caniasfire

[caniasfire]

Astarion confessed about his darkest times under Cazador’s control and Amay felt a wave of shame hit him. He opened his mouth to utter an apology but promptly closed it. Instead, he tried to apologize and offer comfort through his touch.

As time went on he felt lucky, in a way, that no one had really asked. Part of him had hoped he could pretend his life had started when the nautiloid crashed on that beach, and even though he had made plenty of mistakes since their adventure started, none seemed to cross the line into truly evil, unforgivable actions. He couldn't say the same for what he's done before. If Amay had been the tiefling Wyll had been forced to hunt, a look into his memories through the tadpole would've just convinced everyone he was truly a devil. “I helped with contracts.” He found his gaze locking onto Astarion’s, even though he didn't want to look.  “Facilitated more people losin’ ownership of their souls to him. Was a witness durin’ some deals, too.” It was odd how easy he was able to talk about it. He was terrified of where this would get him, but maybe it would make things easier in the future. If no one wanted to travel with him anymore he wouldn't be so torn over what to do with the crown, and if he had nowhere else to go Cania wouldn't look so bad. 

“There's not much to look at.” He shrugged. He was torn. There was the way his heart fluttered at Astarion's interest in him, in being seen, but all of that clashed with the horror of his reality. What would Astarion think of him now? Maybe he wasn't meant to be seen. “You didn't have any reason to ask back then and now there's more important things to worry about.” The corner of his lips twitch, though it's barely a smile. It would probably look bad if he smiled right now, after what he just confessed, so he maintained his usual impassive expression. 

“I asked her about it, but all she knows is that whatever I have is not an engine.” He wished that he could share whatever was happening to him, or an aspect of it. If he could heal Karlach the way he could heal himself maybe he would be able to save her, and he could just focus on that whenever he caused more pain in the future.

He was happy, though, that he was able to bring some comfort to Astarion. “I understand.” If the tables were turned, if this conversation was about his master, Amay doubted there was anything Astarion could say to make him believe that freedom was possible. He understood the fear, and the reluctance to believe that things could get better. The worst case scenario would always be waiting for him, after all, and he had to be ready for it.

And that's all I'll hear of that. Amay wanted to protest, but he limited himself to simply looking unconvinced in silence. 

Then there it was. If being asked about his past profession especifically was the one question he didn't want to get, this one was a close second. He didn't want to think about his past, and even less of his future. Will you be forced to go back? Astarion's voice echoes in his mind and something inside him twisted. He couldn't hesitate about what he knew was set in stone, not now. “Probably ” He nodded, his voice quiet. “My guess is that I've been here this whole time because I'm a useful pawn.” Every time he woke up he felt lucky that he wasn't waking up in hell, that he still had some use– though his nights in Faerun were numbered, and his days were haunted by the anxiety that his patron would find out any day now that he didn't intend to bring the crown back to him. “He expects me to return the crown to him, I think.” He wondered what would be his life if anyone else but him in the court of his patron had gotten kidnapped by mind flayers. He would still be working as usual, thinking there was nothing else to life but contracts and ledgers and pain.

“I won't, though.” He rushed to add. “I won't give it back to him. I was goin’ to, at first, and then I wanted it for myself– but now, I don't want it. I want to try to help the city. And Gale needs it to cure himself, so . . .” 

He hadn’t been fishing for comfort, certainly not praise—but hearing Amay’s words, feeling his touch, brings a strange, painful solace. The kind of solace he once thought was out of reach for someone like him. A part of him wants to shake his head, to deny any admiration for his survival. What survival? He’d spent centuries in a nightmare without end, caged and controlled, forced into darkness even when he thought he couldn’t sink any lower.

❛ Don’t praise me so soon, ❜ he says, his voice a low murmur, rough around the edges. ❛ Trust me . . . there were plenty of times I would have rather died than live another night under Cazador’s thumb. ❜ His gaze drops, shadows deepening in his crimson eyes. The memories coil around him like smoke, thick and cloying. ❛ But he took that freedom from me, too—the freedom to end it all on my own terms. ❜

He allows himself to relax into Amay’s touch, and when Amay speaks again, there’s something in his tone that pulls Astarion’s attention back, a confession laced with quiet guilt: I’ve doomed people to fates worse than death . . . And I didn’t even need to be compelled. The words sink into him, heavy and dark, yet not entirely unfamiliar. It’s a confession that mirrors his own pain, his own regret.

Curiosity sparks in him, and he tilts his head slightly, studying Amay’s face as if for the first time. ❛ What exactly did you do . . . during your time in Cania? ❜ he asks, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. It shames him, a little, that he hasn’t thought to ask sooner. For all their closeness, he’s been selfish—too wrapped up in his own pain to truly see Amay’s. But now he wants to remedy that. He wants to know the story behind every scar, every hardened edge that makes Amay who he is. ❛ I’m sorry, ❜ he adds, a small, unsteady smile forming on his lips, ❛ for never really asking you much about your life sooner. For looking at you but never truly seeing you. ❜ He leans back just slightly, his gaze locking with Amay’s, as if to prove the sincerity in his words. ❛ I see you now. And I want to know you. Truly. ❜

His lover speaks of his own scars, of battles with devils and gods, the weight of their infernal origins lying heavy between them. He remembers that moment in the aftermath of Ketheric’s defeat, the way Amay lit up like a star about to collapse in on itself, blazing with an otherworldly power that burned so hot it singed Astarion’s retinas. Amay’s not just a tiefling. He knew it then, but hearing it now . . . he feels it in his bones. This man is something altogether unique. And dangerous.

❛ You’re right about that, darling, ❜ he says, voice touched with dark amusement. ❛ The only other tiefling I’ve seen capable of burning as hot as you is Karlach, but she isn’t quite . . . regenerating parts of herself. ❜ He lets out a soft, humorless laugh, a touch of melancholy reaching his eyes for their barbarian friend. ❛ If she could, I think she’d have grown herself a new heart by now. ❜

But then Amay’s voice takes on a serious note, listing off the reasons why they have the upper hand against Cazador. Every word seems to peel away another layer of tension from Astarion’s muscles, each plan, each advantage like a soothing balm against his roiling fears. It’s almost over, Amay says, and for the first time since waking from that terrible nightmare, Astarion feels something faint but real creep into his heart: hope. A small, tentative smile lifts his lips, ghostly but genuine.

❛ Gods, ❜ he murmurs, a touch of wonder in his tone, ❛ I don’t know how you managed to calm the storm inside my mind with just a few sentences. ❜ He looks down, almost sheepish, as if ashamed to admit how badly he needed those words. ❛ I know you’re right. We’ve faced arguably more dangerous threats on this journey. But . . . Cazador has had the upper hand over me for two hundred years, and there hadn’t been an end in sight. Not until now. ❜ He swallows, feeling the weight of all his past fears and traumas beginning to unravel, if only slightly. ❛ It’s hard to be hopeful when everything could still so easily be taken away if I don’t expect the absolute worst. ❜

Amay brings up something called Krocrachons—giant, horrible insect creatures that could apparently rival anything from the nightmares of Baldur’s Gate. Astarion knows he’s trying to lighten the mood, to pull him away from the dark pit of his thoughts, and for a moment, Astarion allows himself to indulge in it, allowing his smile to grow just a fraction wider. But there’s one last thought that gnaws at him, one last lingering fear.

He lifts a hand, gently tracing his fingers along Amay’s jaw, studying the face that has, impossibly, become a source of comfort and strength in his life. ❛ It’s you who deserves better, ❜ he says, his voice soft but unwavering, ❛ and that’s all I’ll hear of that. And I’d rather you not get killed by anything, whether it be a petty vampire lord, a giant insect, or any other horror in between. ❜

The smirk returns, more genuine this time, but it quickly fades as a darker thought clouds his mind. ❛ When this is over . . . ❜ he begins, hesitant, as if the words themselves might bring his fears back to life. ❛ What happens to you, Amay? Will you be . . . forced to go back? ❜ He hates how his voice wavers, how uncertain he sounds. ❛ Back to Cania? ❜ The thought of losing Amay to that place, to the devils who would twist and use him all over again, sends a fresh wave of dread surging through him.

[caniasfire]

“You tried to defy him.” He reminded Astarion, “it’s not like you did all of that because you wanted to. You were tryin’ to survive.” He glided his thumb on the side of the other’s neck, gently caressing the skin. “I find it admirable that you didn’t give up for so long. That you wanted to live.” Amay didn’t know many people that had survived that long under the thumb of a tyrant, a lot of the souls trapped in hell doomed to eternal torture weren’t themselves anymore. Their bodies weren’t allowed to die, but their mind and spirit were always long gone after a few decades of torture. Amay didn’t really know if that applied to him, as the hells was all he knew. He had memories of the time before, but it was so brief that he felt they hardly counted. By the time he started to understand the world around him, it was in infernal and in hellish pacts and ink.

“I’ve doomed people to fates worse than death, if that helps at all. And I didn’t even need to be compelled.” It was something he didn’t have trouble admitting once–maybe once he would even be proud of the abilities he had that helped him survive in a world of devils, but something had changed within him in this adventure. He chose to do a devil’s bidding. Others could argue he didn’t have much of a choice either, but despite all the punishments and all his rebellion, he never really tested the tightness of the leash around his neck. He never tried to escape to have a better life, or to destroy his contract. He had accepted the life he had and the job he had as his purpose, and even if he hated devils, part of him liked playing the game. And now he was here, far away from the court of the self-proclaimed lord of hellfire, trying to save the world. He knew that wouldn’t fix all the lives he’s ruined, or all the ones he will ruin once he is sent back to Cania once everything is over.

“I know I’m covered in scars, but most of them come from devils or gods– If Myrkul couldn’t kill me, I think Cazador will struggle a bit.” He slid his hands to grab Astarion’s shoulders, squeezing them slightly to try and comfort him. He didn’t want to dismiss his fears, after all he understood his fear of bringing Amay into that palace, where the source of Astarion’s misery awaited. If the roles were reversed he would try his best to not let Astarion go anywhere near a portal to Mephistar. He doubted anyone would take much notice of the fact Amay cared for someone, and if any physical punishment were to come it would only include the warlock–as that was part of his pact–but still . . . Astarion didn’t need to meet any more devils than he already had. Besides, the real danger of bringing Astarion to Mephistar would be to see how the devils would eventually turn Astarion against him. That’s what they did. “And well . . .” His eyes flickered away for a second as the words came to him, but he struggled to vocalize them. It was something he had barely given himself time to really think about, at least with Astarion. After what had happened after the battle with Ketheric, he found it hard to go too in depth about whatever progress he was making in figuring himself out. Gale saw it more as some kind of puzzle to crack, and Amay liked to pretend when they worked at it together that it wasn’t really about him. “We know I’m not . . . a tiefling. If the worst happens I can just fireball myself and Cazador will burn while I just stand there.”

He wasn’t scared of facing the vampire lord. He had hardly ever been scared of any fight they had had so far, but part of that was attributed to the fact that there was a time he didn’t really care what happened to him in combat. His recklessness had given him new scars to remember the encounters by, but he wouldn’t let Cazador be one of them. “We won’t let him have a second to realize what’s even going on.” He cupped Astarion’s face with his hands, his gaze locked with the other’s as he spoke with utmost conviction. Combat had been difficult at first, as someone who had never been trained, but he had enough fights under his belt now to trust his strategies. “The moment we find out where in that palace he’s holed up, we’re bringin’ everythin’ to him. We’ve got plenty of Daylight scrolls to illuminate every corner of his palace, and he won’t be able to do much if anything at all while affected by sunlight. You’ll have the upper hand.” It wasn’t anything Astarion didn’t know, as a vampire himself, but he hoped it was comforting in a way that they weren’t walking in there blindly. “It’s almost over.”

To hear Astarion say that he didn’t deserve him moved something in him, and Amay’s expression twisted in pain for a brief moment, as if it hurt to know that he was loved. Astarion cared enough about him to worry about what would happen once they found Cazador. It was in stark contrast of how Astarion treated him before, and he felt like his heart grew bigger while at the same time something pressed down on it. “I feel the same way. I feel like you deserve better, to be honest.” His words trailed into a dry chuckle. “I didn’t die in the hells, I won’t let myself get killed by a humanoid. There’s cooler things to get killed by in Cania. Like Krocrachons. They’re like giant, horrible flying insects. They’re almost as tall as me. Horrifyin’.” He hoped to bring some light-heartedness into the conversation, even if he was talking about a horrible creature from a horrible place, but at least it wasn't Cazador.

Astarion closes his eyes, letting Amay’s words settle over him like a faint, comforting warmth, even though he knows they can only offer him so much solace. You’ll be okay. It’s a sweet promise, one that tugs at his heart like a lullaby. But it does little to chase away the black knot of fear still twisting within him. No, his worries are not so simple. Not anymore. Not now that he’s tasted something beyond the hollow, solitary existence he’d resigned himself to for centuries. His fears are no longer only for himself—for his own safety or freedom. His fears have tangled themselves up in Amay, in the terrifying prospect of losing him to one of the many horrors that seem to dog their every step.

Astarion lets a long, deep breath escape through his nose, an instinctual exhalation that feels both grounding and fragile, as if he could somehow rid himself of his fears in that single breath. It’s a futile gesture, of course, but he leans into it, savoring the closeness of Amay’s forehead pressed against his own. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost reluctant, as if giving form to his worries will make them all the more real.

