Chapter Text
“Thou hast vanquished thine urge… Today, thou art born anew. Greet the bloodless dawn, child of none.”
Dark.
Astarion drifted through the nothing; through the liminal ether.
On the odd occasion when he became vaguely aware of himself, he only knew that he was so, so exhausted.
Exhausted like he’d never known before.
His body ached as though he’d run forty miles. The fatigue went beyond his muscles, to the depths of his sinew and marrow. Every bone in his body ached as though they had been pulverised and were in the process of rematerializing, his muscles sporadically seizing taut as a bowstring before going limp.
But every time his mind threatened to flicker back into consciousness, the darkness swept him back under. Whether it was the pain, the fever, or the exhaustion taking him under, he did not know.
He was grateful for the rest all the same. He didn’t know precisely what consciousness would entail, but the foreboding lurking at the edge of his physical pain didn’t offer a particularly noteworthy incentive to swim back to the waking world.
But he was aware of the occasional small comfort. He couldn’t help it, even in the oblivion.
Sometimes, his mouth and throat felt as though coated with a thick layer of sawdust, but the sensation would disappear as something cool and sweet trickled down his throat. On occasion, he felt sweat cover his fever-ridden and shivering body, before cool washcloths swept over him, leaving him clean and resting peacefully once more.
Time passed. The pain and fatigue eased, somewhat.
The small comforts remained.
This time, as his body was cleaned — ah, it must be with a spell, because he could sense the tang of magic erasing the salt from his skin, the sour of his mouth replaced with a soothing mint — he noticed that someone was holding his hand.
The gesture was enough that, even in the darkness, he remembered Naeve.
For a moment, the thought of her proved a solace.
And then the grief of her death ran through Astarion like an electric shock, so harshly that he startled awake with a gasp of agony.
He was back in his bed. In their bed.
He was clad in soft clothing; someone had removed his blood-soaked armour, which he could spot lying neatly in the corner, cleaned and oiled. His favourite jacket still hung from the coat rack, and books and parchments still covered the desk across from him and spilled out onto the surrounding floor.
And there, beside a small silver mirror on the side table next to the bed, Astarion recognized his pocketwatch and a golden comb.
Naeve’s scent was still on the sheets. The fragrance of crushed mint and cheap soap — an irreplaceable comfort.
Already it smelled softer than usual, as though it had faded away.
Naeve’s loss hit him like a punch to the chest, already cracked and bruised. The pain was overwhelming — fresher than a flaying. Deeper than a broken bone. These new scars wouldn’t heal so easily.
Astarion was halfway determined to will himself back to his dead slumber. The pain hadn’t reached him there.
But a soft gasp came from the other side of the bed.
Astarion’s heart leaped, because he knew that voice.
He turned, ignoring the scream of his body at the sudden movement, and there, perched on the other side of the bed—
Naeve.
Naeve.
Naeve was there, right in their bed next to him, a cleaning spell dissipating in the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his. She looked wild-eyed and a bit haggard but, oh — very much alive.
For a moment, he just stared at her.
He couldn't dare to believe that she was there, all evidence to the contrary. This could all be some dream, sent from the gods as a cruel tease before he woke up to harsh and lonely reality. Or, worse, a final taunting from Cazador, before the illusion was stripped away and the return of his master was set in stone.
He whispered anyway, “...Darling?”
Her eyes flicked between his before going distinctly misty, and she gave him a broken half-smile. “Oh, Astarion,” she croaked. “My love. I’m so, so sorry.”
Astarion’s vision immediately swam with tears, but he blinked them back and lurched forward, all dexterity lost in his urgent need to feel Naeve against his body — to prove that she was real.
His shoulders and back protested the action fiercely, but he found it difficult to care when she clutched him even more tightly when he drew her closer, wrapping her shaking limbs around him in a motion so familiar that Astarion felt dizzy with the thought that he might have lost it forever.
He shuddered as he buried his face in her neck, taking in the comforting scent of mint and soap. The familiar fragrance of spiced wine was oddly absent — perhaps this was a dream after all?
