On Drowning

by agrazza

Summary:

“You lied to me,” Astarion snarled.

“I needed you safe!” Tav snapped back, and immediately knew it was a mistake.

Tav doesn't make it to the ladder in time when the party escapes the Iron Throne, and he's left behind to drown. Astarion handles this as well as could be expected-- which is to say, terribly. In which dying actually has consequences, and caring about someone means their reckless disregard for their own well-being isn't that funny anymore.

Notes:

Takes place close to the end of Act 3.

Chapter 1

Astarion stumbled up the ladder and nearly slipped at the top, exhausted from the panicked flight in and then back out of the Iron Throne. He didn’t have a single spell left in him, he could tell, not that he had much capacity for magic anyway and having used Misty Step so many times in quick succession that he felt like he was dragging himself through molasses now. Hands gripped his arms and shoulders and dragged him clear of the opening.

As soon as he was, more explosions boomed outside, the sound dulled by the water surrounding them, though the impact rocked the submersible. The hatch slammed shut behind him. 

“Go!” Gale yelled from somewhere, presumably at the dwarf piloting the submarine, as Astarion tried to get his bearings, fumbling his weapons back into his belt so his hands would be free to hold onto something. There were recently-freed prisoners hastily settling into seats all around him, grasping for something to keep them in place.  Lae’zel was beside him, and he’d heard Gale behind him, so that only left— 

“Where’s Tav?” someone asked him, gripping his shoulder, and his stomach sank like a rock. Then the ship’s engine kicked on and he scrambled for something to hold onto as they raced away from the exploding prison behind them. 

Once their speed had levelled out enough to let him, Astarion looked around, taking stock even as the rock in his stomach froze over into ice. Gale was by the pilot, bent over to catch his breath but seeming otherwise alright. Lae’zel was damp and covered in Sahuagin blood, and she was looking at him fiercely, saying something that he didn’t bother paying attention to. Freed prisoners lined the seats, but he didn’t care, wasn’t looking for them. Ulder Ravenguard was by the submersible’s window, watching the destruction they were quickly leaving behind, and at the back, as far away from the other passengers as the small space would allow, was the damned ilithid.

Tav was not on board. 

Lae’zel shook him a little, her voice rising with irritation, but Astarion brushed her off, feeling numb and cold. Tav was not on board. Tav was not in the submersible, which meant he was still inside the prison. The prison that was exploding in the ever-increasing distance, and would soon be utterly flooded.

That meant— Tav was—

Ulder Ravenguard turned to him and said something undoubtedly noble and grateful and a plethora of other virtuous adjectives, Astarion was sure, but he just stared at the man, uncomprehending. Why was he here? How dare he speak to Astarion, when Tav was—

The elder Ravenguard didn’t seem put off by Astarion’s non-reaction, even going as far to offer him a small smile and a too-familiar clap to the shoulder. Of course. He didn’t know Tav, probably hadn’t even seen him in the prison, because it had been Astarion’s role in their hastily-cobbled together plan to free him. It had been Astarion’s job to Misty Step through the prison, unlocking doors and freeing hostages in the eastern and southern parts of the prison, while Tav had gone the other way with Lae’zel.

The ice in his stomach was spreading to his chest and his limbs. Astarion turned on the mindflayer, heedless as to whether not Ravenguard was even done speaking.

“What happened,” he demanded curtly, not even able to muster the shout that was building in his throat. It felt like it was trapped behind the ice spreading through his veins. “You were with him. You were teleporting prisoners,” he said snappishly, remembering fragments of their chaotic escape. He’d been racing toward the center of the prison, and had been able to see Tav coming up across the way from the opposite direction with a group of prisoners, all running for the ladder. He’d shot Astarion a grin over the distance between them, before another explosion had rocked the whole place. Astarion had lost sight of him past some rubble, but he’d heard the bard call out that he was fine, that he’d be right there, go, go and then—

“He said that he could cast one more Misty Step,” Omeluum intoned, inside his brain, and Astarion wanted to sink his daggers into those tentacles. “He told me to take one of the prisoners, and that he would be right there.”

“Well he’s not here now!” Astarion snarled, and oh, it wasn’t ice in his veins, it was fire. He didn’t even realize he’d drawn his weapons until Lae’zel appeared out of nowhere, snagging his wrist and disarming him none-too-gently.

“Astarion!” Gale barked, and Astarion seethed, but he backed up, wrenching away from Lae’zel and picking up his fallen knife.

“Your friend,” Ulder Ravenguard said, tentatively. An awkward silence had befallen the newly-freed prisoners, interrupting their shocked joy at their unexpected freedom. Good. There was no room for celebration in this tiny death-trap. “You had someone else with you, when you came to the coronation. I think I remember that much."

“He got us out,” said one of the Gondians. “I thought we were done for,” he added, sounding pathetically reverent, and Astarion could only sneer out the submersible’s window. Their gratitude was useless to him.

“I saw him behind me, as I reached the ladder. He was caught in one of the Sahuagin nets,” said another voice, more quietly. Her tone was respectful, and regretful, because Tav was—

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ravenguard said, so sincerely that it was disgusting, and Astarion wanted to sink his teeth into him. Or maybe just stab everyone here and then himself.

“Astarion,” Gale repeated, his tone insistent, and the wizard leaned into his space, ignoring bared fangs and blades. The wizard looked tense and wan. “We just need to make it back to camp, yes? Remember, we have a friend there, who can help us.” He looked only more ill when he said it, and Astarion didn’t follow at first, couldn’t grasp his meaning.

Then he remembered, all at once. How had he forgotten? Withers. Right. The— skeleton-man. Or maybe a god of the dead? The Scribe. Astarion couldn’t keep it all in his head, the knowledge eeling away from him like a fish unwilling to be caught on the line. The thoughts felt… slippery, and indistinct. As though someone had cast some kind of memory-altering magic on him, or hit him very hard in the face.

But when the time came, they always remembered Withers eventually, as if they’d been certain of it all along, even though they would forget again immediately. Withers would help them for a cost. Withers could resurrect a party member.

“Right. Get to camp, 200 gold,” Astarion said, and Gale nodded. Even as he forgot what they’d just agreed upon, the conviction remained. Get back to camp. Save the bard.

He was reassured, a little, and it must have shown enough that the rest of those aboard the submersible could tell. The rescued prisoners returned to murmuring amongst themselves as the dwarf docked the submersible back underneath Flymm’s Cargo. Astarion watched the bottom of the bay pass by them without really seeing it, focusing on the feel of the dagger hilts digging into his palms. They were both enchanted weapons, ones Tav had taken from corpses one or the other of them had killed and had pressed on Astarion with that grin, the one that was somehow both sweet and bloodthirsty all at once. Tav was always upgrading their weapons and gear, and he always saved the shortswords and daggers for Astarion.

“Better fangs for Fangs,” he’d said the last time he’d tossed Astarion a new knife, freshly looted from Orin’s corpse, and had only laughed at Astarion’s mock-disgusted look for the wordplay. Astarion’s collection had grown truly outrageous; he had weapons that improved his defense, that were so sharp he could slice off limbs with ease, that inflicted magical damage or effects on his enemies, that glowed bright enough to distract and blind opponents, that were supposed to be blessed with power that would make him faster or quieter. He even had one that could cast a spell on its own. Tav delighted in presenting those gifts, to him and everyone else in the group, though Astarion suspected that his own utter lack of compunction about where such gifts came from had made Tav more willing to share with him.

(Or maybe it was that Tav cared about him that made him so pleased to gift dangerous weapons to him. The idiot had to be forced into wearing armour, but he happily plied all of his friends with enchanted items that made them dangerous— and kept them safe.)

Astarion was going to kill him once he’d gotten him resurrected, he decided, feeling a bit queasy.

“Astarion,” came Gale’s voice— again, and didn’t he understand that Astarion didn’t want to be spoken to right now?— quietly over his shoulder as the submersible was being docked.  What was taking that dwarf so long? Astarion made a vague noise of acknowledgement. “You’re scaring the gnomes,” the wizard said idly, putting a light hand on Astarion’s arm.  Astarion shot him a glare and shook him off, and the wizard’s expression shuttered.

“Just get me off this contraption,” Astarion bit out, and Gale sighed. 

“We can’t go storming off to the inn,” he pointed out in an undertone, and Astarion bared his teeth. “Don’t sneer at me, we’ve made an enemy of Gortash and the city is crawling with Steel Watch. We need to move carefully. We’ve seen already that they share some kind of hive mind, so if he’s spread the word that we’re public enemies…”

“Yes, yes, we’ll have to fight metal monsters to get anywhere,” Astarion snapped. “Fine. I’m not the one who struggles with sneaking, wizard,” he said derisively, and Gale gave him a dark look.

“I’m not the one who has trouble controlling himself when it comes to Tav,” Gale shot back, sharply, and Astarion, for a brief moment, let himself imagine wringing the neck of the one party member— other than Tav— he typically thought of as least-annoying. It would be too-easy to be worth it, he consoled himself with; wizards were weak fellows. “So help me, if you and Lae’zel carve a bloody swathe through the streets back to the inn and draw attention to us, we won’t have anywhere safe to resurrect Tav to,” Gale hissed at him, patience apparently run out. 

Astarion hated him, furiously, because he was right. It was enough to make him want to cut someone.

“Tsk’va, put your weapons away,” interrupted Lae’zel, less-quietly from his other side. “We have no time for petty arguments amongst ourselves.” Astarion sheathed his knives with a muttered insult, rolling his shoulders and mockingly putting a more pleasant expression on his face. Judging by Lae’zel’s unimpressed glare and Gale’s tight grimace, it wasn’t a very convincing look on him. 

“I’ll behave until we’re back at the Elfsong,” Astarion said, voice dripping with disdain through his stiff smile. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Gale muttered sarcastically, and he turned away from Astarion stiffly. 

The submersible was finally docked back in its bay, and the freed prisoners began to climb out. Astarion let them go first; if there was anything nasty waiting for them out there, let them take the heat. Though the whole mission had been rather quick, maybe even too quick for Gortash to seek retaliation. He might even think they’d all died.

Well. Not all of them had.

“I’ll find you at your camp; we can talk there,” Ravenguard said before he climbed out himself, and Astarion managed a mostly civil nod. 

“We’re staying at the Elfsong,” Gale told the Duke. “Look out for Steel Watchers.” Ulder nodded.

“Thank you. I won’t cause you further trouble by drawing more attention to you. I’ll be careful,” the Duke said, and then he was up the ladder as well. 

“I will return to the Society of Brilliance. We will find some way to thank you,” Omeluum said, and Astarion let Gale take care of the rest of the pleasantries, suddenly needing more than anything to be out of this underwater death trap. 

He climbed the ladder and walked right into a group of angry priestesses who thought themselves merfolk. Really, the glitter was a bit much, Astarion thought dispassionately as they immediately started yelling and threatening the dwarf pilot. Whatever his name was. Red-something.

The priestesses and Red-whatsit immediately turned on him when he came out of the sub, as though expecting him to intervene. Astarion just looked at them blankly. He really could not care less about whatever they were arguing about. Negotiations were Tav’s area of expertise, and he was— going to be fine. Once Astarion got back to their camp.

The raised voices drew Gale out of the submersible behind him. Gale hadn’t been there when Tav had made an arrangement with the priestesses at the temple of Umberlee. If Astarion was a better sort of person, he probably would have stepped in to explain to him, but he let the wizard flounder instead, his irritation rising, pricking like ice shards in his skin, as the conflict dragged out.

“Oh, just let them take him,” Astarion finally snapped, making a dismissive gesture. Redhammer shot him a betrayed scowl, and Gale pursed his lips. Astarion didn’t know what Tav would have done, but if the bard had wanted a particular outcome here, then he shouldn’t have gotten himself blown up. Astarion forced himself to move past the thought. “We can’t afford a fight here,” he told Gale, raising a brow, and the hit scored; Gale was the one who’d wanted them to stay under the radar, after all.

The wizard grimaced, but he let the priestesses take the dwarf away, doubtless to his death. Astarion found it difficult to feel any pity for him. Gale shoved their reward at Astarion— something glittery, and clearly magical, though Gale didn’t explain to him what it  was— before stomping away. Astarion didn’t feel very interested, that cold numbness from before making him feel like there was a layer of ice between him and the rest of the world. It was Tav, who was the loot hound. The bard seemed to take special pleasure in hoarding objects he found or stole; Astarion wondered sometimes if the half-elf had never had much in the way of personal belongings before. Something they had in common.