❛ You’re sweet. But . . . it’s not me I’m worried about. ❜ He hesitates, then lets out a soft, bitter laugh. ❛ I mean—it is, but . . . ❜ he adds, not pretending that his own survival isn’t still knotted up in his chest. Of course he’s afraid. Afraid of the cruel, clawing death Cazador would love nothing more than to deliver for his ascension. But that’s only part of it. Only a sliver of the fear that keeps him awake.

Slowly, Astarion opens his eyes, letting his crimson gaze meet the molten yellow of Amay’s. There’s something grounding in those eyes, something that makes him want to believe, just for a moment, that everything might truly be okay. But that’s a lie he can’t afford to lean on. Not when the dangers they face are so very real. His hands lift almost of their own accord, moving to cradle the sides of Amay’s scarred face. His fingers are uncharacteristically gentle, tracing the contours of Amay’s skin, with a reverence. There’s a tenderness there that surprises even him—a depth of feeling he didn’t know he could express so openly.

❛ So many people are dead now, ❜ he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper, ❛ because of me. ❜ The words feels like a knife twisting in his gut. ❛ Because I led them . . . right to Cazador. ❜ He pauses, his thumbs brushing over Amay’s skin as if to remind himself that he’s real, that he’s here. ❛ And even though I would rather die, again, than let him have you too—I worry we won’t be strong enough to stop him . . . I worry about bringing you near him at all. ❜

The thought gnaws at him, a horror he can barely stand to imagine. Cazador wouldn’t just kill Amay. No, he would draw it out, make it as excruciating as possible, and force Astarion to watch every agonizing second. Astarion can already picture it, the way Cazador would savor his torment, reveling in his helplessness as he takes from him the one person who’s made him feel . . . alive again.

The one bright thread in the darkness of his life, the one person who’s ever looked at him as something more than a tool, a pawn, a thing to be commanded and used. And he knows, with a dread certainty, that if Cazador takes Amay from him, it will break something in him beyond repair. Astarion’s hands tremble slightly as he holds Amay’s face, his gaze searching, vulnerable in a way he’s rarely allowed himself to be. ❛ I don’t deserve any of this, ❜ he admits, his voice cracking, ❛ not your love, not this—hope you give me. But gods help me, I can’t lose you to him. I can’t let him destroy the only good thing I’ve found in all this misery. ❜

[caniasfire]

His mind raced, trying to find the answers to all of his worries about Astarion. What should he do? How could he make it better? He couldn’t just get up and leave to kill Cazador right now–maybe he should, maybe they should derail all their plans for tomorrow and just find that man and kill him. They already killed a literal god, what could he do against them?– but he couldn’t think of anything he could do that would make it all better, even if just for tonight. He held Astarion close, hoping to offer some comfort through his caresses. 

Astarion shook his head at his attempt to reassure him, and Amay had half expected the other to pull away, but instead he held on tighter, and Amay reciprocated. He listened in silence as Astarion spoke, and he could hear the vulnerability that had been wrapped around his voice being torn away to be replaced by that anger Amay was familiar with. 

Amay wanted to take it all away. Cazador, the cultists, the chosen two, the brain, the crown, the mind flayers– he wanted Astarion to only worry about mundane things and nothing else. He felt guilt burning through him; maybe if he had destroyed more contracts the Rite of Profane Ascension wouldn’t exist. He was aware he was complicit in the suffering of many people, but he had managed to shut it out and numb himself to the concept, until this very moment where it crashed all on him at once. He chose to doom all those souls just so he could keep living surrounded by luxury, and even though he had nothing to do with the crafting of this specific contract, maybe if he wasn’t rotten to the core like the devils that had raised him he would have tried to do something about the fact that there was in his reach a contract that needed seven thousand sacrifices to be fulfilled. 

Astarion redirects the focus of the conversation towards him and Amay’s gaze drifts away for a second, unable to look his lover in the eyes. He didn’t like talking too much about it, and whenever he did he found it easier if it was in a lighter tone. This was too real, and he didn’t want to pull Astarion into the reality he lived every day. He had enough going on with Cazador’s palace being right around the corner. Still, he couldn’t lie and pretend he had nothing to worry about. It had crossed his mind multiple times what would happen after Cazador’s death, as a debtor of Mephistopheles . . . if he were to end up in Mephistar somehow, and he talked about who stopped the ritual . . . “I do..” His home and his patron were always in his mind, and it never got easier. Every day they drew closer to the crown, and it felt like a noose tightening around his throat. His plan to claim the crown had been upended, and now the only thing he was certain of was that this wasn’t going to have a good ending for him. He didn’t really deserve one.

“You’ll be okay, dajy. My love.” The hand on Astarion’s back slid up to grasp gently the back of his neck and he pressed his forehead against the other’s. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”

@caniasfire sent: [ nightmare ] sender comforts receiver after they wake up from a nightmare

The dream is so beautiful at first——too beautiful. It’s the kind of happiness Astarion hardly lets himself believe in, let alone hope for. He and Amay are free, truly free. The shadow of their cursed pasts long behind them. No tadpoles, no hellish masters, just endless possibilities. They’re powerful, unbound, ruling their world together as they should. The sun shines down on them and Astarion doesn’t flinch beneath its light. Amay’s laughter fills the air, bright and untainted, a sound of pure joy, and Astarion’s heart swells to hear it.

But then comes that shadow.

It seeps into the dream like blood into water——dark, spreading, impossible to ignore. Before Astarion can react, he sees him. Cazador. That monstrous, familiar figure looming, his red eyes glowing with twisted amusement. There’s no escape, no chance to protect what he loves. Cazador’s hand shoots out, fast as lightning, closing around Amay’s throat. Astarion tries to move, to scream, to throw himself between them, but he can’t. He’s frozen. Helpless. He can only watch, horror gripping his chest like a vice, as Amay struggles, choking on his own pleas for help.

Cazador’s gaze snaps to Astarion, eyes gleaming in the surreal darkness, glowing like embers of an ancient fire. “Foolish, boy,” he sneers, his voice a venomous sound that crawls into Astarion’s soul. “You really believed you were capable of escaping me?” Astarion’s mouth opens, but no sound comes. He tries to shout, to cry out, but his voice has abandoned him. He can’t even tremble, pinned by the overwhelming weight of Cazador’s will. He’s back under his master’s control, just a pawn again, unable to save the one he loves, condemned to watch the life drain from Amay’s eyes as Cazador sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of his throat. Desperation claws at him, a frantic, animalistic need to do something—anything—but he remains paralyzed, a prisoner of his own mind.

Then, through the suffocating silence, he hears his name.

It starts like a whisper, distant, but it grows louder. A sudden shift in the bed, the faint rustle of sheets. The weight of the nightmare begins to slip, like sand falling from his fingers, but the terror still clings to him, thick and oppressive. The dream collapses inward as though the world itself is falling away, leaving him weightless, suspended over a yawning abyss.

Astarion wakes with a violent start, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His eyes snap open, wide and frantic, pupils blown as he takes in the familiar room of the Elfsong Tavern. The soft glow of distant lanterns, the faint hum of the city outside——it’s real, all of it. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. But his mind is still trapped in that place, still haunted by the image of Cazador’s hand wrapped around Amay’s throat. Amay. He bolts upright in bed, hands grasping blindly in the darkness, reaching for something, someone. His fingers collide with warm flesh, and it grounds him, yanking him back from the edge of panic. His darkvision adjusts quickly, and there, beside him, is Amay——alive, safe, untouched.

Relief hits him like a punch to the gut, and without thinking, he pulls Amay into a desperate, crushing embrace. He holds him as though he might vanish if Astarion lets go, his arms trembling with the force of it. The warmth of Amay’s skin, the sound of his breathing, the solidness of him——it anchors Astarion in the present, reminds him that this is real, that Cazador is not here. A choked sob claws its way up from his chest before he can stop it, a sound so raw and broken it shakes his entire frame. He presses his face into the curve of Amay’s neck, where he can feel his pulse——steady, alive. It’s a comfort, but it doesn’t stop the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He fights to swallow it back, to push down the terror that still lingers at the edges of his mind, but it’s too much. For a moment, he allows himself the vulnerability, clinging to Amay like a lifeline.

❛ I—❜ His voice breaks, hoarse and unsteady. He buries himself deeper into Amay’s warmth, breathing in the scent of him, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his blood rushing through his eardrums, ringing violently in his skull. He knows he should say something. An apology, maybe? For waking him, for holding him so tightly, for the nightmare that still clings to his skin like cold sweat. But no words come just yet. He just breathes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Amay’s chest, the soothing presence of him, here, safe, and he tries again, ❛ I’m sorry for waking you…❜ He hates this. Hates how close they are to Cazador, to facing him. Hates the fear that grips him, constantly.

[caniasfire]

Tonight’s reading spot was under a tree not too far away from camp, where he could still see the campfire and hear the idle chatter of his companions as they talked before slipping into their bed rolls. The chatter died down eventually, and as the night grew darker he only had a few moonrays filtering through the canopy of leaves above to help him read the words in his book.

Sometime during the night, when everyone else was asleep, he heard the rustling of leaves, but he didn’t it mind it much as he was absorbed in the text before him. The choice of books was a fraction of what it was back at Mephistar, but he assumed an abandoned crypt wouldn’t really be competition to the collection of books of an archdevil known for, well, collecting and hoarding things. Still, it was nice to have some sort of literature. This one he had found was about the Bhaalspawn. It was kind of funny to see everything be described in past tense, something that terrorized the past but no more, when he knew very well that there was a new of those murder godlings walking around with the Crown of Karsus. 

He should be thankful; he had the slight suspicion that he wouldn’t be here, right now, stranded realms away from home if it hadn’t been for the Bhaalspawn and Raphael’s ex-prisoner. But he had yet to put all the puzzle pieces together in the right spot. 

Not like he could right now: Something fell from the trees and right onto the back of his palm, barely missing the book. His face barely changed from the impassive expression he always wears, but one eyebrow twitched in annoyance. Reading in the middle of the forest was certainly a bit more freeing than being perpetually surrounded by walls in Mephistar, but at least indoors there wasn’t the threat of a bird ruining your night. 

As he approached the water, he saw there was someone else awake– before he could even decide whether he wanted to interact or not, she had already spotted him, and it would be rude to ignore her. Last thing he needed was to make enemies within camp, he had enough of those waiting for him back home. 

“I think most of them are asleep.” He quickly approached the water, splashing his hand around before he’d scrub the back of it against a rock, and then shake it wildly in the water before. He would rather die before he touched it with his clean hand, or his clothes, and he didn’t really have much in his tent aside the things he had found alongside the road. Needless to say, he had yet to find any handkerchiefs or soap. “I didn’t see Astarion, though. Maybe he sleep walks and he’s in the goblin camp right now." With his dry hand he took the pipe, examining the markings on the wood to see if he recognized any of them. “Huh.” He sat next to Arwen, still staring at the pipe as if it was holding a secret from him. He doubted it would be very wise to take magical plants from someone who was virtually a stranger, but on the other hand he kind of really wanted to. “It’s probably like the stuff we had back home.” Some syyd or pyiv would be nice right now, but he had to settle for mortal alcohol, which felt like water compared to what he was used to drinking. He took the pipe to his lips and inhaled slowly. Oh, this was nothing like what he had in Mephistar. He felt it settle into him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s… good. Your village must be fun”

@caniasfire ✵ closed starter.

The night air is soft, almost tender, caressing the nymph’s skin like a silken veil.    Above her, the stars are scattered across the sky in dizzying numbers, bright and ancient, gazing down with a kind of detached beauty.    Their light catches on the water nearby, shimmering on the surface like scattered pearls, giving the whole scene a quality that feels almost enchanted—if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend she’s back in the Feywild, by one of the crystal lakes, with no strange tadpole coiled in her mind, no ominous threat clouding her days.

She takes a slow breath, inhaling the earthy, floral smoke from the wooden pipe between her lips.    The herb is familiar, a gift from home that somehow steadies her pulse and warms her bones, soothing the chill of worry that’s been creeping into her heart since Lae’zel’s grave words of urgency.    She feels the gentle buzz start to settle behind her eyes, softening the edges of her fears, but only slightly.    The ache remains, heavy and persistent—a dull longing for the Feywild, for the safety of that untouched world, far away from parasites and mortal bodies and the strange, sharp edges of this realm.    Her finger lifts again, ready to spark a tiny flame at the tip to reignite the pipe’s dwindling ember, when movement catches the corner of her vision.

She glances over, and her lips curl into a welcoming smile as she spots Amay approaching the water, his figure outlined against the starlit shadows.    There’s something unique about him, a quality that makes him look as if he, too, could belong in the wild places between worlds.    She’d never seen a tiefling with green skin before, and in a strange way, it reminds her of the moss that clings to ancient stones, of sunlit leaves and forest mysteries.   

❛ Amay! ❜    Her voice lilts with a bright cheerfulness, belying the twisting anxiety she’s been trying to soothe away.    She sits up a little straighter, brushing her pink bangs away from her eyes, and gestures him over with a lazy wave of her hand.    ❛ I didn’t think anyone was still awake. ❜    There’s a heartbeat of hesitation before she looks down at the pipe in her hand, and then, in an impulsive gesture, she holds it out to him.    The wood is pale, almost silvery, carved from a tree that doesn’t exist in this realm.    Faint runes are etched along its length, symbols of protection and growth, small reminders of her home.    She doesn’t know if he’ll recognize the offer—if he even partakes in such things—but it feels right to share it with him, to offer him this small piece of herself.

