Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wow, you’re 300 years old?? You look so young!”

Rielle had been hoping her tight smile would come off as friendly, but not so friendly that it invited more conversation. Either she missed the mark or this girl was too oblivious for her own good.

“That’s incredible, I can’t imagine what that must be like. You must be so smart. I feel like I’d really have my shit together if I could live for 300 years.”

There it is, Rielle thought. “That’s a common misconception, actually. It’s not really linear like that. You learn a lot, but you also outlive a lot of people, and that sort of messes you up all over again. Some of the most messed up people I’ve ever met were centuries old.”

“Wow, that’s wild.” The girl was nodding, but she clearly wasn’t listening. Rielle could say anything right now and this girl would agree.

It wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation with a human. It wasn’t even the 500th. Most of them ended this way, with her gently trying to correct their assumptions and them ignoring her to continue living in their fantasy versions of the world. She couldn’t blame them. If humans didn’t want to spend time unpacking their preconceived notions about a lifestyle they would never have the chance to live anyway, she could let them have that. It was annoying, but it wasn’t hurting anyone really. Of course, that didn’t mean she needed to indulge this girl indefinitely.

Rielle gently excused herself to keep wandering around the crowded gallery. It was busier than the average opening, definitely. Dozens of conversations blended into a roar as voices echoed off the tiled floor. It was a nice space, but loud, and that made it more overwhelming. She sipped her wine as she walked, hoping it would dull the experience for her a bit.

She recognized a few faces as she wandered, but no one acknowledged her. That was just fine. That was part of the reason she used a pseudonym for her work. One thing centuries of life had taught her was that art and fame were a volatile combination. And so, it was Tav Joren who had painted the many works adorning the walls, not Rielle. Over the last couple decades, Tav had earned herself quite the reclusive and mysterious reputation. All anyone seemed to know about her was that she had been present at the Battle of Baldur’s Gate 200 years ago and had known The Heroes, the group of companions who had taken down an elder brain and saved the city.

The work on display tonight portrayed those very companions, which had not gone unnoticed by the reviewer from the Gazette. “This anonymous artist has evoked the likenesses of some of our city’s most beloved figures, rendered all the more intimate for their abstraction,” they’d written. The reviewer had concluded that this work was her “least obscure and most accessible work yet.” She hadn’t been sure at first, but apparently that was a good thing.

It never failed to amuse her, the way people wrote about her art. All she’d been trying to do was paint her memories. They tended to come in flashes, a crinkle of an eye, a brush of a shoulder, a teardrop sliding down a cheek. So, that’s what she had painted. It really wasn’t that deep.

Regardless, the local history connection combined with the positive review had drawn a crowd, and Rielle wasn’t complaining. She had bills to pay, and abstract portraiture wasn’t always the moneymaker she needed it to be.

She continued around the room, occasionally pausing behind people who were considering one of her paintings to hear their thoughts. It seemed the “Gift” series was everyone’s favorite, which she had to agree with. Those paintings were the ones that had started this entire body of work for her. They were displayed in a side room to keep them together. Rielle passed a group of young adult halflings exiting the room and gushing about how they’d “fallen in love with a bunch of paint on canvas” and how “his eyes are so mysterious and sad??” She smiled to herself. She’d nailed his likeness, then.

Halsin’s portraits were drawing a lot of attention, but he made regular appearances in the city, so people recognized him. He was the only member of their group, actually, who lived publicly as a “Hero.” She and Shadowheart preferred to keep their heads down, and he didn’t seem to mind. The only other person still alive was Astarion, and though he was also recognizable to people (unlike Rielle or Shadowheart, who had aged and changed their hair over the years), he’d never spoken publicly about his experience fighting the Absolute. Since Wyll had died many, many years ago, Halsin had happily worked on his own to preserve their history and make sure no member of their group was forgotten. She passed a portrait of Wyll now, a flash of his stone eye in the firelight the night he’d asked her for a dance, and her heart ached. It never went away, the feeling of missing them. After all these years, it still hurt sometimes.

She cleared her throat and looked away. Maybe it was time for a fresh drink.

As she passed the makeshift bar in the corner opposite the entrance, Rielle swapped her empty glass for a full one, pausing to strategize. She knew the cast of characters who attended art openings in the city fairly well by now, and they all assumed she hung around so much because she worked at some gallery or another and left her alone. She liked most of them well enough, though there were some whose opinions on art she valued over others. Her eyes fell on Oskar’s something-great grandson. He never missed an opening, much to her dismay. As usual, he was looking down his nose at all the work and commenting loudly that “it’s just a bit simplistic, that’s all. A noble attempt, though.” Rielle snorted into her glass. Says the man who exclusively paints nudes of women he’s slept with lounging on beds. Real groundbreaking work, that.

Her eyes fell next on a tall, blue-skinned tiefling in a loose, colorful robe. Sklada, her manager. Sklada had bribed a gallery owner some 10 years ago to tell her the real name of the artist who’d done all the “sad pretty portraits” on display, and from there had tracked Rielle down and forced her way into representing her. Rielle had been resistant at first, but she was quickly forced to admit that it made anonymity easier having someone to contact galleries for her. The only people in the world who knew she was Tav were Sklada, Halsin, and Shadowheart. It was probably their 50th opening together, and her manager had not always been great at subtlety (she stood close to 7 feet tall and seemed to be allergic to flat shoes and neutral colors, so that wasn’t surprising), but she had figured it out eventually. Now, the tiefling calmly excused herself from the group she’d been talking to and made her way over to the bar, greeting Rielle as if she were a casual acquaintance and not a client/friend/godfather to her son. After 300 years of life, Rielle didn’t go out of her way to let new people into her life, but Sklada had stubbornly insisted, and she was glad.

“Hello, sweetheart!” The tiefling leaned an elbow against the bar and smiled down at Rielle. “Quite a turnout, isn’t it?”

Rielle smiled as she looked out over the crowd. “It really is, Sklada. You did a great job promoting it.”

“Please, this work sells itself.”

Rielle rolled her eyes, but smiled at the compliment.

“You know,” Sklada continued, “I hadn’t seen all of this work together until the gallery finished hanging it all this morning. It’s really something, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

Sklada clicked her tongue and shook her head. “No, it is. And the ‘Gift’ series, do you know the story behind that one?”

Rielle sighed. She had avoided getting into it the several other times they’d discussed this body of work, but she’d had a couple drinks now and her tongue was feeling slightly looser.

“I think.. I think the artist said he was the person she was closest to.”

“Mm, interesting. But they’re not together now?”

Rielle laughed bitterly. “No, no, he has made it very clear he wants to leave all that behind and wants nothing to do with her.”

Sklada took a thoughtful sip of her drink, keeping her eyes on Rielle. When it became clear that was all the information she was going to get, she nodded and looked back out at the crowd.

“Well, at least it seems like the artist has made peace with the situation and isn’t still making tragic paintings about it. Oh, wait…”

Rielle gave her a playful shove, and Sklada graciously pretended to be knocked off balance, laughing.

“Listen, the best art humbles the artist, right? And look at all these young people falling in love with this man based on some portraits, you’ve really done something! Not sure what, but it’s definitely something.”

Rielle rolled her eyes. “I have not done anything, have I Sklada?”

“Oh gods, alright, the artist has done something. Either way, after all this mess is over tonight you’re coming home with me and we’re going to eat and toast to the artist’s success and annoy the shit out of my wife who has likely just gotten our baby to sleep, yes?”

Rielle smiled to herself. It was nice, feeling like she was part of a family. It had been a long time. It felt that way still when she visited Shadowheart or Halsin, but Halsin had a few centuries on her and Shadowheart was a half-elf, so neither of them were up for much late night carousing anymore. “Oh, Sklada, I forgot Halsin said he might come tonight. There’s some midsummer event happening this whole week at the inn, but he said he would try and make it afterward.”

The tiefling’s face lit up. “Oh amazing, I haven’t seen him in ages! If you see him tell him he’s invited to the afterparty, will you? If I bring him with me maybe Mir won’t be so mad at me. I keep telling her to just admit she’s in love with him, I mean who isn’t? But she insists I’m imagining things, but I know my wife, Rielle, and…”

As her friend launched into a familiar rant, Rielle saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. Her heart stopped as it always did, holding for a beat and then redoubling somewhat painfully. Her stomach flipped. She would have thought after a couple centuries it would get old, this dance of hope and grief that her body did every time she saw someone with white hair, but apparently not. She noted with annoyance that her heart was in her throat now, and she didn’t bother trying to stop her eyes from tracking down whatever non-vampire non-Astarion she’d just seen. Probably just a drow or someone making a fashion statement, but she knew from experience that her mind wouldn’t rest until it proved she’d been mistaken.

However, she realized as her heart fell into her stomach, that might be an issue this time.

Because as her eyes finally landed on white hair, they also landed on someone who was indisputably, unmistakably Astarion. He was drawing stares, magnetic as ever, but his red eyes, red eyes she hadn’t seen in hundreds of years, were fixed on her.

Rielle’s body was reacting before her mind had even processed what was happening. There was a rushing in her ears and sudden tears pricking at her eyes, and she could feel her face flushing. She felt as if the earth had fallen from under her but she was still suspended briefly in midair, waiting to fall. The fall was certainly coming, though.

In her many imagined versions of this moment she had been calm, articulate. She had spoken to him as if he was a stranger, told him exactly what he’d put her through. As she looked at him now, her fantasies fell to pieces. It had been a long two centuries. She wanted to kiss him as badly as she wanted to kill him, and that was no small amount.

She felt a hand on her arm. “Sweetheart, are you okay? What just happened?” Sklada had cut off her rant and was speaking softly now, like she was afraid Rielle was going to pass out. And, well, that wasn’t out of the question. Rielle couldn’t tear her eyes away from Astarion, blinking several times in the hopes that he was some sort of hallucination.

“Shit,” she whispered, and Sklada followed her line of sight, landing on the man with a sharp intake of breath.

“Hells, is that–?” She likely wasn’t the only person recognizing the pointed ears and white hair from the portraits in the side gallery. He was one of Rielle’s paintings, come to life.

Rielle fumbled around behind her to try and put her drink on the bar. “I have to–I’m sorry, Sklada, I just–”

Her friend grabbed the glass from her hand and put a reassuring hand on her back. “It’s fine, sweetheart. Do you want me to come with you?”

“Um…” Rielle couldn’t get her mind to function properly. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll go see what he wants.” She didn’t like worrying her friend like this, so she tried a joke that ended up feeling a little too real to be funny. “If I’m not back in an hour, send in a rescue team.”

She immediately turned to head… where? She didn’t want to be alone with him, she wasn’t ready for that. But even more than that, she didn’t want to have her first conversation with him in 200 years surrounded by strangers. Not to mention, the pragmatic part of her brain was reminding her, if she wanted to stay anonymous it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to draw a ton of attention to herself arguing with someone who was very clearly the subject of several paintings on display. She had a vague memory of a door off of the permanent collection galleries that led to a garden, and without another thought she headed there, ducking her head to avoid being sucked into a conversation. She didn’t need to look to know he was following her.

She waded through the crowd towards the entrance, into the main hall and then across to the permanent gallery. These rooms were always open, but for events the gallery would often hire a Fist soldier to hang out in the hall and keep people out of them. Luckily, this particular guard had been on duty when Rielle had dropped off some of her work, and he seemed to recognize her, nodding to let her through. As she walked through the dark doorway, she pointed behind her without looking. “You can let him through, too.” Her voice was strangely steady.

The permanent galleries were a series of interconnected rooms with a variety of work from local artists over the years. There were pieces from a couple of Rielle’s former alter egos on the walls, displayed as antiques, which usually amused her. Right now it just made her sad. She was an antique. She was too fucking old to feel this many feelings.

During the day these galleries had a steady flow of visitors, but tonight they were eerily quiet. It was chilly despite the warmth of the night air outside, temperature controlled for the sake of the art. The only light was what filtered through from the lobby, and it cast long shadows in front of pedestals and statues. The chaos of the opening had receded to a dull roar that sounded much farther away than it was. Rielle felt like she’d entered a tomb.

She walked through the first room, weaving between sculptures as her footsteps echoed softly and her head spun. She had known he was alive, but apparently seeing it was a whole other experience altogether. What in all the hells was he doing here? Anger and longing were battling it out in her chest. How dare he, she thought, show up here like he didn’t abandon me for 200 years?

But 200 years was a long time, and she’d be lying to herself if she thought her anger hadn’t faded a bit. There was a not-insignificant part of her that didn’t even care for an apology, that wanted nothing more than to feel his soft, cool fingers in hers, to wrap herself around him and inhale his scent again. He was here. He was back. Surely she deserved, after he’d deprived her all this time, to have that? To feel good again in the way she only ever had with him?

Hells, that was pathetic. He’d probably replaced her dozens of times over while she’d been lonely and pining.

She slipped into the second room. The lobby light didn’t reach here, but the glass paneled door on the back wall that led out to the garden let in beams of moonlight. She walked to the door and tried it, dismayed to find it was locked.

“Allow me.”

Fuck, that voice. She’d had dreams narrated in that voice. It was still the voice she heard when she was puzzling through something difficult and didn’t have a friend to bounce ideas off of. He’d been her person for that. That, and so many other things.