 He found himself rolling the odd robes carefully, and slipping them into his pack.

Astarion followed after Gale, ignoring the last few ex-captives who were waiting around and their pathetic offerings of thanks. What good were words? “We should take the sewers,” he said, interrupting some such drivel, and Gale’s back ahead of him paused. He took that as sign enough to continue. “If we want to avoid Steel Watchers; it’s still broad daylight. We’ll have better luck if we go underground at least part of the way.” Gale gave a stiff nod.

“Fine,” the wizard said finally, as though through gritted teeth. “Lead the way.” Distantly, as though from outside of his own body and brain, Astarion noted he was going to have to do some damage control with Gale sometime soon, after snapping at him, but that was for later. After he got back to camp, and paid his 200 gold, and had his bard back.

Instead of going back up to the docks, they headed for the sewer lines. Astarion knew the underground routes better than a wizard of Waterdeep and a literal alien, so he led the way through the disgusting channels. They’d done a fair amount of trekking down here already, so they knew what to avoid and when they could come back up to street level for the sake of a shortcut through a hidden alley. 

The journey was silent. Lae’zel wasn’t much of a talker normally anyway, but even Gale, who could banter with anyone, was quiet. Cold. Astarion didn’t care, all of his focus on getting them back across the city, the lack of whistling or flute-playing that normally accompanied their walks grating on every nerve. Eventually, they came out of a manhole close to the back entrance of the Elfsong, and they spent a moment getting as much muck off their armour, robes, and boots as they could before heading inside. It took everything in him to spare that much time.

Astarion burst into their room at the suite, startling the dumb dog and and Shadowheart, who was sitting with him. Ulder apparently hadn’t made his way there yet, which was good, because Mizora had decided to grace them with her presence, and what little part of him that could spared to find humor in it was looking forward to that confrontation with a great deal of spiteful relish. Wyll and Karlach were doing their level best to ignore the fiend lurking in the corner, playing cards. Jaheira and Minsc were nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t surprising, as they often vacated the suite and took Yenna with them when Mizora was in-residence.

He ignored the Cambion smirking at him, though he didn’t know what had her so pleased. They’d saved Ravenguard, after all, when he was supposed to die in the Iron Throne, so she surely wasn’t thrilled with them at the moment. He had more important things to worry about right now, ignoring Wyll as the warlock stood and asked after their mission, looking a little anxious. Wyll had wanted to come, but both he and Tav had agreed, in a conversation Astarion wasn’t privy to, that he would stay behind when they stormed the Iron Throne.

That didn’t concern Astarion now. Two hundred gold concerned him.

Except. There was something… wrong. There was a reason he’d come back to the suite, why it was so urgent that he return to camp. 

Oh, yes, of course. Withers. 

Withers, who could revive Tav. Withers, who Astarion forgot about whenever the skeleton’s abilities weren’t relevant. Withers, who…

Who was nowhere to be seen. The corner he usually occupied, always appearing right when someone had need of him as though he’d been there all along, was vacant. Astarion blinked once, as though that would change his reality, but no skeleton-man appeared, ready to trade coin for souls. 

Wait, what had Astarion been looking for again?

A headache was creeping up on him as he tried to force his thoughts to stay on Withers/Jergal/whatever he was calling himself. “Where is he,” he gritted out, turning on Gale, who also looked similarly upset.

“I… I don’t know,” the wizard said, squinting and putting a hand to his head. “I can barely force myself to remember him, but… he’s always here, when we need him. Or he was before,” Gale said, sounding pained.

“What? What’s going on?” Shadowheart asked.

“Tavran was lost to the Iron Throne,” Lae’zel rasped, and Astarion felt his whole chest tighten at her words, as Shadowheart’s face fell.

“He was not,” he said fiercely, the words torn out of him. He whirled on her, but the Gith’yanki just looked back at him, no fight for once in her pained expression. “We’re going to trade. Two-hundred gold for a soul— a true bargain,” he spat. Those had been the words he’d repeated to himself over and over during their trek through the sewers, to remind himself that he didn’t need to grieve. There was no need to mourn. Tav would be saved.

“Do any of you see him?” he demanded, whirling back around to look at the others.

“Who?” Karlach asked, then frowned. “Oh wait. Ol’ Boney?” Then she winced and rubbed her head as well. “Agh, fuck, how do I always forget about that guy?”

“You,” Astarion said, turning on Mizora, who just looked more and more amused as she watched them. “You must know something.” Only because if she didn’t, Astarion wasn’t sure what to do next.

She just laughed. “Mortals,” she singsonged, tone mock-pitying, then disappeared in a flash of sulfurous smoke. Astarion spat a curse in her direction, hoping she could hear it from wherever she went when she wasn’t antagonizing them in their camp.

“Have any of us even seen him? Since the Bhaal Temple?” Gale asked after a beat, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“No?” Karlach said, and her expression was growing grim. Astarion hated it. “I haven’t seen him around, since he brought Tav back. After Bhaal killed him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Astarion insisted. “We haven’t needed his help.”

“Maybe that was his purpose all along?” Wyll suggested hesitantly. “To rid Tav of Bhaal’s power. And with that task complete…”

“I’m not sure about that,” Gale said, cutting him off, which was good, because Astarion was about to have a warlock under his knife if he didn’t shut up. “But I don’t know why else he wouldn’t be here. Tav should be… Maybe we just have to wait a little while,” the wizard said hesitantly.

Astarion snarled wordlessly and threw down his weapons, since it wasn’t a good idea for him to have a sharp edge at hand at the moment. “For how long? For what?” he demanded, and Gale held his hands up. “What could a talking skeleton possibly be doing in Baldur’s Gate that he’s too busy to help us?” Astarion was aware that his voice was climbing higher and higher in outrage, and his eyes were stinging, but he felt there he had no control over it.

The ice in his veins had melted into something far worse.

“Can we summon the skeleton?” Astarion wondered desperately, thinking of the Necromancy of Thay. “Or resurrect Tav ourselves?”

“I need the body for Revivify, and for him to have died within the last few minutes,” Shadowheart said gently, which they already knew anyway; she didn’t have to say it. 

“I’m not sitting around waiting for Withers to deign to bestow us with his presence,” Astarion snapped. “Where’s Mizora off to, I want to make a deal,” he growled, turning on Wyll next, who looked grim and serious: Astarion’s least-favorite look on him. Gods damn it all, he half-wished they hadn’t killed Raphael; there was a devil who was always available for a deal when you needed him.

“Astarion,” Wyll began placatingly, and Astarion did not want to hear it.

“Shut up, shut up!” he snapped. “Just— don’t look at me like that!” He was so furious that he was shaking.

“Fangs,” Karlach said, too-gently, and he hissed at her as she pulled him in for a hug. She was still too-warm for comfort, especially for a vampire; that was why his eyes were watering.

“We just need to wait,” he heard Gale say, as Shadowheart tactfully took Astarion’s weapons from the floor to put them away somewhere. Astarion’s hands were clenching and unclenching with the need to hold a dagger-hilt. “Withers will show— he always has before.”

Astarion thought bitterly that Gale should have let Wyll say it; the warlock was a better liar.

“Don’t patronize me,” Astarion snapped at him, pushing away from Karlach to gesture angrily at the wizard, and Gale scowled. 

“You’re not the only one who wants him back!” Gale snapped right back, then backed up, looking a bit taken-aback. “I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a hand when Wyll opened his mouth to intervene. “I just need a moment,” the wizard said tiredly. He turned and walked away, and Astarion watched him disappear behind the curtain dividers, feeling brittle from the tension strung throughout his whole body.

“Fine,” Astarion finally snarled, stomping over to the fireplace. “We’ll wait.” It was too hot for him this close to the fire, as always, like the sun on his skin, but he needed to feel something other than the horrible, gnawing emptiness in his chest. “I’ll give the skeleton until nightfall to show. Then I’m looking for other options,” he warned them. “And you can’t stop me.”

“We’ll help,” Karlach promised him, though Wyll and Lae’zel exchanged worried looks and Shadowheart merely knelt down to pray.

He would throttle Tav himself, as soon as he could. How dare he lie and let Astarion save his own miserable self when Tav was stuck in a floating graveyard. How dare he try to emulate that self-sacrificing bullshit that they both so despised. 

How dare he abandon Astarion, and force him to go on without him.

“I’m going to kill him myself, once that wretched skeleton has brought him back. See if I don’t,” Astarion told Karlach, who had apparently been assigned vampire-sitting duty. She sat down next to him and leaned her shoulder against his without a word. She was polite enough, at least, not to mention the way his voice shook.

Astarion glared into the fire and settled for plotting ways to destroy a living skeleton/god of the dead as Wyll and Lae'zel talked quietly about what had happened in the prison somewhere behind him; it didn’t make him feel better, but it was something to do, and he didn’t have to feel the the terrible, gaping, invisible wound in his chest, if he focused on something else.  

He tested the terrible words then, finally, in the privacy of his own mind. Tav was dead.

.
.
.

It was a good thing breathing was mostly-optional for him; he hurt too much to manage it.

Notes:

Fun fact, classing Astarion as gloom stalker ranger + thief rogue makes a way better assassin than the actual assassin class, imo. Between him and Gale with Dimension Door, Telekinesis (to yeet Ulder out of Mizora's way) and Arcane Gate I did ok on this mission on the first try, so I didn't reload a save when I miscalculated and Tav died. Having to play as Astarion through the several following cut scenes made me wish I could have had party reactions to Tav's death, so here we are. As usual, I'm blending a little bit of D&D mechanics in, but I think this fic is actually still pretty canon-compliant.

The one non-canon thing I did change is that Mizora doesn’t hang out all the time. Also I chose this take on Withers, because Video Game Mechanics otherwise ruin the sense of mortality or even taking the threat of death seriously at all. (Tav has the easiest time remembering him now, that he’s tied to his power or whatever. The little girl who talked to him creeped everyone out and they were glad when she left.)

Ch. 2 is almost done. See you then.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The mystery is solved, crisis not-quite-averted. Or, Tav wakes up.

There was a flash of light behind his closed lids, and Tav was suddenly aware that he couldn’t breathe.

His eyes fluttered open weakly, and then in a panic, and he rolled onto his side— there was so much sand— and coughed. He inhaled desperately, but got no air, only the sensation of choking, and he hacked again, spitting up water and bile. His whole body hurt, but it was secondary to the desperate need for breath. His throat hurt, and his stomach rolled, but on his next ragged inhale, he took in some air.

He pushed weakly to his hands and knees and heaved and hacked for what felt like ages, desperately trying to fill his lungs with air rather than water. His eyes were streaming, though he was dripping wet already, so he could blame it on his unplanned swim rather than admitting to tears. His vision was blurry and the world was spinning.

He managed to clear the fluid in his lungs enough to take a few ragged breaths, slumping onto the gritty surface beneath him. Fuck. His lungs were burning, and he felt like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. What had happened?

Slowly, the memory came back. The underwater prison. Waving the others ahead, getting trapped in a net. Lying about having enough spell slots for one more Misty Step. He remembered booking it toward the ladder, with the impending sense that he was far too late and too slow, and then— nothing. Or at least, not much beyond the press of water all around him, debris and fire rolling over him as the ocean swept in through the holes that the explosion had punched through the prison walls.

He sat up weakly and looked around, rubbing his chest. His armor and clothes were soaked through and caked with muddy sand. He’d washed up somewhere on a beach, and a glance told him a few other, less fortunate bodies had come up too. A gnome corpse that looked vaguely familiar was lying nearby, as well as the bodies of a couple of those fish-people, and someone else who must have been a prisoner they’d missed. None of his companions were there. He was going to assume that meant they’d made it back to the submarine safely, for his own sanity.  He didn’t remember any of the swim to shore, so he must have passed out and washed up here with all the other bodies.

He coughed again and tried to take stock. He’d lost a boot, and the bared ankle didn’t look so good, but Tav quickly looked elsewhere; it wouldn’t start to hurt until he paid attention to it. He ached everywhere, and was sure he was covered in bruises, but his leather armor must have protected him for the most part, because he didn’t see or feel any gaping wounds. He had a shallow gash on one of his legs, his breeches ripped, and it stung from the seawater, but he’d had worse. It felt like a knife was stabbing him through his eyes as he squinted out over the water, but that was just a headache, and he was used to those. He didn’t think he’d broken any bones, just bruised them, his torso in particular feeling sore. His right hand, however, was hurting something terrible, and he was almost afraid to look; an injury to his fingers was not going to be pleasant.

