#bright lost things

Perhaps they will still find a way for him to be able to walk in the sun even without the tadpole. 

But that is a problem for later. For days when they’re not saving Gondians from the Iron Throne or blowing up the Steel Watch Foundry. Their group eats a celebratory dinner, loud and happy, and while there is still much to do, today has felt like a victory. Astarion even stays, drinking and joining in with their friends. 

As the night winds down, he leans over and in a voice low enough that only she can hear, says, “There’s…something I’d like to show you, if that’s all right? Something out in the city.”

 She takes his hand in hers. “Of course.” And they slip out of the Elfsong into the dark streets of the lower city. 

As they walk hand in hand, it’s easy to pretend that they’re just another couple out in the city. That there is no Chosen of the Dead Three to deal with, that they can just be themselves. She’s struck with a vision of a future, of an after . She’s not really allowed herself to consider what it might look like or that they might have some chance at survival, but with him, she thinks that maybe there might be more than just a chance. That there might be something really worth fighting for. 

“I should probably start getting used to the shadows again, to dark streets and moonlit nights,” Astarion sighs, face upturned to the cool light of the moon. The moonlight suits him, casting his hair in liquid silver, his eyes a deep purple. He is a dying star, bright even in the darkness. But this is not the light he loves. 

“Perhaps,” she squeezes his hand in reassurance. “But who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky? Find a way.”

His answering smile is a soft thing. “If anyone could, it’s you. Assuming we survive of course because a horrible death is always just around the corner with you.”

She huffs a laugh at that. “Unfortunately, it's true.” 

“I’d still follow you anywhere,” he whispers into her hair before kissing the top of her head. The words feel like a promise. 

“How are you feeling, now you’ve had a little time?” 

He sighs. “It feels ridiculous to still be thinking of Cazador. He’s gone, I’m here, I won. But I still keep reliving what happened. Playing it over and over again in my mind. And yet, I feel invigorated and terrified. And I’m still trying to understand it really.”

“I’m sure it will always be a complicated thing. I’m sorry.”

“I came so close to losing everything back there. To losing myself. Back at the ritual, all I could see was the power on offer and the safety it promised. I was so blinded by it, just as Cazador was. But you saw something else in me - someone else I could be. Someone who could break the cycle of power and terror that started centuries ago. You saved me. I may not have appreciated it at the time, but I do now. Thank you.”

They had been close to losing him, but he had chosen differently. “You saved yourself. I just gave you a push.” She knows that the temptation of that power had been so difficult for him to turn away from, but she had always believed he could do it on his own. As selfish as he often pretends to be, he cares too much and too deeply. 

He stops, turning to her fully, shaking his head. “You did more than that. You believed in me, believed I was enough just the way I am. When I look at my future, anything and everything feels possible now. And I get to share it with you, as a partner, an equal. You saved me from myself, and let me walk a new path where I can be free, truly and honestly free. This is a gift, you know. Thank you - I won’t forget it.” She has never seen him this unburdened, this open, so very different from the man she’d met just a few short months ago. 

She grins. “Partners, huh?”

He tucks her hand in the crook of his arm as they continue walking. “If you’d like.”

She leans into him, squeezing his arm. “I’d like that very much.”

He covers her hand with his. “Good.”

They’ve walked far enough that she realizes now where Astarion has led them, it’s the cemetery. It’s quiet, peaceful even. Astarion lets go of her hand, stepping forward to a vine-covered grave. For all his casual ease from before, he seems a little stiff now, nervous even, before he approaches the grave and clears the dirt and ivy away. She realizes even before the name is fully legible, that this gravestone is his. 

“Two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there. I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. And when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his. Until now.”

He spoke once about the pain of that transformation, about how his body became something that was no longer his. There was no reason for Cazador to allow Astarion to be buried, for him to suffer that way, except for the cruelty, the horror. Cazador deserved far worse. Two hundred years of suffering, but even afraid, he fought back and won. “You were never his. Whatever he had, he took by force.” 

“Maybe, but he did take it. There’s almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock. For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.” He glances at her with a soft smile, with something that feels all the more precious for what they’ve been through. 

“And what do you want?” she asks. It is a question she has been asking him even before she knew how important it was to him, and it is a question she will keep asking, keep pushing through her own fears because it is better to know than to wonder. 

His response is quick, with no hesitation. “You. I want you.” He turns toward her more fully. “You were by my side through all of this. Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do. I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”

The words fill up something within Liv, some yawning chasm that has been empty for years and years. He wants her . And not because of anything she can do or be or her magic. “I feel seen with you too. Whatever comes next, I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” 

The moment hangs there, and she wonders if this is the moment she should tell him how she feels. But he’s clearly still working up to something, so she waits. He turns back to the gravestone. “Well, I should probably fix this.”

He approaches the gravestone, and for a time, the only sound is the scraping of his dagger on stone as he carves in a new epitaph. A life now his. He stands back after a minute, surveying his work before kneeling down on the grass. She joins him but doesn’t say a word, just holding this moment and all that it represents. 

“I’ve been dead in the ground long enough. It’s time to try living again,” he says before turning to her and taking both of her hands in his own. “With everything life has to offer.”

The way he’s looking at her holds so much promise, hope. Her heart speeds up. “Meaning?”

“If a night of passion is on offer. I could be persuaded,” he says with a sly grin. She recognizes it for the gift of trust that it is. That he wants to try again, try with her. 

She smiles. “I’d like that.”

He looks relieved. “You know, I didn’t care for you when we first met.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know. You made it very clear with every complaint and criticism of my-”

“I love you.”

She stops mid-sentence, looking into his eyes. He loves her? She grew up in a house where there were words missing. Words like love always sound funny in her mouth, as if she isn’t forming the words quite right. She has been cradling these words within her, holding them carefully as if they are fragile, unsure if she’s allowed to give them to him when she’s not positive she knows exactly what they mean. 

“You do?” Her voice sounds small, full of disbelief. 

Astarion’s eyes soften, his voice gentle. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.” He reaches out, cupping her cheek, as he leans in. 

“I love you too,” she says, just before his lips meet hers. And the words feel exactly right. 

***

Liv is not the first person to tell him that she loves him, but it is the first time he has believed it to be true. It certainly isn’t the first time he’s said the words, he’d even said them to her once, in a streak of meanness following their first night together that he now regrets. He regrets saying the words to her the way he had, flippantly, and in a way to wound and hurt. This time when he says them, he’s cutting her off, surprising her. Her green eyes go wide with realization, and her whispered question tells him he needs to say it again. 

He holds her hands gently, her warmth seeping into him. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.” He cups her cheek, reaching for her has become instinctive, easy. 

Her eyes are soft as he leans in, and he feels her words more than hears them. “I love you too.” The words light up something within him, casting some long-hanging darkness away. She loves him. Him. Not what he looks like or what he can do, certainly not his power. Him. 

He closes the distance, capturing her lips. This kiss is deliberately not careful in the way so many of their kisses have been since Moonrise. Tonight, he doesn’t want to be careful. He wants to be brave, to throw caution to the wind. He wants everything she is willing to give him, and he is willing to give everything over to her. 

He pushes her back into the grass, settling over her as he drags her bottom lip between his teeth. Her answering gasp is a lovely thing, and he drinks it down like starlight, hand skating down her side to her hip as his fingers pull her close. Her hands are tunneled in his hair, twisting in his curls, but they do not pull or direct, instead, they just anchor him here in this moment, with her. Like with so many other things in their relationship, she seems to be waiting for him to make the next step, to take the lead. 

Well, he can certainly do that. 

He rolls his hips into hers as he inches her shirt up, cupping one of her breasts. She hums into his mouth at the contact, and he breaks away to kiss down the column of her throat. She shivers as his teeth worry the skin at her neck, not enough to puncture, just enough of a promise that perhaps they’ll get there this evening. Her hands span the length of his chest, before deftly undoing the fastenings of his doublet, but then her fingers pause and she pulls back. 

He leans back to meet her gaze, ready to provide her with whatever reassurances she needs that he does in fact want this. “Everything alright, love?”

“You, we….” She is so very rarely fumbling, and it’s rather adorable. “Here?”

Is she serious? “Well, this late our other option is with our nearest and dearest friends in the same room. And as much as I enjoy voyeurism as much as the next person, I think I’d rather not have them participating tonight,” he says, fighting a laugh. 

“We could get caught!” she whispers. Her eyes are wide and guileless. She’s really not kidding.

He collapses into the crook of her neck, laughter overtaking him. “That, my dear, is part of the appeal. Could, but won’t. This place is quite dead this time of night.” He hates himself a little as he says it, but it’s worth it to get her laughing too. 

It earns him a swat of her hand against his shoulder. “I just mean if we get caught, we could get in trouble!”

“I’m sorry, are you concerned about getting in trouble for public indecency on the same day that you blew up a government facility?” 

“Apparently?” But even as she says it, she sounds far less sure than she did earlier.  

He brushes her hair back behind the tip of her pointed ear, looking for some hint that this hesitancy is part of something bigger. “If you’re not comfortable, we can go, but I have every confidence that the very powerful wizard who destroyed the entirety of the Steel Watch can protect us both from anyone who might catch us here.”

Her eyes are bright, and she shakes her head. “You’re a terrible influence,” she says, kissing him fiercely. 

“Gods, I hope so,” he murmurs as she eases his doublet from his shoulders and greedily seeks his skin with her hands. He melts into her touch, lets the world narrow to this moment and this moment alone, enjoying the feel her hands against his skin. He is surprised at how hungry he is for more, more of her, more of her skin against his. He wants to feel her. The genuineness of the desire catches him off guard, makes him feel unsteady. 

There is nothing choreographed about the way they undress one another, sneaking kisses between discarding items of clothing. The fumbling gives way to a silliness and laughter he didn’t realize could be present in moments like this. He presses her back against the blanket of clothing they’ve made on the ground, unable to keep the smile from his lips as he kisses her deeply, tongues twining together. His cock is hard against the warmth of her stomach, and he presses his hips into her just to feel her intake of breath. 

“I want to touch you,” he says against her lips. 

She tightens her hold on him, as if she can’t get close enough. “Please.”

He reaches between them and gently parts the lips of her vulva before gently circling her entrance.  She is wet and waiting, so he slips a finger inside her, his thumb circling her clit. She moans against his lips, back arching. He adds another finger and pumps his fingers, adjusting the pace while she falls apart in his arms. He kisses down her chest and over the swell of her breast, circling her nipple with his tongue while he continues to work his fingers inside of her. 

For as difficult as Liv is to read otherwise, he has never had any issues reading her like this. Her sighs and moans, the way her body responds to him. He hooks his fingers as he circles her clit, is rewarded with a moan that sounds suspiciously like calling on the gods. 

She tightens around his fingers as she comes, her cheeks flushed, eyelashes a dark smudge against her cheeks, his name a string of broken syllables as he strokes her through her orgasm. It’s a beautiful sight to see her undone like this, unburdened by responsibility or worry, simply here with him. Her eyes are dark, slightly unfocused, and she kisses him hard, teeth and lips meeting with an urgency that is still somehow careful. 

Her hand is on his hip, fingers brushing closer to his cock, but not quite touching. He’s aching for her to touch him, to wrap her delicate fingers around him. “Yes,” he manages to ground out, his hips stuttering into hers. 

Her gentle touch is his undoing. He buries his head into her neck as her fingers wrap around him, her thumb brushing over the tip of his cock before slowly, torturously sliding along his length. He shudders at the contact, melts into the sensation. 

Against his ear he feels her lips. “I want to taste you.” 

Gods, yes. He flips them so that she can crawl down his body, kissing down his chest and his stomach as she goes. She pauses just before she reaches his cock, eyes locking on his, waiting for confirmation. His chest is heaving with breaths he doesn’t need, but feels like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. He nods, and she smiles, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock before taking him into her mouth. 

“Fuck.” The sensation is almost too much coupled with the way she watches him, honed in on his every reaction. He has been on the receiving end of partners before, enthusiastic lovers who hoped his enjoyment might mean deeper feelings on his part. This is different, an offering, a focus on him, his pleasure. It’s something he’s allowed, so he leans his head back, letting the sensation, the pleasure wash over him without worrying about what might come next, what’s expected after. 

And it is good, so very good, until it is almost too good and he stops her with a gentle hand in her hair. “Careful, love, I’d still like to be inside you.”

Her answering smile is a smug thing, as if she is proud of the effect she’s had on him. He kisses her then, groaning as he tastes himself on her tongue. He rolls them so that she is back beneath him, and thrusts forward, his cock dragging through her wetness. They both groan, and he reaches beneath them positioning himself at her entrance, forehead pressed to hers. She cups his cheek, eyes meeting his, a silent question within them. 

She is staying so very still, and he knows it is because she wants this to be entirely his choice, entirely up to him. He could stop things here if he wanted, they could go back to the Elfsong, and there would be no consequences. She would still love him either way. He slowly, carefully presses into her. 

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to move. The rhythm is slow at first, her fingers pulling him closer, as if she could eliminate all space between them. Her hips meet his every thrust as they move together at a languid pace, as if they have all the time in the world. 

He can feel the way her heart races, the rush of blood in her veins. She is so vibrant, so very alive. He kisses down her throat, and isn’t at all surprised when she twists in offering. Some part of him wonders if this should have a place her, but she’s never shied away from his true nature, all of him. So perhaps, he shouldn’t either. He tries to be as gentle as possible, as he sinks his fangs into her neck as he thrusts into her, hoping the sensations might balance. Her small gasp tells him he’s been successful. He savors the taste of her blood, the way her warmth spreads through him, her fingers in his hair. 

His hips stutter as her walls tighten around him. He knows she’s close, and he picks up his pace, sliding as deep as he can. He takes another sip of her blood before pulling back, tongue catching the excess. His face hovers over hers, breaths mingling. 

Her eyes are soft as she brushes his curls from his face. “I love you,” she says before capturing his lips in a deep kiss. She orgasms with a shudder, and he follows her over pleasure’s edge, hips stuttering to a stop as he comes. 

She’s breathing hard, sweat forming on her brow, but they stay there bodies entwined. Her nose brushes softly against his. “Feeling alright?”

But the problem has rarely been the actual act, but how he feels after. There is nothing about tonight he would change, but he finds himself still bracing subconsciously, awaiting the regret and the shame. Perhaps it will not come. He kisses the tip of her nose. “Yes.”

But she has always seen him, even when he wished she didn’t. “What do you need?” she asks, gently running her fingers through his curls. 

“I…” he pauses, wondering what it is he needs, now in this moment. This is, for him, new territory. There were not often afters in sex that didn’t include putting clothes back on immediately or other far worse endings for his lovers. “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps we just stay here for a while?” she says, the backs of her fingers brushing his cheek. 

“And here I thought you were worried about getting caught,” he says, trying to mask how out of his depth he is here. It would be very nice to stay like this, to just be held. 

She smiles. “I think you put it best when you said -”

He presses a finger against her lips. “Don’t repeat it. And if you tell anyone I said that, I will deny it. Vehemently.”

“Come here,” she says, pulling him in closer. He lays his head against her chest, where he can hear her heartbeat. She runs her fingers through his hair, nails lightly dragging against his scalp, for a long, quiet time. He focuses on her heartbeat, on her steady breathing. He waits for the wave of shame or disgust, for his mind to twist this around into something else, but it doesn’t come, instead, there is…nothing, and it is a relief. He is sure that it will not always be this way and that there will still be days and moments where he cannot bear even her touch, but tonight, tonight he has reclaimed back a piece of himself. 

