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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 19: The Wizard’s Tower

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence

WC: 9k words, 19/?? chapters

Summary: After traveling through Waterdeep, you and Astarion finally arrive at Gale's tower. Introductions are made, tours are had, and the relationship between yourself and Astarion continues to remain complicated.

A/N: People seem to disagree on whether or not familiars age, but I’m going to go with “no” because Tara is already older than a Tressym’s typical life span in BG3.

Ao3 | [Ch18][Ch20] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Walking through the streets of Waterdeep ought to be faster than this. It should have only taken you an hour to get to Gale's tower, according to Astarion.

However, you're in a new city and every single wonder captures your attention, leading you to stray from your path.

"Astarion, what's that?"

"It's a shop, darling. We have those back in Baldur's Gate."

"I know it’s a shop– gods, you know what I mean!"

Despite his attempts to keep you on track, Astarion doesn’t resist your wanderlust. His hold on your hand remains strong and, with every twist you take, he's being pulled along right behind you. You stop for an odd street stall, finding all manner of knick-knacks. You marvel at a statue, standing grand in the center of a plaza. You pull to an abrupt halt, earning a disapproving grunt from Astarion, when you spot a street performer using magic.

After what must be the tenth detour, Astarion finally tugs back. “Darling, could we please focus? We’ll have time for outings while we’re here, I assure you.”

You look at him, finding his expression to be amused, even if slightly annoyed at you. “We’ll have time to explore the city?” you ask, tentatively. You don’t want to presume that he’ll join you for anything, but the fact that he said ‘we’ gives you hope.

“Yes,” he answers, tugging on your arm once more. “But only if we make it to Gale’s without missing his celebration. Otherwise, we will never hear the end of it.”

“Fine,” you say, allowing Astarion’s hand to pull you in the proper direction. “Though I’ll admit, I’m a bit nervous.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at you, purses his lips some as he asks, “About meeting Gale? Whatever for?”

You avoid his gaze, focusing on the road ahead of you as you respond, “It’s odd meeting someone you’ve only ever dreamt about. I know so much about you all, but you don’t know me. He may not even recognize me. How do I approach that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion starts. You can sense an incoming joke at your expense, so you brace yourself for his next words. “Maybe something along the lines of ‘You’re the man of my dreams’, that worked wonders on me.”

You wince despite the preparation. “Excuse you, that is not what I said. Besides, I didn’t dream nearly as much about Gale. I don’t think you understand how nervous I was to meet you.”

Looking back up at Astarion, you note that he is focused, staring forward as he leads the way. Despite that, you also spot unabashed satisfaction on his face. His tone is just as self-satisfied as he replies, “I would expect no less.” Then a thought occurs to him and his tone shifts, thoughtful and a bit more reserved as he says, “Though that may have been lingering guilt, I suppose.”

Your reaction is immediate and a bit overdue. “Not at all,” you say, stopping Astarion in his tracks as you pull on his arm. "I didn't come find you out of any type of obligation or guilt. I came to find you for you. I set out before I knew anything other than… than love.”

The vampire is forced to stop, look at you and your serious poise with his full attention. He doesn’t seem to believe you, and it becomes more evident when he says, “I’m sure. Certainly explains why you and my siblings have been such fast friends.”

Astarion continues to walk, yanking you after him a bit more roughly this time. Your voice is a bit breathless as you follow in a rush, “Yes, I’ll admit that after I arrived I– I let myself get a bit carried away.” The man snorts from ahead of you. “But that was never my intention when I left Neverwinter. I just couldn’t get you out of my damned mind. You can ask my parents if you’d like.”

The line of his shoulders seems to relax a bit, but he remains focused on navigating the streets of Waterdeep, ignoring your burning gaze. After a few blocks of silence, he speaks, “What are they like?”

“Who?” Your mind has wandered by now, thinking of how, were it not for Astarion’s initial chilly reception, you may never have met with Dal in the first place. Then deciding that, no, ultimately you would always have found the spawn, one way or another.

“Your parents,” he mumbles, barely audible over the buzz of the city. “What are they like?”

Oh! He’d been so reluctant to learn about you as your own person that the question catches you by surprise. Once you collect yourself, you’re only too excited to answer. Your words come out fast, unfiltered, “Well, they’re both elves, of course. They came to live in Neverwinter after meeting through their trade. It’s how they were able to send me to the best college for the arcane arts in the city. My mother is fairly practical, logical. She didn’t want me to come all the way out here, but, erm, came around to it eventually. I suppose I get my curiosity from my father, but, even so, I think you would quite like him…”

As your words trail off, you realize that Astarion’s slowed down, listening to you. “It’s odd,” he says, turning his head back ever so slightly. A worried crease lines his brow. “I am rather more concerned with what they would think about me.”

The admission leaves you a touch speechless. At first because of the vulnerability in Astarion’s fleeting look– Then because you’re honestly not sure how to answer. It would likely be a lie to say that they would love him. Your mother especially would hold no mercy for a man as mercurial as he is. But you decide that your words need not be so severe, “I think they would grow to adore you.”

“I see,” he mutters, accepting your word choice with as much grace as you suppose he can muster.

How I wish he would meet them, you think. But that’s not something ‘friends’ do, is it? Perhaps he thinks Gale really has a chance to stop me. Given his experience, does he actually have a chance?

You don’t have much more time to consider that question because Astarion pulls to a stop before a grand set of doors. They’re made of wrought iron, engraved in runes and intricate patterns, lined with a shimmer of blue magic. You recognize the runes as teleportation runes, and given the outer facade of the building, easily surmise that this isn’t the exact location of a wizard’s tower, just an entrance.

“Is this…?” you ask.

“It is,” Astarion says, flashing you a smile. You’re not sure what the look on your face is, but he is drinking it in with glee.

It’s just past midday, and you’ve finally arrived at Gale’s doors.

Astarion releases your hand to reach the door. You’d gotten so used to moving as a singular unit, that his sudden absence leaves you a bit off-kilter, as if a part of you is missing. You can't help but flex your hand open and closed a few times to return to yourself, to return to the present.

Once he’s reached the doors, you spot a large iron knocker in the center of them: the head of a tressym in high relief, a ring set between its sharp teeth. Astarion grips the ring, knocks it against the door three times in rapid succession.

A voice comes through the tressym a moment later, and you recognize the Magic Mouth spell. Gale’s voice is cheery, exactly as you’d remembered it from your dreams, as he says, “Welcome to the tower of Archmage Dekarios. To enter, please supply the phrase that he undoubtedly provided you with. Knock thrice more for emergency assistance.”

Astarion shoots you a look, as if to say, ‘see what I must put up with?’ then clears his throat before uttering his phrase, “'For the jubilation of one magnanimous mage, I, Astarion Ancunín, am enchanted to be granted entrance.”

The iron on the doors immediately begins to shift, unlocking whatever mechanism lies behind them. Several loud clunks and thunks later, the massive doors open to a glowing blue portal.

“Does he make you say that every time you visit him?” you ask, barely holding back your laughter.

“Oh no,” Astarion replies, gesturing you forward. “It’s a different damned phrase every year. And it seems to be a torture uniquely reserved for me. Elminster simply gets different types of cheese for his phrases.”

You follow his guiding hands, stepping through the blue portal, feeling the world behind you vanish and shift in hues of blues, not unlike the teleportation circle you used to get here. As soon as your foot touches the ground before you, the inside of Gale’s tower comes into focus.

Immediately, you feel electricity in your veins– the weave is strong here. You could only dream of having your own wizard’s tower, but you know enough about them to know their basic principles. They’re often built on spots where the weave is most highly concentrated. It’s often why they’re crafted in such odd shapes, in such inconvenient locations, and built to such great heights. It’s all in an effort to amplify the magic they’re built upon.

This tower is no different. You can’t quite tell the shape of the full tower, but the room you’re in is a semi-circle, lined with books and featuring several cozy looking couches. It’s quite possibly one of the loveliest waiting rooms you’ve ever had the chance to be welcomed in. You’re practically entranced and only vaguely register when Astarion asks from your side, “Have I lost you to the books already?”

He might have, if not for the rustling sound coming from behind you. You make an abrupt turn, only to come face to face with the man of the hour himself: Gale Dekarios steps through a set of blue, velvet curtains, wearing a set of purple robes and a gentle smile.

Unlike Halsin, who had hardly changed, only sporting a few new scars and wrinkles, or Astarion, who looks entirely unchanged, Gale looks like a new man. Or rather a very old man.

Where there was once a short, brown beard there is now a lush, wavy white beard in its place, neatly trimmed and manicured to perfection. His previously long, brown hair is white as well, carefully brushed back from his face, giving you a full view of his age-dappled features. Gale’s deep, brown eyes are as sharp as ever, surrounded by a webbing of wrinkles well-worn from a life full of joy. Your heart swells at the sight of him, looking every bit the witty sage from your memories, albeit greyer and a fair bit more lined.

You almost don’t recognize him, save that unmistakable glint in his eyes, the patient smile as he takes you and Astarion in.

Gale is the first to speak, his words aimed for Astarion, but his warm gaze falls entirely on you. “Oho, Astarion! Is this the guest you spoke of? I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised upon receiving your invitation confirmation. A guest, for the first time!”

What? you think in a sudden crack of panic. He didn’t tell him who I am?

You flash a distressed look at Astarion, who is only looking at Gale with annoyance. “Gods Gale, must you make a fuss out of everything?”

“It’s not every day that your oldest and dearest friend finds someone new worth cherishing. I was starting to grow rather fearful that you’d get old and wrinkled in your lonesome.” Gale’s smile is a bit mischievous as he turns away from you, to Astarion’s ire.

The words sound like playful jabs from Gale, but Astarion’s glower only seems to deepen. He looks just about ready to hiss like a cornered cat when you interject, “Not someone new per say. An old flame, actually.”

Astarion turns his glare to you, but it’s Gale who responds, “Phenomenal! Astarion, you sly dog, never giving even the slightest indication. When did you find each other, how long have you two been together? And how do you put up with him?”

You’ve only just entered the tower, and already the vampire looks at his wit’s end. Their friendship had always been entertaining to you when you had the chance to dream of it– they’re opposite in so many ways, alike in so many others. As such, Astarion’s flared nostrils and irritated stance come as no surprise. Neither do his clipped words as he struggles to respond to the wizard’s sudden enthusiasm, “What they meant to say is that they are– Well. They happen to be…”

His lips seem unable to say the words aloud, so you take it upon yourself to help. Stepping forward and standing tall, you look your friend and companion Gale Dekarios in the face and say, “It’s me, Gale.”

You’re not sure what you expect when you say the words. Perhaps a question, ‘who?’, or a confused, concerned look. Maybe even Astarion elbowing you in the side.

However, the wizard before you only takes a single beat. For that moment, he looks at you, with those same, familiar sharp eyes, before recognition settles in.

Then his arms are wrapping you in a warm embrace.

“My friend,” he murmurs into the hug, squeezing you tighter with a pair of ropy arms. “I can’t believe it.”

Your own arms respond in kind, crushing him back with your own youthful vigor. “I know, it’s a lot.” And it truly is– your own heart is pounding in your chest, your eyes are welling up with moisture. Astarion was your lover, but Gale? Gale has only ever been your friend. You’d saved the world together. You’d spent countless nights researching and planning together, spent even more simply enjoying each others’ company. And, unlike when you met with Halsin, you now feel so much more comfortable in your former identity. You feel comfortable claiming this hug for yourself.

Outside of your bubble of joy, you hear Astarion clear his throat pointedly. “While this is all incredibly touching, perhaps we can head into the tower before you both break each other in half?”

Gale releases you, as you do him, and you both turn to shoot daggers at Astarion. “Don’t mind him,” you say to the wizard. “He’s just jealous that it took him the longest to recognize me.”

“Of course,” Gale responds with a hearty chuckle. “Astarion has always been uniquely undiscerning when it comes to you.”

The man in question looks between you, face set in a grimace. “Gods below, I’m having the most unpleasant flashbacks.” You don’t need Detect Thoughts cast to see his thoughts written on his face. Something along the lines of, ‘This was a terrible idea.’

Gale ignores him, turning back to you in utter glee. “We have so much catching up to do!” he says, arms open wide. Then begins one of his customary rambles, “By Mystra’s grace, elves are fascinating. I knew you would reenter the Material Plane, but I had no idea it would happen so quickly. Not to mention, from my studies, elves typically don’t revisit past lives– part of ensuring that your kind continues to progress, I’ve been told. That being said, I am ecstatic that you’ve gone against the grain, my friend–”

You’re enjoying a long-lived human’s perspective on your reborn soul, but Astarion clearly doesn’t share your same sentiment. “Yes, yes,” he says, waving a hand. “Very interesting, I’m sure. However, it’s been a long couple of days, Gale. Could we please focus?” You’re reminded of when he asked you to focus on the way here and can’t help the snicker that leaves you. Astarion points an accusatory finger at you, “And you. Stop encouraging him.”

You hold up your own hands in innocence. “I’m only being a polite guest! Gale, thank you for having us.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re reminded of your past-self saying the same phrase of thanks every time you and Astarion came to visit.

“It’s my pleasure,” Gale says, his smile widening at the familiar words. “Now, could I interest you both in a drink?”

“We should drop by our lodgings first,” Astarion responds, before you can agree to a drink. “Or do you not want to deposit that enormous pack of yours?”

You blink at the vampire. The pack was growing rather annoyingly heavy, but you, again, hadn’t given much thought to your lodgings. A slight dread begins to build. “Where will we be staying?”

Gale turns around, gesturing for you both to follow. “Why one of the guest rooms, of course!”

One. You try to catch Astarion’s eye as you begin to follow Gale, any amount of his attention, any indication that he’s panicking internally as much as you are. Is he going to be comfortable sharing a room? Will we be sharing a bed?

The man’s face doesn’t react to Gale’s words– in fact, it remains utterly impassive as he says to you, “Don’t worry, darling. Despite his being a senile old man, Tara makes sure the place stays well kept.”

Tara! Gale’s familiar hadn’t appeared in your reveries often, only arriving for a spot of tea or to join you in chiding Gale to settle down. But your memories of her are fond and your question comes with a natural excitement, “Is Tara here?”

Gale takes you up a set of stairs as he responds with a cheerful look back at you, “She is out currently– procuring several items we still need for the celebration. But she should be back in no time. She shall be delighted to see you.”

His words warm you, glad that he’s had someone all these years. Then, remembering your past-self’s insistence and considering no one else showed up to welcome you, you ask Gale, “Did you ever listen to us? Find yourself a partner?”

Based on the way his shoulders hunch a bit, he slows as he continues to climb the stairs, you’re afraid you’ve delved too deep too soon. “Oh yes. Shortly after losing you, I found someone. I’m sorry you never had the chance to meet them.”

Guilt eats at your chest, knowing that he means that ‘sorry’, and wishing that he wouldn’t have to feel any regret. “I’m sorry, Gale, I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No need to apologize,” he says, continuing on briskly once more. “It was a lovely experience. But life goes on.”

You can’t help but look at Astarion as Gale says those words, wondering what he made of Gale’s lost love. What he made of Gale’s continuation after the fact. Perhaps, as two beings with lives beyond measure, their friendship evolved beyond trading barbs in the years after your death. Perhaps they could be there for each other, when everyone else passed on.

Astarion’s face betrays nothing as his red eyes meet yours in the dimly lit stairwell. “Darling?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you respond, turning back to Gale to change the subject. “I’ve only dreamt of parts of your tower, Gale. Would you be willing to give me a tour?”

“I would be overjoyed,” he says, climbing over the last step of the stairs. “Once you’ve had a moment to rest, let me know and I shall be right over.”

Following him out of the stairwell, you’re left in the curve of a hallway, several doors lining the outer wall– likely Gale’s guest rooms. “Amazing,” you say, looking left, right, up. “This tower is built in such an intricate way. What type of material did you use to ensure that the weave stayed stable?”

The wizard stops short of the first door and looks back at you. You can feel his appraising gaze, as if just taking in your robes, the spellbook at your hip, the inquisitive gleam in your eyes. “By the outer planes, are you trained in the arcane arts?”

You nod eagerly, your enthusiasm getting the better of you. “I am. I’ll confess, I was looking forward to meeting you as a scholar as well.”

The energy exchanged between you is palpable, and you sense that Gale is about to start on another lengthy diatribe about his tower, when Astarion clicks his tongue. “For the love of all that is unholy, could you two not wait until the tour?”

“Right you are, Astarion,” Gale says, smiling at you all the while. “What a fortuitous calling you’ve found, my friend. I look forward to imparting as much as I can.”

“More like a divinely ironic calling,” Astarion murmurs under his breath, pushing past Gale. “Which room is ours?”

“The third door,” the wizard responds, otherwise ignoring the man as he continues to speak to you. “It’s been a while since he’s been this prickly. He must be glad to be visiting with you again.”

“I can still hear you,” Astarion calls, as he opens the door down the hall.

You ignore Astarion as well as you respond in a quieter voice, “He’s been like that since I arrived on his doorstep. If it weren’t for my dreams of him, I’d have thought he was a prickly pear, not a man.”

The two of you share a laugh together before Gale continues down the hallway. “I apologize for before,” he says. When you only offer him a confused look, he continues, “For when I thought you were a new love of his. I truly should have known better. Astarion would have needed another half dozen centuries to get over you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but Astarion looks at you both from the doorway to your shared room. His eyes are dark, looking only at Gale, as he says, “That’s enough, Gale. Let us take a moment to unpack.”

Gale reads his friend’s expression with a patience you wish to possess someday. “I shall see you both later for a tour and some tea then?”

“Yes, please,” you reply, entering the room after Astarion. “And, thank you again, Gale.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” The wizard leaves you both with one last smile and a small wink, whisking off with the energy of a much younger man.

Now that you’re finally in the room, Astarion lights the lantern by the entrance and closes the door behind you. Looking into the space, you spot an armoire, a changing screen, a pair of armchairs, a couch, and then– just as you’d been afraid of, a single, large bed.

You focus your energy on keeping your voice calm, your breathing steady, even as your heart races. “So,” you start, dropping your pack on the ground and turning to face Astarion. “You didn’t tell him I was coming.”

“I told him I was bringing a guest,” is all that he says back.

“But not who I was?”

“I responded to his invitation weeks ago. It slipped my mind,” he says with a shrug.

The nonchalant look on his face is driving you mad. You’re not sure how this man can make you feel so many different emotions in one day, but by the gods does he manage it. “So you neglected to mention that we weren’t exactly lovers in your letter?” You gesture to the solitary, perfectly fluffed bed.

“Excuse me,” Astarion says, pacing to the armoire to begin unpacking his clothing. “I received enough helpful words from Dal, I didn’t want an entire speech from Gale before even arriving. Besides, it’s sharing a bed, darling. It’s not exactly the erotic act that you’re making it out to be.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” you say, disregarding his words.

“Nonsense, we’re grown elves. We can trance in the same bed without issue,” he says with an eye roll. “And if I’m such a temptation to you, why did you agree to be friends so easily?” he counters, raising an accusatory eyebrow at you. After the weeks you’ve had together, he knows full well that he’s a temptation to you. But if he thinks you’ll give him the satisfaction, then you suppose you know what you must do.

“Fine, the same bed it is. You’re the one who will suffer when I have a bad trance,” you grumble, beginning to take your items out of your pack as well.

Astarion crosses his arms, watching you as you lay out your robes. “I would hardly mind, darling. I tranced next to your past-self for years without issue.”

You suppose it’s true, though you can’t imagine what their trances were like. Your reveries of their life are the most visceral– it’s hard to imagine that they did anything but sleep peacefully. Instead, you ask another question that’s bothering you, aside from the bed, “So what are we supposed to tell Gale? That we’re… friends?”

“Naturally,” Astarion replies, sitting down in an armchair with a content sigh. “He’ll understand. It’s part of living a long life.”

You nod, continuing to unpack in silence, mind filled with thoughts of their long lives. After a few minutes, you ask Astarion another question, “Why didn’t you tell me about Gale’s former love? I might have avoided bringing it up.” Your tone isn’t accusatory, simply filled with a dejected sadness you aren’t able to stifle.

Astarion lifts his head, which had settled back in the armchair’s plush comfort. His words are solemn, honest. “Unlike the rest of our former companions, Gale is still alive. It is his story to tell, if he wishes.”

It makes sense, but you still feel the guilt of hurting him in the pit of your stomach. Not unlike the guilt you felt rehashing Astarion’s past memories. “Can you at least tell me this? How did they die?”

“Old age,” Astarion supplies. “And before you ask, no, they weren’t an elf. They won’t be popping up on his doorstep unannounced like some kind of bookish ghost.”

“He never considered extending their lifespan? There are plenty of–”

“No,” Astarion interrupts, looking at you with tired eyes. “They didn’t want that, and he respected their wishes. An extended life isn’t for the faint hearted.”

You gulp, feeling the guilt bubble up again at the question you inevitably want to ask, once more afraid of hurting Astarion. “And is that how you feel?”

“I don’t know anymore.” His words are quieter, barely loud enough for you to hear, and you can’t read his expression as his head ducks. His head is back up a moment later, a nervous little smile playing on his lips. “Well, if you have much more left to unpack, I actually meant to have a word with Gale. Shall we meet you downstairs?”

“Oh, sure,” you respond, pushing your guilt and curiosity back down. You suspect you already know what he wants to talk to Gale about. “I’ll be down shortly.”

When you do arrive downstairs shortly, neither man is present. I doubt they’ll be done any time soon, you think, beginning to poke around the room. I’ll find something to read while I wait.

That’s how you find yourself perusing through Gale’s carefully curated selection of waiting room books. And sweet hells is it curated well. It’s all you can do to keep from bouncing off the walls.

After picking up and dismissing several books, you settle on one that truly interests you. “Is this a first edition of Elameth's Compendium?” you ask no one in particular, flipping through the pages of a large, red tome. In it, the elven enchanter Elameth details a variety of magical artifacts, how to craft them, and how to dismantle them.

You’re surprised to receive a response as you flip the pages. “Oh my yes. Mr. Dekarios is quite fond of that particular compendium.”

Your head snaps up at a familiar voice, a feminine, unaffected voice, distinctly posh in its lilt. When you turn toward its source, you look down to see a small, cat-like creature peering up at you. “Tara?” you ask.

“I am she, yes,” the small, but proud creature says, tilting her head at you. “And who, may I ask, are you to be rifling through Mr. Dekarios’ books?”

She doesn’t seem mad at you, rather quite curious as her large green eyes inspect you. Will she believe you as easily as Gale did? Her eyes are staring at you so intently that your voice catches a bit as you begin to talk, “I– I am–”

“Ah, I see it now, my dear,” the tressym says, taking a few steps toward you with her feline-like gait. “No need to explain yourself. You’re Mr. Dekarios’ old friend, aren’t you? You look a tad different, but then again, so do most people that have died before.”

You blink, surprised at how little you needed to say for her to recognize you. “Yes, that’s me. How did you know?”

“A lady’s intuition, darling,” she says, lifting her head proudly a bit. “However, you also have that same air about you. Mr. Dekarios will be quite pleased to see you again.”

“We, erm, re-met each other earlier today,” you say, closing the book in your hands and turning to the tressym. “How have you been, Tara?”

“Very well, thank you for asking,” she bows her head a bit in acknowledgement. “You are far more polite than that wicked vampire you call a mate. Thank goodness you’re back, if only for that pale man’s sake.”

You laugh, vaguely recalling some of Astarion’s previous encounters with Tara. They got along about as well as two opposing felines would. “Has he been very difficult without me?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and her wings shuffle a bit in discomfort. “Nigh impossible to deal with. I don’t know how Mr. Dekarios puts up with him.”

You’re about to ask another question when her ears perk up, shoot back. “Well now, it seems like he and Mr. Dekarios are on their way to you. I am still working on preparations for the celebration, so do keep Mr. Dekarios occupied until I have need of him.”

You’d already planned on thoroughly distracting the wizard with questions about his tower and are only too happy to keep the tressym pleased. “Of course, Tara.”

She purrs a hum of approval before turning around. With a “ta-ta, darling” she leaves you waiting for the imminent arrival of Gale and Astarion.

The two arrive from behind the blue, velvet curtain less than a minute later. “Oh hello,” you say, looking at them from over the book you’d reopened.

Astarion looks to be in a better mood, though Gale looks distinctly less happy. It’s Astarion who speaks first, “Hello, darling. Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long?”

The warmth of his words comes as a bit of a surprise. You look back to Gale, who is smiling at you sadly. I see , you think. Astarion thinks Gale will convince you to leave your project be– that he can grow attached to you now because you won’t be leaving him in the lurch. No matter, you think. This changes nothing for me.

So you respond with the same enthusiasm, “Not at all! I was just looking through the excellent book selection you have, Gale.” You hold up the red tome in your hand and his expression immediately lights up once again.

“Elameth's Compendium! Why, we used that book in your prior life, don’t you remember?” he says, his crow’s feet becoming more pronounced as he smiles.

You shake your head. “Unfortunately not. I didn’t receive every memory. And admittedly…” You look at Astarion who is looking at you rather smugly, knowing exactly what you’d told him multiple times now. The smug look will certainly only get worse with your words, but you also want to discuss your memories with Gale, as the sage and scholar that he is. “Most of my reveries were about Astarion.”

At that, Gale looks between the two of you, a pensive hand stroking his beard. “Fascinating,” is all that he offers.

“Yes,” you agree, ready to provide more information, to receive any and all theories he has about you and your memories. But, of course, the subject of your memories refuses to be excluded for long.

“Maybe if your evenings researching together were less dreadfully dreary you might have dreamt of more of them,” Astarion offers with a flip of his hand. “Now, shall we begin with the tea or the tour?”

The three of you decide to begin with a tour.

Gale leads the way, his mane of long, white hair guiding your path forward. As a tour guide, he’s clearly well practiced, describing each room in detail, explaining its purpose, and even peppering in the odd anecdote or memory from your past life.

You go through a sauna, heated with fire runes. You walk past his actual library, filled head to toe with books of all kinds. You drop by his study, and its sweet scent of ink trails after you. An astronomy room, a storage room, a dining room, a sitting room– you begin to wonder how tall this tower truly is from its exterior. Gale explains that he’s had to renovate a few dozen times over the years, to ensure that the tower’s magic remains stable. As such, rooms come and go with a few, necessary exceptions.

Even among all of these extraordinary rooms, a few stand out to you, clear gems in the wizard's remarkable living space.

“This is the alchemy room, where I grow plants and create my various concoctions! I’m quite proud to say that you’ll find some plants that grow even on the other side of Faerûn. I’ve created many an interesting tonic– I’d exercise some caution if you find yourself in here. Why one time…” He trails off into a story about how Tara turned purple for a week. She was not amused, apparently.

“And this is the experimentation room, where I bring anything that may be dangerous to test. There are a variety of different materials for me to test spells and artifacts on, and the room is warded with a wide assortment of protection wards to make sure that the rest of the tower is unaffected. It certainly is helpful when it comes to any errant magic, wouldn’t you say Astarion?” The look Astarion shoots him is that of a man who has seen one too many Fireballs in his life.

“Now this is the enchanting room, where I create magical artifacts. Now this includes your customary garden-variety fare, but I do have the opportunity to create a few rarer objects, such as the sunlight rings that I craft for the spawn. You'll find that I boast all types of spell components and even have a few specialized work benches, infused with various magical properties.”

You want to stay in this room for hours, you want to look through each and every book, peruse the shelves, test out the recipes that are strewn about the place. But you hold back, merely asking Gale a few questions about where he sources his materials, whether or not he had a bench for each school of magic, and how long it took to create a sunlight ring.

Easier questions answered, you eventually ask him, “Is this where we worked on our ring designs together?”

Gale takes a quick glance at Astarion before nodding. “Yes, precisely. That’s exactly the type of thing we used to work on.”

You elect to ignore his word choice, pressing on, “I had a dream about that just last night. We’d settled on a ring made of silver, it had slotting for an inlay along its edge.”

Recognition passes over Gale’s eyes before he bows his head wearily. “One of the last times we spoke. That was our most promising candidate.”

You already know that much. Despite the way Astarion’s eyes tighten around the corners, the way that Gale’s sadness creases his mouth around his beard, you continue, “I had an idea I would love to speak to you about. Would you have time before your birthday festivities?”

The wizard’s head lifts back up, the sadness reaching his eyes now. “I think it’s best if we leave that part of our past behind us, wouldn’t you say?”

Luckily, you’d prepared for such a response, expecting it. From your memories, from understanding who he is, what Astarion might have said to him, you think you know just what to say. “I wouldn’t. At least, not until I figure out one last thing. I have memories of the necromancer’s notes. Untouched, unbloodied, but undeciphered. I just need someone to delve into my mind and pull them out. If it amounts to nothing, well, maybe I could move on. But a wizard once told me, my intuition has rarely led us astray.”

Neither of your companions say anything to this, but you can tell see the wheels turning in Gale’s mind. He’d tried, just as you had, to remove the blood from the notes. He’d attempted, just as you had, to decipher what was left. Here you were, offering him the key to a century and a half’s mystery. He’d be remiss to not take you up on it.

Astarion, for his part, is simply looking at you. His red eyes seem to glow in the enchanting room’s magical lighting. You wonder if he believes you, that this will be your final attempt to try, that you would leave it be if it amounted to nothing.

I just know it will amount to something though, you think to yourself. I refuse to let it lead nowhere, not when I feel so close.

Gale interrupts your thoughts. “Well, I shall have a think on it and let you know later. For now, let me show you both to our last stop: the kitchen! Where we can also enjoy a lovely, little morsel and a cup or two of tea.”

Musings pushed aside for now, the three of you head to the kitchens for a late lunch. With all of Gale’s commentary, Astarion’s snarky interjections, and your own questions, the tour ended up being quite a few hours. You’re ravenous by the time the tea kettle rings and Gale shuffles about his kitchen preparing an afternoon meal for you all.

“Do you need any help, Gale?” you ask, scooting your chair back, ready to get up and join the wizard as he flits back and forth.

“No need, my friend. You are a guest after all,” he assures you, with a wave. A blue, spectral hand floats behind him, opening and closing doors for him as he artfully arranges what seems to be a hearty assortment of various meats and cheeses. “I may have aged a touch, but I assure you that I am every bit the gourmet chef I have always been.”

“Right,” Astarion mutters under his breath. “Every bit as capable of giving an entire adventuring party food poisoning.”

You chuckle at Astarion’s comment, only to recall that Astarion hasn’t had a real basis for Gale’s food since his early days of pretending not to be a vampire. Since then, his main diet has consisted of blood and wine, which you haven’t seen him partake in in over a week. “Aren’t you hungry?” you whisper to the man, leaning over to him in the event that Gale shouldn’t overhear.

His red eyes meet yours, and, as always, you can see the underlying hunger in them. It’s fruitless to ask, you realize. He’ll always be hungry.

“I’m managing. Don’t you worry about me– Focus on getting your noisy stomach to quiet down.” He shoots you a wry smile, but you can’t help but worry regardless.

“Fine, but once that’s quieted, I will be bothering you again,” you say, pointing a finger at him menacingly.

“What’s this about noisy stomachs?” Gale asks, walking over with a plate stacked full of meats, cheeses, smears, breads, and assorted fruits. Far too much food for the two of you who could eat it– Perhaps more than would feed you for a week. “Why, I have just the remedy.”

The three of you, well Gale and yourself, enjoy the feast he’s prepared for you, chattering all the while about the various things you’ve seen in his tower, what he’s gotten up to in the last hundred and fifty years, and your life back in Neverwinter. You’re surprised when even Astarion chimes in with his own questions about your current life.

You learn about Gale’s latest research. They learn about your time at the arcane college in Neverwinter. Collectively, you reminisce about times that you’ve only witnessed through dreams.

Together you have a pleasant afternoon, one that quickly turns into evening as you continue to chat. The entire conversation and atmosphere bring about a warmth you’d missed in your ‘normal’ life. Seated at Gale’s round kitchen table like this, you can almost pretend that this is your life. Perhaps it is now.

It’s only after a small “Ahem, ahem” interrupts Gale’s latest recounting of a particularly explosive application of the Weave that you all realize how late it’s gotten. “Mr. Dekarios, I’m glad that you and your friend have gotten reacquainted, but I am afraid I require your assistance in the dining room.”

“Tara! Of course, I shall pop right on over.” Gale turns to you and Astarion, smiling at you both in turn. “Well, my friends. It seems I’m needed for the party preparations. I hope you don’t mind my absence.”

“Not at all, Gale,” you respond, bowing your head in acknowledgement. “Hosting is plenty of work without my showing up here unaccounted for.”

“Nonsense!” Gale cries, standing up from his chair with a few creaking bones. “Why this may be the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

His words sound so genuine, his smile so sincere, that you nearly miss what he’s said. A birthday present. Oh gods, I need to get him a present. “Say, Gale,” you say, catching his attention before he leaves. “When is the party proper?”

“Oh, right.” He gives a lighthearted chuckle, looking at Astarion as he does so. “You’ll forgive me for the befuddling schedule– it’s the only way I can ensure Astarion actually shows up on time. You know how he likes to avoid people.”

“Not to worry, I understand.” You snicker, only to earn an indignant elbow from Astarion.

Gale looks between you two knowingly, and you feel your face flush under his sympathetic eyes. “Well, let’s see…” The man begins a countdown on his fingers. “Including tonight, the party is in five nights.”

“Oh!” you breath out, surprised. Plenty of time to explore the city, to hopefully speak to Gale, and, most importantly, acquire a present for him. “Sounds lovely. Thank you, Gale.”

“My pleasure,” he says. “I shall see you two on the morrow then.” Gale gives you both one last wink before following Tara out of the kitchen.

That’s how you and Astarion are left alone once more. The silence that settles between you is all at once easy and yet deeply uncomfortable. You want to fill it with something, but what can you say? That you know he wants Gale to dissuade you from your goals? That you haven’t known a peace like this in your entire lifetime and you’re afraid it isn’t meant to be yours?

Whatever it is, you need to say something, to fill the silence. You turn toward him in your seat and begin, “Astarion–”

“Darling, I–”

You both stop before you start, realizing that you’re interrupting each other. You’re the first to collect your bearings. “Go ahead, Astarion.”

He smiles at you and the tenderness in his eyes is difficult to miss, catching you off guard. “I just wanted to thank you.�� When you only offer him a puzzled look, he elaborates, “For coming with me. I know it was a bit of a gamble for you after, well, everything. But this is already proving to be more… tolerable, than most years.”

His words spark a tingle in your chest, cause a warmth to bloom on your cheeks. It’s a compliment of sorts, and one that you weren’t expecting to receive. Given his sullen attitude and snarky comments, you’d expected a half-sarcastic, ‘This has been riveting.’

But the man never fails to surprise you. So you’re left speechless, nodding at his thanks, unsure of how to accept them.

“Now, what had you wanted to say, darling?” he asks, expression back in a confident mask, as if his words hadn’t just blanketed you in a deluge of emotions.

What had you meant to say? Right. You had wanted to fill in the silence, which seems almost banal in the wake of his sincere thanks. You comb through your own thoughts as quickly as you can, trying to find a reason to speak, to answer his expectant gaze.

“Would you like some blood?”

He blinks at you and you blink back, as if neither of you had expected you to say this. His response comes a moment later, a bit guarded, “I suppose I could use a snack. But with all of the day’s travel and your rather delicate constitution, are we sure that’s the best idea, darling?”

It may not have been your first or most pressing thought, but now that you’ve said it, you realize that feeding him is still quite important to you. So you press on. “I’ll be fine. It’s plenty late and I’ll be able to sleep off any ill effects,” you assure him.

“In that case, perhaps we first head back to our room? That way I won’t have to carry your limp body up several flights of stairs.” His use of ‘our’, his quick acceptance of your offer, it all feels so surreal. Maybe that’s what friendship means to him, but it’s sending you and your body mixed signals.

Either way, you agree without argument, and you both head back to your shared quarters.

Once you’re standing in the center of the room, you ask, “Where would you like me?”

Astarion raises a suggestive eyebrow at you. “Oh, you absolute fiend. Here I was, thinking that a bite on the wrist was already quite intimate.”

“Astarion,” you chide, ignoring the way his low, sultry voice sets your skin alight. “I meant, would you prefer the bed, the couch, maybe a chair?”

“How dull, darling. The bed then,” he says, gesturing toward the yet untouched plush, blue bedding.

You follow his direction and sit on the bed. After taking a quick breath, you get to work, rolling up the sleeve of your robe for him and exposing the tender flesh of your wrist to him. “Here you are,” you say, holding out your wrist to him as he takes a spot next to you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, taking hold of your wrist, angling it back and forth between his cold fingers, as if trying to find just the right spot to bite.

“What’s the matter?” you ask, after the third rotation.

“It’s nothing, dear,” he says, fingers trailing the line of veins extending from your wrist. With his soft touch shocking your brain into submission, you barely register his words as he continues, “I was thinking, perhaps, I might need to bite a bit more carefully to keep you from growing faint again. I’m afraid I had rather gotten used to biting that delectable neck in your past-life.”

You gulp and you’re certain that the sound is audible to you both. “Is that so? Would you… prefer a neck?”

“Don’t you worry your lovely little head, darling,” he says, bending his head over your wrist. “I shall manage.”

You’re about to protest, to insist that he’s allowed to bite your neck, even as your heart pounds brutally in your chest at the thought– but his fangs sink in before a word can escape your lips and you’re left huffing out a small sigh.

Astarion’s lips smile against your wrist, and, were it not for the kind consideration he’d just shown you, you may have smacked him on his beautiful silver head for it.

Much like the previous times he’s had a nibble, his seemingly involuntary hums are more the source of your lightheadedness than anything else. The deep rumble that sounds from his chest sends your heart into a frenzied rhythm that your blood just can’t appear to keep up with.

Calm down, you think, imagining images of still water, light breezes, soft cats. Calm down or you will fall back again. Nothing seems to be working to quiet your pounding heart and, as you look at the angle of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek, you can feel your breath catching, your vision blurring.

No, you repeat to yourself. He will starve himself if it means you don’t get injured, keep yourself together. You’re startled by how accurate the thought sounds to your own mind. You knew he cared about you, but had you ever really sat down and understood the depth of it? However, you don’t have time to think about the implications of his concern because your world is beginning to spin.

Breathe, you command of yourself. You take a deep breath.

Another, you think, and you feel your eyes start to focus as fresh air enters your body.

Two large breaths later and you’re feeling significantly better– your heart is still racing, but the room has stilled and your body feels your own again. Just in time too, as you feel Astarion take one last drink from your veins, remove his fangs, and breathe a sigh of bliss onto your skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, the flush on his face, the pink on his ears is still somehow worth the miserable feeling of blood loss. “So darling,” he says, licking his blood-stained lips. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine,” you say, smiling at him with the best, least exhausted grin you can manage. Certainly better than you have after your previous feedings. “Though I do think it is your fault that I feel faint sometimes.”

“Really?” Astarion asks, raising an eyebrow at you. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Well,” you start, not sure how to approach the issue with him, but needing to tell him all the same. “I think it’s the noises you make while you feed. My heart just, erm, panics a bit.”

Astarion looks at you with a blank expression. “Noises?”

Ah, so they are involuntary. “Yes, the mmm’s and the hmm’s and the–”

“Stop that.” Astarion raises a hand up to your face, placing it over your mouth. When you look toward him to see what could be the matter, you see that a blush covers his cheeks, that the tips of his ears have turned a deep red. “I– I thought I’d stopped doing that years ago.”

It’s as if time stills. You struggle with your confused, nervous thoughts as you register his embarrassment, the words he’s said.

Astarion is blushing, your brain thinks.

Of course, the rational part of you counters. He’s just fed, he’s going to have some blood in his system for a while.

But he’s blushing because of something I said, you supply.

Your mind goes blank at the thought.

You’re grateful that you can’t reply to Astarion, not with his hand over your mouth, because you’re not certain what is liable to come out of it at the moment.

Luckily, Astarion continues to speak, not releasing your face, “Well, I apologize for the noises. I’ll try to control that. In the meanwhile, why don’t we get ready for bed? It’s been a long day.”

You nod into his hand, after which he removes it from your mouth. His face continues to have a touch of pink, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. You can hardly be bothered by it, because the only things running in circles in your mind are the feel of Astarion’s hand on your face, the sight of his perfectly blushed cheeks, and the fact that, somehow, despite everything, he still cares about your well-being.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You end up having to take a quick bath to clear your mind, and you both get ready for bed separately. However, at the end of the day, you both wind up in the same, immense bed after all is said and done.

You thought that maybe something big would happen. Perhaps that he would recoil from you. Or worse, grab onto you. Maybe that the earth would open up and swallow you both. But nothing of the sort happens.

You both simply lay down, tuck yourselves in a variety of soft blankets, rest your heads on the best down pillows magic can conjure, and remain several feet apart on the massive bed.

Much like last night, Astarion puts out the lantern next to the bed and whispers to you, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

There’s simply no way that your reverie will take you tonight, of that you’re sure. You’re convinced of it, because all you can hear is the pounding of your heart, the muffled breath you take when you try to be quiet. But eventually, against all odds, your trance does overtake you.

