Chapter Text
“Miss Naelgrath?”
“Yes?” Zoraya turned on her heel and nearly spilled her drink.
In front of her, broad-shouldered and imposing in his long, purple robes, stood High Judge Gale Dekarios. The brilliant mind behind Lockwire v. Kimball, Wallace v. Kragbow and at least a dozen more of her favorite cases of all time. A lawyer with such explosive court performances, his colleagues had taken to calling him The Bomb.
Zoraya had studied his work religiously. Once, she’d even skipped class to see one of his hearings in person, hugging her notebook to her chest and straight-up squealing when he finished his closing statement. Gale Dekarios was a legend. Youngest High Judge in the history of Baldur’s Gate and her personal legal hero.
It wasn’t too surprising that he would be here at this banquet. He was an alumnus of Baldur’s Gate Law School, same as her, so of course, he would have been invited to the celebration of the new library wing. But the fact that he was right in front of her, smiling at her like they knew each other, like …
Hell’s Teeth, he’d just said her name.
Gale Dekarios knew her name!
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting. “I’m—”
“H-High Judge Dekarios.” Zoraya’s voice trembled like that of a 13-year-old girl who had just caught her parents having sex on the kitchen table and now wasn’t sure if the world was still turning around her. Somehow, she managed to lift her hand and meet his for a weak, little handshake. “It is such an honor to meet you, Your Honor.”
Wow, she thought. What eloquence.
“The honor is all mine,” he said — politeness, for sure, but it sent a wave of excitement down her spine all the same. “Please, call me Gale.”
“Gale,” she repeated slowly. Dully. Her brain stuttering and screeching to a halt until it kicked itself into gear again, roaring forward at full speed.
“I love your work!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been following your career! Your rulings as High Judge, but your early casework as well! I doubt there’s a single attorney in the history of Baldur’s Gate who’s had a greater impact on the interpretation of immigration laws. When you called for the Gondians to be recognized as full-fledged workers, to be eligible for equal pay, I was … Well, I was eleven and I had to be home by six, but otherwise I would have marched for them, too! I would have been front and center in those demonstrations, waving the Gondian flag!”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear you heeded your parents’ advice. Not all of those demonstrations would have been entirely safe for a child to participate in.” He chuckled amicably and Zoraya couldn’t help the burst of nervous laughter spilling out of her.
“O-of course!” she said, fighting for composure. “What I mean to say is that you’re an inspiration. I’ve always dreamed of starting my own practice and making a difference and … Well, your work is such a testament for the impact a single individual can have. What they can accomplish for their city — in a human lifetime, no less!”
There. That, finally, sounded like a halfway coherent summary of the many, many things she’d dreamed of telling the High Judge Dekarios if she ever got to meet him.
“Why, thank you,” he said, inclining his head as he smiled.
There was something almost bashful about his reaction, although that must have been her imagination. No way a man like Gale Dekarios didn’t hear this kind of stuff on a daily basis. He must have fans camping outside his chambers, welcoming him every morning with their cheering and screaming. Waving their university diplomas or legal textbooks or probably the occasional set of breasts, begging him to adorn them with his autograph.
Zoraya briefly contemplated asking him to sign the grease-stained sandwich wrapper she had stuffed in her purse.
“If your recent work in the offices of Magistrate Ancunin is anything to go by, I am certain you will have no trouble fulfilling those aspirations of yours,” Gale said kindly. “In fact, that’s what I came to speak to you about. I have an opportunity that might be of interest to you.”
The smile froze on Zoraya’s lips, dread coiling in her stomach. “An opportunity?”
“I’ve heard of your pro bono work, representing many of the unfortunate individuals who find themselves the victims of ethnic targeting and wrongful imprisonment. While I do not practice as an attorney anymore, I still have many friends in the field, several of whom are working on a special task force to combat the recent surge in racially motivated incarcerations. I believe you would be a great asset to their cause. If we work together, we stand a much better chance of thwarting those shameful acts of bigotry.”
Zoraya lifted her chin, fists clenching at her sides. “Did Lord Szarr send you?” she demanded, the words sharp on her tongue.
“Cazador Szarr?” Gale’s brow furrowed. “No. I wasn’t aware of his interest in the legal defense of ethnic minorities.”
Zoraya snorted. It wasn’t the minorities Lord Szarr was concerned with — it was her. Getting her away from Astarion, specifically.
