#post-campaign

Sky clenched her hands into shaking fists, then released them. Then she held her own hand, wringing it like a wet cloth. “Everything’s wrong,” she eventually whispered, “This…I…” She turned slightly, but didn’t dare face him all the way. Her eyes darted at him, but meeting his patient grey eyes threatened to plunge her into an even deeper pool of guilt. So she glanced away. Shakily she started over, “We’ve been…seeing each other for a while now. You even followed me here from the last tavern I helped set up. But…”

Tristan took a small step towards her, and after a moment of heavy silence prompted, “…But?”

Sky released her hands with a sharp sigh. “We can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep doing this.”

“This?” Tristan gestured between the two of them with a frown. “Why not? Did something happen?”

“N-No! I—” Sky met his eyes briefly, then tore away again. He didn’t deserve this. She threw her hands over her head and clutched it with a groan, “It’s just…I’m scared, Tristan. Because I—I just know I’m going to hurt you.” Her voice shrank. “Just like I hurt everyone else. S-so it would be better if you left. For your own sake. I—”

She started to open the door, but Tristan summoned a spectral Mage Hand with a whistle to gently push it back closed. His faint purple magic shimmered with an ethereal chime. Sky watched it twinkle through tears she desperately held back, not daring to look Tristan’s way as he walked over.

“I’m not gonna leave, Sky. What makes you think I will? Or should?”

“Do you remember me talking about Satoru?”

“Your cleric friend from Lyrrha?”

Sky nodded. “When I told him about…about what was at stake in Eidolus…he left. He ran.”

“Didn’t you say he came back eventually?”

“Yeah, eventually, but…he still ran first. I hurt him, by telling him the truth, and he ran.”

“Did your friends run? Your brothers?”

Sky clutched the doorknob tighter, a grieving glaze of frost blooming from her palm across the metal. “No, but they—”

Tristan took another step. “Have you ever hurt any of them? Even with just your lightning?”

“Yeah, but they—”

“Sky.” He placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The only marks on his hand were the calluses from plucking lute strings, but there was still a determined firmness in it as he gently directed her to turn towards him. “I’m not gonna leave you,” he repeated. “I’m not scared about you hurting me. You probably will; you’re more powerful than I could ever dream of being. And I’ll probably hurt you at points; I’m not perfect. No one is. But we’re both trying, and as long as we’re trying together, that’s what counts.”

Sky kept her gaze down, watching frost grow and melt beneath her feet as her heart and mind argued furiously: her mind racing for reasons and excuses to let him go and her heart shutting down every single one. 

Tristan remained silent for a moment, then huffed a small laugh. “Did I ever tell you why I traveled around so much, before meeting you?” he asked.

Sky blinked, and glanced up enough to look at his arm. No scars ever marred his fair skin, unlike the innumerable ones that marked hers. She frowned and shook her head.

Tristan tilted his head and mused, “To be honest, I don’t think I realized this until recently. But…I think I was looking for something. I was looking for a muse…and a home.” His voice grew low and soft, barely above a whisper. “And I finally found it.”

“This inn?” Sky frowned.

Gently Tristan lifted Sky’s chin with a finger until their eyes finally met. A soft, longing smile touched his eyes. “You. So please don’t make me lose it.”

Sky’s heart dropped as much as it soared. Fear and hope fought into hot tears…until eventually she let the fear go. She let it melt into the thawing frost at her feet.

Tristan’s eyes danced between Sky’s eyes and her lips, silently asking permission.

And with a tip of her head upwards until her lips met his, she gave it.

———

For this week’s prompt courtesy of @flashfictionfridayofficial!

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I come in?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Generally.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And nothing. He never replied.” 

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

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

“Thought what?” he prompts gently. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

“I got a job!”

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

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

“So it’s a bounty?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, darling.”

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.” 

“Do you need to?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

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

He restarts his count. 

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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