WHATEVER IT IS
Summary: After meeting and disappointing Araj Oblodra, Imrae takes some time to himself to overthink what happened. Luckily, Astarion comes to save him from himself. [Angst with Happy Ending]
Pairings: Astarion x Imrae (Named Tav), Background Karlach x Wyll
Timeline: Early Act 2
Word count: 3480
Many many thanks for their kind words on the WIP snippets to: @burnt-by-marigolds, @missfortunetherogue, @elceewunjo, @et-augury, @corvusalbus93 and @play-me-a-durge. Love you ❤
CONTENT WARNING: It is my take on how Astarion's Act 2 confession went for my first Tav, so past non-consent/sex trafficking.
He was alone at last.
Perched on a ledge, kindly swallowed by darkness, Imrae could finally hear himself think. It had been too loud in camp tonight, with every sound amplified and echoing in the abandoned basement rooms of Moonrise, be it Gale's musings about Mystra's demand, Shadowheart's pining for the favour of her goddess, or Wyll practising poetic lines to court a certain fiery tiefling woman.
There was one man among their group whose voice he would have liked to hear, but Imrae did not dare to go and look for him.
Astarion had ventured back upstairs, perhaps to find some livestock or a careless goblin that nobody among the cultists would miss, but certainly to be alone after what had occurred earlier today. The last thing he needed was for another drow to bother him.
Imrae tugged at the collar of his new clothes, given to him on demand so he could be presentable in front of Ketheric Thorm. They were heavy, and coarse in places, but they offered some warmth in these cold halls. Astarion had even joked that they covered too much neck for his liking when Imrae had put them on in their new encampment.
What a difference five minutes could make.
He let out an angry sigh. He had simply wanted to stock up on elixirs and remedial potions while they were infiltrating Moonrise Towers, and the cultists had directed them to their alchemist.
Araj Oblodra.
The very thought of the woman made his stomach turn. The stench of her laboratory. The way she had leered at Astarion, entranced by his fangs. How she had stared, expecting Imrae to know his place and do as he had been taught, True Soul or not. Her lips might have said otherwise, but her eyes had been commanding him to bow to her, to cater to her every wish, and to force his companion to do the same.
No matter how much time passed, no matter how much distance he put between him and his past self, the old painful lessons still caught up to him in such moments, along with feelings of shame and helpless anger. He had never fought it back then. He had kept his head down until it had almost been too late.
But today had not been about him. On the contrary, Araj had wanted to make him complicit in the same dealings he had escaped decades ago. Goods for a charge's service. A potion for a bite to the neck. An alliance for a comely consort. The thought had overwhelmed him, nearly paralysed him, and had made him hesitate just long enough for tension to arise before he had reinforced the refusal to the blood merchant.
Astarion had been quiet afterwards. He had offered a few of his usual biting remarks at the curiosities they found within the cult of the Absolute, but the effort had felt half-hearted at best, like he was deep in thought and miles away.
Had he misread the situation and ruined a clever swindle Astarion was setting up? It was possible, but his discomfort, his anger and his fear had seemed so real in that moment.
A hoarse laugh escaped Imrae's lips. He had really ruined everything, hadn't he, this intriguing and beautiful kinship he had found with a man who could understand him better than anybody, who made him laugh and life more bearable, who delighted in discussions about the less palatable aspects of life, and who knew how it was to be an elf cast into darkness, and how it felt to be feared, distrusted and hunted for simply existing.
His mind began to race. What else had he done to cause Astarion doubt his intentions, his trustworthiness? Had he been patronizing? Had he been too much? Had he been not enough?
Some of it might be skin-deep, quite literally in his case. On their second night together, when Imrae had offered to remain more clothed to keep the spellscript in his skin hidden, Astarion had laughed, declined and called him a “sweet thing” for it. But being reminded of one of the worst nights of his existence whenever he looked at his lover's body, Hells, his very face, it must have been painful.
Maybe he had sounded a little too proud about his work when Karlach had admired the carved runes on his face and arm on one of her first mornings with them in camp. Proud like Cazador must have been of his damned poetry in the end. How could one even ask another to trust them when they did such similar things as their worst tormentor?
