#AngryAstarion

[clazberryk]

Interweaving Purple Threads

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57679585

I ahve been going through my previous stories and updating them, for the past few months i ahve been working on my writing style and I want my past stories to reflect the change and the progression on my style. I hope you take the time to read it and enjoy. 

As always i welcome any feed back For those that have no access to AO3. Interweaving Pruple Threads

Taveleigha’s grip was firm as she dragged Astarion around the corner, her small frame belying the surprising strength of a sorcerer well accustomed to survival. Shadowheart and Karlach lingered behind, smirking at their retreat, and that alone seemed to grate on Astarion more than anything.

“What the fuck was that?” Her voice cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp and precise.

Astarion scoffed, barely containing his frustration. “You promised me we would kill the Orthon.”

Taveleigha closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, steadying herself. She refused to let his anger consume her, refused to lose herself in the whiplash of his emotions. When he was like this—volatile, wounded—he felt like a stranger. Like the man she was falling for was slipping through her fingers, replaced by something reckless and desperate.

She exhaled slowly. “And we will, but we need to be smart.”

“This must be what you do,” he snapped, crossing his arms, face tilted downward to glare at her. “Make promises, then take them back.”

Her patience frayed. Another slow breath. Her pulse thumped in her throat. She didn’t react—not yet. Instead, she watched him. Studied him. The subtle tension coiling through his muscles, the way his fingers flexed like claws held back from striking. He was wound up tight, his body a bowstring drawn too far, ready to snap. His eyes—crimson, burning—held nothing of their usual charm, only raw, exposed frustration.

“Look,” she tried again, gentler this time, “we can’t rush into this. Did you see how many Merrigons were there? A displacer beast?”

But he refused to yield, refused to see beyond the storm inside him.

“I know what Cazador” she continued

A sharp inhale. He flinched, but she didn’t stop. She would not let that name hold power over him, would not allow it to chain him to the past like a weight around his throat.

“I know what Cazador did to you was horrible. I understand—”

“Understand!” His voice cracked like thunder, vicious and raw. “Understand? Were you there? Were you the one who had their back carved out again and again and again? I think not.”

She stayed still, absorbing the blow, refusing to retreat.

But he wasn’t done.

“You have no idea. No idea! My body wasn’t my own for two centuries, and now I am this close” he held his thumb and forefinger barely apart “and you’re taking it away. Taking these answers away.”

He leaned in close, too close. Her breath brushed against his skin, but he was drowning too deep in fury to acknowledge it.

“I know you’re upset,” she whispered, reaching for him—his face, his cheeks, anything to ground him.

“Don’t touch me!”

Her hand fell away, her expression closing off. Her eyes, those gods-damned expressive eyes, shuttered, the damage sinking in. And somewhere deep inside him, in the darkest, ugliest part of himself, he felt a twisted satisfaction. He had hurt her. Not as deeply, not as permanently as he had been hurt, but enough. Enough for her to feel something close to what coiled inside him. Enough for her to bear some fraction of his pain.

“You have no idea. You wouldn’t, would you? Lost little elf girl, no memories, no past—just feelings. Just scraps of something that barely resemble a life.” His voice was venom, a hiss of words he could not stop. “I remember everything. Every mark, every scream, every knife against my spine. They live with me daily. I have no blank void, no merciful absence. I am not a blank little canvas playing hero.”

Her breath stilled.

And then

silence.

A moment suspended between them. The weight of his words, the sheer devastation of them, pressing like an unforgiving tide.

“I think it would be best if you stay at camp.” Her voice was quiet. Controlled. Final. “I’ll stay with Shadowheart and Karlach. Send Gale.”

She turned without another word, heading toward the dais, her fingers trailing along the cold stone as if grounding herself. He knew she wasn’t inspecting the glowing purple orb—she was hiding. He could smell her tears.

“Tavi—” He said her name like an apology, his anger dissolving too late.

“Go, Astarion.”

A whisper. Not an accusation. Not a plea. Just pain.

And gods above, that scared him more than anything.

Astarion exhaled, sharp and ragged, before forcing himself to move—back to the others, back to the group that had lingered in Ketheric’s crypt. Lae’zel, Wyll, and Gale had already begun setting up camp, their tents aligned in familiar arrangement. His tent beside hers. Even the others had noticed. Had seen the shift between them. And that thought—that realization—dug into something deeper than rage.

What a mess. What an absolute mess.

Gale’s voice snapped him back. “Astarion, are the others with you?”

He blinked. “No. Tavi asked for you.”

The wizard frowned. “Do you know why?”

Astarion hesitated. He wanted to answer. But instead, he turned away, retreating into his tent, armour sliding off with distracted fingers.

Gale watched him for a moment longer before sighing and heading toward the Sharran temple.

And Astarion sat there, staring at the floor, the remnants of his anger curling into something else.

