#echostarion

The devil’s eyes flicked up when he sensed Astarion’s proximity to the woman whose hand he still held, and an oily but chilling grin spread over the face that wasn’t his own. He straightened and let go of Echo, gesturing his fingers over her. “A new look, I see,” he oozed, coercive flattery dripping off of every syllable. “Very dark, very dramatic. It certainly suits you.” His voice dropped, his intent plain as his eyes wandered unapologetically over the swell of her breasts and the defined lines of her shoulders and neck. 

She considered him as he did this, face unreadable, and placed her empty glass on the platter of one of the staff passing by. “I see they’re just letting anyone into these momentous social events these days,” she said. “I wouldn’t have thought a no-name cambion would have made the cut for the guest list.” She took the fresh glass of wine from Astarion and murmured her thanks with a smile that visibly cooled when she turned back to Raphael, who laughed richly like she’d just complimented him.

“The new Archduke and I have history, and one never knows what they might learn at a fete such as this - merriment and wine make for loose tongues and fascinating opportunities,” his white teeth gleamed villainously as his eyes lingered on her neck - on something even Astarion could not see. “For instance, a little birdie has let slip that you and your charming archfey friend have had something of a disagreement of late. Could it be true?” He lifted an eyebrow teasingly. “You and just and fair Lady Lillian’s respected consigliere seemed so… intimate.”

Echo blinked, her expression one of amiable indulgence. “I’m not sure how that would be any of your business, even if it was true.”

“Opportunities, silly girl!” Raphael hissed playfully and Echo’s smile cooled further at the term of endearment that Astarion knew made her see red. “If you’re ready to stop playing childish games with an archfey who’s well known across the planes to be insane, I could be considered amenable to setting you on a path to real power.” 

Echo’s lip curled slightly: of course with Senna gone the soul-greedy cambion would come sniffing around looking to capitalize on the fact that she was a warlock without a patron. “You need only but ask it of me, Echo.”

“I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of owing my successes to someone else. I’ve become rather selfish, you see,” she said politely.

This was hardly a deterrent for the likes of Raphael.

“Think of the revenge!” He intoned passionately. “I know you well enough to know you want to get back at Lokasenna for whatever slight they are guilty of. Imagine how deeply it would cut him - how viciously it would vex him - to see his former associate under my caring wing, coaching you and raising you to heights unheard of. Better than anything you would have ever amounted to under their fumbling care - if you could call it that.” He uttered a sardonic laugh at the last part. “You, Echo, are an untapped font of potential, yearning to be set loose on the world, and you know I love nothing more than the realization of potential.”

“Especially when there’s something in it for you.”

“And yet you stand to gain more out of this hypothetical arrangement than I, clever Echo. One would think you to be an extremely motivated individual when considering what you’re up against. Going up against an elder brain controlled by the Crown of Karsus is no small feat.” He leaned forward, placing his hand on his shoulder and squeezing: a gesture of comfort if it had been from anyone else. Something in her eyes darkened, but her face remained friendly, even as Raphael stroked his thumb over the bare skin at her neckline, slowly. Intimately. 

Astarion felt his jaw tighten as he fought back the urge to break every finger on the hand that had touched her. 

“Let me help you,” the devil said gently, his eyes soft, his tone sincere.

There was no way she was actually considering this, he told himself. She despised Raphael and made little secret of it, but Astarion watched as she looked from the hand still gripping her shoulder back to the devil’s face, eyes simmering with something that was not there before - something he could only describe as lust.

“You offer me the world on a plate before you even offer me a dance?” She queried softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of the orchestra that played. “I thought you of all people would have better manners than that, Raphael.”

She had warned him about this. Told him that there may be instances tonight where she would have to act… differently. Pretend to be other. Let herself be thought of and treated in a certain way to get what she wanted out of people. It was no different than how he comported himself when he was forced to hunt for Cazador, but the comparison was cold comfort. Especially now when her eyes were boring into Raphael’s, brimming with forbidden curiosity that he could only hope was an act.

Raphael boomed a laugh again, tossing his head back as if she’d just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. His hand stayed on her shoulder still.

“How easily we forget ourselves on a night such as this!” He exclaimed dramatically, fingers sliding down the black clad length of her arm to catch her hand with his. Astarion got the sense the bastard enjoyed every inch of that touch. “May I have this dance?” He asked, dark eyes smoldering with the scorching heat of the hells. 

Astarion was beginning to feel resentful at the fact that he was apparently invisible all of a sudden, when Echo’s eyes finally landed on him. 

Sorry, they said. I hate this as much as you do. 

