Chapter Text
Simply put, Halsin admired the warlock Church.
To make things complicated, he adored him.
He longed for his new friend’s company in ways that transcended words. A hypothetical night of carnal, animalistic indulgence would not have satisfied his craving to draw the tiefling close and keep him safe.
It was why he quietly celebrated the relationship Church and Astarion had cultivated through the perils of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. He remembered earlier in the mountain pass when Church seemed to doubt Astarion returned his feelings. Halsin had rarely been so pleased to see a friend proven wrong.
Through these trials, Halsin saw that Astarion became softer, yet more honest with his allies. His airy bluntness was refreshing compared to his former tendency towards outright facetious lies. Halsin saw the good Church did for him, and he was in awe of it.
And so when he confessed his feelings to Church one night while walking in the overgrown outskirts of Rivington, the last thing he wanted was to take that away from either of them. He had already braced himself for Church’s initial reaction, ready to explain himself all the while marveling at the tiefling’s yellow eyes blinking up at him in the moonlight, like fireflies…
“I… I just don’t understand…” Church stammered, flustered. “You know Astarion and I are together. That we…”
“Yes, you are bonded in body and soul,” Halsin nodded serenely. “His scent is upon your skin, and it is a beauty to behold. I do not wish to take that away from either of you. If there were to be anything between us, it must be with his consent. And perhaps some day,” he shrugged with a slight smile, “his participation.”
“You would share?” Church asked incredulously.
Halsin chuckled, “Some treat their relationships like a walled garden — tidy, tamed, cut off from the world. That is their right, but it is not for me. I do as nature does and let my heart run wild. Desire flourishes wherever it finds purchase.”
“Ah, right,” Church rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly recalling their earlier campfire conversations. “You don’t believe in monogamy.”
Halsin hummed, “It has its place, but it is not for me. The wolf mates for life, but the bear roams free and partners as it will. Instinct dictates I need to stay true to my nature; but regardless of my feelings, you must stay true to yours.”
The druid hesitated.
“To be honest, I thought that the interest was reciprocated,” he admitted sheepishly. “You did often ask about my past partners, and your eyes did linger.”
He did not mention that his sharp senses could also scent the tiefling’s unspoken desire; though perhaps he didn’t need to, given how much Church would blush at his mere proximity.
Those same senses also perceived another presence nearby, hidden in the woods.
Watching.
Listening.
Church huffed an embarrassed laugh, “Well… you weren’t wrong. I was attracted to you. I admire you and… I still think you’re too nice to be alone.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he mulled over his words. “Things were complicated with Astarion back then. Arguably they still are these days, but if there’s anything I know for sure…”
He looked apologetically up at Halsin. “I love my friends, but my heart…”
“…belongs to Astarion. Alone,” Halsin finished for him with a rueful smile.
“Completely,” Church agreed, returning his smile. He huffed a laugh of disbelief. “Gods, I’ve never truly felt this way about someone. It feels… risky. It feels like…” he trailed off, his smile fading. “...like there’s no way both of us can come out of this happy.”
“That’s terribly pessimistic,” Halsin pointed out.
“I mean… even without my pact, my life will be short, compared to Astarion’s,” Church clarified.
Halsin hummed, “You’ve told me of such worries before.”
Church sighed, “I have, haven’t I?”
“And despite all the two of you have endured, you worry still?”
Church shrugged helplessly. “If anything, I worry more. Because if he somehow falls for me as hard as I’ve fallen for him, it’ll only hurt him in the long run. Then my love becomes more of a curse, rather than any blessing…”
Halsin sighed, stepping in front of Church and gripping him by the shoulders. The tiefling stared up at him, body stiff yet eyes dazzled.
“That’s not what happens,” Halsin whispered fervently, eyes soft. Shining. “Even if someone’s love is shared for a day. A year. A decade… by Silvanus, it is always worth it to bring color to the seasons of our lives… even if it must eventually end.”
