Mister Asylum — Simon “Ghost” Riley
Warnings: Suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, hospitilization.
Patient!Simon Riley x Fem!Nurse!Reader
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Simon always knew that his life would end this way—head pressed against the barrel of a waiting gun, emotionless eyes staring straight ahead, preparing. He never expected it to be by his own hand, though he couldn’t let himself be surprised, could he? Years of abuse, trauma, bloodshed, scorn. He’s hardly a saint. This ending is better than the one he expected, for himself, for the rest of the world. Maybe even more merciful than the death he truly deserves.
He sits with his legs criss-crossed in the middle of his living room that remains decorated with nothing more than a simple glass top coffee table and a sofa opposite of him. No rug or carpet that blood could soak into, no stains that the next homeowners would be plagued by having to deal with. Easy cleanup for the crime scene crew once the authorities would inevitably be called. It would be as if he never even lived there—a ghost resident whose demise would never be revealed even to those riddled with the most morbid curiosity.
Simon is so lost in his own calculations, that he doesn’t process the turn of a spare key in the lock of his front door as he digs the pistol further into his temple, jaw clenched so tightly that the tendon is sore. He didn’t anticipate that Johnny had decided to visit, and he surely didn’t expect the gun to be knocked out of his hand and his large body to be tackled to the floor by his sergeant. The weapon goes off but the bullet doesn’t blast through his skull like he’d planned—instead, it fires at the couch cushion and settles in the fuzzy depths, right where he would usually sit on a lazy afternoon.
He almost doesn’t process the way Johnny’s tears spill onto his pale, maskless face, the way the Scotsman holds his wrists down above his head and against the wooden tile with one hand as he calls Captain Price with the other. Not that Simon needed to be held down. He was far too weary and defeated to fight. His voice was stuck in his raw, aching throat until the sergeant cupped his face in his hands, desperation and anger written on his features.
“Shoulda let m’go, Johnny,” Simon rasps, blank brown eyes staring at the ceiling, unwilling to look his best mate in the eye.
“Ne’er, LT,” Johnny lightly smacks the lieutenant’s cheeks affectionately, once-bright blue eyes now tinged with worry as they dart between his friend and the door.
The captain eventually arrives and helps Johnny escort Simon outside, into his truck. The three men sit in silence in the driveway for a while until John speaks up.
“You understand we can’t let you be alone anymore,” his usual gruff voice softened with something akin to sadness—sympathy, maybe.
“Yes, sir,” Simon nods, hands clasped together, resting in his lap.
“Nor can we let you go on any missions. Protocol won’t allow it, and quite frankly, I’m worried you’d put yourself in harm’s way purposefully. I can’t have you or my other men getting hurt,” Price sighs, running a large hand down his face and covering his mouth, lost in thought.
“Understood, sir,” The lieutenant grunts, trying to ignore the sound of Johnny’s sniffles beside him.
“I’ve spoken with Laswell as well as my own superiors, and we’ve come to the conclusion that… institutionalization would be the best course of action.”
Simon falls silent. Take him out of the field, fine. Keep him company to make sure he’s alright, great. But being thrown into the looney bin feels more like retribution than treatment. His fists clench and he can feel the captain’s watchful eyes on him in the rearview mirror.
“Simon, this- I hope you know this wasn’t an easy decision for anyone to make. I’d much sooner call a missile strike than put you somewhere other than under my protection. But unfortunately my hands are tied.”
“Simon, ye ‘ave tae listen. Please,” Johnny rests his hand on top of one of Simon’s, trying not to let out a sob at the trembling he feels in his superior. “We need ye ‘ere.”
This isn’t right. None of this shit would have happened if he had just pulled the trigger sooner. Simon’s mind is nothing short of a maelstrom wreaking its havoc, screaming at him to jump out of this truck and book it to the nearest bridge to jump off of. He might have done just that if his body wasn’t vibrating with frustration and helplessness and blinding regret—or maybe it’s just the hot tears that blur his vision and render him unable to move or even breathe properly.
“You’re as good as a son to me, Simon. Let us do this for you. For us,” John sniffs, and if he didn’t know any better, Simon might have thought his captain was crying. “You don’t have another choice.”
Simon doesn’t speak again, rather gives a single nod to signal his compliance. An order is an order no matter how badly he wants to ignore it. All he wants to do is melt and allow the backseat of Price’s truck to absorb him. It all seems like far too much fuss just for him, an assassin, scum of the earth, a waste of precious space. He settles for blinking the tears out of his eyes and looking out the window, even allowing Johnny to keep a calloused hand on top of his own. John calls the hospital and lets them know they’ll be getting an intake.
The drive to Shadywood Hospital is a silent one save for the occasional sniffle or sigh, or the rattle of the truck’s tailgate on a particularly bumpy road. Nobody dares say anything out of fear that they’ll offend one of the other men. The last thing Price and Johnny want to do is make the situation worse, and Simon isn’t the kind to open up about his troubles, even more so now that his plan has been obliterated. He’s supposed to be a strong, unyielding leader—fearless, not this shell of a soldier who let his pain and misery take over. He used to be precisely that: an unstoppable, unbreakable force. He’s not sure when exactly that changed.
The exterior of the hospital is about as dull and lifeless as Simon expected, mossy overgrowth clinging to the weathered brick structure. It looks like something straight out of an old horror film, he thinks. All it needs is some thunderstorm sound effects and perhaps a murder of crows to warn of his impending doom. No such luck. Maybe even the darkest of forces don’t deem him worthy of such caution. Maybe even the most heinous of monsters would ridicule and cast out the enigma that he is.
“Out ye get, LT,” Johnny pats him on one broad shoulder, trained eyes scanning the lieutenant’s face for any hint of emotion be it sadness or fury.
Simon remains stoic as he steps out of the truck, batting away Price and Johnny’s hands that try to usher him inside. Not a bloody child, he thinks, though the petulance with which he crosses his arms would suggest otherwise. When the rush of cold air hits his face, he’s suddenly aware of just how naked he is without his mask and he turns around with a shake of his head.
