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Chapter Text

Halsin finds the dead boar where his scout told him it would be. Its body rests deep in the forest, near a path the settlers often travel when they're gathering wood or foraging for mushrooms. He makes a private note to congratulate the scout on his keen eyesight; it's no easy thing to spot the brown-furred corpse of a wild boar among the brown leaf litter.

He crouches beside the body, noticing as he does so that he's not the first to disturb the drifts of leaves here. He spots only the faintest disturbance where his scout knelt to investigate the body. But there are other marks on the ground here too. The boar kicked as it died, of course, scoring a deep path in the dirt with its flailing hooves. But someone else walked here, someone unfamiliar with the technique of moving lightly through a forest like this one. There are the scuffs of booted feet, snapped branches in the undergrowth, and even a bright thread trailing where its owner snagged some piece of fine cloth on a bramble. 

Halsin picks the thread from the thorn to examine it. It's bright blue and smooth to the touch. None of the resettled refugees who make up his little community would wear such a fine cut of cloth to go mushroom picking.

The boar's body is equally out of place here. Its death clearly was not a natural one. There are no signs of bites or claw marks from wolves, wargs, or knolls. Its body seems strangely withered, but when Halsin pokes its haunches, the muscles are firm with no signs of wasting. This poor beast didn't die of disease or predation. But something—some one , he hopes—has killed it all the same.

Halsin rolls the corpse onto its prickly back, unsheaths the knife he wears at his belt, and makes an incision at the base of the thick neck. Halsin lost his taste for meat centuries ago; as soon as he'd learned how to speak to animals, the thought of killing them for food lost all appeal. But he has always been pragmatic about hunting, and he knows how to dress wild game if necessary.

The flesh of the boar's neck is loose, almost sagging. It parts easily under the knife. He peels it away from the meat and finds the cause of death. There are two very fine holes in the artery that runs through the neck, easy to miss through the boar's thick hide. Whoever dined on this pig drank the blood and left the meat alone.

Halsin knows someone who could do that. They exchange letters every month or so, each one a window into an incomprehensible world. Halsin doesn't know or care about the wheeling and dealing of a city's criminal underworld, and he's sure Astarion is equally uninterested in the complexity of planting seasons and compost composition. And yet, in spite of the brevity of their romance, their correspondence has continued at a steady pace for the past five years with no signs of trailing off.

Halsin gets his arm under the boar's body and stands, heaving the load onto his shoulders so he can grip it by the legs. He'll have to do a thorough examination first, to make sure that there's no poison or rot in the flesh, but if all looks well the meat will make a feast for the settlement's dogs. There's no point in wasting good meat.

There's no point in getting his hopes up before he knows who's really lurking in the woods. Astarion had, after all, unleashed thousands more vampire spawn just like himself on the world. Perhaps one of them has wandered up from the Underdark in search of a fresh hunting ground. Either way, it's his duty to find out if a dangerous outsider is lurking near his home.

The next day, he returns to the spot to follow the blundering trail the boar's killer had left behind. Whoever wandered through the forest is no woodsman. There are more snagged threads, snapped branches, and even an impressive bit of disturbed earth where his quarry missed a step and took a tumble halfway down a ravine. By the light of day, to the eyes of an experienced tracker, these signs are no trouble at all to follow back to their source.

The cave is not the most impressive Halsin had seen, although he can hazard a guess as to why a vampire spawn might choose it. The entrance is too narrow to be comfortable for a bear, but not so narrow that a man can't squeeze into it. Peering inside, Halsin guesses that the passage opens up into a small gap in the rock, big enough to stand and turn around in, but not much more. He'll certainly make it feel crowded just by trying to fit inside.

A part of him wants to give it a try anyway. He could transform into a smaller animal, a crow or a mouse, and explore wherever he pleases. But if he's wrong about who has come to visit in his woods, he'll be wandering into the lair of a stranger who might be very hungry indeed.

It's better to watch and see who comes out at night. Halsin retreats to a spot where he can watch the cave mouth without being seen himself. 

The sun is obscured by the trees, but he can tell from the quality of the light that it will be a few hours until dusk. He finds a good spot to sit on a fallen log, takes a half-whittled block of wood out of his pocket, and settles down for a long wait.

Chapter Text

Halsin can see the first star of the evening shining through a gap in the canopy by the time his quarry emerges from the cave. There's precious little light in these deep woods, but that shock of silver-white hair is hard to miss. 

The pale elf greets the night cautiously, with his hand raised and held out before him. When his exposed skin doesn't burn, he steps fully out of the shelter of the rock.

Halsin sheathes his knife and returns his whittling project, now a half-finished mallard, to his pocket. He stands slowly, but not slowly enough. Astarion spots the movement and startles. With a flick of his wrist nearly too fast to follow, there's a dagger in his hand, the edge of the blade catching the last of the dying light.

"Astarion, is that you?" Halsin asks, although he doubts it could be anyone else. Seven thousand vampire spawn , he reminds himself. Who knows what they look like now, or what they might be capable of?

The elf holds his alert position for a moment longer, staring into the shadows, and then relaxes into the fluid posture Halsin remembers so well. "Halsin, it really is you. I thought I'd wandered halfway to Berdusk trying to find my way here."

They approach each other, Halsin picking his way sure-footed through the undergrowth, Astarian slipping only a little on a slick patch of earth. The spring rains have kept up longer than usual this year. The earth is in a riot of growth, but the ground can be treacherously soft.

Halsin asks, "Why didn't you stay closer to the road? It runs right through the community I've been helping to build."

"The problem with roads is that they tend to involve a lot of bridges over running water," Astarion tells him. "And people tend to take it the wrong way when they run into a vampire heading for their home. I thought me sticking to the woods would be safer for everyone, but I've found there's a shocking lack of signage in a forest. I did intend to drop in on you, of course, as soon as I found out how to get to you."

 Halsin responds by laughing and sweeping him into a hug. Astarion tenses for a moment at his touch, then melts into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Halsin's neck. The pommel of the dagger is cold against the bare skin there. Astarion makes a movement with his wrist and it vanishes back up his sleeve again.

"By the gods, I missed you," Asterion whispers. His face is pressed against Halsin's chest, the words nearly inaudible. He pulls back a little, tips his face up, and says more clearly, "You have no idea how many rivers there are between here and Baldur's Gate. Someone ought to dam them all up."

Astarion has clearly not devoted enough of his life to contemplating the life cycles of salmon or the hundreds of other creatures that depend on watersheds. "What happens if you try to cross running water?"

"I won't turn into ash or anything, never fear. I just can't compel myself to so much as put a foot on a bridge, no matter how hard I try. It's only fresh water or clean salt water. If it was any sort of liquid I'd never get anywhere in a city with a sewer system."

His arms are still around Halsin's neck, his pale face the last shining thing in the gathering gloom. Even when he's talking about sewage, he's breathtakingly beautiful. Halsin wants to kiss him, but when he dips his head, Astarion tenses up again. There's nothing in this world so beautiful that he'll take what isn't given freely.

"I have an idea," Halsin said. "I know a better cave for you, closer to the village. There aren't enough wolves in the area to keep the deer in check. If you need to hunt, you'd be doing some good culling the population."

They break apart. Halsin leads the way. Astarion can see well enough in the dark, and Halsin makes sure to pick an easy path for him.

"What brought on this journey?" Halsin asks, because it's clear enough Astarion didn't come all this way just to see him. If he intended this to be a social call, he would have written.

Astarion is silent for a while. Then, he asks, "What are the shadow-cursed lands like now?"

"They're recovering as well as could be expected," Halsin says. The little settlement he lives in now is right on the edge of what had once been that blighted land. It's a good spot to keep watch over Thaniel, and the progress he's making returning life to what had once been a waste. "A whole forest can't regrow overnight. But each year, there's a little more green. And you can travel safely without a poor trapped pixie to light your way."

"Have you ever seen a house there with a rose window and a copper roof? It should be made out of white granite. Very eye-catching." The place must mean more to Astarion than he's letting on, because he's trying a little too hard to sound casual about the question.

"A house? I thought it was a castle, it's that big. I've seen it. It's certainly hard to miss. Are you looking for something there?"

"My family," Astarion says, very softly. "Whatever's left of their bones, I suppose. I was born in Baldur's Gate, but they moved away after my death. A pity for them that they chose to build their new home directly in the path of the shadow curse."

"Oh." Halsin ought to say something comforting, but there's not much comfort to offer in the face of their shared knowledge of that blighted land. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'm not sorry to hear I've inherited a castle," says Astarion, with a brittle brightness that doesn't quite conceal what he's really feeling. "I've spent centuries living in a castle, but I've never had the chance to decorate one of my own before. Won't that be fun?"

And conveniently nearby, Halsin thinks, but he keeps that thought to himself. Astarion hasn't come here for him, and who knows whether he'll want to stay after he finds only rot and bones at his destination.

"I suppose it could be fun," he says, and they indulge in a pleasant argument about whether plants count as decoration for the rest of the walk.

Chapter Text

The cave is less than a mile from the settlement Halsin's been helping to build for the past five years. Once he's shown Astarian how to find the spot, he suggests taking a walk around the area. With the sun down, most of the people who live there will be indoors, but perhaps that's for the best. Halsin needs to take some time to consider how he'll explain to everyone why he's decided to invite a vampire into their midst.

Most of the buildings sit on a gentle hill, one of several foothills leading down out of the mountain pass. On a clear day, it's possible to stand at the edge of the village and see for miles over the shadowland. The moon is full enough now to show Astarion a little of the view, although the silver moonlight doesn't show the new growth to its best effect. Halsin describes it for him instead. "At first, this was practically a wasteland, all black and brown. But every spring more plants grow. See that building over there, on the left? The ivy's grown halfway up to the roof. In another few years, it'll be covered in green."

Astarion looks, but from the expression on his face, it's clear that he sees nothing more than ruins. "I suppose there are weeds that can thrive anywhere."

"A weed's just a plant that's growing where someone doesn't want it to grow," Halsin tells him.

Astarion pulls a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket. He holds it up to the landscape, looks from the paper to the view, then flips it upside-down and examines it again. "The house should be about right there," he says, pointing off to the right. "Damn, I see a bridge. Don't tell me there's a river in the way, please. I've walked halfway across Faerûn trying to get around these damned rivers."

Halsin takes a peek at Astarion's map. It looks like a very old document indeed. The plot Astarion has circled is empty, although Halsin is sure he remembers the house. "I'm sure there's a way across. Where did you get that map?"

"My mother consulted architects in Baldur's Gate when she was building the house. Most of the documents were destroyed centuries ago. It took years to track this down." Astarion folds the paper carefully and returns it to his pocket. "Oh, the stories I could tell you of how difficult it can be to navigate local bureaucracy when you can't step outside until after sundown. The archivist who filed this liked to lock up in the early afternoon. It took me a good three months of missed appointments before I figured out a way of stealing it." 

He's talking around something greater than irritation, Halsin is sure of it. Getting this far with his limitations was no easy feat. Tracing a family that moved away from the city centuries ago had to have been a great deal of trouble for no obvious purpose. It's been decades since Halsin returned to the peaceful spot where his own parents were laid to rest, but he knows that none of the bodies left in the shadow cursed land deserved such an unforgiving grave. Astarion has come here to lay family members to rest who buried him almost two hundred years ago.

Instead of pressing further on an old wound, Halsin says, "My home is a humble one, but cozy enough for comfort. I'd like to show it to you."

Astarion turns away from the view and follows Halsin to the front door of his house. It's little more than a hut, built of sturdy cob and thatched with rushes. The nest that a swallow made above the window last year is still there, waiting for a new inhabitant this spring. Tendrils of bindweed and ivy have already begun to explore the rough walls.

At the doorstep, Astarion pauses. Halsin looks back at him. He's hovering just outside, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He stretches his hand out, but cannot seem to bring himself to pass it through the open doorway.

"Is something wrong?" Halsin asks. 

It's clear that something is very wrong. Astarion draws his hand back and balls his fingers into a fist, making a poor show of hiding his frustration. "I can't come in without an invitation."

"Oh. Of course. You're always welcome in my home." Halsin watches him; a little of the nervous tension seems to drain away. "Will that suffice?"

"I believe it will." Astarion takes a cautious step inside, then a bolder one. Once he's assured himself that he's not about to burst into flames, he flings himself into Halsin's arms.

Laughing as he does so, Halsin draws him close for a proper kiss at last. Astarion has always been a careful kisser, wary of his own fangs. It's Halsin who has the pleasure of sinking his teeth into Astarion's lower lip. His mouth always tastes faintly, sweetly, of copper.

"Gods, I hope you have a real bed," Astarion murmurs when they break away from each other for a moment. Whatever nervous tension had seized him in the woods has faded away. His lithe body is relaxed, pliant, except for one part Halsin can feel pressing against his thigh that is very firm indeed. "I'd hate to find out I've hiked all this way to bed a man who sleeps on a pile of moss, or something equally twee."

Halsin's mattress is indeed stuffed with dried moss, but Astarion doesn't need to know the details. "Shall we see if this bed meets your standards, your highness?"

Astarion allows himself to be picked up. He kisses Halsin again, this time letting a sharp fang graze his lip. The pinprick pain barely registers, but the taste of blood must do something powerful to Astarion. When Halsin lowers him onto the bed, his pupils are wide and black. He runs his tongue over his pale lower lip, a provocative movement that has Halsin thinking about all sorts of other uses for that clever tongue.

"I suppose the bed suffices," Astarion says, stretching an arm above his head. "I can't say for sure until I've tested it more thoroughly. Why don't you help me out of this jacket?"

Chapter Text

Getting Astarion out of his clothing takes more skill than Halsin expects. The styles in the city have always favored excessive buttons and laces, and though Astarion's fine jacket might be a little worse for wear after his woodland wandering, it's still clearly the height of inconvenient fashion.