She stepped aside to let Astarion kneel in front of the door, and for a moment Rielle felt like laughing at the familiarity of it. They might have been breaking into a general’s quarters or looting a crypt two centuries ago. It was as if no time had passed at all, when in fact so much time had passed as to separate them almost entirely. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself and tried to breathe.

Within a single cycle of breath the door clicked open, and Astarion smoothly stood and slipped through. Rielle followed, turning to close the door behind her as a way of giving herself one more blissful second of not looking at his face. Of course, one second was about all she could stand, she was so eager to see him again. Gods, this was confusing.

She sighed and turned, taking him in slowly as if he was a bright light in a dark room and she had to let her eyes adjust. He looked good, not that she was surprised. He was wearing an impeccable suit that was tailored to within an inch of its life, which seemed unfair. Of all people, he was one of the few who didn't need the help of a good tailor to look perfect. He’d framed himself well, too, standing in front of an ivy archway that led to a fountain. It was a beautiful night, and he was beautiful.

Rielle had grown, in many years of life, to appreciate the feeling of heartbreak. She didn’t want to become one of those elves who reached 300 and started living self-destructively, doing impulsive and stupid things just to feel something, but she understood how that happened. After a while, it did start to feel like you’d experienced everything already. Existence became boring. So when her heart was sore, it sometimes felt good. Stimulating, like a muscle she was exercising for the first time in a while.

There was an element of that now. Sharing space with him again hurt in an almost exquisite way. Despite everything, she still considered herself just a little lucky to have had her heart broken by him. It was proof he’d held it for a little while.

Slowly, as her eyes adjusted and they stood in silence, Rielle’s mind began to work again, and she finally spoke, her voice unsteady and quieter than she hoped. She sounded younger than she had in years.

“Why… why did you come here?”

He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, looking at the ground as if to gather his thoughts. When he looked back up, his face was open and serious and all he said was “Because I missed you.”

Ah, she thought. There’s the anger. It hardened in her chest until she felt brittle with it. She was never one for yelling, and that had become more true with time. When she spoke, it was no less calmly than she had before, but her voice had a hard edge.

“I beg your pardon? You missed me? Astarion, what is this? Why are you here?”

He seemed to flinch slightly at the sound of his name from her lips. As he fucking should, she thought vindictively.

He furrowed his brow at her repeated demand, shaking his head like he was confused.

“Darling, I–”

“Don’t call me that.” Rielle was quietly seething as she stepped towards him. “Don’t you dare, not until you explain what is going on and why you abandoned me and why it took you two godsdamned centuries to find me again, and not until I somehow magically forgive you, which I won’t, and not until you swear to me on my own grave that you will not leave again, then you can call me darling. Not until then.”

She was standing an arm’s length from him now, and she was annoyed to feel hot tears flooding her eyes. I hope they make him feel like shit, she thought to comfort herself.

Astarion held up his hands as if to show he was unarmed.

“Yes, alright. But… you know where I live. I don’t understand why I’m the abandoner here and you’re the abandonee, my dear. My door is always open to you. I never wanted it to be like this.”

Rielle laughed bitterly.

“Tell me, Astarion, when was the last time I saw you?”

He blinked at that and looked to the side as if trying to escape her gaze.

“No no, look at me. Describe to me what was happening the last time I saw you.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him look this nervous.

“I–the sun was burning me, so I–”

She grabbed his chin and forced him to look down at her.

“Before. That.”

His eyes went from nervous to downright afraid, but he didn’t pull out of her grasp. He didn’t speak, either. Rielle waited. She’d waited 200 years, she could wait another minute. No problem.

When he finally licked his lips and opened his mouth, his voice came out impossibly faint.

“...Karlach.”

“What happened to her?”

He cleared his throat, but his voice was still barely above a whisper.

“She… she died. In your arms. She died.”

His throat caught on the last word, and Rielle saw his eyes welling up. She felt bad for him, she wanted to hold him and comfort him, but her anger was like a forest fire, eating her up faster than she could think. She tightened her grip on his jaw.

“And at her funeral, the next day? Where were you then? The funeral we held after sunset specifically so you could attend?”

His face hardened now, though his eyes were still close to overflowing.

“I didn’t ask you to do that. I don’t do funerals.”

He had found his voice, and it was cold and certain. Rielle let go of him and stepped back. Now that his anger was igniting, hers was burning out, fading to a deep, aching sadness that was too familiar.

Why couldn’t they talk to each other? They’d always, always been able to talk to each other. She shook her head and sighed heavily, letting sadness quench her anger fully as she looked up at him.

“I know you and Gale had your issues, and Wyll was a jerk to you sometimes. I know that. I didn’t expect you to go to another plane for Lae’zel’s funeral. But… Karlach, she loved you. You should have seen her after we found out about the ascension ritual, I’d never seen her so angry. On your behalf. She… she really loved you.”

His face had not softened, but a single tear fell down his cheek as she spoke. She saw him swallow hard before replying, his voice strangely formal.

“I’m aware. I cared for her as well, which is why I didn’t want to watch her get dumped into a hole while a bunch of people who barely even knew her cried their eyes out. I don't do funerals, my dear. Especially not for her.”

Rielle felt a small wave of relief settle over her. She’d known he was kind, she’d known they had broken through his walls. But there had been a small part of her, after all this time, that had started to wonder if perhaps she’d been wrong about him. If perhaps he had never cared.

It was, at the very least, a comfort to quiet that voice in her head.

But it didn’t soothe the hurt.

“Astarion… I loved her. I loved all of them.”

The mask of his anger was beginning to crack, his eyes becoming rounder as more tears fell.

“I was so, so sad. Even if you weren’t at the funeral I needed… I needed a friend. Every single time, Karlach and Wyll and Gale and Lae’zel, every one of them, I needed you.”

“You had friends. Friends who knew how to be what you needed. I wouldn’t have been of any use, I would have made it all worse.”

His words were certain, but his voice was low and unsure.

“Sure. I had Halsin, and I had Shadowheart, and I’m grateful for them every single day. But you were the one… you know what we were to each other, Astarion. You were the first person I went to when I was feeling… anything. And I thought I was that for you as well. I–”

She was crying too, now. She honestly hadn’t thought these feelings were still so close to the surface, but she was reliving it all now as she looked into his eyes. The days of waiting, the strange, detached tone in his letters as if nothing had changed. The days, the months, of crying so hard she could barely breathe, feeling so alone. Missing him on top of everyone else. She took a shaky breath before continuing.

“I really needed you, and you weren’t there. It was like you didn’t even care. I didn’t need you to be perfect, I just needed you to be there. And instead, you left me so completely alone–”

A sob cut off her last words, constricting her lungs and her throat and making it impossible to speak. Before she knew what was happening, there were cool, firm arms wrapping around her. After two centuries her body still remembered him, and her arms went around his neck without a thought.

They stayed like that for a long time, her sobbing into his shirt and him holding her. Rielle let herself relax into him. It was frightening, actually, how quickly her body seemed to forgive him, even as her mind couldn’t.

She berated herself mentally. She had not intended to cross the line of physical contact at all, because she’d known it would be too easy. She certainly had not forgiven him, and she wasn’t about to act like everything was fine. But as he held her, she felt a tiny rip in her heart begin to knit back together. For the first time in centuries, he was giving her something she needed. It wasn’t okay, it wasn’t over, but she was so tired. She needed a truce, just for now, just while his arms were around her.

When her breath quieted, Astarion moved one hand up to stroke her hair gently. She relaxed into him even further, sighing at the sensation. She remembered when this kind of thing had not come so naturally to him. He’d learned how to hug when they were together. It hadn’t been that much time together, all told, but she still carried so much of him around with her every day. What was she supposed to do with that? She couldn’t just forget. It was who she was now. They were a part of each other, forever.

After another minute, he spoke softly next to her ear.

“The paintings, the ones of me… they’re lovely. I don’t know how you do that, it’s like you paint someone but you paint more than just their appearance. You paint their essence. I’ve always admired that.”

She pulled back to look up at him, wiping her tears, and he let his arms fall.

“What do you mean ‘always?’”

He smiled sadly. “My dear, you can use any name you want, but I’d know your work anywhere. I’ve got quite a collection back home, spanning your whole career.”

Rielle’s heart constricted painfully. It was so wonderful to be loved by him. It was so cruel of him to love her only from afar. She swallowed and looked down.

“Thank you, that’s… thank you, Astarion.”

“May I ask you a question?”

She laughed humorlessly as she looked back up at him. “Sure, why not?”

“Why did you name them what you did? The paintings of me?”

She shook her head and smiled, looking to the side. “The first time you fed on me, you said ‘This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.’ And, I don’t know, I suppose it came to mind as I painted memories of you. Gifts are something you give freely, without expecting anything in return, and if I think of my love for you in those terms it’s a little less… painful. So, the series about how I love you is called The Gift.”

She spoke matter-of-factly. She’d become more prone to doing that over the last couple of centuries, having grown tired of trying to couch things or be tactful.

Astarion blinked, his eyes becoming round once more as his brow furrowed into sad disbelief. He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she.

He still hadn’t been there when she needed him. He still hadn’t apologized for not being there. There was nothing more to say, for now. After a moment of silence, she turned and walked back into the darkened gallery, and he did not follow.

She didn’t see him again for 10 more years.

Chapter Text

Astarion rubbed his eyes, still sore and warm from his tears, and took a deep breath. He hated this time of year. Even after the sun went down, everyone still smelled like sunshine and sweat. It made it harder than usual to ignore how much he missed the sun’s warmth, Rielle’s curls in the light, salt on her freckled skin. Gods, what a horrible night.

He sank down onto a stone bench, letting the coolness of the stone creep up his spine and give him a brief respite from his swirling thoughts. He generally tried to avoid spending this much time alone with his own mind. The dark corners and open wounds that had once comprised his consciousness had mostly disappeared and healed over the years, but they’d been replaced by questions, impossible ones with no answer that would send him into a frustrating loop if he didn’t distract himself.

Seeing Rielle again was a lot to process. He wasn’t sure anything could distract him from that.

She looked lovely, which was annoying. The extra 200 years surely should have drained some of her beauty, but age had merely carved out her cheekbones, made her eyes slightly more hooded and sultry, given her a more confident demeanor. If things were fine between them, he would rant to her about how unfair it was that she was getting hotter with age, because he probably would have too and since he was a vampire they’d never know, and he could almost hear her laugh as he imagined it. He sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He was so tired of having imaginary conversations with her.

He hadn’t seen her since that day on the docks, aside from the odd self portrait he’d come across in galleries. He refrained from buying those, as he thought it might cross the line into creepy territory, but he loved to look at them. He’d always loved watching her mind work, and her self-portraits were something close to that, a little window into how she saw herself. It was just a hint of the Rielle he missed, like a lingering scent. Nothing close to satisfying, but better than nothing.

There hadn’t been time, in the tadpole days, to pursue any talents that weren’t combat-based, but he’d noticed the paint on her boots the second he saw her. Once they’d gotten closer, she’d told him about her painting, and he could remember it like yesterday. It had angered him almost, that she had any other skills when she was already so gifted with magic. Surely she should leave a little talent for the rest of them. And it had boiled down to jealousy, looking back on it now, imagining having the time and the freedom to make art.

Things had seemed very simple to him then. The sudden freedom the tadpole had afforded him made it all too clear just how enormous his suffering had been, as if he hadn’t been able to see the size of it from the inside. He’d stumbled into the light for the first time in 200 years and it had blinded him to anyone else’s pain. After a time he had adjusted, with the help of patient friends. And Rielle.

It was still there, that feeling he used to get, when he saw her tonight. Along with a thousand other emotions, looking at her face again, being in the same space, he’d felt a small spark of joy. It was a Rielle-specific joy, one he had only felt ghosts of over the last two centuries. There had been a time, before he met her, when he hadn’t thought joy was real. He’d thought people were exaggerating, and what they were really referring to when they talked about things like “joy” or “happiness” was just a temporary lack of suffering. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to him that there could be any feeling above that, not until he’d started to realize how it felt to make her laugh, to make her proud, to be better than she expected.

So he’d been honest when she’d asked why he was there. He had missed her, every second of every day. It’s not as if he was only happy with her; he’d had happy moments on his own, plenty of them. It made him happy to visit Shadowheart and Halsin every 50 years or so. Every once in a while he’d take in a pet and that would give him a decade or two of small happy moments (he had a special place in his heart for cats, especially aloof or unpleasant ones). He wasn’t just waiting around to live until the two of them were together again. Still, he couldn’t help but think all those happy moments would have been multiplied by her presence. They had changed each other in those weeks together, fundamentally and for the better. They balanced each other. They taught each other. They were a part of each other. So when he’d seen the flier for her opening and it had fit into a rare free spot in his calendar, it had felt something like fate. Every molecule of his body was yearning for her, as always, and for once he’d decided to let the yearning win.

And it had been the worst idea he’d ever had.

She’d been so, so angry. He’d seen her angry before, vengeful, bloodthirsty even. But there was a hurt in her eyes tonight that was new. And he loved her, and he was willing to admit he hadn’t handled things perfectly, but it wasn’t fair to put that hurt on him. Bringing up all their dead friends and throwing their memories in his face like that. The little flash of relief when he’d told her he mourned for Karlach, as if she’d thought for a moment he hadn’t?? So deeply, cruelly unfair. And she had never been cruel before.