“We should get you to a real bed,” he says after he notices Liv’s breathing begin to deepen, sleep making her eyes heavy. 

“I think I’d prefer not to be discovered sleeping here by some poor mourning person come to pay their respects,” she says around a yawn. 

He grins at the image as he begins gathering discarded clothing. “But it would be funny.”

“You’re terrible.”

He kneels back over her, brings his hand to her neck, and runs his thumb along her jaw. “And you love me.”

“And I love you,” she smiles against his lips. 

Lae’zel is moving towards Liv, but not quickly enough. It becomes more and more apparent that he must be the one to go or risk it….risk her. There are some prices even he’s not willing to pay. An ascended vampire will have may powers, but the power to bring Liv back isn’t one of them. 

“Damn it all! Lae’zel get over here! Kill him if he so much as moves the wrong direction,” Astarion yells. He waits just long enough for Lae’zel to limp over, holding her sword out to Cazador’s chest.

She seems steadier for the order, and that’s the only reason he feels like he can turn his back on Cazador in this moment. 

“It is done,” she growls.

And then he’s running across the bloodstained platform to Liv’s side. Now that he’s here, no longer looming over Cazador, he can see just how bad her injuries are. She’s covered in blood, and there are deep, jagged cuts across her abdomen and arms. She’s lost a lot of blood. He lifts the werewolf off of her, careful not to jostle her as he does.

“No, you can’t die! Get up, damn you!” he yells, hoping that simply getting her free might be enough to rouse her. He has no means of healing, nothing on him, his bag and supplies all stripped away and Gods know where now. But Liv always has healing potions on hand. He reaches into her bag, fingers frantic and soaked in her blood. His other hand rests on her neck, searching desperately for her pulse because no healing potion can restart her heart. Gods, he wasted so much time getting over here. 

She can’t die, not here, not now. They haven’t really spoken since the other night when his siblings came to collect him. She’d been so disappointed in him and his lies. It had only compounded here, wading through this house, with every shameful deed of his on full display. She’d looked so glad, so hopeful when he’d promised Sebastian they’d be back, only for that hope and belief in him to sputter out the second he mentioned ascending. She’s never wanted him to complete the ritual anyway. 

His fingers close around the small, tapered bottle at the same moment he feels the light fluttering of her pulse, it’s faint, too faint. He doesn’t hesitate to pour the potion into her mouth, and watches with profound relief as the worst of her wounds stitch themselves closed, but barely. She was far closer to death than he’d thought. And he had stood over Cazador contemplating vengeance while she was bleeding out.

Liv’s eyes open in what seems like an intense effort, and she is a bloody mess, but she’s here. He could leave her now, just for a moment, just long enough to take care of Cazador and ascend. Lae’zel would help him, and Liv will be safe, right?

Liv takes in the scene, looking around with wide eyes, at Shadowheart healing Gale, at Lae’zel holding her sword at Cazador and he can see the second she decides there is more work to be done. She tries to get up. “We have to finish this.” 

Of course her first thought after nearly dying is to help in whatever way she can. Liv would set fire to herself if it meant keeping others warm. And his first thought upon seeing her bleeding out was that he could still have power. That she’d be fine. A sick, roiling feeling has settled in his gut. 

“You’re not getting up until you’re properly healed,” he gently presses her shoulder back, to keep her down. 

It’s a testament to how hurt she is that she doesn’t fight him. “I…alright.”

But then, Shadowheart is there, hands already glowing with healing magic and he draws back to give them space. Gale and Lae’zel stand over Cazador, still awaiting his judgment. He’s not alone in this. Not anymore. 

He had been so ready to sacrifice everything that truly mattered for power. He is the only one who gets to decide who he becomes now. He doesn’t want to become someone who would be willing to ignore the pain of someone he cares about - no matter how much power is on offer. 

He can be better than that. He is better than that. 

Liv wipes at her eyes, still wet from the river, and pretends there are not errant tears mixed in. “We did it.”

“On your feet, soldier,” Karlach stands over her, holding out her hand. Liv takes it and is pulled up and straight into a bone-crushing hug. “We take our victories standing up.”

Liv nods to hide the way she sways a little when Karlach lets her go. She feels a bit unsteady, her limbs weak. She can’t remember a time she’s felt this drained of all magic, but also this alive. It’s a heady feeling, full of adrenaline and relief. 

“My powers…they’re draining,” Wyll says looking at his hands. “Just like Mizora said they would. A small price to pay, in the grand scheme of things.” His voice sounds a little lost, a little full of grief. They have all sacrificed so much to get here, to be truly free. Wyll’s father is alive, but for how much longer? 

Liv isn’t sure what to say, so instead she turns to survey the city. Jaheira pats her shoulder. “Well, this is a bigger mess than any we made in the good old days. My congratulations.” Pride laces the joke, and Liv wishes she had the words to say just how much Jaheira’s unrelenting faith in her has meant. 

There will be time for that later. There is nothing pressing at them on the horizon. No day to save or villain to take down. The adventure is over, but not everyone has been saved. Orpheus hovers nearby, a sense of accomplishment tinged with grief radiating off of him in waves. Even without the tadpole, she can feel the bright burst of his emotions. She hasn’t forgotten what was asked of her, what she promised. 

Even when my time in the prism stretched out like eternity - when escape seemed impossible - I never lost hope. I knew that my destiny was to liberate my people. To return to them triumphant. I was wrong. It seems that I can only fulfill one part of my destiny. My people will be liberated, but I cannot return to them. Not like this. You helped me destroy that abomination. Now help me destroy myself. You must kill me. Orpheus kneels, draws out his sword and holds it out to her. 

She doesn’t want to do this, even as she takes his blade. She grips the blade awkwardly. She is not a fighter. 

Orpheus hasn’t noticed, is instead looking past her. But first, Lae’zel, I will have your promise. Carry my hope, carry my burden. Call my dragons, Quulos and Quuthos, and ride to the Astral Sea. Destroy Vlaakith, release our people. Be our future and our legacy.

Lae’zel bows her head solemnly. “It will be done. I will never be free while my people are still bound by Vlaakith’s chains.”

Orpheus nods, eyes falling shut as he squares his shoulders. Enough talk - give me my freedom. Freedom from this form.

She was the one who asked him to do this, who gave her word, but she wishes there was any other way. “Are you sure?” Orpheus still seems very much himself. Perhaps he could still live a life, still help his people in some way…but it is not what he wants.

Orpheus glares up at her. Release my soul to the Astral Seas while I still have one to call my own.

The tears threaten to fall, but she will not let them. Because they are not for him, not really. She barely knows this githyanki prince who sacrificed so much and saved them all. Still, she wishes things were different. She did not flinch away from his transformation and she will not flinch away from the consequences of her choices. She lines up the blade, resting it against his heart, and then plunges it into his chest. It’s strange, how easy it is to take a life. How little effort it takes. She has long since stopped counting the lives she has taken, the stories ended by her hand. Even though he asked for this death, and changed to an illithid willingly, Liv knows she won’t ever forget this moment where she had to look her own weakness in the eyes and kill it. 

Gith’ka tavkim krash’ht, Orpheus whispers as he falls. She doesn’t know what it means. She hopes it is a comfort. There are many things she regrets, but she cannot seem to find it in herself to regret not being the one to turn. She’s not sure what that says about her, who it is exactly she has become. 

She scarcely has time to think before Lae’zel steps forward, voice raised to the sky, calling the dragons. She turns to her as one lands beside the fallen prince. “I can never forget you. Your name will be etched in our slates. You will be called Mla’ghir - liberator.” And then Liv is pulled into another hug. It’s stiff, uncomfortable, even. Lae’zel has only one arm around her, as if she’s unsure about this display of care and affection. But as Lae’zel pulls away she’s smiling. “Live well.”

“Good luck, Lae’zel,” Liv manages. 

And then Lae’zel is off. Riding up into the sky on the back of a red dragon all triumphant glory against the orange haze of the sky. Other dragons with their githyanki riders follow suit, portals opening within the sky above the city. It’s a strange sight, but then, what hasn’t been today?

“Well, the crown is in the depths of the Chionthar. Perhaps that’s where it should stay, or perhaps I will give it back to Mystra, as she asked,” Gale says, watching the rushing water of the river. 

“And here I thought I’d have to talk another friend out of godlike power,” Liv says, attempting humor but only sounding tired. 

Gale looks away from the river and gives her a smile. “If our time together has taught me anything, it’s that there are things in this world far more valuable than power. I’m sure Mystra will summon me soon enough, but until then, I propose we celebrate our victory the mortal way - with a drink in hand and reckless abandon in our hearts.”

“Oh…I could really go for a meal…and a drink,” Karlach agrees. 

“We should see if the Elfsong is still standing,” Astarion suggests. He tosses a brilliant grin her way, and his eyes are bright with excitement. He’s beautiful, even waterlogged, it’s rather unfair. 

She realizes then what he has likely been marveling at for several minutes: he is standing in full daylight on these docks. Perhaps…perhaps some of the parasite’s gifts were permanent after all. “You-” Words fail her. 

He shrugs off her awe with a hand on his hip and a jut of his chin. “I honestly don’t care what we do, once we get….ow!”

Astarion raises a hand to his cheek, flinching as if he has been burned. “What the - oh gods. Oh no. Well, it was nice while it lasted…” his skin is blisters and cracks, and Liv’s heart breaks. For several horrifying seconds, he doesn’t move, doesn’t react, just watches the burning of his hands.  “Argh! I’m sorry, I-I have to go!” He’s running then, stumbling up the dock in search of shadows.

Liv is already giving chase, cataloging any spells she might be able to use to help, and trying to figure out if she has any magic left for them at all anyway. But then, she hears Karlach cry out. The sound stops her short…because of course: her engine. Responsibilities to both her friends and their suffering war within her. She tells herself Astarion will be alright for the moment, but Karlach will not. So she stays.

Karlach is doubled over, clutching her chest. “Engine’s finally cooked. Held on just long enough.” Karlach is drenched in sweat, each breath is a labor, but somehow she is still smiling through gritted teeth. “So, how’d I do?”

Liv doesn’t want to accept this. Now that the brain is defeated she was supposed to have time to fix this. There’s got to be a way. She kneels down beside Karlach. “You were spectacular in every way. As always. But I need you to hang on, I can still cool you down, we can find Dammon. You’re going to be okay.”

Karlach reaches out, grasping Liv’s shoulder. “I adore you.” Before Liv can answer, flames emerge between them, the heat almost unbearable. “I never gave up. I did my best. I did my best.”

It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. Liv leans forward. “Karlach, hang on just a little longer. Please.”

But it seems like Karlach hasn’t heard her. “It’s the one thing I can’t beat, isn't it? I wanted to live. In my city. With my friends. Gods…goodbye, sun. Goodbye, sea.” And then Karlach turns the full force of her orange eyes on Liv. “Goodbye.”

And there’s nothing Liv can do, nothing she can say. 

“No! Stop,” Wyll calls. “I won’t allow this. Karlach, you’re coming with me - back to Avernus.”

Karlach’s face is twisted in pain. “You can’t…you…”

Liv seizes this moment. “Give me a year - just a year. See if I can make some headway. If I can’t…then you pick the time and place, and I’ll be there. I promise. You’re not alone anymore, Karlach. It’s not forever. Just to buy us time.”

“So? What do you say? Die here, now, or live on with the Blade of Avernus at your side. Zariel won’t touch you. I swear it, Karlach.”

Liv holds her breath, waiting. Hoping her friend chooses life. 

Finally, Karlach nods. “Fine. I’ll go. Wyll. With you. But we have to go. Now. I can’t hang on much longer.”

“Thank the gods you’ve seen sense,” Wyll says as he rushes to her side. He smiles when he looks back at Liv, magic already swirling around their feet. “Our next adventure awaits!”

And then they too are gone, and Liv is alone.

Except…she isn’t, really. Shadowheart, Gale, Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc remain. Perhaps they will all go their own way now too. She’s not sure she’s ready for that. 

Their group is quiet for a long time, as they all look at the place Karlach and Wyll had stood. As they all consider their dwindling numbers. 

Halsin is the first to speak. “Come, we should find Astarion.”

Oh gods, Astarion. So much has happened so quickly, that Liv has scarcely had time to catch her breath.

“I think he ran this way,” Liv gestures up the docks, already breaking into as much of a run as she can manage. She prays he made it somewhere safe. She has lost enough today, she can’t bear to lose him too.

***

Astarion pulls his knees closer into his chest as he leans into the shadow beside the crate he’s managed to find. The shadow is a slip of a thing, barely large enough to shield him from the sun’s rays. It’s been a very, very long time since he’s been burned by the sunlight this badly, but he can already feel the blisters and cracks in his skin knitting back together. His healing abilities are back at least, small comfort that. He has had far worse pain than this, but in this moment, those memories are distant things. The pain of the present, the pain of now, demands his full attention. No amount of telling himself he’s had worse seems to distract from the persistent, burning throb. 

But it will pass. 

And he will remain here until nightfall. Then he will go to find his friends and Liv and finally celebrate her victory. She did it, and he’s so fucking proud of her. The perfect heroic sacrifice had been placed before her as if it had been tailor fit to her and all her many insecurities. And she had done what she wanted instead. And the world was still saved. Gods, she better remember that. 

He supposes this is his victory too, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not here. Alone. These docks are filthy, and they reek. And that was before a giant brain was destroyed over top of them. He’s going to need a very long, very thorough bath after this. And maybe a criminal he can drink dry on the way to the Elfsong. He’ll feel much better once he’s not cowering behind this bloody box, anyway.

But there had been a moment there…where he had believed that his ability to walk in the sun was permanent. The parasite was gone, but there he stood on the docks with his friends. It was…it was an impossibly perfect moment. It was gone just as quickly as it came, but for a moment, it had existed. And it had been beautiful.

He is free, and the world is saved, but he is still a vampire spawn. He leans his head against the rough wood of the crate and lets the disappointment wash over him. There was, as ever it seems, a tiny part of him that believed this ending would be just like all of those adventure stories he’s been consuming these last months. In those stories, everyone gets the happy ending they deserve: curses are removed, lovers ride off into sunsets, and friends are reunited.  

It feels safe to admit it now, to admit it here at the end of all things, that he had hoped that if he was played the part of somewhat heroic adventurer well enough…that maybe he’d get a little something too. He’s fought side by side with heroes, killed monsters, solved murders, conversed with gods…and he had hoped for something in return. Nothing too much, no, just…this. But that is not the way of the world. That is not the way of his life. He really should know better by now. He curls deeper into the shadows to which he is once again chained, and tells himself that this isn’t a defeat. 

“Astarion!” 

He straightens upon hearing his name, is rewarded with a burn on his cheek for his trouble, and he resituates himself in the shadow. The voice sounded like Liv’s, but it was far away, so it’s hard to know for sure. 

He waits a moment, wondering if he will hear it again. Perhaps he imagined it completely. It’s been a long day after all. 

“Astarion!” 

There it is again. Not imagined. Only this time it’s Gale’s voice calling, and he knows even his delusions aren’t that cruel. His friends - they’re looking for him. 

