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thedomesticanthropologist · 1 year ago

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Stay for the Sunrise [Sabal x Astarion] [m/m]

Heyyy guys! this is the first draft of my Tav/Astarion fic, its also a character study of my Drow Elf Monk, Sabal. I haven't edited it, its a first draft, but Im wondering if anyone is interested in reading it. If so, I may post to A03.

Eventually, it will be 18+/explicit but not in the first couple chapters.

"So... this is where we are stopping? ah, 'turning in for the night' as they say?"

The question was spoken with light hesitation, an undercurrent of vulnerability behind the attempt to remain casual. Sabal looked idly over at the uncertain High Elf before him, noting how he twisted his fingers together in front of him with nerves before releasing them to swing at his sides, restlessly shifting from foot to foot.

Astarion. The "magistrate" from Baldur's gate. Wholly convinced of his own charm and deceptions, but somehow severely lacking in the capacity to convince anyone else around him. But who was he, a Drow, to judge? they knew nothing of each other. Had met today, in fact, after falling from the sky and into each others lives in a manner that none would have ever been able to predict. If he wanted to lie (poorly) in an attempt to seem in control, then he could. It mattered very little to Sabal.

"... For tonight, yes. " He said slowly, calmly. Sabal had spent the last fifteen years on the Surface, wandering the Wilds and Civilization without much care for direction. In all that time, he had learned much about sleeping rough and making what you could out of what you could gather. Astarion was very obviously... what did they call it? 'fresh off the boat'. He knew this uncertainty well. It was a harsh thing, to have silk bedding and servants to feed you and brush your hair one day, and to be alone in the dark with nothing but your clothes the next.

He was... sympathetic.

Astarion's lips twitched as he chewed over how to respond to that. "It's funny- the night time usually means bustling streets, bursting taverns..." his voice took on a heady, heated tone as he spoke, obviously picturing the nights to which he was accustomed.

"This is.... a little novel, uh- to say the least." Their eyes met, and Sabal saw vulnerability. Questions that pride disallowed Astarion from asking. He didnt want to seem useless, or incapable - that much was obvious- but he was out of his element and about as lost as a man could be out here in the woods.

Sabal stood from his crouched position in the grass, casually sorting through the herbs he had just gathered as he considered how to handle the situation. Shadowheart and Gale were nearby, he noted, trying very hard to look like they werent listening in. What a mess this was already.

"What begins as novel can become quite natural in time. Today was rough on all of us, it is most natural to feel out of ones element. It is not every day that you get dragged through Avernus on a Nautiloid run by Illithids who have impregnated your mind with a life-ending time bomb in the shape of a toothed-worm." This blatant explanation was received easily, and Astarion snorted, crossing his arms over his chest protectively.

"Indeed." But he wasnt loosening up at all, if anything, it seemed the elf was regretting his decision to engage in conversation at all. Sabal tried again:

"A creature of the night, are you?" he asked lightly, trying to lighten the mood by drawing attention to how the high elf had spoken about Baldur's Gate and its bustling nightlife. To his surprise, Astarion looked gutted at this question, immediate panic flaring on his face. Sabal cringed inwardly and followed up as quickly as he could:

"What I mean to say is that you sound like you enjoy being out in the evenings. Are you used to staying up late?"

Relief. Immediate slumping of shoulders, a held breath let loose from his lungs in an audible huff.

"Ah, yes- I do so enjoy the taverns. Look, what I meant was- what is- what is expected of us this evening? do we simply bed down in the dirt like dogs?" Astarion's guard was way up now. Sabal had made some kind of grievous mistake in the last few moments, and he could see the white haired man starting to visibly back away from the conversation, no longer meeting his eyes but instead scanning the area for an easy and convenient escape opportunity.

".... Gale is tending to the fire, which will be in the center of camp. We scoured the beach quite thoroughly before finding you, and found it well supplied. We have food enough for us all, and a pot to cook it in once the fire is hot enough. We will place our bedrolls around the fire for warmth. It may not allow for privacy, but it will take a few days to gather enough resources to build proper transportable shelter." Speaking as one would to a spooked horse or wild animal with its leg caught in a trap, Sabal let himself over-explain the situation in a voice both soft enough to soothe and loud enough that their other camp mates would overhear easily.

