Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A strong arm helps Astarion pull himself from the Chionthar, where the exploded remains of the Netherbrain and the Crown of Karsus and half a dozen broken fishing boats rest. His mind is his own, for the first time in almost two-hundred years. Tav is here, smiling at him like he hung the moon and sun or some such cheesiness.

He is happy! And not just because he bit a cultist sometime between the Morphic Pool and falling into the river. Astarion is in love.

When the sun begins to burn at him in the midst of goodbyes and what-nexts, he takes shelter, and Tav is there to ensure that he isn’t alone. Come nightfall, they retire to a safe and comfortable room and talk about the future. Tav says they’ll look for a cure, so he can walk in the sun again

They’re sweet. A gentle half-orc paladin, they could have easily snapped him in two when he opted to climb them like a tree. Instead he’s laughing, nervous as they agree that they want this. They want him.  

And he’s more than their desire. They want a future with him, not just to fuck him. Not just to be bitten, or enthralled, or seduced, or… any of it. They taught him that he is worthy! He’s worth so much. They take to bed together, too tired for more than a contented cuddle, and Astarion lets himself think about the future for the first time in decades and decades.

He wakes up in a pod on the Nautiloid.

He can feel the tadpole squirming in his skull. His fingers rest on the not-glass of the pod. 

Astarion does not understand - could another threat have risen, plucked him from his bed as it once plucked him from the streets? So soon? Those nautiloids that the Netherbrain summoned were torched by the Gith and their dragons, they crashed to earth and tore up the city!

But maybe one was missed?

His weapons are gone, and so too his gear. The clothes Tav set aside for him. He reaches out to the pod’s control through the tadpole, but cannot reach it from within. Damn it.  

Like a dream he’s already lived, he hears a crash from within the ship, and realizes with dawning horror that this is not an unfamiliar ship, but the very same Nautiloid that abducted him in the first place. In a moment, Tav will run through the Illithid ship’s flesh-door with Lae’zel at their heels, and they’ll argue about rescuing Shadowheart. They never saw him before. Maybe they will, now? They’ll see him and free him as well.

Something is wrong. The person that runs through with Lae’zel is not Tav.

Where Tav had been a towering half-orc in heavy armor, this person is… a dragonborn woman, shining black scales and light armor. A bard, maybe. She’s running with Lae’zel all the same, with the intellect devourer Us at their feet. Rather than offering to free Shadowheart, she takes Lae’zel’s warning to heart, and the two of them flee the room. He hears the cleric banging and banging at her pod, to no avail. They hadn’t even stopped to look at him.

Something is wrong.

Some moments later, the world lurches familiarly as the ship plane-shifts to the Prime Material and begins to crash. Astarion tries to force himself to relax, but he’s having what Tav and Gale once called a panic attack as his pod breaks off the ship on impact. Thankfully, he’s not conscious much longer than that, and come morning, his pod is opened.

This time… he is not afraid of the sun, at least. Cazador hasn’t sent goons after him. No need to fear his former master. Half a mile away, Gandrel will be searching for him of his own volition.

He sits in the dirt outside of his pod, pushing his fingers through his hair. Where is Tav? If they’re doomed to do these same things again, where is his person? He trusted them more than anyone, they kept him honest and taught him that he’s allowed to live and want and… their pod will be here someplace, won’t they?

They’ll know what to do.

He trots around the wreckage a while. His pockets contain a dagger, two bottles of grease, and a dream. Gods help him. Astarion finds no new pods - he finds the same dead nobles and commoners and fishermen as before. The same injured illithid.

This dragonborn woman finds him caving the illithid’s head in with his shoe, and greets him as a stranger. Good. She is a stranger. Her name is Elana and she is not Tav.

“Tell me,” he says, “What do you know about these… things?”

“I know they’ll turn us into mindflayers,” she says, matter-of-factly.

He barks a laugh, not because he’s surprised, but because he’s going to cry if he doesn’t laugh. Oh, darling, they won’t. No, not just yet. Astarion sighs, “Of course they’ll turn me into a monster.”

And he invites himself along to their camp. What else can he do? Without Shadowheart’s prism, he’ll become a mindflayer as soon as the order’s given.

They pull Gale from the broken portal, and he doesn’t seem any more confused than he ever did. If anything, he just seems relieved to be free of the stone and pocket-plane. Ignorance is bliss! Gale can never know Astarion thinks him ignorant, even just in this.

They gather the others: Lae’zel from her cage, Wyll from the Grove, somehow Shadowheart has also made her way to the Grove. None of them seem to recognize each other, beyond having seen each other on the Nautiloid, recognizing that they each have a tadpole.

They find Karlach, half a tenday later. There’s no sign of Tav at all. It’s as if they never existed, here. Maybe they never did.

He’s going through the motions. Watching for changes. There are changes - Aradin came into the Grove this time, Elana talked him and Zevlor down. Zorru kisses the dirt, Sazza dies to Arka’s crossbow. There are changes, but everything’s also… the same. Mostly.

One evening, he sneaks back to camp, full on the blood of a boar. He’s hidden the body much better this time, rather than leaving it in the road. Gale is still reading by candlelight at his tent, waving Astarion over.

“Tell me about yourself,” says the wizard, as if it isn’t the middle of the night.

Astarion wipes his mouth self-consciously, “Ahaha… What’s there to tell?”

“You’re so quiet, Astarion. I feel like I never hear you speak. You know you’re safe here, don’t you? It’s alright to speak your mind, now and then.” Gale smiles, patting a cushion nearby. “Though I’m told that I’m very fond of my own voice, I find myself very interested in what you have to say. It’s usually pretty insightful.”

Astarion snorts.

Nobody has ever said such a thing to him before. His screams were sweetest, but the gods know Gale of Waterdeep was often the one scolding him, a tenday and another life ago. Astarion’s commentary, admittedly, had usually been on the knife’s edge of cruelty. Who could blame him, though? He’d been through so much. Nobody had ever saved him before Tav, nobody had ever thought him worthy of anything kinder than jealousy. His ‘siblings’ hadn’t loved him, Cazador’s version of kindness involved eating putrid rats. He hadn’t been in a good place to handle gentleness, anyway, giving or receiving. Tav’s patience was the only way he got any better.

Gale nudges him. “See, you’ve clearly got a lot of thoughts. I know the feeling - but why not share some of them? We’re all in this strange situation together, after all. We’ll never learn more about how to resolve it, how to rid ourselves of these delayed-ceremorphosis tadpoles, if we don’t share these ideas with one another! It’s the essence of a good investigation, and we have right here a plethora of different worldviews! You ought to share yours with us. At the very least, I’d love to hear it.”

“You do love to hear yourself talk, don’t you?” Astarion hums, finally settling on the cushion. “What’s there to tell? I was… unhappy, back in the city. A magistrate, for a time, and then… unemployed. Un safe. I didn’t have anyone I could trust, and I still don’t. It’s nothing personal, it’s just… easier, to keep things close to my chest, I’m sure you’ll understand. You like your privacy, too, don’t you?”

Gale grimaces, “I am sorry to hear that. Still, I hope that you can stomach a wizard’s curiosity now and again. Perhaps not this time, but… who knows what the morrow might bring? If we speak to that goblin priestess come morning, we may find ourselves blessedly free of these things. I’d hate for your commentary to go unspoken. It doesn’t have to be about you, either - really, you should feel free to speak on anything that interests or concerns you.”

Astarion smiles a little. “Don’t worry. I’ll speak my mind if ever it’s necessary.” He hadn’t even realized that he’d been notably quieter, cagier. He doesn’t trust Elana, who sleeps where Tav slept and flirts with Lae’zel. Sleeps with Lae’zel.

Perhaps he can trust Gale, though. At least more than he trusts Elana.

“You should rest. I hear humans need more sleep,” Astarion says, as he moves to stand and return to his own tent.

“I’m quite functional on only a few hours’ rest,” Gale reassures him, “But thank you for your concern. Were my closest friend here, she’d be saying much the same, I’m sure. It’s good to be reminded, in her absence.”

His friend… Tara? That tressym that they met on the Open Hand Temple’s roof. Astarion can’t say that, though. It would be strange to know her name. It is strange that he remembers it. He just nods and takes his leave.

Astarion stumbles through the days that follow like a dream he can’t quite wake up from. They kill Priestess Gut and Dror Ragzlin and for some reason Elana wants to knock out Minthara rather than kill her. Astarion doesn’t care. He takes her leathers for his own and is grateful to be left at camp afterward.

They have a party, with tieflings that he knows will die by the roadside. Some of them won’t, though. He doesn’t speak with any of them. Elana comes to talk to him and he tries to be charming, but he can’t even bring himself to try and seduce her like he had Tav. It would still be tactically sound, wouldn’t it?

Astarion can’t do that to himself. His heart is still broken. Tav isn’t coming back, and he doesn’t need to be anyone’s whore. He doesn’t. (He doesn’t. ) He doesn’t want Lae’zel’s leftovers, anyway.

He sits heavily on Gale’s cushion again, once Elana wanders off with Lae’zel and the tieflings begin to fall asleep.

“Good evening, Astarion,” says the wizard, “Is your red any good? Mine is awful.”

“Like vinegar,” Astarion sighs, “Though it’s better than nothing. Trade?”

“Oh yes, you know me, I love vinegar,” Gale laughs, good-natured as they swap bottles and each give them a try.

Astarion covers his mouth to keep from spitting as Gale chokes on the wine. “I told you.”

“This might literally be vinegar!” Gale cries, distraught, “Did you know that?”

“I told you. But no, I thought maybe it was just… bad.” Astarion snickers, barely trying to justify himself.

“It is bad!”

“It is bad,” Astarion agrees, now holding Gale’s bottle possessively. It’s not much better, but it’s at least drinkable.

“Oh come now, I thought you weren’t going to steal from anybody at camp,” Gale protests, setting the undrinkable bottle aside.

“It was freely handed to me,” Astarion insists, taking another sip. “Perhaps I can be persuaded to return it, in exchange for something of similar value.”

Gale considers this, saying, “Alright, I’ll bite.” This makes Astarion giggle. They’d only learned his affliction the night before. “What could you possibly want in exchange for the bottle you’ve definitely stolen from me, this fine evening? Keeping in mind that I could fish one of the dozens of bottles of questionable vintage from our chest, at any time.”

Astarion stares at him. He’s not really thinking, but something awful is bubbling up his throat, something worse than vinegar. He says, “I don’t know, a kiss?” and his head is suddenly abuzz, as if the Emperor and tadpole are all trying to talk to him, but really it’s just his own thoughts, the self-hatred knocking around in his skull. He doesn’t need to be anyone’s whore, but gods know this whole thing is easier if someone wants to keep him safe.

Could any of it ever be easy, though? He knows where this leads. They’ll go to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, get fucked up by shadows a dozen times, maybe lift the curse, infiltrate Moonrise, free the Nightsong, kill Ketheric… right? Get sidetracked by half a hundred things to do in Baldur’s Gate proper. He’ll kill Cazador and probably feel hollow about it, this time.

That’s tendays or months away. If he leaves, the prism won’t protect him, either.

He’s so in his own head that he almost doesn’t notice that Gale hasn’t answered him. The man is just staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Maybe he has! New tadpole power unlocked! The silence stretches on.

“Astarion, no,” Gale says, finally. Quietly.

“Oh. Um. Forget I mentioned it,” Astarion says quickly, ears burning. It’s better this way! It’s for the best. He doesn’t need to fuck anybody tonight, not for pleasure or protection. He hands Gale the bottle and retreats, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.

He rethinks this a few times over the days that follow. He should have just joked about it. It was a joke, after all. All of them are quite fetching, Elana aside, but really, he could have asked Wyll the same thing. He should have! Maybe it would have cheered the newly-horned man up. It had been strange to see him without them again, in truth. He’s cuter this way. Probably. Sorry, Wyll.

The next morning is the next morning, and others follow it. The wheel of fate spins ever onward, or whatever. Gale seems to forgive or forget.

Elana asks him to bite Araj Oblodra and he doesn’t even care, this time. Lae’zel can lift him in one hand, now. Good for her, right? Why shouldn’t she get a potion he drank poisoned blood for?

It’s almost two months later by the time he’s watching Cazador’s body fall away bloody, stabbed and stabbed and dead again. No healing sleep for you, no ascension, no werewolves or bats or blood. There is so much blood. It’s still pretty cathartic, the second time, at least. His siblings and Elana and everyone all have things to say. Gale is very proud of him, allegedly, for the hard choice he made not to take Cazador’s place in the ritual.

He doesn’t really care. The cry is real, but it’s not about freedom anymore. It’s about release.

Elana hadn’t even gotten him out of the ritual quickly - it simply isn’t the way she goes about things. Halsin hadn’t been freed from the Goblins right away, nor Shadowheart on the Nautiloid, nor most of the Gondians at the Iron Throne. They’d rescued Gale from Orin after the woman exploded, and not a moment sooner. He’s not sure why he’d expected anything different. He’s not sure why it had hurt more, watching them fight Cazador like Astarion was some victim, the same as the rest of them.

There’s not much left in the city, now. The House of Hope, maybe? Certainly, they need to kill Gortash. Last time they’d done it the other way around. None of this really matters, does it? The city will be half-destroyed by the end.

Astarion hands Gale a book about Karsus and watches his eyes light up. They watch Dame Aylin break a dying man’s back in her fury. He wishes he could do such a thing. He wants to throw Cazador into a chasm. Maybe he wants to throw Elana off the tower, too. Have any of them even noticed how wrong she is? She doesn’t care about them the way Tav had, and yet they’re all following her around like stupider dogs than Scratch. He doesn’t even know what became of the owlbear cub this time. He wasn’t there at the cave, and it would be strange to ask about it now.

He’s almost looking forward to either falling from the top of the Netherbrain into the River Chionthar, or watching it fall from a safe distance. It’ll be over, then! It’ll be done. He can go hide in the dark, forget this ever happened twice. Astarion can forget Tav. He can move on. Learn to love the dark again, or something.

It’s the docks again.

Astarion watches as Lae’zel flies off on a red dragon without Elana, feeling some sick satisfaction in that. Nobody should be any happier than he is, no matter that the day was saved. Gale seems intent on reforging the crown, this time. Good for him, too. Shadowheart’s parents and Wyll’s father are all dead, as is Minsc. Karlach and Wyll take to Avernus, no matter how much they both hate the place. All of these are sacrifices Astarion is willing to make. Elana is the one who made the choices, though.

He is absolved of this, isn’t he? These aren’t his sins or mistakes. These aren’t his crimes.

The sun burns, and he takes his leave with slightly more style this time. Astarion even bows on his way out. He knows where to hide. There’s no half-orc to curl around him, but that’s alright. He brought a book to wait out the daylight.

In the evening, he finds his way back to the Elfsong, gives Scratch a pat on the head, takes a warm bath, and goes to sleep.

He wakes up in a pod on the Nautiloid, and this time he rages against the glass as well.

Chapter Text

His pod is different, this time. A different location, at least. Astarion watches with grim fascination as a nearby pod opens and Lae’zel steps out of it. Was it always that easy, for her or Tav or Elana? She’s disappeared out of sight by the time his pod opens as well.

He’s never had free reign of the Nautiloid, before.

There are dead illithid scattered about, one of them singed. Karlach’s doing, he supposes. Plus or minus the Emperor’s having gone rogue. Astarion takes it all in like a tourist might - having a look at the runic tablets and fully understanding them. No need to ask his tadpole for permission, he knows how to finesse it. Even if he wasn’t a quick study, he’s learned this language twice before.

The intellect devourer is still lodged in a skull, the man it belongs to weeping and slack. Fun! He wiggles the creature free and is surprised to find that he’s fond of the thing. Sticky kitty. “Yes yes, we’ll go to the helm,” he agrees, keeping his balance just fine as the ship lurches under a dragon’s talons.

Lae’zel does get the drop on him, but only because he isn’t expecting her to do an extremely cool flip from overhead. There is no recognition in her eyes as he introduces himself, but he wonders if she’d trust and respect him in time, with this introduction. It only hits him then , as they’re slashing at imps, that… perhaps there is no Tav or Elana, this time.

The githyanki shouts at him as he sits on the floor beside a corpse, but he isn’t listening. Us wiggles impatiently.

Astarion isn’t the hero. He is not the hero. He can’t be. This - this isn’t him! He’s along for the ride, he’s not the guy who has to hold everything together. A dozen scenarios bounce around in his head, but he can’t hold the images where they need to be to focus. Will he have to do the trading and finances, will he be plucking the herbs, will he have to organize the camp chest.  

Lae’zel hauls him up by his coat, hands fisted in his collar, and says, “If you do not come now, istik, I am leaving you to your pathetic fate. I will not be ghaik, but if you are to stay, do us all a favor and leap into the Abyss before you turn.”

It wouldn’t be hard. The Blood War rages below them - some part of the actual Abyss must touch the Hells, where they are. He could find out what happens if he dies.

But then… he’d lose this opportunity. This agency that the gods deign to provide. Sick fucks.

“Alright, sorry, I’ll... I’ll be fine,” he says, though she doesn’t look especially convinced or impressed. To be fair, he hasn’t convinced himself either. Will he be fine, really?

As they climb some terrible flesh-mesh and make their way to Shadowheart’s pod, he eyes the place where he would normally sit and watch this encounter. He ought to ask Gale or Wyll where their pods are, sometime, though nobody else has the luxury of remembering it as more than a panicked couple of hours. Astarion wills the pod to open and picks the lock on a nearby chest, amusing himself with how easily both things come to him. The girls are still not impressed, of course - Lae’zel hadn’t wanted to stop, and Shadowheart is being catty about his dangerous company, et cetera. He gives Us a pat and moves on, letting them squabble or not. Maybe he can get them to kiss about it, now that he’s in charge. Kiss or fight, gods, anything is better than the tension.

He’s a little cocky, stepping into the helm. He’s never been here, but he’s killed Raphael in his own home. Commander Zhalk doesn’t fucking scare him. Astarion gets his unbeefed ass kicked a bit, remembering with annoyance that he is much more fragile now than he was yesterday, again. The girls rally and hold the attention of Zhalk and the illithid, whittling both of them down and finishing them off. Lae’zel picks up the infernal commander’s sword, looking pleased. Good.

“Right. The transponder,” he murmurs, as more cambions enter the room to the chaos of blood and fire and illithid… fluids. Astarion connects the appendages to each other, and more or less just tries not to die as everything goes terribly, horribly wrong.

But then, the Nautiloid always crashes. Maybe he did it like Tav would have.

He makes eye contact with The Goddamn Emperor as the ship plummets toward the Chionthar, and he wants to strangle it. Hello again, my gaslighting dream guardian! Whatever. Astarion does not say anything rude because he gets knocked out of the ship and consciousness by debris.

Astarion wakes on an unfamiliar stretch of beach, in the sunlight, and is not afraid of it. This is all old-hat now, he’s spent what feels like half a year wandering under Lathander. No worry for Cazador, who he’s gotten to kill twice and will surely kill again. He sees Shadowheart’s body lying there and wonders if this is when he’s supposed to take the artifact.

She begins to wake up. So probably not just yet. “Good morning, my fringed friend. Let’s round up the others.”

“What… others? Do you mean the gith? She’s already left us behind, it seems. Or perhaps she’s died.” The cleric seems to favor the latter. Delightful.

“I’m sure she’s around someplace, but I, um. I’ve heard other survivors wandering around, while I waited for you to wake.” That’s a reasonable lie, isn’t it? “We’ll find them and see if they’re worth allying with.”

“You’re saying we, a lot, Astarion. Presumptuous of you.”

He offers a winning smile, “What’s the alternative, dear Shadowheart? Are you planning to rough it alone? Do you know where we are, in relation to Baldur’s Gate? Give it a look ‘round, where do you figure you are?”

Shadowheart frowns at him. Astarion doesn’t bother probing her mind, he can tell she thinks he’s being a dick. He is being a dick. “I don’t know. I suppose I can travel with you, for now. It would be safer that way.”

“It would,” he agrees, “And I know where we are, by the bye. Excellent eye for navigation, me. Let’s go.”

He points out the intellect devourers for real, this time, and the two of them manage that just fine, thank you. More importantly, he checks out his usual landing site. There's his pod, and nobody in it. Fascinating. He’d half expected to find a doppelganger here, someone wearing his face. At least he’d get to see it, before killing the poor bastard. Moving on!

Astarion gives Gale a high five, laughs at him, and then pulls him from his self-made prison. “I'm Gale, of Waterdeep,” says Gale of Waterdeep, who then shakes his hand. Despite everything, Astarion is a little charmed.

“I am uncannily adroit with a dagger, but I'm afraid we won't enjoy much success that way,” Astarion says. “Come on, then. Onto the next.”

Gale and Shadowheart share a look, and for a moment Astarion wonders if he's jogged their memories. Instead, the wizard shrugs and the cleric rolls her eyes, the moment's passed.

He employs cunning and trickery to avoid fighting the tiefling scouts and looting adventurers. Lae’zel is rescued. How did she get caught in that goblin trap, anyway? Why does it always catch her? They'll need a shitty magic item to feed Gale, too. Off to the crypt for a stupid spear, and he pretends to be spooked by the former god of Death as he rises from his dusty tomb. He thinks Withers, if anyone, should know something… but he also knows that he'll never get an answer from the bag of bones.

They’re making great time. His companions are whining about being tired, but they should have considered that before letting him be in charge! The adrenaline of agency will have him buzzing long past his usual break-points. “Right around this corner is a druid grove that won’t be friendly, per se, but will offer some shelter and supplies. However, this area is prooone to goblin attacks! So be ready for anything.” Particularly, a goblin attack!

Astarion drags Gale up with him to the high ground, and they enjoy a nice view of Wyll burning all of his spells on like two stupid goblins. Bless his heart. Lae’zel goes ham down in the pit with Aradin and his goons, and Shadowheart misses her Sacred Flame twice but obliterates a warg on the third try. (He knows that’s not how the spell works, he’s dodged it before, he’s aware. ) It’s… it’s really weird, to have everyone turn to look at him when it’s through.

“That was… timely,” Gale says mildly, looking impressed… and wary. Perhaps Astarion ought to make a better show of not knowing things, but he can’t help preening. They’ve only just met, in this life, and already it seems that the three of them respect him more than they ought to.

This time… perhaps he is respectable. They don’t know any better, after all. Maybe that’s who he is, today.

He drops a backpack filled with so much looted garbage at Dammon’s feet, asking him conversationally about Infernal Engines as he rifles through the man’s wares. If he can’t hook Karlach up with one of the girls or Wyll, maybe this go ‘round he can convince her to show Dammon a good time at Last Light. Assuming he doesn’t fuck things up before then. 

Coming away with coin and a fresh set of leathers that don’t remind him of Szarr Palace, he sits and lets the others have the run of the place for a bit.

Shadowheart says she’s going to check in with this Nettie woman the scouts mentioned, Lae’zel begins interrogating folks about Zorru (sorry, Zorru), and Gale… sits down next to him.

“So you’ve been here before? I wouldn’t have thought this was your… territory. You strike me as being fairly metropolitan, Astarion. Or have I gotten the wrong impression?” 

Astarion doesn’t turn to meet the wizard’s gaze, but he’s aware of the eyes on him. Scrutiny. “No, no. You’ve gotten the right of it. I am Baldurian. I’ve… been on more than a few camping trips out to these parts, though. Recently.”

Gale is quiet. Astarion feels like he can hear the man thinking very loudly, though.

The vampire continues to put his foot in his mouth, probably, “I mean, I stopped once it was clear that the roads were dangerous. I have been here, though.”

“How did you know that that blacksmith, Dammon, worked on infernal metals?” Gale asks, and it’s not probably meant to be an interrogation, but it suddenly feels like one.

Astarion lies automatically, “You couldn’t smell the sulfur and iron on him? I’d have thought a wizard would notice and put those pieces together.” Gaslighting your friends is fun and not at all dangerous! “And besides, he’s just come from Elturel with the rest. Seems to me that most forges in the Hells would be infernal in nature.”

“Perhaps I’ve underestimated the powers of your deductive reasoning, then,” Gale decides. “However… if you are abusing the power that the tadpole gives you, in order to get into minds and manipulate the good people around us, I’m going to have to ask that you exercise a bit more caution. We don’t know what these things do. Not really.”

Astarion does. But it’s fair that Gale does not.

“No tadpole usage, besides when we connected with you and Lae’zel. I swear it,” says the vampire. He finally turns to see what exactly Gale’s face looks like, for this.

Well. Hm. Is this what it’s like, to be the one acting all cool and competent, and then having people look at you like you’ve invented Adamantine? If he didn’t know better, he’d think Gale was interested in him.

The idea is sickening.

“Thank you,” says Gale. “I think I’ll have a chat with this Ethel woman. There’s no potion or lotion that could dislodge something from behind our eyes, but perhaps she’d have ideas.”

Astarion gives him a very fake smile and says, “Be careful, old ladies are dangerous.”

“I’ll tell my mother you said so, whenever I see her next,” Gale laughs. Would that the wizard could see his mother in a tenday or so. Perhaps there is no world after the Absolute’s end, no world outside of the Chionthar and Gate left to visit. Gale’s mother may as well be dead, for how difficult it would be to tell her anything.

“Good,” Astarion says, instead, “The fear and respect I’m sure she deserves.”

“Oh, she definitely does,” Gale agrees, and goes to chat up a hag. Astarion can’t help worrying about that, but it’s fine, probably.

Astarion lies on a rock for a while, listening to the bustle of the Grove and their little problems. More than half of these people won’t make it to Last Light, even if he does everything the way Tav did. It’s hard to imagine doing better than them. Maybe if he could have them take the Underdark route? Clear the way first, Feather-Fall the lot of them into the Whispering Depths… he doesn’t know a way up into the Shadow-Cursed lands that doesn’t involve the Grymforge, though. The boats and all would still be dicey. They could pay off the Zhents at Waukeen’s Rest, no?

He thinks on this for a bit. He’s not sure why it’s important to save these people. It’s never really helped anybody but Karlach, before. But then, last time, Elana hadn’t convinced Rolan to stay and protect the group. The inn had been very empty - Alfira and Mol, that guard woman he’d never met here before, and… really, no other tieflings. They’d all died or been taken to Moonrise.

Astarion hadn’t loved Elana the way he had Tav, but he had seen how that made her feel. He isn’t the most prone to bouts of empathy, but he… doesn’t want to feel that way. He wants to buy a stupid cloak from Mattis and then see him safely hustling in the squalor of Rivington.

Who else had needed saving? Mirkon, with the Harpies… Arabella, though hopefully Shadowheart’s diffused that on her way to Nettie.

Shit. The bugbear assassin. Astarion sits up and hauls his ass up the hill.

By some miracle, the woman, Nadira, is still alive. He scans the area, stealthy himself, and finds his furry-arsed target. A crossbow bolt to the chest startles the guy, and Astarion manages to fend him off with only a couple more bruises than before.

He lies and extorts Nadira for her Soul Coin, intent on finally seeing what happens if Karlach uses one.

As he returns to the Hollow, his friends have reconvened. The people who look and talk like his friends, but who are not yet his friends. He’s fine and this is fine.

Lae’zel reports that there’s a githyanki creche to the Northwest. He nods dutifully, as if this is news to him. Good work Lae’zel. She seems pleased. Oh gods, she seems to be looking at him like a piece of meat. This is the worst thing that could have happened to him, she and Shadowheart are like little sisters to him at best, absolutely not.

Shadowheart reports that the tensions between the druids and tieflings are bad. This is also definitely news to him. Arabella has been returned to her parents, the cleric hands Astarion the locket she got as reward, and he tucks it into the part of his pack that contains Snacks for Gale. “Oh, and the healer Nettie is dead.”

“What!” Astarion says, lifting his head from his bag. What! Shadowheart should have been the safest to - oh, the poison. “What happened?”

“I refused to promise a Silvan that I’d kill myself with poison at the first sign of fever. We’ve dozens of ways to kill ourselves, after all. Apparently this was the wrong answer, she threw a flaming sphere at me.” Shadowheart shrugs. Now that he’s looking, Astarion can see where her cute little Sharran armor’s got bits of ash dusting it.

“You handled it,” Astarion says, “So… good job. A shame it wasn’t the answer though - did she truly just ask you to off yourself if you turned?”

“More or less.”

Gale interjects, “It doesn’t do, though, to kill everyone who would fear an illithid-to-be. Really, that ought to be everybody. We can’t just slaughter our way through problems - we can, for instance, pocket the poison and lie, no? It sounded like she was willing to let you walk free?”

Shadowheart shrugs. The woman is nearly fifty, and Astarion wonders if maybe she didn’t get a bigger portion of elven blood than human. She’s immature like an elf would be at that age. Endearing.

The wizard clears his throat, “At any rate. My findings are this: this ‘Auntie Ethel’ woman is a fey of some sort, selling bogus potions and miracle cures to the unfortunate, here. I’ve found a girl hiding away in a store room, her legs rendered useless by one such potion. I’ve yet to ascertain the exact nature of the fey, and it’s quite possible she could solve our tadpole problems, but more than anything… we ought to be cautious of her. She says her Teahouse is to the Southwest of here.”

“Ah, yes. I wasn’t sure what her issue was, but I could tell she was up to something,” Astarion lies, “I’m glad you’re here to set us straight. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find ourselves some literature on it?”

“If you’re making fun of me, there’s no need,” Gale says. There is every need to make fun of Gale Dekarios, though.

“I suppose we ought to make camp, then. Shadowheart, would you grab Wyll? We’ll drag him along with us.” Astarion hums. He’s enjoying delegating.

The rest of them just stare at him. Ah. “The warlock from earlier. The Blade of Frontiers. ”

“...Right.”

He is very good at this.

Chapter Text

They’re being soooooo good. They’re being such goodie two-shoes. They’ve rescued every stupid tiefling child, they’ve knocked out every stupid goblin child, they’ve rescued Mayrina and those Zhents and Counsellor Florrick, Volo , Halsin, the whole thing! The whole thing.

It’s the party again, and Gale told him about his orb a couple of days ago. It’s nice to be trusted. Strange, though.

He wanders, mingles. Sows the seeds of Karlach’s horniness, asking her who she’d kiss if she could. Who she’d fuck, if she could. He laughs when she says she’d give him a go, shaking his head. “Perhaps in another life, my dear. I appreciate the flattery, though.”

Shadowheart invites him for a drink, which he declines with a smile. Wyll is having a pity party, he says that the man ought to have a quiet drink with their cleric. Perhaps the two of them ought to have fewer drinks, actually, he’s a little concerned now that he’s aware of how many bottles they put away… camp rations duty might as well be camp counselor duty.

Lae’zel wants to bury her face in his neck, which startles a laugh out of him. He’s got a collection of these, now, hasn’t he? They knocked out Minthara again, just in case Elana knew something that he doesn’t. Maybe one day he’ll figure out how to reason with her, and then she’ll want his dick, too.

It’s fascinating. He’s been on his back a thousand times for a thousand lovers, he doesn’t remember their faces or names. He doesn’t want to, either. Astarion feels ill when he thinks of himself in terms of sex. Tav is so far and away from here, now. He hasn’t had a positive sexual thought since then.

Yet: it doesn’t feel terrible that all of his friends want him. It should. He hates being looked at like some kind of sex object, he hates that he ever was one. And he was! He was.

He isn’t, now, but he was.

They look at him not as some hole for rutting or fangs to bite, but as a competent leader. Someone admirable, sexy not for his body but for his abilities. For his deeds.

It’s not unlike how Tav looked at him, but he can’t help feeling that they don’t really mean it. They’d also looked at Tav that way, and Elana. Is it actually an attraction to him? Or is it just a competence kink and chaotic bisexuality that they all share?

Astarion goes to see Gale, but he’s almost dreading talking to him, this time. The wine is good, he made sure they raided Ilyn Toth’s better reserves just for this occasion, and. Well, Gale doesn’t know he was weird last time, but he knows that he was.

He’s been playing favorites. Just like Tav and Elana did, he picks the people he wants to see each day, when it’s time to go out and kill redcaps and gnolls. And Gale is always on his team. The other two are whoever he needs, at any given time - and he does understand now why they only take four, it’s exhausting to keep track of everyone and their supplies.

It’s a problem.

“Good evening,” he says, extending his cup for a clink with the wizard.

“And a fine evening to you, Astarion. Look at all of this - it’s wonderful, to give everyone a bit of hope now and then. How’s heroism treating you?” Gale seems to be in good spirits, at least.

“It’s terrible,” Astarion laughs, “But I’m glad for it all the same.”

“I must confess, I’ve never seen myself as much of a hero, either,” Gale says, setting his wineglass down so that he can gesticulate better. Cheating. Astarion will just spill wine if he needs to wave his arms about. “It’s nice, though, isn’t it? We’re everything, to these people. The power of our small actions, magnified to a score or two of mortal lives. I’d say it’s humbling, but it’s not, is it?”

“It’s not,” Astarion confirms, amused. “Perhaps we’re not good people.”

Gale shakes his head, admonishing, “Astarion, you’re great people. Each one of these guests at our humble camp, myself and our friends included, owes something to you and your kindness. Selflessness. You’re lovely people, more than good.”

There’s a rising dread in his gut, but Astarion can’t quite drag himself away.

“Could I show you something, Astarion?” the wizard asks. That something might well be his cock. Astarion ought to say no. Hhghhrhghh.

“Always,” Astarion answers, because he’s a glutton for punishment. Morbid curiosity will always win out.

Gale takes Astarion’s cup and sets it beside his own, leading him a ways off toward the trees and away from the party. This is where he slept with Tav, the first couple of times. Mm. “I wanted to… I don’t know. Try something. You don’t know much magic.”

It’s not a question, but Astarion supposes it’s a fair assessment. “I’ve got a cantrip, and what a couple of accessories afford me, but otherwise… No, I don’t.”

“I’d like to show you… what it feels like, when I channel the Weave. If you’re comfortable with it, that is.” Gale seems nervous. Is he about to show Astarion his dick? Is this wizard flirting? He has no idea anymore. He should leave, say perhaps another time, Gale, literally do anything but agree.

“I trust you,” he says, instead.

He does.

Gale lights up, “Oh, excellent. Here, um.” And he begins to walk Astarion through a series of verbal and somatic components, an emotional component. The vampire doesn’t know much about magic, but there are things you pick up about how it works. Gale seems pleased that he’s playing along, at least.

It’s working. There’s a shimmering energy around them, and maybe it is wizard-flirting. Astarion feels all warm and soft and safe about it. Gale doesn’t even know he’s a vampire yet. Maybe he’s just too polite to mention it. This sucks.

The moment feels intimate and it sucks. He can feel the fact that his indecision is bouncing around in the space a bit, that his emotions are feeding this and that they are rancid and bad. Gale must feel it. He doesn’t say anything, but he must. Astarion says, “I’m sorry,” and tries not to picture anything that might have followed and been fun. Kissing a wizard, pushing him up against a tree and tasting the wine in a different way this time. Shit.

His ears burn as the channeling stops. Embarrassing. They have so many jobs to do, and while none of them matter, he’s in charge of them this time. Astarion is distracted enough with his pseudo-precognition as it is, he doesn’t need to wonder about kissing Gale. The man’s orb isn’t even stabilized, he’d probably explode.

“Hey,” Gale says, very gentle about trying to get his attention, “It’s alright. I’m - I’m surprised, but I’m not upset.”

That’s worse , but Astarion can’t say it. He can’t quite say anything. It’s only respect for Gale that keeps him rooted here, rather than taking off deeper into the woods to wait out the party or kill a bear.

Gale says, “I’m… flattered, if that helps? Interested, even.”

“It doesn’t help,” Astarion sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Not your fault, though.”

“Nobody’s fault,” Gale insists. He starts to take Astarion’s hand, clearly looking for some way to reassure him, but the vampire crosses his arms to avoid it, a strained smile on his face.

“Let’s just go back, alright?” Astarion says, almost pleading.

“Alright. If that’s what you want.”

He doesn’t know what he wants at all. He has no time for this, and all the time in the world for this.

Curling up in his tent, Astarion holds a pillow over his face for a bit, just for the pressure. He doesn’t really need to breathe, this is fine and normal.

Isn’t this a power-dynamic thing? Isn’t it wrong to approach any of them with the intent of romance, when he’s functionally their leader? When he’s functionally omniscient? He knows so many of Gale’s secrets, and Gale knows none of his, right now. Would it be any better, if he trauma-dumped all of his sordid past onto the man? If he told him that he’s done all of this before? That’s informed consent, that’s important, but that’s hard.

Since when does he even care about right and wrong? He’d have delighted in crossing every boundary, if this had been the first time. The only time. He’d been such a bastard to everyone, they have no idea how tempered he is.

And anyway, wasn’t Gale the one flirting with him? Is it okay, if the one who doesn’t know everything is the one who’s interested in something?

He doesn’t know what he wants! At! All!

Astarion takes Gale off the team for the day. He can’t even make eye contact. There are not-so-quiet whispers at breakfast. Nothing even happened , Hells!

When they stop for a short rest, delving into the Underdark for the day’s adventuring, Karlach sits a close-but-safe distance from him and says, “Everything alright, soldier?”

“I’m fine.”

“You clearly aren’t, but… listen, Gale didn’t hurt you, right?” She doesn’t sound accusatory - just concerned.

Astarion frowns. “No. No, he didn’t do anything wrong, or weird. I’m alright.”

“Hmm… I don’t think you are, not really, but. You know yourself. And you know you can talk to me, right? Not just about boys or whatever. I’m sure the others feel the same.” The lichen on the stone beneath Karlach smells like it’s burning. 

“I know. I… I will, sometime,” Astarion agrees, reluctantly.

“You promise?”

“Well, now I don’t want to,” he says, a little petulant.

“Aww, come on. Promise you’ll talk to someone, when you’re ready to talk.”

“Fine,” Astarion grouses.

He’s got Shadowheart and Lae’zel along today, as well, and it truly feels like he’s emulating some kind of fucked up slumber party. When it’s mostly boys along, they’ll stop for a philosophical debate or some such, but the girls?

It’s extremely violent, is what it is. They’re all bullying him and each other, they’re exploding Spectators and drow and duergar, they’re beating the shit out of an Arcane Tower’s defenses. Gale should be here for this. He’d be so mad that the magic tower turns on via flowers of turn-off-magic . It’s been less than a day and he misses him.

He should talk to someone. He should talk to Gale.

That evening, he takes Scratch for a walk instead, downing a potion of Animal Speaking beforehand.

“So what do you think I ought to do? Do you think he’s actually attracted to me in a real way, or is it just superficial and impersonal?” Astarion asks.

Scratch is snuffling around in some dirt, but also talking and sneezing. “I don’t really know. I do think he likes you, though. It’s hard not to, you’re very good. You give good scratches! And you play fetch.”

“All admirable qualities,” Astarion boasts, amused. Why is he talking to the dog? Because he is afraid of talking to anybody. At least the dog will love him, even if everything goes terribly wrong.

“I do wonder, though, friend,” Scratch continues, now digging and panting between thoughts, “Because I think you’re great, but um. It seems like you don’t think you’re great. Which is wrong! It would be weird, I think, if our cat-smelling friend didn’t think you’re great, too.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an excellent conversationalist, Scratch?”

“What?”

“Nothing. What have you found for us, my friend?” Astarion crouches beside the dirt. Scratch offers him a bone, tail wagging. “We probably shouldn’t rob a roadside burial. Could you be a dear and bury this again?”

“Aw. Alright,” Scratch agrees. He’s a good dog.

They walk back, and Astarion doesn’t really feel any more sure about what to do with Gale, but he does feel… better. In some strange way.

The conclusion he comes to is this: he could see himself kissing the wizard. Obviously. Demonstrably, he has imagined this at least once. Gale knows this. Astarion does not want to lose focus. He wants to do a good job, earn whatever victory he can, and be through with it.

Maybe when this is over, he’ll ask Gale out. For now, however… it’s best that he keeps any strange impulses or emotions in check.

Gale is invited back into the active party, the next day, and it is a bit awkward. Wyll and Karlach are still gossiping off to the side as Astarion chats with Blurg and Omeluum. Karlach is not quiet in any sense, so he can hear most of it. Apparently, his cheeks are very pinchable. Wonders never cease.

They shoot at some mushrooms to let off steam, and Astarion points out a torch for Gale to Ray of Frost before ‘accidentally’ misfiring his crossbow into Baelen Bonecloak. So sad. Such a tragic accident. The noblestalk will be multiplied by the time they reach the Gate, and he’ll find a nice cat for the widow.

He calls for a short rest among the myconids, sitting in the chamber Sovereign Spaw offered as a reward. Karlach says she’s going to try and jump into a nearby, high-up bird nest. Astarion hasn’t seen any normal birds nearby, so he wonders if it isn’t a hook horror nest… but how she and Wyll choose to spend their rest time isn’t his business, even if he is the boss. It’s not like he can’t ask Withers for a revival.

Gale, naturally, hovers at the parted tendril-doors.

Astarion sighs and waves him in, “I know. You want to talk or something.”

“How could you tell?” Gale asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he gingerly sits on a makeshift stool.

“Lucky guess,” Astarion teases, but his heart is aching already. He’s got to be strong. He’s got to be so strong and not kiss the wizard. He’s not even horny, it’s just loneliness that claws at him now that he’s noticed it. No matter how he wants to ignore it, he knows it’s there now and it cannot be forgotten.

Gale clears his throat. “I made you uncomfortable, the other night. You were humoring me, but clearly it wasn’t something you knew how to handle. Is that… a reasonable assessment?”

“My discomfort was… not with you. You were kind when I. Well, you know how it went. So, no, it’s not quite accurate,” Astarion says. He’s struggling, there’s awkward little laughs thrown in where they shouldn’t be. This isn’t charming or competent, not one bit.

“Still, I’d like to apologize for whatever part I played in your… reaction,” Gale insists, “It was inappropriate of me, to not have warned you about how it would feel to channel the Weave in that way. You couldn’t have known that I’d be aware of what you were… imagining.”

Astarion lets his head fall back, staring at the mossy roof of the room. “I… won’t lie to you, Gale. I was interested. I am interested in the things you saw. But I can’t compromise our safety. Do you understand?”

Gale is pragmatic. He’s an optimist when it’s optimal, and a pessimist when they need to see sense. Surely he’ll understand and approve of this course of action. It’s the mature thing to do, isn’t it?

The wizard says, “I… understand. I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed. These are dark days, and… it might have been a comfort. However, there is no place for such things if one of us disagrees. So… I’ll accept it.” He gives a weak smile, “I suspect I am not the first that you’ve turned down, but I appreciate your humoring me, Astarion. Shall I leave you to your rest?”

This sucks. Astarion stands and moves, holding a hand out. “You can stay if you like, I don’t really mind. But if you go… would you like a hug, first?” This is entirely selfish, but he doesn’t really care.

Gale looks surprised, blinking up at him before accepting the offered hand. He hugs Astarion, gently. Careful. Grateful, even, maybe, though now Astarion’s probably projecting.

The vampire (who has not yet revealed himself as such, he’s doing great), says, “Maybe when it’s all over, and we aren’t getting covered in blood and ichor every day. If you’re still interested, then.”

“Of course,” Gale says, “I’d… I’d like that, I think.”

They linger in the hug a long while. This was a mistake.

Astarion accepts that he isn’t going to do anything perfectly. “Alright. Have a snack and we’ll go see if Karlach’s alive.”

Gale has a food-snack and an artifact-snack and Karlach is alive and triumphant, waving at them from an oversized nest as promised. Maybe they’ll be alright.

Two months later, they’re atop the Netherbrain once more. He’s got the opportunity to betray Orpheus-the-illithid and does not take it. They killed Cazador like the pathetic creature he is, he didn’t drink any poisoned blood, he’s gotten half his friends to give each other a try. He and Gale are not an item. They’re friends, and that’s all they need to be.

He’s done everything right. All of his friends were rescued from their evils at the earliest possible time. Parents saved, Mol’s contract destroyed and Hope freed. Gondians liberated and Ironhands under new management. Astarion apologized to Sebastian and meant it.

As they fish themselves from the river, Astarion finds himself… hoping. He wants to ask Gale out, now that it’s done. Doesn’t he deserve that much? Against his worse natures, he’s done so well. Tav would have been proud of him. Tav would have wanted him to move on, too.

Gale says he’s going to leave the crown in the river, lest it tempt anybody else. Astarion bids them all a quick farewell, noting that the sunrise will soon be a problem.

Half of them come with him to shelter. Karlach and Wyll still need to go, which is a shame, but… they’ll be alright. They have a party. He doesn’t kiss Gale or talk about the future. He falls asleep leaning against the wizard.

He wakes up in a pod on the Nautiloid. He curls up very tightly and waits for it to plummet out of the sky.

Chapter Text

Astarion sits in his spot overlooking the river for a long time. No rush, today. Emotionally, he feels like shit, but physically… he’s fine. Everything is fine. This is the fourth time he’s woken up in the wreckage of the Nautiloid, and it’s almost a relief that he doesn’t have to make the decisions this time.

He sits there for a full day and a half, just taking in the sights and smells. He knows where they’d normally camp, he could just… go there. Astarion doesn’t really want to do anything, though.

He eats the boar.

Eventually, he hears the voices of Shadowheart and Lae’zel and an unknown woman, approaching from the direction of Gale’s roadside sigil. The women are all arguing about something, and the new presumed-leader-woman is covered in blood. Not exactly unusual.

Astarion stands, does a bit of theater with his knife, an apology for wanting to decorate the ground with her innards, and the gang’s back together. Something like that, anyway. The new girl is Autumn, a particularly orangey-toned elf with dark eyes and a cruel face. Under other circumstances, he might think she was cool.

Their day is violent, as usual when he’s traveling with three women, but it’s kind of nice to just… kill. Near the end of their journey, there’s often the need to knock people out carefully, rather than outright murder them. 

Apparently, before fetching him, they’d already killed the tiefling scouts and looters at Withers’ crypt. He never saw any of them make it to the city, but something about that still stings after all the trouble he put in to keep them alive. He keeps this opinion to himself. Perhaps he’ll be able to commiserate with Gale at camp, even if the man has no idea what he’s really going through.

It’s going to be even harder, this time around, with Gale just seeing him as a friend or worse, again, isn’t it? He doesn’t linger on this thought, it’s too depressing.

That night, he sets up his tent at camp, and… is surprised to see that Gale isn’t there, actually. Did he get lost? Maybe the girls didn’t touch the sigil, it does look kind of scary, doesn’t it. Maybe he can steer them that way to check it out before the man begins to starve in there.

He stretches out by the fire, counting the stars. It had always been hard to see them in the city. They’re old friends now.

Days pass. Autumn infiltrates the goblin camp, and she tells Nightwarden Minthara where the Grove is. Astarion doesn’t really know what to do about that. But - then, the last three times they assassinated the goblin leaders, it didn’t end his problems. It didn’t really solve anything. So… perhaps Autumn knows something they don’t - more than Elana.

They still haven’t gotten Gale.

He’s done his late-night hunting alone, as usual, and more than once gone to look at the sigils that his friend ought to be trapped within. They don’t swirl or pulse or glitter. They’re just there, looking like every other roadside waypoint.

The third time he comes here to look, he notices dried blood on the ground. Dusty and dark, by now.

Astarion doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t want to think about what that means.

The day they return to the Grove, Autumn sends them to the top of the gate to await Minthara. He hears her tell Zevlor that she couldn’t help it, that it was an accident.

He hears her tell Zevlor that he’s lucky he won’t hear the children scream.

Astarion is numb, as they cut through the Grove that he’s fought to protect. Every tiefling dies, every plucky thieving child, every druid and every bear. He doesn’t even like the druids, but he’s still gritting his teeth through it. He doesn’t bite any of them, either. Autumn doesn’t know what he is, and at this point he’s afraid of what happens when she finds out.

Will she want to hurt him, or use him? And which is worse?

He can’t leave. He’d turn. And even if he didn’t turn, he’s afraid of what else might happen. He’s afraid of what happens if he doesn’t find out where this goes.

The goblins throw a party at their camp that night, tossing tiefling bodies around like decoration. Wyll leaves them immediately, he can’t condone any of this. He’ll be a monster in a tenday. Autumn fucks Minthara inside of the little shack where Mol usually lurks. Maybe this is the way to Minthara’s heart: the murder of countless innocents, revelry over the violence. Drow cunt at the cost of dozens of lives.

The wine is vinegar again. 

He takes Autumn’s bag, since she won’t notice it’s missing, and goes into the woods to have himself a cry while trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with her. Gale wouldn’t have liked to see this… any of this. Maybe it’s better that he isn’t here.