Even now the memories flit in his vision — their smiles, their voices, their scents just out of reach…
“I have had my heart broken nearly a dozen times,” Halsin reflected. “Nearly half of those were reciprocated, committed love, and while a few of those relationships ended by at least one of our wills, or prematurely ended by the cruel fate of illness, violence…
“Two of my lost loves…” he cleared his throat, his heart growing heavy as their names fell from his lips, “Tyrene… Viik… they spent the rest of their lives with me. We made the most of it together. The farewells — when we had such a luxury… they never get easier.”
Halsin’s voice broke, and Church made a small sound before pulling his friend down into a tight embrace. His cheek burned against Halsin’s aching heart.
“Tyrene and Viik,” Halsin continued with some difficulty. “Both of them had this conversation with me at some point in their lives, usually when we were most happiest and feared the loss of it.”
He could still smell Tyrene’s perfume oil, distilled by her own hand. The warrior did not often lay down her sword, but when she did she wore silks the colors of sunset. Those silks still smelled of florals, spices, and musk long after she had passed…
“But we always came to the same conclusion — that our limited time made each moment together all the more precious. And in retrospect I love every second we spent together,” Halsin closed his eyes. “I often revisit them in my trances, imagining if I could tell them about what troubles me, about the adventures I’ve had and the people I’ve met.”
Viik had always been chatty, thinking aloud and exclaiming with great enthusiasm about every discovery he made. He was the one who gave Halsin his first journal to record their meticulous research together. For the next few years after Viik’s death, Halsin’s heart still ached whenever he had to flip back to the earlier pages and see the man’s flowing, looping handwriting.
Now, years later, every time he saw Church crack open his journal Halsin couldn’t help but smile. The two of them would have gotten along so well…
“The memories ache, yes,” Halsin pulled away, replacing Church’s head with his hand over his heart, breathing deeply. “But they comfort me as well. They remind me that such happiness can be found in the world and it is because of them I know what it is like to feel it. Share it.”
He cradled Church’s cheek, seeking out the tiefling’s averted, wet eyes.
“Astarion’s life has been filled with so much darkness,” Halsin said softly. “He is lucky to have you as a light, a guiding star towards calmer waters. If he is to outlive you, he will not forget that. He will not forget you, and the blessing you brought to him during such a dark time.”
Church tried to smile. Halsin could tell that he couldn’t help but feel an insidious shadow of doubt, no matter how earnest the elf was.
“Do you think he’d fall in love again?” Church asked, his casual question betrayed by his tenuous voice. “After I’m… gone?”
Halsin eyed him, still aware of the presence lurking, listening nearby. But it was no threat.
“Perhaps,” he said truthfully. “After all, I did.”
“…good,” Church said unconvincingly.
“Or he may not,” Halsin shrugged. “We can never know the future when it’s constantly in motion. It could be weeks. It could be decades, centuries afterwards. I can tell you for certain that your memory would live alongside him, encouraging him on. You have a tendency to leave that sort of impression,” he added fondly.
Church huffed a shaky laugh.
“You’re too good to be true, Halsin,” he said, voice thick as he wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
“I’m not,” Halsin shrugged, squeezing Church’s shoulders one last time before stepping away. “I am simply glad to speak the truth of my heart, even if the feelings are not returned. I would regret if I never had a chance to remind you how loved you are — whether as a friend or partner.”
Halsin retreated bashfully from his friend, his eyes drifting over the gentle river. The presence remained close and watchful, and the druid was grateful for it.
He hummed contentedly to himself. “I have enjoyed this break from the city.”
Church chuckled.
“We haven’t even gotten to the actual city,” he pointed out.
“Then it’s best I make the most of it while I can,” Halsin heaved a sigh, already feeling his magic itching beneath his skin. “I think I would like to roam here tonight — away from the town. Do you think you can safely return to camp on your own?”
“Oh, of course,” Church said, a bit taken-aback. “Just… be safe, alright?”
Halsin patted his shoulder one more time before retreating into the woods. He was relieved to let the druidic magic take over, transforming him into the cave bear. His mind became simpler, and any disappointment and hurt he felt over his friend’s rejection flowed easier, like water around rocks rather than sitting in the mire of his soul.
