#whabfhtla

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.

He slips out of the darkness, into the hall, keeping a sizable distance between you. The vampire doesn’t say anything, and, in fact, you likely wouldn’t have noticed him were it not for the undeniably intentional noise he is making with each footstep. You know he could move silently if he wished, but he wants you to sense his presence– it’s an invitation to talk to him, one that you’re not inclined to take at this point.

“Or did you just want to make sure I was thoroughly torn to shreds?” you ask, continuing to walk down the hallway. “Consider me well and truly mangled.”

You were done shedding tears by now.

You’d cried the entire time you were escorted by Petras, ignoring his concerned, stumbling questions. As you navigated your way out of the spawn’s fortress, you thought of what an absolute idiot you’d been. How not a single part of this experience had been worth it. How you should have just stayed at home, reached maturity, and lived a regular, uneventful life back at Neverwinter.

You’d cried the entire time you traced the Bibberbang path back, pausing every few steps to wipe your tears lest you blow up. You thought of your family, how ashamed they would be that you’d come all this way for nothing. How you’d ignored them and made a fool of yourself in the process. How you were yet another cautionary tale for young, naive elves now.

You’d cried the pathway back to the house, before it dwindled into sniffles at the long ladder before you. You thought of Halsin and how he’d believed in you, assured you that Astarion would see you for who you are. How you’d promised him to visit with Astarion someday. How you clearly didn’t deserve to share a soul with the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.

Your tears finally dried up on the ladder, as you went rung by rung all the way back to the surface. You thought of your former self, wondering how they left this man in such a sorry state. How they’d sent you on this journey with their memories, made you care for the man they loved, filled your head with delusions of romantic grandeur. How maybe the dreams were worthless anyway, and you only saw things the way you wanted to see them.

Your eyes were red and puffy but dry by the time you went back to your former room to collect the rest of your belongings. Now you finally allowed yourself to think of Astarion. How the man of your dreams turned out to be a nightmare in the flesh. How no amount of unearned love would help him. How you shouldn’t be the one to help anyway.

So now that this man stalks behind you, burning holes into your back with his gaze, you can’t bring yourself to care. Don’t want to care.

“Are you really going to keep stomping after me after all that?” you ask, exasperation clear in your voice as you stop walking once more.

Finally, he speaks. “You really have the same soul… don’t you?” His voice is soft, and you can hear the same fear you saw in his eyes back in the cells.

You shrug. “I thought it didn't matter.” You turn back toward Astarion now, anger coloring your next words, “And, since it doesn’t matter who I am, please stop following me.”

Now that you can see his face, the sadness in his eyes is unmistakable. His lips curl into an anguished smile as he says, “It doesn’t matter. Not really. I’m not the same man your soul met all of those centuries ago.” He takes a shaky breath and continues, “And I'm certainly no longer the same man who held your soul’s body in their dying breaths 150 years ago. That man died with his love that day.”

His words come from a place of honesty, but they don’t hurt any less. “Thank you for confirming that it doesn’t matter,” you reply through gritted teeth, trying to understand why he would take extra time to torment you. “Now since I’ve already said my goodbye, I hope you don’t mind if I just leave.”

“Please,” the word comes out short, caught between breaths. “I know I likely don’t deserve it, but if I could have just a few minutes of your time.”

You want to say no. Every piece of your body and mind screams at you to say no. But as it always was with this man, you were thinking entirely with your heart and soul. “Only one minute.”

He sighs in relief, and the words come pouring out of him, as if he’d been bottling them up the entire journey back from the Underdark. “I can be rash, I can be difficult, and gods know that I can be spiteful– but I know that after three centuries of being my own man, I am nothing if not enduring.”

You wonder where he’s going with this, and contemplate asking when he takes a breath and looks at you. Something about the way he stares, as if he’s finally seeing you, not as another mad person at his doorstep, but as a real, genuine person, gives you pause.

“When I see you, I don’t know what to feel,” he says, running a hand through his hair in a nervous habit you recognize from your memories. “My survival instinct tells me to run, to hide because you are a source of pain. And some part of me, I don’t even know which, tells me to let you stay in my house. It tells me you can’t come to any harm. It tells my heart to burn when you cry.”

A lump forms in your throat, and the tears you’ve only just mastered build beneath your eyelids. After a heavy swallow, you ask, knowing full well the answer, “Which part seems to have won out so far?”

“You’re right,” he says, hand clutching at his chest now. “I don’t like pain. I’d much rather inflict it, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” The vampire gives a dark chuckle before continuing, “So I’ve spent years trying to endure, to make sure that no one could hurt me. Not anymore.”

“Then, please, allow this source of pain to leave your life,” you say, taking a small mock bow, ready to stomp down the stairs in a huff. “I’m sure your minute is up.”

He’s taking strides toward you before you can finish your bow, his face set in determination. “Impatience must be part of the soul. Before you cut me short on time, let me finish.” He stops a few feet from you, staring at you intensely. “What I’m trying to say is… I wasn’t even aware that I could still feel this pain toward someone. I didn’t know how you managed to slip through my defenses, and I was afraid to find out.”

You stare back, your resolve to barge out of his house in a frenzy suddenly wavering with his piercing red eyes on you. His words settle into you as you wonder what he’s trying to say. “So, you believe me. But it doesn’t matter. Also, all I do is cause you pain, and you hate that?”

His own words summarized on your lips seem to be too much for him as he sighs up toward the ceiling. “Yes, I suppose if you’d like to condense my words in such a crude fashion, that’s all strictly true.” Astarion looks back down at you, face serious, as he says, “I think I’m saying that I’d like to start over.”

The last two days are fresh on your mind, the tears that you cried likely still stain your cheeks, and yet something about the simplicity of starting over makes you want to forget them as easily as he suggested. “I think I would like that,” you say, and when his expression seems to lift at that, you hold up a hand. “But, I’m still concerned. I didn’t come here intending to be a source of pain, and I don’t want to be that for you.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“How could I not?” you ask, shaking your head with a furrowed brow.

