#elf!tav

Best Unremembered {Chapter 1} Waking up with a spotty memory and the only person you do remember is jarring enough—but it only gets worse when the people who remember you are monsters and strangers.

Walking Corpses {Chapter 2} Astarion's night spent searching for prey is interrupted by an unwelcome feeling of familiarity. Your life is derailed by recognizing a long-dead friend.

Little Love {Chapter 3} Appearances can be deceiving, but they can also tell you everything you need to know. A second look at the elf you once called a friend is all you need to fill in the two-hundred year gap.

The Golden Elf {Chapter 4} Sometimes, vampires choose their spawn specifically. Sometimes, they're in the wrong place at the wrong time and are lost to their loved ones for centuries. These days, that's all you can think about.

Little Star, Little Sun {Chapter 5} A long-awaited reunion that doesn't go quite as planned can lead to many things, especially when two manipulators both lay their traps for one another. Though is it really a trap when all you want to do is spare your lover from yet another night of torment?

Love Bites {Chapter 6} Astarion remembers you, but it's already too late. He's bedded you and remembered the love and life you had together, two hundred years ago, and now he has to make a choice. Does he sacrifice himself, or does he sacrifice you?

Love Bleeds {Chapter 7} Fangs gleam in the shadows and a coffin lies open nearby. Vampire lords are nasty creatures; even a changed heart can do very little when there are claws around it.

On My Knees {Chapter 8} A betrayal so severe even centuries of love threaten to break beneath its weight. Yet you offer forgiveness, even if Astarion has not felt its kindness in two hundred years.

Second Chances {Epilogue} Home is a place and home is people. You have quite the large family now, and it's time to provide for them, however you may.

Love Bites Soundtrack — 3h50min

Chapter 1: tracks 1 - 6 Chapter 2: tracks 7 - 13 Chapter 3: tracks 14 - 19 Chapter 4: tracks 20 - 26 Chapter 5: tracks 27 - 32 Chapter 6: tracks 33 - 40 Chapter 7: tracks 41 - 46 Chapter 8: tracks 47 - 53 Epilogue: tracks 54 - 60

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin

Chapter 1: Knifes and Nightmares

At 12 years old, you first dream of the Pale Elf. The encounter scares you and sets you on your path forward.

Chapter 2: The Second Encounter with the Pale Elf

Nearly 19, you think you have a handle of your past lives. However, not all of your past lives are created equal.

Chapter 3: What it Means to Love

Now 29, you're still trying to piece together parts of your past. In particular, what exactly was your relationship with Astarion?

Chapter 4: In this Lifetime

Now 99-years-old, you've managed to ignore your worst impulses to run off to Baldur's Gate. One night's reverie finally breaks you.

Chapter 5: Guidance from a Druid

After finally setting off to find Astarion, you receive a confounding memory from your past life. Ignoring what it might mean, you focus on your task and visiting Halsin, one of your past-self's friends.

Chapter 6: The Man of your Dreams

You make your way toward Astarion, trying your best to prepare for the encounter to come.

Chapter 7: Just One Night

You plead your case to the vampire.

Chapter 8: Who You Have Become

You try to learn more of who Astarion's become, while also trying to convince him of who you were.

Chapter 9: Ghosts of You

After he storms off, you try to track Astarion down only to find yourself on a trip down memory lane. Once you do catch his trail, you’re surprised to see where he’s gone.

Chapter 10: Overheard in the Underdark

You traverse a new landscape, looking for Astarion. What you find might be more than you bargain for, and what you hear might be too much to handle.

Chapter 11: An Interrogation

You spend the night in vampire prison and have a difficult conversation.

Chapter 12: The Source of his Pain

As you aim to leave and never look back, Astarion realizes that perhaps *he's* the one that made the mistake.

Chapter 13: And They Were Roommates

You and Astarion try to find a common ground between you. Things are awkward and tentative, and progress is anything but linear.

Chapter 14: A Blossoming Friendship

Now in your second week of living together, you and Astarion have to get past some of the hurdles your first week introduced, all while getting a bit closer along the way.

Chapter 15: More than Friends Pt. 1

Push finally comes to shove. As fun as living in the present is, Astarion forgets that present dangers are still very, very real. Afterward, emotions run high, and you find yourself in a familiar predicament.

Chapter 16: More than Friends Pt. 2

After talking through the previous night's tryst, emotions are confused, pasts are divulged, and everything comes to a head when your heart and soul want different things.

Chapter 17: What We are Now

When you’re left to your own devices, you find yourself knee-deep in mystery. Despite all of this, Astarion never leaves your mind. And perhaps you never leave his.

Chapter 18: Traveling with a Friend

You and Astarion travel together to Waterdeep. Emotions run high as you reconnect and reestablish your boundaries.

Chapter 19: The Wizard’s Tower

After traveling through Waterdeep, you and Astarion finally arrive at Gale's tower. Introductions are made, tours are had, and the relationship between yourself and Astarion continues to remain complicated.

Chapter 20: Sweets and Shopping

After receiving some advice from Gale, you and Astarion spend the day shopping and talking through your friendship.

Chapter 21: Dansarra’s Delights

Your wizard friend gives you a nigh impossible task, and you spend the day trying to find your opening to complete it.

Chapter 22 - TBA

You’re 12 years old, quite used to your nightly reveries now. Your parents have lovingly laid you to rest, and you eagerly enter your trance, ready for another clue about your past selves.

Eyes closed, world shut out, you access tonight’s memory easily.

The first thing you notice is the scent of the ocean. Its smell is a mixture of brine and fish, not unfamiliar to you. Along with the smell, you feel the cool breeze tickling your skin, blowing your hair just within your field of vision.

You feel taller than your current self, older, and bigger. You’re not sure how old you are, but you know that you’re an adult. Despite this, you’re unable to decipher much else.

Reliving a memory is nothing like real life. You can’t control your body, no matter how much you wish you could, you can find yourself coming in and out of these memories, and you can’t force yourself out of a memory once it’s started– it’s all out of your control.

So, as much as you’d like to learn more about your past-self, they’re currently preoccupied. Walking up this winding path, a rocky outcropping with some barren trees and shrubs, they seem to have a clear destination in mind: a figure at the top of the hill. 

They approach the person carelessly, as if nothing in the world could be a danger to them– you wonder if they’re more powerful than some of your other lives. You can tell someone is in tow, but clearly you trust them because you don’t turn around to look.

You reach the figure, a silver-haired elf. He’s strikingly pale, wearing impeccably designed clothing that seems out of place for where you’re finding him. His stance is cautious, ready for anything. Most surprising to you are his eyes, a rich red, and they dart between the bushes and you.

“Hurry! I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.” The voice is breathy, masculine, with an accent a bit different from your own. You can’t quite place it, as you’ve never left Neverwinter, but you think you’ve heard it in other lives’ memories. “There, in the grass. You can kill it can’t you? Like you killed the others?”

You feel your own emotions spark at his question, at once alien and familiar, and a surge of confidence radiates through you. “Easily, stand back.” The voice for this life is new to you, but it’s clearly very self-assured. You wonder what the ‘brain thing’ could be to warrant such certainty.

The memory cuts out–not a new occurrence, and your parents explained that lapses in memory could happen around moments of severe emotion as a natural protection. However, when it cuts back in, you’re overwhelmed by the amount of shock and fear coursing through you. You’re on your back, staring up at the same clear blue sky. A flash of silver glints just under your chin, and, as your former-self looks down, you see a knife pressed to your throat. 

You feel your limbs struggle, but the way his legs are wrapped around you, the way he’s leveraging his body weight, you find that you’re unable to get up. Panic rises in your throat as you wonder if this might be your first death. You didn’t realize you could experience death at such a young age– usually this was reserved for your later years of reverie. I’m not ready for this, you think, as you feel both of your body’s hearts pounding in their chests.

“Shhhh,” the man, who is now pinning you to the ground, all but tuts. “Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.” His head cranes up, to someone you can’t see. His face and tone shift to something angry as he growls, “And you– Keep your distance. No need for this to get messy.”

“I need them alive. Stow that blade or I’ll show you just how messy things can get.” The voice is feminine, their accent matches this man’s. 

“Promises, promises,” he says with a nonchalance that irks at you. “But I have other business, I’m afraid.”

His attention turns back to you. “Now, I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?” the elf continues, his tone is taunting you, knowing he has the upperhand. His next word is a command, “Nod.”

Present-day you, the 12-year-old that just wants to live, wills yourself to nod, to acquiesce to this insane man’s demands and see another dawn. However your past-self has other inclinations. 

Without so much as a word, they headbutt the man. Hard.

You feel the force of it nearly jolt you out of your trance, but you hold on, willing yourself to see if you make it out of this alive. 

The man grunts as he rolls off of you. “Argh. You wretched little–” 

Then your mind is wracked with pain, with flashes of memory that you can’t place. A previous life? You’re not sure. But after the sting of your heads colliding, this strain is too much for your mind to bear. Your vision teeters, hanging on by a single thread, all that’s left are that man’s intense red eyes.

You emerge from your trance with a shaky breath. You reach for your throat, as if to make sure that it’s still in one piece, only to find it coated in a thin sheen of sweat. 

What was that, you think. One thing is for sure: it was quite possibly one of the most vivid memories you think you’ve had yet. The smells, the sensations, the emotions – all of them still linger.

You don’t like it.

Tears begin spilling down your face, an unwelcome reaction to the fear that seems to rest just under your skin, uncomfortable and chilling. Your hands feel like someone else’s, and looking at them shake involuntarily is just about enough to bring you to a breaking point. “Who– who was that?” you get out, to no one in particular.

Verbalizing it helps to soothe your turbulent emotions, look at this logically. Okay, I must have felt quite strongly in that lifetime. You nod to yourself, wiping away tears with a few trembling fingers. More importantly, what did I learn?

You think back to the memories, willing your mind to push past the fear. You met this man. You don’t know who he is, or what he wanted, but he seemed to be armed and dangerous. You had a companion. You don’t know who they were either, but they seemed to be ready to kill for you.

The exercise calms you considerably, and only leaves you with more mysteries than solutions to your puzzle. What ship was he referring to? What was the ‘brain thing’? Whose memories had flashed through your head? 

You shake your head, no, no, none of those likely matter. If there’s one thing your memories have taught you is that specific events are in the past– there’s no use trying to piece it together like a history book. Likely nothing you did was worthy of a history book anyway. What you need to know would be infinitely more useful: who were you?  

You’d been confident, unshaken despite the fear pulsing in your body. You’d faced that terrifying man as if he were just another inconvenience, one that you were thoroughly fed up with.

You don’t know much of your former selves but you know that you want to be that. You don’t want to cry when faced with certain death. You want to headbutt it.

__

Years pass, and you work hard at training in the arcane arts, finding comfort in books and wizardry. You wonder if that will be enough to keep you safe in this life, safe from people like that silver-haired madman. Every time your will falters, you remember that memory and study harder. He becomes a figure in your mind of the dangers of the world, of something to fuel your fury when it begins to burn low. 

He’s nothing more to you than that silver-haired man for more than six years, as that particular lifetime of memories seems to lay dormant. Your parents have explained this to you before: you can’t control which life’s memories come to the forefront. To many, it seems arbitrary. To you, it feels like your mind is defending you. As if it realized you aren’t ready for that particular part of your past. Or perhaps it just knows that your hatred for this fair-haired elf may take over your current life.

Despite his attempts to keep you on track, Astarion doesn’t resist your wanderlust. His hold on your hand remains strong and, with every twist you take, he's being pulled along right behind you. You stop for an odd street stall, finding all manner of knick-knacks. You marvel at a statue, standing grand in the center of a plaza. You pull to an abrupt halt, earning a disapproving grunt from Astarion, when you spot a street performer using magic.

After what must be the tenth detour, Astarion finally tugs back. “Darling, could we please focus? We’ll have time for outings while we’re here, I assure you.”

You look at him, finding his expression to be amused, even if slightly annoyed at you. “We’ll have time to explore the city?” you ask, tentatively. You don’t want to presume that he’ll join you for anything, but the fact that he said ‘we’ gives you hope.

“Yes,” he answers, tugging on your arm once more. “But only if we make it to Gale’s without missing his celebration. Otherwise, we will never hear the end of it.”

“Fine,” you say, allowing Astarion’s hand to pull you in the proper direction. “Though I’ll admit, I’m a bit nervous.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at you, purses his lips some as he asks, “About meeting Gale? Whatever for?”

