nw39 - Tumblr blog

nw39 · 6 days ago

Text

to eden | chapter 12

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: Astarion/Rin (F! Tav) 𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔: E 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 9.3k 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: none 𝒶/𝓃: HI. i'm deeply sorry it's taken so long for me to get this one out. let's just pretend it hasn't been almost three months, yeah? anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. as always, let me know what you all think! i have a lot planned for these two coming up, and I'm excited to get to it! love you so much byeeeee xxoo

read on ao3 | masterlist

Moonrise Towers was every bit as miserable as Rin remembered it to be as she stands in a dark, damp room on broken stone floors, the distinct smell of blood and rot seeping into every imaginable corner of the gods-forsaken place.

It still had the very same sinister aura as before, everything still dark and dingy—the people included—and while she might not be killing goblins this time around (something that should be considered a marked improvement), she’s fairly certain her current visit was somehow worse this time around.

“I’m sorry, but you want a little bit of my what?”

Disbelief strikes through her as she crosses her arms over her chest, thoroughly unimpressed by the woman standing before her.

“Your blood. But only a tiny sample,” The drow—who thinks rather highly of herself for someone toiling away in some antechamber of a worn down, barely standing tower—assures her.

As though Araj Oblodra, Trader in Blood and the Sanguineous Arts’, word meant much of anything.

Rin could easily hear the subtle maliciousness in the words; the way the other woman smiled more of a sneer than anything else, though even calling it that felt like giving her a bit too much credit.

“With one single drop, I can brew a rather potent potion for you. The rest, of course, I keep for myself.”

She holds back a laugh at that. Unfortunately for poor Araj, there’s only one person she’s willing to give up her blood for—and she already does.

Rather readily, at that.

It was an exchange that meant far more to her than just the boon of a simple potion, though she’d rather not admit such a truth aloud if she could help it.

She may be no more than Astarion’s meal ticket, but if it meant she has something to give him that no one else would, she’d take it; and as such, she simply didn’t have a single drop more of blood to spare at this point.

Especially not to someone like her.

There was something far too slick about Araj Oblodra, her words oozing with a false, lurid seductiveness that felt more akin to the dripping of slime than the smoothness of silk.

No, Rin certainly did not trust her blood to be in good hands.

At least she knew where her blood went when it came to Astarion’s partaking of it.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass, unfortunately. True Souls only have so much blood, you know, and I can’t afford to waste any these days.”

Araj frowns, clearly discontented with such vague, blasé words from her before droning on, “A pity. I’m here, should you change your mind. Which you will, I’m sure.”

Good.

At least she had the decency to back down easily.

Rin chokes back a sigh of relief as she gives a curt nod of affirmation and begins to turn away, eager to remove them from the situation.

They were here on a mission, after all, and the tieflings certainly weren’t going to break themselves out of the dungeon. The sooner they freed them and got out of this place, the better.

She was still distinctly uncomfortable here at Moonrise despite her apparently effective deception of being a loyal True Soul. She probably shouldn’t be too surprised that she’d done so well with the whole ruse, though—not when she’s always been much better at playing to her less-than-angelic traits when necessary.

It was indeed much harder to pretend to be noble and good and whatnot when you’ve never actually been such. It was one of the many lessons she’d learned the hard way over the years following a borderline ridiculous number of failures in that department. Safe to say, she now sticks to performances of the more crooked variety.

Either way, the day she can leave this wretched place and never look back is one she eagerly looks forward to.

“Although, perhaps there’s one more thing we could discuss before you take your leave: your friend.”

Rin stops, pasting a blank look on her face as she swivels back to face Araj, only to see the drow’s chin inclined to gesture behind where she stands. Her eyes shine with something that Rin doesn’t like the look of as her gaze bears into one companion in particular.

Araj’s eyes looked hungry, if she wasn’t mistaken.

But hungry for what, was the question.

“My friend? You’ll have to specify which, I’m afraid. I happen to have quite a few these days.”

She doesn’t need to turn around to confirm who has taken her interest, because she already knows. It only makes sense given the drow’s macabre interest in all things sanguine.

“Your friend the vampire. Or one of their spawn, at least.”

The other woman curls her lip as she say the word and Rin hates it, can hear the clear insult in it as she eyes Astarion with terrible, gleaming intent.

It sends a bolt of alarm through her as an unfamiliar sense of protection, of all things, rises to the forefront in her mind.

Astarion certainly didn’t need her protection, not by any means. He was undoubtedly the better fighter between the two of them, talented with both blades and bow in a way that she’d never be—but there was something about Araj’s leering interest in him that sets her ill at ease.

He may be the object of her wayward (and likely unwanted) affections, but she’d be damned if she let anyone hurt him while she was just standing there; and so she takes a single step closer and lets her words turn cool when she speaks them, frost coating the edges of each syllable.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you could mean.”

Araj’s lips twist up into a smirk. “Oh, please. You think someone in my line of work wouldn’t recognize a vampire spawn when they see one? That I wouldn’t know the signs?”

Rin lets her chin raise and her brow follow suit, arching one in skepticism as she sends her a look of what she hopes is the proper amount of distaste. “Forgive me for being unfamiliar with your ‘work’, as you call it, but I fail to see what my friend here has to do with our conversation.”