Astarion tilts his head toward you conspiratorially before pulling at each one of your heart strings painfully once more. “The owner of that soul has already been the deepest source of pain for me for decades. What’s another drop in the bucket?”

“Astarion, I–”

“I’m an old man, darling,” he interrupts, and it’s clear it’s not meant to be self-deprecating. It simply sounds tired. “I’ve spent centuries under a cruel master, I've buried countless friends, and seen those whom I consider family die. But nothing– and I mean nothing–” The word comes out as a harsh growl. “Compares to the pain I felt when I lost my love. I don’t know if that pain will ever leave me. So don’t worry about me.”

You’d been there for the end, and heard the very same pain in his voice. You have no doubts that he only speaks the truth, but you’re unsure what to do with it. Your own anger dulls in the face of the memory, and you find yourself wondering how you could show up at his doorstep, forcing these memories back to the forefront of his mind. In order to truly start over, you’ll have to apologize for that.

“I know,” you end up saying after a moment of silence. “While I can’t truly relate, I recognize that it’s an agony like no other. I’m sorry for rushing into this when I couldn’t possibly understand it. I’m sorry for reminding you of it, and for any new hurt I’ve caused through my hasty actions.”

The vampire before you seems to be about to respond to your apology, perhaps with one of his own, when he pauses as if something’s just struck him. Abruptly, he poses you a question, “How old are you?” He seems afraid to ask, pursing his lips ever so slightly.

“Nearly a hundred,” you answer, noting his visible relief. “I actually wanted to come sooner, but I… well, I was told it would be a bad idea.”

Astarion laughs at that and you frown in response, unsure what to make of this man’s temperament quite yet. “It was a terrible idea. Now I’m wondering if the soul is in charge of making decisions, since my love was full of terrible ideas. In fact–” He stops talking, the warm smile that had crept on his face frozen in place. “Nevermind. I won’t bore you with well... your own past.” 

You can see the hurt on his face, as though he’d been unprepared to relive the memory that came unbidden, been unprepared to open up again so suddenly. Already you were a source of pain. “To be fair, I didn’t experience everything,” you clarify tentatively, feeling the need to reassure him, to help him understand that these memories could be a source of happiness. “You’re welcome to share if you’re comfortable.” 

He shoos the thought away like an annoying fly. “Forget that. You’re a hundred?”

Furrowing your brows, you nod. Is he about to make fun of my age? Am I too young?

“That means your soul was only at rest for half a century.” He tilts his head with a wry smile. “Of course, you wouldn’t sit still, you absolute menace.” He says it in such a soft, loving tone, you know it isn’t meant for you. You wonder how he ever planned on pretending he didn’t love your past-self, but decide not to ask– instead choosing to bring him back to the present.

“Not to interrupt you, but why does it matter how old I am?”

Astarion clears his throat, returning to the matter at hand. “Apologies, when you mentioned being unable to relate, I grew worried. I simply must have pegged you correctly when I called you a scholar.” The grin he gives you is tepid, as he hears the half-lie in his own statement.

Scholar was putting it too lightly. His previous words ring through your head, just one of the harsh statements he’s flung at you, ‘What are you? A pampered scholar, deigning to leave your little tower for a night of entertainment?’ You wince remembering it. “While I am a scholar, I do take offense to being called pampered. As well as many of the other things you’ve said so far.” You’re proud of how firm your voice is, and you cross your arms to emphasize your point.

“Right, that’s understandable.” He looks away from your searing glare, and clears his throat once more. “I do appreciate you showing up here, even if I’m somewhat unprepared for it. I didn’t know how to react to you. Ultimately I was too severe, and for that. I’m…” He takes a deep breath and meets your eyes once more. “Sorry.”

You stare at him for a moment, wondering what to do with that awkward and somewhat unapologetic apology. Despite the part of you that is somehow still enraptured by this silver-haired devil, that deeply wants to welcome the lackluster apology, you manage to leave it at a simple, “I appreciate that.”

“Good,” he says with a relieved sigh, as if you’d accepted his apology.

You decide not to correct him, and instead press on now that you’ve both apologized for your actions. “So where does that leave us?”

“To be completely honest with you,” he starts, and his red eyes meet your eyes in a sort of plea. “I meant it when I said I’m not really the same person anymore. I don’t know what you hope to achieve or if what you hope to achieve is even possible.” The sorrow in his voice runs deep, and his hands clench at his sides, as if he can't believe how frustrated he is at himself. 

“I don't know either,” you answer, looking away from him as the weight of his turmoil comes crashing down on you. Clearly just trying to return to a life together was out of the question– you’re not even certain if you even want that with this man anymore. Though there is one thing that still guides you, as ever. “But I should like to at least do right by my past-self. I don’t know why I received the dreams I did, but I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?” Astarion asks, looking at you with a quirked eyebrow.

“That my past-self was… worried about you. Even if you don't want to be with me, I want to make sure you’re okay. If only for them.” Then, as if to add context to the statement, you continue, “It sounds odd, maybe it’s even egotistical? But I care about them almost as much as I care about you.”

Your words hang between you both for a moment. Belatedly you realize that, while you’ve thought it plenty, even told him repeatedly that you are his former-lover, you’ve just told this near-stranger that you care about him.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean–” you cut your words short, wondering if there’s any point to trying to diminish it. Because, while you don’t know if it’s love, you do care for this man in a way that extends past all reason. It shows in your actions and your words, in the fact that you stayed here and listened to him despite it all– so much so that there’s really no use hiding it. “No, that’s not true. I don’t know if I love you, but I do care about you.”

Astarion looks torn and your honesty seems to have shocked him into silence once more. “I truly don't know if I’m capable of love again,” he finally states, an unmasked desperation to his voice– afraid that he may very well be broken beyond repair, afraid of the rejection that’s bound to follow. “Is that… alright?”

A beat passes between you as you digest his words. After the pause, you simply say, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he repeats, brows furrowing in concern.

“Yes, that's okay. I don't need love,” you say with a single firm nod. Unsure if that’s too harsh, you add, “Not while I don’t even know you. I think for now I'd like to just get to know you, the real, present-day Astarion.”