The bag isn’t even organized, Autumn is some kind of animal. Goblin scimitars and apples and soul coins and dirty rags all thrown together in a jumble. It’ll take all night to sort through it, and then he’ll have to figure out how to shove it all back in. Still. It’s something to do besides drink vinegar wine and cry over people he doesn’t even like. Shadowheart is drinking herself into a stupor, and he can’t bring himself to try and talk her down.

It’s hours later before he starts to get bored. Astarion picks up a book that he recalls having seen in the temple to Jergal, about dead gods. The lock is smashed open, of course. And beneath it, a hand.

He’s no stranger to this concept - he’s had to get into the Bhaalist’s temple three times now. But: there’s a familiar freckle on the side of the withering thing, and he retches when he realizes why he knows it.

There is no Gale, but there had been a Gale. He almost can’t touch it, lost in sense memories of the last time it hauled him up, the last time they hugged, the way it has gestured along with his words.

Autumn can’t have this.

Astarion buries what he can of Gale, in the place the wizard showed him a magic trick and he made a fool of himself. No markers but a rock to ensure animals don’t dig it back up.

There’s nothing in his stomach, but he wants to throw up. Instead he takes some joy in throwing Autumn’s bag into the stream, leaving its contents scattered in the grass. If anyone asks him, a goblin did it.

He’s never going to leave Gale hanging at the gods-damned sigil again. Even if they’re only ever friends, this is… it’s unacceptable. To him.

The next day, his opinion of Autumn is solidified, as he watches the lithe woman saw Karlach’s head from her shoulders. None of them know the tiefling like he does, none of them know that she’s a beautiful soul that loves this world with every ounce of her power. That she’d just gotten here to breathe this air, that she’d been through literal Hells for a decade, without touch or affection, and that now she was just happy to live. Her head is put into Autumn’s bag, and he resolves to bury that, too, regardless of the consequences.

Astarion decides, bitterly, that whatever happens in this one happens. If Autumn kills him because she’s a psychopathic bitch, at least he’ll find out what happens when he goes. It’ll be over, or perhaps he’ll be rid of her.

It’s only the three of them left, at this point. Lae’zel, pragmatic and still devoted to Vlaakith, to the point of absurdity. Shadowheart, never sober anymore, leaning so hard into loss that you’d think she really was Sharran, and… him, Astarion, who smiles in all the right places and leaves to scream into a pillow every night.

One night, he comes back from eating to find Autumn standing over a silvery-pink dragonborn woman, disemboweled and eyeless. Blood drawn into familiar shapes, Bhaalist as fuck, and right where Karlach would have pitched her tent.

He doesn’t even say anything. This goes beyond sloppy work and into unfathomable. He hates himself for staying. She knows he’s a vampire now and seems excited at the prospect. Autumn is a nightmare-person making all of them worse.

He has to know where it goes.

They follow Kar’niss to Last Light and don’t even steal his lantern. No, they take the spare from Balthazar’s workshop, the pixie inside having long given up on freedom. Astarion almost misses Dolly Thrice. What’s worse, he has to stand near Autumn, now, when they fight.

Araj is a comforting sight, which is saying a lot for how well he’s doing lately, and he bites her at Autumn’s request. Apparently this time the potion is for Minthara, who they hear is in the dungeons.

Wulbren is killed in their escape, but then again Barcus was flung from the windmill several tendays ago. Thulla’s legs were broken, Philomeen blew herself up, and Nere killed the rest. Bad luck, Ironhands. He almost feels sorry for them, but at least they’ve the pleasure of never seeing Autumn’s awful grin again. No tieflings alive to make the boat, so it’s just the four of them and Minthara rowing to Last Light.

The dome doesn’t last all that long. Autumn slays Isobel and the whole thing shatters and fades and falls, Harpers corrupting to shadows and tumors. Astarion has never seen this horror, and that is saying something. He’s had to deal with this place time and again, each Thorm and each shadow and each cultist. The smell of the place. He’s never had to watch Jaheira put down her own men like dogs and flee into the dark.

It doesn’t get better. In fact, it continues to get worse. From their camp in the depths of Moonrise Towers, Autumn wakes them all up, transformed into Bhaal’s Slayer, a monster he’s only ever seen in the Undercity. Only ever seen Orin become.

He should be afraid. But he’s killed this before. Perhaps, with patience, he can kill it again. It won’t bring Gale or Wyll or Karlach or Halsin or Jaheira back. It won’t bring Zevlor or Mattis or Dammon or… it won’t help. It won’t help anyone. It might make him feel better, though.

They learn about the Black Mass, though he doesn’t really bother with making deals with Raphael anymore. He knows everything he needs to know. Autumn talks about how great it’ll be, if he’s Vampire Ascendant in Cazador’s place. Perhaps then he’ll be free of this thing, but at what cost? He won’t be anything good. He won’t be the person that Tav loved or Gale tolerates, he’ll be some half-baked new Cazador, like Velioth taught.

Shadowheart runs her spear through Dame Aylin, and it isn’t terribly long later that they’re slaying a tadpoled Isobel again alongside her father. Eyes on Orin once more, Astarion looks for similarities between the changeling and Autumn. They are both incredibly evil women, for one, and he suspects that they’re both Bhaalspawn. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. They revel in it. They delight in the misery as well as the pain.

If he were a worse liar, Autumn would love how he’s suffering now. Hopefully she never finds out. He’s been the plaything of sadists before, he’s not interested in a repeat of that part.

The sun returns as they leave this land unhealed and dying. Astarion cautiously socializes with Minthara. He doesn’t know a damn thing about her, but… she seems similar to him, in ways he did not know possible. In other ways, he’s certain that they’ll never be the same. She’s of a noble house, traumatized by Orin of all people, broken by her recent losses of agency. Somehow even more pragmatic than Lae’zel, though even she questions the slaughter of the Grove. If they are not controlled by the Absolute, why would they do such a thing?

But then, why would Elana knock Minthara out, rather than knock her into a chasm?

Why do any of them do anything? He’s long since given up on understanding Autumn.

He laughs, in spite of everything, at the paladin’s joke on her way to get laid out by the false Dribbles. Maybe he can find a way to free her without all of the atrocities. She’s not a good person, but she’s not the mindless evil that most of the goblins are. Minthara sucks, but he can understand her usefulness.

They find another new thing, as they go to meet with Gortash. New and fascinating. Astarion is certain that Gortash and Autumn were fucking, at some point. At minimum, there were psychosexual mind games or something. He wants to study the way Gortash’s lips tilt up as he talks to her. He never did this for any of the rest of them - this is new. Wholly unique to this awful woman. A deal is struck, and Astarion has no idea if they’re going to renege on it or not. He doesn’t really care about Gondians, but without the Ironhands around… well. None of it matters anyway, does it?

New sins are uncovered: Autumn becomes the Unholy Assassin of Bhaal, and is told more about her extremely-pure Bhaalspawn past. If it weren’t horrible, Astarion would be pumping his fist over being right. He lived through the Bhaalspawn crisis, he knows things! She does the first nice thing for him that she’s ever done, in purchasing him a set of light armor that makes him better at stabbing.

He is not endeared, but it’s interesting that she sees him as a thing worthy of keeping around. A tool, probably.

Orin dies, though she does not get to become the Slayer, this time. Autumn has taken that privilege, it seems. Orin had demanded a duel rather than a full on brawl. Lae’zel’s body on the altar, this time, as she’d been the only one unlucky enough to be left at camp. Autumn’s butler speaks with the voice of Bhaal, stabbed through and bleeding onto the floor. Become his Chosen, take the Absolute for him. Something to that effect.

Astarion is almost ready to Ascend. This might be easier to stomach if he leaves all of his morals in the Tourmaline Depths. Will she actually go through with it? Will he?

Shadowheart’s hair is dark, still, and she takes her cloister and murders her parents and cries more than she ever has when she’d turned to Selûne. Shar is a fickle mistress - there is sadism and power at every turn, these days. The oldest him, the him that Tav saved, might have relished this. He might have loved to see everyone suffer the way he suffers.

They kill Raphael just for the pleasure of it, he guesses. Perhaps for the gear and money. Autumn doesn’t even bother to rescue Hope. If anything, it would have surprised him if she had.

Astarion drags Cazador out of his sarcophagus and just laughs for a moment. He’d been holding him by the collar, but he drops the man and just. What is the weight of a single mortal’s life? What is the weight of seven thousand starving vampires? What if he never comes back from this? What if this is the last loop, and he’s trapped with Autumn’s sins and his callous curiosity?

He carves the contract into Cazador’s back, and after that he is not himself anymore. It’s all a game. He’s still curious, of course - he still knows what he knows. All of the pain has dulled and gone, though. It’s all funny. So what if Autumn gives them all to Bhaal in the end? What does he care, he won’t have to live with it for long!

And he won’t burn in the sun, that last day before it's all over again.

It feels… thrilling. It feels like being alive again. He drinks it in. He kicks some of Cazador’s guts into the chasm and laughs. Oh gods, he should have tried this sooner, he thinks his heart is beating in his chest. Amazing.

The Vampire Ascendant. Autumn almost looks proud of him, and it would scare him if there was anything left of him that was afraid of anything at all.

Atop the Netherbrain with the Emperor at their side, Astarion even gets into it, cheering Autumn to take control. Maybe something will happen. Do a flip! What happens, if the brain never falls into the river? He’s laughing until he’s not. And his thoughts are no longer his own. And his thoughts are on murder, alone. And the Absolute is absolutely the only thing, and the Absolute is Bhaal.

He wakes up in a pod on the Nautiloid.

“Thank you,” he says, to himself. To whatever god has trapped him. Astarion has never been so grateful to fall out of the sky and see the purple vortex up the hill.

Gale is out of the rock almost before he asks for help, Astarion pulling with all the strength in his roguish body. He hugs the wizard without a care for how insane he looks. “I’m Astarion. Sorry, I’m. I need this, after the day we’ve had,” he says.

And Gale is frozen, a bit, but carefully lifts his arms to hold this crying stranger in his arms. “Whatever you need, Astarion.”

Chapter Text

This time, it’s a nice person again. A polite, soft-spoken dwarvish fellow that doesn’t say a thing as he finds Astarion using Gale like some kind of comfort-object. The wizard is taking it well enough, the both of them sitting by the travel sigils. He’s been humming and petting Astarion’s hair. Where was this, the last time he had a panic attack while Gale was alive? He wants this every time, now.

The dwarf’s name is Bernie, which reminds Astarion of Bernard, the construct in the Underdark. Autumn had killed him. He hopes he can take Gale there and hear him fuss about using poetry as command words again.

Astarion feels sick in new and exciting ways, today, but he finds a smile for his companions. This is better. This will be better. He will make sure that it is better.

Bernie the druid does things the more usual and comfortable ways. They take fights slowly, they rescue the kids. He’s a little more sympathetic to the druids than previous leadership, but Astarion really doesn’t care. He teaches Mattis a knife trick while the others aren’t looking.

At camp one day, very early days, Astarion approaches Gale. It has been slightly awkward, after their initial introduction, to just. Talk to the man. He knows what Gale’s nails feel like against his scalp, now. How could he ever recover from this? Anyway.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks the wizard, as though they aren’t both standing around reading beside their tents. Bernie’s out with Wyll and Lae’zel and Shadowheart. It’s quiet.

Gale smiles, “Of course. What can I do for you, Astarion?”

“Actually,” Astarion says, “This is about something I can do for you. It’s - let me preface, I know this will sound very strange. Bear with me.”

“Fascinating way to start a conversation, my friend,” Gale observes, “Be that as it may, I’ll listen. One has to wonder what you’d think I need.” He seems a little amused.

Astarion is taking a risk, but it is a calculated one. He’s been setting aside magic items for Gale since the second go around, he knows about the Arcane Hunger that the orb demands. Once you know what to grab, it’s really not hard at all to accommodate.

However, Gale hasn’t told them about it, yet. Not this time.

“I have a magical artifact for you to consume,” Astarion says, simply. “I know you don’t need it just yet, but I want you to have it on-hand. I know of the locations of a few others that Bernie will never need or miss.”

Gale stares at him.

Fair enough.

“Um, I’m not sure what you’re,” Gale starts, a nervous look on his face, “I mean. I. How do you… know about that? I hate to outright lie, but not a soul knows about… my condition.”

“Your tressym does,” Astarion corrects, “And I do.”

Now the wizard’s expression turns distrusting. “Have you been in my head?”

Holding his hands out, Astarion says quickly, “No! No, of course not. The truth is… far stranger. Please. Just take this, and eat it or whatever, when you need it, and… know that I’m looking out for you. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Is it?” Gale asks. He’s still frowning. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, Astarion. How could I trust you, when you claim to know intimate, private details of my life, and won’t tell me how you’ve come to know them. Speaking them here, at camp, for all to hear!”

Astarion casts around. He gestures at Withers, far and away out of earshot, paying them absolutely no mind, and at Scratch. The dog wags.

“Who, exactly, are you worried about hearing?”

“That’s not the point - the point is that this is… very strange. And very private. In the future, I’d ask that you employ even further discretion. More importantly - how do you know about this? About Tara.” Gale isn’t going to let it go with a don’t worry about it, is he?

“I’m afraid that if I tell you… something will break. Our tadpoles or our safety or… I don’t know.” It’s not quite the truth, but it’s also not entirely a lie. Astarion hasn’t tried telling anybody about what he’s gone through, yet. Who would believe it? Even if they did believe it, who would understand, or be able to help? He’s already an untrustworthy little monster, what good does it do him to start broadcasting the insanity of I’ve done this before.

“You’re afraid,” Gale repeats, slowly. His expression has finally softened a little.

“Please don’t make me repeat that,” Astarion complains, once again holding out Komira’s locket. It’s the smallest and simplest one to find early on. Much more subtle than a spear or set of armor. “Just. Take it. Trust me or don’t.”

Gale finally holds out a hand to accept the offered item. “This isn’t the last we’ll speak of this,” he says, “However… if you truly do mean me no ill intent, and this fear of yours is a genuine one, then I thank you for your care and consideration. I trust that you’ll continue to keep my privacy private, going forward.”

“Of course,” Astarion croaks. This has gone about as well as he expected. “Think nothing of it.”

Asking a wizard not to think is like asking the sun not to rise.

By the time they’re running into Elminster and stabilizing Gale’s orb, none but Astarion even know he has the damn thing. It’s a wizard’s silly tattoo, as far as they’re concerned.

“It can’t have been too hungry,” Wyll comments, “But if the legendary Elminster Aumar decides it’s worth sorting out, it’s got to be important.”

Astarion eavesdrops on Gale and Bernie discussing mortality and the request Mystra is making of their good friend. When Bernie asks Astarion’s opinion, he pretends that it wouldn’t hurt him to lose Gale again. He says that it would be a waste of a perfectly good Gale, and his voice breaks a little more than usual. He’s regular and fine and normal about this.

Later that evening, on the cliffs that overlook the Trielta Crags and Rosymorn Monastery, Astarion sits by a tree.

There are so many variables, but in the end, it always leads to the brain, to the Absolute, and back to the Nautiloid again. He’s seen everyone die at least once, some of them sticking and others swiftly revived. If he’s ever died, he doesn’t remember it. Well, besides the first death with Cazador. He wishes he could forget that one, actually.

Nobody really trusts him, this time. He’s been quieter, again. Brooding, that’s the word Shadowheart had used, as if she isn’t the queen of brooding. Gale looks at him like he’s something to be studied.

When he finally told them his affliction, just before their run-in with Gandrel, it was met with suspicion and frowns rather than support. Better than a stake through the heart, he guesses, but it’s… lonely.

He’s beginning to really miss his friends. They weren’t right, last time, and this time they don’t care about him. The call of the void washes over him for a brief instant, that incessant curiosity - what happens if he removes himself from the equation? Is it immediately over for him? Or does it end, well and truly, and he goes wherever undead go when they die. Probably a brick in the Wall of the Faithless, if he’s lucky, but maybe worse with the contract on his back.

Astarion wants to live, though, damn it all!

He just wants to live. His happiness and love were taken, and everything else he cares about is ephemeral and ever-changing, now. The only constants are the ground beneath his feet and the people they must kill to continue walking.

He’s tired.

There are soft footsteps approaching, and Gale clears his throat before sitting beside him.

“I hope you don’t mind company,” says the wizard.

Astarion should play up his mysterious vampire persona a bit, but he shakes his head. “I was just thinking that some company is just what I needed. You, as well?”

“Exactly,” Gale says, simply.

They sit in silence for a few moments. If he squints, Astarion can make out the firelights of kobolds drinking into the early morning, and of gremishka catfights through the window above. He’d be insane to point these out, though. Gale already doesn’t trust or like him, this time. Probably.

But then again, he is here.

“What are you going to do?” Astarion asks quietly, “About the orb?” He’s never actually seen Gale detonate it, in any of these lives. It’s always been a last resort that wasn’t needed, or… or Gale’s been gone. Presumably the demiplane safely absorbed the explosion, but there’s no way to ask or know.

“I’m going to do it,” Gale says, voice soft but firm. Like he’s telling himself at the same time he tells Astarion. “It’s… it’s the thing I need to do, to atone. You knew about my condition, but… how much do you know about how it came to pass? Assuming that you’re able to discuss it.”

Astarion’s chest hurts.

“I know about Mystra.”

“Then you’ll know that I’d do anything to set this right. What’s one life, in the face of hundreds or thousands that I could save? One wretched fool who sought to be equal to the gods, allowed forgiveness and absolution at the small cost of death.” Gale’s voice quivers a bit.

Astarion says, rather than asks, “You’re afraid.”

“I could hardly pretend otherwise. I don’t want to die - far from it. This is… this is not the way I had hoped my story would end. I can only be grateful that I’ve been given this chance. A hand outstretched, if only I’m selfless enough to take it. But… yes, I am afraid.” Gale looks so very human. Almost small. Wrestling with mortality decades before he ought to, the cost of his ambitions.

“You don’t have to do it,” Astarion says. “Nobody is going to make you. You could be at camp, you could choose not to.”

“I won’t choose not to,” Gale insists. “Not with what’s at stake.”

Astarion leans against the tree. What else can he say? Could he plead and cry and convince Gale not to do it - it hasn’t ever taken very much. The man wants to live. They both want to. He wants Gale to live.

“Then… I’ll support you,” Astarion says, softly. There’s always next time, isn’t there? And if this is the last time, and Gale is gone along with the Absolute and her jailers, at least Gale will get to enjoy the comfort of Mystra’s afterlife. That’s a wizard’s dream and reward, setting aside their history - that’s something to be celebrated, isn’t it?

“Thank you, Astarion.”

The Shadow-Cursed Lands go about as well as they can. Thorms slain once again, a hearty fuck-you to Raphael, the tieflings have made it to Last Light. The ones that can, anyway. Bernie seems uninterested in infiltrating Moonrise, which is troubling. There are some items Astarion had wanted, there… but maybe something will happen! Who knows. Maybe he can get his favorite ring off Araj after killing her, this time?

He isn’t with the group that descends to the Mausoleum and Gauntlet of Shar, this time. He’s made a game out of humiliating Yurgir, of late, so it’s probably best that someone else gets a turn. The whole affair is much less stressful now that he doesn’t need to make a desperate deal with Raphael in this place. Kill the orthon, kill the rats, kill everyone! He does not care.

Astarion is outside to watch the Nightsong fly across the sky from camp for the first time. She’s beautiful and powerful, and if all goes well, she’ll soon have her happy ending. However brief.

Perhaps he’ll have a talk with her about immortality, dying and living again. A talk about forever.

The Harpers begin to mobilize, some walking and some taking boats across the lake. Astarion wonders if Jaheira will survive this time. When he was in control, they systematically slew each room of cultists before the Harpers ever arrived. It was more of an occupation than an assault, by the time they approached the towers. This time, Moonrise will be at its full strength.

Here’s hoping that Bernie is ready for it.

Astarion moves to watch the rest of the lightshow with Karlach and Wyll, everyone left at camp beginning to pack up or prepare for a fight. Dame Aylin is inspirational in that way.

He jumps at the chance to join the party with Gale, the chance to be there when they explore his least favorite place, the Mindflayer Colony. The blast of Gale’s orb, from what he understands, will be massive. There’s a decent chance they won’t have a way out.

But at least he’ll know, won’t he? In any case.

It’s the two of them, Bernie of course, and Halsin. There’s a joke about bears and otters in here somewhere. Astarion wishes he had the good humor to make it.

The tieflings they hadn’t rescued from the prisons are here, dumped into the oubliette for Chop to chop. Cal and Lia and Lakrissa and… Bex’s husband? Astarion doesn’t remember his name. He remembers so many of them, next time he’ll remember.

Bernie had carried different brain jars here than Astarion remembers seeing. Perhaps he’d just missed them. One of them is particularly bad. A little girl who wants to sleep. Enver Gortash has always been a bastard Astarion wants to kill, but this is a fresh horror on an otherwise quiet kind of run-through.

Gale looks angrier than Astarion’s ever seen him. Angrier than he always is at Lorroakan for hurting Rolan or wanting to hurt Aylin, angrier than he is at Scratch’s old kennel-master.

It’s hot.

Astarion remembers, abruptly, that he’s a terrible person.

Would Bernie notice, from atop Halsin’s shoulders, if the two of them stole away. He’d get on his knees and ensure that Gale had a lovely little death before the big death. He’d kiss the man on a cultist’s terrible, rock bed. Or worse, a flesh-bed. He’d promise all sorts of things he cannot promise. He’d tell Gale that they were in love once, and that’s a lie but it’s not such a big one.

He doesn’t want to do this - he doesn’t want to watch Gale die. It’s too late to go back, though. It’s too late to convince Gale any different. Astarion helps Bernie with the brain puzzle and wishes that Gale’s praise did more than ache.

Bernie doesn’t heed his advice that they take the path to the other pods - what does it matter, after all? If they’re blowing up the Absolute, this is all destroyed or it all isn’t. Astarion has the extremely rare thought of Poor Mizora, and more importantly Poor Wyll, but who knows? Maybe their camp isn’t far enough away to be safe. Wyll wouldn’t be a lemure for long.

Zevlor, similarly, doesn’t really matter, does he? The tieflings will assume that he died with their other kin, when he never turns up. Mol has presumably already escaped this place. Us was not in its cage, so it probably was never freed in the first place. (Was Bernie… too short to reach, maybe? Haha.) Astarion is running through a checklist in his mind when Gale takes his hand and snaps him out of those useless thoughts.

It’s just a hand. Astarion looks at him.

“I think you missed my telling you goodbye,” Gale says gently, “But I thought you might have wanted to hear.”

Their friendship has been all sideways in this one. A real mess. Too open and too closed all at once. Astarion blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek, warranting a soft smile and apology from Gale.

“I… I don’t know what I would have done, without your generosity and understanding, Astarion. Truly, as strange as it was… your willingness to help has been a balm and a boon, the likes of which I couldn’t begin to repay. I fear… that this is going to be more than a singular martyrdom. Would that I were strong enough to spirit you away someplace safe. I would do that. I would see you live and thrive, in spite of these fears and this hunger.”

Gale really does love to hear himself talk. Astarion begins to laugh, a little manic, through his tears.

“You’ve been a true friend to me, and I’ve no idea what could make you so knowledgeable or afraid. I wish we’d had time to talk about that. I wish you’d been honest with me, but I understand why you weren’t. I don’t want to go, and I don’t want to hurt you in doing so, but… selfishly, I am glad that you’re here. It means more than you know, that I can say goodbye.”

Astarion is a wreck. This is deeply embarrassing. It doesn’t even matter, they’re all going to die. Gale won’t remember this, Bernie won’t exist anymore, Halsin (Halsin).

He hasn’t let himself break down since finding Gale’s hand in Autumn’s bag, and before that, his last big cry was in the Tourmaline Depths the first time. There are a lot of things working their way out of him, but none of them are words.

He can’t say goodbye to Gale, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

Gale kisses the back of his hand. “It’s alright. Thank you. Thank you for this.”

And the four of them descend to the Chosen and the Absolute. And Gale steps out with his divine dagger in hand, and plunges it into his chest in the middle of the Chosen’s argument.

Everything goes bright.

Astarion wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid. He is so tired.

Chapter Text

The next few go by quicker, in a manner of speaking. Astarion experiences all of it, he remembers almost all of it, but they don’t overstay their welcome in his heart.

He’s recruited, once, by Lae’zel and Shadowheart alone. There is no stranger in this one, but he isn’t sure which of them is taking on the leadership role. Astarion’s decided that he never wants to do that again, if he can help it, so that’s their problem. He pulls Gale from the stone and does not cry all over him like he had last time.

Astarion does not stay with them for long. His heart is broken in so many places, and no number of slaughtered goblins will make him feel better. He knows this.

He goes to Gandrel on his own, when the others have left him at camp.

“You would come to me willingly?” Gandrel asks, understandably wary. His quarry isn’t meant to walk in the daylight, and ought to be skittish and aggressive besides.

Astarion shrugs. “I know where your children are. I’ll help you free them, even, if you can get me back to the city. I want my master dead just as much as you do - so. Can we skip the cages, and I’ll just come with you?”

Without the prism, though, he doesn’t make it that far. Halfway up the river, all of those symptoms that Gale always repellently describes begin to take hold. His hair begins to fall out, his mouth aches and bleeds. He tells Gandrel, sadly, that this is probably a bust. Describes to him the location of Cazador’s palace, how to get to the cells below, and what will be needed to open them. The state of the children.

And then, as he thinks he’ll just hop in the river to drown or flee, everything goes black. It stays black for days, for tendays. Months, maybe. Astarion cannot track the time in which he floats in the blackness. It reminds him of when they’d been inside the Netherbrain’s psyche, channeled through the Crown. He isn’t dead, but he’s here.

Eventually, he wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid again. Either he died, or his friends saved the day, or both. He has no idea what became of that adventure.

Something to keep in mind if it all gets to be too much - an inky darkness to hide in for a time. It’s not an answer to his other question, of what happens if I die . At this point, he thinks the answer to that is it begins again, but he’s not as curious about it now. Not after the last two.

He pulls Gale from the sigils, and this time it’s Karlach who trots over with Shadowheart in tow. Astarion is terrified and delighted by the idea of Karlach Cliffgate being in charge of their merry band in any capacity. She is a treasure and a terror.

Strangely enough, this adventure goes quite smoothly. They get a lot of Karlach’s Hell-raised leadership skills, and he enjoys seeing her react to things she’d often be absent for. He really does like her - it feels like a lifetime ago that he told her maybe in another life. It’s just as well that she doesn’t want to ride his dick, this time, though. Astarion is pleased to see that she and Wyll finally sort something out. The power of the competence kink shines through as ever - the irresistibility of the one taking charge and saving the day.

He’s making a game of keeping his vampirism a secret, these days. So long as they don’t encounter Gandrel saying anything about it outright, he can always manage several tendays before anyone notices that he doesn’t eat food, has very sharp canines, and obvious bite-marks on his neck. Astarion’s friends are stupid, and he loves them.

As ever, Gale is often the one up late enough to notice Astarion sneaking in or out of camp. He doesn’t usually say anything, though. Everyone is being very friendly, with Karlach at the helm, so he figures the wizard wouldn’t want to rock the boat too aggressively.

Still, when they come off the elevator from the Grymforge, Gale waves Karlach and Wyll away for a moment, dragging Astarion to the side.

This has never happened before.

“H-hello? Can I help you, Mister... of Waterdeep?” Gale almost never tells them his family name. Astarion has to remind himself not to use it unless he’s certain it’s come up recently.

“How long are you going to try and keep this up?” asks the wizard, a hard look on his face.

Astarion flusters, “What? What are you talking about, what am I keeping up?” At this point, it would be amazing if someone could explain to him what in the Hells is going on. If anyone could, it would be Gale, wouldn’t it? He’s smart.

Gale is looking at his teeth, as he laughs nervously. Ohhh, he’s smart. Right!

The wizard says, “I’m no fool. I understand that you mean us no harm, I haven’t seen you hurt any of us, but all the same, you cannot not tell people. If you want them to trust you, that is.”

Astarion tilts his head. Gale still isn’t actually saying it. This is about vampirism, though, isn’t it? “I apologize. You’ll understand if it isn’t the first thing I’d like to tell people. It’s dangerous, after all.”

“Are you dangerous, Astarion?”

Now that’s an altogether different question than the one Gale means to ask. Astarion is dangerous. He’s a weapon. He’s got two hundred years of violence under his belt, and probably another couple of years, now, running between the Emerald Grove and Baldur’s Gate over and over again. Killing and killing, sacrificing seven thousand souls to become the most powerful vampire in the world. The deaths of, he presumes, the entire city, at the hands of a very loyal Bhaalspawn. Perhaps more than the city.

He let those things happen. Even without daggers in hand, of course he is dangerous. Of course he is sharp.

“I’m not a danger to you,” he tries. “I’m an asset.”

Gale gives him a sympathetic look. A concerning thing, coming from Gale Dekarios, the wizard who wants to be a god. Astarion still has trouble, sometimes, understanding what it could be that makes Gale feel unworthy. It’s harder to have those conversations before the end, and by the ends of things Astarion is usually too distracted to ask. Right now, for example, is too early.

Shaking his head, Gale says, “Astarion. You’re a friend. That’s all you need to be.” He adds, with a smile, “I just… can you please just say it. It will make me feel better if you say it. What you are.”

“I’m a vampire,” Astarion laughs, “Sorry. Yes. I assume that’s what you thought I was. I am that.”

“You have a little too much fun when someone opens an artery,” Gale jokes, seeming relieved to hear Astarion just admit it. Had this really been bothering him? For how long? 

Astarion might be well and truly falling in love with this idiot. Terrible! What a terrible fate. He grins like an idiot as they return to the other pair, waving an arm and calling, “Right, hey, I’m a vampire.”

Karlach shakes her head, “Obviously??”

And Wyll says, “Astarion, you’re pale as a sheet.”

“Ouch.”

“Aw, c’mon fangs. You’re alright by us, yeah?” Karlach laughs. “Sorry, we had a bet going, to see who you’d tell first.”

Astarion gasps. “Gale. How could you?”

Gale raises his hands in defense, “Now, before you object, I did not actually bet on myself.”

At this, Karlach finally does a whoop, pumping a fist into the air. “Karlach wins, fuck yes.”

He has no idea what’s going on anymore. There’s a dead cultist in the roots four feet away, and a whole cursed, awful land beyond the doors. Karlach is directing the boys to hug him, since she can’t yet, and Wyll’s horns are bonking into his and Gale’s heads, and Gale’s beard is scratching at one of his ears, and.

Maybe next time he’ll tell them a little sooner.

Dammon upgrades Karlach’s engine a second time, and she finally gets laid. Truly, after that, everything’s almost dreamlike in its ease, compared to his normal experiences. Taking care of Marcus and all the shit in Reithwin and He Who Was’s sado-masochism, sorting out Art Cullagh and actually infiltrating Moonrise so that they can save people again. Ketheric’s face is smashed in by Aylin like clockwork, and by Rivington, Shadowheart’s hair is competing with his again for the title of prettiest.

His hair is always going to win, of course.

But,

Karlach becomes an illithid, rather than trusting the Emperor or Orpheus to do the job. Astarion feels sick, watching it speak with her voice. She could have gone to Avernus to cool down, but now she won’t have to. Isn’t that… something. It’s not fair, is what it is.

Astarion lets everyone know that he’ll burn up if he stays at the docks, and they’re all quite amenable to getting inside. Lae’zel has opted to stay with them in Faerûn, this time. Orpheus is dead.

Wyll is taking over as a Duke for his father, and the way he looks at Karlach-as-squid breaks Astarion’s heart. The warlock is a good man, but… her new form clearly sickens him, too. No matter how much he’s fallen for her, this time. He catches Gale looking just as sad about this development. The four of them have been quite a team. Astarion… isn’t sure he’d do any better, if his lover became an illithid on the cusp of victory.

If Tav had done that… it’s hard to think of Tav as a real person anymore, so it’s all hypothetical anyway. They’re an imaginary person, now. He can’t imagine how he’d feel after because there’s never yet been an after. Tav isn’t any more real to him, these days, than Elana or Bernie. Or rather… some of them are more real than others, he supposes.

Tav just had the benefit, or downfall, of being the first.

Gale has one too many bottles of wine at the party, and Astarion helps get him to his bed at the Elfsong. They’ll never wake up, the next real morning, so there’s no reason not to crawl into the bed beside him. The human doesn’t stir or seem to mind. This has been a nice one, despite their tentacled friend at the finish line. He could almost live with this one.

Astarion closes his eyes, and as always, awakes in his pod on the Nautiloid.

He doesn’t let anyone else pull Gale free anymore. Not ever. This is his job, and then they rendezvous by the sigils or by his poor scared boar.

When Alfira turns up dead, just as the dragonborn bard had, once upon a time, Astarion is glad that he does not leave it to chance. The symbols in the blood are deeply and totally familiar to him now. It’s only Luvine’s wide-eyed fear and confusion that stay his blade. She’s a sweet young seldarine drow, a cleric of Eilistraee who rarely even strikes out in combat.

She isn’t Autumn. She isn’t enjoying this.

He decides to give her a chance, at least.

Still, he finds himself going to Gale one evening in the Underdark. He’d told them all of his vampirism the day before Gale told them about his orb, which meant that folks got to make jokes about Gale being a magic-vampire. That was fun.

“Good evening, wizard-supreme, champion of the cookfire, et cetera,” Astarion says, sitting and stealing a cutting board to help out with the chopping. He may not eat, but it is kind of fun to help feed people now and then. They help feed him, after all.

Gale smiles, “You’re in a mood. Care to share why?”

“Oh, well. It’s about Luvine,” he admits, slicing a courgette longways and then into bites. “Do you remember the, ah… you know, the blood thing that had been beneath that poor bard?”

Frowning into his spices, now, Gale says, “The blood we couldn’t wash away. What of it?”

“I’ve been thinking on it,” Astarion says, as if this is a new thing he’s figured out after several tendays consideration. In fact, he drew a perfect copy of the symbol in his journal before walking over here, just to be able to show it. “This mark means something, doesn’t it? Do you recognize it?

Come on, Gale. You know Bhaal! Everyone knows Bhaal, he sucks!

Then again, unlike Astarion, Gale wasn’t alive for the last Bhaalspawn crisis. Nor did he live in the right part of the world to see any of it, even if he had been alive. He’s well-learned, but there are limits to how much one human can read in their short life. Not everyone’s had time to read every book between the Riverside Teahouse and Blushing Mermaid.

Gale studies the image that Astarion’s holding out to him, food forgotten for a moment. “I’m… I hadn’t realized, before, but I’m fairly certain that’s Bhaalian symbolism. That’s… troubling, to say the least. Have you brought this up with Luvine herself?”

Astarion shakes his head. It might break her brain if she finds out before Moonrise. That’s where it all started coming together for Autumn, at least. Kressa Bonedaughter’s fawning and all.

“I suppose we’ll just have to keep our eyes open. We’ve already got night watches keeping an eye on her, I’m not sure what more we can do,” Gale returns to his spice bag, pulling forth a bottle that will make Shadowheart cry later on. “That said, do you have any theories, Astarion? You’ve been thinking on it, you said - did you recognize it as such?”

A lot of the time… he really does try to keep all of the extra shit he knows secret. It only seems to freak people out when he overdoes it, sharing too much too soon. Still. As hard as it is to admit, he’s killed Cazador four times now. He knows that he isn’t afraid of Cazador anymore. Not really. There’s still trauma, he’s not fucking healed of it, but he knows, intrinsically, that the man cannot hurt him in a way that matters.

The same cannot be said for the memory of Autumn. She’s been gone for months and she scares him still.

He’ll do just about anything to avoid reliving that.

“I think Luvine may be a Bhaalspawn,” he says, quietly.

“That’s… quite the accusation,” Gale says, warily, “But I understand why you might think so. Weren’t they all gone, by the end of the crisis? That was near-on a century ago.”

Astarion chooses his angle very carefully. He’s Baldurian, he knows things that Gale may not. Or, in theory, he could know things without it being strange. “My former master had a connection to the sewers and the old Undercity built into his dungeon. He did awful dealings with all manner of cultists, you know. Mainly Banites, the likes of which he’d schmooze at social gatherings, but… sometimes, I’d hear talk of a Bhaalist revival. Sarevok Anchev surviving and, erm, breeding. I guess.

“All of that to say… the ‘Bhaalspawn Crisis’ ended, yes, but… I don’t think the Lord of Murder is licking his wounds anymore. I think he’s probably been plotting for a time.” Astarion wonders if that’s enough.

In a few tendays, Gale will understand better that the Dead Three have all been up to some shit, but Astarion couldn’t reasonably know about Myrkulite necromancy nonsense from within the city. Mystic Carrion is the worst offender in Baldur’s Gate, and Astarion hasn’t yet found any connection between the lich and the Lord of Bones, beyond a shared hobby.

Gale considers this. “I’m glad you brought this to my attention… though I still cannot imagine a reasonable course of action, here. If that is what she is, poor thing, then… there’s nothing short of a Divine Intervention that could undo it, and even then…”

Luvine has been making eyes at Shadowheart, and of course is a cleric herself. In time, they’ll have access to several Divine Interventions, actually… but Astarion isn’t convinced.

“This isn’t something she can control, if I’m right. Not really. They’re drawn to killing, aren’t they? It’s worse than me when I’m starving. It’s - you can’t reason with them.”

Gale frowns, and says, “I think you could reason with her, when she’s lucid, at least. We’ll just have to be careful.”

In the end, Gale is right about Luvine.

After a brief incident in which Shadowheart tied her up to avoid being ferally murdered in the night, after Luvine challenged her blood-kin Orin to a duel, rather than accepting her Lord Father’s blessing… and she died.

All of the blood that Bhaal claimed as his own - which is to say, all of her, the entirety of her being, was reclaimed. And then Withers, the enigmatic bag of bones, appeared to provide the Divine Intervention that Gale spoke of. Who better than Jergal to usurp the power of Bhaal.

It was actually quite sweet. Inspirational, maybe, even. Astarion is proud of the little pale drow, and honestly? He’s proud of the little pale half-elf, also. He’s never seen Shadowheart so open and sweet. She looks happy.

Luvine is a gentle, dogged completionist. No stone is left unturned, no child unsaved. They manage every suicidal Gondian, and the cleric leaves flowers at Astarion’s grave, even when he hasn’t pointed it out to her. She notices that Karlach’s parents are buried beside him, and they leave flowers for them as well.

Perhaps… perhaps their leader does not have to be awful, if they are unlucky enough to be tied into this Bhaalspawn nonsense. They don’t have to be like Autumn. They can bow and thank everybody for their help at the docks, and talk about a future in the countryside.

He hasn’t done any flirting or wooing of Gale, this time. There really isn’t a point beyond trying to get the man to blush… but still, as he retreats the morning sun, he wonders if maybe this was the thing that needed to happen. Everyone’s rejected their horrible masters and parents, not just him. This is a happy ending, isn’t it? This is what they’ve earned. Astarion can ask Gale out after, if there is an after.

But there isn’t an after. There never, ever is.

He wakes up in a pod that opens, once more, on the Nautiloid.

Chapter Text

It’s been some time since he last got to wander the besieged ship. Astarion is much less a tourist, now, but not much more knowledgeable about how it all works and flows. He watches the man whose brain becomes Us cry and whimper for some time.

Nothing that he’s done, that he’s helped do, has worked to free him of this.

No good deeds unpunished, no heroism rewarded for more than a few hours. No happy endings.

It does not matter who he saves.

Something breaks, fully snaps. A morality that he’s borrowed and worn and embodied since Tav, and the fear of failure, of pain or torment. He’ll pick them back up when he needs them, but perhaps he never will.

This is a cage, a skull around a pleading brain, made to contain him. He’s always been a monster.

Why not be the monster?

He smashes Myrnath’s head in, destroys Us before it can be truly born at all, and resolves that if he cannot save this world, he will find out what happens when he breaks it.

Astarion isn’t caught off guard by Lae’zel or her cool flip, this time, but he still hesitates. Killing the sticky cat is one thing, killing everyone else he’s already seen die is another, but… he doesn’t think he’s ready to kill all of his friends. Maybe if this doesn’t work, that’s the next step.

Pointing his dagger at the imps, she seems to approve of his proactive approach, at least. He’s seen what Lae’zel and Shadowheart will tolerate. He’s seen their worst selves. They’ll probably be his only true friends, this time. Gale won’t want to look at him, and Gale will be right.

Gathering them after the crash is as simple as always - he knows where they are. But from there, it’s grim work. The tiefling scouts are slain, the adventurers trying to loot the crypt, Aradin and his remaining friends.

Astarion sends Gale to camp, forcing Wyll to be party to it instead. For however long he can stomach it, at least - he knows Wyll and Karlach would rather die than stay. They will die, but ideally not by his hand.

The same cannot be said for Zevlor or Rath or Nettie. Astarion and Lae’zel exterminate Zorru and Sazza and Arka. He’s learned Danis’s name. It would be easier if he didn’t know their names, but then, he’d known Sebastian’s name. He’d known a lot of people’s names before hurting them.

Wyll leaves.

Astarion finally asks Withers for a hireling. He’s covered in the blood of druids and bears and Mol and Mattis.

It’s not that he’s going to side with the goblins, either, though. They die just the same - Gut and Minthara and Gribbo and One and Two. Halsin needn’t know about the Grove, nor any other soul in this place. This is easier than the tieflings, but no less tedious.

Shadowheart is drinking again. He can’t tell if it’s better or worse than it had been with Autumn. Lae’zel only seems annoyed that they aren’t going straight to the creche. Any innocents in the way aren’t a concern.

Karlach had screamed her sorrow at them by the stream, and that had been hard. Astarion hadn’t drawn it out, though. He’s sure the others were confused by the care with which he arranged her still-burning form, unbothered as his hands blistered and bled. She couldn’t have survived this, it’s best that she hadn’t known him.

They don’t throw a party, but they do take a break, once goblins and tieflings alike are dead.

Gale approaches him, but he’s clearly afraid of him. That’s correct. That’s what he wants, they should be afraid.

“Astarion… I have some concerns,” says the wizard, warily. Astarion brings him magic items to consume like a cat brings home a dead bird, leaving them like offerings while never asking Gale to come out and slaughter with him. He knows the man is capable of it - he’s seen how well Gale kills, again and again and again, but he doesn’t want to see him killing the kids. Gale doesn’t need to know that Mirkon had been left to the harpies, like that’s a forgivable alternative.

Astarion sits beside the fire, just staring into it. I’ll bet you have concerns. “What can I do for you?”

Gale stands over him, rather than sitting. “What is the point of this… violence? To what end are we… this isn’t who I am, it’s not who I want to be.”

“You haven’t done any of it, Gale,” Astarion says flatly, refusing to meet his gaze.

“But I’m here with you all, at the end of the night. I cook your food, help bandage your wounds. I may not be swinging the sword, but I…” Gale falters. “I don’t like who we are. I need to understand why this is what you think we need to do. It can’t be for nothing, can it? Senseless bloodshed isn’t… it isn’t going to resolve our affliction. Not when anyone who might have helped us is dead before you even ask.”

Astarion finally tilts his head up, hair all haloed by the fire. He is an angel, but of the worst gods. He is a monster, sure as the day he clawed himself free from the dirt. There is no dog in this camp, and none of them know to hate him for it.

“Do you really want to know?”

Gale says, “Yes! Yes, gods. Please, Astarion.” He thinks he wants this, but Astarion knows he doesn’t.

“None of them can help us. They are all going to die, whether we do it or not. The city isn’t safe, I’ve seen proof that armies are marching on it. That these tadpoles are spread through the population. There’s nothing for it. If it isn’t cut off at the root, this is going to spread.

“This region is a blight. There is nothing to save. I’m ensuring that none suffer longer than needs must. We’re going to go to Moonrise Towers and destroy every cultist there, and then we’ll move onto the city. Ward by ward. Building by building.” Astarion gives him a tired smile. “I won’t make you do that. But we will do it.”

Gale’s eyes are unfocused. Gale is shaking a little. This is about what Astarion expected.

Astarion says, “I am sorry. I understand if you’d leave. Your conditions will kill you, of course, if you do.” It would be a mercy, he supposes, to let Gale blow himself up within the city. Level it all at once and start fresh, rather than get his blade wet with the blood of hundreds of thousands of people. He doesn’t know how far away he’d have to be to survive it, though. There’s no use in it if he can’t find out what happens. There’d be no point if he died and it started over before he could see how it ends.

At that point, death would be too good for him, besides.

Gale finally sits down. He works his jaw a while, the man of so many words reduced to none, just for a moment. 

“How are you so sure that there is no peaceful way to resolve this?”

Astarion could say because I’ve done it peacefully half a dozen times. He says, “I’m not sure. But I know this runs too deep to take lightly. You can help me… or you can die.” He won’t kill Gale… but then, he hadn’t wanted to kill Karlach, either.

They die by his actions and his inactions. They die and die and die.

Gale’s not happy with this. Astarion can see it in the way he’s holding himself. Any affection that’s ever existed between them, in other lives and other circumstances, is far and gone from here. Gale is afraid of him. He wonders if Gale hates him the way Astarion had hated Autumn.

“I… if what you say is true, about the widespread infections… I wish you’d told us sooner. So we’d understand, at least, that there is… a reason.” The wizard is staring at his hands that have never seen innocent blood in the tendays that the rest have come back covered in it. “I won’t enjoy it, but… take me with you. If this really is the only way, I don’t want whatever mercy you think you’re giving me, leaving me here to play steward.”

There’s a deep exhale, and Gale says, “I’m very good at killing.”

They move on, with Gale joining in. The creche is cleared of life and then destroyed by Solar Lance, just to be sure. Astarion lets Lae’zel decide what to do with the githyanki egg, and she says that it would have hatched if it were going to. It must be weak. He leaves it to die beside Lady Esther’s body, just because he can only find amusement in such stupid arrangements these days.

Isobel is none the wiser, distracted with her ritual as the Harpers fall before the dome. It’s easier now, when they’re still living, than it would be if they were Shadow-Cursed Undead.

It’s awful, it’s all awful. Astarion is numb to it though. He buys his favorite ring off of Araj before putting a dagger between her ribs and taking his money back. To feel one’s lifeblood slip away. If he could tolerate her blood, he’d almost give her her wish and drain her, just for kicks. Alas, totally inedible.

They don’t even bother with the subtlety of taking out the Scrying Eyes and going room by room. Let them all come to him in the foyer. Every gods-damned pilgrim and gnoll and Zhent. Gale sits in the rafters when they’ve cleared the place. Thinking wizard thoughts, maybe.

The only people in the prison are the guards and the Ironhands, who are easily dispatched. Astarion is the richest he’s ever been, and he’s never really been able to sell anything. Pickpocketing is overrated. Everyone has money when they’re dead.

Lae’zel may have learned the truth of Vlaakith and forsaken her, this time, but Shadowheart has never had any reason to question Shar. All they know is loss and cruelty. Astarion nods when she turns for his approval, spearing Dame Aylin. It’s the only way the Nightsong can die, and he’s not here to save anybody.

As they get to the Chosen and the Absolute in the Mindflayer Colony, he’s grateful that Gale, at least, seems to understand that Astarion’s been telling the truth the whole time. There’s no real justification for any of this, but he’s not sure he could do it alone. They really are up against a sleeping army of illithids. They really do need to stop it, root and stem.

Looking upon Orin as she turns to leave with Gortash, though… he wonders if maybe he hasn’t played into Bhaal’s hand. All of it is murder, after all. It’s rare that anybody gets the jump on him, he knows every inch and every mile of these places. He knows every face, and soon he’ll know how they look when they die. The Lord of Murder will love him, won’t he? Astarion will be the best inadvertent follower Bhaal has ever had.

Ketheric falls and they cannot kill the Emperor but they make sure it knows the score. Astarion is already making plans for the end of things - he’ll free Orpheus and then kill Orpheus, so ensure that every mindflayer he knows is dead. He won’t become one, himself. Astarion’s willing to be the worst monster in this world if it means being free, but he still doesn’t want to become something he’s not. He wants his face to be his face, when he’s done, even if he’ll probably off himself afterwards anyway.

He’s decided that even if this is the last world, his only reward will be the freedom of it. Astarion cannot imagine staying here and seeing the aftermath longer than he needs to to know he’s succeeded.

Gale looks bad these days. There are no more refugees in Rivington, the circus up and left once they turned to continue the fight after ‘Dribbles’ and the show. They bathe in the river beneath Wyrm’s Rock and plan their approach.

“Going straight through the fortress sounds suicidal,” Gale murmurs, “We’ll have to make a more strategic approach.”

Astarion agrees, “I was thinking perhaps a top-down assault. It’s true that some could flee into the city, that way, but we’ll eliminate the worst threats first, rather than being ambushed by them once we’re tired.” He’s drawn diagrams of the entrances he remembers, all hinging on the falsehood that he somehow gathered this information while working under Cazador.

“So up the vines and scaffolding, you disarm the traps here and here, we dispatch the Watchers… and then Gortash? Are you sure he’ll be up there?” Gale’s hair has blood streaked through it, and Astarion longs to run his fingers through it. They’re awful people, and he’s the worst of them, but he’s admittedly quite attracted to this worst version of Gale. Competence is sexy, it’s a universal rule.

“He probably won’t be to start, he wants us to attend his coronation. Perhaps he even wants to ally with us. So we’re taking out his defenses first, but then we’ll probably have to attend his ceremony to get him alone. From there, we can dispatch the attending patriars and their guards.” Astarion’s feet kick through the cold water as he sits on a rock.

Gale’s mouth is a grim line, but he nods in agreement.

Astarion continues, “Many of the Fists on the first floor are going to be asleep during the day. We ought to be able to handle it all at once, if we pace ourselves properly. They won’t be alerted if we manage all the Watchers on the top floors.” The reality is that the Steel Foundry will likely know their actions, but the Absolute probably won’t care enough to send the rest of the Watchers at them in a wave. It’ll be easy ones and twos.

By now, besides, they’re vastly over prepared for the city. They’ve killed far more and varied creatures and people than they ever had before, even under Autumn’s leadership.

Gale sits beside him quietly. It’s unfortunate that the wizard is good at all of this. He says, “Shadowheart and Lae’zel are taking their time getting back. Do you think we ought to track them down?”

There’s a nearby cave mouth that connects to the underground parts of Rivington. The Temple and well, at least. Astarion shakes his head, “I think they’re probably making out in there. They can have a few minutes.”

He’s not even satisfied, knowing that he finally managed to see those two resolve their tension. The tension isn’t resolved at all, it’s just bigger and uglier and worse. Who’s he to stop them having fun, though?

Gale clicks his tongue and says nothing. Astarion wishes either of them were having fun.

There are cracks in the foundations of this thing, though. There are stories and ideas that play out, no matter how many people are dead. He feels like there’s a chance he’s actually found some kind of answer, awful though it is. It’ll have cost him every ally that’s good - Karlach and Wyll, Halsin. He could have kept Minthara but he didn’t want to, he’s never known her outside of Autumn. It’s cost him Shadowheart’s kindness and it will cost him Lae’zel’s ambitions, after he’s through with Orpheus.

It’ll cost him the Gale that smiles.

He misses that guy.

The culling of Baldur’s Gate is not simple. After Gortash, they really do set out into the city. It takes several tendays, even going at it carefully. Taking out bases of the Fist’s operations and major hubs of cult activity first, it’s then… chain lighting and spirit guardians and Lae’zel with a thousand attacks every six seconds. They weaponize the body of little Victoria Onufrio, carrying it through the streets and watching as people wither and die.

Cazador goes down easy, but he’s a dessert to be savored. At least he deserves to be killed. Astarion ascends because it’s simpler than trying to figure out how to slay seven thousand people one cage at a time.

Orin actually acknowledges it all, to Astarion’s surprise. She seems jealous and angry, that his bloodthirsty ambitions make her look like a simpering fool in the eyes of her Lord Great-Grandfather Bhaal. She really is a stupid, silly bitch. Astarion is grateful that Bhaal doesn’t try to offer him anything, he’s in the kind of mood where he might actually take it.

They’re well-rested for the fights that follow, on their way to the Netherbrain. The entire Lower City is a ghost town, and he’s not surprised to find that there are very few people remaining in the Upper near High Hall when they get there. No Allies at all, save Withers and Orpheus. Astarion does not give a speech. This is not a triumph.

It’s the docks, again. There’s no Karlach to burn up. No Wyll to comment on his powers or Mizora, no Minsc or Jaheira.

Astarion turns to the others, once Orpheus has fallen over. He really ought to finish the job. He is very tired, though. As the Vampire Ascendant, he doesn’t even love them right. They’re his servants, his tools. He can kill them. He can.

He doesn’t want to.

He has to.

It’s very hard, because they do fight back, but he does it. Shadowheart is pushed into the river, kicked back each time she tries to pull herself up. Her armor waterlogged and swimming skills terrible, that’s really all it takes. Lae’zel stabs him through, but never quite where she needs to to kill him before he kills her. Half a dozen holes. Gale catches his hands in a desperate grip.

“Astarion - why? The tadpoles are - they’re gone, it’s over, why would you...” The wizard begins to sob. Astarion would, too, if he were still Astarion.

He bares his fangs at Gale. “It won’t be over until everyone is gone.”

“So you brought us this far, just to - to betray us. You used us - for what? For what? I don’t understand. I can’t understand.” Gale’s tongue keeps getting tied, which is almost amusing. Astarion wonders if his little wizard heart is broken. Poor thing.

Astarion kisses him. Gale gasps against his lips, and then a broken little noise as he kisses back. Some part of him must have loved the monster - or maybe this is just hope that they can be saved.

The wizard shocks, and there is another gasp, of pain, as Astarion pushes a dagger into his chest. Not the orb, of course. He has to see it through.

The Vampire Ascendant isn’t Astarion, not really, but some part of him does mean what he says next. He kneels, lowers Gale to the docks. Pushes the wizard’s hair out of his face as he chokes on blood. “I’m sorry,” Astarion says, “I am. I hope this works.” I hope we both die and stay dead.

He doesn’t burn in the sun. He sits there, in the quiet, quiet city, with Gale and Lae’zel’s bodies. Shadowheart’s has long drifted away. Astarion waits.

Day turns night, and then as the sun begins to rise once more, he blinks. Just once.

And wakes up in a pod on the Nautiloid. He screams until he has no voice left.

Chapter Text

He’s very quiet, for the first few tendays of the next go-around. Guilty of things nobody knows he’s done. Things he will not be doing again. Nothing works. No rights, no wrongs. It doesn’t matter how saintly or monstrous they are. He’ll still be here.

The others think he’s just brooding. He told them fairly early about his vampirism, so that’s part of the joke, he guesses. It’s all… embarrassing.

Astarion figures that he deserves more than just embarrassment after killing them all, though. Mostly with his own hands.

They have a fresh leader again, someone new. He’s a human man, a rogue like himself. Darrus. Astarion only cares about the man insofar as what he’s going to want to do. What he’s going to want them to do.

He wakes up to a disemboweled, sweet bard again, and he can’t do this. He can’t stomach it. Darrus isn’t like Luvine, he seems like he’s trying to cover it up. Astarion can’t do it.

The rest of the party wakes to a dead bard in blood arranged for Bhaal, and a dead Darrus beside her. Astarion is pretty badly hurt. He is not angry at his friends for turning on him, then. They don’t know what he does. They don’t know what Darrus might have become. None of them remember Autumn’s sins, just like they don’t remember Astarion’s.

He dies, but he does not immediately awaken in his pod.

It’s dark for a long time. Days or tendays, at least. And then it isn’t dark, but he isn’t… in control. He watches a zombie shuffling through the halls of the Szarr Palace, and for a time he does not recognize that the zombie is him. It used to be him. He’s tethered to it, still, in some capacity.

Astarion hopes that he isn’t normally so ugly. This is the first time he’s seen his face outside of Ascension, and he’s never really himself, then, to enjoy it.

He watches himself obediently go to step into his position at the Ritual. He’s there for a long while before anybody else. Cazador monologues at his zombie body. There’s no way he knows Astarion can actually parse any of this, though, it’s all just ego. Thought you could get away from me, boy! Look where it got you!

It’s a relief when the rest of his siblings are finally paraded down to join him, and the lot of them are sacrificed. The death is real, then, and his soul taken to Mephistopheles, presumably, but luckily…

He wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid.

Astarion runs a hand through his hair. He’s grateful to have hair, and the agency with which to touch it. Another stranger runs through the room with Lae’zel and Us, a tall and dark tiefling man.

A day or so later, he’s tackling the man, holding a knife to his throat. He doesn’t trust these strangers anymore. They’re unpredictable, they’re a liability. At least he understands Shadowheart or Wyll. He knows how they tick.

The stranger is Vellor, and he kills Astarion right there on the cliffs.

He is later revivified. There is an apology. Astarion doesn’t really care, as such. He is glad not to be a zombie, glad not to be fuel for Cazador’s ascension. He doesn’t need to love Vellor, he just needs Vellor not to kill the souls of everyone he cares about.

There’s a quiet evening of deep-cleaning after they’ve dealt with Ethel. Astarion is grateful to be left out of the worst of it, but he offers to help Gale with cooking again, since the man’s busy trying to get hag juice out of his robes.

Astarion has been sheepish, still, around Gale. He hadn’t been himself, at the end, when he’d kissed and killed him. He hadn’t really been anyone. The desperation and hubris of the worst Vampire in the world, and with nothing at all to show for it.

He likes him, though. That’s easy to understand. He’s handsome, kind and clever. He’s an incredible ally in all things, even if he does not enjoy the atrocities. Gale is easy to talk to. Gale has thought similarly of him on more than one occasion.

Dicing the potatoes Vellor requested, Astarion says, “So how did it go, with the hag? Find anything interesting?”

Gale grimaces, “She offered us a bit of her hair to eat.”

“Gross. Who ate it?” Astarion doesn’t really care - it is gross, but he’s downed it once or twice. All the better to kill with, my dear.

The wizard looks ill. “I didn’t really want to…” He trails off. Poor thing.

“We’ll make sure dinner’s extra spicy,” Astarion says, reaching over to give Gale’s knee a pat, “You can forget all about it.”

Gale laughs a little, “Sorry. Thank you, though. I appreciate the thought.”

“It’s nothing,” Astarion insists, dumping the potatoes into the stewpot and moving on to the next thing. It’s not like he’s going to eat this, anyway. Shadowheart can just have some rations if she can’t tolerate Gale’s spiciest stew.

Gale watches him work for a few quiet moments. He asks, “I have a question for you, Astarion. If you’re willing.”

“And what is that?”

“How did it feel… dying, that is. The Fugue Plane. The resurrection.” Gale asks it in a very academic way - to the point that Astarion isn’t sure which feel he means. Does he mean physical sensation, emotional, or just the reality of it?

Astarion has died several times now. This one doesn’t even really rank among them. He shrugs. “It hurt, a bit. The Fugue Plane is mainly wispy-dark and boring. There’s nothing there, you don’t feel anything.” He’d expected to wake up a zombie again, if he’s honest. “The resurrection… hurt, also, but I suppose that’s the air forcing its way back into your lungs. It was nice to see a friendly face afterward, though.”

He offers Gale a smile. Gale had been that friendly face.

Gale does smile back, “I apologize if that was unpleasant to relive. It’s just something I’ve been curious about. We have plenty of accounts of such things, of course - especially over the course of an adventurer’s life, it’s said that they’re revivified half a dozen times or so. We have become members of a strata that are notoriously difficult to kill.”

The vampire tilts his head thoughtfully. He’s seen Gale die, sometimes from quite close. Gale wouldn’t remember it though. Most often, he sees Gale die later on in any given attempt, after the orb is stabilized by Elminster. He hadn't seen it, with Autumn. He knows about Gale’s contingency, though. He’s watched Tav and Elana and Bernie walk through it, though Gale’s never died too early while he was in charge.

“Are you worried about it? Dying, that is.” Astarion asks.

Gale huffs a surprised laugh, “I mean, it would be stranger if I wasn’t worried about dying, even if we are difficult to kill.”

The wizard’s condition came up for the first time only a couple of days ago, so Astarion cannot yet talk about it like the expert that he is. “That seems reasonable. It would be a shame, if you died, and I’m sure people would miss you.”

It’s him, he’s people.

“My cat certainly would,” Gale says, turning over the bottom edge of his robe. He’s wearing his camp clothes now, but it seems that the robe will need actual repairs. “My mother, as well.”

Astarion nods. “If something ever happened to you, what would you want us to do? Besides bring you back, of course. You know, if it were something… unsolvable.”

Gale frowns at the torn fabric, and then lifts his head. “I’d… hm. I don’t think there’d be anything… left of me, after. Or I’d ask that you return my remains and effects to Waterdeep, though I understand what a journey that would be.”

Shaking his head, Astarion says, “No, no. Truly. If time and distance were no object… you’d just want to go home? Or, I guess, be taken home.”

“Isn’t that what anyone would want, if they perished so far from where they were born?” Gale gives up on the robe, putting it aside.

Astarion dumps the onions into the pot and moves onto the next. “I don’t know. I’ve spent almost three-hundred years living in Baldur’s Gate. I think I’d want to travel."

“In death?”

“Why not. Take my ashes or bones, whichever way I’ve died, and scatter them. Throw them for dogs.”

Gale starts to laugh, but then seems to realize that Astarion might not be joking. Even Astarion isn’t sure if he’s joking. It’s hard to tell, these days.

“I wouldn’t have thought you much of a dog person,” Gale decides, neutral.

“Nor would I. It’s hard not to appreciate Scratch’s companionship, though,” Astarion says. In this life, they’ve had the dog for about three days, so that’s a perfectly reasonable way to feel about him.

“At any rate,” says the wizard, “I’ll… if you die, again, and we cannot solve it… I’ll remember that.”

Astarion smiles, “Good. Well - I mean, you can hold onto a knuckle-bone for good luck, if you like. You have my permission.” He’s never been lucky in his life, but at least he gets to remember. He gets to keep all of these smiles and laughs. Astarion would give it all up if it meant being done, but it’s not always bad to get to spend time with his friends. The camping trip that never ends.

“I’ll craft a spell focus of your humerus,” Gale decides, playful. “I’m sure it would have interesting qualities, considering your condition.”

“In particular, my humor,” Astarion rolls his eyes.

He’d like that, though. In a weird way, it would be sweet to be a vessel through which Gale does the things he loves. Not that he’s ever getting out of this, as a bone or otherwise, but it’s a strange, nice thought.

The next day, as they move through Ethel’s mushroom rings to the Underdark, Gale dies to the Bulette that roams the area. The creature (monstrosity) soon perishes to the aura that surrounds Gale’s corpse. It’s all a bit too timely for Astarion’s liking, but he holds up a hand, signaling that Vellor and Wyll stay back.

Astarion carefully approaches the corpse, the necrotic miasma stinging but not to the point that it’ll kill him. He sips a healing potion while waiting for the illusory Gale to appear.

“Well met! I am a magical projection of Gale of Waterdeep, and if you see this manifestation, that means I have prematurely perished.” Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion sees Vellor sit down and pull a snack from his bag. Prick. “However, for reasons that cannot be disclosed, it is of vital importance that my death be remedied at your earliest convenience.”

Astarion is nodding along. “It is not out of self-preservation, I understand. Your life is of the utmost importance. Two days, I know.”

The projection pauses. “Correct. Many lives are at stake. I trust I have made myself clear.”

“Yes,” Astarion agrees. Sometimes, he thinks about teasing this false-Gale. It’s made of him, it obviously looks like him, but it’s definitely not him. Just a fragment of the man, a contingency that only exists for this purpose. It’s fun to catch it off guard, though. “Worry not, I know where to find the pouch, my glowing friend. You can tell me the instructions as I get it, though I know them as well.”

“Thank you. It is vital that these instructions are completed in both the correct manner and order, lest the item meant to accomplish my return be destroyed in your attempt. It is of great value, and as such is protected by this protocol, as you say you understand.” The projection of Gale also loves to hear himself talk. That’s alright, Astarion likes to hear him talk, too.

He’s already retrieving the pouch as the voice instructs him to do so, finger hovering over the purple string a little impatiently. The projection continues, “I ask that you listen through each step of the protocol before touching anything more than the outer layer of the pouch.”

“I know. Go ahead.”

It goes through the steps - the purple seam that seals it counter-clockwise, the folded letter and tiny flute, D-E-A-D but the image doesn’t just say that, and finally the mephit’s name.

Astarion repeats each step back dutifully. Even before he decided that Gale is his favorite, he had this memorized. He listened well the very first time, when it was Tav reviving their friend. Back then, Gale had just been a wizard with too little loot to bother pickpocketing. He’d been useful in a fight, and a great lanceboard player in their scant downtime, but… they’d only been friends of circumstance. Astarion had thought it important to pay attention to these instructions, even with so little reason to care.

“Best of luck with the protocol! May my cold, dead hands soon be refilled with the warmth of life so that they can shake yours in gratitude,” says the projection with a smile, and it disappears.

He steps out of the necrotic miasma, ignoring Vellor’s protest as he drinks a bigger potion to cover the shittiness he feels for having stood in it. The purple seam comes loose, the letter and flute in hand. He holds these up so that Wyll and Vellor can see, as if he’s putting on a show. The now-useless pouch goes into his own pocket, because it’s always nice to have another little bag.

Astarion knows the notes by heart, dooting out the D-E-A-D and pocketing the flute as well. He does a little courtly bow to the mephit K’ha’ssji’trach’ash, and holds the letter out to be breathed upon. They wave at each other before the mephit unsummons himself. He pockets the scroll of True Resurrection and withdraws a regular scroll of Revivify from his bag.

Gale will need to be healed up, but he’d rather keep the fancier scroll for a situation in which there’s no time to stop and chat with projections. Astarion casts the spell like a professional, and he’s already reaching into his bag for more potions by the time Gale pulls himself up from sitting.

“Oh - gods, I’m back, I’m - thank you.” The look on Gale’s face is so bright and sunny, Astarion feels terrible about all the bruises and blood ruining it. “My hands are still cold, so I suppose that handshake will have to wait, but, ahhh… it’s good to be alive.”

Astarion offers him the biggest potion he has, sitting beside the wizard on the floor. Wyll comes over to make sure they’re alright, and Vellor starts gutting the bulette because he lacks decorum.

Gale says, “You… were right, about the Fugue Plane. I’d thought it might be interesting enough to take notes, and I suppose the feelings at play might be worth some consideration, but… the actual place was quite dull. Like if a dust-storm was fuzzy and forever.”

Once a little of the bruising’s cleared up, Astarion asks, “Gale, would you like a hug?” At this point, this is code for Astarion would like a hug. He needs plausible deniability though, and this Gale hasn’t been hugged yet anyway.

The wizard tilts his head, still rubbing his cold hands together, and nods, “If one’s on offer, I’d love a hug, Astarion. Though I don’t suppose either of us will be warm for it.”

“Warmth is overrated,” Astarion hums, and scoots closer to pull Gale into his arms.

He likes this. This is nice. Wyll is going to bully him about it, he can just feel it, but he doesn’t really care. Wyll is a good man, but also kind of a shithead, like all of them. He’s allowed this flaw.

“Alright, alright, break it up,” says Vellor, “Shit-ton of hook-horrors over there, get it together.”

Astarion laughs a little, and pulls away.

Nothing exciting happens later. It’s the usual routine. Nothing Vellor does ends this cycle. Astarion hadn’t expected it to.

Astarion wakes in his usual pod on the Nautiloid.

Running in with Lae’zel and Us is Gale.

Chapter Text

He really tries to get out of his pod, this time. He tries so hard. It never does work, but he wants to be running around, too.

Astarion wants to make a good, helpful first impression. For some reason!

Perhaps it’s because he’s been riding on the coattails of always being the one to pull Gale from his sigils. It’s easy to get into the wizard’s good graces when he’s going out of his way to help. He can do that, give him the artifacts he needs to eat, and sometimes revive him, if he’s there for that. It’s easy to help Gale, the man needs so much help.

The ship plummets, as usual, and he steps out onto his usual little scenic cliff. He checks Gale’s rock to confirm that the man won’t need a rescue. Fascinating. Exciting!

Gale’s never been the one in charge, before. Not that Astarion remembers, anyway. If it turns out that there’s a dozen other lifetimes he’s fully forgotten before Tav, even, he’s going to just about lose it. So hopefully not.

The wizard turns up with Shadowheart in tow, looking more or less beat to shit as they’ve come from the direction of the intellect devourers. Such is the nature of being a squishy wizard and baby cleric. He doesn’t hold Gale at knifepoint, he is the picture of roguish chivalry, he is perhaps hamming it up. Gale does laugh and smile at him, though, so it’s working, at least a bit.

Shadowheart squints between them and then rolls her eyes. She will never change, and Astarion appreciates that about her.

“Shall I come along, then? I’ve some ideas about these parasites, though none of them are especially actionable from our current position.” Saying things like this make Astarion sound like some kind of illithid-scholar. At this point, he might as well be. Here are the facts he knows about mindflayers: One, they are ugly. Two, they have no dick. Three, they eat brains. Four, slime. Five, he hates to be one and never wants to do it again.

That’s all you need to know about mindflayers.

Gale smiles at him, “I’ll be interested to hear these theories, perhaps after we’ve had a rest and bath. You look like you’ve come out of this more or less intact, but I’m afraid Shadowheart and I’ve had a terrible time of it just hiking up the wreckage.”

“Of course. You know, I did scout a nearby spot that seemed safe to make camp - plenty of room for others, should we find any. I’d be delighted to show you to the way,” Astarion purrs, doing an over-the-top bow and then looking up at the wizard through his eyelashes.

“By all means, Astarion,” Gale agrees, stifling a laugh.

He loves him.

Whether it’s the usual favoritism or simply Astarion’s usefulness, he does manage to secure himself a semi-permanent spot on their little team. More importantly, Gale’s tressym friend, Tara, has joined their camp. For a time, she’d post up near Karlach’s tent, but lately she’s spent more time near Astarion’s, in the evening. She, like Scratch, has wisely learned that Astarion is very generous with his food scraps.

Unlike Scratch, she’s probably smart enough to grasp why he isn’t eating real food, after a tenday or so.

The ring she gives Gale, that first night at camp, is incredible. It contains magic akin to the dodging Astarion performs regularly - he doesn’t need it, but it’s exciting that Gale will be less vulnerable. Astarion ensures that it is not eaten by providing unto him The Watcher’s Guide the moment that the arcane hunger sets in. He is a helpful vampire.

Gale does not do the things that Tav might have done to impress him. He isn’t funnily mean to children or prone to barging in on bugbear-ogre relations. He only threatens people when it’s the best way to diffuse a situation, and rarely interrupts a conversation with a firebolt.

In short, Astarion doesn’t think he would have liked Gale-in-charge, if he’d been the first experience Astarion had in this region and this sequence of events he’s trapped in. But unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he’s deeply fond of Gale Dekarios in all forms, these days. It’s easy to play along, and he isn’t fussed when things play out the way Gale would genuinely want to handle them.

There are surprises, though - Gale isn’t always gentle or optimistic, when he’s the one taking charge. He’s still pragmatic, which sometimes means making deals with Ogres. He’s still curious, which means letting Priestess Gut brand him before they slay her in a side-room.

With a wizard at the helm, there is no room for half-measures. When they fight, it is a fight to kill. When they attempt diplomacy, it is so very verbose.

He’s noticed his other companions taking an interest, as they always do. Chaotic post-Nautiloid horniness always finds a place at camp. Astarion tells himself that he is not going to be upset if Gale chooses to woo somebody and he has to watch it happen.

Astarion has gotten lucky, with this unfortunate crush: so far, none of the strangers that have led them have wanted to kiss Gale. Not once. None of his friends, the few times they’ve taken charge, have chosen him over anybody else either. Astarion himself might have taken him to bed that first time, but he didn’t.

He hasn’t had any reason to get jealous of anybody else’s attention or affections, before, but now he finds himself glaring at Shadowheart, of all people. Doesn’t she know she’s his little sister? Bitch, don’t look at his wizard, go kiss a frog or something! Wyll needs to look anywhere but Gale’s ass when the man is bent over a cookpot. They’re terrible! It’s always terrible, but he’s never cared when they were ogling gods-damned Bernie or whoever it is.

This time it’s Gale!

At the tiefling party, he’s minding his own business. He’s not worrying about it. He’s not. He’s drinking his wine and he’s loitering near his tent and being very easy to find. Astarion is not going to be offended if Gale talks to other people first. This is a lie, he’s going to be deeply offended.

Luckily for both of them, Gale comes and finds him right away. Astarion could just about purr. He’s so out of practice with flirting, he hasn’t needed to in ages and ages. Instead of indicating that they ought to have sex immediately, tonight, right now, he just says, “I’m sure you’ll have no shortage of interest and suitors, this evening, but I hope that at the end of the night, you remember me. I’ll be thinking of you.”

Gale grins and says, “You know, I think I’ll come find you. If that’s alright. Or, we could always just think about each other, if you’d prefer.”

Astarion’s mostly-dead heart skips a little beat and he laughs, “I’d love it, if you came and found me. Take your time with the others, and don’t forget.”

And as Gale moves to mingle, Astarion has himself a nice little panic. What is he doing he can’t just - he can’t pull his old seduction-for-power routine on Gale. He tried that once, when it was Elana, a million years ago! He looked so stupid. Gale didn’t like it at all. He’d said ‘Astarion, no,’  like he was some undesirable little rat creature! Gods. He is a nightmare, an absolute disaster.

He doesn’t even know what they’ll do when Gale comes back. If he doesn’t fuck the man, what are they going to do? If he’s being honest with himself, the orb exploding because he gives Gale a really good blowjob would be one of the stupider ways to die, they really ought to wait until they catch up to Elminster, at least, so…

Astarion is still panicking a little, as Gale returns.

“I didn’t forget,” Gale says, looking pleased with himself. He’s gorgeous with the fire lighting his hair, with wine warming his cheeks. Astarion knows that his blood isn’t especially tasty, but something stirs in him when he lets himself listen for the beat of Gale’s heart and the rush of his lifeblood. He’s alive, and he’s beautiful, and he’s looking at Astarion like he’s special.

It’s all a little hard to handle. He picks up the bottles of red he’s stashed away and a couple of blankets. They don’t need to have sex, but he does need more wine. It’s not as bad as the vinegar, even for him. “I know a place,” Astarion says. It’s the clearing he always goes to. The sun rises prettily through the trees there.

As he lays the blankets out on the ground, Gale watches, curious.

“I suppose you’ve had time to scout around, on your evening meals,” Gale says.

Astarion pauses. He has not told anyone about his vampirism, this time. “My evening meals?” he asks innocently.

Gale squints at him. “Astarion, I do have eyes. And yours, for example, are a very nice red. Your teeth are quite sharp as well. I would go so far as to say dangerously sharp. Tara’s kept a close eye on your comings and goings, you know.”

The tressym is a traitor, full offense intended. Astarion frowns.

“Astarion - in case I’m not being clear enough, I really don’t mind that you’re a vampire, or similar. You’re no slave to your hunger, and I’ve never felt threatened by your presence at camp. If anything, your nightly wanderings have probably kept us safer while we slept. We’ve no need to fear bears raiding our food stores, for example, if they’re already quite afraid of our dear and trusted friend.”

Astarion doesn’t really know what to say. If anything, now he’s more nervous. So many of the things that people say and do around him are things he’s heard and seen before. He’s heard Lae’zel’s heart of stone speech a dozen times, he’s heard Lorroakan tell Miklaur that he can leave every time they’ve gone to murder his pompous ass. He knows what it sounds like when Shadowheart’s in love and trying to pretend she isn’t.

He has no idea what Gale does or says when he likes someone. This is all off-script.

“Is that who I am, then? Your dear and trusted friend?” Astarion had meant to sit right down on the blankets, but they’re awkwardly just. Standing there. Or maybe it’s just him being awkward, Gale looks fine.

Gale studies him. This doesn’t help his nerves at all. The wizard says, “Is that what you want to be? Because… and please understand, you’re welcome to say no, never mention this again, whatever you like.” He swirls his wineglass a little, perhaps made braver for it, and continues, “I do think that the two of us have the potential to be something more interesting than just dear friends. If you feel… similarly, I think that ought to be explored, don’t you?”

Astarion is going to die. This is wizard flirting? This?

It’s working.

He should say no. This always hurts him. He always aches and sometimes cries and always regrets it, when the next iteration of Gale has no idea that they’ve ever been friends, much less friends that flirt.

Astarion is so lonely, though. He’s desperately lonely. Even if Gale doesn’t understand what he’s going through, what he’s been going through for what must be years at this point, Astarion doesn’t want to be alone.

“I’d like that,” he says, voice and smile much shier than he’d like. He’s very out of practice. “I… understand that your condition probably precludes anything too exciting, which is probably for the best. For now.”

“For now,” Gale agrees, looking quietly relieved that Astarion isn’t jumping his bones. “I’m not infirm, you understand, but too much excitement… I’m glad that you’re conscious of the problems that would arise.”

Astarion grins, “I’ll do my best not to make anything rise, then. Not until you’re more stable, if you ever are.”

Gale laughs. Gods, he is so gorgeous. He’s hairy and a dork and he wears almost too much purple, but he’s excellent to look at. Astarion feels like he’s finally allowed to really look. Gale notices the attention, of course, because they are two idiots standing in a clearing.

Bending to set his wineglass down, he says, “You are also welcome to turn down the following suggestion, regardless of the other parameters we’ve discussed. If you don’t mind, I’d like to kiss you.”

On his lips are the lips of the dying Gale and his worst sins.

He knows how he kissed Gale then. It’d been wrong.

He wants to do it right. This time it’s him making a strange little noise as he nods and steps into Gale’s space. Gale holds his face like he is something beautiful and precious. The wizard is wrong to think so, he doesn’t know anything about what Astarion’s done outside of the last month, but it’s overwhelming to be cherished like that.

Their lips press together and it’s not a transaction. It’s not some promise of protection or power. Astarion sets his hands on Gale’s shoulders and wonders what it might be like, to actually let himself be vulnerable again. Not because someone’s harmed or cornered him, but because he is safe and adored. If Tav was ever real, he’s grateful that they taught him that worthiness, that he’s allowed to be loved and respected. So much of this would have been worse, if he had still loathed himself as deeply as he had the first time. If he’d been as stubborn, every time someone tried to understand him.

New and different walls came up, of course. He’s building different ones every day.

Gale tucks a curl of Astarion’s hair behind his ear, and presses their foreheads together. “I’ve been thinking of doing that for tendays.”

“Was it everything you hoped it could be?” Astarion teases. How is it that nobody else has kissed this man? He’s adorable, he’s warm, his hair is pretty and he can set soooo many things on fire.

“I’ll write you a review,” Gale laughs, and kisses him again.

They settle onto the blankets with their wine, and they talk about nothing and everything. Astarion still has his walls, too high to climb and too thick to burn, but he talks. When they aren’t talking, they’re learning to enjoy casual touch. The wizard is probably as touch-starved as the vampire, which makes Astarion feel even sillier for not touching him more often before now.

Astarion had thought he might be lost, if he couldn’t use sex as a means of controlling the narrative. It’s not a lack of self-respect, he just… has never been in a relationship that didn’t start that way. He’s only been in one relationship. This is a script he doesn’t have any words to, an act he hasn’t rehearsed.

He can tell when Gale’s fallen asleep because the hand in his hair has stopped moving. Astarion is using the wizard as a pillow, pulling one of the blankets over them both, and just… listening. Gale’s heart beats in his chest and on his sleeve and in his smile.

This may be a terrible mistake. He doesn’t really care.

They wake to rays of gentle sun, and Astarion plays at being a cat who doesn’t want to move from his warm and comfortable place. The ground is not comfortable, but just about everything else is. He’s bribed, easily, with kisses. It’s not like they can stay here forever. There are so many things to do.

Astarion doesn’t need to tell the others to stop looking at Gale like he’s a prime cut of meat, they see the two of them returning to camp as a unit and seem to understand the meaning. That’s good. He can feel the urge to lash out at his family over something stupid simmer down and die. He’d have let Gale go, but he’s glad he didn’t have to, or didn’t have to watch. Now, when he’s lost in his head, the wizard can take his hand and snap him out of it.

He becomes more present.

And after Elminster stabilizes the orb, they’re super normal and regular.

Astarion is certain that they both want to have some form of sex, but they’re both a little shy to initiate it. For his part, it’s because this is the longest stretch of chastity he’s experienced since becoming a vampire. Tav was a long time ago, he hasn’t so much as touched himself in the time since. He’s not entirely sure about Gale’s reasoning, they haven’t discussed it yet, but it’s probably something to do with Mystra being his most recent partner. How does one initiate, when there’s the shadow of a goddess you’ve fucked, and she’s looming over everything and asking you to die?

They dispatch Harper Yonas, and the other Harpers leave, and Gale pulls him aside to tell him how very sexy that had been, watching Astarion fight. Possibility blooms there, but they haven’t time to stop just yet.

At Moonrise Towers, Astarion follows the others around, letting them take the lead. He knows which room leads to Ketheric, to Araj, to the meat sounds. Gale buys him a pretty circlet and places it upon his head, careful not to trap any of his hair. They do not make out in the entry-hall of the Absolute’s seat of power, but Astarion thinks it would be hilarious to give Roah Moonglow a front-row seat.

He knows that none of the bedrooms above are in real use. But that’s not how he wants to do this, not really.

They talk to the wretched blood-woman, whose voice is wasted on her, and Astarion preens as Gale defends him. His personhood, his agency to say no. Gale looks furious about it, even. Astarion pickpockets his Risky Ring off Araj while the woman is distracted by Gale’s lecturing, and then leads the wizard away.

“Thank you for that. You didn’t have to,” Astarion hums, slipping the ring onto the finger it fits best.

Gale says, “I did have to. She was being awful about you.”

“Let’s… we can talk about it at camp,” he ventures. They have a lot to ‘talk’ about, at camp.

Gale deflates a bit, and gives Astarion a smile. “Of course. You’re right.”

To camp.

Chapter Text

A few things happen when they leave Moonrise. Everyone’s relieved to be away from the Absolutists, so they make camp across the lake from Last Light, rather than resting in the bowels of Moonrise.

Most of the others have things to say to Gale - the usual things they feel the need to blurt out when they’re here and now. Shadowheart is her goddess’s special princess babygirl, Karlach is excited to finally be able to touch people, Halsin wants them searching for Thaniel and wanders off when Gale tells him about Art Cullagh. Normal things.

Gale starts to approach him and Astarion waves him off, “Me last, I’ll want to keep you.” It’s not hard to imagine that he’s just given Gale a speed potion, watching him trot off to round up the rest of his conversations. It’s cute to see him so eager.

Astarion isn’t even sure what they’re planning to do, if anything. He just knows that it’s probably safe to fuck. Though it’s not like they asked Elminster, hey grandpa, are we down to clown? Is sex safe? Awful.

The wizard returns to him, and luckily, some words slide into place in Astarion’s mind. They aren’t the same ones he told Tav, back then, but they’re no less true. “I wanted to thank you, back there. Thank you better than I already did, that is - you didn’t have to do that for me. We could have used that potion, and it would have helped us, but… you valued my comfort over our power. You’re… good, to me. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it, if I’m being honest.”

If anything, he doesn’t deserve this kindness at all. Gale has no idea what Astarion’s done, the extent of his selfishness. Valuing freedom over thousands of lives, killing Gale the first time they ever kissed. Gale doesn’t know anything about the person he really is, the monster in a pretty wrapper.

Gale takes his hands gently. “You haven’t needed to do anything, Astarion. You have value as a person, there’s nothing you have to do to earn that. I’d be lying if I said that power wasn’t something I care about. Unfortunately, that sort of temptation weighs heavy in my mind, more often than I’d like to admit. However, you, and your happiness, are far more important to me. Truly. It’s nothing that you need to thank me for, it’s what you should always have, should you want it.”

“Should I want happiness?” Astarion says, laughing a little. “Who wouldn’t?”

“If one doesn’t think they deserve happiness, it’s easy enough to forsake such a thing. I don’t want that for you, though.” Gale gives him a sad smile, “I want you to want it.”

Astarion tilts his head, considering this. Gale doesn’t know what goes on in his mind, he knows that the man rarely uses the tadpoles for such probing. He doesn’t use mind-reading potions or spells, either, though he knows them. This is all… just Gale, being sweet with him.

“I do want to be happy,” Astarion says, “And… I think I want you to be a part of that. If that’s something you… would also want.” Poor Tav had been pulling teeth here, trying to get him to value himself. For all the nihilism of Astarion’s last few months, it’s not hard to admit these things. He does want to be happy. He wants to be with Gale. It’s simple.

It’s not easy, but it is simple. 

“Good,” Gale smiles, “Now, may I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to ask each time,” Astarion laughs.

“I don’t want to take your consent for granted!” Gale’s been told about the worst of Astarion’s sexual history, because while those things never really go away, they’re a fairly distant memory these days. Astarion told him everything about Cazador, and about how he used to be afraid of him. Not anymore. Gale doesn’t need to know why he isn’t really afraid, just that he was and that now he isn’t.

Astarion kisses him. “I like this. What we are. I don’t know exactly what this is, but I like it. You will be the first to know, if that changes.”

Gale tilts his head up to kiss Astarion’s brow, and says, “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ll continue to ask regardless.”

He should have been doing this the whole time. He feels like there are sparkles in his eyes and in his heart, an inverse Fugue Plane where it’s fuzzy but warm and forever. Maybe if he’s just - if he’s just himself, but better, Gale will want to kiss him and hold him every time. It won’t just be when one of them is leading the group, it can be every time.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” Gale says, “Though you may need to… well. You can wait while I get it ready, or come watch if you like.”

Astarion is curious, of course. He’s seen Gale’s projection stand around for whoever he trusts most, leading them into the forest. It usually happens early on, here in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. He’s even gotten the experience before: Gale sitting in a clearing, his canopy of false stars. Rumination on death, his fear of it. Apologies and thanks, the desire to see something beautiful before he dies.

It might not be that. Astarion hopes that it isn’t - if Gale really sets his mind to dying beneath Moonrise, Astarion isn’t sure that he’ll be able to stop him. The dagger isn’t real, is it? It’s something conjured. He couldn’t take it before Gale could use it.

But surely Gale wouldn’t use it, if he has Astarion? Is he worth enough to blindly trust in another solution - is he incentive enough to keep Gale from a martyrdom he believes in?

Gale boops his nose with a finger, and Astarion blinks. Right. He’d been asked a question.

“I’ll come and watch, if that’s alright.” He’s afraid, but he does also enjoy watching Gale cast. The man is meticulous with his rituals and a natural when it comes to conducting the weave to his will. It may be nerd shit, but it really is a delight to watch.

“Excellent. Let’s grab… a blanket. Just so you have someplace to sit besides cursed dirt,” Gale says.

“My hero, protecting my arse and boots from the worst dirts,” Astarion grins, and stoops to pick up his preferred blanket. He’s no idea if he ought to be bringing a change of clothes or a bottle of grease. Is this also wizard flirting, or just stargazing and talking about death?

Distantly, Tara clears her throat.

Gale laughs, not quite sheepish, “I happen to like such things, of course I’ll take care to protect them.”

“You have excellent taste,” Astarion purrs.

They step out into the darkness with magical lights to protect them from the curse, both seemingly knowing where they ought to be going. Astarion’s been here before, and of course Gale must have scoped it out sometime while they were setting up camp.

Like a gentleman, Gale offers to spread out the blanket, which is pretty funny. It’s just a blanket. Astarion settles down to watch the pre-show, making sure to ask questions as Gale works. He knows that Gale loves to explain, loves to know that someone’s interested in the things he cares about. It’s easy to find a genuine interest, when it inspires such an excited wizard.

Gale’s breathing life into the clearing, really - it’s got to be quite a lot of magic, even if it’s mainly illusions. The grass sprouts from the black soil, blanketing the area in green. The trees have leaves again, their bark looking healthier by the moment. The sky is brightened, and not by a dome of moonlight. It’s purples and greens and blues, glittering yellow-white stars. Gale is beautiful, speaking it all into existence, his arms moving with somatics that read almost like a dance. Would that Astarion was any good at this, he’d let Gale teach him for real and go dance with him.

Once it’s done, Gale comes to sit down and enjoy it with him. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, comfortable and close. The wizard speaks up, “I love this time of night. There’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness, when you’d almost believe the dawn will never break.”

Astarion’s heart sinks a little. It is the death talk, isn’t it? It is. He smiles, though, as Gale continues.

“The cradle of eternity. The timelessness of lovers,” and to this, he smiles at Astarion. “That most beautiful of fantasies.”

“It is beautiful. You’ve done a wonderful job of it.” There are false wildflowers and fireflies. So many more details than he’d noticed, the last time he saw it. Perhaps Gale made those special, just for him.

“I wanted to keep this curse at arm’s length. It’s not a trick I can repeat often, but… tonight is different. This may be my last night alive. I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder… and with company to match.” Gale’s somber tone hits him differently, now. He wonders if any of the others ever felt so sympathetic, sitting here with him. Bernie had let him die, the way he thinks he must, so it must have hit him differently, at least.

“I thought this place might bring me peace. I thought that it might make the weight of what I must do feel a little lighter… but I am not so sure.”

He’s not meant to know that it won’t solve anything. Astarion isn’t supposed to know. It’s still easy to say, “Is that really what you want? To die for Mystra, for this cause among all others? You… you are worth more than this. To me, to the people that love you.”

Gale’s expression hardens a bit. “Death is assured, be it early or late. Mystra’s forgiveness is much harder to come by. If you knew the end was near, would you not want to ensure it had meaning?”

Astarion’s gaze lowers. He’s hoped that any of his deaths meant anything, but at this point he’s become certain of the opposite. No death means anything, not his or Gale’s or Yenna’s.

“I am terrified,” Gale continues, “I will not claim otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words sought to deny it. There is no point in running from the inevitable. Better to meet it, on my terms.”

The only inevitability in this world is the Nautiloid. It’s the only thing that returns, again and again and again.

Astarion says, “Nothing is inevitable. We’ll face it together, and you won’t die. You won’t do this, and we’ll find another way.” For all the fear and wavering in his heart, this much comes out with certainty and confidence. He means it. He knows Gale does not have to die here.

He’s ready for that to be the end of it, for Gale to thank him for his time. To stay here and enjoy these stars with him, perhaps a cuddle. There will be no sunrise, but there is always the moon.

Gale seems to think on this, his eyes flicking over to where their hands just barely touch on the blanket. He says, “One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, and prise the fear from my heart. I’m so very glad you came, to share this with me.

“I know this is all unreal, you watched me create it for you… but you must know that you’re… That you’re very special to me.”

This is different. Astarion’s ears are warm, as Gale’s gaze turns back to him, more intense than before, and continues, “If things were different, if we were home… I’d have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better. But time is short.

“I’m in love with you.”

Astarion stares at him. He stares for a long moment, longer than he ought to, long enough to make the both of them nervous. He can see Gale’s hope and wariness on his face. He can drink it as surely as any blood.

Is this a mistake? Are they fools, truly?

But it stands to reason, that if nothing bad matters, and nothing good matters… that he ought to take the good he can. He ought to be selfish, he ought to take it for what it’s worth.

Gale is in love with him.

“I’m in love with you, too,” he says, voice cracking.

The wizard laughs a little, a nervous exhalation that he quickly recovers with a soft smile. “That’s a relief. It would be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself.”

None of this is to any kind of script Astarion knows, and he’s grateful for it. Anything new is good, anything good is sacred. Gale turns to meet him for a kiss, and Astarion bumps their noses together as they part. He could count the freckles on Gale’s face, if the man would stay still to let him.

It seems that Gale has other ideas, though, pushing himself to his feet with a quiet excitement. He says, “I want it to be perfect - to bond with you in the way that gods do… intertwining our spirits in visions of the Weave.”

The hairs on the back of Astarion’s neck raise, and he smiles as he joins the man in standing. This is a very Gale thing to want. He doesn’t really - Astarion doesn’t really want to be compared to Mystra, of all people. He searches Gale’s pretty face for the meaning, and decides that it must be more about the Weave than the Gods. More about that connection than it is about his familiarity with this act.

Astarion isn’t even totally sure that this is sex, but he is sure that Gale will enjoy it. If Gale is enjoying himself, there’s nothing else to want for.

“Show me.”

Gale raises a hand, and the illusions that veil the entire clearing shift a sparkling purple as he rewrites the scene. “How about the perfect night in Waterdeep? Let’s imagine how it would be.”

The room is warm and dark. Cozy. More than one desk, uncountable books. He spies half a dozen places that Tara might curl up comfortably while Gale reads or writes.

“The scene is this: you and I stand in the room that is the center of my universe. The sculptures, the paintings, the walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books. The grand piano plays the Lliirian Suites all by itself, and as we look out beyond the arches that lead to the terrace, we see the weary sun take its daily dive into the sea.”

Astarion winces, as the doors open and the bright sunlight shines on his skin. It’s not real, and he hasn’t been badly hurt by the sun in a very long time, but… if this were real, if he were Gale’s lover in Waterdeep and none of the looping through his adventure had happened… the sun would be hurting him. He’d be a vampire, cowering in a corner as Gale apologized for the burns.

Luckily, this falsehood strapped with lies is much more romantic.

They step out onto the little deck together, watching a ship sway on the water. Gale is quite the illusionist. It’s a shame he has to lean so hard into evocation while they’re fighting.

He sits on a little bench, and then scoots to make room as Gale turns to look at him. It holds his weight, just as real as anything else.

“My favorite spot,” Gale says. “Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.” He comes to sit beside Astarion on the bench. The breeze brushes his skin, none of this rings false. When the moment is perhaps less charged, Astarion’s going to throw enough compliments at Gale to light up all of Waterdeep with wizard hubris.

There’s a book on the table, and it strikes Astarion as obvious and intentional. On the cover, a couple embraces, nude and artful. Perhaps not tasteful. He likes it, though.

“You’d read all night? This book, or another?” His tone is teasing, but curious.

“Perhaps not always this one, though it’s quite the read,” Gale laughs. “It’s called ‘The Art of the Night.’ It details the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen. They turned everything they did into an art. The art of conversation. The art of taste, time honored and newly acquired. The art of the body. The exploration of the self and the other. The art of the night itself.

“I say we take a page from their book.”

Astarion’s cheeks are warm. Newlyweds. Would that they could be such. Would that he could ever call Gale his own, for any real length of time. He wants to. It wouldn’t matter, it would all be gone the next time they met, but he’d remember. He’d hold it in the aching place in his heart, where their love ought to live.

“We aren’t newlyweds,” Astarion murmurs, in a way that he hopes does not put a damper on Gale’s setting the scene. 

“Then we’ll start writing the prequel,” Gale grins, looking pleased with himself for saying it. “What do you say?”

“Mm. I don’t see a bed,” Astarion says, tucking a curl behind his ear. It’s a challenge, not a refusal.

“The stars will be our bed,” Gale says, “Come here.” He lays the book open on the bench between them, the pages on sigils with handprints at their center. Gale places his own hand on one of them, and as Astarion places his hand in the other position, the two of them slip loose from their bodies. Shimmering, translucent forms, free of clothing and free of gravity.

“Why confine ourselves to the pleasures of mortal flesh? It is but one stitch in the vast tapestry. Let me show you more,” Gale says, as they drift upward and away from the reality of Gale’s home. Into the stars, as Gale promised.

This is better than any of the other out-of-body experiences Astarion has had. He’s no soul echo, nor a ghost haunting his own shambling body. He’s free, and pure, and Gale is looking at him like a perfect thing.

“Show me more. Show me all of it,” Astarion breathes.

Gale smiles at him, and takes his hand. The two of them embrace there, in the stars, kissing. Gazing into each other’s glowing and starry eyes. It’s vast and empty and beautiful, and Gale has eyes only for him. The world has never been so distant.

The wizard says, “When you wake, it will be back at our camp, back in our small, dirty, bloody patch of existence. But stay with me now. There are endless worlds out there. Countless ways to declare love. Infinite ways to express it. Too much for one night… but we shall try.”

Together, they twist and float, and Gale really does seem happy. He doesn’t know it, but this is actually… a new way to make love, even for Astarion. He’s been party to all manner of acts, giving and receiving, better and worse. Every part of his body. Nobody but Gale has touched his soul.

Their hands become one, and for an instant, Astarion feels alive again. He feels everything Gale feels, and it overwhelms any concern that Gale might feel what Astarion feels in return. At the moment, though, most of what he’s feeling is love, adoration, and genuine awe. One arm becomes three, and all six come round to hold Astarion as their middles shift into each other.

It’s not a normal ecstasy, it’s not the slow-building pleasure of a hand on his cock. It’s all-encompassing. He’s at a loss for words as they tumble, up is down is up is the way that Gale wants.

Gale is not so lost when it comes to speaking. He’s murmuring gentle praise from every direction, kissing Astarion’s skin with two or three different beautiful faces. It’s insane, truly, but Astarion can’t help being pleased. This is Gale at his most Gale. He’s not a normal man at all, he’s a terrifyingly powerful wizard. The world is just lucky that this wizard is transfixed on him. If anyone could really see it all burn, it would be Gale.

