#taveleigha

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57464338

I have rewritten this story. I really hits on depression and how sometimes it is a beast to defeat. I really do hope you enjoy it. It also touches on very personal difficutlies

For those that do not have access to AO3: Tav's Nightmare

She twitched in her sleep, a fleeting tremor that betrayed the war still raging in her mind. He felt it—the tension coiling in her muscles, the unease pressing against him even as she slumbered. With a quiet sigh, he pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest. Skin to skin, no barriers between them. A novelty. A revelation. He had spent centuries recoiling from touch, shrinking away from warmth like it was something alien, unbearable. But here—like this—he wanted it. Needed it. Her breath ghosted against his skin, each exhale a whisper against his ribs, grounding him. The weight of her draped over him, legs tangled, her arm resting lazily at his waist. Perfect. He was at peace for the first time in two hundred years.

And yet, she was not.

The irony wasn’t lost on him; his mind was quiet, while hers was unravelling. Ever since Cazador, her nights had worsened. The nightmares, the memories—those didn’t scare him. What did was the way she had withdrawn. Her silence. The distance she placed between herself and the world, between herself and him. Their companions had noticed too. Karlach, Gale—watchful eyes, worried murmurs.

Astarion had never known how to comfort. Never been anyone’s steady foundation. But for her, he would try. He was no knight in shining armour, no hero to sweep her away to a fairytale ending. He had no illusions about that. He was not the kind of man who could fix things with a kiss and call it love. But he was hers—the man she had chosen—and that still left him breathless, overwhelmed in a way he barely understood. And yet, with each passing day, he grew more comfortable in that truth. She had never been an easy read, her trust hard-earned, her emotions a guarded thing. He had spent months learning her, peeling back the layers of a closed book, reading her story page by page. And in her eyes—the only place she never truly hid—he had seen everything. Pain, loss, the weight of a lifetime’s worth of sorrow. But now, there was something else. Something growing.

A fire.

Not the kind that burned everything down, not the kind he had spent years fearing. No—this flame was hers. It flickered in the way she looked at him, the way she stood beside him, the way she fought for him. He had seen it the night she silenced that damned Drow, standing unwaveringly at his side, her magic humming in her blood.

“He gave you his answer,” she had said, crushing the potion in her fist, letting it fall uselessly to the ground. It was then he had realised—his simple plan had unravelled. The war inside him had settled. He no longer wanted her as a conquest. No longer wanted her as a mark. He wanted her.

All of her.

And he had known, truly, without doubt, when he saw her fall at Moonrise. When she stood tall beside him against Cazador, magic burning through her veins, her body weakening from its toll. He had known when she threw herself in front of those necrotic claws and crumpled, when he felt the world threaten to shatter around him.

He had wanted power once, for himself, for survival. Now, he only wanted it for her, to protect her. But the look in her eyes when he turned away from ascension—the pride, the quiet acceptance—had been worth everything. A life in the shadows, in the unknown, as long as she was there. So, if she needed him now—if she needed someone to be steady, to be constant—he would learn how. She had carried him through his darkest moments. Now, it was his turn.

He tightened his hold on her, pressing a kiss to her hair, letting his eyes close. She had been quiet for a while. Maybe—just maybe—her mind had quieted too.

"Run, Tavi, run!" Her mother's voice ripped through the chaos, frantic, urgent. Smoke choked the night sky, turning the horizon into a nightmare of shifting orange and black. Tavi's breath came in sharp bursts, her vision blurring as tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

"Tavi!" And then, her mother was there—her hands firm, pushing her away, shoving her toward escape. Toward survival. The village burned behind her. Home—the only home she'd ever known—gone.

Tavi ran.

Her lungs burned. Her muscles snapped tight with each desperate stride. She could feel the fire in her blood, every nerve screaming at her to go faster, to get away. See danger. Run from it. Do not engage. Do not fight. Run. That was how she survived—how she was supposed to survive. She ran until the flames disappeared behind her, until the glow on the horizon faded into nothing. Darkness swallowed her whole, the forest pressing in from all sides. Her steps slowed. She turned back.