“Will you hold my drink for me please, darling?” 

“Of course, dear.” Just because it was easy for him to put on airs didn’t mean he enjoyed it. Not in this scenario. But he accepted Echo’s glass from her anyway and watched Raphael lead the woman he loved to the dance floor, her skirts trailing behind her like a plume of midnight smoke. 

He hadn’t been planning to partake in any dancing that evening, especially if it wasn’t with Echo, but a polite if nervous clearing of the throat next to him kicked that dream into its grave.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like to dance?” 

The question was asked with apparently all of the clumsy grace that the decidedly awkward looking teenage girl standing next to him possessed. Would he like to dance? Certainly not. Had Echo reminded him and the others during her brief etiquette lesson earlier today that it was a nearly unforgivable social faux pas to decline an invitation to dance excepting a scenario in which one was about to faint from exertion or needed to relieve themselves? Unfortunately she had. 

Eyes on her.

She had forgotten what that was like. How it felt to be watched constantly, every facial expression and movement scrutinized and speculated upon silently while one merely existed.

It was simple enough for a relatively plainly dressed woman who looked to be in need of a bath to go where she pleased in the lower city with little mind paid to her. For venturing into the upper city it was as easy as doing the exact opposite: clean up a bit and wear fine clothing and get on with whatever chaos you had planned whilst being practically invisible.

People never look. Not really.

Not until you make them.

They were looking now.

The looks started at the coronation ceremony earlier in the day where she, Astarion, Gale, and Shadowheart looked every inch the part of the stalwart unit of seasoned adventurers they had become since the nautiloid crashed, their prowess and experience obvious to anyone between the sight of their immaculate and well-crafted armor; the might that whispered and curled from every magical thread of Gale’s robes; and not least of all, the powerful weapons that each of them carried - visible testaments of the dangers they had faced, and the skill they possessed to wield them.

Bowed heads and awed whispers mingled with uttered prayers to the Moonmaiden as Shadowheart passed people by as they processed into the Audience Hall within the walls of Wyrm’s Rock Fortress, Selune’s legendary Spear of Night slung across her back.

Adventurers were a copper a dozen in Faerun. Anyone could walk into just about any tavern in any town or city across the continent and find at least one group of vocational adventurers huddled around a table, pounding ale and arguing about what path they might take next that would lead them to fame and fortune. Ambitious but naive, these groups of would-be heroes usually burnt themselves out within weeks upon realizing how thankless and dangerous being an adventurer really was, and quietly slunk back to their ‘boring’ normal lives.

The four people who took up space in the Audience Hall were clearly not fair-weather adventurers - they were warriors, and not a soul in that fortress would deign to think anything otherwise.

Their presence; their appearance was pointed saber-rattling - a silently delivered but inescapably clear invitation that simply stated: fuck around and find out.

The ceremony itself had been exactly what Echo knew it would be: a performance. A facade. A banal formality to legitimize the rule of Baldur’s Gate in the hands of a man who already had it by the balls ages before today. Pageantry for the sheer, self-indulgent sake of it.

But as Echo bore witness to Lord Enver Gortash solemnly swearing with lies on his lips that he would forever act in the best interests of the city and its people, she couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of admiration for the man who had so patiently - so artfully - installed himself in this position of exceptional political power. With that admiration came a keen understanding that just as it would be foolish for him to underestimate them, it would be equally foolhardy for them to approach their interactions with this man as if he were merely a scrabbling, greedy nobleman who got what he wanted with tantrums and grousing. No. Gortash was a man of machinations, plots, and most dangerous of all: patience.

Luckily she could be patient too.

The eyes found her again hours later as she stood in the entry hall of Archduke Gortash’s manor, and the collective vision of Gortash’s guests, dignitaries, representatives, and clergy saw her in a way that she had never been seen before.

When she told Astarion that she planned to raise the dead for this gala, it was no cryptic jest.

So much had happened to her in her life: her parents, the Baron and his family: they had killed her - Rosalia Mistandel. Her epitaph in the city mausoleum was proof of that.

Echo was the name of the person who had risen from the ashes of that life: a feral child with opalescent hair touched by the fey, left to roam the streets with no true purpose or consequences for a century - the walking definition of avoidance and denial. An archfey happened to her. Then a tadpole. Then the Emperor.

Senna may not have comprehended at the time exactly how much damage his hand around her throat had done, for what walked out of the townhouse that day was not the same creature that had entered it, and in the days of drinking and raging and retching and weeping that followed, an idea began to emerge.