❛ Would you like to partake? ❜    She hesitates before continuing, her gaze drifting to the pipe as if the words she’s about to say are fragile, like the delicate petals of a flower.    ❛ It comes from . . .   my village, ❜    she offers, though the words feel strange in her mouth, not quite fitting.    Her village—no, not exactly.    Her home, though she can’t quite explain it all, not here, not yet.    She quickly smooths over her momentary pause with a smile, shifting back into her usual brightness.    ❛ We call it ard, ❜    she explains, her accent lending a musical lilt to the foreign word.    ❛ It’s a magical plant that reduces stress levels and makes you feel, how do you say—❜    She searches for the word, letting her gaze drift thoughtfully toward the stars, then finds it.    ❛ Euphoric. ❜    She says it like it’s a spell, letting it linger in the cool night air between them.

Her eyes, golden and soft, study his face, her expression open.    She wants to tell him more, to let the truth spill out—that she’s afraid, that she aches for her world and doesn’t know if she’ll ever see it again.    But she holds back, keeping her tone light, almost teasing, as she gives him a wry smile.    ❛ And I don’t know about you, but I really need that right now. ❜

[caniasfire]

AMAY MOODBOARD.

[caniasfire]

just been doodlin’ some neat fellas on my dash. @bloodtwin @caniasfire

[caniasfire]

After everything that had happened in the shadow cursed lands, part of him had dreaded their next stop: the city. There was an aspect about the wilderness he had enjoyed, but he realized now it was most of all the fact all his problems seemed so far away. There was no rush to choose what he was to do next with regards to the Absolute back when they were in the Emerald Grove, or in the Myconid Colony. And now the end felt so impossibly near he felt the anxiety growing stronger every time he opened his eyes to a new rising sun. Astarion wanted to ascend, Gale wanted the crown, Karlach was dying– even if he tried to focus on his party’s issues instead of his own, he could hardly ignore the fact that from the moment he had realized what was going on after the nautiloid crash, the crown had always been involved in his plans. The image of that elder brain haunted him more than the threat of the Murder Lord’s cult, and he found it hard to fall asleep with so many different thoughts running through his head.

Still, being in the city had its perks, and sharing a room with Astarion was on top of that list. He had hardly been able to contain his enthusiasm when he realized they wouldn’t have separate rooms, even though for some reason he couldn’t explain that’s what he had expected when they decided to stay in the Elfsong Tavern. So close to a murder scene, too, he wondered if they’d get to see any ghosts. 

He found it easier to fall asleep now that he wasn’t alone in the darkness anymore, though he was still growing accustomed to not waking up alone. He slowly got pulled away from his dreams as he felt unusual movement next to him, and at first he was disoriented, taking a moment to recognize the new surroundings before he remembered. Before, the feeling of the cold hard floor and the sight of the sky above him was enough to pull him into reality as soon as he opened his eyes, but he found it harder to remember in which realm he was supposed to be in as he woke up in a bed with a ceiling above him, even if it was nothing like the architecture in Mephistar.

He rolled over to face Astarion and reached out for him, shaking him by the shoulder slightly as he tried to pull him away from whatever nightmare was tormenting him. “Astarion.” His voice was rough as sleep still clung to him, but he didn’t take long to awaken as he noticed Astarion only getting worse. He flinched back slightly as Astarion bolted upright, and his mind raced as he tried to guess what Astarion was looking for. Was he looking for a weapon? Did his nightmare leave him in fight or flight mode? “Hey. Hey. Astarion.” He whispered, “we’re okay. It’s just us.” He tried to smile at him as a way to reassure him, but with the way Astarion was frantically looking around he doubted he noticed.

Then Astarion pulled him into his arms, and the force of it caught Amay off guard for a moment, though he didn’t put up any resistance against it despite having the air knocked out of him. He shifted within Astarion’s arms to get himself in a better position where his breathing wouldn’t be as constricted, but he kept Astarion close all the while. He wrapped his arms around the other, one hand running back and forth across the length of his back in an attempt to soothe him. 

The choked sob shattered him. Amay knew Astarion wasn’t comfortable with showing himself vulnerable, even if Amay would never judge him for letting his feelings out. That sound of pain felt like it pulled the ground off his feet, leaving him to plunge into an endless freefall. What had Astarion seen in his dreams to push him to this extent? Though he couldn’t imagine what his mind had put Astarion through, he felt the weight of Astarion’s pain, and it made Amay feel awfully helpless that he couldn’t just take it away. Somehow, it felt like it wasn’t enough to just hold him and attempt to calm him down with his touch– and even though he didn’t know what he had just seen, he had an idea. Amay closed his eyes tightly, his jaw clenching as he felt the fire rise up from within him. There were no words in common to describe what he wanted to do to Cazador, the violence he wanted to inflict, but there were a few close enough in infernal.

Astarion ran colder than usual, but Amay still held him as close as he could, his palm caressing his back. “It’s okay.” He whispered. “Don’t apologize.” He hated the thought of Astarion waking up alone to these feelings while Amay was sound asleep, and hated the image of Astarion getting up and leaving to deal with it alone instead of waking him up. So he scooted closer to Astarion, his arms never loosening their grip around him, to let him know he had done nothing wrong. “It’s okay.” He repeated, pressing a soft kiss to Astarion’s shoulder.

@caniasfire sent: [ nightmare ] sender comforts receiver after they wake up from a nightmare

The dream is so beautiful at first——too beautiful. It’s the kind of happiness Astarion hardly lets himself believe in, let alone hope for. He and Amay are free, truly free. The shadow of their cursed pasts long behind them. No tadpoles, no hellish masters, just endless possibilities. They’re powerful, unbound, ruling their world together as they should. The sun shines down on them and Astarion doesn’t flinch beneath its light. Amay’s laughter fills the air, bright and untainted, a sound of pure joy, and Astarion’s heart swells to hear it.

But then comes that shadow.

It seeps into the dream like blood into water——dark, spreading, impossible to ignore. Before Astarion can react, he sees him. Cazador. That monstrous, familiar figure looming, his red eyes glowing with twisted amusement. There’s no escape, no chance to protect what he loves. Cazador’s hand shoots out, fast as lightning, closing around Amay’s throat. Astarion tries to move, to scream, to throw himself between them, but he can’t. He’s frozen. Helpless. He can only watch, horror gripping his chest like a vice, as Amay struggles, choking on his own pleas for help.

Cazador’s gaze snaps to Astarion, eyes gleaming in the surreal darkness, glowing like embers of an ancient fire. “Foolish, boy,” he sneers, his voice a venomous sound that crawls into Astarion’s soul. “You really believed you were capable of escaping me?” Astarion’s mouth opens, but no sound comes. He tries to shout, to cry out, but his voice has abandoned him. He can’t even tremble, pinned by the overwhelming weight of Cazador’s will. He’s back under his master’s control, just a pawn again, unable to save the one he loves, condemned to watch the life drain from Amay’s eyes as Cazador sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of his throat. Desperation claws at him, a frantic, animalistic need to do something—anything—but he remains paralyzed, a prisoner of his own mind.

Then, through the suffocating silence, he hears his name.

It starts like a whisper, distant, but it grows louder. A sudden shift in the bed, the faint rustle of sheets. The weight of the nightmare begins to slip, like sand falling from his fingers, but the terror still clings to him, thick and oppressive. The dream collapses inward as though the world itself is falling away, leaving him weightless, suspended over a yawning abyss.

Astarion wakes with a violent start, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His eyes snap open, wide and frantic, pupils blown as he takes in the familiar room of the Elfsong Tavern. The soft glow of distant lanterns, the faint hum of the city outside——it’s real, all of it. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. But his mind is still trapped in that place, still haunted by the image of Cazador’s hand wrapped around Amay’s throat. Amay. He bolts upright in bed, hands grasping blindly in the darkness, reaching for something, someone. His fingers collide with warm flesh, and it grounds him, yanking him back from the edge of panic. His darkvision adjusts quickly, and there, beside him, is Amay——alive, safe, untouched.

Relief hits him like a punch to the gut, and without thinking, he pulls Amay into a desperate, crushing embrace. He holds him as though he might vanish if Astarion lets go, his arms trembling with the force of it. The warmth of Amay’s skin, the sound of his breathing, the solidness of him——it anchors Astarion in the present, reminds him that this is real, that Cazador is not here. A choked sob claws its way up from his chest before he can stop it, a sound so raw and broken it shakes his entire frame. He presses his face into the curve of Amay’s neck, where he can feel his pulse——steady, alive. It’s a comfort, but it doesn’t stop the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He fights to swallow it back, to push down the terror that still lingers at the edges of his mind, but it’s too much. For a moment, he allows himself the vulnerability, clinging to Amay like a lifeline.

❛ I—❜ His voice breaks, hoarse and unsteady. He buries himself deeper into Amay’s warmth, breathing in the scent of him, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his blood rushing through his eardrums, ringing violently in his skull. He knows he should say something. An apology, maybe? For waking him, for holding him so tightly, for the nightmare that still clings to his skin like cold sweat. But no words come just yet. He just breathes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Amay’s chest, the soothing presence of him, here, safe, and he tries again, ❛ I’m sorry for waking you…❜ He hates this. Hates how close they are to Cazador, to facing him. Hates the fear that grips him, constantly.

[caniasfire]

It soothed him in a way to hear Astarion admitting fault as well, as he had expected most of the fault to be pinned on him. Not because of anything Astarion had done, but just out of habit. That’s how things used to go. But Astarion wasn’t like the people in his past, no matter how hard Amay’s broken heart wanted to convince him of that, and he was still here for him. “Well . . .” He took a deep breath in. “We can try again.” Hearing Astarion be aware of what he had done to him was strangely comforting in a way Amay hadn’t expected, and it gave Amay hope that maybe even though they couldn’t rewrite what had already happened, Astarion could try to make up for it– Amay wasn’t sure if he would ever forget, he hardly forgot any of the transgressions he suffered in Cania and that was with people he hardly cared about, but they could make new memories together. Astarion had fallen in love with him, after all, and even if the cynical part of his brain screamed at him about how it was another lie, his heart wanted to believe. What would Astarion even gain from admitting all of this?

The feeling of Astarion’s arms around him felt like it almost pulled him out of that darkness. He immediately wrapped his arms around the other, fingers closed into fistfuls of fabric as he clung onto the elf like he was a lifeline. He would be alone in a sea of nothing if he didn’t hold onto the other, and he didn’t want to return back there. The fact Astarion treated him with such gentleness felt like too good to be true; the tender embrace, and the kiss to his head, Amay wondered what he could’ve done to deserve any of that. To be able to cope with the pain he had convinced himself Astarion didn’t really like him at all, like everyone else in his life, but it was hard to believe that when he was so loving to him even after everything he had said and done.

“You are an ass.” He nuzzled up against his chest to make sure he knew Amay meant it was a joke. “But I’m an ass, too, so. It cancels out.” He rubbed circles with one of his palms on the other’s back to comfort him, while he mumbled something to himself. “Ass… Ass… Ass-ass-in. That’s us. Though I guess if it cancels out we’re just ‘In’.” Maybe his odd attempts at jokes were a way to take the gravity off the situation and feel like things were back to normal, even though he knew very well they weren’t. He was still scared of opening his eyes.

This is the point where he should forgive Astarion as well, but it was hard to find the words and drag them out of his chest. “I . . .” His voice trailed off, barely starting out the sentence. Would it be a lie if he didn’t mean it with all of his heart? Even if he knew that he would eventually forgive Astarion? Still, he didn’t think neither of them would get anything out of an apology Amay didn’t mean, but it only made him feel worse about their situation. Astarion had so readily forgiven him about his own mistakes, but Amay still clung onto the past. “I want to forgive you too.” He started, with a lot of difficulty, his heart beating faster with every word he uttered, “but I can’t. Not yet.” He bit his lower lip, and the more he talked the more difficult it became to breathe, until he stopped altogether. There were a lot of things he was afraid of at this moment in time, and Astarion pushing him away wasn’t last on that list. Amay braved through his fears, though, determined to be more open with Astarion about his own feelings– what would be the point of all this if he just fell back to letting him walk all over him? He wasn’t about to lose his eyesight for nothing.

“Yeah.” He paused. “I don’t know.” Physically, he was alright. Or at least so he thought. He was still standing there, after all, and it was only his chest that hurt slightly but it was nothing he couldn’t deal with. His eyes were a different matter, one he didn’t want to think about. “I . . . I don’t know what that was about.” It was easier to ignore the question about what he was before, when the differences he could notice between him and other tieflings weren’t as extraordinary. He could just pretend he was a little more resistant to fire, and that his skin tone couldn’t really be that weird in a race with purple-skinned people. But there was no way he could find a way around explaining this–this wasn’t normal. “I couldn’t control it. I’m sorry for scaring you.” There was a reality where he let himself go into the flames and everything around him was ash and charcoal and that scared him, because that meant that had Astarion not tried so hard to pull him back from that abyss he was falling into . . . Astarion would be–

His jaw clenched, and he hesitated for a second. Should he even be this close to Astarion? Was it safe? His arms trembled slightly around the other, a tidal wave of guilt and fear threatening to drown him if he didn’t hold on tight enough onto the other’s clothes.  “I don’t know how to grow them back.” He whispered, shifting his face on Astarion’s chest to hide it from the world. His arms tightened around the vampire, holding on tight as though he was afraid he would disappear like the rest of his surroundings had. The thought of being surrounded by darkness from this point onward terrified him, and he felt panic quickly bubbling up inside of him. It knocked the air out of him, leaving his mind in a state of complete disarray as a dozen thoughts raced and clashed against each other. He didn’t even realize how he had so casually said he didn’t know how to grow them back, as if that was the normal words someone would use in this situation.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear the apology, even if he doesn’t believe he deserves it—he’s been so afraid that Amay truly left because he was too broken to bear, too shattered to be worth the effort of putting back together. And it strikes him like a dagger between the ribs, how easily he had let those fears twist themselves into anger, how he let them coil around his heart until they choked the truth from him, twisting his own pain into something sharp, something cruel.

