#spawnovember

Astarion always wakes just before sunset. Never with an alarm, never late. It’s as if the sky itself whispers his name when the light fades.

He can’t sleep in silence. There’s always a candle burning, a clock ticking, a sound - something alive. Absolute quiet unsettles him.

When he cleans his weapons, he hums softly. It’s not a melody anyone recognizes; maybe something he made up. Maybe something from before.

Astarion has found himself a small hobby. He collects scents. Once, after completing a contract to slay some monster, he spent all his reward money on new fragrances crafted by renowned perfumers.

During his travels as a hero through distant lands, he often speaks with herbalists and seeks out new, unusual scents on his own. Clay, plain little weeds with peculiar aromas, rare woods - the world is full of smell

In every region and city his adventures lead him to, Astarion finds a favorite place - a quiet park or a busy street where he can watch countless people going about their lives. Over time, he’s created his own personal map marking the spots he loves, the dull ones, and those that reek horribly. He could easily sell it as a tourist guide.

He also has separate, detailed opinions about the inns where he sometimes stayed for a day or two. He has met many innkeepers: a stout man who spoke with the volume of ten people, an elderly woman as quiet as the gentlest cat. Each place had its own story and style of service, which Astarion carefully recorded in his journal for future reference.

Astarion refuses to sleep in beds with plain sheets. He carries his own, always made of silk, neatly folded in a black case. “Some indulgences,” he says, “are non-negotiable.”

He collects local sayings. Half the time he doesn’t understand them, but he enjoys repeating them dramatically at the wrong moments.

"I suppose there is a chance."

"And if there's a chance, no matter how small"

"I'm going to take it."

"And it would mean setting off on another adventure together."

"With everything life has to offer."

--

In the quiet between the sussur trees.

The graveyard is appropriately silent... yet

It’s about Astarion’s reaction to the possibility of Tav/Durge surprising him with a ring that would allow him to withstand the sun. <3

SpawnNovember — Returning to The Sun

At first, he simply wouldn’t believe it. He’d even get angry with Tav, because joking about other people’s misfortunes is fun — but about his own? Absolutely not. “I’m warning you, darling: there are wounds you don’t use as fodder for a charming evening.”

Tav would have to insist quite a bit to be taken seriously, because for Astarion, hope has always been something dangerous — something his master exploited only to watch him suffer the moment it was ripped away. Not to mention that giving up the sun for a second time had already been hard enough, but a third? Unbearable.

And even after giving Tav the benefit of the doubt, Astarion would still treat the situation lightly, as if to keep himself from hoping too much. He’d probably mask the surge of genuine emotion and spontaneous desire to believe with his usual irony — a sly smile, a sarcastic quip, perhaps even pretending to examine the ring as if judging a piece of cheap trinket jewelry. Something like:

“Oh, of course. Because nothing says eternal love quite like turning your partner into a human torch. Truly romantic. Are wedding bands out of fashion these days, or what?”

When he finally tried it, and sunlight touched his skin without burning, I imagine Astarion would go still. Completely frozen. For long moments unable even to make a sound, a tight knot in his throat and a crushing wave of emotion pressing against his chest. His hands might twitch, as though unsure whether to shield his face or reach for more light. His voice, when it came, would be softer, less certain than Tav had ever heard it before. Fractured.

The first ray of sunlight touched his skin. There was no pain. No scorching, no burning. Only warmth. Soft, enveloping, almost tender.

Astarion froze, stifling a gasp when another shaft of light brushed his cheek. He also fought the automatic, ancient instinct to shield himself from it. Yes, he was afraid — of getting hurt, of burning: a memory etched into his skin, his muscles, into every cell of his vampiric body. And of waking up to find this was nothing but a dream.

He trembled at the thought and closed his eyes under the beam of light, savoring that pleasant warmth for long, undeniable moments. He wasn’t burning. And it was real. All of it. His eyes stung.

He didn’t want to cry. Not here, not with Tav watching from a distance. He clenched his jaw; his fingers trembled imperceptibly. He took another step — heavy, exhausting — until he was bathed in the full light of day. It was almost too much: every shade, every color, every sensation seemed to overwhelm his senses.

“It’s… warm,” he murmured, his voice breaking with a thread of disbelief and joy.

