#5.2k

          Slowly, carefully, he extricates himself from the bedding, feeling every one of his two hundred and thirty-nine years in the cracks and pops his spine releases as he stretches in a desperate attempt to restore some range of motion to his body. It had been over half a year since they’d had to sleep on the ground, and he did not miss it. The hastily assembled bedroll composed of whatever spare bedding could be found, kind as it was for their friends to provide it, was a poor substitute for the plush mattress he and Tav had splurged on when they’d bought their house.

          Surveying the little temple they were currently occupying, he spies a bucket of water set just inside the doorway, along with a fresh bar of soap and a stack of towels. On top of the towels rests a small, folded piece of parchment, which he opens to find is a note in Gale’s handwriting.

          I thought you both might appreciate a chance to wash up before braving the awaiting horde. The bucket is enchanted, so it should remain warm and refill on its own until you’ve finished with it. Breakfast will be ready soon if you wish to join us, but please don’t feel as if you must rush on our account. We’ll be here when you’re ready.

          That being said, I’m not sure how long Karlach is going to be able to restrain herself, so some haste may be advisable.

          P.S. Don’t worry about the sun, I’ve got it… covered, in a manner of speaking.

          - Gale Dekarios

          He takes a moment to be amused that Gale always signs his full name when writing to them even in something so short as a simple note, as if there was some other Gale they were also friends with that they might confuse him for, before carrying the bucket and supplies back toward the other side of the room and setting them on the table. He turns, about to ask Tav if she wants to have first turn before the little one starts screaming for her breakfast, when he’s hit full force with a wafting aroma he can only describe as “the city sewers on a summer day.” One that he’s quickly becoming far more familiar with than he’d like.

          “Ah,” he chokes out, eyes watering, “duty calls.”

          Tav snickers and opens her mouth, but he points an accusing finger at her, cutting her off before she can get a word out, “No! Don’t you dare!”

          She bites her lip, breath shallow as she holds in her laughter, and he can tell that she’s practically fighting herself not to say it.

          “I can’t believe you would make a- a pun­ of all things when I’m about to be cleaning whatever unholy concoction our daughter has just released.” He rolls his eyes as he steps over to the bedside, “Ugh, really, toilet jokes are the lowest-hanging of fruit, my love, you can do better than that.” Taking her hands, he assists in gently pulling her to stand in his arms. He doesn’t miss the way she winces as she comes to her feet, nor the way she holds herself as if she’s worried she’ll fall apart if she moves too quickly. “You’re sure you’re okay? I can get Jaheira or Shadowheart if you need them.”

          “I’m fine,” she says, looking anything but fine, in his opinion. “Really, I am,” she continues when he just raises a skeptical eyebrow in response. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m tired, and sore, and swollen in places I didn’t know could swell, and trips to relieve myself have been anything but enjoyable.” She puts her arms around his neck, leaning in to let him support some of her weight, her head tilted back to look up at him, “But, considering I just expelled a nearly seven-pound person from my body less than a day ago, and my organs are currently fighting over who gets to shift back into their usual position first, and it kind of feels like some of them might fall out if I walk too fast? I think overall I’m doing pretty well.”

          He considers asking her what in the nine hells she means about her organs moving, but he’s saved from the horror of having to learn the answer by the dulcet tones of their daughter’s angry fussing rising from the bed.

          “I believe that’s your cue, hon,” she says with a consolatory pat to his chest, before shuffling her way over to the bucket to begin washing herself. He hears a quiet “Ooh, lavender and lemongrass soap! Nice touch, Gale,” as he turns back toward the little biohazard squalling on the blankets.

          “Alright, I’m coming, gods know I don’t like this any more than you do,” he grouses, kneeling next to the bed and letting her wrap angry little fists around the first two fingers of his left hand as he grabs a waxed cloth from one of their bags with the other and spreads it out on the bedding. “Come along, little dove,” he says, picking her up from the bed to lay her atop it, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

          This is only his third time doing this, but he’s found so far that she seems to be more cooperative if he talks to her during the process. Not that she’s aware enough to have any idea what he’s saying, of course, but if it stops her from screaming and accidentally kicking her feet into her own mess before he can clear the soiled diaper away, he’ll take it.