“In that case,” he begins, shoulders visibly dropping as he releases the tension he’d been holding since following you back into his house. “Would you give me the chance to learn who you are as well?”

You give him another nod, this one with a small, tentative smile. “I’d like that.”

“Very well.” Astarion gives a soft sigh, taking in your packed bags and placement on the edge of the stairs. “I know I hardly have the right to ask this after well… all of this. But would you like to stay here for a bit? We can spend some time together.”

He invites you to stay so casually, you almost find yourself agreeing immediately. It is what you wanted, after all. But after everything that’s transpired, you know that you should stop leaping into situations like this heart-first. “Are you sure that’s the best idea?” you ask, giving him a concerned grimace. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but it seems like this place may house too many… difficult memories.”

The vampire gives you a sad, understanding smile before shaking his head. “Perhaps, but it was still our home.” When he says ‘our’, you know he doesn’t include you in particular. “It may even prove to be helpful.”

Your eyes search his somber red gaze for any inkling of a ruse. When you find nothing, your already weak will crumbles. So you gulp, and say, “In that case, I’ll stay.”

“Excellent,” Astarion says, clasping his hands together. Then, as if remembering himself, he adds, “But only until the end of the month.”

You’re confused and concerned at having a time limit, and you’re about to say something when Astarion holds up a hand.

“It’s nothing personal. I have to go visit Gale for his ridiculous birthday celebration and I'm not leaving someone, even if they are the reincarnated soul of my past lover, alone in my house. Especially now that they’re a damnable wizard.” Then under his breath he adds, “Of course you were reborn as a wizard. Just to add insult to injury.”

You ignore the comment about your magic, choosing to focus on the much more shocking piece of information, “Gale’s still alive?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Out of everyone, how are he and Halsin the ones I’m stuck with.”

Despite his flippant response, you get the sense that he’s closer to Gale than to Halsin if he’s attending his birthday, but you decline to comment. Instead you only say, “Alright then. One month.”

You knew going into this that he might never feel any love for you at all, romantic or otherwise– That was a risk you had been willing to take. Last night was just another risk you had been willing to take... Right?

But hells are you afraid that that risk came at the cost of all of your efforts thus far. You're a grown adult, you made your choice in the heat of the moment, but is it so bad that you regret it in the stark light of day?

And what a moment it had been– like nothing mattered except feeling alive in his arms. It was enough for you to lose yourself, feel like someone you weren’t and could never be. But you fear that it's gone a step too far this time. You hadn't even determined if you loved the man. Did you?

You sit with that question for a few minutes, staring off into space.

Eventually your stomach grumbles, and, after not having eaten at all the day before, you know you need to get up.

What am I going to say to him? you wonder, getting out of bed and heading to your wardrobe. You notice the previous day’s robes strewn across the floor haphazardly and your mind swims with images of last night.

What if he regrets it completely? Am I ready for that? you think, trying your best to shove down all images of his beautiful pale face, shiny with sweat and overexertion.

Your body aches and you notice marks from Astarion's bruising lips littering your body in trails– yet more proof of what you'd done. Will he even want to talk to me?

Dressed, spells readied, and stomach screaming for relief, you leave your room for the kitchen. You decide that if Astarion joins you, you won't avoid him, but you're not quite prepared to seek him out just yet.

When you open your door, you find the man waiting for you, leaning against the opposite wall with a book in hand.

The book snaps closed. "Good morning," he says, a cheery tone betraying none of his real emotions. "Mortal meal time is it?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. 

The air is awkward, the previous night all but playing on loop in your head as you follow him to the kitchen. Astarion's posture remains straight, his eyes forward as he walks, and you wonder what he's thinking. If his thoughts are as lurid as your own.

The silence continues as you enter the kitchen.

It persists even as you prepare your meal.

You sit down after putting together your breakfast, unsure if you should be the one to break the silence or he should be.

After what feels like an eternity, he does so. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

You knew this was a possibility. That Astarion wasn’t in his right mind when faced with loss. But it still doesn’t make your insides churn any less. It doesn’t twist your heart any less. “It might have been,” is all you can offer in response, distracting yourself with a spoonful of eggs.

Astarion considers you for a moment, as if he hadn't expected you to agree that easily. He clears his throat and continues, “We just were caught up in the moment.”

“We were,” you offer numbly, thinking of how the moment practically picked you up and threw you over its shoulder– at the very least of how Astarion threw your leg over his shoulder.

He watches you shuffle the eggs about your plate, waiting for you to say more. When you don't, he sighs and continues, “I was mad and I took it out on you. Mind you, I am still quite upset at you.”

Oh good, you think. Not only is he crushing every piece of my heart, but he’s also planning to blame himself and lecture me. You only focus on the blame, “You didn’t do anything of the sort.”

You don’t look up to see his expression, but if his tone is any indication, he’s getting frustrated. “I think we need some time to sort out… well, all of this. Should we take some time apart today?”

“Perhaps," you say, finally looking up from your plate to see his rich red eyes as conflicted as you feel currently. You half expect him to protest his own suggestion, to change his mind, for something to happen here–but it doesn't. He simply scoots his chair back.

“To be entirely honest, I don’t really want to.” He chuckles humorlessly as he gets up. “I’ve gotten quite… used to you being around. Though I don’t suppose ‘used to you’ is what you want to hear?”

“Not particularly,” you admit, though you're not certain what you do want to hear either.

He gives an uncomfortable nod and turns away from you. “I shall see you later then?”

“You shall,” you agree. You find that you don’t have a lot of words for him– Nothing that would make either of you feel better at least. All you do find is an ache deep in your chest, an ache comprised of regret and fear.

That's how you finish the rest of your breakfast alone, lost in thoughts ranging from the feel of his tongue tracing your body to how royally everything has gone to the Nine Hells.

You spend the rest of the day holed up in your room, practicing your magic, cursing yourself for falling into such a vulnerable position. To destroy everything you'd built with Astarion with your weakness was a sin you may never fully atone for.

__

On your nineteenth day in the house, you expect Astarion to avoid you again. After all, for you a single day apart had only led you deeper and deeper into a pit of guilt.