You avoid his gaze, focusing on the road ahead of you as you respond, “It’s odd meeting someone you’ve only ever dreamt about. I know so much about you all, but you don’t know me. He may not even recognize me. How do I approach that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion starts. You can sense an incoming joke at your expense, so you brace yourself for his next words. “Maybe something along the lines of ‘You’re the man of my dreams’, that worked wonders on me.”

You wince despite the preparation. “Excuse you, that is not what I said. Besides, I didn’t dream nearly as much about Gale. I don’t think you understand how nervous I was to meet you.”

Looking back up at Astarion, you note that he is focused, staring forward as he leads the way. Despite that, you also spot unabashed satisfaction on his face. His tone is just as self-satisfied as he replies, “I would expect no less.” Then a thought occurs to him and his tone shifts, thoughtful and a bit more reserved as he says, “Though that may have been lingering guilt, I suppose.”

Your reaction is immediate and a bit overdue. “Not at all,” you say, stopping Astarion in his tracks as you pull on his arm. "I didn't come find you out of any type of obligation or guilt. I came to find you for you. I set out before I knew anything other than… than love.”

The vampire is forced to stop, look at you and your serious poise with his full attention. He doesn’t seem to believe you, and it becomes more evident when he says, “I’m sure. Certainly explains why you and my siblings have been such fast friends.”

Astarion continues to walk, yanking you after him a bit more roughly this time. Your voice is a bit breathless as you follow in a rush, “Yes, I’ll admit that after I arrived I– I let myself get a bit carried away.” The man snorts from ahead of you. “But that was never my intention when I left Neverwinter. I just couldn’t get you out of my damned mind. You can ask my parents if you’d like.”

The line of his shoulders seems to relax a bit, but he remains focused on navigating the streets of Waterdeep, ignoring your burning gaze. After a few blocks of silence, he speaks, “What are they like?”

“Who?” Your mind has wandered by now, thinking of how, were it not for Astarion’s initial chilly reception, you may never have met with Dal in the first place. Then deciding that, no, ultimately you would always have found the spawn, one way or another.

“Your parents,” he mumbles, barely audible over the buzz of the city. “What are they like?”

Oh! He’d been so reluctant to learn about you as your own person that the question catches you by surprise. Once you collect yourself, you’re only too excited to answer. Your words come out fast, unfiltered, “Well, they’re both elves, of course. They came to live in Neverwinter after meeting through their trade. It’s how they were able to send me to the best college for the arcane arts in the city. My mother is fairly practical, logical. She didn’t want me to come all the way out here, but, erm, came around to it eventually. I suppose I get my curiosity from my father, but, even so, I think you would quite like him…”

As your words trail off, you realize that Astarion’s slowed down, listening to you. “It’s odd,” he says, turning his head back ever so slightly. A worried crease lines his brow. “I am rather more concerned with what they would think about me.”

The admission leaves you a touch speechless. At first because of the vulnerability in Astarion’s fleeting look– Then because you’re honestly not sure how to answer. It would likely be a lie to say that they would love him. Your mother especially would hold no mercy for a man as mercurial as he is. But you decide that your words need not be so severe, “I think they would grow to adore you.”

“I see,” he mutters, accepting your word choice with as much grace as you suppose he can muster.

How I wish he would meet them, you think. But that’s not something ‘friends’ do, is it? Perhaps he thinks Gale really has a chance to stop me. Given his experience, does he actually have a chance?

You don’t have much more time to consider that question because Astarion pulls to a stop before a grand set of doors. They’re made of wrought iron, engraved in runes and intricate patterns, lined with a shimmer of blue magic. You recognize the runes as teleportation runes, and given the outer facade of the building, easily surmise that this isn’t the exact location of a wizard’s tower, just an entrance.

“Is this…?” you ask.

“It is,” Astarion says, flashing you a smile. You’re not sure what the look on your face is, but he is drinking it in with glee.

It’s just past midday, and you’ve finally arrived at Gale’s doors.

Astarion releases your hand to reach the door. You’d gotten so used to moving as a singular unit, that his sudden absence leaves you a bit off-kilter, as if a part of you is missing. You can't help but flex your hand open and closed a few times to return to yourself, to return to the present.

Once he’s reached the doors, you spot a large iron knocker in the center of them: the head of a tressym in high relief, a ring set between its sharp teeth. Astarion grips the ring, knocks it against the door three times in rapid succession.

A voice comes through the tressym a moment later, and you recognize the Magic Mouth spell. Gale’s voice is cheery, exactly as you’d remembered it from your dreams, as he says, “Welcome to the tower of Archmage Dekarios. To enter, please supply the phrase that he undoubtedly provided you with. Knock thrice more for emergency assistance.”

Astarion shoots you a look, as if to say, ‘see what I must put up with?’ then clears his throat before uttering his phrase, “'For the jubilation of one magnanimous mage, I, Astarion Ancunín, am enchanted to be granted entrance.”

The iron on the doors immediately begins to shift, unlocking whatever mechanism lies behind them. Several loud clunks and thunks later, the massive doors open to a glowing blue portal.

“Does he make you say that every time you visit him?” you ask, barely holding back your laughter.

“Oh no,” Astarion replies, gesturing you forward. “It’s a different damned phrase every year. And it seems to be a torture uniquely reserved for me. Elminster simply gets different types of cheese for his phrases.”

You follow his guiding hands, stepping through the blue portal, feeling the world behind you vanish and shift in hues of blues, not unlike the teleportation circle you used to get here. As soon as your foot touches the ground before you, the inside of Gale’s tower comes into focus.

Immediately, you feel electricity in your veins– the weave is strong here. You could only dream of having your own wizard’s tower, but you know enough about them to know their basic principles. They’re often built on spots where the weave is most highly concentrated. It’s often why they’re crafted in such odd shapes, in such inconvenient locations, and built to such great heights. It’s all in an effort to amplify the magic they’re built upon. 

This tower is no different. You can’t quite tell the shape of the full tower, but the room you’re in is a semi-circle, lined with books and featuring several cozy looking couches. It’s quite possibly one of the loveliest waiting rooms you’ve ever had the chance to be welcomed in. You’re practically entranced and only vaguely register when Astarion asks from your side, “Have I lost you to the books already?”

He might have, if not for the rustling sound coming from behind you. You make an abrupt turn, only to come face to face with the man of the hour himself: Gale Dekarios steps through a set of blue, velvet curtains, wearing a set of purple robes and a gentle smile.

Unlike Halsin, who had hardly changed, only sporting a few new scars and wrinkles, or Astarion, who looks entirely unchanged, Gale looks like a new man. Or rather a very old man.

Where there was once a short, brown beard there is now a lush, wavy white beard in its place, neatly trimmed and manicured to perfection. His previously long, brown hair is white as well, carefully brushed back from his face, giving you a full view of his age-dappled features. Gale’s deep, brown eyes are as sharp as ever, surrounded by a webbing of wrinkles well-worn from a life full of joy. Your heart swells at the sight of him, looking every bit the witty sage from your memories, albeit greyer and a fair bit more lined.

You almost don’t recognize him, save that unmistakable glint in his eyes, the patient smile as he takes you and Astarion in.

Gale is the first to speak, his words aimed for Astarion, but his warm gaze falls entirely on you. “Oho, Astarion! Is this the guest you spoke of? I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised upon receiving your invitation confirmation. A guest, for the first time!”

What? you think in a sudden crack of panic. He didn’t tell him who I am?

You flash a distressed look at Astarion, who is only looking at Gale with annoyance. “Gods Gale, must you make a fuss out of everything?”

“It’s not every day that your oldest and dearest friend finds someone new worth cherishing. I was starting to grow rather fearful that you’d get old and wrinkled in your lonesome.” Gale’s smile is a bit mischievous as he turns away from you, to Astarion’s ire.

The words sound like playful jabs from Gale, but Astarion’s glower only seems to deepen. He looks just about ready to hiss like a cornered cat when you interject, “Not someone new per say. An old flame, actually.”

Astarion turns his glare to you, but it’s Gale who responds, “Phenomenal! Astarion, you sly dog, never giving even the slightest indication. When did you find each other, how long have you two been together? And how do you put up with him?”

You’ve only just entered the tower, and already the vampire looks at his wit’s end. Their friendship had always been entertaining to you when you had the chance to dream of it– they’re opposite in so many ways, alike in so many others. As such, Astarion’s flared nostrils and irritated stance come as no surprise. Neither do his clipped words as he struggles to respond to the wizard’s sudden enthusiasm, “What they meant to say is that they are– Well. They happen to be…”

His lips seem unable to say the words aloud, so you take it upon yourself to help. Stepping forward and standing tall, you look your friend and companion Gale Dekarios in the face and say, “It’s me, Gale.”

You’re not sure what you expect when you say the words. Perhaps a question, ‘who?’, or a confused, concerned look. Maybe even Astarion elbowing you in the side.

However, the wizard before you only takes a single beat. For that moment, he looks at you, with those same, familiar sharp eyes, before recognition settles in.

Then his arms are wrapping you in a warm embrace.

“My friend,” he murmurs into the hug, squeezing you tighter with a pair of ropy arms. “I can’t believe it.”

Your own arms respond in kind, crushing him back with your own youthful vigor. “I know, it’s a lot.” And it truly is– your own heart is pounding in your chest, your eyes are welling up with moisture. Astarion was your lover, but Gale? Gale has only ever been your friend. You’d saved the world together. You’d spent countless nights researching and planning together, spent even more simply enjoying each others’ company. And, unlike when you met with Halsin, you now feel so much more comfortable in your former identity. You feel comfortable claiming this hug for yourself.

Outside of your bubble of joy, you hear Astarion clear his throat pointedly. “While this is all incredibly touching, perhaps we can head into the tower before you both break each other in half?”

Gale releases you, as you do him, and you both turn to shoot daggers at Astarion. “Don’t mind him,” you say to the wizard. “He’s just jealous that it took him the longest to recognize me.”

“Of course,” Gale responds with a hearty chuckle. “Astarion has always been uniquely undiscerning when it comes to you.”

The man in question looks between you, face set in a grimace. “Gods below, I’m having the most unpleasant flashbacks.” You don’t need Detect Thoughts cast to see his thoughts written on his face. Something along the lines of, ‘This was a terrible idea.’

Gale ignores him, turning back to you in utter glee. “We have so much catching up to do!” he says, arms open wide. Then begins one of his customary rambles, “By Mystra’s grace, elves are fascinating. I knew you would reenter the Material Plane, but I had no idea it would happen so quickly. Not to mention, from my studies, elves typically don’t revisit past lives– part of ensuring that your kind continues to progress, I’ve been told. That being said, I am ecstatic that you’ve gone against the grain, my friend–”

You’re enjoying a long-lived human’s perspective on your reborn soul, but Astarion clearly doesn’t share your same sentiment. “Yes, yes,” he says, waving a hand. “Very interesting, I’m sure. However, it’s been a long couple of days, Gale. Could we please focus?” You’re reminded of when he asked you to focus on the way here and can’t help the snicker that leaves you. Astarion points an accusatory finger at you, “And you. Stop encouraging him.”

You hold up your own hands in innocence. “I’m only being a polite guest! Gale, thank you for having us.” Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re reminded of your past-self saying the same phrase of thanks every time you and Astarion came to visit.

“It’s my pleasure,” Gale says, his smile widening at the familiar words. “Now, could I interest you both in a drink?”

“We should drop by our lodgings first,” Astarion responds, before you can agree to a drink. “Or do you not want to deposit that enormous pack of yours?”

You blink at the vampire. The pack was growing rather annoyingly heavy, but you, again, hadn’t given much thought to your lodgings. A slight dread begins to build. “Where will we be staying?”

Gale turns around, gesturing for you both to follow. “Why one of the guest rooms, of course!”

One. You try to catch Astarion’s eye as you begin to follow Gale, any amount of his attention, any indication that he’s panicking internally as much as you are. Is he going to be comfortable sharing a room? Will we be sharing a bed?

The man’s face doesn’t react to Gale’s words– in fact, it remains utterly impassive as he says to you, “Don’t worry, darling. Despite his being a senile old man, Tara makes sure the place stays well kept.”

Tara! Gale’s familiar hadn’t appeared in your reveries often, only arriving for a spot of tea or to join you in chiding Gale to settle down. But your memories of her are fond and your question comes with a natural excitement, “Is Tara here?”

