Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s okay,” the purple-clad wizard said to her gently. “I’m sure you don’t really want to only hear about my latest lesson planning.”

Xuan snapped out of her drifting thoughts, only to see Gale looking at her with a sympathetic expression, his brown eyes kind and understanding. It only made the pit in her stomach grow heavier. “No, Gale,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I love catching up with you.” She offered him a sincere smile, though it still felt a little guilty. “And you know it gives me a chance to enjoy your cooking again. I’ve found myself craving nothing more than your stew ever since our adventures ended.”

Gale returned her smile. “I’m glad we have actual ingredients now and not some rotten cheese that Ast— the others find in a barrel in the sewers.”

The near mention of his name made something behind Xuan’s ribs shift uncomfortably. A charged silence followed, both of them peering interestedly into their empty tea cups. What use was it to stall any further? Xuan wondered bitterly to herself as she stared at the shapeless tea leaves. 

She swallowed her pride. “Is he…?” Xuan trailed off. She tried to ask this question every time she and Gale got together for tea whenever he was in town, but she never quite knew how to finish it. Fortunately though, Gale was merciful and perceptive enough each time to spare her from trying to finish asking.

“Ah,” Gale said, clearing his throat. He could never quite meet her eyes when they got to this point in their catch ups, and Xuan almost appreciated it. She was never sure what face she was making. “He’s doing well, from the last I heard. He’s been throwing the most lavish parties of the Sword Coast, if the rumors are to be trusted. A fellow professor told me that she was asked to attend one of the parties to throw some kind of light show with Fireball.” Gale snorted, shaking his head. “She was entirely disgruntled by this offer, something about the disgrace of magic! But between you and me, I do enjoy the idea of viewing the beauty of magic, though Fireball seems to be perhaps on the more dangerous side of viewership.”

“I see,” Xuan said conversationally, forcing her voice to be light though she knew she wasn’t fooling the wizard. “Parties. That’s new.”

“Perhaps, but unsurprising. We’ve all known his inclination towards luxury and hedonism,” Gale nodded. His brows drew together briefly. “Though I thought surely that he would contact you once he’s—” The wizard stopped abruptly, wincing, which only made Xuan grimace as well. “Er— Sorry,” he said hastily, brown eyes big and apologetic.

“No, no,” Xuan said hastily, despite the gloom she could feel showing on her face. She had never been good at a poker face, and it was in moments like that that she wished a hole could open in the ground and swallow her up, especially as she watched Gale’s face soften with sympathy. “I appreciate all the help you’ve been in getting my… letters to him.”

“Of course,” Gale murmured, reaching out to pat her hand. “If there’s any other correspondence I can deliver, I’d be happy to help.”

“No,” Xuan said, straightening her shoulders. Maybe it was Gale’s consoling expression, or that it had been weeks now since she’d properly sat down with a friend, or maybe she was just tired of lying to herself. “I suppose I’ve run out of things to say.”

— — — — —

Since the defeat of the Absolute a year and a half ago, Xuan had picked up the hobby of gardening. She had never been dexterous or gentle with her hands, but she had always been patient and the little cottage that she bought in the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate had a humble plot of land that always struck her as too empty and barren whenever she started down the pathway that led to her front door. Actually, it had been Shadowheart who suggested that she get into gardening.

“Your cottage is depressing,” the cleric had said bluntly one day when she was visiting. “You have no decorations and your yard looks like a barren wasteland.”

Xuan, having heard this each time her old friend visited, brushed it off with a shrug of her shoulders though she took a glance around her cottage. It was furnished enough, she thought. She had a bed, a little table she found and two rickety chairs—she never had more than one guest over at a time. She had a dresser for her robes and a fireplace with a floor cushion in front of it. She couldn’t think of what else she really needed. “Then perhaps we ought to meet at your cottage.”

“My mother would go into a cleaning frenzy for a whole week before you come,” Shadowheart had sighed, her voice full of complaint, though her expression had been so soft with affection that Xuan couldn’t help but smile to herself at how content her friend had seemed. It was a wonderful change to her Sharran days. “In any case, when I say your cottage is depressing, I’m really referring to your lifestyle. When was the last time you saw someone?” Before she could even open her mouth, Shadowheart had added, “Besides me or the wizard.”

“Lae’zel astral projected here a few weeks ago,” Xuan had said mulishly.

Shadowheart had thrown her hands in the air in exasperation. “And what about the book club you said you joined last month?”

“I didn’t finish the book in time for the first meeting,” Xuan had admitted quietly, a little ashamed now.

“You’re a complete recluse! Aren’t you lonely here by yourself?” She knew perfectly well what Shadowheart was referring to. She also knew perfectly well that she wasn’t ready to broach the subject.

“Not when I have you pestering me every week,” she had muttered venomously.

Shadowheart had ignored this, of course. “I’m worried about you, Xuan. You just seem so alone.”

“I told you before that I don’t have room for a dog and Scratch seems perfectly content with you,” she had sighed, but the cleric shouldered on, her expression serious. 

“I just don’t like seeing you wait for him like this.”

Something in her chest had snapped, like a dam of water that had been threatening to spill. And when it spilled over, it felt like the water rushed around her chest and through her. It was a feeling that she had trained as a monk to overcome. Xuan had stilled, silent, as she waited for the rush of emotions to calm. “I’m not waiting for him,” she said finally, quietly, her back straight and her shoulders pulled back like she was about to enter meditation. A part of her was—yes, perhaps it was the pit in her stomach that had formed ever since he disappeared after the battle. 

“Yes, I waited for him in the beginning, perhaps. But now… I’m not waiting for him or anyone or anything. I’m just taking my time, that’s all. You and Gale and Lae’zel and everyone, maybe you’ve all moved on, but that’s not to say that just because you’re all moving on quickly that I’m moving backwards or standing still waiting for a knight to save me. I’ve always been alone and I’ve always taken my time and that’s how I like it.”

Shadowheart had let out a long breath, but she had nodded quietly.

“And my life as a recluse is perfectly peaceful , thank you very much,” Xuan had huffed with a note of finality as she brought her dented tea kettle over to the small kitchen table. “I’m soaking in life without a worm in my head and it’s going wonderfully, regardless of whether or not you think my cottage has enough decorations.”

“Perhaps,” Shadowheart had said, sounding unconvinced. Xuan had watched as the cleric rearranged the bouquet of night orchids she brought as a centerpiece. “This will have to do for now. But you really ought to do something about your yard.”

That had been a season ago, when fall had begun to freeze into winter. Now winter, which had seemed irrationally endless and bitterly cold, was drawing to a close. Shadowheart had dropped off seeds for growing night orchids—the cleric had insisted that she at the very least, grew these flowers—and Halsin gifted her hundreds of dried seeds—it had been quite the sight to see the druid come bumbling out of the forest in his bear form, with baskets of fresh produce and seeds strapped along his furry back. Halsin had guided her on the best time for planting and how to get started, and that was why she was standing, shivering in front of her cottage and slamming the butt of her staff into the icy ground. Dimly, she wished Karlach was around to melt away at the ice and warm her cottage. But Karlach and Wyll were in Avernus now, doing Gods-knows-what, though they occasionally sent a burnt letter.

“Who would’ve thought I’d be using you for this,” she murmured to her staff as she brought it against the ground again. It had been ages since she really touched her staff. After the Netherbrain fell, Wyll had been in charge of delegating the efforts to rebuild Baldur’s Gate. As such, he had insisted that their party had done enough and hadn’t let her lift a brick. So she had first wiled away her time by training the younger monks at a nearby monastery, but she soon stopped when she kept spending the greater parts of her nights on a wild goose chase around Baldur’s Gate whenever she thought she saw a flash of white hair or ruby eyes in the crowd on her walk home. The last time she wandered around the city for hours, dawn had broken when she finally slid down against a wall in the Lower City to press the heels of her palms against her eyes to force her body and heart to still. And that was the last time she had really used her staff or gone into the city.

“It’s a good thing,” she said to her staff firmly as she wiped at the sweat that began to form on her brow. “Not using you means that there’s peace, and peace is good.”

She dropped to her knees and brought her fingers across the broken ground to inspect the damage she had done to the frozen earth. She could see the tiniest sprouts of green. “Yes,” Xuan said to herself as she sat back on her heels, closing her eyes. She lifted her face to the sunless sky and felt the cold chill through her robes. The cold was so hauntingly familiar, even outside of winter. “This has to be peace.”

— — — — —

Xuan knelt down in the garden, digging little holes in the soft soil with her staff. According to the timetable that Halsin had given her, it was about time to start planting the sprouts she had germinated into the actual soil—she had spent the last week spending extra care in keeping the seedlings warm in her kitchen and they soon covered all the surface area in the cottage. She twisted the end of her staff into the dirt again, about two inches deep to make a hole. She still hadn’t bothered going into the lower city to get actual gardening supplies, but her staff was the perfect size for this task. Maybe next week she’d go into the city and purchase a few shovels. And maybe she’d stop by the book club for their weekly meeting too. Maybe it was because it was the early days of spring, but things were starting to look up.

The sun was going down and she was lost in thought about the chapters she had been catching up on when a man opened the wooden gate that led to her cottage. Xuan looked up from the soil, startled, as she saw the man march down the stone pathway towards her. “Can I help you?” She asked, grasping at her staff. Upon closer inspection though, the man didn’t seem much of a threat in his noblewear.

“I have a letter to deliver,” the man said, pausing to eye the way Xuan was holding her staff. Immediately, she loosened her grip.

“I… don’t have gardening tools,” she said, feeling a bit foolish now, but she straightened and held her chin back.

“Hmm,” was all the man said as he cast a perfunctory glance at her cottage.

She peered at the man a little more curiously. Now that they were standing face-to-face, she could see that he was startlingly beautiful. Wordlessly, he handed her a letter. Xuan hastily brushed the dirt from her hands against her robes and took the letter, bewildered. She never got mail, save from Karlach and Wyll, and that never came delivered in the form of a person. “I think you may have the wrong address though—” Xuan began, but the words died in her throat at the sight of her name on the envelope in sweeping cursive. “What— Where did you—” she croaked, tearing her eyes away from the envelope only to see that the man had already disappeared. Predictably.

Xuan leaned heavily against her staff as she stared back down at the crisp envelope. The handwriting was dramatic, flamboyant. It was beautiful and all Xuan could do was stare at it, overwhelmed by the image of his form in front of her penned in paper, the curves of his letters more tangible than the man she had been longing for in the last year and a half.

Chapter Text

“Maybe it can smell all your other pets on you,” Xuan supplied hopefully.

Shadowheart blanched. “I do not smell like my pets. Not that they smell bad—we bathe them all weekly, of course.” The cleric stared down at the kitten, who glared at her with an irritated expression so similar to the cleric’s that it was striking. “I don’t understand why he doesn’t like me. All cats like me.” She sounded exasperated.

Upon Shadowheart’s arrival, the kitten had hissed and thrown a fit at the cleric, even going as far as trying to bite at her feet until Xuan put her foot down loudly. Then it had slinked back to Xuan, agitatedly circling her ankles like some sort of demonic ward. Since then, they had tried everything—Shadowheart had tried coaxing it with treats and even tried some sort of slow blinking communication that Xuan didn’t understand.

It was bizarre, to say in the least. Xuan had been entirely sure that the kitten would love Shadowheart—and also be taken off her hands—when it had arrived on her doorstep a few days ago.

Xuan had awoken from her nap to a scratching noise at her door. Shadowheart occasionally came by unannounced, but this hadn’t sounded like a person, and Halsin always sent word ahead of time if he was visiting. She had peered out the window, hand grasping her staff, but hadn’t seen anything.

Cautiously, she had opened the door and for a moment saw nothing but the setting sky. And then a meow. Well, less of a meow and more of a mrow . Down at her feet, a rather scraggly, but proud-looking kitten had stared up at her. Well, less of a stare and more of a glare .

A white-furred kitten had glared up at her impatiently, clearly waiting for some cue.

“Um,” Xuan had floundered. “Hello.” She had never really been great with animals. She had given a cursory sweep outside to see if there was a mother cat nearby. Nothing. It had given another mrow , this time more impatient and hungry. “Er,” she had begun again, stepping to the side of the door a little uncertainly. Somehow, she had felt like she was already being bossed around by this stray cat, especially as it took her movement as an opening to stomp inside. “I guess you can come in?”

“So what,” Xuan sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose as she tried not to plead with the cleric. “You won’t take him?”

Shadowheart gave the kitten another uneasy glance as it settled on her toes to start grooming himself. “Well, he seems perfectly content at your feet,” she remarked. “And anyways, I think a pet will be good for you.”

“I can’t take care of a cat!” Xuan protested, rising to her feet. The cat followed so closely that she nearly tripped over it.

“Why not?”

“Because—” she cut herself off abruptly. Because I can barely take care of myself , she wanted to say, but instead, she sat back down with an irritated sigh. 

“I’m sure he’s had some sort of hard life on the street,” Shadowheart said sympathetically, nodding down at the cat. “I can’t think of any other reason why he’d react this way.”

They both stared down at the kitten, who had begun to groom himself uninterestedly. Xuan bit back another grumpy sigh. Shadowheart had a point—he did look rather worn out for a kitten, his fur scraggly and his belly barely a belly at all. When Xuan stopped protesting, Shadowheart blazed on. “So what’s his name?”

She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far. “Er,” she squinted critically at the kitten. He made a big show of paying her no attention as he licked his paw, though she could see him give her a sidelong glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Snow.” Shadowheart stared at her, clearly unimpressed. Xuan tried again. “Sugar. Cloud?” The cat ignored her, clearly also unimpressed by her creativity.

Shadowheart sighed. “Well, I’d say just wait until he responds to something.”

Xuan didn’t respond to this and instead grabbed the bucket of compost. Shadowheart and the nameless kitten followed her outside the cottage as she grabbed a shovel. It seemed like she had two shadows now, she thought to herself as she began to shovel some of the compost around the garden.

“Are those new gardening tools?” Shadowheart observed as she plopped down on the new chair on her porch.

The cleric had brought a new chair over as a gift—or rather, she had levitated it over and had complained the entire time. It was a rather extravagant looking wicker chair, full of plump cushions and large enough to seat two people. Xuan had no idea Shadowheart’s taste ran like that, but given that the cleric had previously complained about her lack of decoration, she decided not to question it and instead accepted the chair graciously. Especially with how much Shadowheart had already complained in getting the chair to her cottage—Xuan was sure the cleric would complain her ear off if she even suggested for her to take it back.

Xuan grunted noncommittally in response from the garden, patting down the loose soil with her hand shovel. In the end, she didn’t have to go into the lower city to get gardening tools—Halsin sent a basket full of tools, so many that she wasn’t even sure what half of them did. And outside of quantity, he had sent beautiful tools, perfectly handcrafted from wood. Though Halsin made fine trinkets out of wood, Xuan was sure that these had to be artisan crafted. The hand shovel was even bedazzled with a jewel—Xuan was a little surprised by the druid’s taste, but pleased, and sent a letter back promising to send her first grown vegetables back to him to try.

She could still feel Shadowheart staring at her assessingly. “They’re very nice—did you get them from the city?”

“Halsin sent them,” she answered finally.

“Huh,” was all Shadowheart said. Another long silence followed as Xuan started watering the little sprouts with her new watering jug. “You’re extra quiet today,” the cleric pressed on. When Xuan didn’t respond, Shadowheart narrowed her eyes at her thoughtfully. “Everything alright?”

Shadowheart was frustratingly perceptive and even more so persistent and Xuan, in any case, was awful at hiding her emotions. She resumed watering the sprouts. “Well,” she began, “Astarion sent a letter.”

Xuan grimaced at the way the porch creaked under the weight of Shadowheart hopping off the chair to rush towards her. “ What ?” The cleric demanded, eyes wide. Xuan just nodded as she moved on to the next row of planted seedlings. They were coming up quite nicely, she observed. At her lack of reaction, Shadowheart stared at her, hard. “What did he say?”

“‘Dunno.”

“ What ?”

Xuan spared Shadowheart a glance. “I haven’t read it.”

“You haven’t read it,” Shadowheart parroted slowly. “And why not?”

“What’s there for him to say now that he hasn’t already said with his silence?”

“I don’t understand, I thought you’ve been waiting all this time for word—”

“I have not been waiting for him—” A half-lie.

“What if it’s an apology?”

Xuan froze, her shovel going limp in her hand before she stabbed it into the ground decisively. “I don’t know if I’d forgive him,” she said finally. The truth. “And if he had any heart, he’d do it in person.”

Shadowheart nodded slowly, settling back down on the plush chair. “Fair, though I wouldn’t expect a vampire to have a beating heart,” she said. “But where’s the letter? I’d pay to read it.” Xuan, the worst at hiding her emotions and thoughts, couldn’t help but dart a quick glance at the compost bucket. Shadowheart, perceptive as ever, caught sight of this immediately and barked out a startled laugh. “You threw it away?”

Xuan frowned. “I composted it. Halsin said it’s better for the garden.”

— — — — — 

The next letter came a week later. This time, she saw it when she returned from the book club in the Lower City and didn’t catch the messenger—probably for the better. It was placed perfectly in the center of her welcome mat, right side up so that she could see her name, again written carefully in his sweeping cursive.

She left it on the welcome mat and refused to think more about it until a morning later, when she found another one perfectly placed above it. And then another.

And then she got a rather sturdy lock for her front gate and for a night, the letters stopped coming. And then, when she came back from her next book club meeting, she found the letter tied to the post of her gate, this time with a small bouquet of daffodils.

Xuan stared at the bouquet of daffodils at her gate, her chest tightening briefly before she moved past it. But as she continued her garden work, it felt as though its presence was growing bigger and bigger and she became more and more aware that it would wilt if she didn’t put it in a vase soon.

Xuan sighed, pinching her brow before grabbing her cloak and strolling towards her gate. She didn’t want them in her cottage, but she also couldn’t quite stand the idea of leaving them there to wilt—now that she had a garden, she was too aware of what it took for flowers to grow. Perhaps Shadowheart was right—she had grown too soft-hearted. She untied the bouquet carefully before setting down the dirt road. If she hurried, she’d make it in time to Shadowheart’s just after sunset.

“Daffodils,” she muttered to herself as she grasped the bouquet in her hand, her stride quickening down the dirt road. The sooner she made it to Shadowheart’s, the faster she could give them away. Why did they have to be daffodils?

“Sussar blooms,” Gale had murmured as they inspected the glowing flowers from the tree. They had just made it to the Underdark. “I’ve never actually seen one in person. It seems that they may only grow in the Underdark.”

Xuan had stepped closer to the bright blue blossom curiously, reaching out to touch it. “Are they safe to pick?”

“Perfectly safe, though as we just realized, they’ll create an antimagic field.”

Xuan had nodded distractedly, reaching out to pluck the flower before raising it to her nose. It had had a honey-sweet aroma, to her pleasant surprise. She had tucked it into her pack carefully, just as a voice spoke up behind her, amusement lining his voice. “I didn’t take you as someone who collected flowers,” Astarion had mused, brow arched.

She had shrugged her shoulders. “I like them.”

“Interesting,” he had commented. “I would’ve thought you’d say they don’t have any functional value. You’re normally very pragmatic, monk.”

“They’re pretty and they smell nice,” she had said plainly as Astarion fell in step with her, just close enough for their elbows to brush.

“I’ve been told the same can be said about me,” he had said, the corner of his lips lifting rakishly.

“Actually, vampires often have a whiff of the undead,” Gale had supplied helpfully from in front of them.

Astarion had ignored this, of course, turning to her to quickly pivot the conversation. “Any favorite flowers or are you particularly drawn to magic ones?”

“I like daffodils,” she had said after a moment of thinking deeply on it.

Astarion had let out a huff of a laugh. “How expectedly plain of you.”

It was dusk when Xuan arrived at Shadowheart's cottage, a bit out of breath. She marched up the walkway and opened the door, expecting one of the cleric’s many pets to start running up to her. Only, she heard Shadowheart’s voice, agitated and resigned all at once.

“You really ought to stop it with all this,” Shadowheart said irritably. “Isn’t it time?”

And then she saw him. Sterling hair, perfectly coiffed, skin like moonlight. Angular face, delicate brow, sharp cheekbones. Painfully pretty, so much so that it hurt to look at him. Though she knew he would look exactly the same, it was still jarring to see him appear as he did the last time she saw him on that beach two years ago, as if no time had passed at all. Xuan stood frozen to the spot, unable to pull her gaze away from him. It felt like time moved in a sluggish wave before she lurched back gracelessly, as if pulled from a dream.

The bouquet of daffodils she was holding fell to her side limply, with enough motion to catch Shadowheart’s attention. The cleric straightened, eyes round as something akin to guilt flashed across her face.

“Xuan.” She had forgotten what her name sounded like coming from him.

“Um,” Xuan said, her breathing shallow. She blinked at the two of them uncomprehendingly, but when Astarion stood there, undeniably there, she straightened. “Right. Well. Goodbye.” And then she turned and walked back out the door, her blood thrumming in her ears. She wasn’t going to run, though every fiber in her body was telling her to sprint home.

She didn’t know how far her feet carried her before she felt his hand clasp gently around her wrist. His hand was cold to the touch, just as she remembered. She shook him off sharply as she continued forward, her chest tight.

“Wait, just slow down for a moment,” he said as he followed her doggedly. Again, she wanted to run, she wanted to run away from the daffodils in her hand, run away from hearing the way he said her name, run away from any memory of standing this close to him. But she knew she'd never be able to outrun him. Damn vampires and their speed.

Xuan halted abruptly, her heart betraying herself as she turned around slowly to look at him. Was this real? He looked as though he had somehow tumbled out of one of her dreams onto the dusty dirt road. He was beautiful—stunning and beguiling in a way that had always made her freeze to stare at him. Framed by white lashes, his eyes were the same deep pools of scarlet just as she had remembered and they seemed to glint in the low light of dusk. His cheeks were high and sharp, softened by the silver curls that framed his noble features. He looked exactly like he did the day he had left her. Ethereal. And just out of reach.

I am the same fool I was two years ago , Xuan thought miserably as she stared at him.

“Xuan, I—” Astarion began. “I didn’t expect to see you like this.”

“Neither did I,” she said. Her voice sounded disconnected from her body, even to her. She had spent countless nights in the beginning imagining what she’d say to him if she saw him again, but now that it was happening, Xuan found that she had nothing much to say at all.

“You look like you’re doing well,” Astarion murmured, eyes tracking across her face intently. He made no show of looking away. “Your hair has grown out.”

Dimly, she touched the ends of her hair that nearly fell to her waist now, as if confirming that it was still there. “It has.”

Astarion waited for a few beats, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to say anything else, he took it in stride, nodding to himself conversationally. “Those are the flowers I sent,” he commented.

Xuan tightened her grip around the daffodils. She had forgotten she was holding them. “They are,” she agreed.

"I wanted to send Sussar Blooms too, but it turns out they wilt when they leave the Underdark," he continued, taking a cautious step closer to her as if not to spook a wild animal.

"I know," she said. When she had removed the Sussar Blooms from her pack years ago, she had found that they were wilted and permanently ruined the moment they left the Underdark.

Astarion watched her carefully, his eyes sharp to pick up any emotion. “Were you going to give these to Shadowheart?” He asked, keen as ever.

“I was,” she said.

“I see,” he said, his expression distinctly wounded as if he hadn’t been the one who had left her. 

“Yes,” she said nonsensically, her voice distant even to her own ears. “Well. Good night.” She said again, lurching forward stiffly again.

“Wait, that’s not— that’s not what I wanted to say—”

Xuan closed her eyes. It was a good thing she had been popping into some of Gale’s classes at the academy, she thought to herself wryly.

She Misty-Stepped to her garden, marched up the steps of her porch, and shut her door firmly behind her. As she slumped back against the door, she groaned when she realized she was still holding on to the daffodils.

Chapter Text

Xuan stared at the wall as she watched the shadow cast from her windows begin to climb lower and lower from her ceiling to her bed. She watched as the cat—Snow? Sugar? Cloud?—periodically shifted further and further up her bed, chasing the afternoon sun. When the cat finally reached her torso, Xuan rolled from her side onto her back so that she could thread both hands through the cat’s soft fur. The cat was wonderfully warm, like it had soaked up all the sun. Or it was because she felt so terribly cold, even in the sun and under her covers.

Dimly, Xuan wondered how long she could live like this. Maybe the weeds from her garden would break through her floorboards with time. Maybe the sun and rain would wear down the walls of her cottage. Maybe moss would start growing over her. Before she could consider how long that might take, a knock came at her door.

Xuan ignored it, like she had ignored all the other persistent knocks that morning and the days prior. It had been that morning finally, when she opened the door to see Shadowheart. She had an uncharacteristically guilty expression and a bouquet of night orchards in hand, but Xuan’s resolve was too strong to waver at the look. Did everyone think that she could be bought by a bouquet of flowers?

“Let me explain,” the cleric began but she stopped when Xuan levied her a hard stare.

“I need space,” Xuan said plainly and the cleric’s expression had fallen even further. This time, Xuan felt a pang in her chest, but also relief when Shadowheart finally nodded.

“I understand,” her friend said. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.” Xuan had closed her door firmly and locked it before dragging herself back to bed.

The knock came again, this time a little harder. Xuan was not one prone to anger, but with the events of the past few days, she was sure she was about to explode if she saw either of them at her door. No—he wouldn’t be at her door, not during the afternoon when the sun was out. The thought was reassuring enough that when the knock came again, Xuan finally whispered a quick curse before launching herself out of bed with a huff, with so much strength that the cat meowed with displeasure before following her doggedly to the door.

She swung it open with nearly enough strength to tear it off the hinge before startling. The kitten hissed sharply.