He’s not sure why, but he never expected it at all. He should have, probably. Liv is far too good, too kind to leave him here on this dock. But he’s not sure that he wants her or their friends to see him like this: cowering beside a crate on a filthy dock that reeks of fish. He’s not sure he wants them to see what he’s become. The tadpole made him exceptional, still a spawn, but better. With it gone, he has been reduced to what he was before as if this little adventure of theirs hadn’t happened at all. He’s hardly in the mood for celebration, and he considers how easy it would be to stay here, to hide. He’s rather good at hiding, after all. 

He could simply remain quietly here, and they will pass on by. He’ll rejoin them later, or at least find Liv - he’s not so sure about the rest. There’s a certain amount of shame rising up within him. He doesn’t want to sit here on this dock until nightfall, but something about needing a rescue now, after all they’ve done makes him feel unacceptably fragile.

“Astarion!” Liv’s voice calls, closer now. There’s a hint of panic in her voice.

He sighs. Now, that won’t do at all. He didn’t realize she’d be worried. And suddenly his plan to remain here and alone vanishes. 

“Over here, darling!”

He hears her footsteps drawing nearer, and then she’s peering around the crates, green eyes wide with concern. She looks immediately relieved upon seeing him, and now he feels like an asshole for not immediately answering her. He sees her take in the scene, him scrunched up in this scrap of shadow, and her brows knit together in a different sort of worry. 

“Astarion, I am so sorry,” she says before pulling a scroll out and casting darkness above the whole area. It’s a simple spell, but the fact she uses a scroll speaks to just how drained she is, just how much of her magic she poured into the fight today. She turns and yells, “I found him!” 

 “We knew this would happen,” he replies, waving her apology off with his hand. She is genuinely sorry, he can see that, but he doesn’t want it. He unfolds himself from the way he’d been sitting for the last half hour, stretching out sore limbs. 

Liv shakes her head. “No, I…I was right behind you, but then…Karlach’s engine…” The words trail off. 

Oh. “Is she…” Astarion asks, afraid of the answer. 

“Wyll convinced her to go to Avernus with him while I look for a fix…but it was a near thing. And bad timing. I didn’t mean for you to be all alone… I meant to follow…”

Karlach in Avernus…with Wyll. How very interesting. Liv has been asking for time, for the opportunity to solve that particular problem for a while now. She finally has it. Good. 

“I understand. It’s alright.” And he means it. He never expected anyone to come after him, and of course, she had to stay for Karlach. Liv had promised to be with her till the end, and Liv doesn’t break her promises. 

“I-” Liv begins, only to be interrupted. 

“There you are!” Gale says as he and Shadowheart round the corner of the crate.

Shadowheart is already approaching him, hands held out. “Let me take a look at you, I’m not entirely spent.”

He holds up a hand and leans away. “Thank you for the thought, dear, but I do think I’m fine.” It’s true, he can barely feel the burns now. 

“Look Liv, it is just as Boo said! You shouldn’t have doubted we’d find Astarion,” Minsc booms. 

He meets Liv’s gaze, and without a hint of irony shrugs. “You really shouldn’t have ever doubted the miniature giant space hamster.”

The joke earns him a tired smile, before she sighs and sits down. “When will I ever learn? You’ve always got to trust the miniature giant space hamster.” 

The rest of their friends join them on the ground, seemingly content to wait until nightfall. Gale spends at least fifteen minutes overexplaining how if he wasn’t so drained from the fight with the Netherbrain he could adjust the darkness spell to follow Astarion around. Jaheira and Minsc bicker about old battles and the destruction left in their wake, Halsin and Shadowheart continue to insist that they can offer him healing, but he can’t seem to do much beyond looking around at all of them with a sort of disbelief. Eventually, Liv’s gaze meets his across the space, and while their friends talk and bicker around them, he knows she feels the same sort of disbelief. They are here, and they are not alone. 

It’s not long before the sun sets, and what remains of their group limps their way through the quiet, rubble-strewn streets of Baldur’s Gate. It’s a long walk to the Elfsong, or perhaps it just feels that way after the day they’ve had. As they walk, Liv slips her hand in his, and he is reminded of another evening they walked these streets hand-in-hand, how they wished for simpler days. 

They hear the Elfsong before they see it. Music pours out of doors and windows thrown open to the warm night. The block the tavern sits on looks relatively untouched, even the Baldur’s Mouth building, which really is a pity. The energy emitting from the Elfsong is a somber, desperate sort of celebration. The people of the city have survived something they don’t fully understand, but many seem determined to celebrate the victory anyway. 

Astarion isn’t sure that he’s particularly interested in a celebration anymore, but he knows if he simply disappears, Liv will follow. So he resolves to put up with the celebration for at least an hour or until he can find a moment to sneak away without her noticing. 

As their group enters the tavern, it is filled with many familiar faces. Harpers, Fist, and Guild members alike. At one point, a man jumps on a table and yells, “It’s the heroes of Baldur’s Gate!” Their group is immediately swarmed by people thanking them, handing them drinks, and pressing a touch too close for Astarion’s liking. Originally, Liv sticks close to him, seemingly trying to provide a buffer between him and the insistence of the crowd. When it becomes clear that most of the attention is focused on her, Jaheira, and Minsc, she pulls away with an apologetic glance. 

“There’s a corner over there that looks rather unoccupied. I think we could claim it,” Gale says, voice tinged with exhaustion. 

Astarion doesn’t need to be told twice, but he waits for Halsin to go first. The crowd parts easily for the gigantic druid, and Astarion follows in his wake, glad to not have to force his own way through the crowd. In two hundred years, he’s not sure he’s ever seen the Elfsong quite this crowded. 

“Quite the party,” Shadowheart comments as she sits down at the table. 

“Doesn’t seem so much a party as an excuse to get extremely inebriated,” Gale says, watching a group of swaying Fists who have decided to sing a rather bawdy tune very off-key.

“People’s friends and family members were turned into mind flayers before their eyes today. To witness such an act against nature, to have to kill someone you once knew…they deserve a little celebration,” Halsin says. 

“And so do we,” Astarion says loudly, as a full tray of drinks arrives courtesy of very grateful citizens.

He finds entertainment for a while, as he sits in the corner watching his his companions awkwardly accept thanks and gratitude. People absolutely stumble over themselves, treating them like they’re some great heroes of the realm. Astarion supposes they sort of are. His best efforts to brush off anyone that seems too below his notice is met not with offense, but a joking sort of laughter, as if he must be kidding when he tries to be dismissive. The more empty words are heaped over to him, the more the party becomes tedious and decidedly unfun. He’s surprised by how little he wants to be here with all these people. It’s a chaotic revelry, shouldn’t this be exactly what he wants? Exactly what he enjoys?

But it’s doing nothing for him this evening. He’s annoyed by the empty praise and the genuine gratitude. Honestly, he doesn’t give a shit about any of these people. He might have helped save the city, but he hadn’t done it for them. Not really. But he can’t say any of that, even if he wants to. 

So, he slips away at the first opportunity. Hugging the wall to avoid having to wade through the thick of the crowd. He catches sight of Liv on his way to the stairs. She is all smiles beside her brother, talking animatedly to some important-looking person he doesn’t recognize. Liv is finally getting the sort of recognition she deserves. He’s barely made it to the the second landing when he hears his name.

“Don’t tell me you’re sneaking up here and not taking me with you,” Liv says, rushing up the stairs behind him. 

“I didn’t want to pull you away from your adoring public,” he says with a smile and an elaborate gesture back downstairs. 

“I’ve been trying to find a good excuse to sneak away for the last twenty minutes,” she admits. “I thought this would be the sort of chaos you’d enjoy.”

He shrugs. “Just as surprised as you are, darling. But go, enjoy. I’ll be up here, cleaning up, resting, and generally trying to ignore the very loud party ongoing downstairs.”

“How would you feel about some company?”

He pauses, pretending to consider. “I could be persuaded. Don’t you think that two heroes of Baldur’s Gate have probably earned themselves a free private room though?”

Liv grins. “Even if they haven’t, I know where they keep the keys, and I will threaten to fireball anyone who tries to stop me. I need a night of sleep that doesn’t include Minsc’s snoring.”

“Can you even cast a fireball right now?”

Liv tilts her head. “Are you wanting to find out?” 

He laughs. “Absolutely, but I’m rather more interested in the other things you can do…”

She shoves him playfully before heading back down the stairs. “I’ll be back,” she says over her shoulder, smile brilliant. 

He can’t help the grin on his own face. It’s over. They’ve survived. While he waits, he slips into the large room they’ve been sharing with their companions and quickly grabs a few of their things before returning to the hall. 

A moment later, she returns triumphant, key in hand. “No fireballs necessary?”

“Not at all.”

“How disappointing,” he replies with a grin. 

“Saves energy for my other talents,” she winks as she unlocks the door, revealing a small, rather cramped room. There’s a bed and a tub and a desk, and not a lot else. But it is theirs for the night. 

He shuts the door behind them and then reaches for her, pulling her into his arms. She fits against him easily, warm and steady. He breathes her in letting the familiarity, the sense of safety, wash over him. It’s over, and they’re here, and he’s grateful. 

She pulls away first, and he restrains his disappointment, but she doesn’t go far, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. He leans into the soft touch; her eyes are soft. “Are you alright?”

“But of course,” he replies automatically. “The brain is defeated, and we’re being hailed as heroes of the realm, why wouldn’t I be alright?”

She gives him a knowing look. “Because you can’t walk in the sun. Because we’re free, but you’re the only one who lost something.”

“I won’t lie, I had rather hoped that some of the protections would be permanent, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve gained so much more than I’ve lost,” he says. He means it. “I’m free of the parasite - free of Cazador. I’ll never be in someone’s power again, and all it cost was my life in the sun. Now, I belong to the shadows.” 

“We’re going to find a way for you to walk in the sun again,” she says the words, so earnestly, so sure. He wants to believe them. 

“You - do you think it’s possible? I suppose there is a chance. And if there’s a chance, no matter how small, I’m going to take it,” he says. She is still full of surprises, even now. “I can’t help but notice that you said ‘we’...Is that what you want? Is this what you want? I would understand if you wanted to go your own way.”

He doesn’t expect her to walk away now, but there is something about offering a way out, about making sure this is her deliberate choice that is important to him. And despite feeling like he already knows her answer, a tiny bit of anxiety rises, as if he needs to hold his breath for her answer. 

“I’m sure. I love you,” she says. 

He laughs. “Good because selfless as I am, I really didn’t want to let you go. We’re rather excellent together, you know.”

She presses onto her tiptoes to kiss him, and he wraps his arms around her tightly, holding her to him, anchoring them both in this moment. He’s still not entirely sure he believes this moment is real, that the danger has really, finally passed. Sometimes he worries he will close his eyes and find himself back at in the kennels, in that wreck of a house, all of these adventures some waking dream. And yet…her lips are soft and gently insistent, pulling him back to here and now. 

Liv pulls away with a wrinkle of her nose. “We are both in desperate need of a good bath.”

It’s true. “And then?” 

Liv pauses, some emotion rising in her. Her eyes glisten a bit, but she’s smiling. “Whatever we want.”

And Astarion hasn’t moved. His pale skin is marred with gashes and scrapes, and he isn’t fucking moving. 

Karlach is trying to get to the mound while contending with two smaller blights, and Shadowheart is slowly making her way toward Astarion’s still unmoving form. Liv hurls another spell at the mound, determined to give Shadowheart a clear path. Liv had been trying to conserve her magic, but the fight is looking far more dire than she’s comfortable with. She isn’t about to lose any of her friends to fucking trees . 

She conjures a tiny mote of flame that snakes into the backfield and then explodes into a fireball. The outward in a burst of heat very nearly engulfs Karlach, her great axe slicing and splintering through a blight. A few more strategically fired scorching rays and swings from Karlach’s unrelenting axe, and the last of the cursed trees fall. Liv is breathing hard, her magic sputtering. Despite her best efforts to stay out of the fray, her arms and face are covered in small cuts from exploding needles, they sting as her sweat runs into them. 

Shadowheart’s spiritual guardians dissipate, leaving them in darkness once more. She’s kneeling at Astarion’s side, and Liv realizes with a certain degree of horror that his injuries are much worse than she thought. And it hurts . 

She knows what this is. What they are. She doesn’t get to cry out his name when collapses. She doesn’t get to have her heart squeezed vice-like while she watches Shadowheart’s healing magic pour into him. That’s not what this is. 

Shadowheart swears as a healing spell does nothing, and then looks up at Liv. “I need a scroll!”

Liv digs into her bag, drawing out one of their precious scrolls of revivify. They’ve only had to use these twice. Once when Lae’zel was knocked into a chasm by a minotaur in the Underdark, and another on Wyll after a thunder arrow knocked him into the lava of the Grymforge. They’re lucky to even have these scrolls, to have options to avoid the finality of death. But it doesn’t help her feel any less panic as she hands the scroll over with shaking hands. 

This sort of magic isn’t her forte. She can craft a fireball, mimic lightning, and throw up shields to protect herself, but she has no spells for moments like this. She cannot heal or ease anyone’s pain. She’s barely been able to craft them healing potions. All of her magic…her studying…what is it for if she can’t truly help people?

A moment later, filled with a burst of divine magic, Astarion’s eyes open. He’s alive. Well, as alive as he was before anyway. And the tightness that had settled in Liv’s chest loosens. She’s more than simply relieved; she’s grateful. She wants to yell at him about being too close to enemies, at his infuriating cockiness, and she wants to pull him into a hug, make sure that he is in fact alright.

She doesn’t do any of that. 

“That nearly ended me,” he says quietly. He’s inches from death’s door, his skin a collection of bruises and cuts, but he’s fine. He’ll be fine. 

“Only nearly,” Shadowheart replies with a small smile of triumph. 

They’re all looking a little worse for wear, and one glance up the path tells Liv that this is a dead end anyway. “This is certainly not the right way. Do we need to go back to Last Light?” Liv asks. 

“And risk another ambush?” Karlach asks, eyes darting about the darkness. 

“We should take an hour here, at the very least,” Shadowheart says, hands still hovering over Astarion’s wounds. Her magic glows a bright blue and the worst of his wounds stitch together. 

She doesn’t love the idea of waiting around here in the darkness or something else to find them, but Karlach has a point. They can at least light some torches and keep the worst shadows at bay for now. Around them there is nothing but the crumbled remains of what was once a tower, perhaps it was a lookout on this ruined battlefield. “Alright then, let’s take an hour.”

She busies herself setting up a perimeter of torches, but it’s not quite distracting her from the image of Astarion crumpled on the ground, all life gone from his eyes. It’s startling how precarious all of this feels, and how much she cares . There are many things from her past life she has tried to leave behind, but caring for those who wouldn’t give a second thought to her doesn’t seem to be one of them. It’s stupid, really. She’s at least ten years too old for this sort of behavior and far too clever for it besides. She knew what Astarion was when she met him in that clearing and she knew what he was offering. Looking for more is simply an exercise in heartbreak. 

And yet. Her foolish fucking heart wants anyway. 

She sits down against the base of the tower, as far away from Astarion and Shadowheart as she can manage and still be within the safety of the torchlight. She pulls out her spellbook and begins looking for anything she might have learned that she can prepare, something that might be more fucking useful.