It was bleary and weak at first, barely substantial enough to entertain seriously, but what it lacked in strength was made up for in tenacity, and the diminutive concept kept coming back as the days blurred into each other: perhaps she no longer had to be someone whom things Happened to. What if she controlled her fate instead? Owned herself rather than giving everything that she was over entirely to a fiance or an archfey?

What if she was someone that Happened to people instead?

That was where the resurrection part came in: forgiveness and grace granted by herself, to herself - the people she used to be: the Failed Bride and the Heathen Child. It was hard. It was really fucking hard. But deep in her heart, Echo knew that if she wanted to climb out of this hole of despair and futility something had to change. She had to change. She needed to embrace and love the ghosts of herself who had died to bring her to life - revere and cherish them as they never had been when they lived rather than denying them and stifling them and hiding them away - crystal figurines stuffed into a box and left to sit in a dusty attic.

Everything that had Happened to her left a living woman in their wake: a highborn elvish woman; a privileged debutante with a bright future. Educated. Trained. Well-learned in the polished, deliberate subtleties required to navigate the world of high society - helped along further still under the tutelage of an ancient archfey who had seen fit to teach her their magic as well as how to play the game.

So Happen she would.

For the gala, Echo had purchased and worn an ankle-length black evening gown made from a material that was light and breathy against her skin, but possessed enough weight that the skirt of the gown pulled and twisted with each movement in a fluid, graceful way that caused the sheer overlay of black chiffon to swirl about her ankles like smoke on a breeze. A bold slit traveled up the length of the gown, surpassing the hinge of her hip and tapering to a point almost at her waist. The back of the gown was deeply cut, adding further to the striking extravagance of the garment.

Modesty found itself in the gown in the form of the long, tight sleeves that were held in place by loops over her middle fingers, and the bateau neckline drew the eye of anyone who glanced her way straight to the dainty golden chain and green stone that adorned the straight column of her neck.

Glittering black crystals caught the candle and lamplight of Gortash’s halls, shimmering against the backdrop of black at the hem of her skirt and up the slit. They outlined the shape of the scandalous back and traced streaks of light through the air at the end of her sleeves when her hands moved as she spoke.

Her hair - washed, conditioned, and brushed to shine like raven feathers was braided and pinned at the back of her head, a few strands pulled deliberately free to shatter the assumption of perfection before it was born. Simple gold hoops adorned the lobes of her ears and the cartilage that defined the sharp edges of them.

As dark as her outfit and overall appearance was, this was not the mourning attire she donned in her youth, nor was her face hidden under a mask of white makeup and black kohl.

She didn’t look like Rosalia Mistandel.

She didn’t look like Echo either.

But she felt more like herself than she ever had as she toured the gilded halls and palatial chambers of Gortash’s manor, politely sipping from the flute of sparkling wine gripped delicately in her hand, her nails shining and lacquered a deep, wine red.

Her other arm was threaded through Astarion’s, who looked to her - and anyone else who cared to look - like a prince who had walked out of a fairy-story in his midnight blue doublet that was exquisitely detailed in silver thread and beset with buttons and features of moonstone.

Echo glanced sidelong at him, watching him fiddle subtly with the silver silk necktie he wore and smiled over the rim of her crystal glass. “Itchy?”

“Ugh. Hardly,” he scoffed dismissively, though the fussing continued. “It’s a stunning ensemble, if a bit over-starched.”

Echo’s lip quirked upwards. The formal outfit wasn’t the only clothing Astarion had purchased from Figaro Pennygood - he had purchased practically an entire new wardrobe. It was easy to forget how breaking in new clothes felt after wearing the only ones you had into scraps.

“If you’re uncomfortable I’ll be fine here with these two,” she pointed from Gale to Shadowheart and looked back at him expectantly. She meant it. This was a lot. There were a lot of people here, and though they had addressed and discussed the potential of Cazador being here, Astarion had chosen to come anyway.

He may have been acting unlike himself of late, but there was no denying he was brave.

Gale tipped his head: a friendly gesture of solidarity in whatever decision Astarion made.

The wizard looked unexpectedly comfortable and confident in his formal attire, having chosen to wear a striking jacket and tailored waistcoat, breeches and black leather boots polished to a shine. He exuded a mysterious but charming aura and she wasn’t sure what caused it. The outfit? The hair? He usually let his long brown hair flow free and a bit untamed, but tonight it was caringly brushed into a knot near the top of his head. His beard was trimmed and his eyes were bright. Whatever it was, Gale of Waterdeep seemed to be right in his element at a function like this. She didn’t know why it surprised her, but it did.