But before he sped away, he watched the presence shifting silently through the woods, following the preoccupied warlock back towards Rivington.
Even as a bear, Halsin’s instincts were relieved that his friend would return unharmed with the silent protection of the one he loved.
—
Days later, Halsin is suppressing a growl, watching intently as Astarion confronts his vampire spawn brethren. How dare they enter the safety of their camp! His magic seethes beneath his skin, the bear roaring to emerge and maul the intruders away from his friends.
Church… Astarion…!
They will not take him. They will not harm him!
Halsin’s gaze meets Church’s over Astarion’s shoulder, and the druid can see that the warlock is thinking the same thing. His hair is bed-mussed, and while his stance isn’t primed to attack like that of their other companions’ in the room, Halsin can see the tension in his jaw and hands, the magic sparking behind his eyes as he stands tall at Astarion’s side.
Surprisingly, the confrontation seems to be de-escalating thanks to Church joining in — much to Astarion’s apparent annoyance. However, when one of the vampire spawn suddenly cries out in pain and clutches at her chest, Halsin is already transforming as the scent of corrupted blood fills the air.
After that, it all goes to hell.
—
Church had been growing cold as the blood left his body, no thanks to the spawn Aurelia’s claws having torn at his neck and torso. Now, he is vaguely aware of a solid, warm presence at his side and familiar blue light dancing across his vision. The healing magic soothes the searing pain to a throbbing ache as his muscles and skin pull back together.
A second presence falls to his other side. This one is less warm, but it’s just as — if not more — welcome. Beneath the metallic miasma of blood, Church can barely smell the bergamot.
Astarion. He’s alright. He’s here, still.
They didn’t take him.
“Church…?” he hears Astarion’s muffled voice choke.
“He’s fine now,” Halsin reassures him. “All things considered, the wounds didn’t run deep. And no vital organs were harmed.”
“…good.”
Church feels the tingle of a touch brushing against his cheek, and he tries his damndest to focus upon the pale elf who stares down at him — impossibly paler. His eyes are pained as he searches Church’s, and so the tiefling takes the opportunity to flick his eyes meaningfully towards Halsin, managing to quirk the corner of his mouth into a smile.
Astarion sighs in both relief and annoyance.
“Thank… you,” he tells Halsin stiffly.
“You are both most welcome,” the other elf chuckles, rising to his feet. “I must attend to the others. Take it slow, my friend.”
Church gives the druid a grateful smile, but as Halsin leaves the tiefling slumps heavily back against the column, meeting Astarion’s weary gaze.
“…fuck,” Church grunts.
“Fuck,” Astarion agrees.
Church tries to stand, but Astarion places his hand upon his chest.
“Didn’t you hear that beast of yours?” the elf scolds him exasperatedly. “He said to ‘take it easy.’”
Church is too distracted to chide him for his word choice.
“Astarion,” he sighs instead. “We need to talk.”
Astarion gives a reluctant hum. “I suppose we do.”
He helps Church to his feet, guiding them back towards their corner of the room.
“Karlach,” Church tells his friend separately as he staggers forth. “Make sure everyone gives us some space, alright?”
There’s a beat before the other tiefling replies, “Will do, Soldier.”
“...what a mess,” Astarion sighs, throwing up his hands before dropping them to gesture at the destruction all around. “Well, at least you’ve met my family now.”
Church frowns.
“What?” Astarion huffs.
Church sighs, looking hard at the elf.
“Your siblings… I just… I can’t believe how easily you lied to them,” he blurts reproachfully. “If you’re going to ask them to run into their deaths, they have the right to at least know what they’re getting into.”
Astarion scoffs, incredulous. “What does it matter? There’s only six of them. And they are vampire spawn.”
Church stares at him — appalled.
“You can’t possibly… tadpole or not, you’re a vampire spawn too,” the tiefling points out. “Don’t you have any sympathy for others sharing your plight?”
Astarion glowers, and Church realizes he must have said something terribly wrong.