Astarion couldn’t stop trembling. He heard Tav’s footsteps draw near, but didn’t turn to look; and when he felt the other’s arms wrap around him, he wasn’t surprised. Nor did he pull away.

“This is where you belong. And this,” said Tav, tightening the embrace. "This is where I belong.”

The contact broke him. All the resistance, the forced composure, the ready quips… shattered. And through the jagged cracks, those words seeped in and filled them. In response, Astarion’s hands clutched Tav’s back tightly, his face buried in the hollow of their neck. The first tear was a silent surrender; the next came louder, short but unstoppable, as if a dam had burst.

He didn’t cry for the sun alone. He cried for the years stolen, for the days never lived, for the impossible miracle of feeling alive again. And, above all, for the fact that — at least in that moment — he wasn’t alone. He belonged. And someone belonged to him.

Devider by @saradika-graphics! Thank you very much! <3

Unfortunately this month hasn't been great for me so I haven't contributed much, but SpawNovember is such a fun event and it's been so cool to see what people have created! I love this community! (Thank you @oona-radiant-hopeful for organizing this!) I wanted to at least contribute a little something, even if I didn't have a plan. This piece turned out almost like a poem, given the style. A little rambly and experimental, but it's what came to mind when I thought of the prompt.

(Week four: The Graveyard)

‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿‿̩͙‿

Portrait Of A Graveyard

How many times had Astarion died? How many graves might bear his name? First there was the boy: Astarion. He had gone by a softer name, then, now forgotten. Some affectionate diminutive that suited the child's round face and bright, grey eyes. He was a dancing of silver light like morning sun through leaves. He died slowly, as summer dies and fades into the autumn of adulthood. There was Astarion the man, magistrate of Baldur's Gate. He walked with his head high, clothes sharp and tongue sharper. The dreams of the child hardened into the ambitions of the man, wild curls tamed and styled with a careful touch. His ashen eyes still shone with belief in the world—in himself. He died bloodless in the arms of a monster. Then there was Astarion the vampire spawn. The slave. Huddled in the corner of a kennel with a putrid rat clasped to his mouth as if in prayer, eyes bleeding red. Eternally colder than the steel chains that bit into his wrists. Eternally hungrier than the gazes of the people he was made to charm. He was an unwilling ferryman ushering them in endless parade across the river of death. That man died in the silence of a coffin. It was perhaps his truest death, for then there was no Astarion. Only a useable facsimile, a ghost dragged from a stone box and made to feign life again. And how well he pretended, for so long. He did not die, for dead things cannot die.

Suddenly unbound and blind in the sunlight, that ghost forced on the mask of Astarion the adventurer. Astarion the rogue. Astarion the man being pulled in two by a heart that dared to start beating again. He sought to live, truly live, through whatever violence he must. He was still that ghost desperate to be solid again. To touch the world. To feel and not just hurt. He didn't realize at first when he started doing so all on his own. On the lips of those who loved him, his name sounded like that of a living man again. The darkest, agonized, most afraid piece of Astarion died weeping as it stabbed that old monster to death. Died when the blade slipped from his hand. Now, there is Astarion. At last, just Astarion. Astarion who could be a hero, a leader, or anything he chose.

Astarion watched all those men who carried his name as they lay to rest one by one, and realized that he was himself a graveyard. There was a time when he would have hated the dead men within him—spat on the slave's grave and sneered at the naivety of the child. There were times when he couldn't even face the looming figures of these grave markers, in shame and fear and grief. Times when he refused to accept that they were all still part of him, that dead things cannot die.

Now, he tenderly brushes dead willow leaves from the headstones, and cares for the pale flowers that grow like a bed of stars around them. He lays his palm upon the stone and prays to no god but himself that each of him rests peacefully. He does it even on hard nights when cold rain saturates the grave soil and color drains from the garden. While friends can visit and place blossoms on the graves in remembrance and love, they cannot not do this work for him.

Astarion hasn't feared death for a long time, but for the first time in an age, he doesn't fear life, either. He is sure Astarion will die again, just as he is sure he will live again. Again, many times over. And what greater freedom is there than the ability to be reborn? To choose who he will be the next time he claws out of the grave? Undeath is his art, and he is a portrait of a graveyard in bloom.