In the week since the disastrous ball at High Judge Larkin’s house, she’d been approached with at least a dozen job offers. Everything from acting as personal advocate to an entire noble house to mid-level positions in the most prestigious legal firms in town. With the first few offers, she’d been naïve enough to take them seriously, actually taking the time to hear them out. It wasn’t until a representative of Nersk & Glondil accidentally mentioned “Lord Szarr’s glowing recommendation” that she finally understood.
She was being played.
Lured was perhaps the better word, for she was fairly certain those job offers were real. Every single one of them a marked improvement over her current position. A leap in her career she wouldn’t have dreamed of just a few months ago. Not even taking into account the fact that she’d be able to quit her job with Astarion. Spare herself the torture of having to sit there in the same office with him, staring at him, loving him. Knowing what it was like to kiss him, how perfectly their bodies fit together, and that it could never happen again.
But no matter how much that hurt, no matter how many times she had to bring her work to the little park bench around the corner, so she could focus on anything other than the sound of Astarion’s breathing, she would not give in to a bastard like Cazador Szarr. Wouldn’t let him pull the strings of her life like she was some sort of puppet. Not even if he came at her through Gale Dekarios.
Except, Gale did look genuinely puzzled. The crease on his brow deepening with every moment that he stared at her, trying to piece together what exactly she was talking about.
“Are you quite certain?” Zoraya asked cautiously. “You see, Lord Szarr and I had a few … run-ins in the recent past. He thinks he’s doing me a favor, but I’m not really looking to transition away from Magistrate Ancunin’s offices at the moment.”
“Oh, no!” Gale said, holding up his hands. “I didn’t intend to poach you — apologies for the misunderstanding! I meant to offer a collaboration. Pooling our resources, streamlining the defense process. Magistrate Ancunin would be welcome as well, although he might prefer to focus on finishing his motion. Meanwhile, you and my colleagues could divvy up the pro bono work amongst yourself and keep innocent people out of prison. I’d love to introduce you to a few members of the task force, if you could spare a moment or two?”
“That sounds … wonderful,” Zoraya said.
“Yes, it does,” Astarion agreed, his voice icy in her ear as he stepped up beside her. “Unfortunately, Miss Naelgrath is my advocate, Dekarios. And her services are very much needed, right this instance.”
“Good evening, Lord Magistrate,” Gale said, weathering the force of Astarion’s scowl with a perfectly pleasant smile. “I don’t mean to keep you two, of course. Could we arrange for a meeting some time later this week? Miss Naelgrath and I were just discussing a potential collaboration that might—”
“Absolutely not,” Astarion cut in. “We are exceedingly busy with the preparations of my motion. Now come on, Zoraya.”
He reached for her arm, the way he used to do before everything had gone to shambles, and Zoraya found herself flinching away from him. A knee-jerk reaction of her body, avoiding any and all physical contact and the memories attached to it.
Memories of his hands cradling her face. His lips brushing against hers, slowly and timidly, like an unspoken question. His breath hot in her mouth, her name right there on his tongue.
Zoya.
Oh, gods, Zoya.
And then her pillow crushing against her face, soaking up the first tears she’d shed in a good five years at least. Objection snuggling up beside her, purring in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness as she sobbed out the absolute agony of finally kissing the love of her life, only to find out that, for him, it was not a big deal.
“My apologies.” Gale stepped back, aware that there was something private going on that he did not want to be part of. “Didn’t mean to overstep. Please, do enjoy your evening. It was lovely meeting you, Miss Naelgrath.”
Astarion stared after him as if he could mentally make him trip over his own feet and impale himself on a candle stand.
“What in the Hells was that?” Zoraya hissed. “That’s High Judge Dekarios!”
“I am well aware of who that is!” Astarion spat. “And of where exactly he stands on the whole ousting Ancunin from office front!”
“He’s a proponent of ethnic minorities! Of course he voted against you in the past, but that’s different now! He offered his help with all the pro bono work and I really think it could—”
“Gods, how can you be so naïve, Zoraya?”
“Naïve?” she repeated, feeling like he’d struck her across the face.
“Yes!” He thrust out an arm, nearly spilling the champagne he held in the other hand. “The only difference between a self-proclaimed do-gooder like Gale Dekarios and a filthy scheming weasel like Larkin is that one of them is upfront about their intentions! Dekarios wouldn’t have gotten where he is without a few underhanded tactics of his own, and you can be sure that this is why he’s making a move on you now. Frankly, Zoraya, I’m disappointed you’d fall for his ploy so easily! That you’d endanger our work like that!”
