lost in the bongle sauce

One night, a face appeared in Astarion's mirror.

Not his own, sadly, but one strikingly similar to the drow sorceress leading their group.

“Ilhar? Ilharn?” the young man asked.

“Um. Hello?” Astarion tried.

“I cannot see you. Straj.”

“He's a vampire, my treasure.” Lledrith walked up to him, husband in tow. “He has no reflection.”

“Shout it from the rooftops, will you?”

Her son beamed with relief. “Ilhar! Thank Ibrandul.”

“Some privacy, Astarion? Thank you.” Lledrith left no room for discussion.

Astarion caught little of that conversation, but heard the young drow's name.

Imyaraen.

The drow's face reappeared a fortnight later, and again, Astarion was driven from his sanctuary.

So he formed a plan. A nice, simple plan.

There was no seducing Lledrith, so obsessed with her husband Imrhys.

But he could learn all about them from their son, then manipulate them, if he played his cards right.

He could stay safe. He could gain his freedom.

The next time, he was ready. “Good evening, Imyaraen.”

“Astarion, right?” The drow smiled. “Please, call me Imrae. All my friends do.”

If he had any, Astarion finished the sentence.

Oh, this would be very easy.

“Your parents are fighting.”

Imrae's purple face paled. “What? About what?”

“Some drow woman leading the goblins. Minthara.”

“Baenre?”

Astarion shrugged, then realized his mistake. “Maybe?”

“My father's old foe.” Imrae sighed.

“Oh, shared history?” Astarion probed.

Imrae laughed, no, cackled. “Not like that!”

“Spoilsport.” Astarion couldn't help but smile. “Your father thinks killing her while infected is wrong.”

After pondering for a bit, Imrae suggested, “Tell him 'Desperate times call for desperate measures.'”

“Magnificent! I knew I could count on you.”

Imrae blushed at the praise.

Oh, how easy this would be.

“Good evening. Your parents are off, celebrating,” Astarion greeted, then laughed at Imrae's grimace.

The drow observed the dying festivities. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Hardly. Vinegar for wine and disenchanting company.”

“You poor thing.”

“I am!” Astarion agreed. “What's a beautiful gent got to do for some revelry?”

“Beautiful?” Imrae laughed. “I will take your word for it.”

Right. No reflection.

“Angelic, my dear.”

“Your voice certainly is.”

Reflexive laughter escaped Astarion. “Careful, you'll make Wyll jealous, sweet prince.”

“Apologies. I did not realize you're-”

“With Wyll? Gods, no.”

Imrae smiled.

“You look terrible.”

“You have an unfair advantage.” Imrae chuckled, rubbing his dark-circled eyes.

“Dirty fighting is my job. What's wrong?”

“The Absolutists keep pestering us, and Menzoberranzan thinks we are allied with them.”

“Do you want your mother?” Astarion teased.

“No need to worry her. I'll be fine.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“Thank you for listening. I find myself looking forward to our conversations.”

To his horror, Astarion found himself agreeing. “Naturally, darling, I'm scintillating.”

Incomprehensible shouting interrupted them.

“Straj. I have to go.”

Astarion did not want him to.

“Imrae, you know a thing or two about magic, right?”

The drow laughed. “Maybe even three.”

Astarion chimed in, albeit hesitant. “Have you ever heard of scars sensitive to devils? Infernal heat?”

“Have you been burned by hellfire?” Imrae sounded worried.

“No.”

How did he know this was about him?

Imrae stroked his chin, just like his father Imrhys often did. “A pact marking?”

“That involves contracts, right? Also no.”

“Hm. I will consult our library.”

That easy?

“Alright. Um. Thank you.”

Imrae smiled, looking exhausted. “It is a welcome distraction.”

Now Astarion worried.

“I have it!” Imrae held up an ancient-looking scroll.

“Darling, what is that?”

The round pattern of script depicted looked like Astarion's scars felt.

“An infernal sigil. They are used to mark sacrifices by ink or scarring.”

What.

Astarion gasped for air he didn't need, drowning, flooded by memories.

A sweet voice pulled him back up. “Astarion?”

“I think there's one on my back. By Cazador. My bastard master.”

“Please tell my parents. They'll help. I'll help! Whatever this is, Cazador needs to go down.”

The sincerity in Imrae's voice pierced Astarion's dead heart.

Fool.

“Are you alright? You are quiet tonight.”

“Yes... I feel awful.” Astarion breathed in deep. “See, I had a plan. To... use you, so your parents wouldn't turn on me.”

“Use me?”

“To know everything about them. Usually, I'd seduce the one in charge, but...”

Imrae frowned. “Why seduction?”

“There's little else I have to offer.”

“Bullshit.”

It made Astarion laugh. “Really?”

“You are sharp, humorous, a survivor. Admirable all around.”

“Fool.” Astarion smiled. “ I enjoy... this. Us.”

“Me too.” Imrae smiled back. “No more lies?”

“No more lies.”

Imrae, his father, and their weapons master Ranaghar were strategising.

Nose in a book, Astarion listened in.

With the forces of the Absolute scattered after the death of General Thorm, they considered moving their house soldiers to Baldur's Gate.

They settled on Imrae bringing a small troop there.

Astarion forced a smile. He'd meet the man who liked him for his company, his jokes, not his beauty or his body.

In person. Not through the safety of a looking glass.

“You can show me around.”

“Of course!” Astarion lied.

Imrae's excited smile was a stake through the heart.

He was here.

And Astarion, in an age-old habit, had hidden himself away.

But not well enough.

“Hey Fangs, you're missing Purple!” Karlach's heart glowed softly in the dark barn. “Really funny to see Lady L all motherly.”

“I need to go hunting.”

Drown his worries in blood.

Karlach stepped closer. “It's okay to be nervous.”

“Nervous?” Astarion laughed. “Don't be stupid. Tell them I'll be back.”

He struck out into the dark streets of Rivington. Another old habit.

But everything was different now.

Ignoring the people, he headed for the nearby woods.

To hunt. To think.

“Astarion?”

Suppressing the impulse to drop off the roof of the Elfsong, Astarion faced Imrae.

“I can leave if-”

“Stay. Please.”

Imrae's own nervosity was... calming. He sat near Astarion, leaving enough space.

“I'm free, but still feel... burdened.”

Silent, patient, Imrae listened to his plight.

Astarion reached for his hand. “I want... this. But I need time.”

“That seems natural.” Imrae smiled. “May I?”

After Astarion nodded, the drow gave his hand a gentle kiss.

A comfortable silence settled between them.

“Come. There's a spot in the city I want to show you.”