A voice pops up from behind her, smooth and charming in an irritating way that only belonged to one person and one person only. “I won’t bite, if that’s your concern. Or steal a single drop of the blood you have stored in those vials. Why, I even promise to be on my best behavior. We’re all friends under the Absolute, after all.”

Rin sends Astarion a quick look over her shoulder, half-disbelief and half-glare, at his blatant disregard to even attempt to be subtle about it. Gods, his idiocy astounded her, sometimes. Of all the moments to pipe up, he chooses now?

“Oh, but I’d prefer if you did,” Araj shoots at Astarion, sending him a lurid once-over before turning back to address Rin, “I assume he belongs to you?”

“Belongs to me?”

The words momentarily take her aback, the concept of ownership over anyone—much less Astarion—dizzying in the worst way possible.

She grits her teeth, eyes narrowing into a hard glare and suddenly Rin doesn’t quite feel like playing so nice and unassuming anymore.

“He belongs to no one.”

Araj laughs, and the sound of it grates sharply against her rising temper.

“I’m sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable. Do you have a name, spawn?” She spits out the word as her lips twist further into a demeaning sneer.

“It’s Astarion, but hold on—”

Rin can see the alarm dawning on Astarion’s face and the sound of it in his voice as he stammers his name in answer, taking a step back and raising a hand out protectively in front of him.

“Very good,” She croons in a mockery of praise, looking akin to a snake with its dinner cornered and eager to go in for the kill. “Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl.”

She hates the way his name sounds on Araj’s lips—terribly wrong and gods, how many other people had spoken his name in the very same way, as though he were nothing more than their ticket to a depraved desire fulfilled—and another spark of anger flickers to life in her chest.

“I’m sorry, but did I hear you say that you want to be bitten?” Astarion frowns, shock and disbelief coloring his words along with a healthy dose of deserved skepticism.

Rin can’t exactly deny that there was a certain thrill to being bitten by a vampire and while she can’t say she ever dreamed of such a thing, it’s hardly been a terrible experience.

For her, at least. Then again, she’s still alive, which she highly doubts is the standard for most who actively spend their time with those of the undead variety. Obviously, their situation was quite far removed from normal.

However, there was a stark difference between voluntarily giving your life’s essence to someone who wanted it versus demanding to be drained dry for the thrill of it.

Or at least she hopes there is.

“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it. How could I not? I’ll even compensate you—a potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it. It’s not for sale but it’s yours. Only if you bite me.”

Astarion stays quiet for a moment, weighing his options as uncertainty flashes in his eyes.

The silence lasts longer than it should, and worry begins to settle in the back of her throat, thick and heavy, as they collectively wait for his answer on drawn out breaths.

It’s his choice, of course. Astarion can do what he pleases and she’ll not stop him—but Rin hopes he won’t. For his own sake.

“I will have to decline.”

Relief courses through her at his strikingly polite, if firm, words; though there’s something far too tentative in his voice for her comfort.

“Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you’re squandering it.”

Astarion is quick to strike back, bitter anger shaking the words as he spits them out between gritted teeth. “I gave you my answer.”

Araj finally turns back to Rin, irritation flowing off of her in waves.

“Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

She angles herself in front of Astarion, frown deepening on her face as she eyes the drow with as much scorn as she can muster—which is a rather considerable amount, in light of what exactly she’s pressuring him to do.

“He said no, I’m not so sure what you don’t understand. It’s a rather simple word with a rather simple meaning, or so I thought. I see nothing more to discuss.”

“Oh, come now. You can’t expect me to believe that you actually give him freedom?” Araj croons with a disbelieving laugh.

It sets Rin’s heart on fire with a fierce squeeze and has her taking a step towards the other woman, one of her hands settling on the pommel of her rapier.

“Astarion makes his own decisions. He’s not just some petty servant that can be ordered around and forced to do whatever he’s told. He’s a person, not a possession.”

She can feel heat bristling off of Karlach behind her, no doubt her own temper rising and Rin is suddenly uncertain if they can solve this peacefully.

Or if she wants to continue trying.

A familiar touch settles on her shoulder and shifts her attention, Rin casting a glance back to Astarion as his gauntleted hand curls around the curve of it, glaring daggers of his own at the drow.

“She’s not worth your blade, darling. It would be an insult to such a work of art, frankly.”

It’s a sobering thought to recognize that it was Astarion, of all people, talking her down from starting a fight in the middle of enemy territory, and Rin’s hand falls from her sword to settle haughtily on her hip instead.

He was right, of course. Although, maybe not in the way he thinks. She’s incredibly certain Araj Oblodra is worth her blade—however, the ensuing chaos that would come after was likely not.

Or not yet, at least.

“Imagine having a vampire spawn at your side and not utilizing them for one of the only things they’re good for. Such luck is wasted upon the likes of you. How very dull and disappointing.”

“The only disappointing thing in this room is you,” Rin snaps back, loosening her posture. “And thankfully, we’re leaving it.”

And with a nod of her chin towards her companions, Rin turns on the spot and strides out of the room, not wasting another look back at Araj.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

The boat beneath Rin’s boots rocks softly from side to side as it cuts through the eerily still, darkened waters; the landscape on either side of her barely discernible in the heavy blackness that lingers, the occasional sickly green wisp of the curse emanating up to the sky in strangely flowing columns.