And it had to be Karlach she brought up, of course. He tried not to think of Karlach in general, but she was there. They all were, all the time, but Karlach had been special. She knew what it was like to not have control over her own body, same as he did. She’d taken that horror and turned it outward, onto Gortash, onto anyone like him, and he’d turned his inward, letting his self-loathing eat away at him. They were two opposite sides of the same fucked-up coin, and they both knew it. She’d cheered for him when killing Cazador was too much and he’d been there for her when killing Gortash wasn’t enough, offering her a comfortable silence and a shared bottle of wine when the rest of the party tried to fuss over her.

It hadn’t been easy, of course, hearing her beg for death on that dock and hearing Rielle argue back, asking her to go back to the hells and stay alive. He’d die before being a slave again, without question. Her plea was his in many ways. So it was a relief when Rielle let her burn out, but that hadn’t made it any easier to watch. It felt like he’d built a fragile home for himself over those tadpoled weeks, the first he’d known, a safe place for him to just exist after so many years of insecurity, and it was catching on fire and he was supposed to stand there and watch it burn down. And after everything, he didn’t deserve that. So instead he’d turned away, using the rising sun as an excuse, and he’d fled.

It wasn’t brave, he’d never pretended to be that, but he believed, still, in his bones, that it was fair. It was a cowardice that he did not deserve to be shamed for. He had looked around at all his friends, the first friends he’d ever had, the first people he’d been allowed to care about, every single one of whom he was going to outlive, and he had taken his fate into his own hands the only way he could. He would keep his distance, check in periodically and check out when their time came to an end, and in so doing he would make things as easy on himself as he could. 200 years of torture was plenty. If they knew him, if they really cared about him, they’d understand. They’d forgive him.

But gods, he’d never meant for that distance to come between him and Rielle. She didn’t have to let it. Sadness hardened into bitterness in his chest, which in turn made him sad again. He didn’t want to be mad at her. It would just make the distance between them even greater.

The soft click of the gallery door startled him out of his brooding and he jerked his head up. Disappointment flooded him as he saw the large, hulking shape of the person coming outside, distinctly not the small elf woman he’d been hoping for. An instant later, recognition hit him and filled him with a feeling he couldn’t quite put a finger on. Sadness? Disappointment? Excitement? Relief? Some combination of all four, he thought.

Halsin gave him a sad smile. “Good to see you, friend.”

Astarion felt his lips curve into a smile despite himself. “I am genuinely surprised to see you, Halsin.”

The druid chuckled heartily. “Not unpleasantly, I hope.”

Astarion took a moment to look him over. He had seen Halsin much more recently than Rielle, but Halsin was a few centuries older than her and time showed more clearly on his face. He was leathery in his older age, smile lines carved deep, and his hair wasn’t fully silver, but it was getting there. His body had softened, but he was still an imposing specimen. It was strange, seeing Rielle and now seeing Halsin, how just the sight of these faces seemed to transport Astarion back in time. He felt younger, self-conscious in a way he hadn’t been for years, and more than a little fragile.

He half-smiled at the druid, sitting up. “You’re here to lecture me, I suppose? Tell me I shouldn’t have come?”

Halsin walked over, a subtle stiffness in his joints that Astarion didn’t recognize, and lowered himself onto the bench. “I am too old for all that, friend. I’m not getting involved. I simply heard a friend was here, a friend I haven’t seen in many years, and wanted to say hello.”

“Well, thank you. It’s nice not to end this evening on a completely tragic note.”

Halsin gave him a knowing smile. “For what it’s worth, I always liked you two together. You push each other. And you’re both young yet. There’s plenty of time to figure it out.”

“This is you not getting involved, then?” Astarion arched an eyebrow at his friend, who chuckled again.

“I am not taking sides. I’m just an old man who likes to see a happy ending now and again.”

Astarion sighed. “You might have to wait a while to see this one.”

“I hope not,” he began, stretching out his legs gingerly. “I don’t have another two centuries left in me, my friend. You have less than that to figure it out, if you want me to be around for it.”

“Nonsense, you’re going to live forever. All that fresh air you’re always waxing poetic about is going to preserve you eternally.”

“I am not, and I’m glad of it. Eternal life has always seemed to me to be more a burden than a boon.”

The younger man snorted, leaning back to look up at the stars. “I’ll let you know.”

Halsin looked at him appraisingly, and the two settled into a comfortable silence for a moment before he spoke again.

“It must be very strange, having eternity ahead of you like that. So many seem to covet it, but few seem to really think it through.”

Astarion didn’t respond, but he smirked bitterly up at the sky as if to say, finally, someone’s catching on.

“To outlive everyone you love… that would be a deplorable thing. It would break the strongest soul.”

Why was everyone so obsessed with death? Astarion glanced away in irritation.

“It would be… understandable,” Halsin continued, “if one in that situation wanted to distance themselves from those they care about.”

Astarion’s eyebrows shot up. That wasn’t the sort of thing he’d expect to hear from this man. Halsin seemed to notice his reaction.

“Normally, I encourage friends to do the opposite, to open themselves up to love and connection, but it would be irresponsible to preach something like that to someone like you. I will never be in your shoes. I cannot imagine how it feels. None of us can.”

Gratitude swelled in Astarion's chest. It was the first time anyone had allowed him that grace, and it relieved some unconscious tension inside him. “Thank you, Halsin.”

“That’s not to say that everyone would understand, or would take kindly to your decision. But that doesn’t mean it would be wrong.”

The two lapsed into silence again, and Astarion’s relief at Halsin’s words slowly morphed into something deeper, a dull ache in his chest like something bad was coming and he couldn’t stop it. Inevitability, the soft settling of reality like a blanket over everything he wanted. Minutes passed as he sat with the feeling before he spoke softly, resigned.

“I can’t cut myself off from her, though. That’s the problem. I can’t survive watching her fade, Halsin, that would kill me without the mercy of killing me. But I can’t survive staying away from her, either.”

The druid nodded, seeming unsurprised. “I understand that as well, my friend.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

Halsin tilted his head to the side as if lost in thought before smiling and replying, “You might try ignoring her for a couple centuries and then surprising her at a gallery opening.”

Astarion let out a startled laugh. “Halsin, I think that’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said. I am genuinely impressed.”

The druid threw his head back and laughed. “My friend, your circumstance is special, but it is not unique. None of us can live with what it means to truly love someone, and none of us can avoid it. And it makes all of us behave like fools, yourself included.”

If his friend was aiming to be comforting, he was missing the mark. Astarion rolled his eyes.

Halsin laughed at his expression, shifting to stand up.

“On that note, I must leave you. I’m afraid I have an exclusive invite to an afterparty that promises to be a disaster. I hope I’ll see you soon, though. Fewer decades between visits, if you please, friend.”

Astarion laughed tiredly and stood, offering his friend a hand up.

“My new partner is much kinder than I,” Halsin continued as he gripped Astarion’s hand firmly. “They would enjoy meeting you after all the stories I’ve told them.”

He pulled himself up and waited a moment to steady his joints before letting go and starting toward the door.

“I dread to hear the kinds of stories you tell people about me,” Astarion replied, to which Halsin only chuckled once more and reached for the door, pulling it open to step back into the cool dark of the gallery without looking back.

Alone in the garden once more, Astarion stood looking at the door long after his friend had gone, feeling far too many things at once.

Chapter Text

Shadowheart had never gone out of her way to make Astarion’s life easier. They’d both been close with Rielle, so they’d had a sort of camaraderie that he enjoyed, and she’d always had a certain rawness to her that he recognized. It made it easier to be himself around her, even the messy, unpleasant version of himself that he tried to keep controlled around Rielle. That said, he was the partner of her close friend, and she’d been understandably hard on him. So he appreciated that she waited until after sunset to die. It was surprisingly generous of her.

Her impending death, however, was not a surprise. Half-elf lifespans were all over the place, shorter if they ended up with more human genes and longer if they were more elf, but 250 years was certainly on the high end, so this had been a long time coming. Still, it felt unreal. It just didn’t make sense, the thought of a world without her.

Everything was a little confusing right now. Astarion couldn’t remember how he’d reached the forested hilltop overlooking her cottage. A dimension door, presumably, he had a scroll tucked away for moments like this, but he couldn’t remember casting it. Things had been a blur since he’d been awoken from his trance by a crow landing on his headboard, a note tied to its leg informing him of his friend's state. It had been wildly disorienting, opening his eyes to see a small beaked head peering down at him, and it had set the tone for the rest of the evening. And then he had just… gone. Without really thinking about it. He wasn’t even sure why he was here, if he was honest. He certainly had no intention of seeing Shadowheart again–she was perfectly preserved in his memory, just the way she had been the last time he’d seen her. Older, but alive and energetic. A sparkle in her eyes still, a sharpness to her tongue. He didn’t want to see her struggling for breath, tired, fading. It felt deeply wrong, like a violation of nature, to even imagine her that way. Still, he was here. Rielle wanted him to come, so he had. But he was keeping out of sight until he knew what he was there for. It felt safer that way, lurking from the trees, able to leave at a moment’s notice without anyone being the wiser. He tucked himself into the evening shadows and watched and waited, though he wasn’t sure for what.

The hill he was on lifted him level with the large balcony off of what he assumed was Shadowheart’s bedroom on the second floor. Halsin was standing there whittling, leaning against a railing and occasionally glancing up at the door. Astarion hadn’t been to her house since she’d finished building it, and it was exactly how he’d pictured it. Hills rose up behind and to the side of the house, like it was tucked cozily into a corner, and trees surrounded it on all sides. A small stream dipped into the clearing on the other side before winding back into the woods. The house itself was almost fully covered in vines, all but the moon emblem above the door, which it seemed Shadowheart had kept trimmed. A few animals roamed the yard freely, and all around him birds sang as the stream babbled. It was idyllic, which made the heaviness in the air feel almost sinister, like all this beauty was just a distraction.

Astarion was sensitive to the mood of a space, a leftover skill from 200 years of navigating a mad vampire’s temper tantrums. The mood over the clearing was so intense it almost felt tangible, but the flavor of it wasn’t quite familiar to him. It was heavy, but a heaviness that felt profound. It felt like something huge was happening, like he was looking at the face of a god and it wasn’t something his mind was equipped to witness. He felt small, insignificant, and monumentally out of his depth. It hadn’t felt like this when Karlach had been dying, or at least he didn’t think so. There hadn’t been time, he supposed. Everything had been moving so quickly, they were all just in shock, unable to really process anything. It had its own kind of heaviness, but one that hadn’t hit until later. This was the kind of aura that needed time to ferment.

The door to the bedroom cracked open, and a halfling woman Astarion didn’t recognize poked her head out. She wore official-looking robes, and he wondered if she was a death cleric of some kind. Halsin straightened when he saw her as if she was his schoolmistress, and she asked him something Astarion couldn’t hear. He nodded, smiling gently, and she went back inside, closing the door after her as Halsin leaned back against the railing once more.

Astarion had no idea what the protocol was here. Surely no one was minding the front door right now, was he supposed to just let himself in? And then what, he was supposed to just barge into the room where his friend lay on her deathbed? The very idea made his chest tighten with anxiety. He didn’t know what he was doing, and this all felt too delicate to fumble. He wanted to make things right with Rielle, he did, and that was why he’d come. But any goodwill he earned from showing up would be undone the second he said or did something stupid, which he definitely would.

He turned to go, and as he did he heard a soft “whoosh” from the balcony. A door of light had opened, and Rielle was stepping through, her robes swaying as if she’d been in a hurry, a small bag slung over her shoulder. She looked around for a moment to orient herself before walking over to Halsin and throwing her arms around him. She looked surprisingly composed as she pulled back to look up at the druid and exchange words Astarion couldn’t catch. Halsin nodded and responded, gesturing towards the door with his knife. Rielle took a deep breath as she turned toward it, sweeping her hair back the way she always did when she was nervous, and opened the door.

It tugged at something in Astarion’s heart to see her bracing herself like that. The way she talked about all of this, sadness and grief and their friends, it had never seemed hard for her. Sad, heartbreaking, of course, but the actual grieving she seemed to be an expert at. Even seeing her talk to Halsin, the two of them had such confidence about them. Astarion had felt like a fraud watching them; he had no idea how to have a dying friend. It was like they had a script that he wasn’t allowed to look at, and Rielle had spent centuries being mad at him for not knowing his lines. But seeing her pull her hair back like that, for the first time Astarion wondered if perhaps his assumptions weren’t entirely true.

He stood watching the door after Rielle closed it, unsure what he was still doing here, unable to turn away. Rielle stayed inside a while, presumably saying her goodbyes (what did that mean? Were you supposed to make small talk with a dying person? Did you talk about the weather?). Birds still sang around him, oblivious to the vampire lurking in the shadows. Halsin paused his carving briefly to shoot magical flames into the lanterns on top of the 4 corner posts of the railing, giving the balcony a soft glow. After he was done, he picked up his carving again and resumed leaning. For several minutes, Astarion heard nothing but the sounds of nature and the soft thwick of the druid’s knife. It would have been relaxing, had the entire context been different.