"Mum?" Her voice cracked in the stillness. Nothing. Maybe she had fallen behind—she wasn’t as fast, not like Tavi. Not spry like a full elf. "Mum?"

Silence.

The fear hit her chest like a blade. "Mum?" Her voice rose, desperate, panicked. "Mum? Mum? MUM!" Her legs buckled. She collapsed forward, trembling, her breath ragged. No, no, no, not alone, please. Not alone. But the truth was already curling into her gut. Her mother had pushed her away. Had saved her. And she was gone.

The memory fractured. Glass shattering in all directions.

Tavi was not in the forest anymore.

She was standing on the porch of her home. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, barely holding her together. Her partner—no, her ex-partner—was leaving. Walking away, never looking back.

Because of her.

She was crying, shaking, calling for the only comfort she had ever known. "Mum?" The word felt foreign now, childish, broken. She sank to her knees, gasping through the sobs clawing at her throat. "Mummy."

A Tenday. That’s all it had taken. She had lost her unborn child. She had lost them. "Mummy." She fell sideways into herself, curling up, crushing her arms against her stomach, trying to hold in the grief. But it spilled out anyway, raw and relentless. Even her magic refused to answer her call.

Another shift.

She was walking now, down an unfamiliar road. The city loomed ahead, indistinct in the haze of time. She didn’t know what day it was. What month. What year. She only had a purpose. A small one. But a purpose, nonetheless.

Tonight was the night. Tonight, she would have her answers. She wore simple traveling clothes. Her hair hung loose—why bother pulling it up? No one was waiting for her. No one would care. She had no home to return to. No one expecting her. The world was too bright. Too dark. Too empty. She just had to get to the top of the tower. That was all that mattered.

Pain.

Restriction.

Was someone screaming? Was she screaming?

She couldn’t move.

A reptilian woman filled her vision—too close, her face sharp, calculating. Tavi struggled, but it was useless. The pressure held her still.

Then—searing agony.

The tadpole forced into her eye.

The rows of teeth.

She blacked out.

She woke in light. Too bright, too harsh, stabbing into her skull like a blade.

Her head throbbed. The scent of burning twisted in her nostrils. No, no, no—not again.

Mum. Mum. Mummy! Tavi stumbled upright, heart hammering. But it wasn’t her village. It wasn’t the raid. It was a crash site. The wreckage of a nautiloid. A dark-haired woman lay unconscious nearby. She moved toward her—

Flash of silver. Cold metal against her throat. She fell back, breath forced from her lungs, her body hitting the ground hard.

The blade pressed closer, sharp and unyielding. A silver-haired elf loomed over her, grip tight, fury burning in his gaze. "I saw you on that ship," he snapped. The blade pressed harder. "Nod." She did. Mechanically. "Good," he muttered. "Now—what the hells did you do to me?"

The Emerald Grove. The Tieflings. The goblins.

The Underdark. The Shadow-Cursed Lands.

Moonrise. The Absolute.

Ketheric. The Chosen Three.

Myrkul. The Guardian.

Cazador!

Tavi gasped, bolting upright. Her eyes darted around, wild, disoriented. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Where—where was she?

Breath. Steady breath against her skin. Warmth.

The Elfsong. Her bed.

Astarion’s chest beneath her cheek. He was trancing, still, peaceful.

She let out a shuddering breath, the tension draining, just a little. But then—He will leave eventually. You know this. The voice was back. Had it ever truly left? She knew it was fading—knew that every conversation with Astarion made it weaker—but tonight, it had returned.

Her malicious self. Her true self. You bring nothing but death. Making decisions for everyone else. She squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to listen. But the words lingered, curling at the edges of her mind, whispering truths she had spent so long trying to forget.

No! He loves me.

Tavi clasped her hands over her ears, pressing hard, trying to drown out the words clawing at her mind.

But has he said it? Her breath caught. No. He hadn’t said it. She loved him—by all the pantheons, she loved him with every fibre of her being. She would die for him. She had, against Cazador.But the voice was relentless.

