The Wildest Wind

by magyarova

Summary:

Jayme is a dashing, self-assured high elf bard Durge with a past even darker than he or any of his companions imagined. And Astarion is, well, Astarion—a sweet and uncertain boy, acting all confident.

A post-game story beginning on the night following the victory over the Netherbrain. In the grip of a mysterious and sinister plot, Jayme finds himself whisked away to a mystical plane, leaving Astarion in distress at the Elfsong. Will they find their way to each other again? Who is still scheming against the heroes of Baldur's Gate? What is the Dark Urge really?

Features several flashbacks, fueled by longing, to their tadpoled adventures—particularly those in which Durge and Astarion forged their deep bond. While honoring the game’s romantic scenes—most of which I consider part of this narrative—I’ve also reworked some and introduced new, original moments to better capture the essence of their passionate relationship.

Notes:

I used 5e as the basis for the world’s rules, history, terminology etc, with few exceptions. In several places, I've added my own story elements to the existing lore.

Chapter 1: I - This hole in my heart is proof of life

Summary:

Someone tell me how I got here
From the city to this frontier
All the noises join to make harmony

I was stranded on an island
Where I roam without direction
Is that the wind lifting me up?

Spirits flying at the speed of light
Travelling like a dream one night
This hole in my heart is proof of life

Yoko Kanno feat POP ETC - Ís

Part I

The Wildest Wind

In which Astarion and Jayme are pulled apart by an evil plan

 

Jayme strained every fiber of his being to keep both his alarm and simmering anger in check. He needed to assess the situation with a clear mind. 

Could this be the effect of some bizarre anomaly triggered by the Netherbrain’s last surge of power before it was snuffed out by their weapons and spells? This had to be the work of sinister magic, didn’t it? What he wouldn’t have given for Gale to be there with his sharp insights to make sense of it all!

But Jayme was alone. 

No, the longer he dwelled on it, the more his initial hunch felt wrong. It wasn't the magic itself that was sinister, but rather the intent behind it. They had been attacked, and in a cowardly, spineless way. His anger flared again at the thought, but he clenched his jaw and fought to keep it contained.

Only minutes ago, he’d been enveloped in the cozy warmth of the Elfsong Tavern. The aroma of spirits hung thick in the air, and snores rumbled from the rooms nearby. Astarion lay sprawled on their bed for the night, inviting him closer with a languid, outstretched hand.

Astarion.

Jayme’s heart beat a bruise in his chest as he remembered Astarion’s baffled expression when the magic first began to crackle around them. And the horror that flickered in his eyes the moment it became clear the magic was centered on Jayme.

First, a thunderous cacophony so intense it seemed to shake the room filled the air. Though it may have lasted mere seconds in reality, for Jayme it expanded into an eternity; a single, frozen image, burned onto his mind. Astarion jolting upright on the bed, his hand shooting out, mouth gaping in shock, alarmed red eyes clinging to his.

Then everything blurred into a forceful tug, a flash of searing white light, a wave of nausea, and Jayme was gone—ripped from the room, from the Elfsong Tavern, from Baldur’s Gate.

He found himself on a plateau blanketed in a sea of wildflowers—yellow, blue, mauve, and crimson, more glorious and flamboyant than he had ever seen. The scenery felt like the Sword Coast, but it was far more vibrant than he remembered. In the distance, a sparkling, pristine body of water lay nestled against a striking array of jagged mountain peaks, both resembling and surpassing the familiar vistas of the Sword Coast.

The entire landscape was bathed in an azure, fuchsia, and golden twilight, heightening the intensity of the color riot before him.

He felt sluggish from exhaustion, which was only natural considering he hadn’t tranced a wink since before the Netherbrain’s raid began. Yet his state was somehow made worse by the overpowering fragrance of the surrounding flowers. This was no ordinary meadow.

Jayme immediately suspected an illusion. And if this was an illusion, there had to be an illusionist—most likely back at the tavern. The sheer distance of the teleportation suggested a powerful mage at work. But the illusion itself, its scale, its vividness, was something else entirely. They'd clearly angered someone extraordinarily dangerous.

The thought of a powerful wizard in the same room as an unprepared Astarion sent his heart pounding. The flurry of uneasiness nearly made him stumble, and he swayed on his feet for a few moments.

The unusual intensity of his emotions threatened to overwhelm him, but he wrestled it down with cold reason. Panic wouldn't help. It wouldn't help at all. For now, only one thing was certain: he had to get back to Astarion. They would face this together.

Driven by this single thought, he turned south, toward the enchanted, jagged peaks of what he hoped were the Sword Mountains. They would lead him to Waterdeep, where he could catch a ship back to Baldur’s Gate.  

Wish Gale were here, he thought once more. The wizard would undoubtedly be eager to host him in his hometown.

Thinking of what he lacked, Jayme felt another pang of distress. Not only was he stuck in his thin Ashmeadow camp clothes, but worst of all, his cherished jet-black violin was missing. For Jayme, the language of instruments—popular melodies and his own compositions—held far more power than any spoken word, and its absence left him feeling profoundly vulnerable.

As he made his way through the meadow, wave after wave of bewitching colors and scents assaulting his senses, he racked his brain, piecing together the events of the last half day.

Their great showdown, marked in his mind with a capital “S,” had ended with the Brain plunging into the Chionthar.

At the dawn of their victory, Astarion fled the harbor, seeking refuge from the Sun in the Elfsong. Jayme soon followed to check on him, finding him settled and safe if somewhat sullen. Promising to return shortly, he then went outside with the rest of the party as the day unfolded.

Their first order of business was healing and tidying up. Shadowheart, Jaheira, and Halsin had exhausted their vast repertoire of healing spells during the battle, and Jayme was thoroughly fatigued as well. Much to their relief, Flaming Fists flocked around them, readily offering assistance to patch them up. Afterward, they made good use of the city baths. 

At this point, Jayme ran through the people they’d come into contact with, but couldn’t identify anything unusual.

What did they do next? 

They engaged in discussions about rebuilding the city and restoring order. High-ranking officials who had survived Gortash’s massacre approached them, seeking perspectives on the first steps. This gave the High Harper the perfect chance to weigh in.

Was there anyone suspicious among the patriars? Could a disguised mage have blended in and tailed the party, biding their time until Jayme was most vulnerable—alone with Astarion in private quarters? The possibility existed, but Jayme couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint any suspicious details or individuals.

After that, the party was swept up in the joyous festivities spilling onto the streets of both the Lower and Upper City. Strangers came up, offering applause and praise.

While none in their party—Minsc aside—were ones for public revelry, they wanted to celebrate their triumph in their own modest way. So, after sunset, they relocated to the Elfsong for drinks, food, music, and conversation. The tavern was among the lucky establishments that had been, for the most part, spared the destruction of the illithid bombardment. There was no question that Jayme and his remaining companions would gather here.

Karlach and Wyll were no longer with them, having departed to navigate Avernus together. La’zael had left Toril atop Orpheus’ red dragon, driven to overthrow her false Queen. Gale, Shadowheart, Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc remained, joined by familiar faces like Zevlor, Rolan, Mol, and other tieflings they had come to know by name.

The following morning, Gale was set to begin his quest to scour the Chionthar for the Crown of Karsus and deliver it into Mystra’s safekeeping. Shadowheart was planning to leave as well, to delve into her Selûnite roots. Though they were soon to go their separate ways, both were present for the celebration, determined to savor their victory to the last drop.

And of course, Astarion graced the gathering as well. He was more taciturn than usual and content to observe the lively atmosphere around him with a reserved smile while sampling the Elfsong’s best vintage wine selection. It fell short of his expectations, as tavern swill invariably did. Every so often, his gaze would drift off, his smile slowly fading. Jayme knew well that the return of his vampiric weaknesses weighed heavily on his mind, and intended to discuss it with him once Astarion was ready.

“And then there was Raphael’s deal,” Shadowheart said, swirling the wine in her cup. The conversation had just turned to recalling the most reckless moments of their journey. “We face Mizora’s tricks time and again, and then Jayme decides to sign a contract with one of her kind. By all rights, that should have been a disaster…”

“By all rights,” Gale agreed enthusiastically, tapping his finger on the table. “But Raphael’s consuming greed blinded him. A fiend to the last. He underestimated Jayme’s remarkable ability to control the narrative.”

Jaheira raised a brow. “Controlling the narrative sounds elegant, Gale. I'd rather call it pure, unadulterated nerve.” She leaned forward in her seat, smirking as she reached for the wine decanter. “Invading a cambion’s domain—in Avernus, no less—to tear up an infernal contract? That takes a nerve that could make even devils sweat.”

“The nerve of a valiant butt-kicker!” Minsc boomed. As he drained his tankard with a hearty laugh, he nearly sent Boo tumbling from his shoulder. “Boo agrees—cambions quaking in their boots!”

Halsin chuckled, exhaling a plume of smoke from his pipe. “That same spirit of defiance is what emboldened us to free the Prince branded a traitor by his own people, despite mortal threats from both Queen Vlaakith and Balduran.” He paused, gazing at Jayme warmly. “And now La'zael carries the Prince’s fiery will onward. We have shaped destinies, altered the flow of history. The Oak Father has surely smiled upon our fellowship!”

Jayme caught the comment and smiled at Halsin over his violin. The bard stood by the table, his beloved jet-black instrument in hand, letting his music shine in the festive tavern. His concert had begun with spirited ballads, mellowed into tranquil nocturnes, then erupted into rollicking dance tunes.

He often glanced at Astarion, even as he joined in his companions’ banter, already longing to be alone together, away from the bustle.

Astarion’s lack of engagement was hard to miss, and Jayme was determined to draw him out. His gaze lingered a moment before he turned to his violin. As the final notes of his cascading fantasia faded—a piece he improvised on this occasion—he shifted to a new melody.

His fingers now played a slower, heartfelt romantic piece, his focus settling on Astarion. The reactions of his companions registered briefly in his fatigue-fogged mind, but they soon ceased to matter. The song floated like scented smoke from incense, and he wished with all his might that it would find its way to the pensive vampire.

Astarion took a sip of wine and finally looked up from his goblet, meeting Jayme’s eyes. The distraction in his face gave way to a genuine smile. “Don't look so worried,” he murmured.

Jayme returned the smile, soft and small, with a subtle nod followed by a wink. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he mouthed back.

The violin poured sentiment that even Jayme’s silver tongue would have struggled to express, a blend of tender yet powerful tones.

Numerous song requests followed the final strains of this lyrical composition and Jayme was happy to oblige. 

Thinking back, Jayme now realized how easily the culprit could have slipped into their room while they were down in the taproom. A potion of invisibility, or a simple spell, would have made it alarmingly effortless.

As the evening wore on and the effects of the drinks took hold, a heavy-lidded exhaustion crept over the thrill of victory. The laughter and chatter began to die down, and Astarion picked the last note of an airy rendition of “Down by the river” as his cue to steal Jayme away.

“Come, my sweet, you’ve surely had your fun and delighted everyone to your heart’s content by now,” he purred, a half-smirk dancing across his weary face as he took Jayme by the hand. “It’s time I had you all to myself.”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take pleasure in playing for you all like that again.” Jayme quirked his lips into an easy smile. “But I was growing eager for a private encore.”

They were headed for the kitchen.

“I’m so glad our thoughts align,” Astarion said, wiggling his eyebrows before pushing the door open.

Jayme was surprised to find the room empty.

“Where are the cooks?” he asked, shooting a questioning look at Astarion, who left Jayme standing by the hearth and went to rummage through the pantry.

“They left for the night—I've compensated them for a little privacy. They wouldn't extend such courtesy to just anyone, mind you, but we’re no longer just ‘anyone,’ are we?” He smirked again.

“What do you have in mind?” Jayme set his violin down on the countertop, his eyes following Astarion as he finally found what he was searching for: a small box of dry, dark brown beans.

Astarion took a handful of beans and transferred them into a mortar. “A little treat for my treat. Get ready, this is going to blow your darling mind!”

The twinkle in his red eyes made Jayme’s skin prickle with the desire to touch him—not to maim or cripple, but to caress. The taint was gone. This simple certainty added weight to the quiet in his heart.

Unable and unwilling to suppress his Delightful Urge, Jayme sidled behind Astarion and embraced him just as he began grinding the beans with the pestle.

Astarion let out a soft, approving breath and closed his eyes, his hands continuing their work.

The aroma of the beans was rich and unfamiliar; Jayme didn’t recognize the plant.

“This an aphrodisiac?” Jayme murmured into Astarion’s ear, nibbling on his earlobe and teasing it with licks and gentle bites.

“I’m inclined to say it is,” Astarion said silkily, lolling his head back to rest against Jayme’s forehead. True to form, he arched his back a little and pushed back against Jayme’s groin in a teasing motion.

Jayme hummed invitingly.

They kept moving leisurely against each other until Astarion finished grinding the beans into powder.

He then turned around, pressed a quick kiss to Jayme’s mouth, and retrieved a jar of honey from one of the nearby cupboards. Picking both ingredients up, he moved in front of the hearth next, where a can of milk sat—likely prepared for him.

Jayme didn’t let him get away so easily though, and moved with him like a shadow, reluctant to break the physical contact.

Astarion chuckled at his persistence, but kept his focus on the now-lit hearth and the pot before him. He proceeded to heat the milk.

“I adore how you can’t keep your hands to yourself. Don’t ever change.” He turned his head to find Jayme’s gaze, punctuating his demand with a look that held him captive.

He would make a powerful vampire lord, Jayme realized. To say no to those mesmerizing red eyes, even without a vampiric bond between them, felt almost impossible.

Once Astarion deemed the milk warm enough—emitting a wisp of steam without quite reaching a boil—he added the brown powder and took the pot off the fire. He stirred the liquid carefully, ensuring every brown lump dissolved fully under his spoon. Then, he poured in a splash of honey.

“This, darling, is called cocoa. A delicacy made from the fermented seed of the wondrous cacao plant, which grows in the tropical rainforests of Maztica.” He filled a cup with the steaming dark beverage and spun around to hand it to Jayme with a bright smile. “Go on, give it a taste. I swear, it’s liquid lust.” 

Jayme accepted the drink and inhaled its faintly sweet, earthy, and floral aroma, slanting an impressed smirk at the vampire.

“Maztica? This must cost a fortune! And how did you even know something like this existed? I’ve never come across it before.”

At this, Astarion’s smile transformed into something sly, with a hint of nostalgia.

“Just the perks of my past life as a distinguished magistrate. Some influential patriars, always eager to wriggle out of their sticky situations, had the good sense to bribe me with luxurious gifts.” He punctuated his brag with a roguish wink.

Jayme’s smile widened. “Were you always receptive to such bribery?”

Astarion didn’t reply immediately, inspecting his well-cared-for-nails in his trademark aristocratic fashion as he considered the question. Perhaps he was searching his memories, Jayme thought; he’d previously mentioned struggling to recall his life before Cazador.

“Occasionally, I would bend the law a little to let them walk free, yes. But only when I was completely sure it wouldn’t come back to bite me. I’ve always been reluctant to stick my neck out for anyone and take unnecessary risks, you see.” His red eyes flicked back to Jayme’s face, his expression softer now, contemplative.

“I knew vampirism didn’t make you you—not at the core,” Jayme said. “And the Elfsong actually had these… beans in its pantry?”

“Well, I asked, of course, when I made the arrangement with the head cook to lend us the kitchen. I was planning to treat you to something special tonight. The gifts usually pleased me, as far as they went. But cocoa left a particularly deep impression. You’re about to see why.” A small tilt of his head, peering up at Jayme from under his dark lashes. Impish.

Jayme drank in that delectable look, then without saying anything else, raised the cup to his mouth and took a small sip.

He knew instantly that Astarion hadn’t been exaggerating. This—whatever it was—was simply divine: decadent and sensual, with sweet, bitter, and nutty notes all melding together. Jayme’s eyelids fluttered closed unthinkingly as he slowly emptied the cup, savoring every drop.

He thought he might have even moaned in pleasure, though he couldn’t be sure; the world felt oddly fragmented to his worn-out senses.

When he opened his eyes again, after regretfully finishing the last of the drink, he caught sight of Astarion’s face, radiating pure satisfaction.

Astarion moved in close, gently taking hold of Jayme’s chin, his thumb caressing the bard’s jaw as he did. He paused to meet Jayme’s gaze for a second—the light in his eyes twisting the center of Jayme’s stomach—before leaning forward to lick the remnants of the exquisite drink from Jayme’s lips.

A soft sigh escaped Jayme; this time, for certain.  Slipping his hands around Astarion’s back, he pulled him even closer, parting his lips and inviting Astarion’s tongue into his mouth. Astarion hummed in delight and sank into the kiss, as if hoping to salvage any taste left.

Their tongues wrestled for dominance, and despite his fatigue, Jayme felt a rush of hot desire spreading through him. He tightened his hold on Astarion’s body, his hands roaming to caress every inch he could reach.

As one hand slid lower, Astarion pulled back, whispering throatily, “Not tonight, darling.” His breaths came in shallow puffs. “We’ll have other nights for lust. All the nights to come. But right now, you’re exhausted. Drained. Everything that’s happened… it’s a lot to take in. Let’s use tonight for recuperation. And when morning comes…”

Jayme's eyes drifted open, finding Astarion’s hooded gaze. The red of his irises appeared darker than usual, his pupils blown wide, and his expression was sultry beyond description. That look instantly inspired music within Jayme, the urge to translate it into a melody making his fingers twitch and yearn for his bow. He buried his fingers in Astarion’s white curls, twirling the locks restlessly.

“And you? You make it sound like I’m the only one in need of rest,” he murmured against Astarion’s lips, then bit hard into his lower lip.

Astarion moaned, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, dearest,” he murmured back.

Jayme, more than willing to face the consequences, reached for the hem of his white shirt, but Astarion subtly shifted within his arms and was suddenly gone.

“Oh no, definitely not the only one,” he assured him, clearing his throat as he hastily put some distance between them. “If it weren’t for your charming self keeping me stimulated, I’d have long since slumped onto a table, wine glass in hand, to join Halsin in a snoring contest.” 

He smoothed back his ruffled hair with a shaky hand and took a few calming breaths before giving Jayme a soft smile. “Come, let us rest in each other’s arms on our first dawn of true freedom.”

The words, spoken with such glee that it transformed his pallid face, drummed through him, pushing all previous thought into the background.

“Astarion.”

The vampire had already turned toward the tavern's sleeping quarters, but he turned back.

Their gazes met, and Jayme knew that Astarion saw it all reflected in his eyes—the raw emotions that were no longer monstrous, crying out for blood. The release. He could at long last breathe again.

It was real. They were free. Free from Bhaal, free from Cazador, free from the illithid. The staggering truth intoxicated him, filling him with a sense of boundless possibility. He desired to lift Astarion beyond the confines of his past, to rise together into a future they could shape themselves.

“You will stand in the Sun again. Until then, I’m with you in the dark. Always.” Jayme said firmly, holding Astarion’s gaze for a long moment.

He’d made this promise before, not long after Cazador’s end, when Astarion had shown him his grave. But so much had happened since then, and the words now resonated with greater weight, no longer a distant dream but a tangible reality. 

Still, Jayme understood how absurd words like “always” and “forever” could sound, even painfully naive to someone as world-weary as Astarion. His own mortality and Astarion’s existence as a spawn made it feel like a fantasy. And yet, fueled by a renewed surge of determination, he said it.

Astarion softly pressed a hand over his chest. “Careful,” he murmured. “I’ll hold you to those sweet, sweet words, you know. You'll find no escape from this cold, unmoving heart of mine.”

“Do your worst,” Jayme smirked. He snatched up his violin and joined Astarion. Draping an arm around his waist, he guided them toward their bedroom. 

“Doesn't it scare you? The idea of dependence. One might say it's just another kind of confinement." Astarion’s brow arched in challenge.

"No, why would it? I've just renounced the Lord of Murder himself. No one can make me do anything I don't want. Not even you." Jayme softened the edge of his words with a playful wink, but his message was heartfelt.

"That's my man," Astarion purred, red eyes glimmering with approval.

As they entered their room, Jayme placed his violin in its case atop the dresser. He vowed to himself he would compose a new piece to capture Astarion’s lustful look—a slow, caressing adagio with fiery pulses—as soon as they emerged from trance. But first, he would drive him to the same heights again.

Turning, he watched Astarion recline on the bed. He stretched his limbs, sighing in relief before twisting around to beckon Jayme closer. 

Jayme stepped forward, and that was it—the moment magic flared up, too fast for either of them to react. 

And here he was now: hurled into another space not one day after defeating the Netherbrain, with no idea who was responsible. I can’t ever get rest , he thought bitterly.

Chapter 2: I - I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me

Summary:

My haunted lungs
Ghost in the sheets
I know if I'm haunting you, you must be haunting me
My wicked tongue
Where will it be?
I know if I'm onto you, you must be onto me

Beyoncé - Haunted

Notes:

Screenshots of Jayme: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1W2OwulXw10eAbR_KB038-_neSRhdu-P8?usp=sharing

Astarion tossed and turned in bed, wishing—probably too hard—to sink into trance at last. He knew it would be torment to attempt it, and a disturbed reverie was the best he could hope for, but he saw no other choice.

He had to ensure that by nightfall, he would awaken with all his strength and mental faculties at their peak, ready to begin his quest.

After Jayme vanished into thin air, he fell into a state of panic. Leaping from the bed, he darted to his stash to pull out Bloodthirst—the dagger he had picked up from Orin’s crumpled, bloodied remains—and a See Invisibility scroll.

He hurriedly cast the spell and swept his gaze across the room to see where he needed to thrust.

…only, not a soul was present besides himself.

With Bloodthirst ready, he continued to scan the area frantically, pacing around and searching for clues, traps, anything suspicious. He even checked under the bed.

“Just what in the howling hells…?” he swore, eyebrows furrowed deeply, but didn’t waste another second.

He flung the door open and dashed outside. The chatter from the taproom was gone, so he headed directly to Gale’s room. Coming to an abrupt halt in front of Gale’s door, he slammed his fist against it.

“Gale! Open up, we have a problem. GALE!!”

A loud curse of “By Mordenkainen’s goatee” rang out from inside. A few seconds later, a disheveled Gale poked his head out of the door. 

“Astarion, what’s the matter?” He sounded drowsy, but his eyes were already vividly alert.

“Jayme’s gone! He just…there was this godawful screeching, and magical aura filled the room, then with a poof, he was gone—I don’t know where!” Astarion sputtered, words tripping over one another as he flailed his arms to emphasize the turbulence of the event.

Doors opened down the hall as the others, roused by the commotion, emerged from their rooms. But Astarion paid them no heed; he needed a wizard’s expertise.

“Alright, alright, slow down.” Gale held his hands up in a pacifying motion and moved to join Astarion in the corridor. “I heard a high-pitched noise just now, but dismissed it as residual energy. Take me there.”

They hurried to the room Astarion was supposed to share with Jayme. When Gale crossed the doorstep, his expression turned at least three shades grimmer.

“Hmm, I can smell the lingering traces of conjuration. And this… void-like cleft hanging in the air… it’s like an invisible rupture. A potent Teleportation spell,” he said, slowly pacing between the bed and the window.

“Teleportation,” Astarion repeated, eyes riveted to the wizard as Jaheira, Halsin, Shadowheart, and Minsc silently entered, sharing a look of deep concern. “Teleportation—but to where? And who cast it?”

Gale shook his head and waved a hand as if to say he would put that aside for the time being. “Astarion. Exactly where did Jayme step when you two entered the room? And, though it’s probably needless of me to ask, did you notice anything suspicious? Any sort of presence, or odd sensation?”

“No, nothing. Of course, we were… preoccupied with our conversation,” Astarion replied, haltingly, rubbing his temples as if that could jog his memory. “And we were both exhausted and ready to lounge away the whole next day in bed. As for where he stepped…”

He moved to the door and walked slowly to the dresser, where Jayme had placed his violin case beneath a round wall mirror. He briefly ran his fingers over the dark wooden case, thinking of how incomplete Jayme must be feeling without his treasured instrument.

He shut his eyes tight, just for a moment, then turned to face the bed. In his mind’s eye, he could see Jayme’s slender fingers loosening the laces of his black jerkin and white shirt. Jayme had taken three, no, four steps before that shrill noise erupted.

When Astarion came to a stop, Gale walked up beside him and crouched down to examine the wooden floorboards.

“The question that intrigues me most is the precise spell that was cast,” he murmured, thoughtfully touching the planks around Astarion’s shoes. “Because ordinary Teleportation spells require the target to be willing to change locations. Spells like Dimension door, Teleport, Word of Recall. Not to mention the caster is usually nearby. And then we haven’t even talked about distance restrictions.”

“What about Teleportation Circles? Stepping into one could pull anyone through,” Jaheira ventured.

“The sigils would still be visible,” Shadowheart replied for Gale.

“What about Gate?” Minsc asked.

Everyone looked at the ranger in astonishment.

“Boo whispered it to me, of course. I’m just passing on what he told me,” he hurried to add. 

“That’s… certainly a possibility,” Gale concurred, nodding slowly. “But I need to do some research on this. For now, Astarion, please stay put until I have something.”

“What?!” Astarion snapped, but quickly composed himself. He was at Gale’s mercy now. “So what am I supposed to do while you’re researching?”

“Get some rest, my friend. You are weary and consumed with worry; there’s nothing you can do at the moment,” Halsin advised, placing a sympathetic hand on Astarion's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll rouse you once we uncover something.”

The druid then turned to Gale, offering to retrieve tomes from Sorcerous Sundries if the wizard needed assistance.

They spoke a bit more after that, but Astarion was no longer fully attentive. His head was buzzing, swimming with bitter thoughts and speculations. He was then escorted into another room— presumably Halsin’s—and left alone. 

The curtains had been carefully shut for his sake, but he was aware the Sun had risen on a new day.

Finally, after a long battle with his gnawing thoughts, he retired to trance, delving into a memory to console his throbbing, agitated spirit.

A precious memory of a warm nightfall, which now felt eons away, though it couldn't have been more than a few tendays… he'd lost track.

Their band of tadpoled individuals had just formed a couple of days earlier, united by the common goal of seeking answers and finding a resolution to their shared predicament. The party included Gale, Shadowheart, La’zael, Wyll, and himself, with their charismatic bard, Jayme, naturally falling into the role of leader. They would soon be joined by Karlach as well, but this memory was from a time when it was just the six of them.

There was ongoing disagreement about how to resolve their predicament. Some advocated for removing the parasite, while others aimed to understand it first. Astarion, at the far end of the spectrum, favored harnessing their stowaways—a natural preference, given that losing his tadpole would mean a fast track back under Cazador’s yoke. He was pleased when Jayme sided with him, though Astarion had kept his true reasons to himself at the time.

For all the quirks in their band of merry men, they were surprisingly open about themselves—some more than others. And then there was Jayme, who couldn’t share anything, and Astarion, who wouldn’t.

Astarion had been perfectly content to stand aloof during the first days, only joining the camp chatter when explicitly questioned. He opted for quiet observation from the start. The less these people knew about him, the better. It was a matter of survival.

But Astarion had not anticipated Jayme.

The elf was handsome. Obviously. Undeniably. Slightly taller than Astarion, he had a slender physique, fair skin, and raven hair with a dark blue tint that bled into indigo in certain light. His short, tousled locks always seemed effortlessly well-kept. Striking ice-blue eyes darkened to violet near the pupils. He had a straight nose and plump lips, marked by a single scar that ran vertically across the latter. The tattoo of a sword pointing downward adorned his neck, complemented by a collection of rings on his ears.

Astarion reckoned the man was likely around the same age he himself had been when he stopped aging.

Young, attractive, and with a natural talent for leadership—this alone wouldn’t have been enough to pique Astarion’s curiosity. Two centuries of fleeting acquaintances had given Astarion a rich tapestry of looks and behaviors, making him worldly and difficult to amaze.

It was Jayme’s refreshing disposition that caught his eye. The way he nestled himself comfortably in a moral gray zone, deftly manipulated truths, and wrapped people around his string-calloused fingers. And killed too, with passion.

At the time, Astarion had no inkling of Jayme’s Dark Urges.

True, there was that enigmatic veil of amnesia shrouding the bard’s past, and those moments when his finely sculpted features would twist into something, frankly, bone-chilling. Astarion, highly observant, caught these fleeting expressions when Jayme was in conversation, even though he was quick to wipe his face blank. Clearly, the man wasn’t devoid of sinister thoughts—something that warranted caution.

Nevertheless, or perhaps precisely because unstable people were easier to sway, Astarion felt a compelling pull to approach him. It was time to begin discarding his facade as the “distant rogue.” He saw potential in Jayme and was curious how he would respond to Astarion’s advances and what dynamics would unfold between them. Of course, the goal was to use the connection to his advantage.

And so, on that fine night, he stretched out on the ground, arranging himself in a casually appealing pose, watching Jayme do his rounds in the camp. Jayme had a habit of strolling around, speaking to their companions in his deep, calm voice, exchanging pleasantries, charmingly understated smiles.

Building relationships. He managed to maintain a pleasant tone even with dour and bellicose La’zael or cynical Shadowheart. You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar, Astarion thought.

Unlike the typical bard, Jayme's words were to the point, free of unnecessary flourishes. No brain-melting embellishments, no daisies, rainbows, or pondering the meaning of life—just succinct and pragmatic. Astarion had carefully observed him during the previous nights, though he hadn't spoken directly to him since their meeting.

When Jayme finally walked by, violin in hand, apparently heading to play before retiring, Astarion called out, his voice smooth and inviting.

“It’s quite a sight.” Roguish smile firmly in place, he chose an ambiguous phrase—quite deliberately, of course. “The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin.”

Jayme arched an elegant eyebrow, his lips curling ever so slightly—a promising start.

“They have a certain... allure. A shame I’ve only just noticed,” he replied, not shifting an inch to look up at the sky but keeping his eyes locked on Astarion’s. “Feeling good tonight?”

“Oh, I do.” Astarion tilted his head. I do now. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t exert yourself too much,” Jayme said, winking.

Astarion, caught off-guard by the gibe, couldn’t muster a comeback right away; his mouth hung for a second. He briefly shut it, then opened it again.

“You absolute little shit!”

“Was a joke, don’t take it seriously,” Jayme said. “I’m just testing the waters, to get a sense of you. I bet you’re more than just a pretty face.” He cocked his head to one side, boldly examining Astarion's features with an unabashed look.

At that, the rogue felt a chuckle threaten to escape. He quickly kept it in check, but his tone betrayed his amusement.

“How peculiar! You hit on me, insult me, and then compliment me—all in under a minute. You sure are helping me get a sense of you.”

“A sense of me today. Tomorrow, maybe some altogether deeper sens—ations. Hm?” Jayme whipped out the next provocative remark before Astarion could blink. 

Astarion couldn’t hold back a chuckle this time.

“You’d be sensational, I bet!”

“Sensual, I promise you.”

“But sensible enough to, at least, seek my consent first?”

“The consensus of my previous paramours is that I’m equipped with the commonsense to heed my partner’s sensitivities.”

“T'chaki, stop this nonsense already!” La’zael groaned, glowering at the pair from behind her whetstone, sword in hand. She had the misfortune of standing close by and was thus subjected to hearing the whole exchange. 

“Nonsense. Bravo, La’zael. You get a point for that.” Jayme hugged his violin to his body and clapped with a deadpan face—except for a tiny curl at the corner of his mouth. 

Astarion grinned at him and imagined poking that enticing little curve with the tip of his tongue. How would it change? He noticed Jayme's fingers inching up and down the body of his violin. It wasn't just affectionate; the movements held a strange, almost sacred sensuality.

“You know," he said, "I've been meaning to tell you how fabulous I find your playing. Your music is unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. And that's not something I say lightly.” He lifted his chin, a subtle smile on his lips.

“What’s it like to you?” Jayme asked.

“Umm… fabulous?”

“Beyond that. Describe it to me. I’m curious what you think—how you think,” Jayme said. Simple words, but there was an almost tangible intensity in the way he spoke them.

Astarion searched for the right expressions.

“Alright. It’s beautiful, for one, obviously. Polished. Elegant and rich, like fine wine. And dark. So dark, you… sometimes freeze the marrow in my bones, quite frankly. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of those songs. Though they’re not just songs, they’re, uh, sinister sonatas. And bloodthirsty ballads!” He held Jayme's gaze for a beat with a hint of self-satisfaction in his expression.

Jayme responded with a light-hearted smile. “Fateful fortissimos?”

“Yes! And dark dirges,” Astarion nodded, grinning widely.

“Vile vibratos?”

“Diabolical ditties!”

“Terrible toccatas?”

“Sanguine serenades, ha ha!”

“Tsk’va! What is the matter with you two?” came La’zael’s aggravated grunt again as she shifted her gaze back and forth between the two. “Enough of the inane chatter, or I'll sharpen my blade on those silver tongues!”

“I’ll have you know, La’zael, that silver is an awful choice for a whetstone,” Astarion retorted. “It’s ductile and malleable. Not to mention, dangerous.” He met her glare with a cool stare until she gave up and turned away, grousing in her language.

Jayme merely shrugged at the interruption and continued to watch Astarion with the saucy smirk of an accomplice. Once again, the rogue felt the urge to tease those plump lips apart with his tongue, but he shook the thought off and refocused on what he’d meant to say.

“On a tad more serious note, I’ve been thinking. About what tomorrow might bring, once we locate this gith crèche. Will we find out how to bring the worm under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?” he asked softly, injecting a touch of disappointment into his tone.

“It doesn’t have to be. We can still travel together,” Jayme replied simply, voice similarly soft but not betraying any emotion.

Precisely the response Astarion had been hoping for.

“Good! Because I don’t want you to run off just yet,” he said with a winning smile and then rose leisurely, keeping his eyes trained on Jayme. “You’re quite the ally, after all, with your dark music. Traversing Avernus. Surviving the crash. Surviving everything that’s followed. I’m not easily impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”

This wasn't just flattery; Astarion found himself surprisingly fascinated by what he'd seen of the bard so far.

The way Jayme had navigated the conversations in the Emerald Grove—staying casual, reasonable, and fair at all times by Astarion’s standards. Always focused on their own problem, with none of the charitable goody-goodiness Astarion so despised.

Or how he had extracted information from the two confused True Souls they bumped into, posing as one of their brethren without a second’s hesitation, then sent them to the owlbear cave, unafraid to put his tadpole-granted authority to use. And when their party followed and encountered a rather distressed owlbear mother, the way he immediately stepped up with a roar and a fierce shake, making the beast flinch back in fright. How he then rallied the True Souls to aid them in felling the beast.

Or just earlier that day, when he used the parasite to make those bloodthirsty gnolls turn first on the Zhentarim thugs and then on each other, making it a breeze for their party to pick them off from the sidelines.

It was remarkable how undaunted Jayme remained in the face of any unfavorable situation. He made decisions quick as lightning, talked smart when needed, killed when needed, and did it all with unequivocal joy. He was something of a charlatan—not so different from Astarion himself. 

“True. I am pretty impressive,” Jayme agreed with a nod, quirking a fetching half-smile.

Something of a charlatan, and self-assured too; someone who didn’t waste energy on pointless modesty. Delicious, Astarion thought, if he’s for real.

“Aren’t you just…” He let the sentence hang, briefly thrown off balance by the sudden, unbidden excitement rippling through him. It left him with the distinct feeling this might be more than just what he’d bargained for.

“You can stop staring,” Jayme remarked, smirking after a few beats of silence. His blue eyes shimmered with playfulness. “It’s good to know my actions don’t leave you unaffected.”

At that, Astarion snapped out of it. It was alright, he realized. “Was I? I just… I just need to get some air.” Get some air? Seriously? He winced inwardly. “Clear my head. I’ll see you later, I’m sure. Sweet dreams.”

He slanted a smile at the still-smirking bard, then walked away, back to his tent.

“Good night, Astarion,” he heard the bard call after him, tone nonchalant with just the perfect amount of suggestiveness.

It was alright. It would be alright. He’d simply been caught off guard, that was all. Astarion had rarely encountered such brimming self-confidence delivered so tastefully. He’d seen plenty of arrogance, crude and boorish, but not someone with this blend of natural charm and mischief.

It was the first time he could, in the true sense of the word, choose who to focus his charisma on, not which prey would please his master. The freedom was like a new, peculiar piece of clothing Astarion was trying on for the first time—a little snug in the chest, sleeves a tad too loose. It would take time to get used to it.

And when the chosen target of his attention flirted right back—in such a pert manner—it honestly startled him.

But it was fine. And the plan that had been gradually taking shape in Astarion’s mind over the past few days solidified as a result of this experiment: the key to securing his position in this party—even if his special condition were discovered—was Jayme. Or more specifically, getting into Jayme’s good graces.

He stepped into his tent and plopped down onto his bedroll, feeling inspired and convinced of one thing in this tadpoled, topsy-turvy affair: this was going to be fun.

Just as memory-Astarion's body made contact with the bedroll, present-Astarion jolted back to full consciousness.

His undead elven eyes, inherently adapted to total darkness, registered immediately that night had settled over the city. Then, a single unmoving heartbeat later, mute despair washed over him as Jayme’s absence also sank in.

He ground his teeth against the sharp ache in his chest and slammed his fist into the headboard.

I will find you. And once we’re reunited, we’ll take the head of that miserable sack of filth who dared to fuck with us—and leave them to rot, he vowed silently to Jayme.

Chapter 3: I - Playing games with this old heart

Summary:

I've slept so long without you
It's tearing me apart too
How'd it get this far
Playing games with this old heart
I've killed a million petty souls
But I couldn't kill you
I've slept so long without you

I see hell in your eyes
Taken in by surprise
Touching you makes me feel alive
Touching you makes me die inside

Jay Gordon – Slept So Long

If this was an illusion, it was a stunningly grandiose one.

Jayme had seen a putrid bog transformed into a cheerful sunlit wetland before, but the scale and splendor of that previous illusion all but paled in comparison to this.

Reaching the edge of the meadow where he had landed, he ventured into a fairy-tale forest. Glowing fireflies drifted on the breeze, undisturbed by his presence. His path was paved with honey-scented flowers, and the forest gave home to the most spectacular trees he had ever seen: sky-high ancients with elegantly twisting trunks and lush green canopies. A myriad of emerald-leaved ivy vines hung from above, putting the exquisite Calishite curtains in the silkrooms of Sharess’ Caress to shame. Among them, vibrantly colored spiders spun their nests on the glistening leaves.

The surroundings conjured a faint memory of something he’d read long ago. He pictured the wondrous elven Forest of Tethir, the woods encircling Suldanesselar, the Tree of Life, looking just like this. Could he have been flung that far from Baldur’s Gate? If so, it boded ill, as he was moving in the opposite direction.

If this were Tethir, the looming mountains ahead could only be the Starspire Mountains, which were not supposed to be this high. Something was definitely amiss; he still had no idea where he was.

And after a few hours in this land, the mystery only deepened.

For one thing, the Sun didn’t seem to ever set. Although it had already sunk below the horizon when Jayme arrived, night never came. The twilight remained constant. While a powerful illusion could distort time, something else made him increasingly doubt this was merely a trick of the light.

He had serious trouble reining in his heightened emotions. Apprehension was natural, but the circumstances didn't justify such extreme and turbulent emotions. He even teetered on the edge of whimpering at times—a far cry from his usual composure.

As he approached the majestic mountains, they seemed to draw closer faster than expected. The nagging suspicion intensified.

What if this wasn’t the Forest of Tethir—or even Toril—but another plane entirely? Only one possibility came to mind: the Feywild. At the thought, icy dread crept through him, as though struck by Frostbite. He needed to find someone to confirm his location, and quickly, before he lost his grip on reality.

After hours of anxious marching, the once-gorgeous forest began to unravel. The towering trees with their rich foliage thinned, giving way to mournful weeping willows and dense patches of thorny thickets. Soon, Jayme found himself in a bubbling swamp. 

It was a brutal shift from the verdant woods.

A delicate mist permeated the air, fetid with the odors of mold-covered roots, overripe, musty fruits, and festering vegetation. The stubborn sunset was swallowed by a haunting semi-darkness, broken only by the cerulean, violet, and pale gold glow of will-o'-wisps floating here and there. Jayme gave them a wide berth, carefully watching for quicksand and the gigantic swamp wasps, snakes, and alligators he spotted some distance away.

This place was like Auntie Ethel’s bog magnified tenfold. Like the bright lands he had just left, the dreary landscape pressed on his senses with a force unlike anything he’d experienced in Faerûn. By now, Jayme was coming to terms with the near certainty that he had crossed planes.

At long last, he spotted a humanoid figure. It was a hag. His heart sank, but the need for answers pushed aside the disappointment.

“Good evening,” he called out to the ugly crone, hoping to catch her off guard with a bold, self-assured tone. “I’m a bit lost. I don’t recognize this part of the Feywild. Could you tell me the name of this fascinating land?”

The hag’s eyes were bulging, blotchy skin sagging and her misshapen body was draped in a dirty rag. She glowered at Jayme for several long, uncomfortable moments. Perhaps she didn’t speak Common? It wouldn’t have been unthinkable.

The silence stretched on for so long that Jayme was about to repeat his question in Elvish, for lack of a better idea, when the hag took a deep whiff of his scent and finally opened her chapped mouth.

“This is the Murkendraw,” she croaked slowly, in thickly accented Common. “You are far, far from home, Faerûnian.”

Here it is, the confirmation, Jayme thought, as a cold, heavy lump settled in the pit of his stomach. He had been banished to the Feywild, the Plane of the Faerie, the echo of the Prime Material Plane. No wonder he’d mistaken those mountains for the Sword Mountains—an enchanted version, at least.

This was inconvenient. Since the Spellplague a century ago, getting from the Prime Material to the Feywild had become a nightmare for magic-users.

“To Baba Yaga, you must go,” the hag rasped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is Baba Yaga’s domain. I show you the way to her hut. Come.” With that, the hag turned around and started tottering deeper into the swamp. 

Jayme had no time to contemplate. Quickly considering his options, he concluded that facing the fabled archfey sorceress might just be the luckiest turn of events for him.

Baba Yaga, the Mother of All Hags, was renowned for her uncanny intelligence and ancient wisdom. She could travel between planes by means of her enchanted mortar and pestle. A legendary hag with powers like a demi-goddess, who was wont to feast on the flesh of unfortunate adventurers.

To cross her in Jayme’s present circumstances would be the gravest—and likely the last—mistake he would ever make. But if he could win her favor, he might find his way back to Toril.

After what felt like an hour of trudging through the mist-laden wetlands, his silent guide led him to a clearing where the swamp gases wafted less densely. It was there that the hut came into view.

The Hag of Hags dwelled in a chicken-legged hut, also called the “Dancing Hut.” Every Faerûnian child knew this from fables, but nothing could have prepared Jayme for seeing it himself.

The chicken legs were massive—thicker than the trunks of northern mammoth pines—and they were moving. Rising, settling, pacing back and forth. Slow as a sloth, but undeniably moving.

The hut itself resembled Auntie Ethel's shack, with twisted beams, but its roof was covered in luminous green-purple moss. Mushrooms of all imaginable colors sprouted from every crack and dominated the front garden as well. Overhead, a crooked chimney belched trails of blood-red smoke. In the backyard, cracked bones jutted from the ground, and suspicious dark-maroon blotches dotted the ground—almost certainly long-dried puddles of blood.

Despite his fatigue, the bizarre sight immediately inspired a haunting tune in Jayme's mind—eerie vibratos and high, plucked pizzicato notes. He made a mental note to play it for Astarion when telling him about this affair after their reunion.

As they approached the peculiar structure, it seemed to notice them. The chicken legs pivoted toward them, then obediently bent at the joints and lowered the hut to create an entrance for its guests.

Or rather, for Jayme, because the witch stopped and gestured for him to go in alone. Jayme dipped his head in thanks, but the hag showed no sign of acknowledgment.

To knock or not to knock, Jayme pondered. The Hag was rumored to be as unpredictable as a roll of the dice; respect alone would hardly guarantee her favor. Still, he decided on common courtesy, just in case.

Instead of a response, the wooden door swung open before him. Jayme entered.

"Greetings. Is anybody home?" he called out. A sizeable copper cauldron bubbled in the center of the room, sending up columns of distinctly pink steam. Pink, Jayme noted, not red. But he sensed no presence.

The interior, surprisingly spacious for the hut's exterior, was the classic image of a Hag's lair. Dim candlelight illuminated the space, casting shadows over an assortment of unsettling trinkets strewn about: vibrant feathers, skeletal remains, jars of dried insects and moldy plant parts—no doubt spell and potion components. There was even the iconic broom from folklore, resting propped against the wall. The air was thick with a sickly sweet smell that barely masked an underlying stench of rot.

“Oh, oh, oh, what pitiful soul dares to venture into my humble abode?” A deep, rasping voice emerged from the shadows, and in the next moment, Baba Yaga stepped into the flickering candlelight. “Tell me, young one, have you come of your own accord, or at another's bidding?”

What a ghastly creature, Jayme thought, shocked. The tales hadn’t exaggerated. 

She was a hunchback, gaunt and cadaverous in appearance. Her grayish-brown skin was marked with swirling runic tattoos. Glossy coal-black eyes sat above an enormous, wart-ridden nose and rows of sharply pointed, predatory teeth. When she spoke, her iron-clawed hands made ungainly gestures, causing her sparse, stringy white hair to drift.

"The answer is ‘both.’ I’m Jayme of Baldur’s Gate, and the Feywild isn’t where I wanted to end up—especially not with Netherbrain mucus still fresh on my violin. But here I am, with a question for you to help me handle this vexing situation.”

True, his violin—his only evidence—was nowhere to be seen. But mentioning his defeat of the Netherbrain couldn't hurt, in case word hadn't reached this far. It wasn't even a bluff.

Jayme suspected that providing a satisfactory answer here was vital. He could recall a common theme in the stories about the sorceress: she favored those who came to her willingly, believing they might be of more value to her than a good meal.

"You came looking for me? I thought my weary eyes glimpsed that frail flower, Henrietta, fluttering at your side as your guide...?” The Crone tilted her unsightly head and examined Jayme closely.

"I refrained from killing Henrietta and followed her when she wanted to guide me. I think that proves my willingness to meet you," Jayme said as smoothly as he could manage.

"Hmmm, arrogance oozes from your every pore, but your list of deeds is long and twisted indeed. I shall pardon your insolence," Baba Yaga crooned, creeping closer and stopping a few feet from Jayme. “A mischievous Tel'Quessir lad, dragged across realms from Faerûn, finds himself at the doorstep of little old Baba Yaga. The truth, my pet, is that your arrival has been foretold, whispered into my ancient ears by your puppeteer.”

"And who might this puppeteer be, Little Grandmother?"

“Oh, how well you know my favored moniker! It seems we're in for quite the wicked dance.”

Jayme swallowed a nauseated groan and drew on every ounce of his remaining strength to keep a straight face. The Hag’s babble, the repulsive saccharine smell, and the almost absurd heaviness weighing on his body and spirit—it was all becoming too much.

"We might. Though I'd really appreciate it if first and foremost you could tell me why I'm here and who's behind it all."

“You hunger for that knowledge, don't you now? My impish confidant relishes catching mortals flat-footed. Yet, you demonstrate such composure, such unflinching behavior! A refreshing departure from the mundane! Most of my guests, they succumb to their fears, oh, and then to their agony so disgracefully. They fill my dear hut with the reek of hopelessness—pungent like sweat and piss.”

"I've weathered my fair share of challenges—the illithid and the Dead Three’s meddling, just to name a few. I'm starting to wonder what the gods intend for me next," Jayme remarked coolly. "Who is this confidant you speak of?"

"A creature of exceptional allure—a reader of hearts, an adept at striking twisted bargains. Their eyes, like twin abysses, gleam with malevolent brilliance, harboring secrets and a dark intelligence as ancient as it is nefarious."

Baba Yaga was known for her refusal to give straight answers unless a deal required it, and she lived up to that reputation. Nevertheless, her words sparked a realization in Jayme. 

Could the mysterious culprit be Auntie Ethel? Her ties to Baba Yaga and her appetite for revenge were undeniable. If she had somehow crawled back to life, it was entirely possible she'd devised this underhanded ploy.

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him, and suddenly, a surge of blinding anger seized him. He started shaking, his fingers flexing, aching for his violin. He yearned to crunch into the strings and channel his vexation into wild passages of bariolage. 

By a hair’s breadth, he managed to suppress the fierce growl threatening to erupt from his throat—but only because Astarion’s voice echoed a caution in his mind. “Careful, darling. Losing your temper would have dire consequences here. Focus. The Crone likes you. Take advantage, for us.”

Summoning every shred of willpower, Jayme steadied himself and reigned in his emotions.

“For all the tomfoolery I’ve encountered, I didn’t see this coming,” he muttered darkly, then took a deep breath and looked Baba Yaga in the eye again. “Well then, Little Grandmother, let’s get to the heart of things. Why did Auntie Ethel want you and me to meet?"

A dark glint flashed in the Hag’s bulging eyes.

“If you've heard of me, well, you're likely familiar with my craft. I barter in secrets. I believe in fair exchanges. You see, anyone who stumbles into the lair of old Granny must consent to a transaction if they hope to leave with their limbs intact.” Her black eyes glided over every inch of Jayme’s body, eliciting a disturbing sensation—like slimy snails crawling all over his skin. “Now, I have my eye on your darkling heart, Child of Bhaal. Tell me, what do you desire in this cryptic dance we’re about to perform?”

Ah. Of course. It always came back to his ancestry.

"I want the quickest, feasible way for myself to leave the Feywild, unharmed by you, your daughters, or your minions, and to return to Baldur's Gate in Faerûn."

"Oh, you possess a devious mind, articulating your desire with such caution. How refreshingly clever, compared to the usual dull-witted rabble."

It was only natural. Bargains with the fey required careful phrasing. With Baba Yaga? Even more so.

"And what is it you want in exchange from my good, ex-Bhaalist self?"

"Ex, you say? What happened — had a falling out with Daddy?"

"You could say that. So, I'm not sure what I can offer."

“Why, it's that delectable blood of yours that I crave. The power to shapeshift into the Dream Eater, your sinful Sire’s Slayer avatar. That's what I yearn for, my precious morsel.”

Jayme’s first instinct was to refuse, but he held back in favor of finding out more.

"Why would you want that? Your powers are already the stuff of legends."

"Hush now, inquisitive one. I haven't asked about why you're so eager to scurry back to your home, have I? Save yourself the folly of prying into my affairs, unless you wish to face consequences you'll rue.”

Jayme suddenly remembered Jaheira’s words from the night she had stood watch over his rest in Baldur’s Gate, shortly after the truth of his past had been unveiled. There will be crusaders who wish to rid the world of your taint, or jealous minds who believe themselves more deserving of the power in your blood. How right she had been.

The problem was, Bhaal had reclaimed his essence from Jayme’s blood after he renounced Him. Worse yet, Jayme had never even been bestowed the Slayer form, consistently refusing to embrace mindless carnage after the tragedy with Alfira. His blood persistently craved it, but with Astarion's invaluable help, Jayme resisted his Dark Urge at every turn.

The question was how much of this was wise to reveal to the Hag of Hags, if he hoped to tap into her knowledge.

"I don't believe the Slayer form is something I can give you," he said carefully.

“Fret not, dearie. Your task is simple enough: offer me a drop of your corrupted essence. I can, for certain, make it whisper its glorious secrets to me; I take pride in my alchemical prowess.”

Risky. But if the Crone granted him immunity from her wrath, even if his blood proved useless, Jayme would be safe. It would be a bargain well worth the risk.

On the other hand, this was the Feywild. Jayme had already experienced how the realm's arcane atmosphere heightened, magnified, and intensified even mere thoughts and feelings. His blood, though devoid of Bhaal’s blessing, was still the blood of the Lord of Murder. There was no way in Avernus it was wise to supply the Mother of All Hags with such a potentially devastating resource.

This choice was evil; he could feel it in his bones. And yet…

With heavy-hearted resignation, he accepted that he’d already made the decision. Nothing was more pressing than reuniting with Astarion, ensuring his safety, and confronting their tormentor together. He would pay the price, even if it was etched onto his ledger in blood and agony.

"I want you to recite the exact terms of the exchange before I agree to it. Please. Shall we draw up a contract?" Jayme proposed, smiling amiably while inwardly vowing to return someday and face the consequences of this bargain.

Baba Yaga’s bloodless lips twisted into an ear-to-ear grin. She knew she had won; the deal was about to be struck.

“Fear not! No sneaky stipulations lurk here—I swear by the ancient spirits. I'm no wretched fiend, oh no, I'm not!” Her wisp-like hair fluttered like gossamer threads in the breeze as she shook her hideous head. The very walls of her hut seemed to share in her excitement, rattling faintly. “No contract is needed—our dark utterances will suffice. Words, emotions, and even the tendrils of thought wield potent sway in this realm. Allow me to speak the conditions in their humble entirety.”

The objects around Baba Yaga quivered, as if stirred by a small earthquake. The pink steam now spiraled more intensely from the cauldron, while the birch twigs of the broom scraped against the warped floorboards.

“I, the one and only Baba Yaga, do solemnly swear to reveal the swiftest path and provide a roadmap for your return to Faerûn. I vow not to lay a finger upon you along the way and to dissuade my dear daughters and minions from any malice as well. And you, Jayme the Bhaalspawnling, do promise to offer me a drop of your life essence, from which I shall brew a potion to summon the Slayer at my whim.”

"The swiftest feasible path for my safe return," Jayme corrected her smoothly, “lest the swiftest path involve being chopped up and transported by some rakshasa. And the drop of my life essence shall come from my hand.”

He held out his left hand, palm down. He refused to be cut on his palm—nothing that might jeopardize his playing—nor would he allow any drop to be taken from more vital areas, like his heart or brain. He would not tolerate any tricks in their agreement.

Baba Yaga burst into a cackling laugh, baring rotted, black and yellow teeth. Her breath was odious beyond description, nearly making Jayme reel.

"Sly whelp, you are a droll one indeed! So be it. Let me fetch a scrap of parchment for you.” She hobbled to a chest of drawers and pulled out a map. Spreading it out, she traced the proposed route with her gnarled fingers.

"Listen well. Make your way to Evermeet, the Green Isle of your fellow Tel'Quessir. There, the veil between realms is thin, like worn spider silk, and you can cross into the Prime easily. First, turn back whence you came, through the dreary Everwood, and slip into Astrazalian, the garish City of Starlight. Then, set your sights on Cendriane. A long-unused portal connects Astrazalian with that pathetic old eladrin capital. There, beneath the ice spires of the Empty City, you'll have to charm Lord Kannoth, the obnoxious little undead kingling of Cendriane, into granting you passage to Evermeet. He holds the key to your swift transport. Now, he and his pitiful lackeys may turn hostile when you arrive. But carry this—” she handed him a lock of wispy, white hair tied into a knot “—and you’ll have your audience with His Sad Little Majesty.”

The hair felt cold and carried a faint echo of malice—it had surely belonged to a spiteful creature. Jayme pocketed the unsavory talisman without a word. 

The Hag peered into Jayme’s face. “Have you managed to etch all this into the twisted labyrinth of your noggin?" Her rancid breath and the grotesque proximity of her warts were a thoroughly revolting combination.

“I have, yes,” Jayme replied with a nod, taking the map and folding it securely under his jerkin. “Now, for my end of the bargain.”

He extended his arm, and Baba Yaga produced a jagged knife from her tunic. Their eyes locked for a moment—a silent reconfirmation of intentions—before she moved in. The cauldron beside them spewed pink clouds faster than they could escape through the chimney, thickening the air with that unbearable, sweet-rotten stench. But Jayme held himself still, steeled with determination. The blade sank in shallowly, and the Crone collected the drop of blood in a small vial.

All as agreed.

“A pleasure doing business with you. Off you go now, little morsel. May the fates favor your wanderings… until our paths cross once more." She shot one last penetrating look, then turned on her heels and ambled toward the darker recesses of her house.

Jayme briefly imagined casting a Cone of Cold to numb those brittle-looking limbs, followed by an Otto’s Irresistible Dance to prevent retaliation, and finally an annihilating Fireball for good measure. The fantasy was disturbingly similar to his Dark Urge’s past assaults on his psyche. A shiver ran down his spine.

Then again, he knew better than to think killing Baba Yaga would be that easy.

Shaking his head sharply, he tried to banish the image of the witch’s charred corpse, and turned to leave the hut. But it lingered, disquieting, like the stink of candied decay in his nostrils.

“Farewell, Little Grandmother,” he called over his shoulder as he crossed the crooked threshold.

Once outside, the swamp’s putrid fumes enveloped him, growing stronger with each step he took away from the Dancing Hut. The place he left quickly enough, but the ghastly ambiance of the Hag’s dwelling—and his own murderous impulses—continued to haunt him as he went.

He wished on every star in the sky that the filth would leave his head once he reentered the softly glowing forest of the Everwood, as he now knew it by name.

His course was set, but first he needed to find a secure spot for rest at long, long last. With his spell repertoire depleted, he was uncomfortably vulnerable.

As he pressed on, thoughts of Alfira's murder surfaced unbidden. It still stung, even after all this time. He remembered it all too vividly: the shock of it, the mind-boggling confusion, the indecent delight prickling his skin, and the churning in his stomach. Dreading what that unknown force might make him do again.

The shock had blotted out most of the following morning’s events. Everyone had been rattled. A murder at camp, committed by their own bard—no one could stay unaffected.

And yet, Astarion stood apart from the others in a surprising way: the incident didn’t put him on guard. On the contrary, he showed an almost cheerful understanding, something Jayme could recall with perfect clarity.

Jayme was astonished. Even before the sordid affair, he'd been quietly studying the “Baldurian magistrate”—more closely than anyone else in their party. But this reaction truly captured his attention.

“Just so you know, I don’t judge you for what happened to that bard, Alfira,” Astarion said in a low voice, a smirk touching his lips. “But the look of guilt on your face was priceless!”

Jayme instantly noted that Astarion said what happened to rather than what you did. Unlike the rest of the camp, Astarion seemed to understand and accept that Jayme hadn’t been in control of his actions. 

It was a small thing—just a choice of words—but it brought a glimmer of warmth to Jayme's frozen mind, despite the annoying follow-up.

“Well, at least someone got some entertainment out of this,” Jayme said wryly.

Astarion clicked his tongue. “I don’t care, really. But you could have been more subtle about it.”

His words claimed he didn’t care, but the undisguised curiosity in his gaze told a different story. Jayme sensed there was more to it than mere boredom—a hunch that gained more and more validation over the following days. 

While Jayme’s focus was split between dealing with the tadpole situation and the enigma of his Dark Urge, Astarion seemed largely focused on him.  

Those red eyes found him again and again: sometimes casually, as though simply appreciating his looks; other times, assessing, tracking his reactions as he negotiated with the denizens of the goblin camp and the Emerald Grove.

Jayme could see an effort at discretion, but it was half-hearted at best. What else could he interpret it as, if not an invitation? 

He welcomed it. Enjoyed it. And often, he answered in kind, returning the glances.

Two nights after the Alfira incident, the party ended their day scavenging the derelict houses of the Blighted village for provisions. Among their finds—herbs, potions, a few scraps of food, and a weapon blueprint—was a mysterious Thayan book with an arcane aura that hinted at dark secrets. Back at the camp, after carefully polishing his violin, Jayme settled onto his bedroll by the fire to examine the intriguing volume he'd pocketed earlier. He turned the book over in his hands.

“Go ahead, try to open it,” came an amused voice from behind. “But I’d bet a hundred gold pieces and a crate of Nimpeth wine that the only way to do it is to find whatever’s missing from that mouth.”

Jayme wasn’t surprised—he had been expecting Astarion to approach him for a while—and turned to find him smirking a few paces away. 

“Do you have experience with such tomes?” Jayme asked, feeling the corners of his own mouth tilt up.

“To some degree,” Astarion replied. “Not that I have a clue whether the contents of this one are worth our attention, mind you. It’s about Thayan necromancy, that much is certain, but beyond that?” He shrugged and then made himself comfortable beside Jayme. 

In the firelight, his face looked even paler than usual, with dark circles shadowing his eyes. Jayme suspected he wasn’t the only one struggling to find rest.

He looked back at the book. Astarion might be right—it seemed likely that the key was a small object meant to fit into the oval indentation on the cover, which was shaped like a screaming mouth.

And, as it turned out, no amount of tugging could make the cover budge.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep it with me until we find the key to unlocking it,” Astarion said, holding out a hand toward the book.

Jayme glanced at him with a raised brow. “And why’s that?”

“I…feel a connection to it, somehow. And I think, once we’re able to open it, I should be the one to uncover its secrets,” Astarion replied matter-of-factly.

There was something in his tone, in his confident insistence, that resonated with Jayme on a primal level. It felt familiar, like an image from a recurring dream.

Shifting his weight slightly, Jayme tilted his body back a fraction, as if appraising Astarion. “Why do you assume I’d let you claim power that I could claim for myself?”

“I’m not assuming anything. I’m asking. So, what’s your answer?” Astarion replied in the same steady tone.

Jayme’s lips curved into an amused smile. Then, slowly, he handed the book over. As Astarion took it, his fingers brushed Jayme’s.

“Your hand is cold. Come closer to the fire,” Jayme suggested, scooting closer to the flames himself, until the heat almost stung his skin. It nearly rivaled the searing energy flowing between the two of them. 

“Don’t you worry about me, darling. I’m fine,” Astarion purred as he, too, edged closer to the fire. “And thank you for this. I promise I’ll keep it safe until we find a way to unlock it.”

Jayme held his gaze in silence for a while, then decided it was time to address what had been building between them since Alfira’s death.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said simply. 

Astarion's light expression remained unchanged.

“Everyone in our group is watching everyone,” he replied. “We’re strangers united by a common cause, but that’s hardly a good reason to trust each other.”

“I’m not talking about trust—or about anyone else in the party. I mean that you have been watching me these past days, and not like someone keeping tabs on a suspicious ally.”

Intrigue sparked in the depths of Astarion's captivating red gaze, and he pulled his mouth into a broad grin.

“Busted! You’re not wrong. I might have been getting lost in your certainly pleasing features lately. But darling, do you know what your question implies?” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Jayme as if sharing a secret.

“Tell me,” Jayme said.

“It implies you’ve been watching me just as diligently,” Astarion whispered, his eyes alight with playfulness—but also something deeper.

Well played, Jayme thought. He could feel the rogue’s breath on his face; curiously, it wasn’t warm.

“I have,” he admitted smoothly, “You’re easy on the eyes, after all, as I’m sure you know. But, that’s not all. There’s a mystery here… one I was hoping you’d help unravel.”

“Oooh, I’m a sucker for mysteries! Let’s hear it.” Astarion made an inviting gesture with both hands.

“Pleasing features aside, most people wouldn’t eye-fuck someone just found responsible for cold-blooded murder at camp—especially if that person has no recollection of the deed. So…?”

Astarion blinked, hesitant for once. Jayme derived immense satisfaction from that and felt compelled to press further. 

“It’s obvious you have no qualms about killing—that much has been clear from your comments since the beginning. But it’s quite another thing when killing is right by your bedside. Which part of you does it attract, I wonder? What did you find fascinating about it?”

“Quite frankly, I don’t ca–”

“You don’t care, yes, you’ve told me before. Last time, it was still plausible. But that was before the tension between us grew so strong we could zap half the goblin camp in one fell swoop if we could just channel this energy.”

It was true: the physical attraction had been undeniable from the start. Hells, Jayme’s first, honest impression of the rogue had been, “Handsome bastard. Pity about the dagger,” even as Astarion pressed a blade against his neck at the crash site. But the morning after Alfira’s death had marked a clear turning point, and he was determined to find out why.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Astarion finally broke into a hearty chuckle. 

“You saucy little thing! The way you call out evasion and refuse to beat around the bush!” Tipping his head to the side, he roamed his eyes up and down Jayme’s frame before locking onto his gaze again. “I have to say, I find your cheekiness to be your most attractive feature yet. And that’s saying something, because, well, look at you.”

Jayme bowed his head in a slightly comical gesture, as if to say I aim to please, and waited patiently for the answer to his question.

“You shouldn’t read too much into it, though. I merely find you… interesting. I’m not faint of heart, nor as helpless as that bard was. And I trance lighter than most elves, I might add. So, I’m not exactly threatened by the idea of another murderous outburst—just curious to see what happens next.”

Jayme studied his face carefully. He felt a strong urge to ignite their tadpoles and peer into the depths of Astarion’s mind, to see if he was telling the truth. The feeling that something lay beneath the increased attention—something more than physical appeal or innocent curiosity wouldn’t leave him. But he set the impulse aside and decided to let Astarion off this time.

“You and me both. It’s getting late; let’s replenish our strength for tomorrow. We’ll have our hands full again with the goblin camp, I’m sure. Have a light rest.” Jayme said with a last cheeky, meaningful look before he retired to his tent to prepare for trance.

He was confident he’d learn what he wanted to know sooner or later.

And, as it happened, it was sooner. That same night, he awoke to find Astarion kneeling by his side, mouth wide open, on the cusp of biting into his neck.

That was when he discovered Astarion’s condition.

In hindsight, that was their true meeting: when one dark affliction looked squarely upon the other. It was a moment of mutual acknowledgment, forming a connection between them that went far beyond attraction. There was elemental power to it, working on a level below conscious thought.

The connection forged the beginnings of a shared trust—the trust that led Jayme to choose to offer his blood.

How symmetrical they were in that moment! How perfectly matched in their striving to tame their inner beasts. Astarion, latched onto Jayme’s neck, satisfying his hunger without going too far. And Jayme, resolutely pushing away his Dark Urge’s visceral temptation to flip their positions without delay and “drain the impudent undead wretch dry.”

At last, he stopped Astarion only when he was wobbling on the edge of consciousness.

The act had aroused Jayme. To the point that, if not for his lightheadedness, he might well have kept Astarion from leaving to hunt larger prey. Though Jayme couldn’t recall for certain, he doubted he'd ever let down all his defenses so willingly before. It brought him a previously unknown sense of joy, this trust, and he wanted to know if Astarion tasted the same thrill. He longed for him to taste the same thrill.

But the vampire, rejuvenated, strutted off into the dark forest, leaving Jayme reclining bonelessly on his bedroll.

Alfira’s murder continued to haunt the bard in the days that followed. The savage entity lurking in the recesses of his mind basked in the deed, yet his own conscience categorically rejected even a trace of satisfaction. It wasn’t so much a matter of moral principle. Though he regretted killing an innocent fellow bard to some extent, he had no interest in becoming a “lawful good” paragon of virtue.

No, Jayme detested the feeling of not being in control—of his actions and, even more disturbingly, of his thoughts.

This was also why he refused to don the Deathstalker Mantle, Sceleritas’ prize for his ruthless butchery, despite the allure of the mantle’s wicked magic and its advantages in combat.

Then, he felt a surge of purpose at the sight of Astarion’s carved-up back.

Now, as he treaded the Everwood, the memory sent spikes of longing and desperation through Jayme’s chest. But he bore it, forcing his frantic thoughts to trace the recollection from start to end.

Sex had been an inevitable turn in their relationship.

Once they’d acknowledged their mutual attraction, they carried on with the flirtation, casual and exploratory. Lingering glances over the campfire, accidental-on-purpose touches while dividing loot, shared smiles after a good, bloody fight.

And, of course, there was the fact that Astarion had a permanent place by Jayme’s side on quests. Unlike the others, whom he’d leave at camp now and then, Astarion was always with him.

Leave it to Shadowheart to point out Jayme’s obvious partiality. “Shrewd Elf Twosome” she named them on one occasion when Jayme asked Astarion to help him gather firewood for the camp, shortly after they’d gutted the Gur monster hunter in Auntie Ethel’s bog. “You two are the very definition of peas in a pod. I wouldn't be surprised if we found out one day that you even relieve yourselves together.”

Everyone grinned and nodded in agreement. Even La’zael did so in her own discreet way, to Jayme’s amazement—who would have thought she had a sense of humor?

Jayme didn’t bother retorting, only compressed his mouth into a mysterious smirk.

“We are most certainly not doing that,” Astarion hurried to deny, running a hand through his hair in mild discomfiture. “Don’t just stand there smiling. Back me up!” He frowned, shooting Jayme a look.

They clearly enjoyed each other's company and often stayed close during the day. The real question was who would make the first move to spend the night together.

Jayme’s instincts whispered it would have to be Astarion.

Truhtfully, he was itching to take things further and was thoroughly tantalized by the prospect of indulging in Astarion’s tempting body. But he held back. While Astarion visibly appreciated assertive flirting, Jayme sensed that letting him set the pace would go a long way with him.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. Right on the eve of the goblin raid, as Jayme was making his rounds to check on everyone before bed, Astarion broached the subject, his eyes glinting.

“Darling, I was just thinking about you. Remembering our time together, the things we’ve shared. And I don’t just mean that lovely neck of yours. Continuing our thought-provoking conversation from the other day, I’ll admit I’ve come to like the whole package. Honestly. And you’ve already let slip you like me too, so…” he trailed off suggestively.

Jayme marveled at the perfectly confident, relaxed tone, delivered with the precision of a well-practiced routine. Astarion was well-versed in the art of seduction, this much was evident—unsurprising for a vampire, Jayme supposed, if urban legends were anything to go by.

Still, Jayme had the impression that Astarion wasn’t deriving the pleasure from it that he should.This felt different than the previous flirtations. 

So, he decided to turn the tables.

“Oh, yes. I do,” he affirmed, keeping his eyes pinned to Astarion’s. “I’ve been waiting for you. Now I’m all the more eager to crush the goblin forces and finish our business in the grove, come daybreak. After that, the night is ours.”

“Yes.” Astarion paused for a split second, his rhythm thrown by Jayme’s forward words. But he was quickly back on track, dazzling smile in place. “It would appear we’ve both been wanting this. I’m just curious why it took so long and why you didn’t say anything. The thrill of the wait?”

“You won’t be just a quick fuck, Astarion. I want to savor you—to the fullest. I want to know you,” Jayme said, pitching his voice low, letting his true feelings show, without artifice for once.

Between the two of them, Jayme realized he no longer wanted to play the game they both knew so well—smiles and words, both shield and sword. He wanted to see behind the curtain, now that he’d had a glimpse.

When Jayme thought back to that moment, now that they were separated, it gripped his heart like a vice. It had been the first time he became aware that this connection between them might be reaching toward something else entirely.  

Astarion’s reaction was another pause—this time longer. Then, he found his usual voice again. “Well! I’m up for anything, darling. It’s a date then! Let’s wade knee-deep in gore tomorrow and see where the night takes us, shall we?” He tipped his head forward slightly so he could give Jayme his best I’m-peering-up-at-you-from-under-dark-lashes look. “It’s going to be a night you’ll never forget. See you there, lover.”

True to form, the goblin raiding party and their drow paladin leader were slain the next day, and their night arrived.

It was pleasurable, yes, as expected. Astarion spread for him with a technique clearly honed through extensive practice. Each kiss, each sigh, each slide of muscle was calculated and flawless.

But he felt distant throughout, and Jayme couldn't change that—nor could he shake it from his mind. As a consequence, he couldn’t lose himself entirely either, despite the promising pillow talk Astarion had whispered into his ear before their first kiss.

It was… frustrating. Jayme felt annoyingly lacking when he woke from trance.

And then understanding dawned on him as his eyes fell on Astarion’s jagged flesh in the morning light.

It shocked him. For a full minute, he lay still, transfixed by the sight. It struck something unspeakable within him. Though he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just his imagination; he knew he had to find out.

“Good morning.” He pushed himself up into a sitting position, naked on the grass. “Too bad you woke first. I would’ve kept you for a cuddle.”

“I have a feeling we wouldn’t return to camp for quite a while if you did that.” Astarion turned only his head, keeping his body facing away to bathe himself in sunlight. Jayme found the posture oddly touching. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

“You were sublime,” Jayme replied simply, choosing not to remark on the detachment he’d sensed in him.

It would either change with time, or it wouldn’t—and that would be that.

“I never get tired of hearing that,” Astarion sighed, sounding gratified. But Jayme could hear the hollowness in his tone.

“Where did you get those scars?”

He had to ask. To his regret, his Dark Urge was also awakening from its slumber, already projecting a vivid image of how the fresh wounds must have looked: Astarion lying immobilized on his stomach, his back an elegantly carved basin of blood.

Jayme swatted the image away like an annoying fly.

“It’s a poem. A gift from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist and used his spawn as canvas. He carved and composed that over the course of a night. He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

Jayme stayed silent at that. It was both a confirmation and a revelation, like a feeling shaping itself into a phrase on his violin. The phrase depicted enslavement.

They were one. They struggled as one, shook their chains as one. The sole difference was that Astarion could put a face and name to the one holding his leash. Jayme couldn’t—not yet.

The realization compelled him to do something that hadn’t been in his plans.

“Now, let’s go before the others send a search party after us,” Astarion said and was about to get ready, but Jayme stopped him.

“Wait. I want to give you something.” He rose and went to the small pack he'd brought the night before—a combat kit. Opening the flap, he pulled out the Deathstalker Mantle, which he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wear, even once.

“Oh, but you already have, my dear. And we don’t have the luxury to just lie around now. We can always arrange an encore… perhaps tonight, if you so fancy,” Astarion smirked but quirked a quizzical brow as Jayme unrolled the indigo cloth and moved toward him. “What have you got there?”

“It’s my… inheritance. Or so I’ve been told, by my fiend of a butler.”

Astarion cocked his head, intrigued. “Inheritance? Butler? Are you some sort of nobility then?”

“The details are hazy, and much of my past remains unknown to me. After… after Alfira died, a fiend visited me at night, called himself Sceleritas Fel. He claimed he was my butler and brought me an iniquitous prize for my supposed great show of exceptional violence,” Jayme revealed through gritted teeth, as the self-disgust churned up within him, raw and scalding.

If it weren’t for my violin, he thought, I might have gone mad already.

Astarion hummed in contemplation and shifted his gaze from the cloak back to Jayme’s face.

“This brings up more questions than it answers, but I won’t ask more. I’m sure you’ve already thought of those questions yourself and we’ll just have to accept the mystery for now.” He paused, reaching out to touch the fine fabric. “Why aren’t you wearing it? The magic woven into it is powerful; you don’t have to be Gale to feel it.”

“I don’t want to. It represents something I find repulsive.” Jayme could feel his face twist into a grimace. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “But…you’re right, it’d be a waste not to avail ourselves of its power. That’s why I want you to have it.”

“Me?” Astarion’s eyes widened. “Why… me? And why now? If this is some kind of reward for last night, think again. I don’t want it.” He spat the word reward, as though it tasted foul in his mouth.

He shifted his weight and pulled back. Jayme, caught off guard by the unexpectedly honest reaction but bent on making his intentions clear, took hold of his arm—gently yet firmly. 

“That’s not what this is at all,” Jayme said.

“I’m no longer—” Astarion began angrily, but suddenly stopped, as though he almost let slip something he didn’t mean to.

“What?” Jayme asked.

“Nothing. Never mind. I should be…,” Astarion mumbled, averting his gaze. He then shook his head, and drew his brows together, appearing confused. “Never mind,” he repeated, louder. He tried—in vain—to summon a look of carefree indifference.

“I don’t know what kind of people you’ve been with in the past,” Jayme said, looking him long and hard in the eye, “but I don’t pay for sex. And before you think I’m giving this to you so I can ask for something in return someday, it’s not that either.” He paused. “I just want you to have it. I want it to protect you. To give meaning to my transgression. Call it a… saving grace, if you will.”

“Why me and not, say, Gale or Shadowheart?” Astarion asked with a wry expression. “You seem to get along most splendidly with both.”

So, someone has been paying attention, all while pretending not to care, Jayme thought.

“Is it so hard to believe someone likes you without an agenda?” Jayme countered, not faltering in the battle of their stares.

“You know, yes, it actually is. Can’t remember the last time that happened, if ever.”

Astarion’s voice was laden with bitterness and the lost look struck a chord Jayme didn’t expect. It wasn’t pity he felt, but recognition. Something unnamable in him commiserated with the vampire. He suddenly knew that he’d had the exact same experience with people, before the nautiloid.

At the same time, the Dark Urge rumbled at the back of his mind in protest. To give away this ethereal possession to a mere fling? Preposterous! Ludicrous! Slash open his gorgeous scars instead!

SHUT. UP. Jayme bellowed inwardly in response and bore down on the revolting presence skulking in his psyche with all his might.

“I like you, Astarion,” he said, the words even. “If I can help keep you safe, give you an edge in our fights, that’s what I want to do with this inheritance.”

There. He waited for the verdict—a pause that hung taut in the air—until Astarion finally nodded.

Jayme carefully draped the Mantle over his bare shoulders and marred back. He kept his hands on his cold skin for a few moments, as if to reinforce the wish he'd just voiced. Of course, it was an impractical gesture—Astarion would have to remove it and wear it over his armor anyway. Still, Jayme couldn’t resist attaching a symbolic meaning to it.

What that exact meaning would be, was unclear as of now. It wasn’t something as solid as a promise. But it was a possibility.

With a complicated expression etched on his face, Astarion reached up a hand to feel the hem of the Mantle, cold fingers brushing against Jayme’s hand on his shoulder.

“Well, thank you.” he finally said, ducking his head slightly.

A slippery possibility perhaps, but one that existed nevertheless.

Neither of them spoke on their way back to camp after Jayme dressed. But even in the silence, Astarion kept a hand buried in the cloak, letting the white shirt dangle loosely from his other hand, still unfolded.

Eventually, just before crossing the thicket that bordered their camp, the rogue took the Mantle off and put his shirt on. Until then, Jayme couldn’t help but steal glances at his sculpted torso and scarred back, covered only by the undulating indigo fabric.

The sight sent a shiver of excitement through him—anticipation. The force of it held the Dark Urge at bay. With the tadpole sleeping soundly as well, Jayme was finally alone with his own thoughts after gods knew how long.

It was this blissful, momentary emptiness that Jayme, leaving behind the Murkendraw and entering the Everwood, clung to.

Chapter 4: I - So give me something beautiful, so give me something else

Summary:

One look at your eyes and I cave in
One taste of the life now I crave it
It's not too late to die for a reason
Fall down on the sword you were swinging

I wanted to dress a blade up in red with both of our necks
But I wasn't able, and I wasn't stable
I guess
But nevertheless I'm fucking depressed
I hide it with sex, and drink till it's fatal
It's so fucking painful
It's a mess

So give me something beautiful
So give me something else
I need another miracle
I really need some help, I need a miracle

Bad Omens - Miracle

Astarion needed breakfast, and fast. Well, technically, he needed supper, as it was already after dusk. His last meal had been mind flayer blood during their so-called Ultimate Battle. 

Ultimate, he snorted as he left Halsin’s room. Blasted hells, was it ultimate.

Knowing he wouldn’t find any volunteers for his hunger within the facility, he made a beeline downstairs and out of the tavern. He wrapped his—originally Jayme's—Deathstalker Mantle tightly around himself like a hood, keeping his face hidden from the street. For better or worse, he was a celebrity now.

As expected, he didn't need to wander far to find a convenient target: some petty criminal loitering near the cemetery. A purse-picker, by the way he slunk behind some passers-by and deftly pinched their coin purses, leaving them none the wiser. A hard smack on the head, and Astarion wasted no time drinking his life energy as one might sip nectars from a peach. 

There wasn't much satisfaction in it this time. It was a necessity, a means to regain his strength. He left the scoundrel alive, sprawled unconscious on the cobblestones, like a sad sack of potatoes.

Once finished, he hastened back toward the tavern. Along the way, he felt hostile, mocking gazes on him, but when he glanced around, he couldn't identify the source. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

He quickened his pace and headed straight to the room that would have been his and Jayme's. Inside, Gale and Jaheira were sitting slumped next to a stack of books, poring over densely scribbled tomes.

"Well? What have you found out?" Astarion pressed the moment he entered. 

No one had gone to wake and fetch him, so the situation was obviously not rosy. Or, simply, no progress had been made yet. Astarion couldn’t decide which was worse.

"And a good evening to you too," Jaheira grumbled, visibly exhausted and in a sour mood. The creases around her eyes seemed deeper than ever. "We haven't found the answers just yet. But! We have promising leads and we are on to something now."

"I'm all ears," Astarion urged, but the druid gestured for Gale to take over. He did so after a drained sigh. 

"I’m now convinced the basic incantation used was that of a Gate spell. But there are a few odd elements we still can’t explain." He paused, rubbing his face as though hoping to restore blood flow to his head. "The duration of Gate is only a minute at best, even for the most adept casters, and it’s a visible portal, usually between five and twenty feet in diameter. True, it can be oriented any way, but that doesn’t account for the fact that one, you didn't see it, and two, it behaved like a trap rather than a spell with a limited duration."

"Umm, alright. Alright. This makes sense so far. So you're saying the spell was modified?" Astarion asked.

"That's our hypothesis, yes," Gale nodded, then raised an index finger. "However, you have to understand—executing a modification of such complexity is no small feat. Gate is a high-level spell in and of itself. To convert it into an undetectable trap requires considerable magical expertise."

"Oh! So, your conclusion is that a powerful wizard was behind the abduction of Jayme, Scion of Bhaal and hero of Baldur's Gate. You don't say! Thanks, Master Gale!" Astarion mocked. His whiny tone irritated him too, but he couldn't get a hold of himself. 

Bile rose in his throat—at his companions, at the perpetrator of this mess, at every deity or whim of fate that had allowed this to come to pass.

"Calm yourself, Astarion," a mellifluous voice called from the door. It was Shadowheart. "Your dripping sarcasm doesn't help. We're just as upset as you are, and we've been up all day researching conjuration."

Astarion was on the brink of railing at the cleric next, but she quickly held up two hefty tomes and turned to Gale.

"I've brought Zargoth’s Tome of Familiars and the Codex of Magical Components, seventh edition, as you requested." 

"Splendid! Thank you, Shadowheart, much appreciated." 

Gale jumped to his feet to take the books and began leafing through one at once. As he turned the pages with a familiar ease, he looked up at Astarion.

"Astarion, I know it's the hardest thing to do right now, but please, be patient. As I mentioned, we're dealing with a highly competent mage here, and we can soon start forming theories about who it might be. Just give us a few more minutes to check some details."

Astarion heaved an exasperated sigh, managing by a hair’s breadth to stifle the blasphemous rant about to spill from his mouth.

"Fine! But give me something to do or I'll either go mad or go berserk and start a killing spree right here on the streets we just saved." A permanent scowl twisted his face, and he lacked the energy to summon civilized Astarion at the moment. 

"Your help would actually be more than welcome. Here." Gale handed him Zargoth’s Tome of Familiars. "Look up ‘glow dust’ and read the relevant passages. Let me know if you find any mention of teleportation."

Glow dust? Whatever—Astarion wasn't about to question it. He needed something to do , something to occupy his raging mind. 

On page fifty-one, under the entry for Sylvan fauna, and a further note on “dryad's hair,” he found what Gale was looking for. 

Dryad’s hair is best known for the glowing dust it leaves behind as it flits through the air.  

… 

Observation of dryad’s hair swarms and the study of their glow dust led the oldest of the fey to the art of faerie fire.

Less commonly practiced applications of this luminescent substance include imbuing teleportation circles to forge a bridge to the Fey Wild. Due to the evanescent nature of glow dust, however, this is a difficult undertaking with severe time constraints and, consequently, dubious feasibility.

At the bottom of the passage, a differently toned addendum caught his attention.

At the edges of the mortal realm, where the mist thins, here in the eddies may be glimpsed the endless wood of the Fey Wild. In the gloam of this strange border between worlds, curious sylvan creatures dwell. These fey take on the forms of beasts wrought from twining branches, roots and leaves. Curious in form as they are in nature, such beings may slip between realms, entering ours as fabled travelers sometimes enter theirs.

"The Feywild… a bridge to the Feywild," Astarion muttered under his breath, and was gripped by a dark premonition.

"What?" Gale jerked his head up. "Does it mention the Feywild?" 

"Yes. It says here that glow dust can be used to imbue teleportation circles to forge a bridge to the Fey Wild." He stepped closer to Gale and pointed to the passage.

The wizard's expression turned grave. 

"By Tasha's cauldron…! Jaheira, any luck identifying the fungus?" 

The druid raised a hand, eyes still on the text, signaling she was still searching. After another minute, she finally lifted her head.

“Gripa. It's–“

“The sign of tragedy, the plant of death. I see you have reached the same conclusion we have,” Halsin interjected as he entered the room with Minsc in tow.

"Indeed. And one intriguing fact here is that it's commonly used by hags as an alchemical component," Jaheira added.

Everyone's face mirrored the same sentiment: apprehension. It was Astarion who broke the heavy silence that had settled over the room.

"Would you mind piecing this together for me?" he asked, composure regained now that progress was in sight. His gaze moved from one friend to the next.

Gale stood, crossed to a spot by the dresser, and crouched, gesturing for Astarion to do the same. He pointed at some powder scattered on the floor, no more than a few pinches’ worth.

"Look. Residual substances from the Gate’s setup. We believe the gray dust is faded glow dust mixed with enhanced crystalline salt to preserve it. Without the salt, glow dust would have long since vanished without a trace. And the purple remnants—that’s gripa."

“That’s a curious scent for a fungus,” Astarion remarked, dropping to all fours and dipping his head until his nose nearly touched the floor. He took several deep whiffs. “Although it’s not just the fungus—this whole circle smells strange. I can catch something pungent… rotten eggs. Sulfur, perhaps? But also a sweet rosy aroma, with a hint of citrus. Palmarosa? Hmmm. And pepper. Yes, that has to be it.”

“That’s some nose you have! I can’t smell a thing,” Shadowheart said, quirking an eyebrow. “And anyway, what does pepper even smell like?”

“Like this. There’s no way to describe it, is there? Our language is lacking that way,” Astarion replied wryly.

Gale waited for Astarion to straighten up, then looked him in the eye—like a healer, about to deliver bad news about a family member.

"There could be any number of explanations for the scents, and we may not decipher the truth behind them. But the logical conclusion from these clues is that Jayme has been sent to the Feywild. As for the perpetrator—" 

"A hag we’ve wronged?" Shadowheart cut in, frowning. "Auntie Ethel? She's the only one that comes to mind. If we're assuming that shrew somehow survived yet again. You’d think cutting down her pearlspore bells and stabbing her in the heart would’ve delivered the coup de grâce.”

"There's a good chance a hag had a hand in this, yes,” Gale agreed. “A shapeshifter could have easily sneaked in to set up the room. But I suspect she wasn't working alone. Modifying Gate in this way was, in all likelihood, the handiwork of an accomplished wizard."

"Or a mediocre wizard we’ve locked horns with who has access to a wide array of magical enhancements," Halsin suggested, his implication clear as daylight.

"Lorroakan? That disgraceful buffoon?!" Minsc exclaimed, full of indignation. "Dame Aylin smote him down like the conceited wretch he was! Could he have deceived Selûne's own daughter— and Boo’s ever-watching eyes—and crawled back to life?"

"I, for one, wouldn't be surprised,” Jaheira said wryly. “He certainly hoarded the most exotic trinkets from all over Toril.”

"It's all guesswork at this point," Gale remarked. "It could be someone else entirely—Mystra knows how many toes we've stepped on along the way."

As if to say he’d heard enough, Astarion turned and walked over to the dresser. He opened the case containing Jayme's violin and gently touched the instrument inside. The group silently awaited his reaction.

"Can you say for certain that Jayme's in the Feywild?" he finally asked.

"For certain? No. But it's the most likely possibility in my mind right now," Gale answered honestly. 

"Hmm. I'll take my chances with this theory, then. I do trust your scholarly mind." He slanted a faint smile at the wizard—a shadow of his usual, easy smiles. "Thank you, all of you, for the extensive research you’ve done, exhaustion notwithstanding. I wouldn't have been able to reach this conclusion without you. And I only joined you toward the end—I can't even fathom what you've been working on over the past hours, while I was resting. Just know that you're all fantastic, and I appreciate you. Now go and have the glorious rest you deserve."

"What are you planning to do, Astarion?" Shadowheart asked, tilting her head to the side. 

"Get myself to Sorcerous Sundries to expand my knowledge on the Feywild, first of all. Good thing they stay open late to accommodate eccentric bookworms. And then… I'm traveling there. I must find him. He's unarmed. Well, unarmed but for his wits and silver tongue—which, I must admit, might just be deadlier than my blades." A bittersweet smile crept over his face.

There was a shift in the air as Astarion's words sank in. Reaching the Feywild was no simple task ever since the Spellplague. Not impossible, of course, but complicated and taxing. And Astarion, being what he was, faced obvious challenges.

"Give me a couple of hours to rest, and I'll help you gather information on the subject," Jaheira offered, her voice radiating determination.

"Count me in, too," Halsin nodded.

“Me too,” Shadowheart and Minsc said in unison, the latter adding, “And Boo as well, of course.”

“Then it's a trip to the Sundries for all of us," Gale concluded excitedly, tracing the spine of Tome of Familiars with his fingers. "Let's not waste any time. We'll reconvene shortly.”

"Look, it's incredibly sweet of you, but this isn't your–" Astarion began to protest, only to be cut off by Jaheria’s firm assertion. 

"But it is our problem too. Our bond may not be as deep as yours, but we all hold Jayme dear. And we want him safe. So, it's settled. Good night!"

Everyone dispersed, leaving a speechless Astarion alone in the room. 

Oh well, the more the merrier, he thought, touched and slightly heartened as he made his way to Sorcerous Sundries.

His thoughts turned to trust—a devilishly hard thing to come by in this world. It had taken a shared ordeal of life and death for their party to build it.

Between Jayme and him, trust had come from something no less dire: the recognition that they were waging personal wars against the same tyrant. The process had been gradual, but there were moments on the path to Moonrise Towers that left an indelible mark.

Truth be told, the journey to the Towers as a whole was a jumbled mess in his memory. The Underdark, Grymforge, the gith crèche—trial after trial coalesced into a bloody heap of bodies, fleeting victories, and conversations with mostly insignificant people. Everything had been a means to an end: unraveling the mystery of their tadpoles.

With unanimous consent, Jayme took charge of setting their course. His way with words often defused conflict and relieved the others of some pressure. Though the party was on edge, it was Jayme’s steady leadership that kept them moving forward.

He handled even the grimmest situations with notable composure, such as their tense encounter with La’zael’s kin. True, they still ended up wiping out the crèche to escape, but that was less a failure of Jayme’s diplomacy and more the result of Lae'zel’s scheming goddess.

Then there was their run-in with the deranged surgeon at the House of Healing, whom Jayme persuaded to become a human pincushion for his nurses in a bizarre act of self-sacrifice. Or the drinking game, where Jayme bested the bloated bartender by pretending to drink and spinning wild tales of monster hunting.

When violence became unavoidable, Astarion came into his element and made excellent use of Jayme’s Mantle. The garment’s ability to grant temporary invisibility after a kill quickly became one of Astarion’s favorites. Stylish as well as functional, the Mantle was crafted from rich brocade in a deep indigo—Jayme's color.

The public mood grew gloomier as they left the sunlit stretches of the Risen Road behind, venturing into the noxious, mushroom-cloud-laden depths of the Underdark. Then it plummeted further when they made a detour at Rosymorn Monastery, where the purifying machine Lae'zel’s had been going on about from the beginning turned out to be a dead end. The failure confirmed that their only path forward lay through Moonrise Towers.

None of them relished the bleak prospect of shadow-diving. Astarion wasn’t untouched by it either, though secretly, he felt a flicker of relief at retaining his tadpole and the heightened undeath it provided, if only for a little longer.

He and Jayme stayed close, their eyes rarely straying from each other. Even so, Astarion had quietly put his plan to seduce the bard on hold for the time being—not because his interest cooled, far from it. Rather, he found himself puzzled. 

They’d slept together twice, and only then did Astarion realize his plan had been driven more by habit than anything else. Using his body to get what he wanted came as naturally to him as playing the violin did to Jayme. Or devouring books to Gale, or sneering at non-gith culture to La’zael. The realization alone was disconcerting enough—like a collar around his neck, tethered to an invisible leash in Cazador’s hand.

Worse still, that approach didn’t seem to be the way with Jayme. He’d shown no dissatisfaction with their trysts, but Astarion could sense his will lay elsewhere. Jayme seemed intent on complicating things, pushing toward a kind of openness that Astarion felt utterly unprepared for.

Why couldn’t we just fuck and be chums? Simple, practical, and safe, he mused wryly more than once. I want to know you, Jayme said. What does knowing have to do with sex anyway?

Strangest of all, the seduction didn’t feel good to Astarion either, despite his initial expectations. After their intensely enjoyable flirtations, he’d thought the freedom of choosing his own target would, in itself, satisfy him. But no. On the contrary, the more he imagined repeating the familiar routine, the more it felt fundamentally wrong, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. After the second time he invited Jayme into his bed, he experienced something alarmingly close to shame.

Shame, of all things! Now that was absurd.

Jayme was a complication, clearly, and rather than delving further into uncharted territory, Astarion chose to redirect his focus to the best subject he could think of: himself. The meaning of his scars. Their shared quest. His life as he imagined it would be once the mind flayer conundrum was resolved.

In hindsight, Astarion could admit he had been stumped. Jayme seemed to offer something unfamiliar: closeness. But wasn’t closeness just a fast track to dependence? And, inevitably, the loss of freedom—yet again?

Among the memory scraps of this part of their journey, there were a few instances he could recall vividly. Like that night in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, at camp, shortly after they had reached the region.

Gale was keeping first watch some distance away, and the rest of the party had already retreated to their tents. Only Jayme was still up and about.

Astarion sat by the campfire, one knee pulled to his chest to support the weight of his upper body, the other leg bent and resting on the ground. He knew it was high time for his reverie, to get some rest, but he couldn’t make himself move. He felt listless and disconnected from his own body, as though his flesh were too cramped a vessel for his psyche, which pulsed with unease.

Craving distraction, he let his eyes wander and settle on the bard, who was immersed in his nightly ritual: absently drawing melodies from his violin before setting it aside for the day. Though he made the bow glide softly over the strings to keep the volume down, the instrument’s resonance carried clearly— it was far louder than a lute or lyre. Jayme had his eyes, half-lidded and glassy, resting on the flames as he played. The tune was melancholic but not mournful. It reminded Astarion of a simple yet lithe elven lullaby with nuances of gentle sorrow.

After concluding the piece, Jayme began his ritual of everyday maintenance. With tender, meticulous movements, he wiped down the entire length of the violin, then cleaned the strings using the cloths he kept in the case especially for this task. Once finished, he moved on to the bow, brushing away the rosin dust, blood, and any other grime clinging to it with long, deliberate strokes.

For Astarion, who had never developed a serious attachment to any personal belonging— not to this extent, at least— the care Jayme lavished on his violin was sincerely fascinating. Then again, the violin was no ordinary object. It was more than a mere tool or weapon; it was his prime form of self-expression. Astarion sensed a depth here he could only begin to fathom.

He’d noticed early in their journey that Jayme often moved the fingers of his left hand in the air as he walked, while the instrument itself hung securely on his back. At first, Astarion thought this might be some idle fidgeting, but the movements seemed too purposeful. It seemed to be an unconscious habit, an echo… no, a manifestation of the music undoubtedly playing inside Jayme’s mind. From how often he caught him doing it, Astarion concluded that some melody must be filling Jayme’s head nearly all the time. He found it a touch odd, but oddly endearing.

He averted his gaze and stared into the fire once again, losing himself in thought.

The shadows here were alive and thriving, whispering and sweet-talking to one’s darker side. Astarion’s thoughts kept tenaciously circling back to his breakaway from Cazador and the meaning of the scripture on his own back.

Jayme had revealed that the words were in Infernal, and that did not bode well. When had anything concerning Cazador ever boded well? But in this particular case, Astarion had a hunch that something distinctly nefarious was at play.

He desperately wanted to solve this riddle. But to find the answer… he had mulled over his options so many times already that he was sick of it. Like being forced to plunge his hands into the same disgusting jar of filth again and again.

He stared and stared into the dancing flames. A queasy sensation twisted his gut. He realized he'd become less talkative and less collected when he spoke—less like himself in general, ever since they'd entered this rotten region. But he saw no way out of this rut, not until he uncovered the answers he sought.

His musings were interrupted when a bottle of wine entered his line of sight.

“Care for something to numb the mind? You look like you need it.”

Jayme dangled the bottle in front of him. He seemed to have put his violin away—Astarion hadn’t noticed when that happened.

Sluggishly, as though returning from eons away, Astarion raised his head to inspect the offering—Arabellan Dry, a fine vintage at that—before glancing up at him.

“Normally, I’m not one to pass up good wine, but here in these cursed woods, I’m not sure surrendering even a modicum of control is wise. We’d be tempting fate,” he said, weariness threading through his tone.

The look in Jayme's eyes said he wasn’t about to let it go, Astarion could tell.

“I’ll watch over you. Don’t worry.” Jayme held on to the wine and sat beside him at an angle, close enough for conversation but casual enough to make eye contact optional. The flames offered an excuse to avert their gazes, should either of them choose to. “What’s going on in your head? If it’s these evocative surroundings getting to you, then let me assure you: you’re not the only one wrestling with demons.”

On closer inspection, Jayme’s face was uncharacteristically pale, and it wasn’t just a trick of the firelight.

Come to think of it, at some point, they had left behind the evenings of easy camaraderie at camp along with the Sun’s warmth. The transition had been so seamless that Astarion hadn’t even noticed—until now.

Jayme was supposed to be sauntering around, bantering with his companions, and tending to them in his subtle way. He was supposed to be bold yet discerning—a charming con artist with a hidden heart. These days, it had been mostly his violin that spoke for him.

“It’s Cazador I have on my mind, you guessed correctly. Twisted succubus tits, I can’t even begin to express how sick and tired I am…” Astarion heaved a deep breath and buried his face in his hands.

“It’s the nature of these blasted lands,” Jayme said quietly when Astarion didn’t elaborate, setting about uncorking the wine. “The Urge in my mind is worse here than anywhere else we’ve been. It’s dreadful, to tell you the truth. And almost impossible to suppress.”

“I’ve told you before—don’t suppress it. Unleash it on our enemies. One would think that’s not too challenging.” Astarion waved a hand to emphasize the simplicity of his suggestion; enemies lurked all around, literally in every shadow. The irritated edge to his voice was involuntary. He couldn’t control it. Not now.

“I’m doing that, yes, but it’s a little more complicated than that,” Jayme replied. His voice, by contrast, was level, but as he combed a hand through his raven locks, Astarion noticed his fingers shaking. “It’s never satisfied, no matter how much blood I spill. I keep getting ideas about what I should do to all living things around me—each one more creative and gruesome than the last.”

His ice-blue-violet eyes rested on Astarion, who drank in the tumult swirling in their depths.

Beautiful, Astarion thought. A beautiful, broken, and dangerous thing.

He unconsciously ran his tongue over his lips before responding.

“My thoughts are plagued by brutality too, believe me. Brutality not unlike yours, I’d wager. My rational thinking is smothered by fantasies of Cazador’s mangled, blood-drenched corpse.”

There was an answering spark in Jayme’s eyes.

His brokenness made him touchable. Made him approachable for Astarion. And the danger—it drew him in. Undeniably. Of course. What the hells would Astarion even do with a healthy and balanced person?

They held each other’s gaze for long, heavy seconds. Then Jayme spoke.

“Let’s try a new approach. For both our sakes. Let’s create a distraction.”

Without further explanation, he took a swig of the wine but didn’t swallow. He closed the distance between them, snaking a hand to cup the nape of Astarion’s neck. His palm was hot and slightly damp against Astarion’s cold skin.

A spark of surprise flared in Astarion, but he had no desire to pull away. He made no move, which Jayme took as a sign to proceed. Leaning in, he brought his lips to Astarion’s and waited for him to open up.

When he did, a small, unthinking noise slipped from Astarion’s throat—a soft moan—but it was quickly consumed in Jayme’s mouth as he passed the wine to him.

Astarion swallowed, then stared wide-eyed at Jayme from up close. The bard winked—winked—and brought the bottle to his mouth again, drinking a few gulps himself. He took another mouthful and indicated he intended to repeat the transfer.

Astarion let him. Though still somewhat dazed, he was more responsive this time. He flicked his tongue out and swept it across Jayme’s lips after swallowing.

A smile curved over Jayme’s mouth at that, appreciative and encouraging. He pulled back just for a second to catch Astarion’s eyes—was visibly pleased to see that surprise had given way to a glint of amusement.

Then he drank again, and as he leaned in, they met halfway. The wine was passed, and they avidly entwined their tongues immediately after.

Astarion’s keen ears picked up the sound of his heart quickening in a matter of seconds, his luscious blood rushing through his veins. That sound was life itself for a vampire, a pulse that spread heat and hunger through him.

A wine-scented gasp escaped Jayme, and he shifted their position: setting the bottle down blindly, he seized Astarion by the scruff of his white shirt and pulled him on top of himself, simultaneously lying back on the ground.

Astarion let out a low, approving growl, his hands roaming over Jayme’s abdomen and sides.

He'd felt it before, the first time they slept together, but now it struck him again how finely chiseled Jayme’s body was. It was unexpected for a bard, even an elven one, given that they usually stayed back from the frontline of battle and relied on magic. But this bard was all lean muscles and toned limbs.

He would have made a marvelous target—an absolute pleasure to seduce and bring home. The unwelcome notion intruded, stark and jarring, immediately filling Astarion with self-disgust. The force of habit, eh?

Wanting, needing to banish the thought, he broke their fervent kiss to trail smaller ones along Jayme’s jawline, neck, and collarbone.

“Bite,” Jayme whispered into his ear, as though sensing the desire lurking in Astarion’s mind.

It was all Astarion could do not to whimper at the permission he longed for.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

That hissed confirmation was all he needed. He trailed his lips to the spot on Jayme’s neck he would bite—the same spot he had some tendays ago. The mark was barely visible now on his ivory skin. He licked it once, feeling the skittering pulse underneath, then sank his fangs in.

Pure ecstasy, once again. What was it with this man’s blood that made him come so undone? He had bitten goblins, gith, duergar, drow—even True Soul Nere—but none tasted quite as exquisite. Astarion had taken to feasting on their foes, and while sapient creatures were an undeniable upgrade from subsisting on rats and insects, none of it compared to this. Was it Jayme’s willingness that tasted so otherworldly rich? Or was it perhaps the mystery running through his veins, the secret that was the source of his Dark Urge?

And, why, curiously, did it give Jayme pleasure when he was being sucked on? Astarion could feel, beyond a doubt, a darling little twitch of arousal pressing against his lower abdomen. 

And so, he drank until he could taste Jayme’s soft gasps of joy before he heard them.

Unfortunately, the moment was rudely interrupted when they heard someone fumbling a few feet behind them. They both snapped their heads to search for the source of the noise.

A red-faced Gale was padding toward La’zael’s tent, his watch apparently over, on his way to ask the githyanki to take the next turn.

“Umm…don’t mind me! Just carry on while I’m minding my own business here,” the wizard muttered, looking anywhere but at them as he scrambled to get out of eye and earshot.

The pair looked back at each other and a small chuckle bubbled up between them. Astarion leaned back in to lap at the blood trickling from the wound until it stopped.

Part of him was delighted it had been Gale, of all people, to catch them indulging in each other. Gale, whose eyes softened whenever they landed on Jayme.

“Mmm,” Jayme hummed in satisfaction, his eyes drooping. “Well, how was that for a distraction?”

“Ingenious. So glad you didn't go ‘once bitten, twice shy’ on me. What about you? Did we manage to shut that fucker in your head up?” Astarion asked, his voice barely more than a whisper and thick with fulfillment as he took his earlier position by the fire, movements wobbly.

“You did. Now I’m having different urges altogether,” Jayme murmured and roved his eyes shamelessly up and down Astarion’s relaxed form, the searing blue leaving not a shade of doubt about his meaning. “We should be doing this all the time. Why don’t we?”

Astarion considered him for a moment. It was a startlingly open and sincere remark—he sensed no hidden motives, no tactics. A rare occurrence for both of them, given how they usually conducted themselves.

When he spoke, his words came in halts, each chosen with deliberate care, as though he were analyzing them even as they left his lips.

“We could, certainly. But I think we both sense that sex is not the pinnacle of what we can achieve together.”

“So. What is?” Jayme voiced the question that naturally followed.

“I don’t know. But isn’t it wonderful, not knowing? Nothing is decided. Nothing is written.” Astarion heard himself say, his tone light if a shade affected.

He was treading unfamiliar ground—a field of slippery ice—and he felt his footing beginning to falter.

Jayme didn’t answer right away. His searching eyes continued to show openness; they all but pierced Astarion’s.

“Where have you been? You know what I mean. You've been keeping to yourself lately.”

“I…” Astarion was tempted to fabricate excuses, and while it would have been all too easy to blame everything on the shadow curse, he found he couldn’t. No, he was unwilling to. He had a suspicion that it would lead to crashing through the ice. “I don’t quite know how to act around you. For nearly two hundred years I’ve dealt only in easy seductions. My moves, as it were, are one-dimensional. And now I find myself… at a loss.”

Admitting that was like baring a hidden disfigurement. Intimate. Uncomfortably vulnerable. Embarrassing.

But despite all odds, Jayme nodded in understanding. Astarion felt something flutter deep in his stomach.

“What about before you were turned?” Jayme asked.

Astarion knit his brows and, before answering, reached for the wine, swallowing a large mouthful. “Those are memories too old and better left alone.”

“Did I strike a chord?” Jayme guessed, reaching for the bottle. Their fingers brushed as it passed between them.

“No. It’s just pointless to recall because I’m not that person anymore—and I never will be again.” He intended to leave it at that, but when Jayme continued to eye him searchingly for several long seconds, he sighed in defeat. “I spent most of my adulthood in Baldur’s Gate, as a magistrate, as I’ve already told you. I dabbled in shady dealings, cultivated business relationships with influential people, fooled around when I felt like it, and… that’s about all I can say.”

“What about partners?”

“Partners… in crime? Or in life? I had a handful of the former and none of the latter. I lived liberally, without serious attachments. Which, incidentally, made me an excellent candidate for Cazador’s plans. My ‘death’ didn’t really matter to anyone. Didn’t cause any uproar.” He shut his eyes. “And now I’d love to say it’s your turn to talk, but of course, you have the perfect excuse not to go through this little exercise.”

“I would share if I remembered anything. I want you to see me.”

Their eyes locked once more. Heat and chill alternated as the wind rippled the fire, gliding over them in uneven waves.

“I think I am. And I, like what I’m seeing. I do. But our... survival is precarious. I’m not sure I could cope with any more loss in my life. Losing my life and freedom was traumatic enough, you see. Now that I’ve regained both, to a certain extent, I… find it too risky to start anything.” He gestured vaguely between them, hoping Jayme understood.

“You say you don’t want to risk any more loss, and I can understand that. But there’s something here. Already. It’s flowing between us, like an entity in its own right. You can’t deny it. In my eyes, it would be a loss not to explore it further.”

Astarion's expression tightened. “Where could it take us?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

“Don’t tempt me, Jayme. This is not a game.”

“I know it isn’t. And why not? Tempt you.” Jayme tipped his head back, defiant, his gaze unyielding. The depth in his eyes sent a strange sensation through Astarion, one he couldn’t name. He felt giddy, Jayme’s hot blood sweet on his tongue and stirring in his stomach. “You think I’m not feeling any anxiety?”

“You sure as hells don’t seem to be,” Astarion said, his tone sharper than he intended.

“Well, I am. This is new for me too… I believe. But I think it’s already too late. It would be easier on us both if we accepted it—and did something about it.” He paused for a moment, then spoke with a quiet, concentrated intensity that burned three simple words into Astarion’s mind for the remainder of the night and many days to come. A spell. Hypnosis. “I want you.”

Astarion clenched his teeth, as if in pain, his body going rigid.

“I can’t. I’m sorry,” he finally managed to choke up. He pushed himself off the ground and retreated to his tent without looking back.

The matter rested the next day—at least outwardly. They exchanged no words about it as the party prepared to resume their journey. Silence reigned over the group, and everyone tended to their tasks mechanically.

If Astarion’s and Jayme’s eyes met, Astarion was always the first to break the contact.

Jayme didn’t look away. His eyes lingered long, and the rogue was acutely aware of it. The tension between them had grown tenfold; it was a wonder sparks didn’t fly when their hands touched while exchanging loot.

The party fell in line behind Jayme and on they marched into the shadow-suffused void. Astarion deliberately kept his distance, appointing himself as rearguard.

It was as it should be. Wasn’t it?

What vexed him the most, as he discovered after hours of, for the most part, silent advance, was that he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at Jayme’s neck—or more precisely, his nape, as things stood. To think that just a few hours ago, I was all over that, he thought.

“Shit, fuck, love-limb-of-a-lecherous-lich,” he cursed under his breath, earning a curious look from Gale, who was walking half a step ahead.

“What’s the matter Astarion?” the wizard asked in a sardonic tone, throwing him a sidelong glance.

“Don’t.”

“I see your morning is considerably less cheerful than your night was. Funny—I would have assumed you’d be on cloud nine after having thoroughly exploited Jayme’s helpful soul.”

Astarion humphed loudly and swung himself carefully over a ditch, from which a dark stream of sinister magic oozed.

“Jealous much? I bet you would’ve loved to exploit him in my stead,” he shot back.

“Are you quite done acting childish?”

“You started it.”

Gale chuckled and shook his head. After a minute of silence, he muttered another remark. “It’s unusual. Not seeing you two side by side.”

“What?” Astarion fixed the wizard with a glare.

“You know what. There's no need to feign ignorance. Your mutual… affection is as evident as the Weave’s flow through the multiverse. Why do you think Shadowheart named you the ‘Shrewd Elf Twosome’?” He shuddered at the nickname, clearly finding it distasteful.

It exists, this… whatever it is between us, just like Jayme claimed, Astarion acknowledged morosely. But before he could dwell on it any longer, Karlach raised an arm in warning.

A short distance ahead, half-hidden in the shadows, a troop of Harpers was advancing slowly, warily. An invisible pressure weighed on everyone, the hairs on the back of their necks prickling. Inevitably, Shadow creatures spawned from the darkness, converting Harpers into their minions faster than anyone could cry “shadow-scum.”

There was no choice for Jayme’s party but to take up the fight as Shadows lashed at them from all directions in ever-increasing waves.

The battle took a grim turn when Shadowheart was knocked down by one of the Shadows, her Aura of Light winked out, and the party was swallowed by a sea of shadows.

Astarion frantically sliced through the horrors lunging at him, steadily making his way toward Shadowheart to help her back to her feet and restore their light source.

Then, a brilliant Fireball exploded farther ahead, scattering shadows and filling the woods with the screams of disintegrating creatures. In the sudden flare, Astarion glimpsed Jayme dueling a turned Harper, catching the moment the Harper’s blade ran him through.

Jayme fell to his knees, blood pouring copiously from his wound, and collapsed to the ground.

Astarion cried out before he could stop himself.

"No! You can't die, GET UP DAMN YOU!!”

Desperation overtook him, suffocating and debilitating. Barely in control of his actions, he hastily made sure Shadowheart could stand and resume casting her spells, then charged across the battlefield. His daggers sank into the undead Harper’s neck.

The monster did not rise again.

Throwing himself to the ground beside Jayme, Astarion fumbled through his backpack and retrieved a healing potion. He cradled the bard’s upper body in his arms and poured the liquid into his mouth, drop by drop.

Only when Jayme sucked in a huge gulp of air did the tight knot in Astarion’s chest begin to loosen.

Confused ice blue drifted up to meet his eyes. A warm hand reached to caress his cheek, just once.

“I’m alright,” Jayme groaned weakly.

“You’d better be,” Astarion blurted, his voice gravelly and rife with worry—far from the sassy, offhand tone he would have preferred.

The party won the battle shortly after, thanks to their coordination, and especially, to the havoc Karlach’s rampant, whirlwind-like attacks wreaked on the elusive Shadow monsters. In the end, a single Harper woman survived the clash. Thankfully, she was able to guide them to the sanctuary of the Last Light Inn for a much-needed respite.

The following events passed in a blur for Astarion: Jaheira’s interrogation and Jayme’s quick wit. Playing the lute of the comatose Flaming Fist to extract information about the curse plaguing the land. Mingling with the refugees at the Inn, including the troubled tiefling group from the Emerald Grove.

Astarion observed it all from the periphery, fully confident that their bard’s diplomatic skills would secure the best outcome.

Naturally, they did. They were allowed to stay, replenish their provisions, and glean valuable information about Moonrise.

Astarion only stepped forward once that day: when they stumbled on none other than Raphael inside the Inn. The Devil was, of all things, passing the time playing lanceboard with a tiefling kid—and, no doubt, laying the groundwork for another one of his devious deals. After suffering through his cryptic babble, Astarion cut in, wanting to know the meaning of the Infernal scripture gouged into his back.

He almost dared to hope when the Devil seemed willing to help. Ultimately, though, the son of a pox-ridden dog concocted some excuse and vanished with a poof, leaving Astarion high and dry and souring his mood even further—if that were possible.

By nightfall, the party set up camp along the lakeshore within the sanctuary grounds, as their numbers exceeded the Inn's capacity. The comforting magical light of the Inn illuminated their tents—an improvement appreciated by all, especially after the nightmarish nights they had endured.

As expected, Jayme eagerly embraced the opportunity, drawing his violin by the campfire. Flaming Fists and Harpers gathered around, their earlier distrust all but dissolved—a process no doubt hastened by Jayme’s artistic prowess. It was a time for comfort and reprieve.

For most, but not for Astarion.

Astarion was still in shock. He retreated to the comfort of his down cushions just outside his tent and helped himself to the cheap wine—What was it even? Tyche Pink? Farsea Marshwine? A travesty, in any case—brought by the Fists. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

He had been oblivious. Clueless. Blind to just how far in he already was. He felt utterly, bitterly stupid for it.

Jayme played, his fingers dancing over the strings, spinning melodies that alternated between contemplative and uplifting. All the while, his gaze kept returning to Astarion. A knowing smirk curled his lips every so often. 

It did nothing to make Astarion feel less foolish. Not in the least.

At one point, the bard paused and strolled casually over to Karlach, who sat cross-legged on the ground, swaying to the rhythm with a tankard of ale in hand. The two launched into a hushed, intense discussion, then spent some time poring over a sheet of parchment.

Suddenly, Karlach exclaimed with unrestrained enthusiasm, “Soldier! This is a real tear-jerker! I knew you had a fluffy, lovesick puppy hiding under all that machoness and bravado!”

She punctuated her words with a hearty slap to Jayme's shoulder, hard enough to buckle his knees. Jayme's sudden blush brought a smile to Astarion's lips.

But his glee was fleeting. Shortly afterward, Jayme reclaimed his spot by the campfire, with Karlach at his side, to begin another song. Karlach's voice, unexpectedly full and warm, harmonized well with the captivating tones of the jet-black violin.

Then came the lyrics, and Astarion's grip tightened on his wine cup.

“I feel your breath upon my neck
 A soft caress as cold as death
 I didn't know you well back then
 I blame it all on luck and vain
 Your blood like wine, I wanted in
 Oh darling, get me drunk and make me feel”

Heat crept up Astarion’s neck as he listened, despite sitting far from the fire, and he quickly busied himself with his drink, avoiding eye contact. It was a familiar tune, often sung by drunkards and revelers in Baldur’s Gate’s taverns. But the lyrics had been blatantly tweaked.

“It's not my fault
 I'm not to blame
 These ain't my sins
 I broke my chains
 There's more to do
 And I still want to live”

By the second verse, Astarion mustered the courage to lift his gaze—only to find Jayme watching him. Still. Predictably. It was obvious they would need to talk later, once the camp had quieted down. Astarion waited impatiently, with an unhealthy dose of trepidation.

He waited and observed as the soldiers left their camp some time later, showering Jayme and Karlach with hearty applause for the enchanting concert. The barbarian wiggled her eyebrows at Astarion before disappearing inside her tent. He responded with a resigned eye-roll.

Then he waited, restless and on edge, as Jayme tended to his instrument.

At last, tired of waiting, he marched to the bard’s tent.

Jayme was stowing his violin for the night, hands moving smoothly. When he finished, he turned to Astarion, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. The bastard.

“How’s your wound?” Astarion asked. Pulling a sensible phrase from the disarray in his mind was harder than he’d expected. His eyes dropped to the spot on Jayme’s stomach where he’d been stabbed earlier that day.

Jayme’s fingertips brushed lightly over the area. “The new skin is still tender, but otherwise, it’s fully healed. Thanks to Shadowheart’s skilled hands.”

“She’s a skilled healer, isn’t she?” Astarion nodded, again and again, feeling the warm, prickling sensation from before crawl along his neck again.

“I never thanked you,” Jayme said softly.

“You don’t need to.” Astarion waved a dismissive hand.

“I heard your scream.”

“And here I was hoping the heavy blood loss might have at least one favorable side effect,” Astarion sighed, shoving a jittery hand into his hair, curling stray strands nervously.

“You were scared. There’s no shame in that.”

“Oh, but there is! There is. I can’t begin to list all the reasons why it was wrong of me.”

“Go ahead, give it a try. I’m listening.” Jayme folded his arms over his chest, his gaze lit with amusement as he took in Astarion’s tense expression.

Astarion took a deep breath. “Well, first of all, it was plain moronic. So what if you'd died? We would have just used a Scroll of Resurrection or paid Withers to bring you back!”

“Provided that at least one of you survived, yes," Jayme replied calmly. "But still, dying is far from pleasant—it’s a godawful experience, if we’re being honest. It’s only natural to want to protect each other from going through that.”

Astarion chose not to respond. Instead, he pressed on, “Second, you don’t need me to protect you. You’re more than capable of doing that yourself. Just as I am capable of protecting myself. We really don’t need to be watching each other’s backs all the time.”

“Why not?" Jayme gave a small head shake. "These are no mere bandit ambushes we’re facing. The dark powers of this land run deep. These shadows are uncanny, more perilous than anything we’ve encountered so far. We should rely on each other more than ever—strength in numbers, you know.”

Astarion pinched his mouth in annoyance and stared daggers at Jayme, who looked not only unruffled but smug as a full-bellied imp.

“Third, you always know what to say.”

“Yes. And?” Jayme arched an eyebrow.

“And… stop being so goddamn irresistible all the time!” Astarion snapped, and something inside him cracked too—with such force he was surprised it didn’t make an actual sound.

“Or you could just stop resisting.” Jayme’s smile broadened.

A sigh of defeat wrenched itself from Astarion’s throat. “What do you want from me?”

“You," Jayme said without hesitation. "I’ve told you already. I want you. And anyway, that’s an interesting question, coming from someone who started the flirting in the first place.”

“Who, me?! I don’t think so!” It had been him. Naturally. Astarion was perfectly aware. But he wasn't about to give Jayme the satisfaction of admitting it—not when his intention had been, quite simply, to improve his chances of survival. That and not… this. “And even if it was me, your whole being is the damned definition of temptation! You could make a frigid lichess flush with those penetrating eyes and words of yours. Anyone who’s not a monumental fool is tempted to seek your affection. Like literally everyone in our little group did at some point, if my memory serves me right.”

He hated how possessive he sounded. Ridiculous. He'd meant to cover up his failed seduction plan, but the words that tumbled out were all too honest. It had been easy to entice Jayme. Too easy. Like sticking together two magnets.

Jayme leaned back slightly, his eyes flashing with amusement. “You paid attention. I’m touched!”

“Anyway,” Astarion said with a shrug. “We could argue about who sent the first come-hither look to whom, but it’s beside the point. The point is… I don't know what you're expecting from me. I just know I'd hate to disappoint.”

There it was—the stark truth, exposed without evasion or embellishment.

“Fuck expectations. Just be with me. As you are.”

And there was Jayme.

A long, loaded pause followed. Jayme didn’t move, didn’t push or coerce. His tone had been sincere but light at the same time. He held Astarion’s gaze. Waiting.

On one hand, it was a foolish idea. Astarion had seen the man’s knack for playing his surroundings; he knew how to get people to dance to his tune.

But, unlike Cazador's vicious manipulations, Jayme's influence was grounded in natural guile, good sense, and sophisticated simplicity—with the occasional theatrical flourish for his own amusement.

And Astarion was certain the bard wasn't playing him; he'd have sensed it, if not instinctively, then through their tadpoles.

“Alright. I have no idea what comes next, but...” He let the sentence trail off and offered a thin smile.

Instead of his usual knowing smirk, Jayme offered a genuine smile in return. “Next? Come to bed.” As Astarion’s brows shot up, he added, “To rest.”

“Sleep together without sex?" Astarion grinned. "Well, I guess I’m drunk enough already for such kinks.” He felt more sober than ever.

They relocated to Jayme’s tent. Astarion went in first, leaving his shoes outside. It wasn’t a large space, but it could accommodate two people.

Jayme stepped in behind him, wrapped his arms around Astarion, and buried his face in his neck.

For a moment, a silence fraught with unspoken thoughts hung between them, and Astarion felt more confused than anything. Then Jayme spoke, slow and quiet.

“I said I wanted you to see me. This me, whatever it is, now has a moving image in his head: my hands snapping your neck. I can practically hear your bones cracking. This is what I call my Dark Urge. And it’s coexisting with the other side of me—the real me, I'd like to think. The other side abhors the Urge. That part of me is shocked, appalled... it fights the compulsion with everything it has. The only time I lost to it was when Alfira got murdered.” He paused for a beat, black regret filling out the quiet, then continued, “I wanted you to be aware. But know that I will keep you safe from the Urge.”

Astarion mulled over the words. Shadows moved around them, flickering at the whim of the campfire.

With Jayme's hot breath on his neck, he finally replied, "I have an intimate knowledge of hunger. Real hunger. To have every nerve in your body screaming relentless commands to satisfy your urges at the expense of another being. To feel your body primed for violence. To have it so bad that you stop caring who your mark is. You just crave and resist, crave and resist, until morality fades and dissipates. Like vapor."

"Yes," Jayme whispered. His hold tightened.

"Every day of my life for the past centuries has been about enduring that. If I could do it, you certainly can. I believe in you, Jayme."

It was perhaps the second time he called the bard by his name, not a pet name. He found he liked how it rolled off his tongue.

"You're strong,” Jayme said. “I… sometimes lose confidence in my strength."

His last words were so faint that Astarion had to strain to hear them. He immediately grasped the significance of the confession—this man, proud and formidable as he was, would never willingly lay bare such vulnerability. Not to their party. Perhaps not to anyone in the world.

"You think I never do? I could help you find it again. If…when it becomes too much, tell me," Astarion said firmly.

Jayme didn't answer, but his hands squeezed Astarion's sides.

“And,” Astarion murmured, his fingers lightly tracing Jayme’s knuckles, “don’t forget what we discovered yesterday—distraction. So, show me what the real you wants to do with me right now.”

At that, Jayme took a moment to breathe a kiss onto the nape of his neck, then lay down and pulled Astarion with him.

They nestled together, facing each other, arms and legs tangling.

It occurred to Astarion that perhaps Jayme chose this position as a deliberate metaphor—facing him openly, rather than lingering behind him. Though, Astarion could easily imagine scenarios he'd welcome Jayme's presence at his back—and not just for hugging.

Another night. Not tonight.

Tonight, he would rest more soundly in the arms of a con artist with a history of murderous impulses than he had in ages.

Now, as present Astarion entered the eerily quiet Sorcerous Sundries—still scarred by the illithid assault—he remembered that sense of security with heartrending longing.

Notes:

The next chapter continues directly from here, with my take on *the* Dark Urge and Astarion camp scene.

Chapter 5: I - Lift, oh, lift me out of my own skin

Summary:

Lift, oh, lift me out
Of my own skin
Of all my doubt

You know you hypnotize me always

And you make it more
Than I
Could ever feel
Before

And I am almost under

Sleep Token - Hypnotism

The night promised much work. Encased in a half-circle of reference and historical tomes, Astarion tapped his fingers against his neck, weighing the order in which to tackle them—from the most promising to the least. 

Upon entering Sorcerous Sundries, he had gone straight to Tolna Tome-Monger, the peculiar, ever-whispering librarian, hoping to spare himself the trouble of locating the right sources. To his surprise, the stern woman proved refreshingly forthcoming. Unfazed by the late hour, she recited a string of recommendations from memory. Astarion suspected the Sundries’ enduring reputation owed in no small part to her curious obsession with books. 

He wasn’t complaining. He now sat in a secluded corner, one of the few unmarred by the recent devastation. The ornate, glass-domed bookshop had suffered broken panes and scorched shelves, but the worst had already been mended by Baldur’s Gate’s illustrious wizards, allowing the shop to function as usual.

It had been some time since Astarion pursued a subject so vigorously. The last occasion he recalled was his study of Infernal scripture and the intricacies of bargaining with demons. And before that—nothing for decades. 

While he studied the indices, eyes scouring for mentions of interplanar travel, the press of the research tugged his thoughts unbidden toward the Shadow-Cursed lands again—toward the most momentous night in their long chain of trials.

It had happened on the eve of the final battle, before the party hunted Ketheric into the bowels of Moonrise Towers. 

The day was marked by a resounding victory. Balthazar lay cold in the Shadowfell, and the Nightsong had swept off in a streak of silver, set free by Shadowheart. 

The Last Light Inn was alive with soaring spirits, as soldiers readied themselves for the long-awaited confrontation with the once-immortal general’s zealots. The din of voices and clatter of arms carried well into the night.

Despite the glimmer of hope that now shone upon their sanctuary, the shadows just beyond the lakeshore held fast, and the air pressed heavily around the resting companions. A cold dampness clung to their skin and filled their lungs, as if the Shadowfell itself still breathed down their necks.

Astarion was, for once, glad he had no need to breathe. Even so, as trance claimed him, he offered a silent lament for his white curls, certain they would greet the morning limp and miserable from the night’s humidity. 

He wished little frivolous thoughts like these might blot out all else, but Raphael’s revelation forced its way into his mind once more, inevitably. He meant, in due time, to meditate on the vile meaning of his scars, which might yet transform his life. But not this night—one horror at a time, after all, and Myrkul’s Chosen had claimed first place.

Yet the possibilities of the so-called Rite of Profane Ascension were dizzying, and the thoughts returned with stubborn persistence. 

Only the steady warmth of Jayme beside him offered any relief.

Ever since Jayme had first invited him to share a bedroll in Last Light Inn, something between them had shifted, leaving Astarion struck by its strange, almost wondrous newness. Jayme never pressed, never stepped where he wasn’t welcome. Yet his nearness was a constant, his quiet invitations unending. 

Little by little, Astarion found himself answering without calculation—the smile unaffected, the laugh unforced—until he realized the pretense had slipped away before he’d even thought to hold it in place.

When had he last spoken to anyone without a scheme in mind?

Jayme noticed the change, as though he’d been waiting for it. “You should wear that smile more often,” he had said, a few days earlier. Astarion turned the memory over in his mind.

Perched comfortably on an old willow that drooped over the lake by the Inn, he was telling the story of his visit to Suldanesselar, where once he had gone as an emissary—before his years as a magistrate bound him to Baldur’s Gate. Jayme had no memory of the serene elven city, so Astarion painted the picture in detail: elegant spires poised upon the canopy of Forest Tethyr, its wood elves devoted to Rillifane, endless carafes of exquisite Moondrop, and the hapless elven ranger who spent his days naming acorns and watching them sprout.

Jayme, mending his violin after their clash with Oliver’s shadow “parents,” followed along intently. 

Though their circumstances afforded little levity, the airy elven melody Jayme coaxed from his violin while testing the repair inspired Astarion to share. But before he could slip in a Baldurian noble’s critique of elven enclaves, Jayme interjected.

“You should wear that smile more often. Suits you better than the others,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. He sat next to Astarion on the tree trunk, holding his instrument in a relaxed grip. 

“The others?” Astarion echoed, brow raised.

“Your winning, sly grins,” Jayme said lightly. “You designed them for me personally, didn’t you?”

Astarion threaded a careless hand through his hair, then shrugged. “I only did what I had to, to earn my foothold in our little troupe.” His smile faltered, though a trace lingered on his lips. It faded with his next, flat words. “I act the way I know how. Don’t we all?”

Jayme’s gaze grew distant as he gave a slow nod. “When your habits seem etched into your very bones, dulling your thinking and steering your deeds—yes.” He released a rare sigh and returned his focus to Astarion. “It’s hard to resist.”

Astarion regarded him wordlessly for a moment. The bard may have been speaking of something weightier than mere seductions, but Astarion could testify that some seductions were lethal in their own right.

“You knew what I was about, but still, you played along.” Astarion stifled a nervous laugh, feeling laid bare under Jayme’s keen eyes. The black violin hung forgotten in his slender hand—another rare occurrence. “You weren't repulsed?”

“Repulsed?” Jayme’s brows lifted in surprise. His voice, low and unguarded, held no hesitation. “No.” 

Astarion met the cool fire of his gaze. “On some level, I knew you knew. You are unlike most—dangerously perceptive. I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me wonder what drove you. But with everything going on, I was mostly just glad you made it easy.”

Without blinking, Jayme leaned closer. “Your words were calculated, but your interest wasn't.”

“True,” Astarion admitted, unmoving.

“And you grew tired of the game along the way. Not bored, but weary, I'd wager,” Jayme murmured.

Astarion paused before nodding. “I…yes.”

“So you let it go,” Jayme said, voice low but intense.

Astarion nodded again to those searching ice-blue eyes. “I had what I wanted. You on my side—regardless of what I am.”

“That's where you're wrong. Not regardless, but because.”

“Morbid,” Astarion muttered, clearing his throat.

“That’s not what I am,” the bard said.

Astarion had started pulling back a little, but stopped, genuinely intrigued. “What are you, then?” he asked.

“Equal,” Jayme said, soft as a whisper.

Astarion’s mind, calmed by his restorative trance, lingered on the unusual word choice. Equal—not superior, nor inferior. He liked it, even though Jayme’s directness gave him pause, and his own acceptance of it felt both new and exposing, like shedding a skin he’d long been wearing.

Often, his trances turned to reflections of the bard and this unexpected twist of events. Little did he know that this night, he would also face an unexpected of a darker kind.

At first, when Jayme’s limbs jerked fitfully, Astarion mistook it for the signs of a troubled reverie. But then Jayme suddenly shoved him back, teeth clenched, rasping that he couldn’t hold back his murderous impulses and warning the rogue to defend himself. 

Quick on his feet, Astarion bound Jayme with practiced efficiency. But ropes alone would not be enough; he still had to fend off the Dark Urge’s venomous snarls with dry wit, and somehow reach Jayme through it. 

The thrashing and shouts from within the tent roused their companions. When they looked inside, Astarion waved them away, assuring them he had the matter in hand. Only Lae'zel wouldn't budge. “Heave him outside,” she growled, “into the firelight where he can be watched and finished if his urges prevail.”

And so they did. 

Astarion kept vigil until dawn, eyes never leaving the writhing bard.

When the ordeal ended and the ropes were cut, Jayme did not speak for long moments. He rubbed at his wrists and knees where the cords had dug angry red welts into his flesh, while Astarion shooed La’zael back to her tent. Finally, the two of them sat alone by the fire.

At length, Jayme lifted his shadowed gaze to the vampire. “I never thought it could turn me against you,” he said quietly, jaw set. The calm cadence of his voice belied the hours of madness that had come before. He was himself again—in full, iron-clad control.

With a faintly comical air, Astarion sighed and flung a hand toward the sky. “Well, I'm not about to say ‘Tis nothing, don't worry about it, because I think we can both agree we haven't had such an atrocious night since Gale droned on about Evocation and its little sparks of joy.” 

He waited for the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corners of Jayme’s pale mouth, before continuing more evenly, “It wasn't nothing. Honestly, it was terrifying. But, all things considered, I still call it a small victory.”

Jayme arched a quizzical brow. 

Astarion offered a confident smile. “You had the willpower to warn me, didn't you? Unlike Alfira. The red haze of bloodlust didn't win this time—you kept the upper hand when it mattered the most.”

Jayme paused. “Tonight, I did.” The brow smoothed, but the grim expression remained. “We should rest separately for a while, keep a distance. At least until I know for sure I can always keep the upper hand.”

Astarion inclined his head, once, then again. “Yes, that makes perfect sense, and it's commendable, truly,” he said before adding with emphasis, “But I'd rather have you where I can see you. And tie you up quickly!”

“You said you were terrified of me?” Jayme reminded.

“Please!” Astarion waved dismissively. “The experience—watching you fight yourself—was terrifying, not you. Important distinction.”

“Still.” Jayme shook his head. “I was a danger to you. I could be to the others as well. To be fair, I shouldn't rest near any of you.”

“Danger?” Astarion snorted. “Try sleeping in the palace of a sadistic tyrant, with your tormentor watching every day for decades. This—” he gestured around the camp, then, on an impulse, slid a hand down Jayme’s arm. “—you. I'll take it.”

Astarion could see another protest forming on Jayme’s lips, so he dropped the light tone and hurried to point out, “You are not alone in this. None of us are. We can even compare notes if you like.”

Jayme closed his mouth, the hard lines of his face softening. He turned his hand and traced a finger across Astarion’s palm. It tickled, but Astarion didn't pull away. With each stroke, the gloom lifted from the bard’s expression.

“You don't want to rest in your own bedroll?” Jayme asked softly, after a long silence. 

“No.”

“You trust me even after tonight?”

“You said you'd keep me safe. You have, and you will again. I trust you.” Astarion couldn’t resist adding playfully, ”Besides, I'd hate to give up my new favorite sleeping arrangement. My nights are ever so cozy!”

“Is that so?” Jayme cocked his head slightly. 

“Cozy. Warm. Reassuring. I find myself holding onto that feeling more than I care to admit.”

That was too much, wasn’t it? Astarion thought the instant the words left his mouth. Hoping to shift the weight of his confession, he explained, “You see, before, whenever I lay next to someone, it was invariably to sleep with them—or to tease them, maybe. But never just to lie there, in trance. In peace. Once again, you’re my first.”

A knot formed in his stomach as he fell silent. Assuring Jayme of his trust was one thing; confessing how their closeness was wearing through his inner defenses was another entirely. 

He couldn’t stop lowering his guard around Jayme—and the realization triggered his sense of danger more sharply than the Dark Urge had. A physical threat, he could deflect any day. But this strange vulnerability?

To his relief, Jayme didn’t press the issue, as if he’d caught the flicker of panic in him. Instead, he tightened his fingers around Astarion’s and drew him closer.

“Violence is in my blood. I can live with that. But not with the loss of control, never again. My actions will be my own,” Jayme vowed.

Astarion flashed him a smile. “That's the spirit, darling! And anyway, violence is in all our blood. Hells, you're talking to me, need I say more?” He studied the steely determination written on Jayme’s face. “Whatever this is, you'll get through it. And I'll be here to make sure you do.”

They held each other’s gaze in silence. 

Slowly, Jayme’s eyes strayed to his violin case, just visible beyond the entrance of his tent. Astarion could easily guess his thoughts.

“Go ahead,” the vampire urged, relaxing into the warmth of the campfire. “It's almost morning. I'm sure our companions won't mind a little wake-up tune.”

No further encouragement was necessary. Jayme stood and retrieved the violin, but before seeking his usual spot to play, he glanced back at Astarion once more.

“Scerelitas chose you. Or, at least, he foresaw my Dark Urge would strike at you. Now I see why.”

Astarion sensed where Jayme was leading. A shiver ghosted across his neck as three words from a few nights ago echoed back to him. I want you. He had heard them countless times before, but he dared to believe they meant something different from this man.

“Your fiendish butler again?” Astarion asked, his tone carefully casual. “He is a herald of trouble. Perhaps you should get rid of him.”

“I doubt that would put an end to the Urge. But that's beside the point,” Jayme replied.

“So? Why was I meant to be your victim?” Astarion asked, fingers sifting idly through the sand at his sides.

Jayme slid the violin beneath his chin with an easy grace, the gesture itself a caress. He then answered, “This thing is strong. Undeniably. But not as strong as us together.”

For a few heartbeats, Astarion had no reply.

“Indeed,” he managed at last.

Something light and unsteady stirred in him even as the bard finally released him from the grip of his eyes and moved along. Us. It was not a word he would hear from the men and women who had wanted him in their bed. Only I. Always I.

The waxing moon draped the violinist in a silver veil.  Soon, ghostly high notes chased one another among the tents and embers. The melody cut through the camp as Astarion imagined Jayme’s demon might—like a cold wind knifing through the dark.

Just as Astarion was about to mutter something about the bard’s strange notion of a wake-up tune, the music gave way. Stroke by stroke, it dissolved into languid, warm strains that sank into his bones. This new, simmering song was hearty as a mouthful of blood, still hot—or as Maztican cocoa. Astarion licked his lips in quiet appreciation.

A long creak from a shadowed corner yanked the vampire back to the musty haze of Sorcerous Sundries. The sound—a ghostly screech that mocked the memory of the violin’s melody—made him snap forward.

His shoulders sagged in resignation when he saw the culprit was only Tolna Tome-Monger, fussing with an obstinate bookcase.

Astarion slumped back, eyes closing, and willed the soothing melody to return, drowning out the shop’s petty clatter. After a breath, he forced his gaze back to the tome in front of him.

Chapter 6: I - A little death without mourning, no call and no warning

Summary:

Love is blindness
I don't want to see
Won't you wrap the night
Around me?
Oh my love
Blindness

A little death
Without mourning
No call
And no warning
Baby, a dangerous idea
That almost makes sense

Jack White – Love Is Blindness

After his encounter with the Hag of Hags, Jayme at last found a safe-looking spot in the Everwood and sank into a meditative reverie.

He had chosen a natural alcove formed by the massive roots of a tree as his nook for rest. Shafts of dappled sunlight filtered through emerald leaves, casting an ethereal glow on the moss-covered ground. It was a peaceful space, with the rustling leaves and a nearby stream adding to the tranquility.

A jarring contrast to how he felt inside.

He leafed through the fluttering scraps of emotion crowding his brain, trying to order, process, and discard them. He had never felt such disorder in himself before, and that was saying something. The true issue wasn’t what he felt, but how intensely it affected him, and how helpless it made him. He was just like the leaves above: twisting, quivering in the wind.

Finally, he dove deeper and retrieved a memory of Astarion—one he knew would soothe his frazzled nerves. He had a wide selection to choose from: all those times they tranced together in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Campfire talks. Stolen kisses in the lulls between quests. The time Astarion thanked him for sparing him the indignity of drinking Araj Oblodra’s fetid blood at Moonrise Towers.

In the end, he settled on the moment when he and his party discovered the history of Balduran and Ansur, not long after arriving in the city.

It was a revelation on many levels. They learned of the Bronze Dragon's bitter fate, slumbering beneath the city, their hoped-for ally in the Grand Battle to come. But more than that, it was when they found out the Emperor’s greatest secret: his true identity.

The momentous event had clearly affected Astarion deeply, as Jayme soon noticed. He showed no interest whatsoever in the marvelous loot they had just come by: Balduran’s Giantslayer Sword and his legendary Helm. No exclamations of “Sweet!” or “Let’s put those to good use!” followed. He didn't even wiggle his eyebrows. His expression on the walk back to the Elfsong was faraway, and he didn't make a single comment.

Back at the tavern, the party recuperated from their grueling fight with the wyrm. After a quick wash-up, Jayme decided to seek Astarion out.

And found that the vampire wasn’t actually in their room.

“Do you know where–” He started to ask La’zael, who happened to pass by, about Astarion’s whereabouts.

The githyanki had already stripped her armor, but her face was still bloodstained from their recent clashes. She worked out the question before Jayme could finish voicing it.

“He didn’t say anything, just left some time ago, looking distracted. Unusual, if you ask me,” La’zael said with an air of mild concern, but she left it at that.

Jayme liked this about her more than he cared to admit. She was factual at all times and never pried. It was the essence of her charm—quite different from Shadowheart’s or Jaheira’s, but a charm nevertheless.

Jayme inclined his head in silent gratitude, then left their common room.

Roof or ground floor? The latter seemed more likely, so he checked the roof first to cross it off the list.

He took the stairs, threw the hatch door open, and walked through the stone arches, scanning the area.

It was a breezy night, and the torches on the tavern walls flared and dimmed in the wind. Few patrons loitered here at this hour, but to Jayme’s surprise, Astarion was one of them, perched on the balustrade of a secluded corner. 

Facing away, his eyes traced the far-reaching cityscape, its sturdy stone buildings silhouetted against the burnt orange of the setting sun. Torches were being lit all around in preparation for the impending darkness. Jayme had to admit, he had chosen a particularly picturesque spot.

“Worried about me, were you?” Astarion said quietly, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. It was more a statement than a question.

“You’ve been quiet ever since we killed Ansur. Absorbed in thought,” Jayme replied evenly, moving to stand beside the vampire, angling for a clear view of his profile. He couldn’t decipher much at first glance—only that something significant weighed on his mind.

“An on-point observation, as always,” Astarion remarked. His tone lacked its usual playfulness and warmth, which always colored his conversations with Jayme. That alone spelled trouble.

Jayme decided to cut it open; he wouldn’t let anything between them go untreated and fester. “What’s on your mind?”

“The story of those two. Balduran and Ansur,” Astarion said, his face still averted.

Jayme felt the Emperor’s presence give a twitch inside his head—a subtle thrum of curiosity about the conversation. In that moment, Jayme would have given anything for the power to block the illithid from their thoughts. As it was, he had to content himself with sending a mental wave of displeasure, signaling that its attentiveness was unwelcome.

The Emperor acknowledged the rebuke and withdrew, or at least retreated to a more distant corner of Jayme’s mind.

When it became apparent that Astarion wouldn’t elaborate without a nudge, Jayme pressed him gently. “What of them?”

Astarion took a deep breath, as if steeling himself.

“What if we become them one day? Ansur became so endlessly obsessed with his wish to revert Balduran to his original state—to the man he’d been fond of—that he failed to understand it was no longer what Balduran wanted.”

“We’ll be fine if we talk. As long as we keep talking. Like we are now.”

At this point, Astarion finally met Jayme’s eyes. His expression was tight, his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. Conflicted, but with a different kind of tension than when he fumed about Cazador.

“Yes, but… you will change. I will change. Perhaps not in such a dramatic fashion as the Emperor did, but inevitably, we will. And what if we change in different directions? Grow apart? It might happen that it will no longer make sense for us to be together, yet by then, we will have shared so much history that we find ourselves unwilling to let go. And we’ll both suffer.”

Jayme studied him for a long moment before replying.

“This hypothetical thinking is not like you. I’ve come to know you as someone who believes in carpe diem.”

“Ah, right, I know. But this thought refuses to leave my mind. And I realize we haven’t even spent very long together yet.” A note of softness seeped into his voice. “Though it certainly feels like I've known you for a long time. It’s been so eventful. So intense. You must think I'm getting ahead of myself, talking about such a distant possibility.”

Jayme felt a frown etch across his face. “I hope you’re not about to suggest we shouldn’t even try to see what happens.”