It surprises her when Astarion shuffles over, cradling a health potion and still battered and bruised despite Shadowheart’s healing. She curses her stupid heart for racing when he sits down heavily beside her. 

“Well, I think I might have argued to stay in camp today if I’d known the trees were going to attack us,” he says. “Really, what is it with this godsforsaken place? It’s downright awful.”

“Really makes you miss dirty goblin camps, doesn’t it?”

“Shockingly, yes,” he replies, flashing her a slight grin before downing the healing potion with a grimace. 

And then he tips his head back, eyes falling closed as he tries to rest. She lets her gaze linger on him a moment longer, convincing herself that he is in fact safe. Then, she turns her attention back to her spellbook and tells herself that his presence beside her means nothing. Right?

***

Shadowheart’s healing magic had done good enough work in bringing Astarion back from death’s door, but there was something vaguely disquietening about having been dead. It’s a different sort of death than what he experienced when Cazador turned him. Still hurt like the hells though. He feels a disconcerting distance between himself and his own limbs as if he hasn’t quite settled back within his body. In some ways it’s kind of pleasant, to be floating above his body instead of trapped within it. It’s easier to pretend he’s somewhere else. 

And he does, for a while. Though Liv’s shifting and the quiet sound of her turning the pages of her spellbook occasionally pull him back. But even that is kind of nice. It’s…easy to be with Liv. It’s not like that with their other companions. Karlach and Gale make him tired. Wyll and Shadowheart are fun to trade words with, but even they feel like work. Lae’zel and Liv seem to be the only members of their little group who seem to value a comfortable silence. And Liv seems to always sense when he doesn’t want to talk, seems content to just be.  

Liv had looked…bothered when he’d come to. Her expression was schooled into something cool and impassive, but her eyes…her eyes were filled with worry. He thought for a moment she might fuss over him, express some outward concern for his safety the same way he’s sure she’d yelled his name when he fell, but instead, she’d simply stepped away. It had seemed almost forced. Even after tendays of traveling together, he’s not sure what’s going on in her head half the time. 

So perhaps that is why he presses forward, headlong into a conversation that might be best left alone. “So…Moonrise towers approaches…”

“Assuming we ever actually make it there, yes,” Liv replies, not looking up from her spellbook. 

“You know…I feel a connection with you. Like we’re two souls walking the same path,” he says. That gets her attention, gets her to look up from her spellbook. There’s something that looks perilously close to hope in her eyes. Something about it bothers him and he almost abandons the whole conversation. But there’s no time like the present, and he needs to know what it is she plans to do. “You might be a little naive in the ways of the world, but I see promise in you. Ambition .”

She frowns and whatever had brightened her eyes dims. “What do you mean naive?” 

He needs to be careful with this. Guide her to the conclusion he’s come to. Gently. “Just that you…have a big heart. You like doing what’s right. So I was thinking, what would be the right thing to do when we get to Moonrise Towers? When we come face to face with whoever is controlling the parasites in our heads.”

Her brow furrows. “The right thing to do would be destroy the cult and end its evil forever.”

Ugh. Really? She’s unwilling to let go of this ridiculous hero streak of hers. He rolls his eyes. “Gods. No…try to think outside the box. Just a little.” She’s clever, he’s begging her to consider the implications. “Consider the parasites in our skulls and think - how many others have the mind flayers infected? Hundreds? Thousands? And they’re not just goblin trash - there are powerful people in the worms’ thrall. And whoever’s waiting at Moonrise Towers controls it all. But if we can take that control from them, imagine the power we’d wield.”

“The power we’d wield? Are you…you’re being serious,” Liv says, words slowly rising in pitch. “What is it about me exactly that would lead you to believe I’d have any interest in that kind of power?”

She sounds almost hurt, offended, even. It surprises him, but he doesn’t stop pushing. If only to see just how far he can before her careful control breaks. “So much for hoping you had ambition. I’m just saying there’s an opportunity here. If we can control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe and liberate the world from this evil.”

“By making people our slaves? I thought you of all people would see the problem inherent in that.”

Anger flares in him, bright and fast and razor sharp. She doesn’t know anything . She’s never had to experience what it’s like to be powerless, to have no control over your own fate. If there is power on offer, and if there is a way for him to gain an advantage over Cazador he will fucking take it. “So much for thinking you had ambition. Isn’t that supposed to be the hubris of wizards? How utterly wasteful.”

She closes her spellbook with a snap, leaning far away from him. “This is clearly going to be surprising to you, but I don’t want power. Certainly not that kind.” Then she stands and brushes the dirt from her robes. 

“You don’t have to be so wet around the ears about it,” he laments. He knows that he’s hurting her feelings and probably jeopardizing whatever this thing between them is that he had fought so hard for, but he can’t seem to stop. He's always doing this, pushing her and watching for the point where her patience, her unyielding kindness finally breaks because he doesn't seem to know what else to do with these things she offers him. 

She stares at him for a moment and shakes her head. “You know, saving you from Cazador and liberating everyone with a worm in their head aren’t mutually exclusive.” And then she walks away without another word. 

He’s sure she believes what she’s saying. She’s fundamentally honest. Even when she’s convincing cultists that their group is friendly or persuading mad doctors to let their nurses slice them to ribbons, she’s not a liar…so he’s not sure why her comment gives him little comfort. The tadpole is the thing that’s set him free. It’s given him back his life and given him the advantage over Cazador. He’s no longer compelled, controlled, chained. And even after everything he’s told her, she would strip that protection away, make him a slave to Cazador’s whims once more. 

He doesn’t know how to tell her that her world is different from his. That cruelty has ruled his life for longer than she’s been alive. He knows what survival really takes.

She wants to help him. He knows that; he can sense it whenever he tells her about his life under Cazador’s thumb. But she doesn’t understand the power, the absolute control because she is too damn afraid of taking it herself. But what he can’t fathom is why….she grew up with power, in power. And yet…she seems so damn afraid of it. Their dream visitor offered her power too, and she absolutely refused it. Even Gale had at least been willing to hear their guardian out. 

He’s going to have to apologize for this whole conversation later when she’s not so upset and he can be convincingly contrite. A part of him rankles at the thought, at the memories it stirs up. But he’d had a plan, it wouldn’t do to ruin it all now. 

***

It’s late in Last Light, but Liv can’t stand to be in camp tonight. So instead, she sits at the bar by the fire, nursing a glass of…something. She’s not really sure what it is, the label was too faded to read, but it smells strong and tastes just sweet enough that she welcomes the burn with each sip. She’s not alone in the downstairs of the inn, though the other folks here are just as solitary as she is this evening. 

Almost everyone left in the bar area is mourning in some way, Harpers who lost friends on the road. Tieflings who were separated from friends and kin. Flaming Fist who feel they failed their Duke. 

Liv feels like an interloper. She’s not mourning anything except perhaps the future heartbreak that’s sure to crush her sooner rather than later. She can’t shake the conversation she had with Astarion earlier today. Would he take that sort of power for himself? Does he think she would? Is that what he really thinks of her? 

She’s been accused of being many things she doesn’t find particularly accurate over the years. Some have found her cold, too impassive, too unmoved by things. Others still have told her she is too passionate, too set in her ways and her belief in right and wrong. She’s not sure if the truth lies somewhere in the middle. Most days the only thing she feels she has in excess are feelings. She feels too much and too deeply, and simply ends up hurting too much of the time. 

She wishes that she didn’t want Astarion to be the person who knows her best. Especially when he’s so wrong about her, but then…there had been a moment. A small, small part of her was tempted. Just for a moment. It made her sick. 

Perhaps he did know her well enough to know she’d be tempted. Well enough to echo words she’s heard before: a lack of ambition, a bad wizard, what a waste. Fuck. 

“Mind if I join you?” asks a soft voice at her side, and Liv is startled from the downward spiral of her thoughts.

Liv recognizes the elven woman, Rowan. She’d been injured badly when the inn was attacked, and while she’s not a Harper, it’s clear Jaheira trusts her. She doesn’t really want company, but perhaps it can’t be worse than whatever one wizard pity party she’s been having for gods know how long. She summons a smile she doesn’t particularly feel. “Not at all.”

Rowan sits beside her, her long red hair falling like a curtain between them. She tucks it behind her ear and sighs. “You’re looking a little too long-faced to be the long-awaited hero here to save the day.”

Liv liked being the hero back in the Grove…before she realized how heavy the weight of expectation could land on one’s shoulders. Hope shone in the eyes of the tieflings from the Grove when she and her companions arrived here to Last Light, and she couldn’t help but meet that hope with promises and reassurances she’s not sure she can make good on. Even when she tempers expectations by promising nothing more than to look for friends and kin…it still feels dishonest. 

“Isobel is the real hero here. We couldn’t make it more than a few miles down the road today before being ambushed by shadow-cursed trees,” she says. She doesn’t mean for the words to twist bitterly in her mouth as she speaks, but they do anyway. 

Rowan watches her, amethyst eyes sharp. She doesn’t say anything for a long while. “Are you alright?” 

This is the one question that goes unasked amongst her companions. It’s been avoided for tendays now, ever since it became clear that they’re no longer in immediate danger of turning into mind flayers. The answer itself is fairly obvious for them all, who would be alright under these circumstances? And Liv is tempted to force a smile, to be a good little Vires. 

“No,” she whispers. There’s something freeing in the admission, given to this stranger. She doesn’t want to interrogate why it is so much easier to admit this to someone she hardly knows instead of her friends. Her eyes burn so she takes another sip of her drink, keeping her gaze focused on the far wall. 

She has a tadpole in her head and everyone wants her to save the day, and she is falling in love with someone who doesn’t feel the same. She and her friends are flung into danger every day and today she has nothing to show for it, but scrapes and bruises and new nightmares to haunt her. Halsin keeps looking at her like she can help him break the curse on this fucking land…and the heroes in the books she’s read never mentioned the fucking anxiety that comes with all these people relying upon them. She’s not cut out for this.

After all, Astarion had looked at her and said to himself that she’d want power, no matter the cost…and is there something buried in her soul by her fucking family that she can’t smother no matter what how she tries? Sometimes her last name feels like a stain she can’t wash out.

“Oh shit,” Rowan says, offering her a handkerchief and pouring more of whatever she’s drinking into her glass. “I was really trying to help, not make things markedly worse.”

It’s then that Liv realizes she’s crying, tears streaming down her cheeks. It takes some effort, but she manages to slow her breathing down and get a hold of herself. Gods, she can’t remember the last time she cried, much less in front of someone else. “You’re very kind…I am so sorry. It’s just been…a bad day.”

Rowan nods, looking at her with concern. “Just…slow down. It’s alright.”

It’s not, but Liv is grateful for the assurance anyway. She can sit here and have a drink with a stranger and be perfectly normal. She’s sure of it. She takes a sip of her drink and nods. “You’re looking better than when I last saw you,” she attempts. 

Rowan snorts softly. “You mean when my insides were practically falling out of me?”

“Yeah…sorry.”

“Just lucky there are plenty of good and willing healers around,” Rowan says, and Liv doesn’t miss the way her gaze wanders to the door where Halsin sits vigil over the man who had somehow survived the Shadowfell. 

Isobel and Halsin and Shadowheart have magic that is actually useful; magic that actually helps people. “Very lucky,” she agrees.

“You know, at the risk of providing unsolicited advice…I often find that things look better in the morning. Nothing drains the hope out of a situation like being tired.” 

Liv nods. “You’re right.” She’s unlikely to find any answers at the bottom of this glass anyway.

“For what it’s worth, you’ve already done a lot for the people here. Don’t let whatever defeat found you today keep you down.”

Liv pushes up from the bar, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. “Thank you for the company.”

Rowan offers a smile. “Any time.” 

She wishes she had something more to offer than thanks. She worries over the interaction all the way back to her tent, as if admitting she’s not okay has opened up something, some vulnerability that everyone else will be able to see. It’s an old fear…and not very generous in the face of the kindness she received tonight. 

Their little encampment next to the inn is quiet, the fire has already burned down to the embers. She doesn’t want to see Astarion, but some part of her can’t resist glancing at his tent anyway. He’s not there. Which is just as well. She’s not sure what she’d say to him anyway. 

She glances up at the bright moon, at the shield Isobel keeps around this place, and tries to tell herself that all the hopes she carries aren’t misplaced. 

***

Astarion has spent a tedious hour hunting around Last Light for any creatures he can drink from. He’d managed to find a few small animals, and he tries to remind himself that he’s survived on far less and far worse, but it’s hard to remember because he’s hungry now . Besides, animal blood doesn’t hit quite the same now he’s had the blood of thinking creatures. 

But they’ve spent their days fighting shadows and trees and shadow-cursed zombies, and so he’s had to make due in other ways. He could ask Liv for blood; she’s been willing enough in the past, but there’s something about the fact they’ve slept together that changes everything about asking for her blood. He seduced her for safety, for security, asking for her blood in addition to that feels like taking far too much. 

He takes and he takes and he takes. Beyond the sketch she drew of him, he’s never taken anything from her that wasn’t already offered. And he’s not sure when it began to bother him, but it happened sometime between figuring out that the sadness in her eyes only truly disappears when she has something to offer someone and realizing that she never asks for a damn thing. He is well-versed enough in starvation to recognize it in another, but he can’t figure out what she could possibly be lacking. 

He sees her coming down from the inn towards their encampment. She’s pulling her long hair loose from the tight bun she keeps it in most days. She’s almost to her tent when he intercepts her, falling into step beside her. She jumps when she notices his presence. 

“Gods, don’t do that,” she says. “Where in the hells did you come from?”

“I was simply walking back to my tent. I can’t help that you’re unobservant.” He wants her to ask him where he’s been, so he can tell her about his less-than-successful hunt. Perhaps if she offers her blood it will feel less like taking. 

But she doesn’t. 

“Well, good night then,” she says without looking at him. He can smell the alcohol on her. She drinks little, so it is more than a little surprising. Warning bells are going off in his head. Something is wrong…off. Suddenly, this thing between them feels tremulous and fragile. 

“Are you upset with me?” he asks. Genuinely curious. She doesn’t seem the type to hold a grudge, but he’s been wrong about her before. 

She looks back at him, brow furrowed. “No, Astarion. I’m not upset with you.” The words are brittle things, but they don’t ring false. 

“A pity. I’ve been told I’m quite good at apologies,” pitching his voice down, filling it with dark promises. The sentiment isn’t true. He’s been told he’s good at groveling, and that’s not the same thing. But it’s a half-truth; it’s the only thing he seems to have to offer her.

She’s feeling distant, and something about that makes him want to grasp tighter to whatever this thing is he’s orchestrated between them. As if he could wrench back the simplicity, the surety he felt when he invited her to join him after the tiefling party. 

“I’m tired,” she says. It’s the truest thing she’s said so far, and it feels suddenly the most dangerous. 

She doesn’t want him. It’s the most freeing thing in the world, there’s a certain relief at her refusal, and yet some part of him is disappointed.

He doesn’t show it; instead, he smiles. “Well then, goodnight, my dear.”

She disappears into her tent without so much as a glance behind, and he is the one left there standing in the darkness, wondering what it was she actually needed this evening and why he couldn’t bring himself to ask. 

He had intended to twine himself so inextricably to her that the safety, the brightness, and the implicit trust she is afforded would fall easily on him too. And it has. The hope and expectations she was loaded up with the second she appeared at Last Light have followed him too. But it hasn’t filled up whatever lives inside him, whatever empty void is left of his heart. 

