Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“It’s not about the other spawn, Astarion!” Wyll cried, his eyes wide and pleading. “You’ve changed. You’re alive and you have power but you've given your soul away, too.” 

“That’s rich, coming from the man who sacrificed his soul to save a father that will never love him,” Astarion dismissed sharply. 

“It wasn’t about me. Baldur’s Gate needs my father alive. I had no choice.”

“No,” Astarion began lowly, shaking his head, “I know deep down, you wanted to keep your pact! You are useless without Mizora’s patronage. Without the power she gives you. You’re a hypocrite, and you know it.”

“At least I am not treating everyone around me like they’re worth less than the dirt beneath my boot,” Wyll snapped. Catching himself, he took a breath. “I don’t care that you have power, Astarion. I care that you… That you’re not-” 

Wyll cut himself off with a shake of the head, turning away. Astarion’s glare persisted, even when Wyll could no longer see it. 

“That I’m not what?” Astarion snarled. 

Another breath, weak and shaking. When Wyll met Astarion’s eyes again, his own were filled with tears. 

“You’re not the man I fell in love with anymore,” Wyll almost whispered, his voice a hoarse and delicate thing. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Astarion said, drawing his shoulders in defensively. “I’m better than who I was before! You just hate that I finally have the power to protect myself.”  

“No, Astarion-”

“You hate that I don’t need you anymore,” Astarion continued cruelly. “You hate that I’m stronger than you, that I had the courage to take my freedom back when you didn’t!” He stepped closer, getting into Wyll’s face, and shoved his index finger against Wyll’s chest. “You hate that I’m no longer some frail thing that you can control, instead of Cazador.” 

Wyll stumbled back as if Astarion had shoved him. A tear fell from his remaining eye, deep brown glistening in stark contrast to his cold, stone prosthetic. His mouth hung ajar and he shook his head wordlessly, so upended by Astarion’s words alone. Astarion grinned maliciously, revelling in his power over Wyll; the kind he hadn’t even needed to ascend to obtain.

“Astarion,” Wyll gasped. “No.”

He looked away as more tears fell, still shaking his pretty head. The display was pathetic, and useless. Astarion was winning, now that Wyll had shown weakness. Wyll should honestly know better by now. And if he truly loved Astarion, he would know better. 

“I never…” Wyll cleared his throat, though it sounded more like a frustrated groan he attempted to hide, and wiped his face. “I never wanted to control you.” He gazed at Astarion with his pitiful doe-eyes; it was a look that had worked to undo Astarion in the past, but would work no longer. “I didn’t stop you from ascending because it had to be your choice, because I know the importance of having a choice. But now you’ve chosen to become someone cruel, someone who takes advantage of those who care about you most, someone who uses lies and deception not for protection but to cause harm.”

Wyll sighed again, heavy and defeated. Astarion held his gaze defiantly. 

“I know you still have so much good in you, my star,” Wyll continued, and Astarion felt like tearing his throat out for daring to use that pet name now, “but you are hurting me. You are hurting all of us.”

“I suffered two hundred years of hurt,” Astarion spat. “This is nothing. You are nothing.”

Wyll must have guessed how desperately Astarion wanted that statement to cut into him, because he hid any reaction from his face, staring blankly instead. He took a breath, deep and slow, and exhaled soundly. Then he nodded, clenching his jaw. 

“I love you,” Wyll said. Astarion considered it a small victory that he sounded utterly broken. “And I fear I will always love you. But I cannot-” he tilted his head, considering, “no, I will not let you do this to me.” 

He took two steps back, slow, but measured. Wyll folded his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders, looking ever the Duke he will never be. 

“Once we have defeated the Netherbrain,” Wyll began, stiff and professional, “we will go our separate ways. We are no more.”

Astarion raised a brow, his lip curling in amusement. 

“You think you can just walk away from me?” Astarion smirked. “How… adorable.”

“I can,” Wyll insisted. He was using the voice of the Blade now, donning his old hero-facade effortlessly. “And I will.”

Wyll turned on his heel and began walking away. His steps were rigid and precise, like a perfect soldier. 

“You will regret this, you know,” Astarion called after him. “More than anything you live to regret.”

Wyll paused at that, and Astarion almost thought he’d take back his foolish decision. But then he glanced over his shoulder, a thin, pained smile on his face.

“I’ve regretted many things, Astarion,” Wyll said. “They never felt like this.”

With that, he walked away. 

Astarion watched him for only a few seconds before he turned back to his own little nook in the Elfsong, knocking aside a table and whatever useless nonsense adorned it in his fury. He sank into his bed, his claws tearing at the sheets, and seethed, staring at Wyll’s retreating form once again. The man never stopped, never faltered in his step. And he never looked back. 

Wyll entered his own alcove he shared with Shadowheart, Minthara, and Jaheira, and ducked out of sight. Astarion ripped his bedsheets up, grateful for the partition that hid him from view of the others on his side of the room so no one would see his tantrum. He reached under his bed and retrieved the leather-bound journal that held the ridiculous poems and words of devotion Wyll had written to him over the months they’ve known each other, each as disgustingly lovesick as the last, and tore the book in half. The pages fell onto the bed, and he tore at those, too. 

It wasn’t enough to sate his rage, but it was the best he could do for now. He longed to tear out Wyll’s remaining eye, to bite at his throat and drain him of every last drop of blood, to gorge himself on Wyll’s corpse. But he knew he’d be instantly betrayed by the rest of their party, who would take Wyll’s side without hesitation, the utter fools. And Astarion had power now, but not enough to face the Netherbrain alone. He’d hate to have to kill those who would do all of the work for him. 

He’d have to bide his time, to think, to plan. Wyll may think he could be free of him, but Astarion would soon prove how wrong the man was. 

Wyll had made quite the enemy in Astarion. 

Chapter Text

As soon as the Netherbrain fell, as soon as Astarion had planned to wait until the others dissipated to strike against Wyll, Karlach decided it would be the perfect time to start dying, making the whole situation about her. Astarion skulked at the back of the group, keeping still behind Minthara so he could watch without being seen. 

Karlach burst into flames, crumbling to her knees at the end of the dock, and Wyll fell before her. Astarion could smell the man’s pathetic tears, could just hear his bleeding heart breaking as he sat there uselessly. Wyll said something to Karlach, and Karlach said something back, but Astarion was too far to hear. He watched as concern, then consideration, then hope passed through Karlach’s face. She nodded to Wyll. 

Wyll grasped her arm to help her stand, uncaring for the flames that licked her skin and surely must be scorching his. Astarion scoffed, causing Minthara to glare at him over her shoulder.

Right, he thought, even the murderous Drow loves Karlach. And to think, he had once respected Minthara. 

A portal opened behind Wyll and Karlach, the view one of barren wastelands and fire. Wyll turned to the group, making a point to eye each and every one of them, like a good hero who appreciates all of his friends. His eyes met Astarion’s, and he simply glanced away. He didn’t even have the decency to look sad as he did, which was quite rude of him. 

“We will all see each other again,” Wyll announced to the party. “Alive, and well.”

Most of the group nodded their agreement, and Minsc put up a fist and cheered as if Wyll had given a toast or an inspiring speech, which he certainly hadn’t. Astarion remained still, muscles taut as he felt his chance to finally kill Wyll slipping away. 

“Now, Wyll,” Karlach groaned, her brow furrowed in pain and covered in sweat. 

Wyll nodded to her and helped her through the portal, slinging one of her arms over his shoulders. The same way he’d helped Astarion, after a particularly rough battle that had left Astarion weak and helpless. The same way the wretched man would help anyone who needed it, because that’s the kind of shit he wasted his power on: helping anyone but himself. Astarion would never make the same mistake. 

As soon as Wyll and Karlach had fully entered the portal, it disappeared behind them. The rest of the group turned to each other, their faces in various states of grief, relief, and even joy. Lae’zel had already left on her dragon, eager to save the galaxy, but Astarion knew even she would be smiling now. He scoffed once more, louder so that everyone could hear him, and this time Minthara turned to him completely.

“Rid us now of your poisonous existence, spawn,” she spat, “or I shall remove your nagging head from your neck myself.” 

“You wouldn’t survive the attempt,” Astarion snarled, his anger roiling tenfold that she’d dared to call him a spawn. 

“Easy, my friends!” Minsc cried, stepping between them and placing a large hand on each of their shoulders. “We have just won one battle. Let us not start another!”

Astarion bit at the man’s fingers, and may have succeeded in taking one or two off, if Minsc wasn’t so ridiculously giant. Minsc pulled away, laughing good-naturedly at the blood that poured down his hand, as if Astarion had simply teased him rather than attempted to sever his digits. 

“Your bite is almost as ferocious as Boo’s!” Minsc announced. “Though not quite,” he added conspiratorially. 

“Cool your fire, cub,” Jaheira said beside Minsc, her tone threatening. “I thought we agreed not to bite our friends.”

“I’m older than you, half-elf,” Astarion snapped. “And you are not my friends.”

Astarion’s eyes darted around the group, tensing in case they planned to attack him now. He should just kill them all, but he was so exhausted from battling the Netherbrain and all of the illithid slaves that he didn’t trust his chances now. 

Thankfully, no one seemed ready to strike him, except for Minthara, who would refrain in front of the others. Shadowheart watched him with a disapproving glare, and both Gale and Halsin eyed him with matching disappointment and pity. If any of them did try to fight Astarion now, he decided he’d go after Gale and Halsin first. 

“That’s a pity,” Jaheira remarked. “I tend to kill monsters who aren’t my friends.” 

Astarion opened his mouth to retort, or perhaps change his mind and attack Jaheira first for her insolence, but Gale interrupted him.

“Why don’t we all just take a deep breath, and leave Astarion to go his own way,” he suggested, ever the diplomat. “We wouldn’t want to keep someone trapped in our company who detests us so.”

“I believe that is the smartest thing you have ever said, Gale,” Astarion replied coolly. 

Gale lowered his head, clearly insulted but letting it slide for the sake of keeping the peace. 

“Whatever you say, old friend,” Gale conceded.

“Very well,” Minthara said. “Allow the vampire to retreat to his den, for now. We shall see if he wishes to invoke our wrath again.”

“Darling, if I do, you’ll be the first to know,” he promised, his voice dripping with faux cordiality. 

“Begone, Astarion,” Shadowheart ordered. 

If it weren’t for the slight prick of radiance she subtly cast his way, her words would only urge him to provoke them all further. As it stood, if she still had the divine powers of destroying undead while he felt this tired, Astarion could consider this a tactical retreat and return once he’d fully gathered his strength again. Then, they would be no match for him. 

Astarion gave them all a dashing smile that didn’t reach his eyes, swimming with fury, and bowed. He took the form of a bat and flew off, not giving them the honour of a second glance. 

Chapter Text

His former friends disbanded within days. Astarion kept close eyes on them at all times through rats he enthralled to his command.

Shadowheart fled almost immediately to some quaint little cottage a tenday’s travel away from the city. Gale went back to his lonely tower in Waterdeep, probably to drown himself in books and be forgotten. Halsin ran off into the woods. Minthara returned to the Underdark. Only Jaheira and Minsc remained, besides himself, but they wasted their mortal lives helping rebuild the city. It would be all too easy to pick them off, but Astarion wouldn’t bother wasting his time. He had his own kingdom to build, after all, and hundreds of eager souls begging to become his servants. 

Astarion did regret that his ascension involved killing the seven thousand spawn beneath Cazador’s manor. They would have been perfect slaves, after all. Now, he had to start all over. 

He did wonder, briefly, how fared Karlach and Wyll in Avernus. Astarion hoped at least Wyll was alive, so he could still have the pleasure of killing the man himself. If Wyll didn’t give up on Karlach soon, Astarion would have to send someone to retrieve him, and that would be a pain. 

Or… perhaps Astarion could lure him back sooner… 

A plan formed in Astarion’s mind, and he grinned. 

~

Killing Ulder Ravengard should have been laughably easy. He was an old, human man who had lost most of his strength and battle prowess when he’d been prisoner to the Absolute, and now he didn’t even have his precious son to protect him. But once Astarion had infiltrated the palace, he’d been confronted by a cleric of Tyr before he’d even caught Ulder’s scent. 

One sunbeam spell was enough to remind Astarion that should he incur the ire of the Duke’s army alone, he would never survive a full assault, regardless of his immense power. So he retreated, for now, and decided to bide his time until he had enough spawn of his own to kill themselves for him.

Wyll would be back soon enough. Astarion had eternity to exact his revenge, after all. He was patient. He could wait. 

Chapter Text

Astarion wouldn’t have to wait for long.

A short time later, news of the Duke’s rapidly declining health reached all corners of Baldur’s Gate within days, and the outermost edges of Faerûn within weeks. And in just over a month, word had returned that Wyll Ravengard, devoted son of the Duke and the heroic Blade of Avernus, would arrive at his ailing father’s side. Astarion observed the unfolding events with utter amusement, and satisfaction that things were finally going his way. 

He held no faith in the gods, but perhaps they too enjoyed a bit of fun in dooming the meek and kind-hearted. 

When Wyll finally deigned to return from the hells, he was alone. Astarion knew it meant Karlach was dead, for Wyll would never abandon her like he had abandoned Astarion. Ignoring an odd twinge in his chest at the idea of Karlach dying, Astarion wasted no time in pursuing Wyll. 

Expecting the Duke’s level of protection to be extended to Wyll, Astarion took the form of an invisible bat and flew silently into the man’s window. However, when he arrived, Wyll was all alone, with not even the scent of guards waiting outside his door. 

Wyll was slumped at his desk, a quill in hand, and a leatherbound book opened to a blank page before him. He stared at the parchment as though it might start inking itself, twirling the quill between his fingers distractedly. He looked utterly miserable, and Astarion smiled to himself at the sight, his tiny bat lips curling up.

Astarion landed on the floor a few metres from Wyll and returned to his regular form, though remained invisible, spying. Wyll’s hair had gotten much longer - how much time had it been? Weeks? Months? A year? Time was all fleeting to Astarion - and was held back in braids that reached past his shoulder blades. Small, golden cuffs adorned his braids, sparkling in the candlelight. He wore only a loose-fitting, deep blue nightshirt and tight brown pants that Astarion was sure complimented his ass. He had acquired some more scars that decorated his dark skin nicely, and he’d filled out and bulked up since the last time Astarion had seen him. 

Wyll somehow managed to look even more delectable than he’d already been, and Astarion was quite annoyed with it. Deciding to do something about it, Astarion dropped his invisibility, catching Wyll’s eye just before he leapt at the man, fangs extended. 

Wyll’s reflexes proved just as quick as ever, and he managed to vault sideways out of his chair and fire an eldritch blast directly at Astarion’s chest at the same time. Astarion was knocked back precisely five metres, which was an oddly specific distance, but despite a mild pain at his chest he was otherwise unharmed. He didn’t need to breathe, so the wind being knocked out of him at the impact did nothing to weaken him. 

Still, Astarion did so love dramatics, and he flung himself back even further with a harsh cry of anguish, clutching his chest. 

“Balduran’s balls, Wyll, what the hells was that for?” Astarion practically shrieked, screwing his face into what he hoped conveyed the utmost agony. 

“Astarion?” Wyll gasped, his eyes widening in shock. “You… you’re here.”

Astarion rolled his eyes at the foolish flicker of hope in Wyll’s expression, and ceased his theatrics in favour of shooting Wyll a disapproving scowl. 

“Yes, I’m here, and what a heartfelt greeting I’ve been given, too,” he snapped. “Completely out of pocket, Wyll. What has become of you?”

“You lunged at me!” Wyll defended. He glanced around suddenly, then lowered his voice as if they could be overheard. “I saw your teeth bared!” 

“Nonsense,” Astarion said, “you just see me as nothing more than a wretched monster in need of slaying.” 

Wyll softened, just a bit, and Astarion held back a satisfied grin. 

“No,” Wyll replied. “I don’t.”

Astarion gave his best pout. It was evidently overdone, because Wyll’s gaze hardened again, and he straightened his stance. 

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” Wyll asked, suspicion lacing his tone. “I thought I told you we were to never see each other again.”

“No, you said we’d go our separate ways,” Astarion corrected. “And we did! But now you’re back in the city, and I never left. Hardly separate anymore.”

He took a step forward. Wyll took an equal step back.

“Not happy to see me?” Astarion pouted once more. “I’d thought you’d had plenty of time to get over the whole ascension thing, and realise you need me.”

Wyll’s face tightened in pain, as if he had been the one to get hit with an eldritch blast to the chest. Honestly, the man could be so dramatic. 

“Of course I am happy to see you,” Wyll admitted, sounding like the words alone could kill him. “But it also hurts to see you so… unchanged.”

Astarion laughed, high and mocking. 

“Poor little Blade,” he teased. “You still want me under your thumb?” 

“No, I-”

“Of course you’d hoped I might have repented for my sins,” Astarion continued. “That I might feel devastated over what I’d done, so you could have me docile and submissive once more.”

Wyll let out a sharp bark of laughter, and it was mean.  

“You have never been docile nor submissive, Astarion,” he said. “At least, not with me.”

“But that is what you want, isn’t it darling?” Astarion crept closer, and this time, Wyll held his ground. “You want me to fall to my knees, begging for your forgiveness, for your gentle love. You want me to submit to your design, to reduce myself to the mewling pet at the end of your leash?”

“That is not-”

“How unfortunate for you that I will never be someone’s pet again,” Astarion snarled. 

“Are you done?” 

Astarion reeled back as if slapped, blinking at Wyll. Wyll’s eyes roved over Astarion’s face, searching for something; whatever it was, he seemed to find it, and sighed. 

“I have given you all my words,” Wyll began, “of love, adoration, and respect. I have never asked you to be anything you’re not, to do anything you do not wish to do, nor to submit to whatever the hells this ‘design’ is that you think I have.” He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking years older, and maybe it had been longer than Astarion had thought. “But this… this power you have acquired has warped your perception of things. It has twisted your memories of me, of our love, into something horrible. And there really is nothing I can say or do to change that, is there?”

Astarion was too busy trying to come up with another insult to fully hear what Wyll had said, but he’d caught just enough to not be thrown off by the question. 

“And now you want to control how I see things.” Astarion scoffed. “Honestly, it’s a wonder how anyone thinks so highly of you. They’re clearly all under some devilish spell you’ve cast.”

Wyll shook his head, and his features relaxed in resignation as he gazed at the floor. 

“Tell me why you’ve come here, or get out,” Wyll demanded quietly. 

Astarion crossed his arms, tapping his index finger on his forearm impatiently. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, grinning so that his fangs were visible. “I’ve come to kill you.”

Wyll huffed rudely, as if he found the idea funny.  

“Go on, then,” Wyll encouraged. “Give me the monster to slay.”

Astarion’s grin twisted into a sneer. He could have his claws in Wyll’s face before the man could blink, he could tear through Wyll’s jugular before the warlock could even raise a hand to cast a spell. Surely Wyll knew that; he had to know how powerful Astarion had become, how much stronger than Wyll he was, even with Wyll’s devil patron and his considerably larger muscles and his rugged good looks. Not that the last one mattered or contributed to Wyll’s chances in any way. 

But Wyll wanted Astarion to attack him. Of course he did. Wyll wouldn’t make an attempt on Astarion’s life, no matter how much he’d like to, unless Astarion attacked him first. Wyll needed an excuse, and Astarion had just flown right in and offered him one. He couldn’t give Wyll that upper-hand. Astarion wouldn’t lose this rivalry that Wyll had started for no reason. 

Astarion smiled again, haughty and victorious. 

“I’ll make you wish I’d killed you,” he said. “Eternity is quite a long time to be my enemy, you know. Eventually, one of us will tire and submit, and it won’t be me.” 

He jumped up and perched on the window, still open from when he’d entered, and paused to shoot Wyll a parting glance. 

“Oh, and give your dear father my regards,” Astarion added.

He gave Wyll a wave with his fingers and jumped into the night sky, turning into a bat and flying off before he could be tempted to look at Wyll’s reaction to his words. 

The war had officially begun. 

Chapter Text

Astarion continued to pester Wyll over the next few weeks. He’d fly into Wyll’s room - the foolish man still left his window open, as if he wanted Astarion to come bother him - and tear up his sheets, or spill his ink, or dull his favoured rapier by slamming the tip into the stone fireplace. Sometimes Wyll was present, and simply watched Astarion’s antics with mild irritation, but other times he was off doting on his lame father, and Astarion would wait for him to return so he could see Wyll’s reaction. 

Wyll never attacked him. Astarion was beginning to think he couldn’t.  

After a few days, Astarion would arrive to find the rapier shrouded in magic that would shock Astarion if he got within a metre of the blade, or the bed sheets enchanted into stone, or the ink a simple illusion. This of course did nothing to stop Astarion, and only ensured he became more clever, and more of a nuisance. Wyll’s finest doublets were burned, his armour scratched, and, finally, the small wooden duck that Halsin had given to Wyll while he had still been courting Astarion was smashed into pieces, and then tossed into the fire for good measure. 

Astarion had wished to throw the druid himself into the fire, when he’d first spotted the ugly carved duck in Wyll’s tent, and smelled the musk of the large elf all over it. He should have just done it; now that Wyll was no longer in love with Astarion, surely Halsin would try again, and that was something Astarion could not allow. Just because only he could own Wyll’s heart, of course. No other remotely meaningful reason. 

Wyll had looked sad to see the charred remains of the duck, but still, he only gazed at Astarion with distant annoyance, before cleaning it up. And Ulder refused to just die, despite his frail and increasingly useless state, so Astarion couldn’t even tease Wyll about his father’s death, because that continued to not happen. 

Then, Astarion heard of an upcoming election. 

Ulder was on his deathbed (but still avoiding the actual death part, because he was an inconsiderate arsehole). Since Wyll would not be taking the reins as Duke of Baldur’s Gate, and he had no other family, spouse, nor heirs next in line, there was to be an election to grant an eligible candidate the title of Duke. Astarion couldn’t run himself; he’d be instantly shunted off, as everyone was well aware he was the new menacing Vampire Lord in town, and that would invite more eyes on him than he’d be comfortable with. 

So, he’d simply have to get creative. 

~

In the next month, three candidates were selected: Lady Avirma, a noble from Waterdeep who had moved to Baldur’s Gate in her young adulthood; Lord Jodshem, a frail boy whose family had fallen and risen within the noble ranks for centuries; and Liege Wengip, who Astarion was fairly certain had lied about being noble-born, but they had been selected nonetheless. 

Voting was held in the Stormshore Tabernacle, as it was traditionally believed that the religious keepers of temples were the most trustworthy people in all the land, which was bollocks. Astarion snuck into the Tabernacle almost nightly to mix up the amounts of name-tickets cast into each candidate’s chest. The chests were of course locked, both magically and non-magically, but it was easy work for Astarion. 

He also erected a fourth chest with a completely made up name next to the others, to confuse voters; and it remained for almost a tenday before a working zealot finally noticed and had it removed. Astarion went to each and every campaign poster and drew over them, adding mustaches and glasses to their faces, or vulgar catchphrases beneath. He also had plenty of blackmail dug up on all three candidates - he was right about Liege Wengip not being noble-born - and would leave cleverly worded hints in letters sent anonymously to the candidates. 

By the time the vote was coming to a close, the Baldur’s Mouth Gazette released a paper detailing the strange misfortunes that had arisen in light of the new vote, and suggested it might be a sign from the gods that they already had a perfect candidate for the new Duke: Wyll Ravengard, the Blade of Avernus, the Heart of the Gate (with Ulder cited as the source for that last moniker). It was enough to make Astarion gag, but perhaps if Wyll saw just how badly his people wanted him to become Duke, he would feel dreadful about denying them all so he could play hero. 

Astarion visited Wyll the night before the votes would be counted. Wyll’s window was, as always, wide open, the curtains billowing out in the cool night breeze. Astarion swooped in as a bat - visible, this time, as Wyll knew to expect him - and landed delicately on top of Wyll, who had just settled into bed for the night. 

He lost his bat form, and Wyll huffed with the added weight of Astarion, jolting awake instantly. He rolled them over, slamming Astarion into the mattress beneath him, and drew back a hand balled into a fist. When he saw Astarion’s face, however, he froze, then had the audacity to relax as if Astarion wasn’t a threat.

“Hells, Astarion!” he exclaimed, rolling off of him. “Not an ounce of decorum left in you, is there?”

Astarion sat up, feeling a bit lightheaded from experiencing Wyll’s strength first hand in such an intimate environment. He shook his head to lose the very thought. He was simply jealous of Wyll’s muscle, that was all. 

“Hello to you too, darling,” Astarion drawled, grinning up at Wyll lasciviously. 

“What is it this time?” Wyll asked, sounding exceptionally tired. “Come to rip up more of my linens? Smash some of my teacups? Splinter my furniture?” 

Astarion blinked and frowned to pretend that Wyll wasn’t giving him new ideas to use in the future. 

“I’m simply wondering if you’re having second thoughts,” he said. 

“... About what?” Wyll asked, narrowing his eyes. 

“About this whole ‘Duke’ business, of course,” Astarion replied. Wyll’s face relaxed again, and Astarion frowned. “What did you think I was talking about?” 

“Nothing,” Wyll dismissed. “And no, I’m not having second thoughts about the whole ‘Duke’ business,” he added firmly. “I’ve seen the papers, I’ve heard the people’s thoughts on my abdication of the title, but they don’t-” Wyll paused, and shook his head. “They don’t know me as much as they think they do. Many of them don’t even believe I’m actually pacted to a devil, though I’ve never tried to hide the fact. No, they don’t need me. The candidates that have been put forth are just as, if not more capable than I am of ruling the people. I trust the selections, and I trust the people will be in good hands.”

Wyll sighed, and rubbed his eyes. Again, he seemed years older, though he hadn’t physically aged a day since Mizora had made his pact eternally binding. Astarion watched him curiously. 

“You haven’t been sleeping, have you?” Astarion asked, before he could stop himself. 

Wyll looked up at him, startled, and blinked. 

“I…” Wyll cleared his throat. “Of course I haven’t been. My father is closer to death’s door every day, I have Mizora’s pact looming over me still, and I’ve left Karlach alone in Avernus all this time.”

“Karlach is alive?” Astarion hated how hopeful the question sounded from his own mouth.

“Yes, and thank the gods for it,” Wyll replied, smiling bitterly. “I don’t think I could survive another loss like that.”

“Oh stop being dramatic, your father isn’t dead yet.”

“I didn’t mean my father, Astarion.”

Wyll watched him with a pointedly tragic look, like he was seeing a ghost of a loved one in Astarion’s face. 

Oh.

Astarion swallowed subtly, keeping his face utterly still and expressionless. 

“Well,” Astarion began, and it came out breathy and weak so he tried again. “Well, it’s your fault for that one.”

Heartbreak wasn’t a visible thing, but Astarion swore he saw it in Wyll’s eyes. 

“I’m beginning to see that,” Wyll croaked.

The response startled Astarion, but he recovered quickly, and leaned into Wyll’s space. 

“You know, I’m still here,” he said, his voice sultry. “You could still be mine.”  

Wyll leaned into him like a moth drawn to light, his eyes almost glazed over with want, before he caught himself and shook his head. 

“No,” Wyll said sharply, moving to stand from his bed. “No, I can’t. And you’re not still here, you’re just a monster wearing my heart’s face. You should go now.”

“But I only just got here,” Astarion whined, bouncing on the bed petulantly. “You’re not being a very good host.”

“I’m not your host, you broke into my room!”

“Again with the dramatics, really?” Astarion rolled his eyes with extra exaggeration. “I didn’t break anything. Yet.” He followed Wyll off of the bed when it was clear the man had no plans to get back in it. “Besides, if you truly wanted me to stop bursting in here, you’d seal your damn window. I think you secretly want me to visit.”

Wyll didn’t grace him with a response. He walked over to his window and gestured out of it. 

“Go,” he said. Then he made an odd face, like he’d smelled something foul. “Please, get out of my room,” he corrected. 

Astarion sighed, and slowly sauntered across the room to the window. When he approached Wyll, he placed a cold hand against the man’s cheek, soaking in his radiant warmth. Wyll leaned into his touch for just a second before he pulled away completely, glaring at Astarion. Astarion dropped his hand and smiled, before turning into a puff of mist and floating away. 

Chapter Text

Astarion didn’t visit Wyll for an entire week after that night. He didn’t pay any attention to who had won the election, he didn’t involve himself in any of the celebratory revelry as the next Duke was knighted, and he certainly, definitely, didn’t miss seeing Wyll every night. 

The halls of Cazador’s- no, Astarion’s Palace were oh so silent with only himself living within. He still hadn’t gotten any spawn of his own, having been so busy with plotting his rivalry with Wyll, anticipating his rivalry with Wyll, daydreaming about his rivalry with Wyll, and now enacting his rivalry with Wyll. Astarion didn’t miss Wyll, he only wished he had anything to accompany him besides his own head. 

Perhaps he could get a cat. No, that was too similar to Gale. Maybe a dog? He had cared for Scratch, once. No, actually, he hadn’t, because Scratch was a filthy useless beast and so was every dog. Horses were out of the question. He might consider a snake; it could bring him some levity to not be the only dangerous fanged creature in the palace. 

Astarion stayed away from Wyll that week, not to give the bastard a break, but to keep him on his toes. Wyll had told Astarion, in a moment of weakness and vulnerability, that as much as he’d hated Mizora’s visits, hated hearing her voice in his head, he almost hated not seeing her at all more. Because it meant she was biding her time, that she could show up at any second and surprise him, that she could be watching still but he wouldn’t even know. Astarion wanted to make Wyll feel that way about him, wanted Wyll to feel apprehension over whether or not Astarion would show up to ruin his day. 

It most certainly wasn’t because it was getting harder to keep hating Wyll. No, he hated Wyll just as much as he always had. 

“You’re just a monster wearing my heart’s face.”

Astarion ought to tear apart Wyll’s face for that comment. But he didn’t want to risk chipping a nail, which had always been his biggest fear. 

He’d planned on passing the time on his seventh day away from antagonising Wyll by resting in Cazador’s old throne, something he’d once wanted to debase with Wyll once the man got over his ‘no sex until marriage’ rule, or however he liked to word it. Instead, his daydream of repeatedly fucking Wyll into the throne was interrupted by one of Astarion’s employed rats - his eyes and ears in the city - returning with a message for their master. 

Ulder Ravengard was finally fucking dead. 

Astarion almost leapt from his throne in joy. He managed to contain himself, and rose gracefully and salaciously, dressed solely in his silk bathing robe that no one was going to get to appreciate seeing him in. But now that Ulder was dead, that could change, as it seemed the perfectly appropriate time to visit Wyll in his almost nude state. 

Astarion loosened the tie around his waist just a bit, and flew off in a cloud of mist to find Wyll. 

~

Of course Wyll wasn’t in his room, where Astarion had assumed to find him curled up in a sobbing mess on his bed. Instead, he was bustling about the palace, giving orders, making arrangements, and looking overall like the Grand Duke he was meant to be. Astarion watched from the rafters as Wyll commanded with ease and efficiency, as everyone around him clung to his every word, as the staff seemed to trip over themselves in their eagerness to appease him. 

Was getting people to love and respect you through your kind heart and good deeds really all it took to hold so much power over them? Had Astarion perhaps been wrong in assuming his ascension and vicious domination was the only way to garner enough power to protect himself? 

Astarion almost laughed aloud at the idea. Of course not. How silly. These people would all turn on Wyll the moment someone stronger showed up. Wyll was just lucky Astarion hadn’t made their rivalry public. He had more class than that. 

“No, Florrick, I know you want to preserve my father out of respect, but it was his wish to be cremated like his father before him,” Wyll said, his stoic voice catching Astarion’s attention again. “You’re more than welcome to display my hells-touched corpse should I ever die on this plane.”

“Wyll,” Florrick replied as a means of chastisement. 

Wyll smiled at her, and it was a fragile thing. Astarion noticed the redness in the sclera of his one good eye, how his cheeks glistened just so in the light from dried tears, how the lines in his beautiful face seemed accentuated from grief and lack of sleep. To say the sight hurt Astarion’s heart would be silly and foolish and ridiculous. In fact, seeing Wyll suffering made him happy, and joyful. It was what he’d come to see, after all, and he’d planned to rub it in further by teasing Wyll about how he’ll never have the chance to live up to his father’s expectations now.

But when Florrick turned away, Wyll’s smile fell so quickly Astarion could almost think he’d imagined it. Suddenly the want to make things worse for Wyll was receding. 

Astarion shook off the moment of weakness, and continued following Wyll until he could get the man alone. 

~

It took the entire day for Wyll to finally retreat to his room. Astarion followed in bat form, keeping his squeaks and chirps to a minimum so he wouldn't give away his presence too soon. He slipped in just before Wyll closed the door, and perched himself on one of Wyll’s tall bed posts. 

Wyll stood still at the entrance to his room. His gaze was miles away, and he seemed to hardly even be aware he was awake. Wyll sighed slowly, and shook his head. He blinked rapidly, and Astarion watched as new tears fell, but were quickly wiped away by one of Wyll’s calloused hands. 

Wyll cleared his throat and began undressing for the night, stripping down to his pants before pulling on his night clothes. Astarion took that as his cue to arrive, and flew down to the foot of Wyll’s bed, just inches from where the man stood. He returned to his regular form, but Wyll only cast him a weary look from the corner of his eyes. 

“If you’ve come to gloat,” Wyll said, and it was hoarse and quiet, “I wouldn’t.”

Astarion remained silent, suddenly grasping for what he should say and coming up short. He pulled the tie around his waist tighter, feeling suddenly underdressed in his silk robe.

“He’s gone, and I will return to Avernus in the morning,” Wyll continued. “There’s nothing more to say.”

“You’re going back to that wretched place?” Astarion asked. 

Wyll frowned at him.

“Karlach still needs my help,” he said, as if that should be obvious to Astarion. “I’ve left her for longer than I’d planned, and who knows what she’s had to face on her own since.” Wyll shook his head. “I promised her I’d go to Avernus with her so she wouldn’t have to be all alone again, and then I left.”

“Why didn’t you just kill your father once you’d said your goodbyes?” Astarion questioned. “You could’ve been back in the hells in less than a day.”

Wyll ignored him, which Astarion had expected. 

“I could have done it for you,” he offered. “I’d even tried once, before you returned. I would have-”

“Astarion.”

His name on Wyll’s tongue was sharp, quick, and cold, wielded like a lethal blade. A warning. Astarion closed his mouth, content that he was already winning, and he hadn’t even gloated yet. 

Wyll fell into his bed with a huff, not bothering to do anything else to prepare himself for sleep. Astarion hadn’t even seen him eat all day. 

“You plan to go back to Karlach like this?” Astarion asked, twisting his tone into one of mockery. “Look at you. You’re weakened and made vulnerable just because your father died, and you think you’re going to be of any help to her?” Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the side of Wyll’s bed. “Honestly, Wyll, it’s almost sad how utterly pathetic you look. I pity you, right now. Why let yourself be so undone by the death of a man who never even loved you?”

Wyll rolled onto his side and fired three eldritch blasts directly into Astarion’s chest. Astarion flew into the dresser beside Wyll’s bed, toppling it over with him. He’d hit his head in the tumble, and had to blink a few times to right his vision, but he was otherwise fine. Wyll was sitting up now, and looked down at Astarion with more rage than he had ever known Wyll to be capable of. 

“I don’t know if I could kill you,” Wyll said slowly, his voice shaking in anger, “but I beg that you do not make me find out.”

Astarion pulled himself up, not caring for the fallen dresser that he was sure one of Wyll’s servants would be more than happy to pick up for him. He ran a hair through his messed up curls, and levelled a glare of his own at Wyll. 