That night as you enter your reverie, you blink your eyes open to a familiar inn.

Again, the establishment is dead, not a soul in sight in this remote village. And, as always, the innkeep reaches down into their front desk, pulling out another book.

It looks to be a book that they’ve already started– a bookmark is placed about halfway through its pages. The cover is mostly plain, a black leather with a large tower embossed in the center. In the smallest script you catch the title before they open the book, “The Midnight Tower and its Master.”

The innkeep flips open to their current page and begins to read…

When you wake up from your reverie a few hours later, you sit up with a gasp, a hand clutching at your chest in surprise.

Next to you, Astarion stirs, looking at you with a drowsy concern. “Darling, are you alright?”

“I–I’m fine,” you say, taking several deep breaths. “I dreamt of the tower.”

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 13: And They Were Roommates

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, references to past Astarion trauma, references to death and dying, lots of talking

WC: 8.4k words, 13/?? chapters

Summary: You and Astarion try to find a common ground between you. Things are awkward and tentative, and progress is anything but linear.

A/N: Prepare yourself for some big ol’ chapters going forward.

Ao3 | [Ch12][Ch14] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

After agreeing to stay with Astarion, you went from being veritable strangers to something closer to, well, roommates.

That first day, you had asked him where he’d like you to stay. After having overheard his distaste of you occupying your past-self’s room, you figured any other room would be preferable. However, he simply furrowed his brows, opened his mouth, closed his mouth. You saw him deliberating the various rooms in his mind before he ultimately said, “Stay in our old room for now. I suppose it makes the most sense.”

So you found yourself in the same familiar room, your bags back on the floor. You contemplated asking him for another room, considering the absolutely atrocious reverie you’d last had in this one, but decided to try once more before complaining.

It had been an awkward day already, and you weren't entirely sure what to do next. You'd arrived where you’d meant to be, but now what?

You contemplated speaking to Astarion some more, but the weight of the words you'd already spoken were too heavy to take on much more. You were exhausted, down to your bones, from tension, from tears shed, from the whirlwind of emotions that had swept you through the day. No, there will be time for more conversation tomorrow. For now, you needed to spend the rest of the day recharging.

So you spent that first night refamiliarizing yourself with Dal, as you'd silently sworn you would. Besides, after recalling her gratitude toward you, Petras's lingering questions, there is clearly a history you’ll need to learn more about.

When you’d last brushed up on your dreams, it was with a heavy focus on Astarion. You’d been eager to recall every detail about him and your journal entries with him were so enthusiastic that you didn’t pay much mind to those without him. Now you focused on rereading the entries regarding the vampire spawn.

What you relearned surprised you, and a few journal entries in particular seemed important in retrospect.

Hero’s Life - Entry 5753: No Astarion tonight. I did dream of the Underdark and Astarion’s siblings. Two of them, I think Dal and Leon, were busy setting up some defenses. I was helping the large one (Petra or Petras?) and the tiefling (Aurelia I believe) move some spawn from one location to another in a hurry. I think the other two, the gnome (Usen?) and the other blonde elf were already in hiding. From what I gather, Astarion was scouting around the fortress.

It seemed like a regular occurrence, being under attack. The whole process was very well orchestrated. The spawn siblings thanked me for my help, and I could feel my past-self’s worry. They seem to care a lot about Astarion’s family.

Hero’s Life - Entry 9816: Last night I didn’t dream of Astarion. I was a bit disappointed, but my former self was too focused to note his absence. They spoke to Dal, I think, of a project they’re working on together. The conversation was confusing, I think it was spoken in some kind of code. All I could really tell was that we’re searching for something and that Astarion is not being very helpful.

We looked over a set of diagrams for a while, I took some notes. Toward the end of the reverie we changed topics to the colony, and I have to say, running a vampire colony seems like a lot of work. The fortress is so unsafe, so easy to invade from any side. They were discussing plans for new renovations for a while – I wonder what they will settle on.

Other entries detailed working together with the spawn, setting up structures within their new society, and new rules. It was all quite informative, if a bit out of your depth of expertise. But more than anything, you wanted to know what Dal and your past-self were working on. Tomorrow, you assured yourself, I will simply speak to Astarion to learn more of this.

Here you are now, opening your eyes from an uneventful yet deeply unrestful reverie. You had sworn to speak to Astarion, but you weren’t aware at the time of how absolutely exhausted you would be come morning. Barely able to get up, you curse at the gods when you hear knocking on your door.

"Coming…" you say, voice echoing your weariness.

"Are you quite alright?" Astarion calls through the door. "Or were you lying about getting to know each other? Really, darling, there are better ways to get free lodging."

You give him an annoyed grunt as you open the door, and the gauntness of your face must be truly frightening given the way he looks at you.

"So you're not alright?" He asks, taking a small step back, as if your eyebags could be contagious.

"I'm just tired," you say, yawning. "I haven't managed to get a good reverie in three days. And I've barely made it by on rations, but I think I’ll need some real food soon." As if on cue, your stomach growls and you look down at it in betrayal.

After having gone without mortal food since your past-life's death, it's clear that the vampire’s mansion hasn't the means to feed you. Astarion waves a hand in the air in exasperation. "Can't you just, I don't know, conjure up some food?"

You give him an unbelieving stare. Surely this man, who's lived centuries more than you, can tell the differences between types of magic, right? When his face doesn't change, you clarify, "Er, no. That is exclusively holy magic. My magic is arcane. Has Gale never explained magic to you?"

He laughs, as if you've told a magnificent joke. When you don't reciprocate, he follows it with a snort, "Darling, surely you know the answer to that? If a Gale waxes poetically about magic and no one bothers to listen, did it ever really happen?"

What? I would love to listen to a great archmage like Gale speak about… oh. Many memories from your past-self click in that moment, and you realize that after decades of dreaming of him, you had started to see a lot of Astarion's behavior through the rose-colored glasses that were their affection. That perhaps your earlier memories, of his ridiculous, insane behavior, were not far off the mark. I see. It seems that I loved a man with nary a thought in his beautiful brain.

It makes sense. He's never once in your memories been the 'planner,' and in your time living together, your past-self had been the one at the desk, the one speaking with the spawn, the brains of the operation, so to speak.

It didn't bother you then, and it certainly doesn't bother you now, but it does change the way you approach this. "No matter. Just know that I can't conjure food. It seems like I'll need to go procure some.” You pause to consider your options. “Unless you have a means–”

“No,” he says, cutting you off before you can make a fool of yourself. "And I haven't the faintest where the nearest market might be at this point."

"I see," you say, breathing out a hearty sigh. "Would you happen to be able to help me find–"

"I'm afraid not, darling," he interjects again. "I don't have a sunlight ring currently, and even if I did, I'm not much interested in a field trip."

"Alright," you start, stifling another yawn. "But if that's the that case, how will you–"

"Get to know you? We have weeks. I'm in no rush so please feel free to tend to your bodily needs." He flashes you a wide, fanged smile.

Once was a coincidence, twice irks you, and three times? Well, you can't let three times go unacknowledged. "Why do you keep interrupting me?" you ask him, tone just shy of irritated.

"Oh, am I?" he asks, with a small little laugh. "I hadn't realized." The look he gives you then is full of actual chagrin, and you realize he may not have noticed.

"Yes, it's rather irritating," you say, resisting the urge to forgive him too easily. Between his laugh and his smile, you feel weak to his charms, wanting to slap yourself as much as you had your past-self.

"Well, I'll try to stop," he replies, a smile still somehow present on his face. That's when you notice it, tucked beneath the layers of carefully crafted morning cheer, a nigh imperceptible eye twitch. He's nervous. The thought of this hundreds-year-old vampire being nervous with you is rather… new.

So you find yourself averting your eyes, stowing the feeling away for later. For now, you accept his vow to stop with a mumbled, "Thank you."

You spend the rest of the day in search of a real, living person's food source. Fighting your exhaustion all the while, you stop by the nearby inn, grab a meal, get directions and stock up for the week at a distant market.

By the time you get back to the house, it's getting late and Astarion welcomes you back with an annoyed 'tch.'

"What a waste of a day, darling. I don't know how much longer you plan on staying up, but I'm quite tired by now." He gives a big, cat-like yawn and makes a show of stretching.

It's barely even half past six, and you can tell he's exaggerating, so you only respond, "It makes sense that the older you get the more beauty sleep you need, but I always presumed vampires were the exception to the rule."

He scoffs at you, but a wicked little smirk betrays how much he enjoys the jab. "So you do have some bite to you. Good to know."

"I don't think I could live through as much of my previous life as I did and not have some bite left over," you say with a small, satisfied smile. "After facing down horrors, otherworldly beings, literal devils– I’ve learned only from the best how to handle any situation.”

At the mention of your former life, Astarion's own smirk slips some. He clears his throat and responds, "Right. That makes… sense.” He bounces between his feet uncertainly before continuing, “Well, if you need anything else, within reason, you can find me in my room. Goodnight, darling." With that, he turns heel and practically runs away from you.

Well, you think to yourself. That wasn’t ideal. Maybe it was a bit too much? You make a mental note to be careful with your past, maybe not mention it so casually– at least not until he's ready.

You’d forgotten to mention that the room had been ruining your reveries, and he’s too long gone to ask for a replacement. Hopefully you’ll get used to the uncomfortable memories with time.

That night your meditation comes easier, your rest is less interrupted. You dream of a life where you had been a chef. Perhaps for the first time in your current lifetime, this life's dreams will matter for your survival.

The next day begins on a far better foot.

Now that you have ingredients, a set of plates and silverware to use, even a pot and pan on which to cook, you happily follow Astarion to the kitchen for breakfast. You wonder briefly if he’d appreciate another offer of blood, but decide against it for now– your memories have warned you enough about this and you don’t want your new relationship tainted by how transactional blood drinking can be for vampires.

Instead, you settle into the kitchen to cook a simple breakfast of eggs and bacon while Astarion sits at his kitchen table, watching.

After a few minutes of a silence that doesn’t quite hit comfortable, Astarion speaks up. "How did you know where to find me the other day?" He asks genuinely. "In your past life, we hadn't built the tunnel to the Underdark yet."

"Oh," you say, recalling your adventures throughout his house as you stir your eggs. You contemplate lying, but decide that there's no use in starting off on that foot. The rough path of honesty it is. "I actually went, erm, looking about. I likely searched most of the house before stumbling upon the illusory wall."

"You're quite the investigator aren't you?" He asks, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

You wonder why that could be, but when you look up to see him genuinely curious for an answer, you can’t help but respond. "You could say that. I love a good puzzle." You shrug and take your eggs off the stove.

"I see." He says, a far off look glazing over his eyes. "How did you manage to find the fake wall?"

"Rhapsody gave it away," you say, recalling the dagger's dive onto the floor.

Astarion clicks his tongue, annoyed. "Ah yes, that old thing. I wish I could get rid of it, its odd shape makes it prone to falling. But I can't."

"You can't?" His firm stance on it tickles the back of your mind, as if a memory is begging to burst forth. Sitting down with your plate of eggs and bacon, you search his hard red eyes for answers before beginning your meal.

"Oh not for any sentimental reasons," he says. "Don't you mind that though. What shall we get up to today?”

The part of your brain that feels close to something– something important– wants to press, but you recall how he ran away from you yesterday. You know he likely isn’t any more prepared today than he was then, so you decide to tuck it aside for later. “Well, I was wondering when we might have a chance to speak to the spawn again?” You begin, listlessly moving your eggs about your plate as you speak. “I was rereading my dreams with Dal and–”

Astarion makes a show of rolling his eyes at you before interrupting. “I’m not interested in rehashing the past, as I’ve said. Your dreams are just that– the past. What should we do today?”

You pause your fork halfway to your mouth to respond. “But the spawn seem to be a big part of your life, are they not?”

“Of course they are, but they’re only a part of it.” He folds his hands together in front of him on the table and stares you down. “If I knew you’d be so interested in them and not me, I wouldn’t have suggested this.”

Gulping down a bite of food, you take a moment to process his words. As much as Dal’s remarks burn in your mind and your memories with her seem to taunt you from the bag at your hip, you know that that’s not really why you’re here. It’s just another puzzle that’s tantalizing you, one you deeply wish to uncover, but also one that seems to run contrary to everything Astarion hopes for.

That bothers you. After all, he was nothing but a helpful brother down in the Underdark. But clearly a line between him and the spawn has been drawn somewhere– you’ll have to toe it until you get more concrete answers. “Sorry, curiosity got the better of me,” you finally reply, smiling at him apologetically. “In that case, I’m really quite amenable to anything you’d like to do. Any hobbies we would be able to do together?”

Astarion seems to visibly calm when you drop the subject of the spawn. “Ah yes, that should be a good place to start. I quite like reading, embroidery, I even do the odd whittling after that damned druid taught us. I have also found myself to be fairly adept at crafting scents.”

You nod as he lists, familiar with many of these hobbies from your memories. Chewing on a piece of bacon, you motion for him to continue with a hand wave.

He looks at you appraisingly for a second before saying, “Well if you insist on hearing more about me and my hobbies, who am I to refuse.” You’d always thought he seemed relieved to finally open up to your past-self, and the way he speaks seems to confirm your suspicions. “When I have the chance to enjoy the sun, I tend to make a day of it, go to Baldur’s Gate, enjoy the sights, ‘acquire’ myself some materials– sometimes I even find myself a meal in the form of some ruffian.”

“How often do you get to enjoy the sun?” you ask, voice a bit cautious as you’re certain this must be a sore spot for him.

Surprisingly, Astarion seems unperturbed by this particular line of investigation. “About once a month. Maybe once every couple– it really depends on how pressing any of my business is in Baldur’s Gate.” Then, likely noticing the sad tilt of your eyebrows, he shakes a finger at you. “Don’t be so… needlessly sympathetic. There are a lot of spawn and, while I may get priority for a sunlight ring on account of my previous heroics, 6000 spawn sharing a limited number of rings means I can’t afford to be selfish.”

You chew another bite of bacon as you contemplate his words. He says he doesn’t believe in love anymore, that he’s not the same man, but from that statement alone, you know your past-self has left a considerable mark. You decide not to point this fact out to him and instead ask another question, “In that case, how many rings do you have among you?”

“I’d say we’re somewhere around a hundred?” he answers, placing a finger on his chin as he thinks. “Dal would know best. But Gale sends us one every once in a while, sometimes they get lost, so the number changes. They’re not impossible to make, but they take time and a highly skilled archmage.”

“Is that why you’ve stayed friends with Gale all these years?” you ask, a teasing tone in your voice that you find comes naturally.

Astarion laughs, and it’s one of his now rare, real laughs. You can recognize the sound from your memories. “Was I that obvious?”

You can’t help but laugh along with him, an odd happiness bubbling in your chest alongside the laughter. Is this our first real, shared laugh? you think. Externally, you reply, “I’d say so. Though you do keep him quite busy,” you pause, gesturing back toward his room with a piece of bacon. “Were those illusions all his work as well?”

The vampire in front of you looks at you thoughtfully again, and more than anything you wish you could read his mind. He responds with, “Of course. He’s a master of illusions. Taught it for at least a century.” Then, abruptly, he adds, “I don't remember you being this intelligent. It’s quite irksome.”

The way he says it isn’t meant to be insulting, but you can’t help but feel a bit defensive at the statement. He states it as if being smarter is some kind of crime. “I wasn’t, to my recollection,” you start, all of your previous amusement dropping from your expression. “I’m afraid I can't help it though. If it’s an issue, you’ll have to take it up with my parents.”

“Parents?” he asks, somewhat incredulously. “You have… those?”

It’s almost as if it’s a foreign concept to the man. You suppose it must be, considering that he hasn’t had his own in centuries, and your previous self had long since lost their parents when they met. “Yes, Astarion,” you say, adopting a patient tone. “Parents, as in those who raised me, cared for me. They know all about you, you know.”

Astarion doesn’t seem to enjoy that particular fact. “Oh, do they?” The man scoots out a bit from his chair. “That’s quite interesting. And are they expecting you back anytime soon?”

You shrug, honestly not sure what your parents expect. “No, but I was going to cast a quick Sending spell to them before too long. It’s my first big trip, so I’m sure they’d like an update.”

Again, you’ve said something that’s made Astarion uncomfortable, reminded him that you’re both worlds away from each other in a way that may be impossible to surmount. You can practically see the excuses lining up behind his lips as he scoots another inch back. “You don’t say? Well, it would hardly do to keep them waiting, would it?” Before you can respond, he stands up in a single movement. “I shall leave you to it then? Of course, you know where to find me.”

He’s gone before you can contest him, and you’re left alone with the last remnants of your breakfast. “Great. So no past-life memories, no mentions of the spawn, and no mentions of my own life,” you speak down to the eggs on your plate. “What can I talk to him about without him running away?”

Once you finish breakfast, you do end up sending a message to your parents. It’s a short message, well within your 25-word limit, “I’m safe at Astarion’s. Will be here until the end of the month. Love you.”

You receive a message back a moment later from your mother, “Thank the gods. Keep us updated, and don’t forget that it’s not illegal to cast in self-defense. Love you too.”

Afterward, you seek Astarion out again, only to find that he’s sequestered himself in the bath. He stays there until dark and leaves as soon as he gets out with the excuse, “I need to find something to feed on. I shall see you tomorrow.”

You watch him leave with an annoyed expression on your face. You can’t very well force him to interact with you, but it feels like he’s not even trying to confront the pain he’d claimed to be so willing to face.

That night you dream of a life in which you were a warrior. This life’s reveries were always a bit dull for you, but tonight you welcome their training and discipline. You maintain the dream and feel a full night’s rest for the first time in days.

The following day, the fourth day that you’re spending in his house since your agreement, you decide to forgo breakfast. You wake up energetic and rested so you decide to confront Astarion right as he leaves his room.

“Morning,” you say, a bright and casual smile plastered on your face. Doing your best to hide the fear you feel, the nerves that stand on edge, you begin your new strategy: figuring out what you can about Dal and the spawn before he up and leaves.

“Oh hello,” he says, eyebrows furrowed a bit in concern. While he does seem to believe you are his reincarnated love, he continues to be incredibly wary of you, defenses raised high after more than a century alone. It shows in his crossed arms, the way he took a single step back before continuing, “What brings you to my door so eagerly this morning?”

“I was just getting an early start after entering my reverie early yesterday,” you say, continuing the cheer that you did not remotely feel. “I was also hoping to start the day by asking you some questions.”

“Again?” he asks, and his entire body wavers in the doorway of his room.

You’re worried he’s about to step back into the room so you hold out a hand: a silent invitation to take it. “Perhaps we can go on a walk about the house as we talk?”

Astarion declines without as much of a second glance at it, simply leaning into the doorway. “Ask your questions then, be quick about it.”

You take a second to take stock of him, to see if his pallor has improved after feeding. He seems exactly the same as the day before, only dressed in a different immaculate, silken garment. You wonder if he lied about where he went, but decide against wasting your questions on that– perhaps your dreams simply haven’t gotten you used to the nuances of vampires. Instead you start bluntly, “Your siblings acted quite strangely toward me. Why was that?”

His expression betrays nothing, his face implacable as he responds, “I’m afraid I’m not Dal or Petras, so I can’t provide you with a satisfying answer.”

It’s not much to go off of, but you’re ready with your next question already. “It seems that I was rather closer to the spawn than I had previously thought. What was my relationship with them in my past-life?”

Now his facade cracks a bit, eyes narrowing with something you can’t quite place. “You were close,” is all that he provides.

“Close doesn’t seem to describe it all,” you say, stepping closer, growing bold with the fracture in his mask. “Dal was thankful for my return. What was she thankful for?”

He seems to want to step back, to retreat into his room, and you know you’re dangerously close to losing him again. His next words are more than a bit dodgy. “Likely for your wonderful presence back in her life. Though she likely wouldn’t have said that if she knew how forward you are in the mornings.”

You take his dig as an opening. “I’m only forward because I know how excited they were to see me. Petras said I would be able to help. I can't help until I know what they need help with.”

Astarion sighs, relenting infinitesimally to your badgering as he says, “Their minds are filled with delusions of… well, nothing of importance.”

“Delusions of what?”

“Nothing,” he says through gritted teeth. “And if you continue to bother me, consider this conversation over.”

You want to push more, follow with a chiding ‘Astarion’, like your past-self may have done. But you’re finding yourself wary, the tenuous bond you’re building is as brittle as an old piece of parchment. So you yield for now. “Alright. My apologies for prying. What would you like to do today then?”

The vampire noticeably regains his composure, and offers you a simple exercise for the day, “Shall we share some books we like?”

It’s no hard hitting truths or delving into secrets of the past, but you spend a better part of the day in the library with Astarion. He points out some of his favorites, which you note for your own reading leisure, and you share some of your own. While some of his interests are a bit out of your particular purview, your tastes are not dissimilar. You read more history than he does, he reads more thrillers, you both enjoy a good adventure book.

Overall, the day doesn’t end with him running away from you, so you chalk it up as a win.

That night, you dream of a past life where you were an innkeeper in a remote village. It came with plenty of downtime, and you spend the reverie reading a riveting tale of dragons and conquests. You try to recall every detail you can so that you can relay the story to Astarion come morning.

The next day, you decide to take the same approach: Start out strong, and see where that takes you for the rest of the day.

Again, he seems surprised to find you right outside his doorway. “My, aren’t you an impatient one. An early rise once again?”

You nod, smiling another winning smile. “I have more questions for you.”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, leaning on the door frame once more. “What are you plaguing me with today?”

After yesterday’s somewhat success, you decide to push a bit more on your past-self today. “So, the Hero’s Life is quite fascinating to me…”

“The what?” he all but chokes out. A laugh resembling a cough comes out next and Astarion continues with, “They wouldn’t have liked it being called that.”

“Sorry, it’s something of a shorthand for me,” you say, sheepishly. You realize that you’ve slipped up, but all the same you feel the need to find clarity, “But they were recognized as a hero, weren't they?”

Astarion seems loath to agree with that statement. Rather than answering you directly, he says, “They were a leader.” He shakes his head, thinking better of his statement. “No. They were… something special.”

The far-off tone to his voice indicates that you might be losing him. You hadn’t intended the conversation to go this way. Truth be told, you’d wanted his help to fill out some of the gaps of your knowledge. It seems like you won’t get much further with this line of thought today though, so you decide to move on for the day, “That they were. What should we do today?”

Almost startled out of his thoughts, the vampire turns to you, seeing you again as the mist clears. “Ah, yes, today. I do have some business to attend to. The colony simply can’t run on its own.” You nod, recalling some of the planning from his conversation with Dal and your own memories. “Would you– well, perhaps it’s too dull. Then again…” He gives you a quick once over. “Considering what you find interesting, you may even find it entertaining. Would you care to join me?”

That’s how you spend the rest of the day next to Astarion’s desk, pouring over papers and familiarizing yourself with the logistics of the colony. You learn about their shipping schedules, their attempts to get blood in the underground markets of Baldur’s Gate, their repair and maintenance plans. For anyone else, it may very well have been boring, but you find yourself enraptured, sharing suggestions with Astarion easily.

In the evening, you hear knocking on the front doors. You can tell by his expression that Astarion knows immediately who it might be. “Ignore them,” he says. “I’ve already fed this week and the spawn are in a decent state. Better that they think no one is home.”

You decide not to mention the fact that the lights are clearly on in his house and nod in agreement. As you both get back to work, you wonder how often he rejects visitors– or perhaps if he’s rejecting them because he’s enjoying spending time with you. You decide not to let your pathetic little heart get ahead of your brain and settle on asking him next time someone comes calling.

By the end of the day, you almost feel like business partners, and, considering all of the sensitive information he’s shared with you, you certainly feel like he trusts you. It warms you so entirely that you’re surprised to find yourself crawling into bed with a smile. You can’t remember the last time that happened.

That night you dream of the Hero’s Life once more. Perhaps it was spending so much time in close quarters with Astarion, but the reverie is spent almost entirely in his arms. You talk of an upcoming adventure, make plans to pack the necessary supplies, unfurl a map of the Underdark as you discuss. The whole time his arms are wrapped around you, he’s placing delicate kisses along your neck, he nips at your sensitive pointed ears–it’s not long before all of the planning is pushed aside and he’s pressing you into the desk, his hands quick at work to undress you.

The night is restful, but you wake up a bit embarrassed now that you’ve gotten to know the man.

For your sixth day at the mansion, you try once more to press about the Hero’s Life. This time, you prepare your words a bit more carefully, hoping to avoid the pitfalls of the day before.

“Hello and good morning Astarion!” you say, walking up to his waiting form. He’s clearly caught on to your game, because this time he’s standing outside the door, arms crossed, leaning on the frame.

“Good morning to you too, darling,” he responds, a tight smile on his lips. “What do you plan on asking about today?”

No beating around the bush, not that you mind. After some consideration on what words might not trigger an immediate flight response, you offer him your carefully worded question. “Would you please tell me a bit more about my past-self?”

Astarion seems to take the question in stride, offering no immediate reaction. In the end, his response is short and stern, “No, I don’t particularly care to.”

You had expected such a response, and, more than anything, you’re just glad he hasn’t up and left yet. So you move on to your next question. “What about reading the journals of my past dreams? I could use some assistance on fleshing out the details.”

Again, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even hesitate when he says, “No.” Then as an afterthought he adds, “Thank you for the offer, though.”

You’ve tried being kind and patient, and, while you understand he doesn’t wish to rehash centuries of past pain, you refuse to accept two days with no real progress. As a result, you decide it’s alright to be the impatient young elf you truly are, even if just for a moment, “Then why did you invite me here? You seem uninterested in my memories, uninterested in discussing my past-self or their relationships, mentions of my life in Neverwinter bother you too. What are you interested in?”

Astarion sighs, likely having expected this line of questioning sooner or later– also likely annoyed that it came sooner. “Forget the past, it’s dead and buried now,” he says, pushing himself off the doorframe and beginning to walk toward the kitchen. “I’m rather enjoying getting to know someone new for the first time in… however many years. Let’s just keep doing that.”

You want to argue with him, explain to him that there’s no way of actually moving on until he confronts the hurt that’s settled around his heart like an impenetrable armor. But you’d already been so afraid of causing more pain, how can you justify reopening those old wounds? So you follow him to the kitchen, resigned to another day without genuine progress.

Turning back for a moment he does offer you a lifeline. “If you have something specific you’d like to ask about, I may be willing to entertain it. But I expect you to take no for an answer when you inevitably ruin my day.”

With the way he’s turned toward you, you can’t see most of his face and his voice remains placid throughout it all. You think he’s being genuine though, so you respond, “Okay, then. One question at a time. Thank you, Astarion.”

He gives you a noncommittal hum at that, and waves you along. “Come on, if you don’t have breakfast again, you’ll be cranky by midday.”

You want to be offended at the statement, but with two days without breakfast behind you, you decide against it. As you walk in silence, you consider a few burning questions that have been jostling around your brain for the past few days. Each will surely lead to a poor reception from Astarion, so you land on the question that’s been most bothering you in the past few weeks.

When you’re finally settled over a quick breakfast of oats, you look him straight in his deep ruby eyes and fire it off, “How did I die?”

Despite his relative composure with the previous questions, this one throws him off-balance. His red eyes widen, his mouth opens a bit, and you can all but see the unwelcome memories bursting to the forefront of his mind. You half-expect him to get up and leave without saying anything, but instead he takes a deep breath, drops his gaze, clenches and unclenches his fists on the table. Finally, he exhales through his nose and mutters, “I… I'm not ready to talk about that yet, if that’s alright.”

His voice comes out soft, almost a whisper you have to strain to hear. But he’s made an effort, one that you find easy to respect. “That’s perfectly alright,” you say, reaching a hand out, just shy of his own on the table. You’re afraid of touching him, yet thousands of dreams compel you to comfort him with a soft touch, a gentle caress. So you still offer. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready to listen.”

Astarion doesn’t meet your eyes now, though he notes your hand on the table. With a single finger he reaches out, tracing the line of one of your fingernails. “Thank you. You’re so… different. And yet. Similar.” He lifts his eyes back to yours and you see the struggle behind them clear as day. He’s made so much of these past few days look easy, his pain shoved away like a mere nuisance, but it’s been taking a toll on him all the same. “I should think I’d like to rest today, if that’s alright as well?”

What can you really do in the face of his struggles, if not care for him? So you agree. “Very well. I shall see you tomorrow?”

He nods, getting up from the table. “Yes, I shouldn’t need more rest than that.”

That’s how you spend your sixth day in the house alone again.

You don’t want to see this as a wasted day though– you know how little time you truly have with him. So you spend the day sending some messages. You have enough energy for about five messages, so you plan them out ahead of time. Two for Dalyria, one for Petras, one for Halsin, and one last one for your parents.

Your first message is to Dalyria, “Hello, it’s the reincarnated hero. Would you like to meet before I leave? I’m here until the end of the month.”

Her response is quick and efficient, clearly used to Sending spells. “Yes, let’s. Astarion shouldn’t know. He’s been difficult. Let me know when. Give me an hour to prepare. I’ll go to you.”

Having already prepared to use a second spell, you shoot the second off, “Will do. Thank you. For this and for believing me.”

You don’t expect her to respond, but she does a second later anyway. “Only a fool wouldn’t recognize the look in your eyes. Astarion can be a fool.”

Alone in your room, you laugh a little. You don’t have siblings, but you imagine that their relationship has truly changed into something resembling a sibling relationship after all this time. In order for their vampire society to work, they must have had to put aside a lot of past grievances, things said under the harsh rule of Cazador, all for the betterment of the rest of the spawn.

It warms your heart a little to think that he wasn’t alone after losing your past-self, and you wish you could tell your soul as much. Alas, if it were that simple to settle the unease your previous life left behind, you would have done so by now.

Instead, here you are, sending off a message to another one of Astarion’s siblings, Petras. “Hello Petras, it’s the reincarnated hero. I am meeting with Dal soon, but wanted to ask you what you wanted help with?”

It’s been abundantly apparent in a lot of your memories that Petras has never been the brains of the operation. While Astarion was willing to learn some basics of managing the colony, Petras has always been more of the odds and ends kind of contributor. It becomes even more apparent when he responds, and it’s obvious he’s not used to being a recipient of these messages.

“Oh hello! It was good to meet you the other day, I’m glad you made it out alright. I was hoping that you could pick–” The message cuts off at the word limit, and you contemplate sending another or just waiting for your chance to speak with Dal. You figure you’ll speak with her next time Astarion goes to feed which should be in a few days at most.

So, in the end, you decide that your other messages take precedence. Your next one is to Halsin, “Hello Halsin, it’s the reincarnated hero. I’m with Astarion. He says hi. Do you know any details about my previous life’s death?”

Hasin’s responding message comes back a second later, warm, welcoming, and thought out. “Hello, my friend. Astarion didn’t provide much detail. All I know is they were on an adventure together. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

You write down what you’ve learned from your messages and move on to your last one: your parents. “Hello, all is well. I have a question. Is there a way to recall a past reverie? Love you.”

This time you messaged your father, your usual go-to on the nature of reveries. He responds a moment later, “Hello, glad you’re well. Not in particular. You could maybe try with a Detect Thoughts spell? But you’d need another wizard. Love you too.”

You nod to no one in particular, having thought as much before messaging him. There would be time for that later then.

Now that your messages are done, you decide to spend the rest of the night studying your magic. After all, if you continue a life with Astarion, danger would be around every corner.

That night your reverie comes easily, your mind seems used to the surroundings of the past now. You dream of a life where you were a mage– one of your favorites of your other lives for all of the knowledge they could impart. They were an enchanter and often created marvelous trinkets and items for the small town they lived in. Tonight you make a variety of enchanted items, and you note the spells you cast on each.

Astarion must have lied about only needing a day to recharge. You’re almost mad at yourself for not knowing better, but you believed what you wanted to believe. When he doesn’t appear at his door the next morning, you knock. No one responds.

He hadn’t gone off to the Underdark or Dal surely would have said something in her message. He didn’t seem to be hiding in the bathroom or the library. You’re honestly not sure how much more you’re willing to play these games of hide and seek when you find him sitting in the kitchen, exactly where you last saw him.

“Hello,” he says, once you appear in the kitchen entryway. “I was up a bit early today.”

“I can see that,” you say, heading to the pantry. You’re running on the last of your supplies now that the week is coming to an end. You’ll need to get some more food tomorrow, but at least you know how to make it less of a journey this time. “Are you feeling better today?”

“Much,” Astartion replies, though the smile he gives you isn’t quite convincing. Something about the way he’s sitting, too straight, the way he’s breathing, too shallow, the way he watches you, too cautious– it all tells you that something’s not quite right still.

More than nervous, it feels like he’s on edge. But he’s trying his best, so you decide to try your best too. “That’s good. Are you ready for another question?”

“Yes,” he says, tone pure practiced confidence. “Regale me with it.”

You sit in front of him with a prepared plate of dried fruit and nuts. You’d prepared what you thought would be an easier question. “What happened to some of your other companions?”

“Let’s start with one,” he says, wincing a bit at the question. Painful, but not as bad as yesterday’s question, clearly.

After chewing a bit of fruit thoughtfully, you reach a hand forward, available for comfort. Then you pick, “How about Karlach?”

“Well, she died before your past life did,” he says, as if you should know this already.

“I know,” you say between bites. “But I didn’t see it or learn about it. Only felt the sadness, I remember talking through it with you, but we didn’t speak of any details.”

While you’d told him you’d had gaps in your memories, he apparently had either not believed you or not realized the extent of the gaps. Because he looks at you now like you may as well be a fraud. “What?”

“A lot of my reveries were, well… focused on you. And our time together,” you say, suddenly finding the statement embarrassing. You’d told him so in the dungeons, but something about saying it in the middle of the day in the man’s kitchen makes you feel a bit awkward about it. “I’m not sure why that’s the case, but it does mean that I didn’t get to see much of what happened with the others.”

He looks at you, his already pale face somehow losing more of its pallor. “I see.”

A few seconds of silence pass between you, both of you lost in your respective thoughts. It’s not until you’re biting down on an almond that Astarion speaks again.

“When you said I was your every dream and thought– you weren’t exaggerating were you?” You shake your head in response and he continues. “So how much would you say is ‘a lot’ of your reveries?”

Once again, you’re a bit embarrassed to respond, but you know you must so that he understands. “I think the current count is somewhere around 11,000 reveries.”

The magnitude of your statement sits between you again. The idea that you had lived years worth of reveries with him while he’d only known you for a week is clearly affecting him. You’re not sure what to say to make him feel better– really you’re glad he’s finally facing the truth of it. So you continue to eat your breakfast, waiting for him to process.

After some time he speaks up again. “Karlach died doing what she did best. It was a fight, of course– did you know she kept fighting until each of her bones ached from age? We told her she should stop eventually, settle down somewhere, live a calmer life. But no, that would never suit her, would it?”

You shake your head in agreement, smiling at the thought of the elderly tiefling wielding a massive ax as if it weighed no more than a feather. “That makes sense, she would rather die than stop moving.”

He smiles back at you, calmer now that you’ve gotten past some of the awkwardness. “She really would.”

“I guess you all would,” you say, recalling some of the adventures your past-self had had with Astarion. “I wonder if my own soul is so restless as a result.”

You had been trying to make a lighthearted observation, especially considering how the call of the Underdark was so strong for you, but Astarion doesn’t seem to appreciate the statement. Eyes wide, a bit of panic in them, he says, “Then we ought to find a way to quiet that restlessness.”

You tilt your head at him, confused. “Aren’t you going out and about, defending the spawn and fighting still?”

“Yes,” he says, carefully. “But I don’t expect you to– in fact, don’t you have something protective you can cast on yourself? A Mage Armour or some other warding spell?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t exactly expect to encounter any danger while I’m–”

“Prepare it tomorrow,” he demands. “Prepare it every day. You’re far too– too soft to go without.”

You bristle at that insult. It’s like being called pampered again, and you are getting tired of being treated like some child. “I am not soft. I’ve lived through enough lives to understand how to take care of myself. I don’t need you of all people coddling me.” He opens his mouth to speak, and you impulsively grab his hand on the table to stop him. “No. You know better than anyone that I have the memories of your past love. They faced dangers unlike those of any other and made it through. I shall do the same.”

He snaps at that, ripping his hand out of your grasp. “You shouldn’t speak of things you don’t know about.” His nostrils flare, and he may as well be breathing fire with the burning in his eyes. “Don’t you… dare speak as if you lived their life. You are soft and until you understand that, we won’t be getting anywhere.”

In a single spinning motion, he leaves you at the kitchen table once more. The familiar feeling of being left here is starting to wear on you, and you hang your head over your breakfast plate in defeat.

You’d been too rash, taken the words too personally. But he’d been too harsh, too set on seeing you as a babbling babe. So you sit at the table, finishing your breakfast in silence as you replay the conversation back in your head, over and over again. And somehow, despite all that transpired between you, your mind keeps pulling back to the feel of his hand in yours. How cool it had been, how right it had felt. You wonder if you’ll be able to hold it once more, perhaps under better circumstances.

You spend the rest of the day in a stupor. You try to read one of the books Astarion recommended, but find that the words swim before your eyes. You try to practice magic, but find none of your spells taking form. Eventually you decide to lay in bed and write down your thoughts in a personal journal entry– something you haven’t attempted in years.

I’ve spent almost seven days in Astarion’s house, learning to live with him. It’s been an odd time, but I think I understand who he is a bit better now. He gets upset whenever I ask about the past. I don’t know whether sating my curiosity is worth it anymore, but I also know that I can’t build a new relationship with him until we face the past. Or at least he does. I’m hoping that next week proves more productive, because time is running out. Maybe I should use magic to get through to him. Maybe I should try holding his hand again, that was nice that may be helpful. Whatever I do, I hope he doesn’t run away again. I’m starting to feel like a bloodhound.

As you lay down for your seventh reverie since you brokered your deal with Astarion, the ups and downs of your new, temporary life settle in. You realize that, while you know more about him, you haven’t made nearly as much progress as you were hoping for. The entire time you kept reminding yourself that these things take time– now that a quarter of your time was up, you were beginning to wonder if you would even have enough time to tackle it all.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 2: The Second Encounter with the Pale Elf

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, cw: light smut, sexual situations, blood, vampire things, act 1 Astarion dissociation

WC: 2.2k words, 2/?? chapters

Summary: Nearly 19, you think you have a handle of your past lives. However, not all of your past lives are created equal.

Ao3 | [Ch1][Ch3] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

A scholar from a young age, you’ve been keeping track of your previous lives since you turned ten. Now 18, going on 19, you’re sitting on more than eight years of documentation of who these people were and what they accomplished. You’ve lived as mages, as warriors, as scoundrels. Of your various lives, some of them appeared to you far more often than others, so each night you went to lie down with the question, “Who will it be tonight?”

Even after so many years, there’s something about entering your nightly trances that fills you with a giddy anticipation. It’s like a small gift from one of your former selves, as if congratulating you for getting through another day. Tonight you receive a gift that surprises you in more ways than one. After more than six years of laying dormant, long enough that you began to doubt if it was even a life you’d led, a previous life bursts back into the picture in an exhilarating fashion.

You access your reverie like any other night, by entering a deep, meditative state, your hands curled to focus, your mind blissfully blank. You inhale deeply.

A single exhale later, you find yourself panting. Your heart is racing, your blood pumping furiously through your veins, and when your eyes snap open they’re met by a set of half-lidded red eyes.

They bore into you, and distantly, you recall seeing such a pair before. Before you can piece it together, you feel your body pushed down to the ground.

Am I in danger? You think, staring at the night sky above you, trying to reconcile all of the sensations that are assaulting you at once: The grass beneath your bare back, the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, the fresh scent of bergamot with underlying notes you can’t yet place. What–

Another thought never forms, because suddenly a pair of cold hands grip your hips. Their careful, light fingers trace up each of your sides, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, and land at rest on either side of your chest. A man comes into view above you, curly silver hair haloed by the moon’s glow. He’s beautiful, of that much you’re certain, but he also evokes a deep angry feeling in your present-day mind. You would focus on that feeling, tracking it down to its source, if only you could find the headspace.

Your past-self is driving this memory though and their emotions are overwhelming you. When they see him, perched above, they chuckle, low and sultry. “Don’t hold back on me.” Feelings of longing, desire crash over you, leaving you reeling from their force.

Oh , you think to yourself. I’m not in any danger at all. This isn’t new to you, and despite how odd it is, it’s not entirely unpleasant– especially compared to other memories you’ve had. So you relax into the experience, allowing yourself to feel what your past-self might have felt in the moment and learn what you can, you suppose.

The man above you gives a deep groan and, in a voice you swear you recognize, says, “Oh darling, be careful what you wish for.”

A second later his mouth is on yours, your lips and bodies begin moving together in a rhythmic dance that stokes a fire burning deep in your chest, igniting a fire that burns lower. It’s difficult for you to tell where your emotions end and your previous self’s begin as the kiss deepens. A second later, his teeth nip at your lips in a playful tease, and a part of you wants him to stop teasing and just bite.

You feel your neck crane, an invitation. He looks at you, as if asking permission for something. Your mouth says, “I said don’t hold back.”