Zoraya sucked in a breath of sheer, concentrated outrage. They’d barely spoken in the past week and whenever they did, it had been very, very careful. Measured words, quiet and cautious. Tiptoeing around each other in an attempt at pretending that what had happened between them had not, in fact, happened.
But now there was anger bubbling up her throat, hot and fast, and it had to go somewhere.
“Of course you’d think that!” she snarled, taking a step forward. Coming closer than she’d dared to for a whole week. “Because for you, this is just something you’re trying out for the season, isn’t it? Like an exotic new doublet you put on in front of the mirror, twirling and preening at how pretty you look, dressed in the illusion of good intent! But you know what, Astarion? For some of us, this isn’t just a new way to get ahead in life — some of us actually believe in what we’re doing! And once you realize you’re tired of playing philanthropist, I’d like to have someone like Gale in my corner because, believe it or not, I actually care about this!”
She turned on her heel and marched off, anger seeping out of her pores.
Astarion stared after her, gripping his champagne flute so tightly, it wouldn’t have surprised him if the blasted thing had snapped in two.
Had she really just called him Gale?
Since when was Zoraya, I’d rather shake my mother’s hand than hug her, even though she gives the best hugs in the entire city, thank you, Naelgrath on a first-name basis with one of the very High Judges who’d been dead-set on ousting him from office?
The answer was simple.
She was job-hunting. Ever since the night of the ball, there hadn’t been a day when he hadn’t seen her whispering with the representative of some big-shot legal firm whenever he came out of a hearing. Lunch invitations flooded her desk, all sorts of important names adorning the insignia. Clearly, she was using the recognition she got for saving his crumbling career to jump-start her own.
Their contract technically bound her to his offices until the end of the summer, but the woman was a lawyer. She’d find a way to get out of it if she really wanted to. Which, apparently, she did.
I want something real, Astarion! And if you can’t understand that, then it’s probably better if we …
The truth of the matter was that he did not understand. College and law degrees notwithstanding, he couldn’t figure out what in the Hells had gone wrong in that wardrobe.
Everything had been perfect, hadn’t it?
She hadn’t shied away from his advances as he’d feared — no, she’d climbed right up into his lap, warm and willing and single! Praise the Gods, she was single! His to shower in his adoration, to use every muscle in his body to show her just how much she meant to him, how much he treasured her. That was how things went. How they’d always gone, his entire life. He seduced and pleased and indulged and then afterward, they were his.
But of course, Zoraya had to be different. Because for her, nothing he did was ever good enough. Even after he’d given her an office, a secretary, complete freedom to do whatever she wanted with her pro bono work, she was still unhappy.
He’d even bought her a new fountain pen. The same limited edition she’d broken during their first heist, a pen so outrageously expensive, even Astarion had swallowed before handing over the gold. He’d placed it on her desk, all wrapped up in a pretty bow. Scooting around on his chair impatiently all morning long until she finally came into the office. Watching out of the corner of his eyes as she picked up the present and studied it.
“Thank you,” she’d said.
And then she’d pulled out her chair, which was now facing away from him because the Gods knew, she’d rather look at the wall than his face, and started working.
Seriously, what else did she want? What else could he give her to make her stay, to make her see? He couldn’t change who he was. Couldn’t magically turn into someone like Gale Dekarios and pretend he’d always been that way.
Because he wasn’t.
Astarion might have made a career out of lying to people, but at least he didn’t lie to himself.
He clenched his teeth in frustration as he set down his champagne, still mostly full. Under normal circumstances, he would have drowned his anger in alcohol, but there was something about this particular flavor of anger that made him want to hold on to it. Clutch it close in an almost possessive way.
It was his anger, like she was his advocate.
Not for much longer, a voice inside his head said. You’ve always known she’d leave you, right? She wouldn’t choose to work for a corrupt Duke any more than a corrupt magistrate.
He pushed through the crowd, eager to leave the buzz of the party behind and get in some practice with his dagger. He’d had his basement refurbished into a training room, which came in handy with all that anger as of late.
“Ah, Astarion,” a familiar nasal voice said. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been hiding.”
Gods above, could this evening get any worse?
“Lord Szarr.” Astarion turned toward him, plastering a half-hearted smile onto his lips. “I wasn’t aware you were attending this evening.”