For Astarion, one day was clearly more than enough.

"Good morning, darling," he says, as you open your door. Unlike yesterday's cheer, this one seems genuine. "Right as rain now, aren't we?"

You raise an eyebrow at him, sure that you don’t look right as rain. You likely look like someone who couldn’t fall into their reverie all night and subsequently spent it cleaning clothes, foot by foot, with the Prestidigitation cantrip. “Are we?” you ask him, disbelieving.

“I certainly am,” Astarion says with a fanged smile. “I’ve taken some time to myself. To, ugh, think about things.” He gives a dramatic little eye roll, but you note a gulp run down his throat– he’s nervous.

Gods above, you think. This is it. The final blow he delivers as he tells me to leave and never return.

“While I won’t lie and say something saccharine about how much I love you, I think I know what I can do,” he says, giving you a sad, anxious little smile. “Can I come in?”

You nod, surprised at the turn in conversation. Why is he so nervous? You allow him past you into the room. Trying your best not to think about the last time Astarion was in this room, you follow. 

Luckily, you’ve cleaned the room thoroughly, folded all of your robes, even laid the Sending Stone on top for its return to Dalyria. If you didn’t know any better, nothing at all happened in this room a few nights ago. You sit on your bed, turn to him, and say, “So what exactly did you have in mind?”

"Yes, well, I've decided I know what I need to do to help me… move on," he says, expression uncertain despite his words. You distantly recall a memory of Astarion and your past-self making love on his grave, and you're momentarily horrified at what his idea might be. Seeing the look on your face, he clicks his tongue and says, "Stop that. Whatever you're imagining is certainly not it."

“Okay,” you start, moving over on the bed to make room for him, patting it as an invitation. “What did you have in mind?”

Astarion takes the spot next to you and says, “I think I need to tell you how your past-life died. To… process it in a way.”

You think you must have heard him wrong. Surely he isn’t about to answer the question you’d asked him nearly two weeks ago, the one that all but stabbed him in the heart? But he is, because he looks at you, eyes clouded over with sadness and perhaps a few tears. You can feel the determination in his gaze.

“I would really appreciate that,” you respond, honestly, but not too eagerly. “Whatever you can tell me.”

He settles in and you see his mouth work, as if tasting the words on his tongue before he commits to them. Eventually he says, “They died an early death, as you know.”

You know, but you also don’t plan on rushing this conversation, so you nod along. You debate holding his hand as a means of support, but decide against it, simply leaving your hand between you in case he needs it.

“They were… getting something,” he continues, and you can feel the hesitation as he gets the words out, red eyes darting toward you and away again. You can’t help but wonder how much of your day apart he’d spent trying to prepare for this. How much pain he had rehashed to try to right things between you.

“What were they getting?” you ask, tentatively. Something about the way he holds back makes you wonder if it’s because he finds it difficult to talk about or because he simply doesn’t want to offer the information.

“Does it matter?” Astarion replies, with a little wave of his hand. “All that matters is that they wanted it more than anything. Certainly more than I did.”

His voice turns bitter toward the end, and you regret prodding. Perhaps, at least while he opens up, you shouldn’t tread any further than necessary. All you can do is keep the conversation flowing and take a step back as Astarion explains. “They went to go get this… thing then?”

“Naturally,” he says with a sigh. “Where we were– you’re familiar with necromantic magic I presume?”

“Yes.” It’s certainly not your area of expertise, but you've studied it well enough. 

“We were in a place filled with it.” His voice grows distant, gaze settling somewhere in the far corner of the room as he recalls the events of the day. “Normally, it wouldn’t bother me– undead and all. But it chilled us both to our very bones. I wanted to turn back. We should have turned back.”

You hear the regret plain as day. The words he’s not saying, I should have convinced them. 

Astarion’s voice is flat as he continues, “But they insisted.”

“Of course,” you say, remembering your dreams. They had prepared. They had researched. Surely they wouldn’t have turned back at the eleventh hour. “They thought they could do it.”

He snorts and turns his head back to you. “I always end up with fools, don’t I?” You try not to let your heart thrill at the idea that you’re the other fool. “Yes, they did. And I… I got mad. I left them on their own. Maybe they would still be alive if I had stayed with them.”

There it is again, the regret. You wish you could clean the slate, wipe away whatever poisonous thoughts have burrowed into his mind in the past 150 years. But such is easier wished than done. “You might both have died.”

“Would that have been so bad?” he mutters a bit too pensively for your comfort. You want to respond, but he continues before you can, “I’m but a selfish man, darling. I’m not above resting on my laurels. I grew complacent. They never did.”

You can’t imagine they would– find it hard to imagine yourself growing complacent either, but you could hardly say so to Astarion. “So… what happened after you left them?”

A shaky breath. “They went off on their own to find what they wanted. By the time I heard their call for help, I was too late to make it back.” He drops his eyes to the floor before you, and you’re left unsure what to do, what to say. You recall your dream, his panicked cries as he searched for you, and you can’t help but get lost in the memory yourself.

“I dreamt that,” you finally say. “I heard you coming for me, but I couldn’t move, could barely breathe. I had no idea what was happening to me.”

“It was a trap,” he says as a way of explanation. “A Cloudkill that overtook the entire room. The doors locked, there was no leaving, no healing. By the time I managed to find them and get in, they were….”

They were practically dead already, your mind supplies easily. You want to say sorry, but how could you apologize? You know who they were, he knows who they were– their death wasn’t something Astarion could have prevented, any more than they could have forced him to do something he didn’t want to. So you don’t apologize, merely put a hand over his and squeeze.

He seems to appreciate the gesture, squeezing your hand back, lifting his head a bit, and continuing, “They told me to get out and I did. Maybe it was cowardice, maybe it was survival instinct.” He shakes his head, looking at your intertwined hands. “But if I hadn’t gotten out when they told me to, I likely would have died too.”

“Thank you,” you say. “For listening to them.”

He smiles at you, sadly, before continuing his tale. “I went back to retrieve them after disabling the traps, but it was too late to Revivify and the body was too damaged for Raise Dead. The necromantic magic ran deep– even Gale had no idea on how to counteract it.”