The man, an elf now that you’ve gotten a better look at him, growls. It rumbles through him, into you, and it's near primal in its urgency. An odd flutter of fear courses through both you and your past-self before he lowers himself and bites your outstretched neck.

Nevermind, I might be in danger, you think, as you feel a pair of fangs pierce your neck, a sharp intake of breath passing your lips. But you find that your body doesn’t mind, that, even as blood is sucked out of your veins, your body is aching for this man, hands grasping at his back, mouth moaning into his hair with abandon. A bloody vampire is suckling at your neck, and you’re finding… enjoyment out of it?

The vampire seems to be enjoying this just as much as you are, each deep draw of blood eliciting another tantalizing sound deep from his chest. The sounds send tingles down your spine, have your fingers clenching his shoulder blades, his sides, his hair, in a frantic attempt to find purchase.

It’s pure pleasure coursing through your past-self into your present self. But this moment, where the man is clearly feeding off of you, brings to you a new sense of clarity and a few obvious facts. This man is a vampire and your past-self seems intimately knowledgeable about this. He must be the same silver-haired man from all of those years ago. And he is just as deadly as you were afraid of.

You will your past-self to shove, to fight him off, whatever it takes– That they could shake off whatever compulsion he was using. But you know that there’s no point, the past is the past, and you’re just as lost in their emotions as they are.

So deeper he drinks, and you feel your head growing lighter and lighter, the burning in your belly a mixture of your own anger and your body’s uninhibited lust. I will die here, you think. Because this version of me is a fool.

Before you can resign yourself to death, the man detaches himself from your neck, panting heavily. Each puff of breath feels like a welcome relief on your burning skin. Clearly, even blood loss wouldn’t quench the searing heat his touch leaves behind. His tongue laps at your neck, and your body shakes at the sensation, acutely feeling the long line he follows.

“Delicious,” he murmurs into your neck. His lips press a trail of cool kisses up your neck and along your jaw. Once he’s lifted himself back above you, you see the full view of his blood-stained lips, his wicked fangs gleaming bright white in contrast.

You feel your own lips curl into a smile, and you want to slap yourself. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll still run, realize that life is worth living. But no– your past-self is busy placing their hands on either side of his face, bringing his lips back down into a crushing, bloody kiss.

There’s no point in reason here, you realize, as a deep desperation overtakes every other emotion. You don’t think you’ve felt any other emotion as singularly as this one. His hands lift your hips for him, before coming to rest on the undersides of your butt. Your lips break away from his and he gives you a low chuckle, before he says, “My, my, I knew you wanted this, darling, but aren’t you an eager thing?”

Before you can answer, he’s squeezing your backside, tugging at your thighs, angling your body for him in a way that leaves your insides squirming. You feel him, hard, pressed against you, and hear a soft sigh escape his lips.

The sound causes you to focus, to look into his deep, crimson eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that they rather see past you. Your hand traces along the line of his jaw in an altogether too delicate touch, perhaps your past-self sees the same thing you do. It doesn’t last long, because he’s moving against you a moment later.

The sensation is overwhelming to both of your bodies– you swear you can see stars. Despite the moment of pause, your past self seems more preoccupied with coming undone. Their back arches, muscles straining to keep up with the man’s relentless pace. They exhale a shuddering breath and you can feel your emotions reach a fever pitch.

The memory cuts out for a moment and when you return to it, you find yourself gasping for air. “A-a-a,” your mouth starts, unable to finish a single word in its addled state. A whimper leaves your lips that sounds utterly obscene to your own ears.

“Don’t be shy now, darling,” he pants into your ear. “Let everyone know who has you screaming, begging for more.”

Sheer emotion floods you, and your grasp on the reverie slips. The last thing you register before you’re forcibly shut from your dream is your past-self crying out a name. “Astarion!”

You snap out of your trance, breathing hard. Your cheeks are flushed, your body can feel all of the lingering aches. Never in your 18 years of living through past memories have you had one like this and it leaves you feeling deeply embarrassed– as if you’ve intruded on a memory that wasn’t meant to be yours.

It wasn’t having a lover that surprised you– you’d dreamt about several of those. It was uncomfortable enough to be a teenager, but adding on previous lifetimes of love, awkwardness and puberty felt like a different type of torture. Luckily they were all just that: awkward and gawky and not at all something you enjoyed. You’d leave those dreams miffed, a wasted night of learning what? Fumbling fingers and sloppy kisses?

But no, tonight’s was different. And that bothered you even more.

Your past-self surrendered entirely to him, their body and soul at his whim. Even in the deepest throes of passion, you could feel their desperation– the desire to lose themselves completely in this moment of pleasure. It didn't feel like love. It felt like survival. Who was this man, this Astarion, that he would elicit such emotion? And who were you, to feel this lost?

After that night, you dream of him constantly. A few of your trances are similar, leaving you hot and uncomfortable, wondering who exactly this man was to you. It didn’t feel like love, rather a simple release. Other dreams, you find yourself wanting to gag from his over-the-top flirting, crude jokes, and just plain idiotic banter. Most of it is mundane though, memories you wouldn't normally get from past lives– Days where you’re just walking and talking. The man, Astarion, almost seems… normal at times.

At first, you’re annoyed, why are your reveries suddenly so focused on this one man? Why is your past-self incapable of seeing him for the monster that he seems to be? And what was the point of these useless little dreams– to humanize him?

Amidst these frustrating memories, you do seem to open the floodgates for other moments from this life. Aside from your clear obsession with this vampire, you find your past self to be quite fascinating. They have so much knowledge for you, about all types of new things and new people.

Months pass and you grow to enjoy the memories of this past life. You look forward to them, as long as it’s not all about Astarion. As you’re documenting what transpires, you realize that you might have been someone really, truly important. You find yourself wishing that your other lives would take a break, that they would leave you dreaming of this life for as long as you can.

Aside from the annoying vampire, you dream of other companions, learn their names. There’s Shadowheart, that’s who was in the first memory you received– a follower of Shar or maybe it was Selune? You learn of Wyll, apparently some kind of famous Baldurian hero, and, of Karlach, a fearsome looking tiefling woman. A githyanki woman called Lae’zel shocks you the most. You’d never seen a githyanki before seeing her, so every time you dream of her is a thrill. There’s a wizard named Gale. You almost think you recognize that name, but shoo the thought away after a bit. Surely anyone who wasn’t an elf would be dead by now.

There is one elf among the group, other than the vampire, a druid named Halsin. If this particular lifetime wasn’t too far in the past, perhaps he could shed some more light on who you were. You make a note of it on one of your papers. Your parents have warned you against learning too much of your previous lives, but it wouldn’t hurt to investigate a tiny bit, right?

But even with this colorful cast of heroes from around Faerun, your mind keeps coming back to this silver-haired vampire. The dreams of him are the most vivid. They leave you breathless, jolting you out of your trances in various states of distress, delight, and desire.

You wish you could shake your past-self. Why are you so focused on this dangerous man? He’s manipulating you! you wish you could yell. But you can’t, all you can do is experience this life second hand, and watch as your former self deeply intertwines with him. If there’s one thing this life is teaching you, it’s that you know better than them. You’re smarter than them, and, while you’re learning plenty of the world through their eyes, you will take none of their lessons in love.

It's more than a decade later that you finally understand.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 11: An Interrogation

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, violence, being bound, being imprisoned, angry Astarion

WC: 3.5k words, 11/?? chapters

Summary: You spend the night in vampire prison and have a difficult conversation.

A/N: Did you know that Dalyria has a strength of 16 (as do all of the rest of the spawn siblings)? Because I didn’t until I wrote this. Now imagining Astarion’s strong sister giving him piggyback rides around the underdark… Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Ao3 | [Ch10][Ch12] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You find yourself in what you can only call vampire jail.

After being discovered by Astarion, you didn’t have a chance to run. Between him and Dal, they apprehended you embarrassingly quickly. From your memories, you’re accustomed to Astarion’s lightning reflexes, but Dal’s sheer strength came as a surprise to you. You were gagged before you could get a single word out– likely because they didn’t want you casting any spells. While you wanted to resist, the worried look on Dalyria’s face stopped you. If I act too rashly, they won't hesitate to kill me.

So you went limp. Your bag was confiscated and you were tied, gagged, blindfolded, and thrown over Dal’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You imagine if Astarion had been any less angry, he might have made a joke about your situation, but he stayed unnervingly silent throughout the whole ordeal.

While you couldn’t see anything, you could feel yourself taken through twists and turns, down steps, behind doors. Eventually you were tossed ungracefully onto the ground, where you lay now. You can feel the cold chill of stone beneath you and something else drains you as you enter this new space, like a deep part of your essence has been sapped away from you.

“Don’t even think about trying to escape,” Astarion says, breaking his silence with an icy tone. “We have sussur bloom set up throughout the entire prison, and the door is guarded night and day. You’ll stay here until we figure out what to do with you.”

You hear him stomp off before Dal speaks, “It’s you, isn’t it? That’s why he’s so angry?”

Despite the blindfold and the gag, you can sense well enough what she means. You nod.

She exhales a shaky sigh and removes your blindfold to take a better look at you. You open your eyes to the blonde woman crouching before you, standing in the doorway of what looks to be a prison cell. Her red eyes dart between yours, trying to see the truth you might be hiding from her. Satisfied with what she sees, she stands back up and says, “I’ll try speaking to him. If you are who you claim to be… thank you. For coming back.”

Without another word, she locks the cell door behind her and walks away.

You’re not sure what to do with her thanks, since you don't feel like you've done a particularly fantastic job thus far. So you just stare through the metal bars of the cell door for a while, trying, desperately, to ignore the ruinous sensation that the sussur bloom infects you with.

After a few minutes, you snap out of your stupor. You manage to get the gag out of your mouth after a few attempts and eventually give up on your wrist bindings after more than a dozen attempts. You suspect that Astarion’s skills with his hands have not deteriorated over the years, given how snugly you’re bound.

Uncomfortable, miserable, and drained of all of your strength, you lay down for your reverie. It’s likely nighttime, you guess. And it’s not like I have anything better to do.

When you’ve finally settled down enough to meditate, you’re pleasantly surprised to find yourself dreaming of the Hero’s Life again. You weren’t sure if you’d be graced with these memories anymore after their untimely demise, but you suppose you have at least a few months left until you reach full maturity.

Your eyes open to a desk full of papers, as your now all-too-familiar hands sift through them. Maybe there's something useful here, you think to yourself.

Despite your scholar’s eyes, the words are written in a language you can't quite make out. It isn't the first time this has happened to you in a dream, but it certainly is more frustrating than usual now that you're desperate for anything that could help. Your body makes some annotations in a code you've caught a few times– using the same quill you saw on Astarion's desk.

The symbols never stay long enough for you to decipher them and new papers replace them a moment later, but you get the sense that they’re nothing new to your former-self. The edges are frayed and they add fresh notes to already existing ones.

They spend hours at the desk, sorting, reading, writing. All the while, they just feel… focused. Their emotions are calm and it calms you in turn. So when a voice calls to you, your head shoots up in alarm.

"Darling?" calls your lover's voice, in a tone completely different from the one you'd heard only hours ago. It's soft, open, unguarded– much like the face that peeks around the doorway to the room you’re in. Your heart clenches in your chest at the love he regards you with.

Now that your body’s looked up, you recognize the room as Astarion’s current-day study, albeit decorated entirely differently. Your past-self smiles at his appearance and asks, “Yes, love?”

“How much longer do you plan on pouring over those papers? I was hoping we might take some time to ourselves today. And I don’t believe you’ve eaten yet, have you?”

As if not realizing how long you’d been sitting for, your body stretches, craning your neck one way then the other. “Gods, you’re right,” you hear yourself say. “Alright, let me just put this away and I’ll be right there.”

Astarion tuts at you, undoubtedly knowing better. “I’m not leaving until I see you get up from that desk,” he says, eyes narrowing at you. Your heart warms, and you’re filled with affection. He cared about you so deeply and it showed in everything he did. Even now, as he crosses his arms and dares you defy his right to take care of your well-being.

So your body sighs, standing from the desk and placing your quill back in its rightful place. “ Fine, you win. But if I come back and forget what I was doing, you’re helping me sort out some of these logistics.”

“Gladly,” Astarion says with a satisfied grin. As you walk toward him, he holds out a hand for you. You take it gladly, and you feel your past-self filled with such devotion as they return his smile.

When you wake, you find yourself in the same cold cell, wrists bound, eyes aching from unshed tears. No one is here for you now and no one seems willing to come deal with you. You wonder if you’ll die here before ever seeing Astarion in person again.

The next person you see isn’t Dal or Astarion. A few hours after waking, a large blonde man comes to your cell, bearing a pitcher of water and a filled glass.

“Drink up, elf,” the man says, gesturing to you to come closer. His tone isn’t overly demanding, nor is he aggressive. It seems like he’s merely fulfilling a duty.

You ignore his gesture. “Please let me talk to Astarion. This is all a misunderstanding,” you say, trying your best to keep the desperation from your voice and failing entirely. Your throat is scratchy and the water is appealing, but your fear of dying in this sussur-induced hell takes precedence.

The man– Petras, you think– shakes his head. “Don’t worry, you’ll talk to him soon. Dal’s making sure of it. And trust me when I say, you’re in there to keep you safe from us.”

Of course, that doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you. You did walk into a vampire's den, got caught almost immediately, and now find yourself entirely powerless to defend yourself. You decide not to dwell on that as you continue to speak to the man. “When will he come by?”

Petras looks at you with something in his eyes akin to pity, before shaking his head. “Not sure, he’s been talking with Dal for hours.” His eyes dart around to make sure no one is listening in as he changes the subject, “Are you really who you say you are?”

You only nod, and shimmy closer at the sound of excitement in Petras’s voice. It’s disappointing that these spawn siblings are more excited to see you than your former lover is, but you won’t waste this opportunity. “I am. I swear it.”

“Then are you going to help–”

The man is cut off by the sound of a door closing down the cell block. “I’ll take it from here, Petras. Leave the water. And stay nearby.” You recognize Astarion’s chilly voice, and wonder what terrifying look he must have given Petras for him to scramble to his feet so quickly.

You hear the door close behind Petras, and Astarion comes into your view. His face is severe, brows furrowed and mouth set in a hard line. He doesn’t say anything when he sees you slumped next to the cell door, your shoulders hunched visibly in defeat at your losing a chance to speak to someone who would believe you.

He leaves your line of sight again, and you hear the scrapping of chair legs on the stone floor. When he returns, he sets a wooden chair in front of your cell and sits down in front of you. Another moment of silence passes between you when he finally clears his throat and crosses his legs. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

You’re shocked by the lack of anger in his voice. Dalyria must have gotten through to him! So you lock with his red eyes between the metal bars and plead like your life depends on it, as it very well might. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean any harm to you, to your siblings. I just… I-I couldn’t leave it like that. I couldn’t let you run away from me.”

Astarion listens to your pleas, tapping a finger casually on his knee as he does so. He has all of the power in this room, and it shows in how his eyes regard you with an open calculation. “I suppose if you did mean to harm us, you would have done so already,” he finally says. You wonder if that was part of Dal’s reasoning. Then, as if you’re having an entirely different conversation, as if you’re not in a cell facing certain death, he asks you, “So, what do you think of the place?”

You blink, mind reeling at the shift. “I suppose it’s… quite nice?”

He smirks at you, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable the question made you. “Isn’t it? You'd be surprised at how much wealth a legion of spawn is capable of accumulating.”

“Yes, you have immaculate taste,” you say, hoping that that’s what he wants to hear.

The man ignores your comment, evidently not caring for your praise. “The real problem of course is that some things can't be bought. Like blood– especially in vast enough quantities for a horde of vampires. As I’m sure you’re aware, vampires have a sanguine hunger that simply cannot be satisfied."

"Are you going to eat me?" Your eyes go wide, wondering if that’s why he changed the tune of your talk.

He laughs at you, drinking in your fear like a tyrant on a throne as he leans back in the chair. "Oh I certainly wanted to,” he responds, after his laughter dies down. “Dal has convinced me that it would be… a bad idea."

Thank the gods for Dal. "Then… why are you telling me about the problem with, erm, sourcing blood?"

He looks at you for a long moment, as if expecting something to happen, but you’re not sure what. You wrack your brain, hoping for a memory, anything to come to it. When clearly nothing will, the man sighs and says, "I suppose just to complain. We can only source so much blood naturally without putting a target on our back. It gets tiresome."

You feel like you've missed something, a chance, and it frustrates you to no end to be expected to continue to converse normally and move past it. It's time for you to start grasping at what you do know. "In my memories the spawn lived in a smaller fortress, in a different part of the Underdark. It seemed dangerous. Is it at least safer here?"

His red eyes appraise you for a beat before he answers, "Yes, I suppose blood is a far lesser concern than those we used to have." He leans forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees to stare at you more intently. “It’s still dangerous, naturally. Over 6000 spawn attract a lot of unwanted attention, and not everyone agrees that we have a right to life– or unlife, as they see it.”

“6000? I thought you were closer to 7000?"

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t know, even if you are who you claim to be.” He looks down angrily, massaging his forehead with a few fingers. “We’ve lost a lot of spawn to hunters. To heroes, and to the natural dangers of the Underdark.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure what to say to that, but you do feel a pang deep in your chest. A pain that would likely reach your very soul if it could.

“Well, now that you know all of that, I guess I should ignore Dal's advice and kill you!” He says it cheerily, and you gulp. Was that his plan all along?

“What if I could convince you not to kill me?” you ask, inching your body forward as you grasp the bars with your tied hands.

Astarion seems to think about it, but it’s plainly an act. “Hmm, how about… not a chance.”

“What if I were truly the reincarnation of your former love? Would you really send their soul back to Arvandor?” you ask, staring up at him through the bars desperately.

You think you hear his breath hitch. He only says, “I would not.” His face is still, tone giving nothing away, but you can tell that the idea of it doesn’t sit well with him.

“So what will it take for you to believe me?” you ask, gripping the bars of your cell as tightly as you can to hold yourself closer, knowing that this may be your only way to survive this.

“I don’t know,” he says, and his eyes are so distant that you know he means it. There may not be a magic word for this. He may never truly believe you, even if you hand him memory after memory. Astarion’s pain may run too deep for you to be able to navigate.

You reach through the bars for the glass of water and take a shaky sip as you think. If your current-self is too ill-equipped, you decide to think like your past-self. What would I have done? I would have been straightforward. I would make sure he didn’t run away from difficult conversations. If he didn’t want to see reason, I would have made him see reason. Can I even do that?

Anything is doable when your life is on the line. So you swallow the water and begin talking, “Dal believed me. Halsin believed me. Hells, even Petras, who I barely met, seemed to believe me. Even if you don’t– or simply won’t– you should consider that sometimes giving a stranger the benefit of the doubt won’t be the end of the world. But if you’re wrong, it sounds like it may very well be the end of your world.”

Maybe it's because of the newfound strength in your words or maybe Astarion just wants to see something familiar in you, but he watches you as you speak, hung on your every word. When you’re done, he only stares at you as he weighs your words.

After more than a minute of silence, you’re not sure if he’s going to speak unprompted again. You decide to hazard a question, “Knowing that, do you still want to kill me?”

“No,” he answers curtly, eyes narrowing at you as if he’s mad that you’ve convinced him. He sits back in the chair again and points a finger at you sternly. “But if you so much as breathe near this colony again, I will kill you on the spot, do you understand?”

A step forward, you think, breathing a little easier now that your safety is more secure. However, it doesn’t resolve the matter of who you are. “What if you want to keep me around? After all, I was your love in a past life.”

"Fine,” he says, and his tone is casual again. “Let’s say you are who you say you are. Why did you come to see me?"

Again, you think back to the candid confidence of your former self. Let’s do that again. "Because for as long as I can remember, you have been all I think about. You've been in all of my waking and sleeping thoughts. I don't know what my life is without you in it." Your voice comes out strong, honesty ringing in each statement.

Astarion seems unmoved. He clicks his tongue and leans toward you, and you get vague recognition of when he’s preparing himself for a killing blow. "That's all well and good, romantic even. But it doesn't get to the heart of the matter. What do you hope to accomplish?"

Your brows furrow, and the confidence falters with your confusion. "I… guess I thought…"

“Thought what?" he asks, leaning a bit further.

“I guess I thought… perhaps we could pick up where we left off?” Your suggestion comes out like a question. Of course it’s a question, this is unprecedented territory. In fact, precedented territory was constantly telling you what a bad idea this was, practically laughing in your face at the ludicrous endeavor– Rekindle with a love from a former life? Hah, who do you think you are?

Astarion also laughs in your face. It's not cruel, it's not silly. It's utterly devoid of humor, as if he hasn’t laughed with genuine mirth in years. His words hit you like a sucker punch, “And why would I want to do that?”

The insecurities from before start to bubble backup. You think of how he spoke of you to Dalyria, of how you pale in comparison to your former self, and you feel like sobbing. But you hold yourself together, clutching at the bars like a lifeline. You say the only words you know to in this situation, the words that have given you comfort, the ones that set you on this journey in the first place, “In one of my memories, you said you would love me in every lifetime. Don't you remember?”

His response is immediate and bitter. The killing blow he’s been waiting to deliver. “The man who said that was a fool who believed in love.”

You've taken a lot of harsh words from Astarion so far, weathered them and persisted. But with that single sentence, your heart shatters. The grand illusion of your journey is dispelled. The reason you made your way here is based on a man who no longer exists, all that remains is this embittered facsimile. The Astarion that held you when you worried, that took care of you when you were ill, that loved you– this is a mere shadow of him.

You’re not certain how words come out of your mouth, but they do. Your voice sounds distant and faint, like a light breeze could scatter it, "In that case. Could you let me go? I'm afraid I've made a big mistake.” Astarion may be laughing at you, he may be angry, but you find it difficult to read his expression as tears begin to well in your eyes.

The man doesn’t comment on anything you’ve said, only issues a quick instruction for you, “Your bag is hanging near the door. Petras should be ready to escort you out.” He unlocks the door to your cell without another word. His voice sounds as distant as your own did.

You scramble to your feet as the tears begin to spill– you've tried so hard to keep from crying in front of Astarion, you certainly don’t want him to see you crying now. You’ve shown him enough vulnerability for a lifetime, you decide.

So you begin to leave, not noticing when he reaches out to untie your hands, nor when he seems to be on the verge of saying something. You certainly don’t catch the way he places a hand on his chest, as if only now realizing that part of his body could still feel pain.

You grab your bag at the end of the hall and wipe some of your tears with your sleeve. Before you leave the prison, you take a deep breath and call to him your parting words, “Even if you don’t want another life with me, please consider moving on. I saw your house, all of those lingering memories. You don’t need to mourn for another 150 years. I didn’t want that in my past life and I don’t want that now. Goodbye, Astarion.”

As you close the door behind you, you meet his eyes one last time. The only emotion you catch before the door shuts is fear.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 12: The Source of his Pain

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, references to past Astarion trauma, references to death and dying, lots of talking

WC: 3.3k words, 12/?? chapters

Summary: As you aim to leave and never look back, Astarion realizes that perhaps *he's* the one that made the mistake.

A/N: In case you were wondering, I planned this out like anime arcs lol. We had the memory arc, meeting Astarion arc, and this is the end of arc 3, which I lovingly called Astarion Feels Feelings.

Ao3 | [Ch11][Ch13] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Astarion has spent the last 150 years of his life convinced of one unflinching truth: That his cold, unbeating heart was only capable of aching for one person. When that person died, so did, he presumed, his ability to feel that ache for any other.

In a prison deep below ground, with the sound of your parting words echoing in his ears and your tear-filled eyes burned into his vision, he is reminded of how fragile the truth can be.

Clutching his chest and staring at the door you closed in your wake, he mutters a string of curses to himself before moving into action.

“Are you following me to make sure I leave? Don’t worry, I’ve heard enough. I’ll be out of your life soon,” you say, not turning back to look at the man who stands just in the shadows of the doorway behind you.

He slips out of the darkness, into the hall, keeping a sizable distance between you. The vampire doesn’t say anything, and, in fact, you likely wouldn’t have noticed him were it not for the undeniably intentional noise he is making with each footstep. You know he could move silently if he wished, but he wants you to sense his presence– it’s an invitation to talk to him, one that you’re not inclined to take at this point.

“Or did you just want to make sure I was thoroughly torn to shreds?” you ask, continuing to walk down the hallway. “Consider me well and truly mangled.”

You were done shedding tears by now.

You’d cried the entire time you were escorted by Petras, ignoring his concerned, stumbling questions. As you navigated your way out of the spawn’s fortress, you thought of what an absolute idiot you’d been. How not a single part of this experience had been worth it. How you should have just stayed at home, reached maturity, and lived a regular, uneventful life back at Neverwinter.

You’d cried the entire time you traced the Bibberbang path back, pausing every few steps to wipe your tears lest you blow up. You thought of your family, how ashamed they would be that you’d come all this way for nothing. How you’d ignored them and made a fool of yourself in the process. How you were yet another cautionary tale for young, naive elves now.

You’d cried the pathway back to the house, before it dwindled into sniffles at the long ladder before you. You thought of Halsin and how he’d believed in you, assured you that Astarion would see you for who you are. How you’d promised him to visit with Astarion someday. How you clearly didn’t deserve to share a soul with the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.

Your tears finally dried up on the ladder, as you went rung by rung all the way back to the surface. You thought of your former self, wondering how they left this man in such a sorry state. How they’d sent you on this journey with their memories, made you care for the man they loved, filled your head with delusions of romantic grandeur. How maybe the dreams were worthless anyway, and you only saw things the way you wanted to see them.

Your eyes were red and puffy but dry by the time you went back to your former room to collect the rest of your belongings. Now you finally allowed yourself to think of Astarion. How the man of your dreams turned out to be a nightmare in the flesh. How no amount of unearned love would help him. How you shouldn’t be the one to help anyway.

So now that this man stalks behind you, burning holes into your back with his gaze, you can’t bring yourself to care. Don’t want to care.

“Are you really going to keep stomping after me after all that?” you ask, exasperation clear in your voice as you stop walking once more.

Finally, he speaks. “You really have the same soul… don’t you?” His voice is soft, and you can hear the same fear you saw in his eyes back in the cells.

You shrug. “I thought it didn't matter.” You turn back toward Astarion now, anger coloring your next words, “And, since it doesn’t matter who I am, please stop following me.”

Now that you can see his face, the sadness in his eyes is unmistakable. His lips curl into an anguished smile as he says, “It doesn’t matter. Not really. I’m not the same man your soul met all of those centuries ago.” He takes a shaky breath and continues, “And I'm certainly no longer the same man who held your soul’s body in their dying breaths 150 years ago. That man died with his love that day.”

His words come from a place of honesty, but they don’t hurt any less. “Thank you for confirming that it doesn’t matter,” you reply through gritted teeth, trying to understand why he would take extra time to torment you. “Now since I’ve already said my goodbye, I hope you don’t mind if I just leave.”

“Please,” the word comes out short, caught between breaths. “I know I likely don’t deserve it, but if I could have just a few minutes of your time.”

You want to say no. Every piece of your body and mind screams at you to say no. But as it always was with this man, you were thinking entirely with your heart and soul. “Only one minute.”

He sighs in relief, and the words come pouring out of him, as if he’d been bottling them up the entire journey back from the Underdark. “I can be rash, I can be difficult, and gods know that I can be spiteful– but I know that after three centuries of being my own man, I am nothing if not enduring.”

You wonder where he’s going with this, and contemplate asking when he takes a breath and looks at you. Something about the way he stares, as if he’s finally seeing you, not as another mad person at his doorstep, but as a real, genuine person, gives you pause.

“When I see you, I don’t know what to feel,” he says, running a hand through his hair in a nervous habit you recognize from your memories. “My survival instinct tells me to run, to hide because you are a source of pain. And some part of me, I don’t even know which, tells me to let you stay in my house. It tells me you can’t come to any harm. It tells my heart to burn when you cry.”

A lump forms in your throat, and the tears you’ve only just mastered build beneath your eyelids. After a heavy swallow, you ask, knowing full well the answer, “Which part seems to have won out so far?”

“You’re right,” he says, hand clutching at his chest now. “I don’t like pain. I’d much rather inflict it, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” The vampire gives a dark chuckle before continuing, “So I’ve spent years trying to endure, to make sure that no one could hurt me. Not anymore.”

“Then, please, allow this source of pain to leave your life,” you say, taking a small mock bow, ready to stomp down the stairs in a huff. “I’m sure your minute is up.”

He’s taking strides toward you before you can finish your bow, his face set in determination. “Impatience must be part of the soul. Before you cut me short on time, let me finish.” He stops a few feet from you, staring at you intensely. “What I’m trying to say is… I wasn’t even aware that I could still feel this pain toward someone. I didn’t know how you managed to slip through my defenses, and I was afraid to find out.”

You stare back, your resolve to barge out of his house in a frenzy suddenly wavering with his piercing red eyes on you. His words settle into you as you wonder what he’s trying to say. “So, you believe me. But it doesn’t matter. Also, all I do is cause you pain, and you hate that?”

His own words summarized on your lips seem to be too much for him as he sighs up toward the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose if you’d like to condense my words in such a crude fashion, that’s all strictly true.” Astarion looks back down at you, face serious, as he says, “I think I’m saying that I’d like to start over.”

The last two days are fresh on your mind, the tears that you cried likely still stain your cheeks, and yet something about the simplicity of starting over makes you want to forget them as easily as he suggested. “I think I would like that,” you say, and when his expression seems to lift at that, you hold up a hand. “But, I’m still concerned. I didn’t come here intending to be a source of pain, and I don’t want to be that for you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“How could I not?” you ask, shaking your head with a furrowed brow.

Astarion tilts his head toward you conspiratorially before pulling at each one of your heart strings painfully once more. “The owner of that soul has already been the deepest source of pain for me for decades. What’s another drop in the bucket?”

“Astarion, I–”

“I’m an old man, darling,” he interrupts, and it’s clear it’s not meant to be self-deprecating. It simply sounds tired. “I’ve spent centuries under a cruel master, I've buried countless friends, and seen those whom I consider family die. But nothing– and I mean nothing–” The word comes out as a harsh growl. “Compares to the pain I felt when I lost my love. I don’t know if that pain will ever leave me. So don’t worry about me.”

You’d been there for the end, and heard the very same pain in his voice. You have no doubts that he only speaks the truth, but you’re unsure what to do with it. Your own anger dulls in the face of the memory, and you find yourself wondering how you could show up at his doorstep, forcing these memories back to the forefront of his mind. In order to truly start over, you’ll have to apologize for that.

“I know,” you end up saying after a moment of silence. “While I can’t truly relate, I recognize that it’s an agony like no other. I’m sorry for rushing into this when I couldn’t possibly understand it. I’m sorry for reminding you of it, and for any new hurt I’ve caused through my hasty actions.”

The vampire before you seems to be about to respond to your apology, perhaps with one of his own, when he pauses as if something’s just struck him. Abruptly, he poses you a question, “How old are you?” He seems afraid to ask, pursing his lips ever so slightly.

“Nearly a hundred,” you answer, noting his visible relief. “I actually wanted to come sooner, but I… well, I was told it would be a bad idea.”

Astarion laughs at that and you frown in response, unsure what to make of this man’s temperament quite yet. “It was a terrible idea. Now I’m wondering if the soul is in charge of making decisions, since my love was full of terrible ideas. In fact–” He stops talking, the warm smile that had crept on his face frozen in place. “Nevermind. I won’t bore you with well... your own past.”

You can see the hurt on his face, as though he’d been unprepared to relive the memory that came unbidden, been unprepared to open up again so suddenly. Already you were a source of pain. “To be fair, I didn’t experience everything,” you clarify tentatively, feeling the need to reassure him, to help him understand that these memories could be a source of happiness. “You’re welcome to share if you’re comfortable.”

He shoos the thought away like an annoying fly. “Forget that. You’re a hundred?”

Furrowing your brows, you nod. Is he about to make fun of my age? Am I too young?

“That means your soul was only at rest for half a century.” He tilts his head with a wry smile. “Of course, you wouldn’t sit still, you absolute menace.” He says it in such a soft, loving tone, you know it isn’t meant for you. You wonder how he ever planned on pretending he didn’t love your past-self, but decide not to ask– instead choosing to bring him back to the present.

“Not to interrupt you, but why does it matter how old I am?”

Astarion clears his throat, returning to the matter at hand. “Apologies, when you mentioned being unable to relate, I grew worried. I simply must have pegged you correctly when I called you a scholar.” The grin he gives you is tepid, as he hears the half-lie in his own statement.

Scholar was putting it too lightly. His previous words ring through your head, just one of the harsh statements he’s flung at you, ‘What are you? A pampered scholar, deigning to leave your little tower for a night of entertainment?’ You wince remembering it. “While I am a scholar, I do take offense to being called pampered. As well as many of the other things you’ve said so far.” You’re proud of how firm your voice is, and you cross your arms to emphasize your point.

“Right, that’s understandable.” He looks away from your searing glare, and clears his throat once more. “I do appreciate you showing up here, even if I’m somewhat unprepared for it. I didn’t know how to react to you. Ultimately I was too severe, and for that. I’m…” He takes a deep breath and meets your eyes once more. “Sorry.”

You stare at him for a moment, wondering what to do with that awkward and somewhat unapologetic apology. Despite the part of you that is somehow still enraptured by this silver-haired devil, that deeply wants to welcome the lackluster apology, you manage to leave it at a simple, “I appreciate that.”

“Good,” he says with a relieved sigh, as if you’d accepted his apology.

You decide not to correct him, and instead press on now that you’ve both apologized for your actions. “So where does that leave us?”

“To be completely honest with you,” he starts, and his red eyes meet your eyes in a sort of plea. “I meant it when I said I’m not really the same person anymore. I don’t know what you hope to achieve or if what you hope to achieve is even possible.” The sorrow in his voice runs deep, and his hands clench at his sides, as if he can't believe how frustrated he is at himself.

“I don't know either,” you answer, looking away from him as the weight of his turmoil comes crashing down on you. Clearly just trying to return to a life together was out of the question– you’re not even certain if you even want that with this man anymore. Though there is one thing that still guides you, as ever. “But I should like to at least do right by my past-self. I don’t know why I received the dreams I did, but I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?” Astarion asks, looking at you with a quirked eyebrow.

“That my past-self was… worried about you. Even if you don't want to be with me, I want to make sure you’re okay. If only for them.” Then, as if to add context to the statement, you continue, “It sounds odd, maybe it’s even egotistical? But I care about them almost as much as I care about you.”

Your words hang between you both for a moment. Belatedly you realize that, while you’ve thought it plenty, even told him repeatedly that you are his former-lover, you’ve just told this near-stranger that you care about him.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean–” you cut your words short, wondering if there’s any point to trying to diminish it. Because, while you don’t know if it’s love, you do care for this man in a way that extends past all reason. It shows in your actions and your words, in the fact that you stayed here and listened to him despite it all– so much so that there’s really no use hiding it. “No, that’s not true. I don’t know if I love you, but I do care about you.”

Astarion looks torn and your honesty seems to have shocked him into silence once more. “I truly don't know if I’m capable of love again,” he finally states, an unmasked desperation to his voice– afraid that he may very well be broken beyond repair, afraid of the rejection that’s bound to follow. “Is that… alright?”

A beat passes between you as you digest his words. After the pause, you simply say, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeats, brows furrowing in concern.

“Yes, that's okay. I don't need love,” you say with a single firm nod. Unsure if that’s too harsh, you add, “Not while I don’t even know you. I think for now I'd like to just get to know you, the real, present-day Astarion.”

“In that case,” he begins, shoulders visibly dropping as he releases the tension he’d been holding since following you back into his house. “Would you give me the chance to learn who you are as well?”

You give him another nod, this one with a small, tentative smile. “I’d like that.”

“Very well.” Astarion gives a soft sigh, taking in your packed bags and placement on the edge of the stairs. “I know I hardly have the right to ask this after well… all of this. But would you like to stay here for a bit? We can spend some time together.”

He invites you to stay so casually, you almost find yourself agreeing immediately. It is what you wanted, after all. But after everything that’s transpired, you know that you should stop leaping into situations like this heart-first. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” you ask, giving him a concerned grimace. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but it seems like this place may house too many… difficult memories.”

The vampire gives you a sad, understanding smile before shaking his head. “Perhaps, but it was still our home.” When he says ‘our’, you know he doesn’t include you in particular. “It may even prove to be helpful.”

Your eyes search his somber red gaze for any inkling of a ruse. When you find nothing, your already weak will crumbles. So you gulp, and say, “In that case, I’ll stay.”

“Excellent,” Astarion says, clasping his hands together. Then, as if remembering himself, he adds, “But only until the end of the month.”

You’re confused and concerned at having a time limit, and you’re about to say something when Astarion holds up a hand.

“It’s nothing personal. I have to go visit Gale for his ridiculous birthday celebration and I'm not leaving someone, even if they are the reincarnated soul of my past lover, alone in my house. Especially now that they’re a damnable wizard.” Then under his breath he adds, “Of course you were reborn as a wizard. Just to add insult to injury.”

You ignore the comment about your magic, choosing to focus on the much more shocking piece of information, “Gale’s still alive?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Out of everyone, how are he and Halsin the ones I’m stuck with.”

Despite his flippant response, you get the sense that he’s closer to Gale than to Halsin if he’s attending his birthday, but you decline to comment. Instead you only say, “Alright then. One month.”

One month. That should be more than enough time to right the wrongs you’ve done to each other, learn who the other is, and figure out where to go from there– right?

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bg-brainrot · 1 month

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 18: Traveling with a Friend

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, awkwardness

WC: 9k words, 18/?? chapters

Summary: You and Astarion travel together to Waterdeep. Emotions run high as you reconnect and reestablish your boundaries.

Ao3 | [Ch17][Ch19] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

The next morning, you find yourself up earlier than usual. A mixture of nerves and excitement kept you up later than you’d intended last night, but also ensured that you jolted out of bed before the sun even rose in the sky.

You’d finished packing all of your things yesterday– after all, the fear that Astarion may regret his choice to bring you never quite leaves your mind. Ignoring that fear, you sling your pack full of clothing across your back, tie your Bag of Holding to your robe’s belt, and prepare your spells for the day. You tuck Astarion’s Sending Stone in your pocket, set to return it when you get a chance.

Once you’re more than ready, have triple-checked that you’ve missed nothing, you head down the stairs of the manor to wait for your vampiric companion in the entry hall.

When you arrive, you find the man already there. You also find that Astarion might be just as anxious as you are, if his pacing is any indication. He stops once he hears your footsteps and turns toward you with narrowed eyes. Oh gods, has he changed his mind overnight? Is he going to revoke my invitation?

“There you are,” he says, words clipped. “I thought I told you to be ready by morning.”

You try not to let his attitude get to you, to be grateful that he’s given you this chance. But his lack of planning is something you’ve been dealing with for two lifetimes and you can’t help but feel how thin your patience is this soon after waking. “Astarion,” you start, tone carefully level. “You never told me what time in the morning. It’s practically still dawn!”

He huffs at you in exasperation. “You should have known! It takes hours to get to Baldur’s Gate. If we arrive too late, we won’t make the teleportation circle today.”

“And how was I supposed to know your agenda?” you can’t help but retort, your irritation bleeding into your tone. You knew that the two of you wouldn’t be back to normal, but you certainly hadn’t expected such early morning hostilities.

“I don’t know!” he says, walking toward you in a temper. “Aren’t you supposed to be intelligent?”

“I’m not a mind reader!” you reply. Though strictly speaking, you did prepare Detect Thoughts today. If anything goes wrong with Astarion, you’d rather have a chance to find out why. “Now, if we’re in such a hurry, can we stop bickering and just get going already?”

Astarion is stopped before you, his red eyes inspecting your face carefully. You wish you could cast Detect Thoughts right now without making it abundantly obvious that you’re prying. It seems as if he’s looking for something in you again, and you wish you could know what that something is. He turns away from you, grabs his own pack, and begins to head to the door without looking back. “Let’s go,” he calls before throwing his door open.

The daylight that streams through his doorway is blinding, and your panic is immediate. You’re rushing forward before you can help yourself, mind addled by fear. Astarion! He’ll burn– it’s almost an ingrained instinct in you, one that fizzles out abruptly.

Because of course Astarion is fine. In fact, he stands in the doorway, looking back at you like you’ve gone mad. “What are you doing, darling?” The pet names are back, but not in the tender tone you’d grown accustomed to.

“I…” You look at him more closely, spotting the sunlight ring on his finger. It’s only natural that he would use one for the trip, but your fear had reacted faster than any logic. “I moved on instinct. I suppose I’ve gotten too used to my memories.”

He scoffs, appearing displeased by your worry. “I don’t need you to defend me against the sun. Just focus on making up for lost time.”

He's right, of course. What would you do against the sun? But again, you’d been so ingrained in the past that your body moved on its own. You shake the sensation, watching Astarion turn to leave.