“Not goin’ in,” he mutters, scratching at the tattoos on his left forearm so hard that he peels the skin.
Johnny grabs Simon’s wrist to get him to stop, frowning at the sight of his nails, sharp and much longer than he usually keeps them. He’s unsure of how nobody noticed that their beloved Ghost had stopped taking care of himself. John sighs and runs a hand through his hair, contemplating before nodding firmly.
“I’m sure they have a mask in there. I’ll go grab one for you, yeah?” He grins softly, patting Simon’s back fondly before stepping inside.
“Ye’ll be alreit, ye ken,” Johnny steps in front of Simon, hands resting firmly on his biceps to get him to meet his eyes. “Ye ‘ave tae be. Ye’re Ghost. Ye’re me brother.”
Simon chokes back a sob, teary eyes fixed on the darkening clouds in the dreary sky to avoid showing his weakness. It breaks him to see his sergeant so worried about him. He doesn’t deserve his pity, his fear. Price comes back before Johnny can force Simon to say anything in response.
“Here you are,” John hums, handing Simon the flimsy mask and offering him a gentle chuckle. “Black, just for you.”
Simon nods again, adjusting the flexible metal in the surgical material to fit the crooked bridge of his nose. Feeling a little less exposed, he sucks in a deep breath and turns on his heel to trudge into the hospital. The fluorescent lights nearly blind him and he furrows his eyebrows, blinking through the pain before focusing his eyes on the receptionist.
“Simon Riley,” he breathes, and the lady nods with a soft smile.
“Yes, sir. If you’ll have a seat over there, the intake nurse will be right out. Would you like your mates to-”
“Yes,” he cuts her off, nodding towards Price and Johnny who stand beside him like bodyguards. “Sorry. Yes. I’d like them to be in there with me. Please.”
“Of course,” she nods once more, offering the three men another small grin.
Simon, Price, and Johnny all sit in the waiting area impatiently. The sergeant looks around nervously while the lieutenant stays still as a statue, eyes focused on the floor. John sniffs and rubs his clammy palms on his jeans. Simon can’t remember the last time he’s seen the captain this anxious, and knowing he caused it makes him feel even worse. He shouldn’t have hesitated; he should have just pulled the trigger immediately upon holding the gun to his head. There wouldn’t have been this much trouble for the team.
The sliding doors part with a mechanical whir and heavy footsteps rush in, boots squeaking against the linoleum floor. Simon wasn’t going to pay it any mind, but Johnny stands up and goes to greet the person with a hug. He only looks up when he feels a hand on his shoulder, eyes meeting deep brown ones much like his own. Kyle.
“Simon,” Kyle whispers, placing his other hand on the lieutenant’s opposite shoulder. “Price called.”
Another wave of shame washes over Simon and he suddenly can’t bring himself to maintain eye contact with his other sergeant. He doesn’t deserve this kind of support, especially not from the entire task force. His throat closes up and it gets hard to breathe. He’s trapped in his head, locked in place, and the walls are closing in. The tears threaten to spill despite his struggle to hold them back, burning at the brink of his waterline. It’s too much, he’s suffocating, he’s about to snap-
As if right on cue, the nurse comes in and calls his name. He jumps up, shoving past Kyle to follow the woman behind the protected doors without looking back. The other three follow close after and stand with their backs to the wall, intently listening to the questions Simon is asked. The lieutenant almost laughs—he’s usually on the other side of the interrogation table.
Simon fills out the countless pages of paperwork with a shaking hand, carefully sliding the clipboard back to the nurse. He feels so small, so pathetic, having this many people watch over him like he’s a sickly babe. In a way, he supposes he is—the only difference is that an infant is worth saving.
“With the information you’ve given me, Mr. Riley, we will be admitting you effective immediately. Your progress will determine the length of your stay. We’ll be monitoring you closely each day to see how you’re doing, alright?” The nurse tilts her head sympathetically, cusping her hand over one of Simon’s. “We’re gonna get you feeling better, sir.”
Simon nods slowly, nervous eyes flickering past the woman to look between his three mates. They all have the same solemn expression on their face, each fidgeting with a different finger or article of clothing. He thinks they’d rather be getting shot at in a foreign country than here, coddling this grown man who doesn’t know how to handle his emotions. He would, too.
“I’ll give the four of you a couple of minutes to chat while I go get your bracelet ready, yeah?” The nurse excuses herself, slipping past the two sergeants that stand on either side of the door.
The men are silent, none of them exactly sure of what to say or do until Simon finally breaks down, his head falling into his hands. Pesky tears he’d been trying so hard to fight off stream down his face and soak into his mask, his broad shoulders shaking with every raspy sob that dares rip from his throat. John immediately pushes himself off the wall and embraces his lieutenant who, for the first time this evening, doesn’t bother fighting him off. Price’s large hand cradles Simon’s head to his clothed midriff, the other patting his back like a father would calm a colicky baby.
“I’ve got you, Simon. You’re gonna be alright,” John whispers, fighting back tears of his own.
The captain hasn’t seen Simon cry like this for what seems like centuries. He never wanted to witness it again, but the hidden memories come flooding back in as he presses his cheek to the top of the blond man’s head. He had sworn from the moment he met Simon that he’d never allow any harm to come to him. He’d keep every enemy away, train him perfectly so that he could protect himself. He never considered that his lieutenant’s own mind could be deemed an enemy.
Johnny can’t stand the sight any longer—he shoves the door open and books it out of the hospital, back sliding down against the cracked brick as he brings his knees to his chest. Kyle follows quickly after, sitting beside his fellow sergeant, silent and seething, angry at himself for being so clueless. How could none of them, not one, see that Simon was doing so poorly?
Simon notes their absence even in the comforting arms of the only father figure he’s ever known.