Her mood had been more-than-slightly soured by the interaction with Araj, but having a boat full of rescued tieflings and gnomes was helping immensely with that problem.

Had they perhaps taken a beating in the act of freeing them? Yes.

Did they succeed and somehow manage to get every single one of them to safety? Also yes, and so Rin is thoroughly pleased with the outcome of the situation.

Nary a day went by without some sort of casualty and while technically there were deaths abounding, they were not on their side and therefore she was happy.

Even as they stay silent, the boat gliding just as soundlessly, a certain feeling of hope flowed through the group and it was—dare she say—somewhat infectious.

Rescuing the tieflings and gnomes was not a huge win in their crusade against the Absolute, but it was something.

And something was better than nothing.

Rin’s eyes sweep back and forth across the water as they sail, Wyll’s doing the same beside her. She could feel what she assumes must be pride radiating off of the warlock at finally getting to do something good for once, as it had been quite awhile since they’d engaged in the sort of heroism she knows he loves.

Part of her wants to poke fun at him; but, unfortunately, it seems that a tiny bit of his noble and chivalrous nature had rubbed off on her tonight. She would, of course, be blaming it solely on his influence—however, she very much doubted that Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Frontiers himself, would mind much.

Out of the corner of her eye, the slightest shifting of movement catches her attention but she keeps her gaze on the land around them instead, resisting the impulse to turn towards the person she feels peering at her from behind.

She already knows it’s only Astarion watching her. Again. As per usual, at this point.

A sigh threatens to break forth, and she briefly considers letting it free. Really, he had to stop doing this; he wasn’t nearly as discreet with his gazing at her as she knows he thinks he is, and the increasing prevalence of it was beginning to confuse her.

His eyes had been on her almost the entire time since they had left their ill-fated conversation with that awful drow, only moving away from her form in the midst of the battle down in the depths of Moonrise.

She was used to his gaze, of course. How couldn’t she be, with all the time they’ve spent together? Hours upon hours upon hours spent in each other’s company. It was inevitable that she would grow to understand the weight and feeling of his attention on her, something about it always managing to produce a subtle flush of warm contentedness throughout her, even if it was still somewhat against her will.

There was something different about his gaze this time, though—it wasn’t angry or irritated, nor was it particularly amorous or kind.

It was tremulous, almost.

Puzzled.

It has her brows threatening to dip in the center, and her heartbeat quickens as her eyes catch his for a single moment, her lips curling up into a smile just for him, despite herself.

Rin just hopes it doesn’t look too pathetic and lovesick.

Astarion simply gives her an impersonal nod in reply before quickly averting his gaze and her chest clenches, the ache like an ever-deepening valley straight down the center of heart.

Gods, this whole ‘falling-for-your-friend-who-was-also-your-very-casual-lover’ thing was awful, honestly.

Just because she was willing to admit her feelings existed didn’t mean she had to like it—although, she didn’t feel quite so conflicted about the whole thing as she probably should in recent days.

It still begs the question of what to do with said feelings, useless things that they are.

What did she really think would happen, anyway? That Astarion would magically return the sentiment despite that he’s made it rather clear he does not, and then they’d run off into the hypothetical sunset together, hands clasped tight when finally free of the tadpoles?

Rin didn’t know how an actual relationship even worked, and therefore had no business entertaining the ideas of what one would look like with him. It was nothing more than a girlish flight of fancy, sweet and whimsical and utterly unrealistic.

But until she decides to get rid of them for good, she may as well hold tight to her affections—keep them a wonder to be coveted and fawned over in her most private of moments, until she figured it out.

Besides, the warmth that had begun to grow in her chest wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Strange, of course; but also rather…nice, in a way that felt inarguably right.

Never mind the fact that she could still vividly recall the feeling of his palm poised on her back as they had walked through the inn or how it felt to have his hand wrapped around her own hidden beneath the table, the subtle comfort of his touch, genuine and not at all physical in the way his touch usually was, so different than any she’s felt before.

The memory of that entire night was one that had kept her resolutely awake several evenings in a row now as she had mused relentlessly over it all, never to come to single conclusion or answer.

She holds back another sigh, resisting the urge to rub tiredly at her eyes. Her gloves were still coated with the viscous remnants of blood from the battle, and she’d rather not get any more of it on her than necessary.

She really needed to get a fucking grip on this newfound sentimentality of hers before it gets her killed.

Or worse.

The boat rocks, shaking her from her thoughts as she adjusts her footing in an attempt to not fall on her face when Rin realizes she had, quite regretfully, been staring rather thoughtfully at the area near a certain vampire and her cheeks heat with a twinge of embarrassment.

With luck, no one—namely Astarion himself—noticed.

They had arrived back, it seemed; the boat docking off of the rotting pier with the help of several of the Flaming Fist, who were currently looking at them rather suspiciously, tension leaving her limbs alongside the rising revelation that they had made it back all in one piece and with a gaggle of newly freed prisoners.

She steps forward, words for the Harpers that had quickly sidled up to join the Fists already on her tongue before she can think much about it, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Astarion striding resolutely away, already off the ramshackle vessel before she’d even manage to disembark back onto land.

One of the Harpers, a younger one with a face still surprisingly fresh for being stuck in a hell like this, attempts to yell after him in vain until a few more words from her soothe him that there’s nothing to worry about.