“No one ever looked out for me. No one ever said a kind thing to me!” Astarion bristles, gesticulating emphatically. However, as a few curious companions’ gazes flick over, he balks, lowering his voice to speak furtively to the tiefling. “You’re the only one. Other people don’t have a heart like you. You’re…” he gestures weakly at Church. “…you. No one is like that.”
What about Karlach? Church wants to remind him exasperatedly. What about Halsin? All our companions who have had your back?
Instead he shakes his head, reflexively reaching out to take Astarion’s trembling hand.
But the elf doesn’t squeeze him back.
He doesn’t meet his eyes as he grimaces, looking away.
Church tries anyway.
“There are many others like me who will care for you,” he murmurs. “If you care for them.”
Astarion heaves a sigh.
At last he relents, linking his finger with Church’s.
“Ah, don’t sell yourself so short,” Astarion huffs, shooting him a tight smile.
—
Church reluctantly leaves Astarion behind as he checks in on the others, bringing clarity to what he can and ensuring that everyone is healed. He spends a good chunk of that time attempting to coax out the trembling child, Yenna, who had been huddled up beneath her bed alongside a puffed-up Grub.
“You… you said it would be safe here…” Yenna whimpers, her eyes glassy.
Church swallows past a lump in his throat, and he steps aside to let Halsin and Karlach take over. He instead drifts over to Shadowheart, who is conferring with Dame Aylin and Isobel. The two had been away from camp, but alerted by the wards they burst back into the room towards the end of the battle, wild-eyed as they launched their holy magic towards the hissing spawn.
“Bah!” Dame Aylin paces along the windows, seething down at the streets below. “Those unholy creatures dared to step foot into our moonmaiden-blessed camp?”
“We should have been here,” Isobel frets. “I’m sorry, Church.”
“You came as fast as you could,” Church assures them. “It’s not your fault. We were… overconfident.”
Even with all of Gale and Isobel’s carefully-crafted wards the spawn made it inside. What sort of magic had Cazador granted to them? He’ll have to confer with Gale about it later.
Church grimaces at the blood spatters all around the camp. They’ll have to clean those themselves, somehow. He doesn’t want to subject the Elfsong’s staff to yet another round of cleaning up after a crime scene.
There’s too much to do, and too little time to give it the care they deserve. He hears Yenna sobbing and trusts that Halsin and Karlach are taking care of her. He hears Gale flipping frantically through the pages of his tome and trust that he’s trying to find a solution to their wards. He feels the judgement of his companions for what was exchanged between the spawn — and between Church and Astarion.
And yet, with all this happening, there’s only one person Church truly wishes to speak to.
He finds Astarion hiding away in one of the vacant rooms, sitting in the shadows and staring out the window at the city he had haunted for two centuries.
Even as Church considers reaching for him, Astarion’s words twist inside of him still.
“Don’t look at me like that! With the sweet little ‘disappointed I’m not getting cuddly Astarion’ pout,” he spat mockingly after the tiefling’s intervention. “I can’t take it. I can’t be who you want to see in me.”
But don’t you understand? Church wanted to exclaim. I love you as you are!
The floorboards creak loudly with one of Church’s footfalls, and Astarion’s head whips around, eyes and dagger glinting. But the tiefling doesn’t even raise his hands as he leans against the doorway, gazing at his lover.
He aches seeing how beautiful he is, even among shadows.
Church shakes himself, clearing his throat.
“The others have settled down for the most part,” he says softly. “Gale’s set up wards. Karlach’s on watch. We should at least get a warning before any other… unwanted visits.”
Astarion hums blithely.
“Lovely!” he says with a flippant sneer. “So, why are you here?”
Church’s breath catches slightly in his throat.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs. “I just wondered where you went. Wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” Astarion says through his teeth.
He’s not. Church knows he’s not.
“Astarion, I…”
Church finally realizes why Astarion looks particularly pale and haggard now. “Gods, you’re still covered in blood!”