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Prompt (it's okay if you ignore this one cos it's a bit dark/triggering): Lena, post S4 having just killed her brother & finding out about the SG secret, is suicidal, like seriously considering ending it once and for all. BUT she finds something that brings her back to wanting to live and be happy (a new goal or motivation?) Side reigncorp would be nice, having Sam there to support her etc and she's the only one she trusts right now plus she's the only one who never lied to/betrayed her. Thanks!
WARNING FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS/INTENTIONS
----
Lena stares at the pill bottle in her hand. It would be so easy, she thinks. Just tip the bottle to her lips and swallow the lot with a chaser of bourbon. Let herself drift away into sleep. Maybe she'd get lucky and remain blissfully unaware of the vomit and foam that would likely follow. Perhaps her mind would block it out, allow her to sink peacefully into death while her body convulsed to reject the poison.
She considers who might find her. The cleaners perhaps, due to return in two days time. Or more likely Jess, when she fails to come to work or answer her phone. Certainly not Kara, who believes everything between them is fine-- that their friendship hasn't shattered into irrecoverable shards.
Kara. No, Supergirl. Fucking Supergirl.
Lena clenches her eyes shut, but the image of the hero simply projects against the backs of her eyelids. With her stupid hair and her stupid cape and her stupid, lying smile. But no. The truth is, Lena is the idiot. An idiot to think she'd made true friends, to think she could share the innermost parts of herself with someone who wouldn't turn around and use it against her.
They played you for a fool, Lex's voice echoes from beyond the grave.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Suddenly, an explosion of glass issues from her living room. Lena surges for her handgun, and carefully creeps from her bedroom. Her fingers clenches unnecessarily-- angrily-- against the trigger when she recognizes the caped figure that rises shakily from the floor. But she doesn't fire.
"Lena?" Kara croaks, cradling her middle as though her ribs are broken. Lena watches her scan the living room and kitchen before locating her outside the bedroom. "Lena..."
"What do you want?"
She means it to sound angry, or at the very least irritated. Instead, she just sounds tired, even to her own ears.
"Something's happened to Alex-- to everyone. The DEO is compromised. They--" The hero grimaces in pain. "They tried to kill me."
"So you came to me."
"I hoped you wouldn't be affected. Whatever it is... it's bad. It's really bad."
Lena tries to feel something. Concern, outrage, curiosity-- anything. But she can't. She feels flat, like the air has deflated from her, leaving her a sagging balloon, pressed down by the weight of the air around her.
"Kara..."
Lena sees the exact moment the name hits home, and its implication hits home. Her eyes close in resignation-- not apology, Lena notes distantly.
"You figured it out--?"
"No."
Kara nearly sighs. "Your mother?"
"Brother," Lena allows, "but interesting that you know Lillian knew."
Lex was right. Everyone in the world but her knew the truth. Even her mother. And Kara knows that Lillian knows. That she allowed Lena's family to know the truth, but not she herself.
Fuck her.
"And now you've come to the Luthor you've managed to keep in your pocket."
Like always, Lena notes. Every time she's been involved with Supergirl and her allies, it's been as a last resort. Not because they truly wanted her or her help. Because they had nowhere else to turn.
Her stomach turns, and again Lena's thoughts flicker back to the prescription bottle in her bedroom. She feels sick, and she doesn't want to. She'd rather feel nothing at all than feel this.
"Lena..." Kara straightens as best she can. "I'm not here because I have to be. I'm here because you're the only one I trust."
Their eyes lock for a long moment, and Lena hopes her gaze conveys her disbelief. The words mean nothing, and the fact Kara expects her to believe them is actually insulting.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"We need to know what's affected them and find a way to neutralize it."
"I'll need a current blood sample, and a sample from before the changes in behavior occurred for comparison."
Lena turns back towards her bedroom.
"Then I'll see what I can do."
---
What she can do, it would seem, is quite a lot. Per usual. She isolates a chemical signature in Agent Schott's blood that stands out as abnormal, and traces it back to readings taken from clothes that have arrived on several alien refugee ships. The chemical is alien in nature, but it's not long before Lena synthesizes a counteragent to render the chemical inert until it could be processed from the bloodstream on its own.
She does all this before it can spread further than the DEO. Kara looks at her with gratitude and relief and a little bit of patent awe, but Lena isn't impressed with herself or her results. Isn't this what she always does? Pulls a rabbit out of her ass and saves the day-- but never enough to breach that final circle of trust she never even knew existed.
Once she confirms all DEO employees are returned to their normal selves, Lena withdraws. She relinquishes her role at L-Corp to Sam with some easy bullshit about taking a sabbatical. She hoards her prescriptions, waiting for the moment to be right.
The night she chooses is dark and rainy. But she manages to prod herself to going to the boutique liquor store beforehand-- might as well go out sipping something luxurious and expensive.
On her way back, she pauses on the sidewalk when she hears something moving beneath the car parked next to her along the curb. When it doesn't come again, she moves to resume her march home, but is stopped again by a new sound.
A whine.
Lena hesitates. She can keep walking, pretend she never heard it. But her feet remain rooted against her intentions to leave, until she finally relents and climbs down to her hands and knees. Pressing her cheek almost to the cement, she peers under the sedan and sees the soggy silhouette of a small quadruped.
A puppy. Or some sort of small breed. When it shifts, she sees disproportionately gangly limbs and a long tail curled around its trunk. Puppy.
Lena sighs. "C'mere," she mutters, reaching her arm under the car. The dog is far enough under that her shoulder feels like it nearly dislocates before she finally catches the sorry creature by the scruff of the neck.
It yelps when she drags it out into the rain, but makes no move to escape when she stares down at it appraisingly. Short brown fur darkened by rain, small half-flopped ears, and big brown eyes. It's certainly the picture of a creature any decent human being would cleave to.
"All right," she says heavily. "Let's get you somewhere dry."
She picks the pup up and tucks it into her coat. It curls into the warmth of her chest, shivering all the way back to her apartment. She snags a towel from the linen closet before removing her coat, and transfers the animal directly into it.
Once it's mostly dry, Lena sits back and stares at the beast as it stares at her. She glances at the bottle of liquor she'd set on the coffee table next to the pup.
