#churchverse

Even as Church considers reaching for him, Astarion’s words twist inside of him still. 

“Don’t look at me like that! With the sweet little ‘disappointed I’m not getting cuddly Astarion’ pout,” he spat mockingly after the tiefling’s intervention. “I can’t take it. I can’t be who you want to see in me.”

But don’t you understand? Church wanted to exclaim. I love you as you are!

The floorboards creak loudly with one of Church’s footfalls, and Astarion’s head whips around, eyes and dagger glinting. But the tiefling doesn’t even raise his hands as he leans against the doorway, gazing at his lover. 

He aches seeing how beautiful he is, even among shadows.

Church shakes himself, clearing his throat.

“The others have settled down for the most part,” he says softly. “Gale’s set up wards. Karlach’s on watch. We should at least get a warning before any other… unwanted visits.”

Astarion hums blithely.

“Lovely!” he says with a flippant sneer. “So, why are you here?”

Church’s breath catches slightly in his throat.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugs. “I just wondered where you went. Wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Astarion says through his teeth.

He’s not. Church knows he’s not.

“Astarion, I…” 

Church finally realizes why Astarion looks particularly pale and haggard now. “Gods, you’re still covered in blood!”

Splattered and streaked with browns and reds, Astarion hums, plucking at his encrusted shirt. “So I am. Just another night in Baldur’s Gate!”

Church fights back a laugh, shaking his head. As much as Astarion extolled the joys of gushing blood, Church knows he has too many memories of being covered in it — along with other filth. And he remembers seeing how Astarion relaxed after even the freezing cleanse of the river as they traveled…

“Come with me?” Church entreats him, a loose plan forming in his head.

Astarion hesitates.

“Why?” he asks suspiciously. “What for?”

“I… I would like to draw you a bath, if that’s alright?” Church offers.

Astarion glances down at his blood-encrusted self.

“That bad, is it?” he drawls.

There’s no point sugar-coating it. 

“Look, you’re filthy, and I know you hate that,” Church shrugs a little. “I had to listen to you going on about missing baths for weeks in the wilderness, so I figured you’d want to make up for lost time.”

“It’s certainly been missed,” Astarion replies airily. “Alright. You’ve made your point.”

The vampire spawn then pitches his voice low, “Does the sight of gore not get your blood pumping anymore?”

Church scoffs a laugh, rolling his eyes. 

“I’ll get the water running,” he says dryly.

He beckons Astarion to follow him over to the copper bathtub. But to his surprise — despite the tension earlier — the elf’s hand reaches out to catch his. Church shoots him a smile, lacing their fingers together for the short distance to the tub.

Once there, he uses prestidigitation to rid it of dust before running the bath for the listless spawn. As the hot water fills the tub, Astarion’s demeanor slowly begins to thaw, throwing sly jokes at Church’s nerves. As he crouches, he can practically feel the elf’s eyes roaming over his back and the trousers tight over his ass. 

Church can’t help but preen a bit. 

“I can feel you looking,” he huffs in feigned disapproval.

“It’s a nice view,” Astarion drawls back.

Church shoots a coy glance over his shoulder, his tail swishing.

“...I know,” he smirks.

When the tub has been filled, Church turns off the water with a satisfied hum before standing. 

“Alright,” he announces, turning towards Astarion and flourishing a bow. “The bath is ready, Master Astarion.”

“Hmm,” Astarion gazes down at him with a hungry smile spreading across his face. “I like the sound of that.”

Church’s face heats and he laughs a bit, turning away to give him privacy.

“I — I’ll just be on the other side of the screen,” he stammers.

“What’re you doing?” Astarion asks, bemused. 

“Giving you some privacy,” Church explains sheepishly. “While you, ah, get…”

“Undressed?” Astarion smirks, drifting close to him. “Disrobed? Stripped? Naked?” He lowers his voice into a shoddy imitation of Halsin. “As nature intended?”  

Church blushes deeper, choking on a laugh as he pushes his chest away. 

“Yes, that,” he grins.

“Why?” Astarion tilts his head. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Well,” he smirks, “not nothing I suppose.”

Church glances vaguely towards the door and windows, praying to whatever god will listen that no one will disturb them again tonight. 

“…if you’re sure. If you’re alright with it,” he says slowly.

“Darling,” Astarion smirks, reaching slowly for the front of his trousers. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of a show.”

Church blushes deeper, unable to stop his eyes from following his hands. The interest is there, of course, but rather than hunger or lust all he feels is… relief. Relief Astarion is still with them and not dragged off to disappear into a burst of bloody mist. He’s here, safe, and not back in that wretched palace. 