“I…I’m not sure we should, to be honest,” Astarion said quietly, his eyes downcast.

Really? After everything? Jayme, now somewhat vexed, wanted to ask but restrained himself, knowing better than to hurl empty, biting remarks. He needed to understand what was making Astarion hold back.

“I can’t shake the feeling that what you’ve just said isn’t the real issue—or at least, not the whole of it. Talk to me. Tell me the truth. Does this have something to do with Cazador?”

“What would he have to do with what’s between us? Don’t be daft, my dear.”

“In my experience, your insecurities usually tie back to him in some way.”

“That’s… annoyingly true.” Astarion knit his brows, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh. “Yes, that piece of shit is on my mind too. I keep trying to imagine what it would… what it will be like to live without his influence. That kind of freedom feels too vast, too daunting to even grasp.”

“I feel exactly the same way,” Jayme said.

“You do?”

“Of course. My Dark Urge has filled my head for so long I can barely picture its absence. And I don’t even know if there’s a cure for me. But for you, there is: Cazador’s death.”

“And once that happens… it’s really unsettling if you think about it. What will I become? What will you? Will ‘we’ still make sense?” Astarion trailed off, gesturing vaguely, his eyes darting around without settling on anything—least of all Jayme’s face.

His pupils were blown wide—he was scared, Jayme suddenly realized. But what he was saying… no. It didn’t explain anything. This wasn’t it, and Jayme knew it.

“I think we've still not reached the heart of your issue.”

“What makes you say that?” Dilated pupils focused on Jayme at last.

“As intimidating as freedom might seem, I know it’s what you crave most. You’ve lapped up every unpredictable, unplanned, and unclear aspect of our journey so far—and you’ve always been very articulate about that. So, I find it hard to believe you’d deny us what we could have simply because you’re anxious about what freedom might bring.”

“Shit. Look–” Astarion cursed, an air of consternation creeping over his countenance.

“Let me hazard a guess. These are all just pretexts, aren’t they? The part of their story that shocked you wasn’t how they failed to understand each other’s changes.”

“Jayme.”

“No. It’s the simple fact that they dared to have something at all—that they accepted their bond and committed to each other.”

“Jayme!” Astarion dropped all effort to conceal the alarm in his voice. It was laid bare, just as he himself was.

But Jayme didn’t relent. He wouldn’t stop now. He would cut it all open, uncover every last festering thought.

“You’re afraid to build something because you think you might lose it someday.”

“Yes! Alright! It’s true, it frightens me." Astarion swallowed hard. "I looked at those two today and asked myself: do I want to risk ending up like that? It scares the shit out of me. The thought of having, and then losing you. That possibility. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the centuries, it’s that good things never last. It just doesn’t work like that. Something always happens. Someone always interferes.”

He enunciated each sentence with heightened, almost defiant stress, but then faltered, his voice catching—a small whimper at the back of his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to pull himself together. “And logic dictates that if I never had you to begin with, there’s no way I can lose you.”

His eyes bore into Jayme’s, burning, but then he buried his face in his palm. When he spoke again, his tone rang so fragile, so deeply vulnerable, it pulled at Jayme’s heart.

“Astarion–”

“I don’t think I could stand it. Losing you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Not just since Cazador. Ever. Do you understand how fucking terrifying that is to me? You terrify me. The knowledge that someone as wonderful as you can happen to me. It’s better if… Ah, shit, I’m–”

“Pathetic,” Jayme sneered, a malevolent smile spreading across his lips.

“What?” Astarion stared at him as if he’d been slapped.

“You’re weak. You snivel and wallow in self-pity instead of taking your destiny into your own hands.”

“You don’t mean that,” Astarion whispered, voice frail and disbelieving.

No, something was wrong. This wasn’t how the conversation had gone. At all.

“You deserve to be a puppet. To be used and discarded when no longer needed. Your lot is to remain a slave forever,” Jayme whispered. He caressed his pallid cheek, his eyes glowing with a sweet, mocking condescension as he gazed at the stunned rogue.

“How can you…? So it’s all been a lie. You never meant any of it!” Astarion choked out and recoiled, pulling as far away from him as possible.

No!

Jayme nodded. “But of course. I only ever wanted you for your body and your servitude. Know that you are nothing more than a plaything. My pretty plaything. And that’s all you can ever be.” His fingers caught Astarion’s jaw, digging into his cold skin. He brought their faces close, as though he intended to kiss him.

“Get the hell away from me!” Astarion shouted, shoving against him and almost toppling off the balustrade.

But Jayme grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward until their faces were mere inches apart. Astarion’s hands flew up to claw at the fists pinning him, but he found no escape. Scornful ice-blue eyes seared into frightened red.

“You insignificant little vermin. You cannot resist me! I will become a demigod once I embrace my Father’s legacy. His Halls will overflow with blood, and the air will tremble with the sublime music of death!”

With a violent sling of his arm, he flung Astarion backward, sending him tumbling over the railing. His head struck the clay tiles of the roof below with a sickening thud that resounded in the night.

Jayme’s blood was rushing, heart pounding, head gripped by impossible pressure. A skull with glowing eyes filled his vision and it was the last image he saw before his eyes snapped open.

He regained consciousness in the Everwood, just beneath the majestic tree where he had entered his trance.

A slender figure stood an arm’s length away, head tilted to the side, hands resting on their knees—a posture suggesting they’d been inspecting the resting bard with keen curiosity. Jayme’s eyes instinctively flicked upward to see the face. To his mortification, for a split second, he saw Bhaal’s symbol again—the glowing-eyed skull—where a face should have been.

But in the next blink, the illusion faded, replaced by a beautiful feminine visage. Flawless, milky skin and hazel eyes. High cheekbones, framed by long, flowing chestnut hair. Her perfectly proportioned figure boasted alluring curves, impossible to miss under her thin green tunic, which left little to the imagination.

His intruder appeared to be a nymph.

“I made a bet with myself that you had gorgeous eyes. Now, I see that I’ve won!” the woman said cheerfully in her dulcet voice—like a skylark’s song. She broke into a radiant smile that immediately sent a wave of warmth coursing through Jayme.

“Who are you?” Jayme asked, his chest still heaving from the horror of the distorted memory. He swiped a hand across his forehead—it came away wet with sweat.

He meant to sound firm, yet his tone shifted to a mild, almost fond tint beyond his control. It made his flesh crawl.

“My name is Megami. These woods are my home, where I dance and weave melodies. And this haven you've chosen for your repose is where I often lose myself in the enchanting tunes of my magical flute. Would you care to partake in its harmonies, my mysterious Tel’Quessir troubadour?"

“How do you know what my profession is?”

“From the calluses on your fingers. From the melody that seems to flow from your very being. I can smell it, the wondrous fragrance of your gift for music. Its heady sweetness is like blooming lavender and gardenia on a tender summer night,” Megami trilled.

The more her silvery voice wound its way into Jayme’s ears, the more this curious warmth pooled within his body. He liked this woman. She was the most ravishing creature he had ever laid eyes on. To touch that face, gently, with reverence—how divine it would be!

“I need to be on my way. I… I need to reach Astrazalian as soon as possible,” Jayme stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. He sprang to his feet.

What was happening? His thoughts, muddled by the trance—or some sort of magic—moved too sluggishly to make sense of the situation.

“Astrazalian, a city of wonders! Yet, why rush through this forest?” she purred. “You've only just arrived, or so I sense from the exotic ripples in your aura. The Feywild’s magnificent magic may yet be unfamiliar to you. Allow me to guide you into its embrace. Hmm?"  

She straightened, her eyes amused yet kind eyes holding his. Then, she puffed her chest out, parting her inviting, pink lips into a coquettish smile.

Jayme’s halfhearted resolve to leave crumbled.

To kiss those plump lips, to trace the curves of her hips. To cup those full breasts. Jayme’s fantasy unraveled further with each passing moment and he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from Megami.

“What do you want from me?” he forced himself to ask, clinging to rationality as it slowly but surely slipped from his grasp.

"Listen to the serenade of my flute. Judge its merits by your Faerûnian standards. Indulge me,” she murmured. “It's not every day I encounter a master of the musical arts from your realm."

How did she know he was from Faerûn? Another detail she could sniff out?

Jayme caught the maddening pheromones wafting from the woman’s skin—a symphony of temptation. Like portato bow strokes, the scent assailed him in pulsating waves.

He ached to kiss her; there was no denying it now.

The last straw came when Megami lifted her rich curls and tossed them behind her shoulders, revealing her cleavage. At the back of his mind, he knew he should focus on the glowing amulet dangling above her breasts, but his eyes did not obey the command of his brain. The intoxicating aroma drifting from her hair was simply too much for his already-confused senses.

Throwing all caution to the wind, Jayme leaned forward, stopping mere breaths from Megami’s face. She watched the movement with an unchanging expression, patient and still.

The moment their lips touched, Jayme felt an electric current run through his body— arousal mixed with an equal measure of wrongness. For a few fleeting seconds, he was torn between pressing deeper into the kiss and shoving the woman away. But then his eyes slid shut of their own accord as she sucked his lower lip into her mouth.

His heart thundered in his chest. What was happening? Why, in the howling hells, did he trust her so completely? Because this wasn’t just physical attraction: with inexplicable certainty, he knew he could entrust his most guarded secrets to Megami. And he was overrun by a need to protect her at all costs. To devote his violin, his sword, and his very life in her service. To destroy all her enemies, especially her loathsome naiad cousins, who arrogantly fancy themselves guardian goddesses of all waters.

His mind screamed at him to stop immediately, but he paid no heed. Instead, he cupped her face, marveling at the silklike texture of her skin.

“Having fun, are you?” Astarion’s voice chirped in his head out of the blue.

It almost made Jayme jump. But his body carried on regardless, acting completely independent of his better judgment. Driven by pure instinct, he gripped the woman’s arms and spun them, switching their positions. He pushed her back against a tree, holding her firmly in place.

She released a soft moan but otherwise remained silent, passive even. It was unexpected, considering what she was.

“Sure, don’t stop on my account,” Astarion quipped again. “It’s not every day you get to fool around with a nymph. I only wish I could be there to participate.”

The voice wrenched Jayme’s heart because it sounded exactly like something Astarion would say.

Jayme didn’t want this, not really. By now, his body had been hopelessly severed from his mind, overtaken by some intangible external force. His hand traced her velvety thigh and lifted her leg to wrap it around his waist.

“But—and I’m not saying this out of jealousy or anything—stay vigilant, my love. You mustn’t forget that this is a nymph. And, unless I’ve utterly misread the situation—in which case, apologies for ruining your fun—this is an unseelie nymph. And by all that’s unholy, those are maleficent creatures!”

There was a brief pause, and then Astarion’s voice returned, sounding a bit sheepish: “P.S., I miss your lips. … You know what, I think I am a little jealous of this hussy. Tell her your mouth is mine. Go on, tell her now!”

Jayme’s eyes flew open, just in time to catch a malevolent glint in Megami’s eyes.

Something rushed from the upper layers of his mind to hush any emerging suspicions and convince him it had merely been a trick of the light. Even so, Astarion’s insistent urging—“Tell her now!”— proved stronger this time and, at last, it snapped the bizarre short circuit in his head.

Breaking the kiss, Jayme stepped back and let go of the woman.

An annoyed grimace crossed Megami’s face but was promptly replaced by an exaggerated look of disappointment.

"Why the distress, dear one? Did my taste not delight your senses? Allow me to weave a song for you by way of recompense," she cooed, reaching into the small pouch hanging from her shoulder to produce an elegantly carved bamboo flute.

“Don’t let her play. Stop her!” Astarion’s voice warned again and Jayme lunged forward. He grabbed the hand holding her instrument before it reached her lips and clutched her other wrist in the same motion, locking her in place.

The woman’s immediate reaction was a furious twist of her pink lips. Her silver amulet, inlaid with a heart-shaped piece of jade, flared in a menacing green flash.

“Release me, Tel’Quessir,” she snarled.

“Dispel your Charm. Now,” Jayme gritted out through clenched teeth.

His body still rebelled against his rekindled will. Arousal coursed through his veins like poison and his mind flooded with images of what he wanted to do to the nymph. To the nymph. With the nymph. On her. In her.

She gave him a vicious smile at his command.

“Or what? Will you throw me down from a height like that bloodsucker, while spouting your ravings about glorious carnage in the name of Bhaal?”

Jayme tightened his grip on the woman’s hands, making her wince.

“You were the one who tampered with my memory,” he growled.

Of course. When the memory took place, he hadn’t known yet that he was the child of Bhaal. He’d fallen for a cheap trick when he entertained the possibility that the memory could be real, even for a moment.

“Tampered? Such a harsh word. All I did was liberate your heart's true yearning, your most profound urge. It was pitifully stifled, so desperately suppressed. Are you afraid of following in the footsteps of the Lord of Murder, hmm?”

“Watch your tongue about things you don’t understand.”

The nymph’s face hardened. “Oh, but I do understand, Tel’Quessir, I do. For I’ve peered into the recesses of your tainted spirit. And unless you wish to turn into the very entity you fear, you shall release me this very instant."

“Take her flute." Astarion’s voice cut in once more, tense and urgent. "Don’t let her play it. And, for heavens’ sake, tear that necklace off her!"

Jayme acted in the span of a heartbeat: he seized the flute in one hand and the necklace in the other. With a sharp twist, he yanked the instrument free and spun around, snapping the amulet's chain in the process.

A deafening wail burst from the fey monster’s throat and she reached desperately for her stolen belongings. Jayme quickly pivoted and landed a hard kick to her stomach, sending the nymph crashing against the tree she had been kissed against only minutes earlier.

The impact provoked a white-hot rage, and she launched herself at Jayme. As they wrestled, she somehow managed to touch the gem of her amulet and hissed words Jayme couldn’t decipher.

In the next second, he stumbled, as if hit by a Stun spell—the momentary distraction allowing Megami to wrest her flute and lift it to her lips.

An unbearable howling erupted in Jayme’s head, drowning out the melody. The howl demanded blood and all but blinded him with visions of mutilated corpses—real memories of people he had murdered, combined with horrific fabrications: Shadowheart, neck sliced open; Karlach, her abdomen a boiling pool of blood; Jaheira, snow-white and drained dry. And Astarion, lying still on his stomach, the scars of the Rite of Profane Ascension split open and painted crimson with his own clotted blood.

A strangled scream ripped from Jayme’s throat. Rooted to the ground, his body convulsed violently. His skin felt like it was thickening his jaw ready to explode and sprout rows of jagged teeth. The spots just behind his ears were stinging—he had a terrible premonition that gigantic tusks would burst forth from his skull.

The only comparable agony was when his tadpole had channeled La’zael’s torment on the Zaith'isk, back when they’d tried to purify their tadpoles at the gith crèche. But of course, that had been a more generic kind of pain. This one was uniquely tailored to him.

On the edge of insanity, Jayme realized the horrifying truth that his body was about to change into the Slayer, or perhaps the Ravager, either one of Bhaal’s avatars. How that was even possible, he couldn’t fathom. Perhaps his brain was on fire, and this was a sensory illusion. Or perhaps it was very real. All he knew was that if he didn’t resist, he’d be permanently unhinged within seconds.

He called on Astarion’s voice, willing it back once more to drive out the madness and fill his overwrought mind with that dazzling, glorious, and matchless self. And to his immense relief, Astarion—or at least the imprint Jayme carried of him—answered. With words the vampire had once spoken to him, no less. Healing words.

“Easy now, darling. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you. This thing won’t have you. It won’t win.“

The macabre visions began to recede, along with the fiery bellows, gradually replaced by a calming clarity. It was like a cool balm on Jayme’s frayed nerves. In turn, the nymph let out an irritated squeal as the potency of her magic dwindled.

Eventually, the wicked, rhythmic melody of her flute reached Jayme’s ears. By then, he had regained his freedom of movement, making it easier than expected to pounce on her and take the flute. Wasting no time, he raised it to his mouth and trilled the polar opposite of the fey monster’s tune: where her music was mystical, his was brazen; her sensuality he countered with lighthearted comedy; her beguiling notes he offset by awkward dissonance.

Megami shrieked one last time, then tossed herself at Jayme’s feet where her amulet had fallen, snatching it up hurriedly.

Jayme braced himself, preparing to retaliate with a kick aimed at the scowling nymph’s head, but before he could strike, she vanished into thin air. She fey stepped, taking both the amulet and, somehow, the flute Jayme was still playing.

He breathed deeply, trying to steady himself and waited for his heart to slow to its normal pace. It took several minutes.

With business concluded here, the bard decided to return to the road. He was fairly certain the unseelie nymph wouldn’t bother him again—though, of course, he couldn't be sure. Not that the prospect unsettled him. He had beaten her once; he could do so again.

What gnawed at this mind for hours afterward was his inability to pinpoint why he had felt the avatar of Bhaal trying to seize control of his body. He lacked the necessary context—was it something within the power of an unseelie nymph? Or was it a side effect of the Feywild itself?

And if the Feywild was the cause, what else might it draw out of his Bhaalspawn vessel during his sojourn? What other deliriums might it induce? If he was lucky, perhaps only whispers of his old Dark Urge. If unlucky, an involuntary murder spree.

“Bhaal frightens me,” he had once confessed to Jaheira on the night his heritage was unearthed, when she had taken it upon herself to watch over his trance.

“Then you are wise,” she had replied. “As long as you fear that power, there is hope. Fear means you are not fully mad—not yet.”

Jayme had been holding those words of piercing insight close to his heart ever since and now, they became his salvation.

He needed an anchor, he realized. An instrument. He had to acquire one and quickly. Without it, he might lose his footing, might submit. Or, more precisely, relapse.

His thoughts turned wistfully to his violin: its body of noble maple, spruce, and ebony; the natural swirl patterns of the aged wood, subtly visible under its deep, night-colored varnish. The pernambuco bow he had painstakingly selected as a fledgling bard, who had only just begun to immerse himself in the art. The faint piney smell of rosin.

No, not a violin. The thought of replacing it felt like infidelity. He would choose something else—a lute, a lyre. Perhaps even a flute. Anything.

With this fresh resolution, he silently offered his thanks to the Astarion imprint in his mind—he didn’t respond this time—and quickened his pace. His destination was set: Astrazalian, northeast of the Murkendraw’s swamp wastes.

The resplendence of the Everwood assaulted his senses now that he returned his attention to his surroundings.

The forest canopy formed an emerald mosaic, filtering the rich, golden light of the setting sun. The air was thick with the aroma of pearl-like forest flowers and exotic mushrooms. This fragrant blend chased the Murkendraw’s lingering stench from Jayme’s nose.

Amber and green fireflies flitted and twirled through the velvety dusk, leaving trails of soft, ghostly light in their wake. These tiny, luminescent beings, like living constellations, lit up the forest, casting a mesmerizing, otherworldly atmosphere.

Beneath the canopy, the forest floor was carpeted with vibrant mosses and lush ferns, their shades of green enhanced by the enchanting jade hue that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the ancient trees.

Along the deep thicket lining the path Jayme was following, a parade of fruit-bearing shrubs thrived. Their fruits—an inviting assortment of bright red, purple, and blue berries—reminded Jayme just how ravenous he was, having missed gods know how many meals by now.

Normally, the question of edibility would have given him pause, but a flock of iridescent-feathered birds was pecking at the fist-sized berries with such glee that he hesitated little before plucking one of the plumper purple ones.

A burst of sweet, juicy succulence flooded his mouth, quickly giving way to a hint of tartness and—Jayme’s eyes widened in surprise—a sharp tang of pure alcohol.

No wonder the birds were fluttering about in such high spirits! Finally, a fruit even Astarion might enjoy, he thought and made a mental note to find out what the berry was called.

Devouring the rest of the fruit with quick, greedy bites—and praying the aftereffects wouldn’t hinder his advance—he searched for something to use as packaging. He settled on a thick, tray-sized green leaf, using it to bundle a few more fruits of varying colors. Then, he resumed his journey.

As he trod through the spellbinding land, he became acutely aware of the meticulous balance of magic and nature that defined it. In his mind, he composed a jubilant yet rhapsodic tune to capture this fascinating harmony. This place was the perfect antithesis of the Shadow-Cursed Lands and stood in stark contrast to anywhere he had known in Faerûn—including, of course, the wildly chaotic Baldur’s Gate.

While it was impossible not to feel awe-struck, he acknowledged, with wry amusement, that he still preferred the raw thrills of the quaint, grimy streets of Baldur’s Gate. He longed for those gritty beats and discordant notes that only the Gate could evoke—the chops of a bow against violin strings that would shatter the fluid, dream-like, harmonious melody of this environment.

His thoughts wandered, eventually circling back to the scene from his trance—the real memory this time.

“Yes! Alright! It’s true, it frightens me. I looked at those two today and asked myself: do I want to risk ending up like this? It scares the shit out of me. The thought of having, and then losing you. That possibility. The thought of having, and then losing you. That possibility. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the centuries, it’s that good things never last. It just doesn’t work like that. Something always happens. Someone always interferes. And logic dictates that if I never had you to begin with, then there’s no way I can lose you.”

“Astarion–”

“I think I wouldn’t be able to stand it. To lose you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Not just since Cazador. Ever. Do you understand how fucking terrifying that is to me? You terrify me. The knowledge that someone as wonderful as you can happen to me. Ah, shit, I’m–”

“No, you’re not.” Pathetic, Astarion was about to say. Jayme sensed it whether through empathy, the depth of their bond, or their tadpole connection. It wasn’t clear, and it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let Astarion debase himself. “Your emotions are completely understandable, I can’t and won’t judge you for them.”

He closed the distance between them and cradled the hunched vampire against him. After a brief hesitation, Astarion rested his head on Jayme’s chest with a deep sigh, still settled atop the balustrade. Jayme continued, “But I’m asking you to trust me when I say we have a long future ahead of us, together.”

“How can you possibly say that with such confidence? In the midst of all this, no less,” Astarion asked, his vulnerability still fully exposed.

He brought a hand up, pressing it flat against Jayme’s chest, right over his heart, as if directing the question there. Jayme couldn’t hide a smile at how endearing the gesture was.

“I may not know who I was, but I know what I want—and I intend to claim it. I’ll carve out a future for us. I am Jayme: a bard haunted by Dark Urges but resolved to silence them once and for all. Well met.” He introduced himself with quiet poise and a playful dip of his head.

A sound that was half a choked sob, half a chuckle escaped Astarion’s throat at that. 

“You truly always know just what to say, you irresistible, beautiful bastard.”

Astarion shifted his posture, angling himself toward Jayme to embrace him more fully, and draped his arms around Jayme’s neck.

“That was me acting all cool, but there’s another reason for my confidence,” Jayme confessed softly.

“And what’s that?”

“You gave me all the reason on that night—when my Dark Urge spiraled out of control, and I almost attacked you in your trance. In the Shadow-Cursed Lands. You tied me up and watched over me until morning. Remember that?”

“How could I forget? The single most disturbing night of our acquaintance.” Astarion pulled back to meet Jayme’s eyes, smiling in a way that could almost be called fond, despite the memory being, truthfully, a thing of ghastly nightmares.

“You sat with me, undeterred by the maniac, blood-crazed nonsense spilling from my mouth—or by me trying to bite you. Do you remember what you said?”

“I said a lot of things in my desperate attempt to get through to you. What exactly are you thinking of?”

“You said, ‘You’re cute, you know. In another life, we might have been friends.’ That remark etched itself into my mind; even my Dark Urge flinched at the impression it made.” Jayme paused meaningfully, holding Astarion’s gaze. “Others would have stayed as far as they could, horrified, but not you.”

One dark affliction stared squarely at the other and didn’t turn away. It was as if to say, you and I are of a kind.

“Was that what did you in? The nail in your coffin? Wasn’t even my smoothest line on you.” Astarion shook his head, though a broad, self-satisfied smile blossomed on his face—a far more familiar expression, sharply contrasting the rare fragility he’d shown moments before.

“That and your relentless care throughout the night, of course. That’s when I became certain we were meant to be together,” Jayme said without reserve, watching intently for Astarion’s reaction.

A flicker of caution crossed Astarion’s face, but he didn’t retreat into his anxiety. 

“Careful with those ‘meant to be’s, and ‘we belong together’s. They’re dreadfully cheesy, and they tend to invite calamity,” he replied lightly.

“Let it come—we’ve got this. As for the cheesiness, my humble apologies,” Jayme said and kissed Astarion on the lips.

“Apology? You’ll have to do better than that,” Astarion teased, mischief twinkling in red.

In response, Jayme wedged himself firmly between Astarion’s legs and swept his tongue into his mouth, tangling his fingers in unruly white locks, tousling them. A small grunt of objection reached his ears, and he smiled into the kiss—perfectly aware of how vain Astarion was about his hair. The temptation to mess with him was simply too strong to resist. Any chance for a properly voiced complaint slipped away though as Jayme refused to part from his cool lips for long, sensuous moments.

At the first opportunity, the impertinent rogue dared to whisper hoarsely, “Keep trying.”

Jayme growled, rolling his hips upward in unmistakable provocation, rubbing against swelling desire. The Sun had sunk below the horizon already, giving way to fire-lit darkness.

“You’re getting there…” Astarion whispered.

“If ‘there’ means ravaging you right here and now, then yes. I’m definitely getting there,” Jayme murmured.

Astarion let out a breathless chuckle, but there was hesitation in him, and Jayme immediately knew he’d need to give him space. Jayme had no reservations about taking Astarion on the balustrade—it was ideal, with its height and the panorama, and he didn’t give a tinker’s damn who might be watching—but he understood Astarion needed time to digest what had been said here.

“Let’s go inside,” Astarion finally suggested. “We deserve a long, indulgent soak in the baths and a hearty meal after all the good work we’ve done today.” At Jayme’s questioning look, he hurried to add, “And no, that meal won’t be you this time, so don’t worry.”

“If you want my blood, you can have it. I don’t mind,” Jayme said.

“Ah, aren’t you the sweetest? I truly appreciate the offer, but I’m not going to inflict you with those annoying side effects right now,” Astarion purred while toying with an errant lock of raven hair that refused to stay out of Jayme’s face. “How your hair has grown! I tend to forget hair actually grows when you’re alive.”

“I’ll ask Shadowheart for a haircut,” Jayme replied absentmindedly before steering the conversation back to dinner. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I am. Now stop repeating that sweet offer, lest I change my mind and feast on you in earnest,” Astarion said with a wicked glint in his eye. Then, his tone and face grew more serious. “You’ll need your full strength and sharp wits tomorrow. As it stands, we’ll have no choice in the morning but to parley with the Devil in Sharess’ Caress. And then in the afternoon, we’ll attend Gortash’s coronation as a fun little extracurricular activity. I’ll just step outside later to hunt—once the cutthroats and thieves have drunk themselves into oblivion. I’d rather not bother chasing anyone for my meal tonight.”

“Am I forgiven then?” Jayme muttered into his ear before pulling him to his feet.

“You are, darling, you are. May all your future apologies be in the same vein!” Astarion grinned.

As Jayme recalled that brilliant expression on Astarion’s face, bitterness gripped his chest, twisting through him like bloodthorn vines. No matter how much he strove to make their separation temporary, the fact remained—Astarion was out there now, facing the harsh reality of losing him.

Chapter 7: I - But I'll find you in the sand, wipe you clean with dirty hands

Summary:

Now the waves they drag you down
Carry you to broken ground
But I'll find you in the sand
Wipe you clean with dirty hands
So God damn this boiling space
The Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna
Leave the horror here

Forget the horror here
Forget the horror here
Leave it all down here
It's future rust and it's future dust

Foals – Spanish Sahara

Astarion seldom praised anyone. But he felt like applauding Mordenkainen, singing him a laud, maybe even crowning his bald head with a chic laurel wreath. Chapter Two of his Tome of Foes, available at the Sorcerous Sundries, proved the most illuminating resource on the Feywild he'd yet found.

From the Monsters of Feyland, through the Tome of Beasts and The Manual of the Planes, to The Wild Beyond the Witchlight, Astarion systematically leafed through a select collection of volumes. However, these tomes primarily focused on lore, indigenous creatures, and geography, offering little insight into the mechanics of traveling to the Plane of Faerie. The older works that did touch on the subject contained information that pre-dated the Spellplague and could no longer be trusted.

Thus, Astarion sighed in relief when Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes finally revealed a pertinent section. While he had studied the text years ago—possessing a reasonable interest in books, though nothing like Gale’s zeal—he had never sought information about the Feywild.

He was searching for mentions of transit points, gateways between the Feywild and Toril.

A handful of obvious options presented themselves: Evereska, Evermeet, and Sarifal—cities renowned for existing simultaneously on both planes. Straddling both without fully existing in either—anchored in this precarious state since the cataclysmic events of the Second Sundering, just a decade past.

His investigation revealed, though, that reaching these elven cities from Faerûn would be incredibly difficult. Mordenkainen's own discussion of Evermeet painted a grim picture for Astarion.

Evermeet still exists, although now it is unmoored from the world, somewhere in the space between the Feywild, Arvandor, and the Material Plane. By using secret pathways, entering a fairy ring on special nights, or traversing a moonlit sea by following certain stars, elves of many worlds can get to Evermeet—if they're lucky. Even from Faerûn, for instance, one can sail to Evermeet only on a ship captained by an elf who has been there before. And if the captain slips up, the ship might become adrift on the Astral Plane.

“A fairy ring on special nights. Traversing the sea. Bloody hells,” Astarion mumbled. The knot of unease he had felt since waking tightened in his stomach.

He tossed the tome aside, burying his face in his hands.

“I need Gale for this,” he groaned under his breath, then immediately scoffed at his own weakness.

Pathetic. You’ve grown soft in this party! You’ll have to tackle this challenge yourself and find your way to Jayme. He would do the same.

His eyes flicked to the black violin case resting on the table beside the tome-pillars. He'd brought it to the Sundries simply because he couldn’t bear to leave it unattended. He would reunite Jayme with his cherished instrument, whatever the cost.

Taking a deep breath, he returned to the material before him, the hours slipping past unnoticed.

As godswake approached—the quiet hours before dawn—his companions began to arrive. First Shadowheart, then Gale, and finally, the trio of Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc.

“Good… morning, or whatever this is,” Gale greeted everyone a little groggily, turning dark-circled eyes to Astarion. “Tell us, what have you found so far?”

“Well, it’s a jumble of odds and ends—reminded me just why I abandoned wizardry in my youth. And I still stand by my choice. Researching magic is such a nuisance; far more convoluted than a dagger between the ribs. Tsk. Anyway. I’m looking into Evereska,” Astarion groused, pointing to the open book showing the majestic elven city perched atop a marble cliff, its pristine white pointed towers soaring toward the sky.

"Ah, Evereska! It’s been decades since I last set foot there, on a Harper mission,” Jaheira said, a nostalgic smile softening her weary face. “It’s a sight to behold; those silver-white spires and graceful arches against the natural rock. It must have changed so much…"

“I'm sure. But here's the important bit," Astarion said, tapping the relevant passage. "Apparently, in Evereska, the border between Toril and the Feywild blurred during the Spellplague, allowing creatures to pass freely between the realms.”

“While that holds true, Evereska is a destination accessible only through arduous and notably inconvenient means,” Halsin remarked and angled the book so he and Gale could see it better before turning the page to a map of the region. 

“It always has been, yes,” Jaheira nodded in agreement. 

“It’s nestled in a valley within the Backlands of the Western Heartlands,” Halsin continued, tracing the surrounding regions of the city on the map. “The area is distant from any significant neighboring settlements, and it’s further shielded by a challenging terrain. To the north lie the Greycloak Hills; to the east, the unyielding Anauroch desert. To the west, the enigmatic Forgotten Forest looms.”

“Jaheira, how did you get there? I’ve never had the opportunity myself,” Astarion asked, glancing up at the druid, whose face scrunched up as she pondered the question.

“Access to Evereska has long been a privilege limited to a select few,” she replied. “It can be reached through the Passing, a discreet passage requiring either a special passphrase or a direct invitation from the venerable Hill Elders. Others, I’m afraid, must undertake a perilous climb up the city's precipitous cliffs to gain entry. But that’s not my main concern.”

“Then what does, if I may ask?” Astarion raised an eyebrow.

“Evereska is highly unwelcoming of vampires,” Jaheira said. “The elves dwelling there reject anything they perceive as an affront to nature… forgive my bluntness. I find it unlikely that they would grant you admittance.”

“Even if Astarion was accompanied by the High Harper herself?” Minsc asked.

“Even then,” Jaheira nodded. “I may be welcome to enter the walls myself, but my title amounts to little when it comes to matters of security or, well, morality—at least, their idea of it. Again, no offense, Astarion.”

“None taken. I’m quite used to my kind being seen as a congregation of obscene and gruesome monsters deserving of a stake through the heart,” Astarion offered in a nonchalant tone. He combed his fingers through his hair in a self-conscious gesture. 

A heavy silence fell over the group for a few moments.

“What about using stealth?” Shadowheart suggested. “He outshines us all in that area when it comes down to it. Could he sneak in?”

Sweet girl, Astarion thought as a slow smile spread across his face. “Flattery will get you everywhere, dear.”

“Into a city that shrouded its very existence for millennia?” Gale said, picking up the tome Astarion had been studying and flipping through its pages. “And then, once discovered, raised one of the most formidable armies in the realm for its defense? Think again. I have another idea. Well, actually, I have two, but one is of no use to us now. Regrettably, we are months away from the vernal equinox, when Fey Day is celebrated in Waterdeep. New Sharandar, however, merits further investigation as a potential gateway to the Feywild. In the meantime, someone should read up on fey crossroads.”

“I’ll do it,” Shadowheart volunteered and began examining the piles of books Astarion had accumulated.

“What about Minsc? I want to help too!” the ranger exclaimed, spreading his brawny arms, visibly frustrated at his lack of contribution to the discourse. 

“Minsc,” Gale said, considering him. “Tolna Tome-Monger might have some information on ‘spelljammers.’ Try there first. If not, the Blushing Mermaid is always a good place to find idle mage captains.”

“Understood! Tolna! Let’s go, Boo!” Minsc strode off, causing the woman behind the counter to look up in alarm.

“I shall check into Sarifal on Gwynneth Isle,” Halsin offered and joined Shadowheart in dissecting the book towers.

“An excellent idea, Halsin. Highly pertinent,” Gale nodded.

“It looks like I’ll be the one to do Evermeet then,” Jaheira said, flopping down next to Astarion. “Another promising candidate.”

“Ah, I already have something on Evermeet and it’s anything but promising,” Astarion said with a trace of resignation, pulling Mordenkainen’s Tome of Foes in front of them and pointing at the section laying out the two workable routes: a fairy ring on special nights and crossing the sea. “This description is far too vague about setting up the fairy ring. And the alternative is even worse—a sea voyage. Utterly out of the question for me.”

Jaheira furrowed her brows as she peered at the text but didn’t lose heart.

“I’ll see what else I can find out,” she promised. “But if my research doesn’t turn up anything meaningful, we did acquaint ourselves with a fey not so long ago, didn’t we? That dryad from Sharess’ Caress.”

“Naoise, I think her name was,” Gale interjected, eyes losing focus for a moment as he recalled the woman who'd made an impression with her unconventional appreciation for the aesthetics of a mind flayer. "Such a… unique individual."

“Trust a man to remember the courtesan vividly.” Jaheira rolled her eyes, but one corner of her mouth lifted.

“I assure you, Jaheira, my interest was purely… academic. And it was Jayme who was the recipient of her ‘rapture,’ not I, as you may remember.” Gale protested indignantly, then added under his breath, “The lucky devil.”

Behind him, Shadowheart murmured with a wry lilt, Oh, yes, I’m sure it was a purely scholarly pursuit, but Gale remained carefully oblivious to it.

Jaheira smirked nonetheless and patted the wizard on the arm.

“Don’t fret, you can accompany me, and I’ll let you do the talking. Who knows, you might even convince her to grant you the same gift this time.” 

“My dears,” Astarion spoke up, “Your help means more than I can say. Again. But I need to take my leave now. The Sun will be up soon, and I don’t relish the prospect of being roasted after such a taxing night.” He shuddered, his countenance darkening into a scowl. Always the same. Always this cursed dependence . “I’ll return to the Elfsong with as many books as I can carry. I’ll retire for a short rest later but will be up by dusk. Please, let’s find each other then.”

He gazed at each of his companions in turn. A quiet understanding passed between them.

“Of course. Get some rest,” Gale said, nodding with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Astarion replied and lowered his head. The syllables were swallowed by his own heavy sigh. 

Leaving Mordenkainen’s work for Jaheira, he selected a few unclaimed books along with Jayme’s cased violin, then made his way to Tolna Tome-Monger. The woman turned to Astarion with a perplexed expression as Minsc passed by with a reassuring grin.

“Books are nourishment and medicine, I know, but with Minsc of Rashemen, I do wonder…” she remarked snidely in her hushed tone.

"He more than makes up for any lack of intellect with his strength and heart. I guarantee it," Astarion said, fixing her with a glare. 

“Alright, alright. It's just an observation. Will that be all?” The woman indicated the books Astarion was holding.

“Yes,” the vampire said curtly and handed over ninety-five gold pieces—a trifling sum for the knowledge he hoped to gather.

Once back in the tavern, in their room, he dumped his new purchases on the bed and gently laid the violin on the dresser. Their room. He still thought of it that way, even though they hadn't truly made it their own. The thought was infuriating.

Afraid he might vent his frustration on the furniture again, he plopped onto the bed and redirected his focus to the books. Assuming he could find his way into the other plane, he needed to be prepared for whatever he might encounter there. He began to read.

He discovered several noteworthy points.

For one, those who journeyed to the Feywild from another plane found that all sensations, both physical and mental, grew more intense. Scents seemed richer, hues more vivid, and sounds crisper. Simultaneously, shadows deepened, and controlling one's impulses became harder.

This immediately set off alarm bells in Astarion’s mind. What would it mean for Jayme, son of Bhaal? He might have conquered his Dark Urges on this plane, but what effect would the all-encompassing magic of the Feywild have? There was no way to foresee the outcome.

Then there was the issue of time distortion. Time in the Feywild was unmoored: a day could pass in minutes on the Prime Material Plane, or stretch into years. One of them would suffer their separation for longer than the other. How perfectly exasperating.

Another potential pitfall was memory loss. Non-fey beings who left the realm could suffer immediate memory loss, potentially erasing all recollection of their time there. Inconvenient, yes, but ultimately irrelevant. Our memories here are what truly count, Astarion decided.

Magic in the Feywild was far more potent and flowed with greater freedom than on the Prime, saturating the realm and its inhabitants with mystical energy. This often resulted in enhanced spells for those who wielded arcane power within its borders, occasionally even giving rise to entirely new forms of magic.

And speaking of locals, the Feywild was home to a diverse array of creatures, from the benevolent fey—nymphs, satyrs, and fey eladrin elves among them—to more sinister denizens like goblins, giants, ogres, and, of course, hags.

Hags. The word brought a sharp sting to Astarion’s mind, like Melf’s Acid Arrow. Can that spurious prune tart truly be alive again? Or, rather, still?

No. He had to set that aside now. There was a far more pressing matter at hand. Namely, the Sun.

The plane was immersed in an otherworldly illumination, an eternal twilight of the setting sun, complemented by the soft glow of elven lanterns and fireflies. But would that protect him? Would he be safe from the Sun’s deathly rays? He had no clue. None of his sources offered any insight. Another question for Naoise the dryad, then.

Hours later, a dull ache was throbbing behind Astarion's temples. He shut the codex—a comprehensive treatise on the combat styles of baelnorn liches and other horrors—stretched his stiff limbs, and turned in for the day.

The thought that the mysterious perpetrator might appear to interrupt his rest crossed his mind, but he brushed it aside.

The more he floundered in this web of vexation, the more convinced he became: this was the smoldering revenge of a devious architect—intended not to kill them, but to make them writhe.

 

 

 

His biological clock, realigned to his nocturnal lifestyle—a reality he accepted with resignation—roused him just before nightfall. He hadn’t been graced with a refreshing reverie; his mind was plagued by snickering hags cavorting with smirking devils.

Without wasting any time, he dressed, grabbed Jayme’s violin, and set off to the Sundries. He dined along the way—a purse-picker again, whom he caught in flagrante in a back alley. Criminals buzzed like flies on carrion, now more than ever, with the city still in disarray after the mind flayer assault.

Chest tight with anticipation, he made his way over to his companions, still huddled in the same corner where he’d left them hours before.

“Good evening. I see you’re about as energetic as I am feeling,” he remarked. It was true; not even the blood in his stomach could dispel the lethargy burdening his spirit. If anything, the aftertaste was turning his stomach.

“We’ve been deliberating the options. The issue isn’t finding a passage to the Feywild—that’s definitely possible. But finding one that’s fast and safe for a vampire?” Gale trailed off, taking a swig of the tea in front of him. It seemed the party had made itself quite cozy over the past hours. “Now that’s a fiendishly difficult one to crack.”

“Alright. Lay it on me, and don’t sugarcoat it. What’s my best option?” Astarion pulled up a chair and slid in between Halsin and Jaheira.

He took a cup from the porcelain set in the middle of their table and poured himself some tea. A dull beverage, by any measure, and patently inferior to fine libations like liquors and wines. Nevertheless, he longed to rid himself of the sour taste of the pickpocket’s blood, and the sweet-scented lavender tea—Shadowheart’s choice, no doubt—seemed perfect for the task.

“Evermeet, and about a month of sailing to reach it,” Gale revealed tersely.

Astarion nearly spat out his tea.

“W-what?! A month? On a ship??”

“Weather permitting,” the wizard added with a stern expression.

“But, come now, how about finding a portal instead? There are bound to be such things around, maintained by elven mages!” Astarion proposed hastily. His posture grew tense, and his voice was thick with anxiety. 

Shadowheart let loose a heavy sigh.

“The problem with fey crossroads—or fey crossings—is that they are concealed across Faerûn and demand a specific ritual to operate. This ritual involves summoning the guardian of the portal, who then either grants passage or doesn’t, at its discretion.”

“Bloody hells… alright, alright! So they’re hard to locate, and their guardians need to be reasoned with. Surely, this is still a better bet than sending me across the Trackless Sea ! I can’t cross water, not even a rivulet, let alone a vast sea!”

“I have something to say about that. Minsc and I both do, in fact,” Jaheira interjected, but Astarion raised his hands, palms open, signaling her to stop.

“Just, just… please, before that, can we consider land-based locations?” he insisted. “Evereska is tricky, I understand, but what about New Sharandar up north in the Neverwinter Wood? From Baldur’s Gate, it’d only take, what—a tenday and maybe four or five days more?”

“New Sharandar is unsafe given recent developments.” Gale shook his head. “Rumor has it that three hags, calling themselves the Odious Court, have established their influence over Sharandar’s Feywild lands, destabilizing the region. It’s so recent there’s no official word yet, but I consulted Tara, who’s remarkably au courant thanks to her extensive network. It never ceases to amaze me.”

“You know, Astarion,” Shadowheart explained, her green eyes reflecting an earnest will to help, “the most significant drawback of fey crossings isn’t even their location or the ritual. Ever since the Spellplague, many of these portals are said to have turned fickle. They’re malfunctioning, and using them can lead to dire consequences.” 

“But do not despair,” Halsin said, placing a large hand on Astarion’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “Considering all available information, Evermeet offers the most promising path to Jayme. I have consulted the texts regarding Sarifal of the Moonshae Isles, but the Sea of Moonshae is a death trap of storms this time of year. And by all accounts, the Evermeet crossings are substantially more reliable than those of Sarifal.”

Astarion remained silent for a long while, absorbing the news. In the end, he released a deep sigh and massaged his temples. “Understood. Spelljammers are out of the question too, I take it.”

“Aye, that’s right, I’m afraid,” Minsc replied, straightening in his seat, eager to speak. “Long and tedious story short, spelljammer ships still go to Stardock about once a month. But sadly, routes to the Feywild haven’t been used much because of the wobbliness caused by the Spellstorm.”

“Spellplague ,” Gale jumped in to correct.

“Ah, that , yes!” the ranger exclaimed, brandishing a thick tome as easily as a scroll. “The sailors drinking away in the Blushing Mermaid were more useful sources than this dusty old thing, I have to say. It reinforced my conviction that words speak louder than pens. And of course, actions speak louder than words. And we all know very well that the sword is mightier than the pen. So, uhhh, stick to actions and swords, because the pen is useful only on the rarest of occasions!”

Minsc rambled on with tremendous enthusiasm, while Gale blinked owlishly, Halsin’s eyes narrowed in concentration, and Astarion simply stared into his tea. Jaheira's expression remained unchanged.

“Right you are, Minsc.” Shadowheart broke the silence finally and winked at the ranger.

“Listen.” Jaheira took the floor, looking Astarion in the eye. “There’s truth in what Minsc is saying, hard as it may be to decipher. We’ve learned what we could; now it’s time to act. Go and talk to the sailors in the taverns and down at the harbor. Look for a ship bound for Evermeet—one with a captain who’s sailed those waters before and knows the secret route, the stars to follow.”

“Believe me, I’m willing to go to any lengths to get to Jayme,” Astarion asserted. “But, like I said, I can’t travel the seas!” He threw his hands up, at his wit's end.

“You might be surprised.” Jaheira's lips curled into a small, enigmatic smile. “Minsc and I once traveled with a vampire—Bodhi, once of Suldanesellar. She was cast out for meddling with divine forces beyond her place and turned to vampirism willingly to reverse her punishment. Needless to say, she failed abysmally.”

“I know her tale. She was Jon Irenicus’ sister,” Astarion said, frowning as he sifted through the details in his memory. “They tried to sap the Tree of Life together, didn’t they? For power and immortality. Cazador had a vast library, filled with accounts of vampires; I remember reading about it there. But I don’t recall anything about her sailing.”

“There’s a loophole, apparently,” Jaheira explained. Minsc nodded in confirmation. “Vampires can’t sail themselves, but they can be transported. On our journey from Athkatla to Brynnlaw, Bodhi spent the entire voyage in the ship’s hold, inside her coffin—which, by the way, was filled with soil from her burial ground.” 

“I see…” Astarion’s face hardened into a look of quiet determination. “A month in a coffin… I’ll be utterly miserable, but if it gets me to Jayme, I’ll endure it. So, we need a captain. One who can sail to the Feywild, is willing to leave circa now, and… well, won’t mind having a vampire stowed away in his hold. Anyone come to mind?” 

Astarion’s gaze swept across his companions’ faces, his lips quirking ironically. He was met with silence.

“I didn’t think so. Right then. Off I go to consult Naoise first, if she’s available. Then, to scour the city for a suitable captain. And you, my lovelies—off with you too. Nighty night, and thank you for everything. Again .”

He looked from face to face, hoping his eyes conveyed the gratitude words could no longer express. Well, maybe Jayme’s words—or his instrument—could.

Violin case held snugly under his arm, Astarion sank into the night, the sympathetic gazes of his friends following him. Friends. He supposed the term fit.

On his way to Sharess’ Caress, he passed a nondescript backstreet in Wyrm’s Crossing, tucked between two shops. A memory pulled him back—a moment with Jayme, after their first encounter with Gortash, before they’d braved Cazador’s Palace. 

He remembered the chaos of that day: Jayme’s sudden flashbacks, and Gortash, practically giddy with anticipation of his coronation, revealing the truth of Jayme’s past.

After gesturing to Shadowheart and Jaheira that he needed a private word, Jayme led him off the main street and into a narrow alley.

“So. How are you feeling, darling?” Astarion asked, subtly waving to Jaheira to assure her they were fine. He kept his tone neutral, wanting to gauge Jayme’s own reaction to the revelation about his Father.

Back in the Fortress, the bard had been all calm focus, negotiating with Gortash. Now, alone with Astarion, his face was ashen, his expression etched with strain.

“Not good. This place and Enver’s words; the memories they dug up…” Jayme whispered. “I’ve killed so many, Astarion. I can’t even remember their faces…” He clutched his violin until his knuckles turned white.

“I understand,” Astarion said softly. “And not to make this a competition, but I’ve caused the death of hundreds of wretched souls myself.” Seeing Jayme’s distress, he quickly added, “What I’m trying to say is… I know what it’s like. You and I are the same.”

“But we are not. What you did, you did on command, with no way to resist. But I…” Jayme’s upper lip twitched. “And it fills me again—like poison—the terrible devotion I felt while I was doing it. It burns, like molten lava, fueling me from within. I reveled in it—the carnage, the horror. I was smitten with this sick, horrendous zeal. Can you believe that?”

Astarion gripped Jayme’s shoulders firmly, trying to ground him. “I—I understand,” he said. “It’s your past. It’s who you were—emphasis on were.” 

“I was in awe of my heritage. I think… there may have been more to it—something darker I can’t quite remember… but I definitely feel that awe now,” Jayme whispered haltingly. With each word he pushed out, a quiet ache settled in Astarion’s chest. “My Father whispered to me. We all heard it. We celebrated it. You can’t imagine the power... My Dark Urge is but a breeze compared to this—this mad symphony of butchery.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“The other… worshippers. In the Temple. They respected and feared me. I was their Chosen.”

“It’s alright. I got you. What else?”

“I…I,” Jayme stammered, his eyes darting around. His pupils were fully dilated, leaving only a sliver of ice blue. “I don’t want it. That fuck wants to reel me back in, to have me return to the fold and make me their leader. The parasite’s in my head, but He’s in my heart—Where does that leave me? I can’t be his tool.”

“You’re not, I can promise you that. You are so much more than your Father’s will.” Astarion cupped Jayme’s face in both hands, dipping his head to meet Jayme’s gaze. “I’ve known you since you were ripped out of that… congregation, and I’ve seen the real you emerge. You’re crafty and cool-headed, always thinking several steps ahead. And you have this… audacity. This grounded recklessness—you know the risks, but you're not afraid to take them if it's worth it. And you're fair.”

He punctuated his words with a gentle kiss on Jayme’s forehead and eyelids.

“Fair…?” Jayme opened his eyes, looking at him doubtfully.

“You give everyone a fair chance and judge them by their actions. Do you know how damn rare that is? You can take it from me, I’ve seen a lot.” Astarion’s eyebrow flicked upward.

Jayme breathed a weak laugh.

“There, that’s a good start.” Astarion caressed his jaw with his thumbs. “Would you play something for me?” 

He eyed the violin, still locked in Jayme’s grip. But Jayme shook his head now, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid of the melody my hands might make right now. I used to play, all the time, while orchestrating carnage.”

Astarion could well imagine it: Jayme standing tall, surrounded by a heap of corpses, clothes stained red, a chilling smile twisting his handsome features as he performed a dreadful eulogy. He had seen such smiles on Jayme’s face before, in his war against the Urge.

“That’s alright. What do you want to do then?”

The sun was setting on the city, and a few faint rays found their way into their alley. It painted the space orange. 

Astarion glanced at Jaheira and Shadowheart, who returned the look with concern—especially the druid. Still, they seemed content to give them the time they needed. 

“I’m not sure. But I must drown His voice somehow, find a way to tune it out. It’s no longer a whisper, but more like a chant now. My skull feels ready to burst.” Jayme squeezed his eyes shut.

Astarion considered what he could do. His eyes went to the violin again. The black wood seemed to swallow the light around it. Of course, it was all in his head—this was the same violin that channeled Jayme’s healing magic.

Music. That had to be the answer. But Jayme couldn't play now, and he himself lacked the skill.

A seagull shrieked overhead, its cry cutting through the bustle of the streets below, as it flew toward the harbor. An idea sparked in Astarion’s mind. He carefully uncurled Jayme’s fingers from the violin, slipped the strap over his head, and settled the instrument on his back. Then, he drew Jayme close, taking his hands and pressing their temples together. Jayme’s skin was cold and clammy, and Astarion could feel the erratic beat of his heart against his own. He caught the faint, almost bitter scent of his agitation.

Astarion closed his eyes and began to sing softly.

“Here I go out to sea again
The sunshine fills my hair
And dreams hang in the air
Gulls in the sky and in my blue eyes
You know it feels unfair
There’s magic everywhere”

He could feel Jayme’s surprised gasp more than hear it. He had the bard’s full attention. For now, that was all that mattered.

Encouraged, he gently moved them back and forth to the rhythm of the melody. Jayme followed his lead. It wasn’t quite a dance, just a subtle sway, but in that moment, it felt like everything.

“No need to run and hide
It’s a wonderful, wonderful life
No need to laugh and cry
It's a wonderful, wonderful life”

He sang the whole song—a tune he’d often heard buskers play—giving it all he had. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d sung, truly sung. It hadn’t happened in this century, for sure. The drunken slurring of folk songs with equally drunk targets hardly counted—those half-hearted, sloppy affairs, touching nothing within him.

When the song ended, he finally opened his eyes, wanting to see the effect of his serenade. Performing for a bard, he thought, was a thankless task. Was this how Jayme felt when trying to pick a lock with a rogue looking over his shoulder?

Jayme’s expression was complex, one Astarion struggled to categorize. When Jayme said nothing, Astarion’s impatience got the better of him.

“Well? Was it that bad?”

“No! I’m just… speechless.” A light, unguarded smile curved over Jayme’s lips.

“Speechless in a ‘wow, I had no idea he had such a lovely voice’ way? Or a ‘that was absolute rubbish, an earsore on par with Dribbles’ performances’ way?”

Jayme chuckled, and that was a victory already. Astarion let his shoulders relax.

“I wasn't expecting that. The song… it was beautiful. Truly. It feels easier now to hold the Urges at bay. Thank you,” Jayme said quietly.

The frenzy in Jayme’s eyes had quietened, and color returned to his cheeks—not just from the sunset. He looked soothed, though the lines of his face still lacked his usual poise.

“Any time, my sweet,” Astarion replied. “I can do this for you. As long as you compensate me for my efforts, mind you. I’m no bard, and taking center stage doesn't come naturally to me.”

“What do you want as compensation?”

“A smile is good. A little laugh even better.” Astarion smiled, grazing Jayme’s cheekbone with his fingertips. His expression turned serious. “But Jayme. I know you’re used to putting up a strong front. Remember that with me, you don’t need to. You can take off the mask.” 

Jayme simply nodded at first. His eyes spoke volumes: gratitude, affection and, to Astarion’s delight, a new resolve shone through. Then, he spoke, “I told you after that night I almost attacked you. But I want to say it again. I will be the person you want to see in me.”

“I know you will,” Astarion nodded, giving Jayme’s hand one last squeeze before letting go.

With that, Jayme seemed ready to resume their quest, and they rejoined the two women waiting some distance away. Both were smiling in a captivated yet oddly sentimental way.

“You two are so sweet—the Devious Elf Tandem!” Shadowheart gushed unlike herself. “Seeing you get through to him like that… that was really touching!” Her sparkling eyes could outshine peridots.

“Umm, excuse me?” Astarion tilted his head, puzzled. “I mean, sure, we’re sweet—that much is obvious. But I don’t get where your frankly overwhelming excitement is coming from. As if you were part of this relationship or something. And anyway, I thought we were the Shrewd Elf Twosome.”

Shadowheart broke into a hearty laugh, her mirth warming everyone around her. “Silly! You’ve no idea what women daydream about, do you?”

“Judging by your reaction,” Astarion muttered dryly, “I’m not sure I want to know.”

Shadowheart simply laughed the comment off. “Wait till I tell Karlach about this—she’ll lose her mind for having missed it. She might even beg you for an encore!”

While her enthusiasm seemed genuine, Astarion couldn’t shake the sense that there was a hint of teasing in it.

“Indeed, Astarion, perhaps this is your true calling!” Jaheira agreed, her voice filled with warmth. “It looks like you'll be singing alongside Jayme's violin from now on.”

“Gods. What have I started…” Astarion groaned, burying his face in his hands. Jayme leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, unable to stop smiling.  

Astarion, back in the bleak present, saw that gorgeous smile so clearly it clawed at his unbeating heart. The backstreet was now black, empty, and muted by the night.

With a heavy sigh, he trudged on toward Sharess’ Caress. He hummed softly as he walked, mouthing the lyrics.

“Look at me here
Here on my own again
Up straight in the sunshine”

Notes:

Astarion is singing "Wonderful Life" by Black. :)

Chapter 8: I - No civilizing hides our animal impulses

Summary:

Shine razor eyes in delight
Shine razor eyes before you die
Shine razor eyes in this light
There’s a cold breeze blowing over my soul

I'm tired of this human duet
No civilizing hides
Our animal impulses

IAMX – Animal Impulses

Notes:

I've broken Jayme's next chapter into two parts because it was too long.

Rating really starts to apply from this point on. :3

Time flowed differently in the Feywild—a fact known to anyone with even a basic understanding of the outer planes. But knowing about it and experiencing it firsthand were two vastly different things, as Jayme soon discovered.

The perpetual twilight blanketing the landscape rendered any sense of time near obsolete. Jayme could only gauge time’s passage by his own body—his fatigue, hunger, and thirst. But even that proved unreliable, given his rhapsodic lifestyle over the preceding months, and presumably, years. He was accustomed to seizing the opportunity to eat as it came and forgoing trance for days on occasion.

As if that weren’t disorienting enough, space itself seemed to warp in this realm, making distance estimation futile. He reached specific landmarks at inconsistent speeds that could not possibly be explained by terrain difficulty or walking speed.

The whole plane seemed to be alive, to have a pulse and whims of its own.

Intentions and schemes of its own, even.

And passions.

After his clash with the nymph, Jayme crossed paths with numerous other fey creatures during his journey through the Everwood, but he always kept his distance, determined not to become sidetracked. He saw satyrs playing merry tunes. Beautiful dryads danced through the enchanted glades, their laughter echoing through the ancient trees. Corrupted sprites lay in wait for an opportunity to ensnare hapless wanderers in their cunning traps. Pixies, with their delicate wings shimmering in iridescent hues, circled certain areas, no doubt guarding ancient artifacts. But Jayme pushed on relentlessly, stopping only when necessary.

Some time before reaching Astrazalian, he paused to rest in a birch grove, sitting cross-legged beneath silver-white, straight tree trunks and golden canopy. As he entered trance, his mind drifted to a cherished memory—whether unconsciously seeking solace or perhaps drawn by some external force.

It was a memory of an unforgettable night in Baldur’s Gate—a beacon of light amid the dark perils of their quests.

Having just freed and recruited Minsc from the sewers of the Lower City, the party eagerly prepared for their well-deserved rest in the luxurious goose-down pillowed beds of the Elfsong Tavern. The excitement of sleeping in proper beds, after what felt like endless tendays of bumpy bedrolls and straw beds, was palpable in their cozy rented room. The novelty of proper beds hadn't worn off, even after several days.

Late into the night, the group remained in high spirits; perhaps unduly so. Wine and beer flowed freely, while Minsc narrated stories over a century old and animatedly reenacted battles for everyone’s entertainment. Though not always to Jaheira’s liking. The druid consistently stepped in whenever necessary to temper the ranger's flamboyant embellishments.

Everyone joined in the lighthearted revelry, united by the unspoken understanding that this might well be their last chance to be carefree. The following day, their road would lead them to the House of Hope, where they intended to unmake the contract with Raphael for the Crown of Karsus. Venturing into the Devil’s abode promised little else but sweat and bloodshed.

So tonight, everyone blithely participated—except for Jayme himself. 

Jayme was leagues away. His thoughts kept stubbornly returning to Enver’s revelation and Orin’s brazen challenge.

Enver’s favorite assassin. Orin’s blood-kin. Bhaal’s former Chosen. The Absolute’s creator. He felt the truth of these labels, despite his inability to recall most of the specific events that justified them. His mind sensed the outlines of memories like icebergs submerged in an opaque sea.

As the resident bard of the party, though, he considered it his duty to complement Minsc’s frantic storytelling. He bowed jaunty melodies, hands moving on instinct while his mind wandered.

Around midnight, the group unanimously agreed it was time to rest in those inviting, lavishly snug beds.

Jayme went through the motions mechanically: cleaning his violin, armor, and rapier. Taking a quick inventory of his potions and spell scrolls. As he turned to head for bed, he noticed Astarion leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him. How long he had been there, Jayme had no idea.

“Ready to hit the hay, darling? I'd like to share your bed tonight if you don’t mind it being a bit tight for the two of us,” he murmured with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “I have to admit, I’ve been missing your warmth since we moved in here.”

Resting side by side had become a habit, ever since Jayme invited Astarion into his tent in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. But trancing together in the more confined space of a bed was an entirely new prospect.

“Yes,” Jayme nodded, but as Astarion narrowed his eyes, he sensed he wouldn't get away so easily.

“Ah-ah, that’s no good. I don’t like that look on you,” Astarion said, his voice soft but probing. “I noticed something was off while you were playing your music, but I couldn't tell if it was just general fatigue from our oh-so-uplifting errands in the sewers, or something darker. So, copper for your thoughts?”

He edged closer, moving as one would toward a skittish animal they didn’t wish to startle.

It tugged at Jayme's heart, even as it embarrassed him. He detested this sense of helplessness, but detested his struggle to process it even more. Taking a deep breath, he searched for the words to explain.

“Orin's and Enver's words are playing tricks on my mind. I believe they’re telling the truth, but I'm still dealing with memory issues. Sometimes I feel on the verge of remembering more, but the sensation fades before I can grasp it. Then, when I push myself again later, a new memory fragment surfaces. It's like a tune I should know well but can't recall until I hear the next note. And when I do, I realize it was there all along, buried somewhere. I’m rediscovering the notes one by one, and it’s just… frustrating. And tantalizing at the same time. I want to hear the whole tune, from beginning to end, but I can’t. Does that make any sense?”

Astarion took a moment to reflect, then responded with a slow nod.

“Well, I’ve never experienced amnesia, but I think I understand what you’re saying.” He averted his gaze for a couple of seconds, pensive, before looking back up at Jayme, his crimson eyes burning with intent. “I have a suggestion. Though it may sound reckless now of all times.”

That compelling red, plotting something thrilling, no doubt. Jayme would have bet anything the suggestion would involve murder—naturally, his Dark Urge instantly perked up at the thought.

“Go on. If it helps put my mind at ease, I’m willing to try anything.”

“I think we should go out,” Astarion said, his voice dropping to a whisper, a smirk curling his lips. “Dive into the night, paint the town red, and savor all the city has to offer to the magnificent insomniac lunatics that we are. If we’re lucky, you might uncover a few more notes from your tune. And if not, worst case? We have a little fun.”

His smile was infectious—Jayme felt his own mouth pulling upward in response, for the first time that day.

“Where would we go?” he asked.

“Oh, my precious, entrust yourself to me. I can show you the real face of Baldur’s Gate, when it’s too dark for the gods to be watching.” He closed the remaining distance between them, murmuring in a honeyed tone, lips nearly touching Jayme’s. “Come with me?”

“Lead the way,” Jayme whispered back and pulled him in for a quick kiss. He tasted of red wine and promise.

Astarion didn’t let the kiss deepen; instead, he leaped to the cabinet he had appropriated for his belongings to grab a common cloak and one of his daggers.

“Bring a guise, and we’re off.” He tossed an impish look at Jayme and darted ahead.

Outside, the streets had taken on an enigmatic and strangely inviting character. Under the muted light of lanterns and torches, the alleys teemed with carousers, harlots, beggars, and the occasional ordinary passerby. Their banter blended seamlessly with the music spilling from taverns and private houses. The city's heartbeat, once pounding with the rush of the day, now softened into a subtle pulse—a hushed symphony of nocturnal life.

It felt familiar. It felt like home.

Jayme’s blood thrummed in his veins, demanding release, charged with violent urges to slash at strangers and terrorize the crowds. He silenced it, as he’d done countless times before. He envisioned his Urge as a gruesome fiend, channeling his slashes toward it instead of the living.

“So, where to now?” he asked, as his fantasy ended with the Urge’s hacked-off head, glancing at Astarion from under his hood.

“You mean, where to first. And the answer is, we find ourselves some gaudy soiree to crash,” Astarion announced as he waded through a band of rambunctious gnomes. “The Upper City’s out—too many guards and pompous patriars. No fun. Let’s stick to the posh parts of the Lower City, shall we?”

“Should’ve brought my violin,” Jayme muttered under his breath.

“Didn’t you get your fill playing for our troop earlier? No, my sweet, tonight you’ll be the entertained, not the entertainer. Come, there’s always some revelry in this part of town.”

They took a jaunt to the western part of the Lower City, and sure enough, they stumbled upon an inviting-looking ball at Lady Jannath’s estate.

“A masquerade!” Astarion exclaimed, his excitement edged with a trace of bitterness. “Oh, how I used to welcome being sent to these jovial affairs—so much better than flophouses or taverns. Easy prey, every time. Everyone here is practically begging to be seduced.”

“If it’s by you, I’m not surprised,” Jayme remarked softly, noting the colorfully attired nobles cavorting in the garden and the brightly lit estate. “A mysterious young man with a sculpted physique visible through the fine fit of his doublet, whispering well-crafted sweet nothings in a velvety voice? I doubt any prim maiden or conservative lord could resist.”

“Do I detect a touch of longing?” Astarion tilted his head, smirking slyly. “Alright, if you wish, I can give you the ‘seduced by a vampire at a masquerade’ experience. Without the blood-sucking part, of course—though I’d be more than happy to oblige, should it please you.”

“You don’t need to do this,” Jayme said, unsure where this idea had even come from.

“Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll be fine! I’m with you, after all. And this is but an imitation of the profligate life I used to lead. Let’s split up, get masks, and then we’ll find each other in the crowd. Shall we?” Astarion purred, nuzzling Jayme’s face with his nose. He couldn't seem to contain his excitement for their night out.

Although Jayme couldn’t entirely understand it, seeing Astarion so revitalized after their lethargy in the Shadow-Cursed Lands warmed his heart. It made him want to indulge, just for now. Violent streaks, shapeshifter murderers, and mind-controlling brains be damned.

“I’m game. See you soon, I suppose,” he said with a nod.

They sneaked in through the iron gate together, right under the nose of the bored guards. Jayme cast an Invisibility spell on himself while Astarion kept to the shadows. Once inside, they separated. Astarion disappeared at the far end of the garden, and Jayme made his way toward the house, finding a convenient blind spot by the wall to reappear.

In one corner of the terrace, a quintet comprising a lute, a lyre, a flute, and two drums played lively music for the dancers. Jayme paused briefly to appraise them. He noticed the seventh string of the lyre was slightly off pitch, and the lutist’s pull-offs were weak—likely due to an injury, given the unnatural movements of his fingers. Otherwise, their performance was adequate.

Weaving through the pairs of joyous dancers, Jayme searched for a guest sufficiently in his cups not to notice his mask being pilfered. Finding a suitable candidate proved easy: a stout lord sat just inside the house, sagging against the wall and snoring thunderously, clearly having nodded off while observing the gathering.

Jayme crept close and removed his cloak with a sweeping motion that obscured the moment he secured the man’s golden mask. Draping his cloak over an empty chair, he glided deeper into the room and slipped the mask on. It was a metal filigree design that covered the areas around his eyes and nose while leaving his jaw exposed.

Eager to see if he had outpaced Astarion, he scanned the room but couldn’t spot the familiar white locks. At the same time, he took in the sparkling crystal chandeliers, intricately carved wooden furniture, and grandiose paintings that adorned the space.

He strolled through the room to get a feel of the place. He couldn’t recall attending such functions in his previous life, and the atmosphere evoked no sense of familiarity. He thought of Sceleritas' bizarre deference—those times when the fiend butler fawned over him as if he were a noble. Of course, he now knew this behavior stemmed from something far removed from wealth or social standing.

His Dark Urge was now a distant, deep hum on the edge of his consciousness. It prowled at the edges of his mind, occasionally hissing appeals to repaint the vivid scene in grisly red. Jayme deliberately ignored it and looked around for a distraction—as his steadfast, fanged companion had taught him.

The better half of the room was dominated by a grand table laden with a bounty of spiced meats, breads, hard cheese, exotic fruits, cakes, wines, and liqueurs. Jayme picked up a glass goblet and, unable to resist, poured himself some Wyvern Whiskey—he had strangely craved it ever since Raphael had likened his own blood to the fiery spirit.

As he raised the goblet to his mouth to savor the first sip, an alluring low-pitched voice called to him from behind.

“The delectable nectar of Nimbral—why, someone has excellent taste! Normally, it would have been my second choice—right after a glass of luscious, ruby-red Elverquisst—but you’ve just made me reconsider. Would you care to pour me a cup, darling? Mind the wyvern scale in the bottle, now.”

Jayme let a small smirk surface on his lips as he fulfilled the request, then turned to face a masked Astarion. The beautiful metal mask he wore was similar in style to Jayme’s but black in color. It set off his red eyes gorgeously. He had discarded his cloak and was dressed in his tasteful everyday doublet. He cut a dashing figure, fitting in seamlessly with the distinguished environment.

Jayme wordlessly handed him the beverage, and Astarion took it in a way that their fingers briefly touched—of course.

“To your good health!” Astarion said, his eyes fluttering shut as he took a slow, deliberate sip. Jayme found his own eyes drawn to his finely chiseled jaw. “Mellow and smooth. Intricately layered sweet and smoked-wood tones. Subtle hints of cinnamon, toffee, and zesty fruit notes. Finally, a long lingering finish that carries the theme of the wood, spice, and toffee right through to the end. Exquisite!”

“A true connoisseur, I see. Tell me, how did you come to be so well-versed in premium liquors? A perk of your profession, perchance?” Jayme inquired, not overly concerned about the topic of their conversation, but rather curious to see Astarion's reaction.

“Oh, I believe that exploring the pleasures of this world thoroughly is a mission for us all, no matter our profession—a notion, I must say, not ingrained enough in our society. Life’s far too short, and any day could be our last—especially in this vibrant, perilous city. Just look at its blood-soaked history. How many times has it been threatened by evil influences? How many times have we come close to its utter destruction? So, I ask: why deny ourselves, why turn our eyes away, when the city offers such an abundance of stimulating pleasures, hmm?”

His tone, as always, was perfectly balanced—smooth, persuasive, and playfully suggestive. An indirect invitation one could accept or decline, but could definitely not ignore. It made Jayme ache with the desire to reverse their roles, to be the one who lured and charmed. Dominance was a second skin he wasn't used to going without. But for now, he restrained himself.

“Quite so and I couldn’t agree more,” Jayme replied. “I should probably look for my friend though. He’s supposed to be around here somewhere.”

The mask made it more difficult to catch Astarion’s immediate reaction, but his smile didn't falter for a second and his response was as smooth as ever.

“He left your side, didn’t he? I’m sure he’s found his own preferred entertainment by now. If you don’t mind indulging me, I’m curious to know a little more about you. I don’t think I’ve seen you before in these circles. Where do you hail from? I’m Astarion, by the way.” He bowed his head courteously.

“Jayme. I’m a Baldurian by birth but, embarrassingly enough, my familiarity with this city is rather vague at the moment. I’ve suffered a memory loss, you see. Most vexing.”

“It’s a cliché, but it holds true that some things are better left forgotten. It may be a blessing in disguise. I must say, I do envy you.” The quality of his voice changed as he spoke the last words—it rang decidedly more profound.

“Had your fair share of bitter experiences, I take it,” Jayme replied carefully.

“Indeed I have. And I’m keen to wash them away with this whiskey—and perhaps with an opportune, new acquaintance.”

“Opportune?”

“I feel like this soiree has just turned interesting, yes. There’s pleasing music and excellent libations, but the company—well, that’s been lacking. Until now,” Astarion said with a captivating smile. 

Jayme was intimately familiar with Astarion’s shapely lips by now, but as the mask focused his attention on it, he took fresh note of how maddeningly inviting they were. As he poured some more liquid fire down his throat, he had half a mind to lean forward and pry them apart with his tongue.

Instead, he asked, “Care to share some of your recommendations as to the abundant possibilities you mentioned?”

At this, Astarion’s smile widened. His hand, which had been supporting the arm holding the whiskey, came forward and gently brushed against Jayme's elbow in a confidential yet tactful manner.

“I’d be happy to! But, if you’ll allow me, I’d go a step further: let me be your guide for this delightful night. It can’t be a coincidence we’ve met. We might rekindle some of your more pleasant memories or… create entirely new, intriguing ones.”

Jayme took another swig, relishing how the liquid burned his mouth, tongue, and throat before pooling in his stomach. Heat coursed through his veins, though he knew it wasn’t solely from the whiskey.

He returned Astarion’s smile with a beaming one of his own.

“A delightful night, indeed. Such a pity my bride-to-be couldn’t join us this time.”

He threw in another light-hearted challenge, but nothing seemed to jolt the vampire.

“It might be just as well. What I have in mind is hardly suited for delicate ladies. I’m a man of many passions, but I’m especially partial to passions of the darker kind. Might you be the same, I wonder?”

“Mmm, depends. What does that darkness entail for you?”

Here, Astarion leaned in close, lips ghosting a mere inch from Jayme’s ear, and dropped his voice to a whisper. He spoke slowly, shaping each word with sensual care.

“Unconventional preferences. Secret fantasies. Unspeakable fetishes. Anything is on the table with me. Including, if desired, myself on the table.”

Artful , Jayme thought, but just a shade insincere.

“What you said just gave me an idea,” he murmured against Astarion’s neck.

“What, pray tell?”

“Let’s stop this nonsense and dance with me. The real you with the real me,” Jayme said, his voice no longer hushed.

This time, Astarion couldn’t remain unfazed—he gaped, caught off guard.

“W-what? Was I doing it wrong?”

Jayme took another sip, gestured for Astarion to follow suit, then clasped his hand and led him to the terrace. The performance of the quintet was still in full swing, with couples dancing enlivened by the spiraling melodies.

“No. Mission accomplished—you’ve seduced me to the point I can’t shake the image of me taking you on a table from my mind.” He stopped at a convenient spot and spun Astarion to face him.

“Then why…?”

They began dancing, with Jayme taking the lead. Like the notes of the violin, the steps came naturally to him, even though he couldn’t recall ever taking a dance lesson. He knew music and he knew dance. Astarion, his movements lacking grace in his lingering confusion, struggled to catch the rhythm.

Astarion’s demeanor had been blatantly, deliciously provocative—the very thing that ignited heat and desire in Jayme. It was this calculated quality that made the bard pause. To take a step back. Because beneath the black mask, he sensed routine, he sensed pattern, and—much to his displeasure—detachment.

That didn’t sit well with Jayme. It brought to mind the two times they had slept together.

Jayme wanted none of that anymore and knew that Astarion felt the same way. Their conversation at Moonrise Towers was still fresh on his mind after the rogue had expressed gratitude for not being pressured into biting the drow alchemist woman. When had Astarion made it clear that he no longer wished to be desired for his body alone. Although their bond had long since evolved beyond such considerations, Jayme knew Astarion still needed time to come to terms with many things. What had happened to him; who he wanted to become; and what they were to each other.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was fascinating to see you in action. And to be on the receiving end—arousing. Truly. But I’ve had enough, and I think you have, too, for a lifetime. All of that’s in the past now. It’s just you and me.”

They touched their palms together, pivoted around, pulled back, and touched again. 

“You… how do you always manage to surprise me?” Astarion sighed, wonder filling his voice. “You were concerned about me, weren’t you? About how it would make me feel.”

“Of course I was. How could I not be? I’ve told you before: I care about you.”

“My silly sweetling, I told you I’d be fine. Wasn’t I the one to suggest plunging headlong into this roleplay in the first place? That’s what this was, a stupid little roleplay. It felt like… an easy thing to do. With you, especially so.”

“And sure enough, you delivered. But I want more from tonight—and from you always—than just the skills you picked up in your past life.” Your past, enslaved life, Jayme thought, but didn’t say. “You’re done with all of that. For good. You don't need to pretend anything anymore.”

He had witnessed firsthand how easily, how alarmingly effortlessly Astarion could slip back into his old ways. Tonight, Jayme resolved to be the steadfast companion to stop him from doing that. Just as Astarion had been there for him during his own darkest throes, wrestling with his Despicable Urges.

They danced without saying anything for a while. The cogwheels inside Astarion’s head were turning without rest, Jayme could tell.

Just as the song ended and the band began another, Astarion captured Jayme’s hand in his, moved in close, and fixed his eyes on Jayme's.

“I love you, you know that?” he said softly. 

Jayme pressed a kiss to his lips.

“I think I do,” he replied, his voice just as soft.

They continued to dance, but before long, Astarion leaned in for another kiss. 

And another. 

And then they were lost—time and place lost their significance. Their feet stilled, and the dance slipped from their attention as they embraced. Jayme cupped Astarion’s face with one hand and caressed his neck and collarbone with the other—consciously tracing the fang marks with the back of his fingers. Astarion wrapped his arms around Jayme’s back, stroking his back from neck to waist, then slowly sneaked his hands further down to his hips. His fingers grabbed his hipbones, digging in with force, holding on as if his life depended on it.

At this point, their surroundings began to intrude on the tender haze that had settled over them. Disapproving hisses, embarrassed coughs, and the clicking of tongues broke the air.

They looked around, still clinging to each other, and found frowns aimed their way from every direction.

“Prudes,” Astarion scoffed under his breath, against Jayme’s mouth, smiling giddily. “Imagining me on a table again?”

“You bet. You're stark naked and panting,” Jayme murmured.

Astarion laughed, the sound breathless and uncharacteristically heavy. Then, his eyes lit up.

“I just got a new idea of where I want to take you. A raw and sensual place.”

“Sharess’ Caress?”

“Oh, please. Sharess’ Caress is a snooty, pretentious pleasure house for the wealthy. I know of a place that’s uncensored—no frills, no airs. Just candidly vulgar without crossing into tastelessness.”

”Lead the way.” Jayme grinned.

Hands interlocked, they returned to the main room to grab Jayme’s cloak, making a quick detour at the liquor table so Jayme could pour another whiskey and raise it to Astarion’s lips. Letting out a small giggle, Astarion let the liquid flow into his mouth, and the last sip he passed to Jayme by a kiss.

Needless to say, their antics did little to deflect or pacify the irritation their inappropriate displays had stirred. Unsurprisingly, one particularly haughty-looking dame launched into a loud tirade.

“My word, have you seen the disgraceful behavior on the dance floor? And now this? Such depravity! It belongs in the stables, not at a civilized ball. I never thought I'd see the day when such obscenity infiltrated these refined walls.”

Astarion regarded her with scorn, compressed his lips into a cynical smile before replying.

“My dear, you must have lived a very sheltered life. If you expected a perfect facade of civility here, I'm afraid you'll be sorely disappointed. Take a walk around the house, check the darker corners, the abandoned hallways—I’d bet all the riches of Calimport you’d find some gentleman with his hands up a maid’s skirt. Beneath the surface, we're all complex creatures, wouldn't you agree?”

“Complex?” The dame’s plump face twisted into a scowl. “No, there's a difference between complexity and outright debauchery. You may find it amusing, but I, for one, will not stand for it!”

Astarion raised a hand in a mollifying gesture.

“No need to raise your voice. We’ll move this elsewhere, and you, my dear lady, can stay and stand proud in your virtue while not being pleasured to Arvandor and back by a sex god.”

Jayme stifled a laugh and hurriedly dragged the sneering rogue away from the scene. Passing a thunderstruck group of guests, including the gawking dame, they left the estate behind. They only stopped to snatch up Astarion’s cloak on their way.

“A sex god? I hope that wasn’t just a phrase to make the slight more piercing,” Jayme said, smirking.

Astarion veered them toward the east side, their cloaks billowing behind them as they strode by the Lodge and the Blushing Mermaid. It must have been well past midnight by now; the streets were considerably quieter than when they‘d set out. Drunkards stumbled about, trying to find their way forward, while stray vagrants loitered along the curbs.

“Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Astarion teased, giving Jayme’s hand a playful squeeze.

Ahead, a group of three human men zigzagged down the street, arms slung around each other as they bellowed a song at the top of their lungs, patently drunk.

“Shine razor eyes before the walls come down
Wilder than lions, louder than sound
The birds and the bees are getting older now
There's a cold breeze blowing over my soul”

The song carried an indecent undertone, accentuated by the sensuality of their pose as they meandered down the street—arms snugly encircling each other's shoulders, bodies huddled close together.

Blood pumping hot in his veins, Jayme was struck by a sudden impulse. He grabbed the lapels of Astarion's clothing, gave them a strong tug, twirling him around, and pushed him against the wall of the building they were passing, not caring what it was. He pressed his body over Astarion’s without hesitation. Yanking the pallid face forward, Jayme savored the look of surprise before they met in a clash of teeth. A muffled moan escaped Astarion as he immediately responded by inviting Jayme’s tongue into his mouth.

“Shine razor eyes in delight
Shine razor eyes before you die
Shine razor eyes in this light
There's a cold breeze blowing over my soul”

Their masks clinked together where their noses met—a nuisance. With a swift hand, Jayme swept across both their faces in turn, sending the masks clattering to the ground with loud clangs.

Meanwhile, the singing trio staggered by behind them. One gave a whoop of encouragement at their fervent display, while the other two remained undistracted and continued their concert.

“Tired of this human duet
No civilizing hides
Our animal impulses”

“What a charming song,” Astarion mumbled between kisses, pulling back slightly to give Jayme a suggestive look. “We’re almost there, darling. Can you be patient for me, just a little longer?”

“Hardly.” Jayme’s voice was rough, close to a grunt, as he lowered his head to nibble at Astarion’s neck.

“Ha ha! I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.”

“Not an exhibitionist. I don't care who sees.”

No civilizing hides our animal impulses—they heard the line repeating several times, slowly fading away.

Jayme snaked a hand under Astarion’s clothes, caressing every inch of skin he could reach on his back, his fingers tracing the grisly lines of the inscription etched into his flesh. At once, the Dark Urge stirred with keen attention, but Jayme deftly bottled it up before the whispers could swell into hideous cries.

“Ah, you’re naughty. Mmm… But trust me. If you come with me now, you won’t regret it.” Astarion nimbly wriggled out of Jayme’s hold and took him by the hand again.

They took a few more turns and entered a dusky, hemmed-in street Jayme had absolutely no recollection of. The heavy darkness was pierced by a single torch burning next to an inconspicuous door. They approached it, and Astarion knocked four times.

A Kara-turan woman draped in a refined, wrapped-front garment opened the door silently. She stepped aside to let them in after Astarion slipped a few gold pieces into her waiting palm.

Inside, a wholly different world unfolded before their eyes.

A dimly lit corridor stretched ahead, winding its way with numerous rooms branching off on either side. The size of the place was difficult to gauge in the prevailing semi-darkness. Candles shimmered along the corridor, each set alongside a stick of incense, sending up tendrils of smoke.

As they moved deeper into the establishment, Astarion guiding Jayme by the hand, Jayme noticed richly-hued damask and gossamer drapes covering the walls, serving as partitions instead of doors in some areas. Burgundy, coral, saffron, beige, cerulean—a cavalcade of colors blurred by the hazy candlelight.

The rooms were all occupied by couples, sometimes trios or larger groups, fully absorbed in sexual activities. The participants were a mix of races: humans, elves, dwarves, tieflings. Jayme even glimpsed the silhouette of a dragonborn man receiving the ardent attentions of two half-orc women in a half-lit nook. Lewd sighs and pants, as well as the sound of skin bumping against skin filled the air like an intoxicating perfume.

It was a curious space that seemed to be floating out of context in the belly of this cultured city with its dense population of patriars, artisans, scholars, and Flaming Fists. Yet, it made sense that such venues thrived, attracting a diverse crowd. They were all beings of the flesh—a simple truth Astarion himself had alluded to during his riposte at Lady Jannath’s estate.

Time seemed to flow differently here, each moment sharpening the senses to every sound, scent, and touch. The air, heavy with incense, coiled around Jayme in a loose but sure grip. He suspected the incense was spiked with some kind of stimulant, but he said nothing, allowing Astarion to wordlessly usher him to a vacant room at the back of the facility.

The room was sparsely furnished: a sizable bed, a table, an armchair, and a few shelves housing vials of oil—their purpose unmistakable. Strips of gossamer hung from the ceiling, enhancing the space’s soft, ethereal atmosphere.

They tossed their cloaks onto the bed. Then Jayme was spun around, much like he had spun Astarion in front of himself for their dance. They gazes locked.

“Well, what do you think?” Astarion asked, taking both of Jayme’s hands and interlacing their fingers.

“You’re bold, guiding me into a den where instincts run wild and unrestrained,” Jayme said in a low voice, and pulled them close together until their chests touched, their hands still clasped.

“Lo and behold: the extent of my trust in you.”

Jayme hovered his mouth over Astarion’s, their bodies gently swaying side to side like a pendulum—as if caught in an inebriated dance. Was it the Wyvern Whiskey, the strange incense, or their surging arousal?

“Bold. Reckless. Foolish.” He lowered his voice to a faint whisper as their foreheads met, cold skin against hot, and they both closed their eyes to soak in the wanton desire gushing through their veins. Jayme inhaled Astarion’s whiskey-scented breath deeply.

“I’m only a fool for you,” Astarion murmured. Their eyes opened in unison, seeking the answer to the same unspoken question.

“I want to fuck you,” Jayme said, voice deep and sure. His hands slid from Astarion’s to encircle his lean frame, pulling them together tightly. He growled as he felt the Astarion’s arousal press against his own.

He touched Astarion there, drinking in the gasp that rushed from him.

“What are you still waiting for?” came the answering whisper with some delay, barely more than a hiss of quivering consonants.

That. That was what he had been waiting for—to hear Astarion say aloud that he wanted this. Jayme had resolved to give him time until he was sure Astarion understood their connection for what it truly was. Until Astarion was ready. Between them, sex was not to be the means to instill false illusions of trust or barter favors. It had to happen for itself.

Now, with that confirmation finally given, Jayme suddenly felt like they had all the time in the world.

He wanted this to be slow. To take Astarion at leisurely pace. To explore every inch of skin with intimate care, learning what unraveled him, what drove him to the edge of sanity.

He loosened the laces of Astarion’s breeches and pushed them down along with his undergarments. Instead of helping him step out them completely, he left the fabric bunched around Astarion’s ankles. His hands roamed over cold, muscular thighs, lips pressing a trail of kisses along the inside of one thigh before switching to the other as he reached the top, brushing against highly sensitive skin.

Astarion’s fingers tangled in Jayme’s hair, a series of gasps escaping him in time with Jayme’s tender attentions.

Alternating kisses with bites, Jayme dragged out the foreplay until the grip on his hair turned sharp with urgency.

Taking mercy—but only a little— he licked a long, straight line, relishing the slightly salty taste. Even vampires can sweat, the thought struck him. It shouldn’t have surprised him, of course; he’d seen it before, felt Astarion’s perspiration against his own skin, and yet, it struck him anew.

He licked, stroked, and fondled for what felt like long minutes. Was it truly minutes, seconds, or even an hour? Who knew? But Jayme was still merely teasing. Taunting.

By then, Astarion was aroused to the fullest, his cock hanging heavy between his legs, painfully neglected. Jayme kept his distance from it with sheer force of will, grazing it each time on his way up with the whisper of a touch but not allowing them more. Even as the sight of it made Jayme’s own desire swell and demand his attention with more and more insistence.

The incense seemed to grow thicker around them. The sensual hums and moans from the adjoining rooms echoed their rhythm, their leisurely pulse.

“I-I’m not used to this. This slowness,” Astarion blurted at one point, his voice catching. “If you're aiming to torture me…”

“I am. Torture you with pleasure.”

“Gods.”

“Just the one,” Jayme whispered and suggestively leered at Astarion through dark lashes. When their eyes met, he winked.

“Oh, you—”

“Me. Yes. And you love me. Say it again, and I’ll give you what you ache for.”

Astarion closed his mouth for a split second but then uttered the words without reserve.

“I love you. And I just might express the depth of my love by biting if you keep this up. Either way, one of us will be sucking.”

Jayme smiled. That expression, that voice—the raw desperation sent spikes of joy through him. Astarion’s reactions were finally genuine, without any pretense or games.

Yes, Jayme wanted to do this as slowly as possible.

"Not just yet. Tell me why you brought me here. Why not take me back to our tavern?"

Astarion’s face turned serious at the question.

"I've been to this lodge before, several times. Never, not once by choice; always as a reluctant accessory to the wild orgies staged to seduce gatherings of four or five at a time. But it's different now and tonight is about choices. Free choices. I choose to be here. With you. It's what I want."

The last words were pronounced with vigor—an assertion, a spit on the past, and a challenge to whatever their future might hold.

Jayme felt immensely proud. Proud and impressed by Astarion’s growing determination in the face of uncertainties, of fetters too long suffered. Ever since they reached Baldur’s Gate, this was the first time Astarion radiated cool confidence instead of barely masked anxiety. It was sincere. Unaffected.

Without another word, he took Astarion fully into his mouth in one fluid but leisurely motion.

A throaty gasp was his prize.

Ever so slowly, he bobbed his head back and forth, tightening his mouth.

“O-oh. Mmm.” Astarion’s fingers squirmed restlessly, abandoning their grip on Jayme’s hair to find purchase on his neck—cold, quivering pressure against Jayme’s heated skin. “Or, ah, new suggestion,” Astarion ground out between gasps. “Just go ahead and fuck me already. I… won’t last long like this.”

“Good call. I want to feel you from the inside when you come,” Jayme murmured after pulling back. His hands glided over Astarion’s thighs again, taking time to thoroughly appreciate the twitching muscles under cool skin—a clear sign of how much Astarion was struggling to hold back.

Jayme glanced around the room, deliberating his options. Every piece of furniture seemed equally inviting—he could picture Astarion coming undone beautifully on all of them.

Even this fleeting moment of hesitation proved too much for the vampire. The fingers digging into Jayme’s neck suddenly disappeared, replaced by insistent hands urging him to his feet.

“You know, it’s terribly unfair that I’m already half-crazed with desire here, while you’re still fully clothed,” Astarion muttered as his deft hands worked open Jayme’s doublet and shirt. Both were flung carelessly onto the bed. “We need to rectify this.”

He couldn’t seem to resist claiming the newly revealed skin, lowering his head to trail rough kisses across Jayme’s chest. He ran his hands up and down Jayme’s sides before moving to his breeches.

Jayme watched the rushed movements and felt a wave of thrill shiver up his spine. The less Astarion was able to linger, the more Jayme wanted to draw things out. That frustrated frown was the most alluring expression Jayme had ever seen on him. He had the always joking, always casually charming rogue in an improbably flustered state. The pure ecstasy of it thrummed through his body, spurring him to invent new ways to tantalize the man.

A quiet growl escaped Jayme’s lips as his thoughts raced.

Curious red eyes flicked up to his face. But Astarion caught only a fleeting glimpse of the flush rising on Jayme’s face, because just then the lacings of the breeches gave way. Jayme took hold of Astarion’s arms and tugged him toward the table.

He backed Astarion to the edge and pushed him onto the tabletop, lifting his thighs slightly to help him settle. With his next movement, Jayme reached for one of the glass vials on the shelf. He poured a few drops of the mostly odorless oil onto his fingertips, coating them generously.

“Guess it makes sense given our earlier conversation,” Astarion noted under his breath, leaning back and propping his head against the wall. His wide-blown pupils followed Jayme’s every move.

One of his hands slid to the center of his arousal, intent on wrapping his fingers around his slick, erect length, but Jayme intercepted the motion and guided the cool hand to his own mouth. He gently kissed it.

“Leave that to me. I'll take care of you.”

Whatever protest Astarion was about to formulate died in his throat because an oiled finger pressed into him in the next second—a single digit to the second knuckle, while a thumb caressed the rim from the outside.

“Say what you want me to do. Say it clearly, without hurry, and I’ll do it. Rush me, and suffer the consequences.” Jayme set the rules calmly and waited for Astarion to accept and give the first instruction.

“How curious.” Astarion raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Last time you didn’t seem interested in talking during.”

“Last time was different, we were different. You took the lead.”

“Alright. I want you to be inside already…” Astarion growled, voice raw and honest, and he retrieved his hand from Jayme’s grasp to take hold of the edge of the table, bracing himself.

“Not so fast.” Jayme shook his head. He pulled his finger back a little, almost slipping out. “I want us to savor each other.”

“Shit… alright. Move your finger deeper. Deeper. Move it around. Stretch me open.” He uttered the instructions in a somewhat stiff tone, then flashed questioning eyes at the bard. “What is it you hope to achieve with this?”

“I want to know you. What you think, how you think. How you feel when you are being fucked by me.” Jayme paused but could guess the train of thought that must have been forming in Astarion’s head from the glint in his red eyes, and preemptively added, “I want to hear it from your own mouth and not through the tadpole. The tadpole’s a foreign body. A shortcut. It’s your own consciously chosen words I want to hear.”

Astarion closed his mouth and lapsed into thought for a moment. Not that he had the luxury to argue. Jayme knew it and patiently waited patiently for him to comply. Soon enough, he did.

“Curve your finger. There. Pull back a bit. There… just there. Keep circling there.”

“Good. How do you feel?”

“Can’t you tell? A little annoyed,” he grumbled but immediately regretted it as Jayme punished him for the poor choice of words. “No! Don’t pull out. Please.”

“You’re not annoyed. Not really. What are you?”

“Desperate,” Astarion admitted on a raspy exhale.

“Yes. Good, that’s good.”

“I’m desperate for you to add another finger.”

“Excellent. You’re doing great,” Jayme said as he granted the wish.

“Who would’ve thought you were into this.”

Jayme smiled and soothingly caressed Astarion’s cheek.

“Relax. Trust me. This is something I used to do when I was learning the violin. It helps you tune into your emotions and fully immerse yourself in them.”

“I want you to immerse yourself fully in me.” Astarion’s mouth formed the word “already,” but he stopped himself just in time, learning from his earlier mistake.

Jayme was pleased. As a reward, he felt out Astarion’s weak spot and kneaded it with the tips of his two inserted fingers. At the same time, he rubbed the delicate skin outside with his thumb.

Astarion gave a jolt and groaned.

“Do you like the way I’m touching you here?”

“Yes…yes! More. Come closer.”

Jayme did. His cock twitched at Astarion’s obedience and the heated tone of his request. His tip painted wet, translucent spots onto Astarion’s inner thigh as it brushed there. Electric pleasure sparked from the shallow contact and he sucked in a breath.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble, eager for more now that Astarion was opening up.

“I’m parched for you. I can hear the strong beating of your heart. It’s putting me under a spell. You are so close. The scent of your blood… is enough to get me drunk.”

“You’re already a little drunk, a little giddy, aren’t you?”

“I am. It’s everything. The whiskey. The incense. But most of all, you.”

“How do you feel about me now?” Jayme pressed. Paradoxically, his thirst deepened the more he heard. His fingers kept working inside Astarion’s maddening tightness.

“I think you’re unreal. No one can be as good as you. I… I’m afraid I might be making you up. Perhaps the parasite’s already chewed a hole in my brain.”

Our animal impulses
Our animal impulses

The hypnotic lines were back, around them—only inside their heads, most probably.

The room seemed to shrink, enclosing them in a space almost too small and unbearably hot. The gossamer curtains swayed lightly, and wisps of incense cast a misty haze in the air.

A bead of sweat traced a slow path down Jayme’s temple.

“I’m real. I’m here,” he reassured Astarion, clasping his shoulder for emphasis. Then, he pulled his fingers out and put his cock against the oiled, softened opening. His restraint was nearing its limit by now, and he pushed forward half an inch at once. “Say what you want me to do.”

A whimper wrenched itself from Astarion’s throat.

“Come inside, ah… slowly.”

“Slowly?”

“I feel like… one slide’d be enough to send me over the edge.” Contrary to his words, he drew closer to Jayme—a tight little motion—arching his body to offer himself even more.

“We wouldn’t want that. You deserve a thorough fucking. Keep your eyes open and on me,” Jayme said when he noticed Astarion’s eyes had rolled shut. Even though he looked utterly enticing this way—eyes mere slits, mouth hanging open, body and mind given over to pleasure—Jayme craved eye contact. He wanted to share this entirely, share everything.

With a jerk, Astarion pulled himself back from the private depth of his bliss.

“Yes. I really think I do. Come inside.”

How his eyes glinted. Searing red, as they held onto Jayme’s predatory blue.

Jayme obliged, slipping in halfway.

“Is that all you want?”

“Yes! … No. I want to drink from you.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A little. Always. But it’s not really that now.”

“What is it?” Jayme asked, repeating slow and shallow thrusts, the push and drag enough to send hot curls of sensation through him and chase him closer to completion. “You’re tight,” he murmured.

The flickering candlelight mirrored their rhythm—heavy pulsation.

“I want to melt together. Have your blood flow through me. And mine flow through you.” Astarion’s voice came out in frenzied rushes, small tremors shaking his body each time Jayme moved.

“Oh?”

“Yes. To become one completely. Please. Jayme. Come inside me.” The three words were practically a whimper, and his hands released the table, wrapping around the small of Jayme’s back on instinct. Just barely, he managed to keep from tugging Jayme closer by those last delicious inches.

Lust gripped Jayme with full force as he watched Astarion struggle—pouring every ounce of effort into complying with his request. He buried himself to the hilt then.

“I am. I will,” he grunted, shuddering from the intense squeeze of Astarion’s body, which almost triggered his release immediately.

But that was out of the question. He needed to move first—to feel those incredible thrusts.

Not even Astarion’s non-existent body heat dampened the feeling of fulfillment because the friction remedied that quickly. Oiled warmth enveloped him in a matter of minutes.

“Your heart’s racing…” Astarion hissed, hands wandering restlessly over Jayme’s back, descending to his bottom every now and then to shape their pace: long, languorous movements with bursts of irregular speed, little jolts that mingled unstoppably into the rhythm.

“You did that. You’re the one doing this to me. You’re perfect.”

And he was. Strands of white clung to his sweat-coated forehead. Legs splayed wide to receive Jayme, to have him as close and deep inside as possible. His cock standing upright still, rocking with their pulse, swollen and glistening but untouched.

“How do you feel about me?” Astarion asked suddenly, training a surprisingly clear and piercing gaze on Jayme.

Jayme no longer restrained himself—in speech or motion. He braced his hands against the wall behind Astarion and picked up the pace.

“I want your everything. And I want to give you everything. Lift you up. Treat you like you deserve to be treated. Protect you. Kill your enemies. I’d kill anyone for you.”

The Dark Urge purred with interest inside Jayme’s head, but he promptly banished it before it could surface.

Astarion’s body trembled at those fervent promises. For that’s what they were: promises, not mere pillow talk.

“No one… ever before,” he whispered, his nails helplessly scratching Jayme’s back. After a string of guttural moans, his tone tightened. “Do you want to kill me?”

“No. My Urge does. But I’m stronger than him.”

The menace in Astarion’s question—seemingly taking on a life of its own, like an unholy beast in the room—was swiftly dispelled by the steady cadence of Jayme’s response.

“You’re amazing. I fucking love you!” Astarion closed the distance between them and smashed their lips together in a rough, feral kiss, his tongue thrusting deep into Jayme’s mouth in unconscious imitation of how he was being penetrated.

“I love fucking you,” Jayme groaned in response. He was close. So close it was all he could do not to spill then and there from the intensity of their total abandon.

“Shit… damn. Darling, I’m going to…” Astarion choked. His nails carved crescent-shaped marks into Jayme’s shoulder blades, breaking the skin.

The scent of blood grew exponentially stronger. It was enough to strip the last vestiges of sanity from Astarion’s mind; he cursed, though Jayme couldn't make out the words.

“Astarion. Say my name,” Jayme gasped, sensing the unmistakable signs of Astarion’s imminent climax.

He wanted to hear it. To have it overwrite everything carnal in Astarion’s past life. Old lovers. Insignificant ghosts. This was them.

“Jayme. I’m going to come,” Astarion mouthed, voice caught in his throat.

“Drink from me.”

For a fleeting second, Jayme feared the offer wouldn’t pierce Astarion's lust-addled haze.

A pointless worry. In perfect sync with the first pulse of his climax, Astarion plunged his fangs blindly into Jayme’s neck, moaning shamelessly. And Jayme–

Jayme emerged from his reverie in that exact moment, his body shaking helplessly with desire. The sheer force of the memory had wrenched his consciousness back to reality.

Astarion’s moan still rang hauntingly loud in his ears, and surges of heat rolled over his skin. He was hopelessly hard, to the point of pain.

With shaky fingers and shallow, rasping breaths, he unlaced his breeches and hastily wrapped a hand around himself. His skin was scorching, slick, and so sensitive that even the slightest touch nearly sent him over the brink.

He was aching to finish reliving the scene that had been so abruptly cut off.

Unable to resist, he summoned the image of Astarion’s naked, carved physique, the exposed angle of his Adam’s apple, sweat-dampened white locks, and his face.

Oh, his face.

Those exquisite features reshaped by the storm raging inside—the crease between his eyebrows, the little dimple forming between his nose and the corner of his mouth as he neared his release.

His pulled-up legs resting at Jayme’s sides. His taut stomach clenching.

The arch of his lips.

The way his body soaked up Jayme’s heat, claimed the warmth as its own.

The bold swell of his cock.

It was only at this point that Jayme moved his hand—a single, firm downward pull.

The fiery red of Astarion’s eyes. His eyelids fluttering closed. His dark eyelashes. His moan the moment he came.

And Jayme came too, a low groan tearing from his throat. He had no power to stop it, even as a voice in the back of his mind warned him to stay as silent in this unknown territory. He simply couldn’t control himself.

Such was the influence of the Feywild. Not only did words, emotions, and even the tendrils of thought hold a potent sway in this realm—as Baba Yaga had said—sensations were staggeringly intense, almost consuming.

Once the erratic beating of his heart steadied, Jayme shakily rose to his feet and looked for a way to clean himself. Luckily, the birch grove he had chosen for his repose was lined by a crystal-clear stream. As he made do with the sparkling water, his gaze drifted lazily to the vibrant dance of a school of golden and purple trout beside him. Despite the picturesque spot and the fresh water, he longed still for some soap.

Afterward, he pressed on through the Everwood. The exhilarating memory of the masquerade and the Gossamer Alcove continued to haunt him each step along the way.

Chapter 9: I - Like fire weeping from a cedar tree

Summary:

And I have never loved a darker blue
Than the darkness I have known in you, honed from you
You, whose heart would sing of anarchy
You, who'd laugh at meaning's guarantee,
So beautifully

When our truth is burned from history
By those who figure justice in fond memory, witness me
Like fire weeping from a cedar tree
Know that my love would burn with me
We'll live eternally

Hozier – Better Love

Notes:

The second part of Jayme's chapter.

Here comes an old face from Baldur's Gate 2! *.*

Astrazalian was under siege, and Jayme found himself right in the middle of it.

He edged as close as he dared, observing the chaos. The city gates were blocked, unreachable behind the battle’s raging front line. On one side stood the fey eladrin knights of the fabled Sword Guard, clad in shimmering heavy armor and wielding elven scimitars. These stalwart defenders fought to protect their city against a horde of fomorian and cyclops aggressors.

The situation didn’t take Jayme by surprise; he was acquainted with the chronicles of this place.

The City of Starlight was a vibrant tangle of meandering streets, with new, gleaming ivory towers rising alongside centuries-old spires. During spring and summer, it resided on a fair green isle of the Moonshaes on the Prime Plane, but each fall and winter it returned to the Feywild. Its position near the fomorian borderlands made it a prized target for the hideously deformed fomorian giant-kin. They sought not only city’s riches but its strategic value as a gateway to launch conquests into the Prime. Thus, the city faced constant siege when it returned to the Feywild, as the giants relentlessly strove to breach its walls and seize control.

Jayme quickly assessed the battlefield. He realized he had no choice but to assist the fey eladrin forces if he wanted to enter the city. Stealth was out of the question with the heavy attention focused on the gates.

He moved to flank the enemy but lacked his spellcasting focus: his instrument. He looked over the fallen for a makeshift weapon and soon found one—a rapier lying beside the body of an eladrin. Snatching it up, he turned on a fomorian fighter with an elaborate Vicious Mockery.

“Gore-bellied purulent horse arse!” he yelled at the abomination, relying purely on his own voice to project the spell. 

Exploiting the fomorian’s moment of disorientation, he lunged forward and ran his rapier through its abdomen, then nimbly sidestepped the halberd swung at his head. He yanked the rapier free, and blood gushed so profusely that the giant toppled and stayed on the ground.

The deed didn’t go unnoticed by another fomorian, one who commanded an enthralled eladrin archer. Instead of attacking directly, it barked an order in its guttural tongue, and the archer, like a puppet, obediently loosed an array of explosive arrows at Jayme.

Wherever the arrows struck, chunks of soil and grass vanished into another realm with a loud poof. Jayme zigzagged around the eladrin, narrowly evading each small explosion as he closed the distance. At the last moment before reaching the archer—before knocking him unconscious with the pommel of his rapier—Jayme caught a glimpse of the thrall’s glassy golden eyes.

The evil enchantment of the fomorians looked right back at him. This wasn’t some fleeting magic, like a Dominate Person or Crown of Madness spell, but something deeper, more insidious. This eladrin had been a puppet for far longer than the span of this battle.

Fomorians were infamous slavers, Jayme recalled in the split second before the archer collapsed. The thought kindled a small fire of fury inside him.

The fomorian, having lost its puppet, let out an enraged howl and charged, swinging a hammer the size of Jayme’s body.

Jayme met it head-on. “Love limb of a lecherous lich!” he spat, his gaze steady.

The enchanted insult made the monster pause, and the hesitation gave Jayme just enough time to somersault in front of it and thrust his blade into its lower abdomen. Dragging the blade across, he sliced the fomorian’s underbelly open, spilling its intestines onto the ground.

While he did his best to shift out of range, a hefty amount of bloody viscera rained down on his face and upper body.

A pulse of something dark and bitterly familiar rippled through his spirit. The sensation of being drenched in blood felt like a warm hug from an old friend—or a father. The metallic tang tickled his nostrils, and a nostalgic smile crept unbidden onto his lips.

Rolling out from under the collapsing giant, his eyes darted around, already seeking his next victim. They settled on a cyclops mage, who spotted Jayme at the same time and wasted no time casting a potent Thunderwave.

The impact hurled Jayme several feet backward—farther than he’d anticipated from the spell—and ripped the rapier from his grasp. It thudded to the ground as he landed hard.

He let out a pained groan, lying sprawled for several seconds as he waited for the shock of the collision to subside enough to move.

By the time that happened, the mage had begun casting its next spell: a Fireball. Instincts screeching, Jayme forced his aching body to vault aside and skirted the devastating flames by the skin of his teeth.

It became clear that these spells packed at least twice the power of the ones he was accustomed to. His gore-fired intuition whispered it was tied to the untamed magic of the Feywild.

“Didst thou mother sex a plague rat?” he cried his next biting Mockery at the giant and dashed toward it with everything he had.

The mage, though momentarily halted by the magic-imbued insult, regained its composure quickly enough given the distance Jayme had to cover. It unleashed a Melf’s Acid Arrow in retaliation. Jayme evaded with a hop to the side, but the projectile exploded as it struck the ground, splattering acid across Jayme’s left leg, side, and most of his back.

The searing pain wrung a scream from his throat. Strangely enough, it only fueled his bloodlust further. Instead of faltering, he leaped forward, flinging himself at the cyclops more than twice his size.

At point-blank range, he bellowed, “You latrine-loving leper!” into its deformed face and did what the thrumming blood in his veins dictated: he clamped his teeth onto the monster’s neck and tore out a mouthful of flesh.

In a heartbeat, the cyclops peeled him off with a furious roar and tossed him back. Jayme found himself sprawled on the ground once again.

The events that followed unfolded almost faster than he could process. Another giant attacker was closing in on his prone form. The double swords of the fomorian were mere seconds from sinking into his body when a mighty two-handed sword appeared out of thin air. It deflected the descending twin blades, redirecting them into the soil a few inches from Jayme’s head.

It seemed the fomorian fighter wasn’t the only new addition to their combat. Jayme’s eyes caught sight of mithril armor, a dark-skinned face, and white hair. In the flurry of actions, the sole thought that registered in his mind was that his savior was a drow fighter.

He sprang to his feet, spun around, and faced the fomorian, who was already striking at him. Jayme parried and stepped out of the way to give the drow room to counterattack. And the drow did—with impeccable timing. Swinging his massive greatsword in a broad arc, he sliced off one of the tree-trunk-sized hands. The limb went flying through the air, still clutching a short sword in its fist.

“Take the sword!” the drow shouted. Jayme did so without hesitation.

Instinctively, they repositioned themselves, each turning their back to the other. The drow confronted the snarling fomorian fighter while Jayme turned his focus to the mage. Despite the heavily bleeding neck, the mage was already chanting the incantation for another Fireball. With one hand pressing down on its wound, the fomorian cast the spell in a strained voice.

A strong tug at Jayme’s wrist yanked him to the ground, and his vision was abruptly covered by crimson fabric—the drow had draped his cloak over them, its enchanted material deflecting the Fireball flawlessly. The grip on his wrist released only when the danger passed.

Springing to their feet, the two faced their opponents once more. As the drow swung forward, Jayme recognized the mage’s next spell—one from Gale’s repertoire—with a stab of dread: a shattering Artistry of War.

Jayme knew he couldn’t let the master strategist apparitions to materialize; their force attack would likely obliterate both him and the drow in one fell swoop. Grinning up at the nasty cyclops, he spat an elaborately composed piece of Mockery at it.

“Even hell’d gag on your bedeviled stench, you misshapen flesh-lump. As the leg, you’ll end in defeat!”

His ears caught a snicker from the direction of his drow ally.

Luckily, the desired effect didn’t lag behind: the mage's anger flared so intensely that he stumbled over the intricate spell.

Jayme took immediate advantage, driving his blade through the monster with an elegant slash. The fresh spray of blood felt warm and delightful against his skin. If not for fear of potential toxicity, he might have flicked his tongue out to taste the life essence of his fallen foe.

Behind him, there was a loud thump and the fomorian fighter’s howl ceased altogether.

Jayme spun to find himself face to face with the smirking drow.

“It has been a while since I last heard such colorful taunts—if ever. I would hazard a guess your style is unique even amongst Faerûnian bards. Thank you for the experience.” The drow inclined his head in a slight bow, his red eyes glinting with amusement and the thrill of combat.

“Thanks for the assist,” Jayme replied. “And for the cloak. It’s a remarkable piece of craftsmanship. ” He meant to say more—about the fomorians—but the searing pain along his body dragged his focus back to his wounds. He couldn’t help but wince. 

“Think nothing of it,” the drow said, sheathing his sword. “As for the cloak, it is a Piwafwi of Fire Resistance. It deflects fire admirably, but prolonged exposure to sunlight could render it useless. Perfect for here, less so for Toril. But enough talk—you need healing. Come.” He motioned for Jayme to follow him toward the city.

It was only then that Jayme realized the battle had been won by the eladrin. The area was littered with giant corpses, and in the distance, a few retreating fomorian units could be seen. Fey comrades-in-arms assisted one another and tended to the fallen wherever he looked.

Jayme held onto the fomorian’s sword and turned to walk beside the drow, suppressing every reaction to the excruciating pain that threatened to surface. He retrieved the map Baba Yaga had given him from under his ruined garment—parts of it had melted away from the acid, but, miraculously, the better half remained intact.

“You are resilient. A war veteran, I presume,” the drow remarked as he looked Jayme up and down. “Though curiously underarmed and undergeared.” His searching eyes settled on Jayme’s face at last. “Hmm. I have been absent from Faerûn for some time, but not so long as to forget the distinctive features of a high elf. As I understand it, glowing red eyes are hardly commonplace.”

Jayme glanced to the side to meet the drow’s inquisitive gaze for a moment before looking away.

“It must be the magic of the Feywild,” he said. “I think… it’s reawakening the curse of my heritage.”

“Your heritage, as in…?” the drow asked, his voice measured. Curious, certainly, yet not prying.

Jayme didn’t respond, and the drow courteously let the matter drop.

The portcullis before them was being raised. It was beautifully filigreed elven metalwork adorned with intricate silver patterns. It rose with a whispering melody, revealing the enchanted city beyond.

Astrazalian was clothed in mesmerizing, fiery fall glory. The streets, lined with graceful trees, boasted a vibrant mosaic of crimson and gold leaves. Ethereal elven spires reached skyward, their delicate architecture perfectly harmonizing with the season's enchanting beauty.

From the other side of the gate, fey eladrin clerics hurried to the battlefield to care for the wounded. Stationed atop the walls alongside wizards and archers, they had combatted the fomorian forces from above.

The drow gestured toward one of the clerics, a ginger-haired and red-skinned female eladrin, who approached without hesitation.

“Neriyana, if I may. This kind foreigner has aided us most valiantly. Would you be so good as to heal the worst of his injuries?”

“Certainly, Solaufein,” the woman replied, extending a small palm toward Jayme’s wounds. “Vita, mortis, careo.”

Warmth radiated from her delicate fingertips to Jayme’s burned skin, and relief washed over him in an instant. By the time the spell ended, a dull, tolerable ache had replaced the mind-numbing pain.

“Apply a healing salve to the affected areas generously tonight, and by morning, the pain will trouble you no more.” With that, the eladrin moved on to the other injured.

“Thank you,” Jayme called after her.

“You can purchase a healing salve at Aramath Teldorm’s smithy,” the drow readily supplied. “By the way, I am Solaufein of Ust Natha.”

“Jayme. Of Baldur’s Gate. My only problem is, I have no gold or anything I could barter. What you see is all I have.”

Solaufein inclined his head at that.

“You might just be the new definition of the word ‘unprepared.’ Or has someone robbed you, perhaps? Though I struggle to picture that scenario.”

“I didn’t choose to come here. Someone, some vengeful foe of mine, set a trap in my room at the Elfsong Tavern, which teleported me here. I was about to retire to rest, hence my… homely attire,” Jayme summarized his ordeal, noting that Solaufein’s face reflected neither gloating, scorn, nor anything spiteful one might expect from a drow.

 His expression was serious and genuinely compassionate.

“My sympathies. You must find yourself thoroughly vexed by such a predicament. Lucky for you, the fey of this city are hardly interested in gold. Of course, it depends on the vendor, but exotic goods are much more likely to pique their curiosity. And what truly captivates them are strong emotions they can extract from you. It sounds like you have all the currency you need.” He smiled reassuringly. “But I can help out with a trinket if you will accept.”

What an odd drow, Jayme thought. Perhaps he has an angle? Either way, I need an instrument, and for that, I need something to trade.

“Thank you. I’ll find a way to repay your kindness. For now, my highest priority is getting a musical instrument. If you could point me to a luthier, I’ll be on my way and come back to you afterward.”

Solaufein pulled out a bag of holding and produced a glinting maroon ring crafted entirely of bloodstone.

“Here, give this to the apprentice at Aramath Teldorm’s smithy to barter for the healing salve. As for your instrument, you want to go to Efanon’s—I believe he is the finest craftsman in the field. His workshop is close to the smithy, just under that white tower. You see?” The drow leaned in close, pointing out the building from Jayme’s perspective. “The one ornamented by silver crescent moon patterns. That is, incidentally, the Tower of Stars, dedicated to–”

“Corellon. I recognize his symbol of old,” Jayme said, noticing the pleasant scent wafting from the drow’s skin beneath the sweat. It reminded him of lavender and thyme. In contrast, he must have reeked of nothing but blood—a fact he now felt self-conscious about. “Where will I find you?”

Solaufein pulled back slightly and peered wordlessly into his eyes for a moment. Jayme felt like he was being gauged.

“I have a penchant for downing a cup at the Lantern Tree tavern before my rest. To celebrate victory and to pray for the fallen. It is an establishment nestled in a grand white oak tree. Ask anyone on the street, and they will give you directions.” He paused briefly before adding, “But you need not come. I understand you might wish to hurry back to Faerûn and make whatever preparations are necessary. I wish you safe travels.”

He bowed his head with a simple yet graceful motion.

After some hesitation, Jayme returned the gesture and remained silent. Solaufein had apparently sensed where his will lay. And yet, Jayme found himself reconsidering his next move once he had an instrument in his hands.

They parted ways.

Jayme headed for the workshop, taking in the full splendor of the city bathed in orange by the twilight sun.

The majority of the passersby were tastefully dressed fey eladrins, their forms manifesting a seasonal aspect tied to their emotions. Most appeared in a summer or fall appearance, shaped by strong emotions like anger or compassion: flaming scarlet manes, golden and coppery red skin, and gleaming amber eyes. Few fey eladrin figures, as far as Jayme could tell, reflected the carefree mischief of spring, with their jovial green hues.

Scattered among the eladrins, a modest number of dryads and satyrs—natives to the Feywild—walked the streets, alongside a scant few high and wood elves, humans, and tieflings. The outsiders were all armed to the teeth, suggesting they had come to Astrazalian specifically to bolster the fey eladrins’ defenses.

Although everyone’s gaze lingered curiously on Jayme’s blood-soaked and tattered appearance, no one reacted with shock. War was in full swing, and the conditions beyond the walls were well known to all.

Once the healing salve was in his pocket, Jayme proceeded to the luthier’s workshop, a wooden building that stood proudly on a small square, directly across from the Temple of Stars. It exuded the elegance of a jewelry casket, with rounded edges, flowing arches, silver inlays, and ornate floral patterns.

Jayme spent a considerable time browsing the lutes and lyres, his favored choices after the violin. After much deliberation and playtesting— enthusiastically encouraged by the satyr artisan, Efanon—he finally set his sights on an artfully designed, richly carved, thirteen-course lute of cherry-colored yew wood.

"Ah, your discerning gaze does you credit, esteemed bard!” Efanon nodded approvingly. “I must warn you though, this particular specimen commands a slightly loftier price, for it stands as a singular masterpiece. The strings, you see, have been studiously crafted and infused with nymph hair. It bestows an enchanting allure upon the notes that dance forth from this exquisite instrument."

“What’s the price?” Jayme asked, his hand hovering over the lute’s graceful body. It resonated with him on a profound level, luring him in at once.

“An arm and a leg.”

Jayme threw a sidelong glance at the satyr. “Is that a joke?”

“No, good sir. But don’t fret! They don’t necessarily have to be yours.”

“I have a better proposal. Let me play for you on this instrument. I’ll summon gripping emotions long forgotten and submerge you in them until the idea of returning to reality becomes… unappealing.”

Jayme’s smile was self-assured, smug even. The luthier hesitated, then shook his head.

“Ah, by no means do I seek to diminish your illustrious skills, esteemed bard, but I harbor some skepticism that such an endeavor would—"

“It would. And there’s no harm in trying, is there?”

Efanon ran a hand through his shaggy mane and released a deep sigh. “Fine. Dazzle me, good sir, if you can.”

And Jayme did. The moment his hands touched the hard yew curves, a connection was forged—confirmed and sealed. Player and instrument acknowledged each other, introduced themselves through touch, and soon began an intimate conversation about secrets, boundless horizons, and the saccharine memories of innocence cast into the shadows by life’s rites of passage. Jayme shaped his music into a safe boat that sailed effortlessly through the seas of the past.

Efanon bore witness to this meeting in a dreamlike daze, losing himself in the waves of bygone days. What he saw on his voyage, Jayme didn’t know; he acted merely as a helmsman, focused on steering the boat.

When the final note faded under Jayme’s fingers, the satyr clapped with sheer delight.

“A lullaby chasing away night terrors! A deluge slaking the desert’s thirst! Bravo, maestro!”

In the end, Jayme walked away not only with the artisan lute but also with a fine, indigo bard outfit—an ensemble of a doublet and breeches made from quality linen, featuring silver swirl-patterned embroidery.

Feeling significantly more at ease after the successful acquisition, Jayme promptly decided to visit a tavern. The journey through the Everwood had stretched on for what felt like more than a tenday, though he couldn’t be sure, given the Sun’s unchanging position. Either way, he had spent far too long foraging for edible-looking fruits and desperately craved the comfort of a real bed.

Eventually, he made his way to the Lantern Tree. The fey eladrins he asked for directions proved to be unreservedly helpful, just as Solaufein had predicted. Their eyes lit up at the mention of his destination—a clear sign of the tavern’s widespread favor.

Once Jayme laid eyes on it, he understood why.

The tree-tavern beckoned with its enchanting blend of nature and artistry. The colossal branches and tangled roots of the white oak were engraved with intricate elven carvings and illuminated by countless lanterns suspended from the golden canopy. The lanterns bathed the polished wooden tables nestled under the boughs in a soft, amber glow. Cozy nooks and alcoves were formed by wooden beams that seamlessly complemented the tree’s natural structure. Elven tapestries, depicting scenes from Arvandor’s history, hung as partitions between tables.

Most of the tables were occupied, and the half-open space was buzzing with the sounds of pleasant chatter.

As Jayme stepped inside, he was overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions: reverence for nature, fascination with the fey and their intricate relationship with the world around them, and most prominently, a deep longing to share this experience with Astarion.

It was time. Time for Jayme to unburden. He chose a spot in one corner of the tavern and began strumming the strings.

This tune was unlike anything he had ever produced before. It carried sentiment the way spring wind carries tree leaves—gently yet irresistibly. Closing his eyes, he improvised, following the twists and turns of his emotions. From harmonic and temperate to hopelessly yearning, and finally, to wrathful and savage, he traversed a wide and wild scale.

When his fingers plucked the last notes, he opened his eyes to find the entire tavern transfixed. Conversations had ceased midway, and he recognized the reverberations of his own thoughts mirrored in the eyes of those watching him.

It was magnetic—connecting with and affecting complete strangers without the need for words. While Jayme had always taken pride in his bardic abilities, this was something entirely new, undoubtedly made possible by the all-permeating, amplifying magic of the Feywild.

Over the next few minutes, patrons thronged before him to toss small tokens of appreciation onto the table next to him. Some made sense to Jayme—gems and jewels, a silk bag of holding. Others were mysterious: vials of nymph tear, pixie dust. And some were outright bizarre: pointed redcap teeth, dried displacer beast ears. The items that accumulated easily surpassed the value of Solaufein’s bloodstone ring six times over.

Speaking of, the drow didn’t approach him, but Jayme caught sight of his silver-white hair without much searching, deeper within the establishment. Seated alone, Solaufein had shed his armor in favor of a casual yet refined deep-blue ensemble. His eyes were already on Jayme, and when their gazes met, he bobbed his head in greeting.

Once the last of his tippers returned to their seats, Jayme gathered the trinkets into his newly acquired bag of holding and crossed the room to Solaufein’s table.

The drow indicated the seat opposite him with a graceful motion, and Jayme sat.

“That was quite the entrance,” Solaufein said. “This place has not witnessed such breathless awe from its patrons in as long as I can remember. And you merit such rapt wonder. Your performance was… haunting. Eerie. By the way, your eyes are no longer glowing.”

“Eerie? I can’t say that’s the usual compliment for a bard’s music.” Jayme smirked, gliding his hand over the lute resting on the table beside him as if in a tender caress.

“It was not mere music, but you must know that. It was far more. You articulated fierce emotions that seize every one of us at certain points in our lives. You held up a mirror to your audience and fashioned the act into art.” Solaufein’s red eyes—darker than Astarion’s—glinted and he leaned forward, his full attention trained on Jayme’s face.

Jayme took the chance to examine the drow's features with more focus. They revealed a worldly-wise man, older than himself, likely middle-aged. His velvety ebon black skin provided a striking contrast to his luminous white hair cascading past his shoulders and finely arched white brows. Jayme found his features both exotic and captivating. A sharply defined jawline conveyed strength and authority, while high cheekbones and a prominent brow ridge lent his face a sculpted elegance.

After a moment of close study, Jayme redirected his attention to his bag and retrieved a handful of jewels.

“I’m pleased if it pleased you. And here’s what I owe you—thank you again for trusting me. Though I understand you were prepared to gift that ring to me.” Jayme took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I needed to get my hands on an instrument before anything else, and I needed to play. For myself. I…have a lot on my mind.”

At least no longer in it, he thought wryly.

“Please. I would be glad to listen to your tale. Only as much as you do not mind sharing, of course,” the drow offered.

Jayme was still puzzled by this friendliness, so uncharacteristic of his kin. He felt inclined to probe a little more.

“I came here to repay my debt and to seek shelter after days of roaming the wilderness. Details of my… plight have nothing to do with you.”

The corners of Solaufein’s mouth tilted up slyly.

“Coming here from Efanon’s workshop, you passed The White Poplar and the Laughing Gull, both inviting establishments in their own right. In terms of shelter, they compare favorably with the Lantern Tree. And, let us be forthright: returning the value of my ring was not your primary motivation—though I do appreciate it.” He paused for a beat, his gaze sharpening with an air of understanding. “I know your purpose was to meet me once more.”

Jayme flashed a rare full grin. “An apt observation. So be it. You’ve passed my test anyway.”

“Charmed. The test being…?”

“I like you. I like the way you speak, your directness.”

“You flatter me, Jayme.” Solaufein winked, the gesture quick and companionable. “I am all ears.” 

Jayme contemplated him briefly before nodding toward the empty cup in front of the drow. “Let me buy you a refill, first. What’s your poison?”

“Dewberry wine, please.” Playfulness danced in his red eyes as Solaufein passed the cup to Jayme.

Before long, they were seated again, a cup of sparkling, frothy, plum-colored beverage before each.

“Well, this round is on the tapster. She wouldn’t take a gem or trinket—not after my ‘goosebump-inducing performance’ she said.” Jayme curled his mouth into a light smile and brought the drink up to his nose. “Say, isn’t this made from the berries that grow on shrubs in the Everwood? Alongside red and blue fruits that taste a bit different?”

“Indeed, it is. Its unique characteristic lies in the fruit's inherent alcohol content. And its raw juice is naturally effervescent. Beasts, and naturally all humanoid inhabitants of the Feywild, share a strong affinity for it.” Solaufein smiled into his cup before taking a sip.

When he glanced up at the drow again, he saw that those dark lips had relaxed into a gentle curve.

“Sounds like you have a strong reason to return to Faerûn,” Solaufein noted. 

“And you.” Jayme leaned in. “Do you not have anything calling you back?”

“Nothing as of now.” Solaufein’s tone was dry at first, but it mellowed as he continued. “Among the eladrin, I am not met with the Surface’s wary scorn—though I am not embraced, either. They see me not as drow, but as a curiosity. An anomaly cast in moonshadow and silver light. They do not weigh my kind or my faith against me; they merely watch me dance on the battlefield... and whisper that perhaps some children of the Prime still know grace.”

Silver light —whatever faith he followed, it was clearly far removed from Lolth. Jayme found himself nodding slightly. It suited the image of the mysterious warrior. Confident Solaufein would reveal more if he did the same, Jayme decided it was time to speak of his own situation.

“I have no illusions about the treatment you must have received in our realm,” he said. “It doesn't surprise me that you find more welcome here, especially with your prowess. Are you completely isolated? Or have you heard tidings of the recent threat posed by the Absolute on the Sword Coast?”

“I have.” Solaufein nodded. “The Grand Design itself was whispered to be on the threshold of realization. And this newly emerged deity, the Absolute, was but a front to that—an elaborate illusion created by the illithid, it is said. But the Design was ultimately thwarted by heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Evidently. We would not be having this conversation otherwise.”

“True. Though being called a hero… I still have a nagging discomfort with that term.” Jayme shrugged. “It was more necessity than heroism.”

Solaufein’s eyes widened and he unthinkingly returned his cup to the table with a loud thud.

“By the Dark Maiden! You were…?”

“It was my party that vanquished the Netherbrain and foiled its schemes, yes.”

The deity Solaufein evoked in his exclamation didn’t escape Jayme’s notice. The Dark Maiden, Eilistraee—a chaotic good drow goddess, also known as the Lady of the Dance and Lady Silverhair. Jayme quickly concluded that Solaufein’s eccentricities were likely tied to his devotion.

“And you speak of it as though it is not the grandest, most valorous accomplishment of the decade! At the very least.” Solaufein shook his head with an amused smile. “We all owe our lives—our free wills—to you.”

“I won’t lie; it was like something out of an epic. My companions and the finest of Baldur’s Gate’s armed forces clashed against an army of mind flayers, a red dragon, and the Netherbrain. Even Balduran himself, who’d turned illithid.” Jayme’s voice carried an undercurrent of pride as he recounted the events, appreciating the recognition he knew was well deserved.

“What eludes my understanding,” Solaufein said thoughtfully, “is who could have orchestrated your relocation to this plane. You have crushed your foes.”

“The journey to confronting the Netherbrain was full of twists and turns, Solaufein. There are still unresolved matters—loose ends. One  of them might be a hag called Auntie Ethel, who dwells on the Sword Coast. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to this. She may be working with someone.” Jayme sipped more of the wine, savoring its rich taste as it spread a comforting warmth through his body. “In any case, it seems one of her motives was to lead me to Baba Yaga.”

He anticipated the drow's question but had already made up his mind, deliberately spinning his tale this way. He would speak plainly about his circumstances and take the gamble, trusting his own insight—he sensed no malice in Solaufein.

“You have ventured to Baba Yaga's hut…” Solaufein said. ”She must have released you upon a devious bargain.” 

“Exactly. We bartered. Information on the fastest way for me to return home, in exchange for my blood.” Jayme held up his left hand, revealing the nearly healed cut on the back of it.

“Your blood,” Solaufein echoed, his penetrating red eyes locking onto Jayme’s calm blue ones.

“I am a Bhaalspawn,” Jayme said evenly.

Of all the possible reactions, Solaufein’s was the last he expected: the drow broke into a soft chuckle that carried an almost affectionate undertone.

“I should have known,” he murmured.

“You have me confused. How could you possibly have known?” Jayme furrowed his eyebrows.

“Because I once knew a Bhaalspawn. Intimately. You share a similar, intricate nature. She was a… conflicted but ultimately good soul. My Veldrin.”

A good soul… is that what I am? Jayme mused.

A low rumble from the depths of his mind, his dormant Urge, rose in dissent. Then, just as vividly, came Astarion’s sharp snap: What kind of question is that?! Course you are, my treasure! Silly sweetling—if you aren’t, then what does that make me?

“Veldrin. Was she a drow?” Jayme asked at last, closing his eyes briefly. He was grateful for Astarion’s spirit, which seemed to bring an unexpected calm to his doubts and lift his heart.

Solaufein chuckled again, this time louder, but it soon faded into a wistful sigh.

“Oh no, she was a human, posing as a drow when we met. She was the most fascinating woman I have ever known. She… saved me from the depravity of Ust Natha. From certain death. And she gave me the chance to fight for her on the Surface. Her warmth, her compassion gave me conviction that I was meant to walk my own path, far from everything I had known before. Together we defeated Amelyssan the Blackhearted and the rest of the formidable Bhaalspawn of that era, halting her… your Sire’s rebirth.” His expression turned grim as he added, “Though only temporarily.”

It was Jayme’s turn to widen his eyes. He was well-acquainted with the story of this woman, as was nearly everyone in Faerûn. Back in his days as the Chosen of Bhaal, he would hear the name of the Bhaalspawn of Candlekeep in dark curses only. Among Bhaalists, it was synonymous with fear and treachery, for Siva had rejected Bhaal’s influence and destroyed his Throne. At the time, Jayme had dismissed it as little more than a cautionary tale and felt wholly unmoved.

But then Orin happened. His Dark Urge awakened. And after Gortash had unveiled his past during his coronation ceremony at Wyrm's Rock, Jayme had started to see her in a new light. For a Bhaalspawn hanging by a thread under the oppressive influence of Bhaal’s will, she had become a beacon of hope.

“Siva of Candlekeep, Gorion’s ward. She was your lady,” Jayme said softly.

The drow warrior nodded wordlessly, his gaze growing distant, as though seizing something from another realm. Siva’s legacy had left its mark on Faerûn permanently, beyond doubt. But evidently, it had left an even deeper mark on Solaufein’s heart.

The circumstances of her death remained shrouded in rumor and myth, but Jayme wasn't one to pry, especially with the somber expression darkening the drow’s face. Instead, he raised his cup in a toast.

“I’m grateful our paths have crossed,” he said. “You’ve not only helped me obtain what I needed most, you’ve also brought me comfort. May you lead this city to victory.”

Solaufein followed suit, raising his own cup, but he paused before drinking.

“Wait. Let us not bid farewell just yet. Where are you headed?” the drow asked.

“As per Baba Yaga’s directions, my next destination is Cendriane,” Jayme said. “I need to find the portal that connects to it from Astrazalian.”

“Cendriane?” Solaufein quirked an eyebrow. “A hollow, dilapidated city-state, festering with undead and ruled by the archfey vampire lord, Kannoth. He is said to be a wretched soul, steeped in the dark arts of necromancy. What business would you have there?”

“I was told he can grant me passage to Evermeet.”

“Why would he do so, I wonder? Magnanimity is not a trait commonly ascribed to him.”

“The Hag swore it’s the quickest way back to Faerûn.”

The drow paused, weighing his next words with care.

“I see. Let me aid you on your path.”

Jayme frowned. “You don’t have to–”

“She would want me to. And I want to, just as much. Please.”

“What about Astrazalian? Aren’t you pledged to its defense?” Jayme asked.

“I have pledged, to myself, to lend my sword to causes I find worthy—ones that please my Dark Maiden.”

“Eilistraee.”

A soft smile reappeared on Solaufein’s face, lighting his eyes with warmth. “Yes, Eilistraee. This tug of war with the fomorians is far from over. While my absence may weaken Astrazalian, it will endure. I will stand by you, if you’ll have me. You have passed my test too, you see.” 

Jayme smirked at that. He tapped their cups together, but as he recalled a crucial detail he’d left untold until now, a shadow passed over his face.

“You should know,” he began, “back in Faerûn, I struggled with violent urges for a long time. It’s a… complicated story, but to put it simply, Bhaal drained his essence from me when I refused to dance to his tune. That act killed the old me—the Chosen of Bhaal—while my new self reclaimed its existence. I thought that was the end of it, that my wicked shackles had been broken. But ever since I entered this realm, the old Urge seems to be stirring again. I don’t understand it.”

Solaufein lapsed into quiet reflection, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his cup. "The heart of a Bhaalspawn is a flipped coin that lands on its edge," he said finally.

Jayme’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. He recognized the phrase. “Volo. For all his quirks, that zany old fox does know a thing or two, doesn’t he?”

Solaufein straightened, leaning in intently as he replied, “I possess a greater understanding of your heritage than you might suspect. I have seen its many facets, the way it twists and coaxes. Over the years I spent with Siva, I lost count of the times I held her hands through her inner turmoil. Yet, for a steadfast spirit, resistance is attainable—to the degree of near immunity. The moment you understand your ultimate battle is with yourself, not with Bhaal, is your chance to choose well and triumph. Bhaal is the dagger and the poison on its blade, but the invisible hand pointing the dagger at your heart is your own.”

Powerful words. Jayme carefully tucked them away into his ever-growing mental collection. He responded with a quote of his own.

“The gods can grant power or strip it away—but so long as your will remains, you have the only weapon you need. A piece of wisdom from my Harper friend. Your views and hers seem to align,” he said, and then, recognition flickered in his mind. “Come to think of it, you must have crossed paths with her. Jaheira, the druid.”

Nostalgia kindled in the deep red of the drow’s eyes.

"Ah, Jaheira. How could I forget? She was cautious of me for quite some time, watching over Siva like a vigilant lioness guarding her cub. I even considered seeking her blessing before I began courting Siva. A truly benevolent druid, she is."

The fondness in his expression struck Jayme as entirely genuine.

A century ago, Jaheira had shepherded another Bhaalspawn protégé, much as she had done for Jayme. Though that era bore its own unique challenges and foes, Siva’s hardships mirrored Jayme’s in one undeniable way: the never-ending mortal struggle of a Bhaalspawn seeking freedom. Fighting to carve it out through blood and sweat.

“Well, I’m happy to report that her feisty nature has endured through the years,” Jayme said with a smile. “No doubt, she’s weathered the storms of countless ordeals since your adventures and come out more battle-hardened. As for Minsc, he’s as unpredictable as ever—if Jaheira’s version of things is to be trusted. And why wouldn’t it be?”

"Dark Maiden’s good graces, I have not spared a thought for that eccentric ranger in decades!” Solaufein exclaimed. “How is it possible that he is still alive?"

"A curious tale, really. The short answer is a Flesh to Stone spell. If you’d like, I can recount the story in all its bizarre detail.”

"Oh, I am most intrigued. Whatever the tale, the truly mystifying part of his survival is not the means by which he escaped death, but the wonder that no one has yet severed his hot head from his neck.” The drow shook his head in amused disbelief, then reached for his empty cup. “Shall we indulge in another cup of Dewberry wine? My treat."

"Let’s," Jayme agreed, reclining in his seat as a quiet smile played on his lips. His thoughts began to drift.

A century ago: another era, another party, different companions. 

The same blood-paved pursuit of freedom. 

The shelter of belonging—a rare gem, exceedingly rare. Something only a scant few Bhaalspawn had ever attained. Siva had found it, with her Solaufein. Orin, Amelyssan, Sendai, Abazigal and so many others had not.

In that moment, Jayme felt a newfound conviction. Despite all the adversities plaguing his existence, he must have been born under a lucky star—for fate had chosen to send Astarion his way. His shelter.

Notes:

I couldn't help but mention my main character, Siva, from Baldur's Gate 2 here. Westley Weimer's Solaufein romance mod was my first ever BG2 mod and I loved it a lot. I was quite fond of Solaufein's character and story even before I knew such things as fanmade mods existed. And once I discovered they do, there was no stopping. :) I tried everything I could get my hands on. Still, Solaufein (modded or unmodded) will always hold a special place in my heart.

Chapter 10: I - My wildest wind, come blow into my room

Notes:

You're the wildest wind
The electric moon
Sunday morning photographs will only open
Sunday morning wounds
When the melody ends
I will be waiting here for you
My wildest wind
Come blow into my room

You're with me
Walking the fields of perversion and mockery
But we're changing
Piecing together our jigsaw of failures
And, I miss you
Even in your four day therapy vacation
But the light here
Is brilliant enough to help me focus

IAMX – Wildest Wind

 

Another character from Baldur's Gate 2 is here to say hi!

Astarion was drinking. Heavily. 

Seated listlessly in a corner of the Blushing Mermaid, he sent his third cup of Berduskan Dark down his throat. Sure, it was plonk compared to a fine, silky-smooth Guldathen Nectar or a refreshing Saerloonian Glowfire. But at the Mermaid, it was the best on offer—the alternatives being the tart Baldur’s Grape, the overrated Midnight Star, and the mediocre Esmeltar Red. Berduskan’s high alcohol content aligned perfectly with Astarion's current needs, though its cloying sweetness made him wince. To counter the flavor, he chased each gulp with a swig of Wyvern Whiskey—a choice that never disappointed.

He was nearing his breaking point.

The talk with Naoise, the dryad, had gone well the other day, but it had not brought the yearned-for progress. 

Approaching her had been easy—she’d turned sociable quickly after Astarion refreshed her memory of the time their party had saved her from being brain-sucked by the mind-flayer-turned Flaming Fist.

“The truth is, I haven’t set foot in Faerie since my childhood, and my memories are growing hazy…” she admitted. A dreamy expression softened her features as she added, “But I can still remember its realm of perpetual twilight: the mist-covered expanses, the never-ending archways, the mirror-like pools tucked away beneath ancient, twisted roots, and the crossings in the heart of the woods, safeguarded by dryads.”

“Yes, about the ‘perpetual twilight’ part,” Astarion interjected. “Exactly how dark is it over there? Could, for instance, a vampire, like my good self, be meandering about without burning to a crisp?”

Naoise had seen Astarion sink his teeth into the neck of her mind flayer attacker and drink its blood, so he saw little point in hiding his identity, or anything else for that matter. Considering the Netherbrain, she was, in fact, doubly indebted to Astarion and Jayme. 

“That depends on the domain you’re going to visit. In the Seelie Court, also known as the Summer Court, sunlight filters down through the forest canopy, casting a soft, ambient glow. It’s like walking through a forest at sunset here in Faerûn. But if you find yourself in the Unseelie Court—the Winter Court side—you’ll be surrounded by the darkness of a moonlit night.”

“Alright, noted. Better stock up on Liquid Night potions then, just in case. Which won’t be simple…” Astarion made a quick mental note, then hastily jumped to the next topic. “Now, do you know of any reliable portals leading there?”

“I would suggest Evermeet. Though I encounter my kin once in a blue moon in the city, when I do, they usually say they traversed through Evermeet.”

“What about fairy rings? I’ve read they can bridge our planes on certain nights. Only, these ‘certain nights’ are never clearly specified in the literature. My wizard friend offered one solution to the riddle: the vernal equinox seems to be a favorable time. But is that it? Aren’t there any other opportune times? And how does one create a fairy ring? What rules are there?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.” Naoise shook her head, pink hair fluttering around her comely face. “Fairy rings are something only archfey warlocks would know how to construct.”

“Of course. Why would I have it easy?” Astarion muttered under his breath. “Alright, let’s talk about Evermeet then. Do you know any captains capable of sailing a ship there?”

“I… let me think. No, I’m sorry. There was someone—a fey eladrin—but the last time I saw him was years ago. My home is Baldur’s Gate now, and, to tell you the truth, I haven’t been looking for ways to connect with my homeland for a long time.”

After the discussion, Astarion said his thanks and headed straight to the harbor, wandering in search of a captain or sailor who could help. His efforts proved fruitless.

From there, he began checking every tavern in the city, one by one. Still, luck eluded him.

Today marked the fifth day of his rounds, the same rounds. The harbor, the Mermaid, the Three Old Kegs, the Blade and Stars, the Helm and Cloak, the Low Lantern, even the Splurging Sturgeon. He questioned captains, bosuns, pilots, deckhands, tavern keepers. Not a single soul could point him in the right direction or give him any clue about where to search next. 

The day before, in a last-ditch effort, he had knocked on Nine-Fingers Keene’s door. Even the Guild had no helpful suggestion. Keene expressed her sympathy for his situation, but her delivery left much to be desired. Instead of bringing comfort, her words had Astarion on the brink of telling the guildmaster precisely where she could shove her platitudes. A brawl was on the horizon, and things might have turned ugly if not for Jaheira’s timely intervention.

As a next step, Astarion set out for Ramazith's Tower, with plans to dig around for exotic trinkets and scrolls—particularly since Lorroakan’s name had come up in earlier speculations. But to his shock, the Tower had collapsed during the illithid assault, burying the arrogant wizard’s hoarded treasures beneath the rubble.

Finally, he urged Gale to reach out to Elminster. Although Gale agreed and sent a letter that very day, he emphasized how unpredictable when and how the Old Weird-Beard would respond.

The problem wasn’t the difficulty of the task. Surely, in a city as bustling as Baldur’s Gate, he would find help sooner or later. What frayed Astarion’s nerves was the time it was taking—and the thought of how much longer the journey itself might take. He needed to be at the shores of Evermeet yesterday, yet no clear path lay before him.

And so Astarion decided to drink  immoderately, alone. He wanted release. Wanted to fall apart completely, to hit the lowest of the low already, so he could start rising again.

The Mermaid was among the first buildings restored to a usable condition after the Netherbrain’s devastation—a true testament to communal effort. Ironically, schools and shops were still in a worse state, lacking funding for restoration. It seemed the whole city was of the consensus that whatever else happened, people couldn’t do without taverns.