“You wouldn’t last a minute,” Astarion replied coolly. “I’m not letting you leave, you know. Not until I’ve won.”

“Until you’ve won what?” Wyll asked, desperate and frantic. “Is there some argument we’ve been having here that I’m unaware of?”

“You started this rivalry, and now you want to pretend to know nothing about it?” Astarion laughed cruelly. “That’s a new low from you.”

“There is no rivalry, Astarion,” Wyll said. “There’s just you who is so determined to haunt me, and me who cannot stop-”

Wyll cut himself off with a growl that most certainly did not make Astarion feel something strongly in his lower regions. Seemingly defeated, for now, Wyll fell back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Just go,” he whispered. “Leave me be.”

Something lodged in Astarion’s throat as he attempted to voice a retort. He wanted to cut into Wyll further, to finally provoke that blade that Wyll had promised him; whether it be the one of steel or of flesh, Astarion didn’t really have a preference at the moment. Instead, he was silenced by his own traitorous tongue tying itself into a knot. 

At a loss for what to say, and do, Astarion settled for slicing at Wyll’s sheets near the man’s legs, before turning into a bat and escaping through the ever-open window. 

Chapter Text

Time was quickly running out before Wyll would depart for Avernus again, but Astarion had wasted his last chance by losing his voice. He hadn’t felt so incapable of speaking since Cazador had last compelled him to silence. Bitterness gripped his stomach as he stomped through his Palace, pacing angrily. Wyll must have silenced him magically, too. That was the only possible explanation for Astarion’s momentary weakness. 

He couldn’t kill Wyll. Not because he had reservations about killing the man, but because it wouldn’t be as fun. He could certainly kill Wyll if he had to. He wouldn’t feel bad about it at all whatsoever and he would be able to do it swiftly and without any hesitation. It just wouldn’t be as enjoyable as tormenting the man while he lived. That was all. 

But now Wyll was returning to Avernus, where he would be out of Astarion’s reach. Of course, Astarion could simply follow him to Avernus, but that would put Astarion at a disadvantage in an unfamiliar and hostile environment. He had to think of something else that would ensure he won this rivalry, despite Wyll’s obvious attempts to best him. 

As Astarion paced, his restlessness boiled over, and he grabbed the nearest vase and threw it against the opposite wall. It shattered loudly, echoing down the hall, and shards scattered across the floor. He stared at the mess with disdain and huffed, glancing around as if he might find someone to clean it for him. But no, his Palace was still empty of any spawn, because he was always ever so busy, not because he’d hate to see the look on Wyll’s face if he ever found out Astarion had turned someone. He simply just didn’t have the time. 

If only he had some kind of magic that could instantly clean up messes, like Gale with his silly 'presthedigerimitation' or whatever the hells it was called. 

Astarion straightened, an idea forming in his head. Leaving the shattered vase forgotten on the floor, he whisked himself away as mist.

~

Gale was wide awake when Astarion arrived at his tower in Waterdeep, despite it being half past three in the morning. Sure enough, the man was reading, and even worse, it was some silly romance novel rather than anything that could be helping Gale increase his magical power, like one of his tomes. As soon as Astarion materialised before him, Gale startled so badly he almost threw his book into the air, and knocked his elbow into his half empty teacup, spilling it down his tablecloth and robes. 

“Jergal’s saggy tits, Astarion!” Gale cried, wincing as he frantically magicked away the mess. “Good evening to you, too,” he added bitterly. 

Astarion scanned the frail magic man carefully, taking in the shocking details of his face.

“By the hells you’ve gotten old,” Astarion remarked. 

Gale looked up at him with wide, insulted eyes. They were brown, just like Wyll’s good eye. That detail was neither relevant nor important. 

“Oh, rub your immortality in, why don’t you,” Gale said, waving a hand at Astarion dismissively. “It’s only been seven years. I’m not old.”

Seven years? Astarion thought incredulously, unable to believe that. Surely it’s only been mere months since Wyll first left me. I mean since the Netherbrain. 

“But you look ancient,” Astarion insisted, eyeing the subtle gray in Gale’s hair with pointed disgust. 

“Easy,” Gale snapped, “my students age me faster than most, surely, but I think I still look plenty good for my age, thank you.”

Astarion raised his eyebrows in disagreement, but let the subject drop, because he still needed Gale’s help. As utterly dreadful as such a thing was to admit. 

“I’ve even found a new love who thinks me quite handsome-”

“Oh I do not care at all,” Astarion interrupted him. “Teach me magic.”

Gale blinked at him. 

“What?”

“Gods, are you losing your hearing now, too?” Astarion bit back. “Teach me magic.” 

“I-” Gale blinked again, as if he were looking for answers on the back of his eyelids. “Why?” 

“Because I want to learn a spell, of course.” Astarion rolled his eyes deeply. “Honestly, for such a supposedly intelligent wizard, you’re quite dense.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Gale replied. “Is there a specific spell you’d like to learn?”

“That depends, is there a specific spell that will allow me to effortlessly and instantly rule the world?”

Gale blinked again, and his dazed expression hardened into apprehension. 

“I’m only joking, darling,” Astarion lied. “If I wanted to rule the world I would have done it by now.”

“Right…” Despite his suspicion, Gale relaxed in his chair. “So, you wish to acquaint yourself with the wonders of the Weave?”

“It sounds absolutely awful when you put it that way, but yes,” Astarion said with a grin.

“Any particular reason?”

Astarion sighed. He knew Gale would ask, and he’d thought of plenty of answers to give, but none of them seemed good enough to cast off any suspicions Gale clearly had. He had already expressed disappointment with Astarion’s choice to ascend, due to the power it would give him - which was honestly quite hypocritical of Gale, who almost sold his own soul for godhood - so Astarion had to be careful about how he approached this. 

“Hang on,” Gale said, interrupting Astarion’s thought process. “What are you wearing?”

Astarion glanced down and was reminded he had never changed out of his very thin silk robe. He hadn’t even gotten to use it for its intended purpose - distracting Wyll so Astarion could have the upper hand - but now it was the only thing between his bare skin and the open air. He hadn’t even worn pants underneath. 

“Ah,” he replied eloquently. Astarion tugged the tie tighter self-consciously. “Honestly, darling, I’m a little hurt it took you so long to notice how underdressed I am.”

“Your so-called ‘ charm’-” Gale even used air quotes as he said that, the nerve, “-has never worked on me, and you know it,” he said, glaring up at Astarion. 

“Don’t be rude,” Astarion snapped. “I have loads of charm. Besides, it wasn’t for you. Obviously, gods, you? Please. As if.”

“Alright.”

“It was supposed to be for Wyll,” Astarion admitted before he could catch himself, “but the oaf of a man didn’t even appreciate it.”

Astarion slumped into the chair across from Gale, hoping the movement would cover the panic in his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say that, really. Gale’s eyes narrowed as his observed Astarion curiously. 

“I thought you and Wyll had a… falling out, of sorts,” Gale said. “I believe I overheard him say ‘after the netherbrain, we’re done’, or something of that nature.”

“Yes, I heard him say that too,” Astarion spat. “But he was terribly foolish in doing so.” Astarion blinked, and his idea grew even better by the second. “So… I’ve been trying to get him back.”

Gale raised a brow. 

“Trying to get back into the good graces of a former lover?” he summarised. “Well, I think I was the best person to come to.”

“Ugh, no,” Astarion shook his head, scrunching up his nose. “Wyll is nothing like your nasty goddess.”

“Easy,” Gale said, smiling slightly. “Mystra and I actually parted last on good terms-”

“And I’m sure she had plenty more doting wizards just like you to bed,” Astarion interjected cruelly. “But Wyll only has one me. And currently, he won’t have me.”

Gale rolled his eyes.

“So, you want me to teach you some magic so that you can… win Wyll’s affections back?” 

“Oh, no, Wyll is a lost cause.” Astarion picked at his fingernails. 

“But you just said-”

“Yes, well, now I’m saying it’s hopeless,” Astarion huffed, leaning back in the chair. “Instead, I want to learn a spell that will show him what he’s missing.”

Gale tilted his head. 

“I’m not quite sure I like where this is going,” he began, “but I am one of the best - if not the best - tutors of the Weave alive today. So I shall help you.”

“How generous,” Astarion drawled, blandly. 

“I suppose to start I should have you search through a book of standard spells, to get an idea of what you’re looking for,” Gale suggested. “Or should I perhaps assume you’d like to learn ‘silent image’ so you can project visions of your naked body to appear in front of Wyll?”

Astarion tapped the table, considering. 

“Tempting, but no,” he said, though filed the spell’s name away for later research. “I’ll look through your book.”

“Excellent!” Gale replied, and honestly sounded as though he meant it, the deprived man. 

He stood to retrieve the book, but before he left the room, he turned back to Astarion.

“It is good to see you again,” Gale said gently. “I know we had our differences, and I didn’t particularly agree with your decision back then, but I am short on friends, so I’m keen to keep the few that I have.”

“How sweet,” Astarion sniffed, picking at his fingernails again. 

“Right.”

Chapter Text

Astarion ended up reading through three of Gale’s magic books before he got a solid idea of what he wanted. The foolish man even trusted him so much as to fall asleep about an hour into his reading. Luckily for Gale, Astarion was completely engrossed in the plethora of magical knowledge at his fingertips, and thus had no need to snoop where he shouldn’t, or set fire to Gale’s robes as he slept. As much as the idea tickled him.

When Gale finally awoke about eight hours later - he was getting a bit lazy in his old age, it seemed - Astarion had just finished flipping through the third book. Gale sat up from his sad little couch and stretched, eyeing the books Astarion had spread out. 

“By Mystra’s-”

“I do not want to hear a word about your goddess’s body parts, thank you.”

“-grace…” Gale finished, frowning at Astarion. He blinked, recovering. “I hadn’t expected you to be so enthusiastic about the Weave! Tell me, what have you found?”

Astarion sneered at Gale’s tone; he was clearly treating this like Astarion was one of his students.  

“I couldn’t find just the right spell for my intended purposes,” Astarion began, flipping back through the book he was holding. “But I hoped these notes you scrawled in here might mean something.”

Astarion pointed to the spell of Sleep. It was a simple spell that Astarion had seen done hundreds of times, especially when their party had needed to infiltrate somewhere without killing anyone, much to Astarion’s disappointment. Gale was usually the one casting the spell, but they’d also had it cast on them before. Not Astarion, of course, but the others, who were weaker and had slower reflexes. 

“You… want to make Wyll sleep?” 

Astarion almost laughed. 

“No, darling, I want to sleep,” he corrected. “That is, I want to fall into such a deep sleep that I cannot be awoken until Wyll is ready to come back to me. Or he dies.”

Gale blinked at him. 

“Why?” he asked simply. 

“Well, what else am I meant to spend my time doing?” Astarion inquired, quickly ignoring the many things he could do, should do, and had planned on doing, before this rivalry with Wyll had been set into motion. “And perhaps this will give him a better incentive to come back to me. He’ll be like the prince in that story of the sleeping wench.”

“Gods,” Gale breathed, shaking his head. “Do you mean Perceforest?” 

“Of course you would know what it’s called.”

“I should hope every living being with at least one literate parent in their lives knows what it’s called,” Gale rebutted sourly. “It’s only one of the most well known and widely translated fairytales of all time.”

“Whatever. Can you do it?”

“I… don’t know…” It seemed to physically pain Gale to admit. “It’s some pretty unique and powerful magic.”

“But your notes here say you’ve managed to modify the spell to your liking,” Astarion reminded, pointing at the scrawled handwriting that covered every blank spot on the page. 

“Yes, but only for short durations,” Gale explained. “I can have myself magically awoken when someone arrives, or tie my consciousness to someone’s presence so that I fall asleep when they’re nearby, but…” he sighed, leaning over the book and rubbing his forehead. “To tether the consciousness to someone’s heart… and across planes…”  

Astarion remembered abruptly that Wyll had left for Avernus that morning. He’d missed it. 

“Fuck!” Astarion swore, standing. “He’s gone. He’s gone to Avernus.”

“Yes, I know,” Gale said, “I was there when he and Karlach left.”

“No, you fool,” Astarion hissed. “He returned home to watch his father die. He’s just gone back to Avernus a few hours ago.”

“Ah,” Gale frowned. “And he didn’t even send word.” 

“Well, I assume he was quite distracted by his father’s rapidly declining health, though I will never understand why he cared so much.”

“Because caring is what Wyll does,” Gale said, nodding sagely. “No matter, I’m sure I’ll see him again soon.”

“But you think the spell could work across planes?” Astarion prompted. 

“So long as you remain on this plane, yes,” Gale replied. “... Theoretically.”

“Perfect, let’s do it.”

“Now hold on, you really intend on making yourself comatose until Wyll either rushes into your palace to kiss you awake, or he dies?” Gale asked, quite redundantly. 

“That is what I said,” Astarion snapped. 

“But why sleep? Why not just enjoy everything else that life has to offer?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Astarion dismissed, his irritation growing. 

“Try me.”

Astarion glared at Gale, but Gale held his gaze, glaring right back. Astarion realised Gale wouldn’t help him unless he gave a damn good answer. So he took a breath, steeling himself. 

“I’ve lived for centuries, Gale,” Astarion began, forcing himself to sound incredibly pained and burdened. “And in all of my time I have never known anyone as good as Wyll. I have never known anyone as good for me as Wyll.” He wasn’t lying, technically, though he was milking it. “I thought ascension would free me, that it would let me find joy in the freedoms I once had, like walking in the sun again, but there is no joy without Wyll.” Definitely a lie now, but easy enough to mask with a slight tremble of the lip and a crack of his voice. “I have felt the most free at his side. I feel… lost, now.”

Astarion sighed and placed his head in his hands, feigning that he was hiding tears. 

“And honestly, Gale, I think you should be glad that I’d wish to wake up only after he dies, rather than never wake up again, because that is how I feel right now.”

He heard the soft click of a tongue that meant he’d succeeded in catering to Gale’s romantic side. Not wanting to seem too eager to celebrate his win, Astarion lifted his head slowly, blinking as if trying to hold back tears.

“The wise part of me that sounds suspiciously like Wyll,” Gale began with a smile, “would say that I should not help you do this, and you must find new things that are worth living for. But… the slightly less wise part of me understands. And I also know that refusing to help you won’t stop you, it will just mean you pursue help from less trustworthy sources. So,” Gale leaned across the table and placed a hand over one of Astarion’s; Astarion allowed it for now, because Gale was giving him what he wanted, “I will do this for you. On one condition.”

Astarion pulled his hand away with a scoff.

“I know, I know, how dare I,” Gale teased. “Just hear me out.”

“Fine. What is your condition?”

“Should you wake up only after he’s died, promise me you’ll find those of us who still live, and you won’t spend the rest of your days all alone.”

Astarion scowled, but Gale’s hopeful and pleading expression didn’t change. How dare he indeed. Astarion wasn’t even doing this to get Wyll back, he was doing it to win. Someday, Wyll would die, whether it be because his daring exploits led him to dangers he couldn’t survive, or because Mizora tired of his incorruptible personality and killed him herself, pact be damned. But Astarion would forever live. Sleeping until Wyll’s death, because surely that would come before Wyll ever regained his senses and realised he needs Astarion, was the most guaranteed way that Astarion could win their rivalry. 

He wasn’t doing it in the hopes that he might have company again. The hope that someone else’s voice might someday fill his halls, that he might once again find warmth in bed, that he might be less lonely. He wasn’t lonely. And he didn’t need friends. They disappointed him. No, the truth was that it was far too much for Gale to ask of Astarion. 

But when was the last time Astarion bothered with the truth?

He let his scowl relax, casting his eyes to the table to mimic consideration for Gale’s preposterous request. He let out a soft little sigh, and observed in his periphery how Gale settled back in his chair, thinking he’d won. That set Astarion’s frustration alight once more; but he could perform, for now. 

“Fine,” he said firmly. “Should I awake to the fanfare of Wyll’s passing, I will seek you and the others out.” Astarion paused. “Or, perhaps, not you, mortal human as you are.”

Gale chuckled, nodding. 

“Mortal as I may be,” he agreed, “I have been known to have a few tricks up my sleeve.” 

Astarion harrumphed in lieu of responding, folding his hands over the table primly. 

“So,” Astarion said, when Gale made no effort to fill the silence with his terribly dull voice, “when and how shall we begin?” 

“We will have to do this at your estate,” Gale replied. “I don’t mind helping a friend, but I’d rather not have to carry your unconscious form all the way back to Baldur’s Gate. Magically, or otherwise.”

“And I would rather hate it if you did,” Astarion remarked, scrunching his nose in disgust at the thought of Gale holding him. 

Gale with his frail, pasty arms that shook whenever he carried a pot of water to the campfire, and would certainly feel starkly different from how Wyll’s arms had felt around Astarion that he would simply vomit should he ever come into contact with Gale’s. Not that he still thought of Wyll’s arms to such a length, nor did he still miss the comfort he’d rarely felt elsewhere than when Wyll held him. Astarion could vomit at that thought, too. He had all the comfort and luxury he could ever want, now. 

“I will not take your disgusted expression personally,” Gale said after a beat of silence. 

“Why not?” Astarion pouted. 

Gale shook his head with a friendly grin, and stood from the table. He grabbed the book with the sleeping spell, though Astarion was certain the man had the entire contents of the book fully memorised. Gale pulled on an ugly shawl and a droopy hat, looking ever the wise old wizard he surely thought himself to be. He gestured to one of the hallways that led out of his central living room.

“After you,” Gale offered, and Astarion scoffed. 

“I cannot fly us both back,” he said. 

“Fly?” Gale frowned. “You flew all the way here?”

Astarion didn’t like his tone, and so didn’t grace him with an answer. 

“No, my friend, we will travel the way we did back when our group was whole,” Gale added, smiling with pride. “I have teleportation circles to every major city in all of Faerûn, and some even to other continents of Toril.” 

Astarion waved his hand, bored as soon as Gale had said “No”, and stepped out before him. Astarion walked briskly and stiffly, and if he raised his head just a bit in an attempt to appear taller than the wizard who surely wore that terrible hat to disguise his short stature, Astarion would never admit to it. 

~

The portal brought them to the Lower City’s central wall in seconds, and Astarion tried not to feel bitter over the fact that he could not use the teleportation circles without the help of a magic user. 

Astarion brought them up through the wall’s postern door that led to his Palace. He had a moment of unwarranted insecurity over what Gale may think of Astarion’s interior redecorating, though quickly banished the idea. If Gale thought he could judge Astarion’s decor, when his own tower was beyond cluttered with useless knick-knacks and wizardly trinkets, then Astarion would simply gut him. 

Gale took a sweeping look as he entered the Palace, blinking a bit as his useless human eyes adjusted to the darkness within, and smiled. 

“I rather like what you’ve done with the place,” Gale said.

“I don’t care that you do,” Astarion snapped, a bit too quickly. He paused. “Now, where will you be performing your silly magic?”

Gale gave him an unamused lift of the eyebrow. 

“Wherever you’re most comfortable lying still, I suppose,” Gale replied, ignoring Astarion calling his magic silly. “Whether that be your personal room, or the living room couch, it doesn’t particularly matter to me.”

“You are not entering my room,” Astarion said, his gaze sweeping over Gale’s form with distaste. “Honestly, darling, my standards have always been better than… this,” he added, gesturing to all of Gale. 

Gale’s eyes glazed over with restrained irritation, and he took a breath. 

“As I said before,” Gale began with forced politeness, “your ‘charm’-” there went the air quotes again, the utter disrespect, “-has never affected me. And even if it did, I am more than content with my new lover that I would never even entertain the idea of seeking someone else’s company in bed.” Gale paused, considering. “Though he would probably be fine with that.”

“Gods, I would rather die a hundred times than hear another dreadful word about your mediocre romantic life,” Astarion said. 

Gale pursed his lips with a frown.

“Just because yours isn’t going well doesn’t mean others can’t be happy,” Gale retorted. 

“Of course it does,” Astarion dismissed. 

He waved Gale along and led them further into the Palace. There wasn’t exactly a living room in his house - Astarion did have the fleeting thought that Wyll would appreciate that pun - but he figured the ballroom would suffice for now. He ordered Gale to magick one of Astarion’s sofas into the large room, just before the throne, and Gale did so with only a mild sigh. 

Astarion lounged across the sofa, making himself comfortable. He was rather glad he’d kept on the silly robe after all, because if there was even the slightest chance Wyll might stumble upon his sleeping form, he’d rather the man be immensely distracted by Astarion’s lack of clothes. He knew Wyll would never act on anything while Astarion slept - even without their past together, Wyll was too good and honourable, the fool - but the similarities to that terrible fairytale did make Astarion smirk. 

“Any day now, wizard,” Astarion remarked lazily, stretching a bit. 

“This will take at least ten minutes,” Gale explained. “In order for it to work the way you wish, I’ll have to cast it as a ritual spell, which requires more time and components-”

“Keep talking, and I’ll be put to sleep before you even finish the spell,” Astarion said behind clenched teeth. 

Gale rolled his eyes. He sat on the floor five metres from Astarion’s couch and began removing items from his robes that Astarion hadn’t even seen him grab before they’d left the tower. More magic nonsense, surely. 

Astarion laid back against his pillow and closed his eyes. He didn’t trust Gale, necessarily, but the weak and frail man’s magical prowess meant very little in the face of Astarion’s ascended power. For as stupid as Gale could be, he was at least smart enough to not provoke Astarion too much. 

Ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye, and then Gale was clearing his throat. 

“It’s ready,” he said. “I think.” 

“You better not mess this up, Gale,” Astarion warned calmly. 

“Won’t know for sure until I try,” Gale defended. “But, everything should work. I’ve never failed before.”

Astarion hummed in disbelief, but said nothing further. He folded his hands over his abdomen, and kept his eyes closed as he listened to Gale step forward. 

“If nothing else,” Gale said, wasting even more breath, “I at least hope this provides you with some good rest. And peaceful dreams.”

Astarion remained silent as Gale spoke the incantation. The last thing Astarion remembered was warm darkness settling around him, within him, before his thoughts dispersed entirely. 

Chapter Text

It had been an especially long day of fighting, and Astarion felt more tired than he’d known he could even be. It was as if fatigue had settled into his very bones, filling his veins in the place of any lifeblood. He could hardly keep his eyes open as their group trudged back to their makeshift camp within the shadow-cursed lands. 

They’d witnessed Ketheric in all his immortal glory within Moonrise Towers. Wyll had deceived one of the head zealots of the group's allegiance to the Absolute by thinking about kissing Astarion in a half-panic, which pleased Astarion more than he’d ever admit. They’d sifted through Balthazar’s room, stealing items and sabotaging runes, then returned to the main hall to explore side rooms and scope out the magnitude of the threat the cultists within Moonrise posed to their cause. 

They’d encountered a drow woman who’d demanded Astarion bite her, in exchange for a potion that would surely help them in their looming fight against Ketheric. Despite the appeal of such a thing, Astarion found himself saying No, emphatically and confidently. The adrenaline rush of denying someone’s use of him in any way was addicting; Astarion had no idea that saying no could feel so freeing. 

Wyll had defended him, when the drow woman insisted. Her demeaning words had twisted in Astarion’s gut so thoroughly he’d almost missed the blatant anger that shook Wyll’s voice as he told the woman how Astarion was his own person, and that his no meant no. Wyll had led their group away immediately, the others expressing their agreement with Astarion’s decision and offering various insults to the drow, but Astarion had felt too numb to appreciate his new friends’ support. 

Wyll’s jaw had remained stiff with fury for the next hour, and he only relaxed when they met up with Minthara and the imprisoned tieflings in the dungeons below the tower, when his Blade of Frontiers persona took over. Astarion wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but he was certain that none of his feelings were bad. They were just new; terrifyingly unfamiliar. 

When they returned to their camp outside of Last Light Inn, Astarion wanted nothing more than to collapse in his tent and begin his trance early. But he caught the worried look Wyll sent his way when he thought Astarion couldn’t see, and suddenly Astarion was desperate to talk to him. Which was a new feeling, too. 

Astarion waited until the others had taken refuge in their own tents, waited until Wyll and Karlach were done helping Minthara set up her own, before he beelined to Wyll and pulled the man with him into the woods behind their camp. He made sure to stay close enough that the torchlight from camp would light their way, but he wanted privacy now more than ever. Wyll looked at him with that same worried set of his brow, his gaze soft and inquisitive, though he asked nothing as Astarion paused, still holding Wyll’s hand. He took a breath to speak.

“I…” he suddenly couldn’t look away from Wyll, watching the man’s face with desperation, waiting for the other shoe to drop while knowing it didn’t even exist with Wyll. Sweet, selfless, and good Wyll Ravengard. “I wanted to thank you.”

Wyll blinked, surprise taking over his concern. 

“Whatever for?” he asked, his voice endlessly gentle. 

“For what you said to that vile drow.” Astarion’s voice suddenly felt weak and fragile, and he worried for a moment he wouldn’t be able to say all that he wished to say. All that Wyll more than deserved to hear, by now. 

Wyll opened his mouth, likely to protest that Astarion didn’t need to thank him, or whatever other foolishly good but incorrect thing he could think to say. Astarion cut him off before he could. 

“You know of my past,” Astarion continued, “and you know what I’ve been subjected to. But you’ve never used it against me.” Astarion paused, watching how Wyll relaxed his face, letting Astarion talk without interruption. “You could have asked me to bear it. It would have been so easy. I would have listened to you. I would have grit my teeth and tolerated the foul taste of her blood and I wouldn’t have uttered a single complaint.”

Wyll’s good eye glistened with moisture in the torchlight, and Astarion knew it was taking every ounce of Wyll’s restraint to not reassure Astarion as he spoke. Still, he let Astarion continue. 

“But you didn’t ask me to,” Astarion almost whispered. “You even defended my choice. And I’m grateful.” 

Wyll waited to see if Astarion was finished. Astarion smiled, just a bit. Wyll sighed.

“Of course,” Wyll said, warm and kind. “It’s really the bare minimum, Astarion. I wouldn’t force you to do something you don’t want to do,” he explained, though Astarion knew that well enough by now. “And the way she spoke to you…” Wyll sighed heavily. “Well. I won’t lie to you, I briefly entertained the thought of silencing her permanently.”

Astarion grinned cheekily. 

“I would have enjoyed the show,” he said, squeezing Wyll’s hand. “This whole ‘having a choice’ thing is… a novel concept to me, I admit. And a little intimidating. What if I make the wrong choice?”

“You deserve the right to make the wrong choices,” Wyll said, his eyes twinkling at his own play on words. “As do we all. But know this, my star,” Wyll took Astarion’s other hand, and raised them both to his chest, pressing his heartbeat to Astarion’s fingers. “The choices you make will never be made alone. I will be right by your side through every one, should you have me.”

Astarion stared at him, searching for a lie he knew he would never find within Wyll’s eyes. The man was too sincere for his own good, but Astarion was discovering he was very into that. 

“You know, I-” Astarion paused, choosing his words carefully. His confession would hurt Wyll no matter how generous and forgiving the man was, so he wanted to make sure it hurt as little as he could manage. “When I first kissed you by that lake, during the tieflings’ little party-”

“It was disingenuous,” Wyll said for him.

Astarion blinked. 

“You knew?” he asked. 

Wyll at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed, even as he smiled, glancing down at their feet before meeting Astarion’s gaze once more. 

“Not at first,” Wyll admitted. “I was too distracted by how my heart leapt to your hands when our lips touched to fully process the stiffness in your voice and the faraway look in your eyes. I know a performance when I see one, but you were so well-practised in yours I almost missed it.” 

He still held Astarion’s hands to his chest, and Astarion focused on the warmth of Wyll’s hands in an effort to calm his nerves as Wyll spoke. 

“I’m glad I didn’t miss it,” Wyll continued, his voice softer than ever. “I didn’t fully understand at the time why you had lied about fancying me when you could have had your pick of almost anyone at camp, and I still don’t want to assume your intentions now, but you had fully captivated me, Astarion. That you didn’t feel the same for me never stifled my growing feelings for you.” 

Astarion opened his mouth, and then closed it again, at a loss for what to say to all of that. 

“But, when you asked me to dance-”

“It was because I wanted to dance with you,” Wyll said. His smile grew, and it lit up his beautiful face in the night, like the Sun had left the sky just to reside within Wyll. “I didn’t think you would say yes, but that worry didn’t stop me from asking. Our lives are too fraught with danger for me to take for granted the time I have with those I love. And you were so lovely to dance with,” Wyll added with a sigh, and he sounded so breathless and lovesick Astarion almost fell against him. “When you kissed me then, I swear the world itself halted just for us. And I thought to myself: maybe this time, he meant it.”

Astarion kissed him now; only to shut up his sickeningly sweet rambling, of course. He felt Wyll’s smile against his lips, and couldn’t help but smile himself. He pulled his hands from Wyll’s to hold the man around his broad shoulders, and Wyll’s own hands rested respectfully at the small of Astarion’s back. His fingers refused to wander, much to Astarion’s disappointment and relief, and he elected to kiss Wyll more firmly in his desperation to feel the man closer to him still. 

Wyll’s warmth surrounded him, held him safe and dear, shielding him from the shadowlands’ inherent chill like Astarion was something to be treasured. Wyll opened his mouth to breathe, but Astarion hardly let him, tasting him with the fervour of a man starved. Astarion supposed he had been; starved all his immortal life not just of blood but of the love Wyll gave so freely. Now that he had it, Astarion refused to let it go. 

When Wyll finally insisted on breathing, his hands firm at Astarion’s hips to hold him back rather than yank him forward, Astarion realised he hadn’t once stopped smiling. 

“I did,” Astarion whispered, the words setting him free, his unbeating heart floating from Wyll’s affections. “You sweet fool. I meant it.”

“That… is a joy to hear,” Wyll said, beaming like they weren’t stranded in the face of dangers untold. “I care about you, Astarion. Deeply.”

“Really?” Astarion asked sarcastically. “I don’t know how you could possibly have expected me to guess that.”

Wyll chuckled, and his warm breath ghosted over Astarion’s face. 

“I care for you, too,” Astarion admitted quietly. “Gods damn it all, I’d meant to use you as the tool I’d wield for my protection, and you were supposed to fall for it.” He took a shuddering breath. “And I was supposed to not fall for you.”

Wyll pressed a kiss to Astarion’s forehead, still grinning as he did. 

“I’ve quite fallen for you myself,” Wyll said. “I will not say what it’s certainly too early to say, but I will tell you this.” He cupped Astarion’s face, gazing into his eyes with determination. “You are the red of the sunrise, the yellow of high noon, the orange of sundown. If you were a song, I’d never stop singing; if you were a psalm, I’d never stop praying.” 

Astarion scoffed, blinking away tears that suddenly pricked his eyes. Wyll held him firm, not letting him squirm away and escape the barrage of poetic devotion. 

“You make a damn fun dance partner, too,” Wyll added with a self-satisfied grin. “And… I hope that I may be given the chance to dance with you again, sometime.”

“I think I could bear that,” Astarion said, attempting to feign disinterest and utterly failing with how breathless he sounded. “You…” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “You are incredible, Wyll. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

“So do I,” Wyll agreed without hesitation. “More than anything.”

“But I don’t know how,” Astarion admitted, and his damn eyes wouldn’t stop stinging. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Neither do I, to be honest,” Wyll said with a shrug. “I have never actually courted anyone before. I have learned only from what I’ve read. But I do know that what I feel for you cannot be weathered by confusion nor lessened by uncertainty. I know that I want you at my side, I know I want to devote myself to you, and, hopefully, have you devote yourself to me. However we do this, I want us to do it together.”

Astarion nodded, blinking rapidly. 

“I think I can do that,” he said. Then he furrowed his brow. “No. I know that I can. That I will. Embrace the unknown, and all that.”

“Together,” Wyll added, swiping a thumb over Astarion’s cheek.

“Together,” Astarion echoed. 

He kissed Wyll again, and again, and again. It had been soft, and warm, as all things with Wyll always were.

But now, the memory hurt. It left him cold, and bitter. Astarion didn’t know if he’d ever actually slept before in his life, only needing to meditate for a few hours before he was well rested. Memories took the place of dreams for elves, and it seemed even when he was magically gifted the ability to sleep, he still could only remember. 

It was all Wyll had ever promised. That whatever they faced, they would do so together. Astarion had been so certain he could never lose Wyll - had been certain for the first time in his life that someone loved him so fully as to never turn their back on him - only to watch Wyll leave in the end. Wyll had never broken a promise to Astarion before, but he was only human. Perhaps the gods had crossed his and Astarion’s paths not to grant Astarion a moment of safety and love, for what god had ever cared for Astarion, but to face Wyll with the one person he couldn’t keep a promise to. To break them both. 

Astarion swatted away the memory like an intrusive thought. 

Chapter Text

With Cazador on his knees, Infernal freshly carved into his back, Astarion had felt utterly invincible. Completing the ritual had been easier than breathing, and had felt just as overwhelmingly good as the first time he’d drank from Wyll had felt. Drenched in Cazador’s blood, he looked to Wyll now, and smiled. 

Wyll didn’t smile back. He stared with wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock, and with sadness immeasurable. 

Confusion, and annoyance, tainted Astarion’s joy. Why wasn’t Wyll happy for him? Why wasn’t he celebrating now that Astarion was finally free? 

This was it, Astarion thought, distant in his sleep-state as he observed the memory. This was when he turned against me.  

Warmth flooded him as he watched the memory play out. But it wasn’t a warmth like the comfort of Wyll’s arms, the gentleness of Wyll’s lips; it was the heat of fury, of indignation, the fires of betrayal and abandonment that Astarion had almost forgotten the feeling of. 

Astarion watched as his past-self made the mistake of trusting that Wyll would love him forever, and then he moved away from the memory once more. 

Chapter Text

The memories persisted. One after another, they filled Astarion’s slumber as if he were watching a series of films on his own life. He couldn’t escape them, despite his best efforts, and they were more vivid than the memories relived in his trances had ever been. It felt less like a memory and more like a possession. 

He felt the same feelings, thought the same thoughts, that he had in those very moments - though with an added layer of outside observation that reminded him these were, in fact, memories, and he wasn’t just caught in some kind of magical time rewind. If it had been a rewind, he would have undone it all. 

He would have drank Wyll to his death that night Wyll had so foolishly allowed Astarion his neck after he caught Astarion over him. He would not seek Wyll out on the night of the tieflings’ stupid party. He would deny Wyll a dance and he would abandon Wyll to Ansur’s lightning and he would tell Wyll’s father that he’d been right in banishing Wyll all those years ago and he would ask Mizora to simply take Wyll back to the hells with her and get it all over with. 

In his sleep, Astarion had to watch as he fell for the lovesick fool, fell for the hero act, fell for the lies of promised tomorrows and pledged togethers . Astarion had to watch as the walls he’d so carefully and perfectly built around himself crumbled to ash beneath Wyll’s soft touch, his warm embrace, his gentle kiss, until he was fully bare and vulnerable by the time Wyll left him. 

And worst of all, Astarion had to miss it. 

If it had been a magical time rewind, instead of just memories in sleep, he would have done it all again. He would have taken every I love you and he would have cherished every silly pet name and he would have accepted every dance and hand-holding and kiss with the same eagerness as before; or perhaps with even more. He might even do it all sooner, he might confess everything quicker, he might actually mean it when he approaches Wyll by the lake and begs for a kiss. 

He might not ascend. 