“And let some powdered and perfumed patriar wander off with you at the end of the night?” Astarion sneered, fingers leaving his neck at last as his eyes roved over Echo for what seemed like the hundredth time that night - it seemed he couldn’t help himself. “I think not.”

Echo offered him a warm smile that caused the corners of his mouth to lift too. “Silly of you to think I’d even entertain the idea of leaving with anyone other than you.”

“I take no responsibility for the fate of anyone who tries - and I know they will try with you looking like that,” he looked pointedly at the tattooed length of her leg that could be seen in its entirety due to the daring slit of her gown.

She hadn’t brought him with her when she tried on and chose the gown, opting to surprise him tonight instead.

The so rarely seen expression of slack-jawed awe on Astarion’s perfect face when she’d strutted out the doors of the Elfsong and onto the street to meet him was indeed well worth it.

She idly wondered what his face would look like at the sight of the lingerie she’d purchased to wear underneath the gown. She nibbled her lip and let her imagination run away with her for a moment as she traced a finger down the line of moonstone buttons on Astarion’s doublet.

There had to be a dozen of them…

“Looking like what?” She baited, lifting an eyebrow.

Gale and Shadowheart seemed to take a hint and turned their backs to them, launching into an enthusiastic but professionally themed conversation of their own.

Astarion caught Echo’s wrist and lifted her hand, brushing his lips against the backs of her fingers, the intensity in his scarlet eyes driving a shiver up her spine even though the room was very warm with so many people in it. “Like the most temptingly decadent treat I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he purred, and when he said it like that: in that tone that made her breath catch, Echo knew he was going to be a distraction all godsdamned night… and she was perfectly alright with that fact.

“Keep that up and we’ll be leaving sooner rather than later,” she winced jokingly and took a sip of the floral tasting, effervescent wine in her hand to make herself focus on something else.

There had been tension between the two of them since they traded words the other night. Everything seemed fine and there was no lingering sense of resentment, but there was something different: a lingering sense of rivalry. The unspoken suggestion that they were for some reason both vying to prove who could free themselves from their past the fastest - who could figure their shit out first. Would he ascend first? Or would she create a definable person out of the slop that remained of two old lives before they destroyed Cazador?

He could feel the Gur’s eyes burning into his back as he walked, and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and gouge them out. 

He could. Neither he nor Echo were manacled, and their captor had sheathed the blade he’d threatened her with when Astarion begrudgingly agreed to acquiesce. The magic suppression cuff could be unlocked with a key that would be easy enough to find on a corpse.

Of course murdering a man on a crowded street in broad daylight was unlikely to be looked upon kindly by the Fist or the hulking Steel Watch.

Typical cowardly Gur, cowering behind the strength of others for protection…

The sound of his own teeth grinding filled his ears as he trudged alongside Echo, unwilling to let go of his fantasy of brutally slaughtering the monster hunter. Perhaps after these weeks of freedom, the option of ‘going quietly’ no longer held the same allure that it had for so many years. 

“What other monsters have you slain?” 

Astarion glanced at Echo, his lip curling in surprise at the expression of casual professional interest she wore as she looked over her shoulder. She fiddled absently with the cuff around her wrist. 

“It would be of little interest to one such as you.” The Gur responded tersely.

“One such as me?” She repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean? I grew up in this city.” She pointed at the walls behind them that were getting further and further away. “My travels with Astarion over these past few weeks have taken me to more places than I’ve been in my life. I’ve seen things over the past few weeks that I’ve only ever read about or heard tales of. I can only imagine leading a life like yours, you’ve seen plenty of beasts."

“A life like mine? And what, friend of the night, is that supposed to mean?” 

Echo faced forward, her eyebrows raised, “It’s to be questions for questions then, is it? Friend of the Night: I get a title now? Just for associating with him?” She tilted her head towards Astarion.

Her tone was easy - complimentary even - like they were having this discussion over a couple of pints at the tavern and not as the Gur escorted them under duress to his camp to do gods knew what with them. 

“How else should the cohort of a vampire be addressed?” 

Echo elbowed Astarion playfully, a smile on her tired face. “Did you hear that? We’re cohorts.” 

He failed to see the humor. 

She turned around fully, walking backwards now so she could face the Gur. “Why not use my name? I’m Echo, and I already know you’re Gandrel, and well… you already know who he is.” 

The Gur averted his eyes, focusing over Echo’s shoulder into the distance instead. “I won’t be taken in by a witch with a keen way with words. Not again.” 