Which is, kind of, sort of true, Astarion thought as he took another sip of wine. 

It was getting hot. He pushed back the hood of his cloak and idly opened the lid of Jayme’s violin case. His fingers brushed the elegant maple and spruce curves.

“Dark and beautiful, like you,” he muttered, then snorted at himself—a soliloquy in a tavern? Ah yes, not far from hitting the absolute depths of despair now. Oh well. “ My wildest wind, come blow into my room, ” he recited, the line surfacing from some half-forgotten song. It felt heartrendingly fitting.

The other patrons paid him no mind, of course. With everyone equally engaged in prodigious drinking, the sight of someone talking to themselves was nothing out of the ordinary.

Some were absorbed in lengthy political discourse, cussing at Gortash, Ravengard, and the ingrained corruption of the Flaming Fist. These patrons loudly imposed their views, indifferent to whether anyone  around them cared. Others, like Astarion, were immersed in personal dilemmas, mumbling to themselves or a sympathetic ear. A few loners sat silently nursing their drinks, with only the gods knowing what was on their minds.

And then there was Volo—boisterous and impossible not to notice as ever. He was deep in animated conversation with a tiefling by the bar. Astarion inwardly groaned at the thought of dealing with him now. He was decidedly not in the mood, and kept cautiously averting his gaze. He did his best to tune out the sage, but Elminster‘s name caught his ears at one point. Volo mentioned how glad he was the wizard had suggested he pay a visit to the Mermaid tonight, which had led to his chance reunion with whoever he was talking to.

Elminster can go fuck himself, Astarion thought. Meddling in everyone’s business, but not lifting a finger to help me and Jayme.

He knocked back another gulp of the sweet Berduskan Dark. Isn’t the taste supposed to improve the more I drink? he thought bitterly.

On the far side of the taproom, a band of human deckhands was cutting a rug to the rhythm of a hand drum and a slightly off-key flute. The melodies changed at a dizzying speed, as if the musicians only knew a few sections of each tune, mostly the choruses. Impressively enough, the dancers adapted in a flash and with gusto each time.

“Tired of this human duet
No civilizing hides
Our animal impulses”

Astarion winced as if stung. His hands balled into fists and he glowered at the jolly bunch.

“Oh, piss off already!” he slurred after the third repetition of the familiar refrain and sprang to his feet with… what? The intention to storm over and pick a fight about a song?

You fool, you’re pathetic, he chastized himself as he sank back into his seat, which he had pushed back with a screech. He was about to down the rest of his whiskey when he realized he’d made a grave mistake.

“Ah, my good fellow! I thought my eyes spotted a familiar face, but my heart harbored a whisper of uncertainty,” Volo exclaimed and was already making his way over to Astarion’s nook with arms outstretched, as if planning to clasp the vampire to his bosom.

“Shit, this can’t be true…” Astarion cursed under his breath and scowled. Normally, he would have put on an amiable face when dealing with an acquaintance. But not today. 

As he flicked his eyes sharply at the approaching Volo, the latter all but flinched back.

“By the five heads of Tiamat, something is seriously amiss! Your eyes betray your troubled thoughts with no room for misunderstanding! My friend, what has happened to you? Oh, meet my other good friend, Haer’Dalis of Sigil. Haer’Dalis, this is one of the mighty heroes who vanquished the appalling Netherbrain. Astarion.”

Sigil. The word scraped at Astarion’s mind, as though he were meant to make a connection here, but his drunken stupor dulled his thoughts to a deplorable degree. He shifted his eyes to the tiefling, who stepped up to join Volo standing across his table.

The man, middle-aged at the very least, had a handsome, open face with light skin, dark blue eyes and several scar-like markings adorning his features. His long, mist-grey hair fell in lush waves over broad shoulders, and a dozen golden and silver rings glinted from his pointed ears.

Despite his captivating aura, Astarion’s first impression changed abruptly as soon as the man opened his mouth.

“Well met, pale raven. I've heard about your exploits, and I must admit, I stand astounded by your prowess! When I got wind of the grave threat looming large, I promptly abandoned my home and thespian troupe, leaving a rehearsal midstream—a discourtesy for which I'll be indebted to extend my wholehearted apologies unto the illustrious Miss Raelis upon my return.” 

Haer’Dalis delivered all this in a pleasant baritone, seemingly in a single breath, leaving Astarion positively flabbergasted. And then the man pressed on.

“But I simply couldn't resist the allure of being present to witness the inevitable chaos that our cerebral antagonist was bound to unleash upon the universe. Alas, your valiant efforts led to the premature curtain fall of the grand finale. My emotions are split like a two-faced coin; one side revels in the outcome, while the other sheds a tear. Oh, how I would have relished the opportunity to behold the moment the apocalyptic crescendo consumed us all!”

For a few seconds, Astarion was struck speechless, his mouth opening and closing, unable to form an appropriate response. But as the true meaning of the man’s words sank in, his temper flared. 

“At the risk of sounding disrespectful, are you utterly and completely insane??”

Volo sucked in an appalled breath, but Haer’Dalis merely flashed a smile at the scathing tone.

"My sincerest apologies,” the tiefling said, with a slight incline of his head. “I sense that the discourse of a Doomguard might be a rarity in your company. In deference to the toilsome endeavors you've undertaken, I'll hush my philosophical tongue for now. Instead, I would ask what brings you to drink alone. Should you not be celebrating your triumph?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Volo interjected. “Where, if you don’t mind my asking, is Jayme? It wasn't long ago that you two were nearly inseparable, as I keenly observed.”

Something or someone started laughing at the back of Astarion’s mind. The voice was ruthless mockery, and it sounded irritatingly similar to Cazador’s laugh. On an impulse, Astarion snatched the carafe from the table and poured the remaining wine directly into his mouth to drown the offending voice out.

Head swimming, he stifled a belch with partial success and turned his bleary gaze back to Volo.

“Oh, Volo! Life was a bowl of cherries after we defeated the Brain; for almost an entire day, if you can believe it. But then, you see, Jayme, he… some magical trap went off and, we believe he’s been teleported to the Feywild. Against his will, of course. Otherwise, either I’d be there with him or he’d be here, right next to me.” He gestured at the empty space by his side, motions wild and exaggerated. Not that he gave a rat’s ass now.

“By Calliope’s lute! Who could perpetrate such a malevolent act?” Volo cried out in indignation.

“Pfff, a seething hag? A sulking wizard with a grudge? A rabid, revenge-crazed Bhaalist from that stinking Temple? Take your pick, Volo! We’ve ruffled plenty of feathers on our journey. And this is the thanks we get for saving everyone’s arse!”

His voice gradually rose to a yell, practically a whine, which drew the attention of every patron in the tavern. Good! He wanted to take them to task anyway, this rambunctious, careless lot. He unsteadily raised an accusatory hand, pointing at everyone and no one in particular. 

“You know, you people would ALL be mindless zombies by now, prostrating yourselves at the feet of the Netherbrain, IF NOT FOR US! If not for Jayme, most of all! …. ‘xcept a brain has no feet! I know that!”

His head was madly pounding, as if a vein was about to explode in there somewhere. Maybe it did. He raked his stormy red eyes across the faces in the room, challenging, craving for someone to talk back, or even just throw him a dirty look. He would fly into a rage. He would cut. He would tear. And rip.

But he was met with nothing but blank faces and ignorant silence.

He heaved in and out a series of ragged breaths, his voice catching at the back of his throat—a miserable sound to his own ears. The rage was bleeding into grief now. And numbness.

They had taken Jayme from him. They might as well have just stabbed his heart through with a stake.

After a minute or so, he slumped back into the chair. When had he stood up in the first place?

“Dear friend… Astarion. I beseech you, is there any way I may be of help?”

Bring him back to me. That was the first thought that formed unbidden in Astarion’s muddled mind, but of course, he didn’t say it. Giving himself another moment to even out his breathing—to stop breathing—and compose himself, he slowly raised his head and looked the polymath in the eye.

“I need to get to him. I need access to the Feywild. And it seems like Evermeet is the best transition point. So… my dearest Volo. Can you get me a fully crewed ship if I ask really-really nice?” He molded his tone cynically sweet, and batted his eyelashes in a mock plea. He ridiculed no one but his own helpless self, he felt.

“In sooth, I believe I can,” Hae’Dalis spoke up suddenly.

“What?” Astarion asked dumbly.

“I believe I can secure for you a vessel, helmed by a capable captain, to ferry you to the mystical shores of Evermeet.” The tiefling nodded with conviction, which made his earrings clink together loudly.

Those clinks seemed to spark the recognition that had eluded him: Haer’Dalis of Sigil. This man must have known a thing or two about interplanar travel.

“A-are you serious?” he blurted.

"My jests, I avow, are as scarce as black sapphires; seldom to be found beyond the realm of limericks.”

Just like that, the pounding in his head, the misery, the numbness—even the intoxication—came to a grinding halt. Astarion exhaled deeply, suddenly feeling unduly light. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” he offered, staggering to his feet, and moved to pull up two additional chairs to his table.

Before he could head for the bar though, Volo caught his arm and ushered him back to his seat.

“You don’t need to worry about that. Leave it to us. Please, just wait here. I’d, uh, offer to bring you a refill, but I think you’ve quenched your thirst already,” The sage cast a glance at the array of empty bottles.

“Permit us to fetch you a repast. A selection of cheese and bread, perhaps? And fresh water in abundance,” Haer’Dalis proposed with a sympathetic smile. 

“No food and no water, thanks. I’m a vampire spawn,” Astarion declined, ignoring the prickle of discomfort that accompanied the smooth disclosure. He was not in the slightest bit used to being open about his identity, and this marked the second instance already in the past few days.

It’ll come up in a matter of minutes anyway, he thought.

A flicker of curiosity lit in Haer’Dalis’ eyes.

“Ah! Those lengthened fangs and crimson eyes now find their explanation. Fear not, dear pale raven, for we shall make haste and return to your side in but a heartbeat.”

Astarion swallowed back a groan as he watched the two stride up to the tapster.

The tiefling was a bard, he had to be; it was quite unmistakable. A typical one at that.

How Astarion preferred his own casual, concise, and tastefully self-assured bard!

The two returned shortly, frothy mead tankards in hand, and sat across from Astarion, who straightened up and shifted directly to the issue at stake.

“To your good health, gentlemen! Now. Haer’Dalis, was it? Please tell me who this captain is, where his ship is docked, and if he’s truly willing to embark on a journey to the Feywild. And if yes, when, and whether he’d allow me to board and travel inside my coffin, like a good, docile vampire?” 

“Whoa there, my raven, hold your flight! You're firing off questions like a flurry of arrows!” the tiefling said with a light smile, then took a sip of his beer and wiped the foam from his upper lip before continuing.

“First off, the captain—a triton sailor whose path intertwined with mine some hundred years ago, during my decade-long stint on the Prime, wandering the Sword Coast with my troupe. It was here, within the heart of this very city, that our destinies converged. She graced one of our performances and, moved by my portrayal of Dukar, the founder of his eponymous organization, she approached me, brimming with admiration. Her fervor resonated deep within my being, and afterward, many a day saw us penning verses together. Thus, over the years, our friendship burgeoned into a mighty oak. You can rest assured, with me as an intermediary, she will wholeheartedly assent to the voyage, setting sail for the Plane of Faerie with you aboard.”

Astarion strained to sift through the impossible flowery speech and grasp the main message. When he was confident he deciphered it, he slightly shook his head in disbelief.

“This all sounds just… wonderful, really. And where is she now?”

“That, I cannot say. But give me a single day, and I shall seek her out in your name. I shall converse earnestly with her, and, beyond even that, I pledge to be your steadfast companion on this voyage,” Haer’Dalis declared, briefly touching Astarion’s hand in reassurance.

Astarion stared at the spot on his hand. It was warm for a fleeting second, then cooled again.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, shaking his head again. “You just told me you lament that the world didn’t come to a ‘consuming apocalyptic crescendo,’ or something to that effect.”

Haer’Dalis turned starry-eyed and curved his lips into a fetching smile. “I cannot resist—your impassioned cry has stirred the very depths of my soul. I yearn to bear witness to your reunion with your heart’s fondest desire!”

“A Doomguard our Haer'Dalis may be, steeped in melancholic musings, but first and foremost, he’s a bard,” Volo said, gesturing broadly with his tankard. “And what bard can deny themselves the chance to see love in full bloom?”

“Indeed, my dear fellow sparrow, indeed! Love is as fleeting as a delicate flutter, but oh, how it flutters with breathtaking grace! It ignites sighs, inspires odes, and spawns entire epic tales,” Haer’dalis added, swept up in the rapture of his own words. “And, furthermore, if I may be so bold as to say, I am captivated by the prospect of being a spectator to your confrontation with the perpetrator of your anguish. Will you emerge triumphant, or shall this clash spell a tragic end to your romance? Ah, the exquisite anticipation!”

“Uuuh…” Astarion found himself at a loss for words.

The main message. The main message is good. Isn’t it? It is! That’s what matters, Astarion thought. The rest, he lacked the mental clarity to adequately address at the moment. 

The prolonged fatigue, distress, and inebriation had inevitably caught up with him—without mercy.

“Hush now, dear one. Speak no more. Let us meet here on the morrow, after the sun's descent. I shall approach you bearing glad tidings, should fate align with our aspirations.”

Haer’Dalis’ ardent pledge was followed by Volo’s suggestion.

“If I might offer some advice, you should rest now. The hour is late and tomorrow promises to be a thrill-filled day for us all,” the sage said.

Astarion arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Us? Don’t tell me… are you thinking of joining me on the journey as well?” 

“Absolutely I am! I owe dear Jayme my life, twice over, and I need to repay that debt.” The gentle sage lowered his head.

“Thank you. Both of you! I… you’ve given me hope.” Astarion dipped his head, consciously going lower than Volo had done.

After the last five days, this turn of events felt exceedingly surreal. 

“The pleasure is ours!”

“I bid you good night, pale raven.”

Astarion said farewell to the pair and scrambled to his feet. This, in itself, is no mean feat, Astarion thought, and he had half a mind to whack himself on the head for rhyming.

On the way to the Elfsong, he thought about comfort—how instinctive and delicate a thing it was, and how, despite its elusiveness, Jayme had always offered it with remarkable ease.

He remembered the night his spawn siblings visited him in the Elfsong, trying to convince him to return to Cazador and complete his Rite of Profane Ascension. It had been not long after they defeated Raphael in Hell, at the close of a draining day spent chasing Orin’s shapeshifter assassins and warning their targets of the danger.

After they fought and chased all six spawn away, Astarion was livid. Pacing the room, his head wouldn’t stop spinning. The others kept casting worried glances at him—particularly Karlach, with that big burning heart of hers, who tried several times to initiate conversation. Each attempt was unsuccessful.

His mind was preoccupied with warring notions of what would benefit him the most and what decision he could live with. The only common denominator was Cazador’s death. But when the critical moment came, could he truly sacrifice the people who had weathered two hundred years of torment alongside him? Part of him was wavering. And Astarion absolutely loathed that part, because he had been under the impression that it had long since withered away, somewhere between the sting of Godey’s knives and the bite of Cazador’s lashes. As it should have.

In his agitation, he pulled a hand mirror from his cupboard and flipped it toward his face. It was a bad habit of his. Some people chewed their nails; Astarion peered at his lack of reflection.

It was a bad habit, but it served a purpose: an acute reminder that survival was foremost. And survival meant treading on those less fortunate and less capable than him. The sole alternative was vanishing—and not just from mirrors.

The mirror then smashed into a hundred silver shards as he hurled it to the floor.

No one in the room spoke. Except for Jayme, who had just entered, cleansed of Astarion’s siblings’ blood.

“That was, what, the third mirror you’ve destroyed?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Don’t. Not now. I’m way too pissed for jokes,” Astarion warned, his features set in a scowl as he faced the bard.

“I can see you’re pissed off. But there’s no need to make poor Yenna afraid to sneak around barefoot for a late-night snack,” Jayme said, the seed of a smile buried in his voice.

“If this is your best effort at cheering me up, it’s quite pitiful,” Astarion snapped, stomping past Jayme to the common area of their quarters, where furniture was still upended from the scuffle.

Naturally, Jayme followed.

“What would cheer you up then?”

“Silent empathy?”

“What a gentle way of saying shut the fuck up,” Jayme smirked, though his face and voice held neither humor nor any sign of offense.

“Or, better yet, don’t shut the fuck up and give me reassurance that we’ll find a way to steal the show from that brainsick fuckface.”

“You know I can’t promise that. It might not be technically possible,” Jayme said softly, but his words achieved the opposite of his intention.

“I’m well aware of that! Thank you so much for pointing it out again!” Astarion barked. He stopped, then sighed heavily. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m acting irrationally. It’s just that I’m so close to the end, I… it’s messing with my head.”

“We’ll get through it, together. Until then, for what it’s worth, I think I know of a way to resolve your issue with mirrors. Or, more precisely, your issue with not seeing your reflection.”

“Oh?” Astarion’s eyebrow shot up at that as he watched Jayme move to his bed and retrieve a scroll from the cupboard.

“Cast this spell,” Jayme said, passing the parchment. “It’s a little something I pilfered from the vault of Sorcerous Sundries. I was saving it for a different kind of application, a fun one, but you might as well put it to use now.”

Astarion studied the incantation with curiosity. He hadn’t come across this spell before.

“Alright… here it goes,” he murmured.

Tiny flames sparked to life at his fingertips, and golden specks danced in swirling patterns before him. The specks expanded and molded themselves, slowly morphing into the shape of a humanoid figure. The figure grew curly locks, a toned torso, and lean limbs. Finally, the golden light shifted into colors, and Astarion’s perfect clone stood before them, still as a statue, its face devoid of emotion.

Astarion stared, silent and astonished, for a long while. So long, in fact, that Jayme began to worry his plan might be falling through. Then, puffs of laughter bubbled up from the rogue—a staccato of disbelief—coalescing into one long, bright expression of mirth.

“This is fantastic! I love it! By all that’s unholy, what a handsome devil I am, ha ha ha!” he managed between laughs, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

He was bursting at the seams from undiluted, silly joy.

From the side of his vision, he saw Jayme gesture to the others, who poked their heads into the room to see what the commotion was about. They were promptly waved away, and the fact that Jayme reserved this moment for him alone touched Astarion even further.

But he was too engrossed in examining his own appearance to reflect on anything else. Willing the clone to grin, he inspected his fangs for the first time in his vampire life. After minutes of silent scrutiny, his thoughts suddenly poured out in an overexcited torrent.

“It’s a bizarre look, what with that striking pallor, but on the whole? Aesthetically pleasing, in my humble opinion. My eyes—that red! Not half bad. Not. Half. Bad. And my hair! Would you look at that? Not the slightest frizz in sight. How gratifying to know my hair is still immune to humidity! And, I'll be damned, I completely forgot just how trim I looked! I mean, obviously, I can see my body from above, but it’s not the same as seeing your full figure from the outside. The overall impression—it’s just not comparable. My musculature is prominent yet lean… just perfect!”

He hovered a hand over the clone’s body. Before touching it, he turned back and shot a questioning look at Jayme, who had been quietly watching—and enjoying—his meeting with himself.

“It’s a mirror image, isn’t it? I can’t touch it?” Astarion asked.

“It’s an image, yes, not corporeal. The spell is called Project Image. Higher level than Mirror Image,” Jayme said.

“Ah.” Astarion dropped his outstretched hand, disappointed. He returned to his fastidious observation.

When his eyes landed on Cazador’s bite mark, his expression darkened.

“I had no idea it looked so fresh. Of course, it makes sense. It’s the magical mark of his ownership,” he spat the word like a curse. “It wouldn’t ever fade, would it?”

“The physical mark might not. And in my eyes, that’s alright,” Jayme replied firmly.

“Alright?” Astarion frowned, his gaze still clinging to his image.

“Yes. It’ll serve as a testimony to your strength—and tell the tale of how you will have shed his shackles,” Jayme said with conviction.

A shaky breath escaped Astarion’s throat. He finally tore his eyes away from himself.  

“You bastard, how is it that you always find the best things to say?” he murmured.

Jayme closed the distance between them, putting his arms around Astarion’s shoulders and holding him to his chest.

“After one or two failed attempts, I tend to, don’t I?” he replied with a smile, referring to Astarion’s earlier tantrum.

“I don’t blame you for not getting it right straight away. I realize I can be a drama queen sometimes.” The rogue’s voice dropped to a near whisper, as if he wanted to keep the admission as private as possible, lest the others overhear. He locked eyes with Jayme then and placed both hands on the arms encircling him. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

“I do,” Jayme murmured, and the look in his eyes drew Astarion in.

That insolent confidence—Astarion’s weakness. It made him want to fall to his knees and take the man into his mouth, quickly and fully. As a challenge, a devious act of mischief. He was well aware many considered giving oral pleasure to be an act of submission. But in his mind, with the right partner, it didn’t have to be. On the contrary, it could be an act of power, empowering the one who performed it.

From the direction his thoughts took, impulse touched him, and he willed his clone to strip off his white shirt. Jayme’s eyes instantly flicked to the newly bared skin.

The clone slid his hands over the plane of his chest, slowly, down his abdomen, to his hips. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches, he suggestively tugged the material lower by an inch. Then another.

“Now that’s closer to what I originally had in mind with this spell,” Jayme said approvingly.

“How very naughty of you. Weren’t you concerned I might get caught up in looking at myself, rather than you?”

“I was positive you’d do that. Which is precisely why I wanted to try it.”

Before either of them could move to tighten the embrace, Jaheira’s weary sigh interrupted the moment.

“Boys, please. We’re all happy Astarion is no longer upset, but…” She glanced to the side, where Shadowheart, Karlach, and little Yenna were all hanging from the door frame, half-hidden, peeking at the interaction with rapt attention. “Can you take this somewhere private?”

“For the love of Tyr, Jaheira!” Karlach exclaimed. “Let a girl have some fun! This is all the romance I have in my life, and I want to enjoy it! Umm, please?” she hastily added, probably realizing who she was talking to.

“Fine. You two big girls can go ahead and have your fun. But this young lady ought to be in bed by now,” Jaheira said in a tone that brooked no argument, and escorted a loudly protesting Yenna to the far side of the sleeping quarters.

“Ahem. We’d rather have total privacy, actually. Right, Jayme?” Astarion declared as his clone, having abandoned his striptease, picked up his discarded shirt, ready to flee the scene.

“Whatever you want. Either way is fine with me,” Jayme said absently and nuzzled Astarion’s temple.

“Right. I forgot your… liberal approach to this topic. Well, I, for one, have had enough bacchanalias to last a lifetime. And while I definitely don’t mind being a curious onlooker at some public debauchery, my preference—and my image’s—is to devour you far from prying eyes. So come. Ta-ta!” He waved the two unwanted observers away dismissively, then took Jayme by the hand and led him to a room with a door, clone in tow.

“Coming,” Jayme murmured suggestively, earning a gasp from the flushed pair of Shadowheart and Karlach.

No sooner had the door closed behind them than Jayme yanked Astarion close, capturing his lips with no degree of tenderness.

Astarion made an unthinking, tight noise, but let his mouth be thoroughly explored. This time, there was no alcohol, no stimulant-spiked incense—only the two of them and an additional, summoned provocation, should they choose to use it.

Astarion did. Gently, he pushed Jayme back, just enough to reposition them so they could turn their gaze to the side and watch clone Astarion’s lewd display—particularly, how he continued to strip off his clothes.

“Such a dashing lad. No wonder you fell for me,” Astarion breathed into Jayme’s ear while the latter’s eyes remained riveted to the sultry performance of the clone.

“I love how taken you are with yourself,” Jayme said.

The clone had just shed his undergarments and shuffled backward to the king-size four-poster bed. He climbed on top, stretching out with no hesitation, flaunting his sinfully alluring nakedness. After swaying, rolling, and spreading his body temptingly, he straightened and gripped one of the bed’s columns. With light, acrobatic movements he coiled around it, spinning in a languid yet enticing rhythm.

“And you, are you?” Astarion asked with a playful, lilting tone, turning Jayme’s head back with a light press of his index finger so their eyes met once more.

Without answering, Jayme guided Astarion’s hand downward to splay his cold palm atop his hot hardness under his breeches.

“This proof enough for you?” he murmured.

Astarion let out a breathy laugh. He curled his fingers, grasping through the fabric.

His head fell forward a little of its own accord, and he swallowed against the sudden images flashing through his mind’s eye: himself, laid out on his back on the bed, penetrated by that maddening heat, gasping aloud.

He craved it. Yearned for it.

But he forced himself to halt that fantasy while he still had the mental strength, and instead stepped toward bed, leaving Jayme leaning against the door.

He crawled onto the bed, right next to his clone, who obediently scooted over to make space—an illusion, of course, but it was important to keep up appearances for the game. He began to peel off his clothing, in a slightly less extravagant manner than his clone had done, but still with the clear intent of giving Jayme a good show.

Then, stark naked beside his image, he rose to his knees and willed the clone to mirror him. Eyes closed in bliss, they mimicked caressing each other’s bodies, their lips hovering an inch apart.

The performance continued until Astarion caught the sound of Jayme’s flustered growl.

Footsteps approached. But before they reached the bed, Astarion pinned Jayme in place with a single command.

“Stay.”

And Jayme did. Not without a sigh of frustration, but he stayed.

Smirking in victory, Astarion threw his head back with a languorous motion, gazing into burning ice-blue eyes.

“Stay there and watch. You may only touch me when I say so. Understand?”

Tension twanged through Jayme’s body like a badly tuned violin string. He was not ready to be denied—the tantalizing closeness sent his heart thrashing against his ribcage. Astarion’s sharp ears picked up every impatient thump.

Taking pleasure in Jayme’s fidgeting just a step away from the bed, Astarion rolled back unhurriedly, making sure every detail was etched into Jayme’s mind. He snaked a hand down his stomach. When he took himself into his hand, the clone bent over and imitated swiping his tongue along his length, perfectly timed with the languid movements of Astarion’s hand.

He continued the display without an ounce of shame. The fire in Jayme’s gaze spurred him on.

Their eyes locked while Astarion stroked himself, though blue strayed time and again, drawn to the primal motions below his waist.

At last, the tension seemed to reach its peak inside Jayme. With a cocksure gait, he strode to the drawer by the wall, pulled open the top compartment, and retrieved a dagger.

Confirming he held Astarion’s full attention, he laid the sharp tip against the soft patch of flesh above his collarbone and nicked it with a flick of his wrist.

Astarion gasped, hoarse and indignant.

The clone, like a marionette with its strings cut, ceased his actions when his master stopped issuing instructions. It was a small miracle that Astarion’s concentration hadn’t faltered enough to make the image vanish entirely.

“Touché?” Astarion hissed.

“Your move.” Jayme winked and put the dagger aside.

The scent in the air was heady, overstimulating to Astarion's senses. Urgent desire throbbed through him, but he stubbornly resisted, unwilling to run into his defeat.

There was an unspoken understanding in place between them now: whoever succumbed to his impulses first would lose the challenge.

“So be it,” Astarion croaked, scrambling to his feet. “Note to self: must remember not to skip dinner before retiring for the evening in case I want to dominate you again next time. My little incubus.”

It seemed Jayme harbored no aversion to bloodplay, judging from this and previous instances. The notion thrilled Astarion to his core. Though it wasn’t a routine indulgence—Astarion always adhered to feeding on their adversaries and never sought such favor from Jayme or anyone else in their party. That Jayme chose to initiate it at times felt almost too good to be true.

“And now, here’s my final attempt to make you submit to me,” Astarion whispered as he came to a halt in front of Jayme.

He slowly unbuckled his belt, loosened the laces of his indigo Ashmeadow outfit, and slipped off his shirt. With sure hands, he palmed the finely tuned muscles of Jayme’s broad chest, mapping every curve and dip. Wicked admiration played openly across his face, betraying just how irresistibly attractive he found Jayme’s defined torso. He leaned in, his teeth closing around a nipple. Hardened and deliciously soft, it tested Astarion’s restraint; it took everything not to draw blood.

A hiss came from above. Perhaps he should be biting harder? Something to experiment with later.

For now, he sank to his knees, dragging Jayme’s breeches down with him. In one smooth motion, he wrapped his eager lips around Jayme, extra mindful of the fangs.

At the same time, the clone rose from where he had been obediently waiting on the bed, and braced himself against a column with one hand while the other began pleasuring himself.

Astarion’s left hand gripped Jayme’s thigh, feeling the tremors underneath the hot skin sparked by his attentions. It pleased Astarion to no end. When he peeked up at Jayme’s face, he saw rapture there: heavy eyelids, pupils blown wide, and eyes shifting back and forth between him and the clone.

He worked to tease Jayme closer to his climax, and couldn’t keep his gaze from finding Jayme’s over and over again.

At one point, as their eyes met, an amused noise bubbled in his throat. Watching the ever-cool bard lose his balance under his touch was intoxicating—an almost ticklish sensation.

But that stifled laugh set the stage for his undoing. Because, in response, Jayme summoned what cunning he had left in his lust-fogged mind and swiped his fingers across the cut on his neck. Without hesitation, he brought his bloodied fingers to Astarion’s face. The scent, up close, was too much.

Astarion instantly turned his head, flicking his tongue out to lick his digits clean. He groaned at the decadently rich taste.

Jayme repeated the action, and this time, Astarion sucked all four fingers into his mouth.

The ecstasy of Jayme’s blood on his tongue made him whimper.

That whimper proved to be the last straw. Jayme grabbed Astarion by the arms, tugged him to his feet, and slammed their lips together. In his haste, Jayme’s bottom lip caught on Astarion’s fang, seeping more blood into their mouths.

And then, Jayme did the improbable.

One hand reached blindly to the side, reclaiming the dagger, while the other grasped Astarion’s chin. He pulled back, holding Astarion’s head steady.

Hungry red darted to the dagger first, then flicked to Jayme with a questioning glint. More bloodplay? Fabulous! But why bother with a blade when fangs were at hand?

With painstaking slowness, Jayme guided the dagger’s tip to the base of Astarion’s neck, on the left side, and stopped, his gaze lifting to seek permission.

Astarion squinted, puzzled, but he gave a slight nod of assent with little pause.

The blade pressed in gently, just enough to coax beads of blood and a sharp intake of breath from the vampire.

The question in Astarion’s red eyes gave way to marvel in the snap of a finger as Jayme’s intention dawned on him.

“My sweet, you don’t have to,” Astarion whispered but couldn’t bring himself to step back or protest in any physical way. He stood still, transfixed by something close to awe.

His vision narrowed to Jayme’s face, everything else fading into the periphery. By a hair’s breadth, he managed to maintain concentration on the spell, relying on the mental reflex he’d honed throughout their adventures. He wasn’t finished with the clone, and intended to resume their playful distractions after…. after whatever happened next.

“I know,” came the calm, almost cheerful reply. A cheeky tongue sneaked out to lap up the red droplets sitting on the dagger’s tip before the weapon was set back atop the drawer, its purpose fulfilled. 

Goosebumps prickled over Astarion’s skin at the weirdly sensual act.

“I can’t vouch for the taste. Might be godawful, for all I know,” he said with a shaky laugh, suddenly feeling his knees weaken. He leaned forward, shifting a considerable portion of his weight onto Jayme. 

“Weren’t you the one saying, just the other night, how much you wanted your blood flowing through me?” Jayme reminded, his tone laced with amusement.

“Flow through you, yes—but I didn’t think you’d actually be sucking on it.” 

“And yet, the idea arouses you. Doesn’t it?” Jayme’s head tilted, impertinent and knowing.

That knifelike, perceptive blue—it didn’t flicker down to confirm Astarion was still fully aroused. It didn’t need to. Jayme read him like an open book, even without the tadpole. Not just by interpreting the obvious signs, no, he seemed to intuit exactly what would befuddle him, what would jolt him from his composure. What would ignite the fire in his heart.

The placement of the cut showed forethought too. Left side, not right. Not where Cazador’s mark marred his skin, not even by mistake to risk overlapping with bitter memories.

Astarion struggled to determine which held a stronger allure: Jayme’s calculated course of action, or the realization that Jayme had crafted it with such precise awareness of its impact on him.

“Y-yes,” Astarion stammered, feeling exposed in his entirety—a whole new kind of nakedness.

“Then how about you shut that pretty mouth of yours and let me taste you, hmm?”

The low murmur was followed by a warm glide of skin as Jayme nestled his head into the small nook above Astarion’s collarbone. He recreated the steps of wine tasting: first, he circled his delicacy, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent of the essence that tethered the vampire to this plane.

Astarion shivered.

Next, Jayme’s hot tongue traced slow, sensuous circles around the cut, sweeping at the streak left behind by the seeping blood.

How perverse this act was. How bizarre in its inversion of roles. How absurdly seductive.

“Fuck,” Astarion grunted, tangling unsteady fingers in Jayme’s finely textured raven hair.

“I’m going to, very soon,” Jayme whispered before abandoning the foreplay to latch onto the wound, sucking earnestly. 

Astarion’s knees buckled, but Jayme’s strong arms held him fast. He threw his head back, lips parting around a gasp. He should have been appalled—he had every right to be. The last time he had been on the receiving end of such treatment, it had cost him his life.

But the hot embrace shielded him. And just as Jayme’s tongue probed the wound, squeezing and scooping every drop it could, he tapped boldly, unflinchingly, into Astarion’s darkness—his undeath.

After who knows how much time, Jayme released his neck with an obscene smacking sound, ready to share his review.

“I like your taste. Sharp, harshly metallic, bitter. You’ll linger in my mouth for hours, I bet. So much like you.”

For Astarion, finding someone who was neither repelled by his identity, nor merely adapted to or tolerated it, but instead held genuine affection for him with it, was shocking beyond words. And there was no deception in Jayme’s eyes, only fondness.

Perverse. Wonderful.

“You’re incredible,” Astarion whispered, but nothing else came out. 

Jayme’s bloodstained lips and teeth drew his eyes like a magnet. The little puncture wound from their earlier feral kiss had darkened—their blood was mingling on those soft, swollen lips. Their combined scent: inebriating.

Overwhelmed in mind and body, Astarion finally yielded, letting his instincts take over.

They moved at the same time, meeting halfway in a kiss that was unrestrained, savage, and outright bruising. It was in that moment that the clone idling on the bed dissolved with a pop, taking with it Astarion’s plan to resume the teasing. The room for teasing had disappeared, snuffed out by the imperative, grinding need to join their bodies together as swiftly as possible.

Jayme wove his arms around Astarion’s back and crushed him to his chest, pressing their throbbing cocks together in the process. A jolt of electricity. Hands sliding hungrily across each other’s skin, tracing no discernible pattern, they drank each other in, until Jayme quite literally bent his head to the cut on the Astarion’s neck and sucked hard, making the blood flow again.

Astarion closed his eyes, reveled in the sharp, stinging sensation as he rolled his hips up, rubbing unthinkingly against Jayme’s heat. But then the hunger flared up—the urge he was constantly grappling with—and for once, he abandoned all self-control, descending on Jayme’s neck fiercely. He stuck one fang into the tiny slit the dagger had opened, widened it, and covered it with his mouth.

He didn’t know when he would stop. This fantasy—feeding on a sentient being without mercy, unleashing his beast and letting it have its fill—had been plaguing his mind for nearly two centuries now. Was it a failure, a weakness of character, to succumb now? He didn’t know. It unsettled him. 

“Yes…don’t hold back,” Jayme said, voice rough and gravelly, with impeccable timing, as though sensing Astarion’s inner struggle. “Take what you need.” His hand stroked Astarion’s head in a reassuring gesture.

Astarion let out a short, lewd, high-pitched whine and trembled in Jayme’s arms. Along with Jayme’s blood, a frightening power surged into him, or so he vaguely thought.

As abruptly as he’d started the act, he broke it off, tearing his mouth away and resting his forehead on Jayme’s shoulder. His eyes were glazed, and he needed a few seconds to compose himself.

Finally, Jayme’s ragged breathing filtered through the fog that clouded his senses.

Astarion lifted his head to peer up at him.

“Did I–”

Go too far, he wanted to ask, but Jayme didn’t let him finish. He grabbed Astarion and lifted him off the floor— a feat made more impressive by the fact that the vampire was only slightly shorter than him. Shuffling toward the bed, he deposited Astarion onto the mattress. 

With a frustrated growl, he retreated long enough to step to the cupboard and fumble for oil. His normally measured movements were rushed, graceless, and focused solely on efficiency now. 

He hurried back to Astarion, who was lying on his back, thighs already spread. Sliding a slick finger inside, Jayme elicited a gasp from him. The urgency vibrating between them didn’t allow for the careful preparation of last time, back at the Gossamer Alcove. A couple of fluttering heartbeats later, Jayme withdrew his finger and pushed all the way in with a groan—fast and hard.

Blood still trickled in a languid rivulet from the slit on Jayme’s neck. The wound gaped wider now, split open by the earlier rough treatment. Astarion couldn’t tear his eyes away. Jayme noticed his stare.

He bowed forward, propping himself on his elbows, to offer his neck while keeping up the jerking rhythm of his waist.

“Lick it clean,” he urged, seeing Astarion hesitate.

“I’m afraid I’ll... lose, control of myself if I’m allowed to, to have any more,” Astarion grunted haltingly, coherent thoughts unraveling under the hot, insistent thrusts filling his body. 

In response, Jayme seized his wrists, one after the other, pulling them above his head and pinning him firmly in place.

“I’ll keep you in check.”

“You don’t care? About the danger? Heard stories. Of blood-crazed vampires—going berserk, unable to stop.”

“Don’t use fangs. Or mouth. Only tongue.”

Astarion sucked in a quivering breath and ghosted his mouth over the bleeding area. The metallic scent tantalized him.

“I want this,” he muttered against the wet skin, lips already grazing the surface.

“Yours. Take it.”

With a heaved sigh he did, dragging his tongue in broad strokes to devour every last smear.

Pure life essence. Pure, mystifying dark magic.

Astarion arched his back, writhing in agonizing bliss. Instinctively, he wrapped his legs around the small of Jayme’s waist to have more control of the angle.

Jayme’s thrusts quickened even more, frantic and shallow, devoting special attention to the spot that made Astarion’s body buck. One of his hands—slick with sweat—slipped from Astarion’s wrists and trailed downward, calloused fingertips tracing along Astarion’s length.

Oh, those dexterous fingers, Astarion thought in a haze, handling me like an instrument.

When that skillful thumb rubbed along his tip, Astarion arched completely off the bed, burying his head into the mattress, his lips trembling open. He couldn’t contain the sounds rising from his throat. It took only a few more fervent motions. Closing his fist, Jayme tugged once, then again, and Astarion fell over the edge at last.

“Mine,” he heard himself moan. One of his hands broke free to dip a quivering fingertip into Jayme’s bleeding wound before bringing it to his mouth. He reached his peak with Jayme’s invigorating blood fresh on his tongue.

Through the thick mist of pleasure, his mind registered that Jayme started spilling inside almost the same time, low, tight growls rumbling from his chest.

As the euphoria ebbed, a wave of worry washed over Astarion. Had he gone too far? His uncontrolled, beastly actions—his whispered claim, mine—did they cross a line?

Anxious thoughts wove through his heart like a spider’s web. Because it wasn't a sweet nothing blurted in the heat of passion. It was spoken in the moment, but he’d meant it.

The more they brushed against each other, the more he longed to possess Jayme. It was more than mere lust—it was a vampiric urge, both primal and imperative. He recognized it as a slippery slope, one that reeked of selfish greed.

To his immense relief, Jayme showed no sign of disapproval toward Astarion’s behavior. Still catching his breath, he reclined on the bed next to Astarion and intertwined their limbs. Astarion felt encouraged to speak.

“You know,” he said, “I can’t stop thinking about urges—our urges. About how we relate to them, and to each other.”

“We’re quite the foursome,” Jayme smirked, swiping a damp strand of hair away from Astarion's forehead.

“That we are. On a serious note, though, we’re courting danger, aren’t we? Letting go like this, yielding to our impulses. For a moment there, I thought I might drink too much. Or not stop at all.”

Jayme turned the question over in his mind.

“I think, we’ve built the foundations to handle this,” he said slowly.

“Meaning?”

“I trust you. Trust that you can brace against my urges. That you’ll keep me in check, so I don’t have to as much when I’m with you. At least when I’m with you. You’ve done it before—there’s proof. So I know I can release a tiny fraction of my control and be,”—his eyes narrowed, gaze pinned to Astarion’s—“a little bit of an animal. And you can do the same. Whatever tomorrow brings, tonight we have this: freedom in each other.”

“Freedom, yes. When I said ‘mine’ just now…” Astarion began, a hint of unease in his voice.

“I liked that,” Jayme replied easily.

“You did? I didn’t mean… I know you are no one's property. Not even mine. True, you’ve given me your blood, but that doesn’t make you—”

“It’s fine. What you and I have, what we’re doing, it’s nothing like what Cazador did to you. And it never will be. I hope you understand that. You won’t become him. We have choice.”

Simple yet powerful words. Astarion considered them carefully, struggling to find a response. In the end, he chose simplicity, too. The web of worry was gone, blown away by Jayme’s confidence.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“For everything. The Project Image. For being you.”

“Anytime,” Jayme said with a smile, and added after a short pause, “I hope.” He tapped his temple with a finger, referencing their shared condition.

Astarion grinned widely.

“Oh, darling, I’d like to see a tadpole capable of changing you.” Then, realizing what he’d said, he shook his head and gave an embarrassed laugh. “On second thought, no, I wouldn’t. Sorry. Ha ha! Don’t want to jinx our lucky streak.”

A comfortable silence settled between them as they gazed at each other. After a while, Astarion motioned toward the wound on Jayme's neck.

“We should get that treated,” he said.

“Later. It’s already stopped bleeding. Come here,” Jayme murmured, pulling Astarion onto his chest.

He adjusted him so Astarion’s ear was pressed flat against the spot directly above Jayme’s heart. What an endearing sound! Steady and strong, just like Jayme himself. It lulled him into a peaceful trance.

Now, stumbling through the Elfsong as a drunken mess in the present, Astarion reminisced about that perfect feeling and hoped against hope to carry it with him when he retired for rest that night.

Chapter 11: I - No grave can hold my body down

Summary:

My babe would never fret none
About what my hands and my body done
If the Lord don't forgive me
I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me
When I was kissing on my baby
And she put her love down soft and sweet
In the low lamplight I was free
Heaven and hell were words to me

When my time comes around
Lay me gently in the cold, dark earth
No grave can hold my body down
I'll crawl home to her

Hozier – Work Song

After a much-needed rest in the Lantern Tree’s featherbeds—offered freely in honor of Jayme’s performance—the bard and the drow fighter set out in search of the portal to Cendriane.

Solaufein wasted no time calling in favors among Astrazalian’s defenders. Through his ties, they soon found a battle wizard willing to point them in the right direction: the Tower of Naming. In one neglected hall, a portal lay buried in dust and cobwebs, dormant for centuries. To awaken it was ill-advised, though not forbidden.

Armed with the spell of activation, they made for the tower without hesitation. In the quiet of that hall, they recited the spell and the portal flared to life. Just as Jayme moved to step into its shimmering veil, Solaufein caught him by the arm.

“Be prepared for anything. Our destination is dark and teeming with monstrosities. In all likelihood, we will have to carve our path to Lord Kannoth,” he said, his jaw set firmly.

“I’ve no doubt we have quite a fight ahead of us. But once we’re in, down in the catacombs of the dead, this should make it easier for us to gain an audience,” Jayme smirked, holding up the white lock of hair Baba Yaga had given him.

Solaufein inspected the bizarre token, his expression turning wry. “An accursed object from one accursed creature to another. How fortunate we are to be caught in the middle!”

“Very. Come, let the fun begin.” Jayme winked and passed through the portal, pulling the drow along.

In truth, he was enjoying the company. He had crossed the Everwood steeling himself to face whatever lay ahead alone. But then came the drow, and Jayme found himself glad for it. It felt as if they were old acquaintances, and he wondered if they had met before—back in the blood haze of his past.

They emerged on the other side of the portal, into a forest so deep the twilight could not pierce it, shrouding the place in eerie semi-darkness.

Cendriane. Once a flourishing eladrin city, it had suffered a tragic fate during the ferocious war between eladrin and drow millennia ago. Now, it survived only as a shadow of itself, overrun by a dark, encroaching forest and soaked in gloom.

The white buildings once embodied the pinnacle of ancient elven architecture: airy, flowing lines; tall, slender towers; and arches, arches, arches. Every stone, every wooden beam had been meant to pulse with life—yet now they stood frozen in their forlorn state. While some houses remained intact, others had exploded, scattering massive fragments of white stone that still floated in the air—eternal reminders of the terrible arcane tempest that had ravaged the city.

The devastation had claimed nearly all of its proud inhabitants. Scorched craters gaped everywhere like open wounds. Those who survived fled, convinced the place was cursed. All, that is, but one: Cendriane’s stubborn king.

King Kannoth, now ruler of nothing but a dead city, had been slowly consumed by resentment over his kingdom’s ruin. He immersed himself in necromancy, eventually embracing vampirism and willingly accepting the Dark Gift.

From that point on, he existed in hatred of the living—for drow and eladrin alike, it was said—channeling his malevolent power to serve the Unseelie Court and to build his army of the dead.

To reach him, one had to pass through the forest that had swallowed the bone-white, abandoned buildings and pick their way to the city’s heart. Jayme led Solaufein through the silent streets, shadowed by towering evergreens that seemed to drain the air of all life. Their destination was the crystalline spires of the distant Palace.

As Solaufein had warned, it wasn’t long before the city’s twisted inhabitants found them—a small pack of giant spiders and a displacer beast, soon joined by two wailing, vengeful specters.

The spiders struck first, fixing their many eyes on Jayme and spitting a curtain of venom. Jayme reacted on instinct, vaulting aside, lute already in hand, and answered with a Scorching Ray. Three streaks of fire leapt from his fingers, each finding a spider. With his next breath, he wove Solaufein into his Bardic Inspiration.

The drow, greatsword drawn, charged into their midst. Empowered by Jayme’s magic, he carved through the legs of two spiders in a single sweeping strike, dragging their fury onto himself. The third spider lunged from his right, fangs bared to tear off his head. Solaufein spun and drove his blade through its foaming chelicerae. Venom burst from the ruptured glands, but he slipped aside with practiced ease. His knowledge of spider anatomy—an inheritance of his people—served him well.

Jayme, seeing the spiders would soon be dealt with, turned his focus to the displacer beast. Its barbed tentacles lashed, eager to flay the skin from his body, as the creature crouched low, muscles coiled for a leap. Knowing its talent for bending light and confusing ranged attacks, Jayme chose Banishment. With a flash, the beast vanished into a demiplane.

The spell bought him precious seconds. He knelt quickly and inscribed a Sleep-infused Glyph of Warding on the ground where the creature would return. The moment it reappeared, it faltered. Unable to resist the magic, the beast fell into enchanted slumber where it stood.

“Solaufein!” Jayme called to the drow, who had just finished hacking the last spider apart.

At the signal, Solaufein dashed forward and drove his sword through the incapacitated feline beast.

By then, the specters had drifted within range, raising clawed hands to strike and preparing their dreaded Drain Life. Jayme, alert to their movements, cut them off with a Hypnotic Pattern. One froze in place, entranced by the shimmering display, while the other resisted and lunged at the bard.

The drow stepped in, his blade intercepting the specter’s claw just in time. With a fluid shift of grip, he turned the deflection into a thrust, driving the sword into the ghostly form with an elegance reminiscent of a kensai.

Dispatching the remaining, entranced specter was little more than routine.

The two rested a few minutes, catching their breath.

“Expertly done,” Solaufein remarked, a faint smile touching his face.

“You weren’t half bad yourself,” Jayme replied, bent forward with his hands on his knees, steadying his breath. “Jumping into the fight yesterday without an instrument felt like fighting naked. This is much better.”

“You fight admirably naked as well.”

“You bet I do.”

The drow raised a white eyebrow and let out a hum of amusement.

“Onwards?” Jayme asked, straightening up.

“Onwards.”

They clashed with seven more packs of foes—mostly giant spiders and specters, with a handful of fey panthers and wood woads among them. By the time they reached the Crystalline Palace, a short rest was long overdue.

After stretching their weary muscles, they leaned against the glassy, still-intact walls of the undead king’s stately home. Around them, white stone rubble hung eerily in mid-air. Jayme found the sight hauntingly beautiful.

“Like a raging snowstorm frozen in time,” Solaufein said after several minutes of silence. “Had we lived then, we might have given our lives to this senseless civil war.”

The harrowing Crown Wars among elven kingdoms had decimated the elven race and exiled the drow to the Underdark.

“On opposing sides,” Jayme added, a spark of fire lighting in his chest.

“Indeed,” Solaufein replied, his gaze intent as he studied the bard’s expression. “The notion brings you a certain satisfaction, I can tell.”

“How perceptive of you.” Jayme’s lips lifted into a subtle, cunning smile. “Our gods have worked tirelessly to make surface elves and drow hate one another. Yet here we are, comrades in arms. Lolth, Vhaeraun—the better half of the Dark Seldarine must surely despise you for your choice. Big or small, defying the gods always brings me joy. And not just Bhaal. That feeling has been with me ever since I woke with a blank where my past should have been.”

Shadowheart hurling the Spear of Night into the Shadowfell flashed through his mind—then Gale’s face, resolute, refusing to unleash the Netherese orb.

“So. Do you hold no deity in reverence?” the drow asked, tilting his head. There was no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

“The sole thing I revere is absolute freedom,” Jayme declared.

“That answer becomes you.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Tell me, do you look upon worshippers with pity?”

“I don’t, as long as it’s a choice made freely.” Jayme inclined his head, meeting Solaufein’s gaze openly. “You have my respect for breaking free of Lolth’s yoke and following Eilistraee. I can imagine how difficult that must have been, especially in your culture.”

The lines of Solaufein’s face softened.  He shifted subtly closer to Jayme.

“You know, Lady Silverhair owns a broad portfolio. She is the goddess of beauty, dance, moonlight, hunting, swordwork, song—and of freedom. Fiery, unpredictable, and utterly free-spirited. Though she made mistakes—nearly slew Corellon at Lolth’s instigation—she chose exile with Lolth to guide the drow from darkness back toward the light. Your personal creed would please her.”

It pleased Solaufein, which meant more to Jayme than the favor of a deity. He didn’t say it out loud, but part of him wondered if the drow was trying to pique his curiosity and spread his faith, or perhaps to prove that not all gods were as tyrannical as Bhaal. Or was it simply a gesture of comfort, in Solaufein’s own way? Maybe it was all of these at once. Jayme decided to return the gesture, showing his own faith in kind.

“Once we’re in Evermeet, I’ll offer a song to your goddess.”

Solaufein’s eyes lit up, the red gleaming brightly in the subdued light of the bleak city.

“You honor me, Jayme.” He dipped his head, then, after a pause, turned their attention back to the matter at hand. “If you are ready, I believe it is time to put our ultimate asset on display and meet the undead king.”

Jayme wordlessly reached into his bag of holding and produced the wispy lock of hair, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Shall we?”

They began to search for the palace gate. When they found it, came the first trial: a band of wights and zombies stood guard—or simply idled about; who could tell with these vapid creatures, really? Would Baba Yaga’s promise about the odd amulet hold true?

Astonishingly, the answer was yes.

The undead freaks rolled their putrid eyes and turned their decomposing bodies toward the two confidently approaching elves with avid interest and instantaneous hostility. Just as they moved to attack though, they came to an abrupt halt. An air of confusion surrounded the group as the zombies exchanged a string of unintelligible groans.

 Jayme immediately seized the opportunity their bafflement provided.

“We have come to speak with your king. Lead us to Lord Kannoth. Rest assured, we do not intend to start a fight,” he said firmly, watching for any subtle motions that might signal an impending attack.

“Surrender your weapons,” one of the wights rasped.

“There is no need,” Jayme replied smoothly. “Words hold power here, and I state that we shall not draw our weapons, so long as the residents of this Palace extend the same courtesy.”

Jayme and the wight engaged in a stare-down that stretched on for a full minute before the wight croaked a grudging, “So be it. Follow me.”

Solaufein mouthed an impressed, “Well done,” to Jayme before falling into line.

Beneath the opulent grandeur of the Crystalline Palace, the macabre catacombs of the vampire king sprawled, brimming with shadow and decay. Carved from cold, unforgiving rock, the subterranean labyrinth was the very image of a kingdom of death. Ice-cold white granite corridors, adorned with ancient, tattered paintings depicting haunting necromantic rituals, set a tone of dread that permeated the air.

The vaulted chambers housed a mass of ghastly denizens, an army of the damned. Some stood sentinel in silent, skeletal repose, while others patrolled the corridors with restless purpose. Ghouls and bats flitted through the chilling darkness, creating a ghostly symphony of fluttering wings and faint whispers. In one hall, scores of skeleton warriors paraded, clad in corroded yet magic-infused armor. In another, a crowd of mummies lumbered forward, wrapped in ancient funerary linens and droning in a foreign language.

As Jayme and Solaufein were led deeper into this lair, the air thickened with the stench of rot—a pungent testament to the eternal unrest of those who served the vampire lord. Struggling to stifle the urge to gag, Jayme became acutely aware that, despite the considerable battle prowess he and Solaufein shared, they stood absolutely no chance against the crushing number of potential foes here. Should the negotiations fail, they would most certainly not leave this place alive.

The wights eventually brought them to a spacious chamber that appeared to be a library of sorts. Long rows of bookcases lined the polished white granite walls, stacked high with ancient tomes.

Gale would feel like a kid in a candy shop here, Jayme thought, the observation untimely but oddly comforting.

The space echoed with the ceaseless shuffling of skeletal feet, but it wasn’t merely the doing of skeletons—higher-ranking monsters were present as well. Baelnorn liches, at least a dozen, lingered by the bookcases, poring over the book collection. Their elven features were warped by the taint of undeath and their skeletal forms pulsated with spectral energy. In the far corner, Jayme spotted an assembly of beholder zombies hovering in the air, their shriveled eye stalks lolling in a grotesque parody of their former, admittedly hideous, glory. Lacking arms, the beholders relied on skeletons to hold the tomes and turn the page for them.

At the center of the hall stood a palatial desk packed to capacity with scrolls. The meticulous arrangement of the documents made one thing clear to Jayme: the archfey king’s mind was far from deranged.

Lord Kannoth himself was bent over the desk, engrossed in the study of the scrolls. The superior hearing of vampire lords was well-known, so he must have noticed his visitors long before they approached. Yet, he only straightened and acknowledged their presence when they stood but a few steps away, across the desk.

The archfey exuded an aura of dominance, and Jayme could easily imagine how fair he must have been in life. His countenance displayed flawless symmetry, his attractive eladrin features accentuated by thin, dark lips. His pallid skin served as a canvas for magical runes and was utterly unblemished. His irises, a pale grayish-blue color so light they were nearly white, shimmered with arcane power. Well-groomed silver-white hair cascaded to the middle of his back. He draped his slender body in an exquisite black robe—a clear emblem of his spellcaster vocation. A look of cool arrogance shaped his face, heightened by the delicate arch of his eyebrows, set in a faint frown.

Before any words were uttered, his eyes flicked to the lock of hair in Jayme’s hand, and his cool expression contorted into one of pure ire. Mist-gray eyes flared bloodred in an instant.

"Why intrude upon my realm? Speak true, or find your flesh stripped from the bone, leaving naught but a dry husk where you stand," he thundered, his voice as imposing as his regal appearance.

No sooner had the archfey’s body tensed than the three dozen undead in the hall assumed combat stances.

Out of the blue, Jayme was struck by a feeling of startling familiarity. This aberrant space, the hushed, murky atmosphere, and the sorcerer’s stately demeanor conjured the ambiance of his congregation at the Temple of Bhaal—hazy and fragmented as his memory of that time was.

The resemblance, in its own twisted way, helped him anchor him, easing the skittering he felt inside his chest. There was a hot coil inside, awakening from a deep slumber, and he understood all too well what it meant: pure peril.

His old Urge was stirring, angling its head near his ear slowly, cautiously so as not to startle him. Then it dared a tentative whisper: use me.

Jayme’s consciousness screamed in protest, but for once, he chose to ignore his rational instincts.

He allowed the hot coil to swell, just slightly, and embraced the Urge’s tempting offer. For now, for this crucial moment, he donned his old identity. He was a lord in his own right, bargaining with another.

“My name is Jayme. I seek swift passage to Evermeet,” he stated evenly.

“Do you presume me a fool? You, a pawn sent forth by the Hag?” At his outraged exclamation, multitudes of skeletal warriors and ghouls swarmed outside all three archways leading into the hall, their bones and steel clattering. The bats hanging from the chandeliers fidgeted, poised to strike.

Jayme endured the King’s piercing gaze, which all but flayed him alive.

“I act independently and belong to the Material Plane,” he replied. “An adversary of mine has banished me to this realm, and now I seek to return to Toril, to Faerûn specifically. Chance led me to Baba Yaga, who claimed you could grant me passage to Evermeet, the quickest route home.”

“I can’t fathom the covert agenda of that wretched sorceress. You offer naught to entice me to waste my time on you.” Kannoth raised a hand, and his minions tensed, ready to lunge.

“Shall I kill her for you?” Jayme proposed, his tone nonchalant.

Beside him, Solaufein sucked in a sharp breath and Jayme could feel red eyes boring into the side of his head. But he didn’t relent. Kannoth’s hand remained raised.

“A bold proposition, audacious bard. Are you all words, I wonder?”

“It will be done. I will slay the Hag,” Jayme said, each word weighted with gravity now. “Just as I have slain the three Chosen of the Dead Three, the devil Raphael in his own home in Avernus, and a completely unshackled Netherbrain in Faerûn. But I have an additional condition.”

This seemed to mollify the archfey somewhat, though the sneer didn't leave his face as he sized Jayme up. At the same time, Jayme sensed admiration radiating from the drow beside him.

“State it, audacious one,” Kannoth urged.

“I want you to share your blood with a vampire spawn and turn him into a true vampire,” Jayme said calmly.

A hush fell. The temperature of the already frigid air seemed to drop several degrees further. Jayme’s breath swirled in a small white cloud before his face.

“Surely you jest,” Kannoth replied sharply.

“Do I appear to be jesting? I sense the depth of your resentment for the Hag. Passage to Evermeet and your blood—these are the terms for the demise of the legendary Baba Yaga.”

The stakes were set. No one moved; the whole space froze in unbreathing suspense, save for a bat that squirmed and clinked together the crystal shards it hung from.

Kannoth’s scowling face suddenly shifted, and the vampire king broke into sinister laughter. His eyes lost their fiery glow.

“Ha ha ha! So be it. The old Crone indeed vexes me. Ever since I began forging my army, she has loathed me with a passion. True, I have kidnapped a number of her daughters and transformed them into my undead minions, but they serve a grand purpose now. And what did she do in return? She appealed to the Queen of Air and Darkness to intervene. Ironically, in the end the Queen offered me protection in exchange for my loyalty. She has sanctified my unholy rule over my city of undead.”

“I can see how that would only fuel her enmity,” Jayme remarked.

“Indeed. She has been harassing me ever since, sending her pitiful underlings to undermine my kingdom. Feeble attempts,” Kannoth sneered.

The liches lined up behind him exchanged meaningful glances, a light murmur rippling through them. The beholder zombies shook their misshapen, bloated bodies and emitted an unnerving, raspy noise. Their small and large eyes narrowed into slits—the peculiar way beholders seemed to snicker.

“What of the lock of hair?” Jayme asked, glancing down at the thin tress of hair that chilled his palm like snow.

At the inquiry, all traces of amusement vanished from Kannoth’s bearing.

“An insult,” he hissed. “Her meddlesome lackeys lured my banshee assistant, the linchpin of my court, away nearly a month ago, leaving the circle of my advisers severely lacking. She has not returned.”

His pale eyes glowed with fury, quite literally. The King’s sudden mood shift manifested dramatically in his appearance: irises turned raging crimson, and his smooth, alabaster skin darkened to an ebony black, resembling Solaufein’s complexion. The runes on his face and neck ignited in vivid red.

At a moment’s notice, his regal eladrin mien had morphed into that of a feral drow sorcerer.

Even more spectacular was how his minions morphed with him. As bloodlust touched their ashen, bony, and cadaverous forms, they evolved into enlarged and invigorated shapes: bones turned jagged, flesh flushed red and purple, and soulless eyes blazed with eerie light.

This was the Feywild—the weight of it cleaved into Jayme’s mind again, sharp and undeniable, like a hot knife. Here, words and emotions bore tangible, physical power.

The only saving grace for the two elves was that the wrath of this chamber full of undead was not directed at them, but at the supercilious old Hag. Kannoth extended an arm in an elegant, flowing motion, and the sound of fluttering wings hissed through the air.

In a split second, a midnight-black bat with ruby-red eyes descended, alighting on the archfey’s wrist and suspending itself upside down.

“Take my faithful servant, Boris. He shall transport you to the foul chicken-legged hut faster than a blink. Slay the old bitch, and Boris will take you to Evermeet.”

Kannoth paused as the bat, Boris, turned his inquisitive stare on the two elves, scrutinizing them in silence. Then the lord changed the subject.

“The spawn you mentioned. Who is he?”

“His name is Astarion. A high elf from Baldur’s Gate,” Jayme revealed. “He was turned by the vampire lord Cazador Szarr nearly two hundred years ago.”

The thirst for violence whirling in Kannoth’s eyes gave way to something unexpected: dry amusement.

“What a coincidence, as though scripted for a comedy,” he mocked. “You’ll find the Szarr spawn in Evermeet.”

Jayme’s heart thudded so forcefully it sent a wave of dizziness through his body. “What?”

“A ship brought him to Evermeet, and he crossed the border not a day past.”

“How...?” Jayme asked, round-eyed, his voice unsteady.

Control slipped from his grasp, and fear surged through him. Yet curiously, the Dark Urge was content to just stand by and observe. It made no attempt to assert dominance over Jayme as it always had in the past. Instead, it felt cooperative. Obliging even.

“Jayme. I am master of necromancy in this land, court mage of the Unseelie Court, and patron of fey undead across this plane. I have eyes everywhere; no undead sets foot in this realm without my knowledge. You’d better make haste, though. My spies report the spawn is under pressure.” Kannoth cocked his head to the side, visibly entertained by the perturbation his revelation had caused. “But make no mistake. You must fulfill your end of our bargain first. Only then may you proceed to the Green Isle. Now go. You have a Hag to vanquish.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Boris released his hold on his master’s arm and landed next to Jayme. The bat raised his intelligent eyes to the bard, and in the next moment, grew to multiple times his original size. He stopped when he was as large as a horse, capable of bearing two armed elves. Boris cast one last look at the pair, then turned around, signaling it was time to depart.

Solaufein placed a hand on Jayme’s shoulder, pulling him from his muddled thoughts, and they moved to mount the soft but ice-cold creature. Jayme took the front, with the drow settling behind him.

“Enjoy the kill,” Kannoth said with a smirk in farewell. Jayme offered no reply.

The undead bat took flight, gliding over the heads of the undead ranks, surfacing into the Crystalline Palace, and then darting outside into Cendriane’s cursed city-forest at an astonishing speed.

At least I’ll get to Astarion quickly once Baba Yaga is dealt with, Jayme thought, apprehension gripping him, running through his veins like quicksilver, volatile and charged. One sentence from Kannoth lingered in his head: “My spies report he is under pressure.”

He could sense that Solaufein wanted to say something, but he felt no inclination to start a conversation. So, he waited.

Eventually, the drow asked, “How did you feel in the presence of the necromancer? Did your blood whisper to you?” He leaned close to Jayme’s ear so his words wouldn’t be lost in the whooshing wind.

Jayme gave the question some thought before answering truthfully.

“It did. And I accepted its help, temporarily.”

“That may have been unwise,” Solaufein replied calmly after a short pause, “From what I have seen, it is like an addiction, beginning innocently. But I am not about to question your judgment; you know your demons best. I sensed something… different about you back there. Then, when I looked again, your eyes were glowing red as before. I was concerned.”

“Thank you. I’m feeling fine, considering. I have the upper hand now, unlike before,” Jayme said, his voice steady if a little colorless.

“For my Siva, the nights were the most grueling to pull through with her sanity intact. An exhausted mind is more malleable. As is a distressed one,” Solaufein said with a meaningful emphasis. “I trust you will speak to me without reserve if you want to unburden yourself. And that you will tell me if there is something I need to know or do.”

Jayme watched as the land shifted beneath them at a breathtaking pace—a blur of flourishing elven forests drenched in violet and golden twilight.

“I know just how resilient he is,” Jayme murmured. “He’s been through things I can’t even fathom—two centuries of pure torment. Still, I can’t help worrying about him.”

His thoughts raced: how in the Nine Hells had he sailed the Trackless Sea? How would the Feywild’s turbulent magic affect him? Would an undead like him be tolerated by the fickle, impulsive fey eladrin, who were closer to nature than any other race?

Solaufein breathed a quiet laugh. “My people consider sentiment to be nothing but weakness—to be shunned and scoffed at. I, however, have shunned and am scoffing at them,” he said. Then, softer, he added, “You are on your way to him. And you need not feel ashamed of your emotions. They are anything but weakness.”

“What are they in your eyes?” Jayme asked.

“They are seeds of fire, waiting to ignite. Wield them carefully, or you will burn yourself. But if you can master the flame, nothing will stand between you and your reunion,” Solaufein said with ease.

Jayme smiled at that. They traveled in companionable silence for a while before Solaufein broke it with another question.

“What do you make of Lord Kannoth and his evil lair?”

“Honestly, I don’t care much about it,” Jayme answered, letting the words flow freely. “I just want my life back. Or… a chance at a new one. If taking down the corrupt Lord Kannoth is the key to that, then so be it. Becoming Baldur’s Gate’s hero hasn’t made me some selfless warrior set on vanquishing evil. But I do believe you have to do what you can to, at the very least, not make things worse. Upsetting the balance is… unwise, as I’ve learned firsthand.”

“You referred to yourself as the former Chosen of Bhaal earlier,” Solaufein recalled. “I was wondering what that meant, though I do have an idea.”

“It means I acted as his scythe. I’ll spare you the details, but even your goriest visions wouldn’t do it justice.”

“I am drow. Gore is as natural to us as a smile.”

“How eloquently put. Perhaps our pasts aren’t so different,” Jayme said wryly. “I lost my memory at my niece’s hands, so I don’t recall it all. But I remember this—killing made me smile, and my violin grinned in kind, in endless requiems.”

“Endless, right until that grisly performance inevitably concluded,” Solaufein remarked. “And now, we may hold our heads high, having broken free of that atrocious cycle.”

“True. Evil is part of the world. No matter how hard you fight it, somewhere, sometime, another evil will rise. The cycle can’t be stopped—only kept in check.”

“A ‘true neutral’ philosophy. Almost druidic. Harper-like. Though perhaps less… proactive, I should say.”

“You mean meddlesome. In other words, Jaheira-like,” Jayme said, a touch gentler.

He somehow missed that meddlesome woman.

“I mean meddlesome, yes. And your outlook on life aligns much more with my preferences than hers. Jaheira is too tied up in politics, as I see it. I like to think I enjoy greater liberty than she does. I do what I must, when I must.”

“Good.” Jayme smiled sidelong at the drow. “Baba Yaga is a different matter though. I gave her my blood—made her stronger than she already was. That was my choice, and my burden. The moment I took her deal to escape, I knew I’d have to come back and make it right.”

Will felling the Hag make thine sins void and absolve thee? Hardly. Yet, there lies a measure of redemption in vanquishing an evil as grand as thine former self. Jayme heard Withers’ rasping voice inside his head. Was it an illusion? Most probably.

“Balance-centered. Reasonable. I am thrilled to assist,” Solaufein reaffirmed with quiet yet burning determination.

“You’re a wild one, aren't you?” Jayme noted. 

“I have been so advised before,” Solaufein replied, lips twitching. 

“You know,” Jayme added pensively, “this side of me used to be smothered by Bhaal, buried under his will. Ever since he awakened my bloodlust, all I saw was murder. And all I did was murder.”

As the words left him, something felt off, a discord he couldn’t quite place. The statement sounded wrong, though he couldn’t say why.

“But you have conquered him,” Solaufein reminded. 

“I have, yes.” Jayme replied levelly, with a note of pride. Then, he fell into a thoughtful silence.

Soon, he was lost in reminiscence. His mind wandered back to the day of his rebirth—the death at the hands of his Father in the Temple of Bhaal, and his resurrection through Withers' grace.

He recalled the indescribable relief of escaping the stifling air of the Temple. Emerging from the sewers in a daze, he had made his way toward the Elfsong, grateful that his companions slowed their pace to match his. They didn’t speak, letting him take the time he needed.

Astarion, too, had fallen back a little to give him space. Jayme could still hear the touching comment the vampire made right after he came alive and breathing again, echoing clearly in his mind.

“I knew you had that sweet heart all along. I was alarmed by you sometimes, scandalized even. But somehow by your side, I still only ever saw you.”

Jayme definitely needed a moment to collect himself. Every building, every wall, even the distant cries of seagulls seemed imbued with a renewed vividness. A childlike wonder enveloped him with each new perception: the colors, the motions, the smells. The simple fact that he was still breathing left him reeling. And the sounds—oh, the sounds. He heard melody in everything: the rhythmic chopping of the butcher’s knife, the incoherent mumbling of beggars, the clucking of chickens, the animated gossip of elderly women, the raving preaching of religious fanatics—even the metallic screech of Steel Watch constructs. Everything felt fresh and carried more meaning in his eyes than ever before.

He half-expected his Urge to resurface, or for Sceleritas—or even Orin—to appear and reveal the entire ordeal and its resolution as an elaborate jest. But no such thing happened. The absence of it rendered him stunned as they safely reached the tavern.

His next destination was the bathhouse, conveniently located a short walk from the Elfsong. While common townsfolk often crowded into communal bathhouses, those with means could indulge in the luxury of renting a private space with a sizable bathtub and fine soap. Jayme, not usually one for extravagance, found himself irresistibly drawn to the idea of a hot bath this evening. The thought of washing away Orin's blood and the Temple's damp filth from his skin felt almost divine.

The room, though not overly spacious, exuded an air of understated elegance and was perfectly equipped to suit Jayme's needs. Near the wooden tub were neatly arranged vials of aromatic oils, incense sticks, and candles, ready to enhance the ambiance created by the subdued light of a single indoor brazier. The bath had already been drawn. An enchanted fire beneath the thick base of the tub provided heating, and by the time Jayme arrived, the water was lukewarm. It seemed the entrance fee had activated the heating mechanism, which was now steadily warming the bath.

As Jayme stepped into the room, he began unclasping his Elven Chainmail, hanging the admittedly dirty pieces in the armoire. In the midst of removing his blood-soiled leather gambeson, a knock came at the door. After a brief pause, Astarion popped his upper body inside.

“Hello, darling. I trust I'm not intruding. I’d completely understand if you needed some time alone to process recent events. But if you're open to company...” He flashed a wide, charming smile, spreading his arms theatrically.

“You’re never intruding. Come in.” Jayme gestured him in with a subtle smile.

After the day’s events, Jayme felt unusually reserved. His world had been turned upside down, and he found himself uncertain about his place. He felt like the steady beat of a song—a solid foundation, though still uncertain of where the rest of the melody would lead.

“Wonderful!” Astarion’s smile deepened with genuine joy as he slipped fully into the room, closing the door behind himself. “I, uh, meant to bring something to elevate this little bathing experience into a romantic dinner—I imagine dying must have left you quite famished—but alas, I didn't get the chance. I would have terribly regretted missing one of the highlights of this occasion.”

“And what might that be?”

“Why, your undressing, of course. I intend to lend a helping hand.” Astarion wiggled his eyebrows in a comically suggestive manner and positioned himself in front of Jayme. “I’m already half-late as it is, sadly.”

He ran a leather-gloved finger across Jayme’s bare chest. The cool touch made Jayme’s nipples harden involuntarily, drawing a lecherous grin from the rogue.

“How kind of you.” Jayme smirked.

“Isn’t it? Now, you just stand there in all your beauteous glory and let me take care of you.” A mischievous twinkle lit up Astarion's eyes as he winked. 

Since Cazador’s death, Astarion’s demeanor had brightened considerably. The imprint of the darkness lingered, and the scars hadn’t disappeared, of course—nor would they for a very long time, if ever—but the change in his overall disposition was unmistakable.

Slipping off his gloves, he put them aside and reached for the straps of Jayme’s breeches, his excitement clear in his expression. His hands took a detour, caressing Jayme’s abdomen and sides in slow, sensual circles before returning to their task. With sure but in no way rushed motions, Astarion unstrapped the breeches, helping Jayme step out of his leather boots, followed by the breeches and the undergarments.

“You must find my smell distasteful,” Jayme muttered, suddenly self-conscious in such close proximity to Astarion’s heightened senses. He was acutely aware of the dried gore from his duel with Orin that coated his hair and face, not to mention the toll hours of combat in armor had taken.

“My nose can discern layers of scent perfectly, my dearest,” Astarion said with a smug smile. “I can assure you, you smell as enticing as always—of raw power and maddening lust. Your sister’s—well, niece’s—blood and viscera on you, now that’s another matter. But we’ll rinse you clean in no time.”

His fingers casually traced the contours of Jayme's exposed form once more, then guided him toward the tub. “In you go. I’ll follow in a moment. Oh, and let’s adjust the heat, shall we? What feels perfectly warm to you is probably already scalding for me.”

As Astarion began undressing, Jayme inspected the flames under the tub and manipulated the magic until they eased into a gentle, steady burn. Stepping into the inviting hot water, he submerged himself, letting it rise to the crown of his head. He gave his face and hair a cursory rinse, the blood washing away in faint clouds of red underwater. An involuntary moan escaped his lips as he resurfaced.

Astarion responded with an approving hum and shot him a predatory glance. Before joining Jayme, he examined the assortment of fragrances arrayed by the wall. Selecting sandalwood incense and a vanilla aroma, he released both fragrances into the room. As a final touch, he lit all the candles lined up neatly along the shelf beside the tub.

“Going all in, I see,” Jayme remarked, lips curling up at the corners.

“Naturally. Tonight, we celebrate. And to illustrate that point, I propose a toast with Cormyr’s best.” Astarion rummaged through his bag of holding, producing a bottle of Utterdark alongside a corkscrew.

It was impossible to find the vampire without some sort of beverage on him, Jayme noted inwardly with amusement. It made sense if he thought about it—drinks were one of Astarion’s few remaining ties to the appetites of the living.

“I’m surprised. The only wine I’ve ever heard you praise was Elverquisst.” 

The choice was especially surprising, given the polarizing reputation of the Utterdark vintage. Its hue leaned toward black, with just a sheen of crimson, and its flavor was far removed from traditional wines.

“This doesn’t hold a candle to the epicurean delight of a well-aged Elverquisst; nothing does, quite frankly,” Astarion replied, a playful smile playing on his lips as he filled two cups to the brim. “But Utterdark is raw, fiery, and slightly savory—distantly evoking the taste of blood.” 

“Now it makes sense,” Jayme nodded, accepting his cup. Its full-bodied aroma promised an exotic journey. “Looks like I’ll get to play at being a vampire tonight.”

“All things considered—speed, sharpness, strength—I think you’d find it fitting to embrace the life of a vampire. Particularly that of a vampire lord. Living as a mere spawn hardly seems worth the trouble, wouldn’t you agree?” Astarion mused as he stepped onto the small stool by the tub. Bearing his nakedness with pride, as always, he tested the water’s temperature with his hand. “Whoa, I think we’re at the limit of what my body can handle!”

With that, he cautiously climbed in and sat, settling across from Jayme and casually draping his legs over his under the water.

“We should be toasting Withers if we wanted to be fair. Without him, I wouldn’t be here,” Jayme said quietly.

“I can always offer him a cup when we get back. Why not? Though I’m fairly certain he’d refuse.” Astarion paused, his face growing a fraction more serious. “Then again, I do understand the sentiment. But even so, don’t forget for a minute that you were the one who did the heavy lifting. What Withers did—it was some whimsical deus ex machina, beyond mortal scope or comprehension. Not a triumph of peerless willpower. He said it himself; he only gave you what you’d earned. So, I raise my cup to you, my love. To your rebirth. To the beginning of a brand new chapter!”

He leaned forward, a proud smile plastered across his face, and clinked his cup with Jayme's.

They drank their wine.

“Well?” Astarion asked lightly.

“It’s an outlandish flavor to me,” Jayme replied. “But I don’t dislike it.”

“That was precisely my review the first time I ever tasted blood. But once it reached my stomach, power sang through me with an intensity no alcohol or potion could match,” Astarion recalled, a shade of darkness clouding his expression. “That was the first and last time Cazador allowed me to feed properly—immediately after my turning. It was wolf’s blood. A noble beast of formidable strength; no wonder certain druidic orders consider it sacred. Cazador showed me a glimpse of what being a vampire could feel like—just to take it away forever.” 

“Until the mind flayer abduction, that is,” Jayme interjected. He wanted that scowl gone from Astarion’s face.

“Yes. To the prick’s fatal misfortune.” Astarion gave a wry smile.

Watching emotions flicker across Astarion’s face, Jayme tilted his head. “I’ve been meaning to ask about your thoughts on Vellioth.”

Just days earlier, they had explored Cazador's Palace in search of the Rite of Profane Ascension and, of course, Cazador himself. Among the notes and diaries scattered through the Palace, they uncovered the skull of Cazador’s master, which revealed glimpses of their rotten, vicious relationship.

“What of him?” Astarion’s body tensed instantly at the name; Jayme felt the reaction in the legs resting across his own.

“The skull suggested that those… lessons Vellioth forced on Cazador shaped him into the devil he became.”

A long silence stretched before Astarion finally answered.

“Well, not that it matters anymore. But since you asked... I must admit, it did surprise me—mildly—to learn that the twisted lessons he so dearly embraced didn’t come from his own deranged mind. A mild surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. Cazador never spoke of his master to us spawn, not openly. Mentions of him were rare—usually when he was in a towering rage. What had been done to him back when he was a spawn remained a mystery to me.”

“Has it changed your view of him, knowing he was a product of Vellioth’s cruelty?”

Astarion's brow furrowed, and his response carried a sharp resonance.

"No. It hasn’t changed a thing. I couldn’t care less about how he became the way he was. What matters is what he did after he was free from Vellioth’s influence. He chose to spread his malevolence and destroy countless lives, mine included." 

He shook his head, his eyes shadowed with deep-seated resentment, plain even in the dim candlelight.

“Always dominate. Never share with others, lest you grow weak and die. Act not in haste. And all the other directives he drilled into us spawn about how we were to revere him. Absolute submission with knees bent, head lowered, ears straining for his every word. And the rest of his fuckery. We heard these commands so many godsdamned times they’re burned into my skull.”

“You're asking if learning about his past changed anything for me? Well, let me make this clear: I don’t fucking care. ... Although,” he added with a bitter smile, “I will admit it’s satisfying to know that fiend was miserable all those years."

Jayme gently cupped Astarion’s calves under the water, massaging soothing circles into them.

“Fair enough. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to know how you felt about it. Back in the Palace, you said nothing, showed nothing. But I was sure it made an impression on you. I want to know your thoughts. To understand you.”

“Well,” Astarion leaned in slightly, his gaze sharp and searching, “do you?”

“I do,” Jayme replied without hesitation. “And I’m proud of you. You’re proof that it’s possible to shape yourself into something better, no matter what’s thrown your way. You've succeeded where he failed. I hope you can see that. You’ve become a living testament to perseverance—like a steady rhythm that keeps going, pushing through the storm.”

Jayme's voice brimmed with rare passion, but it wasn't enough. His fingers itched suddenly, yearning for his violin. Notes had always been his truest language—fluid, evocative, and free from the constraints of words, which were liable to myriad interpretations. Music translated sentiments directly, bypassing the mind to speak to the soul.

“That…was the bardiest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Thank you,” Astarion breathed.

The shadows in his eyes dissipated, replaced by surprise. It pained Jayme to see how unaccustomed he still was to being appreciated in a meaningful way. Astarion held Jayme’s gaze and took a sip of Utterdark.

“And this,” Astarion said, lips curving into a sly smile, “is a delightful way to shift the spotlight—onto you. Tonight is your night, after all. I’ve already had my resurrection back in the cemetery, courtesy of your rather... hands-on efforts.” 

Jayme smirked as he recalled how indecently beautiful and beautifully indecent Astarion’s pleasure-creased face had been while Jayme made love to him right on top of his grave. It had been, as Astarion had breathlessly described it just moments after coming with Jayme deep inside him, “a kind of madness I’d never have thought of pulling with anyone but you.”

“What do you want to know?” Jayme asked.

“Everything. Tell me how you felt today, how you feel now. What it was like to face your Father,” Astarion prompted.

“Terrifying. It was the most frightened I’ve ever felt,” Jayme admitted, pausing to study Astarion’s face for a reaction. He found softness there. Empathy. And encouragement.

“Go on, darling.”

“Because my Dark Urge went berserk the moment I killed Orin. It had been planting disturbing thoughts from the second we entered the Temple, but those were easy enough to dismiss—out of habit. The real test came when Orin crumbled.”

“What happened in your head? From the outside, we couldn’t tell a thing. Your face was an impervious mask.”

“I didn’t want to stop there. I ached to kill every Death’s Head, every disciple in the Temple. Shadowheart. Gale. La’zael. And… you,” Jayme said quietly.

The odor of blood had been thick in his nostrils. The dark whisper in his skull offensively loud. The vision of a pyramid of bodies, stacked in three grotesque layers—Bhaalist fanatics, his friends, and crowning it all, Astarion’s lifeless, crimson-streaked form. His limbs sprawled as if posed for sacrifice on the altar of primal slaughter.

“Alright. Why? What purpose did you see in that?” Astarion asked. “Not Bhaal’s service, I assume.”

“No. I had this… instinct that it would help me ascend. That it would set me on my true path. I don’t understand it myself—I didn’t back then either, and that was what terrified me. My control was slipping, and I had no idea why.” Why —the question echoed in Jayme’s head like a mocking hiss, even now.

“That’s the important part—you didn’t let go of control,” Astarion emphasized firmly and sipped from the wine. Jayme mirrored him without thinking. “And then Bhaal appeared, using that fiend as its mouthpiece.” 

“It will sound strange, but standing against Him was easier, to some extent, than pulling through the moments before,” Jayme said slowly. “Because I chose, consciously, to reject anything he offered. I just had to drown out the howls of my Dark Urge.”

“You’re unbelievable. So much stronger than I am.” Astarion averted his gaze. “I… fully intended to go through with the Rite of Profane Ascension. I would’ve done it, probably, if not for your wake-up call.”

“The truth is, I was able to stand there with resolve because of you,” Jayme said with quiet intensity.

“Me?”

“ I am so much more than what you made me . You spat this in Cazador’s face when he was at your mercy. Your words echoed in my head, like a mantra, as I faced Bhaal.”

Oh?” A sly smile spread across Astarion’s lips. “Well, our former masters did conveniently overlook the fact that we possess independent wills. And now we’ve bitten the hand that bled us. Bitten it clean off.”

Jayme took another deep draught of wine, then put the cup aside. He moved forward and pressed close to Astarion, bracing himself against the tub with arms on either side of the vampire's head, effectively holding him in place. Astarion’s pallid body had absorbed the water’s heat, and though it remained cooler than Jayme’s, it now felt distinctly warm where their skin met.

“Everyone who ever trusted us enough to let down their guard suffered. Innocents, idiots, and the unlucky,” Jayme said, quoting Astarion’s own words again. “And we’ve both been given a second chance to do it right this time. You and I are the same. We are one.”

“It’s so hot in here,” Astarion murmured, but his free hand stroked the small of Jayme’s back, urging him closer. Their bodies fit snugly together underneath the water. “I find it fascinating how much you pay attention to what I say. No one’s ever done that before. It’s… a really foreign experience.”

Jayme put his lips to the rim of the wine cup in Astarion’s hand, gazing expectantly into his eyes. Astarion understood the prompt and tilted the cup, letting Jayme drink. When Jayme had his fill, he leaned closer still and hovered his mouth over Astarion’s.

“Of course I do. I have from the very start. You are my light in the dark,” he whispered against those lips, painted dark red.

They closed the gap between them, kissing slowly, deeply, savoring. The wine cup was set down as Astarion wrapped his arms around Jayme’s neck. It had never been this sweet before, their kiss. This chaste. It felt like a first meeting, a shared rebirth: they had broken their chains and begun to recreate themselves.

“Let me wash you,” Astarion offered after a while, his voice low and husky.

With a soft smile, he reached for the mint-infused soap bar beside the tub and stood. He cast an inviting look at the bard, who rose to his feet, curiosity awakened.

Astarion set to work. His slender hands lathered the soap and applied it to Jayme with devoted precision, starting from his hair, face, neck, shoulders, chest, and armpits, before moving to his back and continuing all the way down. His mouth pursed in concentration, but the corners of his mouth tilted up faintly now and then, an expression Jayme found utterly endearing.

The smile broadened, gaining a new edge when he reached the most sensitive parts of Jayme’s body. His fingers worked those areas with extraordinary care. His touch turned lingering, teasing as he massaged Jayme’s cock, slowly and sensuously, then shifted one hand back to spread soap over his buttocks, eventually sliding a slick finger between them. He brushed the tip of his middle finger over the sensitive rim, pressing in slightly in a tentative exploration. It was the first time Astarion had touched him there, and he clearly took pleasure in the gasp that rushed from Jayme’s mouth at the intense sensation.

Jayme’s hands wound themselves around Astarion’s waist. By then, Jayme’s whole body was so foamy and smooth that he needed only to rub against Astarion to wash him in turn.

They rubbed against each other with unhurried motions, delighting in this new experience of each other’s bodies. Blood-suffused pink bubbles and frothy soap swirled between and over them. Astarion lay his forehead against Jayme’s, which was spotlessly clean by now.

He exhaled shakily when Jayme took him in hand—he was already half-hard. Despite the expert attention Jayme lavished on him, Astarion didn’t neglect his newfound point of interest. With the soap aiding his movements, he eased two knuckles inside Jayme before withdrawing. Jayme’s lips parted, his eyelids growing heavy. His skin tingled under Astarion’s watchful gaze as he repeated the motion again and again, exploring with intent.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” Astarion asked in hushed tones. There was a delicate, deeply personal weight to the moment, one he seemed hesitant to risk spoiling. Slowly and gradually, he inched deeper.

“... Not that I can recall,” Jayme whispered.

Astarion let out a breathless chuckle. “I thought so. Frankly, it feels surreal I am even allowed to do this.”

“What can I say? You’re… special.”

“I’m flattered,” Astarion purred, his vanity blissfully tended to.

He hooked his exploring middle finger and gasped when Jayme’s whole body shuddered. With the next slide, he added a second finger. At the same time, Jayme clasped their straining needs together, sliding his hands up and down their slick length, perfectly in time with Astarion’s ministrations.

Standing while doing this caused a slight discomfort, but the alternative—sinking back into the hot water—meant giving up that delicious slipperiness.

Every detail around them seemed to melt into their fervor, intensifying the sensations: the mingling fragrances of sandalwood, vanilla, and mint; the hovering steam; the warm, orange candle-dimness. The water lapped at their knees, but the air on their damp skin felt far from cold. It was almost unbearable, a heat that clung, as a third finger joined the others.

The unaccustomed sensation drove Jayme to the edge of sanity in a matter of minutes; it felt raw, exposed, and shamelessly intimate. Breath escaped his mouth and nose in short, halting puffs. He caught glimpses of Astarion’s expression—a look of composed concentration, complete with a self-satisfied little twist at the corner of his mouth. Astarion’s body gave shakes of pleasure from Jayme’s strokes, but he unmistakably relished holding the greater command over his desires this time.

An irresistible impulse ignited in response, and Jayme suddenly longed to dishevel Astarion, to treat him to pleasure so overwhelming it erased his composure. He ached, needed to see it through, Astarion’s path to utter rapture. The thought became all-consuming, more important than his own gratification.

A flicker of an idea came to him—an image, a thread of inspiration not yet formed into words, existing only as an urge. A Darling Urge.

Unthinkingly, Jayme caught Astarion’s sensually laboring hand and withdrew it. He swallowed the immediate growl of protest in a brief kiss, then turned around.

He wove Astarion’s arms around his body so the vampire embraced him from behind, then pressed firmly against him. His movements left no doubt about his intentions. When Astarion finally caught on—after a curiously, almost comically long time—the breath he’d been holding ribboned out of him. He trembled against Jayme’s back, and his cock, wedged in the valley of Jayme’s buttocks, twitched.

“Darling…” he whispered. It was a question and an expression of disbelief at the same time.

“Come,” Jayme said simply, but with resolve. Taking hold of Astarion’s arms again, he maneuvered them both onto their knees. 

The water level was perfect. It licked at the top of their thighs but didn’t wash away all the soap or impede their movements. Jayme bent forward, bracing himself against the edge of the tub with one hand while guiding Astarion with the other. His mouth went dry when Astarion tentatively pushed inside.

“So hot…” Astarion hissed. His fingers dug hard into Jayme’s hips but kept slipping from nerves and soapy slickness. “Incredible.”

Jayme sensed the hesitation, the self-restraint in the body behind him, every muscle taut and strained. It made him smile. He was the one in control again. 

He pushed his hips back to deepen the connection. Then pulled away slowly, savoring the drag.

Astarion’s cool fingers closed around his flesh convulsively, and he leaned closer. “You feel marvelous. Didn’t think, never imagined—” he slurred into Jayme’s ear.

“I took you on the night of your rebirth,” Jayme whispered, then moved back again, to illustrate his point without needing to spell it out. “We etch ourselves into each other. Never to forget.”

“As if…” Astarion let the sentence hang unfinished, but Jayme understood it from his tone, and from everything that had transpired between them.

As if I ever could. 

Jayme shivered from head to toe when Astarion was finally all the way inside. He felt fulfilled, to the point it was almost too much, too intense. But he held on. Because he wanted to fuck the man inside him.

He rocked forward, setting the pace for them. He was searching for the perfect angle, for himself and for them both, pivoting his hips subtly. Astarion quickly fell into rhythm, his tangled sounds filling the space between them. They moved together, deep and leisurely at first. But as Jayme gradually picked up speed, wild sounds flooded the room: water splashing and sloshing, mingling with the sharp clapping of skin against skin.

Jayme felt Astarion’s hands gliding hungrily over the expanse of his back. At last, hesitation and self-restraint melted away. Exploring fingers raked across Jayme’s skin.

His backward pushes were met with strong, delirious forward thrusts, and it was as if Astarion soared. He ladled water over Jayme’s slippery waist, washing the soap to find purchase on his skin. Gripping him firmly, Astarion drove them toward their climax, without inhibitions, carried by pure desire.

“Yes.This is what I wanted,” Jayme groaned, more to himself. He was the one being entered, but he felt that he was under Astarion’s skin, penetrating him just as much—if not more—in a sense, burning himself into him indelibly.

In the last maddening moments, hovering just before completion, Astarion’s cool stomach pressed against Jayme’s back, and his tongue laved the nape of his neck. Then he bit hard, enough to break the skin, but, for once, he didn’t latch on. Jayme wanted to tell him to bite deeper, to drink and take his fill of the new blood circulating his body, but this act felt different at its core. He understood, instinctively,  that it wasn’t about feeding—it was a seal. It was etching.

This was good. This was right, Jayme thought. He had cast off Bhaal’s loathsome yoke, begun to write himself anew, and he would gladly wear Astarion’s mark on this new self.

Astarion made a low, possessive sound at the back of his throat, and then his trembling hand wrapped around Jayme, sliding down and up in rapid, uneven strokes. A few more ragged breaths, and as Jayme felt the deep pulse of Astarion’s climax, he let go too, let his own body shudder together with his, bucking and arching.

They were both panting for long seconds afterward. Then Jayme felt Astarion’s full weight collapse onto his back, a limp, cool bundle. The wooden bottom of the tub ground into his knees, and the place where they had joined throbbed, but he embraced the ache. He treasured each and every sensation pulsing through his fatigued, reborn body.

Slowly, sluggishly, they shifted into a more comfortable arrangement. Unwilling to part, they settled side by side, limbs entwined. The lingering traces of pink foam atop the water's surface served as a grim reminder of the blood they had spilled for their freedom.

“I’m speechless,” Astarion gasped, propping his forehead against Jayme’s temple. “Even words like ‘mind-blowing’ or ‘sensational’ wouldn’t do proper justice.”

“No. No language could describe this. Only music,” Jayme said, his voice a deep rumble.

Astarion chuckled breathlessly at that. “Spoken like a true musician.” He drew back a little to look Jayme in the eye. ”So. Here we are. Masterless. Godless. Two strays roaming with the wind.”

“We are buffeted by wild winds now.”

“Maybe. But the wildest wind—that’s you. That’s what you are to me. Like in that song. I know it was pure chance that the illithid abducted me, but strangely enough, it doesn’t feel like chance to me. It feels almost as if some higher power shaped the path for our meeting.” He snorted a small, sheepish laugh. “Is that silly?”

“No. A little idealistic perhaps, but not silly. And for all we know, it may be true.” Jayme squeezed Astarion’s hip reassuringly. “I realize I haven't answered one of your questions yet. About how I’m feeling now.”

“I’m listening, dearest.”

“I feel… an emptiness inside,” Jayme said slowly. “I feel like the pulsing beat of a song with no melody to follow. No harmony to shape the sound, no structure to guide the notes. With most of my memories still lost to me, and the Dark Urge silent at last, it's as if I'm struggling to hear my own song.”

“Believe me, I know what you mean. I’m having a similar experience, without the amnesia part. Though I never could’ve put it in such artistic terms. But this is alright. Let’s celebrate it!”

“Celebrate?” Jayme raised both eyebrows.

“We can craft a new future for ourselves. Together. We’ll compose a new, wild song for you, no, a wild symphony, built around your beat. And, do you know what the first movement will be?” Astarion’s eyes burned with excitement.

“You fucking me?” Jayme guessed, smirking. 

“Ha! How I adore the sound of that! Not to mention the act itself, grrr… But no, that was merely the overture, an electrifying allegro! The first movement shall be bringing down the Elder Brain together.”

The confident smile lighting up Astarion’s face as he spoke revived vividly in Jayme’s mind. He closed his eyes against the headwind and readjusted his grip on Boris’ upper arms. The fang marks on the nape of his neck—the seal—although mostly healed by now, tingled warmly. 

He was on his way to compose the second movement.

Chapter 12: I - The ocean wide salted red, reminds me what to do before I'm...

Summary:

Epochs fly, reminds me
What I hide, reminds me
The desert skies
Cracks the spies
Reminds me what I never tried
The ocean wide salted red
Reminds me what to do before I'm...

To see you
To touch you
To feel you
To tell you

Kidneythieves – Before I’m Dead

Being a vampire and prone to seasickness was, as Astarion quickly discovered, one of the worst imaginable combinations for embarking on a long-distance sea journey. He learned this the hard way shortly after they set sail.

Haer’Dalis, true to his word, had secured the ship by the evening following their first encounter.

The captain was a bulky triton by the name of Anlyn Zudanath—a green-eyed, green-skinned woman with knee-long green-hair, a foul mouth, and an incongruous obsession with poetry. Poor poetry, quite frankly. 

During their introduction, Astarion had a hard time stifling his reactions— whether to wince, snort, sneer, or in any other way betray his true opinion—when Anlyn launched into a rhyming contest with Haer’Dalis. Or was it a rhyming collaboration?

"The sea is my salvation," Anlyn began their peculiar ritual, her attention fixed entirely on Haer’Dalis. Astarion was forgotten a fleeting minute after being introduced. 

“The waves, a soothing invitation,” the tiefling bard replied, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

“In the ocean's embrace, I find liberation.”

“Amidst the tides, a divine veneration.”

“That’s very nice,” Astarion attempted to cut in, glancing between the two with a forced smile. “But could we discuss something a bit more... practical? What should I expect on this journey? Should I stock up on any special substances or trinkets?”

“Sail into the sunset, a celestial sensation,” Anlyn continued without missing a beat.

“To the sea's rhythm, my soul's foundation,” Haer’Dalis responded with equal passion.

“Beneath the stars, a maritime constellation.”

“I’ll need enough animals to feed me for the full trip. I figured sheep, rabbits, and perhaps a couple of cows would do the trick. And before you suggest rats for the sake of economy, let me be clear: I’d rather starve than touch those vile things ever again!”

“Sailing through time, a timeless relation.”

“Horizon's dance, a poetic declaration.”

“You know what?” Astarion sighed. “I’ll just take a walk over there, have a look around. Let me know when you’re done with…uhm, this.” He pointed toward the far end of the docks, then gestured vaguely between the two of them. Without waiting for a response, which was unlikely to come anyway, he shuffled off toward a spot bustling with silently laboring dockhands.

“Umberlee’s realm, a boundless meditation,” he overheard as he left the odd pair behind. Murmuring an exasperated “by all the reeking flames of Hell” to himself, he resigned to the fact that this arrangement was already proving demanding.

Afraid to even imagine how many more insufferable lines might have followed those initial ones, he found solace in having missed the better half of the conversation. He was indescribably relieved when, about twenty minutes later, his questions were finally answered, and the payment for the voyage—twenty thousand gold pieces—was settled.

He ended up packing everything they owned, despite Anlyn’s advice not to overthink it: armor and weapons for both himself and Jayme—including the Deathstalker Mantle, Jayme’s “inheritance”— scrolls, potions, a selection of books on the Feywild, and, most importantly, Jayme’s violin. 

While gold held little value in the Plane of Faerie, Astarion nonetheless stowed all the wealth they’d accumulated over their adventures. Who knew what manner of creature awaited them there? The Feywild was home to more than just fey eladrins, after all.

The least agreeable task in organizing his provisions involved a visit to Araj Oblodra, the self-professed alchemist of the sanguineous arts, to secure an emergency supply of sun-protective lotion. The unpredictable nature of his path through the Feywild made risk avoidance essential, forcing Astarion to strike a deal with the foul-blooded drow woman. She was positively overjoyed when Astarion approached her with an offer, having twice refused her in the past.

Though irked by Araj’s self-satisfied grin, Astarion upheld his side of the agreement, enduring the woman's nauseating blood. With unwavering determination, he persevered through the ordeal, hoping for a swift exit afterward to cleanse his palate—preferably by gargling with half a bottle of Wyvern Whiskey. He waited impatiently for his Liquid Night, taking some consolation in the fact that Araj, pleased with his service, had generously enhanced the potion's usual recipe. The protection now extended to eight hours. Before the parted, Araj cautioned him that any direct contact with blood could render the lotion ineffective and emphasized the need to avoid such contact at all costs.

In a remarkably short span of six days, all preparations were complete, and Astarion found himself boarding the Green Mermaid, a swift, one-hundred-foot, two-masted schooner bound for Evermeet. The ship boasted a full crew of thirty and fourteen passengers. Their party numbered five; the other nine passengers were strangers to Astarion—a detail he deemed unimportant as he would probably not meet them anyway.

The original plan had been for Jaheira and Minsc to join the group, leaving Halsin to address the physical and political reconstruction of the city. But Jaheira’s wisdom as the distinguished High Harper was in high demand among the surviving patriars scrambling to spearhead the city’s rebuilding efforts.

“Bring back the cub, Astarion. And, for the love of Mother Nature, do send a message when you find him!” Jaheira said in her usual graceful yet warmly maternal manner on the day of their departure, just before sunrise. She, Halsin, and Minsc had come to the docks to see them off. “I could say something trite, like ‘he’d do it for any of us’ or ‘he has survived far worse‘, but I shall refrain. You are well aware of all that. What I will say is this: seldom have I seen a pair with such unequivocally good influence on each other. The spiritual support you two share is a treasure everyone seeks but precious few ever find. May Silvanus bless you in your endeavor to find one another.”

“Eloquent as ever, Jaheira. Thank you for that edifying adieu,“ Haer’Dalis remarked, his tone unusually bland. Astarion noted with some interest that he didn’t assign any moniker to the druid.

“Take care on the journey, bard,” Jaheira replied, her expression and tone uncharacteristically stiff. “And if you’ll accept a piece of advice from me, try to curb the artistic frills of your language in this company. I've become well acquainted with them and I’m quite certain they won’t be nearly as receptive as, say, your avariel muse used to be.”

No love lost between these two, Astarion thought, quietly amused.

“Ahh, sweet Aerie. A precious jewel amidst pebbles, she was!” Haer’Dalis sighed wistfully.

It came as no surprise to Astarion that not everyone in their party would be accompanying him on this journey. On the contrary, he’d been fully prepared to go alone—or, at most, in the company of the eccentric duo, Haer’Dalis and Volo. Thus, when Gale and Shadowheart declared their intent to set out with him, he was caught off guard.

“What about the Crown of Karsus, Gale? And your promise to your goddess?” Astarion asked, tilting his head quizzically.

“The very reason I’m still here and able to recover the Crown is Jayme,” Gale replied. “It wouldn’t sit right with my conscience if I didn’t make every effort to ensure his safety.”

“My friend, your words are giving me pangs of guilt for staying behind!” Minsc boomed.

“Don’t worry, Minsc. Your good heart is needed here,” Shadowheart interjected. “Just…make sure you run any ideas that good heart of yours suggests through Jaheira or Halsin first, alright?” She winked at the bald ranger and patted him on the shoulder.

“I will. Although, perhaps I’ll consult with Boo first and foremost. He has a talent for pointing out the most glaring flaws in my thinking. That’s why most of what you hear coming out of my mouth is quality content,” Minsc declared with complete sincerity.

“Erm, yes,” Gale said hesitantly before clearing his throat. “I’ll admit, the prospect of staying to help shape Baldur’s Gate’s future is tempting. But I’m confident Jaheira, Halsin… and Minsc won’t fail to rise to the occasion. We’re leaving the city in the best possible hands.”

“We’ll await word of your successful reunion with Jayme,” Halsin said, concluding their farewells with one of his trademark kind and sage smiles. “May the earth spirits of the Feywild grant you strength and resilience in all your endeavors.”

And with that, the party of five was off.

It was a mortifying affair, boarding the ship, because Astarion couldn’t walk aboard on his own two feet like the other passengers. No, he had to be carried. In his coffin. By Shadowheart, Gale, Haer’Dalis, and Volo—his party. The four of them hefted him while he lay inside, shielded from the rising Sun’s rays under the coffin’s lid. Astarion harbored serious doubts that he would ever process this embarrassment, let alone recover from it.

His suite was a private section of the ship’s hold. Gale and Shadowheart would be nearby for company, as well as the caged cattle and small mammals—his meal supply for the projected three tendays of the journey.

He made himself as comfortable as possible in his coffin, which would have been tolerable at best, if not for his clever planning—on which he congratulated himself now. He had cushioned his grim nest generously with luxurious down cushions. So many, in fact, that the coffin offered a cozier retreat than a baroness’ bed.

“That looks more comfortable than my bunk,” Shadowheart commented wryly, eyeing the decadent bedding with undisguised envy. “Moonmaiden’s shield, it looks snugger than the beds of the Elfsong!”

“Common sense and foresight, my dear. If I’m condemned to lounge in the foul-smelling earth that once buried me, I may as well twist the conditions to my favor, right? Care for one? I seem to have brought one too many.” He plucked a royal, velvet cushion and held it out to the cleric.

“Yes, thank you.” Shadowheart’s face lit up as she accepted the offering.

“I could have conjured you one, you know, if only you’d asked,” Gale noted, hands busy setting up the area around his bunk to resemble a miniature private library.

Their ship set sail at that moment, gliding smoothly from the port onto the open waters of the Sea of Swords, toward the capricious Trackless Sea. Excitement stirred in the stomachs of all the passengers on board.

“Oh, I don’t want to tire you out by keeping up spells the whole time. We’re in for a long, long journey,” Shadowheart said, shaking her head before turning back to Astarion. “So, how do you propose we pass the time?”

“So glad you asked! I have a thrilling itinerary planned. Lying around. Reading. Sitting! Feeding on animals. Sitting! Did I mention lying around?” Astarion replied with a deadpan expression.

In truth, he was determined to keep his athletic build by training as much as he could. But that didn’t make for a particularly good joke.

“And what kind of books have you brought?” Shadowheart asked, scrunching her eyebrows, but an amused smile hid in the corners of her mouth.

“Apart from a few acclaimed personal accounts of the phenomena and the creatures of the Feywild, I also packed a coursebook on violins.” Astarion pushed himself up onto his elbows and reached for a tome from the towering pile of books next to his coffin.

“Violins…? Are you suggesting that you're going to learn to play the violin? Here and now, on this ship? Lady of Silver have mercy on us…” Shadowheart sighed with exaggerated despair.

“What’s wrong with that?” Gale asked, mildly curious.

“Have you ever been subjected to the practice sessions of music students?” Shadowheart fixed him with a glare, her face grim. “It’s generally far from pleasant, let me tell you, and even worse when the instrument is a violin. It’s like a… nest of thirsty babe mice wailing for their mother. It’s not like when Jayme plays!”

“Well, of course not! And I’m sure Jayme had to learn at some point, and his practices sounded just as dreadful as Astarion’s will,” Gale argued and offered a supportive smile to the rogue. 

“Um, yes, well… thank you, Gale, for having my back, I suppose.” Astarion palmed his neck with a self-conscious gesture, then cleared his throat and pulled Jayme’s cased violin in front of himself. “You know what? Why don’t I start with this book and embark on the quest to cultivate my musical abilities? You’ve got me all fired up!”

“I’ll go check the situation on the upper deck,” Shadowheart said quickly, slanting a gloating smile at Gale. “Enjoy your morning.”

The morning, however, proved far from enjoyable for Astarion. Within hours, he was visited by the nasty symptoms of seasickness—nausea, dizziness, cold sweat. Gale and Shadowheart took turns tending to the coffin-bound rogue, bringing him buckets to retch into.

After the fourth such episode, Astarion sprawled bonelessly on his cushions with a low groan, while Shadowheart climbed the stairs to find a window and toss the contents—a mixture of blood and alcohol—into the sea.

“I’m sorry. I truly am. This must be disgusting beyond words for you,” Astarion muttered.

“Oh rest assured, we’ll be adding it to your tab and tallying up your debt at the end of this little adventure. So far, we have: ‘solved the mysterious disappearance’, ‘researched interplanar travel’, ‘carried coffin on board’, and now ‘nursing.’ Soon enough, I imagine we’ll add ‘emptied bedpan’ to the list. Keep it up and this will cost you dearly,” Shadowheart chirped brightly before vanishing up the stairs.

“Good thing I have gold. Plenty of it,” Astarion murmured.

“I only accept payment in exotic books, Astarion,” Gale remarked from his bunk, barely looking up from the tome he was studying as he turned a page.

Before long, Volo appeared, sticking his head into their corner—to Astarion’s luck or downfall, it wasn’t immediately clear. Having apparently caught wind of the vampire’s predicament, he came flying to extend a helping hand. In his hands was a bottle of sea snail slime infused with a fragrant blend of herb pulp, which he claimed could promise quick recovery.

“If by ‘quick recovery’ you mean emptying whatever’s left in my stomach all at once, then yes, I’m inclined to believe you.” Astarion rolled his eyes and clamped a hand over his mouth as the sage uncorked the unholy brew. “Oh, sweet heavens, that stench. Get it out of my face!”

“Perseverance, my precious friend. The odor might be fouler than a pneumonia-ridden ogre’s breath, but the effect I can guarantee. Knowing I’m prone to this same miserable condition, I took a dose of this potent concoction before we set sail, and look at me! Never felt better!” Volo spread his arms wide and beamed a brilliant smile at the dubious vampire.

Astarion glanced down at the liquid now thrust into his hand. Feeling the next wave of nausea rising, he steeled himself.

“Call Shadowheart. Just in case I need a cleric’s services—last rites and such—when I puke out my soul.” 

With that, he raised the beverage to his mouth and took a determined swig.

“Have faith, Astarion. Bottoms up!” Volo cheered at the critical moment as Astarion’s face contorted in sheer disgust, teetering on the edge of failure.

But in the end, he managed to chug the entire bottle. Shadowheart reappeared just in time to witness him putting up a desperate fight against his gag reflex. She stared, eyes round with shock.

“Well?” Gale asked with eager curiosity once the struggle subsided and it became clear the “medicine” would, against all odds, remain in Astarion’s stomach.

“Well.” Astarion smacked his lips loudly. “What shocks me the most is, the snail slime was actually the least memorable part of it.” Some more smacking. “And without a doubt, the sour, acidic tang was the highlight of this gastronomic escapade. Thank you, Volo. I’ll be keeping an eye out for a chance to repay your kindness… in kind.”

He plastered on a luminous grin, and Volo looked torn between feeling glad and threatened.

“You’d better stay away from any food or drink he offers you in the future,” Shadowheart murmured in his ear to help with the decision.

For all the initial repulsion, the potion did prove effective, and soon, Astarion was able to immerse himself in the art of the violin.

On the first day, he didn’t go so far as to touch the instrument itself.Theory first, practice later, he thought. 

On the second day, he followed the instructions of the coursebook closely and managed to coax what Shadowheart had called “a nest of thirsty babe mice wailing.”

On the third day, a distinct wave of displeasure emanated from his companions as soon as he touched the violin. Their glowers spoke eloquently of just how enthusiastic they were about his newfound artistic endeavor. Needless to say, they spent the better part of the day on the upper decks, leaving Astarion to practice with the cattle as his sole audience.

The following day, Haer’Dalis found his way down to the hold and offered his tutelage with unsettling eagerness. Astarion had a fairly strong suspicion this was no coincidence, but the result of one of his dear friends tipping him off.

“Ah, a seeker of musical mysteries, are you, pale raven? Please, allow me to weave the secrets of the violin's enchanting artistry into the tapestry of your burgeoning melodic journey!”

“Oh, umm. Yes, please, I would be honored if you could teach me. I think. It’s not so easily done just by following written explanations, I’ve found,” Astarion agreed with a pinch of uncertainty.

Before saying anything else, the bard took his time minutely examining Jayme’s black violin—caressing, tuning, and familiarizing himself with it.

“Such a magnificent piece!” he whispered, his voice thick with admiration. “A silent witness to epochs of strife and turmoil. Its graceful curves, marked with the scars of battles long past, bear testament to the bloodshed and echoes of suffering that resonate through the ages. Yet, in its somber melody, there lies a haunting beauty and compassion—a lament that transcends the pain, as though the very soul of this instrument weeps for the stories etched on its strings. Oh, the tales it could tell…!”

As far as Astarion was concerned, this was pure gibberish, of course. He let it go in one ear and out the other. With commendable patience, he waited until the tiefling finished whatever the hells he was doing and finally handed him the violin.

“Now, take this extraordinary instrument, crafted with the whispers of ancient woods. Feel the grain beneath your fingers, a conduit to a realm of untold stories.”

“Yes.”

"The strings are like golden vines in the celestial vineyard of a ballad,” Haer’Dalis continued his instructions. “With grace, draw the bow across them; let it dance against the strings and imbibe the tales that yearn to blossom forth. Your fingers shall learn the dance in due time. Listen closely to the resonance, the harmony between the notes."

“How about you play something and I’ll try to mimic it? I’m a natural at mimicry,” Astarion suggested, the beginnings of a headache already knocking on his skull from the bard’s speech.

“Certainly. Let me fetch Aerie,” Haer’Dalis nodded, his earrings chiming softly as he turned on his heels and made for the stairs.

“Aerie?” Astarion raised an eyebrow.

“My cherished violin. Named after a dainty but spirited avariel princess with whom I shared a torrid love affair in Athkatla over a hundred years ago.” He winked and disappeared.

In the days that followed, Astarion’s main distraction was soaking up as much musical knowledge as he could. While he had always enjoyed a good concert, he’d never had much interest in studying even the basics of music theory. With the help of Haer’Dalis and the coursebook, he familiarized himself with concepts such as texture, pitch, amplitude, and timbre. Rhythm he understood well enough—there was a rhythm in lockpicking, pickpocketing, and, of course, in killing. But terms like meter, tempo, and articulation were still novel to him.

He was satisfied with his progress. Naturally, he wouldn’t come anywhere close to Jayme’s level of expertise in a single month, but Haer’Dalis turned out to be a surprisingly effective teacher once he dropped his poetic riddles and provided clear, practical advice—correcting Astarion’s bow strokes or placing his fingers on the fingerboard. 

Astarion only wished the tiefling’s personality wasn’t so insufferably grating.

They set a goal: on the last day of their journey, Astarion would showcase his newly acquired skills to his party of four, with Captain Anlyn, the art connoisseur, as a guest.

“My darling green parrot possesses a refined ear for the performing arts. But fear not, should you flounder, I am nearly certain I can dissuade her from making you walk the plank,” Haer’Dalis said, hastening to reassure him once they settled on the material to be covered.

“What now?” Astarion’s eyes widened.

“Set aside the cares of the present, for when the time comes, your excellence shall surely bloom.” The tiefling waved a dismissive hand, then heaved a longing sigh. "If only our voyage were swifter! My spirit stirs impatiently, yearning to meet your beloved.”

“Oh?  I share the sentiment, naturally, but why are you so eager? To bask in love’s eternal glory or somesuch?” Astarion pursed his lips with a hint of sarcasm.

“The truth is, I’ve trod alongside Bhaalspawn before. I confess, I am fascinated by the chaos that is sown from their passage.” The dark blue of Haer’Dalis’ eyes glinted in the semi-darkness of the ship’s hold, alive with unbridled curiosity.

“Who did you…? Ah. The Bhaalspawn of Candlekeep, is that right?”

“It is, oh indeed!”

“Well, can’t say I blame you,” Astarion said. “You’re a bard, after all—stories are your bread and butter. I know Volo, though not officially a bard, acts much the same way: seeking out extraordinary people to feed his chronicles.”

“Inscribe these events into chronicles? Nay, that is not my bardic intent. I yearn to be a silent observer in your unfolding destiny. As I professed, I am hopelessly drawn to the tempest trailing the Bhaalspawn. Will this one, like my cherished raven of old, prevail?” Haer’Dalis paused for a second but quickly added, “Yes, alas, you are not the first raven to grace my path, but each of you possesses a unique charm, rest assured.”

He seemed to have misunderstood the frown forming on Astarion’s face.

“That’s not…” Astarion shook his head. “Why wouldn’t he prevail? There’s no way he could fail—none. That man is the toughest, most unyielding warrior I’ve ever met. Of course, you have yet to meet him, but until then, take my word for it.”

“Do not fret, pale raven. I didn’t mean to stir disquiet in your heart,” Haer’Dalis replied, raising a hand in defense. “Doomguards, such as myself, believe in the inevitable decay of all things. ‘Tis the cosmic order, the ebb and flow of existence. Fear not the encroaching shadows, for within death’s embrace lies the promise of rebirth and renewal.”

“Jayme will NOT die!” Astarion thundered, straightening to appear as intimidating as possible—which was, regrettably, not very much, considering he was surrounded by his plush cushions.

“Of course he won’t, of course not!” Volo cut in, suddenly appearing on the scene. Descending the stairs with urgency, he hurried to defuse the tension. “Now, Astarion, although I’m not one of the musical calling per se—having early realized my destiny as a writer, first and foremost— I did take lessons in music theory and the flute during my youth. And as I passed the stairs before, I couldn’t help but overhear some issues with your bowing technique. Shall we address those, Haer’Dalis?”

And so, the bard and the polyhistor gave Astarion a lesson on proper bowing, and in return, he refrained from assaulting Haer’Dalis for suggesting Jayme might not survive the present adversity.

The first half of their journey, as far as sailings went, was relatively smooth—at least by Astarion’s limited experience. The first raging storm struck just as they were leaving the Moonshae Isles behind, venturing onto the vast expanse of the Trackless Sea, course set due west, toward the “end of Toril.”

Tethered to his coffin, Astarion felt the violent tossing and turning of the ship and the unnerving sound of timber creaking under strain. Gale and Shadowheart, after ensuring the coffin was braced securely against the erratic motions, clung to anything sturdy. Their eyes met often, silently reassuring one another. 

Volo, meanwhile, dashed between decks, alarmed but determined to keep everyone apprised of the situation. By his colorful account, “colossal waves towered over the ship, threatening to swallow it whole” and “the sky, drenched in darkness, unleashed relentless downpour and blusterous winds.” The sea, “a tumultuous abyss,” seemed hell-bent on consuming the vessel. But as the minutes ticked by, they persevered against the tempest’s wrath.

Through the cacophony of whistling winds, creaking timber, and roaring waves, Captain Anlyn’s unyielding voice rang out even in the bowels of the ship. Mostly, she bellowed curses like “Damn son of a lich!”, “Foh!”, “Come on, ye jacksnipe!” or “Leaking bungholes!” At the storm’s peak though, she erupted into a sea shanty, her voice cutting through the tempest as if possessed by some frenzied muse.

“The King and his men
stole the Queen from her bed
and bound her in her bones
the seas be ours and by the powers
where we will we'll roam

Yo ho, all hands
Hoist the colors high
Heave ho, thieves and beggars
Never shall we die”

Astarion shut his eyes and wondered where Jayme might be at that moment. Whether he was safe. While he certainly wasn’t about to start invoking any deities, he voicelessly uttered the closest thing he would to a prayer: 

Let me reach you.

Slowly, gradually, the rage of the waves abated. The thunderstorm lost its temper. And the Green Mermaid endured.

For the next tenday, their passage was smooth, a respite for most of the crew but not for their Captain. The Captain kept her eyes firmly on the sky, tracing the right stars as she steered her ship across the moonlit sea. 

It was as they began to approach their destination in earnest that the true hurdles revealed themselves.

Evermeet, known also as the Green Isle, was a legendary elven haven concealed within the embrace of illusionary veils and deceptive terrains. It posed a labyrinthine challenge for any ship attempting to find its shores. An intricate defense system—powered by the island's magic—manipulated winds and currents to confound and deter intruders. Astarion now understood why having a captain who had been to the island before was an absolute necessity.

If this alone wasn’t daunting enough, those determined to breach these mystical barriers had to face the unrelenting fury of nature.

Navigating the illusions proved merely the beginning. Cyclones—born of a tempestuous rage that dwarfed the storm they had encountered at the Moonshaes—materialized to encircle the ship. The sea itself seemed to spawn water spouts that merged into an aquatic barricade, leaving the vessel at the mercy of the sea’s wrath. Beneath the surface, reefs—jagged and treacherous—lay in wait, ready to rend the ship’s hull to splinters.

Amidst the numerous perils, Captain Anlyn— described by Haer’Dalis as their “stalwart helmswoman with eyes ablaze”—remained steadfast on the deck, issuing rapid-fire commands to the crew. Each instruction was underscored by the tension of their close proximity to Evermeet.

While the ship fought with the elements, a spectral sea elf vessel, lined with cannons, emerged from the watery depths and sidled nimbly alongside the Green Mermaid. The sea elves interrogated Captain Anlyn, seeking to understand the intent of their visit. Fortunately, both Captain and ship seemed to carry the right credentials with the sharp-eyed patrols, and eventually, their entry to the port was approved.

As their voyage reached its climax, the ship faced one final challenge: sneaking past the domain of fearsome krakens. The crew knew all too well that even the slightest mistake or deviation from their course could draw the krakens' attention. Krakens possessed Truesight, rendering any illusions useless if the ship strayed too close. And a clash with these creatures had to be avoided at all costs. 

Everyone on board waited on pins and needles for the Captain's signal that they were out of the danger zone. No one dared to make conversation, as if their silence could contribute to their success. 

When the signal came at long last, noise erupted all at once, much like the moment a Silence spell wears off. A prolonged standing—in Astarion’s case, sitting—ovation celebrated the Captain’s prowess.

After the long hours of suspense, everyone was eager to wind down and enjoy Astarion’s violin performance. And for Astarion, the day’s second most joyous outcome—after surviving the krakens—was not just Captain Anlyn sparing him, but seeing her shed a tear at his playing. Haer’Dalis and Volo also clapped approvingly. 

“Finally. The babe mice have been fed,” Shadowheart nodded, her eyes bright with fascination.

“Impressive progress in such a brief time!” Gale commented with a smile. “Good thing Haer’Dalis was around to guide the process.”

“Oh yes, his help saved you from spending the journey with bound hands,” Shadowheart added, the twinkle of her eyes taking on a mischievous glint as she gazed at Astarion. She deftly dodged the cushion Astarion flung at her.

Of course, Astarion had cheated slightly and sung the lyrics of his chosen song to gloss over any technical imperfections. Still, the positive reception pleased him greatly.

Now, to pass the final test and present my new craft to Jayme, he thought. I could even multiply the surprise if I suddenly whipped out one or two low-level bard spells during combat!

Finally, exactly thirty-three days after their departure, the ship slid into the harbor of Leuthilspar, Evermeet’s capital.

All souls aboard were euphoric to have made it to their destination in one piece. No sooner had the ship moored to the docks than both Shadowheart and Gale vanished upstairs, much to Astarion’s frustration.

The rogue donned his armor, packed the violin, his books, and belongings, ready and eager to disembark. By the time he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, he was nearly beside himself with anticipation.

“Well?! How is it up there?” he fired the question at Shadowheart, who reappeared wearing an entranced expression. “And when are the others coming back to carry me outside?”

“Oh, Astarion, it’s beautiful! Fit for the last true kingdom of elvenkind! I can’t wait to see how the fey side looks. Lucky for you, the Sun is already setting, so in just a little while, you’ll be able to go to the surface.”

“Excellent! I’ve waited long enough,” Astarion grinned.

He leaped from his coffin the instant it hit the shore, crying out in elation as his feet finally met solid ground.

“Son of a succubus, nothing and no one can make me sit or lie down for at least a few days, that’s for sure. … Well, except for a certain beautifully lustful bard,” he smirked, lewd thoughts unmistakable, finding satisfaction in Gale’s embarrassed cough and Shadowheart’s delighted “awww.”

While Haer’Dalis expressed his heartfelt appreciation to Captain Anlyn, Astarion took in the sight before him.

The breathtaking panorama of a majestic cityscape unfurled before his eyes. Towering white spires, resplendent in their architectural grandeur, stretched skyward—pure elegance cast in magical marble, wood, and crystal. With the sun already dipped beneath the horizon, the city was cloaked in an ink-blue darkness, illuminated by the ethereal light of hundreds of magical lanterns adorning almost every building and twirling tree branch. Dominating the skyline was the Moonstone Palace, its white gleaming edifice overlaid with numerous elaborate spires and sky bridges.

All the structures and buildings here had been conjured by magic and thus were far sturdier than anything constructed from wood, stone, or other natural materials. This was a necessary precaution against the occasional raids targeting the island.

The docks teemed with the graceful silhouettes of sun, moon, sea, and wood elves alike. Unsurprisingly, Astarion saw no other races represented—non-elves were scarcely permitted entry to this elven paradise.

And so, it came as no surprise when an elven dignitary approached their group to inquire about the purpose of their visit. The permit from the sea elf navy, granting them passage into Evermeet’s territorial waters, seemed to hold considerable sway. The presence of only three accompanying guards suggested the official’s inspection was little more than a token gesture. Astarion guessed it was a simple formality, destined to gather dust in the Court’s archives.

True to their hopes, revealing their role in resolving the Netherbrain crisis on Faerûn had a decisive effect. The official cast a Detect Thoughts spell to verify the claim’s authenticity, and, satisfied, granted them passage.

By now, Astarion had gained a solid understanding of the island's key history and culture. The main inhabitants were sun elves, described in lore books penned by foreigners as “haughty and reclusive”—a people who generally believed themselves superior to both non-elves and other elven subraces. The kind of company he would have gladly mingled with in the past, no doubt. As things stood, the makeup of their party—a vampire high elf, a half-elf, a tiefling, and two humans—meant they would need to keep a low profile to avoid premature deportation.

“I could only compare the splendor of these woods to the Forest of Tethir. Can you feel the pulse of the Weave? It permeates the air like a rich fragrance,” Gale whispered in wonder, taking a deep breath. “Divine!”

“What’s our first destination, Astarion?” Shadowheart asked.

“The fey crossing, of course. We can rest once we’re on the other side,” Astarion replied.

“Rest and have a proper bath,” the cleric added.

“The nearest crossing should be by the Lake of Dreams. If we aim to reach it before dawn, we should travel on horseback,” Volo chimed in, pointing to a spot on the map he was holding. The map, lent by Jaheira, had been created using her Harper resources and marked the known fey crossroads on the island.

“Well, horses are not really my thing, but we do need to make it before dawn,” Astarion said, then gave a sly smile. “I still have the gold of Baldur’s Gate’s nobility—the poor fools who thought their wealth was secure in the Counting House Vault. Let’s put it to good use, shall we?”

Without a doubt, the island’s inhabitants had various means to access the Feywild—fey eladrin, for instance, could simply fey step into their native plane. But for visitors like them, using the public crossings was the most practical option.

At that moment, Haer’Dalis rejoined them.

“Our gracious Captain Anlyn will ensure the Green Mermaid remains moored in this haven for the months to come. We have ample time to reclaim your beloved, pale raven. Onwards!”

“Perfect,” Astarion smiled, and the party set out to find suitable horses for the road ahead.

Leuthilspar lay at the mouth of the River Ardulith. Though its population was only about half of that of Baldur’s Gate, the city sprawled with indulgence, boasting wide streets and generous spaces reserved for trees, gardens, and parks.

Their path led them through the settlement, which was an experience in itself. They followed the river until it branched into the narrower River Shaelyn. Beyond this point, the landscape varied: verdant meadows with hundreds of free-ranging moon horses, while silver hills were circled by majestic pegasi and giant eagles. Unlike the non-elven territories of Toril, there was never complete darkness here—enchanted lanterns provided light wherever they ventured.

Not long before the first light of dawn, they finally arrived at the Lake of Dreams. It was a charming land, crowned by the white pyramid complex of the Summer Palace, which hovered above the lake’s translucent waters. Once the second abode of the Sad Queen, Amlaruil Moonflower, the Palace had been left vacant after her disappearance following the Second Sundering, leaving the Royal Council to govern Evermeet.

Reaching the lakeshore, Astarion decided it was time to apply his first vial of Liquid Night to his skin in preparation for whatever awaited on the other side. Following Araj’s instruction to spread it from head to toe, he excused himself to disrobe and complete the task, while the party took a brief respite. The oily substance imparted a musky moonflower smell to his skin, which he found less than appealing—but under the circumstances, such trifles hardly mattered.

According to the chronicles, all fey crossroads were protected by a guardian whose role was to assess the worthiness of interplanar travelers in various ways. Locating a crossing was no easy feat without proper preparation and background knowledge, but Astarion had come prepared: he'd brought Haer’Dalis and Shadowheart, both well-versed in recognizing the subtle signs. These places, invisible to the naked eye, were typically marked by stones arranged in circles or other shapes, placed there by druids.

Once they located the general area indicated by Jaheira’s map, the group dismounted and released the horses from service. Haer’Dalis spotted the right place with impressive speed. He then cast a Detect Crossroads spell to summon its guardian. 

The guardian, a spectral humanoid creature glowing with a deep purple light, wasted no time in presenting its riddle to Haer’Dalis.

“Try to defeat me but try in vain, when I win, I end your pain. What am I?”

Haer’Dalis’ lips quirked into a confident smile as he replied, “A puzzle so simple it solves itself. Death.”

“You may pass,” the guarding boomed, and a dark purple portal opened at its feet.

“It’s believed the challenge of the riddle depends on the traveler’s worth. The worthier the person, the easier the question posed,” Shadowheart whispered to Astarion.

Haer’Dalis strode boldly toward the portal. With a flourish and a mid-air twirl, he hopped through, flashing a grin at the rest of the party.

Next, Astarion stepped forward. The guardian regarded him for a full minute before voicing its riddle.

“Name me, and so shall you break me.”

Astarion paused for a few seconds, then fixed his gaze on the creature’s face—or where he presumed its eyes to be—and gave his answer.

“Silence.”

“You may pass.”

The purple portal opened up again. Astarion approached it and peered into its depth. It resembled a bottomless well, with another surface visible far below. He glimpsed a unicorn moving across a starry sky within.

Every inch of his skin tingled with excitement. Behind him, the guardian had already turned its attention to Gale, presenting the next puzzle.

“Two brothers we are, great burdens we bear,
all day we are bitterly pressed, yet this I will say:
we are full all the day, and empty when we go to rest.”

Astarion jumped. He could still catch Gale’s answer—“Boots, shoes, any type of footwear.”—just as the world turned on its head and he emerged in the Feywild.

The Lake of Dreams proved even more breathtaking on the Feywild side than on Toril, though that was hardly surprising. The crossing was nestled beneath a rich canopy of lakeside trees. The Summer Palace was visible through the boughs: an enchanting structure fashioned from alabaster, marble, crystal, and precious gems, floating above the lake like a colossal antique jewelry casket. Wisterias cascaded down its walls, spilling into the crystalline azure waters below. The lakeshore was dotted with luminous mushrooms and giant lilies, radiating hues of gold and white. Overhead, unicorns glided gracefully through the sky—a sight as ordinary here as falcons were in Faerûn.

Astarion had only moments to absorb the awe-inspiring view and feel a surge of relief as he confirmed the Liquid Night was working—the stray rays of the twilight Sun didn’t burn his skin. The peculiar, upside-down twist of crossing planes sent a wave of vertigo crashing over him, and he would have stumbled if not for Haer’Dalis’ steadying hands.

“Oops! Hail, pale raven, to the realm of the fey. Don’t be alarmed now, but it seems we have a less-than-friendly welcoming committee, eager to savor our exotic flesh,” the bard murmured into his ear, pointing toward a pack of blink dogs and yeth hounds leering at them from a short distance. The beasts stood with backs arched, muscles flexed, their body language screaming hostility.

“Oh, wonderful,” Astarion muttered under his breath.

“Halt! State your purpose, outlanders,” barked a fey eladrin man of fiery summer disposition as he approached on swift feet. “Be advised that you are at the border of Lady Lithnelia’s woods, and tonight marks the commencement of the Wild Hunt. No mortals may approach, for those who witness the Hunt risk falling irrevocably under its spell.”

“The Wild Hunt! By Finder Wyvernspur’s Stone, to behold such a sweeping destructive force in action!” Haer’Dalis exclaimed—only to be cut off by Astarion’s elbow jabbing sharply into his ribs.

“Listen to the warning, will you? If we witness it, we risk becoming enthralled.” Astarion gave him a look. As Gale and Shadowheart appeared, he turned to the eladrin. “We thank you for your kind caution. Rest assured, we have no intention of overstaying our welcome. We will be careful not to disrupt your ritual, for anyone with a shred of learning knows the Wild Hunt is not to be trifled with. Please, carry on. We’ll take our leave as soon as– ah, here he is! The final member of our party has arrived.”

Volo emerged from the crossing. Regaining his footing, he took one look at the snarling canine beasts and began to edge backward. Gale placed a hand on his shoulders to prevent any sudden and rash actions.

“Farewell, good sir. We will trouble you no further.” Astarion gave the cue to leave, but before the group could move, a spirited young voice called out to them.

“Stop. The tiefling expressed a wish to observe. Why not satisfy his curiosity?”

The speaker was another summer eladrin, a woman, younger than the first, with lovely features. Her waist-length orange hair rippled like flames in the wind, radiant against her golden skin. She narrowed her defiant amber eyes at Astarion. 

“The lady of the nearby woods, is it? What the tiefling wants is irrelevant; I am the leader of this party, and I say, we leave you in peace,” Astarion replied, locking eyes with the woman. Even as he spoke, he noted a score of additional hounds closing in, prowling and ready to strike. His party was about to be completely surrounded.

“You have an odd smell,” the woman remarked with a sly, impertinent smile.

“I beg your pardon? Oh, it’s the moonflower extract. I have a… skin condition, you see.” Astarion bowed slightly, rubbing his neck in feigned sheepishness.

“No. That’s not what I meant. Beneath that odor, you smell… like ice.” The woman inclined her head thoughtfully, as though examining an intriguing specimen. After a brief moment, her eyes lit up with excitement. “You’re an undead!”

“Your olfactory senses are truly exceptional, my lady. Indeed, you are correct,” Astarion said. “In any case, my party and I are merely passing through on urgent business. I assure you, we’ll be out of your hair in an inst–”

“No. I want you to stay. Stay for the Hunt,” the woman demanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. The smile vanished from her face like a snowflake melting on warm skin, replaced by a disturbing, almost fanatical intensity. “Soon, Cerunnos, the Master of the Hunt, will sound his Horn of the Undying. He shall lead my dogs and hounds, along with his own pack of fey hounds and his troop of hunters, to purge the lycanthropes infesting my woods. Stay. Witness. Join, if you will.”

Astarion’s instincts screamed at him to find a way out of this at once. Cerunnos, the mystical archfey,  was infamous for his power to mesmerize those of weaker will, compelling them to look upon him as their master and join the Hunt wherever it roamed. The prospect of indefinite servitude was utterly unacceptable.

“I hear you, my lady,” Astarion said cautiously. “We would be delighted to pay witness another time. You see, I’m here because my–”

“The Hunt is now. You must stay. Now,” the woman insisted, flicking her fiery mane back with an irritated shrug. “This is a rare privilege, and you would squander it! You Torilian savages must learn a valuable lesson: when a noble lady invites you to behold the most exhilarating and glorious display of justice triumphing over evil, you accept. So, I’ll ask you one last time, vampire. Stay.”

The situation was aggravating.

All Astarion wanted was a warm aromatic bath to rejuvenate his body and rid his nose of the intrusive smell of soil. That, and perhaps an easy, unsuspecting meal—a fey, oh yes, what would a fey taste like? Some fine wine. A good rest. And maybe a little private indulgence, using the memory of Jayme’s body as inspiration. Was that too much to ask for?

What answer was he about to give this infuriating eladrin? Never. Never would Astarion say yes to anything again that might jeopardize his freedom again. He would rather die.

“We accept your invitation,” Gale announced suddenly.

“What?!” Astarion yelped.

“Good,” Lady Lithnelia said. A contented smile played on her blood-red lips as she turned to lead the way. “Come along.”

Reluctantly, the group trailed behind, keeping out of earshot of the two eladrins. They huddled close together, hastily convening for an impromptu war council.

Even the breathtaking beauty of the Feywild was lost on them as they were led farther and farther from the Lake of Dreams, in the direction of a dense oak forest.

If glares could kill, Gale would have perished thrice over during the march. The sole exception to the party’s collective unease was Haer’Dalis, who seemed unable to stop smiling and strolled along with a self-assured gait.

“That may have been a rash decision, my friend,” Volo murmured, furrowing his brow as  he began a frenzied search through his bag of holding. He muttered about taking stock of his supplies—silvered weapons, charms, anything that might fend off lycanthropes or Wild Hunt hounds. Who could predict which side they might find themselves allied with by the end of this ordeal?

“Care to explain?” Shadowheart demanded, staring daggers at Gale.

“Look,” Gale began, holding up a placating hand. “I’ve studied the lore of the Wild Hunt extensively. Cerunnos’ curse, commonly called ‘Faerie Raed’, can be resisted. Will the temptation to hunt lycanthropes arise? Undoubtedly. But can we withstand it? I propose we make the attempt. Our odds are far better than if we had declined the invitation and become chew toys to this pack of feral canines.” He gestured toward the unnervingly large number of hounds encircling them. 

“And, consider this,” he continued, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “If this Lady Lithnelia has truly forged a pact with Cerunnos, do you honestly believe refusal was an option? Picture it: we decline and fend off this pack. Battered and bruised, we emerge victorious. Who’s to say we wouldn’t become the new quarry of the Hunt? No, compliance with Lithnelia’s request is our best chance at survival.”

“Alright, Gale,” Astarion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in defeat. “The die is cast. Is there a specific technique you can share, or are we just supposed to grit our teeth, clench our arses, and hope for the best?”

“While different sources offer different theories,” Gale replied, “the one I find most credible portrays these Hunts as a form of serenade, despite appearances—an offering from Cerunnos to an archfey known as the Maiden of the Moon." 

“I’m familiar with that theory!” Volo chipped in. “The Horned Lord, endlessly captivated by the Maiden of the Moon, pours his boundless devotion into conducting Wild Hunts. His targets are villains, and especially, the Maiden’s sworn enemies, the lycanthropes. A saga of love and retribution sung across the planes!"

“Whatever happened to red roses and poetry…?” Shadowheart murmured, shaking her head in disapproval.

“Should you desire the pleasures of courtship, my moonlark, I can offer red roses and poetry in abundance!” Haer’Dalis seized the moment to send a seductive smile the cleric’s way.

“Erm, no, I think I’ll pass. But thanks,” Shadowheart said, slightly embarrassed. “And just to be clear, it’s not that I don’t appreciate Cerunnos’ sentiment. What woman doesn’t dream of a man willing to rampage through planes to hunt down lycanthropes for the lady of his heart? It’s rather the ‘sinister enthrallment of the onlookers’ part I find hard to stomach.”

“Right. Take notes, Haer’Dalis.” Astarion waved a dismissive finger between the bard and Shadowheart before turning back to Gale. “Now, Gale, back to the matter at hand. The strategy. Your suggestion?”

“If we’re assuming the serenade theory is true, then I believe Shadowheart is the key to our survival,” Gale suggested.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. Elaborate, please.” Shadowheart gave a self-satisfied smile, as poised as a queen upon her throne.

“You are a priestess of Selûne, the Moonmaiden of the Faerûnian pantheon,” Gale explained. “Once Cerunnos makes his appearance, cast Moonfire and see if it inspires sympathy in him. It’s a holy substance; as long as it doesn’t make direct contact with him, he should not construe it as an attack.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t touch us either. Or, at least, me.” Astarion shuddered. “We all know what that cold white fire does to one of my kind.”

“It’s particularly harmful to non-living beings,” Gale nodded. “But, truth be told, that chilling-searing sensation that stings the skin like ice needles is hardly enjoyable for the living either. We stay behind Shadowheart while she performs the evocation.”

“A sound plan!” Volo agreed with gusto. “Now, one final query: What’s our course of action if the serenade theory doesn’t hold and the Moonfire fails to dazzle the Horned Lord?”He voiced the unspoken concern in everyone’s mind.

Gale fell silent for an uncomfortably long time.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Volo. If we come to it,” the wizard answered at last, making every effort to project confidence.

“Translation: if we’re wrong, we’re screwed,” Shadowheart muttered.

“Oh, to witness the majesty of the Wild Hunt or to succumb to its perilous embrace! What a time to be alive!” exclaimed Haer’Dalis.

“Say you’re fine with either outcome, I dare you,” Astarion snapped, cracking his knuckles in helpless frustration. “After everything that’s happened to me, I’ll be damned if I spent the last month tethered to my own coffin, only to end up enslaved by some horned fey lunatic before I could even hold Jayme in my arms again!”

“Awww, Astarion!” Shadowheart cooed. She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “Have faith! I’ll do my utmost to make sure you get your chance to hold Jayme. And if we fail, well, just remember—it’s because Gale was wrong.” She shot one of her sweetly insulting smiles at the wizard.

“Your vote of confidence warms my heart,” Gale grumbled, his expression sour.

Afterward, the party advanced in silence.

They soon reached their destination, and it was immediately evident that something was amiss. An unnatural gloom loomed over the eladrin lady's woods, tarnishing its purity. Where statuesque golden oaks and vermilion maples should have radiated a stunning brilliance, their colors now seemed muted, dulled by some oppressive force. The air felt heavy, laden with an unsettling density, as if the forest itself bore a dark burden.

“Lady Lithnelia, might you share the tale of how the lycanthropes came to reside within the sacred groves of your woods?” Haer’Dalis inquired once the company, hounds included, came to a halt at the forest’s edge.

“How can I begin to fathom what those brutes thought when they made their den here? Do they feast during full moon nights on unicorns, centaurs, and other harmless beasts that dwell beneath my trees? Are they ever creatures of reason, or mere slaves to their predatory instincts? Truthfully, it matters not to me. All I know is that one night, about two months ago, they arrived and stayed. They are unruly monsters that must be eradicated. And so, fortune smiled upon me when the Master of the Hunt answered my summons. Tonight, we shall restore harmony to my domain.”

The eladrin man beside her, a guardian or perhaps a butler, nodded with evident enthusiasm.

Astarion felt an instinctive dislike for the lady. In her eyes, under different circumstances, he might have appeared as a monster deserving of eradication. Was there an underlying motive behind her persistent invitation? Could he be a desirable addition to the quarry?

Before Astarion could say or do anything, though, the woman raised a hand.

“Behold: the time has come. The Wild Hunt approaches.”

At first, there was the booming of a hunter’s horn—otherworldly, foreboding. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Soon after, the idyllic rosy-pink and golden sky vanished, shrouded by billowing clouds of green mist, drifting across the landscape like a maleficent witch lurking stealthily. Overhead, untamed snarls reverberated, prompting the party of five to instinctively tighten their formation.

“Ready yourself, Shadowheart,” Gale whispered, his gaze trained on the mist’s depths, expecting the hunters to break through the fog at any second.

“I was born ready,” the cleric replied.

The storm that had been brewing since the horn’s first blare reached its zenith with howling winds and thunderous roars, mirroring the rhythmic pounding of hooves. Astarion felt, more than saw, a procession descending from the skies as the thick, miasma-like mist obscured a clear view. 

Then, a silhouette emerged—a humanoid figure with glowing green eyes and a crow of majestic stag antlers. Towering black beasts with eyes like smoldering furnaces trailed at his side, scrutinizing all within their line of sight. In the distance, a throng of dark hunters materialized, spectral riders astride on neighing, hellish steeds.

A sense of dread crept over Astarion, like frost spreading across grass on a late autumn night, as he gazed into the jade inferno of Cerunnos’ eyes. But he refused to give in to despair.

Without hesitation, Shadowheart stepped forward, and a cone of silver fire erupted from her outstretched hands, illuminating a thirty-foot expanse. The entire party released the breath they hadn’t realized they were holding as the Moonfire compelled Cerunnos and his hounds to halt.

Hope flared up for a moment; Gale’s idea seemed to be working. The blood-curdling aura of the mass of hunters receded slightly. Two brilliant Moon Motes lit in the air beside Shadowheart—her parents, her guardians.

Lady Lithnelia huffed in annoyance at the sight. She made an unexpected move: darkness erupted from her hands. While the spell didn’t extinguish Shadowheart’s Moonfire—likely because the eladrin's magic was weaker than the cleric's—it dimmed the silver fire to a faint glow.

Everyone on the scene stiffened with tension. The fey hounds began barking viciously. 

Then suddenly, Cerunnos lifted a hand, and his hounds darted toward the party and the forest beyond.

“To the woods! Regroup!” Astarion heard Gale’s shout, but chaos had already erupted. Though the five companions entered the dusky domain of trees together, once inside, the shadows twisted, the mist thickened, and Astarion found himself alone. 

“Shadowheart! Gale! Volo!” he called out as he ran, panic tightening its grip on him.

