Chapter Text
Astarion kneels on the dock, staring at the blackened scorch mark she left behind until his eyes blur and his knees go numb.
The absurd thought that it’s too small keeps running through his mind. Just a few feet of smudged, charcoaled wood—the acrid, burning smell so different from the warm and smokey smell of her skin.
No, that—that can’t be right. It should have been much more, surely? Karlach stood head and shoulders above them all. She was larger than life itself. She roared louder than a dragon in her rage. The dock shouldn’t even be standing! It should be in a million splinters under the bloodied water! Her funeral pyre should have taken out the half of the blasted city that the mind flayers weren’t able to destroy!
Instead it’s just a black scorch on weathered, sun-bleached wood, her ashes mixing in the Chionthar with the rest of the dead.
He kneels on the dock where only a few hours ago they were catching their breath, relieved and elated to be alive. After months of grueling travel. After bloody, brutal fights for their lives, and the constant fear of transformation, it was over. They were free.
Gods, it felt so good.
Until it didn’t. Until he felt the harsh rejection of the sun on his skin for the first time in months, and he had to flee back into the dark. Hiding underground, among the rats and sewage to wait out the sun. Finding his friends again, expecting a celebration, and instead finding their faces somber and streaked with tears, eyes trying desperately to look anywhere but at him. Searching for one particular face, the most important to him, and knowing without a single spoken word that she was gone.
He’d promised her. Gods damn it, he’d promised he’d be there when it happened. Perhaps if he’d been there he could have finally convinced her to stay. To live. She’d cried and pleaded with him to understand, and on some level he did. To die free or live in fear, in pain… he understood. More to the point, it was her choice to make. After having so much taken from her, she deserved to make that choice. He knew how important that was to her. He knew better than most.
He kneels on the dock until he feels the first prickles of sunlight on his skin signaling a new day. He’d fled before, but this time the wild urge to stay, to let the sun finish the job so many had failed to accomplish rears up inside him. Yes. Perhaps they could both burn here, in this spot. Two black smudges to be trodden upon by fishermen, eventually washed away by the rain, the last of their grease and ash floating past Umberlee’s temple to the sea. Together.
He kneels until a blanket is thrown over his head and he is lifted bodily and thrown over a strong shoulder. Halsin’s he is pretty sure, if the smell of wood smoke and dried herbs is anything to go on. He hears Wyll’s voice nearby telling him she wouldn’t want that, a small quaver in his otherwise steady tenor.
No. She wouldn’t want that. And he didn’t either. Not really. He’d fought too hard for this freedom to waste it. She fought too hard to help give it to him. It was a gift. A beautiful, wretched gift he would cherish as long as the memory of her lived inside him.
He closes his eyes beneath the cover of the scratchy wool blanket as he is carried to safety by his friends. But even in the dark, he can still see the black mark left behind where her fire had burned out.
The next day Wyll tells him to go to Hell. Fine, asks him to go to Hell.
He blinks, wondering if he misheard, and says, “What?”
“Come with me to Avernus,” Wyll says, easy, like he’s asking Astarion around for tea. Right. The Blade of Frontiers is the Blade of Avernus now. Sworn to cleanse the Hells of the devils that threaten the Sword Coast or some such rot. What an absurd idea. For a moment, Astarion imagines several ways to kill him painfully. Go there. To the place of her worst nightmares. The place she refused to return to despite his pleading. After everything that’s happened, to step foot in that place, without her. It felt like a mockery of his pain to even suggest it.
“No.”
But Wyll is Wyll, and if he’s not trying to save someone he’s not… well. Wyll.
“You won’t have to worry about the sun. And there are plenty of nasty things full of blood you can drain. Some of it is bound to be palatable. Don’t tell me you’re ready to hang up your daggers just yet.” He lays a hand on Astarion’s shoulder, and it takes not an insignificant amount of effort for Astarion to leave it there. Voice all somber and sincere, Wyll says, “Mizora is still out there. I cannot let her harm another soul. I want you to join me. A reasonable person would say no. I still want you to say yes.”
Wyll smiles a charming smile, but there is something different about it now, some heaviness hidden in the shadows of his eyes. They had a celebration the night before. Or something like it. There was wine, and some nice people said some nice words about their journey together. About the fallen. They tried for cheer, but the weight of everything they lost was too heavy to be ignored. It was oppressive, like the snuffing of a candle. Their city half destroyed. Lae’zel gone, fucked off on a dragon to liberate her people or die trying. Karlach…
The room felt empty and the festivities ended rather quickly—though Astarion did not fail to notice the number of bottles Wyll polished off in that short amount of time. He couldn’t help remembering a different party in the wilderness with shitty music and even shittier wine. Tiefling children chasing the dog around camp. Sparkling lights shot into the air by an over-confident wizard. A tipsy bard playing slightly off-tune. Everyone celebrating the deaths of the goblins (fun) and calling him a hero (disgusting).