Now's your chance. You could read his mind, figure out if this whole trip is worth it or not– if he invited you out of obligation or affection and, more importantly, if he harbors any hatred for you. Detect Thoughts doesn't have to be invasive, especially if you just need to understand his mindset, but you feel a touch of guilt nonetheless. You rationalize it to yourself, If I don't find out now, he'll likely never tell me. I'll feel the shade of his disdain the entire trip, whether or not it's there. And you also simply can’t ignore the annoyed set of his jaw or the way his eyes had examined you moments ago.

So, once his back is turned and he is heading down the stairs, you quietly, quickly recite the incantation for Detect Thoughts. It only lasts a single minute, and you’d like to save some spells just in case, so you resolve to get your answers as quickly as possible.

A second later, the spell takes effect and you hear the man’s surface level thoughts.

‘Gods below, I can’t believe I’m doing this.’

You follow after him on the stairs, trying to keep up as you listen in.

‘There’s little to no chance that this will go well.’

As disappointing as his surface level thoughts are, they aren’t much use to you if he's going to keep grumbling to himself. You ask him a question as you chase him. “Say, why did you invite me to join you?”

Astarion looks back at you momentarily, his red eyes shining brilliantly in the sunlight– you’d missed this look in your memories, and it brings you a sense of ease that you don't have time to enjoy. “If you have breath to ask questions, then walk faster,” is all that he replies. In his mind you hear, ‘Hopefully Gale can help nip this ill-fated endeavor in the bud. If not then… I don't know what I'll do.’

Oh good. He hopes to use Gale as a voice of reason. For you. You try not to let your dread show on your face.

Continuing down the steps, nearly reaching the bottom of the long entry staircase, you ask your next question a bit breathlessly, “And why are we in such a rush?”

“We’ll miss the birthday celebration if we don’t hurry,” he replies with a glare, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Internally, you hear, ‘We likely have a few days until the dinner proper, but I don’t think I could spend an entire night alone with them. Not after everything.’

Upon hearing that thought, you want to ask him so very badly about everything that's transpired between you. If he meant his words, if he still wanted you in his life– but you can’t very well just ask that out of the blue. Instead you prod a little more subtly and hope his mind will fill in the rest, “How was your week in the Underdark?”

Astarion shoots you an annoyed look, and his thought comes through before his words. ‘Miserable.’ Aloud he says, “It was fine. We had some lovely family bonding experiences.” His thoughts continue, ‘I had to threaten Petras at least twice a day for being such an oaf, and if Dal gives me one more lecture on the meaning of love, I am liable to murder the entire colony.’

You can’t help the surprised laugh that bubbles out of you, and Astarion rolls his eyes at you– clearly not finding his own words to be worth a laugh. Recovering quickly, you respond, “Sounds nice.” Almost a minute has passed, and you can feel the spell fading as you both begin on the dirt path out of Astarion’s manor. You ask one final question, “Are you excited to see Gale?”

“Very,” he says to you, continuing to walk without looking back. Despite the sarcasm in his voice, his mind seems to agree emphatically, ‘We can't get there fast enough.’

The spell worn out, your curiosity satisfied for now, you keep pace with Astarion as you walk down the dirt path. You didn't learn anything too novel– and you wouldn't want to pry that deeply anyway– but you feel more comfortable knowing that hatred for you isn't at the forefront of his mind. Hopefully the journey ahead doesn't change that.

You’re not sure what time you’d need to make it to the city for the teleportation circle, or how long the two of you will be traveling, but you do know that your own journey from Baldur’s Gate had taken the better part of the day. You’re starting to suspect that the two of you won’t make it in time for the transport from the way Astarion seems to be eyeing the sun in the sky.

As your travel starts in earnest, you fall into a gentle rhythm as you walk. Perhaps it's your excitement or simply his determination to make time, but your shared goal keeps your mind from wandering too far– keeps it from remembering that the man next to you had torn your heart to shreds only a week ago. More likely it was that that man seemed to be hells bent on pretending that nothing had happened.

“How was your week?” he asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye. His tone has a lukewarm, distant affectation, as if he’s back to keeping you at an arm’s length. It reminds you of when you first arrived at his house.

“It was… fine,” you reply, borrowing his own verdict. It had been exhilarating, it had been frustrating, it had been illuminating– but now that you’re walking next to Astarion, reminded of his presence, all you can remember are the moments of loneliness, the longing you felt for him. “Thank you for allowing me to stay.”

Astarion waves your thanks off. “Think nothing of it. Dal insisted.”

Of course she did, she’d said as much. But he does seem to stand a bit straighter at your thanks. “Well, I still appreciate it. While I originally had trouble sleeping in that room, I’ve grown to quite like it.”

His head turns toward you slightly, almost imperceptibly. “You had trouble? You never mentioned it.”

You shrug at his question, having honestly not found it worth mentioning after that first day. “Like I said, I got used to it. And I wasn’t about to put you out for something as trivial as a few bad reveries.”

“Gods,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“I’m just annoyed,” he says. The look on your face must be alarmed, because he continues, “At myself.”

The alarm likely doesn’t leave your face, but you respond calmly enough, “Erm, why is that?”

“Dal said…” he trails off, steps slowing for a moment as he appears to deliberate his words. “Well. Everyone said.” He looks at you before picking up his pace again. “They said that it was obvious who you were. If only I’d been open to seeing it. I see it now.”

The man’s words send a thrill up your spine, but his renewed speed doesn’t give you the chance to see his face, gauge his expression. You rush after him, managing to get out, “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘hurry up’ or I’ll leave you behind.” You consider another use of Detect Thoughts but think better of it. He would hear and see you casting it in the stark daylight and openness of the road.

You pick up your pace a bit, internally debating whether you should continue to press him on the topic, distract him from his half-jogging jaunt. On one hand, you do want to make it to Waterdeep in a timely manner, ask Gale all of the questions that you can think of. On the other hand, you suspect that all of the reasons Astarion wants to hurry up are the same reasons you would like to go more slowly: he doesn’t want to confront the words he levied against you or what you did in your time apart.

Ultimately, you decide that the silence isn’t bearable, and you maintain a steady, unrushed pace.

The two of you speak as you walk, conversation casual the entire time, as if a thin sheet of ice remains between you. Any words too loud, any emotions too hot, and it’s liable to shatter the ice and any semblance of peace. Your tone light, words equally as shallow, it’s as if you’re nothing more than casual acquaintances.

However, along the way, you do learn a few things.

The journey to Waterdeep would take nearly 45 days by foot, according to Astarion. While you could cut the time to a week by boat, the vampire can’t cross running water anymore, and he doesn’t particularly care to carve out more time ‘just to visit Gale.’

Astarion has never had to make the full trip, as Gale’s connections to both cities gets him an easy Teleport. Through the use of the teleportation circle, the trip is roughly a day or two. They close the Teleport by evening so he typically sets aside two days for travel.

Less than an hour out from Baldur’s Gate, you ask him, “Do you visit Gale often?”

Astarion gives a sigh. Having thawed a bit as you walk, his words and actions sound more like his usual self. “Not as often as Gale insists I should. At least once a year for this silly little birthday dinner though.”

You laugh, imagining how often Gale must bother Astarion, asking him to pay a visit. “What are his birthdays like?”

“Oh you know,” he begins, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Very Gale.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know how I asked you to pack for a few nights?” You nod. “It’s really an excuse to, ugh, spend time together. He never bothers to tell me when the damnable party actually takes place.”

You consider his words, recalling what he’d said just a few hours ago and what you’d heard from his thoughts. “So, we might not miss the celebration?”

“Or we might.” Astarion places a hand to his temple in aggravation. “Though more often than not he drags it out, like one of his rambling tangents.”

I certainly remember those tangents, you think. While you had primarily dreamt of Astarion, your other companions had appeared frequently enough that you felt quite connected to each. You’d actually been very at odds with your previous-self, wanting to listen to everything Gale said, no matter how much of their boredom flowed into you. Much like when you met Halsin, you can’t help the anticipation building in you. The thought of Halsin reminds you to ask, “Does anyone else show up to the dinner? Halsin said he hadn’t seen you in almost a century.”

“Yes, well,” Astarion looks at you briefly, turns back to the road. “When Gale started hosting these, about fifty years back, Halsin and I had already stopped speaking for some time. Some others show. Elminster, Volo. You won’t be surrounded entirely by strangers if that’s what you’re asking.”

While you’re curious to know who all the guests are, this isn’t the first time that you’ve noticed Astarion and Halsin being at odds. “If you don’t mind my asking, why don’t you speak with Halsin anymore?”

Astarion continues to walk, not looking back at you, not answering your question. He clearly minds you asking, but stops in his tracks before you can change the subject. His sharp red eyes meet yours, looking between them a moment before he says, “Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye on life, death, and whatever it is that lies in between.”

‘If you find Astarion, be sure to remind him that the cycle of rebirth is a blessing, one that he's been lucky enough to receive.’

The druid’s words ring through your ears as you take in Astarion’s pained expression. Understanding dawns on you as you respond, “Did the two of you… fight after I died in my previous life?”

“Something like that,” the vampire responds, lips pressing into a displeased line. “He kept trying to reassure me, to tell me about the ‘natural circle of life.’ I didn’t want his pity or insipid kindness. And now that you’re here…”

Now that I’m here, I'm only proving the druid right. “I–” I’m sorry? You can’t be, because Halsin understood, far more than you or Astarion do. Hundreds of years of experience, of living in nature and surrounding himself in its domain, only improved his perspective. Death isn’t the end for anyone, simply another part of the natural rhythm of life. “I see. Have you considered reconnecting? He said he would love to see you.” You decide not to mention that he’d like you both to visit together.

Astarion finally breaks eye contact with you, turning back to the road. “Maybe someday. First let’s get this yearly misery out of the way, shall we?”

You agree, accepting a ‘maybe’ as the best you’re likely to get from the vampire.

The city isn’t far now, but the sun begins to hang low in the sky. Just as the gates come into view, you ask Astarion another question, unsure of how he might react. “Are we going to make it to the teleportation circle?”

You see his silvery head shake out of the corner of your eye. You’re walking side by side now, his earlier bursts of speed dwindling alongside his ill-humor. “I doubt it. No matter, we’ll get there when we get there.”

A distinct difference from his attitude this morning, but not one that you’ll point out. “So then… what is the plan for tonight?”

He seems to think for a moment and, as he tilts his head toward you, you catch a bit of uncertainty creasing his brow. “I suppose we should find somewhere to stay for the night. Leave bright and early in the morning.”

It sounds as good a plan as any to you, but Astarion’s hesitance has you on edge too. He seems to be pretending not to care that you’re about to spend a night alone together– that act of pretend is far worse for your nerves than simply caring outright. “A simple but effective plan,” you say, only barely holding back your nervous laughter.

It also sounds like you'll have time in the city, at least for a short while, before nightfall. The perfect opportunity to stop by Sorcerous Sundries before they close and look for some materials for the ring. You don't mention this, but resolve to head out once you find lodging.

As the two of you make your way through the dirt roads of Wyrm's Crossing, a silence falls between you, an anticipation that seems to rush you both forward a bit faster.

You approach the South Span Checkpoint with confidence and an odd feeling of familiarity. Not only had you crossed through here a few weeks ago, but your past-self and Astarion did plenty of times as well. It’s strange knowing that you’re all but tracing the footsteps of your former life.

And, yet again, your body fights you: it takes everything you have not to instinctively grab Astarion’s hand as you walk. It had been a common act for the two of you, holding hands as you walked through crowded plazas and streets– in part for the comfort of having one another, in greater part to avoid having to find each other again every few blocks. You manage to resist though, even as you reach the busy checkpoint.

The guards at the checkpoint regard you both with boredom, and you pass without issue. You still have your writ of passage from weeks ago and Astarion presents his as well. Once you’re out of earshot, you ask a question that had bubbled up when you saw Astarion’s paperwork.

“Do they ever recognize you as one of the saviors of Baldur’s Gate?”

Astarion looks at you, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “Darling, surely you jest.”

His mirth confuses you. “I don’t. Why would I jest?”

“Because, my dear,” he says, speaking back to you as you both weave through a crowd milling between street stalls. “So many people have saved this city, only fanatics truly care about one or two in particular.”

His words evoke images of Minsc, Jaheira, the others who came before your past-self and your companions– those that had shown up in history books since then. I suppose that makes sense. Certainly explains why everyone who looks for him seems like a unique type of enthusiast. Lost in thought as you are, you miss the moment when Astarion slips out of your view.

When you finally look up, you’re faced with the backs of dozens of strangers, no silver-haired head to be seen. “Astarion?” you ask, looking left, right, behind you. Panic begins to bloom in your chest and your heart starts to pound. Of course you’ve lost him almost immediately.

You’re about to yell his name louder when a hand grabs yours from the crowd.

You give an appropriately terrified yelp, but the cold fingers and familiar pale skin calm you. Looking up to see an amused set of red eyes staring at you stills the rapid beating of your heart. “Darling, it’s a miracle you made it to me with your head so high up in the clouds,” he says, voice barely carrying over the bustling conversations. “Keep this up and I’ll pickpocket you myself.”

No smart remark reaches your lips, no brilliant defense. Because all you can think of is that his hand is in yours again. You hope he can’t hear the satisfied sigh that escapes your lips.

His hand doesn’t leave yours as he pulls you through the throngs of people. It doesn’t let yours go, even as you both narrowly dodge a man pulling a cart of cabbages. It doesn’t let go even as you walk by the Flaming Fists in Wyrm's Rock Fortress. Maybe in another lifetime, were you someone else, holding his hand like this would make you both look like a couple.

By the time you reach the entrance to Baldur’s Gate, his hand is the same temperature as your own. It’s only when the guards at the gate ask to see your paperwork once more that you break apart.

Once you’re in the city, Astarion turns to look at you. You think you spot a softness to his eyes before they harden once more and he says, "I suppose we should get lodging before it gets too late. It wouldn't do to get the last available room."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in your chest. The sleeping arrangements weren't something you'd paid any mind to when it came to missing the teleportation circle, but now that you’re in the city, it's all you can think about.

Astarion doesn't grab your hand again, but you do a fine job of keeping up with him as he makes his way to the Elfsong.

You'd stayed here just weeks ago and reveled in how unchanged it is since being rebuilt, but walking in next to this man brings on a wave of nostalgia far stronger than before. The familiarity doesn't die down as Astarion walks up to the barkeep, asking for a room for two. The memories that flood you are not your own as you see one of his elegant hands slide a few gold coins across the table, his other hand gesturing enthusiastically as he makes a deal with the man at the counter.

When he turns back around toward you, room key in hand, he seems to be just as lost in thought as you are. "Shall we?"

You nod, following behind him in a daze.

Maybe this is why he'd completely redone his house. Memory after memory comes unbidden as you walk after him. The time that you'd all played cards, just at that corner table. The time you'd convinced a drunken stranger that you were visiting royalty. All those times that you both snuck away from everyone, up the stairs for a moment to yourselves.

It feels like one of those moments now, as the din of the Elfsong falls away and you both walk up the creaky, wooden steps to the second floor.

He unlocks the door to your shared room and you both file in in silence. A small sliver of relief shoots through you upon seeing two beds, but the relief is short-lived when you look up to see Astarion's eyes trained on you.

"What?" you ask, worried at the lack of legible emotion on his face.

"It's strange," he replies, sitting down on one of the beds with a slight chuckle. "I wasn't expecting this all to feel so…"

"Familiar?" you offer, taking his lead and dropping onto your own bed in a relieved huff.

"You feel it too, I take it?" After a quick nod from you, he continues to elaborate, "I've stayed here for years since…" Since I died, your mind fills in easily. He continues after a silence with, "It's different this time."

You hum appreciatively, not sure how to put the nostalgia that you're feeling into words. Naturally, you try anyway. "It's– it's almost as if we've just been here. As we climbed the stairs, I was remembering one of the times we snuck up here, away from the rest of the group. You'd been so impatient to get away that we nearly got caught by Shadowheart and…" The rest of your words die on your tongue. You’re afraid that you've gone too far, tread too deep into a now painful memory.

But when you glance at him, Astarion is simply staring at a floorboard between you, a small, melancholy smile on his face. "And I just about broke an ankle trying to scramble up. I remember that time."

Your heart jumps in your chest at his pensive state, wondering how you can preserve the moment, bottle it up like a tonic for your soul. Nothing that beautiful ever lasts though, and he looks up at your awed, frozen stare.

Luckily, the fondness that glazes over his eyes lingers as he says, "Mmm, the lot of us made this place a home of sorts I suppose. Though you may remember as well as I do, darling."

"Yes," you reply, turning away from his gaze. "I received quite a few memories from that time. Not all fun and games, of course, but it was still nice."

“I’m glad,” he says, with a wistfulness to his tone that makes your heart ache. “It’s somewhat gratifying to know that our adventures live on, in some form or another.”

You laugh a bit, and the two of you sit in silence for a long, lasting moment.

Astarion breaks the silence by clearing his throat and you look up at him as if summoned. “It’s a tad late, but I wanted to thank you. For joining me. I know the last that we spoke…” His eyes narrow in a wince. “I said some hurtful things.”

Oh gods, you think. We need to have this conversation sooner or later, don’t we? And you do, despite all of the muscles in your body clenching instinctively, the fear that courses through you telling you to run. “I recall,” is all that you can manage between breaths. The feeling of loss is encroaching on you, threatening to overtake you.

Then Astarion snaps you back to reality.

“I know my apologies have been, well, wanting, as my siblings like to say.” He smirks at you, despite the serious set of his eyes. “But should you have room in your heart or soul for another, I am sorry for the words I said. I can’t take them back, nor can I fix the hurt I’ve caused, but I can assure you that I regret every word I said in anger.”

For all of the apologies Astarion has delivered since you arrived on his doorstep, this one feels the most sincere. His eyes don’t waver, his voice is steady and sure. While he’s right, that none of this fixes the pain, nor the feelings left behind, you do feel something relax in you at his words. A tension that had carried you through the day finally eases.

However, one last, persistent issue needs to be addressed. “Thank you. And, though I wish I could apologize myself, for crossing your boundaries, I’m afraid I have no intention of stopping my research to help the spawn.” You’re surprised by the strength of your own voice, the confidence that you feel.

Astarion seems to notice it as well– the lines of his jaw clench, his next breath comes a bit short. “Yes. I suspected as much. And it’s your life– or lives– to do with as you please. I should know better than to try to stop you myself.”

Right, you think. That’s why you’re taking me to Gale. He doesn’t know that you know that though, so you simply say, “In that case, thank you for that as well.”

The vampire tilts his head toward you slightly in response and continues, “That being said, I am not about to attach myself to someone stubbornly set on a mission from the hells.”

“I can understand that,” you reply, bowing your head a bit to hide the disappointment that is surely on your face.

“So,” Astarion starts, clicks his tongue with a ‘tch.’ “Until you’ve either given up on this endeavor or died once more trying, I want to make it clear that we are strictly friends.”

Friends.

The word sounds like a discordant melody crashing into a quiet space. It feels fumbling and childish, incorrect and out of place. How could two people whose histories, bodies, lives have been intertwined for centuries find themselves back at friends, time and time again?

And yet, it’s more than you could ever hope for, the lifeline that will keep you afloat. So, while it feels like a step back, it’s one that you will take each time it’s offered to you. “I will always be happy to be your friend, Astarion.”

Your eyes meet once more, staring across this familiar treading ground, and you find peace in each other’s gaze.

The moment passes, and you decide that it’s time for you to leave if you want to make it to Sorcerous Sundries before it closes. Besides, better to leave now, while you’re both friends, than to muck it all up again by allowing a memory to fog your judgment, instinct to move your body. “Speaking of my endeavors, I need to go to the shop. Perhaps we can reminisce a bit more once I return?”

Astarion seems surprised as you rise from the bed, but he recovers quickly, pursing his lips at you disapprovingly. “Very well. But be careful. Night is about to fall and the city gets rather dangerous after dark.”

“Don’t worry,” you reply, smiling at him as you prepare your coin purse, deposit your pack on your bed. “I happen to know that all of the vampires left the city a while back.”

He snorts and shoos you with his hands. “Gods. Out with you, so that I can lock you out of the room for your poor attempts at humor.”

“Fine, fine,” you say, laughing and walking toward the door. “I do promise that I’ll be as alert as I can be.”

“Knowing you, darling?” he asks, leaning back on his bed. “I’m afraid that doesn’t mean much.”

It's odd but, despite everything, you end up leaving the conversation like a pair of old companions who haven't spoken in a while– falling into a comfortable rhythm that neither of you want to break.

A sense of purpose still drives you forward though. So you leave him in the room, somewhat flustered by the shift in your dynamic, but not unpleased.

You’re familiar enough with the city at this point that you make it to Sorcerous Sundries without too many extra twists and turns– and, despite Astarion’s misgivings, without losing your life or money. You had visited the establishment on your way into the city, grabbing various spell components, refilling your ink, and generally getting a lay of the land. So, when you enter this time, you’re only mildly gobsmacked by the treasure trove of magical goods before you.

In Neverwinter there are plenty of magical shops on the same level as Sorcerous Sundries, but something about a new magical shop provokes a special kind of thrill in you.

You walk up to the counter, finding a simulacrum of a tiefling taking care of the shop.

“Hello and welcome to Sorcerous Sundries! What can I do for you?” it asks.

“Hello,” you reply, quite used to treating simulacrums like their real world counterparts. “Would you happen to have an item that can create water?”

It’s not ten minutes later that you’re leaving the shop with a Decanter of Endless Water, several spell components, a brand new notebook, and a much lighter coin purse. I’m lucky my parents sent me off with so much gold , you think. They would have had no clue that I would end up spending this much already. When I end up back in Neverwinter, I'm afraid I'll have a stern lecture waiting for me.

The night is still fairly young and you debate stopping by a smithy to purchase more metal or perhaps seeking out an old haunt from your prior life. But nothing sounds quite as appealing to you as making your way back to Astarion.

Can I truly spend the rest of the night alone with him? you consider as you make your way back, dragging your feet as you ponder. I know we're ‘friends’ again, but just the thought of being in that room, so close. It may prove to be too much.

You pause outside the Elfsong, staring up at the window to the room you're sharing. A quick movement passes behind the curtains, and you wonder what Astarion was up to while you were out. Perhaps he expected you to be out longer.

Maybe I'll get a meal before I head up, in case he wants a bit more alone time, you decide.

That's how you spend the next half hour eating alone along the Elfsong's bar, trying out your new decanter in a borrowed cup. By the time you finish your meal, you're certain it will be helpful, but equally certain that any blood you make from it won't satiate a vampire.

Luckily you have one such vampire to test your ideas on. If he is amenable to the tests. You decide to wait until you’re both safely in Waterdeep before you start creating rivers of fake blood.

You make your way upstairs, knock on the door to your shared room, and speak, "May I enter?" The man inside grumbles something, which you take as assent. You find Astarion on his bed where you left him, a book balanced on his lap, a sour expression on his face.

“Are you alright?” you ask him, dreading the possibility that he’s spent the last hour changing his mind once more.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, eyes focused on his book. “Simply enjoying my book. Alone.”

Oh, I suppose he did want more alone time. “I’m sorry, I can leave you be for a bit longer if you’d like–”

“Ever so helpful, aren’t you?” he snaps. Then, realizing what he’s said, wipes a hand over his face and looks up at you. His eyes are conflicted. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I suppose I just didn’t realize that my company was that disagreeable. It’s a rather uncomfortable thing to come to terms with.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, closing the door behind you and stepping in now. You set down your spoils and turn toward Astarion. His entire demeanor, his body, looks to be on edge, like something has been chipping away at him.

Astarion closes the book in his lap, and you note that the cover is upside down. “It’s just this damned tavern. I know I can’t eat, but I guess I got used to sharing meals with, erm, you. Them.” He drops his head and mumbles, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t even know anymore.”

He’d mentioned before how difficult it had been for him, trying to reconcile who you are, who you were, but he’d recused himself every time it got to be too much. Here, sharing a room in the Elfsong, neither of you could run away from the roiling storm of his emotions.

Faced with his hanging head and the hunch of his shoulders, you haven’t a clue how to approach the man you can only call a friend. You almost wish this was a memory, if only for your emotions to come through clearly, your next course of action to be predetermined. But, of course, you are the only one capable of dealing with the consequences of your own actions.

You approach him slowly, cautiously, and call out his name. “Astarion?”

The man lifts his head up to you, and you find torment twisting his fair features. His breathing seems shallow and rushed. The lines around his mouth deepen as he reads your expression and he only replies, “Please don’t.”

“Don’t?” you ask, stopping just short of his bed.

“Don’t look at me like that– With that infernal pity. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look fine, and you don’t feel pity. It’s hard to parse out your emotions, but you mostly feel bad. The idea that he’d been suffering alone, that he had harbored this turmoil, all without letting you in… it hurts. Whether or not he loves you, he said he cared about you. He claims to be your friend and friends don’t shut each other out like this.

“I know you don’t want to get more attached to me,” you say, taking another step. “But I promise I am only doing this as a friend.”

You don’t give him time to react, to protest your presence, before your arms reach down and envelop his form. It’s an awkward angle, with his body hunched, curled on his bed, yours draping over him like an unwelcome cloak– he stiffens under you at first.

Then his tension melts.

His hands come up, grasping at your elbows and holding you in place. His soft, silver hair tickles your neck as his head leans into your chest. His whole body angles toward yours, as if seeking your warmth desperately.

You cling back, tilting your head into his. Your hands grip his sides tightly. Your presence is firm, your warmth his to take.

You hold him like that for a time, neither of you wanting to pull away from the simple, beautiful feeling of holding one another. Initially, you’d held him for his sake, but you find that the longer you stand there, the more your own soul settles. If a soul could crave, this is what mine would yearn for.

Eventually, Astarion’s breathing slows. He inhales deeply one last time, gives a soft shuddering breath that ghosts across your skin, and pulls away. “Thank you,” he says, eyes not meeting yours. “You’re… a kind friend.”

Your throat feels tight, whether from disuse or from emotion, you can’t quite tell. You clear it and respond, “You’re welcome. I’m more than happy to help.”

Detaching your limbs from his body, you feel so awkward, so out of place standing before him. Barely more than a week ago you’d been wrapped in his arms, he’d been whispering sweet nothings into your ears as he caressed every inch of you. But this? It feels as if you’re both truly, utterly stripped bare before each other.

“It’s getting late,” he says, looking up at you finally. His eyes are dark in the candle-lit room, and his expression is difficult to read. He’s certainly calmer though, less on edge than he was when you entered the room.

“You’re right,” you say, taking a step back. “We should rest up so that we make it to Gale bright and early tomorrow.”

Astarion gives you a short nod and whispers, “You’ll tell me if your reverie bothers you, won’t you?” His unspoken words are clear to you, You’ll allow me to be there for you, as you’ve been there for me?

“I will,” you respond, turning to your bed. “Promise.”

You get ready for bed in silence, and when the time comes for Astarion to snuff the candle he murmurs into the dark room, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

Perhaps it was the memories of the day, but that night you dream of the Hero’s life. Much like your real life, you seem to be on a trip to Waterdeep.

Gale Dekarios stands before you, holding an orb of magical light above you. You recognize it as a simple Light cantrip.

“Could you hold that a bit higher?” you hear yourself say.

“With pleasure,” he responds, adjusting accordingly.

You seem to be holding a set of tongs, a piece of heated metal bending between them, a careful hand pulling with a pair of pliers. “Thank you. Astarion never sits still long enough to help with these, you know.”

“I am well aware, my friend,” Gale says with a slight chuckle. “It’s a miracle he agreed to join you on this trip.You would think he’s allergic to magic with the way he avoids visiting.”

Your own responding laugh is softer, your hands remain steady as you warp the still warm metal. “He secretly enjoys it,” you reply. “And you know, if anything happens to me on our next journey…”

“Now, now, I have the utmost confidence in you– everything will go swimmingly, just you wait.” His words are warm, confident in you.

“I know,” you say, pressing the two ends of the metal strip together, ensuring that they’re flush to each other. “But if anything were to happen. You’ll make sure he’s okay, right?”

Gale looks a bit offended when you look up at him. “Of course I would! I would be quite the atrocious friend if I did or said otherwise.”

You feel satisfaction at his words, nodding. “Good. Now would you mind a quick flame to weld these ends together?”

The wizard helps you close the loop off, and you’re left with a recognizable ring, one of the prototypes that you’d designed together. It had been one of the ones you’d marked off with the blacksmith’s initials. It’s a clean design, a simple thin band made of silver with room for an inlay along its ridge.

“What do you think?” you ask him, holding it in your palm once the metal cools.

“Why it’s a beautiful little thing, isn’t it?” Gale says, appreciatively. “Silver though, a might bit too much for a vampire perhaps? I know I recommended it, but it may sting.”

“True. But first we’ll have to wait and see how the mage’s magic works. If it even works,” you say with a sigh.

Gale hums thoughtfully, inspecting the ring. “It may be a tall tale, but I’d still say it’s worth a shot. Besides, your intuition has never led us astray before.”

You laugh at that, some guilt coursing through you as you say, “I don’t know about that. Remember the time that you nearly got blown off Ramazith's Tower?”

The wizard shudders at the memory. “Your intuition rarely has led us astray.”

The two of you continue at work, discussing the merits of different shapes of rings. Some are better for integrity, some for holding magic– together, you with your knowledge of metals and metalworking, Gale with his knowledge of enchanting, you refine and iterate through the night.

The entire dream you pay rapt attention, wishing more than anything that you could interject, ask your own questions. All the while you remind yourself, I will have my chance. For now, I must just listen.

You wake from your reverie bright and early. Astarion still slumbers, and you debate heading down to breakfast without disturbing him before deciding that he would very much not like that.

So you read through some of your notes with last night’s dream in mind, waiting for the vampire to wake up.

When the man stirs, sitting up with a slightly tousled head of hair, it’s all you can do to stop yourself from emitting a happy little sigh. After a week without him, waking to his presence is more refreshing than you can put into words.

“Good morning,” you say, smiling at him and tucking your papers back into your bag of holding.

“Morning,” he says, looking at you cautiously. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod, assuring him that it was not tossing and turning that woke you early. “I dreamt of Waterdeep actually. I spent the night crafting with Gale.”

Astarion snorts at that, though he does seem relieved. “Sweet hells, those were some dull nights. I swear, it was like the two of you were out to bore me to death.”

Your heart catches in your throat. The two of you… He included you. It feels odd getting worked up over such a small word choice, seeing as almost everyone else treated you as your former self. But he’d always maintained a clear distinction.

However, the man in question did not even seem to notice the slip. He continues, “Well, I’d like to think Gale has matured some since then.” Astarion snickers under his breath. “We can’t all be blessed with eternal beauty I suppose.”

You recover your bearings, registering Astarion’s jabs. The Gale of your dream last night was still quite lively, if lined with a few more wrinkles, hair salted with a few extra streaks of gray. “Is he, erm, well? ” You don’t know how to tactfully ask if he’s on death’s door, but Astarion seems to understand what you’re implying.

“Oh, he’s perfectly healthy,” he says, stretching as he rises from bed. “Much like Elminster, someone as adept at magic as he is knows full well how to extend his life without complications.”

You nod, knowing as much from your own wizardly studies. “I’m glad. I’d love to get to know him better. I think I’ll be able to learn a lot.”

Astarion’s resulting glare is pointed. “I’m going to regret bringing you, aren’t I?”

You shrug, dropping your legs over the edge of the bed and getting up. “I’m afraid it’s too late to rescind the invitation. I think you know as well as I do that I could and would follow you if need be.”

The threat is lighthearted, jovial even, and the vampire’s responding smile is blinding to you in the morning light. “You’re a veritable scourge upon my sanity, you know.”

His tone is surprisingly seductive and you feel a heat building in you. You turn away from the distinctly unfriendly thoughts that come to your mind and say, “I know. Shall we get going?”

Before you leave, the two of you stop downstairs for a quick breakfast. You claimed you could have gone without, but Astarion demands it, saying that, with a self-sacrificing fool like yourself, it was up to him to make sure that his mortal friend gets the sustenance they need.

Mortal meal time out of the way, you find yourselves at the permanent teleport station– the very same one you entered the city through over a month ago. You recognize the mage running the teleport station as the one who’d welcomed you in: Thomas, you recall.

“Good morning, Thomas,” you say with a wave.

“Good morning!” he responds, waving back enthusiastically. He’s an eager man, passionate about his craft. Conjuration magic isn’t your specialty, so you’d asked plenty of questions when you came through. “Why, isn’t this a pleasant surprise! What are you doing back here?”

“I’m actually on–”

“On a trip with me,” Astarion interjects, stepping up to Thomas with a smile. “Good morning.”

“Oh, good morning, sir.” Thomas seems taken aback by Astarion’s sudden appearance, but turns back to address you, “Well, it’s lovely to see you again. It’s not every day you get someone coming in that’s so knowledgeable and interested in your work.”

You smile at Thomas, understanding all too well, but feel the burn of Astarion’s eyes on your face all the while. “I would love to ask some more questions, but I’m afraid we have to get going today. Maybe next time I come through?”

“I am always happy to answer more questions!”

Thomas looks downright joyful at the idea, though his smile dies when Astarion cuts in, “Or maybe we’ll return by boat. Who really knows?”

“I doubt that,” you say, shooting Astarion a warning look. “For today, we’d just like passage to Waterdeep, please.”

Ever the professional, Thomas doesn’t push on your less-than-subtle bickering, merely agrees to set up the circle, takes Astarion’s note of passage from Gale, and goes to prepare the spell.

As the two of you move to get into position, you mutter to Astarion under your breath, “What was that about?”

“What was what?” he replies, smiling at you with false warmth.

“How rude you were to Thomas,” you hiss. “He’s only been utterly polite.”

Astarion scoffs, looking at you in disbelief. “Polite? Oh my dear, I’m so glad you have me as a friend.”

You only give him a confused, concerned look.

“As somewhat of an expert, I know a wretched flirt when I see one. Thomas has anything but innocent intentions,” he explains, glaring at the man who’s hard at work inscribing sigils. “It’s my duty as your friend to protect you from such scoundrels, of course.”

Oh great, you think, rubbing your temple with one of your hands. He’s evoking friendship in the name of jealousy. At least, it seems like jealousy. “He’s just doing his job, Astarion.”

“Darling, no one is that eager to do their job. No, he’s thinking of doing other things,” he says, lowering his voice as he insinuates what exactly Thomas would like to do.

You can’t help the heat that comes over you. While you’d planned on letting the matter drop, you feel the need to defend Thomas. “Hush, Astarion. Stop attributing your lecherous feelings to the poor man.”

The look Astarion gives you is one of sheer shock. Whether at your blunt comeback or at the feelings he may be trying to smother, you’re not sure.

Before he can recover, Thomas calls, “The circle is ready! Safe travels to you both, and, erm, I may or may not see you on your way back!”

You wish you could say something to assuage the mage, but his magic envelops you both a second later– a blinding flash of purples and blues obscures your vision and after a few rapid blinks you find yourself in Waterdeep’s teleport station.

“Oh good,” you say, finding Astarion still staring at you. “I was worried you’d stay behind to keep terrorizing Thomas.”

“Very funny,” he grumbles, turning away from you. “Let’s get to Gale’s before you accidentally woo some other unsuspecting sap.”

He makes me sound like some kind of philanderer, you think as you follow after him. Not that you were capable of philandering. He’d made that abundantly clear. A rage fills you as you think of the things he’s said about you and your attractiveness. Your thoughts darken further as you remember how you’d changed your appearance for him those weeks ago. I suppose he did say he liked my face eventually…

Now here he was, getting jealous. Which was it? Are you some kind of alluring temptation or a cruel joke sent by the gods? You want to know. No, you need to know.

The man is walking ahead of you, leading you past Waterdeep’s teleport mages, out of the building. Before you both reach the door, you call out, “Astarion.”

“What?” he says, stopping to look back to you. His brows are set in an angry line, but you can tell it’s more frustration than anger.

“Do you truly think that Thomas was flirting with me?” you ask. Astarion’s eyes narrow at you and when he doesn’t answer you immediately, you continue, “I know I’m no monstrosity, but I’m certainly not a catch like some people.”

“Nonsense,” he mutters, opening the door. “How do you manage to be the smartest imbecile I know? I know Gale for gods’ sake.”

“What does that mean– oh my sweet celestial plane.”

With the doors open, the city of Waterdeep lies before you.

Your own city of Neverwinter is beautiful– a bustling city full of crafts and trade. Baldur’s Gate is, well, the Gate– a diverse city, bursting at the seams with people, places, and things to do. But this? This is the City of Splendors.

From your studies, you’re well aware that this city is the pinnacle of many things. They have the best artisans guilds, scholars whose renown extends across the Realms, Archmages like Gale. You can tell from your first look at the city that it’s steeped in history and wealth.

Astarion looks at you, bemused, his earlier ill humor forgotten as he asks, “You haven’t been here before have you?”

“Only in my memories,” you reply, awestruck as you step out of the building and begin looking around.

“Stay close then,” he says, holding out a hand. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

All of your worries have evaporated in the face of a new, wondrous place. I’ll have to ask again later, you decide, taking Astarion’s hand and beginning your trek through the city of Waterdeep.

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bg-brainrot · 1 month

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 17: What We are Now

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, blood, lots of talk of blood

WC: 11.5k words, 17/?? chapters

Summary: When you’re left to your own devices, you find yourself knee-deep in mystery. Despite all of this, Astarion never leaves your mind. And perhaps you never leave his.

Ao3 | [Ch16][Ch18] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

When you awake for your twenty-second day in the house, you wonder if you should even bother counting anymore. Astarion is done with you, what use was staying for another week? Should I just… leave? You think, blinking yourself out of your reverie.

You don’t leave immediately– rather, you can’t bring yourself to. He has condemned you, called your little situation over, but he hasn’t forcibly removed you, so you sit on the bed and think.

Let’s say he really never wants to see me again… What do I do now?

Your mind answers quickly, I need to help the spawn.

Well, I can’t just stay here! … Can I?

I don’t want to go, you answer. Maybe I’ll just stay until I get kicked out?

That wouldn’t help. Astarion may only be more upset. Shouldn’t you get out before you make him hate you even more?

Maybe he just needs time, you defend. I can hope, can’t I?

You’re not sure how long you spend just thinking, but when you finally finish you decide on a few things.

First, you will stay here as long as you can, until the vampire kicks you out himself. Second, this changes nothing– you may be the only one who has the means to help the spawn and you cannot abandon them when you might be their best hope. And third, no matter how much it hurts, even if Astarion abhors you with every fiber of his being, you can’t seem to feel anything but love for him. It’s like a valve you’re no longer able to shut. So, you will simply need to see where the flow of love guides you– whether it be into the man’s arms for forgiveness or away from his disdain.

Path decided, you spend the rest of the day hard at work memorizing the cipher. You light the paper as Dal instructed, illuminating an intricate pattern of symbols and their corresponding Common counterparts. Fascinating, you think, taking a quick perusal. It seems a mixture of some elvish, some infernal, and perhaps a smidge of thief’s cant?

Several of the symbols simply make sense, clicking immediately in your mind. Others swim in front of your eyes, as you realize with growing dread that you’re starving . Not enough to warrant risking an encounter with Astarion, right? Right, you think, steadfastly focused on trying to decipher the paper.

Eventually, your hunger becomes too much for you to ignore. Spending another day without food is certainly out of the question– you’re not sure how vampires seem to do so regularly given their unrelenting hunger– so you summon your remaining courage and intone an Invisibility spell.

Now invisible, you sneak out of the room to tiptoe down to the kitchen. You pause for a brief moment on the stairs, debating whether or not you should steal Rhapsody while you’re invisible– you decide against it, afraid that going anywhere near his room could get you caught. Perhaps you should wait until it feels like you’re no longer welcome. Only then, only maybe, you should steal it as a last ditch effort.

Once in the kitchen, you grab anything that might stay well, dried fruits, nuts, grains, and slink back to your room. You never see the man you’re avoiding, but you’re certain that he knows you’re still here. How could he not?

Does he just not care? you think. The thought fills you with unease, dreading his apathy more than any amount of antipathy…

Back in your room, hunger sated, thirst quenched, and feeling more like yourself, you get back to work on memorizing the cipher. It’s easier once the growl of your stomach stills, allowing you the clarity you needed for some of the trickier symbols.

Ah, I see, you think at one point. In all of my dreams, I would never have guessed that symbol translated to this. What a clever little system. I wonder if Astarion contributed to it.

Astarion– you mind keeps coming back to the man. Despite the dull ache in your chest every time a thought of him crops up, you can’t stop thinking of him. Even now, knee-deep in research he would loathe, your mind strays to him. I wonder what he thought of it all, back when my past-self started the research. He always let them do their work before eventually distracting them away. He must have been fine with it once upon a time, albeit unenthusiastic.

You think of him once more a few hours later, once you think you’ve nearly memorized most of the cipher and recognize his name written in code on a journal entry. It takes a moment for you to translate, but it reads, “Astarion is to join me on the next expedition. If you’re reading this, love, please finish packing.” You smile at the note, wondering if Astarion did end up reading the reminder.