The stately, discolored oaks and maples mocked him with silence in response. 

He had been scurrying through the forest for what felt like an eternity when—

“Run, little vampire. If I catch you, your insides shall be devoured from within,” murmured Lady Lithnelia’s voice from somewhere behind. Her tone shifted mid-sentence, transforming from a melodious, feminine cadence into an insect-like hum.

Notes:

The sea shanty Captain Anlyn is singing is "Hoist the colours" by Hans Zimmer.

Also, I took the riddles of the crossing guardian from Baldur's Gate 2, the Spellhold Gauntlet. I couldn't think of better ones!

Chapter 13: I - I found the hate you locked away, it speaks in tongues a human couldn't replicate

Summary:

I found the hate you locked away
It speaks in tongues a human couldn't replicate
You don't know yet what you are
It couldn't go, but it couldn't stay
Now it's throwing fuel into a bigger flame
I think we may have gone too far

You don't get what you deserve
No you get what you take
The will of fire will burn
And blow up in your face
The burden comes with a price
I don't think you can pay
The will of fire will burn
And it don't suffocate

Bad Omens – Suffocate

As promised, Boris delivered Jayme and Solaufein to the heart of the Murkendraw’s noxious swamp in no time.

The bat descended into a clearing bordered by scattered russet-red bald cypresses and withered weeping willows that dropped over the murky water. For Jayme, this was familiar territory by now. As before, a subdued glow filled the environment. Light emanated only from the luminous lichen and moss clinging to tree bark, and the occasional elusive will-o'-wisps drifting through the scene. A mist as fine as spider silk hung in the air, mingling with the odious gases—the crowning glory of the otherworldly wetland.

Jayme and Solaufein dismounted the bat, who shook and twisted his body in what could only be interpreted as a weary stretch, then promptly perked up his head and scanned the area. Moments later, he took wing and the distant, mortal agony of some beast echoed through the swamp. Apparently, Boris had found his dinner.

“Charming creature,” Jayme remarked as he stretched his own numb limbs and back.

“Not my worst mount by any means. Have you ever tried riding a mountain goat?” Solaufein asked. “If you ever face a choice between an ankheg in heat and a serene-looking mountain goat, choose the ankheg.”

“I’m sensing a good story here. You know, I’m always looking for song materials, so once our business is concluded, I’d love to hear it from beginning to end,” Jayme said with a smirk.

“Certainly. It will be my pleasure.”

“Speaking of songs, let’s take a short rest here, and afterward, I’ll perform the hymn I promised for your Lady Silverhair,” Jayme suggested.

“I am overjoyed, but I thought you intended to offer your tribute once we reached Evermeet,” Solaufein replied.

“Standing in this wretched swamp, I feel like we could use her blessing before we face the Hag of Hags,” Jayme admitted, suppressing a shudder. “Provided my praise pleases her, of course.”

“I have only seen you perform once, but I have not a shred of doubt that it will,” Solaufein assured him with a winsome half-smile.

An uneasy, watchful repose was all they could afford in this blighted place. The distant cawing of crows and the incessant buzzing of bugs grated on their nerves. The foul gases wafting from the bubbling swamp water dulled their senses almost to stupor.

Jayme observed Solaufein, who sat perched on a warped tree root, his posture as regal as if he were leading an eladrin war council rather than preparing for hag-hunting in a mucky, putrid swamp. The drow was silently inventorying his potions.

After a while, Jayme, seated on a decayed tree trunk, broke the silence. "What are your thoughts on drow ballads?"

Solaufein reflected on the question before responding. "I grew up listening to them and never thought much of other sounds until I set foot on the surface during a raid in the Forest of Tethir. It gave me perspective on drow music."

"And?"

"I realized that most drow songs are pure rubbish."

A smile crossed Jayme's face. "Oh? I find beauty in the cries a skilled bard can elicit from the vazha-do. When handled right, its mewl cuts to the core. I can hardly think of an instrument that conveys woes, war lust, or even melancholy in a comparably raw way. Except for the violin, of course."

“Of course,” Solaufein smiled. "Well, a non-drow bard most certainly can. There is nothing wrong with our traditional instrument itself. It is the style and the themes I cannot stomach—cruelty, gore, blood feuds, Lolth's glory. During a covert infiltration of an elven camp, I heard a harp and a flute accompany a song extolling the flourish of Myth Drannor. It left a burning impression on me about the fundamental wrongness of my culture."

Jayme nodded, understanding. Drow music was often discordant, marked by jarring sounds and shrill, grating vocals. As for the themes, as Solaufein said, buoyant songs were as rare as docile, hand-licking mimics.

“Did that lead you to eventually renounce Lolth and pledge yourself to Eilistraee?” he asked.

“The path to that resolve was a long and winding one,” Solaufein replied. “It took me quite some time to take even the first step after my experience at the elven camp. That first, tentative step was questioning an elven prisoner about the surface—not about their defensive measures, but about their culture in general.”

“Of course,” Jayme said. “Conversions often begin with a seed of doubt in the heart, followed by an unsure but deliberate step. I watched the process unfold in a friend of mine who forsook Shar for Selûne.”

“A pleasing change of heart.”

“Isn’t it? I thought you might think that.” 

“Was your case similar?”

“I wish, but no. Not remotely. What gave me the impetus was my niece usurping my title as the Chosen of Bhaal and driving her blade into my brain. That little incident made me forget who I used to be and opened my mind to… a new way of life. The irony,” Jayme recounted, watching Solaufein carefully, curious to catch any spark of shock or disappointment.

To his wonder, Solaufein, though slightly amazed, displayed only calm acceptance. 

“Your path is in no way inferior to mine,” the drow said. “I hope you understand that. You could have slipped back to your old ways, but you did not.”

“True. Very true,” Jayme agreed with a soft smile. “There are still many gaps in my memory, but I recall that I often played 'Seven Drips from the Gore Cord' on my violin in the past. I…can’t remember exactly when, but likely while I worshiped Bhaal."

"A timeless classic. If only those strident arpeggios and trills did not suffocate the main motif." Solaufein remarked with a wry smile.

"I can take that motif and elevate it for you—perhaps weave it into my hymn," Jayme offered and rose with the yew lute in hand.

"Please," Solaufein replied, anticipation dancing in his eyes.

Jayme emptied his mind, focusing his attention on the instrument. Before closing his eyes, he made a quiet request. “Tell me of Lady Silverhair.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Anything. Anything you find important to mention. I will translate.”

Jayme’s fingers stroked the lute’s twenty-five strings fondly, as one might stroke a beloved pet. He called to mind the avatar of Eilistraee: an obsidian-skinned drow woman of resplendent beauty. Her hair, long enough to touch the ground, fluttered around her bare form as she performed an elegant, flowing dance.

The first undulating notes spilled from Jayme’s fingers. He took the motif of the gory drow ballad, “Seven Drips from the Gore Cord,” stripped it of its drow extravagances, and reshaped it into a more restrained, delicate elven style.

Solaufein began to speak in a deep, devout voice.

“The Lady of the Dance serves as a mother goddess to her faithful, particularly us drow. She believes strongly in redemption for those who have fallen to evil. She urges her followers to break free from Lolth's tyranny and from the endless conflicts that plague their lives.”

Vigorous, full-bodied chords illustrated the Lady’s compassion, interlaced with Jayme’s own tendrils of hope—a quiet defiance against his Father’s evil.

“She does not test her followers, for she believes the trials of life are test enough.”

Eilistraee’s grace envelopes her faithful like silvery moon rays—no self-flagellation, no gauntlets, no blood sacrifices before murder tribunals. To worship her is simply to live. The lute poured forth phrases of rich triads.

“Despite opposition from the Dark Seldarine, Lady Silverhair tirelessly strives to lead the drow back to the surface. She fervently promotes harmony with other races. Her message to my people is: ‘A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow.’”

Jayme spun the original motif into intricate variations, improvising an emotional arc that ranged from desperation to hope.  

“Lady Silverhair seeks and nurtures beauty even in the darkest places, driven by grief and a longing to ease the suffering of the drow. Her battles have taught her to counter despair with hope, joy, and the flourishing of life. She treasures love in all its forms and offers sanctuary to the needy and the outcast.”

Through the next arch of his sweeping tune, Jayme aimed to convey the triumph of light over darkness.

His eyes briefly opened to reconnect with his surroundings, while Solaufein, visibly entranced by the performance, kept his own closed.  

In the periphery of his vision, something caught Jayme's attention. Turning his head, he saw beams of silvery light illuminating a spot about sixty feet away in the swamp. The beams flickered, dancing—or perhaps signaling something. 

At first, nothing appeared unusual; a few reddish-brown moths circled under the illumination. Before long, more moths flocked toward the light, fluttering in an oddly precise circular pattern. The spectacle quickly took on an uncanny quality as their numbers multiplied. 

Jayme concluded his song with a resounding fade-out.

“Look,” he called to the drow, who snapped back to reality with a spellbound expression.

By the time both turned their gaze, a veritable swarm of moths whirled in the silver radiance. 

“The Dark Maiden’s moonlight!” Solaufein exclaimed, springing to his feet.

“Prepare yourself,” Jayme warned. He channeled magic through the strings of his lute to invigorate Solaufein with Bardic Inspiration.

As if on cue, the storm of moths abruptly changed direction. All insects oriented themselves toward the center of the circle and collided, drawn by an unseen force. Instead of crushing one another, they melded together, shaping into an aberrant, hunched humanoid form.

The feathery bodies of the insects twisted and morphed into wrinkled human skin, jagged teeth, monstrous claws, and a tattered brown robe. Baba Yaga materialized beneath the silver moonlight.

As soon as the bizarre transformation was complete, the Hag waved a dismissive hand at the dancing moonbeams, causing them to diminish and fade away after a few final flashes. Her abyssal black eyes locked onto Jayme from beneath a thunderous set of brows.

"How impudent of you to disturb the serenity of my abode with such loathsome racket! Speak now—why have you returned to vex old Baba Yaga in such a vile manner, Child of Bhaal? Have you lost your way or your wits, mayhap?" the Crone screeched. A handful of moths continued to swirl erratically around her repulsive form, shooting forward in brief, nervous bursts as if mirroring the temper of their mistress.

Jayme met her soul-flaying stare with a steely one of his own.

“We are here to claim your head and retrieve the blood I gave you. Now that I no longer need your aid to find my way through this plane, I am taking back what is rightfully mine. I will remain the sole vessel for Bhaal’s evil. As a pleasant bonus, killing you aligns with Lord Kannoth's wishes as well.” 

Jayme’s words were chosen with care. The more blinded by rage the Hag became, the better.

The moths around the Hag doubled their speed, tracing disordered patterns now—an odd entomological danse macabre.

“The audacity!” Baba Yaga croaked, her burning wrath cooling into a smoldering disdain. “It was well within my calculations that taunting the little teethling—who still fancies himself a king, the piteous thing—might provoke him to retaliate sooner or later. I awaited it eagerly, dying to see which pawn he would dispatch. That he sent you, a fledgling Tel’Quessir with paternal issues, and a sorry excuse for an Ilya Muromets, is truly laughable.”

She bared her pointed teeth, sharp as butcher's knives, in a vicious snarl.

"But for you to strut about as if you can unravel our pact! Have you any inkling of my magical prowess? Know this: your blood mingles with mine now, little morsel. The dark essence of your Sire is the icing on my infernal cake. Come, take a taste if you dare!"

As if summoned by the tension, Boris reappeared, emerging smoothly from the mist. He glided to Jayme’s side, perching beside him, his bulging ruby eyes glaring malevolently at the Mother of All Hags. His human-sized body convulsed, and in an instant, he divided into a dozen dog-sized vampiric bats.

Baba Yaga threw her head back in a manic cackle. "The gaze of the kingling is upon us! How delightful! His little beast shall make a fine addition to the ranks of my sweet underlings. Alongside charming Cordelia, who is already mine. Oh, dearie, come forward and extend your regards to your former sovereign!"

Her laughter echoed again, tinged with hysterical amusement.

At her summons, the shadows in the swamp shifted. A spectral figure in aquamarine hues flew forth, halting beside her mistress. It was a banshee, though her appearance bore the mark of the archfey's meddling magic. Unlike typical banshees, who retain a semblance of their original elven forms, this creature had nothing elven about her. Warts marred the visible skin beneath her threadbare garment, and her head was completely bald. With her crooked back and twisted limbs, she resembled a hag far more than a spirit.

Cordelia glanced over the numerous Boris clones. Her shrill, sibilant voice cut through the swamp’s stillness.

“Pale Lord, you are too late. I have unmasked all of your secret schemes to my new Mistress. Soon, the Queen of Air and Darkness shall be alerted, and she will descend upon Cendriane to pulverize its remaining ruins, leveling your once-Kingdom to the ground. For the Queen does not take kindly to connivers.”

Her threat signaled the start of the battle. In the next moment, about half of the undead bats darted forward with ear-splitting screeches, targeting Baba Yaga. Each aimed to sink claws and fangs into the archfey’s rotted, apricot-like skin. As they reached her, though, they slipped through her body—it was an illusion. They had fallen prey to a Mislead spell.

Jayme immediately knocked back an Elixir of See Invisibility, judging it the safer option compared to casting Faerie Fire. With the flock of Borises swooping around, wide-area spells carried too much risk. Beside him, Solaufein had just downed an Elixir of the Colossus. His frame expanded rapidly, nearly doubling in size, as he prepared to join the fray.

Jayme spotted the real Baba Yaga standing behind Cordelia, in the midst of casting a Lightning Bolt. His fingers flew across the lute strings in a swift glissando, conjuring a Cloud of Daggers around the Hag in an attempt to interrupt her spell. But she was faster. The spinning daggers manifested just as the Lightning Bolt had already launched, streaking toward Jayme and the bats swarming near him. The latter were electrocuted to the last, while the bard narrowly managed to parry the attack.

Solaufein swept across the battlefield and swung his greatsword at Cordelia, effectively cutting off her mournful Wail before it could inflict crippling harm on him, Jayme, and the remaining Boris clones. The banshee shrieked in outrage and retaliated with a Corrupting Touch. Her claws shredded through Solaufein’s mithril bracers, searing his flesh with necrotic magic. As the bats closed in on her, she flailed her wispy, clawed hands, leaving them bloodied and broken.

Solaufein’s pained growl reached Jayme’s ears just as he was preparing to hurl one of his trademark Cutting Words at Baba Yaga. He made a mental note to send a Healing spell toward the drow at his first chance. But there was no time to delay—Baba Yaga had already nimbly stepped out of the Cloud of Daggers on elongated limbs and was on the verge of delivering her next attack: a Death Curse. 

Jayme’s cry of, “Why smell thou of placenta musk? An ode for you… odor, mayhap!” echoed across the battlefield a split second after Baba Yaga pointed a gnarled finger at him and completed the curse.

The effect— blunted but not nullified by his verbal counter—was dreadful. His muscles weakened, his reflexes dulled, and his movements became lethargic.

The melody of his lute faltered, leaving him defenseless against Baba Yaga’s next assault: her Agonizing Cackle. The sound tore through him, doubling him over in blistering pain and rooting his feet to the ground.

As the cuts dealt by the daggers knit themselves closed through her extraordinary Regeneration, Baba Yaga paused to marvel at her handiwork: Jayme writhed so violently that his lute nearly slipped from his grasp. With a hideous smile spreading across her ghastly face, the Hag began a new incantation. The air grew excruciatingly cold, and dark clouds gathered overhead as the spell took form.

Waves of racking pain surged through Jayme's body, rendering him powerless to stop Baba Yaga’s Control Weather spell. Within minutes, while Solaufein wrestled with Cordelia, an immense blizzard swallowed the swamp, wreaking havoc as far as the eye could see. 

Jayme's breath escaped in labored puffs, each one forming white clouds in the air. The temperature had plummeted to an arctic chill. Through blurred vision, he watched Solaufein pivot and dodge, strike and sway, engulfed by a whirlwind of snow. The drow’s usually smooth, elegant maneuvers were now a touch staggered by the biting frost, giving the banshee an edge as she deflected his blows with vexing precision.

Darkness began to creep into Jayme's vision. His hands, trembling and numb, tightened their grip on the lute. The curse’s effect was growing stronger. Pain and cold conspired to drag him into a foggy drowsiness. Another minute like this, and he might collapse. He knew Baba Yaga would seize that chance to seal his fate.

For a fleeting second, the thought of surrender—of slipping into a painless, eternal slumber—tempted him. But then, a vivid image pierced through the haze: Astarion’s grief-stricken face, etched with loss. Surrender would mean abandoning him. Worse, it would leave the tainted essence of Bhaal at Baba Yaga’s full disposal. The devastation she could bring about with it was beyond comprehension.

No. Dying here was not an option.

The pang of regret gave way to a flare of resistance. He refused to fall. He could not, would not, let this be the end.

With immense effort, Jayme forced his spasming hands to obey. His fingers found the lute strings, and a tune began to take shape. It started off halting and clumsy, but the notes soon resonated through his body, spreading warmth like a hearth against the cold. Music had always been his lifeline, the last pillar of his sanity. He thought of Astarion’s voice, soft and soothing, singing to him in moments of despair.

No need to run and hide
It’s a wonderful, wonderful life.

A sudden burst of energy rippled through him, breaking Baba Yaga’s horrible curse. Sprightly music gushed from the lute as he reached within himself and roused the old Urge that had been lurking on the fringes of his unconscious, patiently awaiting its opportunity.

Like a pair of gloves—woven from blood, fire, and wrath—he donned it.

He attacked the strings with fury, unleashing a torrent of shrill chords. He craved blood; each unforgiving pluck mimicked the frenzied beating of his heart. His music fused with the volatile magic of the Feywild, evolving to a level of power he had never imagined possible.

In its wake, blood trickled from Baba Yaga’s ears and she screamed at the top of her lungs. As her concentration shattered, the blizzard began to dissipate, and the harsh cold eased.

Snarling and howling, the Hag pointed a gnarled finger again, casting Finger of Death at Jayme. With impeccable timing, he crafted a bloody shield from his blazing tunes. The shield didn’t nullify the scalding pain of the necromancy spell, but it blunted it significantly.

Riding the momentum, he launched into a counterattack. Now that clarity returned to his thoughts, he remembered that restraining Baba Yaga’s movements was impossible, as was hiding from her sight. According to the chronicles, she wielded a Ring of Free Action and a Gem of Seeing. No underhanded strategy would suffice, only a direct one: Solaufein’s greatsword had to sever the archfey’s head from her neck. And to make that possible, the banshee had to fall first.

And so, summoning his magic, he cast a Haste spell on himself. In a blur of motion, he followed it with a Healing spell for Solaufein and Otto’s Irresistible Dance on Cordelia. Solaufein seized the opening, lunged forward, and raised his sword high. With a decisive strike, he cleaved the banshee cleanly in half. She let out a bone-chilling wail before crumbling into a pile of arcane dust.

By this time, only one Boris remained. As soon as the banshee perished, he turned his attention to Baba Yaga, who perked her head up, ears still bleeding, and released a piercing cry.

“Come to me, my Daughters and Granddaughters! Protect your darling old Mother!”

Screeches answered from different corners of the swamp, an eerie counterpoint to Jayme’s fearsome lute solo. 

And then, the onslaught began. Hags materialized seemingly out of thin air, rushing to their Mother’s summons.

Boris didn't stay idle. He crawled over to Cordelia's remnants and nibbled on a handful of glowing crumbs. Though it was highly uncommon for the undead to feed on each other, Jayme chose not to question the anomaly.

With each crumb consumed, his ruby eyes shifted further towards turquoise, and his body expanded dramatically. Once again, he fragmented into multiple entities, forming a smaller regiment. The fluttering Borises clashed with the hags as they hastened to join the conflict.

Solaufein leaped into action, preparing a formidable slash aimed at Baba Yaga. But suddenly, the archfey Teleported behind him and touched his back; in that instant, knife-like pain seared across Jayme’s own back. The intensity was so overwhelming that he stopped playing his lute without even noticing. Had his back split in two?

Heart hammering wildly, Jayme gulped in huge lungfuls of air. He reached a quivering hand to probe the wound beneath his doublet. A horrific Scar gaped across his back, stretching from the upper corner of one shoulder blade down to his waist. Blood had already soaked his garment, and it continued to stream from the wound. 

Judging by how unnaturally still Solaufein stood, breathing heavily, his face contorted, it was clear that Baba Yaga’s touch was affecting him in the same way. 

Then, something curious transpired. At first, Jayme struggled to comprehend it. The Time Stop spell cast by the Hag made him blind to her actions. Without warning, the air grew thick with stupefying fungal gases.

One breath. 

Two breaths. 

And then, the swamp faded from view. Jayme found himself standing on the blood-slicked floor of an underground stone hall. Not just any hall—a part of the Undercity he knew bitterly well: the Temple of Bhaal.

Frantically, he turned his head, searching for Solaufein, but his companion was nowhere to be found. He was alone.

Or, more precisely, he was the only living being here. As he took in the scene, he realized the floor wasn’t merely bloodied; it was entirely covered in corpses, a grotesque, bone-chilling carpet.

A faint, grating noise broke the silence, rhythmic and unsettling. Jayme recognized it instantly: a violin being plucked. Yet, the violinist remained unseen.

He heard a chant. It echoed from somewhere in the shadows, though its source was indiscernible:

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

A calm voice spoke from behind him, a pleasant, measured tone.

“And so, you finally stand before me. I have awaited this moment for longer than you can imagine.”

He turned to see a lithe high elf woman with fair skin, raven-black hair, and vibrant violet eyes. She wore a blood-red tunic and held herself with strikingly perfect posture, like a living sculpture. Her face was completely devoid of emotions. Jayme had no memory of ever meeting her.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” he asked the woman.

“We are here because of you,” she replied, her words steady, almost serene. “We are inside your heart. The riddle we must solve is this: who are you, truly?”

“I don’t have time for mind games—I have a Hag to kill,” Jayme said sharply.

“Oh, but you cannot leave until the riddle is answered,” she said, a trace of eagerness slipping into her tone. Her bloodless lips quirked up ever so slightly.

Jayme replied with absolute certainty, barely even considering her question.

“The answer is: I am what my choices have made me. I am what I choose to do.”

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

The woman’s brow twitched, but her expression remained otherwise impassive.

“Wrong. Your answer is incomplete. You flatter yourself with the illusion of freedom, but you are not free—not yet. How could you be, when you do not know yourself? How could you, when you do not understand what you are free of? You cannot shed your past like a snake discards its skin. Nor can you ignore the havoc you wrought in the name of your Sire.” 

Jayme stiffened. “My memories of that times are fragmented and hazy. I’ve put it all behind me.”

“We can remedy that here,” the woman said with quiet finality. “We must. Look around you! These pitiful souls—all of them died by your hand.”

She extended her arms, gesturing to the endless sea of corpses blanketing the temple floor. Her voice grew sharp and commanding, reverberating through the chamber as the ground rumbled beneath them.

“Arise, lost spirits, and lay bare your sorrows before your Murderer!”

The corpses raised their heads in unison as the appeal, and countless ghastly voices screamed their agony as one. They all lashed out at Jayme with crushing force: the suffocating weight of his past deeds made manifest. He choked on the death throes of his victims, gasping in the corrupted air of his own making.

And that wasn't all. His mouth filled with the sickly-sweet taste of his own ecstasy at the carnage. Bhaal’s succor coursed through him, just as it had in the days long past. Memories flooded back, unbidden and vivid: the blood-drenched masses in this very Temple, the sinful cries of his jet-black violin. 

He saw Enver Gortash’s black eyes glinting with admiration. He smelled the sulfurous stench of Mephistopheles’ vault. He felt the cold, malevolent touch of the Crown of Karsus in his hands.

How he had fantasized about placing it on his own head to attain godhood! Only to be stopped by Enver’s smirk and his insistent reminder of their shared goal. 

“Do you remember now?” the woman pressed. “Do you recall your ardent devotion to the Dread Lord’s cause? The corpses remember. Listen to them. Breathe it in again like a heady perfume. Let it wash over you. Surrender yourself to Murder’s embrace. You were His Champion, His Exalted Killer. But in secret, you were even more than that. Much more.”

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

“Enough,” Jayme growled, clenching his eyes shut against the vile waves of old pleasure threatening to devour his sanity like a rabid beast. 

“Tell me, why did you kill so many?” came the next question. The gentle timbre of her voice scraped at the inside of his skull with claws of familiarity. 

“Who are you?” Jayme groaned.

He had to know, or else he would go mad then and there.

“You know who I am, in your heart. Speak it.”

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

Jayme opened his mouth, dread coiling in his chest as he waited for the word to rise from his throat.

“Mother.”

His Mother—a priestess of Bhaal. His usher, his evangelist in his Bhaalist faith. A cold instructor, never a true parent. 

“Yes. And who am I also?” Her gaze on him was endlessly serene.

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

“My first murder.” The slam of his heart against his ribs almost drowned out his own voice. 

All at once, the hundreds of corpses fell silent. The violin and the sourceless voice resumed their intimidating whines.

“Yes,” his Mother said calmly. Then, for the first time, her rigid, motionless posture shifted. She began to circle him, slowly, like a vulture sizing up its prey. “You, my son, are a matricide. Why did you murder me?”

“It was Bhaal’s wish.” Jayme couldn't tear his eyes from her. The blackest guilt warred with the memory of the hoarsest, rawest excitement from his past.

“Your desire to impress your Sire was evident. Yet my murder was not merely a display of devotion. Your insatiable bloodlust is a legacy from your Sire, yes, unquestionably. But beyond that lies something deeper, something that originates solely from you." Her lips curved into a smile. It was a benevolent expression at a glance, but it lacked any true warmth. "It is your devious, calculating mind that has driven your murders."

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

“That’s a lie. It was Bhaal’s essence that made me do this.” Jayme’s voice shook as he motioned toward the carpet of corpses surrounding them.

“Are you certain? No. I can sense your doubt. We are in your heart, after all. Look within and answer me: what made you kill? Me—and the multitudes that lie before you.”

At the snap of an invisible finger, the unsettling plucks of the violin strings melted into a fluid, harmonic, and irresistibly seductive tune. The final piece of the puzzle seemed to click into place as a long-buried memory hurtled through Jayme, its long-dormant emotions flaring to life.

He saw himself from the outside, clad in a night-black velvet doublet and matching breeches, conversing pleasantly with Enver Gortash in his private quarters in the Temple of Bhaal. His fingers caressed his cherished black violin tucked under his chin—a loyal companion awaiting his command. 

“To kill is to taste godhood,” Jayme declared, cool and poised, to Bane’s devotee in the memory. 

Gortash reclined comfortably in a leather armchair, a cup of brandy hanging from his hand. He was silently drinking in the bard’s calm reasoning. Little did he realize he was drunk not on the liquor but on the hypnotizing words. 

“To live a powerless life is to offer oneself up for slaughter,” Jayme continued. “The slaughter enacted directly by mortals, maybe, or even illness. But in truth? By the gods themselves.” He settled into a sinuous melody, the haunting strains weaving through his words. “Life is like a betrayed promise—emptiness. What else could it be? Corellon Larethian, the vaunted Creator and patron god of my people, is said to have brought elves into existence by accident. Legend claims that when Gruumsh, god of orcs, wounded Corellon, the blood spilled from that injury birthed the first primal elves. We are nothing more than ‘accidental byproducts’ to the gods. Or worse, mere toys for their amusement.”

“Some gods are better than others, though. Some reward their most ambitious followers,” Gortash remarked, clearly referring to Bane. A blemish in his otherwise commendable perspective, but one Jayme knew he could rectify with time and patience. “Take you, for example. Or myself.”

“True. But no matter how much we toil in their name, we will never be truly respected by them, never be elevated to their ranks. They are too supercilious in their nigh-untouchable, immortal state. For us mortals, there will always be restrictions. Pain. Because they want it that way.”

Jayme’s melody shifted, the notes twisting into enthralling musical phrases, each chord rich and flexibly textured. “We must surpass them, Enver. And yes, we must follow in their footsteps for a time. Become their Chosen. But eventually, we must take their place. Otherwise, it will all have been for nothing, and we’ll remain nothing more than ‘byproducts.’ Slaves. We must kill. And kill cleverly.”

“Your philosophy is music to my ears—quite literally. Where have you been all my life, Jayme?” Gortash sighed, completely under the bard’s spell. He sipped his brandy and leaned forward, eager for more. “Enlighten me: what exactly do you mean by ‘kill cleverly’?”

“I mean quantity and quality. Both are essential,” Jayme replied smoothly. “Kill in vast numbers to lull the gods into a false sense of comfort. And kill with precision: family, friends, lovers. Gods-to-be can’t afford mundane attachments—they’re nothing but hindrances. You’d best send your parents to the grave before we set to work in earnest.”

Jayme had already taken that step. A shadow crossed Gortash’s face, but it was only for a fleeting moment. He was quick to mask it with his usual confidence.

“Believe me, they’re as good as dead already, I’ve made sure of it. And I hold not a sliver of attachment to them, I assure you. But never mind that.” His smile turned roguish as he swirled his drink lazily in the cup. “You said we’d kill friends too. Are we not friends?”

Jayme matched Gortash’s smile and distractedly tickled the strings in clean, crisp, and rapid sautillé bow strokes. It was time to ease off; Gortash was already eating out of the palm of his hand.

“We may call ourselves friends, but why should we? Our bond transcends the limits of that stale concept. We are associates. Allies in our ascension to come.” Jayme held Gortash’s gaze for a long time. He wanted to ascertain the will behind that confident exterior.

“Splendid. Just the answer I expected from you. And I wholeheartedly agree. Here’s to that!” Enver raised his glass in a toast.

As Jayme returned the gesture, he knew he had found a worthy disciple. One he even liked, sincerely. While he needed no one for his design, there was a certain satisfaction in having company. Their alliance promised to be fruitful indeed.

The memory washed through him, and Jayme’s breath caught in his throat. It felt as though his airway was clogged with blood. “To kill… is to taste… godhood,” he gasped his own once-fervently held creed.

This was the ultimate principle, the cornerstone of his past existence. It had been the catalyst for all of his gruesome actions.

“Yes, at last! At last, you are voicing your own truth! You yearn to snatch your Sire’s Throne for yourself, you always have! The path you chose for yourself was the path of the Usurper!” Admiration dripped from the woman’s voice, the first genuine emotion she had shown. She leaped for joy, graceful and enchanting as a nymph.

The bodiless voice, resembling Jayme’s own to an unnerving degree, hissed new lines that echoed through the vast cavern of the Temple, crawling into his ears like tiny spiders.

The bars of the cage
Will bend, but will remain
But there is always pain
There is always pain

It suddenly fell into place. The true meaning of his Dark Urge, its marrow. It was nothing but a desperate attempt by Bhaal to reassert his influence over Jayme. Bhaal had sensed Jayme’s true inclination and exploited the amnesia inflicted by Orin’s actions to draw Jayme back into the fold.

The Dark Urge—Bhaal’s tainted blood—had never been the true force behind Jayme’s murderous sprees as the head of Bhaal’s Church. What had driven him was his own ambition.

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

“No… It can’t be,” he whispered, feeling his blood rush into his head, pounding and boiling. How could he have been so different back then? It was inconceivable, yet it felt strangely resonant at the same time.

“Oh, yes. There’s no sense in denying it. Now, try and answer me again, my son. Who are you?” The woman came to a halt in front of Jayme and cupped his face in her ice-cold palms.

Dance with me on the white coal (run with me through the flames)

The noises—dark whispers, violin melodies—crowding his head were domineering to the extreme. 

But a kind voice managed to filter through, a balm on his burning psyche. 

“The heart of a savior has overshadowed the mind of a murderer.” It was Withers’ rasping; the words he had spoken when he resurrected Jayme in the Temple.

Then came Solaufein’s testimony: “The moment you understand your ultimate battle is with yourself, not with Bhaal, is your chance to choose well and triumph. Bhaal is the dagger and the poison on its blade, but the invisible hand pointing the dagger at your heart is your own.”

Astarion’s voice followed: “I knew you had that sweet heart all along. I was alarmed by you sometimes, scandalized even. But somehow by your side, I still only ever saw you.”

Jayme took a deep breath and stepped back, out of the woman’s reach.

“I am Jayme the bard. The murderer. The matricide. I have uncovered the truth of my past and recognize the weight of my actions. But I have evolved beyond that person. I've discovered a new meaning. And so, I choose to change my course and dedicate my life's endeavors to repentance.”

The bodies and screams were a testament to how much he had tipped the scales out of balance. He needed to tip them back, to even out the scar he had left on the world.

He understood it all now; memory fragments came tumbling back. The dissonance Sceleritas’ insistent remarks about himself always stirred, the foreignness of the Urge itself.

The stab of familiarity he had felt seeing Gale's hunger for the Netherese Crown finally made sense as well. He recalled his own aversion to supporting the wizard on that path, rejecting it as “over-reaching” at the time. But in truth, it wasn’t Karsus he had feared Gale would pursue, but his own misguided footsteps.

At his words, a scowl carved itself onto the woman's face. “Foolish child! You would deny yourself? Why such cruelty against yourself? Why make the death of all these poor creatures meaningless? Why let your Astarion down?”

DANCE WITH ME THROUGH THE FLAMES

“When you possess the potential to exceed your Sire! When you exhibit the qualities befitting a new Lord of Murder!”

DANCE WITH ME THROUGH THE FLAMES

The woman backed away and spun gracefully to the side. Where she had been standing, a monstrous throne appeared, crafted entirely of cadavers. It called to mind Yurgir’s bed of corpses in the Gauntlet of Shar but was fresher, had humanoid bones for frames, and oozed red. She inclined her head, her eyes locking onto Jayme’s. Her gaze was dark ambition wrapped in unwavering conviction—mirroring the look in Jayme’s own eyes, when, in another life, he had stared down Gortash.

“Take your place upon this Throne. It’s as simple as that. The Feywild will handle the rest. It will fulfill your desire,” the woman purred as Jayme’s eyes were drawn to the throne. It was sickeningly tempting. The magic of Baba Yaga? Or perhaps the power of the blackness still in Jayme’s heart. The woman continued, “You will finally attain your long-craved freedom: the liberty to be true to yourself. Ascend to the stature of a deity, with the power to protect Astarion. Is that not the deepest wish of your heart?” 

DANCE WITH ME THROUGH THE FLAMES

It was a twisted half-truth.

Jayme thought of Astarion’s smile. He remembered the look of resolve on his face as he kept vigil over a tied-up Jayme, racked with violent urges. He remembered the perfect words Astarion had spoken: Easy now, darling. You’ve got this. And I’ve got you. This thing won’t have you. It won’t win.

This thing. At the time, it had been the Dark Urge. Now, it was Jayme himself—the ghost of his past.

“No, it won’t,” Jayme muttered, echoing Astarion’s reassurance. Then he turned his attention back to the woman. “I refuse, Mother. I don’t want that Throne. My former self did, but he’s dead, murdered by Orin. And I won’t resurrect him. He didn’t know the world as I do now. He knew nothing but emptiness, solitude, and fear. I can choose a different path now. And Bhaal will never bind my soul. If His will is death, then I choose life. I will control my Urges and use them as I see fit.”

The words emerged like an oath—a declaration of metanoia. Here, at the core of his own heart, they held a mystical, divine power. Kotodama, the Kozakuran called this occult phenomenon, he suddenly recalled.

Subsequently, the rage drained from the woman's countenance, leaving only a shimmer of profound disappointment in her violet eyes. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all traces of emotion vanished, and she once again became as cold as stone.

“Then you shall die, my son.”

Right after she spoke her prophecy, the entire Temple dissolved into nothingness. 

Jayme found himself back in the Murkendraw. The gaping Scar on his back erupted with pain, obliterating any coherent thought. He blinked away hot tears and strained his eyes to take in the battlefield.

Solaufein stood paralyzed, visibly caught in a psychedelic trance of his own. Tremors shook his body, but from this angle, Jayme couldn't discern the expression on his face. Was the drow braving trials as harrowing as the ones Jayme had just faced?

The battle was raging on around them. From somewhere in the distance, the piercing screeches of bats and the wails of hags reached his ears. But Baba Yaga’s whereabouts remained unclear.

“How intriguing. Some return addled after dancing with their inner demons in the tender clasp of my fungal enchantments. Others return emboldened, brimming with fresh, frivolous notions."

The Hag's voice slithered from behind him, crawling over his skin like a venomous serpent searching for the perfect place to strike. Jayme tried to twist around, but a fresh surge of agonizing pain froze him in place.

"But you, little morsel, you return exactly the same as you were. How pathetic! A squandering of precious fungi! I wonder how the drow will resurface. Alas, you won't linger to witness it. Farewell now, feeble Whelp of Bhaal."

Gnarled, claw-like fingers wormed into his peripheral vision—Baba Yaga’s hands were closing over his eyes.

Drained by blood loss, he could no longer resist. As those fingers stole his sight, he exhaled his final breath, enduring the last torturous moments before darkness swallowed him.

…

…only for light to stream in, wrenching his eyelids open and forcing air into his lungs a timeless heartbeat later.

A harp's airy notes reverberated briefly, followed by a thunderous shriek—Baba Yaga's anguished cry. 

Blinding silver light illuminated an armored figure standing above him. The man stood firm, legs planted wide in a defensive stance, gripping a glowing greatsword. Only then did Jayme realize he was sprawled on his mangled back in the swamp’s muddy waters.

“Praise be to the Dark Maiden! Jayme, can you rise?” Solaufein’s anxious voice called from above.

“From the dead? I think I just have…” Jayme groaned, struggling to his feet as he searched for the source of the blinding light. It wasn't a single point. Instead, it surrounded him— a pervasive bubble of moonlight, a Sanctuary. Solaufein’s sword radiated the same silvery glow. “Is that… Eilistraee’s?”

“Lady Silverhair’s blessing, yes. Come! It is now or never! Distract the Hag while I find an opening in her defense and cut her down!” Solaufein urged and lunged toward the archfey despite the pain of his injuries.

Jayme staggered toward his lute and snatched it up. It was dirty, wet, and slightly damaged, but still playable. The Sanctuary shielded him, deflecting curses hurled by victorious hags who had defeated their respective Boris clones.

Then, he unleashed a potent musical declaration of his newfound purpose. The storm of emotions roiling within him found form, forged into a fierce masterpiece.

First, his notes coalesced into a Healing spell, stitching together the torn flesh under Solaufein's armor. The drow's movements instantly became more fluid, his agility restored. Next, Jayme mended the cursed Scar on his own back. The relief was so immense that a spurt of pearlescent energy rolled off the lute strings. The energy hummed and streaked outward, bolstering the attacks of the Boris entities and shifting the tide of the battle.

An intoxicating sense of authority enveloped Jayme. Seizing this momentum, he roused his old Urge from dormancy, but this time, he kept its mind-numbing bloodthirst firmly in check. He flayed the Urge alive, bending it to his will and sending it on a destructive trajectory, like a puppeteer manipulating a marionette.

As he did so, his capriccio began to warp and transform. No longer sounding like they were coming from a lute, the notes resonated with the melody of a violin. Each pluck corresponded to an impassioned stroke of a bow. Though Jayme held a lute in his hands, he was unmistakably playing the violin—his instrument of choice.

The magic that manifested then was unlike anything Jayme had ever commanded or even imagined before. His eyes perceived his own blood running through Baba Yaga's veins. He directed his violin’s song to pierce through her flesh and manipulate it. Once firmly within his control, he brought the blood to a boil. Baba Yaga’s agonized wails filled the clearing as Jayme seared her from the inside out.

He could feel her trying to draw on the blood’s power, desperate to turn it against him. But Jayme had already claimed total mastery over it, whereas she was only beginning to rein it in. He sensed her frantic effort to summon the Slayer, but, riding on a low vibrato, his Urge smothered the attempt.

A snarl of frustration escaped Baba Yaga’s lips and she flung a Chain Lightning spell at Solaufein. The bolt ricocheted off the drow, vaulting toward Jayme. Braced by the music, both managed to ward off the brunt of the impact.

“Drakosha!” the Crone bellowed as soon as the spell faded.

Foreign magic crackled in the air, and moments later, an orange dragon dove from the sky—one of many in Baba Yaga's vast collection.

"Solaufein!" Jayme shouted, alerting him to redirect his focus.

Channeling his Urge, Jayme spun the violin’s notes into a massive net. He cast it over the dragon, forcing it down into the mud. The wyrm growled furiously and spewed fire at him, but it couldn’t escape the net. As the flames surged toward him, Jayme struck a series of discordant notes that morphed into a crashing wave of seawater. Fire and water collided, flooding the air with dense, scalding steam.

The dragon's enraged roar tore through the haze, overpowering the robust melody of Jayme’s lute-violin. The magical net unraveled and dispersed. Emboldened by the result, Baba Yaga cast a Silence spell, leaving Jayme unable to produce any sound. At the same time, Drakosha unleashed another fiery blast. 

With no means to defend himself, Jayme fumbled for a Potion of Fire Resistance in his bag of holding, but it was too late. Steeling himself for the inferno, he froze in shock as a dark figure rushed in to shield him.

Jayme blinked, his senses returning in fragments. He wasn't burned—Solaufein's Piwafwi Cloak of Fire Resistance protected them. A devastating heatwave blasted through the air beyond the enchanted fabric, and Solaufein's hurried words reached Jayme just before it subsided.

"I am going to throw you. Recreate that net."

In the next instant, Solaufein's trunk-like arms catapulted Jayme outside the range of Baba Yaga's Silence spell. Landing as gracefully as the situation allowed, Jayme resumed his performance. His lute chords seamlessly shifted into the timbre of a violin, and the Urge wove them into a net that ensnared Drakosha's body.

With calculated precision, Solaufein leaped onto the wyrm's back, raced along its neck, and thrust his moonlight-infused sword into the creature's throat. He descended in a swift motion, slicing its neck wide open. The dragon's blood gushed, staining his white hair crimson. At last, the wyrm collapsed, its massive body causing the earth to quake.

Solaufein didn't stop. He was bearing down on Baba Yaga with lethal intent. Before the Mother of All Hags could unleash another spell, her head was severed from her neck in one clear stroke.

Jayme rounded off his concert with a final, sonorous chord. 

Frightened whispers whipped through the Murkendraw as the remaining hags scattered. Some didn’t make it far, falling prey to Boris’ hunger, while others vanished into the mist.

Solaufein stood over Baba Yaga's bloody head, his chest rising and falling in deep, labored gulps.

“It took your death and the Dark Maiden’s boon, but the deed is done,” he said, his voice a mix of exhaustion and awe. “The Bone Mother is no more.”

“Don't forget to credit your own swordsmanship. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Jayme said, eyes tracing the Borises as they massed together and melted back into a single bat. He cradled the lute against his body like one might cradle a child.

“Nice hair you have,” Solaufein remarked warmly. The comment was so unexpected the bard shot him a questioning look. “I have no mirror to show you, but it has turned into a mane of silvery, dancing flames.”

Now that it was pointed out, Jayme noticed a peculiar glow at the edges of his vision. Releasing the lute with one hand, he ran his fingers through his hair and pulled a strand forward for inspection. It was, indeed, ablaze, yet it emitted no heat to scorch his skin.

"Whatever trials you endured in that cursed trance, Lady Silverhair welcomed the resolution you have ultimately reached. This is Her way of marking you as Her favored one. As for the events during battle, Her Sanctuary, which pulled you back from the realm of death, as well as the radiance on my sword, are both exceedingly rare blessings. They are granted only to the most deserving and to those most in need. Without such enchantments, my blade could not have pierced the dragon's or the Hag's flesh so deeply."

Before Jayme could respond, a slow clap broke the eerie silence of the swamp.

“Bravo, audacious ones! You are almost done with your end of our bargain.” 

Lord Kannoth waited at the edge of the clearing, arrayed in a splendid black robe. His regal demeanor clashed starkly with the dismal surroundings. He elegantly stepped over the dragon’s tail and strolled toward Jayme with the careless grace of a man gliding through a ballroom.

“Almost?” Jayme asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Did you presume the old Crone wouldn't have a safeguard against death? Every necromancer of note possesses such a thing. Naturally, she has a Clone concealed within her repulsive abode. Let us proceed to uncover it. Only with the Clone’s demise will you have honored your commitment."

The vampire lord’s eyes fastened on Jayme’s, cold and penetrating. But his expression softened when the bard gave a resolute nod.

Jayme moved to the decapitated Hag, pried the Ring of Free Action from her stiff finger, and retrieved the Gem of Seeing from her pocket. He handed both items to Solaufein, who, as a close-range fighter, would have a greater use for them. Meanwhile, Lord Kannoth carefully collected Cordelia’s shimmering remains in a jar.

Led by Boris, the trio made their way to the chicken-legged hut nearby. The spindly legs stood stock still, and no smoke wafted from the chimney this time—the Hag’s abode appeared lifeless.

But as they entered, Jayme’s senses prickled. His blood was close.

“Clone is a high-level spell that requires a sealed vessel for the duplicate body to grow in,” Kannoth explained. “Look for chests, trapdoors leading underground, or any spaces large enough to harbor a full-sized hag. I would have expected Baba Yaga to assault us the moment we entered—her wretched spirit must already have taken refuge within the Clone by now. But it seems she has a greater inclination for playing hide and seek instead. Did these mortal elves frighten you, Little Grandmother?”

“There.” Jayme pointed to the bed at the far end of the hut. Under a frail blanket woven entirely of moth wings, a discernible bulge caught his eyes. Though it remained motionless, he knew without a doubt it was the Clone. His blood stirred with fury inside Baba Yaga's new body in response to Lord Kannoth's taunts.

As soon as he pinpointed their target, the hut began to shudder, floorboards groaning beneath their feet. Thick gray smoke billowed from the cauldron in the center of the room, choking the space with an acrid stench. In the next blink, Solaufein and Lord Kannoth vanished, swallowed by the miasma.

Then, the assault began. Vicious cackles and hisses echoed from unseen corners. A razor-sharp claw raked across Jayme’s arm, tearing through his sleeve and leaving a burning trail. A thick, slimy tongue wrapped around his leg, yanking him toward the deepening smoke. Panic stabbed at him, but his fingers tightened on the faint, reassuring weight of his lute. Countless unseen claws, teeth, and tongues drained his strength with each contact. The hut wasn’t simply attacking him; it was trying to dissolve his very being.

Out of the roiling smoke, a horned head began to solidify. A flowing beard and mane framed a distorted face, its flaming eyes burning with malice—the Ravager. Baba Yaga was shapeshifting into Bhaal’s other avatar, perhaps realizing the Slayer was beyond her reach.

With a surge of will, Jayme focused on the link that still bound him to his surrendered blood. A dark tune rose from his lute, a command to his Urge: reclaim what’s mine. When the Urge obeyed him, a sense of cold certainty settled in his chest. He twisted and pulled, consciously mirroring Bhaal’s own act from the Temple, and his blood began to flow back into him from the Baba Yaga Clone.

The smoke abruptly thinned, the oppressive shroud lifting. The room snapped back into view. Solaufein and Lord Kannoth were regaining their footing a few paces away, shaking off the lingering stupor.

With a screech, the bulge on the bed sprang to life. It cast aside the repugnant blanket of moth wings and revealed Baba Yaga’s new body—identical to the original, down to the last claw.

Boris flew forward, barely waiting for Jayme to finish drawing Bhaal’s blood from the Hag. His sharp teeth sank into her bony arm, eliciting a furious howl. She seized the bat and ripped him off, hurling his small body aside.

Lord Kannoth chose this moment to enter the scene. He held out his hand with unhurried poise, then clenched his fingers into a fist.

Baba Yaga ceased all movement at once, as if held rigid by some invisible chain. She cried inarticulate slurs, her eyes blazing with wrath.

Before she could utter an incantation, Jayme hastily cast a Silence spell at her. Seeing his chance, Solaufein darted forward, lifted his radiant sword high, and plunged it deep into her heart—if she even possessed one. With that decisive strike, the Hag of Hags met her demise for the second time that day.

A few beats of stillness followed. It was broken when Boris crawled to the Hag’s lifeless form and bit, drinking deeply of her blood before it turned cold.

“Exquisite!” Lord Kannoth exclaimed. “I extend my special gratitude for preserving the brain intact—I foresee considerable potential in incorporating it into my projects.”

Naturally, he made no mention of how close they had come to being consumed by the Dancing Hut. He smirked with satisfaction at the drow, who had already withdrawn his sword.

“Now, you’d better make haste and reunite with the Szarr spawn,” he continued. “Some noble eladrin—possibly an ignoble one—is apparently not taking well to the presence of an undead Tel’Quessir near her woods by the Lake of Dreams. Present yourselves at my Palace once you are prepared to accept my Dark Gift.”

Jayme glanced at Solaufein, who nodded to confirm he was ready. Boris squeaked, signaling his agreement. 

The three made for the door. On his way, Jayme’s eyes fell on a small wooden mortar and pestle resting on a nearby cupboard. The items appeared perfectly mundane, but the bard knew better. From ancient folklore, he recognized them as Baba Yaga’s wondrous tools for interplanar travel.

“I suggest you take Boris for this journey and leave those trinkets for another time. Call it a vampiric hunch,” Lord Kannoth said as Jayme examined the items.

“I’ll trust you on that.” Jayme stowed Baba Yaga's mortar and pestle into his bag, then glanced back at the vampire lord before crossing the threshold. “Until we meet again.”

“Enjoy your wild hunt!” the archfey said with a sly smirk. The meaning behind his words slipped past Jayme for now.

Notes:

The eerie song Jayme hears while under the effect of the mushroom is "Dance with me" by IAMX.

Chapter 14: I - My wildest wind, come make me smile again

Summary:

You're the wildest wind
You're the home beneath the ruin
Self-loathing or the darkest drug will never keep me
From loving
Oh, you make my heart sing
Every time you brush against me
My wildest wind
Come make me smile again

IAMX – Wildest Wind

Taunted by the “fey eladrin woman” to flee, Astarion spun around to confront her directly. Despite having encountered few fey eladrin during his travels across Faerûn, he was now convinced that she was no eladrin at all. To his knowledge, fey eladrin didn’t feast on vampire flesh. He needed to understand what he was up against.

“Alright, Lady Lithnelia, time to cease this charade. Reveal your true form and intentions,” Astarion demanded as he drew his trusty companions, Bloodthirst and Rhapsody, flashing a daring smile at the approaching woman. “There's no need to keep up the pretense any longer.”

The pounding of hooves and the baying of hounds echoed through the mist-shrouded forest. Fortunately for Astarion, only a handful of yeth hounds had followed their mistress to this location; the rest were likely in pursuit of the other members of his party. Nonetheless, these hounds were famed for their telepathic connection within the pack, making them susceptible to their leader’s commands to shift locations—more could appear at any time.

“How amusing; this maiden uttered the same words before I devoured her innards. But why spoil the fun? Find out what I am, if you can!” the woman buzzed in her newly revealed, bizarre tone.

Excitement seemed to roll off her in waves, morphing her appearance: her hair rippled wildly despite the lack of wind. Her skin took on a deeper reddish hue, and her amber irises turned white. She stretched her lips into a grin so wide it gave the impression that her face could split down the middle.

They locked eyes for a fleeting second, but then the yeth hounds charged at Astarion all at once.

The rogue deftly backstepped into the deeper shadows beneath the branches of a sizable maple tree. Although his scent would guide the hounds, he made it challenging for them to rely on their vision.

With nimble movements, he ghosted past the hounds and emerged behind the one farthest from the pack. He expertly thrust both daggers into the beast's neck, targeting vital points. The creature gurgled noisily as blood spilled forth. Its death throes alerted the others, but by the time they rounded on Astarion, he had melted into the shadows, aided by the superb Invisibility effect of Jayme’s Deathstalker Mantle. 

Slinking behind trees and through the green mist, he edged to the other side of the small clearing on light feet, quickly taking down another hound, which let out a roar of pain. Then, back to the shadows.

The eladrin impostor grumbled in frustration and sniffed the air. By ill luck, a gust of wind swept through the clearing at that moment, dispersing the mist and carrying Astarion's scent directly to the hounds and the woman.

They pinpointed the rogue's location in the blink of an eye, and the hounds dove at him. Astarion parried, twirled, dodged, vaulted, and managed to rip open the windpipe of one of the hounds. But in the thick of it, the woman's cold hand brushed against him, sending a wave of chilling, unnatural unease through him; she’d done something, if not outright injuring him.

The distraction threw off his calculated movements, and one of the yeth hounds seized the opening. It clamped down on his left forearm with razor-sharp teeth. Rhapsody slipped from Astarion’s grasp, and he screamed in pain. The agony jolted him into swift retaliation, and he drove Bloodthirst into the beast's eye, through its brain.

The lifeless hound's jaws unclenched, setting him free. With no time to linger on his wound, Astarion swirled around and rammed his dagger into the head of the next assailant.

The final hound attempted to sneak up on him and sink its teeth into his neck, but his honed reflexes allowed him to anticipate the attack. He skillfully shoved the hound to the side. Though the creature's bulk prevented him from throwing it back, he redirected its trajectory, creating an opening for a lightning-quick stab of his dagger.

Now, for the eladrin impostor. Astarion left his dagger lodged in the last hound's gullet. Cloaked in Invisibility once more, thanks to his Mantle, he confronted the woman and gripped her shoulders, aiming to stick his fangs into her neck. But just as he moved in, the woman uttered a single word.

“Stop.”

Her demeanor remained completely composed, exuding an absolute certainty that her command would be obeyed. Much to Astarion's astonishment, it was: the rogue was suddenly immobilized just before making contact with her skin. The Invisibility effect broke that instant.

"Good boy," the woman murmured, taking a leisurely step back and fixing her gaze on Astarion, who remained frozen in the same posture. "At ease."

With her permission, he could finally release the tension in his body and assume a more natural stance.

“What is this?!” he yelled. The last time his body had defied his intentions and become a marionette on strings was when Cazador still lived. The possibility of reliving that ordeal constricted his throat.

“You are weak-willed for a vampire. A mere spawn, are you? Where’s your master who would protect you?” the woman sneered.

“I have no master,” Astarion spat, gnashing his teeth as he strained against the invisible constraints.

He discovered he could slightly flex his fingers, but doing so caused sharp pain.

“You don’t? Even better! I won’t need to worry about retribution once I take you as my new vessel,” the woman said in a conversational tone.

“A vessel? If all you wanted was someone to… devour, or whatever you do, then what is the Wild Hunt doing here?” Astarion asked, trying to buy time. His options were limited: either break free from the woman’s hold or hope one of his companions would stumble on the scene to help—either way, he needed time.

“I want it all; I’m greedy that way. I want the Wild Hunt to cleanse these woods—my woods—of those repugnant lycanthropes. And I want you as well,” the woman droned and reached out to turn Astarion’s head from one side to the other, as though inspecting stock. “Take solace in the fact that you did nothing wrong; you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have yet to occupy an undead body, you see. Yours is a strong one, and it piqued my interest.”

“The Hunt is said to be hellbent on destroying great forces of evil. They will come after you.” Astarion tried to sound as persuasive as possible, despite the pain racking his body.

He managed to move his mangled left hand to his right vambrace, where he had concealed his small Sussur dagger for emergencies.

“To Cerunnos, I’m the enchanting noble eladrin, Lithnelia. You’re the only one who knows I’m not what I seem. It is said Cerunnos became enamored with the Maiden of the Moon when she revealed her noble eladrin form to him—he clearly has a weakness for beauty.” She shook her magnificent ginger hair with pride. “Now, shall I make you cut yourself with that pretty dagger of yours before I fill you from the inside?”

The woman’s gaze fell on Astarion’s fingers as they convulsed, curling around the pommel of his dagger. He knew it was now or never; steeling himself, he tightened his grip on the hilt. Ignoring the lancing, pain, he lunged, aiming the tip of the Silence-infused blade at the woman’s jugular.

“Stop and retreat.”

Astarion resisted the command. The agony engulfing his flesh down to the bones was mind-numbing. Crying at the top of his lungs, he pushed through the pain and thrust the dagger forward. It pierced the woman’s skin, but the movement lacked the precision needed for a lethal injury.

Nevertheless, it achieved its primary purpose: the woman yelped, recoiled, and found herself unable to issue further commands due to the magical effect of the blade. In the next moment, a dozen blink dogs materialized from thin air, no doubt responding to their mistress’s telepathic bidding. At the same time, an incensed but melodious voice rang out from the other side of the small clearing.

“You’ll be the one to retreat, bitch.”

A sigh of relief escaped Astarion as Shadowheart stepped forward. Her silver-white hair and bloodied armor gave her the unyielding air of an amazon. She slammed the butt of her Selûne’s Spear of Night against the ground, conjuring a radiant Moonbeam that reached up to the heavens, directly above the eladrin impostor.

It not only scorched the impostor’s skin, but it also served as an excellent landmark to guide their companions here.

"Ingenious move, Shadowheart!" Astarion exclaimed, though his voice shook—the repercussions of his insubordination still tore at his insides.

“You bet.” The cleric slanted a self-satisfied smile at Astarion, then cast Greater Heal and Greater Restoration at him in quick succession.

At last, Astarion was free to move as he pleased without his body threatening to implode. His freedom came just in the nick of time; with scarcely a second to adopt a battle stance and brandish his Sussur dagger, half of the blink dogs were already at his throat.

With Shadowheart’s healing and offensive spells supporting him, the two of them made short work of gutting the entire pack.

“Unless I’m mistaken, you were bound by a Geas spell,” Shadowheart observed once all beasts lay motionless. She directed the Moonbeam to follow “Lithnelia” whenever she attempted to escape the searing radiance. The Silence spell was no longer in effect, but the eladrin impostor had lost control over Astarion. Wailing in annoyance, she sprang from tree to tree but found no respite from the continuous assault.

“Our lady is a charmer,” Astarion said with a nod. “A savage fey trickster, a lamia, or perhaps a magic-adept changeling?”

Regrettably, they still lacked enough information to draw any proper conclusions about the being’s identity.

Before any interrogation could begin, though, the small clearing unexpectedly transformed into a lively hub. Gale appeared with Volo and Haer’Dalis in tow. Gale’s robe was blood-soaked, but he seemed otherwise unscathed. The sage looked ashen with fright, while the bard appeared thrilled, if anything. This could only signify one thing: Cerunnos was drawing near.

Indeed, in the next minute, great fey hounds with glowing eyes and jet-black fur surrounded the party, followed by scores of mounted undead Hunters.

The Horned Lord approached, his steps deliberate and measured. The radiance of the Moonbeam provided enough light for the mortals to behold the legendary Lord’s appearance: his lower body ended in stag legs, while his bare upper body was human-skinned and etched with blue patterns. His head was covered with an intricate hunting helmet, revealing only his imposing antlers and piercing jade eyes.

The air seemed to freeze for long moments as Cerunnos scrutinized those present. His aura carried such oppressive authority that no one dared to make a sound. The same icy fear that had crawled under Astarion’s skin when he first glimpsed the Hunters in the mist bore down on him now with full force. The breath of the Faerie Raed, the dreaded curse, was upon his neck. Would they be pulled into the nightmares of the Hunt and become thralls among the company of fey hounds and undead Hunters?

The bone-chilling silence was abruptly shattered by the frantic appeal of the fey eladrin woman directed at Cerunnos.

“Slay them, o Master of the Hunt! They are a band of immoral vagabonds led by a masterless vampire spawn! Did they not attempt to provoke you with their display at the edge of the forest, their Moonfire? Did–” 

A high-pitched sound rang through the sky, closing in rapidly. A black mass appeared—a beast carrying two riders, riding a wild wind. A black pegasus, maybe? Astarion squinted. No. It was a magical bat, an odd, horse-sized one. It lacked a pulse: an undead bat.

The creature, eyes glowing an unnatural aquamarine blue, descended onto the center of the clearing with a powerful landing. In its wake, a small whirlwind emerged. The two riders elegantly hopped off the back of their mount. One of them...

Astarion couldn’t believe his eyes. His body froze, but his insides, his heart burned unbearably hot, as though it might melt a hole in his chest and let everything spill out. If this was an illusion, it was the cruelest ever conceived. But if it wasn’t…

“Hmph. Lord Kannoth has a twisted sense of humor,” said the unknown rider, his velvety baritone tinged with amusement. His white hair—matted with blood—his obsidian skin, and heavy armor marked him unmistakably as a drow fighter. “This is the legendary Wild Hunt.”

“Indeed,” replied the other man. His voice—by the infinite depths of the Abyss—was that same. That cool, self-possessed low murmur that could make Astarion’s body quiver.

And quiver he did now, too. He watched as the figure, so much like Jayme, pulled on the strap of his lute, shifting it from his back to his front, and slid his hands around it.

His hair burned with silver flames, the fiery strands whipped by the wind, while his eyes blazed an unearthly red. These traits lent him the air of a living apparition. The back of his doublet was torn wide open, blackened with layers of dried mud and blood—so much blood. Beneath it, a half-healed gash reeked of dark magic and carried the distinct scent of Jayme's enticing life essence. 

A sob wrenched itself from Astarion’s throat. 

At that very moment, the Jayme-figure began to play. His gaze focused on Cerunnos, and his hands composed a melody—wobbly, mysterious, and deeply stirring. It wasn’t merely music, nor just a sequence of harmonic notes. It was a story, told with such eloquence that Astarion had once believed only language could convey.

No words were uttered by the bard, yet Astarion understood. The two bat-riders, caked in mud and blood, had freshly slain the mythical Hag, Baba Yaga, in her swamp. It was a pact forged with Lord Kannoth, the eladrin vampire lord. With artful clarity, the bard expressed that the party of five, caught up in the chaos of the forest, belonged under his leadership. He vouched for them, making it clear they had no intention of interfering with the Hunt—nor any desire to join it.

“Ridiculous! More vagabonds, spewing lies to save their cohorts! As if these two Tel’Quessir could vanquish the mighty Baba Yaga!” the eladrin impostor snarled.

In response, the Jayme-apparition mellowed his tune, weaving in a crucial detail: Eilistraee’s blessing. The drow unsheathed his greatsword to showcase the silvery glow that enveloped it. The Jayme-apparition inclined his head with a charming smile, his flaming hair another piece of evidence in the tale he wordlessly told.

"Yes!" Gale whispered hoarsely behind Astarion, his excitement barely contained. "Eilistraee, the goddess of, among other things, moonlight in the Dark Seldarine pantheon. What an incredibly fortuitous coincidence!"

“Jayme.” The drow drew the bard-apparition’s attention and held up a shining blue stone. Jealousy spiked in Astarion, irrational but undeniable, at the confidential warmth in his tone. “That woman is a lamia.”

The stone, evidently a Gem of Seeing, unveiled the true identity of the impostor at last.

Lamias, masters of Disguise and Charm, were notorious for their wicked nature as parasitic entities. They infiltrated and took over humanoid beings, their true form a horde of beetles with a remarkably intelligent collective consciousness. These creatures retained certain memories and knowledge from their victims.

The following events unfolded with dazzling speed. The woman shrieked in rage, joined by the eladrin male from earlier, who rushed onto the scene. Together they lunged at the Jayme-apparition. But before they could reach him, the melody hitched—shrill notes rising in a halting command that stopped the assaulting fey in their tracks.

Astarion had never seen Jayme use his instrument in such a way before. The technique mirrored the woman’s earlier magic, yet it was fundamentally different. It didn’t just demonstrate supreme mastery of the bardic arts; it carried a near-godlike quality. It was pure authority.

The two lamias froze. The drow struck without delay, running the woman through first with his moonlight-infused greatsword. But her slender eladrin form didn’t bleed, it scattered into hundreds of black scarab beetles. The insects swarmed toward the Jayme-apparition and the drow but ceased midflight as the bard switched dynamics, unleashing a rapid, powerful cavalcade of notes.

“Solaufein,” the Jayme-apparition called. In response, the drow stabbed the male eladrin next.

Another swarm of black beetles erupted from his form, and as they did, Astarion suddenly thought his ears might be deceiving him: he saw the bard pluck his lute and yet he heard the haunting song of a violin. 

Whatever magic was at work, it was over quickly. The chittering of the scarab beetles intensified, rising to an ear-splitting crescendo, before abruptly ceasing. Then, as if a string had been cut, the entire sea of beetles plummeted to the ground as one, lifeless. The Jayme-apparition concluded his performance with a final flourish, a vibrant chord that retained an uncanny resemblance to a violin’s cry.

There was a beat of silence, fraught with anxiety, as something unfathomable passed between Cerunnos and the bard. The Horned Lord lingered a moment longer, but then turned to depart, steering his macabre Hunt away and leaving nothing but stillness in his wake.

The storm clouds hovered still, but the howling winds gradually died down, and the booming thunder grew less frequent. 

After a time, a single songbird let out a hesitant chirp. With it, the tension lifted like a spell being broken. Gale, Shadowheart, and Volo darted forward to crowd around their flaming-haired savior, while Astarion remained rooted to the ground.

Time seemed to slow. 

In a daze, he watched Shadowheart throw her arms around the beautiful, mysterious man, once Volo had respectfully taken custody of his lute, lest the cleric damage it in her unrestrained joy. The man winced a little, the grisly gash on his back clearly causing him pain. Shadowheart immediately cast a Greater Heal spell, and the wound closed fully, leaving behind only a red scar.

Next, Gale clapped the man on the shoulder before pulling him into a firm hug, rambling about the moon, the Hunt, and some other balderdash. They all laughed and rained questions and praises at the man, who bore it all quietly and trailed his eyes over each member of the jubilant band. A serene expression graced his handsome face. Too serene, utterly at odds with the magnitude of what he had just achieved. 

The otherworldly red glow of his irises persisted—Gale made a comment about it, but the actual words failed to register in Astarion’s stunned mind. For then, the man turned his face to look at Astarion.

The instant their eyes met, the red blaze vanished, revealing ice-blue eyes with a violet rim around the pupils.

“Oh,” Astarion sighed dumbly. That was when he gained conviction: it truly was Jayme.

Their companions withdrew their hands and retreated with tact as Jayme moved toward Astarion, who finally seemed able to control his legs again and met the bard halfway.

Still afraid this was some sort of sick and evil illusion, Astarion didn’t reach out, didn’t dare touch. He searched every detail of Jayme’s face, desperate to confirm that not only was this Jayme—it was still his Jayme. The flaming hair was something that demanded explanation later, but apart from that: his full lips were the same. The scars across them and on his forehead, too. The arch of his eyebrows. His cheekbones. His ears… ears?

“Your hair’s grown. I forgot it… grows. Mine doesn’t,” Astarion blurted out. 

After all the fantasies he had entertained about how he would act when they reunited—ranging from dropping cool, suave lines like “Hello, darling. Missed me?” to silently taking the man in his arms and not letting go for hours—he managed to make this ludicrously banal comment. Smooth. Bravo, Astarion, that was absolute horseshit, he berated himself inwardly. It goes to show how pointless it is to rehearse scenarios in your head.

For some baffling reason, Jayme didn’t seem to mind the ridiculous preface to their grand moment.

“Perhaps Shadowheart will grace me with a professional haircut later if I ask her nicely. Your hair is as gorgeous as ever,” he murmured softly. The look in his eyes, those raw emotions, sent little electric shocks skittering down Astarion’s spine.

Jayme’s heart was beating thunderously, Astarion could hear it, feel it. But the look on his face radiated confidence, as always. 

If Astarion still had a beating heart, he was certain it would have skipped several beats now.

“Oh,” he breathed in response.

What is the matter with you, you numskull? Faerie Raed got your tongue? the critical side of Astarion’s brain cried in exasperation.

“Are you alright? You’re injured,” Jayme asked, a flicker of worry reshaping his features. He lightly touched the edges of the mostly healed laceration on Astarion’s left arm. His skin was hot, so hot, just like it used to be.

“No it… it’s nothing. Can’t even feel it anymore,” Astarion mumbled awkwardly. Then he remembered the rip in Jayme’s clothing, hinting at gruesome wounds, and concern surged within him. “Are you? Alright?”

“Now that I see you, I am,” Jayme whispered heatedly. The urgency in his tone, coupled with the way his heart picked up its pace even more—audible to none but Astarion’s keen hearing—finally sparked something in the vampire.

A whirlpool of emotions stirred to life. Acceptance—of what had happened to them and of how frighteningly it had unhinged Astarion. Recognition—of his own grueling efforts to reunite.
And relief. Immeasurable, pure, uncomplicated relief. 

“You’ve found me,” Astarion blurted, his voice loaded with disbelief, dropping to a whisper as well.

“We’ve found each other,” Jayme replied, perhaps to correct him, or perhaps simply to affirm the truth of the moment.

“You’ve saved me again,” Astarion murmured in the same tone, though his disbelief only deepened: How could someone like Jayme even exist?

“You have no idea how many times you’ve saved me out here.” Jayme’s brows furrowed and his eyes darkened as he spoke, his voice weighted with echoes of his ordeals. He laid it bare for Astarion, hiding nothing of the trials he had endured.

The trust between them remained unbroken, defying time, distance, and tribulation.

“Jay-me!” Astarion leaned forward to embrace him, but Jayme was faster. He was swept into Jayme’s arms before he could finish saying his name, voice hitching.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of Jayme’s heartbeat, strong and rapid. Tears seeped from Astarion’s closed eyes as he felt the knot in his stomach—tightening ever since he’d been left alone in the Elfsong—begin to loosen. The crushing pressure in his chest started to lift.

He didn’t weep as he had after stabbing Cazador, when a feverish release of justice and long-delayed grief for his own torment had overwhelmed him. This was different: a soul-deep catharsis.

“Damn my armor…” he muttered, voice stretched thin, fingers clawing at the tattered back of Jayme’s doublet. The Spidersilk Armor he wore—the one they’d stripped from Minthara’s corpse what felt like an eternity ago—was studded leather, and its rigid surface now felt like an infuriating barrier between them.

“We need a tavern,” Jayme murmured, brushing his face against Astarion’s neck and tangling his fingers in his white locks. “We could make camp, of course, but trance in the wilderness here is… less than ideal.”

“The closest settlement is Nimlith,” Volo suggested from a very distant place, or so it seemed to Astarion. “A small fishing town about forty miles southwest of here.”

Astarion opened his mouth, ready to grumble about the absurdity of walking forty miles now of all times, but Jayme pulled back slightly, turning his gaze toward the undead bat that was observing them from the edge of the clearing. Without a single word exchanged, some understanding passed between them.

The bat straightened, wiggled its winged limbs, then in a strange and silent spectacle, split into seven identical bats—a mount for each of them, by the looks of it.

“Fascinating creature! Can we keep him?” Astarion tugged on Jayme's attire like an overexcited child pleading for a new pet. His comical display was only undermined by the tremor still lingering in his voice.

“Sadly, Boris answers to the Lord of Cendriane, Lord Kannoth,” Jayme replied with a fond smile. He tightened his hold on Astarion again but gave him a questioning look as the rogue’s body tensed.

“Lord Kannoth… He’s a formidable vampire lord from the annals of history! I could hardly believe it when you shared that detail through your lute, but… just how in the Nine Hells did you manage to borrow his bat?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Jayme assured. “I think you’ll enjoy the story. But first things first: a tavern. A room. A bed.” The growl in his voice and the fire in his eyes promised a thorough reunion behind closed doors.

“Fuck…” Astarion exhaled, shivering as Jayme’s hands slid to his waist.

“Quite literally,” Jayme whispered.

“Aaalright, lovebirds. Time to set off and get you two a room,” Gale cut in, his discomfort written plainly on his face. Clapping his hands sharply, he seemed determined to break the moment. “But first, introductions are in order. Well met. I’m Gale of Waterdeep.” He turned toward Solaufein and offered a raised hand in greeting.

“Solaufein of Ust Natha. A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Solaufein replied, bowing with a polite elegance that made two sets of eyebrows shoot up. 

Gale and Shadowheart exchanged glances—both had clearly expected a far darker attitude from a drow. Even Astarion, still clinging to Jayme, couldn’t help but tear his eyes away to scrutinize this curious companion of Jayme’s.

Volo and Haer’Dalis, on the other hand, had no such reservations. They strode up to Solaufein without hesitation, patting him on the shoulder with the easy camaraderie of old friends.

“Pleased to meet you again, Solaufein, and in such unexpected locale, no less! I am tremendously looking forward to catching up with you,” Volo said, beaming.

"If it isn’t the brooding dark crow of the Lady of the Dance!” Haer’Dalis exclaimed with zest. “Indeed, Volo, you, and I must gather at our earliest convenience to share tales of our adventures over the past century!”

“Volo. Haer’Dalis. I cannot say I am surprised to find you within such illustrious company as Jayme’s.” Solaufein’s grin was genuine as he greeted the familiar faces. “The thought of a conversation—perhaps complemented by Jayme’s enchanting performance—sounds most appealing. After a hearty meal and a well-deserved rest, of course.”

At this point, Astarion cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“Well. Though I assume you’ve heard of me, allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Astarion of Baldur’s Gate.” The rogue leveled a challenging gaze at Solaufein and, for good measure, added, “Jayme’s partner.” 

Still wrapped in the bard’s arms, he gave no thought to the fact that he portrayed the archetype of a jealous lover.

“Well met, Astarion.” Solaufein inclined his head in a courteous greeting, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Your name has graced Jayme's lips often. I look forward to a proper conversation, perhaps over a cup of Dewberry wine.” Here, the drow had the gall to wink at Jayme, hinting at some inside joke that left Astarion in the dark. “I am quite eager to learn more about the man Jayme holds so dear that he bartered his blood with Baba Yaga to ensure a swift reunion.”

“Would you like that, now?” Astarion replied somewhat dryly. But as Solaufein’s words sank in, he looked at Jayme in alarm. “Wait… what? You gave that Hag your blood?”

“Relax,” Jayme said, caressing Astarion’s jaw soothingly with his knuckles. “Baba Yaga is dead, and I’ve already reclaimed my blood.”

“Stupendous tidings! A tale I should certainly like to hear!” Haer’Dalis interjected. “In truth, I may not yet be counted among Jayme's band, but I aspire to become fast friends once he wearies of his beloved's embrace. Greetings, Jayme! I am Haer’Dalis of Sigil. Prepare yourself, dear dark sparrow, for your pale raven has a special gift in store for you.”

The tiefling bard was, of course, referring to Astarion’s elementary-level violin play. Astarion could barely contain the excitement stirring within him, knowing he would soon have the chance to demonstrate the fruits of his coffin-bound confinement.

“Well met, Haer’Dalis. Is that so? I happen to have a gift for him too,” Jayme replied, and, entirely unabashed by the attention focused on them, leaned in to kiss Astarion on the lips.

“Off we go!” Gale said decisively. “I swear, you two are worse than harengon youngsters in spring.” 

The wizard shook his head in mock disapproval, but the corners of his mouth twitched with a smile. He approached one of the Borises, carefully mounted the beast, and mumbled a cordial, ‘Well met, Boris,’ before settling in.

Shadowheart grumbled some kind of complaint under her breath and reluctantly advanced toward one of the bats.

“Not fond of flying?” Solaufein inquired softly as he, too, picked himself a bat.

“I…have never flown before, so I’m a little nervous, yes,” Shadowheart replied. “And I also just hate it when someone from our party interrupts the flirtation of the Shrewd Elf Twosome. I, for one, find them adorable and am happy to watch!”

“The what?” Solaufein's brows knit.

“Never mind. Just a sobriquet I invented to call out how inseparable those two have been since the minute we grouped up,” the cleric said, chuckling lightly. She then gave the drow an unusually timid smile. “I’m Shadowheart, by the way.”

“It is a pleasure, Shadowheart. If you feel apprehensive about the flight, you may ride with me. Boris can bear the weight of two,” the drow offered, ignoring the small squeal of protest coming from his Boris clone.

“I, ah…” Shadowheart hesitated, glancing around.

“Join me, sweet moonlark,” Haer’Dalis chimed in, his trademark charming smile firmly in place. "Let me enfold your petite frame and ensure your safety for the entire journey.”

“Uhm, thanks. Solaufein, since you offered first, I’ll ride with you,” Shadowheart said quickly, cheeks tinted a rosy hue as she climbed behind the drow.

Astarion snorted an amused laugh. When Jayme pressed a long kiss to his temple and turned to seat himself on a bat, the rogue swiftly caught his hand. 

“Do not even think about having us ride separate bats. There's no way in the hells I'll let you out of my reach until we solve this nasty insult against us! If you trigger another interplanar teleportation, we are both going. Besides, if they can ride together, so can we.” He pointed at Shadowheart and Solaufein.

Did this make him sound clingy? Yes. Did he care? Not one bit.

Luckily, Jayme didn’t seem to mind at all. On the contrary, he looked rather pleased.

“Apologies, Boris.” The bard dipped his head toward the bat, who responded with a huff—his way of sighing?

In the end, five Borises soared through the twilight sky—still draped in looming gray clouds—carrying their passengers, while two enjoyed the flight unburdened.

Astarion felt like he was on cloud nine. Jayme’s arms curled protectively around him from behind, a silent reassurance. They did not speak; now was not the time. Instead, they immersed themselves in the simple bliss of being able to touch each other again.

The party arrived at Nimlith with unexpected speed; their limbs hadn’t even grown numb yet. They were transported straight to the Holy Ground Tavern, a quaint riverside establishment formed by the elegantly intertwining trunks and branches of white birch trees.

As they entered, Haer’Dalis signaled for them to stay while he conversed with the tavern keeper—a distracted, rosy-skinned moon elf man engrossed in a game of lanceboard behind the bar. Astarion noticed Jayme’s head immediately turn toward a satyr playing the flute at the back of the tavern. It made his heart sing to think that soon, Jayme would be reunited with his violin.

The interior was bathed in a gentle light, emanating from glowing, fist-sized butterflies that drifted lazily through the air and luminescent mushrooms crowding the tree trunks. The tavern was mainly filled with moon elves seated at the wooden tables, but Astarion also noted a considerable gathering of small, hairy korreds and a group of tiny, vibrant, moth-winged pixies sipping from miniature cups. 

“I have successfully arranged for six bed chambers, repast, and beverages aplenty,” Haer’Dalis reported proudly when he returned to the group a few minutes later. "It cost us but a promise: on the morrow's eve, we two bards shall entertain the tavern’s patrons. Accompanied, of course, by our esteemed polymath, Volothamp—should he oblige."

“It will be my pleasure!” the polymath in question trilled.

“Astarion could also contribute to that. He has a lovely voice,” Shadowheart suggested.

“Don’t give him any ideas!” groaned Astarion.

“What an excellent suggestion, my moonlark,” Haer’Dalis grinned.

“Damn it,” Astarion muttered, but his displeasure was quickly forgotten when Jayme took him by the hand. Firmly.

“Thank you, Haer’Dalis. And thank you, all of you, for everything you have done for us.” Jayme looked at each of his friends in turn. “I’ll have my supper later. For now, we bid you good night. Speak tomorrow.”

Before Astarion could blink, he was being shepherded toward the chambers. His ears caught Gale’s reservations along the way: “I am willing to pay anything not to have an adjacent room to those two. I would even dance on top of that table tomorrow!” Shadowheart’s mischievous reply—“Well, that can be arranged!”—made a show from Gale all but guaranteed for the following night.

The tavern had more rooms than Astarion would have expected based on its exterior. Down a lengthy corridor, where the walls were fashioned from thin white trees twisted tightly together, they found the first unoccupied chamber. 

Once inside, a curtain of ivy unfurled in place of a door, cocooning them in a sanctuary sealed off completely from the outside world. A similar curtain of ivy covered the window, too. Gale's concerns proved unfounded—this haven was impervious to both sight and sound, sealed by some unique magic. At least, since it was true in one direction, it had to be true in the other as well. 

The chamber’s illumination matched the taproom: no candles, only the soft glow of mushrooms and butterflies. One side of the chamber embraced a portion of the river, tamed into a natural bathing spot. Still water, Astarion noted with relief.

“First things first, we sh–” Astarion began, about to suggest a bath, but Jayme spun him around and claimed his lips before he could finish. It was a savage kiss. Jayme tugged at Astarion’s bottom lip with his teeth, then bit down hard enough to draw blood. Astarion grunted.

The taste coated their tongues—coppery, tart, bitter, and staggeringly stimulating.

“First things first, I want to feel you. All of you,” Jayme declared in a rough undertone, his deft fingers already working to unclasp Astarion’s armor.  

Astarion was grateful for Jayme’s dexterity, as his own hands, unusually unsteady, fumbled with the laces of Jayme’s clothes. The torrid feelings ignited by Jayme’s closeness spiraled out of control, leaving him unbalanced in a way he’d never experienced before.

“Shit, this is…unnatural,” he whispered hoarsely, staring at his own shaking fingers. Every inch of his skin tingled. “By all the devils of Avernus, you’re not even touching me yet, and I’m ready to come…”

“It’s natural here,” Jayme murmured and all but ripped the armor off him. He descended hungrily on the gambeson, the last layer separating Astarion’s skin from his touch. Undoing the bindings in a rush, he cast it aside.

Astarion gasped sharply when Jayme bent forward to press hot kisses to his chest and stomach before closing his teeth around his nipples, sucking on them one after the other.

“Wait! I-I really should… I have Liquid Night covering me from, from head to toe, as a precaution against sunlight and—” Astarion stammered, but Jayme silenced him with another kiss.

He pulled back just enough to growl his response, his breath a series of heated gushes on Astarion’s cheek.

“No. No more waiting. You stopped me back at the Elfsong. I should’ve had you right on the kitchen table.” His fingers wrestled with the fastenings of Astarion’s leather breeches. “Do you know how many times I cursed myself for having listened to you back there?”

The ties gave way, and Jayme swiftly removed Astarion's remaining clothing. The vampire finally stood stark naked before him.

“Did you touch yourself while thinking about me?” Astarion seized the pause to squeeze in a cheeky inquiry.

“I did,” Jayme said without reserve and started to rid himself of his bedraggled doublet.

“Really? You did?”

“Yes. You didn’t?”

Astarion’s eyes flicked to the hammering pulse in Jayme’s neck. Unable to stand idly by, he buried his face there, his lips finding that darling, fierce beat. Oh, to drink his blood again…!

“No! I was heartbroken. Nothing sexual so much as crossed my mind—until very recently, that is,” he muttered against Jayme’s skin, watching with delight as the patch of flesh flushed red under his mouth while Jayme hurriedly stripped. “When I crossed over from Toril, I thought of you and felt a sudden need, even though it happened to be a highly inappropriate time—just as those damned lamias showed up.”

“The Feywild is… an odd place,” Jayme said. “Senses are sharper here. I was in a trance, meditating on the night of the Gossamer Alcove, and before I could finish reliving the memory, I came to—barely in control of myself.”

He shifted and shed the last of his clothes. At last, there were no more layers between them.

Astarion could smell blood, sweat, and mud on him, thick and heady. It was filthy, yet exceedingly arousing. Intoxicating. That mixture of scents spoke to him on a primal level, flipped open lids that had been shut for the past month. Urges and animalistic impulses had always spiced their connection with Jayme, but the Feywild amplified the intensity to a breathtaking new level.

They moved at the same time, meeting halfway in a desperate tangle of limbs, exploring each other’s bodies as though it were the first time they’d truly touched.

“I see… feel what you mean…” Astarion said, his voice little more than a hiss, and as if caught in a delirium, he bit into Jayme’s shoulder. The temptation was simply impossible to resist. He forced himself to take only a small amount—just a taste, a wonderful burst of vital energy on his tongue—mindful of Jayme’s earlier blood loss.

The pace was unstoppable now, and Jayme’s frenzied motions, along with the insistent pressure against Astarion’s lower abdomen, left no doubt they were consumed by the same flames.

As soon as Astarion, reluctantly, withdrew, Jayme pulled him to the bed and bent him over it, his weight supported by his hands on the plush bedding, feet firmly planted. Jayme stayed behind him.

Before Astarion could utter a word, warm hands spread him apart. A moment later, he felt a warm slide of lips between his cheeks and the soft pressure of a tongue flat across his opening. He moaned, loud and obscene, and some distant part of him was thankful for the soundproof magic of the chamber.

Jayme wasted no time. After a few tentative licks, he pushed inside with a wet swirl of his tongue, and Astarion’s body moved on instinct: his legs spread wider, his back arched, wordlessly begging for more. 

Objectively speaking, it was far from the most debauched act Astarion had participated in. By his humble estimation, he had seen and performed all that could be done with, to, in, and on a humanoid body during sex—whether with one partner or many. He even had a vague recollection of receiving this kind of treatment before, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall from whom, when, or where. 

The thought that it was Jayme doing this pushed him perilously close to the edge. A whimper escaped as he fought not to let go too soon. He wanted Jayme inside him when he climaxed—they both ached for that—and the sheer anticipation made his body quake. Muscles clenched, he strained against the impossible urge to reach down and take himself in hand.

His fingers dug into the soft linen sheets, the only thing keeping him upright.

“Jayme!” he gasped in warning, both infinitely relieved and deeply regretful as Jayme’s warm tongue pulled back.

Jayme grabbed his arm again and turned him. With a fluid, powerful movement, he lifted Astarion, and he instinctively wrapped his legs around Jayme’s waist.

Jayme carried him to the wall. Their mouths crashed in another feral kiss, his back finding purchase against the rough wood. Jayme stepped back slightly to shift their angle. Astarion complied without hesitation, leaning back and raising his hips. His trembling fingers and sweaty palms braced against the uneven surface of the wall as Jayme pressed their lower bodies together. For a few beats, they ground against each other, frantic and shaky.  

When Jayme began to push in, Astarion’s entire body shuddered in anticipation. Head lolling back, his eyes rolled shut on their own.

“Come,” he grunted, sensing Jayme’s restraint. He was astonished by the consideration despite the urgency driving them. “I’ll be fine.”

“Look at me,” Jayme said.

Astarion’s eyes flew open. He was caught by the fiery blue of Jayme’s gaze, reflecting perfectly the magic blazing in his hair.

Once Jayme received the confirmation he sought, the hot push resumed until he was fully inside. Astarion’s cock, painfully swollen, gave a twitch. He tightened his legs around Jayme’s waist, pulling him closer still.

For several breaths, Jayme didn’t move; he stayed still, buried in Astarion.

“Incredible,” Astarion groaned because he could absolutely not keep silent. Every part of him was pulsating with the force of the combined sensations and emotions. “I f-feel your pulse there. Rapid little quivers.” He felt it deep within.

Jayme’s breath came in shallow gasps, his gaze on Astarion amused and almost teasing. “Reminds me of the first time. The forest clearing,” he said with a smirk, thinking of the night they’d celebrated at the Emerald Grove’s gates.

“The place.” Astarion cast a quick glance around the chamber, absently noting that it was, in all likelihood, impossible to transform an interior into a more authentic forest setting. “Ah, but it was nowhere near like this.”

Jayme pulled out and thrust back in, his fingers digging bruises into Astarion’s hips. Astarion’s back arched involuntarily in response. What remained of the wound on his left arm flared briefly, but it was insignificant.

“No. You were wary. Tactical. Now: open.”

Jayme’s tightly knotted voice betrayed how close he already was, too. He repeated the motion, again, then again with more weight and a deepening press. Astarion’s upper back scraped against the rough bark of the tree, but he wouldn’t have traded this for the world.

“For you. Fill me,” Astarion whispered, the words melting with desire, and it was enough to snap the last thread of sanity keeping Jayme’s movements at bay.

All control shattered as Jayme drove into Astarion, his body drawn taut like a bow, without holding back. 

The moment Jayme stilled, spilling inside, his hand slid down Astarion’s cock. A slow stroke, then another, before a thumb swiped across its tip. Astarion’s breath hitched. A tremor ran through him, building with each touch until a raw, primal sound tore from his throat as he reached his climax. His fingernails clawed helplessly at the tree-wall. The wood suddenly splintered, nearly throwing him off balance, but Jayme’s instinctive countermove tipped him back into place.

Jayme shifted then, slipping out, so he could cradle Astarion to his chest in a gesture so tender it sent a white-hot curl of emotion through the vampire. Astarion twined his arms around Jayme’s neck, conscious of the wound his fangs had left.

The embrace was silent and lasted a long time; how much exactly, Astarion had no clue. But he couldn’t recall a time in his existence when he had felt more sated than this—in every sense of the word.

Eventually, the weight of everything he had been through caught up with him, and Astarion almost slipped into trance while still straddling Jayme’s waist.

He became dimly aware of movement, and then he was being carefully laid atop the bed.  A sheet was drawn over him, but Jayme didn’t lie down beside him. There was the faint rustling of clothes.

“Where’re you going?” he slurred through hazy consciousness. “Don’t go. Stay.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Jayme murmured. “Just going to grab something to eat. Rest.”

Astarion mumbled something unintelligible in response, his awareness already fading, lulled by the peace of his heart into a balmy trance.

Notes:

I used the 4e version of lamias here simply because I prefer it to the 5e one.

Chapter 15: I - Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me

Summary:

Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me
Soleil all over you
Warm sun

Badly Drawn Boy – The Shining

When Astarion emerged from his trance, he was encompassed by warmth. Memories flooding back, he turned his head sharply to the side and saw Jayme there—unclothed, clean, and coiled tightly around him like a marvelous silk fabric. The sight made him feel as though he were bursting at the seams. He must have sunk so deeply into reverie that he missed Jayme rejoining him in bed.

But Jayme was there. Without a shadow of a doubt. The silver flames still shimmering along his tresses felt warm and ticklish against Astarion’s skin.

He took in their surroundings, noting that the same fey-illuminated semi-darkness presided over the chamber as before. The sunlight filtering in around the edges of the ivy curtain remained unchanged in hue and intensity, looking exactly as it had before. How long had they been in trance? Four hours? Eight? And how much time did that translate to in the Feywild? Astarion didn’t know, nor did he care.

Seeing that Jayme was still soundly lost in trance, Astarion seized the opportunity to slip out of the precious warmth of his arms and rejuvenate with a long-overdue bath.

There was, evidently, yet another curious magic at work here. The bath was essentially the small river of Nimlith, redirected and curbed to form almost perfectly still, private bathing pools for the tavern. He had quite reasonably expected the water to be freezing cold. Instead, it caressed his skin with a soothing heat, suggesting that Jayme, no doubt, had perceived it as lukewarm. 

He made thorough use of the citrus-scented soap conveniently supplied next to the bathing area—a liquid housed in a wooden container, which was a charming departure from Torilian norms. The injury on his arm looked marginally better today. While those few gulps of blood from Jayme’s shoulder hadn’t been enough for full regeneration, they had certainly helped the process along. 

As he washed himself, he kept glancing at the bed, basking in the continuous waves of happiness that Jayme’s flaming head inspired. It still felt surreal. He had yearned for this moment for so long that now, faced with its reality, it felt almost slippery in its overpowering quality.

Once done, Astarion climbed out of the bath and, without dressing, stepped to his bag of holding, forgotten by the door. A rush of exhilaration sent goosebumps all over his skin as he reached deep and pulled out the black violin case. The newly formed calluses on the pads of his fingers tingled.

 A sense of reverence overcame him. He handled the case with utmost care, placing it gently on the carved wooden dressing table. Slowly, he opened the lid and withdrew the splendid black violin. With steady hands, he set to rosining the bow and tuning the instrument.

“Am I dreaming?” came Jayme’s voice, raspy with drowsiness, from the bed.

Predictably, the bard stirred as soon as the first notes resounded in the chamber. Astarion carried on, unperturbed, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.

“Good morning, my beloved. If it is morning—who knows and who cares? The answer to your question is a definite ‘no.’ Unless, of course, you and I are the happy participants in the same magical dream,” he purred, keeping his eyes fixed on the violin while tweaking the pegs as cautiously as possible. It wouldn't do to snap the strings now.

“It is magical, indeed. You’ve brought my violin!” Jayme’s ever-cool, ever-composed tone held a rare elevation.

The most heavenly sound Astarion had ever elicited from Jayme! Followed closely by those particularly animalistic, guttural groans during their lovemaking, naturally. It had been worth it—the research, the journey aboard the ship, the discomfort, the seasickness, the reek of the soil, the lamias’ deceit, the fright from the Wild Hunt—everything, for this single expression of joy from Jayme’s lips. 

Astarion shut his eyes for a moment, fighting back tears of joy. When he opened his mouth to speak, he strained with all his might to steady his voice—but failed as his rippling emotions were too much to contain. Another effect of the Feywild, or simply their natural feelings? Who knew, and who cared? as

“Yes. Course I have. How could I not? It’s part of you and should always be with you,” he managed to squeeze out past the lump in his throat, his voice catching at the end.

Tearful red eyes met radiant ice-blue ones over the black wooden body held securely under Astarion’s chin. For once, Jayme appeared at a loss for words. Astarion inwardly congratulated himself on likely being the first person to achieve this—a likelihood he was willing to bet his whole fortune on. 

“Are you still talking about the violin? Or yourself?” Jayme asked at last, his voice carrying a previously unheard tender quality.

Astarion chuckled and sniffed loudly.

“Sweetling.” He heaved a sigh to compose himself. “Listen. I know your fingers must be itching to have it back, but if you can bear with me, just a little longer, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

Jayme, who had been propping himself up on his elbows, began to push into a sitting position when, as though struck by a sudden realization, he froze, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Astarion. Since when do you know how to tune a violin?”

The vampire couldn’t suppress the excited grin that spread across his face.

“Since about two and a half tendays ago. But that’s not all I can do,” he replied mysteriously.

Taking another steadying breath, he concentrated on assuming the proper posture, just as Haer’Dalis and Volo had instructed. He reaffirmed his grip on the bow and placed his left hand on the neck of the violin. At last, he closed his eyes and stroked the bow across the strings to play the first notes, focusing intently on the music he wished to call forth.

The song, he believed, encapsulated their bond and the joy they had found in each other—though not its entirety. A soft, sated yet longing string of notes, evoking the image and feel of an idyllic spring afternoon with the Sun in a clear sky.

The Sun. Astarion conjured the memory of its wondrous warmth and the light that breathed color into the world. A tranquil natural scene or a bustling city, everything pulsed with life under the might of the Sun. Of course, a myriad qualities of life existed: wretched, indolent, ignorant, joyful, wicked. But it all became equal under the Sun, all alive, all exposed, dressed in light. And from Astarion, who had been forced to forsake this godly element in his cursed undeath, a bittersweet yearning welled up at the memory.

He opened his eyes as he concluded the instrumental prelude, silently praying his sentiments had translated into music expressive enough—and at least technically adequate—for a bard as accomplished as Jayme.

The look on said bard’s face caught him off guard; Jayme’s gaze was riveted to Astarion’s bare, performing figure, his eyes filled with delight.

It spurred Astarion to pour his heart into the next section, where his voice would join the melody. Closing his eyes once more, he started to sing.

“Faith pours from your walls, drowning your calls,
I've tried to hear, you're not near.

Remembering when I saw your face,
Shining my way, pure timing

Now I've fallen in deep, slow silent sleep,
It's killing me, I'm dying

To put a little bit of sunshine in your life

Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me
Soleil all over you
Warm sun”

As his hand guided the bow, he chanced another glance at Jayme. When he saw the parted lips, wide eyes, and the rapture glimmering in their depths, he very nearly botched the instrumental bridge of the song. 

Inhaling another centering breath, he let it out, then launched smoothly into the second verse.

“Now this slick fallen rift,
Came like a gift,
Your body moves ever nearer

And you will dry this tear
Now that we're here, and grieve for me, not history

But now I'm dry of thoughts, wait for the rain,
Then it's replaced, sun setting

And suddenly we're in love with everything

Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me
Soleil all over you
Warm sun”

Astarion finished the song as gracefully as he could, the pads of his fingers still prickling from those gut strings. He raised his gaze to Jayme, awaiting his verdict with the proverbial bated breath. 

Once again, Jayme appeared utterly speechless. Bravo, Astarion—twice in a row now, he congratulated himself inwardly. The thought lit a broad, endlessly pleased smile on his face.

But that smile melted away, replaced by gaping wonder when Jayme finally spoke.

“I love you.”

“What?”

Jayme shook his head, tongue-tied yet again. 

“That was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard,” he managed after a slight pause.

“Oh! That’s…. unbelievable to hear, coming from you of all people. I’m deeply flattered and humbled but—” Astarion stammered. He slowly lowered his arms, holding the violin and bow securely in his grasp. “Could you, umm, maybe say that again? What you just said?”

Jayme swung his legs off the bed and was at his side in a heartbeat. He placed his hands lightly on Astarion’s hips, the gesture almost fearful in its delicacy, as though he were handling something fragile.

"I love you," he repeated, the same fantastic words, his voice charged with emotion unlike anything Astarion had ever heard.

“You’ve… never said that before,” Astarion whispered.

“I’ve never felt the need to before.”

“I mean, I thought you did , love me—it’s just a… surprise to hear you say the actual words. An unspeakably pleasant surprise, I… don’t even know what I’m saying.” Astarion’s voice softened as Jayme leaned in. A warm hand cupped his face.

“Then don’t say anything,” Jayme whispered and kissed him gently.

Their eyes fluttered closed. The kiss only lasted a few breaths, though, because Jayme shifted, repositioning them: he hugged Astarion tightly from behind and guided his arms into the familiar stance of playing the violin. Jayme’s left hand curled around the neck of the instrument, ready to navigate the fingerboard, while he made Astarion grip the bow. Then he placed his own right hand over Astarion’s. The violin’s body rested snugly against the vampire’s shoulder.

Astarion let out a small chuckle. Apparently, Jayme intended for them to play together.

“Ready?” Jayme murmured into his ear. Astarion wordlessly nodded, his chest suddenly too tight to speak.

They moved the bow across the strings as one. Jayme naturally took the lead and Astarion focused on anticipating his movements, matching their rhythm as best he could.

He managed it rather nicely, in his modest view. When the first few notes resonated in the room, he couldn't hold back a quiet laugh. It was the same song he had sung to Jayme after they’d uncovered the origin of his Dark Urge.

No need to run and hide
It’s a wonderful, wonderful life
No need to laugh and cry
It's a wonderful, wonderful life

“And I need a friend, oh, I need a friend, to make me happy, not stand here on my own,” Astarion sang softly, grinning from ear to ear as Jayme squeezed even tighter into him. The warmth of Jayme’s bare form felt utterly divine against his back.

As the song concluded, they seamlessly transitioned into the next tune. It immediately struck a familiar chord in Astarion's mind, but it took him a moment to recognize it as the composition of the tiefling bard, Alfira. Astarion cast a concerned look at Jayme, well aware that the tiefling's tragic demise still weighed heavily on him. Though a tense line marked Jayme's jaw, his expression was resolute, determined to honor her memory.

Dance upon the stars tonight
Smile and pain will fade away
Words of mine will turn to ash
When you call the last light down

Alfira’s dulcet voice seemed to glide around them, swirling with the golden and sapphire butterflies. Flowing from the tribute into the next piece, yet another familiar tune emerged. Astarion chewed his lower lip, deliberating.

Eventually, he conquered his hesitation and began to sing in a somewhat subdued tone.

“I feel your breath, upon my neck
A soft caress, as cold as death
I feel your heartbeat in my soul
Our futures bound, our bodies know
Your blood like wine, I wanted in
Oh darling get me drunk, invite me in

It's not my fault
I'm not to blame
Thesе ain't my sins
I broke my chains
There's morе to do
If I can only live”

“You remembered my lyrics?” Jayme whispered, clearly moved.

“I did. Naturally. You wrote it about us, didn’t you?”

Jayme smiled faintly, then started to move, drawing Astarion along with him. A step back. A shuffle to the side. A twirl in a circle. A swing of the hips. A shift from one leg to the other. Jayme orchestrated an unorthodox dance, adapting to the rhythm of the music with ease. 

The violin play persisted without interruption—all credit to Jayme for his confident lead—creating an ambiance fit for a ballroom.

“Is this…?”

“Yes.”

One of the pieces that had graced the dance floor at Lady Jannath's masquerade during that unforgettable night in Baldur's Gate. How did Jayme have such a vivid memory of it? 

Then again, it was hardly a shock. Of course Jayme would remember the exact tune. Astarion’s recollections were hazy—his focus that night had been wholly consumed by the bard.

From the outside, it must have been a peculiar spectacle: two naked elves, intimately entwined, playing the violin and dancing within a magical forest-tavern in the Feywild. Astarion reveled in it, savored every spontaneous, whimsical, joyous moment. He laughed, a sort of laughter that had been absent for decades, if not centuries. Together, they created a flawless symphony, an expression of pure bliss compressed into the span of minutes. Or perhaps hours; time was such a nebulous concept in this realm.

After a while, Jayme's movements slowed, adopting a different flavor. His hip rolls became instinctive, sinuous, shedding all formality and propriety. Where their skin met, it was warm and damp. The music transformed—the cheerful chords gave way to a mysterious, primal melody. 

Astarion could sense the heightened rhythm of Jayme's heartbeat and felt his own throat go dry. Yielding to instinct, he pushed provocatively against Jayme’s pelvis, arching his back just slightly. Jayme's sigh brushed against his ear. 

Again, the ambiance evoked by their music resonated with a familiar, thrilling essence. The Gossamer Alcove.

Shine razor eyes before the walls come down
Wilder than lions, louder than sound
The birds and the bees are getting older now
There's a cold breeze blowing over my soul

Tired of this human duet
No civilizing hides
Our animal impulses
Our animal impulses

A sensual waltz, the overture to a salacious act. The music and the space around them pulsed. Wanton desire vibrated in the air. Astarion thought he could even smell the spiked incense, but of course, it was an illusion—a projection of memory. 

What decidedly was not an illusion was Jayme’s hot tongue sliding along the nape of his neck, followed by a trail of wet kisses across his shoulder. The scrape of teeth. The awakening need pressing against his backside.

A chill ran down his spine. Then another when Jayme’s murmur warmly caressed his ear. “You smell so good.”

“Mm? I’m not wearing anything now.” Not his usual perfume of bergamot and rosemary, not anything. The citrus fragrance of the bathing soap had evaporated from his skin already. 

“That's why.”

“Oh. Isn't it… unnatural? The smell of an undead? It's supposed to be less than pleasant.”

“It's not an undead’s smell, it's yours. And it's damn well making me want to get inside you.”

“Really now?”

Astarion wriggled in Jayme’s arms then, breaking their delicious posture to lower the violin and bow. Turning around and briefly drinking in the come-hither look written on Jayme’s face, he leaned forward, prying Jayme’s mouth open with his tongue. He tasted faintly of meat and exotic fruits.

As though suddenly reminded of the long hours since his last meal aboard the ship, a sharp pang of hunger clawed at Astarion’s insides. Jayme was so very close, and the punctures on his shoulder had yet to  heal. The sweet, coppery smell titillated Astarion’s nose with such vigor that a growl erupted from his throat unbidden.

“I could eat you right up.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, shamelessly wistful. 

Reflexively, he searched Jayme’s eyes for signs of discomfort—which would be considered the normal reaction to a vampire's bloodlust.

He found none. Jayme’s relationship with the term normal was, as always, wondrously unconventional. On the contrary, he was as unbelievably accommodating as ever.

“Why don’t you? You’ll need strength for what we’re about to do next.” Jayme bit his earlobe and slid his warm hands up his abdomen before tracing them down his sides.

“Really? Can I?”

“Each time you act so surprised. Why?”

“I…you still seem too good to be true.”

“I wouldn’t deny you anything I can give. I’ve told you before.”

“That was before. Before this hellish adventure. Frankly, you feel larger than life to me. You did before the Netherbrain too, but now it’s on a whole other level. I need only look at your hair. And your… aura is different too. More commanding. Unstoppable. Even more alluring, oh gods...”

Jayme continued to fondle his body while he spoke. Warm fingers tightened around Astarion’s hipbones, and he ground their groins together. The friction sent electric jolts through Astarion’s sensitive skin. 

When the vampire’s breath caught, Jayme gently took the violin and bow from his grasp and moved to set the instrument on the dressing table. 

“I’ve learned to harness my Dark Urge,” he explained as he prowled back to Astarion, a predatory glint in his eyes. “I’ve  achieved complete mastery over the violence in my blood. I’ve become stronger, yes, but I’m still me. And I very much want to fuck you now.”   

Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped his arms around Astarion’s middle, and smoothly lifted him onto the bed.

Astarion barely had time to release a surprised puff of air before he found himself spread out on his back, Jayme’s mouth around him, encompassing him in maddening wet tightness. Light-headedness hit him at once, and breathless laughter burst from his lips as his mind wandered to the monumental vision of Jayme breezing through the storm clouds earlier.

“You came swooping down from the sky to save me. Riding an undead bat, with blazing eyes and silver flames for hair. Like some dark prince. I would’ve rolled out the red carpet if I'd had any idea you were coming, but… you took me by surprise.”

To think that that dark prince was now between his thighs, bobbing his head and sliding a hand up and down in devoted motions! Heat surged through his core from the notion, and he gritted his teeth with the effort not to come over Jayme’s hand then and there. His fingers helplessly tugged at Jayme’s hair. 

Taking the hint, Jayme’s hand continued its ministrations, slower now, as he moved his head lower. He stuck his tongue out, probing the area where he wanted to be.

Astarion’s hands found Jayme's shoulders, his fingernails digging into his flesh and leaving red welts. He waited impatiently for Jayme to complete his coaxing preparation.

At last, Jayme gripped Astarion by the arms and pulled him upright, propping his back up against the headboard and arranging him on his lap. Astarion wasted no time, settling himself and bearing down on Jayme, caring little for restraint. He ached to merge already.

They both groaned when it happened. The fulfillment was exquisite. Addictive.

“You should always be inside,” Astarion said on an enraptured sigh.

“I want to,” Jayme murmured, then tipped his head back and turned it to the side. “My neck is yours.”

“Oh, darling!” Astarion exclaimed, descending without hesitation.

Jayme rolled his hips up sharply, eliciting shivers and high-pitched moans from Astarion as his lips remained locked on the fresh wound. Warm hands clutched at his sides while he drew deep mouthfuls of blood, his tongue whirling through it to relish its piquant tang. 

When Jayme’s hands clenched tightly around his sides, Astarion took it as his cue to stop. He pulled away, lips parted and eyes unfocused.

“Fuck… I think I have an obsession,” he gasped.

“Realized that only now?” There was a note of amusement in Jayme’s voice. They were slowly rocking now, and Astarion had a hunch Jayme was giving him time to ride out his high before plunging them into another one. 

“No… I’ve known from the start. But wouldn’t let myself, ah, get too used to the idea. That I can have this more than once or twice… at your whim.”

“I’d give you this and more.” A flicker of light danced in the depths of those ice-blue irises, carrying a meaning Astarion only partly understood—a promise of further lasciviousness, perhaps. “I will give you more.”

Astarion had never before experienced this kind of languorous lovemaking, but he instantly lost himself in it. It made him feel as though his insides were melting—from the steady, moderate stimulation and the extraordinary intimacy of it. And they could do this any time now. All the time. 

He arched his back and tilted his face upward, closing his eyes to let that reality sink in. All lingering traces of the jittery agitation that had been plaguing him ebbed away in that moment, leaving a sweet void in their wake. He committed strength into his fingers, which had been loosely clasping Jayme’s shoulders for balance, and Jayme answered with a firm squeeze on Astarion’s hips.

They continued like that through long, dazzling minutes. Eventually, Jayme began to dictate a new rhythm, shorter and faster. Astarion matched the pace immediately. Unable to resist, he dipped his head to lick the half-dried blood on Jayme’s neck, then sucked at the wound again.

The rush inside him was maddening by the time he pulled back. He had never felt more alive since before his death. Quite possibly, this feeling surpassed everything he’d known even before that. Every inch of his skin seemed to sing, his ears buzzed, and the drumming of Jayme’s heart vibrated in his lungs, creating the illusion that his own heart was beating in time. Gradually, he discerned a pattern in the buzz and, bit by bit, it began to clear.

“I hear a violin,” he muttered, closing his eyes to focus on the virtuosic and emotive melody. The tune was full of dramatic flair and rhythmic vitality, weaving itself into his thoughts.

“You’re on your way to becoming a bard,” Jayme replied in a low, amused tone.

No, it was more than that. It carried Jayme’s essence, Astarion’s instincts whispered. After a while, a new, curious, grating sound emerged, soon accompanied by a hushed, mystic phrase.

“Dance with me on the white coal,” Astarion repeated the chant-like words in quiet fascination.

“That’s what you hear?” Surprise crept into Jayme’s voice.

“Yes, faintly. What is that?”

“The voice of my inner demon. The past I’ve rejected. Ignore it.”

“If it’s part of you, I want to know of it. And it’s already in my head.”

“Feel it course through you then. Feel its ripples. You won’t ever see it come alive.”

“I know. I know you , the real you . Your sweet heart.”

“Drink more.”

“I shouldn’t. You’re making me drunk.”

“Then be drunk on me.”

And Astarion gave in, sucking another mouthful. Liquid fire trickled down his throat. He knew he should stop; any further indulgence would risk adverse effects on Jayme’s body.

“Keep your eyes on mine. I want to see the look in your eyes while you fuck yourself with me,” Jayme growled, his muscles tensing as he neared his peak.

Astarion opened his eyes, and their gazes locked together. Jayme appeared less flushed than before, a subtle sign that the blood loss was taking its toll. A pang of guilt shot through Astarion, but it was tempered by Jayme’s steadiness. He didn’t seem dizzy or weak; his burning blue eyes held Astarion’s with unyielding intensity. His trademark smirk curved his lips, self-assured and pleased, as Astarion lifted and sank his body onto him.

“You look beautiful, body and mind surrendered to pleasure,” Jayme murmured.

“I’m close, darling,” Astarion groaned, his movements growing erratic, bucking with increasing urgency.

Jayme seemed to deliberate for a moment, then shifted abruptly and pushed Astarion back on the bed. He reversed their positions, settling himself between Astarion’s legs. 

Astarion grunted at the temporary separation, caught off guard, but quickly adapted. He pulled his legs up, bracing them against Jayme’s sides, and twisted his body to guide him back in. 

They both gasped. 

Jayme’s weight pressed Astarion flush into the bedding. The commanding energy of each thrust mesmerized him. He writhed beneath Jayme, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of it.

Rapid, hard pushes drove him to his climax and then he was pulsing against the air, choking out low, ragged moans. Jayme followed him almost immediately, stilling deep inside as his body shuddered.

Afterward, they remained intertwined for long, fluttering minutes. Astarion was slow to descend from the euphoric heights, the echo of Jayme’s heartbeat still resonating from the blood he had swallowed.  When he finally came down, like a drunkard who had overindulged, a wave of insistent fatigue crashed over him. The even, confident heartbeats drew him under.

Hovering on the edge of consciousness, he sensed Jayme rolling to the side and gently holding him against his chest.

 

 

Some hours later, Jayme felt as if he were floating on air as he made his way to the taproom. His gait was light, even a little bouncy. Astarion was still in trance, but Jayme was already wide awake and decided to use the time to catch up with his friends.

Having sorted through his bag of holding, which Astarion had brought for him, he presented himself in the indigo doublet Volo had gifted him as a token of appreciation for his rescue from the Shattered Sanctum. The attire was a conscious choice—he knew he didn’t have the luxury to walk around without protective garments but didn’t feel like donning his Elven Chainmail just yet. As he caught sight of his party, he was pleased to see that they had reached the same conclusion.

The atmosphere of the birch-tavern was livelier than before, with bands of moon elves and fey gathering for drinks and entertainment, conversing boisterously. All signs suggested it was evening already, which meant he and Astarion had passed the whole day in their amorous engagements and resting—a most excellent use of their time! On another note, they would soon be called on to provide entertainment as payment for their rooms.

Jayme spotted a smaller version of Boris hanging upside down from one of the branches of the tree-ceiling, his glowing aquamarine eyes slitted as though in some sort of meditative state. It seemed the vampire lord was still keeping watch over them.

“Here’s the man whose cup runneth over!” Haer’Dalis greeted Jayme with a broad wave from a wide tree-trunk table. A carved wooden pitcher and a goblet sat in front of him. “Come, dark sparrow, join us!”

The “us” apparently referred to himself and Volo. The other side of the table was occupied by Solaufein and Shadowheart, who were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t even notice Jayme’s arrival. As Jayme strolled closer and accepted the seat offered by Volo next to himself, he caught snippets of their discussion.

“... teaches us to find happiness in peace and artistic expressions, particularly in music and dance. This includes appreciating the simplicity of witnessing artists create and perform, or observing craftsmen honing their skills,” Soulafein described Eilistraee to a keenly attentive Shadowheart.

“And, occasionally, cavorting under the moon. I vaguely recall some ballad depicting their joyous meeting with Selûne,” the cleric remarked.

“Oh indeed! The two slender beauties sharing a swaying dance dressed in nothing but silver moonrays. I am familiar with the story.”

“I bet you are,” Shadowheart replied with a mischievous smile, the suggestive edge to her tone unmistakable. She let out a burst of musical laughter seeing the answering sheepish expression on Solaufein’s face. 

“Moon goddess worshippers,” Volo quipped, shaking his head. “They’ve been lost in each other’s company for hours now.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a warm, fatherly smile spread across his face beneath his beard. “Jayme, my dear friend, how did you fare in these untamed lands? Here, take a sip of honey beer while Astarion isn't looking—I know well his dislike for all types of beer. By the way, your hair is outrageous! And that doublet looks absolutely fetching on you! Ehm, wasn't it originally brown, though?"

The polymath chattered animatedly as always while pouring a goblet and passing it to Jayme. Accepting it with a small smile, Jayme took a sip. The flavor was a pleasant mix of refreshing bitterness and sweetness, with subtle notes of cinnamon and nutmeg. It wasn't the kind of refined drink Astarion would approve of, certainly, but Jayme found enjoyment in it. Especially now, filled with elation.

“I’ve dyed it. I’m not fond of brown, sorry. To answer your other question—quite well, I would say. I made and fulfilled a bargain with two legendary archfeys, nearly fell under the spell of an unseelie nymph, took part in a battle between eladrins and fomorians without any instrument, weapon, or gear, and faced my own deep-lurking demons in a psychedelic trance.”

“I see, I see. For you, that’s an ordinary Ninthday, isn’t it?” Volo winked before schooling his face into something more serious. “But all jest aside, your Feywild adventure sounds like another set of truly wondrous feats. And to think, it began immediately following your triumph over the Netherbrain, denying you the chance to recuperate…! Stupendous! By the way, you seem rather pale. Are you unwell?”

“No. Astarion has drunk from my blood, that’s all.” The doublet’s high, frilled collar concealed the fang marks, which ached with a most delightful tingle.

“Ah.” Volo's expression shifted to one of discomfort and confusion. Evidently, he struggled to comprehend why someone would willingly turn himself into a leaking blood bag.

Jayme, unable to mask his amusement at the sage’s reaction, quirked his lips into a smirk. “It leaves me slightly drained afterward, but I don't mind. I prefer him to be well-fed. By the way, where’s Gale?”

“Exploring Nimlith,” Haer’Dalis supplied, visibly eager to speak with Jayme, his slender fingers twirling his goblet. “He promised to return by eventide, so he's due any minute. Now, allow me this opportunity to say: your accomplishments rival those of my dearest sparrow, Siva of Candlekeep!”

“So that’s why your name sounded familiar,” Jayme said. “You are Haer’Dalis of Sigil, the bard who aided Gorion’s ward in foiling Jon Irenicus’ plot to sap the Tree of Life—and later, in stopping Amelyssan the Blackhearted.” A rare note of admiration colored his voice.

“The very same! Indeed, I offered my blades to her noble cause. I embarked on that singular adventure with sweet Imoen, pompous Anomen, drab Jaheira, good-hearted and simple Minsc, and ah, my fiery Aerie! Others came and went in fleeting acts. Dark and exotic Viconia De’Vir. The grasping Red Wizard, Edwin Odesseiron. The treacherous serpent, Yoshimo. Even Sarevok Anchev himself, if you can fathom it! I must confess, I am drawn to Bhaalspawn. 'Twas one of the reasons I pledged myself to your pale raven's quest.”

“Haer’Dalis was the one to procure a ship and a captain for us to sail the Trackless Sea to Evermeet,” Volo interjected, his tone brimming with approval.

“I am in your debt, Haer’Dalis. Tell me, how can I repay you?” Jayme asked.

Dark blue eyes gleaming with fervent anticipation, Haer’Dalis replied, “Let me be a witness to this grand finale. Allow me to journey alongside you as this heroic tale reaches its glorious conclusion.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. I seek not earthly treasures, but tales of grand annihilation and rebirth.”

Jayme gave an amused smile. “You’ve joined the right company, then. I’d like to hear more about Siva sometime, if you don’t mind indulging me.”

“Not at all!” Haer’Dalis smiled. “Although the one privy to the deepest secrets of her life sits just opposite you, captivated by the chirping of our lovely moonlark.”

Astonishingly, Solaufein and Shadowheart still had not noticed Jayme’s presence. The topic had turned to the nuances of the drow language.

“...values love in all its forms,” Solaufein explained. “ Lurraggath—noble sacrifice. Alurlssrin—unconditional love. Ssinssrig—yearning. And naturally, raggath.”

“What does raggath mean?” Shadowheart asked, tilting her head curiously.

“Lovemaking.” A subtle smile touched Solaufein’s lips as he uttered the word.

“Oh. Raggath. I’ll try to remember that,” Shadowheart grinned. “What fascinates me is that your people have a word for unconditional love. Alurlssin?”

“Alurlssrin. Roll that r in the last syllable,” Solaufein gently corrected. “Your reaction is unsurprising. Needless to say, you would most often hear this word spoken in a disparaging context, particularly by Matron Mothers seeking to dissuade their lessers—daughters or male slaves—from ever entertaining such a foolish sentiment.”

“I must say, listening to you, I’m starting to feel a fondness for Eilistraee,” Shadowheart admitted softly. “For her to spread such warm teachings amidst so much adversity and brutality… I was ignorant of it, until now. Truthfully, I never cared to delve deeper into drow lore. A shortcoming I now regret.”

“Do not be hard on yourself. You have faced your own trials, courtesy of the Faerûnian pantheon, just as I faced mine in the Underdark. I was certainly not born a devotee of Lady Silverhair.” At that moment, Solaufein glanced over, finally catching sight of Jayme’s smirking face. “Good evening, Jayme.”

“Jayme! Where is Astarion?” Shadowheart asked, blinking rapidly as though roused from a pleasant daydream.

Fucked into the bed. “Resting,” Jayme replied easily.

“Hmmm!” The cleric’s smile broadened into something knowing and startlingly delighted, but when she spoke again, her features softened with compassion. “That would be his first time, in a real sense, ever since you vanished. He was not himself all this time and would emerge from trance looking like death warmed over.”

“He would indeed,” Gale chimed in, entering the tavern with a purposeful stride. He moved to take a seat beside Solaufein, raising a hand in silent greeting. “We shared sleeping quarters with him during our naval journey. He was prone to nightmares and would sometimes mumble incessantly for an hour. About you, of course, but also about Cazador, the seven thousand spawn, and Bhaal.”

“Bhaal?” Jayme’s brows furrowed in question.

“He was deeply worried about what the Feywild might do to your Dark Urge—or so I gathered,” Gale said with a stern face, reaching for the pitcher of honey beer. “If you’re comfortable sharing, we would all like to hear what you experienced.”

“I’ll share as soon as he wakes and joins us,” Jayme agreed.

“How sweet of you to wait for me! I’m right here, my one and only,” came Astarion’s gleeful voice from behind. In the next second, the vampire, clad in light leather armor, hopped onto Jayme’s lap, twining his arms casually around the bard’s neck. The musky odor of moonflower clung to his skin, strong and pervasive—he had taken the precaution of applying Liquid Night. His foresight filled Jayme with quiet satisfaction.

“I can get you another chair if you–” Gale began, already looking around the room, but Astarion interrupted him with a dismissive wave.

“No need, thank you. I’m perfectly content with my seat. He’s the most heavenly cushion I’ve ever had,” Astarion purred, rocking himself playfully on Jayme’s thighs.

Jayme felt a strong temptation to whisk him back to their room and lavish him with more affection in response to his cheeky behavior but held back this Dreamy Urge. It was high time to speak—actually speak. They could always return to their doting indulgences later that night.

“Quite an upgrade from your cushioned coffin, isn’t it, Astarion?” Shadowheart slanted a meaningful smile at him.

“Tell me about it!” Astarion sighed.

“Cushioned coffin?” Jayme echoed, frowning.

“Oh yes. The only way I could board and travel on the Green Mermaid, our ship to Evermeet,” Astarion recounted wryly, “was by spending thirty-three days lying and sitting in my coffin, filled with the soil that once blanketed my dead body. Naturally, I took the liberty of making some sensible adjustments—namely, cushioning the dirt to make it more bearable.”

“You made it as close to a bed in a Calishite boudoir as possible, really,” Shadowheart commented. It was hard to tell if she was teasing, trying to sound reassuring, or just being envious. Most likely, it was all three at once.

“I had no idea vampires had that as a viable option—traveling across water in their coffin,” Jayme said thoughtfully, stroking small, comforting circles on Astarion’s back, understanding the ordeal he must have gone through.

“Me neither. This ingenious workaround was Jaheira’s suggestion,” Astarion admitted.

“She drew inspiration from Bodhi’s case, didn’t she?” Haer’Dalis ventured, referring to Irenicus’ vampire sister—the infamous vampire mistress of Athkatla, who, after a brief and ill-fated alliance, had ultimately met her doom at the hands of Siva of Candlekeep.

“Exactly.”

One detail in Astarion's account particularly caught Jayme’s intrigue. “You said it took you thirty-three days to reach Evermeet. How much time passed before you set off from Baldur’s Gate?” he asked.

Astarion looked from Gale to Shadowheart, contemplating.

“Somewhere around one and a half tendays, I’d say,” Gale replied for him.

“That’s… By my estimation, I’ve only spent about two tendays in the Feywild overall. Though it felt much, much longer,” Jayme said quietly, glancing at Solaufein for confirmation.

“That seems accurate, considering your passage through the Murkendraw and the Everwood,” the drow nodded. “Not much time has passed since we met in Astrazalian, if we think about it.”

“Astrazalian?” Gale exclaimed. “You must tell us everything about the City of Starlight! I’ve been dying to set foot there—especially the library. It’s famed far and wide!”

“Later, Gale. Let's address matters in order of importance, shall we?” Astarion cut in and picked up Jayme’s goblet. He set it right back with a disappointed look after inspecting its contents. “Ugh, beer… Time works differently in the Feywild than it does on Toril. You can read about it in any lore book. Which makes you showing up over Evermeet right when you did border on the miraculous. How did you know where to find us?”

Astarion tipped his head to the side, directing the question at Jayme.

“At first, I didn’t know you were here; I was simply searching for a way back to you. Baba Yaga suggested Evermeet shortly after I arrived. We made a pact, and she advised me to bargain with Lord Kannoth, which I did. I made a pact with Kannoth about two days ago for swift passage to Evermeet. During negotiations, he told me you'd crossed over to this plane—through Evermeet of all places. You can imagine my shock.”

Jayme’s fingers pressed into the small of Astarion’s back, and the rogue squeezed the nape of his neck in response.

“Alright, slow down, love. What were the exact terms of these pacts?” Astarion asked.

“I asked Baba Yaga to reveal the quickest route for me to return to Faerûn. She suggested I travel to Astrazalian, cross a portal to Cendriane, and convince Lord Kannoth to help me reach Evermeet.”

“That was the quickest route?” Shadowheart raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it was quite fast, time-wise,” Jayme replied. “But if you think she had an ulterior motive for sending me there, I think you're right. There was bad blood between them, and Baba Yaga cleverly used me to get at Kannoth. Maybe she expected he'd drain me dry during my audience.”

“But you escaped his wrath. How?” Gale asked.

“Wait. Before we move to Kannoth. You mentioned Baba Yaga took your blood,” Astarion recalled, sounding concerned.

“Yes, that was her term in exchange for the information,” Jayme said. “A drop of my blood that she intended to use to evoke and appropriate the Slayer for herself.”

“Did she?”

“No. I stopped her from doing that.”

“That’s my man,” Astarion murmured fondly and kissed Jayme’s forehead.

“Let me see if I’m getting the chronology right,” Gale said with a frown. “You were teleported to somewhere around the Murkendraw. You ventured in, encountered Baba Yaga, negotiated this deal, then went on your way to Astrazalian.”

“Correct,” Jayme nodded. “And that’s where Solaufein and I met. The city was under siege, the gates shut; there was no way in. I joined the battle on the fey eladrin side and had my neck saved by him.”

“Jayme had nothing on him, no instrument, no armor,” Solaufein added, seeing the surprised looks on everyone’s faces. “I heard some extremely refined magical insults being hurled at the fomorians, who faltered but, ultimately, were about to overpower him. I could not stand idly by.” 

“Wow. How noble of you. Seems like I owe you my thanks,” Astarion said, his tone a touch tense. Honest, but tense.

“You do not owe me anything. I would do it again, gladly.”

Astarion and Solaufein exchanged a long look, fraught with nervous energy, at least on Astarion’s end. Solaufein appeared quite composed and indifferent.

How odd, Jayme thought. Astarion had never expressed jealousy before, not even when Halsin had confessed he had developed tender feelings for Jayme. On the contrary, Astarion had been extremely casual about it, giving his blessings for Jayme to go ahead and have a romp in the hay with the bear. Not that it was anything Jayme wanted to do—and in the end, he didn’t—but Astarion’s nonchalant attitude had been memorable.

“Continuing with the timeline,” Gale said, breaking the unspoken tension to everyone’s relief, “from Astrazalian, you crossed a portal to Cendriane, where you sought transportation to Evermeet, and Lord Kannoth asked for Baba Yaga’s death in return.”

“Yes. In essence,” Jayme replied.

“That doesn’t seem like a fair trade.” The wizard shook his head, his brows furrowing once again. “Far be it from me to underestimate your skills and power, but to be asked to defeat the Mother of All Hags… no, I highly doubt I would have said yes to that, had I been in your shoes. Even if it meant being stuck here for longer, far from my beloved. Just not worth the risk. Sorry, Astarion, no offense.” He nodded his head toward the vampire in a lighthearted apology and drank his beer.

“None taken,” Astarion said. “It does sound outstandingly reckless. Even for you, sweets.”

“I had my reasons,” Jayme replied simply, letting the matter rest. He steered the topic elsewhere. “Now, about the Wild Hunt…”

He felt Solaufein’s intent gaze on him and knew he was thinking about Jayme’s additional condition in the pact, but, of course, the drow was not about to give the surprise away. Jayme was grateful for that. He was planning to reveal it to Astarion when they were alone, wanting to make it intimate, in the same vein as Astarion’s beautiful violin playing and singing.

“A stroke of ill luck, nothing more,” Volo explained. “Mere moments after traversing the fey crossing, we found ourselves waylaid by those foul lamias. Alas, their true nature eluded us until your trinket laid bare their deceitful guise. We were ushered to the woods and scattered by their blink dogs and yeth hounds. By Oghma’s grace, we found each other once more, shadowed by Cerunnos, the Master of the Hunt. Suffice it to say, your timely appearance saved us from an uncertain fate.”

“The female one, the lamia, was intent on devouring me from the inside and making me her new vessel.” Astarion added, shuddering at the memory, then flashed one of his beaming, conceited smiles Jayme so adored. “Not that I’m surprised I caught her fancy.”

“Not surprised either,” Jayme murmured with an amused smirk.

“Who wouldn’t want me as their host, right?”

“I, for one, wouldn’t.” Shadowheart raised her hand, deadpan.

“My dear, you wound me!” Astarion gasped theatrically.

“I would much rather go for someone bulky, someone with a fortress-like frame. Like Halsin, for instance.” Shadowheart waved her hands, sculpting the outlines of a muscular body to illustrate her point.

“Or perhaps someone like Solaufein?” Astarion quipped, causing the cleric to turn scarlet. “He does come with quite a package, doesn’t he?”

Sensitive as he seemed to be to the bond between Solaufein and Jayme, he was certainly not blind to Shadowheart’s body language as she sat next to the drow. Although mentioning Solaufein and Halsin in the same breath is far-fetched by any measure, Jayme thought. Solaufein boasted an appealing, virile body, certainly. But Halsin was… Halsin. A stallion. A titan.

“Umm, y-yes. Maybe. Ha ha!” Shadowheart chuckled in embarrassment and quickly dropped her gaze to scrutinize her goblet. Meanwhile, Solaufein was studying a specific spot on the opposite wall, a subtle smile playing on his lips. It was hard to discern given his natural complexion, but Jayme thought he saw a slightly deeper shade on his cheeks than usual.

“Alright,” Gale concluded the playful interlude with a reserved smile. He turned to Jayme once again. “Now, an important question. Did you experience any… relapse, so to speak?”

Of course, the question referred to the Dark Urge. Jayme took a moment to find the right words before answering. He could feel Astarion’s fingers tense at the base of his neck.

“The Urge did reappear, yes, as soon as my feet touched this plane. I felt that familiar aggressive tension in my thoughts again... I was quite alarmed at first. But it was not the same; it didn’t force itself on my consciousness with the old cruel vigor. It may sound strange, but I think it was open to merging with me instead.”

“Merge?” Volo shuddered at the notion. “If there's a way to avoid such a thing, that would be best!”

“Not necessarily,” Solaufein suggested. “Siva underwent a similar phase. Granted, Bhaal never completely withdrew, and would torment her with nightmares every once in a while until the end, but for some time she did speak of her efforts at tempering her inner taint and her impulses. Efforts that were eventually successful. She described it as a process similar to taming a beast.”

“You were successful too, weren’t you? That’s what you told me last night… day, whatever it was,” Astarion asked, his eyes hopeful as he gazed at Jayme.

“I was. For now, the Urge is not a threat to me or anyone else,” Jayme declared with conviction. 

Volo, Gale, and Shadowheart released a relieved sigh in unison. Solaufein and Haer’Dalis merely smiled. Astarion’s gaze held steady on Jayme. The pride that glistened in those red eyes was shivery but immense. Jayme unthinkingly pulled Astarion even closer.

“That’s wonderful to hear. Truly wonderful indeed!” Gale remarked, his tone suffused with heartfelt emotion. He paused for a second, then continued. “So then. On to the most pressing matter of all. Who could have done this to Jayme and Astarion? And why?”

“We have a roster of suspects, don’t we?” Astarion reminded after a few beats of silence, opening the discussion. “Plus, a clue: the Gate spell.”

“So it was a Gate,” Jayme said.

“An altered version,” Gale hurried to add. "We discovered traces of glow dust and gripa on the teleportation circle. The glow dust pointed to the Feywild as your likely destination. As for the gripa, while nothing is conclusive, it’s been recorded that hags have a penchant for incorporating gripa into their peculiar concoctions and spells."

“It’s worth noting that Baba Yaga was, in fact, expecting me,” Jayme pointed out. “She mentioned a confidant, the mastermind behind this revenge plot, but gave the information as a riddle. She said the culprit was a reader of hearts, skilled in negotiating dark and twisted bargains."

“That fits Auntie Ethel, doesn’t it?” Shadowheart put forward the prime suspect. “The only hitch in this theory is that we’ve already ‘killed’ her. Twice.”

"I'm maintaining my stance that a hag like Ethel is unlikely to possess the skills necessary to tweak a Gate spell in this manner,” Gale insisted. “Illusion was her true field of expertise, while the mysterious culprit must be well-versed in conjuration."

“Could Baba Yaga have had a direct hand in altering the spell?” Volo asked.

“Mmm, she would have had to be on the scene. In the Elfsong. Not very probable if you ask me,” Gale replied dismissively. “No, I find it much more conceivable that she played second fiddle to a mage.”

“That’s why Lorroakan’s name came up,” Shadowheart said, pinching her mouth in puzzlement. “But again, we’ve killed him, to the best of our knowledge.”

“Someone of Baba Yaga’s stature would hardly speak so highly of Lorroakan,” Gale scoffed. “He was nothing more than a fraud. And a clown.”

At that moment, the tavern keeper, the rosy-skinned moon elf, approached their table with a polite smile.

“Whenever you are ready, master bards. The tavern will be bustling in the hours to come, and the patrons are starving for an exotic performance.”

“Certainly. We shall begin shortly,” Haer’Dalis assured the moon elf with a winning smile. “In the meantime, may I kindly request another round of honey beer for my companions? And some wine for my pale friend over here.”

The tavern keeper nodded in silent acknowledgment and withdrew.

Jayme cast a quick look at Astarion, anticipating a protest, but the rogue wore a contemplative expression.

“On the teleportation circle I smelled sulfur, palmarosa, and pepper,” Astarion recalled suddenly. “I wanted to mention it because I can smell something just as pungent as sulfur now. I’m not sure if it’s actually sulfur, though. This parade of scents is quite distracting.”

“I can’t smell anything resembling sulfur,” Shadowheart stated, blinking in confusion.

“We’ve already established the superiority of my olfactory senses over yours, haven’t we?” Astarion countered.

“In my experience, sulfur tends to indicate the involvement of a fiend from the Hells. Usually a cambion or a devil,” Solaufein remarked, and his words were followed by a silence so heavy it screamed.

“We’re all thinking the same thing, aren’t we?” Astarion asked in a grim tone.

“I think we are,” Jayme said. “Mizora.”

“How could we have forgotten about that she-devil!” Gale tapped his forehead in frustration. “Considering Jayme's role in Wyll breaking his pact and the Duke's rescue, it's easy to see why she might want to retaliate.”

“What is more, she offered herself and her obscene techniques to Jayme—an offer he promptly and unequivocally turned down,” Volo added.

“What?” Astarion’s eyes widened, as did everyone else’s, though only he voiced his surprise. Jayme also looked at the polymath with questioning eyes.

“I happened to overhear the conversation,” Volo explained, holding up his hands. "My sincere apologies, Jayme, if I inadvertently revealed a secret you intended to keep.”

“Not at all.” Jayme shrugged. “I simply wasn’t interested in anything she had to offer and didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

Astarion’s face lit up with a rapturous smile. “Sweetheart, I have to say I’m touched! You turned down admirers one after the other during our travels. Mizora. Halsin–”

“Halsin?!” Shadowheart yelped. “When did Halsin proposition Jayme? And why did no one tell me?”

“I wasn’t aware either,” Gale offered by way of comfort.

“He confessed his earthy desires soon after Jayme dueled Orin and refused Bhaal,” Astarion recalled, then sighed with a moonstruck expression. “Frankly, I can’t blame him. That marvelous display of iron will only served to enhance his already lethal glamor! But I wasn’t finished with the tally. Mizora. Halsin. La’zael. You two.”

He gestured at Gale and Shadowheart, crooking a mischievous grin, and as expected, the two bristled.

“I didn’t…! Well, maybe at first I did, but I wasn’t blind to what was happening between you two!” Shadowheart objected.

“The same goes for me. I realized early on that friendship was the only thing on the table,” Gale emphasized.

Jayme recalled the night of celebration after the thwarted goblin raid on the Emerald Grove: the twinkle in Shadowheart’s eyes as she talked to him and drank her wine; Gale’s rather serious confession that Jayme had become important to him. 

“Irrelevant. The point I wanted to make is that Jayme continued to reject all of your advances, while he certainly did not spare time and effort to woo my good self,” Astarion purred, giving Jayme an incredibly self-satisfied and happy look.

Jayme could count on one hand the number of times he had seen this expression on Astarion. It was as if Astarion finally dared to believe that what they had was real, had been real from the very beginning—that Jayme had seen him, all of him, with his struggles, pain, resilience, cunning, intellect, and not just his pretty face. The sight sparked a coiling heat in the pit of his stomach.

It was true. To Jayme, no one could be as good as Astarion. 

He drew the vampire close and kissed him, channeling the intensity of the sentiment into a single hard bite on his lower lip. Astarion rewarded him with a delectable groan.

Meanwhile, their drinks were served. The ambiance of the birch-tavern was pleasantly filled with chatter.

“Gentlemen.” Haer’Dalis stood from his seat and took the opportunity to steer them toward their task. “Let us sing for our supper.”

“We must keep our wits about us,” Gale warned, “Stay vigilant.”

“Agreed. You can do that on top of this table, while you sway your hips and kick your feet in rhythm with the music,“ Shadowheart smirked.

“I beg your pardon?” Gale blinked, consternated.

“Oh no. Don’t think for a second I forgot our agreement. This is the Feywild; deals are sacred here. You got the chamber you wanted, so I’m getting my entertainment now.”

Jayme lost track of the remainder of the argument. After lowering Astarion’s feet to the ground, he pressed one more kiss to his lips and went to fetch his violin from their chamber. While the lute was also an option, he felt a profound desire to play his beloved instrument.

When he rejoined the taproom, Haer’Dalis was already tuning his own violin, and Volo held a flute in his hands.

“The Queen’s High Seas?” Jayme proposed, casting a glance at his fellow musicians, and set to tuning. How empowering it felt to be holding that fantastic lightweight piece of wood again!

“Commencing with a timeless classic, eh? I am wholeheartedly on board!” Haer’Dalis said excitedly.

“Perhaps not a classic by this realm's standards,” Volo added. “Let’s dazzle our audience!”

They launched into their music. It instantly captured the patrons’ attention, and within minutes, vibrant merriment spread through the dimly lit space. Soon, pixies took to the air gracefully, spinning in sparkling circles synchronized with the trio's rhythm. Tiny mouse-like brigganocks performed curious chassés, as if galloping, juggling their soul-bulbs around their gnomish bodies. The moon elves present in the tavern remained seated and continued to sip their drinks while carrying on their conversations calmly, but some bobbed their heads or tapped their feet to the infectious beat. 

Jayme caressed the strings with devotion, his gaze repeatedly gravitating toward Astarion. The vampire was stretched out in his chair, arms and legs crossed in a casual pose, watching him with a shining smile and occasionally sending a wink.

At the same time, Shadowheart persistently directed sharp looks and, presumably, pointed cues at Gale. The wizard put up a valiant fight. It wasn't until the third song, ‘The Power,’ that he finally succumbed and, wearing an aggravated expression, kicked off his boots. Only he ducked beneath the table to remove Shadowheart's boots. Her startled yell cut through the music, adding to the cheerful bustle of the tavern.

Unperturbed by her alarm, Gale hopped onto the table and pulled Shadowheart up by the hand. Solaufein readily cleared the table of the pitcher and goblets with an expansive grin, while Astarion threw his head back in hearty laughter and applauded the unfolding spectacle.

Guided by Gale, the duo performed a series of authentic Faerûnian social dances on the impromptu floor, though Shadowheart's movements lacked grace for at least two songs. The constrast of Shadowheart's flustered expression and Gale's triumphant smirk during their dance was priceless.

The enchanting atmosphere enveloped everyone in the tavern like a cozy blanket. A medley of scents from alcoholic beverages and assorted meals floated through the air, mingling with an array of floral and earthy fragrances.

Until an unsettling feeling crept in. The hairs on Jayme’s body stood on end. His nerves hummed with tension from an unknown source.

He continued the elegant motions of his bow across the violin without a moment's pause as he scanned the room for the cause of the disquiet in his gut. But even after a thorough look around, none of the patrons stood out as particularly suspicious.

His eyes traveled back to Astarion, whose smile immediately faded when he noticed the look on Jayme’s face. He inhaled deeply a couple of times and froze. He mouthed “palmarosa and pepper” to Jayme. 

The bard shifted his gaze to Solaufein, who had also sensed something was amiss. The trio exchanged glances, and while Jayme carried on with his performance, Solaufein and Astarion leisurely rose from their seats and made their way toward their chambers, unhurried.

“Already fatigued, are they?” Haer’Dalis asked, seeing the departure of the two.

“No. Stay vigilant,” Jayme replied quietly, and the tiefling wordlessly nodded, the smile on his face faltering only minutely.

Boris, who was still hanging from the tree-ceiling, also fidgeted—his luminescent eyes were now wide open.

When Astarion reappeared, he carried Bloodthirst and Rhapsody, securely sheathed at his sides, and the Deathstalker Mantle draped over his back. Solaufein emerged fully armored, his silver-glowing greatsword hanging at his hip. As both took their seats again, Gale and Shadowheart clambered down from the table as well, having figured out trouble was brewing.

Jayme turned his inquisitive gaze at Solaufein again, who nodded toward something behind Jayme’s back, his expression stern.

“Well, well, well. It would appear, as the young folks of Baldur’s Gate often say, that the jig is up,” whispered the tavern keeper with a honeyed overconfidence that was eerily familiar. When Jayme turned to face him, a bizarrely sweet smile was plastered on his rosy face. “It's been a while, Jayme. Or has it? No. In truth, it hasn't been long at all. The House of Hope still reeks of your Bhaalian stench.”

Notes:

The songs appearing in this chapter are "The shining" by Badly Drawn Boy, "Wonderful life" by Black, "Weeping dawn" and "I want to live" by Borislav Slavov, and "Animal impulses" by IAMX.

And now, let us all sing "Lives, all mortal lives"! ;)

Chapter 16: I - Bad, bad decisions

Summary:

No God, no religion
Just bad, bad decisions

You can be all I got, what's the difference?
Hennessy and a lot of bad decisions
All I know, all I know is bad, bad decisions

Bad Omens – Bad Decisions

Notes:

Fun fact in case you haven't noticed: in the game, the Boudoir Invitation smells of palmarosa and pepper - Raphael's own perfume. :)

They had been wrong. Oh, how wrong indeed. But who could blame them? When they had seen his demise with their own eyes, looted his corpse with their own hands, and felt the heat seep from his once-scorching body through their own skin. Even Hope had rejoiced at the deed—the hard-earned victory—unsuspecting of the truth.

Where was Hope now? 

No, the Devil had in fact died in his own House in Avernus. That he now stood before Jayme, wearing the guise of a moon elf, could only be the work of some inscrutable, nefarious magic.

The music flowed uninterrupted, thanks to Jayme’s near-unconscious mastery of the violin. But to his ears, the world had fallen into a hush. His focus narrowed to that sneering face and the voice that followed. The timbre belonged to the moon elf, but the mockery—that was unmistakably his.

“Oh, yes. I am alive and kicking, fit as a fiddle, no thanks to you. Hah, look at you! Your eyes are swimming with the effort of trying to unravel how this is possible. Do yourself a favor and don’t strain yourself; save your mental strength for the trials ahead. Lucky for you, I am inclined to have a conversation, in recognition of your considerable achievements, and, of course, in honor of the special bond we share,” he purred, his gaze boring into Jayme’s. His mouth was smiling, but the pale blue eyes held not a glimmer of humor. “Shall we relocate to a more intimate setting?”

Without waiting for Jayme’s answer, he brushed past, his shoulder grazing the bard’s arm. The contact was fleeting, familiar, and bone-chilling.

His companions, seated motionless around their table, tracked the man’s languid pace toward the door with their eyes. Not a word was spoken. The Devil didn’t spare them so much as a glance.

It was only after he stepped through the threshold that Jayme turned to Haer’Dalis and Volo. At Jayme’s signal, they drew the performance to a close with a final, resonant note. Their audience, visibly disappointed by the abrupt ending, filled the tavern with disgruntled murmurs.