By the time they had gone through and assured themselves that the tieflings and gnomes were not, in fact, members of the Absolute, Astarion was long gone.

Rin pushes past the subtle disappointment that plays along the edges of her heart and before she can think much more on it, a large, very warm hand clamps around hers and the overly excited voice of its owner commands her attention.

“Oi, Soldier, let’s go have a drink in celebration!”

Karlach’s joy is palpable as Rin turns to look at her and she finds herself nodding along and smiling before she even agrees, body already beginning to move itself towards the inn with little thought on her part.

A spot of wine or a shot of some whiskey would help with whatever it was that she was feeling, surely.

It’d never failed her before, at least—gods forbid anyone ever find out just how many bottles of alcohol she’d consumed over the years in attempts to forget one thing or another.

It was a pity Astarion didn’t seem to want to join them, though. He seemed so preoccupied, stuck in his thoughts with faraway eyes. The part of her heart that houses her fledging love for him wants to go trot along after him like some lovesick puppy, eager to ask what was wrong and offer whatever sort of comfort he’d allow her to heap upon him.

Her pride, however, feels a little differently.

Clearly, Astarion must want some space. If he didn’t, Rin had no doubt he’d be beside her already, itching for a spare glass of whatever would be served tonight and eager to mock the festivities, or lack there of.

Another hand reaches out towards her and she shifts towards Wyll right as he claps an arm around her shoulders, smile handsome and good-natured as he grins down at her.

“Let’s go, friend. We deserve a round or two in celebration, don’t you say?”

“A round or two with the Blade of Frontiers? Why, it would be an honor. Lead the way, my good sir.”

And so, Rin walks beside her friends with a smile on her face, still tucked beneath Wyll’s arm as she attempts to push her thoughts of Astarion to the side for at least a little while before her ever-present and flourishing affections for the most troublesome person she’s ever met return to bother her once more.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

Astarion’s hand was shaking.

It was slight. Barely noticeable, really.

But it was there, all the same—just enough for it to be thoroughly irritating as he grips a quill tightly between his fingers, hovering above the parchment.

A heavy dot of ink drips down from the sharpened point of the creamy feather and onto the surface in the silence, wet and glossy and perfectly round as his hand stays frozen and his eyes reread over the already written words, his script uncharacteristically hasty and decidedly ill-fitting of himself.

To my most trusted companion friend dearest Rin,

I wanted to thank you for

Thank you for what you said

I greatly appreciate you

Astarion’s lips curl into a grimace as he finally moves into action, hand striking down to make another vengeful slash and cross through the words before throwing the quill to the ground in defeat with a noise of disgust.

It’s a terrible confusion that threatens his person, his eyes narrowing into a steely glare that he directs towards the innocent piece of parchment. How in the hells was he supposed to finish this letter when he could barely formulate a way to address her, much less a single complete sentence?

His mind, unfortunately, seems to have worked itself into a rather damning tangle of thoughts; full of all manner of questions, words, and—perhaps worst of all—feelings.

Astarion sighs, deep and heavy, as he drags his eyes over the words he’s written down for the umpteenth time, drawing a hand through his hair in exasperation as he reads over them once more.

My most trusted companion—a truthful, yet slightly incriminating title. She was indeed his most trusted companion and it’s a fact he finds that he can admit rather easily and with minimal insult to his person.

However, referring to her as simply his companion felt…odd. Wrong, somehow. Despite the truth in it, it felt lacking.

Even he, woeful as he is to acknowledge it, knows that they are more than just that.

He moves on to the next one.

My friend—an equally truthful title, but full of even more implication.

It has taken him time to accept that she is, in fact, his friend.

He’s not had a single friend over the past two hundred years and so he relishes her companionship in a way he would never admit out loud. But he’s not so sure that ‘friends’ is adequate enough to describe whatever it is that exists between them, either.

She was his friend, yes; but she was also perhaps something else, too.

Something deeper.

His eyes glide over to the most recent option written down, and his jaw tightens.

My dearest—Easily the worst option of the three. Easily the most damning.

Also, unfortunately, easily the most true; for he had begun to think of her more and more as his these days, and despite his best attempts to do the opposite he was failing rather spectacularly.

He’s not entirely sure when, exactly, he had begun to see her as such, but the line had blurred beyond his control and comprehension regardless of his wishes.

He’s not even sure what it means. All he knows is that it spells disaster.

And yet, he’s not done much to stop the acceleration. Not much at all, despite that he has no idea why he’s so compelled to ruin himself in such a way.

Astarion shoots to standing, tension biting at the spaces between his bones, and his feet instantly start to move; intent to carry him in circles around the small interior of his tent as his frustration begins to mount.

Who knew that penning what should be a simple letter would be so damned difficult? It was an insult to his person, surely, to be unable to engage in such a basic skill.

Initially, he had thought that writing Rin a letter would be a far superior method by which to thank her for earlier, but every second that he had wasted staring at the parchment seems to be a blatant sign that his inclination to do so was, apparently, incorrect.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair once more out of habit more than anything before letting his arms cross over one another in front of his chest.

Letters, Astarion thought, had the potential to be wonderfully personal. He had never thought much of them since becoming a vampire, admittedly—for who, exactly, was he to send such correspondence to?