A large, brown bear sat on its haunches in front of her door. The surprise quickly melted into unexpected joy as she threw her arms around the bear, its fur tickling her cheeks until it began to shorten and disappear. Strong arms enveloped her in return.

“Halsin!” She exclaimed, pulling back to see honeyed eyes and the elf’s face smiling down at her.

“My dear friend,” he said warmly, beaming back.

“You didn’t send any word that you were coming,” she exclaimed. It had been nearly two seasons now since they last saw each other. Compared to the others—with the exception of Wyll and Karlach, though they wrote frequently—she saw Halsin the least, given his travels and responsibilities in Thaniel’s Realm.

“Apologies, I thought to send a letter but figured I’d likely get here faster than the bird,” he said. “There’s an assembly of druids meeting nearby and I figured I’d stop by to see how you were faring.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” Xuan said, ushering him in quickly. The Druid was so large that he had to duck under the door frame. He set a few covered baskets down, undoubtedly full of seeds or produce.

“I’m not sure about that,” he said teasingly as he nodded down to the cat who was still glaring at him, its tail twitching in agitation. “Who is this?”

“Um,” Xuan said, grimacing, “I haven’t given him a name yet. He’s new.”

The druid crouched down and murmured something in a low tone. The cat tilted his head slowly before letting out a low meow back. “Huh,” Halsin said softly, brows furrowing.

Xuan leaned forward eagerly “What did he say?”

“He just said to tell you thank you,” Halsin said after a moment before he straightened.

A warm glow of affection spread unexpectedly in her chest as she nodded down at the cat awkwardly. “Of course,” she said. I guess I’ll have to keep him , she thought, though any potential resistance dissipated immediately as the cat wound itself around her ankles with a low purr.

Astarion would call her a bleeding heart. She could almost hear his voice—

Xuan shook the thought out of her head hastily. Unfortunately, Halsin seemed to catch on because he studied for a moment longer. Quickly, Xuan ducked out of the door. “Come, I’ll give you a tour of the garden.”

Luckily, Halsin didn’t press as he followed her out. “I saw on my way in. It’s doing very well.”

Pride surged through her as she led him down the walkway. “It’s all thanks to the seeds you gave me last year. The herbs and cabbages are coming in nicely. Also, I didn’t know basil and mint were like weeds. They really haven’t ever stopped growing, but I’ve given some to Gale whenever he visits. I tried growing some melons, but they don’t seem to make it.”

“They might need more nutrients,” Halsin observed as he studied the fist-sized melon growing weakly on the ground. 

Xuan nodded, making a mental note before she led him to the trellis. “The tomatoes, strawberries, and cucumbers just started flowering. I also planted the bulbs for onion and garlic about a month ago and they seem to be doing well.” Xuan paused in her prattling as a new thought occurred to her. Would the garlic keep Astarion away? Her gut churned uncomfortably. 

“Very impressive,” Halsin said. 

Xuan blinked, jolting back into the conversation before nodding. To hide her expression, she squatted down next to the row of white flowers. “And this is Shadowheart’s corner of night orchards—” She wondered if she would still be upset with Shadowheart by the time the flowers bloomed. The thought made her uneasy.

“What’s on your mind, my friend?” Halsin interrupted gently, placing his giant hand on her shoulder.

“I—” Xuan began, wondering for a split moment what she could possibly say instead, but quickly resigning. She had never been good at lying, and Halsin had a keen sense. Maybe it was his bear instincts. In any case, Xuan sighed as she straightened from where she had crouched next to the night orchards. “Well,” she began, her throat dry. “Astarion has come back. Or perhaps he’s always been back, but just never with me.” She pressed her lips together as she reached down to tug at a stray weed. “I knew Gale had been in contact with him, but Shadowheart too—”

Halsin sat down next to her, his movement reminiscent of a bear plopping down heartily. He didn’t say anything as he turned his gaze to the rows of flowers—Xuan was grateful, she wasn’t sure what kind of an expression she was making any more.

“The garden is doing remarkably well,” he said again, reaching out to brush his finger against the white petal of the night orchard. “It’s grown a lot in very little time.” Xuan stayed quiet, watching the druid as he continued, his expression calm. “Since the last time I saw these seeds, it’s grown from a little pebble—planted roots into frozen soil, and grown leaves and flowers with the care you’ve put in. Soon, the flowers may grow into fruit.” He paused as he reached over to tug at the weeds with her. “Are you happy with the garden?”

Xuan hesitated, her throat tight. She understood what he was getting at. “I don’t know,” she admitted, watching as he began to weave a few weeds together in a tight braid. The smell of night orchards wafted over them. Shadowheart’s betrayal stung again. “I thought I was. But now I can’t tell if I’m happy or just forcing myself to be content. Things are comfortable. I have a home, this garden, I even have a cat now.” She offered him a tight smile. “And my friends visit.” She swallowed, something like shame rising in her throat. “And yet I feel restless. I keep wondering if every day of the rest of my life looked something like this, if I would be happy.” 

“Just as a seed knows to reach for the sun, your heart knows what it desires, even when the mind remains buried in the weeds of doubt,” Halsin said as he placed the woven crown on her head. Xuan ran her fingers along the coarse braided stems absentmindedly. “The heart leads, and the mind must follow if it wishes to keep pace."

“But how do I know what my heart and mind want?” Xuan asked, turning to look at her friend. “I keep thinking I’m ready to see him—that I want to see him—but it seems that I’m actually not ready at all. And it’s been years now, and yet I’m still thinking about the same things.”

“Give yourself time, my friend,” he said kindly. “Perhaps your restlessness is tied to putting your roots down too soon.”

“Maybe,” she admitted, sighing as she plucked at another weed. “It’s hard to think that my life at the temple before the tadpoles had been so… calm.” Before the tadpole, every day had been mostly unchanging and it had never bothered her. It hadn’t exactly been monotonous, though each day was relatively similar—she would train with the other monks to achieve control of mind and body and sometimes she would go into the nearby village to help the citizens. It wasn’t all that different from how she was living now, so why couldn’t she get rid of this nagging feeling of restlessness? And then there had been Astarion, when her world had become strikingly bright and open. And then Astarion was gone, and it had felt like an endless winter, despite her best efforts. Xuan closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Maybe the tadpole had done some permanent damage to her.

“It’s all a part of growing. At some point, your world shifts and opens up and you wonder how you were living before,” Halsin said easily. “Perhaps seeing more of the world will be good for you. I’ve been traveling through Thaniel’s Realm and tending to the land and people affected by the Shadow Curse. If you’d like, your company would be more than welcome.”

Xuan gazed out past the garden. Surprisingly, that didn’t sound terrible. After the events with the tadpole, she had tried going into Baldur’s Gate more to train the younger monks, but she hadn’t thought about traveling more. As if sensing her hesitation, Halsin continued gently, “There’s no rush to give a response—the offer will always be there.”

Xuan nodded, relaxing a little. “Thank you, Halsin.”

“Of course,” he said, eyes warm like honey. “Though there is a gathering of druids tomorrow in the area in a few nights. Some of the druids from the Grove will be there and they’ve been asking me to invite you.”

Xuan laughed. “I suppose it’s been awhile since I’ve seen them.”

“And you know that the honey mead at druid gatherings is good for loosening the heart and mind,” Halsin added, eyes bright as he rose to his feet. He put his hand out to help her up. Xuan accepted it gratefully, brushing the weeds from her robes. 

“Perhaps too good,” she agreed, smiling at her old friend.

— — — — —

Halsin had been correct in his assessment of the honey mead. And paired with the Emerald Grove druids’ encouragement—or rather, persistence—and her desire to get a certain white-haired elf off her mind, Xuan had obliged easily with the sweet drinks. And when her feet began to grow sore from the dancing—druids loved their barefoot dancing—Xuan slipped quietly out of the meadow with home on her mind, more relaxed than she had been in ages. Halsin’s offer echoed in her mind blurrily as she walked clumsily down the dirt road.

Xuan didn’t remember the last time she was this drunk. Actually, she realized slowly as she stumbled down the road, it wouldn’t be hard to remember given that she had only ever had a few drinks after she left the temple. In fact, she realized as she fumbled unsuccessfully with the lock on her gate, the last time she had been this drunk was during the party’s first night in Baldur’s Gate, when they went to celebrate their arrival into the city.

Somehow, back then, when she was on the brink of turning into a mind flayer, things seemed surprisingly uncomplicated. That night they had all been in the Elfsong Tavern after a successful day of saving the murder targets. Karlach had challenged Lae’zel to a drinking challenge with Shadowheart watching in bored interest. Gale had been engaged in an animated conversation about some sort of magic scripture to a rather tipsy Wyll, who had been too polite to decline the conversation. She had sat quietly at the counter, warm and relaxed as she relished the company of her friends quietly when Astarion had approached her. She remembered his snow-white hair and skin gleaming a warmer shade in the light of the pub’s candles, his expression soft when he teased her low tolerance. She remembered him leaning in to press a kiss against her temple when she leaned against him—

At the memory of his lips against her skin, Xuan twisted the key in the lock too hard. The key snapped, leaving part of it inside the lock. “Shit,” she cursed, squeezing her eyes shut. No, I can still figure this out , she thought to herself stubbornly as she looked around for a rock. When she found a sizeable stone, she picked it up and slammed it down against the lock. Once. Twice. And then on the third time, she felt a sharp pain against her palm. 

When she looked down, she was startled in her drunken haze to see blood trickling from a cut in her palm, and the lock dented, but not open. “Shit,” she mumbled again. She felt the sudden urge to cry, the way that emotionally tired and drunk people were more inclined to irrational tears. “I wish you would just fucking open,” she said to the lock, her eyes heating up. “I wish that…” I wish that Astarion were here to pick this lock . 

The thought only made her eyes prick. Thoroughly exhausted now, Xuan slid down against the fence to a crouch to press the heel of her palm against her eyes. It was like the more she tried to stop thinking about him, the more he would show up in her mind. 

“Darling?” His concerned voice came from in front of her. 

Great , Xuan thought, looking up blearily to see him peering down at her. He was dressed as fanciful as ever, white curls perfectly in place and gleaming in the moonlight. She was thinking of him so much that now she was imagining him in front of her. It had been awhile since she had one of these dreams. It was unsurprising—Astarion, real or a figment of her dreams, had a way of worming his way into her life.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured, reaching for her wrist. His fingers were cold against her skin as he brought her hand up to inspect her palm. “May I?”

Xuan nodded, trying to commit him to memory though she knew it would only hurt even more when she woke up. Astarion dipped his head and pressed his lips against the center of her palm. She shivered, feeling wrong-footed as she was struck with a strange clarity that they had done this before. The battle against Ketheric Thorm , she thought distractedly. He had asked her to kiss his hands again. The memory throbbed painfully in her mind for a moment before dissipating as she felt his tongue dart out against her cut. His breath came out shuddering and cold against her palm. And then he released her, a rueful smile on his face as he met her gaze. “So it won’t scar. Vampire perks, remember?”

She was a little sorry when he let go of her, but instead she let her hand drop to her side as she flexed it slowly. “Of course I remember,” she said to herself.

“Of course,” Astarion murmured, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer before he turned to the lock. “You were always too strong,” he commented. She could have sworn that she could hear the smile in his voice. Xuan studied the familiar set of his finely built shoulders as he crouched down and began to tinker with the broken lock. How familiar this scene was. What was unfamiliar was the swell of emotion bubbling in her chest. 

The gate swung open as Astarion rose to his feet again. “Done,” he said softly, turning to look at her.

The swell of emotion seemed to unfurl faster in her chest as she took in his earnest expression. This damn dream, she thought as she stepped past him and up the path. She stepped up her porch and unlocked her door with shaking hands before stepping inside with a sigh of relief.

When she didn’t sense him behind her, Xuan turned around. He was standing at the doorway, an expression of self-loathing flickering across his sharp features though it disappeared when his eyes met hers. “You’re not coming in?” She asked, rubbing at her eyes.

He froze before straightening. “May I?” He asked quietly.

“‘Course,” she said as she kicked off her shoes ungracefully.

Relief flickered across his face as he stepped across the doorway slowly before closing the door behind him. His gaze scanned the cottage curiously as Xuan began to unbutton the frog-buttons of her robes.

“Let’s get you out of these robes,” Astarion said, rummaging through her drawers for her sleep clothes.

“Tactful,” she remarked, already shrugging off her robes. She heard a long exhale behind her and when she glanced over her shoulders, Astarion was staring pointedly at the ceiling as if she was naked—she was still in her undergarments, and in any case, Xuan thought fuzzily to herself, he had seen her with less on that one night. His arm was stretched out with her nightdress in his hand.

“Are you always like this when you’re drunk or have you really changed in the last two years?” Astarion asked, voice tinged with both amusement and wariness. She took the old nightdress from his hand and tugged it over her head.

“Have you always been this prudish or are you being coy?” She retorted just as quickly as her head popped out of her dress.

Astarion snorted as he leaned over to re-right the collar of her nightdress, his fingers careful not to brush against her skin. She didn’t miss the way his eyes darted to her bare legs. She expected him to make some kind of innuendo, but instead his face did something funny as he tore his gaze away. Xuan giggled to herself as she turned to the basin to wash her face. He made her feel like she was wearing nothing , and not some shapeless, threadbare nightdress. The whole situation, to Xuan’s drunk-hazed mind, was bizarrely funny.

“Aren’t you going to wear some… some trousers or anything?” Astarion asked. Xuan looked up to dry off her face with a towel. She sorely wished she could see him in the reflection of the mirror. 

“No, why would I?” She asked as she turned to look at him. Oh , she thought. He was so pretty in the candlelight. Her mind was doing a great job of dreaming him up. If this is what a few cups of honey mead could conjure up, maybe she wouldn’t be opposed every once in a while. No , she thought absently, shaking her head to herself. I’m not waiting to dream him up. Have some pride, Xuan. She had always had a strong grasp on her thoughts and emotions when she was conscious—her dreams were a different case. To see her desires in front of her so unmarred was horribly wonderful—being this close to him was always just a dream hidden away deep within her heart.

“Aren’t you, well, cold ?” Astarion was saying when she focused again. 

But she already lost track of the conversation so she just shrugged at him as she pulled the covers back from her bed. “I’m not cold,” she mumbled as she shuffled in under the covers. When she relaxed back, Astarion was still standing frozen at the foot of her bed. He was looking at her with an expression of such blatant longing, brows drawn together and eyes soft and intent like he was trying to commit her to memory. She didn’t get it—it felt like she should have been the one trying to commit him to memory. He was always gone from her dreams the moment she woke up.

She blinked at him sleepily, pulling the covers back. “You’re not going to sleep?” She asked, already being lulled into a sleep. She had had this dream many times before and it had almost always ended with him curling next to her. The stricken expression on his face was new. 

“I—” Astarion said, ruby eyes darting from her to the space next to her and back again. “I’ll make you cold!” He blurted rather nonsensically.

Xuan muffled her yawn into her covers, confused now, but also too tired and drunk to properly understand. “I’m not cold,” she said again.

“Oh,” Astarion said, floundering. “But I don’t know if it’s a good idea— I mean, I’m… You’re…” 

“Oh, okay,” Xuan mumbled agreeably. Another dream, then, she thought, resigned as she closed her eyes. It wasn’t like they would ever stop anyways. There was a pause before she heard the floorboards creak and felt him slide in carefully next to her. Xuan sighed in contentment as she closed the space between them to press her face into his shoulder.

“You can just think of this as a dream,” he murmured quietly as he smoothed his hand across her cheek. Xuan leaned into it instinctively, shivering.

“It’s always just a dream,” she sighed. A long silence followed. Xuan slipped further into the chill of her dreams as she relaxed. 

“I won’t be here in the morning,” Astarion murmured quietly. His breath was soft and cold against her temple. She felt his long fingers brush against her hair.

“Yeah,” Xuan mumbled as she began to fall asleep. “I know.”

— — — — —

“Did you finish the readings for today?”

Xuan looked up guilty from her book to see the familiar blacksmith peering down at her. “Not yet,” she admitted sheepishly. She had been stuck on the same paragraph for the last hour, despite having arrived early to the little bookstore. It was hard to concentrate with the nascent headache forming behind her eyes. And Xuan was very sure it wasn’t because of all the honey mead she had drunk the night before.

Dammon offered her a kind smile. “I can fill you in,” he said knowingly, his eyes bright. “It’s good to see you in Baldur’s Gate again.” Xuan relaxed a little, returning his smile. She had always enjoyed the blacksmith’s company and it was great now that they were seeing each other in nonlife threatening situations. In fact, Dammon had been the one who introduced her to the book club in the first place, much to Shadowheart’s approval.

Nickels, the leader of the book club, cleared his throat. “We have one of my old friends joining us today! Don’t worry though, he’s caught up on the readings for this week.” 

Xuan paid the book club leader little attention as she attempted to skim through the final chapter that she hadn’t finished. She had meant to finish the chapter before their book club meeting, but she had woken up with that raging headache that had only worsened when she saw the broken key placed carefully on her bedside table and no scar on her palm. Xuan pushed the thought of her head—she wasn’t going to think about it, not then. Maybe later tonight she would sort out all her inner turmoil and the mess that was last night, but for now, she needed to focus on that damn chapter.

She did, however, finally look up when she noticed Dammon stiffening next to her. Xuan nearly dropped her book.

“What are you doing here?” She hissed to him, mortified and furious. She also couldn’t ignore the stubborn thrill of delight that had run through her at the sight of him, which only made her more mortified and furious with herself . She felt a little faint.

“Nickels so kindly extended the offer to join his book club when I ran into him the other day,” Astarion said unconvincingly as he smiled down at her blithely. “Small world.”

She tried not to glare at him. Nickels had been one of the Ironhand Gnomes they saved from Moonrise Tower Prison all those years ago and the gnome had managed to make a life for himself in Baldur’s Gate after everything. Xuan was very sure Astarion did not remember Nickels from their involvement in Moonrise Tower—from her memory, he had been complaining the whole time and had insisted on leaving the prisoners in their cell so that they could focus on dealing with the Nightsong.

When she didn’t say anything, Astarion continued smoothly, his gaze flicking over to Dammon. “It really is a small world,” he said, brows rising.

Dammon glanced at Xuan, his gaze searching. She could feel her ears heat up—no doubt he had an idea of where their relationship stood. She shook her head a little and he nodded discreetly, clearing his throat. “It’s good to see you well, Astarion,” Dammon said. “I’ll give you both some time to talk—I wanted to check in with Nickels about one of the chapters beforehand anyways.” He gave Xuan one last look before leaving the two of them.

Xuan turned back to Astarion. “What are you doing here?” 

“Here to read and discuss,” he chirped cheerfully.

“And you’re interested in this week’s book,” she said flatly.

To her surprise, Astarion tugged the book out of his satchel. “ The Many Faces of Gond ,” he read the cover proudly. Xuan could feel her headache begin to come back at full force. “This week’s chapters were certainly exciting. Did you get to the part where they reached the mountain range?”

Distractingly embarrassed that she hadn’t yet and still furious that he was even there, Xuan ignored him as she opened her book again, trying to give him a sign that she wasn’t willing to discuss anything further with him. This only seemed to encourage him though. He sat down next to her easily. Xuan fought the urge to flee. “I always thought you’d be one to do your homework well in advance,” Astarion said lightly. “No worries though, I can fill you in on what happened.”

He was speaking so casually to her, like nothing had ever happened between them. Xuan could feel that sting of stitched up hurt begin to unravel in herself. Seeing him with Shadowheart had been like a slap to the face, and then last night— She took a steadying breath. 

Astarion faltered, his gaze flicking across her keenly, his eyes quick as ever to pick up any emotion. Not that Xuan had ever been good at hiding them anyways. “I thought I should… acquire some hobbies,” he said delicately, his gaze searching.

“Hobbies!” Xuan spluttered. It was easier to dip into anger than to acknowledge the other swell of emotions. “You’re only here because I’m here!”

“Of course, darling,” Astarion said easily. “I wanted to see you again.” He said it with such a clear-eyed candidness that Xuan’s next accusations died instantly in her throat as she was startled into a silence as she stared at him. She had expected him to unconvincingly lie his way out of it and hold fast onto his excuse of acquiring hobbies. It was so entirely out of character for him. Xuan stared at him, mollified and bewildered, cheeks flushing at the way he was looking at her with such unabashed earnestness.

She turned her gaze sharply back down to her book. “You saw me plenty last night,” she hissed to him pointedly, unnecessarily adding, “I saw the key on the table, I know it really happened.”

She could feel Astarion’s gaze on her as he studied her carefully. “Did you really think it was a dream?” He sounded bewildered.

“Yes,” she bit out before taking a steadying breath. She forced her nerves to calm. “It wouldn’t have been the first one.”

“Oh,” Astarion made a strangled sort of sound, odd enough that it made her look at him. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression. 

“Is it really that much of a surprise?” She asked, half-irritated, half caught off-guard by the way his eyes softened. She wished he didn’t look at her like that.

“Yes— No— I mean,” Astarion started, falling over his words. He leaned towards her earnestly. “I mean, I dream about you, I just didn’t think you’d— I mean, of course I dreamt of you, I thought of you all the time—”

She felt something in her chest squeeze painfully. “No, Astarion, I don’t think you did think of me,” she said, forcing her voice flat before her own expression could betray her. Astarion’s face fell, his gaze darting to the way she was clutching her book. Had he always been that open with his expression? Or was this another one of his ploys? Before she could think further on it, she rose to her feet. “Dammon already said he’ll catch me up on the book, so if you’ll excuse me.” 

“Wait, Xuan, that’s not really what I wanted to talk about,” Astarion said, grimacing.

Xuan could feel that eerie sense of deja vu. She shook it away angrily. If he thought he could just talk to everyone but her and then suddenly try to slither his way back into her life without addressing everything that had happened, he was mistaken. Dimly, she wondered if he would have even reached out had she not happened upon him and Shadowheart. She thought back to all the times she had unstitched all her hurt to pour her heart into her letters to him. She thought about how every letter went unanswered. A well of hurt rushed over her. Xuan was suddenly very tired of being the honest one, of having to be the one to always bring things up. She was tired of waiting for honesty and hoping for more and thinking of someone who never thought of her. Maybe there was a finite amount of times she could open her heart, and maybe he had already exhausted all those times.

“Then you should have said something earlier,” she said flatly.

Without waiting for a response, Xuan shoved her book into her bag and stomped out of the bookstore. It wasn’t like she had finished reading the chapter anyways.

Chapter Text

The melons were not doing well.

Ever since Halsin had mentioned it, all Xuan could see when she surveyed her garden were the shriveling, dying leaves of the melon plant. And it seemed to be withering more and more with each passing day.

Xuan hefted the heavy sack of fertilizer over her shoulder as she trudged down the cobbled streets of the Lower City. At least it doesn’t stink, she thought as she readjusted her hold on the bag. The flower shop keeper had been kind enough to cast prestidigitation on the sack.

She ran through the mental grocery list she had made her for herself before leaving. Xuan had always been more on the side of a homebody, but especially with her less pleasant memories of Baldur’s Gate—and more recent memories of a pale vampire—she was less keen on going into the city unless she really had to. And after lamenting over the shriveling melon for days, she had finally decided it was time.

“Some meat for the cat,” she recalled aloud as she headed in the direction of the outdoor market. Since she didn’t eat meat, she had been relying on Shadowheart’s endless supply of pet food, but now that she and Shadowheart weren’t on speaking terms, she needed a way to feed the cat.

Xuan loved the outdoor market. She liked the unapologetic movement of the crowd, the noise, all the sights and smells. Though the chaos of the market was a stark contrast to the quiet of her cottage, it still held the same kind of peace. It reminded her of standing in the shallows of a swift river. 

She paused in front of a fruit stand briefly to inspect the rows of colorful fruit. There were a few that she didn’t recognize, clearly not native to Baldur’s Gate, but it was the stack of mangos that caught her eye.

“The best mangos you can find in the city,” the vendor owner said brightly to her, nodding down proudly at his stock. “Just in from Velen.”

“Velen,” she echoed, looking down at the gleaming fruit.

“They have these large groves overlooking the Sea of Swords,” the vendor owner told her knowledgeably. “The best in Faerûn.”

“I’d like to see that,” Xuan murmured thoughtfully.

She had once asked Halsin and the druid had told her that growing a mango tree from a seed would take years to bear fruit. Perhaps seeing more of the world will be good for you. His words echoed in her mind, not for the first time.

Xuan offered the vendor a smile. “I’ll be sure to come back when I have more hands,” she said apologetically as she hefted the bag of fertilizer back over her shoulder before moving on further down the road.

What did cats eat, exactly? Xuan picked up a few pounds of fish, dried and fresh, for good measure. Her pack was heavy by the time she reached the end of the market. She hesitated. Did cats get sick of eating the same thing? She had only gotten fish so far. She tried to imagine herself eating the same vegetable every day and grimaced before making up her mind.

She turned the corner to the part of the market where the butchers had set up their stalls. How would she know which stall would be good? She wandered down the alley aimlessly, inwardly frowning over her indecision before a row of stalls caught her eye. Compared to the others, these were strikingly clean—not a single puddle of blood or muddied water anywhere. “Excuse me,” Xuan said. The man behind one of the stalls paused in his chopping to give her an expectant stare. “Can I get a pound of…” She paused to squint at the different meats. “...everything?”

His brow furrowed at her. “Of everything? The dried jerky too?”

Xuan nodded, fishing out her coin pouch.

“It’ll take me a few minutes to pack everything up,” the butcher said as he set down his knife.

Xuan nodded, setting down the bag of fertilizer. She rolled her shoulders and glanced at the stall curiously. It really was spotless for a butcher’s station.