He swallows hard, his voice trembling as he replies, ❛ And I should have tried talking to you earlier, instead of letting my own insecurities fester into that cruel outburst. I never believed you were using me, not really. My mind tried to convince me that you were, likely to make it easier to keep using you, but . . . deep down, from the beginning, I think I always knew you were one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met. That you wouldn’t hurt me intentionally. ❜ His voice cracks on the last words, and he hates the sound of it, hates how much it betrays the raw ache in his chest. ❛ And I’ll never forgive myself for intentionally hurting you, knowing you wouldn’t do the same. For being the reason you’ll probably never trust me again. ❜

The weight of those words presses down on him, a crushing realization that sits heavy in his bones. Amay trusted him, and Astarion had shattered that trust. He had finally found someone who had seen through his façade, who had looked at him and seen more than just the pretty, empty shell he’d perfected over centuries of manipulation. And he had ruined it. He had ruined it with lies, with desperate, clumsy attempts at survival. Astarion feels the sharp edge of that guilt digging into his chest, hollowing him out, leaving him wondering if he can ever truly make amends.

But then, through the haze of his thoughts, Amay takes a step closer. Astarion tenses, he had expected him to pull away, expecting the weight of his own failures to finally drive Amay away for good. But instead, he feels Amay’s forehead press against his chest, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Astarion’s breath stutters in his chest. The closeness, the simple touch—it’s more than he could have hoped for, and it nearly breaks him all over again.

Without another thought, Astarion wraps his arms around Amay, a tentative, tender embrace, his arms settling carefully around the smaller man’s shoulders. He drops his head, letting his face nuzzle into the softness of Amay’s curls, feeling the tickle of hair against his skin, the brush of his horns. It’s the closest they’ve been in what feels like an eternity, and he feels his own eyes burn with unshed tears, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. He had missed this—missed him. Missed the way Amay’s warmth seemed to fill the hollow spaces inside him, driving away the ever-present chill that lingers in his veins. When Amay finds his hand, fumbling and uncertain, Astarion’s grip tightens instinctively, holding on like a lifeline. He feels the way Amay pulls away briefly, as if hesitating, before returning to his grasp with a squeeze.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of Amay’s head, his lips lingering against the soft curls. It’s an apology, of sorts, a silent plea for forgiveness that he knows he might never earn. But it’s also a promise—a promise that he will try to do better, that he will try to be the person Amay deserves, whether or not given the chance. ❛ I forgive you, by the way, ❜ he murmurs against Amay’s hair, his voice soft but steady, carrying the weight of his sincerity. ❛ Though I didn’t deserve the apology, after everything I’ve done, it did feel nice to hear. I convinced myself maybe you were trying to hurt me, because that’s what I do when I’m hurt. I hurt back. But—you don’t. That’s not what you were doing, you were just . . . hurting, and you needed space. And I’m an ass. ❜

He knows he’s an ass—knows he’s worse than that. But for the first time in far too long, he feels a glimmer of something that might be hope, that maybe, just maybe, he can be something more. Something better. Astarion pulls back only slightly, just enough to look down at Amay, though he still can’t see the tiefling’s face, can’t see if his eyes are closed or if darkness has claimed his vision entirely. His brow furrows with the worry from before. He holds him a little tighter, but not too tight—he wants Amay to know that he can still pull away if he needs to, that Astarion won’t hold him too close if it���s not what he wants.

❛ Are you alright? ❜ he asks, and the gentleness in his voice surprises even himself. It’s been so long since he’s spoken to anyone like this—without sarcasm, without bitterness, without the razor’s edge of his own defenses. ❛ Because—well, it sort of looked like you were going to burn away like a candle a moment ago, ❜ he says, trying to inject a note of lightness into his tone, though the attempt is shaky at best. He can’t quite hide the tremor that runs through his voice, the lingering fear that clings to his words.

But he keeps his arms wrapped around Amay, cradling him with a tenderness that feels both foreign and achingly familiar. He doesn’t know if it’s enough—if anything he can offer will ever be enough to heal the wounds he’s caused. But as he stands there, holding Amay in the fragile quiet that stretches between them, he finds himself hoping, desperately, that this moment isn’t the end. That maybe, despite everything, they can find a way forward—together.

[caniasfire]

There was little room in his head to question anything that had happened, and part of him wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened– or that it was something that could potentially happen to a normal person, just like he pretended his resistance-bordering-on-immunity to fire was a common thing for his kind, even when Karlach herself was still susceptible to fire after all her years in Avernus. If anything, Amay should be weaker to it given he lived his whole life in a frozen wasteland, but instead he found comfort in it. And what had even happened to his eyes? Was it permanent? Why was everything so dark after he had been surrounded by that warm glow? 

It took effort, but he managed not to let that panic consume him, focusing instead on the sound of Astarion’s voice. It was his anchor to reality, and he feared that if he let go something worse would happen to his body.

“I am sorry for leavin’. It wasn’t because–because of all those thin’s you said. I just–I couldn’t look past the beginnin’. I’m sorry I abandoned you.” His voice came as a whisper on those last few words, scared to even admit what he had done. He gritted his teeth, the pain in his chest growing in intensity to replace the warmth of the flames that had embraced him. He was returning to reality, but it wasn’t easy on his body. Nevertheless, he pushed on. “I should’ve talked to you earlier. When you told me the truth. Instead of ignorin’ you.” The anger he felt about how Astarion had treated him before only came about after Astarion’s confession; back then he only thought it was par for the course, and he wasn’t particularly mad whenever Astarion was cold or distant, even if hurt worse than any torture he had gone through. But now he found it hard to feel anything other than guilt over treating Astarion the same way, and it weighed heavy on him to think how it must’ve been amplified by how long Astarion had suffered alone in comparison to him. He opened up, after centuries of isolation, and Amay wasn’t able to show him patience and understanding.

He imagined a world where they had met under different circumstances, where maybe they had sorted some of their issues already– or maybe none of those horrible things had ever happened. He couldn’t deny that it made his heart–oh, it was still there?–flutter, the thought of Astarion pursuing him because he was genuinely interested in him, because he wanted to get to know him as much as Amay wanted to know the other. Though the fleeting excitement was crushed by the weight of their reality; that wasn’t what had happened, and there was no chance to rewrite their beginnings. But maybe he shouldn’t focus solely on that . . . Astarion was still here, after all the ugly words they had exchanged, and he was talking about treating him with respect, about being there for him no matter what. He didn’t know if his heart was growing bigger, or if his ribs were getting smaller, but something pressed around his heart tightly, making it heart to breathe– though it wasn’t like the anguish he had felt before. He could cry now, and it wouldn’t be entirely out of sadness and frustration.

Maybe there was still a chance to do things right. The thought of his fate not being set in stone felt too good to be true, but he couldn’t ignore the hope he felt as he listened to Astarion’s words. Maybe he didn’t have to go back to Mephistar with the crown, or take the crown for himself. Maybe there was a way this adventure could end that didn’t involve dooming himself or everyone else. 

Amay stepped closer, though it was barely a full step before his horns were already bumping into something. Astarion’s chest, he assumed. He lifted his head slightly to press his forehead against it, feeling the other’s coolness spread through him. He hadn’t realized just how much it helped him regulate his own temperature, how much it helped him calm down until now. He kept his eyes closed as he pressed the side of his face against the other, one hand leaving his face to find that stretched arm he had felt in the darkness. When he found the other’s hand, he realized a few seconds later about what he had wiped from his face with his palms just moments ago. “Wait.” He muttered, his hand quickly darting away to clean it as much as he could on his armor, before making its way back to Astarion’s hand, squeezing hard. “I like this better.” It was the only way he could express how he had felt about Astarion’s touch before. Something about the way he grabbed his chin and tilted his head around had felt wrong, like he was being handled, even if that wasn’t what Astarion had intended, Amay felt like an object looked down upon as Astarion towered over him. Now he just stood there, letting the other’s coolness spread through him, though trembling slightly at the pain that spread through his chest. 

He wanted to look up and see Astarion’s face, see how he was looking at him so he could remember that instead of what was currently in his memories, but he was scared to open his eyes lest more of that viscous liquid poured out. He preferred to keep them tightly shut, pretending the darkness was only because he wouldn’t open them, and not because he couldn’t see.

Astarion watches as the flames licking along Amay’s skin begin to dwindle, the inferno dying down into embers, leaving behind only the ghost of their heat in the air. But the worry twisting through Astarion’s chest doesn’t abate—it gnaws at him, sharp and relentless, as he stares at Amay’s bowed head, his face hidden from view. Astarion’s mind races, trying to piece together what he’s just witnessed, what Amay is—because Astarion has encountered many tieflings in his long life, but never one who could burn so fiercely ( besides Karlach ), never one who could spill molten light from his eyes like tears.

When Amay’s rough, ragged voice finally rises above the crackling quiet, Astarion releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, but it’s hardly a relief. The way Amay speaks—so broken, so defeated—makes Astarion’s own heart clench painfully. He hears the confusion, the pain that threads through every word, and it’s like a knife twisting deeper and deeper into his chest. It’s all his fault—every ounce of that anguish belongs to him, a consequence of his own selfishness, his own desperation to survive at any cost.

Astarion’s mouth opens, but for once, no words come. What could he possibly say to make this better? There’s no way to erase what he’s done, no way to take back the lies and manipulation that poisoned whatever fragile thing they had built together. He listens as Amay struggles through his words, the confession spilling from him like blood from a wound, and Astarion feels a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. He remembers that night so clearly—how Amay had trusted him, how he had spoken of his past with a rawness that left Astarion reeling. And what had Astarion done with that trust? He had twisted it into something he could use, a tool to keep Amay close, to keep him feeding his own desperate need for protection and blood.

You kept going. The words echo in Astarion’s mind, a harsh, damning accusation that he can’t deny. He had kept going, hadn’t he? Even after he knew what it meant to Amay, even after he knew how deeply it would hurt him. He feels a tremor run through him, an overwhelming urge to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness. But he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything from Amay except the pain of his own regret, the bitter taste of his own failures.

❛ I’m realizing now that neither of us were prepared for this, ❜ he finally manages, his voice cracking beneath the weight of all the things he wishes he could say. ❛ You weren’t prepared for someone like me to come along and make you feel special just to tell you it all started as a lie. And I certainly wasn’t prepared for you—for the way you made me feel things I hadn’t ever felt. And now, I feel . . . everything. More than just afraid, which is all I used to feel. ❜ His voice falters, his throat tightening around the words. ❛ I felt like someone finally cared about me. For the first time in two hundred years, I felt like someone saw me. ❜

The confession tears itself from his chest, ragged and raw, and Astarion can hardly bear the vulnerability of it. He risks another step closer, the dying warmth of Amay’s flames brushing against his skin like a fading heartbeat. He aches to reach out, to touch Amay’s face, to lift his chin and look into his eyes—whatever remains of them—but he holds himself back, unsure if his touch would be welcome. Unsure if it would only deepen the hurt.

❛ I felt like you looked past the mask I’ve been trying so hard to hide behind, and even though it was terrifying, it was also . . . liberating, ❜ he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. ❛ Because you still wanted me, even when the mask slipped. ❜

It’s an admission he’s never made to anyone before—because it’s always been safer to keep people at arm’s length, to maintain the charming facade that kept him alive. But with Amay, he had found himself wanting to let that mask fall away, wanting to show him the fear, the doubt, the truth that lurked beneath. And he had ruined it. He had turned it all into another lie, another manipulation, and now he’s left with the ashes of what they could have been. Finally, he closes the distance between them, the heat fading to a tolerable warmth.

❛ Gods, Amay, I wish I could go back to when I met you, knowing everything I know now, ❜ he says, his voice trembling with the weight of the wish, with the impossible longing that coils in his chest. ❛ And it’s quite selfish, because I believe I’d still pursue you, just with different intentions. Not to use you for nourishment and protection, but to know you—really know you. And to treat you the way you deserved to be treated—with respect, and dignity, and care. The way you have always treated me. ❜

Astarion’s breath catches when Amay tells him that he misses him too, and for a moment, he feels the sharp sting of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes again. He blinks them back, a pained smile flickering across his lips, though it trembles with the weight of everything unspoken between them. It’s a small thing, that admission, but it pierces through the darkness like a blade, carving out a tiny spark of hope in the vast emptiness he’s felt since they parted.

