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Astarion returns to the Elfsong after the sun finally sets. There is only Gale, Jahiera, Halsin, and Minsc.
There is no party.
Just the four of them sitting at the bar with several drinks around them. Emptied glasses cover the bar and half-drunk ones sit in front of them.
Astarion takes the empty seat next to Halsin and quickly steals the whiskey glass from the man’s large hand. Astarion doesn't drink it, just slides it away from Halsin who looks at him with tear-filled eyes. There are lines on his face that look an awful lot like dried tear tracks. “Some after party,” Astarion quips sarcastically, “I would've expected Karlach and Wyll to start another one of their drunken games,” he doesn't try to keep the bitterness out of his tone.
Why were they all being so quiet? Why did they have a party without him? Why had it ended so early? Why-
Why hadn't anyone come looking for him?
Especially Dandelion. Astarion refuses to believe his Dragonborn would have a party without one of them- much less without him.
“Where’s Dandelion?”
Nobody looks at him, either staring at the bar counter or into their glasses. Gale swirls his colorful alcoholic concoction, one of his nervous ticks Dandelion once commented on. The candlelight of the Tavern reflects through the glass, casting scattered purple-pink hues onto the wooden counter.
Unease settles deep in his guts. They had beat that damned brain! Everyone made it out. Everyone. He even talked with Dandelion before the Dragonborn helped him escape the sun and into the sewers. Dandelion wouldn't just leave him.
Unless the Dragonborn was currently searching in the sewers for him? Oh his idiot would be in that dump looking for him. Karlach and Wyll, ever the kind-hearted fools, would go down with him for back-up. He would need a bath when he gets back. Astarion discreetly sniffed his own clothes and, yes, he too needed a bath and a new change of clothes.
The two of them could share, he thinks. A bath, not clothes. But he wouldn't be opposed to wearing one of Dandelion’s large and soft tops.
Astarion stands and turns to leave, but Halsin grabs his wrist in a firm, but gentle- always gentle- hold. “Astarion,” the Druid’s voice is strained with emotions, “Dandelion…” he trails off. The floodgates of tears finally open and the man suddenly sobs into his hands. His shoulders heave with every breath.
Astarion can only stare in confusion.
Jaheira takes another swig of whatever wine she’s drinking with one hand and pats the man with the other.
Everyone stays silent.
It annoys Astarion, “Well?! Spit it out. What about Dandelion?” the unease he felt fully sinks its claws into Astarion and panic wells in his stomach.
It’s Gale who answers him, “I’m sorry Astarion-”
“Sorry?!” Astarion’s annoyance turns to rage that quickly reaches its boiling point, “Sorry for what?! What in the Hells is going on?!” he drags his furious gaze over his slouched companions. They were so… downtrodden.
They were the heroes of Baldur’s Gate!
They had just beat the brain that threatened to take over the entirety of the Sword’s Coast!
They won!
“Dandelion killed himself.”
He doesn't know who says it, but it's quiet. A whisper. Astarion almost doesn't hear it. Almost.
When the words finally register, they hit him like a dragon’s powerful landing. He flinches. A full body shudder that nearly brings him to his knees.
What?
He barks out a laugh. A crazed giggle that turns quickly to a full body shake that he isn't quite sure if he’s laughing or sobbing. He hasn't laughed this hard since he picked up that damned haunted amulet.
What an unfunny joke.
Killed himself? Preposterous.
He tries to wipe away the misty fog covering his eyes and his hand comes away wet. He looks down, almost expecting to be bleeding from some wound that escaped Dandelion’s healing spells.
But it's… water?
He feels the wetness dripping down his face and tastes the saltiness of… tears. He’s crying.
He furiously wipes them away. It's from laughing so hard. That's why he’s crying.
Because Dandelion wouldn’t kill himself.
He’s not dead.
He’s just in the sewers searching for him. That's why he isn't here.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Minsc’s words are sincere, but they just add fuel to Astarion’s anger. The spawn snarls at him, teeth on full display. But nobody flinches. There's no fear in anyone’s eyes.
They're all just- so sad.
Astarion wishes they'd be scared. Or angry. Angry that he’s acting like nothing more than an animal. Or happy that they beat the brain. Or- or any other emotion than this.
But they're not.
They're not and that scares him.
Because that means Dandelion is…
“He’s not dead,” he snaps.