Was that it? Was that why Astarion had gotten worried when Araj had gone over his head and asked his leader? Would he have gone along with biting her if Imrae had told him to? He didn't have that kind of power over their rogue, did he? Or did Astarion gravitate to him because he felt familiar? How similar to the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate was he truly?
No! Imrae slammed his fists into the stone floor to ground himself, then started to regulate his breathing to keep himself from descending into absurdity. No, such thoughts were beyond insulting to the both of them. Astarion was so much stronger than that. They were kindred spirits, as the rogue had put it when they had met, and Imrae would rather feed himself to a purple worm than choose to get close to someone who reminded him of his former guardian.
That one nagging question remained though. Why had Astarion been afraid? Imrae wracked his tadpole-infested head once more, retracing his steps to their nights together. He had offered his neck as a playful gesture, a show of trust, not as a plea to feel the sensation of a vampire's bite again. But how was Astarion to know that?
Perhaps he had been worried about a jealous outburst? Or the opposite, perhaps he thought that Imrae considered the biting to be a triviality, a fun game, something a vampire must want at all times. But it was intimate, in a sense, the closeness that was required when feeding on a volunteer rather than an already dying brigant by the roadside. That was the part Imrae had enjoyed, someone wanting to be near him, not the teeth in his neck, Hells, not even the sex. He couldn't care less about the latter otherwise.
A violent twitch tugged at his ears when fancy shoes clacked on a discarded table nearby, and it caused his heart to hammer against its confines. It was a rogue's way of announcing himself, letting himself be heard when he very well could have approached in silence.
Keeping his steps light but audible as he navigated the labyrinth of old furniture, Astarion drew closer and climbed onto the ledge with feline grace. There were spots on his face and shirt, as well as in his hair, blood from the smell of it. “I want to thank you,” he said, his voice a whisper in the dark.
Imrae had expected anything, but not that. “What for?”
“For what you said, while I was in front of that vile drow.”
His heart clenched at the last two words before his head untangled them. Araj was vile and a drow. He was only the latter, at least right now. Imrae forced himself to speak despite this tightness spreading to his throat. “You don't need to thank me for keeping my word to watch your back.”
“I think I do, in this instance.” Astarion stopped. His usual mannerism were missing, his voice was smaller, deeper, full of hesitation, and his next words made it clear why. “I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.”
Imrae felt the bile rise in him. That was what that beast Cazador had made Astarion do when he was not torturing him with putrid rats and infernal poetry. It hadn't simply been pretty words packaging the promise of a warm stately room, perhaps a nice meal, along with a wink from these soulful eyes that had lured people into the vampire lord's grand estate, but the promise and use of Astarion's body.
“You could have asked me to do the same, to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned.” Astarion paused, calming his voice. “But you didn't. And I'm grateful.”
“I would never ask any of you to do something I would not do myself.” Imrae tried to swallow the lump that was forming in his throat, to no avail. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. It is your choice, never mine.”
“It's a novel concept, I admit. And a little intimidating.” Astarion put on a small, brave smile as he spoke, but it vanished when he continued his musings. “It would have been so easy to bite her. To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force myself through, and then I could have carried on, just like before.”
Words could not fit past the lump in Imrae's throat. What else had Astarion forced himself through just to carry on afterwards since they met? His chest ached, and he felt ill. All he could do to disagree was shake his head with as much vigour as he could muster.
Astarion took it as a sign to keep talking. “The entire reason for my existence was to seduce anything with a pulse. And every instinct I have tells me that nothing's changed. That I'm still just a means to an end. You made me see I never stopped thinking like I was still his slave, even in freedom. But I'm more than that. More than a thing to be used.”
The ache in his chest became unbearable. “I ask for your forgiveness, Astarion, for any instance in which I have made you feel like you are,” Imrae said, the words bursting out of him with unintended speed and force. “I admire you, you're my favourite person to talk to, I care about you, I don't know the words to express how much, and I cannot bear the thought of being yet another source of pain for you. Say the word, and I will bother you no longer, but that would change nothing about my promise to watch your back, and about helping you with whatever Raphael will demand for telling you about your scars.” He gasped for air. “If you still want my help, of course.”
“You... you are full of surprises, aren't you?” Astarion seemed stunned by the outburst, but the smallest and most uncertain of smiles tugged at his lips. Both their masks had dropped and lay shattered on the floor, but neither did anything to put them back together. “And I... don't know. It's been so long since I've had to decide what I wanted.”
“I have been there.” Imrae gave him the most encouraging smile he could find within himself in that moment. “From the experience of a fellow runaway, sometimes it is easier to decide that which you don't want, and then work from there.”
He prepared himself to be told to leave, his smile turning sombre in the process. It had been great, magical even, but all great things had to come to an end sooner or later, and this seemed long overdue. He would continue to admire Astarion from afar, his razor-sharp wit, his deadly precision with bow and blade, his ability to open any door for them and to clear any trap-ridden hallway.
And when this was all over, when their group would part ways after ridding themselves of the tadpoles, when Imrae would have returned to the Underdark, to the solitude of abandoned temples and ruined cities, he would remember what they shared, brief as it was, with great fondness. So lost was he in the future that he almost startled when Astarion's voice pulled him back to the here and now.
“I don't want this-” the pale elf gestured between the two of them, “-what we share, whatever it is, to be over.” His voice was but a whisper, but the tender determination in his eyes caused Imrae's heart to flutter.
It was an unfamiliar sensation, one he had heard about in songs, but had never felt for himself. Imrae took a few even breaths before he responded, trusting that Astarion would be patient with him as well. “Me neither,” he whispered back.
Astarion smiled, not the cheeky rakish smile he wore day-to-day, but a warm yet quivering one. “I also don't want you to think of me in terms of sex. I don't know if I want anyone to.”
I don't think of you or others that way, Imrae wanted to say, though he knew those words would ring hollow after their nights together, so he made up his mind to show Astarion the very same. “May I?” he asked as looked him in the eye, reaching out with his consciousness to send a gentle invitation.
When he felt their minds mingle, he focused on his fondest moments of the last tendays, like skulking through ancient ruins together, discussing different ways to kill one another in the event of ceremorphosis, the night Astarion had made him laugh so hard that it had woken up Lae'zel in her tent nearby, the fire in his eyes when he was planning his revenge, the nights of teaching one another hand signs, or the times the rogue had pocketed oranges or lemons, not for the camp's stock, but as a treat for Imrae.
“Aren't you sweet...” Some levity had found its way back into Astarion's voice, and it lacked the almost belittling tone with which he had spoken similar words on their second night.
“Sex can be a very beautiful thing, but it does not make or break a relationship, at least not for me.” Imrae gasped despite not having spoken much. “I rarely if ever think of people in terms of it, and I never know what people mean when they claim that their blood is running hot.”
Astarion brushed a lock of his hair into place. “No exceptions? Present company included?” he asked, and to Imrae's relief it sounded playful, like he was fishing for compliments rather than doubting him.
“I have working eyes, Astarion,” Imrae said with a fond smile. “You are very beautiful, and yes, more so than Lae'zel's exotic charms, but also so much more than that. My odd qualities do not reflect badly on you.” He gave Astarion a formal bow, one he had not performed in decades. “I assure you of my utmost affection and reverence.”
“Really?” The word was a raw whisper.
Imrae swallowed. It was now or never. “Really. I don't want to be alone again,” he confessed, his words flowing at a fast pace once more. “I know that must be hard to believe when I spend a lot of time at camp by myself, I'm not used to being around people for extended periods of time, not any more, or maybe I never was when nobody considered what I wanted either.” He gasped for air again. “Solitude was comfortable, and I told myself that such was the price of freedom.”
Brows furrowed with doubt and perhaps worry, Astarion waited for him to conclude his point.
“But, as so often, I was wrong. There is great freedom in companionship, in what we share, whatever it is,” Imrae said, echoing Astarion's words as he smiled up at the taller elf.
“I do like the sound of that... Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing. Or what comes next.” The sincerity of Astarion's voice was more disarming than any of his well-practised compliments had been. He reached out and put a gentle hand on Imrae's. “But I know that this? This is nice.”
“Nice is wonderful. We deserve it.”
Astarion's smile widened, gaining a hint of mischief. “We do, don't we?” He caressed the hand he was grasping when he remembered something. “As for your apology... I wouldn't still be here if you had committed some grave injustice against me, so let's let the past be water under the bridge and start anew, shall we?”
“Why?” Imrae asked, amused by Astarion's sudden eagerness to change the subject.
“Oh, you too know how it goes, people don't trust drow or vampires, perhaps understandably, so someone needed another on his side and easily seduced them. And then felt quite stupid when I- he started to genuinely feel something for the other... Trust me, I was not happy about it. You were a complication I didn't see coming.”
“You are not the first to speak these exact words, my dearest, though you are the first to speak them with fondness.” Imrae laughed, and he put on a challenging look. “So, in the end, you are saying that the evil drow wizard ruined your plans?”
Astarion snorted. “Let's not be hasty. Right now, I'm the hero, the charming rake saving his pretty drow prince from a sad dark lonely cob-webbed tower.”
“Ah. Of course. I forgot that towers and wizards have no correlation whatsoever.” Imrae stepped a bit closer to his beau. “Tell me more about that prince.” It was his turn to fish for compliments now.
Another snort. “Well, he is no Wyll, but he'll do. Truth be told he's strange, and a bit shabby, and smug, and bossy, and he's in a cult from the looks of it,” Astarion said, keeping a straight face while his free hand played with the silver Absolutist pendant around Imrae's neck. “Also, he has so many words pent up within him that he is the one we should have been worried about exploding, not Gale.”
Imrae gave him a chuckle when in truth he wanted to give him the world. His outburst earlier had not been planned, much to his embarrassment, and Astarion was once again making light of it by making him laugh.
“He's also brave, brut, brilliant, breathtaking, and many other things that would break that little alliteration and that would make his head swell a little too much.”
Bashful from the compliments, Imrae lowered his gaze until it fell onto their entangled hands, and his heart quickened at a sudden thought. “May the prince kiss the hero's hand in gratitude?”
“He doesn't have to ask...” Astarion loosened his grasp. “But I'm glad he did.”
Heart beating even faster, Imrae took the rogue's pale hand in his and raised it to his lips in a slow and gentle fashion. Ages ago, before his escape, he had been made to read a book on the proper technique of various kisses, some to tease, some to comfort, and while he remembered almost none of it, forgotten in lieu of rituals and incantations, the chapter that concerned the hand, the fingers and the wrists had remained in his memory.
His lips brushed Astarion's knuckles before Imrae planted a kiss on the back of his hand, feeling the bones under the cool skin, inhaling the remnants of perfume that masked the smell of blood and the lack of the scents that a living body settled one with.
Turning the hand around, keeping it close to his face, Imrae sought Astarion's gaze, looking for any sign of discomfort within it, but he found guarded yet unblinking fascination. Keeping their eyes locked, he kissed each digit, and a smile had spread over his face by the time he was finished. His heart was still beating at a faster pace, but it had settled into the comfortable sort of excitement he had often felt during his adventures in the Underdark.
“I... could get used to this.” Astarion flexed his nimble fingers, then reached for Imrae's left cheek and traced the arcane glyphs carved into it. If their presence caused him discomfort, he did not show a trace of it. “Let's get you back to camp now, shall we? Warm you up, tell the others, find something drinkable around my tent.” He lowered his hand to the small of Imrae's back. “I'll even allow you to bring that moth-eaten blanket of yours.”
“That blanket saved my life once, and not in the way you might think.”
Astarion scoffed. “So you keep saying, but you have yet to tell me the story, despite me being, and I quote, your favourite person to talk to. Perhaps you're stalling because it is embarrassing, or maybe lewd?” He gave a scandalized gasp. “Perhaps both?”
“I shall tell you later tonight, my dearest.”