He’s startingly glad she turned down his company and simultaneously worried that he’s lost the only skill he’s ever had. He likes being in her presence, likes talking with her. She has an ability to listen when others talk in a way that makes him feel seen and heard. Who wouldn’t want her undivided attention when it feels like that?

And that’s all this is, isn’t it? An enjoyment of her attention. Nothing more. He tells himself that she’s getting just as much out of their little arrangement as he is, but even as he thinks it he’s not sure it’s true. 

It had never occurred to him that they might get this far and fail. It had never occurred to him that Liv could fail. At every juncture, he has watched her do the impossible. He doesn’t believe in much, but he does believe in her. When he watches her fail, it feels like the cruelest of jokes. 

The brain mocks them then. Tells them they had been just another cog in the Grand Design. Gods, he’s so tired of being a pawn in the games and machinations of others. 

He rushes to Liv’s side as he sees her crumble, falling to her knees as the final blast from the netherstones does nothing, again. There is a screaming, clawing pain in his mind, it is staggering, it orders him to give in, to become . It is taking all of his energy not to give in. He is trying to help Liv up when the brain blasts them back, and he braces for an impact that never comes. Instead, he finds himself floating in the soft blue expanse of the Astral plane, the Emperor interceding once again.

I pulled you out just in time. The situation is worse than I thought, the Emperor says, voice echoing in their heads. It has always been strangely disconcerting, the way the Emperor communicates, mind to mind. This is an elder brain no longer, the magic of the crown has caused it to evolve. It has become something more - a Netherbrain. 

Astarion almost laughs then and there. Of course, it has. This whole bloody quest of theirs has just been one complication after another. First, they looked for a healer for their tadpole, and then no healer could help, and neither could the githyanki creche. And then all the answers were supposed to be at Moonrise, but instead, they discover it’s all one big plot put together by the Chosen of the Dead Three. On and on and on. He feels stupid for assuming that simply wielding the netherstones would bring them victory. It has always been more complicated than that. He thought he knew better than this. 

“I thought the netherstones were supposed to allow us to dominate the brain,” Liv says, her words hold no curiosity, just barely contained rage. 

I thought so too, but that was when I believed it was still an elder brain. It has been anticipating our every move from the start. I underestimated it. We will need to rethink our plan, the Emperor says before floating down towards Orpheus’ prison. 

Liv glances at him, frustration clear on her face. “Something isn’t right,” she says, voice low. 

Of course, something isn’t right, the brain should have been destroyed by now. “We don’t exactly have a Plan B.” 

She nods and looks thoroughly resigned before jumping down to join the Emperor. He and the rest of their companions follow. This is an arena they know well, the corpses of Orpheus’ honor guard still lay scattered amongst the rocks. 

As they approach, the Emperor regards them impassively. I have assessed our encounter with the Netherbrain from every angle. I know why we failed. The problem was not the stones. The problem was you . You can make only one move at a time, but the Netherbrain calculates every possible move at once. It knows what you will do, it knows everything you could possibly do. You cannot outmaneuver it. To defeat it, you would have to think like an illithid. Better yet, be one. Your mind is not capable of this. Mine is. You will give the stones to me. I will assimilate Orpheus, and then I will be able to leave this prism to face the brain. 

Liv steps back, and Astarion recognizes the look on her face. She’s figured out something. “So this was it? Your plan all along? Use me to retrieve the stones for you and then send me to fail so that you could claim them for yourself. It’s obvious, really. Only ask me to turn them over when it’s clear I can’t use them.” 

If they weren’t so totally fucked by this reveal of information, Astarion would want to cheer Liv on for so completely laying out the plan. She’s right, it is obvious. Especially now that it’s too late.

You still don’t trust me, after all we’ve been through. Remember, I have been your salvation from the very beginning. Your knight in shining armor. I freed you from the nautiloid, prevented you from crashing to your death. I have protected you ever since - at no small cost to myself. 

Liv’s eyes narrow. “Oh yes, you are always quick to remind me of everything you’ve done on my behalf. On how we have no more secrets between us, and yet I still keep discovering things you haven’t told me. You claim we’re allies, but I’ve seen how you treat your allies. What you did to Stelmane and Ansur. Is this where you kill me too? Or will you simply turn me into a puppet like Stelmane and force me to do your bidding?”

In a blink the Emperor closes the distance, tentacled face just inches away from Liv’s. She holds her ground, and Astarion represses the urge to draw his daggers, to step between them. He has never seen Liv be cruel, but there is an edge to her words, she is looking to be cutting. He knows she has been suspicious of the Emperor’s relationship to Stelmane since finding that book in the cellar, but she has never told him her theory, never said it out loud in case the Emperor was listening. But its reaction gives the truth away, Liv has guessed right. 

That was the alternative relationship we could have had. Aren’t you glad I finessed my methods? Make no mistake. You are my puppet. Without me, you have no value. Now, release the netherstones to me. 

Gods, he hopes she doesn’t do it. Doesn’t give in. She had argued with the Emperor over Ansur’s corpse, gone to the House of Hope despite its protests, but this is something else. This means abandoning their best shot at defeating the brain. He’s glad the choice isn’t his. 

“No,” Liv spits out the word, glaring up at the mind flayer. Astarion prepares for a fight, and prepares for the Emperor to force her to give up the stones. But then, it surprises him.

  Fine. I told you that the githyanki would want to kill you for what you are. Even united the Netherbrain was going to be an impossible enemy. But apart, we have no chance of survival. Since you will not work with me, you work against me. You leave me no option but to join the Netherbrain. 

And then, just like that it is gone. Portalling away. Liv stands tall until the portal closes, and then she doubles over, clutching her chest as breaths come in great gasps. For a moment he worries that she has been injured, but he can see no injuries, magical or otherwise. 

“I sure as hells hope I didn’t just sentence the entire realm to death with that choice,” she manages around gasping breaths.

Ah, so it’s panic then. “It wasn’t to be trusted,” he says, but his words come out far less reassuring than he hoped. He’s never seen her like this, so…unmoored. She is always calm, always steady. He used to find her utter unflappability annoying, gleefully awaiting the moment she might break. Now, her obvious panic almost scares him more than the Netherbrain.

Liv straightens, looking at their stunned companions, still breathless. “Well, let’s hope that Orpheus isn’t actually interested in killing us. Lae’zel?”

Drawing the Orphic Hammer, Lae’zel approaches her prince and frees him from his prison. Astarion stands beside Liv, wishing he had words to combat the rising panic he can feel in her. He takes her hand, an attempt at comfort he suspects they both need. 

Her grip is tight as the githyanki prince crashes to the ground and takes up his blade. And then their minds are ripped apart, a silent cry piercing their heads. It’s all Astarion can do to remain upright. 

“You reek of illithid,” Orpheus snarls. “You slaughtered my honor guard and abused my power. Nonetheless, it seems we must be allies.”

“Your Majesty, The Prince of the Comet, Gith’s true heir. It is an honor,” Lae’zel says, bowing her head voice full of awe. 

The Prince glares at them. “Do not patronise me. You rejected the illithid when it no longer suited your needs. No doubt you freed me because it suits you now. I will neither forgive nor forget your abuse of my powers.”

Liv lets out a breath. “I’m sorry. We were deceived…we should have attempted to free you sooner, but we believed that without your powers, we would die.”

“That is true, and it would have been the honorable outcome for one destined to become ghaik . You had the opportunity to surrender yourself to my honor guard. They would have given you a noble end. They would have freed me, and I would have stopped the elder brain before it evolved into a Netherbrain. All that suffering - avoidable. Were it not for the choices you made,” Orpheus’ words are laced in accusation and righteous anger. 

A sort of devastation shadows on Liv’s face. He’s never seen her be this open with her emotions. It’s almost as if rejecting the Emperor has broken something within her, and she cannot seem to rein in back in. “We…we cannot change what is past. We can only move forward. We need your help to stop the Netherbrain.” 

“In this we are aligned…I am obliged to overlook your transgressions. We will destroy this Netherbrain together, and put a stop to this nascent Empire before it expands into the stars. The ghaik was right about one thing - the Netherbrain’s power is beyond us. At this point, it will take an illithid to unleash the full power of the netherstones. You have the rare opportunity to right your wrongs, to sacrifice for the greater good.”

“What? You can’t be serious.” The words escape him before he can stop them. Orpheus isn’t really asking this of her, is he? 

“One of us must become illithid, I am afraid it is the only way,” Orpheus says, and the githyanki prince has the audacity to sound sorry even as he asks Liv to surrender her soul. 

Liv glances his way, and there is fear there, real genuine fear. She turns back to Orpheus. “I…I suppose if it’s the only way…” Her words are reluctant, edged with regret. She doesn’t want this. She can’t want this. 

He steps between her and Orpheus. “Let’s not be hasty about this. I think this warrants a more private discussion, away from our new friend.” 

Liv looks to Orpheus and then back at their companions apologetically. “If you’ll just give us a moment.” 

He stalks away, trusting her to follow. He’s looking for somewhere, anywhere they can have a semblance of privacy.  There aren’t a lot of options here, and a glance back at their companions shows him that they’re in a deeply heated discussion themselves. 

They come to a stop and he rounds on her. “Tell me you’re not actually considering this.”

Liv’s face is pained, brow furrowed. “You heard Orpheus. The fact that the Grand Design made it this far…it’s our fault. But I can make it right, I can wield the stones and save the city and…I…I can fix it.”

“There are other options.” Like Orpheus for one. He doesn’t give a shit if the prince lives or dies. He could be the illithid. It should be someone, anyone else. Just not her. Not her. 

Liv shakes her head. “He has been imprisoned here for so long…to ask that of him…or of any of our friends. I can’t do that.”

Damn her and her selflessness. This is it, this is where he loses her. There is yet to be a heroic choice she has been faced with that he has seen her flinch away from. Liv is the type of person who would set herself on fire to keep everyone else warm. He just wishes he had told her more often that she doesn’t have to. No one is requiring that from her. But he knows how this ends. 

He knows her. And he knows that no matter what he says, she’s going to do this. 

“I wish I was surprised you’d volunteer. But I’m not…it’s just so perfectly you . Tell me that this is what you really want, and you have my unwavering support.” He hates the way his voice quivers, the way it gives his every emotion away. He’s trying to mean the words, to force them true. If this is really what she wants then well…he’ll try. 

There are tears pooling in her eyes as she stares up into his face. The moment catches, drags on horribly. Her eyes close, the tears running down her face. Finally, she whispers, “I don’t want to be a mind flayer.”

He cups her face, brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “Then don’t. Let someone, anyone else do it. Please .” He rests his forehead against hers, and when she reaches for his forearms, he can feel the way she trembles. They stay there for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. He can see the turmoil in hers, and he hopes she can see the pleading in his.

“Astarion-”

“Don’t,” he says because he cannot bear to hear her apologies, her justifications for this. 

She kisses him then. It tastes like goodbye.

***

The end of the world feels a lot different than she thought it would. She feels a hells of a lot more guilty than she thought she would, for one. She also feels as though something has broken inside of her, the ability to repress, to push emotions down, and simply keep moving, keeps eluding her. She’s aware that every emotion she feels is too obvious, too open, but she cannot seem to fix it. 

Perhaps it is for the best. With the Emperor’s true nature exposed, their alliance in shambles, and Orpheus explaining that someone must become illithid, a deepset resignation joins the chorus of emotions all demanding to be felt, all at once. Of course freeing Orpheus means sacrifice, as if they all haven’t given enough. 

Which is why it must be her, mustn’t it? She cannot possibly ask any of her friends to do this. She has led them across Sword Coast, to the Hells, and across planes, and they have followed her. And it had all been wrong. They have been misled and manipulated at every step, played into the plans of the very entity they sought to destroy. She could make it right, with one last sacrifice.  But she doesn’t want to. No part of her wants this. 

When Astarion pulls her away from the group, he begs her not to do this. She wishes she could tell him she won’t. She wishes that this was all different. She has no words to make this okay, so she kisses him instead and tells herself it’s going to be okay. 

She’s aware that Astarion is trailing a few steps behind, but she’s doing her best not to look at him. She’s sure if she does, she’ll lose her nerve. As she approaches the group, Wyll steps forward, looking earnestly between her and Astarion. “We’ve been talking. We have an idea.”

Karlach nods. “Maybe you don’t have to. It…it should be me. I’m dying. My heart feels like a living grenade - gonna blow any minute. You still have a life to live. I don’t. If this is the end for me, let me be the motherfucker who saved the world.” Karlach’s words say she’s willing, but Liv can see it in her eyes, Karlach wants this about as much as she does. 

“I adore you,” Liv says, echoing the very sentiment Karlach has so often expressed. “But we’re going to find a fix for that engine of yours, Karlach. I won’t let this be how your story ends.” Liv just needs time, and Karlach doesn’t have to die, not if she goes to Avernus…not forever…just long enough for Liv to solve this problem. She knows she can do it.

Gale steps forward. “I think it’s time we reconsider the orb then. With its power, I could put an end to this whole thing. Crown. Netherbrain. Absolute. Everything. No one will have to surrender their soul to become an illithid.”

“No one is blowing themselves up!” Shadowheart says, heatedly. 

Their group dissolves into a myriad of conversations. Everyone talking over everyone. Liv tries to follow them, but somewhere she loses the thread of it, and the conversations have taken on an angrier tone, arguments rising. 

She turns away from her friends, and takes a few steps closer to Orpheus who stands watching the exchange with sharp eyes. He doesn’t seem thrilled at his would-be saviors, and who can blame him? They have apparently stumbled their way here, blundering along, losing the forest for the trees. And yet, she doesn’t regret it. She has done what she thought was right all along the way, even when it cost her. Sometimes, especially when it cost her. 

But perhaps…perhaps she has given enough. Perhaps she deserves her life, her future, her soul. Astarion had asked her this morning what she wanted to do after this was over, and she hadn’t had an answer, not a real one. But faced with this choice, she is shocked by how much she wants to live her life. She wants to see her future as it happens to her. She wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything. 

It is the most selfish thing she has ever done, but she slowly approaches Orpheus and asks, “Are you willing?”

The arguing behind her immediately ceases. Some part of her is disappointed in this moment, that she was unwilling to accept Karlach’s sacrifice, that she’s unwilling to do this herself. She hates that she is asking Orpheus to become a thing that he despises, the very entity he has been fighting against for millennia. But another part of her keeps insisting: enough. She has done enough.

The githyanki prince closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Just as I was free…” And then he raises his chin, noble and dignified. “I will become - illithid. I will sacrifice my soul for my people. I will end the Grand Design.”

“My Prince, you cannot. It is not your burden to bear,” Lae’zel grabs at her arm. “Please, my people need him.”

“Do not ask this of her!” Astarion snarls. “I don’t see you volunteering, Lae’zel!”

At that, Lae’zel pulls away, head down. No…she doesn’t like this, but she’s not willing to sacrifice herself either. Liv looks back at Orpheus. “You are a true hero.” And she is not. 

She watches the ceremorphosis process take Orpheus. She forces herself to stand witness to every snapped bone, every elongated limb. She will not allow herself to look away from this. This is her doing, and her doing alone. She wishes that it hadn’t come to this, to a choice between giving up her soul and saving the world. But as Orpheus straightens in his new form and the netherstones float into his open palm, all she feels is a profound sense of relief. 