There was nothing for it though, and he forced himself to look down at it. He quickly realized the problem, and also solved the mystery of his unlikely survival. The leather wrist strap of Lathander’s Blood was tangled tight around the remains of a Sahuagin net, as well as his lower arm, wrist, palm, and fingers, effectively binding the weapon to his hand— also cutting off blood flow and, he noted with a wince, probably having broken a finger or two. Two of his fingers were purpling, he noted absently, and his wrist felt wrenched. However, the enchanted weapon was probably the only reason he was still alive. 

He recalled, now, the flash of light that had woken him up.

Well, he was glad he’d decided at last minute to ask Shadowheart to borrow it.  He hadn’t been sure what waited for them down in the Iron Throne and had wanted a weapon he could rely on for bludgeoning rather than his daggers or his rapier. The light had been convenient as well, though the additional enchantment for healing had slipped his mind. He’d had good luck for once.

Slightly cheered, he finished his mental checklist. He’d lost his flute, which was disappointing but not surprising. It wasn’t like he could play at the moment anyway. His clothes and armor were disgusting, and heavy, completely sodden. The spots where the leather had begun to dry in the sun were already stiffening up, and Tav had a feeling if he couldn’t tend to it quickly, this armor would quickly become unusable. 

He first set about the extremely unpleasant task of freeing his hand from the mace’s strap and the tangled net. “Fuck,” he hissed, when blood started flowing to his fingers again, sending the pins and needle sensation up his arm as well as the pain in his definitely-broken fingers. His wrist ached, but it was nothing compared to his first two fingers. “Shit.” He cursed Gortash under his breath creatively for good measure, just to distract himself from the pain. “That poxy-pitted pervert and his purulent, pus-pissing, putrid, pusillanimous pathetic prick …” With his messed up fingers, it took a long time— and a lot of words that started with ‘p’— to unbuckle his armor, but he wasn’t up for dragging himself across the city in the gear; it was pressing uncomfortably on his battered ribs, and he knew leather was only going to get more inflexible the more it dried.

Once he’d finally freed himself from the gear and run out of alliterative swears, he had to take a moment to draw in a few reedy breaths and blink back pained tears. Damn, that had hurt. He left the armor where it was— he could afford new gear, or steal it— and finally forced himself to his feet, standing unsteadily on his soon-throbbing ankle and only one boot.  He held Lathander’s Blood in his off-hand; he wasn’t leaving that behind. He briefly debated stealing a shoe off one of the other corpses, but they were both smaller than him, and he didn’t relish trying to get a boot on over his twisted— broken?— ankle with one working hand anyway.

He was too wiped for any good spells, but he managed— after a few pathetic attempts to wet his lips and mouth enough to make noise— to whistle up a weak Healing Word for the gash in his leg so he at least wouldn’t trail blood everywhere. It took more out of him than he’d expected, and he almost went down again when the horizon abruptly tilted. He blinked away the dizziness and for a few long moments focused all of his remaining energy on not falling. Or throwing up.

“I should start carrying around a staff,” he muttered to himself once he’d gained enough equilibrium to start walking— shuffling really— across the sand. “That would be alot more helpful than a mace for walking with a bad ankle,” he mused. “Not that I’m not grateful,” he added to the mace. “Really, great work, to be sure. But a weapon that can double as a walking-stick— that’s a winner.” He was aware that he’d have to stop mumbling to himself if he didn’t want to get picked up by the Fist once he got back into the city proper, but for the moment, it was keeping him alert.

His head was killing him.

He had to stop to sit on one of the boulders littering the beach or, later, some stairs to catch his breath a few times. The climb up to the city proper was brutal. His chest and ribs grew more sore as he walked, and he wondered if he’d been too quick to discount broken bones or if that was just the after-effects of trying to inhale the ocean. Ugh, it wasn’t even like the water near here was particularly clean. That might explain his current bout of nausea.

Deciding not to think about that, he dragged himself into the city. He was glad to recognize a few landmarks to orient himself. His ankle had started to hurt so bad that he could almost not even feel it, which he knew was a bad sign, but once he got to the inn, he knew Shadowheart could fix him up. He just had to hang on until then. 

He heard clanking before he saw it, and the sound of the Steel Watch reminded him abruptly that Gortash no longer considered himself their ally. He threw himself into an alley as one of the Steel Watch came down the street, flanked as ever by a few Flaming Fist. He jarred his ankle with the abrupt movement and sank back against a filthy wall, blinking wetness out of his eyes on reflex. The world tilted uncomfortably again and he nearly threw up, though luckily he had already given up everything on the beach.

He managed to keep quiet, at least, tucked into the shadows, and waited for them to go by; the last thing he needed at the moment was a fight, especially unarmored, injured, and with the two netherstones in his damp pack as easy pickings. They would need to take out the foundry quickly, he mused, trying to keep his mind off the pain; he was struck with nightmarish visions of Steel Watchers storming the Elfsong to take them out, now that they’d spat on Gortash’s overtures of friendship.

“Pestilent piss-ant,” he muttered at the image of Gortash in his head. It was a lot harder to get back up than he’d expected, when he deemed the coast clear, and the sun had sunk nearly all the way down before he managed it. He swore his head was throbbing in time with his pulse, and he must have gotten sand in his eyes; they were hurting, and he felt like his vision wasn’t steady. Maybe he’d damaged his new Volo-eye?

He muttered something rude to his ankle as he hobbled back out on the street, getting a side-eye from a woman going the other way. He didn’t blame her; he must look pretty crazy at the moment. He was still pretty far south in the city, he noted, squinting at his surroundings, but luckily not as far West as he’d feared; the Elfsong was only about a half-hour’s brisk walk from here.

Two hours later, he sat down on a bench and looked blankly at his hands. He was… definitely somewhere in the city. He felt vaguely disoriented, like Ethel had come back for a third time and was casting her fey magic on him. He was still holding onto Lathander’s Blood, which was probably why he hadn’t been accosted in the street yet, and his pack was secure. He was… just a little lost. 

His head hurt. He wanted Astarion’s hands to fold over his neck and forehead, just for a little while. That always felt nice, when he had a headache.

His ankle also looked pretty bad, and now his foot was all dirty, from trudging through the streets. How had he gotten so badly turned around? Sure, he didn’t remember much of the city from before the tadpole, not enough to be useful, anyway, but he’d been running around here for over two weeks now, and he normally had a pretty good sense of direction.

At least it was darker out. The sunlight had been hurting his eyes. There was probably a reason for that, but whatever it was slipped his mental grasp. Hm. Well, it probably wasn’t important.

Maybe it was time for some help. He waved down a passing merchant, heading home for the night. “Excuse me, can you point me to the Elfsong?” He got a blank look in reply. Huh. Maybe the man didn’t speak Common? That couldn’t be right. Did Tav even know any other languages?

“Elfsong,” Tav repeated, pointing stupidly to his ear, then miming a flute. The merchant gave him an irritated look.

“I don’t have time to waste on drunkards. Not that you need anything more to drink, obviously, but if you’re looking for the Blushing Mermaid it’s over there,” the man said impatiently, before rushing off. 

Tav puzzled that out for a moment, taking a lot longer than he would have without his broken fingers distracting him, he was sure. Not quite the tavern he was looking for, but if the Blushing Mermaid was that way, then the Elfsong was… up there. Huh. He’d gotten turned around earlier, but no matter. He had a direction now. 

Damn, he wanted a bed.

He could have wept— maybe he did a little, wasn’t like there was anyone he cared about losing face in front of here— when he finally found the familiar sign for the Elfsong Inn. It was well dark by now, but Lathander’s Blood was glowing loyally, so no issues there. He got a few looks as he trudged up the stairs, but the patrons were getting used to them by now, because no one stopped him.

He got stuck briefly at the door; he couldn’t open it with his bad hand, but neither could he hold the weapon. He tucked it laboriously under his arm— ow, his ribs— before managed to get the handle open with his off-hand. Thank the gods it wasn’t locked; he wasn’t sure he could handle fumbling through his pockets for a key right now.

“Aha!” he muttered triumphantly and pushing into the suite with a tired sigh. Shadowheart could fix him up, and then he could have a nap. Maybe some food. If he was really lucky, Gale would read something interesting aloud to him, and Astarion would pet his hair. That would cheer him right up.

The scene he arrived to in the suite was so befuddling that he thought maybe he’d started hallucinating. Scratch was cowering in the corner near the door, and Tav awkwardly patted his head while he tried to make sense of the rest. There were two Ravenguards, one with horns and one not, wrestling a squirming Astarion’s arms behind his back in the central sitting area.  Gale, Lae’zel’s hand on his arm, and the vampire were shouting at one another, which, ouch. Tav’s ears were sensitive, alright? Shadowheart was glowing, for some reason, and Karlach was crouched next to her, looking angry and serious, which was a weird look for her face. Halsin was watching the others from near the fireplace, with his arms folded disapprovingly. 

Most baffling of all, though was Mizora, laughing in the middle of the room, flanked by two of her lackeys and holding out a glowing, infernal contract in offer. Tav couldn’t read what it said, though maybe that was because he was a bit too far away. Everyone sounded like they were talking— or yelling— through water.

Could you get too much seawater in your brain, Tav wondered absently.

“Oi, I already killed one devil this week, don’t make me come after another,” Tav complained, pressing his good palm to his painfully-throbbing brow. “At least, not right this second.” That’s what he meant to say, anyway. His words did sound a little funny to his own ears.

The room fell abruptly, blessedly silent, but for the crackling of hellfire and the faint buzz of a spell being held at the ready.

“Tav?” someone gasped, and then Wyll added,

“Astarion, call it off, now!”

“…No deal!” Astarion barked, his voice sounding raw like he’d been screaming or something. Mizora’s whole demeanor changed, and she shot Tav a furious look. Fuck. He fumbled for Lathander’s Blood with his non-dominant, unbroken hand as she dismissed her two witnesses in a flash of smoke and fire and turned on him.

“I see your broken toy has returned on its own,” she said to someone mockingly, studying Tav like he was an insect under her boot. Which wasn’t exactly new from her, so. 

“Go away, Mizora,” Wyll said, tiredly. “Please. There are no deals to be negotiated tonight.”

“Oh fine, pup. As a favor for you,” she purred, and favors were always bad, but Tav was kind of too tired to worry about it right this second. “But know I always get what I’m owed, eventually.” And then, thankfully, she disappeared.

“Bitch,” Tav muttered, unable to scrounge up a more creative insult. He’d used up all the good ones on Gortash, ok? Cut him some slack. 

They were all frozen in their weird little tableau for a moment. The father-and-son-Ravenguards had let go of Astarion, but he was still standing like his arms were being pinned behind his back, and Gale’s mouth was hanging open unflatteringly. Finally, unable to take the staring any longer, he tugged up a grin from the depths of his exhaustion and gave them a little wave hello.

Someone shouted, and there was a blur of movement, and then— pain. A lot. He thought maybe he even cried out. It burst across the back of his skull and in his battered ribs and he immediately lost the ability to stand, knees going out as his vision went gray. He would have slid down the wall, but there was something— someone?— holding him up. Oh, it was the same thing that had knocked him back in the first place.

He took a deep breath, trying not to vomit the nothing in his stomach, and realized— Astarion. Astarion had his hands painfully tight on Tav’s shoulders, and had slammed him not-very-gently into the closed door behind him, and was shouting into his face. Maybe. He looked like he was shouting, anyway, and it was certainly loud, but Tav couldn’t quite make out any of the words. 

Did Astarion know other languages too? Huh. Lots of that going around, he mused dizzily. Astarion looked incandescent, when he was this mad. It was magnificent.

Then someone else’s nonsense shouting joined the fray, and there were more people around him, and Tav couldn’t focus on them all without getting terribly dizzy. Hands pulled Astarion off of him, and Tav made a pained noise at the loss, before nearly falling over.

“S’ok, he didn’t mean it,” he tried to assure them, though he had to close his eyes against the brightness of the torches in the room and all the movement going on. It got quiet again, and he peeled his eyes open, even as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor, to find them all looking at him. Worried, he decided. They looked worried.

Shadowheart came into view, touching his jaw gently and tilting his head back. She definitely was asking him something, he could tell by the tone, but what it was… hells if he knew. “Did you all decide to speak Elvish for the day?” he slurred, and she frowned. He blinked, more slowly than normal, trying to get his vision to focus.