But there was a hint of the vaguest of memories, the sort that sit on the fraying edges of his mind and are long-dulled by time, of writing many letters once upon a time.

He can no longer remember who they were to—perhaps for nothing more than banal legalities, or to whatever sort of family it was that he had, or even to someone precious like a lover—but he still remembers the precise feeling of signing his name at the bottom of them, even when the rest of those memories have been sundered from his mind.

He can’t say if he ever enjoyed letter-writing before, when life still breathed in his chest, or if he held the act as one that was more necessity than pleasure.

He could, however, say with some certainty that he had become quite fond of the act as of recently.

One could add flourishes of themselves throughout a letter, Astarion had found; could fill them with all kinds of words and thoughts and feelings. Letters held sentiment, but an easy kind—just enough to seem thoughtful, but not too much.

Better yet, letters meant that one did not have to be physically present while said sentiment was being read by its recipient.

And best of all, letters meant that Astarion himself did not have to do the actual admittance himself, which was undoubtedly a rather large advantage when it came to his dearest bard. It was, of course, much easier to pretend that it didn’t matter if he didn’t have to actually speak the words aloud.

Part of him was still trying to understand why he felt the inclination to thank her at all, truthfully. However, the other part of him—clearly, the part that was winning—wonders how he couldn’t.

Not after what she had done for him.

Astarion’s footsteps slow, hands coming to rest on his hips as a heavy, hanging cloud of bewilderment rises to hover above him once more.

It was not the first time such a thing had happened this evening, unfortunately for him; instead now the third or fourth time he’d been stopped in his tracks as the weight of that little interaction earlier had decided to rain down upon him.

A decision. One that had been left up to him and on his own terms, of all things.

It was equal parts soul-crushing and exhilarating.

His mind still runs wild at the prospect, and the confusion that has been busy twisting around his insides threatens to coil itself tighter around his long-stalled heart and uselessly fluttering lungs.

Astarion had long forgotten how it felt to make a decision for himself in such a manner. Decision-making was not a luxury he had been allowed to afford in his many years pinned beneath Cazador’s thumb and at the mercy of his cruel whims.

His body was a tool—and tools were meant to be used, were they not?

The act of not using himself, simply because he didn’t want to, was a terribly daunting prospect.

It went against everything he knew about himself to be true, every one of those nights he had spent out searching for a new victim a bitter lesson of how to utilize himself to the fullest potential in the way he did it best.

It had always felt like hard evidence of the fact that he was worth little else besides his body.

Rin, however, did not think so and it was still to his great confusion that she didn’t order him to simply bite the drow.

Had he declined to bite her? Yes.

But he had declined while still expecting to have to sink his teeth into her one way or another, in the end.

No matter how hard he tries, Astarion can’t seem to put the pieces together, can’t seem to understand why she would do such a thing—a little bit of his discomfort sounded like a worthy price to pay for a legendary potion, frankly.

His entire existence for the past two centuries had been comprised of doing terrible things he didn’t want to do on behalf of someone else. What was one more entry onto an innumerable list of horrible acts?

This one was rather tame in comparison to most of the things he’d done, in all honesty.

The drow’s blood had smelled sickening, something so wrong about it that it had repulsed him, and no doubt it would have tasted even worse; but blood was blood, was it not?

All he would have had to do was swallow it down and direct his thoughts elsewhere while he did so. He’d certainly had plenty of practice at that particular technique over the years, and has learned to be very, very good at it.

He could have done it so easily—it wouldn’t even have been hard. Not really.

His stomach still turns, however, at the thought of it as the things Rin had said spin around his mind, each one a vicious strike to the chest.

He belongs to no one.

He said no.

Astarion makes his own decisions.

He’s a person, not a possession.

What a fucking concept.

He can’t help but roll his eyes at the thought, bitterness sweeping through him like a swift and cutting wind.

They had been kind words, spoken without an ounce of contemplation, as if the answers had simply spouted from her mouth without a second thought, like it was something she had never questioned before—as if they were some truth that she knew to be unequivocally right.

As though she’d never thought otherwise about using him to get something.

Perhaps she hadn’t.

It’s a strange, dawning thought to consider and Astarion feels like he’s standing on the precipice of something both great and terrible; as if at any minute his feet could be swept out beneath him—though whether he would be greeted with something soft upon the ground or instead by something snapping at him with sharp teeth he was unsure; and he wasn’t entirely sold on finding out which it was, either.

Because why? Why not use him?

It’s a question he has no answer for, something in Astarion’s chest giving a strange pulse when he thinks on it too long. She’d let him make a multitude of decisions so far, but none of them seemed nearly as important in comparison.

The feeling grows only more desperate the longer he thinks on it, another hazy tide of confusion flowing over him and threatening to pull him back out into the ether.

He doesn’t know why she did it, and he really shouldn’t care—why did it suddenly matter so much that he understood the reason behind the why? She had helped him, protected him without a second thought, and wasn’t that the entire reason he had strived to win her over when this all began?

He shouldn’t care about anything she does, so long as it was to his express benefit. Any reasoning on her part was none of his business.

And yet, he’s hit with the same troublesome feeling that keeps chasing him around—that irrepressible affection towards her that he doesn’t fully understand but compels him towards her regardless.

There was one way he could figure out the answer. He could, of course, simply find and then ask her, but the thought utterly terrifies him.