Gale takes you up a set of stairs as he responds with a cheerful look back at you, “She is out currently– procuring several items we still need for the celebration. But she should be back in no time. She shall be delighted to see you.”

His words warm you, glad that he’s had someone all these years. Then, remembering your past-self’s insistence and considering no one else showed up to welcome you, you ask Gale, “Did you ever listen to us? Find yourself a partner?”

Based on the way his shoulders hunch a bit, he slows as he continues to climb the stairs, you’re afraid you’ve delved too deep too soon. “Oh yes. Shortly after losing you, I found someone. I’m sorry you never had the chance to meet them.”

Guilt eats at your chest, knowing that he means that ‘sorry’, and wishing that he wouldn’t have to feel any regret. “I’m sorry, Gale, I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No need to apologize,” he says, continuing on briskly once more. “It was a lovely experience. But life goes on.”

You can’t help but look at Astarion as Gale says those words, wondering what he made of Gale’s lost love. What he made of Gale’s continuation after the fact. Perhaps, as two beings with lives beyond measure, their friendship evolved beyond trading barbs in the years after your death. Perhaps they could be there for each other, when everyone else passed on.

Astarion’s face betrays nothing as his red eyes meet yours in the dimly lit stairwell. “Darling?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you respond, turning back to Gale to change the subject. “I’ve only dreamt of parts of your tower, Gale. Would you be willing to give me a tour?”

“I would be overjoyed,” he says, climbing over the last step of the stairs. “Once you’ve had a moment to rest, let me know and I shall be right over.”

Following him out of the stairwell, you’re left in the curve of a hallway, several doors lining the outer wall– likely Gale’s guest rooms. “Amazing,” you say, looking left, right, up. “This tower is built in such an intricate way. What type of material did you use to ensure that the weave stayed stable?”

The wizard stops short of the first door and looks back at you. You can feel his appraising gaze, as if just taking in your robes, the spellbook at your hip, the inquisitive gleam in your eyes. “By the outer planes, are you trained in the arcane arts?”

You nod eagerly, your enthusiasm getting the better of you. “I am. I’ll confess, I was looking forward to meeting you as a scholar as well.”

The energy exchanged between you is palpable, and you sense that Gale is about to start on another lengthy diatribe about his tower, when Astarion clicks his tongue. “For the love of all that is unholy, could you two not wait until the tour?”

“Right you are, Astarion,” Gale says, smiling at you all the while. “What a fortuitous calling you’ve found, my friend. I look forward to imparting as much as I can.”

“More like a divinely ironic calling,” Astarion murmurs under his breath, pushing past Gale. “Which room is ours?”

“The third door,” the wizard responds, otherwise ignoring the man as he continues to speak to you. “It’s been a while since he’s been this prickly. He must be glad to be visiting with you again.”

“I can still hear you,” Astarion calls, as he opens the door down the hall.

You ignore Astarion as well as you respond in a quieter voice, “He’s been like that since I arrived on his doorstep. If it weren’t for my dreams of him, I’d have thought he was a prickly pear, not a man.”

The two of you share a laugh together before Gale continues down the hallway. “I apologize for before,” he says. When you only offer him a confused look, he continues, “For when I thought you were a new love of his. I truly should have known better. Astarion would have needed another half dozen centuries to get over you.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but Astarion looks at you both from the doorway to your shared room. His eyes are dark, looking only at Gale, as he says, “That’s enough, Gale. Let us take a moment to unpack.”

Gale reads his friend’s expression with a patience you wish to possess someday. “I shall see you both later for a tour and some tea then?”

“Yes, please,” you reply, entering the room after Astarion. “And, thank you again, Gale.”

“Think nothing of it, my friend.” The wizard leaves you both with one last smile and a small wink, whisking off with the energy of a much younger man.

Now that you’re finally in the room, Astarion lights the lantern by the entrance and closes the door behind you. Looking into the space, you spot an armoire, a changing screen, a pair of armchairs, a couch, and then– just as you’d been afraid of, a single, large bed.

You focus your energy on keeping your voice calm, your breathing steady, even as your heart races. “So,” you start, dropping your pack on the ground and turning to face Astarion. “You didn’t tell him I was coming.”

“I told him I was bringing a guest,” is all that he says back.

“But not who I was?”

“I responded to his invitation weeks ago. It slipped my mind,” he says with a shrug.

The nonchalant look on his face is driving you mad. You’re not sure how this man can make you feel so many different emotions in one day, but by the gods does he manage it. “So you neglected to mention that we weren’t exactly lovers in your letter?” You gesture to the solitary, perfectly fluffed bed.

“Excuse me,” Astarion says, pacing to the armoire to begin unpacking his clothing. “I received enough helpful words from Dal, I didn’t want an entire speech from Gale before even arriving. Besides, it’s sharing a bed, darling. It’s not exactly the erotic act that you’re making it out to be.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” you say, disregarding his words.

“Nonsense, we’re grown elves. We can trance in the same bed without issue,” he says with an eye roll. “And if I’m such a temptation to you, why did you agree to be friends so easily?” he counters, raising an accusatory eyebrow at you. After the weeks you’ve had together, he knows full well that he’s a temptation to you. But if he thinks you’ll give him the satisfaction, then you suppose you know what you must do.

“Fine, the same bed it is. You’re the one who will suffer when I have a bad trance,” you grumble, beginning to take your items out of your pack as well.

Astarion crosses his arms, watching you as you lay out your robes. “I would hardly mind, darling. I tranced next to your past-self for years without issue.”

You suppose it’s true, though you can’t imagine what their trances were like. Your reveries of their life are the most visceral– it’s hard to imagine that they did anything but sleep peacefully. Instead, you ask another question that’s bothering you, aside from the bed, “So what are we supposed to tell Gale? That we’re… friends?”

“Naturally,” Astarion replies, sitting down in an armchair with a content sigh. “He’ll understand. It’s part of living a long life.”

You nod, continuing to unpack in silence, mind filled with thoughts of their long lives. After a few minutes, you ask Astarion another question, “Why didn’t you tell me about Gale’s former love? I might have avoided bringing it up.” Your tone isn’t accusatory, simply filled with a dejected sadness you aren’t able to stifle.

Astarion lifts his head, which had settled back in the armchair’s plush comfort. His words are solemn, honest. “Unlike the rest of our former companions, Gale is still alive. It is his story to tell, if he wishes.”

It makes sense, but you still feel the guilt of hurting him in the pit of your stomach. Not unlike the guilt you felt rehashing Astarion’s past memories. “Can you at least tell me this? How did they die?”

“Old age,” Astarion supplies. “And before you ask, no, they weren’t an elf. They won’t be popping up on his doorstep unannounced like some kind of bookish ghost.”

“He never considered extending their lifespan? There are plenty of–”

“No,” Astarion interrupts, looking at you with tired eyes. “They didn’t want that, and he respected their wishes. An extended life isn’t for the faint hearted.”

You gulp, feeling the guilt bubble up again at the question you inevitably want to ask, once more afraid of hurting Astarion. “And is that how you feel?”

“I don’t know anymore.” His words are quieter, barely loud enough for you to hear, and you can’t read his expression as his head ducks. His head is back up a moment later, a nervous little smile playing on his lips. “Well, if you have much more left to unpack, I actually meant to have a word with Gale. Shall we meet you downstairs?”

“Oh, sure,” you respond, pushing your guilt and curiosity back down. You suspect you already know what he wants to talk to Gale about. “I’ll be down shortly.”

When you do arrive downstairs shortly, neither man is present. I doubt they’ll be done any time soon, you think, beginning to poke around the room. I’ll find something to read while I wait.

That’s how you find yourself perusing through Gale’s carefully curated selection of waiting room books. And sweet hells is it curated well. It’s all you can do to keep from bouncing off the walls.

After picking up and dismissing several books, you settle on one that truly interests you. “Is this a first edition of Elameth's Compendium?” you ask no one in particular, flipping through the pages of a large, red tome. In it, the elven enchanter Elameth details a variety of magical artifacts, how to craft them, and how to dismantle them.

You’re surprised to receive a response as you flip the pages. “Oh my yes. Mr. Dekarios is quite fond of that particular compendium.”

Your head snaps up at a familiar voice, a feminine, unaffected voice, distinctly posh in its lilt. When you turn toward its source, you look down to see a small, cat-like creature peering up at you. “Tara?” you ask.

“I am she, yes,” the small, but proud creature says, tilting her head at you. “And who, may I ask, are you to be rifling through Mr. Dekarios’ books?”

She doesn’t seem mad at you, rather quite curious as her large green eyes inspect you. Will she believe you as easily as Gale did? Her eyes are staring at you so intently that your voice catches a bit as you begin to talk, “I– I am–”

“Ah, I see it now, my dear,” the tressym says, taking a few steps toward you with her feline-like gait. “No need to explain yourself. You’re Mr. Dekarios’ old friend, aren’t you? You look a tad different, but then again, so do most people that have died before.”

You blink, surprised at how little you needed to say for her to recognize you. “Yes, that’s me. How did you know?”

“A lady’s intuition, darling,” she says, lifting her head proudly a bit. “However, you also have that same air about you. Mr. Dekarios will be quite pleased to see you again.”

“We, erm, re-met each other earlier today,” you say, closing the book in your hands and turning to the tressym. “How have you been, Tara?”

“Very well, thank you for asking,” she bows her head a bit in acknowledgement. “You are far more polite than that wicked vampire you call a mate. Thank goodness you’re back, if only for that pale man’s sake.”

You laugh, vaguely recalling some of Astarion’s previous encounters with Tara. They got along about as well as two opposing felines would. “Has he been very difficult without me?”

“Oh yes,” she says, and her wings shuffle a bit in discomfort. “Nigh impossible to deal with. I don’t know how Mr. Dekarios puts up with him.”

You’re about to ask another question when her ears perk up, shoot back. “Well now, it seems like he and Mr. Dekarios are on their way to you. I am still working on preparations for the celebration, so do keep Mr. Dekarios occupied until I have need of him.”

You’d already planned on thoroughly distracting the wizard with questions about his tower and are only too happy to keep the tressym pleased. “Of course, Tara.”

She purrs a hum of approval before turning around. With a “ta-ta, darling” she leaves you waiting for the imminent arrival of Gale and Astarion.

The two arrive from behind the blue, velvet curtain less than a minute later. “Oh hello,” you say, looking at them from over the book you’d reopened.

Astarion looks to be in a better mood, though Gale looks distinctly less happy. It’s Astarion who speaks first, “Hello, darling. Hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long?”

The warmth of his words comes as a bit of a surprise. You look back to Gale, who is smiling at you sadly. I see , you think. Astarion thinks Gale will convince you to leave your project be– that he can grow attached to you now because you won’t be leaving him in the lurch. No matter, you think. This changes nothing for me.

So you respond with the same enthusiasm, “Not at all! I was just looking through the excellent book selection you have, Gale.” You hold up the red tome in your hand and his expression immediately lights up once again.

“Elameth's Compendium! Why, we used that book in your prior life, don’t you remember?” he says, his crow’s feet becoming more pronounced as he smiles.

You shake your head. “Unfortunately not. I didn’t receive every memory. And admittedly…” You look at Astarion who is looking at you rather smugly, knowing exactly what you’d told him multiple times now. The smug look will certainly only get worse with your words, but you also want to discuss your memories with Gale, as the sage and scholar that he is. “Most of my reveries were about Astarion.”

At that, Gale looks between the two of you, a pensive hand stroking his beard. “Fascinating,” is all that he offers.

“Yes,” you agree, ready to provide more information, to receive any and all theories he has about you and your memories. But, of course, the subject of your memories refuses to be excluded for long.

“Maybe if your evenings researching together were less dreadfully dreary you might have dreamt of more of them,” Astarion offers with a flip of his hand. “Now, shall we begin with the tea or the tour?”

The three of you decide to begin with a tour. 

Gale leads the way, his mane of long, white hair guiding your path forward. As a tour guide, he’s clearly well practiced, describing each room in detail, explaining its purpose, and even peppering in the odd anecdote or memory from your past life.

You go through a sauna, heated with fire runes. You walk past his actual library, filled head to toe with books of all kinds. You drop by his study, and its sweet scent of ink trails after you. An astronomy room, a storage room, a dining room, a sitting room– you begin to wonder how tall this tower truly is from its exterior. Gale explains that he’s had to renovate a few dozen times over the years, to ensure that the tower’s magic remains stable. As such, rooms come and go with a few, necessary exceptions.