Splattered and streaked with browns and reds, Astarion hums, plucking at his encrusted shirt. “So I am. Just another night in Baldur’s Gate!”
Church fights back a laugh, shaking his head. As much as Astarion extolled the joys of gushing blood, Church knows he has too many memories of being covered in it — along with other filth. And he remembers seeing how Astarion relaxed after even the freezing cleanse of the river as they traveled…
“Come with me?” Church entreats him, a loose plan forming in his head.
Astarion hesitates.
“Why?” he asks suspiciously. “What for?”
“I… I would like to draw you a bath, if that’s alright?” Church offers.
Astarion glances down at his blood-encrusted self.
“That bad, is it?” he drawls.
There’s no point sugar-coating it.
“Look, you’re filthy, and I know you hate that,” Church shrugs a little. “I had to listen to you going on about missing baths for weeks in the wilderness, so I figured you’d want to make up for lost time.”
“It’s certainly been missed,” Astarion replies airily. “Alright. You’ve made your point.”
The vampire spawn then pitches his voice low, “Does the sight of gore not get your blood pumping anymore?”
Church scoffs a laugh, rolling his eyes.
“I’ll get the water running,” he says dryly.
He beckons Astarion to follow him over to the copper bathtub. But to his surprise — despite the tension earlier — the elf’s hand reaches out to catch his. Church shoots him a smile, lacing their fingers together for the short distance to the tub.
Once there, he uses prestidigitation to rid it of dust before running the bath for the listless spawn. As the hot water fills the tub, Astarion’s demeanor slowly begins to thaw, throwing sly jokes at Church’s nerves. As he crouches, he can practically feel the elf’s eyes roaming over his back and the trousers tight over his ass.
Church can’t help but preen a bit.
“I can feel you looking,” he huffs in feigned disapproval.
“It’s a nice view,” Astarion drawls back.
Church shoots a coy glance over his shoulder, his tail swishing.
“...I know,” he smirks.
When the tub has been filled, Church turns off the water with a satisfied hum before standing.
“Alright,” he announces, turning towards Astarion and flourishing a bow. “The bath is ready, Master Astarion.”
“Hmm,” Astarion gazes down at him with a hungry smile spreading across his face. “I like the sound of that.”
Church’s face heats and he laughs a bit, turning away to give him privacy.
“I — I’ll just be on the other side of the screen,” he stammers.
“What’re you doing?” Astarion asks, bemused.
“Giving you some privacy,” Church explains sheepishly. “While you, ah, get…”
“Undressed?” Astarion smirks, drifting close to him. “Disrobed? Stripped? Naked?” He lowers his voice into a shoddy imitation of Halsin. “As nature intended?”
Church blushes deeper, choking on a laugh as he pushes his chest away.
“Yes, that,” he grins.
“Why?” Astarion tilts his head. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Well,” he smirks, “not nothing I suppose.”
Church glances vaguely towards the door and windows, praying to whatever god will listen that no one will disturb them again tonight.
“…if you’re sure. If you’re alright with it,” he says slowly.
“Darling,” Astarion smirks, reaching slowly for the front of his trousers. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a show.”
Church blushes deeper, unable to stop his eyes from following his hands. The interest is there, of course, but rather than hunger or lust all he feels is… relief. Relief Astarion is still with them and not dragged off to disappear into a burst of bloody mist. He’s here, safe, and not back in that wretched palace.
He’s here sitting in the tub before Church as he gently sponges at himself, removing the other spawns’ blood that had run down his shirt during the fight.
Church does leave momentarily to retrieve Astarion’s personal soap and a book to read, but he hurries back, relieved to see the elf still there. He sits in a nearby chair, reading a book on necromancy Gale must have left here at some point.
What are you thinking about? Church wonders at Astarion’s strange silence.
What are you going to do?
We’re not safe here after all.
Church should have known better. As cushy as their camp is, the inn is a public place. Anyone — a bouncer, a drunkard — could invite a vampire spawn in. How else would they have stolen away so many victims here?
He was, once again, a fool.
“Do you think I’m cruel?” Astarion asks him suddenly.