“I thought I might drop by. Have a word with my favorite legal professionals,” Cazador said, regarding him in that way Astarion had never quite understood. Like he wasn’t really looking at him, but further somehow.
One of the many side effects of the elven lifespan, Astarion assumed. He’d never openly asked about his age, but Cazador Szarr certainly seemed like a man who had been alive for a long time, had seen it all, one way or another.
“You have been awfully difficult to get in touch with,” Cazador said. “I do sincerely hope you haven’t fallen ill. You look a little pale.”
“Just a migraine,” Astarion muttered, turning toward the exit. “If you’ll excuse me …”
“How fortuitous!” Cazador thrust an arm around Astarion’s shoulders. A warm, familiar gesture from a distance, yet bone-chillingly cold up close. “I have the perfect remedy at home. A special import all the way from the Far East; you simply must try it! Come along. My coach is parked right out front. We’ll have your migraine taken care of in no time at all.”
Astarion hesitated, the beginning of a sentence forming in his head.
I don’t feel like …
Actually, I would rather …
I really don’t think …
But before any of those could ripen to completion, the cold arm around his shoulder tightened.
“Come,” Cazador said in the same low, melodic voice he’d said it countless times before. “This way, my boy.”
And Astarion’s feet followed, just as they’d done all those times before.
“What’s the matter?” Cazador asked afterward, when Astarion pushed out of the burgundy sheets as quickly as his wobbly legs allowed. “So eager to leave already?”
Astarion briefly contemplated bringing up his imaginary migraine, but decided against it, seeing as how it really hadn’t helped last time. He removed the special migraine remedy from where it had been inserted into his body and let it drop to the floor. Soreness was already spreading between his legs, his head heavy with exhaustion. He felt filthy. Used. Like one of those cheap balls children would kick around on the schoolyard, only to leave it behind, muddied and beaten-up, once the bell rang them back into the classroom.
He thought of what Zoraya would say if she saw him like this. The way her face would scrunch up in disgust at what he truly was.
What he was without her and the strength she gave him.
Astarion picked up his shirt, trying to take comfort in the luxuriously soft fabric, the way it hugged his body like an inanimate embrace. Focusing all his attention on the delicate pearl buttons, fiddling them closed over his chest one by one.
“You seem distracted as of late.” Cazador was leaning back against the pillows, one arm flung over the headboard leisurely.
He only took him to the bedroom when he aimed at a lengthier affair. Astarion had lost track of time, but his aching muscles told him it had been hours.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that advocate of yours, now, would it?” Cazador said. “I hear she’s looking for a transfer. Job-hunting all over the city.”
“It’s her decision to make,” Astarion hissed, the pearl button slipping through his fingers. “If she isn’t happy working for me, it’s her prerogative to leave.”
“Certainly,” Cazador agreed. “It might be for the best, after all. I must say, it pains me to see how much that woman has managed to manipulate you in just a few short weeks.”
“Manipulate?” Astarion whirled around, flabbergasted by such a baseless accusation. “Zoraya hasn’t manipulated me! She’s done nothing but help me! Without her, I’d be—”
“Fully devoted to getting that highway built, rather than playing hero on the side.” Cazador sighed heavily and ran a hand through the long, black hair that never seemed to slip out of place, no matter how much he exerted himself. “Please, Astarion, look at yourself. You spend half your time getting poor wretches out of prison for no pay at all and the other half drafting plans to ensure that they get to live happily ever after in their little mud huts out in the wilderness. The papers may call you a visionary, a philanthropist, but do you know what people say about you in private?”
Astarion glanced at the golden door handle to his right. All he had to do was take it, push it down and leave. Go home and draw himself a bath, scrub off the memory of this evening until it dissolved into the hot water.
But Cazador was so very good at this. Getting his claws into him, making him second-guess what he thought he knew, what he knew he knew.
So against all his instincts, Astarion found his eyes darting back to meet Cazador’s, nearly black in the dim candlelight. “What do they say?”
Cazador poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle he always seemed to have on his nightstand. Taking his time with it, swirling and tasting it leisurely, knowing that Astarion would wait for him to continue.
“I take no pleasure in relaying this to you, Astarion,” he said gravely. “But everyone in Baldur’s Gate can see that this Gur woman has you just where she wants you. Leashed to her every word, like an obedient little lapdog. Following her whims and doing whatever new trick she asks of you, every single one of your decisions coming directly from her mouth. It wouldn’t surprise me if she mentioned that in her job interviews. To illustrate how … persuasive she can be.”