          “We’ll want to put our best face forward. After all, you’ll be making quite a few first impressions today,” he continues, giving her a gentle poke to her nose. He undresses her carefully, mindful of what’s lurking under the fabric of her sleepsuit, before grabbing a clean cloth and the small bowl of water and gentle soap they’d set aside just for this purpose. “Right then, let’s get this over with, shall we? It wouldn’t do for you to meet everyone smelling like you’ve been rolling around the Undercity, now would it?”

          He manages to get through the cleaning portion of his task fairly quickly, soiled diaper tossed in a bucket for later cleaning, baby’s bottom washed and dried, and new diaper ready to be folded in place within just a couple minutes. He spends quite a bit longer on the re-dressing portion. The process of trying to keep her legs in the right position whilst also holding the clean diaper in place and closing the pin without either poking her or missing a layer of the material is one that leaves him wishing he had at least two more hands.

          He manages to finally successfully pin the diaper in place in just under nine minutes, by his count, which he’s taking as a personal victory over the previous diaper change that had taken nearly fifteen. Rather impressive, if he does say so himself.

          (And he does)

          (He does not deign to include consideration that his opponents in this battle were a square of cloth and an hours-old infant in his accounting of his impressiveness)

          Once cleaned, he dresses her in one of the myriad outfits they’d acquired for her. He’d spent several minutes going through the bag and deciding on which one to choose, holding various options up to her for her consideration, before ultimately going with a little gown of robin’s egg blue that had tiny white rabbits embroidered around the hem and was trimmed in delicate white lace. He’d had no preferences of whether they were having a boy or a girl when he’d seen the gown at a stall while visiting the Night Market with Tav, and no plans to limit them according to any expected notions of the sort anyway. But he’d be lying if he said that, as he watched it flutter on its hanger in the evening breeze when Tav had reached up to grab it for a closer look, he hadn’t just for a second pictured her wearing a light summer dress of the same blue, a matching ribbon in her hair, holding a little girl dressed in that gown.

          He’d bought it without even bothering to haggle for once, and had only barely managed to contain his delight when the merchant had said that it came with matching socks.

          Tav joins him just as he’s finished getting said socks onto their daughter’s tiny feet, scooping the baby up into her arms, complimenting her choice in attire as if she’d dressed herself, and asking her if she’d like her own breakfast now or later. An unnecessary question, because, if they’ve learned anything about this little imp in the single night they’ve had her, the answer is of course “both,” lest they have to suffer her furious, demanding caterwauling.

          He stays sat there on the floor for a moment and takes in the woman in front of him. Her eyes are tired, but they crinkle a bit at the corners with joy, her smile as she talks to their daughter lighting up the room. She’s dressed much like she’s done at home lately, face scrubbed clean, the waves of her bright ginger hair damp from her washing and tied back in a simple braid that hangs to her waist. She’s slipped on a pair of leather sandals to go with the calf-length dress she’s wearing, one of the soft, loosely fitted ones with a tie at the waist she’d favored the last month of her pregnancy. It’s the sage green one he loves so much, the neckline and sleeveless bodice leaving her chest and shoulders bare so he can follow the constellations of freckles that run up her arms to span across her collarbones, up her neck, and across her nose and cheeks. Last time she wore it, he'd told her it made her look like a forest nymph.

          Now, if she asked, he’d tell her she looked like a goddess, the only deity he’d ever want to worship. Her middle was still soft and rounded, evidence of the life she’d carried until just a day ago, and her hips and thighs were filled out in a way they never had when they’d been on the road. She’d always been fit, athletic, but now, instead of the hard-muscled, lean state she’d had in the months leading up to their arrival in Baldur’s Gate, she looks… healthy. Peaceful. Happy.

          Beautiful.

          She settles down to provide their daughter a quick meal before they go outside and she’s inevitably passed around like a cookie tray at a holiday luncheon, and he muses to himself on how he got so lucky to have not only found her, but managed to keep her, as he rolls to his feet and starts his own bathing.