Gale looks away from Astarion and back into his glass that he swirls a little too aggressively. A small amount of the beverage spills over the side of the glass and onto the lacquered counter. He pays it no mind. “We were so caught up with Wyll and Karlach heading to the Hells that,” Gale’s voice is cut off with a shuttering breath, “Fuck,” he sucks a harsh breath of air in, Astarion doesn't think he’s ever heard the wizard swear, “Fuck,” Gale breathes out quietly. He shakes his head and rests a hand over his eyes. His shoulders shake as he takes in one unsteady breath after the other.
He’s crying.
Gale is crying.
Why is everyone fucking crying?
Dandelion isn't fucking dead.
“Nobody saw him do it,” Gale says, head still in his hand, “We didn't think- we just beat The Absolute- we-” he downs the rest of his glass, “I wondered why he hadn't said anything. Karlach’s engine was about to combust and Wyll managed to talk her into staying in the Hells just until we could find a way to fix it up for her. They left. I don't know how we can tell them what happened.
“I don't know what would've happened had we lost both of them today,” he finishes. He didn't once look at Astarion, too ashamed of himself.
Halsin’s sobs echoed in the silence of the Tavern.
“I don't believe you,” Astarion’s voice barely leaves his throat. He is tense. So tense. He wants to run. His legs ache to run. He doesn't want to be here having this conversation because it wasn't true. “I don't- he wouldn't-” tears well in his eyes and he aggressively wipes them away before they can fall again. “Where is he?” he hisses.
Gale shakes his head, “We tried- begged- Withers to revive him. That bag of bones just- just said no. Lae’zel tried to threaten him, but he just vanished. Shadowheart and Halsin pooled all their magic together, but… but it didn't work,” Gale’s voice was hoarse. Each word sounded like it grated against his throat, “Astarion,” Gale, finally, finally looks up at him. His eyes are bloodshot. There are dried tear tracks down his face. His lips are chapped. He looks absolutely debouched. “he’s gone and we did everything we could to bring him back. I’m sorry.”
Astarion’s nose scrunches as he sneers, “Bull.Shit.” an animalistic growl rips from his throat. Astarion wants to lunge at the stupid wizard, throttle him for telling such convincing lies, bite him, anything to get his anger out, “You-”
“Astarion,” it’s Jaheira who calls his name like a scolding commander. Her voice has Astarion shutting his mouth with a clink of his teeth. “His body is currently at the graveyard’s morgue. Let's go,” she empties her drink and sets it on the counter with a grace only she could have.
“Go?”
“I’m going to the morgue. You're coming with. So?” she intones like she is talking to a toddler, “Let's go,” she stands and heads for the door without looking back.
Astarion knows what she’s doing. Talking in statements and leaving no room for arguments. It's a good tactic to make people obey.
He hates that he finds himself following after her. He looks back at the fools still sitting at the counter, drowning their sorrow away with alcohol. It's pathetic.
He’ll join them once he gets back.
Outside, the moon bathes the city’s destroyed streets with a pale blue. The once colorful stalls are either destroyed or drained of their splattering colors by the moon’s overbearing blue hue.
Even Selûne mourns.
Their steps are loud against the quiet of the night. No birds flutter in the air. No vermin skitter past unsuspecting feet, searching for scraps of food. No people bargain at merchant’s stalls. No bards play their newest awful melody at the sides of the streets. The city was once so loud. Full of life.
Now?
There are no people.
No life on the streets in the city that once never slept.
Astarion wonders if he will ever see the world in such splendorous colors again. The moon makes everything… grey, diluted. He was given the sun for only a few tendays and he already forgot what being a creature of the night was like.
Jaheira doesn't try to make conversation.
Astarion is thankful.
They enter the graveyard. It's a wonder that this part of the city remained largely untouched by the fight. No headstone is out of place, and even more crazy is that no graves look robbed.
As they walk through the rows of headstones and towards the back of the graveyard, Astarion’s eyes drift to where his headstone lays. He stares at the date he carved into it with Dandelion by his side. That had only been-
That had only been two nights ago. Cazador has been dead for 3 days and everything has fallen apart around him.
Perhaps…
No, Astarion would not even consider thinking about that.
Jaheira wordlessly stands next to him. He doesn't know when he stopped walking. She looks at the gravestone, his gravestone. Her expression is hard to read, but her eyes are soft. She wants to say something but is holding her tongue.
Astarion has half a mind to tell her to spit it out. Whatever is on her mind.
But he doesn't.