No.
Astarion’s jaw tightened as the image of Zoraya and Dekarios flooded back into his mind. The two of them huddling together away from the crowd, her back straight and her eyes full of adoration. How she’d smiled and laughed with the man, as if about a private joke.
Was he the private joke?
It couldn’t be. He’d been laughed at before, had even provoked it on occasion. But this was Zoraya. Zoraya was on his side. She was his friend, the one person who really, truly cared for him.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if she was another attempt of your family to keep you in check,” Cazador said, still sipping his wine. “Sent by your dear mother to get her quarrelsome son under control with the power of love and friendship. It is just friendship, isn’t it? You’re not bedding her? Because in that case, I’d have to update my cleric on the necessary medical precautions. I have no desire to contract whatever filthy Gur diseases that woman is carrying.”
“N-no,” was all Astarion could get out, his head too full for anything else.
He’d wanted to, though. He’d wanted to feel her bronze skin shiver in ecstasy under his pale hands, to undo those tight braids of hers and run his fingers through her hair as she cried out his name. He wanted to hold her afterward. Scoop her into his arms and drift off into reverie to the sweet rhythm of her breathing.
I want something real, Astarion.
Was that what she’d meant? That she wanted to be with someone she actually liked, rather than a work assignment? Had she forced herself to let things go as far as they had gone, all for the sake of her career? He’d been the one to initiate it, after all. He had kissed her. And although she’d seemed to enjoy herself, Astarion knew all too well how much could be faked. Fabricated. Performed. He’d done it so many times, all to further his own agenda.
What if this time he’d been the one who got played?
Hells, it had been right there in front of him this entire time. His parents had sent her to him. Paid her to do this, to straighten him out and get him back on track. And she’d accepted because that’s who she was. Always ready to do whatever Quelenna Ancunin demanded of her. Always willing to go the extra mile.
Even if it meant betraying him.
“Come, boy.” Cazador poured a second glass of wine and held it out to him invitingly. “Have a glass and let’s not speak of treacherous women anymore. Let’s think about all the wonderful things you are going to do once you are a Duke, hm?”
Astarion was a firm believer in the holy trifecta of instant mood lifters: manicures, haircuts and custom-made doublets.
Today, he’d gone ahead and donned all three. He deserved a little pampering, after all. He deserved to look his absolute best, garnering looks and whispers all the way to city hall — a distance he chose to walk today, so all of Baldur’s Gate could admire its most majestic magistrate.
He made a point of smiling at a rather attractive florist girl to watch her drop the armful of flower pots she was carrying. Pretended to examine the wares on a market stall, just so he could listen in on the group of university students nearby, who kept elbowing each other, whispering, No! You go talk to him!
It was, in a word, a perfect day.
A day when nothing could possibly faze him. A day when he was so at peace with himself and the world in general that he could deal with just about anything the universe chose to throw his way.
Even Zoraya.
Especially Zoraya.
He wasn’t going to be moping about her betrayal; that would be utterly ridiculous. He’d simply pry her off her desk and explain, very calmly and collectedly, that she was free to seek employment elsewhere. He’d show her the termination papers he’d drawn up last night, and he was going to look devastatingly beautiful while he did it. Everything about him, from the glossy curls on his head to the intricate silver embroidery on his doublet, screaming that he was going to goddamn flourish in her absence.
All the more frustrating was it when he reached the office, only to find her desk empty. No flimsy jacket thrown over the coat rack, no beat-up purse kicked into the corner.
She simply wasn’t there.
It was nearly ten in the morning and the woman was not at her desk!
“Shadowheart?” Astarion ducked his head through the door, refusing to acknowledge the pang of concern in his chest. “Do you happen to know where Zoraya is?”
Shadowheart gave a very uncharacteristic jump in her chair. “She’s at court, Lord Magistrate,” she said, quickly pushing away a piece of paper that was covered in crossed-out scribbles. The word soup seemed to be the unifying theme. “One of her pro bono cases. And then after that, she has a lunch meeting. Why?”
“Oh, never mind,” Astarion said. “Thank you.”
He closed the door and very nearly reached his hands into his hair, destroying all that beautiful work his barber had done.
How dare she? How dare she not be here when he was ready to tell her how he was over her?
No matter.
Astarion sat down at his desk and poured himself a morning drink.
He could wait for her to return.
He was, after all, completely fine.
Midday came and passed and Astarion’s stomach was still a pit of misery.