Karlach caught his eye from across the camp. She would be dropping by his tent when things wound down. It was a shame he couldn’t introduce her to his entire sexual repertoire (what was an infernal engine anyway), but she seemed smitten all the same. The poor thing hadn’t had a decent fuck in a decade, and some part of him genuinely wanted to show her a good time, despite his revulsion at using his body like that again. She was parched, and Astarion was more than happy to lead her to his well if it meant securing her strong arms and bloodied axe to his side. She shot him a significant look and jerked her head. He followed her gaze where he saw Wyll off in the distance on the beach, well into his second bottle and looking like the very definition of a bad time.
But he gave her a nod anyway because for some strange reason these people looked to him to lead them. To guide them. To fix their problems. Gods above, he couldn’t even fix his own problems. He never could. But he needed them so instead of rolling his eyes, he headed over to where Wyll was having a pity party of his own, and held out his glass for a refill. Wyll poured him a measure of wine and tapped the rim of his glass in a toast.
Astarion grimaced. “Ugh. Why is every bottle either vinegar or piss?”
Wyll hummed. “This one might be both actually.”
They sipped the wine anyway. And Astarion flirted, he laid on the charm, because he didn’t know how to ask someone about their problems, but certainly knew how to distract someone from them. He cast a line and Wyll nibbled, but he didn’t bite. Not that Astarion really expected him to. Still, it didn’t hurt to have more than one person on the hook just in case.
But Wyll was too miserable for any of that. Instead, he blushed and ran his fingers along the side of one horn, self-conscious, and Astarion felt an unexpected pang of sympathy as he recalled all the times he’d cut his tongue open on his newly pointed teeth, the scent of grave dirt still clinging to his skin. Poor (foolish) Wyll. He did the right thing, and all he got for it was a pair of rather fetching horns that he fiddled with idly as he told Astarion perhaps another time. He wasn’t in the festive mood, and didn't want to make the others nervous. “Go celebrate. You’re the hero today.” (Ugh)
He headed back to the party, but not before getting some assurance that Wyll was all right. He wasn’t of course, no one here really was, but they could pretend for now at least. He debated taking the bottle but decided against it. Wyll was a big boy after all. If he wanted to pickle the worm in his brain and forget the horror that was their lives, who was Astarion to stop him?
“Is he all right?” Karlach asked when he returned.
“He will be,” he said, which was honest enough.
She still looked troubled. “I still can’t believe what he did for me. Me!” she said, like she wasn’t worthy of grace or mercy. “He didn’t deserve what she did to him. We’re gonna get him out of that contract, right?”
Good gods. As if they didn’t have enough to deal with, she wanted to fight a devil for Wyll’s soul. But really, this was why he chose her. She was loyal, she had a strong sense of justice, and she was more than willing to throw herself in front of someone else’s nightmare if she felt strongly enough. He couldn’t believe it when he told her about Cazador, after meeting the Gur in the swamp, and his tightly held secret had come out. The fire in her eyes as he told her what his life had been like. The blaze of anger as she dared anyone to come into her house and hurt her people. It was almost too good to be true.
Still, that awe and admiration in her voice should be directed at him, thank you. So he gave his best impression of sincerity, eyes wide and honest, and said, “Of course we will, darling.” He let his voice drop to a sultry purr. “But enough about him, I believe you promised me the rest of your evening, my dear?”
In the present, he looks at Wyll, sees his earnestness tinged with what looks like fear, and Astarion knows he can’t let Wyll go to Avernus alone. She’d be furious at him if he abandoned Wyll now. If they abandoned each other.
“Fine,” he huffs, throwing his arms up and glaring when Wyll gives him a genuine smile. “But I’m going to complain the whole time.”
At night Astarion makes his way through the ruined streets of the city alone. Already efforts are underway to put things back in order. Rubble has been cleared to make way for carts to shunt the injured to the healing houses, and the dead to their final rest. The fires have been put out, but the acrid scent of smoke lingers along with the blood and rot; a smell always present to his keen senses, but stronger now than ever.
He passes by the Devil’s Fee, looted of valuables and short one diabolist. They don’t know if she died during the fight or fled to the Hells, but the Fist secured the second floor before anyone could get in and take or tamper with anything too dangerously infernal. He and Wyll should be able to use the ritual circle to get back into Avernus once they’ve gotten everything they need in order.
He catches sight of Dammon’s forge, cooling now. Probably resting after a long day of helping clear the streets, patching up wagons, smithing tools for repairs. Astarion is glad he was forced to hide from the sun when the others told Dammon what happened. He’s still not sure if he’s grateful for all Dammon was able to do, or angry that he couldn’t fix her. All the infernal iron they could need, gods damned Gondians with knowledge of infernal engines a stone’s throw away, and no one could come up with a solution. Maybe he is angry. So it’s for the best really that he wasn’t around to watch Dammon cry when they told him how she died.