The last thought is banished as quickly as all of the others. Foolish, impulsive, and misguided. He was simply weak, sleeping like this; just lonely, lost, and afraid. When he finally awoke, he would be strong again. These memories would fade like nightmares for those who dream, and his weakness would fade with them. 

Chapter Text

This time, when Astarion blinked, it took a while to realise it wasn’t just another memory. 

He sat up. His robes were in the same place. The sofa, throne, and the ballroom itself looked the same as it had. Even the small ritual circle Gale had drawn for the spell remained. Astarion unclasped his hands, and stretched his fingers, listening to the pops of unused joints. 

He had the distant thought that this realisation that he was finally awake should be causing him some concern, and at the very least curiosity, but he felt completely apathetic to everything. He supposed he’d just spent so long forced to feel things in his memory-dreams that now in the waking world he was suffering emotional burnout, or something of the sort. He decided to shift his focus to the logistics of the situation, rather than what he should be feeling about it but wasn’t. 

If he was awake, it meant that Wyll was dead. Or that Wyll had decided to run back to him, but seeing as the room was jarringly empty and quiet, Astarion knew that wasn’t the case. If he was awake, it meant Wyll was dead and Astarion had won their rivalry. Astarion had outlived him. Astarion was finally, finally free of Wyll Ravengard. 

He still felt nothing. Not an ounce of satisfaction, not even a fleeting whisper of relief. There was simply nothing. 

As he shifted to stand, something soft brushed at his shoulders. He flinched, glancing behind him, expecting perhaps a spider to be crawling along his back. Instead, he found that his once short hair had grown out past his shoulders. 

Astarion frowned. Vampire hair grew exponentially slower than any mortal’s, due to their blood source being fed to them rather than occurring naturally in their undead bodies, so he had rarely ever had to trim his hair in his vampiric life. He had no idea it could get this long, especially when he hadn't fed consistently in however long he'd been asleep. It was possibly a new ascendant power he never knew about. 

His hair was still curly, though the coils were much looser in the weight of the length. It must have been quite some time since Astarion was last awake. 

He tugged at the ends and sniffed in distaste. He’d have to cut it later. 

Astarion stood from the couch. He stretched, he groaned, he smoothed out his robes. He turned into a bat and flew around the palace, he tore at the draperies and paintings with his small talons, he knocked over vase after vase to match the one he’d destroyed before he’d fallen into deep sleep, which he’d never gotten cleaned up. 

He returned to his regular form when he arrived at the foyer, and threw open the front door, letting sunlight wash his skin. He experienced the warmth of it; but still, he felt nothing. 

Astarion slammed the door behind him as he left the manor and made the tedious effort to walk along the palace’s curtain wall so he could look over the lower city with his elf eyes rather than that of a bat. There was the regular bustle of civilians below: merchants, children advertising the newspaper, and families milling about on their busy way. But he got the sense immediately that it was more subdued, as though in the sky loomed a storm rather than the clearest, brightest blue Astarion had seen in a while. 

He had the briefest urge to hiss at the Sun. Perhaps it was a habit from how the Sun’s rays once burned him. It surely had nothing to do with the fact that it felt blasphemous for the Sun to shine full on the day Wyll Ravengard finally died. This was the first stirring of emotion Astarion experienced since he’d awoken, and he wouldn’t let it be wasted on a dead man. He was simply out of practice in the daylight. 

Perhaps the Sun was celebrating Wyll’s death as Astarion was; celebrating that it could no longer be outshined by the wretched hero. Astarion of course meant that as an insult, because both the Sun and Wyll gave him headaches. 

As Astarion approached the stairs that led below, he caught the words of the young boy in the central courtyard as he shouted:

“The Blade of Avernus is dead! Read how the Heart of the Gate sacrificed his life for the city!”

Astarion scoffed to himself as he descended. Still using ‘the Heart of the Gate’? he thought bitterly. Weren’t they over such boresome drivel?

He turned invisible before exiting through the postern, and stepped quietly into the city. A young couple dashed past him, unaware of his presence, and demanded a copy of the paper from the young boy. Astarion watched as they exchanged coin for dramatised and most likely inaccurate information, and read over it together like it was some hot gossip of a noble scandal. Once they both finished, they looked to each other in disbelief, and then sadness. They walked away gloomily, conversing quietly and mournfully. 

Astarion was already sick of sightseeing. Still, if there was even the smallest chance someone else might be in high spirits from Wyll’s passing, Astarion was keen on finding them. 

But as he crept through the city, paying extra careful attention to not let others run into him so he would remain invisible, Astarion only found expressions that ranged from blank at the mildest to full on heaving sobs at the most extreme. A sombre tune floated from the open doors of the Elfsong Tavern, and Astarion peered inside to see some half-orc bard standing in the middle of the tavern and strumming a melancholy song on a lyre. They did not sing, but tears ran down their face. 

From the wine festival, Astarion watched as a new face closed the doors with a deep frown. The Stormshore Tabernacle’s doors remained open, as they almost always did, but religious fools were lined up in clusters all the way down the street, with prayers on their tongues and some with gifts in their arms. 

Worst of all came from the Barracks that housed the Flaming Fists. Trumpets played deep and slow, a sad melody that could pass as a funeral dirge. Fists stood at full attention within the Barracks and outside, dressed in formal armour and bearing the Ravengard crest - a raven with its wings fully extended, carrying a sword between its two talons and the Sun’s rays behind its head like a crown - on their shields. Astarion wasn’t exactly sure what they were waiting for, if anything, but wait they did. 

Astarion sat on the edge of the stage of the horribly placed gallows and waited as well. A horn sounded from within Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, loud and rumbling, almost resembling a dragon’s roar. Within a minute, a large funeral procession emerged from the wide gates of the fortress. They were all on horseback, with torches and decorative shields raised high and a lidless casket held magically aloft between them. 

As they got closer, Astarion eyed the casket, which was flat and ornate. It seemed Wyll’s body was supported on top rather than held within, but had been covered in an embroidered sheet that also bore the Ravengard crest in vivid colours. Astarion’s nerves heightened, and the reality that Wyll was dead hit him heavily like a sudden downpour. He glanced up to check; the sky was still an insultingly clear blue. 

Counsellor Florrick led the procession, her stoic yet grieving expression accentuating the signs of subtle age in her face. It was beginning to occur to Astarion that perhaps he’d been asleep for a very long time, if an elf looked aged. As Florrick crossed into the lower city, the Flaming Fists saluted, and the trumpets quieted until all was silent. 

Civilians had begun to emerge with the fortress’s horn, and now Astarion was trapped up front due to the massive crowd that had formed, blocking every street. The procession halted, though Florrick guided her horse a few steps ahead. Another rider joined her side, with short white hair that contrasted their midnight purple skin, and Astarion vaguely recognised them to be Liege Wengip; who evidently must have been the one elected as Duke all that time ago. 

Florrick uttered an enchantment quietly, and when Duke Wengip spoke, their voice was magically amplified. 

“Citisens of Baldur’s Gate!” the Duke cried. “We gather today in honour of a hero’s sacrifice in the name of our great city.” 

Astarion scoffed under his breath. He kicked his feet under the stage because he was very bored, not because he was anxious about seeing Wyll’s dead body once the speech ended. 

“Some knew him as Wyll Ravengard, son of the late Duke Ulder Ravengard.”

The crowd shouted “Long live the Duke!”

“Others knew him as the Blade of Avernus, the bane of the hells,” the Duke continued with reverence. “But most of all, he was the Heart of the Gate, protector of this city, and the reason the walls still stand and the people still live.”

Astarion frowned. He figured Wyll had died of some grand heroic sacrifice, but it couldn’t have been that dramatic. 

“When the Cult of the Dragon Goddess banded together with the lingering dregs of Bhaalists and brought Tiamat back to the material plane-”

Astarion’s brows shot up to his hairline. Tiamat had returned? How in the hells did I sleep through that?

“-Wyll Ravengard returned to Baldur’s Gate from Avernus immediately to fend off the threat. After a century in Avernus-”

Gods above. A fucking century.  

“-the Blade’s power had grown immeasurably. Wielding only his magic and his rapier, Wyll Ravengard managed to slay the dragon goddess Tiamat, banishing her back to the Nine Hells eternally, and wiped out the remaining Cultists and Bhaalists that threatened our dear city.”

Cheers rang out from the crowd, and the Flaming Fists pounded on their shields in triumph. The raucous quickly settled down, however, and the sombre mood settled over the people once more. 

“But our Blade had suffered severe wounds from Tiamat and her followers, and with the last cultist slain, Wyll Ravengard fell on the battlefield.”

Astarion watched, completely unamused, as a few sniffles and sobs littered the crowd, most of whom had bowed their heads. He rolled his eyes. 

“Today we grieve the Hero of Baldur’s Gate,” the Duke announced, after a moment of silence. “But we also celebrate his sacrifice, and honour his unwavering devotion to his home, his city, and his people.”

The Duke glanced at Counsellor Florrick, who bowed her head. The two brought their horses to either side of the floating casket, allowing it to pass ahead of them. They and the other riders of the procession - various personal guards of the Duke as well as other high council members - followed behind, parading their hero’s body before the people of Baldur’s Gate. 

When they passed the gallows, Astarion practically leapt up in his haste to reach the casket and get a closer look. Wyll was not visible whatsoever beneath the sheet that covered him, but at this distance, Astarion could clearly make out the man’s broad frame, and the horns that protruded up from his forehead. Before Astarion could groan in frustration over not getting the joy of seeing Wyll finally dead, Florrick extended her arm and lifted the sheet over him with more of her magic. 

The sheet fell open above Wyll’s casket, displaying the crest in full view of the crowd. Astarion held his breath as he gazed at Wyll’s supine form. 

He looked just as beautiful as the last day Astarion had seen him. His dark skin was still a vibrant umber brown, practically glowing warm in the Sun, and his face was relaxed and at peace, his eyes gently closed. His braids had been decorated with ornate gold cuffs and laid out from behind his head like deep rivers, cradled in red gladiolus flowers that continued along the casket down to his boots. 

Wyll’s horns were also decorated with gold rings, and thin golden chains that wrapped around and held small diamonds, like rainwater on the dark keratin. They’d clearly been polished too, as they glistened without blemish. His beard had grown in more but was neatly trimmed, highlighting the shape of his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. 

He wore an expensive looking doublet, coloured purple, brown, and black like the Ravengard crest with gold embroidered swirls and accents, and held tight with a brown leather belt. New scars littered Wyll’s face and what was visible of his neck and hands, but Astarion didn’t notice any that seemed like they could have been the fatal blow that had caused Wyll’s end. 

At a glance, he could appear to simply be sleeping. But Astarion watched closely, and the stillness of Wyll’s chest, the silence of his once loudly beating heart, broke the illusion of rest with the cold finality of death. 

The procession passed Astarion by, and soon the casket was out of view. He felt something sink within him, and suddenly the strange numbness he’d had before crumbled and Astarion swore he experienced every fathomable emotion at once; and some unfathomable as well. Blinking back the abrupt stinging in his eyes, he turned into a bat and fled, leaving the mourning crowd and the lifeless Wyll behind. 

Chapter Text

Astarion spent the next tenday visiting the streets of Baldur’s Gate, both the lower and upper city, hidden from view of everyone. The people either grieved or went on with their miserable lives, and he passed them by like a ghost, unseen and unheard, simply observing as though he existed separately from the living. Which, technically, he did. 

He’d intended to cut his hair, but the issue of having no reflection as well as being out of practice made the task impossible. He also couldn’t visit a barber, as they would immediately know he was a vampire when they saw that he was invisible in their mirror. And he couldn’t possibly cut it without styling it perfectly, lest his hair look uneven and utterly dishevelled. So, a dreaded low-ponytail would have to suffice, for now. Besides, he hardly let anyone see him anyway. 

Business slowed in the city as people recovered from losing someone they never even knew, but by the seventh day of mourning, things began to pick up again. Astarion would return to his palace every night and celebrate Wyll’s death, and his own victory, by sitting on his throne in silence or flying aimlessly through the seemingly endless dungeons underground. 

He’d started feeding on people again; uncaring if they were innocent or not. Just whoever irritated him, or whoever was stupid enough to roam the city alone at night. Wyll wasn’t around to kill him for it anymore. Still no spawn, of course, because Astarion had decided he was against sharing his spacious palace with anyone who could irritate him daily with their presence. He quite liked his peace and quiet. And being alone. Isolated. It was better that way, surely. 

He certainly didn’t keep his “promise” to Gale. The man was probably dead by now, anyway. He wouldn’t know that Astarion refused to reach out to any of their “friends”. And even if the mortal wizard was still alive, what could Gale possibly do to make him socialise? Ask nicely? Astarion would laugh in his face. 

After two weeks of utter boredom and purposeless wandering, Astarion decided to haunt the Elfsong Tavern again, just like the old days. Though this time he wouldn’t have to take anyone home; unless he wanted to, of course, which he did not. Simply because no one was worth a lay with Astarion the Vampire Lord, worthless mortals as they all were. 

The tavern’s wretched bard strummed out a typical energetic tune that caused Astarion’s ears to ring. He’d intended to tune them out, but the lyrics suddenly struck him, and he found himself paying careful attention to the song. 

“Oh, of virtue and valour most high,” the bard sang, their voice shrill but at least on-key, “was the Blade with power divine! His sword struck true, with courage unmoved. A tale to retell for all time!”

Astarion squinted as he watched the bard, their frilly coat fluttering with their passionate strumming of their lute. This couldn’t be…

“First Blade, then Heart of the Gate,” the bard continued, “then devil’s bane the great man became! With a heart spun of gold, and a presence so bold - though he fell, the Dragon was slain!”

Astarion rolled his eyes, sinking into his seat at a secluded booth. Of course Wyll would have bards singing his praises in horrid prose, even after death. The bard continued on with their mediocre rhymes, but Astarion forced himself to no longer pay attention. Though he inevitably did, when the subject was Wyll; only out of curiosity and an affinity for drama, of course, not because he was interested. 

When the bard finally finished their song, and switched out with another bard for a break, Astarion found himself relaxing. Finally, he could go back to ignoring romanticised drivel rather than be subjected to the mewling of mortals eager to suck Wyll’s cock in the afterlife. 

The next bard - a purplish tiefling with dark brown hair - looked familiar, though he was certain he’d never seen them before. But when they arrived onstage, the crowd suddenly cheered uproariously, as though they were a celebrity. The tiefling smiled and waved their hand humbly. 

“My mother wishes she could be here today,” the bard cried over the crowd’s volume, “but her grief has made her bedridden. She will return soon, but in her place I hope to entertain half as well!” 

The crowd half clapped and half laughed at the greeting, and some fools even shouted “Hail the Blade!”

Astarion scoffed. Honestly, letting oneself become bedridden with grief over a lousy and insufferable hero? Whoever the hells this bard’s mother was, they were clearly weak and stupid. 

“However, I have a song for you all that my mother, Alfira, wrote,” the tiefling added. 

Astarion bit back laughter. Of course the less than adequate bard had an equally insipid bard child. 

“This song is about the man behind the hero that was the Blade of Avernus,” they explained. “My mother wanted people to know why he was called the Heart of the Gate.”

The crowd’s cheering and clapping resumed, and Astarion put his head in his hands. He honestly couldn’t take one more dreadful stanza about how great Wyll was, when Astarion knew the truth; that the man was a right bastard and a spineless hypocrite to boot. 

Astarion stood from his booth and left quickly, covering his ears to block out the song. The tavern’s doors had been closed upon nightfall, though the establishment remained open, so outside the singing was muffled enough to be indiscernible. He made his way to the alley beside the tavern, where they had found the entrance to the Bhaalist’s murder tribunal. It seemed a fitting destination, considering Astarion’s sudden fury and bloodlust. 

He felt like returning to the tavern only to slaughter every miserable soul within. He entertained the idea, briefly, imagining himself tearing through the throats of the drunkards and wastes of space. He would leave the bard for last, drain her until he was full, and then drop her corpse on the doorstep of Alfira and Lakrissa’s trivial bard academy. 

Astarion smiled at the image. Unfortunately, the public heat that would bring him would not be worth the momentary bliss of murdering annoying civilians. But he could still daydream. 

“Fair friend!” a voice cried ahead, causing Astarion to halt and glance about frantically. 

The previous bard from the Elfsong, the one Alfira’s child had replaced, was leaning against the wall of the tavern a few metres away. They had a mug of ale that sloshed onto their hideous coat as they waved to Astarion. 

“Going home all alone?” they asked with a cocky grin. “Care for some company?” 

“Oh, I'd hate that,” Astarion spat. 

“I’ve never seen your face before,” they said, “and I do remember every face I’ve passed.”

“How insufferable,” Astarion replied dryly. He picked up speed as he moved to pass them, unwilling to look like he was fleeing but doing exactly that. 

“I certainly would have remembered a face as lovely as yours,” the bard added as Astarion speed-walked by. “Songs must have been written of your ethereal beauty, which could surely outshine the stars.”

Astarion paused, frozen still by the bard’s ridiculous attempt at flirting. He hadn’t been compared to stars since-

He turned fluidly, giving the bard his most sinister smile, showing off his fangs. The bard’s eyes widened slightly, and they tensed up. Astarion tried not to be distracted by how good it felt to be feared again. 

“Aren’t you a sweet thing?” Astarion drawled, his overly friendly tone dripping like honey-scented poison from his lips. 

The bard smiled nervously, and swallowed. 

“I, uh,” they swallowed again. “Well, I could certainly write you a song myself, should it please you!”

Astarion refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I could make you sing,” he said, closing in on the bard so they were forced to press themselves against the wall. 

“What- uh, what is your name, fair stranger?” the bard asked, voice shaking, as they dropped their mug of ale. 

Some of it splashed on Astarion’s polished shoes. Though he didn’t mind; soon his shoes would be stained with something far more vibrant than cheap ale. 

“You can call me ‘My Lord’,” Astarion said quietly. 

He’d pushed the bard fully against the wall, and placed his hand on their throat right below their chin. Not tight; just a warning. The bard gulped once more, their eyes darting around the alley. 

“What’s the matter, darling?” Astarion tilted his head. “No hero of Baldur’s Gate lurking at the corner to save you? Well, wherever could he have gone?”

The bard frowned, their eyes now roving Astarion’s face. 

“Says the cowardly vampire who only stalks the street when the threat of the Blade is no more,” the bard whispered, as if their insolence could be softened by hushed words.

“Dear bard,” Astarion whispered back. “Your beloved Blade was too busy having me in his bed.”

Technically it wasn’t a lie, though the implication of sex was misleading; Wyll had only ever wanted to cuddle, like the disgusting fairytale prince he pretended to be. Perhaps he could have fucked Wyll on his grave the night Cazador was slain, as he had intended to, if only Wyll hadn’t chickened out of his affections once Astarion was more powerful than him. 

The bard’s eyes widened, and Astarion’s smile twisted further in his victory.

“You lie,” they breathed. “The Blade-”

“The Blade existed before you were even born,” Astarion interrupted, raising his voice again. “He was pacted to a devil and in love with a vampire. Your hero laid with the very monsters he claimed to hunt.”

“No,” the bard shook their head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe if he’d done his job, you would live to write songs about your disbelief.”

Their eyes widened as Astarion struck, sinking his fangs into their jugular and tearing. The bard let out a wet gurgle, and Astarion watched as the life drained from their eyes, before he began drinking the blood that gushed copiously from their throat. Once he was finished, he dropped their body to the ground, smiling at the sound of their head cracking on stone. 

His clothes and shoes were drenched in blood that would certainly implicate him should anyone see, but he could only smile as he stalked further into the night, blood-drunk and desperate for more prey. 

Chapter Text

Astarion continued this routine every few nights for three whole months. He would slink into the Elfsong, sometimes disguised, sometimes invisible. He would wait until the bard finished another atrocious song glorifying Wyll and left the stage, and then he’d follow them outside and drain them dry. He would return a few days later to find a new bard, singing a new song, and he would repeat. The Elfsong seemed to have an endless supply of useless bards; and so, Astarion had an endless supply of blood. He still let Alfira's child live - not for any sentimental reasons, just that it seemed pointless to kill them when they hardly performed at the Elfsong anyway. 

A newspaper went out claiming that the Elfsong Tavern had fallen under a curse, leaving every bard that performs there doomed to a violent and bloody death. Astarion was always careful not to make it obvious that his victims had fallen to a vampire, and thankfully there was no word of suspicion of vampiric meddling in the paper. Still, it was amusing that his actions were labelled a curse upon the tavern. 

A second newspaper pointed out that the curse began shortly after Wyll Ravengard had died. But rather than suggest it meant bards should stop their wretched singing about the man, the paper claimed the curse was caused by the evils that were awakening now that the city’s mighty protector was gone. 

A statue - a fucking statue - was erected in Wyll’s almost-perfect likeness, horns and all. The papers claimed this would scare away evil spirits that dared to haunt the city. The plaque read “Wyll Ravengard: The Blade of Avernus, The Heart of the Gate, and Fearless Protector of All”, and had a small ward against evil carved below it on the pedestal. 

The religious and superstitious flocked to the Stormshore Tabernacle with prayers and offerings, begging their deities’ protections. Street vendors took advantage and began selling ridiculously overpriced “magical” items that would protect against evil. The paper added a column that gave tips and advice on how to protect your soul from devilish adulteration. 

It was all dreadfully overdramatic, even for Astarion. But at least it meant his own fame rivalled Wyll’s these days; though he was never named. He was tempted to leave hints, or even kill in broad daylight, so everyone would stop crediting his work to incorporeal evils. However, he valued his privacy way too much for that. 

~

By the end of the third month, bards were officially banned from Elfsong Tavern, for their safety. Astarion chuckled to himself as he read the paper. The same tavern that had gotten its fame from the dulcet pipes of elves of old was now silenced of all singing whatsoever. The patrons only had the haunting, disembodied song that inspired the tavern’s namesake to keep them lively; and the mournful tune put an obvious damper on the patrons’ spirits. 

Astarion felt an odd sort of joy over it all. Or at least, as close to joy as he was capable of feeling these days. 

Things quieted down again, after that. He didn’t need to stalk the streets killing bards when there were no more bards singing Wyll’s praises, and so the curse was believed to have been lifted. For now.

Chapter Text

A few years later - Astarion wasn’t really sure how many years, exactly, as time didn’t exist to him - a previously published book by none other than Volothamp Geddarm, now-deceased author and utter nuisance, was found and reintroduced to the people of Baldur’s Gate. Publishing houses that had once claimed Volo’s writing to be baseless and uninteresting now sold re-printed copies of The Hero and Me, the lengthy tale of the frightening Absolute and the band of heroes that saved the world. 

Astarion had never read it, but he was sure Volo had inserted himself into the story far more than he had actually been involved in their mission to stop the Absolute. However, his curiosity over the book’s sudden fame caused him to seek out an explanation. 

As it so happened, while Volo did write a more-than-generous amount of himself into the story, most of it was about Wyll. Out of their old band of six - and then seven, eight, nine, and ten - Wyll was undoubtedly given the spotlight in Volo’s book, and most of the victory against the Absolute was attributed to him. Why that was, Astarion had no clue - perhaps later in life, Volo had edited the book to centre around Wyll when the Blade’s fame grew, in an attempt to get more readers. 

Regardless, the new obsession of the citisens of Baldur’s Gate was the highly inaccurate and dramatised tale of their precious Blade’s journey to save them from destruction before most of them were even alive. And so, Astarion plucked himself a copy, just to see what everyone was so excited about. 

Before he’d even finished reading the first chapter, Astarion finally understood why Volo had decided to write so much about Wyll; he had clearly been in love with the man. Volo wrote of Wyll with such overdone reverence, waxing poetic about his swordskill and his magical prowess and his incredibly good looks, that it was impossible to deny Volo’s ridiculous infatuation with Wyll. 

Astarion read through the entire book with a bitter scowl, scoffing at yet another mortal’s audacity to lust for Wyll when Astarion had been his lover. Most damning yet was Volo’s brief passage acknowledging that Wyll had “fallen in love with a mischievous vampire spawn”, not even bothering to name Astarion. Volo further wrote that he had been “filled with the utmost devastation upon hearing such a thing, but still admired the Blade and wanted only to witness Wyll’s exploits”. Astarion felt like vomiting. 

His contempt for Wyll warred with his obsessive need to be the only one who could ever own Wyll’s heart, as foolish as the notion was when Astarion had all the power in the world. He could have killed Halsin, and he especially could have killed Volo, quite easily in fact. He could have made them both his spawn and forced them to watch as Astarion pleasured Wyll for days on end, as surely only he would ever have been able to do so.

How dare Volo publish such bold confessions while Astarion still lived, and had become stronger than ever? The bard was lucky he’d died before Astarion found out about this, or his murder at Astarion’s hands would serve only to feed the false idea of a curse on bards in the city.

The people loved Volo’s writing because he told the human side of Wyll; the Wyll that had doubts and fears, interests and hobbies. Volo wrote of how Wyll loved his friends, his father, and his city. How Wyll had sacrificed his soul to save Baldur’s Gate before his name had any significant fame, and been doomed to suffer at the hands of a devil so that the people wouldn’t have to. 

And, of course, the mention of Wyll having a lover became all the rage in the city’s streets and newspaper gossip panels. There were numerous speculations about who his love could have been, whether it was another one of his old friends that was secretly a vampire, or if he’d collected a vampire spawn along the way to serve him as his object of desire. Astarion smirked at the latter theory; it was bitter in its attempt to explain how the Blade could have possibly loved a vampire spawn. He could appreciate the thinly veiled jealousy. 

Despite Volo’s audacity, in the end, Astarion was grateful to not be named as Wyll’s pathetic lover. He’d hate to be forever tied to the miserable Blade of Avernus, and would find it utterly humiliating if people saw him solely as Wyll’s scorned or grieving lover rather than a mighty and deadly vampire lord. He wasn’t at all insulted or bitter about Volo’s omission of him; after all, it had been a weak and vulnerable time in Astarion’s life, and he would be very embarrassed for everyone to know his biggest mistake, despite any silly possessiveness he had. No, he wasn’t bothered at all by remaining anonymous. 

He finished reading the book and promptly tossed it into his fireplace. What a dreadful read it had been. 

~

Within a tenday of Volo’s republishing, Astarion received a letter from none other than his ex-favourite cleric, Shadowheart. It smelled vaguely of wine and night orchids, and Astarion scrunched his nose at the scent. Still, he read the letter rather than immediately tossing it as he’d wanted to do.

“Dear Astarion,

If you’re still alive, I’m certain you’ve seen Volo’s book. I’m even more certain you have cutting opinions of it, and I have to admit I miss how we both would bond over our cruel judgements that were honestly petty, but entertaining all the same. 

I know we all left off on a miserable note with you. But, I also know people change. Moonmaiden knows I certainly have. I figured I’d give writing letters a try, since a trip to Baldur’s Gate is unfortunately unachievable for me at the moment. I won’t bore you with more details than you’d wish to hear, but you could certainly say I’ve got my hands, and my home, full. 

I hope you write back. Tell me everything. 

-Shadowheart. 

P.S. I am deeply saddened to hear of Wyll’s passing. I wish I’d gotten to see him one last time. But we’ll always remember him fondly, won’t we?”

Astarion crumbled the letter in his hand with a scoff, and approached the fireplace. He made to toss the letter in, but found it stuck oddly to his hand as he did. For some inexplicable reason, his fingers seemed to be clamped quite tightly around the parchment. Shadowheart must have put some magical enchantment on it so he wouldn’t be able to get rid of it. There could be no other explanation for his inability to toss the stupid letter in the fire. 

He held the letter over the flames for five whole minutes. When it became clear he wasn’t able to let go of it, he withdrew his hand with a groan. Astarion tossed the letter over his shoulder and walked away. He absolutely did not look back as he left to ensure that the letter was a safe distance from the fire; that would be ludicrous. And no one was around to prove differently. 

Of course he wouldn’t write her back. “I know people change”, she’d said. How preposterous. Laughable, even. People don’t change; they adapt, or they conform, if they want to survive. That’s all Astarion had ever done. He’d survived. 

He would not write back, and in fact he would not give the letter any further thought nor consideration. 

~

The letter continued to haunt his mind. 

He'd pass through the cemetery, to pay his old resting place a visit, and think of Shadowheart's mentor. He'd catch a whiff of flowers on the wind and think of Shadowheart's favourite kind. He'd see a Shar worshipper, because they really weren't subtle at all, and think of how Shadowheart had gotten her freedom at last. It was all truly dreadful, and made him feel like he - gods forbid - had started to care again. 

He knew for certain that there had been some kind of enchantment on the letter, for how it insisted on occupying his thoughts more than half of the time. Despite his resentment towards Shadowheart, he had to admit she must be quite the powerful magic-wielder to be able to curse him so. Perhaps she'd even gotten some kind of divine intervention from Selûne to drag his undead soul through the misery of sympathy when he'd so long been free of the wretched emotion. He certainly didn't still care of his own volition. 

She'd also said that her house was full. Astarion couldn't possibly imagine what that meant, but it was eating him up. Had she acquired even more animals to care for, besides the owlbear and the dog? Surely those two were no longer alive - especially the dog, whose lifespan was so short, even for a mortal - so perhaps she'd overcompensated with a whole farm. Or maybe she'd joined a temple of Selûne and referred to that as her home, with its hundreds or thousands of Selûnites. He was curious, and it was infuriating. 

Perhaps he would write back solely to curse Shadowheart in return for her audacity. 

Yes. He would write back and include a cursed charm or pendant that he’d tell her was actually enchanted with luck, or something equally foolish. 

No. He would not write back. That would only encourage her to keep writing to him, which he would definitely hate and not at all want or look forward to. The letter had made him angry and annoyed, and the flutter in his chest had been contempt, not affection. Honestly, barf. 

When he finally took up a quill and readied a parchment, he told himself it was only to sate his curiosity. That he was writing to Shadowheart, not because he cared, but because she owed him some answers and he would demand them from her. 

He made sure to keep his writing very formal, professional, and demanding. 

“ Dear Shadowheart, 

Of course I am alive, because how could I not be? I am the most powerful being in all the mortal plane entire universe. I’ve made myself quite at home in my new palace, and I want for nothing at all. There’s really nothing else to tell. I am forever living, and forever powerful. 

I unfortunately did hear of Volo's ridiculous book, and deigned to grant the text the privilege of my time in reading it. It was just as dreadful and inaccurate as one could expect from Volo. The things he said of Wyll were downright insulting. He spoke of the man like Wyll had been a god, when really he'd only ever been a pain in everyone's ass. Volo was clearly too distracted by Wyll's beautiful face and attractive body and battle prowess and humour foolish naïveté to see that. 

I demand that you thoroughly explain what you meant by “my home is full”, and spare no details. Have you perhaps given in to the misguided notion of starting an orphanage? I've told you, the temple to Ilmater does more than enough for the useless children of this city. Honestly, I say to leave them as they are. They were clearly abandoned for a reason, and who are we to go against their parents’ wishes?

I do hope you get better soon. 

-Vampire Ascendent, 

Lord Astarion 

P.S. Do not waste time mourning Wyll. Hells know I certainly don't.”

~

Shadowheart wrote back within days. She must have hired a magical delivery service, because the Sword Coast Couriers were slower than two goblins in a Kobold Trivium. Astarion himself had used one of his bats to deliver his letter. 

“ Dearest Astarion,”

Of course she’d underlined it, just to mock him. He rolled his eyes and continued reading. 

“I know a good lie when I see one, and you've never been very good at lying. Still, I understand grief better than most. I won't press the matter further. But I know you miss him, too. 

I’m glad you’re still alive, and doing well. You were always very skillful and sharp. I think you had a great deal of power all along, but at least you feel so now, too.

I am very well, despite your inclination to think otherwise. And my wellbeing is directly related to why my house is so full, so I shall give you the complete story after all. 

I'm sure you witnessed more than enough of my and Lae'zel's butting of heads at camp during our travels together. I don't need to recount to you how we did not get along, at first. But you may be surprised to hear that changed quite drastically once we'd all arrived at Baldur's Gate. I found in Lae'zel an unlikely confidante. Her advice and occasional encouragement, while blunt and sometimes not what I wanted to hear, was in fact what I needed to hear. I began to seek her out more often than not, and I discovered later that she regarded me as her primary confidante as well. We'd even begun to call each other ‘friend’. 

When she left for the Astral Plane to take down Vlaakith, I felt the same loss I had when the rest of our party disbanded. But, there was always something more to it, with her. Something deeper. I would think of Lae'zel constantly. I would miss her guidance and her hand on my shoulder. I would miss her sharp laughter when I'd drop something or lose a spell, even if her amusement was at my expense. I'd even started dreaming of her. 

All the while, Lae'zel played hero in the astral plane and made herself quite a popular figure: saving damsels and kissing Gith eggs, the whole thing. When Withers allowed all of us to reunite six months later - and we were all very sad that you didn't show up - Lae'zel admitted she had missed me, too, and wanted to visit me once Vlaakith was conquered. But now she had a child to look after, and his former babysitter in Faerûn could no longer manage. Remember that egg we saved from Crèche Y’llek? He was old enough to speak by then. So, in a fit of utter madness, I offered to watch her son, Xan, while she was off saving her people. And even more surprisingly, she took me up on the offer. 

When she met with me to introduce me to Xan, I let her stay the night… and unfortunately for you, the details of what happened next are between Lae'zel and myself alone. But it did make her departure the next day even harder for the both of us. 

However, Xan and I got along immediately. He became my fellow trouble-maker, my miniature accomplice, as I trained him in the ways of trickery I'd been taught for so long. Perhaps, had Lae'zel been there, she may have chastised me for teaching her son how to pick locks or lie effectively or sneak around like a shadow. But Xan had so much fun, I couldn't deny him. He also helped me tend to my garden, and he would come up with the most hilarious stories about how he thought the flowers grew. He was, and is, an utter delight, and I very quickly came to love him as my own. Even when he'd set fire to my kitchen or spill honey on the carpet. 

Lae'zel returned within the year, but she didn't return alone. She had adopted not one, but two more Githyanki children who had been abandoned by their crèche in the civil war. It still hadn't ended then, but it had gotten big enough that Lae'zel no longer needed to do everything herself. She had other Gith that she trusted and who took up the mantle in her place, so she could go home. And, as it turns out, she'd found her home with me. So to me she returned. 

Of course I welcomed the two new Githyanki children. Xan was very shy around them at first; one of them - Qi'lar - was much younger than him, but the other - Val'ren - was older, and he felt intimidated by them both. But they all got along, thank Selûne. Even when they fought, it never ended worse than a bitter apology and some alone time in their separate rooms. 

Lae'zel proposed to me a month after she'd returned. Of course, I didn't realise that was what she had done at the time - it seemed that in crèche K’liir, telling someone they are ‘the source of your joy’ was the equivalent of a declaration of lifelong commitment here in Faerûn. Once we'd gotten that cleared up, I of course said yes, despite my fear that perhaps it was too soon. She proved me very wrong in that fear. And I am forever grateful. 

Obviously, some substantial time has passed since then. Lae'zel and I have remained happily married all the while. Our children grew up in a loving home, and joined Lae'zel in the astral sea once they'd reached their maturity. They visit very often, of course, but I always miss them. Lae'zel has begged me to move with them there, so that we may never be apart and never grow old. But I quite like growing old, I've found. And I have no wish to live somewhere so devoid of nature. She respects that, even if she doesn't understand. Maybe someday, when I'm closer to the end of my life, I'll change my mind. But for now, I'm more than happy. 

So, to answer the question of my full home… Currently, I am housing other Githyanki children who were abandoned or whose crèches were decimated in the civil war. I guess you could say I have made a little orphanage, though there's not nearly as many of them as the temple of Ilmater houses. 