Even among all of these extraordinary rooms, a few stand out to you, clear gems in the wizard's remarkable living space.

“This is the alchemy room, where I grow plants and create my various concoctions! I’m quite proud to say that you’ll find some plants that grow even on the other side of Faerûn. I’ve created many an interesting tonic– I’d exercise some caution if you find yourself in here. Why one time…” He trails off into a story about how Tara turned purple for a week. She was not amused, apparently.

“And this is the experimentation room, where I bring anything that may be dangerous to test. There are a variety of different materials for me to test spells and artifacts on, and the room is warded with a wide assortment of protection wards to make sure that the rest of the tower is unaffected. It certainly is helpful when it comes to any errant magic, wouldn’t you say Astarion?” The look Astarion shoots him is that of a man who has seen one too many Fireballs in his life.

“Now this is the enchanting room, where I create magical artifacts. Now this includes your customary garden-variety fare, but I do have the opportunity to create a few rarer objects, such as the sunlight rings that I craft for the spawn. You'll find that I boast all types of spell components and even have a few specialized work benches, infused with various magical properties.”

You want to stay in this room for hours, you want to look through each and every book, peruse the shelves, test out the recipes that are strewn about the place. But you hold back, merely asking Gale a few questions about where he sources his materials, whether or not he had a bench for each school of magic, and how long it took to create a sunlight ring.

Easier questions answered, you eventually ask him, “Is this where we worked on our ring designs together?”

Gale takes a quick glance at Astarion before nodding. “Yes, precisely. That’s exactly the type of thing we used to work on.”

You elect to ignore his word choice, pressing on, “I had a dream about that just last night. We’d settled on a ring made of silver, it had slotting for an inlay along its edge.”

Recognition passes over Gale’s eyes before he bows his head wearily. “One of the last times we spoke. That was our most promising candidate.”

You already know that much. Despite the way Astarion’s eyes tighten around the corners, the way that Gale’s sadness creases his mouth around his beard, you continue, “I had an idea I would love to speak to you about. Would you have time before your birthday festivities?”

The wizard’s head lifts back up, the sadness reaching his eyes now. “I think it’s best if we leave that part of our past behind us, wouldn’t you say?”

Luckily, you’d prepared for such a response, expecting it. From your memories, from understanding who he is, what Astarion might have said to him, you think you know just what to say. “I wouldn’t. At least, not until I figure out one last thing. I have memories of the necromancer’s notes. Untouched, unbloodied, but undeciphered. I just need someone to delve into my mind and pull them out. If it amounts to nothing, well, maybe I could move on. But a wizard once told me, my intuition has rarely led us astray.”

Neither of your companions say anything to this, but you can tell see the wheels turning in Gale’s mind. He’d tried, just as you had, to remove the blood from the notes. He’d attempted, just as you had, to decipher what was left. Here you were, offering him the key to a century and a half’s mystery. He’d be remiss to not take you up on it. 

Astarion, for his part, is simply looking at you. His red eyes seem to glow in the enchanting room’s magical lighting. You wonder if he believes you, that this will be your final attempt to try, that you would leave it be if it amounted to nothing.

I just know it will amount to something though, you think to yourself. I refuse to let it lead nowhere, not when I feel so close.

Gale interrupts your thoughts. “Well, I shall have a think on it and let you know later. For now, let me show you both to our last stop: the kitchen! Where we can also enjoy a lovely, little morsel and a cup or two of tea.”

Musings pushed aside for now, the three of you head to the kitchens for a late lunch. With all of Gale’s commentary, Astarion’s snarky interjections, and your own questions, the tour ended up being quite a few hours. You’re ravenous by the time the tea kettle rings and Gale shuffles about his kitchen preparing an afternoon meal for you all.

“Do you need any help, Gale?” you ask, scooting your chair back, ready to get up and join the wizard as he flits back and forth.

“No need, my friend. You are a guest after all,” he assures you, with a wave. A blue, spectral hand floats behind him, opening and closing doors for him as he artfully arranges what seems to be a hearty assortment of various meats and cheeses. “I may have aged a touch, but I assure you that I am every bit the gourmet chef I have always been.”

“Right,” Astarion mutters under his breath. “Every bit as capable of giving an entire adventuring party food poisoning.”

You chuckle at Astarion’s comment, only to recall that Astarion hasn’t had a real basis for Gale’s food since his early days of pretending not to be a vampire. Since then, his main diet has consisted of blood and wine, which you haven’t seen him partake in in over a week. “Aren’t you hungry?” you whisper to the man, leaning over to him in the event that Gale shouldn’t overhear.

His red eyes meet yours, and, as always, you can see the underlying hunger in them. It’s fruitless to ask, you realize. He’ll always be hungry. 

“I’m managing. Don’t you worry about me– Focus on getting your noisy stomach to quiet down.” He shoots you a wry smile, but you can’t help but worry regardless.

“Fine, but once that’s quieted, I will be bothering you again,” you say, pointing a finger at him menacingly.

“What’s this about noisy stomachs?” Gale asks, walking over with a plate stacked full of meats, cheeses, smears, breads, and assorted fruits. Far too much food for the two of you who could eat it– Perhaps more than would feed you for a week. “Why, I have just the remedy.”

The three of you, well Gale and yourself, enjoy the feast he’s prepared for you, chattering all the while about the various things you’ve seen in his tower, what he’s gotten up to in the last hundred and fifty years, and your life back in Neverwinter. You’re surprised when even Astarion chimes in with his own questions about your current life.

You learn about Gale’s latest research. They learn about your time at the arcane college in Neverwinter. Collectively, you reminisce about times that you’ve only witnessed through dreams. 

Together you have a pleasant afternoon, one that quickly turns into evening as you continue to chat. The entire conversation and atmosphere bring about a warmth you’d missed in your ‘normal’ life. Seated at Gale’s round kitchen table like this, you can almost pretend that this is your life. Perhaps it is now.

It’s only after a small “Ahem, ahem” interrupts Gale’s latest recounting of a particularly explosive application of the Weave that you all realize how late it’s gotten. “Mr. Dekarios, I’m glad that you and your friend have gotten reacquainted, but I am afraid I require your assistance in the dining room.”

“Tara! Of course, I shall pop right on over.” Gale turns to you and Astarion, smiling at you both in turn. “Well, my friends. It seems I’m needed for the party preparations. I hope you don’t mind my absence.”

“Not at all, Gale,” you respond, bowing your head in acknowledgement. “Hosting is plenty of work without my showing up here unaccounted for.”

“Nonsense!” Gale cries, standing up from his chair with a few creaking bones. “Why this may be the best birthday present I’ve ever received.”

His words sound so genuine, his smile so sincere, that you nearly miss what he’s said. A birthday present. Oh gods, I need to get him a present. “Say, Gale,” you say, catching his attention before he leaves. “When is the party proper?”

“Oh, right.” He gives a lighthearted chuckle, looking at Astarion as he does so. “You’ll forgive me for the befuddling schedule– it’s the only way I can ensure Astarion actually shows up on time. You know how he likes to avoid people.”

“Not to worry, I understand.” You snicker, only to earn an indignant elbow from Astarion. 

Gale looks between you two knowingly, and you feel your face flush under his sympathetic eyes. “Well, let’s see…” The man begins a countdown on his fingers. “Including tonight, the party is in five nights.”

“Oh!” you breath out, surprised. Plenty of time to explore the city, to hopefully speak to Gale, and, most importantly, acquire a present for him. “Sounds lovely. Thank you, Gale.”

“My pleasure,” he says. “I shall see you two on the morrow then.” Gale gives you both one last wink before following Tara out of the kitchen.

That’s how you and Astarion are left alone once more. The silence that settles between you is all at once easy and yet deeply uncomfortable. You want to fill it with something, but what can you say? That you know he wants Gale to dissuade you from your goals? That you haven’t known a peace like this in your entire lifetime and you’re afraid it isn’t meant to be yours?

Whatever it is, you need to say something, to fill the silence. You turn toward him in your seat and begin, “Astarion–”

“Darling, I–”

You both stop before you start, realizing that you’re interrupting each other. You’re the first to collect your bearings. “Go ahead, Astarion.”

He smiles at you and the tenderness in his eyes is difficult to miss, catching you off guard. “I just wanted to thank you.” When you only offer him a puzzled look, he elaborates, “For coming with me. I know it was a bit of a gamble for you after, well, everything. But this is already proving to be more… tolerable, than most years.”

His words spark a tingle in your chest, cause a warmth to bloom on your cheeks. It’s a compliment of sorts, and one that you weren’t expecting to receive. Given his sullen attitude and snarky comments, you’d expected a half-sarcastic, ‘This has been riveting.’

But the man never fails to surprise you. So you’re left speechless, nodding at his thanks, unsure of how to accept them.

“Now, what had you wanted to say, darling?” he asks, expression back in a confident mask, as if his words hadn’t just blanketed you in a deluge of emotions.

What had you meant to say? Right. You had wanted to fill in the silence, which seems almost banal in the wake of his sincere thanks. You comb through your own thoughts as quickly as you can, trying to find a reason to speak, to answer his expectant gaze.

“Would you like some blood?”

He blinks at you and you blink back, as if neither of you had expected you to say this. His response comes a moment later, a bit guarded, “I suppose I could use a snack. But with all of the day’s travel and your rather delicate constitution, are we sure that’s the best idea, darling?”

It may not have been your first or most pressing thought, but now that you’ve said it, you realize that feeding him is still quite important to you. So you press on. “I’ll be fine. It’s plenty late and I’ll be able to sleep off any ill effects,” you assure him.

“In that case, perhaps we first head back to our room? That way I won’t have to carry your limp body up several flights of stairs.” His use of ‘our’, his quick acceptance of your offer, it all feels so surreal. Maybe that’s what friendship means to him, but it’s sending you and your body mixed signals.

Either way, you agree without argument, and you both head back to your shared quarters.

Once you’re standing in the center of the room, you ask, “Where would you like me?” 

Astarion raises a suggestive eyebrow at you. “Oh, you absolute fiend. Here I was, thinking that a bite on the wrist was already quite intimate.”

“Astarion,” you chide, ignoring the way his low, sultry voice sets your skin alight. “I meant, would you prefer the bed, the couch, maybe a chair?”

“How dull, darling. The bed then,” he says, gesturing toward the yet untouched plush, blue bedding. 

You follow his direction and sit on the bed. After taking a quick breath, you get to work, rolling up the sleeve of your robe for him and exposing the tender flesh of your wrist to him. “Here you are,” you say, holding out your wrist to him as he takes a spot next to you.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, taking hold of your wrist, angling it back and forth between his cold fingers, as if trying to find just the right spot to bite.

“What’s the matter?” you ask, after the third rotation.

“It’s nothing, dear,” he says, fingers trailing the line of veins extending from your wrist. With his soft touch shocking your brain into submission, you barely register his words as he continues, “I was thinking, perhaps, I might need to bite a bit more carefully to keep you from growing faint again. I’m afraid I had rather gotten used to biting that delectable neck in your past-life.”

You gulp and you’re certain that the sound is audible to you both. “Is that so? Would you… prefer a neck?”

“Don’t you worry your lovely little head, darling,” he says, bending his head over your wrist. “I shall manage.”

You’re about to protest, to insist that he’s allowed to bite your neck, even as your heart pounds brutally in your chest at the thought– but his fangs sink in before a word can escape your lips and you’re left huffing out a small sigh.

Astarion’s lips smile against your wrist, and, were it not for the kind consideration he’d just shown you, you may have smacked him on his beautiful silver head for it.

Much like the previous times he’s had a nibble, his seemingly involuntary hums are more the source of your lightheadedness than anything else. The deep rumble that sounds from his chest sends your heart into a frenzied rhythm that your blood just can’t appear to keep up with.

Calm down, you think, imagining images of still water, light breezes, soft cats. Calm down or you will fall back again. Nothing seems to be working to quiet your pounding heart and, as you look at the angle of his nose, the soft curve of his cheek, you can feel your breath catching, your vision blurring.

No, you repeat to yourself. He will starve himself if it means you don’t get injured, keep yourself together. You’re startled by how accurate the thought sounds to your own mind. You knew he cared about you, but had you ever really sat down and understood the depth of it? However, you don’t have time to think about the implications of his concern because your world is beginning to spin.