She doesn’t know what that says about her.

All to wield these… Orpheus stares at the stones. Let us seek out the Netherbrain and finish this. Once the Grand Design is ended, kill me. It is the very least you can do. 

“You don’t deserve to die.” 

Orpheus floats close, orange eyes flashing menacingly. I took this burden so that you did not have to. You will grant me this . 

She glances over to Lae’zel who only gives a small, dejected nod. “Alright.”

Orpheus opens up a portal for them, but Liv hesitates for a moment, casting one last glance over the tranquil beauty of the Astral Plane. She takes one final moment before she is thrown back into chaos and battle and unknown. 

Astarion steps in front of her, his eyes full of relief, pride even. He captures her lips in a kiss that is not soft or careful. This is a kiss for the battlefield, all passion and teeth. It burns bright and fierce and fast, over so quickly, she almost questions if it happened at all. 

“We’d better survive this because I never want to stop doing that,” he says, and then he’s gone jumping through the portal. 

She follows and finds herself thrown directly into the mess and chaos of battle. The Netherbrain floats over the Upper City, nautiloids fly beside it, and the streets and gardens are filled with the Absolute’s forces. It is a long and bloody fight up to the Watch Citadel. 

When Kith’rak Voss intercepts them on the steps of the Watch Citadel, she worries that their luck has finally run out. Lae’zel has accepted Orpheus, his new form, but Voss has been planning and plotting for so long to free Orpheus. How must it feel to finally see your friend, your prince, free only to discover that they are a mind flayer? To lose the best chance for githyanki liberty? 

She expects it to feel as if the guilt will swallow her up, but then they open the doors of the tower, and waiting behind them are allies and friends they’ve made along the way. Dammon and their owlbear cub, who is a cub no longer. Jaheira and Halsin. Valeria. Ulma. Arabella. The Gondians. Duke Ulder Ravengard and Counselor Florrick. Dame Aylin and Isobel. Barcus Wroot. Mol and Rolan. Volo and Zevlor. Nine-Fingers Keene…and Percy.

“Liv!” Percy calls, and then her brother appears out of shadow in front of her, arms pulling her into a tight hug. It shocks her, and it takes a moment for her to return the gesture. He holds her close. “No one had seen you since the fighting began. We feared the worst.”

His concern feels real and genuine. “We…uh…had to make a stop and free an ally.” She pulls away and gestures to the mind flayer beside Kith’rak Voss, hanging back from this scene. Their allies are understandably concerned about having a mind flayer in their midst, but Withers, appearing as always at the strangest of times sets everyone at ease.

She turns back to Percy. “What are you doing here?”

Her brother grins. “I promised I’d come when you called, but well, you didn’t call, so I took the liberty of showing up anyway. I’ve got your back.”

And it doesn’t erase all of the hurt and the pain and all of the years of suffering, but it is something. “Thank you.”

“Your little group has managed to amass quite the collection of allies,” he says, a sense of awe in his voice. 

And as she looks around, she realizes it’s true. All these people, friends, and allies. Oh, they might have made mistakes along the way, but they’ve also built this. It is a relief and a comfort to find that they are not alone here at the end of all things. “Yeah, we really have.”

“Credit where it is due, darling,” Astarion says, stepping close. “This is almost entirely Liv’s doing.”

Her brother nods as if he believes it. As if he’s not at all surprised. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Some sort of understanding passes between her brother and Astarion, but she’s not quite sure what it is. It’s gone in a moment. “Now, shall we go kill a brain?” Astarion asks with a smile. 

There’s no sense of victory when she pries the netherstone gauntlet from his hand. Though the Emperor’s voice is full of it inside her head. But this isn’t like when they rescued the Gondians and Duke Ravenguard. This isn’t like killing Ketheric Thorm and watching the shadow curse recede. It’s justice, of a sort, but it doesn’t feel victorious. 

Karlach is beside her, having dealt the final blow with her halberd. Gortash’s blood still stains the blade, and Liv can feel the heat radiating from her friend. It always takes a few moments for Karlach’s rage to fade after battle, but this is different. She’s somehow heating up. She’s about to ask how she’s doing when Karlach speaks. 

“So Gortash is nothing more than a pile of flesh, same as the rest of us.” She’s staring down at his unmoving body, orange eyes filled with rage and grief and ten lost years. “I feel like there should be a sunset for me to ride off into. Or an orchestral swell…or something .”

Karlach finally meets her gaze. “But there’s nothing is there? I killed the bastard who ruined my life, and my prize is that I get to crawl into a corner and die. Am I fucking missing something? I can’t do it anymore. Ten years, man. It’s enough. It’s enough. He’s dead and he’s no fucking sorrier now than he was before. What was the point? I’m still dying. I’m dying. I’m going to die.”

Liv feels just as helpless, just as out of her depth as when Astarion killed Cazador. Gortash deserved to die, but Karlach is right: killing him didn’t make him sorry for what he did. “We’re going to figure out your engine problem, Karlach. There’s got to be a way.”

“Got a miracle in your back pocket you forgot to tell me about?” Karlach shakes her head. “I’m going to be as dead as Gortash any day now. Any moment. And what then? Off to the city of Judgement to waste into oblivion? Into the dirt to get eaten by maggots? Is that it for me? Is that fucking all?”

Liv flinches back as Karlach flares, heat radiating dangerously. “And you, you’ll just keep going, won’t you? Watching the stars. Reading your books. Drawing, eating, making fucking love all night - all of it. All of it.” The fire burns white hot and bright. “That’s my reward for everything I suffered. That’s why I survived years of torment. The fighting, the clawing, the loneliness, the fucking loneliness …All of it so I could rot. Because the person I trusted the most gave me away to the devil!” 

And just as quick as it came, the flames diminish, banked by grief. Karlach begins to cry, face covered by her hands. “It isn’t fair. I don’t want it like this.”

Liv doesn’t want it like this either. Karlach’s anger feels different, somehow more distant than anyone else’s. There aren’t words to reach it. While she rages, screams, and yells about the unfairness, Liv has nothing to offer. Nothing that might close that distance, that might save her this. Gortash is dead, and it doesn’t matter because Karlach is still dying. Her heart still cannot survive in this plane, and it doesn’t matter what foes they defeat or if the city is saved, Karlach still won’t be. Liv fights the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. I hate this for you.”

Karlach wipes at her eyes. “I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to stay. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Liv steps closer, showing her that she’s not afraid, and that she’s not alone. “I don’t know. I want you to stay too.” She extends her arms and isn’t surprised when Karlach pulls her in for a bone-crushing hug. 

When she pulls away, Karlach seems steadier. “I want to get out of here. I’ve always hated this place. Stupid fucking gigantic bridge or whatever. I think I need to go be alone for a while. Scream at the sky.”

Liv understands. “I’ll find you later.”

Karlach puts a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for listening. For existing. Love you.” 

Love. Dropped so casually, but filled with so much heart. Despite all she’s been through, Karlach is unfailingly, unwaveringly kind. Quick to offer encouragement and praise, quicker still to offer comfort. It would be so easy for her to walk through the world with her fists raised, ready to fight off everything and everyone, to keep them all at a distance. But instead, her hands are out and open, a hug, an arm draped over shoulders, fist bumps, high fives. Always welcoming, always inviting. Liv doesn’t always know what to do in the face of all that, and now she doesn’t know how to respond. She wishes those words were as easy to say as they are to feel. 

Liv hates that this is the one problem she can’t solve right now. Liv knows a lot about magic, history, languages. She has received the best education that her parents’ money could buy. But this is beyond her, for now. She’s sure that with enough time and study and perhaps help from Dammon, she can find a solution, but that is time they do not have. Not with so many other problems that seem hellsbent on presenting themselves at the most inconvenient moments. 

Karlach leaves, and Liv glances around the massive office, eyes catching on their other companions. Shadowheart and Jaheira are busy tending to Lae’zel and Astarion who both got caught in those damn incineration casters that seem to be affixed to every wall in this place. She’s sure that Wyll and Gale will join them shortly, as they’d stayed below, picking off the last of the Flaming Fist who had tried to follow them up the tower. But everyone is fine. Everyone is okay.

There will be time later for her to consider how close this was. For her to fall apart while she remembers watching Lae’zel and Astarion get caught in flames. But she still has work to do right now, so she takes a deep breath and begins working her way through Gortash’s office. She rifles through cabinets, bookshelves, and desks, looking for anything that might be helpful, might give them clues about where the brain is. She keeps an eye out for anything that might implicate the people who were in league with Gortash, who funneled him support or money or simply turned the other way. Gortash seems the type to keep a list. 

Once Lae’zel and Astarion are healed, everyone else joins in too, piling everything potentially useful on the table in the center of the room. Liv pores over it all, journal entries, memoir notes, invasion plans. Painting a picture of a man with more ambition than sense. 

“There’s something over here,” Astarion says, and she glances his way. “Ah, how utterly predictable.” He pulls a picture down off the wall, revealing a safe. 

Liv abandons the books she was looking through, wandering over to this corner of the room. “Can you open it?” 

Astarion looks offended. “My dear, do you forget who you’re talking to?”

“Gods save me from certain vampires and their egos. This is the guy who rigged this whole place with concussion grenades and flamethrowers, and you’re telling me it’s a simple lock and key?” 

Astarion grins mischievously. “Speaking of ego, it’s not even trapped.”

That is surprising. Astarion is already picking the lock, deft fingers working quickly. Despite his perpetual complaints for a skeleton key, Astarion seems to enjoy this. After a few moments, the lock clicks and the door swings open. Astarion steps back proudly, waving a hand in the invitation for her to go through the contents. She steps up to the safe, already reaching for the small black book that lies within. 

“Is Karlach alright?” Astarion asks, words quiet though there is little chance of them being overheard here. 

Liv turns away from the contents of the safe; they will keep. “Were you?”

His eyes widen at the question, but he recovers quickly. “Gods, is there no fairness in this world? Karlach may have killed him, but it doesn’t change anything does it?” His words are soft, sad even. 

Liv shakes her head. “It doesn’t.” She turns back to the safe and the contents within. She picks up the book, and begins thumbing through its pages. It becomes obvious very quickly that these are Gortash’s notes, a ledger of sorts on every person who pledged him money and support. The names are written out in an inelegant hand, the black ink stains are dark and grotesque. 

Her parents' names are on page five. 

There is no ghastly surprise at the revelation, only resignation. Of course, their names are here. Of course, this is the way it is. She is so tired, so very tired. No matter how hard she tries, she isn’t sure if she’ll ever be able to escape her family. Because she can’t seem to hate them, can’t seem to forget them. So at every turn, with every revelation, she just ends up betrayed, somehow still young and stupid and naive even when she knows she shouldn’t be. 

She tucks the book away in her bag; it feels heavier than it should.

***

Gortash is dead, and Liv is too quiet. In fact, all of their companions are. It’s almost as if they didn’t have a big victory today. They’ve got two out of the three netherstones! A bad guy is dead…as are many of the Flaming Fist following him, which, good riddance, honestly. Astarion isn’t sure why everyone is being so wet around the ears about this one. 

Perhaps it is because killing Gortash has not secured Halsin’s release, and instead has revealed yet another hoop to jump through in order to rescue him. They truly have no reason to take Orin at her word, and yet, if Halsin was dead, Astarion is sure that they’d know it. The bloody notes Orin has delivered to their rooms at the Elfsong haven’t smelled even faintly of Halsin. Small comfort, that. 

The somber mood might also be attributed to Karlach. He’s never seen her like this. Even in the shadow lands, she’d remained steadfastly cheerful. He remembers detesting it, her happiness, her freedom with touch after her second upgrade. Still, he wonders if he knows a little of what she’s going through. 

So, despite his better judgment, he wanders over to Karlach. She’s sitting on one of the couches, alone but not quite alone. Across the sunken area of their rooms, she half-watches Wyll and Gale play a game of lanceboard while she nurses a mug of something that smells sweet and strong. 

“It doesn’t feel like you’d expect it would, does it?” he says by way of greeting. 

Karlach looks up from her drink, her eyes far away, lips twisted into a frown. “What doesn’t?”

He sits down beside her, on the extreme edge of the couch. “Revenge.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” She sighs. “What did it feel like for you?”

He swallows and looks away. He’s done a good job of not thinking about this, grateful for the many things that need doing that keep them all so busy. He doesn’t know if he really wants to name it, to risk giving these feelings real power outside of his own head. But somehow, he wants Karlach to know she’s not alone more. “Grief.”

Karlach doesn’t speak for a long time, hands twisting around her mug. She is almost never truly still. Finally, she wipes at one of her eyes, in a move that could be mistaken for simply scratching her nose. “Yeah. That fits.”

Astarion still isn’t quite sure what it was he was grieving anyway, but for Karlach it’s clear: her freedom, ten years of her life stolen from her. Karlach is better than most and she’s spending her last days trying to save a world that never cared about her. In his less generous moments, and of those there are many, he tells himself that ten years is nothing . Certainly not compared to two hundred. But he’s free now, and he has an eternity of immortality stretching out before him, assuming they survive everything else. And Karlach will die because someone stole her heart and now she’s bound to the hells. It’s really fucking unfair. 

“I wish I could tell you that dying wasn’t so bad, but my experience has been quite…specific….I’m sorry.” He is surprised by how much he means it. How much he wishes he could change her fate. Is this what friendship is? It hurts more than he expected it would. 

Karlach leans forward elbows braced on her knees, shoulders caved in. “Yeah. This just kind of sucks, you know?” 

“It does…” He’s not sure what else to offer; he’s not sure that there is any comfort he can give. “I was trying to think of something more profound to say, but no. It just ‘kind of sucks’.” He is not Liv, and he does not have promises to give Karlach. However he does believe that if there is a way, Liv will find it. “You deserve better.”

Karlach’s eyes look up to the ceiling as she nods. “Yeah, so many do.” She turns to look at him, orange eyes filled with gratitude. “But…thank you.” 

But he hasn’t given her anything. His confusion must show on his face because she smiles, and carefully, slowly reaches a hand up, and lets it hover over his shoulder. She hesitates, waiting to see if he’ll move away. He doesn’t, and heat radiates from the contact, warm and comforting and inviting. 

“I appreciate the check-in, Astarion.” The words are infused with her usual energy, even if it does feel a bit half-hearted. 

Astarion stands then, her hand falling lightly away. Something about this all feels too close, too kind of him. He straightens, determined to infuse this situation with more of his usual prickly humor. “We need you in your best fighting shape. With Halsin gone, who else is large enough to shield me?”

Karlach doesn’t laugh, but instead gives him a knowing look before taking a big drink. “Sure thing, soldier.” 

He tells himself he’s not retreating by leaving that sunken area, that he’s looking for Liv, but it’s really just chance that he runs into her. She’s heading for the doors that lead downstairs with Gortash’s ledger in hand. 

 “Going somewhere?” he asks. 

Liv looks nervous, unsure. “Uh…just downstairs.”

“For?” 

She holds up the book she’d taken from Gortash’s safe earlier in the day as she opens the double doors. “Percy is coming to get this.”

It’s clear that she doesn’t want to have this conversation, but that’s exactly why they probably should. He follows her without hesitation. “And you’re just going to give it to him?” 

She pauses in the hallway, and he watches her take a deep breath before she turns. “Yes.”