Lena sighs.
"You chose a hell of a night to turn up," she says drily. Lena gives the dog's head a rub before picking it up to set it gently on the floor.
"Let's get you some food."
----
(Prompts are closed)
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Ghost from the Past [Part 9]
The Gang finally figures out what Eletha's problem is.
Had this one written out for a while. Features a lot of my triggers because I'm fucking insane. Sometimes you just wanna punish yourself, right? That's normal?
CW: General Mental Illness issues, Mentions of past abuse and suicidal ideation, Also the Super Secret Weird Trigger
(Prev)[Part 8] (Next)[Part 10] [Master Post]
No one saw Eletha leave her tent for two days while they braved the shadow curse and all its challenges. Astarion would’ve stayed upset about this if he wasn’t excited about Raphael’s offer of help. Gale told him that they should wait and see before making any deals with devils and now Astarion was giving him the cold shoulder.
Worried and sick of the mood in camp, Gale convinced Bonnet to let him into her mistress’s tent. There he found her in a curious state: not quite elven trance, but not quite conscious either. Tentatively, he shook her shoulder, but she didn’t rouse. Clenched in her hand was a tattered scrap of cloth, perhaps a remnant of some once-fine robe or doublet.
“Pardon me,” he whispered as he decided his next course of action. Reaching out with both magic and the tadpole, he murmured softly, “Do let me know if I’m intruding.”
Something connected and his mind was transported to someplace else. The ground was just a shade different from the sky, creating a sense of boundless emptiness. Here he found Eletha sitting on the edge of- Well, it was a rather large hole with no discernable sides or bottom, just complete darkness.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any tea or cake,” she told him listlessly, eyes not leaving the hole. Her skin was covered in scratches and her clothes were torn. “Poor reception for a friend. Wizard friend.”
“May I… sit?” Gale asked hesitantly, peering into the hole only to be met with nothing. Eletha nodded and he sat down beside her. “Is this what troubles you?”
“Mm. I’m losing it, aren’t I? Out there.” She didn’t wait for his answer. It was rather obvious that if he was here, he felt that she was in danger. In a haunting sing-song voice she went on, “Down, down, down. Spiraling down. Cracked like an egg, to hatch or to eat? The dry leaves sound lovely, under our feet.”
Well that’s concerning, Gale thought to himself. “What is in the hole?”
“Something old. Something bad. Lorelai.”
“Ah, your childhood name, yes?”
“Bad, evil, mean old Lorelai,” she said by way of answer, using the tone of a child talking about a monster in a book or a hated schoolmarm. Then darkly, like that hated schoolmarm, she added, “Little Lorelai doesn’t know any better.”
“You know, I was quite the scamp back in my day too. That’s how I met Tara. My parents denied me a kitten, so I summoned a tressym instead,” he explained with a fond smile and a twinkle in his eyes. He went on about other ‘naughty’ things he did as a child, such as summoning mephits or destroying things with errant magic. He felt that if he could get her to accept that making trouble as a child was a normal part of growing up, then she might begin to forgive herself for whatever she’d done.
Gale’s happy memories only served to weaken the edge of the hole further, bits breaking off every now and then. While speaking about his mother, how much he loved her, the hole suddenly emitted a disturbing sound. A wail mixed with crying, piercing and discordant. Gale stopped his story, training his senses to make heads or tails of what was happening. The wail faded as voices rose in its stead. Elven voices, melodic and refined, called out “Lorelai.”
“Lorelai, you are too young to make such decisions,” Eletha said in Elvish in a man’s voice. It sounded stern and agitated, almost hostile. “Non Moverē.”
She recited the incantation for a Hold Person spell with perfect precision, but it was only an echo of a memory. Whoever had cast it was highly skilled.
“You must set aside your feelings for the good of us all. I did not raise you to be a brat, A’Sum. This is a blessing,” she said in a woman’s voice. It was sharp and disappointed. This voice called upon the Weave to calm her daughter’s emotions.
“If you cannot behave, then we will make you behave, my blood or not,” a second man’s voice said through Eletha’s lips. It snarled, full of revulsion. “Impero tibi.”
I command you, from the tongue of an expert spellcaster. Young and inexperienced, Eletha would have been unable to resist.
“I… I think I understand,” Gale said after waiting a moment for her to continue. “It will be okay. You have us now. We won’t let that happen.”
“It doesn’t make a difference,” she said in her own voice, streaked with pain. “It’s always been here. It’s not going away this time.”
“What-”
A monstrous black claw shot out of the black hole. Gale threw himself back, only to fall out of Eletha’s tent.
“What in the hells was that about?” Karlach asked, looking down at him with confusion.
“I was trying to help,” he answered, trying to rub the befuddlement out of his head.
“MmMmh, breakfast?” Eletha asked blearily, poking her head out of the tent flap. “Can I have eggs?”
“No, Lethi, go back to sleep,” Karlach told her, pushing her friend back into the tent when she appeared to be asleep sitting up.
“So. What hot gossip did you two discuss?” Astarion purred as he approached Gale’s tent, where the wizard was currently writing in his journal. Despite his attempts to seem otherwise, it was clear that the question came from a place of concern.
“Do you remember anything of your families?” Astarion glared at him.
“No. All I know is what little Eletha has told me. They were semi-important.” Gale hummed in response, distracted. “Why?”
“Nothing. Only something to consider.” Astarion huffed with false humor. Scratching his beard, talking more to himself than Astarion, Gale said, “It’s a shame Cazador made you forget your old life. Of us all, you can relate to her the most…”
“I’m not sure I understand the similarities.”
“Held against your will by someone who claims to love you, to be your family. Made to behave. Bodies not yours to command,” Gale explained rather compassionately. Then he grew pensive again. “What did she do, that necessitated such methods of containment? Is it the action, or the reaction, that is affecting her?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It’s always ‘I did a bad horrible thing, I’m evil, I can never be forgiven.’ Things like that.” Astarion laughed then sighed a little sadly. “Oh Gale. First a goddess. Now an insane elf. How does it feel to fall so far?”