“Haer’Dalis. You’ll be thrilled to hear we’re up against a Devil we’ve not only betrayed by breaking a contract but also killed once before. A Devil by the name of Raphael,“ Jayme announced, preempting any questions about the odd tavern keeper. 

He anticipated the tiefling’s reaction perfectly— Haer’Dalis’s dark blue eyes gleamed, though he had the tact and good sense to suppress his excitement.

“I thought–” Volo began, but Jayme cut him off.

“We all thought so, Volo. I’m going. Come with me or stay here; the choice is yours. But you’ve done more than enough already,” he said calmly, his gaze locked on the open doorway, before moving purposefully toward it.

On his way, he stopped by Astarion’s chair. The vampire peered up at him, brows furrowed.

“Is that…? Ah. It feels surreal that this is happening, but the precious little gem you snatched from Baba Yaga showed Solaufein a devil lurking beneath that disguise. A male devil.”

“Raphael,” Jayme confirmed.

The name elicited a sigh from Gale and a muttered “son of a lich” from Shadowheart. Astarion remained silent, his eyes fixed on Jayme.

“Are you ready, my love?” he asked softly, his red eyes holding a quiet tenderness. The last moments of calm before the storm.

The memory of the harrowing combat in the House of Hope was still fresh in everyone’s mind. And now, they found themselves in the Feywild—a realm no less fraught with mortal struggles and volatility than Avernus, perhaps even more so.

“As ready as I can be,” Jayme replied, casting a single glance at the wizard, the cleric, and the fighter. Their expressions told him they were prepared as well.

“Shall we?” Astarion smiled faintly as he rose to his feet. Jayme planted a kiss on his temple, and together, they all made for the door.

Outside, the sky stretched wide in a fuchsia-golden expanse, streaked with scarlet bleeding into the horizon. The riverbank was alive with vibrant daffodils, irises, and autumn crocuses. The landscape was accented with elegant, slender willows, which drooped their yellow branches onto the meadow, while glowing mushrooms exhaled faintly luminescent spores. Some moon elf children pranced around merrily, chasing dragonflies larger than their hands, utterly at ease in this fantastic setting.  

To unaccustomed Faerûnian senses, the explosion of colors and fragrances was almost overwhelming. Jayme felt a sharp sting in his eyes, and tears began to well up at the corners.

The small river's silver water babbled in an undertone, with a hushed expectancy, as if waiting for something to happen. As if a monster was passing close by. The monster in question, Raphael, seemed to float through the idyllic scene ahead of them. The party followed cautiously, maintaining a wary distance.

“He’s leading us to a meander outside the settlement,” Gale observed. “Away from prying eyes.”

“Of course. More running water,” Astarion grumbled under his breath.

As Gale had predicted, Raphael eventually stopped at a deserted clearing along a river bend, then turned to await their arrival. With no further use for his illusion, he shed it, revealing his true devil form of infernal red skin, curved horns, bat-like wings, and eyes like pools of hellfire. His expression was cocksure, bordering on blithe, though faint tension in his brows betrayed his vigilance.

When the core party of five came within earshot, he began to speak. Jayme glanced back and noted that Haer’Dalis and Volo were trailing behind, while Boris had secured himself on a nearby willow branch.

“My humble apologies for interrupting your little detective game back at the tavern,” Raphael began, his tone oozing mock civility. “But I could not, in good conscience, turn a blind eye while you pursued such an obviously misguided lead.” He flicked his gaze toward Gale and mimicked a thoughtful smile. “Now, now, Gale of Waterdeep, wipe that sour expression from your face! I don’t hold your misinterpretations against you. Your mental faculties are so very… limited, after all. You reasoned as best as you could—or perhaps, as you wished to. To be up against some hillbilly hag? Sure, manageable. A charlatan wizard? Any day! Zariel’s pet kitten? A little more on the challenging side, but still nothing compared to the three Chosen of the Dead Three.”  

Here, he paused for effect, his haughty smile darkening into a malicious grin. “But to face me again? A less-than-rosy prospect.”

No one rose to the bait. After a beat of silence, Raphael shrugged and, as though conceding to the social niceties of polite conversation, glanced around casually to acknowledge the surroundings. After all, decorum dictated that one exchange pleasantries about the weather before moving on to business.

“Such an awe-inspiring setting, don’t you agree?” he mused, gesturing lazily to the vibrant scenery. “I’ve always had a sweet spot for the Feywild. It's far more captivating than the Material Plane, if you ask me. This realm is replete with possibilities; they are truly inexhaustible, and temptations as boundless as its colors. Why, when the first elves settled here—banished from their celestial realm by Corellon Larethian—they engaged in debaucheries beyond your wildest fantasies!”

“Why the Feywild? Apart from your poetic inclinations, that is,” Jayme asked levelly. He could sense the nervous tension radiating from Astarion beside him.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet. I would detest feeling let down by you, especially now that I’ve just begun to take you seriously.”

“You were in league with Baba Yaga,” Jayme stated.

“There you go! Looks like there’s hope for you yet! That’s one reason, albeit not the most prominent one. Your phrasing, however—‘in league’—leaves much to be desired. Little Grandmother and I go way back. We have a… mutually beneficial arrangement, you see. Or, rather, had. Past tense. Thanks to your daring little escapade.”

Raphael tilted his head back, a gesture suggesting amusement and even a hint of admiration. His smile remained unwavering. Clearly, he didn't mourn the old Crone in the least. “For every intriguing visitor I sent her way, I received a soul amenable to entering into a contract with the Devil. It was, as they say, a fruitful business association.”

“She spoke rather highly of you,” Jayme remarked dryly. “I imagine she must have invited you into her chicken-legged hut for tea and biscuits a few times.”

“If by ‘tea’ you mean the blood of assorted fey beings, and by ‘biscuits’ the finger bones of children, then certainly. She hosted such lovely afternoon teas! And more than that, over the centuries, we shared a tradition of exchanging the juiciest rumors of the realms. A rare bird, she was. Reliable and efficient spies are a devilishly tricky thing to come by, you see.

“Was the plan to have her kill me?” Jayme asked point blank.  

“You might be surprised to hear that it wasn’t. Though, had it come to that, I, sure as Hells, wouldn’t have complained. Ha ha!” Raphael let out a bark of laughter. “The plan was, first and foremost, to have fun with you. And, by extension, with your cutesy little leech.”

He sneered at Astarion, who continued glaring daggers at him.

“And thus, we come to the real reason why I chose the Feywild as your playground. Although, had you paid a little more attention, you could have guessed by now.” He paused for effect. “It’s because of your intriguing murderous impulses.” 

“Hmm,” Jayme smirked coldly. “Then you’ll be disappointed to learn I’ve renounced both Bhaal and the root cause of my murderous impulses: my past self.”

At his words, Astarion shifted restlessly beside him. When Jayme looked at him, he caught a flicker of surprise in his expression. They hadn't had enough time to fully reconnect yet. Raphael's gaze moved between them, but he held back any snide remarks, keeping his focus on Jayme.

“You’ve managed to quiet your demons. Bravo! But have you vanquished them? Never. Your blood is to stay with you forever. Your blood is you.”

Jayme arched a brow, his smirk deepening. Raphael couldn’t possibly know what Jayme had experienced during his psychedelic trance, and that meant that the bard had an edge. The less the Devil understood about him, the better.

“Our opinions differ on that,” he replied. “But, I must admit your plan does exhibit a certain creativity. Take a Bhaalspawn grappling with his Dark Urges and plunge him into a fickle magical setting. Let it simmer and observe what brews. Toss in an archfey or two for a bit of zest. Is that the gist of it? Still, there's a notable flaw in your scheme.”

“And what might that be?”

“Bhaal’s withdrawn his essence from me as punishment for my disobedience back in Baldur’s Gate. By the time we faced off in your House of Hope, I had already liberated myself from his influence.”

Raphael's face remained impassive for a second before he theatrically adjusted his expression to one of disdain.

“True, true. When I first lay eyes on you, I mistook you for something grander. A cavalier sinner after your own Sire, which, in truth, you once were. Before your unfortunate brain damage incident. Still, I wouldn’t have imagined you’d squander such a unique opportunity in such a pitiful way.” He clicked his tongue and stepped closer to Jayme, his voice gaining a heightened, almost feverish intensity.

“But see, this is the beauty of the Feywild! For all its exotic, convoluted magic, it seldom creates something out of nothing, no, it draws on what already lurks within your soul. Self-doubt feeds its sorcery, and lingering thoughts of what could have been. It can evoke unrealized selves thought buried and gone. It takes the caterpillar, evolves it into a chrysalis, and nurtures it into a magnificent butterfly.”

He spread his arms wide, unfurling his wings in illustration. As if on cue, a colossal scarlet-black butterfly, the size of a deer, fluttered across the clearing, passing slowly between the Devil and the bard.

“Alas, no butterfly has evolved. I am still me,” Jayme said calmly.

“We’ll see about that. But before we proceed to the next movement of our opulent symphony, Astarion, I sense you have something to say to me as well. How commendable of you to obediently wait for your new master to finish his questions and share his perspective. Good pet!”

Astarion let the insult slide—a small miracle, Jayme thought.

“What I want to know, Devil, is how you managed to crawl back to life. A devil killed in the Hells perishes for eternity. That’s the rule,” Astarion seethed, each word clipped and sharp.

“You're burning to find out, aren't you? Such an incurable flaw of your mortal kind—your insatiable nosiness. Oh, forgive me for calling you mortal. I trust you don't mind? From where I stand, you’re nothing but a reanimated little elf, you know.” Raphael flashed a mocking grin. “Very well, I’m feeling generous today. If you must know, shortly after we signed our contract that bound you to deliver me the Crown of Karsus, I struck a failsafe deal with my Father, the Archduke of Cania, who most graciously altered the rules of the Hells for me.”

“What do you mean, ‘altered the rules’?” Astarion demanded, slitting his eyes.

Raphael gestured with his clawed hand in a grand display of openness. “Our pact was thus: if I were to meet my demise in Hell, I would not perish. Mephistopheles' grace would revive me. Dear Jayme had once incurred the wrath of my Father by infiltrating his vault to pilfer the Crown. Consequently, Mephistopheles was quite amenable to my proposition. In exchange, I vowed to treat you as the insolent mice that you are and amuse him by toying with you.”

“And toy you did. Without fault.” A wry smile formed on Astarion’s lips.

“But of course! I must admit, Astarion, I found your suffering particularly entertaining! Because Jayme is, well, Jayme. It’s hard to see past that cool facade of his. You, on the other hand,” Raphael launched into an impression of frantic scrambling, his hands clawing at the air, “the frenzied manner in which you scoured the streets and taverns of Baldur’s Gate for help was nothing short of spectacular! Then there was that wretched display you put on at the Blushing Mermaid. Mumbling to yourself, drinking yourself near senseless. Ah, so delightful! And on top of it all, your journey across the seas in your own filth. How I wish I could have witnessed that!”

“You son of a bitch,” Astarion spat, his hands twitching above the hilts of his daggers.

“No, I’m serious! One would think you, who has withstood a variety of torments over the past two centuries, would have learned to take it on the chin by now. But no! And what’s even more curious is that you still seem to cling to the belief that you’re in for a so-called ‘happy ending.’ As a vampire spawn! Ha ha ha ha!” Raphael guffawed.

Jayme knew the talk was over the moment he heard the feral growl leave Astarion’s throat.

The rogue lunged forward in a fit of rage. His charge ruffled the carpet of flowers, sending petals scattering and releasing their dazing fragrance into the air. The parade of sweet scents overwhelmed Jayme’s senses, dragging his perceptions as though filtered through thick honey.

Bloodthirst primed for attack, Astarion sprang at Raphael and aimed a slash at his neck. He narrowly missed—only because Raphael swung his arm up as a shield, the dagger embedding itself deep in his forearm. It pierced muscle and sinew, yet only a minute twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the Devil's pain. His grin held firm and dazzling. In a blur of motion, Raphael darted his other hand out to restrain Astarion’s left arm before he could draw Rhapsody. 

“Oh, no. You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” Raphael sneered. “Besides, five against one is hardly fair. No, no, no. First, it’s time you faced yourselves and saw just how pitiable you’ve let your lives become!”

As he finished speaking, Raphael narrowed his eyes and thrust Astarion backward. The force of the shove nearly tore the dagger from Astarion's grip as it came free from Raphael's arm. Before anyone could retaliate, Raphael clapped his hands together. Around them, the mesmerizing flowers and mushrooms began to writhe, their stems rapidly extending and entwining as if guided by countless invisible hands.

Before they knew it, the stems wove themselves into thick cords, which in turn formed nets that expanded into towering hedges. The ground seemed to quake beneath their feet—though perhaps it was only an illusion caused by the dynamic motion of the plants.

Clearly, a higher intellect was orchestrating the transformation, for the hedges sprang to life with precision, separating the companions from one another. Before Jayme could react, Astarion was gone from his side, and he found himself trapped in a rectangular enclosure.

The rampaging growth eventually stilled. The hedge-walls had grown so tall that leaping over was impossible, and they were so dense that cutting through would require tremendous effort.

Jayme grabbed his violin and promptly channeled a Fire Bolt spell into the hedge. To his dismay, it barely scorched the sturdy flower-wall. He fired three more bolts in quick succession, but the results were no better. The flames left only faint singes, unable to penetrate the dense weave.

"Feel free to keep at it, but don’t hold your breath,” came a sardonic voice from behind him.

The timbre of that voice made Jayme’s skin crawl. He knew who it was even before he turned to confirm.

It was himself. His doppelganger stood nonchalantly, dressed in Volo’s gifted indigo doublet and breeches, hands cradling a jet-black violin identical to Jayme's. The resemblance was flawless, like gazing into a mirror, down to the smallest detail—except for the missing fiery silver hair.

“You again? I thought I made it clear I wasn't interested in you anymore,” Jayme hissed at his counterpart, impatience sharpening his tone. Unease gnawed at him, not knowing what challenge awaited Astarion beyond the hedge. His fingers unconsciously traced the contours of his violin, and he noticed his doppelganger mirroring the gesture.

“You misunderstand,” the doppelganger replied with a smirk. “I am not that woman, the one you called ‘Mother.’ Nor am I the past, youthful idealist you. I am your unrealized self. Your superior. Your full potential achieved. I am the Prophet of Bhaal, the beneficiary of his eternal succor—or so I lead my Father to believe, for the time being.”

A subtle, sinister snicker followed.

Whatever magic this was, it distinctly differed from the time Orin had assumed his shape in the Temple of Bhaal. Jayme couldn’t discern anything alien or out of place. This was no shapeshifter’s trickery.

What he saw was, to all intents and purposes, himself—a what-could-have-been version.

“So you’ve reclaimed your memories of our secret design too. Well done. How did you do it?” Jayme asked calmly, and he knew himself well enough to expect an answer.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“I borrowed Raphael’s help,” the Prophet of Bhaal revealed without so much as twitching an eyebrow. “We’ve continued to maintain a good relationship after I gave him the Crown, you see. He’s become quite the jolly fellow after that.” 

No wonder he conjured you for me to face, Jayme thought before responding.

“That sounds like an ill-considered course of action,” he remarked wryly.

“To you maybe. To me, it makes no difference,” the Prophet said with a light scoff. “I might kill him eventually, if he crosses me or becomes a nuisance. Even the Archdevil Supreme wouldn’t prevail against my eulogy of blood.”

“Good for you. Wasn’t Bhaal furious you slew the Netherbrain instead of enslaving it?”

While the smug expression on the Prophet’s face remained intact, his left hand slid to the fingerboard—an involuntary gesture Jayme recognized as a sign of discomfort.

“He was somewhat unhappy. But I’ll work through that,” the Prophet replied smoothly.

Jayme smirked. He had obviously touched a sore point. A small victory. Nevertheless, he decided to change the subject.

“What were you implying when you said ‘the one I called Mother’?”

“We share no blood ties with that woman. She was merely a mentor my Father assigned for us when He saw we needed someone to guide us to our ordained path.”

Jayme could now recall the night he, a young bard with an impressionable mind, returned from the bards’ college to Baldur’s Gate. With nothing but his black violin in his hand, a violent streak in his heart, and a faint smile on his lips, he took to the streets to busk for his supper. A woman approached him, claiming to be his Mother. Her violet eyes shone with sincerity, and Jayme followed her into the Temple of Bhaal. She fed him and gave him shelter.

From that day on, her insidious whispers nurtured the brutality in Jayme’s heart and taught him the power of deception. Yet she could not claim credit for the errant thoughts that fueled his contempt for the gods—Jayme had formed those philosophies on his own. Though she declared herself his Mother, her actions bore none of the tender touch of maternal affection. To learn now, after all this time, that she was not blood but merely an unstable Bhaal priestess stirred almost no emotion in him.

“Who is my birthmother then?” Jayme asked quietly—the question followed naturally from the revelation. A creeping suspicion, buried in some unfathomably deep part of him, began to surface. It didn't take long for that suspicion to harden into a spine-chilling certainty.

“There never was one,” the Prophet said. “We were sculpted by Bhaal Himself, from His unholy blood. You should’ve spoken with your Butler while you had the chance. He’s a useful tool and could’ve filled in the gaps cleaved by Orin’s blade—about our origin, or even about our foster parents, if such mundane details interest you.” The Prophet shrugged.

“Parents?” Jayme echoed, surprised.

“Ordinary people who became the first victims of our awakening Dark Urge. True, it was inadvertent, much like Alfira. Our first premeditated murder was the Bhaal priestess.”

Fragments of memory suddenly hurtled back like a cluster of comets, bringing with them old feelings of warmth and hysterical panic. An elven couple—good people. A jet-black violin in the skilled hands of the man, his foster father. Two pools of blood.

“The violin…” Jayme whispered.

“Yes. Our means of focus. It was our foster father’s, once. You’ve finally remembered why we became a violinist in the first place? Through music, through focused self-expression, we hoped to conquer our bloodthirst.” The Prophet tilted his head with a cynical smile. “A futile hope, as Father had other plans.”

Jayme took a deep breath, fighting to regain his composure.

“Enlighten me—what good does Bhaal do for you?” he challenged the Prophet. “His ‘eternal succor’, unless I’m mistaken, is none other than his age-old gimmick: the Slayer, is it not?”

Jayme was never one to take offense at someone’s lack of respect, and sure enough, the other Jayme’s smile only grew broader at the tone.

“Spot-on. The Slayer. Your greatest wasted opportunity yet. And to think you’ve rejected it three times…”

“I asked what good it does for you. Answer me.” Jayme let authority seep into his voice, all too aware of the time slipping away during their exchange. He wanted to be done with this and find Astarion.

As if responding to shift in mood, small black flower buds sprouted from the hedge, emitting peculiar energies.

“Isn’t it obvious?” the Prophet murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly with amusement. “Bhaal manifests within me. I have a whole cult at my beck and call. I wield the power to turn myself into a robust, fearsome demon of Gehenna, reaping any foe I set my eyes on. These days, I perform for art alone, no longer as a battle style.” He tickled his violin with his bow in demonstration. “Even Astarion benefits from my Father’s unholy blessing and is loved by Him as much as I am, despite his lack of reverence. Believe it or not, I’ve received assurances that when I lacerate the whole world, Astarion may be spared the same fate.”

“You’d lacerate all the sommeliers of the world too? Just wait until Astarion hears about your intentions,” Jayme scoffed.

The Prophet only smiled. “Mock me, if you like. But the joke is on you. You’ll continue wallowing in the dirt while I soar into the sky and become a greater god than my Father ever was. In time, I might even challenge Corellon to a duel. Who knows? Let’s see where my fancy takes me.”

Jayme studied his unrealized self's face in silence for a moment. To think he could have ended up this way, utterly blinded by hubris. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore a significant deviation from the original plan: his other self had woven Astarion intrinsically into his design. But for what purpose?

“And what then?” Jayme asked. “You become the new Lord of Murder. If you’re anything like I used to be, you don’t actually share His nonsensical ambition to butcher every sentient being of the world. No. You want freedom. Don’t you?”

“Freedom absolute. Precisely,” the Prophet asserted.

“You will never be free. There will always be Orins and Jaymes who believe they can soar higher than you. There is always greed. In the end, you’ll only lock yourself into a bloody cage, fighting monster after monster eager to snatch your Throne. The bars will bend, but will remain. Until a monster even greater than you comes along.” Jayme paused, letting his tone carry his pity. “The saddest thing is, you already have your true freedom beside you. With red eyes and white curls. And you’re too blind to see it.”

If his words struck any chord with his other self, Jayme couldn’t tell. Not a single muscle betrayed the man’s thoughts. 

Then, just as Jayme was about to write him off as beyond help, the Prophet moved his right hand to his violin and plucked the D string once. 

Twang.

Twang. Twice.

Twang. Three times.

Twelve in total. The tempo was unmistakable—Jayme instantly recognized the opening notes of “Danse Macabre.”

Ah, there's something there. He is mad, Jayme thought with a spark of triumph.

“I didn’t come here to convert you with words. Music has always been our true mother tongue. Why not have a real conversation? Dance with me on the white coal?” the Prophet proposed, the corners of his mouth lifting into a self-assured smile. 

He propped his violin under his chin, his eyes never leaving Jayme, and set his bow on the strings. 

“By all means,” Jayme replied, mirroring the readiness. “Dance with you through the flames.”

The flowers of deepest black burst into bloom along the walls.

 

Astarion, trapped in his own “cell,” peered curiously at the gorgeous being before him.

The other Astarion was the spitting image of himself in appearance, but his palpable condescension formed a stark distinction even Astarion couldn’t miss. His mannerisms were undeniably his own, but with an added patrician flair. He wore a stylish red damask ensemble. Ridiculously high-end fabric; must have cost a silly fortune, Astarion thought, genuinely impressed.

This other glided closer with sure-footed poise and stopped about two arm’s lengths away. Astarion immediately tensed.

“Hello, darling. Nice to meet… me!” the other snickered, crossing his arms in a posture of utter relaxation.

“What are you?” Astarion asked warily.

The other let out a derisive snort, took a long moment to regard Astarion in disbelief, then started to pace around him in a slow circle.

“Come on, it’s obvious! You can feel it, can’t you? The sweeping power radiating from my every pore? Your knees trembling with awe, aching to fall to the ground before me? I can sense it; your smell betrays your admiration.” He stopped briefly, drew in a long breath, and released a contended sigh. “I am what you gave up. What you feared to become. I am the one and only, the Vampire Ascendant.”

Astarion didn’t let his face betray anything at the announcement. He observed the Ascendant for a stretch of silence, choosing his next words carefully. In the days following the events at Cazador's Palace, he had wondered—couldn't help but wonder—what he might have become had he completed Cazador's Ritual. Now, with his alternate self standing in front of him, Astarion realized his earlier fantasies had fallen short of capturing the true scale of him.

There was a sublime grace to the Ascendant’s every gesture, to his very presence —even when he was barely moving. His blood was imbued with a fragrance of dark vitality that far eclipsed Cazador’s. It crawled up Astarion’s nostrils, invasive and violating, clouding his thoughts.

“Well. Hello!” replied Astarion at last, venturing to brazenly wave a hand in greeting. 

True to expectation, the display caught the Ascendant off guard. His haughty demeanor wavered slightly, and he gave a small, bewildered chuckle. 

“Hello? Oh dear me, I understand that my presence can be overwhelming, but I didn't anticipate such an inane response from a... version of myself, no matter how inferior.”

“I don’t know what your angle is, but I’d prefer to keep things civil,” Astarion replied with measured calm. “Say your piece, let’s get over with whatever mindfuckery you have planned for me, and then we can bid each other farewell. I need to look for Jayme.”

His gaze darted nervously around the flower-hedge room. Mushrooms peeked from between the blossoms, saturating the air with noxious fumes. There was no visible means of escape.

Ascendant Astarion’s eyes gleamed, their red like cursed rubies, as he studied his counterpart. His lips curled into a wide, scornful grin.

“Need to. Isn’t that right? And thus, we promptly arrive at the heart of your predicament. You need Jayme to survive. And you always will. You’ll forever be compelled to rely on him, while I am entirely self-sufficient. I can forge my own path, envision the most extravagant and implausible dreams, and make them reality the very next day.”

“Cheers to you. Except, you’ve clearly become Cazador II. You’d have earned his approval, had he been capable of such sentiment, I’m sure. Way to go and huzzah!” Astarion countered the scorn with a hefty dose of his own, his eyes burning as he glared at the Ascendant.

It failed to amuse the ego-drunk Lord. His grin gave way to a brief pout, but it quickly returned with a vicious edge as he uncrossed his arms and lowered them to his sides.

“I see I’m wasting my breath on you in your current state of ignorance. Perhaps a demonstration will drive the point home.”

No sooner had the Ascendant finished speaking than every sinew in Astarion's body tensed, and he pounced, wielding both Bloodthirst and Rhapsody with a speed that made his attack imperceptible.

…or so he believed. Compared to the Ascendant, he was embarrassingly sluggish. 

All he sensed was a gust of air, and in the next second, his arms were restrained from behind, clamped to his sides by an impossibly strong grip. The Ascendant purred a sardonic hum directly into his ears before sinking his teeth ferociously into Astarion's exposed neck.

Astarion screamed, eyes widening not only from the excruciating pain but also from the horrifying sensation of being drained— something he had experienced only once before. Yet here it was again, committed by his own self, and at the exact same spot Cazador had ravaged. The full shock of his turning slammed into him anew, lancing through his spine and leaving him frozen in place.

“You’re beginning to grasp it now,” the Ascendant sneered silkily into his ear, pausing in his indulgence. “How inordinately and ludicrously weak you are. You fancied yourself a vampire spawn prodigy after the showdown with the Brain. But let’s be honest, just between the two of us—the two of me—you couldn’t have done it without Jayme. Observe my power, my Ascendancy, and appreciate that I, on the other hand, could have.” His cold tongue sensuously traced the bleeding wound on Astarion’s neck. 

Astarion huffed and grunted in frustration, but the Ascendant's vice-like grip held him helplessly in check. Added to this, the sudden blood loss left him lightheaded—he was in no condition to resist, lest he faint outright. He had no choice but to watch, obediently, as the other Astarion projected a vision before his eyes.

The scene unfolded: Cazador's Palace, reclaimed and ruled by the Ascendant. The Lord of the Palace, enveloped in an Eminent Scarlet Outfit, lounged on a sumptuous sofa in the boudoir, his fingers idly stroking the fluffy white fur of an aristocratic undead cat. Around him, his spawn fawned and toiled. One played the piano, while two others scurried to fulfill his commands. Another pair focused on decorating, visibly preparing for an upcoming ball.

What struck Astarion most about the scene wasn’t just the discipline but the proactivity despite the apparent lack of coercion. Unlike how he and his six brothers and sisters had once been, these spawn smiled. They looked willing and content. Perhaps even happy.

And then Astarion saw him, playing his jet-black violin. Wearing an Eminent Obsidian Outfit that perfectly harmonized with the Ascendant’s attire. He, too, sent adoring glances in Ascendant Astarion’s direction. After bringing his song to a close, he sauntered over to the sofa to plant a kiss on his Lord's lips. The Ascendant gifted him with a suave smile, then rose with a languid, drawn-out grace. Taking the bard’s hand, he guided him to the grand floor-to-ceiling windows.

To Astarion’s astonishment, the curtains were drawn back. Not once had he seen the windows uncovered. But now they stood exposed, a testament to the Vampire Ascendant’s triumph over the Sun—over all frailties of vampirekind.

The Ascendant gazed down upon Baldur’s Gate. Although some light filtered into the boudoir through the window, it was faint. An unnatural mist of darkness reigned over the land, reminiscent of the atmosphere surrounding Moonrise Towers. Beneath the towering walls of the Palace, Astarion discerned various creatures of the night lurking—ghouls, bats, wolves. In a nearby stable, thoroughbred undead horses of flaming crimson eyes were tended to by more vampire spawn.

Surveying his dominion, the Ascendant shifted his attention to the side and cast an expectant look at Jayme. His countenance exuded arrogance—a trait ever-present, as far as Astarion could tell—but also bore unmistakable signs of affection. The bard understood the cue and leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss. It flowed with the same unhurried elegance characteristic of everything the Lord did. Even amid such adverse circumstances, Astarion couldn't help but acknowledge what a striking, well-matched couple they made.

“You see how blissful he is, my dark consort? It's because he stands beside the mightiest vampire to ever grace the planes,” the Ascendant whispered heatedly into Astarion’s ear. “And not just him; look at my children. The way they are treated is a far cry from what we endured under Cazador's tyranny.  They are overjoyed to serve me. And if that weren't enough, notice how I've cloaked the Sun for the denizens of my realm.  It's for their sake, not mine. The Sun poses no threat to me whatsoever.”

At this point, Astarion heaved a deep sigh. He had just about had enough of this.

“All right, I see. I get the picture. You’re living the dream. Your dream.”

“Ha ha ha! Why pretend it’s not yours? You are me. And this, what I’ve just shown you, is our idea of heaven.”

The vision vanished, snuffed out at the Ascendant’s whim. Astarion remained trapped in the Ascendant's hold, leaving him no choice but to verbally navigate his way out of the situation.

He met the other Astarion's gaze and said, “Look. You are me, is what you’re saying. I consider myself a fairly reasonable man. So, be open and level with me: what’s your intention with all this? Why did Raphael lock me in here with you?”

The Ascendant casually slid his arms down Astarion's form, his hands closing over the daggers Astarion still clutched impotently. For a fleeting moment, Astarion considered resisting but quickly dismissed the idea. He had already witnessed the uncanny agility of his alternate self. Reluctantly, he surrendered his weapons. The Ascendant accepted them with a satisfied smirk and, in return, released him.

Then, the Ascendant strolled in front of Astarion, idly toying with his newfound prizes.

“To confront you with the consequences of your mistakes. Obviously, in Raphael's eyes, nullifying your contract and killing him in his House was your gravest error. And that might yet prove true. But for you—me—it’s the unseized opportunity. The wasted Rite of Profane Ascension. When I look at you, I see Cazador’s laughing face, hear his mocking voice.”

Confrontation. If this is some sort of trial, then it’s only a matter of finding the right key, Astarion figured. The obvious answer—killing the Ascendant—flickered through his mind, but he knew better than to think he could match such unparalleled power.

“I see. Between your pompous raving and your admittedly impressive display of strength, I've realized one thing: you and I are not in the same league,” Astarion declared calmly. He was ready to face his other self head-on, no tricks, no deception.

“Yes, dear me, how sensible of you to admit it!” the Ascendant practically chirped, twirling Bloodthirst and Rhapsody swiftly between his fingers in a dazzling display of dexterity.

“I’m not afraid to admit it,” Astarion continued. “You are my superior. I will never attain such power.”

“Excellent! You can say that again!” the Ascendant exclaimed. The daggers spun so rapidly they blurred into two metallic discs.

“And that’s fine by me. I’m comfortable with what I am now.”

The daggers snapped to a halt the instant Astarion finished the sentence. The Ascendant shot him a piercing stare. “You cannot be serious.”

Astarion, brows drawn together in a slight frown, stood the harsh gaze and replied, “But I am. Jayme has shown me that I am enough just the way I am. He… he loves me this way. So even if I never get to taste that heaven you’ve shown me, I accept my life—the imperfections, the weaknesses, the fear of the Sun.”

“Adorable, really. Have you no shame?” His other self’s eyes thundered. Here it was: Cazador’s shade, his reproachful words, delivered in the same indignant tone Astarion had heard a thousand times before.

“Dear me, you’ll achieve nothing by echoing Cazador’s overused lines,” Astarion deflected coldly. 

A fresh sentiment entered his mind then: pity. For all his demi-godlike might, his unrealized self was an obtuse dimwit, oblivious to how he was perpetuating traces of Cazador’s spirit.

At Astarion’s scorn, the Ascendant’s tone shifted, dripping with quiet venom. 

“One day, Jayme will grow tired of you, you know. It’s a matter of time before he starts missing the Sun and blames you for his inverted life. You'll become deadweight he'll eventually cast off. And when that happens, you'll be left high and dry, with no other choice but to fend for yourself. You, a hunger-driven weakling.”

That. Those words touched a raw nerve, tapping into Astarion’s deepest fear—one he hadn't even dared to acknowledge. Not the prospect of fending for himself; he didn’t care about that. But the thought of Jayme growing tired of accommodating a vampire spawn made the blood in his veins freeze.

The mushrooms secreted more fumes. Their acrid stench crept into Astarion's airways, burrowing into his brain. Though he couldn't technically suffocate, the fungi seemed to affect his mind directly, sapping his life force and creating a sensation like suffocation.

“Even that,” Astarion forced out between gasps, “even that I… accept. If it comes to that. I want what’s best for him. If that means leaving me behind, then so be it. Nothing you can say will hurt me, or break my resolve.”

The thunderous blaze in his counterpart’s eyes turned ice cold.

“Well then,” he said flatly. “If words won’t do, I’ll simply suck the rest of that thin, lackluster blood from you and end your misery. Hmm?” 

The Ascendant strutted closer and grabbed Astarion by the throat. His thumb dug painfully into the fresh mark he had pierced. While suffocation wasn’t a threat to Astarion, having his neck crushed was.

He clawed at the Ascendant’s hand, but it was in vain, of course. With each passing second, the mushroom gases clouded his mind and stole his strength, making each breath a struggle and each movement a surrender to the iron grip's relentless pressure.

Wobbling on the edge of consciousness, he stared at his other self. Gods, he's handsome. The thought struck him, then was immediately doused by a surge of irritation. This was him.

What in the Nine Hells are we doing dancing to Raphael's tune?

“Wait,” he managed, his voice a strained whisper. “Let’s not fight. It’s such a cliché. You’re me. I’m you. Why not call it a day... shake hands, and find our way... back to our respective Jaymes?”

This time, Ascendant Astarion found himself affected. More precisely, he was dumbstruck. For a moment, he glared at Astarion as if he’d sprouted a second head. The hold on Astarion’s throat slackened.

“Because I loathe and hold you in contempt? You, a failure, a flawed rendition of myself, a mewling worm? Because your sordid existence is an affront to my glorious reign?”

“Excellent! And I think you’re a self-absorbed, power-drunk prick who preyed on the weak—seven thousand of them, to be exact—to compensate for your weaknesses and, most of all, insecurities.”

The Ascendant’s expression darkened frighteningly at those words, but Astarion flashed a mollifying smile and quickly continued,  “Now, let's just acknowledge our differences and move on. Here, let me start: You're Ascendant, I'm...not. Your world is closed to me. I might need help. I might even have to let Jayme go someday. There.” 

Astarion boldly leaned in, as much as the grip around his neck allowed him—which was not much—and whispered to the Ascendant as a prompter guides an actor. “Now, it’s your turn.”

“What?”

“Say you accept my inferiority.”

“But… I don’t!” 

The Ascendant let go of Astarion, his face a picture of confusion. He placed a hand on his hip and absentmindedly licked Astarion's blood off his thumb. Curiously enough, the fumes also thinned, becoming less concentrated.

“But of course you do! Remember? You’re me! I know you don’t give a rat’s ass what some other version of you is doing in some parallel universe, as long as you get to perch on your throne, the world at your fingertips. With your dark consort right by your majestic side.” Astarion rubbed his aching neck and chanced a cheeky wink, now that he felt that he had the upper hand.

A moment of silence hung in the air.

When the Ascendant spoke again, he sounded more bewildered than anything, though his lips twitched with amusement. “I have a feeling this isn't what Raphael intended with his… game, but you've made a compelling argument. I find you utterly pathetic, and I might shed tears of embarrassment just looking at you, but that's the extent of my concern, quite frankly.” 

The Ascendant gave him a light, almost teasing, pat on the shoulder—a pat that nearly knocked him off his feet. Stinking devils in the hells, he’s freakishly strong, Astarion thought. It didn’t stop the pleased smile from spreading across his lips all the same.

“I knew we could see eye to eye!” Astarion said, satisfied. “A handshake, then?”

The two shook hands—the Ascendant’s grip firm and dominant, of course—and observed each other with a newfound sense of delight.

“And by the way, now that we’re pals, I must say: your hair is absolutely stunning!" Astarion blurted. "It’s so much shinier than mine, and those curls… perfectly defined, with such bounce. And those eyes! That rich, garnet hue… it’s breathtaking.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Or perhaps mine are just as captivating? One can never be too certain, can one?”

“Please.” The Ascendant waved a dismissive hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “It’s another visually pleasing perk of my ascendant blood, naturally. As for the hair, since I can see myself in mirrors, I’m able to take excellent care of it. Treat it like royalty. The secret lies in the comb; I use a fine-toothed comb fortified by nymph hair to keep my locks in top condition.” 

He reached out and ran a finger through Astarion’s hair, a critical frown creasing his brow. “Adequate, I suppose. Though a little… unruly.”

The touch, however brief, sparked a memory in Astarion. A fleeting image of himself and Jayme, playing with the Astarion image. If only things were different, he thought. Perhaps then… perhaps then even this pompous creature could have been persuaded to offer a small demonstration of his… unique gifts.

“You lucky dog! I envy you so terribly for having a reflection!” Astarion sighed wistfully, then straightened. “Alright, enough of that. Will you help me search for Jayme?”

“I will. Chances are, your Jayme is occupied with mine at this very moment. Although… Jayme has another ‘significant’ self.” The Ascendant’s expression turned sober. “You see, not all of us fared so well. Some Astarions perished at the hands of Jayme’s Dark Urge that night by the campfire. Others ascended, only to be abandoned by him. Some never even faced Cazador. Some faced him all alone.” He shuddered. “I can barely imagine their fates.”

“And this other ‘significant’ self?” Astarion prompted.

“Most of those Astarions were weak—weaker even than you—or incomplete without Jayme. Insignificant dead-ends. I am, obviously, the most… realized version of myself. You, I suppose, are a close second.” The Ascendant shrugged. “Looking at Jayme, his choices have led to two distinct paths: defiance of Bhaal, or submission. Both our Jaymes chose defiance. But those who didn’t, well… Those alternate selves exist in a state far more wretched than yours.”

Sorrow contorted his attractive features and he stared off distractedly, fixating on some heart-wrenching scene in a distant realm.

A shadow crossed the Ascendant’s face, his usual arrogance replaced by a look of genuine sorrow. He stared off into the distance, lost in some harrowing vision.

“What happened to him if he bowed to Bhaal’s will?” Astarion felt a churning in his stomach as he voiced the question.

“One alternate self embraced Him fully, bent the Netherbrain to Bhaal’s service, turning you—and even me—into his mindless slaves. Despicable. Another slew Orin, became the Chosen, and accepted Bhaal’s gift in the Temple. However, he later betrayed Bhaal by destroying the Netherbrain. One does not simply betray the Lord of Murder and expect a happily ever after. He was turned inside out, transformed into a mindless murder machine.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Ultimately, he turned on us.”

“We put him down, I hope.”

“I did. You didn’t.”

Oh. Astarion felt as though molten lead had been poured into his gut.

“Lovely. We can bet your Palace on the chance that Jayme’s trial isn’t about facing his sweet, liberated self who helped  you complete Cazador’s Ritual, but rather the one who bent the knee to Bhaal. Let’s go!”

He cast a beseeching look at the Ascendant, who graciously turned his attention to the flower-hedge and with his bare hands tore at it in a series of fluid motions. The mutant flowers surrendered in less than a minute.

Once the opening was wide enough for them to pass through—without lowering their heads, because the Ascendant did not lower his head—they stepped outside their cell.

They found themselves on a narrow corridor hemmed in by hedge-walls. Astarion took a right turn, guided purely by instinct, and hurried forward, while the Ascendant trailed leisurely behind. The corridor stretched on without interruption, but voices filtered through the hedges at various points. Astarion pressed on, ignoring them. 

He heard Gale arguing vehemently with himself—about what other topic than his orb and the Crown of Karsus? Shadowheart was apparently locked in combat with herself, and judging by the sounds, it was a clash between Selûnite and Sharran magic. Solaufein spoke quietly in his native language, his words occasionally interrupted by another, more vicious voice.

Finally, Astarion caught the sound of two separate violins. He stopped where the music was loudest and frantically inspected the hedge, but it might as well have been a solid stone wall.

"Hurry, give me my daggers! Or better yet, carve us a path again. But do give me back my daggers, in any case. Please," Astarion pressed his counterpart, who had fallen considerably behind due to his casual pace.

“Since you asked nicely,” The Ascendant smirked as he caught up and handed over the weapons. “Stand back.”

He set his claws to work, ripping through the barrier separating them from their bard. As soon as the way was clear, Astarion rushed in.

This “cell” was markedly different from his own. The hedge-walls were densely adorned with small black flowers—instead of the noxious mushrooms from before—from which streams of sweet-metallic red liquid cascaded. It was blood. But whose? The red streams wove a wet carpet under the feet of the two confronting Jaymes.

Both were absorbed in their playing, two mad virtuosos at their peak. One crafted a silvery, winding tune, with liquid glides broken by clever, biting strokes—like an honest but insistent musical persuasion. In contrast, his alternate self performed a gritty, brutal composition, fit to serve as the instrumental foundation for a wicked cantata.

While the music left little doubt as to which was which, the most obvious sign was his Jayme’s still-burning silver hair.  A good sign, he thought. It meant Eilistraee’s blessing still clung to him. And Astarion would gladly welcome any support from a “good” deity against the Lord of Murder’s Champion now.

Astarion scrutinized the other Jayme. His bearing and expression projected absolute self-belief and fearlessness. His blazing red eyes called to mind Jayme’s appearance when he had descended from the sky on Kannoth’s bat—a similarity that sent an unpleasant shiver down Astarion's spine.

The blood continued to pour from the walls, a gruesome waterfall. The thickness of its smell made Astarion’s knees weak, and he could now identify it as a blend of several people's blood. Scores of them.

“The people our Jayme butchered, if I'm not mistaken. And I seldom am,” the Ascendant whispered in awe as he strolled around the hedge-room, creating ripples in the crimson flood. Even he appeared slightly stunned by the horrific testament written in blood.

The two capriccios dueled, their notes intertwining and clashing in a way no blade or spell could evoke.

Suddenly, one of the bows slipped, yielding a dissonant cry. And then genuine fear seized Astarion.

Because immediately after, a red glow ignited in his Jayme’s eyes.

Notes:

The notes Prophet-of-Bhaal Jayme is playing when our Jayme gives him a piece of his mind are the opening plucks of Camille Saint-Saëns's "Danse Macabre," by the way. *.*

Chapter 17: I - I'm not breaking down, I'm breaking out

Summary:

It's bugging me
Grating me
And twisting me around
Yeah, I'm endlessly
Caving in
And turning inside out

'Cause I want it now
I want it now
Give me your heart and your soul
I'm not breaking down
I'm breaking out
Last chance to lose control

Muse - Hysteria

Both Jaymes froze in place, locking eyes. A powerful, unseen force seemed to bind them together. The one with fiery hair drew rapid, raspy breaths, while the other maintained a relatively even pace.

“He’s losing,” the Ascendant muttered, giving voice to what Astarion was afraid to.

It was like a slap to the face that propelled Astarion into action.

“Oh no, you won’t!” he yelled, stomping toward the dueling pair, splashing blood with every step. The Ascendant winced as some of it landed on him, flashing a displeased glare at Astarion. Even now, he couldn't help but fret about his attire.

Astarion moved forward, unperturbed. He embraced Jayme from behind, placing his right hand over the bard's on the bow. With his other hand, he tenderly loosened Jayme's grip on the fingerboard and took control. Back straight, deep breath, quivers suppressed, glide. His nerves subdued any inclination to sing, but he focused on replicating the melody on the instrument.

Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me.
Soleil all over you
Warm sun

“Not your worst idea,” the Ascendant commented, but Astarion continued to disregard him. The thought occurred to ask for help against the other Jayme, but he suspected such an action might be considered cheating in this bizarre psychological experiment.

Astarion felt the rise and fall of Jayme’s chest against his own as the bard panted. It conjured the strange illusion of breathing as one.

“Come on, love,” he murmured into Jayme’s ear. “We can beat your old man. Remember? You’ve done it before!”

In that instant, Bhaal's Chosen redirected his attention to Astarion. His hold on the violin tightened, and a fresh composition flowed from the strings. The music transformed into a myriad of invisible needles, grazing Astarion's skin all at once. These spectral needles embodied the ghosts of past conquests, unlucky victims, abducted children—their prickly insults, the anguish of lives cut short and rebirths as miserable vampire spawn. It felt as though the woes came flying straight from the depths of the Underdark.

“Hmm, he has no qualms about hurting you whatsoever. Credit where credit’s due, he is determined,” the Ascendant observed. Astarion would have punched him for the remark, had his hands not been otherwise occupied.

What began as spectral grazes quickly became real scratches, then deep, agonizing cuts. Drops of Astarion’s blood joined the growing pool that now lapped at their ankles. He gritted his teeth but persisted in playing, shutting out the chaos.

“We still have so much to do, so much to… look forward to! Amn. Cormyr. Neverwinter. Chult. Your second c-cup of cocoa!” Astarion stammered, his voice breaking under the strain of excruciating pain. Blood trickled into his mouth from cuts on his forehead and cheeks. “I want to see the world with you. I want you to teach me violin. Please, darling. Don’t—don’t give up now!”

A tremor ran through Jayme’s body, and then—

“Death becomes you, piss-addled pontificator!” Jayme cried out, the most wonderful words he could have exclaimed.

The Prophet of Bhaal recoiled as if stung, the Cutting Words shattering his melodic onslaught. 

“Oh, thank the gods…” Astarion sighed, shaking against Jayme's back. Hastily glancing at Jayme’s face, relief swept over him as he saw the return of those ice-blue irises.

“You should be thanking yourself,” Jayme murmured softly.

Before any further words could be exchanged, the Prophet suddenly flung his limbs apart with a bone-chilling howl. Horns erupted from his head, a grotesque herald of what was to come: the Slayer was beginning to manifest.

Astarion braced for the ordeal ahead when, to his astonishment, the Ascendant swaggered forward, placing himself between the two opposing sides.

“Not so fast, sweets. Forgive me for this, won’t you?” he said lightly. Then, with the casual air of approaching an old lover rather than confronting violence incarnate, he closed the distance and sank his fangs into the neck of the transforming Prophet. 

The reckless act left both Astarion and Jayme dumbfounded. They could do nothing but watch as the extraordinary happened.

Not only did the transformation halt, but it began to reverse. The Prophet thrashed in the clutches of the Ascendant, powerless to resist. Nightmarish minutes dragged by until, ultimately, the Prophet went limp in his captor’s arms. 

“Nothing but madness awaits you when you succumb to your papa. I’ve seen it. You’re underestimating His power. And I won’t have you turn into that starved ratling, that itching prowler. Sleep now,” Ascendant Astarion said softly to the half-conscious man. Then, with eerie tenderness, he returned to the Prophet’s neck and drained the last drops of his life essence.

He gently laid the body into the pool of blood. At that moment, the black flowers stopped weeping.

“You’re welcome,” the Ascendant smirked at Jayme and Astarion, his gaze lingering on the latter. “And I believe congratulations are in order. You’ve beaten the Devil’s game—I can feel that his magic binding me to this dimension has been broken.”

“Fantastic. And all I needed to do was convince you not to play along with Raphael’s perverse agenda. Ahh, thank you, my love.” Astarion’s shoulders slumped slightly as Jayme played a quick melody to ease his wounds.

“Don’t be daft. Naturally, that wasn’t the key. The real turning point was you pulling Jayme back from certain doom. You’ve proven yourself strong enough to be his anchor.” He paused, his tone softening almost imperceptibly as he added, “Seeing what you’re capable of—it does wonders for one’s confidence, doesn’t it?”

Astarion had to admit the Ascendant assessed the situation faster than he had. Beneath his swirling emotions, he found a faint, tingling sense of accomplishment. The realization that he had once again protected Jayme from his own abyss felt fiercely liberating.

Seeing the Ascendant awaiting a response, Astarion simply nodded in agreement.

“There! Loathe as I am to revise my opinion, you are not as hopeless as I once believed. You’re not just a small, pathetic little leech after all,” the Ascendant said, smiling.

Astarion’s lips twitched slightly. “Hmm! So, you were mistaken for once,” he teased.

“Oh, please. This was just a stupid game devised by some devil. Hardly worth a second thought.” The Ascendant shrugged. “Now, it’s time I returned to my kingdom and lavished my dark consort with hot love—he’ll be expecting it. Oh, and by the way, I’ve turned my Jayme into a vampire lord. He takes great pleasure in it! Something to consider, should your… circumstances change.”

He gave Jayme a meaningful wink. 

“Wait,” the bard interjected. “Before you leave—how do you know I’d go mad eventually if I were to become Bhaal’s servant?”

“I am the Vampire Ascendant, my dear. Clairvoyance is a little something I enjoy with my afternoon brandy—just for the laughs.” He snickered. “But if you take a deep look into your heart, I’m sure you’re strong enough by now to admit what you’ve always known on some level. Succumbing to Bhaal, to any extent, cannot possibly grant you a happy ending. Ta-ta!”

The Ascendant waved a hand and vanished into thin air.

“What a stuck-up numskull!” Astarion huffed, pulling a fine linen handkerchief from under his armor to wipe the blood from his face. “Your other self has my sympathies. We can both be glad you don’t have to deal with that.” 

“Sure, you wouldn't know anything about snobbery. It’s wholly foreign,” Jayme teased with a grin.

“A touch of snobbery is essential, darling. It ensures decorum, which, in turn, cultivates a taste for the finer things.” He grimaced. “But that… thing is as full of himself as Cazador was! And that’s quite the mind-blowing achievement.”

“Mine is the better Astarion. The very best there is,” Jayme agreed warmly, earning an appreciative kiss. He then gestured to their surroundings. “Are you ready to bring down these walls and kill the Devil?”

“Yes, please! The smell of these flowers mixed with the blood is giving me a brain freeze.”

Jayme shot one last smile at him, then wove a piercing tune into hundreds of tiny shears, which fell to trimming down the hedge. This time, the magic worked. Within moments, the entire maze was reduced to a sea of severed flower parts.

As the walls came down, Solaufein emerged, battered but victorious, his moonlight-coated greatsword in hand. Some distance behind him, Shadowheart sat on the ground in a similar—or perhaps slightly worse—condition, catching her breath. Meanwhile, Gale emerged entirely unscathed, apparently having negotiated a peace with himself. 

One by one, with a loud pop, the bodies of the vanquished alternate selves of Jayme, Solaufein, and Shadowheart disappeared, marking the end of the trial.

Further back, Astarion spotted Volo and Haer’Dalis, who were surveying the aftermath with interest. 

Standing at the same spot on the riverbank, arms crossed over his chest, Raphael’s expression soured as he confirmed that each member of the party had triumphed over their unrealized selves. Nonetheless, he quickly replaced his scowl with a broad, disingenuous smile.

“Had ample fun, I hope. A little test we used to run with Little Grandmother to test the mettle of her visitors,” the Devil said smoothly.

“Absolutely,” Shadowheart chirped. “It was refreshing to hash things out. Now I'm convinced I’ve made the right decisions in my life. Thanks for that!” She pushed herself to her feet. 

She was about to continue, but the words died on her lips as her gaze passed over Astarion. “Astarion! Are you alright?“

He wasn't. The minute the maze came crumbling down, a sharp, stinging sensation began to spread across his skin.

“The blood… it has dissolved the Liquid Night,” Astarion grunted, palming his face desperately. The Feywild may have been cloaked in perpetual twilight, but even the scant sunlight touching Evermeet was enough to harm a vampire spawn.

At once, the air grew fraught with tension—it was now imperative to defeat Raphael as swiftly as possible. Wasting no time, Jayme passionately drew his bow across the violin. 

As with the lamias before, a curious phenomenon occurred: the sound of the violin was replaced by the opulent reverberations of a pipe organ. Jayme’s musical talents seemed to have expanded the tonal palette of his instrument, transmuting its sound altogether. Each bow stroke, vibrato, and pluck translated seamlessly into the depressions of organ keys and pedals, producing a rumbling, intricate mess of notes. 

Meanwhile, Raphael unleashed three successive waves of Hellfire from his hands, devouring the riverbank’s vegetation and igniting a roaring pond of flames.

The music surged forth to greedily consume the fiery edge. Though it could not extinguish the fire, it effectively contained its intensity. If not for the dominant, resounding organ piece, the pond would have become a raging sea within seconds.

Those who could, threw themselves clear of the devastating heat. Shadowheart managed to toss a Sanctuary spell at Gale, who stood at the epicenter of the first wave, but the effort cost her precious seconds. The second wave caught her. 

Jayme heard her cry out, but the thunderous chords demanded his full concentration.

Abruptly, a distant call of a hunting horn cut through the organ melody. In the next blink, just as Astarion was about to shout for Jayme to retreat, silver Moonfire erupted around the bard, his own hair turning to a protective veil against the Hellfire onslaught.

Raphael, seeing the limited success of his attack, took to the air but failed to evade the powerful sound burst from Jayme's violin, channeling Otto’s Irresistible Dance. He plummeted to the ground on the far side of the river. His body was forced into a wild, uncontrollable dance, leaving him defenseless against the incoming barrage of spells—Guiding Bolt, Disintegrate, and Dethrone—all amplified by the unbridled magic of the Feywild.

He snarled at Jayme from across the river, but his frustration only earned a satisfied grin. Jayme sprinted toward Astarion and, with a swift cast of Dimension Door, teleported them both directly in front of Raphael. Another volley of spells followed, courtesy of Gale and Shadowheart: a necrotic Harm and an Artistry of War spell racked the Devil’s body in rapid succession. 

Astarion struck at Raphael, but he dodged each thrust with skill. Then Solaufein closed in, his sword aimed at Raphael’s torso. As Raphael twisted to avoid the blade, he left his opposite flank unguarded. Evading two attackers was impossible while his feet were trapped in a frenzied mazurka. Astarion seized the opening, delivering two lethal slashes to Raphael’s neck. 

His face contorted in a vicious grimace, Raphael’s head toppled to the ground. His body dissolved into a pool of ichor, and the Hellfire around him extinguished as it did, leaving behind a field of scorched willows and charred flowers. The silver Moonfire cocooning Jayme's body dwindled and faded.

In a heartbeat, Jayme was at Astarion’s side, with the rest of the group following close behind.

"We should return to the tavern at once," Gale proposed, his brow drawn into a frown.

"No, I'll manage. It’s just the twilight Sun, not the blazing noonday Sun,” Astarion groaned. “We need to figure out how to pursue Raphael to Avernus while he's still weakened—and put an end to him once and for all." His pallid skin took on a sickly gray hue, deepening with each passing moment.

“How likely are we to find a diabolist on this plane?” Shadowheart mused, finishing a torrent of healing spells on herself. She exhaled in relief as her skin, raw and red with exposed patches of flesh, returned to its normal color. She then turned her attention to Astarion.

“Allow me,” Volo muttered and pointed one of his rings at the vampire. A Cure Critical Wounds spell flowed forth, mending Astarion's scorched skin.

“Ahh, thank you!” Astarion sighed, touching his knuckles to his face. The healing offered only a fleeting reprieve, of course—the burn resumed almost instantly.

“What a clever trinket you possess,” Shadowheart remarked. 

“It was a gift from my good old friend, Elminster. It’s the least I can do for you. I wish I could have done more...” Volo admitted, his tone sheepish.

“Back to the matter at hand. Does anyone know a fast way to descend into Avernus?” Astarion asked.

“I’m thinking… a teleportation circle,” Gale suggested readily, “but considering that several components are required—"

“A fast way, Gale,” Astarion interrupted.

“Baba Yaga’s mortar and pestle,” Solaufein interjected, glancing meaningfully at Jayme. 

“Indeed. Thanks for the reminder,” Jayme nodded. “It’s in my bag, back at the tavern.”

“I’ve brought your bag, dark sparrow,” Haer’Dalis said, stepping forward and handing Jayme his bag of holding. “And yours too, pale raven.”

“How incredibly kind of you! A million thanks!” Astarion snatched his bag and hurriedly stuck an arm inside, fumbling for a vial of Liquid Night.

“Wait, mortar and pestle… the mortar and pestle from the fables?” Gale’s eyes widened. "The magic in them is ancient and mystifying! Those artifacts are said to be the cornerstone of Baba Yaga's rise to the rank of an archfey. Her travels spanned the realms like few others. Just picture the boundless possibilities, the knowledge to be gained...!”

“Mmm, I barely remember those fables.” Shadowheart creased her forehead in thought. “Baba Yaga flew in it, right? And used the pestle as an oar? How fast is it supposed to be?”

“According to folklore,” Solaufein supplied, “grinding or pasting a substance from the destination inside the mortar ensures the traveler's arrival within a minute—provided it is night time.”

Shadowheart’s green eyes shone with anticipation, only for that anticipation to subside as Jayme retrieved the small, unassuming wooden items.

“Is that… it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Looks can be deceiving, my moonlark. Our dark sparrow needs only wish for the tools to expand,” Haer’Dalis explained. “The mortar is said to be able to hold an ogre.”

Sure enough, as Jayme focused, they leaped from his hands and began to grow. The transformation was swift: the mortar swelled to the size of a large wine barrel, and the pestle grew proportionally. Two average-sized adults could just about fit inside.

“However I’m looking at it, we won’t all fit,” Shadowheart observed quietly.

“You don’t need to,” Jayme said, exchanging a glance with Astarion. “I’ll go.”

“You and me both, darling. I'm with you through thick and thin. Or, I should say, till death do us part,” Astarion said with a wink.

His skin quickly reverted to a dusty, ash-gray color. His fingers trembling, he dabbed Liquid Night on his worst burns. Then suddenly, he froze.

“Wait…no. Oh no!” he groaned. “I can’t set foot in the House of Hope unless invited by its owner! Dark tits of—”

He launched into a curse of such length and elaborate construction that even Jayme, a master of Vicious Mockery, regarded him with admiration. The tirade grew so intricate that it eventually blended elven, duergar, and drow words, causing Solaufein’s brow to lift in surprise.

“I have not heard oloth plynn dos for decades.” the drow muttered. “I did not miss it in the least.”

“I’ll go alone, then,” Jayme said evenly once Astarion fell silent, and casually set to swapping his doublet for his Elven Chain armor.

“Are you mad? It’s the House of Hope we’re talking about!” Gale exclaimed.

“I’m the one who signed that contract with Raphael,” Jayme replied. “None of you supported it, did you? I’ll be the one to make this right.”

"You've gained a tremendous amount of power since the last encounter, haven't you?” Astarion asked, gazing at Jayme with big, hopeful eyes. “For instance, you can whip out something like that killer organ composition again, right?"

Jayme responded by planting a long, reassuring kiss on his forehead.

“Ah, that was a performance for the ages—a true marvel to hear!” Volo whispered with raw enthusiasm. “You must regale me with the secret of that exotic technique at a more opportune time.”

“It’s simple. The secret lies in the magic of the Feywild,” Jayme explained as he climbed into the mortar. “This has never happened in Faerûn; it must be the Feywild's influence.”

“Meaning you probably won’t have this… tool at your disposal down there,” Shadowheart pointed out seriously.

“True, but I have something else in reserve. The Feywild has taught me much about myself,” Jayme replied, all smooth and bold grace.

Delicious, Astarion thought.

“That hunting horn we heard,” Solaufein said quietly as he scooped some of Raphael’s ichor into the mortar, “and the Moonfire. You were protected by the Lady of the Dance herself. Whatever inner journey you have experienced has forged you into a force of good.”

Hope flickered in Astarion’s eyes as he turned to the drow.

“Oh! Do you think you could entreat her to extend her protection to Jayme in Avernus too?”

“Regrettably, she does not grant blessings in that manner.” Solaufein shook his head. “And this marked the second occasion of her intervention already. She spared Jayme from death once before. This is a rare demonstration of her favor.”

“Gods and superior entities have always harbored an avid curiosity about the Bhaalspawn. Quite understandably,” Volo commented, before Astarion's alarmed outburst drowned him out.

“What? Spared him from death?! When? How?”

“I’ll tell you later. Wait for me in our room,” Jayme murmured, gently brushing Astarion’s cheek with his gloved knuckles.

“Fine. You’ve got until the morning to return. Take any longer, and I’m coming after you—and not even Mephistopheles himself will hold me back. I’ll shake the gates of the House of Hope until Raphael is forced to come out!” Astarion declared and embraced Jayme tightly over the edge of the mortar.

Shadowheart and Gale exchanged warm smiles as they watched.

“Allow me to join you, dark sparrow,” Haer’Dalis spoke up suddenly, gripping the hilts of his short swords. “My greensteel guardian angels, Entropy and Chaos, are eager to dance, and this sparrow is ready to fly at your command. Together, we shall smite the vile cambions in a spectacular parade of valor!”

“Come aboard,” Jayme said with a smile, stepping aside to give the tiefling room.

“Hold on a minute!” Shadowheart interjected, her expression brightening with a sudden idea. “We may not be able to accompany you to Avernus, but… we do know of two friends who are already down there. And one of them happens to be a veteran devil-slayer.”

“Of course…” Astarion whispered. “You’re a genius! Thank you!” He leaped to Shadowheart and swept her into a hug.

“Ah, yes, I’m well aware,” Shadowheart laughed, patting Astarion’s back as he refused to let go. “Alright, enough now! We’ll add this to the list of your debts. It’s truly a massive list by now. You better think of something fabulous to repay me—and everyone else here, for that matter.”

“I will. I swear I will,” Astarion said, still clutching her arms.

“A fantastic idea, Shadowheart!” Gale smiled. “Jayme, give Karlach and Wyll our regards please.”

“Will do,” Jayme replied, grinning. “I never thought I’d see them again.”

“Silver lining,” Gale nodded.

Gale is right, Astarion thought. This mortar opens new and exciting horizons for the future.

“Before you go, Jayme,” Solaufein said, producing three items from underneath his armor: Baba Yaga’s Gem of Seeing, Ring of Free Action, and a flask of snow-white liquid. “Take these with you. And drink this—a Draught of Sound Memory. A rare brew only found near some fey crossings. It reverses the effects of a Draught of Forgetfulness and wards against the memory loss common to those departing the Feywild. I have been saving it, waiting for a time when I might need to leave this plane. But you need it more than I do now.”

He unclasped his crimson Piwafwi of Fire Resistance from his shoulders and silently attached it to Jayme’s Elven Chain armor.

“I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve done for me, but I’ll find a way.” Jayme gave the drow a meaningful glance, wordlessly expressing his deep gratitude.

This time, Astarion felt no jealousy, only gratefulness.

“Think nothing of it,” Solaufein replied in a light but warm tone. “I have told you before; your cause is a worthy one I am honored to be aiding.”

No further words were spoken.

Uncorking the Draught of Sound Memory, Jayme downed half and passed the rest to Haer'Dalis. He then prepared the mortar by smearing the ichor across its bottom with the pestle. Haer'Dalis climbed in.

“To Karlach, in Avernus,” Jayme named the destination.

Swift as the wind they rose into the air, hovered briefly, and winked out of existence with a distinct pop.

Astarion sighed heavily.

 

“Well, this is it, soldier.” Karlach shuddered as she entered the House of Hope. The gates were, ominously, open and unguarded. “By all the stinking devils, I never would’ve thought I’d set foot in this hellhole again…”

In the next second, a beaming smile broke across her face and she reached out to squeeze Jayme’s shoulder none-too-gently. “But then again, I never thought I’d fight by your side again! Ha ha! I’ll be damned if this is not my best day in Hell so far!”

True to the fables, the mortar had transported Jayme and Haer’Dalis to the Hells in under a minute—a blur of colors. They materialized beside Karlach with a soft thump, making her jump. She’d been scouting a nest of shrieking vargouilles from atop a red sandy hill, crawling on all fours. They found her alone. Wyll was temporarily away on an important quest of his own—some bitter affair involving Mizora, of course.

“That blasted, arrogant bitch can’t accept losing,” Karlach said darkly once she recovered from the shock of seeing Jayme and released him from a bearhug. “She’s been plotting and scheming, making our lives a misery ever since our descent. At Zariel’s behest, she claims. But I’m not so sure. I have a feeling her pride took a serious hit when Wyll managed to outplay her. In any case, Wyll has decided to prepare a little surprise for her. We agreed to meet up in three days. He’ll be gutted when he learns he missed his chance to meet you. And, gods damn it, I’m so, so, SO glad I didn’t!”

With that, Jayme was pulled into the next bone-crushing embrace. Karlach’s exhilaration promised many more to come. Though Karlach still radiated the heat of a furnace, Dammon’s upgrades allowed her to touch and be touched.

Afterward, they flew to the House of Hope together; Jayme and Haer’Dalis in the mortar, Karlach on the back of a curiously docile imp she had recently won over. Jayme caught her up on everything that had happened while she was gone.

And here they were now, crossing the threshold to the Devil’s abode.

“We owe our gratitude to Raphael for creating this opportunity for us to meet,” Jayme smirked.

“Oh, yes! I’ll make sure to thank him right before I bash his cocky face in!” Karlach yelled, smashing a fist into her palm. Small spirals of fire erupted from her skin as she did so.

“Behold, a dame; ablaze with fervor and flame!” Haer’Dalis exclaimed.

“Uh, dame? Who are you talking about?” Karlach asked, turning her head this way and that in confusion.

The House of Hope, at first glance, appeared abandoned, a mere shadow of its former self. Jayme’s initial thought was that the Eternal Debtors, the majority of its former residents, had perhaps fled while Raphael was lying cold in the foyer. The absence of mumbling souls wandering the corridors made the diabolic estate feel even more somber.

Unlike last time, most of the candles were unlit, the fireplaces left cold. The scarce lighting did little to hide the noticeable deterioration of the old grandeur and extravagance. Dust covered the formerly well-maintained furniture, which lay overturned in places. One of the black marble statues portraying the Devil in all his glory was shattered on the floor. The spoiled remnants of the once sumptuous feasts emitted a rotten smell.

The House had clearly suffered its master's wrath and fallen into dilapidation. Had Raphael been this busy observing Jayme and Astarion’s desperate scrambling? Or did the eerie silence and absence of servants signify something else?

“The Crown of Karsus,” Jayme whispered, a sudden realization dawning as he entered the inner halls with Haer’Dalis and Karlach by his side. “Could it still be in the Chionthar?”

“I beg your pardon? Did you not arrange its safekeeping?” Haer’Dalis inquired as he examined the House of Hope with bright eyes. “Volothamp shared this tidbit of your tale, suggesting the Crown was in your keeping.”

“Gale intended to recover it, but then, on the night after our victory—” Jayme began quietly, and the tiefling inferred the rest.

“Ah! The Devil Raphael set his plot in motion and Gale found himself otherwise occupied. Now, the question: is it still there, ripe for the picking? Or—” 

“Bravo, dearest friends! You have restored my faith in your mental capabilities!” came a rumbling voice from out of nowhere, dripping with sarcasm. “Where is the Crown, oh, where indeed? Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The trio quickly scanned their surroundings, but the Devil was nowhere to be seen. Jayme propped his violin under his chin and readied his bow, while Haer’Dalis gulped down a Potion of Fire Resistance. Karlach gripped the handle of her greataxe tightly.

“One thing is certain: you don’t have it yet,” Jayme assessed coolly. “You’d have flaunted it during our fight.”

A brief silence fell. Jayme's fingers tightened on the neck of his violin.

“An astute observation,” Raphael conceded. “But rest assured, I still have a significant ally on my side: time. The longer you tarry with the inevitable, the more likely my minions are to seize the Crown. And when they do…”

A low, chilling snicker echoed through the dimly lit corridors.

“Fuck…” Karlach cursed. “We have no time to waste.”

They approached the boudoir. Its ornate door stood wide open this time. Inside, Jayme saw a fiend slumped against the wall, heavy infernal iron chains binding its wrists and ankles. Haer’Dalis and Karlach stayed outside, keeping watch, while Jayme slipped inside the dark chamber.

As he drew closer, he recognized the red-skinned, winged figure clad in a leather body harness and undergarments—Haarlep, Raphael’s pet incubus.

Jayme closed the remaining distance and prodded the fiend with his foot. The creature jolted nervously, casting unfocused eyes toward the bard.

“It’s… you again! Have you come to accomplish what you couldn’t last time?” Haarlep whispered weakly.

“Where’s Raphael? He must be nearby, recuperating,” Jayme asked, sweeping his gaze across the room once more. His eyes lingered on the rejuvenating pool in the chamber’s center. Its once pristine aquamarine water was now a stagnant broth of ichor, scraps of innards, and unidentified gray filth. 

“I can guide you to his hiding place.” the incubus mumbled, his yellow eyes glassy. “But you have to set me free first.”

Feeling the clock ticking away precious moments, Jayme didn’t hesitate. He played a short phrase to cast a Knock spell on the chains. 

But something was wrong. The loud knock—the feedback of success that should have followed the spell—never came. The chains had not been locked to begin with.

Before Jayme could fully process his confusion, “Haarlep’s” haggard face underwent a startling transformation. The fog of disorientation lifted, replaced by a malicious grin. He shot upright, wrested the violin and bow from Jayme’s grasp, and flew across the filthy pool to the far side of the boudoir.

Fear gripped Jayme. He should have seen through the cunning deception. With the Gem of Seeing in his pocket, he should have deduced that the absence of glamor masking Haarlep's true form meant this was, in fact, Raphael in disguise. It was a terrible oversight.

Karlach and Haer’Dalis stormed into the chamber, weapons primed, but they were too late to halt the impending disaster.

With two fluid motions, Raphael raised Jayme’s violin and bow high, then brought them down sharply, snapping them in half over his knee. 

The crack echoed through the chamber, piercing Jayme’s heart like a dagger.

The seed of fear burst into a suffocating wave of horror and fury. Jayme's mind went blank. Shock and resentment battled within him, pushing him to the brink. The urge to lash out, to make the Devil pay for this, was almost unbearable—but so was the crushing weight of despair.

It was madness. 

As if summoned by the chaos, his old Urge roared to life, dark curses spilling from its bared fangs. It was supposed to be muzzled, but Jayme felt his control slipping. He came perilously close to being consumed by the beast again and only just managed to seize the leash.

You want to murder so badly? Jayme addressed the seething Urge inside his skull. Then come and murder for me. With me. Wreak havoc. Submerge the Devil in our own Hell. Not for my Father. Your new master is me now, and you will obey me alone.

There was an infinitely long second of silence. Deliberation.

Point, and I’ll strike, came the rasping response, audible to none but Jayme. But do not dawdle. Blood must be spilt.

It shall be so, Jayme smiled darkly.

But first, he needed an instrument. His bloodshot eyes roved across the chamber, noting with icy detachment that roughly two dozen cambions appeared as if they’d blinked into existence to aid their master. 

Haer’Dalis and Karlach engaged them at once. Haer’Dalis conjured a water elemental, then unleashed a volley of spells—Haste, Blur, Banishing Smite—before executing a deadly yet elegant dual-sword flourish. Karlach did what she did best: she swung her axe and chopped limbs off. 

“The song is over, bard,” Raphael scoffed, ignoring the ongoing fight and maintaining a gaze of venomous satisfaction on Jayme across the pool. He cast the broken halves of the violin aside. The dull thud of wood against marble sent a jarring sensation through Jayme's bones. The fractured bow, held together by a few remaining hairs, stayed in the Devil’s hands.

“Although!” Raphael added. “I’m inclined to be magnanimous and grant you a final choral hymn to pave your path to the Fugue Plane. It shall be a tune you are... intimately familiar with.”

As though impersonating a conductor, Raphael waved the bow once, then twice, igniting trails of Hellfire around the boudoir to form a summoning circle. Suddenly, hoarse whispers filled the air, punctuated by short, strident cries from an unseen violin.

Jayme held still in silent observation, waiting for the Devil's next move to unfold.

Haer’Dalis, misinterpreting the bard’s stillness, cried out between two whirlwind attacks, “Even gods can be resisted, Jayme! Stand tall and fight Him!”

He must have seen the brutality of a Bhaalspawn flaring in his eyes and feared the worst. Unbeknownst to him, his cry echoed Jaheira’s words from another time. Jayme quirked a cool smile. Yes, he thought, they can. Gods, devils, or ghosts of the past—it matters not. I have my will, the only weapon I need.

The voices swelled, rising into a crescendo of spectral wails that crashed over Jayme in a torrent of black hatred, threatening to unhinge him.

“Enjoy the fruits of your diligent labor as a young Bhaalspawn!” Raphael shouted through the cacophony. “These souls are all begging to give you a piece of their minds—whatever is left of them!” He broke into a gale of laughter.

But he didn’t know. Couldn’t have known that Jayme had emerged from the Feywild hardened and focused, not unbalanced. That he had learned to dance on the white coal.

Even as the waves of abhorrence tore at his flesh, Jayme reached deep into the woes of the countless lives he had taken. From their suffering and red-hot wrath, he spun blazing flames and sculpted the fire into the shape of a hellish violin.

Only the bow is missing, he mused. What shall it be?

His old Urge susurrated in answer, “Use me to direct your sins. I am your ferocity, honed to glorious perfection.”

“Hold on Jayme!” Karlach yelled. “The Dark Urge is not you!”

But it was, in part—would be—his servant, his weapon. Sweet Karlach worried needlessly.

Jayme set his sights on a cambion that Haer’Dalis had sliced open and strode toward it. Raphael, all traces of amusement gone from his demeanor, immediately hurled a Ravaging Inferno at the bard. A livid roar escaped him as Jayme draped Solaufein’s Piwafwi of Fire Resistance over himself, letting the Inferno combust harmlessly against the enchanted fabric.

The fire singed the crimson cloak—the piwafwi's protective magic clearly expended—and melted the flesh from the cambion’s bones.

Unperturbed, Jayme stooped gracefully and retrieved the fiend’s femur. It was shorter than a standard bow, but it would suffice. The Urge, he knew, would synthesize his unholy instrument.

“You would fight a devil with fire? How inept are you?!” Raphael barked, glaring at the fiery violin now resting on Jayme’s shoulder—a fearsome weapon that would have incinerated anyone but its master.

“Oh, but this isn’t like your Hellfire,” Jayme responded, his voice calm and commanding as he assumed the stance for performing. “This is the combined power of my victims' fury and my animal impulses. This is my boiling blood.”

He set the femur to the blazing strings, beginning with a measured allegretto that climbed toward a frenzied presto. Intertwining phrases surged together as he drew sound from the bone. Sparks flew when he ricocheted the bow across the strings, a flurry of rapid notes flashing against the smooth flow of legato lines. The strings thundered beneath his hammering strokes, only to break off into a series of jaunty plucks that leapt with sudden lightness. Trills and flourishes swept over the theme, shaping the song into a fierce, narrative arc.

He titled his piece In Blood and Song, Redemption.

The music poured, its fiery resonance coursing through the halls and reaching the Archive. There, it tore through Raphael's contracts, reducing them to fragmented scraps of magical parchment.

Raphael stood transfixed by the melodic attack, but the moment his prized contracts were destroyed, he hurled himself at Jayme with an enraged bellow.

At Jayme’s mute command, the fiery violin reshaped itself into a blistering blade around the femur. He swung the makeshift hellsword at Raphael and severed his clawed hands clean from the wrists before they could rend his flesh.

An anguished groan escaped the Devil as he recoiled, but his rage immediately propelled him forward once more. This time, he twisted past Jayme’s second strike, and sank his teeth into the underside of Jayme’s right upper arm where the chainmail left him vulnerable. His fangs lacerated the thick leather armor as if it were mere skin.

Jayme cried out as the sharp pain lanced through his arm. His grip faltered on the hellsword, nearly dropping it, but he caught it with his left hand. The blade morphed back into a violin, sliding effortlessly into place under his chin.

With his uninjured hand, Jayme plucked the fire-strings in a speedy left-hand pizzicato. A grin spread like wildfire across his face despite the ravaging pain pulsing through his arm, Raphael’s jaws still locked around it. The notes were not a lavish composition but something far more potent: pure mockery. To Raphael’s ears: the squeaking of mice.

“Down here come the claws, eh? Or do they? Where are they now?” Jayme jeered, his grin masking the tremor in his lips.

The Devil squinted. The music stung him. Seared. Bit. With a bestial growl, he wrenched himself backward, ripping a chunk of flesh from Jayme’s arm. He backstepped for momentum and pounced at the bard, going for the throat.

Fighting through the exploding agony in his right arm, Jayme willed the Dark Urge’s might to reshape the femur into a hellsword once more. Raphael was upon him before his stance could fully adjust. Jayme braced—and thrust.

The impact drove them both to the ground, Raphael landing on top of Jayme, impaled. The Devil gurgled, belching blood and sulfurous pus, the foul mixture splattering across Jayme’s face. Jayme smirked, welcoming the grotesque baptism.

“You should have waited until the Crown was on your head,” Jayme murmured, speaking slowly so no word escaped the dying Devil’s hearing. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? When you saw us in the tavern—our merry group, about to credit your schemes to someone else—you just had to interfere. You’re a narcissist to the bitter end. And when you sensed the darkness in me, raw and exposed, you thought you’d already won, hm? You imagined my descent into servitude was inevitable.”

“But you miscalculated, didn’t you?” Jayme’s smirk deepened. “You never considered that the darkness might be answering me, not the other way around. Now, you might be wondering how this came to be. The answer is simple. I arrived at the Feywild armed with a decisive advantage: the iron will to return to the one who has picked the lock on my cage.”

Raphael spewed neither insults nor curses in response. In dignified silence, he bore the lecture—Jayme’s parting gift.

Their gazes remained locked as the bard watched the Devil exhale his soul.

Even as the lifeless body began to cool, he couldn't tear his gaze from the vacant yellow irises. He might have stayed pinned there indefinitely if not for Karlach. The barbarian grabbed Raphael by the leather harness and pulled him off Jayme. By then, the fury-flames of the Urge had subsided, leaving only the femur jutting out from the Devil's back. The Hellfires had died down.

“By the God of Reckless Fools! Are you well, my dark sparrow?” Haer’Dalis asked, his usual bravado replaced by concern, extending a hand to Jayme. 

Accepting the offered hand, Jayme rose slowly, still ensnared in a daze-like stupor. As the heat ebbed from his blood, a bone-deep exhaustion washed over him. He staggered, on the verge of collapse, but Karlach was quick to steady him with strong hands.

“I am. Now I am,” Jayme murmured, swiping a quivering hand across his face to clear the worst of the gore—how odious it smelled! 

“Drink this. For your arm.” Karlach gently pressed a Potion of Supreme Healing into his palm. Jayme obeyed wordlessly. The bitter liquid, a concoction unlike any he'd encountered on Toril, stung his tongue like wyvern’s bile.

“Thanks… A few months ago, I wouldn’t have stopped at Raphael’s death,” Jayme said quietly, wincing as the gaping wound in his arm started closing, though imperfectly. It would take more than a health potion to mend an injury of this severity. “I likely would’ve ended up killing you too in my bloodlust. But now the Urge sleeps. It obeys me.”

He breathed in slowly—self-authority tasted inordinately sweet, and not even the sulfurous stench of Raphael’s House could spoil this blaze of glory.

“Soldier. You gave me quite a scare! For a moment there, I thought you were going to lose yourself.” Karlach said softly, throwing her arms around Jayme’s neck. “I… haven't seen you look that fierce since you dueled Orin. Thought we’d lost you to Bhaal or something. And those screams! Those were… the people you killed, weren’t they?”

“Yes. It must have been shocking for you to hear.”

“It’s okay. It’s in the past now. I know you. You. You’re a good person, you hear me?” Karlach insisted, cupping Jayme’s face in her hot palms to make sure her message sank in.

Sweet Karlach.

Jayme stared into her fiery orange eyes, so full of trust and affection. He thought about telling her the truth—that his past was darker than she or any of them could imagine. She had no idea. But in the end, he simply nodded. Not out of shame, but because Karlach was right about one thing: it was in the past. And it would never, ever become the present again. He would make certain of it.

“We should head back,” Jayme said with a weary sigh, glancing toward Haer’Dalis. “Raphael’s minions are still searching for the Crown. Gale needs to work faster than they do.”

Only then did he notice the injuries marring the tiefling bard. A gaping gash scored his left thigh, and smaller burns and cuts peppered his skin—souvenirs from the cambions' relentless counterattacks during his fleet-footed maneuvers. Despite it all, Haer’Dalis stood steady, his poise as unshaken as ever.

“Here, let me,” Jayme offered, borrowing the tiefling’s violin to cast a Healing spell and stem the bleeding. His right arm throbbed as he handled the bow, but he stubbornly played on because nothing could ever stop him from making music. 

Turning, he inspected Karlach’s condition, ready to channel magic into her if needed, but she had barely sustained any injuries. The veteran devil-slayer , he thought with admiration.

“My sincerest gratitude. A glorious fray unfolded 'fore mine eyes, and my heart swells with joy to have played a part in this epic tale!” Haer’Dalis gushed, a brilliant smile lighting his face.

“Yeah. Good fucking riddance!” Karlach slammed her fist into her open palm.

The stark contrast between their post-battle reviews drew a quiet chuckle from Jayme. His smile faded once he returned Haer’Dalis’ violin and went to collect what remained of his own instrument.

“It shall be mended in the Feywild, fear not,” Haer’Dalis hurried to console him.

“If that’s possible at all,” Jayme replied quietly, carefully picking up the pieces. He placed them gently in his bag of holding to avoid any further splintering.

“If anywhere, it’s on the Plane of Faerie. Beyond any doubt,” the tiefling bard assured. “I have witnessed miracles far greater than a luthier restoring broken wood. Now, let us away!”

“There’s one more thing I need to check,” Jayme said, his mind turning to a memory. Not all residents of the House of Hope had been abominable or beyond help.

The trio ventured into the estate’s prison. The hatch was shut but unbarred. Descending the ladder, they were greeted by a profoundly unsettling scene.

Two figures dangled upside down from chains, unconscious and drained of all color, their bodies incised with surgical precision in vertical lines. Blood seeped continuously from the wounds, but some cruel magic defied gravity, causing the crimson stream to levitate upward, only to reenter their bodies through the cuts on their legs—a torment of being endlessly bled.

Jayme recognized them immediately: Haarlep and Hope. Approaching the latter, he examined the infernal locks on her chains. They seemed weakened by Raphael’s demise; he found them surprisingly easy to pick. Before opening them, he cast a Healing spell on Hope, drawing from the last reserves of his mental strength.

When the magic proved insufficient to stitch together her flesh, Haer’Dalis stepped forward. He carefully administered a Healing potion drop by drop into the dwarf cleric's mouth. 

“This is my final bottle, mind you. We shall have no means to heal the other prisoner,” the tiefling said.

“That’s alright,” Jayme nodded. “Hope will decide whether he lives or dies.”

“Hope?” Haer’Dalis raised a curious brow.

“This woman is Hope. She must live.”

After the gruesome wounds sealed, Jayme eased the cleric to the ground and roused her. Hope’s eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at him, croaking out weak, barely audible words.

“I knew you’d come back. I prayed you would. He… rose from the dead. Shortly after you left.”

“I know,” Jayme said quietly. “He thrashed his home in his blind fury, didn’t he?”

Hope squeezed her eyes shut. “Not right away. First, he locked us all in here—vanished to some other plane. Then he came back… he was mad-oh-mad-oh-so-mad. A raging tempest! He rampaged... Cursed some ‘harps’ or something. No… ‘harpists’.”

“Harpers?” Jayme asked with surprise, helping the cleric to her feet.

Jaheira, he thought. She’d done her part back in Baldur’s Gate, delaying Raphael. He couldn’t be thankful enough. Without that delay, the Archdevil Supreme might well have been dancing on their graves by now.

“Maybe. Don’t know. Then he sent everyone who was groveling for forgiveness to find the Crown of Karsus. Killed those who didn’t—didn’t kowtow beautifully enough. And those he deemed unfit for the task. And then…then he punished the ones who were responsible for his death.” Hope’s gaze flicked to Haarlep’s still form.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through. I made sure this time. He’s dead for good,” Jayme said.

“How can you be so sure?” Hope whispered feebly. “We were so sure before…”

“I tore all his contracts to shreds.”

“Ha… ha ha ha! Clever… you’re a clever little mouse!” A small, unsteady smile touched Hope’s lips. “Then Hope… dies last. In truth.”

Afterward, they emerged from the prison. Hope promised to tend to Haarlep once she regained her strength. It was time to say goodbye to Karlach and hurry back to the Feywild.

“Will you… consider visiting me again, sometime?” Karlach asked, her voice trembling. “Please, soldier. With Astarion. I know this place stinks, but... I just miss you guys so, so much!”

“Of course we will. Silly of you to even ask. It’ll be smooth sailing with this mortar,” Jayme wove his arms around her waist. Karlach returned the embrace with three times the force. “Besides, next time, we want to say hello to the Blade of Avernus too. Give him my regards until then, will you?”

“I will!” Karlach whispered, sniffing loudly.

“Thank you, Karlach. Couldn’t have done it without you,” Jayme murmured, holding her as tightly as his aching arm would let him.

“Silly of you to thank me. Any time!” She finally released him, wiping the tears from her face. She then waved a hand at Haer’Dalis. “And you. It was nice meeting you! You handle yourself in a fight like a champ.”

“Likewise, my enchanting phoenix! Your prowess is a sight to behold—mighty strength, in movements plain and true.”

“Phoenix? Who are you talking to again?” Karlach shook her head with a confused little smile.

After one last rib-squeezing hug, Karlach climbed onto the back of her imp. She twisted around twice to call out to Jayme—”Come visit soon!” and “VERY soon!!”

Jayme and Haer’Dalis boarded Baba Yaga’s mortar. They pressed a single iris from Nimlith at its base, and bid farewell to the House of Hope, leaving it under the care of its new, recovering mistress.

In the hours following the riverbank encounter, Astarion sat huddled by the window of the Holy Ground tavern. His foot tapped ceaselessly under the table, and his eyes strained as he scanned the skies.

Though it was confirmed that the tavern keeper had been murdered by Raphael, the staff pressed on, determined to keep the establishment running. A satyr duo played mournful songs on harp and flute to honor the unfortunate departed. The plaintive melodies did nothing to lighten Astarion's mood.

His friends had tried, repeatedly, to strike up a conversation, but each attempt fell flat. His haunted eyes and curt responses stifled any chance of banter.

“Have a drink, Astarion. It’ll take the edge off,” Gale suggested, well-meaning, breaking the prolonged silence. He sat across from the vampire, lifting a goblet of Dewberry wine to his mouth as if to set an example. With his free hand, he gestured toward the nearly full carafe on the table, from which only Shadowheart and Volo had indulged.

“Don’t be absurd. How could I?” Astarion grumbled, his gaze never leaving the window.

“Astarion turning down a drink? Wow, the Hells must have frozen over…” Shadowheart quipped, seated beside him.

“That was in poor taste, dear,” Astarion snapped, though his irritation quickly softened into a wry smirk. “Although, if the Devil’s arse freezes in the process…”

“See? There’s the spirit,” Shadowheart said, leaning forward in her chair. “Now, how about we pass the time with some conversation instead of watching you spiral into madness?”

“A conversation about what, pray tell? The weather? Scenic spots in the Feywild? Perhaps some poetry?” Astarion jeered, casting a sharp, annoyed glance around the table.

“I could craft a fitting poem for the occasion,” Volo volunteered.

“No,” Astarion said, his voice low and menacing. Gale and Shadowheart vigorously shook their heads, warning Volo off. 

“Come now, a stirring saga is destined to uplift the soul! You have the Volo seal of guarantee on that!” Volo insisted. 

Just as Astarion's patience began to fray and he prepared to unleash a sharp retort, Solaufein interjected calmly.

“There may not be a need for that.”

Boris screeched excitedly from his perch on the ceiling.

A playful wind blew in through the window, brushing tenderly against Astarion’s face. Whatever words he had lined up were instantly abandoned as he whipped his head toward the window. His eyes scrutinized the vermilion-amber sky, narrowing in concentration. Nothing was visible yet, but the air pulsated with mysterious magic. Whether it was benevolent or malevolent remained unclear.

“Hold on, Astarion!” Shadowheart called after him, but he had already bolted, one foot out the tavern door.

He sprinted to the rear of the building, eyes fixed upward. Uncertain where to focus or where to anchor himself, he scurried from one spot to another like a riled-up cat.

The wind gained intensity, and moments later, Baba Yaga’s mortar materialized in the distance.

“JAYME!” Astarion shouted at the top of his lungs, unable to contain himself. He ran toward the mortar, skidding to a halt at the river’s edge, where the water barred his path.

The mortar soared through the air at formidable speed but touched down with surprising grace, just in front of him.

Astarion’s eyes devoured the sight of Jayme as he leaped nimbly over the mortar’s edge. He barely registered Haer'Dalis's presence.

They found each other's eyes, and without hesitation, they rushed toward each other, colliding in a fervent embrace.

“You’re back! You’re back…” Astarion’s voice dropped to an incredulous whisper, and he swayed on his feet, giddy with relief.

“I am. Reeking of sulfur and death,” Jayme murmured back, the barest hint of embarrassment coloring his words.

“The most divine aroma I can imagine right now!” Astarion chuckled, his voice catching in his throat. 

He pulled back a little, examining the bard’s face with meticulous care, still needing to confirm this wasn’t some cruel Feywild illusion. But no—Jayme’s warmth remained solid and real in his arms. The look in those ice-blue eyes was vibrant and tender, if somewhat fatigued. That was when Astarion noticed the remnants of a laceration under Jayme’s torn armor.

“Your arm…” he whispered, horrified, his hand hovering uncertainly above the injury.

“Pay it no mind,” Jayme said with his customary nonchalance. “He took a piece of me, but I took his life. A fair trade if you ask me.”

When Astarion’s upset expression didn’t let up, Jayme added softly, “We’ll have it healed.”

“That hag-shagger whoreson…” Astarion hissed.

“Your swearing got a lot more colorful since we first met. I’m impressed.”

“What can I say? I have a superb source of inspiration.”

“You flatter me,” Jayme smirked, gathering Astarion close again.

Jayme’s light-hearted tone was a deliberate effort to keep Astarion from worrying, and Astarion knew it. Every movement must have sent fire through his arm, but he held Astarion tight, intent on soothing him. That sweet heart of his…

The emotions rising in Astarion's chest spilled over. His hand instinctively slid up to the nape of Jayme’s neck. He stroked the spot where he had marked Jayme on that distant day in the bathhouse—his seal. Only the faintest trace remained now, but it was there, and it was wonderful. Even after everything, they were still themselves.

“Now I have everything I could ever want or need,” Astarion breathed into the bard’s ear.

Jayme. Freedom. And Jayme’s freedom.

Perfection.

“There’s something more I can give you,” Jayme murmured a small, mysterious smile playing on his lips. “Something you might not strictly need, but something you definitely want.”

A thrill ran through Astarion at the promise in his voice.

“What would that be, my love?”

Jayme leaned in, his lips brushing close to Astarion’s ear as though sharing a secret.

“A vampire lord’s blood given freely,” he whispered.

The world tilted. Then again. And again. And if someone had told Astarion that they’d both been lifted to Arvandor in that moment, he wouldn't have doubted it for a second.

Notes:

Oloth plynn dos = "Darkness take you", a Drow curse to non-Drow. Sounds so melodic, doesn't it? :)

Chapter 18: I - I'd be home with you, I'd be home with you

Summary:

I have never known peace
Like the damp grass that yields to me
I have never known hunger
Like these insects that feast on me
A thousand teeth
And yours among them, I know
Our hungers appeased
Our heartbeats becoming slow

We lay here for years or for hours
Thrown here or found
To freeze or to thaw
So long we become the flowers
Two corpses we were
Two corpses I saw

And they'd find us in a week
When the weather gets hot
After the insects have made their claim
I'd be home with you
I'd be home with you

Hozier – In A Week

“You know, my treasure, I daresay we owe that dastardly Devil a sliver of gratitude,” Astarion cooed, looking back over his shoulder to ensure his voice carried to Jayme behind him over the rushing headwind.

The pair rode Boris toward Cendriane, where Lord Kannoth was to fulfill his pact with Jayme and turn Astarion into a full-fledged vampire. What had promised to be a sweet, intimate journey was made somewhat less so by the insistence of nearly the entire party—save for Gale—on accompanying them. For protection, they claimed—backup. But Jayme had a not-so-wild hunch the real reason lay in the gleam of curiosity in everyone’s eyes.

Gale had been thoroughly disheartened to miss the event but had to give priority to retrieving the Crown of Karsus from the Chionthar. Once Jayme explained the situation, Gale set off with haste, first to consult the alchemist of Nimlith in hopes of securing a Draught of Sound Memory. Carrying Baba Yaga’s mortar, he vowed to return shortly. Before leaving, Astarion had also charged him with bringing news of their reunion and triumph to Jaheira, Minsc, and Halsin. Astarion had more than a sneaking suspicion they’d be neck-deep in trouble later if they failed to notify the High Harper in good time.

“Oh, cut the act! You were cursing every minute of it until Jayme showed up. Don’t tell me you're suddenly grateful,” Shadowheart snapped from atop another Boris trailing just behind them, holding on to Solaufein for dear life.

“Ahem, excuse me, but this is a private conversation,” Astarion quipped, turning sharply to fix her with a withering glare. “Be a darling and return to discussing the fifty shades of the moonlight, won’t you?” Jayme instinctively tightened his arms around his middle, lest Astarion's dramatic movements send him tumbling from the bat’s back.

“I’ll have you know that Eilistraee’s grace was one of the things that saved Jayme’s life out here,” Shadowheart retorted. “So the next time you speak about the Moon, be a darling and show some respect. And gratitude.”

“Alright, alright, no need to get your knickers in a twist. Gods, you moonatics!” Astarion sighed with exaggerated exasperation. “Speaking of gratitude, I suppose I could be persuaded to, say, share a moment of passion with Jayme under the moonlight. I hear that sort of thing is Eilistraee’s cup of tea.”

“True, that would please Lady Silverhair, without a doubt,” Solaufein chimed in, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Astarion Astarion caught the subtle exchange of glances between the drow and Jayme.

“Raggath under the moonlight, am I right?” Volo piped up from another Boris alongside Shadowheart and Solaufein. A fox-like grin peeking from under his beard, he added, “I’ve overheard Shadowheart repeating that word most diligently. In fact, I’m sure it’s etched in her memory now.”

“Volo!” Shadowheart groaned, her face flushing as red as a beetroot.

“Flawless pronunciation, Volo,” Solaufein said with a beaming smile.

“Lovely. Now that we’ve mastered the theory of Moon-worship, Shadowheart can demonstrate it for us next time. With a willing partner, of course,” Astarion called over his shoulder, then turned forward again as if to say, That should keep them busy. He gave Boris' head a gentle pat and nudged him with his legs, guiding the bat to put a little distance between them and the others. 

When he spoke again, his voice was low, meant only for Jayme. “I have a question for you, dearest. The drow.”

“Solaufein,” Jayme supplied, shifting himself slightly to one side to better see Astarion’s face.

“Yes, Solaufein.” Astarion repeated the name, his lips twisting wryly. “Did you and he ever… console each other?”

“No,” Jayme replied evenly.

“Because it’s fine, you know,” Astarion continued breezily. “If you did. Or if you still want to. I won’t make a fuss about it.”

“Alright then,” Jayme said smoothly with a lewd half-smile. “Since I have your permission, I might just go and do that tonight. Do him. Get a taste of that fabled drow sensuality.”

Though Astarion carefully schooled his features into casual consent, the sudden stiffness of his body gave him away.

“Yes. You do that.”

“Astarion. Why not level with me? And with yourself, while you're at it.”

“But I am! I see it as preferable to you seeking thrills elsewhere, without my knowledge. I have a suspicion that would only drive us apart in time.”

"You're the only thrill I desire. I want only you," Jayme said with quiet ardor.

Astarion’s lips curved into a heartened, if slightly sappy smile.

“Oh, but you must have at least thought about it, with him?” he pressed, his fingers fidgeting lightly on Boris’ neck. “And that’s fine! Like I said.”

“Curious. The way you speak suggests otherwise.”

“Well, I’m not exactly overjoyed, alright? I just got you back. And you haven’t answered the question.”

After a moment of thought, Jayme smoothly replied, “I do find his looks appealing. But no, I’m not interested. He is not you.” Seeing a satisfied glint in Astarion’s eyes, he continued. “This unease about Solaufein… honestly, it's quite surprising coming from you. I remember when you encouraged me to follow my desires with complete indifference. You even suggested I ‘roll around’ with Halsin if that was what I wanted. And when I told you it wasn’t, you seemed more puzzled than anything.”

He leaned closer, and added, “Now, I can’t help but wonder if your words are influenced by the Feywild. If it's stirring some hidden concerns within you.”

Astarion fell into a long silence, his expression pensive as he reflected. He seemed to be earnestly searching for the root of his dislike for the drow.

“If I had to say,” he began slowly, “your familiarity struck me as peculiar, given the short time you’ve spent together. It reminded me of how we were at the start, that’s all. But I’m not worried in the grand scheme of things. I know you and I belong together.”

“I thought all that ‘we belong together’ and ‘meant to be’ talk was cheesy. And doesn’t it invite trouble too?” Jayme smirked.

“How about that? I’m in the mood for cheesy and risky, I suppose. Call it post-traumatic giddiness. Besides, trouble has already happened, and we’ve dealt with it.” Astarion breathed a kiss on the corner of Jayme’s mouth. “But I’m serious, let’s keep talking. I don’t want you to ever feel trapped—with me or by me—in the centuries to come.”

Touched by Astarion’s consideration and choice of words, Jayme nuzzled his temple. At last, he could see what was going on in the rogue’s head.

“The centuries to come. How uplifting that sounds,” Jayme murmured, enjoying the cool, smooth touch of Astarion’s skin. “It reminds me of the Vampire Ascendant’s words. I know now that my ability to even consider centuries comes from the total erasure of my old life. I’ve lost a spiteful Father, a false Mother, a mass of brainsick brethren—and above all, my own hopelessly hubristic self whose reach exceeded his grasp.”

Jayme’s fingers gently squeezed Astarion’s waist. “And in losing all that, I’ve gained a fresh perspective, a new purpose, control over my Urge, and a true family for life.”

“The exchange of the century.” Astarion smiled. “True metanoia .”

“Exactly. But back to our previous topic—I appreciate what you said. I know where it’s coming from. I don’t see it happening, but you'll be the first to know if I ever want to take you up on that. But Solaufein is a friend. A comrade.”

“A gorgeous comrade, isn’t he? Gods, those cheekbones, that body! You must have it really bad for me if you didn’t go for that luscious thing.”

A low chuckle escaped Jayme.

“Well, what can I do?” he sighed, a rare, blissfully helpless sound.

“Nothing, my sweet, not-a-thing. You’ve unequivocally and irreversibly fallen under my spell.”

Jayme bent forward to explore Astarion’s inviting mouth with his tongue.

“Hear me, lovebirds! We'll be reaching our destination soon—mere moments, I’d wager,” Haer’Dalis called out, gesturing below. 

In the distance, the blurred outlines of forlorn bone-white structures and the majestic Crystalline Palace came into view. As the party approached, an unnatural fog descended, gradually obscuring the scene. Like before, an uncanny dark magic hung over the city, likely some form of defensive measure against intruders.

“It’s just like I imagined it as a young spawn! No... even more intense!” Astarion whispered. Jayme pressed a kiss into the nape of his neck.

Contrary to Jayme’s expectation, Boris chose not to take them directly into the Palace. Instead, the clones landed just outside the main gate.

Once everyone was firmly on the ground, Jayme assumed the lead, confidently advancing toward the guardians blocking their way—two wights and four ghouls this time.

“Halt! Only these two may enter the catacombs. The others must remain here,” creaked one of the wights at the front. A clawed, withered finger pointed at Jayme and Astarion.

Jayme glanced back at his party. Each of them met his gaze with the same steely set to their jaws.

“Everyone is going in,” Jayme replied in a steady tone. “We’re not here to cause trouble, but we move as one. You outnumber us vastly; only a fool would try anything in such a situation. Do we look like fools to you?”

The guards, their hollow eyes narrowing with displeasure, tested his resolve as they shambled closer. Jayme held his ground. After a tense pause, the wight relented.

“Enter,” it hissed grudgingly. “But keep your weapons sheathed. One suspicious move, and you shall be made to join our ranks.”

Boris—now unified as a single entity again—emitted a parting squeak before flying ahead into the heart of his residence. The party followed cautiously, their gazes flitting across the macabre surroundings. The oppressive presence of undead, crowding the halls and lurking in every dark corner, swallowed the stark beauty of the endless white granite catacombs.

They found Lord Kannoth in the library again, in the company of his baelnorn liches and beholder zombies studying ancient tomes around the chamber. The vampire king himself was engrossed in a scroll from one of the neat piles on his palatial desk. Behind him, a banshee hovered, methodically transferring ingredients onto a sprawling alchemical table that dominated the corner of the hall.

“So, Cordelia lives,” Jayme remarked casually, as though picking up a conversation left unfinished.

Kannoth didn’t seem to mind the insolent entrance. He quirked an elegant eyebrow but responded in an impassive tone. “Almost. I have implemented some… enhancements to my late assistant. Meet Krobelus.”

“A pleasure,” Jayme smirked.

The banshee whirled around nimble as a dancer, focusing her aquamarine eyes on the party. Though her ghostly, wart-ridden skin and bald head betrayed the hag-like mutation, her posture was now regal, her once twisted limbs straight and slender, her presence radiating power. After a moment of silent scrutiny, Krobelus seemed to lose interest in the visiting mortals and turned away without a word.

“She remains a little reserved; I have yet to restore her tongue,” Kannoth explained and swept his gaze over Jayme’s company, lingering on Astarion a beat longer than the rest. Finally, his attention returned to Jayme. “Now then, what were your thoughts on Cerunnos and his mighty legion of Wild Hunters?”

“To be honest, I was concerned he might decide we were monsters worthy of his hunt,” Jayme admitted, smiling wryly.

“You are not the type he seeks,” the archfey replied with a dismissive wave of his pallid hand.

“Well, we didn't know that,” Jayme said dryly.

“Besides, once you landed before him astride Boris, you were safe. Cerunnos and I share a long history. I oft lend him some of my underlings for the Hunt.”

“Another detail I was not aware of.”

Kannoth crossed his arms. “What are you aware of then, audacious one?”

“That you and I have unfinished business,” Jayme stated. “I’ve brought Astarion, the one you promised your blood to.”

“And I intend to make good on that promise. You’ve proven yourself exceedingly valuable in your service to me. See this amulet? I crafted it from the old Crone’s kidney stones.” He fondly stroked the knobbly, pebbled trinket dangling against his neck. “Oh, how I relished the process of acquiring them!”

His minions rattled in what could only be interpreted as amusement, while Volo’s face turned positively green. 

Kannoth turned to Astarion then, a condescending smile playing across his features. “Welcome, young Szarr spawn.”

Astarion shuddered at the title but refrained from commenting. Instead, he offered a courteous bow to the archfey. “Lord Kannoth. I am honored to receive your favor.”

“Come forward,” Kannoth commanded and watched as Astarion slowly but deliberately circled the table, stopping an arm’s length away.

The archfey’s grayish blue eyes raked over Astarion, head to toe, utterly unabashed. He drew in a deep breath, then another, as if taking in the scent of exotic spices. “You’ve been supping on Jayme’s twisted blood, I see. Bhaal’s taint flows through you, strengthening your frail fledgling frame. In truth, I sense a power in you that rivals that of a true vampire. Must I truly bestow upon you my royal blood?”

Kannoth inclined his head and reached out, his fingers brushing the fang marks on Astarion’s neck with bold familiarity.

If Astarion was startled by the touch, he gave no sign. 

“If it’s all the same to you, Lord Kannoth, I would prefer it,” he said, his tone perfectly composed. “I do wish for some resistance to the Sun’s lethal rays—very much so. Though I’m well aware that only vampire lords, such as yourself, possess total immunity. And the same applies to crossing running water.” 

“Indeed, I could impart a fraction of my resistance and abilities.” Kannoth flicked his eyes at Jayme for a moment, mimicking contemplation before turning back to Astarion. “So be it. Kneel and open your mouth wide. I shall grant but a single drop; see that you do not waste it.”

The suggestive edge in his command was unmistakable. Through his advanced telepathic abilities, he projected an image into Jayme’s mind—Astarion kneeling naked and open, at Kannoth's mercy. At Jayme’s instinctive growl, a satisfied smirk spread across the archfey’s lips.

Sultry sexuality was an inherent trait of vampirekind, and Kannoth was no exception. Of course, it was nothing more than mischief on his part. Astarion was an alluring man, but a well-born archfey would hardly deign to grace someone of such low status with his royal attentions.

Even so, the air seemed to freeze in the wake of Kannoth’s prank. Jayme’s fierce glare on the archfey had the rest of the party shifting restlessly.

Astarion complied slowly, his face unreadable. As Kannoth extended an elegant arm over his waiting mouth, placing his other hand to his wrist, Astarion’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly.

He opened his mouth as Kannoth nicked his wrist with a pointed nail. A single droplet of burgundy blood welled from the cut and fell onto Astarion’s tongue. He swallowed it without hesitation.

The effect was instant. A tremor coursed through Astarion’s body, and his red eyes flared up. He gasped, his voice breaking into ecstatic whispers.

“This is… indescribable. Euphoria. I expected pain—like after my turning. But this…this is the opposite…” He let out a deep hum, his hand tracing a slow path over his lips, chin, and neck, fingers quivering as they caressed Cazador’s mark.

“Indeed,” Kannoth said, the word dripping with self-satisfaction. “Imbibing the blood of a powerful vampire is akin to being ravished by a multitude of lovers, each more skilled than the last. Relish it. You shall never know its like again.”

“It’s like when I drink Jayme’s blood. But yours… It scrapes…” Astarion murmured, a slight frown creasing his brow.

The archfey’s expression darkened with skepticism. He gave a derisive huff. “Who would have thought Bhaal’s taint could even approach the essence of a vampire lord?” he said icily.

“I’m no ordinary Bhaalspawn,” Jayme interjected matter-of-factly. “I have no mother. Bhaal shaped me from his own gore.”

The revelation echoed in the silence. Jayme’s companions stared at him, dumbstruck. Even Astarion was jolted from his rapture, turning to meet Jayme’s eyes with visible shock. Right. Jayme hadn’t shared this with them yet.

Kannoth's demeanor changed in an instant as well. The frosty disdain thawed, replaced by a glimmer of fascination. “A cursed-blood nascent Tel’Quessir,” he mused. “An anomaly. A most intriguing specimen. I find myself… gratified that fate has seen fit to deliver you to my presence.”

He turned his attention back to Astarion, who had risen, his stance now poised and dignified. “And you.” Kannoth’s voice resonated with authority. “You are, in a sense, now my progeny. A bond you will acknowledge with the reverence it deserves, I trust. Your transformation would normally have been guided by your own master.”

“My master wasn’t inclined to such graces,” Astarion remarked dryly. “His grand design was to consume me—and countless others—to ascend his selfish prick self. An agenda for which I stabbed him to death.”

“A perfectly ordinary ambition for a vampire lord,” Kannoth replied. “In any case, march through the centuries with resilience. Feed regularly on your Bhaalspawn, amass power, and in due time, you too shall claim the esteemed rank of a vampire lord. But heed my words: the higher you climb, the more fiercely you will be hunted by others of great stature.”

“Ah yes, I’m well acquainted with the competitive nature of our kind,” Astarion nodded with a sardonic smile.

“Indeed. There are, of course, loftier heights to which we might aspire. But beyond a certain station, we attract the attention of more than mere vampires. Divinities. Even time lords. To attract their attention is to invite calamity. For my part, I am content to reign here as a vampire lord for at least another eight millennia.”

“Something to consider, certainly. Thank you for the warning.” Astarion dipped his head, a confident smirk settling on his lips.

“This raises another question,” Kannoth continued, his tone becoming more probing. “Will you vest Jayme with the gift of eternity?”

The unexpected query caught Astarion visibly off guard. “We…haven’t discussed that yet,” he admitted.

“You should,” Kannoth stated. “Otherwise, your association will be… brief. How long do Tel’Quessir live these days? Five, seven centuries?”

“Something like that, yes,” Astarion replied.

Kannoth snorted. “Ephemeral creatures.”

“Pardon me,” Shadowheart interjected, jaw tight and eyes narrowed, “but are you actually advocating for the creation of another vampire, Lord Kannoth? A powerful one, at that?”

“I am not advocating for anything, cleric.” Kannoth spat the word with the scorn others might reserve for thief or murderer. “I am merely noting the facts—for the sake of conversation. To feel threatened by these two would be beneath me.”

Or perhaps the Lord is eager to keep us as allies, Jayme thought with a faint smile.

Astarion paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “In another life,” he said, “where I’d claimed my old master’s ritual and completed the contract with Mephistopheles, I would have become a Vampire Ascendant—a creature unparalleled among our kind. I suspect Lord Kannoth and I would have formed a rather… harmonious bond.”

“Or, you’d have torn each other apart,” Jayme countered.

“As a pleasant after-dinner treat,” Astarion conceded with a nod.

“But who would have been the unfortunate delicacy?” Jayme wondered.

Astarion smirked mysteriously. “Well, now,” he said, “That’s a question for the ages.”

“Such frivolous ponderings are futile and a squandering of my time. You may take your leave now.” Kannoth dismissed the party with a wave of his hand, his pale brows set in a frown. He turned his gaze once more to Jayme. “Should you wish to bargain again, you are welcome to return. I already have an idea of what I would have you do.”

“I will consider it,” Jayme replied, meeting the vampire lord’s inquisitive grayish-blue eyes. He couldn't imagine what he might ever want from Kannoth—or anyone else, be they deity or devil. His life was whole, ready to be savored. After a moment’s pause, he added, “We are grateful for Boris’ assistance.” The words felt necessary, as the bat had gone above and beyond the terms of their bargain on more than one occasion.

From his vantage point on the crystal chandelier, Boris gave a series of chirps in acknowledgment. The chirps served as a reminder that their ride here wouldn't be available for the return trip.

“I’ve just thought of a bargain, actually,” Jayme said with a sudden idea. Reaching into his bag of holding, he withdrew Raphael’s embalmed hand. “This belonged to Raphael, a devil I dealt with in Avernus. I offer it in exchange for one final ride for my party.”

A glint entered Kannoth's eyes as he examined the artifact—a potential magical component of considerable value.

“A pity you slew this devil where my eyes could not reach,” he mused. “I would have enjoyed the spectacle, no doubt. The wound on your arm tells its own tale.” He straightened, his decision made. “Very well. Where do you wish Boris to take you for the last time?”

Jayme glanced at his friends, silently inviting their input.

Haer’Dalis was the first to speak, stepping forward with bouncy, theatrical strides before spinning around to cast his gaze across the party.

“Well, this has been quite the odyssey-ette! Pale raven, I must thank you for baring your quandary back at the Blushing Mermaid. What a tragic loss it would have been to miss this tale! I shall journey to Evermeet and board the Green Mermaid once my green parrot is ready to set sail for Baldur’s Gate again. I have unfinished business to attend to, but once that is resolved, I shall return to Sigil. Miss Rhaelis must feel my absence in her troupe as keenly as one feels the lack of a limb by now!”

The tiefling’s light chuckle rang out, a bright spot against the grim surroundings. His unshakable carefreeness seemed to lend courage to Volo, who was the next to speak.

“I will sail back to Baldur’s Gate alongside you, Haer’Dalis,” the sage said, nodding to himself a few times. “Now that kind Solaufein has enlightened us about the elixir that prevents memory loss, I am confident my brain will retain all the necessary details for my next epic! And should I still forget an element or two, well, I’ll invent something suitably dramatic.” He winked at Jayme. “We therefore request transportation to the Lake of Dreams. Shadowheart, will you join us?”

“I… no.” Shadowheart hesitated, then straightened her posture. “I will stay here in the Feywild for a time, to delve into my elven heritage and seek new adventures. And,” her eyes found Solaufein’s, her cheeks blooming with a deep rosy hue, “to learn more about Eilistraee. I trust… you will stay too?”

“I will,” the drow said with a subtle smile on his dark lips and a tender look in his dark red eyes. “And once we have explored this plane to our hearts’ content, I would be… happy to return to Faerûn once more. With you. If you will have me.”

“I will. Of course!” Shadowheart’s face lit with a resplendent smile unlike any they'd seen from her before.

Watching this heartwarming scene, Jayme and Astarion exchanged a look. Astarion formed a heart shape with his fingers and mouthed, “Awww,” to the bard, who couldn’t hold back a grin.

“In that case, we would request a ride to Astrazalian,” Solaufein said, turning to Kannoth and punctuating his words with a respectful bow.

“Alas! Our paths, it seems, are destined to diverge, my moonlark. I wish you mountains of joy!” Haer’Dalis declared with a flamboyant wink at the cleric.

“Hear hear and huzzah!” Volo exclaimed, as though he was already imagining a grand wedding on the horizon.

It was finally Jayme’s and Astarion’s turn to name their destination. A quick glance passed between them, followed by a nod from Astarion, confirming the plan they’d discussed yesterday. Jayme spoke.

“To Nimlith. We’ll take a break from adventuring and wait there for Gale to return from his quest. After that, we’ll catch up with you in Astrazalian.” Jayme looked to Solaufein and Shadowheart, then turned to Haer’Dalis and Volo. “After the Nethebrain fell, Withers hinted at arranging a reunion for our party sometime. I hope to see you both there.”

The two responded in unison, one with an exuberant “Guaranteed!” and the other with an equally enthusiastic, “Literally nothing could keep me away.”

“What are your plans, Jayme?” Solaufein asked softly. “Now that you have reclaimed your new life.”

Jayme’s ice-blue eyes hardened, reflecting the steel in his voice. “I intend to atone for the lives I’ve taken. Now that I know who I was, I can control who I am and walk this new path without fear.”

He paused briefly, choosing his words. “I doubt I’ll ever completely leave fighting and killing behind, but I’m prepared for that. I won’t stifle my impulses, I’ll steer them—toward a better purpose than my Chosen self once did. I will find worthy causes to lend my strength to. To fight oppression and make ruthless, power-drunk gods and god-like beings rage in frustration.”

The Feywild seemed a good place to start. From the corner of his eyes, Jayme caught a minute movement: Kannoth's posture sharpened like a blade.

“Everyone in creation desires power, in one form or another,” the archfey remarked, his austere expression betraying neither approval nor disdain. “So enlighten me, Jayme. How will you choose who is to be opposed? In your eyes, what criteria define an oppressor?”

“Takes one to know one,” Jayme replied smoothly. “I only have to look for my old razor-edged egotism in others.”

Kannoth simply humphed, offering no further thoughts on the matter.

Conversely, a knowing smile— strikingly reminiscent of Jaheira’s trademark benevolent grins—curled over Solaufein’s lips as he considered what he’d heard.

“You have vanquished the Netherbrain and saved all planes from enthrallment. Your atonement is already achieved; the scales are balanced. I believe you know this, and yet you desire more. There is a fresh vitality in you. You wish to extend your hard-won liberty to others, do you not?”

“You were protected by the Lady of the Dance herself. Whatever inner journey you have experienced has forged you into a force of good,” Solaufein had said. The weight of his words had been with Jayme, a nascent motif within his own bass melody.

“What you’ve done for me before, whether you meant to or not, is nothing less than that,” Shadowheart interjected, her gaze resting on Jayme. “You were the one who helped me see that I had to tear Shar’s blindfold from my eyes.”

Jayme gave her a small smile. “I helped, but you made the decision itself.”

He met Solaufein’s gaze again. “I think you might be right,” he replied quietly, the edges of his mouth lifting just slightly.

At that, Astarion slipped to Jayme’s side and clasped one of his hands in his own.

“So. We’ll be liberating like the beautiful bastards we are. And having fun while doing it, yes? A dagger in the back here, a murderous melody there—mischief is good for the soul, wouldn’t you agree? We’re not suddenly aspiring to join the Order of the Gauntlet now, are we?”

Jayme could tell from Astarion's somewhat unsettled tone that the idea was as foreign to him as their initial reception as heroes of Baldur's Gate had been.

“No,” Jayme reassured him. “We’re still us, and we’ll decide for ourselves how we make a difference. And of course, together, we’re bound to have plenty of fun and mischief.” He punctuated his words with a wink and a squeeze of his hand. Then, softly, he asked, “Will you do this with me?”

“Absolutely,” Astarion replied without hesitation, returning the squeeze.

“Speaking of murderous melodies,” Jayme smiled, “I haven’t told you yet—I’ve invented a new symphony for myself. Or rather, a rhapsody. I call it In Blood and Song, Redemption.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that! It has a certain ring to it, has panache. I can’t wait to hear the piece itself,” Astarion purred, pulling the leather glove from Jayme’s hand to plant a loud kiss on it. 

“I’ve had the honor already,” Haer’Dalis sighed. “In the dreadful halls of the Devil Raphael’s stygian domain, locked in mortal combat with a band of cambions, I marveled at its unspooling. As a Doomguard, my heart all but burst with admiration for the rhapsody’s dark majesty!”

By now, Kannoth seemed to have grown bored with the lengthy chatter—or perhaps it was Haer’Dalis’ effusion that wore his patience thin.

“So be it. Our barter stands. You are dismissed,” he intoned.

He gestured to Boris, who promptly split into four identical clones. The bats waited, silent and still, until all passengers were securely mounted. Before they took flight, their master glided to Jayme’s side, his movements as fluid and deliberate as a shadow stretching at dusk.

“Until the day we meet again,” Kannoth said, his parting words aimed squarely at the bard as he extended his hand.

Raphael’s clawed hand changed owners. Jayme inclined his head and replied with a measured, “Lord Kannoth.”

With the exchange complete, the Borises took off, carrying the company of six beyond the catacombs and the Crystalline Palace. The hordes of undead minions all tracked the mortals’ departure with glowing eyes. Once clear of the history-haunted structure, the bats hovered in the air, ready to part ways.

“Oh, Astarion,” Shadowheart called over, seated behind Solaufein once again. “While I still have you. About that debt of yours.”

“Yes! Trust me, I’ll think of something,” Astarion said, holding a hand up in a gesture of patience. “For Gale, I already know it’ll have to be an assortment of exotic books. Codices, manuals—”

“That’s fine,” Shadowheart interrupted, her sly expression softening.  “I have something else in mind for you. Find your happiness, will you? Whatever that means to you.”

A look of astonishment filled Astarion’s eyes. “Oh… is that it? No rare moon tokens or priceless relics?” 

Shadowheart shook her head, her smile widening. “No. Your happiness is all I ask. And I think I speak for everyone here—Gale included.”

Astarion was at a loss for words, moved by this rare show of tenderness from their cynical cleric.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he finally managed, a little shaky. He coughed before continuing, “Knowing that bookworm, he’ll probably still want some edifying literature. But I suppose I can find something for him in this realm… As for the happiness, consider it done,” he said quietly, his eyes glittering with emotion. “Thank you.”

“Good. See you both soon!” Shadowheart waved a hand, stretching her smile into a grin, then grabbed onto Solaufein's midsection.

“Take care,” the drow said. “I look forward to facing the fomorians head-on with you. And, of course, sharing drinks in the Lantern Tree.” It was the brightest he'd looked since he and Jayme met.

“Catch you later, Moon Twosome,” Jayme winked.

“Ha ha! And so our ex-Sharran cleric has become part of a twosome! They grow up so fast,” Astarion exclaimed. Right before Boris streaked off into the distance, they had just enough time to enjoy the look of Shadowheart’s flustered face.

Three bats flew toward Evermeet, while one veered off to Astrazalian. Once they reached the Green Isle, they went their separate ways from Volo and Haer’Dalis as well. Soon after, Jayme and Astarion returned once more to the untamed splendor of Nimlith’s riverbank meadows.

After bidding farewell to the undead bat, the two found a time of unbroken peace at last.

Astarion enfolded Jayme from behind, his ear pressed to Jayme's back, spellbound by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. They stood like that for a long time, wrapped in silence and each other.

The sky was a rare monochrome; the by now familiar vibrant fuchsia-golden hues had given way to a vivid scarlet that bathed the horizon. In its own way, it seemed fitting—a new dawn washed in red.

After a while, Jayme let his gaze wander, taking in their surroundings. A short way off, he noticed a clump of shrubs laden with plump berries in shades of red, purple, and blue. Not wanting to disrupt their embrace, he placed his hands over Astarion's arms and began to guide them toward the plants. Their steps fell into an easy rhythm, moving as one, eliciting a ripple of laughter from a group of fey eladrin children skipping past.

When they reached the nearest shrub, Jayme plucked a single purple berry and offered it to Astarion. “Here, try this,” he said with a soft smile.

Astarion raised a skeptical brow. “Oh darling, I’m sure it tastes glorious, but you know I don’t—”

“I know,” Jayme interrupted, moving the berry closer to his face. “But trust me. You’ll like this. Just suck the juices out.”

With a dramatic sigh, Astarion took it. “Fine, if you insist. I'll humor you.”

Jayme twisted in Astarion’s arms to have a full view of his reaction. The initial bite was reluctant, to say the least, but the moment the juice touched Astarion’s tongue, his eyes widened in comical surprise. 

“Whoa! What is this? A plant that grows booze? A liquor shrub?”

“Dewberry. See? Told you you can trust me.” 

“Fair enough. You got me! From now on, feel free to put anything in my mouth without asking for permission first.” Astarion wiggled his eyebrows. “This is genius! Nature is truly something else around here, isn’t it?” he added, snickering as he eagerly sucked the berry dry. 

As soon as he finished, Jayme tilted his chin up, claiming the lingering sweetness on Astarion's lips with his own. Then, his tongue slid into Astarion’s mouth, savoring every trace of the tart undertones.

“Do you want to test your new powers?” Jayme whispered.

“Sure! What do you have in mind?” Astarion cooed, eyes heavy-lidded.

Jayme glanced toward the Holy Ground tavern, gauging the distance. It was comfortably close in case they needed quick shelter. He reached for Bloodthirst strapped to Astarion’s hip and carefully drew the blade across the back of his own hand, opening a shallow wound.

Astarion’s eyes went wide again but he watched without a word as Jayme brought the bleeding hand to his face and smeared his blood over his skin. He understood quickly enough—to dissolve the Liquid Night. With a shuddering breath he inhaled the delectable metallic scent, slipping his tongue out for a taste.

And then, they waited.

“It’s warm, and it tingles,” Astarion murmured after scarcely a minute. “But it’s not burning!”

“Want to go inside?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Astarion flashed a naughty grin.

“The tavern,” Jayme smirked.

“Not just yet. It’ll become uncomfortable eventually, I’m sure. And given more time, it will definitely damage my skin. But… let’s wait a little longer, shall we? This is the kind of pain I want to feel—just for a while.”

“Sure,” Jayme nodded, lifting his cut hand to Astarion’s lips for him to nibble on. “Soleil all over you.”

The crystal-clear delight in Astarion’s eyes was breathtaking.

Jayme traced a finger along Astarion’s jaw, running it toward his ear to capture a lock of curly white hair. He played with it, feeling its silky texture, while trying to distract himself from the thrumming  compulsion within him—a yearning to make music, to give shape to the intricate emotions building beneath the surface.

“You know, I agree with you. We owe Raphael some gratitude,” he finally said, circling back to the train of thought Shadowheart had interrupted on their way to Cendriane. “At the end of the day, this adventure has made me grow in ways I never could have imagined. And it’s given you the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Isn’t that right?” Astarion murmured against the wound under his mouth. “This is the classic scenario where someone’s plan blows up in their sorry little face.” He made a fist, then splayed his fingers outward, mimicking an explosion.

“Then again, I would happily blow him to pieces if he were alive—and then do it again, and again—for what he’s done to my violin,” Jayme remarked, his face darkening. Astarion wanted to respond, to offer comfort and chase away that troubled look, but the bard continued, “I mentioned my rebirth just before we reached Cendriane—how I’d burnt all my bridges. It was like tearing at my own skin, peeling away scales, like a self-erasing monster. Everything fell away until only the core was left: the violinist. And now I’m a violinist without a violin.”

“Our next destination is Astrazalian, sweetling, as soon as Gale is back,” Astarion said softly. “Just like we planned. And don’t worry—we will convince that satyr to repair your violin.”

“I’m quite fond of the lute he sold me,” Jayme added as an afterthought. “And the hellish violin I forged from myself to fight Raphael; I think I could call on it again if I had to. It’s just…”

“I know.” Astarion kissed Jayme’s hand tenderly. “You don’t even need to say it.”

Jayme’s brushed his knuckles against Astarion’s cool jaw. “And now it’s yours too. Your very first instrument.”

“Your voice when you said that...” Astarion purred. “It feels warmer than the Sun.” He paused, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’ll be playing your violin again soon—I won’t have it any other way. And until then, you always have me to coax sounds from. Something you’re quite… skilled at.”

When he finished speaking, he returned to dabbing his tongue along the length of Jayme’s cut, relishing it with the elegance of a connoisseur indulging in a rare vintage.

Jayme closed his eyes. In the silence, a question surfaced. He gently raised Astarion’s chin to meet his gaze.

“Will you turn me into a vampire?”

Astarion huffed a breath, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I knew you’d bring it up sooner or later. Seems it's sooner rather than later.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering away briefly. “Look, I’m not sure how to feel about this yet, quite frankly…”

“I see no drawbacks. Do you?”

“You’d be dead! And cold!” Astarion protested, running his hands briskly over Jayme’s back and arms as if to illustrate the loss of warmth. “Not to mention forced to feed on blood forever.”

“A small price to pay for an eternity with you,” Jayme whispered, letting a touch of longing seep into his voice.

With a heavy sigh, Astarion shut his eyes and muttered, “Always that damned silver tongue.”

Jayme stuck his tongue out in a cheeky invitation. Astarion caught it between his teeth and bit just hard enough to draw blood.

He drank deeply from the small wound while they kissed, whispering into his mouth, “Soon. We’re not in any hurry, my one and only. I want to enjoy the feel of your hot skin for a little while longer.”

“Is that an invitation?” Jayme whispered back.

“What else would it be?”

Without another word, Jayme knelt, pulling Astarion down with him. Lying on the ground would have been impractical with his still-healing arm, so he settled for a more comfortable position. It didn't matter anyway; he simply needed to touch, to express what words couldn't. If not on a violin, then on Astarion’s skin.

Ignoring the dull throb in his arm, he unfastened the straps of Astarion’s armor, his hands sliding beneath the leather. His palms roamed, caressing every inch he could reach, watching Astarion’s eyes flutter closed. He took his time. The urgency coiled within him, but he forced his hands to move slowly. To rush would be to lose something essential, to let the moment slip through his fingers unfinished.

Jayme thought this would be enough, but it wasn’t. He reached for the buckles of Astarion’s armor, removing it along with the cotton shirt under, revealing bare skin.

Astarion’s eyes opened, and he returned the favor, loosening the laces of Jayme’s doublet before easing it over his head. He drew Jayme close, skin to skin, basking in his warmth. His lips found Jayme’s, and the coppery taste spread through their mouths again.

Astarion sighed then murmured, “It connects us. Your blood. Can you feel it? Almost like the tadpole.”

“My past again?” Jaymed asked quietly.

“No, it’s… you. All of you, your spirit. And I think, your rhapsody.”

“What’s it like?”

Astarion fell silent, lost in thought. Finally, he breathed a single word: “Wild.”

Jayme searched the grass for Bloodthirst, taking Astarion’s hand in his. He made a small cut on the back of his cool hand, identical to the one on his. Understanding and fascination danced in Astarion’s eyes. His lips parted softly as Jayme brought their joined hands to his own mouth and licked the fresh wound.

Jayme knew the taste already, its unique zest, but now it carried a new tang of power. Echoes of Kannoth’s past rose in Jayme’s mind—the King’s authority, his grief and bitterness, his tenacity. Ambition. The potent fey essence enriched Astarion’s own but did not overshadow it. Far from it. Astarion’s soul brimmed with newfound resilience and a newfound anticipation for what lay ahead. The bruised, abused spawn was still in there, but he was healing. Astarion was courageously healing himself, just as Jayme was.

Blood, it seemed, truly connected them—down to the deepest layers of their being.

Jayme sighed in wonder. He moved in and kissed Astarion, their tongues entangling. The scent of dewberry filled his nostrils. His hands sought Astarion’s back again, cherishing the touch of his skin, and Astarion met his passion with equal fervor.

This wasn’t about sex. Their bodies were aroused, but that was secondary. This was intimacy. Sharing.

They held each other. Felt each other.

Jayme’s avid kisses turned to nips, teeth grazing Astarion’s neck. He licked away the Liquid Night, tasted cold goosebumps. A soft moan escaped Astarion’s throat. His eyes, radiant red, shimmered with breathless marvel. The dawn, a wash of red on his pale skin, shadowed the blood on his mouth to black.

Words were not enough. Their fingers spoke instead.

The embrace grew tighter, and Astarion shivered. He undid the laces of Jayme’s breeches and reached inside. Touched swollen heat. His fingers continued their exploration.

Jayme’s breath shook. He hadn’t expected this. For once, dominance didn’t boil his blood. All he had craved was closeness, nothing more. But Astarion led them forward, guiding them higher, and a new understanding bloomed within Jayme: this was even better, even more complete. Yes. This. He felt the answering pressure in Astarion’s touch.

Come with me… The unspoken invitation thrummed between them, a shared pulse of desire.

Jayme unbuckled the front of Astarion’s leather armor pants and slipped his left hand inside. Cool firmness. The rough texture of the leather against his knuckles. His right hand stroked the scars on Astarion’s back with a tenderness that belied the tantalizing motions of his other hand. It was as if he were playing a song on Astarion’s body.

And what a song...

Glad you like it, the thoughts resonated between them, like a silent chord struck in the bond between them.

They shared the same air, breaths mingling. Jayme’s tongue flicked out again and Astarion closed his lips around it at once. He sucked, eyelids rolling shut, brows creased with pleasure. A low groan rumbled from him.

Then, his eyes locked on Jayme’s as he came into his warm hand. Jayme inhaled sharply, finding his release in perfect synchrony—hot completeness.

Their bodies reclined on the soft grass for a moment's respite. As the emotions relaxed into a blissful stillness, Jayme felt the tension within him ebb away. He gazed up at the dawn sky, then pulled Astarion close, nestling him against his left side.

A short while passed, the only sound the tranquil river, before Astarion spoke.

“What was that? Did we just tap into each other’s thoughts? Feeling you was… divine. It’s happened before, though never this deeply—oh dark heavens!” A shiver ran through him. “But the thoughts… this is something new since the tadpoles withered away.”

“Yes. It was blurred, but I felt it too. We were connected.” Jayme replied, leisurely licking his hand clean. “Another one of your new powers?”

“I sure hope so. How fabulous!”

Jayme kissed the top of Astarion’s head. “When we’re both vampires,” he mused. “we might even be able to have full conversations without speaking.”

Suddenly, a flash of white caught their eye; a unicorn was galloping across the sky, a whimsical reminder of the Feywild around them. Glowing butterflies and opalescent dragonflies flitted about, stirring the thick, honey-fragrance of daffodils, irises, and autumn crocus. A gentle breeze played through the branches of the slender, golden willows.

And then, as the heat withdrew from their skin, a profound sense of displacement settled over them. How in the Nine Hells had they ended up in such a fairy tale setting? A duo with histories steeped in blood.

“You know, I bet your Father never—even in His most atrocious dreams—would’ve thought you’d end up like this,” Astarion remarked, his tone laced with the same puzzlement they both felt.

“End up like this? A vampire aspirant?” Jayme smirked.

“No, that actually fits the aesthetic. Like… gold and silk. Pearls and satin. Vampirisim and Bhaalian genealogy!”

“You don’t say.” Jayme emitted a huff of amused air. “So, what do you mean? Aside from the obvious—that I rebelled.” 

“For someone created from the very blood of Bhaal, destined to be murder incarnate, you have a remarkable amount of good in you. Or rather, it’s astonishing that you even have the capacity for good. A conscience. The ability to love. I bet your Father is banging His head against a wall, wherever He is, over the way you turned out,” Astarion said with a knowing smile.

“He shouldn’t have given me free will,” Jayme replied simply.

Astarion perked up, gesturing animatedly as he dove into the topic. “Indeed! You are a perfect, autonomous creature. But think about it from His perspective—revolting as that may be, humor me for a moment. It wouldn’t have served His purpose to create a mindless meat-puppet, would it? Without your sharp intellect, you’d never have risen to the top of His Temple. No, He had to make you the shrewd, cunning thing you are.” He paused for dramatic effect, then concluded with a smug smile. “So, there you have it. His grand plan was flawed from the beginning.”

“Right. Evil lords and their botched schemes.”

“Ah, don’t even get me started!”

Silent contentment enveloped them for a few minutes, and they lay in a loose embrace. But when a small group of colorful creatures flew overhead, Astarion sprang to his feet for a better look. They were faerie dragons—cat-sized despite their name—with iridescent scales and exquisitely patterned butterfly wings keeping them aloft. Jayme stood too, watching the mesmerizing group recede into the distance. The dragons seemed to acknowledge the onlookers on the river bank but paid them no mind, preoccupied as they were with hunting butterflies.

After some time, Astarion murmured, “Love.”

“Yes?”

“Where will we travel after Astrazalian? Do you have a destination in mind? The others seem to have taken a liking to this plane—and it does offer wondrous novelties and delicious opportunities—but we can venture anywhere we damn well please. With that crafty mortar and pestle at our disposal, there are, quite literally, no limitations.”

Jayme’s fingers drummed on Astarion’s bare stomach as he considered his answer. “We can keep discovering the Feywild, if you agree,” he replied. “Mithrendain, Shinaelestra—both are said to be under constant threat from fomorians and other aggressors. I want to see if we can make them flinch and turn the tides by making some heads roll. The right heads.”

“Ooh, I like this already. And you can leave it to me to guide us through these lands. Not to boast, but I’ve picked up a thing or two about the locals, their quirks, and, shall we say, the ins and outs of this place.” Astarion tipped his head back with a charmingly self-satisfied gesture. “But go on.”

“At some point, we should plan a visit to Avernus. I made a promise to Karlach, and I suspect Wyll might appreciate our support against Mizora.”

“Avernus again. So be it. Mithrendain for the climate, and Hell for the company,” Astarion said with an amused nod.

Mithrendain, known as the Autumn City, was a fey eladrin fortress. It sat proudly in the heart of a vast, autumnal faewood, its towers gleaming gold and bronze. Jayme could already picture Astarion soaking up the drowsy golden light.

A smile touching his lips, he continued, “And I also want to drop by Baldur’s Gate soon, to see Jaheira and the others. I owe them a lot.”

“We both do,” Astarion replied. “Very well, I wholeheartedly approve of that itinerary. And while we’re in Faerûn, I want to visit the Underdark. Check on the spawn and see if there’s something I can… do, perhaps.”

“Agreed.”

Astarion sighed, the sound tinged with unease. It betrayed the remorse he rarely spoke of but Jayme knew weighed on him. Jayme put a hand on Astarion’s nape and gently kneaded it. Astarion slowly leaned into him, resting his head in the crook of Jayme’s shoulder.

“But before any of that, I propose a holiday in Maztica,” Jayme said, his tone light but deliberate, fully anticipating the reaction his words would spark.

He wasn’t disappointed. Astarion’s head jerked up, red eyes sparkling.

“Fancy another cup of cocoa, straight from the source?” He tugged Jayme closer. 

“Another cup? Try a gallon. Or ten,” Jayme quipped. Then, he murmured, “What do you think snapped me out of the ensnarement of my misguided self? At least partially.” The soul-stirring melody revived in his ears, bringing Astarion’s fervent wishes back with it.

Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me.

….I want to see the world with you. I want you to teach me violin…

“So my voice did get through to you! You never said!” Astarion squeezed his shoulders in a chiding gesture. “I couldn’t tell if it was the violin, my voice, or perhaps both.”

“It was both. You always got through, no matter what darkness was suffocating me,” Jayme replied and pressed their foreheads together.

For a few heartbeats, they closed their eyes, surrendering to the moment—its pure, quiet, almost spiritual depth.

“We are each other’s light,” Astarion said, his tone softening.

“We are,” Jayme echoed.

The bard blinked his eyes open, glancing briefly at the sky. It truly was a striking color, this vivid scarlet. Yet instead of evoking thoughts of violence, it whispered promises of enchanting adventures to come. He returned his gaze to Astarion.

With a feather-light touch, he caressed the vampire’s face, now turning pinker with each passing second. "Doesn’t it burn yet?” 

Astarion didn’t seem to mind it. He broke into a dazzling grin that nearly split his face in two. “A little. But I’m loving it to death!”

 

End of Part I

Chapter 19: II - But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

Summary:

I have kissed honey lips
Felt the healing fingertips
It burned like fire
This burning desire
I have spoken with the tongue of angels
I have held the hand of a devil
It was warm in the night
I was cold as a stone
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

U2 - I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

Part II

The Power and the Glory

In which Astarion begins to reinvent himself

 

The booming of the war horns heralded the start of battle. The air over the sprawling battlefield crackled with suspense, but the blaring crescendo sent all hearts racing. Metal clunked against metal, and the Weave thrummed through the landscape, hot, icy, and piercing.

Astrazalian was facing yet another siege by a fomorian raiding party.

The defenders’ formation mirrored that of the preceding skirmishes: spellcasters and rangers surveyed the combat arena from their vantage point atop the parapets, launching spells and arrows from the crenellations, while below, melee warriors met the misshapen giants head-on with agile, precise strikes.

As always, the core of the defenders consisted of fey eladrins, supported by a scattering of foreign adventurers, including high elves, humans, and even a few stout dwarves whose bellowing war cries rang out above the rest.

Enemy formations charged in groups of five toward the magic-imbued ivory limestone city walls. Each group encompassed fighters brandishing blunt weapons in their crooked limbs, warlocks or witches hurling spells from a distance, and rangers. Fomorians, hindered by their deformities, did not favor archery; instead, their rangers wielded giant-sized bolas, often reinforced with vicious explosives that detonated on impact with living bodies.

All hearts raced, save for Astarion’s. With the stillness of death in his chest and a fearless flame in his soul, he maneuvered deftly through the ongoing struggle between eladrins and fomorians. He followed closely behind Jayme, driven by a shared personal quest to secure a swift victory. Their forms were concealed by Invisibility potions.

Behind them, Solaufein sliced through cursed flesh and repulsive protrusions. Meanwhile, with the help of his Gem of Seeing, he kept the two invisible elves in his line of sight, in case he needed to provide quick assistance. Further back, atop the city walls, Gale and Shadowheart unleashed well-timed spells, strategically aiding the trio below in their advance. The enchantment of the wall, along with the advantageous height of their position, allowed their magic to reach farther.

Greatclubs arced through the air, flails lashed out with deadly force, Eldritch Blasts thundered, but Astarion and Jayme navigated the scramble with the finesse of two tightrope walkers. The raging combat slowed their progress, much like wading through a trap-laden maze, but it didn’t lessen their chances of victory. This was not the usual bloodbath; in fact, it hadn't been the prior days either. The raiders were fewer in number than required for a truly harrowing fight.

Suits me just fine, Astarion thought as he wheeled out of the way of a set of barbed bolas aimed at an eladrin paladin he was passing. At the last moment, he decelerated, flipping his body and leaping aside to avoid crashing into the poisoned spikes of a mace swung by a nearby cyclops.

Not waiting around to be accidentally skewered or tenderized like a cut of flank steak, he sprinted out of the immediate war zone and paused briefly.

“Darling?” he called in an undertone, hoping his bard was still close-by.

“Here,” came the hushed response from a few feet ahead.

Astarion followed the voice to its source and found Jayme standing alert. He put a hand on the invisible shoulder to make sure he didn’t lose the bard again and leaned in close to where his ear had to be.

“We’re in the thick of it. Their commander-in-chief should be around here somewhere,” Astarion said, his lips brushing against the soft shell of a lovely ear.

“See anyone in slightly better armor? Perhaps with a tabard?” Jayme asked.

Astarion swept a searching gaze across the battleground. “Maybe one of those plate-mailed freaks?” he suggested, turning Jayme’s face toward the three fomorians he was referring to.

“Yes, it’s possible. Especially the one with the two-handed hammer.”

“I’d place my bet on the one with the morningstar and shield. Allegedly, only the strongest ones carry a shield.”

“But is the strongest necessarily the leader?” Jayme asked.

“Hmm, you’re right. The leader is generally the mouthiest,” Astarion conceded.

“Exactly. Or the one issuing orders the most convincingly,” Jayme pointed out.

Astarion pressed against Jayme’s back, in a hurried and perilous version of a hug.

“We can still make a bet,” he proposed. “I’ll stick with my shield freak just for the heck of it. The winner is treated to a nice massage by the loser in the Sprinkling Fountain.”

“You’re on. But only a massage? We don’t need to go all the way to the Sprinkling Fountain for that,” Jayme remarked, a smirk evident in his voice.

“Who says only shoulders can be worked by our talented fingers? And the oils of the Sprinkling Fountain are so-o fiiine,” Astarion drawled quietly into Jayme's ear, flicking his tongue to graze his earlobe with a suggestive touch, making the silver earrings chime softly.

A low chuckle was his reward.

Jayme then raised a hand and gestured for Solaufein to move closer. The drow had been tirelessly cutting down giants ever since the war horns sounded—Astarion felt a pang of guilt at the realization, but he brushed it aside, finding comfort in the thought that the man was like a veritable Drizzt Do'Urden, flourishing a greatsword instead of twin scimitars.

When Solaufein was within earshot, Jayme called out to him, “Those three in plate mail. I’ll take the hammer, Astarion the shield, and you the greatclub.”

“The one issuing orders convincingly,” Astarion couldn’t help but whisper into Jayme’s ear.

“Are you sure I’m not the strongest one too?” Jayme murmured.

“We could always set up a wrestling match between you and Solaufein before you give me my massage.”

“Sure. And I suppose you’d have us naked for that, while you’re sipping some Dewberry wine?”

“Dearest, you know my taste in leisure all too well! Why not? Just don’t forget who’s taking you to bed after all that glorious grabbing and pushing,” Astarion replied, his voice dropping into a suggestive purr.

“I think I am not following,” Solaufein interjected, shifting his eyes between the two in confusion. His posture remained tense, his senses attuned to the clash around them.

“Never mind, you.” Astarion waved with a dismissive gesture, then slanted a smile at both of them. “Let’s dance!”

The three headed toward the elite of the fomorians.

To their delight, a Chain Lightning spell zigzagged past them, zapping their targeted foes. A brief glance over their shoulders confirmed that it had come from Gale. The wizard must have figured out what they were planning and decided to lend a proactive hand. He offered a quick salute from afar and Astarion would have responded in kind had he been visible.

Once the fomorians—now incensed after having been struck by lightning—came within range, Astarion drew his bow, The Dead Shot, and aimed a sizzling lightning arrow at the spot between Lord Shield Freak’s eyes but he didn’t release it just yet. He then heard the familiar twang of strings beside him as Jayme began to strum his cherry-colored yew wood lute with his infectious ardor, breaking the effect of the Invisibility potion.