Breathe, you command of yourself. You take a deep breath. 

Another, you think, and you feel your eyes start to focus as fresh air enters your body. 

Two large breaths later and you’re feeling significantly better– your heart is still racing, but the room has stilled and your body feels your own again. Just in time too, as you feel Astarion take one last drink from your veins, remove his fangs, and breathe a sigh of bliss onto your skin. 

When he pulls back to look at you, the flush on his face, the pink on his ears is still somehow worth the miserable feeling of blood loss. “So darling,” he says, licking his blood-stained lips. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling fine,” you say, smiling at him with the best, least exhausted grin you can manage. Certainly better than you have after your previous feedings. “Though I do think it is your fault that I feel faint sometimes.”

“Really?” Astarion asks, raising an eyebrow at you. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Well,” you start, not sure how to approach the issue with him, but needing to tell him all the same. “I think it’s the noises you make while you feed. My heart just, erm, panics a bit.”

Astarion looks at you with a blank expression. “Noises?”

Ah, so they are involuntary. “Yes, the mmm’s and the hmm’s and the–”

“Stop that.” Astarion raises a hand up to your face, placing it over your mouth. When you look toward him to see what could be the matter, you see that a blush covers his cheeks, that the tips of his ears have turned a deep red. “I– I thought I’d stopped doing that years ago.”

It’s as if time stills. You struggle with your confused, nervous thoughts as you register his embarrassment, the words he’s said.

Astarion is blushing, your brain thinks.

Of course, the rational part of you counters. He’s just fed, he’s going to have some blood in his system for a while.

But he’s blushing because of something I said, you supply.

Your mind goes blank at the thought.

You’re grateful that you can’t reply to Astarion, not with his hand over your mouth, because you’re not certain what is liable to come out of it at the moment. 

Luckily, Astarion continues to speak, not releasing your face, “Well, I apologize for the noises. I’ll try to control that. In the meanwhile, why don’t we get ready for bed? It’s been a long day.”

You nod into his hand, after which he removes it from your mouth. His face continues to have a touch of pink, and his eyes refuse to meet yours. You can hardly be bothered by it, because the only things running in circles in your mind are the feel of Astarion’s hand on your face, the sight of his perfectly blushed cheeks, and the fact that, somehow, despite everything, he still cares about your well-being.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. You end up having to take a quick bath to clear your mind, and you both get ready for bed separately. However, at the end of the day, you both wind up in the same, immense bed after all is said and done.

You thought that maybe something big would happen. Perhaps that he would recoil from you. Or worse, grab onto you. Maybe that the earth would open up and swallow you both. But nothing of the sort happens.

You both simply lay down, tuck yourselves in a variety of soft blankets, rest your heads on the best down pillows magic can conjure, and remain several feet apart on the massive bed.

Much like last night, Astarion puts out the lantern next to the bed and whispers to you, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

There’s simply no way that your reverie will take you tonight, of that you’re sure. You’re convinced of it, because all you can hear is the pounding of your heart, the muffled breath you take when you try to be quiet. But eventually, against all odds, your trance does overtake you.

That night as you enter your reverie, you blink your eyes open to a familiar inn.

Again, the establishment is dead, not a soul in sight in this remote village. And, as always, the innkeep reaches down into their front desk, pulling out another book.

It looks to be a book that they’ve already started– a bookmark is placed about halfway through its pages. The cover is mostly plain, a black leather with a large tower embossed in the center. In the smallest script you catch the title before they open the book, “The Midnight Tower and its Master.”

The innkeep flips open to their current page and begins to read… 

When you wake up from your reverie a few hours later, you sit up with a gasp, a hand clutching at your chest in surprise.

Next to you, Astarion stirs, looking at you with a drowsy concern. “Darling, are you alright?”

It had been an awkward day already, and you weren't entirely sure what to do next. You'd arrived where you’d meant to be, but now what? 

You contemplated speaking to Astarion some more, but the weight of the words you'd already spoken were too heavy to take on much more. You were exhausted, down to your bones, from tension, from tears shed, from the whirlwind of emotions that had swept you through the day. No, there will be time for more conversation tomorrow. For now, you needed to spend the rest of the day recharging.

So you spent that first night refamiliarizing yourself with Dal, as you'd silently sworn you would. Besides, after recalling her gratitude toward you, Petras's lingering questions, there is clearly a history you’ll need to learn more about.

When you’d last brushed up on your dreams, it was with a heavy focus on Astarion. You’d been eager to recall every detail about him and your journal entries with him were so enthusiastic that you didn’t pay much mind to those without him. Now you focused on rereading the entries regarding the vampire spawn.

What you relearned surprised you, and a few journal entries in particular seemed important in retrospect.

Hero’s Life - Entry 5753: No Astarion tonight. I did dream of the Underdark and Astarion’s siblings. Two of them, I think Dal and Leon, were busy setting up some defenses. I was helping the large one (Petra or Petras?) and the tiefling (Aurelia I believe) move some spawn from one location to another in a hurry. I think the other two, the gnome (Usen?) and the other blonde elf were already in hiding. From what I gather, Astarion was scouting around the fortress.

It seemed like a regular occurrence, being under attack. The whole process was very well orchestrated. The spawn siblings thanked me for my help, and I could feel my past-self’s worry. They seem to care a lot about Astarion’s family.

Hero’s Life - Entry 9816: Last night I didn’t dream of Astarion. I was a bit disappointed, but my former self was too focused to note his absence. They spoke to Dal, I think, of a project they’re working on together. The conversation was confusing, I think it was spoken in some kind of code. All I could really tell was that we’re searching for something and that Astarion is not being very helpful.

We looked over a set of diagrams for a while, I took some notes. Toward the end of the reverie we changed topics to the colony, and I have to say, running a vampire colony seems like a lot of work. The fortress is so unsafe, so easy to invade from any side. They were discussing plans for new renovations for a while – I wonder what they will settle on.

Other entries detailed working together with the spawn, setting up structures within their new society, and new rules. It was all quite informative, if a bit out of your depth of expertise. But more than anything, you wanted to know what Dal and your past-self were working on. Tomorrow, you assured yourself, I will simply speak to Astarion to learn more of this. 

__

Here you are now, opening your eyes from an uneventful yet deeply unrestful reverie. You had sworn to speak to Astarion, but you weren’t aware at the time of how absolutely exhausted you would be come morning. Barely able to get up, you curse at the gods when you hear knocking on your door.

"Coming…" you say, voice echoing your weariness.

"Are you quite alright?" Astarion calls through the door. "Or were you lying about getting to know each other? Really, darling, there are better ways to get free lodging."

You give him an annoyed grunt as you open the door, and the gauntness of your face must be truly frightening given the way he looks at you.

"So you're not alright?" He asks, taking a small step back, as if your eyebags could be contagious.

"I'm just tired," you say, yawning. "I haven't managed to get a good reverie in three days. And I've barely made it by on rations, but I think I’ll need some real food soon." As if on cue, your stomach growls and you look down at it in betrayal.

After having gone without mortal food since your past-life's death, it's clear that the vampire’s mansion hasn't the means to feed you. Astarion waves a hand in the air in exasperation. "Can't you just, I don't know, conjure up some food?"

You give him an unbelieving stare. Surely this man, who's lived centuries more than you, can tell the differences between types of magic, right? When his face doesn't change, you clarify, "Er, no. That is exclusively holy magic. My magic is arcane. Has Gale never explained magic to you?"

He laughs, as if you've told a magnificent joke. When you don't reciprocate, he follows it with a snort, "Darling, surely you know the answer to that? If a Gale waxes poetically about magic and no one bothers to listen, did it ever really happen?"

What? I would love to listen to a great archmage like Gale speak about… oh. Many memories from your past-self click in that moment, and you realize that after decades of dreaming of him, you had started to see a lot of Astarion's behavior through the rose-colored glasses that were their affection. That perhaps your earlier memories, of his ridiculous, insane behavior, were not far off the mark. I see. It seems that I loved a man with nary a thought in his beautiful brain.

It makes sense. He's never once in your memories been the 'planner,' and in your time living together, your past-self had been the one at the desk, the one speaking with the spawn, the brains of the operation, so to speak.

It didn't bother you then, and it certainly doesn't bother you now, but it does change the way you approach this. "No matter. Just know that I can't conjure food. It seems like I'll need to go procure some.” You pause to consider your options. “Unless you have a means–”

“No,” he says, cutting you off before you can make a fool of yourself. "And I haven't the faintest where the nearest market might be at this point."

"I see," you say, breathing out a hearty sigh. "Would you happen to be able to help me find–"

"I'm afraid not, darling," he interjects again. "I don't have a sunlight ring currently, and even if I did, I'm not much interested in a field trip."

"Alright," you start, stifling another yawn. "But if that's the that case, how will you–"

"Get to know you? We have weeks. I'm in no rush so please feel free to tend to your bodily needs." He flashes you a wide, fanged smile.

Once was a coincidence, twice irks you, and three times? Well, you can't let three times go unacknowledged. "Why do you keep interrupting me?" you ask him, tone just shy of irritated.

"Oh, am I?" he asks, with a small little laugh. "I hadn't realized." The look he gives you then is full of actual chagrin, and you realize he may not have noticed.

"Yes, it's rather irritating," you say, resisting the urge to forgive him too easily. Between his laugh and his smile, you feel weak to his charms, wanting to slap yourself as much as you had your past-self.

"Well, I'll try to stop," he replies, a smile still somehow present on his face. That's when you notice it, tucked beneath the layers of carefully crafted morning cheer, a nigh imperceptible eye twitch. He's nervous. The thought of this hundreds-year-old vampire being nervous with you is rather… new.

So you find yourself averting your eyes, stowing the feeling away for later. For now, you accept his vow to stop with a mumbled, "Thank you."

You spend the rest of the day in search of a real, living person's food source. Fighting your exhaustion all the while, you stop by the nearby inn, grab a meal, get directions and stock up for the week at a distant market.

By the time you get back to the house, it's getting late and Astarion welcomes you back with an annoyed 'tch.'

"What a waste of a day, darling. I don't know how much longer you plan on staying up, but I'm quite tired by now." He gives a big, cat-like yawn and makes a show of stretching. 

It's barely even half past six, and you can tell he's exaggerating, so you only respond, "It makes sense that the older you get the more beauty sleep you need, but I always presumed vampires were the exception to the rule."

He scoffs at you, but a wicked little smirk betrays how much he enjoys the jab. "So you do have some bite to you. Good to know." 

"I don't think I could live through as much of my previous life as I did and not have some bite left over," you say with a small, satisfied smile. "After facing down horrors, otherworldly beings, literal devils– I’ve learned only from the best how to handle any situation.”

At the mention of your former life, Astarion's own smirk slips some. He clears his throat and responds, "Right. That makes… sense.” He bounces between his feet uncertainly before continuing, “Well, if you need anything else, within reason, you can find me in my room. Goodnight, darling." With that, he turns heel and practically runs away from you.

Well, you think to yourself. That wasn’t ideal. Maybe it was a bit too much? You make a mental note to be careful with your past, maybe not mention it so casually– at least not until he's ready.

You’d forgotten to mention that the room had been ruining your reveries, and he’s too long gone to ask for a replacement. Hopefully you’ll get used to the uncomfortable memories with time.

That night your meditation comes easier, your rest is less interrupted. You dream of a life where you had been a chef. Perhaps for the first time in your current lifetime, this life's dreams will matter for your survival.

__

The next day begins on a far better foot. 

Now that you have ingredients, a set of plates and silverware to use, even a pot and pan on which to cook, you happily follow Astarion to the kitchen for breakfast. You wonder briefly if he’d appreciate another offer of blood, but decide against it for now– your memories have warned you enough about this and you don’t want your new relationship tainted by how transactional blood drinking can be for vampires.

Instead, you settle into the kitchen to cook a simple breakfast of eggs and bacon while Astarion sits at his kitchen table, watching.

After a few minutes of a silence that doesn’t quite hit comfortable, Astarion speaks up. "How did you know where to find me the other day?" He asks genuinely. "In your past life, we hadn't built the tunnel to the Underdark yet."

"Oh," you say, recalling your adventures throughout his house as you stir your eggs. You contemplate lying, but decide that there's no use in starting off on that foot. The rough path of honesty it is. "I actually went, erm, looking about. I likely searched most of the house before stumbling upon the illusory wall."