“You’re referring to that business in the swamp? The lies I told so that you were thrown off our scent and not left to rot in the gloom because Astarion wanted nothing more than to gut you on the spot?” She came to a sudden halt and the Gur almost crashed into her, stopping only a breath from her, staring down into her face. “If anything you should be thanking me for that,” she hissed, cordial nature evaporating like water thrown on a hot pan. “Nothing witchy about it,” she shook her wrist with the cuff on it in his face. “This is all me, friend.” 

The Gur heaved a sigh and tore his eyes from Echo, grabbing her by the elbow.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” Snarled Astarion, reaching towards his dagger.

The Gur ignored him and spun Echo around to face back down the road. “Keep walking.” 

“Tell me about monsters.” She ordered back.

“If I do, will you close your mouth and keep it that way?” 

“Only one way to find out.” 

What was the point of this? A deception? An attempt to trick the Gur into lowering his defenses so they could escape? Or perhaps she was buttering him up to trick him into removing that cuff from her wrist and letting them walk? Surely there was a point to this. 

Something about this gave Astarion a sense of disquiet - as if he was staring at a mask that was all too familiar in the first days they had known each other: the mask of a liar. The mask of a woman who - as he had said aptly observed the day before - could talk her way into, or out of just about anything. 

And he trusted her. 

She didn’t have time to question what had just happened.

Blood thundered in her ears as Astarion seized the man - the Baron - the… wait. No. His brother… Astarion’s brother: Petras, he had called him.

Not the Baron. Not him. Not him.

Her eyes narrowed as Astarion manhandled his… brother… into the ray of dawn filtering in the grimy window.

She couldn’t wrap her head around it: all she knew was that she looked into the room expecting to see Astarion’s siblings, but her eyes landed on him instead - her late fiancé - and the words just came out of her mouth: a century of vitriol and fury condensed into a mocking inquiry; the rhythm of her heart, gripped with unexpected horror in that moment.

Rhythm…

Music…

This man was definitely not her fiance, she realized as the scent of burning flesh filled the air and the sound of skin sizzling like fat on hot coals joined the tune that pounded in her head in time with her pulse. He looked similar: he shared the same thick, wavy blonde hair that fell just past his jawline, and the same athletic yet stocky build as the Baron.

Her eyes swept over the flailing man and she observed in silence as Astarion demanded answers, and his sister begged for him to release their brother.

His nose was larger, and his ears were rounded: Petras had been human prior to becoming vampire spawn, and the Baron was elvish. Were it not for that key difference, he was so similar in appearance to her former lover that they could have been cousins. Little wonder she was caught off guard… she certainly never thought she’d be confronted with that face ever again. It was jarring to say the least.

Keeping her face blank, she watched as pale skin turned bright red and then erupted in agonizing looking blisters where the morning sun touched it. The blisters burst and the edges of the wounds curled and blackened and smoked.

It filled Echo with a sick sense of satisfaction when it became clear to her that this was nothing short of torture for the vampire spawn who looked so like the Baron. To imagine his agonized features overlaid over Petras’ as he writhed in Astarion’s grip, uncertain of his fate…

The woman - Astarion’s sister, Dal - looked to Echo beseechingly, as if she might do something.

So she did.

“Talk, or burn: your choice.”

She could tell him to stop - do the right thing; the just thing; the fair and merciful thing.

She found that she didn’t really want to.

Astarion’s eyes met hers fleetingly - long enough for her to catch the glint of approval that glimmered there before they turned back to Petras.

“You heard her: tell me what I need to know.” He snarled into the face of his brother. “Now.”

Something squirmed in Echo’s gut despite her pettiness. Cruel - that’s what this was. Astarion made it no secret that his siblings had hands equally as bloody as his, but were they not victims just as much as he was?

But this is what needed to be done, wasn’t it? It didn’t have to be pretty.

It was not Petras who spoke - he appeared incapable of words as he continued bursting into flame in slow motion - it was Dal.

“The master is preparing the black mass beneath the palace!” She blurted out, eyes focused on her brother struggling in Astarion’s grip. “There’s a defiled chapel: it was hidden there the entire time - hidden from us all!”

As he heard Dal’s words, pure malice shadowed Astarion’s features; a muscle in his clenched jaw twitched, and Echo knew he wanted to kill the man he was restraining. He wanted to rip out his throat, ram a stake through his heart, and saw off his head for good measure.