You wonder where they possibly could have been that even an archmage like Gale didn’t know what to do. And what in the hells could have been so important that they sought out such a place?

“I’m so sorry. You did all that you could,” you say, knowing full well that platitudes were meaningless when faced with such a loss. You hope they are some kind of comfort to him anyway.

Astarion’s cold hand leaves yours as he turns his whole body to face you on the bed. “No, I didn’t.“ His expression is hard as he continues, voice filled with anger, “I should have fought them. I should have assured them we didn’t need to be there. And if I wasn’t enough for them, I should have made myself enough for them.”

He looks to be on the verge of tears, eyes lined in pink, moisture pooling at the corners. You had already struggled to find the words before, but in the face of his real, physical pain, you are left speechless, as if your throat is filled with sand.

You’re suddenly reminded of one of the reveries you’d had all those years ago– of how your former self couldn’t stop weeping after witnessing Astarion’s heartache and pain upon killing Cazador. Again, it’s as if his pain is your pain, and you can feel rivulets of tears begin to spill down your cheeks. “Astarion…”

The vampire is surprised to see your tears, his red eyes opening wide as he reaches out to cup your face. “Darling, please don’t cry,” he begs, thumbing away each tear as it begins to drop.

You would stop crying if you had any sort of control over these tears, but you don’t. Your heart aches for him, for his grief. More than anything, you wish you could take the pain away. 

An ill-timed thought flits through your mind, asking you the question, so you do love him?

You haven’t the time to ponder it, because Astarion is frantically trying to distract you, his own tears dry before they even touch his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I thought that this would be helpful. It’s been a bit of a disaster, hasn’t it?”

You shake your head, still trapped between his hands. “No, I’m sorry. I–I didn’t mean to–” your voice comes out thick with tears and you swallow to collect yourself. “I didn’t mean to derail you, I just–” You just what? Care for him? Worse yet, love him? The words die on your lips and you simply shake your head again.

Astarion takes your silence as something else entirely. “You have no need to apologize. You’re right. I don’t have the right to blame myself. I suppose it’s easier than facing the alternative.”

You wipe away your last lingering tears and look at him intently. “The alternative?” you can’t help but ask, unsure of where Astarion’s mind is heading.

“That nothing I could have done would have mattered. That our love alone could simply never be enough,” he says, dropping his hands from your face. He looks at you with a miserable, wry smile, a smile hiding decades worth of pain.

You want to say, no, that that could never be the case. That their love was present until their very dying breath. But they’re all statements you’ve said before, statements that Astarion couldn’t and wouldn’t believe. So instead you ask him, “Why would you think that?”

“Because they were misguided,” he answers, his smile dropping a smidge. “They thought that they always needed to… help. They thought they were helping, but couldn’t see beyond that. I didn’t want their help, I just wanted them.”

His words have a beautiful, painful honesty to them, and you wonder if he’s ever said them aloud to anyone before. You would consider yourself lucky to have heard them, if only it wasn’t your soul that caused them. “I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me,” you begin, gauging his expression as you speak. “But I could feel their love for you in every dream. It was their love for you that brought me here.” In your mind you think, It’s their love for you that confuses my own feelings, even still.

Astarion looks at you, eyes soft as he absorbs your words. “Yes. I know that deep down somewhere, I suppose.” Then, after one more shaky breath, he stands up. “Well, that’s enough of that. That was utterly exhausting, wasn’t it?” he says with a laugh.

“Are we… done?” you ask, getting up after him. You still had so many questions, so many pieces of the puzzle were still missing.

He simply looks back at you with pursed lips and says, “What did you expect? A full reenactment? Gods darling, I’m talented, but not that talented.”

You blink at him, all but frozen in place as you debate what to do. You can’t push him of course. Not only would it not be right, but you find that you don’t want to. He’s relived enough of his past today. But you also can’t let this lie while so many truths are still buried, waiting for you to uncover them.

I need to send a message to Dal tonight, arrange a meeting with her , you think. I’ll do it while Astarion is asleep. After all, what’s one more sleepless night for a scholar like yourself?

You finally follow after Astarion, as he already speaks of your plans for the day. He asks you what you’ll be having for breakfast, you answer casually. You’re surprised by how easily you go on about your day, almost forgetting what happened between you.

Of course, you can’t forget entirely. Every once in a while you catch his eye and a blush runs up your neck, or your hands brush and you jolt back as if you’d been hit by a Shocking Grasp– but he seems no different and life continues.

You even manage to give him a bit of blood, by the wrist again, after insisting you’re well enough. He only drinks a bit and complains the entire time that you’re too weak for it. So when you’re left a little woozy and lightheaded, you try your best to pretend otherwise. In the end, the two of you spend the day rather leisurely, reading and chatting, acting as if nothing transpired between you at all.

Maybe, just maybe, everything wasn’t ruined. Maybe you could move on with the remainder of your time here, then figure out what to do going forward.

Your heart hurts and you know that you haven’t put all of your issues to rest, but the peace is welcome so you embrace it.

That night you send Dal a message using a Sending spell, “Hi Dal, it’s me. It’s time we talked. Can you come over while Astarion is in his reverie?”

Her response is succinct, “Yes, I’ll stay up. Let me know when, and I shall head over.”

__

It’s technically your twentieth day in the house when Dal quietly slips through the illusory wall, tiptoes past Astarion, and makes her way to you.

You wait for her, holding your breath the entire time, lest Astarion wake up in a fury. You’d hoped that he would eventually be more amenable to your meeting with Dal, but after learning more about your previous death, you suspect that that may not be the case.

Dal meets you in the hallway, and you head to your room together. Once inside, you both exhale the breaths you had been holding.

“Thank you so much for meeting me, Dal,” you say, leading her to sit on the couch before the hearth. “And thank you for tending to my wounds after that fight.”

She shakes her head at you and takes a seat. “No, thank you. I knew you would help us, regardless of whatever Astarion said. I’m just sorry you got hurt at all.”