Instead, he says, “We just came here, he and I. I hoped that I could do something dramatic, just for him,” he stares into the hastily carved date, “I wanted that man dead, the old me, so that I could live with him- with Dandelion,” his brows pinch as he holds back the tears that threaten to spill. Dandelion had once kissed between his brows and told him it was better to cry. Astarion said that was stupid thinking, but still cried himself into Dandelion's shoulder through the night. He did feel better that morning, but it was only because he drank blood. He blinks away the fond memory. It brought a heaviness to his heart.
He needed no air, and yet, he felt like he was choking. His lungs felt like they were being crushed with an invisible weight.
“I want this to be a dream,” he admits quietly, “Hells,” he swears as a thought comes back with full force, “Hells, I want to wake up in Cazador’s mansion. In those damn Kennels. I-”
He is cut off by Jahiera’s warm hand on his frigid shoulder. He feels her weight and warmth through his clothing. He hates that it’s comforting.
“Can we-” he cuts himself off this time, “Show me where he is?” he meant to sound confident.
Jaheira gives him another pat, “Of course,” she leads them to the ramshackle morgue in the back. The building is enchanted; he noticed that it was charmed by a powerful warding spell. Jaheira raises an arm, motioning him to stop.
She mutters a prayer to- Selûne?- and Astarion feels moonlight wash over his skin like a protective coating. The radiant magic flutters over him, dancing under the moonlight’s power and casting a dim glow over his body.
“You may enter,” Jaheira gestures to the door that stills sheens in magic. She is not covered in magic. “I figured you would rather go alone. I will stay outside. Just… just don't do anything drastic. Don't make me regret leaving you.”
Astarion doesn't make any promises. He tries to sidestep her to get to the door, but she grabs his shoulder. “Astarion,” she sounds on the verge of tears, “I am an old woman. Don't let me lose another kid.”
He shrugs her hand off, “I am no child,” he scoffs, “And I-” he pauses, truly thinking- would he?- “I won't,” he promises.
She lets him pass.
The wooden door is warm to the touch. The charm magic allows him passage. He pushes the door open, ready to see anything on the other side.
He expects noise. Either someone praying at an altar or working at the bench, building some coffin or whatever it is the people do here. Instead, there are no people.
Inside, it’s quiet. Dust gently floats in the beams of moonlight that shine through the windows. In the doorway, he feels like an intruder to this peaceful place.
In the middle of the room, a closed casket lays on a raised platform, ready for a ceremony. It wasn't often people got caskets rather than just a shoddy coffin. He takes his chances.
The door shuts with a click behind him. Magic runs over the door, creating an Arcane Lock.
There was no running away now.
He hopes this is just some elaborate prank. He hopes that everyone will jump out from the shadows and shout, “Suprise! You idiot spawn! You really believed it, huh?”
This wasn't the ideal place to hold a celebration, but when has their ragtag group ever been normal?
Instead of bright lights, party streamers, and his companions shouting loudly, he stands in front of a gold-adorned casket in a dark room.
And he’s afraid.
Afraid to lift open the top and see what- or who lies in it.
Because there’s still a chance of convincing himself that his Dragonborn- his stupid, idiotic, loving, Dragonborn- is still alive and looking for him.
He rests a hand on the lacquered wood. While Astarion couldn't recognize wood based on the look or feel of it, he hoped it was one of Dandelion’s favored ones to whittle with. The glow from Selûne’s blessing shines off the wood’s surface in gorgeous displays of dancing lights. It reminds him of a Dragonborn’s reflective scales.
He takes a shaky breath.
And opens the casket.
His worst fear is confirmed.
Dandelion’s eyes are closed. Astarion can't see much lower than his chest, but he doesn't see any wounds. There's no blood anywhere. But he is in different clothes- in his comfy camp clothes rather than his armor. They're the fancy purple pajamas Astarion got (stole) for him. He had to make a few adjustments to it so that Dandelion could easily fit his horns through it. Nothing a pair of scissors and a few added buttons couldn't fix. Threads of golden silk wind around the fabric and create an unfinished patch of golden dandelions on the shirt’s breast pocket.
Astarion wanted to properly embroider the whole thing. Dandelion loved animals and plants and trees and- and- Dandelion loved. The man was so full of love. Astarion wanted to return that love in full by embroidering anything the Dragonborn wanted.
The first thing he asked for were dandelions. The man had smiled so widely when Astarion agreed to do it, that big dopey grin that only Dandelion could make look adorable rather than stupid. What Astarion would give to see it again.