The smile drops when you read the next line, “We’re exploring at coordinates 38, -22, it’s our best lead yet– a bit hidden, but I’m nearly certain it’s the wizard’s tower.” You set the paper aside, wondering if it had in fact been that fateful place.

Halfway through the day, a knock comes at your door. Your heart catches in your throat. Could he be…? You head to the door cautiously, quietly, as if you could sneak up on it– As if your silence could keep the man on the other side from reconsidering and running away. Maybe he understands, maybe he spoke with Dal and finally, truly–

You open the door to see Dal, waiting patiently, a kind, open look on her face.

“Hello,” she says, bowing her head slightly. “I’m sorry to arrive here unexpectedly, but I spoke with Astarion.”

You try not to let the mention of his name affect you, or the fact that it’s not him at the door show in sheer disappointment. You’re not sure how successful you are, but your voice sounds somewhat normal when you respond, “Hi Dal, it’s alright. We, um, fought. As I’m sure he told you.” If you could call that a fight…

She nods, and you wonder what he said to her, if he was as mad at her as he was at you. “He was hoping I would talk to you, actually. To… convince you not to help us. I told him I didn’t want to do that.”

Of course she wouldn’t, or she wouldn’t have snuck in here without his knowledge in the first place. But you’re still curious where this leaves them. After all, they still clearly all care for each other. How did they all manage to stay ‘siblings’ this long, with this many disagreements? As an only child, you don’t suppose you’ll ever understand. “Is he mad at you?”

Dalyria scrunches her face a bit, as if unsure how to answer that. “Yes. But not in the way he seems to be mad at you. I won’t delude myself into thinking that any of us matter enough to Astarion to warrant more than a century of, well, brooding.”

Again, it feels like you’re speaking with an old friend– if your heart didn’t feel so thoroughly beaten, you might have even laughed along and assured her otherwise. As it was, you could only manage a simple response, “I see… So I really did ruin everything, didn’t I?”

“Hardly,” she says with the shake of her head. “He will come around. He just needs… time. And maybe for a few of us to beat him over the head.” She gives you a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite do anything to reassure you.

“Even if he has all of the time in the world, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop trying to help you, so what difference does it make?” you ask. It’s not in your nature to give up on something like this. You can tell that that runs deeper than who you are now, it’s who you’ve always been.

“We appreciate that. And I hope that Astarion will too, in due time,” she says looking down, perhaps to where Astarion may be at this very moment. “As much as he doesn’t want you to do this, he still cares about us enough to give me this chance.”

You look at her, furrowing your brows in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“I would like you to stay to help us,” she says, looking at you intensely. “But you can’t exactly stay in the colony, not with all of that… well, blood in your body. You might get eaten alive before you can read a single piece of paper.”

It makes sense– Petras had mentioned as much when you had been locked up in their cells. You can’t imagine being locked up and without magic again would be of much help anyway. “So, what’s happening? Is Astarion letting me stay here?”

She nods. “He won’t be staying here with you though. He’s still quite upset. I’ll try talking to him, of course, but we aren’t on the best of terms currently, so no promises.”

You feel a weight lift off of your shoulders. The dread you had been carrying with you all morning fades ever so slightly. Thank the gods, I have time. “How long?” you ask.

“He said you’re allowed to stay until your ‘previously agreed upon time’,” Dal intones in his voice, and you do laugh this time.

A week. Not a lot of time, but enough to at least get through some of these notes, ask Dal questions. Maybe start to look for new leads…

“Okay,” you say to her, with a firm nod. “I can work with that. Thank you, Dal.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she says, waving away your thanks. “I am aware that you’re sacrificing a lot for us. Just as you did in your past life. Know that I will never forget that.”

In this lifetime, you don’t know what it’s like to have a sibling. But gods do you wish that you could count Dal as one. You wish that you could ask her for a comforting hug, for her to listen to all of your problems about Astarion– maybe you’d had that before, but you’re too afraid of ruining yet another relationship to find out. “I’m happy to help you all, just as I did before,” you say. “Maybe when this is all said and done, you can put in a good word for me with Astarion.”

The woman laughs. “If you manage this, I will help you win over anyone. An archdevil, a god, you name them, and I will make it happen.”

Even with the world on offer before you, you know that your heart only wants the one man. “I think I would be quite content with Astarion,” you say, blushing despite yourself.

She gives you a knowing smile, eyes warm as she looks upon you. “Don’t worry, my friend. He will come around eventually. A love like yours doesn’t transcend lifetimes for it to fade like that.”

Gods, you want to believe her. Just like you wanted to believe Halsin. So you nod, trying to keep the burning in your eyes from turning into tears. “Yes, you’re right,” you respond, with no real conviction. I just hope he believes that someday.

"I know I am!" she says, emphatically, sensing your lack of faith. "You know, when you first arrived, when you were locked in the cell– he and I spoke. He told me he wanted nothing to do with you."

You recall as much, so you gulp and respond, "Yes, he made that very clear."

"He only agreed to speak with you for our sake. I asked him to check at the very least, to see if maybe you had a means to help us. After all, if he wanted nothing to do with you, it wouldn't matter, would it?" She offers up the question like a challenge, one he likely took up with ease.

Sure , you think. Pawn off the weird elf that showed up on your doorstep to your desperate siblings. "That… makes sense." You still feel a sting of disappointment at knowing he truly didn't care what had happened to you. “He asked me about your hunger at the very least.”

“Well, he's nothing like that now. He wants me to leave you the hells alone,” she says, as if the answer was right before you. “Don’t you see? Whether or not he knows it, he cares now. He only wants to keep you safe– he just has a very… Astarion-way of showing affection."

That's one way to look at it. "I know, Dal," you say with a sigh. "I'm afraid that affection isn't enough in this case."

She looks at you for a long moment before she shakes her head in frustration. "Gods, you two really aren't any different. A hundred years, two hundred years, you'll continue to completely lose all sense of reason about each other."

You want to defend yourself, even Astarion, but you suppose she's right. "Did we… fight often?" You're afraid of the answer.

"Not particularly," she says, smiling at you ruefully. "But it was always about something truly exasperating like this."

You wish you'd dreamt of some of those arguments, if only to figure out how to fix everything– you doubt any of it would be that helpful for this particular situation though. Perhaps Dal remembers. "How did we fix things afterward?"

The woman shrugs. "Not a clue, honestly. I just know that eventually Astarion would show back up with a skip in his step, acting like the sun shone out of every dismal crack in the Underdark.” She gives you a lighthearted chuckle, which you reluctantly reciprocate.

“Fine, I’ll retain a modicum of hope,” you relent. “But in my past-life, they had more than a hundred years of love between them, resolving their issues together. I’ve had what? Three weeks of awkward fumbles and apologies?”

At that she snorts, throwing her head back a bit. “You’re both so dramatic. You will just need to believe me when I say, this has been the happiest, most alive I’ve seen Astarion for the past hundred-fifty years.”

The thought fills you with guilt more than any type of joy. Not only had your previous life sent him into a broken limbo for decades, but to think that you also had ruined the first bout of happiness he’d experienced? You feel like the villain in Astarion’s story more than anything. “Well, let’s hope that proves to be enough, despite all of this.”

“Like I said, I’ll speak to him,” she assures. “Now, I should get back to him before he tries to murder Petras.”

Dal looks to be about ready to leave when she adds, “Oh yes, here.” She shoves a Sending Stone into your hand. “It’s Astarion’s.” She adds before you can ask, “Don’t worry, he gave it to me. Something about keeping his house from blowing up, but I suspect he also wants to make sure you’re alright. This way we can communicate a bit faster. If you need anything, Leon and I are ready and willing to help, either to answer questions or get you any materials.”

Your hands close around the stone, hugging it to yourself tightly as you recall that the last person to use it was likely Astarion. “Thank you, Dal.”

“Think nothing of it! I know this feels… bad,” she winces at the understatement. “But it might be a good opportunity for us to investigate openly– without needing to hide from Astarion’s worried glares.”

It’s true enough, you suppose. But you still feel like the bad outweighs the good. You decide not to tell her that though, since this is her life on the line. “Yes, I’ll be sure to call you up here if I find anything, ask any questions with the stone if I have them.”

With one final wave, the woman leaves you to it, heading back down the way she came. You think it’s the last you’ll see of her for the day until you receive a message from her once she’s out of sight.

“Testing the stone. Also, don’t forget, no matter what happens, we’ll always be your family too.”

Your heart clenches at the shy admission of love from her, and you promptly reply, “The stone works. And thank you, Dal. I appreciate that more than I can say.”

You spend the rest of the night ensuring that the cipher is thoroughly memorized. Once you’re certain you could recite it forward and backward, you light the corner of the parchment with a small fire. As you watch the paper burn in your hands, you can’t help but feel a sense of real accomplishment for the first time since you’ve arrived.

Every other success has come with a caveat so far. You had gained entry into Astarion's house, only under his strict limits. You had helped save the colony, but not without exhausting yourself. You'd managed to gain Astarion's trust, only to destroy it quite thoroughly.

So you relish the feeling, soak in the momentary victory. That night your reverie comes quickly.

You dream of the Hero's life that night. At first, you suspect it's another useless, albeit comforting dream of Astarion, cozy in the man’s arms. But when you open your eyes you find his hands aren’t caressing so much as restraining.

Your body struggles against Astarion’s grasp. “Let me go, Astarion!”

“No!” he hisses, pulling on you tighter. “We need to go. Now.”

Oh no, you think, as the dream settles around you. You can feel a chill in your bones, the deep dank of the Underdark around you. You must be in the necromancer’s tower. Is this… that day?

“Astarion, we can’t turn away now,” you plead, tugging against him. “We’ve come too far for that.”

“Nonsense,” he responds with another forceful pull. “We can, and we shall .”

You can feel your body’s heels dig in, into the dusty tiles beneath you, crushing them slightly with the pressure. “I know what I’m doing. I can get to the wizard’s laboratory and–”

“Wizard?!” he all but yells in his panic. “I know you want to help, but this, my dear, is a necromancer’s tower. You know as well as I do that this isn’t worth it.”

“It is worth it. And I know what I’m doing,” your voice counters, strong in its confidence. You can feel that certainty, and maybe they had been prepared for all manner of inevitabilities. Unfortunately not the one that mattered. “If we leave now, we will have to wait another month until the tower is available to us. Will we be any more prepared then?”

“Fine,” Astarion growls, nostrils flaring with anger. He turns his body away from you and you’re left facing his armor-clad back. “Go on then. I’ll be waiting here when you finally come to your damned senses.”

And so you continue on alone.

Unlike other dreams, where you wish you could control your body, run into Astarion’s arms, save yourself– you don’t shy away this time. You already know how this will end, and you know that no amount of cowering will save you. So you embrace the experience.

Your body walks throughout the tower, careful all the way, but with solid, steady steps. You know that their confidence isn’t unwarranted. They’d faced necromancers before, they’d been in magical towers– the only difference was that back then they had had help.

After what feels like hours of careful sneaking and searching, you find what you suspect was the laboratory from their research.

It’s as disgusting as one might expect a necromancer’s lab to be– beakers full of dark, suspended liquid, the thick stench of undeath in the air, and more than anything, blood. Gods, there is blood everywhere. The man who worked here was not a kind one if the splatters and trails of the substance were any indication.

Your body tiptoes around some unknown liquid on the floor, carefully inspecting every inch of surface, looking for something. The notes, you think. They’re probably hidden away somewhere…

Thinking in a similar vein of thought, your past-self heads toward a large, imposing desk at the end of the room. Opening drawer after drawer, they pull out papers, looking through them, tossing them back on the table once they dismiss them. Eventually, they find a compartment behind one of the drawers– tucked behind is a familiar stack of papers. The very same that Dal had deposited in front of you earlier in the day. Only this time, they’re pristine.

Your past self starts shuffling through the papers, clearly written in a language that neither of you read. Perhaps something long dead by the looks of this place. They seem to be unsure if these are the papers, their confusion seeping through to you, until they get to the final page.

There, a ring is sketched, several notes pointing out elements within the design.

The elation your past-self feels is blinding in its strength– It’s like staring into the sun, and you feel the reverie receding as a result.

No, no, you think. There are other emotions, anticipation, concern, curiosity– all of them call to you, indicating that there’s still more to find here. I need to learn more. I can’t–

The dream slips out of your fingers, and you’re left laying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling in disappointment.

Somehow, you're still counting down the days in this house. It's your twenty-third day, and you have free reign of the place– an odd sensation after Astarion's watchful gaze monitored many of your movements for three weeks.

It's not unwelcome though. Despite its overwrought decorations, the mansion is lovely. With a sigh, you get out of bed and wander down to the kitchen. Ah, you think, opening the pantry to a sad, lacking sight. I need to go get food.

You had skipped several meals last week, as a result of battle, injury, and general disposition, so yesterday you'd been able to forgo your weekly trip. Now, you nod and close the empty cabinet, ready to go restock. All the while aware that it may very well be your last trip to this market.

As you head out, you can't help but think about what an inconvenience this is. Gods, I wish I didn't need to eat. At the same time, what would the alternative be? An ever-present hunger that gnaws at you every moment of every day, like a vampire? You suppose you should be grateful for your mortal body’s needs.

The thought does result in you spending the trip thinking about blood.

There is a lot of blood in the world, and some mortals are even willing to offer their blood up freely. However no amount of mortal volunteers would be enough to satiate the entire colony of vampires.

You could try to create a source of blood for them, but would the hunger ever truly leave them? Or would they just need to keep drinking, stuck in a sanguine cycle of continuous thirst? You’re not certain, but therein lies the dilemma: How can you ever satisfy a hunger born of vampirism?

Gods, I wish that myth had been reality, you think, heaving your groceries over your shoulder and heading back to Astarion’s mansion.

It's on the way back that you're reminded that you’re not the only one out to sate a vampire’s hunger. There are plenty lining up, just waiting for their chance.

As you climb up the stairs to the grand door of Astarion's manor, you spot someone waiting at the precipice. They seem to be nervous, not approaching the door even as the seconds trickle on. When you pull up behind them, they startle.

“Oh sweet hells,” they breathe out, hand on their heart. “Who… ?” They look at you confused, and you get a good look at the stranger. They’re a tall, purple tiefling– a bit lanky and awkward, but overall neatly arranged, with the appearance of a bardic scholar.

“Sorry for the fright,” you respond, nodding at them. “If you’re looking for Astarion, he’s away.”

The tiefling does nothing to mask their disappointment, but looks at you appraisingly. “And you are?”

Who are you? You’re not entirely sure how to respond. You’re not his lover, his housekeep, nor his colleague. You’re nothing but a stranger to him, you suppose. Pushing aside the introspection, you only say, “A guest.”

They look visibly relieved, and something in you stings at how easily they believed that. Do I really look that ill-suited for him? You decide not to express this as you push past them and toward the house.

“Excuse me,” they say, holding a hand out to you as you walk past. “Do you know when he’ll be returning?”

You could be honest, say that he won’t be back until the end of the week and even then, he will be leaving. Or you could be even more honest, say that he wouldn’t want to see them anyway. But for some reason, you hold your tongue, shake your head, and add a simple, “Sorry.”

They give a sigh, dropping their head in a deflated defeat. “Well then. All this way for nothing.”

Your curiosity can’t help but poke at that. “How far did you travel?”

“I hail from Athkatla,” they say, with a grimace. “I don’t much look forward to heading all the way back.” In Amn, you recall. Certainly a distance to travel, though not near as far as Neverwinter. It’s likely that they didn’t have the luxury of a teleportation circle though.

Such a sizable distance for a chance to meet with Astarion? Surely that couldn’t be the case. Then again, that was the case for me… You still ask, “Why come all this way for Astarion?”

They look at you as if you’re daft. “Are you quite certain you are a guest here?”

“I am,” you say, adjusting your bag as you try to stand a bit taller, prouder. “Why?”

“Because there’s not a single hopeless romantic alive who isn’t aware of Astarion,” they say, and you can practically see the ill-placed longing in their eyes. “Naturally, it’s a slim chance, but for the love of a good vampire? It’s the very fabric of legends.”

“Don’t you know that legends aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be?” you ask, a bit too bitterly. Both thoughts of the mythical sunlight ring and of Astarion’s long-unbeating heart turning your lips into a scowl.

The tiefling doesn’t seem to care, laughing lightly. “That’s where you’re wrong. All good legends have a kernel of truth to them. It’s simply a matter of finding it!”

Huh, you think, considering the odd optimism of their words. Externally, you respond, “Well then, good luck finding the truth.” You bow your head as you walk away, eager to put this conversation behind you and get back to your own myths.

“Wait! Could you– maybe you could relay a message to the man?” the tiefling calls, desperation raising the pitch of their voice.

You’re about to agree– after all, what harm would pretending to relay a message do?– when you take a pause. Maybe they should have the cold reality of the situation laid before them. Maybe they won’t have the same, horrendous experience you’d had, if only you can dash the last remnants of hope from their heart. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re feeling jealous. More jealous of this real, living person in front of you than any of the hypothetical lovers who’d arrived at his door in the past century.

Embracing the starting smolders of jealousy, you say, “He’s uninterested. In fact, I recommend that you rewrite the legend.” You take a step back toward them, staring at them with what you hope is an intimidating look. “He’s not a lonely, good vampire, waiting for someone to come save him. He’s flawed. He’s rude. And his heart belongs to one soul and one soul only.”

They take a step back, clearly uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “And who are you to say such things?”

There’s that damnable question again. This time though, you tilt your chin up, ignoring the guilt in your stomach, the ache in your heart. Because you know who you are, despite everything that’s transpired between you. “Astarion’s long lost love. Write that in your next legend.”

With those words, you turn back toward the house. You ignore their spluttering responses, opening the door, entering, closing it behind you. Once you’re alone with your thoughts again, you let out a deep breath.

Gods, why did I do that? you think to yourself, acutely aware of what a disrespectful show that was. The tiefling hadn’t done anything wrong– nothing that you hadn’t done anyway. How could you snap at them like that? One day you realize you love the man, the next you decide to declare it to a stranger. Worse yet, a stranger who was vying for that same man’s love.

Love really does drive people mad. You go to organize your food supplies for the week in a fog of shame. Underneath it all is a subtle satisfaction: you had only spoken the truth. Astarion really has refused to love another, you truly are his lost love. All you need to do is fix everything that you’ve broken and the pieces will align again. Or so you tell yourself. It’s a solid driving force to keep you going forward, away from the depths of despair.

Perseverance is really all you need right now, because you have a large stack of papers with years worth of information, just waiting for you to uncover it.

You start at the beginning. Or at least, you think it’s the beginning. It’s hard to tell with the way that Dalyria has stacked the papers, and you take it upon yourself to start reorganizing them as you read.

After many hours, you find several distinct piles emerging in front of you.

The first pile is where you place all of the research on blood: what makes blood, how vampires process blood, how it impacts them even if they can survive without it. Plenty of it is knowledge you know, only with the depth of someone who’s obsession is evident in the details.

The second pile is composed of all of the research you had done on the mage’s mythical enhanced sunlight rings, as well as the mage’s tower. Some of it overlaps with the research on blood, but a large portion of it is looking into the myth, tracking down its source, and where the mage lived.

The next pile contains all of the ring diagrams that Dal mentioned. Plenty of intricate design work, courtesy of your past-self and perhaps some of Gale’s work as well– you recognize a few magic runes in his script. The designs range in sizes, in complexity, in form. From a glance, you can tell that the rings were designed with two major components in mind: a material needed to be embedded within the base metal and another material needed to infuse it. Truthfully, it’s basic enchanting, likely their initial design ahead of visiting the necromancer’s tower based on Gale’s conjecture.

The final pile consists of, well, everything else. You place notes about vampirism, journals of your past-self’s process, and investigations on other leads among other things. These leads include a mythical fountain of blood in Evereska, a stone said to contain the life’s blood of an entire nation, even a tall tale of how a man staved off hunger for three centuries through discipline and more than a little blood magic– all incredibly dark, gory legends which seem to be even more far fetched than the rings. It’s unsurprising to see the depths to which they would have gone to fix the problem, although a bit concerning.

Gods, you think. I would have hidden some of this away too.

And the forbidden nature of these legends takes you to the singular uncategorized piece of information: the necromancer’s notes. They’re grotesque, of course– a testament to the dark depravity of this man’s magic. But they also feel distinctly different from your own notes.

A quick Detect Magic shows that none of the materials in front of you are directly magical in nature, but you can tell simply by the heavinessness in your heart that they are important. Perhaps there is more to this legend than meets the eye…

You wish you could tell though. It’s difficult to decipher the notes, with the dark, dried splotches of blood covering a large portion of the text. Surely Gale would have removed the blood if he’d been able to, but you still attempt a quick, magical clean.

Sure enough, the blood remains, and you curse the nine hells. “Fine then,” you growl at the notes in your hands. “We shall have to do this the hard way.”

The hard way will have to wait though, as it’s already gotten quite late in the day, your mind is inundated with information, and you’ll need to prepare a new set of spells to fight this particular beast. So you set down the materials, leaving them in an orderly set of stacks for the night, and enter your reverie in a bit of a huff.

That night you dream of a life in which you were a bard, spinning your tales of legend at a tavern. It’s one of your less preferred lives, as you’ve gathered that they’re somewhat of a scoundrel. You can’t help but wonder if dreaming of them is born of your guilt from the day, a form of wicked penance. It certainly feels like it as you spend the reverie playing the lute for a pittance.

On your twenty-fourth day in Astarion’s manor, you wake up well-rested and truly excited to get to the bottom of this necromancer’s notes. Underneath the excitement is a bit of dread. Only three days without Astarion, and you’re already wondering if you might ever see him again.

I hope I’ll at least see him when I leave, you think. Surely, he wouldn’t let me leave without a goodbye?

You try not to dwell on it as you prepare a few key spells for the day: Identify, in case there’s any spell put on the papers; Remove Curse, just in case that spell isn’t a kind one; and Comprehend Languages, to be able to read the archaic text.

Alright, you think to yourself, as you hurriedly scarf down a meal. Let’s try to figure this out.

Several hours, a few spell slots, and a lot of swearing later, your excitement has thoroughly wavered. What the hells are these made of, you think, staring down the necromancer’s notes in frustration.

They are certainly not made of paper, because any attempts to transmute the material have failed immediately. They are not magical in of themselves, but they do seem to have some kind of preservation magic affecting them, protecting them from everything save for blood. The notes seem to be written in it. And, worst of all, your own dying, damnable blood will not let you make out the text save a few spots– likely all of the same spots that Gale already took a look at. No wonder he wasn’t able to make heads or tails of this rubbish, you think with a sigh.

Those spots are informative, to an extent. Once you’re able to comprehend the ancient language, you find a few key pieces of information. They describe what Dal mentioned, that the blood of a vampire lord was key. They describe that the rings must be made of a magical metal, infused with that very same blood– you briefly wonder if you’d be able to melt Rhapsody down without Astarion noticing.

Finally, the notes describe a vampire’s hunger in deep, deep detail. You don’t want to know how this necromancer could have gathered this much detail, but it was clearly an integral part of his research. One passage in particular stands out to you:

A vampire’s hunger is unquenchable. It is as eternal as their souls, seemingly intertwined into their very essence. As such, I knew I would need to find the source of this unquenchable thirst and do the unthinkable: quench it. Naturally, I have utterly smothered it.

When faced with the dilemma of an eternal gift coupled with an eternal curse, you must somehow separate the two. So I have done so.

All you need to do is take this hunger, give it new form, and fill that form beyond all reason. Simple, really. How could it have taken me so long to find this solution? How could I have limited myself to the mere moral quandaries of mortals?

Of course the most natural ingredient of all is blood–

The words cut off, as your own past-self’s blood cuts off the rest of the page. You’re not sure what to make of it. It certainly sounds like the lunatic ravings of a man drunk on his own power, but it also doesn’t seem entirely impossible…

Regardless, the magic is dark. It almost sounds like he took the curse of a vampire’s ravenous hunger and gave it physical form, then quenched that physical form with the very thing vampire’s require: blood. More so than removing the curse, it seems to imply transferring it to an object, essentially, to sate your own thirst. You can’t even imagine how much blood you may need for a ritual of that magnitude.

I should think that this is ludicrous, you think, glaring down at the parchment. I do think that this is ludicrous. But… Some part of you isn’t wholly convinced. Yes, it sounds insane. Yes, the necromancer was likely mad. But, blood aside, it doesn’t seem that far from your own magic. Transmutation at its very core is modification, it’s changing the nature of things. This isn’t pure madness.

That’s all well and good, of course. However there’s no use dwelling on it while the rest of his notes are so entirely illegible.

In fact the last time these were legible was…

The thought strikes you like a crack of lightning. I was the last person to see these notes in their entirety. Well, not you. But it may as well have been you, given that you have their memories.

Just a few nights ago, you read through the notes in your reverie, understanding none of them. You want to facepalm at the sheer misfortune of it. “What in the Outer Planes am I supposed to do with that?”

You remember from that very dream that you weren’t done in the tower. You have no clue where you could have ventured to cause your death. What else could you have been looking for?

Should I… the thought feels wrong. You don’t want to finish it, Astarion’s angry face all but burned into your mind. But finish it you do. Should I head back to the tower?

You’re not sure if it's your heart or your soul that aches at the thought. And you’re not sure if it's in pain, fear, or a deep, unshakable thrill.

You still the emotions with a singular deep breath. No, I can’t go. Not yet.

There’s no point in going until you know what it is you’re looking for. You wish you could figure it out by simply racking your brain, but memories, reveries don’t work like that. You’ll need someone with arcane magic to help you.

The Sending Stone is out of your pocket a moment later.

“Dal, do you have a wizard, maybe a sorcerer, available who knows Detect Thoughts?” you send.

Her response is as immediate as it is disappointing, “Leon has some experience as a sorcerer, but never learned Detect Thoughts, but can’t replace spells. No one else comes to mind. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. I’ll figure something out. Thank you Dal.”

Another dead end.

Fine, you think. I’ll simply wait. It’s only a few more days of being here. I can have someone back in Neverwinter help me.

The thought causes your heart to clench in fear. You had tried to avoid thinking too deeply about where you might go after this, but the thought of returning home makes you want to scream. It may not be returning home in shame– after all, you did manage to learn quite a bit– but it feels miserable.

After a few more hours of reading, ignoring the fear steadily building around you, you lay down for your nightly meditations.

That night, you dream of your previous life as a blacksmith. It’s initially a rather welcome dream, as always. Repetitive and warm, soothing all of your frustrations easily.

Then you realize that everything’s going wrong today. Your metals aren’t welding, cracks keep appearing after you quench. At first, you hate it. The additional stress to your already burdened mind is too much. But after the fourth mistake, you realize that your past-self is still going at it– a new metal, a new tool, a better form.

Right, this is who you’ve always been. You will persevere.

In the end, it’s an informative dream, and you take notes from it before you can forget. After all, if your delusions of deciphering the ring’s magic bear fruit, you will need to forge six thousand rings. You may want to learn from yourself before that.

For your twenty-fifth day in the house, you spend most of it taking your own notes.

After a quick breakfast, an even quicker wash, you’re back in front of the pile of papers, on to find another avenue for the spawn’s salvation.

You’ve always found that the easiest way for you to figure out next steps is by writing all that you know out. So you consolidate a lot of your learnings from your past-self’s notes, adding in some notes of your own context. And, as you continue to retread the notes, you start to uncover some odd patterns.

Under the diagrams of several ring designs, you spot a few symbols, ones you don’t recognize from the cipher. Once more the Sending Stone is pulled from your pocket.

“Dal, another question. What are these symbols underneath the diagrams?” you message.

You can practically hear the sigh that precedes her message, “Despite our best efforts, we never could make heads or tails of those. Even Gale had no clue.”

It piques your interest though, nudging at something in the back of your mind. “Are there any other symbols like this in my notes?” you shoot back.

“Yes, some in the enchantment notes. Others in notes of the tower,” she responds.

“Thank you, Dal.”

You go back to inspect those notes, and, sure enough, you find a different set of symbols. “What in the hells?” you speak out loud, as you recognize the one under the ring’s enchantments.

It’s the symbol of your shop– of your past life as an enchanter.

You flip back to the ring design and comprehension dawns on you. It’s the blacksmith’s initials composited into a brand, the one you used on the items you forged.

Are they referring to some of your past lives in these notes? You take a closer look, unsure of what the symbols could indicate. But as you spot the acronym of the innkeeper's inn under the tower’s notes, it all but confirms it.

You suppose they would have experienced the same lives you had, and some of the same reveries, especially around anything that might have been helpful to their life. The thought that they could have experienced memories you haven’t concerns you though. “What does this mean?” you think, tracing over the symbol with a finger.

Gods do you suddenly wish you had taken better records of your other, less interesting lives. Really, it’s your past-self’s fault for living such an exciting life. Astarion’s fault for being so damn captivating.

There’s no use in regretting now though, there are plenty of other mysteries for you to solve as you let that one ruminate.

Let’s say the daylight ring really is our best bet, you think, laying out the various diagrams. What would I need?

You know quite well at this point in your life the components of a spell. There are three component types, and the more complicated the spell, the higher likelihood that you will need to incorporate all three in greater amounts.

First, material components. Items that a spell consumes to be cast. In the case of the ring, you suspect that this is blood. A lot of it. Included in that is the blood of a vampire lord.

Second, somatic components. Hand movements to bring the weave into your spell. In this scenario, you suspect these components will be the actual crafting of the ring. Likely a complicated process, and one that you may be able to decipher from Gale’s added notes.

Third, verbal components. An incantation, a phrase, a song– anything to tie the spell to the material plane. Here, you had next to no clue where to begin. There’s not even a hint of an incantation in any of these notes, and, even if there was one in the necromancer’s notes, you don’t suppose you would be able to find it.

Looking at the three different elements laid before you, you know that your options are limited for now.

Save one.

Rhapsody. You know exactly where it is, you know exactly what it’s capable of. You could take it now and begin to find a way of transmuting it or… you could leave it. Because it’s Astarion’s blade and you’ve already taken enough from him.

He’s told you he hates it, you think, trying to rationalize your theft as you stand up.

He’s not even using it, you think, walking down the long hallway to Astarion’s room.

He probably won’t even notice it’s missing, you think, entering the room silently.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re standing in front of Rhapsody. The wicked blade seems to call to you, its allure twisted and warped by years of serving a dark lord.

It’s not Astarion’s– not truly. He hasn’t used it in almost 300 years, if Dal is to be believed. So when your hand reaches out, grasps the handle, and wraps the blade in a soft cloth, you only feel the barest twinge of guilt.

You can’t help but turn to your former self’s portrait next to the bed, wondering what they would think of all of this. The answer is clear enough by the fire you see in their eyes, the conviction in the set of their shoulders. They would want you to finish this.

Before you head back to your room with the pocketed blade, you head to the parlor. An idea struck you, courtesy of your past-self’s portrait. Perhaps the anvil in the room didn’t belong to Astarion after all. Perhaps it was just another remnant of your past-self that he’d been too afraid to throw out.

Once in the room you make your way back to the oddly shaped sheet. Throwing it off, you take a closer look at the tool.

Just as before, you notice various metalworking tools, a few pieces of metal that you think you recognize as Platinum, Iron, even a few scraps of Mithral. Almost as if Astarion had covered it with a sheet without bothering to clean up your previous work. You suspect that that’s exactly what happened when you find a pair of pliers still squeezing a piece of gold.

From your notes, you recall that your experiments with the spawn and advice from Gale had led you to believe that gold or silver would be your best bets as conduits for the magic– assuming that the metal from Rhapsody would play well with them. You recall from your reveries that not every type of metal would weld together properly.

Surely you had more material than this to work with though. You look around the room, wondering where else Astarion may have stashed your previous treasures.

Your eyes land on a covered seat that seems a bit lumpier than the rest. Upon uncovering it, you discover various small pieces of metal, some common like copper, others much rarer, like Adamantine. You grab a few, in case you do end up transmuting Cazador Szarr’s blood-infused blade.

Back in your room, you lay out some of your material components. This shall do for now. You decide that tomorrow you will focus on solving the much bigger problem: blood.

It’s late now though, and time to rest on what you’ve learned.

As you lay your head down for your reverie that night, you finally allow yourself to believe Dal. You truly may be the only one capable of piecing these clues together.

The idea warms you as much as it concerns you. Knowing that it’s up to you, your memories, to save the spawn? You feel the pressure for the first time, an uneasiness settling in the pit of your stomach. No one has depended on you like this before, and the pressure feels almost tangible.

That night, you dream of your life as the innkeeper. Again, the inn is dead, not a customer in sight and likely none for the rest of the night. So you pull out a book.

Following along with your past-self, you read a story about a beautiful man who has been cursed, the adventurer that saves him. It would all be very touching if the adventurer didn’t resonate so well with you, leaving you wondering if perhaps you were as dull and predictable a ‘hero’ as Astarion had led you to believe.

The story ends with the hero saving the man, of course– as all good, happy tales do. You love experiencing the twist with the innkeep, feeling their emotions rise and fall as the hero faces their challenge, and surmounts it with the help of those around them.

It's a nice sensation after all of the frustration of the day and you stir from your rest with a content smile.

Your twenty-sixth day in the house, you see red. On top of missing so much information, you know that you have another major dilemma to figure out: where will you find a lot of blood?

After several hours of brainstorming, considering different sources, magical substances or items, you land on one that seems the most feasible.

You could create blood with alchemy. While you would need a large amount of starting material, you could likely use water or another liquid. You yourself don’t have the capability to create water, but it would be easy enough to acquire.

But the solution seems too simple. Surely Dal and the rest would have found a way to transmute blood on their own, would have done so for the spawn at some point over the past several hundred years?

So you message her.

“Hi Dal, have you all tried transmuting water to blood before?” you send.

“Hello. Yes, we have. It would help if it worked, but it never seemed to quench our thirst.” She immediately sends another message, “When we looked into it, we found that it was lacking any life essence. We needed to find a way to make it real.”

“Understood. Did you find any leads on that?”

“None on my end, let me check with Leon.”

A few minutes of silence pass as you continue to scratch notes with your quill. You’re a bit startled when she follows up, “Nothing on Leon’s end either. Though he said that your past-self had some ideas. He recommends looking at the research on blood composition.”

You thank her and are about to get back to work when you stop, Sending Stone still in hand. Before you can second guess yourself, your next message is on its way, “How is Astarion doing? Have you… made any progress?”

The pause that follows feels incredibly loud, your heartbeat pounds painfully in your ear as you wait for a response. It comes a second later, and gods are you unsure how to move or feel or react to it. “He’s been a bit stir crazy. I think he misses you.”

You remind yourself that Dalyria is only being kind. That she is rooting for you both despite the fact that neither of you want the same thing, that he’s not over your past-self, that the odds are so heavily stacked against you you may as well try again in your next life. But the idea of Astarion missing you sends you falling back, collapsing on your bed in a dramatic fashion.

Clutching the stone to your chest, you send one more message, “Thank you Dal. I hope I can see him again before it’s time for me to leave. Do you think I will?”

“I’ll drag him along myself if I need to. And I will definitely come by before you leave,” she replies, and you close your eyes in a mixture of relief and anticipation.

Despite all of the work you’ve done in the past several days, you miss him– more than you thought possible. More than you’ve missed anyone in this lifetime. You don’t regret a single moment of the progress you’ve made, but gods do you wish you could share it with him. He would look over your work with a ‘tsk’, maybe remind you to go get a meal before you drive him insane…

Imagining the scenario, eyes closed, laying flat on your bed, you’re struck with the stark, sad reality of it. I may never have that happen.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have asked Dal anything after all, because now you find yourself lulled into a sad daze.

The final few hours of the day are spent on daydreams of Astarion, as you futilely try to retain information on the composition of blood. When you lay in bed for your reverie, you’re unsurprised to find yourself in his arms once more.

“Astarion?” your past-self asks. You’re both in the kitchen, though it looks nothing like it does now. The walls are a different color, the table is different, shelves are stocked.

“Mmm,” Astarion murmurs, burying his head into the nape of your neck like a cuddling feline.

“What’s the matter, love?” you ask, as you prepare yourself a meal.

He shakes his head into your neck more, and you can feel your emotions surge with love and concern. “Did something happen with your siblings?”

Astarion gives a noncommittal hum, his arms squeezing around you tighter.

“I can’t help you if you won’t let me,” you say, tone chiding, but heart still full of compassion.

The man pulls his head away from you for a moment, his ruby eyes meeting yours. “Aurelia said that they’re tired of living like that. That they would never have agreed to my suggestion of the Underdark had they known…”

Your past-self takes their food off of the stove, turning around to face Astarion. “Love,” you start, hand cupping his face. “It’s not your fault. None of it is. And they know that. What would the alternative have been? Dying in Baldur’s Gate?”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your hand for solace. “I know you’re right. But…”

“But nothing,” you say, stopping him in his tracks. “We’re doing all that we can to help them, and they appreciate it. It’s simply been a difficult few weeks and they’re on edge. Once we find someplace new, everyone will sleep a little more soundly.”

Astarion sighs into your palm, pressing a light kiss to it before opening his eyes to you. “You’re right. Gods, you know how annoying it is when you’re right this often?”

“I know,” you say with a smile. You kiss him on the nose, on the cheek, on the lips as he chases your lips down. “Now, let’s find a suitable place so that everyone settles down, alright?”

The two of you sit down at the table over your meal, beginning to discuss various areas of the Underdark. You simply listen to the conversation, already knowing the outcome, knowing how close they all truly grew despite the disagreements. You also take the time to appreciate the ease of your relationship, wishing that you too could solve problems like this, with Astarion by your side.

Your ache for the man persists when you wake up, and you find that your twenty-seventh day in the house isn’t as productive as you’d like it to be.

You’re so filled with the building fear from the week. A stormy cloud hangs over you, dousing you every few minutes with thoughts that you’re about to leave, about to be tossed out unceremoniously. It’s consumed most of your waking thoughts, offering you little space to continue your work.

You were already so afraid to be left alone for the week. To think that you may never see him again, save maybe to come help his family…

What you need is to wash these thoughts away. You decide to take a long bath today, hoping beyond all hope that it will cleanse your mind. In the bath, you allow yourself a bit of pity.

Gods, I don’t want to message my parents, you think, sinking into the water. It’s the least of your concerns, really, but the easiest one for you to focus on. What will I say? Sorry, I tried, but it turns out we’re fundamentally wrong for each other?

You wince at that, scrubbing at your skin furiously to strike the thought away. No, I would say: It turns out I’m not the same person I was in my past-life. You were right all along!

The scrubbing comes harder, and your anger builds. Or maybe I’ll pin the blame on the metaphysical… My soul has a hero-complex and I don’t quite care to fix it.

You stop scrubbing. You feel almost raw, your mind suddenly blank.

No, you finally think. I shall simply tell them it didn’t work out.

With a sigh, you continue to soak for a bit, considering the far trek back to Neverwinter with a hollow dread.

After the bath, you manage to pull yourself out of your dreary state. You focus, decide to keep your mind preoccupied with the work, shoving down any Astarion-related worries until tomorrow, when they are warranted.

Right. Blood composition, you think to yourself, pulling out the notes that Leon had mentioned once more.

Rereading them, thoroughly this time, you think you know what he meant. While at its core, transmuted blood is made of all of the same things, iron, carbon… it’s lacking something that gives it life. Likely whichever bit makes people’s blood distinct from one another, you think, recalling how Astarion had commented on your flavor.

You look through the notes, trying to see if there was a way for someone to contribute that life essence, but find that nothing clear comes to mind. At the bottom, you spot in your own handwritten code a small name, “Halsin?”

It makes sense, you think. Druidic magic is different from your own, honing into the very nature of life, they can tap into magic you cannot. Perhaps you ought to pay him a visit once Astarion kicks you out…

You push that thought aside once more, trying to focus on your research. To still your mind, you think of all of the leads you’ve earned in the past week. Your memories, your past lives, Halsin, the tower. Gods, you think. I appreciate my past-self’s head start, but I wish they’d left a to-do list.

So you run through all that you know, all that you have, and all that you will need to make these mythical sunlight rings come to fruition.

You have the metals to test the crafting, and have found several good diagrams from your past-self. You have Rhapsody to work with. All that you’re missing on the material components is a vast quantity of usable blood.

You are positive now that the crafting itself is part of the somatic component, having reread Gale’s suggestions. It’s certainly where all of the materials come together, and you think you should be able to learn the process with a bit of trial and error.

You haven’t the foggiest what the incantation might be, other than in the illegible notes from the necromancer. Or worse yet, it’s back in the tower. You decide not to worry about this part until you find a wizard to help you.

Satisfied with your learnings from the week, you’re determined to begin testing materials tomorrow– maybe try to sort out Rhapsody’s composition. None of your previous life’s tests included Rhapsody, as they’d only learned of its importance after your passing, so now is as good a time as any.

That night, you enter an uneventful reverie as the enchanter. You break down a few magic items, and try to remember what you can for when it comes time to finally melt down Rhapsody.

At the end of the week, you feel like Astarion has all but given up on you.

It’s odd, but after spending nearly 28 days in his house, it feels like your house as well. You suppose you shouldn’t get attached to that idea, since the man who owns it hasn’t said a word to you in almost a week.