Finally, Rielle emerged again. Her face was dry, her shoulders straight, her expression placid, the way she had looked when she’d gone inside. She turned to shut the door, and as she turned away again, her hand flew to her mouth and Astarion watched her face crumple as the bag slipped off her shoulder to the floor. She stepped away from the door to lean against the exterior of the house, her shoulders shaking as they curled inward and she bent over, her entire body distorting with grief. Her sobs were silent, and Astarion knew it was for the sake of Shadowheart and whoever else was inside. Hells, that couldn’t have been easy, staying quiet like that. Astarion’s hand twitched toward her, but he held back. Halsin would know how to comfort her. He’d just make things worse.

As if his thoughts were audible, Halsin straightened, taking a step toward Rielle and stretching out a hand. She looked up, one hand still clamped over her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes, and shook her head, waving him away. He nodded and leaned back against the railing once more, leaving her to her grief.

Astarion’s chest constricted. He’d seen so much on that lovely face, but he’d never seen a look like the one she wore now, like her entire world was ending. If she hadn’t been facing away from him on that dock centuries ago, would he have seen this look on her face as their friend died in her arms? If he had, he realized, the last 200 years might have gone very differently. Because everything was clarifying for him very, very quickly.

He didn’t have a choice, not really. It was like the night in the garden. He’d been so sure of himself that night, so adamant that he wasn’t going to touch her, it was just going to complicate things, and then she had sobbed and he’d moved toward her without thinking. In an instant, his plans had crumbled. And now, in the dark forest, he was moving toward her once again, mumbling an incantation and appearing on the balcony next to her.

A small part of his brain held him back in a different way now, reminding him it might not just be Halsin, she might genuinely need space. But she had already pulled him to her, folding into his arms as they wrapped around her in return. She muffled her sobs into his shirt now that her hand was occupied, and they were still quiet, but audible up close, small broken sounds. Her entire body was quivering against him, and it brought back memories of much happier moments she’d spent in his arms. It couldn’t have been more different, but this felt just as sacred. It was something, he supposed, being trusted to witness all the ways a person could fall apart. To hold them together in their most extreme moments of pleasure and pain.

He had no idea how long they stood like that, her grief coming in waves, submerging her again every time she seemed to surface. During one particularly strong wave, he was so focused on breathing evenly, stroking her hair gently, being as comforting as possible, that he didn’t realize it when he started murmuring against her ear. He was apologizing for not being there sooner, for not giving her enough, he wasn’t even sure what for. And he was telling her he loved her and that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he was there for her as long she wanted him.

This was true, he realized with some surprise. It had seemed so complicated, the idea of being there for her, like she was asking him to do something he didn’t know how to do. He’d gotten so caught up in the details, what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to say it. He’d forgotten that in the middle of everything was her. She was his anchor. As long as he stayed oriented around her, he’d figure it out. He had no other choice.

His eyes met Halsin’s over Rielle’s shoulder, and the druid smiled gently and nodded his head like he was not at all surprised to see him.

_________________________________

The evening stretched on for hours, falling into a strange rhythm. The door opened and closed many times, the cleric bustling in and out, Halsin fetching things for her obediently. Eventually the sound of the door stopped causing every single one of them to look up in panic, assuming bad news, and they settled in for several hours of waiting. Once her tears had ebbed, Rielle ran downstairs briefly to bring up more lamps and candles she remembered seeing in a closet. When they were all lit, the balcony was bright and warm, and everything beyond the railing faded in contrast, making it feel like the three of them were the only people in the world.

Shadowheart was only awake for moments at a time, so other visitors congregated with them on the balcony rather than at her bedside, the cleric calling people in when she was lucid. Some elven cousins arrived and stayed briefly, mostly keeping to themselves. Newer friends of Shadowheart showed up, including a dragonborn bard who joined them for a time, apparently a neighbor Shadowheart was fond of. He told them stories of Shadowheart’s (predictably cantankerous) last few years, playing a snippet of a song they’d drunkenly written together about a mouse and a bear who fell in love with astoundingly raunchy lyrics. Halsin told a couple of their old Shadowheart stories from the tadpole days, her newer friends laughing to imagine the noble “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” who snuck off in the middle of the night to bleach her hair like a teenage rebel.

They all laughed quite a lot, actually. Sometimes the laughter was through tears, and sometimes it turned into tears, but there was plenty of it. Occasionally it rubbed Astarion wrong, but mostly it felt right to laugh as much as they could. It was like they were all drowning together and there was a silent agreement to not judge anyone else for what they clung to in order to stay afloat. Everything was a little funnier than usual, as if their bodies were desperate for a break from grief and forcing extra laughter.

It began, after a few hours, to feel like he was a part of an ancient ritual. People were just people, just as they always had been, and sadness made people want to laugh, though sometimes that laughter made them want to cry. It was mysterious to him, and disconcerting to experience firsthand, but there was something almost lovely about it.

He really hadn’t expected to laugh so much. He wondered if Shadowheart could hear them when she slept, friends from different parts of her life laughing together. He imagined she would like that.

Once when the door opened Astarion wondered if it would be another of their old companions, feeling almost excited for a moment before he realized, dizzyingly, that none of their other companions were going to show up. They’d all been the person in the bed already. There had been four other days like this. He hadn’t been there for any of them, and for the first time he felt a small pang of regret at the thought.

Eventually, as the evening moved into night, things settled down, and the 3 Heroes were left alone once more. Halsin had whittled 2 small ducks already, and he stood to place them on the railing, one following the other like a tiny funeral procession. Some of the blankets and pillows from the guest bedroom had migrated outside, and Rielle had made a small nest for herself to sit and sketch in the corner while Halsin settled into a chair, stretching out his hands before starting on a third duck. Astarion couldn’t remember ever being so tired as he stretched out on a loveseat near Rielle, throwing his legs over the arm. He was fairly certain he had experienced every emotion it was possible to experience in the last 6 hours alone, and it had drained him completely.

He and Rielle hadn’t had a chance to talk between the crying and the visitors. Truthfully, they probably could have found time, but they’d brokered a fragile peace, a tacit agreement to put their baggage aside for Shadowheart’s sake. And it had been frighteningly easy to honor that, he thought. Somehow, amidst the pain and the sorrow and the overwhelming numbness of grief, mingling with the anger and the heartbreak of the last 200 years, he felt a sliver of bittersweet happiness work its way into his heart like a splinter. Sharing space with her was as healing as it was heartbreaking.

He felt a jolt, not quite pain and not quite pleasure, or maybe some strange combination of both, every time Rielle touched his arm or grabbed his hand for support. There was a jolt now as he looked up to see her looking at him. She stared for a second, seeming to make up her mind about something. As she opened her mouth to speak, the door opened, and the cleric (Wilhemina, apparently) poked her head out.

She looked around at them for a second before her eyes landed on Astarion. “You haven’t seen her yet, have you? She’s awake if you want to talk to her now.”

His entire soul recoiled at the idea, but it was inevitable, it had been decided the moment he’d stepped out of the woods. He was here. He was along for the ride. “Yes,” he said steadily, nodding and swinging his legs down to stand. “I’ll see her now.”

His feet carried him like a zombie to the door, the cleric holding it open for him, and he swept inside without a glance backward.

Chapter Text

Shadowheart was awake and sitting up when he walked into her room. The room was cozy, a bit cluttered, but fastidiously cleaned. Next to her bed sat her father, and Wilhemina was stirring a potion on the small table in the corner as she read what looked like a romance novel. It hadn’t been so long since he’d seen his friend, about half a century, but she had certainly aged. Her hair was white from age now and not from styling, and she still wore it in a long braid over her shoulder. Astarion saw a flash of a much younger version of her braiding it in the early morning light next to a dying fire and breathed against the pain accompanying the memory. There was a frailty to her now that was disconcerting and strange. She should never be frail, he thought, and the wrongness made him nervous. Her glassy eyes lit up in recognition when she saw him.

“You bastard, took you long enough.”

Astarion laughed in surprise, and the laughter broke apart the heavy emotions in his chest for a moment, allowing him to center himself. It was a relief to hear her voice, faint and scratchy as it was. Strangely, it felt like he finally had an ally, someone who would understand the darkness and irreverence he’d been holding back all night in order to mourn “properly.” For the first time in hours, it felt like he knew what to say. She didn’t need him to be gentle or sugarcoat things. She’d want him to be real.

“I was trying to wait it out,” he replied, smiling as he sat next to her. “Should have known you’d be too stubborn to die before insulting me one last time.”

“Oh it’s always about you, isn’t it? Very rude of you to still look like that, by the way.” She wasn’t smiling, like she didn’t have the energy to move her facial muscles and keep up a conversation, but he still knew her well enough to know when she was joking.

“You made all those vampire jokes when we first met, but now I see the truth. It was jealousy all along.” He felt like he was supposed to be stroking one of her hands or brushing her hair, isn’t that what people did on deathbeds? But she was his friend, not his mother. It felt right to be sitting here, exchanging jabs one the last time. His eyes stung and he quickly diverted his mind from that thought.

Shadowheart didn’t seem to notice. “Listen, you and Rielle need to get your shit together.”

Astarion blinked and raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, this is what you’re spending your last breaths on?”

“Yes, and I shouldn’t have to, but you’re both being fools. I know you’re older than me, but wisdom isn’t about age, it’s about the closeness of death.” She paused, her face distorting in pain, and he knew a moment of terror before he realized it was just her old wound. Her hand flexed on the blanket, and it passed. “Death will always be far away for you, so you’ll always be a fool. And Rielle’s got centuries before she gets any smarter.”

Astarion wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. His friend had distilled in her old age, more straightforward with her viciousness than he remembered, but somehow just as charming.

“So I’ll give you a shortcut–you need to talk to each other. You’re obviously going to work it all out, and you’re wasting time. I know you’re lousy with it, but she’s got an expiration date.”

Astarion looked down, smiling to himself. She was right, of course, but he didn’t anticipate things changing with Rielle any time soon, beyond their temporary truce. “Whatever you say, my dear.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced back up at her. “And you have to take advice someone gives you from their deathbed, it’s bad luck not to.”

“If I’d known death was such a power trip I’d never have embraced immortality the way I have.”

She smiled faintly, closing her eyes and leaning her head back, and they sat in silence for several seconds while she breathed. “Any questions before that old bitch drugs me again?” Wilhemina snorted across the room.

He thought for a moment. “I have one, if you don’t mind indulging me.”

She twitched her hand as if to wave him ahead, her eyes still closed.

“How would you have felt if I hadn’t shown up?”

“I’d still think you were a bastard. Wouldn’t change anything.” Her answer came with no hesitation.

Astarion felt his eyes stinging again and swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to keep his voice steady. “Really?”

“We all loved you, knowing full well you were an idiot. Being an idiot one last time… would’ve been annoying, but wouldn’t have changed that. I love you more for being here, though.”

A tear rolled down his cheek as he reached out and took her hand. It wasn’t worth trying to hold his tears back now that her eyes were closed. Feeling this connection with her again, the relief of being around her, of being able to show the parts of himself only she understood, it was all distorting, turning from sweet to bitter. He’d forgotten what it was like to be around her, so he hadn’t realized how much he was losing. Now he remembered, and it was horrible.

He hated this. It felt like he was wasting these last precious minutes with her, even though she’d just given him something he needed. Something he’d needed, he was realizing, for a long time.

“I’m glad I’m here, my dear. And thank you for loving an idiot.”

“In that group, not much of a choice.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, and Astarion was panicking, not ready for the conversation to end.

He cleared his throat. “Do you have any questions for me?”

She hummed and furrowed her brow, eyes still closed, as if thinking was an effort.

“Make sure my father eats something, will you?” Astarion heard a chuckle from the other side of the bed, but he didn’t look away from his friend’s face.

“And… well, this is stupid, but you’re the only one who will be honest with me–was I a good person, in the end? Did I make up for the years with Shar, do you think?”

More tears escaped as he smiled, running his thumb across her wrist. The one big difference between them, this anxiousness she had around being a hero. He understood the compulsion to repay old debts, he did, but he’d never understood her need to be seen as “good.” Still, he understood she needed it, and it was something he could give. He didn’t even need to lie. “I think… you created goodness out of nothing. You had no idea what it was supposed to look like, you’d certainly never been given an example to work off of. You built goodness for yourself, from scratch. And I saw that, and it–” he stopped to clear his throat. “It changed my life, seeing that. You were better than anyone could ever have asked you to be. You were perfect, my friend.”

She smiled again, faintly, and he had to lean closer to hear her response. “Damn right,” she whispered, and then she was asleep again.

Astarion sat next to her, shattered and faintly dizzy, as her breaths evened out. He didn’t want to let go of her hand, but he was a mess. He slipped his fingers free and wiped tears off his cheeks, finally glancing up at Shadowheart’s father sitting across from him. He remembered the face, of course, though it had been centuries. He was a full elf, which meant he’d long outlived his human wife, and now he was outliving their daughter. It made Astarion nauseous to think about. It shouldn’t be possible to survive all that, but he sat calmly, gazing serenely down at his daughter.

The man spoke as Astarion mopped himself up, softly so as not to disturb Shadowheart. “You’re another of her old companions, right? Astarion?”

Instantly he felt a pang of guilt that he didn’t remember this man’s name in return. “Yes, I… helped with the whole brain thing.”