          The baby finishes her meal right around the time he finishes dressing himself, and after another successful burping, he walks to the entrance of the chapel and takes the blanket covering the doorway in hand. He turns slightly, taking in the view of Tav and their daughter as she comes to stand beside him. Holding out his other hand to her, he asks, “Ready to cause some chaos, my love?”

          Her grin as she takes his hand is all the sunlight he’ll ever need. “With you?” she says, brushing a kiss across his knuckles, “Always.”

          With that, he sweeps the blanket aside and leads her out to greet their family.

── ･✩*₊˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖₊*✩･ ──

          The first thing he notices is that, similar to when they’d first arrived in the clearing, they’re welcomed initially by complete silence, quickly followed by a cacophony of voices greeting them, though thankfully much more toned down in volume than it had been the last time.

          The second thing he notices is that, despite the fact that it is definitely at least midmorning when they step out of the chapel, they’re standing in full shade. The shadow above them continues to camp, snaking its way across the little creek bridge, over and past the giant dining table Withers had somehow managed to set up, and ending where it covers the sitting area around the fire pit where all their friends are gathered as they wait for breakfast to be finished. Tav nudges his side with her elbow, and when he looks at her, gestures with her head for him to look above them. Turning his eyes to the sky, he sees that what they’re standing under is some sort of… darkness… almost like smoked glass, that lets them see through but doesn’t let the sun in. Clearly Gale’s handiwork.

          “Well, isn’t that clever?” he says, low enough only Tav can hear him. “Don’t tell him I said so though. The Wizard’s head is big enough as it is, he may not fit under this canopy of his if we inflate it any further.” He does make a mental note to ask Gale if this was something he could apply to the windows of their house once they return home, though.

          They meander purposely slowly down to join the group, partly to draw it out, and partly because walking is still on Tav’s list of less-than-enjoyable activities. They exchange ‘good morning’s and other assorted pleasantries with the others, acting with all their might as if nothing were unusual or amiss. And, to their credit, their friends manage to play right along for almost a full minute before Astarion starts to worry that Karlach is going to combust if they let it go on any longer. Turning to Tav, he puts a hand on her back and says, “Would you like to do the honors, darling?”

          She pretends to think for several seconds. “Oh, I suppose I shall, if I must,” she says in a mockery of his accent, heaving a put-upon sigh that does nothing to cover her excitement.

          Turning so that the baby in her arms faces their gathered friends, and taking one little hand in her own to wave it, Tav’s smile is downright blinding as she says, “Everyone, meet Astraea Jenevelle Ancunin. Astraea, meet… well, everyone.”

          Amid the various congratulations and coos of how cute Astraea is, a noise hits his ear at the announcement of their daughter’s name, and he decides Tav was wrong last night, because he’s positive the sound that Shadowheart just made is far too high-pitched for Scratch to hear.

          Gale comes to stand beside Tav, holding out a plate piled high with food, and Astarion is just able to make out eggs, sausages, and potatoes, before Tav is depositing their daughter in his arms with nothing but a “Your turn,” and all but snatching the plate from the Wizard’s hands. She’s three bites in and has the fork halfway to her mouth for a fourth when she turns back to him, a slight blush creeping across her cheeks as she says, “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever been hungrier in my life, not even when we spent the last month of traveling the Shadowcurse living entirely off of water-and-old-bread soup.” She takes another bite, hardly chewing before she swallows and turns to Gale. “No offense to your cooking skills of course, you did your best with what we had. As far as water-and-old-bread soups go, yours was top tier.”

          Gale laughs, waving his hand to summon a Mage Hand that sets some fresh bread on her plate. “Oh no offense taken. There are many parts of our journey that I miss, but I must admit, the things we ate while living off of whatever castoffs we would dig out of old crates and abandoned houses are not among them.” He gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder and points her toward the dining table, where more Mage Hands are placing platters of food to share. “Eat up, and don’t be shy about getting seconds if you want them, there’s plenty more where this came from.”