He’s here sitting in the tub before Church as he gently sponges at himself, removing the other spawns’ blood that had run down his shirt during the fight. 

Church does leave momentarily to retrieve Astarion’s personal soap and a book to read, but he hurries back, relieved to see the elf still there. He sits in a nearby chair, reading a book on necromancy Gale must have left here at some point. 

What are you thinking about? Church wonders at Astarion’s strange silence. 

What are you going to do?

We’re not safe here after all.

Church should have known better. As cushy as their camp is, the inn is a public place. Anyone — a bouncer, a drunkard — could invite a vampire spawn in. How else would they have stolen away so many victims here?

He was, once again, a fool. 

“Do you think I’m cruel?” Astarion asks him suddenly. 

Thrown by the question, Church still takes a moment to mull over it. 

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But… I can be too.”

His shadow self didn’t come from a vacuum, after all. 

“Do you think I’m selfish? A self-serving liar?” Astarion flourishes a hand, flicking away water. “Blind to the needs of others?”

Church has already lost his position on the page. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Just curious,” Astarion shrugs. 

“No,” Church says emphatically. 

“Oh but that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” Astarion corrects him easily with a cheerless grin. “I am all of those things. And I’m not sorry for who I am.”

His gaze meets Church’s, and from there the conversation sours. 

“Well, you’re a survivor,” Church shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”

Astarion barks a derisive laugh. 

“This camp,” he gestures vaguely towards the door. “This sundry of all of Faerûn — we’re all survivors. None of us are special in the face of horrible, imminent death. And yet…” he smiles bitterly. “Of all your options of beautiful, virile people with sanctimonious morals far closer to yours… you chose me.

“You even refused Halsin!” he scoffs. “He agrees with everything you do. And he was perfectly happy to share, giving you everything I couldn’t—”

“But would you be?” Church interjects. “Would you really be happy about it?”

Astarion scowls. “Of course, didn’t I tell you as much afterwards?”

“Of course you did,” Church says, softly. “But it’s not like you would have told me otherwise.”

“As you very well know, I have no reservations telling you what I think…”

“Yes, your commentary has always been so very supportive,” Church says sarcastically. “But no matter how much you’ve disapproved of my decisions, no matter how much you’ve bitched and complained; you’ve never actually said ‘no’ to anything I have ever asked of you.”

Astarion makes a face. “...that can’t be right.”

“Anyway, maybe I don’t want to be ‘shared,’” Church goes on peevishly. “Maybe, after all this time, of all the people I’ve met in Faerûn, I want to be with you, and you alone. Just like this.” He gestures with his book at Astarion in the bath. “Is that not enough for you?” 

Astarion doesn’t answer him. He goes quiet, letting the only sound in the room be the sloshing of water with his subtle movements. 

At some point, the tense silence proves too much. Church gives up and closes his book, setting it carefully aside. 

“You're missing the entirety of your back,” he points out to the spawn. With the blood that had stained Astarion’s pale skin, the raised infernal script is spelled out in sharp relief.

“What am I supposed to do?” Astarion retorts. “Look in the mirror?”

Church winces. 

“Would it be alright if I…?” he stammers. “Can I…?”

Astarion raises an expectant eyebrow. 

“Can I help you?” Church finally offers. 

“Can you? I suppose you can.”

“Astarion.”

“Bite me,” he beseeches him. 

Church’s hips stutter and he pulls away to look at him. 

That silly, breathless, worried face…

Astarion smirks at it, tilting his head to expose his neck further. The beginnings of a lusty bruise already darkens his pale skin there, no doubt. 

“Are you… are you sure — ungh!” Church groans loudly as Astarion clenches around his cock, a mischievous hand tugging hard upon his tail. “Oh gods… oh gods…!”

Astarion does think about it for a second. Tieflings have relatively sharp incisors, compared to humans and elves. Despite his gentle mouth, Church has always been mindful of that. 

Of course he would hesitate. 

Astarion supposes he loves him for that. 

“Bite me,” he growls. “Claim… me!”

He doesn’t specify in which manner he’d do that, but Church doesn’t seem to care. He falls back down against Astarion, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his skin. His tongue swirls upon it — hot, hungry, and —

Astarion gasps into the pleasured pain as Church sinks his teeth into his flesh with a groan. He doesn’t break skin, but Astarion knows that it will leave quite a distinct mark — until Shadowheart next heals them, anyway. 

If only he could see it…

A half-baked idea, fueled by delirious lust, leaps to mind. 

“Darling…?” Astarion squeaks as Church presses a much lighter, apologetic kiss against the spot. “A favor… ah! If you would?”

