flinch at your display. He barely seems to blink as the dragon gambles around him, driving and twirling. It’s a sure sign that he’s angry, which is precisely what you wanted to know.
You have been caught in a stormy ocean of despair. You’re being tossed like a ship on rough waves. Some days, the waves calm, and you feel like yourself again. On other days, the waves are agitated, and you toss, just trying to stay afloat, but sometimes you get dragged under the surface and start drowning again. It does not matter how hard you kick or fight to break the barrier. An anchor on your legs and arms that drags you down into the depths.
Perhaps it’s time to stop fighting the storm and weather it instead. Emotions are messy, and you are not well acquainted with these. You’ve never been in love before this. You spent most of your adult life alone, hunting down the wizard who purchased you and tortured you for your childhood in the name of “teaching you to master your talents.”
“I’m sorry, Astarion,” you murmur from the door, not daring to get closer to him. “I should not have cast on you. It was uncalled for.”
“You shuffled me across the floor,” he chuckles, twisting in his chair with an amused smile. “That hardly requires an apology. I am impressed with your control. However, I would prefer it if you don’t use magic when we argue. Otherwise, think nothing of it. I should not have pushed you. I was too harsh... I’m sorry.”
“I need to be pushed, I think,” you sigh, combing your fingers through your hair. “I keep trying to calm myself, but I just need to weather it as it comes. Sometimes... I get swept away, and there’s nothing I can do. I think... I need to stop trying to stop it and try to survive it instead.”
“Come,” Astarion taps his lap with an affectionate smile and empathy shining in his eyes. “Sit with me, and we can talk.”
Walking over, you discard your robe and are left in your underclothes. Astarion’s arms wrap around you as you ease down onto his lap, and he pulls you close to him. He kisses your temple, his cheek on your forehead.
Astarion takes your hand, interlocking your fingers with his and squeezing slightly. He asks blatantly, “Do you want to be with me, or is my presence here just hurting you further?”
“What?” You cup his cheek with your palm, and he nuzzles your hand. Astarion’s silken lips ghost over it, and he kisses it before resting on it, “I want to be with you more than anymore, but I need time. I told you. I am broken. I mentioned I was drowning when you left, but I am coming up for air now. I’m fighting to keep my head above the waves, but sometimes I fall below them…. I don’t want you to leave. Please, stay with me. You are all I need.“
He nods. Astarion’s scarlet eyes swallow you, and empathy and understanding wash over you. “You are not broken, sweetheart.” Astarion places a soft kiss on your lips. “You are healing, and sometimes healing is messy. I know that better than most.” Astarion pauses and nuzzles your cheek, “Stop running from me and start running to me, Kamena. I can be strong when you feel weak, just as you are for me. We do not walk these roads alone any longer. We walk them together, my Solicallor, my only one.”
Solicallor… His Elven nickname for you means “Warm light of the sun.”
What did I ever do to deserve someone so understanding?
That’s it, that breaks you, tearing you apart and rending you inside out. Your breaths come in rapid heaves, and your heart feels like it might fly out of your throat onto the ground before you. You clutch at your chest, and you start to tremble. Your eyes swarm with tears. You slip your hands down the back of Astarion’s shirt, needing to feel the cool chill of his skin, but are careful not to touch his scars. He doesn’t appear to notice when your fingertips accidentally brush the raised edges.
Astarion purrs, crushing you against him, “Breath with me, my love. Deep breaths. In” he counts to 30, “and out,” he counts to 30. You try to synchronize your breaths to his as best you can.
“You have not called me Solicallor in some time,” you shake while forcing a fireball to circle you as if you’re the gravity keeping it in place. You push all your hurt, fear and anger into that fireball, making it double in size and burn white-hot. “I can be your sun, Astarion. For now, at least.”
“Yes,” he chuckles, but there’s an edge to his voice that you didn’t expect. “Gale and I had an interesting chat today, but we shall discuss that later.”
“He told you of the Wish spell.” It’s not a question. You knew Gale was going to out you eventually. You’re going to have to scold him later for it. You were not going to tell Astarion until you had the damn spell in hand and were sure you could cast it.
“He did,” Astarion nods, rubbing your back and weaving his fingers into your hair. “But that’s a conversation for another time. Let’s focus on us for tonight.”
“I am going to have to chastise Gale,” you frown. You cannot help the anticipation dripping from your voice, “Us?”
“Don’t chastise him too hard, darling. He is rather insecure, but who wouldn’t be with me around?” he chuckles with an arrogant smirk. “Yes. Us. Whatever that may be right now. We can stay in this limbo of indecision as long as you need. But to me, we are still us. You are only mine, yes? Or do I have people I need to murder?”
“We are us.” You agree with a broad smile. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull yourself close, “And I am yours.”
“Only mine?” He sounds agog as if he cannot imagine you would be wholly his.
Does he still not believe he deserves me?
“Only yours, Aerasumé,” you kiss his cheek, calling him the nickname you gave him in private derived from your language. It means “Silvermoon of the Evening.” You’re reluctant to say it, but it’s been on your mind since you met him, “I think I was born to be yours, thiramin.”
Astarion stiffens at your mention of “thiramin.” It is your Elven word for what is basically a soulmate. His clutch on you strengthens, and his fingers start running through your hair, but he doesn’t say anything, and his jaw is tight. Your heart sinks into your stomach. Have you gone too far? Have you frightened him? Will he run?
“You don’t have to say it back, Astarion,” you encourage in a honeyed intonation, running your fingers comfortingly up and down his neck. “I do not expect you to feel that same. I just… I guess I just wanted you to know how I truly felt.”
Astarion’s mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He swallows hard, making his Adam's apple bob. It’s one of his tells when he’s uncomfortable. He kisses you intimately, but his reluctance to answer causes your heart to spasm, clench and descend into your stomach. Are you more in love with him than he is with you? Is that why you were so incapable of letting him go, but he so easily ran from you?
“I think... I need some space,” Astarion murmurs. “I’m sorry, I-”
You cut him off, slipping off his lap and shaking your head. You remain stoic, forcing tears to stay behind your eyes, “It’s okay. I understand. Goodnight, Astarion."
I went too far.
Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support.
Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past
AO3: Crossposted
If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts
