Yawning Grave | Four: Decompose
Astarion x Ayzora (F!OC)
Description: Demands are still being made, and difficult decisions are beginning to surface. The pressure begins to wear away at the walls built and masks worn until vulnerability finally begins to show its face, and bold-faced lies shift to careful half-truths shift to unwilling confessions; as if the predicaments they face could wait.
Warnings: Panic attack scene | Word count: 5.3k
| One | Two | Three | Four | ...
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Time passes by.
Seconds turn to minutes as neither move. Neither say a word.
Her skin feels softer than he first imagined. Most bodies he touches are warm, reminding him of just how cold his own flesh can be in its undeath; but her hand is just as cool, and suddenly his condition isn’t so strange. There is a callous on her palm, where Messorem has worn its mark over decades of use. Her hand stills as nervousness subsides.
His hold is gentle, lacking every ounce of confidence he paraded; but it's firm. Refusing to let go.
Honest. The word lingers in her mind while the churning in her stomach rolls with the waves of scars on her skin. In all of her life, Ayzora has never been so entrenched in a sense of fragility. One misstep, one careless word, and this moment snuffs out like the trembling flame of a dying candle.
Astarion had hoped his usual tricks- the flirting, the performance, the sex- would work. He had planned to make the necromancer fall in love, pledge loyalty to him, and promise him safety from Cazador- but he hadn’t expected it to happen like this, in which his prey pursues him in equal measure with reckless abandon.
The lie starts to feel less like a mask and more like a mirror by the minute.
He gives her a sidelong glance, before his eyes snap back to the crackling fire; yet his stare is distant. Words swell and fade in his closed mouth, mulling over the cacophony of feelings that seize him- feelings he decides to swallow.
She settles into the moment. Gently, slowly, her thumb begins to move back and forth, caressing the back of the vampire’s hand.
Strangely, he doesn’t flinch. His stomach doesn’t turn in disgust.
Honest , she reminds herself. But where would I even start? Her lips part as her mouth barely opens, ready for words she is still trying to find. “Star…” she whispers, turning to look at him.
The blaze dances in his ruby eyes for a couple of hesitant seconds before he at last meets her gaze. “Yes?”
Sand and grass crunch as the footsteps of other companions approach.
Ayzora turns and stands, quickly pulling her hand from Astarion’s grasp.
He almost wishes she hadn’t let go.
Karlach is the first to reach the center of camp. “Hey, soldier! You won’t believe what happened when-” She freezes.
Ayzora gives Karlach an uncertain look, when she feels eyes on the back of her head. She turns her chin towards her shoulder as a new figure comes into view: a man, appearing to be around middle-aged, with brown shoulder-length hair and a fine set of clothes.
“My, my,” his voice bellows with a confident air.
D’Urge and Shadowheart jog up to the rest of the group, wearily stopping in their tracks as they see the visitor.
“What manner of place is this?” The man takes a look around at the camp, pausing briefly on each individual. “A path to redemption, or a road to damnation?”
Astarion instinctually steps closer to Ayzora when the stranger’s eyes land on her, an eyebrow cocking up in amusement.
“Hard to say,” the stranger continues, leaning towards the necromancer, “for your journey is just beginning.” He straightens, addressing the rest of the group. “What would suit the occasion? Hm… The words to a lullaby, perhaps?”
D’Urge takes slow, careful steps forward, before firmly positioning himself between the man and the rest of the group. Wyll stands close at his side, scowling.
“The mouse smiled brightly: it outfoxed the cat! Then down came the claw, and that, love, was that.” The stranger chuckles, looking to D’Urge. “They do know how to write them in Cormyr, don’t they?” His hands stretch to either side of him, bowing at the waist. “Well met. I am Raphael.” He straightens. “Very much at your service.”
“If you want to threaten me, don’t disguise it with pretty words,” D’Urge bites back. Lae’zel’s arm rests on her blade, while Karlach's battle-ready blaze fires up.
“Why, I never!” Raphael’s hand rests on his chest in shock, until a smirk grows on his face. “You’re paranoid, aren’t you? Must be the surroundings,” he reasons, taking another glance around. “Rather bleak and lonesome. One feels so… exposed.” He pauses, as if thinking for a moment. “This quaint little scene is decidedly too middle-of-nowhere for my tastes.” He leans forward and purrs, “come.”
In a bright flash of light, the comfort of camp is gone, and Ayzora- along with everyone else- is transported yet again to an unfamiliar domain.