At the same time, Solaufein closed in on his fomorian, who twirled his colossal greatclub with the ease of a circus performer handling a baton, and engaged him in combat with a series of acrobatic maneuvers.

Lord Shield Freak had unmistakably set his sights on Jayme, whose Cone of Cold enveloped both him and Lord Hammer in a swirl of biting ice crystals. The frost was soon melted away by a Scorching Ray conjured from the yew lute. Shield was already lurching forward, snarling savagely, ready to take a swing at the pesky bard.

Astarion chose this moment to draw his bowstring taut and release the arrow. It struck squarely between the fomorian’s eyes. The moisture left by the Scorching Ray amplified the lightning arrow’s damage, sending electric shockwaves through Lord Shield’s body. While the shock wasn’t enough to fry his brain, it certainly fueled his rage.

It was one hell of a shot though, Astarion inwardly congratulated himself. Any ordinary monster in Faerûn would have dropped dead from that. The vampire briefly wondered if Jayme tailored his spell choices for the arrow he picked from his quiver and quickly concluded that he must have. The bard’s battle tactics had grown increasingly daunting ever since his time spent apart in the Feywild.

Unimpressed by those increasingly daunting battle tactics, Lord Shield lunged mindlessly at Astarion, who quickly switched weapons and parried a flurry of morningstar attacks. Ducking, sidestepping, stretching and jumping, Astarion waltzed around his foe, biding his time until he could position himself behind the giant. Finally, he plunged Bloodthirst and Rhapsody into his back. The original plan was to aim for the neck, but because of the sharp angle of his previous move, he couldn’t jump high enough despite his best effort.

He drew the blades to the side, leaving a grisly cut across Lord Shield's back, then pulled his trusty daggers free.

But before Astarion could continue his work on the bloodied canvas before him, Shield whirled around and bashed him with his shield. The blow left him dazed for a moment, creating an opening that the fomorian mercilessly exploited. The morningstar slammed into him from the right, knocking the wind out of him and tearing the flesh from half his abdomen.

Astarion cried out in pain. Jayme’s head snapped to the side to assess the rogue’s injury. In a matter of seconds, two Healing spells enfolded Astarion’s trembling body: one from Jayme’s lute, the other from Shadowheart on the city wall. The sharp ache in his midsection thankfully began to ease.

With lightning reflexes, Astarion crouched to dodge the follow-up strikes and danced around the fomorian, waiting for another chance to slip behind him. But seeing Lord Shield securely defending himself with his shield, Astarion stopped circling and threw Rhapsody at his forehead. The giant jerked to the side, almost evading in time, but the dagger still embedded itself in his left cheek.

A bone-chilling howl stretched across the battleground. Astarion seized the opportunity and dashed forward. Gripping the edge of the shield, he hauled himself up, using the momentum to rise to the level of the fomorian’s head. With a swift spin, he drove Bloodthirst into the fleshy neck. Bracing himself against the giant’s shoulder—no small feat amid the violent thrashing—he twisted the blade, then dragged and slashed, opening the entire neck with a loud squelch.

The imposing figure of Lord Shield Freak tumbled forward, emitting guttural gurgles.

Not one to let precious blood go to waste, Astarion balanced atop the fallen foe’s hump and bent down to greedily suck mouthfuls of the fomorian’s life essence.

He was rudely interrupted when a two-sphered metal bola coiled around his body out of nowhere, causing him to fall over in a most graceless manner. The brutal barbed chain connecting the spheres gouged into his body, and for a moment, the sudden, painful entrapment clouded his mind.

Letting slip pained whimpers, Astarion craned his neck to pinpoint the source of the attack and discovered a fourth enemy: a cyclops standing slightly behind Lord Hammer Freak, a venomous smile plastered across its grotesque face.

How had he detected Astarion when he was already benefiting from the Deathstalker Mantle’s invisibility effect? His question was answered when Lord Hammer rallied two more cyclopes to attack Jayme—he was clearly the one overseeing the battle and directing the others. He must have witnessed his Shield comrade’s fall at Astarion’s hand.

The vigorous lute chords first translated into a Slow spell, and then, after Jayme leaped forward to reposition himself, into a Thunderwave spell that shoved all three cyclopes back. Before they could retaliate, a barrage of Artistry of War missiles—courtesy of Gale—rendered them into lifeless meat pulps.

The Slow spell also affected Lord Hammer and Lord Greatclub. With the combined force of Shadowheart’s Harm spell and Solaufein’s deadly slashes, Greatclub collapsed, momentarily headless. Simultaneously, Jayme cast Otto’s Irresistible Dance on Lord Hammer, making his legs dance a tarantella—after his previous sluggish movements, it made for a particularly comical spectacle. Even so, through sheer willpower, the giant overcame the spell after a few seconds and launched himself at Jayme, brandishing his hammer and frothing at the mouth as he swung.

Alert despite the dizzying pace of events, Jayme halted the giant's advance with one of his Cutting Words: “When your god put teeth in your mouth, he ruined a perfectly good arsehole!”

Lord Hammer’s momentary hesitation gave Gale's Disintegrate spell just enough time to take effect, reducing the giant to fine dust.

Astarion, still bound by the bolas and wincing from the constant pain of barbs piercing his flesh, watched the conclusion unfold from the ground. No sooner had Hammer bitten the dust—quite literally, Astarion smirked inwardly—than Jayme was at the vampire’s side, his fingers nimbly working over the metal cords to free Astarion as quickly and carefully as possible.

“By the howling Hells, it hurts,” Astarion groaned.

“Almost done,” Jayme murmured, then after a pause, added, “Looks like you owe me a massage.”

After Lord Hammer Freak’s fall, chaos spread among the remaining giants like wildfire. Many cast bewildered glances around before bolting, and gradually, the tension among the eladrin forces began to ease.

“And you owe me a wrestle with Solaufein,” Astarion shot back, wearing a look of absolute entitlement.

“What?” Solaufein blinked in confusion, standing further back to give Jayme space.

“Oh come on! I get punctured like a pincushion, and no one wrestles for my entertainment?” Astarion whined.

“How about I wrestle you? Later. Once you’re all cleaned up and your wounds are healed. Right after you’ve delivered that sensational massage. I promise to make it entertaining,” Jayme said with a quiet, concentrated intensity that never failed to send shivers up Astarion’s spine.

Just then, he finished peeling the metal cord away and tossed it aside.

“I might be persuaded,” Astarion said with a smirk, but his expression soured the moment he regained his freedom. He glanced down at his bloodied arms, legs, and abdomen. “Tell me the loot was worth it.”

“You need thicker armor, Astarion,” came Shadowheart’s lilting voice from the direction of the city as she approached with Gale. “This could have been avoided, you know.”

“I move better in thin leather. Just a friendly reminder, we were on a stealth quest today while you were perched up there, nice and safe,” Astarion teased.

“Handing out spells left and right,” Shadowheart quipped. She cast Greater Heal, sealing the myriad prickles on Astarion's body. “Those cyclopes you saw weren’t the only reinforcements the great-hammered one mobilized. Most of them couldn’t get anywhere near you. You’re welcome, by the way.” She punctuated her remark with a sassy smile.

“Thank you.” The defensive edge in Astarion’s voice vanished, replaced by a wave of blissful relief. His skin felt raw, like a butcher’s cutting board, but that was already a significant improvement.

“As for the loot,” Solaufein said, turning over and inspecting the giant bodies, “Prospects seem rather dim today as well, unless oversized weaponry is of interest to you.”

“There is something here,” Gale spoke up, rummaging through the dust remains of Lord Hammer Freak. “A signet ring of sorts. The Disintegrate spell didn’t destroy it, which suggests it’s something exceptional. I don’t recall seeing anything like this on fomorians before—their gear tends to be rather shabby.”

He held up an elegant, round, golden ring, its band adorned with an engraved plate depicting the outline of a fortress. Jayme immediately stepped closer to examine the glinting piece of jewelry.

“Have you seen this crest before, Solaufein? Do you recognize this place?” he asked, handing the ring to the drow, who studied the tiny image in silence before responding.

“This is unmistakably eladrin architecture. Could be a citadel in Senaliesse or Mithrendain. Maybe even Cendriane, although if it is the latter, it must be in ruins now. I did not see anything similar in Evermeet or Shinaelestra.”

“That’s a start, at least. I want to know why the fomorian commander had this ring,” Jayme declared firmly.

“He might have pinched it from a fey he killed, for all we know,” Astarion said. “I wouldn't hold my breath on getting to the bottom of it. If the corpse were more or less intact, we could interrogate it with a Speak With Dead spell, but…”

“Maybe he took it as loot, but I have a gut feeling there's more to this. As Gale said, we've found hardly anything of value on the fomorians these past tendays.” Jayme glanced at Solaufein, seeking the opinion of a warrior who had spent considerably more time in this city. The drow nodded in agreement. Jayme thoughtfully rotated the ring between his fingers for another minute, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I wonder what kind of magic it’s imbued with. I can’t identify it.”

Astarion hurried to the rescue. “Fret not, my treasure,” he said. “As you know, I’m on friendly terms with Neriyeira, the goldsmith. If anyone can give us a hint or two, it’s her. If you’re set on investigating this further, I can ask her for you.”

“Perfect. Let’s go see her.” Jayme smiled and pocketed the ring.

“Certainly. But first, we need to figure out what to offer in exchange,” Astarion said.

“Didn’t you just say you were on friendly terms?” Shadowheart raised an elegant eyebrow.

“Oh, we are, very much so,” Astarion laughed. “I’m practically a regular at her shop by now, with permanent access to her special stock! But that doesn’t mean she’s not a materialistic merchant who’ll want something in return for information. Now, we can’t barter with Raphael’s left hand anymore, since we promised that to Efanon as payment for mending Jayme’s violin. So what shall it be…?”

“How about this shield?” Gale suggested, pointing at Lord Shield’s orphaned safeguard lying in the trampled silken grass. “It’s decorated with gold and bronze embossing and inlays. Plenty of material for a goldsmith.”

“Fantastic idea, Gale. Would you mind carrying it to the city?” Astarion asked with a charming smile. “I’d love to do it myself, but my skin is still delicate after the bola treatment.”

“I'm afraid my skills in heavy lifting leave a lot to be desired,” Gale replied, a touch sheepishly.

“Let me do it,” Solaufein offered, hefting the shield—larger than himself—onto his back without a trace of hesitation.

“Chivalry isn’t dead after all.” Astarion tilted his head back in a flattered gesture and fell into step beside Jayme. “I’m parched. Grab a drink at the Lantern Tree after our visit to Neriyeira’s?”

“You should stop by Aramath Teldorm’s smithy first and grab a poultice to prevent long-term scarring,” Shadowheart advised. “Those barbs were no ordinary ones, I can tell. Otherwise, you’d be fully healed by my spell. And speaking of, have you taken your elixir today, Astarion?”

“You’re a sweetheart for asking! I did, in fact. When the integrity of my youthful, luminous skin is at stake, I tend to remember every precaution,” Astarion smirked.

After Kannoth bestowed his blood upon Astarion, the twilight Sun of the Feywild became less of a threat to him. Though complete immunity was still out of reach, he no longer needed to coat his skin in musky Liquid Night. During their visit to Baldur’s Gate—just after returning from their holiday in Maztica and just before detouring to Avernus to see Karlach and Wyll—they sought out Araj Oblodra in the city.

The alchemist was, of course, thrilled about their meeting and positively exuberant when Astarion proposed a new trade: a drop of his blood for an elixir that could protect him from the Sun. While Araj was unable to produce a blend granting absolute immunity, she did concoct an elixir that would adequately fortify Astarion's resistance in the Feywild. Her instruction was clear and simple: “Imbibe three gulps every day.” And so he did.

It was an easy solution to his plight. Now, if only a similarly simple measure could allow him to wade through rivers and enter private houses without an invitation! But those are far less painful restrictions. Need to count my blessings, Astarion mused as their band of five entered the goldsmith’s shop.

This was one of the rogue’s favorite spots in the city: an airy room brimming with shimmering metal jewelry, ornamental and ceremonial trinkets, and functional items like clocks, pens, and accessories. Further back, on the larger shelves and racks, enchanted armor, shields, and other protective gear were prominently displayed—the most sought-after pieces.

Neriyeira, a fey eladrin whose green-hued skin, emerald eyes, and moss-like hair reflected the jolliness of spring—a rare sight in a city under siege—was seated behind a large oak table, sorting through about thirty chain necklaces of various link sizes. As soon as she saw who was entering, she sprang from her seat and leaped forward to greet her customers.

“My, my, if it isn’t my favorite Tel’Quessir! Welcome again, Astarion. What will it be today? Another ruby ring; one for Jayme to match yours? The ornate candelabra we discussed last time? Perhaps an additional silver chalice for your set? I’ve just finished crafting an exquisite golden amulet that wards off will-o'-wisps. You simply must take a gander at it.”

“Wow, you're truly a master of your trade, Neriyeira! You’ve practically recited my wishlist!” Astarion exclaimed, matching the eladrin’s enthusiasm. He didn't even flinch as Neriyeira placed her hand on his shoulder in a familiar gesture—a rare display of trust on his part. “I'd love to see everything you've recommended, but let's save it for another time, shall we?”

Keeping his gaze fixed on the goldsmith’s face, Astarion extended his arm to the side, and Jayme silently placed the ring into his palm. “For now, let's focus on this signet ring. Would you be a dear and tell us its origins?”

The goldsmith peered at the ring, her expression shifting to one of puzzlement.

“Ardavanshee, walking into curious adventures… Where and how did you come by that ring?” she inquired, her tone tinged with guarded curiosity.

“The fomorian leading today’s siege was wearing it,” Astarion replied, choosing not to point out that ardavanshee—Elven for “restless young ones”—was a term that didn’t quite fit his centuries-old self.

“That's strange. Rather unusual, actually. This ring is very rare. How could a fomorian have come to possess it...?”

“Mind sharing where the ring hails from?” Astarion asked politely.

“I might. What do you have to offer in return?”

“How about this sturdy and undoubtedly valuable shield?” Astarion gestured toward the shield Solaufein was valiantly balancing.

“Another piece of today’s spoils of victory?” Neriyeira asked, her eyes gleaming. She barely waited for Astarion's nod before eagerly agreeing to the trade. “I’ll take it.”

Solaufein inclined his head in acknowledgment and leaned the shield against the wall.

“I am most grateful for that. Now, to cut to the chase, this signet ring is exclusive to members of the Watchers of the Night,” the goldsmith revealed.

“Mithrendain,” Solaufein muttered, understanding dawning on his features.

“Yes, precisely. See that fortress?” Neriyeira pointed to the face of the ring.

“If it’s Mithrendain, then it must be the Citadel Arcanum—the city’s iconic edifice, if I’m not mistaken,” Gale supplied.

“Correct again. If you ever wondered about the origins of Mithrendain’s name, beyond the glittering connotations of beauty and longevity now inseparable from the word, it refers to the ‘wall of the fortress’, namely the Citadel Arcanum.”

“In Faerûn,” Shadowheart interjected, “Mithrendain is spoken of in the most glowing terms, reminiscent of the praises sung for Arvandor.”

“The Watchers of the Night… they’re a sentinel organization, aren’t they?” Gale knitted his brows, searching his memory.

“Indeed they are,” Neriyeira nodded. “The Watchers are a clandestine group, a circle of guardians operating from the shadows. Rumor has it they are nothing more than seasoned criminals adept at slipping through Mithrendain unnoticed. The signet ring marks their privileges. It allows them to bypass the city's defenses and protect it from potential threats.”

“How does it work exactly?” Jayme asked, his earnest curiosity evident.

Astarion couldn’t help but smile. No, it’s more than curiosity, he thought. It’s the image of a predator catching scent.

“The defense mechanism of Mithrendain disrupts illusions; it’s a measure against infiltration and ambushes,” Neriyeira explained. “But the ring bypasses this mechanism, allowing its wearer to use illusion spells or even turn invisible.”

“The Watchers are an elite force,” Solaufein mused. “It is difficult to imagine a fomorian overpowering one. Perhaps the Watcher was outnumbered… But still, they are confined to their duties within Mithrendain. How, then, would such an encounter occur? And where?”

No one could answer his questions.

After a moment of silence, Astarion concluded, “Well, that’s food for thought.” A single glance at Jayme’s face left no doubt that they would solve this mystery. “Thank you for sharing your knowledge, Neriyeira. We greatly appreciate it. I’ll make sure to visit again very soon.”

“I shall be waiting. And I would report that ring to Lady Shandria’s Council if I were you. If the fomorians have somehow established a connection with the Watchers, our warlords need to be alerted,” the eladrin suggested. She then bowed to the party and moved to inspect her newly acquired shield.

“Something to consider,” Jayme replied calmly.

Once they all stepped outside the shop and into the fiery fall glory of Astrazalian’s winding streets, Gale turned to Jayme. “Are we going to report the ring?” the wizard inquired.

“Give me some time to think about it. For now, let’s stay put and see if anything else turns up to help us uncover the truth. But I have a feeling our path will lead us to Mithrendain sooner or later.”

“Right, and we've been meaning to go there anyway,” Astarion remarked. “We have an ongoing bet with Solaufein that no beverage in this realm, alcoholic or not, can compare to the cocoa of Maztica.”

“I’m with you on that one,” Jayme nodded. As expected, the word “cocoa” was enough to jar him from his thoughts. The power of cocoa was truly immense.

“Try the Mithrendain Nymph’s Whisper—that is all I am saying,” Solaufein winked.

“Absolutely, I will,” Astarion grinned.

“Alright. So, everyone off for a rest now? How about a drink later?” Shadowheart proposed.

“The Lantern Tree?” asked Gale.

“Where else?” the cleric smiled.

“See you soon!” Astarion winked at Shadowheart, Gale, and Solaufein collectively, then draped an arm over Jayme’s shoulder and steered him toward their next stop. “Onwards to the smithy for my poultice. And after that, you know where we’re heading.”

“Of course,” Jayme nodded with a smirk.

They bartered an onyx ring for a mixture of pasted herbs; the eladrin vendor knew exactly which remedy was needed for a bola injury. After the purchase, they made their way straight to the Sprinkling Fountain, a bathhouse unlike any of its typical Faerûnian counterparts.

“Bathheaven” seemed a more fitting term. Tucked away in a serene grove, the Sprinkling Fountain was encircled by ancient trees whose branches wove together into a natural canopy. Crystal-clear water flowed gently from ornate stone fountains, each depicting smaller trees themselves, and etched with intricate eladrin runes. The water collected in tiered pools, filling the air with soothing sounds.

The bathhouse walls and pools were crafted from smooth white marble veined with silver, reflecting the warm, ethereal glow of lanterns hanging from the branches above. Columns of fragrant steam rose from the water, infused with healing herbs and blossoms. Each pool was separated by wooden frames thickly draped in leafy vines, creating secluded and intimate bathing areas.

There was no soundproofing between the pools, though, which strongly piqued Astarion’s interest. 

The pools were available free of charge for a limited time to the defenders of Astrazalian after a siege—the least the authorities could extend to the heroes risking their lives for the City of Starlight. As luck would have it, Astarion and Jayme didn’t have to wait long to be shown to a pool.

“I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said this is my favorite bath! It’s such a quaint little island of tranquility! And to make it even better, you and I can turn it into an island of sensuality,” Astarion said with a sly grin while carefully removing his armor.

“I thought the hot springs of Maztica were your all-time favorite,” Jayme replied, tilting his head with a playful smile as he eagerly set about unfastening his bard’s attire.

“They’re like apples and oranges,” Astarion said. “Or fomorian and human blood—so different they can’t be compared. On Toril, nothing beats Maztica’s rustic charm. Name another region where you can soak in the misty embrace of a lush mountainside, with ancient pyramids and rainbows in the backdrop, and stunning waterfalls cascading down moss-covered rocks?”

Maztica had been everything Astarion had hoped it would be, and the memory warmed him from within whenever it flitted across his mind. The Payits had been as peaceful and civilized as the chronicles described, treating Astarion and Jayme with respect and gracious hospitality. The bonfire festival, with its seemingly endless cauldrons of hot cocoa, had been the highlight of their vacation. After slipping away from the lively bonfire dances, fueled by copious amounts of cocoa, they had made love all night long.

“How about the mud pools of Avernus?” Jayme smirked, hanging his doublet on the hanger fashioned from a small tree.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. It worked wonders on my skin, just like Karlach promised it would; I’m not going to lie. But the smell—geh!” Astarion imitated the urge to gag as he finished peeling off his leather cuirass. “Some things are just not worth it.”

“Even if it makes you more attractive?” Jayme asked teasingly.

“I’m already as attractive as I can be, wouldn’t you say?” Astarion fluttered his eyelashes. “Now, Karlach, on the other hand—sweet and charming as she is—could definitely use some skincare for her heat-coarsened body.”

“Still, it was a nice experience, the four of us together. I’d like to go again sometime if you’re up for it. It’s too bad Mizora got away this time…” Jayme said, now completely bare, as he retrieved the newly acquired poultice from Astarion’s bag.

He placed a palm-sized redwood container over the sizable candle beside the bath—originally intended to diffuse aromatic oils—to warm the herb paste. In Faerûn, such soft, moist poultices were typically spread on cloth and wrapped around the injured area. The herbs of the Feywild were considerably more potent, requiring only a small amount and a brief application. In fact, due to the primal mud in the mixture—a powerful substance harvested from the Feydark’s mystical soil—it was crucial to wash it off quickly. If left on too long, primal mud could cause living tissue to break down into raw organic material.

“I absolutely agree. And I owe Wyll a new Eversmoking Bottle and Cloak of Displacement anyway,” Astarion coughed in mild embarrassment. They had stormed Mizora’s manor, but it hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Who knew the cambion had her abode trapped worse than a rogue's hideout on tax collection day?

Jayme smiled at the memory. He dipped a finger into the herb paste and turned to Astarion, who was in the process of shedding his undergarments. “The poultice will be ready soon. Let’s wade in,” he suggested.

They took turns using the small water cascade off to the side, where guests were expected to wash away any accumulated dirt or blood before sinking into the pool.

Afterward, Astarion approached the edge of the pool, where a small stone stand held two bowls and a pair of scales. One scale was for ice cubes, to be added from the bowl with metal tongs, and the other for burning pieces of coal. Both were enchanted to maintain a constant temperature, but as soon as they touched the scales, they influenced the water’s warmth. The scales were balanced at the moment, so Astarion casually dropped three ice cubes onto the cold pan.

Jayme reached for one of the soap containers arranged beside the pool—a single serving of liquid soap encased in a small wooden box. This was the customary offering in eladrin bathhouses, as they disapproved of Torilians sharing soap bars with strangers, considering it uncouth.

Soon, both of them were submerged in the pleasantly lukewarm water. Astarion winced as the scented water touched his newly formed, sensitive skin, but when Jayme ran gentle, soapy hands over his shoulders, arms, chest, and back, he felt no pain at all. With his hands resting on Jayme’s shoulders, Astarion hummed softly and let his eyes fall shut.

“You take such excellent care of me,” he mumbled. “Of everything, really. It sometimes makes me feel, well, self-conscious.”

“Self-conscious?” Jayme echoed in surprise.

“Next to you, I seem kind of… passive. I feel like I should be doing more,” Astarion confessed.

It was a vague, nagging sensation at the back of his mind—not strong enough to agitate him, at least not yet, but just insistent enough to compel him to search. Search for what, exactly? Purpose? No, that’s not it, Astarion thought a little restlessly.

“You’re doing enough.” Jayme lightly tapped one of Astarion’s wounds as if to illustrate the point. “And you are enough just the way you are.”

Astarion smiled, opening his eyes. “That’s sweet. But still. I think I’m only just beginning to explore what life has to offer me.”

Something more elemental than “purpose”. Something… something Astarion couldn’t quite grasp.

“You have all the time in the world for that,” Jayme reassured him quietly. “The fomorians, they’re just the beginning.”

“You’re so… stunningly driven. How?” Astarion asked softly. “Take the fomorians now; what pushes you on? Why fight them?”

He had heard the reasons before, but now, he was looking for another angle—a clue to better understand himself.

“They’re a threat to this realm and ours,” Jayme replied, all smooth grace. “I think about the slaves they take, the people they violate, and I know with absolute conviction that fighting them is worth every effort. Just as it was worth renouncing my old self.”

“That!” Astarion exclaimed, gripping Jayme’s shoulders harder. “I want that. To find my purpose and feel a passion for it. And conviction. I can’t remember the last time I felt that way about something. If ever…” His voice lost its luster toward the end.

“Think about what you want to do—it’ll come to you. And then, we’ll turn it into reality,” Jayme replied almost matter-of-factly.

Bold words, comforting in their simplicity; easily mistaken for a platitude, but not from this man.

Astarion carefully tucked them away for future contemplation. For now, though, he surrendered to the marvelous touches and, freeing his mind of thoughts, let his eyes drift closed again.

From a distance, the twinkling melody of a mandolin, a birdpipe—a kind of panpipe sacred to satyrs—and the mellifluous singing of a female eladrin bard wafted over to them. She sang in Sylvan, so Astarion could only make out a few of words, ones that sounded similar to Elven: arrn’ess, meaning storm bringer; shared, for winds blow; nor, for passion; sy, for wild.

“She could be singing about you,” Astarion said, casting a lighthearted glance at Jayme.

The bard continued meticulously cleansing Astarion’s skin down to the last inch, making sure no trace of the vile substance the bolas had been dipped in remained, but his lips curved into a smile.

“Doubtful,” he said. “Volo’s sensational epic is still in the making. My name is safe from fame in this realm until he publishes it.”

“I’m pleased that our views align on the topic of fame,” Astarion said, stretching for some soap to return the royal treatment he was receiving. “I never craved renown, not even when I was alive. Once, as a hot-blooded youth, I aspired to be a hidden puppet master—right until I was turned into a vampire by one.”

“And now? You don’t relish the thought even a little bit?” Jayme asked.

“I’m not sure. I would say no. I want to avoid visibility,” Astarion replied pensively.

“You’d better start getting used to the idea of some visibility. Volo won’t spare you either.”

“By Asmodeus' flaming rump, you’re probably right,” Astarion mumbled in dismay, then shook himself as if to shoo the thought away. After a moment of silence, he changed the subject. “By the way, I’ve always wondered—why don't you sing when you perform?”

Jayme didn’t need to think long about his answer.

“There are no words I can add that would give any more depth to my violin pieces. It's unnecessary.” He gently lifted Astarion’s legs out of the water, one by one, to wash them thoroughly.

“And if I sang while you played?” Astarion suggested, balancing on one leg.

“That's different. Would you do it, once in a while?” Jayme asked with interest.

“Why is it different? Could it be that you're feeling shy about your voice, my love?” Astarion asked, scanning Jayme’s face for—gods forbid—signs of timidity. But of course, he could have waited an eternity for that.

“No. Because you complete me.”

There. As always, Jayme knew just what to say to make Astarion melt inside.

“Now come,” Jayme said. “I’ll massage the poultice into your skin, and then let you work your magic on mine.”

—And knew just what to do to have Astarion exactly where he wanted him. He practiced the sweetest, most wholesome persuasion Astarion had ever encountered.

It kindled a desire in Astarion, primal and defiant.

Nevertheless, he complied for the time being, following Jayme out of the pool, hot steam rising off their bodies in wisps. The bard checked the herb paste and nodded when he found its temperature and consistency satisfactory. He scooped some of the dark green pulp with both hands and began applying it to Astarion’s blemishes, working it in with tender motions.

Astarion silently watched him in action. A tiny wrinkle formed between the bard’s eyebrows, a telltale sign of the intense concentration that only the most technically demanding compositions and highest-level spells would elicit. A lovely little crease, Astarion thought fondly.

It was undeniable that he adored being the focus of Jayme’s attention. Yet, at that moment, he longed for something different.

Once his whole body was coated in the earthy, citrusy mixture, he took hold of Jayme’s hand.

“I want you to lie down in the pool. There.”

Jayme gave a small smile and walked obediently to the pool—not to the deep end, but to the shallow section that connected to the main pool, intended as a footbath.

“You seem to have a plan,” Jayme said, amused, as he lay down. The water rose to his sides, trickling over the lines of his chiseled abdomen and the slopes of his hips as he settled.

“I do, darling. Now shut your pretty mouth, will you? I want you to be completely silent,” Astarion said calmly.

Jayme obeyed without objection. His lips pressed together, and his face straightened, leaving only an intrigued gleam in his ice-blue eyes. He spread his limbs comfortably and rested his head, waiting to see what Astarion would do next.

A shiver thrilled up Astarion’s spine. There was a refreshing certainty within him, invigorating his every sense. He knew exactly what he would do, what he wanted to achieve, and this was power.

Before doing anything else, he stepped under the flowing shower stream to rinse off the poultice. As the green pulp washed away, his skin beneath appeared perfectly healed. Next, he moved to the assortment of oils next to the soap boxes and selected an unscented oil.

Finally, he settled onto his side beside Jayme, close enough to touch, propping himself up on his arm. With oil-slickened fingers, he caressed the flat plane of the bard’s stomach, while his gaze roamed over his sprawled body. Slowly, his hand trailed downward, taking Jayme’s cock in a relaxed grip.

Jayme’s muscles tensed in response, but otherwise, he remained still, continuing to wait.

Astarion tightened his fingers and pulled down in a slow, deliberate motion, and then pulled back up, repeating the movement until hot, slippery hardness was pressing into his palm.

The sounds of the outside world—the music and the chatter of the other guests at the bathhouse—faded into the background, subsumed by the gentle gurgle of water. They were enveloped in the sweet-peppery fragrance of herbs and a tranquil white mist.

Jayme parted his lips after a few minutes, letting out nothing but soundless breaths, and then his gaze fell on Astarion’s own arousal, which was demanding to be acknowledged. When he reached for it, Astarion intercepted and guided his eager hand back to the edge of the pool, shaking his head with a mischievous smile.

Before the bard could react, he twisted his wrist, just a little, and applied more pressure while pulling downward.

Jayme’s hips jerked and his mouth opened wider. But still, he remained totally silent. His gasp was so soft it almost got lost beneath the babbling of the fountain feeding the pool. But Astarion’s keen ears picked it up anyway. It made his own cock twitch in response. Jayme was usually tastefully vocal while they were fucking, and to see him restrain himself so at Astarion’s bidding was intoxicating.

His raven-haired head made a soft thud against the marble as he arched into Astarion’s touches. That small sound; it made Astarion suck in a sharp breath, and the tension inside him crested. He gripped Jayme at his base and pulled up and down with a swift firmness that bordered on painful, knowing it would trigger another spasm of muscles, and he wasn’t disappointed.

Jayme’s eyes, which had been on his the whole time, now rolled shut and his head thudded against the hard stone once more. The water splashed. It was almost as if these thuds and splashes were replacing the bard’s voice—an outlet for the lust whirling inside him, controlled by the presses and pulls of Astarion’s hand.

And Astarion slowed his hand once more, switching to long, drawn-out movements.

The changes in Jayme’s body were mesmerizing—Astarion wanted to savor them. The way his fingers quivered in involuntary, helpless scrapes at the rounded rim of the pool. The black ink of his wet hair spread in tendrils on the white marble. His heart slamming rapidly against his chest, sending his blood rumbling. The flush painting his fair skin red, radiating across his cheeks, neck, and down to his chest.

Astarion bent down and planted a kiss on Jayme’s warm forehead, then moved down the side of his face to his clenched jaw. He marveled at the strain with which the bard suppressed his vocal reactions, feeling him tremble and the hot rushes of air escaping through his nose and mouth.

When he pulled back, Jayme’s eyes came open, focusing on his with a questioning look. Astarion’s mouth formed the word “yes” without sound; though he could have spoken, he hadn’t instructed himself to be quiet. But something throbbed wildly inside him, making it difficult to voice any words.

He grabbed with more force again, his nails prickling the delicate skin, and he twisted his wrist, quickly and deviously.

Jayme dug his heels into the pool, arching his back even more. His full body rippled once and his head thudded hard one final time against the stone pool. Astarion reflexively slid the hand he had been using to support himself under Jayme’s head to cradle it while Jayme spilled hot over Astarion’s hand and his own upper body, shuddering in utter silence.

Astarion watched, spellbound, as the glinting blue of Jayme’s eyes peeked between fluttering eyelids. Shifting even closer, he licked his hand clean and then avidly kissed the spot where he saw the pulse jumping in Jayme’s throat.

But he didn’t bite. If he had, he would have succumbed, wrapped Jayme’s hand around himself, and been swept away by his own instincts.

No, at that very moment, a spine-tingling sense of complete control surged through him like the pounding of a war drum. This was new; this time would be about Jayme only. It was enough, a small climax on its own.

And he wouldn’t bite—this was new too.

Jayme didn’t yet understand what was happening and stirred beneath Astarion while the vampire breathed kisses and shallow, rapid puffs of air onto his neck. Hooking a finger under Astarion’s chin, Jayme gently lifted his face to meet his gaze.

Astarion broke into a smile, releasing a gasping chuckle.

“That was perfect, so utterly perfect...” he slurred under his breath, cupping Jayme’s face and bending forward slightly to kiss him before resting his forehead against the bard’s. As his own arousal slowly faded, he added, “Talk to me.”

“It was perfect, but…” Jayme trailed off, his voice husky in a way Astarion had rarely heard.

“No.” Astarion lightly shook his head. “I wanted it this way. And I think I’ll want a repeat sometime.”

“I’m yours to unleash your new desires upon,” Jayme whispered, capturing Astarion’s lips in another, longer kiss. When he withdrew, he said, “That was an interesting interpretation of a massage, by the way.”

“I thought of something even better along the way,” Astarion hummed.

At that instant, a mellow flute melody signaled the end of their time in the bath. As if a bubble had burst, the sounds of the outside world rushed back into their awareness: the lively buzz of other guests, the upbeat notes of the mandolin and birdpipe, and the song of the eladrin woman.

They looked at each other and smiled at the same time, recognizing that this had been the most productive use of their bath time yet. Slowly standing, they both took linen cloths from the neat pile by the pool and dried themselves.

“As for that wrestling—” Jayme began, already halfway through dressing, but Astarion interrupted him.

“We’ll wrestle someday. But I think it would be unfair to you as things stand. I’m a full-fledged vampire now, after all, stronger and sharper than ever. We’ll save it for after I’ve given you my kiss of immortality.” He frowned, realizing he couldn’t keep the wryness from his tone.

“When will that happen, I wonder?” Jayme asked lightly.

“Well, not just yet. We’re not ready,” Astarion stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You should prepare yourself mentally, and I need to come to terms with the idea. I can’t bear the thought of not hearing that precious heartbeat ever again.”

“It’s just a heart,” Jayme smirked, glancing up while lacing his doublet.

“No, darling, it’s your heart, and there isn’t another like it in all the realms,” Astarion declared, fastening the straps of his leather armor with firm, deliberate pulls.

By the time they arrived at the Lantern Tree, a fresh decanter of Dewberry wine awaited them, along with their three companions.

Chapter 20: II - Do what you feel, feel until the end

Summary:

The principles of lust are easy to understand
Do what you feel, feel until the end
The principles of lust, are burned in your mind
Do what you want, do it until you find love

Enigma - Principles of Lust

In the Feywild fall, there came a day each year when the eternal twilight Sun of the realm set for a single night. This phenomenon was known as the Duskbreak; lycanthropes and moon elves revered it, while other races feared it. Communities devoted to Moon domain deities—such as Sehanine Moonbow, Selûne, Eilistraee, Sharindlar, and others—celebrated the occasion in a manner reminiscent of the Midsummer festivities in Faerûn, indulging in either modest or extravagant revelries beneath the moonlight. 

When Solaufein and Shadowheart invited Astarion and Jayme to join them for this special event, the invitation specified “a modest gathering”—with conversation, drinks, and music. Astarion promptly countered with a demand for “an evening both enjoyable and memorable, tinged with sensuality—a night for indulging their barest passions.” He suggested stimulating conversation, an abundance of drinks, velvety melodies, and the freedom to do whatever the mood inspired. “In the spirit of the ecstatic—and at times delirious—festivities of old,” he had said. The Moon Twosome agreed, albeit not entirely without reservations.

Of course, Gale had received an invitation as well, but after much heavy-hearted deliberation, he declined due to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that had arisen for that day: a private conference with the archmage supreme of Astrazalian, held within the archives of the city’s fabled library. For a fey eladrin to meet with a human—some human from Toril—was a remarkable show of grace. Gale had no illusions; without Elminster’s glowing recommendation, the conference would hardly have taken place.

Thus, it would be just the two couples to frolic under the moonlight. But the four had another reason to celebrate. One that, understandably, overshadowed the Duskbreak’s importance for Astarion and Jayme. 

Efanon, Astrazalian’s renowned satyr luthier, had finally restored Jayme's jet-black violin to a playable state. More precisely, states. Despite the luthier’s outstanding magical abilities, he had been unable to join the two halves of the broken instrument without diminishing its sound. According to him, “Some diabolic curse had seeped into the wood, preventing the perfect fusion of the pieces.” As a result, a choice had to be made. Rather than forcibly reattaching the two halves and risking ruining the instrument’s quality, Efanon was commissioned to craft a pair of twin violins—one for Jayme and one for Astarion.

Two pieces of a whole, transformed to create two whole pieces. Astarion was deeply infatuated with the idea. It would serve as the perfect symbol of their bond: two broken works of art, mended and made whole on their own but bound together for eternity.

Naturally, the missing wood had to be replaced with new materials. Jayme hand-picked the maple, spruce, and ebony from Efanon’s boutique—a unique stock reserved for the most illustrious musicians of the planes. The new catgut strings would be reinforced with nymph hair, a specialty of Efanon’s. Lastly, Jayme also selected two slabs of pernambuco and fine bundles of moon horsehair for their bows. The finished masterpieces would be tested on Duskbreak.

Their chosen spot was a small clearing in the Everwood, not far from Astrazalian, circled by lofty jade maples, olive-green bald cypresses, and deep purple copper beeches—all painted a monochromatic silver by the moonlight. Everyone wore casual camp clothes for the occasion, but their weapons were at hand in case of need. 

Astarion brought beverages and cushions, while Shadowheart brought blankets and a basket of ripe dewberries. Once the location was settled, they promptly began to set the stage. The group had previously decided against lighting a campfire to accentuate the glory of the Moon as much as possible—and since they were all equipped with Darkvision, it was unnecessary.

The plan was to light one candle each during the musical offering segment of the night, symbolically recognizing the Sun’s undeniable role in the world. Afterward, the candles would be extinguished so the Moon’s luster could prevail once again.

“When I first set foot in this forest, my mind was so consumed by distress I could barely appreciate the beauty around me. And when I finally did, the frustration of having no one to share it with gnawed at me,” Jayme remarked quietly, his excitement palpable as he took in the environment. He then retrieved the cased violins from his bag and placed them within easy reach. “But here I am again, about to do something I would never have imagined.” 

“Fascinating how briskly life changes when we are swept into the currents of grand events,” Solaufein mused. “On that note, our time here may soon be coming to an end. I anticipate a shift in focus. Astrazalian can breathe a little easier for a while.”

“You echo my thoughts exactly. The zeal of the fomorian attacks has been waning these past few days. And with this ring on top...” Jayme idly spun the trinket around his fingers, contemplating for a minute before declaring with determination, “I think we should move on to Mithrendain and investigate.”

“Agreed.” Solaufein nodded. “The Autumn City is known for its strict security, and they have long regarded drow with suspicion. My presence is already a liability. Assuming we gain entry, we would do well to approach the Watchers of the Night with careful diplomacy.”

Astarion chose this moment to call over. 

“Aaalright, let's shelve the serious talk for the eve. You two are in dire need of some levity! We’ve been knee-deep in the muck of battle for too long; now it’s time to let loose.” He donned his best roguish smile as he arranged the bottles of Feyfire Flambeau—a playfully spiced, sparkling red wine produced locally—and Wyvern Whiskey, along with four silver chalices and four silver snifters on the largest blanket, next to the basket of dewberries. “As a prelude to our earnest frolicking, I propose a classic game of ‘I Have Never Ever’ to break the ice.” 

“How old are you?” Shadowheart quipped as she hopped down onto a cushion and stretched her limbs.

“Two hundred and sixty-three, but that’s hardly the point,” Astarion replied promptly. He then stretched out luxuriously on the ground, sprawling across three cushions while propping himself up on one elbow. “The point is to, one, entertain ourselves; two, get to know each other even better; and three, savor our drinks, which, by the way, also ties back to point number one.”

“Let us begin,” Solaufein agreed without much hesitation. 

With that, he and Jayme also made themselves comfortable—the drow on Shadowheart’s right, and Jayme on Astarion’s—forming a small circle.

“That’s the spirit, Solaufein, thank you!” Astarion said, giving an elegant wave of his hand and a graceful bow of his head.

“Hold on; I’ve got a question first,” Shadowheart interjected, raising an index finger. “What do we do if a statement refers to something we can’t quite recall? My memory’s still a bit hazy, and I’m sure Jayme’s is too.”

“Oh don’t worry, it’s the same for me,” Astarion said, gesturing vividly. “Two centuries of sheer anguish and surviving on a steady diet of rat blood tend to blur the days gone by. How about we take a sip of wine when we can’t remember something clearly?”

“Really now?” Shadowheart quirked an eyebrow.

“Really. And to make it more engaging: whenever someone drinks, they have to explain why. If others drink for the same reason, they help themselves to an extra round of Wyvern Whiskey,” Astarion added.

“This could turn out to be a quick game, and an early night," Shadowheart remarked, predictably skeptical.

“Sips, my dear. Sips.” Astarion demonstrated by delicately lifting a chalice and tilting it toward his mouth, his pinky held upright. “If you’re concerned, just moisten your lips with the polished elegance of a patriar lady.”

“I’ve always detested patriars. Stuck-up imbeciles, the lot of them,” the cleric sneered.

“Suit yourself.” Astarion pouted as if offended on behalf of nobility. “Now, why don’t you open the game? As the Moonmaiden’s favored daughter.”

“Priestess. Calling me her daughter is a bit presumptuous. Who am I next to Dame Aylin?” Shadowheart said, timidly lowering her gaze. “Hmmm, let me see... I have never ever wanted to make a deal with an infernal creature.” She punctuated her statement with a cunning smile.

“Here we go,” Astarion said, taking a deep swig of Feyfire Flambeau.

“A creative start,” Jayme commented, mirroring the action.

“Is a sip of whiskey in order too?” Solaufein asked, visibly amused. His chalice remained untouched.

Jayme shook his head. “No. My infernal deal was with Raphael.”

“And the one I considered making was with Mephistopheles,” Astarion explained to Solaufein. “A deal that would’ve culminated in the Rite of Profane Ascension. I would’ve achieved a miracle—Cazador’s perverse, gory miracle, which took him at least two centuries to lay the groundwork for. But that kind of cursed power can only corrupt to the core; I know it. Jayme nudged me in the right direction at the critical moment, and I’ll be eternally grateful to him for that.”

As he pushed himself up to give Jayme’s cheek a caress, Solaufein smiled and remarked, “Finally, I learn something about you besides your taste in wine and your knack for crafty maneuvers in battle.”

“Ah yes, fine vintages and daggers in the back—two of my greatest passions! But anyway, that’s the aim of this game.” Astarion grinned, settling back into his earlier position. “Alright, my turn. I have never ever wanted to kill a god.”

“You intend to make me drunk, don’t you?” Jayme asked with a glint in his eyes.

“Perhaps I do! Drink up, love,” Astarion winked.

Jayme and Solaufein both drank. Shadowheart kept her hands in her lap.

Astarion gave her a curious look. “Oh? What about Shar?”

“I never actually wanted to kill her. That’s just… no,” Shadowheart said, her voice dropping. “To desire the death of a god or goddess, it’s the ultimate level of audacity.”

“You can say that again,” Jayme nodded, a thoughtful look crossing his face.

“And who was it for you, Solaufein?” Astarion asked. “The Spider Queen, mayhap?”

Solaufein's expression darkened. “No. It was Bhaal. For the torment his legacy inflicted on Siva. I would have charged him head-on, if he had ever materialized before me.”

“Careful not to invite it. Gods seem to have a tendency to appear in our midst,” Astarion warned and cleared his throat. “But anyway, a sip of whiskey for you and Jayme.” He moved to remove the glass stopper, fashioned in the shape of a wyvern, from the artfully crafted bottle.

“For me it wasn’t just Bhaal, mind you,” Jayme remarked. “All the gods, any gods. At one time, I would have merrily slaughtered them all.”

“In that case, your responses are not the same,” Shadowheart slyly pointed out, “so technically speaking, there’s no need for the whiskey round.”

“So rule-abiding, Shadowheart. Thank you for upholding order here,” Astarion mocked.

“Think nothing of it. You might want your man drunk, but I have no such desire for mine,” Shadowheart replied. Her eyes flitted to Solaufein, glinting brightly in the silver light. “There are other ways to frolic under the moonlight.”

Astarion grinned with a hint of mischief. “Oh, we’ll get to those other ways too, I’m sure. Besides, remember Jayme’s drinking competition with the undead brewer in the Waning Moon? His insane resistance?”

“What happened?” Solaufein immediately asked.

Astarion snapped upright, ran a hand through his hair, and adopted his best imitation of a sensationalist bard.

“The year was 1492. In the dusty, dilapidated tavern of Reithwin Town, the Waning Moon, our gifted bard, Jayme, sat down at the bar with cool grace and a gleam of challenge in his eyes. His opponent? Ketheric Thorm’s bloated son, Thisobald, the tapster and brewer. His challenge: to imbibe the brewer’s swill, akin to devil’s piss, and live to tell the tale. Yet, Jayme, undeterred by the peril, chugged the toxic liquor as if it were warm milk!”

“And believe it or not,” Shadowheart chimed in, catching Astarion’s zany enthusiasm, “he outlasted the foul undead, whose sutured belly popped open like an overripe peach after the umpteenth round!”

“Astounding!” Solaufein chuckled and applauded.

“The fifth round, actually,” Jayme added with a smirk, bowing his head in a comical fashion. 

“Well then. It sounds like a worthy challenge to test that legendary resistance once again,” Solaufein said, pausing to consider his statement. “I have never lain with a woman.”

“What the…?” Astarion yelped and grabbed his chalice.

His eyes grew even larger as everyone else followed suit. 

“Shadowheart?” Jayme asked, brows raised in surprise.

The cleric’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade, visible even in the dim light. “What? I… experimented a little bit. Back at the House of Grief.”

“You have to tell us. Leave. No. Detail. Untold,” Astarion insisted. “Am I right, Solaufein?”

“Only if she wishes to share,” Solaufein replied.

“Maybe later, if you play nice, Astarion,” Shadowheart teased, batting her eyelashes. “But for now, I’d much rather hear about Jayme’s experience. Unless I’m mistaken, that was the intention behind your statement anyway, right?” She directed her question to Solaufein, who placed a soft hand on her shoulder.

“You read me so well,” he murmured.

“Of course.”

“Hate to disappoint, but I can’t say I remember much of the affair,” Jayme admitted.

“The affair, singular?” Astarion jumped in for clarification.

“Yes,” Jayme said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “We were both students at the bard college. She had red hair and brown eyes, a half-elf. I took her down to a quiet spot by the river one evening.”

“Let me guess, she was demonstrating her proficiency on the flute,” Astarion speculated with a lecherous grin.

“You guessed correctly,” Jayme said, matching the grin.

“Down, down, down by the river, eh?” Astarion snickered. “And?”

“And what?”

“How did she compare to me?” Astarion tapped his own chest. “Or, more precisely, how do I compare to her?”

Jayme lightly snorted and flashed him a provocative smile. “As if you didn’t know the answer.” He leaned to the side to slide his hand over Astarion’s on the blanket, looking the vampire straight in the eye. “She didn’t hold a candle to you.”

Astarion’s grin grew even wider as he twined his fingers with Jayme’s and gave his hand a firm squeeze. “You don’t say!” he purred.

“How does that work, exactly? With the fangs…?” Shadowheart wondered. She opened her mouth and poked her canines with her tongue. 

“I could showcase my technique for you,” Astarion offered, tilting his head to the side in a carelessly self-assured gesture.

“That’s, ha ha… I might need to top off my wine before we go down that road.” Shadowheart rubbed her neck, a blush creeping into her cheeks.

“Solaufein, who did you have in mind? Besides the two ladies we know of,” Jayme inquired, swirling his drink in his chalice.

“Oh, a number, back in Ust Natha,” the drow replied. “I realize these are morally reprehensible customs—and not easy for you to understand—but in drow society, males are generally treated one of two ways: as common bed warmers or fodder for settling inter-house feuds… often both.”

“In less sophisticated terms, as harlots or assassins,” Astarion interpreted, then proceeded to suck the alcoholic juices from a purple dewberry.

“That classification is adequate, yes. Loathe as I am to confirm it,” Solaufein said wryly.

“Don’t worry for a moment. Your number cannot possibly be higher than Astarion’s,” Shadowheart reassured him with a quick smile.

“Oh?” Solaufein arched a white brow in curiosity.

“Ahem! Come now, that is… well… annoyingly true,” Astarion admitted with a sigh.

“Is it?” Solaufein asked, intrigued. “How so?”

“It’s in the past; let it stay there,” Jayme asserted. The protective edge in his tone made Astarion’s unmoving heart flutter.

“Thank you, my sweet, but I proposed this game; it wouldn’t do to go tight-lipped now,” Astarion said, setting the half-consumed dewberry aside and turning back to Solaufein. “Cazador used to command me to seduce people—men and women, humans, elves, tieflings, anyone —night after night, after night. And all those years, I thought those poor bastards met a swift end as his supper. But in reality, he was gathering them for the aforementioned Rite of Profane Ascension. He turned thousands into vampire spawn and kept them imprisoned in his secret dungeons.”

“What became of them?” Solaufein asked, his tone neutral, devoid of judgment, as always.

“I released them. And tasked my spawn sisters and brothers with guiding them into the Underdark, where they would be safe from the surface world’s torches and pitchforks. And where the Surface would be safe from them in return.”

Astarion was pleased that his voice remained steady. In truth, he felt far from it when he thought about how they might be trying to get by even now. 

“The Underdark? Hmm. Yes… yes, it makes sense,” Solaufein noted, nodding a few times. The moonlight caught on his white hair in a most aesthetically pleasing way—a detail that drew Astarion’s eye.

“It was the only solution I could think of then,” Astarion said, and the words somehow came out more defensive than intended.

“We are planning a visit there soon. Probably right after Mithrendain,” Jayme added. “If you two would join us, just say the word.”

While Shadowheart simply nodded, Solaufein’s expression grew stern.

“I shall have to think about that. The circumstances of my departure, some hundred and twenty years ago, were chaotic, to say the least. If anything remains of House Despana, they must still have a bounty on my head. My presence could put you in danger.”

“Breathing the very air of the Underdark puts us in danger.” Astarion shrugged. “But what happened? You weren't the obedient little bed warmer?”

“No. I indirectly—but purposefully—ended the life of the one whose bed I had warmed and whose enemies I had dispatched, after she ordered my own death,” Solaufein revealed, as if discussing the routine tasks of an average Ninthday morning.

“Then you weren’t an obedient little assassin, either,” Astarion grinned, impressed.

“Anything but.” A streak of pride infused Solaufein’s voice. “By that time, Lolth held no sway over my heart.”

“To that, I propose a toast with a round of Wyvern Whiskey outside our game!” Astarion declared, proceeding to pour four whiskeys.

“Aren't you eager to knock back a draught?” Shadowheart said playfully. 

“How dare you! It’s your ebony sweetheart’s tempestuous past and delicious perseverance that touched me.” Once everyone had a cup in hand, Astarion continued solemnly, “May that same perseverance fuel your every endeavor. Cheers!”

“Thank you. I shall also drink to your good health.” Solaufein smiled and downed his whiskey.

They all smacked their lips as the sublime burning sensation spread through their stomachs.

“Good. I’m pleased,” Astarion said. “Despite your initial lack of enthusiasm, I think you’ve embraced the spirit of this game. And now, get ready for the next one. I have never ever lain with a man.” No sooner had he finished the sentence than he lifted the chalice to his mouth.

“Hey, isn't it Jayme’s turn?” Shadowheart asked before taking a sip. She nodded toward Jayme, who was also taking a hearty gulp.

“He's next, relax.” Astarion held up a calming hand.

“A statement directed at me, I understand.” Solaufein smirked, letting the suspense build before grabbing his chalice.

“I knew it!” Astarion exclaimed. 

“So what? Interested?” Shadowheart teased.

“If the love of my life weren’t the god of sex himself,” Astarion bragged, pausing to let the smug glow he knew would light up Jayme’s face show before continuing, “perhaps I would be. But do elaborate, all three of you. I trust you don’t need me to.”

“No, that’s fine,” Shadowheart replied. “I admit, I drank because of your rule that hazy memories mean drinking. I… can’t recall too much about my partners. They were Sharrans, and I dallied with them secretly in weak moments when I longed for companionship. I know it sounds cold, but they were rather insignificant.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. We’ve all been there,” Astarion remarked with genuine sympathy, breaking from his usual teasing. He then turned to Jayme. “Love?”

“I’m like Shadowheart. There weren't many of them; bards, I think,” Jayme said.

“What about Enver Gortash?” Astarion asked point-blank, fixing his eyes on Jayme’s face. It was something Astarion had always been curious about.

“Hah!” Jayme gave a little laugh. “No. Enver was my accomplice—and friend, strange as it may sound.”

“Interesting,” Astarion said slowly. “From the way he greeted you at his coronation, I thought maybe… but looks like I was wrong. I see.”

“I think he might’ve been open to the idea. I had that feeling. But then I told him we should eliminate lovers and family to make sure our rise isn’t hindered. That must have made him think twice,” Jayme explained, wearing a devilish smile.

“Ah, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your change of heart!” Astarion splayed his fingers over his chest in a half-serious display of relief, then turned to Solaufein. “What about you, honey?” 

It was the first time he had used a term of endearment for the drow, and he found he liked the way it felt. It came naturally. “Honey” seemed fitting—the drow was sweet, strong, and rich in character, yet not overbearing.

Solaufein’s dark red eyes flickered with surprise, but he didn’t comment.

“Comrades-in-arms,” he replied simply. “I did not indulge as commonly as some others did, but I must admit that male company was oftentimes more generous than that of women.”

“Well, I think we've achieved the goal of this game—entertainment, savoring wine, and learning unexpected things about each other,” Shadowheart said, a giggle hiding in her voice. Her fingers traced sinuous patterns on her chalice. 

Little Lady Skepticism is getting tipsy, Astarion noted inwardly with a touch of self-satisfaction.

“Then get ready for the grand finale,” Jayme said in a pensive tone, drawing everyone’s attention. “I have never ever wanted to give up. To let go and fade away.”

“Way to kill the mood, darl,” Astarion muttered under his breath. 

“I believe in expressing everything: the exquisite and the ugly, the joyful and the heavy,” Jayme said calmly. “Otherwise, the melody loses its strength because of what’s left unsaid. But I’ve got a good one lined up too. Just wait.”

All four of them drank. Afterward, the shadows of the night grew deeper—or was it merely an illusion?

“It lasted only a few feverish seconds,” Jayme elaborated. “After that one time my Dark Urge took over. I came to find Alfira’s corpse at my feet, her blood coating my hands. That shame and powerlessness… I wished I could just disappear.”

This time, Astarion reached for Jayme’s hand, and they held onto each other with reassuring, gentle firmness. 

After a few beats of silence, Astarion spoke. “During the cruelest lashings. When my bones began to peek through my torn flesh.” The ache was still present in his voice. How many decades would it take for it to diminish?

“The moment I realized I would need to let my parents die,” Shadowheart confessed in turn, her tone revealing a deep scar in her soul. 

“In the moment of Siva’s passing,” Solaufein said tersely. Of the four of them, he sounded the most reserved.

No wonder, Astarion thought. To lose one’s soulmate... It’s a miracle he’s learned to smile again at all.

Another veil of silence descended upon them.

“Well, what's your good one?” Astarion asked quietly. 

“I have never ever thought I'd be where I am now. I'm fulfilled,” Jayme said softly, and just from that, something changed in the air. The moonlight seemed to shine brighter, as though a cloud had drifted out of the way.

Maybe Selûne and Eilistraee are watching, after all, Astarion thought as the silvery haze unfurled around them like a blanket.

“Darkness and light. The nadir and the zenith. Balance,” Solaufein remarked with equal softness.

“How’s that for a catharsis, am I right?” Astarion said with a thin smile. “Trust my sweet bard to come up with something so artistic during a drinking game!”

“I think this statement calls for a round of whiskey,” Shadowheart suggested.

“I’ll make that double. To us!” Astarion proposed after pouring their drinks, and they clinked their snifters together. 

Silver tinkled on silver like bells. As if on cue, small flickering lights appeared all around—clusters of fireflies. Some pirouetted through the air, while others rested on the ground and leaves.

“Do you know why fireflies emit light?” Shadowheart asked, her mouth curling upward as she took in the enchanting phenomenon.

“They’re hoping to attract a partner,” Astarion replied, straightening up. “Which brings us to our next indulgence. Dearest, shall we play something to stoke the festive spirit? And Shadowheart, now is the time for the naughty details of your tryst with the lascivious Sharran shadow princess.”

“… I never said she was lascivious,” the cleric retorted, pursing her lips. She quickly grabbed a sizeable orange dewberry and held it to her mouth like a shield.

“Oh, do embellish the story a little, won’t you? For the pleasure of the Moon goddesses and your eager male audience.” Astarion tossed her a wink, then moved next to Jayme, who was already engrossed in inspecting the violins. “So, what do you think, good sir?”

He imitated Efanon’s manner of speaking. The corner of Jayme’s mouth twitched, but he remained focused on studying one instrument after the other—an exercise he had already spent an excessive amount of time on in the luthier’s shop upon claiming his purchase. 

The twin violins appeared to have received a fresh, glossy finish; the distinctive scent of varnish wafted through the air as Jayme carefully turned the instruments in his hands. The jet-black color, identical to that of the old violin, had been applied evenly, cleverly concealing where old wood met new. To the casual observer, it might have seemed that Jayme’s cherished old violin had been perfectly duplicated and polished. But Astarion had no doubt Jayme saw the difference. 

Not wanting to rush this reflective moment, he left the bard to his musings and sat next to Shadowheart, who was already munching on her second dewberry.

“Whoa, looks like someone’s diving right into it,” Astarion teased, “Well done! Keep it up!”

“This is really addictive—so flavorful! But your enthusiasm is a good sign I should slow down. Or stop altogether,” Shadowheart said, scooting closer to Solaufein and holding the fruit to his mouth.

The drow bit into it without hesitation. From his spot, Astrion couldn’t see it clearly, but it seemed that instead of taking another bite, Solaufein angled his head and began to lick at Shadowheart’s fingers.

The cleric’s delicate hand twitched. Solaufein's lips quirked into a rascally smile.

“If you were my mistress, you could punish me for this,” he said.

“Believe me, punishment is the farthest thing from my mind when you use your tongue like that,” Shadowheart purred.

“Perhaps I should continue then,” Solaufein murmured. He kissed his way down her dainty hand and arm, pausing to lick the sensitive spot in the crook of her elbow.

“That tickles!” Shadowheart giggled and buried her free hand in Solaufein’s white tresses in a half-hearted attempt to restrain him.

Astarion chose this moment to interject. “You two are delightful to watch, and I love where the night is heading, but before you get too carried away, would you be so kind as to take out the candles?” He punctuated his request with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows for effect.

“Good thinking,” Solaufein agreed, reaching into his bag of holding to retrieve four slender silver candlesticks and four simple white candles.

“Much appreciated, honey. Now, back to your snack.” Astarion flashed an ear-to-ear smile at the drow. He deliberately brushed against the dark-skinned hands as he took the items. They were warm, with mild calluses, their roughness tempered by the mithril gauntlets he wore in battle.

Astarion had always enjoyed touching hands because they revealed so much about a person—profession, lifestyle, level of self-care. When he and Jayme began to attract each other with the force of a thousand suns, it thrilled him to no end whenever he found an excuse to brush against those golden hands of his. But, of course, he only touched the hands of people he liked.

While he reflected, Astarion positioned four candles at the edges of the blanket they lounged on, one for each direction. Then, with a muttered “Ignis,” he lit his own candle.

The sudden illumination, albeit modest, drew the others’ attention.

“One who lights a candle awakens a small sun,” Solaufein said, still entangled with their cleric.

“For some reason, I’ve always liked this saying,” Astarion remarked with a small smile. “I never cared much for most of the traditional Elven ones. And now, as a vampire, it gives me a certain… sense of power. It feels like I’m cheating. Light is my enemy, but these,”—he gestured to the candles—“are my good friends.”

As his eyes met Solaufein’s, he curved the corner of his mouth and added, “Call me silly if you want.”

“That was not my intention,” Solaufein replied softly, shaking his head. “In fact, I was thinking that the way you smiled when you said you liked cheating was rather fetching.”

“Oh really?” Astarion murmured happily, flattered beyond measure at the rare—perhaps the very first—compliment he received from the drow.

At that moment, Jayme finally answered the question Astarion had posed minutes ago, completely unfazed, “Yes. I’d say, these were worth all five of Raphael’s claws.” 

Did he even notice the passing of time? Chances are, he didn’t, Astarion thought fondly, falling for the bard a little more.

“It never fails to lift my spirits to think that Raphael broke your violin, but also helped us get it fixed later,” the rogue said, bubbling with glee. “A prime example of poetic justice!”

After plucking the strings a few more times to ensure they were all in tune, Jayme handed one of the violins to Astarion.

“Efanon appeared quite pleased with the trade, but I’m convinced we got the better end of the deal. These are wondrous masterpieces,” the bard declared with rare admiration.

“Depends on what he plans to do with the Devil’s remains, I suppose,” Astarion noted. “But anyway, what makes them so wondrous? And how will we know which is which? Should we just use them at random?”

“You can tell them apart if you look closely enough, but I’m fine with not assigning ownership. They are twins—equals, just like us,” Jayme added as he pulled Astarion to his feet. “As for the wonder, you’ll see in a second. They resonate with each other. Strengthen each other.”

“Just like we do,” Astarion cooed, closing the distance and stealing a kiss from the bard, who was evidently eager to start his performance. An overjoyed hum escaped him when Jayme swept him into his arm and deepened the kiss. Astarion speared his free hand through Jayme’s soft, tousled locks, and, driven by impulse, punctured his lower lip with a fang, drawing blood.

Jayme hissed and slid a hand down the small of Astarion’s back, resting it possessively on his bottom.

“That’s an interesting way to play the violin,” Shadowheart chirped from the ground. “What style is that? À la Sharess’ Caress?”

“Just an impassioned overture from your Devious Elf Tandem to spice up the mood,” Astarion purred, shamelessly tipping his head back to let Jayme trail wet kisses down his neck. “And by the way, if Sharess’ Caress is your idea of the height of lustful engagements, you need some educating. Am I right, Solaufein?”

“I prefer to maintain discretion regarding personal matters,” the drow responded, sounding more admiring than boastful, “but I will say, my Lady has more insight into the realm of carnal pleasures than you give her credit for.”

Not saying anything but clearly pleased by the flattering praise, Shadowheart lit his candle and transferred the flame to her own.

He doesn’t kiss and tell, eh? Astarion mused inwardly, smirking. This drow is a veritable ebony Prince Charming. With our Selûnite Princess, they’re a match made in heaven.

“Does she now?” he said. “Good for you both. Still, the next time you’re in Baldur’s Gate, I’d recommend a visit to a special establishment called the Gossamer Alcove. Trust me.”

Eventually, Astarion took hold of Jayme’s jaw, prompting a dissatisfied puff of air. That tiny sound drew a small chuckle from Astarion. It signaled that he had managed to capture Jayme’s undivided attention, even though he had his treasured instrument at the ready.

“To be continued, my love,” the vampire said softly to soothe the delectably hot-blooded man. “Shall we perform a duet of ‘The Shining’? It’s still the only piece of note I know. But now, we can finally start expanding my repertoire. I can’t wait to learn under your tutelage.”

“I’ll make you work for it,” Jayme promised in a low voice. He released Astarion after smearing the blood that had seeped onto his lip across Astarion’s own.

Astarion let out a breathy chuckle, then retrieved his candle. “Delicious! Before you grab your bow, let me light you up,” he offered.

Jayme picked up the fourth candle and touched it to the burning tip of Astarion’s.

Four candles, four miniature Suns. The ambiance of the forest shifted instantly, from silver mystery to golden mirth. Solaufein leaned in and whispered in Shadowheart’s ear, earning a trilling laugh from her. The two shared another dewberry.

Jayme cradled his violin and rosined the brand-new bow. The rosin was also unique: Efanon had enhanced it with finely ground honeycomb and snake’s tongue dust—components of a Suggestion spell. Combined with Jayme’s musical talent, this new instrument promised to elevate both his poignant melodies and his potent spells.

We’re in for quite the romp with the scum of the Feywild, Astarion thought with anticipation as he followed Jayme’s example, carefully treating his own bow. But that prospect felt comfortably distant—a quest for another day. Now, it’s time for some unapologetic pleasures.

Jayme was ready first and swept his bow across the strings in a cascade of lush strokes. He improvised a few passages, but as soon as Astarion looked set to join in, he flowed into a melody they both knew well.

All four of them envisioned the same image together: the Sun shining down on Astarion’s standing form, his back straight, arms open, face turned upward. Jayme drew on the memory of the morning after their first night together; when Astarion allowed himself a moment to soak in the peace of the rising Sun. The stark contrast between his grisly scars and the serene light he basked in was startling.

Jayme took this duality, added the resonance it stirred in him, and shared it through his music.

Astarion bit his lower lip, struggling to contain the emotions welling inside him. He couldn’t afford to falter during this riveting performance. He hadn’t practiced in the past few tendays and needed to give his all to hit the right notes. 

But he struggled to keep up with his part. Jayme had a way of surprising him time and again, reminding Astarion how observant and thoughtful he had been from the very beginning when it came to the vampire. Jayme noticed things about him that no one else had ever cared to see, let alone appreciate.

“Sing it, Astarion,” Shadowheart softly requested. “Please.”

Astarion did, without needing much persuasion.

“Soleil all over you, warm sun pours over me.
Soleil all over you
Warm sun”

As a duet, this lovely song took flight. Jayme embellished it with impeccable taste, adding just enough to give it a special flavor that encapsulated the two of them. Astarion loved it. And wanted very much to kiss him again.

When the last resounding note faded, he lowered the violin and bow, and strode over to Jayme’s side to claim his lips. Shadowheart’s and Solaufein’s applause reached his ears as background noise.

“You are perfect every time,” Astarion hummed when he was satisfied enough to break away. “I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s getting harder and harder not to surrender to the desire to forget everything else and just drink you in.”

“Should I be scared?” Jayme asked, his mouth brushing against Astarion’s cheek.

“I’d be gentle,” Astarion replied innocently.

Jayme huffed a laugh and lightly bit the vampire’s cheek before leaning back to look at him. “Tonight’s special. Inspirational. We can turn everything we desire into reality. Without rush. Hmm?”

“I feel the same—like anything is possible right now,” Astarion whispered back, voice hoarse with excitement.

“Then follow my lead,” Jayme smiled.

His bow glided across the strings again. The tune was original—gently pulsing, melancholic, and beckoning to dance. 

Astarion followed suit, setting his bow to his violin again, but he felt uncertain about what to do, when to enter, what exactly to play. His eyes sought Jayme’s, and once their gazes locked, he felt a pull inside. The notes Jayme interlaced began to make sense, becoming predictable. Their harmony evoked something intangible, something purely instinctive. 

A vision took shape. Astarion glanced back at the fingerboard, at the bow, and his hands moved of their own accord, tracing that vision: freedom. Mastery over oneself and a bold step into the future.

This kind of improvisation was obviously beyond Astarion’s still meager skills. Were the enhancements of the instruments what helped him achieve it, or was it their twin nature, having once been one? Perhaps it was Jayme’s abilities, or maybe Astarion’s developing telepathic skills? It remained unclear, but the current of the moment washed away the need for explanations—Astarion allowed himself to be carried away freely.

With a tender touch, Solaufein helped Shadowheart to her feet and led her into a dance. It was Faerûnian in style, mixed with the supple sways characteristic of drow customs. The cleric caught on swiftly. Astarion watched them—they were a well-matched, handsome pair indeed—but soon returned his gaze to his violin, concentrating.

“Look at me,” Jayme said softly after a while.

When Astarion did, the vision deepened, along with the emotions the tune awakened. In a seamless transition, they switched roles: Jayme provided the rhythm, and Astarion, the melody. Their hands flew with the music.

Astarion opened his mouth and sang what was in his heart.

“I’m waiting for your guiding light to bring me back
I’m waiting for your guiding light to bring me back
To the power and the glory”

Something flashed in the depths of Jayme’s eyes—surprise. The look on his face showed that the ad-libbed lyrics gave him pause, though only for a second. The expression smoothed out in the next blink.

Astarion sang the same words again.

“To the power and the glory”

He didn’t dwell on the implications of the song, allowing it to unfold as guided by his unconscious.

This time, Jayme smiled with quiet understanding. Then his left hand danced across a sequence of high notes. Magic crackled in the air, crafting a small marvel: Astarion’s violin replicated itself. Fashioned from pure silver light—moonlight—the spectral violin slowly drifted between them, playing the exact notes Astarion was playing.

“What is that?” Astarion breathed in wonder, losing his concentration in the face of such a bewildering sight. 

But the moonlight violin didn’t stop, and the melancholic longing continued to fill the clearing without a hitch.

“Imagination coming true,” Jayme said, his smile and playing unwavering.

“I thought only your Urge was capable of such feats. But it’s something else now, isn’t it?” Astarion mused.

“It is. I’m exploring it. Why don’t you take a rest?” Jayme suggested.

The tune transformed once again, into a more lively, buoyant piece.

Finding no fault with the idea, Astarion lowered his instrument and stowed it in its case. He prepared a spot for himself among the cushions and reclined with a contented sigh. Afterward, he poured himself a Feyfire Flambeau, relishing it on his tongue before swallowing in small, measured sips. He made a mental note to keep an open mind about the sparkling wines of this realm; if this vintage was any indication, they might not be as gut-wrenching as the plonk typically found in Faerûn.

The golden scene before him was truly something to behold: Jayme, in a sophisticated, leaf-patterned indigo doublet and matching breeches, lost in his capriccios; the Moon Twosome, dressed in simple black and white tunics, engrossed in their sprightly steps; all set against a transcendent backdrop of ancient trees.

Astarion felt perfectly at ease, wishing for nothing more than another pour of goodness, which he helped himself to without reserve.

Who knew life could be a bed of roses when one isn’t trapped in a dysfunctional so-called family of egocentric vampires, or grappling with deranged god-Chosen and resentful devils, he thought wryly. He stretched out even further, embracing the luxurious comfort of the moment. On a whim, he took the closest candle, set it next to himself, and ran his fingers across the flame, enjoying the warmth and the simple daring of the act.

After who knew how long, his idle meditations were interrupted by Shadowheart, who gracefully twirled over to him. Without missing a beat, she smoothly took the chalice from his hand and passed it to Solaufein. Then, spinning back to Astarion, she urged him to his feet, seized his shoulders, and whisked him away to dance. 

“Well, hello,” Astarion grinned, pleasantly caught off guard. With decades of diverse dance experience under his belt, finding his footing was child's play. All the same, Shadowheart seemed determined to take the lead.

“Hello yourself,” the cleric greeted in a mellow tone, her face flushing as she leaned in and asked, “Still care to hear that… salacious anecdote from my youth?”

“My dear, absolutely! You had me fearing you were reluctant to share.”

“I realized it was fine. I’m among friends, the closest ones I’ve ever had,” Shadowheart said, casting an affectionate look at their other halves standing not too far away. 

Astarion followed her gaze. Solaufein and Jayme were engaged in quiet conversation, looking relaxed, while Jayme steadily managed both his own and the spectral violins simultaneously. Amid their exchange, one fragment of dialogue particularly piqued Astarion’s interest:

“I can see why you have such fondness for Astarion. He is truly one of a kind,” Solaufein murmured.

“I know,” Jayme replied lightly. “I’m glad you’re getting along; he seems to have warmed up to you. You should tell him what you think of him. He enjoys directness, especially when it comes wrapped in a compliment.”

Astarion returned his attention to Shadowheart, but couldn't suppress the smile that crept across his face. 

“Absolutely—we’re practically family here!” he declared. “So spare no detail. I’m all pointy ears!”

The cleric chuckled softly. “Very well. I’m guessing you know how it happens. That's not really what you want to hear about, is it? Despite your earlier, rather theatrical nudges, I believe you’re more interested in how it made me feel. Am I right?”

Astarion gave a small, appreciative grin. “Smart girl. With the moon overhead and a nip or two to inspire, your sixth sense is right on the mark!”

Shadowheart swayed back and forth, light and airy like a butterfly. Astarion matched her shifts seamlessly.

“I enjoyed it—being with a woman. She was caring, sweet. Attentive. Virtues not many men seem to possess. She made sure I reached satisfaction multiple times, talented as she was with her hands. I… did my best to reciprocate. It was nice in its own way, but in hindsight… it was lacking.”

“Lacking in what exactly? Firmness, I imagine? Raw, virile power?” Astarion suggested.

Shadowheart hummed. “That too, I suppose, but not altogether. The secret ingredient to sex is feelings—or so I think. Original, I know. Don’t laugh! I read about such notions in adventure stories as a young woman, but I never put much stock in them. And, well, I’ve lived with my feelings repressed for so long that it… takes time to understand how they work.”

“There’s no rush, should be no rush. You just take as much time as you need. Believe me, I speak from experience,” Astarion said, serious at first, then lightening up. “And just so you know, I’ve stumbled upon the same revelation about sex. Shocking!”

Shadowheart smirked knowingly. “Embarrassing, isn’t it? To realize something so basic after all this time.” She clasped Astarion’s hand and spun them around in a slow circle, her eyes wandering back to find Solaufein. “But luckily, it’s never too late for anything. Not even to rethink your views and goals.”

Astarion glanced to the side as well, his gaze landing on Jayme. “That’s heartening to know, yes,” he replied absently.

Soon after, Solaufein approached them. Behind him, Jayme finally put his violin away. The performance of the spectral violin continued, quite impressively, unperturbed even as the cadence of the music slowed. Contrary to Astarion’s expectations, it was his hand—not Shadowheart’s—that Solaufein sought.

Astarion responded with a charmed smile, allowing Solaufein to lead him away from Shadowheart and position him in front of himself. Meanwhile, Shadowheart moved toward Jayme and slid her hands around his shoulders. 

“So, I heard you like me,” Astarion stated with just the right amount of brazenness.

Solaufein hummed, the corners of his mouth edging upward. “I thought you were in the middle of some captivating banter. Very perceptive.”

“I have selective hearing, honey. The moment the topic is me, I tune in instinctively. It’s one of my talents,” Astarion said, pausing momentarily and cocking his head to the side. “By the way, I like you too.”

Solaufein’s smile deepened. “You kept me at arm’s length for some time. I am glad to know I have finally proven myself to you,” he replied, firmly pulling Astarion to him. He wove their arms together and swayed their bodies from side to side. This dance style was unfamiliar to Astarion, but the closeness it created quickly won his approval.

“Yes, well, trust doesn’t come easily to me,” Astarion confessed; the drow had earned as much. “It’s like dealing with an estranged friend. Reserve and caution, on the other hand? They’ve been my loyal companions, keeping me alive more times than I can count. But seeing Jayme trust you so openly... it was only a matter of time before I came around.”

“You are wise to stay on your guard, regardless of how Jayme treats others. It might save you both one day. ‘Beware the sweet poison hidden in a silver chalice,’ is an exceptionally apt drow aphorism,” Solaufein said, then added somewhat self-consciously, “And I hope I have not inadvertently spoken against myself; that was not my intention.”

Reassuring and empathetic remarks like these mystified Astarion—regardless of who they came from, but particularly because they were spoken by a drow.

“Huh! How are you so… nice ? I’m starting to suspect this is not an act!” Astarion challenged.

“A familiar question,” Solaufein replied, his tone hovering between a witty retort and something serious. Then, with a touch of nostalgia, he continued, “My experiences shaped me. When I was your age, I was… rather different. I acted differently, at least.”

“Oh really? Do tell.”

“You do not want to know, trust me,” Solaufein said darkly. “Ust Natha was a rotten place—smaller than Menzoberranzan but no less wicked, teeming with treachery. ‘Survival of the fittest and most ruthless.’ Suffice it to say, your seductions pale in comparison to what Matron Mothers demanded of me at times. Though I would like to think I was never quite as cold-blooded as my people tend to be.”

“You couldn’t have been, not possible!” Astarion quickly reassured him, recalling grim tales he had heard about drow life, where sororicide and infanticide were as mundane as visiting a tailor. “I suspect you had your own Cazador-like fiends, your own entrapment. That’s why you, and I, and Jayme, and Shadowheart get along so well.”

“A thoughtful observation,” Solaufein nodded.

“You’re a tad too humble, though,” Astarion said with a roguish wink. “Case in point: you could’ve replied with something like, ‘You and I get along so well because our unique charms complement each other to a tee,’ laced with a dash of arrogance.”

“But you do find me charming?” the drow asked, grinning as he drew Astarion close again.

“Hells yes,” Astarion declared with a sharp tilt of his chin. “Charming, gorgeous. We are all so gorgeous!”  

His sparkling statement kicked off a new chapter in their night. The four of them fell into a comfortable silence, free from the ghosts of their past this time. Instead, the air shimmered with anticipation. The spectral violin’s low-pitched tune slowed even further, meandering through the clearing and setting an enticing mood.

Astarion's gaze unconsciously drifted to Jayme. The bard smirked at him over Shadowheart’s shoulder before elegantly bending both their bodies to snuff out one of the candles. They continued to flow with the music for a few more beats before coming to a stop. Jayme softly placed a hand on Shadowheart’s cheek and pressed a lingering kiss to the other side of her face. The cleric’s hands descended from his arms to his sides, settling on Jayme’s waist.

Astarion watched the display with growing fascination. It ignited something within and drew him in. He arched backward slowly, and Solaufein followed the movement, held him securely in his arms while Astarion twisted and blew out his candle. 

There was a whiff of burnt wax. The Moon was expanding its domain once more, claiming new swathes of territory from the golden spheres of light. 

Jayme prowled over to the still-dancing duo of Astarion and Solaufein. He traced his hands up their arms, unhurried, and pressed close, practically wrapping the two in an embrace. They exchanged probing glances. 

Where were they headed? Anything seemed possible, just like Astarion had said. 

Jayme, lips curled into a faint smile, set the direction for them. He tangled a hand in Solaufein’s hair, rested his forehead against the drow’s temple, and held still as Solaufein caressed a finger along the line of his jaw. Then, slowly, Jayme shifted away from him and pulled Astarion close.

Another candle was extinguished—Shadowheart offered the light to her goddess. She came forward, hugging Solaufein from behind. Gently, she brushed his hair aside and nestled her rosy face against his dark skin. The pair withdrew from Astarion and Jayme—not far, but just enough for Astarion to stop tracking them, his awareness quickly absorbed by Jayme’s actions.

The bard kept his entrancing pace, grazing his lips along Astarion’s jaw inch by inch, while his thumbs pressed into the grooves of Astarion’s hips. When he began to massage small circles into the soft flesh at the tops of Astarion’s thighs, the vampire sighed in quiet pleasure.

Somewhere in the dimness, Solaufein blew out the fourth candle, casting the clearing in a silver glow once again. Even the fireflies seemed to turn into silvery specks—tiny, mischievous stars. Like a lover’s touch, this light was full of bliss and unspoken promises. It fueled the first flickers of desire and coaxed them into a vibrant flame.

In flawless harmony, the violin's melody deepened, adopting the rich, yearning tones of a cello. Astarion soaked it all in, everything as it was, as it came.

Jayme tilted his hips and pressed them against Astarion’s, sparking friction that had both of them gasping. He repeated the motion, slower each time, drawing out the anticipation with a small smirk.

Astarion clawed at the small of Jayme’s back and nipped his neck, his thirst swelling in response to the unabashed provocation. But the bard’s determined gestures urged him to hold back. Captivated and a little amused by the game, Astarion went along for now.

Jayme’s fingers worked deftly, easing open the laces of Astarion’s leather breeches. He leaned his face against Astarion’s, and the vampire felt the tickle of his fluttering eyelashes against his cheek, a sensation that made him smile despite himself. Once all the laces were undone, Jayme’s hands wandered up Astarion’s cold body with leisurely, almost playful movements, removing his frilly-collared shirt and flinging it to the side.

As his palms glided down Astarion’s neck, they skimmed across the plane of his bare chest and traced the lines of his ribs. The night caressed Astarion’s skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the chill. Jayme slid further down, hooked his thumbs into the breeches he had just loosened, and, with a cheeky tug, pulled them and his underpants down to Astarion’s ankles. A pleased smirk crossed his lips as he admired his handiwork.

That was when Astarion made his move. He could no longer mimic Jayme’s disciplined precision but managed to hold onto some semblance of control. With motions that were just a touch rushed, he freed Jayme from his clothing, feeling a spark of pride when none of the garments met a tragic end.

The feel of Jayme’s hot skin against his own never failed to give him a delicious jolt of rapture. Muscles slid together. Their hips met with growing eagerness. Jayme’s heat pressed against his lower abdomen. 

Astarion tugged at Jayme’s arms, and in the next second, they tumbled onto the ground, with the blanket beneath Astarion’s back and Jayme’s delectable weight settling on top of him. For just a moment, Jayme propped himself up and searched for a vial of oil in his bag of holding. His heart raced with excitement, pounding precisely twenty-nine times—Astarion found himself counting.

Then, a warm hand parted Astarion’s legs and a slick finger slipped inside him, setting off a cascade of anticipatory shivers.

At that moment, a soft moan drifted from the other side of the blanket, filtering through the bubble they were in and expanding Astarion’s awareness of their surroundings again. 

Their intimacy was private, but, at the same time, it became shared. Shadowheart and Solaufein were out of sight, yet the act connected them, linked them all through the same fervor.

Astarion was reluctant to ever participate in any debauched gatherings again, still carrying the echo of the acts that had violated his will and fractured his sense of self. But this was different. It felt like a gentle touch, as subtle as running one’s fingers through a candle flame—insubstantial, yet still warm and exhilarating.

Was it the Duskbreak, Eilistraee’s playful magic, or simply the enchantment of the Feywild? The source of this magic was a mystery. But when, at long last, Jayme pushed into Astarion, any lingering questions were swiftly forgotten. All that mattered was the irresistible craving for more. 

More of Jayme’s heat. And more of this warmth. This connection.

Astarion closed his eyes. Dove into it. Floated in a sea of nocturnal rhythm.

Three hearts leaping in the moonlit night. The aroma of trees, earth, grass, and dew.

Sweet, coppery scent: Jayme’s blood—a maddening pull.

Mine, Astarion thought reflexively, the word flaring in his mind like a sunburst.

Yours, Jayme thought back, easy and sincere. He thrust deep then, joining them to the fullest.

Astarion opened for it, wrapped his legs tighter around Jayme’s waist, and let out a trembling moan. The sultry sound spread through the clearing like the silver light. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of self-consciousness because Solaufein and Shadowheart could hear him, but in the next heartbeat, it faded away. This was natural, nothing to hide or be ashamed of.

And there was more.

Astarion’s sighs blended with Shadowheart’s. Solaufein’s firm movements mirrored Jayme’s. Shadowheart’s warm breath ghosted over Jayme’s skin. Astarion hovered his fingers over Solaufein’s sculpted muscles. They entangled closely and did not touch anywhere. Two couples, two parallels. Four bodies, a circle of embraces.

But then Jayme cupped Astarion’s face in his hands, pulling him from this hypnotic state. Astarion’s eyes came open, and once again, it was just the two of them.

Riding this new wave of emotion, Astarion closed the distance and plunged his tongue into Jayme’s mouth. The bard greedily swept his tongue against his and moved his hips in rhythmic, deep thrusts. A series of primal noises wrenched from Astarion’s throat in response. Acting on instinct, Astarion raked his teeth over Jayme’s lips and shifted to the side, sinking his fangs into the most tempting spot on his neck.

As he drank Jayme’s blood, a new melody wove itself through his mind, coiling and spiking. It was all Jayme—his contemplations, fierce ambition, tenderness—each a distinct layer mingling with the mellow notes from the spectral violin. Jayme’s soul hummed with a whimsical harmony that left Astarion both mesmerized and a bit breathless.

He finally tore himself away, a dazed smile curving his lips as he whispered into Jayme’s ear, “Your blood’s got quite the tune tonight.” 

“Enjoying it?” Jayme whispered back, tracing his tongue up the length of Astarion’s damp neck.

Astarion let out a low, appreciative moan. He tried to get a hold of himself, but that sweet, coppery scent so close by tantalized him with tremendous force.

“I can’t get enough,” he gasped. “I want more of you in me.”

“Then drink more,” Jayme murmured, his voice deep and inviting, and angled his neck for another taste. “Don’t resist. It makes you stronger, doesn’t it?”

Astarion stifled a whimper as he latched onto the same spot again. With Jayme, he never needed to fight his nature. He drank hungrily until his head spun with fragments of memories and visions of what might come: a swirl of colors. The unfolding fantasia drew him into a vivid dreamscape that uplifted and emboldened him. He felt as if he could move mountains, topple tyrants, do anything.

When he eventually released Jayme’s neck, he felt lightheaded to the point that a drunken giggle slipped out. Before he could regain his bearings, though, the bard suddenly switched their positions, rolling to the side and pulling Astarion on top of him. Startled but thrilled, Astarion immediately swung his leg over Jayme’s waist to straddle him. They quickly joined together again, shuddering in unison as Jayme filled Astarion from this new angle.

The moonlight washed over Jayme’s lean body in a white glow, creating a striking contrast with the indigo-black of his hair and the icy gleam of his eyes—heart-stoppingly beautiful to Astarion. He wanted to hold on to the image for a fraction longer, but his desire was too demanding, burning hot, and he moved with it. Bracing himself on Jayme’s shoulders, he lifted his body and sank down hard, taking Jayme’s full length.

In this new position, Astarion had complete control, and the intensity of it left him reeling. Jayme’s hands gripped his hips with gentle strength, letting Astarion set the pace. 

The rhythm that followed was raw and frenzied. Astarion arched his back, tangled groans spilling from him as all coherent thoughts evaporated. He gave himself over to his pleasure, to the slick heat he penetrated himself with, and in the last shivering moments, he bent to kiss Jayme, driven by a fervent need to merge in ecstasy. The kiss was erratic, broken by sharp, jagged gasps.

Jayme’s grip tightened. His hips bucked in short, tight thrusts, and Astarion felt a pulsing surge deep inside, along with a shudder running through the taut body under him. He swallowed Jayme’s low moan in his mouth, anything, everything from him, and came a few moments later with his cock untouched.

Once their breaths had slowed, they didn’t let go of each other but curled up in a loose embrace. Astarion’s skin was damp and sticky, crying out for a bath, but there was no way in the hells he was giving up this wonderful cuddle. He snuggled in even closer.

Solaufein and Shadowheart had also slipped into silence. The tranquil silver light blanketed all four of them.

Jayme draped the edge of the blanket over himself and Astarion, releasing a contented sigh against the vampire’s hair as he settled back into their cuddle.

“Divine,” Astarion muttered. The fresh blood flowing through his veins pulsed gentler now, but it continued to warm him from within.

Jayme hummed in agreement.

Finally, the spectral violin ended its performance on a last lingering, serene note, and Astarion let everything go, drifting into a light reverie.

As the Sun began to reclaim its prominent place from the Moon, the Duskbreakers roused from their trance. One by one, they sat up, blinking groggily and scanning their surroundings in the new amber dawn: the tree giants, the half-burned candles, the remnants of their beverages, and each other.

At this point, none of them felt embarrassed about their nakedness.

“Well. How was that for some Duskbreak frolicking? Or should I say, raggath under the moonlight?” Astarion asked with a wide grin.

The impish smiles of the other three were answer enough.

Notes:

Raggath = lovemaking in drow.
The songs featured in this chapter are "The Shining" by Badly Drawn Boy and "The Power and the Glory" by IAMX - the latter is also the title and inspiration for the theme of Part II.
The plot continues in the next chapter!

Chapter 21: II - I touch your lips and all at once the sparks go flying

Summary:

I touch your lips and all at once the sparks go flying
Those devil lips that know so well the art of lying

Gaby Moreno & Hugh Laurie - Kiss of Fire (cover)

Mithrendain radiated an otherworldly ambiance that made Astarion, Jayme, Gale, and Shadowheart turn in awe as they ventured deeper into the settlement. Even Solaufein, accustomed to the magnificence of fey eladrin cities, seemed captivated.

The party had been on the road for the past tenday, traveling through the now-familiar Everwood and the magic-storm-prone Plains of Valdrennai. The journey had been relatively peaceful, with just a handful of hostile encounters: a band of savage redcaps, two capricious quicklings, and a pack of fey goblins on separate occasions. Nonetheless, everyone welcomed the sight of the first towers of the fey eladrin city.

Situated in a sprawling forest, the Autumn City seemed to rise naturally from the ground, with some ancient trees even towering above and dwarfing the gold and bronze eladrin spires. Unlike traditional cities, Mithrendain had no walls; visitors entered the city as soon as they passed the first slender tower. The streets, paved with smooth yellow stone, meandered organically through the city, winding around clusters of three to five towers and leading toward the center.

True to the depictions in Faerûnian literature, one of the most outstanding features of Mithrendain was its seamless merging of urban and natural landscapes: the city was dotted with parks, gardens, streams, and small lakes. City and nature entwined in a way that felt perfectly harmonious, as if they were always meant to grow as one. Small animals in colors rarely seen by Faerûnian eyes lived alongside the eladrin inhabitants. Among them were snow-white parrots, golden bats, violet squirrel-like rodents, and silver frogs. Occasionally, Astarion glimpsed a unicorn streaking across the sky.

On their way to the center, the fabled Citadel Arcanum, two peculiarities immediately caught the party’s attention. The first was the never-ending low-toned hum—the delicate murmur of the Weave, as Gale pointed out shortly after their arrival. The other was the brilliant, sand-like dust that covered virtually everything in the city. This substance, known as residuum, was the byproduct of untamed arcane energies rippling through the air, something Astarion had researched beforehand. Official collectors gathered it for the city Councilors, who used it to power the city’s protective wards. Unauthorized collection was strictly prohibited—a fact Astarion was quick to highlight when Shadowheart crouched beneath the boughs of a massive blood-red tupelo to sift her hands through the mystical dust.

“Well then. What’s our first destination?” the cleric asked, rising to her feet and carefully brushing the residuum from her fingers.

“The Citadel,” Jayme replied.

“The Waystop,” Astarion said at the same time.

The two looked at each other, and Astarion let out a small chuckle.

“I mean, I was thinking, why not secure our lodgings before diving into our business? Believe me, I’ve picked Neriyeira’s brain—ooh, don’t you just love that expression after our tadpole adventures?—and The Waystop is reputed to be one of the only genuinely outsider-friendly inns in the city. I’m a bit concerned about its availability.”

“Alright, it makes sense to head there first,” Jayme agreed, though his eagerness for the Citadel was evident in his expression.

Astarion noted Jayme's longing look and reconsidered his suggestion.

“Or how about this? We split up. You go with anyone who wants to visit the Citadel now, and I’ll head to the Waystop with Solaufein.”

“Why me?” Solaufein asked, his brows rising in surprise.

“Because the innkeeper’s a drow,” Astarion explained. “Kagen the Blackknife, a jolly sort with a knack for regaling patrons with wild tales. I have a feeling you two might get along famously. Plus, you might be able to haggle a better rate for us.”

“This should be interesting. It has been months since I spoke with one of my kin, and over a year since a friendly one,” Solaufein said with a wry smile.

“My plan is to meet with the Lord Marshal of the Watchers of the Night. I’d like you to be there with me so you can see him for yourself,” Jayme stated evenly. “Let’s head to the inn first. I’ll be patient.”

“Patience will serve us well in this city,” Gale remarked. “My studies suggest that Mithrendain moves to its own rhythm, entirely independent of outside temporal constraints. When commissioning an artisan, for instance, a promise of ‘it’ll soon be ready’ might mean anything from an hour to the end of the day, or even a tenday. Clocks and sundials have no place here. With the unchanging season and the never-ending sunset, it’s difficult to discern where one day ends and the next begins.”

“Indeed, Gale, well said,” Astarion nodded and exchanged one more look with Jayme. “Alright, it’s settled. Let me just quickly ask that purple-robed eladrin over there for directions before he fey steps out of earshot.”

While short-distance teleportation was commonly used among the fey of the plane, this eladrin was strolling casually down the street. As Astarion approached, he cast the vampire a curious glance—in eladrin cities, foreigners drew instant notice and were often met with cool reserve. Fortunately, this man was forthcoming and provided directions without much hesitation.

“The Waystop is in the Old Battery, a district to the northwest. You’ll find it on the eastern side, near an old faerie cedar grove. But a word of caution—there are criminals and outcasts lurking around every corner, blending into the shadows. Be careful.”

“Criminals in this dreamland? Hard to imagine,” Shadowheart sighed, her expression dazed as the eladrin walked away.

“Remember what the goldsmith said about the Watchers?” Solaufein noted quietly.

“We’ll keep our wits about us. Let’s move on,” Jayme said, leading the party in what he believed was the northwest direction.

Navigating directions in a timeless forest city proved more confounding than deciphering the true intentions of a mind flayer during a game of lanceboard. They had to course-correct several times before finally stumbling on the cedar grove.

As they moved through the district known as the Old Battery, Astarion began to understand the eladrin’s caution and why lore books referred to it as the “bad district” of Mithrendain—at least, as close to one as this haven could have. Though the buildings had aged gracefully and were, overall, well-kept, they lacked the organic charm found in the rest of the city. Here, trees sprawled beyond their boundaries rather than flowing into the architecture, and the eladrin residents didn't exhibit the pristine elegance, harmony, and affluence of their kin. A palpable heaviness lingered in the air.

The Waystop, though modest by Mithrendain standards, boasted a lavish facade by Faerûnian standards, with walls and a roof of glinting bronze-colored stone. In keeping with typical eladrin architectural style, it was a circular tower with multiple floors. While the ground floor had no windows, the upper floors featured reflective glass panes, ensuring the privacy of its occupants.

The interior was exotic by any measure, decorated with an array of unconventional paintings, statues, and artifacts that lent an air of intrigue to the cozy, candle-lit space. Apart from religious statues portraying deities, eladrin taste favored abstract works of art and unusual depictions of nature—flamboyant bursts of color, bold shapes reminiscent of fever dreams, and even natural elements that moved in their own way, like the miniature weeping willow in one corner that constantly shed orange, tear-like drops from its flowers.

Currently, a few eladrins were sitting in a distant corner of the main room, while a group of wood elves occupied another. The innkeeper, Kagen, was a middle-aged drow, similar to Solaufein in years by Astarion’s estimation. He wore a cheerful countenance that seemed somewhat at odds with the sharpness of his elven features and high-arched white eyebrows. As the party of five entered his inn, he shook back his waist-long white hair and straightened his back in one smooth motion.

“Welcome, newcomers, to Kagen’s humble establishment. Whether it’s beds or drinks you’re looking for, look no further. If it's information you’re after, pull up a chair and ask away. But if it’s trouble you’re after, I suggest you find it elsewhere.”

His dark red eyes surveyed each face before finally settling on Solaufein's, and he meaningfully folded his arms across his chest. “Vendui' sargtlin.”

Solaufein promptly mirrored the gesture, crossing his own arms before responding. “Vendui' abbil.”

“Abbil? Jhal l'alurl abbil zhah dosstan?” Kagen asked back, retaining his pose. “Jal khaless zhah waela.”

“If I believed that, I would not be standing here among them.” Solaufein gave a quick glance toward the other four. “They are my abbilen, whom I trust with my life. And I hope I can extend some of that trust to you as well,” he said, his tone polite but firm. He was clearly assessing the innkeeper.

There was a moment of mutual scrutiny, but Kagen eventually relaxed, his arms dropping to his sides as he broke into a wide smile.

“Excellent, sargtlin. You must excuse my probing—one can never be too careful with another ilythiiri. Once, an ilharess visited my inn. When she found my language too liberal, she came perilously close to stabbing my eye with a fork in the name of Vhaerun.” The innkeeper squirmed at the memory.

“Ahem, that was a bit too much drow talk for me,” Astarion chimed in. “Am I to understand we’re all friends now?”

“Yes. Kagen greeted Solaufein as a warrior, while Solaufein greeted him as a friend,” Shadowheart readily explained. “Then Kagen recited a drow saying that means your only friend is yourself and trust is foolish. Oh, and ilharess means Matron Mother.”

“Fascinating! You speak our language, tu'rilthiir. I am honored on behalf of my kin,” Kagen said with a small bow and started lining up five silver goblets on the bar.

“Ah, I’m far from fluent! But I do have an excellent teacher.” Shadowheart smiled warmly, shifting her weight and briefly brushing against the drow beside her in a subtle, intimate gesture.

Kagen noticed the movement, and understanding sparked in his eyes. He proceeded to pour five cups of golden beverages—thankfully, not mead but wine, as Astarion quickly detected with his keen nose.

“Now I am convinced you are the kind of ilythiiri I enjoy having as my patron,” he said. “And to you, dear abbilen, friends, a warm welcome. Please, help yourselves to this fine vintage of Birch Delight.”

“Thank you for the hospitality,” Astarion flashed one of his charismatic smiles. “By any chance, do you have any Nymph’s Whisper on hand? We're a group of weary adventurers in need of ample refreshments after a long journey.”

“Nymph’s Whisper?” Kagen cocked an eyebrow. “That’s reserved for the tables of the Councilors and the most esteemed artisans. I’m afraid you won't find such noble nectar here in the Old Battery.”

“A shame! Nonetheless, thank you for this. It's truly delightful on the palate, just as the name suggests.” Astarion smiled and sipped more of the pleasant drink, already plotting to sweet-talk the winemakers of the city. The exclusivity and prestige of the Whisper only made him want a taste even more.

Kagen dipped his head. “My pleasure. What else can I help you with?”

“Three bedrooms and perhaps some information, if it’s not too much trouble,” Jayme smoothly interjected, taking the lead. “We are here to meet with the Lord Marshal of the Watchers of the Night. We have something important to report to him. I assume we can find him in the Citadel, but if you have any suggestions on where to locate him or what to expect, we'd appreciate it.”

“The bedrooms are certainly available. Lately, I’ve been seeing fewer patrons than I’d like. Right now, a few groups of outsiders are lodging here, and a handful of eladrins stop by for drinks and meals. I would love to see more liveliness in this place, and look at that—you two seem to be fiddlers!” He eyed the jet-black violins hanging from Jayme’s and Astarion’s backs with interest. “If you're willing to play a few ballads every day to attract more patrons, you're welcome to stay as long as you need. You can pay for your food and drinks with trinkets; you look like you have plenty of such things. Does that sound acceptable to you?”

“Perfectly. I’m always ready to perform,” Jayme replied with a smirk.

“Careful! ‘Always’ carries a weightier meaning here than it does elsewhere,” Kagen chuckled lightly. “As for your other question—the Lord Marshal himself, you say? You’d better have a good reason if you're going to ask for him. Amon Bassiri is not just the commander of the Watchers; he is one of the seven Councilors, the rulers of Mithrendain. Though I can't say where he might be at the moment, he resides in his apartments in the Citadel.”

“These Councilors, how open are they towards outsiders?” Gale inquired. “Not very, are they?”

“‘Not very’ might be an understatement,” Kagen said. “To put it plainly, they are quite wary—some more than others. Our defense system in Mithrendain is a prime example. We have the city guards— volunteers patrolling day and night—and the enigmatic Watchers quietly dealing with potential threats, all on top of the revelation spheres and tremor wards.”

“Let me see if I have this right,” Gale mused. “The revelation spheres are large marble orbs etched with glowing runes that disrupt illusions, particularly invisibility spells, effective throughout the city. And the tremor wards are enchanted stones that monitor the ground for any major disturbances.”

“Very insightful. Is this not your first time in Mithrendain?” Kagen asked, a small, impressed smile playing on his dark lips as he poured himself a Birch Delight and took a sip.

“It is, actually. I just skimmed through some books in the library of Astrazalian,” Gale replied, returning the smile and offering a slight bow.

“How proactive of you! Did those books shed any light on why the ground needs monitoring?” Kagen inquired, peering at Gale intently over the rim of his goblet.

“Only the one from the restricted section. But even that was rather vague—mostly speculative. The most credible theory suggests that Mithrendain has a transition point to the Feydark somewhere," Gale recalled.

“If it leads to the Feydark, then by extension, it also connects to the Underdark,” Solaufein murmured. “Two great threats.”

“Precisely,” Kagen nodded. “A sealed passage exists, without a doubt. Ask the average local, and they won’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. It’s ancient history, a secret known only to the Council and a select few.”

“You are one of the select few. Yet you openly confirm this guarded secret to us, complete strangers. Why?” Astarion asked, studying the drow innkeeper closely.

“If you’re here with good intentions, you’ll need all the help you can get. If you’re here to stir up chaos, you’ll be dealt with soon enough. The Watchers have eyes and ears everywhere; they already know you’re here. It’s not my place to judge you, and I’ll benefit from staying on your good sides either way,” Kagen said calmly, keeping his gaze trained on Astarion.

“What if they can hear you now, divulging the secret?” the vampire challenged.

“They aren't listening now. I know when my inn is being spied on.”

Astarion found himself taking a shine to this drow. He now had two drow he liked in this world. Life was full of surprises indeed.

“We need to see this Amon Bassiri as soon as possible,” Jayme declared.

It wasn't difficult to piece together his thoughts. The fomorians primarily inhabited the Feydark. If Lord Hammer Freak had held the signet ring for a purpose, it might suggest an alliance between the fomorians and a rogue faction of the Watchers. This could even mean an impending invasion brewing beneath Mithrendain's surface.

“I wish you good luck with that. Our Council is wary, and Amon is rumored to be a step above the rest,” Kagen noted wryly, collecting the party’s emptied goblets.

The five exchanged glances.

“Go to the Citadel. I’ll ensconce myself in the library,” Gale suggested.

“Look for a particularly tall golden tower east of the Citadel, with a thriving ghost orchid garden on top, next to a pond,” Kagen called over his shoulder while tending to his tasks behind the bar.

“Thanks!” Gale smiled, then turned to Jayme. “Take care.”

“You too. See you back here,” Jayme replied with a nod.

The Citadel Arcanum stood as a majestic pale golden structure, glittering in the sunlight. Its massive base supported ascending levels, each smaller than the one below, creating a striking terraced effect. Elaborate embellishments, including glazed brickwork and cascading flower vines, adorned its exterior, adding to its grandeur. At its summit, statues and trees formed an ornate shrine honoring the pantheon of eladrin deities.

The band of four circled the building until they found its filigreed entrance gate. Two eladrin guards stood on either side of the gate, clad in decorative mithril chain mail. They cast suspicious glances at the approaching outsiders. One of them addressed the party before they came to a stop.

“The Citadel is off-limits to anyone but members of the guard.”

“My name is Jayme, of Baldur's Gate. We wish to speak with the Lord Marshal. We have a message from Lady Shandria and a ring that will surely interest him.”

He held up the signet ring in one hand and presented a small crystal orb containing the voice of Astrazalian’s ruler. In the Feywild, letters written in ink were seen as frail and easily forged—a poor substitute for the authenticity ensured by magic. Solaufein had acquired the message confirming their sanctioned involvement in the defense of Astrazalian to avoid being seen as scheming infiltrators.

The guard eyed the ring with growing alarm but quickly realized this was outside his jurisdiction. He took the orb and motioned for Jayme to follow. He led the party inside the Citadel, which was equally impressive within. Thousands of emerald ivy vines wove over the high, gold-veined quartz stone walls like lush green curtains. The persistent humming noise grew louder here, signaling the fortress' enchanted fortifications at work.

They were shown into a simple waiting room with a few carved wooden chairs and a table, where they were told that Amon would join them shortly. “Shortly” turned out to be only a few minutes—it seemed safe to assume that their message was being taken seriously.

Amon, a sinewy eladrin rogue with flowing, midnight-dark hair and a complexion as pale as moonlight, entered and approached them in a slow, deliberate manner. He regarded the party with a slick smile and an appraising look, but it quickly faded into an impassive mask as he addressed Jayme.

“Jayme of Baldur’s Gate, and more recently of Astrazalian. You bring a colorful company, though I see only four of you, not five. It seems the human spellcaster did not accompany you,” Amon said, bypassing pleasantries and immediately asserting his authority.

His face remained hard to read, but when he shifted his gaze to Solaufein, his features twisted with disdain.

“I was informed you have one of our signet rings,” he continued, refocusing on Jayme.

The bard wordlessly held out the ring, watching the eladrin’s face for any hint of reaction. He then said, “We discovered it on the remains of a fomorian commander at Astrazalian. Has one of your men gone missing recently?”

“I am always aware of my men’s whereabouts,” Amon replied coolly. He took the ring from Jayme’s palm with a quick, almost wary motion, as if afraid the bard might keep it.

“This could be cause for concern,” Jayme said cautiously. “We found it nearly a month ago; there could be something happening behind the scenes since then.”

“Time doesn’t move forward; we are the ones changing,” the Lord Marshal remarked. Astarion fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“That's one perspective. We were hoping you could help us uncover who is changing and how," Jayme said, applying a bit of pressure.

“Pardon me for asking, but why should Minthrendain’s safety concern you, Jayme of Baldur’s Gate?” Amon asked, his voice controlled but tinged with distrust.

“My concern is the fomorians’ movements. I intend to put an end to their aggression,” Jayme replied.

“An ambitious goal. Our formidable defenses have kept fomorian attacks at bay for centuries. What could be threatening that unbroken stability now, do you think?” Amon cocked his head to the side.

“I don’t know—treason?” Astarion blurted out. The eladrin’s evasive style was getting on his nerves.

“Impossible. I know my men. There must be another explanation,” Amon declared smoothly, directing a sharp gaze at Astarion.

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s surely worth investigating, wouldn't you agree?” Astarion argued, keeping his tone as courteous as possible despite his irritation.

The Lord Marshal’s black eyes drilled into Astarion’s, then turned to Jayme, Shadowheart, and finally rested on Solaufein for a while longer. Astarion couldn’t detect any magic being cast, but it felt as though the Lord Marshal’s intense scrutiny was dissecting them.

“Return on the morrow, in the afternoon. I’ll decide on the next steps by then,” the eladrin eventually stated, closing his fist around the ring before abruptly turning on his heel. As if on cue, the door swung open, and the same guard who had escorted them in appeared to lead them out.

“That was a steaming pile of cow dung,” Astarion grumbled once they were beyond the Citadel’s walls, strolling along the surreal, golden and bronze streets.

“We’re no closer to answers,” Shadowheart sighed in disappointment. “Heavens, we’d have better luck getting information from Kagen than from that weasel.”

“That may be true, but if we want the guards and the Watchers on our side, we need the Lord Marshal’s backing,” Solaufein pointed out.

“Anyway, I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day. I propose we stay in tonight—let’s grab a bite and enjoy some well-deserved beauty trance,” Astarion suggested, then turned to Jayme with a lopsided grin. “I could really go for something rare. Mind if I trouble you for a little taste, darling? You always know just how to satisfy my cravings. I’ll have something more substantial tomorrow.”

He chose to speak vaguely about his diet, knowing there could be unseen listeners.

“Of course,” Jayme replied, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere.

Back at the Waystop, the bard’s first question wasn't about dinner but about the Councilors. Kagen deftly dodged the inquiry, staring off into a distant corner of the inn. When Astarion glanced that way, he noticed the miniature willow, which had been shedding orange beads from its flowers, was now dripping red ones.

Nothing of interest happened after that, at least not to Astarion, who was dead tired after the day's events. With a satisfied sigh, he finished feeding on Jayme's blood and huddled against his chest on the modest bed that would be their resting place for the coming days, if not longer. His eyelids drooped, and he slipped into a trance so deep that it turned into sleep.

 

 

It took him a moment to realize that he was, in fact, asleep—something he hadn’t done in ages. When he became aware within the dream, he found himself trudging behind his companions in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

He knew this area well—how could he not? They were less than a ten-minute-walk from the Last Light Inn.

For a mere recollection, my senses are extraordinarily sharp, he marveled inwardly, following in Gale’s footsteps. Granted, the Feywild heightens every physical and mental perception. But I’ll be damned, could this actually be…?

Curious, he strayed from the path and strode up to a shadow-mangled boar carcass, rotting in corrupt glory beneath the bare branches of a dead tree. He studied the putrid, lifeless beast for a moment. How could he safely tell the difference between a memory and a lucid dream?

Oh, what the hell, I've endured worse, he thought. He shook himself to steel his resolve, then stepped forward, bent down, and licked the gore-coated fur of the carcass.

“Ughhh,” he groaned, barely managing to suppress the gag reflex threatening to empty his stomach.

A lucid dream, no doubt about it!

“What's wrong, Astarion?” Wyll called from the road, genuine concern coloring his soothing voice. “Are you… hungry?”

“No! Khm,” Astarion choked, blinking back tears. “Nothing to worry about! My curiosity just got the better of me. In case you were wondering, the shadow curse is definitely not a palatable spice. It tastes like an elaborate blend of sewage water and goblin puke.”

“You needed a taste to figure that out?” Karlach asked, scratching her head with a puzzled frown. “By Tyr’s bloody stump, I could've spared you the trouble…”

“What can I say? I’m a fan of empiricism,” Astarion replied somewhat feebly. At least this confirmed another point: his friends were behaving just as they would in reality.

As he spat repeatedly to rid himself of the atrocious tang of death, his eyes scanned the group, searching for Jayme at the front. As expected, the bard had noticed Astarion’s detour. Jayme watched him return to his place at the back, a clear, unspoken question in his gaze. This made Astarion realize that they hadn't been walking side by side when he found himself in the middle of this dream. Which was strange. Why…?

Oh! This is a memory, after all, but I can act differently. And the time is…

This was the night they came together, when Astarion gave in to the irresistible magnetism between them. He remembered it well. He had been brooding, stumped, perplexed by the bond that was forming between them, while Jayme, who had visibly accepted it and its potential consequences faster than Astarion, was quietly tempting him from a distance.

That explains the look, Astarion thought, feeling goosebumps rise all over his skin from the bard’s intense stare. Being the focus of that gaze was like having rich, velvety blood trickling down his throat.

As the party resumed their march, Astarion silently mulled over his situation.

What did I bring from my present, and what did I lose in the “transition?” I certainly have all my knowledge, my memories, my… yes, even my budding skills with the violin! To test this, he traced imaginary strings in the air with his left hand and made long, sweeping strokes with his right—the motions felt well-practiced and natural.

What he couldn’t sense were the enhancements of Kannoth’s or Jayme’s blood in his veins. He felt just like the weak spawn he used to be. How disappointing.

But there it was again: that feeling. The nauseating squirming behind his eyeballs. The invasive ever-presence at the back of his mind.

“Oh, hello Balduran. Long time no hear,” Astarion addressed his old acquaintance, who, for all his rigid convictions had kept—and in this dream, was still keeping—their ceremorphosis suspended.

“What? How do you–?” the Emperor asked, dumbfounded, his voice still the fake-pleasant voice of the dream guardian. “Why are you calling me that?”

This is FUN, Astarion thought with a burst of amusement.

“Ansur told me about your past identity.”

“Ansur…?”

“Yes, yes, your old chum, Ansur, the bronze dragon. The one you killed because he didn’t accept you as a gleeful little mind flayer pulling the strings in Baldur’s Gate. I know all about you, Emperor.”

“I do not understand. I have been watching your progress, closely, but I am absolutely certain you have not had access to such details about my past. Who are you, vampire?”

So much fun!

“I come from the future! A capricious faerie sent me through the Temporal Plane, so I could come back here and have a laugh with you!”

“Cease your jesting.”

“You sound a little tense. But you know what? You should be. Because, see that delicious man walking at the front? In just a few tendays, he’s going to sever your ugly, tentacled head from your neck.”

The response was a long, dread-filled silence, a palpable alarm spreading inside his mind like a lump of lead pressing into silk.

Eventually, a single, stiff question was shoved into Astarion’s brain.

“Why?”

“Why? Because you acted irrationally, that’s why! We could have talked it through when we set to freeing Orpheus with that hammer, but nooo—”

“How do you know about Orpheus?”

At that moment, everyone in the party froze, groaning and clutching their heads. Astarion felt it too—a god-awful headache building to the point of splitting his skull open.

“Impossible! You cannot…!” the Emperor barked.

“Stop that!” Astarion shouted at the mind flayer inside his mind.

They were just crossing the entrance of the Last Light Inn’s sanctuary. Jaheira’s interrogation of Jayme was imminent. The Harpers and Flaming Fists stared down the inexplicably writhing band of adventurers, tensing and preparing for battle.

“Why would I? You’ve just told me you would betray our alliance. I have a false god to stop; I can’t afford to waste time on fools who would dismiss my efforts. I need, our world needs, trustworthy heroes willing to do what is right.”

“But we did what was right! We defeated the Brain without you!”

“You did what? The Brain…?”

“The Netherbrain. Look, this is a long story, but I can’t tell it if you keep squeezing my head like a rag! BACK. OFF.”

Miraculously, the Emperor complied. Everyone sighed in relief, and Wyll immediately began explaining their odd reaction to the nearby guards—something about the aftereffects of the shadow curse.

“Astarion? Just what the hell are you doing?” Shadowheart exclaimed, rounding on the rogue with a frown. Standing three steps away from her was Jayme, who also peered at Astarion with a half-quizzical, half-amused look.

That glint in his eyes.

Astarion suddenly felt an urge to stride over and slide his tongue between those gorgeous, incredibly inviting lips of his. The thought made him wet his own lips while staring into Jayme’s striking ice-blue irises.

He forced an apologetic look as he explained, “Oh… Were my thoughts too loud? My bad. Ha ha! Guess I expressed my discontent with the E– our dream guardian a bit too vehemently. What’s with the sudden headache, right? He can be a real handful. Or… tentacleful, eh? But I didn’t mean to yell into your heads like that. It won’t happen again.” He put a hand on his heart, thoroughly enjoying the way Jayme’s gaze lingered on him, burning with hot curiosity.

Fuck. I almost forgot the power of his come-hither looks in the good old days, Astarion mused with a silent, internal sigh as Jayme turned back to the matter at hand, facing the still-leery High Harper waiting for them. Not that they wield any less power now, but the amount of sensuality he channeled into his glances back then could damn well melt mountains of ice. And even a frozen heart…

“If you’ve had your fun, I expect an explanation,” the Emperor hissed, rudely interrupting that delectable train of thought.

“You were a right arse—that’s the explanation,” Astarion began and didn’t hold back. “The Absolute is a sham. In reality, it’s an Elder Brain controlled by the Crown of Karsus, which, in turn, is controlled by three nether stones held by the three Chosen of the Dead Three. Where I come from, we killed the Chosen, gathered the stones, and were ready to face the Brain, which used the opportunity created by the death of the first Chosen, Ketheric, to break free and evolve into a Netherbrain. We were in the Astral Plane with Raphael’s Orphic Hammer, and instead of seeing reason and letting us free Orpheus, you turned on us and waltzed off to join the Netherbrain’s side. That was a real shit move! And guess what? It cost you your life. We allied ourselves with Orpheus and—”

“I cannot believe what I’m hearing! After everything I’ve done for you, all the times I’ve saved you, you still chose Orpheus over me...! I thought Jayme possessed some level of intelligence. What an abject miscalculation on my part.”

“Now, now. There’s no need to insult Jayme. He’s brilliant. He saved us all with his decisions—”

“Perhaps it’s best if I let him turn now. Have him serve as a cautionary example of what happens if you don’t follow my lead.”

“Don’t you dare!” Astarion thundered in his thoughts. Dream or not, he would not let anyone hurt Jayme. Not in this dimension or any other.

“He means a great deal to you, I can sense that. Your cold blood is boiling at the mere thought of him coming to harm.”

“You’re damn right!”

“Then persuade him to do as I say,” the Emperor commanded. “I cannot fathom how, but you’ve come by a rare gift—the gift of foresight. Influence him. Stay on my side, or watch him sprout tentacles.”

“You purulent horse-arse!”

“Get to work. I won’t give you much time before I intervene. And know that you can’t hide the truth from me.”

“Piss off already!”

The annoying presence withdrew. It didn’t vanish entirely but took a few metaphysical steps back.

Enough. Who cares what rubbish Balduran’s spouting? Astarion bristled to himself, this is supposed to be a pleasant dream, and here I am, arguing with that sorry squidhead. If this is a dream, it should be about something that didn’t—or maybe couldn’t—happen in real life.

Jayme was leading them into the inn. While Astarion had been immersed in his mental clash with the Emperor, the bard had already convinced Jaheira to trust them—as expected. Just before Jayme crossed the threshold, Astarion quickened his pace to catch up and gently took his hand. The two Fists guarding the doorway glared openly as they blocked the entrance, but Astarion, of course, ignored them.

“Hey, beautiful,” Astarion said with a charming lilt, gently slipping off Jayme’s leather glove and bringing his hand to his lips.

“Hey,” Jayme replied, giving a playful smile. His expression was a mix of surprise and delight, and his heart quickened.

The fact that their entire party was watching them with astonishment so obvious it was almost a collective gasp didn’t bother Astarion much.

“I know I was, have been, a little difficult, lately,” Astarion began softly. “But there’s something I want to tell you—in private. Something I’ve realized. So, let’s talk to Jaheira and anyone else you want, and then set up camp. We can have a drink, and you can play your violin. I’m sure you’ll have an audience tonight. And after that, come to me. There will be no more games. No more hesitation.” He leaned in and brushed his lips against Jayme’s warm neck, a soft caress full of promise.

Thump, thump, thump. Jayme’s heart drummed a strong rhythm against his ribcage. When Astarion pulled back slightly, Jayme’s eyes locked onto his, and his lips parted just a touch.

If this is a dream, I could just go ahead and have him right here, right now. Spectators be damned. The exhilarating thought struck Astarion, and he felt his body respond to the vivid images conjured by his fantasy: Jayme’s back pinned against the inn’s wall, his legs wrapped around Astarion’s waist as Astarion buried himself in him.

“We’ll talk. Soon,” Jayme said, his voice so low it bordered on a growl.

Astarion hovered close to the bard’s ear and whispered, “We’ll talk, and then, we’ll fuck like there’s no tomorrow.”

That earned him an exquisite, throaty growl. Jayme shifted even closer, practically pressing against Astarion from head to toe, but the vampire took hold of his arms and gently but decisively turned him around, ushering him forward into the inn. To his mild amazement, Jayme complied without resistance.

Astarion stayed behind for a moment, observing the man as he approached Jaheira's table. Within seconds, he gathered himself, becoming sharp and alert to handle the druid. As he watched, Astarion contemplated how to twist the situation to maximize his enjoyment.

Shadowheart, La’zael, Wyll, and Gale all passed by, each throwing him a look: one of wonder, another of bafflement, a third of polite surprise, and a final one of poorly concealed shock. Then there was Karlach, who gave him a pat on the shoulder—just briefly, so as not to singe him—accompanied by a cheeky grin and a wink.

“That was hot as fuck! And that’s something coming from someone like me.”

“Why, thank you!” Astarion dipped his head, matching her grin. “I’m glad you enjoyed it too. Now come, let’s meet your childhood heroine.”

Karlach’s brows shot up. “How did you know that? I didn’t say anything, did I? Am I that obvious? Please tell me I didn’t squeal…”

Rather than say, “You’ve told Jayme before, and I overheard,” Astarion opted for a teasing response. “Course you’re obvious. I didn’t hear any squealing, but the starry eyes and the blush were pretty glaring.”

In the following minutes, Jaheira tried to have Jayme drink the truth serum, just as she had before, and Jayme, once again, refused. They then delved into the familiar discussion about Ketheric, infiltrating Moonrise Towers, gaining protection against the shadow curse, and Isobel.

As before, the party agreed to make camp by the lakeshore to catch some rest before visiting the Selûnite cleric and diving back into the shadows.

But first, Jayme wanted to see the Fists in the next room. Counsellor Florrick, the comatose man—Astarion already knew the script by heart, and it didn’t interest him in the least. Not now. Not when, for all he knew, he could wake up any minute and this curious little whimsy might end.

No, instead, he followed the sound of familiar voices pulling him the other way, where one cunning little tiefling girl and one big naughty Devil were matching wits over the lanceboard.

“That’s garbage. No matter where the knight goes, I’m gonna lose it,” Mol whined.

“Then make the sacrifice useful. Guard your Mystra, or come for my Cyric,” Raphael advised in a fatherly tone. Though he was focused on the game, the slight slant of his mouth revealed that he had spotted Astarion’s entrance.

Oh this, here, was entertaining! Jayme openly gave Mol a small nudge toward the winning move. But that’s not what I would do, Astarion thought as he sidled up to the board.

“Hello, Raphael. How heartwarming to see you alive again. Not,” he greeted the Devil.

Raphael blinked once and adopted a theatrically confused expression. “Again? Did I die and not notice? What an infinitely odd thing to say, vampling. Has your worm chewed holes into your brain, reducing it to a wheel of Waterdhavian?”

“If only you knew what I know,” Astarion snickered. “You'd be scrambling to hatch up another backup plan. Another failsafe deal, knowing your careful calculations are destined to come to nothing.”

“You fancy yourself mysterious and oh-so-high-and-mighty, but your lack of specifics makes you seem like a bluffing fool,” Raphael retorted. His tone was still lighthearted, but it now carried an underlying layer of irritation.

“Taunt me all you want. You are nothing to me now, and you can't touch us. Mark my words—your swollen ego will be your downfall. And when you’re left a dying, clawless wretch, Jayme will compose a wild rhapsody over your ruin. No deals will save you then,” Astarion finished with a flourish, miming an exaggerated violin performance. One sweeping gesture was so wide that his right hand accidentally tapped the head of Raphael’s Cyric piece. Mol covered her mouth, stifling a gasp, but the Devil paid it no mind, his startled brown eyes fixed on the vampire’s face.

“That insult is far too meticulously crafted to be a mere fantasy. You’ve got my attention, Astarion. If you won’t tell me what you claim to ‘know,’ then tell me what you want.”

“Oh, nothing too elaborate—no need to fret. I just wanted to stop by and say a big, sizzling ‘fuck you.’ From me, the bottom of my heart, to you.” Astarion was about to leave it at that modest little love confession, savoring the stunned expression on Rafael’s face. But on second thought, he added, “And give my and Jayme’s regards to Baba Yaga, will you? While you still can,” for good measure.

“My, my, what an intriguing name to drop out of nowhere! Are you going to indulge me and explain what you meant by that cordial remark?” Raphael asked with mock hopefulness.

“No. And you bore me. Crawl back to your lair until we inevitably meet again,” Astarion spat and turned on his heel.

“Weren't you going to ask me about the inscription on your back? Your master’s poem?” the Devil called after him, no longer bothering to hide his displeasure.

“No. I don't need any help from you, a dead cambion walking. I have everything I need,” Astarion scoffed over his shoulder.

“Most auspicious! Good luck out in the dark then. Take heed not to stray too far from the light. And do enjoy the Sun—while you still can,” Raphael jeered.

“Oh, shove it,” Astarion muttered, then raised his voice again without turning. “Unless my hunch is wrong, you’re about to lose your game. Go for the kill, Mol.”

In about five seconds, Mol exclaimed in triumph, “How’s that for Calimshan rules?”

Astarion allowed himself a cold smirk. In the main room, he bumped into La’zael, who happened to be walking in his direction alone.

“What’s with that sneaky look?” The githyanki narrowed her eyes, but as she looked past Astarion’s shoulder, her expression changed to one of surprise. “Wait, is that the smooth-talking cambion from before by the window? Did you speak with him?”

“I certainly did.”

“Alone? Hmph. I hope you didn’t do anything foolish,” La’zael grumbled.

“Your lack of faith in me cuts deeper than any blade, La’zael! All I did was tell him to go bugger himself,” Astarion said, spreading his arms innocently. He added inwardly, which he’ll probably be doing this evening, for real.

“An infantile and pointless thing to do,” La’zael snapped.

“I think I’m allowed a little frivolity now and then,” Astarion remarked somewhat sourly.

“Not while we’re here. Not with enemies around every corner, marking our every move!”

“Relax, La’zael. We have a happy ending ahead of us. We’ll make it, I just know it,” Astarion insisted with a jaunty smile.

Which was, predictably, lost on La’zael. She didn’t offer a reply, just heaved an exasperated sigh and a “k'chakhi” before making her way to the merchant tiefling kid, Mattis. Astarion trailed after her.

“Is Jayme done talking to the Fist? Art what’s-his-name? Cullen?” he asked cheerfully.

Not even La’zael’s bluntness could ruin his mood now. This omniscience felt empowering and seriously addictive. No wonder so many potent gods turned into vainglorious pricks over the millennia.

“How do you know about that man if you weren’t in the room?” La’zael demanded after a pause, slanting a distrustful glance at the rogue.

“It’s obvious, dear. Superior vampire hearing, hello!” Astarion pointed to the shapely appendage enabling said superior ability.

At that moment, Gale exited the next room at the front of their group.

“We’re done for now,” he announced.

Jayme had fallen back, examining a piece of parchment with interest—the one that Astarion knew would guide them to the House of Healing for Art Cullen’s—Collin’s?—lute.

Gale furrowed his brows questioningly at the rogue. “Where have you been?” he asked. “We’ve learned that an unconscious Flaming Fist, Art Cullagh, might know something about the shadow curse.”

Cullagh! Of course!

“Intriguing! And I’ve been playing some lanceboard,” Astarion beamed. “Now, time to pitch camp, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Jayme agreed, neatly stowing the parchment in his bag of holding and finally turning his attention to Astarion. “It’s overdue. Long overdue.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Astarion said sweetly.

“Perhaps tonight I can put some in there too.”

“Words? Or gasps?”

“I’m content with either.”

“You know, I bet you could even make me sing an entire serenade.”

“Let me bring my violin.”

“You can. But your dexterous fingers are really all you need, darling. And all I need, trust me.”

“Ahem,” Gale cleared his throat, his face scrunched with discomfort.

As Astarion swept his gaze across the faces of the others, he noticed that everyone wore a similar expression. Even Karlach and Shadowheart appeared taken aback, which ignited a smug little spark within the vampire.

“How about we just, um, go and get on with it?” Gale suggested, then shook his head, muttering under his breath, “I swear, you two are worse than–”

“What? Harengon youngsters in spring?” Astarion intoned good-humoredly. Ah, what an absolute shame my present Jayme is not here to enjoy these frisky allusions to our past, he thought wistfully.

“Y-yes. That’s a fitting comparison, albeit somewhat unexpected. How did you think of such a rare and distant race?” the wizard asked with great interest.

The bewilderment of the party did not lessen one bit.

“I don’t know. Guess I read a lot? The Feywild sounds like a fascinating plane! You really should venture there once, Gale. I hear Astrazalian’s library is an absolute goldmine of knowledge,” Astarion said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I know! I’ve been dreaming of exploring the rarities of that legendary collection ever since I first read about it. That was when I was about eight.” Gale tilted his head, as if seeing Astarion in a completely new light. “I had no idea we shared similar interests. We should compare notes sometime.”

“When the opportunity arises, we shall, dear Gale.” Astarion wrapped an arm around the wizard’s shoulders in a familiar manner and nudged him forward as the party left the inn. “Over a good brandy in a cozy eladrin tavern.”

Eager to claim their well-earned rest in this blessed haven, the group set up camp by the lakeshore with remarkable speed. They nibbled on their rations, barely noting what they were, ravenous after a full day of battling sordid shadows. Astarion watched them with a sense of fond nostalgia from the comfort of his cushioned spot in front of his tent.

Jayme, after finishing his bread, cheese, and apple, took his place by the campfire for his evening performance. Just as in Astarion’s memories, his uplifting tunes drew a crowd of Flaming Fists, tieflings, and even a few Harpers. Soon, tankards of mead and cups of wine were being passed around. Astarion politely declined the lackluster Farsea Marshwine offered by the Fists and uncorked a bottle of refreshing Saerloonian Glowfire from his own collection—one he had snatched from the Emerald Grove for a special occasion.

Jayme’s gaze was practically riveted on him the entire time, and Astarion scarcely let his eyes wander far from him either.

Last time, it had been starkly different, of course. Last time, Astarion had done everything he could to avoid eye contact, feeling self-conscious and confused after all that had transpired between them. Silly old me, he thought, giving a small shake of his head, almost like I wasn’t allowing myself to be happy.

“So, did you take a blow to the skull while I wasn't looking?” Shadowheart asked, plopping down next to him with an empty cup in hand. “Or are you a shadow posing as Astarion?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion blinked.

“Ah, sorry for butting in on your flirting. But I'm curious,” the cleric said with a half-smile and a searching look in her green eyes. “Just an hour ago, you were plodding along at the back, all doom and gloom after Jayme nearly died and you got scared. And now, you're the epitome of charm and confidence.”

“Don't forget ‘of grace’ and ‘irresistible appeal’ either, my dear,” Astarion winked, filling her cup with Saerloonian Glowfire in one fluid motion.

“Yes, whatever.” Shadowheart shrugged. “What changed?”

“My life changed,” Astarion replied.

“Simple as that?” Shadowheart’s eyebrow arched.

“Oh, it's anything but simple, believe me. But let a vampire have his secrets, will you? I can assure you I'm not an impostor. I'm no threat to you,” Astarion added, setting the wine bottle down and raising his palm in a gesture of innocence.

Shadowheart considered him for a few beats, then took a sip from her cup. Her features relaxed as she swallowed.

“Way better than the plonk the Fists brought, hm?” Astarion grinned.

“True,” Shadowheart agreed, then immediately turned back to the topic at hand, directing a scrutinizing stare at him. “You still seem too fishy for my liking. Something about you feels off, as if you knew something we don't. And that, I can't ignore. I heard La’zael grousing about you talking to Raphael by yourself.”

“You aren't about to let this go, are you?” Astarion sighed, taking a big gulp of the wine before continuing. “Very well, let me put it this way. I've had an epiphany—a revelation that’s given me a new perspective. I understand now what's important. And no, I did not parley with the Devil. I just had a bit of fun insulting him.”

“You have some odd tastes in entertainment—not to mention dangerous ones,” Shadowheart reprimanded, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Well then, what is important?”

“Jayme is. And what we're doing here, that's important,” Astarion replied without hesitation. “It's vital. It has to happen.”

“Now you sound like a clairvoyant,” Shadowheart snickered. “And a man in love. How touching.”

Her usual cynicism laced her words, but her eyes shone with an uncharacteristic softness.

“I like that! A clairvoyant—let's say I am! And I won’t argue with the latter title either,” Astarion said with a bright lilt, then polished off his cup. “Now, you'll have to excuse me. I want to concentrate on seducing that important and sinfully handsome bard over there. We might chit-chat some more later if we get a chance.”

Shadowheart was only halfway through her cup but obliged and rose to her feet. She cast an amused glance at the vampire. “You're weird,” she said. “But I sort of like this new you. Confidence suits you so much better than moping.”

“I couldn't agree more. Ta-ta!” Astarion grinned, then put the wine glass down and stood as well. He returned his gaze to Jayme, who was performing a more pensive piece at the moment.

Gliding smoothly, Astarion started toward him. But before he could close even half the distance, Gale waylaid him.

“What?” he snapped at the wizard, who planted himself between Astarion and his bard. “Sorry, Gale, but I'm kind of busy right now.”

“Not to worry, I won't steal your attention for long,” Gale assured him, a sheepish smile curling his lips. “I just… I felt unhappy with how our previous conversation went out there. I was immature, and I regret that. To be fair, you were a bit immature too, but you were clearly down, and I didn’t handle it with the sensitivity you deserved. I just wanted to clear the air because, well, it’s obvious you two care deeply about each other.”

“What now?” Astarion asked, scratching his head in frustration. “What conversation? It's been months; how am I supposed to remember every bit of our banter?”

“What do you mean, ‘months?’ I'm talking about our exchange this morning,” Gale said with a frown. “Did you hit your head? When I remarked on how glum you looked today compared to how elated you must have felt last night when you exploited Jayme’s helpful soul? Ring any bells?”

“Ah, that!” Astarion clicked his tongue and smiled at the memory. That had been the second time Jayme let him drink his blood, and Gale had walked in on the intimate scene. “Yes, your jealous talk.”

“My…? I, er…” Gale stammered, his eyes shifting nervously. Then he sighed, “Yes. That, if you will. Like I said, it was immature of me, and I’d hate for it to sour our–”

“Gale, Gale! Look, Gale.” Astarion, aware of how time was slipping away, took one of the wizard’s hands in his to emphasize his point, startling him with the unexpected touch. “It's alright. I'm not mad. You're a good friend; you've proven that time and again.”

The realization that a statement like this might confuse the present Gale—or any of his companions for that matter—crossed his mind a moment too late. But fortunately, this was Gale: friendly, open, and good-natured.

“Oh! Thanks, Astarion. I didn't know you considered me a friend.” Gale’s brown eyes sparkled with delight. Astarion had a sneaking suspicion that his earlier comment about Astrazalian’s library also had something to do with it. “I’m really glad you do, and if you ever need–”

“Gale, Gale, listen.” Astarion interrupted. He threw an arm across Gale’s shoulders and continued on his way to Jayme’s side, gently easing the wizard out of his path. “You're incredibly sweet, and I appreciate you very much, but please, in the name of our newly pronounced friendship, kindly get out of my hair now. I have a sinfully handsome bard to seduce, and I can't do that if I'm having a heart-to-heart with you. Love you. Good night!”

Without waiting for an answer, he gave the wizard’s shoulder a quick pat, then let him go and hastened his steps.

To his exasperation, this time, Wyll positioned himself directly in front of him—just as he was about to reach his destination. Jayme smirked over his violin, clearly enjoying how Astarion was trying and failing to get to him.

“Wyll, no! I'm sorry,” Astarion shook his head, bestowing the warlock with the most benevolent gaze he could muster under the circumstances. “I'm busy. Next time. Love you, good night!”

He left Wyll standing there, puzzled, and then, at long last, drifted over to Jayme by the campfire.

Amused ice-blue eyes watched him intently as the current lively tune ended with a resounding, graceful flourish of notes. The audience burst into cheers and applause, with Karlach whistling and shouting an enthusiastic “Whoo!”

“I’ll be done soon. Have you got a song request?” Jayme asked, a fetching smirk dancing on his lips still.

“Quite the opposite. I’d like to borrow your violin,” Astarion purred, lowering his head to look up at the bard through his eyelashes.

“What for?” Jayme’s brows knitted together in surprise.

“You’ll see. And trust me, you won’t want to miss this,” Astarion promised.

He slid a hand to Jayme’s right and gently pried the bow from his grip. Jayme let him, curiosity taking over his features.

Astarion took the violin and smoothly twirled it around, fitting it under his chin with practiced ease. When he plucked the strings and made minor adjustments to the tuning, Jayme stepped back—a shade less gracefully than usual—to watch from a short distance. Lips slightly parted in wonder, the bard crossed his arms over his chest.

The outsiders at the camp continued their animated chatter, oblivious to the unfolding scene. Meanwhile, his friends stared wide-eyed at Astarion, who, throughout all these days, had never once mentioned his ability with the violin.

Once satisfied with the tuning, Astarion began his performance: a popular ditty Jayme had taught him during their travels through the Everwood to Mithrendain. It was a useful piece for earning their keep at taverns, as they both agreed. The instrumental part was relatively simple yet catchy, but the lyrics—oh, the lyrics were truly sweet.

“I touch your lips and all at once the sparks go flying
Those devil lips that know so well the art of lying
And though I see the danger, still the flame grows higher
I know I must surrender to your kiss of fire”

Just like a torch, you set the soul within me burning
I must go on, I'm on this road of no returning
And though it burns me and it turns me into ashes
My whole world crashes without your kiss of fire”

Astarion sang the first two verses and carelessly threw a glance at Jayme while his hands worked the instrumental bridge. His own rendition was much more modest compared to the boldly imaginative and tempting phrases Jayme would introduce, but it was good enough in his opinion.

This was confirmed by the sheer astonishment on Jayme’s face, radiating from his rounded eyes. His arms, previously crossed over his chest, now hung forgotten at his sides.

Glorious, Astarion thought with elation and winked at the bard before bringing the song to its close.

“Give me your lips, the lips you only let me borrow
Love me tonight and let the devil take tomorrow
I know that I must have your kiss although it dooms me
Though it consumes me
The kiss of fire”

Short but sweet, executed adequately. The vibratos left something to be desired, but Astarion was determined to focus on the forest, not the trees. As he drew the bow with a final, crisp stroke across the strings, the camp broke into applause—except for Jayme, who seemed too dazed to react immediately.

When he did, it was just the reaction Astarion had hoped for. Without a word, Jayme walked over, took the violin and bow from his hands, stowed them in their case, and led him by the hand toward a quiet, distant part of the lakeshore. His face remained unreadable the entire time, even as Shadowheart sent a suggestive whistle after them, prompting a round of dirty laughter from some of the Fists.

Astarion snickered under his breath and allowed himself to be led.

When the camp was hidden from view among the forlorn willows, Jayme finally faced him. For an instant, Astarion wasn’t sure if he was about to be thoroughly questioned, kissed, or possibly backed into a tree and swiftly undressed.

“You’ve had, what, three or four months of playing the violin, and you didn’t think to tell me until now?” Jayme asked, his tone calm, though with a hint of something like hurt.

Well, I guess we’re doing questions first, Astarion resigned himself inwardly and prayed to any and all deities that he wouldn’t suddenly wake up now.

“I wanted to surprise you, darling,” he improvised, flashing a charming smile.

“Well, mission accomplished admirably,” Jayme said. There was an air of restless energy about him, a skittering excitement that mirrored Astarion’s own, but something seemed to be holding him back.

“You didn’t like my ‘Kiss of Fire’?” Astarion asked softly, combing his fingers through the bard’s dark tresses. Some dirt and blood clung to them, but it didn’t faze Astarion in the least.

“I loved it, but that’s not the point now. The point is…what happened to you?” Concern was clearly written on Jayme’s face, and it tugged at Astarion’s heart, even though he knew it was unnecessary.

“What d’you mean?” Astarion asked lightly, stroking his fingers down Jayme’s nape in an attempt to soothe him.

“Your smiles have suddenly turned heartfelt since yesterday. Unaffected. Carefree. And something else…” Jayme murmured, his eyelids fluttering slightly from the tender treatment on his neck.

“Debonair? Knockout?” Astarion suggested with a grin.

“Brave.”

That made Astarion pause. He gazed into Jayme’s unguarded eyes and saw himself reflected in there. He liked the reflection. No, he adored it. I want to be that all the time, he thought to himself.

“I want to believe my eyes,” Jayme continued levelly, “but I know how adept you are at projecting an image. After yesterday, it’s like you’ve gone through a complete transformation. It’s so sudden I find it hard to wrap my head around it.”

“I promise it’s not an image. It’s real; it’s me,” Astarion said, dropping his voice and leaning in. “And I want you now. I’ve wanted you since those first playful jabs and lingering glances. True, it was different in the beginning—I was in survival mode, hardly expecting more than your protection after our trysts. But now I see you for what you are.”

“Are you not scared?” Jayme asked, equally softly.

“No.”

“You’re going to be.”

“Trust me, I can handle your murderous urges. And you will learn to control them.” Astarion paused, smiling as he recalled a specific, disturbing yet cherished memory by the campfire—having Jayme tied up all night until he suppressed his Urge—then let it fade away. He repeated his confession slowly, with fire, “I want you. I can’t wait any longer.”

Their lips were a mere whisper apart. Jayme’s heart pounded faster with each word Astarion uttered.

“I want you too,” Jayme murmured in response, “but only if you’re not going to regret it come tomorrow.”

“I won’t!”

“I’m serious. It’s not your body I want.” Jayme cupped Astarion’s face in his hand. With a soft huff, he corrected himself, “Not just.”

“I’ve seen the future,” Astarion explained quietly, trying to be as reassuring as possible without inviting more questions, or worse, dispelling the mood. “Through some sort of mystical foresight spell that struck me out there among the shadows.”

“Spell?” Jayme arched an eyebrow.

“Yes. I’ve seen so many things: the fall of the Absolute, and a lot more besides.” Astarion let pride and delight flow into his voice—he didn’t need to fake it at all. “That’s why I have not an ounce of fear or trepidation. We still need to walk the path before us, fight our battles, and silence our demons to get where I’ve been. But I know you and I can do it together. We are each other’s light.”

Those words—or perhaps the tone and Astarion’s expression—seemed to put Jayme’s mind at ease at last.

“I’d love to hear your thoughts on my song,” Astarion requested, his voice turning smooth and coaxing. He caught the hand cupping his face and lightly bit the sharp angles of the warm wrist.

Jayme watched him with a primal glint in his eyes.

“It was irresistible—you made it so,” he replied. “A familiar tune, but not like I’d ever heard before; it had an effortless, confident allure rather than sentimental or bawdy overtones. I hope you’ll tell me where you learned to play and who taught you.”

He stopped speaking to curl his fingers into a caress, but Astarion shifted and caught his knuckles in his teeth, gently grazing them. Jayme smiled widely and continued, “I bet just about everyone who listened envied me for being the one you serenaded.”

The grazing gradually turned more insistent, and Astarion’s teeth eventually clamped down on the back of Jayme’s hand. Jayme’s mouth curved into a wince, but he held back the sound. His breath came faster now.

“You really did just change, didn’t you? It’s not an act,” he said, low and caressing.

“No,” Astarion whispered.

“A whole new you. Strong. Determined.”

“Yes…”

“I want you to fuck me,” Jayme stated in a deep rumble.

The moment he said that, Astarion let his rawest desires take over. His fingers moved of their own accord to undo the belt and the laces of Jayme’s Ashmeadow jerkin. As soon as the skin at the junction of his neck and shoulder was exposed, he began to suck at it. Without teeth at first, but when Jayme gripped the back of his head, he bit down, drawing a few gulps of blood.

He then darted back to Jayme’s mouth, caught his bottom lip between his teeth, and pulled. A wonderfully frustrated sound slipped from Jayme, and Astarion drank it in.

With the jerkin and shirt discarded to the ground, Astarion turned his attention to Jayme’s breeches. He could have unclasped them with his eyes closed, relying solely on memory, but their need was too urgent to waste any time. Once Jayme stood bare before him, Astarion tossed his own shirt aside and pushed down his leather breeches. Then, he hesitated, cursing himself for not having prepared some oil.

But Jayme came to his aid. He took Astarion’s right hand to his mouth without a second thought and coated three of his fingers with saliva as generously as he could. Astarion gave him a smoldering look, then straightened up, embracing and pressing Jayme against a nearby tree, just as he had imagined it happening to himself.