He loses track of time and limbs and words.

Astarion wakes up in his own tent, clothed and cozy beneath his blankets, with Gale curled around him. He isn’t sore at all, just… content. Comfortable. Happy.

If that wasn’t enough to convince Gale to stay and  live, he’s not sure what would be.

Chapter Text

They do talk about it.

Astarion is much more willing to talk, when it means he earns Gale smiles in return. Nothing should be transactional, but there’s a part of him that will always see relationships as social exchanges. Insert sweet words, receive safety. Do what is asked, and in return you are not harmed. Gale isn’t like that, but that doesn’t stop Astarion having the thought now and then.

He’s watching Gale eat breakfast, offering Tara bits of egg from his plate. The others are giving them a wide berth, which makes Astarion wonder what they must have looked like, Gale carrying him back into camp last night. Perhaps he’d used magic. Perhaps he’d been fully out of magic, and had to do it like a newlywed across a threshold.

“Have you ever walked out to the very edge of a great precipice,” Gale says, conversational, “And shuddered at how easy it would be to step into the void?”

Astarion lounges across a pillow, letting himself be warmed by the morning’s fire. Dozens of times, he’s considered a premature end to any given adventure. It’s startlingly easy to die, after all. Even without Gale knowing his recent, new traumas, he knows about the old ones. “All too well,” he says.

“Mm. Ever since Elminster told me of Mystra’s… expectations of me, I have felt like I’ve been walking along such a cliff face, with a great drop to nothingness never out of my sight. But… you - you led me away from the edge.

“Without your words, without your touch… I fear I would have sought purpose and solace in that void. You reminded me what living can feel like.” Miss Tara is purring, curling up politely beside Gale’s leg as he finishes his meal. Astarion will take that as a form of approval.

“It was nice to live without my body for a bit, but I’m sure that’s not the living you mean,” Astarion smiles. “I’m glad to hear you say it, though. Let’s… focus on that feeling. I need you to stay, and steel that resolve.”

“Indeed,” Gale says, “I’ll guard my resolve like a lit flame in a… well, in a gale.”

Astarion breaks into delighted laughter, and Gale seems glad that the lame turn of phrase has brought him some joy. Scratch appears and licks Gale’s plate clean. It’ll get a proper washing later.

Gale reaches over to run a hand through Astarion’s hair, looking at him quite fondly. “I hope the end is much further away than I had previously suspected. I hope that night meant as much to you as it did to me. And I hope we will have more time together. Alone.”

Tara sighs loudly and leaves, as if they’re about to put on a show in the middle of camp. Maybe they are!

Astarion leans into Gale’s hand, kissing his palm. “It was wonderful. We’ll have more nights like that. Perhaps mundane ones, as well.”

“I’ll see that we do. Woe betide anyone who tries to stop me.”

This man does things to him. Physical and otherwise.

Soon, they’ll need to rise and greet the dark and dreary day for real. Soon, they’ll work their way through Moonrise, they’ll likely reunite Thaniel and Oliver, and they'll free Aylin.

But it’s all new. It’s all fresh and wonderful. Astarion has missed… being loved. Being understood, as much as he ever can be. Being cherished, being adored. Gale says things like woe betide anyone who tries to stop me, and it goes straight to his gut, in a way that no Cazador-compelled tryst ever could. Gale is capable of such terrible things, and he’d use anything at disposal to keep Astarion safe. To keep him, period.

They make their way through the rest of the curse and its horrors. Gale absorbs a piece of the Shadow Weave from one of the Thorms, which Astarion has never seen happen before.

Back in Balthazar’s lab, in the sideroom that Astarion deftly ‘disables’ each go around, he watches as Gale weighs using the spell circle versus destroying it. Tara had been upset about the Shadow Weave, Astarion is more willing to pull her name into it than Mystra’s. When the wizard destroys the sigils, it seems that Mystra blesses him, even.

It’s fascinating to Astarion, to think that she might watch so closely, even here where the gods who aren’t Shar or Myrkul tend to be deadened. Not that Astarion would know from personal experience, he’s almost always traveling with a bunch of godless idiots and Shadowheart. She is an idiot who has a goddess, at least.

He’s asked the others about their worship, here and there. The gods have long forsaken him, of course, but he’s curious about their overall allyship with the divine.

Karlach’s parents were simple and humble. Pray to any good-aligned god relevant to the task at hand. Thank them with offerings, when things work out. She herself hasn’t any love for the gods that let her be sold off by Gortash, but she appreciates the prayer of friends that are more devout. The gods still bring her comfort, so long as they’re invoked by people she actually loves.

Wyll and his father are human, with the latter going hard toward militaristic pursuits. There are many just gods to do with fighting, it’s a matter of preference or race. An elf might follow Corellon Larethian, a nice and respectable god of magic and war and genderfuckery, but good human boys might like Tyr or Torm. It seems that they aren’t overly religious, or that certainly Wyll hasn’t shown special attention to any of them since his exile. After all, shouldn’t some god or other have offered him a better bargain than Mizora?

Shadowheart is Shadowheart, and Lae’zel is Lae’zel. They’re so tied up in their religious traumas that you’ll get one answer at the beginning of their journey, and another at the end, no matter which way they go.

Jaheira once followed Silvanus, as many druids do… or at least lived among Silvan druids. She and Minsc have seen too much godly meddling in their time to do much active prayer. It must be flattering, though, to know the gods take any interest in your affairs.

Gale’s relationship with Mystra is the most complicated of all, being so personal and so direct. Over time, Astarion’s gone from disinterest, to distaste, and these days casual acceptance of the Mother of Magic and her situation with the wizard he loves. It had been easy to be angry with her. Easy to hate her for her part in Gale’s misery, for her role in bringing him to such a state. However… the more he thinks about Mystra, the more he understands that this is what she does. One can no more begrudge a rising tide or setting sun.

That doesn’t make her treatment of young and talented mages good or correct, but there’s no use getting torn up about it. More people ought to take the approach that Minsc’s people do. Hide away your younger mages, lest she take an interest. The power she’ll offer is great, but it is no more free than any warlock pact or devil’s deal.

If Gale is happy with how things have ended, when it’s all said and done, Astarion won’t curse her name, is all.

She’s not their enemy. And today she blesses Gale for his good and correct magic-boy decisions. Good for him.

In the Mindflayer Colony, Astarion does pull Gale aside to kiss him before they can descend. It’s not quite the kneeling and unlacing his trousers that Astarion had imagined, back with Bernie and the detonation here, but it’s still good. They’re high on having saved Zevlor and reunited with Us, and Gale still seems quite eager to live. To see this through in a different way. To hold Astarion.

They leave the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and Astarion feels healed in a way that he usually has not. His heart is mended and made better by Gale’s careful hands. They’re in love, together. Gale brought his things to stay in Astarion’s tent. Who knows where the man’s own tent is, but Astarion doesn’t mind it one bit.

After the whole Dream Guardian reveal is through, they’re in Rivington again. Yenna is in camp, making soup. She’s a good kid, really. Not quite as charming as Mattis, in Astarion’s opinion, but she’s got a paring knife and she’s proud to tell you so. Any child who can handle a knife is good by him.

Astarion feels like he’s getting to watch and learn Gale in whole new ways, now that they’re committed to one another. They go on little dates some evenings, to people-watch at the brothel or try on new clothes. They go to the circus, and for the first time he actually wants to hear what Zethino has to say about love. They meet each other in the middle, on the log, and that somehow holds more meaning to him than any number of overheard proclamations near the Netherbrain.

They still have to sneak away from camp to do anything more than kiss - their friends would’ve given them a hard time anyway, but with Yenna at camp… it’s for the best, that they do not overdo it.

He learns what Gale likes, when Astarion uses his tongue. Gale seems to take great pleasure in studying Astarion’s blood pressure and temperature, absolutely teasing him to the brink just to find out how that works, when one is not quite alive. They dance among the stars as well as under them, laughing quietly as they return to camp, hand in hand.

For science, Astarion does bite Gale. The flavor isn’t much better than Araj’s, but it does have the advantage of being Gale’s. He drinks Gale’s blood for the pleasure of being close, of not needing to go hunt hypothetical game in the starving countryside or big city. There won’t be any large animals in the city, he’s usually drinking of enemies by then, but this time he’ll be supplemented by a loving wizard. The dose makes the poison, it’s not harming him.

They have an amulet that provides Lesser Restoration anyway, what other use could it possibly have, if not to ensure that Gale is in good shape after providing blood? Obviously.

These things become rituals. Gale helps him buckle his leathers in the morning, Astarion pats down the flowing wizard robes until they lay right and respectable. What started as a joke has become them fixing one another’s hair before setting out. Astarion hasn’t seen his face since his last Ascension, but he knows he must look lovely under his lover’s care.

In short: they’re gross.

Astarion has never been happier.

He thinks this might be it. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but so many of these things have never happened before, to him or to anyone.

Gale takes him on a boat to see a conjured Elysium, and talks about becoming a god. Astarion gently walks him away from that cliff, too. It’s not that he wouldn’t love to see Gale usurp the pantheon or his former lover, those would be delightful things to witness.

It’s that he doesn’t want to be left behind.

The wizard talks about elevating him, too, but he’s been the nearest thing to a god that someone like him could be. Astarion’s been the Vampire Ascendant, a thing that he imagines is almost a minor deity, a demigod or somesuch. That guy is an asshole, a worse version of himself. Astarion doesn’t want to be a god.

And he wouldn’t want Gale to be one, if it meant staying normal and broken while he went on to do amazing things.

It’s selfish. But then, Astarion is allowing himself to be selfish, this time.

Gale agrees to set aside these ambitions for him. Perhaps he can prove himself some other way, or redeem himself without needing to undertake anything so extreme. If he reforges the Crown of Karsus, he won’t keep it. He promises Astarion that he won’t.

Atop the Netherbrain, and then the docks that follow.

Gale disappears, quite literally, while the sun comes out to burn Astarion’s skin.

Astarion goes to wait it out in the nearest safe place, rather than any of the more sheltered places he’s come to prefer, waiting for Gale. Gale promised, after all, that he wouldn’t keep the Crown. Mystra must have spirited him away, but surely she’ll put him back.

Hours pass. Minsc offers him a parasol. Astarion takes him up on it, amused when the large man returns with a cute white-laced thing. It won’t offer any real protection from the sun, but it does widen the shade he’s sitting in, at least.

Gale finds him around sundown, looking relieved. Looking very tired.

Astarion asks, “What happened back there, darling? Not that I’m angry, or anything.”

The wizard still has a smile to spare for him, “I didn’t get much warning from Her. She wanted to talk. It was… strange. Different than when we spoke through her statue at the Stormshore Tabernacle. I hadn’t done anything with the Crown yet, as you know, and yet… for a moment, I was that god we spoke of. That Netherese god of foolish ambitions. Skin all silver, wearing a robe I think I bought you at Figaro’s.”

“And… I’m guessing it went alright, since you’re here,” Astarion ventures. This is confusing.

“Yes. Well. I entrusted the Crown to her, forsaking all of that. It was the right choice - as soon as that power was gone from my form, I could feel the relief again. It had felt good, but only while it was there and present. I’m not sure that makes any sense.”

Astarion shakes his head, “Maybe not to others, but I understand you completely.” Ascension is a heady thing. It wouldn’t be hard to get addicted to it. Not everyone has the luxury of returning to what they were before.

“By the time I returned, of course, everyone had long since left the pier. I went to the Elfsong and found it half-broken and our rooms inhabited by Scratch and Shadowheart, along with her parents. They told me you’d hidden from the sun.

“Are you alright?” Gale reaches to hold his hand, turning it over. The skin there is still strange, not quite healed from the blue-flaking ash of the sunlight. His face has a similar look about it.

“I’m fine,” Astarion says. He’s fine now, he’s been through worse.

Gale kisses it better all the same, the back of his hand, and then his cheek and temple. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you. Now that the sun’s cooperating, though… would you like to come back with me? I’ve gotten us a private room.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more. Assuming there’s a bath as well.”

“As luck would have it, there is a bath! I thought we’d share one.”

“Perfect,” Astarion smiles.

They reaffirm their love, they talk about the future. Gale asks him to marry him and move to Waterdeep.

Astarion’s nose wrinkles a little, at the notion of moving. As sick as he is of the city, it’s the only place he really knows. Gale doesn’t seem too bothered, though - he’s happy wherever Astarion is. His mother will be excited to hear about it. He’ll tell her come morning, and it’ll spread to the rest of the Dekarios clan.

The two of them lay together in a nice, well-curtained bedroom… engaged, in love, well-fucked and well-fed. Astarion tries to stay awake - like maybe sleeping has been the problem, the trigger. He wants this one. It was a good one, he’s happy, damnit. Happier than he deserves.

He lies awake all night, afraid to even trance lest it all disappear. Astarion blinks.

He wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid, and draws a line through the notion that any of this hinges on anything that he wants.

Chapter Text

It's fine. He’s fine. It’s fine.

He pulls Gale from the stone and listens as he introduces himself as Gale of Waterdeep, stranger.

Of course Gale wouldn't remember. He doesn't remember the worst of Astarion, he won't remember the best of him. He won't remember the promises to take him to meet Morena Dekarios, to try and True Resurrect Astarion to life, to keep him safe from everything he fears.

Gale smiles at him with the friendliness of a new ally. Not a lover, not a promise.

Perhaps it had been a mistake. Astarion smiles back as they chat and wait for someone to round the corner and find them, but his heart isn't in it. He’s from Baldur’s Gate, he was a tedious magistrate. Nobody you’d have heard of, never you worry about it.

Their new stranger is a twinkish sorcerer called Aura who warns that their magic is prone to mishaps. Gale gets that look in his eyes that he gets when he wants to study someone. Astarion doesn’t know what to do. What to say.

He does a lot of hiding. He doesn’t really want to be found. He still leaves Gale artifacts, but never mentions it, never admits to being the mysterious benefactor. It’s stupid. He’s stupid.

It goes some kind of way. Aura turns out to be a Bhaalspawn somewhere between Luvine and, he guesses, Darrus? They’re not exactly a good person, but they also aren’t a slave to misery. They’re nice to Gale.

Astarion doesn’t know what to do, watching Gale fall in love with someone else. They talk about magic together, bickering and comparing notes and long nights philosophizing about the Weave. Maybe this person is a better match. They look happy together.

When they’re camping across from Last Light and Gale’s projection greets Aura at the wizard’s tent, Astarion can’t even let himself process it.

Maybe love isn’t real.

Or, maybe he doesn’t know what love is. His persists, his love for Gale and for his family. At this point, that’s what they are, more than friends or companions. Astarion’s is perhaps the only real love, and he was never made to hold so much of it.

He goes to talk to Shadowheart, even though they’re deep in the throes of her main-character syndrome.

“Without talking too much about Shar,” he says, already sitting down in her personal space, “I need to work through something to do with loss. You’re a cleric - you’ll help me.” It’s not a question. He’s already here, Astarion isn’t going to do this halfway.

She looks at him with genuine bafflement, and then quickly cools her expression into something more aloof. He realizes that this is, perhaps, the first conversation he’s bothered to have with her, this time. Astarion might as well be mute, for how little he wants to talk with anybody. Every sentence becomes an aching word vomit, hauling up butterflies and frogs and his heart. Ugh. No, it’s best he just suffers in silence.

Except for this, right now. Maybe she can help him.

Probably not, but if anyone could… right?

Shadowheart clears her throat. “What exactly have you lost? Or, rather, are you expecting to lose something? Is this a past, present, or perhaps a future problem, Astarion?”

He stares at his hands. All of the above. That won’t help. “Let’s say it’s a present issue. Is there such a thing as cleric confidentiality - will you tell the others if I just fully tell you what I’m troubled by?”

She scoffs, “I’m an excellent keeper of secrets. It’s one of our core tenets. I should be offended that you’d even ask.”

Astarion sighs. “I’m in love with Gale. So the present loss is: him.”

Shadowheart takes a moment. He watches her eyes flick from Gale’s empty tent to the direction that Aura had walked, the glow of Gale’s veil of stars through the cursed trees.

“Oh. That’s… quite the predicament you find yourself in,” she murmurs. Her posture conveys a more apt meaning: fucking yikes.

He puts his head in his hands.

Shadowheart pointedly does not reach out to comfort him in any way. Such is the princess baby of loss. She says, “Well. What are you looking for, in terms of a solution? Loss comes in many forms, after all. You’ve already had the worst of it, the pain, but I assume you’re hoping to lessen that? Seeing as you aren’t Sharran.”

Astarion’s going to make a Shar Jar that Shadowheart has to put a copper into every time she brings up her goddess after he asked her to avoid it. He’ll be rich, even once she swaps sides here in two seconds. He says, “I just feel like… and this isn’t the first painful thing to happen to me, obviously, but I feel like all I do is suffer. I want to discover a purpose to that, or to stop feeling it. It’s awful.”

She smiles a little. “I’ll admit, I don’t know overmuch about love lost. If I ever took lovers, they’re lost to the memories I cannot know. Maybe they hurt, maybe they didn’t. Lady Shar takes care of it, either way, in letting me lose the experience entirely.

“To that end, the simplest way to stop feeling such a thing… is to forget it. What you no longer know cannot hurt you.”

The dramatic irony of what she’s saying isn’t lost on him, and in fact it does manage to get him smiling in turn. Not at the advice, which is terrible, but at her genuine attempt to help him. She’s a good kid.

Sub-fifty is a kid, if you’re even a little bit of an elf. He makes the rules.

Astarion runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure we have the means to make that happen, unless you’re offering to hit me with a mace until I don’t know my name anymore.”

Shadowheart laughs, a tittering thing, “You may be safe from regular sunlight, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t much enjoy taking the Blood of Lathander to your face. I might enjoy my end of it, though.”

“Oh, to be beaten to death by the party’s dedicated healer.”

“You should hope to be so lucky,” she teases. “But truly - is this something you want to carry with you? These losses, these pains? It’s holy to lose the pain just as it is to feel it. Loss of any kind is laudable, depending on the angle you approach it from.”

At her question - wanting to carry it or not, that is - Astarion stops himself from automatically answering. Of course he wants to keep it and carry it. He’d rather die for real than forget Gale’s smiles and love and care. He’d rather do this a thousand times and be heartbroken than never know what Gale sounds like as he talks about inviting the extended Dekarios clan to their wedding that will never happen.

The pain is unbearable, but he’d rather bear it than lose it.

“I want to carry it,” he admits. This all must seem unhinged to her. She’s probably seen him speak to Gale all of three times, and here he is, baring his soul to her over him. Calm down, Astarion, good gods. (Evil gods?)

“Mm. Then rather than hoping that it won’t hurt anymore, you ought to lean into how it hurts, why it hurts. If you love him so strongly, consider the alternative. Remember why you want to hold that pain. Take care of that feeling - only you get to decide if it is allowed to heal, or if it stays raw, or if it festers and rots.”

“Rotten feelings,” Astarion echoes.

She smiles, shrugs a little. “I’m told that even without pain, they’re quite a thing to bear. Is there anything else I can help you with, Astarion?”

“No, that’s plenty of depression for one evening,” he laughs. “Thank you, though. And please, don’t tell anybody?”

Shadowheart shakes her head, “Cleric confidentiality. Take care, you poor thing.”

He’s still numb, in between bouts of aching and longing pain, but it does help a little. Despite all odds. The hurting means that it was real, and that he wants to keep it. When he stands before the broken Mirror of Loss in the Gauntlet, he knows that he won’t be compelled to give anything up to the working one. Just like the sins and the smiles, these are his things to bear. This is his broken heart.

Gale says a lot of the same things to Aura that he’d said to Astarion. Perhaps every version of him is made of that cheese that only sounds genuine because he’s Gale. Still, when he can’t help eavesdropping, he’s pleased to note minor differences. Special words that Aura never got, or secrets that Gale doesn’t seem to have told them.

This is all healthy behavior, he’s sure. Paying close attention to words that hurt him? Definitely a great way to get through this. Gale's voice is too vital to ignore. 

In the city, because they haven’t rented out the Elfsong, they’re making camp in the dockside alleys. He holds his tongue as Gale sets up his tent so close to Astarion’s that they could touch. Gale’s rug and Astarion’s cushion end up in the space between. Gale sets a lanceboard atop the cushion, seeming to indicate that they ought to play. They never have, in this life. Astarion’s barely spoken to the man.

Astarion makes the very healthy choice to go wander his old haunts and see if anybody wants to fuck him, rather than play chess with the wizard.

They don’t want to fuck him, it turns out, because even as pretty as he is, he’s very obviously miserable and doesn’t want to go home with a stranger. It’s pathetic. He’s not proud. This isn’t even justified, like going out hunting at night would be. He wouldn’t even have drained someone after sex, like he’d always wanted to before the Nautiloid.

When he returns to camp, he finds that Gale’s fallen asleep near enough to the rug and cushion to read much too much into it. Maybe he’s wrong and Gale does care about him. Gale’s a good person. He can care without loving Astarion. Pacing doesn’t help. Petting the dog doesn’t help. Considering another position for his tent might help, but he can’t find any place that isn’t the weird little temple. If they get the Elfsong rooms, he knows Gale will pick the bed right beside him, there, too.

This isn’t fair. The old him would have hated Aura. The old him was a catty bitch who wanted to stir the pot, wanted to boil a frog more for the suffering than the food. But then again, what happened the last time he gave into the urges to burn it all down?

It had all burned down.

Astarion sighs, and makes sure that Gale is covered up with a blanket, at least. Poor guy’s on permanent-party duty, the last thing he needs is to catch a cold. Nevermind that they have two druids and a cleric who could all kiss it better.

He sits and watches Gale sleep.

He can’t decide if it would hurt more or less, to give up on these feelings. Not to give them up, mind, but to simply accept that it cannot work out. Gale can’t return his love in a way that is equal. He can’t make up the difference, even if he falls and falls for Astarion. The vampire doesn’t love to sit and do math, but he’s not crazy - it couldn’t add up.

Maybe he could bring Gale into this eternity. Maybe if he were smarter, or stupider. Astarion doesn’t know how to begin to try, it’s not like he knows why this is happening. He doesn’t know how it begins any better than how it ends. Did it start when he was first abducted, or when he first woke up after Tav? Were there forgotten times before that, or does he know everything that’s happened to him?

And what happens, if Gale does begin to remember? Does he remember all of it, or just some? Astarion cannot risk Gale knowing all of it. Not if he wants half a chance of ever being loved by this man again.

So that’s that.

Most of the Bhaalspawn leadership make a beeline for Orin upon entering the city. Aura does follow this pattern, but seemingly out of whimsy, rather than concern for Lae’zel’s safety. Everything is random and lighthearted, in the eyes of the thief of wizard hearts.

These days, the sorcerer makes the wild magic surge with every spell that anybody casts. Astarion has no idea how Gale tolerates it, but clearly he must think it’s really cool and not super annoying. Astarion has been turned into a cat five times in six fights, and fought probably a dozen mephits and cambions that were summoned for seemingly no reason. At least one of those times, Cazador had been a cat too. Small mercies. Perhaps if he felt like it, he could decide that this was a reason to hate Aura, but at this point his heart is too busy with other things to hate them.

Gortash comes to meet them at the Morphic Pool. Astarion thinks it would be really cool if there was a messy drama to do with Aura having dated Enver Gortash in the past. Wouldn’t it be neat if this was entertaining instead of awkward? Anyway.

It is kind of interesting, at least, to watch the Absolute simply command Gortash to die. Just like that. Things he’ll have to keep in mind, if he ever does any backstabbing to become the Absolute. He’s pretty sure that would just make him miserable, but he might enjoy commanding people to die for a few minutes before getting bored.

The brain stem. More or less the last step before a fight and the docks and an end.

Gale reminds them that he can do this. He can use the orb, and see it ended, and let them all live and be safe. Astarion bites his tongue, like he has for months. It’s not his place to tell Gale to do or not do anything. He’s not Astarion’s fiance, he’s not his lover, he’s barely his friend. The lanceboard setup followed them to the bed table between their Elfsong bunks, and Astarion had not sat down to play a match.

They’re comrades, at the very best.

Aura considers the offer. They don’t seem happy to be making such a choice, but they clearly are putting thought into it. Some chatter, some argument. Are you sure, yes I’m sure, let me do this for you. Astarion considers getting a head-start on the climbing, he hates how long this thing is, but it sure would be awkward if Gale won the argument and he was halfway up.

“If you’re going to do it,” he finally says, “You ought to go ahead and do it. Together or separate, make a choice before the damned thing moves.”

Gale and Aura both stop to look at him.

And the wizard nods, “It would be a waste to lose this strategic positioning while we’re standing here arguing about it. Please. Let me do this for you, my love. I can go easy, knowing you’ll be safe.”

Astarion is using everything in his power not to bolt. He’s holding the pain, he’s keeping the pain, it’s his and nobody can take it from him, it’s fine and he’s allowed to have it.

Aura nods sadly, and kisses Gale one last time. They hug him, and right - Jaheira is here for some reason. She also hugs Gale, calls him a good cub, and thanks him for this sacrifice.

Astarion does not move. Gale finally does that look, where he looks like he wants to study Astarion, where he doesn’t understand him but wants to.

Gale spirits the other three of them to safety, and after a few moments, the Netherbrain lifts up into the sky. Astarion pretends he can see the tiny wizard climbing and climbing alone, but his timing is off. The whole thing blows up, high enough in the sky that they really are quite safe. Everybody else lives. Happy ending, he guesses, at the cost of a perfectly good Gale.

But hey, that’s how big the Netherese explosion is. It’s good to know. 

It’ll all be over soon. He doesn’t say goodbye to Aura or Jaheira, he just goes to sit in their rooms in the Elfsong and look at the lanceboard set. Puts one of the pawns into his pocket. Astarion thinks he should get some kind of award for sticking around, is all.

The pod on the Nautiloid is a relief, again. It’s the one that opens. Astarion sighs.

He has a deeply stupid plan.

Chapter Text

Astarion sits and pets Us for a while after freeing it, ignoring the protests of We must get to the Helm! At the helm we are needed! It can echo around in his brain for a moment, the gith and fiends can attack the ship. He needs to think.

Saving everyone: doesn’t work.
Killing everyone: doesn’t work.
Leaving without the artifact: squid hell, doesn’t work.
Leaving with the artifact: as of yet, untested.

The question is… how to get it. Is he willing to kill Shadowheart for it, before their adventure together even begins. It’ll forsake the lot of them, if he doesn’t bring them along, but maybe he can make it right afterwards, somehow. Or just learn, better than the extermination had, what happens if things get truly broken.

His hand is sticky. If he pulls Gale from the stone, he won’t be able to leave the man to die. For one, emotionally. For another, explosionally. It’ll destroy the whole area, if Gale dies out here… though he’s less sure about what would happen to the orb, if Gale became a mindflayer. Karlach’s engine had been negated, perhaps the orb would also disappear in the transformation.

What would Gale choose, if he had a choice? Trapped in the portal until he dies, the explosion safely going off where nobody else can be hurt? Or to lose himself, to become a soulless monster, and probably begin to attack innocent people out here in the sticks?

It’s a hard decision. The third option is to take Gale, alone, with him… but that’s only going to ruin his resolve. They won’t get his orb fixed, Gale doesn’t know to love him, and he doesn’t know what all will break when he leaves. No, Gale coming along would be a liability for the both of them.

Astarion sighs, and gets up to let the rest of the Nautiloid play out, wiping his hands on his trousers. He frees Shadowheart, mainly so she’ll land beside him on the beach.

And when he does wake, he is so very careful as he steals the artifact from her. It always would have come to him, but he doesn’t have the time to wait for that, or the luxury of making friends.

He has to know what’s happening in the city, while they bumble about in the woods.

Astarion doesn’t ask Gandrel for a ride, but does make for the swamp. Mayrina Vinderblad’s little rowboat is here, after all. She’s busy being bullied into eating spoiled tarts by a hag, she won’t notice it’s gone.

The rowing takes a few days before it starts to feel like he’s making progress down the Chionthar. Maybe he ought to have borrowed someone with literally any muscles and asked them to do the rowing… but, then what?

His so-called Dream Guardian is very, annoyingly chatty. Calling him a fool for trying to do this alone, pointing out that he’s woefully unprepared to fight anything, don’t you want to know what’s going on?

When the Emperor finally gives up and pulls him into a proper dream chat, Astarion levels it with an unimpressed look. Like, yeah, cool brown-haired humanman disguise. Asshole.

“What are you doing?” asks the Emperor, wearing a knockoff Gale Dekarios face and the sluttiest robe in the world.

“I’m going to assassinate Enver Gortash,” Astarion says, examining his daggers. This is a dream, or perhaps just physically within the Astral Prism, but the light glinting off of them is more interesting than looking at not-Gale’s legs. “And then Orin the Red.”

The Emperor frowns at him. “I believe you’re missing several pieces of this puzzle. You’ve left them scattered on the ground like a child having a tantrum.”

“Admittedly, I don’t have a plan for Ketheric.” It’s simple to kill him, if you know how, but going through the Gauntlet on his own would be a pain in the ass. Similarly, he doesn’t anticipate being able to tackle Moonrise or the Mindflayer Colony single-handedly. Not easily, anyway.

But Gortash is just a little man in a big tower. Astarion knows how he dies. Orin can be broken mentally, and then the physical is quite easy. He’s found that it’s actually far easier to kill the Slayer than a bipedal Orin. Rogue-on-rogue violence is dangerous, a dance he has to actually work at to win.

“But you do have a plan?” The Emperor still doesn’t seem to be on-board with it, but its tone has shifted from disdain to interest. “How do you know these names, these targets?”

Astarion points at the Skull of the dead god, the prison that holds the Prince of the Comet. “The same way I know that you’re an illithid, and that the power comes from the githyanki, Orpheus. The way I knew that I needed to bring you along in order not to change.” He smiles, “I’m not going to tell you any more than that, of course. I don’t trust you.”

Thankfully, his calling out of the Dream Guardian form’s lie has the Emperor shifting its appearance back to squiddy reality. Not-Gale’s face and voice had been unnerving. It stares at him with glowing eyes.

“You’re surprisingly adept at keeping me out of your head. Perhaps there was a reason you were taken, then.”

This gives Astarion pause. He’s read the notes on the Astral Prism Heist and interviews between Gortash and the Emperor. He knows that there was some amount of premeditation involved in their various abductions. Not necessarily intentionality, aside from Shadowheart, considering her team had stolen the Prism in the first place, but… gathering a group of them with the intent of opposing the Chosen for the Absolute? He knows about that.

Still, the way the Emperor says that, it makes him wonder if maybe he’s found a new clue about his own problems. These are unique to him, but perhaps someone is to blame.

And perhaps he can strangle them until they’re dead!

He asks, “What do you know of my abduction, then? Who gave the order to take me, was I on some list?”

The Emperor regards him. “I do not believe there was a list, as such. My role was in the gathering, not the selecting, but a great many of the Nautiloid’s passengers were entirely random.

“You, in particular, do not stand out as noteworthy among them. Perhaps my information was outdated, or sabotaged, however. It is clear that you do possess more than the simple potential granted by the tadpole. Your mastery over your mind, and presumably beyond your mind, are unprecedented. You’ve had no opportunities to learn these skills. I would ask you how you know them.”

Astarion smiles sweetly. “Thank you for the compliments, but I’m not telling you that, either.”

It’s nice to have it confirmed, though - he’s been on edge about being found out for ages. Even when it wasn’t Gale, it struck him as odd that nobody would probe deeply enough to see the truth of him. All the excess tadpoles ever do is unlock potential , skills that you could have theoretically learned through the singular tadpole, given time.

Astarion’s got nothing but time. His tadpole is like an extension of himself. He’s a little proud, knowing that not even the Emperor can get into his head for more than conversation. Still, he imagines that the Absolute could, if it felt so inclined.

The Emperor sighs. A very mortal thing to do. “Alright. There’s no easy way for me to return to the other survivors without your help, so I’ll put my trust in you. For now. Do not disappoint me.”

As if Astarion cares whether or not the gaslighting squid is disappointed in him! Imagine.

If anything here is disappointing, it’s realizing that the Emperor doesn’t know anything about how Astarion could be stuck in this looping terror-thing that he’s stuck in. Perhaps it’s unrelated to Mindflayers, despite it starting and ending with them each time. This is just the set dressing of his torment, and not the root cause.

Perhaps if he gets bored, after reaching the city, he’ll start looking into the divine angle. He’s been cursing random gods about it for a while now, but maybe he can figure out which one is responsible. Determine how hard it would be to kill them.  

Rowing takes a while. Once he’s gotten past the Shadow-Cursed Lands, though, at least he knows it’s not too much further.

His plan, in full, is this: eliminate the Banite presence within the city from the shadows. Then, watch to see what Orin does when her own side of their three-pronged plan no longer has any meaning. With no strong hand to guide the city, what will her chaos faction actually contribute to the Absolute’s cause? Will Ketheric still march, without Gortash there to steady the rocking ship?

He’s not sure what he’s hoping will happen, but it’s the best idea he’s had, in terms of trying to fully break open the way that they always approach the Chosen.

They’re always on the back-foot, coming into Rivington. Orin and Gortash always know to expect them, always know that they’ve already managed to conquer the immortal Ketheric Thorm.

This time, they won’t know anything. They won’t know who’s killing them, or why, or how. It’s just one sneaky little bastard who knows all the ways to kill, and everyone who needs to die. Only the cultists, only the Banites and Bhaalists, only the poor souls infected with tadpoles, if he happens to react to their presence while dealing with somebody else.

It’s not a perfect plan. It doesn’t need to be. In fact, it all hinges on the fact that it won’t work.

Astarion doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself, if it does. All of his friends will have died for it, without him having met most of them, even. So he doesn’t think about that. It won’t work, he’ll end up back there with them again, and they’ll never know it ever happened.

He smoothly blends into the city, scaling Wyrm’s Rock and shooting an Arrow of Transposition onto a roof. The only people who would know him are his siblings, and they won’t be out in broad daylight. So long as he doesn’t stick around in the open past sundown, he shouldn’t have anything to worry about from Cazador or the spawn.

And besides - it’s not like he doesn’t know how to kill them, if it comes to that. Perhaps he’ll do it near the end, as a treat to himself.

The Iron Throne would be a mess. If he were trying to save everyone, it would be stop number one in the assassination of Enver Gortash. Unfortunately, as he weighs the effort with the rewards, he realizes that the only reason to bother with it is to save or reunite the Gondians within. Omeluum and Ulder Ravengard won’t be there yet - the former will still be in the Underdark, and the latter is either in Waukeen’s Rest or on his way to Moonrise. That leaves only Gondians beneath the sea.

He even goes to check Umberlee’s temple - there is no extended funeral happening in the Water Queen’s House. Not yet, anyway. Astarion chats up the girl who would be hit by the submersible, interested in just. Knowing her story, if there is one that can’t be gleaned from Speak with Dead.

She isn’t that interesting, but he still puts the interaction in his pocket. It’s something new, and new is always golden and good.

Astarion puts his efforts into the Steel Watch, first. He knows where to steal a couple of fuckoff-big bombs, even if maybe they won’t have much Runepowder with Wulbren’s whole capture and all… inside the empty Ironhand hideout, he finds a few vials of Runepowder, like Philomeen tries to ply them with. It might just do.

He’s not killing every Steel Watcher inside with his own hands - even with the few little fights he’s gotten into since reaching the city, he knows he’d just get smashed beneath one of those huge swords. Instead, he’s sticking to the catwalks of the Foundry, quiet as a cat as he walks the familiar paths and waits for guards to turn away. If he can get the bombs to the central thing and blow it up without setting off the Titan, the whole facility ought to go up in smoke.

Gortash will know that someone is ruining his life’s work, but perhaps he won’t immediately assume that someone wants him dead. And at any rate, there won’t be any Steel Watchers to guard Wyrm’s Rock.

Most of this part of the plan goes off fine. It’s a little dicey, planting bombs that he’s not sure will be sufficient, and it’s not like he has Zanner Toobin here to assure him that anything will work out. Poor guy will probably get blown the hells up today. It’s weird to give a shit about gnomes.

The Foundry explodes, and Astarion manages to slip into the northern half of the Lower City before anyone notices him.

Gortash himself is a lot more of a hassle, in the end. Astarion knows the side routes up to the top, but when he gets there, Enver isn’t actually… there yet. The Banites that hang around are there, and he manages to dispatch them with some difficulty. The Steel Watchers that patrol the top area are crumbled heaps. Astarion has time to just… sit and disable each trap in the space ahead of time. Even the ones up high - he can leisurely stack the furniture in the room to reach them and take them apart.

Is the man aware of what he’s done, is he afraid…?  Or is he simply out of the city, with no idea that he’s lying in wait. Astarion sits up in the bell tower and watches the sky go dark over the smoking ruin of the Foundry.

It takes Enver another two days to turn up, and he does have a fresh Banite entourage. Astarion is the demon living in his walls, though. He can wait for his moment. It’s not like the man doesn’t sleep.

One night, Gortash takes to bed, and wouldn't you know, he still hasn’t checked on the functionality of all of his traps! He doesn’t need guards, he’s the Chosen of Bane in a very secure fortress that definitely keeps its plants trimmed and doors locked. Astarion slits his throat.

Not quite as fun as watching Karlach smash the man into a fine mist, but still pretty satisfying. Astarion pockets his Netherstone and goes to have a chat with a printing press fey about tomorrow’s headlines.

Over the next tenday, he systematically roots out the rest of the Banites he knows about - the ones in the fireworks shop, and their customers throughout the city. Arfur is no great loss, after all. The rest are mainly within the Flaming Fists, so he tails squads and determines who’s guilty, and then takes them out from the shadows.

The Gazette is running a story about Unholy Assassins, which sure seems counter to Orin’s plan to make strings of murders look like Absolutists’ doing. It sure does seem like people are blaming Bhaal for the deaths of Bane-followers!

After most of that’s done, he just picks a good place to sit and absorb underworld gossip. A hood over his pretty hair and a few gold to the barkeep mean that he’s perfectly welcome in the Guildhall. The Zhentarim haven’t infiltrated the space just yet, but the Guild knows what’s going on in their city. Plenty of whispers.

Astarion hears reports of distant mindflayer attacks along the river. Half a dozen illithids managed to mostly wipe out the area’s druid grove. He hopes that Gale managed to stay in the rock, that he isn’t among them, but it’s impossible to know or change, at this point. It’s not like it’s any better, knowing that Shadowheart or Wyll probably turned from within the Hollow.

More relevant to his actual plans, here, and not to his sentimentality… the Bhaalists are freaking out, in and out of the sewers.

Orin is panicking, in her meat.

They’re still killing people, but clearly Unholy Assassin recruitment is going sideways with the newspapers running stories about Bhaalian murder. There’s no steady hand in the city, there’s no individual leader to consolidate power on the fear of the people.

Ketheric is still marching, though. He’d wanted the Nightsong in hand, before doing so, before, but… the plan seems to have changed, with Gortash’s murder. Just outright attacking the city… Astarion isn’t sure to what end. Perhaps this is Ketheric’s previously unnoticed plan to betray the other two - simply drive his horde of ogres and gnolls and goblinoids through the place, abducting anybody strong enough to survive it, and gifting them a tadpole. The army can grow and grow.

This is all speculation. Astarion has no idea, really.

He goes to have a chat with Orin. Tells her about her Grandfather being her Father and her Mother being her Sister. For funsies. He fights her in her bedroom, rather than before the altar and all the chanting followers. It’s as tricky as he’d expected, to try and one-up someone who makes art in the angles of her blades.

Astarion comes away victorious, but quite badly hurt. Another Netherstone in pocket. He won’t be able to stop Ketheric in any way that matters.

Luckily, the Bhaalists respect the assassination of their leader, eyeing each other as they start to shake out who will replace her. They don’t give him any trouble as he drags himself away and toward the docks to the Morphic Pool.

The Emperor is shouting at him, all pretense of friendliness falling away. Some plan this was - it was never a plan at all. None of this works with only two stones, all you’ve done is given the Lord of Bones more corpses to play with. It scolds and yells its disappointment in him, and Astarion tunes it out as he rows the little boat. He’s not going to bleed to death before he gets there, but it might be a close call.

He stumbles to the edge of the pool, two stones in hand, and says, “Come on out, then. I’d like a chat, and then you can kill me. Deal?”

There’s a great shift as the acid of the pool displaces, some of it rising beneath the brain, much of it curving and falling away to the side. The Elderbrain is perhaps not yet the Netherbrain. Astarion isn’t sure how one can tell.

“Hello. I’ve broken you free and helped you, before, as well as broken you free and killed you. I’ve freed you a dozen times. I’d have done it again, but didn’t quite manage.”

“I… have seen. You are… useful.” The huge thing shifts, pulling itself fully free of the acid. “You had… purpose.”

“I’ve done this, I’ve been here and fought you, a dozen times. I’ve been here with different people, and different eyes. I’ve been someone else, and I’ve been the Astarion standing before you. You’re quite smart. I ask you this: For what purpose am I brought here, again and again? Why am I here? If not that purpose, tell me, what is my purpose, in your Grand Design?

“I want to understand. Perhaps you are the only thing that could.”

It’s hard to parse what the Absolute must think of this request. It could be thinking about it, but even the phrase ‘thinking about it’ feels reductive. It’s a massive brain, processing hundreds of thousands of thoughts at once, in ways that will make his brain turn into a paste if he ever tried to understand. He may be bleeding out here, but he’s patient. He can wait, if it has an answer.

The Absolute speaks into his mind, stilted in its usual way. It doesn’t want to have his mind turn liquid just yet.

“Your purpose is… unknown.
Once, it was, freedom. Mine. Yours.
Now, it is… only yours. Never, mine.

“Your cage is… new. Not mine.
Clever. Unseen. Unknown.
Not real, but you, are real.

“I do. Not know it. I should, know it.
You are. Singing the, wrong, song.
Singing loud. Stop.”

Astarion knows he won’t be able to continue this conversation for much longer. The wrong song strikes a chord, though. Like Us in Chop’s butchery, singing the wrong song and upsetting the other intellect devourers. Astarion’s mind is singing the wrong song to the Absolute, now, and it bothers it. It does not like this song.

It’s not enough to make a difference this time, but perhaps it’s something he can sharpen, something he can wield as a blade.

“So my predicament isn’t your doing at all. You don’t even know what it is, because you cannot see or understand it. Is that right?”

“Dozen times, I? Die. I never die.
To die is TO DIE. You live, I… live. Today.
ORIN dead. KILL ORIN again. Again.”

This is going nowhere. He’s not even confusing the damn thing, they’re just speaking two different languages entirely. Astarion doesn’t think he’s going to get anything else productive out of this. Confirmation, perhaps, that the would-be goddess that’s trapped him here sure isn’t the Absolute.

Rather than asking it to kill him outright, he decides to enact one more experiment, here. He’s singing the wrong song, and his mind is at its fullest potential, allegedly. Everything short of an Astral-Touched Tadpole, anyway. Instead of asking, Astarion asserts his will, with two stones in hand and nothing to lose.

“Die,” he commands it, as he’s watched illithids do time and time again in the sky above High Hall.

There’s an otherworldly chuckle bouncing around the huge space of the pools.

“You, first.” It commands him, and Astarion’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Gone before he can even hit the ground.

He wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid. That one had been interesting, but ultimately a wash.

It’s a comfort, honestly, to return to what he knows. A pod that falls out of the sky, a boar that is right to fear him, and a wizard up the hill. Astarion gives him the high five, this time, before pulling him free. He’s gonna do some normal things again for a while! Spend time with his friends. Not forsake them or anything they care about. Just regular things the next few times. Why not enjoy it!

He’ll play lanceboard with Gale, and try to ease himself into a gentleness there. They’ve earned that. He’s earned it anyway! He’s willing to share his earnings.

What he learned last time was: somehow the standard order of operations is the only thing that makes any sense. Ketheric is the hardest Chosen to destroy, so they must do that. Everything else is optional, in terms of sowing chaos in the city.

Gale is chattering away about magical theory, and Astarion briefly considers asking for his opinions on the Red Knight and her stratagems of war. That is what this is, after all. It’s a war they keep fighting, rearranging the pieces.

He’s just not sure if he’s meant to win or meant to lose… And if he’s meant to lose, what that means for him, Astarion, as a person.

Chapter Text

It’s time to be normal, he thinks. For a while anyway. There are a lot of his oldest habits that have fallen to the wayside, for the sake of trying to smooth the ride. There are a lot of things he could be doing, fond memories that can be remade, maybe.

Starting with his vampirism. He hasn’t been desperate-starving like he was with Tav - he knows the humanoids that are safe to bite, he knows where each bear and boar and deer nests in the forest. He hasn’t been driven to hunger in a long time. Astarion certainly hasn’t needed to stoop to biting his friends in the night.

But it’s been a while. Perhaps he ought to try, for old time’s sake. It’s a bonding thing! It’s a trust thing.

Lae’zel is the leader, this time around. Astarion’s never actually bitten her, but her blood’s sprayed across his face often enough to have a reasonable guess as to the taste. It’s a little spicy, maybe, but not bad at all.

She’s tricky to get the jump on, though! It takes him half a tenday to approach her with any certainty that she’s fully asleep.

And even then, as he kneels at her throat, what he’s prepared for is to be threatened or tackled at worst, and at best be offered some blood. He really is a better asset, fed on the blood of thinking creatures - surely Lae’zel would see him as worth the inconvenience.

What he does not expect is for her to wake, grab a flaming shank of wood, and push it into his chest. Almost automatically. It really would be impressive, if he wasn’t falling back, his vision fading to black.

In the Fugue, for a while, he sighs. Perhaps he’d been right, to cut out ‘bite night,’ as Tav had called it with fondness. Or perhaps someone who likes him better (Gale, usually Gale) would have reacted less aggressively.

He waits for it to end or for something else to begin. Eventually, the zombie of him is raised again, a prize to be sacrificed for Cazador.

The ritual hasn’t started, in earnest, when his friends arrive, this time. It’s fascinating. They’ve no recognition of him, of the form that was once him, rotting and ugly now. Lae’zel and Wyll and Gale and Shadowheart, here to kill Cazador… for what reason?

It seems to be a simple distrust of vampires, powerful or lowly, when seen from this angle.

Gale steps onto the space that Astarion’s life channels into. For a moment, he feels that connection - his own power ceasing to flow into Cazador, and instead helping Gale. They hadn’t had a chance to chat, beyond the sigils at the start of this one. Gale isn’t his friend here, nor his enemy. It’s still something of a relief, to watch the back of his robes and hair as they kill the Vampire Lord without him.

It’s also a relief not to feel it, as his corpse’s form shudders and erupts into a pile of viscera! Gross.

Swiftly thereafter, he’s on the Nautiloid again. Good.

That one hadn’t counted, he’d died before they even got to the Blighted Village. Nobody can hold that one against him, Lae’zel was taking every reasonable precaution against a predator at her neck. She was right, actually, to kill him! Good for her!!

He’s fine.

Astarion has been stuck at camp this time, and the new person keeps taking Gale along. This means having his second favorite companion, Scratch, as his best friend. Their conversations are not terribly interesting, but it’s much better than nothing.

This new leader finally does invite him along, one day. He doesn’t have any real armor or weapons, and they’re traveling the Underdark. Astarion is something of an expert on the dangers of, well, all of it. It strikes him that he’s fairly underprepared for the Underdark!

Ah well. Not every stranger can be a master strategist. He’ll be alright.

Karlach is making a face that troubles him, though. Gale was left at camp in order to bring Astarion along. Wyll is looking anywhere else but at him.

Their friend leads them down a remote little cliff-face, between the Spectator’s lair and Ethel’s mushroom rings. How hadn’t he seen this before? It can’t be new… There’s a little skeleton and shells and everything!

There are chanting Kuo-toa, their arms waving and gills trilling. How absolutely interesting, Astarion’s somehow never been here or met these freaks! Are they always here? What are they about?

A hand at the collar of his coat suddenly drags him forward, through all the fish, to an altar. It’s covered in blood. What are they chanting - Bhaal? Bhaal?

No. One of them speaks, invoking Blessed BOOOAL, with great emphasis on the name.

Astarion hasn’t had a chance to fight anything, to do anything, he’s a weapon rusty with disuse and the stranger hauling him has no care for his struggling. He’s like a wet cat, sharp and desperate but ultimately thwarted.

He’s laid out on this altar. Astarion has never been so offended to learn something new about this world. He shouts for Karlach and Wyll, who he realizes now had not even followed them down the cliff-face. Had they known? Do they KNOW?

Astarion is furious. And then he is dead.