Church’s eyes are heavy as he absently soothes at the bite mark. 

“Anything,” he says in a voice rough with simmering arousal. 

Astarion moans as he feels the tiefling slide slowly back into him, filling him until his brain can’t quite…

“Mhh… tadpole?” Astarion requests needily. “I want to see what you did to me for myself.”

“Oh?” Church huffs a surprised, sheepish laugh. “Ah… ah! Are you sure?”

“Please?” Astarion whines. 

Church smiles as he slows his movements, closing his eyes and concentrating instead upon finding the connections between the two of their tadpoles. 

Astarion’s eyes unfocus as the aura shimmers in their peripherals. Stars… webs… whatever. They all lead to the same outcome —

An uncanny, full-bodied warmth. Hot blood pulsing through his veins. A heart pounding so loud, so hard like a drum…

...not to mention the alien weight of a tail, furling from the base of his spine...

“Oh,” Astarion breathes, suddenly gazing down at his own face. “Hello.”

Gods, his disheveled hair is a laughable mess. How Church has managed not to tease him about it is a wonder. But Astarion’s eyes are drawn instead to the left side of his neck. 

There is a patchy set of bruises forming where Church had claimed him. The largest of them is dark and purplish, with pink marks framing where Church had bitten him. If they had come from anyone else, they would have been ugly things, but from Church…

…they’re a gift. A prize Astarion is so very eager to flaunt. 

“I can use one of our tinctures to heal it?” Church offers, still buried within the elf as he anxiously holds his gaze. “I’m so sorry. I thought this was what you…”

“No need,” Astarion murmurs, tilting his head to expose his neck as he examines himself with wonderment. “I’m enjoying your masterpiece. I wear it well, don’t you think?”

Church huffs a laugh, but as he shifts, two different jolts of searing pleasure rocket through Astarion’s abdomen. 

“Ungh! The hells?” he groans as Church echoes him as well. “What…? Oh my…”

“Ah! Sorry, sorry I don’t…” Church melts against him, a moan and a sob of pleasure rocking his body instinctively into him. 

Astarion clings to him, gawking at the simultaneous images of Church whimpering on top of him and his own face, slack with pleasure. 

“It seems our tadpole connection shares far more than image,” Astarion murmurs, eyes fluttering at Church’s subtlest movements. He supposes he should have remembered, back when Karlach had ‘hugged’ Church through Wyll’s arms. If Astarion so much as breathes it still sends a resonant wave of pleasure into his brain. The recursive sensation echoes within him, tingling his nerves as well as the additional set he doesn’t own. 

“Should I s-stop?” Church asks, straining to remain still as his tail shivers ecstatically. “Pull out? Or… stop the tadpole? Both?”

“Oh no, please no,” Astarion beseeches him. “I am… very much enjoying this. I…!”

He shudders as Church draws out slightly, before pulsing gently back in. 

Gods he feels himself stretched tight around… himself. It’s bizarre. Incredible. Overwhelming, feeling both of their bodies entangled together at once. 

And it isn’t just their physical sensations or sight. Through the haze of lust, Astarion hears the echoes of something else. Pulses of something extraordinary. 

“Church,” he breathes as he makes sense of them. “Oh… Church.”

Some of the thoughts are intelligible words and ideas — desperate longing to continue their encounter, anxiety about the delicate moment, concern for Astarion that Church doesn’t dare babble about now when everything is so tense. 

But the rest of the thoughts are nearly amorphous. They are colors and sensations in themselves. And among this confusing web, Astarion can see it.

It’s a wonderful, accursed thing. 

So complicated. So simple. 

It’s madness. It’s sanity. 

And despite all its contradictions and intangibility, it is far more real than the cynical vampire spawn had ever thought possible. 

It’s a nebulous magic called love. 

And Church’s mind is full of it. 

Astarion reaches out to echo those abstract thoughts as best he can, as well as summon his own. It’s like a strange song that Astarion can only hum along with from where he exists — mind connected to mind. He hopes Church gets the message. 

And from the way the tiefling trembles and gasps, Astarion knows he does. 

At some point their tangled senses grow all too overwhelming, and Astarion catches himself by surprise as he cries out, the pressure inside of him releasing in a sticky mess over his untouched cock. And yet, with his nerves still spinning and sparking, he loses himself again in the phantom sensation of Church's hips grinding into him, of his partner's pleasure coming to a searing head.

In no time at all, Astarion feels the heat of Church’s release spilling out of him, inside of him. He’s claiming Church as he claims him. 

It’s bizarre.

It’s transcendental.

“Over here!” a voice calls softly.