I will ignore the comments you made about children and orphans. I don't care if you think you meant them; you're plain wrong, and you know it. 

I cannot leave my home right now, as it is inhabited by others. But should you ever find yourself venturing in the woods near where we all first met, I hope you'll stop by and say hello. I do miss you. 

With love,

Shadowheart”

Astarion wiped at his eyes. He didn't bother hiding the tears, this time; there was no one to witness it but himself. 

He crumpled the letter up and tossed it to the floor. It rolled to a stop by the first letter Shadowheart had sent. He knew he wouldn't be getting rid of either of them. But he also couldn't bear to read them again. 

This time, when Astarion decided he would not write back, he found he meant it. He didn't think he'd survive it. 

Chapter Text

In an attempt to clear his head from the subjects of letters and friends, Astarion left his palace calmly and gracefully and did not at all resemble a fleeing animal. He deigned to grace a very secluded library and its reclusive patrons with his presence because he wanted to browse the books.

The books were all predictably dull and uninteresting to Astarion, and he was simply looking at them all to pass the time, not because he wanted something of substance in his life. He was a Vampire Ascendent, for fuck’s sake, and he wanted for nothing. There was nothing this miserable, inferior, unglamorous world could possibly offer him. 

A book in the romance section caught his attention suddenly. He looked closer, scrutinising the cover and title with eyes narrowed and lips pursed. 

The title read The Heart of the Blade, which had Astarion frowning immediately. The cover depicted a painting of a figure’s stark silhouette on a deep red background. The figure had one hand outstretched, as if waiting for someone to take it, and a sword in the other hand, pointed downwards. In the centre of where the figure’s chest would be, there was a glowing red heart that stood out in the black silhouette. Most eye-catching of all, however, were the golden gilded horns that grew up from the silhouette’s head. Horns that Astarion would recognise the shape of no matter how much time had passed. 

Someone had written a damn romance novel about Wyll. Astarion jolted back from the book like it had burned him, and scoffed loud enough to have an elderly patron shoot him a glare. No matter, he could eat them later, and he was too appalled to give a shit. 

Astarion scanned the rest of the books on the same shelf, and his horror grew with each title and cover. Every single one, besides a few popular must-reads like Tusk Love, were about Wyll. It was as though the entire romance section had been turned into an obsessive shrine for Wyll. 

He removed The Heart of the Blade from the display shelf and opened it to the first page. He didn’t recognise the author’s name, but it sounded dragonborn. Astarion sneered. Of course someone of dragon lineage would write a romance novel about the man that they believed had tamed the great dragon Ansur. Even though Wyll would have died to Ansur’s lightning burst if Astarion hadn’t pulled him towards a crystal pillar and shattered it onto them both. He could bet the dragonborn hadn’t written that in their silly romance novel. 

Astarion removed several more of the books, scoffing and rolling his eyes at the numerous uninspired titles and dramatic covers. One was even called Tasting the Blade, and depicted Wyll in a torn open shirt, soaked with water, and holding the fainting form of an equally wet dark purple Drow that looked suspiciously like Drizzt Do’Urden. Astarion could laugh. 

The publication dates varied, and he was shocked to see the earliest was written well before Wyll had died; before Astarion had fallen into deep sleep, even. Astarion had clearly failed to notice the ignorant fanbase surrounding Wyll, and the thought that these feeble mortals were writing fantasies about Wyll bedding them when he should have been bedding Astarion made Astarion’s gut roil with fury. 

He grabbed as many as he could carry, turned invisible, and fled. 

~

The books were awful. Astarion read each one, poring over them all with equal parts disdain and morbid curiosity. It was very clear that none of the authors had ever met Wyll, as the characterisations of him were poor at best and downright insulting at worst. Insulting to Astarion for making him suffer through reading it, that is. Not insulting to Wyll and his memory, because Astarion didn’t care about that in the slightest. 

Some authors painted Wyll as cartoonishly chivalrous; as though the hero facade he so desperately clung to was his real self after all. Others made Wyll out to be ridiculously dominating, varying from boldness that would bring a blush to anyone's face, to downright predatory in a way that made Astarion sick to read - just because it was so stupid, not because it was offensively inaccurate to the considerate and kind man and lover Wyll had been. To reiterate: Astarion did not care. 

He’d saved Tasting the Blade for last, because he was certain it would be the most outrageous. And he was right; though he got the sense about halfway through that the author’s arbitrarily raunchy scenes and facetious overuse of contradictory sentences made the whole book out to be one big satire disguised as a very serious fairytale of love and romance. In that way, Astarion found it amusing, for mocking the people who would read love stories about a dead man; though the exaggerated impracticality of the whole plot got a bit unbearable at times. 

Astarion briefly considered sending a copy of it to Shadowheart. She’d always enjoyed a terrible smut book, but he was certain she’d especially enjoy it if it poked fun at their old friend and his admirers. And Shadowheart wasn’t so unreasonable as to find offence or upset in such humour. 

He threw the book to the floor, screwing his mouth in disgust at his line of thinking. The curse of the letters Shadowheart had sent must have been incredibly potent if they were seriously making him consider someone else’s interests besides his own. 

Taking a breath to reorientate himself, Astarion picked up the book from the floor and set it back in the pile with the others. He scanned them all once more, frowning deeply as his eyes landed on the cover of the first book he’d noticed back at the library: The Heart of the Blade.  

It had been one of the tamer of the romance novels, and overly sweet in how it described Wyll and his courtship of the (dragonborn) main character. Worst of all, the dragonborn author had somehow correctly guessed that Wyll wasn’t one to have sex on the first night - or even the one hundredth night. In the book, the occasion was saved for after Wyll proposed to the protagonist with a stupid acorn, of all things. What an awful thing to wish for when diamond rings were the typical and expected gift. 

If Wyll had ever given Astarion an acorn as a proposal he would have thrown it to the ground rather than keep it tucked safely in a pocket and on his person at all times then put it on his bedside table at night and stare at it to fall asleep. Though he had to admit, it certainly sounded like something Wyll would do. Just another nonsense gesture of romance that Astarion had been spared of. 

Astarion collected all of the books in his arms and carried them to the fireplace. It had been fed many awful books in the time Astarion had lived in the palace, and it had started to become something Astarion delighted in doing. Watching the parchments and cheap leathers melt and burn away to nothing felt freeing, in a way. Though he knew more copies praising Wyll in every way existed elsewhere, he felt a sense of closure in ridding them from his vicinity. 

As with the first letter from Shadowheart, still crumpled in a ball on his floor, when Astarion held out The Heart of the Blade over the flames, his hand refused to let go of the idiotic book. There must have been a curse placed on it as well. He threw the rest of the pile into the fire and glared at the book still clutched tightly in his other hand. He turned to the letters from Shadowheart and dropped the book next to them instead. The letters fluttered a bit from the wind created by the book’s impact, but remained a safe distance from the fire, which was an honest tragedy and not a relief to Astarion. 

Astarion sniffed and turned away, resigning himself to avoiding the fireplace entirely for the rest of his immortal life. 

~

He read The Heart of the Blade once more in his bed, with the canopy curtains drawn to hide him from view of the gods. His thoughts and his hand wandered, and his shame was swiftly replaced with the satisfaction that he was continuing to reign victorious over Wyll by getting off to a horrible romance novel about the man. This was a power play, not a submission. He was being exploitative, not desperate. He didn’t long for Wyll’s sweet words and gentle touch and warm embrace. He was the most powerful being in the material plane. Such wants were beneath him. 

And other lies he could continue telling himself, in the absence of the only one he’d ever wanted and yet could never keep. 

Chapter Text

Another century must have passed. Astarion was still hardly aware of the passage of time.

He’d remained cooped up in his palace for the most part, only leaving when he would thirst for blood or felt the urge to kill to distract from his other insufferable feelings. Feelings he hadn’t experienced in so long he’d thought himself incapable of them. 

He tried to focus on the good ones. The pleasant emotions. Like his victory over his rivalry with Wyll. Or his joy in his endless freedom and unlimited power. Or the thrilling taste of blood he no longer needed to survive. But the unpleasant emotions - like his anger at how Wyll’s good deeds had immortalised him in the eyes of the people of Faerûn, and perhaps all of Toril, or his sourceless grief and loneliness that pricked behind his eyes for no reason at all - kept resurfacing despite his best efforts to keep them away. 

What could he possibly have to grieve? How could he ever wish to be anything but alone? He had everything. There was nothing beyond his power to achieve, and nothing he lacked. Nothing. 

It was now the middle of the Summer season - also known as the month of Flamerule, if you're pretentious - but he no longer suffered the Sun’s heat nor its destructive rays. He decided to roam the city aimlessly, scoping out new possible prey or perhaps just hoping some unfortunate event would befall him and end his miserable unlife. He shoved that silly thought aside and contented himself with eavesdropping for some gossip in the streets. 

Now, Astarion was certain there was no one left alive who had known Wyll, besides himself and their old group. So he was very surprised to overhear a passerby telling their friend how brilliant a writer the Blade of Avernus was. 

Astarion paused, glancing over at them. He’d disguised himself in a heavy black cloak that wasn’t at all odd looking in the middle of Summer, though he doubted anyone would recognise him even without the covering. With a sudden confidence, Astarion called to the two civilians chatting nearby. 

“You there,” he said, forcing his tone to sound friendly and not at all frantic. “What do you know of the Blade’s writing?” 

The civilians glanced at him warily. One was a human with deep brown skin and near-black curls atop their head, and the other a blue tiefling with blood red braids, who held out a book in their hands and was in the process of showing it to their friend. The tiefling’s suspicion gave way to excitement as they gestured to the book they held.

“Well, who doesn’t know of the Blade’s writing by now?” they asked with a grin. “You didn’t hear? His diary was discovered and published in memoriam. It’s a real account of his tales, not that nonsense that Volo wrote.” The tiefling glanced at their friend, practically bouncing on their feet. “It’s nice to know that the Blade of Avernus was as good of a man as they say.”

“He’s our hero,” the human added with a shy smile. 

“Wyll’s… diary,” Astarion breathed.

“Honestly, how have you not heard?” the tiefling continued. “It’s been on the front of every paper for a tenday. They’re practically giving away copies in every shop. I’d let you borrow mine, but I’m not as generous as the Blade.”

The human giggled as if the tiefling was the funniest person in the world. They were not at all. 

“You can find some at The Bibliophile!” the human offered cheerfully. “It’s just past the Lower City Wall, next to Beehive’s General Goods.”

“I know damn well where it is,” Astarion snapped. He tilted his head up pompously, at the expense of his hood sliding down a bit, but he didn’t care at the moment. “I live here too.”

The tiefling was staring at him now, gaze sharp and searching. He tried not to shift in his discomfort at being scrutinised. 

“Ah- apologies, stranger,” the human glanced at their tiefling friend for support, but the tiefling was back to reading their book - Wyll’s diary, evidently - with a deep frown. “It’s only, I’ve never seen your face before. I’m pretty familiar with most denizens here.”

“How quaint,” Astarion drawled, smiling coldly. 

“Hang on,” the tiefling suddenly said, their eyes narrowing as they went back to scanning a page. 

They glanced back at Astarion and squinted, tilting their head to peer under his hood. Astarion leaned away, scowling.

“What the hells are you doing?” he snarled. 

“Piercing red eyes,” the tiefling noted, eyes flicking to the book and then back up to Astarion. “Sharp fangs, pale skin, and star-white hair.” They had continued to glance back down at their book, then to Astarion’s face, then to the book, as they observed his features. “Though hardly well-coiffed hair,” they added. 

“How dare you-”

“Are you not Astarion?” 

Astarion froze. They’d pronounced his name wrong, but it wasn’t a common name at all; even among elves. Astarion inhaled sharply.

“That’s absurd, darling,” he replied. “My name is- uh, Ara Silverleaf. I’m a high elf in the Upper City, that’s why you’ve never seen me before.”

“Really?” the tiefling asked, and their concentrated frown slowly morphed into a smirk. “There’s no Silverleaf family in the Upper City. At least, not according to the census taken last year.”

“We, eh, we use a different surname on our census forms. For privacy.” Astarion was slowly backing away, knowing that he was failing to convince them but refusing to be exposed in such a manner. Then he remembered that he was a fucking vampire ascendant, and he didn’t have to endure this. “We are very protective of our privacy. You understand,” he added, bearing his fangs. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” the tiefling said, as if the idea were ridiculous. “I’m just surprised. No one who has read the Blade’s diary even knows you’re still alive, let alone still residing in Baldur’s Gate.” They scoffed. “If you’re so keen on privacy, why the hells would you stay here?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you, you wretched mortal,” Astarion hissed. “You’re lucky I don’t gut you and drain you dry for this.”

“Um, maybe we should leave the elf alone, Sof,” the human suggested timidly, glancing between them. “I’d rather not be gutted or drained dry.”

“What a wise little human you are,” Astarion drawled condescendingly. “Now, run along home and pray that I don’t decide to follow you.”

“I think you’re bluffing,” the tiefling challenged. 

Astarion felt a roaring behind his ears.

“What did you say?” he asked quietly. Menacingly. 

“It’s just that, the Blade seemed to think very highly of you,” they waved their book at him. “He never mentioned that you were such a cold-blooded killer.” 

“Sof,” the human hissed in fear. 

Astarion could no longer hear them. He snatched the book from the tiefling’s hands, purposefully digging his claws into their flesh as he did. They cried out in pain, releasing the book, and Astarion tucked it against his torso before turning into a cloud of mist and flying away. 

~

When he returned to his palace, Astarion dispelled his mist form and barrelled through the doors. He slammed them shut behind him and hurled the book across the foyer with a roar of anger. 

How dare they?

He wanted to tear at the teifling’s throat and slice them open until their entire body matched their hair colour. He wanted to resurrect Wyll just to kill the man himself for ever writing about Astarion in his stupid diary. He wanted to find whoever published the damn thing and decorate the exterior of his palace with the pieces of their corpse. 

He was breathing heavily, an old habit, but it did nothing to quell his fury. His cloak had fallen off his head in his escape and loose strands of his still-long hair now tickled his neck. He yanked his hair out of its leather strap and tugged at the strands hard enough to sting his scalp. A distant pain in his knees and the sudden proximity of the carpet meant he’d fallen to the floor, but he couldn’t remember doing so. He released his hair and stared down at his hands, which were still covered in what little of the tiefling’s blood he’d managed to draw. 

He could never leave the palace again. Or, he could kill every single person in all of Baldur’s Gate, but that was a herculean- or, sorry, Do'Urdean task he’d surely not survive on his own. 

Time had passed, though Astarion wasn’t sure how much, when he finally left the confines of his mind. He blinked, glancing about his palace. It suddenly felt all too small, and all too dark. He took a shaky breath and rose to his feet. He wiped his bloodied fingers on his trousers, and eyed the copy of Wyll’s diary on the floor. The diary refused to disappear or go up in flames on its own, so Astarion sighed and leaned down to retrieve it. 

It was stiff-backed, and covered in a coarse canvas material that mildly irritated Astarion’s skin as he ran a hand over the front. The canvas was painted a deep, royal purple and the front was stamped with the Ravengard crest. The Diary of the Blade was sewn beneath it in golden lettering. 

Astarion’s hands seemed to move of their own accord as he opened the book to the first page. Black ink in the centre of the page read: “Written by Wyll Ravengard: the Blade of Avernus, the Heart of the Gate. Compiled and republished by K. VanOrd IV.” He clenched his jaw, committing that name to memory. Whoever this K. VanOrd IV was, they wouldn’t be alive for much longer. 

He turned another page. A blurb detailing the rights of the publishing firm over the diary’s distribution caused his simmering anger to resurface again. How dare they lay claim to anything that was Wyll’s? The diary should have been destroyed upon discovery. It was a complete violation of Wyll’s privacy, an utter disrespect to the man’s autonomy. Not that Astarion cared, of course. It was just the facts of the situation. 

If Astarion cared, he wouldn’t continue reading the diary. But since he didn’t care, not even a little bit, he turned another page. He hoped Wyll could see him from the fugue plane, as the godless man had surely gone there, and was scowling in frustration that Astarion was now reading his deepest secrets. The thought made Astarion smile. 

He hadn’t realised he’d started walking until he arrived at the ballroom. He sat on his throne as if on autopilot, fully absorbed in Wyll’s writing. 

It started years before they’d ever met, but after Wyll had been cast out by his sorry excuse of a father. The first entry was a hastily sketched picture of a Gnoll followed by a dreadfully overexaggerated recount of how Wyll had slain the beast. It was… almost endearing, the way Wyll spoke of his first achievements as the newly crowned Blade of Frontiers. There was so much youthful wonder, and so much gratitude that he still lived. 

Astarion skimmed through most of the beginning. There were some entries about Wyll’s father, about how Wyll missed him terribly. How Wyll at times cried himself to sleep, the echo of his father’s “Go” haunting his mind. There were entries about Mizora, and Astarion was surprised to find that Wyll had actually considered her a tentative friend at first. He trusted her almost completely, and wrote of her somewhat dry sense of humour that kept him company at his darkest moments. 

The tone of how he wrote of Mizora changed slowly, but noticeably, after a while. It seemed Wyll had grown up and learned something of devils, and where he once found a sense of kinship in her presence, he began to feel dread, and even contempt, which was saying something for Wyll. 

In one entry, Wyll wrote how Mizora had propositioned him. When he’d denied her, she’d turned cold, and didn’t speak to him for an entire year, even stifled some of his arcane talents in her absence. Wyll began to think he’d imagined her completely, that his father had been right in banishing him, for clearly he’d gone insane. Then Mizora showed up again and acted as though nothing had happened, and Wyll wrote that he’d wanted to strangle her for twisting his mind. 

Astarion thought of that year he’d spent locked in a tomb, because he’d refused to doom a terribly sweet man to Cazador’s hunger. How, after a while, he’d begun to think he really had died, and that Cazador, and his enslavement as a vampire, had all been a terrible dream. That he had rather been doomed to spend eternity locked away, clawing at the stone and wishing he could cease to exist. 

There was a moment, when Wyll was trying to convince Astarion not to ascend while standing in the dungeons below the palace, that he asked what Astarion would do had he ever captured Wyll. Wyll had meant to plead to Astarion’s sympathy for Sebastian, to picture Wyll in that spawn’s place and implore Astarion to show the other spawn compassion. Instead, Astarion had thought of that sweet man he’d spared so long ago. And he’d decided, for Wyll, he simply would have suffered another year in the tomb. 

But he couldn’t suffer a spawn’s existence any longer. Not for anyone. 

Astarion bit down on his trembling lip and went back to reading Wyll’s diary, forcing himself not to think about the ways in which he and Wyll had suffered similar fates at the hands of powerful beings who only ever wanted control and domination over them. A dead man didn’t need his empathy, anyway. 

Wyll hadn’t written an entry for every single day of his life, which Astarion was glad for, because he’d already gotten bored of hearing of Wyll’s dashing heroics and sad laments of the life and home he’d lost. It was taking all of his restraint to not skip ahead to when they’d all first met; but he could be patient. He had nothing else to do with his endless time after all. 

In one entry dated just a few months before they’d met, Wyll wrote that it was his 24th birthday. He said that he’d only kept track of it to hold onto some piece of his former life, even though he’d stopped caring about his birthday after he’d turned 18. He had no one to celebrate with, anyway, so it was just another passing of time. Just a marker of how long he’d been on Mizora’s leash. Another reminder of how long he’d been away from home. 

Wyll wrote that, for his birthday, he just wished for a friend. Not what Mizora had pretended to be at first. Not what he pretended he had in animals he spoke to when looking for a target. But a real, true friend. Just one; then he’d be okay. He could bear any fate, if only he had someone by his side when he did. 

I think the hardest part of losing my father, Wyll said, his handwriting messy but in a pretty way, was that I’d lost the last person who ever knew me. 

Astarion raised a brow, thinking not for the first time that Ulder clearly never knew Wyll if he’d truly believed his son had sold himself to a devil just for power. But Wyll had felt known by his father; and then he’d had no one. 

The next few entries were far more sparse. The time between days grew longer, and the writings became shorter. His last entry before they’d met, dated to the very day before, Wyll wrote only: 

My time in Avernus has been fraught with difficulty, but I believe Karlach is close. I will save the Sword Coast from this devil if I must die to do so.

Astarion smirked. How so much had changed in mere days.

He turned the page. Something akin to excitement stirred in his chest. 

19 Eleasis - 1492

I have no words for the strangeness of the day, but I shall try to describe it, so that I do not ever forget it. Although, I don’t think I ever will. 

One minute I was sprinting through the hells on the tail of Karlach, the Advocatus Diaboli. The next minute, I was coming-to inside of a Nautiloid, a mind flayer ship, with a pounding ache behind my good eye. A dead Illithid was next to me, and fire burned around me. I had no idea why, or how, I’d been freed of the pod, but I didn’t wait to find out. I leapt to my feet, took account of my surroundings, and fled down the hall through a foul, fleshy door.

I encountered an intellect devourer. I can’t tell you why I spared the wretched thing. It was a newborn, and it took a liking to me, as the first person to find it. Maybe I felt for how lost it was. Maybe I still held hope it could grow to be something better. 

Evidently, it made me look like a thrall in the eyes of a terrifying Githyanki warrior, Lae’zel, who would have beheaded me that instant had our new brain-tenants not connected at a fortunate moment. The tadpoles squirmed behind our eyes, showing us each other’s thoughts and memories. I did my best to shield her from Mizora. No one could know, and I didn’t want to face the consequences of mind-reading breaking Mizora’s rule. 

The next few pieces are spotty in my memory. We met a half-elf named Shadowheart, who did not like Githyanki, but still agreed to be allies for the time being. We fought hell beasts that had attacked the ship. I wasn’t sure whose domain they fell under, but when a cambion went to raise his blade to me, he suddenly froze, and turned to Lae’zel as I sprinted to the ship’s controls to get us out of Avernus. Either they were servants of Zariel after all, or Mizora had stayed his blade to keep me under her thumb. 

We escaped back to the material plane, and I recognised what glimpses I caught of Faerûn in the chaos. Then the ship crashed, and we all fell; but we all survived. Something had caught us, and I couldn’t count on it being Mizora. 

These parasites in our heads are concerning, but not nearly as concerning as becoming lemure’d by Mizora should I fail to slay Karlach. Perhaps if I became a mind flayer, I’d escape her control. But it is too much to hope for. 

I made my way along the coast. I discovered evidence that the others had survived: prints the pattern of Shadowheart’s boots in the sand, a broken piece of Gith armour beside a tree. Though they were nowhere to be found. 

I eventually stumbled into a hidden grove of tieflings and druids. That is where I am now.

The tieflings had heard of the Blade of Frontiers, and their leader, called Zevlor, even recognised my face, though I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. Still, they accepted me into their haven, tended to my minor wounds, and allowed me to set up camp near their makeshift training arena. 

As I write this, a few tiefling children train beside me. It is a heartbreaking thing to watch. I was told of goblins in the area, and the treacherous journey they all must make to Baldur’s Gate, which were the reasons for the children’s need to pick up swords. They have no army, and so have to ensure that everyone can at least protect themselves. 

There was a small abrupt line drawn beneath this section, before Wyll had continued writing. 

I put my quill down for a moment to speak to the children. One of them, who whispered that his name was Umi, began to cry because he could hardly hold a sword, let alone wield one. I promised to help them all. I took them through the basics, through what I remember my father teaching me when I was a boy. I had still been older than these kids, and not under the threat of losing my life. I almost wept with them. 

Ide, one of the youngest, was the most eager to learn swordskill. They asked the most questions, and were the most resourceful when it came to using their teeth and claws, and even their tail. I’m sure my face fell when they weren’t looking. They shouldn’t have to fend for themselves at this age. 

I want to travel with them, to escort them to Baldur’s Gate, my past with the city be damned. But the looming threat of being turned into an Illithid thrall worries me. What if I transform in front of them? Or worse, what if I eat them? I would be more a risk to them than a help, which causes me despair to think of. 

Asharak, Zevlor’s second in command, eventually joined me in training them, and that is why I am writing again now. I want to remember these people for all time. Or, all the time I have left. They are why I am the Blade. They are why I’ve pledged myself to rid the Sword Coast of any threats. I will not let myself forget them. 

Astarion knew Wyll had arrived at the tiefling camp before the rest of them, but he hadn’t realised it had been a full day before. The poor man must have been worried sick about his tadpole, before they’d shown up and spoken to Nettie about the strangeness of their parasites. It also occurred to Astarion that he must have been unconscious for much longer than he’d realised, at that time, if Wyll had been up and about a whole day before him. 

He turned the page. The writing here was more frantic, as though Wyll had written it in the few spare minutes he’d had at camp before light had fallen. Thinking back on it, Astarion had noticed Wyll retreat to his tent sooner than the others, but he’d just assumed the man was sick of them already. Evidently, he’d been writing. 

20 Eleasis - 1492

I met many more who were also impacted by the mind flayers today. 

First, Shadowheart and Lae'zel arrived at the tiefling camp along with a human named Gale, and an elf named Astarion. 

Astarion detested the stereotype that elves’ ears twitched when they were excited or fearful. Yet in that moment he feared his own ears did flick a bit at the sight of his name in Wyll’s handwriting. He’d spelled ‘Astarion’ with a looping bit of cursive between the -ion, and it was just the sort of fantasy-like reverence for Astarion’s name that the man always had, even when he said it aloud. 

Our minds connected, and Shadowheart saw my view of Karlach in the hells. She didn’t push further, for which I was grateful. I told them all of my mission. Shadowheart offered to let me tag along while they try to solve their tadpole problem in the chance I might encounter Karlach on the way. I doubted it, but I had no other leads on the parasite, and so I joined them. I pledged them my talents, and they pledged me theirs. 

Well, Shadowheart and Gale did. Lae'zel was hesitant to waste time on my mission, which I understand, though she remains with us still. Astarion seemed to know who I was, and made a comment about how ‘fun’ it was going to be having me around. I wasn’t sure how to take that, and I am still unsure. Astarion seems very reclusive and guarded - something I understand very well, but am wary of all the same. 

He was staring at me just then, as I wrote his name, as if he sensed my thoughts wandering to him. I offered him a smile from my tent, and he returned it, but it was a bitter and forced thing. There is something… odd, about Astarion, in a way that I don’t get from the others in their own strangeness. No, his is unique. There’s something he’s not telling us, and it’s something significant. 

I’ll just have to keep an eye on him. Either for his sake, or for the rest of ours. 

Astarion grinned to himself. Even on that first day, he’d consumed Wyll’s thoughts. It was satisfying, in a way. He was destined to be Wyll’s downfall from the moment they’d locked eyes. 

21 Eleasis - 1492

Astarion is a vampire. I’m as certain of it as I am of the Sun’s rise. 

Astarion rolled his eyes. There was no way Wyll had figured it out that quickly. He must have lied about the date. Astarion hadn’t been that obvious. 

At first I’d thought it too obvious to be true. The pale skin, the piercing red eyes, the fangs, and even the bite scar on his neck that never faded, and he didn’t even try to hide, sparked my initial suspicion. But it wasn’t until this afternoon, when he turned down Gale’s delicious smelling stew and ran off into the forest that I was sure. He even returned with a spot of blood on his chin. 

His lack of discretion surprised me. He knew who I was, when we met; he knew the dangers I had faced, and the monsters I had fought. And yet, he seems different from them all. I admit, I’ve never slain a vampire before. But something about Astarion makes me hesitant to do so now. It is not fear of him. He seems frail enough that a strong wind could sweep him away. 

Astarion tsked, frowning. Wyll didn’t have to be so mean. 

He greets me with a friendly smile, though I know it is fake. He feeds from animals along the way - and he doesn’t even attempt to hide them from our path, if the exsanguinated boar we discovered on the road today was any indication. He keeps his cards close to his chest, and he doesn’t offer information unless asked. Even then, I think he spins lies. He is quite charming, and I’ve found myself more than a few times falling for his deceit before catching myself. But I do not think he was simply a magistrate back in the city. Certainly not as a vampire. 

Yet he does not reveal himself. He even boldly admitted to preferring rare meats, "dripping" he said, and yet he refuses to admit he is a vampire. It almost feels like a game. Maybe he’s waiting for one of us to get tired of his evasiveness and make a scene. I’ve always enjoyed a good play. Perhaps I shall take him up on this. 

I’ve hardly written of the day’s exploits. Godsdamn this man for consuming my thoughts. 

Astarion’s frown twisted back into a self-satisfied smile. Maybe if he had known how quickly he’d gotten Wyll wrapped around his finger, he could have had more fun that night of the tiefling camp’s party in teasing Wyll. 

We spoke with the healer, Nettie. It seems our ‘ceremorphosis’, as Gale calls it, is on hold for the moment. I think she’d been close to killing me with that stick of hers, but thankfully she chose to show us kindness. I promised to use the poison she gave us, though I know it won’t do much good for me, in the end. Whether by becoming a mind flayer, or Mizora’s pet lemure in the hells, my physical being is no longer my own. And Death will only quicken the latter fate. 

Astarion wondered if that’s where Wyll was, now: reformed as a blobby mess of molten flesh and slime in the hells. He’d figured Mizora’s ‘pact eternal’ meant Wyll would just be soul-coined upon his death, and that lemurehood was only a punishment rather than an end. It was almost… sad, to think of the once-great man reduced to a mindless slave of the hells.

An Illithid slave, or a devil’s. Maybe if Wyll hadn’t been so foolish, Astarion could have saved them both. 

He shook the idea from his head, and continued reading. 

I still miss my father terribly. It is times like these, when I think I can see the end of my life on the horizon, that I miss him the most. I’ve been wrong about my demise before, but there is too much working against me now. Even Mizora visited just a few minutes ago to remind me of my mission to kill Karlach, as though I could forget it for even a moment. 

I just hope I get to see him one last time, before I go. And even if it is only with hatred in his eyes, I hope that he sees me, too. 

If I write further on this I fear tears will fall, so I will leave tonight’s recounting here. And as ever, I hope for a better tomorrow. 

Chewing his cheek, Astarion turned the page with a roll of his eyes. Wyll couldn’t even be pessimistic in the privacy of his own diary. It was quite sad. 

22 Eleasis - 1492

I debated not writing tonight. But I owe it to Karlach, even if the effort feels like tearing stitches from a fresh wound. 

She is not the devil Mizora misled me to believe her to be. She is a tiefling, drafted against her will to fight in Zariel’s war, and she’d only ever wanted out. She’d had her heart tampered with and machinated, and out of Avernus it burned her so much I could not even lay a hand on her shoulder for fear of melting my flesh off. 

Within just a day of knowing her, Karlach has shown that despite her lack of a real heart, she is the most heartfelt person I have ever known. She insisted we offer our camp as a home to the dog, Scratch, whose master had just died. She hopped over a patch of flowers so she wouldn’t burn them to death. And when we began to set up camp for the night, she thanked me for sparing her, and I almost wept before her. How wrong she was to feel gratitude for the man who’d been so close to killing her because he was too scared to believe he’d been lied to. 

For all my hatred towards Mizora, she’s never tried anything so bold as to send me after an innocent before. I have an anger for her now that I cannot express in words. I fear if I see her again anytime soon, I will lash out at her, consequences be damned. Perhaps that is why she’s keeping her distance now. 

I’ve left for last to mention another change, because writing about it makes it more real than seeing it in a mirror ever could. My hand shakes as I write now, but I hope this will remain legible. 

Astarion noticed the shakiness in Wyll’s handwriting. He was frowning deeply now. Wyll had expressed his discontent with the state Mizora had left him in that night. Astarion hadn’t realised it had been to this degree. 

I have become hells-touched. A fitting fate, considering how I chased after Karlach, thinking her to be the same. Once the Sun had set, Mizora arrived at our camp to bestow upon me her punishment for disobeying. With a flick of her wrist, the ground fell away beneath me, and for what felt like a lifetime but could only have been mere seconds, I was cast into every layer of the hells. I felt all their fear, all their despair, all their pain, as if it were my own. And just when I thought I would die from it all, I was yanked back into my body once more, to find it forever transformed. 

Two black horns curl from the top of my head. I can see the edge of them in the upper corner of my good eye. I can also now see in the dark a good distance ahead, much like how a non-human species might. When I touch my face, my arms, and my legs, I feel ridges. Something sharp sticks out from my shoulder blades and gets caught on my shirt, but I cannot reach it, though it is probably more spines. I could feel a change in other areas hidden by clothing, and when I retreated to the privacy of my tent, I was mortified to find new bumps and prongs in certain unmentionable places. 

I now have the body of a devil. All that is left of who I was is my skin colour. I am grateful at least for that. 

Karlach tried comforting me, though she is the last person who should ever do so. At a loss for what else to say but more apologies, I asked her for tips on horn care, and she offered to help me in the future. I see guilt in her eyes and I feel sick. She thanked me again and I had to flee back to my tent. How could she think any of this was her fault? We are both where we are because of Mizora, and Zariel. There is a pain in my heart that feels physical in its severity over how Karlach’s kindness could be extended to even myself. I do not deserve it. 

I complain about my changes here so it may be known, should anyone ever find this after I’m gone, that I do not regret a thing. I would do it all again, I would disobey Mizora without hesitation, if it meant keeping Karlach safe. Her life is more than worth any discomfort I may feel. And my anger lies solely with Mizora for playing with the both of us like we’re nothing more than her disposable pawns. I hate Mizora in a way I didn’t think myself capable of hating anyone. 

I will mourn who I was for tonight. And tomorrow, I will prove to everyone that the Blade has not changed, even if his face has been marred by the hells. They will not see Wyll who is damned, but their Hero who can be trusted. This, I swear. 

Astarion swallowed, blinking back a sudden pricking behind his eyes. What a foolish hero Wyll had always been. 

23 Eleasis - 1492

Of course it is now, when I am weak and vulnerable and still suffering sleeplessness from the new pains of the cursed horns on my head, that Astarion makes his move. I’d meant to confront him about his vampirism eventually, if only to reveal to him that I was watching him closely. But I had become so distracted by Mizora’s punishment, I failed to notice him in my tent until he was bent over me with his fangs bared to my neck. 

I’d nearly driven a wooden chair leg through his chest then and there. And maybe I should have, all things considered. But when I gazed into his eyes I saw not the look of a monster over his meal, but of a scared animal cornered and desperate. He’d leapt away from me so forcefully he almost took my tent down with him, and held up his hands with a stammered excuse of how he wasn’t going to hurt me. 

I snarled and demanded he explain why I should not end his life. I watched fear, despair, and then harrowed resignation pass through his eyes. He told me he was starving, that he just needed a little bit of blood to be able to hunt. He’d lost quite a lot of blood earlier today, when we’d run into a vicious pack of Gnolls, and now he was shaking, despite Shadowheart’s skill in healing. 

In my hesitation, he rambled on. He blurted a name, Cazador, and then slammed his mouth shut with wide eyes. It was as if he’d never spoken the name aloud before and was surprised he could. I asked him who that was, and he deflected, but I got the sense it was no one good. 

He then asked for some of my blood, as if me sparing his life wasn’t mercy enough. I’d meant to tell him no, to yell at him for daring to ask when he’d been so close to just taking it against my will, but when I met his eyes, my scorn died on my tongue. I knew if I tried to kill him in that moment, he would let me. That he had no fight left in him. And what had the Blade of Frontiers ever been but a protector of the weak? 

I swallowed my pride, and nodded my head. Astarion blinked and reeled back, as if he couldn’t fathom that I’d said yes. I couldn’t quite fathom it either. I still can’t, to be honest, though I am suffering a bit of blood loss at the moment. 