"You're quite the investigator aren't you?" He asks, and there's a note of concern in his voice.

You wonder why that could be, but when you look up to see him genuinely curious for an answer, you can’t help but respond. "You could say that. I love a good puzzle." You shrug and take your eggs off the stove.

"I see." He says, a far off look glazing over his eyes. "How did you manage to find the fake wall?"

"Rhapsody gave it away," you say, recalling the dagger's dive onto the floor.

Astarion clicks his tongue, annoyed. "Ah yes, that old thing. I wish I could get rid of it, its odd shape makes it prone to falling. But I can't."

"You can't?" His firm stance on it tickles the back of your mind, as if a memory is begging to burst forth. Sitting down with your plate of eggs and bacon, you search his hard red eyes for answers before beginning your meal.

"Oh not for any sentimental reasons," he says. "Don't you mind that though. What shall we get up to today?”

The part of your brain that feels close to something– something important– wants to press, but you recall how he ran away from you yesterday. You know he likely isn’t any more prepared today than he was then, so you decide to tuck it aside for later. “Well, I was wondering when we might have a chance to speak to the spawn again?” You begin, listlessly moving your eggs about your plate as you speak. “I was rereading my dreams with Dal and–”

Astarion makes a show of rolling his eyes at you before interrupting. “I’m not interested in rehashing the past, as I’ve said. Your dreams are just that– the past. What should we do today?”

You pause your fork halfway to your mouth to respond. “But the spawn seem to be a big part of your life, are they not?”

“Of course they are, but they’re only a part of it.” He folds his hands together in front of him on the table and stares you down. “If I knew you’d be so interested in them and not me, I wouldn’t have suggested this.”

Gulping down a bite of food, you take a moment to process his words. As much as Dal’s remarks burn in your mind and your memories with her seem to taunt you from the bag at your hip, you know that that’s not really why you’re here. It’s just another puzzle that’s tantalizing you, one you deeply wish to uncover, but also one that seems to run contrary to everything Astarion hopes for.

That bothers you. After all, he was nothing but a helpful brother down in the Underdark. But clearly a line between him and the spawn has been drawn somewhere– you’ll have to toe it until you get more concrete answers. “Sorry, curiosity got the better of me,” you finally reply, smiling at him apologetically. “In that case, I’m really quite amenable to anything you’d like to do. Any hobbies we would be able to do together?”

Astarion seems to visibly calm when you drop the subject of the spawn. “Ah yes, that should be a good place to start. I quite like reading, embroidery, I even do the odd whittling after that damned druid taught us. I have also found myself to be fairly adept at crafting scents.”

You nod as he lists, familiar with many of these hobbies from your memories. Chewing on a piece of bacon, you motion for him to continue with a hand wave. 

He looks at you appraisingly for a second before saying, “Well if you insist on hearing more about me and my hobbies, who am I to refuse.” You’d always thought he seemed relieved to finally open up to your past-self, and the way he speaks seems to confirm your suspicions. “When I have the chance to enjoy the sun, I tend to make a day of it, go to Baldur’s Gate, enjoy the sights, ‘acquire’ myself some materials– sometimes I even find myself a meal in the form of some ruffian.”

“How often do you get to enjoy the sun?” you ask, voice a bit cautious as you’re certain this must be a sore spot for him. 

Surprisingly, Astarion seems unperturbed by this particular line of investigation. “About once a month. Maybe once every couple– it really depends on how pressing any of my business is in Baldur’s Gate.” Then, likely noticing the sad tilt of your eyebrows, he shakes a finger at you. “Don’t be so… needlessly sympathetic. There are a lot of spawn and, while I may get priority for a sunlight ring on account of my previous heroics, 6000 spawn sharing a limited number of rings means I can’t afford to be selfish.”

You chew another bite of bacon as you contemplate his words. He says he doesn’t believe in love anymore, that he’s not the same man, but from that statement alone, you know your past-self has left a considerable mark. You decide not to point this fact out to him and instead ask another question, “In that case, how many rings do you have among you?”

“I’d say we’re somewhere around a hundred?” he answers, placing a finger on his chin as he thinks. “Dal would know best. But Gale sends us one every once in a while, sometimes they get lost, so the number changes. They’re not impossible to make, but they take time and a highly skilled archmage.”

“Is that why you’ve stayed friends with Gale all these years?” you ask, a teasing tone in your voice that you find comes naturally.

Astarion laughs, and it’s one of his now rare, real laughs. You can recognize the sound from your memories. “Was I that obvious?”

You can’t help but laugh along with him, an odd happiness bubbling in your chest alongside the laughter. Is this our first real, shared laugh? you think. Externally, you reply, “I’d say so. Though you do keep him quite busy,” you pause, gesturing back toward his room with a piece of bacon. “Were those illusions all his work as well?”

The vampire in front of you looks at you thoughtfully again, and more than anything you wish you could read his mind. He responds with, “Of course. He’s a master of illusions. Taught it for at least a century.” Then, abruptly, he adds, “I don't remember you being this intelligent. It’s quite irksome.”

The way he says it isn’t meant to be insulting, but you can’t help but feel a bit defensive at the statement. He states it as if being smarter is some kind of crime. “I wasn’t, to my recollection,” you start, all of your previous amusement dropping from your expression. “I’m afraid I can't help it though. If it’s an issue, you’ll have to take it up with my parents.”

“Parents?” he asks, somewhat incredulously. “You have… those?”

It’s almost as if it’s a foreign concept to the man. You suppose it must be, considering that he hasn’t had his own in centuries, and your previous self had long since lost their parents when they met. “Yes, Astarion,” you say, adopting a patient tone. “Parents, as in those who raised me, cared for me. They know all about you, you know.”

Astarion doesn’t seem to enjoy that particular fact. “Oh, do they?” The man scoots out a bit from his chair. “That’s quite interesting. And are they expecting you back anytime soon?”

You shrug, honestly not sure what your parents expect. “No, but I was going to cast a quick Sending spell to them before too long. It’s my first big trip, so I’m sure they’d like an update.”

Again, you’ve said something that’s made Astarion uncomfortable, reminded him that you’re both worlds away from each other in a way that may be impossible to surmount. You can practically see the excuses lining up behind his lips as he scoots another inch back. “You don’t say? Well, it would hardly do to keep them waiting, would it?” Before you can respond, he stands up in a single movement. “I shall leave you to it then? Of course, you know where to find me.”

He’s gone before you can contest him, and you’re left alone with the last remnants of your breakfast. “Great. So no past-life memories, no mentions of the spawn, and no mentions of my own life,” you speak down to the eggs on your plate. “What can I talk to him about without him running away?”

Once you finish breakfast, you do end up sending a message to your parents. It’s a short message, well within your 25-word limit, “I’m safe at Astarion’s. Will be here until the end of the month. Love you.”

You receive a message back a moment later from your mother, “Thank the gods. Keep us updated, and don’t forget that it’s not illegal to cast in self-defense. Love you too.”

Afterward, you seek Astarion out again, only to find that he’s sequestered himself in the bath. He stays there until dark and leaves as soon as he gets out with the excuse, “I need to find something to feed on. I shall see you tomorrow.”

You watch him leave with an annoyed expression on your face. You can’t very well force him to interact with you, but it feels like he’s not even trying to confront the pain he’d claimed to be so willing to face.

That night you dream of a life in which you were a warrior. This life’s reveries were always a bit dull for you, but tonight you welcome their training and discipline. You maintain the dream and feel a full night’s rest for the first time in days.

__

The following day, the fourth day that you’re spending in his house since your agreement, you decide to forgo breakfast. You wake up energetic and rested so you decide to confront Astarion right as he leaves his room. 

“Morning,” you say, a bright and casual smile plastered on your face. Doing your best to hide the fear you feel, the nerves that stand on edge, you begin your new strategy: figuring out what you can about Dal and the spawn before he up and leaves. 

“Oh hello,” he says, eyebrows furrowed a bit in concern. While he does seem to believe you are his reincarnated love, he continues to be incredibly wary of you, defenses raised high after more than a century alone. It shows in his crossed arms, the way he took a single step back before continuing, “What brings you to my door so eagerly this morning?”

“I was just getting an early start after entering my reverie early yesterday,” you say, continuing the cheer that you did not remotely feel. “I was also hoping to start the day by asking you some questions.”

“Again?” he asks, and his entire body wavers in the doorway of his room. 

You’re worried he’s about to step back into the room so you hold out a hand: a silent invitation to take it. “Perhaps we can go on a walk about the house as we talk?”

Astarion declines without as much of a second glance at it, simply leaning into the doorway. “Ask your questions then, be quick about it.”

You take a second to take stock of him, to see if his pallor has improved after feeding. He seems exactly the same as the day before, only dressed in a different immaculate, silken garment. You wonder if he lied about where he went, but decide against wasting your questions on that– perhaps your dreams simply haven’t gotten you used to the nuances of vampires. Instead you start bluntly, “Your siblings acted quite strangely toward me. Why was that?”

His expression betrays nothing, his face implacable as he responds, “I’m afraid I’m not Dal or Petras, so I can’t provide you with a satisfying answer.” 

It’s not much to go off of, but you’re ready with your next question already. “It seems that I was rather closer to the spawn than I had previously thought. What was my relationship with them in my past-life?”

Now his facade cracks a bit, eyes narrowing with something you can’t quite place. “You were close,” is all that he provides.

“Close doesn’t seem to describe it all,” you say, stepping closer, growing bold with the fracture in his mask. “Dal was thankful for my return. What was she thankful for?”

He seems to want to step back, to retreat into his room, and you know you’re dangerously close to losing him again. His next words are more than a bit dodgy. “Likely for your wonderful presence back in her life. Though she likely wouldn’t have said that if she knew how forward you are in the mornings.”

You take his dig as an opening. “I’m only forward because I know how excited they were to see me. Petras said I would be able to help. I can't help until I know what they need help with.”

Astarion sighs, relenting infinitesimally to your badgering as he says, “Their minds are filled with delusions of… well, nothing of importance.”

“Delusions of what?”

“Nothing,” he says through gritted teeth. “And if you continue to bother me, consider this conversation over.”

You want to push more, follow with a chiding ‘Astarion’, like your past-self may have done. But you’re finding yourself wary, the tenuous bond you’re building is as brittle as an old piece of parchment. So you yield for now. “Alright. My apologies for prying. What would you like to do today then?”

The vampire noticeably regains his composure, and offers you a simple exercise for the day, “Shall we share some books we like?”

It’s no hard hitting truths or delving into secrets of the past, but you spend a better part of the day in the library with Astarion. He points out some of his favorites, which you note for your own reading leisure, and you share some of your own. While some of his interests are a bit out of your particular purview, your tastes are not dissimilar. You read more history than he does, he reads more thrillers, you both enjoy a good adventure book. 

Overall, the day doesn’t end with him running away from you, so you chalk it up as a win. 

That night, you dream of a past life where you were an innkeeper in a remote village. It came with plenty of downtime, and you spend the reverie reading a riveting tale of dragons and conquests. You try to recall every detail you can so that you can relay the story to Astarion come morning.

__

The next day, you decide to take the same approach: Start out strong, and see where that takes you for the rest of the day.

Again, he seems surprised to find you right outside his doorway. “My, aren’t you an impatient one. An early rise once again?”

You nod, smiling another winning smile. “I have more questions for you.”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, leaning on the door frame once more. “What are you plaguing me with today?”

After yesterday’s somewhat success, you decide to push a bit more on your past-self today. “So, the Hero’s Life is quite fascinating to me…”

“The what?” he all but chokes out. A laugh resembling a cough comes out next and Astarion continues with, “They wouldn’t have liked it being called that.”

“Sorry, it’s something of a shorthand for me,” you say, sheepishly. You realize that you’ve slipped up, but all the same you feel the need to find clarity, “But they were recognized as a hero, weren't they?”

Astarion seems loath to agree with that statement. Rather than answering you directly, he says, “They were a leader.” He shakes his head, thinking better of his statement. “No. They were… something special.”

The far-off tone to his voice indicates that you might be losing him. You hadn’t intended the conversation to go this way. Truth be told, you’d wanted his help to fill out some of the gaps of your knowledge. It seems like you won’t get much further with this line of thought today though, so you decide to move on for the day, “That they were. What should we do today?”