“Quite a carnivorous diet,” the person behind her in line observed.

“It’s for my cat,” Xuan said automatically as she fished around her pack for her coin pouch.

“Lucky cat.”

Xuan paused in her rummaging, a strange feeling flitting over her. There was no way—it was noon and the sun was unquestionably out and shining. Still though, she entertained the nervous thought and turned slowly to look at the person. Only to see a figure in a cloak. And a pair of scarlet eyes in the shadows of the hood.

“What are you doing here?” She blurted, mostly in disbelief. “Are you following me now?”

“I’m here to see the butcher,” Astarion said calmly, but she could see his eyes glint in the depths of his hood. “And I wanted to see you.”

Xuan nearly dropped her coin pouch. She didn’t know if she preferred Astarion’s dishonesty and slithering words or if it was that his sincerity and earnestness wrong-footed her each time. It was like bracing for a kick to the side and instead receiving a blow to her chest. He clearly knew that it had that disarming effect on her because he took the opportunity to take a tentative step closer to her, close enough that she could begin to see the pretty details of his face in his drawn hood.

“Can we speak?”

“I— Um,” Xuan stammered, her mind still trying to keep up with how she was seeing him in broad daylight. “The sun is out!” She burst out.

His lips twitched into a small smile that tugged at her heart in all the wrong ways. “I wanted to see you,” he said again earnestly. “If you have the time— I was hoping we could talk—”

“Your order,” the butcher interrupted, leaning over the stall counter to hand her the bag of wrapped meats. Xuan grabbed it hastily, rummaging through her coin pouch quickly as she jolted out of what was starting to feel like an absurd dream.

“How much is it?”

The butcher hesitated, his gaze flicking between her and Astarion. “It’s on the house,” he said after a moment.

Xuan started. “What?” She was having a hard time keeping up with everything.

“Free. For first time customers.” The butcher said choppily. Xuan turned to glance over her shoulder at Astarion—was he holding a knife up and threatening the poor man?—but when she turned, she was startled to see that he was no longer there. Xuan turned back to the butcher, brows furrowed. Clearly sensing her disbelief, the butcher waved her off. “I hope you’ll come back for more in the future.”

“I— Okay,” Xuan breathed out, bewildered by all the events of the last few minutes as the butcher hurriedly turned to the next customer. “Thank you,” she said, puzzled, before she carefully put the meat into her pack and hoisted the sack of fertilizer back over her shoulder. She cast a glance around her again, but Astarion was still nowhere to be seen. 

She took a few steps experimentally down the alley, and expectedly, she could hear a set of footsteps pad after her. She knew that he was making noise just for her sake—Astarion could move as silently as a ghost if he wanted to. 

“I thought you had to see the butcher,” Xuan said wryly without breaking speed as she stepped back onto the main road and began to weave through the crowd.

“I also said that I wanted to see you,” Astarion said cheerfully, sidestepping an old man selling cabbages to fall in line next to her.

Xuan tried not to grimace. She had walked into that one.

In a more sober voice, he continued, “Do you have time to talk? I— Well, I was hoping—”

“I don’t. Have time, that is,” Xuan said firmly as she quickened her pace. “I have to go back to feed the cat.”

“Lucky cat,” Astarion said again, this time a wry mutter. 

Xuan ignored this as she continued weaving through the crowd. She had just made it out of the market when she realized he was still next to her. “Are you going to follow me all the way home?” She asked plainly, levying him an even look. 

“Love—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted harshly, drawing herself to full height. She meant it as a way to instill confidence in herself, but instead she felt like a spooked cat. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”

Unfairly, Astarion looked hurt, his eyes wide and doleful and miserable, even though he had been the one to leave. Xuan bit the inside of her cheek as she turned away from him sharply, trying to erase this expression from her memory.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment, “Habit.” He tried for a laugh, but it sounded rather gutted. “Um,” he began again, wringing his hands together in a motion that looked entirely out of character for him. “I— Let me walk you back. We know better than anyone that the city is dangerous and—”

“And there are vampires out during the day now?” She deadpanned before immediately regretting her words. Astarion covered his flinch remarkably well with a wry smile. She had the urge to apologize and she would have, had this been two years ago, when her heart was softer and open—what had he used to call her? A bleeding heart?—but two long winters had passed now and instead, Xuan turned stubbornly on her heel.

Still, she could hear him following her. “I can manage myself,” she said without turning back this time.

“I know,” Astarion said eagerly, clearly mistaking her talking as some kind of encouragement. “But I want to.” He steered her into a deserted alley before she could even notice.

She stopped, irritated. “Astarion,” she gritted out.

In the shadows of his hood, she could see the glint of his fangs as he smiled. “Oh,” he said, smiling. “I really have missed the way you say my name,” he murmured and it was the unabashed honesty in his voice that wrong-footed her again. His shoulders set with a striking familiarity that made her chest tight.

“You say that but you didn’t reach out to me once,” Xuan said, her voice sharper than she had anticipated. Once the words left her mouth, she knew she was in trouble. It was as if a dam had broken loose, and the river that was everything she had stored away flowed out. “You didn’t even have the heart to ever come to me, so you went around to Shadowheart and Gale and— and everyone else instead! And you didn’t think to write? Until Gale told me, I didn’t even know if you were even alive—” Xuan broke off sharply, swallowing. She took a breath. “Even Karlach sent a letter and she’s quite literally in Hell! So don’t tell me that you missed me.”

Astarion grimaced, though his gaze remained carefully trained on her. “I meant to. I wanted to,” he said. “I just didn’t know how or what to say—”

She took a deep breath in an effort to calm down, but she could feel her hands begin to tremble. “I…” She swallowed thickly. “I would have understood if you had told me that you wanted to end things before you left.”

He stiffened. “I didn’t want to end things,” he said nonsensically. Xuan ignored the dismay in his voice. “I just—” He sounded frustrated as he tugged his hood lower across his face. “I knew early on that if we defeated the Netherbrain, that it was only a matter of time before everything would return to before. That the after for me was much worse than what it was when we had the fucking tadpoles.”

“Did it never occur to you that I had thought about what might come next too?” She tried to keep her voice level, but despite her attempts of control, her voice began to rise and shake like a storm rattling against a window. “You didn’t ever think to at least talk with me about what we could do next? To face any hardships together?” Astarion seemed at a loss for words, which only made her keep going. “Why was leaving the first thing you thought of? Shouldn’t the priority have been for us to stay together?” She asked hoarsely. “I trusted you— I had faith in us that we would figure it out and I thought you trusted me too. At least, you would have if you had loved—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but it didn’t seem like she had to because Astarion’s expression crumpled. They stood facing each other in a stifling silence. Xuan’s hands shook uncontrollably at her side, so she balled it around the fabric of her robes.

“After I left,” Astarion began finally, his eyes wide and beseeching and his words inelegant and tumbling. “I wanted to come back, but I… couldn’t face you. And then, the more time passed, the more I couldn’t face you and— And I didn’t know what to say. And I thought—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “—I thought that maybe I could find a cure to all this. That’s why I reached out to Gale.” He straightened, taking a tentative step closer to her, his expression imploring. “You deserve someone real, someone who can walk in the morning with you, someone who can walk into your home without turning into ash. But I’m selfish and when it started looking like I couldn’t become that someone, I thought that maybe I could build something out of myself. Rebuild myself. I mean, after Cazador, Xuan, I didn’t have anything to give you except burdens. I thought I could make something out of myself, become someone who could make you happy. Nobody could have loved me when I had nothing. It would have just been a burden—”

“I did!” Xuan shouted, so sharply as if the words had been threatening to burst out for ages now. “I did love you then!”

Astarion fell silent. He looked as shaken as she felt.

“I am so sick of all of you deciding for me what would make me happy,” Xuan said finally, her voice subdued now. 

“I… I’m sorry.” Astarion said, his expression cracked open without a hint of deception. It hurt to look at him. And it hurt even more to hear those words from him. “I didn’t come back to ask for your forgiveness,” he continued. “I came back to earn it. If you’ll give me one last chance. And if you decide not to, I understand.”

A heavy silence followed.

“Oh,” Astarion started, looking alarmed. He was staring at her with a stricken expression. “You’re crying— I—”

Belatedly, Xuan felt tears drip over her cheeks. Oh, she thought to herself dimly as she raised her hand to confirm that she really was crying. It came as such an absent shock to her that she didn’t know what to do as she stared back at Astarion. She normally caught herself before it ever got to this point—if she felt her eyes begin to heat up as she often did on those long nights looking for him in Baldur’s Gate, she’d stop to gather her ki. And press the heel of her palms into her eyes.

But this time, she hadn’t even noticed after working herself up into a tiff. And they weren’t just tears, they were big wells of tears streaming down her cheeks. Suddenly, the whole situation felt ridiculous.

“No,” Xuan said. “It’s raining.”

The lie was so blatant that Astarion just stared at her for a moment longer, slack-jawed and frozen. He was clearly at a loss. Xuan turned hurriedly and began to stomp away with the last of her dignity, trying to collect herself as she roughly swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. She didn’t get much of a chance though because Astarion caught up with her in one stride, his hand grasping at her wrist gently to stop her from setting herself on fire with the friction she was creating with her sleeve. Instinctively, she shrugged him off harshly.

Astarion sucked in a breath, recoiling swiftly as if he had been burned. It took Xuan a moment to realize that he had been burned. The long sleeve of his cloak had barely caught on her hand and slipped up just enough to expose his hand. The smell of burnt flesh wafted into the air. 

The bag of fertilizer fell from her grasp in an instant as she surged forward, panicked. “Are you okay?” She reached out for him for a moment but Astarion withdrew further, hastily tugging his sleeve down. 

“No harm done,” Astarion said breezily, but she could hear the strain in his voice. With his hood drawn even further, Xuan could no longer see his expression. Her hand fell to her side limply.

“I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, shock still coursing through her. They had been in a similar situation before—the memory began to creep up on her, unwelcome and painfully gut-wrenching, until she forced it out of her mind. She looked around swiftly for shade—a dark alley, an old building—but nothing stood out. Why was it so gods-damned sunny? “I— Let’s find—”

“There’s no need. Occupational hazard,” Astarion said, trying for a chuckle but it fell flat. “There’s no need for you to apologize either. I was supposed to do that.”

“No, but I—”

And then he laughed, really laughed, but the sound was bitter and frustrated and all wrong as he stepped back. “I’m supposed to be the one apologizing and comforting you. I suppose I still can’t be of much use to you,” he said, seemingly more to himself than to her really. 

“Astarion,” Xuan began, but stopped because she didn’t know what else there was to say.

“I’m not running away this time,” he said, his voice thick, but insistent and uncharacteristically determined. “But I… I’ll stop bothering you. When— I mean, if you come to feel that you’re… ready to see me again, Shadowheart knows where I am. Though the Gods know that she’s royally pissed at me for being dragging her into all this, so I hope you’ll find it in your bleeding heart to forgive her—” And me. Xuan could hear the underlying whisper in his forcefully lighthearted words as he paused, before adding, “—so she doesn’t drive a stake through my heart.”

A small, sad smile graced his lips as he met her eyes for a second that seemed to last for a long time, like he was memorizing her face. When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded once, curtly, before he slipped back onto the main road and disappeared into the moving crowd. It seemed that if there was one thing that didn’t seem to change with Astarion, it was that he never did anything without a flair for dramatics.

Xuan stared at the space he had been standing, feeling as though she had misstepped somewhere in the river and had been pulled along by the coursing tide.

Chapter Text

Xuan had taken up another hobby—cooking. This one seemed to be a natural extension of gardening. With all the veggies she was beginning to harvest, she quickly realized there were only so many salads and steamed dishes she could make, and it almost felt disrespectful not to try to use each vegetable to its greatest potential.

But while she had found out she had a green-ish thumb with gardening, she quickly found that her cooking skills left much to be desired. Initially, she blamed her lack of knife skills on the fact that she had never been proficient with any blade weapons. When she brought this up to Gale after seeking out his advice, he had let out a startled laugh.

“Do you think I’m any good with a sword? Or that Wyll is any good with cooking?” He had asked and she had to agree. During their travels before Gale officially unofficially became the party’s chef, she had watched The Blade of the Frontier try to serve the wild boar they had caught still raw—understandably though, Wyll was perhaps the one with the most privileged background amongst them, and thus, the most attendants and cooks growing up. At least, that’s what Karlach had all reasoned out loud when they all stood around to stare at the mess of Wyll’s cooking. “He can’t be good at everything,” the tiefling had grimaced sympathetically. Astarion, of course, had been pleased at the amount of blood on the boar.

In any case though, Xuan found that she still greatly enjoyed the process, even if she didn’t always enjoy the end result. There was something monotonously calming about preparing the ingredients and something enjoyably challenging about following the worn out cookbook that Dammon lent her—Gale had been no real help when she asked for recipes. She had expected him to launch into a long explanation about the science behind salt and heat but in actuality, he had shrugged at her sheepishly and told her he eyed everything and trusted his gut . When she tried his method, her stew tasted like the ocean.

Xuan peeled at the white radishes slowly, with careful attention. Cooking struck her as a craft of care and attentiveness, a practice of precision. She had quickly fallen under the belief—or perhaps, superstition—that each ounce of effort she put or didn’t put into the process had a rippling effect on how the dish tasted, or looked, or smelled. The dishes turned out in proportion to her attention to detail. If she rushed putting in the noodles before the water reached a full boil, they turned out too hard. If she got the fire going just a bit too early, before she had all her ingredients properly washed and cut, then everything was too soft and flavorless. And when her dishes turned out not to her taste, Xuan would do it all over again the next day, until it was close to perfect. 

She had always prided herself on her attention to detail and form—in her younger years at the temple, she had practiced her martial arts forms over and over until each movement was perfect, until her legs shook and her arms ached, until horse stance felt as natural as standing. In the same way meditation and martial arts calmed her, cooking cleared her thoughts swiftly. 

She had barely finished chopping the white radishes into even chunks when the thought struck her with startling clarity, What are you doing, Xuan? It felt like the fog she had been hovering over her was blown away with the wind.

She had spent enough time stitching up her wounds. Weeks had passed since that afternoon in the market, and Astarion, true to his word, hadn’t appeared around her, not when she went in to Baldur’s Gate to invest in better pots and pans, not when she perused the spice market, not even when she took a walk at night by the docks. Suddenly, it was starting to feel like she was cowering, like she was waiting , and it was maybe some concoction of stubbornness and pride that made the thought leave a bitter taste in her mouth. Somehow, avoiding the issue made it all the bigger, and even if she tried her best to ignore it—or cook around it—she could feel it looming incessantly over her. And avoiding it felt uncomfortable and out of character, so as Xuan diced up the radishes, her mind clearing and her thoughts sorting neatly, she was moved by an undeniable resolve.

“This sort of wavering doesn’t suit me,” she said sternly to the radish in her hand. And then she made three decisions. The first one—Xuan set the knife down, dried her hands off on her apron, and scribbled a quick note.

If you haven’t had dinner yet, I’d love for you to try my latest dish.

—X.

She tied off the note around her messenger pigeon’s foot and released it. 

— — — — —

The two stared back at each other over the steaming soup with mirroring expressions of worry. 

Shadowheart, despite having already begun to apologize profusely the moment she arrived at Xuan’s cottage, was evidently still worried.

Xuan’s worries stemmed from elsewhere—she was sure she had accidentally put too much tamarind into the soup and she could feel the nerves knot in her stomach as she gestured down at the bowl. “It’ll get cold soon.” She watched as Shadowheart obliged, spooning the soup into her mouth. Xuan leaned over the edge of her chair nervously. “What do you think?”

A pause. “It’s good,” Shadowheart said, sounding surprised, though the awkward tension still hadn’t quite left her posture.

Xuan felt the tension seep out of her shoulders. She beamed, pleased. So this was one of the other joys of cooking, she thought mildly to herself. Perhaps the most important, she noted to herself. “I’m glad,” she said, trying not to preen. She could hear the older monks’ voices in her head, A proud heart is a heavy burden to carry. They had always scolded her for being too proud. Still though, Xuan’s heart felt lighter than ever as she watched Shadowheart continue to eat and she felt plenty proud of her soup.

After a few more uncertain spoonfuls, Shadowheart glanced back up at Xuan. “Um… Xuan?”

Xuan blinked out of her daze from watching her friend eat.

“Is this really why you invited me over?”

Xuan picked up her own spoon and tasted the soup. It was well-balanced, at least compared to her first three iterations that had been too salty, too sour, and then too sweet. “Well, I also thought it was time for us to talk.”

Shadowheart nodded soberly, putting down her spoon, much to Xuan’s chagrin. “Of course,” the cleric said, straightening in her chair. “I really am sorry.”

Xuan nodded, not yet quite ready to accept her apology without understanding her explanation. Though perhaps a part of her knew she’d forgive the cleric—their relationship had long transcended a normal friendship. Maybe that’s what a tadpole to the brain and a life threatening adventure did to a person. “I thought about it more and you’re welcome to have any sort of relationship with him—of course—but I suppose it stung even so.”

Shadowheart nodded. “No, I understand. I wanted to tell you since the start, but Astarion asked me to wait for him to reach out first. And I really thought he would, so I agreed, and well…” she trailed off. “And well, I owe you an apology, one that has been weighing on me even before you found out. When Astarion came to me, I should have considered the weight of my involvement. I thought I could help, that maybe this would be a good thing for you, but I understand now that it’s not my place to decide what’s good for you and what’s not. And I see now that my intentions don’t matter if they lead to your hurt. I should have prioritized your feelings and trust above all else.” 

“I accept your apology,” Xuan said, a little too formally and a little awkwardly, but she found that she meant it. It felt like one of the weights that had been pressing on her lungs lifted. “I mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” Shadowheart said again, her expression somber enough that Xuan felt something in her chest twinge. “I shouldn’t have kept it a secret from you.”

She nodded, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s fine. I mean, we all knew that he had reached out to Gale pretty early on. I just wish—” I just wish he had reached out to me too . Xuan didn’t finish the thought out loud and fortunately, Shadowheart didn’t press. She straightened, picking up her spoon again. “Thanks for coming over,” she said finally.

A small, relieved smile graced over the cleric’s face. “Thank you for the meal.”

Xuan nodded as she ate another spoonful. And then the chopped radish in her bowl reminded her of her second decision. “If you’re still in contact with him, will you tell him that I’d like to meet with him?”

Shadowheart choked on the soup. “You want to meet with him?” She echoed in clear disbelief.

Xuan nodded firmly before she could waver. It’s not like me to waver , she told herself sternly. “I think it’s time.”

Shadowheart nodded a few times, before hesitating. “I suppose since we’re airing all the secrets, I have one more thing to mention that I hope you’ll also forgive.” Xuan eyed her sheepish expression warily. The cleric gestured around the room, at the dark oak bed frame and plush couch that she had levitated over months ago. “Do you really think my tastes run this lavishly?”

— — — — —

Xuan stirred the dark contents in the pot carefully. This stew felt the most ambitious and most risky out of her other explorations. It didn’t help that she couldn’t try it to taste-test it. When she had asked Shadowheart to try it, the cleric had blanched and refused adamantly.

Xuan dried her hands on her apron, taking a deep breath. “I hope this goes well,” she murmured to her stew, just as a knock came at the door.

She took another deep breath in a poor attempt to steady her nerves and set her shoulders. Wavering is not like you , she told herself, like a mantra. She opened the door.

“Hi,” Astarion said around what would have been an absurdly large bundle of daisies, had Xuan not been too nervous to register it. 

“Hi,” she echoed back, the word suddenly foreign on her tongue. 

His eyes flickered down her form. “Oh,” he made a sound. “How darling.”

Xuan blinked out of her stupor at seeing Astarion on her porch. Her hand flew to the tie of the apron around her neck as she tugged at it hastily. “I was cooking,” she said choppily, as she fumbled with the Tressym-patterned apron— Gale had gotten it for her after she asked for his cooking advice.

“I mean it—it’s a delight,” Astarion said, eyes bright. “It suits you.”

“Thank you,” Xuan said politely, mostly because she didn’t know what else to say and because she was a bit mortified that she was still wearing the apron. 

Astarion, on the other hand, was dressed as chic as ever. A finely made, billowing shirt was tucked neatly into well-tailored trousers that sat high on his trim waist. His hair was—expectedly—perfectly coiffed and shiny, even in the dim light. Xuan tried not to stare.

“These are for you,” Astarion said, placing the colossal bouquet of daisies into her hand firmly.

“Thank you,” Xuan said again dumbly. Even though she had been the one to invite him over, it still felt like a great shock to see him there. Even though she had tried to prepare herself for it the whole day. And the days before.

“Of course,” Astarion murmured, peering into her face. They stood staring at each other silently for a few more moments before he cleared his throat with an uncertain sort of smile. “Can I come in? Or, um, if you prefer, we can also talk out here—”

“Oh! Of course,” Xuan jolted out of her stupor, stepping out of the way. “Please, come in.” She cleared her throat uncertainly, announcing even louder, with careful enunciation, “Um. You are invited inside. My home.”

Astarion breathed out a small huff of a laugh that almost sounded relieved as he carefully stepped inside. “No need to announce it so formally,” he told her. “I just need an invitation in nowadays.”

“Oh. Right,”  Xuan said. She busied her hands around the bouquet as Astarion glanced around her cottage.

“Cozy,” he commented, his gaze darting surreptitiously to her bed. She could almost see what he was remembering—only because she was also remembering that night she had thought that he was a dream.

Thankfully, before she could wrack her brain about what to say, a low purr erupted from their feet. Xuan watched in pure amazement as the cat slinked to Astarion, wrapping itself around his ankles, all while purring. “He’s purring ?"  Xuan blurted.

Astarion looked smug as he bent down to tap at the cat’s head awkwardly. “Of course,” he said, breezily. A funny expression crossed his face briefly.

“He hates Shadowheart,” Xuan murmured, staring as the cat’s purring seemed to grow even louder.

“Can you blame him? She was a loyal servant to the Goddess of All Things Terrible. That sort of association has to leave some kind of dreadful 'keep-away' scent.”

Xuan shook her head in disbelief, before the faint smell of something burning caught her attention. “Shit,” she muttered, swiftly moving to the fire and shutting it off. She lifted the lid of the pot anxiously and stirred.

“What’s that?” Astarion asked from behind her. Seeing him in her kitchen with the cat in his hands was bewildering. 

“I, um, made something for you,” Xuan explained as she ladled some of the stew into a bowl.

“For me?” Astarion looked startled and then embarrassed. “Oh, darling, I can’t eat—”

Did he think she forgot? She never seemed to forget anything when it came to Astarion. She shook the thought out of her head. “It’s pig’s blood. I, well, found a recipe.” Xuan said, wondering now if she had made a mistake. “Well, I’ve only just started learning how to cook, and I’m vegetarian, so I couldn’t taste it to see if it’s any good, but I—”

“Thank you.” Astarion’s voice was so quiet and subdued that Xuan glanced up from the bowl in her hands. He looked so terribly moved that Xuan felt something familiar shift behind her ribs.

“Yeah, of course,” she said, equally quietly, before she turned to place the bowl and a spoon on her small dining table. She put her own bowl of leftovers down on the table. “Well, you shouldn’t thank me yet. It might kill you for a second time.”

“Darling, that’s a death I’ll happily welcome,” Astarion chirped brightly as he sat down across from her. Xuan watched him anxiously. “Oh, are we eating now?” He asked after a beat when he caught her staring at him. He picked up a spoonful and inspected it, his expression funny.

“Does it smell… weird?” Xuan asked, failing to sound casual.

He shook his head quickly, his expression smoothening out as he barked out a laugh. “No, I was just thinking that I can’t remember when I last ate at a table. Or with a spoon.”

The image—the feeling —of Astarion hovering over her, his long fingers slipping into the back of her hair as he cradled her head back, his cold breath against the nape of her neck throbbed in her mind painfully. Astarion seemed to be remembering the same thing because he cleared his throat swiftly. “Thank you for the meal,” he said with more politeness than she had ever heard of him before he took a bite.

“How is it?” She urged, watching for any change in expression.

Astarion gave her a tiny smile, impossibly small and bright. Getting blood on her Tressym apron had been worth it.

“Well, it tastes like blood,” he said unhelpfully. Maybe it hadn’t been worth it. Xuan blanched and he let out a laugh, the sound clear and ringing. “It’s a good thing—things will either taste like blood or ash, better the former.”

Pleased now, Xuan ducked her face as she started eating her own food. “That’s good,” she said finally, biting back a triumphant grin.

They fell into a strange silence, neither heavy nor light, as they continued eating. Xuan had only a few spoonfuls left as she began to plan out what to say or do next. It felt like all that she had planned to say in the past few days disappeared as she sat in front of him. She was reluctant to break this fragile air between them.

Mercifully, it was Astarion who spoke up first.

“So,” Astarion began, the one word somehow seeming to fill the space between them. “You wanted to see me?” His voice was quiet, tentatively hopeful.

“I did,” Xuan said with a nod of her head that felt firmer than how she really felt. “I thought it was time.”

Astarion nodded, all bravado seemingly gone as he picked at the lace of her tablecloth. His bowl was empty now. “And I’m grateful for it—your time, that is.”

Xuan nodded again, swallowing before she set her shoulders. Right, I didn’t invite him over just to eat in silence , she thought as she took a breath. “So,” she began, the one word filling the space between them again. “How have you been?”

“There have been better days,” Astarion said with a lift of his shoulders that was too casual to match the intensity of his gaze as he peered at her. “And there have been worse days.”

“What have you been doing?” She asked, the question also too casual to match the intensity of everything she wanted to know.

“Ah, well,” Astarion began, his fingers still picking at the lace. He smoothened his palms against the worn wood of the table. “I’ve started a venture, of sorts.”

