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Astarion has been acting strange all day. While in camp for the night, you decide to check on your pale companion.
A/N: I NEEDED to write this man getting his emotions out. I relate to some aspects of Astarion's story, so I also wrote this as a bit of an indulgence to myself. I might post this to AO3 if I ever get an account... we'll see.
Word Count: 3.3k
(SFW, Occasional Language; Angst, Fluff)
The image of the stars sparkles in the reflection of the Chionthar, which flows calmly tonight. Its surface is like liquid glass, a near-perfect mirror before the sight is disrupted as a cooking pot is dunked under. The moon in the reflection ripples as you wash the pot and some cutlery clean, wanting to help tidy the camp after Gale’s delicious dinner earlier that brought the entire group together.
The entire group, minus Astarion. The vampire can’t eat normal food, but he will typically join mealtime to gossip. Yet today, he didn’t. What was wrong with the man? All day he had been unusually quiet. Normally when people are in a bad mood they whine and complain and drag their feet, but since all of that is quite typical for Astarion on a good day, the fact that he hasn’t been doing such things tells you that there is, in fact, something wrong.
It’s late, and most everyone is in their tents for the night. The only other person up is Lae’zel, who is busy kneeling on her fur rugs, stringing a boot under the light of a flickering torch. You cast a glance at Astarion's tent, but you can’t see inside of it. He has the flap shut, and he had gone to bed early today—also unlike Astarion. Being a vampire, he is typically the night owl of the group. He barely even needs to rest on a good day when he’s full of blood and energized from an exciting fight. Or, maybe he does need the rest, but he stays up anyway because he doesn’t know what’s good for him.
Yet tonight? Hardly a word. He disappeared behind that red fabric and stayed unnaturally quiet ever since. You’re worried for the elf, but he’d probably laugh and push you away if you tried to show him concern.
Had any of the others noticed his odd behavior? Would any of the others check in on him? He surely wouldn’t want help, but you felt the need to try regardless.
You set the cookpot and cutlery down and made your way to his tent, peering sideways toward Lae’zel. She looks to you and raises a brow, but promptly returns to her lacing, not quite caring about whatever it is you’re up to.
You let out a breath and bend next to his tent flap, listening. You hear nothing.
“Astarion…?” You whisper, waiting for a response. Still nothing. You try again, and after a few long moments you hear the rustle of fabric and a long, annoyed sigh.
“What?” His voice is irritated and raspy, not an air of his usual charm. You cringe, finding yourself a bit nervous. You know that if you ask if he’s okay right off the bat, he’ll push you away.
“I need to talk to you,” you say instead.
“Can’t it wait until morning?” He grumbles.
“...no, but I’ll be quick,” you reply. He doesn’t say anything after, and you hesitate before pushing aside the flap of his tent. He is sitting up, some tattered, dirty old blanket bundled across his lap and his hair mussed like he’s had his face stuffed into a pillow for hours. His back is mostly to you, the many scars carved into his skin on full display. The side of his jaw tenses, a muscle feathering in irritation.
“Oh, yes. Just come on in, why don’t you?” He snaps. “Just come on in like you own the place. This isn’t my tent or anything.”
“Sorry, Astarion,” you mumble, looking away. He really is in a poor state. “I shouldn’t have barged in, but I’m worried about you.”
“Worried? Ha!” He turns his head more so that you can see nothing of his expression. “All I want is some peace and quiet for a day—is that so much to ask?” You shift uncomfortably, not sure how to respond. If he really wants to be alone, that’s his choice, but it doesn’t feel right to just leave. When you take too long to respond, he huffs. “I’m fine, darling. Just tired.”
“Are you sure you’re just tired?” You ask tentatively, then wince as he stiffens.
“I. Am. Fine. Gods, what do you care, anyway? Shoo—stop your fussing and go sleep all snuggly and warm in your own tent.”
You raise a brow, but relent. You didn’t know why you even tried to begin with—you have no idea how to talk to the man; he’s too stubborn for his own good. You sigh and turn, beginning to duck out to leave.
“Ugh… wait,” he calls. You pause and look back into his tent. He shifts and turns around, the tattered old blanket bunching up more in his lap as he sits facing you. He doesn’t look you in the eye yet, his head hung as he picks at a fiber of the blanket. “You really came here just to check on me? Why?”