Gale has seated himself upon the grass, a blanket spread neatly beneath him and what appears to be the remnants of ritual components. His hands conduct the illusion like an orchestra as they dance soundlessly overhead.

“I was looking for you,” Church mutters wryly, seating himself carefully upon the blanket. Gale’s face is notably serene, rather than the troubled expression that furrowed his brow days earlier. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

“Not quite,” Gale murmurs as he carefully arranges a constellation of stars above them. “I walked around a fair bit. Talked to some of our allies — Halsin, mainly. Took care of a few things. Prepared a few… missives,” he hesitates. “There was one thing left to do, and it was to apologize to you.”

Church huffs a laugh. “I’m not one for grand gestures, but this… this is a nice change,” he admits, scanning the sky. “As far as an apology goes… I’m not sure it’s merited. Not on your part, at any rate.”

Gale shakes his head, flicking away a few stars. “There I was, spouting on about some noble sacrifice I had to make, when I had been berating you for the very same thing.”

“It’s not the same,” Church admits. “You were tasked by a goddess to do something that will save the world. I’ve got a couple of mad fey luring me into another deal for my own selfish reasons.”

Gale frowns. “Wanting to continue one’s existence isn’t selfish.”

Church shoots him a wry glance. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say to you, isn’t it?”

Gale chuckles, casting his eyes back up. 

“So you’ve already spoken with Halsin, then?” Church inquires. “I was going to ask you to help. His diagrams were a bit confusing…”

“I have prepared the relevant components and charts for the Harpers,” Gale assures him absently. “It is too soon to prepare such rituals for them to remain potent for Halsin’s endeavor. We have… some time.”

“And you’ve made use of it,” Church follows his eyes back up to the starry sky. “I should’ve known this was your doing. It’s beautiful.”

“Indeed. The curse is still present of course — just veiled and at arm’s length for now. Not a trick I can repeat often, but tonight?” Gale’s voice falters. “Tonight is different.”

He exhales wistfully. “I love this time of night. There’s an almost reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness, when you’d almost believe the dawn will never break.” 

He gestures a hand grandly across the view. “The timelessness of lovers. The most beautiful of fantasies.”

Church eyes him with concern.

“You’re sounding particularly philosophical,” he remarks cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Gale huffs a cheerless laugh.

“I will be, soon,” he nods grimly to himself. “I am perhaps just one hard day away from being without any troubles at all. Any night might be my last alive. If it is this one, then… I wanted it to be under a canopy of beauty and wonder… and with company to match,” he adds with a smile, nudging Church playfully.

But his smile falters as the tiefling continues to scrutinize him. 

“I thought this place might bring me peace. I thought it might make the weight of what I must do feel a little lighter…” Gale looks down, face falling. “...but I am not so sure.”

Finally, Church lets out a harsh sigh. “Fuck it. You know I wasn’t going to drop it — is this truly what you want? To die for the promise of Mystra’s forgiveness?”

Gale smiles bitterly. “Babe or crone, coward or hero, death is assured. Mystra’s forgiveness is not. If you knew the end was near, would you not want to ensure it had meaning?”

He glances back up at him, troubled. “I am… terrified,” he admits. “I will not claim otherwise. My face could scarcely conceal it even if my words sought to deny it.” 

“This isn’t the end,” Church insists fervently. “Not yet. We still have some time. We still have questions that need answers. We…”

“Church… thank you. But even if we do find another way, perhaps this is the right way. The end fate wishes for me.” Gale nods to himself. “There is no point running from the inevitable. Better to meet it, on my own terms.”

“Nothing is inevitable,” Church retorts fiercely. “Not when we face it together. I don’t have to die. And you don’t have to die.”

“Yes,” Gale chuckles. “But there is so much to live for, and so few moments in which to house it all.”

Church takes his hand. “But there are moments,” he says fervently. 

Gale chuckles. “Believe me, one moment in your company has often been enough to prise the fear from my heart. And I…” he hesitates. “I have missed your company, my friend. These past couple days. And I’m so very glad you came here to share this with me.”

He gestures vaguely up at the sky. 

“I know that this is unreal, but I created it for you.” He looks shyly over at Church. “You must know that you’re… you’re very special to me.”

The wizard feels warm nestled against Church’s side, seated in this protected corner of the cursed land. Church’s heart throbs with fondness, but also some trepidation. Where is he going with this?

“The point is…” Gale looks up into the sky. “…time is short. Every day, every moment is uncertain.”

“I thought we’d have more time,” Church whispers in agreement. 

They sit in companionable silence for a long moment longer, watching the aurora the wizard had conjured ripple shimmer across the sky in wide, iridescent stripes. 