“Does driving your first lover into the arms of pain and madness hurt worse or less than all the blood on your hands?” Gale sniped. Astarion startled, then bristled.
“That’s not fair,” he warned.
“Any more fair than what you just said?” Gale asked, getting to his feet. Standing tall, he had to look down at Astarion a little bit.
“Keep your meddling paws out of other people’s business,” Astarion growled.
“Why must you treat me like an enemy? We want the same thing: for her to get better. To do that, I’m afraid we must meddle in her business.”
“It’s not just her business, is it? It’s mine as well.”
“The business of a man buried over two centuries ago.” Gale tilted his head and the harshness left his eyes and voice. “You’re worried that she can’t forgive you.”
“Of course I am!” Stupid wizards. Why did they have to be so smart and also so slow at the same time?
“Mm, I find it unlikely. You hold a special place in her heart, broken or no,” Gale told him rather academically, picking something up from his desk. In his outstretched palm he held the scrap of cloth from Eletha’s tent. With a pair of tweezers, he carefully dissected it, revealing a lock of curly white hair. When his tweezers tried to brush the hairs, they were rebuffed. “A preservation charm. I can only assume that this hair once belonged to you, perhaps the garment this cloth came from as well. With a few tools and a wizard’s expertise, she could have easily found you in Baldur’s Gate.”
“But she didn’t. The one civilized place on the Sword Coast she’s never visited,” Astarion said harshly, hovering between shock and anger.
“There are many possible explanations. Eletha is a proponent of choices. You chose to leave, so she respected your choice. Perhaps she was afraid that you never loved her, or that you hated her for waiting so long to follow.” Gale carefully resealed the token so that it could be replaced in Eletha’s tent. “Perhaps she had no choice but to let you go. There’s no telling until she feels ready to explain.”
“I’ll put it back,” Astarion said after a moment, holding out his hand. Gale placed the token in his palm, only to gently take hold of his hand.
“It is a shame. I was hoping to encourage a relationship between us. Eletha was always interesting, a mix of mysterious and open, having lived a rich life of adventure. I had an impression that she found me interesting as well, but she is so clearly afraid of being hurt again.” Gale looked at their interlocked hands fondly. “I suppose I could say the same for you.”
Astarion clicked his tongue and emitted a soft sound of sweetness before threading his fingers through the loose waves of hair at the back of Gale’s neck. Pulling him down slightly while raising himself up on his toes, Astarion pressed their lips together in a needy kiss.Gale’s mouth opened slightly in a surprised gasp and Astarion found his tongue with his own.
Neither kissed like a novice, but it felt different. Electric. With the orb stabilized by Mystra, Gale didn’t fear the sudden excitement of flesh touching flesh or the sound of someone’s moans in his ears. Even Eletha’s light touches and chaste kisses on his head threatened to explode his heart after so long without a person’s touch.
He was suddenly aware of how clammy his hands had become. His body was shaking and his head felt like it might float away without him. A pit of sickness sat in his stomach and Gale pushed Astarion away just a little bit. Before Astarion could misunderstand, he said shakily, “I think it has been too long for me. I am a starving man eating more than his stomach can handle.”
Astarion’s face went through a range of emotions, from hurt to annoyance and finally thoughtfulness. “Eletha had that reaction too. I just assumed she was drunk, but the only thing you seem drunk on is the taste of my lips.”
“There is some truth to that,” Gale agreed with a light laugh. Holding a hand to his heart, he said, “I assure you, I enjoyed that very much.”
“I should… put this back,” Astarion said hesitantly with a small smile, indicating Eletha’s token. “Maybe I’ll come around later. Discuss… what was it we were reading now?”
“I have no clue.”
“Mm… I have done a number on you,” Astarion purred in self-satisfaction before leaving Gale’s tent.
Thankfully, Bonnet wasn’t sitting in front of Eletha’s tent when Astarion attempted to sneak in. The bear would’ve probably mauled him on sight otherwise.
He sat for a moment, just watching her breathe, fighting some internal demon. Very carefully, he placed the token in her open hand, which closed and retreated to her chest.
---
It was late and everyone was seeing to their evening routines when indecipherable elvish yelling grew louder in Eletha’s tent.
She emerged, a leather wallet in one hand, her face red with anger. Everyone was gathering, but she only had eyes for Astarion. Pointing an accusing finger at him, she yelled, “How dare you go through my things!”
Astarion chuckled nervously, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, like anyone else has an interest in my journals? The place where I keep all my intimate thoughts and memories?” Eletha sneered, narrowing her eyes. Astarion went from nervous to confused.
“I didn’t take your journals,” he insisted, biting off the urge to call her ‘darling’ or ‘my dear’. He knew by now that it could upset her more just as much as it could make her melt. “And even if I did, it would only be to figure out what’s wrong with you so we can move on.”
“What’s wrong with me?!” Those closest to her tensed, preparing to stop her if she decided to settle this with a fight. Those closer to Astarion gravitated towards him, to get between them if anything went wrong.
Instead, Eletha undid the complicated tie of her wallet and dumped the contents out onto the ground. A seemingly endless flood of books, papers, and scrolls fell out. Giving it one last shake to make sure it was empty, Eletha dropped the wallet on the pile.
“They’re yours now. Have fun,” she growled at him before returning to her tent.
Those nearby rushed forward as a slight breeze caught the papers, threatening to blow them into the campfire. Everyone gathered to deal with the mess.
“Interesting. A bag of holding, but just for paper?” Gale pondered aloud as he inspected the leather wallet before setting it aside. Astarion snatched it up with a little glare. He was pretty sure he just got blamed for Gale’s sticky fingers and he wasn’t about to let the wizard take something Eletha just entrusted to him.
“She certainly needs it,” Shadowheart remarked, gathering some journals into a stack and setting them next to Gale, who immediately started organizing them.
“Wow, so many for this Lorelai person,” Karlach said after a while of picking up letters and putting them into a semi-neat pile.