Swaying trees and colorful tents are suddenly replaced by elegant marble and immaculate gold trim. Turning around, there is a giant table completely filled with all sorts of food, from fine wine, to fresh fruits, to warm bread, to roasted meats. The opulent feast is the centerpiece of the grand hall they now find themselves in. Facing Raphael again, a grand painting of a devilish figure, with crimson horns and outstretched red wings, is proudly displayed above a roaring fireplace, before which he stands. Multiple chandeliers of gold hang overhead, with red and gold fabrics draped between. Heat rises in the room, leaving everyone to begin to sweat- save for Karlach, who at last feels comfortable. Raphael seems to be unfazed by the grueling temperature.
“There,” he proudly declares with a gesture, “middle-of-somewhere.”
“Could you be more specific?” Wyll pipes up.
“The House of Hope. Where the tired come to rest, and the famished come to feed- lavishly.” He gestures to the table. “Go on. Partake . Enjoy your supper. After all… it might just be your last.”
While a few glance at the piles of food, none dare to take anything. Everyone’s eyes remain carefully trained on Raphael, with a few who are still prepared to fight at the first sign of trouble.
Ayzora’s eyes almost seem to glow in the dusk-like light, the golden rings around her pupils catching the light in an eerie contrast to her emerald irises. No one has taken me to their domain with good intentions… I will not be made a pawn again.
“Easy, darling,” Astarion coos in her mind.
Ayzora flinches, glancing at the pale elf. “Astarion,” She warns, displeased by his uninvited mental intrusion, “I have half a mind to starve you for a tenday.”
“You’re tense; and as much as I enjoy being a little knife-happy, I would advise caution at the moment.”
She glances down at her flexed hands, humming with the magic of a prepared spell. Suppressing an eye roll, she forces them down to her sides. “Fine.”
“Are these theatrics leading somewhere?” D’Urge asks, seeing that no one has chosen to take Raphael up on his offer for food.
The man lets out a half-hearted laugh. “Are you not entertained? Well- far be it from me to disappoint.” With a cocky grin, a blaze engulfs him.
The group jumps, taking a step back from the fire.
As the swirl of ash and flame fades, a devil stands tall before them. Suddenly, the visage in the portrait is made flesh, with the same jagged horns and outstretched wings. His scleras turn black as fiery orange irises regard the group.
“What’s better than a devil you don’t know?” Raphael asks, feigning thought as he raises a hand to his chin. His hand lowers with a rumbling chuckle, “a devil you do. Am I a friend? Potentially. An adversary? Conceivably. But a savior? That’s for certain.”
“What makes you think we need saving?” Ayzora retorts.
D’Urge holds his hand outward, silently asking her to stand down.
“Come now,” Raphael condescends. “Why play hard to get when you’re in deep over your tadpoled head?” He turns back to D’Urge, showing more interest in the informal leader of the group. “One skull, two tenants, and no solution in sight. I could fix it all,” he snaps, and a flame sparks from his fingertips for a moment, “like that.”
“You think I’ll make a deal with a devil? Are you mad?” D’Urge responds, his tone sharp and firm. The rest of the group seems to ease for a moment.
“And what is madness but a denial of reality?” Raphael tilts his head. “Still,” he lifts a finger, as if warning the group, “I’ve a feeling you’ll change your mind.” He leans forward. “Before it’s changed for you… Try to cure yourself,” he continues, waving a dismissive hand, “shop around- beg, borrow, and steal.” His expression hardens with earnestness. “Exhaust every possibility until none are left. And when hope has been whittled down to the very marrow of despair- that’s when you’ll come knocking at my door.” He straightens, looking off to some other point, “Hope,” he mutters to himself with a hardy laugh. “Such a tease,” he adds, shaking his head.
“Take us back,” Wyll demands, “now.”
“And after that,” D’Urge continues, “I never want to see you again.”
“By all means,” Raphael says, raising his hands, “bite the hand that feeds you… while you still have teeth.” He crosses his arms, with one hand gesturing, “all those pretty little symptoms- sundering skin, dissolving guts- they haven’t manifested yet, have they? One might say you’re a paragon of luck. I’ll be there when it runs out.”
In a flash, the room is gone just as fast as it appeared.
Ayzora crosses her arms over her stomach, holding herself silently while the group breaks out in frustrated conversation. Glancing around, she locks eyes with Astarion, whose expression is one of incredulity. Before he can speak, she turns on her heels, promptly heading for her tent.
“Now there’s a bloody devil after us?” Astarion asks aloud with an incredulous laugh. “This gets better and better,” he mumbles, following after Ayzora.