Xuan blinked at him, wondering if she had misheard. “An adventure?”

He grimaced. “Not exactly. A venture . Business venture, if you will.” She stared at him, mouth opening and closing. When it became apparent that she was too stunned—or confused—to say anything, he continued hurriedly. “I— We— Some of us,” he rambled, speech choppy, “—have begun a trade.”

“A trade,” she repeated, mind unhelpfully blank. Did he seek her out to ask for her investment or something? The thought was absurd. Xuan had just enough to get by each month.

Astarion let out a long sigh, looking resigned, before he finally spit it out, his words strained. “We drain livestock blood for butchers.” It seemed to take him a great deal of pride to say this, but Xuan was too busy trying to make sense of his words to make sense of everything else. 

“Oh,” she said, scrambling to come up with an appropriate response. “I see.”

Astarion scrubbed a hand over his face, looking like he was ready to bolt. “It’s not glamorous work, which is why I didn’t want you to ask, but of course you would ask,” he muttered darkly, seemingly before he could help himself.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Xuan said swiftly. “I’m just trying to understand— It’s great, Astarion, really, but who, er, are your… business partners? And how did this all come about?”

Astarion said something, so quiet that she couldn’t hear him.

“Sorry?”

“The seven thousand,” Astarion said again, louder this time. 

“The seven thousand,” she echoed, staring at him for a beat longer before it clicked in her head as she was able to finally register his expression. He was nervous. The expression looked foreign on his face.

“Well, not quite seven thousand anymore. More like five thousand now,” he rambled, avoiding her gaze entirely now as he swept his gaze around her kitchen. “They didn’t all make it. Or they didn’t all want to make it. Years of being in Caz— in the dungeons really does something to your psyche, I suppose. And some of them are with the Gur now. And Gale has been casting True Resurrection on— Well, I won’t bore you with the logistics—”

“You’re helping the other vampire spawn,” she breathed out, astonished.

Astarion’s face scrunched up in disdain. “You should know that ‘helping’ is too generous of a term to use with me,” he drawled, sounding disgusted. Against the table, he was still fidgeting with his fingers.

“You’ve been working with the butchers to help keep them fed,” Xuan said slowly as she thought back to the last time she saw him in the market.

“It turns out butchery can be a messy business,” Astarion sighed dramatically, looking reluctant. “It takes a lot of livestock to feed all of Baldur’s Gate and there were a lot of hungry spawn just in the Underdark. It was just simple math. A business solution that all parties benefit from.”

“You’re helping them,” Xuan said again, smiling before she could help it.

“I’m really not—” Astarion began hotly, his eyes darting to her irritably before he stopped mid-sentence, gaze flickering to her expression. Seemingly subdued, he stared at her for a moment longer before frowning away from her broodingly. He scowled sullenly. “I’m not doing it for them.”

“Astarion, that’s wonderful,” she began, mind reeling before something else clicked in her mind. “So you’ve been in the Underdark? But I… Dalyria…” She trailed off, the memory of all the times she had tried going into the Underdark to find him flashing through her mind.

There had been three instances where she had gone into the Underdark in search of him. Shadowheart and Gale alike had been furious when they found out. She had run into the Myconid colony the first time and then the Deep Gnomes the second time. From the Deep Gnomes, she had picked up that there was some sort of new unrest with the other factions near the drows. The gnomes had been reluctant to disclose it, but she had finally gotten a clue that it was the vampire spawns. 

It was during her third trip that she had come across their trail—seven thousand vampire spawns undoubtedly left a trail, though they had been deeper in the Underdark than she had thought. She had been following the trail when she came across Dalyria, who she recognized almost immediately from the night that they had tried to take Astarion from the camp. Dalyria had been setting up some kind of trap—clearly, they didn’t want to be found. When she approached her, the spawn had nearly set off the trap in shock. She had looked at Xuan like she saw a ghost, and then her eyes had flashed with something Xuan recognized uneasily as hunger. It had been a fruitless venture though, because Dalyria had all but forced her out, telling her that Astarion was nowhere near the Underdark.

“She lied,” Astarion said plainly. “I asked her to.”

Xuan fell silent and deflated in her seat, making sense of this new information. Of course he had, she thought to herself, swallowing back the bitter taste in her mouth.

In a softer voice, Astarion continued. “And I’m not entirely sorry about it. I’m sorry about everything else, but not about that.” Xuan tried to muster up a glare for him, but he continued, his eyes wide and earnest. “The Underdark is an unsavory place.”

“I can fend for myself,” Xuan said, scowling at him. “We’ve been there before.”

“It’s not that,” Astarion sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. Suddenly, the realization of how tired he looked hit her. Gray shadows framed his already-pale face. “Do you know what you smell like?”

Xuan blinked, once, twice, before something like embarrassed mortification shot through her. “I bathe daily!” she started, indignant.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” It sounded like he was holding himself back from adding the word ‘idiot’ at the end of his sentence. He straightened, clearing his throat. “You smell sweet. Irresistable even.”

She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing before she made a sound at the back of her throat. “Oh,” she said, not understanding. 

“It’s tempting,” he murmured, eyes heavy on her. The full weight of Astarion’s attention was dizzying. “Even now, I—” He broke off suddenly. They stared at each other, both pink-cheeked, for a moment longer before Astarion looked away first. “What I mean to say is that seven thousand feral vampire spawns that haven’t properly fed in decades would have smelled you in a moment’s notice. And all Hells would have broken loose.”

“Oh,” Xuan said unhelpfully.

“I’m surprised Dalyria didn’t try to get a nibble, honestly.”

Xuan thought back to the primal flash of hunger that had flickered across the vampire spawn’s face when they first met. She tried not to shudder. “But I wanted to help—”

A smug sort of smile spread on Astarion’s face, alarming enough for Xuan to pause mid-sentence. “I knew you would,” he drawled, leaning back in the chair. He looked pleased with himself, like a cat that had caught a mouse. “Which is exactly why I…” He hesitated, his ruby eyes darting away from her briefly before back to her. “I meant it before—I’m not doing this for them.”

“Oh,” Xuan said, feeling wrong-footed.

Astarion seemed to take this as encouragement because he continued on earnestly, his voice uncharacteristically soft and his eyes doe-like. Gods, she hated when he looked at her like that, it made her feel like she got smacked across the head with a staff and couldn’t think clearly. “It’s not your problem, darling,” Astarion said. “You and your bleeding heart—you would have happily bled yourself dry for a hoard of feral vampires. I—” His voice cracked, but he set his shoulders, his expression sober and determined. “I’m trying to be honest with you now, Xuan.”

The admission struck her like a bolt of lightning, sharp and bright and unexpected. Xuan swallowed thickly. “I know.”

“And it’s not a good excuse now, but I didn’t want the spawn to be another burden for you to solve,” Astarion continued, his voice growing bitter. “I wanted you to live a peaceful life in a warm cottage far away from the Underdark and from…” He trailed off, but he didn’t have to finish. From me.

“That’s not for you to decide,” Xuan said quietly.

“I know,” Astarion said with a sullen smile, more of a grimace than a smile. “And I’m sorry.”

Xuan looked at him for a moment that seemed to last a long time. She took in the familiar straight set of his shoulders, the gentle slope of his nose, and the faint laugh lines that she had missed so dearly. It hurt wonderfully to look at him again.

“I understand,” she said finally.

His face fell for a moment before it smoothened over as he nodded once, curtly. The message was clear—she accepted his apology, but she wasn’t ready to forgive him.

At her feet, the cat made a rasping mrow before leaping gracefully into her lap. Grateful for something to do with her hands, she threaded her fingers through its white fur absently.

“Lucky cat,” Astarion said wryly.

Xuan smiled a little as the cat purred, seemingly smugly. At Astarion’s words, the cat stretched luxuriously in her lap before curling up. “Yeah, he’s definitely living well,” she agreed.

They fell into a silence, Astarion’s gaze trained on her hands as she continued to pet the cat.

“So what now?” Astarion asked carefully, still not quite looking at her. “What are we, to you?”

“I don’t know,” Xuan admitted, exhaling slowly. She wondered if they would fall into old habits. It had always been their familiar dance. He pretended he loved her, and she pretended she wasn’t gut crushingly in love with him. The only thing was that Xuan wasn’t sure if she was still gut crushingly in love with him. There was definitely something gut crushing about the whole thing though.

“Ah,” Astarion made a soft sound, his smile wry. “I suppose it’s not as nice to not know as I once thought.”

She stared at him for a beat before registering his words. Their conversation was so painfully familiar. She had asked him the exact same thing that night in Baldur’s Gate after he had confessed to her.

“What are we, to you?” She had asked, tentatively hopeful.

“I don’t know,” he had said, his expression open and bright enough that it felt like her heart was squeezing wonderfully. “But isn’t it nice? Not to know.” Back then, it had felt nice.

Now though, she was just confused and conflicted. 

“Xuan,” he began, voice unbearably gentle and his eyes wide and round. Astarion had always been frustratingly good at looking terribly doleful, and Xuan had always been particularly susceptible to it. “I will be whoever you need me to be.” She shot him a look and he continued hurriedly. “I don’t mean it like that—I mean, I’ll accept whatever you’re willing to give. And I’ll give you whatever you’re willing to accept.” He gave her a small smile. “Though I think I’ll always like to give you much more.” 

Her stupid bleeding heart was always bleeding. And stupid, she thought dimly. 

“Friends,” she breathed out before she could think better of it. “Let’s be friends again.”

Chapter Text

The issue with friendship, Xuan quickly realized, was that she wasn’t sure if she and Astarion had ever actually been friends.

In the first few weeks of their journey, Astarion had outright disliked her immensely. It had been no secret—he shared his disapproval of every decision she had made. And then, suddenly, he had warmed up to her, but not in any manner that had suggested platonic friendship—she knew now that it had been a ruse to gain her trust and protection, which was foolish because she had both already trusted him and nearly died for him already in the goblin camp. And then there had been that day, late in their journey when they first arrived in Baldur’s Gate, when Astarion had outright denied any semblance of friendship.

“I’m happy to be able to call all of you my friends,” Karlach had said cheerfully over a mug of ale.

Xuan had preened at the tiefling’s words, her cheeks warm as she beamed into her cup, though it had slid off her face quickly.

“Friends?” Astarion had scoffed, sounding disgusted as if Karlach had suggested they all go turn into mind flayers.

They had all hesitated—save for Shadowheart and Lae’zel who had looked spectacularly uninterested—until Wyll spoke up. “Yes, I’d like to think we’re all friends by now,” the warlock had said, looking to the others for support.

Gale had nodded. “There aren’t many people who can say they’ve been through even a fragment of what we have been through together.”

Xuan had watched Astarion’s reaction out of the corner of her eye, feeling something like dread flood through her as he snorted. “Just because we have matching worms in our heads doesn’t mean we’re friends ,” he had drawled. Xuan had felt it when his gaze slid to her. She had kept her gaze perfectly trained in front of her. “We’re not friends.”

And it wasn’t as though Xuan hadn’t wanted to be friends—in fact, Xuan had wanted friendship dearly. When Shadowheart first referred to her as someone she trusted, Xuan had carried those words deep in her heart and replayed it over and over. It had been those words, and other similar declarations from Gale, Wyll, Karlach, and even Lae’zel—though the githyanki’s admission of friendship had been folded into a backhanded compliment—that had brought her back when she held all three Netherstones in her hand in front of the Netherbrain. 

The Netherstones. Thinking of those damned stones made them feel like a physical object in her hand—she could feel something like phantom pain, the heft of those small gems in her palm. The memory of the throne throbbed in her mind painfully—the weight of the world in her hands, the power, the temptation. 

It was a sharp stinging sensation in her palm that snapped her out of her daze. Xuan shuddered, unfurling her fingers from where they had tightened into a fist to see red crescents in her palm from where she had dug her nails in. “Not again,” she breathed out, her breath shuddering as she shook her head sharply to clear her mind. 

She stilled and pooled her attention on her breathing, the movement of her chest, the feeling of her soft robes against her skin, the sound of birds chirping, until she was aware of the feeling of the sun against her skin again. 

Spring was in full bloom. She could feel it as the sun warmed her shoulders, even as it was beginning to set. On the porch, the cat stretched in the sunlight. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. Sunny days really were the best, she thought as she tilted her head back to feel the sun against her neck. Even so, something churned in her stomach. She hadn’t slept well. It was that nightmare again, the whispers of her deepest desires swirling around her like fog. And when she had let go, when she had woken up, it hadn’t been any relief, just emptiness, like a deep hunger pang that ached in the hollow of her chest no matter how hard she tried to busy herself. To have nothing, and then everything, and then nothing again.

“I don’t have nothing,” Xuan murmured out loud to herself as she started moving again. She rose on her toes to carefully grab the linen sheets from the drying line. “I have friends.”

So what exactly did friends do? She and Gale had regular tea times whenever the wizard was in town, but it wasn’t as though Astarion could drink tea, and Xuan wasn’t sure that she was ready yet for the type of proximity that would be required if she let him drink from her again. She and Halsin spent their time together gardening, but Xuan couldn’t imagine Astarion ever getting on his hands and knees in the dirt willingly.  She and Shadowheart often visited each other’s cottages to catch up, but Astarion had made it clear that he didn’t want her anywhere near the Underdark. That left her cottage, but they hadn’t scheduled any time to meet when he left. It had only been two nights since he came over for dinner, and when he left, it had been an awkward shuffling of feet. 

“Thank you for the meal,” Astarion had said as he hesitated on her porch.

“Of course,” Xuan had said, lifting the cat to her chest when it tried to follow him out. “Get back safe.”

Then they had stared at each other for a beat too long before he nodded once sharply and hurried down the steps of her garden. Xuan had studied the pale contrast of his retreating figure in the darkness until the cat batted at her cheek impatiently. It was when she closed the door behind her that she had realized belatedly that they hadn’t set another date to meet.

“Well,” Xuan said out loud to herself as she tucked the sun-warmed bedding under her arms and made her way back to her cottage. The cat blinked at her lazily, stretching out with a yawn before following her inside. “I’ll tell him the next time I see him.”

It was a listless night. Xuan busied herself by spreading out her bedding, and when that task was quickly finished, she shuffled around her cottage tidying up her shelf and kitchen. When that proved to be just as quick—given that she had only a few books and only enough silverware for two people—she sat down and tried to entertain the cat with a stick tied to a feather that Shadowheart had brought over. 

He stared at her, unimpressed, as she bobbed the stick towards him. He watched her for a moment longer before his ears perked up. Then, the cat turned swiftly and walked away to the door. “You’re bored too, huh?” She sighed, putting the stick down as she laid down on the ground. She had plenty of hobbies now—following everyone’s suggestions—but she was still feeling so restless.

An impatient mrow came from the door. Xuan sat back up to see the cat pawing at the door. “Restroom break?” She asked, before feeling a bit foolish for speaking out loud to the cat. Maybe she needed more friends. But then she shook the thought quickly from her mind—she didn’t even know what to do with that friend. Kind-of-friend. Friend-adjacent friend. The cat mrowed impatiently again, breaking her out of her thoughts.

Xuan opened the door to let it out, frowning at her thoughts. And then she jumped at the sight of Astarion standing at the porch. A flicker of a guilty expression flashed on his face before it swiftly smoothened into charisma.

“I left my cloak,” Astarion said without any greeting. Xuan stared at him, still processing that he was there. She took in the lavish cloak around his shoulders. He shifted his weight to his other leg. “My other cloak.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen anything,” Xuan said, frowning, before she cleared her throat as she stepped to the side. “But you can come in to look.”

Astarion gave her a small, bright smile that seemed to shoot through her body to her toes before he stepped inside. He gave the cottage a cursory glance, before strolling to the plush reading chair by the window. “Ah,” he said, “Here it is.” Xuan frowned, staring at the chair. She didn’t see anything that looked like a cloak. Not until Astarion stuck his hand deep between the cushions and tugged out a long piece of shimmery fabric.

She blinked, incredulous that it had actually been there and that she hadn’t noticed it. 

Astarion folded the cloak carefully in his hands. “It’s a nice chair,” he said conversationally, nodding down to the reading chair. He squinted at it critically. “Is it comfortable?”

Xuan followed his gaze, remembering Shadowheart’s admission last week. “It is,” she agreed.

“That’s good,” he hummed, looking pleased as he ran his hand across the emerald velvet of the chair.

“Thank you, Astarion.”

He started, his gaze darting to her. “Whatever for, darling?”

Xuan gave him a look. “The chair,” she said, before she glanced around the cottage at all the other pieces of furniture that Shadowheart had brought over across the last year. “And the bed. And wardrobe. And the porch chair.” They were all similar in taste—rich wood carefully crafted, plush pillows, and intricate carvings. Xuan had been embarrassed that she hadn’t once questioned Shadowheart’s taste. 

Astarion’s face went pale—paler than normal, at least—before he let out a cough of a laugh. “I think you’re mistaking me for the cleric,” he said unconvincingly.

Xuan arched a brow at him. “And how did you know that Shadowheart gave me these?”

His smile faltered as he looked away, sighing. “Sharp as ever,” he murmured, sitting down heavily on the chair in clear defeat. “Is it too much for me to hope that you aren’t returning these to me?”

Xuan chewed the inside of her cheek. He was ready for her to reject his gifts, she realized as she studied the tension in his posture. “The cat has grown attached to them,” she said after a moment.

“Ah,” Astarion said, looking disappointed before he straightened, clearly registering her words. “Ah,” he said again, nodding. “The cat has good taste.”

“Though in the future, I’d prefer it if you didn’t go through Shadowheart,” Xuan added after a moment.

“In the future,” Astarion echoed. A small smile flickered across his face, pleased and hopeful. Xuan’s stomach swooped unhelpfully.

“Yes, well,” Xuan began haltingly. “I owe you one.” His face did something funny. She hesitated. “Though I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you in return.” She gave her cottage a periphery glance. “I’m guessing you’re not all too interested in vegetables?”

“There’s no need—” Astarion began before he stopped abruptly, falling into a sudden silence. She could see his brows begin to draw together in thought as his eyes flickered to her contemplatively. Something about the way he was looking at her made her nervous. As she watched him hesitate, she soon realized what was making her nervous was that he looked nervous. Astarion was always so unwaveringly confident that now, as she watched him pick at the embroidery of his sleeves, Xuan was struck with the rather ridiculous thought that he looked bashful, which had to be impossible because Astarion was never embarrassed by anything . “I’d say that’s not true,” he said finally, hands smoothening out over his thighs decisively. He was so tense that Xuan could feel herself also tense up, until she regarded his words.

She blinked. “Vampires can eat vegetables?”

The tension seemed to sap out of his body as he snorted, incredulous. “That’s not what I mean—” he stopped himself again, exhaling slowly. “You do have something to offer.”

“Oh. Oh ,” she started, nodding. “Astarion, I’ve told you dozens of times before that it’s not a favor for me to feed you. I don’t mind really—”

“ No ,” he said, throwing his hands into the air now before giving her a tight smile. “Darling, you make me sound like all I care about is my next meal.” Before she could arch a brow, Astarion hurried on, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Your time. I… I would like your time. If it’s something you would offer.”

He made a big show of not looking at her, but Xuan was too caught up in trying to understand what he meant to take notice.

“I see,” she said slowly, in a tone that clearly conveyed that she didn’t.

“Next weekend, there’s a night festival in the Upper City for the old noble crones to celebrate Greengrass. There will be music, food, drink, all the festivities you can imagine.” Astarion’s voice picked up pace excitedly as he leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like to go?”

Xuan hesitated, turning his words over in her mind. “I don’t know, Astarion, those types of festivals aren’t my cup of tea.” He sat back in his chair, disappointment flickering across his face clearly. Xuan tried again. “If you need someone to attend with you, I’m sure Gale might be the better fit. He’s been talking about networking with the Upper City nobles to commission more of the academy’s programs.”

“I don’t need someone to attend with me,” Astarion scowled as he looked away from her again. Another heavy silence followed before Astarion gave her a glance out of the corner of his eyes as he cleared his throat. “It’s just that the Grand Duke Ravengard wrote to me of all people asking for help with security for the nobles. He’s planning on using extracted Sussur Blooms essence around the perimeter to reduce the likelihood of any magic attacks, so I imagine Gale won’t be of much help here unless he’s gotten any better with the sword. And I must say that the only time I’ve seen him hold a sword was when he was trying to consume that magical rapier we found in the goblin camp.”

Xuan chewed the inside of her cheek. As if sensing her hesitation, Astarion continued. “He also requested discretion—I’ll blend in perfectly as they’ll be expecting my attendance. You’ve mostly stayed out of the papers, so no one will recognize you. Lae’zel, even in her astral form, would likely just intimidate all the guests into leaving. Shadowheart’s not the most discrete and Wyll and Karlach are, well…” Astarion leaned back in the chair blithely, giving her a casual lift of his shoulders though Xuan could see that he was watching her carefully. “It’s not uncommon for friends to frequent these sort of events. And we’d be helping, you know, the greater good or whatever.”

I’m being manipulated , Xuan thought as she nodded. “Very well.”

The tension seemed to seep out of his shoulders as Astarion gave a sharp nod. “Brilliant,” he said, smiling so widely she could see his fangs flash. That ache in her chest came back full force, but Xuan couldn’t look away. “I’ll see you then.”

— — — — —

Only, that wasn’t when Xuan saw him next. Two nights later, a knock came at her door. When she opened it, Astarion flashed a cheerful smile at her. “Hello, darling,” he chirped. At the sound of his voice, the cat leapt down from its perch by the window and wound itself around his ankles. Dutifully, Astarion bent down to stroke its head.

“Astarion,” Xuan said, surprised. “Did you leave something?”

He grimaced, but the expression disappeared swiftly as he straightened. “Ah, no,” he said, gaze darting around. “I, well, I was wondering…” Xuan waited patiently, watching as he smoothened his palm against his pants. “Well, I was thinking we could perhaps go to a tailor I know. There’s no way we’re letting you go in your robes.” When he was met with a blank stare, he quickly added, “To the Greengrass festival.”

“Oh,” Xuan blinked. “I have a dress.”

“You already have a dress? I mean a proper dress, not monk robes,” Astarion spluttered, sounding incredulous enough to make her pause. He backtracked, though his next sentence did little to help. “Nothing wrong with the robes outside of how, er, uninspiring and, well, dull they are. They leave everything to the imagination, really—”

“I have a proper dress, Astarion,” Xuan cut in indignantly, trying not to scowl at him. “I don’t only wear monk robes.”

“Yes, you also wear tressym aprons,” Astarion drawled as Xuan turned into the cottage to head towards her wardrobe. At his remark, she shot him a flat look over her shoulder and to her pleasure, a faint look of panic flickered over his face. “Wait, sweetheart— I can come in, right?”

“I have half a mind to say no,” Xuan said as she rummaged through her wardrobe. She didn’t want Astarion to see that he was mostly right—the wardrobe was mostly her monk robes and training clothes. 

“But I think the tressym apron is lovely,” Astarion called from the door.

When Xuan found what she was looking for, she waved him in with a sigh. “Come in and look at this,” she called over her shoulder as she pulled the dress down. She had stored it carefully—it was probably the most expensive piece of clothing she had ever owned. “It’s pretty, right?”

She heard his footsteps as he entered the cottage and neared her. She lifted the dress up to drape down her front and peered down at it critically. It was a long dress, the ends reaching the floor, perhaps to the point of impracticality. The night she had worn it had been a bit uncomfortable—she spent most of the night tugging the form-fitting fabric away from her skin and holding it up so she wouldn’t step on the tail of the dress—but Xuan couldn’t deny that it was pretty with its soft, shimmery satin. It was so pretty that she had felt a little silly wearing it, but at the time, Xuan had reasoned that she would have felt sillier in her robes when everyone was dressed to the teeth.

When he didn’t say anything, she lifted it higher to give him a better view. “Well? Do you think it’s fancy enough for the…” The words died in her throat as she glanced up at him.

Astarion was staring at her with an odd expression, lips slightly parted and ruby eyes blown wide and dark like the inner depths of a rose. It was the same look he gave her when she had first offered him her neck years ago, a deep hunger that she only understood after she held the Netherstones. Only this time, Xuan wasn’t offering anything, Astarion had long since gotten past that initial hunger, and neither of them were holding the Netherstones. For a moment, time seemed to move in a sluggish wave, the air between them heavy like a physical object. “Astarion?”

“Yes,” he rasped after a beat, his gaze steady on hers. “It’s beautiful.”

Heat curled in Xuan’s chest, like a sleeping hearth being blown into. Xuan was suddenly aware of the distance between them, the conflicting urges to step away from him and to step closer to him. It would have been so easy, she thought dimly, to close the distance, to fall into old habits, to give in. And then that feeling throbbed painfully in her mind—the feeling of the Netherstones in her hands, that flood of desire and temptation, burned against her skin. Those memories seemed to be coming back to haunt her at an even greater frequency, now that the person of most of her desires had slithered his way back into her life. I am nothing, if not my principles. And if I broke my principles as I pleased, then they’d be worthless , she thought, curling her fingers tightly around the dress. So instead, she stood perfectly still, waiting for it to become easier to breathe. Despite the flush growing in her face, she kept his gaze, though every muscle in her body screamed to look away.

He broke their gaze first, blinking rapidly as if shaken out of a daze. His brows furrowed, something like concern flickering across his face as he looked at her searchingly. "Are you feeling ill—" He began, but Xuan hurriedly continued before he could finish.

“Is this good enough for the festival?” She asked after a moment, her throat dry. 

“Ah,” Astarion made a soft noise at the back of his throat. His gaze fell finally to the dress in her hands. Astarion ran a slender finger along the deep crimson fabric. Xuan tried not to stare at his hands. “Yes,” he said shortly before falling silent again.