❛ I’ll always be right here when you need me, ❜ he says, and his voice is low, reverent, as if he’s making a vow. ❛ Or you want me . . . and even if you don’t . . . I’ll still be here. Because we still have a long journey ahead of us, and I’m going to have your back every step of the way. You’ve always had mine. ❜

He hesitates, then lifts his hand, holding it out before him, the palm open and waiting, an offering of trust, of fragile hope. He can’t see Amay’s face—he can’t see the expression that might twist his features into disdain or anger—but he holds his hand there anyway, steady and unyielding, a silent invitation. A chance to bridge the distance between them, to find a way forward from the ruins of their mistakes.

[caniasfire]

He tried to hold onto the sound of his name, the way Astarion’s voice sounded gentler, though laced with fear. He was scaring him. Amay would be scared too, if it didn’t feel so good. The fire burned through everything inside of him, including the anguish. And if he just let go then it could burn through everything else, until there was nothing but the hissing of the flames. And he wouldn’t have to worry about anything else anymore. He wouldn’t have to worry about what was the right thing to say, or about being alone. He wouldn’t have to worry about the crown and what he was supposed to do about it. Or about Raphael. Maybe he wouldn’t exist anymore, or a new version would take over him. A version that had never been through anything but the joy of consuming. The concern he had for Astarion being caught in the way grows distant the more he burns inside, the more he loses himself in the flame and the promise of a new beginning.

But Astarion didn’t leave, and he could feel himself hanging by a thread held by Astarion’s voice. 

He stared at his hands, and he could see light shining down on them. Was that coming from him? That gross black residue was smeared across his palms, and he pressed them against his eyes. It should hurt, whatever was happening to him, but he barely felt anything. He could still see, and the gash on his chest was just . . . numb. He wouldn’t know it was there if he hadn’t seen the traces of the carnage in his hands.

I want you to be alive.

He focused on his breathing, even though it felt different than before. He didn’t know how long he stood there, just breathing and listening, but it felt like an eternity. It felt like the world was dying around him as he just stood there and tried to regain control. He gasped and he growled and he sobbed and eventually he felt himself clawing through the flames, following Astarion’s voice. As the fire lost its intensity,  his vision grew darker, and Astarion slowly faded away until there was nothing but pitch black darkness. Even when he pulled his hands slightly away, there was nothing, so he kept his head hanging low, keeping the sight of whatever his face was right now away from Astarion. “You were never a monster to me,” his voice ragged, like he had been yelling for hours, but he pushed through, “or a thin’ to use. I like talkin’ to you, an’ jus’ bein’ near you.” 

He inhaled deeply, and the rising of his chest hurt. He could feel the wound on his chest now, his raw skin against the cold air around him. “I didn’t wan’ it to be a fantasy. I didn’t wan’ you to perform anythin’. Ever. I jus’ couldn’—it was too much. To know all those times weren’t real. That I was bein’ used. Even after I told you it was my firs’ time bein’ with someone I actually liked. You kept goin’.” He thought it was a good thing that he couldn’t see anything anymore, because he didn’t want to know what was happening around him anymore. Maybe Astarion wasn’t there anymore, maybe he heard him talking again–giving excuses–and decided he didn’t want to hear any of it again. Or maybe he was towering over him again, looking at him with the contempt from before. His voice was gentle, though, and he was apologizing, but he couldn’t control what his imagination showed him.

The only way to keep talking was to feel like it didn’t matter anymore; Astarion was sharing all of this so he would too, but he didn’t have any hope that it would lead to anywhere but another screaming match. Whatever happened, the flames would be waiting for him. They were always so kind to him, even if they burned everything inside him, it never hurt the way other people hurt him.

“I trusted you. And neither of us even wanted to have sex.” A dry laugh escaped him. This was ridiculous. He regretted not taking Astarion’s offer to be the one to mark the pace, and in a way he blamed himself for everything that had happened. If he had made Astarion take it slow with him maybe they wouldn’t be having this conversation right now, or at least not with this level of hurt pressing against every part of his body. But Astarion seemed so confident back then, and he didn’t want to ruin it with his cluelessness. It felt like the safest option, at that moment, to follow Astarion’s lead. 

“It’s hard to know that it was a lie at first. And sometimes you were nice. And sometimes you weren’t. I didn’t know what to do. And I–” He pulled his head lower, as if trying to hide it between his shoulders. “If you had never talked to me that night, when you told me you liked me, I would’ve kept my distance because I knew nothin’ would come out of it. No one had ever said that to me.” The way his heart beat, the way he wanted to talk to him, and get to know him; he didn’t think much of any of that until that night. It had never crossed his mind to even confess anything to him, because he hardly understood what he was feeling himself. But then Astarion was being so flirty, and he was sitting so close, and his heart was beating so fast he couldn’t think straight. Part of him wished he had told him on the spot the night he fell for him, because maybe then he could draw a line between the lies and the reality easier. 

“I miss you too. Every day.” His voice is soft, vulnerable, scared, and there’s none of that fire left in him anymore.

Astarion watches, horror tightening around his heart like a vice as Amay claws melt through his armor, against his own skin, reaching for something deep within, something that seems to consume him from the inside out. The heat radiating from Amay is unlike anything Astarion has ever felt before, a searing, pulsating energy that makes the air shimmer, that sends waves of scorching heat prickling against Astarion’s skin. He’s always known Amay to run warm—a comforting, living warmth against his own deathly chill—but this . . . this is something different. Something terrifying.

He takes a hesitant step closer, hand outstretched as if to touch, to reach Amay, to pull him back from whatever precipice he’s teetering on, but he falters. Astarion’s mind is spiraling, racing through half-formed thoughts, trying to piece together what might be happening, but he’s left with only a gnawing dread in his gut, a sickening sense that he’s responsible for this. That his own anger, his own recklessness, has pushed Amay to this edge.

And then Amay’s eyes—they melt out of their sockets, a thick, viscous liquid that bubbles down his cheeks, vanishing into steam. The sight punches the breath from Astarion’s lungs, his hand flying to his own mouth in horror, his eyes wide and unblinking. Amay’s face—his beautiful, expressive face—reduced to this empty, white-hot void.

❛ Amay? ❜ he whispers, but the word is strangled, more of a plea than anything else, desperation cracking through the edges of his voice. He tries to reach for Amay again, but something holds him back—fear, maybe, or the primal instinct to avoid the flames. Astarion hates it. Hates himself for keeping his distance when every part of him aches to wrap his arms around the tiefling, to hold him together, to keep him from unraveling. But Amay’s heat is too intense, too dangerous, and he feels like he’s burning just by being near it.

When Amay presses his burning hand to his own ear, the wound sealing under the heat, Astarion nearly flinches. And then Amay speaks, voice twisted into something alien, something Astarion barely recognizes as the man he’s come to know. Tell me what I must do.

Astarion’s heart shatters all over again at the words. His mind stumbles, his tongue heavy in his mouth as he struggles to find the right thing to say, the right words to pull Amay back. ❛ I don’t know what’s happening to you, Amay, but you’re scaring me, ❜ he admits, his voice quivering with the weight of his own helplessness. He tries to keep his tone steady, tries to hide the fear that’s clawing at his insides, but it slips out, raw and unguarded. He swallows hard, forcing himself to meet Amay’s burning gaze, though the brightness of it sears his eyes. ❛ I don’t want to tell you what to do. I just want you to be . . . alive. And happy. ❜

His voice breaks on the last word, and the pain of it digs deep into his chest, twisting his insides until he feels like he might shatter under the pressure. He sees the way Amay has hollowed himself out, and it feels like looking into a mirror, seeing his own despair reflected back at him, magnified by flames. But Amay doesn’t deserve this—he doesn’t deserve to burn himself down to nothing, to suffer for Astarion’s mistakes.

❛ You’re the reason I have hope, you know that? ❜ He forces the words out, the admission heavy and clumsy on his tongue, but he means every word of it. ❛ Hope for a future, for anything beyond this wretched, gods-forsaken life I’ve lived. You made me think that maybe, just maybe, there’s something more for me than the dark, that there’s a reason to fight for something better. ❜

He takes a breath, the air catching painfully in his chest, and he finally dares to take another step closer, though he still doesn’t touch. He’s close enough now that he can feel the heat radiating off of Amay in waves, scalding his skin. He doesn’t care. He leans in, searching for any hint of the Amay he knows beneath the fire, beneath the emptiness. ❛ You’re one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met, Amay. You survived the hells, you survived these wretched lands, you survived me. You kept going, no matter what the world threw at you. ❜

His lips tremble as he speaks, ❛ Do you know when I fell in love with you? ❜ he asks, his gaze darting over Amay’s features, as if trying to memorize them, to hold onto whatever parts of him are still there. ❛ It was that night we were sparring near the woods. It was the first time someone’s hands were on me and it actually felt . . . right. ❜ His voice cracks again, and he has to force himself to keep going, to let the truth spill out like a wound that’s been festering far too long. ❛ You looked at me, and you saw more than just some pretty thing to use, and something more than a monster. And I thought . . . maybe—maybe I could be more than that. ❜

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat nearly choking him, but he refuses to stop now, not when Amay deserves to hear the truth, no matter how raw, no matter how broken. ❛ I’m sorry, Amay. For being the monster that everyone believes I am. For not knowing how to be anything else. I . . . I didn’t know how to tell you sooner, because I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to hurt you. ❜ He clenches his fists, his nails biting into his palms, a futile attempt to keep his voice steady. ❛ But the longer I waited, the more I hurt you, and the more I ruined it anyway. ❜

He breathes in sharply, trying to steady himself, but the tears that have gathered at the corners of his eyes break free, slipping down his cheeks before he can catch them. He wipes at them quickly, a sharp, almost frantic motion, as if he can will himself back into composure. ❛ I apologize, sincerely, for letting my anger get the better of me. I just—❜ His voice breaks again, and this time he doesn’t bother hiding the way it trembles. ❛ I miss you. So fucking much. ❜

He aches for Amay, aches for the possibility that they could still have something, that there is still something to save. He aches with the fear that Amay might melt away to nothing, that he might burn himself down until there’s nothing left but ashes.

And he isn’t sure he could survive that.

[caniasfire]

Every fight leading to Ketheric chipped away at his resolve. He was tired, he didn’t want to do this any more, and the only motivation he had to keep going was to snatch the crown for himself. Astarion sneering at him after surviving that whole ordeal with no crown in his hands was the last thing he needed, so he blew up, letting out days of pent up emotions to burn bright and fast. But the flame died out as fast as it had started upon the realization that Astarion didn’t care about him the same way Amay cared– or at least Amay thought he cared a lot. . . He did abandon the other when he needed him most. It turned the fire to focus inward, and slowly burned through him.

He clawed at the spot on his chest where Astarion had jabbed his finger, pulling at his armor. He didn’t realize he was burning through it until he felt his skin, but he kept going, clawing at old scars. His skin didn’t redden, it just grew hotter, the pulsating energy within him growing brighter. He kept going, though blood didn’t come out, and he didn’t realize he was clawing through skin now; all he needed was to reach deep within him, to let the heat out. Maybe he would burn faster that way. 

“You had no choice.” He managed to push out the words in common, though every syllable hurt, as if he wasn’t built to pronounce any word in this language anymore. There was something rolling down his cheeks now, though it wasn’t tears. The liquid was heavier, and it rolled down his skin slowly, sizzling hot against his skin, bubbles popping out of it as the liquid boiled hotter and hotter until it was just smoke. When he touched the liquid near his eye socket it felt viscous, and when he rubbed his fingers against his eyelid he realized the space behind them felt softer than usual, though he didn’t think much of it as he continued to wipe what he thought were tears. “I–” No excuses. He pressed his hand against his mouth as he was overwhelmed by a coughing fit, though it sounded more like he was choking. When he pulled his hand away he had expected to see blood, but all he could see–he could still see–were little holes with flames licking out of them. “I am sorry.”

Astarion was right. It had been a fantasy from the start, and Astarion hated it every time he touched him. He tried to be there for Astarion in ways other than physical for as much as he was allowed to, but the one time that truly mattered he failed him. 

He could still hear it. He could still see it, even if it wasn't really there anymore; the viciousness, the bitterness, the contempt, the cruelty.  He focused on Astarion's anger, engraving it into his memory as he told himself this is how it was always meant to end. He disobeyed, so this is his punishment. He had followed Astarion's lead with hardly any questions at all, and now was he supposed to be surprised it wasn't a happy ending like the ones he'd read about in books? He left the hells to end up following someone else, and just because he told himself he wanted to this time doesn't mean it wasn't the same dynamics he had back home. He didn’t know the first thing about love, the only thing he knew was how to serve.

How could Astarion even like him now, if he didn’t back then? What could’ve possibly changed his mind aside from the fact Amay tried his best to help him in anything he needed? He was there for information about his scars, for food, for sex, even when he didn’t feel like doing the latter two. If he survived long enough, he would still help him with Cazador, but he didn’t want to do anything else anymore. What worth did he have?

The  void he had fallen into after Astarion's confession felt like paradise compared to where he found himself now. It was a burning hell, a world on fire, and he could barely see Astarion past the flames. Everything was so bright he wondered momentarily if the rest of the team had lifted the Shadow Curse without them, but there was something odd about this glow. It wasn't the sun shining down on him, it was blinding him. He couldn’t really hear the other now either; there were some words that came through the smoke, but the rest was lost to the inferno burning inside him, where all that existed was Astarion’s contempt towards him.

Before, he had thought he'd just claim the crown for himself and burn the world, but now he just wanted to burn alone. The world would burn itself sooner or later, and all he wanted was to go back to wherever he came from before he woke up in that charred field, before his miserable existence started. 