And not another word of him from Dal, not a message or a sign that he even cares enough to think of you. You don’t need him to love you, as you continue to remind yourself. You only wish that your time together had meant to him even a fraction of what it meant to you.

However the man is nothing if not full of ill-timed surprises.

A knock comes at your door. Likely Dal, you think. She said she would be coming by before you left.

“Come in!” you call, not bothering to move from your place on the floor. You’re in the middle of taking notes on various metals, and you think Dal will appreciate what you’ve learned so far, so what’s the point in putting anything away.

The door opens, and you look up to see a familiar, silver-haired vampire at your door. He finds you surrounded by papers, a piece of Platinum in your hand, and knee-deep in research you just know he would hate. All of the shock and embarrassment pales in comparison to the way your entire body reacts to the sight of him.

It’s only been a week days apart, and your heart seems to be beating doubly fast to make up for lost time. Was he always this beautiful?

Yes, he has always been this beautiful, your mind answers. And this charming, and this graceful, and… you cut yourself off before you can be frozen in place.

“Astarion!” you all but scream, scrambling to shuffle papers out of his view, dropping the piece of metal. You didn’t expect him, and you’re not sure what to do, but you know he wouldn’t believe that you’re up to some light reading.

“What–” Astarion begins. He shakes his head before continuing, “You know what. I don’t care about whatever it is you’re up to.”

“You don’t?” you ask, incredulous.

“No, I don’t.” His voice is deadpan, his expression blank.

“Oh. Okay.” You’re baffled. You’d thought throughout the week of what you might do if you saw him again before you’re kicked out. And it certainly isn’t what’s transpiring here. He cared a lot about this last time you saw him. “You absolutely don’t?”

“Nope, we’re going to pretend I didn’t see all of that.” He gestures at it dramatically with both of his hands. “And I’m going to continue with what I came here to do.”

“And that is?” you can’t help but ask, still subtly kicking papers under the bed, lest he change his mind.

“I came to ask you if you’d like to go to Waterdeep with me.”

You stare at him, certain that you’re hearing him wrong. This isn’t the conversation you’d expected to have the next time you saw him, not in a thousand years. You? Go with him? “To Waterdeep?”

“Yes,” he says, taking a deep breath, as if this is all quite the inconvenience for him. “I’ve always been offered a guest. I suppose it’s about time I impose on that damn wizard.”

After what had transpired between you, you’d been so prepared to be kicked out by the end of the week, this shocks you more than you expect. You’re certain your face is an open book and your voice is certainly eager when you ask, “Really?”

“Don’t make that look, or I'll regret asking at all,” he says, groaning.

You don’t know what look you’re making, but you wipe your face as much as you can before you ask, a little less hopefully, “But honestly, really, I can join you?”

“Yes,” he repeats. “But if you make me say it once more, consider the offer revoked. I expect to see you prepared for at least a few days' stay by morning or I shall leave without you. Understood?”

You tamper down the remaining urge for confirmation and nod. “Got it.”

“Very well,” he says, turning on his heel to go.

But it’s the first time in days that you’ve seen his face, heard his voice, you can’t just let him get away. “Wait, Astarion,” you call. What could you say? ‘ Sorry?’ It wouldn’t be honest. ‘Why?’ You’re afraid that the answer is just ‘Dal.’ ‘ Are we–?’ No, you’re absolutely not all better. So you simply say, “Thank you.”

He turns back to you and you get a better look at him. The expression on his face is light, unaffected, but there’s a strain to his eyes, his cheekbones look a bit more gaunt than you’re used to, and the tightness in his jaw betrays any semblance of nonchalance. “No need to thank me. I’d already been planning on inviting you.”

What? You’re about to actually ask him why when he exits your room, leaving you confused and your questions unanswered.

Aside from the elation you feel at having seen Astarion again, let alone having received an invitation from him, you’re giddy with thoughts of Waterdeep. You’ve never been before, and you will have the opportunity to meet the Gale of Waterdeep? You feel your face breaking into the same ecstatic look Astarion chided you for.

After researching the ‘useless’ formula for the ring for so many days, you want to get to the bottom of it. This is it, you think. This is my opportunity to pick Gale’s brain. Putting aside whatever it was you’d been in the middle of before Astarion arrived, you begin packing all of your notes in your Bag of Holding.

I’ll figure it all out later, you think, practically shaking with excitement. My gods, I can’t believe it. I will get to go to Waterdeep!

Before you pack the rest of your clothing, you sit down and send a message to Dal. “Dal, Astarion invited me to Waterdeep! I’ll be gone for a bit, but I think I’ll be coming back?”

She responds and you can practically hear the smile through the message. “I figured that’s why he kept me from following him. Enjoy, and we’ll see you back here soon.”

She’ll see me back here soon! you want to scream to the heavens, out the window, under the floorboards. But you don’t because you’re not about to make Astarion change his mind, and truly you’re not certain what this means for you. Until you know why he wanted to bring you to Waterdeep, then you shouldn’t assume…

That doesn’t stop you from feeling light as a feather for the rest of the day. From practically tripping over your own feet as you pack a few snacks for the road.

You don’t see Astarion for the rest of the day, but you can feel his presence in the house, as if he’s watching you make an utter fool of yourself– you find you don’t mind. As long as the house feels full of him, you continue along, a smile never leaving your face.

That night when you sit down for bed, you pull out your journal and quill with jittery, anxious hands. Your journal entry reflects your week of learnings, of fears, of excitement:

I think I’ve made some real progress! I think I know how to make the rings, but not… how to make the rings. I know the materials I’ll need, the somatic component of creation, though I am missing the actual incantation and the actual materials. Better than I would have thought after a week, but my past-self seems to be guiding my hand every step of the way.

As for Astarion, well… I don’t think we’re better per say. But I also don’t think he hates me. He invited me to go with him to Waterdeep without much explanation. Surely he wouldn’t invite me if he hated me, right? We leave in the morning. I can’t wait to meet Gale, hopefully have a chance to ask him some things. Though I suppose it may all depend on Astarion’s mood.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 4: In this Lifetime

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, fluff, grief

WC: 2k words, 4/?? chapters

Summary: Now 99-years-old, you've managed to ignore your worst impulses to run off to Baldur's Gate. One night's reverie finally breaks you.

Ao3 | [Ch3][Ch5] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You hear it over and over again in your life, the advice passed down from your elders, from so many before you. Meeting people from past lives is never a good idea. It never goes the way you want it to. ‘This one is different, our bond was so strong.’ That's what they all say.

So for decades, you’ve been a good child, listening to your parents and keeping your interests purely theoretical, focused on research and nothing more. But your dreams are making it more and more difficult to keep to books…

Your reveries of the Hero’s life have begun to include more of what happened after the events of Baldur’s Gate. Of a life with a certain roguish vampire, going into the Under Dark, helping the spawn there. They’ve included adventures to Avernus, Waterdeep, a settlement on the outskirts of Reithwin where refugees started a new life. You encounter familiar friends, make new ones, lose friends along the way. The memories were full of laughter, hardships, and love– like a good book, the life pulled you in intimately.

So with every day that passes, it feels like the memories from the Hero’s life only grow more immersive. You feel engrossed in a way you haven’t felt with any of your other lives, to the point where your current life feels like someone else’s, not the other way around.

Naturally, you’ve researched this. It wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence to have such intense reveries of a past life. It seems to happen when your most recent life was, well, turbulent to say the least. Scholars were of two minds on the subject: either these memories are meant as a severe warning, an attempt to warn you away from making the same mistakes twice, or they are meant as a way to grieve a great loss, if you had lingering regrets that you couldn’t quite reconcile.

You’re honestly not sure why your past self is hellsbent on these intense memories, but you do know how they make you feel. As the years pass, you feel more and more of an abject loneliness, down to the very marrow of your bones. Now at 99 years of age, you wonder if that feeling will ever come to pass.

Tonight, as you lay your head down to rest and enter your trance, you feel that ache acutely. You feel like something is missing, and you hate it.

That’s why, when your eyes open to a pair of ruby red eyes, you’re not sure if the contented sigh that escapes your lips is coming from your present or your past-self. “Astarion,” you hear your past-self say, their voice as familiar as your own at this point. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing much darling,” he says, eyes focused on you quite intently. “Just memorizing every detail of your face so that I never have to go without.”

“When do you go anywhere without me?” you retort. You both are laying in a large, lush bed. You’re unable to tell what time of day it is, as the curtains are drawn tight, but by the way neither of you are dressed and Astarion’s hair is in a beautiful disarray, you think you’ve just woken up.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. “I wouldn’t even dream of going somewhere without you. However– regrettably– I do have to blink on occasion.”

You laugh, and find yourself going along with your past-self’s actions once more. It’s odd being this in sync, but you don’t mind it. “Ever the charmer, love. I thought you’d have had plenty of my face after so many years.”

“Impossible,” he scoffs, running his available hand through your hair in gentle, repeating strokes. “After only a hundred years, my dear? You’ll have to ask me again after another few hundred.” His tone is playful, goading you to challenge his resolve.

Your past-self hums happily, but your present-day mind is somber now. You know that, no matter how lovely this moment is, they don’t get another couple hundred years together. That, in order for you to be alive, witnessing this very moment, this domestic bliss is well and truly in the past.

Luckily, as Astarion’s lips meet yours, your past-self’s emotions overtake you, drowning out the building sorrow, melting away the concerns. All you can think is about him, the feel of his lips gently breaking yours apart, the playful lick of his tongue, his fingers squeezing your side firmly as he pulls you even closer.

It’s a lovely sensation to lose yourself in, a welcome one. So when your past-self pulls away from him, you want to smack them. At least give me this, you think. But no, Astarion was in their arms, not yours. Astarion lips were pressed to theirs, not yours. This was their ardent love, not yours. It leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth, as it did every time you’d been forced to remember the reality of it.

“You joke, but that’s something that’s been on my mind,” you say after catching your breath. “We really should have this discussion about… well, us.”

Astarion ignores your words, kissing your nose, trailing kisses along your face, down your neck. Your body warms under his loving attention, your hands move instinctively to run through his hair. Your fingers play with a few strands of his hair, soft as goose down when there’s no pomade in it, before they give a soft tug.

“Astarion,” you say, a stern tone to your voice. In this moment, you’re confused by your past-self’s feelings. They want to give in to his doting affections, that much is clear, but there's a little thorn of worry that won’t go away.

“Mmm?” he asks, moving up to nip at your ear. “What’s that? You need me to ravish you? Gladly, my–”

“It’s been more than a hundred years together, Astarion,” you say, stopping his playful nibbles right in their tracks.

He pulls away from you, red eyes clouding over as he takes in your expression. “Is this the part where you say you’ve grown bored of me and tear my undead heart from my chest?” His words are joking, his face is anything but.

“Of course not, my beautiful, melodramatic love,” you say with a sigh. “Quite the opposite. I may not look it now, but I’m aging, will continue to age. I just want to make sure, before I grow too old, collect one too many wrinkles–”

“No such thing,” he says, silencing you with a glare.

Your eyes roll, but a smile still finds its way to your face. “Fine, let’s say you lose interest in me for some other reason–”

“Impossible.”

“Astarion,” you say, pleading now as you grab his face between your hands. “I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but please just listen.” He nods silently in your grasp, eyes suddenly taking great interest in your shoulder. “Thank you. I just… I want you to consider what you want your life to look like. I won’t be around forever and you…”

“I will be. Forever sounds miserable when you put it like that,” he continues, a look of distaste on his face.

You shake his head in your hands. Even your present-day self wants to shake him, how dare he treat his life so flippantly? “Forever will be fantastic. Because you will be in it.”

“So what do you propose,” he starts, an edge creeping into his tone. “That I find another vampire to steal away with?”

You shake his head again. “No, you could never make it work with a vampire. You’re far too interested in my body heat.”

He laughs and it sounds hollow. “You make it sound like I'm nothing better than a needy cat.”

Both of your bodies shake with laughter at that and you release his head. “Well, if the paw fits.” You ignore the angry look he shoots at you and continue. “I guess I’m just asking if you want to set a limit to this? It’s very likely that an elf in their 700s would be too elderly for you to find, erm, interest in.”

“Darling, have you forgotten? I’ll reach 700 before you do,” he replies, looking at you as if you’d suddenly told him one plus one did not equal two.

“I know that, Astarion.” You think he’s being willfully ignorant at this point, and from the frustration you feel from your former-self, they likely think the same. “But you won’t look a day older than you do now, and you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to stay with someone who will.”

The pale elf looks at you, his red eyes scanning your face, much like he did when you first entered the memory. “I honestly could not care less what you look like, love. As long as it’s you.”

Your heart clenches at that, and you have trouble telling which of your bodies is the one reacting to his words. “Truly?” you ask, and the word comes out quiet, fear catching in your throat.

“Truly,” he repeats. “Besides, if the burden of being eternally magnificent falls upon me, I will gladly bear it for you.”

You lightly smack him on the chest at that, and Astarion catches your hand deftly in his.

“In case it needs to be said,” he begins, before placing a single, soft kiss on your temple. “I will always love you. Whatever you look like, no matter how many wrinkles end up on your face. In this lifetime and the next.” When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with so much warmth that you are certain he means it.

His next kiss is slow, deliberate. It may have been your hundredth kiss or your hundred-thousandth for all you knew, but it was every bit as meaningful. As your arms wrap around him and he sets his mind to ravishing you, you’re not sure where your past-self ends and where you begin.

When you awaken from your trance, you feel so very loved. Not the you of the past, but you, right here, right now. He said he loves you. It warms you like a hearth on a cold winter’s day, it fills a part of you that you didn’t realize was missing. The world looks brighter, sounds sharper, feels as if it is an entirely new realm to explore.

You know what you must do now. He has always been the reason that your past-self has been so insistent, and now you understand why. You must find him.

Of course, you’re not yet an adult. And you don’t have an established life away from your parents yet. And you have no clue what you will do if you don’t find him. All very valid concerns fighting for answers you don’t yet have.

Naturally, your parents vocalize them to you, even now, as you pack your bags, past the point of any logic.

“Enough,” you say, with a strength that stops your parents in their tracks. “This isn’t some childish whim. I have thought long and hard about this for nearly a century, and if I think any longer when I could be doing, I may as well burst into flames.”

They remain quiet for a moment. Your mother then asks you the question that you’ve been trying to avoid asking yourself, “Do you… love this man, the one from your dreams?”

You look at her for a moment. You’d practically lived an entire lifetime’s worth of important moments from the Hero’s life, certainly more of that life than any others. But it’s not just time spent in reveries, it was how this man invaded your every waking thought, compelled you to him unlike anything you’d ever felt before, unlike anything you’d learned in your studies. So you answer truthfully, “Maybe. I certainly won’t find out unless I find him.”

So you leave. You’re not certain where Astarion is yet– Nothing as helpful as an address came up in your reveries nor your studies– but you know where to start.

Taking a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate, you remember the name you wrote down in your notebook so many decades ago, the very same elf who helped start the settlement in the outskirts of Reithwin. Halsin.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 10: Overheard in the Underdark

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence

WC: 2.6k words, 10/?? chapters

Summary: You traverse a new landscape, looking for Astarion. What you find might be more than you bargain for, and what you hear might be too much to handle.

A/N: Tav’s best stat is definitely their Int, not their Wis…

Ao3 | [Ch9][Ch11] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Every time you’d dreamt about it, the Underdark was a wild, unruly place filled with magic and monsters. No matter how realistic they were, your memories couldn’t have prepared you for the frightening beauty of the Underdark. Even the grass looks otherworldly, and you carefully tiptoe around it when you get to solid ground.

The road that Astarion likely took is laid out before you: a dirt trail only slightly overgrown with mushrooms and grass. Now that you’re on the ground level, you can see past the enormous mushrooms that blocked your view to a large glowing field of smaller mushrooms ahead. Its eerie glow lights your path forward, and despite your fear, you urge yourself onward.

You identify the mushrooms easily, Bibberbangs, a common fungi in the Underdark. Hundreds of them, by the looks of it, and you know better than to get too close. Keeping several meters between yourself and the start of the field of mushrooms, you take a look around– surely Astarion didn’t just walk through this explosive disaster waiting to happen?

No, there’s a trick here, you just need to be able to see it. Either that or you’ll have to Dimension Door across, but you’d rather save your magic for when you need it. So you inspect the field, trying to see if there’s any trace of Astarion’s path for you to follow.

While you don’t see anything as helpful as footprints, you think back to the previous security measures– all of them had been illusions. Whoever helped them set up this hidden passageway was an expert in illusion magic, which meant that maybe, just maybe, there was an illusion to this too.

You hone into the Weave, opening your mind’s eye to the magic surrounding you. The Underdark is a naturally magical place, so you detect traces of Evocation magic from the mushrooms, Transmutation magic in the air. However, just as you suspected, you find a trail of Illusion magic leading a path through the mushrooms– some of them are fake.

One careful step at a time, you walk into the first illusory Bibberbang. When you find that it doesn’t explode, and neither does the next in its path, you know you’re safe to continue, following the trail of illusion magic all the while. Once you make it to the other side, you let out a breath you weren’t aware you were even holding.

Now that you’ve left the detonating mushrooms behind, you find yourself at the entrance of a large, secluded cavern. It was difficult to tell from where the path ended, but you can see a structure set deep within the cavity. You take a few cautious steps into the darkness and let your eyes further adjust before you can make out the shape of what looks to be a massive fortress tucked into this cave. No, fortress doesn’t do it justice– it’s like an entire small town carved into the stone face.

The thought that entered your mind as soon as you stepped foot in the Underdark finally feels real enough to voice. ��The vampire spawn.”

It’s been quite a while since you’ve dreamt of Cazador’s surviving vampire spawn, but you do remember your past-self and Astarion going into the Underdark to meet with them, help them establish themselves. However, the last time you dreamt of them, they were in a ramshackle keep in the middle of the Underdark, constantly endangered. This? Well, this feels like a distinct upgrade.

Considering how hidden this place is, you doubt they will accept visitors. However, given how Astarion ran away, you also doubt he’ll be making his way out any time soon. I’d best investigate, you decide. So you cast invisibility on yourself, giving yourself one hour, the spell’s duration, to investigate. Carefully, you make your way into the fortress with three goals in mind: find Astarion, learn anything that might help you tackle this situation, and get the hells out.

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, thinks the logical part of your brain. Or are you just finally living the life you’ve always dreamed of? counters the part of your brain that is still reeling from excitement. It’s a mental argument best left for when you’re not in danger, so you wave the thoughts away and continue forward.

You walk past several guards. As you near them you hear snippets of their conversations, including mentions of someone you hope is Astarion. “Why do you suppose he’s here? Do you think something went wrong?”

The other guard replies with a huff, “Who cares? At least if something goes wrong we’ll have something to do.”

You continue past them only to walk past a group of other mingling vampires. None of them are Astarion, but several have a wild look in their eyes that you haven’t seen before in Astarion. You knew you were entering a vampire’s den, but it’s only upon seeing the hunger in their eyes that you realize the very real danger. You take a quiet gulp and keep walking.

As you make your way through an entrance, walk from building to building, you hope to spot Astarion. However, the more unfamiliar vampires you encounter, the more you begin to wonder if he even made his way to this fortress.

Knowing you’re wasting precious time– you think half an hour has already passed– you decide to focus on finding any vampire you recognize. So as you continue to sneak, you try your best to spot someone, anyone, you might remember from a past reverie.

This proves more effective, as within a few minutes you spot one of Astarion’s siblings from afar. You’re not sure which it is, but you can recognize the shape of her face, the blonde hair on her head. She’s carrying a crate and looks to be moving with purpose. I should follow her.

You trail behind her a respectable distance until she makes it to a door. As she struggles to open it around the crate she’s carrying, you prepare to dive in after her. She whips it open after a second, and you dart in quickly, careful to avoid bumping into her. A second later, she closes the door behind her.

You’ve followed her into a room full of crates, clearly something of a supply room. To your surprise and delight, a certain silver-haired vampire is in the room as well, sitting in a corner, writing something down.

Astarion looks up at his sibling’s arrival, and your heart stops at the blatant misery on his face. The man wipes the expression as best as he can and stands up to go inspect the pile of crates that his sister just added to. “Oh good, you’ve received the latest. Should we run through our list now?”

You hear his sister agree and they begin to chat.

After a moment of focus, you think you recognize the vampire he speaks to: Dalyria, also known as Dal– one of the siblings that he helped save from Cazador, and one of the siblings that helped establish this underground society of vampires.

It seems that neither of them have sensed your invisible presence as they speak, so you carefully tiptoe around them, settling in the far corner of the room behind a large pile of crates to eavesdrop. It’s not the perfect vantage point, but you can see most of Astarion’s upper body and the lower half of his face, so you’re satisfied enough to brace yourself in the position and just listen.

For a while, it’s honestly quite mundane for vampires. You only hear about things related to the spawn colony, such as who is behaving, who needs more blood, who is currently using the sunlight rings, what upkeep needs to happen to their fortress and other types of logistics. It seems like a conversation they’ve had countless times before, with how easily the flow continues.

All of it fascinates you to an extent, but it’s only when Astarion heaves a hearty sigh and his conversation partner asks him a question that you perk up, truly listening now. “So why are you really here, Astarion?”

“No reason,” he says, and you catch the glint of his bright smile from your hiding spot.

“Doubtful,” Dal replies. “You never come down without sending a message first. And you look rather… out of sorts.” You can’t see her expression, but you can practically hear the once over she gives him.

“Excuse me,” he says, and you see his hand cover his chest in offended shock. “I look perfectly fine.” Dal must make a face at him because he continues, “If you must know, I had an unwelcome guest.”

“Ah,” she says in understanding. “But that’s not usually enough to ruffle your feathers. How repulsive was this one?”

You catch your breath as you see Astarion give a noncommittal shrug. “They weren’t… repulsive per se. Maybe if they were a little less mad, we could have used them as a source of blood.” Internally, you practically cheer. ‘Not repulsive’ is a distinct step up from what you expected him to say.

“Oh gods, do we have someone trying to track us down?” Dal asks, and you can hear a genuine fear in her voice.

A shake of Astarion’s head quells her worries. “Not that type of madness. Honestly, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t bring my problems to you.”

“Astarion,” you see Dal step forward, obscuring your view of Astarion. “We’re family. We help each other. You know that.”

After a wordless exchange, Dalyria steps back and you see Astarion again, his head hanging a bit. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds defeated, “They claimed to be the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. As if my lost love would ever refer to themselves as such.” You see a grimace on his face. Ah, you think. I’ll have to avoid that one.

Dal’s tone is gentle as she responds, “What if it is them? You know that elven souls make their way back to the Material Plane.”

Astarion scoffs. “Believe me, I know. I’ve been reminded of it every time someone like this shows up at my doorstep. At least this one is an elf! The last one was a half-orc, I don’t know how they expected me to believe them.” With the way he tries to make it sound more amusing than terrible, you get the sense that this particular tactic was new to Dalyria.

“If this has happened before… Why are you down here now?” You can hear the genuine confusion in her voice, and you decide that you quite like Dal. You’ll have to refresh yourself on any journal entries mentioning her. She continues, “Is this one particularly problematic?”

“You could say that,” he responds, and you catch a wry smile on his face before he promptly drops it. You don’t have time to process it before he’s taking back his words. “Well, no. I don’t know– Some have tried staying for months and this one has barely been here a day. No, this one just gets under my skin.” His mouth ends in an exaggerated frown.

A soft hum comes from his sister and she asks another question, “Perhaps they’re just incredibly annoying?” After that statement, you decide to reserve your judgment of Dal until the end of the conversation.

“If only,” he says with a sigh. “If they were simply annoying, I would ignore them, like I have the rest. No, this one is worse. I’m the one behaving differently.”

“How so?”

“For starters, I let them stay in my old room. I was at the door before I even realized where I’d led them,” he says, voice angry, though you’re not sure if that anger is meant for you or himself. Your heart jolts at this admission, but you remain silent. “I could have left them to fend for themselves, like the rest. Now I’ll have to have someone over to clean it thoroughly. Does Petras have time?”

“It’s just a room, Astarion. Surely allowing one person to sleep there won’t ruin it,” she says, in a chiding tone.

You don’t need to be able to see Astarion’s eyes to know that he’s leveling a murderous glare at her. “It’s not just-a-room, Dal,” he growls through gritted teeth. “It’s–” he breaks off, clearly not wanting to finish the sentence. “It doesn’t matter what it is. What matters is that I get this crazed person away from me.” Your heart pounds in your chest at his rage, and you suddenly hope that they can’t hear it.

Dalyria must have years of experience dealing with him at this point because she only gives a soft huff at Astarion’s outburst. “Very well,” she relents. “What do you need from us?”

The man visibly calms down at these words. “Perhaps somewhere to hide for a few days,” he responds, “And ample opportunity to complain.”

His sister gives a lighthearted chuckle at that, “We can certainly manage both. Would you like to keep complaining?”

“Gods yes,” he says, tilting his chin to the earth above. “Did you know, this whole ordeal had me rereading Volo’s damned book for the first time in decades. You know, the one where he claims we killed a dragon of each color atop the brain? It’s absolute drivel, why would I subject myself to that?” You stifle a laugh at this particular revelation, vowing to read this book if you ever manage to get your hands on it again. When you go to cover your mouth, you realize the invisibility has worn off, and crouch down further to avoid notice. You’ll have to recast it once they leave the room.

“I thought you threw that book away,” she points out, and you can hear the disapproval in her voice.

He makes a face at her, “That’s not the point! I’m descending into utter insanity.”

Dal gives him a second to calm back down before she makes an observation, “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you this worked up.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “Last time I was this worked up, I think it was…” His voice trails off, and you’re afraid of the answer. The man seems unwilling to speak it into existence either and his lips press firmly shut.

“Astarion?” Dal asks, tentatively.

“Never mind that,” he says, putting an end to that train of thought. “My point stands: I can’t stop acting like a fool and I don’t know what I’ll do if I see them again.” A fearful little shiver runs up your spine at that.

“I know you may not want to hear this,” Dal starts, gauging his reaction. “But are you positive they're not who they claim to be?”

Yes, Dal! you think, verdict all but decided now. I do like you!

Astarion definitely did not want to hear that. “Ugh, please don’t say that. The gods would be unreasonably cruel to reincarnate my past love into this one.” His voice is harsh, laced with the deadliest venom meant only for you.

Oh that is so much worse than being non-repulsive. An arrow could have stricken you in the heart and been less painful than the ache you feel in your chest right now. An involuntary gasp leaves your mouth, as you clutch your chest in a futile attempt to staunch the pain.

That gasp was all that they needed.

Like a jungle cat, Astarion pounces upon your hiding spot, a knife already brandished. You meet his beautiful red eyes for the first time in hours, only to find them burning with rage. Once he takes in who you are, he snarls a single, disgusted word, “You.”

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bg-brainrot · 1 month

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 16: More than Friends Pt. 2

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, death mentions/violence, a metric shit ton of exposition, lots of feelings

WC: 7.9k words, 16/?? chapters

Summary: After talking through the previous night's tryst, emotions are confused, pasts are divulged, and everything comes to a head when your heart and soul want different things.

A/N: I know I put this warning in ch 1, but warning that the smut is always going to be more about their ~feelings~ than actual smut, so like, be forewarned and don’t expect too much 🔥!

Ao3 | [Ch15][Ch17] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You wake up for your eighteenth day with Astarion noting the distinct lack of Astarion at your side.

Where he had been laying last night, you only see the vague outline of his shape in the sheets. The sight is enough to sink your stomach to the ground as the morning clarity hits.

Gods below, why did we do that? you think to yourself, gripping your face between your hands.

It had been too much too fast. Everything had happened so quickly, so desperately, that you can’t recall anything outside of his single-minded drive to devour you. You yourself had been in such a frenzy to forget, that you haven’t the faintest how Astarion might be feeling right now.

You knew going into this that he might never feel any love for you at all, romantic or otherwise– That was a risk you had been willing to take. Last night was just another risk you had been willing to take... Right?

But hells are you afraid that that risk came at the cost of all of your efforts thus far. You're a grown adult, you made your choice in the heat of the moment, but is it so bad that you regret it in the stark light of day?

And what a moment it had been– like nothing mattered except feeling alive in his arms. It was enough for you to lose yourself, feel like someone you weren’t and could never be. But you fear that it's gone a step too far this time. You hadn't even determined if you loved the man. Did you?

You sit with that question for a few minutes, staring off into space.

Eventually your stomach grumbles, and, after not having eaten at all the day before, you know you need to get up.

What am I going to say to him? you wonder, getting out of bed and heading to your wardrobe. You notice the previous day’s robes strewn across the floor haphazardly and your mind swims with images of last night.

What if he regrets it completely? Am I ready for that? you think, trying your best to shove down all images of his beautiful pale face, shiny with sweat and overexertion.

Your body aches and you notice marks from Astarion's bruising lips littering your body in trails– yet more proof of what you'd done. Will he even want to talk to me?

Dressed, spells readied, and stomach screaming for relief, you leave your room for the kitchen. You decide that if Astarion joins you, you won't avoid him, but you're not quite prepared to seek him out just yet.

When you open your door, you find the man waiting for you, leaning against the opposite wall with a book in hand.

The book snaps closed. "Good morning," he says, a cheery tone betraying none of his real emotions. "Mortal meal time is it?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

The air is awkward, the previous night all but playing on loop in your head as you follow him to the kitchen. Astarion's posture remains straight, his eyes forward as he walks, and you wonder what he's thinking. If his thoughts are as lurid as your own.

The silence continues as you enter the kitchen.

It persists even as you prepare your meal.

You sit down after putting together your breakfast, unsure if you should be the one to break the silence or he should be.

After what feels like an eternity, he does so. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

You knew this was a possibility. That Astarion wasn’t in his right mind when faced with loss. But it still doesn’t make your insides churn any less. It doesn’t twist your heart any less. “It might have been,” is all you can offer in response, distracting yourself with a spoonful of eggs.

Astarion considers you for a moment, as if he hadn't expected you to agree that easily. He clears his throat and continues, “We just were caught up in the moment.”

“We were,” you offer numbly, thinking of how the moment practically picked you up and threw you over its shoulder– at the very least of how Astarion threw your leg over his shoulder.

He watches you shuffle the eggs about your plate, waiting for you to say more. When you don't, he sighs and continues, “I was mad and I took it out on you. Mind you, I am still quite upset at you.”

Oh good, you think. Not only is he crushing every piece of my heart, but he’s also planning to blame himself and lecture me. You only focus on the blame, “You didn’t do anything of the sort.”

You don’t look up to see his expression, but if his tone is any indication, he’s getting frustrated. “I think we need some time to sort out… well, all of this. Should we take some time apart today?”

“Perhaps," you say, finally looking up from your plate to see his rich red eyes as conflicted as you feel currently. You half expect him to protest his own suggestion, to change his mind, for something to happen here–but it doesn't. He simply scoots his chair back.

“To be entirely honest, I don’t really want to.” He chuckles humorlessly as he gets up. “I’ve gotten quite… used to you being around. Though I don’t suppose ‘used to you’ is what you want to hear?”

“Not particularly,” you admit, though you're not certain what you do want to hear either.

He gives an uncomfortable nod and turns away from you. “I shall see you later then?”

“You shall,” you agree. You find that you don’t have a lot of words for him– Nothing that would make either of you feel better at least. All you do find is an ache deep in your chest, an ache comprised of regret and fear.

That's how you finish the rest of your breakfast alone, lost in thoughts ranging from the feel of his tongue tracing your body to how royally everything has gone to the Nine Hells.

You spend the rest of the day holed up in your room, practicing your magic, cursing yourself for falling into such a vulnerable position. To destroy everything you'd built with Astarion with your weakness was a sin you may never fully atone for.

On your nineteenth day in the house, you expect Astarion to avoid you again. After all, for you a single day apart had only led you deeper and deeper into a pit of guilt.

For Astarion, one day was clearly more than enough.

"Good morning, darling," he says, as you open your door. Unlike yesterday's cheer, this one seems genuine. "Right as rain now, aren't we?"

You raise an eyebrow at him, sure that you don’t look right as rain. You likely look like someone who couldn’t fall into their reverie all night and subsequently spent it cleaning clothes, foot by foot, with the Prestidigitation cantrip. “Are we?” you ask him, disbelieving.

“I certainly am,” Astarion says with a fanged smile. “I’ve taken some time to myself. To, ugh, think about things.” He gives a dramatic little eye roll, but you note a gulp run down his throat– he’s nervous.

Gods above, you think. This is it. The final blow he delivers as he tells me to leave and never return.

“While I won’t lie and say something saccharine about how much I love you, I think I know what I can do,” he says, giving you a sad, anxious little smile. “Can I come in?”

You nod, surprised at the turn in conversation. Why is he so nervous? You allow him past you into the room. Trying your best not to think about the last time Astarion was in this room, you follow.

Luckily, you’ve cleaned the room thoroughly, folded all of your robes, even laid the Sending Stone on top for its return to Dalyria. If you didn’t know any better, nothing at all happened in this room a few nights ago. You sit on your bed, turn to him, and say, “So what exactly did you have in mind?”

"Yes, well, I've decided I know what I need to do to help me… move on," he says, expression uncertain despite his words. You distantly recall a memory of Astarion and your past-self making love on his grave, and you're momentarily horrified at what his idea might be. Seeing the look on your face, he clicks his tongue and says, "Stop that. Whatever you're imagining is certainly not it."

“Okay,” you start, moving over on the bed to make room for him, patting it as an invitation. “What did you have in mind?”

Astarion takes the spot next to you and says, “I think I need to tell you how your past-life died. To… process it in a way.”

You think you must have heard him wrong. Surely he isn’t about to answer the question you’d asked him nearly two weeks ago, the one that all but stabbed him in the heart? But he is, because he looks at you, eyes clouded over with sadness and perhaps a few tears. You can feel the determination in his gaze.

“I would really appreciate that,” you respond, honestly, but not too eagerly. “Whatever you can tell me.”

He settles in and you see his mouth work, as if tasting the words on his tongue before he commits to them. Eventually he says, “They died an early death, as you know.”

You know, but you also don’t plan on rushing this conversation, so you nod along. You debate holding his hand as a means of support, but decide against it, simply leaving your hand between you in case he needs it.

“They were… getting something,” he continues, and you can feel the hesitation as he gets the words out, red eyes darting toward you and away again. You can’t help but wonder how much of your day apart he’d spent trying to prepare for this. How much pain he had rehashed to try to right things between you.

“What were they getting?” you ask, tentatively. Something about the way he holds back makes you wonder if it’s because he finds it difficult to talk about or because he simply doesn’t want to offer the information.

“Does it matter?” Astarion replies, with a little wave of his hand. “All that matters is that they wanted it more than anything. Certainly more than I did.”

His voice turns bitter toward the end, and you regret prodding. Perhaps, at least while he opens up, you shouldn’t tread any further than necessary. All you can do is keep the conversation flowing and take a step back as Astarion explains. “They went to go get this… thing then?”

“Naturally,” he says with a sigh. “Where we were– you’re familiar with necromantic magic I presume?”

“Yes.” It’s certainly not your area of expertise, but you've studied it well enough.

“We were in a place filled with it.” His voice grows distant, gaze settling somewhere in the far corner of the room as he recalls the events of the day. “Normally, it wouldn’t bother me– undead and all. But it chilled us both to our very bones. I wanted to turn back. We should have turned back.”

You hear the regret plain as day. The words he’s not saying, I should have convinced them.

Astarion’s voice is flat as he continues, “But they insisted.”

“Of course,” you say, remembering your dreams. They had prepared. They had researched. Surely they wouldn’t have turned back at the eleventh hour. “They thought they could do it.”

He snorts and turns his head back to you. “I always end up with fools, don’t I?” You try not to let your heart thrill at the idea that you’re the other fool. “Yes, they did. And I… I got mad. I left them on their own. Maybe they would still be alive if I had stayed with them.”

There it is again, the regret. You wish you could clean the slate, wipe away whatever poisonous thoughts have burrowed into his mind in the past 150 years. But such is easier wished than done. “You might both have died.”

“Would that have been so bad?” he mutters a bit too pensively for your comfort. You want to respond, but he continues before you can, “I’m but a selfish man, darling. I’m not above resting on my laurels. I grew complacent. They never did.”

You can’t imagine they would– find it hard to imagine yourself growing complacent either, but you could hardly say so to Astarion. “So… what happened after you left them?”

A shaky breath. “They went off on their own to find what they wanted. By the time I heard their call for help, I was too late to make it back.” He drops his eyes to the floor before you, and you’re left unsure what to do, what to say. You recall your dream, his panicked cries as he searched for you, and you can’t help but get lost in the memory yourself.

“I dreamt that,” you finally say. “I heard you coming for me, but I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. I had no idea what was happening to me.”

“It was a trap,” he says as a way of explanation. “A Cloudkill that overtook the entire room. The doors locked, there was no leaving, no healing. By the time I managed to find them and get in, they were….”

They were practically dead already, your mind supplies easily. You want to say sorry, but how could you apologize? You know who they were, he knows who they were– their death wasn’t something Astarion could have prevented, any more than they could have forced him to do something he didn’t want to. So you don’t apologize, merely put a hand over his and squeeze.

He seems to appreciate the gesture, squeezing your hand back, lifting his head a bit, and continuing, “They told me to get out and I did. Maybe it was cowardice, maybe it was survival instinct.” He shakes his head, looking at your intertwined hands. “But if I hadn’t gotten out when they told me to, I likely would have died too.”

“Thank you,” you say. “For listening to them.”

He smiles at you, sadly, before continuing his tale. “I went back to retrieve them after disabling the traps, but it was too late to Revivify and the body was too damaged for Raise Dead. The necromantic magic ran deep– even Gale had no idea on how to counteract it.”

You wonder where they possibly could have been that even an archmage like Gale didn’t know what to do. And what in the hells could have been so important that they sought out such a place?

“I’m so sorry. You did all that you could,” you say, knowing full well that platitudes were meaningless when faced with such a loss. You hope they are some kind of comfort to him anyway.

Astarion’s cold hand leaves yours as he turns his whole body to face you on the bed. “No, I didn’t.“ His expression is hard as he continues, voice filled with anger, “I should have fought them. I should have assured them we didn’t need to be there. And if I wasn’t enough for them, I should have made myself enough for them.”

He looks to be on the verge of tears, eyes lined in pink, moisture pooling at the corners. You had already struggled to find the words before, but in the face of his real, physical pain, you are left speechless, as if your throat is filled with sand.

You’re suddenly reminded of one of the reveries you’d had all those years ago– of how your former self couldn’t stop weeping after witnessing Astarion’s heartache and pain upon killing Cazador. Again, it’s as if his pain is your pain, and you can feel rivulets of tears begin to spill down your cheeks. “Astarion…”

The vampire is surprised to see your tears, his red eyes opening wide as he reaches out to cup your face. “Darling, please don’t cry,” he begs, thumbing away each tear as it begins to drop.

You would stop crying if you had any sort of control over these tears, but you don’t. Your heart aches for him, for his grief. More than anything, you wish you could take the pain away.

An ill-timed thought flits through your mind, asking you the question, so you do love him?

You haven’t the time to ponder it, because Astarion is frantically trying to distract you, his own tears dry before they even touch his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I thought that this would be helpful. It’s been a bit of a disaster, hasn’t it?”

You shake your head, still trapped between his hands. “No, I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean to–” your voice comes out thick with tears and you swallow to collect yourself. “I didn’t mean to derail you, I just–” You just what? Care for him? Worse yet, love him? The words die on your lips and you simply shake your head again.

Astarion takes your silence as something else entirely. “You have no need to apologize. You’re right. I don’t have the right to blame myself. I suppose it’s easier than facing the alternative.”

You wipe away your last lingering tears and look at him intently. “The alternative?” you can’t help but ask, unsure of where Astarion’s mind is heading.

“That nothing I could have done would have mattered. That our love alone could simply never be enough,” he says, dropping his hands from your face. He looks at you with a miserable, wry smile, a smile hiding decades worth of pain.

You want to say, no, that that could never be the case. That their love was present until their very dying breath. But they’re all statements you’ve said before, statements that Astarion couldn’t and wouldn’t believe. So instead you ask him, “Why would you think that?”

“Because they were misguided,” he answers, his smile dropping a smidge. “They thought that they always needed to… help. They thought they were helping, but couldn’t see beyond that. I didn’t want their help, I just wanted them.”

His words have a beautiful, painful honesty to them, and you wonder if he’s ever said them aloud to anyone before. You would consider yourself lucky to have heard them, if only it wasn’t your soul that caused them. “I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me,” you begin, gauging his expression as you speak. “But I could feel their love for you in every dream. It was their love for you that brought me here.” In your mind you think, It’s their love for you that confuses my own feelings, even still.

Astarion looks at you, eyes soft as he absorbs your words. “Yes. I know that deep down somewhere, I suppose.” Then, after one more shaky breath, he stands up. “Well, that’s enough of that. That was utterly exhausting, wasn’t it?” he says with a laugh.

“Are we… done?” you ask, getting up after him. You still had so many questions, so many pieces of the puzzle were still missing.