He reached around Jayme and eased a finger in, one knuckle at a time. He still preferred oil to spit, but better something than nothing. He knew well that Jayme didn’t have any prior experience, so he needed to prepare him extensively. Or at least should have. But after just two fingers, Jayme impatiently pushed at Astarion’s arm and ground their hips together. Tantalizing friction flared where they met.

They both sucked in a breath, and Astarion took the hint. He grabbed the backs of Jayme’s thighs, helping him hook his legs around his waist, and adjusted the position until he could begin to slowly push in. The trunk of the willow bent conveniently, providing a surface for Jayme to lean back against and brace himself.

It was surreal—more dreamlike than anything that had come before in this dream, and more fragmented in its expression. Jagged like the impulses driving them.

Astarion strained to take it slow, pressing in a few inches at a time before pulling back. But soon enough, Jayme lowered his body roughly with a heady groan. Amusement flickered in Astarion at the bard’s resolve to do everything on his own terms. He might have laughed, but he was spellbound by the sensation, the sight—everything: Jayme’s eyes half-mast, the color in his cheeks, goosebumps trailing across his skin, and the way his heart seemed to jump as their bodies joined more deeply.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” Astarion sighed, his voice shaking despite himself. He had never given those words so much depth before.

Jayme merely grunted in response, his breath coming in short, hot bursts.

Astarion had done this with Jayme only once before, and the memory still filled him with giddy exhilaration. It was no less stimulating now. Waves of invigoration rushed through him from those strong pushes, from the heat squeezing around him. He focused on Jayme’s face, wanting to see his pleasure reflected and to watch him lean more and more into it. He craved this more than his own joy.

But Jayme still seemed to be holding back. Was it the unfamiliarity of the act or the fear of succumbing to his Dark Urge? Astarion wasn’t sure, but he ached to free him from the constraints of self-control, understanding the weight of that burden himself and knowing it was the greatest struggle Jayme had ever endured.

He thrust inside faster now, one of his hands supporting Jayme against the tree, his other wrapping around Jayme’s cock. When he lightly ran his thumbnail across the sensitive tip, Jayme’s body trembled and he inhaled sharply. Fascinated, Astarion repeated the motion again and again, eliciting stronger reactions each time. There was pain in it for sure, but pleasure clearly outweighed it, as the muscles in Jayme’s legs tightened to drive the two of them even closer together.

“Yes… let go. Show me. Give me—give me everything,” Astarion frantically muttered, only half in command of what he was saying. It was probably impossible—for the Jayme before him.

And yet, his heated request wasn’t ignored. Jayme released the tree with one hand and put it on top of Astarion’s, guiding his strokes to show how he wanted it: first loose, then tight; firm pulses timed with each push inside. A thumb rubbing against the head with even pressure. As Astarion repeated the motions, Jayme’s head fell back, and his mouth opened wider.

They moved together until Jayme’s voice rose into unsteady, hitched gasps, which sent Astarion over the edge. He thrust his pelvis forward, pushing in and quivering as he was swept into an unparalleled high—only to be plunged back into reality a heartbeat later. Back to the bed in the Waystop, in Mithrendain.

His shaky breaths carried into his waking state. His stiff cock, his entire body strained painfully for the heat that had been so cruelly taken from him; the cool air felt like a blunt, numbing weight in contrast.

As the fog in his mind lifted, he sensed flesh-and-blood Jayme shift beside him. Astarion’s restless stirring had been enough to pull him out of his reverie.

“What’s happening?” Jayme asked, alarmed by the desperate noises coming from the vampire. Warm skin touched Astarion’s cold, shivering body from head to toe as the bard leaned close to him.

A feverish surge coursed through Astarion, overwhelming him. Impulse took over, and he pushed Jayme back down onto the bed. His hands were rough and possessive as he ran them down Jayme’s warm sides—his boiling blood wouldn’t allow him to be gentle.

“I’ll show you—,” he whispered without thinking, the opposite of his request in the dream, and spread Jayme’s legs, crawling between them. “I’ll show you, so just… lie back…”

He pressed his forehead into the bard’s hot lower stomach, reaching one hand down to grasp Jayme’s soft cock and squeeze.

A startled gasp came from above.

Astarion flexed his hand again and again, grinding his own arousal against the mattress at the same time, his hips mimicking the movements from his dream, but at a slower pace so Jayme could catch up.

He didn’t have to wait long—his palm filled in a matter of a few wild heartbeats, and he snapped his head up to see the look on Jayme’s face. The bard stared open-mouthed at him, clearly caught off guard by the sudden burst of lust in Astarion.

Savoring the fluster on those always-composed features for just a moment longer, Astarion adjusted his grip and pulled down, lowering his head and licking upward in a coordinated motion. Jayme’s waist jolted on the bed, but Astarion, undeterred, set an even, relentless rhythm.

Jayme’s breathing quickly turned shallow. He grabbed Astarion’s shoulder with one hand, burying the other in his hair. His fingers clutched tightly, tugging at white curls whenever Astarion’s tongue swept across the head of his cock. The muscles in Jayme’s thighs kept tensing beneath Astarion’s body, as if he might reverse their positions. Naturally, this wasn’t the first time Astarion had pleasured him in this way, but it usually served only as a prelude. It seemed that Jayme thought it would be the same this time; after just a few minutes, he gritted out a low, “Move,” tensing up again.

But Astarion strained against him.

“Stay. Come undone. I want to see it,” he whispered in response, his voice barely more than a hiss.

“I can come undone while I’m inside you,” Jayme murmured.

“I know. But I want to do this,” Astarion stated, demonstratively sliding his hand down and up around Jayme’s cock, first gripping loosely and then tightening his hold. He rubbed with his thumb in the exact manner he had been shown in the dream, ending with a cruel little twist of his wrist meant to break down any further resistance.

“Oh?” Jayme gasped, his body jerking.

“Come in my mouth,” Astarion hoarsely whispered and wrapped his lips around the tip, careful not to scrape it with his fangs.

He felt nails dig into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder and heard stifled moans stringing together as if Jayme were hanging on to the last threads of his sweet, defiant will, but the fervent onslaught eventually wore him down.

Astarion could taste the salty beads of Jayme’s desire on his tongue. A ragged groan tore from the bard, and he tilted his pelvis upward, arching into Astarion’s touches and licks. The shift was unmistakable and incredibly thrilling, making Astarion reach his free hand down to take hold of himself. The firm contact alone nearly brought him to climax, and he quickly relaxed his fingers, lessening the pressure. Instead of stroking his full length hard as his body urged, he limited himself to small, subdued pulls.

It was the ultimate form of ecstasy to have Jayme like this, for the second time after their last visit to Astrazalian’s Sprinkling Fountain. Astarion had been dominant in many of his past conquests, but none had ever stirred such a profound, visceral sense of strength within him as watching, feeling, and bringing about Jayme’s unbinding. The thought was nearly too much, and Astarion had to stop his hand on himself more than once.

At the same time, he stroked and encircled Jayme in his mouth with more and more vigor. His eyes were fixed on the way Jayme bit his lower lip and creased his brows. The way the muscles of his stomach clenched and rippled, attuned to Astarion’s every touch. How his blue eyes were wide on him the whole time.

Then, as Astarion pressed his tongue flat against the tip and lightly scraped the sensitive skin with his nail, a tremor ran through Jayme’s entire body and his breath rushed out in an almost surprised, harsh exhale. His eyes never leaving Astarion’s, he came in deep throbs into Astarion’s mouth.

Astarion followed, his own release driven by Jayme’s, their pleasure tangled together. His hand remained loosely curled around himself at first, only belatedly tightening and sliding down. Hips bucking against the bed, he moaned around the pulsing heat filling his mouth. Once the aftershocks lulled, and their bodies relaxed, he swallowed without a second thought.

Fatigue washed over him, and his trembling arms finally gave way, collapsing beneath him. He slid back next to Jayme, who gathered him against his chest.

“Doing this has never felt so... so…” Astarion began but struggled to find words. Sweeping? Liberating?

“I know,” Jayme said softly.

“Not even drinking blood can compare,” Astarion sighed, nestling in contentedly. “But now, for some real rest. I didn’t get much earlier—I was asleep.”

“Asleep? That’s strange,” Jayme drawled lazily with a note of surprise. “And I thought sleep was supposed to be just as relaxing as trancing, though not as effective.”

“I was asleep, but lucid dreaming too. Tell you tomorrow. Love you, good night,” Astarion mumbled, his eyes already slipping shut.

Jayme’s soft chuckle followed him as he sank into a rejuvenating trance.

Notes:

Many details about Mithrendain, including Kagen's and Amon's characters, I took from lore, mostly from Rodney Thompson's article "Mithrendain, Citadel of the Feywild," and added to it my own elements.
The drow expressions I used can be found in online word lists.

Chapter 22: II - It's a new dawn, and I'm feeling good

Summary:

Fish in the sea, you know how I feel
River running free, you know how I feel
Blossom in the trees, you know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life for me
And I'm feeling good

Muse - Feeling Good (cover)

The morning found Astarion in a blissful mood.

His mind, emerging from trance, danced with the remnants of his dream, while his body felt wonderfully sated. How do dreams work again, he pondered, cradled in Jayme’s cozy embrace. Can I carry on from where I left off tonight? Oh, you naughty gods in the heavens, make it so I can!

As his eyelids parted, Astarion's gaze lazily roamed across the room's intricately carved wooden ceiling. With tender fingers, he traced the curve of Jayme's neck, relishing the silky strands of hair beneath his touch.

“Good morning,” the bard murmured, rousing from his reverie, “sleepyhead.”

Astarion's lips curled into a half-smile. 

“Hah! Good indeed—a morning of unexpected sweetness,” he replied, his voice a soft hum. “Endearments are not typically your style, my treasure.”

“They aren’t. But your… actions from last night call for it. In fact, I might just take it a step further and astonish you,” Jayme said, propping himself up on his elbows and locking eyes with Astarion, his blue gaze shimmering. “My precious sleepyhead.”

“Wha-? Watch out, lest you make my heart stop!” Astarion gasped, clutching his chest. “Oh, wait…”

Jayme slid a hand under the vampire's fingers, pressing against the spot he’d clutched, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“So you enjoyed my little titillating surprise, I take it?” Astarion beamed, guiding Jayme's hand to his lips and lightly nibbling on his index finger. Feeling ravenous after the previous night’s events, he briefly contemplated a pre-breakfast bite but quickly ruled it out, mindful not to injure the parts that would soon be needed for playing the violin. 

“Every moment of it. But beyond that, I loved how bold you were—an irresistible force, pinning me to the bed and putting me completely at your mercy," Jayme's voice trailed off into a sensual whisper, his attention focused on Astarion's mouth on his finger.

“Now there's a mental image,” Astarion said with a purr, feeling a definite stir where he had expected only contentment this morning. “Mmm, shit… I must delve into this ‘sleeping’ business more often. Even with hunger gnawing at me, I feel surprisingly powerful.”

“You choose what we do next. I'm in your hands.” The impertinent bard glanced up through dark lashes, shifting forward to flick an impertinent tongue out to tease one of Astarion's nipples.

Astarion let out a puff of air that began as a chuckle but turned into a gasp halfway through.

“Then breakfast it is, dearest,” he replied, finally giving in to the urge to gently nip the back of Jayme’s hand with a fang and swipe his tongue across it for a light taste. “Let’s save the ardor for my next invigorating dream. Care to join me outside the city?”

“Let’s get dressed,” Jayme agreed with a small smile, but he made no move to do so before responding to the teasing in kind, with a playful bite to Astarion’s nipple.

They rolled out of bed with bursting energy. As they donned their battle wear—just in case—Jayme shot a curious glance at Astarion.

“What was the dream about?” he asked.

“The setting was a memory, actually, of the time we found the Last Light Inn. But I had the freedom to act differently,” Astarion said, his smirk growing as he continued, “And so I mentally pissed off the Emperor, gave Raphael a piece of my mind, wowed you and the camp with my violin playing, and then fucked you against a tree.”

“No wonder you woke up feeling empowered,” Jayme said, clearly impressed.

“Empowered and eager to finish the dream and make you come,” Astarion added with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You did a fantastic job with that,” Jayme said, pulling Astarion close for a kiss. He then whispered against his lips, “You took my breath away.”

“And I’m just getting started. I’m all fired up,” Astarion replied smugly.

In high spirits, they left the inn and ventured into the woods outside Mithrendain. Once they passed the last house, they walked a fair distance until Astarion felt it was safe to slip into hunting mode and patiently await his prey. Eventually, a wild boar lumbered into view—not the ordinary kind found in Faerûn, but a regal beast with a massive frame twice the size of its Torilian relative. It boasted long, elegant tusks that curved gracefully from its snout, gleaming with a subtle iridescence that hinted at the magic coursing through its veins. Astarion released two arrows into its neck, but the thick hide protected it from a lethal wound. It wasn't until Jayme intervened with a Sleep-infused Glyph of Warding that they were able to bring down this majestic creature.

After withdrawing Rhapsody from the boar’s neck, Astarion drank his fill, savoring the tangy, almost electric taste of the exotic blood—it was like absorbing the essence of a midnight storm. He then filled four jars with it. While the stored blood wouldn't provide the same sustenance as fresh, it would still delay the need for another trip into the forest. 

Following a hearty breakfast—with Jayme enjoying honey-infused scones while Astarion feasted on the boar—they made their way back to the city. Astarion’s upbeat mood persisted, fueling his desire to indulge in his passions: visiting a local sommelier to acquire the most highly recommended vintages—though, disappointingly, the Nymph’s Whisper was sold out—practicing the violin, and soaking up the Sun's rays with a sense of joyous abandon. Naturally, he wanted Jayme to join him in these pursuits.

Everything went perfectly until the sunbathing part of the agenda in the afternoon. In a golden wisteria grove, they lay sprawled on a blanket with a bottle of Shinaelestra White, light and crips, and a basket of sumptuous fruits for Jayme. Despite the picturesque spot Astarion had chosen, Jayme appeared restless. He couldn’t relax in the caressing embrace of dappled sunlight and opulent floral scents. 

“Thinking about that Amon character?” Astarion asked quietly, careful not to draw the attention of the few eladrins lounging on soft blankets close by.

“Yes. The fact that he wasn’t at all cooperative gives me pause,” Jayme replied slowly. “I thought I made my intention to help clear, but it’s almost like he refuses to consider that something might be afoot. I’d bet he’s withholding something.”

“That was my impression as well. He seems like a right nervous prick who can’t stand it when he’s not holding the full Deck of Many Things.” Astarion sat up and looked over at Jayme, noting the tension in his posture. “Want to go see him?”

“Yes. Let’s go to the inn first.” Jayme also pushed himself up and ran a hand over Astarion’s nape in an affectionate gesture. “This was nice. I want to do it again later.”

“We shall, darling,” Astarion said with a smile.

Gathering their sunbathing supplies, they headed to the Waystop. There, they found Gale enjoying a drink and listening to one of Kagen’s infamous Underdark tales.

“… And then my Mistress commanded me to jump into the spider pit to retrieve her circlet, but I wasn’t going to do it, of course.” Kagen gestured widely with a cloth in one hand and a lit bone pipe in the other as he recounted his story.

“So, what happened? You can’t just get away with refusing an order, can you?” Gale asked, waving his cup around, visibly caught up in the energy of the drow’s storytelling.

“Though I’d never dabbled in magic before, I knew it was now or never. I pulled the scroll of Mage Hand from my pocket, recited the inscription, gave it my all, and prayed to whatever dark or benign deity would listen to make it work. And it did! I sent the Hand into the pit and reclaimed the circlet with surprising ease,” Kagen boasted, then took a gratified, deep drag from the pipe.

“Impressive! Was your Mistress pleased?” Gale asked with a grin.

“Bloody Hells no! She had me flogged for not jumping. But then at night, she summoned me to her bedroom and demonstrated her joy at having regained her cherished circlet. Multiple times. If only she hadn’t made me lie on my back during…” He gently laid the cloth onto his shoulder so it hung down his back as though to soothe the area he referenced.

“By Mystra’s grace, what absolutely atrocious behavior! I understand that this is sadly not uncommon in drow culture by any means, but you know, I would—” Gale began to express his outrage, but stopped when he noticed Jayme and Astarion by the bar. “Oh, is it time?”

“Will you come with us?” Jayme asked.

“I will. I also have a request for the Lord Marshal,” Gale replied. “Solaufein and Shadowheart are still out visiting temples, but they asked me to tell you that they believe it’s better not to join you this time. Amon seemed particularly agitated by Solaufein’s presence, which might even be detrimental to our cause. Still, they do want to know the outcome of tonight's events.” He finished his drink—some type of mead, based on its yeasty smell, Astarion noted with disappointment but chose not to comment on.

“If there’s anything worth reporting,” the vampire sighed, and Jayme nodded in agreement.

Their entrance to the Citadel was much like last time. They were escorted down the ivy-curtained corridors into the same waiting room.

The head of the Watchers did not hurry to meet them. By Astarion’s estimation, they had been waiting for at least an hour when Amon finally arrived.

“Lord Marshal. We have returned, just as you asked,” Jayme said, his ice-blue eyes fixed inquisitively on the pale eladrin, who approached with a relaxed stride and spoke only once he was face-to-face with them.

“I’ve looked into the matter thoroughly. There’s no indication that the fomorians have breached our defenses. The protective seals are intact, showing no signs of tampering,” Amon replied tersely, his tone annoyingly final, as if he considered the case closed.

“How do you explain the ring we found on one of the fomorians?” Jayme asked patiently.

“I know the whereabouts of all the signet rings left in my care by my predecessor. They’re all accounted for here in Mithrendain. A few rings reportedly went missing before my tenure. Given their tempting magical properties, anyone who finds one would likely want to flaunt it.”

Again, the implication was clear: case closed.

“Why would one surface now, I wonder?” Jayme continued, his voice mild and his manners unshaken.

“Indeed, why? But what I’m more curious about is this: why should you stumble upon it?” There was a biting edge to his question, suggesting that this case was far from closed. His gaze on Jayme’s face was steady and intent, almost hypnotic, as if he were trying to coax a confession.

“That’s been on my mind as well,” Jayme said lightly. “It could be a meaningless coincidence if it were any other plane, but not here—not in the Feywild.”

“Wise thinking. The reason shall reveal itself in time; we just need to be patient,” Amon replied. Astarion began to wonder if he should start taking bets on when the eladrin would blink.

“So, the strategy is to wait?” Jayme asked.

“Yes, to wait and observe. Leave Mithrendain or stay; it’s your choice. Your query is too broad for us to address effectively at the moment. Meanwhile, I've received news of a recent security breach: evil has set foot in my city. I shall see to its expulsion.” Amon's glare intensified even further, his black eyes ready to swallow the bard whole. “If you don't mind indulging me, why do you pursue the fomorians so persistently?”

“Do you really need me to explain my reasons?” Jayme countered, keeping his tone light while quirking a surprised eyebrow.

“Since you're in my city, yes, I do,” Amon replied, his voice edged with steel.

Astarion expected a reasonable but vague response; after all, why should this eladrin learn anything substantial when he was so clearly unwilling to share in return? But Jayme’s answer turned out to be surprisingly honest.

“I have come across many kinds of ambition,” he said. “What drives the fomorians is the basest kind: purely self-serving and oppressive. I know this from personal experience. And I know it can't be allowed to run rampant.”

“So, justice and righteousness then, your motivators?” Amon concluded. 

“Feel free to frame it that way,” Jayme nodded.

“Has Toril run out of comparable sinister influences then?” Amon asked, a curl of mockery on his lips. 

“Unlikely,” Jayme replied smoothly, unfazed. “Mind flayers, fanatic cultists, the Dead Three—just a few of the threats we've recently dealt with. But we're here now.”

Amon hummed thoughtfully, regarding Jayme with that distrustful gleam in his void-like eyes for an uncomfortably long time. At last, he simply said, “Take care, Jayme.”

“Please, Lord Marshal, just one more moment of your time,” Gale interjected before the eladrin could turn on his heels. “Might we gain access to the restricted section of the library?”

“Why would I permit such a thing? That collection does not concern you,” Amon stated matter-of-factly.

“We do not seek to pry, I assure you. But a deeper understanding of Mithrendain would undoubtedly aid us in its defense,” Gale maintained.

A long stretch of silence followed, during which Amon subjected the wizard to the same soul-searching, penetrating gaze he had directed at Jayme.

“You may access the sources on fomorian lore, but nothing else,” he said finally before making a quick exit.

This man is an odd patchwork of being way too relaxed and way too hurried, Astarion thought to himself as the guard appeared to lead them out.

“Thank you, that will be of great help,” Gale called after Amon, but whether the eladrin heard or acknowledged him was anyone’s guess.

Jayme remained deep in thought for the remainder of the day, even during his performance at the Waystop. While technically flawless as always, it lacked his usual creative flair, consisting solely of old classics. 

Astarion felt compelled to snap him out of it. Yes, the situation was irksome, but there were so many things to discover in this fabulous city!

With that in mind, after about the sixth well-known piece, Astarion picked up the other violin and signaled for Jayme to take the lead in their impromptu session. His initiative was rewarded with a dazzling smile from the bard and enthusiastic cheers from their friends, who were all perched at the bar, honey mead in their cups and roasted boar meat on their plates.

If Kagen proves to be trustworthy, I might approach him later to discuss how we handle boars while I’m around. We could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, perhaps. Waste not, want not, as they say, Astarion mused. After all, a drow was much less likely to make a fuss over a vampire than the eladrins.

Their drow innkeeper seemed content as he bustled about, attending to the orders of the rapidly growing number of eladrin patrons. The violin duo played brisk jigs and spirited reels, ending the day on a lively note. 

In their bedroom, Astarion gulped down a few mouthfuls of his stashed boar blood, then lay down next to Jayme with heightened anticipation. Would another dream visit him tonight?

The first thing Astarion became aware of was a range of sensations: warmth, softness, the smell of sand, sweat, delicious blood, and the bleak moans of trees with water lapping nearby. They all confirmed what he had been wondering—he was in the Shadow-Cursed Lands once again. Held close by Jayme, it seemed the dream was continuing where it had left off. 

“This is fantastic! A miracle! THANK YOU, Mithrendain!” Astarion exclaimed in unbridled joy, pulling the naked bard closer.

“Mithrendain?” Jayme perked up immediately.

“Ha ha ha, nothing, my treasure; go back to rest.” He planted a kiss on the tip of Jayme’s nose. “I was having the most ecstatic dream.”

“Dream?” Jayme furrowed his brow. “Were you sleeping?”

“I suppose I was! How wonderfully odd! Now, look, since you’re awake—would you allow me to lead our party today?” Astarion adopted his most poised and confident look. “Ple-ase?”

“Of course,” Jayme said, smiling and frowning at the same time. “But you have to tell me where this sudden willingness is coming from.”

“That spell I mentioned—it revealed a lot, and I mean, a lot, of useful knowledge about our predicament. I promise I'll share what you need to know when the time's right. But for now, just trust me, and let me guide us to glory!”

Help me become brave, he added silently.

“Mysterious. But quite convincing,” Jayme smirked. “Very well. It’s time to get moving, so go outside and get our companions ready.” He pressed a kiss to Astarion's lips, playfully biting his lower lip.

“Cheeky, aren’t you? If only my blood wasn’t boiling for killing, I’d ravish you before breakfast,” Astarion muttered, leaning in for another kiss. 

Only when Jayme didn’t meet him halfway, gazing at him with startled eyes, did Astarion realize how thoughtless his remark was. This was still the Jayme suffering from amnesia, grappling with murderous urges that threatened to suppress his own will. In fact, this Jayme had no inkling yet that he was the son of Bhaal. The precarious glint in his ice-blue eyes highlighted just how far he had evolved since their time in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

“Forgive me. That was insensitive of me. I—I didn’t mean it like that,” Astarion stammered, feeling cold embarrassment creep up his neck like a Ray of Frost. “Well, I suppose I did, but I didn’t want to make you feel bad. I’m sorry, Jayme.”

“It’s alright.” Jayme gently shook his head and brushed an errant strand from Astarion’s forehead. 

“I’m here for you. Any time it becomes too much—your Dark Urge—just give me a look and I’ll protect you from yourself if I need to,” Astarion assured him, quickly piecing together the timeline in his head. Soon, Jayme’s fiendish butler would come knocking, demanding that Jayme slay Isobel. When Jayme refused, the Urge would spiral out of control and drive him to come at Astarion instead. “Or shake me awake, if it happens under the veil of night.”

Jayme remained silent, but he brought Astarion’s hand to his lips and kissed it, holding the vampire’s gaze the whole time.

The party set out for the day, wary but determined. Astarion had a packed agenda: receiving Isobel’s blessing, waltzing through some of the more interesting spots in Reithwin Town, persuading the mad Sharran surgeon to offer himself up on the altar of medicine, retrieving Art Cullagh’s lute, having a chat with the half-orc commander of Moonrise—what was her name again? Disciple Zrell—and freeing the tieflings and gnomes from the cellar.  Now that Astarion was familiar with the region’s layout and its dangers, he was confident that all of this could be accomplished in one day—in one dream. He believed he could do it.

Isobel was upstairs in the Last Light Inn, engaged in whatever she was doing with the Moon. Astarion instructed Karlach to stay on the ground floor and positioned Gale by the balcony railing, a central spot from where he could bombard almost any of the soon-to-appear Winged Horrors. He then tasked Jayme with speaking to Isobel. Astarion himself hid in the shadows of Isobel’s room, right beside the door to the terrace, where Marcus would soon make his entrance.

The Selûnite priestess greeted the group with her familiar blend of self-importance and endearing, girlish charisma. Jayme exchanged a few words with her—the same ones Astarion had heard before—then she cast her protective spell.

“While you’re busy in the Towers, I’ll be sure to—wait, do you hear that? Something’s wrong.” Isobel whipped her head up as Marcus streaked across the sky outside and landed on the terrace, just as expected.

“Hello, Isobel,” the fetching winged scoundrel smirked as he moved into the room.

Astarion unsheathed his weapons—not Bloodthirst and Rhapsody just yet, but his trusty Sussur dagger and another magically enhanced blade.

“Marcus—is that you? What’s happened to you?” Isobel asked in alarm, her eyes roving over the feather-covered skeletal wings of the Flaming Fist.

“I’ve been blessed. You can be too. Come with me and you can hear it all from Ketheric hims--”

The scoundrel didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Astarion crept up on him and stabbed both of his daggers into his throat.

“I don’t think so, Marcus. Sorry!” he hissed into the Fist’s ear, then yanked his blades free.

Marcus collapsed face-first onto the floor, emitting a series of loud gurgling sounds.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Isobel shouted, her ashen eyes wide with shock as she recoiled.

In that instant, Winged Horrors assaulted the Inn. The party made short work of wiping them out. As soon as the last one fell, Isobel whirled around to confront Astarion, but the rogue was ready for her.

“How did you--?”

“Didn’t you see the wings on him? He’s obviously received some grotesque dark enhancements from Ketheric and was controlled by–” Astarion placed his hand over one of Marcus’ glassy eyes and waited for the mind flayer parasite to crawl out. He then pinched it between two fingers and lifted it for everyone to see. “This wee creature. Naughty Marcus was planning to drag you away, you heard him.”

Isobel gaped like a goldfish, unable to utter anything sensible for a moment. Meanwhile, Astarion wasn’t idle; he looted Marcus’ corpse, gleefully slipping on his Shifting Corpus ring.

“I must say, I’m glad you’re on our side,” Isobel finally choked out, shaking her head in disbelief. “With those eerie reflexes, I see our chances significantly increased.”

“Glad you appreciate me,” Astarion smirked then spun around to face his friends. “Ready to take on the Towers?”

“I’ll have what you’re having first,” Karlach said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Mmm, meaning?” Astarion arched an eyebrow.

“You must’ve drunk a Potion of Boldness or something. You’re a changed man!” Karlach exclaimed, gesturing wildly. She looked very keen to pat Astarion on the shoulder but refrained. 

Her engine isn’t fortified yet, Astarion realized. We need the infernal iron from Reithwin Town first.

“Watch me, dear Karlach; this is only the beginning,” he asserted with a generous dose of brazen charm.

His gaze naturally shifted to Jayme, and the way the bard looked at him sent a shiver down his spine—there was pride in those eyes, and intense, burning desire. 

“Let’s move on! I have a date later today, and I don’t want to waste any time,” Jayme said, holding their eye contact unabashedly. He moved to stand side-by-side with the rogue as they prepared to leave.

Everyone else averted their eyes in discomfort. Astarion broke into a broad smile.

They executed their quests for the day flawlessly. Astarion led for the most part, but he switched places with Jayme for certain conversations. One such encounter was with Araj Oblodra, the drow alchemist. Astarion wanted to relive that memorable moment. Jayme had always treated him like a person, not just a tool to be used, but this particular event had instilled in Astarion a conviction that with the bard, he would never be coerced into doing anything he disliked, not even for the greater good.

Throughout the day, Astarion enjoyed himself tremendously. Strategically tackling the upcoming fights and making them considerably easier was more fun than emptying the vaults of The Counting House—which was saying something. At times, he imagined making different choices just for the thrill of it, and on more than one occasion, he skipped diplomacy and let his tongue run wild. As long as the quests were completed, what harm was there in enjoying a bit of humor at the expense of their outraged enemies? Like that rotten tiefling Warden in the cells, for instance, whose dark skin turned pale with fury at the politely posed, perfectly valid question: “Didst thou mother sex a plague rat?”

And rest is sweet after labor. Astarion prayed he wouldn’t wake up until he had the chance to once again melt into the warmth of Jayme’s arms and talk him through his murderous affliction. Not that he preferred this version of Jayme over the real one, of course—both were perfection. This was merely a welcome variety.

After a satisfying day at Moonrise—what a paradox!—Astarion woke up with a glowing smile on his face.

A steady rhythm took hold in the days that followed. Jayme became deeply involved in the affairs of Mithrendain and the fomorians, diligently seeking out unseen influences and working to uncover puppet masters. He spent a substantial amount of time with Gale in the library, leafing through tomes of history and lore, and engaging in illuminating discussions with Kagen—but only when the miniature willow in the corner of the Waystop shed orange tears.

Astarion followed Jayme, offering support as best as he could, though at times, uncertainty about his own purpose gnawed at him. By the third day, as Jayme barricaded himself behind stacks of books in the library, Astarion found himself unsure of how to assist. Jayme suggested Astarion “find something that brings him pleasure.” And when Astarion reached for the laces of his indigo bard's attire, Jayme smirked and added, “Something other than me—at least until the day's end.”

Thus, Astarion dedicated a good deal of time to pursuing his own interests: tasting wine, learning the violin, basking in sunlight, bantering with the city's most distinguished goldsmiths to negotiate discounts, visiting sculptors and painters, and purchasing works that caught his fancy.

If he was honest, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself during the daytime. He enjoyed immersing himself in pastimes, relishing the simple pleasures of life, but there was a strange sense of frivolity in these activities, something he couldn't quite shake or make sense of. He had felt it ever since he and Jayme returned to the Feywild from their travels to Maztica, Avernus, and Baldur’s Gate, but he had no idea how to make it go away. Jayme had set their course; he just needed to follow, didn’t he?

At night, he returned to Faerûn and acted as its hero. In those moments, frivolity vanished entirely. He had agency in this universe, which was nearly as delectable as Jayme’s blood—nearly. It was immensely inspiring.

Astarion even requested dream Jayme to teach him some elementary bard spells, starting with the fun ones like Vicious Mockery, Dissonant Whispers, and Tasha's Hideous Laughter, while aiming for the more advanced Cutting Words and, someday, Otto’s Irresistible Dance. Soon, he led his party against Balthazar, then Ketheric, and before he knew it, his dreams carried him to Rivington and good old Lower City.

“So basically, you’re making the same decisions Jayme made. More or less,” Shadowheart pointed out one day, as she and Astarion shared a round of Eldertree Essence—a refreshing, herbal, richly spiced white wine from New Sharandar—in the Waystop.

“Well, not exactly,” Astarion replied, swirling his chalice. “For instance, I released the orthon, Yurgir, from his contract with Raphael a few nights ago—and struck a deal with him myself.”

Shadowheart paused mid-sip. “You what? How did you manage that? And also, why? Last time, you insisted Jayme kill the orthon before even hearing him out. And Jayme did just that.”

“Last time,” Astarion began, gesturing with animated flair, “I was at Raphael’s mercy. I needed him to tell me the meaning of the scripture on my back. But not this time! As for how, it wasn’t as complicated as you’d think. I simply unraveled the mystery of the orthon’s contract and swooped in while Raphael was sweet-talking him into a new deal. Raphael dangled all the right bait—contracts, fame, and power—and Yurgir was ready to bite. But not under my watch! I offered him a better deal and enlisted his infernal services for our cause: eliminating the three Chosen, starting with the blight of Moonrise Towers, Ketheric Thorm.”

“Impossible… and the orthon actually agreed?” Shadowheart asked, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Indeed he did! You see, orthons are usually bound to the will of their infernal superiors, carrying out their bidding. But occasionally, they take on bounties of their own—so long as it aligns with their masters’ interests. I gleaned this clever piece of information from Mizora before heading to Shar’s Gauntlet. And whose best interest do you think it is that we collect the Netherstones and acquire the Crown of Karsus?” Astarion leaned forward, tilting his head slyly.

“Cunning, oh so cunning,” Shadowheart grinned.

“I wanted, I ached to see the sour expression on Raphael’s face,” Astarion said with a dark edge, “Followed by a grudging admission that my deal, my way, is the best there is.”

The cleric went quiet for a moment, humming thoughtfully before blurting out, “Not bad.”

“Not bad?!” Astarion slammed his cup onto the table. “You’re difficult to impress. Poor Solaufein! Really has his work cut out for him…”

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Shadowheart said, raising a hand. “You’ve shown a fearsome new skill at playing devils for fools. But… is that all? Why not fulfill your wildest fantasies? I’m surprised at you, Astarion, honestly. I thought you’d be more… mischievous given such a unique opportunity.”

“Wildest fantasies? Like what, exactly? Becoming the ‘Absolute’? Curious… I haven’t even considered that until now,” Astarion said, amused, as he sipped his elderflower wine.

“Yes, for instance. Or, if that sounds too extreme, stabbing Enver Gortash in the heart during his coronation ceremony could be entertaining. Provided you can eliminate his Steel Watch on the spot,” Shadowheart ventured with a smirk.

“Look at you, Shadowheart! Who knew you’d be toying with such violent visions under the right circumstances? And here I thought Selûne had turned you into a paragon of virtue,” Astarion teased, cocking his head playfully.

“Come now! These are just dreams. I’ve never had a lucid dream before, unfortunately. Who says you can’t be a little bad if you wanted to?” Shadowheart winked. Maybe that Eldertree was stronger than expected.

“While I do choose my own methods, which can be less diplomatic and more, shall we say, pragmatic than Jayme’s, I don’t intend to go full berserk,” Astarion explained as he gazed thoughtfully into his drink. “It’s far more satisfying to achieve results that truly please me by relying on my own wits.”

“Suit yourself.” Shadowheart shrugged, emptying her chalice. 

The dreams kept flowing, developing, drawing Astarion deeper into their folds.

The Emperor remained an insufferable nuisance in his mind, but he was more or less mollified by their progress. This is a dream, Astarion thought at one point. Maybe I can take the easy way out this time—skip the rounds with Helsik, the House of Hope, and Orpheus. Let the Emperor earn his keep and help destroy the Brain.

Since he was in charge now, reshuffling their priorities as he pleased, they didn’t cross paths with everyone as they had before and encountered new faces along the way. After starting the search for the “Stone Lord” and speaking with Nine-Finger Keene in the Sewers, they came across that pretty, unsuspecting elven girl who might have become Cazador’s victim if Astarion hadn’t dissuaded her from seeking the exclusive underground party at “The Palace.” 

But as they were about to climb back to the surface and head to the Counting House, a familiar, sardonic voice halted Astarion.

“You cost me my prey for the night, brother. Now I have to find another one.”

Astarion huffed a laugh, lowered himself from the ladder, and turned to face Leon.

“My, my, if it isn’t the Favored Spawn. Hello, brother. How is ‘The Palace’ treating you these days?  Still getting satin bedsheets and fresh blood for dinner?” Astarion asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

He had always harbored reservations about Leon—the newcomer, the dashing sorcerer, the golden son. A sycophant, ever eager to do Cazador’s bidding without question or delay, securing benefits for himself and his daughter, Victoria.

Jayme, Jaheira, and Shadowheart exchanged tense glances, but Astarion gave them a nod to signal that it was fine.

“Those days are over,” Leon said dryly. "I’ve fallen from grace after trying to arrange my daughter’s escape."

As he spoke, he nervously pushed his long brown hair back over his shoulders.

It was only then that Astarion noticed the tousled and battered quality of Leon’s appearance. Wisps of hair stuck out in various directions from his usually slicked-back locks. Dark bruises marred his neck, disappearing under the collar of his robe, and one of his eyes was slightly swollen. Thus passes the worldly glory , the phrase flashed through Astarion’s mind as he assessed the man before him, wondering why Cazador had allowed him to appear in such a poor state.

“Oh! I didn’t know you had it in you, Leon. I mean, I always knew you were capable of a great many things that would make others pale and shrink back in horror, but I didn’t think you’d risk your hard-earned status for Victoria’s freedom,” Astarion remarked, genuinely surprised.

Leon’s demeanor turned icy, then defeated.

“You don’t know anything about me, Astarion. I did everything for Victoria’s freedom. I bided my time, played the obedient servant to gain privileges—all to prepare her escape. Even if I was beyond saving, I believed—needed to believe—that Vicky could still have a chance at a normal life.” He sighed heavily. “But it’s all been for nothing.”

Astarion frowned. “What happened?” he asked, though he already knew, having seen Victoria’s cursed corpse in real life. 

Leon didn’t reply for a while, visibly too shaken to speak. When he finally pulled himself together, his mouth quivered and his voice sounded hollow with resignation.

“Dalyria found her. She brought her back. She… bit Vicky and triggered the protective spell I’d imbued her with—a necrotic curse. The effect was immediate, and Dalyria panicked.” He fell silent, unable to continue, but the implication was clear.

“She was a good soul, deserved better. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Leon,” Astarion said quietly, his gaze meeting Leon’s bright red eyes, which shimmered the weight of his grief.

“So, you’re not all spite and contempt. I’ve learned something new today,” Leon said, with the faintest hint of a smile.

“No.  I don’t know you well, and you don’t know me. It goes both ways,” Astarion began.  He intended to say something more personal but decided against it, sensing that revealing too much to someone still in Cazador’s grasp could be risky. “So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to try to convince me to return to the despot, like Petras and Dalyria did the other day?”

Leon let out a wry chuckle. “Will I? No. I’m going to do the opposite. Run away, Astarion. He’s plotting something—a ritual that involves us, spawn. We are the keys to it. Run away so He cannot complete it.” He stepped closer for emphasis. Astarion’s back straightened instinctively, but he didn’t budge. “He claims we’ll all become more powerful, but I can feel it in my bones that it’s a lie, a fabrication to keep us in line.”

“You’re right about that; it’s sharp of you to see through his deceptions. Thanks for the warning, but I’m not leaving. On the contrary, I’m going to kill him instead,” Astarion asserted, curving his lips into a bone-chilling grin. “You can bet the Palace on it.”

Leon’s laugh sounded a bit unhinged this time. “Oh, brother, you’re mad, mad as a rabid dog! But I think I like your kind of madness.” His smile faded, and his eyes pierced Astarion’s. “I want a part in His execution. Please.”

“That’s kind of you, but I don’t need your help. My troop and I are more than capable of handling it,” Astarion replied, gesturing toward his party, which stood silently nearby. “You just sit back and enjoy the show.”

He even shot a wink at Leon, but the sorcerer took one more step forward. Astarion sensed Jayme moving closer as well.

“No. I want revenge too. I have just as much claim as you do; he’s taken just as much from me, if not more.”

There was a spark in Leon’s tone, and the way his jaw was set in righteous fury made Astarion reconsider. Truth be told, he was impressed that one of his siblings was daring enough to join a revenge plot against their Master. Some of the more vocal ones, like Petras and Yousen, used to exchange hushed vows of vengeance, but only rarely and only when they were sure none of Cazador’s monstrous servants could overhear. In the past, they had been just as cautious around golden Leon, fearing he might report them to the Master. Of course, such vows had always been nothing more than empty words.

“Alright, alright, can’t argue with that. Let me think about the strategy, and we’ll reconvene in a few nights. Is that good enough?” Astarion offered.

Leon’s expression softened, and he reached out a hand. Astarion, unaccustomed to physical contact with his fellow spawn—especially with the self-important sorcerer—stared at it, momentarily confused. Then, he met Leon halfway and shook his hand.

No further words were said. Leon took his leave, making his way back to “The Palace,” while Astarion urged his party to climb out of the putrid Sewers.

Of course, Astarion knew perfectly well that dreams were just that—dreams. Yet they had become so ingrained in his daily life that his eyes sometimes played tricks on him. One day, he could have sworn he saw Petras’ wavy-haired head disappearing around a corner lined with golden aspens. Startled, he followed, catching another glimpse of the figure as he rounded the bend. He was about to call out when an eladrin bumped into him. By the time he turned back, the wavy-haired head had vanished.

Impossible, he told himself, Petras would be screaming in agony under the Sun. It must have been some curious illusion, he reasoned, and that was that. 

Another day, he spotted flaxen hair and delicate features that reminded him so much of Dalyria. He gave chase but lost her in the bustling parade of an artificer’s festival.

At the same time, his dreams were having another effect—Astarion’s curiosity about their current quest began to grow. Where he once followed Jayme’s lead without much thought, he now found himself probing deeper into Mithrendain’s politics during his daily interactions.

Having quickly built a good rapport with some of the most renowned artisans, he began to weave subtle questions into their casual conversations. His focus centered on the Arcanum Citadel, the pride of every Mithrendainian, and the prominent figures who governed the city.

“Vyndra Sysvani,” he said to Jayme one afternoon as they met in a tranquil, verdant etherweave fern garden for their violin practice.

“The Councilor? What about her?” Jayme asked, cocking an eyebrow while tightening the hair of his bow.

“She’s rumored to be at odds with Amon, as I found out today. I think it would be worth having a chat with her,” Astarion explained, a hint of smugness in his voice.

“How did you find that out?” Jayme asked, surprised.

Astarion puffed out his chest. “Oh, I’m not just idling the day away, you know! I’m gathering information—for us,” he replied, his tone growing more earnest. “I… feel like I want to do more than I am doing here.” 

He gestured with his bow, indicating their quest within the city, though there was something deeper in his gesture—something he had touched on at the Sprinkling Fountain and had been mulling over more and more lately.

Jayme smiled and drew him closer, grazing his neck with a tender kiss. “Perfect,” he murmured against Astarion’s skin. “And I appreciate any leads you can find. To be honest, I'm starting to feel a bit stranded. I'll try approaching Vyndra.”

When he pulled back and set his bow on his violin, a thrilled glint of blue light danced in his eyes—whether from the excitement of their conversation or the violins in hand, perhaps both. 

“Now, shall we work on your vibrato today?” Jayme suggested.

“Always,” Astarion nodded. “Becoming a true vampire has certainly improved my playing, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But vibrato…” He trailed off, sighing at the delicate fingerwork the technique in question required. 

“It can take months, or even a year to master it. Be patient,” Jayme advised gently.

“Months you say? Give me two!” Astarion exclaimed, eager for the challenge. As a rogue, this was a matter of pride.

“Dazzle me,” Jayme grinned.

One evening, shortly after Vyndra’s name had surfaced, Astarion sat in a quiet corner of the Waystop, a cup of Feyfire Flambeau before him. He was reflecting on how he would kill Cazador again, even entertaining the thought of ascending this time— if only to witness the look of horror on Cazador's face as he was consumed by his own Black Mass. But to sacrifice seven thousand souls in the process, even in the realm of dreams… no. Vexingly enough, that didn’t feel right.

Life used to be so much simpler before I’d turned so soft and… burdened by conscience, he thought with a dose of wry self-critique that, absurdly enough, felt undeniably good.

His meditations were interrupted by Jayme, who sat beside him with a complicated expression on his face.

“What ails you, my love?” Astarion asked, pushing his cup toward Jayme in invitation.

Jayme accepted the wine and took a long swig before answering.

“I met Vyndra today, on my way here from the library,” he began, then paused, tilting his head as he looked Astarion over. “I see you’ve been to a leatherworker today.”

“I most certainly did, and I love that you couldn't resist pointing it out! You know what they say: a sharp appearance is deadlier than a sharp sword—that couldn’t be truer. So, what do you think?” Astarion sprang to his feet and turned slowly to give Jayme a proper view of his sleek, lightweight chainmail armor, glimmering in indigo and silver, adorned with embossed moon and swirling grapevine motifs.

“You look the best when you wear nothing at all, but this is a close second,” Jayme smirked. “Silver and indigo look great on you.”

“Of course they do! Silver is ever the versatile shade, and indigo is your color, after all. How about these?” Astarion grinned, sliding his hands up Jayme’s knees and gently parting them to place a foot between, showcasing his greaves. Each featured a stylized violin embossed on them.

Jayme’s eyes glinted with warmth. “Amazing work. You had these crafted to your design?”

“Indeed, and quite the trade I made, if I do say so myself,” Astarion replied. “It cost me my old Spidersilk Armor and Auntie Ethel’s Whispering Mask, but it was worth every last bit. This armor grants resistance against the elements and makes hiding in the shadows effortless, despite its bright colors. And as a bonus, I’m sure our Moon Twosome will appreciate these embellishments.” He traced his fingers over the elegant crescent moon and vine patterns. “One speaks to what they revere, and the other… well, what I do.”

“Grapevine?” Jayme raised an eyebrow and ran his hands up Astarion’s leg, feeling the marvelous leatherwork—and the leg underneath it.

“Grapevine, which means wine!”

“Right.” Jayme’s hands reached the top of Astarion’s thighs, and the bard shot him a look that made Astarion regret they were in public. But he remembered Jayme wanted to fill him in on his day before they got sidetracked by his new armor. 

“Now, back to that run-in with one of the top brass—was she also a slinking slime like Amon?” Astarion asked, lowering himself beside Jayme again.

“No, she was refreshingly plain-spoken. She knew about the signet ring, so I asked her about the passage to the Feydark.”

“How bold of you. And she didn’t clam up?”

“No, luckily not. I think it had something to do with the fact that she saw the tome I had with me: the Feywild equivalent of Volo's Guide to Monsters. She took me aside into a quiet corner of a gingko garden and gave me an overview of the city’s history.”

“Oh. Do share the juiciest details!” Astarion urged.

Jayme took a slow swallow, watching the small willow in the corner. Orange droplets fell from its flowers—it was safe to speak.

“Mithrendain was founded several centuries ago during the decline of the eladrin empire—that’s common knowledge. What’s less well known is that it began when eladrin fighters discovered a massive hole in the Feywild, created by the fomorian kings,” Jayme shared quietly. “This breach allowed vile beings to emerge from both the Feydark and the Underdark. After a fierce battle, the eladrin pushed the fomorians back and, with the help of powerful wizards, sealed the hole. To ensure it stayed sealed, they built a fortress around it. This fortress, the Citadel Arcanum, gradually evolved into the city of Mithrendain. Over time, the true purpose of the fortress was forgotten by most, and those in power made sure it remained that way.  Meanwhile, the city flourished as a center of culture and art, and today, Mithrendain thrives, with its residents oblivious to the significant passage hidden beneath their streets.”

“Hmm, interesting. Why did the Council want to keep the Citadel’s true purpose a secret?” Astarion asked.

“Those directives were passed down through generations, from the original builders of the fortress, if I understood correctly. In short, they didn’t trust their own people,” Jayme replied, fumbling inside his bag of holding. He retrieved his cased violin and, absentmindedly, began plucking the strings. 

“I see. So why did Vyndra give you this private lecture? It seems unusual in light of all this,” Astarion pointed out.

“My question exactly,” Jayme agreed. “She said she didn’t see eye to eye with Amon Bassiri, who would keep us in the dark. Our letter of recommendation is clear: Lady Shandria vouched for us. Vyndra seems to believe we’re here to help.”

“She’d better. She won’t find a more dedicated aide than you,” Astarion said with a smile. “Did you learn anything useful about the fomorians?”

The plucks grew more urgent.

“I learned that they are divided into smaller, individual kingdoms,” Jayme said, his gaze drifting between Astarion and the violin. “There’s King Bronnor, the mad ruler of Harrowhame; Queen Connomae of Vor Thomil, who captures travelers and forces them to entertain her as poets, singers, actors, or gladiators; and King Thrumbolg of Mag Tureah, a tyrant who uses his slaves as test subjects in experiments with the hundreds of portals leading to the Material Plane, hoping to find one that could enable an invasion. All of them thrive on and are sustained by slavery.”

“So they have their disparate kingdoms. Do you think they have what it takes to unite?” Astarion asked, sipping his wine.

“Perhaps. But under whose command? From what I've read, they're exceedingly greedy and aren’t likely to easily come to an agreement. On the other hand, if a cunning schemer were to bring them together…” Jayme sighed heavily. “Maybe I’m reading too much into this. I have to hand it to Amon; his suspicion about an underlying intent could be valid. Maybe there’s a different explanation altogether, and the signet ring was there because someone wanted us here.”

“Relax, darling. All that reading and thinking is playing games with your mind. You’ve been toiling tirelessly to unravel this riddle—just let it go. Enjoy some good wine. Play something for my pleasure, and for the inn’s. And then, entangle with me in bed.” Astarion wove his fingers through Jayme’s hand on the table and gave it a squeeze.

“Aren’t you eager to go to sleep?” Jayme smirked.

“I… yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean I don’t relish my waking hours with you.” Astarion brushed his hand up Jayme’s lower arm reassuringly. 

Leaning closer, he continued, his voice brimming with excitement, “Even though I’m still a feeble spawn in the dream, the conviction that I will break free of Cazador reshapes the entire experience. Everything feels more vivid, more meaningful, as if a dark veil has been lifted. This time around, I know I have the power to make a difference—for me and all the people whose lives I touch in Faerûn. It’s fascinating!”

“Are you giving me advice on our quests, then?” Jayme asked with an amused lilt to his tone.

“In fact, I am the one leading our wee party,” Astarion grinned. 

“It must suit you,” Jayme nodded.

“You think so?”

“Of course. You have the makings of a leader,” Jayme said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Astarion leaned back in his chair with an ear-to-ear smile and spread his arms wide.

“I’m so glad you said that! Because, frankly, I’m having the time of my life being at the forefront of it all. And there are new twists and turns along the way. For one, I told Shadowheart to do whatever she wanted with the Nightsong—I was curious to see what she’d do without any advice from us. Guess what? She still chose to hurl that spear right into the Shadowfell! I was so proud of her; I might tell her that next time. Or just the other day, I ran into my brother, Leon, in Baldur’s Gate, and we had a surprisingly pleasant exchange—the kind we never had in real life. I have a feeling we might continue it one of these nights.”

Astarion’s words poured out excitedly, prompting a smirk that steadily spread across Jayme's face. It seemed to spark an idea in him as he pulled his bow from its case.

“Maybe you could approach this with a bit more finesse than I did. These are only dreams, after all, so hold nothing back,” the bard said. He toyed with the bow in his fingers, tipping it just out of balance, only for it to return perfectly horizontal between his fingertips. “Have me talk to Enver and convince him to break his pact with Orin—give her and her assassins a hard time. In real life, he preferred sitting back and letting us do all the dirty work for him. But I know him; I can coax him down from his lofty stronghold to lend us a hand with Orin.”

Astarion watched the bow regain its balance again and again, unable to suppress a smirk of his own. 

“You know,” he said, “you talk an awful lot like Shadowheart. She made suggestions the other day too, about how I should just let loose, for the fun of it. What an epic band of rascals we are!” He laughed.

“I’m not surprised. Are you?” Jayme replied. “You should pick Gale’s brain too. I’d bet my violin his ideas would be in the same creative vein.” 

“You’re right, it’s hardly surprising.” Astarion shook his head, a wide grin on his face. His expression softening, he added, “Though I thought you’d still want to duel Orin, come what may.”

“I would; her death should be mine. I think my dream counterpart will feel the same way,” Jayme stated, his own smile relaxing slightly. “But why not spare ourselves some of the effort of reaching her in the Temple? Let’s pit Enver’s army against Orin’s fanatics. Use me.”

Astarion waved a hand, as though conjuring a scene in his mind. “I can already see Fists and Steel Watchers hunting down Bhaalist cutthroats in the streets—and I like that image! I’ll be sure to get dream-Jayme’s take once we reach Gortash, but I don’t think I’ll ask Gale for counsel. I have no doubt he could work out the most efficient way of eliminating all our enemies, but I want to handle this on my own. For myself. You see?”

He met Jayme’s gaze with an earnest look, hoping the bard would understand. He wasn't disappointed.

“I do,” Jayme said, calm and reassuring.

At this point, he stopped fiddling with the bow and tightened the hairs. “Alright. I’ll play some Faerûnian classics today, to set the mood for tonight.” He glanced up at Astarion. “Join in if you like. Your renditions of ‘The Power’, ‘The Queen’s High Seas’, and ‘Of Divinity and Sin’ are more than well-practiced by now.”

“Very well. I’ll follow your lead,” Astarion replied with a cheerful smile, then began searching his bag of holding for his own violin.

Tonight, Astarion’s whim steered the party first to Sorcerous Sundries, where they raided its vault for the lovely loot and procured The Annals of Karsus for Gale. Afterwards, they visited the House of Grief, where Astarion took particular pleasure in ending Viconia De’Vir’s life with a clean stab to the chest. He felt a curious sense of responsibility to stay true to how Shadowheart’s quest had unfolded in the waking world. For a moment, he considered advising her to save her parents, but after witnessing their interaction, he realized that the only way forward for her was to free them—and herself—from Shar’s taint.

The five of them—Astarion, Jayme, Shadowheart, La’zael, and Gale—trudged silently back to the Elfsong for the evening. The day’s events cast a melancholic shadow over their lodge. Astarion wanted nothing more than to curl up with Jayme in their bed, with a bottle of Guldathen Nectar, and discuss the bard’s recent revelation about his divine heritage.

But someone had other plans for them. Not long after their return to the tavern, there was a commotion near the entrance to the common area. When Astarion went to investigate, he found La’zael dragging a disheveled human to the center of the room, his arms twisted behind his back.

“Did you think you could get away with snooping around our quarters? What are you then, a petty thief or an assassin? Depending on your answer, you’ll either lose a hand or your head. Speak! And I’ll know if you’re lying,” La’zael growled at the man, wrenching his arms even further back and eliciting a pained wince from her captive.

“Neither! I’m neither!” Leon bit out through gritted teeth as he squirmed in La’zael’s unforgiving grip. “I’m Astarion’s brother. I came to see him.”

“Leon! What are you doing? You could’ve just knocked, you know,” Astarion said with a smirk. “Snooping can easily be misconstrued.”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was just trying to figure out how to get in touch with you. Your company isn’t the most approachable.” He shot a thunderous look at the githyanki behind him. “Would you mind releasing me, ra'stil?”

“Ra’stil ? How presumptuous of you, kainyank,” La’zael snarled, glancing at Astarion for confirmation, which he gave. “Keep your teeth to yourself, or I’ll tear every last one out of your mouth.”

With that, she released Leon’s arms. He lurched forward but quickly regained his composure and assumed a dignified stance.

“The Master thinks I came to haul you back to him, but I’m not here for that,” the sorcerer said. “I want to talk about our revenge.”

“Well, I’d recommend taking this delightful discourse to the rooftop for the view, but the night is dark and full of snoopers.” Astarion winked at Leon. “So we’re better off staying indoors. Come to my and Jayme’s quarters.” 

He moved to lead the way but stopped, motioning toward the bard when he realized they hadn’t been introduced.

“Oh! This is Jayme, my better half and the Lord of the Violin. Jayme, let me introduce you to the formidable sorcerer and my spawn brother, Leon—formerly known as ‘the golden son’.”

“Don’t call me that,” Leon snapped, then turned to Jayme and gave a small bow. “Salutations.”

“Well met,” Jayme said, inclining his head. “Won’t Cazador know you didn’t try to force Astarion back to the Palace?”

“We can rough up my appearance a bit before I leave, so He won’t doubt I made the attempt,” Leon suggested.

Both Jayme and Astarion nodded in easy agreement.

The trio then entered Jayme and Astarion’s private chamber, which featured a king-sized bed and a small table with two chairs. Leon promptly conjured a chair for himself with a flick of his wrist while Astarion rummaged through his wine stash to find a fitting beverage.

“Utterdark?” Jayme pointed at the bottle prepared next to their bed.

“No. We’ll save that for the bathhouse in a few days,” Astarion replied without looking up.

“The bathhouse?” Jayme asked.

“Oh yes, the bathhouse. Get ready for a stimulating evening with just the two of us, a tub of hot water, and that bottle of Utterdark. But before that, we’re crashing a masquerade. Lady Jannath’s estate is hosting one tomorrow, if I’m not mistaken,” Astarion announced enthusiastically. He wouldn’t dream of missing out on either of those sensual events.

“I must say, you’re nothing like the bitter, tormented spirit you used to be, Astarion,” Leon remarked, looking genuinely impressed.

“Freedom! That’s the secret, dear Leon. You’ll see,” Astarion beamed as he passed over bottle after bottle, his smile faltering somewhat when he surveyed the sorry state of his stock.

“I have a bottle of Lathander's Red on me, if you’d like it,” Leon offered after several minutes of fruitless searching.

“Hmm, that’s not a common brand in this city,” Astarion said, his interest piqued.

“A priestess was my mark the other day,” Leon explained.

“The poor soul. Alright, let’s crack it open!” Astarion agreed. “Wine from the worshippers of the Lord of Birth and Renewal—what a fitting choice for a conversation about the demise of the Dark Majesty of Manure, the Sovereign of Shit!”

“I’m glad you’re putting your latest Cutting Words to good use outside of battle, too,” Jayme smirked.

“But of course!” Astarion said, flashing his fangs in a gleeful grin.

Lathander's Red was a decent vintage—no, more than decent. It was premium. Ah yes, golden Leon’s always had a penchant for the finer things in life. Sweet water from a foul well, as they say, Astarion thought wryly, watching the sorcerer uncork the full-bodied red and pour it into their waiting cups.

“You talk about freedom, but we’re not free yet. The Master is still alive and scheming,” Leon said, his tone dour as he clutched his cup.

“If only I could somehow impart my conviction to you. Drink the wine and listen: Cazador’s days are numbered. He’ll be nothing but lifeless meat in less than a tenday.” Astarion spat the word meat with venom, raising his cup to clink it first with Jayme’s, then with Leon’s.

“Beware the sweet poison hidden in a silver chalice ,” Solaufein’s words echoed in his mind as he drank, and he couldn’t help but notice that Leon stared at his cup without taking a sip. Astarion had a rule never to accept drinks from anyone but his friends. But then again, Leon was at his mercy; there was no way he would try anything.

“How can you know that? We’re talking about Cazador Szarr! Just how did you become so sure of yourself? And how can you walk in the Sun?” Leon fired off his questions before finally taking a few delicate swallows of the Lathander's Red. The elegance of his manners was the one thing Astarion had always secretly liked about him.

“If you saw him fight, you wouldn’t question the source of his confidence,” Jayme replied before Astarion could—clearly intending to keep Astarion’s true circumstances confidential. “As for the Sun, we have a mystical guardian who gathered us and is counterbalancing our weaknesses, in exchange for investigating these strange earthquakes.”

The bard’s features were perfectly composed as he spoke. It wasn’t a lie, but there was a significant omission. He didn’t trust Leon and wanted Astarion to stay cautious too.

“Do you think I could join your group under this mystical guardian? I’d gladly lend my strength to any cause, once our Master has been dealt with,” Leon said. His voice trembled as he continued, “I desperately want my freedom back. And this curse that prevents me from exposing myself to the Sun—it’s driving me insane.”

A pang of sympathy touched Astarion, who had endured the same suffering for centuries, but Jayme remained steadfastly stoic.

“Our guardian isn’t hiring anymore, I’m afraid,” the bard said. “But we can definitely ensure you’re free of Cazador.” 

He looked at Astarion, passing the conversation to him.

“I‘ll be coming home soon, just as I promised. By that time, I’m sure Cazador will have started his sinister little Ritual. But he won’t finish it without me because I am the final piece needed for his Ascension.” Astarion snorted and savored another taste of wine. “Your task, Leon, is to wait for me and be ready when I make my entrance. Rest up, have your spells ready. I’ll stab him to my heart’s content, and then you can reduce him to ash. How does that sound?”

“Almost too good to be true... Very well. Let’s drink to our imminent retribution!” Leon proposed, curving his mouth into a thin smile.

They all drank. Leon gazed into his cup, momentarily lost in thought, then spoke again.

“I hope you see me in a new light now, brother. Believe me when I say I never, not for a single moment, took pleasure in carrying out the Master’s orders.”

“Really? What about that night of ultimate promiscuity in the Gossamer Alcove?” Astarion reminded him dryly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself with your marks. What were their names? Liliana and Leyla? Those innocent young maidens, tripping over themselves to please you.”

He hadn’t hunted with Leon often, which is why this particular affair was seared into his memory. The women’s hysterical pleas, once they realized they would never leave the Palace, still rang in Astarion’s ears. Even he, hardened by decades of witnessing such despair, couldn’t stay unaffected. What he remembered most vividly, though, was the cold indifference on Leon’s face.

“I was merely pretending to enjoy it. It was necessary, but you, of all people, should understand that. I did it all for Vicky.” Leon tightened his grip on the cup, his knuckles turning white. “I’m skilled at posturing; I won’t deny it. But we’re two of a kind, Astarion. You’ve also ensnared others without batting an eye. It's the pot calling the kettle black.”

Jayme leaned forward in his seat, regarding the sorcerer with thinly veiled disapproval.

“That’s hard to dispute,” Astarion noted, speaking slowly, his gaze resting on his cup without really seeing it. “But I’ve changed since then, and so must you. We owe it to our victims to become a better version of ourselves.” 

“I’ll drink to that. And I’m going to take my leave,” Leon said quietly before gulping down the rest of his wine. 

He stood from his chair. Swift as a flash, Jayme was on his feet too, landing a savage blow to Leon’s face. The sorcerer staggered to the side, upending his chair in the process. In retaliation, Leon lunged forward and struck Jayme across the face with the back of his hand.

“What are you doing?!” Astarion yelled, springing up.

“My apologies. Did that catch you off guard?” Jayme asked, breathing a little faster from the rush, his lips curling into an impish smile. “I just wanted to make sure you look the part when you report that you’ve been beaten by Astarion, like you suggested earlier.”

A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, which only seemed to add to his brazen display.

“How considerate of you,” Leon replied coldly, “I was going to do it myself.”

Before anyone could blink, he drew a tiny dagger from under his robe and, without flinching, cut a long gash across his left arm. Sheathing the dagger, he stood there briefly, unconcerned as blood streamed down his arm, slid off his fingers, and dripped onto the floor. After a few tense seconds, he walked to the door and called over his shoulder, “I’d apply an antidote to that wound if I were you. Looks like my nails grazed your skin; they’re dipped in snake venom.”

Astarion grunted in frustration and darted to his bag to retrieve an antidote.

“See you soon, brother. I’m counting on you, and you can count on me,” Leon said, leaving the room.

“Yes, yes, see you,” Astarion muttered absently as he hurried to Jayme and handed him a potion filled with bright green liquid. Once the sorcerer was out of earshot, he remarked, “Just so you know, formally, I’m appalled by that discourteous behavior.”

“And informally?” Jayme asked after downing the medicine, a glimmer of a smile playing at his injured lips even as he scrunched his face from the bitter taste.

“I loved it! That was quite the wallop,” Astarion grinned, then softened his tone. “I know you did it because he reminded me of my deeds.” He carefully cupped Jayme’s face, stroking his cheeks around the bleeding area. Under any other circumstance, he would have eagerly lapped at the wound, but the venom’s scent wasn’t exactly inviting.

“He’s got some nerve talking like that when you’re offering him a way out of his misery. You’re already a better version of yourself,” Jayme said. With no hesitation, he kissed Astarion, pushing his tongue into his mouth. Astarion immediately tasted the metallic tang of blood mixed with a hint of acid.

“You’re tough,” Jayme whispered, pulling back just long enough to speak and take another swig of the antidote.

He closed the distance again, passing the medicine between their mouths.

Another brief pause. “And daring.” Another mouthful.

“I’m pretty amazing, huh?” Astarion breathed. He threw caution to the wind and, after a passionate clash of tongues, succumbed to the temptation to devour Jayme’s blood. The antidote was pushed aside and they embraced tightly, their hands exploring each other’s bodies.

“Khm. ‘Scuse the interruption,” Karlach’s voice came from the door, slightly flustered but carrying a note of amusement. Astarion broke away just long enough to throw her a questioning look. Jayme continued lavishing Astarion’s neck and collarbone with kisses, eyes still closed. “Long hair just stormed out, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Is everything alright in here?”

“Alright, yes… all right, Karlach. Thanks,” Astarion said in a husky tone and gasped as Jayme ran a hand up his nape and sank his teeth into the curve where his neck met his shoulder. “Just a little consensual violence and a sprinkle of snake venom—nothing to worry about.”

“Snake ve--?” Surprised orange eyes flicked to the antidote sitting forgotten next to the wriggling pair. When Jayme’s hands dove under Astarion’s white, frilly-collared shirt, Karlach began to retreat. “Well, it seems like you’ve got everything under control, so I’ll, uh, just… leave.”

“Night, Karlach,” Jayme mumbled against Astarion’s neck, his breath sending goosebumps over the vampire’s cool skin.

The door closed behind Karlach, and Jayme proceeded to show Astarion just how amazing he thought he was.

After who knows how many hours of dreaming, Astarion woke with a satisfied smile. On impulse, he kissed Jayme’s cheek, who lay in trance beside him in their bed. 

But the wave of elation quickly evaporated when Astarion noticed a small bruise at the corner of Jayme’s mouth, with a tiny laceration in the middle—exactly like the one his dream Jayme had sustained. His chest tightened with sudden anxiety as he stared, dumbstruck, at the unsettling proof that dreams could truly turn into reality in Mithrendain.

Chapter 23: II - And when I close my eyes tonight to symphonies of blinding light

Summary:

And when I close my eyes tonight
To symphonies of blinding light

God bless us everyone
We're a broken people living under loaded gun
Oh, like memories in cold decay
Transmissions echoing away
Far from the world of you and I
Where oceans bleed into the sky

God save us, everyone
Will we burn inside the fires of a thousand suns
For the sins of our hand, the sins of our tongue
The sins of our father, the sins of our young? No!

Linkin Park – The Catalyst

The tiny dark spot remained, no matter how long or hard he stared at it.

“What the--?” Astarion muttered, sweeping his gaze across the room to confirm he was awake and no longer in the Elfsong.

“What’s wrong?” Jayme asked, his eyes opening as he sensed Astarion’s alarm.

“Did you… get into a fight when I wasn’t looking? How did you get this wound?” Astarion lightly pressed the sensitive skin.

Jayme winced.

“What wound?” he asked, touching the spot himself. “I don’t remember getting this. I haven’t been in any real fight—not since the Everwood.”

The knot of dread tightened in Astarion’s chest. There was no mistaking it—his dreams were spilling into reality. But to what extent? And why only now? We’ve been in countless fights lately, and I never noticed any matching injuries, he thought, confused.

“I think… my dreams are starting to bleed through,” Astarion mumbled, his mind in utter disarray.

He tried his best to explain to Jayme what had happened, but no reassuring conclusions were reached.

In the end, only one thing was clear to Astarion: he had to keep dreaming until they defeated the Netherbrain—or risk whatever consequences might follow. And to do that, he would need to follow in Jayme's footsteps.

Or… maybe not, he mused, staring up at the ceiling. Who’s to say there’s only one way to reach the same end? I can make my own choices.

Heavy thoughts weighed Astarion down all morning. Jayme asked how he could help, but the rogue had no clue. So, with little else to go on, Jayme went to speak with a city guard, hoping to learn more about the “evil” Amon claimed had visited the city. Meanwhile, Astarion roamed in quiet reflection through Mithrendain, trying to sort out his thoughts.

There’s no way in the Nine Hells I’ll sign Raphael’s contract. I won’t give him the satisfaction. No, I’ll steal the Hammer instead. But keeping the Emperor at bay will be a challenge. No, it’s not what you think, Balduran—we just raided the House of Hope for riches, not to steal the Hammer that’ll break Orpheus’ chains! … Damn, how do I pull this off?

He had wandered far, reaching the eastern outskirts. As he left a small, rippling waterfall behind, the beckoning sound of a metallic drum caught his attention. The resonant melody floated from a handpan drum, played by a fey eladrin woman sitting cross-legged on a rock. In front of her, at least thirty eladrins stretched and reclined in a graceful rhythm on the plush grass, moving in harmony with the soft ambiance.

Perhaps it was the exotic music, or perhaps his own inner turmoil, but Astarion felt an irresistible pull toward this strange meditation. After a few minutes of hesitation, he dropped to his knees and began to mimic the eladrins' weaving, fluid motions. His body gradually found a flow that resonated with the music and the serene atmosphere around him. No one gave instructions, yet everyone moved in flawless synchrony—it was the same magic Jayme had mastered in this realm, Astarion realized: the mystical, transcendent power of music, able to take the shape of words, emotions, even actions or weapons.

The soothing tones and reverberating harmonies gradually unwound Astarion’s perturbed psyche. With each movement, the weight of his thoughts lightened, tension eased from his muscles, and a rare sense of peace settled over him.

So what if the dreams affected his reality? He could lead his friends against their foes once more.

I have the power, and I will have the glory, Astarion vowed inwardly.

By the time the handpan’s ethereal melody faded, Astarion had mapped out a solid plan. Imitating the way the eladrins pressed their palms together in gratitude, he headed back to the Waystop.

He intended to take an afternoon nap and set his plan in motion at once. There was much to do, and who knew how long they could stay in Mithrendain? He had to see it through before the Lord Marshal—or anyone else—interfered.

After devouring an entire jar of coagulated boar’s blood, he took out his violin and played a single, heartening song. When he finished, he lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him.

 

 

 

“It’s just rumors, so you shouldn’t take it at face value, master bard,” the eladrin guard said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He looked utterly charmed by Jayme’s performance, swaying his head as if still hearing the final beguiling note. “In fact, I should probably keep my mouth shut, lest I accidentally cause confusion…”

“Rest assured, I’ll take your words with a pinch of salt,” Jayme replied with a winning smile, plucking his violin in a frolicsome pizzicato to lighten the mood. “You see, Vyndra Sysvani tasked me with investigating what’s been stirring beneath the surface, but I’ve hit an impasse. Your insight might just be what I need to shed new light on my investigation.”

The eladrin smiled as his eyes followed the devilishly fast movements of Jayme’s fingers, mesmerized.

“Very well. I wouldn't mind if Lady Vyndra heard of my role in the city’s defense… but only if your efforts are crowned with success, master bard!”

“But of course!” Jayme smiled, easing the rhythm to create space for the revelation he’d been waiting for all morning—after speaking with several guards to no avail, he’d finally found Yorvan, who seemed more amenable to coaxing than the others.

The guard glanced around, confirming none of his peers were within earshot, then leaned in closer and dropped his voice.

“A Child of the Lord of Murder is whispered to have entered Mithrendain. They’re said to have connections with the Underdark and may be working to unleash its horrors on our safe haven.”

Jayme let surprise show on his face, but his plucks never faltered. “A Bhaalspawn? I thought they’d all slaughtered each other by now.”

“There’s always one left; that rot of a god never gives up. Why this Child’s has suddenly taken an interest in the Feywild remains a mystery. Who can fathom the mind of a ruthless monster? But no need to worry, master bard! The Lord Marshal is personally overseeing the elimination of this threat,” the eladrin said with confidence.

“How so? If you don’t mind indulging me, I promise not to tell Lady Vyndra you shared any strategic details.” Jayme’s hands continued their nimble work on the violin, plucking a clever variation of the song that had captivated the guard earlier.

“It’s not a major strategic secret; it’s part of our daily operations, so I’m allowed to share it,” Yorvan shrugged. “The Watchers of the Night keep all outsiders under constant observation. The same applies to you, master bard, despite Lady Shandria’s strong endorsement.”

“What I’m curious about,” Jayme said quietly, “is how the Lord Marshal was alerted to this Bhaalspawn if their identity’s still unknown.”

“Rumor has it that another outsider warned him, but I can’t confirm if there’s any truth to that. I haven’t seen this outsider myself.”

The corners of Jayme’s mouth twitched. “How curious. Thank you, Yorvan. You’ve given me much to think about.”

With that, the pizzicato capriccio came to a close.

“Stay safe, master bard, and may the Lady of Dreams bless your investigation!” the eladrin called after Jayme as he took his leave.

The Lady of Dreams, Sehanine Moonbow, was a mighty goddess of the Seldarine, revered by many in the Feywild, making Yorvan’s wish perfectly commonplace. Still, how odd that he should invoke her while Astarion was so thoroughly entangled in his dreams.

Jayme’s suspicion was growing stronger: they had ended up in Mithrendain for a very specific reason, one that probably had little to do with the fomorians.

Worried about Astarion, he made his way to their inn. He didn’t know for certain if the vampire would be back, but he was heading there anyway. What if those dreams weren’t merely a coincidence or a whim of the city’s pulsating magic, but had a deliberate intent behind them?

As he entered the establishment, he instinctively checked the illusion-detector tree in the corner—red tears: they were being watched. He approached Kagen, who was calmly tending the bar. “Have you seen Astarion this afternoon?” he asked.

“I have indeed,” the drow readily supplied. “He returned some hours ago, didn’t stop for a greeting or a drink—just went straight to your room. Had a rather complicated look on his face, and hasn’t come down since. He even missed his usual afternoon brandy tea, which is highly unusual, if you ask me.”

“What about Gale? Have you seen him?” Jayme asked, his stomach churning with unease.

“We met him on our way,” Shadowheart called from behind Jayme as she entered the Waystop with Solaufein. “He was heading to the western outskirts, looking for some sort of meditation session.”

“He must have meant the Etheric Flow,” Kagen interjected. “It’s a ceremonial meditation performed twice daily by Mithrendainians—once in the eastern outskirts in the morning and again in the west in the afternoon.”

“I’m hearing about it for the first time,” Jayme remarked.

“Well, it’s not something everyone practices every day. People join when they feel a need, when they have an issue they need to resolve or are seeking an answer to,” Kagen explained with enthusiasm. “I would unreservedly recommend attending sometime. Apart from some ascetic practices in the monasteries of the Sunset Mountains or the Worldspine Mountains, I don’t know of anything comparable in Faerûn.”

“Thanks, Kagen,” Jayme said tersely. He turned to Solaufein and Shadowheart. He would normally be interested in learning more, but not right now. “I can feel trouble in the air. Wait here until I bring Astarion. Then we’ll go out to find Gale.”

The fighter and the cleric wordlessly nodded, their faces growing stern.

Jayme hurried up the stairs and entered their room, where Astarion lay fast asleep on their bed. After a moment's thought, he moved to the rogue’s side and gently shook him.

When there was no response, he gripped Astarion’s shoulders and shook more vigorously.

Still, Astarion remained motionless.

An unnerved breath escaped Jayme’s mouth as he realized he had no way to confirm if the vampire was even alive. While Astarion usually breathed when he was awake, his chest stayed still during his reveries and sleep. Jayme quickly checked him from head to toe: no injuries, no traces of discernible magic, no sign of assault.

Jayme spun around and hurried out of the room. Trying to sound calm—knowing it would only alarm the Watcher spying on them—he called down to Shadowheart and Solaufein from the top of the stairs, “Come upstairs.”

The pair joined him moments later.

“He’s alive,” Shadowheart affirmed, lightly passing her hands over Astarion’s still form. “But he’s under some kind of spell; that much is evident.”

“The caster must be close by,” Solaufein warned in a subdued voice. “Either inside the inn or in the immediate area.”

“Can you wake him?” Jayme asked Shadowheart.

The cleric promptly attempted a Remove Curse and a Greater Restoration spell but neither had any effect.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Shadowheart murmured, disappointed. “Gale might be able to help, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Let me fetch Gale,” Solaufein offered, already opening the door.

Jayme followed closely behind. “Thank you. I’ll go talk to Amon Bassiri,” he said. “Shadowheart, could you stay here and keep an eye on him?” His eyes fell on the rogue, who looked more fragile and ashen than usual.

“Of course. But why Amon Bassiri?” Shadowheart called after Jayme, who was already one foot out the door.

“Because, if my assumption is correct, whoever’s responsible for this is wearing a signet ring,” Jayme replied, a quiet menace lacing his voice, just in case the perpetrator could hear him. It was time to make them anxious.

Despite a strong urge to sprint his way to the Citadel, Jayme forced himself to maintain a pace only slightly faster than usual. He knew the Feywild well and how easy it was to fall prey to flustered emotions here. Still, he couldn’t help but shoot annoyed looks at the eladrins who fey stepped gracefully to their destinations around him.

When he reached the guards at the bronze Citadel gate, he mentioned he had “important concerns pertaining to Mithrendain’s safety”, the magic words that immediately secured him an audience with the Lord Marshal.

This time, the eladrin didn’t keep him waiting long—good news for him and everyone else standing between Jayme and understanding what was happening to Astarion.

“Lord Marshal,” Jayme addressed the man as soon as he appeared, “I came to report that one of your Watchers is abusing his or her privileges. They are using the freedom you and the signet ring grant them to intrude upon my party.”

“I'll forgo the usual rounds of ‘how dare you make such an accusation’ to save time and ask directly what you expect me to do, Jayme.” Amon stopped at arm’s length from the bard, gazing at him with a dry expression.

“You knew about it then,” Jayme said, tilting his head in realization and smirking coldly. “I was under the impression that such infractions were punishable in your orderly city.”

“Were it against a local, naturally. But you’re visitors. And I’m hunting for an evil entity.”

“I can expose the ‘evil’ you’re referring to, as long as you tell me who’s targeting my party, where they are, and how I can make them stop.”

“Expose the evil you say? How droll. I was promised the same by someone else, just before you arrived,” Amon scoffed.

“Did they live up to their promise? I assume they did not,” Jayme said sardonically. “I can succeed where they failed, but first, I want to make a deal: information for information.”

“Do me one better: action for action.” Amon’s guarded black eyes glinted. “I’ll withdraw the stay permit from the hostile individual you’re searching for if you deal with the evil I’m hunting. Both need to leave Mithrendain—dead or alive, I don’t care. I just want to ensure no disturbances in my city.”

Before hesitation could take hold, Jayme was ready with his answer. “I’ll handle both of them myself if it serves the safety of Mithrendain and its inhabitants.”

Amon scrutinized Jayme’s face for any hidden agendas behind his phrasing. After a moment, he inclined his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t argue with that proposal, I suppose. So be it. And now I’m all ears—tell me what you have in mind.”

It felt like a leap of faith, but fortunately, the magic of the Feywild provided a strong enough guarantee that Amon would honor his pledge.

“I am the Bhaalspawn you were warned about,” Jayme revealed unceremoniously. “But I‘ve been honest with you from the very beginning: I mean no harm to Mithrendain. On the contrary, I intend to put an end to the oppressive fomorian campaign.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart? Or are you planning to, I don’t know, eat their hearts and absorb their strength?” Amon sneered. To his credit, he didn’t flinch at Jayme’s admission; in fact, he even snorted in amusement. “Though you’ve caught me off guard, I must admit. I had my bet on your white-haired partner.”

“Because he is the one your spy has ensnared?”

“Precisely. Well, this is a rather disagreeable situation: I'm bound to uphold my end of the bargain with a Tel’Quessir whose fate is steeped in violence. I ought to be more prudent with my deals. Anything a devil promises to deliver comes back tenfold, as the saying goes.”

“I’m not a devil,” Jayme said icily. “And our bargain stands.”

The eladrin paused for effect before launching into his account.

“The ones preying on your white-haired friend’s dreams are outsiders like yourselves. It all began when a human sorcerer came to me, claiming that a Child of Bhaal was on the way, collaborating with the fomorians to undermine the peace of my city. The sorcerer had another human and a Tel’Quessir with him, but their ambition didn't come close to matching his. He demanded three signet rings in exchange for a remedy for the headache this Scion of Bhaal would present.”

“And you agreed?” Jayme raised an eyebrow.

“I gave them one ring,” Amon said. “One of them may be able to bypass the Revelation Spheres with it, but my Watchers have no trouble keeping an eye on them regardless.” He shrugged. “And then, I waited to see how this tale of deceptions would unfold.”

“Deceptions indeed,” Jayme replied. “They used your fixation on protecting Mithrendain to move about the city unnoticed by us. I don’t know what the sorcerer’s goal is yet, but I’m about to find out. Tell me how I can detect him. I assume spells like See Invisibility or True Seeing, or even a Gem of Seeing wouldn’t be of any use.”

He held up Baba Yaga’s Gem, which was normally carried by Solaufein. He had borrowed it a few days earlier to see if it would reveal anything of interest in this meticulously safeguarded city, but so far, it hadn’t offered much insight.

Amon spared a brief look at it and nodded.

“Correct. Well, I could give you a signet ring to see through the illusion of my Watchers, but I’m not going to. Can’t give you that kind of edge, now can I? I will place an enchantment on you to help locate and remove him—and yourself—from Mithrendain, though. Additionally, I’ll instruct my men to disarm him if he’s caught.”

Jayme suppressed a sigh and waited through Amon’s lengthy incantation.

“And the fomorians?” he asked once the spell was complete.

“Are no threat to us; our fortress is a tough old dame. If the giants are threatening Astrazalian, then go back and continue your ever-so-blessed endeavors from there.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your hospitality leaves much to be desired?”

“Not yet, but I’ll cherish your feedback for what it’s worth, Child of Bhaal.” Amon bowed in mock graciousness. “Now, off you go to be true to your word. And do keep the commotion to a minimum, if you will, however you plan to handle those three. Otherwise, the few dozen of my Watchers escorting you might need to step in. I can’t vouch for their methods.”

Jayme didn’t bother replying; he simply moved toward the door. Before walking out, he posed one final question: “This sorcerer. Did he tell you his name?”

“He called himself ‘the Flame in the Dark.’ Rather obnoxious, but so many migrating from the Prime Material are. In that regard, I appreciated your straightforwardness.” Amon’s tone softened infinitesimally by the end of the sentence.

“You flatter me. Farewell, Lord Marshal Bassiri.” Jayme cast one last glance at the pale eladrin before slipping out of the room, through the Citadel’s halls, and toward the Waystop.

At the inn, the moment he crossed the threshold, he knew something was off. The patrons had vanished, leaving only Kagen pacing behind the bar. His long mane of white hair rippled with each frustrated turn, and his hands clenched and released at his sides. The illusion-detecting willow’s red tears shifted to red as soon as Jayme stepped inside.

“What happened?” Jayme asked right away, suspecting the worst. Amon’s enchantment buzzed faintly inside his head, pulling him toward something beyond the Waystop.

Kagen froze mid-step; his normally carefree expression was now shadowed with apprehension.

“There was a racket upstairs shortly after you left,” he began. “I went to look. Three of my guests--"

“They attacked me,” Shadowheart interrupted from the stairwell, descending with quick, uneven steps. “One was invisible, a spellcaster. He paralyzed me with a Hold Person spell before I could counter. The other two seized Astarion and…” She trailed off, averting her eyes.

“And?” Jayme pressed, his voice low, carrying the raw tension of a scream held back.

“They took him. And Jayme, we know them—all three,” Shadowheart said grimly. “When they entered the room, I was so taken aback I didn’t know how to react. Then one bit me, and before I knew it, I was held…”

“Vampires,” Kagen muttered. “The sorcerer Banished me while they escaped. By the time I reappeared, everyone was gone except for an immobilized Shadowheart.”

“Vampires? Who exactly…?” came Gale’s urgent voice from behind Jayme as he arrived with Solaufein. The drow hurried to Shadowheart’s side to check on her state.

“Astarion’s siblings,” Jayme answered calmly before Shadowheart could. His tone belied the fiery rage bubbling within him; even his Urge was drowsily stirring from its deep slumber. “Leon was one of them if I’m not mistaken. The sorcerer.”

“Yes, I think so. And the two we encountered at Fraygo's Flophouse, if you remember,” Shadowheart said.

“Petras and Dalyria,” Jayme recalled.

“I feel ashamed, Jayme. Sargtlin, Shadowheart, Gale.” Kagen bowed in apology, letting his hair fall forward. “This should not have happened under my watch.”

“It’s not your fault, Kagen. It happened too fast and they clearly planned it,” Shadowheart offered quietly.

“I only pray the sorcerer isn’t imprisoning him in some form of golhyrrl’fhaazht,” Kagen said with a shiver, casting a dark glance at Solaufein. “We’ve heard how that goes.”

“A Dream Trap?” Solaufein furrowed his brow, then shook his head. “Unlikely. Astarion never mentioned nightmares or manipulation—just pleasant dreams of his past adventures.”

“Then Fortune may still smile upon him,” the innkeeper sighed.

“But where could they have taken him?” Gale voiced the question weighing on everyone’s mind.

“I think I can track their path using Amon Bassiri’s magic. Come,” Jayme said, mildly surprised when not only his friends but also Kagen joined him.

It felt as though a magic compass was operating within him, constantly pulling him toward the Citadel. Yet, after several minutes of brisk walking, the sensation abruptly disappeared without a trace.

“I can’t feel it anymore,” Jayme muttered, glancing around. The Citadel was nearby, but with the enchantment faded, he couldn’t tell if it was their destination. “There’s a good chance they’ve gone to the Underdark. The seven thousand spawn are supposed to be there; maybe they need Astarion for something.”

“There’s a barrier on the passage to the Underdark, sealed with seven locks, or so it’s said,” Kagen noted. “Each of the seven Councilors holds a trinket that can deactivate or even destroy it.”

“How disappointing, Kagen the Blackknife,” Amon’s taunting voice rang out from behind them, his black eyes shifting between the drow innkeeper and Jayme. “That you would divulge our secrets to outsiders—dangerous ones, no less. Jayme, is this the part where I have my men seize you?”

“They mean no harm, Lord Marshal,” Kagen insisted.

“And how can you be so sure of that, irinal?” Amon sneered, quickly erecting a magical barricade around them—likely to keep any civilians away.

Kagen ignored the slur—irinal, a derogatory term in Elvish for the forsaken drow—and responded evenly, “Because the drow here is a devotee of Eilistraee, and his partner is a half-elf priestess of Selûne.”

“Yes, and?” Amon challenged, blinking nervously.

“With all due respect, Lord Marshal, it is unfortunate that you lack understanding of the gods and what that implies, but I can give you the key: they are agents of peace.”

“Even though the bard is a Child of Bhaal, and the one abducted is a vampire?” Amon countered. He was obviously trying to unsettle the innkeeper, but Kagen stood firm.

“And I am drow. I know better than to judge someone by their kind,” Kagen said, straightening proudly.

“How a Tel’Quessir became a vampire is beyond me, though,” Amon remarked snidely. “His blood should have rejected the curse. Either his master was uncannily strong, or Tel’Quessir blood has significantly weakened over the centuries…”

“Your enchantment has worn off, Amon,” Jayme interjected sharply, his tone leaving no room for delay as he pushed the discussion forward.

“To be expected. The Flame in the Dark took off the signet ring after slipping past my men—loathe as I am to admit it. My spell allowed you to track the ring while it was worn.”

“Any chance they sneaked into the Citadel? Into the Underdark?” Jayme asked.

“None. No one saw them around the Citadel gate, and the barrier is in impeccable condition; I personally check its integrity each night.” Amon’s words rang with unwavering certainty.

“Perhaps there’s another way in?” Shadowheart said.

“Impossible, my ancestors received—”

“Jayme, look!” Gale interrupted, pointing at a small bat with luminous aquamarine eyes hovering near a sturdy, honey-golden, rectangular tower. “Isn’t that…?”

“Boris,” Jayme finished the sentence for him.

The bat squeaked in response. Hovering for another moment, he disappeared through a slightly ajar window on the top floor—one of the few on the building. It was an unusual feature in Mithrendain, where most homes were bathed in light from countless windows.

“What tower is that?” Jayme asked, already on his way to the front door.

“An old storage building, used by the city guards for various purposes, though it’s rarely in use now,” Amon replied. “You’ll find it locked.”

Jayme turned the brass doorknob, and the door opened smoothly. Amon’s sour expression would have been comical if the situation weren’t so aggravating.

“That might explain where the vampires fled,” Kagen remarked. “Unless they managed to teleport out of the city—or they’re content to trap themselves in there—Shadowheart’s hunch could be right.”

“Shut up,” Amon barked, trailing after Jayme as the bard entered the tower. “Stay outside.”

The command was aimed at the invisible Watchers, as evidenced by the resolute grunts of “Ha!”, from at least twenty unseen voices.

The interior was cluttered with containers, each marked with colors and symbols that hinted at their contents—decipherable only to those familiar with them. The ground floor was dim, illuminated by scattered glowing crystals. Jayme began ascending the spiral staircase, Amon close behind. Before they could reach the top, Boris fluttered down from above.

“How did you get in?” Amon hissed at the undead bat, referring to how it had entered the city.

Boris emitted a high-pitched chirp and landed on a crate. Jayme moved closer to investigate but found nothing out of the ordinary. If only he had his rogue with him…

“Stand back,” Kagen called from behind, lowering himself to examine every inch of the area around the crate where Boris perched. “Hidden secrets in a room are my specialty. Have I told you about the time my Mistress summoned a hive of beholders into the Grand Temple of Lolth? No? Well, I survived the chaos only because I dashed into the sacrificial chamber and arranged the elven bones on the altar in the precise pattern known only to priestesses, opening a—, oh, your ring, Lord Marshal.”

He straightened up, holding the signet ring between his fingers. Apparently, Leon had discarded it here while escaping. Amon took the ring wordlessly and pocketed it.

“As I was saying,” Kagen continued, “I arranged the elven bones in the correct pattern to open a portal to a distant Shrine of Malar—through pure intuition, if I may add.”

“Using the private portal of the Lolth priestesses is a crime punishable by having one’s skin flayed,” Solaufein noted quietly.

“That would’ve been my sad fate, had the beholders not chomped my Mistress’ flesh from her bones. By a stroke of good fortune, she was the only one who knew I’d ever been there,” Kagen explained somewhat distractedly. He fell silent when an idea struck him: he gathered the seven glowing crystals from around the room and placed them close together until their lights overlapped.

As he did, a new symbol became visible on the old wooden floor, glimmering in dark violet.

“Move,” Amon growled at the drow, crouching down to examine the rune. “Is that a… sigil?”

He touched the violet symbol, but nothing happened.

“Allow me, Lord Marshal.” Kagen slinked back and mimicked Amon’s action.

At his touch, the floor creaked, revealing square-shaped lines around the rune, and a tiny metal lock. He deftly worked the lock open and pulled on it. When that didn’t budge, he pushed, and the square lines shifted to uncover a trapdoor that opened downward.

A winding, narrow tunnel appeared before them, carved into a cavern that descended deep—unfathomably deep—with only a ladder for descent. They all recognized the implication of that ladder, having seen its like before.

“Why could you interact with the sigil when I couldn’t?” Amon demanded, his voice biting with anger.

“Probably because you’re an eladrin. I assume this passage was built by my people a very long time ago. It’s only natural they would bar you, the original inhabitants of the city, from using it,” Kagen said, then respectfully stepped back. “Go ahead and try to climb down, Lord Marshal. I doubt you can.”

Amon propelled himself forward with a jerky, nervous motion, attempting to place a foot on the first step of the ladder. He found he couldn’t: as if stepping onto a glass panel, an invisible barrier blocked his leg. The Lord Marshal rose slowly, his frustration etched into every line of his body.

To add to his embarrassment, Boris chose this moment to take off from the crate and fly into the tunnel, proving Kagen’s point at least partially.

“It would seem like I cannot descend,” Amon said through gritted teeth, directing his gaze at Jayme. “Jayme, remember our deal. Go and make sure those three parasites never return here.”

“Technically, the moment I climb down there, my promise is fulfilled. Both the vampires and I will have left Mithrendain,” Jayme replied, a hint of teasing in his voice as he grabbed the ladder and descended a few steps without trouble. He looked back up at the eladrin. “But this time, I might just oblige you. They’ll need to pay.”

Following his dark assertion, Jayme softened his expression and glanced at Kagen, dipping his head slightly. “Thank you for your help. Truly. If we ever return to Mithrendain, we’ll be sure to visit you at the Waystop.”

He pointedly ignored Amon’s fidgeting as Kagen grinned widely.

“Godspeed, Jayme,” the drow said. “Reclaim what’s been taken from you. He’s a good lad, and so are you. I’ll look forward to your extravagant flair and enthralling tunes livening up my inn once more. Aluve.”

Without further words, Jayme continued climbing into the cool, breezy darkness, followed by his party.

 

 

This dream was nothing short of magnificent. It was a symphony of grandeur, a glorious opus, showcasing all that Astarion had honed over the past tendays: his lethal dagger strikes, stealthy bow shots, and, for an added flourish, his bardic spells. After a rousing morning at the House of Hope and a soul-cleansing afternoon at Cazador’s Palace, Astarion felt as though he could conquer the world.

He relished the control, despite its inherent challenges. For instance, deciding to steal the Orphic Hammer from Raphael and refuse his contract had been as easy as casting a cantrip. But then tricking the Emperor into believing it was merely about keeping La’zael in the party and the githyanki army on their side was hardly a feat for the faint-hearted. He cursed himself now for provoking the Emperor during his first dream, but how could he have known these dreams would carry repercussions into the waking world?

Then, after deciding he would never, in this life or the next, surrender to Haarlep—especially not after the bastard kept using Jayme’s appearance for his own pleasure in the real world—he struck down the incubus and his imps. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs either, but it was worth every drop of effort in the long run.

Finally, he concluded this hellish journey by leading his companions against Raphael—who was a veritable furnace of rage—and his cambions. If possible, Raphael seemed even more incensed than when Jayme had accepted, then broken off, their deal. Would Mephistopheles revive him again? Astarion wasn’t sure, but he was ready for anything.

Later, following a quick and light lunch at the Elfsong, Astarion decided it was time—time for Cazador’s punishment. Two hundred years of indignity and violence boiled within him as he descended the elevator to the dungeons. Yet this time, when Cazador hurled his cheap taunts, Astarion held his composure. He circled around him, stringing him along with talk, keeping him distracted long enough for Jayme to sneak to the edge of the sickening altar and unshackle Leon from his magical binds.

Cazador retaliated instantly, as ferociously as Raphael had just hours earlier. Meanwhile, Karlach was already moving to cut down the undead Gur hunters and free Aurelia. From that moment, nothing could stop them. All six spawn broke free, and the seven siblings united to take revenge on their Master. For the first time, they fought as one—none too terrified or submissive to act on what they all desperately craved.

The look on Cazador’s face—terror and despair in equal measure—as his soul was torn from him would have once made Astarion tremble with mad joy, followed by the inevitable tearful catharsis. But now, it brought something far lighter: a sense of closure and vindication that swept through him like a breath of fresh air, lifting the weight of centuries of torture and guilt from his shoulders. He had done it—for himself, his siblings, and his victims.

“I must admit, I’m surprised, brother.” Leon turned to him, his body trembling with the sheer ecstasy of liberation. “I thought you’d complete his accursed Ritual for yourself.”

“No, Leon. We all deserve a chance at a new life.” Astarion’s tone was steady as he wiped Cazador’s blood from his armor with an elegant linen cloth he had prepared for the occasion. “Especially those rotting in the cages. We were the ones who robbed them of their old lives; it’s only fair we give something back.”

“Some forms of life just aren’t worth it, though,” Leon muttered, looking down at the floor with a sigh.

Astarion frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind. It’s all too fresh, this sudden freedom. I’m not sure how to feel about it yet. What do you have in mind for us? Where do we go from here?” Leon asked quietly.

“To the Underdark. It’s the only place where you’ll all be safe,” Astarion replied, passing the cloth to Jayme. He gently brushed Jayme’s bloodied face with his hand, the tender pride in the bard's ice-blue eyes caressing him in return.

“Will you come with us? To guide us in the darkness?” Dalyria asked, her voice tinged with hope.

“I can’t. I have a quest to finish here—one more grand battle I cannot lose. Or else it will all have been in vain,” Astarion said. “But I’ll come visit you. As soon as I can.”

In silence, the six spawn slowly made their way outside to release the thousands of miserable souls from the dungeons.

Astarion heaved a deep sigh once they were gone, and let his head fall back, eyes closed. “Now this is what I call an eventful day: two hellish domains, two wicked fiends,” he said.

“Two flawless victories,” Jayme added, placing a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I am, I am… I’m craving plum brandy tonight.  Come to the rooftop of the Elfsong with me?” he suggested, flicking his tired but satisfied eyes toward the bard. He leaned in to lightly kiss the hand resting on his shoulder.

“Astarion, you handled your big showdown admirably,” Shadowheart commented, her green eyes sparkling as she finished healing Karlach’s wounds—a few shallow bites on her arms and a nasty, deep one on her thigh. “But I didn’t expect anything less from you. I knew you’d find the most efficient way to overpower him.”

“Yeah, you rocked that fight to Fort Knucklebone and back!” Karlach cheered. When no one seemed to understand the reference, she grinned and added, “It’s the wildest place in Avernus I could think of!”

“Thank you, thank you, my lovelies,” Astarion said, bowing his head in a comical fashion. “Well, yes. I knew he wouldn’t be so tough facing us—his handy little puppets—all together. You handling the Gur and the werewolves gave me and my siblings the perfect chance to ‘keep it within the family’ and take him down ourselves. Now, let’s get the hells out of here. The stench in this place is ruining my fabulous mood.”

As they made their exit, they encountered Ulma's band of Gur. Outraged by the unleashing of seven thousand vampires, their anger only intensified when they saw Astarion and the others emerge in a triumphant spirit. As expected, their hostility waned when Astarion revealed that their young were among the throng. Ulma stepped back in shock and let them pass.

I wonder what they decided to do about their children in the real world, Astarion pondered, feeling a twinge of disquiet at the thought.

On the roof of the Elfsong, there was blessed quiet and soft orange torchlight—just what Astarion wanted. He chose a spot on the balustrade overlooking the city and hopped up, patting the space next to him for Jayme to join. It was just the two of them.

“Tomorrow is your day, you know. The day you face your demons,” Astarion said, setting out a bottle of fine Selgauntian brandy and two cups. “Not only will you defeat Sarevok Anchev and Orin, but you’ll also tell your Father to shove his succor where the sun doesn’t shine and save La’zael in one fell swoop. So, it’s important that we celebrate our achievements today and get ready for what’s to come.”

“The trials of today—would they have played out the same way under my leadership?” Jayme asked, leaning on one arm while Astarion poured.

Astarion had previously confided that he had seen multiple possible outcomes for their pursuits—that was as close as he could come to the truth.

“Not exactly. You would have taken Raphael up on his offer, and that would have come back to bite us in the derrière later; I certainly could not go down that path. As for Cazador, he would have captured me and actually begun the Black Mass. He wouldn’t have been able to complete it, though, as you, my beloved, would have ensured he couldn’t. But still, I wanted a more… chic course of events.” With that, Astarion handed Jayme his brandy.

“You were spectacular,” Jayme said as he took his cup. His eyes shone bright with vigor in the warm firelight. “Seeing you today, I’ve never felt more control over my Urge. No one—mortal, undead, or god—will stop us now.”

“How succinctly put. Here’s to us, the illustrious evil-slayers of Baldur’s Gate,” Astarion smirked.

Just as they each took a sip, a familiar voice chimed in from behind.

“Can I have a cup as well? Since I now seem to belong to the esteemed circle of evil-slayers.”

It was Leon, once again. Astarion could sense the slightest hint of tension enter Jayme’s body as the sorcerer came to stand beside them.

“Good evening. Haven’t you left with the others yet?” Astarion asked, tilting his head to the side.

“It’s not something that can be done with a snap of the fingers,” Leon said, shaking his head. “We’re talking about seven thousand starved vampires. Dalyria and the others are managing them as we speak. I, being the leader of the flock, took the liberty of slipping away for just a little while.”

“Who made you their leader?” Astarion clicked his tongue in mock confusion, then grinned. “I jest, of course; who else could it have been but you? You’re the most capable, clearly.”

“You could have been the one, Astarion. You, with your special… privileges,” Leon said, his tone edged with bitterness.

“I understand how you must feel,” Jayme interjected calmly. “But we have another pressing matter to attend to.”

Tension thickened the air as they squared off, a silent challenge passing between them. Eventually, Leon relented and looked away. 

“I see. Of course.” He paused, then locked eyes with the bard again. “Jayme, would you mind giving us a moment?”

“Anything you say to him, you can say in front of me,” Jayme replied without missing a beat.

“Ah, but you see, there are things he might not want you to hear. About our tormented past. About how he was before you came along. Please. This is my last night on the Surface. I’d like to share one final, private drink with Astarion and reminisce a little before I sink into the dark indefinitely,” Leon explained, looking very, very tired.

Jayme didn’t seem particularly swayed by the appeal but exchanged glances with Astarion, who subtly nodded.

“I’ll occupy myself with a few tunes,” Jayme said eventually, unfastening the leather strap that secured his violin on his back, and rose to his feet.

“Thank you, dearest.” Astarion said with a smile. “And rest assured, our night won’t end without something special.” His voice softened. “I want to show you a place of… particular importance.”

He pictured his grave in the Lower City graveyard.

In response, an angry presence stirred within his mind—a jagged spike digging into his brain. The Emperor's discontent with today's events had been palpable, and the idea of the graveyard visit was the final straw. It all must have seemed like a colossal waste of time to the mind flayer. Astarion mentally projected an image of Orin’s Netherstone toward him, a wordless reminder of their next priority, imbued with the force of a mental shove to make his intentions unmistakable.

Jayme returned the smile, took another swig from his cup, and finally settled on the other side of the roof. He had a clear view of the two but was out of earshot.

“Very loyal and caring, isn’t he?” Leon remarked with a half-smile, taking Jayme’s spot on the balustrade.

“He is. He’s my Jayme,” Astarion said proudly. He pulled another cup from his bag and poured a drink for the sorcerer.

From a distance, the violin began to growl with low, dark notes, its tune ominous yet fiercely spirited. It was a sonata of glorious defiance, interlacing clever motifs that evoked both the twisted opulence of the House of Hope and the cruel grandeur of Cazador’s Palace. Jayme heightened the tension phrase by phrase, only to shatter it with powerful, uplifting strokes that reverberated like a conquering battle cry. Astarion couldn't help but be riveted as he listened and judging by Leon's stillness—his cup frozen near his mouth—he wasn't the only one.

“I wish I had someone left to care for,” Leon muttered suddenly, his expression crestfallen.

When Astarion remained silent, he continued, “Vicky… gods, I—” His voice cracked. “If I’d just waited… just a little longer—”

“You couldn’t have known how things would unfold,” Astarion said gently. “Don’t torture yourself. Cazador likely had something far worse in mind for her. You may have saved her from a fate we can't even imagine.”

Leon’s face twisted in anguish and with a sudden, furious motion, he slammed his cup down. “Damn you, Astarion!” he spat. “It’s easy for you—easy when you’ve clawed your way to everything you've ever wanted! And me? I’m left with nothing. Only grief. Only regret. And hunger—a ceaseless, gnawing hunger that can never be sated. Darkness, everywhere.” He heaved in a breath heavy with longing. "I want to feel the Sun on my face again. Like you do…!"

“I…” Astarion lifted his free hand in a gesture of reassurance. “Believe me, if I could, I would help you with that, but it’s not just—”

“You would?” Leon went very still, his gaze latched onto Astarion. “You said you would? How?”

“How? What do you mean ‘how’? The only way is to become a true vampire, and then, perhaps, a vampire lord, but you know that as well as I do,” Astarion replied, gesturing for emphasis—until Leon grabbed his hand.

“Say you’d help me become a true vampire. Please. It would bring me comfort to hear it.” Leon sounded desperate now.

Astarion’s brows knitted in discomfort. “I would help you, if I could, but—”

“I believe the time will come when you can. You are extraordinary, Astarion. If anyone can do it, it’s you. And then you could share your blood with us. Say you’ll help me—and our brothers and sisters too. Please.” Leon tightened his grip around Astarion’s wrist, his hands trembling with urgency.

“I will, Leon. I’ll help you become true vampires,” Astarion said, more to cut this awkward conversation short than to make a true promise.

But the Leon’s words awakened something deep and dormant within him: guilt for living carefree on a plane of wonders while his kin, who had suffered the same hell, remained bound to the perilous caverns of the Underdark. For all he knew, the Gur had hunted them down by now.

He twisted his arm free, and to his surprise, Leon released him immediately. Right before Astarion’s eyes, the strain on his face gave way to a cold, unsettling smile. When he spoke, his voice held a sense of triumph Astarion had never heard from him before.

“Thank you. Thank you ever so much. We will accept your help and promise not to harm you, as long as you behave.” Leon’s smile grew broader. “Now, open your eyes, brother. The Underdark awaits you.”

The violin seemed to be crying now, its haunting notes echoing through the night.

Before Astarion could say or do anything, the rooftop faded away.

Chapter 24: II - You're the Conversation, I'm the Game

Summary:

You take my confidence from sane to brave
Make me strong, push me on and take a chance
Learn to jump the waves

More than speaking, more than thinking
Silently you're on my side
No disguise, no hide-and-seeking
Mouth to mouth you saved my life

Soldier, shine on, with your conscience open
And the curtain falls in with the drums
Soldier, come on, when the final chord plays
And the chorus comes...

You're the Conversation, I'm the Game

Chris Corner ft Sue Denim - You’re The Conversation (I’m The Game)

“What?!” Astarion yelped as he woke with a start. He blinked a few times, trying to make sense of his surroundings: the jagged ceiling of a tunnel, overgrown in places with thick shrubbery, instead of the elegant wooden simplicity of the Waystop. The passage was illuminated by a flurry of vibrant colors, ranging from jade green to cerulean blue and lavender purple.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Leon said with a grin, leaning over him.

Astarion bolted upright and saw that, besides Leon, Petras and Dalyria were there too.

“What’s happening?” he demanded, his eyes darting between his siblings and the unexpected setting. “Is this the Underdark? Did you bring me here?”

“Calm down, brother,” Dalyria said soothingly, holding up her palms. “We’re not going to hurt you. And we are in the Feydark now.”

It was plausible. The tunnel stretched ahead, opening into a vast cavern where pathways crisscrossed, forming a network that extended as far as the eye could see.

While the size resembled that of the Underdark, the flora and fauna were markedly different. Instead of an underground realm draped in chthonic gloom, decorated only by mushroom mazes and the occasional exotic tree, this was a luxuriant, thriving forest. Unfamiliar trees and shrubs flourished despite the perpetual darkness, many of them in bloom or bearing fruit. The forest floor was carpeted with softly glowing, greenish-blue lichen. Massive vines snaked up the cavern walls, laden with noxious, bitter-smelling flowers, climbing all the way to the ceiling, where they intertwined with the shrubbery above, creating the illusion of an upside-down canopy. Insects, birds, frogs, and fire salamanders made their homes in this teeming environment.

The colorful lights that had caught Astarion’s attention when he first opened his eyes came from bioluminescent fungi—a familiar sight in both the Feywild and the Underdark. What set them apart in the Feydark was their incomparably large, fleshy forms and the humming magic that suffused them, nurtured by the plane’s primal mud.

“The Fey…? What in the Nine Hells were you thinking, kidnapping me from my bed?! I’m going back now,” Astarion shouted, scrambling to his feet. He had been lying on a plush blanket of luminous moss, which felt almost like his bed at the Waystop.

Leon immediately grabbed his shoulder. “No, you’re not,” he said, his grip firm but not rough, enough to halt Astarion’s movement. “We made a deal, remember?”

“Don’t touch me! What deal?!” Astarion shrugged off the hand and assumed a battle stance, ready to lunge if needed.

“Your blood, brother,” Petras interjected, an arrogant smile plastered on his round baby face. “You promised Leon you’d share your blood and turn us all into true vampires. At last…”

“Have you been inhaling funny mushroom gases, Petras?” Astarion snapped, glaring at the sibling he had always been at odds with. “It was just a stupid, meaningless dream. And anyway, how in the name of all that’s damned do you know about it?”

“For once, you’re the daft one, Astarion.” Petras smirked. “Lord Kannoth said you’ve spent a fair amount of time in the Feywild already, so you might recognize those ‘dreams’ as illusory machinations. But it seems he overestimated you.”

“Lord Kannoth…? Alright. It’s time you explained yourselves. Leave nothing out, or I won’t lift a finger to help,” Astarion declared, crossing his arms over his chest.

Somewhere not far off, the low rumble of stone shifting against stone echoed, accompanied by the faint murmurs of unseen creatures. Leon frowned, while Petras and Dalyria exchanged nervous glances, but their faces turned unreadable in the next blink.

“Where should we start?” Leon asked, flashing a grin so openly gloating that Astarion felt an overwhelming urge to stuff his mouth with luminous moss. “Let’s see… Perhaps from the moment you directed us to take the seven thousand spawn to the Underdark.” In a blink, his smugness melted into bitterness.

“Now, now, ‘directed’ might not be quite the right word here,” Astarion cut in quickly. “It was more of a suggestion—a reasonable one at that.”

“It sure sounded like an order from you, who killed Cazador,” Petras muttered sulkily, like a child sent to his room.

“Nevertheless, we followed through,” Leon continued. “Crawling through cracks and crevices to slip unnoticed through the city; seven thousand starved and vengeful souls. It was a nightmare. But after handling some of the more rebellious among us, we descended. Then, before long, we were set upon by a raiding party of accursed duergar, who sought to enslave the weaker ones. Luckily, sheer numbers allowed us to overpower them, and at last, we came by fresh blood.”

“Seven thousand is an immense number,” Dalyria added, wringing  her hands. “Almost unmanageable. We struggled, desperately trying to provide for everyone. The younger ones, especially, were a challenge. They would wander off in search of prey and often met grim ends.” She avoided Astarion’s gaze, pain written across her features.

“The Gur children?” Astarion asked softly.

“Yes. And soon, their people came for them,” Leon said, once again taking over the explanation. “But most of the children didn’t want to go back. They were ashamed of their bloodthirst—understandably so—and afraid to return to the Surface. The Gur insisted, which led to a bloody fight where both spawn and Gur died. Some managed to escape, though, dragging children away with their hands bound.”

Astarion closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, exhaling slowly.

“Alright,” he finally said. “I get it, you had an incredibly tough time. Believe me, I knew it wouldn’t be easy for you... But what else could you have done? They’re our responsibility—we couldn’t have just let them scatter to the four winds!”

All three of his siblings remained silent.

“You’re right, Astarion. But where were you in all of this?” Leon replied quietly, his voice thick with resentment. “You stayed on the Surface, then moved to the Feywild. According to Lord Kannoth, you had plenty of fun gallivanting through eladrin cities—going to baths, preening, buying jewelry, paintings, sculptures. Learning violin under the twilight Sun.”

He spat the word “Sun” with a sharp, accusatory edge, pushing Astarion to the brink. It forced him into full defensive mode, and he shoved a restless hand through his hair, twisting a lock repeatedly before retorting.

“I…I’ll have you know I wasn’t just lounging around like some bored patriar, sipping tea with delicate disdain for the world! First, I saved Baldur’s Gate—and the whole damned world, mind you—from being enslaved by an Elder Brain. Then, before I could even say ‘recuperation,’ a despicable whoreson of a devil from Avernus banished Jayme to the Feywild, which I didn’t even know at first! I had to piece together the clues and scramble to arrange my journey. And, let’s not forget, I was still a vampire spawn at the time—ha! Crossing the Trackless Sea wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, as you can imagine. A-and, yes, after we killed this devil, we settled in the Feywild. But at the same time, we started investigating the fomorian aggression against the eladrins—which may well spread to other planes, you know—with every intent to stop it. Now look me in the eye and tell me I don’t deserve a teeny tiny bit of luxury, of peace, after the gargantuan shitstorm I endured!” At the end of his tirade, Astarion hissed the word “peace” like an accusation, mirroring Leon’s reproach.

Petras was the first to react, perhaps unsurprisingly. Astarion doubted the man’s limited intellect could fully grasp the gravity of his story.

“We all want peace,” Petras sneered. “But it’s a bit hard to find it while slinking underground, constantly harassed by drow, duergar, hook horrors, and bulettes. That’s why we need your help.”

“Alright,” Astarion sighed, sliding a hand to his forehead, which throbbed with a pounding headache. “But first, tell me how, just how did you end up crossing paths with Lord Kannoth? And why are you here, in the Feydark? Are all the spawn here?”

Just as his siblings prepared to answer, their conversation was abruptly cut off by a piercing screech. Its source drew nearer, approaching fast. In unison, they turned to the sound and spotted an eerily familiar undead bat hurtling in their direction.

“Boris?” Astarion exclaimed in surprise.

“Why is he here?” Dalyria asked, startled, gripping Leon’s arm. “Is it time already? Leon?”

“Maybe… maybe,” Leon muttered under his breath. For a moment, his determination seemed to waver, but then he pulled himself together and was about to address Astarion again.

But Boris wasn’t alone; he was leading a band of four people, moving swiftly behind him. As they came into the light of the ethereal glow from the outlandish plants, Astarion recognized them as his people.

“Jayme!” he shouted, taking a few quick strides toward them.

Jayme hurried to his side and embraced him in one fluid motion. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

Jayme’s worry was tangible, a tension that tugged deep within Astarion while offering a comforting sense of warmth. The memory of their painful separation at Raphael's hands still lingered, fresh in both their minds.

“Yes, dearest, I’m fine. My naughty siblings gave me a bit of a scare, but it turns out they just need my help,” Astarion chuckled, feeling lighter now that Jayme was by his side again.

Slightly behind Jayme, Gale, Solaufein, and Shadowheart also approached. Meanwhile, Boris swooped toward a tree and settled there, hanging upside down, to observe the interaction.

“What sort of help?” Shadowheart asked coldly, scrutinizing Astarion’s abductors. The standoff between the cleric and the vampires resembled an unimpressed cat locking eyes with three jittery rats.

“Astarion promised to share his blood with us, spawn,” Petras spat.

“You mean, with all seven thousand of you?” Gale asked, surprised. “I know he’s a red-blooded one, but even he’d run dry at that rate.”

“No, just with the six of us—his brothers and sisters in torment under Cazador’s tyranny,” Leon said evenly.

“You could’ve asked nicely, and he would’ve helped you,” Jayme said, his tone equally composed. “The moment you chose to be aggressive, you lost your chance.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Leon scoffed, rolling his eyes, “We know him to be selfish and greedy, only doing things for others if he’s forced or if it benefits him. That's who he’s always been.”

“Oh, this is so unfair!” Astarion moaned. “You’re judging me based on how I acted while I was trapped in agony. That’s not who I am anymore!”

“Enough bickering!” Dalyria stepped between them, breaking up the argument. “We don’t have much time left, I think…”

“Not much time until what, sis?” Astarion frowned. He had a bad premonition.

“Lord Kannoth is coming—for half the spawn,” Dalyria said gravely. “We need to make a truce and figure out how to stop him.”

For a moment, silence fell. Only the droning of wasps could be heard nearby. Then, Boris sprang into action, nimbly catching and crushing the sizable insects with his fangs. Landing on a tree branch, he munched on them as though savoring biscuits.

“What in blazes do you mean by that?” Astarion asked, dreading the answer even before it came.

“We made a deal,” Leon revealed, his tone oddly flat. “He helped us reach you in exchange for us handing over half of the remaining spawn—roughly three thousand four hundred.”

“You did, Leon. You made that deal,” Dalyria said with disgust, turning to face her brother.

“For our sake,” Leon reminded her. “And he won’t kill them; he said so himself. He promised to make them stronger, more capable.”

“He’ll make them his slaves, and you know it!” Dalyria exclaimed.

“And you know our circumstances had to change!” Leon spread his arms in frustration. “We were wasting away in these caverns with no hope of escaping the endless shadow of fear!”

“What right did you have to decide their fate?” Astarion sneered.

“Every right,” Leon hissed. “Look me in the eye and tell me I don’t deserve some power and peace after that shitstorm! After I lost my Vicky.”

“How did Kannoth help you?” Jayme interjected calmly, his collected demeanor tempering the flaring emotions.

Leon had no choice but to answer honestly. He raised a hand and pointed at Boris.

“Kannoth was the one who contacted us. He sent his bat to our so-called ‘village’ in the Underdark. The others were wary, but I, like you, followed him to the Feydark. Kannoth was waiting for me. He said he’d been watching us and had a solution to our struggles. He told me that Astarion had already received his blood and was thus resistant to the dim Sun of the Feywild. To make him share his blood, he suggested luring your merry group to Mithrendain and subjecting Astarion to pleasant, familiar dreams where I would befriend him and convince him to help us.”

“You scheming son of a lich!” Astarion snarled.

“And you promised half of your charges to him in return. I see. Why Mithrendain?” Jayme asked, his tone still matter-of-fact, a sharp contrast to Astarion’s indignation.

But Astarion couldn’t help himself. The realization that his recent dreams—the driving force behind his resolve to act and lead—had been part of an elaborate ruse cut him deeply. He felt a mix of disappointment, embarrassment, and resentment.

“We had no other way to reach you,” Leon replied. “You were in Astrazalian at the time, a city impenetrable for vampires like us. But Mithrendain wasn’t. Kannoth showed us a secret passage leading from the Feydark.”

“How did you get the signet ring?” Jayme pressed on, leaving no room for evasion.

Everyone listened intently as Leon’s story unfolded.

“There were actually two rings,” Leon explained. “Each had a different purpose. Kannoth kept one and sent it with Boris to deliver a message to a fomorian chief near Astrazalian. It said something like ‘The time to strike Mithrendain has come. The barrier shall soon be shattered.’ Total fabrication, of course, but the brute wore the ring anyway and was killed by you, just as planned.”

“And the ring you used in the city?”

“I thought you’d figured that out already, Jayme,” Leon said with a wry smirk. “Amon Bassiri gave it to me after I convinced him I’d expose the deranged Bhaalspawn headed for his beloved city.”

“I knew that, but I wanted to hear it from you.” Jayme tilted his head. “It’s a clever plan. Did it come from Kannoth or was it your idea?”

“Kannoth’s,” Leon admitted. “I didn’t know you were descended from Bhaal.” He lowered his head just a fraction—a small, sympathetic gesture. “To be fair, you’re not what I imagined. Bhaalspawn are usually described as fiends who devour infants and bathe in the blood of freshly gutted maidens. So, you can see why I had no qualms about ratting you out.”

“I can,” Jayme replied calmly. “What I don’t understand is how you three could walk in the twilight Sun after claiming it was impossible.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

At this, the three vampires exchanged uneasy glances. Dalyria sniffed, her lips pressed tightly together, fighting back emotion.

“A temporary benefit of drow blood magic,” Leon revealed. “It required a terrible sacrifice, but it granted us brief immunity.” He shuddered. “I hated making that sacrifice, but I did it so all six of us could gain true vampiric powers in the long run.”

“What was the sacrifice?” Shadowheart interjected sharply.

“The blood of an innocent elven child,” Dalyria muttered in shame.

“Of course,” Solaufein mumbled. He placed a hand on Shadowheart’s shoulder, who bit her lower lip until it turned white.

“Enough of this inquisition,” Petras growled, advancing closer to Astarion like a bulldog—dumb-looking and aggressive. “Brother, give us what you owe us.”

“And if I refuse?” Astarion hissed.

“You can’t. The words you spoke in your dream bind you,” Leon reiterated coolly.

“How so?” Astarion raised an eyebrow.

“A deal made within a dream is still a valid deal,” Solaufein said, his words laden with a heavy, almost apologetic tone.

“It is, provided it’s a manipulated dream. Which it was…” Gale noted in agreement.

“Precisely. It’s kotodama. The Master spoke of it sometimes, if you recall,” Leon said. He moved with intent toward Astarion, passing Dalyria on his way, who was torn between stopping him and staying back.

“You still call him Master, you shiteater vermin!” Astarion shouted, rage boiling within him. “You show your true colors at last!”

Leon positioned himself directly in front of the rogue, shrugging off the insult. “Force of habit. It’s a completely empty, meaningless word at this point.”

“Enough!” Dalyria found her voice and hurried to stand beside the two. “We need to find a way to keep the spawn from being taken away!”

“It’s impossible, Dalyria. Kannoth helped us, so the spawn are already his,” Leon declared.

“Not if we kill you and your deal dies with you!” Astarion yelled, drawing the rapier from Jayme’s side in a flash. It wasn’t his weapon of choice, but his resentment demanded action.

Leon took a step back but held his ground, staring at Astarion with unblinking eyes.

“You’re wrong again, Astarion. That’s not how it works,” Petras barked from somewhere in the background. His blunt voice cut through the red haze clouding Astarion’s mind, and the rogue had to admit that the dullard was right. His fingers flexed around the hilt of the rapier, but then he sheathed it once more in Jayme’s scabbard.

“So be it,” he spat. “I’ll give you my blood, and then we’ll fight Kannoth together.”

“Are you mad? We absolutely will not do that! It’s a death wish!” Leon shouted, sparks flickering from his fingertips. He was finally losing control.

In response, Gale and Shadowheart assumed battle stances.

“Maybe for you alone,” Astarion said in a low voice. “But my party has plenty of experience killing archfeys, devils, and other horrors.”

At last, Jayme moved. He gripped his violin and bow, which had been hanging on his back, but Solaufein caught him by the arm.

“Forget it, Jayme,” the drow murmured into his ear. “If you kill him before Astarion can fulfill his promise, he will be cursed by the realm’s magic.”

The bow scraped dissonant notes across the strings, echoing the thunder in Jayme’s eyes, but he eventually relaxed his muscles, mollified by reason.

“That shouldn’t be a showstopper,” Astarion growled, raising the underside of his wrist to his mouth and nipping it with his fang. He then held his hand out high.

Leon’s gaze fixed on the fresh cut. He hesitated for only a second before leaning in and pressing his mouth to the bleeding wound. Astarion allowed a single gulp before shoving Leon away. The sorcerer stumbled backward like a drunkard, lost in ecstasy. Petras followed suit, grunting as he tasted the coveted blood. Astarion pushed him away as well, sending him reeling.

He turned his gaze to Dalyria, vexed but resigned to what had to be done. The high elf woman stood frozen in indecision.

“You might as well,” Astarion urged, stretching out his arm and offering his wrist. At least she’s not a lost cause, he thought.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dalyria gave in. She cradled Astarion’s wrist gently, took a brief sip, and stepped away almost immediately.

“Now that that’s done, where are Yousen, Aurelia, and Violet?” Astarion sighed. He watched dispassionately as his siblings savored the exhilarating sensations in their own ways. Leon and Dalyria remained nearly motionless, barely making a sound, while Petras hunched over, bracing himself on his knees and giggling uncontrollably.

As if on cue, Violet—the most volatile of them all, a timid elven girl prone to vicious outbursts—emerged from the depths of the cavern, her footfalls frantic as she ran toward them.

“Ghouls! Hundreds of them!” she screamed in her thin, scaredy-cat voice.

Petras finally stopped giggling.

“Show us the way. We’ll stop them,” Astarion said coolly, taking his bag of holding from Jayme and retrieving his daggers.

“No!” Leon said firmly. “If you oppose him, you’ll incur his wrath and doom us all. I won’t allow that.”

“Well, I suppose I'll just have to step over you then,” Astarion sneered.

Dalyria yelled something in a pained voice, but the sudden whir of spells drowned her out.

Leon began the incantation for Burning Hands, aiming at Astarion, but Gale’s timely Counterspell silenced him before the sparks at his fingertips could ignite into a fiery cone. Unfazed, Leon followed up with Slow, which affected everyone in Astarion’s party except for Shadowheart, who resisted its effects.

At the same time, the cleric cast Polymorph on Petras, who had just forced Astarion to drop his daggers with a Heat Metal spell.

“I had no idea you could do magic, Petras. Bravo!” Astarion taunted, watching the sheep Petras had become scurry around, bleating madly in panic.

Meanwhile, Jayme wove a crisp, roiling melody that conjured a miniature, controlled blizzard. It effortlessly countered the double Fireballs Leon launched at him, Shadowheart, and Solaufein. The elements collided midair in a violent burst of turbulence before dissolving into harmless mist.

Solaufein swung his greatsword at Leon, who Blinked out of range by a hair’s breadth. In the next instant, Leon responded with a Wall of Fire that flared up between him and the others, the flames advancing steadily. Dalyria squealed as she rushed toward the Petras-turned-sheep and desperately tried to steer him away from the encroaching inferno. The fire surged forward until Astarion’s and Jayme’s Cutting Words disrupted the spell, bringing the flames to an abrupt standstill.

“Oh look, it's Elminster's ballbag!”

“My Life: Part Twelve: The Boring Opponent.”

Leon growled in frustration as the fire consumed the mushrooms and exotic plants of the Feydark, releasing thick, suffocating gases. Everyone in the area coughed and struggled to keep their eyes open. Only Jayme resisted. His tune became cascading snow, tumbling over the flames until they died.

Gale quickly cast a Zone of Sweet Air to banish the noxious fumes. By the time the tunnel cleared, Astarion had maneuvered behind Leon and scored him with his Sussur dagger to silence him.

Leon whirled around in fury. But with the Slow spell no longer affecting Astarion, his desperate attempt to sink his teeth into the rogue's neck failed. Astarion struck again, plunging his dagger cleanly into Leon’s throat.

“Damn you, Leon. I would’ve helped you… if only you’d asked,” Astarion hissed into his ear. He was both angry and saddened that even after Cazador’s death, they still couldn’t find a way to live peacefully.

Leon gurgled up blood, his eyes burning into Astarion in a wordless glower. As he lost more blood, his body grew limp in Astarion’s arms. He wouldn’t die, of course—so long as he was healed or returned to his coffin, he would recover. But in that moment, Astarion questioned if he even wanted that.

He heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul before turning his gaze to the terrified sheep bucking in Dalyria’s hold.

“Want to be next?” he roared, striding over in a few quick steps.

Petras reverted to his original form just then and sat on the ground, arms raised defensively, teeth bared in fear. Before Astarion could reach him, Dalyria placed herself in his path.

“Enough, brother! We shouldn’t be fighting each other but the real threat that’s on our doorstep,” she implored.

“Let the pissant speak for himself,” Astarion growled. “Maybe he still thinks he stands a chance against us with his level-one parlor tricks.” He brandished his bloodied dagger in front of Dalyria like a prop in some cheap illusion.

“Heat Metal is actually a level two transmutation spell,” Gale chimed in. “I just wanted to clarify for scholarly accuracy.”

“Oh, Gale, your kernels of wisdom are like drops of rain in the desert of my ignorance. Please, never stop!” Astarion huffed, glaring at the wizard before turning back to the matter at hand. “So, what will it be, Petras? Friend or foe? Can I trust you not to double-cross me while I save you from the archfey vampire lord of Cendriane?”

“Friend, friend, and yes!” Petras whined from behind Dalyria, cowering on his knees. “I had no idea you were so… so… strong! I was a fool to side with Leon…”

“The first sensible words out of your mouth today. Though you left out quick-witted and devastatingly handsome,” Astarion spat, tucking his Sussur dagger away in his vambrace. He then went to collect Rhapsody and Bloodthirst, which had cooled down by now. “Now, where did that Violet go? Where are the spawn gathered?”

Dalyria lifted Leon’s still body into her arms and marched ahead, tossing an exasperated “Follow me,” over her shoulder.

“You know,” Jayme murmured to Astarion as the rogue fell into step beside him, “I liked how you handled that.”

“Oh, you did? Then keep your eyes on me, darling. I’ll give you even more to like,” Astarion purred. There was a fire blazing inside him now, and he couldn’t wait to unleash it.

“Count on it,” Jayme whispered, smirking.

After navigating several twists and turns in the tunnel network, they emerged into a swamp overrun with mud, gigantic roots, and tangled vegetation. Ahead, a mass of vampire spawn huddled, hemmed in by a web of ghouls and herded toward a far end of the swamp.

“Well, this is awkward, but we’re going to need you to get your decomposing paws off those vampires!” Astarion shouted, drawing his daggers as he glared at the nearest ghouls.

“Where are the rest?” Dalyria muttered, her voice tight with shock.

“The rest?” Astarion echoed.

“All of them were supposed to be here—this is less than half our numbers!” Dalyria shoved Leon’s body into Petras’ arms and sprinted ahead.

“Wait!” Petras shouted after her. “Yousen and Aurelia are down!”

It was true—two of their spawn siblings lay unmoving, facedown in the mud some distance away. But Dalyria kept running.

At that moment, a banshee—bald and draped in wispy, trailing rags—glided forward and halted beneath a cavern arch about a hundred feet from Astarion’s group. Her wail tore through the air, sending Jayme, Shadowheart, Solaufein, and Gale doubling over in agony, though the undead remained unaffected. Astarion was already dashing forward, daggers raised.

But this wail had a purpose none of them expected. It reacted with the glowing purple mushrooms that clung in dense clusters to the arch.

“An Arch of Wonder!” Solaufein cried from the back, stumbling after the rogue. “Astarion, stop!”

But Astarion didn’t even slow. He reached the banshee just as the mushrooms began oozing thick purple secretion. In an instant, Astarion, Dalyria, and the banshee were paralyzed, their bodies stiffening into statues. No, not just statues—stone. The Arch of Wonder was releasing gases that turned flesh to stone.

Jayme, Gale, and Shadowheart cast their spells in unison: Hypnotic Pattern, Chain Lightning, Remove Curse. But each was instantly swallowed by the swirling gases, vanishing like they had never existed.

“We need frost!” Solaufein shouted. “The only way to destroy those mushrooms!”

The ghouls picked up speed, pushing the spawn toward the distant edge of the swamp. As the chaos raged, Jayme spotted a faint shimmer—a blue portal woven into the strands of a giant spider web. Spawn who entered the portal disappeared. It had to be a gateway to Cendriane.

Everyone held their breath as Gale hurled Icestorm at the archway. The mushrooms shriveled under the icy blast, finally ceasing their mysterious secretion. A follow-up Zone of Sweet Air cleared the poisonous fog around the arch.

Solaufein charged forward, determined to cut down as many ghouls as possible, but he was hopelessly outnumbered—at least a hundred to one. The ghouls formed a solid wall, and from behind it, they pushed the last of the spawn through the portal. Once their task was complete, they leaped into the portal themselves.

Shadowheart rushed in, incapacitating a dozen ghouls with a Turn Undead spell, while Solaufein swiftly beheaded the immobilized foes one by one. But it was futile; nothing could bring the thousands of spawn back.

Soon, only Astarion’s party remained in the swamp, along with a helpless Petras and Leon, an unconscious Yousen and Aurelia, a petrified Dalyria, and the banshee.

Jayme, of course, was already at Astarion’s side. He touched the hard, smooth shell encasing the rogue’s body; it felt unsettlingly permanent.

“Gale, can you turn him back?” Jayme asked, urgency sharp in his voice.

“I can,” Gale replied calmly.

“You can?” Shadowheart blinked, astonished. “What prompted you to learn that incantation?”

“It seemed useful, considering how rare it is,” Gale said, flicking a hand dismissively as he approached Jayme and Astarion. “Besides, I make a habit of memorizing every scroll I come across.”

“Unbelievable,” Shadowheart muttered, shaking her head.

“No, that’s just Gale Dekarios,” Jayme said with a smile, relieved they wouldn’t need to crawl back to Mithrendain to hunt for a scroll or potion.

Gale cast the spell on Astarion first, then Dalyria.

“What in the howling hells was that?” Astarion shouted, looking around wildly, his daggers still poised to strike.

“An Arch of Wonder,” Solaufein said. “Vicious mushrooms that grow in Feydark caverns. They petrify anything sentient when disturbed and create an Antimagic Field that absorbs all spells.”

“More like Arch of Pant-shitting,” Astarion rumbled, staring at the now-empty space where the horde had stood moments earlier. “Where are they?”

“Gone. The ghouls forced them through that portal,” Jayme said, pointing to the still-active spider-web gateway.

“Damn…” Astarion muttered and sheathed his daggers with a sigh. “That’s what you get for making deals with archfeys. ‘Half the spawn’? Please...”

His bitter remark was aimed at Leon, whose limp body lay forgotten further back. Dalyria walked up to Yousen and Aurelia slowly, looking just as shattered as Astarion felt.

“They’re battered and bruised, but they’ll recover,” she said softly.

“Are… are they all gone? Every one of them?” came a thin, forlorn voice from the tunnel bend—Violet. “But… what are we going to do now?”

“Why were you here in the Feydark to begin with? Why not stay in the Underdark?” Astarion asked, rubbing his temples as the headache from before came roaring back.

“We wanted to stay. We really did,” Dalyria said, lips quivering. “We built a village we could sustain, feeding on cattle and rothés. But the attacks kept coming. We had to move—again and again—until we found some respite in this swamp.”

“What was attacking you? Undead, I assume?” Jayme asked quietly.

“Y-yes. Different kinds. Beholders, zombies, wraiths… even baelnorn liches at one point.” Dalyria winced at the memory. Violet darted to her side and clutched her tightly, as if holding on for dear life.

“Let me guess: they posed a threat, destroyed your camps, but didn’t kill your spawn, unlike the duergar. Did they?” Jayme asked, though he clearly knew the answer already.

“Exactly. How did you know?” Dalyria’s eyes widened.

Jayme exchanged a dark glance with Astarion.

“Kannoth was toying with you,” Jayme replied. “Luring you here to take all the spawn at once without much effort. Why go through the trouble of dragging you across half the region when he could have you walk blindly into his waiting embrace?”

“No! No… no,” Dalyria mumbled in a daze, wrapping her arms around Violet and rubbing her back absentmindedly.

That was it. Astarion had heard enough.

“We’ll set up camp here,” he declared, glancing at Jayme. The bard nodded without hesitation. “We’ll take a rest, then figure out our next steps. I need time to think.”

“Will you… bring them back, Astarion?” Violet asked, her voice trembling. Then, as if transformed into a different person, she growled, “Will you undo this madness?”

“I said I need time to think,” Astarion snapped, but then softened his tone. “Stay calm, Violet. Nothing will be solved if you let your emotions take over. You need to rest. Shadowheart!”

He turned to the cleric, who nodded, immediately understanding what was needed. “Yes, I know, and I will,” she said.

“Not Leon, though—not just yet,” Astarion warned.

“I didn’t intend to!” Shadowheart snorted.

“Good. I’ll need more time to figure out what to do with him. For now, the sorcerer is out of commission,” Astarion said firmly.

He then walked over to the still stone-bound banshee.

“I think I’ve met you before,” he said, studying the unusual sight of her bald head.

“Krobelus,” Jayme supplied.

“Krobelus. So lovely to see you again!” Astarion exclaimed, then slammed the pommel of Rhapsody into the banshee's face with all his strength. The statue shattered into chunks of stone.

“Barbaric strength,” Shadowheart noted, impressed, as she set about healing Yousen and Aurelia.

“Vampiric,” Astarion corrected.

 They started setting up camp. Once the tents were pitched, Astarion took Jayme by the hand and led him into a different tunnel.

“Will you listen to my moaning, sweets?” he asked the bard.

“Any and all kinds of your moaning, yes,” Jayme replied playfully, giving his hand a squeeze.

Astarion chuckled, though, to his chagrin, it sounded hollow. He felt utterly drained, as if he had been kicked, punched, chewed, and then spat out.

The swamp was breathtakingly beautiful—a detail Astarion had missed during their chaotic entrance and the events that followed. Unlike the fetid bogs of Faerûn or the dismal, mist-shrouded Murkendraw that Jayme had once depicted with the evocative strains of his violin, this place was alive with light and color. Blue, yellow, and white will-o'-wisps swayed among the twisting trees, shedding their glow as they floated. Strange, phosphorescent fungi and flowering vines clung to the walls, imbuing the murky waters below with a dreamlike aura. Above it all, a purple, glowing mist hovered in the air—clearly magical, though its exact nature eluded Astarion. Thanks to the myriad light sources, the landscape had transformed from the dark greens of the forest they had traversed into a mesmerizing palette—like a painting of a subdued rainbow.

Of course, Astarion and Jayme now knew better than to get too close to anything with bright colors. They also gave a wide berth to various beasts: frogs, pythons, and turtles, just in case they had an unpleasant surprise in store.

As they continued, a cohort of tiny, grouchy-looking sprites appeared ahead, pausing momentarily to study the two strangers. Knowing them to be a highly perceptive and cautious race, Astarion raised a hand in a friendly greeting and kept a casual but purposeful pace. Jayme mirrored his gesture. Apparently, the sprites didn’t sense anything concerning about them and soon swooped along, droning something in their own language.

Eventually, Astarion found a suitable resting spot on the gnarled root of an ancient cypress tree that arched high above the ankle-deep water. He perched on the thick root, his legs dangling from the edge, and Jayme followed suit.

After several silent minutes of taking in the stunning view with distant eyes, Astarion slowly began to speak.

“We'll always be haunted, won't we? Never truly free of our past. In one of my dreams, I told La’zael there’d be a happy ending for us, but I realize now how laughable that was. And, just to be clear, not the ‘happy’ part—the ‘ending’ part. Our life is an infinite chain of cause and effect. The bigger the ripples we make, the more we’re rocked by the waves.” He let out a deep sigh. “Don’t say anything; I know I’m late to this fairly self-evident discovery. I just… I guess part of me foolishly thought I’d recover some scrap of the peace I had before Cazador. I even believed it for a moment, when I managed to push thoughts of my marks and my deeds out of my mind. I was such a witless dolt…!”

“Why would you be?” Jayme wrinkled his forehead. Then, with a sudden idea, he asked, “Do you want to settle down?”

“What?” Astarion blinked.

“Or travel without following the scent of blood? Trouble will find us no matter what, but we don't have to go looking for it ourselves,” Jayme said in his ever-so-calm tone, as if he hadn't just proposed something startlingly out of the blue.

“Are you suggesting, what, buying a cottage and raising cattle? And sightseeing?” Astarion asked incredulously.

“Don’t take any suggestions from me. You used to be a magistrate before Cazador. You could do that again, or something entirely different. The choice is yours. I know you want to do something about the spawn, but think beyond them for a second. What do you want in life?”

“You've already stated what you want in yours,” Astarion said, recalling Jayme’s assertion after Raphael had been slain.

“I will find worthy causes to lend my strength to. To fight oppression and make ruthless, power-drunk gods and god-like beings rage in frustration.”

He lightly shook his head. “You don't think I can just ignore that, do you?”

“I'm not imposing anything on you,” Jayme replied, his tone gentle but firm. “So tell me where your heart truly lies. I noticed you were wandering a bit aimlessly in Astrazalian and Mithrendain. You couldn’t find your place, could you? But then I saw the beginnings of a change in you. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” Astarion admitted slowly.

“So, what have you realized? And what do you want to do about it?” Jayme encouraged.

Astarion stayed silent for a while, contemplating.

“It’s complicated,” he started haltingly. “I…I’ve never really sat down to have that conversation with myself. I think… I’m too set in the habit of just going where the winds take me. Of doing as I’m told. Not that I’m blaming you, not at all. You followed your calling, and I came along for the ride.”

Astarion glanced at Jayme, noting the patient attentiveness in his expression as he listened. It eased his nerves and allowed him to speak more freely.

“As for that aimless wandering, I won’t deny it. I’ve been too numb to consider my future. I certainly have wants, and they’ve always been clear to me—my comforts, my possessions, and most importantly, you. I want a future with you; that’s as certain as the Sun in the sky. But beyond that… two hundred years of futureless misery is not something I can easily overcome. It feels like being shackled by two centuries of dead weight, or... two hundred thousand spells of Daze.”

But he couldn’t delay any longer.

“Take your time to think it through. I’ll wait,” Jayme said. “And if you can’t find the answer now, I’ll be patient until you do.”

This man is worth his weight in gold. Or black diamonds, rather. Astarion thought, overwhelmed by affection.

“Aren’t you the sweetest?” he replied quietly, then faced forward and took a few deep breaths.

Addressing the sea of uncertainty within himself, he allowed his thoughts to drift. Meanwhile, Jayme picked up his violin and began to play a mild, caressing melody that swirled around them, carrying them away on its soothing currents.

As the urgent, tumultuous thoughts of their current plight began to dissipate, the image of Baldur's Gate emerged. It brought with it a flood of memories—ancient and weathered. Jayme had suggested that Astarion might consider giving up adventuring and returning there. But is that something I’d really want, Astarion pondered.

A return to Baldur's Gate, the vibrant city of intrigue and maneuvering. To its extravagant soirees in lavish halls, filled with the fragrance of perfumes and the clinking of silver chalices. Where behind the facade of elegance, shadows lurked; the wide smiles of its people often insincere, concealing hidden agendas and whispered secrets. Bribes flowed as commonly as coin. Even the most exquisite wine was tainted by the petty scheming that flavored the atmosphere, leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of those who still clung to shreds of decency. This was the world Astarion had once known intimately, before his death.

“I can't go back to being insignificant,” he murmured, the words slipping out unbidden.

“Can't?” Jayme questioned.

“Won't,” Astarion clarified. “The mere notion is ridiculous. I've bled too much for that.”

He paused for a moment, then continued, “I will follow the scent of blood. Yes. That's the only way that feels right to me now. And when I'm not, I'll laugh, I'll indulge in the luxuries I've earned, with no regrets.” He reached out, his touch light on Jayme's shoulder. “With you by my side. Right?”

“Always,” Jayme replied, his eyes gleaming a deep, bright blue as he met Astarion's gaze over his violin.

“Good. Good. But, you see, I don’t want to just follow anymore. My dreams may have been illusions, but the fire they lit is real,” Astarion said with conviction. “As is the sense of responsibility compelling me to take care of Cazador’s spawn.”

He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

“I want you to rely on me more. I want to, and I can, lead us.”

A hint of uncertainty flickered through him as he spoke. Treading the path he had already known in his dreams had been one thing, but what lay ahead was uncharted territory, no less dangerous than their fight against a fanatical cult and the Chosen of gods. New enemies, new trials.

But Jayme, bless his sweet heart, came to his aid once again. His fingers danced across the strings, and the melody turned frisky, daring, audacious even, under his touch. A delighted smile spread across Astarion’s lips before he even realized it.

“And I’d like to see where you’ll be taking me next,” Jayme said after guiding the notes to a resonant lull.

You take my confidence from sane to brave, Astarion thought inwardly, knowing Jayme could hear him. He intended for him to.