All that work is worth it, though, for a better look at Astarion's bare chest. Though his former master carved cruel scars into his back, Cazador left his front unmarked. There's little light in Halsin's modest house except for the glow of the moon coming in through the window. In that pale light, Astarion looks like he's been carved from a block of pure marble. Perhaps he'd even find the comparison flattering. Marble, after all, cannot bleed. It might be chipped by the artist's chisel, but it cannot be carved with any knife.

Halsin kisses his way down Astarion's neck, lavishes attention on each delicately pink nipple, and explores lower still. The thin trail of coarse hair that runs down from Astarion's navel is as silver by moonlight as Halsin remembers it in the light of the sun. He kisses his way down it while Astarion makes soft, pleased sounds.

With his hand wrapped around Astarion's cock, Halsin looks up and asks, "What would please you most?"

Astarion's eyes widen. He looks almost surprised to be asked. Halsin had assumed that he had spent the first years of his freedom exploring his own pleasures, but perhaps Astarion had other priorities. 

He rubs his thumb idly over the head of the other man's cock, and feels Astarion push up into the sensation. "I remember you were very good with your mouth," Astarion says. "When you weren't using it to tell me nonsense about plants."

Halsin laughs and bends to his work with vigor. Astarion's cock is a pleasant size, not so large that he can't take it all into his throat if he relaxes. He feels one of Astarion's hands settle on the back of his head, not pushing him down, just resting lightly with his fingers curling in Halsin's hair. Again a wave of nervous tension passes through his body, then ebbs. Halsin can't see his face well from here, but he pays attention to the sound of Astarion's breathing and the way his legs spread wider as he relaxes. 

He runs a hand up the inside of Astarion's thigh, feeling the junction between leg and groin where the blood would beat in a living man. They had so little time to explore each other's bodies in the frantic rush to stop the Chosen of the Dead Three and contain the terrible power of the Elder Brain. He's not yet sure what Astarion might like. He wonders if Astarion, in all his centuries of servicing strangers, has learned what he likes himself.

He fondles Astarion's balls, rubbing the thin skin, and presses his fingers to the spot behind them where some men like to be touched. He pauses when Astarion's breath catches, then resumes after he murmurs, "Oh, do that again."

Halsin does as he's told. The hand in his hair grips harder. One of Astarion's legs has found its way up over his shoulder; a heel digs into his back between his shoulder blades. It would be enough to end the evening like this, with his lover squirming so sweetly on the bed and thrusting up into his eager mouth, but Astarion half-sits up on the mattress and asks, "Do you have any oil?"

"Of course." Halsin gets up to search for it in the dark room. When he turns around with a generous pour of oil cupped in his hand, Astarion is standing just behind him. While they kiss, Astarion spreads his palms on Halsin's chest, running his fingers through the coarse hair. He shoves him toward the bed, not hard enough to move him with any real force, but Halsin lets his knees buckle anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed while Astarion straddles his lap. Through practice or preference, Astarion needs little preparation. Halsin pumps his oiled hand over his own cock a few times, and then Astarion slides down onto it.

His body isn't quite like any other lover Halsin has ever taken. The muscle that clenches around Halsin's cock is still tight, but where others run hot inside, Astarion is only slightly warm. The fingers that grip his shoulders are cold, there is no sheen or taste of sweat on his milky skin, and when Halsin presses his face into Astarion's neck, there is no jumping pulse under the skin. But there is life in him yet.

Halsin takes Astarion's cock in his oiled hand as Astarion settles onto him. He rolls his hips, finding his rhythm, and digs his blunt nails into the rounded muscles of Halsin's shoulders. When they kiss this time, Astarion makes no attempt to be careful with his fangs. With the pain comes pleasure, with building intensity as Astarion sucks on the lip he's nicked.

In the shadow-cursed lands, Halsin had twice allowed Astarion to feed on his blood. It had been a decision born of desperate necessity; even rats and lizards had succumbed to the shadow curse, and there was no good hunting to be had. He remembered the experience as unpleasant, and had thought of nothing but the cold sensation of life draining out of him. But perhaps it's different to be tasted by a vampire who's no longer starving, in a land no longer in the grip of a curse.

Astarion moves his rough kisses down Halsin's jaw and over his neck but does not bite down. He presses his lips to the delicate skin of Halsin's throat. His breaths are growing faster. Halsin takes Astarion's cock in his oil-slicked hand and strokes it, matching the motion to the building rhythm of Astarion's hips. He feels Astarion's groan vibrate through his skin.

Astarion keeps his face pressed against Halsin's neck as he comes. Halsin marvels at the clench of muscles around his cock, the way the pale body cradled in his arms tenses and then dissolves into bliss, the way that even in his least guarded moment Astarion does not bite without permission.

A few more thrusts into those tight muscles, and he's coming too, growling at the sheer pleasure of it. Astarion picks up his head and laughs at the sound. "You randy old bear," he says, combing his fingers through Halsin's hair.

After that there's the necessary cleanup. Halsin would suggest a dip in the creek nearby, but the cold water there runs fresh and clear, so instead he gets the job done with a rag and a pitcher of water. Astarion lounges with him on the bed for a while. When Halsin slips out of his meditative trance, he finds that his lover has gone, and the first glow of the impending dawn is already lightening the sky outside his window.

The year he moved out here, this was a still and eerie time, with no sound or movement anywhere in the curse-injured land. Now, Halsin hears a blackbird raising its voice in the dawn chorus and the high twitter of the hedge sparrows that nest in the bushes behind his humble home.

With a glad heart, he rises, ready for the day's work.

Chapter Text

Astarion does not visit his home the next evening, but in the morning, there's a deer carcass hanging on the skinning rack that wasn't there the day before. The hunters who find it come to Halsin in a panic, convinced that the bloodless corpse is some new symptom of the shadow curse. They've found plenty of strange things in the wilderness as the abused land heals: boar with tusks that curve into mind-bending fractal shapes, deer with too many legs, wolves with jaws that split sideways.

Halsin reassures them that although the blood is missing, the meat is good. "A friend left it for me," he says, but doesn't elaborate.

If someone is a friend to Halsin, that's good enough for the hunters. They set about skinning the deer with no further comments.

A new storehouse must go up to house the grain the village hopes to harvest this year. Halsin puts his back into the labor with the rest of them. In truth, though the settlers look to him as their leader, he is relieved that he's rarely called to act as one. He prefers the rhythm of honest work to dealing with politics.

In the afternoon, there's time to rest. Halsin takes his nap in the form of a bear for the sake of the village's children. Though a few native predators are returning to the forests, none would disturb a cave bear at rest. The children, on the other hand, love nothing better than to scamper over and around him as he sleeps. He wakes to find a woven crown of daisies draped over his ears and the tiefling twins, Nephi and Carxes, using his furry side as a pillow for their own naps. They're among the youngest of the orphans from Wyrm's crossing. It's a blessing from the Oak Father that they remember no life but this.

When the twins wake up, Halsin shifts into the form of a raven to better survey the ground he intends to cover this evening. The bridge across the river to the east is a relic from before the shadow curse, but its stone structure has stood the test of time well enough. The water runs fresh and clear, the flow stronger than ever at this time of year as the snowmelt from the mountains feeds the tumult. Beyond that are the tumble-down structures of what had once been a bustling town.

The white-walled house with its round window is easy enough to spot from the air. The window's glass is still intact; it catches the late afternoon sun in flashes of brilliant color. Its copper roof has turned a mottled green over the years, and vines have climbed its walls, but the structure looks more or less intact. Halsin considers exploring it, but decides that privilege is not his to decide. He is no vampire, he needs no invitation to enter, but the house still does not belong to him.

He circles the building twice, then turns back to the west. The last rays of ruddy light have only just faded from the sky when Astarion emerges from his cave. He doesn't look surprised to see Halsin standing there, but doesn't rush to greet him either.

"Are you hungry?" Halsin asks.

"Always," Astarion responds. "But it will be a while until I need to feed again."

Halsin says, "Thank you for sharing your meal. The children always appreciate some fresh venison stew."

Astarion straightens his cuffs a trifle self-consciously. They're a city affectation, with far too much lace and embroidery to be practical out here. "It's all very charming and rustic, I'm sure, but I didn't hike all the way out here to donate a deer carcass. Have you given any thought to whether there's a path around that river, or must I walk all the way back to its source to avoid it?"

"There's no need to do that," Halsin says. "I'll carry you."

Astarion picks at a loose thread on his sleeve and does not meet his eye. "I suppose that's an option," he admits.

The walk down to the river is an easy one. Halsin thinks of taking him through the village, but detours around it instead. Newcomers are treated with fascination by adults and children alike, and it doesn't seem like Astarion is in the mood for the locals' particular brand of aggressive hospitality.

Astarion manages to make it a few steps onto the bridge before he freezes again, the same way he did at Halsin's open doorway. With visible strain, he tries to shift his foot, but can't manage to slide it forward.

"This is damned inconvenient," he admits. "Some nights, I wish I had that tadpole back."

Halsin gets an arm under Astarion's shoulders and picks him up. There's more solid muscle in that slender body than his finely cut clothes reveal, but he's hardly difficult to lift. Astarion makes a disgruntled noise at the indignity of it all, but whatever strange compulsion prevents him from crossing the river on his own doesn't stop him from clinging to Halsin's neck.

When Halsin steps off the bridge, Astarion squirms in his arms and says, "All right, you can put me down now."

"Does it hurt to do that?" Halsin asks as Astarion stalks off, with the indignant gait of a cat who's been forced into a bath.

"It never feels good to have to depend on other people," Astarion responds, which isn't quite an answer to his question.

The rest of the way to the house, he's tense and silent. He pauses when he first sees the structure, its walls gleaming in the moonlight as it rises out of the tangle of greenery. Halsin remembers that he's never seen this place before. It was built after his death.

"Well," Astarion says softly, more to himself than for Halsin's benefit, "I suppose it's time to look for my parents."

Chapter Text

Searching the house takes the better part of the night. It's a veritable mansion, decorated in the finest styles from a century ago. Like so many of the buildings in the land that had lain for long decades under the shadow curse, the remnants of lives suddenly abandoned are evident everywhere. There are still moldy piles of what had once been food in the pantry, garden tools abandoned in the back garden, and clothes flung about in the bedrooms as if people were in the middle of dressing for dinner when the curse struck.

There are no bones, no matter where they look in the house. The intact roof and the glass windows mean that few scavengers have picked this place over. Even the front door was locked when they found it, and Astarion had to spend nearly ten minutes working with his kit to release the rusty bolt. No person or animal has disturbed this place for centuries, save for a few mice that managed to slip in through the cracks in the roof and nest under the bed in one of the guest bedrooms.

"They must have been out of the house when the curse struck," Halsin guesses, surveying the scene in the master bedroom. A pile of dresses lays haphazardly over the bed. 

Astarion drapes one of the dresses over his arm and studies the fabric. It's a shade of blue only slightly darker than his skin, with a silver shimmer to it that changes and flows like a bird's iridescent feathers. He says, "I think this was my mother's favorite color."

He says it uncertainly, like he doesn't know whether or not to trust his own recollection. Halsin asks, "What do you remember about her?"

"Less than I'd like," Astarion admits. "What I went through, the centuries... Cazador never liked us to think of our old lives. At a certain point it became easier to forget."

He folds the dress carefully and returns it to the bed. "She was a strong-willed woman, I remember that. She knew her own mind. I wish I did."

He drifts around the bedroom for a few minutes longer, picking up and putting down trinkets in no particular order and with no further signs of recognition. Halsin follows him through the house a second time, this time on a meandering path with no particular destination in mind. The walls inside are decorated in a less stark shade than the bare stonework outside, but the predominant color in the house is still white, with silver and blue as accents. Even the peeling wallpaper is as blue as glacial ice.

There's a parlor on the first floor that doubles as a portrait gallery. Astarion may not remember his family well, but there's no doubt that this is the correct house. The faces of elves on the walls are almost uniformly pale and sharp-featured, their expressions remote and haughty, their clothing the finery of centuries past. Astarion pauses in front of a painting of a couple with joined hands: a wedding portrait, created by a painter of exceptional skill. The woman in the picture has the Ancunín family's pallid features and pale blue eyes. The painter had her looking directly at the viewer. There's something knowing in her expression, almost as if the painted woman is judging the viewer. The man gazing at her adoringly has dark curly hair. In the hand not entwined with hers, he holds a white flower. Halsin has seen similar calla lillies before, but this one is uncommonly large, with a single white petal curling around a spadix so perfectly colorless it almost seems to glow.

"Zantedeschia nocturnis," Astarion says, studying the flower. "It only blooms at night. My father was studying... something about it. Its magical properties, I think. He must have talked about it entirely too much if I still remember the name. He had ambitions about starting a garden in the wine cellar, but there wasn't enough room."

He looks at the painted faces of his parents for a moment longer, then turns away to examine the rest of the room. "Which one of these is me?" he asks. "I think I sat for a portrait a few years before I died. It would be nice to know what I look like."

The family resemblance might be strong, but Astarion has no place in the family portraits. There's only one place where he could be. One frame hangs empty. The painting it once held looks like it's been hacked out with a knife. Scraps of canvas remain at the edges, but there's nothing left of the picture.

Halsin considers lying and pointing to one of the other pale elves on the wall, but Astarion clearly got his curly hair from his father's side of the family. There's no other face in the room that could be mistaken for him. "Your portrait doesn't seem to be here," he admits. "Perhaps your parents left it back at Baldur's Gate."

"Perhaps," Astarion says. He spins on his heel, pretending he's bored with the room. "I'm going back to the basement. There should be a nice spot for me down there."

Halsin takes a moment to examine the empty frame. The very oldest portraits in the gallery are framed in plainly varnished dark wood, the newer ones in carved and covered with silver foil. This frame is undoubtedly the work of a master woodcarver, ornamented with sprays of delicate leaves at the corners and a trailing vine pattern that wraps around the entirety of the rectangle. Of all the frames in the room, it's the only one that's gilded, and the bright gold stands out in the middle of all that bare wood and silver. He wondered what picture was worth going to such great expense to display. Did its owner treat it so carelessly, or did some vandal find their way into the building after the shadow curse was lifted?