He simply looks back at you with pursed lips and says, “What did you expect? A full reenactment? Gods darling, I’m talented, but not that talented.”

You blink at him, all but frozen in place as you debate what to do. You can’t push him of course. Not only would it not be right, but you find that you don’t want to. He’s relived enough of his past today. But you also can’t let this lie while so many truths are still buried, waiting for you to uncover them.

I need to send a message to Dal tonight, arrange a meeting with her , you think. I’ll do it while Astarion is asleep. After all, what’s one more sleepless night for a scholar like yourself?

You finally follow after Astarion, as he already speaks of your plans for the day. He asks you what you’ll be having for breakfast, you answer casually. You’re surprised by how easily you go on about your day, almost forgetting what happened between you.

Of course, you can’t forget entirely. Every once in a while you catch his eye and a blush runs up your neck, or your hands brush and you jolt back as if you’d been hit by a Shocking Grasp– but he seems no different and life continues.

You even manage to give him a bit of blood, by the wrist again, after insisting you’re well enough. He only drinks a bit and complains the entire time that you’re too weak for it. So when you’re left a little woozy and lightheaded, you try your best to pretend otherwise. In the end, the two of you spend the day rather leisurely, reading and chatting, acting as if nothing transpired between you at all.

Maybe, just maybe, everything wasn’t ruined. Maybe you could move on with the remainder of your time here, then figure out what to do going forward.

Your heart hurts and you know that you haven’t put all of your issues to rest, but the peace is welcome so you embrace it.

That night you send Dal a message using a Sending spell, “Hi Dal, it’s me. It’s time we talked. Can you come over while Astarion is in his reverie?”

Her response is succinct, “Yes, I’ll stay up. Let me know when, and I shall head over.”

It’s technically your twentieth day in the house when Dal quietly slips through the illusory wall, tiptoes past Astarion, and makes her way to you.

You wait for her, holding your breath the entire time, lest Astarion wake up in a fury. You’d hoped that he would eventually be more amenable to your meeting with Dal, but after learning more about your previous death, you suspect that that may not be the case.

Dal meets you in the hallway, and you head to your room together. Once inside, you both exhale the breaths you had been holding.

“Thank you so much for meeting me, Dal,” you say, leading her to sit on the couch before the hearth. “And thank you for tending to my wounds after that fight.”

She shakes her head at you and takes a seat. “No, thank you. I knew you would help us, regardless of whatever Astarion said. I’m just sorry you got hurt at all.”

You smile at her in response, glad that she understands how much you care. “Think nothing of it. I’m only sorry I didn’t prepare more appropriately for the situation. But I suppose we can blame Astarion for that.”

You both chuckle at the man’s expense, understanding his stubborn, rash nature easily. It’s almost as if you’re laughing with an old friend. Perhaps you were old friends, seeing as your previous life’s relationship with her is why you asked her to meet you.

She looks at you with a warm smile, and you suspect she probably feels similarly. I guess she was something of a sister-in-law, wasn’t she? you think. You dare not say it aloud though.

“So,” you begin, folding your hands together in your lap. “From what I understand, you worked with my past-self on… something. I’ll confess, I don’t have any details. But I want to help the colony as much as I did in my past-life, could you shed some light on what we were working on?”

“I’m happy to help,” Dal says. “Though I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

“Maybe with my death?” you hazard. “Astarion was… evasive.”

“He spoke of it?” she says, surprise coloring both her tone and expression.

You nod. “He gave me a few details, but he wasn’t very clear at moments. I could tell he was avoiding something.”

Dal looks down sadly, her lips pressed together in a worried line. “It makes sense. Astarion blames himself for your death, as you may have guessed.” She wrings her hands together for a moment before continuing “For separating from you, for letting you take on the burden that he feels should have been his.”

“But why should it have been his?” you ask, pleadingly. “I know I loved you all. And beyond that, I could tell, it was somehow for him as well.”

“He never saw it that way,” she says, shaking her head. “Regardless, I’m glad he spoke to you of it, even if he wasn’t the most forthcoming.”

You thought as much when he spoke to you, that it was likely the first time in over a hundred years he’d uttered those words. It was a privilege you wouldn’t take lightly, and, despite what he may believe, why you needed to talk to Dal. “So, let’s start at the beginning then. What was my mission with Astarion?”

“Right,” Dal says, looking up at you with determination. She’s certainly sad, she must have loved you dearly, but unlike Astarion, she also seems to have overcome her grief. Her words come out factual, practical. “You were on a mission to an ancient wizard’s tower to find a means to make some sort of enhanced sunlight rings– ones specifically for vampires– that would be able to quell our thirst for blood.”

“That… exists?”

“Truth be told, we weren’t sure,” she says, furrowing her brows somewhat apologetically. “It was all but a myth. However with 7000 spawn to feed and a giant target on our backs as a result, we were open to finding anything.”

Gods, that would… that would have solved so many problems. Not only would the spawn not have to worry about their ever-present hunger, but they might not even have been seen as a threat anymore. They could have even lived normal lives in the city, not hiding in the Underdark for survival.

But it all sounds too good, the spawn aren’t running about the city, and Dal's use of past tense doesn't bode well to you. “Was it a myth after all of that?”

“Well, the wizard turned out to be a necromancer." Ah, one of the bad ones, you can't help but think. "One who was obsessed with undead, vampires included. He’d clearly done a lot of research on vampirism and we were able to find some of his notes and journals on your… erm, body.” You can tell she’s uncomfortable speaking of you as if you’re dead, but she also can’t seem to separate you from your past self.

“Oh, that’s great then. Isn’t it?” you say, head perking up as you sense a puzzle just waiting for you to solve it. “Have you reached an impasse on figuring out his notes? I could help–”

She interrupts you before you can get too far. “It seems that his research, his secret formula or what have you– it was all useless, hocus pocus from a demented wizard. Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken.” I think. “Could they have been in code or something like that?”

"We took the notes to Gale once and he didn't see any rhyme or reason to them. Just another part of why Astarion was so mad. It felt like you sacrificed yourself for nothing."

The words sit between you for a moment. Had they sacrificed themself for nothing? They still had believed in their mission, even in their dying moments. You're sure of it.

You break the silence between you, “So… when you met me down in the cells, why did you want my help?”

“Because that can't have been it. I refuse to believe that that's how it ends," she says, with a fervor you hadn't expected from her. "Myself and the rest of my siblings, we’re still hopeful. We can’t keep living like this forever– you’ve seen the situation. We can’t hunt or we’ll risk exposing ourselves. We can’t defend ourselves without making ourselves out to be an even bigger threat. We’ve been surviving for the past several centuries. We would like to live.”

You nod vehemently, recalling the hunger you saw, the very conflict you were in just a few days ago. “I understand. What can I do to help then?”

“Well, maybe it's too hopeful, but I always thought there might be something in here. Right?” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a massive stack of papers, notebooks, journals, diagrams. "Maybe you left us something. Something that would help us figure it out, or set us on our next steps. You knew more than any of us by the end of your life. We couldn’t piece it all together, but if you have the memories… maybe you can.”

The stack grows as Dal continues to add papers atop it, and your nerves tingle with excitement. “What is all of this?”

“It’s your old research. Every note you took, every time you tried to design a ring or an alternative solution for us. I made sure Astarion couldn’t burn it or bury it.” She smiles at you proudly, and you're certain your mouth is agape.

You’re baffled. This was practically your life's work– such a big part of your life that is just completely missing from your memories. “How is it that I never learned about this in my reveries?"

"Perhaps you didn’t understand it. We spoke in code, wrote in code. The risk of being associated with a dark myth about vampirism was only liable to get the colony caught. As a result, only a handful of us were involved.” She ponders for a second. "Really just my siblings, yourself, and Gale."

You take the papers and start to sift through them, unable to read much of anything. Still, you know the enormity of this gift, can feel a thrill run up your spine at the sight of familiar handwriting. “This is amazing,” you say. "But how am I to read it all?"

The woman hands you a slip of blank paper. "This is a cipher. You can activate it using a light source. Memorize it, then burn it once you're done."

Turning the blank paper in your hand, you want more than anything to light it now, start to work, but you carefully tuck it in your bag for use later. "Thank you," you say with a slight bow to your head. “I don't know what I might uncover that you haven't already, but I'll try my best with the time I have left here…" You try not to think of your dwindling window of opportunity and instead focus on the task at hand.

This is a chance. A way to help those in need and, as much as Astarion has resisted, help him as well. He may not be starving like some of the spawn, he may have a life of relative ease, but you've seen the hunger in his eyes, the way that his tongue runs over his fangs absentmindedly. If this is something you can do for him, you would stop at nothing to do it.

You're in the midst of flipping through parchment when Dal pulls you back to the present, "We've continued our research, of course. Leon and I have searched for anything: something that could help blood be more filling, something that could store or duplicate blood. It's been fruitless."

You nod, familiar with how difficult blood magic could be, an area of necromancy that could lead to dark places if not handled with care. You try not to think of the types of things that could have gone wrong with that research and instead focus on what you can do going forward. "I don't blame you all, anything is worth a shot," you say. "Anything you could share might be helpful. And… I know you said they were worthless, but do you have the demented necromancer’s notes in here too?”

She seems hesitant, but still reaches down and pulls out another set of notes from her bag. They look horrendous, drenched in blood that could very well be yours, and nothing but a light scrawl on razor thin parchment. From a glance, you suspect it may not be made of paper. “This is all that we found on you.”

“Wow," you say, taking the notes gingerly from her. "These are…"

"Yes, they're… something," she finishes with a grimace.

You place them carefully on your stack, not sure how you'll be able to read them through the blood stains, but you'll figure it out. "Thank you, Dal," you say, truly grateful to have answers, to have a piece of the puzzle finally fall into place.

It seems like you're set– everything Dal has bestowed upon you sits waiting for your curious eyes, and she seems pleased to have delivered the cache. The woman begins to stand up, prepared to leave you to it, when a thought strikes her.

“One more thing…" she begins, a bit cautiously. "You should consider, erm, ‘obtaining’ Rhapsody.”

You recall Astarion’s begrudging safekeeping of it, and you wonder if Dal might be part of that. “Um, I'm happy to try, but why?”

“We didn’t get much from the notes, but we did gather that the necromancer thought that the blood from a vampire lord was important. It might be worth having," she explains.

You blink at her, confused. “Not to diminish your request, Dal. But the blade isn’t exactly blood."

Dalyria gives you a slight chuckle, shaking her head. "Gods, sometimes I forget you aren't them," she says. You're not certain how that makes you feel, but your heart does ache a bit at the words. “Scarlet Remittance, the dagger’s ability, absorbs life essence. The last person who the blade killed was Cazador Szarr.”

“I see," you say, thinking about the dream you'd witnessed for the second time today, vividly imagining when Rhapsody drove through the bastard's chest. If Astarion's act of vengeance had any role in solving the spawn's situation, you would steal the blade one way or another.

She turns to leave again, when a thought strikes you this time. You get up in a rush to pick up the item you'd borrowed from her during the defense of the colony.

“Don’t forget this!” you say, holding out the Sending Stone. You suspect that she needs it far more than you do.

She takes it gratefully, nodding at you. “Thank the gods, I'm glad I don't have to take another trip up that ladder for this!"

Then you watch her go, quietly pondering all that you’ve learned today.

You remember your own years of research, about past lives that linger after a great regret. This is it, you think, staring at the stack before you. They left this unfinished and it's up to you to complete it. Or at the very least figure out what they left behind and set the spawn on a path forward. The problem is, you haven't the faintest where to start.

I suppose I should start with the cipher, you think with a loud yawn. Though maybe I should wait until I'm less exhausted to learn it…

So you hide all of the paperwork in your Bag of Holding and head to bed, hoping to rest at least a bit before Astarion arrives to wake you up.

As you lay in bed and try to trance, you think about your past self. They had given every bit of themselves to trying to improve the spawn's situation, to their very last. You understand Astarion’s anger at them a bit better now, but that doesn’t stop the righteous fury in your heart. I need to help the spawn. They don’t deserve the kind of life that Cazador burdened them with. I won’t let them spend another lifetime in the darkness.

You only wish that your past self had shared more useful memories, like what to do with the recipe or any further leads. But you think you understand your dreams a bit better now. They needed to guide you to Astarion, to care for him as much as they did, to want to finish their goal as badly as they did or all of that information wouldn't matter. Well you’re here now. And gods do you care.

As your reverie takes you that night, you don’t dream of the Hero’s LIfe, much to your disappointment. You’re back in the forge, hammering away on an anvil, muscles aching and temperament steady. It would likely also help you for the days ahead.

When you actually awaken for your twentieth day in the house, you’re still tired.

Astarion knocks on the door at your usual hour, and your shortened reverie leaves you sluggish and gaunt.

"Did I drink too much from you yesterday?" the vampire asks, giving you a once over.

"No, I just couldn't get much sleep," you respond, trudging after him to the kitchen.

"Well, I'm going to need you to liven up a bit, we have work to do today," he says, holding open the door to the kitchen.

"Work?" You set about preparing your breakfast, trying to ignore how much your eyes burn.

"Yes, darling. Someone, I won't name names, has destroyed a substantial portion of the keep," he looks at you pointedly and you try to dodge his gaze. "Now that you've had your rest, we need to pivot our expansion plans to be repair plans."

You nod, thinking of all of the other work you'd rather be doing. Work which Astarion likely shouldn't find out about. "Very well, I'll pull myself together. I just need some breakfast."

That's how, as much as the Bag of Holding burns at your side with the secrets it holds, you spend your day alongside Astarion.

The two of you continue with the same rapport you had yesterday, as you continue to try to ignore the thrills his touch sends up your spine. Despite your best efforts, you still find yourself flinching or jolting upward when his hand grazes yours. You would chalk it up to exhaustion, but it may just be your imagination working a bit too well with all of the new, salacious thoughts of Astarion you have at your disposal.

Astarion would have to be blind to miss your reactions to him. And, not one to miss out on an opportunity to tease, takes every opportunity to brush against you on ‘accident.’ Gods you wish you could go back to before his hands had touched every inch of your body.

All the same, the day is nice– normal even, for the two of you. His teasing keeps you awake despite your lack of sleep, and by the end of it, his hands begin to linger. If you didn’t know any better, you might think that he… likes touching you.

But you’ve already messed up enough this week, so you ignore the sensation and focus on your work.

You finish your work too late and too tired to begin studying the cipher just yet. You vow to wake up early tomorrow morning to memorize it.

At the start of your twenty-first day in Astarion's house, you wake with a jolt when you hear a pounding at your door.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you sit up and call, "Astarion?"

"We need to talk. Now," he says through the door. His words come clipped.

What's gone wrong?! You think in a panic, scrambling out of bed and running to the door. Could the spawn be under attack again?

You're disheveled and breathing in huffs when you make it to the door, fear already coursing through your body. However, when you open the door Astarion doesn't look worried, he looks mad.

"Astarion?" you ask again, confused as you try to understand what's happening. Something about the way he is looking at you has you taking a step back into the room, putting space between you.

"I received a message from Dal this morning," he says, placing a hand on the doorframe and staring you down.

Did something happen with the spawn? No, why does he look upset at… me? You're not sure what could have occurred, so you ask anyway, "Is something the matter?"

"DON'T," he starts, voice raising. He catches himself, continuing in the same tight voice once more, "Don't you dare play the fool with me. You had her Sending Stone last, I saw it when I was here the other day."

Oh gods , you think, realizing the implication of his words, the connection he's clearly already made. How could I have not considered that he would have noticed the stone? It had been right there.

When you don't respond immediately, Astarion lowers his voice, a deep, unsettling calm in his tone. “You spoke with Dal then?”

“... yes," you say, looking at him head on. You won't hide from it, and who knows? Perhaps, after all of this, Astarion will understand. You just need to be honest with him, get past the initial shock.

“I suppose it wasn’t a pleasant little chat about the weather," his words are biting, forced through teeth that are all but bared at you. "What in the hells did you speak to Dal for?”

The anger building in his voice is chilling, beyond just shock. Maybe you shouldn't have been so honest…

“Cat's got your tongue?" He releases the doorframe, leaning into the room further, but never stepping in. "Or was it about the same, silly. Little. Project that your soul can't seem to let lie?"

He punctuates each word with daggers, and you're nearly positive that there isn't any understanding to be gained here. If only you could get through to him.

Your words come out hurried, a flurry of anything you can think of to calm the situation. “Astarion, please listen. I promise that I'm not doing anything dangerous. And I understand the situation better now–”

“What did I tell you?” His voice is deadly as he cuts you off like a sharpened blade.

“You said I shouldn’t get up to anything with the spawn,” you repeat, before diving into your next slew of words. “But I thought that maybe– after we talked about it–”

“No!" he yells, taking a step toward you now. You can’t help the step you take back in response. "I told you because I wanted to be honest. I didn't want you to make the same mistakes as they did!”

“It's not a mistake," you start, pleading with him. "Not if it means that the spawn can–”

“ENOUGH!” he snaps. Even when he got mad at you for staying here or when he got mad at you in the Underdark, he’d never raised his voice like this. It was like a tidal wave had just crashed over you, leaving you soaked, pathetic, and small in its wake.

You freeze.

“I warned you.”

You can't speak, a lump catches in your throat as you try to take a breath.

“I gave you explicit boundaries and you crossed them.”

You wish you could say something, but there's nothing to argue with there.

"I held back my anger when you ignored me, followed me into danger. But this? This is too much."

"Astarion," you whisper, finding a small fraction of your voice. He's right, you've been defying his every wish since you set foot in his house. You’ve been nothing but a burden.

“I don't want anything more to do with you,” he growls, baring his teeth. “I should have known better.”

Your heart drops to the very pit of your stomach. This can't be it. Please don't let this be the end. “Please Astarion, let me explain.”

“No. This was a mistake,” he spits out. “Maybe you've always been a mistake, in your past-life and now. I was just too much of a love-struck fool to see it last time. I refuse to be made that fool again.”

“Astarion…” you whisper, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “They loved you so much. I–"

“What? Do you 'love' me?” Astarion asks, sneering at you with all of the contempt of centuries of pain. “No. You're just like them– as soon as another pitiful little case comes along you leave, off to greener, more pathetic pastures . What good is your help? Your love? It’s worthless when you’re nothing better than an idealistic hero.”

You thought the sharp stab of his rejection was painful, but the pain of his hatred is on another level entirely. You feel like you’re suffocating, trapped in a device of your own making. Because you can’t help who you are, what soul you now feel saddled with, any more than he can change you.

Perhaps he’s right, this was wrong in every single lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” is all that you manage in the face of the complete and utter desolation that is his rancor.

“It’s too late for apologies,” he says, tone icy. “I’m done.”

With that, Astarion turns away from you. You want to call out, reach for him, pull him into your arms. But it would be a mistake, just as you've been, as your time together has been, as your feelings have been.

It’s all you can do to watch him walk away, tugging at the painful chain wrapped around your heart with every single step.

The room begins to blur, and tears begin running down your face before you're ready for them. They pool in your eyes, stain your cheeks, run down your neck. You don't bother wiping them, because another torrent will simply replace them.

You drop to the floor in sheer defeat. What am I to do now?

Sobs shake your body, and you weep silently for some time before it all catches up to you. Your hands claw at the damnably familiar rug. You’re upset of course, but, gods, are you also angry. Why won’t he listen? Why does he refuse to try anymore? And why does he refuse to understand that this was all for him?

Because he didn’t ask for this help, your mind answers. Because he was happy, and you shattered that happiness. In your past-life and in your current one.

The thought only brings the tears down faster and you’re left a sodden mess. You cry until you don’t think you have any tears left to cry– it feels as though you’ve been wrung out and laid out to dry like an old rag.

You don't see or hear Astarion for the rest of the day, but you also don't venture out of your room. Like the despondent, broken hearted ghost you are, you spend the rest of the day laying on the couch, the floor, the bed– haunting each in a cycle of sheer misery.

You're dead on your feet when you lay down for an early reverie, but you still feel the need to document the week in your journal before you meditate. It's difficult to put your emotions into writing without starting the tears again, and the entry turns out rather pathetic compared to your two previous entries:

A lot happened this week. I think I love Astarion. I also don't think it matters anymore. I've ruined everything. He hates me now and yet somehow I wouldn't change a thing. I can’t leave these spawn to centuries more of pain and hunger. What am I even supposed to do?

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bg-brainrot · 1 month

Text

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 15: More than Friends Pt. 1

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, violence, some explicit content

WC: 8k words, 15/?? chapters

Summary: Push finally comes to shove. As fun as living in the present is, Astarion forgets that present dangers are still very, very real. Afterward, emotions run high, and you find yourself in a familiar predicament.

A/N: I know I put this warning in ch 1, but warning that the smut is always going to be more about their ~feelings~ than actual smut, so like, be forewarned and don’t expect too much 🔥!

Also: I never play wizards in real campaigns! I’m a filthy rogue-main and if I play a caster, it’s usually been for the roleplay of it all, so this Tav is not built optimally. They’re built for a chill life in Neverwinter with a few offensive spells. I’m also sticking to 5E rules for this (invisibility, spell prep) for the sake of story as well.

Ao3 | [Ch14][Ch16] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Since you rejected his advances a few nights ago, Astarion has been making an effort. You’re not entirely sure what the effort amounts to, but it’s an effort nonetheless.

At first you think it’s to get to know you better, understand who you are, as you asked him to. But surely it isn’t that. Something like that wouldn’t make you feel this uncomfortable.

“Oh darling, please let me embroider your robes. They’re simply not doing enough to flatter your alluring figure.”

“Simply exquisite. When you read by candlelight, your eyes shine brighter than even the most vivid moonstones.”

“Have I ever told you that your voice could lure a siren? No? Well, its dulcet tones make this dreadful work all worth the while.”

You think he’s… flirting? However, either he’s out of practice or you’re not an easy person to flirt with, because each time you’re left a bit confused and unsure how to react. Usually it ends with you changing the subject with an awkward chuckle and a thanks.

As the new week begins and you’re finding yourself inundated with these odd statements, you think this might actually be his attempt to get to know you better– he just hasn’t gotten close to someone in so long, it’s devolved into an awkward jumble of compliments.

So when you return from your start-of-week shopping trip to find Astarion waiting, arms crossed, expression irked, you suspect you know what it’s about.

“Why are you rebuffing my every attempt to converse with you?” His voice is annoyed and you try your best not to laugh, thinking of how long he might have been waiting for you in that very position. But you’d been expecting this, so you know better than to laugh.

“Astarion,” you start, putting your bags down. “Are you talking about your weird flattery?”

He all but sputters his next words, “‘Weird flattery’?!”

You nod. “How else am I supposed to take comments about my ‘dulcet tones’?”

As if just hearing these words for the first time, Astarion recoils a bit. “Well, when you say it…” he trails off a bit before continuing. “I’m just trying to open up a conversation, darling. Not all of us have your… knack for subtlety.” You ignore the insult, as it’s likely warranted anyway.

“Regardless, thank you for making an attempt,” you say, closing the distance between you. “It means a lot to me, even if it’s been, hmmm, odd.”

“Yes, well, I appreciate you saying so,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit. “Gods know I deserve more praise these days for how patient I’ve been.”

You laugh and respond with a matching levity, “Any more praise and your head shall be too big for your shoulders.” Then, you don’t know what compels you, whether it be the instincts of your former self or the strange lull of domesticity you’ve both fallen into in the past few weeks, but you peck a light kiss on his cheek.

Both of you freeze as the gesture catches up to you.

Your mind doesn’t freeze, however, already peppering you with all of the questions a situation like this warrants, Did that just happen? What have I done? Why did I do that?!

Your mouth catches back up to your mind next. “Oh gods, I'm so sorry, I just– my body moved on its own. I didn’t mean to do that.”

Astarion doesn't say anything, just stands there in shock. A slow motion brings his hand up to feel where your warm lips made contact on his cheek.

Your heart drops in your chest as you continue to spew words at him, "I keep messing up, I really am sorry.” Then, seeing that no ‘sorry’ is bringing him out of his stupor, you feel the need to explain further, "I just can't help it. It's like caring for you is instinctual. I know you don't care about me, but–"

"I do care about you. I think. Just not… the same," he says, interrupting your rampaging speech. "It’s just all a bit… confusing."

Your heart leaps in your chest at the glimpse of hope. "So you don't want me to crawl back to where I came from?"

"… no. I don't think I do," he responds, dropping his hand. He meets your eyes once more and his tone turns teasing. "And please do adjust your fantasies. I would be much more likely to recommend you take a trip to the hells."

You don’t speak for a bit, as you collect your weekly groceries, head to the kitchen and begin to sort them. Guilt still beats against your chest like a second heart and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to speak to him again. That is until Astarion jolts you out of your spiraling anxieties.

“Darling, are you going to pout all day?” he says, head resting on his palm while he watches you from the kitchen table. “While it was so very droll at first, I’m starting to feel like I live alone again.”

Right. He’s not the same Astarion you remember from your dreams. While the touch had been a surprise, he doesn’t seem angry or bothered by it in the slightest. He really does seem mostly amused– oh good, at least I’m a source of amusement to him.

So you try to let it go– the moment of weakness, of a habit that wasn’t even yours. That’s not to say that you let it go entirely though.

You apologize again. And again. And again. All throughout the day.

He says you don’t need to keep apologizing, but you do. You feel like you’ve crossed a boundary that wasn’t ready to be crossed. You’re so worried that this carefully crafted, all-too-delicate bond would break with a mere kiss on the cheek.

Astarion assures you, it didn’t bother him. He was simply a bit stunned. While he hasn’t remained celibate over the years, not many have dared to do as you had done. You, the intruder, had dared to kiss the sad, broken vampire’s cheek. He says it like a joke, and you wish you could laugh with him, but worry persists even after you manage a reluctant little chuckle.

And so the rest of the day remains tainted, all but ruined in your mind.

Despite this, the day does continue. You go through plans for an expansion to the colony, more room to allow the vampires a better life. You’re a bit more aware of his hands near yours, his head leaning toward you, but otherwise, you manage.

Towards the end of the day, Astarion receives a message on a Sending Stone from Dal. He doesn’t tell you the contents of the message, but the look on his face says it all: worry. As soon as the exchange is over, he gets up to leave. He refuses to elaborate beyond the fact that his siblings need him.

You nod, not questioning his concern. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No,” he says, lips pressed together firmly, broaching no room for discussion. “I need to go now. I should be back by morning. Remember what I asked you?” When your expression remains blank he continues, “Prepare a Mage Armour or another warding spell.”

“Okay,” you respond, and your own face is likely as worried as his is now. “Are you sure you don’t need my–”

He grabs your hand in a rush. “Stay put. Promise me.”

You’re not sure that you can promise that, especially if he’s entering a dangerous situation. But with the way his red eyes burn into you, you find yourself nodding again. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Tomorrow,” he confirms, releasing your hand and leaving. You’re left in a flurry of papers and growing unease.

On your sixteenth day in Astarion’s house, everything goes wrong.

He meets you in the morning, just as he promised, but after that, your day turns upside down entirely.

“Astarion?” you ask, when you open your door to his incessant knocks.

“Good,” he breathes. “You’re awake.”

You’d only just exited your reverie, but the look of sheer panic on his face means your remark dies in your throat. “What’s wrong?”

“Something came up,” he says before looking you up and down. “Get dressed and meet me in my room.”

Even on a regular day you would have listened, perhaps with a sly remark, but on a day like today, where his voice comes out short, clipped, and his jaw is clenched in a hard line? You comply with his orders like the model student you once were.

As soon as you’re ready for the day– in your best travel robe, Mage Armour cast, a variety of new spells prepared for the day– you head toward Astarion. You hope you won’t need the preparation, but with the way that Astarion’s shoulders were set, you suspect you might.

“Astarion?” you call, knocking on the door. “I’m here.”

He opens the door and you’re graced with a surprising amount of his bare chest. “Good,” he says, either not noticing or not caring about the blush that’s creeping up your neck and into your face. “I need your help.”

Finally, you think, brushing aside any feelings his bare body might stir within you. He trusts you and you this is your chance to prove yourself to him. You’re not sure with what yet, but what does it matter?

“Could you help me put on my armor?” he says, handing you a pile of leathers, straps, and buckles.

Oh.

“Of course,” you respond, working to lay out the armor. You vaguely recognize it, albeit with a few adjustments here and there. Different pauldrons, a few knicks marring its surface that weren’t there 150 years ago, but otherwise no worse for wear. “What else do you need help with?”

“Nothing else,” he says, pulling on a pair of boots you also recognize. “I simply don’t have the luxury of asking my siblings for help currently.”

You stop midway through sorting straps. “Okay, what’s going on Astarion? You can’t leave me in the dark like this.”

The vampire sighs, but lifts his head from his task to look you squarely in the face. “A group of hunters have found the colony. A few scouts found them on our trail last night. We’re preparing to defend it. It might be the biggest group we’ve seen… well, ever since we relocated.” He goes back to lacing his boots as he continues, “Nothing you need to worry about though. You will be staying right here, hiding.”

“Hiding ?” you ask, indignant. “Why would I be hiding when I can help?”

“Because,” he hisses, standing up and walking toward you like a panther. “We are frankly not in need of your help. We have our defensive plans set already, and I rather suspect you may do more harm than good.”

The words sting– largely because of the truth in them. Why should you enter the fray when you hadn’t been preparing to defend the colony? Did a few weeks of desk work amount to an honorary spot on the front lines? Still, the idea that this man– who you had already spent so much of your life with, who you had worked so hard to find– could be in danger? You could hardly sit by and twiddle your thumbs. So you begin your case.

“I may not be gifted in shaping my Evocation spells, but I have plenty of supportive spells,” you say, gesturing for Astarion to sit on his bed, the first undershirt for the armor ready in your hands. “I can create stone or relay messages for you. If none of that is helpful, I can always use Magic Missile– it wouldn’t get in your way at all. Please, let me help.”

Astarion sits there, silent, as you plead and place each piece of armor on his body. Partway through the process, you register that you’ve never done this before– but your memories of your past-life have guided you step-by-step.

You try to ignore the conflicting feelings bubbling up at that and focus on him, placing both hands on his now-armored shoulders. “Astarion, I won’t get in the way. I promise I will turn invisible or teleport out if anything goes wrong.”

Finally, he speaks again. “I appreciate that you care enough to help,” he starts, though he doesn’t sound like he appreciates it much. “But I’m afraid that you’re still not invited.”

You want to shake him, do something, anything to make him see you as an asset, an ally, someone he can trust with this. “But why not? Why teach me all of these things about the colony only to shut me out when it matters most?”

“Because this isn’t your responsibility!” he growls, glaring up at you through his lashes. “Because you are to remain here, stay safe, and live to see another day, despite all of your instincts to the contrary!”

His anger is palpable, pushing you back, off of him. You want to see the fear underneath his words, and you think you might get a glimpse. You want to understand where he’s coming from, to see yourself through his eyes. But all of that pales in comparison to the frustration building inside of you. Why won’t he take me seriously? “I can take care of myself!”

“I don’t have time for this,” he spits out as he stands up. “Shall I be brutally honest, darling? You’re too weak. You are not the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. And even if you were, I would tell you to stay here. ”

You know his words are meant to injure you, to deter you and keep you hidden away in this mansion, but they don’t hurt any less. You’re not sure what to say to him, can’t bring yourself to look at him as he storms out, toward the hidden entrance to the Underdark.

Just as he’s about to leave your periphery, into the illusory wall, he calls back. “I know you’re angry, but please, stay put. And if anyone other than myself or my siblings comes through that door, you leave.”

With that, Astarion is gone, body melting into the wall, leaving you standing in his room alone, emotions frayed and hands trembling with a silent rage.

You wait about thirty seconds before casting Invisibility on yourself.

You wait less than a minute after that to follow him.

He can treat me like a child all he wants, but I will make my own decisions. Even if those decisions involved diving head first into jeopardy. Watching him climb down the ladder, waiting for him to hit solid ground before you follow, you can't help but think back to your past week here. It had been lovely, born of a promise to forget the past and the spawn, focus on the present with him. But how unrealistic that truly was when faced with real danger.

So you trail him, careful to keep concentration on your invisibility, lest he catch you before you get to the colony. I’ll have to lose the invisibility sooner or later, you think. But I’d rather use it as an opportunity to attack.

You keep a distance between you through the field of Bibberbangs, on the walk toward the keep, but when you see Astarion dashing toward a small contingent, you begin to run after him.

Once you catch up to him, you notice the group appears to be comprised of most of his siblings. Out of arm's reach but well within earshot, you stay and listen to their conversation.

“Did we get a final count from the scouting party?” Astarion asks, and you see a tiefling, Aurelia you believe, step forward.

“A dozen at least, likely more. They’re organized, preparing to strike. Astarion, it’s not good,” she says. From your time with Astarion, you know that she’s been in charge of directing the scouting parties for at least a few decades.

Astarion grimaces but nods, turning to another sibling you recognize. “Leon, where do you need me?”

“The ambush point, if you’re ready. We need to head them off before they get any closer to the colony.” The man has been in charge of coordinating the various groups ever since your past-self died, and, from what you gathered, had grown into his leadership role well.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. What is our final count?”

Dal answers this one. “Our numbers haven’t improved much since last night. We only have about thirty in any real fighting shape. A few who are willing to fight if it means they feed, but none I would consider strong fighters. There are others on the ballistas ready for support fire though. Petras should be up there with them now.”

Astarion makes an annoyed sound. After helping him with colony logistics, you knew that their fighting numbers were low, too many had died in prior raids, too many had been without blood for too long, but you hadn’t expected it to get this bad. You half wonder if you would do better to offer your body up to them, rather than your magic.

You don’t have time to dwell on the idea before Astarion is asking his next question, “Very well. Violet is with the evacuees, I take it?”

Leon nods, and continues, “Yes. We’ve had more than enough time to evacuate the noncombatants. It’s now just a matter of keeping these hunters at bay.”

Astarion’s posture seems to loosen a bit at that, but not by much. You’ve not seen Astarion this serious since you were fighting a world-ending horror– and even then he had room for jokes. But clearly the man before you was different. Like he’d lost enough, and for the survival of his siblings, his family, he would do what needed to be done.

He turns to look down at his shortest sibling. “Yousen, come with me.”

The gnome gives a curt nod and pulls out his weapon. “After you.”

You’re torn at that moment. You want to follow Astarion, ensure that he remains safe above all else. But you also know that he would disapprove of you joining any type of ambush, that you may truly prove to be a distraction for him. Besides, what kind of wizard gets within stabbing distance?

So you watch him run off, Yousen in tow. As your heart sinks deep into the pits of your stomach, you wonder if the worry you feel is that of a friend. But you don’t have time to ponder anything as trite as your feelings for Astarion– you have to find a position that won’t hinder, somewhere you can help and show Astarion that you are capable of standing by his side. Metaphorically at the very least.

The rest of the siblings disperse after confirming their orders. Leon heads to the front of the keep, Aurelia returns to her scouts, and Dal seems to be heading somewhere secluded. From your dreams and learning of the colony, you know Dal to be a healer, so she ought to be heading somewhere away from the fight. You follow her.

Much as you suspected, she moves up into the battlement of the keep, close enough to provide support, but far enough to stay out of danger. Perfect, you think. You silently thank her, wishing you could send her a message without breaking your invisibility or chirp up without terrifying her. As it is, you have to take your time, wait for the perfect opportunity to be helpful.

The wait is excruciating. You may as well be in the Astral Plane for how little time seems to be moving.

A level below you, Petras and some spawn are preparing their ballistas. To your side, Dal sorts health potions, arranging ingredients to make more. All you can do is breathe as quietly as possible, rest your arms on the crenel before you, and hope that your spells will be able to reach.

It turns out that your hopes hardly matter in the face of real combat. One second you’re standing there, almost bored, and the next you spot Dalyria’s head pop up like a frightened rodent. “Petras! Take cover!” she yells.

Time seems to stop. You register that she’s diving into cover, that the sending stone she’d been holding had fallen to the ground, and that out of the corner of your eye a burst of bright light is rapidly approaching.

Crap.

You fall to the floor, hoping that will provide enough protection. Hoping, beyond all hope, that for some reason the Fireball will simply not hit you. Of course that’s not how magic works, you would know.

Only a split second later, the fiery burst explodes before you. You don’t even have time to feel fear or to react with a spell of your own. Luckily for you, the battlements provide some cover, and you manage to maintain concentration on your invisibility. But gods does it burn.

You can’t help the yelp that escapes your lips, and you note that Dalyria’s head turns toward you at the sound. She seems to have escaped the blast, hiding behind a wall, but you swear the expression on her face is more wounded than you are. The woman’s face is sad, it’s scared, and so tired.

You’re reminded of the dream you’d had, of your former-self helping to defend the vampire’s previous keep. After nearly three centuries of living in survival mode, the exhaustion in Dal’s eyes is warranted. Frankly, you don’t know if you would have the strength to last as long as she and the other spawn have. But, for at least today, you would muster it.

It’s easy enough to piece together what happened. Dal received a message from the scouts or from the frontlines, they were targeting the support lines, and you needed to get the hells out of these battlements.

You crawl forward, grabbing the Sending Stone before you make your way to Dal’s hiding spot. Making sure you’re out of swinging reach, you call to Dalyria, “Dal, it’s me.” She adjusts her gaze, honing in on where you are now. “I’m here to help.”

The woman nods, clearly too fueled by adrenaline to be shocked by your presence. “I knew you would come,” she says quickly. “Astarion is such an ass sometimes.”

While you agree with her, you decide not to comment on that. He had likely told them you were indisposed or didn’t want to be here, but you need her to know that that has never been the truth. “Of course I would come. Where do you need me?”

“Astarion said they’ve split their forces. The second group has a wizard, that’s where that Fireball came from,” she says, eyes darting back out to the rest of the keep, where the sounds of battle have begun to ring. “Do you have anything that could help neutralize their wizard?”

You think to yourself, wishing more than anything you had prepared the spell Silence. As it is, you have plenty of other, far less useful spells at your disposal. But you’re not about to tell Dal that, not when she’s looking in your vague direction with a set of hopeful, pleading red eyes. Eyes that remind you of the vampire who is also in danger at this very moment.

So you sound far more confident than you feel when you say, “Certainly, I’ll head there immediately.”

Before you go, you try to give her the Sending Stone back, in the event she needs to communicate with Astarion. She pushes the rock back into your invisible hand with a shake of her head. “No, no, you’ll be out there. You need this more than I do. Astarion has the matching stone, call for him if you need help.”

You decide not to tell her that Astarion might just kill you himself if he hears your voice through the stone, and instead thank her, pocketing the stone. “Stay safe,” you say as you hurry toward the stairs once more.

“You too,” she calls after you.

Then you’re running down the stairs, two at a time, no longer caring who might hear your invisible steps. After all, the din of combat is drowning out everything else. A few Fireballs hit the battlements you’d just left and you hear the following cries of those on the ballistas. You had known that fighting would be loud, scary, dangerous–but gods did you still miss the comfort of knowing that at the end of it all you would wake up, untouched.

You don’t know where to go or how to get there, so you find your feet moving on instinct, toward all of the sounds that should terrify you.

Once you’re finally in the fray, you see the two groups, as Dal had described. The group at the mouth of the keep is being held at bay by Leon and his forces, and you can see Astarion’s group dropping behind, preparing for another sneak attack. You hug a wall to get closer to the second group, all the while watching Astarion’s lithe form move in on an enemy.

You can’t help but be in awe at seeing the man in his element.

Armor hugging his body, knives gleaming in his hands, he looks every bit the dangerous, roguish vampire he was when you first dreamt of him. The difference is that now, instead of fear, you feel an odd sense of pride. That’s right, you think. Stab him again!

But you can’t let him distract you, you’re nearly to the second group of hunters. There are at least six to your quick count, each looking as nasty and well equipped as the last. Now that you’re close you can see the wizard, standing in the back, already preparing another spell.

Again, you curse yourself. Why didn’t you prepare Counterspell, you idiot? It’s too late for regrets though, you’d had no idea what you might be getting into when you arose that morning. All you could do was work with what information you had.

Despite all of your memories, nothing can prepare you for this moment, when you finally, truly enter a combat situation. Your mind races with possibilities, and you’re struck by the fact that none of them are the right solution. There is no right solution to a battle.

So you go with your instinct.

You run forward, directly in front of the wizard’s line of sight. At the end of your run you slide to the earth, landing a mere few feet away from the group in front of you as you place both palms on the ground.

The invisibility drops as you recite the incantation for Stone Shape and the earth beneath you bursts forth into a large stone wall, at least five feet tall, another five feet wide. It leaves a crater in its wake, pulling from the ground to materialize.

It seems to form just in time as the heat of a Fireball collides with the wall, flames burst out of both sides. Excitement surges through you as you realize your plan worked. You hear shouts behind the wall, the vampire hunters eating a face full of their own fire.

You remain on the ground, now visible, sure that the group on the other side is still alive if their shouts are any indication. Oh this isn’t a good place to be, you think belatedly.

It certainly isn’t, as you hear the hunters make their way around the brand new trench in the ground. I need to get out of here . “Inveniam viam!” Your whole body turns to mist as you step further back into the keep, still feeling naked in how visible you are.