But Naeve pulled back from him to fix him with a stern look. “We talked about using the Wish spell, Astarion. What were you thinking? You know how particular the spell is with phrasing—”
An honest-to-gods, know-it-all, proper scolding. Oh, Naeve was alive, and this was real, and Astarion was so, so lucky.
He pressed his mouth to hers, interrupting her lecture — not that he’d be absorbing a word anyway, when he was still near-delirious with relief. She sighed into his mouth, the noise a mixture of exasperation and joy.
He moved to kiss her cheeks, her forehead, the dark circles under her eyes. “My love,” he murmured between kisses, “You surely are not lecturing me on half-cocked decisions made in times of desperation.” Another kiss. “When you are the one that sold your soul away.”
She looked away from him, though it must have been difficult to do when he refused to loosen his arms around her. “I wish it hadn’t come down to that. I’m sorry for that too.”
“You should be sorry,” he said, and he truly meant it — he could feel bright indignation swell up inside him, and it was particularly appealing when the only emotion he could muster was embarrassingly teary relief. “You sold your soul to an archdevil.”
Her jaw set. “Yes, I did.”
“An archdevil, what in the hells were you thinking—”
“It was the most reasonable course of action—”
“A bloody archdevil, Naeve. Your soul.” The frustration of his tone was almost certainly undermined by the way he couldn’t stop stroking her cheek, and by the pain bleeding through his words. “Darling, you — you’re not yours anymore. Not entirely. And I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy, and certainly not upon you.”
Her lips wobbled, before pressing together. “You’re right, of course, but I didn’t see any other option,” she said quietly — a private admission of what he knew she must feel as a failure. “By the time we got to Cazador, he had gained control over too many of the spawn, and we had no idea that he’d ascended. And then you…”
Her words trailed off, and Astarion’s gaze automatically fell to her throat. He had pressed his face to it just a moment ago, but this was the first he noticed that it bore new marks — vicious, vaguely circular bite marks, still puffy and pink at the seams where they had healed.
The scars would never fade, though. Astarion’s brutal marks would be on her forever.
He felt sick enough at the thought that he thought he might vomit all over the bed. “Oh, darling—”
“It wasn’t you,” she said authoritatively, hands tightening in his shirt.
She knew him too well. “I recall quite differently.”
“Cazador used you to hurt me. It wasn’t you.”
She didn’t understand. “But it was me. Yes, I certainly didn’t know you. And I didn’t necessarily want to kill you. But…”
Now it was his turn to falter. How could he explain being back in that mindset? Of the blasé way that he treated all of his victims? Of not caring because he couldn’t afford to?
“...But I did kill you. And I didn’t really care that I had,” Astarion finally said, like the words were being forced out of him. Pure honesty, bitter and brutal and real.
Though, Naeve had never minded honesty. She said, “I know. I was a stranger to you. And I didn’t care about killing strangers when I was under Bhaal’s control.”
“Maybe you didn’t care often, but you did care. There was always that part of you that resisted.”
“You are always so quick to absolve me, and so swift to denigrate yourself for the same sins,” Naeve said, but her voice was gentle. “You didn’t want to kill me, Astarion. I could never blame you for that — not when you were forced to do it. And then you brought me back — as completely foolish as that may have been.”
She was right about most of it, but not about the Wish spell. Astarion would never regret that. “You were dead and gone, my love. Ostensibly forever.” He swallowed back another wave of tears in favour of kissing the bridge of her nose, the absurd urge to laugh rising when it scrunched beneath his lips. “I would have taken much greater risks to have you at my side again.”
He moved to press her lips to hers, but Naeve put a firm hand in front of his mouth to block him. “Astarion,” she said, sternness not quite masking her nerves. “The Wish spell had… unintended consequences.”
The phrasing was ominous, to say the least, but Astarion really couldn’t be fussed. He pressed a kiss to her palm before moving her hand to cup his cheek instead. “As long as the intended consequence has come to fruition, I really find it difficult to care. Now, come here—”
“Astarion.”
He sighed. She really was a determined little beast when she wanted to be. “Fine, then. Tell me, darling. What paltry consequence could possibly warrant a pause in our warm reunion?”