          As Tav takes a careful seat to finish inhaling her breakfast, Gale waves everyone else over. “Grab a plate before it gets cold. I daresay, introductions, even pleasant ones, are best done on a full stomach.”

          Breakfast is the same organized chaos that mealtimes always were when they’d traveled together, though at least this time they have the luxury of an actual table. Platters and bottles are passed back and forth, bread rolls tossed from one end of the table to hungry hands at the other, cutlery is dropped and recovered, Prestidigitated clean as often as it’s just wiped on a pants leg before being put back to use, with a minimum of five different conversations happening simultaneously all the while.

          At one point, with Boo and little Xan keeping each other occupied, Lae’zel, Karlach, and Minsc start a competition of who can catch the most grapes in their mouth as Wyll tosses them rapid-fire from across the table, while Gale and Tav try to outdo each other levitating increasingly-fast forkfuls of food to their mouths without spilling, and Astarion and Shadowheart (with help from Minthara, to their surprise) team up to take turns distracting Halsin and Jaheira while the others slip Scratch and Owlfonso sausages, all three a lost cause when it comes to the pleading eyes of their furry friends, but none of them keen to have to sit through yet another Bilateral Druid Lecture on the proper diets of dogs and owlbears.

          Soon though, their meal is finished, and once everyone’s had their fill, the table is cleared, and the dishes cleaned, they all move to settle on the cushions set around the currently-doused firepit, lounging together in piles of twos and threes and passing drinks around.

          Astarion stands in the center holding Astraea, surveying the group. “Well, now that we all have full bellies and empty hands,” he says, “who wants to go first?”

          Karlach’s hand is in the air almost before he can finish his sentence, practically vibrating with excitement. “Dibs!” she shouts, before clapping a hand over her mouth and more quietly saying “Shit, sorry! No wait, fuck- oh damn- hells I’m not supposed to swear!”

          Tav laughs from her cushion a few seats over. “Don’t worry about it, Kar, I fully expect that, if her first word isn’t a swear, it’ll be something that implicates her father in a crime instead.”

          “All the more reason to impress upon her early the importance of never speaking to the authorities, and certainly not without her lawyer present, my dear,” he says, as he begins the awkward dance of shifting Astraea from his arms to Karlach’s. Once she’s settled, he brushes a wisp of hair from her face and takes a half step back. When he’s sure Karlach’s got her, he returns to lounge on the cushion at Tav’s side.

          Karlach is clearly nervous, sitting stiff as a board, but immediately besotted. “Hey, little soldier. I’m your Auntie K,” she whispers, “Gods, you’re so cute, I just wanna eat you!” Astraea, attracted to the warmth and gentle glow of Karlach’s engine, snuggles closer to her chest, sending the Tiefling into wet-eyed sniffles. “You know, I was really worried the engine would scare you, but you’re just a little moth, aren’t you?” she coos. “Your dad liked how warm I am too,” she continues, throwing a wink at Astarion and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “He used to wrap himself in his blanket at night when it was cold and come sit next to me real close, like a cat by a fireplace.” He wrinkles his nose at that comparison, but he can’t help but to be amused at the sight of Karlach Cliffgate, Demonsbane, Hero of Baldur’s Gate and Terror of Avernus, brought to her metaphorical knees by an infant barely larger than her hands.

          After a few minutes, it’s Wyll’s turn, and his and Karlach’s attempt to transfer the baby from her arms to his takes long enough that Jaheira eventually takes it upon herself to step in and assist. Though the Blade does his best to play it cool, his false confidence quickly wavers once the girl is actually in his arms. Once he’s got her though, Wyll’s no less enamored than Karlach was. Letting her wrap a tiny fist around his finger, he gently shakes her hand. “Well met, Astraea, I’m your Uncle Wyll,” he says, giving a polite nod of his head out of habit, “it’s very nice to meet you.” His voice is that same low, steady cadence he’d been using when they’d first met him in the Grove while he was training the Tiefling children. He hefts her a bit and lets out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t expect her to be so small, I think I’ve held loaves of bread heavier than she is. It’s like she weighs hardly anything!”