She’d tell him, of course. Astarion knows she would, likely without argument and in that irritatingly floaty way of hers, insouciant words flowing airily from her lips with little thought.

The only problem is that he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear it.

But he wasn’t getting anywhere with this letter of his, at any rate. Perhaps this was something that he did need to do in person, if only to free himself from the words and these dreaded feelings.

It didn’t have to be much. Just a quick thank you, toss in a why? if he still felt it necessary to ask, then a final good night and he’d be gone.

He could manage that, certainly.

The fact that going to ask her also meant getting to see her again, if only for a little while, was beside the point.

Astarion stands straighter, adjusting the collar on his shirt and pulling at the ruffle to settle it before striding out of his tent and into camp.

It’s blessedly empty and he breathes a sigh of relief at the fact. Nothing was ever really private here and it’s better that the others can’t hear him thanking her, lest they get the wrong idea and think that he owes them one too.

He still had an image to uphold, after all.

When his steps near her tent, it’s the lingering scent of her that hits him first, all flowers and warm skin and the delectable sweetness of her blood, and it fills him with a sudden swell of fondness.

Were he to be blinded, he’s certain he would always be able to find his way to her without the gift of sight on her scent alone, the exact bouquet of her imprinted into his memory right alongside the constellations of freckles dotting along on her cheeks and the precise leafy green of her eyes.

A candle flickers from within and a single silhouette moves inside, the lines of her soft and diffused. Astarion doesn’t let himself linger, doesn’t give himself time to consider or think or back out and instead just pushes on, gliding through the tent flap unannounced as he was wont to do, much to her perpetual chagrin.

And then he’s there, in her tent—in her space, her warmth—and Rin’s turning to look at him as she pulls the last tie of her gambeson loose, the rest of her armor already placed in a jumbled pile outside and ready for the next day.

“Astarion!” She smiles his way and she’s unfairly beautiful when she does so, his chest giving an ungraceful lurch. “I just got back from the inn. Missed you, by the way. You would have loved all the free drinks floating around tonight.”

“I do hope the wine was better than that vinegar we had the last time we celebrated their freedom.”

He tries to imbue his words with a little humor, though he’s not so sure the levity makes it through.

“Alcohol is alcohol, is it not?” Rin winks, and it’s warm and playful and familiar.

He craves it.

Astarion smiles half-heartedly as she finally sheds the gambeson, folding it haphazardly and laying it down upon the top of a small trunk before closing the distance between them, her feet stopping just before his own. “Come now, darling, where are your standards?”

She looks up at him, another smile painted on her face and he’s not sure if he’s imagined the fact that the ones she’s seemed bestow upon him recently have been even sweeter than normal.

He doesn’t mind it, though. In fact, he thinks he likes them even more so.

“My standards are just fine, thank you,” She says primly. “And what have you been up to, hm? Not having too much fun without me, I hope.”

“Fun? Without you? Why, I could never.” Astarion says with a raise of his brow, and he pointedly hates that it’s becoming the truth.

Rin rolls her eyes; a rosy, watercolored flush beginning to color her cheeks. “Oh, come now, you’re very good at entertaining yourself. But now that you’re here, do you want to share a drink with me? Keep me company for a little while, at the very least, won’t you? You’ll never guess who got up and started dancing on one of the tables earlier—”

She swivels, her slowly unraveling braid trailing behind her as she searches for a bottle of something she had clearly stowed away from everyone else to keep for herself. And, apparently, for him.

For them.

The thought sends a strange thrill through him and he’s unsure whether to feel sick or giddy at the prospect.

He had to do it now. He needed to.

Astarion knows exactly what would happen if he doesn’t. She’ll open that bottle and he’ll swallow down his words alongside the wine and pretend to forget about them before drowning himself in her instead.

And it would be wonderful. A lovely excuse to lie to himself that he’s not being eaten alive from the inside out by the words clawing up his throat and shredding at his chest as he loses himself in everything she offers; only for him to be devoured by it all when he leaves her later in the night, cold and alone.

“I—” he clears his throat before taking a breath, forever unnecessary but an unbeatable habit. “Actually, I wanted to thank you.”

He withholds the grimace that threatens to break out as she turns back to him, the minute surprise coloring her features quickly smoothed over with what appears to be another genuine smile aimed right at him again.

Gods, he’s fucked.

“Oh, you’re very welcome—although I’m not quite sure what you’re thanking me for. Are you feeling well, Astarion?” She huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’d check your temperature but I fear that you’re already dead. Can vampires even get fevers? I assume not, but no harm in checking, I suppose.”

Rin’s hand floats up, the back of it connecting with his forehead in a soft press, the warmth of her stark against his own ever-present chill and he wishes he could cocoon himself in the feeling.

He should leave. He should get out and run away and never come back.

But Astarion knows, deep down, that such a thing is no longer possible. If he wanted to run, he’d missed his opportunity long ago.

“I wanted to thank you for what you said. Earlier. In front of that vile drow.”

The humor and ease falls off her face at the mention, Rin’s brows drawing together and Astarion misses the smile as it fades from her lips and her eyes take on a more somber look to them.

Slowly, she removes her hand from his forehead and he distinctly mourns the loss of it.

“You didn’t have to do that, and I, ah, appreciate it.” He swallows as he looks down at her. “Very much.”

