#the verse where Halsin and Astarion knew each other Before

[astarionsilverbough]

“Darling.”

And it’s Different, when it’s for him.

Because, you see - Astarion calls everyone ‘darling.’ Even Shadowheart (though for a while that one is a bit… cruel).

And everyone gets a different version of the word, of course - and variations of it for different circumstances and events. So far, Gale has the most variations of the term - Halsin’s kept count. They range from affectionate and fond to absolutely poisonous and sometimes dangerous. There are, by Halsin’s count, thirteen versions of ‘darling,’ for Gale (who, again, is Astarion’s best and most steadfast friend - though Astarion would wrinkle his nose at the term).

But when it comes to him?

When it comes to him, there are three. Three variations of ‘darling’ that no one else - not even Gale - gets.

1.) Utterly and absolutely… soft. Oh, but it’s so soft. Often it’s used only in private - in moments when Astarion can cup his jaw or slide into his lap and murmur it against his lips. Halsin can think of two times Astarion has used that ‘darling’ in front of everyone else: the first?

When they (‘they’ being Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Wyll) had found Halsin broken and alone in the Underdark after he’d carved through the goblins alone.

It was the first time the two elves had seen each other in two hundred years and five months. Through the haze of drow poison and blood loss, Halsin had heard the sun.

“Halsin. Darling.”

Achingly soft and so beautiful. A calloused but gentle hand cupped his chin and Astarion - older and more magnificent than Halsin remembered - had swum into focus above him.

Oh, but how he’d fallen in love with the man all over again in that moment… The thrill of it had been just as intense as it had been the first time, when they were younger and more afraid.

That was the first time he’d ever heard the soft variation of ‘darling’. Two hundred years and five months after the last time he’d seen Astarion Ancunín, who was more magnificent than he remembered but smelled exactly the same and could outburn the sun.

The second had been -

“I have to do this alone, Astarion.”

The darkness was like ash clinging to his skin. Karlach had been throwing stones into the abyssal waters; Gale was pointedly trying not to listen while Shadowheart was watching them like a vulture about to clean a carcass.

And oh, how he’d been terrified. To wander the Shadowfell, nothing to go on but a glimmer of vengeful hope and the scent of lavender… would he ever see the sun again?

Would he forget what gold sounded like?

But then -

Astarion’s plush lips part and his brow creases, brilliant sunset eyes big and glistening. For a moment, Halsin expects - well. Nothing good, that’s for certain.

A foolish thing, to try and predict the heat of the sun.

A nimble hand slides over his chest and catches his chin. The next thing he knows, he’s being kissed with tongue and fang. Solar flares explode in his lungs and Astarion thumbs over his cheek.

“Come back to me, darling,” he says.

It is a command, gentle and easy. Soft in the way that inspires hope somewhere inside his bones.

Not a hint of worry. Trust him - he knows what the worried variant of ‘darling’ sounds like.

Speaking of which:

2.) Astarion trusts Halsin in a way he isn’t sure how to hold; he feels a bit like a child cradling a bird with a wounded wing in his palms. One wrong move and that wing could shatter and leave the little bird he seeks to protect incapable of flight.

He doesn’t use the worried variant of ‘darling’ when Halsin is about to or has already attempted something foolish or heroic (see: ‘darling’ variant no. 1).

Astarion’s concerned and slightly lilting “darling,” comes when they’re in situations and he needs Halsin to look exactly where he’s looking at that very moment. It is a precise and hard-learned code, one that Halsin is more tuned into than even the method by which nature forms the reality around them.

It starts immediately: they’re in the Underdark and Halsin is still aching from the effects of the drow poison and the blood loss, and he can feel Astarion’s presence like sunbeams on his skin.

But even as he’s so acutely focused on Astarion’s presence, he’s still aching from the effects of drow poison and the blood loss, and so when Astarion’s sharp and tense “darling,” comes, he looks around just a little too late.

The Spectator catches them by surprise. Somehow, they survive the fight.

Halsin is looking at Astarion with every snapping “darling” he utters, now.