His teeth were sharp, but the pain quickly gave way to a numb warmth. I could hear him swallow beside my ear, and it was discomforting, but I felt no real pain. There was the slightest pressure at my neck, like I could feel the gentle tug of blood from my broken skin. When my head began to feel light, I pushed him away, and he did not resist. 

I will never forget the look of utter bliss on his face as he licked a drop of my blood from his lip. I put a hand to my neck but found the wound had closed impossibly fast, and only the slightest sting remained as proof of Astarion’s bite. 

He told me I tasted divine. That he felt happy, as a result of drinking my blood. I cannot accurately account for any of my feelings during this, due to my blood loss causing my brain to not function properly. But I am still thinking of his voice as I write this. It was the first time since I’ve known him that I felt with certainty he was not lying one bit. The charming cad. 

Still, I made him aware that his secret would come out in the morning. Everyone else deserved to know, if they didn’t already. And really, how could they not know? I also promised him that should he try to feed from any one of us again, at least without getting permission first, I would not hesitate to stake him. He seemed to understand that I meant it, and swore to keep his fangs to himself. I’ll still keep my eye on him, of course. 

Now I will try to sleep, as I am left dreadfully tired. 

An ink smear at the bottom of the page suggested Wyll had fallen asleep just after writing the last sentence. Wyll had told Astarion the next morning that he’d gotten the best sleep he’d ever had in his life. Astarion hadn’t considered that Wyll’s sleep was so greatly impaired by his horns that he would have been grateful for the sleeping aid, even if he’d resented letting Astarion feed from him.

Getting Wyll’s own perspective on that night was surprising for Astarion. He’d thought Wyll had allowed Astarion some of his blood because of some deep-rooted self-destructive want to be closer to death. He hadn’t realised Wyll had thought him weak. Of course, he had been weak, but it was insulting that Wyll knew that so easily. 

Astarion certainly wasn’t weak anymore. And he never would be again. 

He flexed his hands, which had become stiff in his reading. He hadn’t even reached the halfway point of the diary yet, but he couldn’t go out without finishing it. He couldn’t be the only one in Baldur’s Gate who didn’t know all the things Wyll had said about him.

Taking a deep breath, Astarion turned another page. 

Chapter Text

Eleasis - 1492

I've lost track of what day it is. I'm not sure I was entirely correct before, either. 

It's been at least a tenday, I think, since Astarion's vampirism was revealed to the whole group. Since he drank from me. It's haunted me all the while - the press of his mouth at my neck, the sound of his pleased whines and panting breaths, the feeling of his curls tickling my skin. In all my years hunting monsters, I've never had one enchant me so. 

Not literally, of course. There was that time with the harpies on the coast outside the grove, just a day after my new friends found me with the tieflings. I'd been so ashamed of falling victim to the harpy's song, but Astarion's vicious blade at the feathered back of the creature had been enough to save me. I told him I owed him one, only to repay him in seconds with a well placed Eldritch blast at another harpy that meant to tear at his lifeless flesh. But all of that is neither here nor there. 

It's embarrassing now how difficult it is to get Astarion out of my head. I find myself making jabs and wisecracks at him in the hopes he'll laugh. He almost never does, but I keep it up for those rare few. 

I think of all the powers Mizora has given me: conjuring armour, speaking with animals, weaving necromancy to drain my enemies. How I've used these powers to save others. But this power - the power to make people smile, to care, to hold others in the pockets of my heart - she did not give me, nor could she ever take from me. This, at least, is a comfort from all we've faced. And it is refreshing that I see the same is true in the others. 

True in Karlach, who does not and will not let anything take away her real heart. Not the one that beats, but the one that loves. The proverbial part of her that she keeps on display, shining in her smile and twinkling in her laughter and her words, that cannot be stamped out by an infernal engine. She should perhaps be the least trusting and the least caring among us, yet trust and care for us she does. She does not let the hells claim victory over who she is. 

True in Gale, who I believe would be just as insufferably pretentious and unwaveringly kind if we were all old friends rather than fellow survivors. Who labours away to feed us all, and even when it is as bland as stone it is always warm, and I know that warmth is from him. He's also got something horrible inside of him that he feeds, in a different way, but it cannot take his soul. None of us would let it. 

True in Shadowheart, who heals us all with complaints on her tongue and irritation in her eyes, but who furrows her brow in concern when she thinks we can't see. Who worships a goddess of loss yet does not let any of us lose our lives nor our health. There's so much I do not know about her still, but she does not know herself either, and there's a longing for companionship in her eyes that I know as well as my own. 

True in Lae'zel, who leads us and guides us through hardship and battle with an almost-smile on her face, teeth bared and sword raised with skill and strength. Who spits disdain at our ‘istik’ weakness, but shields us from blows she can catch and swings at enemies who step our way. It's likely that she'd smite me for saying this, but her care for us is evident in all of these things. I hope she knows we have her back as well, though she'd hiss that she doesn't need it. 

And even true in Astarion. He's guarded and elusive as ever, but I know him in ways I know myself. I see in him a fractured reflection of my grievances, my methods and lies. He has not asked to feed from me since that first time, but when I offered once more a few nights ago, there was immense gratitude in his eyes, though his words were lascivious and calculated. Gale sometimes forgets to not include Astarion in his meal plan anymore, but I see Astarion feed his unneeded portion to Scratch with a gentle pat on the dog's head. I think he is Scratch's favourite, which says more than Astarion would like. 

From what he's told me of his past and of Cazador, he has truly faced horrors unimaginable. And still, he smiles at just a few of my jokes. He steals books that Shadowheart, Gale, and I have collected on our journey and reads them hungrily before casting them aside and claiming he hates them. He banters with Karlach and gossips with Shadowheart and politely tolerates Gale and looks to Lae'zel with reverence. I'm still not sure what he thinks of me, if anything, but I hope it's at least something for how he consumes my thoughts. 

He's a mystery to me as much as he is familiar. I hope someday, the latter will overcome the former. Or perhaps they will grow in tandem. 

I hope we all survive this. I want to know all of them and call each of them friend. I want to trust and be trusted by them.  I hope when this ends, I'll be there with them. And even if it be by my dying breath, I know the rest of them will be okay. 

~

Absolutely intolerable it was, this “caring” business that Wyll had been so set on. Astarion chose to focus on the fact that Wyll admitted Astarion haunted his thoughts. 

There were times Astarion had hoped that Wyll would think of him and lose his mind, that he'd be so overcome in his affections for Astarion that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the most basic things. It was incredibly satisfying to know Astarion had achieved that effect even before Wyll had begun courting him. Long before, in fact. 

~

Elient - 1492

I still do not know the precise day. But I caught sight of a full moon, which means it's been about two tendays since our group joined together, which would mean Eleasis has ended. I'll do the maths another time - thankfully I kept the abacus that I was gifted by a young mother whose child I once rescued. 

Tomorrow we seek out the goblin camp in the hopes of rescuing the druid Halsin, and maybe even finding a cure for these unwanted guests in our heads. We've still shown no signs whatsoever of any transformation, spare a mild fever last night that disappeared with rest. However, I suspected that to be the result of lack of sleep and high stress rather than our tadpoles. Lae'zel took some convincing, but thankfully stayed her blade in the end. 

I have neither seen nor heard from Mizora since the day I refused to kill Karlach. While this does bring me comfort, as her presence is loathed, it also causes me great apprehension. She will show up again, and she will not give warning. She will hand out new orders and I will have to intend to follow them, with suspicion. 

Turning me into a devil was a mercy, but I doubt she's got any mercy left for me. She has use for me, certainly, but only as an obedient warlock. Not a rebellious man. Should I refuse her again, it's likely that will be the end for me. 

But what I fear more than lemurehood, more than even this mindflayer parasite, is what Mizora might do to this group I've come to care for deeply. Rules regarding harm are covered in my contract, but I did not have any friends when the contract was made. I had only my father, and then not even him. I cannot harm Mizora, and she cannot harm me. At least, not outside of the terms of our pact. 

Punishment is allowed. And while harming my friends would hurt me, should I disobey again it is very likely she will use my care for them as punishment against me. Maybe she will threaten to speed up their transformation. Maybe she will claim their souls too. Or maybe she will kill them as I am held back and made to watch. I cannot bear to think on this any more, so I can only hope that it never comes to pass. 

She let Karlach get away with continuing to live, claiming that Zariel no longer prioritised her re-capture. But Mizora made it clear that Karlach is living on borrowed time. And it is only a matter of time before Zariel comes to collect. 

Time continues to be my greatest enemy. 

~

Astarion sighed, slumping in the throne. This poor, sad past-Wyll had no idea that Astarion would someday be his greatest enemy. 

The idea that time was an adversary was laughable. Time had no conscience, Time did not favour, and therefore Time could not make enemies. It simply happened, as the Sun rose and Toril spun. It was up to everyone to seize time and control it, not let it control them. Clearly, Wyll had never learned how. 

~

Elient - 1492 

So much happened today it is a wonder I can still think properly at all. 

We set out for the goblin camp at first light. Anxiety kept most of us from sleeping well. This served as a detriment, but clearly we all survived the ordeal. 

I, however, slept very well. I let Astarion feed from me one more time last night. I knew today would be arduous, and I wanted him to be at his best. Not just for our sake, but also for his. He no longer whines when he drinks my blood, but his low rumbles and sighs of contentment remain. I'm not disappointed, but it is an odd feeling. I'm both glad he's getting used to being fed, and a bit irked that he seems bored of me already. It feels somewhat like I'm whoring myself, though I know that's an awful way to see it. I could not even begin to know what that's like. Besides, I offer with no expectation of compensation. I offer because he is my friend.

When we both awoke in the morning - me from my deep sleep and Astarion from his elven trance - and he saw me leave my tent, he gave me a smile that was so genuine I almost thought I'd imagined it. It felt more worth it, then. 

We arrived at the goblin camp in good time. I may have purposefully antagonised the goblin guard up front into a fight by slinging warg dung into his face. Then we encountered Volo and the sweet owlbear cub whose mother we'd regretfully killed not even a tenday ago. I had full confidence we would free them both. 

We made it inside. The reach of this “Absolute” has its talons deeper than any of us had realised. Walking the halls felt like approaching a sacrificial altar upon which we were the offerings. Also, a worshipper of Loviatar wanted to perform on me a test of pain in his goddess's name, promising some kind of boon. Of course I refused, and Astarion pouted at me like I'd denied him a treat. Perhaps he'd hoped to taste more of my blood. I didn't let him get to me though, and Shadowheart offered to take my place. I did not envy her one bit, but I hope the supposed boon was worth it to her. 

We found Volo, and freed him. We picked off all three leaders. Though, something about the Drow, Minthara, gave me pause as I'd raised my blade to her. Our tadpoles connected ever so briefly, as she was very good at guarding her mind, but it was enough for me to see she was trapped. The other goblin leaders had not shown an ounce of disdain for the Absolute. And so, when her back was partially turned, I brought the hilt of my rapier down on her head, and she fell unconscious but stable. 

I suppose I am softening my definition of “monster” to even have grace for these Absolute nutters. Twice now I've been faced with beings I was taught were monstrous only to quickly consider them friends. Karlach being the most obvious, of course. Not a devil, but a victim of Zariel's enslavement. But also, Astarion. He'd hate to be called a victim, so I'll not do so. Still, he has survived torment that would leave anyone hollowed and cold, and yet he still has room for levity and - admittedly, slowly developing - care. They both do. And neither of them are monsters. I know that now. 

I don't expect to see Minthara again. And perhaps sparing her only delays her inevitable death at the hands of the Absolute's cultists. But if there's a chance she could be freed of this, it was a risk worth taking. 

We rescued Halsin. He was a bear in wild shape form, but also in regular elf form - metaphorically, of course - as we discovered shortly after slaying the last of his goblin captors. I'm not sure how wild shape works, as I am no druid, but I hope it was simply a bear's mindset that caused Halsin to almost murder two goblin children. I got to them in time and blocked his claw, and while Lae'zel tripped one of them to the floor, I cast hold on the other. I am not fond of goblins, as I'll make known whenever the subject arises, but the murder of children I cannot condone, no matter their circumstance of birth. Halsin did not mention it after, and so perhaps it wasn't really him. 

There is still no cure in sight for these damn parasites. What's worse is that Halsin says they are unique, and more powerful. This is in line with our Dream Guardian insisting we use the tadpoles’ powers. 

I have not mentioned this Dream Guardian yet as I do not trust them. They appear in different forms to each of us. They claim to be protecting us and yet encourage us to embrace the Illithid-adjacent effects, and while they only visit in dreams they are every bit as corporeal as this quill in my hand. Why they do not face us in the waking world, I don't understand, but it adds to my distrust and also my irritation for having my sleep even more interrupted. 

Besides, if not even Karlach can give them the benefit of the doubt, then neither will I. 

Upon returning to the tiefling camp, bruised, bloodied, and exhausted, Zevlor found us and offered a token of thanks for our help. I did not take it, and told him to keep and redistribute the gifts to his people. Astarion pouted again, but didn't voice a complaint, which I think is an improvement. I did this out of care for the tieflings, but I saw the look in Zevlor's eyes as he gazed at my horns. I've lost all of their trust and respect at the reveal of my devil-pact, chosen rather than suffered, and it would be a further insult to them and their struggles if I accepted pay for aid I would give to anyone. 

Zevlor also suggested we all gather to celebrate our victory, and while I didn't feel like partying one bit, I could not deny my friends their levity because of my own mistakes. I promised we'd meet up with the rest of them later. Astarion stared at me, his eyes sharp and searching, and it had me shifting uncomfortably. I don't think I'll ever understand him. I do my best to make sure that when people look to me, they see only the Blade. I am not used to anyone trying to look beyond that. 

Perhaps that is why I let him get so close, tonight. 

I saved this part for last, as it is the hardest to believe of any of the day's events. It is also what I was most eager to write down, but I did not want to risk losing details of anything else. I've already written several pages worth of this day, but this, to me, is the most joyful thing to remember. 

Once the festivities began, and the Sun had set beyond the horizon, I took advantage of the dark and everyone's increasing inebriation to slip away unnoticed. I fled to the beach outside of camp, where I had intended to stay - and, I'm ashamed to admit, to sulk - out of sight of the party-goers who shouldn't have their revelry ruined by a devil. 

At least, out of sight of all but one. 

Astarion found me in minutes, which was slightly embarrassing. But when I told him I'd hoped no one would notice I was gone, he met my eyes with a brow raised and insisted it was no party without me present. I didn't believe him one bit, but he didn't let me argue before he was chastising me further for hiding. 

I was so distracted by his bluntly kind tone, I hardly noticed him inching closer until he was almost brushing against my side. He claimed he wanted to dance with me, as if he couldn't have his pick of nearly anyone at the party, as if I was a preferred choice. I stumbled over my words for the first time in ages, and I am grateful that the darkness hid any possible evidence of my blush from Astarion. I wanted nothing more than to dance with him then, and I told him how I could imagine doing just so, but the reality of it all hit me before I could give in. I'm a terribly unfit dance partner, at the moment. 

He suggested having a tumble in the woods, indulging in sexual pleasures, but I quickly turned him down. I am not one to seek pleasures of the flesh until a significant, emotional bond has been formed between myself and someone I care for and trust significantly. Astarion is still a partial stranger to me. But most of all, I want a slow, gentle romance like in the fairytales of old. A proper courtship, an eventual love-bond. I told him as much, and he rolled his eyes and teased me, and I thought that would be it. 

But then, he leaned in close enough for his breath to ghost my cheek, and asked for just a kiss. I swear, my stomach flipped on itself and my hands shook against my will. I could not even blame my response on wine, which I had not tasted once. But, foolishly, I found myself saying yes, and leaning in further. 

It was relatively short, and very chaste, and it was enough to completely outshine my grievances of the night. I swayed even as I pulled away, like Astarion was some magical force tugging me in. And maybe he was. 

He smiled and it was so beautiful I almost missed the distant look in his eyes. But after he left, my brain began working again, and his words and expressions washed over me with clarity. What he'd done was practised, and hardly sincere, it seemed. I immediately felt shame for giving in, though I still cannot fathom why he'd ask me for a kiss if he did not want it. Perhaps he'd meant to belittle me. Perhaps it was a game to him, to see how easily he could get me to fall for him. 

Unfortunately for myself, I believe that's already begun. I am drawn to him, enamoured by him, in a way I have not been with anyone in quite some time. That he would not feel the same for me but still pursue me stings, though perhaps I could earn his affections yet. Should there be any chance his feelings are there, even if his actions were but a performance, some connection might be made. We may not have much time left, but I am willing, and maybe a bit too eager, to spend it courting him. Even if it goes nowhere, it is still what I want. I hope, someday, he'll want it too. 

Regardless, as I turn in for the night, I am warmed by his soft kiss and kind words. I hope to dream sweetly of him. 

~

Astarion wiped his face before he even realised the strange sensation he'd felt was tears. He blinked heavily, repeatedly, damning Wyll, wherever he was. What a truly intolerable man he'd always been. 

Chapter Text

Elient - 1492

As if in some kind of punishment, or perhaps a cosmic reminder of how dire our situation is, any lingering joy I'd felt from last night was dashed by Absolute cultists. Along our trip this morning, we stumbled upon an Inn that had been attacked by Drow and goblins. An Inn that my father had been at. 

My father, who is now a captive of the Absolute. 

My feelings - the ones that refuse to let me go even though I know my father long already has - aside, my father is the single most important figure in Baldur's Gate. The city needs him, and they need him level-headed and free of the Absolute's influence. I cannot let them take him. I cannot let his great city fall to Illithid control. Not after everything I've done to protect it. 

I cannot let my pact be made worthless. I have to be the one to save my father, to save the city, or what good am I, and all that I've done? What good is all that I've lost?

More happened today. We fought Gnolls. We saved some Zhentarim before I knew what they were, and then found and killed them when we discovered their hideout. I've known of the black market's dealings, but to be so bold as to advertise their slave trade so openly was to beg for The Blade to act. I just hope this Oskar Fevras makes it home safe. 

Astarion scoffed when I gave the man some gold for his trip home, but smirked at me when I later handed him my share of Zarys's ‘reward’ for saving Rugan from the Gnolls. It seems Astarion approves of my generosity only when it is aimed at him, which amuses me far more than it should. 

We haven't talked about it. I tried to broach the subject after the events of the day, scrambling for any distraction from my father's abduction. “I've had a spring in my step since last night, and I've got you to thank,” I told him, because it was true. He gave me one of his faux smiles, but his eyes were wide, like he couldn't hide his surprise at my admission. Perhaps if I show him I'm unafraid of expressing my gratitude for affection, that it is something that brings me joy, he may feel more comfortable asking for it in the future. There's little I could deny him, at this point. 

Tomorrow we seek the crèche Lae'zel is so desperate to find, and then we make haste to the Underdark to pass through to the Shadow Cursed lands. I do not believe for one moment that the Githyanki crèche will cure us. But it is more important to me that Lae'zel knows for sure, and I would not keep her from a chance to unite with her people in a more familiar environment. 

Just now, Astarion has returned from hunting with a spot of blood on the corner of his lips. He caught my gaze and licked the blood away, smiling rather rakishly. I shook my head at him good-naturedly, and I'm shaking it still as I write this. He's sitting next to me now, pretending not to read over my shoulder. He asks me what I'm writing. “The most important things I wish to remember,” I say. I think there is a hint of a smile on his lips. I already miss the feel of them against my own. But I will move at his pace, whatever that may be. 

And as ever, I hope for a better tomorrow. 

~ 

The memory of that interaction struck Astarion suddenly, and he sat back with wide eyes, letting the book rest in his lap. He had caught some glimpse of Wyll’s writing that night, over his shoulder, but it was just a few words that out of context he hadn’t been able to piece together. To know now that Wyll had been writing about him, about Wyll’s fondness for him even so early, about how he’d wanted to kiss Astarion again, and nothing more, was breathtaking - even for a vampire who didn’t need breath but to speak. 

Astarion had assumed at the time that Wyll was writing a book of his own, maybe one of his silly fairytales with him as the hero who saves the world. But Volo had taken care of that. 

Wyll had only ever written the things he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - tell the others. The things he considered “the most important to remember” were just the parts of him no one else, not even Astarion, got to see. Maybe Wyll thought if he never wrote down these parts of himself, they would cease to exist, and he’d only ever be the mask he wore. 

What Astarion would have given to have Wyll’s skill at lying so effortlessly, at being able to so effectively control other people’s perspectives of him. But now, it was a pitiful thing. Wyll’s aptitude for playing a role had made him lose himself in it. Did he really exist as Wyll the man if the only real parts of him were on a page? 

He hadn’t even given Astarion the privilege of knowing him. Wyll had balanced utter sincerity and genuine affection with the never-waning presence of a lie he’d built around himself. He’d been both incredibly honest with Astarion, and hidden away from him. Where Astarion had held his cards close to his chest, Wyll had been very careful in selecting which cards he’d held at all. Of the parts of himself Wyll had kept, he gave away fully and freely; the rest was locked tightly away, never to be seen. 

He was an expert liar, always giving just enough of the truth that he could get away with it. He was as good a man as everyone had always seen him as, known in his restraint alone, but the Wyll on the page suffered ten times more. 

Astarion cleared lingering emotion from his throat, and continued reading. 

~

Elient - 1492

It has been days since my last writing. Many things have changed. 

Lae’zel’s people betrayed her, which meant it was the six of us against an entire Githyanki crèche. We made it out alive, but there were several close calls. I quite embarrassed myself by being the first to fall unconscious, after a well-placed blow to the brow from a Gith soldier. But of course, my travelling companions were all gracious in reassuring me that it was not my lack of skill, but my recklessness, that got me so injured. 

Even Astarion, who seemed more tense than ever when I’d finally come-to from Shadowheart’s healing, and gave me a very strict reprimand for being foolish. Karlach tells me Astarion shouted to me as I fell, though I do not recall hearing it, if that’s true. Astarion says nothing to me now, so if it did happen, he seems eager to never admit it to me. 

Lae’zel has, understandably, been in quite the state since we left. She would not speak to anyone for an entire day after, unless it was absolutely necessary. She hardly ate, and I’m sure she only slept to remain battle-ready. She has been betrayed by her people, yes, but there was no greater betrayal she faced that day than that of her former goddess-queen. Even still, Lae’zel holds some reverence for Vlaakith, a kind of conditioned respect that took time to forge and will take time yet to undo. I know she will be free of it, someday. She is the greatest warrior I have ever known. 

She distracts herself with this quest Voss has thrust on us. Ever the perfect soldier, Lae’zel accepted her new orders and is just as devoted to learning more about this relic that protects us as she was to reaching her people. None of us mind, as it is on our way. But she clings to it with a desperation that makes me think she fears we would abandon her, if the path wasn’t so straightforward. She tries to convince us of why it is a worthy mission, and sounds more like she’s convincing herself. 

I know something of that kind of desperation, so I offer to spar against her each night, even when we both know I am no challenge for her. She helps me up after each win, and sometimes she even smiles. We also left the crèche with an abandoned Gith egg, and that makes her smile too, when she thinks no one can see her holding it. 

We’ve been in the Underdark since the failure of Crèche Y’yllek, and I am starting to remember why I never spent more than a few nights down here. It is dark, and we all miss the Sun, but there is an otherworldly presence that seems to always have its eye on us. It feels as though something here knows we are intruders from the surface, and is only biding its time in punishing us for encroaching on places we do not belong. 

The Myconid colony was kind enough to shelter us, until we could reach the forge. Right, there was also an ancient forge, as well as another Absolutist gathering, and all of that was another two days’ worth of work on its own. 

We saved deep-gnome slaves, killed another Absolute bastard, and suffered through Shadowheart’s religious preaching amidst the vast Sharran structure the cultists had taken residence in. Truly, while I am not myself religious, I take no issue with others finding gods to ease their sufferings. But Shadowheart’s goddess only exacerbates her suffering, as is Shar’s very purpose as a deity. 

It saddens me to see Shadowheart so devoted to a goddess who would sooner see her sacrificed on a whim than rewarded for her devotion. I hope Shadowheart, like Lae’zel, will someday see the harm Shar causes, and turn away from her.

Gale’s orb has been stabilised by a man who Gale claims is a friend and yet stands aside as Mystra asks him to die. By that standard, Gale must see the rest of us as his damn family by now, for none of us will let him do as he seems intent to. We’ve all told him as much, but I don’t think he takes it seriously. If it takes knocking him out with the blunt end of my rapier to keep him from sacrificing his life for something as meaningless as a deity’s forgiveness, then so be it. 

As I write I see how many of my friends are bound to gods that couldn’t care less for them. It is a good thing that I am not bound to something so needlessly harmful myself. 

Mizora remains worryingly silent. Normally, I would rejoice in her absence; and yet as it stretches on, I can’t help but fear she is plotting. As I've said, I find that now there is more apprehension when she is gone, than relief. Though I must hold on to the latter, and not waste time wondering what she might do. I do not have the luxury of what if’s, and so I must not let myself suffer them. 

Karlach’s engine worries me more each day. She is the brightest source of light at camp here in the Underdark, but it is not the welcoming warmth of a hearth nor the gentle flame of a candle that ravages her chest. She informed me that I leave my left flank open too often, and I know it is compensation for my right blind-eye, but she insists that someday she won’t be there to cover it anymore. She does not understand the lengths to which I would go to keep her alive. 

Karlach burns herself out to protect us, she hides her pain to handle our own, and she deserves, at the very least, to have someone do the same for her. And it is something I would do gladly, for as long as I possibly can. 

And then there is Astarion. 

It might be foolish of me to feel so quickly enraptured by him. But I think it is more that I had already begun to feel this way, and his kiss unblocked the dam that would hold it all back. I swear, what I do not do to keep the others safe I do solely to see Astarion smile. I let him feed from me even when I think it a bit irresponsible to do, because it fills his face with colour and his demeanour with confidence. He asked me to read to him once, and I about stuttered through most of an entire page at first, I was so jittery with excitement. 

He still has not asked for another kiss, and I have not either, though I long for it. His company is enough to set my heart racing. His teasing alone could give me the strength to fell a hundred beasts. I hear his rare laugh in my dreams, the few that break through the nightmares, and for the first time in years I find I actually want to fall asleep. 

From what he’s told me of his past, I more than understand why touch is something he hesitates to seek, and so I do not suggest it. But just last night once we’d set up camp and I settled beside the fire to keep watch, Astarion joined me, and rested his head on my shoulder, and I tried very hard to remain very still and not scare him away. It was like I’d inhaled more haste spores from the Myconid colony. And when he finally rose and went to bed, I felt a chill, though he provided no warmth himself. 

It is heady, all of this. I could not yet say that I am in love with him, though it is something close. A genuine sense of falling. I find myself imagining what life will be like for the both of us, after all of this. After I’ve helped him slay Cazador and earned my father’s forgiveness. I imagine we’d stay in the city, and I could court him properly without the looming threat of being turned into a mindless Illithid. I will take him dancing, whether it be at a ball or in a tavern in the Lower City. He says he hates flowers, but perhaps that is because no one has thought to give him any before. I do think about it, quite a lot. 

Whatever comes, I know we will all live through it. There is nothing that any of us can’t face so long as we face it together. Of this, I am certain. 

~

Astarion fell asleep eventually, needing the escape from consciousness more than the rest itself. His trance gave him more memories of those early times in his and Wyll’s relationship: nights spent wondering when Wyll would get tired of the hero facade and come claim his prize, days spent wondering how Wyll was so good at pretending to be enamoured by him. 

He recalled vividly how it wasn’t until Wyll had asked him to dance, with no music but the howls of distant shadow-beasts and no special occasion other than a mere celebration of still being alive, that he realised Wyll was serious. That Wyll meant every honeyed word and restrained touch and adoring smile. That he was not pursuing Astarion for the possibility of sex but for the possibility of loving him, and being loved by him. That the clenching in his chest that so perfectly mimicked a heartbeat was a result of Wyll taking Astarion’s long-dead heart in his gentle hands and choosing to keep it, and giving Astarion his own in return. 

He’d kissed Wyll that night for the first time since the tieflings’ party, and then he’d kissed him again, and again. And suddenly Astarion was addicted to something as childish and mundane as kissing, and it was all Wyll ever wanted, and it was so chaste and simple and easy that it was silly to long for it so badly, but Astarion did. He’d ask Wyll for a kiss and sometimes Wyll would ask him, and once when Astarion had jokingly said no, Wyll had stepped back with his hands raised and a sweet smile on his face and said of course, and Astarion had practically leapt into his arms to kiss him stupid immediately after. 

It was a novelty to say no and have it be respected without explanation, a novelty to need some space apart at times and not have it diminish Wyll’s love for him, a novelty to want anything other than to survive. But once he started wanting, Astarion couldn’t stop, and eventually he was imagining a life with Wyll after it all. 

Then they’d reached Cazador’s Palace, which was now Astarion’s Palace, and Astarion was reminded with crushing swiftness that he never got to keep what he wanted. That his whole life - or what he could remember of it, at least - was spent sacrificing what he wanted for what he had to do to survive. That anything good was taken away as quickly as it was given, that not even the most perfect man to ever exist could love Astarion when he had to fight so hard to live. That when the dust settled Astarion would find that rather than holding Wyll’s heart, he’d been carrying the little piece of it that Wyll had decided was worth cutting away. 

Hours later, he less awoke and more so wrenched himself from tormented meditation with teeth bared. There was a twinge in his neck from the uncomfortable position he’d had while slouched in the throne, and his fingers were stiff from where they had continued to clutch Wyll’s diary in an (un)death grip in his trance. Astarion sniffed and straightened. 

He wanted to stop reading; it was honestly too much of an emotional burden, when he was still getting used to even experiencing emotion itself again. But still, Astarion reminded himself that the entirety of Baldur’s Gate had read the damned diary before he’d even known of its existence, and he couldn’t be excluded. Especially not when he was clearly such a key figure in it. 

Stupid, miserable, foolishly romantic man, Astarion thought bitterly. Why did it have to be me you set your starry-eyes upon?

Astarion called for one of his rats, and when it scurried up to the arm of the throne Astarion took it and sank his fangs into it, sucking out every drop of blood left in the miserable rodent. Once it was well and fully shrivelled up, he threw it and didn’t bother paying attention to wherever it landed. 

He could be feasting on spawn of his own. He could return to the streets of the Lower City and re-curse the bards of the Elfsong. Instead, he opened Wyll’s diary, and turned another page. 

Chapter Text

Wyll retold the events of their journey, and detailed how he’d fallen in love with Astarion, over several more entries. Astarion read them all in a haze, reliving the memories of each day, but from Wyll’s perspective. Where Astarion had remembered hardship and torment with only the silver lining of Wyll, Wyll had remembered loving him and their friends, with the looming end of the world as nothing more than a shadow nipping his heels. 

The utter optimism Wyll forced himself to keep as they faced horrors untold was dizzying. The man had so much hope for a better tomorrow that Astarion was surprised the universe itself didn’t just give Wyll whatever he wanted for being so good. Instead he’d been given a vampire who didn’t deserve his love and lost it in the end, and a bunch of useless friends who could do nothing to free him from Mizora.

Astarion arrived at just the entry in which Wyll wrote about how he re-sold his soul to Mizora even after Astarion had bargained him out of it. He’d been furious with Wyll that night, but it didn’t last with how miserable Wyll had looked as a result. Astarion had never been able to stay mad at Wyll, especially when there was so little he’d ever done to possibly earn Astarion’s ire, when Wyll had endless patience for Astarion’s own sins, and never did more than sharpen his voice before softening it again just as quickly. 

Astarion gave me a thorough tongue-lashing, which I’d more than deserved for how I discarded his efforts to free me, Wyll wrote. He will never understand why this is worth it, and I know nothing I say could make him understand it. But it is what it is, and I won’t belabour what could have been if I were ever free from Mizora. My father has to live, and if that means I must be eternally bound to a devil, then so be it. 

Despite not understanding, Astarion has given up fighting me on it, and now rests in my lap as I write. I love him in ways I could never put to words, but I try to every day, for his sake. He’s more than earned the courtesy of knowing how much he means to others, and to me. Perhaps if the common tongue cannot grant me the proper words to express my deep love for Astarion, I shall invent the words myself, someday. 

At least, if I will now live for eternity, I will do so by Astarion’s side. It is the best silver lining I could find in a situation like this, and I find such joy in it, that for a second I can just forget the pact. The idea that I will not leave Astarion behind some day, that we will have forever to learn more about each other, brings a giddy smile to my face that I hide from him out of respect for his frustration with me. He’s told me before that my smile is enough to calm him, so I will let him stew for a while longer before I let him see my joy. 

I must cling to the joy of it, or I will focus too long on regret. Regret is not something I can afford. My life has not been my own since I was born and took my mother’s life from her, and it would be an insult to everyone I’ve devoted myself to if I started to regret any of my actions until this point. 

My pact has saved lives. I will not disrespect them by imagining a world where I’m free of it. There is endless suffering in all the realms, and if my own suffering means others feel theirs less, then that is the path I will choose every time. 

Besides, I do not suffer alone. I have Astarion, and this band of misfits I’ve the honour to call my friends, at my side. So long as I have people to love in my life, it will not be a life of suffering. 

Now, I long to hold Astarion through the night, or at least until he wakes from his trance and decides to go hunting. He is and has always been an ethereal beauty that draws my gaze no matter where we are, but it is when he is asleep and at peace that I find him the most beautiful. It is the one time his face is simply his face, rather than a mask of whatever expression he thinks others expect him to wear. 

He’s gotten better at being himself around me, but old habits die hard, and we are closer now than we’ve been in a long while to his old prison, which causes him to draw himself in and push others away. He will not manage to push me away, despite his efforts, and I see the relief in his eyes when I tell him I’m not going anywhere. 

Rather than an ending statement to that entry, there was instead a charcoal sketch of Astarion’s face on the next page. His eyes were closed and his face relaxed in the image, meaning Wyll had taken the time to draw Astarion during his trance. Astarion recognised himself enough to know it was him, but he took in the details greedily. Wyll had filled his diary with other various sketches, but rarely of people, and so far none of Astarion. It was as though Wyll had been saving it - or maybe he’d filled a completely different book with sketches, now lost to time. 

There were lines drawn at Astarion’s eyes that he’d normally scowl at, but he knew Wyll had placed each one with love. His lips were plump and his lashes long, but there was extra care given to the way Astarion’s curls fell around his face as he had slept. Wyll had been meticulous in portraying the softness of each curl, and the absence of even a smudge spoke volumes of how careful Wyll had been in his work. 

It was, of course, a reprinted copy of Wyll’s original drawing, but Astarion’s fingers traced the lines with reverence like he feared he’d smear it. He’d forgotten the look of his own nose, his lips, his jaw, and here Wyll had preserved the reflection Astarion had been robbed of in a medium as mundane as charcoal and parchment. 

His vision blurred, and he groaned, frustrated that something was threatening his ability to gaze at his own face. He couldn’t look away from the drawing, but his wretched eyes were making it hard to keep staring. When a tear fell onto the page, Astarion wiped it away swiftly, and finally pressed his fists into his eyes, rubbing away the weakness.

Once he was certain he had calmed down enough, Astarion forced himself to turn the page, and read on, taking in the next few entries with a still-quivering lip and a white-knuckle grip of the book. 

Chapter Text

Marpenoth - 1492

We plan to storm Cazador’s Palace tomorrow, and while I know we will succeed, I fear for the decision Astarion will make once we do. His ‘siblings’ waylaid us in our room at the Elfsong Tavern the other night, and we saw how Cazador’s desperation to Ascend had warped their minds, too. They all thought they’d be freed; only Astarion knew they’d all have to die for it. As he lied to them about it, I saw in his face how readily he would sacrifice the other spawn for himself. 