The next building that catches his eye does nothing to improve his mood. A hideous, gothic monstrosity, that once housed a monstrosity. Home sweet home. How unfair it is that entire city blocks are destroyed, people displaced from their homes, but Cazador’s palace still stands, hardly a scratch. Some smashed windows, a whole section of roof shingles missing and a few walls blackened by dragon fire but still intact. How satisfying it would be to restart some fires. He calls flames to his fingers, almost without thinking. The palace has likely been looted as well, and probably housing unfortunates with nowhere else to go. Poor sods, desperate enough to call a vampire nest home. They’re welcome to it. He’ll keep his flames to himself.
His feet carry him along absently, trodding ground so familiar it’s almost second nature to take a left here or a right there or cut through an alley to avoid the usual crowded avenues. But there is no crowd tonight. It’s strange seeing the streets so empty and quiet. No nighttime revelers swaying drunkenly from tavern to tavern. No music carrying out of doorways. No one peddling goods, nor the scent of sizzling meat from push carts. Only patrols of Fist and a few haunted looking citizens getting to where they need quickly. A city hiding, licking its wounds after a fight. And cats. Fellow predators hunting the vermin that have been shaken loose. Kindred spirits.
The sound of voices arguing carries down from the second story of the building beside him. He glances up and spots a sign swinging from an awning. The Singing Lute. A knot forms in his stomach, replacing the ever present hunger for a moment. They were just here. Pretending they’d only just met, whispering secrets to each other, holding hands. Kissing over a bottle of wine. Anguish roots him to the spot, and he feels very far away from himself for a moment.
They were just here together.
“Get out!” a deep, gruff voice shouts, breaking the spell. “Or this ladle is going up your arse!”
Before he realizes it, he is scaling the side of the wall by the grace of his vampiric ability (gods, he missed this) and silently blends into the shadows. Henk, the worst waiter ever, is brandishing a ladle against two men, cloth masks around the lower half of their faces and daggers in hand.
“We just want food!” one of the men says.
“Then come back tomorrow,” Henk grunts.
The other man steps closer, his knife pointed directly at the half-orc in front of him. “Come on! People gotta eat!”
Astarion feels his breath catch.
“You gotta eat,” Karlach said, giving Astarion a sympathetic look that made his skin crawl. They were back at camp now, cleaning the last of the swamp off them in the river (blessedly cool and unburning and still a marvel). “I know that. Hells, everyone here knows that they just… not everyone ‘gets’ it, you know? Sometimes—sometimes you gotta do whatever it takes to survive.”
He watched her absently pat the pocket where she stored the soul coin they found. He was not sure if she was reassuring herself it was still there or offering an apology to the poor sod trapped inside.
“Just keep your teeth out of innocent people, and I’ve got your back, yeah?”
Astarion could scarcely believe it. Just a few hours ago they were knee deep in swamp muck, debating the wisdom of traveling with a vampire spawn, and now he was just being given permission to feed on anyone? Their enemies sure, but there was no shortage of that it seemed. And better still, the woman he watched stomp her boot through the head of some fake paladin before burning their cabin to ash was on his side? Incredible. This couldn’t have gone better.
He offered her his most winning smile. “No innocents. You have my word. Cross my heart and hope to—” the look she gave him then was amused, and he liked that better. He cleared his throat and this time let his smile show a bit of fang. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
He blinks as one of the men loses patience and lunges to strike. Astarion is moving before he even realizes it. He darts from the shadows and grabs the man’s wrist, his dagger going wide. Astarion kicks out his knee, and the man’s momentum carries him backward right into Astarion and his fangs. He bites deep, blood pooling in his mouth, feeling the familiar headrush, and grips his prey tightly with clawed fingers. The other man gives an angry cry and swings his dagger, but Astarion pivots and shoves the man in his arms towards the blade instead. Run through, he drops dying at their feet, and Astarion bares his fangs in a broad smile at the man still standing—the effect made all the more frightening with blood dripping from his chin.
“V—vampire!” the man shrieks, and he turns and bolts, knocking down a chair as he rushes to the stairs. Astarion lets him go, wiping the blood from his mouth.
Waving his hand, he offers Henk a hollow laugh. “Apologies. I know blood isn’t on the menu here.”
Henk just grunts. “Huh. Guess that’s why you didn’t eat nothing.”
“Quite.”
A long, uncomfortable moment passes. Eventually, Henk asks, “Your lady friend… she alright?”
The blood in his stomach turns to ash. “No. No she’s not. She’s—” dead. Gone. But Henk gives an understanding nod and another grunt (can the man make any other sounds?) and tells him he’ll take care of the mess.
Astarion makes a quick exit after that. Two wrongs rarely make a right in the eyes of the city guards. Even if he is one of the saviors (sweet hells) of Baldur’s Gate, even if he just saved Henk’s life, he’d rather not have to explain the bite marks.
The rest of his walk is uneventful, save for a cat that leaps from the shadows onto a wall, a squealing rat clenched between its teeth. It watches Astarion for a moment before slinking off with its meal. He makes his way back to the High Hall, idly observing the damage. As many buildings in ruin as there are still standing. He’s glad the Lute is still standing. Truly. And it won’t take long before the city is back on its feet. He’s been alive long enough to witness a calamity or two; Baldur’s Gate always bounces back. Perhaps he will too.
