LIVING FLAME

{ ♪ } -- She watches them carefully, eyes shining with curiosity. While she could summon bolts of fire herself, she'd used far too much power that day and the strain on her body was making itself known. Still, the moment the fire burst to life, she gave a wide smile and a joyous yell! Bella took a moment to catch her balance, having flung her hands into the air with her yell out of pure excitement.

"That was so cool! I love it!"

The cleric gave a bright laugh, slowly shifting how she was sitting again to place her hands on her crossed ankles. While she watched over their camp, she'd be able to work through a plan for the coming day. There was no need to use magic to protect the camp, at least not so much that she was stressed about everything being locked down now. Whomever had ransacked their things likely wanted them to move forward in some form of haste and anxiety. The decision to stay put was one they probably weren't expecting, which made it safer. That, and she had plenty of projectiles and her mace at her side.

"Rest well, Arkezet. I'll ensure no strange creatures wander too close, and I'm happy to call for you if I feel even the mildest inkling that there may be something amiss. Promise."

"Thank you for humoring me. I owe you one," they say, a small bow at the waist for dramatic effect. "Now for my grand exit. I'll be back before you know it. And when I am, might I suggest you get a bit of rest of your own?"

Rhetorical for now, a thought left for her to chew on as Arkezet beds down under the open sky, thin wisps of smoke and cloud winding among a blanket of stars. It isn't long before the trance takes, dreamless but laden with memory.

By the time a few intrepid rain drops begin to pelt them on the scales cresting their brow, the weather has done them the small mercy of waiting through the bulk of their meditative cycle.

PERHAPS HE WAS . . . cheating, though it had not been made clear exactly what rules they were supposed to be following. in a life alone and destitute, wyll has only ever considered "cheats" those that have dodged death, an outcome that should consume them all - and his mind wanders to the fact that they, with tadpole in mind, are constantly evading the inevitable. with devil whispering in his ears, one eye captured and meant for these correspondences, he supposes he is a cheater. everything it takes to survive, anything he will give to keep on going. he hopes to make that clear to his companion, at least in the days to come; that they will continue to practice with their weapons but the only way to truly come together and win the battles ahead, is if the interworking of their minds are finally on display. that is best done with tensions at a height, with the clanging of metal and breathless lungs that come from combat.

And then this whole debacle strikes him as even more ridiculous. He’s suffered countless torments.

“ Well, for one, you could stand behind our resident tiefling meat shield, ” Astairon begins, holding up a finger. “ Or, you could use those fancy spells of yours to get away quickly. I hear taking an axe to the face is bad for you. ”

"Oh, of course. Ridiculous not to do the thing I'm already doing. I'll just do it even harder."

What does Astarion imagine they do? Run up arm in arm with Karlach and give their quarter staff a mighty, useless swing? Wave to the enemy flankers and invite them right over? It's the second time in mere moments he almost implies as much, if not for an unnameable insistence braced behind his every word. He can't actually think they're a bumbling idiot, or he wouldn't still be here. So, why?

They're of a mind to leave him to it until he figures out exactly what he's trying to say. "Fancy, get away spells, you say. You mean like this?"

Even if all it took to make it so is a territorial spiderling. 

That pleasant feeling gives way to wryness. Part of him still shies from the thought of being quite so serious about whatever it is that they’re doing. 

A bit contradicted by the fond shake of their head. As some of the humor fades from the moment, the haze of contentment does not, nearly startling in the face of their own expectations. Everything about Astarion continues to surprise and remind them of all the reasons, malignant parasites aside, they end up precisely where they are.

They can't pinpoint the exact moment the connection between the two of them stopped terrifying them.

“ Funny, that. It’s almost like we live together. ”

Except there’s nothing funny about it at all. He can still recall the moment Arkezet decided their end goals were more important than self-immolation. And, of course, the many dissonant hours afterwards where he grappled with losing them, the sun, and potentially everything in between. It feels like a bruise, and if pressed upon still causes aftershocks of pain. 

He lounges across a chaise he pilfered in the aftermath of the Elder Brain’s destruction. While the sun burns high, there’s little for him to do but wait for nightfall. Books spread out in front of him, a veritable feast of research notes on vampirism, inter-dimensional travel, and even a torrid romance novel. 

Shrugging free of their cloak, Arkezet promptly drapes it over the godsawful statue carved in their own image. Their initial instinct had been to leave the thing behind, but when the city expressed interest in it as some sort of monument, they had decided it had made a better coat rack, to be tucked away and never to be seen again. Fortunately, they'd managed to lump enough clutter onto it ( with help from everyone else ) to render it barely recognizable.