Sometimes he’d order us to submit to torture. Other times he’d have us torture ourselves…

The memory of him telling her what he’d been through seemed like a lifetime, but it had been only weeks. Only weeks since Astarion escaped the ever-looming guarantee of suffering - be it at Cazador’s hands, or someone else’s - and if Echo had to guess based on the sheer loathing on her lover’s face, she’d bet gold that Petras had a history of jumping at any opportunity he had to hurt Astarion; whether it be out of envy or a need for power - what did it matter?

Hells, the prick probably volunteered.

With a snarl, Astarion demonstrated better self control than Echo knew she was capable of, and flung his brother clear of the sunlight that was burning him to a crisp.

Petras threw himself around Dal, hiding his face in her shoulder as he lifted his trembling hands, the brutalization of his skin even more apparent now that he was closer. It looked excruciating.

That would be Astarion without the tadpole…

Echo swallowed at the image that thrashed intrusively into her mind: Astarion’s flawless skin cracking, blistering and bleeding as it flaked away to ash. The pain on his face as the sun reduced him to nothing - but not before torturing him first.

Echo forced herself to look away from Petras.

“I’m going to stop Cazador.” Astarion ground out, every word a brutal promise.

“What the hells happened to you, Astarion?” Petras choked out, looking over his shoulder at his lost brother but not parting from Dal’s embrace. “What are you?”

Astarion’s chin lifted, his eyes focused down his nose at his siblings as if they were the same rotten vermin he was forced to sustain himself on for so long. “I’m more than what I was.” His eyes flicked to Echo and then back. “And I’m not afraid of anything anymore: the sun can’t harm me, Cazador can’t compel me. I’m the only person who can stop him.” His chin lowered and he leveled a glare at Petras that was so fierce it was a wonder that blood didn’t start trickling from his eyes again. “Now go - before I change my mind about roasting you… brother.” He crooned in a tone that laid bare every ounce of loathing he kept in his heart.

Thunk.

Creak.

Thunk.

Creak.

Thunk.

Creak.

He’d been sitting across from her for five minutes and she hadn’t made any indication that she even noticed he was there. She just sat there, her surely throbbing forehead cradled in her hand as she stabbed her boot knife into the table and pried it out over and over, eyes downcast - an autonomous mechanical performance to prove to the world that she wasn’t dead. Not completely.

He didn’t overlook the puddle of teardrops on the table directly below her face.

He hated this. He hated this desperately.

Sorrow - genuine sorrow - gripped his dead heart with icy, thorny fingers that crushed the organ cruelly in its grasp as he stared at her, not knowing at all what to say.

He always knew what to say - and what he said wasn’t always the right thing to say, or an appropriate or helpful thing to say, or even an intelligent thing to say - but there were always words ready on his tongue. Except now…

What could he possibly say that would even be a drop in the bucket towards making this better?

Thunk… creak…

His eyes drifted to Echo’s abandoned breakfast: the greasy eggs shining in the dim light, cold and tough; the tomatoes and toast untouched; the slightest nibble taken from the end of the sausage.

She’d risen before him but after everyone else had left to attend to their various tasks for the day.

She crept from the room silently, and Astarion thought she might have gone to use the facilities, but when she didn’t return in a few minutes, he pulled on a shirt, stuffed his feet in his shoes and went looking for her because a staunch voice in his skull reminded him that it may be unwise to leave her alone right now.

He found her here, at a dim, relatively private table in the corner of the inn’s tavern.

Thunk… creak…

The mound of chipped wood around her blade grew, the lightness of it contrasting against the dark stain of the table.

“Are you going to finish your breakfast, darling?”

They were the words that finally materialized in his mind.

“No.”

Her voice was so quiet - barren - she might as well have been a ghost.

Thunk… creak…

His brow knit and the hand around his heart squeezed tighter still.

He felt so… helpless.

Revenge had been his immediate, initial suggestion: he would gladly help Echo settle her score with Senna if it meant that it gave her some purpose - some meaning beyond the dour mantle of desolation she had assumed days earlier. She declined, but perhaps she just needed some time. Surely that was it.

She would come around in time…

Thunk… creak…

She muttered something too quietly for him to hear.

“You’ll have to speak louder, dear.”

“I don’t know what to do.” She repeated louder, the annoyed edge in her voice apparent. He left it because it was the most strength he’d heard in her voice yet today.

“About what?” He felt stupid as soon as the question left his mouth. About everything, idiot.

“Everything.” She snapped sullenly. “We have to fight Cazador. We have to destroy an elder brain. I…” She trailed off, her voice faltering. More tears joined the ones on the table. “I haven’t learned anything new from Senna in weeks. You’ve all picked up new skills and magic on the road - become stronger. I’ve just stagnated.”