“I… want to show you something,” Gale says. “If this were to be the last night of my life, I think I’d like to share in the Weave with you. Take you somewhere that isn’t the Shadowlands.”

He smiles at the tiefling. “Any ideas for sunnier locales?”

Church thinks to himself for a long moment. And then he huffs a laugh. “At risk of you calling me uncreative… why not take us back to Waterdeep?” he suggests with a smile. “I never appreciated it enough when I was there. It was never a home for me… but I’d like to know what it was to you.”

Gale beams at him. “On the contrary, I think that would be rather apt.”

He reaches his hand forward — parting the Weave like a curtain to reveal a luminous scene before them. Eventually the light focuses to reveal a charmingly-cluttered room with accents of dark wood and heavy green curtains. The walls are full of books, and the edges of the rug-strewn ground are lined with piles of even more books. 

“This is the center of my universe,” he says, pushing himself up to stand. “The sculptures, the paintings, the walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books..."

Church takes his hand as the wizard helps him to his feet, continuing to gesture around them grandly.

“...the grand piano plays the Lliirian Suites all by itself, and as we look out beyond the arches that lead to the terrace…” Gale beckons Church forth as the double doors open to a sunlit terrace, “…we see the weary sun take its daily dive into the sea.”

Church follows him out, shading his eyes from the golden glow. 

“That’s nice,” Church says, voice breaking as he takes in the warmth of the sunset. “It’s only been a couple weeks, hasn’t it? But it feels like we’ve spent months here in the Shadowlands already.”

He settles himself heavily down upon a wooden settee with red cushions, sighing. Gale smiles down at him. 

“My favorite spot,” he remarks idly. “Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.”

“Sounds like you,” Church smiles back at him. “Up all night reading? I do love that rebellious streak of yours.”

“Oh, allow me to live dangerously while I still can,” Gale smirks.

The wizard settles beside him as Church gazes over the panorama of the terrace’s view. He inhales the sea air deeply. 

“I think you’re remembering the harbor on a good day,” he comments wryly. “It’s missing the fish and smoke.”

“A memory isn’t perfect by nature,” Gale murmurs. “But sometimes the imperfection is what makes a moment beautiful. It’s the essence of the memory that matters. It comforts us, it…”

He traces his finger along the arm of the settee as his voice catches. “It’s home. I…” 

Gale turns to look at Church with wet eyes. “This was… an excellent choice,” he says, straining to keep his voice steady. “If something were to happen, I should like to see home again. Even if it’s not real. Even if…”

Church pulls him into a hug, holding him close as the wizard struggles to stifle a sob.

“No, damn it, I refuse to be a blubbering mess,” Gale chuckles wetly, though he returns his friend’s embrace. “This isn’t quite what I imagined when I wove this for you.”

“What did you imagine?” Church grins as the wizard begins to pull away from him.

And then he realizes then that Gale’s shining eyes are soft and awed, as if he is the view, and not the harbor behind them.

“Gale…?” the tiefling whispers as the man leans back in towards him…

…Gale’s lips are tentative and admittedly a little clumsy as they press upon Church’s. The wizard’s stubble tingles where it brushes against his skin, his hand warm as it comes to rest against his cheek. The tiefling freezes there, scarcely able to comprehend the moment as it passes like one of the harbor’s ships in the wind. 

Still, Church kicks himself for how long it takes for him to get ahold of himself and push his friend gently away, an apology in his eyes. 

Gale draws back at once, lowering his hand hastily. 

“I’m…” the wizard looks flustered in his own fantasy, pulling away completely. 

Church smiles sadly at him. “Look, it’s alright. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. That was impulsive of me. If things were different…” Gale swallows, looking down to the floor as he fidgets with his hands. “If we had both met back then in Waterdeep, I would have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better.”

His mouth twists. “…perhaps be more charming. More forward.”

“Gale…” Church sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” Gale chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t intend to bring you here to subject you to my regrets, nor did I intend to make a complete ass of myself.”

“You’re not an ass,” Church protests easily.

Gale shrugs sheepishly. “I lived the life of a hermit for some time before I met you — these sort of rituals aren’t quite in my grimoire, to say the least.

“I know I missed my chance,” he admits with a sigh. “I thought, for a time, that what you had with our companion was merely a…” he blushes, “…physical… distraction. But I should have seen it plain upon your journal's pages as much as in your eyes.” 

He looks up at Church with a tight smile. “Your heart is with Astarion.”

Church has no desire to deny it. Not anymore. 

“It is,” he says softly, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. 

Gale looks away from him. “He’s lucky to have you. It’s clear you have been helping him keep the metaphorical darkness at bay. I only hope he does the same for you.”