This time he’s at least spared the zombie shit - perhaps whatever was left of his soul really did go to the false god BOOOAL… or perhaps it went to Bhaal, because the fish people are idiots. This one stings.

After the Nautiloid and the recruitment, Astarion pouts. It’s not even brooding, he’s just annoyed. He’s probably also annoying! C’mon, folks, let’s jump down this hole I know about and slaughter a bunch of fish!  

He’s starting to lose it. It’s one thing to genuinely try and genuinely fail to escape. It’s another thing entirely to have it taken out of his hands again and again.

Despite his irritability and general unpleasantness, the new stranger seems to take a shine to him. Great! Awesome, even! Wow, what an honor.

Astarion isn’t quite his worst self, he’s several tiers below that, but he doesn’t really care if he sucks. He says the funny things to make himself laugh, and their new friend laughs too. The bard turns up dead again, so he knows they’re dealing with a Bhaalspawn, and it’s just… hilarious! It’s soooo funny. Why is this his life? His unlife? Maybe it’s his afterlife! He’s already a faithless brick! Ha!

Why is this his over and over and over again bullshit nonsense HELLS. Is it even a cage? At least a cage has a fucking door! It has locks to pick, or bars to bend! This is somehow worse - it never ends, it never ends!

He may be having a mental break of some kind. Wouldn’t that be fucking hilarious!

They clear the Goblin Camp and this stranger definitely wants to fuck him, but no, no no no, absolutely the fuck not. Even Gale laughs a little, as Astarion roasts their new friend - Ugh, no can you imagine? He doesn’t even know the dude’s name! He’s not sucking his dick. Hahaha, ha, wow!

The creche gets blown up WITH HIM INSIDE. He pulls himself up before Withers, afterward, the Blood of Lathander still clutched in one hand, and just absolutely begins to scream in the middle of camp. He was right there! What in the hells were you THINKING?

NEXT TIME?

The Gods are protecting these faceless bastards, none of them ever have to deal with the consequences! The memory, the pain! Not even taking his heartbreaks over the beautiful wizard into account, just the whole thing! The whole thing! Is this supposed to be some prize? He goes through two hundred years of shit, PURE SHIT, and then this is his reward! It is going to be another two hundred years of rug pulls and false promises and listening to Withers say shit like ‘fate spins along as it should.’

Fate isn’t spinning! Fate is stuck! Frankly, fate should give it a fucking rest, already!

By the Shadow-Cursed Lands he’s fully just manic. He hates everything. He hates himself. He hates this bastard who clearly likes him when he’s like this. Get a better sense of taste, gods!

He returns from a tantrum in the woods to grab one of the pillows by Gale’s tent and just holds it to his face. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Scream. Sigh.

Astarion returns the pillow and sits down. He hasn’t done a damn thing to earn Gale’s kindness, but he knows he’ll probably get some anyway, just for thinking to ask.

Gale has been watching this interaction with the pillow. He inspects the discarded thing for bite marks, and seems satisfied with whatever he finds.

“You seem less than well,” he comments mildly. “Is there anything in particular I can do to help you, or are you here to break my things?”

Astarion flops onto his side with a different pillow and makes a wheezing noise, not entirely unlike Scratch’s ball.

Gale’s eyes follow him down. “Do you… want to talk? Do you want to eat - well, sorry, that was a regular-diet offer more than an iron-rich one. Apologies. Still.” His smile is one of pity. “You’re clearly unhappy. And now you’re here. So I’d like to solve one of those problems or the other.”

“You hate me,” Astarion says, lamely.

“That’s not what’s gotten you in a twist,” Gale says, closing his book. “And besides, I’ll ask that you don’t put words or opinions into my mouth. I’ve got plenty to say, if you ask rather than assume.”

It isn’t what’s upsetting him. He’s just trying to think of anything but the feeling of clawing at the walls. He wants to think of anything else, or think of nothing at all.

“How do you feel about me, then? I’m asking.”

The wizard regards him for a while. Astarion watches the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle movement of a loose strand of hair. He misses Gale being in love with him.

Gale says, “I think you’re unpredictable. This makes it… difficult to interact with you. To understand you is a whole other problem that I’m not sure we have the spare time to solve. Personally, I think I’d like you just fine if you weren’t… going through whatever this is. I’ve assumed the tadpole, but not in a literal sense. All of us have that to worry about, and none of us are affected in the same way that you seem to be. So to that end… I don’t know how I feel about you. I suspect that the real you isn’t anything like what you’ve been, these last tendays.”

Astarion covers his face with his hands. Yeah. Yeah.

“I really did mean it, when I offered to talk. Or help in some way. But you’ll have to forgive me, I’ve no idea what you need, Astarion,” Gale continues. The pitying smile is still there, when Astarion peeks at him through his fingers.

“I need… a distraction,” Astarion says. “I need to not think.”

“Not-thinking is not exactly my area,” the wizard hums.

“Can I suck your cock?” the vampire asks, voice quiet but earnest. Everything in this one is a stupid, terrible joke, but the question isn’t. The question is shockingly honest.

Gale blinks at him, his cheeks and ears going all funny and red and cute. “Um.”

“Please,” Astarion says, “Genuinely, I… I’m good at it. I just need… to not think. A hand in my hair, maybe. Please?”

This is clearly not the direction Gale had expected his offer to go, though he’s not exactly obligated to say yes. An offer of talking or a vague snack does not indicate an open door to all possible requests. The wizard looks around, somewhere between wary and embarrassed. Hooray!

“This is really what you think you need? To calm down?” Gale seems skeptical, but not entirely disinterested.

Astarion perks up, pushes himself upright. “It’ll go a long way. I promise. Also, don’t worry about my teeth.”

“I wasn’t worrying about them, but now I am,” Gale sighs. He’s giving Astarion a once-over, like he’s never considered him in terms of sex. That ought to be celebrated! That ought to be correct!

For an instant, Astarion wonders if he isn’t going to regret this. But, see, it’s different, if it’s something he wants, right? Nobody’s making him. Gale isn’t forcing him - if anything, he’ll regret coaxing Gale into something when the wizard doesn’t even like him.

Gale seems to come to some kind of conclusion.

“Alright. Why not - but not here in front of everyone.” He stands, brushing his hands off on his trousers, and extends a hand to Astarion. There’s a bit of chaotic energy here - the kind that had probably let Gale love someone prone to wild magic, not so long ago. Astarion is a different kind of chaos, of course, but he’d been very much loved, too.

Astarion takes his hand.

Gale takes him to the usual clearing, away from their camp across from Last Light and the Ruined Battlefield. Rather than laying out a blanket for stars or waving a hand and conjuring Waterdeep, Gale creates… a four-poster bed. Just there, in the grass.

Now isn’t the time to be reminded of how much he loves Gale Dekarios - this isn’t the Gale who loves him back. Still, there’s a moment where he lets himself think about it. A moment where he can pretend that he’s back in that space, where Gale first told him he loved him.

The wizard hums, taking a couple of slow strides and turning to lean against the bed. It takes his weight fine, but that’s no surprise. “I have no particular aspirations here, but I thought we ought to be more comfortable, as well. If we’re doing this.”

Astarion wants to kiss him. That’s not part of their agreement. He says, “How sweet of you.”

“Mainly thinking about our backs and knees,” Gale chuckles, and then pats the mattress. “Join me. Let’s talk a little, first. I want to understand your expectations, and I’m sure I’ll find some of my own to set forth.”

“The goal was to think less, not more,” Astarion complains, but obediently goes where Gale wants him. He sits on the edge of the bed, letting his feet dangle. “I don’t really have expectations,” he lies, “I just want a task to focus on. It so happens that I’m very good with my mouth, and it’s very hard to think of anything else when you’ve got a cock heavy on your tongue.”

Gale had been looking at him, but turns his gaze away. Embarrassed? Maybe. Cute. “Quite,” he says.

“And beyond that… I don’t know. It might make me feel good, to make you feel good. Whether I come or not,” Astarion thinks he’d actually prefer not to come. It’ll end up connecting all the wrong signals in his mind. But Gale should have fun. He wants that part.

“I’m not exactly in the business of one-sided encounters,” Gale says, scratching at his beard. “The ‘or not’ means that you wouldn’t mind if you did? Or just that you don’t care.”

“I don’t care,” Astarion lies.

Gale hums, thoughtful. “I have an alternative proposal.”

“Oh?” That’s terrifying.

“How do you feel about my taking care of you, rather than the other way around? I mean this with the utmost respect: I think you need some kind of release, more than I do, Astarion.”

Oh. Hells. This is a terrible idea. He can feel his own ears warming now. It’s much too much like they had been. It’s the kind of thing he thinks about, when he’s centering on that pain and reminding himself that what they had was real, even if it’s gone.

“I’d like that,” Astarion says, and it’s not a lie. “So - I suppose… Tell me what to do?”

Gale shakes his head. “Just get on the bed.”

The wizard produces a blindfold, covering Astarion’s eyes with it and tying it securely. He then casts Silence centered on the two of them. Nobody can hear, and nobody but Gale can see. Astarion isn’t tied up or anything, but he’s already a little keyed up, just waiting to be touched once the veil of quiet takes hold.

He feels his shoes being carefully slipped off, and then his trousers unlaced. A detour to guide his shirt over his head, arms being puppeted by a familiar set of hands. Astarion feels exposed, almost more than he had when they’d slipped their souls into each other and felt the truth of their love and fears.

Gale pets his hair for a moment, until he calms.

Astarion is rolled onto his front, and hands knead into his back and arms. Not an especially skilled massage, but it still narrows his existence to the points of contact - Gale’s hands, and the real-false sheets against his skin. He can say anything he likes, and Gale won’t hear him. Astarion still doesn’t risk saying anything that matters. His venting chatter about the world around them slowly subsides as Gale works knots from his shoulders and gentles across his scars.

This is a normal thing for one friend to do for another, probably. Assuming they’re even that.

Hands nudging him to roll back, and then careful fingers tracing his cheekbone, his jaw, his temple, his lip. Gale doesn’t kiss him, but the anticipation of it is a distraction Astarion can lose himself in.

He wonders what Gale looks like. Is this business, is it pleasure? Is he having any fun, moving Astarion around like a marionette? Is he saying anything, in the space where none of it can be heard? Perhaps the blindfold was to keep Astarion from reading his lips. Fingers push through Astarion’s hair, forward to back, and he imagines that Gale must, at least, like how he looks.

Astarion has always been told that he’s a pretty thing. Gale had called him beautiful. Whatever he calls him now is a mystery.

Gale does not move to take Astarion’s trousers off. The weight shifts on the bed, Astarion can feel him moving around, but the next thing that Gale has him do, with gentle nudging and tapping, is just… Lift up so that he can pull the sheets down, and then over them both. The wizard wraps his arms around Astarion, and pulls him close, and just holds him. Why? 

He’s as startled as he is comforted, surrounded by quiet and the smell of Gale’s skin.

And Astarion, helplessly, begins to cry. Blessedly silent. He wails into Gale’s chest and neck, hands balled in fists in the doublet that Gale never took off. Soothing hand in his hair, the gentle buzz of Gale’s chest as he hums, and there’s nothing at all for it but to weep.

He lets it all out. Some of it words, most of it ineffectual noises of frustration that die in the bubble of void. Astarion can’t see Gale to know if this was what he expected, but a hand smooths down his back and across the scars until he doesn’t have anything left to say or cry.

When he’s finally calmed down, breathing slowly and steadily less because he needs to and more because he’s matching Gale’s rhythm, the spell finally drops. Even in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, there’s ambient noise. The distant chatter of friends at camp, their dog barking at something or other.

Astarion sighs.

Gale gently flicks the end of his ear, and asks, “All better?”

“All is a strong word,” Astarion murmurs, but he nods. He does feel a bit better. Maybe more than if he’d had an orgasm. Gale sure is a wizard.

“Good,” Gale says, and makes no move to get up or kick Astarion out of the bed. No move to get them back to their own tents, or remind him that they aren’t anything. He’s just quiet, and he’s just holding Astarion.

“Thank you,” Astarion says, smiling into Gale’s collarbone.

“Hush,” the wizard says. He had put a lot of effort into quieting Astarion down. The vampire relaxes.

The days pass without incident. Ketheric is killed, and Isobel survives.

That next night, he wakes and their Bhaalspawn friend is standing over Astarion, eyes glazed and murderous, and Astarion isn’t quick enough to grab a knife and fight back. He wakes as a zombie in the ritual.

He wakes in his pod on the Nautiloid, and just closes his eyes, and gently bonks his head against the glass.

Chapter Text

The next one begins with Astarion laying on the cliff and refusing to move until Gale is recruited and tries gentle words. It ends when their new cool leader decides to sass Vlaakith.

The one that follows gets all the way to the end - Gale is in charge, he doesn’t kiss anybody, and Astarion cannot convince him not to take the Crown. Astarion is hiding away from the sun and has no idea what happened to Gale, but the wizard doesn’t return before it’s over.

Astarion doesn’t know what he’s thinking in the next one after that, really, but he follows along the motions until the city. He’s going to see what happens if he turns himself in to Cazador. Probably nothing new, but he’s running out of ideas.

But before he goes, he wants to talk to someone he has not tried talking to, yet. Not about this, anyway.

“I have a question for you,” Astarion says, standing before Jergal. Withers. The only thing as enigmatic as Astarion within their traveling camp.

“Dost thou?”

“Yes. May I ask it?” He’s already over this, but he’s going to try.

“Ask it.” Withers intones. Astarion knows that this doesn’t mean the former-god will answer, but it’s polite to ask.

“Do you have any perception of other worlds or realms - other times that correspond to this time? That is to say, are you aware of having met me in any other times or places?” Astarion isn’t exactly worried that anything is going to break, for asking about it, at this point. If the world breaks, it breaks. If he falls over dead for daring to ask, he’s fine with that.

“A curious question.”

“Is it one you’re inclined to answer?” Astarion hedges.

“No.”

Astarion stabs Withers. The bone man chuckles, entirely unfazed by the knife in his middle. It returns to Astarion’s hand with no fanfare. The vampire sighs, “I’m at my wit’s end. I know your true name and role, and whatever’s happening to me probably isn’t your fault, but I’d love literally any answers.”

“Thou wouldst, this much is true,” Withers hums. “Speak: what dost thou think is happening to thee, if not me?”

That’s not fair. The bone man never answers anything important, but then turns and asks questions of him? Astarion answers anyway, because he has no real alternative, but he does shove his dagger between Withers’ ribs again as he speaks. “I don’t know! I’ve looked into gods of, well, Time. Amaunator, Pelor, Labelas Enoreth… lots of sunrises and sunsets! As far as I know, I haven’t done anything to piss any of them off.”

His knife is back in his hand again, Astarion stabs forward as he continues, making a game of it now that he knows he won’t be punished. Withers smiles a little, seemingly amused with Astarion’s efforts. He says, “And thou art certain that it is the work of the gods.”

“Who else could it be? What devil could have me reliving this time, these places, again and again?”

“Who else, indeed.”

Astarion embeds his dagger in Jergal’s skull, earning a chuckle as it reappears in his hand once more, the damage already sealed and forgotten. “Are you implying that it isn’t divine? I hate that - what else could torture me for so long and with seemingly no goal?”

“Who’s to say that it’s done with intent?” Withers speculates. This is the closest thing to an answer that he’s offered so far, but Astarion just squints at him.

“Could it be just… an accident? Something incidental, that’s ruining my life?”

“This is a strange world,” says the bone man, tilting his head just-so to avoid another skullward strike.

Astarion doesn’t like any of these non-answers. It’s not like he was expecting anything solid here, but he feels even more lost than before. If not the gods, then whom? If not a whom, then what?

And if nothing is out to get him, how does he kill it and free himself? This can’t be forever. It can’t. He’s not sure how to live, if it’s always going to be this way.

“Thank you. For whatever that was,” Astarion sighs, sheathing his dagger.

Withers chuckles. “Away with thee.”

He walks, and just keeps walking. Time to pay his former master a visit, and see what happens when he just… serves himself up on a platter! Or whatever!

Astarion isn’t paying attention to the strangers anymore. Not really. Their names don’t matter. Their use in combat certainly doesn’t matter, and who they want to fuck could not matter less. Unless it’s Gale. Or Astarion. He’s still not quite over apparently being the favorite of that last Bhaalspawn, ugh.

Of all the things that could solve this, by now he’s certain that it has nothing to do with any of them. It wasn’t Tav or Elana or Autumn or anyone’s doing, if they’re gone now. He’s seen no hint of any of them existing in these worlds that have followed. Astarion asked Disciple Zrell and fucking Tuskgront the Guild-guard after Tav, one time. Not that all half-orcs know each other, but Tav was Baldurian! Not a single half-orc in the city of Baldur’s Gate has ever heard of Tav the half-orc. Not a single dragonborn knew Elana, either.

They aren’t real. They never were. Whoever the current one is doesn’t interest him, because soon enough they’ll be gone, too.

The only reason it hurt him, to see Gale with Aura, was because Gale is real. Gale persists. Aura didn’t matter any more than Bernie or Luvine or Vellor or Darrus or… There’s a white dragonborn in Orin’s bedroom, whenever they’re out a Bhaalspawn leader, and that guy is dead.  They don’t matter.

People like Shadowheart, or even Nocturne, who they only meet for one day if Shadowheart is good… they’re real. They matter. Wyll’s father matters, and Mizora. Rolan matters more than most, and Dammon.

Astarion doesn’t know how to love any of them anymore, but he appreciates that they are people in his world. He knows their dying faces, but he also knows their smiles. Their voices.

He thinks Tav would be proud of this growth, even if it took a while and a ton of atrocity to get here.

What matters, though, is whether or not Gale would be proud of him. If he’d understand that the cost needed to be paid, to pave this path and understanding. Astarion’s soul has long been tainted and ugly, but some measure of his happiness hinges on Gale’s forgiveness.

Maybe one day he’ll be worthy of it. He’s probably not quite there yet.

The door to Cazador’s palace clicks open with his approach, though he’d had to fight the guards on the way in after saying the wrong thing. If he’d thought to bring a Calm Emotions scroll, he might’ve been able to save them. They had families, spouses. It’s very hard to save everyone, though, and he’s about to end this whole world with a bit of science.

He tricks Godey into handing off his ring, and he more-than-knows the Kozakuran script, leaving Victoria Onufrio’s cursed body where it lies. By now, he’s fully fluent in the damn language. Astarion drinks a potion of Invisibility and lets himself into the ballroom, slipping past the confused wolves and werewolves.

And down the lift, and down the hall. Astarion checks Cazador’s little bedroom-study to make sure the man isn’t there. His eyes… are beginning to get… itchy. Well. Gross. He probably won’t last long before he’s a squid, but that might be kind of funny. No big loss either way, at this point. Learning time, he guesses!

Astarion says hello to Sebastian. He has no idea what’s going to happen, so he doesn’t make any promises. Sebastian curses him, in fury and sorrow, which is a fair and reasonable response.

The doors to the ritual hall swing open, and Astarion trots down the stairs with a jaunty little wave, “Howdy! Sorry I’m late. I heard you were looking for me, I came as soon as I heard.” The pain behind his eyes is beginning to get worse, he can taste blood in his mouth. Tick-tock, dear Cazador.

“Wh - what kept you, boy?” Cazador says, trying to be very smooth and in control. It’s almost cute. Astarion remembers fondly the last dozen times he watched Cazador fall away dead. “So nice of you to join us, but where is your decorum? Unannounced, and only a ‘sorry,’ for your master. I know I taught you better than that.”

Astarion laughs a little. “Ohhh, my dearest apologies! My greatest woe, to disappoint my most powerful master.” The pressure in his face is building, and it’s pretty distracting. Much worse than a bunch of ghouls and werewolves and whatever. “That’s the name of your staff, isn’t it? Woe? How long have you had that thing? Did Vellioth give it to you?”

“Watch your tongue, boy - do not speak to me as if you were my equal,” Cazador scowls.

“Woe betide anyone who tries to stop me,” Astarion cackles, delighted. Gale would have found that amusing, wouldn’t he? The man is off having some other adventure, elsewhere in the city. None of them will know what happened to him! It’s a shame he won’t be able to see it, to know if anything interesting comes of it.

His face bursts open in tentacles and gore, and Astarion’s awareness goes dark. He has no further view of how the scene plays out, but even in the inky darkness of the illithid’s mind, Astarion finds amusement in imagining what Cazador might have done next. The ritual’s markings would be gone from his back, so it’d be ruined in more ways than one.

Astarion thinks it’s funny, anyway.

He drifts in that void until the Nautiloid again, however long it takes.

His pod opens! It’s a new day.

Chapter Text

He’s in charge!

And this time, his ideas are slightly less awful than usual. Astarion stretches, limbering up his sad little freshly-free spawn body. He knows where to go and what to do, but more importantly, he’s decided that he’s going to do something… different!

Astarion pulls Gale free from the stone, and recruits their other friends. They begin along the good path, for the Grove and tieflings.

Gale teaches him a magic trick, his heart aching but a little lighter than it has been as he imagines kissing the wizard.  And things have gotten off on a good foot, so Gale smiles, a little sheepish. He’s so cute when he’s first considering a feeling. Astarion loves him so much. It’s hard to keep that to himself, when they’re still flirting at best.

He’s not going to be weird this time, he’s going to be downright bizarre. It’s another risk. It’s always a risk. What better way to charm a wizard and learn something new, though, then… to tell him what’s happening. It's time. 

Astarion trusts him.

The tieflings throw them a party, and Astarion goes to Gale, caught in his orbit as ever. “Hello there, darling. I was wondering if I might have a chat with you this evening.”

Gale’s just been poured his first goblet of wine, but his cheeks are still pretty and flush as he nods. Whatever he thinks Astarion wants to talk about must be cute. Perhaps if it goes well, they can still be as cute as all of that. He’d love to kiss Gale again - it’s been some time.

“You’ve only just gotten here - do you want to chat around first?” Gale asks, gesturing broadly at all of the tieflings they’re host to. “Our friends might not take kindly to my keeping you for myself.”

Astarion delights in it, of course. He grins. “Alright. I’ll go make sure the others get their time with me first, but when I’m through… you’ll be waiting, no?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Gale agrees.

He does do the rounds. This time he sets Shadowheart to share her drink with Karlach, encourages Wyll to ask a bored Lae’zel about githyanki silver swords, and teases Rolan about his lack of lovelife. That last one is just for fun, of course. Astarion returns to Gale, and beckons him out to their usual place in the woods. Gale’s never been here, but there are two clearings in this world that are theirs.

Blanket laid out on the grass, Astarion sits and pats the spot beside him, saying, “What I’m going to want to talk to you about is… serious. To preface, it’s going to sound like a joke, but I promise that I’m not joking.” Astarion fidgets with his hands.

Despite everything, he is still nervous about how this will go. At best, Gale believes him and helps. At worst, he loses a chance at some happiness for a while. He could simply go along as usual, let Gale show him the stars and Waterdeep, let Gale propose and love him like he ought to.

But that’s not how they’re going to solve this. That’s just a gentle break in the suffering.

Gale seems curious, if a little wary. What a way to start a conversation - as always, as always. He says, “Alright. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

Deep breath. “I’ve done all of this before, many times. I’ve saved the Grove, and these tieflings. I’ve learned all of their names, and I know where most of them die when they leave here, no matter what we do to save them. I know the truths of our tadpoles, and I know how they can be removed. And one blessed day after we do that, I always return to the Nautiloid, to start over again.

“I know a great many things that I could not know. I’ve never told you before. I’m hoping that you’ll keep an open mind, and… I don’t know. Help me?” Astarion tries for a smile. His stomach is twisting with nerves, so the smile is probably not a winning one.

Gale frowns. Of course.

The wizard says, “I know you said that this is no joke, but… I am skeptical. If what you say is true, then… even if you are doing us all a kind turn, I wonder at how you make your decisions. How you interact with us.” With me, he does not say, but Gale does not need to say it. Astarion understands the meaning.

“I have made… a great number of terrible decisions, in truth. I am hoping that tonight is not one of them.”

Gale softens a little. “You say you want my help. I’m afraid that I’m no chronomancer - such magic is akin to graviturgy, in that only a very specialized wizard would know enough to be helpful.”

Astarion’s eyebrows raise, as he says, “I hadn’t even known there was time magic, for wizards. You’re already being a help. I’m - I’m no good at the theorizing, at the magical side of things. At best, I look at cause and effect and throw away months of effort on a lark. Genuinely, any help at all… would probably lead to fewer disasters.”

The wizard considers this. He’d been skeptical, and probably still is, but he says, “Well… I’d be willing to take notes for you, at least. Look for patterns that you may not have noticed. I can’t guarantee that we’ll… figure it out. This problem seems like quite a big one, if I’m honest, but… I’ve never been one to back away from an academic challenge. I’m something of an accomplished researcher - though I’m sure you know that.”

Smiling, Astarion says, “I do know that. That’s why I’m coming to you, rather than anyone else.”

Gale tilts his head, “Is that the only reason?”

“N…………o,” Astarion admits. “I’ve other reasons for wanting to spend time with you. Chiefly among them, you’re the brightest spark of joy in my otherwise depressing existence.”

“Oh. That’s quite a compliment,” Gale says. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve it, but I suppose that is the point. Perhaps you ought to start there, when it comes to comparing notes…”

The vampire waves his hands in front of him, “It’s already weird enough just… talking about it, plainly. I’d rather that you and I just… have whatever we have. Whatever you think we should have. Whatever you want.”

There’s that funny phrase again. It had been such a constant with Tav. This is what you want. Is this what you want? What do you want? Want, want, want. Back then, it had taken so much coaxing to get Astarion to admit to what he wanted, which was mainly to be respected.

Now, when he says it, it’s not because he’s unwilling to be selfish… it’s more that he knows that he’d take it all, if Gale gave it to him. Anything he gets is a gift to be cherished. It’s not fair for him to ask as much as he wants.

Gale says, “I want… firstly, to understand you.”

“Impossible. Next desire.”

“Nextly, I’d like to kiss you. If that’s something you’re interested in - this isn’t entrapment, despite what I saw when we shared that space in the Weave. It’s just,” another sheepish sort of smile, “I don’t know.”

“You like me,” Astarion teases, “Even though I’m an enigma.”

“Perhaps because you are an enigma,” Gale laughs. “What say you?”

“I’d love for you to kiss me,” he says, pleased beyond reasoning that Gale’s curiosity and attraction are winning out over reasonable suspicions. Wizards will make all kinds of horrible decisions, if left to their own devices.

Gale loves the unknown, doesn’t he? He loves a puzzle.

And Astarion loves him.

Gale scoots into his space, a hand gentle on Astarion’s shoulder, moving to card through his curls and cup the back of his head. Astarion smiles into the kiss. This isn’t the first Gale he’s loved, but he loves every Gale.

As they part, Gale tells him, “I’ll do what I can to help you. And whatever we have, whatever we find here… I’ll hope that it’s as important to you as it is to me.”

Astarion smiles into Gale’s collar, he’s leaned in and gotten his arms wrapped around Gale’s middle by now. He says, “Please, even with my problems, my lack of solutions… never doubt that this is important to me. You are very important to me.” Gale is, perhaps, the only important thing.

It’s still too early to take Gale to bed for anything more exciting than sleep, but after a brief trip back to camp for parchment and pillows and more blankets, they return. Gale asks every question he can, and Astarion answers every one of them.

Even the ones that hurt. The time for half-measures is past, and he feels braver for it.

Gale does probably judge him a bit, when Astarion explains the worst of it. The times where he lost himself to violence, where his desire to break his chains was stronger than his desire to help anybody but himself. He doesn’t say anything cruel though, and he doesn’t get up and leave. He pets Astarion’s hair when the words get harder. Perhaps he should have told Gale any of this sooner, too.

He falls asleep with his head pillowed on Gale’s thigh, and wakes to warm sunlight through the leaves and a warm human beneath him. The relief is immense.

It’s not about being able to kiss Gale again, not really. It’s just… having someone to talk to. To really talk to. It’s still not equal, it can’t be, but… Gale can listen. Gale can try and understand.

Gale has ideas.

They continue their travels, of course. Astarion spends each morning briefing Gale on what he’s planning to do, and what he expects will happen, down to the finest details. Gale takes notes, and observes. He looks for things that Astarion has missed, the tiny things that spread away from expectations without notice. The flap of a butterfly’s wings.

Astarion tells him about certain people, looking for Gale’s opinions or approvals on previous interactions. Baelen Bonecloak is a wife-beating bastard whose brain is broken, but Derryth only has the wherewithal to leave him when he’s been healed back to awfulness with the Noblestalk. Killing him just ruins her livelihood, and no cute cats can solve that. Gale wants to give Derryth the Noblestalk, if only so that they can use it later. Baelen is no harm like this, and can continue his work. Pragmatic. Astarion will have him read some of the letters in their basement. Perhaps the next Gale will have a different opinion, even if he doesn’t remember.

They lay awake in Gale’s tent, some nights, just talking about their friends.

Karlach’s engine is never really solved. Gale doesn’t like that - that the only time Astarion’s ever seen her free of it, it was because she chose to become an illithid. He insists that making allies of the Gondians who have worked on such infernal machinery ought to net them some sort of solution. Astarion doesn’t correct him, that the Gondians have never offered, even when he’s saved every single one.

Wyll’s got all of this figured out, and none of it. It’s not terribly hard to free him from his contract, and Mizora’s more or less a brat throwing a tantrum about it. Whether his father lives or dies, Wyll knows who he is. He’s a man of honor, and willing to do anything to uphold it. He’s a man of justice, and always going to put the people before his own comfort. Astarion lays out each version of Wyll’s story that he’s seen, and they agree that sending Wyll to Avernus to keep Karlach company, romance or no, is probably the best. If the Gondians don’t work out.

Shadowheart’s got a very stark outlook. She’s either fully for or against Shar, and never anything in between. Even when she’s gotten the blessings of Selune, she’s not exactly pro-moon, she’s just anti-shadow. Still, when he explains Shar’s ultimatum, her final lesson regarding Shadowheart’s parents… Gale seems frustrated. There must be a better solution than loss-or-loss, they can’t let Shar win. Astarion nods, even though Shar is probably in competition with Bhaal for who’s benefiting the most from his suffering.

Lae’zel is always a force of revolution - whether it’s to depose Vlaakith or root out Voss and his movement. She’s never idle. Even when she agrees to stay with them in Faerun, she’s expecting to be hunted for the rest of her life. Astarion doesn’t really know the answer, though. Vlaakith is obviously awful, eating her people like grapes or whatever, but between Orpheus and the Emperor… and what that means for Lae’zel… he doesn’t know. Gale takes in all of these facts in grim silence, not sure about it either. He seems glad to know what the Dream Visitor’s reality is, though.

Gale doesn’t ask about himself.

Astarion doesn’t offer to tell him. He’ll be the one running his fingers through Gale’s hair as they lay on furs and pillows, and he’ll think about how it’s gone before. Gale’s whole personal journey is tied up in Mystra, and in Karsus. In his hubris and self-loathing, in trying to prove himself worthy of something he only half-wants. They’ve spoken about Mystra any number of times. They’ve spoken of the Crown, and the power it brings. Godhood, the power to reshape the world into something they can be proud of, love.

“Tell me about you. What do you think of, when you think of your… typical journey,” Gale asks him, one night.

Whatever his ‘typical journey is,’ it hasn’t been normal in a long time. Astarion is thoughtful. There are some beats he still hits, even if most of the rest is lost to experience and the haze of time.

“I always get found out as a vampire, at one point or another,” Astarion starts. He’s curled in his wizard’s lap, and he rests his teeth against Gale’s neck teasingly, laughing when the wizard gently pushes him away. Gale’s blood is kind of weird anyway.

“But you’re so subtle about it,” Gale jokes. He runs his thumb over one of Astarion’s fangs. The vampire politely lets his favorite fool stick his hand into his mouth, eventually closing his lips around Gale’s fingers and then grinning when Gale pulls them away. They haven’t been able to fool around yet, but Gale already knows better than to let Astarion tease that way.

He says, “Truly, most of the time, I can fully get away with not telling anybody - but it’s always you who notices my leaving at night. When this first started, the very first time, I was so… starved. Desperate. I couldn’t help trying to bite someone in camp.”

Gale tilts his head, and then glances back at the rest of camp, their sleeping friends’ tents.

“Not someone who persisted, mind. The first through the revolving door of strangers,” Astarion clarifies.

“Tav,” Gale says, careful. The name has come up, but not often. Astarion doesn’t ache over them anymore, but it’s still a sensitive place in his heart. Pressing too hard will still hurt.

“Mm. They were very polite about it. Lots of blood, and willing to share.”

“I don’t suppose it’s been so easy, since then?” Gale ventures. It’s a reasonable assumption, if Astarion isn’t getting caught in the same way, most of the time.

“It’s easier and harder. I know all the worst people to feed from, and I know every animal in this forest. Every bird and boar and squirrel. Which ones are healthy and delicious, or sick and disgusting. It’s not so bad.” Astarion leans into Gale, and is pleased when an arm curls around him automatically.

“Does anybody ever offer, once they find out?”

“Rarely,” Astarion hums, “The ones who do, our friends or otherwise, are generally freaks about it. At that point, I’m not really interested.”

Gale runs a hand down his back. “You’ve been lonely.”

“Astute of you,” Astarion agrees quietly. Lonely and tired. It’s nice to be held about it, though.

“And after that? Getting caught.”

“Just once, I had to make a deal with the devil Raphael, to understand the meaning of the scars on my back. After that, there was no need to give him the satisfaction. I knew the contract and its use. From there… killing Cazador, once we reach the city. Taking his place, sometimes. In the worst times.”

“I’d ask what that means for you, like it means for anybody else, but I suppose it’s self-evident. You’re free of him, but not your affliction, or you’re free of both, in a sense, but bound to your sin.” Gale rests his chin atop Astarion’s head. “Bittersweet.”

“And then back again,” Astarion sighs. “I’ve thought about skipping it. Letting the bastard live. I’m not sure what good that does me, though. He’s got seven thousand vampire spawn locked beneath his palace - not dealing with him is just leaving them to that, starving and lost.”

“You see yourself in them?” Gale seems curious.

“I didn’t, for a long time. I sort of understand them now. Their bars are no more mutable than mine, but they know the limits of their confinement.”

They sit in silence for a while, comfortable. Astarion feels like he can hear Gale’s mind running circles around his, no matter how closed off their tadpoles are. His is mastered, more or less, and Gale’s is tamed by his mental fortitude. Words are more important than thoughts - they say what they need to say.

Eventually, the wizard says, “When next we meet. In your next life. You’ll tell me about this again,” it’s a statement of truth, not a request. “And when you do - tell me that you’d like to try Morena Dekarios’s lime pie. Ask me for the recipe.”

“Your mother’s pie?” Astarion asks, not entirely sure he understands.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you know her name. But yes - if you… if you bring it up, I’ll know that I’ve trusted you, before. That I can trust you again.” Gale kisses the crown of his hair. “When you make it out of this, I’ll take you to Waterdeep to meet her.”

Astarion smiles, “Promises, promises.”

This trust, this new direction, is not enough to solve his problems.

Gale works with him through all of it, tackling their friends’ problems in the city and conquering the Netherbrain. It’s damn-near flawless. Astarion is proud of them again. He isn’t expecting anything new to happen, and it doesn’t. He’s right. Gale stays up with him through that night, and the first blink of sunrise-again has him back on the Nautiloid.

For the first time in a long time, as he waits for the thing to crash, Astarion is hopeful.

Chapter Text

He takes the time to learn their new leader’s name again. She may not really matter, but Astarion can treat her like a person. Her name is Zhira, and she fights with her fists. His best bet is that this half-elf will love Karlach, in a month or two.

Astarion introduces himself to her, and to Gale. Gale doesn’t remember, but that’s what they expected.

They don’t need Gale to remember and get trapped like this. That’s not what Astarion wants for him, as lonely as he is. Gale needs to just… be himself. Be as happy as he can be.

A tenday in, Gale tells them about his orb, and Astarion knows that this is probably about time to tell him about everything else. He goes to Gale’s tent one evening with a bottle of wine and an easy smile.

“I have an arcane phenomenon for you to study - assuming you have the time.”

Gale looks up from a book that Astarion knows the wizard has read before now, which is to say, before his abduction. “We’ve a bit of pressure on, considering the tadpole business, but… go on.”

Astarion holds out a hand. “I’m afraid it’s for your ears only, mister wizard.”

The corner of Gale’s mouth twitches up at the silly nickname, and he takes Astarion’s hand. One part curiosity, another part the always-there attraction to foppish vampire that the last Gale had admitted to. This Gale is a new one, but he won’t be so different in his tastes.

In the clearing, no blanket to lay on or goblets for the wine, Astarion tells him about everything but their love. He tells Gale about his endless adventures, about his best and worst selves, about their friends. He tells Gale that he’d helped him before, and asks for Morena Dekarios’s pie recipe.

“I’m told that it has limes in it, which doesn’t sound like any meat pie I’ve ever heard of,” Astarion says.

Gale is a bit shell-shocked by everything, but at this he shakes his head, “It’s a sweet pie, served cold.”

“Why on earth would you serve a pie cold?”

“It’s got to be cold for it to set, else it’s liquid - we’re getting off-track,” Gale sighs. He’s thinking wizard thoughts, taking a sip from the wine bottle before passing it back to Astarion.

Gale continues, “So… alright. Say I believe you. I trust that the man that you worked with before trusted you enough to tell you my mother’s name, and about her least-favorite pie to make.”

“Her least favorite -!” Astarion laughs, but stops to let Gale speak.

“I must have trusted you quite a lot.”

The vampire smiles. “And I you. Every you, but especially now that you know everything.”

Gale asks, his eyes on the stars above the Emerald Grove, “How many times would you say you’ve done this?”

“Dozens, I think. Maybe hundreds. I don’t know, it all begins to blend together,” Astarion admits.

Those pretty brown eyes slide back down to rest on Astarion’s face for a moment. A very long moment. Uncomfortably long. Astarion takes another long gulp of wine, his smile turning nervous.

Finally, Gale asks, “How many of those times have the two of us been lovers?”

Astarion’s ears burn as he chokes on his wine, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Gale isn’t a stupid man, or unobservant. The love in Astarion’s eyes must be very obvious indeed, when they’re alone. When the trust is there, he’s unguarded in it, he’s open with his smiles and affections. He should worry about his answer, but he doesn’t. He trusts Gale.

“Twice we’ve been lovers, and a third time we only kissed.” If Gale asks, Astarion would even tell him the circumstances of that worst time.

Gale’s smile turns wry. “Was it any good?”

“You were a little rusty,” Astarion hums, “I did like it, though. Obviously.”

“I’m sure I’m rusty again,” Gale says, lofty, “If you’d like to make it a fourth.”

His wizard is such a freak. Astarion crawls over to half-straddle him, and Gale smiles up at him like he’s the greatest gift. The most intricate puzzle. Gale gets dirt in Astarion’s hair, coaxing him down into a kiss, and that hope in Astarion’s heart sings and sings. This Gale doesn’t love him yet, but he knows that he can.

This Gale knows that he has loved Astarion. He just has to get to know him, first.

It’s easy, between the two of them. Like they were always meant to slot into place, if only either of them had been bold enough to ask. They never are, but now Astarion always will be.

Their friends are full of commentary as Gale and Astarion rearrange the tents, setting theirs close together even in camps where they’d normally be far apart. Wyll can take Astarion’s old position by the fire. Rather, they moved all of Wyll’s things while he was out. Don’t worry about it, buddy!

They’re not as gross as they could be, but Gale seems to delight in the blind trust he’s working with. He asks all kinds of questions, and Astarion loves to surprise him with the answers. It’s like being a divination wizard turned up to the end of the power scale, with only mundane ways to influence it. And yet, Astarion knows every string to pull, every cache worth looting.

He’s powerful, in a way that clearly excites Gale, even beyond just being pleased for companionship and touch. Astarion is careful to temper these expectations - nobody’s ascending in any way, anymore. He’ll take a leap into the Tourmaline Depths before taking that power again. He’ll cry every crocodile tear if it keeps Gale from taking the Crown, he’ll make every concession.

They don’t need godhood, they need each other. Can’t that be enough?

Gale hasn’t had the experiences, though. He just has to trust Astarion’s word. Sometimes that’s easy, but other times… it’s clearly against his nature, to leave the lid closed on anything that powerful. That’s how he ended up with a bomb in his chest, and it’s how he accepts Astarion’s insane story as fact. Wizards are just hubris made flesh.

Astarion has borrowed Gale’s velvety camp shirt this evening, pleased when the wizard’s response was to pull Astarion’s fancy nightmare over his own head. It frames the mark of the Netherese orb like it was tailored to do so. There’s something about seeing Gale in his clothes that does something for him. It’s a shame that the orb isn’t stabilized, yet.

That’s been his first foray into telling Gale, really, about himself. The last Gale hadn’t wanted to know, but this one is curious because he knows he’s the second one to know anything. Perhaps a strange competition with himself from another life? Astarion doesn’t really understand.

But he’s told Gale where he expects to run into Elminster’s simulacrum. He’ll either wait for them by the Mountain Pass, or in a Sharran elevator shaft. It sounds silly when you say it like that.

“And then your Arcane Hunger will be on hold, for a time.”

“How does he manage that? Does he ever explain?” They’re laying half tangled up in each other by now, just enjoying the closeness as they talk. Sometimes that makes it easier, too: not seeing Gale’s face when an answer is harder than expected.

“I don’t think that he does, but eventually you do come into contact with Mystra. The specifics of how it works are beyond me, but I could probably give you some idea.” It’s not like Astarion is ever there, in the Elysian space that Mystra channels for Gale in the Stormshore Tabernacle. He’s only gleaned what he can, when Gale returns. It’s not always something the wizard wants to talk about, and that’s understandable, he thinks.

“I’m mainly curious about what it means for the artifact. Is it something she could have always done, and chose not to? Or is it a drastic measure that I just happen to benefit from?” Gale has his metaphorical academic hat on, but clearly it’s more about Mystra’s opinion of him.

Astarion kisses Gale’s forehead gently. “It’s more the latter, as I understand it. She allows it to feed on the true Weave, so that you aren’t distracted.”

Gale goes quiet. That must mean more to him than it does to Astarion. One of them conducts the Weave, while the other is a mere tourist enjoying the sights and sounds now and then.

“What does she ask of me, then. In return? It cannot be a simple kindness.”

Astarion runs his fingers through Gale’s hair, noting that the wizard’s hold on him has tightened a little. Stiffened. He says, “She asks you to detonate the orb, to destroy the Absolute with it, and be forgiven.

“I can promise you, I’ve seen so many lives in which you do not do it, and several in which you do. It’s never going to work in a way that matters. She always forgives you, even defying this edict. Please. Don’t even consider it an option.”

Asking a wizard not to consider things is like asking the tides to wait an hour. Or whatever.

Astarion reiterates, “Please. She hasn’t even asked it of you yet, through Elminster or otherwise. Banish it from your mind.”

Gale is quiet, but nods into Astarion’s neck. There must be a lot of wizard thoughts to be had, and Astarion wishes he could pluck them all away and replace them with softer things. Stupider things.

“What’s the first thing you want to do, when it’s stable, though? Say there is no limit,” Astarion says.

The wizard, rather than answering with words, nibbles on Astarion’s neck, and they both begin to laugh. Gale says, voice quiet but heartened by the laughter, “I think it might be fun to be bitten by a vampire, but I have it on esteemed authority that - ”

“You’re a lunatic,” Astarion finishes. He’s smiling like an idiot.

Gale tilts his head up for a kiss, sliding his hands underneath Astarion’s shirt. Of course he’s insane, look at what he’s hitched his wagon to! The man’s danger kink is out of control, really, even just objectively. He’s been told that Astarion’s killed him and here he is, trying to tickle a vampire without waking up half of camp.

Astarion rolls away only to be caught up in arms that are wearing his shirt. The audacity of it all!

He settles back against Gale’s front. “Well for my part, when it’s safe, I just want to suck your cock about it. Things to consider when you are bullying me.”

Gale snorts, and kisses the back of his head. “I’ll be delighted to provide for you in your time of need.”

Astarion can feel Gale’s interest against his ass, but knows better than to act on it. Later, later.

They do make good on that, once Elminster does Gale the usual good turn. It’s interesting, though, to observe Gale’s interactions with the crusty wizard - this Gale knows what will happen, more than the previous one. This Gale is beginning to test the boundaries of his own story, just to see if Astarion is surprised.

He isn’t so quickly cowed by the instruction to die at Mystra’s behest, easily finding the intended meaning in Elminster’s words. The old fuck doesn’t want Gale to do it either, obviously! The first Gale, and most that have followed, were always too wrapped up in the shock of it, and their devotion to Mystra, to really, really listen. To hear it and know the truth of it so quickly, rather than after the moment in the Mindflayer Colony’s passed.

Astarion is pleased to hear Gale’s theorizing that night, rather than his void-calling sadness. It won’t change their trajectory, as a party or as a pair, but when he asks if Gale would show him the stars just for the sake of it, the energy is so different. It's a wonderment, and the only worry is over whether he’s falling for Astarion too quickly.

Some part of their relationship is built on assumptions and recklessness, but Astarion waves his hands in reassurance, “No, you… you always fell hard, when you fell. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s your own.”

Astarion may well be telling himself this.

There’s an anxiety that creeps into the fondness, though - that they’re playing dollhouse and just saying the right words. That he’s manipulating Gale into something. He’s really not sure. It’s impossible to know. He’s thrown the script away, after all. They’re in the illusion of Gale’s study, and the door to the balcony hasn’t even opened. They’re talking and just.

They’re here. It’s not real… but isn’t it?

Gale kisses him. That’s real. He’s real. This is the third-or-fourth Gale that is his, and he is real.

He tells Gale that he loves him, and it’s not untrue. He does. He has.

But it’s hard to reckon with this fear that he’s twisted what they’ve had when it’s good into something that it shouldn’t be, something that it’s not. Even when they reach the city, and they’re going on their little dates again, and Zhira checks in on them and their relationship, it’s… it’s not not working…

Astarion doesn’t know why he’s aching again. Is it because he misses the first Gale that proposed to him, or because of the times he’s watched Gale die, or because this most recent-past Gale isn’t getting to see their hard work paying off, or… because this new Gale hasn’t had a choice but to love him.

Bringing it up is hard, but even bringing it up idly doesn’t resolve anything. Not really. Gale genuinely loves him, but Astarion realizes that perhaps Gale loves the puzzle, more than anything. He’s something to solve. He’s something to study and understand. Is it really so different from being a hobby, or a pet? Is it any different from being a sex object, like he’d been for so long?

He doesn’t know.

“I’m… not sure we should keep doing this,” he says, over lanceboard one evening. If he waited much longer, they’d be in their bedding together, and he’d lose his nerve with warm arms wrapped around him.

Gale doesn’t answer for a minute, studying the board, before lifting his head, “The game? We don’t have to, if you aren’t enjoying yourself Astarion.”

It would be easy, to just let it go, to ride it out and enjoy the happiness that Gale wants to give him. It would be so much easier than being brave.

“No, I… this. Us. I’m not sure that we… should continue, as a ‘we.’ If you understand my meaning.”

The game is immediately forgotten, of course. “Wh- why? Did I… did something change?” Gale looks so lost. Astarion feels terrible immediately, as well he should.

“It’s been good. You’ve been… very good to me. I just… wonder if you’d have chosen that, if I’d let you have a choice. We can’t know now. It’s already done.” Astarion lowers his gaze. He can’t look at Gale right now.

This is awful, and it’s his fault.

Gale is quiet for a long time. “I… understand. I think. I can’t say that I feel like I would’ve chosen differently, but perhaps that’s the limit of my knowledge, in respect to your own.” Even without looking, there’s an audible, sad smile in his voice, “I’ll cherish the time we spent together. It meant a lot to me, to love again - I hope it’ll have meant anything to you, when we part.

“If this world persists, when you leave it for the next, I’ll be sure to take care of that Astarion, too. Not necessarily as a lover, I’m sure he’ll feel as you do now, but… he’ll need a friend, won’t he?”

Astarion begins to cry.

He will. He’ll need a friend. Gods. Have these worlds ever ended, when he’s gone? Have they always existed? Only Gale would think of such a horrible, plausible thing.

He thinks of the Astarions he’s been, the broken creatures left in the wake of this. All of this. It’s not his fault, but if they’re out there, in some way, he can only hope that they have friends.

So many of them won’t.

Gale pulls him into his arms, careful not to be too familiar, and that hurts in a different way. He wants the fingers pushing through his hair, he wants the hand soothing down his back. None of this is fair, least of all to them.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion croaks. “I do love you. I’m so sorry, Gale.”