Mostly anger, of course, but also misery. A good deal of alcohol as well. Which, unfortunately, seemed to enhance said misery. He’d hoped a drink or two would still his nerves, but instead, the alcohol had only made him shakier, his hands so unsteady, he’d given up on trying to answer mail for the day.
At least his voice was still fine. He’d tested it. Rehearsed his lines to Zoraya’s fountain pen collection, just to make sure.
Zoraya, darling, I believe it’s best if we part ways here. It’s not you, you see. It’s me. I have …
I have …
Wait, what was the line again?
He’d had such a good line all ready to go! Something classy, yet scathing. Something sophisticated, clever, a jab only half-veiled by his immense wit — Sweet Hells, what had it been?
Astarion grunted in frustration as he lifted his legs from where he’d flung them over the armrest of his chair. He’d have to come up with a new line. Write it down this time. No problem, not for a man like him!
All he needed was another drink.
He strode over to the liquor cabinet, the bottles wobbly under his fingers as he searched for something that tickled his fancy.
The door was flung open with a violent bang!, sending his law school diploma off its hook and onto the floor.
“Astarion!” Zoraya said, her voice unusually shrill.
“Oh, look who finally deigns to show up at work!” Astarion turned around with a smirk, waving the bottle he’d chosen for dramatic emphasis. “See, my darling, the thing is this: I have standards. And I believe—”
“It’s Ira!” Zoraya was rushing to her desk, thrusting aside her beloved fountain pen collection with a careless sweep of her arm in order to deposit a small bundle of filthy, blood-soaked … rags?
Where had she even found that? And why would she bring it here, into their office to bleed all over the floor?
Shadowheart followed in tow. “I can help,” she said, bending over the revolting thing. “I know a few spells from my church. Enough to ease the pain until we can get her to a proper healer.”
“Please,” Zoraya said. “Whatever you can do, do it.”
Shadowheart placed her hands over the filthy bundle and murmured something. Blue light collected around her fingertips, casting an eerie glow over the bloodied heap on Zoraya’s desk. There seemed to be something wrapped up in those rags. Soft, almost fleshy-looking bits, shaking and writhing under Shadowheart’s treatment. A few jagged splinters of ivory, sticking out at wrong angles — impossible angles. Somehow, Astarion knew that. Just like he knew that there was something truly dreadful about all this. Something he couldn’t quite see yet, but that he wouldn’t be able to un-see for the rest of his life.
And yet, he found himself stepping closer. Craning his neck in the age-old triumph of curiosity over self-preservation.
He didn’t feel the bottle slipping out of his hand. He merely heard it shatter on the floor, the splatter of expensive whiskey. Then all there was was the thumping of his own heart, blood roaring in his ears. Like his body was rising up against him in a wave of such horror, it felt like any moment now, it would simply swallow him up and take him under.
Because in that mangled heap of rags was a face. And the last time he’d seen that face it had been grinning up at him cockily, pigtails bobbing, as she made a quip about her rates going up again.
There was no way in all of existence that this thing could be her!
Astarion’s throat constricted and he just barely managed to reach for the wastebasket before he started retching. What came out was mostly liquid, pretty much exclusively alcohol. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his brand-new doublet, desperately trying to gather himself.
“What happened?” he managed, his voice nearly lost under the thundering of his heart.
“Those new guards happened!” Zoraya spat. “Karlach told me city hall has been deemed especially vulnerable to politically motivated attacks, and whoever they sent to replace her and Wyll is absolutely insane! It’s a public building, for fuck’s sake! Everyone should be allowed to come in here! And they just … they just …”
The sentence hung in the air unfinished, crackling with anger as she leaned down to run a hand through Ira’s matted hair. Whispered something Astarion couldn’t quite make out. Thanks to Shadowheart’s treatment, the child seemed calmer now. Her eyes were closed, almost like she was sleeping. Sedated.
“I … do not understand,” Astarion said slowly. “Ira is my messenger. I gave her an official letter of employment.”
“She didn’t use it, alright?!” Zoraya’s head snapped up, brown eyes piercing into his. “She’s a little girl and thinks she has all kinds of things to prove to the world, so she thought it would be fun to see if she could sneak past those guards. Maybe she tried telling them once they’d caught her — I wouldn’t know because when I found her, they had already beaten her into a pulp! A 13-year-old girl, Astarion! Right inside city hall, with dozens of people walking by, not one of them even thinking about lifting a hand!” She smashed her fist against the wall, glaring up him in vicious challenge. “And if you’re going to stand there, drunk like an entire dock’s worth of sailors, and say anything at all about just punishments or children needing to be disciplined, I swear, I’m going to beat you into a pulp, too!”