Almost startled out of his thoughts, the vampire turns to you, seeing you again as the mist clears. “Ah, yes, today. I do have some business to attend to. The colony simply can’t run on its own.” You nod, recalling some of the planning from his conversation with Dal and your own memories. “Would you– well, perhaps it’s too dull. Then again…” He gives you a quick once over. “Considering what you find interesting, you may even find it entertaining. Would you care to join me?”

That’s how you spend the rest of the day next to Astarion’s desk, pouring over papers and familiarizing yourself with the logistics of the colony. You learn about their shipping schedules, their attempts to get blood in the underground markets of Baldur’s Gate, their repair and maintenance plans. For anyone else, it may very well have been boring, but you find yourself enraptured, sharing suggestions with Astarion easily. 

In the evening, you hear knocking on the front doors. You can tell by his expression that Astarion knows immediately who it might be. “Ignore them,” he says. “I’ve already fed this week and the spawn are in a decent state. Better that they think no one is home.”

You decide not to mention the fact that the lights are clearly on in his house and nod in agreement. As you both get back to work, you wonder how often he rejects visitors– or perhaps if he’s rejecting them because he’s enjoying spending time with you. You decide not to let your pathetic little heart get ahead of your brain and settle on asking him next time someone comes calling.

By the end of the day, you almost feel like business partners, and, considering all of the sensitive information he’s shared with you, you certainly feel like he trusts you. It warms you so entirely that you’re surprised to find yourself crawling into bed with a smile. You can’t remember the last time that happened.

That night you dream of the Hero’s Life once more. Perhaps it was spending so much time in close quarters with Astarion, but the reverie is spent almost entirely in his arms. You talk of an upcoming adventure, make plans to pack the necessary supplies, unfurl a map of the Underdark as you discuss. The whole time his arms are wrapped around you, he’s placing delicate kisses along your neck, he nips at your sensitive pointed ears–it’s not long before all of the planning is pushed aside and he’s pressing you into the desk, his hands quick at work to undress you. 

The night is restful, but you wake up a bit embarrassed now that you’ve gotten to know the man. 

__

For your sixth day at the mansion, you try once more to press about the Hero’s Life. This time, you prepare your words a bit more carefully, hoping to avoid the pitfalls of the day before.

“Hello and good morning Astarion!” you say, walking up to his waiting form. He’s clearly caught on to your game, because this time he’s standing outside the door, arms crossed, leaning on the frame.

“Good morning to you too, darling,” he responds, a tight smile on his lips. “What do you plan on asking about today?”

No beating around the bush, not that you mind. After some consideration on what words might not trigger an immediate flight response, you offer him your carefully worded question. “Would you please tell me a bit more about my past-self?”

Astarion seems to take the question in stride, offering no immediate reaction. In the end, his response is short and stern, “No, I don’t particularly care to.”

You had expected such a response, and, more than anything, you’re just glad he hasn’t up and left yet. So you move on to your next question. “What about reading the journals of my past dreams? I could use some assistance on fleshing out the details.” 

Again, he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even hesitate when he says, “No.” Then as an afterthought he adds, “Thank you for the offer, though.”

You’ve tried being kind and patient, and, while you understand he doesn’t wish to rehash centuries of past pain, you refuse to accept two days with no real progress. As a result, you decide it’s alright to be the impatient young elf you truly are, even if just for a moment, “Then why did you invite me here? You seem uninterested in my memories, uninterested in discussing my past-self or their relationships, mentions of my life in Neverwinter bother you too. What are you interested in?”

Astarion sighs, likely having expected this line of questioning sooner or later– also likely annoyed that it came sooner. “Forget the past, it’s dead and buried now,” he says, pushing himself off the doorframe and beginning to walk toward the kitchen. “I’m rather enjoying getting to know someone new for the first time in… however many years. Let’s just keep doing that.”

You want to argue with him, explain to him that there’s no way of actually moving on until he confronts the hurt that’s settled around his heart like an impenetrable armor. But you’d already been so afraid of causing more pain, how can you justify reopening those old wounds? So you follow him to the kitchen, resigned to another day without genuine progress.

Turning back for a moment he does offer you a lifeline. “If you have something specific you’d like to ask about, I may be willing to entertain it. But I expect you to take no for an answer when you inevitably ruin my day.”

With the way he’s turned toward you, you can’t see most of his face and his voice remains placid throughout it all. You think he’s being genuine though, so you respond, “Okay, then. One question at a time. Thank you, Astarion.”

He gives you a noncommittal hum at that, and waves you along. “Come on, if you don’t have breakfast again, you’ll be cranky by midday.”

You want to be offended at the statement, but with two days without breakfast behind you, you decide against it. As you walk in silence, you consider a few burning questions that have been jostling around your brain for the past few days. Each will surely lead to a poor reception from Astarion, so you land on the question that’s been most bothering you in the past few weeks.

When you’re finally settled over a quick breakfast of oats, you look him straight in his deep ruby eyes and fire it off, “How did I die?”

Despite his relative composure with the previous questions, this one throws him off-balance. His red eyes widen, his mouth opens a bit, and you can all but see the unwelcome memories bursting to the forefront of his mind. You half-expect him to get up and leave without saying anything, but instead he takes a deep breath, drops his gaze, clenches and unclenches his fists on the table. Finally, he exhales through his nose and mutters, “I… I'm not ready to talk about that yet, if that’s alright.”

His voice comes out soft, almost a whisper you have to strain to hear. But he’s made an effort, one that you find easy to respect. “That’s perfectly alright,” you say, reaching a hand out, just shy of his own on the table. You’re afraid of touching him, yet thousands of dreams compel you to comfort him with a soft touch, a gentle caress. So you still offer. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready to listen.”

Astarion doesn’t meet your eyes now, though he notes your hand on the table. With a single finger he reaches out, tracing the line of one of your fingernails. “Thank you. You’re so… different. And yet. Similar.” He lifts his eyes back to yours and you see the struggle behind them clear as day. He’s made so much of these past few days look easy, his pain shoved away like a mere nuisance, but it’s been taking a toll on him all the same. “I should think I’d like to rest today, if that’s alright as well?”

What can you really do in the face of his struggles, if not care for him? So you agree. “Very well. I shall see you tomorrow?”

He nods, getting up from the table. “Yes, I shouldn’t need more rest than that.”

That’s how you spend your sixth day in the house alone again.

You don’t want to see this as a wasted day though– you know how little time you truly have with him. So you spend the day sending some messages. You have enough energy for about five messages, so you plan them out ahead of time. Two for Dalyria, one for Petras, one for Halsin, and one last one for your parents.

Your first message is to Dalyria, “Hello, it’s the reincarnated hero. Would you like to meet before I leave? I’m here until the end of the month.”

Her response is quick and efficient, clearly used to Sending spells. “Yes, let’s. Astarion shouldn’t know. He’s been difficult. Let me know when. Give me an hour to prepare. I’ll go to you.”

Having already prepared to use a second spell, you shoot the second off, “Will do. Thank you. For this and for believing me.”

You don’t expect her to respond, but she does a second later anyway. “Only a fool wouldn’t recognize the look in your eyes. Astarion can be a fool.”

Alone in your room, you laugh a little. You don’t have siblings, but you imagine that their relationship has truly changed into something resembling a sibling relationship after all this time. In order for their vampire society to work, they must have had to put aside a lot of past grievances, things said under the harsh rule of Cazador, all for the betterment of the rest of the spawn. 

It warms your heart a little to think that he wasn’t alone after losing your past-self, and you wish you could tell your soul as much. Alas, if it were that simple to settle the unease your previous life left behind, you would have done so by now. 

Instead, here you are, sending off a message to another one of Astarion’s siblings, Petras. “Hello Petras, it’s the reincarnated hero. I am meeting with Dal soon, but wanted to ask you what you wanted help with?”

It’s been abundantly apparent in a lot of your memories that Petras has never been the brains of the operation. While Astarion was willing to learn some basics of managing the colony, Petras has always been more of the odds and ends kind of contributor. It becomes even more apparent when he responds, and it’s obvious he’s not used to being a recipient of these messages. 

“Oh hello! It was good to meet you the other day, I’m glad you made it out alright. I was hoping that you could pick–” The message cuts off at the word limit, and you contemplate sending another or just waiting for your chance to speak with Dal. You figure you’ll speak with her next time Astarion goes to feed which should be in a few days at most.

So, in the end, you decide that your other messages take precedence. Your next one is to Halsin, “Hello Halsin, it’s the reincarnated hero. I’m with Astarion. He says hi. Do you know any details about my previous life’s death?”

Hasin’s responding message comes back a second later, warm, welcoming, and thought out. “Hello, my friend. Astarion didn’t provide much detail. All I know is they were on an adventure together. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

You write down what you’ve learned from your messages and move on to your last one: your parents. “Hello, all is well. I have a question. Is there a way to recall a past reverie? Love you.”

This time you messaged your father, your usual go-to on the nature of reveries. He responds a moment later, “Hello, glad you’re well. Not in particular. You could maybe try with a Detect Thoughts spell? But you’d need another wizard. Love you too.”

You nod to no one in particular, having thought as much before messaging him. There would be time for that later then.

Now that your messages are done, you decide to spend the rest of the night studying your magic. After all, if you continue a life with Astarion, danger would be around every corner.

That night your reverie comes easily, your mind seems used to the surroundings of the past now. You dream of a life where you were a mage– one of your favorites of your other lives for all of the knowledge they could impart. They were an enchanter and often created marvelous trinkets and items for the small town they lived in. Tonight you make a variety of enchanted items, and you note the spells you cast on each.

__

Astarion must have lied about only needing a day to recharge. You’re almost mad at yourself for not knowing better, but you believed what you wanted to believe. When he doesn’t appear at his door the next morning, you knock. No one responds.

He hadn’t gone off to the Underdark or Dal surely would have said something in her message. He didn’t seem to be hiding in the bathroom or the library. You’re honestly not sure how much more you’re willing to play these games of hide and seek when you find him sitting in the kitchen, exactly where you last saw him.

“Hello,” he says, once you appear in the kitchen entryway. “I was up a bit early today.”

“I can see that,” you say, heading to the pantry. You’re running on the last of your supplies now that the week is coming to an end. You’ll need to get some more food tomorrow, but at least you know how to make it less of a journey this time. “Are you feeling better today?”

“Much,” Astartion replies, though the smile he gives you isn’t quite convincing. Something about the way he’s sitting, too straight, the way he’s breathing, too shallow, the way he watches you, too cautious– it all tells you that something’s not quite right still. 

More than nervous, it feels like he’s on edge. But he’s trying his best, so you decide to try your best too. “That’s good. Are you ready for another question?”

“Yes,” he says, tone pure practiced confidence. “Regale me with it.”

You sit in front of him with a prepared plate of dried fruit and nuts. You’d prepared what you thought would be an easier question. “What happened to some of your other companions?”

“Let’s start with one,” he says, wincing a bit at the question. Painful, but not as bad as yesterday’s question, clearly.

After chewing a bit of fruit thoughtfully, you reach a hand forward, available for comfort. Then you pick, “How about Karlach?”

“Well, she died before your past life did,” he says, as if you should know this already.

“I know,” you say between bites. “But I didn’t see it or learn about it. Only felt the sadness, I remember talking through it with you, but we didn’t speak of any details.”

While you’d told him you’d had gaps in your memories, he apparently had either not believed you or not realized the extent of the gaps. Because he looks at you now like you may as well be a fraud. “What?”

“A lot of my reveries were, well… focused on you. And our time together,” you say, suddenly finding the statement embarrassing. You’d told him so in the dungeons, but something about saying it in the middle of the day in the man’s kitchen makes you feel a bit awkward about it. “I’m not sure why that’s the case, but it does mean that I didn’t get to see much of what happened with the others.”

He looks at you, his already pale face somehow losing more of its pallor. “I see.” 

A few seconds of silence pass between you, both of you lost in your respective thoughts. It’s not until you’re biting down on an almond that Astarion speaks again.

“When you said I was your every dream and thought– you weren’t exaggerating were you?” You shake your head in response and he continues. “So how much would you say is ‘a lot’ of your reveries?”

Once again, you’re a bit embarrassed to respond, but you know you must so that he understands. “I think the current count is somewhere around 11,000 reveries.”