He stared at the unfinished patch of messy dandelions. It wasn't his best work. He could do better. He could do so much better if he just had more time.
But it would forever remain unfinished.
It was ugly.
But Dandelion looks so peaceful in it. His eyes aren't flickering back and forth, following the visions of nightmares. He isn't twitching uncomfortably. His body remains still.
He is resting.
He’s just resting.
“Wake up,” Astarion gently cups the Dragonborn’s face. He soothes a thumb under his eye, feeling the soft scales under his hands. Dandelion does not nuzzle into the motion. “Wake up,” his voice cracks. Dandelion is cold. So cold. His pearly scales don't hold their luster. They're grey. There is no rise and fall of his chest. It's still.
Dandelion is motionless. He’s never still.
This is wrong.
Astarion’s knees buckle and he finally sobs. Sobs openly and loudly. He curses the gods, swears at his companions, and screams and begs Dandelion to come back. He cries until he has no tears left and screams until his throat burns.
He doesn't care if Jahiera hears him.
Because Dandelion is dead.
His bag jostles at his side as he moves to sit crisscrossed and leans his head against the casket. He feels dizzy.
Dead.
Pft.
What a joke.
Astarion nearly starts crying again. He brings an arm up to cover his face in the crook of his elbow. The darkness over his eyes brings him little comfort. His pack teeters on his shoulder uncomfortably. He shucks the damn thing off. It falls to the ground unceremoniously, a few scrolls and a couple of tempered arrows tumble out and scatter across the floor.
Dandelion always handed him the scrolls Gale either had no use of learning, or already knew. Honestly, his bag is more like a library of useless spells.
Astarion’s brows furrow.
Useless spells?
He springs forward, snatching his bag and hastily rummaging through it. Potions, amulets, coin, none of that matters more than the thought of one damn scroll.
He prays to whatever god will listen that he has it stuffed somewhere in here.
Finally, he finds it.
He gingerly holds it up as if it could shatter in his grasp.
A Speak with the Dead scroll.
He stands on shaky legs and uses the casket to stabilize himself. “You better fucking answer.” He takes a breath to calm himself before unfurling the scroll and reading the spell on it. The scroll’s sigils ignite in a green flame before burning the scroll and leaving nothing but ash in his hands.
Magic flutters in the air, curiously, politely, asking Dandelion to answer. Astarion waits impatiently, anxiously.
One. Knock.
Two. Knocks.
“Please,” Astarion begs as the magic feels like it's about to give way with no answer.
In a flash, Dandelion’s eyes snap open. Their normal colors were replaced by the same bright green magic. The eery green glow of necromancy magic fills the air. Astarion’s undead skin prickles at the feeling of the magic wanting him. He shivers.
Dandelion patiently waits for a question.
Astarion shakes the feeling of the magic off him. Maybe he should've thought about what to ask before using a scroll that could only be cast once.
He was allowed 5 questions, but only one mattered.
He takes a steadying breath. He can't stutter. He has one opportunity to ask. He can't mess it up. “Why did you kill yourself?” Shit, does he have to first ask him how he died? Is that how the questions worked? Or-
“I was…” the raspy voice that came out of the corpse was Dandelion’s but he sounded exhausted. Only two words in and Astarion regretted this. He should’ve let the dead rest. “Scared,” he finishes with a pained huff.
Guilt tugged at Astarion’s heart. “Just bear with me a little longer-” he stopped himself from asking ‘okay?’ at the end, “Why were you afraid?”
“No more… urges… no more… Absolute. Nothing left… for me. I felt… myself slipping. I didn't want... To hurt anyone. Ever again.”
“Then why in the Hells did you do it after I had to flee from the sun?” he asks before he can properly think of his next question.
“Astarion…” Dandelion’s tone holds nothing but pure affection, “I couldn't let him… see me… he deserves more…” his voice drifts off.
Astarion waits for the man to elaborate.
But the corpse stays silent, awaiting another question.
Astarion slams a fist on the casket. Frustration and anger and sadness and- and so many more emotions twist inside him like a hurricane. “Deserve more,” he scoffs, but makes sure that his tone holds no infliction that could be considered a question, “What I deserve is to be happy! I deserved to have a happy ending! My siblings got theirs. The 7,000 other damned spawns got theirs. Hells, even bloody Cazador got a better demise,” he curses Cazador’s name like its a bitter poison.