Something worse.

Astarion paced the perimeter of the camp, steps aimless, mind tangled in restless loops. He had tried everything—reading, wandering, playing with Scratch and the owlbear—but nothing silenced the gnawing discomfort curling inside him. He had even turned to the Book of Thay, letting his eyes skim its cursed pages, desperate for something to anchor him. But no distraction lasted. Every thought inevitably circled back to her.

Taveleigha.

The bitter taste of their last conversation still lingered. Sharp words, cutting deep—he had aimed them with precision, knowing exactly where she was vulnerable, knowing how to wound. And he had wounded her. The realization sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn't shake. He had wanted control, had wanted answers—but instead, all he had done was lash out at the only person who had tried to understand him.

Would she leave?

He told himself it wouldn’t matter, that he could walk away first, cut ties before the inevitable. Before the judgmental stares, before the quiet whispers. The others would side with her, of course they would. Why wouldn’t they? She was their leader, their steady presence. And he—well, he had been a petulant fool.

The sun had long since set, and still, she did not return. The unease in his stomach twisted tighter with every hour that passed.

When Wyll’s sudden exclamation tore through the quiet, Astarion turned on instinct.

"By the gods, what happened?"

Then he saw them.

Shadowheart, barely upright, carrying a new spear and clad in unfamiliar armour. Karlach, arm wrapped around Taveleigha, who leaned heavily into her side. Even from a distance, Astarion could see the bruises—scattered across her arms, darkening her temple, lining the delicate planes of her face. Her other hand pressed against her midsection, a telltale sign of deeper injuries. Blood. He smelled her blood in the air.

He stepped forward—paused.

She did not look at him.

She waved off the others’ concerns, brushing them aside with exhausted deflection before retreating into her tent. And when the fastening snapped shut, sealing her inside, Astarion felt something curdle in his chest. It was familiar—too familiar.

Isolation.

An hour passed.

Then another.

The firelight flickered, casting shifting shadows against the canvas walls of her tent. He watched as she lit the candles inside, revealing her silhouette—watched as she began peeling off her robes, as she flinched against the pain but did not cry out. Gods, she was hurting. And still, she did not seek help.

The others spoke quietly, recounting the trials they had faced tests of memory, intelligence and endurance. They spoke of the library, of undead pouring through a portal before they could close it, of how Taveleigha had taken the brunt of the fight with only Gale beside her, stripped of magic, forced into hand-to-hand combat.

She had died.

Shadowheart had revived her, but Astarion felt his stomach coil at the thought.

Another hour.

He could not sit still. He could not keep himself from going to her.

Astarion approached her tent, hesitated only briefly before murmuring her name.

"Tavi?"

A slight pause. A sigh, exhausted and worn thin, then the quiet groan of movement. The fastening came undone, and her gaze met his.

Astarion faltered.

She was battered, bloody, exhausted. And suddenly, his anger—his sharp-edged frustration—felt so small in the wake of it.

"What do you want, Astarion?"

Gods above, she sounded drained.

He inhaled, though he did not need to. The motion steadied him, nonetheless. He flicked his gaze upward, toward the ceiling of the mausoleum, as if searching for an answer that would not come. Then, quieter:

"May I come in?"

What a novelty—asking permission, when before he had always simply entered.

She hesitated. For the first time, she hesitated.

Something twisted inside his chest.

Slowly, she shuffled back, allowing him inside.

Astarion stepped in, careful, more careful than he had ever been before. His gaze flickered over her bruises, over the way she cradled herself, exhaustion making every movement deliberate.

There was cold water in the tent, untouched. She hadn't even tried to warm it. She hadn't wanted to linger near the others.

Be honest with yourself, wretch. She didn’t want to face you.

The realization was a dagger to the gut.

"Just a second."

He picked up the bucket and left her tent without another word.

Karlach barely raised an eyebrow when he approached, but she smiled, nonetheless.

"Fangs."

The nickname was so simple, so easy. Why was everything easy for her?

"Tavi needs warm water," Astarion muttered, teeth gritted against the unfamiliar urge to ramble. Gods, when had that started? "I’m worried about her bruises, and the campfire is going to take too long—"

Karlach took the bucket before he could spiral further.

"I’ll bring it by once it’s warm enough."

He nodded stiffly.

He returned to his tent, pulled out a clean shirt, found the soap he had stolen from the Harper’s bedroom, gathered what food remained from Wyll’s earlier cooking. A plate with potatoes, root vegetables and leftover meat.

When he turned back, Karlach was already leaving the warmed water at Taveleigha’s tent, steam curling into the night air. Fresh cloth beside it, neatly folded.

Astarion lingered.

He did not know what to say.