Naeve’s lips thinned. Instead of answering, she asked, “Astarion, what exactly did you wish for?”
Oh, dear. She was not going to like this. “I… didn’t precisely have a phrase in mind when I put the ring on.”
“You didn’t have—” She paused to groan. “You know how dangerous that is.”
“Again, my sweet,” Astarion said, turning his head to kiss her hand again. “I don’t care right now.”
“Well, I care,” Naeve retorted, though she appeared to soften a bit with each kiss he applied to a new fingertip. He knew that she couldn’t be too frustrated with him, because she waited for him to finish with all five fingers before pressing, “Tell me — if you didn’t ‘precisely have a phrase in mind,’ then what were you thinking about when you put the ring on?”
Astarion furrowed his brow. However aborted Naeve’s death had been, a well of grief threatened as he recalled it. He buried his face in her neck again; it was too difficult to remember and admit his thoughts when she was looking at him. “I was thinking about how there wouldn’t be a point in walking in the sun again,” he murmured against her skin, breathing her in and reminding himself that she was here. “If… If you weren’t there with me.”
“Oh.” She tangled her hands in his hair and angled his face so she could touch her lips to his forehead. “I love you. I’m so sorry I left you in that position.”
“It’s hardly your fault. But, really, please try not to do that again, because I love you too.”
“I will do my best.” Darling girl — it sounded like Naeve actually meant it. Maybe some bare effort towards self-preservation wasn’t totally out of reach for her.
“And I will hold you to it, my dear,” he said, settling more comfortably against her. “Because I love you, and I intend for you to stay by my side until you are old and grey, and I remain as beautiful and virile as ever.”
To his surprise, Naeve grimaced. “About that… The Wish spell misfired a bit, like it did with Tormur. And Cazador, I suppose.”
A spike of cold fear as he jerked back from her. “It worked, though, didn’t it? The spell? You’re alright?” he asked, panic leaking into his voice at the alternative. If the Wish spell didn’t work — did that mean that Naeve would…?
“Yes, it worked,” Naeve replied quickly, running a hand along his shoulders soothingly. “I still owe my soul to Mephistopheles, but other than that, I’m fine.”
Astarion relaxed back into her hold. “Small victories, I suppose.”
“But I told you that the Wish spell is only meant to replace an eighth-level spell or lower.”
“Mm. Of course, darling.” Now that he was assured she was alright, her hand really was quite distracting along its path on his shoulders.
He could hear the hesitation in her voice. “But True Resurrection is a ninth-level spell, and wouldn’t work on someone whose soul was already bound to someone else. The spell that was cast must have been of a strength that’s impossible for any mortal to achieve.”
“Does it matter? It worked on you, and that’s good enough for me.”
“It certainly did work on me.” She took a shaky inhale. “...And also on you.”
Astarion frowned. “On me? But I didn’t…”
Wait.
The fragrance of Naeve’s blood, all wine and spice, suddenly rendered undetectable. The absence of hunger — in the shock of seeing Naeve again, he hadn’t even realised that the never-ending sensation had disappeared.
The frown slipped from Astarion’s face.
He pressed a hand to his chest… and found a heartbeat.
Oh, gods.
He scrambled away from Naeve to frantically grasp towards the side table, where someone had thoughtfully anticipated his vanity and left a hand mirror. Astarion seized it and looked into the glass to see himself for the first time in almost two hundred years.
Smooth, slightly flushed skin stretched over high cheekbones and an angular jaw. White curls, messy from rolling around in bed for gods knew how long. A refined, elegant nose accented by a perfect mouth, currently dropped open in disbelief.
Blue-green eyes flecked with gold, framed in dark lashes and rounded with shock.
“You thought about wanting to walk in the sun with me, and the Wish spell took that quite literally,” Naeve whispered, interrupting his examination. “I hope it was worth it.”
Somehow, he managed to tear his eyes from his reflection to look at her. “Worth it?”
“You didn’t want to transform again.” Naeve’s mouth twisted. “You chose not to transform again. And now, you’re mortal. You’ll age. You’ll die.”
The physical agony of the last few days suddenly made sense. It was not just the aftereffects of a slightly botched Wish spell — it was the dual agony of another forced transformation.