“Of course I did,” you say, taking a seat at the entrance. “Why wouldn’t I?” He frowns, casting his gaze away from the blanket and at the edge of the tent instead.
“Hm…” He thinks for a moment, then there’s a tiny upward twitch to his lips as his eyes soften. “That’s… sweet of you.”
You blush a little and take the moment to give his tent a good look. The old blanket, the general emptiness, the bare pallet he sleeps on… gods, did this man hate himself? You quietly clear your throat, looking back at him.
“I know you probably don’t want to, and that’s okay, but if you ever need to talk to someone—I’m here. Doesn’t have to be now. And… we’re all here. I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind, either.” You watch him, but he stays quiet. You huff a short laugh and add: “Except for Lae’zel, maybe. No offense to her.”
That gets a chuckle out of him.
“True… I’m not too keen on being lectured on how ‘talking is for the weak and Vlaakith demands you work your feelings out in battle,’ thank you,” he says, imitating Lae’zel's voice. “Although, maybe she’d say that ‘feelings are for the weak’ to begin with.” You share a laugh, and the air feels a little less tense.
He sighs and rolls his eyes, sitting back. “...Alright. It’s stupid, but…” he sends a quick glance in your direction before looking away again, and you straighten, listening intently. “Well, it’s just that I’ve been given all these abilities back by the tadpole—I can walk in the sun, enter homes uninvited! But I still can only drink blood.” His voice grows bitter: “I see all of you laughing around the fire, eating your little homemade meals, and all I can do is smell it.” He spits the last part out like it’s bitter.
Your brows soften with sympathy, and he looks at you again to check your expression, like he’s afraid you’re judging him. He goes on, a bit shakily:
“What’s with this picking and choosing? Why some things, and not others? I know what you’re thinking: ‘you should be grateful for what you have—you can’t have it all.’” He pushes a messy curl away from his forehead, scoffing. “But what if I want it all? Is that so wrong?”
You let him process his words and talk it out, and contrary to what he believes, you couldn’t blame him for wanting more.
“I want to be normal again. I don't even remember what it was like—to be alive. I want to feel again. I want to live again.” His hands shake in his lap. Then, he clutches the blanket, his nails extending briefly into sharp claw-like tips as he snarls. “Ugh! I’m just so… so cold! To the hells with food—at the very least I could have been blessed with normal circulation!” He sounds on the verge of tears. You wonder if that’s what he’s been doing this whole time—crying.
“I’m so sorry, Astarion. I can’t begin to fathom what you’ve gone through,” you say quietly. You look back to the bare pallet and his dirty old blanket. “Would it help even a little to bring some better blankets… and stuff… in here?” You try to control yourself, but you fail and your eyes flit down to the old blanket in his lap. He looks embarrassed for a moment, then bitter again.
“Tch, what does it matter? Blankets don’t do me much good. I don’t have body heat to trap under them, anyway,” he mutters.
“...Oh. Right.” You have the feeling that there’s a deeper reason why the inside of his tent is so bare. He’s probably not used to feeling comfortable, and maybe he doesn’t think he deserves it, in a way. Your eyes return to the old blanket. There’s something deeper about that tattered rag, too. He catches your look and grumbles.
“It’s a burial shroud. My burial shroud—and before you start thinking I’m all sentimental: I’m not. I only need it to rest… It's a vampire thing. I’m just lucky I had it when those stupid squids snatched me up.” He gives the blanket a scathing glare, like he wants to shred it with his nails. “If I could choose, I’d burn this vile thing to ash.”
You can see it now—why the blanket is so dirty and uncomfortable-looking: it was with him when he was buried in the grave. You shake your head.
“Gods… I had no idea. I was wondering why you had that.”
“Well, now you know. Lovely, isn’t it?” He sneers.
“No. It’s horrible,” you say, genuine. You scoot forward to rest your hand on the top of his. His skin really is cold. “Thank you for telling me. I know talking about it isn’t enough, and I wish there was more I could do. Seriously. I’m sorry that there isn’t.”
He stares down at your hand. Underneath it, his own twitches.