Thrown by the question, Church still takes a moment to mull over it.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But… I can be too.”
His shadow self didn’t come from a vacuum, after all.
“Do you think I’m selfish? A self-serving liar?” Astarion flourishes a hand, flicking away water. “Blind to the needs of others?”
Church has already lost his position on the page. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Just curious,” Astarion shrugs.
“No,” Church says emphatically.
“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” Astarion corrects him easily with a cheerless grin. “I am all of those things. And I’m not sorry for who I am.”
His gaze meets Church’s, and from there the conversation sours.
“Well, you’re a survivor,” Church shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”
Astarion barks a derisive laugh.
“This camp,” he gestures vaguely towards the door. “This sundry of all of Faerûn — we’re all survivors. None of us are special in the face of horrible, imminent death. And yet…” he smiles bitterly. “Of all your options of beautiful, virile people with sanctimonious morals far closer to yours… you chose me.
“You even refused Halsin!” he scoffs. “He agrees with everything you do. And he was perfectly happy to share, giving you everything I couldn’t—”
“But would you be?” Church interjects. “Would you really be happy about it?”
Astarion scowls. “Of course, didn’t I tell you as much afterwards?”
“Of course you did,” Church says, softly. “But it’s not like you would have told me otherwise.”
“As you very well know, I have no reservations telling you what I think…”
“Yes, your commentary has always been so very supportive,” Church says sarcastically. “But no matter how much you’ve disapproved of my decisions, no matter how much you’ve bitched and complained; you’ve never actually said ‘no’ to anything I have ever asked of you.”
Astarion makes a face. “...that can’t be right.”
“Anyway, maybe I don’t want to be ‘shared,’” Church goes on peevishly. “Maybe, after all this time, of all the people I’ve met in Faerûn, I want to be with you, and you alone. Just like this.” He gestures with his book at Astarion in the bath. “Is that not enough for you?”
Astarion doesn’t answer him. He goes quiet, letting the only sound in the room be the sloshing of water with his subtle movements.
At some point, the tense silence proves too much. Church gives up and closes his book, setting it carefully aside.
“You're missing the entirety of your back,” he points out to the spawn. With the blood that had stained Astarion’s pale skin, the raised infernal script is spelled out in sharp relief.
“What am I supposed to do?” Astarion retorts. “Look in the mirror?”
Church winces.
“Would it be alright if I…?” he stammers. “Can I…?”
Astarion raises an expectant eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” Church finally offers.
“Can you? I suppose you can.”
“Astarion.”
“Yes,” Astarion sighs. He smiles softly, gratefully back at him. “Yes. I’d like that. Please do.”
Church crouches beside the tub, taking the sponge and dabbing it carefully upon Astarion’s back and gently around his scars. He can still read those infernal words — clearer now that he knows their meaning.
I speak these words
and this changes the world.
Church wants to press his lips to the vampire spawn’s back. He wants to kiss away the residual echoes of pain he knows haunts Astarion still. He wishes he had the words to comfort and reassure him. Beneath that bluster, he knows in his heart —
— the spawn is terrified.
Church stills his hand for a moment.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
“I’m fine,” Astarion replies lightly. Quickly. “Though I could use your help with something else…”
“Yes, of course,” Church pushes his sleeves up further. “What is it?”
Astarion turns to him with a pout. “This tub is far too large for me. And I’m getting ever so lonely here in the water by myself.”
It’s Church’s turn to shiver as the elf’s finger traces down his jaw, water dripping tantalizingly down his neck…
He huffs a laugh, drumming his fingers in the tub.
“Ah. Alright. Give me a second?”
“I’ll be waiting,” Astarion purrs.
Church feels his face heat even as he retreats towards the other side of the tub, stripping self-consciously as Astarion watches him with hungry eyes.
He’s eager to hide himself from that penetrating gaze by climbing into the tub. But as he sinks into the hot water, he groans deeply, feeling all those nerves melt away. Astarion chuckles as the tiefling adjusts his position, making pleased, comfortable sounds as their legs slot together, skin slipping against skin. Church realizes he could fall asleep like this, maybe. He should make sure every one of their companions gets a bath at some point. It does wonders.