The whole time, Dandelion’s face doesn't change. It doesn't display any emotion. The necromancy magic has just turned him into a pliant body ready for a question.
Astarion feels bile crawl up his throat at the comparison.
This wasn't Dandelion. This was just magic that had access to Dandelion’s memories.
“Who was Astarion to you?” he asks bitterly.
He doesn't want to know the answer.
“Astarion,” that fond tone is back again, but it's a mimic of the true voice Astarion wants to hear, “He was… my most beloved treasure. I would… do anything for him… I love him.”
Astarion’s heart cracks. Stupid. What a stupid question to ask. Good thing he has no more tears left to cry. “I love you too. You know that right?”
“I do.”
“Fuck,” Astarion laughs, “I didn't mean for that to be a question,” he isn't frustrated with the Dragonborn for answering, no, he is just… dazed. He should've let the others be here for the questioning. Maybe Dandelion held some sort of secret that the others wanted to know. Surely, they had questions to ask the Dragonborn.
But they weren't here.
And Astarion had one question left.
There were so many things he wanted to ask the Dragonborn, so many things he wanted to say to the Dragonborn, but there was only one damned question left he could ask.
“Were you happy on our journey to beat The Absolute? Don't just say yes or no. Elaborate,” he isn't quite sure if the command would work.
“Yes,” Dandelion’s corpse goes silent. The green light bleeds from his eyes and the necromancy magic that filled the air with its suffocating presence disappeared. Dandelion’s eyes are open, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Damn you,” Astarion mutters as he reaches to gently close the Dragonborn’s eyes, “Damn you,” he whispers, on the verge of sobbing tearlessly, “You were supposed to say what you enjoyed most. Where was your favorite place to camp? What was your favorite animal? Which drawing is your favorite? Who’s cooking was the best?
“What should I do now?”
There were plenty of half-finished wooden structures around. He could easily rip one into a stake to join Dandelion… but he made a promise to Jahiera.
And Dandelion hated when people broke their promises.
There's a knock at the door, “Astarion?” Jahiera calls, “The sun’s almost out. We should head back.”
Right.
The sun
He casts one last glance at Dandelion before gently shutting the casket. They head back to the Elfsong in suffocating silence.
Gale, Halsin, and Minsc are all asleep at the counter. Astarion doesn't want to go up to the second floor where their little camp for the past tenday was. He doesn't want to sleep in the bed he shared with Dandelion.
He takes the seat next to Halsin. The man’s head rests on his arms and his back looks uncomfortably hunched. The glass of whiskey is still there, untouched. Astarion drinks the nasty liquid and relishes the burn. He raises the glass to his lips, but Jahiera plucks it from his hold before he can down it again.
He sends her a glare, but doesn't have the energy to argue.
“The Harpers always have room for new members,” she says, “I doubt anyone would bat an eye at a vampire in their midst.”
“I didn't expect you to see me as a business opportunity,” he spits.
“I don’t. But I do see someone who needs a purpose.”
Her gaze is soft. Her eyes hold unshed tears. Astarion looks away. His nails dig into the counter, “I’m not going to become some personal attack dog for you.”
“We don't just need soldiers. You were a magistrate once, yes?”
He barks a laugh. A magistrate. Not the type of happy ending he ever wanted. Maybe once he devoted his life to the laws, but he doubts it. “I don't remember a single damned law.”
Jaheira sighs, “I’m just saying you have other options. You can refuse them. I don't mind. But just know I’m here.”
Options.
Right, he had options now.
He would just- he would just-
Live? Without Cazador dictating his choices. Without a collar and a leash for a master to pull. Without limits to what he was allowed to do.
Without Dandelion.
He frowned.
He could join the spawn in the Underdark, but he didn't want to ever see his “siblings” again.
He would figure it out. Probably. Maybe.
He was never good with planning.
But he would manage, hopefully.
“How much do the Harpers pay?” he asks eventually.
“For a hero of the Gate? As much as you want.”
“Alright,” Astarion breathes. It would be better to throw himself at something rather than wallowing in his sorrows alone at a tavern. He rests his head on his folded hands.
Deserved more? Astarion can't help but think about Dandelion’s response. He doesn't know what the Dragonborn was referring to, might never know truly what “more” meant, but this was a start. This was just the beginning to finally living his unlife and he would carry the memories of his companions forever.
This little journey of theirs would forever be a bittersweet memory.
But it was his. One of the first things he could call his own, but it would not be his last.
He decided that what he deserved was to live.