"Shadowheart will sort through what we have liberated from the victims of the crash, so we can have an inventory of resources before we pack up tomorrow. There are enough bedrolls and packs that we should all be functional in the days ahead. Perhaps it may seem like sleeping 'in the dirt', as you say, but a bedroll is much preferred to the dirt itself. However... it has been quite a long day. These herbs," neatly sorted in his nimble hands, the flowering herbs smelled beautiful as he raised his hand and waved them in front of Astarion,

"Will make a calming tea to soothe the nerves. I was just waiting for the fire to be ready before I brewed some. Would you like a cup?"

Again, somehow, this was the wrong thing to say. Astarion eyed the herbs like they were feces, wrinkling his nose.

"Not my drink of choice, honestly. No."

"Alright. Well, I shall continue with my task regardless. Perhaps, since there is really only one job left, you could take it?"

Distrust and suspicion lingered in those crimson eyes as they flickered back to Sabal for a brief moment. He didnt trust whatever was about to be asked of him.

"And what job is that?"

"Night watch. Stay up, wander the perimeter. Keep us safe as we rest." *take time to yourself, decompress, process things, and get the space that you so obviously want from the rest of us*. It was an olive branch of a task, as they did not truly require a dedicated watch person in a camp this small with experienced travellers like himself who only meditated for a few hours a night. However, finally, he seemed to have said the right thing. That made for once, today, with this twitchy man.

"Ah! yes. You all get some much needed rest. I'll keep watch." Astarion was pleased, and thoroughly convinced that Sabal was giving him an important job that was going to be criminally easy as it already aligned with what he was intending to do for the night. Gale and Shadowheart both seemed to be nodding to themselves, happy to hear that their new camp mate was contributing to the team this evening.

Finally. All was settled. For tonight, at least.

As the velvety darkness of night descended upon the surface world and his human and half-elven companions took to their slumber, Sabal settled into a cross-legged position upon his bedroll, preparing for his nightly meditation. Many chose to lay on their backs for this, an illusion of sleep, but he was a Monk, and had no troubles taking a more wakeful pose. His muscles would hold his position well for the four hours required to rest and process through his memories, and he would subconsciously flex and stretch them in minimally-noticable ways so that when he finally roused it would be the same as if he had been supine all evening.

Tonight, his mind wandered through the events of the day only briefly before being dragged to the past. He walked the path of his past with calm, measured mental steps. Though Sabal was unable to drag himself away from his own story, he was no longer as troubled by its pains as he used to be. He was no longer the man he used to be.

His mind, attuned to the rhythmic pulse of the natural world and the internal functions of his body at last, drifted back into the abyssal depths of memory. It was a night etched in the shadows of Menzoberranzan, a city where treachery danced hand in hand with the spider goddess Lolth's whims.

In the recollection, Sabal was not the free elf beneath the moonlit canopy but the second son of House Zavrinn. The memory unfolded like a tattered tapestry, revealing the struggles within the labyrinthine corridors of power.

He saw himself, a young drow with silver hair and penetrating amethyst eyes, navigating the intricacies of a society where males were but chess pieces in a game of queens. His sisters, Ilvaria and Zira, stood tall in the hierarchy, their destinies woven into the fabric of Menzoberranzan's ambitions.

From a young age, Sabal was taught the harsh realities of drow hierarchy. Males, like him, were considered mere pawns in the intricate game of power. His elder sister, Ilvara, was the chosen heir, destined to carry the family's name to greater heights. His younger sister, Zira, was a jewel in the eyes of Lolth, displaying the rare gift of sorcery that promised to bring favor to their house.

Despite being relegated to the shadows of the matriarchal society, Sabal harbored dreams of rising above his predetermined station. His cunning and intelligence set him apart, but the rigid traditions of Menzoberranzan stifled his aspirations.

Ilvaria... Sabal felt his mind touch upon her. His grand and noble sister. Well, noble as in nobility, not so much in the spirit of the word. She had always seen her brother as useful, though, and that had been to his benefit. He had received martial training as well as pleasure-house training, dual wielding the life of a courtesan and a warrior with the grace of a tightrope walker. She had given him many missions into the tunnels, away from the city, and for that he likely owed her his life. Without that experience under his belt, the wild, twisting, deadly network of the Underdark tunnel systems would surely have been his death.

The memory's hues darkened as whispers reached Sabal's ears – the serpentine hiss of betrayal. He was pulled back to House Zavrinn, teetering on the edge of oblivion, facing the malevolent schemes of rivals. Loyalties crumbled like ancient caverns, and Sabal, with the keen instincts that marked him different from the pleasure-servants that most males were forced to become, felt the tremors of impending doom.