He took the burning hand to his ear, cauterizing the wound that was somehow still there. “I am listening now. To what I have done. Tell me what I must do.”

The fury that had burned so hot within him mere moments ago now feels distant, smothered beneath the weight of something else—something that constricts his chest, that coils tight around his ribs until it feels like he might suffocate under the pressure of it. He’d thought they would keep arguing, that they would keep throwing barbed words at each other until the night itself gave up its shadowed embrace. But Amay has gone quiet, his voice slipping into some otherworldly, ancient tongue, his eyes turning to pale, hollow voids. And Astarion . . . he doesn’t feel like he’s won this argument. He doesn’t feel like he’s won anything.

He lets his hand fall from Amay’s face, leaving an aching emptiness in its wake. He swallows against the dry ache in his throat, a bitter taste crawling up the back of his tongue. It had felt right before, to match fire with fire, to let his anger speak for him, to make Amay see that he too had been hurt, that he too had suffered. But now? All he can see is the way Amay’s fire has been snuffed out, leaving behind a hollow shell, a flickering ember that seems ready to burn itself to cinders.

It’s like a swift punch to the gut, that realization—that he could have done this differently, that he could have spoken gently, chosen his words with care, rather than letting his bitterness guide him. He listened to Amay, but he didn’t truly hear him. And now, it’s too late to take it back.

He watches the strange, glowing patterns pulse beneath Amay’s skin, the light shifting and swirling in ways that defy logic, that unsettle something deep within Astarion’s chest. Amay’s eyes, now white voids, stare at nothing, and the words he speaks—whatever they are—fill the air with a crackling heat, like wood burning in a hearth. It’s wrong, all of it, a darkness that Astarion can feel creeping into his own bones, settling beneath his skin like ice.

His expression softens, the anger melting away entirely, replaced with worry that tightens his features, creases his brow. ❛ Amay? ❜ He says the name quietly, hesitantly, the sound slipping between them like a plea, though he hardly knows what he’s pleading for anymore. He takes a slow step back, giving Amay space, unsure if his presence is a comfort or an irritant. The raw, open wound of his own emotions feels trivial now in the face of Amay’s silence, in the face of whatever strange, ancient force seems to be stirring within him.

He licks his lips, suddenly uncertain, but he knows—he knows—that he has to say what he should have said before. So he takes a breath, steadying himself, and speaks, his voice low and rough with the weight of all the things he has kept buried.

❛ You’re right, you know? ❜ He begins, forcing the words out, even though each one scrapes against his throat like glass. ❛ I treated you . . . terribly. I treated you like a means to an end. I used you, and I lied to you, and I broke your heart. ❜ It burns just to say it aloud, but he forces himself to continue. ❛ And you have every right not to trust me again . . . ❜ His hand twitches at his side, and he has to resist the urge to reach out, to touch Amay’s face again, to try to soothe away the terrible coldness he sees creeping into his eyes. But he knows that his touch is not welcome now. He presses his hands into fists, holding them close to his chest, a feeble attempt to keep the ache from clawing its way out.

❛ I’m . . . so sorry, ❜ he says, and the words come out heavy, raw, laden with a sincerity that makes his voice crack. But it doesn’t feel like enough. He knows it will never be enough, no matter how many times he says it, no matter how deeply he means it. ❛ I’m sorry for hurting you. For lying to you. But most of all, I’m sorry for making everything about my pain when you’re clearly in pain too. And you deserve to express that pain, just as much as any of us do. ❜ His own voice wavers, strained and unsteady as he tries to find something to say that will make this better, that will reach through the silence and the cold that seems to surround them both.

❛ I can go back to camp now, ❜ he says, the words coming out softer, the bitterness and cruelty gone from his tone, replaced with a raw acceptance that feels like a knife twisting in his chest. ❛ I’ll give you as much space as you need. ❜ He swallows hard, feeling the ache bloom into something unbearable, pressing against his ribs like iron bands. ❛ You should bandage up that ear, too, Amay. It’s . . . well, it’s looking a lot like how I feel right now. ❜ ( ripped, tattered, pained ).

He almost calls him my love, the words hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back. He can’t say that now. He doesn’t have the right.

[caniasfire]

The fire within him shifted as he listened to Astarion, a wave of guilt crashing over him with every step the other took, every word he spoke. The fire went from threatening to burn everything around him to feeling like everything inside him was turning to ash, his bones, his tissue, his organs, his blood, until there would be nothing left of him. It burned through the anger, through the sadness, leaving nothing but the guilt as fuel to keep itself growing. 

He remembered briefly that first night by the campfire, when Amay was still new to all of this and still didn’t know about what was right and what was wrong to share. He remembered how he mentioned some of his past experiences when people got intimate with him, and how Astarion had left him to think about that for the rest of the night. After that night, he was haunted by the fear of saying too much, even when Astarion wanted to get to know him better. He hadn’t really thought of his past as baggage up until that point, but he had learnt to keep it hidden after that, and now he was being accused of doing the same . . .

Even now, it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. He deserved everything that happened to him, and he deserved this too. Why did he care that it had started as a lie? Why couldn’t he just be happy that Astarion did care now? Why did he care that debtors of Mephistopheles didn’t care when he said no if they sent flowers afterwards? He had the suspicion he wasn’t even a person, after all, so why did it matter if he wasn’t treated like one? 

Astarion towered over him, and he felt the cold creeping up his limbs, reaching his heart. Cania would follow him wherever he went, he realized, and he would never be free of that freezing cold. He would never not feel small. 

“I just—” You just what? You were in pain? Well, Astarion was too. Astarion explained it all, why would you push him away when he trusted you with something he hadn’t trusted anyone else with? Why would you do that to him when you know how much that hurts? “I couldn’t–” You couldn’t what? Love him? Look past your own issues? “I’m–” A monster. This is why Mephisto chose you. Of all the children he could’ve stolen away, he saw himself in you. You, whose earliest memory was causing others pain, you who felt so at home in the flames everyone else runs away from unless they have control over them. You’re a devil, a fiend. Just look at all the people you’ve killed so far. You can’t hide behind any excuses anymore. Mephisto didn’t tell you to do any of that. You had freedom for once in your life and you chose blood. 

He couldn’t speak. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t just make things worse. Everytime he shared anything about himself it just ended so wrong, he forced himself to reel his words back in. He felt himself in a familiar position, where he knew the person towering over him didn’t want an apology, didn’t want to hear him speak, he only wanted him to comply. 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

All the emotions that had filled him just moments ago were gone, leaving him with nothing but with the burning sensation that begged to be let out. He couldn’t even cry at this point; there were traces of white and yellow that glowed across his skin, pulsating in odd patterns that defied all logic. There weren’t veins anymore, just the primordial heat. And it was hungry.

He didn’t protest Astarion’s touch. He stood still, letting the other touch him and move his head. His eyes looked at nothing in particular, though the yellow slowly turned white, consuming all the markings inside his iris, then the pupil, leaving nothing but a white void. The coolness of Astarion’s fingers against his skin hurt. “Xy nazt xy tuw waxw.” His voice was barely above a whisper, though it barely sounded like his own. There was a hissing quality to it, small crackling noises accompanying his words as if they were wood burning. At least this way it couldn’t go wrong, he thought– though he didn’t realize it wasn’t infernal anymore, but abyssal, a more ancient tongue. He could talk about how he wished every combat had been his last and no one but him would understand. He could voice all his pain without worrying about how others would make him feel about it. 

He couldn’t trust others to get the job done for him, maybe he should just listen to the fire and give in . . . Once Astarion left.

Astarion can feel the fractured pieces of his cold, dead heart shattering even further with each word Amay spits at him. His jaw clenches, his gaze burning, narrow, his chest tightening with every syllable of Amay’s furious tirade. He tries—he tries—to stay composed, to let the guilt wash over him like it always does, to take it, to accept it. He deserves this, doesn’t he? He deserves every bit of hatred Amay throws at him.

But something snaps.

Something buried deep within the endless pit of his bitterness, of his shame, rises up like a dark tide, clawing its way to the surface. The guilt is still there, festering, but now it’s tangled with anger. A vicious, unrelenting anger that flares as bright as the heat in Amay’s blazing eyes. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them, his fists tight at his sides. His eyes flash, filled with both fury and pain, ❛ I told you everything. I told you I didn’t know how to do this! I told you I’ve never had a choice, not once in two hundred years of torment. Every touch, every smile, every kiss I’ve ever given before you was a fucking performance—an act forced on me by Cazador, to bring pretty little things back for him to devour. You think I wanted that? You think I had a say in any of it? ❜

His voice is louder now, echoing off the stones, the bitterness curling around every syllable. He steps closer again, towering over Amay now, his eyes blazing with hurt and frustration. ❛ But I wanted to try. With you, I wanted to try. ❜ His voice wavers, just slightly, but he holds his ground, refusing to break, even as the emotions swirl within him, raw and vicious. ❛ And you—what did you do? You took one look at me, the real me, vulnerable and afraid, and you cast me aside. ❜

Astarion’s chest heaves as he speaks, his anger bleeding into the edges of something far more painful, far more fragile. His gaze locks onto Amay’s, piercing, accusing, as he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. ❛ You hardly even look at me anymore, Amay. What am I supposed to think? That I’m just too broken for you to even bother with? That I’m not worth the effort? Because from where I’m standing, it seems like I exposed myself to you in a way I’ve never done with another soul, living or dead, and you decided I was simply too damaged to ever truly love. ❜

His words are like daggers, sharp and biting, but there’s no mistaking the pain in his voice, the way it cracks around the edges as he speaks. ❛ And what, would you rather I had kept lying? ❜ His voice is dripping with contempt now, his lips curling into a sneer, though the expression feels hollow. ❛ Would you have preferred I kept pretending, kept performing like I had for everyone else, so I didn’t ruin your perfect little fantasy of true love with the pretty vampire? You think that’s what I wanted? You think that wouldn’t have killed me, slowly, every time you put your hands on me? ❜

His hands are shaking now, trembling with the force of the emotions he can’t seem to rein in. His eyes blaze with fury and sorrow, his body taut with tension, his slender finger jabbing against Amay’s chest as he speaks. ❛ I may have lied to you, Amay, but at least I didn’t abandon you when you needed me most. I didn’t ignore you after you opened up to me, after you trusted me with your pain. ❜

The last words are quieter, but they are no less sharp, no less charged with the rawness of his emotions. But then something catches his eye. The smell of blood hits him, sharp and distinct, and he notices the dark smear of red matting Amay’s hair. Fresh blood. His blood. Astarion’s anger falters, just slightly, his brow furrowing. He doesn’t say anything at first, his hands moving instinctively, grasping Amay’s chin between his index and thumb, tilting his head gently to the side.

Half of his ear is missing. Torn clean off. Astarion’s eyes soften despite himself, the anger in his chest coiling into something else—something painful, something far too tender for the moment they’re in. His thumb grazes softly against Amay’s cheek.

❛ I am glad you didn’t die today, though, ❜ he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. There’s still anger there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it’s laced with something quieter, something wounded and hesitant.

[caniasfire]

They did it. They actually did it! He honestly thought they were as good as dead once Myrkul showed up, but here they were . . . almost in one piece. There were a couple new scars who joined the old ones, and he had yet to realize part of his ear was missing, but that was something to worry about later. Right now there were more pressing matters to attend to; he needed to check in on Gale. The wizard had convinced himself the only way to end this was by sacrificing himself and Amay hadn't let him; once the man had annoyed him to no end, but now he felt indebted to him. He would be on his way to become a devil himself if he hadn't spent that night in the meadows with Gale. He couldn't let him die, and he needed to know he was okay after everything that happened. 

That was all that preoccupied him at the moment, that is until he heard that familiar voice cut through the silence like an arrow, directed straight towards him. And it didn't miss the mark, it never did.

Clearly you only want me around when it’s convenient for you. He employed the tools he had taught himself at Mephistar to mask his feelings, giving Astarion nothing but the stoic façade some would think was his natural resting expression. Astarion had seen a different side of him once, but not lately. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner, looking away to direct his attention at anything but the vampire. He remained quite, turning his back to the other. He didn't have time for this.

But Astarion clearly did. He didn't stop at just that, no. It wasn't just a jab at him to leave him feeling like shit as he disappeared back to camp. He was out for blood.

“Gale is always pleasant company.” It was true, now, even if there was a time Amay couldn't tolerate being alone with him, but that had changed and he hadn't been very subtle about how he wanted to get to know Gale better as much as he could before the fight with Ketheric. 

But Astarion wasn't done just yet.

Amay let his head fall back as he laughed. It was an exaggerated, high pitched, hyena-like laugh. “Wasn't it enough?” He murmured, followed by a loud sigh that grew into a groan. He clenched his hands into tight fists, his claws digging into the leather of his gloves. “You just keep comin’ back to break me more and more. Unfortunately for me, it’s workin’. You know why?” He turned around to face him and he didn't bother in hiding what he felt this time. His anger was clear, though the back of his eyes were burning, and the yellow in his irises glowed white hot. You could almost see embers floating around them. He slammed his hand against his chest, hard enough to leave a mark.  The air condensed around it, his hand surrounded by a light mist as he cast Thaumaturgy on himself. His voice boomed up to three times as loud.

“Because I was the one you fuckin’ used!”

But Amay wasn't done yet.