For this moment in the wee hours of the morning, they are safe from the reality that awaits them outside this room. It’s only them — no companions, not even the Mother can truly reach him without his incense. He pushes away the thought of the Emperor, but the mind flayer doesn’t seem the least bit interested in the events of tonight. His focus has been on the Absolutists’ movement and the Elder Brain’s gathering strength.
“Astarion,” Church says later, when he has already reheated the water for a second time with magic.
“Hm?” Astarion shakes himself. “Yes?”
Church hesitates, closing his eyes. When he opens them, Astarion has turned to look right at him, his red eyes wary.
“I just want you to know… you know how I feel about your… siblings. The Rite. Ascension. All of it. But in the end, if it is truly the only way for you to walk in the sun again without our parasites…”
Church wonders if this is truly a promise he can keep.
“…then yes. I’ll help you do it.”
Astarion’s mouth spreads into a hesitant smile.
“I just…” Church babbles on, sinking deeper into the water and seeking out the elf’s hand beneath its surface. “I just wish…”
“What?” Astarion asks.
What indeed? What does Church wish for? What would make a difference?
Six lives for his one love to be safe. Six strangers who had already tried to take Astarion or kill Church and his companions.
It’s worth it, isn’t it? And Astarion’s right. They aren’t innocents. They hurt Astarion. Astarion hurt them, but the most important thing that distinguishes him from the rest of them is simply that Church loves him. He saved him. He trusts him. This isn’t just for Astarion, it’s for both of their futures together.
Church searches his wary eyes, wishing he could convey all his love, all his hope that this will work, and that Astarion will come out of this safe and strong.
I love you, he aches to say. To gather the elf close and never let go. Whatever happens. Please don’t change. Please don’t disappear.
Instead, Church looks away.
“Nevermind. It’s nothing.”
They eventually, reluctantly leave the bath and its ensuing silence, although the chilly air shocks them into laughter and swearing. But before he can fully dry off, Church feels Astarion embrace him from behind, pulling him tight against him.
Church snuggles back, sighing into his damp, bath-warmed flesh. He wishes this moment would never end, that he could simply pull it up like Astarion can in his trance and bask in it; especially as Astarion guides him into a slow, deep kiss. Church gasps softly before melting into it, moaning softly as he tastes him.
The tenderness of it all makes his heart ache. After all, they’re on the precipice of either their greatest victory or their greatest mistake.
When they begin to pull away from each other, Church still nuzzles into his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin and soap.
Everything will be fine, Church tells himself. Everything must be fine.
Astarion tilts up the tiefling’s chin, gazing into his eyes.
“I’m doing this for you too, you know?” he says in a hush. “To make sure we’re both safe. Forever.”
His expression tightens in determination.
“For good.”
—
“My boy.”
The Mother sounds weary, her voice as thin as the smoke that rises from the incense burning before a seated Church.
“You call upon me at last,” she sighs heavily. “How can I help you, my love?”
With the spawn’s attack, tonight has been exhausting enough. Church cuts straight to business.
“We picked up a greatsword from a Bhaalspawn, Sarevok Anchev,” he explains, gesturing down at the blade. “Jaheira recognized it as the Sword of Chaos, and Gale was able to determine its remaining magical properties, which includes some passive healing.”
The party had decided that aside from the Blood of Lathander, Sarevok’s sword would indeed be a powerful weapon for a battle against a vampire lord.
Church continues, “I don’t have the ability to summon a shadow blade anymore, so…”
“…you wish for me to help you bind this as a pact weapon?” the Mother surmises in distaste. “This wretched blade which has taken so many lives?”
“Better in my hands than anyone else’s, don’t you think?” Church retorts blandly.
The Mother stews for a moment.
“Your vampire spawn has only trained you with daggers,” she points out. “You have never wielded a greatsword, my love.”