“I thought I recognized you. Don’t worry, I didn’t remember your name after all this time. I’m sure you’ve forgotten mine. I heard it recently, that’s all. She always liked you, you know.”

Astarion couldn’t help but scoff quietly. He and Shadowheart loved each other like siblings, but he was fully aware she’d never liked him much. Across from him, the man almost smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes, or really even his mouth, but his expression lightened slightly in recognition. “She didn’t take it easy on you, I’m sure. Wasn’t always great at showing she cared, our Jen, but she felt it deep nonetheless. She thought about you a lot in the past couple months especially.”

That couldn’t have been true. He hadn’t spoken to her in decades. The man continued, oblivious to his confusion.

“She rescued a cat, one of those strange naked ones with a bad attitude. Hissing at everyone all the time, refusing to be picked up or petted. She was going to send him off to be a barn cat, but then she woke up and found him curled up at the foot of her bed like he was guarding her. Turns out he’s the sweetest little creature alive, just wanted love on his own terms. So she moved him into the house and pretty soon she started calling him Astarion. I don’t know if there was a connection or if she just liked your name, but there you go. From her it’s the highest praise you can earn, being a namesake to one of her animals. I think she even started knitting him a sweater for when it’s colder. He’s probably around here somewhere, hiding from all the strangers but keeping an eye on her.” The old man laughed softly, shaking his head. “Our Jen.”

Hot tears gathered and spilled over yet again. Shadowheart’s father was smiling faintly and shaking his head still, lost in memory, but Astarion could almost hear his heart breaking, thinking about this kindred spirit of his slowly fading from the world.

It was selfish, but she had loved him, and not many people had, considering how long he’d been alive. Now, that love was disappearing with the rest of her, the way everyone else who had ever loved him was going to disappear, and then he’d be locked away and loveless once more, except it was going to be so much worse, because this time he was going to remember what he was missing. Unfair, unfair.

It was too much, suddenly, being in this room with these people who were apparently so at peace with what was happening. He wanted to wail and rage and run until his body fell to pieces. With enormous effort, he stood without tipping the chair over, walking over to the door and forcing himself to use the handle rather than breaking it off its hinges. He latched it closed and had barely turned around before he felt arms closing around him, holding him together as if Rielle could feel what he was feeling, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her in return. He breathed in her scent, the effect like a sedative on his unsteady body. They stood for several minutes, tears still rolling down his cheeks. His eyes were closed, but Astarion heard Halsin brush past them to open the door, leaving them alone on the balcony.

Rielle pulled back as the door closed, bringing a hand up to the side of his face and using her thumb to wipe away a tear. “How’s she looking?”

Astarion laughed bitterly, anger and irritation still simmering in his belly. “She looks marvelous, absolutely glowing. Might start doing cartwheels in a moment.”

Rielle winced, and for a moment he felt bad, but when she spoke again it was clear the wince had been self-directed. “Yeah, alright, that was a stupid question. How was it, speaking with her?”

“It was…” Astarion stepped back, dropping his arms and shaking his head. They shouldn’t be talking in front of the door. He walked to the far railing and leaned a hip against it and she followed. “It was horrible. She was pissy and charming and it was all very Shadowheart, and her father–” his throat was closing, and he didn’t care to finish the sentence anyway. His anger was making him feel lightheaded, but it was almost pleasant.

Anger was something solid to cling to, and he needed that. Everything felt so out of control. He felt volatile, and in that volatility he felt exposed in a way he hadn’t felt in–hells, he didn’t know how long. A disorienting memory flashed in his mind, sobs (his own, somehow) echoing off the walls of a dungeon, tears running unchecked down his bare torso, mixing with the blood that covered him (not his own, somehow) to form a grotesque watercolor on his skin that would dry sticky and itchy during the trip back to camp.

And yes, that was exactly it. He hadn’t felt like this since killing Cazador. Even mourning their other friends hadn’t felt like this; at least no one else had witnessed that. This, though. It felt like he was walking on the edge of a cliff trying to keep his emotions in check, and everyone was watching, waiting for him to fall. And he wanted to feel everything, he wanted to sob and scream and melt down, but he wanted to do it for himself, not as some kind of performance to appease someone else.

It was shame that fueled his anger, shame at feeling too much, shame at not feeling enough. Beneath it all, a soul-crushing fear, and a yawning emptiness where all of his friends used to live.

Rielle was still speaking softly, clearly aware he was processing something but unsure what. “Yeah, it’s hard to believe she’s in her final hours when you talk to her, isn’t it?”

He ignored the question. She was being so condescending, feeding him leading questions about his grief as if he’d never experienced grief before. Teaching him patiently about death as if he hadn’t watched thousands of people die. Some of whom, yes, he had cared about.

It was bullshit, he had nothing to prove to her by being here, by dealing with all of this. He’d loved their friends and he didn’t need to flagellate himself publicly to prove it.

“Why are you asking this of me?” He spoke quietly, but his eyes burned into hers.

She looked startled at his sudden intensity. “I never demanded that you be here. I just want a partner who can be there for the good and the bad, and I wasn't sure you were willing to do that-”

He scoffed, shaking his head and looking away from her dismissively. “Do you think just because you've never seen it, I've never grieved for someone I care about before?”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Of course not-”

“Do you think my siblings and I didn’t care for each other, in whatever way we could? That we didn't mourn for each other? When Cazador locked our sister outside just before sunrise as punishment for gods only know what? When he found the lover my sibling had been keeping a secret and forced us all to kill them? The siblings you met, they’re just the ones who survived. Grief and I are old friends, darling. Everyone’s temporary, I learned that before you were even born.” He smirked bitterly, the pet name mocking in his acidic tone. “Yes, there was a brief window 200 years ago when I thought for the first time I had something that I could keep, something I wouldn’t have to protect myself from losing. I thought things might be different outside the palace. The entire prospect burned to a crisp on a dock a few weeks later.”

Rielle was focused on him entirely, trying to understand, and it softened him a bit. He wasn’t any less angry, but he did want her to understand. His eyes closed as he drew in a breath and sighed, steadying himself before looking at her once more.

“Everyone is still temporary to me, darling, because I am going to outlive everyone I love. It’s no different than it was in the palace, it just hurts more because I’ve had more time to get attached. I knew how this was going to feel because I've felt it before, and I avoided it on purpose. And I left you alone, and I’m sorry, and it kills me knowing I hurt you, but everyone is going to leave me alone in the end, even you.”

A tear was sliding down her face, but she met his gaze steadily. They stood in silence for several seconds, but he had finally run out of words. His mind wouldn't stop replaying the last 6 hours in his mind as if she was the one in the bed, and it left him speechless.

When it became clear he was done speaking, Rielle sighed, glancing into the dark trees beyond the balcony to gather her thoughts.

He wasn’t sure what he expected her to say, but he braced himself for the worst. Even for him, he felt like all of this was distinctly off-putting, and the thought almost came with a small surge of hope. Maybe she’d finally see him for what he truly was–a creature, not a man, not capable of the kind of attachment she wanted and deserved. It occurred to him that even after everything, he’d been afraid to shatter this last illusion of hers. She had put up with so much from him with the understanding that at least he’d be able to love her, take care of her, be around when she needed him. He was finally admitting it was impossible, and it was as freeing as it was tragic.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally looked back at him, gaze still steady, face tired but neutral. “So what are you going to do, Astarion?”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you can leave now if you want. No one’s stopping you. And then… what? You’re alone now, forever? Is this goodbye? You don’t have to say it if it’s too hard. I’ll lie to Halsin and Shadowheart if you want, make up some excuse for why you had to leave suddenly. Oh, and I can let the galleries know not to count on your patronage any more.”

He looked at her in disbelief and momentary outrage. Was she goading him? Was that her response to everything he’d just said?

Everything in him wanted to call her bluff, disappear back into the forest without another word, but the thought didn’t make him feel victorious, it just felt like running away.

Because if he was honest, he knew the answer to her questions. Of course he did. It was right there, the second he looked for it.

Fuck her. Fuck Shadowheart. Fuck everyone who’d ever made him love them.

He felt his conviction crumble into nothingness as he turned fully to the railing, bracing both his hands on it and closing his eyes as despair settled heavily over him like a tide, quenching his anger entirely.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and they both knew it. He was fighting it so hard, but he’d made his decision years ago. When he’d watched her disappear into the gallery, he’d known. It was going to be impossible to say goodbye to her when her last days came. It made no sense to keep saying little goodbyes in the meantime.

He felt a hand covering his with a gentleness he didn’t deserve as Rielle leaned against him. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, and he felt like his heart was breaking and mending at the same time, like it was being rebroken to heal correctly. Parts of his heart he’d thought were unfixable, scar tissue, softened and knitted back together as a hand gently combed through his hair, and when he breathed in her scent his entire chest ached.

Maybe this was how it would always feel with her, as long as he had her. It wasn’t so bad. Excruciating, of course, but lovely at the same time.

He flipped his hand to interlace their fingers and leaned into her. He had made his choice, but really it hadn’t been a choice at all.

Chapter Text

If she were to paint a portrait of grief, Rielle would use saturated colors. Colors that clashed and vibrated together so the composition was hard to look at for too long.

There had been a time in her youth when she’d started getting headaches, horrible ones that confined her to her bed for hours. Colors would dance behind her eyelids, caustic greens and burning reds. Her mind would feel detached, her head too light. She hadn’t had one of those headaches in years, but as she stepped through the portal onto Shadowheart’s balcony, she remembered what it felt like. Grief didn’t feel so different, really.

The spell she’d used only allowed travel to places she’d been before, and it wasn’t always precise. Still, when she’d focused her magic, it had been this balcony she’d pictured. These worn slats of wood under her feet, warm in the late summer air; these soft lanterns; these vining plants curling around the railing; these fragrant flowers trailing from the eaves. There were fireflies dancing on the gentle breeze, and in her memory there was also laughter, the sound of an old friend. She’d spent a few nights here with Shadowheart, sharing a bottle of wine and catching up. This wasn’t the same cottage she’d moved into after their adventures together–that one she’d sold after her wife had died. This cottage had been her “fresh start” some 60 years ago. It was a bit further from the city, and she’d built it from scratch. She’d had help, of course, but she hadn’t needed much. Rielle remembered the housewarming party. Everything had smelled like wood and paint, and as she showed her around the new catio and the massive enclosure for her owlbear rescues, her friend had smiled for the first time in years.

The last time she’d visited, Rielle had brought a bottle of mermaid whiskey. Shadowheart had moved from wine to “harder stuff” in the last few years as her system started reacting to the acidity. “I need to drink less,” she’d said, “but still get just as drunk.” Rielle had asked if the second part was also on her healer’s recommendation, and Shadowheart had told her it very much was. Rielle didn’t argue. Instead, she’d sat with her friend and talked long into the night. They’d played their favorite drinking game, which was to take a shot every time Shadowheart’s old wound from Shar acted up. It was effective as always.

This had been almost a year ago now, and Rielle could barely remember what they’d talked about. Their old loves, probably, since it would’ve been around the anniversary of Mylaela’s death. Several decades later, Shadowheart still marked the occasion. Mylaela had been a perfect compliment to her, bold where Shadowheart was cautious, bubbly where she was reserved. But while Shadowheart’s tougher exterior belied a secret softness, Lae had been all fire and fierceness at her core. And she loved fiercely, refusing to let her wife settle for anything less than what she deserved. Rielle and Lae had gotten along because they both agreed: Shadowheart deserved the world.

She had died of natural causes, living to a decent age for a tiefling. They’d had nearly 50 years together, filled with all the sweetness and all the suffering that life tends to be filled with. Shadowheart had changed after that. Eventually she’d gotten her smile back, but it wasn’t ever the same. “Different isn’t always worse,” Shadowheart had said at her housewarming. “Sometimes it’s just different.”

Rielle would agree any other day, but right now, standing on the balcony, all she wanted was for things to stay the same just a little bit longer. The longing was like an ache in her chest, a heaviness in her limbs.

Being here again, she suddenly remembered another night, a couple years ago now. They’d talked about this day, she realized. They’d speculated on when it would be, who would show up, who would cry the most. It had been silly then. It had seemed so far away.

Halsin was waiting with open arms, of course. The second she oriented herself, Rielle moved to embrace him. She pulled back, suddenly panicked that she’d arrived too late even though she’d packed her bag in a hurry. “Is she…?”

“She’s in there, I believe she’s still awake if you want to see her.”

Rielle nodded. She moved to the door, letting her bag slide off her shoulders.

Fuck, she wasn’t ready for this. Her entire mind fought back against reality. It couldn’t be Shadowheart in that room, laying on that bed, living through her final hours. It didn’t make sense. She exuded life. Just being around her made Rielle feel young again, like she was back on the road to Baldur’s Gate, unraveling mysteries and falling in love and feeling like her future was full of possibilities. Surely Shadowheart had some future left?

She knew enough by now not to let her mind call the shots. She moved toward the door without hesitation, pulling back her hair. This was as ready as she was ever going to feel, she knew.

She took a deep breath, trying desperately to ignore her panicking mind, and opened the door.