Thunk… creak…

“And I’ll never learn anything from Senna again, so I need to figure something out soon.”

Astarion’s lips pressed into a thin line: he’d been dancing tactfully around this subject. How does one ask their heartbroken lover if their pact with their cruel and thoughtless patron has been broken? What would that even mean for Echo? He didn’t want to come across as insensitive, but she was right: being out of touch with Senna while they were in the Shadowlands had severely limited her ability to keep up with the increasingly difficult odds they were facing. It was dangerous for all of them day-to-day, but even more so for her…

“Did… did he take your magic?” He finally ventured, hoping the question was phrased delicately enough.

She quivered with a silent sob - apparently it wasn’t.

“No.” She whispered.

Thunk… creak…

“Everything is still there. Every spell he taught me. Every scrap of fighting knowledge. Even our connection - our bond - is still there: I can feel it, even though it’s been silent since…” She lost her words again and she looked up at him finally.

Astarion had to force himself to not outwardly react as the hand squeezing his heart wrenched on it particularly hard at the sight of her: her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, brimming with tears and rimmed with smudged and smeared makeup. They had taken in a sunken quality and the already dark circles that lingered beneath them were more pronounced than ever. Her skin was ashen and dull, and her lip trembled miserably as she stared at him, no light in her gaze.

He hated this.

He hated him.

At the moment, not for the fact that he had been responsible for a further century of meaningless suffering at Cazador’s hands - though that was a grudge he was fully committed to cultivating - but because he had done this to Echo: he had single-handedly extinguished her light - that one of a kind essence that made her well… her.

He had broken a beautiful thing, and for once Astarion found he took no joy in the misfortune of another. Instead he felt only fury. Rage. Hatred for the creature who had done this to the woman he loved.

He knew he was a madman for thinking it, but if he ever crossed paths with the archfey again, Astarion would see him dead in answer.

If nothing else, it was one more incredibly compelling reason to complete the ritual: an ancient archfey outside of its own plane could be destroyed by the Vampire Ascendant…

“I wish it was gone.” She wept bitterly. “I wish I could forget everything he ever showed me and just… start over.” She buried the knife into the wood deeper than she had yet, tears flowing down her hollow cheeks. “But it’s all still here—“ she tapped her forehead harshly, snarling, “— in my fucking head! And I can’t do anything about it!” She buried her face in her hands and started crying properly, the knife gripped in her hand too close to her face for Astarion’s comfort.

He left his place across from her and slid into the booth next to her, not knowing what else to do aside from wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight to him.

He gently pried the blade out of her hand and set it on the table, out of her reach.

There had been a lot of this over the past three days: a lot of crying - a lot of holding her while she cried. Then there had been the drinking… and the anger. Then more crying… and the cycle started over again…

He looked around and found himself surprised - and relieved - that there was no evidence of a drink of any kind accompanying her attempt at breakfast this morning. Perhaps he had gotten through to her last night. Perhaps she was trying. But of course the day was still young…

There were myriad things they needed to do in the city, killing Cazador not being the least of them, and the longer they dallied, the more likely it would be that the scales tipped ever more in his former master’s favor. Despite the truth of that, it was also irrevocably true that Echo was in no condition to do much of anything right now. All he could do - all any of them could do - was attempt to nurse her back to health and get her back on track.

A few good nights of sleep, some proper meals - those were where they needed to start; if she would only see that herself.

His own stomach rumbled unpleasantly at the thought of food - or rather blood. He hadn’t eaten since this all started. For starters, he wasn’t at all comfortable drinking the blood of a woman who was so drunk she couldn’t even tell you what day it was, and secondly, because he had frequently experienced the secondary enjoyment that accompanied Echo’s blood when she’d had a few glasses of wine. That was fine. He could handle that. But if he dared to drink her blood when she was as drunk as she’d been of late, he didn’t doubt that he’d wind up drunk too, and he wasn’t about to let himself be caught unawares by his siblings because he was soused - there was no room for that sort of carelessness right now.

Her life might be falling apart around her, but he was determined to stay focused on their goal - their obligation.

He had starved for two centuries - a few days wouldn’t spell the end for him.

He stroked her hair - it was tangled and greasy - as she continued to weep. He carefully tugged his pinky free from the knot it had snagged on.

Say something nice, you dolt!

“I could teach you a thing or two?” He offered in a tone that sounded convincingly cheerful to his ears. “If you… if you don’t want to use his magic anymore.” He held her out at arm’s length and smiled. Gods she looks terrible… “It is surprisingly easy to sneak up on people and stab them in the back, and you’re quite light on your feet already, my love.” He cupped her cheek. “I suspect you would be a quick study.”