“You wanna play the fuckin’ victim now? Oh, I'm sorry I didn't let you walk all over me.” There was that high pitched laugh again, the frown in his face disappearing for a second as his expression relaxed, only to come back angrier than before. “Your apology is worth shit now, by the way. I can see your fuckin’ true colors. It's all ‘oh, I'm sorry but I love you now’” He imitated his accent the best he could, waving his hands around in a mocking gesture, “until I say I need space,” He pointed at his chest almost as if he was clawing his heart out, “until I say I need somethin’, then you realize I'm not the malleable toy I used to be, the one you loved to play with, and then you’re back to treatin’ me like shit.”

“I'm not gonna let anyone use me again. I'm not a toy, not a pawn, not a fuckin’ means to an end.” He wasn't used to yelling, he wasn't the type to raise his voice and spoke in a monotone more often than not, and he could feel his throat burning, but he wasn't done yet.

“And I'm not gonna be with someone who won't treat me better than my FUCKIN’. PATRON." He panted heavily, and gradually the anger in his face left to be replaced with pain as the weight of his words sunk in. For once he thought someone had approached him out of genuine interest, and instead he had been a contract again. He closed his eyes and shook his head, lowering it to hide himself from Astarion, though he couldn't hide the way his shoulders shook and he gasped for air. He had asked him if he even cared, and Amay hated to know that he still did.

closed starter | @caniasfire

The battle with Ketheric Thorm is over, but the taste of victory is bitter on Astarion’s tongue. The air is thick with the lingering stench of blood and decay, the distant wails of the Shadow-Curse will soon be fading and the lands will begin to breathe again. But instead of reveling in the triumph, instead of basking in the sweet rush of power that should follow such a hard-won victory, Astarion finds himself staring at Amay through narrowed eyes——arms crossed tightly over his chest, every inch of him a picture of barely-contained bitterness.

His body is battered, marked by deep, half-healed cuts and smears of dirt mixed with drying blood. What little healing potions they'd scavenged had done little more than stop him from bleeding out, leaving a dull ache pulsing beneath his skin. He can still feel the sting of Ketheric’s magic crawling through his veins, but that pain is nothing compared to the gnawing in his chest——the roiling storm of heartache he’s tried, and failed, to suppress.

Amay stands only a few feet away, bloodied and wounded as well, yet still alive. Still standing. And somehow, that simple fact—that Amay survived, that he’s here, breathing—makes the hollow ache in Astarion’s chest tighten. His hands itch with the urge to reach out, to pull Amay into his arms, to feel the warmth of that too-hot blood that once burned his mouth… he craves it, just as he craves him. Yet the distance between them feels far greater than a few feet, a chasm that neither of them seems able or willing to cross.

Astarion’s voice is sharp as he finally speaks, cutting through the heavy silence between them. ❛ Shall I be dismissed back to camp now, since clearly you only want me around when it’s convenient for you? ❜ His words drip with venom, though it’s a poor mask for the wounded desperation underneath. He knows it’s cruel, knows he has no right to speak to Amay like this after all the lies, all the manipulation. But the hurt in his chest, that clawing, festering feeling of being cast aside… it’s too much to bear. So he lashes out, even knowing he shouldn’t. The sting of his own words barely takes the edge off.

Once, not so long ago, he’d had Amay wrapped around his little finger——an easy conquest, really. Just a bit of charm, a few whispered sweet nothings, a well-placed smile, and Amay was his. It was all so effortless… until it wasn’t. Until those sickeningly soft looks and gentle touches had started to do something to him——until he had started to fall, just as hard, if not harder. It had all gone to rot so fast after that. And now, here they were.

He takes a step forward, not even bothering to hide the sneer curling at the edges of his lips. ❛ Surely Gale will make for much more pleasant company now that the hard work is done. ❜ His voice lowers, bitter and cutting, his crimson eyes glinting with something unreadable——anger, perhaps, but mostly pain, the kind that festers under the surface and gnaws at the edges of his carefully constructed mask. There’s a twisted satisfaction in the words, though it sickens him even as he says it. Gale. Of all people, Gale. Small, squishy, and utterly boring Gale, who was now apparently good enough to replace him.

❛ Do you even care anymore, Amay? Or am I just another tool to be used and discarded when it suits you? ❜

It’s a cruel echo of the very thing he had done to Amay, once upon a time. And yet, there it is——the truth behind the bitterness, the heartache laid bare.

[caniasfire]

“Mischief can be good, though. It's fun.” Like when he promises Shadowheart he will make sure there's some wine left for her when she comes back from her bedtime routine, only to tell her with a straight face that Wyll drank it all and there's absolutely nothing left. The confrontation ends as quick as it begins, but even in its brevity he's entertained. “But I'll make sure you don't get into any trouble.” He straightens his back to appear taller than he is, giving Gale a single nod that says he is taking his job seriously. Though the small smile that he can barely hold back betrays his initial message.  A warlock keeping a wizard out of trouble? They were more likely to make the shadow curse worse.

“A little bit, yes.” He walks over overgrown roots and avoids the spots on the floor that look rotten, jumping around as if he was playing a game, and not walking into what was most likely a corpse-infested nest. “You should come to Mephistar sometime, when this is over. The books Father has are somethin’ else. I actually went a little mad once.” He taps at his temple, then putting an end to his sentence with a shrug. He assumes that's how everyone learns they should take Dark Speech seriously, and also why the language is so dangerous; it's always taking something from people who think they are strong enough.  “You lookin’ for anythin’ in specific? Or just secrets?”

@caniasfire asked: ❛ you won’t survive out there. they tear all good things apart. ❜ / &. 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: still accepting.

He blinks. Gale has been called a tremendous host of words — yes, a great deal flattering and a sober deal not — but a good thing, he decides, is bafflingly original. It is, should he consider it, innocently tame.

He imagines good things. His head fills with images of morning sun and spring. Gale is known for his furies, his graveyard-clawing corpses and the howling yelp of storms, but to be called so easily what's dizzyingly simple brings, he realizes, an oozing swell of warmth. He adores the simplicity. He adores it just as much as he adores fresh sheets. Simple pleasures, as they were, were never those things to shun and take for granted, and never would Amay come to undermine his value. Gale knows it. Smiling, something in his ribcage quietly brightens.

The man's a good thing. Their Gale's like honeyed tea.

But he, too, he'd argue is impossibly dangerous — and with a roguish color, his eyes gleam sharp.

"I see. Well, it's fortunate then," he kindly argues, "that I'm not exactly entirely decent. Not to tarnish your pristine image of me, mind you, but even this particular wizard can afford some mischief. However, if you're volunteering your services, I won't soon deny you. There's a first time for everything or so I've been told. Having you as my chaperone is more than welcomed."

You cocky, sweet little mage...! "I have a light and require only but a moment. Tell me you're but a little bit curious." He turns to face the library in the Shadow-Curse. "Imagine the abandoned secrets she holds inside."

[caniasfire]

His eyes flickered away from Astarion’s briefly, feeling bashful all of a sudden under his lover’s gaze. He gave him a small smile, though he couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like. His hair must be a mess and even though the black sclera of his eyes would hide the redness that would show on a white sclera from the sleep deprivation and crying, he was sure the exhaustion was evident. 

All I care about is you. Amay shifted closer slightly, yearning to be as close as he could to Astarion. His gaze locked onto the other's as he focused on Astarion's words and the feeling of his touch against his skin. He couldn't get rid of his shame completely as it came from something rooted deep within him, but it was reassuring that Astarion wasn't pushing him away for slacking off on their home and his appearance. 

He closed his eyes at the warm feeling of the rag against his skin, sighing softly as he got lost in the softness of Astarion's touch. “I was really worried.” He opened his eyes slightly to get a look of the other's face. “It was hard to fall asleep.” And the few times he did, his sleep was riddled with nightmares of an intensity he hadn't dealt with for a long time. He had nightmares every now and then as he still carried the scars of his past, but while being alone at the house he couldn't get a single second of sleep that didn't make his heart ache. There was no way to escape the pain. The brief times his dreams had been kind to him, it would only be harder to face reality when he inevitably woke up. “But I'm fine.” He gave Astarion a small smile, hoping to reassure him despite how tired it must look. Sleep will come later, and this time he won't wake up alone, but for now all he wanted was to be with Astarion. He cherished every single second he got to spend with him again, their time together already soothing like a balm the scars that had formed in his heart.

Amay nodded, trying to express how seriously he took this through his tone and expression, though he couldn't really tell if he was doing a good job or not. “I’ll be here when you're ready. Tomorrow or a year from now.” His arms shifted under the water before he settled his hands on his tail, unsure of what to do with himself for a moment. It broke his heart to hear Astarion's confession; he could only imagine what he went through those days he was gone, and Amay felt a pang of guilt for even thinking Astarion had left on his own accord and was doing fine. How could he be so selfish? Astarion was going through hell, and probably through something even worse just to come back to him. “I understand. If you need space or anythin’, just let me know.”

He thought about suggesting the idea of a word to signal whenever Astarion needed space, but he didn't want to demand anything from the other. He was going through enough as it was, and Amay would feel awful if he only added to that. He would do his best to help him through this, and just then he realized that what Amay needed could be different than what Astarion needed. Amay wanted the constant touch, the constant reassurance, he felt himself becoming clingy in a way that he realized could be a problem. He wondered briefly if he should've asked before placing his tail on Astarion's lap, but he tried to convince himself Astarion would've told him if that wasn't welcomed.

He closed his eyes as he felt the touch of Astarion’s lips on his forehead, recording the sensation in his memory. “I'll follow your lead.”

Once Astarion strips away the bloodied, tattered remnants of his clothing, he wastes no time sinking into the heat of the hot spring, the warmth of it enveloping him like a lover’s embrace. He lets out a quiet sigh as the water laps at his pale skin, the grime and tension of the past week already beginning to melt away. The heat soothes the aches he didn’t realize he still carried, the soreness left from sun burns and shackles fading into the depths of the water. He leans back against the earthen wall of the spring, his body sinking deeper into the comforting heat as his shoulder presses against Amay’s. But even like this, shoulder to shoulder, it doesn’t feel close enough.

Astarion shifts slightly, feeling the soft, finned tip of Amay’s tail against his thigh beneath the water. It’s a gentle touch, almost ticklish, but he likes it. He’s still adjusting to the presence of the tail—how it sometimes flicks in his sleep, how he accidentally rolls over it in bed—but it’s just another piece of Amay, another part of him to learn, to treasure. What he hadn’t expected, though, was for Amay to take the wet cloth and begin to clean him. Astarion almost protests, but the warmth of the soapy towel against his skin is a balm far too soothing to refuse. He closes his eyes briefly, feeling the tender strokes as Amay wipes away the dirt, the blood, the physical reminders of what he’s just survived. When Amay calls him beautiful, a soft chuckle rises in Astarion’s throat, a breath of amusement that carries with it the weight of affection. He opens his eyes again, glancing over at Amay with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

In the glow of the hot spring, Amay looks lovely—even in his exhaustion. The naturally growing crystals beneath the water cast an ethereal light across the space, illuminating Amay’s features in soft blues and purples, making him appear almost otherworldly, as if he’s a part of the very magic that surrounds them. Astarion watches him for a long moment, feeling the quiet wonder that always stirs within him when he looks at Amay. How did he get so lucky?

With a gentle smile, Astarion drapes his wet arms over Amay’s shoulders, pulling him closer, his fingers threading through the curls at the back of his lover’s head. The wet strands twist easily around his fingers, and he lets himself indulge in the simple, grounding sensation of it. ❛ Shhh . . . ❜ he whispers, shushing Amay softly as the other begins to apologize, first for the state of their home, and then for himself. ❛ I don’t care about the mess, ❜ Astarion says, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Amay’s, the gesture soft and intimate. ❛ All I care about is you. ❜

He pulls back slightly, just enough to take the rag from Amay’s hand, dipping it into the water to rinse it clean before bringing it up to Amay’s face. Slowly, with the same gentle care Amay had shown him, Astarion begins to wipe away the exhaustion from his lover’s skin, the wet cloth gliding across Amay’s brow, down the delicate bridge of his nose, and over the dark circles under his eyes. As he cleans, his touch lingers, brushing softly over each curve, as if trying to erase the days of worry and sleepless nights etched into Amay’s features.

❛ My love, ❜ Astarion says, his voice low and tender, ❛ you look more exhausted than I think I’ve ever seen you. ❜ His gaze softens with sympathy as he carefully cleans the scarred skin of Amay’s neck, his fingers ghosting over the marks of a life lived on the edge of survival—scars from battles past, and the familiar bite marks from Astarion’s own fangs. Each scar tells a story, a testament to Amay’s resilience, and Astarion feels a swell of emotion rise in his chest, the weight of his love for this man almost overwhelming.

But as Astarion’s hands move lower, the smile on his lips falters. He pauses, resting his hands on Amay’s shoulders as his thoughts momentarily pull him back to the cell, the chains, the feeling of helplessness that had wrapped around him like a noose. He can’t lie to Amay.