Unlike Astarion, who they would recognize anywhere. They are slow in their approach, coming to rest their hip against the chaise's single arm and leaning down to place a kiss atop his curls. The picture of repose he might be, he's clearly kept busy and then some.

They’re sneaky. It’s a trait he both respects and abhors. 

He sighs, not in the normally gusty, put upon way that signals a dramatic story. “ I’m worried about– ”

Multitudes, if he’s honest. His growing fondness for Arkezet. The camaraderie he feels with their companions. The knowledge that it could all be so very easily ripped away from him. 

They nod their agreement in turn. They do find it strange how many nights, ignoring the tadpole, pass in relative ease.

"From what the mercenaries had to say, it seems the road from here to the Gate is a rough one. That works in our favor for now."

But that advantage won't hold out indefinitely. The closer they draw to the city, the more attention they're likely to attract. Arkezet is of a mind to invite some of it, of course, to lead the answers concerning the Absolute cult their way, but never where they're most vulnerable.

He props himself up on his elbow to look over them. Their appearance isn’t so strange now–no stranger than Wyll’s new horns or the death orb scarring Gale’s skin. It makes sense that they’d enjoy basking, probably something to do with their cold-blooded ancestors needing warmth to survive. 

He can attest, though, that nothing about Arkezet is cold. Everything seems to be fiery where they’re concerned. Astarion wonders idly if he’ll have his work cut out for him in the form of one fiery tiefling.

"Fantasies, huh? Well, for starters, an honest-to-gods bath. I think we've all earned a good soak." A finger lifts, ticking off one on their apparent list. "Proper food. Gale is nothing short of a miracle worker, but even he can only do so much with a handful of grapes and a bit of carrots. Oh, a bed - or at least a new blanket. Mine's practically in tatters."

It ends with their full attention resting on Astarion again, and while all their confessions are nothing short of true, it becomes a little clearer they might be intentionally missing the point.

{ ♪ } -- "That's nice. I really don't like dealing with flints... I could use magic, I suppose, but... Hmmm."

She felt odd using her magic for mundane things. Not all the spells she knew required divine power, but... Seeing as she was a servant of Mystra, it still felt weird to use the Weave in such a way. She shook her head then, refocusing on the task of gathering and arranging all the scraps of wood into a good orientation to burn. At least the blaze would be a great way to keep warm, and it would make it easier to roast some of the things she'd stashed away.

"You're right, unfortunately. I'd prefer to move, but... Unless one of us summons some form of light, we'd be wandering in the dark. I'm not that big of a fan of that in this context. If I could guarantee my safety and yours, I'd probably be pulling you along for a moonlit jaunt."

The comment earned a little smile from her. Arabella was plenty open with her albinism, the fact that the moon had been a constant companion for her since she was young. That was part of why the Lady of Silver appealed to her so. But, ultimately, it was Mystra that called to her.

It's always a breathe, a thought, a blink away. An extension of the senses. As vital as a pulse. Arkezet spends only a few moments fussing over the final positioning of the kindling. The rush of heat, the scent of cinders, rise to obey the curvature of their fingertips. A brush against the splintered debris, and it roars to life with light and flame and fury, casting the camp into sudden brightness and warmth.

"Wouldn't mind the idea of moving on if we weren't dealing with intruders on our tails. If they're counting on forcing us into hasty decisions, best not to give them that edge."

As soon as Arkezet is confident the campfire is secure, they rise to their feet and give Bella a nod. Their need for rest is confined to quick bouts of meditation, but they can easily use the spare time to secure the area through magical means.

“ I look forward to being the complete focus of your charms. ”

There’s not a hint of anything other than the truth. Astarion has found he has taken a liking to the careful intimacy between the two of them. Arkezet resting by his side, Arkezet allowing him to take their hand in his, and Arkezet asking, rather sweetly he might add, for a few stolen kisses. 

“ Oh, I can think of a great many ways I’d like to have you, ” Astarion says, tilting his head with his most come hither look. He takes a slow, prowling step closer. Then, another, until he’s well within Arkezet’s personal space. 

It's fitting, Arkezet thinks, as falling in love with Astarion had been the same. Fearing the vulnerable thing their feelings for him might make of them, only to find themself more cherished than they'd ever been.

"Noted for later, then."

Later, when they can draw him close and traces patterns against his palms. Later, when they can rest their head against his soft curls. Later, when he will be a solid, cool weight beside them in silence or conversation.