You destroy everything you touch. Your father abandoned you, disgusted by your mixed blood. Your mother left, dying just to rid herself of you.

No. Stop it. She died to save me. She told me to run.

And you ran. The only thing you’re good at.

Tavi stood abruptly, snatching up a shirt—uncertain if it was his or hers—pulling it over her head. Rosemary and bergamot filled her senses. Astarion. His scent surrounded her, grounding her, but only for a moment. Her gaze flicked downward. He was still deep in trance, unmoving, untouched by her storm. She turned toward the ladder.

Running again. No surprise there. She ignored it. Forced herself forward. The latch creaked under her hand as she pushed up onto the tavern roof.

The night stretched wide, stars scattered like broken glass across the sky. The breeze carried salt and smoke from the docks, cool against her skin. She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself—not just for warmth, but for containment.

The voice slithered back in. Stupid, worthless girl. You should have perished with your mother. Then none of this would have happened. Shadowheart would be a Justiciar. Wyll wouldn’t be a devil. Karlach wouldn’t have a life sentence. Lae’zel wouldn’t be running from her Queen. And Astarion—your beloved Astarion—he would be ascended.

NO. No, stop it. Stop it. Stop it. The words caught in her throat, barely whispered. She turned her back on the voice, gripping the edges of her skull, pressing her palms hard against her ears, eyes squeezed shut.

But it was forming.

She could feel it.

A presence coiling in the shadows, stretching out from the corners of her mind—waiting. Watching. Waiting.

It breathed against her neck. It whispered through her bones.

You kept him weak. So, he wouldn’t leave you. You kept him low, kept him chained, so he wouldn’t realize how worthless you are. Just a lost little elf girl. Too weak for him. Too weak for anyone.

Tavi trembled. No. No, I never…

Tick tock. It’s almost over. There have been no talks of ‘after,’ have there? He isn’t going to bring it up. He won’t be yours beyond the battle. You deny him his freedom. You deny him his life in the sun. Keeping him buried with you in the shadows. Selfish little bitch.

She straightened. The tears on her cheeks felt distant, meaningless. Numb. Numb she could do.

She walked toward the edge of the roof, her steps slow, deliberate. Below, the city sprawled out, alive with distant voices and flickering lanterns. The fountain outside Sorcerer’s Sundries glowed faintly in the square. They were going with Gale today. Research. They could do it without her. They didn’t need her.

What use was a sorcerer when they had a wizard? Gale of Waterdeep. A name filled with history, weight, meaning.

The voice took over her mantraAnd you—Taveleigha of who-knows-where.Nothing.No mother. No father. No child to call her own.I mean, it wouldn’t take much.The thought whispered, soft, insidious.Headfirst. Nobody could stop you. Smash the brain. Smash the tadpole. It would be over. Quiet.Isn’t that what you wanted?The voice pressed closer, wrapping around her, suffocating her, pinning her beneath its weight.

She moved to the edge.

Her toes curled over the stone lip, hanging just over the drop.

The beast was circling now, winding around her limbs, breathing against her throat.

Leaning in.

Waiting.

Astarion stirred. At first, it was subtle—the faintest shift in their bed, an absence barely noticeable. But as his awareness sharpened, he realized what had woken him. The weight of his partner was gone. His hand reached instinctively for her side of the bed, brushing against cold sheets. She had been gone for a while. I knew I shouldn’t have tranced.

“Darling?” His voice cut through the stillness of the room.

Silence.

Shadowheart was still asleep in her bunk. Most of their companions remained undisturbed—except for Karlach, who was just beginning to stir. She blinked, her gaze landing on him. “Where’s Tav?” she asked immediately, concluding what he already knew—one of them was missing.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Astarion pulled himself upright, reaching for a shirt. His options were limited—only two camp shirts remained after neglecting to wash their clothes. The poet’s shirt, irritatingly sentimental, or the black one he had planned to wear tonight. With a sigh, he shook out the black shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles before tugging it over his shoulders.