She nodded, smoothing out the fabric to busy her hands as she sought to fill the unexpectedly nerve-wracking silence between them. “That’s good,” she said, clearing her throat. “It was a gift from Gale when we attended the charity ball for his program. I, er, had originally intended to go in my robes to that one, but Gale had been very adamant that…” The words slowed to a halt as she noticed that Astarion’s carefully neutral expression had grown pinched.

“The wizard always has the same taste as me,” he muttered sourly, quiet enough under his breath that she wasn’t sure if she had heard right. Astarion frowned at her for a moment longer before he turned away disinterestedly, his shoulders setting with a strange resolve. “It’s suitable, at best. I think you could do better.”

“Better?” She echoed, frowning now at the dress. It was the best that she had. Perhaps Shadowheart would have something she could use instead, though she wasn’t sure if she’d feel entirely comfortable showing as much skin as the cleric’s clothes might. When she turned to look back at him, she found that he was already clasping his cloak back around his shoulders and rushing towards the door. “You’re leaving?”

“I have somewhere to be,” Astarion said distractedly, waving dismissively over his shoulder as he stepped out. “I’ll come early before the festival next week.”

“Oh, alright, but—”

The door closed behind him swiftly, leaving her standing with the dress dangling limply in her hand. She squinted at it again. Was it really that bad?

— — — — —

A/N: A bonus scene that I ultimately decided to cut, but thought everyone might enjoy still:

The cat ran to the door just as a knock came. When she opened the door, she was greeted by the sight of Astarion carrying a large pack.

 “I came across some seeds while I was out the other day.”

Xuan wasn’t sure if she was hallucinating. “Seeds?” She echoed blankly.

“Yes, I—” He paused, lowering the pack to the ground and pulling out a few round pouches. He tugged the drawstring of one of them open to show her. “Seeds.”

“Seeds,” she confirmed, staring at him with furrowed brows.

“They’re imported from Secomber,” he continued, squinting into the bag critically. “Supposed to be easy enough to grow.” The image of him holding pouches of seeds was bizarre, absurd enough that it made Xuan pause.

“Astarion.”

“Hm?” 

“What are you doing?”

“I didn’t steal these, if that’s what you’re wondering. They’re from a perfectly reputable seller in the Myconid Colonies,” he continued, brow crumpled as he inspected a seed in his palm.

“No, I mean, what are you doing here ?”

He glanced up from the seed in his palm quickly to look at her. Astarion blinked, all wide, round eyes, before his gaze flickered away from her. And that was when she knew that he was scheming. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, with this—” she gestured at him vaguely.

Astarion jostled the pouches of seeds. “I just thought you might need more seeds for your garden—”

“You’ve been showing up nearly every night now.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to support your hobbies. Every garden needs some seeds,” Astarion said unconvincingly. She had no idea how they were still talking about seeds .

“I’m not the idiot you think I am—”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he started quickly, but she put her hand up to stop him.

“Why are you coming every night?”

A pause. “Do you really not know?” Astarion asked quietly, his gaze heavy on hers. At her silence, he straightened, clearing his throat. “It’s a chance to see you.” Xuan stared at him. She had expected some half-assed excuse or quite honestly, anything else. It felt so out of character for him to admit this that she just stared at him for a moment. 

“Are you making fun of me?” She asked after snapping out of her surprise. Her eyes narrowed instinctively at him, but Astarion was staring at her with such strange earnestness that it was difficult to maintain it.

“No!” Astarion said quickly, a mortified expression flickering across his face. “Of course not. That’s not my intention at all—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking incredulous. “Do you really think I’d break my back walking around with seeds in my pack just for fun ? Don’t you know me, darling? I have an ulterior motive for everything.”

“Oh,” Xuan said meekly, nullified now. Her cheeks burned as she shifted under his uncharacteristically earnest gaze. She cleared her throat. “What kind of seeds did you say they were?”

Chapter Text

“Darling,” a voice purred from atop of her, low and silky. “My love.” 

Astarion pressed a kiss against her throat, a hum of pleasure rumbling in his chest as she threaded her fingers through his silver hair. His fingers hooked into the neckline of her shirt, his other hand kneading circles in the flesh of her hip.

His light kisses along her neck morphed into a heavier drag of his lips against her skin. At the sensation, a sound unfamiliar to her own ears was pulled from her chest, like a sigh. “Like that?” Astarion hummed, sounding pleased. Seemingly encouraged at her reaction, he did it again eagerly and then placed a slower, open-mouthed kiss along the underside of her jaw, his nose tickling her ears. “You’re so sweet,” Astarion groaned, his fingers digging further into her hip as he dropped his weight lower onto her. Xuan could feel her back press further down into the bed, but still, she grasped helplessly at his shirt, feeling boneless.

“Astarion,” she breathed out, chest heaving. Gods. He was so beautiful. So lovely. Xuan watched him adoringly as he swept her hair back from her brow. His fingers began to unclasp the buttons along her robes nimbly. Cool air brushed against her exposed shoulder, goosebumps rising further as his cold lips brushed lower and lower towards her heart. Reflexively, she arched up against him and Astarion laughed softly against her skin.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” He murmured, teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Astarion,” she said again mindlessly, “I— Can you—”

“What do you want? I would do anything for you.”

Xuan struggled to keep her thoughts straight. She felt drunk. “What do you want?” She asked, swallowing as she tried to peer at his expression. “We can take it slow—”

“No,” Astarion said roughly, “I’ll do anything you want. I would do anything for you.”

Xuan paused, trying to peel back enough to look at him. Astarion was staring at her like she was the sun. And it was only because Xuan had seen that look on his face before that something seemed off.

She froze, a chill running down her spine.

Behind the tender look on his face, there was a glazed expression in his ruby eyes that too seemed familiar. She had seen it once before, on one of the worst days of her life, the day Astarion had been taken by Cazador. When they found him, bound for sacrifice, his eyes had glazed over unseeingly, enslaved to Cazador’s power.

He was looking at her like that.

“No, this isn’t—” she began, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons now.

“What do you want?” He asked again, dragging a finger along her cheek. “With the stones, you can have anything you want.”

Xuan blinked, her mind racing. “The stones— Astarion, we have to go back—”

"Don't you love me?"

"I do love you," Xuan whispered. She had never said it out loud before, always afraid that the admission would make him leave.

Astarion smiled at her, bright and blinding and beautiful. “If you love me, you won’t use the stones against me," he whispered, his fingers in her hair and his lips brushing against hers.

“Astarion, please—”

“You know what will happen to me if the tadpoles are gone." Astarion's smile faded slowly. “Do you think I could forgive you if you took my freedom away from me?”

“I have to,” she tried, twisting out of his grasp. “You know I have to.”

Astarion’s gaze grew cold as he drew back from her sharply, every point of contact between them even colder than it had been from when they were touching. “Don’t touch me, monk.” He snapped harshly, the words biting. She reached out, desperate to close the distance between them. “I thought you loved me.”

“Please. I do love you—”

“You’re weak,” Astarion bit out. “As weak as your father always said you are.”

Xuan froze, something between shame and fear bubbling up her throat. And then confusion. How did he know that?

Astarion had never called her weak before. You're too strong for your own good, he always complained. This isn't real, Xuan realized. 

A sharp pain in her hand drew her back to her body, the image of Astarion dissipating into nothing as her vision returned. Blood dripped down her hand from where she had held the stones too tightly, the edges cutting into her palm. She was back on that platform, the sky around her painted blood red. Far below them, she could hear screams of terror in Baldur’s Gate. Somewhere in the distance, Lae’zel was shouting. Shadowheart and Astarion were doubled over nearby, clutching their heads. Gale was casting spells against the tentacles. Karlach and Wyll were fighting the dragon. Xuan shuddered—the realization that the Netherbrain was quite literally in her brain as a tadpole, and now in her mind creating false realities was violating.

You are strong enough to resist, she thought to herself, and as if to taunt her, the white hot throb in her temple came back full force, and for a moment, Xuan saw another sequence of images, only these were memories this time.

He was torturing them again. This time it was a merchant that had cheated him of a ship of cargo. She would never forget his face or the smell of his blood on her skin.

Xuan watched, paralyzed in the entryway as her father beckoned her closer. The man was keeled over, deep gashes along his back, blood pooling around his knees.

“Daughter. You’re late.” Her father tutted, nodding down in disgust at the merchant. “This is a lesson in honest trading. Or rather, what happens when traders become dishonest.”

“Please,” the man blubbered, a sob caught in his throat. “I’ll give you the whole shipment. Anything— I’ll give you anything.”

“It seems that this is a lesson in begging too,” her father said to her, his expression unchanging. “Craulnobers don’t beg .” Her father brandished his sword, twirling it in clear boredom as he turned back to the merchant. “I don’t care about the shipment,” he said evenly, drawing his sword back. “I care about being crossed.” 

“Please,” Xuan said, rushing forward as she stepped between her father and the merchant. 

Her father’s eyes flashed. “Didn’t you hear me? Craulnobers don’t beg . You’re weaker than I thought,” he bit out, his facade of calmness beginning to shatter. Xuan had seen it time and time before, she knew the warning signs, when he ran out of patience. “Take the sword.”

Bile rose in her throat. She was sure she was going to throw up. “I won’t do it.”

Disgust broke through on his face. “You have no place in the Craulnober house.” With a swift flick of his wrist, the merchant’s blubbering stopped. Blood splattered across her tunic, the warmness sinking into her skin.

More blood dripped from her skin. The stones cut further into her palm as she squeezed, resisting. Her vision flickered briefly, before she was swept into another memory.

She was clutching at her sister’s hands. “Azariah, please, just stay a little longer. If you ask father, he’ll let you stay—”

Her sister, tall and noble and beautiful, smiled down at her tenderly. “You know father wants me to reclaim the moonblade.”

Her sister didn’t understand. Her sister could never understand. Her sister, shielded from brutality and cruelty, so that she could remain good to reclaim the moonblade. It was always going to be her sister. Why couldn’t Xuan be good? If not good, then at least strong? “Please don’t go,” Xuan said again, tears welling in her eyes. A sob racked her shoulders as she choked it back.

“I’ll be back before you know it, Xuan,” Azariah smiled. Xuan found, in the darkest part of her heart, that she hated that smile. It came from a place of blissful ignorance. “Father will take care of you while I’m away.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

This is the past , Xuan thought, the pain in her temple unbearable as she resisted the pull into another memory. The past, the past, the past . With a gasp, she wretched herself back to the present, the searing pain in her mind subsiding briefly in place for a more real, physical pain in her hand where she held the stones.

Impossible. Pain. Fear. Terror!

It seemed silly, how inconsequential and small the stones were physically. They looked to weigh nothing more than a pebble and they were so small that they fit into the palm of her hand. To think that they had gone through months of blood, sweat, and tears for these three little stones.

Reconsider. Assess. Implore. Surrender.

And yet, the stones were so beautiful. They were stunning, these three little stones, like nothing she had ever seen before. Her fingers closed protectively around them. The stones glowed in her hand, swirling the air with an ancient magic so strong that even she could feel it. 

Her blood seemed to slow, senses so tight they could snap in an instant. Suddenly, they seemed to grow in weight, so heavy that Xuan struggled to keep them in her blood-stained hands.

It was strange. Xuan could feel the residue of fear as she watched the Netherbrain emerge to its monstrous size, but the feeling was subdued. This was the moment that they had all been working towards, the final battle that they had all been dreading for weeks now. 

And it wasn’t as if Xuan didn’t know fear. Xuan knew fear intimately. She had known fear since she was a child. She had been afraid of her father since she was a child. Everyone had been afraid of Elaith Craulnober. Any slight made to him had been answered brutally, and he had her watch each torment as a lesson. Her older sister hadn’t known fear like Xuan did—she had been lucky, the jewel of the family sent to train to inherit the family moonblade. Azariah had to remain pure and good for the moonblade to accept her. On the day she left, Xuan had held the hem of her sister’s dress, crying silently as she begged Azariah not to leave her behind. She had known fear then, and her father had punished her for it, of course.

Our family does not cower in fear , he had said, his tone cold. Identify the emotion and be done with it. 

It had been years since she had last thought of that day, but now, as Xuan stood in front of the Netherbrain, she was struck with the thought that there was no fear to identify and be done with. Xuan felt that she wasn’t afraid at all, only that she knew she should have felt afraid. And it was the absence of fear that made something in her run cold with unease. Something felt terribly wrong.

You think you know why you are here, the brain’s voice casted in her mind, so loud it felt like a tangible object that shook through her. Still though, Xuan felt no fear, only power. Confidence. Surety. 

Spare me. Join me. Wield me. BECOME ABSOLUTE.

Xuan tore her gaze away from the stones to see that the brain had transformed into an image of a mindflayer, larger than life. It was horrific, disgusting. The air thrummed with power, so dense that she could feel it in her bones. Still though, Xuan didn’t feel fear, even as she stared at the grotesque caricature of the mindflayer in front of her.

Dimly, she could hear one of her companions shouting at her. It’s messing with your mind. Don’t listen to it. Use the stones, another telepathic voice cut in, now just a small throb in the back of her head. Xuan couldn’t tell whose voice was whose anymore.

Use the stones. 

With a start, she realized she couldn’t feel the fear because of the stones in her hand, the power seeming to seep past her skin through her veins and into her body as it became an extension of her. What was fear when she wielded the stones of godhood, the crown of power, the will of all things? Who could stand in her way? She was strong, she was finally strong, and with those three little stones in her hand, she could become the strongest .

And then, somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt her first flicker of fear, not at the Netherbrain in front of her or the sounds of the illithid, but because of the three little stones in her palm. 

As if it could feel her hesitation, the stones pulsed in her hands. New whispers seemed to cut through the noise of the brain and everyone in her mind, intelligible whispers that were beyond any language, whispers that wove itself into beautiful, golden images, flickering so swiftly in her mind’s eye that Xuan felt dizzy with drunken desire. Flashes of the home she had fled, of her father, of everything she had that she could never return to.

A more distinctive scene slowed in her mind—in her gut, she knew this was neither memory nor illusion. This felt ominous, like a vision.

She was sitting at a throne, her hair and skin scrubbed soft and clean of grime and callous, her robes long and silky. 

In the room, doubled over on their knees, she could see a whole sea of familiar faces. Her sister was on her knees, murmuring intelligible apologies. Her father’s mercenaries bowed down at the waist until their foreheads pressed against the floor. The monks at the monastery that had been merciless and strict, staring at her with an expression of equal parts awe and fear. Next to her throne stood her father, something like pride on his face. She felt sick.

“I was wrong to underestimate you. You have always been the daughter of Elaith Craulnober, perhaps now the pride of our family,” he hummed, looking pleased as he gestured down at the throne. Xuan tried to rise, but found herself unable to move or respond. It felt like she was a child again, forced to watch as her father tortured and taunted his underlings that stepped out of line. “Did you really think you could wash the blood from our hands if you did good ? I know what you are, what you have always been, child.” He laughed, the sound sharp and dangerous, like a knife being unsheathed. “You never did it out of the goodness of your heart,” he sneered, stalking around her in a slow circle. “You did it out of guilt, but my dearest daughter, cruelty runs in the family. Some fates you cannot escape. Better to embrace evil than to become overcome by it, isn’t that what I’ve always said?” He stepped closer to her. In his face, she could see her own likeness. “You know what you must do.”

Xuan opened her mouth to scream, to fight back, but her voice came out, cold and unfamiliar to her own ears.

“In my name,” she commanded and she could feel the will of everyone in the room bend towards her, like river reeds washed by a current.

No , Xuan thought. She was stronger than this. She had grown stronger. Better. Kinder. She was stronger than this.

Her vision pulsed to the present again, the stones a heavy weight in her hands.

“Please forgive me,” she whispered as she tried to be strong one more time.

Chapter Text

She was going to tell him today.

It had to be today. Xuan was very certain that if she didn’t tell him today, that she would waver again and again. “Today,” she affirmed to her reflection in the mirror as she smoothened back the flyaways in her hair. 

She had asked Shadowheart to come over and help her with her hair and makeup. She had initially asked Shadowheart for her expertise on some kind of intricate braid, but the cleric had insisted that she should leave her hair down. So instead, Shadowheart had brushed through Xuan’s hair with a fragrant oil and left it at that. The makeup part had been relatively swift—Shadowheart darkened her lashes and eyes and Xuan had applied rouge to her cheeks and lips. The part that had taken the longest was covering the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t slept well—the kind of sleep that gripped her and didn’t let her wake up, but was entirely not restful. When she had opened the door for Shadowheart to come in, the cleric had paused, her eyes raking over Xuan’s face carefully. “Those dreams again?” She had asked carefully.

I wouldn’t call it a dream, but a memory I keep reliving , Xuan thought to herself wryly but instead scrubbed a hand over her face in a sorry attempt to rub the bags away. 

“Makeup isn’t going to cover those bags,” Shadowheart had tutted as she cast a healing spell on her. The cleric had levied her an even look. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Xuan had said, sighing as she picked up the cat. “It’s just the same dream.”

All that to say, as Xuan stared at her reflection in the mirror, she felt as though she could still see the deep shadows under her eyes, though Shadowheart had healed them away and she had applied enough rogue to her cheeks to look alive.

“Today,” she said again with another curt nod to herself. “I’ll tell Astarion.”

The cat perked up from where he was lounging on the windowsill and let out a low mrow , catching her attention. Xuan paused, glancing at it curiously, and he blinked back at her with his wide eyes. He was staring at her expectantly. He rarely ever reacted to anything she said. “Sugar? Cloud? Snow?” She tried hopefully, but then he glanced away disinterestedly to lick his paws.

Xuan frowned and whispered, “Astarion.”

The cat turned to look at her again, this time padding over the rub against her ankles.

“There’s no way,” she gaped in disbelief. “Astarion.”

A low, pleased purr rumbled out of the cat as it blinked up at her owlishly, as if to say, Yes!

“He’s going to throw a fit once he hears this,” Xuan murmured to herself, astounded. As if on cue, a knock came at the door.

“One moment!” She called, smoothening her hair back once more before hurrying to the door. True to his word, Astarion had come early. “Guess what I just discovered—” The smug discovery died in her throat instantly. “Oh. You look lovely,” she blurted as she gawked at him openly.

Astarion was dressed better than normal, which was quite a statement to make, considering he typically already dressed in perfectly tailored fabrics with sharp lines and clean cuts that accentuated his lean figure. But today he was wearing an elegant cloak over a billowing silk shirt and finely tailored pants that sat high on his waist, his white curls in perfect placement. He looked like an angel lit in starlight, like a prince that had tumbled out of a fairytale onto her porch. His hair was so irritatingly perfect that Xuan had to actively resist the impulse to tousle his hair. Gods knew the fit he would throw.

She had thought the dress she had from Gale was fine—she had worn it to his charity ball and no one had thrown her out for dress code, at least. It was a little uncomfortable, in its hugging fabric and high slit—the nature of her normal monk robes were understandably modest—but she was able to put up with it for the night.

But seeing Astarion in his luxury fabrics, she started to think that even if she wore the most perfect dress for the occasion, they would stand out like a sore thumb and attract attention. Either because Astarion looked distractingly handsome in his silks or because they look like an odd and mismatched pair together.

But if Astarion had the same thoughts, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he gave her a funny little tip of his head, almost too cordial, though his eyes briefly darted to the bare skin of her legs from the slit of her dress. There was a minute movement in his throat as he cleared it, his eyes flickering back to her face. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Xuan realized. “Oh, please come in,” she said, loudly, to whatever vampire laws were listening in. Astarion stepped in behind her, the cat already winding around his ankles.

“I have a gift,” he said choppily, and Xuan noticed a carefully wrapped package in his hand. 

“A gift,” she echoed, brow shooting up.

“Well, you don’t have to accept it, of course,” he continued, though he handed it to her hastily. “Your dress— Or rather, Gale’s dress is adequate, but if you’d prefer something more—”

“You got me a dress,” Xuan said, all-too amused as she watched him tumble over his words and gesture around. Something warm began to unfurl in her stomach, like blades of grass growing through melting ice.

“Well, no,” Astarion said, shoulders deflating. He set his focus carefully on the cat that had rolled over at his feet. He cleared his throat. “I made you a dress.”

“Oh,” Xuan said dumbly, perhaps for the third or fourth time already.

“I don’t know if it’ll fit, of course, and there’s the question of whether you actually want a different dress, but I think it’s more to your style—” His words slowed to a stop as he watched her tug at the ribbon holding the parcel together. Deep emerald silk tumbled out, soft to the touch. Xuan held it up and marveled at the dress. She was never one for many material things, but somehow the knowledge that Astarion had made it put it at the same level of importance as her robes.

When she looked at him, she could see that his face was less pale than usual, almost light pink, his eyes darting across her face carefully, quick to pick up any changes. When he caught her watching him back, he made a show of looking at the dress critically.

“Well?” Astarion demanded, pushy as ever. 

“Can you unclasp the buttons?” She asked, turning around and pulling her hair over her shoulder to give him access to the seam of buttons along the back of the dress she was wearing.

“Right now?” He blurted.

Xuan glanced at him over her shoulder. “Or I can stay in this dress and we can go?”

“So the monk bites back now,” Astarion muttered, though there was no edge to his voice. Immediately, she could feel his fingers begin to unclasp the buttons at the base of her neck. “Such gaudy buttons,” he observed, but Xuan could hear the strain in his voice, and she could feel it in her own body as his hands swept her hair out of the way. Given how many times she had seen Astarion disable traps nimbly with his fingers, she knew it had to be intentional when she felt the brush of his fingertips along her spine, light and cold like a winter breeze. 

“Done,” he said thickly and Xuan just nodded her thanks, the words stuck in her throat as she hurried to the washroom, her hands clasping her new dress tightly.

She shrugged out of the scarlet dress quickly and into the emerald one. It was loose enough that she could just tug it over her head and shoulders. Astarion had been right in his assessment that it was more of her style—already, she relaxed at the way it fell loosely around her frame, silky like water. The sleeves billowed out with more than enough space to breathe, and the neckline followed the same mandarin collar that her robes had. “He knows me too well,” Xuan mumbled to herself as she marveled at the way the silk swished at her feet.

“I like it,” Xuan said brightly as she emerged from the bathroom. “I feel like I can fight in this if I had too.”

“Somehow, I thought you would say that,” Astarion snorted as he turned to look at her fully. His face went slack. For a beat, he stared at her blankly before a tentative smile played at his lips, small and blinding. “Gods, you’re beautiful.”

“Oh,” Xuan said, straightening against all her wishes to flee under his gaze. She smiled back at him. “Thank you. For the compliment and dress.”

“Well, I suppose it’s also self-praise to myself for making it,” Astarion said, voice a little too loud as he stared at her, throat bobbing. Xuan had the overwhelming urge to kiss him on the cheek. This foolish, dishonest man, she thought with a shake of her head.

“Does it fit well?”

“Perfect,” Xuan answered, lifting her arms to show him. “Perfectly comfortable.”

“Oh. Good. That’s good.” He said with a stiff nod.

“You didn’t even measure me,” Xuan said thoughtfully as she peered down at it.

He gave her a smile, though it looked a little laced with self-mockery. “There was no need,” he said after a moment.

He knows me too well , she thought again, that tug in her heart growing as they stared at each other silently, both of them seemingly reluctant to break. “Astarion,” she began, and immediately, the cat that had been sitting practically on Astarion’s feet let out another mrow , sending both of them jumping. “Right, that’s the other thing,” Xuan remembered, swallowing back her grin. “You’re not going to be happy when you find out what the cat responds to.”

“You’ll have to tell me on the way,” Astarion said, brow arching as he opened the door for her. “The night awaits us.”

— — — — —

It had been a long time since Xuan had been in one of these environments. She could remember the last time with terribly clarity, though it didn’t bring the same sting it once did. Her father had thrown a banquet of sorts to celebrate her sister’s return. In doing so, he had invited the nobles of Waterdeep, undoubtedly as a way to further network and showcase Azariah’s successful return from the royal court. Azariah was back now to train to bear the moonblade, and Xuan was to watch, as she always did. In hindsight, it was unsurprising that she would go on to devote herself to the Temple of Helm, given that he was the deity known as the Watcher.

“Stay quiet and out of trouble,” her father had said through a bright smile as he waved the guests into their home. 

“Alright?” Astarion’s voice broke into her memories as he steered her through the streets. They had closed off the Upper City and decorated the streets with clear indulgence. There were enchanted orbs of light made to look like little suns floating up and down along the city and beautiful plants lined the streets—undoubtedly sprouted by the druids of Baldur’s Gate. All along the ground were mounds of cut flowers, so many that it was difficult to see the cobblestone streets.

Xuan nodded, dispelling her thoughts away quickly. It was all because of that dream that she was having thoughts like these again. “I’ve never been to a Greengrass festival.”

“I like Greengrass,” Astarion said conversationally, to her surprise. It wasn't very often that Astarion announced he liked anything—rather, it was often the opposite where he was complaining about everything “The coming of spring and an end to the dreadful winter days—it’s all very warm and festive.” A pause. “And it’s close to your namesake and all.” He offered her a rakish smile. “I’ve always liked spring, I suppose.”

Xuan huffed an unimpressed laugh, though against her will, she could feel her face warm. It felt like she had grown weaker against Astarion’s charisma recently. “I didn’t expect it to be this lavish of an event,” she said, shifting the conversation rather artlessly. 

Astarion smirked at her for a moment longer, clearly sensing her intentions though he didn’t push back. He paused, offering her his elbow. Xuan slipped her hand on his arm gratefully, letting him weave them through the crowd of silk and satin. “Only the best for Baldur’s Gate’s wealthiest,” he said sarcastically before arching a brow down at her suggestively. “Should we steal some plants for your garden?”