Later is not yet now, as they learn swiftly. The cool, glancing touch of the dagger brings reality back into sharp relief, quickens their breath, their pulse, just so. Their mouth eases into an uptick, leaning in past the blade and close, a whisper made for his ears. Power, lacing and layering every word in an unnatural resonance: Inveniam Viam.

“ I’ll hold you to it, darling. ”

Strange, how quickly things can change. Stranger still that he craves it, this closeness, this quiet intimacy that demands nothing of him other than to be present. 

Astarion stretches languidly, like a content cat, before maneuvering himself closer to Arkezet’s warmth. It’s pleasant, the way that they seem to run hotter than anyone else. Or perhaps it’s just his deathly touched skin craving the life it’s lost. Either way, he’s savoring the closeness before something inevitably interrupts them. 

"I might have noticed that a time or two," they say, feigning thought.

Astarion's sentiments aren't in question. Their mutual comfort is, and he's made himself clear on the matter; that's good enough for them.

They watch him now, the valleys and lines of face in repose. The vibrancy of his eyes by dimness. The fall of his hair, curling around his ears and against the bedding. They reach to smooth at his curls, and not for the first time, they are stricken with how wonderful he, this, is. Reveling in possibilities, what else the two of them might steal, defy, build if only time stays on their side.

“ Thank you for not dragging me along, ” he says, thinking specifically of how leaky one of his boots has become. He wasn’t an outdoorsman before all of this mess, and his wardrobe was new centuries ago. “ I always smell great. ”

From gratitude to lament in the space of a blink. Their laughter is nearly startled from them, both impressed and awash with affection for him. They check his shoulder with their own, a pointed arch of their brow giving away their skepticism before they even speak.

Astarion’s ‘porcelain-smooth’ expression remains just as displeased as it did before their continued teasing. If only he could see it for himself, but the damnable mirror he still carries remains completely blank. He thought (hoped, really) that with all his other changes, perhaps a reflection would surface. 

And he remains displeased by Arkezet’s response. It would be easy to fall into step and match their teasing with his own. “ I don’t think you planned for it at all. ”

They didn’t see the ruffian. They didn’t have a premonition of the death of the only person he can remember caring about. They most certainly don’t know the desperate, clawing horror that threatened to drag him down mid-fight. Of course he would watch them slip between his fingers, leaving him alone in a dark, blisteringly cold world. 

Distantly, he knows that Arkezet is mortal. They may be long lived, but he is cursed to eternity. That seems so, so very far away, though. The threat of today has put a new worry in his heart that he has no name for.

They try not to let it be a dig at their pride. They try not to let the endearment and wonder they feel, that someone thinks of them and their safety, swing in the opposite direction and veer into just the slightest bit insulted.

Mostly, Arkezet is successful, but they don't entirely understand, either. A thousand perilous moments are the exact composition of their journey together. There is no guarantee, no accounting for what awaits them next. What makes this any different?

It is that thought, nagging at them, that they consider as they watch Astarion now, even as they welcome the cool press of his touch against their face. There is something within him uncharacteristically subdued, and they know it to mean only one thing. He is truly troubled.

But Ark is a balm to his weary, wounded soul. That is enough, for now.

He can’t help but grin. Arkezet’s heart gives them away as much as any other kind of tell. How unfortunate for them they’ve decided to place all their love into a vampire. 

They wouldn't have him, this, everything about this moment, any other way. "No, nothing at all. Hush, you."

Of course, they intend to keep their every word, but the shift in Astarion's mood inspires their same in theirs, something playful and languid, stolen and cherished, pushed and pulled.

“ You mean to tell me this isn’t a drow courtship ritual? Truly, darling? ” he says, once he’s managed to calm himself. 

And dear, sweet Arkezet does indeed look so lovely when they climb down from those high walls they’ve built around themself. He finds his lips curving in an unspoken answer. Perhaps this ridiculousness has been good for something, after all. 

The situation is ridiculous. Astarion is ridiculous. Arkezet feels ridiculous. Even now, the phantom urge to chuckle over it all comes and goes in waves. His laughter nearly sets off theirs again, but they remain strong.

And they're glad they do. Because they see him, alive with his own amusement and happiness, the spark of it that meets his eyes and flashes at his exposed, sharp teeth. They feel something warm, happy, content unfurl in answer. They can't help but smile, too, a soft, lingering thing that doesn't quite fade in the face of his mischief.