When she entered the room, she was met with the heavy scent of herbal potions for sleeping and pain management. Wilhelmina (a friend of Shadowheart’s from her days as a local healer, the only death cleric she trusted for her last days) was by Shadowheart’s head, casting what looked like a diagnostic spell. Arnell, Shadowheart’s father, sat on the other side of the bed, watching Wilhelmina work and looking more tired than anyone had ever looked before. Rielle wondered if he’d tranced at all in the last few days.

She hung back to let the cleric finish. Once she did, Rielle stepped forward, and three pairs of eyes fell on her. She only returned Shadowheart’s gaze, moving toward her bedside and pulling up a chair that had been shoved out of the way for Wilhelmina. The halfling woman made her way to a small table on the back wall to work on some potions as she sat. Arnell gave her a half smile, but didn’t say anything.

Her friend looked old. Tired. It was hard to pinpoint what had changed, exactly. The last time Rielle had seen her, she had had some kind of intangible energy, some life force in her that was now… gone. It was still Shadowheart laying in the bed, but somehow much less alive. Rielle wondered if it would ever be possible to paint a feeling like that.

“Hello, lovely,” Shadowheart croaked out, giving Rielle a smile. The smile was all Shadowheart, sweet and just a little bit cunning.

“Hi, my love. How are you?”

“Dying, actually.” She raised her eyebrows and spoke lightly, like she was discussing the weather.

Rielle mirrored her expression, giving her a half smile. “Lucky I happened to be passing by, then!”

They laughed softly together as Rielle reached out and took one of her hands. It felt fragile, papery. The fingers were warm, but just barely. She was afraid to move too quickly for fear that she’d break her friend’s fingers. “You look lovely as ever, my dear.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “I’m in a state, I’m sure. Would you help me, actually?” She moved as if to sit up, and Wilhelmina made a disapproving sound across the room. She settled back down on her pillows with an exasperated sigh, and Rielle couldn’t help but laugh.

“Stubborn as ever. What do you need?”

“Would you help with my hair? There’s a brush around here somewhere, dad offered but I don’t trust his braiding skills.”

Rielle felt her throat tighten and smiled to cover it. “I’d love to, babe. Let me find it.”

She rose, sliding her hand out from Shadowheart’s, and walked the perimeter of the bedroom, looking for a hairbrush. She’d been in here before, but she loved it still. There were old greeting cards propped up on a shelf, along with a couple small awards and some dried bouquets from patients over the years. Bookshelves she had sworn to fill when she built the cottage that were now overflowing. A small hairless cat was lounging on a windowsill, and he gave her a suspicious look that didn’t go away even as he purred and licked her hand. She passed the mirror above the vanity, dried flowers and herbs from the balcony slipped under the frame all around the glass. The brush was there, along with various oils and creams, and for a second Rielle caught her reflection. It hadn’t changed in centuries. Behind her, she saw her friend, visibly diminished. She looked away before she could process the image and returned to the bed.

“This is the only brush I saw, I assume this is correct?”

Her friend smiled and nodded gently.

“Good. Let me just—“ she reached over and gently lifted Shadowheart’s head off the pillow, pulling her hair all to one side. Then, working from the ends, she began to brush. White hairs tangled in the bristles as she worked, but soon the long locks were under control. She divided the hair into three sections, running her fingers down the lengths of each to make sure they were fully separated. When she was satisfied, she began to braid. As she worked, Shadowheart began to hum, her voice soft and dry. She recognized the tune but didn’t know the words—something about a river, she thought. Slowly the plait took shape, glistening white hair weaving together at the side of Shadowheart’s neck and draping over one shoulder. Rielle slipped a tie off her wrist and fastened the hair at the bottom, laying it softly over her friend’s fragile arm.

She sat back to admire her work. “Ravishing, my dear.”

Shadowheart gave her a half smile. Her face grew serious for a moment, like she was remembering something. “Do you remember the night the tieflings threw us a party?”

“Of course.” Rielle’s thoughts immediately turned bittersweet, but she kept the emotion from her voice. The night was etched permanently in her memory, not because of the way their party had bonded for the first time or whatever lovely memory Shadowheart was likely thinking of, but because it was the first night she spent with Astarion.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Shadowheart said thoughtfully, “but if you’d come back and shared that bottle with me, I would’ve tried to sleep with you.”

Rielle’s thoughts stopped in their tracks. She sputtered, momentarily speechless. “...I had no idea—wait, what?? I thought you were going to say something really beautiful and poetic about friendship or something!?”

Shadowheart began laughing helplessly at the look on her face, and Rielle couldn’t help but join. All her feelings filtered through her laughter and she felt tears running down her cheeks as she giggled like a little girl. She wasn’t sure how long they laughed, heads together and hands clasped. When they finally quieted, she wiped her cheeks, smiling. “I’m single, there’s still time.”

Her friend shook her head, still smiling. “I’m over you, babe. You missed your shot. And—well, you’re not really single, are you?”

Rielle blushed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t had another serious partner in all this time, babe. Even for an elf, 2 centuries is quite a dry spell.”

“Hells, it hasn't—“ she realized she was talking loudly and they weren’t alone in the room. She lowered her voice and continued, “it hasn’t been a dry spell, I’m not celibate or anything. Just... not looking for anything serious.”

Shadowheart smirked and settled back into her pillow. She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice was thoughtful. “I’m a bit jealous, if I’m honest. Always have been. So many times I’ve wanted to take you by the shoulders and shake you, tell you you’re wasting your time, but you have so much of it, don’t you? It’s your prerogative to waste some of it.”

Rielle frowned. She’d never thought of it that way, but of course it would be frustrating to watch a friend being stubborn, refusing to move on, when stubbornness wasn't something you could afford.

“Just promise me,” her friend continued, her voice fading a bit now, “you won’t waste too much more. It doesn’t have to be forgiveness, but I need to know you’ll let yourself love someone again. Soon.”

Fuck. Even from her deathbed, Shadowheart was taking care of her. Rielle nodded, ignoring the way her eyes were welling up. “I promise, love.” She could tell her friend was getting tired again, so she pulled the quilt up to cover her more fully. She wanted to take care of her in return.

“I think I’m a bit frightened, Ri.” Shadowheart was speaking softly, looking past Rielle instead of right at her like she was embarrassed. “Excited to see Lae again, of course. That will be so lovely. But it’s been a long time since I didn’t know what tomorrow would hold.”

Rielle's whole throat felt clogged with emotion. “It would be strange if you weren't, I think. You’re so brave, though. I bet Lae is waiting for you right now with a warm cup of tea.”

Shadowheart closed her eyes, sighing. “Lovely.” She didn’t open her eyes again as she spoke. “Not to be rude, but I think I need a nap.”

Rielle nodded, though she couldn’t see. “Of course, sweetheart. Just rest. I—“ she swallowed to keep her voice from breaking—“I love you so much, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart smiled, and Rielle was about to stand when she felt a small, frail hand on her arm. “The cat over there—he’s yours, alright? I love you, babe.” She spoke in almost a whisper.

Rielle folded her hand over her friend’s. She was trying very hard not to think about what a big deal it was for Shadowheart to give away one of her beloved animals. She was trying very hard not to think about anything right now.

She was almost done. She could keep it together a moment longer. “Thank you, love. I’ll take good care of him.”

With another sigh, her friend drifted off to sleep.

Rielle felt the dam inside her cracking with every passing second. She needed to get out of here. It was the last thing Arnell needed, someone breaking down in sobs while he tried to keep himself together for his daughter.

She rose swiftly, dropping a gentle kiss on her friend’s forehead before turning to the door. She walked through it without a word to Wil or Arnell, sure that if she opened her mouth a sob would escape. It felt like she was floating out of the room, her feet not touching the ground until she heard the door latch behind her.

Then, she let go.

She had the presence of mind to hold her hands over her mouth to quiet herself, but she felt each sob through her entire body as she stumbled over to the wall, bending forward like she'd been punched in the stomach. There wasn’t enough air in the world to appease her body as she dragged in lungful after lungful.

Everything was sadness and dread and crushing loneliness. It was her friend in that bed. There was no one like her. There never would be again. It shouldn’t be possible to sustain a loss like this, not for her and not for the world. Everything should stop until they figured out how to keep her alive.

They could, of course. There was always a way. Jaheira had that scroll all those years ago, and it wasn’t the only one. Halsin was letting himself die of old age, but he didn’t have to, it was a conscious decision. And where Druids had their ways of surviving, clerics had theirs. Rielle felt a surge of anger towards her friend for giving up, immediately followed by a crushing guilt.

She’d been through enough. She’d lived her life. It was time for her to go.

Her mind always did this. It convinced itself that if it could make sense of things it wouldn’t feel so much. But the logic just made more room for hurt. And hells, this hurt.

She heard the creak of the deck as Halsin stood and stepped toward her to offer comfort, and instinctively she put up a hand. No arms around her would be better than the wrong arms right now. Pathetic, her mind whispered, but she was too far gone to care.

She tried to force air into her lungs. She felt like she was falling apart. She just wanted him. The person she always wanted when she felt like this. The person who wouldn’t be there.

And then, a familiar voice speaking an incantation. A smell she’d know anywhere.

As if her mind had conjured him, Astarion was in front of her.

It was the night in the garden all over again; her body folded into him before her brain even processed that he was there. Questions swirled in her mind, but she ignored them. She needed this. For as long as it lasted, for whatever reason, she was going to accept this from him. He owed her, and she was collecting.

Just the scent of him calmed her. Rosemary, bergamot, brandy, swirling around her, filling her lungs, making her feel like a younger version of herself. One who felt hope and love and joy in the most uncomplicated ways. Her heart ached, for him and for that version of herself. She wanted to be stupid and innocent and stop worrying and just forgive him. She wanted it so, so badly.

It felt like his arms were holding her together, and she let him support her weight, muffling her sobs in his shirt. Gods, it smelled so good. His shirt smelled like warm nights, laughter, friendship, Gale’s cooking. The nostalgia of it all sent another wave of grief crashing over her; losing Shadowheart would mean all of their friends were just a little farther away. He held her tighter as she gasped for air.

It didn’t fix anything else she was feeling, it didn’t make the sadness smaller. It just made her feel a little bigger in comparison. She was making a mess of his shirt, but she figured that was the least he deserved. For now, she wouldn’t worry about any of it. For now, she’d stay here, let the colors dance behind her eyelids, and just feel.

Chapter Text

Shadowheart died before sunrise. She had requested that it just be her and her father at the end, so when she refused the healing potion that would have kept her going a few more hours, Wilhemina nodded and slipped outside. Rielle and Astarion were still huddled together at the far railing, and Halsin had been preparing for a trance. They all looked up in unison, and she didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. For the first time, her eyebrows weren’t raised expectantly, her lips weren’t pursed, her eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. This tiny paragon of efficiency had done all she could do, and now she was simply resigned. Somehow, out of all the things he’d seen in the past several hours, that struck Astarion as one of the saddest.

He’d never felt more prepared for anything than he had felt for his friend’s death, standing in the soft lantern light, staring into the dark forest, so emotionally drained that he felt it physically. The entire night had felt like a marathon, and it seemed to him if he wasn’t ready after that, he never would be.

So Astarion expected the relief that was flooding his body. The panic, however, was a surprise.

It wasn’t the first time Shadowheart had been this close to death. Every other time, a couple centuries in their shared past, he and Rielle and Halsin and whoever else had snapped into action, shouting between clashes of blades and spell incantations to coordinate who was closest, who had the best potion, who had an opening to administer one to her. Now, there was nowhere for the adrenaline to go. It felt as if his body was asking him, what do we do?? And he was only able to answer, nothing.

Rielle tightened her grip on his hand, pulling herself closer to him, and somehow, impossibly, he felt a fluttering in his chest. It should have been impossible to feel anything like joy or hope in a moment like this, but he spared a tiny section of his mind to marvel at the fact that after 200 years, she still fit perfectly against him. He felt her take a deep, shuddering breath, and he wrapped his arms fully around her.

The way people talked, he’d expected all of this to be easier when he had her with him, and in some ways it was. But it was also reminding him of how it felt to watch her suffer. He felt her pain as if it was his own, and in this moment their grief was multiplying, becoming something large and all-consuming. They held tight to each other like it was the only thing that would keep them from disappearing altogether.

-

After an hour or so, Arnell opened the door. He didn’t look nearly as changed as Astarion would have expected. It should do something to you, he thought. When your child dies, it should mark you in some way. But the man simply stood there, unblemished as ever, looking exhausted in a way Astarion couldn’t even fathom. He nodded to Wilhemina, who bustled forward to take his place at Shadowheart’s bedside and perform all the prayers and rituals a dedicated Selunite deserved. At least she had something to do now.

Finality seemed to hit all of them then; if Arnell had left her bedside, Shadowheart was well and truly gone. The slow, aching sadness that had been rolling off of Rielle for the last hour suddenly ran cold. She moved away from Astarion very slightly, and he loosened his grip to allow it. Her face, previously etched with grief, was now blank with shock. She squeezed his hand before stepping away, a small reassurance that she would come back to him. Another small piece of his heart broke at the idea that she was promising not to abandon him. He squeezed back and then released her, silently watching her move away and gaze past the railing.

The dark night sky was turning dusty, a signal that dawn was on its way, and the silent forest was slowly stirring again. Astarion hadn’t realized how quiet it had become. Now it almost seemed like Shadowheart had died so the world could come back to life.