“That’s her childhood name,” Gale explained, becoming excited by something he’d noticed. “Elves pick their own name when they reach one hundred years of age.”
“Oh.” Karlach went from confused, to understanding, to confused again. “Why are they all still sealed? Seems weird, keeping letters you didn’t even bother readin’.”
Gale was deaf to the question, reading the oldest of the journals. In a stilting manner, as he not only had to translate Elvish, but a child’s Elvish, he read aloud to himself loud enough for them to hear.
“Father said that I should keep a journal, so I can always remember what happened to me. Today isn’t my birthday, but another elf was born last week. Mother said they were worried I would get upset that I was no longer the youngest and wouldn’t get all the attention, so they gave me a gift. I don’t think the new baby wants the attention I get. All Father and Mother do is yell at me for not doing what they want, but I don’t understand what they want. Maybe Astarion will understand. But right now he is just a squishy ugly baby with BIG GOBLIN EARS. They are SO BIG. I hope he grows into them, like the hunting dogs’ puppies.”
On the other side of the page was a crude child’s drawing of what appeared to be a fat baby’s head with cherubic cheeks and some rudimentary curls. Attached to either side were massive elf ears. Surprised, Gale guffawed most uncharacteristically and turned the journal to show everyone. They all laughed, except Astarion, who grumbled in embarrassment.
“Mother says I have to take care of Astarion, it is my ‘role.’ All the Mothers tell me that I should prepare myself, even if it might never happen. Having to take care of him makes me feel gross. The way the Mothers talk about babies makes me feel grosser. I tried taking him away from them, so they’d stop making me feel bad and wouldn’t make him feel bad either, but they yelled at me and made me sit in the rocks again. It’s not Star’s fault. He’s just a baby. One day he’ll be my age, will he feel like this too? All the other children are so much older than me, they treat me like a baby too. I feel like I’ve grown up a lot in a year. I have to grow up just enough to protect Star but still be his friend.”
“Oh, that’s heartbreakin’…” Karlach breathed, holding her breath as she listened. The others were listening, reacting in their own little ways. Lae’zel was still cleaning up the mess. Shadowheart knelt, appearing as if in prayer. Wyll took special interest in each thing he picked up so he could put it in the appropriate pile. Halsin listened with compassionate sadness, while Astarion sat like a statue, frozen in place.
Gale skipped ahead, his wizard’s mind able to quickly read and catalog the information, especially as the Elvish got better. Something made him smile. “Astarion keeps stealing my socks. Why socks? At least they’re clean socks. A lot of stuff keeps going missing and showing up somewhere else and I think it’s him. A lot of them let Astarion into their caravan for no reason and let him do what he pleases, but I’ve seen him sneak into our caravan before to steal my socks. Whenever I catch him, he sticks them on his ears and says ‘I can’t hear you! I have feet for ears!”
Everyone but Astarion laughed once more.
“That’s so strange… It looks like she wrote or drew something every day, but there’s a whole year missing. The pages are ripped out.” Shadowheart pointed out, having flipped through a few of the journals herself. “She said Astarion left when she was 35, so the year after is missing.”
Everyone was making comments about him, but Astarion was deaf as he picked out a bundle of papers from the pile. One edge of them was jagged. He undid the piece of string holding them together and unfolded them.
“Lorelai will behave. Lorelai will eat. Will drink. Rest. Do as she is told. Stay. Not bite off her tongue. Not use the fire. Not practice the sword or the bow or with hands. She will not talk back, she will not scream or raise her voice. She will speak only when spoken to and always be polite. She will not interact with outsiders. She must always be accompanied. Always be clean. Lorelai will be a good girl. Lorelai will apologize for what she’s done. I am a good girl. I promise to be good. I am sorry for what I’ve done.”
The torn pages lined up with those tears in the journal. The first page after was a depiction of a black circle. Taking the journal from Astarion, Gale pointed at the picture. “I’ve seen that. In her head. ‘Something old, something bad. Evil, mean old Lorelai.’”
Gale flipped past some more drawings and lists of typical adventurer things like how many supplies she had and where she was going. Then it went back to a sane depiction of a journal.
“I am not a good girl. I will not do as I’m told. I will not behave. I will eat and drink to spite them. I will bite my tongue when it suits me, when its sharpness cannot aid me. I will speak loud and clear when I please. I will be alone. I will not apologize. I am not sorry for what I’ve done, my only regret is that I let them control me. I won’t let anyone control me ever again.
“I am never coming back. I will never forgive these transgressions against me. I will not forget them, but I will bury them, in a hole deep and dark and bottomless inside me. The hole they made in me, where my heart and family should be.
“I don’t believe that Astarion left in order to leave me behind. He loves to chase and be chased. But I will always wonder, if that was true, why didn’t he turn back to find me? Maybe they were right. I will grant them this small token of grace. Maybe I was abandoned, as I abandon in kind.
“I am far from my 100th year, but I shake off the yoke of my name. Everyone I meet will know me as Eletha, a name Astarion always liked, and I will fashion myself a Nighstar. Who will ever know it’s not true? I might not ever be important, these might be the only words ever written about me, but when I speak this name, I will know that I am more than what I was meant to be.”
“I can’t tell if that’s sad or brave…” Wyll whispered to himself.
“What’s… E… Sum? Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this Elvish thing!” Karlach said excitedly, holding up a letter she’d been inspecting. Gale, Shadowheart, Halsin, and Astarion went blank-faced.
“It says, ‘To my Son’,” Halsin explained gently and quietly, so Eletha couldn’t overhear them.
“I do not understand. As in a male child?” Lae’zel asked.
“Yes, Lae’zel. And seeing as Eletha is a female child…”
Shadowheart laughed nervously, pinching Halsin’s arm to get him to shut up. “Maybe it’s for Astarion! And she just… forgot about it.”
“As nice as that seems…” Gale started darkly, holding Eletha’s journal with the pages ripped out, “With the knowledge I have, of all the theories I’ve considered, and the fact that I can recognize Eletha’s hand, it is most likely that this is to her son…”
Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Karlach looked at Astarion and offered him a strained smile. “Congratulations?”