“You don’t need to thank me. Not for that.” Rin’s words come out in a quiet rush as she shakes her head.

“But, I do. I have spent the past two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.”

Astarion takes a breath, slow and halting as he stares down at the pretty thing right in front of him, the exact sort he would have chosen back in Baldur’s Gate for a whole host of reasons, and something in him sharpens at the thought.

“You could have asked me to do the same—to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned. And I would have done it. I would have done it without another thought, simply because you had asked it of me. But you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”

His words lead off and the vulnerability bleeding from them is enough to send him into a panic. He didn’t mean for this to all sound so soft and so…pathetic.

Wrong. This was already going wrongwrongwrong.

“Oh, Astarion,” Rin starts, taking a step closer, and her voice is sickeningly sweet as her eyes fill with some sort of aching tenderness that swims in the darkened emerald of them as her brow creases.

It feels like he’s dying all over again, as if he can feel the air once again being stolen from his lungs as he takes in her face and suddenly he has to know.

He has to know the truth.

“But there’s one thing that I just don’t understand.”

Guilt that he can barely stand and the rush of something else—the name of the feeling beginning to burn on the tip of his tongue—ignite as they move through his veins and he’s not sure he can handle feeling like this for much longer.

“I don’t understand why. Why didn’t you make me do it?” Astarion can’t hide the desperation in his voice no matter how hard he tries, and he hates the sound of it but he’s far beyond the point of caring about such things. “It would have been so easy to let it happen, to just do it. Nothing more than a little bit of disgust to force myself through, and then I could have carried on. Like I’ve always done. So why, Rin?”

It’s another shot to the heart when she takes his hand in her own, squeezing it gently in reassurance as she looks up at him with what she probably thinks is a soft, kind smile.

To him, it’s a death sentence.

“Because, Astarion. You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She says it so plainly, as though anything had ever been that simple for him, and not for the first time, he finds that he wants to hate her. Wishes he could hate her and her sweet smile, her clever words, her aching sympathy—she was almost unbearable to look at.

“Why do you— must you—” his words start and stop as his brow creases. “Why must you always be so…so kind?”

He can’t help but spit out the word, tasting poison on his tongue.

Rin’s other hand settles on his shoulder and her touch burns.

“Because you deserve it.”

It’s a blow to the chest and it threatens to send him stumbling to the ground. She’s wrong. More than she’s ever been before.

“I don’t.” He shakes his head, the name of that feeling incinerating his tongue now kindling to life in his mind. “I don’t deserve your kindness one bit.”

She doesn’t understand. The last thing he deserves is kindness, especially from her.

She, who had helped him and stood up for him and comforted him while he had schemed and seduced his way past her defenses to lure her into his net.

She, who he had lied to and manipulated his way into her bed for his own gain, all without a care of how she would feel about it.

She, who he had mistakenly gotten lost in during the process of trying to save himself and himself only, and is only just now realizing that there is no easy way out.

He had pretended too hard; played his own role so well that he had somehow floated adrift in the middle of it and had forgotten that he was playing a part at all, and the bitter reality that he can no longer act like he doesn’t care settles in between his lungs, squeezing them in a vice.

The joke, it seems, is thoroughly on him, and the voice in his mind—the one that has been busy screaming at him to think of his plan these past weeks, the one that he’s begun to readily ignore—only laughs cruelly.

Oh, gods.

The feeling, the one now burning him alive from the inside out, intensifies and so Astarion does the only thing he can think to do in that moment as every emotion he’s pushed down and tried to forget about rises to a fever pitch in his chest, and leans down to press a kiss to her lips. It’s a far softer press than it should be, but he can’t seem to summon up the will to put more force into the action.

Rin makes a surprised noise as their lips connect but it doesn’t stop her from slowly moving her hand up to touch against his cheek as she applies the softest pressure back against his own.

Astarion feels like it says: I’m here. I’m with you.

He breaks away for a mere moment, his forehead pressing against her own, but it’s still long enough for her to whisper words that only serve to destroy him all the more.

“You deserve everything, Astarion.”

There’s a painful spark in the space where his heart rests that has him wanting to move back in, to kiss her harder this time to stop the flow of her words.

He doesn’t want to hear them, he doesn’t want to know.

It’s enough to see it in her eyes but he doesn’t know if he can handle hearing it come from her lips. But somehow, he knows that kissing her won’t stop the feeling. It won’t be enough to distract him from the truth that he usually hides himself from.

Not anymore.

And so Astarion buries his face into the crook of her neck instead, pressing his head into her shoulder as his arms hang loosely around her waist and it’s not an embrace—not really—but it’s all he can manage as he takes a shuddering breath.

It’s pitiful, whatever it is, but somehow it feels like it’s the closest he’s ever been to her.

“Thank you. For not making me do it.” He sounds pathetic. Weary.

It’s only but a speck of the eternal exhaustion that hangs over him with an unrelenting agony; but it still feels raw, like a wound exposed to salt.

One of Rin’s hands lifts, slow and cautious, and lands on his hair as she leans her head to rest against his before her fingertips begin to run soothingly through the strands; its twin moving from his cheek to settle along his back.