Xuan laughed and squeezed his arm. “It’s almost as though we still have tadpoles—I was thinking the same.” Astarion grinned, looking pleased as he routed them further down the street. She cleared her throat, taking in some of the performances that were happening in the courtyard. “I had heard from Gale that your parties were also quite elaborate."

Astarion snorted. “Of course, with my taste, they were the best the Sword Coast has ever seen.”

“Gale made them out to sound very popular as well,” Xuan continued, already regretting that she had started this line of conversation. 

“Yes, well, it didn’t matter very much when the person that I had hoped would come didn’t,” Astarion said plainly. Xuan nearly tripped over the flowers on the ground. “You didn’t really think that I invited Gale so that he could do his fireball tricks, right? He’s not particularly good at them anyways—he nearly set a handful of guests on fire on multiple occasions.”

“And so you thought I’d show up to your parties ?” Xuan asked, incredulous.

Astarion gave her a rueful smile, all laced with self-mockery. “Delusions and desperation,” he said easily.

“I can’t get used to you being this honest,” Xuan muttered, feeling her face warm under the openness of his expression. She really needed to grow a shell against his charisma. 

“Ah, Astarion,” a voice called from behind them. When she turned, she was met with an unfamiliar face, though the dwarf seemed to know her as he tipped his head politely. For whatever reason, he looked positively thrilled to see her. “And Lady Xuan! It’s an honor!”

Xuan blinked at the honorifics, before dipping her head awkwardly. Astarion clearly seemed to sense her confusion because he took a step closer to her and supplied helpfully, “This is the editor of Baldur’s Mouth.”

“Ah, I see. I’m afraid I don’t remember if we’ve met before,” Xuan admitted, offering the dwarf an apologetic smile.

“Oh, we haven’t,” the dwarf said cheerfully, beaming at her before winking at Astarion. “The name is Brannum. But of course I know who you are, though a certain elf here has been adamant on me keeping quiet about that.” Xuan cast Astarion a searching look, but he was steadfastly looking away from her. “I’d still love to publish the article—we had the headlines all planned out, Finally: Baldur’s Gate’s Secret Hero Unmasked! —but Astarion promised details for an expose on—”

“Is that wine?” Astarion cut in, stepping between them to pluck two silver chalices from a passing waiter’s platter. “Here. One for you, one for me. Cheers. Drink up.” He gave Brannum no time to answer as he handed him one of the chalices and forcefully clinked their cups. Without missing a beat, Astarion steered the man back towards the crowd artfully. “Oh, I do believe I heard the merchant over there discussing the latest gossip on the smuggling of dragon scales—”

Brannum took the bait, bidding the two of them a polite nod before distractedly hurrying towards the direction that Astarion had all but steered him into. But Xuan did not take the bait, and instead levied Astarion an even stare that the vampire ignored. “Shall we dance?” He suggested with a nervous sort of chuckle, still looking around her distractedly.

“What did he mean, Astarion?” She asked in a tone that left no room for him to slither out.

“Nothing— Brannum often gets his facts mixed up, that’s why Baldur’s Mouth has turned into a tabloid—” He tried slithering out anyways.

“Astarion.”

Finally, he sighed, sneaking a look at her out of the corner of his eyes, “It means exactly as he said,” Astarion said dully, like a petulant child caught sneaking. “Brannum has the biggest mouth and the sharpest ears—for a dwarf—and when he caught wind of who the Hero of Baldur’s Gate was—” He sighed dramatically, “—he was adamant on writing an expose. I simply gave him a different story in exchange for his silence. That’s all, I promise.” He offered her a rakish smile, clearly still trying to slither out, but this time, Xuan was ready for his attempts at charming her. “Thief’s honor.”

Xuan stared at him for a moment longer. “But why?”

“Why what?” He asked blankly, turning to look at her now.

“Why would you do that?”

“You had told me you wanted to live a peaceful life away from any sort of spotlight after,” he said slowly, his expression uncertain. He picked at a piece of invisible lint on his sleeves as his eyes darted away from her. “Unless you had wanted the fame? Though Shadowheart told me that the journalists still bother her parents to the day when they go into Baldur’s Gate…” He trailed off. 

“No, I—” Xuan began, warmth blooming so violently in her chest that for a moment, she wanted to kiss his cheek. This silly vampire, she thought to herself. This silly, ill-tempered, lovely, petty vampire with his crooked ideas of kindness and honesty. 

“If you wanted to be written about, I apologize— I can go fetch Brannum now, he’d clearly be overjoyed for the opportunity,” Astarion was saying when she caught hold of herself.

“Thank you, Astarion,” she said quietly, flooded with a sort of unmanageable affection that made her feel dizzy.

Astarion froze, his eyes scanning her face intently before he nodded, looking uncertain, but satisfied. “Of course.” And then he smiled at her, all charm and dazzle again. Xuan knew she was in trouble, despite being able to spot it in advance. “If you’re really grateful, you would begrudge me a little dance. What’s Greengrass without a little dancing, a little waltz —”

“You’ll have to lead,” Xuan said. “I’m out of practice.”

Astarion stared at her as if she had grown another head. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly for a moment. “Really?”

She made a face at him. “Do you think dancing is part of a monk’s training regiment?”

He seemed to catch himself as he let out a startled laugh. “That’s not what I meant,” he began, before shaking his head briskly as he grinned at her wide enough that his fangs flashed. “Well, I ought to take my chance before it slips away,” he said, proffering a hand to her. She accepted it readily, following as he led her towards the courtyard where the bards were playing music.

“Ready?”

Xuan’s brows shot up, “You sound as if you’re going into battle.”

“Yes, well it sort of feels like that,” Astarion said with a wry smile as he placed his hand against the small of her back. The silk of her dress was thin enough and Astarion’s hands cold enough that she could feel the outline of each long finger as it pressed lightly against her back. She followed suit, resting her hand on his shoulder. Xuan waited for him to move, but Astarion only stood still, frozen and rigid, though his hand remained light and gentle against her back. His eyes seemed to flash like the sun glinting against carnelian and Xuan was reminded of the night she had discovered his vampirism, when she had woken up with his face hovering above hers, eyes sharp with hunger and want. Somehow, his expression didn’t look very different from what it was then.

“Astarion?” She prompted. He was standing perfectly still. “We have to move to dance.”

“Oh. Right. Of course,” he said, shaking his head out of whatever stupor he had been in. He cleared his throat, stepping closer before he started leading. A rakish, pleased smile graced his face as he peered down at her. “I wasn’t expecting you to agree to dance with me so easily. I was prepared to negotiate more.”

Xuan frowned up at him, careful as she followed his pace. With the enchanted orbs floating above them, his eyes were the color of cherry wine. “I like dancing,” she sniffed, affronted. “It’s like doing forms but with music.”

He let out a puff of a laugh. “That’s not what I meant at all,” he murmured. 

Oh , she thought dimly as her focus pigeon-holed to his point of contact on her waist. Their proximity was somehow both thrilling and comforting. That’s why he wanted to dance. Though she knew his hands were cold, against her skin they felt like they were burning, or that she was burning. This close, she could see the smile lines she had always adored along his cheeks and the long curve of his silver lashes. It was strange, to be this close and distanced all at once, to be able to remember what the cold tip of his nose against her cheek felt like, the press of his mouth against her own. 

Xuan was sure that if they kept dancing any longer, they would inevitably cross over their already-fragile line of friendship.

There was no time to ponder it though, because in the not-so-far distance, a loud explosion broke through the music.

“Ugh,” Astarion groaned, his grip on her hand and waist tightening instinctively.

Xuan tried to peer over his shoulder to locate the source of the sound, but he twirled her around expertly with dizzying speed. “We should check that out,” she said, trying to keep up with his quickening pace.

“But we’ve only just started dancing,” he said, lip twisting down in an obvious sulk.

“It’s nothing,” he said, blinking down at her innocently. She levied him a look and his eyes seemed to widen, doe-like in nature.  “A wizard probably just messed up and cast fireball into the crowd—nothing to worry about.” 

As if on cue, another explosion sounded, this one accompanied by shouts and screams.

“Astarion,” Xuan prompted and he sighed, releasing her reluctantly. Xuan didn’t miss the way his hand lingered alongside her hip. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Though the Harpers and the others are here—”

“You said that we were here for security,” Xuan pointed out as they started rushing towards the direction that the nobles were running away from.

“I didn’t actually mean it,” Astarion muttered, just as they happened upon the scene of the explosions. The flowers and plants that had been grown on the street were burning in small fires. Moving down the street were a small group of cloaked individuals. Xuan felt her blood run cold as their chants became clearer above the chaos.

“The Absolute is gold from the sky, She is. The blessin' in the storm an' the storm itself. We're burnin' Her name across the face o' the world, we are.”

“Gods,” Astarion sighed, looking absolutely bored even as he unsheathed a pair of daggers from the depths of his cloaks. “These dolts again?”

“How— I thought the cult had ended when we—”

“There’s been small resurgences here and there, but nothing more than a group of idiots following a religious hoax.”

“Astarion,” a new voice cut in. Xuan turned to see a few familiar faces. The man who had spoken was the same man who had delivered Astarion’s letter to her cottage months ago. Behind him she recognized Petras and Dalyria, all dressed in fanciful silks. Dalyria gave her an awkward half-smile, though her red eyes flicked to the group of cultists distractedly.

“Sebastian,” Astarion said, eyes flicking to the group of vampires.

“Lady Xuan,” Sebastian said, dipping his head politely. “I never got to say thank you properly—”

“Now’s not exactly the time, is it?” Astarion interrupted, stepping in front of her.

“Always so protective of your hero, aren’t we?” Petras drawled, peering around Astarion’s shoulder. “Aren’t you still a sweet, little thing,” he purred, eyes glinting. “Once you get tired of Astarion, you’re always welcome—” Astarion’s blade flashed, its point digging into Petras’s shoulder before Xuan could follow its motion. “Gods!” Petras grimaced, drawing back. “Just a jest! You’re always too serious, Star. Ugh . You ruined my shirt!”

“It’s your neck next,” Astarion said sweetly, stepping further in front of her.

“Our necks are already ruined,” Petras muttered.

“ Guys ,” Dalyria cut in impatiently, looking agitated as she bounced up and down. “Astarion— Can we—”

“You’re always so hungry,” Astarion muttered, waving them off. “Yes, yes . You know the protocol.”

Looking pleased as punch, Dalyria rushed off, tugging Sebastian and Petras in tow as they moved at lightning speed towards the group of cultists. Xuan watched in a mixture of equal parts horror and awe as they descended upon the group, fangs flashing.

“The Harpers and spawn should take care of it, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty,” Astarion said, catching her attention. “They won’t drain anyone completely—only the ones that have been rehabbed can take on these jobs,” he assured quickly, clearly seeing her expression. “It’s the agreement we have with the city.”

“Oh,” Xuan said, blinking. She watched as Dalyria sank her teeth into one of the cultists. “That’s good.” A pause. “We should probably help them.”

Astarion sighed, rolling his shoulder reluctantly. “Somehow I knew you would still say that.”

It had been nearly a year now since Xuan had last actually fought someone. She had forgotten how thrilling it was. She wove past the Harpers with their swords and past the vampires with their fangs, Astarion in her peripheral as he began to slash and stab. It was strangely nostalgic, she thought, as she knocked out a cloaked gnome with a few swift jabs to the temple. My fists have gotten soft, she observed, rolling back her sleeves carefully. She didn’t want to get Astarion’s dress dirty.

Distracted by the thought, the shove of a shield against her side caught her off balance. Xuan slipped onto the ground, landing gracelessly onto a pile of flowers. When she looked up, a drow was staring down at her, a look of recognition flickering on his face.

“You— I know you,” he said, looking astonished. “I saw you that day— the day that the Absolute fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep,” Xuan sputtered, taking the opportunity to scramble to her feet. “The Netherbrain is dead.”

The drow didn’t seem to hear her, a sick glimmer of hope flickering across his face. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said eagerly. Xuan blinked. She had expected anger and vengeance, but instead, the cultist seemed excited. “The stones—” At the mention, her hands twitched involuntarily. “ We know you didn’t destroy them, give them up and we’ll spare your life. We’ll forgive your sins against Her—”

“The stones are gone. The Netherbrain is dead,” Xuan said again, but it scared her how much her voice shook. 

“Lies!” The drow snarled, his face contorting. Xuan took a step back, in part because she couldn’t quite form a fist when her hands were trembling that much. “You have the stones, and you will give it to us—”

“The stones are gone!” She said, her voice rising unsteadily as something like devastation wreaking havoc in her chest. For a moment, she could feel the ghost of them in her hands again. “Lost in River Chionthar!”

The drow froze before a wicked smile spread on his face, pleased and delighted as if she had handed him the stones. “So they aren’t destroyed,” he murmured, nodding rapidly to himself. Her heart plunged into her stomach, vision blurring. “What is lost can always be found—”

He could find the stones. She could find the stones. If she had the stones in her hands again, perhaps things would be different. All she needed was just to hold them one more time, to feel the weight of them in her palm. Just for a moment, if she just had the stones again for a moment—

Xuan, later, wouldn’t be able to recount the next sequence of events in clear detail. She would remember something in her surging, like a wave breaking against shore, and she would remember the smell of burning roses, the feeling of her knees cracking down against the cobblestone, and Astarion, she would remember Astarion. Astarion’s voice breaking through the haze of her mind, Astarion’s cold, cold hands pulling her back, off from where she had straddled and pinned down the drow, Astarion’s expression, laced with a fear she had never seen before.

“Xuan, Xuan,” Astarion said, hands firm as they pulled her away and righted her up. “ Xuan . He’s dead—”

Xuan’s vision blurred white and black and she swayed, chest heaving. It felt like she was drowning, but her body was buzzing and alight. Her lungs were on fire.

“Xuan,” Astarion said again, his hands squeezing her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

Xuan blinked, the coldness of his touch breaking through slowly. She looked down at herself. The sleeves and front of her dress were shades darker than it had been, the warm wetness of it sticking to her skin. She felt nauseated and disoriented. “The dress,” Xuan said, feeling a dim flicker of distraught. “I’m sorry—”

“Xuan, I don’t give a damn about the dress,” Astarion said sternly, releasing her hand to grasp her face carefully in his hands. “Breathe.”

On command, Xuan sucked in a large breath and felt the air slowly begin to expand in her lungs. Soon, the dizziness and black dots on her vision subsided, her attention zeroing in on her breathing and the cold feeling of his hands on her cheek. In the distance, she could hear orders being barked to the Harpers.

“Alright?” He murmured, peering into her face. He ran his hands down the lengths of her arms, as if checking to see that she was still intact. Astarion’s hands had stopped at her wrist, where they held them carefully. Xuan looked down at where they stopped to see that her hands were covered in blood, knuckles split open. But it was too much blood to have just been hers.

“Fuck,” Xuan said. 

“Well, shit.” A low whistle came from behind her. “I see why Astarion’s stuck by you for so long,” Petras drawled, half awestruck, half fearful as he studied the drow on the ground.

“What a waste of blood,” Dalyria murmured in true dismay.

 Xuan wretched back away from Astarion, doubled over, and promptly puked onto a pile of flowers.

Chapter Text

Astarion didn’t say anything as he stood by her side, his hand rubbing circles on her shoulder. When the contents of her stomach was empty and she finished dry heaving, he slipped a firm arm around her back, holding up her full weight as Xuan’s knees buckled. “I got you,” he murmured, slipping his other arm under her knees and lifting her. “We’ve all been there.”

“We’ve all puked into a pile of flowers?” Petras asked, brows arched.

“Yes,” Astarion said shortly before turning to Sebastian. “Sort out the rest with Jaheira.”

At some point they got into a carriage, but Astarion kept her tucked tightly against him, the edge of his cloak pulled around her face. “My residence will be closer,” he murmured to her, “Is that alright?” Xuan just nodded, and by the time she had regained control of her breathing, he was sitting her down on the edge of an opulent tub. 

“Just sit here,” he said softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the sound of water running into the tub. Xuan sat, perfectly still as she tried to even out her breathing. Years of practicing meditation and it seemed that she couldn’t control her breath when it really mattered.

She closed her eyes. Next to her, she could hear the tub filling steadily. Somewhere outside, she heard the sound of carriages. Behind her, she could hear Astarion rummaging through cabinets. With each inhale, she could smell the scent of soap and then bergamot. Where she had her hands pressed flat, she could feel the cool porcelain of the tub. Slowly, her breathing began to settle.

“Xuan,” Astarion’s voice came from in front of her. When she opened her eyes, he was holding out a small vial, his brow creased in concern. “Healing potion.”

She drank it, feeling the warmth of the potion slowly make its way down her body. As the rest of her senses slowly returned to her body, Xuan was suddenly acutely aware of and overwhelmed with the feeling of stickiness all over her frontside. By some miracle, Astarion seemed to understand because his hand coasted at the edge of her dress. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said, his other hand dipping into the tub to check the temperature. His voice was soft and steady. “Do you want me to help you? I can also wait outside—”

On reflex, Xuan grabbed at his hand. “Please stay,” she said, her throat raspy. 

Astarion nodded sharply. “Of course,” he murmured, slipping the sticky mess of her dress up over her head before helping her into the tub. There was no embarrassment or modesty—Xuan just wanted to get the stickiness of the blood off her skin, and in any case, Astarion had seen her before. “Alright?”

She sank lower into the tub, the tension in her body slowly unraveling in the hot water. “Thank you,” Xuan said quietly as he began to lather soap on her hair and skin, his hands careful like he was disarming a trap. 

“There’s no need,” Astarion said, clearing his throat. His hands glided over the cusp of her shoulder, the pads of his fingers rubbing gentle circles against her skin. The coolness of his hands was a sharp difference to the warm water. “You’ve done this for me before.”

Somehow, that night after Cazador’s death felt like lifetimes ago. Xuan stared at her hands through the soap, watching as the water began to turn pink.

“And because we’ve been through this before, I suppose I can guess that you don’t want to talk about it,” Astarion continued, his hands beginning to rub soap into her hair now.

The image of the drow and her fists flashed in her mind in painful succession. She shook her head, sinking lower into the water. 

“You’re going to drown yourself. It’d be a shame to survive having a worm in your head only to drown in a tub,” Astarion tutted, placing a firm hand along her bare back. “These things take time,” he said after a moment, and Xuan wasn’t sure exactly which things he was talking about exactly, but it seemed that he knew. Of course he would know, she thought, trying not to sink even lower into the water. Astarion always saw right through her. “Xuan,” he continued, his voice stern, but gentle, like he was coaxing a wild animal away from a cliff edge. “I know that you don’t like taking a life and I know that this will haunt you no matter what I say. But I also know that you wouldn’t have done it lightly even if you wanted to.”

Astarion always saw right through her, no matter how low she sank. “He wanted the stones,” Xuan said numbly, like she was reciting a poem that had long lost its meaning. “And I let it slip that they had fallen in the river. I lost control, I was weak, I thought that maybe they would find them now that he knew—”

Astarion shushed her effectively as he placed his soapy hands on both sides of her cheeks, his fingers pinching lightly. He stared at her soberly, his expression painfully tender and woefully assured, more confident than she had ever seen him.

“Xuan, I know your heart,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. That hummingbird that had been battering around in her chest seemed to still and it was as if Astarion could see it because he peered into her face for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied as he began pulling her hair back from where it had clung to her cheeks and ears. “We don’t need to talk about it anymore,” he murmured. “Let’s just get you cleaned up.”

They fell into a lapse of silence as Astarion continued detangling her hair, his fingers light against her scalp. Xuan settled back against the rim of the tub, listening to the sound of water as he began rinsing the soap out of her hair. “Your hair has grown long,” he said after awhile.

“I’ve been growing it out ever since…” Xuan trailed off, the end of her sentence loud between them. Ever since we last saw each other.

“It’s pretty,” Astarion sighed. Xuan watched as he brought a coil of her hair to his lips. Something in her chest trembled, like the last leaf quivering on a branch against winter. “Alright, no more blood, fortunately or not,” he said with a wry quirk of his lips as he rose from where he was kneeling by the tub. With the deft hands of a thief, Astarion expertly tucked her hair into a towel before opening another plush towel. He averted his gaze in a funny show of modesty as she rose up and tugged the towel around herself.

“Thank you,” Xuan said quietly, already accepting that she wouldn’t be able to untangle the conflicting swell of emotions in her chest.

He smiled at her, cheeks pink. “Happy to return the gesture, though I wish I didn’t have to,” he said after a moment. They stood staring at each other like idiots for another beat before he cleared his throat. “I’m going to wash up—I’ll be quick,” Astarion said, already turning and shucking his shirt over his head. Belatedly, Xuan realized that he had blood splatters across his shirt too, but none of them seemed to be his own. “You can wear anything I have, everything is in the drawers in my room.”

Xuan nodded, stepping out of the washroom to his bedroom. When Astarion had carried her in, she hadn’t processed any of what she was seeing at all. The room was lavishly decorated—the bed looked plush with a thick duvet and half a dozen fluffed pillows, the furniture looked grand and artisan crafted. 

Xuan hesitated, glancing around at the numerous dressers and chests around his room. Astarion clearly lived indulgently, his taste running opulent. Now that she was looking at the elegant, four-poster bed and countless shelves, all in dark wood, it was painstakingly clear that he had been the one to supply her furniture. 

She made her way over to the dresser by his bed with the hopes that his sleeping clothes would be closest to his bed. She slipped his sleep shirt on and was about to close the dresser when she was met with the corner of a familiar fabric folded in the drawer. The fabric had been repaired, but it had been patched so carefully that it wouldn’t have been noticeable, had she not already committed each stitch to heart.

She stared at it for a moment, a wave of emotions washing over her in rapid succession as she recognized it. It was her monk robes, the ones the Temple of Helm had given her after she completed her service. The ones that he had sewn back together for her after he had told her he loved her. The ones she had thrown over him in a haste after the battle when he had run off.

She had found him shuddering under the dock, skin still burning from where the sunlight leaked through the gaps in the pier. 

“Astarion,” she gasped, relief spreading through her body at the sight of her love. Cold seawater splashed through her trousers as she rushed to him, stinging the fresh wounds from the battle. “Here, use this—” she said urgently as she unfastened her robes. As she tugged it around his shoulders to cover him, he pulled away from her sharply as if burned. The robes fell into the water around him like a shadow, the fabric darkening rapidly.

“ Don’t ,” he hissed, drawing back further from her.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, scanning him anxiously for any signs of injury. Dimly, she grew aware that her hands were still burning a phantom pain from where she had held the Netherstones. She wanted to douse them in the seawater, rub them against her robes, to hold Astarion—anything to get rid of that feeling of the stones that seemed to have etched itself into her hands. “I’m going to go get Shadowheart—”

Astarion barked out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Don’t you get it? It’s over, all of it. All of this ,” he waved around them rapidly, inhaling sharply when his hand made contact with a stream of light. Xuan stood rooted to the ground, her mind racing to make sense of his words. “From the start, I was rather counting the hours until it was going to end. Midnight chimes, eh?” He spat harshly. “Don't look at me like that. With the sweet little 'disappointed I'm not getting cuddly Astarion' pout. I can't take it.”

“What do you mean—”

“I can't be what you want to see in me.”

Xuan froze, her panic subsiding into bewilderment and confusion until she met his gaze. His ruby eyes were narrowed at her, like a wild animal trapped in a corner. It felt like a boulder dropped in her stomach, sending painful ripples to her chest. “Astarion, please let me help you first and then we can talk—” She tried again to step towards him, but he shrank back from her. 

“Don’t touch me!” He bit out, fangs flashing. He snapped away from her hand as though it were the sunlight burning him.

She had heard these words before, when they first met, but they hadn’t hurt like they did now.

Xuan flinched at the vehemence in his voice, an apology pouring from her mouth automatically as her heart sank. Or at least, she tried to. But Xuan found that she couldn’t move at all, instead forced to stare wide-eyed at Astarion, who stared back at her with a similar, horrified expression as the realization set in that he had casted Hold Person on her. 

“Xuan, I—,” he started, taking a step towards her before flinching back when he made contact with a stream of sunlight. She could smell the scent of burned flesh mingled with saltwater. “I’m—” He stared at her, stricken, his ruby eyes wide and doleful. He looked miserable. And then resentful. He looked away sharply, his shoulders setting as he rose to his feet. Desperately, she tried to move against the hold, but all she could do was watch as he moved around her slowly. He was out of her view behind her when he paused, his voice soft and bitter all at once. “Don’t look for me.”

When the spell ended, Astarion was long gone and Xuan was cold all over.

Xuan stared down at her robe in her hands numbly, her chest clenching painfully as she lifted it. A dash of color on the fabric caught her eye.. She traced her finger along the stitched words that might as well have been stitched on her heart with how she had committed them to memory. An apple blossom amongst the plums.

“Did you find it?” He asked as he emerged from the bathroom, toweling his hair. The robes hung in her hand limply, like a dead weight. Astarion didn’t seem to notice as he popped a chest open and pulled out a few articles of clothing. He squinted at them assessingly as he held them up to her. “Do you prefer silk or—” The words seemed to die in his throat as he caught sight of the robes in her hand.

“Why did you keep it?” The words felt scratchy against her throat.

Astarion stared at the robes, his gaze unwavering as a flicker of emotions flashed across his face in rapid succession, so swiftly that Xuan couldn’t catch them all. He swallowed, throat bobbing. “Because I wanted to return it to you.”

“Why?” She breathed out. She wasn’t sure what she was asking for anymore.