Church follows his gaze out into the harbor. “He makes me want to fight for the future,” he murmurs. “A future where he’s safe. A future full of sunnier days by his side, where he doesn’t need to be afraid.” He sighs. “Where neither of us have to be afraid.”

“A noble pursuit,” Gale says evenly, smiling stiffly past his quiet, embarrassed devastation. 

“Gale…” Church squeezes the man’s hand briefly. “I don’t think loving someone as a friend is worth less than being in love with someone. I don’t think I’ve had a friend like you in quite some time, and now that I have that… that’s also something worth fighting and living for. 

“And tonight’s not the last night,” he adds firmly. “You’ll live to come back to Waterdeep — for real. And I’ll…” He hesitates. “I want to visit you,” he says earnestly. “You’d be the closest thing I’d have to home there. So please… don’t write yourself off.

“I know it’s not what you hoped for, but this?” He holds up Gale’s hand and shakes it, squeezing tight as he smiles wanly at his friend. “I’d still fight for this. I’m not going to let my friend die if there’s another way.”

Gale huffs a laugh. “Do you… really think there is another way?”

“There has to be,” Church insists. “I’ve let the gods take a lot of things from me, but you’re someone I won’t let go so easily.”

“Nor are you,” Gale smiles softly at him. “Not if I have any say in the matter.”

He gazes out once more over the harbor of Waterdeep, sighing gently. “But I suppose we all must return to reality…”

He snaps his fingers, and in an instant they are back in the clearing, the aurora flowing serenely overhead.

“...one way or another,” Gale mutters wryly.

Church feels his heart sink a little, already missing the warmth of the sunset — illusion or not. Still, he nudges his friend. “It’s not so bad,” he murmurs. “After all, you’re still here.”

Gale huffs a tired laugh. “Damn you,” he says without much heat. His lips can’t seem to help but smile. “Damn you for giving me so much to care about. Our friends, our adventures… this would have been so much easier if it was just me. But it isn’t.”

His thumb brushes over Church’s hand again. 

“If there is a way — any way — to save all that’s grown dear to me… I want to seize it.” He then grimaces. “I just cannot fathom what that might be, other than to fail Mystra and condemn the world.”

“Let’s take it step by step,” Church tells him. “First, we save Thaniel and lift the Shadow Curse. Then, we take Ketheric’s artifact away from him and destroy it. After that, we attack Moonrise Towers, destroying Ketheric for good. And then…”

He hesitates.

“...then, we’ll have a better idea what the true heart of the Absolute is,” Gale finishes for him. “We can strategize again along the way. Adapt. And maybe by then we’ll have found something that isn’t… me.” He sighs. “I have to hope.”

Church squeezes his hand, smiling. “And I’ll hope with you.”

Gale leans against him, staring up at the stars.

“Stay with me, will you?” he asks shakily. “I… I don’t want to think of it anymore. But I don’t want to be alone either." 

“Of course,” Church murmurs, draping his cloak across his friend’s shoulders as well. “For as long as you need.”

“Fine,” Church relented, opening his laptop back up. “Let’s get this over with.”

He tried to ignore the triumphant smile that spread across Astarion’s face as he swiped through his windows, setting his microphone back up with terse, perfunctory movements.

“Are you always this sulky when running an interview?” Astarion asked in amusement.

“I usually know who I’m interviewing before I start,” Church snipped. “I crammed all my research only for it to mean nothing.” He shrugged irritably. “I’m annoyed, that’s all. I don’t have any notes on your background, any questions prepared, and it’s not like my colleague’s outline is going to work anymore…”

“You ‘don’t have notes’ on my background?” Astarion laughed. “Oh you darling, silly thing… you know me better than anyone else in the world. And I’m sure you have plenty of questions, since you refused to keep in touch… despite my best efforts,” he added in a mutter.

Church huffed. “Alright, fine. I’m sure I can spin whatever you say into… something coherent.”

“I’m sure you can,” Astarion said with a patronizing smile. “Shall we begin?”

Church sighed, tapping at his keyboard and fiddling with the microphone. He then straightened up in his seat, picking up his pen before striking a key.

“This is Church Cotter in the Plinth Tower of Waterdeep’s Financial District. I’m here with…?” he gestured an expectant cue at his interviewee, who merely raised an amused eyebrow at him.

“‘Church Cotter?’” Astarion chuckled. “That’s the surname you picked for yourself?”

Church’s eye twitched. “It’s my friend’s.”

“Ah, yes, Mairead, wasn’t it? Little country bumpkin?”

“Not relevant,” Church said flatly. “Your name is…?”