For the first time in years, he did not know what to do

Taveleigha lay still, exhaustion wrapping around her like a heavy cloak as she listened to the camp’s murmurs fading into the night. Astarion had taken her bucket of cold water and stepped outside, and though she told herself she didn't care, she couldn't shake the absence—his absence. She had always fought with him at her side, a wordless understanding guiding their movements. A flick of her fingers, a twist of her wrist—he knew. He knew her thoughts before she voiced them, anticipated her movements like a second heartbeat. With Gale, there was skill, there was trust, but not that seamless understanding that made battle something effortless, almost graceful. If Astarion had been there today, maybe they wouldn’t have lost so much. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt so utterly useless.

She closed her eyes, willing herself into sleep when his presence returned, warm and steady. A plate of food, a bucket of steaming water, cloths in his hands. She exhaled, a mixture of frustration and something softer. Why could he not leave her be? Why wouldn’t he allow her to fold into herself, to drown in the self-doubt, the sharp edges of regret? Instead, he knelt before her, silent, placing everything within easy reach, but she ignored it. Instead, she watched him. Every movement. Every twitch. But there was none. Just quiet certainty.

He reached for her hand, pulling her gently upright, and she followed, too tired to fight him. His hands moved with careful deliberation, grasping the hem of her long-sleeved top. He didn't pull, didn’t take, only waited. She lifted her arms, letting him strip away the ruined fabric. His quiet hiss filled the space between them as he took in the deep bruising spreading over her ribs, the ghost of the longsword’s impact vibrating still in her bones.

Her breath hitched as he continued, peeling away layers of clothing until she sat before him, stripped down to vulnerability. The exposure was more than physical—it was delicate, precarious, as if she might shatter at the slightest touch.

“Oh, my sweet,” he whispered, and the words carried an ache she wasn’t sure belonged entirely to her. He dipped the cloth into the warm water, the heat blooming against her battered skin. Careful hands followed, fingers tracing over wounds as though willing them to fade. Lips pressed over bruises in a silent vow, feather-light and reverent. She leaned into the care, into the contradiction of his touch—hands that could destroy, that had destroyed, now offering only gentleness, only safety.

She was safe.

She was safe.

She was safe.

The truth of it struck too deep, too raw, and suddenly she was trembling, breaking apart. The weight of everything—the fight, the failures, his words, her doubts—pushed tears past the walls she had built. Astarion froze, his ministrations halting, before he pulled her forward, cradling her against his chest. She folded into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as though anchoring herself to something real. His arms moved over her back, slow and steady, as if mapping the parts of her that hurt.

Time passed in hiccups and sniffles, until the worst of it eased. He kissed the crown of her head, returning to his quiet devotion, ensuring every wound was tended to, every bruise acknowledged in silent apology. The intimacy of it unsettled her more than any previous night spent tangled in his sheets. This was something different—something fragile, something terrifying.

She had known from the beginning that Astarion wore a mask, but looking at him now, with his hands tracing careful paths along her limbs, she saw past it. Had she been too blind to see before? Had she misunderstood the moments between them, failed to recognize their quiet significance?

When he ran the damp cloth over the sole of her foot, she flinched. He stilled, looking up, brow raised in curiosity.

“It tickles,” she murmured.

A slow smile spread across his lips before he tested it again, watching as she twitched. A hum of interest slipped past his lips before he lowered his mouth, pressing kisses along the arch, trailing them over her ankle, her heel, before lifting her leg and pressing one slow, deliberate kiss to the underside of her foot. He held her gaze as he did it, watching her bite her lower lip, her breath catching in her throat.

Her heart stuttered, the warmth spreading through her something dangerously close to affection. She shoved the thought down. This was not the time to unravel over him, not when he had let her glimpse so much of himself these past weeks. He needed something steady, something secure, not a lover who faltered beneath the weight of simple tenderness.

Still, when the shift came—the sudden weight pressing down as he settled against her—it startled her. His body was solid but not crushing, warmth pooling between them. A careful hand tucked her hair behind her ear, fingers ghosting over its curve and down the slope of her neck.

She looked at him—really looked at him.

There was no pretending. No games. No masks. Just him, fully present, fully real.

“You’re like a cat,” she murmured, lifting hesitant hands to his cheeks. A flicker of pause, a question unspoken. His answer came in the way he pressed into her touch, letting out a quiet sigh that she felt against her palms. She had missed him.

She hadn’t forgotten the argument. It still lingered between them, unresolved. But right now, in this moment, she let herself pretend—pretend they weren’t on a doomed quest, pretend there was no ancient relic, no looming dangers. Just two elves, learning each other, allowing themselves to exist in the fragile space between them.

Wait. Love?

No. It was too soon.

But then he smiled, the lopsided grin that made her stomach twist, and whispered, “Then adore me.”

And gods help her, she did.

No pressure tags: @roguishcat @shewhowas39 @asweetlovesong @astarionancuntnin @lirotation