Astarion’s face came into view again when Tav reopened his eyes, and the vampire was glowering. He said something cutting, Tav knew it from the shape of his voice, and Tav just gave him a tired smile that he suspected came out more like a pained grimace. He had no idea what the vampire was saying, but he was damn glad to see him. The spawn was working himself up into a good rant, he could tell, and Tav really just wanted a nap. Could he convince Astarion to just sort of rest one of those cold hands on his forehead? He could probably do that and rant at the same time, right?

“Ooooh,” Tav realized finally. It was probably rude to interrupt, but he wasn’t sure Astarion noticed, and he couldn’t understand a thing the spawn was saying anyway. “I have a concussion,” he worked out, very belatedly. That certainly explained a few things. Answer discovered, it seemed that was all the energy his body had left to spare, so— “I’m going to pass out now,” he added, since the room was getting more and more fuzzy, and then he closed his eyes and didn’t open them anymore.

 

 

Notes:

Poor Tav. Don't add brain-injury (head-slam) to brain-injury (concussion) (to brain-injury (Orinlobotomy)), folks! It's a bad idea.

I probably shouldn't post both of these chapters on the same day, but I am, because it is nano season. And with this chapter, I've reached my word count goal!

Enjoy <3

Chapter 3

Summary:

Injuries are assessed and Astarion struggles. Tav creates all kinds of problems, in spite of being mostly unconscious.

Notes:

Some discussion of injuries follow. Chapter count snuck up on me, so there's still one more after this.

“What the devil is wrong with him?” Astarion finally demanded.

He knew he sounded unhinged, but he felt it, too, so that seemed fair. Tav was slumped against the door, muttering absolute nonsense at them and smiling sickly. He hadn’t reacted at all to Astarion’s threatening to dismember him over his disappearance, and nothing he’d said since stumbling into the room with a stupid little wave had made any sense at all.

The sheer gall of him, to stroll in here as if he hadn’t been missing for more than six hours and presumed dead, with no Withers— whoever that was, Astarion couldn’t be bothered to remember— nearby to revive him.

Tav’s eyes suddenly rolled up in his head and he slid the rest of the way to the floor. “Shit,” Karlach hissed, and lunged to keep Tav’s head from knocking against the ground. Astarion would have done it, but the pained noise Tav had made when Astarion had shoved him a moment ago, furious and thoughtless with it, was haunting him. He flexed his hands, trying to get control of the crawling of his skin.

Astarion didn’t trust himself to touch Tav right now. Astarion might hurt him worse, and he didn’t even know if it would be on purpose or not.

The bard looked like absolute shit, Astarion noted distantly, feeling like someone had separated his mind from his body. Tav was missing a shoe, and there was clearly something wrong with his foot. He had been carefully holding his dominant hand against his chest, when he’d come in, too, Astarion realized belatedly, now that he was able to think past his own panic and rage. He could see now that a few fingers were clearly broken and swollen hideously.  And then there was whatever was going on with his speaking, too.

“Severe head wounds can cause difficulties with speech,” Halsin supplied from where he was kneeling down, studying the bard with careful eyes and hands. 

“He already has some of those problems,” Shadowheart pointed out, carefully probing the back of Tav’s head— where Astarion had knocked him against the door, he realized, with a deeply uncomfortable feeling sinking like a rock in his stomach.

Astarion had the terrible suspicion that the feeling was shame.

“He needs healing,” the cleric announced, which, obviously. “Karlach, can you get him back to one of the beds?”

“Yeah, of course,” the tiefling murmured, which of course was when Tav chose to wake up again and start groaning.

Before Karlach could even start to move him, the bard rolled over— well, more like flopped over— and vomited. Or tried to. The retching was rather unproductive, and seemed to cause him some pain. He gasped for breath, and the sound grated horribly on Astarion’s ears.  Shadowheart muttered something about his ribs to Halsin, who nodded.

“You will need bandages, and clean water,” Lae’zel decided from somewhere,  ever uncomfortable with displays of weakness, and disappeared to make that happen. Astarion wished he could vanish with her.

“Bring some for Gale, too,” Shadowheart said. “I can look at that first,” she added to the wizard, and Astarion felt that weird, sick feeling from earlier again as he recalled the minor slashing injury he’d inflicted on the wizard not fifteen minutes ago.

Gale had tried to stop him from hashing out a deal with Mizora, and Astarion had responded… poorly. He could admit that, with hindsight.

“Don’t worry about it,” the wizard said, aiming for congenial but sounding rather more tense. Astarion couldn’t look at him. “I’ve had worse paper cuts. Focus on Tav, and then if you’ve any magic left we can see about patching me up.”

“It’s not deep,” Astarion heard Wyll confirm, as he watched Karlach try to help Tav sit up again. It wasn’t going well. 

“C’mon son, let’s get that bandaged,” the other Ravenguard added, and the three men walked away, Gale saying something about the fussing being unnecessary.

“C’mon soldier, up you get,” Karlach was trying to coax Tav, who wasn’t cooperating. “Where are you hurt worst? I don’t want to jostle it.” Tav just looked bewildered, and rubbed his ears, then touched Karlach’s chin. He said something, but it was just random words strung together, nothing that made sense. “Yeah, boss, I don’t know what that means,” Karlach said, trying to keep her voice cheerful, but her expression was worried.

“Fuck,” Tav said, suddenly succinct. “Fuck!” It didn’t sound like an expletive, though, the way he said it; he spoke as if he meant to say something else. His eyes were welling up.

“Shadow, I don’t think he understands us either,” Karlach said.

“Tavran,” Shadowheart said sharply, to no reaction but more confused blinking. “Give me your hand,” she said clearly, but the bard barely seemed to noticed she that she had spoken. “Hand,” she said more loudly, and this time, held her hand out pointedly. Tav looked at her for a long moment, then tentatively offered his injured hand.

Astarion shifted, feeling somewhat ill, and Tav’s blurry gaze found him. The half-elf’s eyes widened a little, then he made a noise without words and reached out with his other hand. Astarion backed up, instead, as Karlach moved to lift Tav up and relocate him. Halsin helped, and Shadowheart followed, the cleric brushing past Astarion without looking at him.

Astarion turned on his heel and went to stare blankly into the fireplace. It smelled vaguely of sulphur there, but he suffered through it; he deserved be reminded of the terrible mistake in judgement he’d almost made. He felt unmoored. He’d almost attacked his friends and made a deal with a devil for the sake of one measly mortal. 

The pathetic spawn he’d been even just six months ago would have laughed until he cried at the very idea.

What the hells was wrong with him? This was a disaster. It was a damn good thing he hadn’t bloody ascended, wasn’t it? Imagine, someone with this level of poor judgement with a vampire’s powers and none of the weaknesses.

Monstrous. Well, more monstrous than he already was.

He flinched when there was movement next to him, so lost in his head he didn’t even notice Karlach’s bulk until she was right beside him. “He’s in and out of consciousness,” she said without preamble. “Halsin and Shadowheart think they’ve been able to sort out what’s wrong with him, even though he can’t tell them himself,” she said, and he gave a curt nod, since she seemed to be expecting a response.

“He’s asking for you,” Karlach said, frowning at him, and Astarion told himself it was because he couldn’t really take her in a fight that that he dragged himself to his feet and headed over to where Shadowheart and Halsin had been consulting over the bard’s injuries.

Tav looked pathetic. He was pale, and clearly barely-conscious. Someone had managed to get him into clean, unripped-and-bloodied breeches and gotten rid of his dirty tunic— he assumed Halsin or Karlach, who had the strength, and it wasn’t like any of them had much modesty anymore—  and his swollen ankle was wrapped and elevated. His ribs were wrapped, too, and the two healers were leaning over Tav’s hand, which looked quite awful. Astarion pursed his lips as he surveyed them, hands on his hips, because otherwise he was going to wrap them around himself and that was entirely too pathetic.

He didn’t ask, but Shadowheart gave him a report anyway, without looking up at him. She was holding glowing hands over Tav’s injured hand. “We managed to fix his ribs with magic, and we’d like to use more for his hand, and his head. There’s only so much healing magic I can afford to use right now, or that his body can take, and I’m trying to focus it where it’s most-needed.”

“Also, if you leave him hobbled, perhaps he’d stay out of trouble,” Astarion said, clipped and brittle. She grimaced, and Halsin looked at him, and Astarion barely resisted the urge to flee. “What,” he snapped.

“We’ll take care of his ankle as soon as we can, maybe in the morning,” Halsin picked up the narrative, watching Astarion calmly. “You won’t hurt him, if you touch him.”

“Who says I want to?” Astarion demanded, sneering, and Tav stirred on cue.

“‘Starion,” he slurred, and Shadowheart hushed him, trying to keep him still so he wouldn’t jostle the bones she was trying to re-set in his hand.

“Easy, child,” Halsin murmured, putting a big hand on Tav’s bared shoulder to keep him down, but Tav liked that even less, making a sound that more befitted an upset puppy than an a murderous assassin. Astarion had no doubt that being restrained, with his musician’s hands out of commission, was making a very unhappy, less-than-lucid bard.

“Oh, pipe down, you unbearable creature, they’re trying to help you,” Astarion said, and was moving before he’d fully thought it through. He didn’t know how much Tav was really comprehending at the moment, but as he knelt down on Tav’s other side, the bard twisted his head to face him, reaching out with his good hand to Astarion.

“Tav—“ Shadowheart started, tone reprimanding when the bard moved, but Halsin caught her. 

“Give him a moment,” Astarion heard the druid murmur. Tav made a frustrated little noise, his eyes mostly-closed, when he couldn’t shuffle his way any closer to Astarion, and he slurred some version of his name again, sounding completely pitiful.  

Astarion folded like wet parchment. Heaving a put-upon sigh, he fit an arm under Tav’s back and shifted to prop him up against his own chest. Tav sighed, his whole body relaxing, and he made a sweet little noise when Astarion pushed his fingers through his hair, pressing his whole head into Astarion’s palm. “Keep still for the healers, brat,” Astarion said without any heat at all; Tav’s only response was to tilt his head back, baring his throat in a familiar gesture— and honestly, what nerve— before, to all appearances, falling comfortably asleep in a vampire’s clutches.

Astarion glared at Halsin and Shadowheart, daring them to say anything at all, but Shadowheart just looked at Tav with pursed lips for a moment before returning to her work on Tav’s hand. Halsin quietly murmured advice, as he had more experience with traditional healing, as she tried to lower the swelling without accidentally healing the bone into place incorrectly. It took a while, and must have hurt, but Tav just wheezed quietly into Astarion’s neck and didn’t move. 

“Are you sure you healed his ribs?” Astarion asked eventually, unable to help himself, and Shadowheart didn’t reply as she worked on Tav’s hand, but Halsin glanced up again. 

“Yes. He’s most likely breathing like that because of all the saltwater he inhaled. It was no doubt rough on his lungs and his sinuses. He’ll be alright with time.” Astarion looked away from him, watching Shadowheart work on Tav’s hand.

It took about a quarter of an hour, but finally she sat back, and Tav’s hand did look better. It was far less swollen. “I think I’ve reset the bones properly,” she said, and Halsin checked her work with a careful touch.

“He should be playing again by morning,” he confirmed with a small smile, and Shadowheart didn’t manage to smile back, but she nodded.

“What do you think is wrong with his head?” she asked Halsin, but Astarion scoffed.

“What isn’t?” he muttered, dropping his hand out of Tav’s hair. That, of all things, made Tav stir again with an unhappy noise, and they all went still and silent, to see if he would wake. When he didn’t, Halsin spoke up again.

“There are signs of concussion— the slurred speech, uneven pupils. He probably hit it on something when the Iron Throne collapsed. I don’t see how he couldn’t, if he was inside and got washed all the way back to shore, unconscious. It’s amazing he’s not worse off,” Halsin mused calmly, as if his words weren’t reaching like a fist inside of Astarion’s chest and squeezing horribly.

“Do you think Astarion made it worse?” Shadowheart asked bluntly, still not looking at him, and Astarion wanted to snap at her, but she was right. He felt small, and ugly. He didn’t recall ever feeling ashamed before of his instincts to hurt and damage, but…

“Knocking his head on the door probably didn’t help,” Halsin said, still calm and without judgement. Astarion would have preferred one of them be nasty to him, instead. “But I don’t think that alone was enough to damage him. He was slurring already when he came in. I think it’s more likely that whatever happened to him in the water worsened his old injuries. Or inflamed them. Your first healing spell should have stopped any internal bleeding, which was the most immediate danger. Now we need to take down the swelling and give the tissue a chance to recover,” he explained.