Astarion rolled his eyes, smiling before leaning slightly towards the microphone. “Lord Astarion Ancunín, CEO of Zartech and most recently Mardyn Labs, as well as this handsome journalist’s former lov—”

“Irrelevant,” Church interjected with a mortified flush. “Lord Ancunín…”

He lost his train of thought as he met Astarion’s glittering eyes, beneath which his mouth was still twisted into that infuriating smile.

“I love that title falling from your lips,” Astarion purred. “I can’t wait to hear it again…”

“Mister Ancunín,” Church amended, much to Astarion’s annoyance. “You were named Baldur’s Gate’s ‘Philanthropist of the Year,’” he said this skeptically, raising an eyebrow at the shrugging CEO. “What causes have you been most passionate about ever since you… inherited Zartech from—?”

“Oh please,” Astarion feigned a yawn. “Are you seriously going to be asking me these stuffy little questions? Do you think anyone reading the Waterdeep Rag is going to care?”

“The Waterdeep Times. And nonprofits care,” Church shrugged blandly. “As do stakeholders who might invest in your companies’ futures.”

“Then how about you write something wishy-washy like, ‘saving kittens’ or ‘kissing babies,’” Astarion huffed peevishly. 

Church bit back a snort at that, but unfortunately Astarion noticed and looked far too pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Church cleared his throat. “Next question, then, if these are too softball for you.”

He flipped through his notes, more to have a reason to avoid Astarion’s eyes than anything else.

“...yes?” Astarion lifted a brow.

Church glanced up at him, a pleasant but bland smile arranged upon his face. “Mardyn Labs would mark Zartech’s fourth acquisition of a company in the biotech sphere in the span of four years since you became CEO. A year ago Zartech faced pushback from the Faerûn Trade Commission, citing that the acquisition would diminish innovation in the market for arcane-genetic testing. How do you respond to critics who say that creating a monopoly of private laboratories will hinder research rather than help it?”

Astarion’s eyes glittered. 

“Well isn’t that an adorable question,” he simpered, examining his nails. “It’s all very simple, really. Each of these companies have a wealth of data from distinct reference panels of Faerûn’s populations. Zartech is pushing forward the world of gene therapy as a single, united effort rather than multiple companies jealously guarding critical tech. Bringing Silverskin under our fold provided us with their patented draconic gene sequencing technology, Orphic Industries has done considerable research on the effects of psionic magic on one’s brain chemistry over time, and the epidemiologists of Mardyn Labs are unrivaled when it comes to the Spellplague and the role it played in mutating genetic diseases over generations. 

“As you very well know, Mr. Cotter,” Astarion continued with a condescending inflection, “Zartech prides itself on discovering the secret to true immortality. Most leaders in the arcane-genetics community are compelled by this same dream. And so, it's only by investing in one collective effort that we will make the greatest strides in pharmaceutical research Faerûn has ever seen.”

Church made a show of nodding and scribbling a few shorthand notes, fighting to keep his expression neutral. Hearing the jargon and PR bullshit flowing out of Astarion’s mouth was amusing and just a little impressive for the elf — especially since he had often been the one to roll his eyes at Gale’s more pedantic ramblings. 

But as much as he’d love to poke holes in those platitudes, Church knew that if he was going to make this interview remotely interesting, he should attempt to ask what the readers would actually want to know.

“You noted how acquiring Silverskin provided you with their gene sequencing tech, but curiously that did not include many of the employees who helped develop it,” Church needled him. “The acquisition of Silverskin was followed by the layoffs of twenty percent of their workforce with minimal severance and a strict NDA as to what actually unfolded before they were let go.”

Astarion raised his brows with an amused hum. “‘No questions prepared,’ he said. And yet someone has clearly been paying attention to my activities over the past few years, hasn’t he?”

“Please answer the question,” Church deadpanned. 

“A growing company will face growing pains,” Astarion shrugged. “Restructuring is necessary in order to support this growth, and trimming the fat is part of that.”

Church scoffed incredulously, “‘Trimming the—?’”

He recalled steaming, melting skeletons. Although they had already been emaciated in undeath, grease still sizzled beneath them…

Church grimaced and glanced away, swallowing past a sudden lurch of burning guilt and nausea. 

“Feeling alright, darling?” Astarion noticed, because of course he did. 

Church knew that he likely felt more under scrutiny than the vampire did. He noticed a pale hand beginning to reach across the desk towards him, and he shook himself, straightening back up and composing his face. 

“Apologies,” he said stiffly, resisting an urge to tug upon his collar. Air. He needed air. “I… I’m…” 

Damn it. He lost his train of thought…

Astarion must be pleased to have knocked him off balance like this. But Church refused to let him get the satisfaction of seeing exactly how much. 