“Actually, I have,” Church corrects her, remembering the oathbreakers the day they met Karlach.
“Church!” Anders had taunted him in a mockery of Tavi’s voice. “Chuuuurch!”
“The shadows gave me strength,” Church recalls. “I know you can do that, as well as give me the dexterity I need to wield this. As for other techniques…” he shrugs, “...if not you, I can learn from my companions.”
“You silly boy,” the Mother murmurs. “You play with such dangerous toys.”
“I’m not a child…!”
“It wasn’t a ‘no,’ sweet boy,” the Mother interrupts wearily. “I will help you bind this ugly, accursed thing.”
Church sighs, relieved even as an unnatural amount of smoke begins to pour from the dwindling incense cone, brushing against the sword.
Well, that was easy…
“…on one condition.”
The warlock grimaces, feeling the cold shadows caress his face.
“When the vampire spawn ascends,” the Mother says softly. “Strike him down.”
Church’s hands jerk back from the blade.
“Fuck no,” he grumbles. “Forget it.”
“If you want this strength…”
“Not that much,” Church growls, fanning away the smoke. “Forget it. We’re done.”
“I’m not done with you, child.”
Church collapses onto all fours, gagging as the smoke thickens in his lungs.
“...no…!” he grunts.
“You do not know what I know,” the Mother growls. “You have not seen what I have seen. If the vampire ascends, you will… you will…”
Her voice is discordant and stuttering.
“…what?” Church demands hoarsely. “What?”
The Mother lets out a distant, otherworldly wail that sends a chill down his spine.
“The wings of Fate choke my tongue,” she hisses. “But listen close, my love — your vampire spawn will never love you like I do.”
“I’m… fucking… counting on it,” Church rasps.
“He will use you for his own ambitions, h-hurt you and…”
Her hysterical voice grows garbled.
“Strike him down,” she snarls. “Before he changes. If you don’t…”
She sobs.
“You… I… I will lose you,” she manages defeatedly. “I will not be able to help you anymore. Your fate will be sealed, held in the wretched hand you feed from even now…”
As she struggles to speak, Church feels his heart leap with hope.
Does this mean Astarion might have the power to free him from the pact?
Or does this mean that Astarion would… no. No, he wouldn’t…
He trusts Church with his life.
And Church trusts him, too.
“I won’t strike him down,” Church refuses. “I won’t need to strike him down.”
“You must!”
“No!” Church shouts, not caring who else might hear him. “Fuck you. I won’t do your fucking—!”
He yelps as the tendril of smoke constricts around his throat, yanking him so close to the burning incense that he can feel the heat searing into his skin. He imagines it might be his patron’s heavy-handed attempt at a desperate embrace, but whatever it is, it’s suffocating…!
“…Moth…er!” Church chokes.
“If you continue down this path,” the Mother mourns. “I will not be able to protect you.”
Church struggles to pull away, eyes watering as the smoke stings them. The incense cone is almost completely used.
“Good,” he spits. “Unlike you, Astarion would never hurt me.”
With a grunt he kicks away the incense holder, letting the ash scatter across the stone as the Mother’s presence extinguishes in an instant. The tendril of shadow dissipates as Church collapses. Panting, he rolls onto his back upon the ground, staring up at the few stars he can see through the overcast sky.
He supposes he’ll have to do without the sword.
—
Antsy in the wake of their ambush, Astarion is about to leave the room in search of Church when he sees Halsin sliding open the door, murmuring softly as he helps the unsteady tiefling through. There’s a dull thud as one of their trophies — a familiar, barbed greatsword — is left propped up against a settee.
“What the hells happened to you?” Astarion hisses as he takes over from Halsin, nearly dragging Church towards their corner.
The tiefling smells of incense.
“She’s… the worst…” Church mumbles, falling into his bed.
When Astarion removes his boots, he can’t help but notice that Church is trembling atop his blankets, his normally bright eyes dull and troubled.
Thankfully, he doesn’t protest when Astarion subsequently climbs onto the bed after him, tucking himself behind the tiefling and curling protectively over his back.