“Xuan—” He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly for a moment before he stepped towards her, expression earnest and eager. It hurt to look at him. “You must know by now that I wanted to see you again— Even when I was away, every day I wanted—”

“Astarion,” she said, swallowing. It felt like his name had gotten caught in her throat like a shard of glass she had been trying to swallow and she couldn’t breathe anymore. He stilled instantly, his eyes flicking up to hers, gaze filled with such a sharp hope that she felt it pierce in her chest and she had to look away from him.

“I’m leaving,” she said. Once the words left her lips, she was struck with the feeling of being a petulant child, though it was far from the weight of her words. The third decision she had made.

Astarion’s smile didn’t falter, but it stiffened, his eyes scanning her expression intently, quick to pick up any signs. “Of course, it’s late,” he murmured. “I’ll walk you back. It’s dangerous at night—vampires and all that.”

“Astarion,” she said softly, and it was enough to make his smile slip. Xuan forced herself to take in his expression, commit it to memory, carve it into her heart. She wished Astarion was better at hiding his emotions than he thought. Or that his emotions were always easily readable. Maybe that would have made things less painful than they were. Because the heartache was plain on his face, and Xuan could feel it like a shallow cut, sharp and aching.

He looked back at her for a long moment, like he was already memorizing her face before she faded away. The air between them was heavy and dense, like a breath caught between cupped hands. “I can see by the way you’re standing that nothing I can say will sway you,” he said finally. He seemed to try for a smile, but it looked hurt. She could feel the same expression mirrored on her own face. “And I don’t suppose I can convince you that you need a lockpicker with you? A terribly dashing one?”

“I don’t want to fall into old habits,” she told him truthfully.

It was in part because of Astarion. It was in part because of everything else and nothing else. Since the end of it all, there had been that restless pull behind her rib cages, a churn of unease that seemed to eat away at her calmness, the flash of what power had felt like against the palm of her hand. The emptiness when she had let go. To have everything, and then nothing. The stones had etched themselves into the lines of her palms like fate lines. It felt like everything in her world had shifted over a few inches, leaving her off-kilter and off-balance. Where the world had seemed straightforward and clear before, it now felt like she was looking at everything through frosted glass that closed in on her.

There was a tension of opposites that had been pulling and pushing within her ever since that day. It was the feeling of an empty void in the pit of her chest on some days, and it was the feeling that there was a growing ball of rot in the pit of her chest on other days. The only thing was that Xuan remembered what it felt like before, when there hadn’t been any void or rot or anything. When it was easier to breathe. It was like a cruel mockery to be able to remember.

The day Halsin had visited her, he had peered at her, a strange look of recognition flickering across his face. It was the same look of understanding that Shadowheart had given her the night she had stayed over and Xuan had woken up weeping, her mind and her hands burning with a cold fire. 

“You know I have spent decades studying the Shadow Curse,” the big druid had begun gently, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, ironically. They were still crouching in her garden, a pile of weeds at their feet. They had finished pulling out all the weeds and Halsin had woven a good number of them, but still, Xuan’s hands itched to continue, even if it meant pulling at the melon sprouts. She had tried to follow his suit in braiding the weeds, but it hadn’t felt like enough . She smoothed her shaking hands down against her robes.

“Yes,” Xuan said, unable to meet his gaze.

“The curse split the Thaniel’s spirit in two, trapping half of his spirit in the Shadowfell, leaving his other half behind amidst the curse, where the land became twisted and necrotic,” Halsin continued, reaching down into their pile of weeds for the next bunch. 

“I know this, Halsin,” she said tightly. It felt like he could see through her, see the part of her that had become twisted and necrotic, that the ball of rot had begun webbing throughout her, spreading to everything she touched, like the Shadow Curse. It was only a matter of time before the moss of corrosion would grow over her until she was unrecognizable, a reflection of her father. Or worse, maybe this had nothing to do with her father at all, and that Xuan had always been like this, deep down, and it was the Netherstones that brought everything to light, like finding out that the foundation of a house was made of rotting wood. Years had passed since she left her home, years of what she had thought had been healing and turning over a new leaf, but at the first test of power and desire, Xuan had nearly given in. 

“Then you also know that there was a cure,” he said, unperturbed by her sharp tone. Xuan felt a flash of equal parts guilt and relief at his patience. “That you were instrumental in lifting the curse.”

Xuan dragged a sharp rock through the soil to draw an absent circle. She weighed it in her hand and found it to be heavier than the Netherstones. “I didn’t find Thaniel.” That had been the first real argument she had ever had with Astarion. They had slept together—literally, slept—for the first time, all so that he could sneak out with the others and leave her behind. The memory didn’t sting anymore, but it left a different feeling. Perhaps she should have known from that night that he was going to leave her behind.

“No, but we would never have found him if you hadn’t cared,” Halsin said, enveloping and stilling her hand with his giant hand. “I say all this not only to remind you that there is a cure, but also to say that you have done a lot, my friend. And that there are many that care for you. You’ve been strong for so long, too long, perhaps. But strength isn’t only in standing tall—it’s also in knowing when to rest, when to ask for help. Even the wilds know this. Trees bend and lean on each other when storms come. And the forest does not bloom all year. There are seasons for growth, and seasons for stillness. You are in your winter now.”

“It’s been winter for too long,” Xuan said, swallowing thickly. Her cheeks were damp. The person she wanted to be was someone she used to be. 

“Spring always comes.” Halsin squeezed her hand. “And there are always things we can do to welcome spring.”

Maybe there was no answer, but she wanted one anyway. And Xuan was ready to go and find an answer—she had been sitting in her cottage for long enough now to understand that it wouldn’t come to her magically. 

Astarion sighed, reaching out to touch her cheek as he pulled her back to the present. His fingertips were familiar and cold against her skin. “My stubborn monk.”

“Something is different,” she said finally, unable to put everything into words. “With me.” 

“Yes,” he said, though it sounded strained. “I know.” She took a breath, but it felt painful, like a fishbone was lodged in her throat. “I was too wrapped up in my own miseries back then to realize. I shouldn’t have left—”

“The past is the past,” Xuan said.

“And I’ll still regret it,” Astarion said, no more than a whisper. He smiled, but it was laced with self-mockery. Xuan leaned her face further into his hand. “So I’ll try to live properly now. And you should too. You deserve happiness, Xuan, and I would give it to you, if you let me, but I know how terribly hard-headed you are when you’ve already made a decision and I know that I’ve already broken what was between us—”

His words cut off sharply as Xuan closed the distance between them to hug him. Immediately, Astarion’s arms circled around her tightly as he drew her into his chest, her face crushed against his shirt, his face in her hair. “I’m not leaving because of what happened between us,” Xuan said firmly, with the most surety that she could muster. “You must know that, Astarion.”

His hands tightened around her. Astarion was quiet for many moments, his face pressed against the crown of her head. “Where will you go?”

“It seems that there’s still a—” Xuan’s throat tightened reflexively. On cue, Astarion’s hand smoothened along her back slowly. “—a connection between the stones and I from that day. If we can find it and destroy them properly, then maybe…” She trailed off. “And if we can’t find it, there’s still work to be done repairing the Shadow-Cursed Lands and Halsin thinks that it… will help me.”

“I can help you—”

“I’m not in a state to be with you now,” Xuan said and it was like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. With Astarion now, it wasn’t truly a matter of whether she loved him still or not, but a question of whether or not she could wholeheartedly accept love for herself. And Xuan was no longer sure of what that answer was. “Maybe in the same way that you had been when you left, I need to do this myself.”

He let out a hoarse laugh. “My stubborn monk,” he said softly again, peeling back away from her. Though he was scowling, his eyes were soft with a tenderness that she could never have imagined possible. “I’ll wait for you,” Astarion said suddenly. “So that you’ll feel some sort of guilt and return. Surely, you wouldn’t leave me waiting for too long, hm?” 

She smiled so that she wouldn’t cry. “Leave it to you to try to manipulate me even to the end,” Xuan huffed, beginning to feel the day’s events weigh down on her bones. Astarion didn’t seem to mind as she leaned her weight onto him heavily. 

“Manipulating is my love language,” Astarion said lightly as he shuffled the two of them backwards expertly into the bed.

“Said every great man ever,” she mumbled half-heartedly as he pulled the duvet over them and tucked her back against his chest, his arms wound around her tightly. Xuan let herself go limp against him, giving up any pretense of resisting him. Astarion had always been too easy to love. 

His hand combed through her hair gently, his other hand flat against her back. “I dreamt about this before,” she admitted, already beginning to drift off to sleep, though she tried to resist so that she could fully soak in the proximity to him.

“I love your dreams,” he hummed into her hair. She could hear the smile in his voice. “As long as they include me.”

They’re always about you , she thought. She would tell him one day in the future, sometime in the spring, she decided, when the air was warmer and lighter, when she could hold his hands without feeling the ghost of the stones against her palm. But now it felt too heavy. So instead, she whispered into his shirt,  “I won’t be here in the morning.”

“I’ll wait for you,” he said again.

As she drifted off, her mind already gummy with shapeless dreams, she distantly felt a brush against her brow, so soft that it melted into her sleep.

“Come back to me,” her dream whispered before Xuan finally gave in to her sleep.

Chapter Text

Time was always something that Astarion had never very much considered. Elves had a way of discounting time, the years trickling by like golden leaves in autumn. The first time he understood the finite nature of time had been when he was about to run out, when the last grains in what he had thought to be his endless hourglass slipped down, as he began to bleed out in the alley, the sun-warmed cobblestone hot against his cheek.

It had been the Gur. He knew it without a doubt. He had seen the same group that had come to the trial, only this time too late, when the knife was already twisted in his gut. Even as he was bleeding out on the ground, Astarion didn’t regret his ruling. Petty to the end, he thought, trying to spit out the blood that was filling his mouth. He hated the taste.

Time, which had seemed immeasurable, seemed to shorten to minutes, in a matter of minutes. Oh, but there was so much he still wanted to do, Astarion lamented, the throb in his torso red-hot. For one, he wanted to pay back that group of Gur a hundredfold. What had been the point of all that time? It was all bleeding out on the damned cobblestone.

Once the irony of the situation passed, panic and desperation washed over him. He could see the main street from where he was lying, could see all the foot traffic passing through. If one person just glanced over into that alley, maybe they could get help. Maybe they could save him. Astarion opened his mouth to make a plea for help, but it was quiet, swallowed by the blood gargling in his mouth and the sounds of the city.

Astarion had been lying face down on the cobblestone, rapidly dying in excruciating slowness, when his voice had come from above him, like a god in the skies, with honeyed whispers of immortality. Later, Astarion would wonder if he had seen Cazador’s face just once before he agreed, if he had just looked at him, if he would have been able to see the depths of evil in that monster’s eyes. But when he had offered him immortality, Astarion had agreed, easily. It was easy to agree to a promise of time when you were dying. 

And when he died and clawed himself out of his own grave, forever changed, time stretched from meaningless nothingness to excruciating concreteness. He could feel each day that passed, every hour that he was undead. Time passed slowly, marked in fleeting gulps from rats, touches from faceless strangers, biddings from his wretched master. A whole decade had passed before he had refused Cazador’s bidding, the night he had refused to bring that boy back and ran away. And then, as a result, a whole year, sealed in that tomb, starving and clawing in that dark silence. He had felt every minute of time then. Every second of it. He had wished, begged, prayed for time to end then, for all of it to end then.

When he met her, Astarion was aware of time running out once more. He could see the grains of sand slipping away. Midnight always strikes. At first, he was aware that it was only a matter of days before he would be condemned to the shadows again when his immunity with the tadpole ended—or when it would end him. He wondered if being a mindflayer was that much different than a vampire spawn. 

But then, as the days seemed to stretch and as they got further along in their journey, mostly unscathed, he became aware that it would only be a matter of time before Cazador found him again. And then when that monster hunter did unwittingly find him, he was sure that his time would stretch out painfully once more.

“I hunt a spawn named Astarion. I’m bound to bring him back to Baldur’s Gate—alive.” The monster hunter said solemnly. “Though I cannot swear to his condition once my tribe are done with him. Is he known to you?”

Astarion felt something in his stomach clench, though his fingers slipped to his dagger slowly. He could feel Gale’s eyes like daggers on the back of his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he could also see Karlach making a valiant effort to not look at him. The monk, however, had her gaze unwaveringly trained on the monster hunter.

Expectedly, she was honest to a fault. “We’ve met—he’s not the type to come quietly,” she said evenly, and Astarion felt something like shock and betrayal rise to his throat like bile. They weren’t close, of course, and it hadn’t helped that Astarion had complained about every decision she had made so far—he still thought helping all the refugees and the pregnant woman and the giant bear was a waste of time—but he hadn’t expected her to… well, give him up so easily. Without even hesitating. It stung a little. In fact, Astarion was a bit dumbfounded, his hand falling limp to his side as he turned to her, incredulous.

“You do know him? I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where he is?” The monster hunter perked up, like a child at a festival. If Astarion moved now with the element of surprise, he had a good chance of burying his dagger in the man’s chest. Only, as his fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger, the monk’s next words made him freeze.

“So you’ll try to find him at any cost?” The monk asked, brow furrowing.

Astarion’s jaw dropped. Cost? Not only was she giving him up easily, she was doing it for coin? The monk, who had but a pack of belongings and a ragged robe? 

“Yes—if it’s gold you desire—”

Thump.

They all stared in lagging shock as they watched the man fall back onto the marshy ground, like a ragdoll. 

The monk made a noise at the back of her throat, grimacing. “That one hurt,” she said, frowning down at her knuckle. Astarion followed her gaze, only to see that her knuckle had split open and blood was beginning to drip down her fingers. He was too shocked to be hungry at the sight of her blood. She had punched him, so swiftly that Astarion hadn’t caught the motion at all. 

“You—” He began disbelievingly, still trying to piece together what happened. “You punched him.” A startled laugh ripped out of him.

“Shadowheart, do you have an extra bandage?” The monk asked, flexing her hand carefully with a wince.

“Why?” Astarion demanded, feeling something like irritation and relief chafe together in an uncomfortable friction in his chest. “I thought you were going to turn me in.”

She frowned, turning her gaze on him finally. Astarion was startled to see the clarity in her gaze, uncomfortable to see the unwavering trust in her amber eyes. She was a fool, he thought dimly, running his tongue along the point of his fang out of agitated habit. “Why would I give you up?”

Time, in that moment, seemed to stutter.

In the weeks that followed, time continued to hiccup in strange pauses. She threatened the vampire-obsessed drow—a hiccup. She told him she loved him, but didn’t want his kisses or intimacy when he offered—a hiccup. When she stopped looking at him, after he laughed and told her that he could play the part of her lover with ease—a hiccup, and in the days when she continued to stop looking at him, a series of hiccups until it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Astarion wasn’t sure what moment it was exactly when he was first aware that time had slowed to a pause, though he could pinpoint all the moments when the awareness grew.

At some point, time paused whenever he was in her vicinity. It was wonderful, though it came in fleeting moments that crumpled the moment she was out of reach. Every time he was alone again, time seemed to speed up, and all Astarion could think about was time, how little time there was. It would only be a matter of time before everything turned back to the way it was before. And it was only a matter of time before Xuan would realize he wasn’t worth it. That he had never been worth it. It was only a matter of time before she would look at him, when she would get that furrow in her brow that she always got whenever she saw a charity case. Then one day, soon, it would turn into a tired look, when she realized he was more of a burdensome chore than a partner. Midnight always strikes.

So he tried to get ahead of time. Better to rip the bandage off, then live in this crippling push and pull of startling warmth and dreaded, inevitable cold. Astarion, consciously or not, was aware that it would be more painless this way. But when the time came, that day in the cold ocean water beneath the pier, he hadn’t even really meant to leave.

He just… did.

It had been instinctive to flee, perhaps a consequence of all the bracing he had done whenever time started up again. In the days that followed, the days that Astarion spent grieving the loss of everything he fleetingly had, he forced the thought to the forefront of his mind each time night fell, when his feet began to take him towards their camp.

It’s better this way, he thought, watching from the shadows as the city began to repair itself. He could see remnants of a parade, trampled flower petals on the ground, music in the distance—undoubtedly to celebrate the new heroes of Baldur’s Gate. He could imagine it clearly—they would all be celebrating in the Upper City, maybe in some fancy noble’s mansion. Karlach would be challenging Lae’zel to another drinking contest, Shadowheart would be watching with an unamused expression, Gale would be in a long conversation with Wyll, who would be too polite to decline. And Xuan—

Xuan would be hurt, he knew her well enough to know that much. She was too kind, too much of a bleeding heart. The thought twisted at his gut like a knife. It’s better this way, he told himself from the shadows as he kicked aimlessly at the flower petals to create a little mound. She was strong to both her own detriment and her own benefit and time would heal all. Once enough time passed, she would move on and he would become just a name that would pop up in the other’s stories if they ever had reunions. She would forget what he looked like, what his name felt like on her tongue, all the times he had made her laugh. Yes, he thought, It’s only a matter of time before she forgets.

Astarion buckled over and threw up, right onto the pile of flower petals.

The blood he fed on must have been bad, he reasoned, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

After he left, he was sure that everything would move on. After all, that was the surest symptom of time. Everything continued on, whether he liked it or not. The world had continued on after he died, the world had continued on and on and on.

Only, time seemed to remain stuck. Astarion was stuck with the same dreams and wants and the ghost of her warmth against his skin. It was like she had wrapped her hands around his heart and squeezed, and when she let go—or rather, when he took it back—she had left the impression of her hand around every part of him. While Astarion was sure that she would forget him, perhaps come a few years, he could not forget because time did not move on for him. And Astarion could feel the stillness of everything, every day.

Still, he waited, and still, he wanted. He had traitorous dreams that hurt to indulge, so in an effort to rid himself of stagnant time, he dove into his work. Dealing with the remaining spawn was exhausting and nowhere near rewarding. A lot of them hated him, for good reason, and seeing them only brought back unwanted memories of his slavery. Still, though, it hurt less than thinking of Xuan.

— — — — —

What was time when he had a few thousand vampire spawns to feed, when he was hungry himself? Astarion had never been lazy—just stingy with his efforts. When it came to figuring out how to keep seven thousand spawn from devouring every living thing in Faerûn, Astarion threw himself into the work. Of course, it was mostly because it was easier to focus on that task and to rid himself of time. With too much time, Astarion’s thoughts wandered back to her, and inevitably, his feet would too. And in the depths of his heart, he thought that maybe if he solved this issue, if he ever came face to face with her again, he could look her in the eyes and stand a little straighter, a little taller. Maybe he would be who she wanted to see. 

“I don’t get why you’re still here,” Dalyria muttered one day. Sebastian murmured his agreement.

He knew why she was there. While he felt a twinge of guilt in his gut from time to time when he looked at the other vampire spawns, Astarion was already concerningly good at ignoring any guilt. His siblings, on the other hand, were not as good with their guilt. Dalyria, with some twisted honor in her mind, felt that she owed Leon, after killing his daughter. And Leon had stayed out of some desire to help the new children, clearly seeking some sort of reprieve from the guilt he felt for ever bringing his daughter to Cazador. Sebastian—well, Astarion wasn’t quite sure why Sebastian was still there, but that man was the only one who made Astarion feel some semblance of guilt.

I suppose we’re all here because of some sick kind of guilt, he thought as he looked around the small quarters they had fixed up to be an office of sorts.

A month into traveling through the Underdark, they had stumbled upon an abandoned duergar city. Though it had been clearly abandoned for decades and thick layers of dust, grime, and the occasional mushroom blanketed the buildings, the craftsmanship of the duergar dwarves had clearly outlasted the question of time—it helped that the Underdark didn’t face any of the elements of weather or sun that would have otherwise worn down the buildings. All it had taken were a few weeks of repair and cleaning, and that had been relatively painless with the few thousand spawn that were tired of running and from the recent skirmishes with the drows, all eager for a place to rest. And though it smelled faintly mildewy whenever it rained above ground, it was still better than Cazador’s dungeons, and so the city became a strange new home.

“The Underdark has always been my dream home,” he said dryly in response, trying to ignore Dalyria as he scoured the inventory list the farms had sent. They had finally just struck up a deal with a farm miles outside of Baldur’s Gate after weeks of negotiating—the farmers closer to the city were understandably concerned with public scrutiny if it was leaked that they had any sort of association with vampires, but it seemed that the ones out in the country were more practical-minded. Understandably, a lot of them had been afraid, even when Astarion tried to appear as empty-handed and innocent as possible. Astarion had pitched the idea to them from the gates of their farms, taking on the persona of a charming entrepreneur, though he didn’t miss the way some of the farmers had gripped their scythes. None of them had invited him in, of course.

“We’ll do the dirty work for you,” he had said, flashing a smile that wasn’t wide enough to show his fangs. He didn’t want to go scaring them off again. “And it’ll be perfectly clean. No blood to clean up. And you won’t even have to pay us. We’ll transport everything to the butcher, and you’ll see all the profits.”

After weeks of this, one farmer, definitely too naive for his own good, had finally agreed. Astarion was sure if one agreed, eventually, they would all agree. Things seemed to be looking up, finally.

“You could always just leave,” Dalyria said, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You have friends.”

Friends. He was reminded of the time that in the pub, when Karlach had called them all friends.

“Just because we have matching worms in our heads doesn’t mean we’re friends,” he had said to Karlach, distracted by the tipsy flush on the monk’s cheeks. “We’re not friends.”

Friends don’t abandon each other, he thought to himself. “I don’t have friends,” Astarion said after a beat, irritated that Dalyria was still somehow getting under his skin, all these decades later.

“Ouch. I’m hurt,” Dalyria deadpanned, as she collapsed onto the chair across his desk, already looking bored. Astarion returned his attention to the inventory, relieved to be done with whatever soul-searching Dalyria was trying to do.

Sebastian’s next words, however, effectively destroyed his focus. “And the monk?” 

The paper inventory crinkled in his hand, his vision focusing and unfocusing on the numbers.

“I was surprised, Astarion,” Dalyria added. “She’s not your normal type.”

“I’d argue that all of our types were just Cazador’s type,” Astarion said sharply. Dalyria flinched at the mention of their old master’s name. Sebastian looked a little ill.

She was quiet for a long moment and Astarion realized with some kind of uncomfortable horror that Dalyria and Sebastian weren’t trying to get under his skin, but they were truly trying to have a heart-to-heart. Something like mortification writhed in his stomach. “In any case, why not go back to her? She seemed kind.”

She is kind, Astarion thought miserably. 

“And you seemed happy.”

Astarion didn’t let himself internalize the thought, but still it lodged like shrapnel in his mind and left a hollow ache in his chest. 

Dalyria studied him with knowing eyes. Astarion wondered if he should use the pointy letter opener on his desk for non-letter-opening purposes. “Whatever it is that you did, I’m sure she’d take you back.”

He felt nauseous. That was exactly why he could never go back. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven. He didn’t deserve her. He had always known that. Even now, when he was trying to do better, it would perhaps only be enough to one day face her again. 

Yes, we’re all here because of some sick kind of guilt, he thought again.

— — — — —

The kids had found a cat. When Sebastian gave him this report, he had paused in his inventory to give the other man an unimpressed look, hoping it fully conveyed, Why are you telling me this?

“It’s causing issues,” Sebastian continued, glancing down at the stack of papers on Astarion’s desk in mild interest. “They’re fighting each other over it.”

“Let me guess—they can’t decide who gets to keep it?” Astarion asked disinterestedly, smoothly hiding the contents of the papers with a stack of paperwork.

“Well sort of. They’re fighting over who gets to feed from it.”

“How pleasant. Tell the Gur to deal with it,” Astarion waved him off. As much as he disliked them, Astarion had to give the Gur credit that they did return frequently to visit their kids and at least took that responsibility off his hands. 

But Astarion didn’t very much like thinking about the kids—or his role in them being here—and found that every time his thoughts began to wander in that direction, something in him would recoil physically, like a hand brushing against a snake. I’m doing this because if I didn’t, the monk would, and she deserves a peaceful life, was what he told himself, and that was partly true, but the other part of it was guilt. But there was no point on dwelling on the why, with all the work that needed to be done.

“Well, the children have started stabbing each other, and some of the Gur got injured trying to stop them. You know what will happen if the others smell the blood.”

A throb began to pulse at his temple. Great, Astarion thought. The children had discovered that they could inflict bodily harm on each other, without much long term consequences given that they were all already dead.

“You deal with it then,” Astarion said, finally looking up to glower at Sebastian.

Sebastian shrugged, giving him a look that made his skin crawl. “I’m not the reason they’re here.”

“Gods,” Astarion snapped, but he got to his feet nonetheless. “I’ll feed on the gods-damned cat myself.”

True to his report, the children were indeed fighting over the cat. By the time that Astarion had gotten to the string of buildings where children and the Gur stayed, he could smell the sharp tinge of blood. Sebastian was correct—it was only a matter of time before the others smelled it and given how they were all still trying to control their thirst, it would only end up in a Gur bloodbath. Astarion would have been fine with that, if it didn’t mean that there would be no one else to handle the children.

“Well, this is quite the party,” Astarion said, loud enough to get the attention of two brawling children. He wasn’t sure if brawling was the right word—one of them had a rusted knife, the other a small axe.

They broke apart immediately, shrinking away from him. It was a good thing they were still scared of him. Understandably.

“Put those down,” he barked, turning to survey the rest of the scene. A few of the Gur were backed in a corner, fending off the rest of their children half-heartedly. Astarion could see the hunger in the children’s faces, their attention focused on the Gur in the center who was cradling her bloody arm and a small lump to her chest.

“Return to your rooms at once,” Astarion snapped, his voice cutting over the noise. For a moment, he marveled that he sounded like Lae’zel—commanding and imposing—but then the thought soon led to the monk, and he forced himself to shake the thought away. In any case, it seemed to work, because the children faltered, fear cutting through the hunger in their eyes as they saw him. When they scrambled away from him, Astarion stepped through towards the Gur, ignoring the pang of thirst in his stomach at the sight of the blood.