“Earlier you mentioned a united effort to discover the secret to ‘true immortality,’” Church continued, clearing his throat. “There are rumors that your predecessor, Cazador Szarr, discovered this secret to true immortality decades ago, even after being infected by vampirism.” 

Astarion’s mouth twitched in annoyance at the name. 

“In fact,” Church persisted, “he claimed to stakeholders that after decades of…,” he grimaced, “…clinical trials, he had developed a groundbreaking treatment to turn vampirism into this ‘true immortality.’ However, seeing as how Cazador is dead…”

“…gods rest his soul,” Astarion deadpanned insincerely. 

“It’s no secret that Cazador was hardly a paragon of society,” Church continued diplomatically. “But there has been speculation surrounding the circumstances of his death, as well as how one of his lesser-known employees ascended into the position of CEO. Especially since you, as someone infected by the vampiric virus two centuries ago, appear to no longer suffer the effects of it.”

He met Astarion’s eyes only for a moment to ask needlessly, “Did you undergo Cazador’s allegedly innovative treatment?”

Church doesn’t know why he bothered to ask, given that he was there. He already knew far more of the answer than Astarion was likely ever to give an audience of faceless readers. 

“Yes, indeed,” Astarion replied blithely. “Sorry bastard couldn’t benefit from it anymore, so he generously offered his star employee and protégé the honor of reaping the reward of their research. It was very emotional.”

“I see,” Church scoffed quietly. “So, to reiterate, four years ago you underwent a groundbreaking treatment for the vampiric virus, one developed by your predecessor, Cazador Szarr…”

“…with help,” Astarion’s eyes narrowed as he stood up slowly from his seat, walking towards the window lined with heavy curtains and a sun screen.

“Indeed. Curiously, you claimed a ‘fire’ destroyed any documentation of this treatment,” Church continued in a light voice, although his eyes were hard as they tracked the vampire's movement. “And so the arcane-scientific community is dying to know: What was this process? And…” he said bitingly. “...what was the cost?”

Astarion chuckled softly. “Well I could certainly contact my accountant to get you the numbers…”

“Do you have any regrets?” Church asked curtly — again, like it mattered.

Astarion scoffed, and with a snap of his fingers one of the sun screens retracted slowly, letting in a beam of bright midday light. He then stepped into it, eyes closed as he basked in its warmth as his silver curls shone white, dust floating in the air around him like sparks.

Church tried not to ogle too long at the ethereal sight.

Church sees it — there’s real fear behind his love’s pleading eyes, but also hunger.  

He can tell that all Astarion can see is the power of the ritual, and the freedom that power brings. It’s the freedom to do anything — be anything. He’s intoxicated with the blood and power in the air. Church feels it too, to some degree. The power of the ritual is eager to be harnessed. 

He can see Astarion’s lip tremble as he waits for Church’s answer. 

“Don’t ask me to do this,” the warlock pleads softly. “I love you. I wanted to help you but this isn’t right. I know you think this will set you free, but it won’t. The power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador.”

His body taut with anger, Astarion looks as if he might have a retort to that, but Church takes his hesitation as the opportunity to forge on ahead. He babbles like the souls of seven thousand and seven spawn depend on it. 

Because they do, don’t they?

“They died, sure, but so did you!” Church insists. “He killed you, turned you, but it took nearly two centuries but you did get another chance to be free. You’ve walked through running water. You’ve entered buildings freely. You’ve sat in the sun, for gods' sake. And you found us,” he gestures at himself, Shadowheart, and Karlach. “You found friends. You found…”

…me, he wants to say.

“...things worth living again for,” he says instead. “You saw for yourself. Sebastian is alive. Those Gur children are alive. Thousands of victims are still alive — just spawn like you are. Why not give them the same chance to live again?”

Astarion stares back at him, brow furrowed, his fuming expression sundering as he considers every word; perhaps even calculating how to refute them…

“You saw how that cycle continued,” Church reminds him. “Abuse followed abuse. Every spawn became trapped; fated to become the very monster that raised them.

“But you’re not a monster,” he continues. “Things can be different now. There doesn’t have to be a vampire lord. No spawn needs to be sent to the hells to make one. You saw what Vellioth did to him. You lived what Cazador did to you. You want to destroy their legacies? Then you have the power now to stop this cycle of abuse right here. Right now.”

“And lose all this power? This potential?” Astarion demands, gesticulating viciously with the dagger. “If I don’t do this… then what was it all for? The scars. The suffering. This… endless hell…”

Church gestures at Cazador, cowering upon the floor.