Chapter Text
Dalyria stands and turns away from the scene in the doorway, uncomfortable in a way she can’t explain. She crosses her arms tightly. She can hear the soft voice of the half-elf, and the stuttering breaths of Astarion, and she feels like a voyeur into something she doesn’t think she should be witnessing.
There is a large, framed parchment in the dining room, perfectly centered on the wall at the head of the table. It has two figures drawn on it in ink, though the ink runs together and forms puddles that make it look as if the two bodies depicted are truly one. They might be holding hands, or they may simply be facing each other. It’s hard to say, given the drips of ink where their hands might be.
Dalyria drifts closer to inspect the words elegantly scrawled across it.
I do not want to be loved
for the sake of being loved
I want to be loved
because you’ve traced my scars back
to their origins
And found something familiar on your way there
Her breath catches in recognition
I want to be loved
because you’ve turned my heart inside out
and sorted through it’s contents
I want to be loved
because your pain recognizes mine
and when we meet eyes
I don’t have to wonder
if I am being seen.
It was from one of Astarion’s poetry books that he would read now and then in the room the spawn had shared. This one had been in one of the older books. She could recall the way the pages had started to fall out with how often it had been flipped through.
She’d read it herself, during some of those times that Astarion had been in… other places.
She reaches out a trembling hand to touch the parchment, reeling.
“How do you always know what to say to them? You could talk the moon into following you home,” she had said to him one night.
“Because I know what everyone wants.”
She had rolled her eyes at him. “And what is that?”
“To be loved, of course. To be wanted.”
She’d thought he’d been talking only about manipulating people.
If she had been slapped in the face, she would have been less shocked than by the honor so clearly placed on these particular words in the home of the man she had always known as mercurial and aloof at best.
She looks back to the pair in the hall with new eyes.
Dalyria had always thought that she had been alone in her decades of daydreams of simply mattering— of someone just giving a damn. Of someone giving a damn about her.
She’d been important. She’d been respected. She’d been Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur’s Gate.
Nobody had looked for her when she’d been turned.
She’d thought she mattered.
She hadn’t.
Her most desperate fantasies in the hell of the Szarr Palace were that someone would simply care about her.
There are soft footsteps from the other room and when she looks, she knows the face is familiar, but she can’t actually place it. She had heard enough, however, to know that this wasn’t some nameless, faceless victim for Astarion. Long, grey hair falls around a sunken face. He looks, more or less, the way she feels inside.
He also seems incredibly uncomfortable. Emerie lifts her head and looks to the man, then turns herself slightly so her shoulder is fully between him and Astarion. “Hey, Dalyria? Could you keep Sebastian company in the kitchen? I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I could…” the man starts in a raspy voice, but Emerie interrupts.
“No, stay. If I know these two, we’re going to need an army to eat whatever they brought home.”
Home. Dalyria’s throat tightens painfully at the word. She blinks rapidly, then grabs the basket. “I’ll go ahead and get started then,” she says archly, using decades of practice to hide herself behind a prim tone and a pretty face. “I wouldn’t want to burden you with leftover food.”
Emerie laughs lightly.
Dalyria catches Sebastian by the upper arm as she passes, forcing him to follow her. “Do you prefer spicy or sweet?”
—-
Astarion’s breath has evened out and he’s been quiet for a minute or so when he finally speaks. “Well, that was rather embarrassing,” he says in a slightly roughened voice.
Shifting back onto her heels, Emerie looks him over, then makes a face. “I am so sosorry.” Dirt and mud mar the shoulders of his shirt. She tries to brush it off his shoulder, bringing his attention to the atrocity she’s committed.
Astarion laughs, the strain on his face easing. “Gods, woman, look what you’ve done to me.”
She tries to fight back a smile, noting the dirt from her sleeve that now stains his cheek. “I thought you liked it when I did dirty things to you.”
The bark of his laughter is everything to her. “This does not qualify, darling, as one of the dirty things I like.”
Emerie pushes herself to her feet and reaches out a hand to help him up. He takes it and rises far more gracefully than she. “I should probably go change,” she says ruefully, noticing how truly filthy her clothes are.
“After you.” He tilts his head to her. She shakes her head, but leads the way through the dining room to the living room and up the stairs.
It only takes a few minutes to change out of her dirty clothes and to scrub off the little bits of dirt that remain on her knees and arms. Astarion, having shed his dirty shirt and put on a clean one, is taking his time in front of the vanity. She sees him carefully wipe the dirt and tear tracks from his cheeks, but then turns away to dress herself.
“Are you okay?” she asks after she’s pulled her shirt over her head. His eyes meet hers in the mirror, and he seems more thoughtful than upset.
He turns, frowning slightly. “I’m fine.”
Emerie raises her brows slightly, but decides to not pursue the subject. Instead, she walks up to him and rests her forehead against his chest, her hands tucked loosely under his arms. He sighs, but wraps his arms around her.
“Should I stay up here?” he asks after a moment, and Emerie pulls away, slightly surprised.
“What? Why?”
He gives her an unreadable look.
“Gods, no. Come on.” It makes her sad in a way she can’t articulate that he thinks she might exile him within his own house.
—-
The meal is a decidedly awkward affair.
Dalyria and Sebastian had drifted into silence long before Emerie and Astarion reappeared, and though they make an effort, the conversation doesn’t flow well throughout the meal.
“I should go,” Sebastian says when the food is half gone, and Emerie and Astarion share a look that Dalyria can’t decipher. It irritates her.
“Where are you staying?” Emerie asks, and there’s an awkward pause where it’s obvious that Sebastian neither has an answer nor a convincing lie prepared. “Right,” she says. “So you’re staying in the guest room here.”
Both Sebastian and Astarion look alarmed. Dalyria could almost laugh, if she weren’t suddenly wildly jealous.
Nobody had offered her a place to stay.
That wasn’t quite fair. They had, in fact, let her stay with them at the inn. It had been her choice to stay at the Szarr Palace after that, until she couldn’t take it anymore and had found a way to open her clinic.
She’s been living there since.
It’s hers. It should be enough.
She already knows that she will be walking home soon. Alone. Again. As usual. Dread curls in her gut and she tries valiantly to fight it back.
She will be fine.
Cazador is dead.
Nothing will happen.
Try as she might, however, she can’t quite make herself believe that everything is going to be okay.
As soon as Emerie disappears with Sebastian, theres a thunk as Astarion leans forward and lets his head fall to the table. “She’s a menace.”
Dalyria snorts. It’s a decidedly unladylike sound, but she doesn’t care. “You like it.”
He lifts his head just enough to shoot her a baleful glare. “I like her. I could do without the strays.”
She rolls her eyes. “Poor Astarion,” she croons, irritated with him in spite of herself. “It must be soooo terrible to live with someone who loves you.”