Her chin trembled again and she covered his hand on her face with hers, leaning into his touch. “Okay.” She rasped, and he hoped that she wasn’t simply agreeing to shut him up, but he suspected she was. Still, it was something, and anything was better than this.

“Wonderful.” He said anyway, keeping the soft, indulging, not-condescending smile plastered on his face as he wiped away one of her tears. “Gale, Shadowheart, and Karlach went to try and find that book that Gale won’t stop harping on about, and Jaheira, Halsin, Wyll, and Lae’zel went to snoop around town about those nasty murders. I think since everything that needs to be taken care of today is being taken care of by somebody else for a bloody change, you should have a nice hot bath, and then we can go for a little walk - not far. Just to the market at Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Echo hiccuped, managing to look both wretched and unconvinced.

“Please darling? For me?” He pouted, fanning his lashes at her and tucking his chin down, willing to play dirty if it meant getting her out of this damned inn for a few hours. “I’ve amassed a truly enviable quantity of gold during our travels and I’m positively itching to spend it…”

Her eyelids lifted as she stirred from her slumber.

She shifted atop the plush mountain of down filled pillows she was cradled in, her fingers gliding over the richly textured damask comforter beneath her.

Her surroundings were no place she could put a name to, but they seemed distantly familiar. Perhaps it was the tall, stained glass bordered windows that went almost from ceiling to floor, the rich emerald green curtains that adorned them, or the unmistakable scent of wood polish, but this place rather reminded her of her family’s estate.

Darkness lay beyond the finely crafted windows and the room was illuminated with an assortment of expensive beeswax candles that smelled faintly of lavender.

She swung her feet off the bed and they met the warm floor. The hem of the thin satin slip she wore brushed over her thighs when she stood and padded over to the window to steal a glance at the city below.

She hadn’t heard his approach - perhaps she was too transfixed by the warm glow of the city to hear him - or perhaps his feet fell softer than ever.

Regardless, his silent arrival was announced by the sensation of his hands drifting over her abdomen, palms splayed against her as he drew her close to him.

His familiar aroma - invigorating but grounded in the barest hint of old oak casks - curled around her, mingling with the wood polish and the lavender, infusing the very air with a sense of comfort and belonging.

“Stargazing, my love?” He inquired, burying his nose in her hair and stroking her belly with his thumb. His hands felt delightfully warm through the insubstantial fabric she wore.

“Citygazing, actually.” She said. “I’ve always loved how warm and inviting all the little houses are, glowing orange into the black.” She leaned back into his touch, sheltered in the constancy of his form.

Safe.

She felt so very safe. So at peace. Her mind was quiet for a change, and all that existed was the two of them and the halcyon light of the city below.

Though along with the peace and comfort, she found that she felt other things too…

“Unh…” Astarion moaned softly as she rolled her hips against his groin, saying nothing as she did so.

She managed to get away with doing it once more before he pulled her flush against him with a low growl, one of his hands rising to find purchase on the smooth skin of her throat, his growing erection pressing against her through his breeches.

“Is there something you want, my treasure?” He whispered into her ear, the heat of his breath on her sensitive flesh forcing her to shudder as unmitigated pleasure erupted within her belly, molten hot in its insistence.

The sharp points of his nails pressed into her supple neck, and she ground herself against him for a third time, sighing as the tips of his claws dug in deeper in response, imparting the slightest amount of pressure against her windpipe as his other hand traveled down under the hem of her slip and his warm fingers dipped into the wetness he found there.

“So needy for me - you’re sopping wet already… but I must insist you use your words, love…” His middle and ring finger - nails cut short specifically for this purpose - trailed up her heat and found the bead of sensitive nerves at her apex. He circled the organ slowly… deliciously, and she shuddered again. “Tell me what you want…” He whispered again in a voice as sweet as sin and as dark as the night beyond the window. “What you need…”

“You…” She breathed, hips pushing forward into his touch - it was something, but she required more. “I need you…”

The pressure disappeared and she bit back a whine of frustration. She was spun around to face her beloved and experience the tantalizing lust that shadowed his perfect face.

His scarlet eyes glowed faintly as they swept over her face, taking in the hunger she knew dwelled within her own gaze and the way her tongue darted over her lips as she scrutinized him back, desperate to taste him: his lips, his skin… his very soul.

His hands whispered down her shoulders, tracing the shape of her arms, and he looked into her eyes, his beautiful mouth quirked in her favourite expression of flirtatious mirth.