Karlach had moved to the centre of the room, idly stroking Scratch’s ear as the dog shifted, sensing the movement. Astarion crossed to join her, careful not to wake the others. He settled onto the sunken seat beside her, watching as she absentmindedly ran her fingers through the hound’s fur. Karlach’s ability to touch still fascinated him—how she had gone from burning to warm, how she could hold people now. He was still navigating the complexities of his own comfort with touch, but he had noticed something recently—he missed Tavi’s. The casual touches. The way her hand would squeeze his arm. How she grasped his shirt during a kiss, or let her fingers trail along his ribs. Everyday intimacy, as natural as breath.

And now, she was gone without warning.

Tavi never left without telling someone.

“I know she’s struggling,” Karlach murmured, breaking the silence. “She’s private. Takes on everyone else’s problems without dealing with her own. But to disappear in the night…”

Astarion frowned, surprised by how easily Karlach had pieced it together. He knew Tavi wrestled with her own demons—had seen the weight of them, though never the full picture. He also knew that when she was alone, she was her worst company.

They had only been in Lower City for three weeks, but those weeks had been relentless, overwhelming; Cazador, Mizora, Wyll’s contract, Rivington. And before that—so many distractions. Maybe she had been drowning, and none of them had noticed.

Karlach’s voice pulled him back. “Hey, Fangs!”

Astarion snapped back to the present. “Do you mind? I really don’t want to wake the whole party.” Too late. Gale and Shadowheart were stirring, their heart rates spiking from the rude awakening. Halsin would be next—soon, he’d be moving toward the fire to make breakfast.

Shadowheart stretched, eyes narrowing as she picked up on the tense atmosphere. “Where’s Tavi?”

“That, my dear friend, is exactly what we were discussing.” Astarion rose abruptly, pacing now, his unease mounting.

The longer she was gone, the worse it felt. He needed to go find her, but where would he even begin? Baldur’s Gate was sprawling. Searching blindly would be foolish.

“You don’t think she was taken, do you?” Gale asked. Astarion exhaled sharply. Thank you very much, Gale. Of course, it had been his first thought. The moment he had reached for cold sheets. But he had forced it down, refusing to let panic take hold. Still, was it irrational to think that?

“I—”

“I can try Locate Person,” Shadowheart interrupted. “But it only works within a thousand feet.” She hesitated, doubt flickering across her face. Astarion caught it immediately. Don’t back down now.

“Please,” he said simply.

Shadowheart nodded, shifting toward her space in The Elfsong, gathering herself for the spell. Her fingers trembled slightly as she prepared it, and Astarion hovered. He knew he wasn’t helping, but this was Tavi.

Everyone in this room cared for her. Loved her. Shadowheart knew that, too.

He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to demand speed as she traced melodic movements in the air, whispering litany under her breath. The room had become louder now—his heightened senses picking up the soft murmurs between their companions, making it impossible to focus.

Hurry, hurry, hurry

Then, after eleven painstakingly slow minutes—

Shadowheart sighed. Her expression flickered from exhaustion to surprise.

“She’s above us.”

A beat. The room went still. Astarion laughed. Relief shattered the tension like glass.

"The roof. We didn’t even think of the roof. Went straight to worst-case." Astarion exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he strode toward the ladder. He should have known. Tavi loved this space—the scattered throw pillows they had collected up here, the quiet retreat where they had watched the sunrise and sunset together so many times over the past few weeks. He had lost count of how often she had curled against him under the open sky. He smiled faintly at the thought, only for the warmth to vanish the second he stepped onto the roof.

She was at the edge. Bare feet barely touching the stone lip, toes dangling over open air.

Astarion froze.

She was only wearing his shirt, drowning in it, the fabric pooling at her mid-thigh. Beautiful, the thought flickered, unexpected and unimportant in the face of something far heavier.

She was staring downward. Motionless.

He swallowed, glancing back as Karlach pulled herself onto the roof. Their eyes met. A silent conversation. Give me a moment. She nodded, staying put. A barrier between them and the others.