“Shh, shh… It’s alright. You’ll do it differently next time. I’ll be in good hands, then, as I am now.”

“How can you say that, after…” The vampire doesn’t even know how to describe this. Any of it. From the outside, this looks like nothing, this looks like a relationship fracturing over nothing at all.

“Because I trust you. Yes - even now. Look at you, you’re… you’re being very thoughtful, really. Breaking both of our hearts because you realized your mistake. It’s unfortunate, I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt me, but I… I trust that this is right. For now, for me, for you.”

At the docks, this Gale hugs him one more time before they have to part for the sun’s wrath and Mystra’s grace. He promises again, to look after this Astarion, if there is a tomorrow.

And Astarion wakes up on the Nautiloid without him.

Chapter Text

He knows what he did wrong. Hells, he knows what he’s done right.

He doesn’t… want to do this anymore. Astarion wants a break from knowing everything, but not a break from living.

Astarion isn’t in charge of anything, again. They’ve got a new friend in Laurent, the most normally-named gnome Astarion has ever met. Gale doesn’t know Astarion, naturally. Everything is as it should be, and Astarion doesn’t want any part of it.

When Gale first asks Laurent for a magical item, Astarion softens the drama of it by offering up one of his own items, something he’s genuinely had equipped. It’s not even trash.

He tells the party that he’s a vampire, lest anyone give Gale any trouble for his own hunger. He isn’t overly familiar with the man, just friendly. Normal, for them. Weird, but within tolerable levels. There’s a plan slowly coming together, and he’s not sure what Gale will say when he proposes it. What would be stranger - to retread and retread and hope, or to throw the whole thing away and try something silly? Something stupid, but new?

It’s never worked before, but nothing obvious has ever worked before.

He doesn’t care if it changes anything, he just doesn’t want to do this. 

“I need your help,” he tells Gale, on a night he would have tried to bite Laurent if he were as hungry as he is desperate.

Gale, half-asleep, is quick to sit up, already looking around for his shoes. Bless him.

“It’s alright, we’re safe. Can I talk to you? Please.” Astarion doesn’t want to lay it on too thick, he can’t make the same mistakes again, but he’ll probably die if he doesn’t figure out how to do this. He could try and do it alone, but he’d never manage.

“Of course, Astarion,” Gale says, relaxing a little. He yawns. “What can I help you with, at this small hour?”

Astarion smiles, nervously, “I want to learn your mother’s pie recipe, from the source. I need to get to Waterdeep, and I need you to introduce me to Morena Dekarios.”

Gale had been very sleepy-soft, but he’s very awake now.

“What - Astarion… what?”  

“Please. I’ll explain how I know about that, but first… run away with me. I’ll explain everything. We’ll take a boat down the river, and then… I don’t know, a bigger boat out to sea. A ship? Hells, I know a poorly-guarded submersible…”

“You’re not making any sense,” Gale interrupts, voice low but more concerned than frustrated. Good. No, that’s better than anger, Astarion can work with concern.

Astarion says, “It’s Shadowheart’s artifact that keeps us from becoming mindflayers. If we take it, nothing else matters. We’ll be perfectly safe. I’ll explain everything. Just - please.”

Gale meets his gaze, almost certainly searching for meaning there. For any kind of explanation that can be gleaned from a glance alone.

He feels Gale’s tadpole try to connect with his, and he recoils at the sensation. Nobody does that, he’s - he’s safe, his tadpole is fully realized, nobody can get in if he doesn’t let them. Gale won’t succeed. Gale doesn’t usually even resort to such a thing, to probing minds when he wants his own left untouched… Astarion bites his lip. Maybe Gale will understand better, if he just…

He trusts him.

Astarion lets Gale into his mind. He forces himself to take a deep breath, and relax, as he feels the wizard sifting through his thoughts. His experiences. It’s too much, he’s overwhelmed just seeing it all through Gale’s mind’s eye, new and fresh and raw. Tav and Elana and Autumn and Astarion at his best and worst, Gale blowing himself up twice and never having anything to show for it. The two of them drinking in a clearing, playing lanceboard together, Astarion pulling Gale from the sigils again and again and again and - Astarion stops him from finding more there. Their love is ruined, if Gale can’t find it on his own. He can’t know.

He gently prises Gale from his mind, and opens his eyes. “Please. I’ll explain everything. Come with me.”

Gale looks… determined, more than anything else. He smiles, just a little, and says, “Alright. Do I have time to pack?”

“Maybe some food,” Astarion allows, and pushes himself up.

He takes the artifact, and they run.

They take Gandrel’s boat, this time, rather than Mayrina’s. He’s more likely to be able to get back to the city on his own, they agree that it’s slightly more ethical than borrowing hers. If they’re so inclined, they can even send word to Ulma when they get to the Gate, about the boat and about the wayward Gur.

It’s just the two of them on a small boat, taking turns rowing. They make better time than when it’d just been Astarion, though the Emperor is about as chatty. Astarion tunes it out as they pull the boat to shore before the Shadow-Curse sets in. This’ll be a safe spot to camp.

Over a much smaller meal than usual, just enough for Gale and a bite for Astarion to try, they talk a bit.

“I understand that you’ve been through all of these things a number of times… but you’ve never thought to try and fully leave the Chionthar behind? We could have also made for Trielta, to the north, and made our way up the road there.” Gale always has opinions, this is why Astarion likes him.

Astarion shakes his head, “It’s always a risk, to leave the group at all. I could never convince all of them to come with me, and the logistics would be impossible besides. We won’t break free by leaving, I’m certain of it, and so… I don’t know. It’s callous and selfish, to take the protection and leave them, so I try not to make a habit of it. They’ll be alright when I come back the next time, and maybe one day they’ll forgive me.”

Gale blows on his stew, made just as spicy as he could ever want, and says, “I assume I’ve been left behind, on past attempts.”

“The only time I did not pull you from the sigils,” Astarion admits with a wince. “I didn’t think you’d want to hurt people, if you turned squid. I’m not sure if that was the right choice… but this time, I wanted… Well, you know what I want.”

“You want to get to Waterdeep. I’m still not fully sure that I understand why, though I recall the reason you gave.”

Astarion smiles. “I don’t know. You told me about her pie, once, and it’s been on my mind ever since. One time, you even conjured an illusory Waterdeep to show me the harbor… I just want to see it for real, even if it’s only once.”

It had been more than one time, of course, with the illusion. Probably only a few miles from here, too, across the shadowed remains of Reithwin Town. Gale doesn’t need to know what that means until he knows what that means.

Gale smiles back, “She hates making it, but it was far and away my favorite, as a child. We’d go to the market and need what seemed like hundreds of fruits, and I’d get to help with the icebox’s enchantments to get it cold enough for setting. I was tiny, of course, so even as prodigious as I was…”

“I’m sure she doesn’t really hate making it,” Astarion says, “Not if you were that excited.”

“That’s true,” the wizard admits, scratching at his beard. “Thinking on it, she probably complains because I’m not helping, now, so much as I’m requesting.”

Astarion makes a knife-chopping gesture, “I’m very good at helping.”

“Maybe it won’t be such an imposition, then,” Gale laughs. “Still… it’s struck me as a strange thing that I’d tell you about, in the first place.”

The vampire shakes his head. “I’ll explain all manner of things, but I cannot explain that. Not just yet. If you have theories, just keep them percolating or whatever. I don’t even want to hear them yet.”

Gale holds a hand up, “Say no more. I’ll keep my theories to myself.”

Good. Good! Astarion can tell him some things, but they can’t tell each other everything. It’s vital that they don’t. If Gale is ever going to love him, it has to be because Gale falls in love, not because Astarion tells him that they’re lovers. He can’t be a puzzle. He’s got to be… a person.

It’s all a fine balance, and he’s grateful for the change of scenery. Astarion can’t be manipulating Gale if he has no idea what will happen. He isn’t in power if he isn’t in control, and once they leave the city, he’ll have fully lost control.

He’s excited.

They continue to make pretty good time, reaching the city in less than a tenday. Gale does insist on at least writing a note for Ulma, when they leave the boat tied near the Heapside Strand to avoid the Wyrm’s Crossing entry checkpoint. Not that anyone is looking for them, but Astarion wants nothing at all to do with the Steel Watch or Gortash today.

Gale needs food for the rest of the journey, so they stop in at a market. Astarion pilfers a few nice items he would have used, if they were fighting their way through Absolutists in the city. They aren’t going to do that, of course. He still feels a little better, with a nice set of leathers in his pack. Astarion grabs a few cheap magical items - Gale’s orb isn’t stabilized, but there’s a hope that Elminster will actually be in Waterdeep. The wizard won’t have reason to help, and it’s really Mystra’s help in the first place, but… maybe it’ll be alright. At worst, Astarion will just hunt down things to feed Gale, food and otherwise. He’ll take care of him.

Astarion returns from his thievery to meet Gale in the small park near Jaheira’s home, far away from the Szarr Palace. He presents the wizard with a couple of nice outfits, as well as gear that Lorroakan’s projection won’t notice has gone missing.

“You seem worried that we’ll run into trouble,” Gale says, ritual casting Identify right there on the park bench. Astarion appreciates the proactive approach to understanding the enchantments, even if he knows the robes are perfectly safe to wear. Gale isn’t paranoid, despite the everything, but he is cautious. That’s good, that’ll serve them well.

“I’m a little worried,” Astarion admits, “Though it’s more irrational than anything. We’re just a couple of upstanding gentlemen in a big city, nobody will pay us any mind.”

Gale’s gaze flicks up from the robe, just a quick look at him. He says, “Are you worried about your former master? Leaving him alive?”

Astarion snorts, “Of course not - I. No?” Is he? Not really... But it does feel strange, to simply leave it undone. “I don’t think so.”

The wizard is quiet for a moment, still working on his spell. It’ll take a short while. Eventually, Gale offers, “I mean… I understand your desire to leave the city, but I don’t mind stopping in to murder him for you. With you, if you want to come, but.”

Astarion sits down, legs folded in the grass and flowers, just so he can look up at Gale fondly. Gods. “You’d do that for me? With as little battle as we’ve seen… it would be dangerous.”

Gale's eyes sparkle a little, “I would do that for you, if it meant you could rest easier.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Astarion says. They’re underprepared, even logistics aside.

It would make him feel better, though. Shy of the times he’s been sacrificed, Cazador’s death has almost always been the last stop in his ‘personal journey.’ He’ll feel unfinished, if they leave the city and leave him alive.

“I’ll come with you,” the vampire decides. “We’ll kill him together, and then leave.”

“Excellent,” Gale agrees. Astarion turns around, so he can lean into Gale’s knee on the bench. Rituals take ten minutes, he’s got time to sit and close his eyes in the sun.

Once Gale’s finished with the robe, a hand comes to rest in Astarion’s hair, just gently mussing it. Perhaps Astarion is silly, to try and keep Gale close and at arm’s length at once. He tilts his head, brushing his nose fondly into Gale’s thigh. This is enough for now.

Besides, after Cazador, they’ll be trapped in a submersible together for at least a tenday. This much casual touch is already plenty - he’s not greedy.

Astarion re-sells something he’s nicked so they can get a room at an inn that isn’t the Elfsong, and he spends a couple of hours walking Gale through Cazador’s palace. He even offers to show him through their connection, a new concession unique to this Gale. The wizard seems to appreciate the chance to see some of the spells Cazador will cast, rearranging his spells in turn.

With reluctance, Astarion shows him what happens if they fail, too. The Vampire Ascendant, in one form or another. “I’ve succeeded where he fails more often than he’s managed it, but the ideal is that neither of us pulls it off. There shouldn’t be a Vampire Ascendant in the world.”

Gale nods. He’s still puzzling out his spells, which are much less powerful than they’d normally be by now, but closes his spellbook to check in again. “You don’t have to come along, if you’re worried that he’ll use you. If you’re worried that you’ll use him. Truly, I’ll do this for you,” he says.

“Very sweet of you,” Astarion says, “But I’d never forgive myself, if we got this far and you died in the effort. Besides, the Artifact won’t quite reach the ritual chamber, we’d be too far apart if I didn’t come along.” Ask me how I know.

Gale doesn’t ask him how he knows. He offers a reassuring smile. “We’ll do it together, then. And then to Waterdeep.”

“And then to Waterdeep,” Astarion agrees, stretching. He returns to sharpening his knives, oiling his hand-crossbows. He’ll be ready for this, and then there’ll be nothing here to regret. He doesn’t care about the Absolute or the Chosen or any of it. He cares about Gale, and he cares about making sure Cazador suffers.

That’s all.

They make use of scrolls and potions, almost entirely stolen, for the infiltration. Misty Step to the entry balcony to skip the enthralled guards, See Invisibility to ensure that Godey doesn’t get the jump on them, several bludgeoning-based spells in order to obliterate Godey into dust. Astarion picks up the Signet ring, and they drink half a potion of Invisibility each as they hurry past the werewolves in the ballroom. The lift is all that’s left.

“You can stay here,” Gale offers, one last time, “If you want to.”

“Why do you keep asking?” Astarion asks - it’s almost annoying, at this point. He’s come this far, he’s done this dozens of times, he’s not afraid of Cazador, no matter their relative power levels. He’s fine.

The wizard takes a moment to answer, sort of crossing his arms and leaning against the wall of the hall. “I’m just… hm. I don’t know how to describe this feeling in a way that isn’t presumptuous or self-important. I want to take care of you, Astarion. I want to see you safe.”

Gale smiles, tentatively, “It’s not that I don’t think you can handle it, far from it. I just don’t think you should have to handle it. I’d happily shoulder the burden, if it would lighten your load.”

Astarion stares at him. Gale’s known him all of two, maybe three tendays. What in the Hells could have gotten him thinking this way? Has he done it wrong, has he - has he done it again? Shit.

“Astarion?”

He’s hopeless - maybe Gale can’t be told things. Any things. No matter how comforting it is, or easy it is to talk to him. Gale can’t know, it’ll always taint it. Astarion has been selfish, to keep trying this when it’s clearly not working. What is it earning him? False kisses and false love, he takes and takes what he isn’t owed, he’s terrible and he keeps forcing Gale to -

Gale rests his hands on Astarion’s shoulders. “Astarion.”

He looks at Gale, feeling lost.

“You’re overthinking it. Whatever it is - trust me when I say, I know the feeling. I know that look.” Gale gives him another smile, meant to be reassuring, he thinks. Gale says, “You’re afraid you’re influencing me, right? You’re always so nervous, when we talk about you or I. It’s gone poorly before, I have to assume. Am I wrong?”

Astarion shakes his head. Gale isn’t wrong.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Astarion. This is an awful hand you’ve been played, and you’re doing what you can to do right by me. I hope by yourself, as well.

“I care about you a great deal, though, and please, trust me when I tell you that you haven’t tricked me into it. You’re not forcing me to care. You are deserving of my care. Alright?” Gale is using his firm voice. He must really mean it.

“Alright,” Astarion murmurs, cowed. He hadn’t admitted any of that aloud before, but… Gale always sees through him, doesn’t he? Through his secrets and his lies.

“I trust you,” Gale continues, “So please. Consider placing your trust in me. We can take care of each other, rather than just you making the hard choices. Yes?”

“Y-es…” Astarion agrees.

Some of the fear is slipping away, in the face of Gale’s sure brown eyes. He loves him. Maybe he’s allowed to.

He lets Gale go down alone.

It’s hard, he’s afraid. He’s terrified.

But: an hour later, the lift rises again, with a bloodied but living Gale on it. The wizard grins into Astarion’s hair as they crash together into a hug. Gale slips Rhapsody into Astarion’s hand. “Thank you for trusting me. Also, ouch.”

“New plan: Temple, then Inn again, then Waterdeep,” Astarion says.

“Sounds wonderful,” Gale agrees.

Chapter Text

They actually take another couple of days at the inn, letting Gale heal up after his ill-advised Cazador-stunt. It’ll be less comfortable, once they’ve taken Redhammer’s submersible and begun to live out of it, after all. It’s not exactly a large space meant for two men.

It’s quite lucky, really, that only one of them needs to eat and shit and all, but even one person’s worth of the latter might make for an unpleasant trip. Astarion doesn’t really care - he’s been through so much worse than a stinky underwater room for tendays. Gale’s working on solutions, all the same, for the sake of comfort. Prestidigitation, for example, can change a smell or remove ‘soil,’ so it stands to reason…

Anyway, gross.

They’ve thought about the logistics a bit, is all that really matters.

Astarion is slightly less sure about the sleeping arrangements. There are a couple dozen seats available, but those won’t make for good rest. So really, the floorspace will be their main quarters for all things. Bedrolls and blankets, some pillows, more pillows… Astarion isn’t sure how long this journey will take, really, but he’s lain on that cold metal floor before, lethargic and winded after a rush through the Iron Throne. He’d rather it was comfortable, if at all possible.

Gale suggests a couple of plush rugs, to supplement the bedrolls as a base layer, because he is very smart. These, too, are stolen and set aside near Flymm Cargo.

The two of them break into the place, finally, and slay the worgs within, dragging their supplies in afterward and locking the doors. Nobody will be here anytime soon, he’s pretty sure, but Astarion doesn’t want to risk being followed. They make a good team, he thinks, as Gale gently lowers a couple of rugs and boxes down the ladder for him. It’s a shame about everything that happens to them all the time.

They could probably spare Redhammer, but Astarion’s pretty certain that the man would be killed by the Umberlee bitches or the Bane bitches, as soon as they find out what’s happened. If anything, this is a mercy. One last murder for the road.

And then they’re loading into the submersible. Astarion doesn’t know a better name for it - Gale mentions the ‘Apparatus of Kwalish’ with interest as they look over the controls. Apparently Kwalish’s submersible looks like a crab, of all things. Astarion knows that if he can understand this thing, Gale will certainly pick it up quickly, but for now, he’ll take them out of the city. Out to sea.

Gale unpacks their rugs and bedrolls, arranging them while Astarion navigates past fishing boats and Waveservants. The vampire points out the Iron Throne in the harbor, the century-old wreckage of the yet-unexploded thing. Gortash briefly attempts to connect with the vessel, from wherever he is, but Astarion turns the screen off. His weird boat now. His and Gale’s.

He figures out how to set the thing going in a straight line, and it doesn’t seem to want to crash them into the ocean floor or surface. Astarion is an excellent driver.

Gale is reading upon a pile of bedding and pillows. He looks positively cozy.

“I’m seeing only one sleeping arrangement,” Astarion observes, cautious. All of the rugs and whatnot are in this one place, and not half-packed for him to sort out himself. Perhaps Gale meant it as a singular space to take turns with? He’s not allowing himself to make assumptions beyond that. Astarion is banned from assumptions to do with closeness or affections.

Gale sits up a bit. “I didn’t mean to presume - ah. Hm.” He looks around as if he hadn’t really given that choice much thought. Wizards are fascinating creatures. “I can redistribute it, my apologies.”

Astarion makes a face.

“Or… I could leave it?” Gale ventures. “I’m not sure I understand what you want.”

“I’m less concerned about what I want,” Astarion sighs. “Much more concerned with what you want.”

“I want…” Gale starts, and a nervous little smile tries to assert itself. It doesn’t quite manage. “I thought it might be nice, if we… were sharing the space. It’s a small space, we’ll need to share some things anyway, but… Sorry. You’ll have to forgive me and my more mortal urges.”

Astarion’s ears twitch. This is closer to the right energy, the right tack for Gale to take. His heart does a little hopeful flutter in his chest, and he’ll have to temper everything that follows. Still, still.

“No, don’t… don’t apologize,” Astarion murmurs, lowering himself to the furs and rugs. The ocean putters by the glass overhead, a canopy of fish and darkness rather than stars. “Never apologize for that. It would be nice. You’re quite right.”

“Am I?” Gale confirms, careful. There are so many things that Astarion is quick to caution against speaking, and their interactions with each other are the most guarded of secrets. It’s very reasonable that Gale would worry.

“You are. Just… care for me as you would, were we in a normal situation. Pretend we have the time to do it right.” Astarion smiles, “We’ve a tenday or so in here. Plenty of time.”

They’ve brought rations and other foods that will keep fine without ice boxes or cookfires, but they hadn’t exactly prioritized heavy bottles of good wine. There’s no drink to hide behind, nor dogs to pet… Only what they could bring along.

The Emperor doesn’t bother with their dreams anymore. No shouting or lying will turn them around, and by now it’s probably as safe from the Absolute as it ever is. It’s just as free, so long as they have Orpheus in the Prism. Maybe it’ll go through some kind of spiritual journey as well. 

Astarion teaches Gale how to work the controls, and of course he is a natural. They play lanceboard and take turns reading aloud as the ship follows their headings. Astarion sometimes closes his eyes, even when he’s the one reading, and realizes that he knows the words by heart. He’s been doing all of this for far too long, now.

It’s nice to do anything different.

They aren’t sleeping at the same time, they take turns resting. While they’re both awake, though, there are tentative moments of closeness. A hug, unprompted. Using a thigh as a pillow. A lingering hand after helping the other up off the cold floor.

Being trapped in Gale’s orbit has never been more literal, but each day that they take slowly has him less worried. This Gale understands, better, the burden of it all. He’s gentle as they escalate, though it’s obvious that they both want more. He respects the fear that they’ll do it wrong, even if Astarion doesn’t outright say it.

In short, Astarion loves him. And more importantly, he does trust him.

Gale wouldn’t risk it, if it wasn’t real.

Everything Astarion does is a risk.

One evening, after surfacing to check their surroundings and headings, they opt to stay put for the night. Once the glass roof dries, they’ve got a nice view of the stars. They open up the hatch and Gale even prestidigitates the salt from the glass for a better view.

And they lay together on the soft things they’ve both been enjoying the last few days. Gale reaches for Astarion’s hand. Neither of them pull away.

Gale says, “I gather that whatever you and I have shared in the past… has left you troubled by what we could share now. You can confirm, deny, or deflect. I won’t hold it against you.”

Astarion squeezes his hand a little. “I’ll confirm that. It’s gone… too many ways that hurt us. I’m worried that I’ll do it wrong.”

“It must have been good, at least once, if you kept putting your heart on the line,” Gale observes, gentle.

Astarion is quiet. It had been good. He’d kept it in his heart, even when it hurt and hurt and hurt.

Gale continues, his voice kind and sweet, like he’s trying to coax a feral cat out for a treat, “Is that something that you want, with me? Or is the risk of failure too great.”

“Tell me what you think, first,” Astarion mumbles. He’s grateful that they both have the sky to look at. If Gale was looking him in the eyes, he’d crumble and weep like a soggy newspaper’s ink.

Rubbing his thumb along Astarion’s knuckles, Gale raises his other hand to gesture at the stars, a bit of magic wisping around his fingers as he speaks. “I think… that our time is much too short, in this world or any other, to be ruled by fear. Death is assured, be it soon or late. In your case, the future looms like an unknowable specter, false until proven true.

“Of course I’m worried, if you are - there are so many things in this world that can hurt us, and most of all the ones we love. But that does not mean we shouldn’t love them. It would be a shame, I think, to let such a feeling slip away, for fear that it wouldn’t live up to its full potential. Isn’t it worth having, even if it isn’t perfect?

“To that end… this journey, half-finished though it is… it’s been some of the most fun I’ve had in a very long time, Astarion. Even were you not pleasant company, I think I’d prefer such a trip to the one I saw glimpses of in your mind. You’re a wonderful companion, and… well. It would be a shame not to tell you that my feelings go beyond a mere desire to protect.”

Astarion finally turns a bit to look at Gale. The man’s eyes find his, and they both smile a little. Gale continues, “I’m in love with you. And… I’m glad that I’ll get to show you my home, no matter what your feelings for me may be. Or lack thereof.”

He’s afraid of breaking this, now that it’s here. It feels… closer to right, but when has he ever known what any of this is meant to be? They’re both awful judges of such things, between Mystra and the previous Gale.

If he waits and waits for something to be perfect again, will he ever even know when he’s found it? Perhaps Gale is right. These lives are too short to waste in fear.

“I’ve been in love with a version of you for a long time,” Astarion murmurs, “But… I love you, the you that you are now… very much. Each time, I… I try not to conflate you. The many Gale Dekarios I’ve known.

“I think removing us from the… the narrative, such as it is… it’s been good.” He smiles, a tentative thing. “I get to know you under different, new circumstances. I’ve had a lot of fun getting to know you for you.”

Gale hasn’t moved beyond the steady motion across the back of Astarion’s hand. He hums a bit, and asks, “So that’s the worst of it done, probably. The most terrifying things to declare and admit to one another, despite all reasonable assumptions. My next question is, I hope, less of an imposition.”

“Go on,” Astarion says, fairly certain he knows what will follow.

“May I kiss you?”

“Please do,” the vampire laughs, not minding at all when his view of the stars becomes obscured by a wizard and his pretty hair.

Gale kisses him like a new promise, something sacred, not to be taken for granted. He’s sweet, and so much gentler with Astarion than he needs to be, but perhaps he does need to be. After everything, after all of it.

The orb isn’t stable, so they know better than to get too carried away, but they lay there in their furs and pillows, exploring each other quietly. This Gale knows not to ask too many questions, and this Astarion knows not to explain everything that’s ever happened.

Another tenday passes, their traveling along the Sword Coast steadily bringing them to their destination. They had to surface again, once, and figure out how to refuel the thing. That night, they’d camped on the outskirts of Daggerford, and Gale had pointed out the distant lights of Waterdeep on the horizon. If they couldn’t refuel, they could walk and be there in a matter of days.

They do still refuel, just on principle. It’s brought them this far, it can bring them the rest of the way. Perhaps they’ve also become a little precious about their lounging around while a machine does all the work.

Gale brings the craft to the surface just outside the harbor, pointing out Deepwater Isle and the various lower wards of the city. Already, Astarion is glad of all of the effort it took to get here. Gods, a new city to explore, and look at how excited Gale is to show it to him!

They agree to leave the submersible for somebody else to salvage. No matter what happens, they’ve no further need of it. If they need to return to Baldur’s Gate, they’ll take a regular ship, or pay teleportation fees. There’s no coming back the way they came, now that they’re here.

“Now, before I start planning introductions,” Gale starts.

“You already have,” Astarion teases him, “Or you wouldn’t bring it up.”

“Fair point. As I plan introductions… How would you like to be introduced? To Tara, to my mother? Lover is… not technically untrue, but feels a little overt. Crass?”

“Perhaps partners? Unless you intend to make a thing or two very formal all of the sudden,” Astarion hums. They’re making a beeline for Gale’s favorite market, freshly cooked food finally at hand again.

“Would you like that?” Gale seems for-it, as ever. The man loves to propose.

“Maybe. We’ve no time to plan anything, but there’s no harm in… if you want to, that is.”

Gale’s already pulling him along toward a jewelry stall, forgoing the planned kebabs. Silly man. “It’s a shame that you won’t be able to keep it. Perhaps we’ll find something simple, and you can… think of me, when you wear something similar.”

“That’s awfully sad,” Astarion says, looking over a selection of rings. “To wear a ring that isn’t yours, pretending that it is, while you’ve gone and forgotten me again. You’d have me play a sorry widow?” His tone is more joking than anything, though.

“I understand your point - but wouldn’t it be worse, not to have some reminder? For someone to think they know your heart, but get it very wrong indeed…”

Astarion laughs at him, “Then you’d be getting it wrong, too - you’d see my ring and assume me unavailable. Or I’d tell you I was available, and we’d both think I was some kind of whore.”

This is a normal conversation to have at a jewelry kiosk. Gale says, “Mm. I’d rather you remembered me fondly when you saw it, despite any other complications. If you’ll allow me a selfish whim.”

“I suppose that this whole thing is my own selfish whim… I’ll grant you this one.” Astarion has maybe come around on the idea of wearing something and thinking of this Gale. He wears rings all the time, but perhaps now it’ll be with purpose.

Gale picks out something simple, a thin silver band with the smallest ruby inlaid. He says that he wouldn’t want it to get caught on anything, when Astarion’s hand is in someone else’s pocket. Astarion is in love with him.

In turn, Astarion selects something ostentatious in design, but less so in function. He recognizes it as the Ring of Evasion that Miss Tara once brought to their camp for Gale to eat. It costs nearly all of the gold they have between them, but he pays for it honestly. It’ll keep Gale safe, if he’s still here when Astarion’s awareness has to leave him.

They duck into a quiet alley of the Sea Ward to slide the rings onto each other’s fingers. Astarion could almost forget the world, but for the sight of Gale’s fingers lacing between his. The satisfied look on his wizard’s face. And Gale is his again. He’s right, and he’s his. If this world continues past that unknown quantity that is the end of the Absolute, Astarion will marry him. They’ll invite every Dekarios in Faerun.

The rest of their friends will be long dead, of course. This is only a triumph of the heart, after all.

Gale takes him to meet the inimitable Morena Dekarios, at long last. She’s got Gale’s kind brown eyes and so much more grey streaking through her loosely curling hair. She hasn’t seen Gale since he hid away with his orb, so she throws her arms around him without a care for Astarion. As she should. It’s sweet.

Astarion is introduced as Gale’s fiancé, and there’s a new round of hugs and tears. Gale gets chastised for not bringing him around sooner, by both Tara and Morena.

“I’ve been told to ask for your pie recipe,” Astarion says, “But if you don’t mind, I’d like you to just… help me learn how to make it. I want to know how to do it with my own hands.”

Nothing stays, not pie or rings or any love but Astarion’s - but nothing can take away what he learns and knows.

They spend two months in Waterdeep, exploring the city and learning to cook all of Gale’s favorite foods. Astarion can only taste test, not really eat, but it’s still exciting. He’ll know how to bring a taste of home to the next Gale.

One morning, watching the sun rise on Gale’s balcony, they’re enjoying each other’s company despite the limitations of the still-unstable Netherese Orb. Everything is as normal as it has been since they got here. Astarion tucks his face into Gale’s neck, and closes his eyes.

And wakes up in his pod on the Nautiloid.

“Oh. I suppose… alright,” he murmurs to himself, amid the fire and chaos. He’ll have to find another ring.

Chapter Text

Astarion resolves not to be a total sad-sack about losing his fiancé, again. It would be very easy to sink into despair about it. After all, it’s not just the loss of him, it’s facing him again when they’re strangers. Every Gale is a man he could love, but not every Gale is the one that loves him back. Not the way it’s good.

At any rate, Gale wouldn’t want him to be that way about it. He’d wanted to be missed, with the rings and all, but he wouldn’t want Astarion to just… waste away on the Chionthar.

Still, it’s hard, as he steps onto the cliffs overlooking the river. It’ll be difficult to look his other friends in the eye, knowing that they’d been doomed by his selfishness. And he’d been quite happy to do it, too.

He goes to fetch this new Gale, reaching to touch the sigils and get the wizard’s attention. Echoing in his mind is the usual, ‘ A hand? Anybody?’

Gale does not say a-hand-anybody.

He says, “Astarion? Is that you?”

And all thoughts go fully out the window, down a cliff, into the river. Astarion’s grasping Gale’s hand and pulling him free, and wizard arms are wrapping around him at once, and oh gods. Astarion has what experts call noodle arms, but he is squeezing Gale as tight as such a man can.

“No, no, no,” he mumbles, “No, I can’t have - you can’t. You know me.” Astarion’s voice is breaking. “Do you - you remember? Oh gods.” He’s doomed them both. 

He pulls away just enough to see Gale’s face, which looks relieved and affectionate and no, shit, no!

“Shhh, shh, hey,” Gale tries, tucking Astarion’s face into his neck with a hand at the back of his head. “I’m not upset with you.”

“You should be,” Astarion croaks, “I’m - I’m so sorry…”

Gale lowers them both to the dirt, sitting cross-legged, pulls Astarion into his lap. He kisses his temple. “This is good. I can - I can actually help you. We could solve this, together, and - and I won’t forget anymore.”

“That’s the problem,” the vampire breathes. He’s a wreck, even with Gale trying to calm him down. The only thing worse than a new Gale who doesn’t know him, is him having trapped the Gale he loves in this terrible thing with him. There’s no escape, this is some kind of torture, and now Gale will be hurt too. Forever. Forever.

Astarion’s lost his words fully, weeping into Gale’s robes as the wizard runs a firm, comforting hand up and down his back. He has no idea how long they sit there, only that when Shadowheart and a new stranger come into view, he’s exhausted. All cried out, probably dehydrated with it, eyes puffy and redder than usual. Gale is still petting his hair when he speaks up.

“I’m Gale of Waterdeep, a wizard very much at your service. This is my partner, Astarion - we were separated on the Nautiloid, you’ll have to forgive our display. It’s been a long day indeed.” Gale reaches up to offer a hand to shake to the new leadership, a butch gith that Shadowheart seems wary of.

“I’ll forgive it if you prove useful in our search for a Githyanki Creche,” she intones, ignoring the handshake.

Astarion just wants to set up camp and stay there for a bit, thank you. Maybe wander off to find Scratch, bury his face in the dog’s fur.

“I assure you,” Gale says, coaxing Astarion up with some difficulty, “We’re quite competent in a fight, and Astarion knows the region well. Once he’s had a chance to rest up, you’ll find us both exceedingly useful.”

Shadowheart sighs. “The last thing we need, in the search to be rid of these things, is a pair of blubbering men distracted by their feelings.”

This makes Astarion laugh, in spite of everything. “You’re so right. If it’s all the same to you, we will come along anyway.” His voice sounds like shit, but he doesn’t really care. Gale is holding his hand.

That night, they make camp in the usual place, alongside a stream and a forgotten stone-brick structure. Astarion and Gale set up one larger tent, together, and they don’t talk about things just yet. For Astarion, it’s all very raw. He’s feeling a lot of things, most of them guilt and grief, but there is also relief. Gale is right - for whatever else’s been lost, Astarion never has to be alone again

He does spend many of his days that follow alone, though, in a literal sense. The Gith, Jessal, has decided that while Astarion’s information is useful, his tactics in combat are not. She prefers to take Lae’zel and Karlach, who understand the discipline of soldiers. The fourth member of the party is sometimes Shadowheart, but usually Gale. He’s got ‘a strategic mind.’

This is just as well. Once Withers has arrived at their humble camp, Astarion doesn’t exactly fear Gale dying irreversibly out there. This way, too, Gale can see everything that happens in a more natural way. He can come home with stories to tell Astarion, and they’re all seen through fresh eyes.

Gale was here before, that last loop around, but he never got as far as the Goblin Camp, even. There’s a lot to learn.

Astarion takes up a position of stewardship, at camp. He sharpens weapons and mends clothing, he refills waterskins and feeds the dog. He sweeps the dirt or whatever, makes sure that Gale always has a clean shirt to put on when he comes home and bathes in the stream.

It’s a nice break. Nearly everyone appreciates him and the work he’s doing. Some nights, Gale can even take a night off from cooking, and Astarion can show off some recipe or other of Morena’s. They’ve told their new friends that they started living together a few months before the Nautiloid. This is not untrue. Gale seems more comfortable with the falsehoods if they’re technically truths.

The tiefling party comes around, and Jessal is inclined to send their visitors away, but Karlach manages to convince her that it’d be good for morale. Astarion is less than impressed with the wines that have made their way to the camp chest, but for once he isn’t upset about vinegar.

He and Gale steal away to the clearing, Astarion thinking that it would be a shame if he never actually showed Gale this place. Here’s the tree Tav pinned him to, here’s the rock that dug into your back once. Right here is where Astarion likes to bask in the sun, when everyone’s gone off to fight for the day.

“It’s been going well, though? Tell me about your day,” Astarion hums. His head rests against Gale’s shoulder where they slow-dance to Alfira’s distant song.

“Mm… of course the Grove is safe, hence the party,” Gale says.

“Hence the party,” Astarion agrees.

“Today was mainly for goblins. The ladies had me stand up in the rafters above Dror Ragzlin and Thunderwave off anybody who climbed up to join me. They took turns getting flogged, also. Not a bad day,” Gale’s very conversational about it. None of this is much of a surprise to Astarion, but it’s still always fun to compare notes.

“The question is whether or not they kept their shirts on, for the flogging,” Astarion says. “Not that I care what you saw, I’ve seen it all before, it’s just. Why do it half-way? Good for Abdirak, though.”

“Was that his name?”

“Mmhm. Little Loviatar freak. I’ve never seen him after he leaves the camp, but I do wonder where he goes. Once or twice he got caught up in the fighting, poor fellow.” Astarion has had a conversation or two about pain with him, as well, but it’s never terribly fruitful. He’s not here to get off on his own suffering, thanks.

“Considering the company he was keeping, I do find it hard to have much sympathy,” Gale laughs, “But I suppose he must’ve made it out today, I didn’t see him among the dead.”

Astarion shakes his head, “I wouldn’t miss him, but some people are worse than others. I suspect he’s only ever there for the sake of the pain, rather than the misery. There’s something to be said for the value of pain.”

“I’m not sure I want to understand that terrifying sentiment, my love,” Gale hums, turning to kiss Astarion’s temple. “However, I can only be grateful for whatever circumstances brought you to me, terrible though they are.”

“You’re lucky to have me in only a handful of pieces, all things considered.”

“In time, all things can be mended - or at least made comfortable,” says the wizard. He laces their fingers together, lifting Astarion’s hand to kiss the back of his knuckles.

On their fingers are the Sunwalker’s Gift and Guiding Light, spoils brought back from an impromptu jump from the Whispering Depths into the Underdark. Astarion has no need of darkvision, but he appreciates the simplicity of the thing. He doesn’t think he’ll get ahold of Araj’s Risky Ring this time, but he also doesn’t think he’ll need it.

“I’m very comfortable,” Astarion reassures him. For once, he really is.

Assuming that Gale doesn’t forget again, now that he remembers… that’s a massive weight off his shoulders. He hadn’t realized how heavy it was, carrying it alone for so long. If he loses his footing, there’s someone ready to catch him. If he dies of something stupid, Gale will be there to make sure he’s brought back, rather than recovered by some Cazador-crony and zombified.

Gale will keep him honest, and safe, even when Astarion can take care of himself. It’s nice, not to have to.

It’s also kind of funny for Gale to be the one bringing him little gifts and trophies. Very little of it is new, it’s all things he’s had in his pockets before, but it becomes new because Gale’s thought to bring them to him. Astarion has two well-scrubbed toad teapots now, and isn’t that a miracle?

They go to bed, and then go to the Creche, and Astarion enjoys the view over the Trielta Crags. He understands why the Lathanderites built their grand temple here, dotting the rocks with huge monuments to the sun. It’s beautiful, truly, when you’ve the time and energy to appreciate it.

One morning, once the strong girls and Gale have set out for the day, Astarion goes to talk to Withers again. It’s been a minute since he did that for anything but necessities. He’s no particular goal, and it’s nice not to.

“What becomes of the lost worship, when a temple falls into disrepair? When all of the followers there die?” He doesn’t really care, but it seems like a reasonable thing to ask here, overlooking such a place.

Well, and maybe Jergal has opinions, as a god in such a position. Astarion has plenty of time to be the camp gossip, it’s no skin off his nose if the bone man ignores him.

“One temple does not make or create a being such as a god. It creates a place for worship to gather and fester, but the power lies in the belief. A god is as easy to kill as it is to birth.”

Astarion grins, pleased with himself, “So, not terribly easy.”

“No,” Withers agrees.

“What happens when a god dies, then? Do they go to the Fugue Plane, or return to their own afterlife? Can a god be a brick in the Wall, or is that exclusively for godless mortals?” Astarion is having a good time, with this, actually. Perhaps Withers is more forthright because this isn’t directly about him… or, perhaps he’s just interested in the conversation? Hm.

The bone man smiles, perhaps a little indulgent, “What happens to a god whose portfolio has been subsumed? To a goddess of cats, when brought to our world from another, and there is already a goddess of cats.”

“They fight, I imagine. Or become one goddess of cats, and take the worship of both?”

“Just so,” Withers says. “If a god truly dies, their portfolios are ripe for the taking. A farmer prays to Chauntea and the harvest is strong. Does he stop praying, if Chauntea is no more?”

“He prays to the new god… but probably still thinks of Chauntea,” Astarion decides.

“Correct.”

Astarion realizes, now, that he still hasn’t really gotten an answer to most of what he’s been asking. Classic. Still, it stands to reason that Lathander and the other sun-gods can all coexist well enough. Even if one large temple were destroyed, it wouldn’t stop The Morninglord being worshiped by his Dawnbringers, just as the elves would not stop their worship of The Sage at Sunset.

To that end, Jergal probably remains powerful, at least enough to bring them back at his leisure… just because there are those who would not recognize or worship the Dead Three… but Death is always revered, or feared.

Neat! Unless he’s totally misunderstood. Which is possible.

“Didst thou have other queries,” Withers wonders. He seems in good spirits.

Astarion thinks on this for a moment. He asks, “Have you and I spoken about time before?”

“That is a question that I suspect… thou knowest the answer to.”

Well. In a manner of speaking, yes - Astarion knows they spoke about it before, but hhhhrrghhhh… “Quite right. Nevermind!”

Do the gods even persist across these spaces? How exhausting would that be! Probably worse than how he’s been living up until now. And how many God-Gales would there be, if every time he got the Crown of Karsus a new one was made?

Terrible, awful. Probably still best not to worry about it.

He goes to have brunch mimosas with Wyll and Shadowheart, and teaches Scratch a new trick. Halsin is present, offering his teasing opinions in Elvish so that Astarion and Shadowheart can laugh. One of them will take pity on Wyll and translate before they disperse.

What he and Gale must look like to all of them. It’s a fool’s errand to try and get an outside perspective, really. For all the world, they’re a quietly gross couple that closes their tent flap for privacy in the evenings. Astarion hasn’t even had the pleasure of proper sex with this Gale, nor even freaky Astral wizard sex. Neither Elminster nor Mystra had ever answered their summons in Waterdeep, and they’ve always been very careful not to upset the orb.

So, naturally, there’s constant jokes about how awful it is to share a camp with them, as if they’re fucking like rabbits two feet away from Wyll’s tent. Would that they could, dear friends! It won’t be very long before they come around the corner of the Mountain Pass and find the old wizard. Astarion hasn’t told Gale exactly where to expect him, either, lest the man ruin the regular flow of events.

A day or so later does see Elminster’s appearance at their sunny camp, though, and Astarion’s prepared a little tasting tray of cheese for the occasion. It’s a simulacrum, not the real man, but perhaps a bit of snow can taste fine aged cheese if it tries hard enough.

This, too, is a bit different. Elminster greets Gale at his tent, once the man returns from the day’s adventure, and clearly recognizes that this is not just Gale’s tent. There’s a blood bank and some very obviously not-Gale shoes lying around.

The crusty old wizard actually shakes Astarion’s hand, taking it between two of his, and thanks him for taking care of Gale. Taking care of him and ruining his life are two closely related things, but Astarion manages to say something better. “We’re taking care of each other, really.”

That’s what makes Gale special. A standout among standouts, Astarion’s favorite of a line of favorites. Gale likes to take care of him, even when he should be strong enough to take care of himself. It’s important.

Elminster asks them when to expect a wedding invitation, and Gale gives him a winning smile. “In a couple of months, I expect. Once we’re through with this.”

Though it’s not like they haven’t just been given Mystra’s Netherese Orb instructions, Elminster still responds with a warm smile of his own. “Of course I’ll be there, m’boy. In one form or another.”

Karlach distantly coos over how cute it is, Gale inviting his Granddad to the wedding, and a few of the others approach to joke about when they’ll get their invitations. C’mon, Gale, haven’t you access to fine parchment? Astarion has plenty of time to write them all, lazing around at camp!

Jessal rolls her eyes. She’s just had her whole worldview upended by Vlaakith and the Zaith’isk, but even she seems to be in decent spirits.

Astarion wonders if Figaro would take on a short-notice commission, in exchange for saving him from a Dimension-Dooring murderer. Gale laughs at the idea, and says, “Let me see this one through, and we’ll start really making plans afterward. I want there to be an afterward, if we can manage.”

Chapter Text

He’s got a little project lined up once they reach the Shadow-Cursed lands. At that one campsite, not the lakeside one, there’s a broken cottage up on the hill. Astarion’s been there a few times, for one reason or another. There’s a small kitchen, a hearth, a bed that could use repair, and some storage space.

It’s not Gale’s tower, back in Waterdeep, but it’s a little more spacious than a large tent. Astarion’s going to get it somewhere resembling comfortable, before they move on to Rivington. Assuming Jessal puts in the work to lift the curse, people will want to move back to the greater Reithwin area, in time... Whoever finds his hard work will have lucked out!

To be clear, he does not want to live here. No thank you. He has been somewhat bored of his little tasks, though, relaxing as they are. Astarion wonders if this is what a housewife feels like, waiting for their husband to come home each day. Normally, they’d get a job if they’re actually that bored, but Astarion doesn’t have the luxury of wandering off safely. And anyway, he thinks Gale would probably be put out, if he started getting into trouble while the wizard was out getting into different trouble. They can’t do chaos in two places at once.

Still, as he sweeps the place clean, he kind of enjoys the thought. What will he do, if they’re ever free to leave these places and this time? He’ll marry Gale, and then… what?

Move to Waterdeep, hide away from the sun there instead of Baldur’s Gate, and then… hm. The only kinds of jobs he could perform would be nocturnal. Somehow, he doesn’t think that hanging around night markets and taverns and brothels would be the most healthy thing for him.

He really would be playing Archmage’s Housewife, wouldn’t he? Well. Astarion would never say he enjoys chores, but he’s come around on them as a meditative thing, lately. Lots of time to think, but with his body moving, it’s harder to ruminate on suffering. It keeps him hopeful! Somehow. Gods, what’s happened to him? He used to be fun.

That’s alright. He can still be fun - being arm candy might be fun?? The orb is stable! They’ll have some fun.

Astarion rejoins the rest of the party and helps Gale get dinner going. They exchange their days, and Astarion gets a preview of what he’d expect the future to be like. Gale has stories of Karlach touching the cursed raven, the shadow-ambush on the Harpers, and meeting Jaheira at Last Light. Astarion has a story about beating a size-tiny thorn-blight to death with a broom.

He’ll just have to find some hobbies. Take up embroidery for real!

They still set up their tent, since he hasn’t finished the cabin cleanup yet. Gale does most of it, insisting that Astarion put his feet up after working all day. Polite of him, considering they both worked all day… Astarion will let himself be pampered, though. It’s what he deserves.

“Soooo,” Astarion hums, watching Gale move things around, set up poles and stretch fabric over them with a Mage Hand. “A little cursed birdie told me that your orb is settled.”

“You were there, Astarion,” Gale laughs. “You saw it happen.”

“Right, right. Anyway, how does it feel? Did it feel any better or worse today?”

“It’s strange,” the wizard admits, eyes focused on his task, “Mainly because it’s calmed, it’s not hungering or, ah… wavering? I don’t know. It’s akin to when your heart flutters - I’d gotten used to it fluttering dangerously, and now it’s suspiciously inert. Sated, despite my not feeding it anything of substance. As far as casting goes, though, it’s more or less the same as it has been. Nowhere near even the shadow of my former power, but certainly no worse than it was yesterday.”

“That’s good,” Astarion says, “Unsettling, maybe, but good.”

“Certainly not bad,” Gale agrees, a little indulgent.

They’re quiet for a minute, as Gale gets most of their tent up and secured. The mage hand comes to ruffle Astarion’s hair in between steps, and Astarion swats it away with affection for its caster.

Now, though, he’s gone and gotten unnerved again. Shouldn’t Gale want to drag him into the cursed-ass woods and make out with him up against a gnarled tree? Ruck up his shirt, make him whine about having to repair it when the laces get caught in his fangs… Astarion is normal. He’s very confident about his ability to seduce his fiancé, who he shares a bedroll with every night, who he’s technically had sex with several times over the last several years (putting it mildly).

Gale snaps him out of that by pulling at the bedroll underneath Astarion threateningly, as he continues to get their space situated. Rude wizard. Astarion laughs and rolls off of it, pushing himself up.

“Have you given much thought to the other activities the stabilization affords you?” Astarion asks. Subtle, very sexy and cool. He’s seduced a thousand idiots with lines like these.

This gets a pause, in the middle of throwing blankets and pillows out of a chest and into the tent. Gale holds a pillow between his hands, like he’s forgotten what he was doing. “Oh. Oh. It hadn’t even occurred to me - not because, definitely not because I’m not interested. I am very interested! It’s just… been so long.” He grins a nervous little grin. “I’d gotten used to our normals. Forgive me, not thinking to give you the attention you deserve as soon as it became possible.”