Astarion stares at her in disbelief. “You have leverage over half of the noble houses in this city in that little book, and you’re just going to give it away? Are you serious?” 

She nods. 

Is she mad? They need allies. She could manipulate anyone she wanted into helping their cause, into doing so many things. He’s sure that there’s quite a large number of people in that book whose dealings with Gortash they would do anything to keep quiet. And she’d just hand it off to her brother?

“Think about the possibilities here, I beg of you. You don’t have to do anything with this information tonight or even before we figure out how to take on the elder brain, but don’t just give it away.”

Liv shakes her head. “I’m not giving it away.”

“You are though. You are aware that you don’t owe him a damn thing, right?” 

“He gave us information. He helped us.”

Astarion shakes his head. “No, he helped himself. He knows you. Knows that you’d do exactly this because he asked for your help . He lost nothing telling us information we’d likely find out another way anyway.” 

“I don’t think he’s what I thought he was.”

Damn her trust, her belief in people who don’t deserve it. Not everyone is going to rise up to her expectations. Not everyone has a better version of themselves. Not everyone wants to be better. 

 “Sometimes I can’t tell if you give people the chance to take advantage of you because you genuinely believe that they won’t or because you don’t think you deserve better.” He wants to take the words back the moment they’ve left his lips. Not because they’re incorrect, but because he’s not sure he’s allowed to say any of it and still keep her at his side. 

Her brows furrow and she shakes her head. “That’s not…that’s not what this is.”

He almost wants to laugh. That’s exactly what this is. Liv is his favorite person in all the realm, and that realization alone has brought with it its own sort of terrifying exhilaration. Because he knows her. Knows her better than himself. He knows that she’s quick to smile and defaults to politeness when she’s uncomfortable. He knows that she sees the bad in the world, but desperately wants to believe the best of it anyway. And he knows her instinct to offer something to everyone she meets is borne from a bone-deep fear that if she doesn’t, she has no value.

Whether she intends it or not, offering her brother that ledger from Gortash’s office isn’t about keeping her word; it’s about giving away the only thing that she perceives her brother as wanting, and then seeing what happens next. It’s an invitation for hurt, but at least it is a pain she can expect. Gods, he can’t even say he blames her. He’d done the same thing after meeting that blood merchant in Moonrise. Still, he’s not sure how to tell her any of this. How to show her these pieces of herself without it feeling like meanness, the words sharp enough to cut.

It has been a long time since he has questioned her, pushed back against a decision. It has never been this personal, and he doesn’t know how it will go. But he loves her and he’s tired of watching her take herself apart piecemeal for people who don’t deserve it. 

He reaches for her hand with gentle fingers he hopes cushions the blow of what he’s about to say. “You keep giving people the opportunity to wound you and calling it kindness. You owe him nothing, and giving him this book won’t change who he is or was.” 

She remains fixed on their interlocked fingers for a long time. When she finally looks at him, her eyes are filled with pain. “I just want to believe him when he says he’s going to take them down because…I don’t think I have it in me.” Her breath stutters, eyes glistening. 

“They deserve to pay for what they did to you,” Astarion says. For making her feel small, for making her believe that she wasn’t worth time or energy or space. He hates them for that. 

“And then what? It doesn’t bring my sister back. It doesn’t fix my childhood. It doesn’t change that I loved them and they never loved me. It won’t change a damn thing! I can’t get what Karlach said today out of my head. I can’t make them sorry, Astarion.”

He knows she’s right, but he wants her to be wrong. “You don’t know what your brother is going to do with it. He might protect them. I watched you, that day at the Audience Hall. I saw the way their indifference affected you. It was like you weren’t there. I never want to see that happen to you again.”

She had gone so distant, and it had scared him. She is always so perfectly put together, never caught off guard for long. But that day, something inside of her had broken off and rattled around all day long. 

“And I don’t want to spend any more of my life thinking of them or making decisions because of them. I’m going to give this book to Percy before I lose my nerve, and then….I’m done. Whatever happens, happens.”

For her, that will be far easier said than done. Astarion still isn't happy that she's just going to hand the book over, but he supposes that if Percy turns out to be a shit, then he wouldn't feel very bad about killing him. “Alright. Do you want me to go with you?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I think I need to do this alone.” 

He brings their interlocked hands up to his mouth, and presses a kiss against her knuckles. “Just cast a fireball through the floor if there’s an emergency.”

She snorts, and smiles a little. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now. “I’ll try to avoid emergencies of that type.”

“I’m sure the owners will appreciate that.”

“I heard you. I promise,” she says as she steps away. And then he lets her go where he cannot follow.

***

She heads for the stairs, waiting to hear the door shut to their rooms before she leans heavily against the wall, sucking down deep breaths and letting everything Astarion just said wash over her. It’s not that she’s afraid of him seeing any of this, of the vulnerability, or the weakness. It’s just that she needs a moment alone - alone - in ways she hasn’t been since they got to the city. It’s far more convenient to stay here at the Elfsong, and she’s missed sleeping in a real bed. But she can only seem to snatch pockets of isolation. She just needs to think. 

For so long she used to tell herself that the entire world wasn’t her room, wasn’t her estate, wasn’t this loneliness that threatened to eat her from the inside. And now that she’s here, surrounded by friends and love and people, she craves isolation. She needs a moment where she can just be, and no one will see. Where she can break down, for herself only and then pick up her own pieces. 

Astarion isn’t wrong. She offers everything she can, convinced that if she has nothing to give that no one will stick around. And logically, she knows now it’s not true. That her friends care about her not what she can do for them, but that fear still lurks, still whispers in the darkness. She cannot give it space now though. There will be time later, space for her to think about all of this. But for now, she simply needs to go and meet her brother and wash her hands of all of this. 

The Elfsong is busy tonight. There is music and dancing and games. Liv catches snippets of conversation celebrations, speculations, and the inexhaustible variety of people’s lives. She feels so small in this room, surrounded by all of these strangers. There’s something kind of beautiful about it. She sits down at a table in the corner, in a place of relative quiet, and watches the people around her in their merriment. 

When Percy sits down across from her, she is pulled back from the buzz of people, from the din of voices, to this table, this moment. He brings with him two mugs of ale, which was probably wise, they’ll draw attention if they’re not drinking in a tavern. 

“You look tired,” he says.

She could say the same about him. He’s dressed just as finely as the night before, but there are deep bruises beneath his eyes as if he didn’t sleep at all. “It was a long day.”

“Everyone is talking about Gortash’s death,” Percy says as he takes a drink. 

Liv nods. “Yeah. About that…” She reaches into her lap, and pulls out the ledger she found in Gortash’s safe. “Here.” She slides it across the table. 

Percy stares at it but doesn’t pick it up. “What do you want for it?” He’s watching her closely. 

“You already gave me the information we wanted, which was not a great negotiation strategy if you really wanted me to keep my end.”

“And yet here we are,” Percy smiles, pulling the book closer to him. Perhaps, Astarion was right; Percy knew she’d do this. But he surprises her by cocking his head. “You really don’t want anything else?”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask, but there is no expectation. The book is yours either way.”

Percy stares at her for a moment. “That is fairer than I deserve. Ask your questions.”

“How long…how long have you been…this? Working against them?” This is the question that has haunted her. That there might have been more allies in that house than she ever knew, and why didn’t she know? How could she have not realized?

He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice pitched low enough not to be overheard. “I’ve always hated Dad. There was an incident once, at a party. He was showing me off, making me perform for his friends. Gods, you would’ve been three years old maybe? I messed up, and his magic came for me. I think he was honestly surprised when people were horrified.

“I got sent away to Cormyr for almost four years after that so that all the gossip could calm down. When I got back, my plan was always to unseat him. To reign victorious over him and Cressida. I worked at it for a long time, until the night that..uh…” He looks supremely uncomfortable, and shifts in his chair. “Until that night.” 

She knows he’s referring to Brelia’s death. It was never spoken of, even in the immediate aftermath. Her family had been so good at avoiding it, that sometimes Liv wondered if Brelia’s death had happened only to her. 

“I watched them bury it, use their wealth and power and connections to cover the whole thing up. And I realized that I didn’t want to be him anymore.”

“So you joined the Guild?” Liv asked, trying to piece it all together to rearrange this person she thought she knew into the man across from her. 

Percy laughs and takes another drink. “No, I got my ass captured by the Guild after a monthslong spree of drinking and gambling and trying to spend as much of the family money as I could.”

“You seem pretty cozy with them now.”

He grins. “You know what’s better than a noble you can buy off? One who actually believes in your cause.”

“So what? You joined the Guild and what? Became a good guy?” 

Percy shrugs. “The Guild isn’t good, but Nine-Fingers has a vision and wants to take care of the people who have been looked down on for too long. She’s got a code. Which is more than I can say for our father.”

Still, there is something bothering her. “You knew I was trying to undermine our parents wherever I could, but you never said anything.”

Percy goes quiet then, smile fading. He is looking anywhere but at her. “Your stunts were useful distractions. Kept our parents' attention focused elsewhere.”

Liv leans back in her chair, letting the revelation hang in the air. She could’ve had an ally in that house, but instead, he’d seen her ‘stunts’ as distractions, useful to him. She had known she’d been ineffective at fighting against her parents. They had too much power, too much influence. She’d been going about it the wrong way; she can see that now. 

“Well, then. Guess that’s something.” The bitterness is evident in her words, and she wishes it wasn’t. Wishes for aloofness, for calm that seems to elude her. 

Percy runs a hand down his face and sighs. “I thought about it…more than once. But Liv, you were free, freer than any of us. I…I always hoped you’d get out. And you did.”

“Free? Free of what?”

“Their fucking expectations. Gods, I was so envious of you. They didn’t expect a damn thing of you!”

And that had been the problem. She had desperately tried for years and years to get their attention, their love, their approval. Something . They had remained horribly and terribly indifferent. It would have been kinder if they had been cruel or hateful. There had been nothing personal about it. And she was left wondering what on earth she had to offer anyone at all. But she had been envious of him too, of the attention her parents had paid him. “I guess the grass is always greener.”

“And you had Brelia and Roland anyway. You didn’t need me.”

She looks at her brother then, tries to really see who is around this mask he puts on and wears about, beyond the smoke and the mirrors and the insufferability. His last words are spoken so quickly, so automatically that she wonders if it is a question or otherwise a justification. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess. 

“Brelia died and Roland left. In the end, I didn’t have anyone. It would have been nice to have not been alone.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing good lasted in that house.”

Liv can’t help but agree. “It didn’t.”

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry. For all of it.”

She’s dreamed of hearing these words from her family, for them to know and acknowledge the things done to her, the crimes committed. But she is surprised at how much she doesn’t want them from Percy. She understands now that he was just another victim of that house, of her parents. His suffering was different from hers so she didn’t see it.

“You don’t have to…”

Percy leans forward again again, looking utterly lost. “No, I owe you…we could…I don’t know…” 

She wants nothing he might offer her out of guilt. And Astarion’s warning snags in her mind. “You know, Percy, I didn’t want a relationship with the person I thought you were, and I don’t know that I want a relationship with the person you are now. So…maybe this would just be easier for us both if we just let go of all expectations. You don’t owe me anything.” And she doesn’t owe him anything either. 

The severing hurts worse than she expects. The relief in Percy’s eyes hurts more. And just like that, she’s cut loose the last connection to her family. Maybe after this is all over, she might have the time to figure this all out, to understand who her brother is and if she still wants him in her life, but she is not guaranteed an after. And she knows this: that she has had enough disappointment and heartbreak in her life when it comes to family; she does not need more. 

Percy just nods, eyes fixed on his mug. “Yeah, alright. I…uh…thank you for your help.”

She stands then, her own mug utterly untouched. “I hope it’s enough.”

“Me too.”

She turns then, to head for the stairs when she hears him call her name. She turns back, and it’s still odd, to see her brother here. 

“Don’t die.”

They spend the first few days in Neverwinter in much the same way, though as they learn this city, pick up on its rhythms and heartbeats, they begin making acquaintances. They bribe museum guards and gallery curators to let them in after hours. They learn the names of restaurant owners and wait staff, especially the ones who don’t bat an eye when Astarion never orders food and only drinks wine. They become fast favorites of a bookshop owner when Astarion befriends the resident feline of the shop, and the owner promises to stay open late one night a week for them. 

It’s incredible how quickly a life begins to take shape here. Liv’s name opens doors, gets her access to libraries and books and researchers. She wears this notoriety better than she ever did the Vires name, perhaps it is because these people are interested in her as the hero of Baldur’s Gate rather than the daughter of a wealthy diplomat. It matters that it is something she’s done and not simply because of the circumstances of her birth. 

Astarion is slower to trust. He’s fine with acquaintances, with passing familiarity, but still suspicious of almost everyone’s motives. But he likes the messiness of life. He likes knowing names, and gathering pieces of these people he comes into contact with in order to puzzle them out. But he rarely offers up anything of himself. Still, on the nights when Liv is deep in her research, there is something oddly comforting about being alone in a crowded room. Of watching and waiting and drinking in taverns and bars and he never has to leave with anyone, he simply gets to return home. 

Perhaps someday he will not have to go out only to return home to feel like a person, but until then, this will suffice. 

***

Liv wakes alone. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. The clock in their room tells her it’s just early afternoon, and that there are still several hours before sunset. She rises with the intent to make coffee and to check in on Astarion who is more than likely in his solarium, reading or dozing or finding some other way to fill his time. 

With their arrival in Neverwinter, with the gift of this home, his restlessness has abated somewhat. He is still often moving, often flitting around, as if the space has granted him the opportunity and he must take it. She is glad they left Baldur’s Gate. 

When she emerges to the main room, he is not there. The door to his solarium is shut. That has been yet another thing to navigate together. Shut doors mean privacy, which he hasn’t often had, but they also feel ominous, like a cage. Sometimes, she’ll be reading in the main room just to see the solarium door open, and Astarion standing there for a moment before drifting away, leaving the door open.  As if he still needs reminding that he could leave at any point. 

As she approaches the door, she hears the sound of wood splintering accompanied by his frustration. She pauses a moment but when everything falls quiet inside she knocks. “Astarion?”

“I’m fine!” The answer comes quickly, almost too fast, and definitely too angry to be entirely true. 

“Can I come in?”

There is a long pause, long enough she almost wonders if he heard her, but then the door opens, just enough for her to see him. He’s covered in paint and his eyes have a haunted look about them that she hasn’t seen in a long time. His head is bowed, eyes focused on the floor. 

She keeps her tone light. “What are you up to?” 

He doesn’t reply, instead, he opens the door the rest of the way so that she can take in the scene. The solarium is a mess, every space filled with things. An easel for painting lays broken to the side, paint scattered everywhere. There are small, chipped blocks of wood in another corner, shavings and wood dust coating the ground as if he had perhaps been inspired by Halsin’s whittling. Across the room, the hastily compiled and then abandoned attempts at creative projects lay scattered, like dead bodies on a battlefield. 

“I just wanted to find something…one fucking thing I’m good at. You have your research and I have…nothing.”

She can’t even tell him that he’s wrong. They both have their shared love of books, but that has not been enough to fill his time and his days. To see the way he has desperately fought and clawed toward something in this room today makes her invariably sad. 

“Well, it’s very hard to paint when you snap the easel in half,” she says, an attempt at injecting some humor into the situation. 