I know that Astarion has survived things I can't even imagine, and that his life has been one of constant torment and pain. I know that now he acts less like a person and more like a victim, a survivor of centuries of Cazador’s torture, and that the manic look in his eyes is born of fear. And I know when an animal is backed into a corner, it will do absolutely anything to survive. 

I just hope against hope that Astarion will see he’s not cornered alone. I hope that when we face Cazador, he will see all of us at his side, and he will know that his power lies not in sacrificing the souls of others, but in those of us who have dedicated ourselves to him, standing by him. He says he never wants to feel weak again, but he does not see that he is anything but. He has a great strength in him that will only grow once he’s killed Cazador. I have never been religious, but I find myself praying every day now that he sees that. Though he will not hear a word of it from me.

It must be his choice. He let me choose to renew my pact with Mizora, and it is the least I can do to allow him the same right to choose. But there is so much at stake here, that I fear for Astarion’s choice more than I feared for my own father’s life. 

He is resting peacefully at my side - he’s taken to trancing in my bed rather than his own, and I adore it as I adore him - but I know when morning comes, he will look frenzied once more, and he will snarl and grin coldly. I don’t know how to reach him, I don’t know what to say, so I just hold him. And come morning, I will rise at his side, and I will devote to him my sword, and I will love him at the end of it all, no matter what he chooses. 

Of this, at least, I am certain. 

~

Astarion had drawn up his feet to his chest, cradling himself against the throne like he could hide from what he knew would come next. His hands had begun to shake as he read, and while his heart no longer beat, the aching in his sternum could convince him otherwise. 

~

Marpenoth - 1492

In the tenday that followed Astarion’s choice to ascend, I saw the change in him take over so swiftly it was like he’d been replaced by Orin. In fact, if we hadn’t killed her in the time since, I would be convinced it was her wearing Astarion’s face all along.

In all the time Astarion and I have been together, I have done all that I could to make sure he felt safe with me, to prove to him that he would never come to harm from me. I never imagined I might someday come to fear him, the same way I fear Mizora. Maybe even more so. Mizora does not have my heart, after all. 

This monster that wears my heart’s face knows it, and he chooses the words that will cut me deepest. He stares at me with empty, red eyes that strike ice into my chest at each glance. He claims he only jokes of making me his first spawn, but his voice is devoid of any humour at all. He’s taken to sleeping in his own bed again, which I am grateful for, as I’d be unable to sleep with his teeth so close to my neck. 

I never feared him even when we first met, and I discovered he was a vampire. Even when I’d thought he might try to bite one of us, which he eventually did, I at least knew I would be able to hold him off, and end his life if he made an attempt on any of ours. Now, my heart races when he’s near, but it is a shattering thing of terror rather than the beat of joy, and I know that if he tried to kill me, I could not stop him. 

I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, and yet I would be no match for this shell of my love. 

I wept after we returned to camp from Cazador’s Palace. I hid away in my corner of the rooms and wept for every life lost due to Astarion’s decision, but more so I wept for the love I still felt for him and will still feel for him. Even now, as he threatens everything I’ve ever believed and becomes everything I’ve ever fought against, my heart is his, and I see bloodied pieces of it in his fangs when he smiles coldly. 

I love him. And had this all happened even two months ago, it’s possible that I would give him everything and I would suffer anything to be his, because I know he still needs me. But I need to be free of him. I have grown in our journey, and it is a hellish irony how he was the one who pushed so hard for me to protect myself more, only to become the thing I must protect myself from in the end. He taught me to value myself in ways I haven’t in years, and now I must leave him because of it. 

He’ll keep my heart, of course. I’d be a fool to even try taking that back. But when this is over, my life will no longer have him in it. It cannot if I want to survive this. 

I write this down now so I do not chicken out of it. Tomorrow. I will tell him tomorrow, and it will hurt me in ways Mizora could only ever wish to hurt me, and it will keep hurting for the eternity I now have alone. But I must. I owe it to who Astarion used to be to sever myself from the hateful leech he has become. 

~

Marpenoth - 1492

I wonder now, in my darkest moments alone, if this had been Astarion’s plan with me all along. 

I ended our courtship, and all he could do was gloat. His admission from all the way back in the shadow-cursed lands, that he’d seduced me in an attempt to wield me as a tool of his protection, haunts me now. I think, what if he’d still been lying then? What if he’d told me such a thing to get me to let my guard down, because he’d come to learn how easily I’d forgive such a truth if I thought it was no longer so? 

I thought myself an expert at uprooting lies, because I was so good at lying myself. But maybe he’d picked up on some tricks from me. Maybe he’d hidden enough of the truth in his sweetened words that I missed the lie because I was so desperate to be loved by him. 

Maybe he’d always intended on keeping me until he could reach Cazador, and then discarding me once he’d gotten the power he’d wanted. I think of the ease with which he shed all his love for me after he ascended, and I feel sick. I was played for an utter fool all along, wasn’t I?

I look back on our time spent together, but perhaps it is all tainted now. I don’t want to lose the joy I had felt when he was in my arms, but I fear I can do nothing to hold onto it anymore. It is hard to believe he’d ever truly loved me when he looks at me now like he wants to kill me. 

Maybe every single moment I thought I was seeing the real Astarion was just another game, another mask. Maybe his tears and his laughter and his kisses and his touch had all been calculated, all weapons used to get me where he wanted me in the end. 

Maybe the ritual changed him. Or maybe this power lets him be who he’s actually been all along. 

A warped stain, like a drop of water, preserved from the original copy, separated this line and the next.

I am being unfair, and cruel, in my agony. These are not things I truly believe of him, nor should I.

I saw him. I always saw him, under his fear and his manipulations. I saw who he was, and he let me see who he was. He was someone who was constantly afraid, but he was also someone who loved. He loved me, he loved our friends, he loved Scratch and Bite. He loved the taste of my blood. He loved to kiss me. He loved to tease the books I read so that I would read them to him. He loved to curl up against me and breathe to my heartbeat. He loved meeting my eyes in the heat of battle and grinning so beautifully I’d almost drop my sword. 

Something happened during that ritual that took away every part of Astarion that had been real. I know it, I must know it, and I must believe it. He deserves to have at least one person who truly knows him, even now, and I will not poison his character in my mind just because I am hurting. 

He did love me, once. I know it. But now that love is no more. 

I almost wish it had all been a lie. Because then I could feel bitter about being lied to, rather than mourn the loss of the man I loved. Loss has always been the hardest pain to bear, for me. But I must be glad it wasn’t a falsehood, I must be grateful I ever had his heart at all. 

I still love him. Damn him to all the hells, I will always love him, and now I think I also hate him, but it does nothing to quell the love. My heart hurts so terribly I wish I could tear it from my chest and put the real thing in his hands. I wish the death of my heart would mean the death of me, but I know I would only come back in the hells as whatever kind of pet Mizora wanted me to be. 

I wish I could sever my very soul from existence so I wouldn’t have to feel this pain. But that is very selfish to want for, and I know it. I know I must put all of this aside if I am to continue to save lives. I cannot fight for others if I am too busy feeling sorry for myself. I will not waste this pact and the powers I have been given by wallowing in grief. 

As I’ve said, if my own suffering means others will feel theirs less, then that is the path I will choose every time. Even if it kills me. 

~

Astarion shook so hard with sobs he could hardly hold the diary. His entire frame rattled the throne on which he still sat, bones and muscles tired and sore despite his strength. He pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle his wailing and scrunched his eyes shut. Warm tears drenched his face regardless, spilling down his neck and onto the pages of the book. He pulled it close to his chest, practically shoving it in, as if he could absorb the rest of the words rather than have to suffer through reading them.

Despite everything he put Wyll through, the man wouldn’t let himself think ill of Astarion. Even in the privacy of his own diary, he wouldn’t let himself imagine that Astarion had never truly loved him. 

Astarion remembered vividly, extensively, how deeply he’d loved Wyll. He’d never forgotten it, but after his ascension it had become like a small thought in the back corner of his mind, rather than an active feeling. Once he’d ascended, he deigned to keep Wyll so long as the man remained compliant. But once Wyll made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate Astarion any longer, Astarion had let him go with a bitter thought of starting a rivalry. 

Wyll had always been the better man, there was no doubt about that. But it cleaved into Astarion to see just how good Wyll had always been, even when he’d had every right in the world to be utterly awful. Astarion had never deserved him, and this was only more proof of that. How Wyll could ever have thought otherwise, he will never know. The more fool Wyll.

He could have kept Wyll. Wyll didn’t leave him because he’d ascended, but because he’d become poisoned. But Wyll had said as much, hadn’t he? Astarion just hadn’t listened. 

Astarion slid onto the ground, still clutching the diary to his chest and still weeping an embarrassing amount. He didn’t deserve his throne and he didn’t deserve his immortal life when Wyll was probably burning in the hells as a mindless lemure. 

He wanted to tear apart the diary, to burn it in his fireplace and never think of it again. He could hardly read it through his tears, after all. But as Wyll had said Astarion deserved to have at least one person truly know him, Astarion knew Wyll deserved the same. And he also knew that the people of Baldur’s Gate could all think they know Wyll now that they’ve read all his secrets, but they never could, because they are all missing the vital piece of Wyll that Astarion had been given but had so thoroughly taken for granted. 

None of them knew Wyll’s heart so intimately as Astarion. None of them still held the fragile thing in their hands. Astarion thought if he’d had the real thing, it would still beat even now, for all the love Wyll kept within it. 

He had to keep reading. It was his turn to suffer for his poor choices, after all. 

Chapter Text

1493

The hells have more than earned their namesake in my eyes. 

It has been a gruelling time in Avernus. I do not know what day it is, or even the month, because there is no Sun here and therefore no night. But Withers brought everyone back, just for time, to reunite. Karlach and I had been knee-deep in lemure guts when the old skelly had portalled us back. He said six months had passed, and I both felt it had been longer and shorter a time than that. So, I at least know we’ve passed into a new year. 

Luckily, this old diary of mine did not burst into flames immediately upon entering Avernus, and I can use a simple cantrip to preserve the pages as I write here. I think that I will keep writing in this thing until my final days as myself, because I know I will miss the ability to write my thoughts or even have thoughts of my own once I die and am lemure'd. 

Karlach and I have returned from the reunion as of what I assume is yesterday, now. Astarion wasn’t there. I had tried to suppress any hope, but I couldn’t help it. I knew if he’d been there I would have felt on edge the whole time, but what I wouldn’t give just to see his face again is an ashamedly short list. I miss him terribly. Karlach misses him, too. We rarely speak of him, because tears threaten us both when we do, and we cannot afford time to sit and cry out in Avernus. 

We are so close to fixing her engine, yet so frustratingly far, too. That she even agreed to go back to the hells with me is an honour I’ll never forget, but I feel I am failing her every moment we do not find a cure. She would hate for me to think that, so I do not tell her that I do. 

She has always been a light in the darkness, but especially now. We are both in pain from losing Astarion, and from being away from our friends, and from home, but we have each other. I could not do this alone - and Karlach tells me she only returned to Avernus because I promised I would never leave her alone, either. I meant it then, and I mean it still. I keep in contact with my father, and occasionally some of the others, through interplanar mail. I will help Karlach find a way to fix her engine, and then together, we will return home. 

She is the dearest friend I have ever had. For all the hardships we have faced, I am at least grateful to have met her. Every now and again, the memory of how Mizora almost tricked me into killing Karlach assaults me, and I have to look to her to remind myself she is still alive with me. The guilt is still there, and perhaps it always will be. But Karlach is here too, and that is more important, and more than enough, for me. 

Our lives will never be the same, and we can never go back to the way things were before, no matter how much we may miss certain people. And that is alright. It has to be. 

~

1493

There is, admittedly, not much to write about in the hells. We still haven't found a way to fix Karlach’s heart. Mizora sends me after other devils she wants slain, and Karlach and I do so, but otherwise she has left us alone. I think she has grown out of her obsession with gloating now that she has my soul for eternity. I do not even feel her presence in my eye anymore. 

I suppose I will just practise my sketching again, and wait until Mizora calls or we find something to help Karlach. I’ve become quite rusty at sketching ever since... Well, ever since then. But Karlach is a willing subject, and she is a bright and beautiful muse, so I will preserve her likeness until I find something else to write about. 

~

Several sketches followed. Astarion took in each one with wet eyes and a hollow feeling in his chest. All were of Karlach. Some were more rushed, but others more detailed. Some depicted her in the heat of battle, and others her gentle, smiling face. Wyll had drawn the lines around her eyes, too. Astarion chewed his cheek as he noticed it.

He had also loved Karlach, once. Not like he’d loved Wyll, certainly not, but more than he’d felt for any of their other friends. She had been quite impossible not to love. 

But now a bit of jealousy twisted Astarion’s thoughts of her. For years, for maybe even a century, Karlach had been Wyll’s muse, both in writing and in art. As Astarion flipped through the pages with reprinted drawings, he found not a single other attempt at his own face. 

As he read on, he became hungry for more, for anything that might tell him whether or not Wyll eventually ever gave in and found pleasure in Karlach instead. 

After a solid portion of nothing but sketches, Astarion finally found more writing. 

~

1499

It has been seven years since we felled the Netherbrain and Karlach and I entered Avernus. In that time, we’ve found a means to fix her heart, but no one capable of actually implementing it. I have tried to learn over time what I can, so that maybe I could repair it for her myself, but it is an incredibly complicated subject that tests the limits of my intelligence every time. 

Now, I’ve received word that my father has fallen ill. Fatally so. He is not long for the living, but Karlach still cannot stay on the material plane without going up in flames after a moment. 

I hadn’t meant to tell her. But she saw the pained look in my eyes that I desperately tried to hide, and demanded to read the letter. Her frown had deepened as she’d read, and when she finished she looked at me with such a stern glare I almost feared she’d go up in flame anyway. 

She told me I had to go see my father before he died. She said that she hadn’t gotten to see her parents a final time, and it was her biggest regret to this day. She said if I fought her on this, she would throw me back to Faerûn herself. She said by the time I return to Avernus, she’ll have found an infernal mechanic, and we can get her heart fixed together. 

She says all of it with a twinkle in her eye and it tears into my heart. She means every word she says, and she does not say anything she couldn’t mean. Which is why when I ask her if she’ll be okay with me gone, she instead tells me to just go already. I will be leaving her alone, which I’d sworn not to do. 

Karlach promises me that she will survive, at least. That no matter what happens, she’ll be here to give me a crushing hug when I return. There were tears in her eyes when she’d said it, and undoubtedly also in mine. I couldn’t even argue one side or the other, I was so swept up in conflicting emotion. 

When the portal opened to Baldur’s Gate, Karlach practically shoved me through it. I felt the coldness of her absence immediately. 

I’d forgotten how quiet the material plane was, compared to the constant roaring fires and shifting rock in Avernus. 

A Flaming Fist soldier met with me at the portal’s entrance, and escorted me to Wyrm’s Rock. I haven’t seen any of the city since Withers’s reunion, and so much has changed and improved that my breath caught as I looked out over the great city. 

They’ve put me up in a guest room, and have at least given me a furnished one with fresh bed linens and a small wardrobe of clothes. I have not worn anything that wasn’t made of an infernal iron or alloy in years, and the soft thread of the clothes was a balm to my fire-licked skin. 

Once the cleric is done treating my father, I will go see him. Until then, I will wait here. 

~

As I turned to a new page, and deliberated over what else to write, Astarion decided to show his face. He lunged at me from nowhere, and I don’t know if he’d hidden in my room before I arrived or if he’d somehow snuck in past me. Regardless, he was here, and he was alive, though I cannot say he was well. 

He looked gaunt, which I didn’t think was possible. His eyes were rubbed raw, the lines on his face had deepened, and his hair was matted and greasy. He also smelled of blood, though I couldn’t see any on him, which probably meant he hadn’t washed his clothes since he’d last fed while wearing them. 

I felt my heart all but stop as I gazed at him for the first time in seven years. When he spoke he sounded like my Astarion again, and I had hoped for a fleeting moment that maybe it had been long enough, that maybe he’d changed. But then he asked if I realised I needed him yet, and it was the same manipulative jargon he spewed after his ascension. It shouldn’t have hurt so deeply, when I already knew he was lost, but in an instant I felt utterly crushed. 

He said he’d come to kill me, and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit. I know I shouldn’t have egged him on by calling him a monster, but it’s certainly what he’s become. And a deeper, more honest, less noble part of me felt that it was about damn time someone put an end to this. 

Still, I shouldn’t have said it, and I’m glad he changed his mind, because I knew even now that if he tried to kill me, I might let him. And I can’t leave Karlach alone, and I haven’t even gotten to see my father yet, so it is a good thing Astarion gave up. 

“I’ll make you wish I’d killed you,” Astarion told me. It took all of my restraint to keep from telling him I already do. 

How quickly Astarion makes me feel so unlike the hero I must be. 

Thankfully, he left after that, to my surprise. I am now left reeling and struggling for a grasp on reality. As time passes I almost think maybe I imagined him in my desperation to see him again. But no, not even I would torment myself so much. If it had been only in my head, he would be my love again. 

A guard has just informed me my father is ready to see me. My hands shake as I write this, both from Astarion’s surprise visit and my nerves to see my father’s state. There are so many things. I must go. 

~

I wish I could write solely of my father, of the stories he tells me that I’ve never heard before, of the advice he gives me with a fond smile and a twinkle in his eyes. But during a time I should dedicate solely to my last living relative, to the father I fought so hard to save, Astarion continues to pester me. 

The second day I was here, I returned from speaking to my father to find that my sheets had been clawed to shreds, my ink had been spilled across the desk, and my rapier had been left by the fireplace with its end dulled and very telling grooves in the stone mantel. I’d spent hours cleaning and repairing it all, as I refused to let any of the poor staff tend to Astarion’s misbehaviour. 

Some part of me wondered if I was being rude in assuming Astarion had been behind this, but the very next morning he showed up again as I dressed for the day and repeated his nuisances. I watched with my brow furrowed as he turned into a small bat and tore at my bedsheets, knocked over my freshly filled ink, and attempted to lift my rapier in his small bat claws. He returned to his regular form to finish blunting my blade, and he grinned devilishly at me the whole time. 

I thought I might outsmart him, but I should have known better. I tried using magic to protect my items, only to find he’d taken out his ire on my new soft clothes and my infernal armour, and even the small wooden duck Halsin had whittled for me all those years ago. Astarion had been oddly jealous of such a silly token gifted from a friend, even before he’d ascended, and I mourned the effort put into it as I watched it burn while Astarion sneered at me. 

I suppose he wants a reaction from me, at some point. That is why I have every intention of never giving him one.

I could simply seal the window through which he enters my room. But I’ve figured he’d only find another way to get in, anyway. At least by letting him have my window, I can be certain he won’t find his way into another part of the castle and hurt someone else. So long as he remains a nuisance, and not an actual threat, I will tolerate his antics. 

And of course, there is also the fact that I’d suffer anything just to see him. He has not made a move against me, or anyone else, for that matter, and so I can continue to procrastinate telling him to leave for good. 

I can stare at him with distant annoyance while inside I am committing every one of his features to memory in case it is the last time he decides to haunt me. I can sigh at his pranks, because that’s all they really are, and hear his laugh, even if it is at my expense. Even just the brush of wind he leaves behind as he flies out of my window is enough to have me closing my eyes and imagining it is his palm against my cheek. 

I thought I would be okay, after all of this time. I thought for certain that I’d moved on, that even though I would never love the same way again I could at least let the part of me that clung so desperately to Astarion go. Instead, I feel like I’m worse than where I left off. I feel all of my commitments slip away as I think of Astarion visiting me. I feel my mind wandering to Astarion even when I am talking to my dying father at his bedside. 

I feel myself imagining, even for mere moments at a time, just intrusive thoughts really, of what would happen if I just gave in. If the next time Astarion arrived, I threw myself into his arms, and let him take me away. He needs me, not the other way around, and I’ve always been good at being needed. I have the idea that maybe if I returned to him, I could help him, fix him, change him back into who he used to be. The thought is gone just as quickly as it comes, and I’m left with nothing but the cold reality, and the crushing shame, after. 

Gods, what has he made of me?

~

There is to be an election. My father told me his last request of me was that I become the next Duke of Baldur’s Gate, and it took all of my strength to deny him. But he knows why I cannot, and he trusts my judgement on it, thankfully. He and I have come such a long way together since the day he cast me out, and I am eternally grateful for the time with him that I have been given. 

He asked me today if I still thought renewing my pact was worth saving him, now that he was so close to death only seven years later. I told him I’d had to spend seven years of shame away from him, and was given seven more years of forgiveness. I told him it was not just his life I did it for, but the lives of everyone he has saved himself, just by remaining the Duke of Baldur’s Gate after the fall of the Absolute. 

“Seven years is not much time, my boy,” he told me. I reminded him I’d become the Blade of Frontiers in less than half that time. I told him it had all been worth it. When I said it, he’d winced as if in pain, and refused to look at me. I asked him what he would have done, in my position. He said he would have let his father die. The answer caught me off guard, but I was steadfast. I told him he is not his father. And I am not him. 

He began to weep, then. I held his frail form in my arms, and shed a few tears myself. There was no one but us to witness it, but I was surprised he let me see him cry at all. The closest I ever got to seeing it as a boy was when he would become misty-eyed while talking about my mother. He held onto my arms with surprising strength, and he said he loved me, and it was the first time I’d heard it since I was a boy. 

He fell asleep soon after, and I left to confer with Florrick over the election. I was so grateful to see her still around when I’d returned. She has always been our rock. There was a time as a boy that I thought of her like a mother, though she quickly dismissed the idea when I’d voiced as much. I understand why she did, but she'd truly been the closest thing I had to it. 

Florrick has several candidates for the next Duke, but wants to narrow them down to only three for the people to vote for. I will help her deliberate over the choices tonight, and we will announce them tomorrow together. It’s the least I owe to the people of this great city, when I can’t be their Duke. 

~

I’d almost forgotten about Astarion, in the frenzy over selecting the candidates for Duke and my father’s exponentially fading health. I should have known, however, that even though he’d stopped setting fire to my doublets or spilling my ink, he would still be out there finding some way to frustrate me. Of course, Astarion’s antics did more to amuse me than anything, though I’d never tell him that. 

The news of a falsified fourth voting chest in the Stormshore Tabernacle almost made me laugh in front of Florrick, though I managed to contain myself. He’d also started vandalising the candidates’ posters the way he had that painting of Vlaakith back at Crèche Y’llek. It was the exact same mustache and pair of glasses, even, but when questioned I denied any possible idea of who it might have been. 

When he is not in front of me, showing me all of the ways in which he has become lost, I can almost pretend it is still him. That he does these things to make me laugh, like he used to. That he blackmails the candidates to test their mettle rather than to cause me more worry. That he could be by my side, gossiping in my ear about how terribly they dress or how they smell or how they’re lying about their noble standing. 

It is dangerous to imagine, because when I remember it isn’t so, it becomes yet another thing I want but will never have. 

My father still weakens. Magic has slowed the sickness, but it cannot be stopped. The cleric tells me he has given up, and only still breathes for my sake. 

I am not ready to lose him. I beg for him to wait until he can see who next becomes Duke. I lie to the both of us and tell him I will be ready, then. 

Why must he leave when I’ve only just gotten him back?

~

Astarion visited me again tonight. I’d almost worried I would never see him again. Maybe he wanted me to think that. 

He landed on me just as I’d begun to fall asleep, and it was only the sight of his stark white curls that kept me from blasting him away immediately. 

He asked me if I was having second thoughts, and for a moment I feared he could see into my mind, and that he knew how weak I was for him. That he could see all the ways in which I’d impulsively imagined submitting to him. But he’d been referring to my abdicating the role of Duke, which I certainly had no second thoughts about. 

Even if I wanted to, Mizora’s leash would not allow it. Or worse, she would abuse my place as Duke for her design. I could not risk it. Not even for the people who beg of me otherwise. 

He asked if I had been sleeping, and I was so startled by the question I accidentally answered him truthfully. And then I kept speaking truthfully, bearing my heart to him like I always have, only now he would use it against me. And use it he did. 

I know now that it is my fault he has become this way. I had been so focused on allowing him the choice that I failed to see there was more at stake than his own fate. What right did I have to stand aside and let him choose whether or not to sacrifice seven thousand souls? Their blood is on my hands just as much as it is on his. I do not escape the blame just because he made the final leap. I should have stopped him. I should have taken him away from the dungeons as soon as I’d freed him from Cazador’s tether. I should have done something. 

Instead, I let my love for him blind me to the other spawns’ fate, and distract me from standing against him. And now, he is a vitriolic husk of the once beautiful and loving man he used to be, and it is all my fault. I failed him, miserably. 

Even still, when he spoke to me the words I’d only heard him say in my mind, telling me I could still be his, I found myself falling for it. But only for a moment. I felt his hand on my cheek for real this time as he left, and I am ashamed of how I hold on to the lingering feeling of it now so that I will never forget it. 

~

It’s been five days since Astarion’s last visit, and I both hope and dread that it was his last. 

My father’s very chest shakes as he breathes. His forehead glistens with sweat that does not lessen no matter how many cool cloths we press to his skin. He cannot raise his hands past a few inches, and he cannot keep his eyes open longer than a few minutes at a time. He can hardly speak, and when he manages, there is a horrid wheezing sound as he does. 

I will not leave his side. I asked for this diary and a quill to be brought to his quarters so that I could write without worrying I’d miss his final breath. Even still, I pause every few words to listen, and watch his chest. My tears fall intermittently, and Florrick is kind enough not to mention it whenever she enters to check on my father. 

I don’t know what else to write. I just know that if I set my quill down, I might not pick it up again. His death is soon, and I am no more ready for it now than I was a tenday ago. 

I press a kiss to his head and I beg him not to leave me. And then I wipe away the loose tears and write some more. 

~

He’s gone. 

~

I have wept more in this one night than I think I ever have, in my entire life. My father died before the Sun had even risen, and then Astarion had found me in my room when I’d expected to finally be free of any eyes, and taunted me for losing my father. I should have known he would come, and that he would gloat, even after I’d warned him not to. 

I thought after all the hurt he’s caused me, that purposefully nailing him with an Eldritch blast would make me feel better. Instead, it only made me sick as soon as I’d done it, and even more so at the look on his face after. I begged him to not tempt me further, because I knew how it would end, and I owed it to Karlach at least to stay alive. I lost my father, and I lost Astarion for the last time, all in the same day. I cannot lose Karlach. 

Now I wipe my tears away and I force myself to write because I know I will lose the time to in Avernus. I will return there in a few hours, and I hope Karlach will be there, too. Gods, if I go back to the hells only to find she’s been killed in my absence, I think that really will be the end for me. 

She is the last person I have left to live for. I just have to hold on until her engine is fixed. 

Chapter Text

There were only two entries of the diary left, and Astarion wasn’t ready to finish it. 

In between the several entries detailing Wyll’s brief visit back in the material plane, Astarion had giggled, cried, rolled his eyes, and even stared off into space, daydreaming about having Wyll again. He did the last one several times at varying lengths. 

The last line took Astarion out of any lingering reverie. He’d at first been so caught up in how Wyll had found fondness in his attempts to bother the man, but when he read back through it he recognised the deep sadness with which Wyll wrote. Wyll had actually seemed… depressed. It was a jarring discovery, but made more sense the more Astarion thought about it. 

Honestly, it was about time Wyll realised just how utterly depressing his life had always been. Still, it stirred something within Astarion that Wyll had felt so miserable and had no one he could tell about it. Sure, he had Karlach, but Astarion was certain that Wyll pretended to be better off than he actually was for her sake. At a time when Wyll had most needed the love and support of everyone close to him, Astarion had been fast asleep. If only Wyll had visited him. If only Astarion had thought of anyone but himself.

Astarion tapped his fingers on the spine of the diary. He was still sitting on the floor, he had no idea what day or time it was, and he was certain he hadn’t bathed in way too long. The memory that Wyll had called his hair greasy struck him, and he sneered at the diary as though Wyll might feel his discontent. His hair had never been greasy, Wyll was just being mean because he was sad. Even though Astarion knew he wouldn’t do that. His hair had always been an obsession of Wyll’s. 

Choosing to procrastinate, Astarion left the throne room to draw himself a warm bath. He brought the diary with him, of course, unwilling to let it be out of his sight for even a moment. He set it on the bathroom counter as he slipped into the tub, not wanting to get it wet. 

He’d intended on taking a long, relaxing bath, but seeing Wyll’s diary sitting right there, unfinished, was incredibly tempting to him. He at least managed to fully wash his long hair before practically vaulting from the water in his haste to dry off and get back to reading. His hair was taking twice as long now to dry, so Astarion pulled it up into a half-assed bun like in those aesthetic “Just Maiden Things” pamphlets he used to read. No one was around to see him anyway. 

Astarion decided to read the last two entries in the comfort of his bed. The throne and then the floor had made his thighs sore, and not even for any fun reasons. He stretched out on his bed, adjusted his hair beneath his head propped up on his pillows, and opened the diary again. Anxiety instantly pooled in his stomach, but he pushed through it. 

~

1529

Karlach’s engine has finally been fixed. I did not dare write about it before now, in case it failed, but now I write with such joy I can hardly put my thoughts to paper. 

Once I’d returned to Avernus after my father’s death, Karlach had been waiting for me, safe and alive. She’d given me that crushing hug she’d promised, I’d shed a few more tears, and then we were back on our way. That was about thirty years ago, now. 

I admit I had mostly forgotten about this diary. I have failed in my efforts to document the things I most wish to remember. I’m sure there are many things that have happened in the past thirty years that I have long forgotten for not having written them down. There were days when the idea would hit me, but I’d simply have no motivation to write even a single word. It has been a very difficult time for me. 

But Karlach’s health has given me the energy to write this now.

She’d received word from her old cambion friend, Flo, not even a year after my father’s passing. Flo offered to help Karlach, for our help in return. It was a deal with a devil without being an official deal, so it wasn’t legally binding by the rites and contracts of the hells. For whatever reason, Flo decided to trust us at our word. And for whatever reason, we trusted her for the same.

We waited a bit for her request. When it came, we almost didn’t take it seriously. Flo had invited us to stay at her manor in the hells. There were no further terms nor conditions listed in her letter. She did not elaborate on whether or not she wanted us as guests, or as servants. All she wrote was “stay with me for a while”.

When we arrived, hackles raised, and blades ready for a fight, we were met by none other than Hope, the kind dwarf we’d helped free from Raphael decades ago. She looked well, much better than she had when we’d last parted ways. 

And so much had changed. I think I will write what I remember here, not only so that I don’t forget it, but also so that I can make sense of it. 

Hope’s sister, Korilla, had healed over time from Raphael’s torment. She and Hope had been given the same treatment, but where Hope had gone mad, Korilla had given in to spare herself. Theirs is a sorrowful tale, but they are both well now, and have mended their relationship. Once Korilla had recovered, she regained memories of a former lover she’d had - someone who had tempted her to seek out a devil patron in the first place, and had gotten her and Hope trapped in the hells. And it was none other than Flo.

Apparently, they’d reunited on less than friendly terms. Though something must have gone well since then, because when we arrived at Flo’s manor, she and Korilla were quite preoccupied with each other, which is why Hope was the one who greeted us. Hope told us everything with her characteristic excitement and enthusiasm, and I was happy to see how much more herself she had become. 

Flo revealed she’d asked us to stay with her for purely social intentions. She said Hope missed us, Korilla trusted us, and she missed Karlach herself. She didn’t think she’d get us to come unless she made it into a deal, and so a deal she made it. We arrived, and she promised to get to work on Karlach’s engine. 

It took this long. Flo went through hundreds of models of the engine, she pored over thousands of different schematics, and spent almost every single day looking at Karlach’s engine, running tests on the engine, and making adjustments as she went. 

Flo had told us that there were two possible ways to cure Karlach: either by making enough adjustments to her current engine that it would be able to reliably operate in the material plane, or by making an entirely new engine that would replace hers, and was constructed properly and with pieces that could be sustainably repaired over time. 

The issue with Karlach’s engine was that it had been made quickly, haphazardly, and with the intention of failing once Karlach left Avernus, so that she would remain bound to Zariel. Another issue was that Flo had been the one to make it. Karlach hadn’t taken that news too well, understandably. 

Once we’d calmed her down, Flo claimed the guilt ate at her to this day, and she only did it because Zariel forced her to. I’m not sure if Karlach believed that, but she at least gave Flo the benefit of the doubt. It was a testament to Karlach’s strength and her pursuing heart that she didn’t kill Flo immediately after getting her engine fixed. 

Flo opted to remake it properly. She said fixing the old one would only remain reliable if Karlach returned for checkups in Avernus, which Karlach had laughed at. Flo had understood, and admitted it was easier to just make a new one anyway. 

Karlach still holds suspicion over Flo’s intentions. I had the privilege of being able to take Flo at face value, but Karlach had suffered at her and Zariel’s hands so thoroughly that trust might never be found again. Still, whether Flo did it because she cared, or because she wanted allies in a fight against Zariel, it didn’t matter. She did as she promised.

Karlach’s engine is fixed, for good. A new, powerful, and sustainable engine fuels her, and she burns bright but controlled. She even sweats in Avernus now, which is something only I had suffered since we’d arrived. But she does not suffer it, she revels in it, and I have a new appreciation for sweat as a result. 

She has that effect quite often. Things I took for granted, things I disliked or just didn’t care for, I now find joy in, because she does. 

After a while spent out here I had told her I didn’t know her birthday, and she said she didn’t know it either, so we'd celebrated it right then with a lit cigar as a candle and a burnt piece of bread as the cake. She’d laughed the whole time, she’d belted the birthday song along with me, and when she blew out her candle she’d said aloud: “I wish to have Wyll as my friend until I die”. 

At the time, her possible death still felt close enough to reach, and the wish had saddened me. But now, the memory fills me with joy, and the hope that maybe just this once, one of us will get what we wish for. We’ve already saved her from her old engine’s burnout. I believe now, more than ever, that we will face anything that comes our way, and we will survive it all, so long as we have each other. 

For the first time in a long while, I hope for a better tomorrow. 

~

Astarion inhaled deeply. The last entry was several pages long, and was dated the same day he had awoken from his magic-induced sleep. The same day Wyll had died. 

If his heart could still beat, he knew it would be hammering at his chest now. Astarion curled in on himself atop his bed that was too big for him alone, and he continued reading. 

Chapter Text

Elient - 1592. 

It’s been an entire century since I first stepped foot in Avernus. 

Karlach and I had planned on leaving as soon as her engine was fixed. And we did, for a bit, just to visit. Though I couldn’t bear to see Baldur’s Gate again. I knew I would be recognised, but more importantly, I knew Astarion would still be there. I could not face him. I’d come too far to let myself be dragged down again. Now, though, I wish I had given in. I wish I'd seen him one last time. 

We visited Gale in his tower at Waterdeep. Halsin was there too, which we’d both found a little odd, but it was nice to see the both of them at once. We also saw Shadowheart in her new cabin, with Lae’zel and their children. Once, we even spent an entire month in the Underdark with Minthara. She was regaining power over her domain, and she’d been surprisingly overjoyed to see Karlach again. Well, surprising for Minthara, at least. It is not at all surprising to feel joy at seeing Karlach. I assume everyone would. 