“That paper seems awfully old. And it looks like it was never sealed,” Wyll pointed out, taking the letter from Karlach. “She never sent this. Why keep it? I guess it’s like the others. Felt too guilty to burn it? Thrown in the bag and forgotten?”
“We shouldn’t read that, right? Even dictating every event of her life for over 260 years is less personal than that,” Shadowheart insisted warily, carefully taking the letter from Wyll and handing it to Gale.
“It is, however, the center of the problem,” Gale explained firmly. “If anyone is to read it, it should be Astarion.”
“Why should I read it?!” he yelled out, his voice cracking. Some of them leaned away nervously. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy! This is crazy! This is insane! And not the least bit funny.”
“It is okay to be upset,” Halsin told him gently.
“Of course it’s okay! This is very upsetting! I’m sure for someone like you, this would come as no surprise! Almost two months ago, I was just a vampire spawn hunting for my master. I’ve had an old lover show up who wants to play mindgames, go insane, and now this?!”
“I don’t think it’s mindgames, bud,” Karlach said, going through a journal that appeared to be in Common instead of Elvish, although sometimes the script slipped and she had trouble reading it. “Look. 50 years ago. She met an elf on the road, they hit it off, they try to give it a go, she has a lot of nasty feelings after. Talks about this black pit, yeah? And it gets all hard to read. Then she says someone named Mellia found her and took care of her until she got better.”
“Mmm, sounds much like now. She’s spiraling,” Shadowheart said, taking the journal and reading the same bit like they were in some book club with only once copy.
“Down, down, down, spiraling down. Cracked like an egg, to hatch or to eat? The dry leaves sound lovely under our feet,” Gale repeated in a hollow sing-song voice, stroking his beard in thought.
“That’s right fucked.” Some murmured in agreement. Karlach looked at them all, hoping for an answer. “So what do we do? Hide all the booze? Make her stay awake?”
“Honestly, she was fighting harder before this little… break,” Wyll remarked. “I’d be happy if we could get back to that.”
“Eletha has been avoiding this since the beginning. This is an invitation as much as it is an explanation. She needs to say these words herself, so she might share the burden,” Halsin explained with the dispassion of a healer trying to be taken seriously at the expense of compassion.
“I didn't want to go to that hag, but Wyll was right. Damn those foolish boys and their foolish sister. People go to hags for a reason. They want something and there is payment. They are desperate and stupid and they don't understand that. I left Ethel and Mayrina alone because the girl made her choice. My parents, Astarion’s parents, the whole clan, they took my choice away from me.
“I can still hear that hag’s mockery in my head. ‘A dead dog is a better mother than you. Just as selfish and stupid as this girl. You should be ashamed of yourself, trying to smother a babe before it’s even born.’
“She’s wrong. I made the right choice, to walk away. He didn't deserve a mother like me. No child does.
“If Mellia turned me, could she make me forget, like Astarion? Could Aluin just say some words, wiggle his fingers, or brew me a potion? Maybe this adventure will be my last and it’ll be some other elf’s problem in a hundred years. I’m sorry for haunting your reveries, my next life.
“I’m sorry, everyone. I wanted to protect you, to be strong for you. I wanted to be a shield against the cruelty of the world, but I’m afraid my steel is brittle and my wood rotten. I can’t be your mother any more than I could be his.”
“The rest is… scribbles,” Gale explained in saddened resignation, flipping past indecipherable text and grotesque attempts at artistry.
“Maybe we should put these away,” Halsin said, taking the pouch from Astarion and carefully putting journals in one by one. The others made tidy piles in front of them and passed the pouch around, until Gale was handing it back to Astarion.
“She did say that they were yours now,” he explained when Astarion started to push it away. “Although. A bag of holding just for texts? I would gladly take it off your hands.”
“No, you can’t eat this one,” Astarion growled, putting his body in between the bag and Gale. Gale chuckled and smiled, easing the tension around the camp.
Astarion sat in his tent, alone, staring at the things in his lap. One was the wallet, and on top of it, the well-worn letter. He fingered its edge in agitation. A little tear formed and he panicked. Very carefully, he set it aside and opened the wallet once more. He placed the letters into little piles. Letters addressed to Lorelai, unopened. Letters addressed to Eletha, in smaller piles by sender. There were quite a few from people named ‘Mellia, Your Sanguine Companion’, ‘Aluin of Suzail’, ‘Tyrlumin, Your Melodic Cha’, and ‘Bromthrum Starkhammer, Provider of Fine Crafts.’ There were miscellaneous letters, some very old, from people thanking her for heroic deeds or just simple acts of kindness. There was even one thanking her for the exceptional quality of a set of mink pelts she provided that went into making a coat for some king Astarion never heard of.
He read them, because he couldn’t help himself. She seemed very close with her humanoid companions, which probably explained why she had so many letters.
Mellia, mysterious and charming, her oldest and possibly closest friend. They met when a pack of gnolls were terrorizing some little farming town. They banded together to slaughter every one. Eletha was just passing by, Mellia was a vampire and had an accord with one of the village leaders. It made his blood boil, he couldn’t think of a higher vampire and not see Cazador, but her letters were so… sweet. Not fake sweet. She would recount some event or vista that made her think of Eletha and their adventures. It was hard to imagine a vampire soaking with an elf in a hot spring up in some monster-infested mountains, but they apparently had 50 years ago. ‘I am glad that I could keep you away from the edge once more, my lovely friend. Maybe it is time you venture to Baldur’s Gate? I will gladly join you, and I know that you have other friends that would answer the call.’ A band of hardened adventurers, showing up at Cazador’s palace, demanding he relinquish his favorite spawn? A story for the ages…
Aluin the human mage, whose words read nothing like Gale’s. Even as he grew older, his boyish exuberance could still be heard in his retellings of discoveries and mishaps. She lost her eye protecting him from a warg and guided him back to Suzail. To return the favor, he offered her a magic eye. It allowed her to peer into memories of places, things, and people, to see them as they once were. Aluin wanted her to take him on many adventures and he always thanked her from the bottom of his heart for every scrap of artifact she sent to him from her travels. There was a subtle love in his words.