And then he thinks about how his last memory of The Singing Lute will be of a man bleeding to death on the floor.
Perhaps he will bounce back one day.
But not today.
It takes a few days, but soon they are making preparations and saying goodbye to their friends. They promise to be careful. To send for help if they find themselves in trouble. Even now, after everything they’ve gone through together, Astarion still feels a bit unsettled by their kindness and generosity. They give up their best pieces of gear, valuable spell scrolls, and more than their fair share of the gold they’ve acquired. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what they want in return, but he doesn’t do that anymore. He hasn’t had to for some time. Not with these people.
It wasn’t until after Karlach split an Orthon’s skull with her axe and asked for nothing more than a high-five—they were sitting around camp waiting for the smug devil to deliver on his promise, Gale and Shadowheart ready with spells to lock Raphael down if he tried to pull another fast one—that he realized. They didn’t want anything from him in return. They genuinely just wanted to help him. Because they liked him. They cared about him. His stupid half-baked plan had worked. Fucking yay! And gods, if that didn’t make him feel despicable. Worse than the devil that stripped him and put his scars on display for his own amusement. Raphael had just wanted to humiliate him. Astarion had used these people. Had taken advantage of their generosity at every turn. He hadn’t done anything for them that didn’t benefit himself in some way. Free from Cazador’s control after centuries, and here he was still luring victims. He touched the cloak Wyll had draped around his shoulders as he had stood nude in the middle of the gloomy tavern. He hadn’t even asked for it back! Told him to keep it! Who does that?
After he learned the truth of his scars, he had a crisis of conscience and broke down in front of Karlach like an absolute fool. He’d manipulated her. And he might love her. He needed their help. And he was sorry. And miracle of miracles, she didn’t grab her axe and split his own skull in two. She listened, and told him she understood. She cared about him too. And then she wrapped her arms around him and enveloped him with her heat. Stunned, he simply buried his face in the space between her neck and collarbone and inhaled the smoke of her skin as he quietly went to pieces in her arms. She held him together for several long moments before she pulled away and something bloomed, large and impossible, inside his undead heart. He had no idea what he was doing or what they were, but it was nice. So, so nice. He liked this. Maybe he could even have it.
Of course he couldn’t.
Not for long anyway.
Their bags and trunks are packed, but there is one trunk sitting in the corner of the room, completely untouched. It sits at the foot of a bed, completely innocuous to most, but waiting for him like an armed trap. They haven’t gone through her things yet. Gale had offered, his brown eyes large and sympathetic, but something possessive and selfish took hold in his heart, and Astarion declined. These were her things. She was the last person to touch them. Really touch them anyway. Everything was tossed into a trunk and taken to the High Hall where they were given rooms to stay as long as they needed now that the Elfsong was being used to house survivors.
He eyes the trunk with trepidation, considering how it would be much more pleasant to go ten rounds with another hag rather than pick through the leavings of his dead lover. He decides to just go through her trunk as quickly as he can and be done with it. Opening the lid, he finds a jumble of clothes and items they acquired on their journey. He sifts through it trying to decide what to do with it all. What do people do with the things that were left behind? He has no idea. Has no experience with this sort of thing. He doesn’t remember ever losing anyone he cared for, a parent or grandparent or even a beloved childhood pet. The only deaths he has experience with were the victims he brought to his master, the guilt over their demise silent with the memory of pain, and the ones brought about by his own hand as he fought his way to freedom.
He was sorry to see some of the tieflings die. Surprisingly so. A little annoyed too if he’s being honest. He literally just saved them, and then they went and died on the road anyway. He watched in confusion as Karlach and Wyll took the time to dig graves and bury them, glaring at him when he went through their pockets. It didn’t make sense at the time, but now the thought of someone rooting through her things, helping themselves to what was hers makes him angry.
He pushes her belongings around, considering. Torn and singed clothing that no one but the truly destitute would want. Plenty of those now, he supposes. The thought of donating them makes him faintly sick. He moves on. Empty potion bottles, books he’s sure he never saw her crack open, animal bones (what?), a few smokepowder bombs (hello), and rations she’d kept just in case. He remembers Gale assuring her he’d always have a meal ready morning and night, she didn’t need to hide food, but Astarion—who knew what hunger truly was—could hardly blame her. He snuck her more than one treat when he noticed her doing it. At the time he thought he was just securing his own meal…
He sighs, feeling lost. Armor too big. Weapons too large and heavy for any of them to use. Things made only to fit her. He has no idea what to do with it. The market isn’t exactly in high demand for such items at the moment. People need food and shelter. And… he can’t bring himself to get rid of any of it. His hand lands on something soft and fuzzy. He pulls out a stuffed bear with buttons for eyes. Clive. It’s singed in places, like most of her things, and there is a small, neatly embroidered heart on its chest stitched by his own hand. He runs his fingers over the neat stitches and recalls how she’d kissed him silly when she’d discovered it. He’s not sure what possessed him to do something so disgustingly twee, but it made her smile, and she only had so many smiles left, and that… that was probably enough.