You take a single moment to assess the situation. The hunters have gotten around the wall, though if their singed armor is any indication, the Fireball certainly helped weaken them. The mage seems no worse for wear, too far back to truly be hurt, but their eyes are now trained on you.

There goes my element of surprise, you think. And they probably did prepare Counterspell…

You try not to think too hard about how disastrous this wizard-on-wizard battle may prove, trying instead to find which group you may be able to support. That’s when you lock eyes with the exact pair of red eyes you had been dreading this entire time.

You’re too far to hear him, but it's easy enough to see his lips mouth your name. He looks angry, angrier perhaps than you’ve ever seen him, and his next stab seems particularly erratic.

Oh gods, he’s going to get hurt if I distract him too much, you think in a panic. I need to get out of here, give him a chance to calm down.

“Evanesco!” you call, trying to call forth the magic for Invisibility once more. But of course, you wouldn’t get the chance to try the same trick twice.

You feel the Counterspell more than see or hear it. It’s like your body rejects the magic as it tries to come out, and you’re left awkwardly standing there as the group of hunters close in on your position. Shit.

For the first time in your life you feel it for yourself: real, unfiltered fear.

You had always been horrified at this possibility. That when faced with actual danger, you would not rise to the occasion. But now that you’re here, you want to smack your legs, you want to jostle your own shoulders, push yourself into the action that you had craved.

RUN, damn you, you think, willing your shaking legs to move. All of those dreams of combat, of fighting by Astarion’s side, could all come true right now if you just moved.

Then you hear a cry.

It’s not bloodcurdling, it’s not particularly painful, rather a soft “argh” coming from the man you’d stupidly followed into danger. He’d been reckless, gotten himself nicked in his fury. But it’s all you need to jolt into action.

You’d promised Astarion that you wouldn’t cause any undue damage, no Evocation in the house and what not. But all of your promises were tossed aside the second he uttered a single pained sound.

Holding out a hand, you call out your most destructive spell.

You can feel the mage try to Counterspell you once more, as your magic wavers ever so slightly. But his attempt fails and a massive wall of fire rips out of the ground, like the hells themselves have torn the earth asunder.

You’d controlled yourself well enough, and you’re almost certain you haven’t trapped any unsuspecting vampire spawn in a fiery blaze. The hunters, on the other hand, were not nearly so lucky. They’d been approaching you in such a way that they all got caught in the Wall of Fire, all save that damn wizard.

Their cries are high-pitched, desperate things, as they run through the wall, stumbling toward you like some sort of twisted Fire Elementals. They refuse to go down without a fight.

Your legs stumble back, as you narrowly avoid a few of their attacks, one glances off your Mage Armour, another catches your robe, leaving a single bleeding line on your arm. You’re not sure how readily they will fall, but you certainly won’t let them take you with them.

“Tormentum!” you shout, as a stream of glowing darts shoot out of your fingers. You strike each of them as you pour more and more of your magic into the spell. Distantly, you can hear Astarion calling for you.

With your unoccupied hand you grab the Sending Stone, “Don’t come for me. I’m fine.”

His response is immediate, “Like hells I will, you bloody fool!”

You don’t have the wherewithal to know where Astarion might be at this point, but when a single blade bursts out of a man’s neck, you suspect that you have a good idea. A second later a second man collapses, clutching at a dagger twisting between his ribs.

Astarion stands behind them, silver hair streaked with bloody red strands, his face dappled with scarlet as well. He may be stabbing them, but his eyes are trained on you, fury not diminished in the slightest.

You want to thank him, tell him you didn’t need the help, appreciate that he’s still alive, standing in front of you. But you can’t because another spell is being fired at you– the wizard’s Magic Missile is about to hit when you reflexively put up a Shield spell.

Turning back to the damnable wizard, you call to Astarion, “Yell at me all you want later. Focus on the wizard!”

“That’s probably what they’re saying,” he retorts, but does dutifully turn his attention to the mage.

As he runs and vaults through the wall of fire, landing behind the stone you shaped. All the while, you shoot off a returning volley of missiles, hitting the remaining hunters and the mage in an attempt to provide cover.

You wish you had more in you, could summon another blazing wall right on top of the enemy wizard, but you’re reaching your limit. You can feel your magic waning– you likely only have a few spells left in you. Better make them count.

You shoot one last magic missile, assuring that the hunters in front of you are well and done. As you do so, Astarion reaches the mage, stabbing at them in two fluid motions. You see the mage Shield in response, hear Astarion’s annoyed grunt.

I need to give him an opening, you think. You’re growing lightheaded from overexertion, and you can barely feel the Weave as you try to summon your next spell. “Non movere,” you whisper, pointing a finger at the mage.

The spell overcomes them and the mage is frozen in place. Astarion takes prompt advantage of the Hold Person, stabbing him in several vital areas, likely killing him in place.

Fantastic, you think, swaying on your feet as your knees start to give out from under you. The world fades to black as the magic dissipates from your fingertip. The last thing you see is Astarion’s panicked face, slowly drifting out of your view as your body collapses.

___

You can’t recall the start of your seventeenth day in Astarion’s house. At least, most of it.

Everything aches, you hear voices, you feel healing magic, but your mind retains nothing as you slip in and out of consciousness over and over again. The only things you can recall are the sensation of sheets surrounding you, pillows beneath your head and the whisper of your name on Astarion’s lips.

You’re an elf– this kind of sleep is unnatural to you. Could you be dying? You have a moment of panic during a short burst of clarity, Am I already dead? Is this it? But you fall back into the darkness before the thought can take hold.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity in a ceaseless cycle of consciousness and unconsciousness, you open your eyes to the back of a familiar silver-haired vampire tending the fireplace. He’s dressed once more in his comfortable, luxurious attire, and you briefly wonder if the previous day had been a dream.

You blink, confused at the sudden change in environment. The last thing you remember was letting loose your spell then– well, you suppose you don’t know what happened next.

“Oh good,” Astarion says, walking toward you and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re awake." Distantly, you remember him waking you up just yesterday with those words. Feels like a lifetime ago now.

You sit up, a bit groggily, stretching out your limbs. They all seem intact, and you don’t even feel injured, all of your aches magically gone. “I am– is everyone alright? What… happened?”

“Everyone is fine. Well, save for the vampire hunters,” he answers. “Your destructive little wall kept them from getting too far. Nothing a few nights of healing and some rebuilding won’t fix.”

Your whole body aches from disuse and you wonder how long you must have been resting. Likely longer than you ever have before. “What time is it?”

“It’s late,” he replies, gesturing toward the darkness outside. “Dal’s been tending to your injuries, and luckily they’re minor, but you still needed the rest. Seems like you used more magic than you were used to, mm?”

His words chastise you, but the look on his face is so muted, his posture incredibly stilted– you have a momentary alarm. Is this really Astarion? “I must have. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, crossing his legs and turning away from you.

It’s hard to believe him when he reacts like that. “You don’t seem fine.”

“I just…” He takes a breath, and you can see the way his back rises and falls with a tremble. “I was worried.”

“About… me?” you hazard the question. You know you’d grown closer in the last few weeks, but you also don’t want to presume.

Now he turns back to you with a glare, his red eyes sparkling with rage. “Yes, you! For being a wizard, you’re such a gods-forsaken dunce. I told you not to join us and did you even pretend to listen?”

You had not, so you bear the brunt of his anger with what you hope is grace. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, genuinely apologetic despite your initial gusto at joining the fray. You’d felt the fear in those moments, the first time in your life that this body, that you could have genuinely died. You’re not too proud to say that you hated that fear. “I just wanted to help.”

“That’s always the case with people like you, isn’t it?” he says, leaning toward you menacingly. “Always playing the hero and neglecting to even consider the danger they put themselves in? Did you never once consider that I was trying to keep you safe?”

Every word brought Astarion closer and closer into your space, and you start to sink back into the pillows to get away from his fury. “I know you were,” you say, voice still naught but a wisp. “I tried to be careful.” You had, you swear you had– why does it look like that doesn’t matter to him?

“Careful isn't good enough,” he hisses, his face mere inches from yours now. You can feel the next breath he exhales as he continues, calmer now, “I told you already. I refuse to get attached to you only to lose you.”

Is he attached to me? you think, eyes darting between his ruby ones. He’s dangerously close to you and he’s waiting for something. Your response, you idiot. You think back to what he said, trying to ignore the way his body is angled over yours. “I promise. You won’t lose me.”

An impossible promise to keep, surely. But it’s exactly what he’d been hoping to hear.

“Good,” he murmurs. Then he closes the distance between you, crashing his lips on yours in a desperation you thought reserved for the starving.

You should pull away, push him off of you, at the very least protest. But after a life or death situation, you can’t help it. Something in you wants the very same solace he seeks. So you close your eyes. You twine your fingers into his hair. You press your lips to his in the same ravenous fervor.

He drinks in your reaction, lips chasing yours as cages you in with his arms. A moment later, you feel the blankets that had so carefully been tucked around you tossed aside, you feel one of his hands find your hip.

Oh gods, what am I doing? I can’t do this. Your mind is racing, trying its best to keep up as Astarion climbs over you.

Why not, you’ve done this so many times in your dreams. Your hands move of their own accord, leaving his hair to run down his arms.

We're not ready, you tell yourself. Astarion shivers at your touch and you feel his hands pulling at the neck of your robe to expose more of your flesh.

Will you ever be? Your head rolls back and Astarion dips his head down to touch his cold lips to your collarbone.

Maybe, given some more time… His fingers pull at the front ties of your robe, as you begin to unbutton his silk shirt.

What's the use of more time? You could have died yesterday. You could die any day. Ties undone, Astarion tugs at your robes a bit more, leaving your chest exposed.

I don't want to ruin this. Your breathing comes out a bit erratic as his lips trail up your neck, sucking hungrily but never drawing any blood.

What's one night of passion? Your past-self had this and more before they so much as spoke a single word of love. Your hands tug at his sleeves, all but tearing off his delicate shirt in an effort to touch more of him.

I'm not them, you think. Halfway through stroking his exposed chest, Astarion’s hand catches yours, pinning it above your head as he pulls you into another searing kiss.

You may as well be. His hand in yours, the way his leg presses into you– it all feels so familiar. So what's the harm in being the Hero of Baldur's Gate? Just this once?

That’s how, after years of silently judging your past-self for their loveless trysts with Astarion, you find yourself in much the same predicament. Only you’re not sure how you feel. You only know that there’s no way that this man, who’s driving force right now is likely fear, will love you come morning.

Who cares? the deepest, most primal part of your mind asks.

As Astarion finishes disrobing you, you wonder vaguely if this is what the hero felt. If near death had brought them to the brink of a terror that they couldn’t overcome, a terror that only Astarion’s cold lips, slick tongue, and nimble fingers would fix.

And by the gods above do they feel like the solution to even the most complex of problems.

His lips suckle at the ridge of your ear, sucking on its tip in such a way that draws a soft, unintentional whimper from your mouth. "Oh darling," he whispers, voice low and taunting. "I knew those dulcet tones would be my undoing.”

You want to retort, to shut his clever mouth up, but before you can so much as collect yourself, his lips are on yours again, opening them in a single, languid movement. His tongue, like the rest of him, is chill to the touch, a refreshing burst of cold as he explores your mouth.

Complaints all but forgotten, you relinquish yourself to him. His fingers leave you squirming under him as he traces the lines of your bare body. They never seem to stop moving, searching for each new piece of your skin that requires attention.

And sweet hells is he relentless in his search. Even if you didn't already know of his vast experience, this would have been a clear indicator. His probing fingers know how to play a body like an instrument, and he was tuning yours to play only the loveliest melody for him.

Astarion finally pulls his hands, his lips away. You want to groan in protest, but you’re enraptured by the stretch of his torso, the way his shoulders flex as he removes the last remnants of his clothing. His form laid bare before you, you can’t help but think that surely you’re paying witness to another’s lurid fantasy. Surely this beautiful figure bathed in firelight, celestial in his loveliness, could not be for you?

But he is, if for the moment.

Even if his movements are too perfect, his kisses too sweet– he feels real in the moment, simply because the sheer desperation never leaves him. His hands squeeze, his teeth bite, his words of passion come hurried and breathy between nips. It's abundantly clear what his goal is to you, as it’s similar to your own. He wants to feel you under him, around him, alive. You’re only too happy to oblige.

So you ensure that each of his movements is matched with one of yours. That when he bites, you lean into it; when his fingers probe between your legs, you buck into him; when he chuckles into your ear 'my, you're an eager little treat', you moan his name into his ear without shame.

You'd been with Astarion in more dreams than you would have been comfortable to admit. But, as with every experience you'd had since arriving here, it was nothing compared to living through it with your own body.

It’s not long before you realize that this body feels each touch differently, its sweet spots new treasure troves for Astarion's searching fingers– ones he seems eager to find for you as new indecent sounds pass your lips.

He seems to devour each sound, eager to consume any bit of you that’s ripe for the taking. That’s when you see past his need to feel you alive. No, he wants you to be his. He wants your noises, your body, your soul for his own.

As he expertly strokes between your legs with one hand, the other squeezes your hip, all but pinning you to the bed. In that moment, it doesn’t feel like he’s loving you. It feels like he’s keeping you in place. Like he doesn’t know how else to make sure that you won’t slip through his fingers, like your past-self before you.

You wish you could reassure him, tell him that you would never make the same mistake twice, but both of you know that’s not true. So instead you allow yourself to delude yourself, for at least this one night.

His body asks the question, “Will you really, truly stay with me, live for me?”

Yours responds with a sonorous, deceitful, “Yes.”

Astarion rubs his length between your thighs, almost teasing in its slow, rolling motion, but his hand never leaves your hip.

He palms himself with one hand, ready for you, but the other never leaves your hip.

Even as he thrusts into you, setting a brutal, punishing pace, his hand never leaves your hip.

It doesn’t bother you, this constant reassurance, but it does stoke the fear that already grips your heart. Despite the kisses he lavishes upon you, despite the sweet words that drip from his mouth to yours– you can’t stop thinking about the fact that you could have died. You could very well have left Astarion alone, again, wondering why he ever let another into his life.

Something about that thought pushes you forward to seek your pleasure, to give him every piece of you that you can, lest you lose it by tomorrow.

You don’t know how many times you lose yourselves in each other. By the end of it all, it all feels like another one of your dreams. But you do know that, for the first time since you regained consciousness, you don’t feel that fear any more– only his body, your own, and the beautiful music that they play together.

The night ends with both of you exhausted, laying on your backs and staring up at the ceiling to the room you used to call your own in a past-life. After two days of some of the most you’ve ever exerted yourself, your nightly meditation comes all too easily. Before you slip into your reverie, your last, fleeting thought is of Astarion: I don’t know how we got here, I don’t suppose it truly matters. But thank you for caring about me, in whatever way you can.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 3: What it Means to Love

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence

WC: 2.9k words, 3/?? chapters

Summary: Now 29, you're still trying to piece together parts of your past. In particular, what exactly was your relationship with Astarion?

A/N: Spoilers for the Pale-Elf quest end, also an fyi that I didn’t want to just retell the quest, so it focuses a lot more on present-tav looking-in.

Ao3 | [Ch2][Ch4] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

Despite your best judgments, you’ve begun acting against your parent’s advice. They’ve told you on more than one occasion, learning too much of your previous lives can lead to heartbreak, to suffering. It can affect the course of your current life in ways that you won’t understand until it’s far too late.

You’d listened for a few good years, of course. But every time you enter a trance into one particular past life, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to it. The previous life in question is, of course, the one where you met Astarion, the silver-haired vampire. So you caved and did what you find easiest in this life: cracked open a book.

General information was surprisingly easy to come by, as you were apparently incredibly famous– saved-the-realm famous.

After finding this out, you’ve taken to calling this life the Hero’s life. You had, allegedly, saved the city of Baldur’s Gate almost two and a half centuries ago, alongside the companions that appear in your memories. Even Astarion, with his snark and sass, seemed to be part of the credited heroes.

As for the vampire in question, that man wouldn’t leave your waking or trancing thoughts, no matter how hard you tried. You’re not sure if you find his persistent appearances annoying or endearing at this point.

You’ve learned a lot about him over the years. Useless facts, like his favorite poetry, his love of embroidery, his preferred wine. One night you spend all four hours of your reverie quietly sitting next to him, tending to your weapons. Every once in a while you’ll think, Surely, there can’t be any more memories with this man? But somehow he will always appear to you again a few nights later.

What bothers you is that so many of them are aimless and mundane, joking, traveling, sitting together. They aren’t helpful, which frustrates you endlessly. The point of your reveries is to help you live your new life, and you’re simply not seeing how these fit in. They certainly feel out of place given the other things you’ve learned of that particular life– the dangers that seemed to lurk behind every corner, the constant feeling of a life on the edge of death.

You also find that, no matter how many times you meet him, spend time with him, you are never certain: were you in love?

It’s a question you aren’t really equipped to answer. You don't suppose you've ever been in love before, and at 29 years of age, it seems a bit too early in your long-lived life to bother. What you do know is that second memory in the woods, it was not love.

It all feels so ludicrously fake until a few moments begin to change your mind. Once, he cries your name, charging into combat to save you. Another night, he quietly holds your hand, surrounded by a world shrouded in shadow. A separate encounter, you expect things to escalate to another desperate attempt to get lost in each other, but instead you lay down together, entering your reveries side-by-side. After these moments, the memories feel like they take a turn: all lingering looks, soft touches and, above all else, real, genuine conversations.

After a while, you’d learned of his time as a vampire spawn under a cruel master. You’d learned of his scars, his family, and his hopes and desires. Seeing the man behind the smile felt like a sucker punch to the gut, to both you and your past-self.

For your past-self’s part, you see them open up around him– certainly more than they have in any other memories. As a result, you learn more about them than ever. They tell him their worries: about facing an incredible evil, about not making it out of the whole ordeal alive. They’re a relatively young elf, they still have so much life ahead of them, and apparently this is all being ruined by a worm in their brain.

As if they didn’t have enough to worry about with that looming over them, each of their companions seems to have their own troubles that seemed to need your attention. You only live their life a few hours every week, and you can’t imagine bearing the burdens that they do– it’s clear that you possessed a strength you can only dream of now. They seem willing to make any number of sacrifices for these people and it makes you feel strikingly inadequate, easily overshadowed by their spirit. If I’d lived through their hardships, you think. Would I be this strong?

After a time, your trances surrounding Astarion turn to more concerning subjects– of devils and profane rituals, of the truth behind the machinations of Astarion’s master, Cazador. Gods, you hate Cazador. Everything you’d learned of that man made you want to meet him and give him his comeuppance. You hope at the very least that your past-self ensured he died without mercy, that the man’s wicked life finally caught up to him.

Tonight, you get your wish.

When your eyes open in your former self’s body, the first thing you notice is Astarion. The pale elf is ahead of you, his back turned, hands clenched in fists at his sides.

The second thing you notice is the amount of worry you feel. Your past-self seems frozen in place with it, and you can feel your body barely resisting the call to jump into action. Not sure what you’re witnessing, you wonder if you’ve stumbled into a lover’s quarrel.

Then you hear his voice. “Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?”

You’re certain that the instinctual rage you feel at that voice is something that defies lifetimes. Your past-self is brimming with it, their blood pumping in their ears as they watch the scene unfold before them.

Distantly you register him goading Astarion, Astarion responding with a fury matching your own. Despite the anger burning in both of your bodies, through your very soul, you can’t help but look at the man and balk. Wait, is that him? you think. That’s Cazador? He looks pathetic.

He looks like nothing more than a sniveling aristocrat, a dime a dozen in large cities like Neverwinter. You wish you could take control of your memories and tell him as such. Perhaps you’d spoil his outfit and sneer at him or ruin his standing among the rest of the nobility. More permanently, you’d like you just rain sunlight on him and watch him burn. Unfortunately, you’re only along for the journey, so you watch as your past-self and Astarion confront the man.

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts,” the man says, his words harsh, his tone belittling. It reminds you of one of your old Evocation teachers. He’d act mighty, tell you all that he’d done for you, then leave you to the wolves come examinations. That man ended up blown to bits in a miscast spell, and you hope you’re about to see a similar fate befall this vampire.

You’re in the midst of your musings when the pale elf recaptures your attention. Astarion’s response is passionate, holding the unfettered hatred of two centuries of torment, “NO. No. Fuck you. And fuck everything you’ve ever done to me!”

The words snap you out of your own thoughts, forcing you to focus on the scene before you. This isn’t for your enjoyment, and the villain isn't here to give you failing marks. Cazador is far crueler than any man you’ve met in your entire waking existence and this is a life or death situation. You suddenly feel so small in the middle of this, woefully out of your depth.

Your past-self is more than prepared for the situation though. They say that you’ll make the man pay, and their voice is colored with a righteous fury that you can only feel second-hand. Your own anger seems petty in comparison.

“I will not speak to cattle. This is between me and the boy.” Cazador sneers as he dismisses your words.

“You son of a bitch!”

Then Astarion is charging at him, your arm is outstretched as if to stop him, but he’s long gone and your fingers grasp at nothing. Dread fills you as you see Cazador stop him in his tracks, a glowing red magic emanates from his staff.

Cazador spits more venomous words at Astarion, all the while bathed in the red glow of the ancient ritual. You can feel your body straining against every impulse to rush forward and attack the vampire lord where he stands. But they hold back, and you can sense that it comes out of concern for Astarion– an odd reasoning in your mind. Surely Astarion would want you to focus on killing Cazador.

Before your past-self decides on a course of action, Astarion is being flung, tossed like a ragdoll across the cavernous room that Cazador calls his lair. You watch, helpless, as magic envelopes him, stripping him down to be a mere component for the ritual.

“No! Stop him! Get me out of this!” you hear Astarion shout.

He’s about as far away from you as the ritual circle will allow, trapped by a flick of a madman’s wrist. So you’re surprised to feel a calmness come over you as your past-self assesses the situation. You’re not privy to their thoughts or considerations, but, having seen so much of their past now, you’re reassured that they will get out of this alive and well. Hopefully with Astarion in tow.

Cazador either doesn’t care about your calm confidence or is simply too self-absorbed to notice. He raises his arms in triumph before beginning the profane ritual, “Witness the birth of the Vampire Ascendent! Ecce dominus!”

All hells break loose as the pact magic of Mephistopheles binds each of Cazador’s sacrifices to sigils on the floor. Several creatures of the night come forth, ready to do the vampire lord’s bidding. Werewolves bear their teeth at you, bats fly up onto the platform, and ghouls flank Cazador on either side. It’s a frightening sight to you, and unlike anything else you’ve witnessed in your memories or life. For once, you’re glad you’re not in control, because you’re not certain your legs would be willing to move.

Defying all logic, the first thing your past-self does is run for Astarion. Past each and every one of these creatures, past Cazador himself– they sprint like there’s no one else in the entire world. Perhaps to them there isn’t. Because you feel it now. You feel adrenaline, panic, fear, but, smothering all the rest with its strength, is pure love.

You hadn’t known what it might feel like, but now that it hits you like a wild Bulette, you can recognize it clearly. It had been there in those small moments, an underlying feeling that never quite reached the surface. Looking back, it’s almost as if your past-self had been trying to stifle it, an unruly bud of emotion that couldn’t be trusted in their fight for survival. Here, faced with the possibility of losing Astarion, there was no use in trying to hold back the flood. And there is no possibility of them leaving this place without him.

“Astarion!” they call out once they reach him. He’s bound by those same red bindings that Cazador used earlier, floating above you.

“Help me!” he cries, and the desperation in his voice is piercing. Your eyes look back and forth, inspecting his restraints in seconds, before you simply grab him and pull.

It’s not the most elegant solution, but it certainly is effective. Astarion falls atop you, and you distantly hear Cazador’s angry shouts. It hardly matters to you now. “Are you alright?” you hear yourself ask him, relief and concern fighting for precedence.

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” he says, lifting himself off the ground. He looks at you, red eyes filled with determination, and your relief wins out. “Let’s go stab that bastard.”

The rest of your reverie is spent in grueling combat. You feel your past-self fight to their limits, fueled by equal parts anger and love. You’ve learned plenty from them in terms of how to fight and what a real fight feels like. But this? This was revenge. It was messy, it was brutal, and it filled you with an odd sense of awe.

After Astarion deals Cazador a near-lethal blow, you think to yourself, thank the gods, it’s over. You reverie didn’t end though, because it was anything but over. Cazador hid into his damnable coffin, Astarion followed, and you watched.

Watched as Astarion tore Cazador out of hiding, threatened him with his own blade, taunted him with his own ritual. Watched as your past-self pleaded with him, tried to assure him that he didn’t need to sacrifice anything to be worthy. Watched as Astarion tried to convince you that this was necessary to be truly free of Cazador.

You could feel your past-self’s emotions, tumultuous as they are, settle on understanding. You don’t understand– how could you, ill-equipped as you are– but you’re glad that they do. They reason with him, try to persuade him to give up on the ritual as only they know how.

Both of you breathe a sigh of relief as he says, “You… you’re right. I can be better than him. But I'm not above enjoying this.”

Then a torrent of emotions you hadn’t realized were being held back finally burst through the dam. As Astarion stabbed Cazador, delivering blow after blow, you felt sorrow, comfort, joy, sympathy… pain. The pale elf cries, knelt before his former master, your former-self weeps with him.

You wake up in tears. You’d been looking forward to Cazador’s demise, but something about it leaves you feeling hollow. You’re exhausted by how utterly out of your depth you had been. It was every bit of your energy to hold on to the memory and bear it witness, all you could do to try to comprehend the hurt that Astarion felt.

Despite being out of your reverie, a deep pain in your chest remains. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this before, but you’re nearly certain that this is what heartbreak feels like. It’s almost as if his pain was your pain. Seeing him break down like that was akin to you breaking down, and even now, the tears keep spilling.

You don’t like to admit when you’re wrong, and you’d like to believe that that happens rarely enough that it doesn’t matter. However when it comes to this man, you might need to admit that you didn’t always have enough context to make judgements.

Now that you do, you understand your past-self more than you expect. They were willing to sacrifice anything for him, put their life on the line for him. Something about Astarion makes your heart race, your mind spin, and your very soul weep. What it is about him hardly matters, what matters is that your past-self is trying to push you toward him and for the first time, you think you’d like to listen.

You’d like to begin even more extensive research. This time not about who you were, but about what happened after the events at Baldur’s Gate– More importantly, what became of Astarion after this. You’re too far from Baldur’s Gate to properly investigate or understand what’s mere myth or actual history, however you do know that, as a vampire, he wouldn’t die of natural causes. You’ve yet to dream of his death, so he could very well still be alive.

I should at the very least find out what happened to him, you think. Another, more sensible side of you thinks, Wait. You don’t even know how this life ended. Things could have ended poorly between you, he may even have killed you himself.

Even if you did find him, even if he did love your past-self, you also know that it’s not you who he knows or would care to see. Despite all of that logic, a dangerous, near-taboo thought comes to you, Should I just go find him?

You’re still young though and you understand that this is likely a foolhardy idea– that the exact thing that your parents have warned you against is happening right now. So you decide to consult with them before you make any decisions.

They indulge you a bit, willing to help you with some research, encouraging you to maybe even write a letter if you find the right words. However, they come with a clear warning: no good will come of it if you meet with anyone from a former life. You’re not the same person. It’s been decades, maybe centuries since they’ve last seen you, and they may not be the same person they once were. Don’t ruin your current life by chasing a previous one. Don’t go to Baldur’s Gate.

You nod, figuring that they’re correct. They have centuries of experience, seen countless elves go through what you’re going through. This is only sound, mature advice. That advice carries you for quite a while, staying your hand when you go to practice a divination spell or when you think to seek a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate.

However, after decades and decades of dreaming of this man, you find your will wavering, crumbling into dust. One reverie in your 99th year of life finally breaks through the last of your resistance.

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bg-brainrot · 2 months

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WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 7: Just One Night

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, angry Astarion, threats

WC: 3k words, 7/?? chapters

Summary: You plead your case to the vampire.

Ao3 | [Ch6][Ch8] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You idiot. How could you be so dense? How in the hells is 'You're the man from my dreams' the right sentence to spout when meeting the man whose very existence makes your soul sing? This might be worse than your previous life. You may as well send your soul back to meet Corellon for all the good it's doing, but no. You can salvage this. You take a deep breath.

Another few knocks on the door.

You don't hear anything from the other side for a second or two, but the door swings back open in another breath. "What about 'not interested' did you not understand?" Astarion’s tone seems to be growing angry now, and you recall a memory with a vile drow woman, how important saying ‘no’ was to him. You don’t want to push this, and you know that this is different. You just need to be yourself and help him understand.

“I know you’re not interested, and I’m sorry that this is abrupt,” you start, holding up your hands in a show of peace.“But I’m an elf!” You say, as if that were an explanation.

He clicks his tongue at you. "That you are. The pointy ears rather gave it away I'm afraid."

"I mean," you start, shooting him an annoyed look. How in the hells did your previous self deal with his attitude. "I have an elf's soul. I know it's hard to believe, but I've been dreaming about you since I was young. Hence the– erm, rather odd introduction. In my previous life… I was the hero of Baldur's Gate."

Astarion all but laughs in your face. "My what an original idea you have. Must have earned yourself a pat on the back for that one."

“I… don’t know what you mean by that.” Your tone is cautious, sensing that his hostility is not improving by any means. “But, please let me prove it to you.”

“No need,” he responds easily, waving a hand at you dismissively. “If you’re here on that premise, I know what it is that you want.”

Your brows furrow– the words should make you feel better, if he truly understands. But it just fills you with a bit of dread. “You do?”

“Of course,” he says, flashing you a fanged smile. “I should have assumed, night has fallen, you’ve done your research. You’re here for a vampire.”

You blink at this, unsure what he means. “I did do research, but I’m not sure what–”

The man holds up a hand to stop you. "Are you here for a nibble or aren't you? I haven't got all day.” He crosses his arms and taps a single slippered foot on the floor impatiently.

Oh, no. He thinks you’re here to offer him blood? Or sex. You’re not sure which is worse.

"Gods below, none of this is going to plan," you mumble, putting a hand to your head in frustration. Halsin had been entirely too optimistic, and 'eccentric'? Eccentric was certainly not the way to describe it – more like a closed off, standoffish, arrogant man. You suddenly realize how woefully unequipped you are to handle this man. “I’m not here to–to be a meal of any sorts. I just want a bit of your time and understanding.”

“My understanding?” he asks, tone sharpening. “I’m afraid I’m fresh out.” He starts to close the door on you and you shove a hand forward to stop it. The look that he shoots you could curdle milk.

“Please. Just five minutes. I beg of you.”

At that, he barks a single laugh, short and harsh. "Darling, if you think you'll be able to get something from me, you have another thing coming. I have dealt with fools like you for my entire, unending existence and you’re no better than the last person who came to my door to beg.”

Something in you finally snaps at this. You were so used to his sweet, loving words over decades and decades of dreams. The reality of it threatens to bring you to rageful tears. How dare he, you can’t help but think. How dare he treat me – my soul – like this, after a lifetime together. “I am telling you, I’m nothing like them! I promise you, on my life, I want nothing more than to speak my peace.”

Sensing your own building anger, he stops snapping back for a second, opens the door a small crack once more. You feel his eyes rake up and down your body, the judgment in them plain as day. “You, my dear, are everything like them. And more importantly, you could not possibly be the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. If anyone were to recognize them, it would be me.”

“Halsin recognized me!” You spout, and immediately regret the words out of your mouth when his face shifts from one of open judgment to one of complete and utter disgust.

“As if my former lover would go see that oddity of an old man before me. You’re not even a good fraud,” he says, going back to closing the door.

Oh no you don’t, you think. Through the crack in the door, you focus on a point. Magic flows through you as you speak the incantation, “Inveniam viam!” Blue mist surrounds you as you’re teleported into the house in a single step.

You find yourself in a grand foyer, framed by two grand staircases leading up to the top floor. You’re struck by how opulent this entrance is, all reds and golds, including the extravagant carpet you’re currently standing on.

“Gods, do you have any idea how expensive that rug is?” Astarion’s voice comes out annoyed, you turn back toward him just in time to see him taking long, angry strides toward you, knife drawn. Shit. “Get your dirty boots off of it before I’m forced to spill your blood on it.”

Hastily, you hop off the rug, onto an equally lovely looking hardwood floor. Astarion tuts, clearly still annoyed, but stops short of an attack. Now that you’re both staring each other down like this, you have a chance to get a better look at him.

And good gods, you’re not surprised he left you speechless. Not only does he look identical to your memories, but he’s dressed impeccably, neck to toe in delicate satins, each piece of his outfit a testament to the arts of embroidery and fashion. It fills you with a small joy to see him doing so well, one that’s quickly dashed by the predicament you find yourself in.

“Fine, you’ve had your fun,” he says, pointing the knife at you. “You’ve managed to anger the beautiful tortured vampire in his mansion. You’re not here to offer blood or sex, you’d be even more of an utter fool to rob me. What are you really here for?”

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose to compose yourself. Is this worth it? you think. He’s clearly not interested and he seems hellsbent on misunderstanding me. “I only want you to believe me. Can I please show you my memories?” you ask, chancing one last effort. You’re prepared to use a number of illusion spells to prove who you are, and you raise a hand to express this.

Astarion waves the knife back and forth in a pseudo-head shake. “Not a chance, darling. I saw that magic you used. If you so much as think of a spell, this blade will find its way into your pretty little throat.”

You expected as much, nodding. “Right then. I’ll just talk.”

“Excuse me–”

You cut him off, understanding now a bit better how your past-self might have dealt with him. “I remember memories that only the Hero of Baldur’s Gate would know. I can’t tell you everything, but I can recall a lot of your time together, defeating the Absolute, helping the spawn in the Under Dark, living a life together.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t recite history books to me,” he says, but there’s no venom in his voice. Now it seems to be clouded by a dull ache. “Especially of events that I myself have experienced.”

“It’s not history, it’s memories. Like that time you both spent the day sitting at the glowing purple lake in the Under Dark. Or the time you both tried riding unfamiliar horses at night on a farm– I could never tell where that was…” You trail off, realizing that his expression is entirely closed off to your words, his mouth firmly set in a displeased frown.

“Darling, you think I’d trust a wizard with their horrendous little tricks?“ He jabs the knife in your direction emphatically. “You could be reading my mind for all I know. Out with you.”

You shake your head, “I’m not done. I have notebooks, journals filled–” Your hand approaches the lip of your Bag of Holding and before you can so much as pull the string, Astarion’s cold hand wraps roughly around your wrist.

“I’m not about to let some strange person open their magic bag in my house,” he says through gritted teeth. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Startled, you try to pull your hand back. He doesn’t budge so you simply say, “I promise I only brought journals. Full of your life and…” You gulp. “Your love.”

His hand grips your wrist even tighter, painful now in its pressure. “I don’t know who put you up to this,” he growls, face suddenly closer to yours. His red eyes are narrowed at you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him level a look like this at you in any of your memories. “But stop. Now.”

Suddenly, you feel so small in the face of his fury. It’s entirely unfamiliar to you and you don’t like it. “Let go of me,” you command, voice steadier than it has any right to be.

To his credit, Astarion releases you. Taking a moment to rub out the pain in your wrist, you dart a look back at him only to find him staring at you, eyes trained on where he’d grabbed you. He still holds the knife, but it seems to be limp in his hand. “I’ve listened to you,” he says, voice losing all of its anger, all of its bravado. It sounds tired. “Now please, leave.”

There’s something about his resignation, the slump of his shoulders, the dead voice that gives you pause. And a slight modicum of hope back. He’s not mad at me, you think. He’s just… sad? And tired. Well, I’m tired too. Tired enough to try one last tactic. A tactic that might work on the reluctantly kind man from your memories, the man who wasn’t quite as mean as he made himself out to be.

“I traveled so far to get here, and it’s getting rather late. Could I at least stay the night? Surely you can spare a room for a lonely traveler.”

“There’s an inn down the road, closer to Baldur’s Gate.” His words come out flat, harsh.

It’s better than anger or sadness, so you keep going, trying your best to look pathetic. You feel pathetic after all of this, so you suppose it’s not a grand disguise. “That’s almost an hour out. Please? I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior. No magic in the house unless you ask.”

Astarion arches a single eyebrow at you and narrows his eyes in suspicion. “If you were really who you say you are, I know you wouldn’t be on your best behavior. So which is it?”

After all of your memories, you know his words come from decades of experience. You also know that you have no plans on giving up now. So you smile at him unconvincingly and say, “I won’t be on my worst behavior?”

“I'm 500 years old, darling, do you really think I'd fall for a pair of puppy dog eyes? Especially when the pup is fresh off the teats by the looks of it.” Another narrowed look, this time his gaze boring into your eyes. As if he could see through them to your real intent.

“What if I offer you something in return for the stay?” You say, sounding far more easy-going than you feel. You know that you’re treading a very delicate line at this point. “I have blood.”

He yawns at you dramatically, looking bored. “That ship has sailed.”

“I have gold.”

“I have more gold than you can hope to see in your entire lifetime. You’ll have to do better than that.” He inspects his nails, putting on an air of indifference.

An idea strikes you then, understanding that this might be the only truly unique thing you have to offer him. “I have memories from my past-life. Memories before they met you, memories where you weren’t present. If you let me stay, I’ll share them with you.”

He stops his inspections at that. Then Astarion looks at you, eyes open and questioning, vibrant like how you remember them. Perhaps you’ve finally broken through. He asks, “And why would I care for those?”

“Because you loved them,” you answer, simply.

The way his expression closes off just about stops your heart. “Exactly right. Loved. Past tense, my dear.” You might have up and left at the sharp honesty he’s pierced you with. But you can see a bit of his former self in the hard set of his jaw. Like when he was in the early stages of his relationship with your past-self, lying through his teeth.

“Well then, because they loved you.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, and where it’s abundantly clear that you know nothing of whom you speak,” he says, a cruel glint in his eyes as he leans forward. “If they truly loved me, they would be here, not you.”

It hurts. Your heart is fighting for its life and he may as well have stabbed you in the chest with the knife he brandishes. But you can’t relent, because you know your past-self wouldn’t either. “It may mean nothing to you now, but they died loving you.” You look away from him, the anger in his eyes far too much for you to bear. “Until their last breath.”

A moment of silence passes between you. You wonder if you've gone too far, pressed too hard on an unmended wound. Perhaps you've come too soon, or, more likely, should never have come at all.

Then he says something that leaves you well and truly speechless. You were about ready to ungracefully bow out, leave him and this waking nightmare behind. But he lifts his head and glares as he says, “You can stay the night. But come morning, I want you gone.”

–

Once things settle down, you finally introduce yourself to him– your present day self. He nods in acknowledgement, and only says, "I'm Astarion, but you clearly already know that."

Better than you're willing to believe, you think.

So many questions burn on the tip of your tongue, and, if you hadn't already barely made it into the house, you may have been foolish enough to ask them. As it is, you silently follow him up the stairs to the East wing of the house.

You walk down the hallway in awe, amazed by the tapestries on the walls, the decadent rugs that lead you forward. Again, you're struck by how very ostentatious this all is, and a huge part of you wants to ask him just how much gold he's spent on this house. You refrain, mentally calculating what must be an absurd sum.

When you finally reach the doorway of your lodgings, you find that the room is somewhat tucked away, this part of the house markedly less gaudy than the rest. Astarion doesn't seem to have any commentary on this, nor much more to say. As you're tired of saying the wrong thing, you leave him with only words of gratitude, "Thank you, Astarion. For letting me stay, and, well, hearing me out."

The man gives you one long look, eyes guarded behind his long lashes. After the appraisal, he gives you a scoff. "Only because you look so ludicrously weak. Also, if you get bored after your reverie, don't even think about crawling your way to me. If you try anything, you'll be dead before you can so much as whimper my name."

Turning on his heel, he leaves you in the doorway to your borrowed room. You know you should take that for the threat it is, but you only find yourself blushing. Gods, I'm as idiotic as my past-self. It must be that damn voice.

You ignore the warmth in your veins and turn to the room you've been offered. It seems oddly out of place in terms of decor, somewhat cozy compared to the luxurious trappings of the rest of the mansion, and something about it sets off a thought in the back of your head. The couch is plush, the bed is laden with blankets, the hearth is large and welcoming. And there's a large standing mirror in the corner. You distinctly recall that Astarion can't see himself in mirrors.

Whose room is this?

You have no one you can ask, of course. So you turn to the next best thing. You flip to a journal entry, recalling a particular passage.

Hero’s Life - Entry 9978: I was in bed with Astarion again. He refused to let me get up, claiming that I'd and I quote, "Been neglecting a stunningly beautiful lover in favor of dull adventures for too long." I felt guilty, but also a bit… annoyed. I don't know what my past-self has been up to, but he seemed really reluctant to release me. I would have just stayed in bed all day with him.

We did stay in bed for a while, I lost track of the number of kisses he showered me with. I just remember sitting up in bed to see myself in an elegant standing mirror. My hair was tousled, my face flushed, and before I could even attempt to get up, his pale hands pulled me back to bed.

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