He felt the anger radiating off her, ready to set the entire world on fire. Burn it down until there was nothing left but rubble and then build it up again, better this time. Because that was the kind of woman she was. The kind of woman she’d always been.
Astarion swallowed against the filthy taste in the back of his mouth, the throbbing of his pulse. Then he set down the wastebasket, careful not to spill the contents.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll take her to Jaheira.”
The rest of it was a bit of a blur.
Opening doors for Zoraya, who was carrying Ira down the great staircase of city hall. One of the guards in the entrance hall saying something he really shouldn’t have said, which resulted in Zoraya thrusting Ira into Astarion’s arms and getting way too close to a full-on fistfight with the man.
The surge of panic at how light the girl felt in his arms. Like something made of paper, ready to collapse at the smallest touch.
Dashing out the door with her, while Shadowheart pried Zoraya off the guards. Jumping at the first coach he saw, cutting off a couple that had clearly been there before him without so much as an apology. The sickly smell of blood and open flesh filling the cabin as they sat there in silence, praying that the bloody horses would run faster.
This time it was Zoraya who marched into the clinic and demanded to see Jaheira. Who explained what had happened and did all the talking, while Astarion stood there, with the mangled heap of a child clutched to his chest.
He still stood there with his arms outstretched, even after they’d taken Ira into the operating room. Shadowheart guided him onto a chair in the waiting area and that’s where he collapsed, his head sinking against the cool wall. Letting his eyes fall shut, too bone-achingly exhausted to keep them open any longer.
Shadowheart and Zoraya were talking for a little while, until Shadowheart excused herself to return to city hall and make sure everything was locked up properly. After that, there was only the clicking of Zoraya’s heels on the floor as she paced up and down the waiting area.
Astarion had no idea how long he sat there. Time seemed to move differently through the thick, fuzzy haze in his mind. Like large parts of him were not quite there with him. Like they’d done the sensible thing and decided to kick back with imaginary pixie ciders somewhere far away from here. Leaving him in some sort of suspension, just short of realizing all that had happened.
When Jaheira came out of the operating room, she took one look at him and immediately turned to Zoraya instead.
“The girl is stable now,” she explained. “But her injuries are grave. She has broken her arm as well as several ribs. She will need to stay here for a while. Would you be able to inform her parents?”
“She’s an orphan,” Zoraya said. “But I will inform her clan right away.” She reached for Jaheira’s hands and shook them. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She sounded tired. She looked tired, too. Her face streaked with sweat and tears, her blouse wrinkled and spattered with blood. A thick strand of hair had come loose from her braids and was tumbling freely over her shoulder.
She did not seem to notice.
Astarion lifted his hands and cringed at the dried blood under his perfectly manicured nails. The way it clung to the beautiful silver embroidery on his doublet, a dark crust enveloping the delicate fabric. It shouldn’t be there. It was Ira’s blood. She needed it to fuel that frighteningly sharp mind of hers, to make all those inventions for her people. She needed it to run around and deliver messages at exorbitant rates. To grow and flourish as she deserved because she still had her entire life ahead of her.
“Astarion?”
There was something in Zoraya’s voice that told him this was not the first time she’d tried speaking to him.
“Yes?” he said, quickly letting his hands drop into his lap. Trying to hide his nails under the sleeves of his doublet.
“You didn’t drink your tea.” She nodded at a mug on a small table next to him. Astarion had no idea how it had gotten there.
Zoraya’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Astarion, are you alright?”
“Me?” He cleared his throat and tried to conjure up a smile that felt miles away from his face. “Of course, darling. Everything is … tickety-boo, as it were.”
He pushed off his chair in demonstration and immediately had to brace himself against the wall. His legs refused to hold him up, his muscles soft and gooey, like something people might spread on top of their breakfast. Astarion had his fair share of experience with alcohol and other questionable substances, but this went deeper somehow. Gnawing on his mind as well as his body.
“It’s okay.” Zoraya was in front of him, steadying him with her shoulder. “It’s just the shock. You need to get some rest and you’ll be fine.”
She felt warm, so warm. He hadn’t even realized the chill creeping into his bones, his teeth chattering as he nestled closer. His clammy fingers closing around her wrist as if trying to absorb her warmth, using it to fill that gaping hollow where the rest of him ought to be.