A sudden and sharp pain lances his heart. Without thinking he tosses the bear and sweeps the entire trunk away from him to clatter across the room.
He feels burning behind his eyes. His breaths are coming in quick bursts. What is he even doing? His mouth feels dry. His fingers are numb, clenched into white-knuckled fists. It’s taking everything in him not to scream. Gods, he wants to scream. She’d scream! She’d rage! It’s not fair! He wants her back damn it! She deserves to be here!
It’s not fair.
Faintly, he hears footsteps and the soft creak of leather as someone approaches behind him. The soothing scent of jasmine and sandalwood reaches his nose as Wyll kneels at his side. “Ah, my hero! Come to aid the grieving widow?” Astarion asks, just on the sarcastic side of scathing.
Clive is placed gently back in his lap.
“I can send her things to be kept at my father’s estate for now. But let’s bring him with us,” Wyll says, and Astarion lets out a sob that could only generously be called a laugh. Wyll is generous and laughs softly back. “He’s seen the Hells after all, maybe he has some advice.”
Wyll doesn’t touch him, just sits beside him breathing softly, and for that Astarion is grateful. They say nothing for a long while. Eventually he picks the bear back up and brings it to his chest, pressing his lips to the top of its head, and privately swearing to cut very important parts off of Wyll with his dullest knife if he says anything. Softly, he murmurs, “Yes, he might be useful.”
They leave the smokepowder bombs.
It hasn’t been long since he last stepped into the House of Hope, all things considered. This was one of their last stops on their way to defeating the Absolute. It’s only been a couple of weeks, give or take. It feels like ages for all that has changed since then.
The bodies are gone. The rubble has been cleared from the entry. The floors are still singed with hellfire in places, but otherwise cleaned and shining brightly. There’s no more rotten food or people scuttling about on their hands and knees. There are even pale pink flowers in vases near the door. Hope has been busy indeed.
She is delighted to see them and wants to hear everything, “absolutely positively everything!” about what’s happened. Wyll catches his eye, giving him a wry smile, and deftly maneuvers the slightly mad dwarf down the hall to tell her all about their heroics.
Astarion turns on his heel, sighing. It sounds loud in the empty, cavernous room. He can almost see her there, standing among blood and broken bodies.
“You know, this isn’t so bad,” Astarion said, sidling up to his barbarian as she wrenched her weapon free of a dead devil. Blood splashed across her chest and neck, and he entertained the thought of licking it off her later. Oh, he couldn’t wait. But first...
“I know what you’re doing, Astarion,” she said, her voice one of someone who is patient but getting tired of repeating herself.
Astarion was undeterred, however. “Oh? What am I doing?” He made his eyes all big and innocent, but the effect was undercut by his sharp smile. She laughed, and he loved it.
“I’m not staying here. Once we leave, I’m never coming back.”
He looped his arm with hers, and together they stepped over the corpse of a cambion. “I’m just saying. All the devils are gone now. Why, some flowers and a coat of paint, and this House of Hope could be a Home of Hope.”
Her smile was sad. He knew she wouldn’t say yes, but he wished so badly (so very badly) that she would. “Darling, please—”
But before he could say another word, she pulled him close, silencing him with a kiss. His eyes drifted shut. He felt her hands on his neck as he grabbed her waist and pulled her body flush to his, melting into her heat like butter on warm bread, completely unashamed of the soft moan that escaped him when he felt her tongue brush his. He loved this. He loved this! He loved her...
Too soon she pulled away, leaving him bereft and wanting more. Her eyes sparkled with laughter, and he went a bit cross-eyed as she tapped her finger to the tip of his nose. “No,” she said and went to help Lae’zel pull the armor off Raphael’s corpse.
Regret burrows deep in his heart at the memory. He should have told her he would stay with her. Of course he would stay with her. Surely she knew.
He’d have stayed.
Hope has hung some nice curtains up, but he can see the grey-orange sky lit by the not-sun of Avernus waiting for him. He takes a deep breath, shaking off the memory of not so long ago and goes to find Wyll. As he passes the door, he knocks one of the vases to the ground, enjoying the way it shatters and spills flowers across the floor. The room looked better covered in blood anyway.
Their first few weeks in Avernus are spent simply gathering information from the relative safety of the House of Hope. Whatever magic Raphael had used to bind Hope to the house gave her the ability to maintain and improve wards, and it was probably the most secure place they could hope (heh) for. At least for now. The possibility of another devil coming to claim the house is never zero, and they are ever vigilant.