❛ I’m not quite . . . ready to get into what happened yet, ❜ Astarion admits, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. He hesitates, searching for the right words, his gaze dropping to the water between them as his fingers gently knead Amay’s shoulders. ❛ It just has me feeling . . . so many old feelings of helplessness and fear. ❜ His breath hitches slightly, and he closes his eyes, forcing himself to speak the words that have been lodged in his throat since the moment he’d escaped that necromancer’s grasp. ❛ It might take me a little bit . . . to just feel safe again. ❜

It’s hard for him to say it, hard to admit that after everything they’ve been through, after all the power he’s regained, he can still feel so small, so vulnerable. But he needs Amay to know—needs him to understand—that if he acts cold or guarded in the coming days, it won’t be because of him. It won’t be because of anything Amay has done. Astarion lifts his gaze back to his lover, his crimson eyes softening with a kind of quiet apology, even though the words aren’t spoken aloud. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Amay’s forehead, his lips lingering there as if he can transfer his unspoken promise through the touch. He’ll heal from this. They’ll heal together.

[caniasfire]

I love you too. The terror that had settled deep within him trembled, its hold loosening around Amay's heart as the words helped it break free, grow bigger. There were days where he wasn't sure anymore if he would ever hear those words again, and at his lowest moments the darkest part of him convinced him Astarion wouldn't even say it again even if he came back. He couldn't hold back the sob as the emotions overwhelmed him, though he made sure to give the other a smile as he reeled himself back in. He was okay, everything was okay now. And he genuinely doubted he had any more tears left in him.

He stayed as close as he could to Astarion as they made their way to the hot springs, his hand always holding tightly onto the elf’s. Once in the water, he felt the tension in his body slowly dissipate as he settled in, though he knew it wouldn't have had the same effect if he was alone. He credited the peace he felt to Astarion, who wanted to be as close together just as Amay did. He sat shoulder to shoulder with his lover, Amay’s tail resting on his lap, the end of it resting on Astarion's as they sat so close together. The fin-like tip swayed gently against the pale skin under it as if caressing Astarion's thigh. It took a while to get used to having a tail again, but he was getting the hang of it, and he liked to touch Astarion with it too. The contact of skin against it was so new, it felt ticklish, but he liked how it made him feel closer to Astarion by letting him close to such a sensitive part of him. 

After all those long days of not eating and sleepless nights of crying, this felt right. It felt like it had been ages since he took care of himself, and even if he was bad at it before Astarion had left, he had definitely forgotten the concept at all these past couple of days. But that was in the past now. He brought a small wet towel to Astarion’s face, and wiped his face gently. The soap and water soaked in the towel took the dirt and dried blood away, Astarion's features emerging from under the mess. “Hey, beautiful.” He whispered as he helped him clean his face. He wanted any trace of that mission gone from his body, and prioritized helping Astarion get clean. He needed a bath urgently as well, there was part of him that was ashamed of the state Astarion found him in, but his first instinct was to help his lover. There was no rush, after all. Astarion didn't have to go anywhere, and neither did Amay. “I'm sorry the house is a mess.” He fixed his eyes on the towel as he spoke, the weight of the shame making it impossible to meet the other's eyes for a second. “I tried to keep up with the chores but . . .” He barely tried, in his own eyes. He could've done more but he gave up easily, crushed on the sofa under the weight of the silence as he waited for the front door to swing open, his thoughts growing darker every second it stayed in place. He couldn't keep up with the house, or with himself. “And, well, I'm sorry about myself.” Astarion always took such good care of himself, Amay did his best to be somewhere close to that level. It had become easier with time, but those days alone it had been impossible to even look in the mirror. Now Astarion was back, and Amay was sure he looked the worst he's ever looked, at least in the time Astarion had known him. He wanted to submerge himself in the water and hope he would come out squeaky clean and smelling like roses, but he kept his focus on Astarion.

Dajy. The word lingers in Astarion’s mind, wrapping around his heart like a tender, familiar melody. Ever since Amay told him it meant love, Astarion couldn’t help but adore the sound of it, the way it rolled off Amay’s lips. Each time it felt like an intimate secret spoken only for him. And hearing it now, after so many days apart, it strikes him with the same aching warmth that floods his chest whenever Amay is near.

When Amay struggles to finish his sentence, when he falters and trembles in Astarion’s arms, the exhaustion etched deep into his features becomes painfully clear. The dark circles under his eyes, the fragile way he clings to Astarion, his whole body trembling like it’s barely holding itself together——all of it speaks of sleepless nights and endless worry. Because of him. Astarion’s heart twists painfully at the thought, his chest constricting with guilt.

He can’t stand to see Amay like this, worn down by fear, and knowing he is the reason for it. Slowly, Astarion raises his hands to cup Amay’s face, the gentleness in his touch a stark contrast to the storm of emotions swirling inside him. His thumbs glide over Amay’s cheeks, brushing away the lingering tension in his lover’s features, and then his thumb ghosts over Amay’s trembling lips as if to silence the torrent of thoughts that refuse to form into words. He knows what Amay is trying to say. He knows the terror that must have eaten away at him these past days—wondering, imagining every horrible possibility.

He’s not ready to speak of what truly happened, not yet. The memory of being bound again, tortured, controlled, is still too raw, too fresh. He needs time to let it fade, to let it loosen its grip on his mind. But for now, this moment, being in Amay’s arms, is enough. All they need is each other. He needs rest. Gods, they both need rest. And a bath. A hot spring to wash away the dirt and blood, to cleanse them of the shadows that cling too tightly.

Astarion kisses Amay deeply, pressing his lips against him in a way that feels like sealing a vow. The taste of longing, of desperation, lingers in the kiss, but there’s also comfort there——a quiet reassurance that they’ve survived this, that they’re here, together. He hears the whispered, I love you, slip from Amay’s lips between the kiss, and for a moment Astarion feels as though he might break entirely. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever hear those words again. There were times he feared he would never return to hear Amay say them, feared those three precious words might be lost forever in the stillness of the Underdark, unanswered.

❛ I love you too, ❜ Astarion murmurs, his voice muffled against Amay’s lips. He doesn’t want to break the kiss—doesn’t need to breathe, after all. He could exist like this, sustained by the closeness of Amay, by the warmth of his lips and the steady thrum of his heart. He could linger in this embrace for eternity, holding on to the only thing that has ever felt real to him.

But after what feels like an eternity in the span of a single heartbeat, Astarion pulls away, though only slightly, his forehead resting against Amay’s. His pale hand lingers, cradling Amay’s face, his thumb tracing the familiar contours of the scars that mar his lover’s skin—scars that make him more beautiful to Astarion because they speak of survival, of the strength that exists within him. Astarion’s crimson eyes close as he presses soft, reverent kisses to Amay’s forehead, one after another, as though he’s trying to make up for all the lost moments, all the stolen nights apart.

❛ So godsdamned much, ❜ he breathes against Amay’s skin, his voice thick with emotion, ❛ so much I wasn’t going to let anything stop me from coming home to you. ❜

After a long moment, Astarion lets out a soft, weary sigh, his voice lighter now, tinged with the faintest hint of humor as he says, ❛ That hot spring has been calling my name for days. ❜ He pulls back just enough to look down at Amay, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips as he speaks, ❛ Would you be so kind as to join me? I don’t think I can bear to be apart from you for a second longer than I need to be. ❜

[caniasfire]

He nodded softly as Astarion assured him he was okay, cupping his face with both his hands, his thumbs caressing his face softly. He reached for some of the dried blood, trying to wipe it off. He was a mess, and Amay could only imagine what he had been through. He almost didn't want to blink as he looked into his lover's eyes as they pressed their foreheads against each other, afraid he might vanish if he did so.

He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to jump, he wanted to laugh until his belly hurt. A rush of energy flowed through him and pulled him towards all directions, threatening to tear him apart if he didn't control it, but with just the few hours of sleep he had in him he had no control of anything. He trembled in Astarion’s arms as the conflicting feelings clashed against each other within him. The only thing he was sure of is that Astarion was okay, so he was okay as well, and nothing wrong could happen while they were in each other's arms. 

He was relieved to hear Astarion would take a break. He didn't want him to leave again even if they were one hundred percent sure nothing would go wrong in his mission. He just needed some time with him, then he would be okay with Astarion getting back to work. Until then, he wanted– no, needed him close. He might not be able to stand it if he left his side again, even if for a couple of hours. “I missed you too, dajy. I missed you so much.” His voice cracked and his expression twisted slightly. He closed his eyes for a second before looking back at Astarion. “I thought–” So many things. He thought he was never coming back. He thought he had left him, he thought a devil had gotten to him as revenge for Amay breaking the contract, he thought he hadn't survived the mission. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep, couldn't bathe, couldn't do anything but stare at the door and hope that he was wrong. That Astarion would come back and it would all be alright, because he wasn't ready to live the rest of his days alone, never knowing what happened. He trembled in the other's arms. “I thought . . .” He repeated, but was still unable to finish the sentence. One look at his eyes was enough, though; he was barely holding back the tears.

He wrapped his arms around Astarion's neck, arching his body into his lover's. As the kiss grows deeper, he slides one hand to cup his lover's face, responding to the other's desperation with his own. He cared less and less about holding back as the seconds passed, that painful longing he had been living with tipping over as the kiss was the last drop in the glass. Minutes ago he wasn't even sure if he would get to see him again, if he would get to kiss him again, and he was going to make it count. His hand slid back into his hair, his fingers tangling into the curls as his other hand slid across his shoulders to then grab his neck to press himself even closer. He only pulled himself from the other for a second, “I love you.” And he barely finished saying the last word before his lips were on Astarion's again. Those three words had been killing him these past few days; they made his heart ache so bad, but they also were the only thing that kept him in the house, waiting for something to happen. Anything. 

He could say them now and not be met with a deafening silence, the echoes of the underdark becoming too present in the stillness of the house. He could say them a hundred times now and they'd finally reach Astarion.

Astarion watches the slow, rhythmic sway of Amay’s tail behind him, the gentle motion betraying the happiness beneath the tension in his lover’s body. It’s a small, comforting sign that, despite everything, despite the worry, Amay is glad to see him——glad that Astarion is home, alive, and in one piece. There is dried blood splattered across his skin, his clothes are dirty and tattered. He looks every bit the wreck he feels inside, and for a fleeting second, anger flares hot and sharp. His anonymous client, the one who’d set this nightmare in motion, fills his thoughts. Why? Why send him into a trap with such half-baked information, only to pay him so handsomely? Astarion’s fingers curl briefly into fists, a storm rising behind his eyes. The thought of hunting that bastard down, of sinking his teeth into their throat and draining them dry, is tempting. But what would that solve? The job is done, and he got paid. It’s just . . . maddening. Confusing. It feels like a game he wasn’t even aware he was playing.

But then, Amay’s touch. His fingers threading softly through Astarion’s disheveled silver curls, smoothing away the tension like water over stones. The anger ebbs as quickly as it flared. He leans into the warmth of Amay’s hand, savoring the way it twirls the strands of his hair, grounding him. The soft murmur of Amay’s voice, the way he shushes him gently, lulls him into a state of calm he hasn’t felt in days. And though Amay tells him he doesn’t have to apologize, the words still beat in Astarion’s mind like a drum: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

He is sorry. So terribly, deeply sorry. For worrying him. For being gone so long. And while being under the necromancer’s control was a fresh hell, an experience that dredged up memories of Cazador’s leash pulling tight around his throat, it wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was imagining Amay here, alone, wondering if he’d ever return. That haunted him more than the cage, the chains, or the burning rays of sunlight she’d conjured to torture him. The idea of never coming back to this—their home, their life, Amay—plagued him every day, tearing at his mind until he thought he might lose himself to it.

When Amay asks if he’s okay, Astarion finally draws back just enough to meet his lover’s eyes. His arms stay wrapped firmly around Amay’s waist, unwilling to let him go. ❛ So much better now that I’m home with you, ❜ Astarion murmurs, his voice thick with sincerity as he rests his forehead—still streaked with dried blood—against Amay’s. The contact is gentle, intimate, and he closes his eyes for a moment, simply breathing him in. The familiar scent of his lover fills his senses, wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth and safety. It’s like finally stepping out of a storm and into the hearthlight.

❛ But I think it might be time that I adjourn this nefarious labor, at least for a little while, ❜ Astarion continues, his voice soft, but there’s a fringe of exhaustion beneath it, like the admission itself is a weight being lifted from him. ❛ A little break would do me some good, and—❜ His voice falters, almost breaking. He takes a shaky breath before finishing, his words a quiet confession. ❛ And, well . . . I missed you. Far too much to even think about being apart from you again. ❜

Gods, he’d missed him. The depth of that longing surges through him all at once, an ache that goes bone-deep. He can still taste the fear, the distressing worry that he might never have made it back. That Amay might have spent the rest of his days thinking Astarion had simply disappeared——left him without a word, without a trace.

A bath would help. He needs to scrub away the blood, the grime, the shame of it all. His body may have healed, but his spirit feels soiled, raw. The hot spring near their house calls to him, promising to wash away the remnants of his captivity. But Astarion isn’t ready to pull away just yet. He can’t fathom the idea of losing the warmth of Amay’s touch.

So, instead, he leans in, closing the space between their lips. One of his hands slides from Amay’s waist to cradle the side of his neck, his thumb brushing softly along Amay’s jawline. The kiss starts gentle, soft, an echo of the tenderness they share. But then Astarion feels the days of separation rise up inside him, feels the longing swell and crest like a wave, and he pours all of it into the kiss. The days he spent caged, the nights without Amay’s warmth beside him, the sheer relief of being here, of being home——it all flows through him, through the press of his lips, desperate and aching. His fingers tighten slightly against Amay’s neck, and his other arm pulls him closer, as if holding him tighter might erase the nightmare of their time apart.