“My … coin purse is in my coat pocket,” he said. “Use it to pay for the coach and everything. If it’s not enough, I can get more.”
“I know” Zoraya said in a low, gentle whisper. “I will take care of it. Come on now. Let’s get you home.”
“We’re here.”
Astarion blinked several times before he was able to focus on her, the dim light of the coach lanterns dancing over the weary lines on face. They sat in opposite corners of the cabin, a full seat separating them, but his fingers were still clutched around her wrist. Holding on to her warmth, the only thing that felt real in the world.
“You’re home,” she said patiently, gesturing out the window where he could make out the iron fence surrounding his property. A large townhouse his parents had bought him right as he’d started law school.
“Oh. I see.” Astarion fidgeted in his seat, feeling for his overcoat with his free hand, only to realize that he was already wearing it.
Zoraya must have helped him into it. Eased him into his own clothes when he could barely keep himself upright.
He glanced at the iron fence, the imposing silhouette behind it, and his stomach sank at the thought of what awaited him in there. The sparklingly clean floors, the rigorously folded bedsheets and towels, each corner carefully wiped and dusted by his maids. Everything always tidy. Orderly. Lifeless, downright sterile.
“Can you come in with me?” The question tumbled out of him all on its own, like a stream of water through cupped hands. Impossible to hold in.
Zoraya swallowed, her eyes drifting away from him. “I … don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
It was almost comical. How she’d managed to keep her head through all this, taking charge where he’d all but crumbled to pieces, yet somehow, this simple invitation was more than she could deal with.
Because she remembered what had happened the last time she had been alone with him.
I want something real, Astarion.
I want this to be the biggest fucking deal since Cassius Carvilius’ Principles of Legal Thought and Practice!
And that was when it hit him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, immediately realizing it wasn’t enough. But he had to start somewhere, didn’t he?
“W-what do you mean?” she stammered.
The muscles of her forearm flexed underneath his hand, but Astarion didn’t let her pull back.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. Sliding over to her corner of the cabin and then wrapping his arms around her very gently, enveloping her in the most delicate of embraces. The type she could have easily broken away from if she wanted to.
She didn’t. She just stayed there in his arms, tense yet immobile, so Astarion leaned his nose against her hair and breathed in her scent.
It was the deepest breath he’d taken ever since she’d flung open the office door that afternoon.
“I didn’t know …” he whispered. “I didn’t understand, I didn’t think …”
The words refused to arrange themselves into sentences, refused to make sense. And yet, he could feel Zoraya relax in his arms. Her cheek sinking against his chest as her hands found that spot on his shoulder blades that had always been her favorite, even when they were children. When he used to be the one she came to when she needed help reaching the top shelves of her ridiculously oversized bookshelf or when she couldn’t pry open a fresh ink pot.
At some point, she’d stopped doing that. He’d made her stop with the way he’d acted around her, pushed her away for no good reason at all. And now she was finally back, right here by his side, and he was already messing it up again.
“I’m sorry,” he said once more, pulling back just enough to cup her face with his hands.
Her cheeks burned under his touch. Her eyes darting away again as if his gaze was more than she could bear.
Gods, what an idiot he’d been.
To think that this woman was some sort of master seducer hired to work him into submission! That she’d been orchestrating any of this for her own gain when all she wanted to do was help build a world where little girls didn’t have to run from guards and people didn’t look the other way.
He’d been one of those, too. Too wrapped up in his own petty issues to see the bigger picture, to realize that the stakes were so much higher than him and his silly pride. He didn’t know if he could learn to see it differently. What sort of contribution he could even make, a corrupt, selfish magistrate. But he knew he wanted to find out. And he knew he needed her by his side.
She was so unbearably beautiful in the dim lantern light, trembling under his touch like his next move would decide the fate of the universe at large. Way too beautiful to be gobbled up in a dusty, old wardrobe, grimy bathrobes hanging in her face, hands groping in the dark. He understood that now. She deserved to be spread out on the finest silk sheets he owned, every inch of her admired and cherished.
That’s what he would do if he could convince her to give him another chance. A chance to do it right.
He didn’t ask her to come inside with him again, although he had a feeling she would have said yes. He just leaned in slowly and pressed a tender, little kiss to her forehead.
“Good night, Zoya.”
And then forced his body out of the coach and down the long trek toward his dark, empty house behind that fence.