The handful of debtors that survived Astarion’s first visit have been healed of their madness and, though free of their infernal master, have nowhere else to go. They are some of the first people he and Wyll help. Or Wyll helps, anyway. Astarion merely watches as Wyll talks with each of them. Learns their names and where they came from, and what terrible thing brought them into the service of a devil. He doesn’t judge and he’s so gentle it makes Astarion’s heart twinge unexpectedly.
Wyll’s insufferable “man of the people” act had never been an act. It took a long time for Astarion to realize that. Astarion wishes it was because then maybe he could emulate it. Maybe it would make what they’re going to do here easier somehow. Maybe if he could do a good job pretending to care about these people he could stop caring about…
Some of the debtors stay, they haven’t known anything but the Hells for so long, but they’re grateful to Astarion and Wyll and Hope so they swear to defend the place, should the need arise. They take the rest back to Baldur’s Gate, where Astarion knows no shortage of do-gooders willing to help them settle back into life on the Material Plane.
They also spend a good deal of time sparring. The Blade of Frontiers certainly knows how to handle a blade, but the powerful magic he relied on during their travels is gone, and he is still learning how to fight without it. And Avernus has no shortage of horrible creatures that will kill them without a thought. So, they spar.
Wyll stands some fifteen feet away, sword in hand, his body loose and ready to move at a moment’s notice. Wyll was trained well, a soldier’s upbringing courtesy of daddy dearest. They’re evenly matched for the most part, something that only annoys Astarion a little bit. The man lost access to powerful spells and picked the blade back up like he’d never put it down. So unfair. Especially when Astarion had to learn slowly and painfully how to wield his daggers with deadly precision in the middle of nowhere with a tadpole lodged firmly in his skull.
“Up!” Lae’zel’s voice commanded from above him. Her sword was still drawn against him, ready. “Again.”
Astarion considered staying down on the ground just to annoy her. He was exhausted. They’d been putting him through his paces every morning at camp, and he was thoroughly sick of it. He was decent enough with a dagger to get through most fights, why couldn’t he just bite the rest? He sighed and said, conversationally, “Darling, most people buy me a drink first if they want to get me on my back.” He offered her a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
Lae’zel was not amused, but a few feet away Wyll and Karlach tittered as they watched him get thoroughly spanked by their Githyanki taskmaster. Lae’zel shifted her stance, her alien-green eyes boring into his. “Tas'ki. Is that what you’ll say to your enemies as they run you through? Perhaps instead of wasting my time I should end you now. We cannot afford any weakness in the coming battle.”
Harsh. It wasn’t his fault the tadpole has negated his vampiric strength and speed and abilities. It wasn’t his fault the only weapon Cazador let him learn to use was between his legs.
“Give him a break, Lae’zel. He’s improved greatly in a short time,” Wyll said, imbuing his words with the same encouraging confidence he handed out to the tiefling children at the grove (somehow that was worse).
“You got this, Fangs!” Karlach said, and she gave him a quick wink. “Try that thing we talked about!”
Lae’zel narrowed her eyes in Karlach’s direction before she focused back on Astarion, but it was enough of a distraction. He grabbed a handful of loose dirt from under his palm and tossed it into her eyes. Her head snapped back, and her eyes slammed shut as she brought one hand to wipe the dirt from her face. Astarion took that moment to sweep his leg out and knock her off her feet. Her back hit the ground, and he rolled forward as quickly as possible, dagger in hand. She grunted in pain as he knelt on her sword arm and held her free hand down with as much strength as he could muster so she didn't punch him. He brought the dagger to her throat and offered her a toothy grin. Beside them Karlach whooped loudly, and he could hear Wyll clapping.
“Chk! A cheap trick,” Lae’zel grunted beneath him, but underneath the disdain he could hear approval in her tone. He stood with a flourish and offered Lae’zel his hand, which she begrudgingly took.
“No such thing as fighting fair in Avernus,” Karlach said as she offered Lae’zel a rag. “Fight as dirty as you need to, soldier. Whatever keeps you alive to fight another day.”
He has to admit he had good teachers. And now he gets to pay the favor forward, disarming Wyll with a flourish and laying him flat on his back as he gets back into fighting shape. It’s thoroughly satisfying.
They’ve practiced a fair bit with swords and daggers and bows, but today they’re trying something different. Across the room, Wyll’s eyes track Astarion’s movements carefully. Blades tightly sheathed, Astarion isn’t even watching him as he brings a hand up, inspecting his nails, and lets a little of his vampiric power loose. His hand changes, elongates and curves out, no longer the nice and neatly manicured hands of a gentleman but the long, jagged claws of a vampire spawn, viciously sharp. The red glow of his eyes is so bright he can almost see it reflected in his lashes. His lips spread in a broad grin, fangs fully on display and dripping with deadly necrotic venom. He watches as Wyll takes it all in, the monstrous parts of himself he usually keeps hidden. They’ll be fighting worse than monsters, so what better than to test Wyll’s skills against one?