Shadowheart nodded. “I’m going to use Heal,” she said. “I know he prefers me not to use that spell on him, but hopefully while he’s unconscious it won’t bring back any unpleasant memory,” she said. Astarion didn’t argue; the threat of brain damage was greater than the concern of an unpleasant memory returning. She put her glowing hands to Tav’s head, and Astarion held very still, letting her work without interruption.

“Alright,” she said eventually, sitting back with a sigh. She looked tired. “I should be able to fix his foot in the morning.”

“Is his head all better, then?” Astarion asked, frowning, and Shadowheart was tired enough to let herself shrug.

“No, probably not,” she said frankly. “The old damage is still there, and he’ll be in pain still for a bit. His old scar tissue might be inflamed, or swollen, which means he could still have trouble with language when he wakes up. But it should be temporary,” she said. “Only his usual side-effects will remain, if he gets enough rest and some time.”

“He’ll need to be woken a few times through the night, to be certain,” Halsin added. “He can take a potion for pain, the next time he does.” Astarion realized they were instructions a beat late and scowled.

“Who says I’m going to play nursemaid?” he demanded. Shadowheart gave him a severe look then, meeting his eyes for the first time since he’d come over.

“You did, when you summoned a Cambion and nearly signed an infernal contract in our living space,” she told him harshly. “You can’t possibly think that we would play along with your indifferent act now— that ship has well and truly sailed,” she said, her voice clipped and irritated-sounding. 

Astarion wrestled with conflicting responses that warred within him. He wanted to snap back at her, wanted to deny his feelings, wanted to threaten Tav and his idiotic recklessness; he wanted to bundle the bard up and hide him away, where no one could touch him again except for Astarion himself. 

He wanted to be free and he wanted to possess, and he couldn’t do both at once. He felt trapped.

“Astarion,” Halsin said gently, and Astarion bared his teeth, feeling more like an animal than a person.

“You handle him,” Shadowheart told the druid, tone terse with disgust, and got up. “I have a wizard to heal.” Astarion’s chest twinged with an unfamiliar feeling— guilt— and he worked not to wince. Hells, he’d been so foolish. 

“Well, get on with the lecture,” Astarion snapped when Halsin was quiet for too long. The other elf, bizarrely, smiled at him. It put Astarion’s back up, but it was hard to look or feel threatening when Tav turned in his sleep, burying his face in Astarion’s throat and clutching to him with his good hand as though Astarion were a child’s comfort item. As the icing on the cake, the bard began quietly snoring, his inflamed sinuses making him snuffle disgustingly into Astarion’s neck.

It was not cute, at all.

“It is difficult, to care for someone,” Halsin began quietly, still holding his gaze. “It can be a great sacrifice.”

“The only one sacrificing anything is Tav, sacrificing himself. And perhaps what little brain matter he has remaining,” Astarion muttered derisively, sounding a lot more petulant than he meant to. Halsin just gave him a knowing look.

“Forgive any presumption I may be making, but I can only compare to my own experiences,” Halsin said, and Astarion let him pretend they were talking about Halsin instead of himself, only because he had no other option with Tav as a heavy weight in his lap. “To care about someone requires giving more of the self than we can ever expect, until it happens. Even if we have had such relationships before. It can be frightening.”

Astarion set his jaw. “I’m not scared of having a lover,” he muttered, purposely obtuse. Halsin just shook his head, endless patient. Astarion wondered viciously what it would take to get the man angry enough to leave him the hells alone.

“I don’t mean the romantic sort of care,” Halsin said. “Not only that, anyway. To be close to anyone means that, eventually, you can hurt each other more thoroughly than anyone else.” Astarion sneered.

“I’ve been hurt plenty by people who had no care at all,” Astarion sniffed, then eyed Halsin’s scar pointedly. “As have you, I would wager.” He was irritated when the comment evoked little reaction.

“Certainly,” the druid agreed. “But it feels worse, when it’s someone we did not desire to hurt to begin with.”

Astarion flinched so hard that Tav made a snorting sound and stirred briefly. He looked down at the bard to avoid Halsin’s gaze, and made a production of resettling Tav to stall before he had to answer. 

He thought of the sound Tav had made when he’d shoved him too hard, expecting more resistance and thus using more force than necessary. He thought of spray of blood that stained Gale’s sleeve when Astarion had lashed out, trying to avoid a spellblast that wasn’t actually coming. He thought of the terror in Karlach’s eyes, when he’d bellowed for Mizora to show herself, and of the fear in Wyll’s words when he’d tried to talk Astarion down from making a pact with his patron.

“Vampires are creatures of destruction,” he told Halsin, voice brittle. “You can’t expect something different. It’s my nature,” he said, with a humorless smile. He was made for hurting. “You of all people should understand that,” he said sarcastically.

Halsin was quiet for so long that Astarion looked up, only to find the elf watching him thoughtfully. Or rather, he was looking where Astarion’s hand was supporting the back of Tav’s head, to keep his head and neck at an angle to help him breathe more easily.

Only because his snoring was annoying. Really.

“I’ve lived a long time,” Halsin said finally, giving him a small smile. “I can recognize when one’s nature is bad at the root." He pinned Astarion into place with his steady gaze and painfully gentle words. "Yours is not.”

“You don’t know me,” Astarion snapped, but he felt what little borrowed blood he had in his system rushing to his face. Ugh, awful.

Halsin just hummed tonelessly, then got to his feet with a grunt, apparently satisfied with that terrible conversation. “Wake Tav a few times, and check his symptoms,” he instructed. “He may be confused, or still be having some trouble with his words. See if you can get him to take a pain potion," the druid added. "If something changes, find one of us; I will be meditating, but I can take over if you need it.” Astarion said nothing, looking away, and Halsin walked off.

Astarion was glad he left, and relieved that no one was looking at him anymore. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, deciding to rest himself, for a few minutes. He could wake Tav in a little while.

For now, he focused on the sound of Tav’s breathing, and his pulse against Astarion’s chest. It was steady, and reassuring. It was more comfort than a monster really deserved, but Tav had chosen him. Really, the bard was to blame here. Of all the ridiculous things, he wanted Astarion, so he got what he deserved.

Astarion would keep telling himself that, until he believed it.

Notes:

I’m just making stuff up about healing spells for the sake of Tav!whump, don’t @ me

Tune in next time for Astarion stabbing himself in the eye apologizing, more Tav suffering, and hopefully, Tav's recovery. It might be two chapters, honestly, we'll see.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter 4

Summary:

It's a lot easier to confess when your confessor can't understand a word of Common.

“Hey, Fangs,” Astarion heard a while later, and he opened his eyes, easily breaking his trance. Tav was still snuffling into his shirt, and Astarion knew he would have to wake him in a moment, but for now, he would try to let him sleep.  

He met Karlach’s gaze as she crouched down next to them. “D’you need anything?” she asked, keeping her voice low when she saw Tav was asleep. Her expression was creased with concern. 

Astarion shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he murmured, matching her volume. Then he paused, considering Tav’s non-undead needs. Astarion was fine for now, but Tav… “Actually, could you bring over some water and maybe some bread? Something easy to eat,” he said, just as quietly. 

“You got it, boss,” Karlach said, and slipped away for a moment.

Astarion was feeling less prickly, at least, after some meditating, and now that Tav was a reassuring, living weight in his lap. Enough to feel prickly in a whole different, uncomfortable way. Defensive, perhaps, of how he felt as fragile and as transparent as spun glass. He stewed over it while she was gone, studying the flicker of torchlight on Tav’s fair hair. 

If it were him, Tav wouldn’t apologize, Astarion suspected. He’d not heard the bard do so very often. But Tav also was significantly better at not putting his foot in his mouth in the first place. The half-elf had the enviable ability of not saying things he would regret every time he made to speak. 

But Tav also had a way of delivering even the worst news with a grin that made you feel like you were in on the joke, instead of noticing the sting of being the butt of it. He wasn’t exactly nice, by any stretch of the imagination, but in spite of what the bard thought of himself, he lacked the wide streak of cruelty Astarion assumed he would see in his own reflection, could he look in a mirror.

 When Karlach came back with a pitcher of fresh water, an empty mug, and a platter of food he assumed was left from dinner— he hadn’t been paying much attention, at the time, too occupied with tearing his own hair out and cursing Tav’s very existence— he spoke up. He kept his gaze carefully pointed slightly to the left of her ear.

“I’m sorry, for earlier,” he managed, feeling like the words might choke him. He meant to say more— probably should say more— but his words dried up and his throat closed. Gods, this was horrible. It was even worse that he was pinned in place by the sleeping, vulnerable form of his lover.

Luckily, Karlach didn’t let the silence drag or wait for him to fill it. “Yeah, I know,” she said, offering him a weak smile. She reached out as if to knock him, friendly, on the shoulder, then glanced at Tav again and thought better of it. “It’s alright, yeah? I get it.”

“You do?” Astarion asked without meaning to, blinking at her. He didn’t ‘get it’ himself. How could she forgive him so easily? 

He wouldn’t have.

Karlach laughed a little, but she still, somehow, looked sad. “Tav’s important to you. Maybe the most important thing you’ve got, yeah?” Luckily, she didn’t seem to require an answer, because he didn’t know what in Faerûn he would say. The only options that came to mind were either rude and untrue, or honest and unbearably sappy— so, unacceptable.

“You’ve been through some shit, Astarion, we all get it,” Karlach said, moving her head to force him to meet her gaze. “Just… don’t do it again.” 

She had always been too forgiving. Perhaps looking death in the face made petty grudges hold less weight. He cleared his throat.

“If I try it, I give you permission to use all force at your disposal to stop me,” he said wryly. “Ask someone to cast Hold Person— or better yet, just take your greatsword and...” He mimed hitting someone with the pommel, and she laughed a little.

“I’ll take you up on that,” Karlach warned him. “We don’t want any more devils interfering with us, you know. Not after Tav worked so hard to get rid of every contract he could,” she said, and he sighed.

“Yes.” Tav would likely be quite put out, if— no, when he heard the story. “I’m… I overreacted. Quite a lot,” he said, looking away again, unable to bear her sympathetic look. “I’m not the only who has, as you say, ‘been through some shit’.” Not by a longshot. Astarion wasn’t even the only one who would have been hurt by Tav’s loss. Hells, the whole of Baldur’s Gate might have suffered; they were all strong, but they would need everything they had to take on an Elder Brain.

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Karlach said. She met his gaze. “But I think I’m not the one who needs to hear that apology,” she said, leadingly; she wasn’t exactly one for subtlety. He grimaced.

“My life was better when I was not in possession of friends to disappoint,” he muttered, and she chuckled, rolling her eyes.

“Aw, you liar,” she said. Her amusement faded as they both looked at Tav again. “How’s he doing?” she asked softly.

“We’re not certain, though Shadowheart definitely worked her magic, so to speak. He looks better than before, at least,” Astarion murmured. “I’m to wake him shortly, to check,” he added, and she nodded. 

“Alright. I’ll leave you to that— won’t crowd you,” she said. Astarion hadn’t even realized he wanted privacy for that moment until she offered it. He gave her a grateful nod. “Just shout if you need anything, else,” she told him. “Jaheira and Minsc are staying with the kiddo at her house, so it’s just us here, and we won’t mind. I’ll let the others know that we can all start heading to bed, if you’re good here.” He nodded again, and she got up and walked away, likely off to one of the other sleeping areas.

He studied Tav again as he heard vague movement from the rest of the suite,; the normal sounds of their nighttime routines were more subdued after the day they’d had. There was no playfully joking, or half-hearted bickering over the warm bathwater, or Tav’s customary lullaby that he’d started as a joke and then kept up with. Instead, there was just quiet shuffling and low muttering from around the suite, and he tried to tune it out, focusing on how soon and best to wake Tav. 

He was brought out of his mental plans for waking Tav when Lae’zel appeared from behind the curtains cordoning off this section of the room. He stilled, meeting her gaze. The gith’yanki looked at him for a long moment, eyes unblinking, then at Tav sprawled in his lap, and then back at Astarion. Her expression was less than pleased, but she always looked mildly disgusted, as it were. Tav called it ‘resting gith face’.

“You’re pathetic,” Lae’zel announced flatly, not even with a hint of the sneer she normally gave istik that she thought were being particularly idiotic. She kept her voice down at least, for Tav’s sake.

Astarion didn’t argue, just sneered at her. “And?” he asked shortly, keeping his voice down. She just lifted her chin.