Astarion stops in his tracks as she ducks into her tent, letting the flap close in his face. Sympathizing with her apparent upset, he continues. “‘Shop around,’ he said,” Astarion mocks with a grand gesture. “He seems sure we won’t find anything.”
Upon hearing no response, he opens the tent flap.
Ayzora sits on the ground, her back facing him. She hardly moves to acknowledge the vampire as he enters and sits beside her.
“And he might be right,” Astarion adds, his tone sobering. “We’ve had no luck so far.”
Ayzora shakes her head while she stares at the base of the tent wall in front of her, “He’s playing with us, Astarion.”
“I’m aware,” he says through gritted teeth. “Cazador liked to toy with people, too. Let them think there was hope right until the end; until he snatched it all away.” He leans back on his hands, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they can win.”
“Exactly.” She rubs her temples, hiding her face in her palm. “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This! Being toyed with! Being dragged from one realm to another by cocky assholes with a promise veiled in threats-”
“We keep hunting for answers,” Astarion interjects.
She gives him a look; a silent “really?”
“What other choice do we have?” He exclaims, lifting his hands in defense. “This is no ordinary mind flayer parasite. Who tampered with it, and why? What do they have planned for us? And why are we important enough that a devil comes knocking on our door? If we find those answers, we might have a chance.”
Ayzora concedes with a nod, wrapping her shaking hands around herself and falling silent.
Actually, her whole frame trembles, Astarion notices.
A beat of silence passes. And another. Concern- oddly enough- begins to settle in for him as he watches her, silent and curled up and shaking.
“Darling?” He asks softly.
She won’t even take a breath- much less speak. She shakes her head.
“Darling?” He tries again, probing into her mind.
It races with thoughts: fears about the three powerful figures who prod at her vulnerabilities, anger at Orcus for his ask, uncertainty of their ability to find a cure, hopelessness for her redemption, anxiousness about finding answers in time- it all swirls into a whirlwind that overwhelms the both of them.
Astarion abruptly disconnects from her mind, taking a moment to center himself. And as he looks back up at Ayzora, again, he sees himself. Alone, trembling, consoling himself in whatever corner he could find.
Alone was the key word. Suddenly, he finds himself in the face of uncomfortable vulnerability and intimacy that can’t be masked with theatrics; and it feels like he shouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t want to be seen in a state like this, it’s only fair that he gives her some space to breathe and collect herself.
He shifts, preparing to stand- but a hand raises in the air, silently asking him to stop, and he heeds.
“Please,” she chokes out, divulging the amount of energy needed just to take a breath in this state.
He settles back into place, far enough for a gap between them, but close enough to reach out. His eyes dart around the tent as he fidgets with the fabric of one of her blankets, and feeling awkward in the heavy silence.
Her body shakes in waves as her lungs still yet again and her hands clutch her sides. Terror tells her that the horror she endured all that time ago is on the brink of flooding her again; and this time, Orcus won’t be the only culprit. Two new figures, capable of gods-know-what, are suddenly vying for pieces of her she’d thought she reclaimed at last, and begging for total control over a glorified puppet.
But she isn’t alone anymore. The silence, loud and cold and horrific, is still somewhat comforting when it's held in company; company that believes they might have a chance, despite the odds that continue to rise against them.
Gradually, Ayzora’s mind begins to slow and her body begins to still as she clings to the breath of a chance.
After all, a chance got her this far; perhaps it’s all she needs.
When she at last calms, Astarion seems to perk up.
“Better now, darling?” He asks.
She nods with a half-hearted smile, keeping her eyes on the floor.
“Good. I’d hate to have Orcus set his sights on one of us as a replacement.”
She huffs- softly, as her lungs are still near-empty- and then it hits her.
She had been holding her breath this whole time; and as oblivious as Astarion can be, he’s not that stupid. Wide-eyed, she turns to him.
He cocks an eyebrow at her sudden shift. “Yes?”
Half-words tumble from her agape mouth as she trips over her clashing thoughts, before finally less-than-gracefully landing on a response: “Shit.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
Wiping a hand down her slacked face, she continues. “You know.”
“Know what?”
“About… me.”
“About…? Oh, the undead thing?” He asks flippantly.
Ayzora rolls her eyes, which settle into a glare.
An obnoxious ‘yes,’ on all accounts . Astarion can’t help the grin that pulls his lips upward. He shifts, leaning back on one hand while he pretends to inspect his nails on the other. “Darling, that was old news.”
Her expression is unmoving, and brutally cold.