To his credit, Wyll doesn’t flinch at the sight. Rather, his eyes narrow, lips twitching in an almost grin, and he grips his blade tighter, his chin held high. Oh, this is going to be fun. Astarion crouches low, his body thrumming with power he rarely had cause or permission to use, and feels a tension in the air, like a bow drawn tight. The sound of Wyll’s heartbeat, typically a steady dance inside his chest, speeds up, and then like a shot fired they move.
Astarion dashes forward, his claws at his side, and Wyll draws his blade back ready to strike. His aim is true, and he’d have sliced Astarion across the neck if they were using real blades and he wasn’t so very good at dodging. Instead the blade glances off his shoulder. Astarion digs one of his claws into Wyll’s chest, delighted by the sharp hiss of pain he hears. He comes about and wraps his other arm around Wyll, pinning one arm as Astarion grips his side tightly. Wyll bucks backward in the grapple, trying to dislodge the vampire at his back, and Astarion uses that momentum to drag them across the room and up the side of the wall.
Wyll is heavy, but Astarion is much stronger these days without the tadpole to hold him back. He drags Wyll up higher, laughing into his prey’s neck, until they’re nearly on the ceiling. Wyll gasps and manages to dig his sword into the wall, bracing his feet, resisting Astarion’s pull.
They stand, wrong way on the wall, and Astarion feels Wyll shiver against him, in fear maybe. Gods, the urge to bite is so strong. Wyll’s blood is pounding and smells delicious this close, like a sweet wine. He swallows a mouthful of saliva and leans closer, his lips grazing Wyll’s ear and says, “What now, hero?”
What now is Wyll’s shoulders slumping, his head dropping to his chest in defeat (victory) and then slamming it back into the side of Astarion’s face. His horn catches Astarion in the temple, and he is momentarily dazed enough for Wyll to break free and slide to the floor, his sword cutting a line into the wall, slowing him just enough to land unsteadily on his feet. He grins up at Astarion and takes several steps back.
Astarion crosses his arms and pouts, glaring down at him. “That was cheap.”
“I learned from the best,” Wyll says simply. Pain flickers through Astarion’s heart for just a moment. The best. They share a moment of silent grief before Wyll clears his throat and gestures up to him. “I have to admit, that was quite impressive.”
Well. Obviously. Astarion saunters casually downward, watching as Wyll’s eyes linger on the pointed tips of his claws when he brings a hand up to brush a few errant curls back into place. “It was impressive, wasn’t it?” Astarion says with a grin wide enough to flash his fangs once more.
Astarion leaps the last few feet to the floor, stepping closer, and he can see Wyll’s (delectable) throat bob as he swallows. He seems to be warring with himself about something before shaking himself and bringing his blade up, ready. He offers Astarion a charming smile, his brow quirked in challenge. “Shall we go again?”
Nights in Avernus aren’t really nights in the typical sense. Astarion is used to waiting for the sun to set, feeling the shift from day to night in his bones, something intuitive, a self-preservation that keeps him hidden in the dark until it is safe to venture forth. Avernus has no day, no night, just a perpetual twilight that casts the word in dark grey and bloody reds and orange. Astarion thinks it’s almost beautiful, in a terrifying, nightmarish sort of way. But it does make keeping to a schedule difficult. They do their best to sleep and wake at the same time every day, but it’s easy to lose track of time.
Which is how Astarion finds himself lying in bed in one of the nicer suites, trying and failing to trance one probably-night. They’re heading out into the Avernian wastelands tomorrow to seek out the last known location of an opportunistic group of slavers that took advantage of the chaos during the fight with the Netherbrain and kidnapped several citizens, and he needs his rest. Gods only know how often they’ll get to sleep while they travel.
He stares at the unseeing eyes of Clive on his bedside table as he tries to rest, his mind a restless mess of competing thoughts. Has he made a mistake? Is this the place where he’ll finally die? Would Karlach be angry with him? Would she have come, if he’d been there? Clive has no answers. Astarion closes his eyes, breathing deep, forcing himself to relax, but rest is elusive. He tosses and turns and eventually finds himself wandering the halls instead, empty but still dripping with the opulence of the house’s former master. Hope has been unable to take down some of Raphael’s portraits, and instead has painted the devil into pastoral scenes full of flowers and fluffy animals. Astarion stops to admire a scene with rolling green hills, a crown of white flowers atop Raphael’s horned head as he tends to a flock of sheep. Hope is quite the artist, really.
From further down the hall he hears the sound of glass clinking. He comes upon Wyll sitting by a large window in the dining hall, a glass of wine and an open bottle on the table beside him. His eyes light up when he sees Astarion, and he gestures with one hand to the seat beside him.
“Can’t sleep either?” Wyll asks as Astarion finds an empty glass.
“Oh, how could I when we have such an exciting prospect to look forward to tomorrow?” Astarion says, holding the glass out for Wyll to pour. He takes a seat and a sip, and his eyes close in pleasure at the dark, rich flavor. Oh, delightful. “The wine is very good here.”
“The House of Hope was a horror, but its previous master had excellent taste in wine,” Wyll admits. He touches the rim of his glass to Astarion’s. “To a new adventure.”