          “It didn’t feel that way from where I was sitting,” Tav calls from her spot on the cushion she and Astarion are sharing, tipping her cup toward Wyll in a mock-toast and drawing a few laughs.

          Wyll has the good manners to blush before continuing his fawning over the baby in his arms, and Astarion watches the man practically melt when Astraea lets out a series of tiny sneezes. He shares a look with Tav, no tadpoles needed to read each other’s minds this time. If Wyll has his way, Astraea and Xan won’t be waiting too long before they get another cousin.

          Gale decides to stake his claim on the next spot in line a few minutes later, coming to crouch in front of Wyll and holding his arms out. “I believe it’s my turn next, Saer Babyhog,” he says with a wink in Wyll’s direction, then, hands moving with the same confidence as when he casts a spell or prepares a meal, he swiftly scoops Astraea from Wyll’s arms, standing and swaying gently as he tucks her into his elbow. “Well, Little Miss, I do believe introductions are in order.” Astraea nuzzles her face against the soft material of his shirt, letting out a little squeak as she does so. “Ah, Astraea, is it? What a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, taking one of her tiny hands in his and miming a polite bow over it, “I’m your Uncle Gale. There are several rather impressive titles that usually follow that, but we’ll save those for when you’re old enough to appreciate them.”

          He continues like this for some time, swaying as he walks Astraea around the firepit, talking to her about nothing of import, until Shadowheart steps in front of him and holds her hands out with a smile. “Now who’s playing Saer Babyhog?”

          “Ah, so I am, my apologies.” He looks down to address Astraea again, “Well, this conversation has been lovely, but it seems this is where we must part ways, young madame.” He hands her over, briefly letting her take hold of his finger once again as he tells her, “I trust you’ll find an equally stimulating conversation partner in Shadowheart.”

          Shadowheart rolls her eyes and huffs out a laugh, moving to settle on one of the empty cushions and fuss over her niece. Gale grabs a bottle of wine before reoccupying his own cushion, filling his cup and passing the bottle to Minthara next to him.

          “You know,” Karlach says, elbowing Wyll as she pops a grape in her mouth, “I was nervous, but I think we did alright, considering.”

          Gale, confused, responds. “Considering what? Your engine? I thought Withers said it would remain cooled for our duration here at camp?”

          “Oh that too,” she replies around a mouthful of grapes, “but mostly for not ever holding a baby before.” She throws one of the grapes in her hand at him, which he catches with a Mage Hand and tosses into his own mouth. “Spoilsport. Anyway, seemed like you did good too, yeah? Didn’t look nervous or anything. Not like me and Wyll. All nerves, us.”

          Gale looks even more puzzled, now. “What? I’ve held a baby before. I’ve held… goodness, dozens of babies, I suppose. Have you really never?”

          “Not before today,” she says, now also puzzled, and a little skeptical. “And when were you holding dozens of babies, Gale? The way you told it when we first met, before the tadpole you basically went straight from being a prodigy to a workaholic to a shut-in.” She lobs another grape at him, “You Wizards just throw real weird parties or what?”

          His Mage Hand bats the grape aside this time. “Well, it wasn’t all at once,” he scoffs, “and they were all relatives.” On the receiving end of several slightly-disbelieving stares, he grows somewhat indignant as he continues, “I did say more than once during our journey that a Dekarios family reunion was a very boisterous affair. My mother is the oldest of nine, and while I don’t have any siblings myself, I am the oldest of all my cousins. I was the go-to babysitter for all my aunts and uncles throughout my school years.” He pauses, looking both a little embarrassed and pleased with himself, and shrugs. “It was how I got money to by components and instruction books for the higher-level spells I wasn’t supposed to be learning yet.”

          There’s a bark of laughter from Astarion. “That’s what you did with your pocket money? Oh, I can picture it now, little pubescent Gale, sneaking his way down to the shops after school to buy illicit spellbooks and fancy stones, blushing like you’ve got the Quarte Sune in your bag instead of instructions for how to cast Fireball.” His gleeful cackle fills the air as he says, “I imagine you must have needed to smuggle them past mother-dearest? Did you hide them under your robes as you darted up the stairs to your room? Keep them stuffed under the mattress?”