You smile at her in response, glad that she understands how much you care. “Think nothing of it. I’m only sorry I didn’t prepare more appropriately for the situation. But I suppose we can blame Astarion for that.”

You both chuckle at the man’s expense, understanding his stubborn, rash nature easily. It’s almost as if you’re laughing with an old friend. Perhaps you were old friends, seeing as your previous life’s relationship with her is why you asked her to meet you.

She looks at you with a warm smile, and you suspect she probably feels similarly. I guess she was something of a sister-in-law, wasn’t she? you think. You dare not say it aloud though.

“So,” you begin, folding your hands together in your lap. “From what I understand, you worked with my past-self on… something. I’ll confess, I don’t have any details. But I want to help the colony as much as I did in my past-life, could you shed some light on what we were working on?”

“I’m happy to help,” Dal says. “Though I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

“Maybe with my death?” you hazard. “Astarion was… evasive.”

“He spoke of it?” she says, surprise coloring both her tone and expression.

You nod. “He gave me a few details, but he wasn’t very clear at moments. I could tell he was avoiding something.”

Dal looks down sadly, her lips pressed together in a worried line. “It makes sense. Astarion blames himself for your death, as you may have guessed.” She wrings her hands together for a moment before continuing “For separating from you, for letting you take on the burden that he feels should have been his.”

“But why should it have been his?” you ask, pleadingly. “I know I loved you all. And beyond that, I could tell, it was somehow for him as well.”

“He never saw it that way,” she says, shaking her head. “Regardless, I’m glad he spoke to you of it, even if he wasn’t the most forthcoming.”

You thought as much when he spoke to you, that it was likely the first time in over a hundred years he’d uttered those words. It was a privilege you wouldn’t take lightly, and, despite what he may believe, why you needed to talk to Dal. “So, let’s start at the beginning then. What was my mission with Astarion?”

“Right,” Dal says, looking up at you with determination. She’s certainly sad, she must have loved you dearly, but unlike Astarion, she also seems to have overcome her grief. Her words come out factual, practical. “You were on a mission to an ancient wizard’s tower to find a means to make some sort of enhanced sunlight rings– ones specifically for vampires– that would be able to quell our thirst for blood.”

“That… exists?”

“Truth be told, we weren’t sure,” she says, furrowing her brows somewhat apologetically. “It was all but a myth. However with 7000 spawn to feed and a giant target on our backs as a result, we were open to finding anything.”

Gods, that would… that would have solved so many problems. Not only would the spawn not have to worry about their ever-present hunger, but they might not even have been seen as a threat anymore. They could have even lived normal lives in the city, not hiding in the Underdark for survival.

But it all sounds too good, the spawn aren’t running about the city, and Dal's use of past tense doesn't bode well to you. “Was it a myth after all of that?”

“Well, the wizard turned out to be a necromancer." Ah, one of the bad ones, you can't help but think. "One who was obsessed with undead, vampires included. He’d clearly done a lot of research on vampirism and we were able to find some of his notes and journals on your… erm, body.” You can tell she’s uncomfortable speaking of you as if you’re dead, but she also can’t seem to separate you from your past self.

“Oh, that’s great then. Isn’t it?” you say, head perking up as you sense a puzzle just waiting for you to solve it. “Have you reached an impasse on figuring out his notes? I could help–”

She interrupts you before you can get too far. “It seems that his research, his secret formula or what have you– it was all useless, hocus pocus from a demented wizard. Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken.” I think. “Could they have been in code or something like that?”

"We took the notes to Gale once and he didn't see any rhyme or reason to them. Just another part of why Astarion was so mad. It felt like you sacrificed yourself for nothing."

The words sit between you for a moment. Had they sacrificed themself for nothing? They still had believed in their mission, even in their dying moments. You're sure of it.

You break the silence between you, “So… when you met me down in the cells, why did you want my help?”

“Because that can't have been it. I refuse to believe that that's how it ends," she says, with a fervor you hadn't expected from her. "Myself and the rest of my siblings, we’re still hopeful. We can’t keep living like this forever– you’ve seen the situation. We can’t hunt or we’ll risk exposing ourselves. We can’t defend ourselves without making ourselves out to be an even bigger threat. We’ve been surviving for the past several centuries. We would like to live.”

You nod vehemently, recalling the hunger you saw, the very conflict you were in just a few days ago. “I understand. What can I do to help then?”

“Well, maybe it's too hopeful, but I always thought there might be something in here. Right?” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a massive stack of papers, notebooks, journals, diagrams. "Maybe you left us something. Something that would help us figure it out, or set us on our next steps. You knew more than any of us by the end of your life. We couldn’t piece it all together, but if you have the memories… maybe you can.”

The stack grows as Dal continues to add papers atop it, and your nerves tingle with excitement. “What is all of this?”

“It’s your old research. Every note you took, every time you tried to design a ring or an alternative solution for us. I made sure Astarion couldn’t burn it or bury it.” She smiles at you proudly, and you're certain your mouth is agape.

You’re baffled. This was practically your life's work– such a big part of your life that is just completely missing from your memories. “How is it that I never learned about this in my reveries?"

"Perhaps you didn’t understand it. We spoke in code, wrote in code. The risk of being associated with a dark myth about vampirism was only liable to get the colony caught. As a result, only a handful of us were involved.” She ponders for a second. "Really just my siblings, yourself, and Gale."

You take the papers and start to sift through them, unable to read much of anything. Still, you know the enormity of this gift, can feel a thrill run up your spine at the sight of familiar handwriting. “This is amazing,” you say. "But how am I to read it all?"

The woman hands you a slip of blank paper. "This is a cipher. You can activate it using a light source. Memorize it, then burn it once you're done."

Turning the blank paper in your hand, you want more than anything to light it now, start to work, but you carefully tuck it in your bag for use later. "Thank you," you say with a slight bow to your head. “I don't know what I might uncover that you haven't already, but I'll try my best with the time I have left here…" You try not to think of your dwindling window of opportunity and instead focus on the task at hand.