But he’s unbothered- in fact, he’s almost amused. “Oh, come on.” He rolls his head to his slouched shoulder. “You didn’t really think you could hide it from the vampire, of all people? Please.”
“Get out.”
There’s a moment of shock on his face that quickly shifts to exasperation. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of- you’re clearly in good company,” he adds, gesturing to himself.
She stands, holding open her tent’s door. “Out.”
He rises to his feet. “Alright, have it your way.” He ducks out of the tent, returning to his own.
The second he steps out, she closes the flap and collapses into her bed roll.
Tears slowly roll down her face as her fears and failures weigh heavy on her head and heart. She would hide away for the rest of the evening if she could, but…
There’s still that party tonight… Gods, I need to pull myself together.
It’s a battle, gathering her confidence and collected appearance again, but she manages. The party hardly seems special- nothing more than a gathering of tieflings and “heroes” and shared liquor, likely with some songs and stories tossed in between. It ought to be much easier to navigate than the sorts of parties she grew up attending, with countless nobles and an endless list of etiquette rules woven between practiced dances and long toasts.
Or, perhaps the lack of closely-followed-scripts and protocols will make it worse.
Only time will tell.
She stands in front of her mirror, adjusting her at-ease clothes. Her hair is in the same pristine braid she creates every night, and her light grey blouse is neatly tucked into her leather shorts. She tugs at the tops of her looser-fitting boots, adjusting them to the same height on her thighs. Stepping back, she takes another long look at herself.
It’ll have to do. Nothing seems to look quite right, but she’d rather not draw attention to herself as the last one to show- if at all. That is, if anyone notices she’s gone in the first place…
“Ayzora? Are you joining us this evening?” Gale's gentle voice calls through her tent.
She sighs. Of course he would. She pulls open her tent, securing the flap to the side to keep it drawn open.
Gale stands at her door with a pleased look and an easy smile. He's in his usual evening wear, but his hair is drawn back in a tousled half-bun.
“Trying new hairstyles?” Ayzora asks, giving him a once-over.
“What do we think?” He opens his arms out in presentation and turns, showing off the minor transformation.
She gives him a smile, and a slight nod. “Not bad.”
“I think that's the kindest thing you've said to me yet,” he beams, winking at the necromancer over his shoulder before turning back around to face her.
“I strive not to further inflate the ego of a mage,” she responds almost dryly- but there’s a twinkle of fondness in her eyes, giving way to levity.
“I see.” He glances around behind him.
There are some other conversations carrying on around camp as the night sinks in. D’Urge sits around the campfire with Karlach and Wyll, and Shadowheart seems to be in thoughtful discussion with Halsin, who had arrived a few minutes earlier and announced the rest were on their way. Lae’zel sits in front of her tent, carefully polishing her weapons to put on display for the evening, while Astarion stands on the rugs set out before his tent with a book in hand. The vampire rogue steals a glance over at the chatting wizards, briefly reaching up to ensure his curls are perfectly in place before resuming his reading, turning the page.
Upon confirming their companions are occupied, Gale turns back to his friend. “Are you alright?”
Ayzora, whose gaze had been subconsciously drifting to the nonchalant rogue, snaps to attention. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been rather uncharacteristically absent since our encounter with the devil.”
“I have a characteristic absence?”
“Most tend to,” he answers matter-of-factly.
Her head cocks to the side with a smirk. “Fair.”
“So, might I lend an ear to whatever it is that troubles you?”
She turns her head in the beginning of a shake, before changing her mind as it dawns on her: she isn't the only one with a god looming over her.
Gale had told her about his love affair with the goddess of magic, Mystra. A tryst that began to drive him to a desperation to impress her, and ended with a magical bomb in his chest, something he called a Netherese Orb. A precarious condition he has to maintain through the absorption of magic in order to stay alive- and, well, keep the impending explosion at bay.
That's when she told him about Orcus. About the triad. About the power and security it promised her, and the brutal downfall that followed.
If he knew that she, too, oft absorbed a precious and immaterial force to stay alive, would he understand?
She gives a long look to the wizard.
His eyes dart between hers as he works to get a read on her.
“I know that look.”
She catches herself in a moment, forcing her expression to remain the same; forcing herself to remain in control. “What do you mean?”
“There's something you're not saying; because for one reason or another, you're afraid to talk about it. I’m here if you-”
“No.”
His eyes go wide.
No, She thinks to herself, of course not. He wouldn't understand.
Her mind searches for words she cannot seem to find- something to ease the tension rising in the air and in her stomach.