Another choice that ought to have been Astarion’s, ripped away from him.
But there was no turning back now. And mortality meant he might not be sentenced to wander the world like an undying ghost, bereft and furious at Naeve’s loss — whether it be tomorrow, the century after, or a millennia from now. He wouldn’t fear the memories of her fading with time; of waiting for something to finally kill him.
One way or another, his life would be for her. And for him — for them both.
His life.
But it felt like too much to say when Naeve already looked so tired and worried for him. So instead, he tossed the mirror back over his shoulder to land somewhere in the mess of blankets. “Well, then, darling,” he said, luxuriating in the way he rolled on top of her, even as her eyes widened. “I suppose it’s time to try living again.”
The aches of his body were easier to ignore when he stretched out over her. She felt cooler than usual as she sighed and kissed him back. Or, rather, Astarion was warmer than usual — a novelty that Naeve seemed to notice too, arching her back and humming happily as her hands skimmed under his shirt, scraping her nails up the skin of his waist.
He moaned, which she took as permission to shove his shirt up. When he raised his arms to pull it off entirely, he grunted — this time in discomfort, rather than in pleasure.
Naeve paused. “Are you alright, Astarion?”
“I still rather feel like I was forced through a meat grinder,” he admitted. “Or like Karlach suggested arm wrestling again.”
She kissed the pulse point — the pulse point! — in his neck. “Then let’s wait until you’re feeling better. I can do all the work, if you like.”
Oh, and that was a thought that would hasten his healing. He groaned and squeezed her hip. “I suppose, darling, if you absolutely insist, I could sit there as you bounce in my lap.”
She smiled. “Later.”
“Later,” he agreed, but kissed her fiercely anyway.
When they finally parted, Naeve was red-faced and starry-eyed and utterly perfect. She cleared her throat, fruitlessly trying to restore herself to order before asking, “So, what happens next?”
Astarion smirked. “I believe there was promise of bouncing in my lap—”
“Not that,” Naeve said, though she bit her lip and flushed in a way that still managed to make Astarion’s mouth water, vampire or not. “I meant, what are we going to do now that you’re not a vampire anymore?”
We, she’d said. Like it was the obvious assumption — like whatever came next, they’d be together. It warmed his now-beating heart. “I assume you have something planned?”
“Not really,” she said, but immediately started listing ideas anyway. “There are always more people to help. Karlach and Wyll and Lae’zel, or Leon and the other spawn that couldn’t enter the Sanctuary. We could help rebuild Baldur’s Gate, or help Halsin in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. We could find and wipe out more Bhaalist enclaves — we’ll probably have to anyway, to keep the decanter fed. Or, maybe, we could take a break. Or even settle down.” She leaned up on her elbows to kiss him. “Do more of this.”
“So many options,” Astarion murmured, brushing her nose with his.
She chuckled, the soft sound a bit overwhelmed. “Intimidating, isn’t it?”
“Exhilarating,” he corrected with a smile. “But I can’t help but notice that there was a rather obvious option missing, my love.”
Naeve pulled back to blink at him, looking vaguely affronted at the idea that she might have anything less than an impeccably comprehensive to-do list. “What’s that?”
“So much brilliance on display, and yet she doesn’t see the most glaring omission,” Astarion said, tapping the wrinkle deepening between her brows with the pad of his finger. “We need to steal the very ill-advised piece of paper where you signed away your immortal soul.”
Her eyebrows show up. “You want to steal from Mephistopheles?”
“What, like you haven’t done it before?” At her frown, he urged, “Come now, darling. One little heist, and you’re free of his grasp.”
“It’s not like I remember much of stealing the Crown of Karsus from him,” Naeve muttered. “Mephistopheles would be prepared for it now. And he wouldn’t appreciate the attempt.”
Astarion shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. He didn’t particularly seem to care that you killed his son, and that ought to be the greater affront, no?”
“Maybe to a mortal. Maybe not to an archdevil.”