He took a slow step forward. "Tavi, my love?" His voice was careful, measured. He couldn’t risk startling her.

She didn’t react. He stepped closer.

"Tavi?" Firmer now, but still gentle. His heart was beginning to tighten, the familiar ice of fear creeping back in.

Then, softly—flatly—she spoke. "Did you know there are more than 6,000 suicide deaths a year in Baldur’s Gate?"

Astarion stiffened. "Tavi…" He moved forward instinctively, but her shoulders tensed. He stopped short.

"What do you think their families do?" Her voice was distant, detached. "Do they mourn? Do they continue on? Do they forget?" She wasn’t waiting for answers. She was just speaking words slipping out, raw and aimless.

This scared him.

He had seen her fierce, passionate, rebellious, joyful, furious. He had seen her cry. But this—this absence, this emptiness—this was something new.

And it terrified him.

He flicked a glance at Karlach. She had gone rigid, standing at the hatch, stopping anyone from climbing up. She must have heard. If I can’t pull her back, he thought, Karlach can. She was stronger—could haul her inside if it came to that. Astarion’s voice softened. “Darling…”

"I was going to be a mother."

He stopped short. She was still staring downward, her hair falling loose around her face, half-shielding her expression.

"I was happy," she murmured. "Starting to feel little movements, little nudges. I didn’t have much—just a small home, a partner who I thought loved me. But I was going to be a mother."

Pain. There it was, rising through the numbness.

Astarion said nothing. What could he say? He had never known this loss. But he knew that she had—that many in their bloodline had. "I was picking colours, decorations for the nursery. I was going to understand my mother’s love because I was going to become one."

She still hadn’t moved.

He took another step.

Still, she didn’t flinch.

He took the chance, his steps feather-light. Rogue instincts now serving a different purpose.

Get her away from the edge.

Away. Away. Away.

"I had never felt pain like that before," she stuttered. "Constant. Never-ending. It hollowed me out, stripped me down until I was nothing."

He stopped.

She inhaled sharply, a shuddering breath. "Nothing terrible happened, I wasn’t attacked…" she gritted her teeth. "It just happened." She faltered. "I happened. I couldn’t keep my baby safe."

Astarion’s jaw clenched. “My love, these things happen—there’s no rhyme or reason—”

"They don’t just happen!" Finally, finally—she turned toward him.

Anger.

He could work with that.

"Everything I touch turns to dust!" She stepped forward, heat rising in her voice. He stayed put. Let her come closer.

"Everyone dies. Everyone leaves."

Another step.

"My mother!"

Another.

"My sister!"

Another.

"My father left!"

Another—faltering but still moving.

"My ex!"

A step closer.

She was in reaching distance now.

Astarion inhaled. How had he missed this? He had been so consumed with Cazador, so desperate for vengeance, so blind to the person beside him. He had known she carried demons—but never how deep their claws reached. Never how wrong they were about her.

"My—" She choked.

She staggered. Astarion reached forward.

Her sobs broke free, shattering the silence, harder and faster than any cry he had ever heard. Harder than his own sobs the night Cazador fell. She collapsed into him, trembling violently, her breath ragged against his neck. He held her. Held the back of her head. Held all of her. Lending her strength. Giving back what she had given him over and over again.

He looked over her shoulder, meeting Karlach’s gaze. She stared downward, silent, giving them space—but he knew. Everyone had heard. Everyone had failed her. They had all been drowning in their own burdens, too distracted to see hers—too wrapped up to realize their de facto leader was unravelling. They had to do better. He had to do better.

Tavi gasped against him, clutching at his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her tethered. He only held her tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Then, practicality. He needed to get her down. But—the ladder. Astarion stiffened. He couldn’t carry her and climb at the same time. He couldn’t risk letting go, couldn’t risk her slipping through his grasp and spiralling back into that darkness. Karlach was already moving. She pressed a scroll into his palm—Dimension Door. No hesitation. To hell with the cost. Astarion adjusted his hold, whispered the incantation. White-blue light swirled around them, and in an instant, they were back in the room.