“As long as you’re aware,” she sniffed, then continued on her way, toward her own bed. 

Well.

“She really has a way with words,” Wyll mused quietly as she left, coming up behind her, and Astarion was starting to feel a little bit like a zoo exhibit.

“Is your father going to come and have a chat with me as well? I’m afraid I’m a little undressed for a visit from the Grand Duke,” Astarion asked as sarcastically as he could manage while trying to keep his voice to the level of a  whisper.

“Nah,” Wyll said easily, looking pretty relaxed for a man who had tried wrestling Astarion into submission earlier in the evening. “He wouldn’t appreciate the sight of you being drooled on as much as the rest of us, anyway,” he said, gesturing to Tav.

“Har har,” Astarion huffed. “Well, you can assure him I’ve resumed my previous stance on deals with devils,” he said, looking at Wyll’s horns instead of his face. “I’m afraid the whole legally-and-infernally-binding business isn’t quite for me.” Wyll sighed.

“Astarion—“ he began, but Astarion held up a hand. 

“Not now,” Astarion said, and it lacked his usual sharpness. It sounded pleading, even to his own ears, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. 

The moment of vulnerability seemed to have worked, though, as Wyll obligingly fell quiet. “I’ve got to wake him, and I’d rather not overwhelm him,” Astarion explained, looking away. “Anyway, I’d prefer to have some rest myself, before dealing with any lectures in the morning.” He paused, then forced himself to add, “Justified though they may be.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Wyll settled on, softening a little. “Both of you.” Astarion grimaced at him.

“Yes, yes, very sweet. Go away,” Astarion huffed, flicking his fingers dismissively. Wyll flashed him a smile and shook his head, but he let Astarion wave him off.

And then they were alone again. Well, there was nothing for it, Astarion mused. Were he a religious man, he would perhaps have prayed to something first, but instead, he gently took Tav’s shoulder and shook him, careful not to jostle his head. He worked his way into a more upright sitting position too, bringing Tav up with him.

Tav stirred with a groan of complaint that was familiar to him from mornings the bard really didn’t want to get up, and Astarion temporarily forgot all irritation toward him in a surge of relieved hope. “Well, my dear, how’s the land of the living treating you?” he asked, a little dryly. “Come now, wake up. I think you’ve drooled on my shirt quite enough for one evening.”

Tav’s eyes fluttered open, brow furrowing in the tell-tale way that meant he had a headache. Recalling Halsin’s instructions, Astarion plucked the pain potion that had been left on the nightstand next to them and pressed it into Tav’s good hand. “Drink that, it’s one of Halsin’s pain potions. You’ll feel better.” Tav’s fingers closed around the bottle obediently, and Astarion snorted. “If only you took orders as well as that all the time,” he sniped, as Tav, even with his eyes still half-shut, drank down the liquid without complaint or any of his usual dramatics about the taste.

Then, Tav spoke. Theoretically. Astarion wasn’t sure if it actually passed as words. He froze, studying Tav’s face, hoping he’d just misheard the jumble of nonsense syllables. The sudden stiffening of his living pillow had Tav coming more awake; he gave Astarion a bleary, questioning look. 

“My dear,” Astarion said, enunciating carefully. “Can you understand me? Tav?” he asked, cupping Tav’s jaw. Tav squinted at him— no, at Astarion’s mouth— then reached up to touch his own ears, as if uncertain they were still there. His motions were a little slow, as though his limbs were weighed down by invisible stones. When Astarion caught a glimpse of his normally bright eyes, he could see that they were still a bit dazed; one pupil was larger than the other.

“Ah. Well, they did say you might need more time,” Astarion said, trying not to feel disappointed— or worried— as Tav started to look more upset.

“Astarion,” Tav muttered, the syllables slurring together, and Astarion gave a shocked, bitter laugh. 

“How is it that you can still correctly manage that, of all things?” he asked, shaken. 

“Astarion, listening,” Tav muttered, in a distracted and disjointed tone, rubbing roughly at his ear.  Astarion caught his wrist gently to stop him.

“Oh, beloved,” Astarion murmured sadly, letting his voice go soft, since it was clear Tav couldn’t understand him, and no one else was there to catch him at it. Tav’s brow began to crease and he looked anxious now, rather than just irritated. 

Hopelessness washed over Astarion, and he didn’t like it; he settled for leaning in to kiss the bard’s brow. “It will be alright,” he said, hoping the soothing tone would at least convey some meaning. He did his best to stifle his own anxiety. No doubt Tav would soon recover the ability to understand language, since Shadowheart had said so, and she was Selûne’s favorite cleric or something, so. 

“Drink something, my sweet,” Astarion continued, keeping his tone soft. He pressed some water into Tav’s hands next, and he took careful sips, without protesting. When he seemed finished and Astarion took the mug back, setting it aside, Tav slurred something. Like earlier, Astarion didn’t understand any of it, other than catching a few words that didn’t mean anything when strung together. Tav clearly thought he was saying something, and was starting to be able to tell something was more wrong than a little water in his ears, as his tone got more and more desperate.

“Hush,” Astarion murmured, helplessly, as Tav made upset-sounding noises. He made a shushing noise, and that seemed to translate, as Tav quieted, expression falling. Astarion smoothed his fingers through Tav’s hair. “I’m sorry I had to wake you, my dear, you can go back to sleep now. When you wake up, this will be better.” It didn’t matter if it was a lie; Tav wouldn’t know. 

Tav still looked upset, leaning his ear against Astarion’s sternum and reaching up to touch his fingers to Astarion’s mouth, pressing briefly in wordless request. “Oh. Well, I’m afraid I haven’t your talent for words,” Astarion mused, but that seemed to be what Tav wanted, as he sighed quietly and dropped his hand, head pressed to where Astarion’s voice rumbled in his chest. “But I suppose that doesn’t much matter, hm? You can’t judge my prose at the moment.” 

Astarion paused for a moment, and Tav made an impatient noise and tilted his head back to squint-glare at him. “Oh, stop, I’m collecting my thoughts. It’s a good thing for you that you chose a lover who needs neither sleep nor food, who can serve at your beck and call,” he added wryly, as Tav settled back down with a faintly pleased look. It was better than the pained confusion, at least.

“Also fortunate for you that I don’t need to sleep,” Astarion continued mindlessly, to keep up the stream of words. “I can spend the rest of the night ruminating on the many ways I’ll impress upon you the sheer magnitude of how unacceptable your actions in the Iron Throne were,” Astarion told him. Completely innocent as to what Astarion was saying, Tav smiled just a little, eyelids drooping. 

“Don’t look so comfortable. When you’re recovered, we’re going to have words,” Astarion said sternly. “Perhaps even a proper fight. I’m very angry with you,” he said softly, rubbing Tav’s neck gently. Tav’s eyelids were drooping again.

“No doubt I’ll spend the night considering how unacceptable my own response was, as well,” Astarion continued in a mutter, to himself. Well, it wasn’t as though Tav could understand him at the moment. “I don’t know if you’ll laugh or try to flay me, when you find out I was a hair’s breadth away from making a deal with Mizora. After all the trouble you went to with Raphael, too, and to get Wyll out of his contract,” he narrated, smoothing his fingers through Tav’s hair. The bard sighed softly, relaxing further.

“You wretched thing,” Astarion mused, watching him, and it didn’t really matter if he was talking to Tav or himself. “You can’t do a good thing without destroying something else, hm? It’s not your nature.” He sighed. “I suppose that’s why we get along, you and I.” He had liked it better when they’d still thought they were villains. He ran his fingertips over Tav’s cheekbone, then his nose, then the scar on his face, just to touch, to feel his blood moving normally and the heat of his skin. Evidence of life. Tav barely responded, still and quiet in Astarion’s hold, trusting. Idiot. 

Darling.

Astarion grimaced at the top of Tav’s head.  “I’m afraid I don’t much like who I am, when I’ve lost you,” he murmured. “And I was terribly rude to our favorite wizard,” he added reluctantly. He took a steadying breath out of habit, suddenly feeling a bit unsteady and glad that Tav was mostly out of it and couldn’t notice. “My dear, I thought I was the one in control, when we first met. That I would just wrap you around my finger and be done with it. No emotional entanglements necessary. But as soon as you were gone, well! Evidence quite to the contrary.”

He paused for a long moment to collect himself, listening to Tav’s slowing breathing and studying his lashes, the curl of his hair at his nape, the familiar shape of his ears. “Honestly, the Mizora bit you might find funny,” he finally mused, as Tav did have a bizarre sense of humor. “But attacking our companions? Probably not.”

“It was self-defense.” Astarion whipped his head up to meet Gale’s gaze. The wizard was lurking in the curtained entrance, and had been for who knew how long.  Astarion should be better than this. He’d been slacking, letting people sneak up on him tonight. Honestly, how dare they. 

Gale wasn’t finished. “You didn’t want to hurt me. You thought I was about to cast on you, and you flinched, didn’t you?” he asked, implacably. He sounded a lot calmer now than he had earlier in the evening, and for that reason alone, Astarion tried to choose his words carefully. No need to pick that fight back up where they’d left off. Especially not when it resulted in Astarion drawing blood in the rooms. He had at least better manners than to eat where he slept. Tranced. Whatever, metaphors were Tav’s area of expertise, not his.

“I don’t need you to make excuses for me,” he said, words still coming out a bit clipped. The wound on Gale’s arm, he could see, had been healed.

“You didn’t try to hurt the Ravenguards either,” Gale pointed out. “Not even when they restrained you to keep you from signing.”

“Are you criticizing me for not drawing more friendly blood?” Astarion asked incredulously, making a face. The wizard’s calm expression didn’t change.

“Just making a point,” Gale said simply. They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. Gale looked thoughtful, rather than vengeful, which was not how Astarion would have been feeling in his place, to be frank. 

“Take care of him,” Gale finally said into the silence between them, nodding to Tav. Astarion would have scoffed, but the wizard had already left. 

Astarion figured they were going to need to have a longer conversation than that, at some point, but he was a little relieved that one was over for now. That was quite enough emotional labor for one night.

He hoped everybody was finished coming over to bloody check on him.

When he looked down again, Tav was asleep. He was snoring softly, and his mouth was open a little, from the way his cheek was mashed up against Astarion’s collarbone. He might have been drooling a bit, for real. Astarion mused that he should probably find that disgusting, but instead he found himself endeared; he decided to be disgusted about that instead. 

What a horrid man, making Astarion feel warm and fond.

“If you ever leave me, my dear, I’m afraid no one will enjoy the consequences,” Astarion murmured quietly, too soft to wake him. And he’d be just plain afraid, too; it was safe to admit that now, while Tav couldn’t hear him, but he still couldn’t manage to say it aloud. 

“And anyway,” Astarion continued quietly, reclining back so that they could both get some more rest. He would have to check on Tav once or twice more before morning, but for now, he could return to a trance and let Tav sleep. “I refuse to be left alone with all of these weirdos. They’re horrid, and grossly sympathetic, and kind, in their own ways. It’s disgusting.”

Tav snored into his ear in response. Typical.

 

 

Notes:

Astarion in Act 1: i can definitely make him worse >:)
Astarion in Act 3: oh no, we accidentally made each other have personal growth, disgusting >:/

- -

This chapter is a bit short because it was supposed to be part of chap. 3, but it made that chapter too long. I hope I didn't lose Astarion's voice too much in this chap-- he fought me the whole way. I'm afraid he's a little too softe in this chap, but the way he reacts to durge trying to kill him in act 2 makes me think Tav being vulnerable/needing his help gets him feeling some kind of way. I tell myself it's fine if I don't really know where his head is at because he certainly doesn't either.

(Also Gale definitely stepped on a Cazador trigger (oops) in that tiff that happened off-screen between chapters 1 and 2, when Astarion wounded him, and he realized it after the fact that it was why Astarion reacted so violently to his attempt at intervening. (Would Astarion in his right mind have hurt party members to revive Tav? Hopefully they won't ever have to find out))

also I know this tav has a volo eye, but I’m just going to hand-wave magic and say it functions just like regular eyes would under concussion circumstances.

Tune in next time for the final chapter in which Tav (finally) wakes the hells up and we maybe earn the comfort part of the tag.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Local adventuring party rehabilitates sad, failed villains with the power of platonic care and intimacy, more at 11.

Notes:

This got a little sappy. Oops? Also, I edited ch. 4 some. Not really any new content, but it reads a lot smoother now imo, if that interests you.

Ugh, his mouth tasted disgusting. 