She accidentally grazes the raised edge of one of his scars and even with the barrier of linen he has to hold back the shiver that threatens to run through him. It’s perhaps the one place she’s never touched him, her hands always polite enough to stay at his shoulders and never stray lower.

“I don’t want you to ever do something you don’t want to do, Astarion. You’ve done it plenty for other people, you don’t need to do it for me, too.”

He has nothing to say to that, squeezing his eyes shut instead as he takes another shuddering breath.

Astarion doesn’t know how long they stay like that, his head on her shoulder and her hand continuing to run through his hair in soothing strokes—it could have been mere seconds or it could have been minutes upon minutes—and he finds he doesn’t care, only soaking in the soft, quiet comfort she offers him.

He wished it didn’t feel so right to be like this, that being held in her arms didn’t feel like a sanctuary away from the wreck that was his life. She’s the only reprieve he’s ever known and he’s still managed to twist it all into a mess of his own making.

When Astarion finally lets go of her, his hands dropping from her waist as he rises to his full height, he feels as if he’s been gutted and wrecked and undoubtedly ruined as she looks up at him, eyes shining with that unnameable thing, the one he can’t yet acknowledge.

“What do you need, Astarion? I can—I can help you. You just have to let me,” She says, tender and beseeching, and the sound of it threatens to burn him to cinders, in that way only she seemed to be capable of.

The answer is immediate.

Her. He needs her. Not the solace of her body, not even the sweetness of her blood.

Just her, exactly as she.

She’s never looked more incandescent than she has before this moment and it’s a devastating revelation that not even the shadow of a bruise that darkens her jaw or the stray drops of blood splattered along the side of her neck or the unruly curls breaking free of her braid are able to dull the light he feels emanating from her as she stares up at him, concern pulling at her features.

Something in his chest swells painfully as he stares hopelessly down at Rin’s upturned face and it threatens to take the wind out of his lungs once more.

“I-I need to be alone. I need to…rest.” It’s a terrible lie and she’s far too perceptive to ever actually believe it, but she nods anyway as she smiles—soft and almost sad, though why he doesn’t quite grasp.

“Then rest, Astarion.”

He nods and steps away, her hands falling away from him to hang empty at her sides as her lips threaten to turn down in the corners.

“Thank you, Rin. I—”

The rest of the words die in his throat, and he realizes he doesn’t even know what else he was going to say as he lets himself take in one last look of her, re-memorizing the solemn softness of her features, before he turns and strides out.

Astarion walks through camp in a daze, unknowing of who, if anyone, sees him. All he can hope is that whatever it is that he’s feeling doesn’t show plainly on his face.

He’s not so certain he succeeds in that, though.

By the time he makes it back to his own tent, it’s with little ceremony. He does’t bother to light a candle or pour himself a glass of wine in hopes of reprieve, instead only heaving a deep, bone weary sigh.

When he throws himself down onto his bedroll, he can do no more than stare up at the darkened canopy of it, the colors near indistinguishable in the darkness as a rising surge of thought and emotions rush over him and he’s finally able to ascertain what it all means.

It felt quite a bit like being stabbed, were he to be honest—each and every truth another knife plunging into him, all of them striking with a cruel accuracy.

Desperately, Astarion tries to pinpoint the exact moment of when, precisely, it was that he lost control and began to careen into madness; but his mind comes up blank and his only answer is that perhaps he’s been descending into it all along, little by little.

And suddenly it’s as if he can see every moment, each one a stitch of silken thread in the tapestry of their months together, and it all comes together with such startling clarity that he has no idea what to do with the revelation, seemingly capable of only continuing to stare blankly up at the canopy of his tent.

It’s the very same one that he’s been slowly working towards acknowledging for weeks now—the one he’s been trying to bury with little luck.

All those nights spent by the fire, an uncountable stream of hours walking together across the landscape, the constant battles and celebrations and games of cards and all the songs she had sang aloud or strummed her lyre to. Every piece of clothing he had mended, her clever little quips, the way it felt far more right than wrong to spend an evening by her side.

The soft comfort, the quiet hours, that steady solidarity towards him that he’s not sure he’s ever really noticed, but more so felt.

Perhaps he’s been doomed from the very first moment, that first touch, and it’s all been downhill from then onward.

His chest burns with the knowledge and panic sets forth, wreaking havoc.

One on hand, Astarion’s thoroughly unsure how he had let it happen, for how could he have let himself become so compromised when he thought he had his eyes so resolutely on the proverbial prize that was to be his eventual freedom?

But on the other, he’s just as unsure as to how he could have ever thought he wouldn’t become so, now that he can see the situation for what it really is.

He should have stopped this charade long ago, should have quit while he was ahead and perhaps then he would have stood a chance, before he had let himself open up to the full breadth of her—her wit, the hidden sweetness, the kindness of it all.

But now?

It’s over. He’s done.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

If there was to be any divine justice in the world or if any gods were to decide to finally pity him, he hopes they do it now and end him for good; for how in the absolute hells was he supposed to go on—to survive—knowing that he’s somehow managed to fall most ardently for the only person in the entire realm he never should have.

#work from moot highly recommend <3 #fellow ao3 writer #highly recommend #good fic <3 #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #fic: to eden #verbenaa writes things!#bg3 fic #astarion x oc #astarion bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #time for them to be super awkward around each other and pretend like they both aren't totally in deep for one another

14 notes · View notes