Tavi curled into their bed, small and silent, her sniffles the only sound. Astarion knelt beside her, watching as she pulled her body in, folding in on herself.

Safe. But still breaking.

He swore to himself—he would not let her break completely. Not like this.

Halsin and Karlach gently ushered their companions out of the room.

“We’ll be back later,” Karlach murmured, her voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Take the day. We’ll sort out Gale’s research. Just—look after her.” Astarion offered a weak smile in response, something tired but grateful. Karlach had become his closest friend. What a novelty.

And then, finally, the quiet.

Tavi was curled in his lap, small, tucked close like she wanted to disappear entirely. Her knees rested over his crossed legs, her breath brushing against his neck in soft, absent sighs. Her lips pressed gentle, thoughtless kisses to his skin—like muscle memory, like grounding. But the laugh that followed was wrong, hollow, devoid of warmth. Astarion sighed. She didn’t see herself the way he did. She didn’t know how deeply she was loved; how impossible the world would be without her in it. Those claws ran deeper than I ever imagined. He shifted, moving her from his lap onto the bed, but the sound she made—a tiny, reluctant noise of protest—sent something sharp through his chest. He ignored it.

Instead, he positioned himself in front of her, crossing his legs, closing the space between them. His fingers found her face, tracing the dried tracks of old tears, brushing them away as if he could erase them entirely. He wished he could. Gently, carefully, he tilted her chin upward.

“Tavi.” His voice was quiet, measured. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Her eyes searched his, uncertain. “The thought of you in this world—having endured what you have—hurts.” His thumbs ghosted over her cheekbones, slow and reverent. “I cannot fathom it. I cannot fathom how someone so strong can think so little of themselves. That you reached that point, and none of us noticed…” His gaze flickered downward, briefly weighed by guilt. “And I was guilty of it too.”

A sharp exhale. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more observant.” Something in her expression shifted—disbelief, confusion, doubt. Astarion caught it instantly and squared his shoulders, forcing himself to sit taller. “No. No guilt.”

This was not about his failure. Not now. He steadied himself, then made sure she heard him.

“I. Love. You.” Each word deliberate. Each syllable punctuated with a gentle squeeze of his fingers against her jaw, grounding her, making sure she couldn’t look away.

She gasped. Her entire face twisted with shock—like she had never expected to hear those words from him. And that alone nearly broke him. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk—the roguish one, the one he reserved for her alone.

Tavi swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you too.” Wet. Fragile. Perfect.

Astarion wasted no time; His lips met hers, urgent but careful, exhaling into her as she breathed him in, as if grounding herself in his presence. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him close like he was the only solid thing in her world. And for now, maybe he was. It was just the two of them.

Against The Brain.

Against Baldur’s Gate.

Against The Emperor.

Just them, against everything.

And they loved each other.

I haven’t disappeared again I promise. At the end on June I got this gorgeous boy and he has taken up a lot of my time. He is called Merlin and to privilege of watching him grow and feel immense pride in knowing I am helping shape him into the best dog I possibly can is just nothing I have felt before for Amy animals. Do not get me wrong I adore my kitties but my heart is and always will be first and foremost a doggo mum.

Everyone I would like to introduce Merlin to you.

@roguishcat @lirotation @slothquisitor @loquaciousquark @shewhowas39 @asweetlovesong @nyx-knox @astarionancuntnin @preciouslittle-bhaalbabe

The group have started the ritual, each thread of weave connected, coloured and shaped by them.

I jsut want to say THANK YOU TO EVERYONE that voted on my Poll, it really did help me with the Astarion Line, i truly was struggling with that. And thank you for your comments and thoughts behind chosing said line. (@sanguinesexmachine @nyx-knox @roguishcat @astarionbrainrot @starlight-rogue @asweetlovesong @satan-in-a-box @slothquisitor ) And everyone else who voted, for some reason it is not showing me everyone that voted, but it has given me the percentages, so i am sorry if i did not tag all of you. This was so cathartic and a way for me to say goodbye to Taveleigha. As you guys know play in her in my IRL DND Campaign and she sadly died a couple of weeks ago, but she went the way i always knew she would defending and protecting her friends with no care in the world for her self preservation.