He tore his eyes away from Rielle and the forest beyond her, wanting to give her the privacy she deserved. Halsin had put down his carving for what felt like the first time since they’d arrived, and he was collapsing into a chair, rubbing his face with his hands and sniffling. Arnell had closed the door behind him but hadn’t moved any further. As Astarion watched, he took a deep breath of the warm night air, closing his eyes. He swayed on his feet, and Astarion’s body responded before his mind, crossing the balcony in 2 long steps and catching the older man’s elbow to keep him standing. He opened his eyes, smiling sheepishly, and spoke in a soft, hoarse voice. “Perhaps I’m a bit too old to sit in one position that long.”

Astarion guided him over to a bench, where Rielle had gathered the food that was left from visitors onto a small table. “I’ve been neglecting my duties,” he replied as he guided Arnell to a seat and joined him, reaching for a roll and some soft butter. He split the bread in two and spread butter on each side before handing it to Arnell. “She did tell me to keep you fed, I believe.”

Shadowheart’s father accepted the roll and took a small bite, chewing and staring into the distance. Astarion had no idea how to talk to someone whose daughter had just died, so he made no attempt to start a conversation, and neither did the older man. They simply sat, the only sounds Rielle’s shuddering breaths and Arnell’s chewing.

-

After some time and some tea, Arnell seemed more solid, his eyes more alert. There wasn’t much behind them, but they were open as he sipped the tea they’d made for him. Astarion studied him for a moment, debating how selfish he wanted to be.

Selfishness won. He spoke into the silence, quietly enough that only Shadowheart’s father could hear him.

“Was it worth it?”

Arnell took a moment to come back to focusing, but he slowly turned to Astarion. “Sorry?”

“Was it worth it, having her for the time you had her? Was it worth the way you feel right now?” The words could have been angry or challenging, but he was honestly curious. Arnell seemed to understand this, thinking seriously before answering.

Then he frowned, looking at Astarion like he was trying to see him through a foggy window. “I would love to say yes. I’m not sure anything is worth this. If anything could be, though… it would be her.”

Astarion nodded, closing his eyes briefly.

“But then,” the man continued, and his eyes snapped open, “there were so many days I would have said yes. I suppose that would even the scales a bit.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, and they looked sore from crying. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. It doesn’t matter.”

Astarion frowned. How could it not?

The man kept talking, ignorant to his confusion. “There was never another way this was going to go. The second I met her mother, this is what was going to happen.”

“What do you mean?” He was leaning forward now, trying to understand.

Arnell sighed. “What was the other option, not have her in my life?” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “Unacceptable. And when little Jen came along, I knew this day was coming, but she didn’t give me a choice. I was going to spend every second with her I possibly could, of course I was.” He opened his eyes to look at Astarion, and a tear navigated the lines of his face. He smiled sadly. “I understand why you’re asking. I used to ask myself the same question. But I learned a long time ago that it didn’t really matter; nothing was going to change. I never had a choice. And I didn’t really want one.

“So I learned to stopped asking.”

He paused again before adding, “thank you for asking me, though. It helps, reminding myself how I got here. Not much,” he said with a broken laugh, “but it helps.”

All of Arnell’s words felt like the missing pieces to a puzzle Astarion had been unable to solve for centuries. Heartbreaking clarity washed over him as they lapsed back into silence.

He’d just spent two centuries fighting a battle he’d already lost.

Someone should have warned him, he thought. He hadn’t known what he was signing up for, letting himself fall in love. He hadn’t realized it was all one singular experience, love and loss.

It wouldn’t have changed anything, he knew. He didn’t need Arnell to tell him that. Still, a warning would have been nice.

He looked over to Rielle, who was now resting with her feet out in front of her and her back against a post of the railing, her head tilted back to look at the stars. A single tear rolled down her temple into her hair. She felt eyes on her and brought her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes steadied him as they always did, even as her expression grew curious.

He couldn’t imagine what his face looked like right now. Heartbreak and revelation and terror and love, all rolled into one. Maybe she’d paint it for him one day, the way he looked when he realized he was never going to run away again.

-

It was close to dawn when Wilhemina’s assistants arrived to prepare Shadowheart’s body. She’d requested to be returned to the land (with Halsin’s assistance), but apparently there was work they needed to do first. Astarion didn’t ask for details.

There had been a brief flurry of activity before the assistants had arrived, the three companions making sure Arnell had a constant supply of tea, making sure the chickens were fed, sending news of their friend’s death to anyone who needed to know. And now, a lull.

Astarion was starting to hate lulls.

He’d need to head indoors soon, he thought as he watched the sky lighten, but he didn’t move. The balcony had become a strange haven over the course of the night that he was reluctant to leave.

He was sitting with Rielle, listening to her talk about Sklada and her child. That was when they heard a soft gasp.

They looked up to see a small butterfly had landed on the rim of Arnell’s teacup. It was pure white, and it alighted for just a few seconds on the cup before moving away. Arnell watched it with his mouth open like he was captivated. Halsin stood and walked to where he was, smiling.

Astarion looked between the men. The moment seemed significant, but he couldn’t figure out why. Halsin leaned down to lay a hand on Arnell’s shoulder. “She certainly didn’t wait to pay you a visit, did she?”

Suddenly he understood. They were saying the butterfly was Shadowheart, or maybe that it was a sign she had sent them? “She is still here, my friend,” Halsin was saying. “She has not left, not truly.”

Whatever they were experiencing, he wasn’t about to interrupt it. When they looked over at him, he smiled and nodded the way Rielle did. However, when the older man collapsed into Halsin’s arms, weeping, Astarion turned away. He knew he should feel empathetic, he should be able to put his own feelings aside and let this man grieve his daughter, but all he felt was cold.

Rielle, of course, noticed his shift in demeanor. She leaned close, making sure to keep her voice low enough that only he would hear. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, unsure if he could even put it into words. “She’s not here,” he replied, equally quiet.

She frowned. “I don’t—“

“The point is that she’s not here. She did leave.” Understanding softened her gaze as he kept talking. “And hells, I hope she went far. I hope she’s having grand fucking adventures across the planes right now, not… polymorphing into a butterfly just to come say hi to all of us.”

Mina let out a soft laugh, not unkindly. “You’re not wrong. It certainly doesn’t seem like Shadowheart to embody something so tiny and delicate. Remember when she broke down those doors under the temple? Even Karlach couldn’t manage it.”

“She was so godsdamned strong. I can’t imagine a world where she—“ his throat constricted. They just didn’t understand her the way he did, no one did. She wasn’t sweet and light and friendly. Or rather she was, but she was also acerbic and self-centered and occasionally cruel in the name of honesty, and she wouldn’t send them gentle reminders of how beautiful she was in life. If she was going to send signs, they’d be annoying and brash and funny.

He hated that there was anyone in the world who didn’t see her the way he did. It wasn’t fair. She deserved to be seen in her entirety. Her darkness was just as beautiful as her light.

He swallowed and attempted to continue, battling his frustration to keep his voice low. “She wouldn’t send us a cute butterfly, Ri, she’d send us a fucking pigeon.”

Before he’d even finished his sentence, he felt something warm and wet on the side of his face. Rielle was looking at him like she’d seen a ghost, and as he slowly caught up to what had just happened, he realized she might as well have.

Alighting confidently on the eaves of the cottage above them, having just taken an enormous shit on his head, was the smuggest pigeon he had ever seen. It sat on the roof, staring Astarion down coolly for what felt like an hour before flying off again. He looked back at Rielle in complete shock as the thick white fluid continued its slow journey down his temple.

“She fucking heard you,” Rielle whispered, her voice cracking with the strain of holding in a laugh, and then the two of them lost it. She had just enough presence of mind to open a portal around them and whisk them down to the front porch of the cottage in order to give the older men some privacy, and Astarion was grateful for her quickness. The second they arrived, they both fell into a loveseat, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. She tried to wipe the bird shit off his face with her hand, and that sent him further into hysterics, as she only succeeded in moving it around. He wiped at it with his own hand and then wiped his hand on her arm as she squirmed, laughing too hard to put up a fight. They laughed until tears ran down their cheeks.

When they finally caught their breath, the sun was finally beginning to peek over the horizon, and they ducked inside. Rielle led him to the kitchen, still smiling and using her clean hand to wipe tears from her eyes. He followed, falling into step with her like the last 200 years had never happened.

“Sit,” she ordered, walking to the opposite corner where there was a cupboard of dishcloths and a water pump. She pulled out an old, stained cloth and ran it under the water.

“Darling, really, could we not find something cleaner?”

She paused before wringing out the cloth, turning to walk back to him and pull up a chair facing him. She seemed not to have heard his question, but she also seemed to be working something out in her head, and he didn’t want to disrupt the process.

She sat with her knees between his, bringing the wet cloth up to his face and rubbing gently, pausing to fold and refold every couple of strokes to make sure she was using the cleanest bits of the cloth. For a moment they sat in the quiet, early morning kitchen, not saying a word, and for the first time in a long time, Astarion let himself be still. He could hear her heartbeat—he’d know it anywhere, it was as familiar as the sound of his own voice—and feel her soft breath on his face as she worked, pursing her lips like she always did when she was focused.

Soft footsteps came from the door to the dining room, and Astarion looked out of the corner of his eye. It was a small hairless cat, walking over to them and confidently weaving between their legs. His purring added to the peace, and for a moment Astarion let himself forget the death and the pain and the heartbreak.

“I think that’s my cat,” Rielle said softly, glancing down.

“I didn’t know you had a cat.”

“I didn’t, until a couple hours ago. She said he’s mine to take care of. Let me rinse this, I got the majority of it but I’m just smearing it around at this point.” Astarion hummed in understanding, sitting still as she stood.

It seemed safe to assume the house didn’t have multiple hairless cats running around, and therefore that this was the cat named after him. He reached a hand down idly and the cat version of him butted against him. “I don’t know what she was being dramatic about, you’re perfectly friendly,” he murmured, and the cat pulled back to hiss gently before purring and butting against him again. He supposed that clarified things a bit.

Rielle sat down again, pulling the hair at his temple back gently with her free hand as she resumed wiping. He’d forgotten about her hands in his hair. It was indescribable, that feeling. “Did you mean to call me darling?” She asked quietly, looking at her work and not at his eyes.

He thought for a moment. “Earlier, on the balcony, it slipped out. But just now I did.”

She nodded and didn’t respond.

He didn’t want to shatter the peace of this moment, nor the delicate peace that had existed between them during the night. But every night had to end eventually, so he gathered his courage and spoke. “I remember what you said, 10 years ago. I don’t expect you to have forgiven me. But I am sorry, my dear. More than I can ever say.” His eyes were filling again. Hells, he was tired of crying. “Everything that you said had to happen before I could use that word again—everything that is within my power to do, I have done and I will do.”

Her eyes were filling now, too, but she was refusing to look away from the cloth in her hand. He gently grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand and forcing her to look at him. A tear spilled over her already tear-stained cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

“I’m not going anywhere. I will call you whatever you want me to call you. You’re my love. My heart. You always have been. I tried to escape it, and it was impossible. So I’m not running anymore. I want every remaining minute with you that I can have. The good and the bad, I want it all.”

She drew in a ragged breath, looking toward the warm sun peeking through the window as more tears fell. He’d need to move further into the house soon, but it was alright for the moment. He held his breath as she tried to put words to her thoughts. She turned back to him, and there was fear in her eyes like he hadn’t seen in centuries. But there was courage, too, and a love he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel worthy of. But he’d try, because he owed her that, too.

“You can call me darling,” she said softly, and it was a relief like he’d never felt. He closed his eyes, and before he opened them again he felt the warm press of her lips against his. 200 years without her, 200 years of fantasies and daydreams, and he hadn’t done her any justice at all. She was so much sweeter, so much softer, so much stronger, so much kinder, so much funnier, so much cleverer.

He threaded his fingers into her hair and breathed her scent and asked himself, one last time, if this would be worth the inevitable pain.

His entire being answered. With her warmth around him, her hand soft on his knee, her courage, her trust…of course it was.

Anything was worth this.

Chapter Text

The stool creaked as Rielle leaned back. She squinted, trying to see a portrait on the canvas in front of her, but she felt like her eyes were crossing. One highlight caught her eye, just a little warmer than the others, and she sighed, plunging her brush into the jar of solvent and wiping it on her apron.

As she did, she felt a cool hand settling onto her shoulder. It had been so strange at first, having someone else in her home with her. 200 years of living alone will do that. For the first several months she had startled every time he appeared suddenly or touched her like this. Now, however, she leaned into him. “How’s it looking?”

She glanced up to see Astarion standing above her, tilting his head and considering the painting in front of them. He raised his eyebrows and sighed before speaking. “It’s really something, darling. I’m not sure words can do it justice. How are you feeling about it?”

She looked back at the painting and immediately began focusing on details again, making a mental list of all the things she wanted to fix. Adjust that line, deepen that shadow, clarify that border, smooth that blend. This was how she worked, usually. It was lists and lists and lists. It was a cliche that a work of art was never finished, but not untrue. Her lists would go on forever if she wasn’t forced to hand her work over to a gallery by a certain date. “I have no idea how I feel about it. I can’t even tell what it looks like anymore.”