It's not a mystery he's likely to solve tonight. He shuts the door of the gallery behind him and follows Astarion downstairs.

Chapter Text

He cups his palm and produces a flame in it before he takes the stairs down to the basement level. Astarion never seems to have trouble seeing in the dark. He's already trying to push a planter to the side of the room, but struggling to move the heavy terra cotta and soil by himself.

"Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there?" Astarion asks waspishly.

Halsin raises his hand and looks at what he can see of the vaulted ceiling. There's something up there, a round white orb that looks like it's made of frosted glass. The thin flame he's holding seems to lean toward it, almost like it's drawing the light and magic in.

"There's a light up there, I think," Halsin says. "It's not an ordinary lantern."

The way the light works feels familiar to him. He directs a bright moonbeam in the direction of the ceiling and feels the dormant spell catch hold of it. Astarion gasps and instinctively throws his arm over his face at the sudden flare of light. But there's no burning daylight here, only the steady silver glow of moonlight, caught and amplified by the magic in the glass globe. Other glass globes across the ceiling flicker into life too. They're a clever kind of artificial moon, bright enough to illuminate the whole basement.

The space is larger than Halsin expected. The vaulted ceiling is high enough to feel grand, with rows of fluted columns holding up the structure of the house above it. Planters are laid out throughout the space, each labeled with a card. Halsin reads the flowing handwriting on the one closest to him: variant 5-b.

There are withered bits of plant matter over the dry soil, all that remains of what must once have been an impressive and entirely underground flower garden. The man in the painting upstairs must have built his cellar garden after all.

Astarion pokes one dry flower with a finger and it crumbles to dust. "Some people call them liar's lilies," he says, wiping his hand on his trousers. "I don't remember if it's because there's some sort of story about them, or they're not true lilies."

Halsin remembers the shape of the flower in the painting upstairs. He's never seen its like anywhere around here. It must be some tropical plant, brought from the southern regions, far from home. 

Astarion makes another attempt to push the planter out of the way. If this is really what he wants, Halsin will help him. He pushes, and the clay scrapes over the stone floor.

When they've managed to clear most of the available space, Astarion has other tasks he needs help with: Double-checking that not a single crack exists in the walls that could let sunlight through, finding and winding a clock so that he'll know when it's safe to come upstairs, finding a wooden bedframe that's small enough to be carried down the stairs in one piece. The mattress that goes with it is musty with disuse, but it's been spared the worst of a century of rot. It's small but stuffed with expensive goosedown, probably made for guests instead of servants. 

A mansion like this must have needed an extraordinary number of servants to operate. Halsin wonders what happened to them all when the Shadow curse hit. The buildings they'd scavenged on the way too Moonrise Tower had been full of the sad remnants of lives lost, those piles of bones and twisted creatures the curse had made of mortal men. There ought to be bones somewhere in this house.

By the time morning draws close, the basement is looking more like a home. They've set up the bed in a corner of the vast room, with plenty of room for Astarion to add whatever he feels like to the rest of the space. The moon lanterns cast a silver glow that isn't quite as warm as true sunlight, but keeps the room bright.

Astarion looks around the room and says, "Well, I suppose it's a start. There's still a lot of work do to." He's been subdued all night. He has every right to be, of course, with a fresh reminder in every room of the family he can neither fully remember nor has been able to completely forget. 

Remembering at the last moment that he hasn't done all this work alone, he rises to the balls of his feet and favors Halsin with a kiss, a quick and almost chaste peck on the lips. "I am grateful, you know. I don't know how I would have carried that bedframe down the stairs by myself."

Halsin lifts Astarion's chin with his knuckle, smiles at the sight of that pale and elegant face smudged with dust after a long night of exploring the house, and kisses him more thoroughly. Astarion sways into him, his mouth copper-sweet. It's a fine reward for a night of easy work.

"I am at your service whenever you need me," Halsin assures him. "And I'm only a short walk away."

"A short walk for you," Astarion reminds him. For him, it's as remote as if he were still in Baldur's Gate. Halsin knows there are spells that can send the sound of a voice across great distances. There are no wizards in the village, but if one comes through he should ask for a sending stone or a scroll. 

"I'll visit often," Halsin promises him. He considers the planting schedule for the coming fortnight. Springtime always means hard work plowing the fields. Each year, the settlers expand their acreage, pushing out into land that has been fallow since the Shadow curse fell. The work won't be easy, but it's all worth it to see the dry brown land turning green again. But there are other things it's worth taking the time to see too. "I'll be back this time next week."

"I'll hold you to that," Astarion says, although he has no way of compelling Halsin to do anything at all.

And then it's time to leave. On the stairs, Halsin turns to take one last look at the room. Astarion has settled on the bed, his fingers already curled in the meditative pose he adopts at night even though he's never quite explained whether it's possible for vampires to rest as mortals do. The room is as well-suited to him as anything they could find in this land, but it still seems cruel to leave him alone here in the dead garden of his dead father. The house is beautiful in its way, but there's no escaping the fact that it feels more like a mausoleum than a home.

Perhaps a mausoleum is what Astarion's been looking for all along. Halsin goes upstairs and makes sure to close the door behind him so that no sunlight can get in.

Chapter Text

A week of hard work whets Halsin's appetite for a moment of leisure. Spring is his favorite season, but turning the land green again is no easy task. He finds himself counting down the hours until dusk, when he can put his chores aside at last to fly on swift wings back to the strange white house in the ruined land.

The building looks much the same as when he left it, although Astarion has started pruning back the climbing vines. The rose window seems to shine a little brighter in the last rays of the sunset.

He could get in through one of the windows on the upper floor, several of which have been propped open to air out the musty rooms. He needs no one's bidding to enter any building he chooses. He alights on the stoop in front instead and waits until the sun is truly down to knock.

Astarion must have been anticipating him. He's wearing another set of fine clothes. Somewhere in the house, he's found a jacket embroidered with silver leaves and a pair of trousers that leave blessedly little to the imagination. The effect of all that finery is mostly lost on Halsin, although he does appreciate the tailor's attention to detail in the accuracy of the ivy leaves.

"Do come in," he says, clearly relishing the chance to be the one extending the invitation for a change. "I can't wait to show you around."

Halsin steps inside. The front hallway is much as he remembers it, the windows still grimed over and the floor dirty. Astarion's glowing with pride anyway as he takes Halsin's hand. He leads him through a hall that runs the length of the building, past closed doors sagging in their frames. Halsin can't help noticing that the door to the portrait gallery has been barred with a board and nails.

Then Astarion opens a door at the end of the hall, and Halsin realizes why he's so keen to show off what he's been working on. The back of the house is a grand hall, its ceiling the full height of the building, and half of that height at least is taken up by the glorious rose window. With the light of the half-moon shining through it, he can see that the window is a true work of art, showing the phases of the lunar cycle over the course of a month alongside a cast of characters he half-remembers from history. The glass alone must have cost a fortune, each and every pane of it cut and painted by a skilled craftsman.

There seems to be more light in the room than there ought to be, given the darkness outside. He recognizes a touch of the same magic that operates the lanterns in the cellar. Moon elves always did like to showcase their connection to that celestial body, but this seems over the top.

Astarion takes a few steps into the room and twirls around in sheer delight on the parquet floor. "Isn't it wonderful? It's almost as bright as day in here."

It is at that, although the silvery moonlight casts everything into a strange sharp relief in a way daylight never could. Halsin joins him on the parquet and freezes as he sees someone moving out of the corner of his eye. He realizes after a moment that he's only staring down his own reflection. Part of the reason the room's so extraordinarily bright is that the walls are mirrored. All that glass and silver foil reflects the magically enhanced moonlight to a dazzling degree.

He puts his arms around Astarion and looks up to see his own reflection holding empty air. Of course, vampires don't reflect in mirrors. The limitation doesn't seem to bother Astarion, who's still enchanted by the grandeur of his own house. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asks.

"I think I would be more comfortable sleeping under the stars than owning a grand mansion," Halsin admits. "But it suits you perfectly, and I can think of nothing more perfect than having you in my arms tonight."

Astarion says, "Fortunately, I find myself with entirely too many beds. Shall we try out one of the sturdier options?"

Inspired by the mirrors and their curious emptiness, Halsin says, "I find myself too impatient to make it to the nearest bedroom. May I have you here?"

"Right here?" Astarion looks around. He must notice the mirror, because he glances over at Halsin's reflection standing alone, and the sight makes him smile wickedly. "All right, then. I didn't realize you enjoyed the sight of your own face so much."

"I'd like to see you enjoy it," Halsin tells him, already slipping free the first of many buttons on Astarion's elegant coat.

He's never been a showman by nature, but it gives him a thrill to consider how he can best display himself in the gleaming mirrors. He circles around Astarion to take off his coat, and notices that it reflects as a pale flash of silver and blue as soon as it slips from his shoulders. What a strange curse vampirism can be.

When he's wrestled Astarion out of his perilously tight trousers, he presses his front against Astarion's back and turns them both so that they face the mirrored wall. A beam of silver-white light illuminates Astarion's pale skin, but in the reflection Halsin can see in the glass, the light falls on the stone floor without so much as a shadow to show where the vampire stands. 

His own body is solid with muscle, his skin already beginning to brown under the spring sun. Astarion stares as if transfixed. It is a pleasure to watch how enthusiastically he reacts to this, how quickly his cock stiffens in Halsin's hand, although his mirror image's fingers are curled around nothing at all.

He kisses the sensitive curve of Astarion's ear and grins when he moans. His own cock slips neatly into the cleft of Astarion's buttocks, and he ruts against him, enjoying Astarion's reaction to the sight of that too. He lets his free hand wander up and down Astarion's body, tracing the outline of the man he can see in the flesh but not in the mirror. By the time he thinks he should stop for a moment to fetch the oil he brought with him, Astarion is squirming against him, his gaze still locked on the mirror.

Halsin oils his cock and slides in slowly. Astarion sways forward, bracing himself by putting his palm flat against the glass. Even then, there's no hint of a reflection. Halsin grips Astarion's hips and pushes into him. It's hard to focus on what's going on in the mirror when the pale expanse of Astarion's back is here in front of him: the play of lithe muscles in his shoulders, the soft dip of his spine, his silver-white hair in artful disarray.

Astarion hums in satisfaction and says, "Oh, now that's an interesting sight."

Halsin looks up to see himself alone reflected back at him. His hands are clutching nothing at all. His cock stands proud, glistening with oil, with nothing to obstruct the view. It's a strange sight, one that sends a dizzying sense of unreality over him until he looks down at the curve of Astarion's lower back, but his lover seems to be perfectly satisfied with what he can see.

He picks up the pace, driving into Astarion while Astarion watches him in the mirror and offers words of enthusiastic encouragement. "Oh, you're something worth looking at, aren't you? Gods, yes, harder."

Halsin can feel within his chest an ember of the same emotion that flared in him five years ago, in the heady days after they had killed Ketheric Thorme and ended the shadow curse, before the sights of Baldur's Gate had brought him back down to reality. He's had many lovers over the centuries, but there's something about Astarion that makes him feel as though he walks very close to his untamed nature. He should contain himself before the bear inside him bursts free; these delicately inlaid floors and fragile mirrors don't look like they'll stand up to his heavy claws.

Astarion is well on his way to climax, working his own cock enthusiastically, watching in fascination as Halsin's cock bobs in the mirror. Halsin pounds into him without mercy, until he cries out and the muscles inside him clench with pleasing pressure. He catches a glimpse of his own face in the mirror, contorted with such fierce wild pleasure, and understands what Astarion sees. The wildness in him is no monster, no mindless undead hunger, but they both in their own ways are beautiful beasts.

Chapter Text

The month that follows is a steady unspooling of delights. Halsin experiences all the joys of watching the fields turn green with the first fresh shoots of spring and all the pleasures of spending nights with Astarion. 

Each time he visits the house, it looks a little less like a decrepit relic and a little more like a home. Little by little Astarion sweeps out the front hall, clears out the moldering carpets, and scraps the worst of the damaged furniture. He's turned his basement retreat into a proper bedroom, with a stuffed armchair and stacks of books in one corner so he can catch up on his reading during the long hours of daylight. He's proud to tell Halsin that the house's library is mostly intact, even if it is a century out of date and regrettably filled with too many books about plants.

Halsin is minding the children when he spots a stranger descending into town from the foothills, riding a horse. He shades his eyes against the morning sun and sees that the man's cloak is dusty but his horse looks well-groomed. His saddlebags are generously packed. He's been riding for a while, and perhaps has a load road yet ahead of him.

The horse clops closer, traveling at an easy and steady gate. Halsin sees that the newcomer is an elf. His long honey-blond hair is pulled back in a severe knot. Closer still, and Halsin notices the indents at the bridge of his nose, the ink stains on his fingers. He looks more like a clerk than an adventurer.

"Well met," Halsin says when the visitor stops alongside him and raises a hand in greeting.

"Same to you," the elf says. "Is this the way to the Amaris River?"

"Yes, it's not a long way from here. Follow the road, take the left at the stand of beeches, not the big oak." He looks like a city dweller. Halsin tries to remember how many trees the average town's resident can probably recognize on sight. "If you miss the turn, just double back."

The elf nods. "And the cursed land is beyond that, yes?"

"The shadows no longer lay on it," Halsin says proudly. "But light a fire if you're camping there overnight. Some of the creatures touched by the curse may still be out there."

The clerkish elf looks a little nervous, but says, "Not to worry, I won't be staying long. Thank you for the directions."

He clicks his tongue and his horse trots off again. Halsin watches him leave, wondering where he could be going.

At dusk, Halsin takes flight as a raven. He sees the elf on the road below him, already returning in the direction of the village. What a curiously short trip for a traveler who looks like he's come such a long way. He wonders what brought him out on such a journey, but he has other matters on his mind. All thoughts of the strange visitor disappear as soon as Astarion opens the door wearing another one of his infuriatingly complicated outfits.

Later, lying in Astarion's bed in the cellar with nothing on his skin but the strange light of the moon lanterns, Halsin says, "Don't you want a coffin down here? You could send for whatever you used in Baldur's Gate. Or I could carve one for you."

Astarion stretches, looking as sleekly satisfied as a well-fed housecat. He has been eating well these days. Halsin is often obliged to return to the village in the form of a bear, carrying the full weight of a boar or a deer or a wild goat with him. "I haven't slept in a coffin in, oh, seventy years or so. I displeased Cazador once, so he had me buried alive, and... well, it was an unpleasant year."

He says that the way he often mentions tragic things, with an uplifted intonation at the end of the line, as if the memory will seem a little lighter that way. Halsin says nothing, only kisses his temple, which is cool and damp with sweat. As well it should be. Tonight's exertions were vigorous on both their parts.

Astarion is silent for a while, still clearly thinking about the coffin. Perhaps Halsin should never have brought it up, although if he tries to step around every potentially emotional subject that touches on Astarion's past, there won't be much ground left to tread at all. Two hundred years is a long time to be miserable.

Astarion's thoughts must be running along similar lines. He shifts on the bed, resting his weight on one elbow so he can look at Halsin's face. "You told me once that you spent some years as a captive of a drow matriarch."

"I did," Halsin says. "It wasn't a very pleasant time."

"I can't imagine it would be. I was wondering, though... how long did it take, after it was over, to go back to normal again? Back to being the person you were before?"

"I never did," Halsin tells him. "I don't think anyone ever does."

Astarion tries to school his expression, but Halsin recognizes bitter disappointment when he sees it.

Halsin continues, "You change, and you keep going forward as the person you are now. You don't ever forget the pain, but you learn that there's life after the pain too."

"I thought maybe finding what was left of my parents... well, never mind what I thought," Astarion says. He flops down on the bed and turns his face away from Halsin.

Halsin wraps his arm around Astarion's waist. "Do you regret coming here?"

"Well, certainly not tonight," Astarion says with a purr. He's clearly not so distraught that he can't reach for an easy innuendo. "I certainly don't mind owning a mansion. And the neighborhood does have its perks."

He rolls over a little, enough for Halsin to lean over and kiss him.

"I just wish they'd kept my portrait," Astarion admits. "I'd like to see how handsome I am."

"Very handsome," Halsin assures him.

"I suppose I'll have to take your word for it," Astarion says, and heaves a dramatic sigh.

Chapter Text

Spring melts into a languid summer. The children run down to the river in the afternoons to splash about in the cold water while Halsin stands downstream in the form of a bear, ready to lunge out to any child who might swim out too far and risk getting swept away by the current. The fields grow thick with wheat and oats. There are sugar beets and crookneck squash to harvest. The hunters take prey sparingly, and the village's cookpots are supplemented by the remains of Astarion's meals. All is well in Halsin's world.

Astarion can't be his little secret forever. It's not easy to explain why he keeps returning from the ruined down with carcasses drained of blood. Halsin explains to the village that one of the heroes of Baldur's Gate has a house in the land that had been under the curse. 

That brings some comfort to the adults, but the village's children are afire with curiosity about the hero who saved the city. Halsin's already told them the story about the fight atop the elder brain a dozen times. They're ready to hear it from a fresh perspective. He catches the tiefling twins sneaking out in the direction of the river twice, and they aren't the only ones who are clearly plotting their own adventure to meet a real hero.

He'll have to warn Astarion just in case he receives any unexpected visitors. And he'll have to explain the whole vampirism issue to the village. That might take some work.

He'll have to explain it to Astarion's new neighbors too, because he isn't the only property owner to go looking for an old house in the land that had until recently lain under the shadow. As the months go by, a trickle of others pass through. A few are elves, long-lived enough to remember their old homes. Many more are distant relatives of the deceased, curious about whether the property they can claim is worth anything. 

Some leave disappointed, cursing the squalor of their ruined houses, but others are happy to stay and fix up the old buildings. Halsin gets to know his new neighbors when they stop in at the village to buy produce or hire out help with the repairs. With enough time, this little refugee settlement is going to turn into quite a prosperous market town.

At the end of another week, Halsin alights in front of the house and sheds his feathers for flesh. Even in the gathering darkness, he can tell that the house has been transformed since he first saw it. The windows gleam. The vines have been cut back from the white stone walls--a pity, he thinks--so the structure gleams under the light of the moon. The gravel drive, big enough for two carriages to pass each other, has been swept clean of debris. There's a fountain out front, although Astarion has made no effort to get it working again. Dealing with running water would only prove an irritation.

Halsin knocks. He waits. Astarion doesn't open the door, so he knocks again. Finally there's the sound of hurrying feet inside, and an elf opens the door, but it's not Astarion.

The two of them stare at each other in mutual bewilderment. Halsin has seen this man before. He's the rider who came down in the spring, the one who'd seemed more like a clerk than an adventurer. The elf is dressed in a fine but plain-cut black jacket now, not dusty riding leathers.

"I beg your pardon," the stranger says. "The butler's still on his way from Candlekeep. What can I help you with, sir?"

Astarion never said anything about hiring on staff, but Halsin isn't surprised he's done so. He knows nothing about what it takes to run a house this grand, but he knows that rich people have all sorts of employees to do things for them. How much money does Astarion have, actually? He's never asked.

"I'm here to see the master of the house," Halsin says.

"He won't be in for another two weeks," the elf says. "I could take a message for him."

Astarion never mentioned that he'd be away. How strange. But then again, Halsin only assumed they'd be meeting at the same time as usual. As deeply as he cares for Astarion, he feels no need to track or restrict his lover's movements.

"I suppose I'll see him when he's back," Halsin says. "Would you tell him I stopped by?"

"Certainly, sir," the elf says, already taking a piece of paper out of his pocket to jot down a note. "Who should I tell him is calling?"

"I'm Halsin. He'll know my name. And tell him thank you for the deer, the children always love a bit of venison."

The elf looks puzzled at that, but writes it down faithfully. Halsin takes his leave. He's a little disappointed to have missed Astarion, but they'll have time enough for each other soon.

He thinks little more of it until two weeks have passed. Shortly before the end of his wait, a procession of wagons rumbles through the village. At the very front is a carriage pulled by a team of dappled gray and white horses. The carriage's pale blue sides are heavily marred by dust from the road, but there's no mistaking how fine it is under the grime. The convoy heads straight down the road though the village and out again, into the land that had lain under the shadow. 

The children wave to the wagon's drivers and run along after them, playing in the clouds of dust the spinning wheels kick up. Halsin supposes Astarion will have to deal with his fine new neighbors. He wonders which of the other ruined mansions he's wandered past on his scouting trips belongs to them.

When he returns to the house, a portly halfling with a dignified air greets him at the door. "My master has been told to expect you, sir," he says, escorting Halsin into a room he's already familiar with. It's one of the parlors at the front of the house, decorated in the customary pale blues and silvers. The delicately carved sofa he's seated on is sturdier than it appears. Halsin knows this because he and Astarion put it, very enthusiastically, to the test.

He waits, watching the dark sky outside the windows. The butler lit several lamps in the room for him, all ordinary candles, although the mirrors set in their fixtures reflect the warm golden light into tiny twinkling constellations. He's never enjoyed the complicated games that the wealthy play, sending servants all over the place and making people wait, but Astarion is no doubt enjoying the ritual of it all.

The door opens. Halsin rises, takes a step forward, and freezes. He recognizes the elf standing in the doorway, but he is not Astarion.

He has Astarion's curling hair, but instead of pale silver, it's jet black. There's something recognizable in the angle of his jaw, familiar lines at the edges of his mouth. Halsin has seen this face before, but only in paint on a canvas.

"I beg your pardon for the wait. I've only just arrived, and the house is a mess," Astarion's father says. "I know you can't shut a house up for a hundred years and expect it to be exactly as you left it, but honestly! It's all a muddle. Anyway, who are you, and why did my secretary give me a note about a deer?"

Chapter Text

Halsin has seen many strange and wondrous things in his long life. It's not often that he's rendered speechless, but it takes him a few moments to collect his words. He manages to get out, "I'm sorry, I meant to leave that note for your son. Is he in?"

Astarion's father looks confused and distracted in equal measure. He says, "There must have been some sort of mix-up. You must be looking for someone on my staff. I'll ask my secretary to help you sort it out. If you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to get on with."

As he begins to back out of the room, Halsin takes a frantic step forward. "Your son, sir, haven't you seen him yet? Did you look in the basement?"

The elf gives a disdainful little sniff. "Oh, yes, I've seen the state of the basement. All my old notes in disarray, and someone moved a bed down there, can you imagine? Thank goodness they're gone now, it would have been a hassle to have to add evicting a squatter to my list of things to do. Now, I'll just get my secretary--"

As he moves to shut the door, Halsin puts out a hand to stop him. He's too worked up to think about how much force he's using, and this house has seen precious little care in a hundred years. When he slams his palm against the door, it rebounds off the wall with a cracking sound and a shower of plaster.

"Astarion must be around here somewhere," Halsin pleads with him. "He can't cross the river on his own, surely he can't have got far. If you'll just let me search for him--"

The elf's preoccupied expression hardens into a mask; his features are still and composed, but his eyes betray a cold anger. Halsin knows that look well. Astarion too has a habit of trying to hide his emotions, and he had never been a particularly good actor.

"I don't know what you think you know about my family, but I'd like you to leave my house now," this familiar stranger says, biting out every word with furious precision. "Whoever you think you met here, whatever he happened to call himself, I assure you that was no son of mine."

He steps backward into the hallway. His hands move in what looks like a practiced pattern. Halsin doesn't recognize the precise gesture, but he knows the way a spellcaster works.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, sir," he mutters, hurrying out. The front door slams shut behind him.

There are lights shining in the windows of the house, but it looks far less welcoming now than it ever did as an empty structure. Now that Halsin knows what to look for, he can see that the changes that have been made since his last visit are not Astarion's handiwork. That he can see light inside at all means that the curtains are open, when Astarion always kept them shut as a precaution. The gravel drive has been picked clean of plants and raked smooth. The flower beds out front, once a pleasant riot of wildflowers, have been uprooted entirely. The fountain out front might not be running yet, but someone has picked the debris out of its basin and scoured the whole stone clean in preparation for repairing the fixture.

The house hasn't yet been returned to its former grandeur, but it's being prepared for the needs of the living, who prefer sunlight and fresh water and a level path for carriages. Astarion doesn't have a place here. But if he's not in the house, then where has he gone?

Surely he must be somewhere nearby. Halsin considers all the shapes available to him. A wolf's nose should be keen enough to sniff out his trail.

He skulks around the side of the house and transforms. There's a hint of Astarion's scent here, blood and iron and grave mold, but he can't tell whether it's coming or going. Too many other people have been here, too many horses and warm bodies sweating as they unloaded supplies and furnishings from the wagons. The remnants of their scents have obscured Astarion's movements.

He spends the rest of the night pacing in a widening circle, trying and failing to pick up Astarion's trail. He finds the site of an old kill, where a dying boar kicked up leaves and raked the ground with its tusks. He can't tell how old the kill might be. Astarion is too fastidious a hunter to leave any blood undrunk, and the boar's body itself is long gone, maybe even in a stewpot back in the village.

Another two hours go by before he finds a few pale threads snagged on a snapped branch. They're a sign that he passed by here some time or another, but it could have been weeks ago. Beyond that, there's no sign of him at all. Astarion may not be familiar with woodcraft, but he's accustomed to walking by night. It's too easy for him to vanish into the darkness.

He could be anywhere in the ruined village his parents' house stands in, or in any other village that had moldered under the shadow curse. Perhaps he found a cave to hide in. Maybe he already struck out upriver, trying to find a way to bypass it at the source. Or he could have made for the coast, planning to find some other method of transport back to Baldur's Gate There are too many directions he could have traveled. Halsin, fool that he was, waited far too long to even begin to look for him.

The sun has cleared the treetops before he's finally forced to admit that he will not find Astarion out and about any time soon. What if Astarion never left the house at all? What if he was caught out in some chance beam of sunlight, exposed by an unknowing maid opening the curtains? 

And why did his father seem so furious at the mere suggestion that his son might be in? Had they met after all? Had they quarreled? Astarion said himself that he recalled almost nothing about his own family. Over the course of two lonely centuries, did he forget some feud his father still remembers?

It's not a mystery he's going to solve today. Halsin pads home alone on weary paws. 

Chapter Text

Halsin has never been the type to keep secrets. He's always prided himself on his willingness to be frank without being unkind, to speak the truth plainly without embellishment or cruelty. Now he regrets everything that he kept from the villagers about Astarion's true nature. 

He had thought it was best to ease them into the knowledge that they were living near a vampire. Now that said vampire has vanished, he isn't sure how to tell them that he doesn't even know where the monster that prowls in the shadow-ruined land might be hiding. If he asks for help now, he might well start a panic. So after his chores for the day are done, he slips silently across the river to continue his search alone every night.

It's weary work. Elves might not need sleep, but too much time wandering around in the dark with no moments to stop for meditation leaves his head in a muddle. He drifts through his days distracted, trying his hardest not to be short with the children or dismissive of the adults who rely on his guidance. Leadership feels yet again like a yoke he longs to slip. How many times must he fail before people stop putting their trust in his faulty judgment?

He comes to know some of the new residents of the white-walled house. The bookish elf who serves as a secretary is named Gaelin Moonglow. He's a pleasant enough man to talk to when he's not on the clock, although he dances neatly around Halsin's questions about where the master of the house has come from and what happened to the rest of his family. There's Belfer Barleycheeks, the halfling groom who tends to the horses, and his wife Lindal who oversees the kitchen. Cindal and Wen are the scullery maids; Korrin and Jay clean the rooms; Joz is a valet, whatever that means. They're all kind enough, but all the new names and positions are difficult to memorize when Halsin's so tired, and they only look confused when he asks questions about the son of the family.

Maybe the paintings on the walls have led him to the wrong conclusions about the Ancunín family. Maybe his father, who looks so very much like him, has a twin who never married or had a child at all. Halsin needs to time his next approach carefully. He needs to understand why this man reacted so strongly to the very mention of Astarion. If he comes back asking the same questions, he'll only be thrown out again, and then he'll have no clue about where Astarion might be and angry neighbors to deal with.

It's another early summer morning. Under any other circumstances, he'd cherish the chance to stand in the early golden sunlight, watching the tiefling twins draw patterns with a stick on the dirt of the village's central street. Now his eyes feel gritty and sore from lack of rest. He spent the whole night scuttling around ruined buildings as a rat, trying to pick up clues about Astarion's whereabouts. Rats are terrible gossips; they want to pass along everything they hear, but they rarely understand why other creatures do what they do. The best information he was able to prize out of a colony living under a half-collapsed tavern was that there was indeed a pale thing in the woods, and he left treats for them to feast on, although the meat was sadly dry. At least that's some confirmation that Astarion is nearby, or that he has been at some time in the past. Rats have a terrible sense of calendars.

Nephi looks up at something on the road behind Halsin. She punches her brother in the shoulder to get his attention. 

"We don't hit," Halsin says absently; Carxes doesn't look at all upset to be punched. He's gawking up at whatever Nephi sees. Halsin turns and shades his eyes against the sunlight.

There's yet another rider descending from the foothills. Her mount is moving fleet-footed over the uneven ground. Halsin thinks it's a horse and first, and then he sees sunlight winking off on the horn on its forehead. Her traveling cloak is a pale and shimmering blue, and her unbound hair shines in the sunlight, a silver so pale it looks nearly pure white.

The unicorn and its rider slow as they reach the village. Halsin is at last able to get a better look at the rider, although he's not greatly surprised at the face he sees. The elf is a few centuries older than her portrait that hangs on the wall of the Ancunín house, but the years have aged her the way a sapling ages into a mature oak, no less beautiful for all that it has weathered. Again, Halsin has the strange experience of seeing something of Astarion in a stranger's face: his coloring, his lips, the way he sizes up a stranger like he's considering their value to him.

The woman glances down at the two tiefling children, who are creeping close to the unicorn's hooves. Halsin sticks a foot out to keep them from getting too close. This unicorn seems like a congenial beast, but he knows that such creatures can be wary around those who have been touched by the Hells.

"Is the bridge over the river still standing?" the elf woman asked Halsin.

"Yes, it's still sound," Halsin says, wondering whether he should take this chance to mention Astarion. Surely, whatever quarrel his father might have with him, his mother would like to hear he's still nearby?

"Very good," she says, more to herself than to Halsin. "I do hope Orion has cleaned the place up like I told him to instead of getting distracted by his experiments. Well, I must be off."

He doesn't have a chance to speak before she's off again, her mount moving so swiftly and lightly over the ground its gleaming hooves hardly stir up dust on the road. Halsin could have sworn she muttered a Haste spell as she went, but her hand movements were so slight he hardly even noticed her casting.

Nephi tugs at Halsin's arm. "Can I have a unicorn too?"

"I don't have any power over unicorns," Halsin tells him. "Nobody does. They choose their own riders."

"That was a wizard," declares Carxes, with all the experience of a child who has seen exactly one traveling hedge wizard in his life, and got so excited over the display of colored lights he threw up.

"I do believe she is a wizard," Halsin agrees. She's moving so fast that she's almost out of view again. All he can see of her before she vanishes from sight is a leather tube slung across her back, rather like a quiver, although it has a flap over the top instead of arrows. He knows little of the ways of wizards, but he does recall Gale of Waterdeep carrying his scrolls in such a pack.

Perhaps it's time to write to Gale for help. He had his own disagreements with Astarion, but by the end of their strange journey, they'd been friends all the same. Where Halsin has failed in his attempts to find Astarion, a more subtle magician might succeed.

Chapter Text

Halsin pens a letter for Gale and passes it off to the next traveler who comes through town, hoping that it will eventually find its way to its intended destination. Another week of searching passes, this one entirely fruitless. He's beginning to wonder if Astarion is still nearby at all. 

His nightly searches begin to range upriver, in the direction where a vampire might travel to get around a flowing stream. Would Astarion really hike all the way into the mountains just to cross a small river? Halsin finds the route absurd, but he supposes Astarion has little choice in the matter. He remembers the way he had frozen on the bridge, frustrated by his inability to take a step forward on his own.

As for his mother, she breezes back into the village again at the end of the week, dressed in a simply cut but undoubtedly fashionable robe instead of a traveler's cloak. She's on foot this time, accompanied by the family's secretary. Halsin nods companionably at him. "Good to see you, Gaelin."

"You look well, Halsin," Gaelin lies; Halsin is aware he's rather the worse for wear after so many nights of wandering the woods in a variety of animal skins. "Allow me to introduce Lady Phaedra Ancunín."

Halsin is not sure how much deference a noble lady might expect. He considers bowing, but Lady Ancunín forestalls his indecision by extending a slender hand to shake. Her grip is unexpectedly firm, though her delicate fingers are smooth, without the calluses of hard work.

"I thought it was high time to meet my neighbors," Lady Ancunín says. "And I must apologize on my husband's behalf. He got quite the wrong impression when you stopped by earlier. It's nothing personal, you know; we've had quite a few run-ins with scam artists over the years. He assumed that the reopening of the house was a temptation for more of the same behavior."

Had Astarion tried to find his parents and not been believed? Halsin thinks it's unlikely. Cazador wouldn't have allowed his pet such a long leash. Strangers must have appeared at their doorstep pretending to be him. No wonder his father remains wary.

"No offense was taken, I assure you," Halsin tells her.

She does not quite smile, but she gives a satisfied little nod. "I must also admit that this is not a social call. I'm told you have some talent for wood carving."

"I have some small skill in it, yes," Halsin says.

"It turns out that a hundred years of standing empty is no good at all for a house. I have a number of projects that need to be done, warped doors and such, and I can't find a carpenter who'll make the time to travel out here," Lady Ancunín says.

She neither asks whether he is available nor offers money. Halsin resolves to work for free anyway.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, delighted by this turn in his fortune. Here at last is his chance to learn more about the Ancunín. If he finds Astarion--no, when he finds Astarion--he'll at least have a better idea of the lay of the land.

"Very good. Drop by whenever you're free. Gaelin has a list of everything that needs to be done," she says.

That night, Halsin allows himself to rest and meditate at last so that he can finish the day's chores quickly. He arrives at the house feeling clear-headed for the first time in weeks. Gaelin shows him around the place, assuming that he's seeing it all for the first time, and Halsin tries not to gawk too obviously at the changes. A small army of servants has scrubbed the old structure clean faster than Astarion ever could.

This house has survived better than most in the shadow-cursed lands, but a century of moldering under dark skies and unnatural cold has left the window casings and the trim around the exterior doors in a sorry state. Some of the interior doors have taken poorly to the warmth of a hearth after centuries of cold and expanded so much they stick in their frames. Halsin makes a few small fixes right away, planing away bits of swollen wood, chipping out old crumbling rot in preparation for repairing the gaps with fresh new material. 

There's certainly no shortage of work to be done, which is all to his benefit. The more he makes himself useful around the house, the more likely he is to be trusted with the family's story.

Gaelin finds him at the end of the day and asks, "How much are you owed for the day's work?"

Halsin realizes belatedly that Lady Ancunín did not mention money not because she did not intend to pay him, but because the price was immaterial to her. "I'm the leader of the council at the village," he says, although even that honorific sits strangely with him; he has never sought titles for the sake of them, nor leadership for the glory of it. "I don't work for gold. Although if you have any oats to spare, the crop's been middling this year, and we don't want the animals going hungry."

"I'll make sure to have some from the house's stores sent over," Gaelin promises.

The very next day, the oats arrive by wagon, rather more than Halsin thinks he's owed for fixing a few warped doors. The Ancuníns' generosity does little to assuage the guilt he feels; he flew as far upriver as he could in the night, but found nothing of Astarion at all.

Chapter Text

He's nearly forgotten about his letter to Gale when the wizard himself appears out of thin air—or rather, a projection of him, transparent enough that Halsin can see the trees through him.

"Ah, there you are, Halsin," Gale says cheerfully. "I'm not much for scrying, but I think I've just about got the hang of it. I'm sorry to hear you've mislaid our bloodsucking friend, but not to worry, I'm sure I can track him down. Just point me in his general direction and I'll get to it."

Bless Gale's unconscious hubris. After so many weeks spent searching in secret, it's a relief not only to share that private knowledge but to do it with someone who's so confident that Astarion will be found.

"I'm afraid I don't have a good sense of his direction, but I think he may have headed into the mountains. He can't cross the river on his own." Halsin tries to explain the general direction to Gale, but they hit a snag quickly as Gale has no sense of direction and Halsin has no map to show him. 

He draws out a rough diagram with a stick. If no one has helped Astarion cross water, he must be somewhere between the river near the settlement and one that runs through Reithwin Town. The two rivers join later in their routes. If Astarion was determined to leave the area on foot, he could only go upstream past its source in the mountains and back down again on the other side.

"Well, that's simple enough," Gale says with admirable confidence. "I'm sure I'll find him in no time at all, but just in case you'd like to help, I'll send over a few scrolls that might be useful."

Shortly after his projection winks out of view, a portal opens and deposits a small mountain of papers and assorted trinkets. Halsin sorts through them, bewildered by the variety of magic on offer. There are spells to project his voice over great distances and to scry for everything from lost objects to hidden treasures. Halsin has never had any use for such magic. There's no need to yell across a forest when one could just as easily ask a bird to carry a message, and there are more important treasures in the woods than caches of gold. Still, he dutifully carries the scrolls back to his home, and spends the night trying each one in turn with no success at all.

Gale has no more luck than him. "I've been looking at rocks and trees until I'm crosseyed," he complains the next day as Halsin sits at his kitchen table, staring at the useless scrolls. "And it's all very well for you to be up all night, but us humans have to sleep sooner or later."

There's a knock at the door. "Well, I'm off to take a nap," Gale announces tartly. His projection fades as Halsin walks through it to greet his visitor.

He has at least grown accustomed enough to Lord Orion Ancunín's face that the sight of it no longer shocks him into speechlessness. He's also had the good sense not to bring up Astarion again, and Orion—under his wife's watchful eye—made an apology for his unhospitable treatment of a neighbor. Still, they aren't on terms that merit a social call.

"I, ah, was hoping for some advice, actually," Orion admits after Halsin has welcomed him in and offered him a cup of cold nettle tea. "I need to resume my experiments, but Zantedeschia nocturnis requires a particular soil composition. I need a good deal of soil that's rich in both organic and magical matter, but the effects of the shadow curse have rendered the magical residue in these parts quite unsuitable. I thought you might have good leads on dryad groves, patches of grabbing vines, that sort of thing."

"I know just the spot," Halsin says, thinking of a long-abandoned but still-living plum grove recently inhabited by a small colony of ashira. "But I admit, I am curious. Why focus so much on one flower? It's not the druidic way to tend one plant to the exclusion of all else. Nature is a system, after all, and all things are connected."

"Oh, I never could get the hang of tree-hugging. It's a good thing I'm a necromancer." When Halsin raises his eyebrows, disbelieving, Orion continues, "People think we only dabble in blood and ground-up bits of bone and other such messes, but we're just as much wizards as any other discipline. A number of plants have magical properties that are useful in the necromantic arts. Zantedeschia nocturnis has characteristics that make it uniquely good at spells related to the soul—binding it, releasing it, communicating after death. Most potions for speaking with the dead make use of it, although the effects are limited in value. Only five questions, and only the freshest corpses, while the soul still lingers close to the body? It's hardly any use at all. A better breed of the plant, with an increased potency in its magical properties, could produce potions that could do far more than a few parlor tricks."

"How fascinating," Halsin mutters without any real enthusiasm. Life's magic has always been enough for him. He wants no control over death.

Orion glances over at Halsin's stack of scrolls and taps the parchment of a scrying spell. "There are all sorts of spells for finding things across great distances. What I propose is that the same magical principles should, with the proper mix of ingredients, apply to souls. Too many wizards are, out of habit, focused on the physical realm. The entire formula of speaking to the dead is predicated on the understanding that the soul remains tethered briefly to the body. But I propose removing the body from the equation entirely and communicating with the soul qua soul, that is, a soul that is wholly untethered to the material plane. Imagine being able to speak with a murder victim whose body has never been found, or a relative who passed before you were born, or a great historical figure. In theory, I could hear the story of Balduran himself in his own words. Now that would be speaking with the dead."

Halsin had heard Balduran's story from its very source, though not as Orion envisioned it. But here at last was the solution to his problem, in the very last place he had thought to look. He asked, "If it could work on any dead soul, wouldn't it work on vampires?"

Halsin should have tempered his expectations. He has a hard time pretending at polite interest when Orion gives a dismissive laugh, sounding so very like his son that it's obvious where Astarion picked up the habit. "Of course it could never work on vampires. Not that they have anything interesting to say, as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't see what the difference is," Halsin says, feeling a building headache behind his eyes. Druidic magic is so much simpler; what's alive is living and what's dead is fuel for growth.

"It's a matter of the soul's connection to the body," Orion says, as if this were all the most basic of knowledge. "A zombie or a ghoul or an animated skeleton, let's say, those are only animated flesh. The body's there, or reconstituted bits of it are, but the animating force is pure magic. The soul has nothing at all to do with the body anymore. A mummy, or a vampire, or one of the more conscious undead? The force that moves the body is still magic, but the soul is still bound to the body, and thus remains bogged down in the realm of the material. One is, in a sense, speaking to the dead whenever one speaks to a vampire; because the body never decays and the soul never leaves it, the animating principle is quite similar. I suppose that may be why their spawn are so vulnerable to compulsion, although I confess I have never had the inclination to look into the matter."

Halsin contemplates his own half-empty mug of tea. He isn't quite sure if he's learned anything useful at all. "Have your experiments produced any interesting results?"

"Have I spoken with the long-dead? Oh, certainly, a few kings and the like," Orion says. "Their stories were interesting enough, although there's a ready the flower's called the liar's lily; so much that they say contradicts what's in the history books, and you can't exactly cite a direct conversation with a soul as a primary source. It's a good thing I'm not a historian. But my work remains incomplete. The formula is sound, it's only the ingredients that are lacking."

Halsin guesses, "There's someone specific you're trying to speak to, but it's not working right."

"Well, yes, but..." Now it's Orion's turn to study his empty mug. He gives another one of those wrenchingly familiar laughs, and says, "I'm sure the formula is sound. A wizard doesn't spend centuries cross-breeding those blasted particular flowers unless he's sure the formula is sound."

Again, Halsin struggles for words. He is sure he knows exactly who Orion has been trying to speak to, and why the potion will never work, but there's no way to explain how he knows without being mistaken once again for a madman.

"I'll show you the way to that plum grove," he tells Orion.

"Thank you," Orion says. "I am close to a breakthrough, you know. Another decade or two, tops."

"Oh, I certainly hope it won't be that long," Halsin says, clearing away the mugs.

Chapter Text

His nightly search for Astarion is delayed by a fresher emergency. Nephi has gone missing, and her brother can give the worried adults no information at all except to say she's gone over the bridge. Halsin takes the village adults out to comb the forest. He manages to pick up her scent, and even finds her small footprints still fresh in a patch of mud, but all at once her trail disappears as if someone has picked her up and carried her away. 

He turns in circles around the spot where the trail goes cold, frustrated to distraction that he's lost all ability to track anyone at all. Just as he's about to give up entirely, a dark fluttering thing catches his eye, nearly obscured by the fresh leaves on a twig. Halsin plucks it gently from the bit of broken wood it's snagged on. 

It's a bit of torn black thread. He found it at chest height for himself, too high for Nephi unless she was climbing. It feels fine under his fingers, almost silky. It surely didn't come off the roughspun shirt that Nephi was wearing yesterday.

By losing one trail, he's found another. And now that he knows where to look, he sees that someone walked through these woods not long ago, heading in a direction he knows well.

Halsin makes it to the white-walled house shortly after dawn. He's in time to find Nephi outside it, feeding an apple to the unicorn. Lady Ancunín is keeping an eye on her, saying, "Keep your palm flat. Just like that."

"Nephi!" Halsin ought to know better than to make any sudden moves around a unicorn, but he can't resist sweeping her up into a hug. The apple falls on the ground, but the unicorn deins to eat it anyway. "You can't just go wandering off like that. Are you hurt?"

"She's perfectly well," Lady Ancunín says. "I've checked her thoroughly. She doesn't have so much as a scratch. She may have some talent for healing magic, in fact. I've never met a child who could spend all night alone in a forest alone without a single scraped knee or twisted ankle."

"I wasn't alone," Nephi insists.

Lady Ancunín adds, "She also has a very vivid imagination. She's been telling me all about her imaginary friend."

"He's not my friend," Nephi says. "He's the monster."

"What kind of monster?" Halsin asks, distracted; he's also giving Nephi a thorough check for injuries, although Lady Ancunín's assessment is correct. Her nighttime jaunt hasn't left her with so much as a bruise.

"I don't know. He just said he's a monster," Nephi says, squirming in his arms. She's already distracted again by the unicorn. "He said if I go wandering around in the woods at night again, he's going to eat me up."

Halsin jogs her in his arms, getting a better grip so she can't wriggle free. "I'm sure he did say that. What did he look like?"

"His face was all white, and his hair was all white, and his eyes were red," Nephi says. "And I knew he was dead, but I didn't believe he was a monster, so he had to show me his fangs to prove he was a monster. He didn't look like a monster, not even with fangs. But he was dead."

Maybe Lady Ancunín is correct that Nephi has a talent for life magic. Most people assume Astarion is a normal, living elf. But then again, a five-year-old's narrative can be muddled at times. Halsin asks, "Did he say why he brought you here?"

"He said there were nice people here who'd look after me. Can we ride the unicorn home? I told him about the unicorn because he didn't know."

"We're walking home," Halsin says sternly. There's no need to tempt her with even the remotest possibility of a ride, or she'll go running back across the bridge at the first opportunity. "Is there anything else you remember about the man you met in the woods?"

"He said he knew you. He said..." Nephi twists her face in concentration and says, in the careful tone of a child who has been told to repeat a message she doesn't fully understand, "Tell that oaf of a druid to wait for me by the bridge, because I've had quite enough of sitting around in caves drinking squirrels dry."

"Such an imagination," Lady Ancunín murmurs.

"I've got to get Nephi home," Halsin tells her, "and then we must talk about a matter of some urgency. Will you be here at noon?"

"I will be," Lady Ancunín says. "Don't let me keep you."

Halsin takes Nephi home with only a little whining about the unicorn. He questions her more about Astarion, but she has nothing else to add except that he wasn't very good at walking through the woods when he was carrying her, and his jacket felt nice, and she wasn't at all frightened of him even though he said he was very scary.

It takes some time to send birds out to call all the searchers back. Halsin repeats the story as Nephi told it, omitting some of the details he knows about Astarion's likely habits, and asks if they saw anything amiss when they were searching the woods. Two of his scouts exchange a glance, and one says, "There's a ruined building about a mile from the bridge. We found some strange corpses when we were searching the cellar. Squirrels and such."

The other adds, "A week or two dead, and nothing fresher, by my guess. It's hard to tell exactly when the blood's all gone."

"I found some voles all dried up like that in a cave by that stand of beeches," another searcher volunteers. "Fresher, I think, a few days old."

They look at Halsin expectantly. No one asked too many questions about the carcasses he brought back to the village, but everyone is aware he knows who's really lurking in the woods. And Halsin realizes now that Astarion must have been moving around to evade capture, or perhaps only to keep himself from spoiling his hunting grounds.

Halsin sighs and says, "I'll deal with it tonight."

Chapter Text

Halsin returns as promised to the Ancunín manor when the sun is at its apex in the sky. Summer means long days and short nights, and this is certainly shaping up to be an eventful one. 

This time, there's no waiting in the parlor. He converses briefly with Gaelin, who directs him straight to the back of the house, where Lady Ancunín is at work in the mirrored room Halsin remembers so well. She's bent over a table, working on another of the moon lamps; now that Halsin sees one of them open, he supposes it can only be her handiwork. The enchantment on the window must be hers as well.

"How is that tiefling girl?" Lady Ancunín asks without looking up from her work.

"None the worse for her adventure. I thank you for looking after her," Halsin says. "It's the man who brought her here I've come to speak with you about."

Lady Ancunín picks up a piece of delicate silver wire with tweezers and places it in the center of the complicated contraption inside the open globe of the lamp. "I did wonder where she came up with such a fantasy. I never saw anything like what she described when the shadow curse fell, but then again, we did leave in a rush. I thought it might be best to put some lights around the perimeter of the house, just in case. We had some outside in the gardens back then—it didn't hold the curse back forever, but it bought us enough time to get the household to safety."

"A wise idea," Halsin agrees, "but the man who found her last night was one of the heroes who ended the shadow curse. You have nothing to fear from him."

"I'm glad to hear it," Lady Ancunín says, although she does not cease her work on the magical lamp.

"He was part of the group that saved Baldur's Gate from the Netherbrain." A reluctant member at times, in all fairness. Halsin had even once overheard him trying to convince Tav to consider harnessing the power of that horrifying brain for their own ends. But Lady Ancunín didn't need to know every detail. "We met when he rescued me from a goblin camp."

"He sounds like a very busy man." Lady Ancunín makes a few subtle tweaks to the wire. It begins to glow, first softly and then with such a searing brightness it's almost painful to look upon. "But for a hero, he certainly does seem to have plenty of time to lurk in the woods trying to scare little girls."

Halsin has the sinking feeling that in trying to build up to his story, he's only made her suspicious. Lady Ancunín is canny enough to know when someone is trying to play on her sympathies. All he can do is say, plainly, "When we met five years ago, he introduced himself as Astarion. He came to this house because he assumed he had inherited it as the last surviving member of his family. He was trying to fix it up himself before Orion arrived."

Lady Ancunín closes the two halves of the glass globe. Inside the frosted glass, the searing light is diffused into a silvery glow. She regards her handiwork for a moment, turning the globe around in her hands to check for imperfections. "You strike me as a kind man, Halsin, but not a gullible one. These impostors can be very convincing if you don't stop to consider the story you've been told. Can you truly expect me to believe that two hundred years after I buried my son, he is alive and well?"

Halsin thinks of the confusing conversation he had with Lord Ancunín on the nature of bodies and souls. "Well, alive is a complicated concept—"

"And you expect me to believe that in two centuries, my son did not once think to contact me? Does he claim he has amnesia? Most of the impostors do; it's a convenient excuse for why they remember no details about their loving family that could not be dug up with a little background research." She looks up at Halsin at last. Her mask of polite gentility is very thin indeed. Underneath her careful reserve, Halsin can tell there's a pain that the centuries have not dulled. "Some of them were very clever with their spells of seeming or their shapeshifting. One of them was a genuine doppelganger. They all slip up sooner or later, though. There's always a little detail that doesn't fit. My son was a good man. He wanted to be a magistrate because he cared very deeply about justice, and he died for it, because the world is never truly just. So tell me, what story did this imposter spin for you to make you believe his lies?"

Halsin tells the story as simply as he can: Cazador's vampiric powers, the compulsion with which he'd manipulated his thralls, how his plan to ascend to monstrosity beyond any other vampire had been thwarted by Astarion's disappearance and then finally ended by his reappearance. He skates lightly over the details of what Astarion had done to him, and what he'd been forced to do, in his two hundred years of service. That's not Halsin's story to tell.

As Lady Ancunín listens, her lips press tight together, but beyond that sign of strain her face is once again the very picture of cool reserve. When Halsin has finished, she says, "I remember Cazador Szarr. He wanted powerful friends, but he was never the sort of man powerful people wanted to be friends with. A terribly annoying voice, I recall that much about him. I commend your imposter on being a good deal more inventive than his peers."

She sets the glowing lamp she's been working on down carefully in a nest of cloth and picks up the supplies to make the next glass globe. Halsin can tell that he's losing her attention already.

In desperation, he asks, "What if I brought him here? If he's an imposter, it should be easy enough to catch him in a lie, and then you need never see him again. But isn't there some part of you that hopes, just a bit, his story might be real?"

She keeps working on the lamp, her movements never faltering, but Halsin notices the way her hands clench tight enough around her tools that her pale knuckles are pure white. "When you get to my age, young man, you'll learn that hope is a dangerous thing," she says. "Hope will make you trust a liar, or have you waste your time chasing down dreams that will never come to pass. It's better to learn to live with the world as it is. Don't mention this to my husband, please. Who knows what fool idea he'll come up with if you do. He's spent enough decades chasing ghosts; I don't want to know what foolishness he'll get up to if he turns his attention to vampires."

She doesn't tell him outright to leave, but Halsin knows a dismissal when he hears one. He murmurs a farewell and heads for the exit, his heart heavy. Astarion's story had seemed completely real to him when he heard it; what motive would he have had to lie then? But it's one thing to hear a story as you live through an adventure, and quite another to hear it recounted secondhand.

And what proof can he offer, in the end, that Astarion knows something about the family no imposture could have guessed? He remembered his mother's favorite color, but then again, anyone who's spent five minutes in this house could have guessed that. He knew the name of the lilies, he remembered something of his father's work, but that too would be no secret to anyone motivated enough to do the research. 

Were there truly people in this world so desperate for money that they were prepared to spend their lives playing the cuckoo in another family's home, wearing a magically borrowed face, slipping into a stranger's life? Halsin remembers the squalor of Baldur's Gate, the yawning gap between the city's richest aristocrats and its poorest beggars. Maybe for some, living a lie was worth it.

Chapter Text

Halsin could go downstairs and let himself out through the kitchen door, but the prospect of making small talk with the household staff when he's in such a foul mood does not entice him. He heads back down the central corridor for the front door instead. He doesn't notice that he's brushed past Lord Ancunín until the man reaches out and grabs his arm; he must have been standing just behind the doorway to the hall, listening in on Halsin's conversation with his wife.

"I beg your pardon," Halsin says, with grudging formality. "I was just leaving."

"This man you were talking about, did you at any point invite him into this house?" Orion says, keeping his voice low so that his wife won't hear him from the next room over. He sounds anxious, as Halsin supposes any man might be at the realization that a vampire might have free access to his home.

"No," Halsin assures him. "The house was empty when he arrived, so he came and went as he pleased. I don't suppose he would be able to get in now that you're living here."

"Maybe he would, and maybe he wouldn't," says Orion, with an academic's abstraction. He begins to walk toward the front door, still holding Halsin's arm; Orion could hardly drag him if he tried, but it seems wiser to let him lead the way. "You're sure he's a vampire spawn of the common sort, and not a dhampyr?"

"Quite sure," Halsin says.

"Interesting," Orion murmurs. "Very interesting indeed."

As they walk, Orion glances back over his shoulder, gauging his distance from the room his wife has made into her workshop. When they are far enough away that he decides he can speak normally, he says, "My wife is ... well, Etoile went through a lot back in Baldur's Gate. She can be a little touchy. Did you know a concentrated burst of radiant light can melt a doppelganger's flesh from its bones? The smell is really quite extraordinary."

"I... imagine it would be," Halsin says, wondering when Orion will release his arm.

"There were several quite convincing impostors," Orion continues. "After the doppelganger incident, we thought we were past the worst of it. But then there was this incident at a party, where she swore to me she'd seen our son among the servants, and that he'd walked through a wall and disappeared. I thought a change of scenery would be best after that. A brand new house in the countryside. I only wanted the best for her, you understand."

"I understand," Halsin says, feeling as if he understands less and less with each passing minute. All he wants now is to escape this house and find a quiet place to wait for nightfall.

"The odd thing is, that party was at the home of Cazador Szarr," Orion says. "We never discussed the incident with anyone else at all, and we never went back to Szarr's house again. So you see, I really am quite interested in hearing your friend's story directly from the source. Do you think you could bring him here tonight?"

"I can make no promises," Halsin says. "I'll try to get him to come."

"Very good." Orion releases his arm at last, then remembers to add, "Don't phrase that request an invitation. Vampires, you know. You can never be too careful"

At last, Halsin is free to leave. He takes a walk to clear his head, noting as he goes how nicely the ruins of the village are being overtaken by weeds and clinging vines. Soon enough, all the remains of houses that aren't scavenged for stones will be nothing more than piles of greenery. They only stood for so long because almost nothing could grow under the shadows' blight. Now, at last, the earth is reclaiming them.

He notes one house that stands particularly well and takes a look inside to see if the structure is worth salvaging. Some of the wooden wall paneling has succumbed to dry rot, but most of the beams supporting the roof are still sound. There's a trap door down to the cellar. Halsin explores cautiously, wary of a structural collapse. He finds remarkably intact foundations. In the corner is a moldering mattress that looks like it's been dragged downstairs. Several dead squirrels have been placed neatly in a bucket in the far corner of the basement. He can tell from their smell and the fat maggots wriggling in what's left of the ragged fur that they've been dead for quite some time. Astarion stayed here once, but he must have moved on a while ago.

Halsin takes the bucket out of the house and dumps it where he thinks scavengers will be able to find what remains of the meat. Whoever moves into this house now need never know it briefly hosted a vampire.

He heads to the bridge, where he passes the last hours before sundown whittling. Sometimes when he's working with wood he can find a shape already within it, one that he can tease out with decisive strokes of his carving knife. Perhaps he's chosen the wrong piece of wood today, or his mind has wandered too far afield for even such a simple task. All he manages to do is turn a fist-sized block of spruce into a slightly smaller block of spruce.

The sun drops lower in the sky. When its last light has faded, he hears the crackle of booted feet approaching from a stand of trees. He tucks the knife away and listens. It sounds like Astarion's sojourn in nature has made him better at navigating the woods, but not that much better.

There's no moonlight tonight. Astarion is very close before Halsin can see him, a pale face in the darkness. Halsin feels weak with relief at the sight of him. He can't resist sweeping him into a hug, burying his face in that bright hair. Astarion's coat is ripped in places, but he seems uninjured, and he melts into Halsin's arms with a contented sigh.

That doesn't stop him from saying acerbically, "So you finally bothered to look for me. I didn't think that infant would remember my message, but not all of us can talk to birds."

 "I did look for you, but you kept moving around," Halsin protests. "I thought you'd gone upriver into the mountains to get around the water at its source."

"Of course I thought of that, but I decided it's far too much work," Astarion says, in a tone that suggests the thought of going upstream to cross the water had never occurred to him. "I just need you to carry me across the river, and then I'll be on my way back to Baldur's Gate. I've had quite enough of country living, thank you."

"Don't you want to visit your parents?" Halsin asks. "I'm sure they would want to see you."

Astarion pulls back. Halsin loosens his grip with reluctance. For a moment he hesitates, looking back in the direction of the house, and then he waves a hand as if dismissing the entire notion. "I was certainly surprised to find that they were still alive, but not as surprised as they would be to find I'm not alive, if you see what I mean. No, much better to leave them to their happy retirement."

He turns on his heel and marches to the bridge, where he promptly gets stuck at the spot where the running water splashes under the stone span. Halsin stares after him, trying to think of what he could say to convince Astarion to give his family a chance. What evidence does he even have? How many times have his parents even spoken openly about their absent son? All he can point to as proof that they would want to see Astarion is what they haven't told him, the way the past two centuries of their lives seem to have circled endlessly around their shared loss. 

Of course there was no trace of Astarion to be found in the house. The whole house was built around his absence. Could it ever contain him as he is now, or does it only house the memory of him as he was, young and innocent and alive? Of course that's what Astarion fears: That his parents only have a heart for the son they lost, and not the man he's become.

Chapter Text

Astarian stays on the bridge for some time, trying and failing to put his foot over the spot where the running water passes beneath the stones. Halsin listens to him huff and curse the inconvenience of rivers, the general concept of vampirism, and the unhelpfulness of druids who could help if only they wanted to. At last he gives up and returns to sit sulkily at Halsin's side.

"I'll find a way over it, you know," he declares. "I got here on my own. I can get back to Baldur's Gate without your help."

"I'm sure you can," Halsin tells him. "And I'll help you if that's what you really want to do. But I have to be sure, Astarion-- is that what you really want? You really want to go back to the city without even letting your parents know you're alive."

He realizes even as the words leave his mouth that he's said the wrong thing. Astarion hunches his shoulders, drawing in on himself. "But I'm not alive. I haven't lived in two hundred years. What comfort would it bring them to know their son suffered two centuries of misery, and that his corpse is still walking around draining squirrels in the woods? No, it's better for them to remember me as I used to be. Someone ought to remember that version of me. I certainly don't."

Halsin puts a hand on his defensively rounded shoulder. "I think you'll find that your parents' definition of living is... unusually flexible. And I believe they would appreciate the chance to get to know you as you are."

Astarion's closed-off expression softens. Just as he's about to say something in response, they're interrupted by a glowing figure blinking into the air in front of them, bathing the dark woods in purple light. Gale waves cheerfully at them. "Astarion, there you are, you wouldn't believe how much work it's been tracking you down. And Halsin too, I suppose you must have found him right before I did. Well, my pale friend, I heard you had some trouble crossing a river, and I've got the perfect solution for you."

A portal appears at their end of the bridge, swirling with purple light. Another matches it at the other end of the span.

"Aren't portals convenient?" Gale asks, sounding very pleased with himself. "You see, you can cross any amount of running water, so long as you're not actually physically crossing over the water. With a system like this, you'll be back in Baldur's Gate in no time at all."

His projected form beams at the both of them. Halsin looked to Astarion, who swallows whatever sharp remark he was about to make to Gale and instead asks, "How long can you keep a portal like this open? I have something to do on this side of the river before I go."

"Oh, I can leave it as long as you like," Gale says. "These portals can remain stable for years if they're set up properly."

"Thank you, Gale," Halsin says on Astarion's behalf. "You've been very helpful. Tell Tav we both say hello, and that we're thinking of them."

"All in a day's work for the Wizard of Waterdeep," Gale says cheerfully. "I ought to go see what Tav's up to--you know them, you turn your back for a minute and they've got every spoon in the house in their backpack for some reason."

His projection winks out, leaving the forest dark once against except for the dim purple light that emanates from the swirling portal. Astarion looks at it longingly, but sighs and says, "I suppose I ought to get this over with. Would you mind coming with me? I suppose... after all this time, you must know them better than I do."

"I'll be with you," Halsin promises him.

They head back to the house together. Lady Ancunín's lanterns line the drive up to the house, casting a glow of concentrated moonlight over the dark garden and the stone structure. All the climbing vines have been cut back from the pale stone walls, so that the whole house seems to be alight in the night like a piece of the moon come to earth. The soft darkness of a normal night is nothing at all like the choking Shadow Curse, but Halsin can picture how this household managed to withstand the smothering of such foul magic. It occurs to him for the first time that the Ancuníns are not only powerful wizards, but potentially dangerous ones as well. How wonderful that they chose not to turn their talents to violence.

Astarion climbs the front steps and pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Halsin is about to tell him to go inside, and then he remembers Orion's insistence that he say nothing that could be taken as an invitation to enter the house.

But Astarion's hesitation is no magical barrier. He sighs again and turns the knob, and the door opens for him. Halsin follows him inside.

At first he thinks the front entrance hall is empty, and then he realizes that Orion is standing on the second-floor landing, watching them. He descends the steps, smiling, and pulls Astarion into an embrace that is clearly awkward for the both of them. "My boy, you've come home."

Halsin lets them have their moment, which is surprisingly brief; they step back as if they do not quite recognize each other, although the similarity between them is unmistakable. 

"Have you eaten yet tonight?" Orion asks.

"No, I... I'm not much of a dinner guest these days," Astarion says. "I don't know if Halsin told you--"

"Halsin's told me enough to understand," Orion says. He's still smiling, but to Halsin, it seems a trifle forced. "I've asked the groom to drain a little blood out of one of the carriage horses. It's a good lineage, you know, and very fresh. Why don't you have a drink while we talk?"

Astarion's lips part, but for a moment, he is rendered truly speechless. Halsin can well imagine what's going on in his head. Never in his centuries of undeath has he been offered hospitality so casually. Even Halsin, who invited him into his own home without question, has never thought to prepare a drink in advance.

"I would like that very much," Astarion admits, in a soft voice.

The formal dining room feels far too large for the three of them, but chairs are already clustered at one end of the table so that they can talk without shouting down the length of the room. Orion pours Astarion's blood from a pitcher, covered so that it would not clot, and offers Halsin a more conventional glass of wine. He takes it with thanks.

Orion takes a drink, and Astarion does the same after a self-conscious pause. Halsin looks back and forth between them and sets his own wine glass down. Something is not right. Orion is examining Astarion over the rim of his wine glass, not as a father might gaze upon a long-lost son, but as an alchemist would watch a beaker bubbling on the burner.

"Do you remember those flowers I used to grow?" Orion asks.

"Yes, the lilies. The cellar was full of them when I got here," Astarion says. He takes another sip from his glass. "This is quite good, actually. I've never tasted any blood quite like it."

"Zantedeschia nocturnis," Orion says. "Liar's lilies. Do you know why they're called that?"

"No," says Astarion, and then, "That's not true. I did know, but I've forgotten. I've forgotten so many things."

The cup slips from his fingers and shatters on the floor, leaving a mess of blood and broken glass. His body goes slack, but he does not topple from his seat. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are lit from within by cold blue light.

Halsin has seen this before. He has seen the magic that animates corpses so that they can speak briefly after death.

Orion sits back in his seat and puts his own glass down. He does not look pleased with himself. He looks as if he has shut whatever he is feeling up in a box in his mind, the same way his son does when he does not want to admit to the vulnerability of emotion.

"They're called that because only the dead cannot lie," he tells the lifeless corpse that had, only moments before, been Astarion. "I don't know who you really are, or why you've decided to carry out this deception, but I will have the truth out of you. Now, my first question. Who invited you into my house?"

Chapter Text

Astarion's mouth opens with a spill of more blue light. The voice that emanates from it sounds like his own, but there is none of the man Halsin knows in it. Without an oddly strained inflection, as if every word is being dragged out of him, he says, "I was not invited."

"But you got in somehow," Orion presses him. "No vampire's spawn can enter a home uninvited. Even if the house was abandoned when you first found it, it is unquestionably not yours now that I have resumed residence in it. How were you able to cross the threshold?"

The corpse speaks again in a flat tone that sounds nothing like the voice Halsin knows. "It is my house."

Halsin rises from his seat so abruptly that the chair topples over behind him. "Orion, whatever you've done, you must stop this at once. He would have told you the truth if you'd only asked him."

"I know you believe that, and your faith in the goodness of all creatures great and small does you credit, but now is no time for blind trust," Orion says. "I have spent centuries studying the art of necromancy. Some creatures that we call the undead are only mindless bodies, animated by magic. Others are spirits untethered to their mortal forms. But a vampire is both at once, with the cunning of the animating spirit and the hunger of the flesh, and there are few monsters more dangerous in this world. I will find out who sent this spawn after my family, and why they chose to act against me."

When Halsin moves toward him, he raises his hand and mutters an incantation. It is no use resisting; Halsin's limbs are frozen fast in his spell, and no matter how hard he strains against the magical bond, he cannot move at all. He tries to open his mouth, to make any sound at all, but the muscles of his jaw and throat only twitch uselessly.

"I beg your pardon for the rudeness, Chief Druid, but I have a limited number of questions left, and I have not yet managed to make this thing give me a clear answer," Orion says. "I can't have you interrupting right now. I must think."

There is nothing Halsin can do, no matter how desperately he tries to move. The lifeless body that was Astarion stares straight ahead with no indication that those glowing eyes see anything at all. Astarion may have been undead, but he was nothing like this--this empty shell mouthing forced truths.

Orion stands as well and circles the table to examine Astarion's slack face from a closer position. "A very convincing imitation. Very convincing, which is astonishing in itself. No one could possibly have gained a true familiarity with the subject two centuries after his passing, which suggests there must be an additional layer of spellwork involved in the glamoring of the face. The eyes are wrong, of course, but that's to be expected. Why did your master decide to send you here to impose upon my family?"

Astarion's mouth opens, and that unnatural voice says, "I serve no master now. He who made himself my master died by my hand."

"Impossible," Orion says. "No vampire spawn could turn a weapon against his own master, and this is clearly only a spawn. But the potion was made exactly to the specifications. The dead cannot lie, but they can tell a version of the truth that omits relevant details. Only two questions remain. I must use them wisely."

He paces back and forth, pausing several times to peer suspiciously at Astarion. Halsin, who is frozen in a position reaching out toward Orion's empty chair, feels the muscles of his legs and his outstretched arm beginning to cramp. Astarion's expressionless face shows no signs that he is capable of experiencing any discomfort, or any dismay at this turn of events, whatsoever.

"The question of invitation is beside the point," Orion decides at last. "I will simply have to ward the house against vampiric intruders. Yes, I'll ward it against all manner of undead, just to be safe. Motive is what I need to ascertain. What did you hope to gain by pretending to be my son?"

Astarion is silent for so long that Halsin thinks he might not speak at all, but at last that voice grates out, "I have pretended to be many things over the centuries, but never that."