I mean a level 6 Sorcerer taking 101 necrotic damage in one round, yep that'll defintely do it. Anyway without futher ado (for those that do not want to read it on AO3 , i present to you

An Unfair Hand has been Dealt, chapter 4: A Thread Between Heartbeats:

With a breath, the ritual began, Astarion’s touch lingered on Taveleigha’s head as Shadowheart stepping into the Circle, the Catalyst—the large black diamond in both palms like a piece of death turned holy. Around her, the crystals hummed in subtle resonance, pulsing in time with something too old for clocks.

Gale raised his fingers to the Weave and whispered an invocation so old it had no name—just intent braided into syllables. Energy shimmered between his hands like a gossamer net. Wyll added a chant in Infernal, tone low and reverent, each syllable a promise: Come back. You are wanted. You are loved.

Karlach moved last. Not with elegance, but with purpose. Her armoured hand pressed against her chest as if steadying something deeper than her heart. “Tavi,” she said, “if you can hear us—if there’s any part of you still fighting—I need you to reach back.”

A gust swept through the room, though no windows stood open. The flames in the sconces flickered outward drawn toward the centre of the circle, as if breath were being inhaled by something unseen.

The Catalyst ignited. Not in flame. Not in light. In feeling.

The room erupted in sense: lavender, ink, copper, blood, ash after rain. Everyone staggered under the weight of memory—not their own, but hers. A starless sky. A broken blade. The sound of her own laughter caught in someone else’s throat. Then silence. Crushing, suffocating silence.

And beneath it… a thread. The world unravelled in strands. Not torn—not broken—but re-threaded. As if reality itself were being rewritten from the edges inward. One moment, the ritual room shimmered with breath and crystal light. The next, it gave way to nothingness… and then to everything.

Could you please pick your favourite

All of these fit well for what i am trying to portray, some will bring a smiel to her face, others a laugh, some i jsut want to portray the emotion, either way I can work it in rather well. But I am stuck. If you could please pick a choice and then comment why you picked that choice, I would be immensely grateful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank You.

Justa little WIP. Nicel ittle taste of the next story in the Sometimes the unkown is safer saga (is it a saga, is it big enough to be a saga? hmm) either way. Hope you enjoy

Taveleigha didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, hands raised, magic sparking. Her body was broken, her breath shallow; but she was ready. If this was the moment, she would face it.

Astarion saw her move. And something in him snapped. “No,” he growled, voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare.”

She turned, startled. “We need to finish this...”

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His eyes were wild, furious. “You’re lining yourself up. You’re giving it a clean shot. You want to be the one who ends it, even if it ends you.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Astarion stepped closer, blade trembling in his grip. “You think that’s noble? That it makes you strong? It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you...” His voice cracked. “It makes you leave.”

The mephits shrieked overhead. Grym advanced.

Taveleigha’s heart pounded. “I’m not trying to leave.”

“You always say that,” he whispered. “But you keep standing in front of the fire.”

She looked at him then really looked. And in his eyes, behind the rage, she saw it: fear. Not of Grym. Not of death.

Of losing her.

Taveleigha stood tall.

Her body screamed in protest, ribs aching, blood slick on her side—but she didn’t flinch. Grym loomed ahead, molten and monstrous, its gaze locked onto her like a curse. Behind her, Astarion’s voice was still raw, still trembling.

“You always do this,” he said, low and furious. “You throw yourself into the fire and call it bravery.”

She didn’t look at him. “It’s not bravery. It’s necessity.”

He stepped closer, eyes burning. “No. It’s martyrdom. And I’m sick of watching you bleed for everyone but yourself.”

Before she could answer, Karlach’s voice cut through the forge like a war horn.

“Not now, you two!” she bellowed, swinging her greatsword at a diving mephit. “Lovers’ tiff after the lava monster’s dead!”