The magnitude of your statement sits between you again. The idea that you had lived years worth of reveries with him while he’d only known you for a week is clearly affecting him. You’re not sure what to say to make him feel better– really you’re glad he’s finally facing the truth of it. So you continue to eat your breakfast, waiting for him to process.

After some time he speaks up again. “Karlach died doing what she did best. It was a fight, of course– did you know she kept fighting until each of her bones ached from age? We told her she should stop eventually, settle down somewhere, live a calmer life. But no, that would never suit her, would it?”

You shake your head in agreement, smiling at the thought of the elderly tiefling wielding a massive ax as if it weighed no more than a feather. “That makes sense, she would rather die than stop moving.”

He smiles back at you, calmer now that you’ve gotten past some of the awkwardness. “She really would.”

“I guess you all would,” you say, recalling some of the adventures your past-self had had with Astarion. “I wonder if my own soul is so restless as a result.”

You had been trying to make a lighthearted observation, especially considering how the call of the Underdark was so strong for you, but Astarion doesn’t seem to appreciate the statement. Eyes wide, a bit of panic in them, he says, “Then we ought to find a way to quiet that restlessness.”

You tilt your head at him, confused. “Aren’t you going out and about, defending the spawn and fighting still?”

“Yes,” he says, carefully. “But I don’t expect you to– in fact, don’t you have something protective you can cast on yourself? A Mage Armour or some other warding spell?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t exactly expect to encounter any danger while I’m–”

“Prepare it tomorrow,” he demands. “Prepare it every day. You’re far too– too soft to go without.”

You bristle at that insult. It’s like being called pampered again, and you are getting tired of being treated like some child. “I am not soft. I’ve lived through enough lives to understand how to take care of myself. I don’t need you of all people coddling me.” He opens his mouth to speak, and you impulsively grab his hand on the table to stop him. “No. You know better than anyone that I have the memories of your past love. They faced dangers unlike those of any other and made it through. I shall do the same.”

He snaps at that, ripping his hand out of your grasp. “You shouldn’t speak of things you don’t know about.” His nostrils flare, and he may as well be breathing fire with the burning in his eyes. “Don’t you… dare speak as if you lived their life. You are soft and until you understand that, we won’t be getting anywhere.”

In a single spinning motion, he leaves you at the kitchen table once more. The familiar feeling of being left here is starting to wear on you, and you hang your head over your breakfast plate in defeat.

You’d been too rash, taken the words too personally. But he’d been too harsh, too set on seeing you as a babbling babe. So you sit at the table, finishing your breakfast in silence as you replay the conversation back in your head, over and over again. And somehow, despite all that transpired between you, your mind keeps pulling back to the feel of his hand in yours. How cool it had been, how right it had felt. You wonder if you’ll be able to hold it once more, perhaps under better circumstances.

You spend the rest of the day in a stupor. You try to read one of the books Astarion recommended, but find that the words swim before your eyes. You try to practice magic, but find none of your spells taking form. Eventually you decide to lay in bed and write down your thoughts in a personal journal entry– something you haven’t attempted in years.

I’ve spent almost seven days in Astarion’s house, learning to live with him. It’s been an odd time, but I think I understand who he is a bit better now. He gets upset whenever I ask about the past. I don’t know whether sating my curiosity is worth it anymore, but I also know that I can’t build a new relationship with him until we face the past. Or at least he does. I’m hoping that next week proves more productive, because time is running out. Maybe I should use magic to get through to him. Maybe I should try holding his hand again, that was nice that may be helpful. Whatever I do, I hope he doesn’t run away again. I’m starting to feel like a bloodhound.

They bore into you, and distantly, you recall seeing such a pair before. Before you can piece it together, you feel your body pushed down to the ground.

Am I in danger? You think, staring at the night sky above you, trying to reconcile all of the sensations that are assaulting you at once: The grass beneath your bare back, the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, the fresh scent of bergamot with underlying notes you can’t yet place. What–

Another thought never forms, because suddenly a pair of cold hands grip your hips. Their careful, light fingers trace up each of your sides, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake, and land at rest on either side of your chest. A man comes into view above you, curly silver hair haloed by the moon’s glow. He’s beautiful, of that much you’re certain, but he also evokes a deep angry feeling in your present-day mind. You would focus on that feeling, tracking it down to its source, if only you could find the headspace. 

Your past-self is driving this memory though and their emotions are overwhelming you. When they see him, perched above, they chuckle, low and sultry. “Don’t hold back on me.” Feelings of longing, desire crash over you, leaving you reeling from their force.

Oh , you think to yourself. I’m not in any danger at all. This isn’t new to you, and despite how odd it is, it’s not entirely unpleasant– especially compared to other memories you’ve had. So you relax into the experience, allowing yourself to feel what your past-self might have felt in the moment and learn what you can, you suppose.

The man above you gives a deep groan and, in a voice you swear you recognize, says, “Oh darling, be careful what you wish for.”

A second later his mouth is on yours, your lips and bodies begin moving together in a rhythmic dance that stokes a fire burning deep in your chest, igniting a fire that burns lower. It’s difficult for you to tell where your emotions end and your previous self’s begin as the kiss deepens. A second later, his teeth nip at your lips in a playful tease, and a part of you wants him to stop teasing and just bite.

You feel your neck crane, an invitation. He looks at you, as if asking permission for something. Your mouth says, “I said don’t hold back.”

The man, an elf now that you’ve gotten a better look at him, growls. It rumbles through him, into you, and it's near primal in its urgency. An odd flutter of fear courses through both you and your past-self before he lowers himself and bites your outstretched neck.

Nevermind, I might be in danger, you think, as you feel a pair of fangs pierce your neck, a sharp intake of breath passing your lips. But you find that your body doesn’t mind, that, even as blood is sucked out of your veins, your body is aching for this man, hands grasping at his back, mouth moaning into his hair with abandon. A bloody vampire is suckling at your neck, and you’re finding… enjoyment out of it?

The vampire seems to be enjoying this just as much as you are, each deep draw of blood eliciting another tantalizing sound deep from his chest. The sounds send tingles down your spine, have your fingers clenching his shoulder blades, his sides, his hair, in a frantic attempt to find purchase.

It’s pure pleasure coursing through your past-self into your present self. But this moment, where the man is clearly feeding off of you, brings to you a new sense of clarity and a few obvious facts. This man is a vampire and your past-self seems intimately knowledgeable about this. He must be the same silver-haired man from all of those years ago. And he is just as deadly as you were afraid of.

You will your past-self to shove, to fight him off, whatever it takes– That they could shake off whatever compulsion he was using. But you know that there’s no point, the past is the past, and you’re just as lost in their emotions as they are.

So deeper he drinks, and you feel your head growing lighter and lighter, the burning in your belly a mixture of your own anger and your body’s uninhibited lust. I will die here, you think. Because this version of me is a fool.

Before you can resign yourself to death, the man detaches himself from your neck, panting heavily. Each puff of breath feels like a welcome relief on your burning skin. Clearly, even blood loss wouldn’t quench the searing heat his touch leaves behind. His tongue laps at your neck, and your body shakes at the sensation, acutely feeling the long line he follows. 

“Delicious,” he murmurs into your neck. His lips press a trail of cool kisses up your neck and along your jaw. Once he’s lifted himself back above you, you see the full view of his blood-stained lips, his wicked fangs gleaming bright white in contrast. 

You feel your own lips curl into a smile, and you want to slap yourself. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll still run, realize that life is worth living. But no– your past-self is busy placing their hands on either side of his face, bringing his lips back down into a crushing, bloody kiss.

There’s no point in reason here, you realize, as a deep desperation overtakes every other emotion. You don’t think you’ve felt any other emotion as singularly as this one. His hands lift your hips for him, before coming to rest on the undersides of your butt. Your lips break away from his and he gives you a low chuckle, before he says, “My, my, I knew you wanted this, darling, but aren’t you an eager thing?”

Before you can answer, he’s squeezing your backside, tugging at your thighs, angling your body for him in a way that leaves your insides squirming. You feel him, hard, pressed against you, and hear a soft sigh escape his lips.

The sound causes you to focus, to look into his deep, crimson eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that they rather see past you. Your hand traces along the line of his jaw in an altogether too delicate touch, perhaps your past-self sees the same thing you do. It doesn’t last long, because he’s moving against you a moment later.

The sensation is overwhelming to both of your bodies– you swear you can see stars. Despite the moment of pause, your past self seems more preoccupied with coming undone. Their back arches, muscles straining to keep up with the man’s relentless pace. They exhale a shuddering breath and you can feel your emotions reach a fever pitch.

The memory cuts out for a moment and when you return to it, you find yourself gasping for air. “A-a-a,” your mouth starts, unable to finish a single word in its addled state. A whimper leaves your lips that sounds utterly obscene to your own ears.

“Don’t be shy now, darling,” he pants into your ear. “Let everyone know who has you screaming, begging for more.”

Sheer emotion floods you, and your grasp on the reverie slips. The last thing you register before you’re forcibly shut from your dream is your past-self crying out a name. “Astarion!” 

You snap out of your trance, breathing hard. Your cheeks are flushed, your body can feel all of the lingering aches. Never in your 18 years of living through past memories have you had one like this and it leaves you feeling deeply embarrassed– as if you’ve intruded on a memory that wasn’t meant to be yours.

It wasn’t having a lover that surprised you– you’d dreamt about several of those. It was uncomfortable enough to be a teenager, but adding on previous lifetimes of love, awkwardness and puberty felt like a different type of torture. Luckily they were all just that: awkward and gawky and not at all something you enjoyed. You’d leave those dreams miffed, a wasted night of learning what? Fumbling fingers and sloppy kisses?

But no, tonight’s was different. And that bothered you even more.

Your past-self surrendered entirely to him, their body and soul at his whim. Even in the deepest throes of passion, you could feel their desperation– the desire to lose themselves completely in this moment of pleasure. It didn't feel like love. It felt like survival. Who was this man, this Astarion, that he would elicit such emotion? And who were you, to feel this lost?

__

After that night, you dream of him constantly. A few of your trances are similar, leaving you hot and uncomfortable, wondering who exactly this man was to you. It didn’t feel like love, rather a simple release. Other dreams, you find yourself wanting to gag from his over-the-top flirting, crude jokes, and just plain idiotic banter. Most of it is mundane though, memories you wouldn't normally get from past lives–  Days where you’re just walking and talking. The man, Astarion, almost seems… normal at times.

At first, you’re annoyed, why are your reveries suddenly so focused on this one man? Why is your past-self incapable of seeing him for the monster that he seems to be? And what was the point of these useless little dreams– to humanize him?

Amidst these frustrating memories, you do seem to open the floodgates for other moments from this life. Aside from your clear obsession with this vampire, you find your past self to be quite fascinating. They have so much knowledge for you, about all types of new things and new people.

Months pass and you grow to enjoy the memories of this past life. You look forward to them, as long as it’s not all about Astarion. As you’re documenting what transpires, you realize that you might have been someone really, truly important. You find yourself wishing that your other lives would take a break, that they would leave you dreaming of this life for as long as you can.

Aside from the annoying vampire, you dream of other companions, learn their names. There’s Shadowheart, that’s who was in the first memory you received– a follower of Shar or maybe it was Selune? You learn of Wyll, apparently some kind of famous Baldurian hero, and, of Karlach, a fearsome looking tiefling woman. A githyanki woman called Lae’zel shocks you the most. You’d never seen a githyanki before seeing her, so every time you dream of her is a thrill. There’s a wizard named Gale. You almost think you recognize that name, but shoo the thought away after a bit. Surely anyone who wasn’t an elf would be dead by now. 

There is one elf among the group, other than the vampire, a druid named Halsin. If this particular lifetime wasn’t too far in the past, perhaps he could shed some more light on who you were. You make a note of it on one of your papers. Your parents have warned you against learning too much of your previous lives, but it wouldn’t hurt to investigate a tiny bit, right?

But even with this colorful cast of heroes from around Faerun, your mind keeps coming back to this silver-haired vampire. The dreams of him are the most vivid. They leave you breathless, jolting you out of your trances in various states of distress, delight, and desire.

You wish you could shake your past-self. Why are you so focused on this dangerous man? He’s manipulating you! you wish you could yell. But you can’t, all you can do is experience this life second hand, and watch as your former self deeply intertwines with him. If there’s one thing this life is teaching you, it’s that you know better than them. You’re smarter than them, and, while you’re learning plenty of the world through their eyes, you will take none of their lessons in love.