He smiled, bending to brush her hair aside and kiss her cheek gently. “My dear, you gave me explicit instructions to cut you off when you start talking like that.”

She frowned, unwilling to stop working just yet. But he (or rather, her past self who gave him instructions) wasn’t wrong; she could practically feel the gears in her mind beginning to grind and smoke. She did not make good artistic decisions when she felt like this. She forced herself to put the paintbrush down, sighing heavily.

Astarion offered her a hand to help her rise from the stool before gently turning her by the shoulders so he could untie the back of her apron. It always took her a moment to come back to herself after painting, but she noticed his efficiency. “I take it you missed me?”

“Gods, darling, I’m bored to tears. Nothing’s fun without you. How I didn’t walk straight into the sun while we were apart, I’ll never know.”

She turned to face him as he lifted the apron over her head, reaching around her to hang it on the back of her easel. “Ah, yes. Now it makes sense. I thought you were miserable when we were apart because you were missing the love of your life, but it was actually just boredom.” Her arms snaked around his waist, pulling him closer to her.

“The other thing, too. That was definitely a very small part of it.” He bent to kiss her, and he would have, if it hadn’t been for the sudden crash of several paintbrushes and the (thankfully sturdy) mug that held them toppling off the desk.

“Fangs!! Get down from there!” Rielle yelled, snapping her fingers at the permanently disgruntled cat now making himself at home in the spot he’d just cleared. The one condition Astarion had set around sharing a home was that she would need to rename the cat. Having two Astarions in one house seemed a bit much even for her, so she acquiesced. After a lengthy debate, they’d settled on an old nickname of his. “Karlach hated cats,” he’d said when she suggested it. “It’s perfect.”

It still felt novel, the way their life had come together. For a year after Astarion first moved in, she was so reluctant to spend time apart from him that she barely painted a thing. She had never believed in the stereotype that good art had to come from unhappiness, but hells–painting as a distraction from loneliness and heartbreak had certainly forced her to be productive. After several vague and frustrating arguments (“Darling, what are you actually upset about?” “Nothing, everything’s great!! That’s the problem!”) and a couple gentle nudges from Sklada, she started scheduling blocks of time each day during which she would lock herself in a room alone and force herself to paint. A couple months of this and she’d gotten back into the habit, and they’d managed to find balance after a couple years.

It would be three years soon, she realized, since they’d joined their lives. It was beginning to feel like things had always been this way, her two loves–painting and Astarion–sharing her time and her heart. Even so, she never once took it for granted.

She brought a hand to his cheek, guiding his attention away from the cat and back to her. His expression was open, his eyes round and innocent. This had been a rare thing, once. She’d spent the first days of their acquaintance trying desperately to get real moments out of him, driving herself to distraction trying to break down his walls. Honesty was his resting state now. He leaned into her hand, smiling faintly.

“I’m going to have to paint you again, I fear,” she said with a sigh.

He laughed. “Why’s that?”

She tilted her head, taking him in. “There’s just so much more of you to paint.”

His eyebrow lifted and his smile turned to a smirk before she realized what she’d said. She laughed despite herself.

“I didn’t mean it like that, love. Although, well, I could be persuaded. I just meant there are so many little moments and expressions that I want to capture.”

His smile turned sweet again, and they smiled at each other for a moment before he spoke again.

“Let’s get back to the part where you said you could be persuaded…”

Rolling her eyes, she pulled him down for a kiss. Every time she started, she never wanted to stop. It was only Fangs’ bony little tail knocking against her jar of solvent that pulled her away.

“Hells, I should get this out of the way before he starts drinking it just to spite us.”

“Please, my son is far too clever for that.”

“He may be clever, but he’s also dramatic. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had to rush him to the healer for a self-inflicted problem.” She disentangled herself from his arms and went to grab her jar of solvent with its lid and all her used brushes, pausing to scratch Fangs under the chin. When she turned back around, Astarion was looking at her painting again, an indecipherable expression on his face. “Love? Everything okay?” she asked, pausing before heading outside.

He blinked rapidly like his mind had been somewhere else entirely. “Yes, darling. Just…thinking about her.”

Despite the peace of the moment, Rielle felt a spark of panic. He’d promised, of course, that he wasn’t going anywhere. But she didn’t expect three years of domestic bliss to suddenly undo two centuries of running away.

She forced herself to breathe. It wasn’t worth panicking until there was something to panic about.

“Want to help wash these out?” she asked gently, moving toward the door. He looked at her thoughtfully for a second before nodding and following her.

She led him to the water pump just outside her studio door. It was evening, of course, but the moon was bright and full, and the air was warm. When she’d gotten back into painting after they moved in together, she’d tried not to make Astarion feel bad about his nocturnal lifestyle, but he’d noticed her struggling to maintain hours that would let her spend time with him and still paint by daylight. He’d gotten in touch with the staff at Gale’s old school, who had been all too happy to help a friend of their founder, and they’d imbued a standing lamp with the daylight spell so she could paint whenever she wanted. It made his eyes water if he was around it too long, but otherwise didn't bother him. It was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given her.

Now she squatted in the daylight that was still pouring out of her studio and grabbed the soap as Astarion took a seat in the chair next to the pump, crossing his legs primly. They worked through the brushes silently, him agitating the brushes in the solvent and handing them to her one by one, her washing the solvent and leftover paint out with soap and water and piling them in the grass. When he handed over the last brush, he screwed the lid onto the solvent jar, setting it on the windowsill to let the paint residue settle overnight.

He stood as Rielle finished up, collecting the bundle of brushes like a bouquet and rising to join him on his way back inside. She was bending over to pick up the mug Fangs had knocked over earlier when he spoke, startling in the silence.

“Did it bother you earlier, when I brought her up?”

Rielle looked reflexively at the canvas as she straightened, the portrait of Shadowheart looking a bit clearer now she’d stepped away from it. She put her brushes in the mug, adding the ones Fangs had spilled as she formulated a response. It had, of course. Bothered her, that is. But not the way he seemed to think.

“I just know it bothers you to think about those things. I didn’t want to… push you. I don’t mind talking about her. About any of them.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, coming around to sit on her stool and look at Shadowheart again. Rielle leaned against the desk, scratching Fangs absentmindedly as he purred and snored gently. Anxiety was simmering in her chest. It felt dangerous, talking about this with him. Like one wrong word would send him sprinting in the opposite direction. Fangs seemed to sense her anxiety, his tail twitching in his sleep.

If he’s going to run, so be it, part of her mind argued. You can’t spend the next several centuries tiptoeing around like this. But it wasn’t several centuries from now; it was now, only a few years in, and they were still figuring this all out. And she wasn’t ready to lose him again.

He gazed at her painting, speaking again before her thoughts could spiral further. “It does bother me, I suppose. I miss her. Thinking about her makes me sad. I’ve been told that’s how it’s supposed to feel, though.”

“It is,” she replied quickly. “Insofar as there’s any way you’re ‘supposed’ to feel when you’re grieving someone, anyway. But… it can be a lot. It’s alright if you need to ease into it, not talk about her until you’re ready.”

Astarion was frowning now, and his eyes cut back to hers shrewdly, as if he was hearing something else in her words that she wasn’t saying. “But I brought her up, darling. You were the one who seemed keen to avoid the conversation.”

Rielle blinked. She had been the one shutting things down, and she hadn’t even thought about it. Why, though? Why was she so keen to avoid the topic?

As soon as she asked the question she knew the answer. She took a deep breath. Her eyes refused to meet his, instead roaming to the corner of her easel where a speckle of red paint had dried and hardened. “It doesn’t feel safe yet, talking about these things with you. It still feels like you’re going to…bolt.” She glanced up at his face and caught a small wince, but kept going. “I know you brought it up, but that just made it feel like some sort of test, like you were tempting me into chasing you out the door again. I suppose I thought it was better to avoid the topic entirely.”

He exhaled, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh. “Yes,” he said, his voice more subdued. “I suppose that’s fair.” She dropped her eyes to the speckle of paint again as he rose and walked toward her. “I’ve asked quite a lot of you, haven’t I?”

She shook her head automatically, but a cool finger caught her chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. “You didn’t ask anything I wasn’t willing to give,” she replied honestly, and he gave her a sad smile.

“Still, It was too much. Three years, after two centuries–that’s not enough time to make up for any of it. But I promise, darling, I will convince you. I am not going anywhere.”

Her eyes filled as she nodded. She knew he would. She wanted to believe so, so badly. She would get there one day.

His fingers traced her jaw before coming to lace into the back of her hair. She luxuriated in the sensation, like cool water running over her scalp. “I hid from you for so long because I was afraid. It was because of me. There’s nothing you could have said that would have made me stay, because it had nothing to do with you.” His eyes were intense, like he was trying to carve every word he spoke into her mind to keep her from ever forgetting. “And now, I am going to stay because it’s what I want. You are what I want. This life is what I want. And there’s nothing you can say now to change that.” He raised his eyebrows at her, and she nodded. Satisfied for now, he pulled her into his arms.

Anxiety still tingled in her fingers as she wrapped her arms around him. Her body didn’t quite believe him yet, like the years of missing him had carved themselves into her bones. Her mind, however, was convinced. She beseeched the anxiety to ebb, and it did, slowly.

They stood there holding each other for some time, his hands rubbing her back and her scalp gently, rhythmically. When her pulse had calmed, she felt his voice purring through his chest as he spoke again. “Look at you, worried you’re going to scare off a vampire. Frankly, darling, you’re not as scary as you think you are.” She laughed softly as he dropped a kiss on the top of her head and pulled away.

“That vampire is not be as scary as he thinks he is either, love. Especially not once you’ve seen his entire haircare routine.”

Astarion gasped in mock outrage as she looked once more at the painting on the easel. She tilted her head. Something was different. Suddenly, the millions of details were coalescing once more, and Shadowheart’s young eyes were smiling slyly at her, glinting with cleverness that would be almost wicked if it weren’t for all the love in her gaze.

It was the way Rielle always pictured her, the way she’d been on the nautiloid or washed up on the beach–black hair and prickliness, poorly disguising a desperate need for connection and love–blended with every other version of her that had existed over time. The wisdom and wit of her later years, black hair blending into a long white braid woven into the background.

Without a second thought, Rielle reached for the jars of pigment on the shelf above her desk, pulling down two–both translucent with an iridescent sheen, one that shimmered green and one purple. She grabbed one of the brushes she’d just put away and walked to the canvas, not bothering with her apron as she unscrewed the small jars and placed them on the easel’s ledge.

Astarion sighed dramatically, taking her place leaning against the desk. “Darling, we just got everything cleaned up! I wanted to go out for a drink or something tonight, maybe celebrate??”

She ignored him. She dipped the brush into the pigments, dabbing them onto the black of Shadowheart’s hair where it blended into grey and then into white. She marbled them randomly, blending quickly and messily. When she lifted the brush again, she tilted her head back and forth. It wasn’t visible head-on, but at a slight angle the pigments picked up the light. She dropped her brush onto the ledge of the easel, scooting her stool back to get a better look. Astarion came to stand behind her again, seeing she was done.

She looked up at him and he was tilting his head the same way she’d done, a small smile tugging at his lips. “In her hair, the shimmer, it almost looks like–”

“Pigeon’s wings,” she confirmed, nodding. She screwed the lids back onto her pigments and put them back on the shelf, wiping her brush on a rag. She’d regret not washing it tomorrow, but she was tired and it wasn’t her favorite anyway. She walked back around to join Astarion, sliding an arm around his waist.

“It’s–” his voice was unsteady as he continued to look at Shadowheart. “It’s perfect, darling. It’s almost like having her back, just for a moment.”

She smiled, a single tear sliding down her face. “I miss her.”

He turned and pressed a kiss to her head again, and she felt a tear fall onto her scalp. “Me too, darling.”

They stood together for minutes that felt like hours, looking at their friend, missing her.

It was Rielle who stirred first. Wiping her cheeks, she took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Did, um… did you say something about celebrating earlier?”

Astarion cleared his throat as well, and they turned as one to wander into their kitchen, Rielle clicking off the lamp as they passed it. Fangs sensed them leaving him behind and rose to follow, small footsteps smacking against the floor in their wake. “Yes, it’s 3 years today that we’ve lived together.”

She stopped in her tracks and he turned to look at her. “That’s today? I thought that was sometime next week.”

He rolled his eyes. “Really, darling, it’s bad news when I’m the organized one in a relationship.”

She smiled. “Let me get out of my painting clothes and we can get some mermaid whiskey.”

“Need some help, darling?” He smirked.

For a moment, looking at the way his fangs flashed, Rielle was back in a camp outside the city, young and unsure and overwhelmed with possibility. Surrounded by friends, shaky in love. Staring into red eyes that saw far too much and knowing in her bones that her life was changed forever.

“Always, love.” She grabbed his hand and led him through their sitting room, down their hallway, into their room.

The door clicked closed behind them, and for a few moments the house was quiet. Then the door cracked open again; a pale hand snaked its way out to gently deposit Fangs into the hallway before retreating back inside.

Fangs curled up to guard the door. It always got noisy, whatever they did in there when they kicked him out, but it seemed to make them happy. He tucked his nose under his tail and fell asleep.

For a moment, everything was perfect.