A clandestine ally emerged from the shadows, sought out in a moment of pure panic. A rogue untethered by house loyalties. Bargains were struck in the dimly lit corners, and Sabal, the pawn, became a player. The price for salvation was steep – the illusion of death.

In the memory, Sabal felt a very real and very painful, disfiguring slash across his handsome face. Part of the price. They had to see him taken down. The blood had to be real, for an illusion would fade. That part couldnt be faked. Then, the tickling touch of an illusionist's magic covering him as servants and family fell to poisoned blades around him. A life saving illusion of death draped over him like a shroud and he was discarded into the trash pit beneath the family's home, a deep hole leading down into the depths of the Underdark. His body, seemingly lifeless, came to rest near a concealed cache of survival.

In the blackness of the abyss, Sabal had awoken, disoriented and permanently scarred, but undeniably alive. He retraced the path in his memory, navigating the treacherous tunnelsof the Underdark for nearly a month until the cool night air of the surface kissed his face.

As Sabal watched this memory unfold in the sacred space of his elven meditation, the scars on his face tingled with phantom pain. The moon above him witnessed the duality of his existence – the memory of a past ensnared in darkness, and the present, where he sought solace beneath the silver light.

With the memory's conclusion, Sabal opened his eyes, his elven meditation complete. Sabal, the second son of House Zavrinn no more. Now, nearly fifteen years later, embarking on an unexpected journey where the shadows of Menzoberranzan were but a distant echo. Who would have thought that something MORE treacherous than his childhood home could exist in the overworld? then again, Illithid invasions werent particularly common. He just had a knack for finding trouble, it would seem.

The fire had burned down to nearly nothing, but the sun was still many hours from rising in the sky. Checking the bedrolls around him, he found the two faces he expected to see... and yet the third was still missing. Sabal stood, walking the perimeter of camp. He could see the tracks of Astarion's feet in the damp, dew-wet grass. Pacing. Wadering. Restless. But for this moment, at least, the pale elf was nowhere to be found.

He took his time finding the largest space of clear ground that he could, unobstructed by boulders or saplings, bushes or rabbit holes. It took some work to briefly clear a few small rocks, and soon, he was content. Time to start the day. His well-worn, simple shirt hit the ground with narry a sound, and his soft leather shoes soon followed. Bathed in moonlight and dressed only in his pants, the drow cracked his joints along his neck, hands, hips. There, ready. Slipping into a familiar routine, Sabal's breath synchronized with the ebb and flow of his movements, grounding him in the present moment. His muscles rippled beneath the moonlit skin as he transitioned into a series of advanced poses, finding balance and clearing his mind of the cobwebs of his past.

The moon bore witness to the drow-turned-monk, a creature of the Underdark adapting to the overworld's vastness. His movements were fluid, a dance of strength and grace that spoke of years spent mastering both the physical and mental aspects of his being. Each stretch, each controlled breath, was a testament to his resilience, learned patience, learned calm. None of these qualities had come naturally to him, but had been hard won instead over many years of determination and practice.

Sabal reached the conclusion of his exercises. His breathing came out with mild labour, heart pumping blood to each muscle with increased speed from his exertions. It was only then that he sensed a presence, a subtle shift in the air that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Turning slowly, he faced the shadows where Astarion lingered half-hidden by the trunk of a tree.

The pale elf stepped into the moonlight, his features sharp and ethereal. His eyes met Sabal's gaze with a mixture of curiosity and interest. Astarion's expression, previously severely guarded, betrayed a hint of something a little more enigmatic.

"Quite the show you put on just now. Planning on saving any energy for the rest of the day?"

Though it was quippy and almost a barb, his drawling tone held no malice. Sabal heard interest, curiosity, and a little bit of 'Im impressed'. Despite his desire to remain cool and composed, the monk felt himself preening a little.

That was odd. He did not tend to preen. But then again, it had been well over a year since he last had a travelling companion. He was lonely, and despite the nature of their circumstances, he found himself struggling to be upset at suddenly having a team of people around himself. It was... nice, to feel those sharp eyes mapping him like a piece of meat. He liked it.

"Such movements provide energy. They help me focus my Ki, balance my mind. I am sharper, faster, and more capable for keeping them up. You have not yet rested?"

The so-called magistrate stepped soundlessly forward, moving with a very not-a-magistrate grace that clearly belied a more subtle, stealthy trade. Sabal was left to wonder, not for the first time, how he thought he was fooling anyone with his words about having lived a simple life. Surely today, when they inevitably ended up in battle, he would drop the act.

"I did, some. Enough."

"Then let us begin our day. I have a feeling it will be a long one."

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