“Darling, it doesn’t matter.” And suddenly, Astarion found it impossible to maintain the lightness of his tone any longer. “I can’t say what the future holds for us, but I know we’ll be facing it together, and that you will owe fealty to no one but yourself. Your soul, your afterlife, and your choices will be your own, or I’ll die very handsomely in the attempt to make it so.”
She gazed up at him, eyes dark and impenetrable. “It’ll be dangerous.”
Astarion scoffed. “What else is new? It’s hardly the first time that we’ve attempted something this ridiculous. And it’s the least I could do, after you did the same for me.””
“And we could die in the attempt,” she protested, resistant as always to accept any help on her own behalf. “Right after you restored your mortality and brought me back to life.”
“Then we take a vacation for a year or two first, to make it worth the effort.” Naeve looked like she had more protests to offer, so he kissed her again. She looked rather dazed when he parted to say, “My impossible darling, I am quite serious about destroying this soul contract. I am only curious whether you’ll go with me to make the attempt.”
“Of course I’ll go with you,” she said, indignant at any suggestion otherwise, before she looked abruptly hesitant again. “But… I thought there might be something else you wanted to do first.”
“Oh?”
“The teleportation circle is finished.”
Oh. Oh.
“Oh,” he repeated, a bit stunned for what felt like the dozenth time in the last few minutes.
Naeve smiled. “You slept long enough that I had the time to make it permanent. If you’d like, we can leave the Sanctuary and we can return whenever you need more rest. And we’d only go if you are feeling well enough to do so, of course.”
Well. His choice was quite obvious, wasn’t it? “Darling. Naeve. My love, my one, my only. Would you care to take a sunlit, morning stroll with me?”
“It’s the afternoon.”
“Even better,” he said, and he couldn’t help but kiss her again.
It took more effort than he’d like to admit to gather the strength to get out of the bed. Though he had no doubt he’d heal eventually, the Wish spell and his transformation had not been kind to his body.
But Astarion would be damned before he’d miss the chance to see daylight again, even if just for a moment.
Naeve helped him shrug on trousers and a jacket. When Astarion’s muscles were too stiff for him to tug on his boots, Naeve clucked her tongue at his straining before bending down to pull them on for him. Instead of the mortification that he would have expected at the gesture, Astarion felt nothing but fierce, ironclad adoration for the woman at his feet, muttering curses about the unnecessary complexity of his boot buckles.
She loved him.
Once she was done, Astarion finally hobbled over to Naeve’s old room, her arm around his waist to support him.
The teleportation portal on the floor was no longer made of precise chalk lines and Infernal scribbling; the light of the Sanctuary’s permanent circle was a constant, radiant purple.
His gait was awkward and pained, but Astarion strode forward anyway, Naeve at his side.
He expected the teleportation circle to immediately apparate them somewhere — Baldur’s Gate, or near the Druid’s grove, or anywhere, he’d let Naeve decide — but he felt her hesitate. “You’re sure about this?” she asked. “A lot has happened. A lot has changed. If you had doubts, I would understand.”
“Doubts about a sunny stroll?” Astarion asked dryly. “Darling, let me assure you that I’ve faced worse.”
“Not that,” Naeve huffed, but at least she was looking up at him now, even if it was to throw him a mild glare. “I meant — if you had doubts about… all of it. All of this.” She gestured between the two of them, having the gall to look disbelieving — like the thought of Astarion at her side was too good to be true.
She was beautiful, caught in the lilac glow of the portal. “Are you having doubts, dearest?”
“Not at all,” she said, frankly as ever. “I want what you’re offering, more than anything. But are you sure that’s what you want?”
What did Astarion want?
He’d been asked so many times.
But, gods, his answer had never been more certain than now.
“I love you.” He bent to kiss her neck, pressing his lips over the old scars and the new. “I love this.” He kissed her cheek, and felt nothing but warmth when blood rushed beneath it. “And I want it all.”
The teleportation circle flashed purple just as his mouth met hers.
And Astarion felt the warmth of the sun once more.
- Days until Permanent Teleportation Circle in the Sanctuary: 0
- Spawn in the Sanctuary: 6,493
- Permanently Housed: 6,493 (100.0%)
- Fed per day: 6,493 (100.0%)