Astarion could almost blush, laughing as he holds a hand to his mouth. He takes the pillow from Gale, tossing it into the tent, and steps into the wizard’s space for a kiss. “No rush, of course… but I do love attention. You’ll have to decide what kind, I don’t want to dictate your first experience with me.” Though if he had to choose, he’d probably ask for the stars again. Perhaps making use of the balcony-bench in the illusion beforehand… 

Gale smiles against his lips, “In truth, I’ve a whole list of things I’ve wanted to do for you, and with you. Miles long, if I committed them to paper.”

“That would cost a veritable fortune in parchment,” Astarion grins, “But I bet you’d have no shortage of publishers making offers.” Is Gale going to write him a personal version of that horny book? Perfect for reading while he whiles away his undeath in a wizard tower.

“For now, at least, I’d keep such things between your eyes and mine. If we’ve need of gold, later, though - perhaps that’ll be our retirement,” Gale plays along.

“It would be nice to retire from adventuring, at least,” Astarion hums. The future isn’t real, but what if Gale got to have more streaks of gray and white in his hair like Morena? That would be his little, old, funny human man. “Mm, but we’re getting off-track. Is tonight in the cards, for you and your plans?”

Gale rolls his neck, “I should think so, my love. We’ve a reputation to live up to.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Astarion laughs.

They gather up what they need for a comfortable night out among the trees. As comfortable as such things can be in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, anyway. Astarion’s had plenty of nice nights out here, though. Keep some candles close and you could almost forget that it’s all Shar-forsaken and awful.

Once they reach the clearing, rather than laying anything out on the ground, Gale begins to wave his hand for some spell or other. 

Astarion tries to guess at what it might be, just from the somatics alone. It’s not not the stars, which begin to glitter into being, but it’s also not going to coalesce into Waterdeep. He turns away for just an instant, distracted by a conjured firefly, and when he turns back there is a nice bed, complete with an absurdly elaborate canopy. Aw. Where he’d had that one meltdown! How sweet.

Gale gestures at it, waving his open hands like ta-daaa. Astarion grins and kisses him, throwing his arms around the wizard’s neck.

“Tell me how you want me?” Astarion purrs, pleased.

“On your back, I think,” Gale says, swaying them back toward the bedding like a dance.

They tease each other for a bit, enjoying the building anticipation almost as much as anything else. Finally, though, Astarion slides onto the bed and toes his shoes off, and Gale moves to join him.

“You’ll still tell me what you like,” Gale indicates, unlacing Astarion’s trousers, “Even if you’re more interested in my pleasure. Yes?”

Astarion rolls his eyes, but agrees, “Yes. I’m sure I won’t even be subtle about it.”

“Should I worry about your alerting Shadows…?” Gale teases, “I could cast Silence.”

“Noooo, no, you’ll want to hear me,” Astarion says. That cannot become this bed’s tradition. “If I get too loud, just put your fingers in my mouth.”

Gale pauses, shivering a little. Adorable. “I will… take that under advisement!”

As the wizard gently tugs Astarion’s trousers down, he can see that the man is overthinking. Mind running round in tight circles. It’s so easy to overthink these things, but probably even easier if you’re as smart as Gale, or as prone to self-doubt.

“Darling,” he murmurs, to get his attention, “Gale.”

Gale blinks up at him.

“I love you.”

And Gale relaxes, and smiles. “And I love you.”

Astarion coaxes his wizard up for a kiss, a nibble, a whispered promise. He's already a little slick, just thinking on how Gale will take care of him. Most of the time he errs on the side of Corellon's Blessing that has a vulva, and Gale’s never made him wish for more or less. The man loves cunt, but he's excellent with his tongue in every respect.

Gale's hand slips below the top edge of his smallclothes, teasing as Astarion sighs into his neck. It's neither of their first times with this, any of it, but it's his first time with this Gale, and it’s Gale’s first time with him. He whines at the gentleness of the wizard's touch, grinding up against his hand.

“I see what you meant about being clear in your enjoyment,” Gale teases him, taking the edge of a long elven ear between his teeth.

“Mm, I'm. Shut up,” Astarion huffs, hands on Gale's shoulders to nudge him lower. That mouth can be put to better use!

Gale seems to have re-found his confidence at least, ignoring Astarion’s guiding in favor of leaving a series of marks down his neck. Hands that are used for fire and illusion and dethroning would-be gods drag Astarion’s shirt up.

It ought to be cold, to be all-but-nude on a four-poster in the middle of a cursed clearing, but Astarion is comfortable. His fiancé must have stalled the breeze, convinced the air to warm just around their skin. Something to that effect.

“One day, I want to see you at your fullest strength again,” Astarion says.

Gale had been sliding Astarion's underwear off, and gives him a funny look. “You mean… as I was before the orb?”

“Maybe. Or stronger still.” Shy of a god, though. Astarion hasn't told Gale about that, but it makes him nervous to think on it, now that Gale persists along with him.

The wizard gives him a fond and crooked smile, “I think my time might be better spent here, with you.” He settles low, and presses a scratchy kiss to Astarion’s hip. “There is no greater power in the world than love, or love-making.”

“You're very cute,” Astarion hums, mussing Gale's hair. “A lucky thing for you, really.”

And then much of the talking stops, as Gale proves his point and begins to lick him, and then into him. Astarion’s got plenty of words to describe the way Gale takes care of him, but most of them are yes and finally and the greed of more. There can never be enough of the wizard’s clever, warm tongue.

Several cresting pleasures later, Astarion’s whining around Gale's fingers in his mouth. He’d been too loud after all. Astarion sucks on them, his tongue flat along the pads of three fingers, and is pleased when Gale's eyes go unfocused for a moment.

Gale isn't long for this world when he finally sinks into Astarion, who has long been slick and ready and sensitive.

Astarion had never been fond of being taken on his back, before the Nautiloid - boring and a bit helpless, he'd thought it. Easy enough to get through, but dreadfully dull. Gale can make even the dullest of positions feel new and important. He makes Astarion feel beloved, cherished, fragile but so safe.

“There you are, my darling,” Astarion purrs, when Gale finally finishes into him. He pets Gale's hair, and then laughs a bit when the wizard sleepily insists on sliding down to clean him up again.

It's a good night.

The most impressive feat, Astarion thinks, is that the bed never dissipates and drops them to the floor. As they curl up in it later, sheets prestidigitated clean, Astarion asks about it.

“Oh, no, it's quite real. More a summon or conjuration than an illusion - I assure you, my love, my concentration on an illusion would have broken long ago.” Gale says, somehow modest about his concentration, of all things. Perhaps because Astarion’s legs have turned to jelly… There are plenty of other things to be proud or arrogant of.

“So when we finish here, will this fully stay here in his clearing? That's hilarious.”

“You've spoken of that little cabin though - I could relocate it for you, if we're in need of it,” Gale yawns.

“We may just,” Astarion purrs.

The cabin is in lovely shape by the time they’ve left it for Rivington. They leave the four-poster and a cute little embroidery that Astarion had time to put together. A & G Were Here. They won’t forget.

A month or so later, they’re chaste upon their pushed-together Elfsong bunks, talking as some of their other friends chat out by the hearth. It’s not quite bedtime, it’s alright so long as their voices are low.

The topic at hand is another reason to keep their voices down, of course.

“So now that I’ve seen much of it - the Chosen, the Absolute. The city of Baldur’s Gate…” Gale starts.

“You’ve seen the worst of the Lower City, mainly, but yes,” Astarion hums. They’d even been to the Szarr Palace without him, but at least Gale had backup, this time, in slaying Cazador. And much better spells.

“Yes. I do have a few questions. Not about specifics, but the broader strokes. At this point, it seems safe enough to indulge… maybe.” He’s leaving the door open for Astarion to say no, that it’s too dangerous, but the man is right. If he’s here at all a second time, it stands to reason that they’re equally trapped, now. It ought to be safe to talk. Gale’s seen these things with his own eyes, now, untainted by Astarion’s precognition and understanding.

“Go on,” Astarion says, though he’s a little amused by their position. He’s straddling Gale’s chest with a brush of liquid kohl in one hand, the wizard’s eyes obediently closed as he works. Already, a lovely, glittering purple is painted across his eyelids. Astarion doesn’t know if it’ll suit Gale, just that he’d wanted an excuse to stare at his face. As if they need an excuse.

Gale says, “I saw in your mind, before, times in which this all went… very differently. Or at least, there were people here that aren’t here now - in these rooms.”

“True. Sometimes we do it all wrong - the leader, stranger or otherwise, is the biggest variable. Sometimes they’re an awful, terrifying person.” Astarion doesn’t need to mention his own sins, or Autumn’s. Gale knows.

“Do the other beats still happen, then? Moonrise and all.”

“Oh yes. No matter what we do, we’re always fighting Ketheric, and then the other two here in the city. Sometimes our goals align well enough with Gortash to ally with him, or the leader has a personal issue with Orin, but they both die in the end.” The party rescued Halsin a tenday ago, with plans to tackle Gortash on the morrow. “And then the Absolute.”

Gale opens one eye carefully, just to look at Astarion. The wing on his eye has been swept a little too wide, but he’s still cute. He says, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d be perfectly happy to not see one of those more-awful leaders.”

“Agreed,” Astarion says, and leans down to kiss him before moving onto rouge.

It ends the way Astarion had laid out: after Gortash, the party moves upon the Absolute.

Astarion is ready to meet them at the docks, water and snacks and potions in hand. The role of camp steward has been good for him - he’s gotten to see a gentleness in his friends that he often wouldn’t. He’s gotten to take care of them, and of Gale, on a more obvious level. They hug him, and even Jessal declares that he’d been exceptionally useful, despite his flimsy frame and irritating demeanor.  

He says his goodbyes before the sun can rise enough to burn, and Gale drags him off with apologies to the others. Not very many apologies, mind, but there was probably a sorry somewhere in his haste.

Once they’re behind a safe door, Astarion laughs, happily pushed against the wall by a still-wet wizard for a hungry kiss. This house is abandoned, and Astarion’s never killed anyone here. It’ll be alright for their needs, any and all. Privacy chief among them.

“We have at least until nightfall,” Astarion says, tangling his hands in Gale’s hair and cradling his face when they pause. “But perhaps until morning.”

Gale grins, “I’ll still be yours in the morning, too. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oho, I wonder what dear Shadowheart would say, if she found us making love, instead of crying, this time? Out by the cliffs.”

“Mm. Perhaps I will not be yours in the morning.”

“Shame,” Astarion laughs.

Chapter Text

In the late hours of the night before it all begins again, they make a few small plans, the type that they ought to be able to manage in spite of whoever first interacts with Us and Myrnath.

They describe the locations of their pods within the ship, as best as they can. Astarion’s got his quite nailed down, but Gale’s only been there twice, and never had free range to wander the ship. If either of them gets free, they’ll try and fetch the other. An easy thing to try, at least. No harm done if they don’t manage it.

Gale agrees to let Astarion play bad-rogue with a few of their known, powerful lanceboard pieces. Those that might have some kind of information or power. Insofar as Gale can allow such a thing, anyway. There won’t be much he can do if he’s left behind at camp for months.

And finally, they agree to continue to introduce themselves as partners. There are some who might see that as weakness, or try to drive them apart, but they know how to survive. They also know, in theory, how to die. How to wipe the slate clean.

“Another thing I recall, in your mind, was… the orb. The detonation. Clearly, it doesn’t free you, but does it actually work in any capacity, or does it simply kill us all?” Gale’s robe’s long since dried, it’s wrapped half-around Astarion as they talk their way to dawn.

“It does sort-of work, but not in a useful way,” Astarion murmurs. “If it’s too early, we all die, and if it’s later… it technically does destroy the Absolute and spare the rest, but you’re still dead. I’m back at the start soon after.”

“I suppose I should be grateful that my demise isn’t the lynchpin to your freedom or happiness.”

“It wouldn’t ever be the key to my happiness,” Astarion says softly. It’s interesting, it’s reassuring, to have someone he trusts to be at his side when they come to the next life together. There’s always a chance that Gale won’t be himself, when they get there, but… perhaps it’ll be time to take that land-based trip to Waterdeep, or somewhere entirely different. He’s stubborn, and he does not want to contemplate a world in which Gale doesn’t love him. Not again. Never again.

Gale starts to say One day you’ll grow tired of me, but Astarion interrupts him with a kiss. As they part, he wakes in the opening pod on the Nautiloid.

This next bit is showing off, as he jogs through the ship. 

Astarion’s very proud of himself, looting a simple ring on a dead noble before he finds Gale’s pod, wills it open, and slides the ring onto the wizard’s finger once they pull away from one another.

“I feel like that’s cheating,” Gale says, twisting at the metal fondly. Nearby, Lae’zel is already scoffing at them.

“You’ll just have to keep up,” Astarion teases, and waves him on to point out his own empty pod and free their cleric. Us is wiggling about happily, there is little time wasted except to point things out to Gale. To the helm, get the flaming sword, connect to the transponder, and they’ll be ready to find each other when they land.

After waking up on the beach with his fiancé and Shadowheart, Astarion is content to do the next bits politely. Gale knows he can be terrible, when left to his own devices, but that doesn’t mean that Astarion’s going to do that immediately. He hasn’t gotten to fight in months, beyond sparring with Wyll at camp! It’s fun to take out awful brain-kitties and talk down looters again.

When Raphael greets them by the Harper’s Stash, not far at all from the Grove, Astarion makes eye contact with Gale. Permission?

Gale nods.

Astarion leaps onto Raphael’s back, holding a sad-but-sharp plus-one dagger to the devil’s throat. As the scene around them swirls to the House of Hope and the cambion’s form shifts red, Astarion says, “I’ve killed you dozens of times, dear Raphael. I promise you, I’ve tried every avenue of salvation. Do you actually know a cornered rat, when you see one?”

And, almost in a pout, the devil says, “No, no, this isn’t how the game is played. You’re in my house, and you will abide by my rules.” His wings are working to try and dislodge Astarion, but any cool and practiced drama has already fallen away in his surprise.

Gale says, “Right. Sure - but in theory, does your Orphic Hammer work on non-infernal chains? Perhaps invisible or spectral, or even metaphorical? Is it limited to those made by-or-for fiends?”

“What?” Raphael asks.

Gale gestures at Astarion to get off the man’s back. Cambions aren’t high enough on any ladder to help them, it seems. They’ll be back for the hammer to try, later.

Raphael and the House of Hope vanish in a sulfuric haste, and their other friends look at them like they’re insane. They might just be.

That same loop, they try and interrogate Auntie Ethel - mid-tier devil didn’t know anything useful for their purposes, but maybe a mid-tier fey would!

They’re asking her about the limits of Feywild time-fuckery within the Prime Material Plane, and she asks, “So the two of you truly don’t care a lick about the wigglers behind your eyes? You may be even bigger fools than I thought.”

“We may be!” Astarion says.

And Gale coughs, “Be that as it may - the ability to trap mortals in what amounts to a fully populated demiplane. Is that something an Archfey might be capable of, in your estimation?”

The hag is still wearing a sweet human lady face, but she cackles, “You don’t smell like you’ve pissed off some fey or other, but how fascinating! I’d be happy to strike a bargain with you ugly lovebirds.”

“I take it that even if that phenomenon was fey, it’s beyond your capability,” Gale observes. Astarion thinks he seems a little amused at the way she turned to try and make a deal after admitting she hasn’t a clue. Or perhaps he just had a funny thought of a different kind. It’s fun, bullying extraplanar jackasses.

Ethel grins, “Ohh, I’ll bet you wish it were me - at least you’d die quicker about it!”

So that’s a bust, too.

They do try out a few other folks - interrogating True Souls and Devas and Djinni. Gale goes to talk to Mystra about it, but she isn’t humoring his attempt to steer the conversation away from the Netherese Orb.

Astarion gives conversation with Cazador a go, even, but the idea that the Vampire Lord has any idea about time magic or endless, unbreaking curses is laughable. Everything about Cazador is easily broken, because whoever the man was centuries ago with Vellioth, there’s nothing left of him by the ritual.

Vicar Humbletoes humors their questions, and Flood Tide Allandra Grey boasts of Umberlee’s helpfulness in such a situation. Ride the waves, let them sweep you under. Perhaps one day they sweep you to where you are meant to be. They quote that one for a tenday, snickering in their bunks and modeling the Wavemother’s Robes for one another. Astarion decides that it’s made for Gale’s legs, more than any of the Bitch Queen’s priestesses.

It’s a shame to give up control, again, when it comes time to deal with the Chosen, the Absolute. It’s time to move on from this one and meet some new stranger. They’ve traded up and up for the best, prettiest, most useful of rings. Gale likes to kiss each of Astarion’s knuckles, as he slides a new enchantment onto his fingers. Astarion likes to pocket the wizard-upgrade and trade out Gale’s while he’s asleep, just to see if he notices right away.

They buckle each other’s clothes to set out for the Morphic Pool, kisses for luck they don’t need, and make their way to the next. As Astarion helps pull Gale from the river, he’s dismayed to see that one of Gale’s rings is missing, on his hand.

“There’s nothing for it, the wedding's off,” he says in mock-despair.

“Wait,” says Wyll, “Do you mean to tell me that you two aren’t married already?”

“Well we certainly aren’t, now,” Astarion cries out, dramatics in full force.

Gale rolls his eyes, “Everyone inside, my idiot’s tadpole is gone and the sun’s about to greet us.” And they throw a lovely party with everyone, though Lae’zel’s fucked off with Orpheus on dragons.

The next one, when they meet at Gale’s sigils, gets a new experiment. They put all of their collective lack of charisma into convincing the new stranger, Elsie, to fully ignore the Grove. She’s a bit of a pushover, and Lae’zel is very down to ignore the teethlings.

A tenday later, Astarion and Gale take a hike back down the Risen Road from the Creche to check on things. It seems that the Goblins have invaded the Grove and slaughtered those within, without their help.

They do their best to bury people, though it’s difficult with Goblins still loitering around the Hollow and all. Gale apologizes to Wyll’s body, who they never quite met this time. It’s the first of their friends that Gale hasn’t been able to see through to the end, after Waterdeep, now that he’s here and knows them.

Astarion pulls him into a hug. “Karlach may live. We could go get her. Would you like that? She’ll be sad about it, but so happy to be alive.” He’s not used to being the one doing the comforting. It’s hard.

“She’d be furious, if she knew,” Gale murmurs wetly.

“She doesn’t know,” Astarion says. “We’re the only ones that know.”

Gale’s quiet, as he works to regain his composure.

“We could leap into the sea, and move onto the next, but… I would like to see how Karlach and Minthara get along. I haven’t spoken to Minthara as an ally in a very long time - I’ve no idea how she’d feel about you, either.” Astarion kisses Gale’s temple, gives him a small smile. “But you can decide. Do you want to stay?”

Gale wants to stay. The allure of a unique set of individuals as they move onto Ketheric and the rest is too interesting to him, despite the grief and desire to self-destruct.

They slay Elminster’s simulacrum, though, just to see if anything of note changes. Astarion has bets on a second one being sent, but as they stand over the puddle, Gale just says, “I’m not so certain.”

“Oops…?” Astarion tries, as Elsie rounds the corner with a furious Lae’zel on her heels. Selling a githyanki egg just because someone asked you to! How dare she do such a thing! Et cetera.

This is turning into a mess. Minthara and Karlach get along fine, though, it turns out. Without the tieflings as a sticking point between Karlach and the rest of the party, they’re both soldiers who don’t want to be controlled anymore. They’re both learning to loosen up.

Minthara thinks Gale is a waste of air. Astarion comes back around on the side of she sucks, actually. Still, for the sake of experimentation, they make sure to see it through to the end. Minthara, like any of their other allies, is perfectly willing to kill the Absolute in the name of ‘good.’

Elsie is just a regular little flipwizard, she saves the day. It seems like she’d wanted to kiss both Lae’zel and Shadowheart, but that would have probably taken more time than one leader has in this world.

He and Gale take their leave together, the orb dangerously unstable by now. Forsaking Elminster’s help and then continuing to fight had been an error, they won’t repeat it. Astarion makes his usual promises into Gale’s hair, and then again at the glyphs after they wake and crash and wake.

Losing Wyll (and, technically, Halsin) had been hard on Gale, but the wizard admits, with a grim look, that he has other, potentially worse ideas to try. Astarion sits with him that first night and listens.

Gale gestures at the moon, “I believe there are a few interesting avenues to explore, in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I’m not sure that they have even the slightest potential to help us, however - it’s just… a thread that hasn’t been pulled, so far as I know.”

“Go on, then.”

“Dame Aylin. She’s the key to Ketheric, and half of a pair with Isobel. Have you ever let Balthazar take her, when he comes calling?” Gale doesn’t sound especially proud of himself for suggesting it, especially in the light of Selune herself.

Astarion walks himself through months or years of memory. Aylin is killed or spared or killed or spared, but he’s never… “Huh. No, I’ve never seen anyone give her over to Balthazar. How strange. I suppose the more evil among us would simply kill her for Shadowheart’s aspirations, but it’s never been a possibility. Balthazar always dies.” He takes Gale’s hand, hoping for comfort. “That’s a plan.”

“It’s an awful plan,” the wizard says.

“Awful plans are still plans. My plan to run away with you and the artifact was pretty awful, but I’m glad of it now. There are a great many things I wouldn’t know, if I hadn’t acted on my terrible ideas.”

“If we ever do get free,” Gale hums, “I’m going to need you to be very intentional with the choices you make. Perhaps consult me, if there’s even the slightest chance anyone’s going to die.”

Astarion flashes his sharp teeth, “You’d have me starve, without your permission otherwise, my love?”

This seems to cheer Gale a little, in some strange way. He says, “Perhaps a sanguine loophole, as a treat.”

Almost a month passes with their new leader at the helm - one of their slower starts. He’s a half-orc warlock without a lick of sense. Astarion does his best to sow the seeds of chaos from the frontlines, letting Gale take the strategist-at-camp position much of the time. This is perhaps more bad-rogue-good-wizard energy than usual - but ultimately it pays off. The warlock, Hark, is absolutely on-board with infiltrating the cult in such a way that they ‘keep Balthazar on their side.’

The Mausoleum and Gauntlet, after Zrell at Moonrise. All of it as usual, or at least as reasonable. The idea that any of this is normal, is, as always, absurd.

“We will meet again,” Aylin tells Hark, as Astarion and Gale watch. “I am eternal, I will be free, one day… and I never forget a face.”

It sends a shiver up Astarion’s spine, the intensity with which she says it. But he’s never seen proof that the gods remember - it stands to reason that the Dead Three, at least, would be intent on his destruction by now. Aylin will forget, just as everyone else does, and they won’t have made an eternal enemy.

Probably.

Gale looks sick, as Balthazar’s bloody arms sweep with the somatics of a transposition spell, Aylin glowing green instead of her own white-blue.

Shadowheart leaves them in the Shadowfell. Hark doesn’t seem to grasp why she would. Poor idiot.

They return to Moonrise. Zrell asks them to fetch Isobel.

At this point, even if they tried to undo the stupid half-orc they’ve done, it probably wouldn’t work. In for a copper, in for a gold. Astarion pulls Gale aside to ask if he’s alright.

“I did this,” Gale breathes.

“And I helped. And they will be okay, when we make it out,” Astarion insists.

“You don’t know that,” Gale argues. They can’t know anything about how it ends, because they don’t know how to end it. It’s true. Astarion doesn’t know that.

“I have to believe it, though, darling. We have to believe it, or there’s nothing to hope for.” He’s saying this more for Gale’s sake than his own, but it isn’t entirely untrue. Hope is an insane little dwarf, but he thinks of her resilience often, when things are going poorly for him. Without hope, what is he? What are any of them?

They suffer the fall of Last Light, and all the tieflings within, all the Harpers, Barcus. His Majesty. Jaheira doesn’t make it this time. Marcus whisks Isobel away to her father, and they return to survey what they’ve wrought.

Ketheric gives Hark a new speech - Astarion watches in quiet awe as the half-orc goes to the Altar of the Absolute upon the top of the tower, and a great tentacle rises from where it always has, but it speaks. It speaks new words. Gale doesn’t know how incredible it is, to be witnessing something new, like this. He looks green, still, at Astarion’s side. The prism flies from Harks’s pack, Ketheric and the Absolute both in a tizzy over it, and Astarion does not know how the Absolutists manage to knock them out, but soon they are in the Profane Wombs of Balthazar’s laboratory. This is their purpose. He’d always wondered.

It’s fascinating. They fight Balthazar here, and then make their way through the colony. There’s no Wyll this time, either, to worry about whether Mizora’s here or not. Hark doesn’t bother to save Zevlor, nor does he care about the soldiers in the pods. Best to leave them.

Isobel is beside her father, as they fight him. As they fight her. Aylin is present, too, but trapped. When it’s over, when Ketheric falls, she moves to smash his head in as always. She’s furious with them, but asks to meet with Hark at camp. She claims her mother’s forgiveness for what’s been done to her. What a shame it is, that Isobel could not live to fight at her side. Dame Aylin will join them in the battles to come. Why?

They spend much of the rest of their journey, through Rivington and the city, puzzling that out. Why would she help them, after being sold and betrayed and - honestly, Hark even said he’d do it again, speaking to her at camp. Somehow, Aylin is willing to forgive that much outright, unnecessary cruelty.

Perhaps she doesn’t have a choice, they decide.

Not in the way that the two of them are here again and again, but in the way that Orin doesn’t have a choice but to impress her grandfather and Bhaal. Karlach doesn’t have a choice but to burn up at the docks or flee to Avernus. Perhaps Dame Aylin has to come to the city, at Selune’s behest. Or worse still, she must come to the city in order for Lorroakan to try and cage her again, though that begins to shake the trend they’re establishing.

It doesn’t make sense. Perhaps there is no reason.

They move onto the next, hand in guilty hand.

Chapter Text

They camp out on their own, for a couple of days after the Nautiloid. They know where they’ll find their friends - there’s only really one ideal overland place to camp out here. 

Astarion knows that Gale is still troubled by what they were party to - and really, responsible for. It’s not something the wizard’s had to think about for half so long. Astarion is more or less numb to it, but then he was always capable of lies and manipulations. It had broken him along the way regardless, but it wasn’t so bad for him.

Gale sighs over not-right veggie stew, both of them sitting warm at their small fire. He says, “I understand that sacrifices are sometimes necessary. Especially in that learning anything will require major adjustments to the status quo - you’ve done everything obvious or, well, evil. There’s only new information in the realm of the middle-ground, in which we will not know reality until it comes to bite us.”

He pauses. “Perhaps not the best metaphor, apologies, my love.”

Astarion shakes his head, “No, it’s a fair enough turn of phrase, darling.”

Gale continues, “I would… prefer, for a while at least, that we lean into experimentation that, at least at the onset, only harms somebody terrible. The Chosen, or, say, Cazador. Lorroakan. Sarevok Anchev - you know, people that we won’t feel any particular guilt over toying with. Is that reasonable?”

“Applying a conscience one way or another is only going to hurt you,” Astarion observes, and shrugs, “But I certainly don’t mind either way. We’ll ruin their lives in one way or another, it’s just a question of how, or when. With whom, and so on.”

“Thank you,” Gale says, looking relieved.

It’s not as though they’ve never had disagreements, but it bothers Astarion a little bit that Gale might have thought he’d disagree here.

“Think nothing of it,” Astarion says, with a careful smile.

They relax a bit, once they join up with their friends and make proper camp. It seems that Wyll is in charge, and he’s dead set on hunting down Karlach. Once he meets her, of course, his opinion changes, out come the horns, et cetera. They really are cute together - would that every noble gentleman could find a seven-foot-tall, loud, burning woman to love.

Despite Gale’s request that they continue to deviate, both of them settle into the familiar patterns. It’s refreshing, really. They’re often left at camp, plenty of time to walk the dog or go chat with their tiefling friends. Astarion admits to his fondness for the fledgeling rogue-children among them, and Gale gets a soft look in his eyes.

“One day,” Gale says, as they take turns throwing Scratch’s ball, “I’d like to know what it’s like to be a father.”

Astarion resists the urge to laugh. There is no one day far enough afield to consider such a thing. He says, “I’m afraid that, despite Corellon and his various blessings, we’re ill-equipped for such a thing. Fangs, and all.”

Gale does laugh a little, “I mean to say - someone like Mol or Mattis, a child with no parents, clearly on a troubled path. There’s no reason we couldn’t take in one like that.”

And that’s almost too easy. That’s terrifyingly easy - you could grab a handful of orphans anywhere along their journey and call yourself a father!

“Admittedly,” Astarion lies, “It’s not something I’ve thought about.”

“That’s alright,” Gale reassures him, “It’s not vital. It’s just something… aspirational. If you find yourself curious about the same, one day, I’d be happy to embark on such a journey with you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Astarion laughs, watching as Gale kneels to scratch the dog’s cheeks.

Gale smiles. “One day we’ll either be free of this, or make our peace. I’m confident in one of those things bearing fruit. Time heals all, and we’ve nothing but time, Astarion.”

Time breaks a great many things, as well, Astarion thinks. He says, “I’m glad you’re so sure. One of us ought to be.”

Tieflings are saved, Shadow-Curse is lifted, and they meet Mizora at Wyrm’s Rock.

They hadn’t been able to come up with a safely-testable Ketheric experiment, but Astarion and Gale are tagging along for Gortash’s coronation.

The plan is: not to step in, when Karlach begins to grow upset. To encourage Wyll - they ought not to let the man ruin the sanctity of such a post. There hasn’t been a Grand Duke in years, it’s a post that means something. You can’t let Karlach’s boogeyman take such a post, your father would never have wanted to be party to it.

It goes very poorly.

Karlach is enjoying herself, at least, as she rages and burns and throws the patriars’ bodyguards across the room, smashing into Enver Gortash no matter what size he is. The traps in this room go off, the Steel Watchers care not for the safety of patriars or civilians, and a handful of Banites revel in the violence of it.

Duke Ravengard is fighting against them, and he goes unconscious at Astarion’s feet. A moment later, a nearby Steel Watcher detonates, leaving the good duke a pile of unremarkable meat.

Gortash is also dead, at least. Wyll picks up his Netherstone, hands shaking and spattered in the gore of his lordly father. Karlach, too, is quaking in her rage and her sorrow. Astarion and Gale share a look of mild guilt, but thus far this isn’t so different than usual. Karlach leaves to meet up with them at camp, and they awkwardly offer Wyll a hug, in the silence that was once an audience of movers and shakers. It’s not surprising that the man isn’t ready to be touched, yet.

Mizora comes calling. Nobody has the heart to try and convince Wyll not to take a new deal to save his father, least of all Astarion. It’s rare that the man takes this new deal, in any case.

This turns out to be more prudent than they realize, as Astarion spots bodies on the shore near Old Garlowe’s Place. He points them out to Gale, and the two of them struggle with how to handle it. Wyll and Karlach are already in shambles, and have been for days - if those are the Gondians that could have been saved from the Iron Throne…

The two of them aren’t in the active party, as they go exploring the city to look for changes. The Steel Foundry is in flames, but the Watchers still patrol the streets. It’s unnerving.

Gale approaches one of them, “Hello - would you mind telling us what happened to the Foundry? How are you all going to be repaired, now?” It’s innocuous enough. Astarion gives him marks for credibility.

However, the Steel Watchers are more than just steel. They’re brains and tadpoles piloting armor. The central controls are destroyed, surely. A lot more ought to be in question than repairs. The average citizen wouldn’t know anything about any of that, however.

This Watcher regards them. It speaks with a familiar, stilted intonation.

“BRAIN.
now. speaks.
to, YOU.
through.
EVERY. steelwatcher.”

Astarion says, “Oh, gods. Really?” It’s not quite despair, but what in the Hells - they haven’t crumpled into heaps because the Absolute itself is piloting each one, now. How absolutely dreadful. It’s going to be awful, if they step out into the streets after Orin, isn’t it? Not just illithids, but these blasted things…

Gale frowns. “The fact that you’re bothering to speak with us at all, though - should we consider you an ally, then, for the time being?”

“Ally... YES.
TYRANT. Dead.
I, live. I. live.
you live. Ally, yes. Stones!
KILLORIN, KILLORIN. KILLORIN.”

They shrug at each other. Kill Orin, got it.

“Are you going to speak to anybody else this way? You aren’t going to be instructing people to ‘Kill Wizard, Kill Wizard,’ are you?” Gale jokes. Astarion kicks him lightly in the ankle and gets an ow! 

“Steelwatcher. Live!
none, will. Know. Ally know.
KILL ORIN.”

“So true, so very true. So you’ll revert to your previous interactions when speaking to others. Presumably. It’s nice chatting with you - we’ll be sure to kill Orin,” Gale says, breezily, and then as they walk away from the thing he begins to freak out about it. “What are we to make of that? I’d thought you’d killed Gortash first a number of times, how has this never happened?”

Astarion shrugs, helplessly. “I suppose it probably did happen, when I killed everyone, at least… or the time I skipped Ketheric - but I’d blown up the Steel Watch myself, that time! So… it mustn’t have been able to take over. I ensured that they were destroyed in the usual way - whatever it’s done to the Foundry, much of it must still be functional under the Absolute’s care.” When Gortash dies first, it’s always after the Watch!

They make their way back to camp, lest they run into any other trouble. This is a disaster.

A tenday later, when Wyll is investigating the death of Umberlee’s priestess, and they make their way into the bowels of Flymm Cargo, instead of finding their submersible or Redhammer, they find the dwarf’s resignation letter. Some good that does, when Enver Gortash is already dead! Apparently he had a change of heart, somewhere in there.

Nothing else is demonstrably different, beyond the spookiness of knowing that the Steel Watchers are now the Absolute. Wyll certainly doesn’t know any different, and his father has no idea that he’d narrowly avoided a watery grave. After talking with his father, Wyll agrees to follow in the man’s ducal footsteps, despite the risk of Mizora’s meddling.

It sits with them.

Astarion and Gale are not taken to the Morphic Pool or final confrontations. It seems unlikely that the Netherbrain is going to treat any of that any differently - in its mind, they’re always its unwitting allies. No declarations before killorins will change that.

When it comes time to fish their friends from the river, Astarion’s only grateful to see that Karlach is not an illithid. Wyll is… of course, indebted to Mizora, once more. That makes things complicated. Astarion asks Gale to stay and at least see what happens, as he makes for a safe place. He never gets to see Karlach go. When he Ascends, she’s usually long gone from this world.

Gale comes to find him some time later. He looks to be in a bad way.

“Did she go?” Astarion asks, quietly. He can smell the ash, he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“Wyll couldn’t go with her. Mizora had him on a leash… metaphorically speaking,” Gale sighs. He goes to where Astarion sits, and curls up against his side. Tired.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Astarion says. Of all the terrible things that happen just out of his view, Karlach burning up at the end is near the top of his list. If she dies early on, that’s tragic in its own right, but dying after seeing everything through… it isn’t fair to anybody. Poor thing.

“I won’t forget anytime soon,” Gale agrees. He finds Astarion’s hand, gentles the glove free so that he can gaze upon the ring there. It’s dim here, in a forgotten little tavern, but the small stone still catches what light it finds. Gale kisses the back of his hand.

“We can try and take the next one easy,” Astarion says. It’s strange, still, to be the one taking care of Gale. It’s strange to be able to, to sympathize so entirely. His sad love who had wanted to stay. Perhaps eternity is already beginning to wear on him.

“I’d like that,” Gale murmurs. Even taking it easy isn’t easy, but it won’t weigh on their hearts. It won’t weigh on Gale’s heart, more importantly.

They’ve come up lucky fairly often on the Nautiloid, of late. Astarion is once again in a position of power, and frees his fiancé from the pod. With four of them and Us, they handily thrash everyone at the Helm.

He’s able to lay claim to whatever loot they like, to select their rings from. Feed Gale the artifacts that, allegedly, taste the best. Make the choices that go down easy, and take their time.

A month in and barely making their way into the Goblin Camp, they rest on a cliff and watch the clouds drift by. Gale says, “I suppose this will also be something of an experiment, despite everything being as-usual.”

“How so?” Astarion asks, sprawled with his head in Gale’s lap and his legs dangling over the edge.

Gale takes a moment to ensure that Shadowheart and Karlach are suitably distracted a little ways away, and then says, “Have you ever… just waited. Just taken months, or years, to see what happens to the world if we do not rush to meet it?”

Astarion closes his eyes, thoughtful. “I believe the closest we’ve come was in Waterdeep, though culling the city did take time. I’m not sure which was longer, though… and we certainly weren’t in the city to see it happen, when done peacefully.”

Gale’s fingers brush through his hair, teasing curls out of place and then back. The wizard says, “I think there’s some merit in watching it, then.”

Even if they’re likely to watch the Dead Three’s plan bear fruit, staying in the city and letting things play out, it does strike Astarion as something of a nice vacation. These days, the break of drifting in blackness as an illithid holds no appeal at all. He can’t be touched or held there. He can’t kiss Gale goodnight.

They’ll take their time.

It’s a little bit difficult to justify, even early on. They know the tieflings have gone ahead, many to their deaths. They know that Mayrina is out there eating spoiled tarts, and Gandrel hurriedly looking for his children.

Nothing changes for taking two months to move onto the Mountain Pass, though Lae’zel is deeply irritable about it. No extra githyanki patrols, no Qudenos and Voss searching for the Prism. They hand Esther the egg and hope that there’s actually time for it to be nurtured, before they return to the city.

The Shadow-Cursed Lands cannot get any worse, for waiting. The tieflings that survived are still alive, and Balthazar is still tied up in the Gauntlet. Everything is slow, and everything is fine. They live in the dark for another month before killing Ketheric, and then stay to watch the grass begin to regrow for a tenday. Astarion and Gale venture back to their clearing and cottage, to see what they look like in the daylight. It’s still no place for the two of them to retire to, but it’s nice to watch sunlight across this life’s elaborate embroidery on the wall.

In the city, it’s even easier to slow down. There are hundreds of things to do and people to meet. They take days to do nothing at all, wandering the streets or shops. They take Karlach to the circus and Wyll fishing. Astarion takes Shadowheart dress shopping, and Gale refuses to tell him what he and Lae’zel had gotten up to.

They take Halsin and Jaheira to Jaheira’s house, and stay for tea as Jord gossips plants and Rion bullies her mother. Minsc and Boo get to come along on a number of days, if only for entertainment. Astarion has many favorite amusements, but Minsc is a cut above the rest.

There’s regret in the form of the githyanki youth Ptaris, whose life has just begun in tragedy. Their fault. Gale talks the boy down carefully after the bloodbath in the Society of Brilliance. In another life, that could be one of the children they take in. They may be terrible people, playing paper dolls with lives, but they couldn’t have done much worse than this.

That unpleasantness aside:

It’s nice. It’s slow. They can hear the movements of Bhaalists and Banites throughout the city. Gortash and Orin are confused and at each other's throats. They can’t kill one another, but they send their followers to try. Astarion is betting on Orin, while Gale decides that Enver has the upper hand.

It takes months. Almost half a year since the Nautiloid, and they’re still in the city.

Finally, the Absolute breaks free on its own.

It’s a shitshow - they’re in the Lower City when it happens, and hundreds or thousands of people are given the order to transform. None of them are anywhere near the Morphic Pool or High Hall. Astarion has no idea what happened to the Chosen, if they lived or died.

This one ends in blood and tears, the fighting going on into the night and day and night again. There is no time for quiet promises, before they wake again on the Nautiloid.

Gale comes to find Astarion in his pod, this time. It’s his turn again.

Chapter Text

Naturally, Gale looks very smug as he copies the move Astarion’s been doing, sliding a ring onto the vampire’s finger at the earliest possible time. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are somehow in sync as they grouse about sentimentality while the boys hug.

Gale laughs, “Alright, I suppose we must get to the helm, love.”

“Ohhh, if we must,” Astarion grins.

Without even needing to say it, Astarion knows that Gale just wants to take this one at a regular pace. He’s going to do it relatively normally, and he’s going to do it kindly. Perhaps not so slowly as they had, before. It’s for the best! They know better.

Gale seems almost nervous, as he takes point while they walk. It’s not that he doesn’t know where to go, or what to do. Astarion often goes to walk beside him, just to ease those nerves. He’s playing the resident jester for their friends, the fool that tags along with their oh-so-competent leader, Gale.  

Even from the start, Gale introduces Astarion as his fiancé - not just to their family, but to the tieflings, the druids. They even get a few congratulations among the apologies for the whole Grove situation. It’s cute.

Early on, they sit out to watch the stars (the real ones), taking turns with Nadira’s telescope on the rock above the Grove.

Gale asks, “What has happened, when I’ve taken the lead in the past? When I’ve done this before.”

And Astarion looks up from where he’s been leaning over the eyepiece. “What do you mean?”

“Without you, or a… ‘Tav’ to guide me away from the Crown. When I’m left to my own devices, the one leading the charge…”

“Sometimes you’ve taken it,” Astarion hums, moving to sit on a rock.

“I’d ask if that’s worked, but I suppose it mustn’t have,” Gale sighs, peering through the telescope and then stopping to fiddle with the lenses.

“I’m not even sure which way you mean, when you say ‘worked,’ darling. Obviously it hasn’t freed me from this in any capacity, but from what I understand… you do manage the godhood thing, when you take it.” Astarion would have been afraid to tell most of the old Gales such a thing, but his Gale, the real and true one that is here and stays… Gale wouldn’t do that, now.

Would he?

Gale frowns, but takes a moment to reformulate his thoughts. “I suppose godhood itself cannot conquer our troubles, then. No manner of apologies to Mystra or Withers.”

“I’m afraid not,” Astarion shakes his head. “But for whatever it’s worth, Gale… I prefer the ones where you don’t become a god. Even when you and I weren’t anything to each other.”

“Oh?” Gale asks, straightening and giving up on the telescope.

“Mm. Of course, the best ones were when we were something to each other… but sometimes you’d come find me after you spoke with Mystra, after giving up the Crown. You’d come to make sure I was alright, when Lathander came to call, even when we were only just friendly.” Astarion grins. “One time when we were more than that, though, you’d taken me back to an inn, and proposed to me. Said we’d invite the entire Dekarios clan, and you were excited to tell your mother.”

Gale shocks a bit at that, “Wh - Astarion. You’ve never mentioned… oh, sweetheart. And here I’ve been, asking you to keep on waiting. How long have you been waiting for more than a ring? For me to make good on it?”

Astarion laughs, “I’m alright - really, I, um. I still like this, you know.” He twists the unenchanted ring on his finger. It’s still the one from the Nautiloid’s dead noble. “I even agree with you - that we ought to know there’s a tomorrow or whatever, before…” He shrugs.

“We know a cleric,” Gale says, “In a few tendays, we’ll know two clerics.”

“And a goblin priestess,” Astarion jokes, weakly.

The wizard kneels before him, where he sits on the rock. “I’ll leave all conversation of it behind, if you truly do want to wait. Or worse, if you’ve reconsidered the whole notion. I’d understand completely.”

Astarion frowns. “No. I want this. I want you.” His expression softens, “But please - if we’re going to do this, I’d rather it be in the sunlight. While I can. Even if we wait it out for Isobel or, I suppose, Vicar Humbletoes.”

Gale grins up at him, like he’s won every prize at an interplanar wizard conference. Like everything is perfect, even when they’re trapped forever and ever. “I think that technically speaking, even Orin the Red could officiate a wedding, as a Chosen of a god.”

“Mm… perhaps we ought to do it out here, then. I don’t particularly want to give her the satisfaction,” Astarion hums. He leans down to kiss Gale. “Is it going to be alright, if your mother can’t be there?”

“She’d understand. One day, we’ll have another ceremony for her and the rest of the Dekarios clan.”

“One day,” Astarion agrees. They’ll break free, together, won’t they?

“I’d marry you each time,” Gale hums, taking one of his hands, “Until it sticks.”

“Any excuse for a party,” Astarion laughs, deeply fond. They’ll find out if Gale loves to get married half so much as he loves to propose.

Their friends seem a little thrown by the pause in their adventuring, the requests to start gathering supplies from hither and yonder. They put Wyll and Shadowheart on drinks duty, once they’ve made friends in the Blighted Village. Much of the good wine is there, or near Waukeen’s Rest. Karlach and Lae’zel are tasked with decorations, the former having a shocking eye for aesthetics and the latter being able to actually touch flammable materials. They seem to be arguing a lot, but also laughing. It’s nice.

Astarion finds himself with the task of recruiting entertainment, which could mean any number of people. Alfira sputters and blushes when he asks if she’s interested in composing a song for such an occasion, and he assures her that he absolutely has the right person for the job. He impresses the children with a couple of good knife tricks, and pays them to show up and have fun without stealing everything that isn’t nailed down.

Volo is not going to be singing at this one, however. Awful man, awful lyrics. There are a couple of goblins that he’d almost like to have along, but it seems unlikely that he’d get them to be polite.

Gale says he’s taking care of the guest list and food, which means that they cross paths now and then in the Grove. Astarion thinks that Bex and Okta have been enlisted to help with cooking: he smells Gale’s favorite spices from across the Hollow as he wanders about.

They hold the ceremony at camp, of course. Everyone’s washed up, clean of the Goblin Leaders’ blood. Clothes aren’t anything special, but there are no Facemakers out here to want for more. Gale places a pretty, druidic circlet upon Astarion’s head, and an unremarkable necklace upon his neck. Astarion mainly places kisses on Gale’s face.

Karlach and Lae’zel have done a lovely job with what little they’d had to work with. Salvaged curtains and sheets twisted and draped from poles to ground, plucked flowers pinned on as decoration. Some of the stones have been painted with curling white designs. All of it imperfect, but beautiful.

The food and wine are, from what Astarion can smell and guess at, incredible. Only the best vintages, all taste-tested by their slightly-troubled wine connoisseurs. Okta and Bex (and Gale) seem proud of the offerings - a large pot of one of the Dekarios clan’s best vegetable stews, simple biscuits, and warm fruit pies. It’s humble, but considering what they’d had to work with, Astarion is genuinely impressed. Enough food to feed everyone, and he’s certain they’ll actually enjoy it. A shame he can’t eat any, but he doesn’t complain.

Alfira is mainly sticking to her lute this evening, and at this point in her bardic journey, that is probably for the best. Astarion’s found the children some hand drums to play along, and it’s kind of awful but makes his heart feel good. It’s something. The tiefling kids get up to wander around periodically, as well, so at least it isn’t all of them trying to bang out a tune at once. Mol seems to be taking her role of conductor seriously - as well she should, Astarion’s paid her a king’s ransom of twenty gold.

It’s not everybody he cares about in one place - there are dozens of people he finds that he reluctantly cares about. Astarion cannot explain to anybody but Gale that he wishes Minsc and Jaheira were here, or Isobel and Aylin. Counselor Florrick had not accepted their invitation, after rescuing her from the burning inn at Waukeen’s Rest, and that’s extremely fair! But a shame, all things considered.

Still. It’s a good number of them. His family, the ones he’s found and decided are better brothers and sisters than any Cazador chose for him. His companions are that family, but so too are some of these people, here at the Grove. The little horned scamps that try to pick his pockets even when he’d bribed them not to, Rolan and his siblings that have needed rescuing over and over again. Nettie somehow warrants a mention, and of course Halsin is here.

None of them understand what this means, to him or to Gale. The two of them are simply lovestruck fools that insisted on a huge party. They’re perhaps a hope to these tieflings, who will mainly die in a tenday. They’re a wizard and a rogue with uncanny hungers, each, and eyes that are soft on this day.

Shadowheart gets the honors, as the nearest and dearest cleric in attendance. Astarion’s never seen her have need of the spell, Ceremony. He learns that it’s sometimes used to make Holy Water, or to perform a Coming of Age ceremony. Their friend dips her fingers into powdered silver, and manages to speak on love and unions for an entire hour without speaking on loss or Shar. The children have long grown bored and wandered off to play with the dog, but as Shadowheart presses a silvered finger to the hollow of Astarion’s throat, and then to Gale’s and draws her hand between them as if tying an invisible knot… well.

He’s never been especially religious, but he can make an exception today. He, perhaps, understands. Today.

Gale kisses him, and some of their friends whoop even though they’ve known each other about two tendays. They’ll do this again and again, he decides, in some form or another. It can be their new game, in this world that would be only sorrow, if not for the little games they play for each other.

“I love you,” he whispers, to his husband. Years ago, standing just here, he’d asked Gale into the woods.

Gale is crying, of course, but he smiles very sweetly, “I love you, so dearly.”

Astarion wants to tease him, will Gale cry like this each time? But even he cannot quite manage the jest, settling into Gale’s arms to sway with Alfira’s pretty lute.