This is a chance. A way to help those in need and, as much as Astarion has resisted, help him as well. He may not be starving like some of the spawn, he may have a life of relative ease, but you've seen the hunger in his eyes, the way that his tongue runs over his fangs absentmindedly. If this is something you can do for him, you would stop at nothing to do it.

You're in the midst of flipping through parchment when Dal pulls you back to the present, "We've continued our research, of course. Leon and I have searched for anything: something that could help blood be more filling, something that could store or duplicate blood. It's been fruitless."

You nod, familiar with how difficult blood magic could be, an area of necromancy that could lead to dark places if not handled with care. You try not to think of the types of things that could have gone wrong with that research and instead focus on what you can do going forward. "I don't blame you all, anything is worth a shot," you say. "Anything you could share might be helpful. And… I know you said they were worthless, but do you have the demented necromancer’s notes in here too?”

She seems hesitant, but still reaches down and pulls out another set of notes from her bag. They look horrendous, drenched in blood that could very well be yours, and nothing but a light scrawl on razor thin parchment. From a glance, you suspect it may not be made of paper. “This is all that we found on you.”

“Wow," you say, taking the notes gingerly from her. "These are…"

"Yes, they're… something," she finishes with a grimace.

You place them carefully on your stack, not sure how you'll be able to read them through the blood stains, but you'll figure it out. "Thank you, Dal," you say, truly grateful to have answers, to have a piece of the puzzle finally fall into place.

It seems like you're set– everything Dal has bestowed upon you sits waiting for your curious eyes, and she seems pleased to have delivered the cache. The woman begins to stand up, prepared to leave you to it, when a thought strikes her.

“One more thing…" she begins, a bit cautiously. "You should consider, erm, ‘obtaining’ Rhapsody.”

You recall Astarion’s begrudging safekeeping of it, and you wonder if Dal might be part of that. “Um, I'm happy to try, but why?”

“We didn’t get much from the notes, but we did gather that the necromancer thought that the blood from a vampire lord was important. It might be worth having," she explains.

You blink at her, confused. “Not to diminish your request, Dal. But the blade isn’t exactly blood."

Dalyria gives you a slight chuckle, shaking her head. "Gods, sometimes I forget you aren't them," she says. You're not certain how that makes you feel, but your heart does ache a bit at the words. “Scarlet Remittance, the dagger’s ability, absorbs life essence. The last person who the blade killed was Cazador Szarr.”

“I see," you say, thinking about the dream you'd witnessed for the second time today, vividly imagining when Rhapsody drove through the bastard's chest. If Astarion's act of vengeance had any role in solving the spawn's situation, you would steal the blade one way or another.

She turns to leave again, when a thought strikes you this time. You get up in a rush to pick up the item you'd borrowed from her during the defense of the colony.

“Don’t forget this!” you say, holding out the Sending Stone. You suspect that she needs it far more than you do.

She takes it gratefully, nodding at you. “Thank the gods, I'm glad I don't have to take another trip up that ladder for this!"

Then you watch her go, quietly pondering all that you’ve learned today.

You remember your own years of research, about past lives that linger after a great regret. This is it, you think, staring at the stack before you. They left this unfinished and it's up to you to complete it. Or at the very least figure out what they left behind and set the spawn on a path forward. The problem is, you haven't the faintest where to start.

I suppose I should start with the cipher, you think with a loud yawn. Though maybe I should wait until I'm less exhausted to learn it…

So you hide all of the paperwork in your Bag of Holding and head to bed, hoping to rest at least a bit before Astarion arrives to wake you up.

As you lay in bed and try to trance, you think about your past self. They had given every bit of themselves to trying to improve the spawn's situation, to their very last. You understand Astarion’s anger at them a bit better now, but that doesn’t stop the righteous fury in your heart. I need to help the spawn. They don’t deserve the kind of life that Cazador burdened them with. I won’t let them spend another lifetime in the darkness.

You only wish that your past self had shared more useful memories, like what to do with the recipe or any further leads. But you think you understand your dreams a bit better now. They needed to guide you to Astarion, to care for him as much as they did, to want to finish their goal as badly as they did or all of that information wouldn't matter. Well you’re here now. And gods do you care.

As your reverie takes you that night, you don’t dream of the Hero’s LIfe, much to your disappointment. You’re back in the forge, hammering away on an anvil, muscles aching and temperament steady. It would likely also help you for the days ahead.

__

When you actually awaken for your twentieth day in the house, you’re still tired. 

Astarion knocks on the door at your usual hour, and your shortened reverie leaves you sluggish and gaunt.

"Did I drink too much from you yesterday?" the vampire asks, giving you a once over. 

"No, I just couldn't get much sleep," you respond, trudging after him to the kitchen.

"Well, I'm going to need you to liven up a bit, we have work to do today," he says, holding open the door to the kitchen.

"Work?" You set about preparing your breakfast, trying to ignore how much your eyes burn.

"Yes, darling. Someone, I won't name names, has destroyed a substantial portion of the keep," he looks at you pointedly and you try to dodge his gaze. "Now that you've had your rest, we need to pivot our expansion plans to be repair plans."

You nod, thinking of all of the other work you'd rather be doing. Work which Astarion likely shouldn't find out about. "Very well, I'll pull myself together. I just need some breakfast."

That's how, as much as the Bag of Holding burns at your side with the secrets it holds, you spend your day alongside Astarion. 

The two of you continue with the same rapport you had yesterday, as you continue to try to ignore the thrills his touch sends up your spine. Despite your best efforts, you still find yourself flinching or jolting upward when his hand grazes yours. You would chalk it up to exhaustion, but it may just be your imagination working a bit too well with all of the new, salacious thoughts of Astarion you have at your disposal.

Astarion would have to be blind to miss your reactions to him. And, not one to miss out on an opportunity to tease, takes every opportunity to brush against you on ‘accident.’ Gods you wish you could go back to before his hands had touched every inch of your body. 

All the same, the day is nice– normal even, for the two of you. His teasing keeps you awake despite your lack of sleep, and by the end of it, his hands begin to linger. If you didn’t know any better, you might think that he… likes touching you. 