But visit as we did, we never stayed. Our goals grew, at the same time as Mizora decided to return. She had more missions for me, of increasing difficulty, until I was certain she was trying to get me to die and become a lemure faster. All the while, Flo had developed an infernal technology that could trap Zariel long enough to kill her. 

Flo’s plans had to be discussed carefully, as killing Zariel meant having the ability to kill Mizora. Of course, I was more focused on the former, for Karlach’s sake, but I wouldn’t endanger the plans by accidentally letting Mizora peek in. 

Even now, I hesitate to write any more about it, in case Mizora sees it through my eye. I can always tell when she looks through it, but it is still a risk. 

Karlach and I, along with Flo, Hope, and Korilla, were meant to kill Zariel together within the next tenday. The decades spent planning all led to this. And yet, I am no longer in Avernus, because my city needs me. 

I received word from Florrick that the Cult of the Dragon had joined forces with lingering Bhaalists, and they were making one final attempt at bringing Tiamat to the material plane. 

I did not let Karlach join me. I did not tell her this, but I have had a feeling about it since the letter arrived. It is like an itching beneath the skin, like hair rising on the back of the neck just before the strike of lightning. 

I have a very strong sense that I will die. Whether it is during the oncoming fight, or after, when my wounds are too great to heal, I feel that it will come. It is why I am bothering to write at all, now. I should be preparing, going through my steps, recalling every bit of my magic to the surface to fight with. And yet, I am sitting in the same guest room I took residence in all that time ago, and I am writing. 

There are so many things I wish to say. First, if this is to be my death-day, then I beg of anyone who finds this diary to please share it with all of my friends who still live. If you can, find Karlach, first. She’ll find the others. Hells, you could even print this and publish it, I don’t care. I just need to know that my loved ones will see my words when I am no longer around to give them.

I’d never intended on sharing the contents of my diary. It was a passion project done only for myself, so that I could reread it and reminisce later in life over the things I have faced. But now that I sense death’s presence like the return of an old friend, I feel almost panicked about leaving this behind. If I die tonight, I need to be sure that my friends find this. 

If I don’t die, then I will simply tear these pages out in the morning, and maybe laugh about it with Karlach in the future. 

I promised her I’d come right back. Despite my dread, I do hope that Tiamat does not make an even worse liar of me. For all Karlach has faced, the least she deserves is having someone steadfast at her side. 

Now, to each of my friends, who I still think of every day, and miss with every part of me:

Lae'zel. You have told me and I have heard great tales of your accomplishments in the Astral plane. You are the saviour of your people, and I cannot overstate my joy that you have a sort of crèche of your own, with Shadowheart. It is the least you both deserve, for what hells you've faced. You are incredible, you always have been, and I am so glad that now, others know it too. That you are entirely yourself, free of Vlaakith’s tyranny. 

You were always an inspiration to me. I found myself looking up to you like you were a hero from my favourite tales, finding comfort in your bravery, perspective in your wisdom, and courage in your never-ending strength. You never went easy on me, and I needed that. You did not hold back from voicing what you believed, and I was moved by that. It was an honour to fight by your side, all that time ago. But it was even more an honour to have grown beside you, and to have witnessed your growth. I felt a camaraderie with you unlike any other. I will always care for you, in this life and whatever may come after. 

Shadowheart. I never had siblings, but I always felt you were the closest thing to it. Ours was an unlikely friendship, at first, but even before you regained memories of who you were, I saw who you were beneath the shadow of uncertainty. There were times I swear we could read each other's minds without use of the tadpoles. Not to mention our shared taste in good trash novels, and odd humour. I wish I'd had a friend like you when I was a boy. I know I wouldn't have felt so alone. In another lifetime, I think we would have been causing childish mayhem together. 

Witnessing you turn from Shar and embrace who you are was an honour I'll never forget. Seeing your heart shine through even the foggiest bits of your memories was a wonder. I always was, and always will be, in awe of you. No matter how much Shar took away, she could never fully erase who you are. And who you are is someone so bright and so full of love and life that not even the heaviest darkness could suffocate your light. I still believe to this day that Shar targeted you because your very existence posed to be her biggest threat. I will always care for you, in this life and whatever may come after.

Gale. Gods, even writing your name puts the most boyish grin on my face. I have never known someone who both frustrates me to wits’ end, and eases my worries with your presence alone. There were times in our journey I wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into you, and other times still I felt moored by your words of wisdom and support. Regardless of our differences, I always knew that you had my back, and that meant more to me than I could ever say. 

I could not be prouder of how far you've come. Your presence is such a strong and jovial thing that I know I would suffer the absence of you like a severed limb had you let yourself die, and the mere thought of the possibility of losing you had been enough to sicken me. You have always been worth so much more than some deity’s opinion of you, and I am forever grateful that you came to see that, too.  I will always care for you, in this life and whatever may come after.

Karlach. Dear, kind, brilliant Karlach. In all the time we've known each other, I have not had to suffer your absence for long, and so I've never had to consider what to say to you should the prospect of never seeing you again arise. I'm afraid I'm quite at a loss, now, for what to say. I don't want to think I've taken your friendship for granted, but I am as susceptible to the privilege of habits as anyone else.

I have loved all of our companions with a significance I had not known myself capable of. And yet, you were and have always been my dearest friend. You bring me joy when I think myself incapable of it. You have kept me alive even when the task seemed impossible. Even when the greatest threat to my life was myself. You have understood me in ways I did not even understand myself. 

You are a beacon in the deepest and darkest of nights. You are the song in any desolate quiet. You are the steady hand that carries the sword, the gentle wind that sings through the trees, the warmth of the most familiar hearth. Your very heart was taken from you, but one would not know it in knowing you. You love fully, and freely, and you have held on to every part of yourself that Zariel tried and failed to chip away, no matter how hard it got. You inspire me, you motivate me, you comfort me and you bring me joy to an indescribable degree. I only hope I have been able to return even a fraction of the happiness you've given me. 

Making my pact in the first place gave me a purpose as a hero to the people. A purpose I still serve, even now, and a purpose I will serve to my dying breath. But there has been no purpose a greater honour to me than that of being your friend. And Karlach, hear me now, as you've heard me all these years: it was all worth it. All of it. I would suffer any of it again, I would go back through it the same way, if it meant being by your side once more. I do not regret a thing. I never have. 

I love you, Karlach, in a way I know only you will understand. I dare say the realms have never known a friendship so strong and so grand as ours. Whatever happens to me tonight, promise me that you will live your life to its fullest. It is my greatest wish. You will always, always , have me by your side. And should my soul ever leave my body, it will always find its way to your heart. 

Now, finally, Astarion. I have thought of these words endlessly, repeatedly, for the past century. I do not know if you will ever see this. But I would pray to any god that you do. 

There has not been a day in my life since I met you that I have not thought of you. And there has not been a thought of you in my mind that, regardless of pain or sadness or grief or anger, was not also awash with deep, bone-gripping love. I have known all this time that my heart is forever yours. I might even suspect you took the real thing - there could be no other explanation for the endless, gaping ache in my chest I've felt every day since we parted. 

Before my father died, I told him of you. I asked him how it had felt to lose my mother, and how he was ever able to lessen the pain of it. He said simply “It is the absence of the best part of yourself. And the pain never lessens.” I thought even then, as I think now, that he was sugar-coating it still. That his words did not begin to cover the depth at which it hurts. And there is shame but also certainty in my knowledge of this: I mourn the loss of my father every single moment, but the pain of losing you has been deeper. Maybe it is because I was able to make amends with my father before he died. Maybe it is because the love I have for you is so singular and vibrant that it could not be competed with. Regardless of the reason, I do so desperately wish I’d made amends with you.

I know I failed you. I know that I share the blame for the way things ended. What's worse is that I know how easy it would have been to keep you, had I been any other person but myself, doomed to lose you forever in the end. 

You said I would regret leaving you. I do not, because I know it was the right choice. But I regret everything after. I regret my distance from you. I regret the last time I saw you. I regret both allowing you what little bit of my time you took when I'd visited my ailing father, and not giving you more of my time then. I have not heard of nor seen you since, and it is all a pain I have never healed from. 

I hope you're out there still. I hope ascension is everything you ever wanted, and that you live it with no regrets. It is the least you owe to every soul you sacrificed; including your own. 

I am in love with you even now. I have been in love with you all this time, and I will die in love with you. You were my guiding light, my tether, my lifeline. And I'm so sorry. Would that I could do it all again, I know I would not make the same mistake of letting you lose yourself. But I would still choose to love you, every time. No matter what. 

Now I wish only that you are well. I love you, Astarion. My precious star.

That is all I can bear to write. If I die tonight, I will do so as I lived, serving this great city. I hope for what little I have asked all my life, that my request for my words to reach my friends’ eyes be fulfilled. And that not a word of this will be changed. 

Eternally yours, all of yours, 

Wyll Ravengard. 

Chapter Text

Astarion no longer needed to feed. He no longer required sustenance of any kind to function, and the act of drinking blood was now only partaken as an enjoyable pastime. And yet, he could be convinced that he was dying from the ache of thirst and hunger now, as he wept every last drop of water his body contained. 

Sprawled on his bed that was far too big for him alone, Astarion drowned in his sorrows, and swore his skin might soon crystalise for how drenched in salty tears he was. Wyll had described pain immeasurable, and yet Astarion had felt it in every possible way, and felt it still. Wyll's parting gift was the burden of his own broken heart, manifested in Astarion's dead one. 

Wyll had died a hero of Baldur's Gate. He had died a loyal servant of the people. He had died a steadfast protector and saviour of the damned. But above all, he'd died in love with Astarion. And Astarion was ashamed that it had taken that much for him to see just how thoroughly he had ruined the best thing he'd ever had. 

Wyll had said he wished for Astarion to find his ascension worth it all. But Wyll was the only one who'd ever made anything worth it. 

In a sudden fit of desperation and madness, Astarion threw himself from his bed, and clawed his way to the nearest window. He tore open the curtains, down on his knees, and scraped and pounded at the thick glass. 

“I take it back!” he cried, his voice hoarse and raw from sobbing. “I take it back! I don't want it! Please, I don't want it!”

It was utterly foolish, and a vain attempt at repentance. The gods had never heard his prayers when he'd been under Cazador's control, and even if they heard him now, they'd surely ignore him for what he's done. He deserved their wrath most high, so it was a mercy to only have their silence. Even still, Astarion had never been the smartest of creatures. And if there was one skill he'd never lost, it was how to beg. 

“Please!” he screamed, wondering how the glass didn't shatter before him. “Please, I don't want it, take it back, give them back! Give- give him back…”

All at once exhausted, Astarion slumped against the window sill, and slid down until he was practically lying on the ground again. 

“Give him back,” he whispered. He had no tears left, and so he only shook viciously, dry sobs rattling his frame. “Please. I need him. I need Wyll.”

He lost his voice entirely, resigning himself to his miserable state. What good was all his power if he was useless to bring Wyll back? 

Astarion had given up everything he'd ever wanted for this pitiful fate. The best he could hope for now was a complete and irreversible death. 

Chapter Text

Where time had been Wyll’s ‘worst enemy’, as he’d so claimed, it was all Astarion had left in his miserable life. The cruel irony of it was enough to manifest the feeling of a stake in his chest, twisting and burning. But few things didn’t hurt him, these days. 

He tried making his way through the streets of Baldur’s Gate again, only to see Wyll in every shadow, to hear his voice in every laugh, to feel his touch in every gentle breeze. He remained invisible, not wanting to risk being recognised again, but it was little comfort when he now heard his name whispered between gossiping groups and shouted by news-criers. 

Almost every citisen he passed carried a copy of Wyll’s diary somewhere on their person. It was like the city’s new religious text. Astarion figured Wyll was now more popular than Balduran, the way the people obsessed over every piece of him that was left. Even his statue had more flowers and trinkets placed around it than the city’s founder. 

Astarion did smirk at that. Despite the reveal of Balduran’s illithid state, Wyll had still respected the legend, even though he deserved the people’s reverence far more. Now, he was finally getting it. 

Still, the constant reminder that Wyll had loved and lived and now, no longer did so, was enough to leave Astarion weakened and plagued with various emotions, all painful, that he hadn’t felt in centuries. 

Astarion returned to his manor and read through Wyll’s diary again. He shed tears, again, which he hadn’t thought himself capable of. He left briefly in the night to feed on troublemakers haunting the city’s alleyways, returned drenched in blood, and read the diary once more. Shed more tears; though they were less debilitating, this time around. 

Just as he began reading the diary for a fourth time, there was a barrage of banging against his front door. Astarion startled, leaping from his bed in seconds and dashing to the foyer. Apprehension flooded him, and dread kept him from just flinging the doors wide open, but there was no fear. In fact, for all the violent rattling of the large wooden doors, Astarion felt oddly calm. He sniffed a few times, and caught the scent of several, sweaty townspeople. There were shouts, muffled against the door, that had him tilting his head curiously. Whoever this hoard was, they didn’t sound particularly angry. 

Astarion turned into mist and slipped through the crack beneath the door. He wove through dozens of pairs of shoes, ranging from well kept and expertly cobblered to mud-caked and fraying. He floated up to the jagged roof of the manor and resumed his regular form, keeping himself invisible just in case. 

It was a crowd of civilians; no more than twenty, but still enough to cause quite the riot on his doorstep. One at the front, most likely their leader, was banging at the door, shouting his name. 

“Just a moment of your time, Lord Astarion!” the person cried, and only then did Astarion notice a quill behind their ear and a pad of parchment in their hands. 

Journalists, Astarion thought, amused. Perhaps I’ll give them a story.

Floating back down to the ground, Astarion placed himself behind the crowd, and dropped his invisibility. He leaned against one of the columns of the portico, and observed his nails aimlessly. None of the crowd seemed to notice his presence yet. He tried a few more poses, leaning against the columns and twisting around obnoxiously, to no avail. Finally, he cleared his throat loudly for good measure.

Sure enough, one at the back - a gnome, judging by their ears and short stature - turned to Astarion, their eyes widening in an instant. 

“There!” they shouted, drawing the attention of the group. 

Everyone turned then, eyes comically wide and hands twitching at their notepads, ready to write. 

“Why must you bother me now?” Astarion asked, splaying his fingers to further check his perfect nails. “I am grieving.” 

They instantly assaulted him with questions, most of which he couldn’t catch over others.

“Is it about the Blade, Lord Astarion?” 

“Can you tell us your thoughts on Wyll Ravengard’s diary?” 

“Did you really use your vampire charm to enthrall the Blade of Frontiers?”

Astarion scoffed at that one, crossing his arms over his chest. He shot the journalist who asked it - a frail human, long purple hair framing their paper-white face - a menacing glare, and they ducked their head in fear. 

“Get off of my property,” Astarion spat, “or I’ll have the most luscious feast in centuries.” He tilted his head. “Maybe I’ll make a few of you my spawn, if you grovel nicely.”

Most of the journalists instantly scattered, some even dropping their writing materials as they fled. Others, who clearly didn’t value their lives, remained - including the one leading the charge against Astarion’s poor door. 

“We just want your voice in this!” the leader cried, wagging their quill at him. They took Astarion’s lack of an immediate response as encouragement, the foolish thing, and gestured to their notepad. “Could you tell us how you felt when you broke the Blade’s heart?” 

Astarion brandished his fangs and lunged, sinking his teeth deep in the neck of the audacious journalist. Their dying gurgle was overpowered by the shrieks of terror as the few remaining of the crowd dispersed, shouting curses at Astarion and pleas to their gods. Once Astarion was sure there wasn’t a drop of blood left in the wretched creature, he released them, watching with satisfaction as they crumbled to the ground, dead. 

Wyll would be angry with him for that. But he did warn them, after all. 

As further warning, Astarion left their corpse on his doorstep, and went back inside. 

~

The visits didn’t stop. 

Astarion thought he’d been positively and utterly polite in how he’d handled the first group of journalists, all things about his past considered. Still, they stepped over and even trampled the body he’d left behind and banged against his door every day; sometimes even several times a day. 

He tried to ignore them at first. Whether it was journalists, curious civilians, or the Flaming Fists themselves, Astarion wouldn’t give any of them his time. And yet, they insisted on invading his time regardless. 

Once, when he’d decided to open the door rather than sneak out, he was almost pushed aside by an angry mob brandishing torches and pitchforks. They cried Wyll’s name like they had a right to, like they’d known him, which they fucking hadn’t. They shouted for Astarion to burn, they threatened to kill him, and he could only handle so much nonsense before his instincts took over, and he’d drained every last one of them in moments. He sighed at the corpses littering his doorway. He’d have to do something about them. 

Astarion decided the best course of action was to leave a trail from the postern door to his own, just to be sure no one would make it to his knocker without spotting evidence of their fate should they bother him. The knocking finally stopped, and no more aggravating little mortals bothered him after that. 

Then, when Astarion was lounging in his throne once more, reading Wyll’s diary for perhaps the hundredth time, a bit of swirling, purple magic appeared before him. He frowned, swatting at it, but it simply flittered about his fingers. Then, it approached his face, and popped in a mist of glistening violet as a voice rang out. 

“Greetings!” it said. “I only have a few words, so I’ll get to the point. I'm a bard. I’d like your input on a song I’m writing!”

The mist dissipated immediately, and Astarion blinked in its sudden absence. He frowned, knowing the spell to have been one of the sending sort, though he didn’t recognise the voice. Astarion shrugged to himself, and settled back in his throne, resuming his reading. 

Within a minute, yet another puff of purple magic swirled before him. When it burst, the same voice filled the air. 

“I’ll be more forthright,” they said. “Meet me beneath the bridge to the House of Grief tonight at sunset. I promise to make it worth your time.”

Astarion snorted. The audacity of these mortals was quite astounding. Astarion wondered if this is what his life would have been like, had he been more public with his presence as a Vampire Lord from the start. If it is, he certainly would have had his own spawn by now. 

… Perhaps there was something to this, after all.

“Alright,” Astarion said aloud. 

He didn’t know if the pathetic bard - whoever the hells they were - could hear him, but he didn’t care either way. Astarion contented himself with rereading Wyll’s diary until sunset, plotting in the back of his mind. 

~

He waited until a little bit after sunset, just to keep the bard on their toes. He arrived as an invisible bat, and perched on the edge of the bridge, small eyes scanning his surroundings in the growing darkness. 

Astarion spotted a purplish tiefling holding a lute and leaning against the wall, right next to the bit of graffiti Shadowheart had admitted to leaving behind in her youth. The memory tugged at Astarion’s chest painfully, but he dismissed it as he flew down to meet the bard. 

The tiefling startled as he revealed himself, but quickly smiled when they recognised him. 

“Lord Astarion,” they said, giving a small bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Have we not met before?” he asked, something about the tiefling seeming very familiar to him.

“No, unfortunately not,” they said. “Though I was able to send a message to you thanks to Wyll Ravengard’s diary, and my great-grandmother Alfira’s own stories about you. Why, I could practically know you just from that!” 

Astarion rolled his eyes deeply. Of course Alfira’s wretched bloodline continued to plague him. At least that explained the familiarity of the tiefling’s features. 

“My name is Dalfira,” they said cheerfully. “I honestly wasn’t sure you were still alive, but it truly is good to finally meet you.”

“Hang on,” Astarion began, furrowing his brow. “Your name is Dalfira?” he asked incredulously. 

“Of course!” they replied with a bright grin. “It’s a family tradition. Great-grandmother Lakrissa insisted on naming their first child after Alfira, so he was called Balfira. He’s my grandfather, you see. Then his child, my parent, was named Calfira. And so, I am Dalfira!” 

They finished their explanation with a little curtsy, just as bubbly as Alfira had been. Astarion blinked at them. 

“That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” he said. 

Dalfira seemed to deflate, just a bit, but their smile remained. 

“No worries,” they said. “Everyone’s different.” 

Astarion scoffed at that. 

“Now, if I could please ask you a few questions?” they began. “Just so I can find some inspiration for my song. It’s going to be about the Blade’s scorned lover!” Dalfira’s smile suddenly turned malicious. “You see,” they added, leaning in conspiratorially, “I’m of the mindset that the Blade of Frontiers was not as good as he made himself seem. That his title as Heart of the Gate is an irony, and his kindness was all a facade to manipulate the people into worshipping him. What are your thoughts on that?” 

Astarion clenched his jaw. Had he been asked that even a year ago - or at least, he assumed it had been a year since Wyll’s diary was published, though he didn’t know for sure - he would have said absolutely. Of course Wyll wasn’t as good as he made himself seem. He was foolish, naïve, pathetic, and arrogant. He’d abandoned Astarion and he’d abandoned Karlach and he’d suffered for more power and he’d died as miserably as he’d lived. 

Astarion knew differently, now. Wyll wasn’t as good as he’d made himself seem; he was better.  

He inhaled slowly, gathering his voice. 

“Wyll Ravengard,” he snarled, “was the most perfect man to ever walk this plane. Or any plane, for that matter,” he added, recalling Avernus. “If you’ve called me here just to insult him, I suggest you think again, lest you lose your insufferable life.”

Dalfira blinked, their smile falling away in an instant. Astarion leaned in further, showing off his fangs as he grinned coldly. 

“My heart is utterly dead, darling,” he hissed, “and yet Wyll made it beat again. Write a song about that irony.” 

With that, Astarion turned and vaulted into the sky as a bat once more, leaving the useless bard to gape in his absence. 

~

Within a tenday, a new paper went out amongst the people, featuring an interview with Dalfira. Astarion stole a copy out of curiosity, and read it in the safety of his manor. 

Dalfira told of her meeting with Astarion, describing him as mangy and unkempt. Astarion thought that was unfair. He’d just bathed in the past year! Dalfira went on to recount their conversation, and while Astarion was used to bards glorifying the truth, he was still appalled by the audacity of this descendant of Alfira. 

“He was menacing, and cruel,” Dalfira said in the paper. “Not to me - but to the Blade of Frontiers, of all people!” 

Astarion sneered. 

“He said the Blade had been a heartless bastard, that his kindness was a facade to get people to worship him.” 

The interviewer noted in the paper that Dalfira paused for a moment to dab at their eyes with a handkerchief. Astarion groaned. 

“Of course, I don’t believe him. The Heart of the Gate is one of Wyll Ravengard’s titles for a reason, after all! But it was so frightening to hear Lord Astarion’s conviction in his accusation. Either there’s a side to Wyll that only he ever saw, or he truly is as heartless and foul as Wyll said he was after ascending.” 

Astarion tore the paper to shreds, slicing with his teeth and claws until it was no longer legible, just a pile of strips of parchment at his feet. That wretched bard was lucky he’d shown them such grace as to let them live; but if Astarion saw them again, he would remedy that mistake. 

As if on cue, more knocking sounded at his door. Shouts echoed down his halls, angry and loud. Astarion roared, flying to his foyer and slipping beneath his door as mist just as he had the first time. This time, however, when he reformed before them, he did not give them a chance to run. 

There were more enraged civilians gathered at his door than ever before, but you wouldn’t know it for the mass of blood and viscera he made of them.

Chapter Text

Gossip filled the streets of the city, as it always did. Foul mutterings of Astarion reached his ears as he stalked the cobbled roads, invisible as always. The massacre he’d made of the mob at his door only served to fuel the peoples’ hatred of him; if they’d suspected he was heartless before, they knew it with certainty now. 

It was a damn pity that even his attempt to honour Wyll for the first time in centuries was used against him, and spun into something horrible. Wyll had died with his legacy intact, and it was defended to this day, centuries later, by people who never knew him. Yet Astarion was punished for doing the same. He supposed he'd earned it, by now, but it still twisted something foul within his gut that of all the things he could have said about Wyll, it was the good, heartfelt truth that was marred.

Astarion had to admit defeat. Wyll had won their little rivalry without even trying. He hadn’t needed to outlive Astarion to overcome him; he’d only needed the people’s love, and loyalty - things he won by nature of who he was, by his good deeds and his ever-caring heart, rather than his power. Astarion saw that now. And it had taken him too fucking long to. 

Songs were still sung. Books were still written. Wyll’s statue remained polished and ever-laden with offerings. His name was known, his life was revered, and his memory was honoured by all. Astarion didn’t stand a chance. He never did. 

This time, when he confined himself to his bedroom to weep, it was one of bitterness, grief, and fury. Gods damn Wyll, gods damn Dalfira, gods damn the paper that published that libel, and gods damn every citisen of Baldur’s Gate who believed it. 

It seemed they wanted a monster, after all. Astarion could give them that. 

~

Wyll would hate him. More than he had after Astarion had ascended. That thought didn’t stop him in his actions, however. It only made him hate himself even more. 

Bodies adorned the walls of the manor. Anyone and everyone who had ever crossed his threshold was killed, and displayed. Dalfira had made themself scarce, clearly hiding from Astarion’s ire that would reach them tenfold if he ever found them. 

A new rumour spread that Astarion was no vampire lord, but a Bhaalspawn. That one made him laugh. He and his friends had killed that wretched god's last spawn. And he was no one’s slave anymore. 

Rumours and gossip had once been one of Astarion's favourite pastimes. He was loath to sit by and let it happen without him, even now. So, he decided to remedy that. 

Taking to the streets once more, as invisible and untouchable as ever, Astarion spread his own whispers and hushed assumptions. Lord Astarion is secretly a vampire dragon, he breathed into the ears of a group of halflings. Lord Astarion feeds on the souls of innocents, and each victim only grows his power, he hissed between a young couple in the park. 

These rumours noticeably went nowhere; so Astarion got creative. He, in fact, got silly. 

“I heard Lord Astarion is actually three kobolds in a cloak,” he whispered, repeatedly, to several wandering civilians, holding a laugh behind his hand every time. 

“I heard that the Blade of Frontiers tried to kill Lord Astarion,” he told a little book club in the library, “but the vampire was revived by the dead god Jergal due to a centuries-long pact.”

“I heard that Wyll Ravengard's favourite food was wet kale leaves.”

“I read somewhere that the Blade of Frontiers wrote trashy smut novels under the pseudonym ‘Theodore Solomon’.”

“Someone said Wyll’s name actually has two Y’s in it.”

The rumours went on, each more unbelievable than the next, but it kept Astarion busy, and it was the most fun he’d had in centuries. The next few papers, and stories told round the city, contained variations of his own contributions; never exact, but close enough to tickle what was left of his funny bone. And, for a time, it distracted the citisens from their outright hatred of Astarion. The people of Baldur’s Gate truly had no idea of his power.

Surprisingly, after some time, an independent newspaper was published, giving Astarion the benefit of the doubt. The author, who remained anonymous - perhaps to keep their reputation - argued that those who tried to make Astarion out to be nothing more than a heartless monster showed how little they actually cared for and trusted the Blade. The author said that while Wyll had written of Astarion’s changes after his ascension, he’d also written about Astarion’s heart; and if the Blade had chosen him to love, when he could have had anyone, that must mean Astarion was special. 

Astarion read it with amusement, and even kept it on his bedside table - careful not to let it touch Wyll’s diary, which also rested there, and was always within arm's reach of Astarion - to look over when he was bored. There was a unique kindness in how the author of the paper wrote about Astarion that felt distantly like something Wyll would write, and he decided Wyll would like this anonymous defender of Astarion’s name, even if it was a bunch of naïve drivel. Astarion was a heartless monster. Even Wyll had known it, when they’d last seen each other. 

The loving man Wyll had seen in him, the caring person Astarion may have once been, was long gone. So it was a bit odd that Astarion found himself reaching for it; chasing after a version of himself he’d lost, scrambling desperately for the chance to care again, no matter how much it hurt. 

But Wyll had made all of the hurt worth it. And Astarion had driven him away. No, Astarion was truly lost. Unredeemable. A monster to end all monsters. His anonymous defender was misguided. Wyll had seen good where there was none. 

Astarion buried himself in his bedsheets and blankets, hoping for the thousandth time that he might be smote in his trance. 

Chapter Text

Decades must have passed. Astarion was certain of it. 

He spent his lonely, purposeless days wandering the city as a ghost, feeding on anyone who annoyed him, and hiding in his bedroom for days (or what felt like years) at a time. 

He still hadn’t cut his hair. What was the point? Wyll’s lover Astarion had short, well-coiffed hair. This abominable mess that wore Astarion’s face, didn’t. It was as simple as that. 

He bathed only to keep the smell of death off of him. He fed only to feel something other than pain. He listened to the people’s gossip, which had eventually shifted to other menial things rather than his own sorry excuse of a life, just to pretend he existed for real, rather than as a shadow of anything he once was. 

One dreadful morning, Astarion was informed it had been exactly one hundred years since Wyll’s death with the announcement of a new holiday in Wyll’s name. The Day of the Blade, the people called it, where they would honour Wyll’s legacy in words and offerings and sing of his deeds and celebrate the lives they had thanks to his heroics. One hundred years since his death - two hundred since the Netherbrain fell - and the people still worshipped him. Though Astarion knew if anyone deserved such a thing, Wyll certainly did. 

But Astarion was reminded of another, less celebratory, fact in this passage of time: he’d officially been a Vampire Ascendant longer than he’d ever been a spawn. The realisation only caused him more bitterness. He’d chosen ascension to escape the sufferings of a spawn, only to suffer anew. 

He honestly couldn’t say which life had been more painful. Surely the torment he faced at Cazador’s hands had been worse; surely his time as a lonely ascended vampire had nothing on the two centuries he’d spent enslaved and abused and broken. And yet, at least as a spawn, he’d had Wyll, for a time. He’d had Wyll, and their friends, who had all provided a reprieve from the suffering, a reprieve that Astarion had more than taken for granted. 

Now he had no one. 

Wyll had wished that Astarion wouldn’t regret his actions, for the sake of the souls he’d sacrificed. Wyll had hoped that Astarion would live well, and that it would all be worth it. Astarion was ashamed that it wasn’t. That his regret was vast, and endless, and all-consuming. Wyll would not just hate him, Wyll would never forgive him, and it was a good thing he’d died without ever having to see Astarion again, because he’d be even more devastated by what he’d find. 

It was pure curiosity that drove Astarion’s hand, wielding a broken table leg, to his own chest. He’d tell anyone it was simply a test; he was bored, and just wanted to see what might happen. 

Pain unimaginable erupted through Astarion’s body, burning from his unbeating heart and outward, lighting his empty veins on fire and turning his bones to dust. Though it was only the feeling of it; once the pain had passed, Astarion remained, knelt on the floor and cradling the singed splinters of what was left of the makeshift stake in his palms. The wound closed before his eyes, leaving not even a discolouration behind. 

Undying; and now, unkillable. 

Astarion released the pieces of burnt wood. He joined them on the cold floor, curled in on himself. In place of sleep, he simply let time pass him by, tears drying on his face after what felt like another year. 

~

Another knock on his door startled Astarion from his frozen state. His joints popped with his sudden movement, and he winced, though the discomfort was minimal. 

He waited, and after a moment, he’d resigned himself to returning to his fetal position and never moving again. But then the knocking returned, louder this time, and more pointed, and Astarion groaned as he forced himself to stand. He shuffled his feet all the way to the door, which was a long trip through the winding manor, and the knocking persisted. 

“Hold on,” he groaned. “I’m coming.”  

When he finally reached the door, the knocking stopped suddenly. Astarion paused, frowning. 

“Who is it?” he called, expecting another nosy journalist or maybe some fan of Wyll’s who’d come to threaten his unlife once more. 

The voice on the other side was muffled, but clear, as it replied:

“Fangs?” 

Astarion froze. 

He’d gone mad. Finally, he’d lost his utter mind. That’s what this was. And yet, in a fit of desperation, Astarion found himself throwing open the door with enough force to rattle the hinges. 

Standing in his doorway with a tired smile, burning bright but controlled, and wielding a ridiculously large axe, was Karlach. 

Chapter Text

She looked older; more lines ran through her face, and there was a spot of gray at the roots of her coal-black hair, still shaved on one side and messily braided on the other. Twice as many scars now littered her skin, some deep and faded and others raised and vibrant. There was a new tattoo on her right shoulder, done over the burned flesh, depicting a blood-red gladiolus flower tinted with purple at the tips of the petals. It prickled something familiar in the back of Astarion’s mind, but he couldn’t recall what at the moment. 

Karlach stood before him, brighter than ever, and just as mighty as she was the last time he’d seen her. Astarion blinked rapidly. He rubbed his eyes. He clawed his arms for good measure. Still, Karlach remained, her smile widening with each of Astarion’s attempts to snap himself out of what must be a dream. 

“Morning, soldier,” she said. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” Astarion croaked, guessing from the dark sky. 

“Can I come in?” Karlach asked, beaming. 

Astarion stepped back wordlessly, allowing Karlach to move past him. She gazed about his manor with interest, her smile never fading. 

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said. “Though it’s still a bit empty. No spawn of your own, huh?”

Astarion could only shake his head as she met his eyes. 

“How come?” she asked. “I thought that was what you wanted. ‘Souls begging to serve’, or whatever.” 

“Wyll wouldn’t-” Astarion cut himself off. 

Karlach paused in her exploration, staring at him searchingly. Astarion cleared his throat. 

“Having spawn would only irritate me,” he corrected. “I don’t need them, after all. And I’m quite happy all alone.”

Karlach’s face crumpled in sadness, and for a moment he worried he’d said something different aloud than he’d intended, something closer to the truth. She shook her head reproachfully. 

“You’ve always been the worst liar, Astarion,” she lamented. “Gods, if only I’d known, I would’ve come here sooner!” Her eyes began to glisten as she smiled at him sadly. “Then again, I didn’t check, did I?” She sighed heavily, propping her axe against the wall. “I missed you, you know. I’m sorry you’ve been so lonely.”

I haven't been, Astarion wanted to hiss, but the lie died on his tongue. What the hell was he so afraid of now? This is what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Someone in his life again? Why was his mouth working against him?

“Can I-” Karlach started, suddenly looking nervous. “Can I hug you?”

Astarion blinked at her some more. It took her raised brow for him to realise he hadn’t answered her. 

“I-” 

He lost his voice again, but Karlach couldn’t wait a second longer, and barrelled into him, lifting him off the ground in her large arms. Astarion huffed, his own arms hanging limp at his sides as she squeezed him. Minding her horns, Karlach hooked her chin over his shoulder. She didn’t burn at all; in fact, she felt only as warm as any other living tiefling might. But it was just warm enough to melt something within Astarion that had frozen over long ago. 

He knew he was crying before the first sniffle possessed him, but he couldn’t get it to stop no matter how hard he tried. By the time his tears were enough to drip from his face onto Karlach’s shoulder, she leaned away, her eyes widening as she noticed his sorry state. 

“Are you crying?” she asked incredulously. 

“No,” Astarion sobbed. 

Karlach made a gentle cooing sound as she pulled him close again, rocking him like a child, and Astarion wept pathetically in her arms, his own hands grasping around her abdomen weakly. He spluttered and snotted all over Karlach, but she just shushed him, uncaring for his mess. It only made him cry harder. 

When she began patting his back like she was burping a babe, Astarion’s mortification snapped him out of his tears, and he wriggled out of her grasp like a captured fish. Karlach finally let him down, and he wiped at his eyes and face desperately as she watched him closely. When he could finally keep his eyes open without tears pouring out, he cleared his throat again, and frowned up at Karlach. 

“I’m over it,” he lied. “What did you want?”

Karlach smiled, tears collecting at the bottom of her own eyes, but she wiped them away effortlessly. 

“There’s so much,” she admitted with a laugh. “But if I get into it all right now, I’ll start crying for real, so, first off,” she inhaled shakily, catching her breath. “I need your help.”

Astarion frowned. 

“What the hells could you possibly need my help for?” he asked. “You’re still alive, somehow, and just as much of a powerhouse as ever.”