Gale’s expression shifts from shock to resolve as his eyebrows furrow. His voice is softer, but much more firm. “People who speak in excess often conceal a lack of knowledge.” He leans in, gesturing with a nod of his head towards Astarion, “our friend seems to have mastered the craft.”
Ayzora glances at the elf, taking a deep breath as she locks eyes once again with the wizard.
Gale holds up a finger; as both advice and a warning, “It’s the ones who stay silent you need to keep an eye on. They know much more than they would ever let on, often to a concerning degree.”
The necromancer cautiously scans the camp for listening ears. Everyone appears to be occupied.
She doesn’t notice that Astarion only turns the page when he feels eyes on him. Besides, with his tent next to hers, who can blame him for accidentally hearing bits and pieces of her conversations?
Her focus returns to Gale.
His eyes soften. “But remaining silent and alone is a grim sentence. Whatever it is, Ayzora, I will listen.”
There’s a long pause. Thinking. Debating. And finally, acquiescing to her friend’s persuasion.
“Orcus returned last night.”
“After a long stretch of silence?”
She nods, shifting her weight. “He wanted to make one last deal.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Is it the unknown nature of this final bargain that troubles you?”
She pauses. The answer is… complicated. Half-yes, half-no. She’s long grown used to the less-than-explicit approach Orcus took to his orders and offers. This time feels different…
Her eyes drift again to pale white curls.
“Yes,” Ayzora answers slowly, as if cautious of every syllable. She looks at Gale, taking pause to find her words. “But I worry about the implications it may carry for others.”
His head tilts to the side. “How do you mean?”
She tilts her chin downward. The gold ring around her irises catches the light, glowing in contrast to her cold emerald eyes staring at him through white eyelashes. “Traveling in numbers means any bargain struck by one is made for all;” her voice, though still resonant in her chest, is broken by breath as it quivers, “and I fear I remain a bad omen.”
Gale casts his gaze downward for a moment, gathering himself. “Ace…” he whispers under his breath. No other sound emanates from agape mouth, his eyes pleading for his mind to catch up to his heart and say something.
And yet, the wizard with a knack for always having something to say is rendered speechless.
She watches him with baited breath, awaiting any sort of comforting response; but the longer she looks at him, the deeper the pit in her stomach sinks as she begins to feel less like a friend pleading for encouragement and more like a looming shadow over a gentle soul undeserving of further torment.
Before it can cut any deeper, she steels herself, giving a curt nod to Gale and stepping past him: The conversation is over now.
As much as he would like it to continue.
“Ayzora?” He asks, trying to deny- or at least appeal- her decision to leave and dissuade her from putting her walls back up so quickly.
“Thanks, Gale,” she adds over her shoulder as she walks away from her tent and over to the incoming group of Tieflings.
The wizard stands before his friend's tent for a while. In a way, he almost stubbornly hopes it tells him something she won't.
It doesn't.
Astarion stares at Ayzora from afar. He swirls a bottle of wine in one hand, lifting it to his lips and swallowing the bitter liquid until he feels sufficiently distracted by the horrid taste of the mediocre drink.
As soon as the guests arrived, she had been comfortably near them and agonizingly far from him. Listening to their songs and stories, softly smiling at their jokes, and even waltzing with Wyll for a while. Yet her eyes continually found his, as if anchoring herself to him in these uncertain waters. There’s hardly a moment for his concern to find voice in his mind; she continually makes wordless promises to return to the home he has become, and he cautiously dances over the line between honesty and manipulation as he tries to draw her in further.
Mulling over his disappointing beverage, he watches on as a tiefling shows off a few of his spells to a small crowd, Ayzora among them. A minor illusion ignites from his fingertips, rising up into the air before bursting in brilliant blues, whites, and purples as bright fireworks. Ayzora offers reserved applause along with the rest, stealing yet another glance at the rogue.
The bright light of the fireworks fade into the blue hue of the moonlight and reflect in his silvery curls, highlighting the tops of his strong cheekbones and pink pouting lips. The contrast of the cool tones in his ruby red irises makes his eyes twinkle as he meets her gaze. Ayzora saunters over to Astarion, her alcohol-induced buzz relaxing her gait, in turn bringing a gentle sway to her hips that he can’t help but notice. As she nears, he puffs his chest and wears a charming smirk, donning the seductive act yet again.
“Here’s my little treat with her cheeks all flushed,” he announces- mostly just to her. Like no matter how loud or grandiose his speech, she will always be his audience.