“You have nothing to apologize for…” he says. He gives you a crooked smile, trying to compose himself. He nudges you with his arm and quirks a brow playfully. “But if you really want to help… there’s always the matter of Cazador.” His smile lasts for a moment, then fades, and he turns his hand under yours, his palm facing upward as his fingers hesitantly graze your own. “Can I still count on you?”
“Don’t worry—I think all of us are keen to see that bastard ripped apart.” You smile, giving him a little squeeze. He hums, his eyes returning to your hand, his lashes a delicate swoop that cast soft shadows over his cheeks. His hand twitches again, and then he allows himself to squeeze yours back. He’s gentle, tentative, and he sighs as he runs his thumb along your skin.
“You’re warm,” he notes, his voice a soft murmur.
Then, he’s silent for a long moment.
The angle of his lashes covers his eyes, but as you watch his face, you see a small shine trail down his cheek to his chin, then fall onto the shroud that is covering his legs. Is he…? You stay still, trying not to stare. You know he’s probably embarrassed and feeling more vulnerable than ever.
His shoulders shake once, then twice, and you can tell that he’s trying to hold back. You give his hand another gentle squeeze, rubbing the side of his thumb with your own. He lets out a choked breath, then dips his head down, his hair falling forward. Another tear catches the dim light as it falls, and his body trembles as he cries.
You give it a moment, waiting—expecting—him to pull away and draw in on himself. To snarl at you to leave. Instead, he keeps crying, holding your hand tighter. You can’t stand it any longer, and you place your other hand on his shoulder and scoot closer.
“Astarion,” You murmur, moving your hand behind his back with a slight pressure—an offer. He shudders and follows the direction of your pull, sinking into you with a shaky, stifled sob. You let go of his hand to wrap both of your arms around him, holding him close. He seems to melt against you, sinking into your hold like he hasn’t been hugged in centuries. Maybe he hasn’t, you realize, and the thought makes you hold him all the tighter. “I’ve got you,” you say into his white curls, letting him cry as much as he needs to—and he does need to.
He buries his face into your shoulder, his body vibrating as he shakes and sobs. His hands grip at the back of your shirt desperately, holding on like he’s afraid you might leave, or like this moment might not be real at all.
The coolness of his skin is a stark contrast to your living warmth, and you shift yourself closer so that you can envelop him even more. He chokes on a sob, shivers hard, and breathes heavily into the shirt on your shoulder. His lips tremble as his eyes, squeezed closed, press into the fabric. You sit there for a long time, your eyes shut as well as you listen to the pained cries that he tries to withhold. After he manages to settle, you ask quietly:
“Do you want me to stay…?”
“Stay…?” He repeats, his voice whispered and hoarse. He draws in a long breath and lifts his head from your shoulder as if it weighs too much. His gaze finds yours from beneath his unruly curls that haven’t managed to stay neatly styled. The edges of his eyes are pink and a little raw from the way they were pressed into the fabric of your shirt, but the way he looks at you is with a sort of expectant misery, doubt, like you can’t possibly be serious—like he can’t believe that your generosity doesn’t just end here. Yet you can see the hope his gaze holds, too, buried beneath his pain as if he’s afraid to show it.
“I can keep you warm,” you say, gently pushing a curl away from his damp face. “Only if you want me to,” you add.
His eyes flutter closed and he lets out a shaky breath that sounds like relief and longing.
“Yes. I think I would like that,” he sighs, resting his head against your palm as you cup his cheek. You steal another glance at the tent’s surroundings.
“I’m going to go get some—” you stop yourself from saying ‘better,’ “—other blankets and some pillows, too. Is that alright?”
“Mhm,” he hums, still resting against your palm with closed eyes. He finally pulls away, letting you stand.
You head to your own tent. If you could, you’d bring him here, but your tent is already small in size and a bit messy. You make a mental note to tidy it up tomorrow, but right now you collect all of the blankets and pillows and cushions you can muster. You even grab some from outside of Gale’s tent. The wizard had started a heaping collection—something about not being able to find one as good as the pillow he had for years in his tower—but you were sure he wouldn’t mind.
Wrapping everything in one blanket like a big sack and bear-hugging the bulging lump, you were glad that your githyanki companion was no longer outside to see what you were up to as you made your way back to Astarion’s tent. You grunted as you tried to nudge your way in without knocking anything over.