“Aw, I love you too,” she said, smiling crookedly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “But what I’m asking is a bit too important to do alone.”

“Well? Spit it out.”

“I need your help,” she began tentatively, tapping her fingers against her large thigh, “in freeing Wyll from Mizora.”

For all Astarion had experienced in his un-life, he was certain he was a walking contradiction to every known fact about vampires. That much was obvious when he swore - he swore - his dead heart beat in his chest, for real this time. He held Karlach’s gaze, expecting her to crack a cruel smile and say she was kidding, that she’d returned only to rub in how alone and worthless and pathetic Astarion truly was by reminding him of how he’d never get Wyll back. But her expression remained severe, her eyes pleading. 

“You what?” he gasped. 

“Well, I killed Zariel,” she explained, glancing around restlessly. “Without Wyll, which was sad, but not as sad as thinking he was a lemure, which is what I thought for the longest time. Before we killed her- 'we' being me and Flo, of course, I don’t know if you know that. Oh, also, my engine is fixed,” she added hurriedly, tapping her chest. “Well, it’s a new engine, I should say. All thanks to Flo. Wow, there’s so much to tell you-”

“I read his diary,” Astarion said before he could stop himself. 

It was Karlach’s turn to blink, her eyes wide. 

“Shit,” she whispered. “Oh fuck, I forgot to even- oh Astarion, I’m so sorry, I’ve been a terrible friend.” 

Tears glistened in her eyes again, and Astarion began to panic a bit, not knowing how he could possibly calm her down. 

“I was supposed to give you the diary myself, after I’d finished reading it,” she said. “At least, that’s what I’d planned on doing. But then we killed Zariel, and Wyll-”

“They published it,” Astarion interrupted. “His diary. It was reprinted and sold to anyone in Baldur’s Gate who could read.” 

“Oh,” she frowned. “Well. I’m sure he’d be pissed they charged for it. But still, that’s good. I’m glad you got to read it.” She exhaled heavily, and Astarion wondered if she’d been holding the same breath this whole time. “Gods, it really is so good to see you again. You look horrible, but I’ve missed you so, so much.”

“I look what?” Astarion asked, insulted. 

“So, anyways,” she continued, hopping on her feet, “got my engine fixed, Flo helped me kill Zariel, but before she died, she said- well, we thought she had to be lying, just trying to get under my skin, you know? Or trying to convince me to spare her, which wasn’t gonna fucking happen-”

“Karlach,” he hissed. “What did she say?”

“Right,” Karlach nodded. “She said he was still alive, that Mizora had brought him back as a full devil, not a lemure.” She shook her head wildly. “Isn’t that fucking insane? Of course I didn’t believe her, but then we killed her, which meant Mizora got to take her place, and- oh gods,” Karlach shuddered. “I saw him, Astarion. With my own eyes!”

Astarion froze again. He could hardly hear Karlach over the ringing in his ears as she continued. 

“I don’t- I don’t think he recognised me, which hurts like hell to think about, but it was him,” she breathed. “He was alive, and he had wings and shit, and his eyes were on fire- but, anyways, I almost got myself killed because I was so shocked, so Flo and I had to retreat, but we fucking saw Wyll, Astarion!” 

She finished her speech with a huff, and while her eyes still glistened, she smiled brightly. 

“So. Are you gonna help me save him?”

Astarion opened his mouth to reply, to say something of any substance. Instead, spots suddenly filled his vision, and with a chill shooting up his neck, Astarion lost consciousness. 

~

“-starion? Astarion, come on. Wake up, you old vamp.”

Astarion groaned, wanting that dreadfully loud voice to go away, and let him trance again. He’d been reliving the most wonderful memory of kissing Wyll before a battle, and he wanted to go back to it, please. 

“Don’t make me dump water on you, Fangs,” the very rude voice carried on. “'Cause I will.”

He opened his eyes, squinting to see his attacker. But the sight of Karlach, and her shaking of his shoulders, caused every memory to rush back to him at once. He gasped and jolted up, and Karlach moved back to keep them from crashing foreheads. 

“Wyll,” he blurted, stupidly. 

“Yeah,” Karlach nodded. “We were talking about Wyll.”

Astarion rubbed his temples, his head suddenly pounding. Could vampires even get headaches? For real? Could they faint, either?

“I didn’t think you could pass out,” Karlach said, apparently reading Astarion's mind with her mind-reading powers that she surely had. “But I felt the same way, when I saw him. So I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” he snarled. 

Karlach reeled back, eyes wide, like he’d tried to bite her. 

“You got to have him,” he continued, anger rising in his throat. “All the time he still lived, he was at your side.” 

Karlach frowned, hurt in her eyes. 

“And whose fault is that, mate?” she asked quietly. 

Astarion bore his fangs, but Karlach didn’t flinch. And just as quickly as his temper had risen, it dissipated again, and he sagged, bringing his knees up to his chest. 

“Mine,” he muttered petulantly. 

“That’s right,” Karlach agreed. “Now, I know you’re hurting. At least, I’m pretty sure you’re hurting, judging by all of this,” she added, gesturing at his pathetic form. “But Wyll is alive, and he needs us. So, will you help me?”

Astarion didn’t answer. He stared resolutely at his dirty, hole-ridden trousers. Wyll is alive looped in his head; it was all he could think about, all he could focus on. 

“Astarion,” Karlach said, slowly, like she was calling for her unruly pet. “I know you’re in there, soldier. I saw it.”

“Nuh uh,” Astarion said into his arms, now crossed over his knees. 

Karlach laughed softly, and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah huh,” she argued. “Come on. Where’s the old Fangs I knew and loved?”

“He’s dead,” Astarion insisted. “He gave his soul away for stupid powers.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she was rubbing his shoulder now, and it was more soothing than he’d ever admit. “He’s not dead. You know, he thought Wyll was dead, too. He can be wrong twice.”

Talking about himself in third person started to feel odd to Astarion, so he lifted his head and met Karlach’s eyes, and he was frustrated to find tears in his own again. 

“He hates me,” Astarion said, pouting. “I ruined everything and he hates me and he’ll never forgive me.”

“Astarion, Wyll couldn’t truly hate you if he tried,” Karlach remarked. “And believe me, I saw him try. It was kinda sad.”

“But what if we fail?” he asked. “What if Mizora kills him for real because she knows we’re planning on rescuing him?”

“She’s clearly made him her favourite pet,” Karlach said with a wince. “She wouldn’t get rid of him just like that. But we’ll be careful, yeah? She doesn't know everything. And we will save him. Cause there’s no other acceptable outcome. Right?” 

Astarion nodded, wiping his eyes with his already tear-stained sleeves. 

“Okay,” he replied, nodding. “I’ll help you.”

Karlach cheered and lifted him up in her arms, standing and spinning them around. When she finally put him down, she squeezed his cheeks affectionately. 

“There’s my favourite little vampire,” she said. 

“I’m not little,” Astarion spat, having to tilt his head really far back just to meet her eyes. 

“It’s settled, then. But,” she added hesitantly, “we might need some more help.” Then she beamed. “How do you feel about getting the old band back together?”

~

Astarion had wanted to leave immediately. Not because he was excited to see any of his old friends, as Astarion didn't care that much, but because Wyll needed his help. Which was a… slightly less caring reason. More selfishly in character. Yes, Wyll would think so. Not that Astarion cared about that, either. 

Anyway, Karlach insisted he needed a bath, a change of clothes, and a better hairstyle. He pretended to bite her after that last suggestion, but she only clicked her tongue at him like he was just some mangy house cat. Astarion took his time freshening up - for the first time in centuries, he actually had people to please - using all of his old perfumes and oils that he'd used during their adventures. 

His hair was a bit of a challenge. He couldn't cut it, as he couldn't see it. Karlach offered to cut it, but he took one look at her chop-shop job on her own hair and grimaced, refusing to let her anywhere near his precious curls. 

“Leave it, I guess,” Karlach relented. “Maybe we can get Shadowheart to plait it. And maybe Wyll will like it long.” 

Astarion's eyes widened. Wyll had always had an obsession with Astarion's hair, but if it were even longer, well… Wyll might not stand a chance. 

“Have I ever told you you're the smartest person in all the realms?” Astarion asked her. 

Karlach only laughed at him. 

She spent the time he took cleaning up to go out and get herself some real food, and when he emerged from his bedchambers refreshed and squeaky-clean, she was back, sprawled out in the foyer hall with her own feast. 

“Join me, soldier,” Karlach said through a mouthful of food. 

“You know I can't eat that, darling,” Astarion replied, but he sat next to her anyway. 

As soon as he was on the ground, Karlach wrapped an arm around his shoulders and tugged him in. Astarion huffed and grumbled to keep up appearances, but he didn't even attempt to struggle out of her grasp this time. She continued eating with her other hand, and Astarion sighed exaggeratedly as he ‘gave up’. Karlach chuckled. 

“It's really you again, huh?” she asked. She swallowed thickly and tossed back some water for good measure. “I think if I had tried to hug you after you'd ascended, you would have actually bitten me.”

“I…” Astarion sighed as he trailed off, sinking into Karlach's embrace. It was more of a comfort than he'd ever say aloud. “I don't know. I don't feel like that… that heartless animal I had become, after I ascended. But, I don't feel like how I was before, either.”

Karlach nodded, considering. 

“Maybe that's a good thing,” she suggested. “You're not just a survivor anymore, you know. You've got a long life ahead of you, and you're free of Cazador now. For reals, this time. You have the chance to be better than what he was.” She paused, and scanned Astarion's face carefully. “Think you can do that? At least try?” 

Astarion nodded, slowly at first, and then more assured. 

“I think I can do that,” he whispered. 

Karlach beamed at him, and tightened her hold around his shoulders. 

“There's my favourite vamp,” she said. 

Astarion allowed the endearment, this time. 

Chapter Text

Shadowheart was first on the list, being the closest. At least, last they had both heard from her. Astarion wondered distantly if she'd ever taken Lae'zel up on that offer to join her in the Astral plane - it had been two centuries since their group had disbanded by now, after all, which is plenty of time for a half-elf to grow old. But if she had, they wouldn't know until they got there. 

The trek back along the Chionthar, while not the exact same path as they had all taken together once upon a time, still recalled strong memories for Astarion. 

He remembered running through the forests on the hunt for prey; and eventually being joined in his hunts by Wyll, who was always a terrible sleeper when Astarion didn't feed from him. He remembered drinking wine with Shadowheart, though he of course couldn't taste it, and gossiping about other travellers they met along the way or the few patriars they knew the names of or even of their other party members (neither of them had liked Gale, at first). Astarion remembered eavesdropping on Lae'zel telling the others stories of her conquests so he could hear without seeming interested. He remembered Karlach trying to help him relearn how to swim once they'd finally reached Rivington, how he would have drowned if he'd needed air; but Karlach had panicked and attempted to give him chest compressions anyway, before remembering his chest is supposed to not move, and waterlogged lungs didn't bother him. He remembered helping Gale cook for the others, when Wyll was away or too exhausted, because Astarion didn't need to eat, and - he wouldn't admit this if someone held a dagger to his throat - Gale was a decent conversationalist. 

He remembered falling asleep in Wyll's arms, curled up together on the man's small bed roll. He remembered the warmth, and the safety he'd felt there more than anywhere else he'd ever known. Astarion remembered catching Wyll's eye across the battlefield and feeling his dead heart give a little squeeze with how beautiful Wyll was, especially when covered in their enemies’ blood. He remembered kissing Wyll, and despite his every effort to make it more heated, Wyll remained chaste, and deeply loving. He remembered dancing with Wyll; not just that first time in the Shadow-cursed lands, but again a few nights later after they'd killed Ketheric, and again once they'd reached the city, and again, a few nights before they'd stormed Cazador’s manor. Before Astarion had ascended in his old master's place. 

Before Astarion had chosen to remain as miserable as he'd always been; only this time, completely alone. 

Astarion glanced at Karlach who walked resolutely beside him, just to remind himself that he was no longer alone. Karlach, sensing his gaze, turned to look at him, and smiled brightly when she met his eyes. 

“Copper for your thoughts?” she said gently. 

Astarion huffed. 

“Are you really here?” he asked. “I mean, really here? Joining me on some godsforsaken quest to save Wyll, with only the help of our old friends who we don't even know are still alive?”

“Of course they're still alive,” Karlach replied. Though she didn't explain why she thought so. “And yeah, Fangs. I'm here. For reals.” 

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked. 

“But I could ask the same of you,” she noted. “Are you really here with me? Not the twisted thing that wore your face, but my Astarion?” 

“I told you, it's a bit more complicated than that,” he sighed. “I can never be the same Astarion you knew, ever again. I sacrificed seven thousand souls for this meaningless power. And maybe even my own. Not to mention, I made sure to ruin it for everyone else, too.” 

His fingers brushed his side where he'd secured Wyll's diary in a satchel. There were other essentials in there, too - a spare dagger, some vials of poison, an old handkerchief he'd embroidered with his name, the letters from Shadowheart - but the diary was the most important one. Astarion felt the shape of it against the leather pack and felt the slightest twinge of comfort from it. Gods, he was attached to a bloody book. What had he become? 

“There's so much I regret,” he whispered. “There's so much I have done that cannot be remedied. Things that cannot be forgiven.”

“Says who?” Karlach asked. “I think that's up to the people you're asking forgiveness from.” 

“I don't fucking deserve it, Karlach!” he hissed, yanking himself free of her grasp. “Least of all from any of you. From Wyll.” Astarion put his face in his hands. “Gods, I sound just like him, don't I,” he observed, voice muffled by his palms. 

Karlach chuckled at that. Gentle hands grabbed his own, prying them away from his face. Karlach tilted her head down to draw his gaze, but Astarion stared pointedly at the ground. She sighed. 

“Look mate, I'm not the best at forgiving people,” she said. “And I hold grudges like you wouldn't believe. So, deserving or not, you should know it means a fuck-ton that at least I forgive you.”

Astarion looked up at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. 

“It doesn't mean I think you're any good, mind you,” she clarified with a stern raise of her brow. “In fact I think you're pretty rotten for what you did. But I love you, lots, and what you did stopped hurting me ages ago. Now? I'm just happy to have you back in my life.”  

Tears were always a dreadful thing, and Astarion had suffered them far too many times already. What was once more? He pressed his face into her chest, right where her new engine pulsed, just to hide the sight of his miserable self from her. His arms remained limp at his sides, but Karlach's own wrapped around him, squeezing him tight. 

“So long as you promise to do better, from now on,” she continued, “then we're all good in my book.”

Astarion nodded, and Karlach's armour ruffled the wisps of hair that rested at his forehead. She patted his back and then pulled away, taking all of her warmth with her and leaving Astarion's wretched tears on display. 

“I promise,” he said, very steadily and not at all weak and pathetic sounding. 

“Good.” 

Karlach finally turned away and continued walking, allowing Astarion to wipe at his face hastily and spare what little dignity he had left. His confidence was in utter shambles, but if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that he was no longer a mighty vampire lord. The thought didn't scare him nearly as much as it would have a century ago. In fact, it was almost a relief. 

~

Their journey took a good tenday, even with constant travel by daylight; Karlach's endurance could rival that of a sturdy horse, which was a comparison that had made her laugh when he'd voiced it. Astarion realised despite his centuries now of being able to walk in the Sun, he hadn't appreciated it the way he had before the ascension - the way he appreciated it now, with its constant warmth and beautiful glow. One morning when he ended his trance, he saw the first few beams of Sun cut through the morning mist, and the sight was enough to prick tears in his eyes. Though it seemed few things didn't, these days. 

He reread Wyll's diary along the way. It still tore through his undead heart, but for the first time since Astarion could remember, he had hope. Hope that he might see Wyll again, hope that he might be better, hope that he might get to fix things. It was a second chance he didn't deserve; but by his immortal life, he'd work every day to earn. 

But when they finally made it to Shadowheart’s cottage, they found it empty, and while the hope didn't vanish entirely, it was a damn near thing. 

“Fuck!” Karlach shouted after bursting through the front door to find the place abandoned. 

Astarion sighed as if it was only an inconvenience, but the disappointment cut through him worse than he'd expected. 

As they scoured what was left of the cottage, he saw traces of Shadowheart, and Lae'zel, everywhere. An abandoned flower pot on the window sill. A broken spear propped up against the wall. A few more weapons of various sizes and states of disrepair littered the floor beside it. The kitchen still contained a few herb racks and an old pot with dust inside. There were two bedrooms - one with a large bed, and the other with several bunk beds - on either side of the house, though the beds had all been stripped of linens and were sunken and probably bug ridden. There was a single Selunite prayer mat on the floor in the main room. 

It was all new to Astarion, and yet so familiar it shifted something in his chest that had long remained dormant. 

Karlach groaned loudly, and then shook herself out like a dog after a bath. 

“Alright. Shadowheart is probably just in the Astral Plane with Lae’zel after all,” she said, with forced optimism. “We’ll just… go find them there.”

“Right,” Astarion scoffed, “we’ll search the entire, endless universe to find two little mortals who are also possibly dead.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he slouched against the wall, pouting. “They didn’t even leave a note,” he whined. 

“Hey, chin up, soldier,” Karlach said with a smile. “We’ll find them. If we have to resort to magic, we’ll do it.”

“Oh gods,” Astarion groaned. “Please don’t tell me you mean to look for Gale next.”

“What’s your deal with Gale?” she asked, raising a brow. “He’s always been nice to you.”

“Unfortunately,” Astarion muttered. “He’s an utter bore, and the sound of his voice is more painful than the sunlight ever was.”

Karlach giggled, shaking her head reproachfully. 

“I like his voice,” she argued, “it’s soothing.”

“So you admit he’s a bore?” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Fangs,” she warned, still grinning. “We’re going for Gale next, no matter how you feel about it.”

“What makes you think he’s even alive?” Astarion questioned. “It’s been almost three centuries since I last saw him, and as far as I know, humans rarely live past twenty two.”

“Gale was in his thirties when we met him, Astarion,” Karlach replied, “so I’m not sure where you got that idea from. And anyways, he’s a wizard! If anyone’s figured out how to live much longer than they should, it’s Gale.”

Astarion had no grounds on which to argue with Karlach, but that wouldn’t stop him from complaining about it. 

Just in case, they explored the small cottage one last time, poking through items and scouring for any possible note or sending stone or something equally magical they could have missed. But the only magic left in the entire house came from the prayer mat, which Astarion rolled his eyes at. Why hadn’t Selûne ever answered Astarion’s prayers, if she was so desperate to grant her boon to just anyone? 

He got a sudden chill, like a direct breeze on the back of his neck, and turned, but no one was there. Except for Karlach, of course, who was currently in the kitchen turning every surface available into a set of drums. Shrugging, Astarion moved on, searching in vain for any possible sign of Shadowheart’s exact location. It was looking like they would have to seek out Gale next just to find her, and Astarion’s mouth twisted like he’d eaten something sour at the mere thought. 

That he was slightly dreading having to face Gale again after so thoroughly breaking the promise he’d made all those centuries ago had nothing to do with Astarion’s distaste at visiting the still-very-possibly-dead man. 

He and Karlach gave up their futile search of the empty house after another hour, and reconvened at the entrance to the cottage. Karlach sighed, placing her hands on her hips as she glanced about the interior one more time. 

“I guess it’s time to visit-”

“Please don’t say it.”

She only snorted and pulled Astarion along with an arm around his shoulders, like he was her new favourite armrest. 

Chapter Text

The time it would take to travel from Shadowheart’s cottage to Gale’s tower all the way in Waterdeep hadn’t really occurred to either of them until they’d started their journey. 

“We need a magic user to find Shadowheart,” Astarion noted, “and we need magic to travel to find our magic user. Wonderful.”

“We can just use the old teleportation runes,” Karlach suggested cheerfully, packing up Astarion’s tent for him. 

“Well, Gale told me that you need magic to use those,” Astarion argued. “And he has access to several in his stupid tower, of course.”

“Wait, you’ve been to Gale’s place?” Karlach asked, raising a brow. 

“No,” Astarion replied far too quickly. “I just- he told me. Long ago. When we all travelled together.”

“Astarion,” Karlach began, a cruel smirk on her face, “did you visit Gale after we took down the Netherbrain?”

“How dare you,” he spat. “I didn’t visit him, I broke into his tower and demanded he help me with some important magic business. It’s not remotely the same.”

"Alright, I believe you,” she said, looking very much like she did not believe him. “What kind of ‘important magic business’?”

Astarion pursed his lips, considering. He could lie to her, but he was turning over a new leaf, wasn’t he? Trying to be a better person, and all of that. And better people didn’t lie; not unless they absolutely had to. Or it would be funny to do so. Currently, Astarion decided it might be funnier not to lie to Karlach. So he was doing it for the bit, really. 

“I wanted to win my rivalry with Wyll, of course,” he said. “So I had Gale ‘magic’ me to sleep until Wyll died.”

He was expecting some hearty laughter at that, perhaps even a remark on his evil genius, maybe also a pat on the back for good measure. Instead, Karlach stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth agape. 

“You what?!” she shrieked. 

Astarion notably didn’t startle at her loud voice and the sudden burst of flames that licked up her big bulging arms. 

“I wanted to outlive him,” he explained. “Since it was clear my efforts to best him only bothered him a little, I decided to use one advantage I did hold over Wyll: that I can never die.”

“And Gale helped you?” she cried. 

“Obviously,” he dismissed. “I can’t exactly fall asleep on my own.”

“Gods,” Karlach breathed. She rubbed a hand over her forehead, staring off into the distance. “That explains your weird absence after Wyll’s dad died, at least. Wyll and I had just thought you were being petty and hiding from us.”

“I am not petty,” Astarion rebutted, “I am resourceful. A mastermind, really. And it worked.” 

“Alright, well, that fucking crazy piece of information aside,” Karlach shook her head in disbelief, “Gale isn’t the only one who can use the teleportation runes.”

Astarion waited for her to continue, but she only stared at him with a growing smile.

“Well?” he cried, impatient. “Who else?”

“Me!” she answered cheerfully, beaming. 

“Karlach, the only magic you’ve ever been able to do is the fiery, angry sort.”

“Wyll taught me some more tricks, before-” she cut herself off, biting the corner of her lip. “Well, before. We used the runes all the time in Avernus. You kind of had to, unless you wanted to die of thirst or starvation or death before you even arrived at your destination. I know how to do it.”

“And if you accidentally teleport us into the middle of the ocean?” Astarion inquired. “Or inside of a wall?”

“I won’t,” she insisted. “Promise. I know what I’m doing. We’ve just gotta find one.”

~

It took another day of travel to find a teleportation rune, and by the time they did, Karlach was half carrying Astarion along as he dragged his feet petulantly. 

“I don’t want to,” he whined. “You’re gonna send us a thousand feet above ground or into the middle of some bar brawl.”

“You know I’m great at bar brawls,” Karlach said. “I’ll protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection, I am very strong and powerful myself,” Astarion argued, as he grasped her massive biceps for support for his sore little feetsies. 

“Then stop complaining.”

“But it’s so much fun.”

Karlach sighed as they approached the large rock on which some purple runes glistened. It wasn’t one Astarion had ever seen or used, but Karlach had known where it was, somehow, so he hoped she was at least a little familiar with it. 

“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together, therefore yanking on Astarion. “Just place your hand somewhere on it, and I’ll say the incantation.”

“And how do you know we’ll end up in the right place?” he asked carefully, clutching the stone with even-whiter-than-paper knuckles. 

“I just think about it really hard, and then we’ll be there!” she said simply. 

“We’re dead,” Astarion lamented. 

Karlach ignored him, placing her own hand on the stone beside him. 

“Et alibi!” she shouted. 

Astarion opened his mouth to ask if she knew how to spell that, but before he could get a word out, the ground fell from beneath him. His entire abdomen was yanked in every direction, and if he could get sick, he knew he would have just then. It felt far more disorientating than it ever had when Gale had done it in the past, which was Astarion’s first clue that something had gone quite wrong. 

His second clue was that he was suddenly pummelled from all sides by some invisible force that wracked his body like heavy punches, slamming him around three different times with the strength of a battering ram. Astarion squeezed his eyes shut as the pain made him dizzy. 

His third clue - as if he needed another - was that when his vision finally cleared, and he and Karlach finally came to a stop at their destination in Gale’s tower, said tower was approximately 500 metres below their feet. 

“Fuck!” he and Karlach shouted in unison, before they began to plummet. 

Astarion shrieked as they fell, and it was the most shrill and ear-splitting sound known to the entire material plane; perhaps even worse than a banshee, not that Astarion would know or particularly be able to determine in his free-fall of death. 

His ascended healing powers were exceptionally strong, but it did occur to him that it would perhaps be a bit difficult to heal the disintegrated pile of splattered flesh that he would become upon impact. And, Karlach didn’t have healing powers like his, which was also distantly concerning; though Astarion figured if Karlach hit the ground full plummet, the ground would take damage instead of her. 

In the time it took these thought processes to occur in Astarion’s head, the roof of the tower fast approaching, he and Karlach suddenly stopped as if caught in an invisible web. Then they continued to descend, but very, very slowly, and glanced at each other in confusion and terror. 

“Down here!” a magnified voice called. 

They glanced back down to the tower to find a glowing circle suspended right below them, parallel to the roof, ten feet in diameter - which is about 300 centimetres, to fancy people. Karlach and Astarion met each other’s eyes, shrugged, and angled for the mysterious magic portal. Entering the portal feet first, it felt a bit like stepping into a lukewarm pool of water. The feeling faded when the rest of Astarion followed, and suddenly he and Karlach were standing in the middle of Gale’s living room. 

Movement drew their attention, and Astarion found himself staring at an incredibly decrepit and shrivelled up old hag. 

“You’re here!” Gale’s voice came out of the hag. “I thought I’d never see you again!”

“Dear gods,” Astarion gasped, horrified. “What happened to you? You look hideous!” 

The walking corpse tilted its head at Astarion and frowned. 

“I do beg your pardon?” Gale’s voice said. 

“Astarion, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Karlach chastised. “Gale looks great, just a bit older, that’s all. Don’t be dramatic.” 

He blinked, and like a veil being lifted, Karlach’s admonishment shed Astarion’s ageist-hatred of wrinkles and gray hairs. He realised Gale did look almost the same as he had the last time Astarion had visited. His long brown hair had become almost completely gray, his face was wrinkled, and his beard had grown out; but other than that, it was definitely, recognisably Gale. It seemed in Astarion’s extended isolation in his Manor (and never being able to see his own reflection, mind you), he had forgotten what regular ageing looks like. 

“Oh,” he said, relieved. “Of course.”

Gale laughed good-naturedly, as if Astarion had been teasing. 

“I assure you: physically, I am perhaps in my sixties at most!” Gale explained. “Though mentally, of course, I am centuries ahead.”

“Magic, I assume?” Astarion asked.

“Naturally,” Gale nodded. “It took me years to figure out - hence why I even look older in the first place. Otherwise, I have stopped ageing entirely.”

“See?” Karlach nudged Astarion. “I told you if anyone could do it, Gale could.”

“That’s very kind of you, Karlach,” Gale said, his smile warming immensely. “It really is so good to see you again.”

Karlach laughed and barrelled forward, lifting Gale in her arms and hugging him tightly. Gale’s own laughter was squeezed out of him, and Astarion was briefly concerned that Karlach might kill him. But she let him down soon after, and Gale patted her arm with a smile before turning to Astarion. 

“Any chance of getting a hug from you?” he asked.

“Perish the thought,” Astarion dismissed vehemently. 

Gale nodded, only looking mildly disappointed. 

“Now, you,” he said, pointing at Astarion. “I told you to come find me once you’d awoken. And seeing as I received news of Wyll’s untimely passing two hundred years ago,” Gale’s eyebrows rose very high, and Astarion suddenly got the feeling of being told off by a grandfather, “I think it’s fair of me to assume that you broke that promise of your own volition. Hm?”

Astarion scoffed.

“Well, I’d meant to come visit,” he lied, “but I just got so busy with…”

“With what?” Gale inquired, his brow still raised sky-high.

“With my many, many spawn.”

“He doesn’t have any spawn,” Karlach interjected. 

Astarion glared at her.

“Of course,” he said through gritted teeth, “I meant to say that I was busy with my lawn. It became terribly overgrown in the time I was asleep, and it’s taken me this long just to clear away the shrubbery and thorny vines that threatened to swallow my castle whole!” 

“Astarion, don’t reference Perceforest to me, when you know that I have read it,” Gale replied, already looking exhausted with him. “We discussed it as inspiration for the sleeping spell!”

“Yeah, about that,” Karlach cut in. “What the hells, Gale?”

“What?” he asked indignantly. “Should I not help a friend in need who was so heartbroken he could hardly even talk about Wyll without his eyes welling up?”

“Making him sleep for a century? And then not even telling anyone?” 

“I know that I perhaps should have at least told Wyll,” Gale snapped, “but I also knew if I did he’d probably barge through Astarion’s doors to reprimand him, thus breaking the spell prematurely. It really wasn’t anyone’s business but Astarion’s.” Gale quieted, suddenly looking ashamed. “We’ve all read Wyll’s diary by now, I assume. I know not getting to see Astarion one last time caused him hurt, but I think it was for the best.”

“That’s not for you to decide,” Karlach insisted, her smile replaced by a sad little pout. 

“I know, I know,” Gale agreed, waving his hand. “Not much I can do to change it now, though. Gods rest his soul.”

Karlach’s pout - which tended to only ever last on her face for about five seconds at most - was once more replaced by her brilliant smile as she glanced at Astarion knowingly. 

“Wouldn’t you know it, Gale,” she began. “We’re not exactly here just to visit, but it is so good to see you again.” She paused as Gale turned his raised-brow look to her. “We need your help to save Wyll.” 

~

It took a bit of time to convince Gale that the figure Karlach had seen in the hells was actually Wyll, and not just Karlach wanting so desperately for Wyll to still be alive that she would hallucinate his face over another devil. Astarion realised belatedly that he probably should have treated Karlach’s tale with equal caution. But luckily, Gale used some kind of memory spell to extract the exact image of what Karlach saw that day, displaying it in magical wisps in the centre of his living room; and it was undeniably Wyll.

Astarion froze at the sight of it, his eyes darting about, frantic to take in every detail. Wyll looked the same as the last time Astarion had seen him, at his funeral procession - gold-cuffed braids and decorated horns and all - with the only differences being two large, jagged wings extending from his back, and both eye sockets ablaze with infernal fire. His face was pulled into an expression of pure rage, mouth twisted and sharp teeth bared. It wasn’t a look Astarion had ever seen Wyll wear, even when he’d been at his most furious.

The image of Wyll rotated slowly in the air between the three of them, and before Astarion realised, he’d begun walking closer to it, his extended hand brushed the magic mist where Wyll’s face was depicted. It was cold to the touch, but still not as cold as Astarion felt, as the reality of the situation settled over him. Wyll was alive; but he was a true devil, now. 

It struck Astarion suddenly how terribly unfair it was that Wyll kept suffering the same things Astarion did, but it was always because he was too good. First he’d had his body changed for sparing Karlach. And now, he’d had his entire self taken and replaced by the very thing he’d fought so hard to prove he wasn’t, the one thing he would never truly in his heart become - a real devil - all because he gave his life to save the people of Baldur’s Gate once more. 

Astarion had turned himself into a monster for power. For the power to take his freedom into his own hands, to crush others beneath him the way he was always held beneath others. But Wyll had only ever wanted to help people, to save lives. And now he was just as unrecognisable as Astarion had been when he’d ascended. 

“Wyll is dead,” Astarion breathed quietly. 

Karlach and Gale turned to look at him, both frowning. 

“I think I can reliably confirm he’s not,” Gale argued, pointing at the suspended image. 

“Mate, I saw him,” Karlach added. “He’s- he’s under some kind of mind control, yeah, but that’s him.”

Astarion only shook his head. 

“That thing,” he spat, teeth bared like a snake, “is not Wyll.”

It was an insult. It was disrespectful, to everything that Wyll was and everything that he stood for. It was one last egregious crime from Mizora, one more desecration of Wyll for her own amusement. If Wyll was even still in there, if he could see himself now, Astarion knew that Wyll would despise himself. 

It couldn’t be Wyll, because Wyll was the opposite of what was projected before Astarion now. Wyll was good and loving and gentle and pure of heart and compassionate and patient and kind. And Wyll was gone.

“Once we get to him, he will be Wyll again,” Karlach insisted. 

Astarion clenched his jaw, glaring at her, but before he could argue further, she held up a hand. 

“Look, you were pretty fucking scary when you first ascended,” she said. She lowered her hand, gesturing tiredly at the devil’s sneer, which darkened as the magical image began to fade. “If you get to have a chance to change, to be yourself again, then Wyll fucking does too. Don’t give up now. That’s not fair to him.”

Astarion had seen Wyll’s body when he'd died, as solid and real as his old friends standing with him now. He’d seen the lifeless set of his limbs, the stillness of his chest, the silence of his dead heart. It couldn’t be Wyll because Wyll had died and he had stayed dead. He certainly deserved the chance to live free more than Astarion, but Wyll had been punished for being good ever since he took his first breath, and his mother died in childbirth; this wretched universe would never give him a chance.

Wyll had not stopped suffering at the hands of a merciless and greedy world that never cared how much he deserved to still live. The same world that gave him a father that failed him and a heart that misguided him and friends that were all so useless in the end to save him. And above all, a man Wyll had died loving who had never deserved that love.

“None of this is fucking fair,” Astarion snapped. 

He turned himself into a bat and flew out of the nearest window. 

~

Once Astarion had flown around enough to calm down somewhat - or, more accurately, to forget what he was so mad about in his bat form’s limited endurance - he reentered Gale’s cluttered tower, and returned to his regular form in the living room where Gale and Karlach still stood. They watched him as he settled himself, Gale’s gaze more curious and Karlach’s more irritated. 

“You done pouting?” Karlach asked him. 

Astarion rolled his eyes. 

“I suppose,” he sighed. 

“Good, because we have to get going.”

“Ah- in the morning,” Gale corrected. “I’m afraid I’ve used up my higher level casting abilities for today saving the both of you from plummeting to your death. As well as healing Karlach, which,” he blew out a puff of air, “took a lot out of me, as I’m not a cleric.”

“Fine, we’ll go in the morning,” Karlach agreed. “But first thing.”

“And what if Shadowheart isn’t even there?” Astarion asked.

Gale and Karlach made eye contact, and Gale’s expression turned sheepish. 

“I… hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.

“What good is your big brain if I have to do all the thinking for you?”

“Easy,” Gale warned with a frown. “I’ll just send her a quick message before we leave.”

“Well I hadn’t expected to have to sleep here,” Astarion complained. “It’s honestly a huge inconvenience and will be quite uncomfortable.”

“Astarion, we have been sleeping outside in tents for almost a month now,” Karlach remarked. “This is way better.”

“There are guest bedrooms upstairs, for this reason,” Gale said. “I’d not let my friends sleep on the floor.”

“Thanks, soldier,” Karlach said with a smile. 

“I get first pick,” Astarion announced, and fled up the stairs. 

He heard Karlach’s heavy footsteps barrel after him, and held back a sinister cackle as he picked up speed. Karlach passed him easily, and stuck her tongue out at him when she reached one of the bedrooms. Astarion let out his loudest and most dramatic groan, and Karlach smirked at his expense. He took the bedroom at the end of the hall, two doors down from Karlach, so he could put as much space as possible between himself and her snoring. 

Settling into bed for a rest he didn’t need, Astarion opted to stare resolutely at the ceiling, seeing silhouettes of Wyll in the aged wood above.