“Before anything else, I want Kannoth’s head on a pike,” Astarion said, his smile never faltering.

The idea sounded wild, outrageous, and just plain ludicrous. Only a few tendays ago, Kannoth had been the one to transform him from a frail spawn into a true vampire.

But with Jayme, wild, outrageous, and ludicrous were all overridden by possible.

“Looks like our wills align perfectly,” the bard murmured silkily.

He struck up a new tune that told a blood-stirring story: a sweeping passage through the Crystalline Palace, winding through its corridors and grand chambers, over the rattling bodies of legions of undead, demanding one last audience with the proud vampire king.

Chapter 25: II - Here am I, take me to the pearly gates

Summary:

Here am I, take me to the pearly gates
So I can look you in the eye when I spit in your face
Here am I, take me to the pearly gates
Don't let 'em hit you on the way out when I take your place

Bad Omens – Dethrone

“Rise and shine, dimwit,” Astarion said, lightly slapping Leon’s face to rouse him. “Today’s your lucky day—you get to choose between staying dead or joining the legendary band of adventurers disposing of the King of Cendriane. What will it be?”

Leon grunted, blinking rapidly, and tried to roll away from Astarion’s hand. But the rogue caught him in a tight grasp at his shoulders to prevent any movement.

“Just stay put and answer me,” he demanded.

Leon huffed and twisted his head around to take in his surroundings.

Astarion’s party had made camp in the Feydark. From his limited view, Leon observed them each preparing for the impending clash. Solaufein was strolling along the cavern's edge with a satchel in hand, harvesting mushrooms. Nearby, Jayme and Gale were engrossed in their inventories. Shadowheart hovered just behind Astarion, her eyes glinting with warning, prepared to banish Leon to the Fugue Planes.

Finally, Leon’s gaze settled on the bluish portal embedded in the massive spider web. There was no hint of surprise on his face; he had encountered this gateway before.

“You’re out of your mind, Astarion! That eladrin is centuries old and commands an army the size of Luskan! We cannot possibly win against him!” Leon barked, straining against Astarion’s iron grip.

“Since you’ve so tactfully peeped at my dreams, which were based on my memories, you must know the things we’ve accomplished in Faerûn. And that was still before our trials in the Feywild.” Astarion narrowed his eyes at the sorcerer. “I have no doubt we’re in for a bloody fight, but I’ll wager everything on us.”

“And what’s the point of taking the risk?” Leon challenged.

“The point, you sniveling piece of owlbear dung, is to release the thousands of spawn from the King’s control. In other words, to clean up your damn mess,” Astarion growled, digging his fingers deep into Leon’s flesh. “What were you thinking, Leon? After all we’ve endured under Cazador, you acted just like him! No better at all.”

“I wasn’t thinking,” the sorcerer burst out, “I just acted! I couldn’t stand being this pathetic excuse for a vampire after failing so miserably as a human being and as a father!”

He fell silent, then let out a hollow chuckle as he continued, “So why bring me back if you find me so despicable? Can’t you handle Kannoth by yourself with all your formidable might?”

“I brought you back because I was like you once,” Astarion said, his voice low and serious. “I would’ve done anything to become more powerful, even sacrificing you. I was ready to steal Cazador’s Black Mass.” He took a moment to let the revelation sink in. “But I had someone beside me who made me realize that power is not worth destroying yourself, your soul over. True power comes from mastering yourself, not dominating others.”

“Look at you, so wise now! A philosopher in a vampire rogue’s guise—just the one to give lessons on morality,” Leon jeered, struggling again to break free.

Astarion’s hold didn’t budge.

“I’ve had time to think hard on it,” Astarion said firmly, ignoring the mockery. “But that’s a luxury you no longer have. Kannoth has taken everyone save for the seven of us. And he left Yousen and Aurelia to die.”

The news struck a nerve, wiping the sarcasm from Leon’s face.

“Everyone…? But…” he stammered, wide-eyed. “Yousen and Aurelia, they are…?”

“No, because my cleric friend, Shadowheart, was kind enough to heal them. And she convinced me it would be worth healing your sorry hide to see if you, godsdamned undeserving prick, would finally be willing to do the right thing.” He tilted his head toward Shadowheart, then paused. The raw emotion in the sorcerer’s reaction was promising—perhaps he wasn’t beyond help yet. “So I’m asking you again, Leon. Do you want to remain a failure, or will you help save the poor wretches who ended up with a fate almost as sad as Victoria’s?”

The tension between them thickened, a heavy silence hanging in the air. Then, eventually, Leon clenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I’ll do it, I’ll fight Kannoth with you. Despite it being a bloody moronic idea—a fool’s errand to the afterlife,” he grumbled.

“Then our deal stands: you may live. And by the way, it’s no more stupid than your idea to bargain with an archfey,” Astarion said with a biting grin before finally letting him go and standing up.

“Good choice, Leon,” Shadowheart remarked, her voice dripping with sweet venom as she uncrossed her arms. “I was ready to Turn you, had you refused. In your current state, you would have been permanently snuffed out.”

Before Leon could react, she stepped closer and fixed him with a piercing glare.

“I’m going to heal you now. Don’t make me regret my kindness.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Leon muttered, then added, somewhat reluctantly, “I owe you one.”

“A life, yes. I won’t forget it,” Shadowheart purred after she finished her Heal spell. “You can start repaying me by brainstorming with me and Gale on how best to subdue an undead army.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Jayme interjected, casually inspecting his and Astarion’s violins in the background. “I’ll handle the army. You focus on Kannoth himself.”

“Come now, I’m well aware of your talents, but this is a legion we’re talking about,” Shadowheart stressed, shaking her head. “No matter how I spin it, you and your violin won’t be enough.”

“That’s why I’m not just bringing my violin. I’m bringing an entire orchestra,” Jayme replied with a smirk as he fine-tuned the violins.

“Are you finally going to play In Blood and Song, Redemption for me? I’ve yet to hear it,” Astarion said, grinning, as he rummaged through his bag of holding for anything useful for their upcoming battle. When he found a scroll of Reverse Gravity—a rare find from a Mithrendain artisan—he handed it to Gale, who immediately began studying it.

“You’ll hear the new orchestra version soon enough,” Jayme promised.

“Haer’Dalis will be so envious when I tell him about it!” Astarion quipped.

“Ye-s,” Shadowheart drawled, still sounding skeptical. “But I’ll pick Leon’s brain just the same. Whether we come up with something clever for the army or Kannoth, it’ll be useful either way.”

“What do you have in mind?” Gale asked, preparing like the rest of them. For him, that meant lounging outside his tent and meditating on which spells to use and when.

“An infusion of our magic. Wizard spells imbued with my divine energies,” Shadowheart explained.

“Inspired,” Gale nodded. “I’d suggest combining fire magic with your Moonfire. Both Leon and I are quite proficient with fire, after all.”

“Fire would also complement the volatile mushrooms I have picked,” Solaufein added as he returned to camp. He held up a satchel that, though tied tightly, seeped wisps of black vapor from the seams.

“That looks wild,” Shadowheart remarked. “It better not blow us all to pieces.”

“It is called Twilight Burstcap. If you want to keep it from exploding, be sure not to expose it to light,” Solaufein warned, carefully packing the satchel away.

“When are we leaving?” Dalyria asked in a tense voice from beside the resting trio of Yousen, Aurelia, and Violet, all stretched out on their bedrolls.

“We’re leaving in an hour, after a bit more rest. You, sis, won’t be coming, naturally,” Astarion emphasized. “As a healer, your place is here, with them.” He gestured toward their siblings. “You’d only be in the way.”

“I’m inclined to believe you,” Dalyria said, sighing deeply. “But it’s going to be the hardest thing—just waiting for your return.”

“I understand that feeling better than anyone; I’ve been in that position before, and not even that long ago,” Astarion replied, glancing at Jayme as nerve-wracking memories of the bard’s descent into the House of Hope surfaced. He paused briefly, then focused on the present and turned to Leon.

“By the way, there’s something I’ve been wondering. Why did my dreams start in the Shadow-Cursed Lands? Why not Baldur’s Gate? You must have been on edge the whole time we were approaching our final destination.”

“I’ve been waiting for decades to become more than a helpless leech,” Leon replied, his tone still a bit sour. “A few days or tendays didn’t make a difference. As for the setting, you chose it yourself—unconsciously. You resisted my influence, which is no small feat. You must have quite a blood source to be so resilient. The blood of a godchild?”

He didn’t bother to hide his envy as he eyed Jayme.

“Yes,” Jayme called over smugly while his eyes stayed locked on the violins. “If my blood makes him stronger, I’ll give him enough to sate his thirst.”

Astarion grinned at his words, while Leon looked away, muttering under his breath about Astarion’s ridiculous good fortune.

Interesting. Why did I return to that night? Astarion silently pondered in the meantime. Maybe… That was the night I first decided to turn things around for myself, wasn’t it? With Jayme beside me. My proverbial leap of faith... It was something to think about later.

“Were you stalking me, you bastard?” he jabbed at Leon, recalling his many passionate encounters with Jayme outdoors. “Sneaking glances at my private moments?”

“I kept an eye on you from a distance, but I wasn’t watching your every move. I wasn’t stalking,” Leon said, sounding mildly offended.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” Astarion replied with a lopsided grin.

“Your private life doesn’t interest me in the slightest, you know,” Leon shot back.

“Good, I prefer it that way. Just make sure to watch for my signals closely in the coming hours.”

After a slight hesitation, Leon nodded in agreement. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Astarion said again, then faced the others. “Now, let’s have a short strategy meeting before our final rest. I want to plan our approach so everyone knows their role.”

After carefully reviewing their strategies and resources, they stayed at camp for four more hours—just enough time for one last reverie to rejuvenate and brace for the grueling battle ahead, which promised to be as challenging as taking down the Grand Design.

 

 

 

The spider-web portal whisked the party of five to a great hall within the white catacombs of Cendriane’s Crystalline Palace. The tall walls, intricately carved with runes from floor to ceiling, emitted a ghostly, pale white glow—infused with enigmatic magic. Large braziers lined the walls, filled with dark, smoldering coals that exuded a low, reddish light, sending long, dancing shadows across the bone-white walls. Crystal chandeliers hung from above like icicles dangling to impale any intruders.

Despite its ominous grandeur, the hall was, against all expectations, empty. Not a soul was present.

Three entryways led into this imposing space, each with double crystal doors pushed open, extending a sinister invitation. Astarion had no illusions: this emptiness was temporary, a brazen display of confidence in the catacombs' security. Anyone daring enough to step through the portal would soon find themselves in an audience—the vampire lord's aplomb was evident in the absence of guards.

“What magic is flowing through the walls, Gale?” Astarion asked under his breath as he cautiously proceeded down the hall, weapons, for now, sheathed. His companions were right behind him, holding their guard and ready to react at the first sign of hostility. Jayme stayed close to Astarion with his violin strapped to his back, primed for action. Astarion’s own instrument was safely stowed away in his bag of holding, reserved for use only if Jayme’s was somehow damaged.

“Something immensely ancient and powerful,” Gale replied, his eyes wide with awe. “I believe it’s a twisted form of protective magic, similar to Mithrendain’s defenses. But these runes radiate the unholy energies of the undead.”

“That unnatural, sinister fog pervading the city originates here?” Jayme asked.

“Not exactly. It’s something else, though I can’t quite fathom what,” Gale said.

“This is Cendriane’s unbeating heart,” Leon added quietly. “And beyond those doors, Cendriane’s insidious blood is ready to spill in.”

As they reached the center of the great hall, a shrill screech pierced the air. Above them, crystals clinked together as wings flapped in tight circles. An undead bat with ruby eyes, hidden among the shadowed chandeliers, now whirled excitedly overhead.

Everyone in the party gripped their weapons, but before they knew it, masses of undead swarmed into the hall through all three entrances: zombies, ghouls, wights, undead hags, liches and baelnorn liches, banshees, beholder zombies, and finally—Astarion suddenly felt a searing burn inside—vampire spawn. The latter wore blank expressions as though in a daze, but their movements were fluid and purposeful. Among them, Astarion glimpsed children as well, and familiar faces, too many of them.

“Fuck Almighty…” he murmured, watching with growing dread as the army of the damned surrounded them completely. The portal through which they had arrived was now blocked.

It wasn’t all of the spawn, but a few hundred—just enough to make targeting Kannoth’s underlings practically impossible. Astarion shot Jayme a questioning glance—they had considered the possibility that the spawn would be deployed in their confrontation but judged it improbable, given the spawn’s limited combat value.

Jayme had already propped his violin under his chin, his bow in hand, cutting a dignified figure. His face reflected nothing but unshakable resolve. When he felt Astarion’s gaze, he met it with a wink. The small gesture was enough to bolster Astarion’s confidence.

Once the hall was packed with undead, the clamor of rattling bones subsided.

One beat, two beats, Astarion unconsciously counted the rhythm of Jayme’s heart to gauge the passage of time during the fraught stand-off. After the tenth beat, a low, shuffling noise emerged from the entryway ahead, barely visible through the crowd. A ripple coursed through the undead ranks as they parted to make way for their King.

Lord Kannoth approached with slow, measured steps, the train of his long, sophisticated night-black robe trailing behind him. A cascade of silver-white hair fluttered before the rich dark fabric. His rune-covered skin was flawless alabaster, and his grayish-blue eyes glinted with contempt. His bloodless lips pursed in a calm, disdainful expression.

He held one arm out gracefully, from which a small Boris hung upside down, his aquamarine eyes gleaming with bright malice in the dim white-red sheen of the hall.

The scene stirred hazy memories in Astarion—not just one, but many. In his life in Baldur’s Gate, he had often attended court hearings. Chancellors, treasurers, seneschals, and other officials, alongside clergy members, patriars, and guards, would enclose the accused leaving no hope of escape. The Lord Chief Justice, like a vulture hovering over its prey, paced deliberately around the stand, his questions lingering ominously in the room.

“’The plot thickens,’ as the saying goes,” Kannoth, this court’s Lord Chief Justice, said as he strolled closer. His voice resonated through the space, effortlessly carrying a tone of boredom. “How disappointing that you would, conversely, dilute my noble blood by sharing it with common mongrels and letting them live.”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t within your calculations, Lord Kannoth,” Astarion replied evenly. His fingers twitched on the hilts of his daggers, but he refrained from drawing them—speak first, act later, he reminded himself.

“Jayme put you in charge, Szarr offspring? How quaint,” Kannoth jeered, stopping at the edge of the undead circle that enclosed the party of five. He bestowed a scornful look upon Jayme before, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the train of his robe behind him, letting it spread out in careless elegance. Boris hung from his other arm, still tethered and unmoving.

“You’ve stolen my people. You will answer to me,” Astarion said, allowing the insult to pass and channeling as much intimidation into his voice as he could muster.

“Or what? Why should I indulge you, vermin, encroaching on my domain?” Kannoth’s voice boomed in response.

“Oh, don’t hold back, Lord Kannoth; your bloated ego must be aching to flaunt your clever ploy,” Astarion scoffed. “What I fail to see is why a king commanding an army the size of yours needed to collect a flock of untrained Faerûnians.”

“You lack vision, Szarr offspring,” Kannoth replied with a dismissive wave. “It is true that they are scarcely more than an unruly mob in their present state, but I have the craft and the time to mold them into a worthy addition to my kingdom.”

“Why them?” Astarion asked quietly.

“They were practically a gift!” Kannoth spread his arms wide, lightly rocking Boris in the process. “Unrealized potential withering away in the Underdark, ripe for the plucking. Believe it or not, minions are becoming harder and harder to come by in the Feywild. Steal a hag and you anger an archfey. Turn a noble eladrin and you have the Seelie Court seething. The pact with sad little Leon was easy—effortless, really. It took naught but some information, and an old signet ring from one of my minions.”

“Your whole clever ploy hinged on us finding the ring on that fomorian. That hardly sounds ‘easy’—more like a sheer stroke of luck,” Astarion pointed out.

“In the Feywild, luck is as scarce as a helping hand offered out of pure chivalry,” Kannoth said, smiling wryly. “I observed your meddling in Astrazalian for quite some time before deciding on the most prudent way to approach you.”

Astarion stepped closer to the archfey, and the undead tensed instantly.

“Why drag us into this? Why not take the spawn by force?” he demanded.

Kannoth regarded the rogue’s boldness with something close to amusement playing on his features. He began to slowly circle the party of five, keeping a deliberate distance.

“So many questions. Didn’t sad little Leon boast about his inventive protective measures?” Kannoth’s eyes flickered to the sorcerer, who stood rigidly beside Astarion. He took it as his cue to speak.

“I embedded a necrotic curse in several of the spawn,” Leon explained, his voice as rigid as his stance. “If he had forced them to act against their will, the curse would have triggered.”

The same magic he had used on Victoria, Astarion recalled.

“Thus, it would have been entirely counterproductive to employ coercion,” Kannoth continued, still pacing around leisurely. “And that is how you came into the picture. Once your kidnapping finally occurred, I knew the time had come to act. My wights faced little resistance. With half of their leaders off chasing their own ambitions and the rest mere feckless fools, the promise of power in my court must have seemed a sweet alternative indeed.”

“Power? Try captivity and servitude,” Astarion hissed, turning to keep the archfey in his sights.

“They will be among their own kind—safe and useful,” Kannoth stated matter-of-factly.

“You knew we wouldn’t stand for this,” Jayme said calmly from above his violin, keeping his eyes fixed on Kannoth. “You knew we’d come for revenge. What are you hoping to achieve?”

“Revenge? By the winds of Phlegethon, you make it sound as if I wronged you somehow,” Kannoth said, holding up a hand in a mock-apologetic gesture. “I knew you’d prevail against poor little Leon. Besides, what are these spawn to you? You’ve abandoned them to their fate. Clearly, you don’t care whether they live or die.”

“We don’t take kindly to being used,” Jayme added under his breath.

Kannoth stopped in his tracks and lowered his voice. “I was confident you’d brush off this minor slight and recognize that a clash with me would cost you dearly.”

“How so?” Astarion challenged, his voice loud in comparison.

“Oppose me,” Kannoth replied in the same low tone, but his grayish-blue eyes and the runes inscribed on his skin flared red—a dire warning. “And you’ll have to obliterate the spawn flock you so gallantly spared from Mephistopheles’ greed. Oppose me, and you will have incurred the wrath of the Unseelie Court.”

An icy draft swept through the hall. Was it the chill of the undead horde, poised to strike? Or dark magic awakening, ready to meet them in the coming battle?

Suddenly, Astarion’s mind was flooded with visions of the Unseelie Court. A vast, shadowed congregation took shape: malevolent faeries, shadow fey creatures from the Shadowfell, darklings, redcaps, banshees, the infamous Wild Hunt, and more—all under the dominion of the elusive and corrupt Queen of Air and Darkness, an ethereal figure with ashen skin, onyx eyes, and flowing dark hair.

The illusion vanished in an instant, and from the looks of the other four, Astarion wasn’t the only one who had seen it. After a long stretch of frosty silence, Astarion pulled his mouth into a devilish smirk.

“A fabulous mind trick, Lord Kannoth! Truly, melodrama at its finest. Bu-t… We’ll take our chances,” he declared with quiet irreverence.

The impact of his words was immediate. The white light emanating from the runed walls shifted to blood-red, plunging the space into a sea of crimson. The army of the dead clattered their bones and weapons, snarling in rage, coiled in anticipation of their King’s command. Among them, the spawn stood still but ready.

“You would defile my Palace, turn it into an abattoir?” Kannoth hissed, stepping forward. “Your audacity knows no bounds! I shall enjoy carving out your brains and adding you to my army!”

No sooner had he finished his dark promise than the hall’s stillness shattered into a frenzy of motion.

Quick as lightning, Kannoth whipped his arm, hurling Boris straight toward Shadowheart. The bat flew at fearsome speed, but Astarion swiftly drew Bloodthirst and skewered the undead beast midflight, stopping him before he reached his target. As Boris shrieked, Kannoth’s and Astarion’s gazes clashed—a flash of surprise and acknowledgment. Astarion had drunk Kannoth’s blood; naturally, his reflexes were sharper than ever.

The pause was brief. Kannoth immediately began casting a spell while Astarion pried the bat from his dagger and tossed its weakened body aside. Gale and Shadowheart wasted no time: Gale cast Haste while Shadowheart cast Dispel Evil and Good, both targeting Jayme.

In the next moment, Jayme began his concert. His eyes scanned the room as his bow ricocheted across the strings, producing streams of rapid, precise notes. With each phrase, a spectral violin materialized. The technique was similar to the one he’d unveiled during their frolic at Duskbreak, though the essence of these hot-glowing ghost violins was different: they embodied pure, fiery blood—his Urge made manifest.

With just a thought, Jayme sent his spectral orchestra across the undead army, raining down notes, chords, and scales like a storm of infernal fire. Some melodies were gritty and intense, while others eerie, echoing with ghostly overtones, but each captivated the attention of the nearest undead. Then, in seamless synchrony, the individual melodies came to a halt, and each violin began to mirror the rhapsody Jayme was crafting. The entire army, along with the spawn, listened in mesmerized silence.

Jayme’s strategy was a transformed and elevated version of Hypnotic Pattern. He held Kannoth’s minions immobilized under his Charm while Solaufein—moving with the swiftness of a panther, thanks to the Haste spores he had scattered around his party as his opening move—darted from monster to monster. With each dexterous swing of his greatsword, Solaufein cut one down. At the same time, he moved among the spawn, knocking them unconscious one by one.

Much to his regret, Astarion couldn’t savor the brilliance of Jayme’s music. Kannoth, unaffected by the otherworldly tune, had finished casting Foresight and Simulacrum. The King gained the power to glimpse the immediate future—and an ice clone appeared beside him, echoing his power.

Both Kannoths fey stepped away from Gale’s and Leon’s Moonfire-infused Fireballs. The dazzling opalescent-white spheres plummeted harmlessly to the ground.

Gale promptly followed up with Dispel Magic aimed at the double. The original Kannoth thwarted it with a Counterspell.

Clicking his tongue, Gale prepared another attack on the double, but Astarion lost sight of him as he lunged at the Kannoth closer to him. Before his daggers could sink into the archfey’s flesh, Kannoth unleashed a vicious Psychic Scream. Astarion staggered, pain exploding in his skull as if it were about to burst.

Meanwhile, the second Kannoth smashed a vial of blood onto the granite floor. A wraith-like, winged shadow demon emerged from the spreading crimson pool and pounced on Shadowheart, its ghastly Abyssal claws tearing through her mithril chainmail. Shadowheart cried out as her arms were sliced open, and her Spear of Night slipped from her grasp. She whimpered, visibly shaken by both the physical pain and a deeper, mental torment.

Gale was quick to retaliate and blasted the demon with a Sunbeam. Leon struck from the side with Disintegrate.

The original Kannoth, still locked in combat with a writhing Astarion, turned his attention to Jayme then. He uttered a single, sibilant word—a corrupted version of Divine Word. The original spell, a holy incantation from the dawn of creation, was capable of breaking the weak-willed with its sheer power. Though this clerical magic was far beyond the reach of a vampire, Kannoth appeared to have twisted it for his own purposes, directing his unholy variant at his own army. The result was immediate: the weaker among his charmed minions—wights, ghouls, zombies, and hags—snapped out of their hypnosis.

“He deafened them!” Solaufein shouted to Jayme, breathing heavily as he continued his relentless assault.

The undead who regained their awareness all charged at Jayme. Shadowheart, having just healed herself and blinded the shadow demon with Sunburst, reacted nimbly and cast a Blade Barrier around Jayme—a wall of spinning, razor-sharp blades composed of magical energy. The less intelligent ones—the ghouls and zombies—walked right into the deadly trap. The hags and wights stopped in their tracks and prepared to launch ranged attacks on the bard. None of them could so much as scratch him, though, because Solaufein threw a few stalks of Twilight Burstcap in their midst, which Shadowheart promptly detonated with another surge of Moonfire.

The rhapsody carried on unperturbed, holding at bay the most formidable underlings of Kannoth’s army.

Kannoth huffed in frustration at his failed countermeasure, and finally, his pallid skin flushed to a deep coal black—his entire bearing now reflecting his fury.

As soon as that happened, the intangible chain holding Astarion immobile shattered. The rogue sprinted to the nearest undead—a lich—and decapitated it with a single deft slash of his daggers. The kill triggered the Deathstalker Mantle’s invisibility.

Astarion was on his way to stab the real Kannoth when, suddenly, he found himself enveloped in magical darkness and buffeted by a whirlwind. Each of the two Kannoths cast a horrific spell: Maddening Darkness and Investiture of Wind.

Shrieks, unintelligible raving, and frenzied laughter echoed within the turbulent space as Astarion was tossed around like a rag doll, disoriented and unable to tell up from down.

Panic constricted his throat in the blind blackness, until he heard Shadowheart’s soothing voice intoning a mystical incantation. A thick ray of divine light poured out from a single source, banishing the darkness as if it had never existed. The radiant sphere of Shadowheart’s Holy Aura blinded everyone in the hall for a moment.

The disruption caused the winds to wane. Without missing a beat, Astarion seized the opportunity to land a deep stab in Kannoth’s shoulder. Kannoth’s body jerked and he grunted but otherwise betrayed no sign of pain. When Astarion thrust with his other blade, even the grunt was absent. Kannoth’s form flickered, then vanished. It had been a Mislead spell.

The real Kannoth, bearing a stab wound in his shoulder, was now a significant distance away from everyone. He had apparently fey stepped to safety.

This was the chance! Astarion glanced at his three casters to see if they noticed. The shadow demon had been pushed back into the Abyss through Gale and Leon’s efforts by then, allowing them to refocus on Kannoth.

It was part of their pre-planned strategy: Leon cast Fire Storm, and Gale followed with Wall of Fire, both centered on the archfey. Shadowheart enhanced the elements with a Moonfire.

Every inch around the King blazed with fiery white moonlight.

Kannoth, like a devil immersed in hellflames, stood upright amid the excruciating flames until they died down. His hair was on fire, and he was scorched from head to toe, but he remained disturbingly stoic. Only a low, ominous growl rumbled from him.

“Tired yet, your Majesty? Shall we break for a while?” Astarion taunted with a gloating grin before tightening his grip on his blades and sprinting toward the archfey.

But Kannoth’s blood-red eyes didn’t fixate on the rogue’s approaching figure. Instead, they were locked on the bard still performing the rhapsody that was freezing his army, his pride, in place.

Kannoth recited a short incantation and slapped his palms together. In that instant, the granite floor slipped from under Astarion’s feet. He was flung upside down by a terrible force, a Whirlwind—incomparably more dynamic than the previous spell. An alarmed cry burst from his lips, and from the familiar voices shouting nearby, it was clear his companions had become caught in the same vortex. Like leaves in the wind, they were whipped around.

But the most distressing part wasn’t the tempest—it was the abrupt silence beyond the howling winds. Jayme’s rhapsody seemed to have come to an end.

No.

Astarion needed to escape. Immediately. He couldn’t see anything in the torrent of colors and blurred shapes, but the sounds of a struggle reached his ears through the violent whistling.

No, no, no, no no no no!

After battling what felt like an eternity against the whirlwind, Astarion finally rippled his body in time to break the cycle and escape the mighty pull of the wind. Landing on his feet beside the vortex, his eyes darted around, searching for Jayme.

His dizziness intensified as he took in the scene before him: a charred Kannoth feeding from Jayme’s neck, the jet-black violin and bow lying abandoned on the floor. The fiery ghost orchestra had faded away. Meanwhile, Kannoth’s duplicate was entangled in combat with Solaufein off to the side. The army of the dead was lethargically awakening from their music-induced stupor.

Astarion’s whole world narrowed to the sound of a frantic hammering. Thump. Thump. Thump.

What is that?

He was already stumbling toward Jayme before he realized the sounds were Jayme’s last heartbeats.

“It’s just a heart,” Jayme smirked, glancing up as he laced his doublet.

“No, darling, it’s your heart, and there isn’t another like it in all the realms.”

Their carefree conversation from a few tendays ago resurfaced in Astarion’s agonized mind—a stab to the chest.

Then, the last beat reached his ears.

He refused to believe it. The last one.

But it was the cruel truth. He had just heard Jayme’s final heartbeat—it was his now, but not in the way he’d imagined.

Kannoth dropped the bard’s limp body and drew back just as Astarion reached them. With the archfey’s concentration broken, the Whirlwind had tapered off.

But the King wasn’t finished yet.

“I wish for Jayme, Son of Bhaal, to perish with no means of being brought back to the living,” he uttered with soft malice.

An icy draft swept through the hall once again, and this time, its nature was unmistakable. The ancient whisper of the Weave, the binding enigma of the Wish spell.

There was no resistance, no delay.

Then came a whimper as Astarion fell to his knees, cradling the lifeless body in his arms. The sound was his own. He shook his head in tortured disbelief.

He stared at Jayme’s face, his unseeing ice-blue eyes, touched his still lips, slightly parted in surprise.

I don’t understand, he thought, shaking his head over and over again. Was this another illusory spell? Or had the Whirlwind scrambled his mind?

He found no explanation that made sense—only quiet, unspeakable chaos within. But outside, the world was loud and brutally simple.

It's my fault. I brought him here. I let him down. I should have kept Shadowheart close to him, I should have… He lashed out at himself in delirium, unable to tear his gaze from those glassy blue eyes.

Someone shook him by the shoulders. He absently looked up to see Solaufein calling to him, desperately trying to bring him back to reality.

“We must handle the undead! Nothing holds them at bay anymore! Astarion!” The drow’s usually calm, pleasant baritone was warped by pain and urgency.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Astarion slurred. In reality, he had no idea what Solaufein expected him to do.

But then, he felt a bite inside—a bestial, visceral sensation gnawing at his gut, his mind, and his bleeding heart. He winced, almost without realizing it.

Kannoth’s head on a pike, the intangible presence hissed into his thoughts between two bites.

“Astarion!!” Solaufein shouted into his face.

The blood in his veins began to boil. This was familiar—not from direct experience, but from Jayme’s account.

Oh, you must be the Dark Urge, Astarion addressed the entity lurking in his mind.

Drink, came the terse, growling response.

What? Astarion asked dully, still reeling. Wine?

Make it yours. Use me, was the brusque instruction.

And then, it clicked.

Grim determination seized Astarion’s senses, a fragile veneer over the storm of anguish within. The void where his heart should have been ached, but he pushed it down, wrapping the pain in the folds of his searing hatred and desperation.

I have to make this right, he thought. The words burned with an almost unbearable intensity.

“Yes,” he said to Solaufein, forcing steadiness into his voice to show he was back in control.

His eyes fixed on Kannoth’s blackened form. The archfey was hunched over from the considerable aftereffects of his Wish, but a pleased smile graced his charred lips.

“I trust you’ve said your farewells?” he mocked in a somewhat strained voice. “He was a strong one, I must concede. I will do him the honor of remembering him for perhaps a decade or so. Unlike you, Szarr offspring. You shall fade into shadow and eternal obscurity today.”

“Did you know,” Astarion asked with a distant, almost playful tone, his fingers unconsciously stroking Jayme’s already cooling neck, “you gave me excellent advice after you fulfilled your deal with Jayme?”

He was aware that by now, the entire army stood at attention, eagerly awaiting orders to strike. On the edge of his vision, he saw Gale, Shadowheart, and Leon standing in battle stances, stunned and staring at him in shock. They were oblivious to the bloodthirsty monstrosity simmering beneath Astarion’s calm exterior.

Kannoth remained silent, but the glee had evaporated from his face. He must have felt something.

Astarion’s gaze dropped to the pale neck under his hand. The fang marks Kannoth left on its left side were a ghastly brand, a violation of the worst kind. For a moment, Astarion could almost feel Cazador’s marks twinge.

“Jayme’s blood is exquisite.” He lowered his head slowly. “It’s unique,” he whispered against the cool skin. “It’s a weapon.”

The two Kannoths moved simultaneously, but Astarion had already given the instruction by the time their incantations began.

“Gale! Reverse Gravity, now!”

The wizard didn’t waste a second. He chose an area that encompassed both the archfey and his duplicate. In the blink of an eye, both were hurtling toward the ceiling, their spells left unspoken.

Solaufein brandished his sword, dropped into a low stance, and sprang forward, slashing through the legs of the undead minions lunging at them.

Astarion latched onto Jayme’s neck, drawing deep, desperate mouthfuls of blood—Kannoth had drained Jayme’s life with his necrotic curse, but there was still blood left. Sweetness spread on Astarion’s tongue and through his limbs. The void inside him stung, ached, twisted, but it was necessary. Everything depended on this act.

He drained as much of Jayme’s blood as he could. After that, he gently lowered Jayme to the floor and took his violin in his hand. The scroll had been damaged when it fell onto the granite floor, but otherwise, the instrument was intact and fit for playing.

A wrathful roar erupted to his right, and Astarion turned just in time to see Kannoth returning to the ground as Gale released the spell and urgently engaged the undead army.

“This is my rhapsody,” Astarion whispered, staring right into Kannoth’s furious red eyes as he glided the bow across the strings.

Low tones sprang forth from the instrument, beginning with dark and somber passages. The tune was nowhere near as sophisticated as Jayme’s, but it was instinctive and imposing. Astarion focused on the fury and misery inside, funneling it carefully and feeling out how he could work with the Urge.

The presence in his mind thrashed, primed for violence.

A bite.

Followed by a frenzy of bites, countless punctures, stings, gnashes, rips—his own deepest, most animalistic impulses. And the Urge could empower and unleash them.

Astarion turned blazing red eyes toward the beholder preparing to shoot him with a vicious eye ray. Increasing the force on the bow, he hammered into the strings, driving the music to a thunderous peak. Then, a shade of himself lashed out: he ferociously bit the beholder’s large, milky central eye. Barehanded, he clawed at the other eyestalks, tearing through those that hadn't yet decayed into useless appendages. Within moments, the beholder was reduced to ribbons of dead meat.

All the while Astarion’s physical body continued to play the violin.

Looks like we’re going to get along just fine, Astarion purred inwardly to the Urge, which was already coiled for the next attack. He returned his gaze to the vampire King.

Kannoth observed what this new power made Astarion capable of and chose to counter with an Enervation spell. A thread of dark inkiness extended from his fingers, ensnaring Astarion’s body in a necrotic curse. The intent was clear: disrupt the performance.

But this curse was nothing compared to the agony Astarion was trapped in after watching Jayme die before his eyes. His skin prickled and throbbed, turning an angry red, yet it wasn’t enough to make him miss a single note.

On the contrary, it only fueled his hunger for vengeance. Some part of him even welcomed the pain.

I have to make this right, the words echoed incessantly in his ears.

He attacked the strings with vigor and struck: his jaws clamped down on Kannoth’s scorched neck for an exhilarating instant. The bitter taste was oddly enjoyable on his tongue. 

But the archfey quickly leaped out of range, retreating behind the protective wall of his army.

Astarion’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “So be it,” he yelled. “I’ll tear your forces apart until none are left but you!”

Drawing on his memory of Jayme’s playing during the battle with the Netherbrain, Astarion shifted to a harsh, forceful bowing that gave his music a raw, textured edge. The foreboding melody steadily climbed toward a roaring crescendo. The vibratos, which he hadn’t been able to fully master yet, now came as easily as a smile. His hand found the positions that had troubled him for a long time—it all felt natural; pure instinct.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gale cast Draconic Transformation—a high-level spell held in reserve for the peak of battle. Purple scales rippled over his skin, and majestic bright-purple dragon wings sprouted from his back as soon as the enchantment was complete. At once, he shot across the hall, breathing shimmering rays of energy at Kannoth’s underlings one by one. A larger attack might have been possible, but the spawn were too closely mingled with their enemies.

Similarly, Solaufein and Leon were tackling the undead one at a time—Solaufein with his sword and Leon with fire spells—taking care to neutralize the vampire spawn without killing them.

Empowered by Otherworldly Form, Shadowheart soared on magnificent spectral wings, fully immune to necrotic energy. She dove into the thick of battle and launched a cascade of fluid spear strikes against the swarm of foes, coordinating seamlessly with Solaufein.

Kannoth continued to invoke dreadful spells against Astarion from a safe distance, such as Sickening Radiance and Synaptic Static. The former was a tainted form of radiant energy, the latter a pure psychic explosion. He sacrificed pawns and inflicted injuries on himself in a relentless bid to kill the rogue, knowing each spell following a Wish came with a heavy toll.

Desperation. Astarion noted it with dark satisfaction. Good.

Even as pain sang up both his arms, he persisted in unfolding his rhapsody, biting and eliminating undead after undead.

The liches were especially tough, summoning lesser undead and casting Finger of Death at Astarion. These attacks had to be deflected at all costs, so Astarion frequently hurled Cutting Words to bewilder them.

“Oi, ugly! Even Hell’d gag on your bedeviled stench!”

The resulting confusion gave him just enough of an opening to finish the liches off—a feat made possible only by the Urge’s savage bloodlust and Astarion’s resilience.

Soon, the crimson lights of the great hall illuminated a carpet of decaying bodies, with fewer and fewer enemies left standing despite the constant waves of new attackers pouring into the chamber.

How long did the carnage last? Astarion had lost all sense of time, all sense of his own body. He was numb, thoroughly and woefully numb, but the purpose kept him playing and killing like a juggernaut.

He envisioned Cazador’s spiteful grins and cackles to spur himself on. This butchery was a living metaphor: Astarion saw the shadow of Cazador’s tyranny in Kannoth, and he burned to erase it once more.

The moment was revelatory. Now, he could finally, truly understand Jayme’s drive—to fight oppression, to make ruthless, power-drunk god-like beings rage in frustration.

Yes, darling, he thought. We’ll do just that, you and I. Right after I gut His Majesty.

His companions, legendary warriors though they were, were swiftly reaching their limit. Their strikes and spells had turned sluggish, and Astarion found himself repeatedly stepping in to finish off opponents who were blindsiding them. Acknowledging the situation, Astarion fought to maintain full control of the battlefield, intervening where he needed to—and where the Urge whispered it was necessary.

Eventually, the army had dwindled, leaving only one figure staggering to his feet: Jayme’s reanimated body.

“No… No, how dare you…!” Astarion groaned, scanning for the puppet master but seeing nothing.

The corpse lunged forward, taking advantage of Astarion’s disorientation. It landed a jarring blow to the rogue’s face and wrenched the bow from his hand. Astarion narrowly managed to retain his hold on the violin, falling back, unsteady on his feet.

The corpse hesitated. It stared blankly at the bow in its grasp, then made a shocking move: it cast off its vambrace and began tearing at its own bare skin with magic-infused nails.

Astarion felt a wave of nausea wash over him as muscle was shredded away to reveal blood-soaked tendons. “Shit… stop that…,” he whimpered, eyes wide with horror.

How disgraceful. And inventive, the Urge growled in his mind.

Stop him, Astarion demanded.

Only you can.

Jayme’s lifeless face remained expressionless as he bent down to breathe an icy puff of air onto his jagged wound. His tendons immediately hardened from the frost, emitting shrill cries as the corpse drew the bow over them. The musical assault inflicted sharp gashes on Astarion’s skin.

The noise and the pain finally brought Astarion back to his senses. With trembling fingers, he clutched the violin and plucked the strings feverishly.

He didn’t want to defile Jayme’s body. The thought horrified him to his core. Each new cut his pizzicato opened on Jayme’s grayish skin stung Astarion just as much. But he needed to win, to make this right.

And the Urge aided him. It understood that Astarion forbade maiming Jayme, so they wore him down through slices and punctures until the dark magic animating his body finally unraveled.

Jayme collapsed onto the floor.

Astarion ceased his performance and stumbled over to him, staring in disbelief at the scarred face. Nothing came to mind; words like “forgive me” felt hollow. His own freshly opened wounds throbbed, but that was inconsequential.

He forced himself back to reality and assessed the scene. Solaufein, Shadowheart, and Gale were panting raggedly and wobbling on their feet. They had sustained severe injuries and the last of their magical enhancements had dissipated. Leon was bracing himself on one knee, his pale face turned ashen.

Only the two Kannoths remained, standing firm at opposite ends of the hall. For a moment, no one moved, each watching the others, waiting to see what would happen next.

The standstill was broken by a squeal as Boris plummeted from above, flying lopsided. His target was Leon’s neck. As was to be expected, Leon could no longer put up any resistance. He merely groaned as the bat fastened itself to his chest and sank its fangs into his neck.

Then, out of nowhere, a spectral skeleton hand appeared beside the pair, grabbing and crushing the bat in its grasp. Moments later, Petras materialized close by. He must have been invisibly present for some time, though how long was anyone’s guess. His spell was a necromancy cantrip—Chill Touch. Astarion might have snickered if the situation allowed it.

At the same time, a sharp crash of glass turned everyone’s attention across the hall. Simulacrum Kannoth let out a snarl of pure frustration as he clawed at a newly appeared Dalyria, only to freeze in place. A bright orange cloud swirled where he had stood just seconds before.

“Ascomoid spores?” Solaufein muttered, leaning on his greatsword while nursing his badly bleeding thigh. “A nasty gift from the Underdark.”

With duplicate Kannoth rendered harmless, Dalyria swiftly pulled out a small dagger and stabbed him amidst frenzied screams. She kept at it until the magical ice melted and disappeared.

Astarion locked eyes with the real Kannoth. He shut out everything and everyone else. It was his duty alone to end the King. With deliberate slowness, he crouched, setting the violin beside Jayme, then stood and unsheathed Rhapsody.

They charged at each other, trampling over corpses and unconscious spawn, and clashed in the middle in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Their vampiric reflexes matched in precision. Astarion’s blade sliced into blistered black skin, while Kannoth’s claws ripped through Astarion’s chainmail as if it were mere linen. Within a minute, both were covered in fresh lacerations.

Astarion made the first mistake: he managed to dodge a savage slash from the right but failed to evade a fist coming from above. The impact upended his world, leaving him helpless as the second blow smashed into his face. Something cracked inside his jaw. His ears rang madly.

“You impudent scum!” the King’s thunderous curse cut through the aggravating internal noise. “You dare fancy yourself my equal?! I made you. I am the King of Cendriane, forged in the crucible of the Crown Wars. Millennia have bowed before me; your city's founder wasn't even whelped when I defended mine! I shall not suffer defeat from a miserable fledgling like you!”

Blood seeped into Astarion’s eyes from his forehead, but he could still see the King's subtly slumped shoulders, bent back, and shifting weight—details that betrayed his weakened condition despite the force of his words.

“And yet, you are not winning,” Astarion countered, his voice somewhat shaky but still brazen. With every ounce of his strength, he strained to keep from staggering and stood ramrod straight in front of the archfey. “Are you afraid of death? Will your soul be destroyed, or condemned to some evil plane, I wonder?”

“Save your breath, for it might be your last,” Kannoth hissed.

“You were the one who launched into a pompous bluster, Your Majesty,” Astarion retorted, then tipped his head back and snorted. “Hah! Jayme was right—leadership and mouthiness do often go together. ‘Mouthier than an arse and twice as full of shite,’ as he likes to say.”

Naturally, the taunt provoked an immediate response.

But by the time the King initiated another flurry of attacks, Astarion was ready. Nimbly evading and parrying the incoming barehanded strikes, in a blink, he flipped from defense to offense and thrust Rhapsody into Kannoth’s descending left palm. He then gripped Bloodthirst and drove it into Kannoth’s right palm in one fluid motion. Finally, he pulled his Sussur dagger from his vambrace and rammed it into Kannoth’s neck. A few deft twists rent the neck open, and the head fell onto a nearby zombie’s back with a wet thump.

Astarion let out a long, bestial roar that came from the depths of his soul as his murderous urges surged to their climax.

Through harsh, uneven breaths, he looked at his companions one by one. They all gazed back with spent but triumphant expressions. Petras appeared to have prevailed over Boris, who lay splayed out on the floor—a fact that filled Astarion with an absurd sense of pride.

Before saying anything, they each drained the last of their healing potions.

“My dears, I believe this is what they call–” Astarion was about to make a self-satisfied remark—though his frazzled spirit and aching jaw muscles allowed little satisfaction. But before he could finish, a dire premonition struck him.

The air seemed to curdle with unknown, warped magic.

“Wait…” Gale warned, raising a hand. Clearly, he too sensed the ominous signs.

Something sinister moved through the catacombs like a specter, drawing closer.

Solaufein was the first to grasp the situation.

“Clone,” the drow murmured. He drew his sword again with an uncharacteristic lack of his usual grace.

Shadowheart and Gale snapped upright, looking haggard as they tried to prepare themselves. Dalyria raced across the hall to grab Petras’ hand and drag him out of the center. Leon remained on one knee, his face scrunched in pain, evidently suffering from wounds too serious to move.

A great black bat soared into the hall, landing beside Jayme’s body. In an instant, it transformed into a perfectly healthy, poised Kannoth. Astarion’s stomach roiled with bitter despair. His gaze shot to the violin by the King’s feet, and within a heartbeat, the inevitable happened.

Kannoth held up a hand, conjuring a Fireball that danced on his palm. He spun it around playfully for a moment before flipping his hand downward. The Fireball crashed into the violin, mercilessly consuming the beautiful jet-black wood. Though reinforced with magic, Astarion knew at once the violin was too damaged to make music again in this combat.

“I once knew a bard with a rather intriguing perspective on music,” Kannoth remarked, exuding sickly smugness as he shifted his gaze between his enemies. “She claimed that music, at its core, embodies death. Music stands as the supreme art form, unbound by imagery or matter. This quality makes it, above all other arts, the most intimately connected to death. I found her views high-flown at the time, but they now seem quite compelling.”

Mocking glee shone in his grayish-blue eyes as they flicked to Jayme, then back to Astarion’s party.

“Celebrating so soon? It seems rather premature,” he sneered. “Surely, you didn't think victory would come so easily. After all, some of you have faced an archfey before. Although, your champion is a tad too deceased to offer any counsel on the matter.”

He prodded Jayme’s head to the side with the tip of his boot.

Fury ignited within Astarion, sending his blood boiling and stirring up the Dark Urge again. He gripped his daggers to—

To do what? Strike at an unscathed, rejuvenated vampire lord? Sheer stupidity. Suicide.

Silence him—now, the beast hissed in his mind, seething at the hesitation.

That simple command swept away the quicksand of despair and indecision.

Yes… that’s the only way, isn’t it, Astarion thought, pressing his lips together in consideration. He stowed his weapons once more, earning an arched eyebrow from the King. But how do I do it?

Use your surroundings. Use me, the Urge rasped.

Following the guidance, Astarion’s eyes fell on Boris, lying next to Leon.

“Pin him down!” he shouted and frantically searched his bag of holding for his own violin.

Solaufein swooped at Kannoth, scattering a new batch of Haste spores around himself. But it was in vain; the archfey countered with the devastating Power Word: Kill—a death sentence for the weakened drow. Solaufein collapsed before reaching Kannoth and did not rise again.

A spine-chilling scream echoed through the hall, followed by a blinding flash of silver-white light—both emanating from Shadowheart. Her Spear of Night clattered to the floor. A moment later, she wielded a mighty Moonfire-infused mace and a carved metal wand, seemingly conjured from thin air. It appeared she had called upon her goddess for a divine blessing.

Astarion set his violin on his shoulder, preparing his bow. He watched as the cleric, teeth bared and eyes blazing white, passed the wand to Gale, then charged at Kannoth with an unnatural speed, like a vengeful aasimar.

The King cast Blade of Disaster, cleaving two blade-shaped rifts into the very fabric of the plane and wielding them as twin swords. As Shadowheart closed in, he fluidly dodged her furious mace strikes, maintaining his defense until he spotted an opening. He aimed a wicked slash at the cleric, but Shadowheart, with quick reflexes, slammed her glowing mace into Kannoth’s side.

The archfey’s flesh was ravaged by the Moonfire, but he bore it with barely more than a wince. At the same time, the savage energy of the Blade left a gruesome vertical cut from Shadowheart’s collarbone to her thigh.

To make matters worse, Shadowheart had barely any time to catch her breath before Kannoth fey stepped away and cast Maze, banishing her into a labyrinthine demiplane.

Gale took advantage of the moment to release a raging column of Moonfire from the wand Shadowheart had handed him. The beam lanced through the air toward Kannoth, only to collide with a Wall of Bones that sprang up just steps from the archfey. The white bones blackened under the violent flames.

Astarion caught all this from the corner of his eye, but his attention was focused on Boris. Recalling the countless times he had seen Jayme set his Urge upon their enemies, he began to play a sinister, dissonant melody—both unsettling and captivating. His goal: to unleash that Bhaalian blasphemy, the utter negation of life, and bring the undead bat under his control. 

Resurrect him? No. Simply to use him.

The violin’s unearthly notes flowed like red wine from a silver carafe into Boris’ lifeless husk, reanimating him as Astarion’s puppet. His tiny eyes flared with the same blood-red glow Jayme’s had when the Urge had gripped him in the past.

Astarion smiled. I’ve got this, Jayme, he thought. Lend me your strength so I can make this right.

As Kannoth’s Wall of Bones crumbled into ash beneath the silver flames, the archfey began casting again. Astarion didn’t hesitate. He gave Boris the command.

Up. At his throat!

The execution was nearly too fast to follow. Boris leaped into the air, straight as an arrow, and sank his teeth into his King’s neck, tearing out a crucial part for any spellcaster: his larynx.

The way the King whirled on his feet, snatching the bat and severing its head with a single yank, was delightfully dramatic and efficient, albeit too late. His movements were erratic, graceless. He gaped in helpless bewilderment, clutching at his mangled throat, unable to produce any sound except for a low rasp.

Death rattle—the phrase came to Astarion’s mind, flooding him with an unadulterated sense of elation.

Kannoth took a few faltering steps, incredulous and livid, until his feet caught on a corpse, sending him lurching forward. His torn larynx rasped in rage. Losing his balance jolted him back to the fight, and in the next instant, he threw himself at Astarion.

The rogue backpedaled immediately, managing to shove the violin into his bag before crossing Bloodthirst and Rhapsody in front of him to fend off Kannoth’s claws—fierce as ten Menzoberranzani daggers—as they slashed toward him.

Now, it was a contest of pure agility and willpower—a final fight for dominance where a single misstep could be fatal.

Kannoth moved with supernatural speed. His claws cut through the air, each strike threatening to maul flesh to tatters. Every time Astarion parried, the high-pitched scrape of claws against metal rang out across the hall, setting the rhythm for their wild danse macabre. With every calculated move, Astarion danced around Kannoth, seeking a gap in his defense. But this time, neither could find a clear advantage. The spinning blades glistened in the blood-red murk of the hall.

Astarion sensed, more than saw, Gale’s readiness nearby, as well as Shadowheart’s, who had evidently outsmarted the Maze spell in the meantime. But there was no room for their interference, nor did Astarion wish for it. He held fast to the conviction that Kannoth's death had to come by his own hand.

Which sounds oh so simple, but how in the Abyss can I beat him? He racked his brain for anything that might tip the scales, gritting his teeth and rallying every last ounce of resolve to maintain his defensive stance. He was pushing himself to the brink, and unless he found an edge on Kannoth soon, his body would give out.

The answer came to him in Jayme's ever-composed voice: deception and cunning, obviously.

Of course! You know me so well, Astarion purred inwardly. Whether it was truly Jayme’s spirit or just his own desperate imagination, he couldn’t be sure.

In the next second, he deliberately left his left side weakly guarded. Predictably cautious, Kannoth ignored the opening through his first four attacks, but on the fifth, he finally struck at Astarion’s left ribcage. Astarion pounced on the opportunity, jabbing at Kannoth’s burnt right side without hesitation. As expected, his move had been part of the archfey’s calculation, and it earned Astarion a brutal slice across his forearms, cutting straight through the chainmail.

Kannoth also anticipated Astarion’s deceptive footwork. Reeling from his injuries, Astarion feigned a sudden retreat to lure Kannoth forward. Then, in a split-second reversal, he dove back, thrusting his bloodied arms forward to stab at Kannoth’s neck. Kannoth dodged but sank all ten claws deep into Astarion’s torso.

What the archfey hadn’t foreseen was that this move played right into Astarion’s strategy. It closed the distance and occupied both of Kannoth’s hands, leaving his mutilated neck invitingly exposed to Astarion’s fangs.

The bite came at the cost of his stomach being rended open, but the sacrifice was necessary. In a desperate tangle of arms, he held Kannoth long enough to drain him nearly unconscious.

“Lo and behold, you were right, Lord Kannoth,” Astarion growled into the King’s ear while he still could, his gaze boring into the half-closed, grayish-blue eyes. “Music is intimately connected to death—yours.” After a beat, he hissed, “Give my regards to Cazador Szarr if you see him.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than he collapsed. Kannoth’s limp body hit the ground beside him with a heavy thud.

A bitter cry caught Astarion’s ears even as his consciousness flickered in and out. On the edge of his vision, he saw Shadowheart appear and furiously pummel Kannoth’s body with her Moonfire Mace.

“That’s right, keep at it… can’t be too sure,” Astarion mumbled before closing his eyes.

“Hold on, Astarion!” Gale shouted.

“I’m fine. Just uh,… taking a quick rest… Heal me, will you?” Astarion slurred, feeling warm hands tending to his body.

The gashes in his stomach ached so intensely that every other sensation felt almost pleasant—amusing even—by comparison. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, tickling him. A bony arm jabbed into his back—he had apparently slumped onto the pungent corpse of a wight. Hardly an ideal bedroll, but it would have to do for now.

“Brother!” Dalyria’s voice called from close by, laden with pain. 

She does have a good heart, perhaps the best of us all, Astarion thought.

“Bury Jayme,” he murmured, drawing from the last dregs of his strength. “Put me on top of the grave. Please. Please…”

At this point, Astarion’s awareness faded. He surrendered to the pull of unconsciousness and drifted into a dreamless, profound sleep.

Chapter 26: II - So embrace the darkness

Summary:

So embrace the darkness
And I will help you see
That you can be limitless
And fearless
If you follow me

We are the lions
In a world of lambs
We are the predators

The hunters

Karliene - Become the Beast

Astarion woke to the jolting array of dangerous scents—soil, lichen, mushrooms, bitter flowers, and most prominently, Kannoth’s blood. He instinctively kept his eyes shut, unsure if it was safe to reveal that he was awake.

Beneath his closed eyelids, though, he felt a surge of life essence coursing through his veins, making him feel more revitalized than ever before. The agonizing pain in his stomach was gone, as if it had never been real, and so was the soreness in his muscles from the grueling exertions of the past hours. Hours…? How long had he been out?

He was in the Feydark—that much was certain. The faint hum of a portal resonated from close by, confirming he was in their camp again, right next to the spider-web gateway.

Soft voices reached his ears. Straining to catch their words, his nerves eased as he recognized the familiar, comforting voices of Gale and Shadowheart in quiet conversation.

“I believe he will, Shadowheart,” Gale said with conviction. “It should be a natural process. Well, natural in the sense that this is how vampirism works. Why wouldn’t the rules apply to him? He died after being bitten by Kannoth.”

“And that Wish…?” Shadowheart asked, her tone skeptical and unsettled.

“The Wish was worded as such: ‘I wish for Jayme, Son of Bhaal, to perish with no means of being brought back to the living.’ That doesn’t state anywhere that he cannot become undead,” Gale reminded her.

“I still have a very bad feeling about this,” Shadowheart sighed.

“Of course you do,” Solaufein said quietly. “He just died irreversibly; that is a fact. But remember what they said back in Astrazalian?”

He’s alive. Ah, thank his Moon goddess, Astarion thought, deeply relieved. Or rather, thank our cleric.

“Astarion would have turned him eventually, anyway. Yes,” Shadowheart begrudgingly acknowledged.

“Besides, it makes all the sense in the world if you think about it,” Gale added. “Kannoth surely intended for Jayme to become part of his forces. He was known for gathering valuable assets when and wherever he could—his whole scheming with the spawn stemmed from his greed.”

“So he’ll… rise as Kannoth’s spawn, then?” Shadowheart asked, clearly finding the notion distasteful. Who could blame her? 

Astarion chose this moment to break his silence. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and addressed his friends with a light tone.

“Indeed, he will. But he’ll rise into the most fortunate form a newborn vampire could hope for: a spawn without a master.”

Three concerned faces turned toward him at once, and three voices asked if he was alright. They gathered around him, ready to help, but feeling lithe and graceful, he stood on his own.

“You’re all incredibly sweet, but I’m fine. Thanks. Now, on to more important matters,” Astarion said, glancing first at Solaufein. “Glad to have you back in this world, honey.”

“Thank you. I owe Shadowheart for that,” the drow replied, casting an affectionate look at the cleric. She took his hand, lacing their fingers together.

“As do I, I suppose,” Astarion said with a smile at the heartwarming gesture before turning to Shadowheart. “Thank you.” 

He said it in the simplest way he could, despite his blood pulsing with all the fire and formidable power of a vampire lord.

“No need. It’s only natural,” Shadowheart shrugged in a charmingly nonchalant way.

“Were you also the one who wiped me clean?” Astarion asked. He realized only now that he was mostly clean of the grime of battle.

“No, that was Dalyria,” Shadowheart replied.

Astarion widened his smile briefly before turning serious again, eager to clarify the situation. 

“Where’s Kannoth’s body?”

“We burned it. Both, actually,” Shadowheart said.

“Smart,” Astarion sighed in relief.

“But before that,” Gale interjected with a measure of pride, “I took some of his hair and claws. We can barter them for something valuable.” 

“Very clever of you! Something valuable, like fixing a burned violin, perhaps? If such a thing is even possible,” Astarion said ruefully. He could already imagine how dejected Jayme would be when he learned what had happened. Again. He clenched his jaw, suppressing a pang of sorrow, then quietly asked, “How long has it been since our great showdown?”

“Almost a day by now, I think. Hard to tell down here,” Shadowheart replied, squinting up at the cavern’s roof.

“The spawn. Are they safe?” Astarion asked.

“They are,” the cleric nodded. “Dalyria and the others are tending to the ones Kannoth used against us in Cendriane. Leon and Gale have mapped the catacombs for the rest.” 

“They were scattered, wandering unguarded and disoriented once the hypnosis broke,” Gale said. “Leon took it upon himself to organize them.”

“There may be other undead lurking in Cendriane,” Astarion remarked grimly. “It’s dangerous to leave them to their own devices.”

“In the forest-infested part of the city, yes, giant spiders, specters, and other creatures are on the prowl,” Solaufein agreed. “But as for the Crystalline Palace, I searched it myself and found nothing but dead stillness.”

“Truly dead?” Astarion pressed.

“Truly. Trust me, I was thorough,” Solaufein assured him.

“I trust you,” Astarion said with an easy smile, then turned to the most important matter of all. “And Jayme…?”

“We buried him like you asked,” Gale confirmed. “He is right… there, below you.”

With a hint of discomfort, he gestured toward Astarion’s feet. 

“In a coffin?” Astarion asked.

“Naturally,” Gale nodded. “Dalyria kindly retrieved one for us.”

Finally, Astarion sighed from the bottom of his heart, and lowered himself back onto the ground. The bald patch of earth amidst the lush lichen and mushrooms clearly marked the position and dimensions of Jayme’s casket.

The sight stirred a torrent of difficult and awfully ambiguous emotions, but Astarion held back from delving into them. I need to see his face first, he thought. To smell his scent, feel his temperature. To taste his blood.

The last notion sent a shiver up his spine—whether from anticipation or dread, he wasn’t sure.

“Almost a day has passed,” he mumbled to himself, softly laying his hand on the cold, black earth as if touching the bard directly. “It could be any minute now… So, all the spawn are in Cendriane?”

Best to keep his mind occupied until it happens.

“Yes. Your siblings have been coming and going, reporting on the situation,” Shadowheart said. “They promised not to set foot outside the Palace until we rejoin them.”

“If we manage to make the city safe for them,” Astarion mused, “they could live there permanently. After the baleful, twisting depths of the Underdark, it would be a welcome change, I imagine.”

“Perhaps. But Cendriane is still frequently targeted by adventurers seeking treasure and fame,” Solaufein warned. “Security would need to be meticulously planned.”

“Actually—” Gale began, but Astarion suddenly held up a silencing hand.

There was a faint rustle from below—hands scratching and boots thudding against wood.

Unmistakable.

“Hang on, I’ll get you out of there!” Astarion shouted as he quickly began digging with his bare hands. “I won’t have you choking on dirt like I did.”

“Umm, Astarion?” Shadowheart called from the side, offering him a shovel.

“Oh! How convenient. Thanks!” Astarion accepted the tool and silently cursed himself for soiling his hands in his haste. How many treasure chests had they dug up since the nautiloid crash? Of course they had shovels in reserve!

Without delay, Solaufein grabbed one too.

Despite Astarion’s elevated vampiric strength, the digging felt slower than before. Gale had apparently given Jayme a proper burial six feet under, for which Astarion was grateful. It called for a token of appreciation later—the library of Cendriane would do nicely.

Shadowheart and Gale watched tensely from the side as, bit by bit, the simple wooden coffin came into view.

"Almost there..." Astarion muttered under his breath, widening the hole until he could grip the rim of the lid and brace his legs beside the coffin.

Once his grip was secure, he signaled for Solaufein to stop, then climbed into the hole. Seizing the lid firmly, he heaved it up, peeling it off with a single strong motion. He passed it to Shadowheart and Gale, who stood ready to take it.

Jayme shot upright, alarm written across his face as he took sharp, rapid breaths. His eyes flitted around, taking in the coffin, his own body, the hole, and Astarion’s legs set wide apart. Finally, his gaze found Astarion’s.

Every wound Astarion had inflicted was gone without a trace, including the jagged gash on the inside of his left forearm. His skin was now flawless and pale as moonlight, standing in stark contrast to the indigo hue of his raven hair and the elven chainmail he wore. The paleness only accentuated his sculpted features and the intensity of his gaze, giving him an otherworldly allure. His lips parted just enough for his fangs to show.

And his eyes—How I’ll miss those beautiful, violet-rimmed ice-blue eyes, Astarion thought with sorrow as he studied the new, vivid vermilion irises, so unfamiliar, yet agonizingly familiar.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Astarion asked softly, his gaze lingering on Jayme’s transformed appearance.

Jayme stood, his movements stiff with discomfort. His brow furrowed as though he were in pain, which  he probably was, in every twisted sense of the word.

Astarion understood it all too well. The sensation of one's body becoming an alien shell—a prison of dead flesh, heavy and lumbering, with silent veins and a still heart. For all the immediate beauty and glamor of vampirekind, the experience of awakening was anything but beautiful or glamorous.

“Thirsty,” Jayme rasped with quiet desperation, reflecting on the question at length before settling on his answer.

At this, Astarion stepped into the coffin, positioning himself in front of Jayme, and ran a hand through his dark locks to soothe both the bard and himself. He inspected the fresh fang marks on the left side of Jayme’s neck—the imprint of Kannoth, opposite the ones from Cazador on his own. The wound still seemed to seep a strange, dark energy, though perhaps it was just his perception. Regardless, it would scar soon, and it would never disappear.

Jayme’s scent had changed as well. While it still carried his essence, it was now tinged with that cold, indefinable smell unique to the undead. Astarion didn’t find it unpleasant—he had grown accustomed to it over two centuries—but it sent a twinge of pain through him, acknowledging once more the permanence of the change.

“Ah, yes. The insatiable thirst for blood. It’s particularly awful the first time; like you’ve been starving for days on end, isn’t it?” Astarion said sympathetically and slid his hands loosely around Jayme’s back. He tilted his head to the side in an offer. “Come, drink from me, and transcend your existence as a mere vampire spawn.”

Something trembled in Jayme’s eyes as they fixed on Astarion’s neck. Another wave of shock—he was unprepared for this; Astarion’s heart sank at the realization.

Of course. They both were.

“I’m a spawn,” Jayme said gravely, as if speaking the truth aloud might help him accept it. Conflicted vermillion eyes sought Astarion’s.

“Yes, dearest. But no need to get upset now,” Astarion replied as reassuringly as he could. “Your master, Lord Kannoth, is nothing but cinders now. Come here.”

There was a breath of hesitation as Jayme’s eyes flickered to the spot above Astarion’s collarbone and then back to his face. He looked unsure if he was meant to , but then, he made up his mind, steeling himself for the bite.

He moved with confidence, true to form. Wrapping one hand around Astarion’s neck and gripping his shoulder with the other, he pierced the tender skin with his fangs. It was primal instinct. Even one who had never heard of vampires would know precisely how to end that thirst.

Then again, the indescribable euphoria that followed must have astonished Jayme, as it had Astarion. Imbibing the blood of a powerful vampire is akin to being ravished by a multitude of lovers, each more skilled than the last—just as Kannoth had described the sensation when Astarion received a drop of his blood. It was the pleasure of a fledgling spawn gaining power and, with it, the taste of freedom.

Jayme’s hand and lips no longer radiated the vibrant warmth of life—they now matched the chill of Astarion’s own, indistinguishable against the rogue’s skin. Astarion felt a heavy weight settle in his chest at the sensation, but as the soft groans began to flow from Jayme’s throat, and his fingers dug into Astarion’s neck and shoulder, the urge to grieve quickly passed. 

In its place, a delighted smile crept over Astarion’s lips. There was power in Jayme, a blend of old and newfound energies, shimmering like lustrous black pearls. 

Delicious.

The quiet embarrassment on their friends’ faces as they silently observed around the grave only made the moment more significant for Astarion.

We are one now. Alike in every way, and different from them. And that's fine, Astarion reflected, holding Jayme close while he clung to him, tasted him, and melted into him. When a hard press met his thigh, it took Astarion by surprise, though it was a perfectly natural reaction. To his amazement, it was enough to steer his thoughts in a new direction, despite the persistent unrest inside him after such a monumental trial.

Regretfully, they would have to wait before delving into that further.

With each gulp, Jayme’s thirst only deepened, rather than diminish—a feeling Astarion knew all too well from his own first experience with blood. He also knew he had to put an end to it because Jayme would not.

“There, there. That’s enough for now,” Astarion said, gently pushing Jayme back to meet his gaze.

Jayme’s vermilion eyes gleamed, full of vitality and rapture. He was panting again, and a thin trickle of blood glistened at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t let a drop go to waste—his tongue darted out to scoop up every trace of the precious life essence.

“It feels good beyond words, this thrumming,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m more alive than I’ve ever been.”

“I know. I understand exactly what you mean. And it’s done: you are now a consummate vampire,” Astarion announced, relieved that Jayme had been spared the agony of burning in daylight. “You can stop breathing, my sweet.”

The remark jarred Jayme out of his blood-hazed stupor. He complied, and when the suffocation he expected didn’t come, he slowly pulled his mouth into a smirk.

“Well, that’s new,” he said.

“Right?” Astarion replied, smirking as well and inwardly rejoicing at the return of the bard’s old, self-assured look. “From now on, you only need to breathe when you want to speak. Or sigh...”

“Gasp?” Jayme whispered suggestively, cupping Astarion’s face in one hand and sliding the other around his back to pull him closer again.

He’s still the same. My Jayme. Reaching for what he wants, Astarion thought, overwhelmed by an unspeakable surge of relief.

“Absolutely. You’ll need to draw countless breaths for that in our upcoming eternity,” Astarion purred with as much temptation as he could muster. As his apprehension about Jayme’s turning began to fade, a Provocative Urge arose within him.

“When?” Jayme asked, his voice a low murmur.

“Soon. Very soon,” Astarion promised. “But first, we have two important tasks ahead of us. One is gathering a substantial amount of your grave dirt.”

He spread his arms, gesturing at the hole around them.

“Because otherwise, we‘ll need to drag your coffin around for you to rest in. I’m sure you’ll agree that our future adventures would be considerably less burdensome if we carried some dirt with us instead, like I do.” He paused for a moment. “With that in mind, I think the best course of action is to place your coffin somewhere we can always return to—like close to mine in Baldur’s Gate—just in case we ever need it.”

"Ha! You've only been awake for a few minutes, and you already have a solid plan. Impressive," Shadowheart remarked, her tone colored with humor.

At her comment, Jayme finally seemed to register that the two of them weren’t alone. He looked at each of their companions, one by one.

Astarion left him to it, climbing out of the hole to tackle the task he had just outlined. If memory served, there was a relatively large burlap sack at the bottom of his bag of holding, which would be ideal for the purpose. As he searched, he responded to Shadowheart.

“Naturally, my dear. After all, I’ve sailed those waters before. The parasite lifted this vexing rule, as it did with the others, but without it, the rule stands.”

“I’m glad we could bring you back, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances,” Shadowheart’s voice came from behind. Astarion glanced back to find her holding Jayme in a tight embrace. “You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Wish is the most versatile spell known to magic-users,” Gale explained, stepping forward to also embrace Jayme. “It can boost health, grant spell immunity or resistance to damage, alter the past, conjure objects out of thin air, and more. That he used it specifically against you shows just how desperate he was to be rid of you."

“Wish?” Jayme arched an eyebrow. “I don’t remember that.”

“Of course. You were unconscious by then,” Solaufein said, taking his turn to draw the bard close. “Kannoth’s Wish was for you to die, cut off from any hope of resurrection.”

“So he meant to make me one of his own,” Jayme scoffed dryly. “I trust you’ll tell me how you ended him; it’ll make for a grand epic. Speaking of, did anyone recover my violin from the battlefield?”

No one answered, leaving an uncomfortable silence to hang in the air. Astarion paused, shovel in hand, and suppressed a pained sigh.

“Don’t tell me…” Jayme murmured, his gaze moving from face to face before settling on Astarion.

“We have it… what’s left of it, at least,” Gale finally admitted, uneasily. He went back to his bedroll and returned shortly after, presenting Jayme the charred piece of wood with care.

“Efanon will come up with something ingenious, don’t worry for a moment!” Astarion hurried to reassure him. “And we still have its twin.”

“Last time, the wood was intact. Now, it’s as good as destroyed.” Jayme turned the blackened instrument in his hands, his expression vacant. He fell silent, lost in thought for a while. At last, he looked up at Astarion, a steady light burning in his red eyes. “But it’s alright. I’ve died and been reborn. It’s only fitting that I choose a new violin for the occasion.”

“I’m glad you’re seeing this in such a positive light,” Astarion said with a thin smile. “But don’t bury your old one just yet. That satyr might still have some tricks up his sleeve. And if not, we can always find another luthier."

“No. Let’s go see Efanon,” Jayme insisted. He tucked the ruined violin gently into its case.

“We will, I promise. Right after we finish our second task,” Astarion said softly.

“What’s that?” Jayme asked.

Astarion straightened, gripping the shovel with renewed determination.

“Ensuring the spawns’ safety. I’m responsible for them. Come, help me fill this sack, and we can be on our way.”

Jayme nodded and wordlessly grabbed the other shovel. Once the sack was filled to the brim, they tied a string tightly around its neck and forced it into the bag of holding—it barely fit.

Before their departure, Astarion and Jayme changed out of their damaged, blood-stained battle gear into fresh, lighter armor.

“Shall we?” Astarion glanced at the others.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

They stepped through the spider-web portal again, bracing for what might await them on the other side: mountains of corpses and swarms of aimless spawn.

They were met with the sight of a half-empty great hall. The other half of Kannoth’s fallen army had already been cleared, evidently by the spawn, who were diligently moving bodies outside, working in groups.

The atmosphere had drastically changed. Although the rune-carved walls still glowed, the once-red coals in the braziers now lay cold, as if the fiery essence of Cendriane’s Palace had vanished with its King. The shift from red to bright white light blurred the memory of the previous day’s brutal carnage with an air of chilling elegance and mystery.

“Brother!” Dalyria greeted them almost immediately, approaching with visible excitement, while Petras trailed closely behind. They both looked Jayme over curiously as they reached the band of five.

“Welcome to undeath, child of the night,” Petras announced in his typical affected manner. 

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Cut the melodrama, Petras. We can both walk in the Sun, thank you very much, as long as it’s not the blaze of Anauroch,” he said dismissively then paused, glancing at Jayme. “Actually, I look forward to testing that.”

“Ill-tempered, are we?” Petras quipped, a teasing glint in his red eyes.

“No. Just… watch how you speak. This is all still very new and will take some getting used to,” Astarion warned, noticing the inquisitive expression on Jayme’s face as the bard surveyed the hall and its undead crowd with his new vampire eyes. “What do you see, darling?”

“Potential,” Jayme said quietly. “Every being around me is a possible… source to feed my thirst.”

“That’s unsettling,” Shadowheart remarked, shifting uncomfortably. “Let’s just hope you warn us before you lose control of that thirst.”

Astarion didn’t appreciate her bluntness. Though Jayme didn’t seem visibly affected, Astarion knew how deeply such suspicion could wound one’s sense of self.

Under normal circumstances, Shadowheart’s alarm wasn’t entirely unjustified. Young vampires often struggled to find balance and control their overwhelming urges, making them a threat to anyone nearby. Although vampires didn’t feed on each other as a rule, spawn attacking each other for blood wasn’t unheard of either. 

Yet another urge for Jayme to wrestle with—the thought had Astarion simmering with bitterness. Had he been alone, he might have ripped apart a corpse or two with his bare hands to vent his frustration. But here and now, he had to keep his composure.

“It’s perfectly natural, believe me,” he said quickly, fixing the cleric with a sharp gaze. “It simply means he hasn’t had his fill yet and is still adjusting to his heightened appetite. I’ll be there to help him through this phase, so your necks are quite safe. We’ll go hunting soon enough. But first things first, what’s going on here?”

He addressed the question to Dalyria. She gave her report in an unusually cheerful tone, half of her attention still on the spawn hauling the corpses from the hall.

“We’re cleaning out the catacombs, as you can see. We thought it could serve as a safe haven while we decide where we go from here. Thanks to the kind aid of Solaufein and Gale, we’ve secured the Crystalline Palace, which was invaluable progress. For far too long, ‘safe’ wasn’t a word we could even relate to. We’re now gathering the remnants of Kannoth’s army near the entrance, and Yousen and Leon are making sure no one wanders into dangerous areas. Once the forest is safe, we’ll burn the bodies outside on a pyre. Or, probably several.”

“Good. Good,” Astarion nodded. “But are you planning to move out of here eventually? Why don’t you take Cendriane for yourselves as a stronghold?”

Dalyria’s eyes flew open, clearly caught off guard. “You mean… permanently? Live here, in the Feywild? I… that hasn’t even occurred to us.”

“It has to Leon,” Petras said smoothly. “While we were cleaning up at the fountain, he told me and Yousen that it would make perfect sense to stay.”

Dalyria shook her head, frowning. “He told me nothing. But we should all have a say in this. Come, let’s bring everyone together.”

By “everyone,” Dalyria meant Cazador’s original seven— the ones who had been turned from spawn into true vampires. She and Petras led the group beyond the majestic carved crystal doors, onto a corridor, connecting chambers and halls that Astarion had only seen once before. Again, he marveled at how different the place felt now, without the denizens of the damned and Kannoth’s influence: eerie, but tranquil.

On their way, they encountered familiar faces—men and women Astarion remembered well. The look in their eyes was conflicted; no longer as condemning as it had been in Cazador’s dungeons, but still far from friendly. And there was Sebastian too, the maimed body of a hag slung over his shoulder. When he caught sight of Astarion, he stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth opening as if to speak—then closing again in awkward silence.

Astarion averted his gaze. He still felt the weight of shame. This boy could have lived a full, ordinary life—one with a spouse, children, a home, and all the simple dreams people chase. But because of him, that life had been lost. He was undead.

They must find a new way to live. And I must help them, Astarion thought, feeling a fresh resolve settle over him.

They moved past the library where Kannoth had granted his blood to Astarion. Countless more chambers came into view, including one housing the bathing fountain Petras had spoken of—Astarion made careful note of its location. Finally, they climbed the wide white granite staircase and arrived at the entrance hall of the Palace.

Kannoth’s underlings were neatly piled up in this massive space and in the adjacent reception rooms—this was where the spawn had been carrying them up from below. In front of the intricate crystal main gate, Leon stood with his arms crossed, keeping an eye on the spawn as they worked. When he saw the party led by Dalyria, he lowered his arms and came to meet them.

“It’s good to see you well. All of you,” he said, looking first at Jayme, then Astarion. The faintest shade of a smile touched his lips.

There was a new humility in his demeanor—something Astarion, naturally, didn’t fail to notice. 

“Good to see your saviors, isn’t it?” he replied. “I imagine you must feel rather foolish now. Too stubborn to drop the theatrics and just work together to solve the problem, without needing to be forced.” He snorted in disdain. “Or better yet, simply asking me for help in the first place .”

Jayme's heart would still be beating if not for your damned, naive deal with Kannoth, Astarion seethed inwardly as he glared into Leon's red eyes. Leon flinched as Astarion’s reproach reverberated through his thoughts. He lifted his hands in defense.

“It all seemed utterly impossible,” the sorcerer said, shaking his head, both incredulous and humbled. “To kill the vampire lord of Cendriane… but you made it happen. We are forever in your debt, Astarion.”

He kept his gaze trained on Astarion’s face and dipped his head slightly. The gesture, though small, was genuine. It tugged at the knot in Astarion’s chest and loosened it just a fraction.

“Indeed you are,” Astarion replied, somewhat roughly, unwilling to let go of his resentment just yet. The turmoil inside him needed someone to blame—who better than Leon? “Even more so, now that you’ve earned a new home through this vicious little adventure.”

“You’re giving us Cendriane?” Leon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Why is it his to give?” Petras asked, grimacing.

“Who else’s would it be?” Jayme interjected with a calm authority that sent a coil of heat through Astarion’s stomach.

“Ours, of course. There are thousands of us,” Petras stated haughtily.

“No, Petras, you have to understand that there’s no ‘us’ and ‘them’,” Dalyria said, her voice edged with frustration. “We’re on the same side! Astarion has changed. By Tymora’s grace, wake up—we’ve got the proof right in front of us!” 

She motioned to their surroundings, pointing out the Palace and Kannoth’s slain army. Petras tilted his head, then finally shrugged in reluctant acceptance.

“Was I that awful in the past?” Astarion asked suddenly, raking a restless hand through his hair. Petras was daft, no doubt, but his animosity seemed to run deeper than the shortness of his brain.

“You were pretty selfish, yes. Not to mention fickle and broody,” Petras grumbled. 

Astarion sighed but didn’t try to defend himself this time; it may have been true. 

After a pause, Petras asked, his brows knitting, “Are you really giving us this city?”

“We need everyone here for that discussion,” Dalyria insisted.

“No need to wait any longer. Leon called us, and here we are,” Aurelia’s soft voice came from behind them. She approached with Yousen and Violet in tow. “Come, there’s a place where we can speak freely.”

The tiefling guided them through two reception rooms, each cluttered with decaying corpses, and into an audience room of sorts. The white stone rubble that floated outside the Palace also hovered within its walls. While it imbued the crystalline keep with a fractured beauty, it also served as a grim reminder of its tragic past—likely why Kannoth had chosen to dwell underground instead.

At the room's center stood a large, oval oak table, surrounded by elegant chairs that showed few signs of age despite their centuries. A more regal chair, fit for a king, faced the door. Astarion claimed it without hesitation, and the others followed suit, filling most of the seats around the table. With eleven present, only two chairs remained unoccupied. Astarion’s party settled on one side, while his siblings sat opposite. 

“Now, if only I could have a decent cup of wine,” Astarion murmured wistfully, then took a deep breath. “Anyway. To cut to the chase: I think you could have a good life here. There’s space in the catacombs, in the Palace, or even the forest outside, once it’s cleared out. As long as you stay within the city walls, it should be a fairly defensible sanctuary.”

“The forest is home to wild boars and elk,” Solaufein pointed out. “A regular food source if their populations are properly maintained.”

“We’ve already got some experience with game management,” Yousen remarked, shifting in his seat as he tried to find a comfortable position. Being a gnome, he was a bit too short for a table designed for eladrins. “That’s how we survived in the Underdark, feeding on rothés.”

“As long as we eliminate the other predators that hunt them,” Aurelia added, “like displacer beasts and yeth hounds, we should be able to maintain a stable population.”

“What about the Sun? Won’t it burn the spawn?” Violet asked timidly.

“We need to see if Kannoth’s death affected the dark fog around the city,” Solaufein replied. “If it remains, it should be safe for them to move out, I would imagine. If not, they will have to stay confined to the Palace.”

“Actually, I’ve done some reading on that,” Gale said.

“Of course you have!” Astarion chuckled, half-teasing, but sincerely impressed.

“I was so disappointed I couldn’t join you when you came here for Kannoth’s blood I threw myself into reading everything I could about this mystical place,” Gale explained, his enthusiasm practically spilling from his words. “That fog is thought to be the aftermath of the arcane storm that wrecked the city. It’s been here ever since, well before Kannoth’s descent into necromancy and other dark aspects of the Weave.”

“Sounds promising,” Dalyria nodded. “Still, setting up a routine will take time. Until then, the Underdark is still a viable alternative, isn’t it?”

“The spider-web gateway feeds on magical radiation, called faerzress,” Solaufein supplied. “It is a remnant of the magic that carved the Underdark in ancient times. While the portal itself is stable, the area beyond it is likely to be rife with magical volatility.”

“As is most of the Feydark,” Aurelia noted. “Not to mention crawling with horrors—deadly ones, and far more whimsical than those of the Underdark.”

“True,” Leon agreed. “We can consider the Underdark if needed, but I doubt securing the forest will take too long. We have the numbers.”

“Given some time, I could lure some fomorians your way—for variety,” Jayme offered, casting a quick glance at Astarion. The rogue nodded, signaling that he liked the idea.

“No.” Dalyria shook her head firmly. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We want peace. We need peace. And most of the spawn are still not accustomed to fighting—they used to be commoners, sailors, and patriars before they were turned.”

“Anyone can learn to fight under the right circumstances,” Petras remarked. The pride in his voice suggested he considered himself capable already.

“Still, we’ve faced nothing but hardships until now,” Dalyria reiterated, unyielding. “It’s time for a bit of ordinary life. A bit of boredom. We’ll leave battles for the distant future.”

“It might not be that distant unless we fortify the city against unwanted visitors,” Leon said matter-of-factly. “Cendriane has always attracted treasure seekers and adventure-hungry swashbucklers. Even during Kannoth’s reign, rumors of such circulated, and now, with news of his demise spreading, we can expect even more to come.”

“We need a robust defense system to deter them,” Shadowheart suggested. “Something like the famous wards of Mithrendain.”

“Actually,” Gale began again, his mouth curling into a cunning smile, “while I was in Mithrendain’s library, I extensively studied the runes inscribed on those giant marble orbs. Their magic is ancient but not beyond replication. With some experimentation, I believe I could eventually create a similar system. As long as you stay within the city walls, you'd be shielded from illusions, and maybe even other forms of magic.”

“Gale, I adore your brain!” Astarion burst out, leaning over the table to give the wizard a fond look. For once, he set aside his teasing. “The way you devour anything magic-related like a starving man devours a feast is truly impressive. And yes, my choice of words was intentional. Remember when that was literally the case?”

Alright, just a bit of teasing, since he was among friends!

“Ah yes. A moment of silence for my poor locket,” Shadowheart pouted, but a nostalgic smile tugged at her lips.

“How could I forget? That instability…” A chill went through Gale as he recalled the Netherese Orb, though his expression remained sunny with only a faint shadow, as if remembering a demon slain long ago. “Having to munch on magic trinkets every day or risk feeling like I’d explode like a barrel of runepowder—or rather, a dozen barrels! I can honestly say that gave me some insight into the trials of vampiric thirst.”

This was perhaps the first time Gale had verbally expressed such understanding, having been neutral on the topic until now. It touched Astarion. When he replied, his voice was noticeably softer. 

“Yes, well, we did what we could. Jayme did what he could. And we can be grateful he didn’t feed you the best of our loot, like the book on the Necromancy of Thay.” Astarion flashed one more smile, then shook his head. “But anyway, I digress. What I meant to say was, you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were a wizard prodigy.”

“Please. I aspire to be a professor at Blackstaff Academy someday. How am I to command the respect of my students if I can’t even organize the defense of an eladrin city, am I right?” Gale said, winking in good humor.

“You’ve never mentioned any academic aspirations before. Professor Dekarios?” Shadowheart grinned.

“To tell you the truth, teaching is an idea that’s been on my mind ever since we defeated the Brain,” he explained with a spark in his eyes. “It’s been brewing, taking shape slowly but surely. I've amassed a wealth of knowledge about the Weave—it seems a shame to keep it all to myself. I want to share it, to empower magic-wielders across Faerûn!”

“It would suit you, that much is certain,” Astarion declared.

“You’ll only need to watch for those who might misuse your knowledge,” Jayme added.

“True, but I’m not worried. If I were to inadvertently create a monster, I trust the heroes of Baldur’s Gate would rush to my aid,” Gale said, his smile broadening into something cheeky. “Now, back to our earlier topic: the white marble debris of Cendriane should be a perfect resource for my work. All we need is a sculptor proficient in rune magic.”

“Leave that to me,” Astarion said. “I’ll bring you the best artisan from Mithrendain. Or Astrazalian. Or both.”

Everyone nodded in satisfaction. Astarion’s confident words hung in the air for a moment before Solaufein spoke, his expression still light but growing more serious.

“Besides the adventurers the kingless city will likely attract, we must not forget that Lord Kannoth was a member of the Unseelie Court. They may come knocking sooner or later.”

“Good point,” Astarion replied, raising a finger. “And while I’d love nothing more than to repeat myself and say, ‘leave that to me,’ I’m self-aware enough to admit I’m no match for them alone.”

“You won’t be alone,” Jayme promised, leaning in slightly. 

“Certainly not,” Solaufein echoed.

“Ah, ah! If the Unseelie Court thinks to retaliate, they’ll soon learn what it means to bite off more than they can chew,” Shadowheart quipped in a sing-song tone.

“Professor Dekarios will always be just one mortar and pestle ride away, should you need him,” Gale assured with a smile.

“My lovelies, you are nothing short of magnificent!” Astarion purred, placing a hand over his heart. “Together, we can achieve it, I have not the slightest doubt. We’ll keep the spawn safe and the Unseelie Court disinclined to avenge Kannoth.”

“You could live here, Astarion, with us,” Dalyria chimed in, her eyes bright with warmth after listening to the exchange. Her gaze traveled from Astarion to Jayme, then back. “Both of you could; you’d be more than welcome. And you’d be safer here, among these magic-infused walls, than out roaming the forests and cities of the Feywild.”

The idea gave Astarion a pause, a slight tightening in his chest following soon after.

“And see the faces of the hundreds I’ve seduced and ruined, each and every day? No, thank you.” He shuddered, then quickly realized how his words might be taken. “I mean, it’s not that I want to forget them—far from it. I will care for them, but I won’t stay here permanently. We’ll drop by regularly to see how things are going. I’ll see to your well-being here.”

He looked to Jayme, searching for agreement. Jayme met his eyes with a subtle nod, and Astarion, encouraged, pressed on.

“But we have more to do beyond this place. I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to make a change, and I must admit, it isn’t so terrible after all. I want to see what else we’re capable of. Not just for other vampires—I know from Cazador’s archives that most of them are irredeemable megalomaniacs. Still, if I were to find a lost soul like I once was, I wouldn’t turn a blind eye… What?”

As his gaze swept across the table, Astarion noticed the intensity burning in Jayme’s eyes. It was familiar—the old come-hither look. 

No… this is on a different level. He’s already undressing me with his eyes, Astarion thought with a smirk, and he inwardly cursed the silence where Jayme’s heartbeat should have quickened.

“Your thirst must have crept up on you again, hasn’t it?” Astarion cooed, reclining in his regal throne, relishing the way Jayme’s eyes lingered on his face and every inch of his exposed skin.

“Yes. I’m parched,” Jayme murmured, his voice low and smoldering.

Astarion let out an appreciative hum. “We’ll need to sate your appetite elsewhere, or you’ll end up sucking me dry.” He chuckled as his own words sank in. “I swear, that wasn’t intentional—but rather fitting, wouldn’t you say?

“May I suggest a hunt in the woods? Kill two birds with one stone?” Leon proposed, completely unbothered by the shameless flirtation.

Among the seven of them, the sorcerer had always been the most detached from their nightly seductions, handling orders with cold professionalism and an unwavering belief in his own appeal. Had it not been for his daughter, Astarion might have assumed he was entirely indifferent to sex and all things related.

“Good suggestion, brother. Let’s get to it!” Astarion exclaimed, slapping the table and standing up. “We’ll form ten hunting groups, each with able and willing spawn —especially those skilled at fighting from a distance, if that’s alright with you, Dalyria. It’ll speed up our progress. Each group will be led by one of us, except Jayme, who will come with me. Any objections?”

No one spoke. Their determined gazes were answer enough. 

“I’m ready for blood! Let's go, Astarion!” Violet exclaimed, casting off her usual meekness in one of her fiery, impulsive outbursts, eyes sparkling with excitement. She sprang to her feet and strode toward the entrance without waiting for a response.

Dalyria quickly assembled five dozen spawn at the main gates. As they waited, Astarion motioned for Jayme and a young spawn girl—once a Gur girl, now exuding the fierce air of a hellcat—to follow him outside, into the realm of shattered bone-white houses and floating rubble. The gray fog blanketing the city was unchanged, as predicted by their wise wizard.

Astarion didn’t feel so much as a tingle, and a brief glance at Jayme and the girl confirmed that the Sun had no effect here. Shortly, Leon, Shadowheart, and the others joined them outside, followed by groups of cautious spawn, each equipped with adequate, if modest, gear.

“Noble lords and gentlewomen, I present to you Cendriane: the vampiric paradise.” Astarion spread his arms theatrically, beaming as he surveyed the gathering.

His smile only faltered when he caught sight of Sebastian, standing behind Jayme, intent on joining their group. Their eyes met for a tense moment, but Astarion turned away. He cleared his throat, busying himself with passing his violin to Jayme and scanning the crowd for the nine other leaders. They were all present.

“All ready,” Dalyria reported as she bustled among her people, distributing Potions of Poison Resistance. “Drink up.”

“Stay out of reach when facing specters and giant spiders, and use fire-infused projectiles when possible,” Solaufein instructed, drawing his sword. “Aim for the spiders’ eyes. The underbelly is also a weak point, but they guard it fiercely. Against displacer beasts or yeth hounds, work together to flank them.”

While he gave his counsel, Shadowheart gripped her Moonfire Mace, swung it in a wide arc, and conjured a scattering of Moonfire motes. They hovered obediently above the groups, like tiny guardian angels.

“If all else fails, hurl these motes at them,” the cleric advised. “I can summon only a finite number, so use them wisely.”

Next, Astarion took over. “If even the motes fail, shout out. We stay within earshot of each other—no solo actions, no reckless stunts. If you need help, shout. I’m probably the fastest of us all, so wait for me. And you,” he cast a mischievous look at his bard, “save some room for dessert, will you? Sweet, sweet dessert.”

Jayme responded by licking his lips, revealing the tips of his fetching fangs.

With nothing more to say, Astarion gave the signal: “Onwards. Good hunt to us all!”

They fanned out and headed toward the southern part of the city, shrouded by the dark forest. Nearly seventy hunters, most of them vampires hungry for blood. To Astarion, the moment felt monumental, even surpassing his lucid dreams. But before he could fully embrace the wildness swelling in his chest, Sebastian fell in step beside him.

Astarion turned his head toward the boy, and before he could look away, Sebastian spoke up.

“Don’t,” he said. “I know what you’ve done for us. I… also remember what you did to us, to me, but…”

He went quiet, searching for the right words. Astarion waited patiently, his full attention on him. After almost a minute of silent walking, Sebastian finally spoke again. His voice, shy yet markedly more mature than Astarion remembered, carried the weight of harrowing decades gone by.

“I don't think you need my forgiveness. You’re more certain of yourself than that, I’d say. But just in case it counts for something: I’ll manage. We all will, thanks to you. So…” he trailed off, the meaning clear despite the unfinished sentence.

“It counts for more than you can imagine,” Astarion strained to say. By the skin of his teeth, he managed to add, “Thank you.”

It felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him, then restored—breathless, then breathing, a little death and revival. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the burden he had been bearing for longer than he could recall began to give way, like the lid of a long-sealed coffin finally bursting open from within. Then, he exhaled, letting it all out.

“What’s your weapon of choice, Sebastian?” he asked when he was sure his voice would be composed again. In his embarrassment, he hadn’t even noticed what the boy was wielding. 

“A crossbow,” Sebastian replied, holding up the stout, rugged weapon, clearly of duergar design. “The Gur children taught me.”

“Enjoy the hunt,” Astarion said quietly. “Stay close, will you?”

“Yes,” Sebastian whispered, nodding with a smile that was no longer so shy.

The hunt began when the sounds of Solaufein’s group clashing with a band of howling specters carried over from the right flank. From that point on, the battle progressed in a blur, with beasts and undead flocking to tear apart the intruders in their territory.

Astarion fought with zeal, feeling both empowered and liberated as he watched Jayme instantly adapt to his new strength and speed. The bard nimbly leaped out of harm’s way, reappearing on the far side of the battlefield to play rapid violin sequences. But he didn’t hesitate to wrestle with hounds and bite into their flesh whenever the opportunity arose.

His performance revealed a novel quality, a refined intensity Astarion had only heard once or twice before—in the Feywild. It was different from In Blood and Song, Redemption, unfolding in a richer, more nuanced expression. Jayme merged distinct melodic voices into a harmony that traversed a spectrum of moods, from introspective and melancholic to hopeful, triumphant, and even daring. He laid his emotions bare, and to Astarion, they were heartrendingly beautiful.

The music wasn’t just a weapon; it ignited the fires of the spawn's courage. Sebastian held his ground through the relentless waves of attacks, even stopping the claws of a cunning displacer beast from reaching Astarion's back in the heat of battle.

Jayme cast spells sparingly, visibly content to unleash his Urge upon their foes, who were far less threatening than liches or beholders. Whenever he could, he drank blood—each gulp fueling the passion of his next notes, which in turn to drove the ferocity of Astarion’ dagger slashes.

Hours passed this way, in a dream-like haze of gripping melodies and bloodshed. Astarion lent his aid to the other groups a few times, but they mostly managed well on their own. Eventually, they reached the city wall and decided to halt the cleansing for the day.

The party, along with all ten hunter groups, took a rest. 

Astarion was checking to make sure everyone was all right when Jayme took his hand, his violin already strapped to his back.

“Come with me,” he said, all calmness and confidence, despite the storm inside him. His vermillion eyes brimmed with tangled emotions.

Astarion sensed the urgency in that look, as a similar need welled up within him—a need that had been building like an avalanche since the Wish spell had sealed Jayme’s fate, and which had gained even more momentum since hearing that violin play.

“We’ll be using the fountain,” Astarion called to the others as Jayme guided him back toward the Palace. They didn’t wait for a response, or if one came, they didn’t notice.

After a few steps, Astarion was struck by a sudden idea. He stopped, leaning close to Jayme until his lips brushed his neck.

“How fast are you?” he murmured into the bard’s ear.

Jayme glanced back at him, puzzled for only a moment before a wide smile swept across his features. In the blink of an eye, he shapeshifted into a regular-sized black bat with blazing red eyes. Wasting no time, he soared into the sky and hovered just above the treetops, waiting. 

“I knew you could!” Astarion whispered eagerly, grinning as he hurried to follow Jayme’s example.

If he was honest, he had always envied Cazador for this power. How many times I imagined flying away from Baldur’s Gate, he recalled with a thrill. His body reveled in the exhilarating sensation of being small and unbound by the earth.

In this form, his vision wasn’t quite as sharp under the current light, but a screech instantly oriented him. Beneath the echoes, he sensed the beating hearts of Shadowheart, Gale, and Solaufein below.

He looked at Jayme, who beat his wings steadily beside him, holding his position in midair. A wordless understanding passed between them. Jayme darted through the gray sky with lithe, fluid movements, his wings slicing effortlessly through the air. Astarion raced him to the Palace and then inside, flying above the heads of the spawn masses, down the stairs, and into the fountain chamber.

They shifted back to their elven forms just beyond the massive crystal doors, in perfect synchrony.

“A tie?” Jayme asked, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“We can agree on that,” Astarion replied, chuckling as he closed the doors behind them for complete privacy. His skin still tingled from the wind.

They walked deeper into the chamber, moving around a richly etched crystal wall. More of these opaque, elegantly curving partitions divided the space into smaller, partially separated areas. The only lighting came from ancient runes on the walls, glowing with a white light reminiscent of those in the great hall, but spaced more generously, casting a gentler ambiance. 

At the center, a massive enchanted fountain commanded attention. Its central spire towered above the crystal walls, nearly brushing the granite ceiling. Carved from the same pristine stone that surrounded it, its base was adorned with elaborate motifs of intertwined vines and delicate floral patterns.

Sparkling clear water cascaded from jugs held by crystal sculptures of graceful eladrin women, their forms frozen in eternal dance. The source of the water was cleverly hidden behind the decorative elements, but it was evident it flowed from above.

Surrounding the fountain were long, lavish oak benches and small round cabinets, hinting at the chamber’s former use as a bathhouse. If they searched the cabinets, they might still find incense, soap, and other accessories, even after centuries of limited use.

But they didn’t pay it any mind—not now.

Astarion stopped, turning to face Jayme, and slowly closed the distance between them. He placed a hand on Jayme’s pale face, touching it lightly as if it were something fragile. Though he was well aware of the seasoned warrior beneath the new appearance, he longed to offer Jayme the tenderness he had been so sorely denied after his turning.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice barely louder than the sound of the babbling water. “In the forest, you poured your heart out through the strings. I felt the complexity of what you’re going through, even without words. Tell me how I can make this easier.”

Jayme’s features softened briefly, then tensed again. “I don’t want you to feel responsible,” he said, then paused to gauge Astarion’s reaction. The confirmation came quickly. “You do, don’t you?”

“I…yes,” Astarion replied plainly. “We were there because of me, after all. The first significant decision I made for us cost your life.”

Jayme’s mouth twitched into the beginnings of a wry smile. “We wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t made a pact with Baba Yaga in the first place. And I wouldn’t have strayed into Baba Yaga’s hut if not for Raphael. With whom I signed the contract in Sharess’ Caress. See? It’s pointless to think that way. It’s an endless chain of cause and effect.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Astarion said, shaking his head and frowning. “Wouldn’t you blame yourself if the situation were reversed?”

“I would. But I’d see reason. What matters is intention. In the past, I did evil by choice—I’m responsible for that. My death was not your intention.”

There. Spoken with nonchalant conviction, as though explaining an axiom.

Silver-tongue , Astarion thought fondly, letting his hands trail down Jayme’s shoulders and sides until they came to a rest at his waist.

“Alright, you win. I’ll come to grips with it. In time. But, sweet Hells, how did we end up talking about me when I was asking about you? You’re the one whose life has just been turned graveside up!”

“You know I was planning for this eventually,” Jayme replied with a comforting tone after a pause.

“At some point, maybe in another century or two, no? But it happened now and not on your own terms. I know you’re not one to complain, but don’t keep anything buried in there, will you?” Astarion placed a hand over Jayme’s chest, where his heart lay still. His voice lowered as he continued, “Are you ready for this?”

He held Jayme’s gaze, and the bard gently drew him closer, leaning his head against Astarion’s.

“It was quite sudden,” Jayme admitted quietly.

“An understatement,” Astarion nodded.

“The sheer force of the thirst—it took me unawares when I woke. It reminded me all too well of my old Dark Urge. But… I swear, I will do everything in my power not to become a slave to it. And I’m asking you to help me.”

The request took Astarion by surprise. Jayme seldom asked for help, aside from strategic partnerships in battles. It was rare, and because of that, exceptionally meaningful—a testament to the depth of their trust.

“Always and forever,” Astarion replied, tightening their embrace. “There was a sense of sorrow in your tune. Will you tell me what inspired it?”

“I’ve come to understand the weight of an immortal life,” Jayme said, candidly. “I think about our mortal friends—their smiling faces, their tears, their jokes, and wise counsel. They’ll die one by one, and I’ll simply watch. The world will evolve, decline, transform. By birth, I had little to do with the natural order, but now… now I am truly an outsider.”

There was a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. No wonder, Astarion thought, he’s spent so long trying to come to terms with who he is and discover who he wants to be.

“We both are,” Astarion said smoothly, “I rarely think about mortality and transience myself, I admit. I’m not as brave as you are—or, at least, I haven’t been. That may change now, with you.” 

Astarion pulled back to meet Jayme’s gaze, flashing an impish smile. “As for what’s natural, in my humble opinion, it’s overrated—don’t tell Halsin and Jaheira I said that. What’s wrong with being different, or god forbid, unnatural? You’re still brilliant you. And I’m still… me.”

He released Jayme’s waist for a moment to throw his arm wide with a flourish.

“Brilliant you?” Jayme asked, smirking.

“Your words, not mine,” Astarion replied with a broader grin.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Jayme admitted, turning more serious. “Don’t get me wrong—I was aware of this when I told you I wanted you to turn me. It wasn’t just a mindless romantic impulse. But to know it and to feel it become reality…”

“I understand,” Astarion said simply.

“It’s as you said: it requires some getting used to. But I know who to draw strength from,” Jayme smiled.

“That’s my man.” Astarion winked. “I'm here for you, just as you are for me. Besides, I owe you; you lent me your Urge.”

“When?” Jayme asked, raising both eyebrows.

“While you were… dead. It's how I defeated Kannoth. Let's be honest, I wouldn't have stood a chance otherwise.” Astarion paused, searching for the right words to describe the experience. “It was as thrilling as it was disturbing. After the Wish was cast, suddenly I felt this… stealthy predator in my head, rasping with something hauntingly close to empathy. And it guided me, no less.”

“It tends to do that, yes. It has a will of its own. And rather one-dimensional goals, to be fair,” Jayme smirked, stroking Astarion’s back. “I find it fascinating that it answered you as it does me. And puzzling, really. How was it possible?”

“I… drank your blood. A great deal of it,” Astarion admitted, a bit sheepishly. “It was, er, suggested by the Urge. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself. Not in that state of mind.”

“It was a good call,” was all Jayme replied. 

The mention of blood seemed to set off a new train of thoughts in him. The mood grew heavier as his touch took on a new energy—comfort gave way to a heightened sense of intimacy, and Jayme subtly but surely pressed closer. His caresses grew more focused, and before long, his hand slid further down, past the small of Astarion’s back. It sent a shiver down the rogue’s spine. 

“Have a little more of my blood, if you like,” Astarion suggested after a short silence, perhaps as a subconscious apology. He felt the shift in the bard and connected it to the vampiric craving for blood, which often stirred with the same intensity as carnal lust. “Or more blood from the monsters of the forest. Whatever you desire.”

Jayme was slow to reply, engrossed in mapping Astarion’s body and drawing out more shivers. But when he finally spoke, it became clear that this was about more than bloodthirst.

“Just before the hunt,” he murmured, “when you talked about what you want to do—that you want to do . To change things for the better.”

“It excited you,” Astarion said, dropping his voice, unthinkingly matching Jayme’s sultry strokes.

“Yes.”

“Aroused you?”

The soft breath against his neck was answer enough. No longer hot as it once had been, but even now, not any less enticing.

I felt it , Astarion wanted to say, but his voice faltered as Jayme flicked his tongue out to trail a slow, wet stripe up his neck, right over the fresh fang marks from his first bite. Astarion could feel, more than see, how Jayme’s nostrils quivered with pleasure. Next to his ear, the bard’s whisper drifted, deep and smooth. 

“Did you realize how close what you said was to what I’d said here a few tendays ago? You’ve been searching for your own path, and you found mine along the way.” Another lick, more insistent. “You’re everything I desire.”

“Here I am. All yours,” Astarion breathed. By now, his cock was stiff inside his leather breeches, almost painfully so. “What do you want to do with me?”

“Take you on the floor,” Jayme growled, the words rumbling from his chest as his fingers dug into Astarion’s hips.

The caresses ceased that instant, overtaken by animal impulses frenzied and uncontainable. They tore at each other, armor discarded in a hasty scramble. Each metallic piece clanged loudly over the fountain’s constant gurgle. They were naked in moments but still groaned in frustration at how long it took to have skin against skin.

As much as their undressing was a joint effort, what came next was a contest—part raw fight for dominance, part convulsive embrace. When Astarion resisted Jayme’s attempt to bring him to the floor, the bard exhaled a breathless chuckle against his face. “The wrestling you promised?”

Astarion only hummed in response, but a wayward grin flashed across his lips. It quickly disappeared, though, when Jayme bucked their hips together, standing, and claimed his lips, sinking teeth into them. Astarion let out a sharp breath through his nose, followed by a string of clipped, helpless noises.

Jayme’s pale fingers pressed into his neck, coiled into his hair, fingertips dragging over his scalp as they kissed. His other hand raced down Astarion’s back to the place he wanted to fill, utterly unabashed. He lightly scraped over the sensitive area.

That clever teasing, perfectly balanced between tender and painful, made it impossible for Astarion to stand still. He propelled them forward—Jayme backward—and they blindly waltzed across the chamber, bumping into a cabinet. Its drawers rattled from the impact. Jayme bit hard into Astarion’s shoulder, absorbing a deep draught of blood before withdrawing. He then spun them sideways, roughly pushing Astarion against another cabinet.

The bruising urgency only intensified the ecstasy coursing through their veins and the pleasure pooling where their bodies squeezed tightly together. They continued shoving and pulling, leaving some of the furniture considerably worse for wear.

Astarion sensed, on a primal level, that their threshold for pain had risen. How delightful! He felt and embraced the new, steady flow of strength rippling through his entire body, a strength mirrored in Jayme’s movements. It was spilling forth like an animal breaking out of its cage.

“The bars of the cage—” Astarion gasped, the words coming to him unbidden, from a source unknown. Though on some level, he knew it was from Jayme, a fragment of him—dangerous and inviting.

“Cage? There’s no cage. Not now. Not with you,” Jayme muttered, sucking on the wound on Astarion’s shoulder once more.

Astarion moaned and ground himself against Jayme’s thigh, driven by instinct. He yearned for release but chose to stretch out the moment, to float in this fervor for as many unmoving heartbeats as he could before going mad. His nails clawed and scraped against Jayme’s skin, unable to restrain himself.

“Drink from me. Like before,” Jayme—ever the master of his urges—offered in a voice steadier than the heat of their embrace would suggest. “You still want to?”

“Yes. Gods, yes…” Astarion ground out, sounding much less composed. 

He consciously mimicked the bite he had just received, descending on Jayme’s shoulder. These bites sealed the promise of the future they were claiming, and he knew Jayme understood this without words. He took a rich sip, savoring the crisp, coppery tang as his own blood mingled with Jayme’s in his mouth. Exquisite .

Grunting, Jayme jerked his hips forward again, and the jolt of pleasure from that simple friction made it clear that this game had to stop right then.

“Jayme! Jayme,” Astarion whimpered, twisting both of them around. He gave in completely and helped Jayme spread him out on the floor unceremoniously, right beside the cabinets. His surrender was close to a plea, even though he’d been the one resisting the skin-crawling desire to lie down and have Jayme inside him.

He shivered endlessly as Jayme pressed against him from above, opening him with impatient, spit-slickened fingers—unceremonious, but intoxicating.

“Your heart… doesn’t betray you anymore,” Astarion said, his voice tinged with amusement, breaking off into a gasp. “But I know–”

“That I’m dying to fuck you?” Jayme murmured, low and hot.

“Ah-hah,” Astarion breathed. He swept his hands down to feel the taut muscles along Jayme’s sides.

“You’re right. I am,” Jayme smoothly admitted, then added with a touch of admiration, “You’re stronger than before. I think our wrestling ended in a tie, too.”

“I have a vampire lord’s blood in me, pints of it. Drink more. We’ll share.” Astarion nodded toward his bleeding shoulder, which was streaking haphazard patterns across his chest and the floor.

And Jayme did, without needing a second invitation. At the same time, he pulled his fingers back, guiding Astarion’s legs up over his shoulders, folding him nearly in half.

Astarion let out a shuddering gasp as Jayme eased inside. The pace instantly turned frantic, fueled by raw need—pride swelled in Astarion knowing he had pushed Jayme to his limit. His upper back was flattened roughly against the cold granite floor but he welcomed it. The discomfort melted away in the sensation of them fusing together: two imperfect, chipped pieces forming something whole.

Jayme drove their bodies together with quick, hard thrusts, low noises escaping from him with each shallow burst of his breath. Following that rhythm, Astarion’s legs tightened in pulses around him.

It was too good. And too fast. Astarion felt himself teetering on the edge, but he craved more—just a little longer. He pushed Jayme back, firm and decisive, switching their positions. With Jayme now lying on his back, Astarion straddled him and sank his full weight down immediately.

“There,” Astarion murmured, shifting to find the most delicious angle.

“Taking turns?” Jayme asked, gazing up at him with a meaningful look. He wasn’t just referring to the sex.

They hadn’t yet discussed their future plans, what they would do and how, but Astarion understood what he meant.

“I think it can work,” Astarion agreed, smooth, though a little labored. 

Yes. He was convinced they would make it work.

“You’re stunning,” Jayme said plainly, but with genuine admiration.

“You noticed!”

“Ride me as you like.”

Astarion moaned an unintelligible reply to that irresistible command and began to lift and sink his body, matching the rhythm Jayme had set. He bent low, lapping at the life essence oozing from Jayme’s shoulder. The bard did the same, framing Astarion’s hips with his hands to support the rapid movements.

After a while, maybe in defiance of their reversed position, Jayme reached out and wrapped his hand around Astarion’s cock. 

Astarion froze mid-movement and raised his head. “Ah-hah-hah, you want to finish me off?” he chuckled, but the sound snagged in his throat.

“After that buildup?” Jayme replied, eyes on fire, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. Then, after brushing his hand upward once in a slow, torturous motion, he gripped Astarion’s waist again. “Here. Don’t need my hand for it.”

“Really now?”

Jayme’s fingers squeezed Astarion’s waist, then clenched as he lifted him higher, angling him into the perfect position. With a powerful thrust of his hips, Jayme lifted off the floor.

Astarion’s breath hitched. He meant to say something along the lines of “oh, you cheeky little thing,” but that sensational thrust was repeated at once, and then again without mercy, stifling any response.

He let his eyes fall shut, lips curving into a shaky, blissful “oh.” His hands scrambled to find purchase on Jayme’s shoulders, slipping on blood and sweat. His nostrils were flooded with that hypnotic coppery scent. 

But before he fell over the edge, Jayme pulled him back.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice tight and thick with emotion.

Astarion did. He glanced down to watch, mesmerized, the powerful pushes and drags taking him higher and higher, then looked back up into Jayme’s eyes.

He held that vermillion gaze, heavy-lidded, as he spilled onto Jayme’s chest and stomach, every muscle of his body trembling. If not for Jayme’s solid hold, he would have collapsed on top of him for sure.

Jayme held him through the choking pleasure, briefly slowing down to soak in his expression. Then, he repositioned Astarion slightly and took up the rhythm he needed. After only a few hard pushes, he pulled Astarion in tighter and buried himself deep inside his body, shuddering.

Astarion unconsciously shifted to take him even more fully. Closing the gap between them, he kissed Jayme, swallowing his low, ragged moan like gulps of lush wine.

It was a deep, languorous kiss, heavy with the aftermath. At last, Astarion lowered himself onto Jayme, their limbs tangling together. For a timeless moment, they lay like that, the sensation alone having them gasping, though neither needed air.

“What a way to greet immortality,” Jayme said with a contented sigh.

“I’ll say. It’s nothing less than you deserve, dearest,” Astarion assured him, licking blood off both their skin—he seemed to have squeezed Jayme’s shoulder too hard in the final throes. “And now, let’s make use of this gorgeous fountain, shall we? I was planning to do it before all this , since our last bath was before we confronted Kannoth, but then we got caught up in the moment quite spectacularly.”

With that, he pushed himself up and stood, approaching the elegant white stone basin. 

“I’ll fuck you fight-worn, bloodied, muddy or sweat-drenched any day,” Jayme declared, following suit.

“How charmingly filthy of you!” Astarion grinned back. “And lucky for you, I share the sentiment.”

They glanced down at the gently undulating water. And they saw… nothing. Not a single reflection.

“Now we’re both missing from mirrors,” Astarion noted somberly. Not even the ancient blood of Strahd von Zarovich himself could remedy this vexing condition.

“We have each other’s eyes. That’s all we need,” Jayme said, not the least bit concerned.

Though Astarion's vanity far surpassed Jayme's, he found himself strangely comforted by Jayme's assurance.

“Just so,” he replied with a smile.

They stepped into the pristine water. As they washed, they quickly discovered that the pleasantly cool water alone cleansed their skin, needing no aid from soap. Perhaps it was unique to this place—or perhaps such marvels were commonplace here in the Feywild.

Once finished, they dressed and strolled out of the chamber, passing spawn wandering the Palace corridors. Astarion intended to venture into the forest again to assess the situation, but as they reached the main crystal gate, they saw there was no need to go any further.

The fetid bodies of Kannoth’s underlings were being stacked into large piles by the spawn. Leon and the others oversaw the process, with Shadowheart and Solaufein lending their efforts, though Gale was nowhere to be seen—likely ensconced in the library, lost in its treasures.

The tallest piles had already been set ablaze, just as Dalyria had said—huge, grotesque pyres. Some burned with ordinary orange flames, while others flickered with strange hues of blue and green. Astarion was certain Gale could shed some light on this peculiar phenomenon and explain which types of undead wretches produced such unusual flames.

But for the time being, he was content to simply watch the spectacle, the colorful flames casting a grim beauty over the scene. Jayme stood beside him and slightly behind, one arm draped around Astarion’s waist.

After everything, and despite it all, peace reigned within Astarion at this moment. 

These were his pyres of glory.

Notes:

Bach's Chaconne Partita No. 2 inspired the violin play in the forest.

Chapter 27: II - And a lust for life

Summary:

'Cause we're the masters of our own fate
We're the captains of our own souls
So there's no need for us to hesitate
We're all alone, let's take control
And I was like

Take off, take off, take off all your clothes
Take off, take off, take off all your clothes
Take off, take off, take off all of your clothes

They say only the good die young
That just ain't right
'Cause we're havin' too much fun
Too much fun tonight, yeah

And a lust for life
Keeps us alive

Lana Del Rey ft The Weeknd – Lust for life

“It’s no exaggeration, good sir, to say that this masterpiece outshines even my previous creations for you,” Efanon announced, pride radiating from him as he unveiled his latest work. “The maple you brought from Cendriane—I never imagined I'd have the honor of working with such legendary wood! And legendary materials make for extraordinary masterpieces. I dare say, once your audience hears your music through this marvel, they’ll be hanging on every note—from the noblest to the most base.”

It was a blood-red violin; its hue as vivid as that of the jet-black instrument slung across Astarion’s back. Dark veins of wood grain coiled through the deep crimson body, like lifeblood coursing beneath its surface. This red was no mere stain but the natural color of the rare blood spruce, from which Efanon had crafted it. The maple back was extravagantly flamed, with bright yellow stripes starkly contrasting the rich crimson—a striking reflection of the bloody battle that had left Cendriane kingless.

“How about the undead?” Astarion asked, his tone laced with mischief. “Vampires, for instance? Would it work on them, I wonder?”

“But of course! Like I said, any kind of monster is bound to be enchanted,” Efanon declared. He cast one final, admiring look at the violin before reverently presenting it to Jayme.

“How heartening,” Jayme replied with a wry smirk.

“Though considering the most exceptional compensation you've provided for my craft, I dare say your own prowess might render any additional ‘musical enhancement’ unnecessary,” Efanon remarked. With a wink, he passed the brand-new, blood-red bow—perfectly complementing the violin—to its new owner.

Astarion stepped closer to Efanon. Fortunately, there were no other patrons in the shop at the moment to overhear.

“Yes, well, about that,” Astarion said, emphasizing each word carefully. “Just to reiterate, we would appreciate it if you refrained from discussing whose remains you have in your possession. We would hate for careless talk to spread and attract adventurers who might rush to their doom. Even without its King, Cendriane is a perilous city, teeming with… monsters. Do we understand each other?”

“We most certainly do, my good sirs. You need not worry! My lips are sealed tight as a vault,” Efanon assured, mimicking the action of sealing his lips with a hairy finger. “Is there aught else I might assist you with? Ah, that reminds me…”

He went to his desk and pulled out a sealed envelope from one of the drawers.

“An unknown tiefling gentleman entrusted me with this for you,” the satyr said, handing the letter to Astarion. “A rather quaint gesture, sending you a letter of all things. I don’t think I’ve held one in my hands for the past two decades or so.”

Astarion turned the simple, unassuming piece of parchment around. He didn’t recognize the seal—a letter L intricately adorned with elegant flourishes.

“Unknown tiefling gentleman? What did he look like?” Jayme asked, examining the seal with interest.

Efanon picked up his pipe from his desk, lit it with a snap of his fingers, and inhaled deeply, blowing out puffs of dark purple smoke that smelled of pine, burnt sugar, and cinnamon.

“Young. Dashing,” he began thoughtfully. “Light skin, light hair, and red eyes, with a sharp, engaging gaze. He wasn’t one for conversation, stating his business succinctly. I didn’t share any information about you or our prior exchange, but he already knew all he needed. He said the letter was for Master Astarion.”

“He didn’t give you his name?” Astarion asked, furrowing his brows as he carefully peeled the burgundy seal from the parchment.

“I’m afraid not.”

Inside was not a typical letter, but a note written in Common with red ink and aristocratic cursive. The fragrant scent of cherries floated from the parchment, tickling Astarion’s nose. The note read:

“The Red Libertines are impressed by your endeavors. With the passing of seasons, all Kings must fall eventually. Will you take the Crown?”

And further down, instead of a signature:

“We shall be in touch.”

After reading the message several times, Astarion looked at Jayme. “Intriguing. Though their intent is unclear, at least to me.”

“They must enjoy being cryptic. But we can be sure it wasn’t sent by any of the tieflings we know.” Jayme said, then glanced up at Efanon. “Ever heard of the ‘Red Libertines’?”

“The who? No, I’ve never heard of them.” Efanon shook his head, sending small clouds of purple smoke into the air.

Jayme nodded and met Astarion’s questioning eyes. “Let’s ask Solaufein.”

“Good thinking,” Astarion agreed. He tucked the letter into a fold of his light leather armor.

“That’ll be all for now,” Jayme said, turning to the luthier. He attached his strap to his violin, then slid it over his shoulder and onto his back. “You have my gratitude, Efanon. I’ll make sure to play a few songs before the day is through.”

“Do return if you have any complaints—but I’d be quite surprised if you did.” The luthier dipped his head in farewell.

With a final nod, Jayme and Astarion left the workshop. “A pleasure, as always,” Efanon called after them.

“Eager to try it out, aren’t you?” Astarion said, turning to the bard after a few steps outside into the ever-present fall splendor of Astrazalian. “Listen, why don’t we head to our favorite golden grove to the west and have ourselves a frolic before meeting up with our Moon Twosome?”

“A frolic?” Jayme arched a brow, intrigued.

“Not the Duskbreak kind this time. Although…” Astarion let the sentence hang in the air for a beat, then shook his head and smiled softly as he continued, “No, I have something a bit more private in mind.”

Jayme’s eyes narrowed slightly. “As tempting as that sounds, I have a feeling you’ll want to meet up first,” he replied, tilting his head with a hint of mystery.

Astarion’s eyes lit up. “You know something I don’t? Is there a surprise?”

“There is. It’s waiting for you, for us, at the Lantern Tree,” Jayme revealed. He let out a low chuckle as Astarion took hold of his forearm and steered them toward the colossal white oak tavern without further questions.

It was the hours of eventide in Faerûnian terms. The day’s siege against the Autumn City had been repelled, largely thanks to four foreign warriors—two of whom struck down the fomorian leaders with blinding speed and deadly accuracy.

The tavern was alive with fey eladrin defenders enjoying their well-earned respite. Many nodded and raised their hands to Astarion and Jayme, as if to old comrades-in-arms.

They found Shadowheart and Solaufein in their usual corner by the burly trunk of the great oak, their empty plates still in front of them. Astarion, enlivened by the vibrance of their favored establishment, slipped into a seat between the two with the elegance and suppleness of a dancer, running a hand up Solaufein’s arm in an affectionate gesture.

“I love surprises, honey; how thoughtful of you!” he exclaimed.

“Hey, why do you assume he deserves the credit?” Shadowheart said sharply, pursing her lips. “As a matter of fact, I was the one who found it.”

“Solaufein is such a sweetheart. I just assumed he was behind it.” Astarion shrugged, then offered a conciliatory smile to the cleric. “But if the credit is yours, I do humbly apologize for my mistake.”

“I can sniff out such delicacies from leagues away,” Shadowheart declared. “But it’s not just for you. I brought it here specifically so we could all celebrate the day Jayme picks up his new violin. We had to make it worth the tapster’s while, of course.”

“What did you promise in return?” Jayme asked, reclining comfortably in his oak chair opposite Astarion.

“Another night of entertainment delivered by Jayme and Astarion of Baldur's Gate,” the cleric replied.

“So be it,” Astarion nodded, with barely a moment’s thought. “I’ve been meaning to treat Astrazalian to our Baldurian ‘Kiss of Fire’ anyway.”

“Didn’t that song originate in Amn?” Solaufein pointed out, smiling into his cup.

“Details, details. How well you know the culture of the Surface!” Astarion remarked, impressed.

“I have roamed it for longer than you have, I wager,” the drow modestly reminded him.

“True enough,” Astarion murmured. Plenty of time to make up for that, he thought, gazing at Jayme, who met his eyes with a knowing smile.

“Now, Shadowheart, don’t keep us in suspense,” the bard said, nodding his thanks to the dryad tavern wench who placed two more goblets before them. “Unveil your delicacy.”

Pleased with the expectant looks on the others’ faces, Shadowheart reached into her bag of holding and unearthed a glossy, teardrop-shaped crystal vessel filled with radiant amber liquid. The cork popped, and a peal of silvery laughter, with a playful, almost otherworldly quality like the laughter of a djinni, rippled from the bottle.

“Is that what I think it is?” Astarion whispered in awe.

Shadowheart set the bottle in the middle of the table. A rich, heavenly aroma wafted from it, so potent that Astarion felt a twinge of doubt—could the undead even partake in something so sacred?

“Nymph’s Whisper,” Solaufein confirmed, equally affected by the wine’s fragrance. To be fair, they all were.

“The alleged contender for the title of ‘the beverage of the planes!’” Astarion sighed with emotion, as if he had found a long-lost love.

“It is said that each bottle is different,” Solaufein added. “Once opened, the nymph essence inside may giggle, sing, or, in rare cases, weep with joy—sometimes even a combination of these. But most often, it whispers soothing phrases in its own language.”

“Where did you come by this?” Astarion asked, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked at Shadowheart. “I’ve scoured every winery and wine merchant in both Astrazalian and Mithrendain!”

“I uncovered Kannoth’s secret stash in the catacombs,” Shadowheart replied proudly. “At least, I assume it was his. This is nothing compared to what I found—racks of exotic wines, brandies, and sherries. When you go back to catch up with Gale, look for a trapdoor behind the alabaster eladrin statue—the male one—in that ghastly dining hall.”

“Dining hall? ‘Bloodletting chamber’ would be more accurate,” Jayme remarked. His tone was matter-of-fact, if a little dry.

Just speaking of the place evoked the pungent smell of blood from hundreds, if not thousands, of creatures dried on the elegant interior of a once-dining hall.

Pushing the repulsive sensation away, Astarion fidgeted excitedly in his seat. “Let’s get one thing straight: does Yousen know about it? Or any of my siblings?” he asked.

“No. We were discreet in our exploration,” Solaufein replied while pouring for all four of them.

“My shrewd darlings, I applaud you! Bottoms up!” Astarion cheered, raising his goblet high.

“To what do we drink?” Solaufein asked.

“To life,” Jayme said without thinking, a light smile playing on his pale lips.

“To new adventures,” Shadowheart added warmly.

“To our glory,” Astarion proposed.

“Then, to all of these: life, adventure, glory—and companionship,” Solaufein concluded.

The Whisper, true to its reputation, seemed to speak to them from their goblets, drawing them in with the mellifluous cadence of the nymphs’ language. As the amber silk touched Astarion’s tongue, he realized that what he had initially sensed as holiness was but a first impression, concealing the most sybaritic experience ever granted by a drink. Each sip brought an undiluted joy that spread through his mouth, chest, and limbs.

“Well? How does it compare to your extolled beverage?” Solaufein inquired after a minute of silence. His dark red eyes were distant, with a lustrous sheen.

“It’s a tie,” Astarion declared, feeling lightheaded. “A most compelling rival... perhaps even ambrosia itself. And I fear it has ruined me for all other vintages.”

“A tie with what again?” Shadowheart asked.

“The cocoa of Maztica,” Solaufein supplied, smirking into his drink.

The cleric snorted, then giggled unlike herself, “What a quaint notion!”

“Take a journey to Maztica. You’d be surprised.” Jayme grinned wider than usual, revealing a flash of fangs. “This is sublime, of course, but cocoa will always be one of a kind—for me.”

Astarion’s mind was suddenly flooded with memories of the cacao’s earthy scent, hot springs, spirited bonfire dances, and their bodies entwined in long, lingering pleasure. Maztica will always be our gem, Astarion thought fondly, knowing Jayme could hear him.

“So, where to now?” Jayme changed the subject, whirling his goblet in his hand.

Solaufein and Shadowheart exchanged a brief look before answering.

“We are not done with Minthrendain yet,” Solaufein said.

“Some of the high-level spells I used against Kannoth,” Shadowheart explained, “like Holy Aura, required components I bartered for there. And there’s much more to explore still—about Sehanine Moonbow, Corellon Larethian, Eilistraee. It’s a place where faith and spirituality seem to thrive more than anywhere I’ve been before.”

“You’re welcome to borrow the mortar if you’d like. It’ll get you there faster,” Jayme offered smoothly. “After all, we now have a new way of traveling through the lands of the Feywild.”

“As fleet as a shadow in the night!” Astarion interjected, fluttering his fingers like batwings. He didn’t care one bit that he looked and sounded a smidge tipsy—from scarcely a cup.

“We’ll only need it back the next time we want to make our way to Toril or Avernus,” Jayme added, eyes crinkling with amusement as he looked at the rogue.

“Oh, you’re planning another sojourn?” Shadowheart asked.

“Cendriane is on its way to being fortified,” Astarion said, pouring himself more Whisper. The more he drank, the louder the nymph’s dulcet laughter seemed to echo around them. “We’ll wait for Gale to work his magic with those very fine sculptors, and then…”

He paused, gazing searchingly at Jayme.

“You behead the fomorians?” Solaufein suggested.

“For starters. Those slaver scum have it coming.” Astarion scoffed, earning a smile from Jayme.

“We mustn’t forget that we have, in effect, declared war on the Unseelie Court,” the bard said, lowering his voice so no one would overhear. “How vengeful they are remains to be seen, but we need to prepare and do some research. Speaking of which, Astarion’s received a letter from an unknown source.”

Astarion produced the letter and handed it to Solaufein, who pulled out the message and held it between himself and Shadowheart so they could read it together. Their faces turned pensive, but no recognition lit up their eyes.

“Neither of you have any clue who these people are?” Astarion glanced from one to the other.

“Regrettably, no,” Solaufein replied, shaking his head. “If the sender is indeed a tiefling, it is reasonable to assume they are originally Faerûnians, like us. Given they already know what befell Kannoth, they are likely connected to the Unseelie Court in some way.”

“Faerûnians working with the Unseelie Court?” Shadowheart asked, surprised.

“Rare but not unheard of. As long as they prove to be reliable,” Solaufein answered.

“The wording is ambiguous at best,” Shadowheart said, her eyes scanning the message again. “’Impressed’—is this meant to be praise, or is it more of a threat in disguise? And the line, ‘Will you take the Crown?’ That part especially unsettles me.”

“A good thing to keep in mind,” Solaufein continued thoughtfully, “is that the discord between the Seelie and Unseelie Courts stems from the feud between Queen Titania and the Queen of Air and Darkness. Many perceive them as representing good and evil, light and dark. But the truth, as I have found in my own travels, is far less clear-cut. Both courts have their share of capricious members, and both value beauty—though their interpretations differ greatly.”

“Because both the Seelie Court and the Unseelie Court appreciate and revere true beauty among the fey, hags are almost never found in either place,” Astarion added enthusiastically. “I remember reading that in Volo's Guide to Monsters when I was studying fey lore.”

“Precisely,” Solaufein nodded. “Generally speaking, one side has a darker reputation while the other leans more toward benevolence. But do not make the mistake of treating the Seelie fey as your allies and the Unseelie as enemies without a second thought. Expect twists and intentions on both sides—ill will and goodwill alike.”

“That’s insightful advice. Thank you, Solaufein,” Jayme said calmly. “Though the fact remains that we have killed one of the Unseelie.”

“You know, dearest,” Astarion theorized, “I’d stake my neck that Kannoth had enemies within the Court—rivals, both jealous and resentful, no doubt, given his… propensity for excess.”

“You might be right. We know Baba Yaga herself was one of his enemies, from outside the fey Courts,” Jayme pointed out.

“Exactly!” Astarion exclaimed, gesturing animatedly with his index finger. “Even if we’ve angered some—or even most—of the Unseelie Court, I’m sure we’ve also made a few unexpected friends.”

“Now you’re speaking the language of this plane—wily calculations,” Shadowheart smirked. “What’s next? Bargains, perhaps?”

“Why the hells not?” Astarion said, spreading his arms. “If it gives us an edge against a horde of creatures mourning their high-and-mighty Vampire King… Which means we should investigate Cendriane thoroughly. We might uncover leads to potential allies. And as for these ‘Red Libertines,’ I suspect we’ll be hearing more from them.”

“Well, if there’s one thing our party excels at, it’s investigation,” Shadowheart agreed. “In any case, it seems like we’ll be parting ways for a while.”

“I have a feeling it won’t be for too long, though,” Jayme remarked with a smirk.

Without missing a beat, Astarion eagerly refilled everyone’s goblets and proposed, “How about we leave less to chance and agree to reconvene in Mithrendain in, say, a month?”

“Don’t want to be away from us for more than a month?” Shadowheart teased.

“Strangely enough, I don’t,” Astarion admitted. “I’ve grown quite fond of you two. Truth is, you’re not half bad as company.”

“That’s the closest you’ve come to a love confession, isn’t it?” the cleric quipped.

“You should hear him when we’re alone,” Jayme said with a sly grin, his vermillion eyes shining brighter—a subtle indication of the Whisper’s effects. Astarion found it endearing.

“It’s the most I’ll offer an impertinent snark queen like yourself,” the rogue retorted.

“Love you too, Star,” Shadowheart purred.

“He has a nickname?” Solaufein raised a white eyebrow.

“He doesn’t. His name is Astarion,” the rogue corrected, holding up a single, admonishing finger toward Shadowheart. “Think twice before making us ‘Star’ and ‘Jay’—unless you’re suddenly fond of ‘Shart’.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” Shadowheart countered.

"Nicknames are a last resort, I assure you." Astarion waved his hand dismissively.

“So who lavishes endearments on every other soul they meet?” Shadowheart asked, a slight squint creasing her eyes.

“My endearments are tasteful and elegant, and they carry deeper significance,” Astarion stated. “And I’ll have you know that not everyone is worthy of one.”

Their bickering went on for a while, with Solaufein and Jayme eventually exchanging looks and shaking their heads in resignation.

“I find it hard to imagine a whole month without you two,” Solaufein murmured. “Travel safely through whatever dangers lie ahead. I look forward to more shared adventures.”

“So do I,” Jayme echoed softly.

 

 

Time drifted away like leaves falling from the towering oak that housed the Lantern Tree, swirling gently in the midst of good friends and a truly exceptional drink. A little while later, Shadowheart and Solaufein called it a night, but Astarion and Jayme weren't quite ready to end the evening yet.

Swaying slightly and accompanied by the last sparkling giggles of the Nymph’s Whisper, they ambled outside the tavern. The ever-lasting twilight hovered in orange-rose hues over the Autumn City; the only sign that it was time to rest was the thinning of people on the streets.

“To the golden grove, my treasure?” Astarion asked, his lips curled into a contented smile.

“I know a better place than the grove. I’ve been meaning to go there with you and discover it together,” Jayme suggested. He slid a hand up the strap of his violin, clearly ready and excited to play.

“Another surprise—I feel spoiled,” Astarion cooed.

“Good. Come,” Jayme said, leading the way.

They headed out of Astrazalian, toward the lovely clearing in the Everwood where they had celebrated Duskbreak before. But before they reached the familiar spot, Jayme slowed his pace and stopped before a blazing red maple. It stood out among the cooler jade, olive, and purple foliage, stretching higher and boasting sturdier branches than any of the surrounding giants.

They strayed from the path to approach this tree, but Astarion couldn’t immediately grasp the purpose. Though the maple was impressive in its own right, it wasn’t the picturesque clearing that could rival the golden grove.

“Up we go,” Jayme said, noticing Astarion’s mild puzzlement, “To the top.”

“Fancy us acting like a pair of wee wood elves for a change?” Astarion snickered. As Jayme found his first grips on the rugged gray tree trunk, he added in surprise, “Oh, you meant it? We could always just fly, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jayme said, craning his neck to flash a saucy smile.

“So be it. Let’s have it your way,” Astarion agreed, drawn by that smile, and followed the bard’s lead.

They climbed, nimble and graceful, up and up into the sunset. Jayme stopped only when he reached the highest branch that could securely support them. He moved confidently to the middle, the branch barely dipping under his weight, and made room for Astarion.

The sky, dominated by rose and orange, bled into ruby red around the Sun’s radiant orb. Twinkling like tiny silver gems in this rosy sea was a scatter of brilliant stars.

“The City of Starlight,” Jayme murmured, transfixed by the scenery. “At last, we discover why Astrazalian is called that.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing the stars in the Feywild before,” Astarion said, equally awestruck. “The city is truly stunning from this vantage point—those towers, that grand city wall, and the autumn beauty of its trees!”

Just below them, a troupe of faerie dragons zipped after a cluster of shimmering white sunmoths, leaving a dazzling trail of color in their wake. Not to be outdone, a party of gliding squirrels leaped after the tiny creatures, trying to snatch a few moths before the dragons could. Astarion watched, amused, until the entire spectacle vanished from view.

“Glad I made the climb worth it,” Jayme said, still lost in the sky and oblivious to the lively interlude. After another moment, he tore his eyes away to pull Astarion close by the waist.

“You most certainly did. And the view is just a sweet bonus, of course. What matters most is that it’s just you, me, and our violins now. Perfection.” Astarion smiled, rubbing his cheek fondly against Jayme’s. “Any discomfort or tingling now that you’re bathed in sunlight?”

Jayme gave the question some thought, lifting a hand to examine how the Sun touched his pale skin.

“Still nothing tangible,” he replied. “Just a faint unease, like when spells explode too close, but a Potion of Immunity keeps the worst of it at bay.”

“A fair analogy,” Astarion said. “Though Immunity can only do so much. Our blood is far superior. It turns the might of the Sun into nothing more than a ghostly breath on our skin, doesn’t it?”

“I would’ve lived with you in the shadows, too,” Jayme said with quiet intensity.

“I know, my love,” Astarion looped his arms around the bard’s neck. “To anyone else, I might say, ‘That’s adorable, but you have no idea what it’s like.’ But when you say it, I believe you.”

“Because I used to be trapped in my own cage?” Jayme asked.

Astarion understood what he meant. He had heard the chant before, glimpsed the thrum of visions that had once driven Jayme’s darker deeds.

The bars of the cage
Will bend, but will remain
But there is always pain

Dance with me on the white coal

The mystic words came easily to mind.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You see the deepest, ugliest side of me. Everything,” Jayme murmured.

“Naturally,” Astarion replied without hesitation. “Our Urges always have been, and always will be, part of who we are.” With a light smile, he added. “They’re part of the package.”  

“And you don’t even flinch.” Jayme tilted his head.

“Why would I? My dreams vividly reminded me of how you used to be. Strong and confident, undeniably, but eternally battling with yourself, in secret, amid all the chaos we faced.” Astarion traced a hand along Jayme’s face, recalling the lines of desperation, the fear his murderous impulses would etch there. “You wear your scars with grace now. And help me do the same.”

Jayme’s smile mirrored the sunset’s glow. When he spoke, his voice was warm and deep.

“It’s marvelous what freedom from one’s own delusions can do. Not to mention freedom from the collar of one’s old master.” He paused meaningfully, then continued, “Do you think you'll be able to command my Urge now?”

“What an intriguing question!” Astarion exclaimed, his features sharpening with anticipation. “Shall we find out? Tomorrow?”

“Deal,” Jayme agreed. He slid his hands up from Astarion’s waist to touch the jet-black violin on his back, stroking the wood with fondness.

“Are you sure you don’t want it back?” Astarion asked quietly when he noticed Jayme’s touch.

“I’m sure,” Jayme replied simply.

“But…”

“It feels right that it’s in your hands. I know you’ll use it as I did,” Jayme explained.

“With love and devotion,” Astarion said with a smile.

“And most of all, with trust. You can confide your darkest thoughts to it, and it will create something beautiful,” Jayme said. His hand moved up the leather strap, tangling into Astarion’s white curls. He brushed his fingers through the strands.

“Even monsters have beauty in them,” Astarion remarked in a hushed voice. “Don’t they?”

“Plenty,” Jayme nodded. “The violin can bring that beauty to life, especially here in the Feywild.”

“With you, that doesn’t sound so hard,” Astarion whispered.

The moment felt significant. Loaded. Luminous.

Jayme lifted his eyes from Astarion’s hair. “Don’t undervalue yourself,” he said. “Everything you faced within yourself these past tendays, you faced it. You’re here because of your own efforts. You’ve redefined yourself and fundamentally changed the lives of others. You have every right to be proud.”

The calm sincerity in Jayme’s words struck a deep chord in Astarion, bringing tears to his eyes. This is ridiculous, he thought, blinking rapidly. I know this… so why does hearing him say it affect me so deeply?

Unless… have I forgotten how to let myself feel proud of something I’ve achieved?

The realization stung, yet it also offered a sense of profound release. This internal wall had to come down—a crucial step toward becoming someone he could finally accept.

For this was different from saving Baldur’s Gate. This was personal—his decisions, his choices alone. Supported by friends he cherished more than he could have imagined.

“Thank you,” he breathed shakily, the depth of his catharsis tightening his throat.

Jayme licked away the salty drops that dribbled down his cheeks. It tickled. A fragile, freeing chuckle escaped Astarion.

He drew back a little, composing himself.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began, his tone bright with a lingering note of relief. “It might be worth joining the Harpers—for their information and resources, of course, not because I suddenly feel like being tied down by some rigid affiliation. Just imagine—we might have wrapped up that case in Mithrendain much sooner without you consorting with their dusty old books in their library.”

“Would it be worth the trade-off?” Jayme asked. “Access to their intelligence in exchange for upholding their Code? That aside, their main focus is the Forgotten Realms.”

“I’m not sure. But it’s something to consider, and I think we know just the person to shed some light on how the Harpers operate and what they can offer us,” Astarion said with a wink.

“It will be good to see her again,” Jayme nodded, then impishly added, “Imagine her shock when we tell her why we’re suddenly interested.”

“Ha! Indeed! Imagine if word got out: ‘Two Vampires in Meddler Circles—Our Realm Spiraling into Pandemonium!’ That’d make a thrilling read in the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette!” Astarion laughed. “Looks like I’m turning into a meddler myself. Now, there’s an unexpected twist!”

He wiped his face with his fingers, pressed a kiss to Jayme’s mouth, then stepped back and took his violin in hand. From the branches of the maple, a pair of iridescent hummingbirds whirled out, fluttering eagerly around them.

“Try not to call the Harpers ‘meddlers’ in front of Jaheira,” Jayme warned with a grin and began tuning his instrument.  “Besides, it’s a dangerous game to play, you know. Once a meddler, always a meddler.”

Astarion laughed again. “My darling, we’ll bend the winds of the realms to our will!”

Jayme plucked the catgut strings with practiced motions, then looked up at Astarion. “Careful with that. We’re not like the megalomaniacs you want to avoid. Like the Ascendant. Hubris is a sure path to downfall.”

Astarion’s hand paused on one of the pegs. “You’re right,” he chuckled a bit sheepishly. “The blood’s still rushing in my veins. I can’t help but dream big.”

“I can feel it—your blood,” Jayme murmured, his voice low. He took a deep breath. “And I understand that passion. You know I’m no stranger to ambition or the risks that come with it. Let's start by looking into the Red Libertines. We can also speak with Lady Shandria about the Unseelie Court and search Cendriane for any of Kannoth’s correspondences. One step at a time, and let’s not get in over our heads.”

Astarion nodded. “And after that, we could scout Vor Thomil or Mag Tureah. See if we can destabilize—or, gods forbid, even collapse—one of the fomorian kingdoms. We can take turns choosing our next objective and plan our moves together.”

“I like the sound of that,” Jayme said, smiling as he practiced a few scales with smooth, flowing strokes of the bow.

Astarion held his own violin tucked under his chin, bow hanging loosely in his right hand as he watched the bard. Jayme’s fluid motions made playing the violin look deceptively easy. Likewise, his poise made being a champion of freedom seem effortless. It was hard to believe this was the same man Astarion had once had to tie up by the campfire to keep him from tearing the rogue apart—or that this was the Son of Bhaal, born to be a champion of the underworld.

“Will you advise me?” Astarion asked. “And tell me if I’m letting my ego get the better of me?”

Jayme stopped his bow and lowered it, then closed the distance to briefly touch his forehead against Astarion’s. “Of course. And I expect you to do the same. We’ll be each other’s compass.”

“And shelter,” Astarion whispered.

“And leaking blood bag,” Jayme added.

Astarion chuckled. “And lover, of course.” He paused, suddenly inspired. “I just thought of a good sobriquet for us. Better than ‘Shrewd Elf Twosome’.”

“What sobriquet?”

“’The Wildest Wind.’ We can make it the title of our fourth movement too,” Astarion murmured.

“I like it. But why not Winds?” Jayme asked, tilting his head playfully.

“It just… feels right.” As Astarion raised his violin, the hummingbirds, still hovering nearby, emitted a flurry of chirps. “We are one.”

Their eyes met, and a shared understanding passed between them. The first notes of their music filled the air, a passionate melody that soared and dipped like the wind itself.

The Sun shone down on them, and their rhapsody carried far across the land.

 

The End

Notes:

Thank you for reading! Comments would be more than welcome～ :)
I might come back and tweak this text now and then. There’s always something to improve.

I couldn't have written this fic without the awesome music of IAMX, and classical composers like Paganini, Saint-Saëns, Vivaldi, and Bach (plus a few others you've probably noticed throughout.)
IAMX's music, especially the beautiful "Wildest Wind," the magnetic "Animal Impulses," and the mystical "Dance with Me," was a huge inspiration. The second part was greatly inspired by his "The Power and the Glory."

My biggest thanks, of course, go to Larian for creating this incredible and worthy sequel to BG1 and BG2.