The party goes on into the night, like it always does. Stories that Astarion has never heard are told over good food and drink. Zevlor, messy in his cups, recalls an old flame, long broken up with him before Elturel’s Descent. Okta tells them about her late husband, how proud he would have been of their son. Kagha and Nettie are caught necking across the stream that flows through camp.

Astarion laughs so hard his face hurts, and Gale kisses it all better.

There are far too many people here to sneak off, even to their clearing, so they don’t. They trade stories into the night, and retire to their tent once most people have drifted off.

Gale is careful to remove Astarion’s circlet without ruining his hair, even though they’re about to lie down and rest. “It’s only just occurred to me that Elminster had wanted to be here for this,” he hums.

“If he wanted to, he could have walked his simulacrum a bit further down the road,” Astarion snorts, curling around Gale happily. Warm. His warm husband.

His Gale.

Gale kisses the top of his head. “Perhaps if we’d served some cheese.”

“Are you going to start craving cheese, too, one day? Are all of my misbegotten bites of you going to taste of salt and dairy?” Astarion laughs.

“I’m afraid that’s what you signed up for, marrying a wizard,” Gale says very seriously, and then does break into a laugh that shakes Astarion atop his chest.

“I thought that only happens if I let you get old. It says here that I get an eternally-in-fourteen-ninety-two Dale Reckoning wizard, some restrictions apply…” Astarion insists.

Gale tweaks one of his ears, “Perhaps it is my spirit that will age, and crave cheese. We simply cannot know.”

“It is beyond the reckoning of a mere vampire spawn,” Astarion agrees.

They’re stupid. He’s so happy.

Astarion doesn’t really want to say goodbye to the tieflings come morning. That’s how he knows he’s really gone soft, hugging the ones that always, always die. Saying goodbye at all is a weakness. He flicks the kids another round of coin and wonders why he never sees some of them in Rivington, nor dead. Mm.

The Mountain Pass isn’t much of a honeymoon, but at least it’s sunny. Gale is very patient as Astarion haggles with Lady Ester for some clothes he doesn’t need. His wizard keeps looking at him extra-fondly, and if they’ve any like mind between them, it’s probably that Gale keeps getting distracted by knowing that they’re tied to one another. At camp, they’ll look at each other all dopey and foolish. Nothing prettier in the world than one’s husband who is of the same opinion in reverse.

Elminster’s simulacrum is sad to have missed the ceremony, asking if he ought to pass along word to Morena upon his return. There’s a moment’s waffling, a brief telepathic exchange between Astarion and his husband.

“What if this one’s the one that sticks? Would she really understand?” Astarion frowns.

“I - I assume she would! She’d see us both happy, and we’d tell her the whole story once we came back. She’d understand.”

“I’m not sure that’s the first impression I want her to have of me…”

“Was it so bad before, when you were getting hugged as my fiancé?” Gale’s swinging their hands a bit, where Astarion’s is in his.

“It was dreadful… but also rather nice. Perhaps it’s fine. I do feel a bit bad that you couldn’t otherwise tell her, even if we’ll just be doing this again in a month or so.”

“Thank you, Astarion,” Gale smiles, and then says aloud to Elminster, “Yes. Let her know that we’re terribly sorry to have carried on with it so quickly, and that we hope to see her soon.”

They move on. They make love in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, as is tradition, and then in the city.

There’s still this feeling that haunts Astarion, even now, that the other shoe will drop. That when they’re done here, Astarion will wake and Gale won’t remember him, even though they’ve been together long enough to know that there is no end.

They still talk about trying to end it, though. Perhaps it’s Gale’s desire to get out to Waterdeep again, to introduce Astarion to his mother now that they know and love each other even better than before. Or perhaps it’s just the usual chafing, at having to kill the same people and earn the same rewards and smile the same smiles.

Astarion is just about ready to stop talking about afters. 

As much as he wants to leave, to live… this is his life in the sun. This is the only time he can enjoy it, like a regular man. The only time he can play at being Gale’s normal, living husband. If they leave, if they move on… won’t he be sad? Won’t he miss this?

He’ll miss the sunrises along the Chionthar, and seeing his family every morning. Every day. He won’t miss sleeping on the ground, but wouldn’t he miss the dog? Won’t he miss pulling Gale from the stone, though now the man falls into his arms and kisses him… 

He’s not sure.

Gale looks for solutions. He reads every book in Lorroakan’s vault over a couple of tendays, after they’d deposed the wizard. At this point, he ought to be able to cast Teleportation Circle to Waterdeep, but finding the sigils and components proves difficult. Somehow. A page torn from a book, from every book. The portals in the House of Hope won’t open for them either.

As they fish themselves from the river, Astarion says, “It’s alright. We’ll make our way there some other time, darling.”

And Gale sighs and says, “It doesn’t make sense.”

It doesn’t. But they continue on, just the same.

The Nautiloid comes, and Astarion pulls his husband from the sigil at the cliffs.

Chapter Text

Neither of them is leading, this time. It’s just as well - they’re both tired. Any extra time at camp, while somebody else does the work, is a blessing. Perhaps they’ll trade a smaller ceremony for a longer honeymoon.

They ask Shadowheart to take care of the Ceremony spell again, once they’ve found enough gold to buy the silver. She could marry them without the spell, but there’s something about doing it correctly, with a Cleric and the Gods, that makes it feel real. Gale slips the simplest golden band onto Astarion’s finger, because they’ve only had time to fetch one ring.

And that’s okay. There’ll be time.

Their new leader is a tiefling called Reverie.

He’s soft-spoken and nerdy, and not at all made for fighting. Perhaps no older than eighteen. Astarion and Gale agree, quietly, to make sure this one has an easy go of it. They’ve got that power between them. Smoothing edges and ensuring stability within the camp. The kid can be safer than he has any right to be.

The two of them spend a lot of time together, of course.

By now, they know how they like to set up their things. They appear for all the world to be a pair of disgustingly cute, seasoned campers. Astarion makes little embroideries for everyone else’s tents, once he’s decorated theirs. 

He gets Halsin to teach him how to weave a flower crown, just to have another skill to master in the wilderness. Astarion likes to have things to do with his hands. Killing is great and all, but he’s killed everything with a pulse from here through the city. He’s never gotten to weave daisies into Gale’s hair before.

They lounge by the fire, one night, sharing a bottle of wine that is not especially good. Astarion is drawing little pictures in the velvet of Gale’s tunic, laying half across him like a contented cat.

Astarion says, “I’m sorry, that I pulled you into this, darling.” As the days grow easier and quieter, even with the culling of the Absolute happening as always, he finds himself thinking such things. That while he is happier, he’s sorry that it took dooming the both of them to do it.

Gale says, “I’m not. Sorry, that is.” He coaxes Astarion up for a kiss that tastes like Blighted Village Vintage. The wizard continues, “It’s… not easy. It’s endless. Having forever isn’t so bad, though, is it?”

“Forever is a long time,” Astarion says, tucking himself beneath Gale’s arm.

“It’s a good forever,” Gale decides. “You’d have only ever gotten a few decent decades out of me, if we’d broken this the first time.”

“You’re a wizard. It would’ve been far fewer or many more, depending on how you went,” Astarion teases. Hubris, or moldy cheese. There are no half-measures for wizards.

“True enough,” the wizard wisely concedes.

They’re quiet for a moment, watching the fire. Gale eases a flower from his hair and finds a place for it in Astarion’s, even as his ear tries to flick it away.

Astarion’s noticed that so far, this time, Gale hasn’t mentioned research. Hasn’t even spoken of a way out, beyond the past tense. Whatever overcame him their last time in the city, it isn’t weighing as heavily now. He’s not sure if something’s changed.

Maybe Gale is on the same page. This is just their life.

They should live it.

“Are you actually happy, then?” Astarion asks, tentative. He likes to think he knows Gale better than anyone - he’s seen him live and die and love and learn. He’s seen Gale through a thousand hardships and a million smiles. He’s asking because he wants to hear Gale say it, not because he doesn’t already know.

“I am,” Gale says, easy as anything. “I’ve never been happier. Truly.”

Astarion smiles. So is he.

They must continue on. They always do. Besides, they wanted to make sure Reverie was safe. It wouldn’t do to wander off and become squids, just because they’ve decided that they aren’t going to fight against the current anymore.

Reverie is a good kid. He wants to help the tieflings, he wants to take care of people. He hasn’t a mind for fighting, but he tells Gale that his fathers are followers of The Red Knight. He’s always had a mind for strategy. 

Lanceboard becomes a full-camp tradition, as they gather up more boards and pieces to play with. Lae’zel destroys most of them even though she’s just grasped the rules, and everyone has a laugh when Reverie beats her and apologizes. She’s only a beginner after all, it’s not polite to go all out.

Astarion also gets his own ass kicked, but considering he’s usually playing with Gale, he’s a good sport about losing. This happens more often than not!

Vlaakith, Nere, Marcus-Zrell-Balthazar-Ketheric.

Astarion gets his Risky Ring and Reverie stops to ask him the finer points of the enchantment. Do the benefits outweigh the risks?

There are no real risks in this world, but Astarion humors him. It makes him worse at dodging, but he’s so very good at dodging that he’ll still be alright.

“What if it’s something that targets your mind? Your soul? Your force of will?” the tiefling asks, arms crossed.

Astarion puts his hands on his hips, “I’ll have you know, I’m quite smart and very… willful.”

They agree that perhaps it’s situational. Not to be used against mindflayers. Fine.

Even with Gale there and loving him and taking care of him, it’s been a long time since Astarion really… took care of himself. Self-care by way of being sequestered away at camp is one thing, but when it comes to fighting… he’s understandably cocky. He’s done all of this. He’s never going to die in a way that matters. Gale or Jergal would bring him back.

But Gale does soften, as Astarion agrees to be more careful. This is how he knows that it’s right. Reverie smiles and seems satisfied, even though he’s no idea how ingrained that thought had been. It’s been a very long time since Tav reminded Astarion that he was worthy of care, not so far from Moonrise. Perhaps some of that lesson’s been lost, to the time and the suffering of it all.

He’s not suffering anymore. He doesn’t have to hurt himself, either.

They move onto the city. Reverie gets excited, seeing The Red Knight’s banner in the sewers near the Guildhall. Astarion is eager to see how the kid freaks out, when they raid Lorroakan’s vault for her Final Stratagem, as well. Reverie is technically a wizard, but usually lets Gale copy down spells first. There might actually be a fight over that one, though. Oh, or Balduran’s stupid chess puzzle!

It’s weird, to care if their leader’s having fun, too. Dual-wizard enrichment.

They’ve had a couple of talks, over the last few tendays. They like the kid, and they’re keeping a closer eye on him, but he isn’t their kid. Reverie has two fathers out there somewhere, allegedly. Assuming Reverie is real. He’s not even an orphan, he just got plucked by the Nautiloid.

The thoughts are still there, though. At least a bit.

Astarion watches Gale flex whatever muscle it is that governs fatherhood, and thinks that it does look pretty good on him. Next time, they’ll have to take one of the quieter kids under their wing, back at the Grove. Domi or Silphy, maybe. Mirkon. All of them? What monster would pick just one! Ugh.

(It’ll be Mattis.)

Everything goes as well as it can. They let Reverie make his own choices about where to go and what to do, and he’s the kind of person that wants to make sure everyone’s safe and sound before moving on. Mayrina no longer a sheep, Vanra no longer in a hag’s gullet, Sebastian no longer in a cage, Volo no longer tied to a cart of explosives, and Lae’zel no longer strapped to a stone bed in a rotting cave.

When it comes time to take care of Gortash, too, and then the Absolute… there’s no dread. This was a nice one. There’ll be more like it.

The Netherbrain falls into the river, and they pull themselves onto the docks, and Reverie pulls Astarion into a hug that he’s not quite sure he’s earned. Why isn’t Gale getting a first hug? What. Why?

“Because it’s almost sunrise! You didn’t forget, did you?” Reverie huffs.

“I - I did not forget, no,” Astarion laughs. The shifting water of the Chionthar even burns, usually, on his swims back to shore. He never forgets the sun.

“I just wanted to make sure… you got your hug, before you have to go,” the tiefling says, looking embarrassed, now.

Astarion bites his lip. He really has gone soft. Alright, fine. He says, “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” It’s worth it for the way Reverie beams at him. Wizards.

Gale gets a hug as well, and then the rest of them. They bid farewell to their polite teenager, and make their way to the nearby empty tavern. Just Astarion and Gale. Wyll is going with Karlach, Laezel has a war to fight, Shadowheart has parents to reconnect with. The druids have their druid-things and Minsc has his Minsc-things.

They wait out the day, comfortable at the tavern’s hearth, sipping the tavern’s finer wines. Gale leaves a few silver on the counter, more than enough to cover their drinks.

Night falls again, and they wander the city. It’s a wreck, smoking and broken. Sorcerous Sundries’ pretty glass ceilings all smashed in, as always. They walk and talk all night, helping people where they can. That’s mainly Gale, but Astarion certainly doesn’t stop him. He’s got dozens of healing potions, it’s fine to share. He won’t need them tomorrow.

And the sun begins to rise again. They don’t bother going to a building for shelter, just standing by a nice solid wall. And the sun continues to rise. Astarion… frowns.

An hour passes. The shadow they’re standing in is beginning to shallow. Astarion doesn’t dare breathe.

Luckily, Gale is a little more pragmatic, throwing his cloak over Astarion’s head and taking him someplace enclosed. Still, the wizard seems similarly stiff. As if saying anything will break whatever’s happened. If something’s happened.

But it has… happened. Hasn’t it?

It’s the day after the fall of the Absolute. It’s not the dawn, it’s not the sunrise, it’s the day. It’s.

It’s a new day, isn’t it?

Gale is first to speak up, but he is so very careful. “This is new.”

Astarion stares at him. Of course it’s new! Why else would he be - This is fine. It’s fine. It’s new. It’s fine.

He shuffles into Gale’s space wordlessly, tucking his face into his husband’s neck. He can’t say anything. It’ll break. It’ll all vanish again. Just when they’d finally accepted it.

They’d finally accepted it - oh gods DAMN it.

Gale is petting his hair, and manages, “So I suppose… The good Flood Tide was right? Fascinating.”

“Shut up,” Astarion exhales. He’s exhausted. They’re gonna buy that Umberlee bitch a fruit basket.

They stand just inside the doorway of this abandoned shop for hours, until Gale’s stomach growls in protest. Only wine to drink in the last day, it’s only fair to complain.

“Stay,” Astarion says, though. Gently. They find some old rations in their bags. He’s afraid to let Gale out of his sight, lest he disappear. Lest one of them fall back into it without the other.

When night falls again, they make their way underground, at least.

“I never went to speak with Mystra, on the docks,” Gale says. “I hope she understands without my telling her, that I’m never touching that damned Crown again.”

Astarion snorts. His husband, this Gale Dekarios, has never touched the Crown in the first place. Somehow, that one was always dodged. “I wouldn’t say no to her sending Elminster to pick us up though. It’s a long way to Waterdeep.”

Still. They’re experts at camping! And killing. All sorts of new things to kill on their way through the Underdark.

Astarion hasn’t slept yet. He’s tranced, because Gale insisted that he rest, but he hasn’t closed his eyes for more than a blink. He’s been a freak, staring at Gale through the bare minimum of restful trancing, just to make sure he doesn’t disappear. Gale has been sleeping properly.

Another couple of days pass. Astarion is counting them - they’re just shy of a tenday out now, from the fall of the Absolute. 

Somewhere, Reverie is probably reuniting with his fathers, tadpole-free and safe. Shadowheart is awkwardly trying to figure out where to live, now that she’s got two traumatized parents, a dog, and an owlbear to take care of. 

Karlach and Wyll are almost certainly fighting for their lives in Avernus, but they are alive. They are extant.

Lae’zel is on dragonback, Astarion imagines, trying to follow an illithid-Orpheus to a new revolution.

There’s never been a tomorrow. There’s never been an after. It’ll disappear, won’t it? The moment he starts to think of their future.

It’s easy to walk, to let Gale guide them north, to continue to Waterdeep. He’s not having to think, to follow Gale. He trusts Gale. Gale will take his hand, when he pauses to weep, when he struggles to pull himself up in the morning. Gale isn’t okay either, but he hasn’t been trapped for half so long. He doesn’t make Astarion feel any lesser for this, the grief, but it’s still hard to bear. Embarrassing, weak.

He feels a little better, shooting a Spectator with a hand-crossbow three times in six seconds, and watching it deflate in a disgusting gush across the ground. Gale claps. The sound of applause summons some more nonsense to kill.

Gale helps him bathe - the only water they find that day is running. Astarion can’t do that anymore. There’s no Cazador, but he’s never been free of the tadpole and free of Cazador long enough to miss the tadpole.

No matter.

Eventually, perhaps Mystra does take pity on them. Or some other convenient magical entity. A God-Gale from another life, if they really do persist. A handful of Gods of Ambition, all of them competing to help? Well, they’re late, if that’s what’s happening.

The help is in the form of a teleportation circle, conspicuous on their path. Gale studies it for several hours, though it does not fade, glowing like a Glyph of Warding does. Active far past its expiration.

“I’m not sure where it’ll go specifically - though I can say with certainty that it’s somewhere within Waterdeep. Someone must have thought we were taking too long,” Gale speculates.

“What time is it?” Astarion asks. Neither of them know.

“If I go first, and you wait a moment… I could do my best to ensure that it’s shaded, when you follow,” Gale says. It’s in that tone, again, where he’s too-gentle. Like Astarion is a nervous cat. Perhaps he is.

Astarion frowns at it. They could just keep walking, even if it took a month. Several months. What if this takes away his husband and disappears? What if it’s someplace in broad daylight, where Gale can’t make it safe in time and -

Gale hugs him. “I’ll go first. Trust me, I’ve a clever idea.”

Astarion laughs, helpless, “Ohh, a clever one. Well - alright then.” With a certainty he does not feel, he says, “Go on, darling. I’ll see you there.”

He watches Gale step into the circle, and it doesn’t immediately vanish. That’s one fear done.

One moment passes. Two. Three. Gale doesn’t come back, but that’s not what he said he’d do. He has a clever idea.

Astarion takes a breath he does not need, and steps into the portal. Surrounding the corresponding circle is a sparkling-blue canopy, absurdly tall and quite sheltered. There’s no bed within it, but he’d know these stupid curtains anywhere.

Gale looks pleased with himself as Astarion tackles him to the floor, kisses him, and sobs.

Nearby, Miss Tara says, “Oh dear,” from someplace. He thinks they’re in the entry hall of the House of Wonder, of the temple to Mystra in Waterdeep. Astarion doesn’t care. This is a terrible first impression to make on Morena Dekarios, but Gale is holding him and waving weakly at his mother.

And there continue to be tomorrows. And there continue to be afters.

They move into Gale’s tower, and Gale first throws shades over all the windows, and then throws himself into researching stained glass. The efficacy of color, plus or minus enchantment, as a means to block out the effects of sunlight. The nature of a vampire, whether it’s the light itself or the spirit of the thing. How to run and share a bath without jostling the water too much. Making sure that Astarion is listed as a partial owner of the tower, so that it can never stop him at the doorway.

Gale is working so hard to make it into a home. Astarion is so certain that one day he’ll close his eyes and it’ll be the fire and seafood of the Nautiloid. He sleeps only when Gale promises to stay awake and keep watch.

Astarion counts the days for a full month before Gale tells him that he needs to stop.

“Stop waiting for that shoe, my love. It won’t fall,” he says.

“It might.”

“It might,” Gale concedes, “But it won’t.”

Astarion is quiet, on their balcony, watching the real stars over real Waterdeep. He swallows. “It won’t.”

It doesn’t. It never does again. It’ll be years before Astarion accepts this fact, just like it was years to accept his fate.

He puts a new embroidery on the wall. It’s much nicer than the first one, or the messages he’d stitched into his smallclothes a thousand years ago.

It says A & G, Finally Home.

Chapter Text

Six months have passed in this bravest and newest world.

Astarion has received a letter from Jergal, inviting them to a party back at the old Grove campsite.

He knows that the bone man has been meeting with Morena and Tara for lunch, so he has half a mind to try and invite himself along just to ask him what the fuck he's playing at. Morena may love Astarion now, but it probably wouldn't do to have a screaming meltdown at the former god of the dead in her parlor. So that's out.

Astarion does not want to go back to that place. There were plenty of good memories, sure, but it's also the worst ones. It's a return, when he's finally starting to feel safely gone.

He does want to see his friends. He does miss them. He just doesn't want to see them every day for years except for the days in which they're dead.

The invitation sits on his own desk, where he knows Gale isn't going to read it without being given leave to. Even though it has both of their names on it.

They've settled into nice routines. Gale's gotten a position teaching Illusion at Blackstaff, but his schedule is mainly late-afternoon classes. The two of them can rise at midday, Astarion can see him off and keep busy around the tower until sundown, and then pick up his husband to walk home together. Sometimes they go out to enjoy the Waterdeep nightlife, or catch a hire-coach to Morena's, or just walk and talk for hours.

Both of them are well-fed, almost to the point of needing the walks. There are no fights to fight or camps to haul, anymore. They've had to start actually using contraception, lest a supply of good blood thrust them into dhampir-adjacent fatherhood sooner than planned.

Importantly… the Netherese Orb is still nestled within Gale's chest, but it hasn't made a peep since the fall of the Absolute. So that's one less hunger on their minds.

Gale's current theory is that it had been feeding on his own hunger - a feedback loop of desperation and ambition that has been ‘quite soundly quelled’ by his love and satisfaction. By safety, as well.

They're no closer to Astarion safely walking the sun, but he doesn't find he misses it too terribly. The tower is bathed in safe, colorful light during the day and warm firelight at night.

He steps out onto the dark city to meet Gale after class, and resolves that he'll ask about this so-called party. Astarion has a sneaking suspicion that Gale will want to go, despite the risks of returning to the Chionthar. That is because he is reckless and sentimental, but those are a good part of why Astarion loves him. He fidgets with his ring.

Withers may not have helped him, them, but surely this isn't an act of aggression. It's not going to harm. Maybe it'll even be nice - if everyone else can make it…

Gale is already sitting outside the building when Astarion arrives. He must've taken longer than he meant to, thinking rogue thoughts and convincing himself to be brave.

“Good evening, my love,” Gale smiles, rising and offering a hand. “How was your day?”

Witless and terrifying!

“I finished that new thread-painting for your mother?” It's a pretty thing, a hoop with Mystra's star beneath Gale's Netherese mark. Something about survival, being grateful for new days. Not his favorite imagery, but he appreciates the intended meaning.

“Have you already taken it by? I was hoping to see that one before she puts it on the wall…” Gale kisses Astarion’s knuckles as they walk.

“Mm, don't want it lost among the sea of your achievements? Perhaps you need to deem it worthy of a place in the Gale Shrine?” Astarion teases. He's actually jealous of Morena's little wall of Gale-things. There's a half-burnt leaf preserved under glass, a memento of Gale's first Fireball.  

“I just wanted to see it! I'm sure it's lovely. Besides, I expect there will soon be a place for things about you that she's proud of. If anything, it'll be the start of that.” Gale laughs.

Astarion's ears warm. Morena Dekarios doesn't know him well enough to know there's nothing much to be proud of, but Gale seems happy. He won't argue. He's over a hundred years his mother-in-law's senior, but she's very sweet to him. That, too, makes Gale happy.

“At any rate, it's still at home. I'll show you,” Astarion smiles. He's a little nervous, but not about that.

He continues, as they begin walking, “Also back at home… I've gotten a curious letter from your mother's new friend, Withers…”

“Strange way to describe the good Scribe,” Gale chuckles. “What did he have to say? It's been some time…”

Astarion squeezes Gale's hand a little, and Gale must automatically understand that it's difficult. The wizard turns to press a kiss to his temple.

“He's inviting us to a party. Allegedly. A reunion of sorts, back at the camp near the Emerald Grove.”

Gale, to his credit, takes a moment to take that in, rather than making a snappy reply of it. 

The wizard says, “You don't want to go, I take it?”

Astarion frowns. He doesn't, but he hates that it's so obvious, even if the person who can see through him is the one he loves and trusts the most.

“I wish he'd hold it here, or… really, anywhere else. I want to see everyone - really, I do! It's… been harder than I'd expected, after having them beside me for so long… but. If I go back, if we do…”

His husband squeezes his hand. “You think it'll take us back there, if we return to the site of the crash. The adventure, as it was.”

The torture, more like!

“Am I being paranoid? Is that something that could happen?”

“I'm no closer to truly understanding the nature of our previous condition, of course… but, my love. Withers was one of our most reliable allies, through it all. He wouldn't lure us back just to harm us - or, certainly not intentionally,” Gale says.

“I don't care if it's intentional or not,” Astarion grouses, “What matters is whether he takes away everything I love for the sake of a stupid party!”

“We don't have to go,” Gale reminds him, voice gentle.

Astarion turns to look Gale over, in his nice professor robes. His eyes are soft and hopeful. Astarion sighs, “You want to, though.”

“I think it would be nice,” Gale admits, “Seeing everyone alive and well, and - well, different. They'll have moved on, too. Far past what we ever knew of them. Isn't that interesting? Exciting?

“Perhaps we could even… consider telling them?”

Astarion stares at him, and then trips over a curb (but recovers very gracefully).

“Telling them? About what, everything? Everything? Gale, emotional preparedness aside, that would ruin any party and take literal days to explain. And what good does it do! None of them will understand.” Even Gale doesn't really understand the worst of it, though Astarion will never tell him so.

Gale holds his free hand palm-forward in defense, “Alright, alright. Though I disagree, somewhat, in that I think they could understand… you're quite right about it ruining the party. Perhaps we'll have to invite them to visit, if we want to tell them someday.”

Astarion doesn't say shit - he's not agreeing to that. Absolutely not.

He does say, “We can go, though. I won't like it, I'll be freaking out the entire time, but… you're right that it will be nice to see them. We haven't gotten near enough letters.”

Considering three of their usual number are outerplanar, these days, and the druids are busy rebuilding… they should consider themselves lucky to get word from Shadowheart, Reverie, and Minsc. Astarion has had one letter from Minsc framed, it's too funny. Like a child wrote it.

Gale swings their arms a little, “I'll set up contingencies for you, if you like. Aside from your Sending Stone, we'll make sure to have scrolls of useful spells, our best gear in packs, and a Bag of Holding.”

“Oh gods, what we could have done with just the bag,” Astarion moans.

They can't know that it would keep their current things, if they got trapped again, but… it does make him feel a bit better to have backup plans.

Gale takes them down a different alley, toward the water a little sooner than usual. The stars glittering over the sea always settle Astarion's nerves, Gale is a smart man.

His husband says, “I know that this will be hard… and you'll want to kick and scream the whole way. However… you and I will have a nice evening, alongside our family and friends, and everyone will be proud of you, one day, when they understand what that meant. I will be so very proud of you.”

Astarion sighs, leaning into Gale's side. “Stop trying to make me cry before we've even picked out what we're wearing.”

“I'm not trying to make you cry, sweetheart,” Gale laughs, wrapping his arm around Astarion, “I just wanted you to know - I love you, I'm proud of you, and I will continue to feel both of those things. No matter what happens once we're there.”

They go home, and begin to prepare for the trip, brief though it may be.

It had better be brief, anyway. Withers will have more than one knife in his skull, should the worst happen!

Astarion picks out clothes while Gale begins to set up the planned contingencies. They make quite the team, puttering around the tower and attending to a wizard's small-hour dinner.

Come the next evening, with Gale having taken a short notice leave from classes, they watch as a portal opens near their invitation. Just as promised. Gale takes his hand. They have their bag, and even a mundane pouch with some plus-two daggers in case the bag fails.

They'll be okay. Astarion and Gale step through.

It's dark, in their old camp. Gentle torchlights and a cookfire, glowing ephemeral lutes and lyres. Some light, but not enough to make it bright.

Astarion sees Karlach, and Reverie, and lets out a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.

Karlach and Wyll have survived Avernus. Karlach is alive, and seems well, and seems happy.  

Reverie still exists after so many months, longer than any stranger or leader… he's real. They all must have been, and none, but… if any of them were going to stay and be made real, Astarion is glad that it's their little worried nerd-child.

Withers greets them all, and… there doesn't seem to be a catch. He's really just brought them together for a party. Eat, drink, be merry.

Astarion doesn't believe it.

He gravitates toward the food table and a nice wide tent with pillows and all. His hand is on the pouch at his hip, even as Scratch comes up for a scratch. They're real and they're not - this isn't how they normally exist. Not for him, not in their lives.

Astarion hears Gale catching up with Wyll across the way and thinks that maybe… maybe he doesn't have to be the one to talk. He's done enough of that.

Unfortunately, the world and their family have other plans. 

Shadowheart comes to find him first, far afield of where she'd been lurking. She settles smoothly, wine in hand, and says, “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to find someone else brooding. Does something trouble you, Astarion?”

Astarion blinks at her. Yes-and-no. “Not at all, darling. I just imagined Gale to be a better ambassador for our household.”

“Truly, between the two of you and the tressym, I wonder if I ought to have asked for a plus-one. The Dekarios household seems over-represented, in my estimation,” Shadowheart hums. She holds this disdain for a moment before laughing, “Sorry, no, I don't mean that. I mean… that it's good to see you both, not just Gale.”

Astarion smiles a little, but then parses an earlier thought, “Wait, Tara is here? Where?”

“Up the hill - where I used to camp. Cute little cushion and everything.”

“Aw,” Astarion coos before schooling himself, “I mean. How nice. I saw her just yesterday, of course.”

“You didn't know she would be here?” Shadowheart asks, seeming amused. 

“She still doesn’t really like me,” the vampire shrugs. “But then, I know she's been sharing tea with Withers and Gale's mother. It's only a shock that Morena isn't here, in that case…”

“That would be an unreasonable number of Dekarios,” Shadowheart jokes.

“You're counting myself as well?”

“Of course. I did both Ceremonies - the second of which wasn't exactly by the books, I'm sure you'll recall… Who else are you, but a member of his family?” Shadowheart smiles. “I hope they're treating you as one, at least.”

Astarion can feel his ears warming. “They do,” he admits.

“Then name or no, you're absolutely contributing to this statistic. Or did you take the name? I never asked.” Shadowheart nudges him.

“I'll never tell,” Astarion says loftily. But he did. He'd wanted to.

Shadowheart laughs, and they chat a few moments longer. Astarion has arranged another visit in Waterdeep by the time she rises to go mingle.

He breaks his own plans, going to find Miss Tara with some chicken on a plate as an offering. The tressym's tail lifts in friendly recognition before quickly schooling back down. Astarion desperately wants her approval, and knows it sounds silly when he admits it to Gale.

“Good evening, Tara,” he says, trying not to lay on the charm too thick. She can sense his fear.

“Good evening, Mister Ancunín,” Tara says, ever-so-polite.

Astarion sighs and places the little plate before her. “Now, I'm not looking for you to use the same name for each of us,” he starts.

“Good,” she agrees primly, sniffing at the chicken.

“But you could call me Astarion?”

“Nonsense, Mister Ancunín. It's a show of respect.” Tara insists, tucking into the food.

Astarion sits on a nearby cushion and watches for a few minutes.

He says, “Gale misses you in the tower. You could come back to stay, even if I'm there, too.”

“Hmm… it seems to me to be quite occupied, now. And less sunny, besides.”

“There's still a sunny room that’s liable to kill me. And… I mean, we're working on it. But… it would make him happy,” Astarion frowns.

The tressym regards him. “And that would make you happy: making him happy.”

“Yes.”

Astarion has never been more sure of anything - it's very easy to answer. Gale missing Tara is perhaps the saddest part of their lives, these days, beyond the lingering traumas and angsts of everything.

Tara says, “Hm.” She glances down at the empty dish, at Gale socializing across the party, and back at Astarion. “Fine. I'll make my apologies to Missus Dekarios, perhaps spend a few days more with him each tenday.”

Astarion brightens.

He offers her a hand for sniffing or scratching-her or whatever, and she laughs, “Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Astarion.”

“Fair enough, Miss Tara,” he agrees. Gale tells him all the time that she'll like him one day. Gale is rarely wrong.

“Go on and get back to the others - I've surely more chicken to eat.”

Astarion gestures at the Owlbear, “So long as it isn't a big chicken, darling.”

Tara gives a tittering laugh, which he's going to count as a win.

He finds himself pulled into conversation with Minsc, who has brought a friend. The huge man seems well, and crushes him into a beefy hug.

Halsin does much the same, regaling him with stories about his thousands of orphans. “What of you, my friend? Have you continued your work in needle and thread? I confess, your note in the old camp's cabin has the children asking often for hoops of their own.”

Astarion blinks. “Perhaps I'll… send some your way. I'm not like to personalize, but you could probably pretend I had?”

How strange, to be known and beloved for something entirely unconnected to… everything that came before.

“I've started into tailoring as well? It's not especially exciting,” but gods know that his real story is not one for children.

Halsin grins, “You'd be surprised. They'll delight in tales of the Vampire Tailor of Waterdeep.” 

“Oh!” Astarion laughs, delighted and flustered. “You'll get more flowery stories from Gale, if… if you need more material.”

He makes his excuses, hoping to go and hide, now. Gale is tied up with Jaheira, which will save Astarion from her, but… that means Wyll is free. His escape route is blocked.

“Astarion! What's the hurry, my friend? Gale was just waxing on about you, but I'm sure much of that was embellished,” Wyll smiles, wine already reddening his dark cheeks. Wyll smells nice, under the sulfur. His blood does, at least.

“Good to see that the Hells have only chewed you up - it would be a shame, if they also swallowed, darling,” Astarion hums. Wyll looks like shit, but when was the last time he could really relax? Poor thing.

“I could say the same, but it sounds like life in the City of Splendors is treating you well. Are you as content as your husband tells? How's the diet treating you?”

“Luckily, it isn't rats,” Astarion laughs. “We've made friends with a very accommodating butcher, and Gale’s blood has gotten much tastier since the orb's gone quiet.”

Wyll waves his arms, “I could do without knowing what you do with a wizard behind closed doors.”

“You did ask,” Astarion grins, “But I bet you're just jealous. Closed doors are hard to come by in the Hells, no?”

Wyll’s face goes a funny shade, and Astarion delights in the man's pulse hammering with embarrassment. The former-warlock says, gesturing vaguely at the vampire, “No harder than a tadpoled campsite, so we've had plenty of, err… fine examples.”

Astarion softens. “Well. I do hope you're having fun - if not normally, then perhaps tonight, before Withers sends you both back.”

Wyll seems a bit confused, now that the banter has stopped. “Thank you? I think.”

“Think nothing of it, dear,” Astarion smiles. Wyll is a bit of a shit, but Astarion finds that he is glad to see and tease him. 

At this point, he's just about given up on his quietude in the corner. Lae'zel, ephemeral and fake, has gone to sit beside Shadowheart in the place he'd claimed before. The cleric sticks her tongue out at him when she catches him looking. Traitor.

He turns back to the tables and music.

“Fangs!” is his only warning before there's a blue-flaming tiefling pulling him up and swinging him around like a stuffed toy.

“Howdy,” says Astarion gravely, and then breaks into a grin as she squeezes him. Uncomfortably warm, but not too painful a hug (aside from the sharp beads and ports and ridges). Just as Karlach Cliffgate ought to be. “Apologies, I was just teasing your little lord.”

“Aw, did he make any good faces?”

“Yes - yes, they were hilarious. I'll have to make sure he's facing you, next time,” Astarion laughs.

“Naw, I'll have a nice view of one pretty face or another.” Karlach jokes, swinging him. “I hear you're well! You look great!!”

“I… feel great,” he admits. There's still the lingering fear that tomorrow will be this party on repeat, forever, but how can he not smile when she's smiling?

“I'm sorry we missed the second wedding - though I've gotta ask, why did you need two? The first one didn't count or what?”

“It did!” The first one was actually the second one, and now there's been a third. “Turns out Gale's extended family is… quite extended. There was never a chance we'd get away with only a party for Morena and Tara. I do wish we could've gotten you there, though.” Astarion smiles. “Whatever ‘family’ I had doesn't count for much, but… In my estimation, it's a shame I didn't get to have my other baby sister along.”

Karlach's eyes get so round and so soft. “Wh - Astarion! You can't say that, I'll cry. What! Fangs!!”

“Yes, well. Maybe we'll have an anniversary party you can come to, some day? I think you'd like Waterdeep.”

The tiefling sways a little and asks, “It's that much better than the Gate?”

“It's got Gale in it, so I'm biased,” Astarion admits. “But… it never had Cazador or Gortash in it.” Slavery is illegal. “It's someplace they couldn't have.”

Karlach finally sets him down. “You had me sold at wizard, but… gods, it would be nice, wouldn't it? Maybe in a few months… Wyll and I found a lead on some schematics, haven't had time to nick ‘em just yet, but…if they're real? I might be able to stick around.”

Astarion's eyes go wide. “Wait - for you, your engine?”

The answer was never going to be found in their infinite looping, it was only ever in the Hells. So many hells, all for their suffering, and yet… perhaps they're meant to suffer, to earn happiness.

That's a bummer. At least they're seemingly on the upswing?

Karlach grins, “I can't wait to come home.”

She begins to lose her handle on burning blue-and-safe, so the hugging stops and Astarion can excuse himself. He stays and chats a few more minutes, just for the joy of it, before eyeing up those who remain.

There’s that weird bard that nobody knows, playing up on a platform. There’s fucking Volo who he’s certain was not invited, and he’s due to give the owlbear some attention… but as far as intelligent creatures go, only really Lae’zel and Reverie. Gale’s gone up to hide out with Tara for a bit.

He is so brave. He goes to talk to the scary, glowing githyanki without being told that he has to.

Astarion does like Lae’zel, but it’s hard to forget all the times she threatened to kill him or participated in actually killing him. She does look softer, now, though, as she sits where he’d wanted to sit, Shadowheart having gotten up to wade in the stream.

“There you are. I was beginning to suspect you’d taken leave to hunt a boar,” she says.

He snorts. “That was… a joke?”

“It was,” Lae’zel confirms with a funny little smile.

“Pretty good - though I’ll have you know, I supped well before returning. I imagine that much of the local wildlife will need more than six months to recover from my previous hunts,” Astarion muses. He’d left at least a few of the better adult boars and bears and whatnot alive, but it hasn’t been too terribly long. Perhaps a six-year reunion would see him hunting their descendants.

“I suppose we should be grateful that your thirst is slaked,” the gith agrees solemnly. “Though I suspect it makes your blades duller: sitting in a wizard’s tower, drinking blood you bought rather than killed.”

“Is - is that how Gale said it?” Astarion laughs.

“That is how Shadowheart explained it,” Lae’zel hums.

“Oh - then she’s probably right. My needles and scissors are quite sharp, but… I haven’t needed to stab anybody in months. It’s a shame.”

“Truly a shame,” she agrees. She is smiling though.

Lae’zel tells him about how things have been, in the Astral. She and Orpheus are going to attempt to work with the Githzerai. Astarion’s only ever met the one whose brain and consciousness were trapped in the Mindflayer Colony, so he does listen with interest. Limbo, Gith politics, and Lae’zel’s been raising the child who is sometimes Ptaris. He’s still quite small, apparently, without the Society of Brilliance’s meddling. His name is Xan, and it means freedom, and she sounds so gentle and hopeful when she explains that she won’t mind if he isn’t a warrior. He can be a scholar or artist or - anything he wants to be

“To that end,” she says, “I suppose it is not so bad, that your blades are dull, so long as your mind is sharp. Or, as you said, your scissors.”

“My heels remain sharp,” Astarion smiles, “And sometimes my tongue.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“That wasn’t a double-entendre, darling! We were just speaking about your son, I would never segue to horny banter,” the vampire fusses. He would, but probably not with her. “It looks good on you, though.”

“What does?” Lae’zel tilts her head.

Kindness, mainly. Astarion says, “Leadership, motherhood, being purple and sparkly. Whichever you prefer.”

That earns him a soft laugh. “I am glad you can appreciate the aesthetic qualities I’ve come to enjoy, then.”

“You can say thank you, you know.”

“I won’t,” Lae’zel smiles. “Do take care, Astarion.”

He will! Astarion rises again, having fully accepted that he’s not getting this spot back anytime soon, and goes to find the boy.

Reverie is laughing as he talks with the owlbear, who is chittering and hooting. The tiefling must have had a Speak With Animals potion or scroll squirreled away - Astarion has no idea what’s being said. He scratches into the feathers of the armored creature fondly, though. He’s never seen the owlbear cub stay, just like he’s never seen anyone else stay. He had no idea the thing would stay big! They ought to bully Dammon about breaking the baby without even asking, tsk.

“How are you, darling? Have you gotten taller?” he asks.

The teenager tilts his head, “Which one of us…”

“You - gods, I do not want this other one to get any bigger. Can you imagine?”

“I can! I think he’s still technically got another growth spurt in him… maybe another foot or two long, another couple hundred pounds… I’ve read about it, but never seen one that isn't stunted by a poor diet…” Reverie chatters happily, the owlbear nodding along in whatever understanding he possesses.

“He’s eating well, then. Which brings me back to the previous questions - how are you?” Astarion resists the urge to hug the teenager unprompted. He is very cool and collected and normal about this party.

Reverie smiles, “I’m doing pretty well. I almost didn’t get to come tonight, my dads were worried about letting me go alone. Withers didn’t really give instructions about bringing anyone else, and I think we’d lose Papa and Gale if we let them talk to each other, so it’s probably for the best…”

Not that Gale needs more wizard pen-pals, but Astarion makes sure to ask for an address. He gives Reverie theirs, in turn.

“I’m sure your dads would probably not sanction a trip to visit a vampire in Waterdeep, but… you’re welcome to visit or write. It’s been strange, carrying on away from everyone.” Especially after so long living out of their pockets. It’s been strange to know that Reverie is real, that all of them must have been in some fashion. All of them gone now, too. His Tav had been real, but they’re only an echo of an echo.

He’s glad that it’s Reverie who gets a life.

The tiefling looks at him. “You seem weird… weirder than usual.”

“How so?” Astarion sniffs.

Reverie studies him for a moment. “Are you sad?”

“Sad?” the vampire laughs, “Why, do you think I ought to be?”

“I don’t know - it’s. Hm. I’ve been watching you avoid everyone all night, and you looked weird the whole time talking to them. Gale’s a little weird too, but not as bad as you.”

“Ouch, darling.”

“I just… you’re okay, right? Are you sad?”

Astarion does give the question a moment’s reflection and respect. “I… am, a bit, yes. I think… I probably always will be. I lost a lot, getting here, you know. It may not seem like very much, you saw me much happier than usual…”

Reverie makes a noise of concern, “That was you happier?”

“Believe it or not,” Astarion hums. “And… now, I’m happier still! But I am still a bit sad. Does that make sense? I’m glad to see you all, but…”

“You’re sad that it’s over?”

“Gods, no,” he snorts.

“I do miss you,” Reverie tells him simply. “I think it’s okay to be sad. Just… don’t keep it to yourself. It’s always worse that way.”

“Did your dads tell you that?” Astarion wonders.

“Gale told me that, actually.”

Astarion makes a noise of understanding. Gale is a pretty smart guy. The two of them talk a while longer, about school and hobbies and Reverie’s sisters. It’s still… strange, to care, but Astarion really does. Hm.

“Don’t stay up too late, darling,” he says, as they part.

Reverie hugs him again, “I’m not a baby, I don’t have a bedtime.”

“Of course, you aren’t,” Astarion laughs, and allows himself this one weakness, hugging the boy back.

He returns to Gale’s side, where the man has similarly retreated from the crowd. Tara has flit off to chat up Jaheira, and Astarion leans into his husband’s side with a sigh.

“You were chatty,” Gale remarks, wrapping an arm around Astarion’s back.

“Despite my best efforts,” the vampire yawns.

“We’ll have to trade our stories and gossip later. Tara says she’ll tell us what all she heard in exchange for a pheasant.”

Astarion hums.

“Are you all tired out, my love?” Gale asks, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“This evening had better be one-and-done,” Astarion says in answer, pleased that Gale laughs.

“Much as I love them, I’m inclined to agree. That said… I’m not sure how it ends.”

“The party?”

“Mm. I suppose it goes until Withers sends us all back. Or I can teleport us back, if we get impatient,” Gale says.

Astarion considers this. He doesn’t really want to know if Withers knows about his personal hells, nor does he expect to get answers about what led the bone man to do this, tonight… but he’s about ready to go home again. Everyone has the tower’s address, now, and knows that they can visit. Almost everyone can visit, or will once they’re able.

They know that they’re his family.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Astarion sighs, and rises to do so.

Gale catches his hand, kisses his knuckles, and says, “Try not to piss off the former God of Death, sweetheart.”

“I would never, my darling. Besides, he loves me.”

“He probably does,” Gale laughs, and lets him go.

Astarion finds Withers in the little stone ruin, which has been refurbished into an actual building. He thinks it might even have a second floor, though he’s no idea how to access it without climbing or magic. In the little lower room, there’s desks and tables and the bone man’s old sarcophagus. Shelves with books and scrolls and potions… and of course, the former-god himself.

“You aren’t out there enjoying your party,” Astarion points out, playing with one of the polyhedral dice on the little table.

“A party for many, not a party for one,” Withers corrects, but smiles. “I enjoy it all the same. What brings thee to me?”

“I just wanted to chat,” Astarion lies, “And… well, find out how long this goes. Parties are exhausting.”

Withers chuckles. “In another life entirely, thou wouldst have spent much of this event regaling others with tales of thine own parties.”

Astarion frowns. Another life?

“Do not mistake me,” continues Jergal, “This world is true. Thine life is thy own.”

“You won’t explain that even if I ask,” Astarion says, tired.

“No.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear it, then,” he says. What jackass Astarion has been throwing parties enough to brag about it? He’s gonna kick that guy’s ass.

“This is, I suspect, for the best,” Withers agrees, a twinkle in his terrible, bloodshot eyes.

Astarion resists the urge to pull one of the daggers from his pouch and go to town. If the bone man knew the entire time and was watching the entire time and then STILL invited him to a party HERE without any reassurance that everything would be okay… 

“Thou art troubled,” the skeletal bastard observes.

“A little!”

“Think on this: which of those lives wouldst thou have chosen, if given choice?” Withers asks.

Astarion thinks on it. “Probably the first one where Gale loved me.”

“Would that have left both rogue and wizard satisfied?”

“Fucking probably!”

“Thou didst not trust him,” Withers notes.

“I hate you,” Astarion says.

The bone man chuckles, “I did not have the power to free thee, in any case. Thine consciousness drifted where thy body did not follow - many lived in the times that followed, and they were unhappy.”

“I don’t believe that. I’d have been happy with Tav, or that first Gale. Or even the first one I told. Gods.” He’s just about ready to lose it and go scream in the woods for old time’s sake.

“It is a sickness. Even when one recovers, there are wounds that fragment and linger. Despite thine anger with the likes of me, this is the happiest Astarion that has ever been. He stands before me.”

Astarion stands from the little table, pocketing the dice. “What am I meant to say, then? Am I supposed to thank you?”

“Whatever for?”

He sighs. “Can we please wrap this up so I can go home?”

“Yes,” Withers agrees, and puts a bony hand on his shoulder, “I believe it is time to go.”

Astarion retreats from the little ruin. He is happy. He is. He’s furious, but he is happy. He’s spent all night saying it, he’s spent months feeling it. Withers is right and that’s infuriating, but.

Gale catches his eyes, and smiles. Beckons him close, his wedding ring flashing briefly in the firelight. Much of the fight slides out of him, as he returns to his husband. They’ll talk later, they’ll unpack it, they’ll accept it and move on. There’s no need to fight a current they’re no longer trapped in, and fighting it was what had them drowning in the first place.

Withers raises a hand to toast them all. Heroes of the realm, saviors of Baldur’s Gate. The adventure is over, but perhaps they will be called upon again in the future. Astarion grimaces.

There’s a pause near the end, in which Reverie raises his glass and cheers, “To my friends!”

And Withers agrees, “To you.”

The party dies down. Astarion is hugged more times than he wants to be. Gale seems like he’d enjoy even more hugs than he is given. Perhaps they can work out something beneficial.

Withers opens portals to let them go home, or to the Hells.

Astarion and Gale clean up, unpack their contingencies, and go to bed. Astarion almost doesn't want to risk closing his eyes. Knowing what he knows, it seems… dangerous, again. Like his contentment would be overwritten by his fear and fight and worry.

Gale pets his hair quietly. “Thank you for coming with me this evening. I know everyone loved seeing you.”

“I loved seeing most of them,” Astarion admits, almost whispering. He watches the moon through the colored glass of their room’s window. “I nearly told Reverie.”

“About… everything, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him next year, then.”

Astarion laughs, “I… think I will.”