But you’ve already messed up enough this week, so you ignore the sensation and focus on your work. 

You finish your work too late and too tired to begin studying the cipher just yet. You vow to wake up early tomorrow morning to memorize it.

__

At the start of your twenty-first day in Astarion's house, you wake with a jolt when you hear a pounding at your door.

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you sit up and call, "Astarion?"

"We need to talk. Now," he says through the door. His words come clipped.

What's gone wrong?! You think in a panic, scrambling out of bed and running to the door. Could the spawn be under attack again?

You're disheveled and breathing in huffs when you make it to the door, fear already coursing through your body. However, when you open the door Astarion doesn't look worried, he looks mad.

"Astarion?" you ask again, confused as you try to understand what's happening. Something about the way he is looking at you has you taking a step back into the room, putting space between you.

"I received a message from Dal this morning," he says, placing a hand on the doorframe and staring you down.

Did something happen with the spawn? No, why does he look upset at… me? You're not sure what could have occurred, so you ask anyway, "Is something the matter?"

"DON'T," he starts, voice raising. He catches himself, continuing in the same tight voice once more, "Don't you dare play the fool with me. You had her Sending Stone last, I saw it when I was here the other day."

Oh gods , you think, realizing the implication of his words, the connection he's clearly already made. How could I have not considered that he would have noticed the stone? It had been right there.

When you don't respond immediately, Astarion lowers his voice, a deep, unsettling calm in his tone. “You spoke with Dal then?”

“... yes," you say, looking at him head on. You won't hide from it, and who knows? Perhaps, after all of this, Astarion will understand. You just need to be honest with him, get past the initial shock.

“I suppose it wasn’t a pleasant little chat about the weather," his words are biting, forced through teeth that are all but bared at you. "What in the hells did you speak to Dal for?”

The anger building in his voice is chilling, beyond just shock. Maybe you shouldn't have been so honest…

“Cat's got your tongue?" He releases the doorframe, leaning into the room further, but never stepping in. "Or was it about the same, silly. Little. Project that your soul can't seem to let lie?" 

He punctuates each word with daggers, and you're nearly positive that there isn't any understanding to be gained here. If only you could get through to him.

Your words come out hurried, a flurry of anything you can think of to calm the situation. “Astarion, please listen. I promise that I'm not doing anything dangerous. And I understand the situation better now–”

“What did I tell you?” His voice is deadly as he cuts you off like a sharpened blade.

“You said I shouldn’t get up to anything with the spawn,” you repeat, before diving into your next slew of words. “But I thought that maybe– after we talked about it–”

“No!" he yells, taking a step toward you now. You can’t help the step you take back in response. "I told you because I wanted to be honest. I didn't want you to make the same mistakes as they did!”

“It's not a mistake," you start, pleading with him. "Not if it means that the spawn can–”

“ENOUGH!” he snaps. Even when he got mad at you for staying here or when he got mad at you in the Underdark, he’d never raised his voice like this. It was like a tidal wave had just crashed over you, leaving you soaked, pathetic, and small in its wake.

You freeze.

“I warned you.”

You can't speak, a lump catches in your throat as you try to take a breath.

“I gave you explicit boundaries and you crossed them.”

You wish you could say something, but there's nothing to argue with there.

"I held back my anger when you ignored me, followed me into danger. But this? This is too much."

"Astarion," you whisper, finding a small fraction of your voice. He's right, you've been defying his every wish since you set foot in his house. You’ve been nothing but a burden.

“I don't want anything more to do with you,” he growls, baring his teeth. “I should have known better.”

Your heart drops to the very pit of your stomach. This can't be it. Please don't let this be the end. “Please Astarion, let me explain.”

“No. This was a mistake,” he spits out. “Maybe you've always been a mistake, in your past-life and now. I was just too much of a love-struck fool to see it last time. I refuse to be made that fool again.”

“Astarion…” you whisper, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. “They loved you so much. I–"

“What? Do you 'love' me?” Astarion asks, sneering at you with all of the contempt of centuries of pain. “No. You're just like them– as soon as another pitiful little case comes along you leave, off to greener, more pathetic pastures . What good is your help? Your love? It’s worthless when you’re nothing better than an idealistic hero.”

You thought the sharp stab of his rejection was painful, but the pain of his hatred is on another level entirely. You feel like you’re suffocating, trapped in a device of your own making. Because you can’t help who you are, what soul you now feel saddled with, any more than he can change you.

Perhaps he’s right, this was wrong in every single lifetime.

“I’m sorry,” is all that you manage in the face of the complete and utter desolation that is his rancor.

“It’s too late for apologies,” he says, tone icy. “I’m done.”

With that, Astarion turns away from you. You want to call out, reach for him, pull him into your arms. But it would be a mistake, just as you've been, as your time together has been, as your feelings have been.

It’s all you can do to watch him walk away, tugging at the painful chain wrapped around your heart with every single step.

The room begins to blur, and tears begin running down your face before you're ready for them. They pool in your eyes, stain your cheeks, run down your neck. You don't bother wiping them, because another torrent will simply replace them.

You drop to the floor in sheer defeat. What am I to do now?

Sobs shake your body, and you weep silently for some time before it all catches up to you. Your hands claw at the damnably familiar rug. You’re upset of course, but, gods, are you also angry. Why won’t he listen? Why does he refuse to try anymore? And why does he refuse to understand that this was all for him?

Because he didn’t ask for this help, your mind answers. Because he was happy, and you shattered that happiness. In your past-life and in your current one.

The thought only brings the tears down faster and you’re left a sodden mess. You cry until you don’t think you have any tears left to cry– it feels as though you’ve been wrung out and laid out to dry like an old rag.

You don't see or hear Astarion for the rest of the day, but you also don't venture out of your room. Like the despondent, broken hearted ghost you are, you spend the rest of the day laying on the couch, the floor, the bed– haunting each in a cycle of sheer misery.

You're dead on your feet when you lay down for an early reverie, but you still feel the need to document the week in your journal before you meditate. It's difficult to put your emotions into writing without starting the tears again, and the entry turns out rather pathetic compared to your two previous entries: