Chapter Text
Astarion thumbed the pommel of his dagger anxiously as he watched the raging duel in the Temple of Bhaal. Firelight danced in Tav’s void-black eyes as she dodged and parried the shapechanger’s increasingly frustrated attacks. He had seen her in battle countless times before, of course, but this felt different. Free of the distraction of his own attacks, unable to help her if something, gods, if anything happened…
He caught himself, expertly redirecting his fear into a bout of sardonic self-pity. It was fitting, of course, that as soon as he allowed himself to truly care about another, the object of his affections would be thrust into such mortal peril.
But when Orin finally went down, gurgling and screaming into a puddle of blood that left a stench like sour milk, Astarion finally allowed himself to relax a bit. He gave the object of his affections a friendly wave, pride and relief spilling out of him all at once.
“Bravo, darling!”
Tav looked over and grinned in response. Somehow, even when standing over a fresh kill, sweat and blood streaking her face, she looked so… sweet.
Thank the gods, it was over. This newly feeling heart of his was not used to the strain of fretting over someone other than himself, and he certainly didn’t care for the sensation. But at least, he reasoned – hoped, really -- that with Cazador gone and this whole Bhaalspawn business finally resolved, such future incidents would be far and few between. Assuming they survived the Elder Brain, of course.
His relief began to ebb when Bhaal revealed himself, as a sinister face in a puddle of blood and gore, to his lost child. And his worry returned in full force when Tav, woman that she was, rejected her father's gift of godhood as if it were the most obvious choice in the world. Because of course she did. This beautiful, devilish, idiot woman.
“You reject my blood, and so I will reclaim it…”
And as the god of murder struck her down, stopping her perfect heart with that familiar fury of a patriarch spurned, Astarion realized he had been so, completely wrong.
His heart lurched, dropped – ached, like it had been thrown into the Hells.
Maybe it was just the shock. Maybe it wasn’t what it looked like. It wasn’t the first time one of them had been gravely injured, after all. He stepped towards her, tentatively.
“My love, are you alright?” He kneeled alongside her, reaching to grasp her shoulder gently. “Tav?”
He could sense his companions stepping closer as well but dared not look at them. Shadowheart was the first to approach, lingering awkwardly behind him. “Astarion,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically soft, “I’ll help you up. Let me take a look at her.”
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped. “She’s fine. She’ll be fine. What even-- what did he do?”
“I won’t know if I can’t examine her.”
He felt stupid. Childish. Utterly, embarrassingly out of control of himself. He shuddered out a deep sigh. “Fine,” he spat, “do it quickly,” leaning back and giving the cleric space to work.
As she started, Astarion studied Tav’s face, scanning for signs of life, listening for even the faintest heartbeat. He heard none, but how could that be? Her expression was so contented, so peaceful.
If he didn’t know any better he would say she was sleeping soundly, looking just like she did in their bed at the Elfsong. Some restless nights, when he struggled to slip into his trance, he would forgo his rest to watch the gentle motion of her chest rising and falling, and amuse himself listening to the delicate whimpers she made as she dreamed. Once, she had stirred as if caught in a nightmare, and he gathered her up and held her in his arms until she softened against him, murmuring nonsense and slipping back into a deep sleep as an overwhelming warmth bloomed in his chest.
But that was a far cry from where they were now. He pulled his focus away from Tav’s still face and glanced over at Shadowheart only to catch her giving Gale a pleading look, the wizard standing just a few paces back, his face similarly pained. The two companions shared a moment of wordless conversation before looking back to Tav with a new and terrifying solemnity.
And then, slowly, they both turned to face the uncharacteristically quiet vampire. Their gazes were filled with pity, and maybe a hint of fear. Time seemed to slow as Gale cleared his throat, then a sharp intake of breath…
“No! Gods damn it, no!” Astarion interjected, sure that whatever the man was about to say would break him. His outburst was met with silent stares. More pity. In the grim silence of the temple, the reality of the situation closed in around him.
So this was it, then.
One final cruel joke from the gods. One last glimmer of hope, real hope, only for it to be taken away. Perhaps it was never there to begin with. Or perhaps all of this had been the sick fantasy of a tortured spawn gone mad, and he had never really escaped his tormentor at all.
Perhaps he could convince the cleric to stake him right then and there. Or let the Emperor transform him, as long as it meant he would no longer have a soul with which to feel. He made no effort to stop the macabre thoughts as they flowed in faster and faster, his pulse rising, his ears ringing…
Then, footsteps.
Slow, deliberate footsteps, like sandpaper on stone. A frail but nevertheless commanding voice rung out, cutting through the bleak stillness of the temple.
“Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and in doing so has earned a place among champions and heroes…”