“To not getting ourselves disemboweled our first week!” Astarion says with a cheeky grin.
Wyll chuckles and shakes his head, and they drink deep. For a time they simply sit and watch the vista spreading outward from the window. Stretches of ruined plains that go on for miles, split by deep crevices, the river Styx running through it like a great red snake, and on the horizon a craggy mountain surrounded by dark, ashy clouds. It’s an impressive view, if you’re impressed by a literal hellscape. Which Astarion is, incidentally. Or at least, he’s not stupid enough to underestimate it.
After a time, Astarion says, “What do you suppose we’ll find out there?”
“Evil. In every shape and form,” Wyll says, sounding so much older than his twenty-four years. He tilts his head back, giving Astarion a long, pensive look. His brow is furrowed, he has something on his mind, and Astarion can do nothing but wait as he wrestles with it. After a time he takes a breath and meets Astarion’s eyes. “I won’t lie to you, Astarion. This is going to be dangerous. I…” he trails off, uncertainty warring with the resolve in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be angry if you changed your mind. I hope you don’t. But I won’t be angry.” His chin is high, but Astarion can see a twitch in his jaw that betrays his nerves. Gods, he’s so honorable and self-sacrificing. He’d really let Astarion go, just like that. Idiot.
“Oh, now you tell me it will be dangerous? After you all but begged me to join you?” Astarion scoffs, but he gives Wyll a knowing smile. He puts a hand to his forehead dramatically, pitching his voice a touch higher. “Oh please, my dearest Astarion. Won’t you come with me to the worst place in any plane of existence? I simply cannot do it without you! You are as deadly with a dagger as you are with your wit! You are incredible! You possess infinite wisdom!”
“Yes, that is exactly how I remember it,” Wyll says, and the sound of his laughter settles Astarion’s nerves a touch. Much better. More wine is poured between them.
“Besides, you’ll be hopeless without me, darling. You were practically spoiled with all that magic at your fingertips,” Astarion tuts, making a show of inspecting his nails. “In case you forgot, we’ve been sparring every day, and you certainly know your way around a blade…” he catches Wyll’s eyes, giving him a sharp smile, “but we both know I’m better.”
Wyll rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and the last of the tension falls from his shoulders. “Why, Astarion, if I didn’t know any better, I’d actually think you cared about me.”
Wyll is just teasing, Astarion is pretty sure, but he’s almost hurt at the accusation. He cares. He does! He’ll never admit it as such, but he does care about this sweet, foolish hero. He cares about all of them. Maybe if his heart wasn’t such a wreck at the moment, if caring didn’t mean hurting, he’d say so.
Instead he says, playfully scathing, “Well… good thing you don’t know any better.” They sip wine in silence, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts, when Astarion gives voice to the thing that’s been on his mind from the moment they stepped foot back in Avernus. The reason he’s here right now instead of trancing peacefully. “She should be here with us.”
Wyll’s eyes close as he sobers once more and nods. “Yes. She should.”
“What happened?” It comes out as barely a whisper. Astarion hasn’t had the nerve to ask, and he hasn’t given anyone the opportunity to tell him. But he has to know. “At the docks. Did you even try? Did any of you try to convince her to come back here?” His voice has risen in pitch and has become heated with anger. He knows he sounds like he’s accusing Wyll, and suddenly he doesn’t care.
Wyll is back to looking pitiful, his large eyes round and full of guilt. Good. “Astarion, I begged her. I told her I’d go with her. She wouldn’t hear it.”
Wyll sounds so apologetic and mournful, but Astarion holds onto his anger. It’s easier to be angry with Wyll. Wyll is here. And if he’s angry at Wyll then he doesn’t have to admit to himself that he’s really angry with her. Gods, he feels so angry. He misses her and he loves her and he is so fucking angry at her. How could she? She left him. She made him love her, overcame all his defenses and got him to fall, and then snatched it away. He never took her for cruel, but it’s the cruelest thing anyone has ever done to him.
How could she leave him like this? When there was any other alternative? A vengeful, spiteful thing rises up inside him, and for a moment Astarion reconsiders Wyll’s earlier offer. Maybe he should leave. He doesn’t owe Wyll anything. He doesn’t owe her.
“I’m sorry,” Wyll says, his head in his hands. He scrubs his face, his mismatched eyes dry but full of pain Astarion feels reflected in his heart. His voice breaks a little when he says, “I wish she was here. I wish I’d done or said something different. I couldn’t save her. I’m so sorry, Astarion.”
Some of Astarion’s anger bleeds from his veins, replaced with guilt and pity, an uncomfortable mixture that turns the fine wine in his stomach sour. If the most intrepid hero Astarion has ever met couldn’t save her… he sighs. Gods, he’s so tired. Wyll isn’t looking at him, just sitting hunched with his elbows on his knees, staring unseeing into wastelands that await them.
“Let’s just get some rest,” Astarion says, standing. “We have things to kill tomorrow.”