He seizes on the opening. “Yes, well, I’m sure that the paint is also meant to go on the canvas itself.” He runs a paint-spattered hand through his paint-spattered hair, jutting his chin out as if he always meant to be this messy. He’s still beautiful.

“Generally.”

He looks out at the solarium with sad eyes. “I’ve made such a mess of it all.”

“It’s alright.” The magic of the house will clean it all away, it will be as if it never happened at all. In fact, she’s almost sure that if they simply close the door and ask, the room will revert back to its usual pristine self. 

“I just wanted to make something…leave something instead of taking something.” He sounds like he’s pleading with her, pleading for her to understand. 

She does. “You’re quite deft with a needle, aren’t you? Did you try embroidering something? We can buy you real supplies, not ones that will disappear to smoke.”

He shakes his head. “I…can’t do that.”

Because it had been a necessity under Cazador, a means of survival. “We’ll find you something.” 

“I don’t care if we do. It doesn’t matter,” he adds bitterly, shutting the door and walking away. It is a retreat if she ever saw one.

***

Astarion wakes, dropping out of fitful remembrance that is never quite as restful as he hopes. He reaches for Liv in the darkness, only to find her side of the bed empty. It is an odd sensation to find her the one gone. He is the one who leaves, but not always. Sometimes he is content to just be in this shared space, to listen to her steady breathing. Sometimes he curls around her and dozes, enjoying her waking up in his arms. Sometimes he returns just to be the first thing she sees when she wakes. But today, he is awake and she is not here. 

He finds her in the main room, sitting in a chair by the fire. A book is open on her lap, but she’s staring into the flames instead of reading. Her eyes are puffy, her face smeared with tears. “Is everything alright, my dear?” He knows everything is decidedly not alright, but he’s not sure what this is. So he’s trying to navigate it with care. 

She jumps a little at the sound of his voice, and turns, hastily wiping at her eyes. “Oh…I just…I couldn’t sleep.” It’s not the whole truth of it. 

He approaches the chair and kneels down beside it. “What’s wrong?”

She stares at her hands, at her book, back at the flames of the fire, but she doesn’t quite look at him. Not for a long, long time. Finally, she sighs, her shoulders folding inward. “I sent a message to Roland a few days ago.”

Her brother in Candlekeep. Percy had suggested she reach out, said that perhaps it would be welcome, and Liv had seemed thrilled at the prospect. “And?”

“And nothing. He never replied.” 

Damn it. He wishes he could yell at Percy himself for making the suggestion in the first place, for filling her with hope when clearly he was wrong. “Ah.”

“It’s just…Percy seemed so sure it would be a good thing, and I…I thought…” her words tumble short, start and stop, fall away into the quiet. 

“Thought what?” he prompts gently. 

She looks so sad, so tired, so…young when she meets his eyes. “I thought that…after everything we did…he’d want to talk to me…I don’t know what else I could possibly do or say or…”

Because she is still, even now, sure that it is some deficiency on her part, something she has failed to do that keeps her from having these familial relationships she wants so badly. In times like this, he is grateful he doesn’t remember his own family. Doesn’t know where they are or what they would think of him now. They are a shadow of his past, buried right along with the man he was. He’s toyed with the idea of looking them up, surely he has family somewhere, but perhaps some things shouldn’t be exhumed. He has watched Liv grapple with her wreck of a family. Whether she severs the connections or keeps reaching she’s hurt either way, and he hates it for her. He hates that after everything she has done and accomplished and become, she still wonders if she were different if she would be good enough for them. 

“It’s his loss. You know that, right?” 

Her hands twist in her lap, and he covers them with his own, quiets them, and tries to inject some measure of comfort. “Your family are the people that are supposed to love you no matter what…sometimes…sometimes it just makes me wonder if the problem isn’t me.”

He brings their joined hands up and kisses her palm. “It’s not. I love you, and we both know that my taste in people is impeccable.”

Her smile is a strained thing. “I just really wanted this…really wanted him to be in my life again.”

“And maybe someday he will be, but whether he does or not has more to do with him than you. You’re incredible.”

She nods like she believes it…or is at least trying to. “I shouldn’t have tried to contact him anyway.” But he isn’t surprised she did. She is always reaching out an open hand; even when others don’t deserve it. It’s her best and most heartbreaking quality. 

“You know, you don’t need him or any of them to love you. You are already so loved by so many. You don’t need them.”

“Things with Percy were just…better than I expected, and Roland and I used to be so close before…” Her words trail off. 

“Maybe he’ll come around; maybe he won’t. But just remember, you are loved regardless.”

She holds tighter to his hand, an errant tear running down her cheek. He catches it with his thumb. “Come on, you need sleep, and I need a cuddle…thankfully, both of those things are possible in the bed.”

She kisses his cheek before following him back to the bedroom. 

***

Liv discovers something about herself in their weeks in Neverwinter. She is more of an introvert than she ever believed, and unsurprisingly, Astarion is not. Astarion needs interaction and people. He doesn’t always want to be the one interacting, but he does love a crowd, getting lost in a sea-change of people. 

Liv doesn’t mind going out with him, but it is not something she wants every single night. There is something to be said for quiet. Tonight, she had kissed him goodbye and sent him out into the city while she enjoyed being utterly and completely alone. Being alone is a bit of a novelty these days.

She’s curled up on the long couch in front of the fire, enjoying a book, a glass of wine, and plenty of snacks. She’s not sure how much time has passed, but she’s not concerned. She’ll go to bed whenever Astarion returns home. 

Some time later, the door opens. Only Astarion could even open the door, so she doesn’t bother giving him more than a cursory glance before returning to the excitement of the page she was reading. He strides over and drapes himself across her lap, batting her book away, grinning the whole time. Sometimes, he reminds her of a giant, overgrown cat. 

“I got a job!”

She tries to contain her surprise and probably does a terrible job of it. “A job?”

His smile is huge, his fangs glinting in the light. “Yes! There’s a criminal that everyone is looking for. It’s quite the scandal. They’re offering five hundred gold for his return…dead or alive! Naturally, I’m thinking dead.”

“So it’s a bounty?” 

“We’d be bounty hunters!” Astarion’s excitement is palpable. She hasn’t seen his eyes this bright since their first week here in Neverwinter. “Can we please do it? It’s been so long since I’ve killed anyone.”

She sets her book down, knowing that there will be no return to it for now. “You do know that most people go their whole lives without killing another person.”

“Ugh, those people are soooooo dull. But we’re not. We’re heroes! Plus, we’d have an edge over everyone else. You can do your little scrying thing to find them and I’ll be the one doing the hurting. Please?”

She laughs, letting her fingers tunnel into his curls as she looks down at him. She’s wanted nothing more than for him to find some sense of direction, something that he can call his. “Of course.”

His smile broadens. “Really? I really thought I’d have to do more convincing.”

“Oh? Did I spoil your plans?” She teases.

He shrugs. “Just leaves me more energy for other things.” And then he pulls her down to kiss her. 

***

Sunset is almost upon the city, and Liv has bid her friends at the House of Knowledge goodbye for the evening. The newly rebuilt temple and library is as impressive as it has been useful. She still doesn’t have anything concrete for Karlach or Astarion, but she’s learned much about infernal machinery and blood curses and diseases. Her research is not only obscure, but often knowledge most consider unsavory, so she has had to be careful and specific about who she trusts with her real plans. Still, she’s met other scholars and researchers and been grateful for the comradery.

Neverwinter is filled with gardens that spring up in riots of color, that seem to grow a ways into the houses in the neighborhood she and Astarion have claimed as their own. She could cast the spell to their home anywhere, but they liked this neighborhood. It’s nice to pretend that though they’re the only ones who can see the blue-painted door tucked into the wall on this street, that this place is theirs in some way. 

She wouldn’t have minded a few more hours of research, but Astarion has found them another job to do this evening. After their first successful bounty, Astarion had made the discovery that not only is he quite good at this sort of work, he enjoys it too. 

“It turns out, no one actually cares about murder, as long as you murder the right people,” he had gleefully observed the other night while he had looked over a small stack of bounty contracts. 

Liv is just happy to see him with some direction, and if she’s being fully honest, a part of her had missed the heat of battle. 

When she steps in the door, Astarion is already in his armor. He sits at the table, carefully applying poison to his daggers, his hand crossbows set to the side, waiting. He beams as she approaches. 

“Hello, darling.”

“Let me just change and we can go,” she says, pressing a kiss to his hair as she steps around to the bedroom. 

And she is looking forward to stalking the streets with him, to working toward a common goal. They make a very good team. 

***

There are times when Astarion goes whole days without once thinking of his life before the nautiloid. He keeps a mental tally as if it is some game he can win. How long has it been since he has remembered Cazador, those two hundred years of pain? He is sure that if he can simply lengthen the stretches of time long enough that someday he will not think of it ever again, or if he does, it won’t be quite so jarring. 

Despite his best efforts, he finds himself frustrated by the memories that bob to the surface, unbidden. Moments he relives, triggered by a word or phrase or smell…things he hadn’t remembered until that moment, a new facet of the nightmare he had somehow smothered down. 

He hates the way some days still feel haunted. He had mistakenly believed that burning Cazador’s home to the ground and getting out of Baldur’s Gate…would somehow also put all that unpleasantness behind him. But there are still too many days where he finds himself trapped in his own mind, memories sharp as broken glass and drawing more than just blood. 

He does his best to recover afterward, to push on to something, anything he can use to distract himself. The tactic had worked once upon a time, shoving the disgust and the loathing down with the next conquest, but now it’s not conquests…it’s hobbies he’s trying. 

He’s shit at drawing, despite Liv’s best attempts to help him. But hand-lettering? He’s actually quite good at. His solarium is littered with pages of words and phrases. He gets a weird sort of kick out of writing words like ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’ in the prettiest fonts. 

But even that isn’t serving him this afternoon, so he wanders into the kitchen just for a change of scenery. Liv isn’t home, spending her afternoon at the House of Knowledge knee-deep in research. Today, he’s jealous of her ability to come and go as she pleases no matter the time of day. He’s sure that walking Neverwinter’s streets would get him out of his own damn head, but even a quick glance at the clock tells him he still has at least two hours of daylight left. 

Is this the freedom he clawed and killed and fought for? To live his life watching the hands of a clock? He used to wait for nightfall with a mix of hope and dread. Getting to leave the palace was both the best and worst part of his day. Leaving meant breathing just a little easier, but it also meant that he had to go out hunting. Had to give away the parts of himself he didn’t know how to hold anymore. Had to bring some unlucky soul to their doom. He might be free, but he is still cursed. 

Nights and nightmares and horrors and orders twist themselves together in a specter of memory that seems to constrict around him. Nothing is whole, just flashes, phantom touches, echoes of pain. Distantly he knows none of this is real…these are just memories…but the pain is real for a few bright hot seconds, and he is lost. 

He is sure he hears his name. But is it spat out like a curse word? Whispered like a caress? No…it’s laced with concern and familiarity.

A warm touch of fingers on the back of his hand wrenches him back to himself. He jerks away from the touch, instinctively. “Don’t! Don’t touch me.” The words leave his mouth, venomous and sharp enough to cut. 

He is still standing in the kitchen, but Liv is there and there is a look in her eyes that tells him that she has been calling his name for a while and he has been…somewhere else. He didn’t mean to snap at her, his hands are shaking as he reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “I…I apologize. It’s been a bad day.”

Liv doesn’t move away but doesn’t draw any nearer. He can tell she is trying to hide her worry. “What do you need right now?”

He’s not sure; he glances around the kitchen for some clue as to why he even walked in here in the first place. He comes up empty. 

Liv saves him from his floundering by gesturing toward the fireplace and sitting area. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

He follows her in silence and takes the blanket she hands him, careful not to touch him. He wraps it around himself while he collapses into the corner of the couch as if it could swallow him whole. He runs the edge of the blanket between his fingers, trying to remind himself that he is real, and he is here, and he is free. 

Liv sits in the nearby chair, legs folded up under her, watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

“Do you need to?” 

No. Maybe. Probably. He sighs. “Why does any of it still matter? I thought I was getting better…but sometimes it feels like it’s worse somehow. Is it all just a circle? Am I doomed forever to be stuck like this?” Still somehow tied to Cazador, even in death?

Liv considers his questions and weighs them as if they matter. It’s the first thing he noticed about her, just how carefully she listens. He used to think it was simply kindness, her bleeding heart. And that is part of it, but not all. She is forever yearning for knowledge, for understanding.

When she speaks, her words are soft and measured. “There’s a play I love and a character asks much the same question. She wonders if the future is just a mirage we hold out in front of us as we march around in a circle, but I loved the response the other character gave. He said that it’s not a circle, it’s a line that stretches out forever and because we can’t see the end, we can’t see how it changes…but we’re still moving forward. You are still moving forward.”

“How can you be so sure?” Because today he is not. The shadows still feel too close, too hungry. 

“Because I’ve watched you and just how far you’ve come. Don’t let the bad days convince you otherwise.”

Her words are gentle, and he doesn’t want them. He wants to yell and rage and pick a fight with her. He wants to twist this vulnerability back on her and find some way to shift the attention off of him. He wants to do anything but sit here in this moment, and it takes all of his self-control to bite back every cutting word. 

She watches him in silence, and he’s sure she’s seen. He’s sure she knows that even after all this time, his first instinct is to lash out. It makes him feel even more wretched, but she hasn’t moved, hasn’t left. 

He picks up and discards a series of words and phrases. Finally, he offers something true. “I just want to be done with him.” He had stabbed Cazador himself, watched the light leave his eyes, and told himself that it was over. But it doesn’t feel over. He worries it never will. He is tired of being defined by the actions of others. 

“You are safe. You are free. Some days it might be hard to remember that, but I will be here to remind you for as long and as often as you need.” Another promise to join the ones she’s already offered him, but like all the others, he believes it. 

He wishes in this moment that he could stand for her to touch him, that he could curl into her, burrow somewhere near her steady heartbeat. “That play you mentioned…do you have it here?”

“I do.”

“Read it to me?” The question comes out small, barely louder than a whisper. As she reads, he finds his mind swimming through the words instead of wrapped in memory, and he slowly returns to himself. 

He restarts his count. 

***

They are both in Astarion’s solarium, passing the early evening hours together, but not quite together. Astarion lounges on the chaise, reading a book. She sits on the ground, notes open and books scattered around her. Her research has shifted toward looking for the first vampire, for what began this all as if finding the root might be the answer. It means sifting through rumors and folklore, and it is slow, slow work. 

There’s a gentle, insistent connection in her mind, and suddenly her brother’s voice fills it. “It’s Roland. I’ve struggled to know what to say to you after all this time…but Percy told me about your partner and I found something.”

She freezes as the message unfurls, his voice at once familiar and not. “It’s so good to hear from you. You found something?”

Astarion looks up at her, a question in his eyes. “It’s Roland,” she manages while she waits for his response, heart hammering. 

“Probably best discussed in person. How’d you like to visit Candlekeep?” 

She sits in shock for a moment before looking at Astarion. “Do you want to go to Candlekeep?” 

He smiles. “Of course. I’ve heard there are a great many books there. Estranged brothers too, I suppose.”

“He says he found something that might help us.”

Astarion shrugs, returning to his book. “I’d settle for him apologizing to you, but if he has a lead we’ll take it.”