Gale blushes a bit, “Only until I learned how to make a pocket dimension to hide them in!” Taking a chance at redirecting the conversation, he waves his hand, “Anyway, that isn’t the most important revelation here.” He turns to Wyll and Karlach again, “You two have really never held a baby before? Not even once?”

          “Nope.”

          “Not before today.”

          It’s then that Lae’zel joins in. “Before Xan, I also had never held an infant.”

          “Xan doesn’t count,” Tav counters, “he came out of that egg already crawling and eating solids. Githyanki babies are on a whole different level of baby.”

          Lae’zel sits a little straighter, passing a hand over Xan’s hair, the toddler having crawled to sit in the shelter of her lap. “This is true,” she says, nodding in greeting to Shadowheart as she speaks. The Cleric was now crouched in front of her so Xan can see Astraea. Lae’zel continues as she takes Xan’s hand in hers and leads him to reach out and gently touch Astraea’s curled fist, “I have heard that istik children are much less physically resilient than Gith children, born near-sighted and toothless, and that it takes many months for them to master the simple act of merely controlling the movements of their own heads.” She smiles at her son as he lets out an unenthused “Bah!” and pats Astraea’s arm, before crawling away to sit in Karlach’s lap. “That Githyanki children are hatched capable of feeding themselves and removing themselves from areas of danger seems a far superior process.”

          “Hang on,” Wyll says, holding up a hand, “I’m starting to think that Karlach and I aren’t as much the odd ones out as we thought. Show of hands: Excluding Xan, who here has held a baby before today?”

          Gale makes a noise of consternation as he looks around at their gathered friends and sees that no one, not even Tav and Astarion, has their hands up apart from Shadowheart, Jaheira, Halsin, and himself. “But- but how?” he says, all his usual elegance lost in his confusion. “Except for Wyll, everyone here is at least thirty, and half of you are over a hundred. How have you all made it to adulthood without ever holding a baby even once?”

          The justifications start flying almost faster than can be parsed.

          “I was in Hell, mate,” Karlach says.

          “I was an only child,” Wyll reminds them, “and banished from the city at seventeen.”

          “In Menzoberranzan, the care of infants was the duty of lower-ranked males,” Minthara scoffs.

          Lae’zel waves a dismissive hand “I was no Vaarsh during my time in the creche.”

          Tav shrugs and gives him a sympathetic smile, “I was leading a murder cult in the sewers.”

          Astarion’s eyeroll is nearly audible. “Vampire, darling,” he says as Shadowheart carefully hands a sleeping Astraea back to him, “believe it or not, my siblings and I weren’t hiring ourselves out as nannies between all the torture and whoring.”

          Gale seems at a loss for words, and then:

          “Also, your calculations are incorrect, istik. By Faerun’s calendar, I would have seen twenty-two winters, not thirty.”

          Silence engulfs the camp as everyone freezes and all eyes snap to Lae’zel, looks of confusion slowly morphing to understanding and then dawning horror as they all realize what this means.

          The deafening quiet lingers for several minutes, finally broken by Astarion, who closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose as he says, “Someone please tell me that we did not somehow spend seven months fighting cultists and gods and monsters with a twenty-two year old as our frontline fighter and chief combat strategist and not one of us knew.”

          No response is received from those around him, Astraea’s little snores and Xan’s humming as he draws in the dirt the only sounds filling the silence hanging over the camp, and so he nearly jumps out of his seat when, appearing practically out of nowhere, Withers intones from directly next to him, “The accounting of this one’s years was known to me.”

          The resulting raucous chorus directed at Withers of shouts, boos, and a few thrown grapes courtesy of Karlach, goes on for several minutes, eventually dying down only because none of it manages to faze their unflappable skeletal party host.

          Later that evening, there will be a much larger number of empty bottles of some of the stronger wines than there had been in nights prior, and though nothing will be said outright on the matter, those gathered will forge a silent pact that this will never be discussed again.