“Dear gods,” Astarion laughs, sniffling. “Are you bringing the whole camp in here, darling?” You giggle a bit and flop the blankets and pillows down on top of him. “Ghh…” he grunts, muffled as he rustles his way out. His white-haired head emerges, and he pushes loose curls back with a swipe of his hand to look up at you. “...silly thing.”
You kneel and begin laying the blankets and pillows down around the area, cushioning the ground.
“There,” you say when you finish, proud of yourself. He raises his brow, looking around.
“Are you secretly a bird, hm? This is quite the little nest you’ve built.”
“I might have grabbed a few too many,” you admit. He watches you with a tired but fond gaze and your stomach flutters. You look away and grab a big wool blanket, positioning some pillows before motioning to the area.
He hums and looks at you for a beat longer before repositioning himself to lie down. He uncovers his burial shroud from under the mound of blankets, tossing it behind him where it’s out of sight but close enough for him to rest. He leans back, propped up on an elbow.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, eyes flitting to the blanketed ground.
“I want to.” You move next to him, laying your head on a pillow and extending an open arm with a shy smile.
He snorts and shakes his head, lying down next to you and pulling you in by your waist.
“If you insist,” he rumbles, “then I suppose I’ll let you…” You flush and wrap your arm around him as well, moving forward so that your body is pressed completely to his. His coolness seeps into your body, which tells you that your warmth is transferring to him.
“Anyway,” you say with a teasing smile, “if you expect me to haul these blankets back out after I went through all this work, you’re delusional.”
“Oh, of course not,” he responds in kind, but despite his sly tone, his eyes flicker with vulnerability. He’s used to being close to people, but never for the right reasons.
You both lay in silence for a long few moments, listening to the distant sound of leaves rustling from a gentle breeze, and the slow current of the Chionthar. Well, that’s what you’re listening to—he’s intent on the steady thump of your heart and each soft breath you draw.
He tries hard to keep his emotions in check, but all day today he has been on the brink of tears, sensitive from bottling everything up for so long. Again he feels the familiar prick, and he curses quietly, shoving a hand across his face to swipe it away. He’s rough with himself, his cheek raw from the harsh movement.
“Fuck,” he snarls, teeth grit, angry at his inability to keep his emotions in check tonight. He goes to paw at his face again—force the tears away—but you take his wrist in your hand and stop him. You move yourself up and guide his head against your collar, hugging him close once more. He growls against your neck. “Damn you,” he whispers, but it lacks anger, his voice cracking with defeat.
His cold hands tuck between your bodies, desperate for your comforting warmth. You rest your head on the top of those soft ivory curls of his, closing your eyes.
He doesn’t cry for long this time, worn out from the day, wrung dry of tears. He becomes very quiet, and when you carefully turn your head to look, you notice that his eyes are lightly shut and his lips parted gently, his expression lax. He looks asleep. Not in a trance like how elves typically rest, but actual sleep.
Your heart pangs and you observe his pale, perfect face, tracing his cheek in a careful way that won’t wake him. You brush a few of his curls behind his pointed ear, then put your head back down.
In your arms, he sleeps throughout the entirety of the night. Your living heat keeps the cold at bay, but it is your kindness that truly warms his undead heart.
For the first time in centuries, he feels like he can start living again.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed this and could find some comfort in it like I did. Maybe I'll post some of my other pieces if anyone is interested :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Astarion getting the vampire equivalent of cuteness aggression towards Tav/Durge and doing that thing cats do where they just sort of put their teeth on you and bite, not enough to actually break skin, but just like. A little nip. It's something the two of them get used to very quickly and honestly they sort of forget how alarming it looks from the outside. The first time they're sitting around the campfire and Astarion just fucking. Leans over and straight up looks like he just bites Tav/Durge's shoulder Gayle damn near falls off the log he's sitting on.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Astarion and his ratty blanket against the world...
Yes, I know, it's a burial shroud. I feel like he'd loathe it and what it represents. The concept of needing it to get rest and that it signifies his death and rebirth into a worse life.
But there's no doubt that at some point it was the only thing that he could call his own.
The poor man needs so much therapy.
I'm not sure if I like this piece or not. It didn't turn out how I expected, and I learned that drawing fabric is a nightmare for me, but it was good practice I guess.