Tyrlumin, a half-elf bard, whose age she could not discern. He often talked to her like she was a child, but had his own childish penchant for getting into trouble. They met on the road, nothing special, but they were drawn to one another. It seemed he used her for inspiration in some of his songs. He would run into her, seemingly not by accident, and they would travel together until he would disappear in the night, leaving behind a note. It was often a dirty limerick.
Finally, Bromthrum, a purveyor of high-quality dwarven goods, trading to princes, wizards, and thieves alike. She came to his aid upon the road as he was waylaid by bandits. They shared a fondness for drink and smoke. He sounded enamored by her elven beauty and the artistry she employed in battle. She seemed drawn to his complete lack of similarities to elves. He gave her steep discounts on goods and she protected his caravan when she was around.
Astarion didn’t touch the sealed letters. Maybe he had some sense of propriety. They were all so old… It seemed they stopped only 50 years after she left the Dales.
Then there were two. For their E’Sum. For Astarion Ancunin, Baldur’s Gate.
This, too, was old, but not as old as some. Likely, this letter would have never reached him. The furthest it might have gotten was to Cazador, and then what jealous hellfire would his master have rained upon him for receiving a letter from a long-lost lover?
It was meant for him. That meant he could read it, no? It found him, after all these years.
Astarion snuck into Gale’s tent.
“Can I help you?” Gale grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“I need you to read this,” Astarion insisted, shoving the letter at him. Gale moved away, offended as Astarion pressed the piece of parchment into his chest.
“I think you're capable of reading.”
“I can't do it.”
“Then don't read it.”
“But it's for me.”
“Then I shouldn't be reading it.”
“Dammit Gale, can you just do this for me?” Astarion hissed. “Can you stop being an emotionless pompous arse for one minute?”
“I'm not emotionless, I’m exhausted. That wasn’t exactly easy on me, either. I didn’t even tell you some of the horrible things in those journals,” Gale explained, but took the letter anyway. A little hurt he said, “Is that how you see me?”
“Gale, I need the attention now, or I'm going to start stabbing people.”
“How is that different from usual?” Gale muttered as he opened the letter. “Dear Astarion, stop being dramatic and let Gale sleep.”
“You’re aware of how much of an ass you are, yes?”
“My Star,” Gale started, ignoring him. He actually put a little emotion into it. Astarion listened intently. “Aluin says that writing letters is healing, that ordering our thoughts to communicate them helps us understand ourselves as much as it helps others understand us. I’m not as good with words as Mellia or Lumin. I guess you don't know any of these people. They are friends I've made along the way and if we meet again, I want you to meet them. They’ve helped me a lot, taught me that I deserve to be loved and helped. I don’t always believe them, but it is what it is. Do you remember Heilar saything that all the time, when you’d tell him I beat you unfairly during sword practice? I wonder if I still can.
“I spent a long time hating you, but I always loved you. I never wished ill on you, even when I hated you the most. I always wondered what I did to make you leave me behind. I always wondered if you thought I'd follow. I wanted to, but our parents bade me stay. Then they made me stay.
What is it like, in Baldur’s Gate? I always wanted to go to Waterdeep instead.” Gale's eyes lit up suddenly and he opened his mouth to make some quip, but when he looked up, Astarion was the picture of anxiety, biting his lip, knees to his chest, fear in his eyes.
“It took me a long time to accept responsibility for what happened. I would always say to myself that you left a mess behind, you did this to me, that it was all your fault. It was best that you left, because if you'd stayed, I don't want to imagine what you would have done. Would you take their side, or defend me tooth and nail? I couldn't bear it if you were just another person I couldn't forgive. But I wouldn’t want our family’s blood on your hands either.
“I don't know his name. I left as soon as I could. I'm sorry that I can't tell you anything about him. I would think that your parents would try to write you, but maybe they think it meant nothing to you. They try to write me, but I can't read them. I don't want to read them, but I can't destroy them.
“No matter how many friends I make, how many people I help, I will always know that I am a callous monster. Despite how rare it is, despite what it would mean for our families and our people, I didn't want to keep the thing you left behind in me. Knowing it was there filled me with a sickness that went beyond any story the Mothers told me. I was no longer myself, I was just a vessel. I found myself repulsive. I tried to find some way to be rid of it, but our mothers caught me.
“At first they aimed to tame me with guilt and shame. They told me I was irresponsible, cowardly, a disgrace, for trying to throw away this blessing that felt to me like a curse, a punishment. There were only hard eyes and sharp words for me. I became desperate and tried my own ways of removing my curse. When they denied me that, I tried to bite through my own tongue to spare myself the pain of my burden and it the pain of having me for a mother.
“They took turns, holding me with their magic, giving me no choice but to do what they deemed right. I looked out of my eyes on a world that became hostile and full of villains, faces made of cruelty. The body that moved was not my own, but I still felt that awful feeling in my heart, felt trapped in my own skin just as much as in their power.
“I'm not sorry that I left, so why do I feel guilty? Broken? I'm not sorry for being broken. Was this soul always broken, throughout its many lives?
“I made a deal with a fey. In exchange for never bearing children again, I am cursed to burn by the emptiness of the new moon. It hurt, at first, but not as much as that year hurt. The fey thought me mad for requesting such a simple silly thing and not real power. Maybe I am. You have to be pretty mad to make a fey question your request.
“I’m sorry. I love you. I forgive you. I don't expect you to forgive me. I hope you can still love me, as unlovable as I am.
“Ever yours- Lori”
At some point, Astarion had placed his head in Gale’s lap. So caught up in the letter, Gale didn't notice. Now that he was done, he freed up a hand to pat Astarion’s head. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Gale whispered tiredly, still stroking Astarion’s hair. “It’s going to be okay. Tomorrow is another day.”
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