She catches herself in an involuntary grin, glancing down to regain her composure before looking back up at him. A soft smile still remains, despite her efforts.
He continues, “you will come to my bed tonight, won’t you?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Will I?”
“Darling, I can hardly keep my mind clear to fight; I’ve been thinking about our last night together ceaselessly.” He drops his head, fidgeting with his hands, shifting from declaration to confession, “I’ll be in quite the spot of mortal peril if you let me keep distracting myself dreaming instead of doing.” He leans back, resuming his arrogant flirtation, “we can’t have that, can we? It would be very dangerous.”
“Well, now I’m tempted to leave you dreaming a while longer,” she teases.
“Ah, so you need a bit of enticing?”
She shifts her weight to one side, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow, silently challenging the vampire.
“Let me see…”
She watches as he thinks for a few seconds, before pulling one of his lines out of his mental catalogue.
“How about this one,” he begins, “All these accolades from the Tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips.”
She thinks for a moment, before shaking her head. “I’ve heard better.”
“Hmm, let me give it another go.” He re-positions himself, standing back like an artist taking in their sculpture work. “Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation -” he emphasizes, leaning towards her as if the beauty he speaks of is a confessed secret. Straightening, he offers an explanation: “It’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”
Perfect body? The gods? Please. Despite his best efforts, she can’t get past the fact that these lines were meant for someone- anyone- else. Her arms unfold as she begins to examine her fingernails, noting how chipped the polish has become.
Before she can say a word, Astarion sees her negative shift in expression and jumps in with a final attempt: “How about if I said these little words…”
Ayzora looks up, intrigued.
“Everyone’s favorite,” he adds, stepping closer to her.
Her stomach stirs, but she does not move.
Astarion begins to speak, but as the words fall from his mouth, his expression shifts from feigned gentleness to suppressed fear as they seem to ring truer than he had intended: “I love you,” he says low.
Her eyes widen as her heart drops into her stomach and a pang echoes in her hollow chest. Everything tells her that this moment is fabricated; the rehearsed confession of a professional seducer, and a man desperate for the safety of a companion- but softly, whispering in the back of her mind, is a voice telling her that somehow, he might mean it. But he doesn’t. And… there’s part of her that wishes he did. But she can’t even bear to think about it.
A long silence- only a couple of grueling seconds long- passes.
“Y-you… don’t mean that,” she finally responds, voluntarily adding salt to wounds she wasn’t ready to admit existed.
His jaw clenches for a moment. I didn’t mean it. Of course I didn’t mean it. I’ve said it countless times to faces I hardly remember now. Her pained expression burns into his memory as guilt grows heavy on his consciousness. “Well,” he reasons, “I could. If only for tonight.” The tension within him eases.
It’s stupid. She knows that. But gods damn it, she’s come to care about the rogue- and despite the grief that will inevitably follow yet again, she can convince herself to believe another lie for one more night.
He recovers the theatrics, carrying on before she has the chance to dwell too much longer on just how much he can mean it if he allows himself the evening. “Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favorite lines at you, I’d much rather we got to experience each other’s, uh… full portfolio of talents once again.”
She takes a deep breath. “Perhaps once everyone has turned in?”
He smirks. “I’ll be waiting,” he says with a wink before turning on his heels and dipping into his tent.
Ayzora stands outside of his tent, swallowing down a lump rising in her throat. She can tend to her wounds later- for now, they don’t have to exist. Heartbreak will have to wait. She slowly turns to look over the rest of the party before deciding to pass the time by joining the group around the fire listening to one of the bard’s stories.
Meanwhile, Astarion lies in his tent and stares at the ceiling. Just tonight, he reminds himself. Just tonight, he repeats. Just tonight. The mantra turns from a promise to a prayer to a plea. Just tonight.
But when the fire dies down, and the tieflings leave, and their companions doze in their tents, and the suddenly beautiful necromancer appears at his tent door, and his hands find their gentle way to her hips, he pulls her close. His confidence wavers, grazing lips over skin in hesitation before pressing soft kisses into her neck. He reaches for the ties holding her blouse to her body when a hand stops him.
The gold ring around her pupils glows in the low light, making her emerald gaze all the more intense. “Tell me,” she commands- no, begs. If he will mean it for now, she wants to hear it, and memorize the sound of the words from his mouth.
With a slow, chaste kiss to her lips, he whispers: “I love you.”
And he means it.
This is cross-posted to my Ao3, @ write-and-wander, so be sure to subscribe to the fic there if you want to see it first and be notified when it updates!