“You all should leave for a few days,” he said, careful to keep his eyes away from the blood. “The others will soon catch the… scent and most of them can’t control themselves yet.”

“Very well,” Ulma agreed, nodding at him grudgingly, though her eyes strayed towards where the children had run with a look of anguish. Astarion looked away, that feeling roiling in his stomach again. 

“Thank you, Astarion,” the injured Gur said quietly and Astarion jolted. “That could have ended a lot worse.” The Gur thanking him? The world had certainly turned upside down, he thought, as he pushed back an uncomfortable well of emotion as he waved them off.

“Leave before the others smell you,” he said again, turning to leave.

“What about the cat?” The injured Gur unfurled her other arm to show a lump of a cat cradled in her arm. Astarion couldn’t fathom how the scraggly thing had gotten that far deep into the Underdark. Its fur was covered in soot and dirt—Astarion would have thought it was a black cat, had he not seen the stain it left behind on the Gur’s shirt.

It stared up at Astarion with wide, fearless eyes, as if it hadn’t almost just become a meal. Something about the way it looked at him struck a chord of familiarity that made his insides twist. “I’ll take it,” he said before he realized.

And then the cat was in his arms and he was walking away, scowling down at it. “You’re getting dirt all over my shirt,” he muttered. It purred so deeply that Astarion felt it rattle against his chest.

— — — — —

Time continued to drip by in slow pulses, like the sun beating down on a summer day. 

It had been a moment of weakness when Astarion’s feet had carried him to that cottage. There had been another clash between the spawn and the drows in the Underdark, that of which left both parties wanting to kill him. He was tired and time still wasn’t moving and in that moment of hopelessness, Astarion let himself indulge the question of how time was treating her. If she was doing well, then it would be all worth it. It had been like a dam—one moment he let himself consider just the question, the next moment he was knocking on the cottage’s door.

When the door swung open, Astarion was met with a stunned silence that lasted several beats, before, “Absolutely not.” And then the door swung close before he could even open his mouth.

It wasn’t unexpected, but still it stung. Astarion was in the middle of contemplating on whether or not to knock again, when the door opened again, just enough for Shadowheart to stick her head out. Behind her, he could hear her parents. “You’ll have better luck with Gale, I’m not speaking with you.” And then a pause, as the door began to close again. Light from inside the cottage poured through the opening like a blade. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

And that was a dead end, until months later, when Shadowheart finally caved in. Before then though, Astarion swallowed his pride at the thought of having to ask the wizard. I just want to make sure she’s well, he reasoned with himself as he told Dalyria he was going on some vampiric business in Waterdeep. When he knocked on the door of the wizard’s tower—which, he noted with amusement, was very much not a tower—Gale’s voice boomed to the door, clearly projected with magic. “One moment please!”

Minutes passed before the door of Gale’s non-tower opened, revealing the wizard in neat robes and unsurprisingly, a stack of scrolls in his hand. Also unsurprisingly, the stack of scrolls dropped to the floor at the sight of Astarion. “Astarion,” the wizard gaped, looking startled, pleased, and wary all at once. Astarion enjoyed that he had that effect. “My old friend— Why, it’s been too long since—”

“Can I come in?” Astarion asked impatiently, eyeing the tressym that flitted behind Gale. He had never been a fan of cats, even those with wings.

“Of course,” Gale said hurriedly, ushering him in. Astarion could feel that resistance to entering lift at Gale’s words. “What brings you to Waterdeep?” He continued conversationally, as if both of them weren’t aware of why Astarion was there.

“Oh, you know, wanted to compare spellbook notes,” Astarion began, voice dripping with sarcasm already, though he tried to tone it down. Even he knew that it wasn’t a good look to disappear and show up on someone’s doorstep with an attitude. He clenched his fist tight enough to draw blood—if he had any—and forced himself to exhale. He fixed his gaze past the wizard, at the tressym that was staring at him with narrowed eyes. “I— Well, I was hoping that— Wondering, really— if you had any information on—”

Perhaps Gale really was as smart as he touted, because miraculously, he seemed to understand Astarion’s choppy words and waved him in. “Why don’t you come in first and we can talk?”

— — — — —

Sending the furniture was just supposed to be a one-time thing. Shadowheart had complained to him that Xuan’s place left much to be desired, and Astarion hadn’t been able to get past the thought, no matter how much he needed to begin drafting the negotiations between the drows, Myconids, and vampire spawn. Shadowheart hadn’t been happy when they were delivered to her cottage, but she hadn’t refused them. 

Instead, she had just sighed, collapsing onto the plush chair. “You should really give this to her yourself,” the cleric muttered. “I would never pick something this gaudy.”

It was easier to care for her through Shadowheart, in silence, than beg for something he had already lost.

Astarion had ignored Shadowheart's remark, eyeing one the cleric’s dozen pets as they shied away from him. He was sure that animals could smell the blood on him—or lack of. He thought back to the scraggly white cat, and then Shadowheart’s begrudging reports that Xuan seemed lonely. Each time he heard that, it had been like a shard of glass bouncing around the hollow of chest, growing sharper and sharper. 

“About that,” Astarion said slowly, clearing his throat. “I have one last thing to drop off.”

— — — — —

He had never meant to send any letter. He had never finished writing any of them. Most of them started the same, some of them never really started at all. Sometimes, he couldn’t get past just writing her name. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of any of his drafts, as if they served as some sick, physical reminder of his failures.

He stared down at his most recent draft, the mocking scrawl of his penmanship.

Xuan,

I have never been very honest. You know this. You’ve probably known this from the start, when I first lied to you and asked you to kill one of those little monsters. And you must have been reminded of this throughout our journey. I am a liar by trade. But I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I’m sorry and that I 

He pressed the tip of his quill into the table until it snapped.

Recently, whenever he saw Gale, the wizard handed him a new letter. He wasn’t surprised that Gale had let it slip to her that Astarion was around—the wizard had always had trouble keeping his mouth closed.

His letters sat in his desk drawer, unfinished and traitorous. Her letters sat next to his, unopened and tantalizing. Skeletons in a closet that he wished to dance with.

He folded up his draft with a sigh, creasing it carefully in half. He told himself again that he would finish it one day. Astarion unlocked the desk drawer to hide it away, another skeleton, when to his horror, he saw that the drawer was empty, save for Xuan’s unopened letters. His drafts, the hundreds of them, gone.

“She didn’t read them, if it’s any solace,” a voice said from his doorway. In one swift motion, Astarion crossed the room and had Sebastian pinned, a blade to his scarred throat.

“Read what?” Astarion asked slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a sword being unsheathed.

“Your letters.”

Astarion pressed the dagger harder against Sebastian’s throat, deep enough to draw blood had Sebastian been living. “I’m going to gut you,” he snarled, clenching the hilt of the dagger to hide his shaking hands.

“Consider it my revenge,” Sebastian said slowly, unmoved as he stared back at Astarion evenly. “I’d say it pales in comparison to what you did to me.”

Astarion couldn’t argue with that. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Astarion felt older than he had ever felt. The dagger slipped out of his hand, clattering to the ground loudly as he released Sebastian.

“Why?”

A funny look crossed Sebastian’s face, though it disappeared quickly. “I can’t hate you when you’re already miserable.” 

So that was why Sebastian was still around.

Astarion sank into the chair, tired and wanting. It seemed that no matter how much time passed, he still missed her.

— — — — —

Though he could control his thoughts while he was awake, it was a different story at night. Whenever he rested, he dreamed of her. They always left him feeling worse, but still, that traitorous part of him craved that glimpse of her.

It had always been near impossible to ignore her proximity. In his dreams, she would peer up at him, a breath away. This close in his dreams, he would feel her warmth, smell the hint of jasmine that he had committed to memory, see the faint scar across the bridge of her nose.

The first time he had noticed the scar wasn’t that night when they first kissed—he had willed his mind to go perfectly blank, regrettably—but it had been the first time she had gotten furious with him when he had tried to lie to his spawn siblings about the ritual, when she had marched up to him, chin raised and tilted back, close enough to him that he could see the scar, close enough to him that he could have kissed her if he just ducked his head a little—he had thought about it at the time, of course, thought about it so thoroughly that he hadn’t caught the rest of her tirade and instead managed a rather muted “uh-huh” as he came to the sobering realization that Xuan was beautiful when she was angry.

This close in his dreams, he would almost pretend that they were touching, that they were back to those nights where if he did dip his face a little closer to hers, she wouldn’t wilt away from his touch like he were some kind of monster. Or worse, a stranger. Not for the first time, he wished he hadn’t left. Their proximity felt like a mockery of what once had been their intimacy. 

But Astarion was always so dizzy with want, a hunger he could temper in his dreams, that he tried to reason with himself. He wouldn’t touch her, but he was reminded of the first time they had held hands. “Maybe if you say please,” she had said stubbornly, cheeks flushed.

“Won’t you touch me again,” Astarion always found himself asking before he could think better of it. “Please.”

“I don’t think I should,” Xuan would say, her gaze shifting to the space between them. 

“Why not?” Astarion would ask, grimacing at the earnestness in his voice, though he kept his gaze trained on her. “That night, you asked me to hold you and now you’re back to…”

“It’s not my place anymore.”

“It’s a special privilege reserved just for you,” Astarion would murmur, ducking his head to catch her gaze. And though he had this dream dozens of times now, he was always startled by the cold, distant look in her eyes when she met his gaze. 

“I’ve been curious about that since before,” she would say calmly. “Why is that privilege just for me? Do you know what that means?”

This was it, he would think as he flattened his palm against his leg again. “Because I love you, of course,” he would always say, voice unsteadier than he had anticipated. It wasn’t his first time saying it, but he could always feel his nerves jumping for the first time.

In every rendition of this dream, Xuan would laugh and it would never reach her eyes. “You’re still saying such things.”

“I mean it.”

“I won’t believe such insincere words again, Astarion.” Her voice was always steady, final.

And then Astarion would wake up in a cold sweat, stomach churning with nausea. Some nightmares were hard to separate from reality.

But the worst nightmares were the ones that Astarion knew would never be real again.

He dreamt of her hands, her palm, warm and soft, flush against his cheek, against his chest, against his own palms. He dreamt of his own hands, his fingers tracing the lovely curve of her brow, the shallow dip of her collarbone, the spray of freckles along her shoulders. He dreamt of her weight crushed against him, the bare brush of her eyelash against his cheekbones, the softness of her hair. He dreamt of her whispering his name, him whispering her name, the curve of her lips a breath from his.

And then Astarion would wake up in a cold bed, his dreams of her warmth like a phantom pain against his skin.

Yes, those were the more terrible and wonderful dreams.

— — — — —

The night she left, Astarion fought sleep and time with every fiber of his body. He wanted to study her features, commit her to memory before she slipped away from him. But no matter how hard he resisted, the warmth of her body against his, the smell of sun and jasmine in her hair, and the steady rise and fall of her chest lulled him into a deep sleep.

When he woke, he tried his best not to, because in the depths of his heart, he knew that he was alone again. Astarion lay in his bed, growing more aware of the stillness in his room. There was no warmth next to him, no sound of breathing, no rustle of clothing. He opened his eyes in a last desperate attempt to confirm that she was still there, but the space next to him was empty. Astarion wondered if he had dreamed it all, before a piece of parchment on his bedside caught his eye.

Astarion,

You are welcome in my home as you please. Astarion (the cat) is with Shadowheart. Take care of yourself.

Xuan

As simple and as straightforward as ever. Astarion huffed a laugh as he ran the pad of his finger over her name, and then his. Her penmanship was terribly childish, he thought with a shake of his head. She was still terrible with her hands. Still though, he pocketed the letter carefully. He wished he had gotten one last kiss from her. 

When night fell and Astarion made his way back to the surface world, he opened the cottage door and stepped inside. Though it had only been a few days, the place already felt cold, the air still and stale. 

“That’s fine,” Astarion said out loud to himself as he closed the door behind him. “I’ve always been good with time. Midnight always strikes.”

Chapter Text

It was the final cusp of spring again. All around her, small beads of fruit formed on the trees in place of wilting flowers. The air was warm and dense, a breath cupped between two hands. Still though, a breeze flowed through the garden like water, and it seemed to pass through her chest, light and airy.

Xuan paused at the edge of grass that became the familiar stone pathway, taking a moment to close her eyes and inhale. The air was sweet, and it felt as though each deep breath lifted her higher and higher, despite the weariness of her feet and the heavy travel packs on her back.

The garden was doing strangely well, she observed as she stepped down the stone path. She could see the beginnings of a fruitful spring harvest—the buds of cherry tomato blossoms on vines, melon vines snaking through the soft grass, a few bird-pecked strawberries hanging low along the path. 

As she neared the end of the path, an excessive bloom of sunburst yellow caught her attention. Daisies were growing in wild clumps, seemingly unchecked compared to the rest of the otherwise neat garden. Xuan reached out to touch a soft petal, her eyes following the sea of daisies.

At the edge of the daisies was a silver-haired man, knee-deep in the soil as he plucked thoroughly at the weeds.

Xuan didn’t bother to wonder if she was dreaming. She dropped her travel pack and staff and bundles of gifts to the grass, the soft thump catching his attention. He rose and turned, brushing the soil off his hands on a familiar tressym-patterned apron. 

Astarion broke into a dazzling smile, brighter than any sun.

“Took you long enough, darling.”

Chapter Text

“Darling,” a soft whisper came from underneath her dreams. She ignored it, trying desperately to cling onto the remnants of her dreams, though she could already feel it slipping away. Though what her dream melted into wasn’t that far away from itself.

“Sweetheart,” the whisper came again in her dream, more of a murmur this time. Dimly, she could feel something cold brush the back of her neck. Xuan wormed further into her blankets, inhaling the scent of sun-baked laundry.

“My love,” the voice said again, and it would have been difficult to tell if it was a dream or not, had the voice not sounded impatient and demanding this time, despite the inherent softness of the endearment, like silk over stone.

“Urg,” Xuan conceded, rolling over onto her stomach as she felt Astarion press an open-mouthed kiss against her shoulder. She cracked an eye open unhappily, grimacing despite the low light. “The sun’s not even down yet,” she grumbled, letting her head fall back down into the pillow.

“It’s nearly sunset.” A pause. “Don’t make me use my cold hands on you.”

“Your hands are always cold,” she pointed out, her words muffled into the pillow.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxed. Xuan could feel the cold air of the room on her back as he nudged her shirt up—or rather, his shirt—though it wasn’t as cold as the chill of his finger as it traced the curve of her spine. “Aren’t you excited? We get to tell all those sorry gits today!”

“Another hour,” Xuan pleaded, trying to wriggle away from his dancing fingers.

She felt a scoff of disbelief against her skin, and then the press of his lips against the middle of her back, cold and soft like fresh snow. That made her shiver. “Not even five minutes, but an hour? Terrible bargaining, darling,” he murmured against her skin. 

“You’re supposed to negotiate back, and we’re supposed to settle on a number that’s higher,” she said into the pillow, already feeling the last remnants of sleep slip away despite her best efforts to hold onto them. Damn Astarion and his particular way of getting her to bicker back.

“I didn’t teach you how to bargain.” Astarion’s fingers traced down her sides, his lips pressing to the base of her spine.

“That’s because you don’t bargain, you steal,” Xuan said plainly, earning her a light pinch to her side.

“Darling,” Astarion coaxed.

“We have time—no one’s coming until nine, and you know they’re always late.”

“I just want to see my lover’s face,” he said, with enough sincerity that it made her resolve crumble nearly immediately. Xuan bit back an endeared sigh as she grudgingly rolled over onto her back to stare back up at him. Ruby eyes, curved lips, moonlight hair.

Astarion smiled down at her so widely that his fangs peeked out. That was her favorite smile—she thought it made him look endearingly boyish. He was smiling still as he ducked his face down to hers and pressed a soft kiss against her brow. “You look positively delicious whenever you wake up,” he told her, his hands sliding to lie flat against her stomach. 

“Because everyone wants to be called delicious by their partner,” Xuan said, unimpressed as she watched him curve back down towards her to fiddle with the hem of her shirt. He lifted it, inspecting the damage he had done the night before with a mischievous grin—already a soft bruise was forming on the curve of her hip from his heavy kisses. Astarion traced the outline of it for a moment, before pressing his lips lightly to it, as if to kiss it away—though that was why they were there in the first place.

Intimacy between them had been slow—as had nearly all aspects of their relationship been. Xuan knew that Astarion still had nightmares about his time with Cazador and others, and Xuan had never craved that sort of physical intimacy. It didn’t mean that she didn’t like it—the sounds of Astarion’s reverent whispers in her ear, the tremble of his hands holding her, the feelings of their bodies entwined all made something in her warm—but she never felt the need to seek it out, which seemed to suit Astarion just fine, until he was ready.

Now though, she could see he was thinking about it, his eyes dark as cherry wine as they traced over the bloom of bruises. He gave her hip another soft kiss before shaking his head and crawling back up, muttering to himself, “No, no. We’ll be late.”

Xuan rolled her eyes, settling back against the pillow.

“But I can actually verify that you are delicious,” Astarion hummed, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against her neck. Xuan had already forgotten what they were talking about, too distracted by the way he was peering at her. She could feel his teeth scrape against her neck gently, not enough to break skin. Astarion’s weight dropped on her slowly, his body enveloping hers. “What were you dreaming about, hm? You were in such a deep sleep.”

Xuan paused to think about it, grasping at the already slipping dreams. Recently, she had been waking up feeling refreshed, her old nightmares a distant ghost. The memories were all still there, but so were the memories of her time with Halsin, with new friends, and new stories. And those memories were brighter, sharper, richer. And slowly, with time, they lifted her up and up, until she felt light again.

She wasn’t who she was before the stones, she could never be who she was before again, but Xuan was finding that she was every version of herself from before, in the same way that seasons added more rings to a tree. And more importantly, she found that she liked who she was becoming, even if she occasionally felt that wistful ache in her chest for simpler times.

Xuan reached up to slide her hand into his white curls, coiling them around her fingers gently. Her heart soared as she pressed a kiss against his temple. “I was dreaming about you,” she answered. She felt uncharacteristically shy. “They’re always about you.”

Astarion was quiet for a long moment. And then he turned her chin in his hand and kissed her soundly on the lips.

“Mine too,” Astarion murmured, looking dazed before a radiant smile spread across his face. “You have a terrible knack for troubling my sleep.”

“Let’s not forget that you just woke me up.”

“Let’s not forget that you had said you’d be up by sunset,” Astarion huffed, smoothening back her hair. He sighed mournfully against her mouth. “You used to be a woman of principle! We have so much to prepare for the announcement—”

A low mrow from the base of the bed interrupted them. “Right,” Xuan said as she wriggled from out under Astarion to sit up and stretch. “Dinner time.”

“You’ll get up for him, but you won’t get up for me?” Astarion grumped, turning to shoot the cat a look.

“I am getting up for Astarion,” she said mulishly. 

Astarion—the vampire—blanched. “I told you he needs a different name.”

“But he only responds to Astarion!”

As if on cue, Astarion—the cat—let out a low mrow. Xuan smiled down at the cat affectionately before scooping him up in her arms. She fiddled with the flashy collar on the cat, twisting at the ruby that encrusted it.

“I still don’t like his collar,” Xuan frowned. “It’s much too large for him. And flashy.”

“He’ll grow into it,” Astarion said with a wave of his hand. Though Astarion always complained about the cat, Xuan had come back to the cat on a plush bed, hand-embroidered, and a ruby collar.

“Maybe I’ll get you something simpler, hm?” She hummed to the cat, kissing the top of his little head as she stepped towards the kitchen.

“So I have to compete with him for affection and my name,” Astarion muttered, stepping after her with an eerie similarity to how the cat followed her around. With Astarion’s sulk growing, Xuan decided not to comment on it. “I’ve really never liked cats—”

— — — — —

“Well, everyone,” Astarion began excitedly, though no one seemed to hear him.

“I’m hoping to become head of faculty in the next semester or two,” Gale was saying to Jaheira, who was too kind to detract herself from Gale’s ensuing thoughts about tenureship at the university.

Minsc, on the other hand, easily removed himself from the conversation with a stifled yawn and a jerk of his thumb towards the refreshment table that Xuan had set up by the melons. “Minsc will go find drink.”

Xuan had proudly used some of the last remnants of their fruit harvest that summer to make juice. Astarion decided not to tell her that he had seen Karlach add one too many splashes of ale into her own cup. 

“I have some news,” Astarion started again, clearing his throat. When no one reacted, he tapped his glass of boar’s blood with his spoon. The cling was drowned out by Karlach’s laugh.

“The ale in Avernus is piss-poor— Actually, I’m starting to think they do piss in it,” Karlach was saying loudly, tucked snugly against Wyll’s side. “That would be expectedly hellish.”

“I am certain that I would come out victorious if we were to engage in another ‘one-for-one,’” Lae’zel said, a glimmer of interest moving across her otherwise stoic face.

Astarion turned down to his lover, frowning. “They’re not listening to me,” he complained. He opened his mouth to try again, but already Xuan had taken a deep breath to gather her voice.

“Everyone!” Xuan said, her voice cutting through the noise. “My husband has an announcement!”

A dozen pairs of eyes slid to her slowly, including a pair of red ones.

“Well,” Astarion said wryly, though he couldn't seem to bite back his giddy smile. He stepped closer to her to clasp her hand. “That was the announcement.” His thumb smoothed over her knuckles, and then over the thin gold band on her ring finger.

The ring itself had been its own ordeal.

“I thought a stone or jewel might break off if you punch someone,” he had said when he first put it on for her, rambling nervously. “Though I also figured you wouldn’t like anything flashy.” Astarion’s hands had trembled so terribly when he tried to slip it on her finger, that Xuan had to steady his hand with hers. 

“Thank you, Astarion,” she had said, pressing a kiss to the matching band on his finger. “It’s perfect. And you already know that I love anything you pick for me.”

“Yes, but I wanted to find the best one,” Astarion started, frowning. Xuan bit back an exasperated smile. They had flitted around the idea of marriage for awhile now, the topic gone unspoken until one day, while they were both sitting on the porch, when Xuan had asked Astarion if he wanted to get married. He had thrown a half-hearted fit, mostly upset that she had asked him first, though his irritation quickly melted into immediate anticipation for planning. In fact, he had rejected her marriage proposal, in favor of more time for him to prepare. At the time, Xuan hadn’t anticipated that he would take what felt like an eternity to find a ring—Astarion was funny with time like that.

“Those dwarves are all about mixing metals now, and the rock gnomes would wear, well, rocks if they could.”

“Astarion,” Xuan interrupted gently, admiring the rings on their hands.“It’s beautiful.”

Astarion’s shoulders slumped, a pleased and flustered hitch to his lips and a faint pink dusting his sharp cheeks. “Dammon did a decent job, I suppose.”

Now, the rings glinted in the low candlelight, their hands clasped together tightly.

“Husband?” Shadowheart sputtered, looking both pleased and indignant all at once. She shot Xuan an accusing stare that Xuan shied away from guiltily. “You didn’t tell me—” She began saying, just as the others seemed to snap out of their daze.

Karlach tugged Xuan into a warm, bear-crushing hug that lifted her feet clear off the ground. “Thank you for taking that one off our hands,” she said, laughing, but when Xuan looked up at the tiefling, she could see a glossy shine to her eyes. Karlach blinked back her tears rapidly. “The gods give the toughest battles to their strongest soldiers.”

“Oh, hush. I can say the same to Wyll,” Astarion said, though his words were soon muffled once the tiefling released Xuan and replicated her hug on him. “Ugh. You’re too warm,” he complained, but Xuan could see that he was squeezing Karlach back just as tightly.

“Congratulations, little ones,” Halsin said, smiling warmly. “May Oak Father bless this joyous union for seasons to come.”

“Thank you, Halsin,” Xuan said, giving the giant druid a tight hug.

“Zhak vo'n'fynh duj,” Lae’zel said to Astarion, who went pink.

He cleared his throat and said, “Zhak vo'n'ash duj.”

Lae’zel broke into a rare smile. Xuan made a mental note to ask Astarion later what he said.

“We will organize an illithid hunting party in celebration,” Lae’zel continued, her expression thoughtful. “There will be great plunder and destruction and we can deliver the spoils of the raid to your home.”

“Please do not bring any sort of spoils here—and especially no worms,” Astarion said swiftly, neatly sidestepping Gale’s attempt at a hug. Xuan accepted it readily for him, which only afforded her a scowl from her husband. “No raiding or plundering, unless the spoils are of the golden sort.”

“If not a raid, then perhaps we organize a banquet or a dance, right in the center of Baldur’s Gate,” Wyll added eagerly. 

“In the meantime, how about a toast instead?” Gale suggested, already filling everyone’s cups with a quick spell. He gave a pleased grin. “I’ve been working on a new spell,” he said, gesturing at his cup.

“This may be your best one yet—Fireball excluded, of course, because of how many times that’s saved us,” Karlach beamed.

“Go ahead, my love,” Astarion murmured, squeezing her hand tightly.

Xuan took her glass in her other hand and looked around, at the smiling faces of everyone she loved. Karlach and Wyll, tucked against each other; Shadowheart smiling at her grudgingly, shoulder to shoulder with Lae’zel, who seemed to be nearly smiling; Gale, cheeks ruddy and healthy, as he beamed up at them.

She turned and looked at Astarion, at his deepening smile lines, at his fangs peaking out of his broad grin, at the way he looked at her.

Xuan squeezed Astarion’s hand back, certain that she would never let go. “To many more springs with you.”