Orion slams his hand down on the tabletop in frustration. In the twisted logic of a truth-telling spell, it makes perfect sense. Halsin would explain if only he were able to move his jaw.

After a moment, Orion collects himself and draws a deep breath. "One question remains. I'll have to make it count."

He resumes his pacing, muttering to himself. Halsin tries not to pay too much attention to his cramping muscles or the rising panic in his chest. Will Astarion return to normal after this? What does a spell aimed at the dead do to a vampire?

At last, Orion says, "I must learn at least something of the enemy's tactics. If you truly are able to enter this house at will, what prevented you from doing so until tonight?"

"Two hundred years of misery changed me," Astarion grates out. "Two centuries of suffering and being forced to make others suffer. I wanted my family to remember me as I was, as I cannot now remember myself. Better to be a dead son than an undying monster. Halsin convinced me it was worth a try... but I was right..."

The unnatural spell-light fades from his eyes. Astarion goes limp in his seat, then comes to with a start. He jumps out of his own seat, looking wild-eyed at his own father, who is frozen on the other side of the table in confusion.

"I see I'm not wanted here," he spits at the man who looks so much like him, and bolts for the exit.

Orion raises a hand, but recites no further spells. He only reaches out toward his retreating son, who slams the door behind him on his way out.

By the time Orion thinks to release the magic that holds Halsin captive, a precious minute has been wasted. Halsin grunts at the pain as he moves his cramped legs, but forces himself to run for the door anyway. 

"Go after him, you fool!" he snarls at Orion. "If he gets away this time, we'll lose him forever."

But by the time he makes it to the front entrance, the door is hanging open, and there's no sign of Astarion in the darkness of the night.

Chapter Text

Halsin stands at the bottom of the house's steps, trying to get his bearings. The white glow of the magical moonlight plays havoc with his night vision. In the shape of a wolf, he might be able to detect Astarion's scent, but vampires do not smell like living creatures. He may well end up tracing the wrong path following the faint odor of a corpse back to the spot where he already spoke to Astarion.

Where he spoke to Astarion—but of course, that's exactly where he'll head next. Gale left the portal open between the two ends of the bridge. After all this time, Astarion finally has a way to cross the water.

Halsin leaps into motion, already shapeshifting as he moves. He beats the night air with dark wings, climbing into the sky.

There is no sign of Astarion on the road to the bridge, or just past it. Gale's portal still glows, casting an unnatural purple light over the worn stonework. Halsin circles along Astarion's most likely escape route, but too much is covered by trees, and he can see no glimpse of his pale hair by moonlight. 

He lands, assumes the form of a wolf, and scents the air. There might be a faint scent of death here, beneath the fresher smells of water and growing things by the river, but the land that lay under the Shadow curse still sometimes smells faintly of decay.

He searches for the rest of the night and continues as the sun rises, looking for pockets of deep shadow or likely caves where Astarion might have holed up to wait out the day. The sun has been beating down on his back for hours by the time he concedes defeat. Astarion does not wish to be found, and he has a whole new swathe of land to get lost in.

When he returns to the bridge, footsore and furious, he sees Lady Ancunín mounted on her shining steed. Slung over her back is the same curious package Halsin first saw her riding in with, the leather tube that looks something like a quiver. She has always been a formidable woman, but the look on her face now chills Halsin as deeply as a midwinter night. It is never good when a wizard of such power looks so determined.

He pads up to her and resumes his human shape. She looks down at him with such a remote expression that she might as well be looking straight through him. "Chief druid, I apologize for my husband's behavior last night. Orion has many qualities worth mentioning, but common sense is not among them."

"Did he tell you what happened? Did he explain it exactly?" Halsin asks, because there are many ways Orion could spin this tale, and he is unsure how much the elf might have dissembled to appease his formidable wife.

"He has become convinced that our son—who has, against all the odds, spent the previous two centuries as a vampire's spawn—visited the house last night. He is of the belief that he has mortally offended this vampire, and that all will be lost if he is not found and brought back to the house at once."

"And what do you believe?" Halsin asks.

"It does not matter what I believe," Lady Ancunín says. "The spell I am casting does not require so much as a grain of faith to work."

She unslings the curious tube from her back, opens it, and carefully unrolls the contents. For a moment she gazes at it, her eyes fixed on some central point, not scanning from left to right as they might if she were reading the words of an incantation. The material is thicker than parchment or vellum. It does not look quite like any scroll Halsin has ever seen before. The edges of it are ragged as if someone has gone at them with a knife.

Halsin asks, "What is that?"

She says, "It is my greatest possession. The only thing I took the time to save as the Shadow curse came over us. It is a shame I had to cut it from its frame so quickly. I was careless in my haste."

She turns the thing slightly so that Halsin can see it. It is no scroll, but a painting. Halsin recognizes the style and the clothing as an affectation of centuries past, from a period when lace worn at the wrists and neck was the height of fashion. The subject of the portrait is a young elf, the very picture of a louche aristocrat, save for the spark of canny intelligence in his pale blue eyes. The painter was skillful indeed. Every fold of Astarion's blue satin jacket and every bit of lace is rendered in exquisite detail. A deep cut through the canvas extends to a whisp of his silvery-white hair.

It is the first time Halsin has ever seen this picture, but he knows the size of it at once. He has seen the cut edges of it in its empty frame in the portrait room.

"I have had copies made, but this one was painted from life," Lady Ancunín tells him. "The magic cannot work with reproductions. I have cast this spell before, but its range is limited. If my son truly is within a dozen miles of this place, I will find him."

"You will find him," Halsin tells her. "I'm sure of it."

Astarion has little chance of making it so far on foot in unfamiliar terrain, especially in the unforgiving daylight.

"I should like to have your certainty, druid," she says. "Very well. I must begin my work."

She raises her right hand over the canvas and begins the first words of a spell. The language is very old, unfamiliar to Halsin's ears. He is no wizard, but he can sense the way the magic responds as she draws upon it. A chill settles over him, not the unnatural leeching cold of the Shadow curse, but the pleasant coolness of a summer's dusk after a long hot day. The sun hangs high in the sky, but the quality of the light that falls on them is cold and silvery. As Halsin watches, the wildflowers in the grass by his feet begin to close their petals.

This is a powerful spell indeed, and not one he has seen performed before. He turns his head toward the village and sees the same strange light falling over it, the roof of each house limned in silvery moonlight even though there is no moon in the sky at all. 

Halsin raises his own hand and realizes that although the sun is above him, no sharp-edged shadow follows his movements. In this moment, he casts no shadow at all. Neither does Lady Ancunín, or the unicorn she rides, nor any of the trees that line the path.

At last the words of her incantation come to an end, but the moonlight remains, a midnight glow at noon. Halsin asks, "What have you done?"

"Everything the light touches, I shall see clearly," Lady Ancunín says. Her blue eyes, the same color as her son's in the old painting, are abstracted. Halsin wonders how much she can truly see at once in this moment. 

She rolls the old canvas up and replaces it carefully in the leather tube, then fixes her eyes on the horizon. "The spell will last until true moonlight replaces it. I must begin my search."

The unicorn leaps into motion, a silver-white flash. Halsin watches it shine like a beacon in the unnatural light until she rounds a bend in the road and disappears from view.

He ought to continue the search as well, but he has been awake since yesterday morning, and weariness drags at his bones. He heads for his own modest house. An hour of meditative silence will restore him. Two hours, perhaps. Three at most, and then he'll resume his search for Astarion.

There is no lock on his door, only a latch to keep it from blowing open on a gusty day. The curtains are already drawn over the windows; Halsin only does so when he needs privacy, and he is grateful for privacy now. He sits down heavily on the bed and puts his aching head in his hands.

Chapter Text

After a few minutes of sitting in dejected silence, Halsin straightens his back, puts his hands palm up on his knees, and tries to assume a meditative posture. But shrugging off his worldly cares does not come easily today.

His nose itches. He has spent so long trying to find Astarion's scent that he imagines he smells it now. As he tries to focus instead on the freshly picked sage drying in his kitchen, he gets distracted by the minute scrabbling of a mouse moving under the bed.

If meditation is impossible, he'll simply have to try to sleep instead. He lies down, reaches for his blanket, and can't find it. How strange. It doesn't seem to be on the bed at all.

He looks at the foot of the bed, then on the floor, and sees a corner of cloth sticking out from under the bed. He tugs on it. It doesn't move. He tugs harder, and something tugs it back.

Halsin gets down on the floor. There's the blanket, bundled up around the unmistakable shape of a body. It could be one of the children playing a game, but he hasn't heard any telltale giggling, and he doubts any of the village kids would remain indoors when they could be running around in the magical moonlight.

"Astarion," Halsin says softly. The bundle shifts slightly. "The curtains are drawn. You don't have to hide under the bed."

"Go away," he hears Astarion say peevishly, his voice muffled by layers of blanket.

"This is my house," Halsin reminds him.

"I just need a place to stay until dark," Astarion says. "Then I'll be on my way."

Halsin wonders how he got in, then remembers that he had extended a permanent invitation to the house. Of all the hiding places in the village, this is the only home to which he has been granted entry. He is touched that after all these months, Astarion remembered where he is welcome. "It's going to be hours until the sun sets. You might as well have some tea while you wait."

He turns away and puts the kettle over the hearth, summoning a small flame over the kindling. There's a rustling from behind him as Astarion makes his awkward way out from under the bed. Halsin waits until he is quite sure that he's had time to compose himself, then turns around to fetch the tin of tea and the pot to steep it in.

So much time spent roughing it has not been kind to Astarion. His jacket is covered in snagged threads. His trousers have a line of new stitches over what looks to have been a nasty tear. His face and hands are clean, though; he must have been taking great pains to find a way to wash up, considering his trouble with running water.

"So, I suppose you're heading back to Baldur's Gate," Halsin says.

"Of course," Astarion replies, self-consciously straightening the line of his jacket. "No more mucking about in the woods for me. A nice cool cellar, alleys full of pickpockets to drain, that's all I require. And a new jacket, I think. This one is ruined."

"I'll contact Gale. He'll help you get back to the city," Halsin tells him. He scoops the tea into the pot and fetches two mugs. He has never had much skill with pottery, but one of the dwarves in the village made him a whole set of fine earthware, painted with his favorite things. The mug he sets down in front of Astarion has a line of ducklings marching around the rim.

Astarion says, "Thank heavens. I can't say this has been the worst summer of my life, but I have had some fairly awful summers." He pauses, reflects on a past filled with terrors beyond all imagination, and says, "I suppose it's not even in my top ten worst summers, really. No one left me to starve in a coffin, for one. And there were no torture sessions at all. This has practically been a nice vacation, really."

Halsin pours the tea. "The world has not been kind to you."

"No, it has not." Astarion doesn't pick up his duckling mug. He only looks down at his own hands. Does he imagine those hands to be stained even now with blood?

"I'm sorry the meeting with your father didn't go according to plan," Halsin says. "I should have realized... he told me himself that there were several pretenders to your name after your death. He believed that his suspicion was warranted, but I never realized how far he would go to protect his family."

"You thought he was protecting his poor darling wife?" Astarion gives a short, bitter laugh. "No, my father was always the weaker wizard of the two of them. No doubt he saw his chance to experiment on a genuine vampire and took it."

Halsin believes that Astarion is mistaken. He recalls that look on Orion's face as he reached out, in the end, after he had already broken things beyond repair. "Perhaps the world has not been kind to him either. He told me that there were pretenders to your name after your death. Your parents were very nearly taken in."

Astarion laughs again, a cold and mirthless sound. "Ridiculous. Who would want to be me?"

"Who wouldn't?" Halsin asks. "You were young, rich, influential, handsome, with two doting parents. I've seen how hard life can be on the streets of Baldur's Gate. How many would trade places with you in a heartbeat? How many have the magical means to make the attempt?"

Astarion turns his face away, his attention fixed on something off to the side. Halsin follows his gaze to the small, spotty mirror he keeps on his bedside table. He has few uses for a mirror, but a magpie carried it a long way to gift it to him. He sees his own image, and Astarion's teacup and chair, but his reflection is alone in the room.

"I had very nearly forgotten about all that," Astarion says, his voice softer now, all the sharpness pulled back in the same way a cat retracts its claws. "I spent so long wishing for a crumb of pity, I forgot I was once somebody worth envying. But look at me now."

He gets up from his seat and stalks over to the curtain-covered window. Before Halsin can react, he's drawn the curtain aside, letting in a beam of pale, cold light. He thrusts his hand into that light with the expression of a man plunging his hand into a raging fire. "Look at the monster I've become. Who could ever dote on this?"

He holds his hand out, fingers flexed, trembling. Halsin stands to push him out of the way, then stops. Astarion looks down at his own hand, puzzled. "What's happening? It should be burning by now."

But the light streaming through the glass is not golden sunlight. It has all the brightness of day, but the silvery clarity of moonlight. 

Astarion's fair skin looks unworldly, more like marble than mortal flesh. He pushes back his sleeve, exposing more skin to that strange enchanted light, marveling that it doesn't burn. "What's happening? Do you think... maybe the tadpole changed me? Maybe it's taking effect again, after all this time?"

"It's not the tadpole," Halsin tells him. He crosses to the window as Astarion shoves the curtains back fully, illuminating his pale face. The sun is still high in the sky, but the world outside is bathed in that unnatural moonglow, the effects of Lady Ancunín's spell still in full force.  

The spell! Astarion is already opening the latch. He flings the window open and sticks his head out. "Did you do all this? Can druids do this? It's wonderful."

"This is no spell of mine," Halsin admits. 

"Well, perhaps you ought to learn it." Astarion leans on the sill with an expression of wild glee on his fair face. 

Through the open window, Halsin hears the laughter of children and the low, astonished voices of adults in the village as they marvel at the light. He can hear the birds in the trees chattering in nervous confusion, the nocturnal animals grousing as they try to decide whether or not it's time to hunt. And distantly, far off down the road, he hears the rhythmic thump of hoofbeats.