Well thoughts? Comments? Statements?

I know i have been away a little, turns out raising a puppy much like raising a child apparently, who knew :P

Through the whispering woods, I tread once more,

Soft echoes of paws upon the forest floor.

Fallen leaves hold stories old,

Of laughter, barks, and hearts of gold.

Years ago, under these ancient trees,

Walked beside me, a friend with boundless ease.

A German shepherd, loyal and wise,

With knowing eyes that touched the skies.

Now, by my side, small steps anew,

A puppy's wonder, skies bright blue.

His eager paws, a fresh refrain,

Yet shadows dance with memories' stain.

Each rustling leaf, a soft recall,

Moments cherished, lost but tall.

But in this trail, both past and new,

Old love lives, and grows anew.

For with every step, and joyful bark,

The woods remember, hearts leave marks.

Two shepherds, stories intertwined,

One in my heart, one by my side confined.

The Breaking Point

Astarion watched her slip away.

Not physically—no, she was still here, still beside him in battle, still standing when the others gathered around the campfire—but something had changed. She wasn’t reaching for him in the quiet moments anymore. She wasn’t forcing conversations, wasn’t prying when she knew he needed to talk.

Instead, she was retreating.

She was running.

It had been days since the fight with the Orthon, days since they uncovered the truth about his scars—about what Cazador had carved into his skin, what his body had been meant for. And Taveleigha had been there, as she always was, steady and unyielding, refusing to let him drown in it alone.

But now, it was her drowning. And instead of grasping for help, she was pulling away.

Astarion caught her at the edge of camp, just before sunset. She had been packing supplies—not enough to prepare for an expedition, but enough to leave.

"Are you going to tell me, or should I just watch you run?" His voice was quiet, sharp—not cruel, but edged with something she couldn’t ignore.

Taveleigha froze, hands stilling over the straps of her pack. She inhaled slowly, composing herself before turning to face him. But when she met his eyes, there was something guarded there—something fragile.

"I’m not running."

Astarion scoffed, stepping closer. "Oh, darling. If I recognize anything, it’s the look of someone planning their exit." He folded his arms, gaze flickering down to the supplies. "You think I haven’t noticed? Every flicker of hesitation, every step back instead of forward?"

She swallowed hard but said nothing.

"What is this really about?" Astarion pushed, voice softer now, more deliberate.

She glanced away, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve. "You know what’s coming. Cazador—his ritual—it’s inevitable. He’s going to try to take you back, and if he succeeds…" She paused, jaw tightening. "I can’t—I won’t—just watch that happen."

Astarion’s expression hardened. "So your solution is to run? To leave before it happens? Before I have the chance to fight?"

"I’m doing this for you."

He laughed, sharp and humorless. "No, you’re doing this for yourself. Because you think I deserve something whole—someone who isn’t broken."

She flinched. He saw it. And gods, that was the truth of it, wasn’t it?

"You do." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "You deserve more than someone who doesn’t even know who she is. Someone who can’t remember where she came from, whether she was ever good or bad—someone who doesn’t even know if she’s worth saving."

Astarion inhaled slowly, considering her words, considering her.

Then he took another step forward, closing the distance.

"You do not get to decide what I deserve," he murmured, voice steady. "And you certainly don’t get to decide that for yourself."

Her lips parted, but no words came.

"I know what it looks like to be broken, darling. I spent two hundred years as nothing more than a tool, a thing, something to be used and discarded at my master’s whim." His voice dipped lower, quieter. "You think your lack of memories makes you unworthy? That because you don’t know who you were, you can’t possibly be enough?"

She blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back something raw.

"Well, I do know who you are," Astarion continued. "I know who I’ve fought beside, who I’ve trusted in battle without a second thought, who has dragged me from the depths of my own goddamned mind more times than I can count."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally—softly:

"Stay."

Taveleigha let out a shaky breath, shoulders trembling under the weight of everything she had been trying to hold together.

And after a long moment, she nodded.