“Mm, are you back with us?” The room was brighter than Tav last remembered— he had some blurry memories of being woken a few times throughout the night, and falling back asleep to the sound of a familiar voice— and he grimaced and hid his face in his pillow to get away from it for another moment. Except, his pillow didn’t have much give, and was perfectly cool under his cheek, and smelled a little like tea and a little like decay.

“Still got a bit of a headache, I see,” the familiar voice mused, sounding softer than Tav was expecting for some reason. Astarion, he finally put together, shaking off the dregs of sleep. He was right; Tav did have a headache. How could he tell?

“Open those lovely eyes for me, my dear,” Astarion murmured, coaxingly, and Tav didn’t want to, because it might make the vampire stop rubbing his neck. His neck hurt, and his head— did he mention that already?—and his ankle, and his—

Fuck, his hand.

His eyes shot open and he brought his hand up to look at it. “Ah, yes, I was wondering when you’d get around to worrying about that,” Astarion murmured absently, as if talking to himself, while Tav turned his wrist one way, then the other. He knew better than to bend his fingers, just in case, but he wiggled his fingertips tentatively.  He was sore, and stiff, but it looked pretty good, all things considered. He relaxed with a gusty, dramatic sigh.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he heard Astarion say, and it startled him a little as he inspected the bandages on his fingers, because Astarion almost never used the pet name without a little sarcasm to temper the saccharineness. But the elf’s voice was gentle, and genuine, if a little raspy. Like he’d had a long night, or had been speaking for a long time. 

“Your hand will be good as new, you’ll see, my dear,” Astarion continued, without waiting for Tav’s input. “You’ll be back to your fiddle and flute in no time at all. Now, if I could get you to look up, once you’re sure that your hand is still attached, then perhaps I can check to see if your pupils are two different sizes still.” He just kept rambling, though, handing Tav some water instead of actually checking his eyes.

“Drink, pet, there you go,” Tav heard as he gratefully sucked down the water, rinsing the terrible taste from his mouth. “Don’t choke,” Astarion added idly, but it lacked the bite— or the innuendo— Tav expected from him. “Good, maybe some bread next,” the vampire mused. “I think there’s fruit somewhere… Ah, yes. He found it,” Astarion commented wryly as Tav reached for the nearby grapes and shoved them in his mouth. He was starving, and Astarion seemed perfectly fine carrying the conversation on his own, so…

Then he nearly choked on them. He chewed his mouthful quickly— the one time he regretted his bad manners— as Astarion continued to murmur soothing nonsense to him, realizing finally why the vampire was talking as though to himself. “Such fine manners,” Astarion murmured, tone only mildly wry instead of thoroughly caustic, the way it would have been with an audience. “I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t love you for your decorum,” Astarion mused, casual as anything, as he passed Tav a cloth napkin.

Tav swallowed so fast it almost hurt, then turned a little in Astarion’s hold to look him in the face. “I love you, too,” he blurted, then had a horrible moment where he feared that, though he could understand language again, maybe he still wasn’t actually managing to say what he thought he was saying. 

Astarion’s eyes widened a little the way they always did when Tav aired the ‘l-word’ aloud, then narrowed. “You can hear me,” he said flatly.

“Uh-huh,” Tav said, cautiously.

“You didn’t think to share that information sooner?” Astarion asked, exasperated, and Tav offered the sheepish grin that he knew usually got him what he wanted and made him look ages younger than he was. 

“I forgot?” he said weakly. “You— you can understand me, right?” he asked, startled to hear his voice crack with uncertainty. 

Astarion’s expression softened just as he’d intended just a moment earlier, but only now that Tav was actually having a moment. Typical.

“Yes, my dear,” Astarion murmured, and Tav soaked in the reassurance instead of being bothered by how he needed it. “You’re alright, you’re back to speaking comprensible Common,” he promised, and Tav took a ragged breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, feeling cracked open without knowing why. He tried to press his palms to his eyes, but Astarion caught his injured hand by the elbow. “I don’t— it was like everything was underwater,” he said, and Astarion tensed, but his hands stayed gentle. “It was too much like an Urge. Like there was something else twisting my words, and my thoughts until I didn’t recognize them,” he said with a shudder. “I knew something was off, but not what, or—“

“Ssh,” Astarion murmured, and Tav would have elbowed him in the gut for it, but he was pretty sure the vampire had stayed up all night talking to him softly so that Tav could sleep with a familiar blur of sound nearby to assure him he was safe, so Tav cut him some slack. Also, he kissed Tav's mouth, too, to quiet him, and that was alright.

“Shadowheart and Halsin said that you probably hit your head rather hard,” Astarion explained when he pulled away again.Tav couldn’t confirm or deny, but his head did rather hurt. That was pretty typical for him, though.  “I’ve had issues before, but… not like last night,” he said, still feeling a bit shaky. Though maybe that was just the lack of food and water. He took another, less greedy sip at the thought. “What if… what if it happens again?” he asked, feeling his jaw tense up a little.

“It should be fine now,” Astarion said firmly, as if he could force it to be true by saying it. He took hold of Tav’s chin and looked intently at him, and Tav instinctively froze; he realized a beat later that Astarion was checking his pupils. “Shadowheart was able to cast a few healing spells, and she said once the swelling went down, you’d be back to your usual, silver-tongued self,” he said, and Tav could tell he was forcing his tone to be light.

Tav just nodded. He wasn’t sure he believed it. If the language processing troubles were related to his brain injury curtesy of Orin, from before, in the time he couldn’t remember, then he wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t continue to happen. Especially after the tadpole was removed.

But, that was a problem for future-Tav. Present-Tav was hungry, and sore, and hoping that Astarion had forgotten all about—

“So. Did you forget how to cast Misty Step, or do you have some other excuse for that utter failure to escape?” Astarion asked, voice deceptively light. His vowels were even more precise than usual, though, so Tav knew he was in trouble. 

Tav adopted his most-innocent expression, mostly on-instinct in response to the absolute venom in Astarion’s eyes. Time for damage control, definitely.

“So I may have made a slight error in my estimation of how much strength I had left—“ he started to hedge, but Astarion already looked completely steamed.

“Oh, a slight error,” Astarion repeated, in his most-sarcastic tone, which Tav normally found quite funny. It was less funny, when it was directed at him. “A little mistake, an inconsequential miscalculation that resulted in your untimely death, is that all?” he said, expression and sarcasm both growing more and more vicious. “Well, that’s alright then. Since it only ended in you being blown up and drowned! Yes, no concern at all.”

“Astarion,” Tav tried, but the spawn scowled.

“Don’t you ‘Astarion’ me,” he snapped, gesturing so wildly in his dudgeon that he almost hit Tav in the face.

“It is your name,” Tav said wryly as he ducked, but he was ignored.

“Of all the fool-headed notions you’ve ever taken into your head, choosing to save a useless gnome instead of your own skin was the worst of them,” Astarion bit out. Tav rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t exactly planning on sacrificing myself, or anything,” he said, defensively, feeling his blood heat at Astarion’s condescending tone. “I just— we ran out of time.”

“You lied to me,” Astarion snarled.

“I needed you safe!” Tav snapped back. “I needed to know you were on that submersible.” Astarion’s eyes flashed, and he shoved Tav off his lap. 

“Fuck off,” Astarion growled, the vulgar word sounding especially ugly in his voice. He moved, making to stand. “You aren’t my keeper,” he said, sounding disgusted by the very idea. “You don’t get to cosset me.”

“I know that,” Tav said quickly, feeling like he was swiftly losing control of the conversation. Astarion looked half a second away from vanishing, and Tav didn’t want that. “Don’t you fucking run away from me again,” he blurted, frustrated, when Astarion pushed to his feet.

Well, he could have said that better, part of him noted, as pale hands gripped his arms in response and dragged him to his feet, so Astarion could yell in his face more effectively.

“I will not dance to your choreography,” he barked, low and cold right in Tav’s face. “I have no need of another manipulative bastard in my life, managing me ‘for my own good’,” he bit out, sarcasm and contempt practically dripping from his pores.

Alright. That one kind of hurt.

“That wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to be manipulative. I was just scared!” Tav cried out, honest and hurting with it. For some reason, that pulled Astarion up short, and he froze. Tav took advantage, hastily piling on more words, in the hopes that one of them would fix this situation. “I didn’t think, I wasn’t trying to trick you. I just knew that you could get out, and I couldn’t, and I didn’t want you to get hurt if I could do something about it.” 

He sighed as Astarion’s expression stayed tense and frozen; Astarion’s grip on his arms was starting to hurt, but Tav didn’t dare mention it. “Besides, I knew Withers could just revive me, if the rest of you got out,” he said. “No point in wasting twice the gold,” he said wryly, trying to turn it into a joke.

“Who?” Astarion asked blankly, then his expression screwed up, like it was his turn for a headache. Right, the others had a lot more trouble remembering Withers than he did, these days. Tav used to be like that, before the whole Bhaal debacle. He recalled that it had been incredibly uncomfortable, trying to recall anything about their friendly neighborhood skeleton.

“He wasn’t here, you utter lackwit,” Astarion said, voice clipped. His expression looked suddenly, terribly fragile. “We piloted that damn submersible and saved the godsforsaken day, all to get back to the inn, and he wasn’t here.”

Tav tried to picture it: leaving Astarion behind somewhere dangerous, knowing there was no way he could survive it, but hoping for the one chance of returning him, only to find out there was no chance at all. 

That he was gone, and there was nothing to be done about it.

“Well shit,” Tav said feebly, and Astarion moved so suddenly Tav thought violence was incoming. He tried to brace himself and realized very late that he was being embraced.  Aggressively. Astarion had his arms tight around him and squeezed Tav almost painfully against his chest. Tav got his arms around Astarion in return when his brain caught up, holding just as tightly.

Astarion had never asked for a hug before. Tav was counting this as a first, and excusing the incredibly awkward, near-violent way he did so.

Tav didn’t say anything, sensing for once that his words wouldn’t add to the situation. Instead, he tucked his face in Astarion’s neck, riding out the spawn’s flinch when he brushed against the bite scar, and slumped his full weight onto the vampire. It made Astarion huff, as expected, and gave him the excuse to grip Tav closer and hide his face from Tav, so that he could collect himself in privacy. 

“You are the absolute worst person I have ever had the displeasure of knowing,” Astarion muttered petulantly. His lips brushed Tav’s temple, so featherlight, Tav almost thought he imagined it.

“Yeah,” Tav murmured agreeably, relieved. He hooked his chin over Astarion’s shoulder, still not forcing the vampire to look at him. “Tell me about Mizora,” he said next. Some of last night was a blur, but he very clearly remembered seeing her in their suite, decked out in full demonic-lawyer regalia and entourage. 

Astarion went stiff as a board. “Mm. Figured it was something like that,” Tav mused, even though Astarion hadn’t said anything. “You do realize I would have been a little annoyed to have to kill another devil so soon,” he pointed out conversationally, and Astarion snorted, his form slowly relaxing again into a person instead of statue carved of rock.

“Well, far be it from me to mildly inconvenience you,” he drawled, sounding a little more steady. Enough that Tav risked pressing a kiss to the edge of his jaw. When Tav got little more than an irritated huff in answer, he knew it was safe to pull back to look at him.

“I know it doesn’t make it better, but I didn’t intend to put you through that,” he said, meeting Astarion’s gaze. Astarion looked a bit pinched. 

“You did anyway,” he said stiffly, but he sounded less mad than he had earlier.

“You’re right, I did,” Tav said frankly. He wouldn’t apologize; it would be insincere, which Astarion hated, as well as a lie, as Tav was fairly certain he would make the same decision in that moment, even if he had the option to redo it. “And it was terrible. I wish it could have gone differently.”

Astarion sniffed, some of his theatrics returning to him, which was how Tav knew they were going to be alright. “It was,” he agreed. “Halsin lectured me.” Tav gave a wry smile.

“It was your turn,” he said with a shrug, and Astarion scoffed. “What about?” he asked curiously. Astarion took long enough to answer for Tav to know that he had taken Halsin’s words more to heart than he was about to pretend.

“Nature,” Astarion said loftily. “The Oak-Father’s very fond of it, you know.”

“Sure,” Tav said with a wry grin. “Let go of me, I have to eat something,” he added, and Astarion obeyed. Tav sat back down on the edge of the day-bed and set about demolishing the remnants of the platter nearby.

“You two done fighting in there?” came Karlach’s voice from beyond the curtain boundary. There was little privacy here, though the heavy curtains could block more quiet voices. “Halsin and Shadowheart want to do a check-up?” Tav snorted, letting Astarion answer, since he was busy stuffing his face.