But even as the worried variant of ‘darling’ is the command he exists by and the soft variant is the one that sends heat through his bones and burns them gold, the variant of ‘darling’ that Halsin adores the most is -

3.) Sheer, raw fury.

It has only been used with such enchantment once. So far, at least. Who knows what the rest of the eternity he intends to spend beside the moon-kissed elf will bring, but so far…

So far it’s just been -

“Be well, then, darling.”

And oh, the way it had seared across Halsin like a lash of flame! How it had made his soul twist and his heart stop, commanded still by the sheer weight of the viscerally vitriolic venom in the word.

There was to be no doubt, then. A mate he was, and a mate he would always be. Some part of Halsin was snatched away in that moment. It fused with Astarion’s shadow, and there it would stay until he was led back to the young elfling.

The compass to lead him home.

Because this variant of ‘darling’ - this horrible, wrenching barb of a thing - had been shot at Halsin after he had told a twenty-year-old Astarion that:

“I cannot give you what you seek,” after a quiet and heartbreaking:

“I love you. I’m - Halsin, I’m… in love with you.”

And he’s over a hundred and Astarion is twenty and even if he’s everything Halsin wants, it’s not time. Not yet. The seasons need more time to show Astarion what the world can offer. He needs to taste the fruits of many before he settles on his favorite.

So:

“Oh, my little star,” Halsin had said in elvish; “I cannot give you what you seek.”

It was like watching the winter freeze settle in. It was seeing the sea go black before a storm; it was the flicker of divinity in the pit of Halsin’s belly and the hunt at the height of the season. It was every perfect and horrible thing all at once and Halsin loved this creature more than the earth beneath his feet.

“You are so young - there is so much you’ve yet to witness, experience.” He’d taken one of Astarion’s hands. It had been limp, cold. He’d kissed it anyway and stepped back. “And I must go my own way for now. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again, little star.”

And it was silent then, the kind of silent that made Halsin’s skin pebble with gooseflesh.

Until:

“Be well, then, darling.”

A dismissal. Inelegant and so wrathful. A blessing lain on the path beneath his boots. The sun blazed so hot it carved itself into his soul and stole a piece of him away.

It has not rejoined him. That’s alright; he feels it whenever Astarion is near, and these days it’s rare when he isn’t. Halsin is his sword and shield, the crown on his head and the throne beneath him.

And when the word comes this time - “darling,” - it’s just for him, spoken against the shell of Halsin’s ear as a damp, fresh-from-the-bath Astarion settles over his thighs and slides his arms around Halsin’s neck. Heat lunges up Halsin’s spine and he frames Astarion’s slender waist with keeping hands. So lost in the taste of the man’s skin, Halsin barely notices he’s been talking at him until Astarion gently tugs at his hair.

“Halsin, darling.”

His ears perk up. That’s a new one - slightly exasperated, clipped and somewhat offended in a small, quiet way. A vulnerable way.

“Were you even listening to a thing I said?”

Stomach clenching, Halsin slides his keeping hands over Astarion’s flanks and scans his face. He’s pouting. This is a new face, a new variant. Halsin’s nerves align and he cups Astarion’s chin.

“Forgive me,” he says soberly. “I was lost in thought. Tell me what I missed - speak to me, lover.”

He jostles Astarion a bit and the elf’s expression softens just before he arches a brow and tips back with a shrewd, playful glare. Halsin keeps him supported with a big hand at the base of his spine and chases a hopeless kiss he doesn’t get on a whim.

“And what, pray tell, was so important it stole you away from me?” Astarion demands, fingertips guarding Halsin’s lips.

Halsin smiles against his touch. “You.”

And when Astarion’s expression changes, it makes Halsin feel like spring. Those sunset eyes go dewy and Astarion’s body melts against the strong plain of his own.

“You,” he mutters against Halsin’s lips, “are a menace, darling.”

And he’ll never tire of it - never tire of learning every cadence this man can shape. Maybe one day he’ll earn more variants than Gale - for now, he’ll settle on keeping the Different ones, the ones no one else gets to hold.

There is no greater honor.