“We can table it for later,” Astarion called back primly.

“Great,” Karlach said cheerily, and pulled aside the curtain to reveal the cleric, the druide, the barbarian, and, oddly enough, Ulder Ravenguard. Tav blinked, then pointed at him. Probably rudely, but he saved the guy’s life and maybe had caused himself a whole lot of trouble for it with a certain infernal lawyer, so he would damn well point if he wanted to. He remembered, vaguely, seeing him last night.

“Hey, you made it,” he said in greeting, once he’d swallowed his mouthful of dry bread. He coughed a little and took a swig of wine to wash it down, since he was out of water. Astarion muttered something disparaging and took his pitcher before departing, presumably to get him some more.

Luckily, Ulder Ravenguard seemed good-natured enough. “I did, thanks in no small part to you,” he said warmly. “I wanted to extend my gratitude, now that you seem well enough to receive it, and request a conversation at a later point. I have some information that might help us save the city.”

“Oh, alright,” Tav agreed, wiping his mouth. “I have some things to say to you, too, frankly,” he said bluntly, and Ulder looked a bit chagrined.

“If it is in regards to my son, I do not begrudge you. But I can tell you that I have been thoroughly educated on the true circumstances of his banishment from the Gate, and will be doing my utmost to reconcile with him, if he is willing,” Ulder said, sounding abashed. 

Huh. Someone got there first, Tav guessed.

“Oh,” Tav repeated, a little of the wind going out of his sails. “Well, that’s alright then. I did have a pretty good speech prepared, but I guess if you already saw that you were being a dick, I don’t need it.” Karlach laughed.

“Tav,” Shadowheart said, sounding put-upon, but there was a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth.

“What? I call ‘em like I see ‘em.” He didn’t always see eye to eye with Wyll, but he hadn’t much liked the situation the guy had been forced into at the tender age of seventeen.

“I was quite harsh with my son. If things could have been different…” Ulder trailed off, sounding wistful. “Well, I have some time now, to attempt to make right many wrongs. But we will talk later. I only wished to convey my thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Tav said simply, because people tended not to like it and only insist more when he brushed off their gratitude, misplaced as it was. It was faster to accept it. Ulder gave him a nod, then left the sleeping area again.

“Tell us how you’re feeling,” Shadowheart demanded in her usual way, and Tav had to stop eating to give a thorough list of his aches and pains. By the time he was done, Astarion had returned with more water. He noticed absently that things seemed a little frosty between the spawn and the cleric.

“Your hand is fine,” Halsin announced from where he was inspecting it. “Just bruised now. You can remove the bandages.” Tav slumped with relief.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he said, and pulled them off. He flexed his hand experimentally, but only felt a little soreness. That was nothing. His fingers itched for his fiddle.

“I want to listen to your lungs,” Shadowheart said, weirdly, but Halsin nodded in agreement, so Tav sat there sort of awkwardly while she put an ear to his bare and bandaged chest, breathing when instructed to do so. “He sounds clear to me,” she finally announced, to Halsin.

“Excellent,” the druid said. “Let’s have you stand on that ankle, test the stability,” Halsin said next, and Tav didn’t say he’d already been up that morning, getting to his feet. He walked a few steps, then stood on one foot, then the other, while Halsin prodded at him. “Depending on your plans, you may wish to have Shadowheart finish healing you with magic,” the druid finally announced. “Nothing is too pressing. You’ve a few bruised ribs, and your ankle will be sore, though it’s much-improved.” Tav waved him off.

“Shadowheart doesn’t have to waste another spell on me.” Shadowheart pinned him to the spot with a fierce look.

“It would not be a ‘waste’,” she said. “You are important. Both to our mission here, and to me, personally,” she said, bluntly. She flushed a little as she said it, but the fierce look didn’t fade.

Tav looked at her, feeling a little gobsmacked. How was he supposed to respond to such intent sincerity? “Aye, no more getting yourself lost at sea, right soldier?” Karlach chimed in, dropping her arm across his shoulders and jostling him. “I couldn’t stand to lose a friend to this fight, especially not to Gortash,” she said with a grimacing, squeezing him a little too hard, but he didn’t complain.

“Uh, right,” Tav said, then added quickly, “I mean, thanks. I don’t want to lose you either. Any of you,” he said, awkwardly. He shot Astarion a desperate look, but the spawn gave nothing away on his face, letting Tav flounder.

“Oh, he’s awake,” he heard Wyll say, and then the rest of them were filing in, the warlock and the wizard and the gith’yanki, all in various states of readiness for the day. “Good to see you coherent again,” Wyll said warmly, and then he was coming over next to Karlach to clasp his arm familiarly, tugging him into a brief, bizarre sort of half-hug and giving him a grin. Well, Wyll was probably in a good mood, having saved his dad and getting his name cleared and all.

It got weirder when Lae’zel came to stand in front of him. “You will not drown again, it is a disgraceful way to end your existence,” she ordered him, bossily, and though they had totally different methods of delivery, sometimes her bossiness really reminded him of Astarion; no wonder he’d been interested in her, back when they were fresh off the nautiloid.

So he had a type, sue him.

“Uh, you got it, Lae,” he agreed, a bit baffled. “Not really planning on it. Kinda sucked.” The aftermath had, anyway. To be honest, he didn’t remember much of the actual drowning. For once, the holes in his brain did him a nice favor like that.

“Good,” Lae’zel said fiercely. Then she reached out, and, very lightly, patted him on the head. He stared at her for a moment, and she gave them all a fierce look, before moving away again. He gave Astarion an even more incredulous glance, but the vampire just smirked in silence.

“As your friends,” Halsin stepped in smoothly, “We did not enjoy the thought of your loss, or seeing you in pain.” The druid gave him a grave look, resting a hand on his bare shoulder and leaving it there for like, a long time. “I am glad you have made a recovery, and I hope that you will consider yourself with more care, in the future.”

“It was an accident,” Tav stressed, glancing between them, a little overwhelmed. “I got too far behind, and ran out of time.”

“I should have noticed,” Gale said with an air of confession, and Tav half-turned to look at him. The wizard looked aggrieved. “I was the one who was supposed to be using Dimension Door to ferry our people out. I should have gotten to you.”

“What? Gale…” Tav said, grasping his sleeve. “You were on the complete wrong side of the place. I know, because I sent you there,” Tav said, frowning. “I don’t blame you. I don’t expect miracles, when we’re down to the wire like that. You got yourself out, and the hostages. That was the whole point. And anyway I’m fine now,” he insisted. “Perfectly ready to take out Gortash,” he promised. Wyll chuckled and shook his head, while Shadowheart’s expression got even more pinched. 

“I didn’t relish the thought of that fight without you there, to be sure,” Gale said, which was honestly kind of shocking, because wizard-ego. Measly bards surely didn’t measure up— and yet, here they were. He met Gale’s gaze, and the wizard looked at him seriously. “But more importantly, I would not have enjoyed losing a friend.” And then Gale was touching him too, resting a hand on his other shoulder. “I would see this thing through beside you, my friend, and I hope that I get the chance to see you after it’s all over, too, and what you’re going to make of your life, once you’re truly free.”

Tav felt a little tongue-tied, and they were all so serious as they looked at him, smiling or not. Was this a prank? Why were they all being so… so…

“He likes hugs,” Astarion, the traitor, drawled from the corner. As if taking that as permission— actually, there was no ‘if’ about it, that’s definitely what that had been— Karlach immediately swooped forward and crushed him in a long, tight clasp, almost too-warm against his skin. “Take care of yourself, soldier, we’ve still got a ways to go, yeah?” she said, grinning at him when she let go. 

Tav couldn’t even say something pithy back, because Wyll was yanking him in next, patting his back several times—gently— and grinning at him. Shadowheart stepped up for a polite, brief embrace, and then Halsin’s hands were engulfing his bared back and giving him a careful squeeze against a very broad chest, and that was really. Uh, really. Lae’zel stiffly offered a brief, uncomfortable hug, like she’d only read about them and never acted one out, even though they’d certainly been a lot more intimate with each other before. Then Gale did too, less brief if equally uncomfortable, but the wizard was nothing if not stubborn and held onto him until they both had relaxed a little.

“Um, I,” Tav said, stupidly, when that mystifying episode was over and they were all looking at him. He’d never felt so tongue-tied in his life. He could talk enemies into offing themselves, but apparently the power of a hug was all he needed to completely lose his marbles. Or maybe they had lost their marbles. People didn’t normally just offer up hugs to an (ex-)Bhaalspawn.

Karlach laughed at the flummoxed look on his face and ruffled his hair. “Time for eats,” she announced a beat later, good as ever as breaking off tense moments, and the others trickled out after her, playfully bickering over the breakfast order. Tav shot Astarion a helpless look, still bewildered.

“What the fuck?” he mouthed at him, and Astarion smirked back.

“You’re incredibly stupid,” Astarion told him, fondly, when they were alone once more. 

“You shut the hells up,” Tav grouched, and considered dumping the freshly-refilled water pitcher over his head. His face felt like it was on fire, and he didn’t exactly blush easily. “And get over here, you’re not getting out of your turn,” he said, gesturing impatiently with spread arms and hoping it hid the way he felt like he might shake apart if someone didn’t hold him right now— or even if they did, but in, like, a good way. 

“Just tell me you like my body the best, my sweet,” Astarion purred playfully, putting on a haughty tone as he stepped over obligingly, but Tav saw through it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, folded back into Astarion’s arms, a lot more gently this time. He hunched himself smaller briefly to press his ear to Astarion’s chest the way he had last night and heard the vampire’s chest hitch. On a hunch, he straightened back up and cupped Astarion’s head, tucking the vampire’s face against his vulnerable throat where he could hear Tav’s pulse. The spawn inhaled raggedly, his grip suddenly tightening.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tav murmured, kissing Asarion’s curls. Maybe it was a lie, but he’d keep it true for as long as he could.

“Good,” Astarion muttered, muffled. “Where else would I get my meals, anyway?” he said, and Tav grinned, playing along. Astarion petted down his spine, giving proof to the lie.

“Hate for you to have to go to all the work of finding someone else.”

“Quite,” Astarion agreed. Tav closed his eyes, letting himself enjoy the quiet for just a moment, the press of a body against his that wasn’t trying to spill his blood or be spilt by him. The brush of skin no longer made him think about flaying, or stabbing, or dissecting. Instead it was just… nice.

“I did stab Gale, just so you know. Just the littlest bit,” Astarion announced, because he was a ruiner of nice things.

“…What.”

“Well, you see, it all started when this miserable creature called Tavran Gregory—“

“No. You know what? Save it. I drowned, I’m getting a hug from my favorite person, and there’s nothing you can do to ruin it.”

Astarion dumped him into bed in response, just to prove him wrong. He also kissed him until breakfast was finally delivered, so Tav figured he could forgive him for it.

And when they turned up for breakfast, it was Tav's turn to watch the utter bafflement on Astarion's face when they turned on the spawn next, and Wyll teasingly mussed his hair, and Karlach swept him into a bear hug, and Gale kept an arm slung an arm across his shoulders while he ate and interrogated Lae'zel about the Astral Plane again, and Tav didn't have to watch for any knives, not in friendly hands or enemy ones or aimed at his back. So drowning hadn't been all that bad.

(He definitely wasn't stupid enough to admit that out loud, though.)

 

                                                                                                                                                        

Notes:

tav, half naked in front of a grand duke of Baldur’s gate: yeah, what about it?
tav, hearing nice things about himself and that people like him: no thanks, I’d rather die
astarion: you idiot, these people care about you, that’s the whole point
tav: um, pot, meet kettle

- - -

lae'zel is definitely in the club of people who don't know how to touch people without hurting them and that is a whole can of worms that this tav will probably not be dealing with, because he has so many of his own issues, but i wanted to throw it out there

This chapter was a metaphorical-verging-on-literal group hug and wasn't where I expected this to go, but I don't hate it. Seemed like a good way to wrap up my nano adventures. Also patch 5 came out, and now I have to resist the urge (lol) to start a file for Tavran Gregory anew, just to see what extra durge content and dialogues I can get.

I'm not sure if there's much more where this came from, now that I'm not aiming for 50k words, but thanks to anyone who's been reading all my bg fic this month. You're the real mvp.

Notes:

Thanks for reading. I love comments. C:

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Requiems and Recitatives
• Part 20 of Blood and Music (Tavran Gregory, Bard)